Alfie

by Bill Naughton

  ‘Hello, Alfie,’ she said.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘Was you going?’ she said.

  ‘I couldn’t see you,’ I said.

  ‘I think I’ll be going,’ said Mrs Artoni. We said for her to stay but let her see we wanted her out of the way, so she went. There was a West Indian woman in the next bed and she had her husband with her and she kept waving through the window at a little girl outside.

  ‘I’ve brought you some flowers,’ I said and I took a bunch of freesias from under my coat.

  ‘Oh, freesias!’ she said. ‘How lovely. You couldn’t have got anything sweeter.’ She gave me a kiss and she had quite a milky smell. Not unpleasant, but you wouldn’t want it too strong.

  ‘I didn’t want anything too bulky,’ I said.

  ‘I hope you won’t mind,’ she whispered, ‘but I put my name down as Mrs Elkins.’

  That’s very funny, I thought, it wasn’t exactly a liberty, but it wasn’t like Gilda. ‘Why should I mind,’ I said, ‘it’s a free country. Put yourself down as who you want, gal.’ I knew there was nothing legal to it. Just then one of the nurses came round.

  ‘How delightful – freesias,’ she said. ‘I’ll put them into a glass for you, Mrs Elkins.’ They created quite a stir did my flowers, and I was sorry I hadn’t bought two-three more bunches.

  She looked at me. ‘Well, what do you think of your son, Mr Elkins?’

  ‘My son?’ I said.

  ‘He hasn’t seen him yet,’ said Gilda.

  ‘We’ll soon put that right,’ said the nurse. Down at the bottom of the bed there’s a little cot and this nurse dives her hands in and picks up a baby. ‘My, he’s the image of his father,’ she said. ‘What do you think, Mr Elkins?’

  It’s an odd feeling when you look down at a little ugly wrinkly redfaced baby for the first time and they tell you you’re the father. At first it’s hard to believe. Then you get a funny sensation, like when you’re going round a street corner somewhere and you come on a military band playing.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The mistake I made with Gilda was getting involved. Never get yourself involved with a bird beyond what you do together. Let her little life when you’re not with her be all her own. Then you always come fresh to one another. Chat her up, of course, and listen to her – but in one ear and out the other, if you see what I mean. I was having a beautiful little life and couldn’t see it. Has it ever struck you that you only see what pleasure you had in something when they take it away? I was living a full, carefree life.

  There was this little fat young bird from the Dials I was having it off with, Tuesdays and Fridays when her bloke was at his keep-fit classes. He was going in for being the Southern Counties weight-lifting champion or something of the sort. Whatever it was he used to ration her severely. About once a fortnight if she was lucky. She reckoned he used to whip himself up a couple of eggs in a glass of milk with a spoonful of honey in it before they went to bed, and put it on a chair, and the moment he rolled off he’d make a grab for it, and down it at once to get his strength back. She was a marvellous performer, yet somehow it never quite clicked with me, if you see what I mean. I’d always get this feeling behind my mind that she was only doing it to spite him. I suppose that’s the price you’ve got to pay for being sensitive, feeling things like that.

  I’d this chiropodist woman, Daphne, where I could slip in of a Saturday afternoon, when I’d had a few drinks, and like as not I’d get it over pretty quick – in case I went right off, because to be quite frank, she was no sex bomb as they say. Then she’d trim my toenails handsome as I was lying on the couch watching all-in wrestling. A phoney carry-on that if ever I saw one. Then on Sunday afternoons dancing at the Locarno I’d usually pull in a bird to go out with that same night. Like as not it might be a married woman. I find I go in a lot for married women, or they go in for me. A bloke like me always feels safer with a woman if she’s married, and as a rule they’re a lot more appreciative than a single bird. Young birds take things too much for granted. And yet with all this marvellous life going on I have to get myself involved with Gilda.

