Alfie

by Bill Naughton

  Although to be quite frank I feel she’s begun to let herself go a bit to seed. Not deliberate, it’s just happened that way. I’ll admit it must be hard work at the brewery, so naturally she’s looking a bit tired when weekend comes round, but there’s no need for a body to go about moping. I drop in every Saturday afternoon, see, and usually stay on until Sunday night, a nice little bout of family life, you could say, every weekend, which come to that is just about enough for any man. But to get back to Malcolm, same as I say, he turns out to be a smashing kid, and he’s always watching out for me coming on a Saturday afternoon. That’s why I never like to let him down, even when I’ve something better on – I mean than his Mum. But one thing you’ve got to watch out for with a child is how it grows on you. I mean your life ain’t your own once you get a kid tangled up in it. I’d only seen kids with their mums, see, for ever grizzling and griping, and you’d as soon give ’em a kick up the behind as look at ’em.

  But you get a kid on his own, I mean just you and him with Mum out of the way, and it’s an entirely different matter. Very soon I found I was getting quite attached to him. Now that’s something I always guard against. All my life since I was a kid I’ve watched out against getting attached, because you get attached to somebody and sooner or later that’s going to bring you some pain. And it’s going to cost you some sleep. So if a bird hasn’t got you one way she’s got you another, for have you ever thought how though she might be as ugly as sin, something quite beautiful can come out of her?

  Now same as I say on this Sunday I’ve had a lovely little morning out with Malcolm. And when we get back Gilda has got a beautiful dinner ready, roast beef, Yorkshire, tinned peaches and ice cream for afters. When we’ve done I’ve put Malcolm to sleep in his cot in his little room. He won’t let his Mum put him to sleep when I’m there, he always insists on me. So that gives you some idea of what he thinks of me. I’ve got to tell him a story or something and this time I tell him that poem about this geezer Abou Ben Adhem waking up in the middle of the night and finding an angel in his room, writing in this book of gold, and Ben asks him what’s he up to, and the angel says he’s writing the names of those who love the Lord, but that Ben ain’t one. Anyway, Malcolm drops off to sleep in the middle of it and I tiptoes back to Gilda. She’s put the dinner things into the kitchen and she’s already ironing some of Malcolm’s little clothes.

  ‘What a lad he is!’ I said. ‘He could hardly keep his eyes open but he didn’t want to give in. He’s going to be a real handful in a few months’ time. We’ll have to be careful what we say in front of him. He’s as sharp as a needle.’

  I had that feeling you get when you talk and the woman isn’t listening to you. I’d sensed it during the Saturday night that she wasn’t a hundred per cent with me. There’s nothing like the love stakes for smelling out if a bit of quiet smouldering is going on underneath. And now I could feel it that bit more. I’d intended keeping it a dead secret about the Teddy bear but now I let it out. ‘Wait till he sees that Teddy bear I bought him for his birthday,’ I said. ‘You never saw anything like it. Pure nylon fur.’ I was going to tell her how much it cost but managed to keep it to myself. Although only just. ‘It’s a real rich kid’s Teddy,’ I said, giving her a hint. ‘I got it at a shop over the West.’

  That got no response, and I was looking at her from behind as she was ironing, a thought crossed my mind. ‘Here, gal,’ I said, ‘do you fancy an hour’s kip while he’s asleep?’

  That’s another thing I’ve often found with a bird, that when there’s something not right between you it can occasionally be sorted out between the sheets, or it comes out. Mind you that wasn’t the reason I asked.

  I waited for her to say something but she went on ironing. ‘Cloth ears,’ I said, ‘I’m talking to you.’

  She went on ironing and without looking at me she said: ‘Humphrey’s been to see me twice this week.’

  When she said that it gave me a bit of a shock. You know how it is – you suddenly sense something. Of course I covered up straight away. ‘That’s very nice of him,’ I said, and I picked up the News of the World.

  ‘He came round to the brewery at lunch-time,’ she said.

  ‘What’s he after,’ I said, keeping my eye on the paper, ‘a bit on the side?’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ she said.

