The little flat charmed me from the start. Small but tidy, filled with old English furniture, even a walnut sideboard with crystal glasses. A tapestry hung on the wall, a soot-darkened kettle sat on the stove, and an ancient “Hotpoint” fridge hummed in the kitchen. An old wireless crackled away in the parlour—Radio 4 murmuring through the static, its warm voice threading through old songs and faint hisses. No telly, but I didn’t mind.
After work, I’d turn up the wireless, set the kettle on the hob, then stand by the window with my steaming mug, watching the street. The radio prattled on, while I stared at the deep blue sky, the blurred pinpricks of stars, the jagged moon. Quiet, always quiet. Who was there to talk to? Just me in that little flat. Until I met my new neighbour. His name was Alfie. A good lad.
One evening, I came home late, aching from the factory floor, my legs heavy as lead. I walked into the kitchen, and there he was—Alfie—just sitting there, watching me. I nearly scowled, nearly raised my belt, but then he looked up with those bright eyes, and my hand dropped. I put the kettle on and sat beside him. We just looked at each other. He didn’t leave. Didn’t say a word.
I poured my tea, fetched a biscuit from the tin, and laid it on the table. Alfie stretched his neck at the sight of it. I pushed one towards him, but he only sniffed, turned away politely, and listened to the wireless. We heard the news, learned what was happening in the world, then I went to bed. Alfie stayed in the kitchen, listening. By morning, he’d vanished—off on his own business, I supposed. Mine was the factory, the steady clank of machinery. His? No idea. But he’d return by evening, just as I came home with a bag from the grocer’s: dried herring, a jug of cold ale, and oat biscuits. That’s how we lived. Me and Alfie.
I’d pour a pint, pick at the herring, and chatter away while Alfie listened. He never drank, of course—where would he? Just sat there, quiet, only stirring when my rants grew too heated. Then he’d pace the kitchen, back and forth, till he calmed and returned to the table. Those bright eyes would fix on me, listening. It did me good. To talk, to spill out all the bitterness inside. Alfie knew that. So he stayed silent.
And how he loved the wireless, especially the old songs. Some nights I’d come home, and he wouldn’t be there. I’d switch on the radio, set the kettle boiling, turn around—and there he’d be, perched and listening, those eyes gleaming. Happy. And so was I. We’d eat, listen, and talk till late. I told him everything—what new steel had come to the factory, how old Bill near got caught tipsy. I even spoke of my past. Alfie listened close, bright-eyed and silent. A clever lad. Not many can hold a conversation with silence, but Alfie could. When I spoke of old comrades, wiped away a stingy tear, he’d press a paw to my hand, and the weight would lift. Lucky I was, to have a neighbour like him.
He only minded when I came home drunk. A disapproving look, then he’d turn away. Even the wireless lost its charm for him then. One night, after a pint too many with the lads, I staggered in, and Alfie hid straight off. Shame washed over me—drowning the past in gin instead of sharing it with him, the way I used to. I shoved the bottle in the fridge, turned on the wireless, lit a fag. Gloom settled in, and as it always did, it brought Alfie back. Even cross, he’d come. He perched beside me, pressed a paw to my hand, and waited. So I grumbled about life, chasing the bitterness with smoke. Then it struck me—what was there to grumble about? A roof, food, even a friend who’d listen and quiet the storm. Ach. I poured out the gin that night. Just ale and herring from then on. And Alfie didn’t mind. He’d sniff the fish, listen till I turned in. I knew he’d stay long after, listening as I dreamed.
Then one day, he was gone. A whole week without him. The flat felt hollow. I’d turn up the wireless, rattle bottles—no Alfie. One evening, gloom drove me to the off-license. But Bess, the shopgirl, planted her hands on her hips, shook her head, and refused me. No bottle—just meat pies. Then, three days later, she turned up at my door, rosy-cheeked and smiling. Made pea soup, baked more pies, chatted a while, then hurried off—stocktake, she said. Promised she’d come again.
After she left, it hit me—how long I’d gone without kindness. Alfie had kept me steady, kept me from the drink, filled the evenings. Now I was alone. But Bess must’ve seen something in my eyes that night in the shop. That’s why she gave me the pies. Why she came. A fine woman. Loved her books. She started visiting often—just because. Cooked supper, talked. I’d tell her about the war; she’d tell me about Jane Eyre and kings long dead. I spoke of the past; she spoke of the future. Laughter had been gone from that flat too long.
A month later, I asked her to the pictures. Lord, how I fussed—even scorched my best shirt with the iron. Good thing I had another. It’d been years since I’d gone out proper. The lads at the factory didn’t count. This was different. Company. Culture. And Bess. Pretty as a fairy-tale lass. We watched the film, strolled the park, ate ice cream in little cups, sipped fizzy pop. Merry, it was. I grew used to her, same as I had to Alfie.
Knew she’d be at the stove when I came home, the wireless murmuring soft in the parlour. Grew so used to her, it frightened me. What if she vanished like Alfie? So I gathered my courage, asked her to marry me. She dropped her ladle in shock, then cried. And said yes.
We had a quiet wedding, just our closest. Though I had none left. Alfie was gone, and Bess wouldn’t have understood such a friend. Still, it ached. Alfie would’ve been glad. Glad my life had changed.
A year later, I was foreman at the factory. Two months after that, Lizzie was born. Our girl. The flat filled with noise, with joy. And I knew then what I’d been missing—life, family, someone to save me from the loneliness, the way Alfie had.
Two years on, as I sat watching the telly, a shriek came from the kitchen. I ran in—Bess stood on a chair, ladle raised, while a scruffy old sparrow perched on the table. It looked at me with bright, bright eyes, and my heart stopped. Bess asked why I was crying. I couldn’t answer. Just stared.
“That’s Alfie,” I said. “Alfie’s come back.”
My old friend.