  Now I called round on her in her little gaff one time, where she is with this kid Malcolm, as she insists on calling him, although I warn her he’ll never forgive her when he gets old enough for giving him a handle like that. I suppose he’s turned out quite a nice little infant in his way, not that I go in much for these little babies what with how they can wet you and squall and one thing and another. Mind you there are times when I look at him and people say what a marvellous kid he is – this Mrs Artoni for instance – and I feel quite pleased with myself. Except I don’t fancy it when they say Smile for Daddy and all that lark. I don’t know what but it just makes me feel uncomfortable, anything like that.

  Now little Gilda has taken on a mumsie look and I quite like anything like that. She’s rounded out a bit see, with a nice feel of flesh to her, but not-flabbified. I creep in just as she’s finishing feeding him.

  ‘Hello, Alfie,’ she said. ‘He’s just going off.’ She gets up and puts him into his cot.

  ‘He’s got milk all round his chops,’ I said.

  ‘He’s ever so greedy,’ she said, ‘like his dad.’

  ‘I expect he knows what he likes,’ I said.

  ‘Isn’t he growing!’

  I looked down on his little face which, same as I say, had looked like a monkey’s but was now turning more into a child’s. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘he’s beginning to look quite human.’

  ‘He’s gone off.’ She stooped down and kissed him on the forehead. Then she straightened up, fastened her blouse, picked up a few baby things and went walking towards the kitchen.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, ‘you forgot to kiss me.’

  ‘Sorry, Alfie.’ She came over and gave me a peck. He’s pulling her heart to him, I thought. You can’t beat Nature – it has its way of looking after the helpless thing.

  ‘Know what, gal,’ I said, ‘you smell milkified.’

  ‘Do I?’ she said. ‘I’ll go and have a wash. Make myself fresh.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘It smells quite mumsie.’ I walked up and down the room. I always do when I’ve something on my mind. There were lots of nappies drying and baby things hanging about. It wasn’t as comfortable as it had been before. Well you get a child in the house and naturally he takes over. In fact I’d bought him a little musical rattle myself which I slipped into his cot when she was out of the way. You do something then you feel ashamed of your impulses.

  She was in the kitchen and I gave a call to her: ‘Hi, gal, how long are you going to keep him on that breast feeding caper?’

  She came in drying herself: ‘As long as I can, Alfie,’ she said, ‘it’s the best thing for him. They make you breast-feed at the hospital, if you can, but they say most women put the baby on the bottle when they get him out, especially the young ones, they say it spoils their figures. But I promised Matron faithful I’d keep Malcolm on as long as I could.’

  As long as she could – how long did that mean? There was this rich woman she’d talked about. ‘You want to be careful,’ I said.

  ‘Careful?’ she said, ‘how do you mean, careful?’

  ‘Careful you don’t get too attached to him,’ I said. ‘And that he don’t get too drawn to you.’

  She had the sauce to laugh at me: ‘It’s only natural we should,’ she said. ‘He’s my child, and I’m his mother.’

  Her child – as though she made him herself! No mention of my part in the matter. ‘And I’m his father,’ I said. ‘But you’ve got to be fair, Gilda, you’ve got to think of him. What about the rich woman?’

  ‘What rich woman?’ she said, staring at me as though I’d gone mad.

  ‘You know,’ I said, ‘the rich woman you was goin’ to get him adopted to. We agreed about it all.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, Alfie,’ she said.

  ‘So he’d have a good chance in life,’ I said.

&n
bsp; ‘I’ve got to think it over.’

  ‘You said you’d like to do that much for him.’

  ‘I can’t just rush into it.’

  ‘Well you want to make up your mind – one way or another – an’ pretty quick.’

  ‘Why – why should I?’

  ‘In case he gets so drawn to you that he’ll fret his little heart out when they come and take him away.’

  You should have seen her when I said that. ‘Who says they’re going to take him away?’ she said. She looked as if she would tear anybody to pieces that laid a hand on him. And she such a quiet little kid.

  ‘That’s what you said,’ I said, ‘– that you were going to get him adopted by a rich woman so that he’d have a fair chance in life.’

  ‘That was a long time ago, Alfie,’ she said, as if that was the end of the matter.

