The little flat charmed me right away. Small, tidy, with furniture straight out of the ’70s—even a proper glass cabinet, the sort your nan might polish weekly. A rug on the wall, a slightly sooty kettle on the stove, and an ancient fridge humming in the kitchen. Best of all, an old radio in the living room, crackling away with the BBC World Service. It had that warm, comforting fuzz—like a jumper fresh from the dryer, all static and nostalgia. No telly, but I didn’t mind.
I’d come home from work, turn the radio up, and pop the kettle on. Then I’d stand by the window, cradling a steaming cuppa, watching the street below. The radio murmured away, and I’d gaze at the sky—navy blue, dotted with faint, smudged stars and a lopsided moon. Silence suited me. Who was there to talk to? Just me and the flat.
That is, until I met my new neighbour. Alfie, he was called. Good lad.
One night, I got back late from the factory, bones aching, feet like lead. Walked into the kitchen, and there he was—Alfie—sitting there, staring at me. I nearly had a fit, ready to grab a slipper and shoo him off, but then he blinked those bright little eyes, and I just… melted. Put the kettle on and sat beside him. We eyed each other. He didn’t move. Just silence.
Poured myself tea, dug out some digestives, and laid them on the table. Alfie perked right up. Offered him one—he sniffed, politely declined, and went back to listening to the radio. We caught the news, learned about the state of the world, and then I turned in. Alfie stayed, curled up by the warmth. By morning, he’d vanished—off on his business, whatever that was. Mine was the factory and my trusty lathe.
But come evening, he’d return, just as I got home with groceries—crisps, a chilled six-pack, and Hobnobs. And so, we fell into a routine. Me and Alfie.
I’d pour a pint, peel open the crisps, and natter away while Alfie listened, quiet as a vicar at confession. He never drank—couldn’t, bless him—just sat there, bright-eyed. If I got too worked up, he’d pace the kitchen, round and round, then settle back down. Like a tiny therapist. And it worked. I’d vent, he’d absorb, and I’d feel lighter. He knew the drill.
Oh, he loved that radio. Especially the old songs. Some nights I’d come home, and no Alfie. Then I’d flick the radio on, and *poof*—he’d appear, like magic, ears pricked. Happy as a clam. We’d eat, listen, and talk into the wee hours—about work, the new steel shipment, how Dave from the floor nearly got caught half-cut. I’d even ramble about my army days.
Lord, did I tell him everything. How I’d barely escaped capture, how the tanks burned, the taste of lukewarm stew. Alfie just listened. Clever sod. Not many can hold a conversation with silence, but he could. I’d wipe a bloke’s tear, and he’d nudge my hand—like he understood. Lucky, I was. Loved that little bugger, and he loved me.
Only thing he hated? Me coming home sloshed. One look of disapproval, and he’d turn his back, radio forgotten.
Once, after a proper session with the lads, I stumbled in, and Alfie bolted. Shame washed over me—pouring grief down my throat instead of sharing it, like we used to. Stowed the bottle, lit a fag, and let the radio hum. When the gloom set in, Alfie always came. Even when cross. This time was no different. He padded over, pressed against my leg, and waited.
So I moaned about life between bitter drags. Then it hit me—what was there to moan about? A roof, food, even a mate who’d listen. Chuckled, poured the booze down the sink. Kept the crisps and beer, though. Alfie didn’t mind. He’d sniff the snacks, sit quietly, and keep watch till I dozed off.
Then one day, he vanished. A whole week. Flat felt hollow. Radio on full blast, clinking bottles—nothing. Nearly caved and bought a bottle, but Betty at the corner shop planted her hands on her hips and shook her head. Sent me off with sausage rolls instead. Three days later, she turned up at my door—rosy-cheeked, smiling, bearing beef stew. Chatted a bit, then darted off. Stocktake, she said. Promised to check in tomorrow.
When she left, it hit me—how much I’d missed kindness. Alfie had kept me steady, but now? Just me. Betty must’ve seen it in my eyes that night at the shop. Sausage rolls first, then stew. Good woman. Loved her romance novels. She started dropping by often—supper, chatter. I’d talk army; she’d gab about King Henry and his six wives. Me stuck in the past, her dreaming ahead. Laughter returned. Proper, warm laughter.
A month later, I asked her to the pictures. Nearly ironed a hole in my one good shirt, nerves and all. Been ages since I’d done anything civilised. Lads didn’t count—saw ’em daily at the factory. This was different. Betty, bright as a summer morning, ice cream in paper cups, strolling the park after. Grew fond of her. Like I had with Alfie.
Knew I’d come home to her at the stove, radio murmuring in the background. Grew so used to her, it scared me. What if she left, like Alfie? One night, I mustered the courage, walked up, and asked her properly. She dropped the ladle, cried, and said yes.
We had a small do—just close friends. Well, her lot, mostly. Mine? Alfie was gone, and Betty wouldn’t get it anyway. Still felt his absence. He’d have been chuffed, though. Proper chuffed.
A year later, I made foreman. Two months after that, little Emily arrived. The flat buzzed with life. Finally, I understood—what I’d missed wasn’t silence, but *people*. The ones who keep you from drowning in loneliness. Like Alfie had.
Two years on, I was sprawled on the sofa watching telly when a shriek came from the kitchen. Rushed in—Betty stood on a chair, wielding a spatula, while on the table sat a fluffed-up pigeon giving me the side-eye.
Betty asked why I was crying. Couldn’t speak. Just stared.
“It’s Alfie,” I managed. “He’s back.”
My old mate.
