Alfie (20 page)

Those sort of feelings about is-your-life-worthwhile don’t half knock it out of you. They’re worse than a day’s graft. Especially if you’re not in training for them. So what do I decide to do but cross the frog and slip into a pub down a side-street opposite the House of Commons. Now, I’m just having this quiet drink, a Worthington as a matter of fact, which I don’t like the taste of all that much, but being Sunday I didn’t want to pint it, and it is a strong drink, and somehow it always do make the bloke behind the bar look up a bit when you order one of them, leastways that’s the impression I’ve got. Now let me see how it was. Yes, I’m drinking this when I spot a woman’s back in a little cubby recess at the side. I know those shoulders, I think; I look a bit closer and guess what – it’s only Siddie!

She’s sitting there on her jacksie, reading one of these colour things out of a newspaper – the
Sunday Times Supplement
or whatever they call it. It’s got one geezer on 
the cover with a stocking over his face. I can’t understand why she hasn’t got a bloke in tow. So I creep up close, don’t I, and stoop and whisper into her ear: ‘Suck one of these mints, Siddie, so he don’t smell your breath!’

She turned and stared up at me like I was a ghost from the past. That’s the best I can put it. And once she’s recognised me I can see from the look in her eyes that she’s debating inside herself what line to take with me: the brush off or the half welcome. So I clinch it, don’t I. ‘Siddie,’ I said, ‘you look marvellous! You look younger than ever. How do you do it? Cor, that’s a lovely bit of Musquash’ – and I stroke her coat. ‘Course you always was a snazzy dresser.’

Naturally, in the middle of all this she comes out with something about: ‘Alfie, I wouldn’t have known you!’ But I decide to cock a deaf ’un to that. I mean I’m not sure how she intends it. So I ride it.

‘What are you having?’ I said. ‘The usual – vodka and tomato juice?’

‘I’m waiting for somebody,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and he’s arrived.’

‘He hasn’t,’ she said. ‘He’s a buyer from the firm.’

‘You were never one to wait for a man, Siddie,’ I said.

‘I waited long enough for you,’ she said.

‘I can explain all that,’ I said. ‘On my solemn oath if I were to die this minute.’ I was going to say
tonight
instead of
this minute
, and whether it is I’m getting religious or not I don’t know, but I felt I didn’t want a threat like that hanging over my head for more than the 
next sixty seconds. ‘Come on, drink up. We’d better be off before this buying geezer arrives.’

When I looked closer at her face it did seem that bit worn, but her chest was as beautiful as ever. I believe they can actually improve with age if given proper attention. The cleavage if anything was better. From the little I saw of it. Same as I say, I was leaning over her.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I’m not at all sure.’ She had a look towards the door.

‘You look in need of a good laugh, gal,’ I said. ‘Laughter keeps a woman young, don’t forget.’

‘Have you got your napkin?’ she said.

‘I’m like the Boy Scouts,’ I said – ‘always prepared.’ And I found myself whipping out my one spotless hanky which I’d resisted blowing my nose on and I tucked it over my lapel. ‘What time did your old man say he’d be waiting for you at the station?’

‘He’s gone to Perth on his job,’ she said, half rising from her seat. ‘He won’t be back until Tuesday morning.’

‘Then I won’t need my napkin,’ I said. ‘I never wear ’em in bed. Come on, I’ve got the car waiting round the corner.’ So she got up, didn’t she, and I’ve put my arm in hers and led her outside.

It felt so soft, so warm and cosy under her armpit up against her breast. There’s no doubt that few things in this life are more comforting to have your mitt tucked away in than a woman’s plump arm inside a fur coat, even though it might only be dyed Musquash. It reminded me of a bird I once knew who used to like to – but why tell it? People don’t respect you more for opening your heart 
to them and telling all the things you’ve done. I think you’re only making a stick for your own back. Anyway, you only remind them of what they’ve done but not told. It gives them a guilty feeling. Nobody is going to thank you for
that
.

Well, I’d had a good cleansing out, and now I felt badly in need of a good filling up again. As we walked along the pavement towards Westminster Bridge I couldn’t believe how all this weight had suddenly lifted off my heart. It’s funny, I thought, but all that pain and sorrow don’t last all that long. I don’t suppose anything does. Forgive yourself, Alfie, I said, for anything you’ve done wrong. After all, you’ve got to forgive yourself before you can forgive anybody else, if you see what I mean.

‘Remember that time you got your knee stuck on the horn?’ I said.

Come to think of it, that was when it all started. That was the selfsame night when little Gilda was overdue. Quite a bit had happened in between.

Siddie let out one of her hearty laughs. Same as I say, she’s got these powerful lungs. I find I’m going in more for healthy women.

‘You never change – do you, Alfie?’ she said.

I dodged that one: ‘It’s all a giggle, Siddie,’ I said. And as I opened the car door for her I gave her behind such a nice little pat. Then I goes round and gets into the driver’s seat, and drives off, all smiles. And I think to myself:
Alfie, you’re a real little Punchinello
.

Well, you’ve got to be in this life, if you see what I mean.

 If you enjoyed
Alfie
, read on to find out about another book in Allison & Busby’s Classics collection …

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www.allisonandbusby.com
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B
ILL
N
AUGHTON
(1910–1992) was born in Ireland and raised in Bolton, eventually settling on the Isle of Man with his Austrian wife, Erna. Having left school at fourteen, he worked as a weaver, a coalbagger and a lorry driver. He first made a name for his writing with his contributions to
Lilliput
. During the late 1950s he wrote a series of documentary dramas for the BBC. Films and plays followed, including
Spring and Port Wine, The Family Way
, and the movie of his most famous book,
Alfie
.

ABSOLUTE BEGINNERS

BY COLIN MACINNES

A T
WENTIETH
C
ENTURY
C
LASSIC

London, 1958. Soho, Notting Hill. A world of smoky jazz clubs, coffee bars, and hip hangouts in the centre of London’s emerging youth culture. The young and restless – the absolute beginners – were creating a world as different as they dared from the traditional image of England’s green and pleasant land. Follow our young photographer as he records the moments of a young teenager’s life in the capital – sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll, the era of the first race riots and the lead up to the swinging sixties.

A twentieth century classic,
Absolute Beginners
remains the style bible for anyone interested in the Mod culture and paints a vivid picture of a changing society with insight and sensitivity.