Alfie (4 page)

Little Gilda was quite happy those months she was carrying, as they call it. (I don’t know why it is but I never like coming out with words like ‘carrying’, ‘expectant’, ‘pregnant’ or anything of that sort – seems like they’re women’s words.) At times, in fact, I thought she was a bit too cheerful. I always maintain there’s a time and place for everything, and it didn’t seem to be quite the right time for her having suddenly come into happiness. I mean if ever I slipped in on the quiet I’d be sure to hear her humming or singing to herself. And on Sunday mornings I’d let her bring me breakfast to bed; although to be quite frank I’d as soon get up, but you should never stop a woman from doing things for you since it only frustrates ’em. And she’d be all smiles as she popped the tray in front of me. Course it meant a little morning matinee afterwards, so in a way she was doing herself a good turn as well as me.

I like thinking things over, and the thought struck 
me it must bring out some new strength in a woman when she’s like that. Otherwise how can you account for ’em going through months of sickness, swelling up until they’re right misshaped bags, coming out in varicose veins on their legs and red stretched out marks on their stomachs, and still at the end they’re hobbling about quite pleased with their little selves? Another funny thing I noticed on Gilda, she came over quite beautified, especially in the early months, both in her face and her little figure, and I told her more than once, ‘Blimey, gal, you ain’t as ugly as I thought.’

I quite enjoyed my little self during that time. Here come to think of it, these geezers in the days gone by, I mean our grandads and great grandads, whilst they might have had a lot of worries on their minds about one thing and another, I mean, poverty, diseases and whatnot, there was one trouble they didn’t have – they never had to keep their eye on the calendar – know what I mean? They can say what they want about the Pill and one thing and another but one of the greatest reliefs a man can have – or a woman come to that – is to let Nature take its course. They might have had their nines and tens in families, their thirteens and fourteens or even their nineteens and twenties, with the home crowded out with loads of kids, but once they went to bed at night – or afternoon come to that – they could relax and take their pleasure as it came. You get your number one need satisfied, and I’ve found that after that the rest have a way of falling into place.

Mind you I didn’t fancy being seen out with little 
Gilda after about the fifth month – not a woman in that condition or anything like that. Funny, but it didn’t seem to show until she was about six months gone. Little hard stomachs they’ve got when young, I suppose. Course she didn’t mind who saw her, which only goes to prove what I’ve always said, that men are more sensitive than women. And towards the end I didn’t even fancy being inside with her, if you follow me. It wasn’t that I was nervous she’d start having it when I was around – although I was nervous that she might – it was more the feeling that I’d got myself lumbered. You get a pregnant woman beside you and you don’t feel a free man any more. Right enough we weren’t married, and we had no intention of marrying – leastways one of us hadn’t – and she was going to have the kid adopted and in a month or two we’d be back where we started, or near enough, although you can never be dead sure after a thing like that; but I’d always been used to having Gilda around and more or less ignoring her except at certain times, but you can’t ignore a woman who is eight months gone.

Well, not entirely; although I dare say you could after a few times. On top of that I used to get funny little thoughts cross my mind as I watched her padding round the room. I mean they might look a bit odd, a bit out of shape, and be troubled with the wind – at least Gilda was, and I put it down to all the fruit she ate to keep him fit – but you’ve got to admit it’s the one time when a woman comes out superior to a man. And they do it by not wanting to be superior or anything. They can just be themselves, see. And I was able to see how some little 
married bloke and his wife could be quite happy over their first-born.

Now if you get lots of those thoughts going through your mind they can begin to upset your way of life. I’d be out with another bird and blow me down if I wouldn’t start thinking about Gilda and the kid.

Naturally I’ve got one or two others on the go at the same time. Same as I say, I find the ideal number is three. You can nearly always be sure at least one’s in good form, if you see what I mean. If you’ve only two, things very often coincide. Whereas if you’ve got four you’re apt to get rushed, to get some overlapping, and you can’t concentrate on each one the same. And with three, if you’ve had a row with one you can keep thinking of the other two, or if with two of the other one. Always give yourself something to play with.

There was this manageress of a dry-cleaner’s I was having it off with – I used to get my suit cleaned in the bargain. You can’t turn something like that down. Her name was Milly, and I’d go round with a suit (and sometimes work a couple of ties in as well) after the shop was closed. I had my own little knock which she knew, and she’d come and let me in. She always liked to get her books and things straight first, and once she had done we’d move over to the laundry corner and have a bit of an up-and-downer amongst the sheets, tablecloths, blankets and whatnot. Now when we’d done we’d get ourselves tidy, and I’d pick up my last week’s suit and we’d drive off to a quiet little pub. She always liked a Mackeson after her day’s work and I’d have a pint of 
brown-and-mild. Then I’d listen to her troubles. You’ve got to listen to their troubles if you want to get anywhere with a woman. They’re not only in need of a laugh, same as I said, but they’re longing for a chat. So I’d listen to all its little problems, then it would pay a round, then I’d pay the next round, and it’s time for going. Right, I’m a Mackeson down on the deal – but I’ve had a suit cleaned, like as not a tie, and I’ve had a wrap-up amongst the sheets in the bargain. It seemed such a good bargain with Milly that it went on for months.

But in time – whilst Gilda was like that – it suddenly struck me that I wasn’t really enjoying it. And by chance it came one Monday and I’d nothing I could lay my hands on to have dry-cleaned. So I telephones her to say I can’t make it – I’d never do the dirty on a woman, have her waiting. And it struck me that night what a mug I’d been – never spotting how you can have a good time and not see that you ain’t enjoying it, if you know what I mean. Course it’s very hard to resist a bargain. But once I had done I began to see I’d never had Milly in the best of condition; I mean what can you expect if she’d been on her feet nine hours, her mind full of re-texing, proofing and whatnot – and come to think of it, there was always a faint pong of dry-cleaning stuff on her.

Now to get back to this Gilda. Once she got near her time, this Mrs Artoni from the café and one or two neighbours seemed all eager to help. Funny, ain’t it, you pick up the papers and read ’em and you’d think there was nothing else went on in this world but raping and coshing and robbing, but once you move out amongst 
the people with women having kids and one thing and another, you’ll find people are quite kind. It surprised me, it did. They were taking over, and once or twice I’d almost to remind them that after all I was the Dad.

So then in she goes to hospital. I wasn’t there and I didn’t see it, but from all accounts that kid comes out a treat, right bang on the minute you might say. I mean I could hardly believe it because most of the kids belonging to relations of mine were all premature or something. And never stuck their heads out of an oxygen tent until they were about six months old. They’d all two birthdays, or ages or something – the age they are and the age they would have been if only they’d have waited for the right time to be born. I didn’t fancy going to the hospital to see her and I thought I’d wait until she came out, but on the Sunday afternoon I don’t know what came over me but I finds myself walking round the hospital and the next thing I buys some flowers and a bunch of grapes and in I went to see her.

A funny smell hospitals have. I wonder how it is they can never get rid of it. I didn’t fancy going into the ward. At first I thought I’d made a mistake and I was going out when this Mrs Artoni came running and calling after me. I mean I’d looked round and I’d seen all the faces and I’d seen this woman sitting up in bed but somehow I’d never thought it was Gilda. Her face looked so different. Perhaps it was having had the kid, or it might have been having been looked after for ten days and having had a good rest. I can’t describe it properly but her face looked very white in places and 
nicely rosy in others and very clean and rested.

‘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.

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.

‘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.