The little flat charmed me right away. Small, tidy, with furniture straight out of the seventies—even a teak sideboard with cut-glass decanters. A patterned rug on the wall, a slightly singed kettle on the stove, and an ancient Frigidaire humming in the kitchen. Best of all, an old wireless in the sitting room, crackling away with the sweet sounds of Radio 4. Warm, comforting, full of static and old tunes. No telly, but that didn’t bother me.
After work, I’d crank up the wireless, pop the kettle on, and sip tea by the window, watching the street below. The radio nattered on while I stared at the dusky sky, the faint smudges of stars, the crooked grin of the moon. Who was there to talk to? Just me in that little flat. Until I met my new neighbour. Alfie, his name was. A proper good lad.
Came home late one night, knackered from the factory, back aching, legs like jelly. Walked into the kitchen, and there he sat—Alfie—just staring at me. I nearly had a go at him, thought about giving him a clip round the ear, but then he blinked those shiny eyes of his, and my hand dropped. Put the kettle on, sat down beside him. We just looked at each other. Didn’t say a word.
Poured myself a cuppa, dug out some digestives from the packet. Alfie perked right up at the sight of ’em. Offered him one, but he just sniffed it, politely turned away, and listened to the wireless instead. Caught up on the news, learned the state of the world, then off to bed I went. Alfie stayed in the kitchen, listening to the radio. By morning, he’d vanished—off on his errands, I reckoned. Me? The factory and the lathe awaited. No idea what he got up to. But come evening, he was back, just as I lugged in groceries: a bag of crisps, a cold six-pack, and some Hobnobs. That’s how we started living together. Me and Alfie.
I’d pour a pint, munch crisps, and chat away while Alfie listened. Never touched the beer, of course. Just sat there, silent. Though if I got too worked up, he’d pace the kitchen—back and forth, back and forth—until he calmed down and returned to the table. Those bright eyes fixed on me, listening. Felt good, getting it all off my chest. Alfie knew that. That’s why he never interrupted.
Loved the wireless, he did. Especially the old songs. Sometimes I’d come home and he wouldn’t be there. Turn on the radio, put the kettle on, then—bam—Alfie’d appear out of nowhere, ears pricked, eyes gleaming. Happy as a clam. We’d eat, listen to the radio, and chat into the wee hours. Told him everything—new machinery at the factory, how old Bill nearly got caught tipsy on the job. Even stories from my army days. Alfie listened, quiet and bright-eyed. Clever bloke. Not many can hold a conversation without saying a word, but he could. When I’d get misty-eyed remembering mates long gone, he’d nudge my hand, and just like that, the weight lifted. Lucky with a neighbour like that. Loved him, and he loved me. ’Cept when I stumbled in drunk. Then he’d give me the stink eye and ignore the radio entirely.
One night, I came home plastered after a lads’ night. Alfie took one look and bolted. Shame washed over me—here I was, drowning the past in gin instead of sharing it with him like before. Tossed the bottle in the fridge, switched on the radio, lit a fag. Proper miserable. And then—like always when I was down—Alfie appeared. Sat beside me, pressed his tiny paw to my hand, and waited. Started whinging about life, choking on smoke between complaints. Then it hit me—what was I moaning about? A roof over my head, food, even a mate who’d listen. Next day, I chucked out all the booze. Just kept the crisp-and-lager combo. Alfie approved. He’d sniff the snacks, sit quiet, and listen till I turned in. Knew he’d stay up half the night, keeping watch.
Then one day, he vanished. A whole week, not a peep. Flat felt empty without him. Got so bad I nearly caved and hit the off-license. But Marjorie, the shopkeep, planted her hands on her hips and shook her head. Not a drop for me—just a bag of sausage rolls instead. Three days later, she turned up at mine, rosy-cheeked and smiling, bearing a pot of stew and fresh-baked rolls. Stayed for a natter, then dashed off—stocktake night. Said she’d check on me tomorrow.
After she left, it struck me—how long since kindness had walked through that door? Alfie’d kept me steady, stopped me drinking, made evenings bearable. Now I was alone. But Marjorie must’ve seen something in my eyes that night at the shop. Sausage rolls first, then a visit. Good woman. Loved her books. Started dropping by regular—cooked supper, chatted. I’d talk about the war; she’d gab about romance novels and French kings. Me stuck in the past, her dreaming ahead. Hadn’t heard laughter in that flat for years.
A month later, I asked her to the pictures. Nerves nearly did me in—burnt a hole in my only decent shirt ironing it. Thank God for spares. Been ages since I’d done anything proper social. Lads at the factory didn’t count. This was different. Culture. Company. Marjorie. Pretty as a postcard. Watched the film, strolled the park, ate ice cream from little tubs and sipped fizzy pop. Lovely. Grew on me, same as Alfie had.
Knew when I came home, she’d be at the stove, the wireless murmuring in the background. Cosy. Grew so used to her, it scared me. What if she disappeared like Alfie? Mustered my courage one night, got down on one knee. She dropped the ladle, burst into tears, and said yes.
We had a quiet do—just close friends. ’Cept I didn’t have any. Alfie was gone, and Marjorie wouldn’t have understood him anyway. Still felt wrong without him. He’d have been chuffed, though. Chuffed my life had turned around.
A year later, I got promoted to foreman. Two months after that, our Emily was born. Flat went from quiet to chaos overnight. Then I realised what’d been missing—life. Family. Someone to save me from the quiet, like Alfie once had.
Two years on, I was on the sofa watching the telly when a shriek came from the kitchen. Rushed in to find Marjorie standing on a chair, wooden spoon raised, and on the table—a scruffy old pigeon. Grizzled, ruffled. Looked up with those shining eyes, and my heart stopped. Marjorie asked why I was crying. Couldn’t speak. Just stared. “It’s Alfie,” I said. “He’s back.”
My Alfie.