  ‘He’s normal, ain’t he,’ I said.

  ‘We only talked,’ she said.

  I don’t know what it was but I suddenly felt my temper rising in my throat. ‘Then don’t effin’-well tell me what you talked about,’ I yelled at her, ‘because I don’t want to know.’

  If there’s one thing I can’t bear to hear about it’s a bird and a bloke having their innocent talks together. It would never strike me to do a thing like that anyway. Here, I consider this friendly chat more intimate than the other, if you see what I mean. After all, you can work up to the other with any bird, any shape, colour or size and you needn’t know a single word of each other’s language to have it off quite nicely; but to sit and talk together on a park bench of a lunch-hour you’ve got to strike off what they call a relationship. And that can turn out to be a very intimate thing. I mean I wouldn’t mind a bird of mine having it off with a bloke, say once or twice, though I’d rather she didn’t let me know. I mean we can all give way to an impulse, but a relationship is quite another matter. I ain’t standing for that. It goes deep – I mean with them.

  ‘What’s he after then,’ I said, ‘if he’s not after that?’

  She began folding up little Malcolm’s things. ‘He wants me to marry him,’ she said.

  When she said that I felt a sudden cold jab near my heart. I don’t know why I should, because normally a thing like that would make me feel relieved. I like that feeling of unloading the nearest and dearest birds – let alone a woman who’s got herself a kid. I mean I didn’t want to marry her – after all what had I to marry her for? I’d a woman supervisor with her own flat after me. But the idea there was a man wanted to marry her kind of upset me. Of course I didn’t let her see it. But how to strike back, I thought.

  ‘Does he know about little Malcolm?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he knows everything.’

  Knows everything – a bleeding London Transport inspector! They couldn’t tell you how to get from Jamaica Road to the Army and Navy. Come to think of it that is a bit dodgy by public transport. ‘And what did he say?’ I said.

  ‘He said he’d try to be a father to him.’

  ‘How can he be a father,’ I said. ‘I’m the child’s father. It’s not something you can try to be.’

  ‘Yes, he knows all about that but he doesn’t think it matters all that much.’

  ‘Oh, what does he think matters?’

  She thought for a moment before answering: ‘Humphrey believes being a father lies more in giving care and attention to a child, not in just having been with his mother.’

  What a thing to say! He should talk! A father’s a father no matter what you say.

  ‘And in giving love,’ she said.

  If that were true, I thought, there wouldn’t be many fathers around in these days, because my married mates all they want is to get away from the kids.

  ‘And what did you tell him?’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t tell him anything.’

  ‘You must have told him something.’

  ‘I told him I’d have to talk it over with you first.’

  What’s so funny about that? After all why shouldn’t she talk it over with me? ‘Why talk it over with me,’ I said. ‘You’re a free agent, ain’t you?’

  ‘Malcolm needs a father,’ she said.

  What a sauce! – after I’d just bought him a seven-guinea Teddy bear! ‘And what do you think I am?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t mean just a weekend father,’ she said. ‘The boy needs a proper father.’

  ‘We all need proper fathers,’ I told her, ‘and proper bleedin’ Mums, come to that. It seems t
here ain’t enough to go round these days, so let’s forget it.’

  ‘I’m not getting any younger, Alfie,’ she said.

  ‘Are you trying to put the block on me?’ I said.

  ‘I’m not trying to put anything on you,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t talk to me any more about it,’ I said. ‘Because I couldn’t care no more’n fly-in-the-air what you do.’

  ‘I don’t really love him, Alfie,’ she said. ‘Not like I love you.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about love,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what love is, the way you birds keep rabbiting about it. Love, love, love – if somebody hadn’t told you about it you wouldn’t know what the bleedin’ hell it meant.’

  ‘But I do respect him,’ she said.

  I felt dead chuffed when she said that. That’s a word I’d never use, respect. I don’t even know what it means. Well I do – but I’ve never respected anybody or anything in all my born days. It’s not something you do or feel in my walk of life. And I expect I’ll go to the grave not having been respected in turn. You can live without it. It’s dying out everywhere. But what a stroke for a woman to come out with!