  ‘You know what you’ve had, gal,’ I said, ‘you’ve had a change of heart. I can see it on your face. Lyin’ there in the hospital must have brought it on. I could see your face changing, comin’ over all soft an’ mumsie it was.’

  She could see I’d tumbled her and she didn’t deny it. ‘I’m not ashamed of it,’ she said.

  ‘But you’ve got to think of him, Gilda,’ I said. ‘You could never bring him up like this rich woman could, give him the things she could give him.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘I’m going back to work next week.’

  ‘She could really look after him,’ I said, ‘she could dress him handsome, give him the finest of food and the best of attention.’

  ‘She couldn’t give him finer food than I’m giving him,’ she said, ‘his own mother’s milk.’

  I had to admit that she had me there. ‘And who said I couldn’t dress him?’ she went on. ‘Come here – look at him now. And look at that shawl and that cot cover. And I’ve got lots of lovely things for him in the drawer.’

  She did have him nice and I couldn’t think what to say. ‘You can’t teach him to talk nice, can you?’ I said. ‘Not like a rich woman could.’ You know what you are, Alfie, I thought to myself, coming out with talk like that – you are, and a real one.

  ‘I can if I try hard,’ she said.

  ‘Not proper, you couldn’t,’ I couldn’t stop myself. Well I didn’t try. ‘Before he can talk proper he’ll be bleedin’ this and bleedin’ that and perhaps worse. I just heard a few kids in the street on my way in, coming out filthy they was. And who’s going to look after him when you go back to the caff working?’

  ‘I’m not going back to the caff,’ she said. ‘I’m going working on the loading bay at the brewery.’

  ‘So they’ve got someone else in your place,’ I said. ‘And you told me they looked on you as a daughter!’

  ‘It’s a better-paid job at the brewery.’

  ‘What, luggin’ bleedin’ beer crates about?’ I said. ‘And you wouldn’t fiddle ’em! Oh no! You wouldn’t be able to look ’em in the face. Just think of the money you could have had in the bank! And tell me, who’ll look after him when you’re working at the brewery?’

  ‘A woman called Mrs Timms. She’ll look after him from Monday morning till Friday tea-time. She’s got four children of her own. Then I won’t have to disturb him every morning, and I’ll have him all the weekend.’

  ‘You won’t never be able to bring ’im up like this rich woman could, Gilda.’

  ‘A child needs love, Alfie, and I can give him that.’

  ‘Love,’ I said, ‘love! A child needs a bloody sight more than love if he wants to get on in this life.’ I went across to the cot and looked down at him sleeping there so peacefully. ‘You’ve got to see his side of it, Gilda,’ I said.

  ‘I do, but I think this is best for him,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I only wish my mum had got me adopted to a rich woman when I was a kid,’ I said to her. ‘It would’ve made my lot a bleedin’ sight easier.’ And it struck me that it would too. I’d have loved it if a rich woman had got hold of me – or a rich man, come to that, bent on straight, if you see what I mean. ‘And what about me?’ I said. ‘You don’t think I’m going to spend my weekends dodging about under wet nappies?’ I don’t know what it was, but suddenly the kid woke up and started crying. Gilda stooped over him and patted him.

  ‘You won’t leave us, will you, Alfie?’ she said.

  ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ I said.

  ‘I won’t never ask you for anything,’ she said. ‘Not a farthing. But don’t leave us, Alfie. If you do, I’ll – I’ll—’

  I went across to her and put my hand round her shoulder, and the kid suddenly stopped crying. ‘I never said I’d leave you, did I? But I felt I had to speak up because I don’t think you’re doing right by that child in that cot.’

  ‘I’ll do right by him, Alfie,’ she said, ‘and I’ll make it up to you. You’ll never be sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to make anything up to me,’ I said, ‘I ain’t a pimp. I’m only telling you the truth as I see it.’

  ‘Promise you won’t leave us, Alfie,’ she said, and she grabbed hold of my jacket.