  I got my jacket off of the back of the chair and slipped it on. She’d ruined my day. The walk to the park, the dinner, the lot, all gone sour on me. Even the old Teddy. ‘Then you’d better marry your Humphrey hadn’t you,’ I said. ‘You’ve got young buster in there to think of. I’ll be seein’ ya – maybe.’ Then just as I got to the door I remembered I had her key in my pocket so I turned back and put it down on the table. ‘Here’s your key,’ I said. ‘You might want it for Humphrey.’ Then I went off and quietly closed the door because I didn’t want to waken Malcolm.

  The thing to have done would have been to call me back. And if she’d called me back I wouldn’t have gone. But she didn’t and I felt a bit choked about that. It was her place to do it, but instead she must have gone on folding up little Malcolm’s clothes. I couldn’t get over the look she gave me as I put the key down. It was as though once having made up her mind, she was glad to see the back of me. It always gives me a shock when I break off with a woman the way it comes out that she’s always harboured a grudge against me. Not just the one woman – every one of them. A man gets the idea into his head that what a bird does for him she does out of pure love – or else why do it at all? Nothing of the sort. She does it because something in her makes her do it, but if it wasn’t you it would be some other geezer. And if it wasn’t him it would be a cat or a little dog or maybe nothing more than a little canary in a cage. So that when you leave them they begrudge all they’ve ever given you or done for you. They look on it as time wasted, love lost, feelings gone for nothing. They look round for something new to love and they begrudge all that went to you. Now I never begrudge anything I’ve ever done for a woman. Of course, come to that, I don’t do very much.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  What a relief it was to get rid of Gilda! I felt free again. I don’t care who the bird is or who the mate is, but somehow I always feel better when I unload them. I mean, if you get to know different ones intimately they begin to stick in your mind and if there’s one thing I detest it’s walking about with other people on my mind. I like to feel free and walk about taking things as they come, thinking mostly of myself. And it meant all my weekends were free. That was lovely.

  Course, it took me a week or two to get used to the change. There might be lots of birds around on the loose, you can’t always get the right replacement at short notice when you need it. I did a spell with one little bird who was kind of romantic or something, always reading those soppy women’s picture books. Her name was Jean, but I used to call her ‘Tellmesummink’.

  We’re in bed, see, after having it off, and I’ve said all the right things, or at least most of ’em, and then I’m ready for two or three minutes’ kip at a time like that. I mean, I don’t go off to sleep in the ordinary sense, but I go more into a light doze, like a bloke who’s just taken some dope. I kind of lie there on my back with my eyes closed and the bedclothes pulled off a bit to get air to my body, and it seems like my little imagination kind of floats away and I’m able to hear the kids yelling in the street or somebody’s radio or telly on loud, but these things don’t disturb me, they don’t even impinge, I just float away into these little dreams of mine and I usually manage to bolster myself up a bit – tell myself how lucky I am and, come to that, how fortunate the little bird at my side is to have me for her loverman, and what a marvellous time I’m having. I don’t let myself drop clean off into a deep sleep because then your other dreams can get at you, and you can’t have your own way with them. But in this state you’ve got this nice light sailing sleep, and you can feed some lovely little thoughts into your dreams – leastways, that’s how I see it.

  Now, I’m only in the middle of this little lot, say I’ve had ninety seconds of it, not much more, and I’m just drifting upwards – in fact, sometimes I’m actually flying – I mean I can fly and nobody else can and I just go wherever I have a mind – when this Tellmesummink beside me gives me a dig in the ribs with its elbow, or gets hold of me in a spot I detest being got hold of at a time like that, and it says to me: ‘Please tell me summink.’ ‘Tell you what?’ I says. ‘Tell me summink,’ it says. ‘What – that I love you?’ I says, ‘I’ve just told you I love you.’ I’m winging it, see, but it don’t know, and I can go on for another minute or two talking like that without even waking up. ‘Nah, not just that,’ it says. ‘What, that you’re beautiful?’ I says. ‘Nah, not just that either,’ it says. ‘You mean that you’ve got lovely hair – nice eyes—’ ‘No, nothing like that,’ it says. ‘I only want you to tell me summink.’ I give it up and try to drop off, hoping it might drop off or drop dead. ‘Please tell me summink,’ it says. ‘Two and two’s four,’ I says, ‘leastways it was when I went to school.’ ‘Don’t make fun, Alfie,’ it says, ‘tell me summink.’

  Course, I’m proper woke up by this. ‘What the bleeding hell do you want to know?’ I says. ‘I don’t know what I want to know,’ it says, ‘you just talk and tell me summink, then I’ll know.’ ‘Do you want me to say dirty things?’ I says, ‘Because I ain’t in that mood.’ ‘Nah, nothing like that,’ it says, ‘unless they come into it.’ ‘Come into what?’ I says. ‘Into what you’re going to tell me,’ it says. ‘Go on, don’t be mean, Alfie, tell me summink.’ ‘What do you want to know?’ I says. I’m really getting at my wits’ end now, and I’m feeling very humpty. ‘I don’t know,’ it says, ‘I just want you to talk and tell me summink.’ ‘Well, I will tell you summink,’ I says, ‘I’ll tell you this – if you don’t shut your big ugly gate at once and let me get a couple of minutes’ kip, I’ll kick you out of the bleeding bed.’ Do you think that stopped it? Not a bit of it. A minute later it has its little hand creeping exploring round my skin and out it comes with: ‘Alfie, tell me summink.’

  It was a lovely kid in other respects, and I didn’t want to hurt its feelings, so I just said: ‘If I knew something worth telling, you don’t think I’d tell it to a bleeding soppy nit like you. I’d keep it to myself.’ We’d quite a few sessions together and same as I say it was very fair in all other respects except for this habit. It would just lie there keep asking. I did throw it out at the finish. I suppose at this very minute it’s got some poor geezer lying beside it and it’s saying to him, ‘Tell me summink, please.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘You know what, Alfie,’ she said, ‘your heart’s pumping away like mad.’

  ‘You don’t expect the bloody thing to stop,’ I said, ‘at a time like this.’

  I was in bed with this fat little bird Clare from the Dials. Her bloke had gone to Birmingham to compete in one of the heats for the Mr Britain competition.

  ‘You’re all lathered in sweat, Alfie,’ she said.

  ‘What do you expect?’ I said. I’m not a chap to boast and if I was it’s not a thing to boast about but I’d definitely given her the full treatment. Mind you,
you’ll never get any credit from a young bird no matter what performance you give. They seem to think it’s all a matter of acrobats; but an older bird, who’s had a few disappointments, knows better. ‘If your bloke was in my place,’ I said, ‘and had done to you what I’ve just done’ – I must have kept it up for nigh on two and a half hours with not more than the odd minute or two respite in between – ‘he’d be nothing but a blob of grease.’

  I knew I was right, too. They can say what they want about the strain of weight-lifting, or of any other lifting, but I don’t think there’s any game in which a man is prepared to extend himself and knock himself out as much as he is in bed. The funny thing was the sweat really was pouring out of me. I could feel it coming out from under my armpits and running in hot and cold trickles down my body. And the old heart was thudding away like an old-fashioned donkey engine. It must have been going about a hundred and fifty to the minute. Now a bloke can often kid himself that he’s having a grand passion when in fact he’s simply out of condition. He hears this thudding in his ears, and he thinks the whole bleeding universe is shifting in sympathy with him, when all he needs is a good working medicine and some fresh air and exercise.

  The worst of it was, I’m with this little Clare and I can’t get Gilda out of my mind. Well, not Gilda, but little Malcolm. I keep thinking about him, and I kind of see his Mum just behind him. Mother and child, they are one when you come to think of it. ’Course if you lose a bird you can always replace her. When you get down to it there ain’t all that much difference in a load of ’em. But with children it’s different – they’re each one themselves, they’ve each got their own little nature. You’ll never replace a child. You can see a school playground full of kids and not one will remind you of your own – then suddenly you’ll spot a strange kid in a quiet street and you get this flash of pain in your stomach.