  ‘Don’t ruin my lapels, gal,’ I said. A woman like Gilda can’t half make you feel rotten. ‘What do you think I am,’ I said, ‘I ain’t a savage! You know I’m not going to scarper. But don’t you start off crying, either, or else I’ll belt you one, for sure. I don’t feel up to it.’

  Malcolm began to cry again but I wouldn’t let her go to him. ‘Never jump to a child at once,’ I said. ‘It don’t do. You’ll get more and more attached to each other and he won’t even go to this Mrs Timms.’ I stooped over the cot and spoke sharply to him. ‘’Ere, enough of that now, mate,’ I said, ‘or else I’ll give you something to cry for. Come on, now, you’ve had your turn.’

  To my surprise, he stopped crying at once and went off to sleep. What a child needs, of course, is a father’s voice. I said to Gilda, ‘Don’t forget he’s got a hard life in front of him so try not to give him any wrong impressions at the start. I only wish I’d been told what life was going to be like.’ He opened his eyes and I could see he was going to start crying again. ‘Malcolm,’ I said, ‘Malcolm!’ I remember how he looked up at me, and for a moment he didn’t know what to do, and then he gave me a little smile or something, closed his eyes and went to sleep. I think it was just when I first began to get attached to him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I’ve gone over the West this Saturday morning and I’ve bought Malcolm a most marvellous Teddy bear. I’d spotted it in this shop window, see, Hamley’s in Regent Street – a rich kid’s shop really, but it seems to have come down a bit except in prices – and it’s caught my eye and I’ve looked at the price, seven guineas. What a bleeding sauce, I thought, seven guineas for a child’s Teddy bear! I mean there are families not got that much to live on for a week. What they’ll spend on kids in these days! Mind you, I often think its only conscience money, for how they neglect ’em, neglect to teach ’em manners and all that.

  Anyway I’ve seen it and gone away, and then I’ve walked back, and I’ve thought I’ll go in and have a look at it. Now I don’t know how it is, but I can still hardly get myself to go into shops like that over the West. I mean I’m dressed as well as anybody, dressed better in fact, and come to that once you get inside it’s not a very posh shop, at all. You get lots of kids milling round the place who have only come to see the toys demonstrated. Anyway, I’ve got Malcolm on my mind – here, that’s a funny thing about a child, how they seem to stick in your mind when they’re very young – so I’ve gone in and gone up to this woman on the Teddy bear counter. Now they’ve got all manner of Teddies, all prices, but this is the one I want. It’s not just that it’s a Wendy Boston, foam filled, with real nylon fur and all that, but it’s the luck that the woman who made it – I expect it was a woman – has struck it off dead perfect just by chance. It’s the same with most cars; you and your mate can buy two identical models at the same time from the same place, and one turns out a cracker
, never no trouble, and the other turns out a load of trouble, never right.

  Now it’s ridiculous, the very idea of paying seven guineas for a Teddy, I mean. I can go over the Lane and pick him up something that looks almost the same thing for thirty bob. But it ain’t quite the same thing, that’s the rub. So I find I’m dipping into my pocket, and I’ve took my notecase out and I’m handing over a fiver and three single pound notes, and all I get is thirteen hog change. I mean if anybody had told me a few months before that I’d given seven guineas for a child’s Teddy bear I’d have told him to get stuffed. Anyway she’s wrapped it up lovely and I’ve gone off with it under my arm and put it at one side for his birthday, a couple of weeks ahead.

  Then next day comes, Sunday, and I’ve took him out into Battersea Park. He loves coming out with me he does. We don’t take his Mum out, we just go out on our own, and all the women look at him in the park because he looks different from other kids. I know all fathers think that about their kids, the only difference in this case is it happens to be true. He’s got this big mop of curly hair for one thing, and it’s so lovely and silky it slips through your fingers. I mean until you’ve felt a child’s hair you’ve no idea what real hair feels like. Then he’s always laughing and running away. It’s the same with their skin; you might think a young bird’s skin is soft to the touch compared with your own, but you get a child’s and it’s the difference between silk and sandpaper so far as a bird is concerned. And Gilda has got him dressed beautiful, I will say that about her.