Mr Dibbs Fixes Bikes

29

The morning post appeared to come later and later, these days. Alfie would awake, on his birthday in days gone by, to find the Duchess already in the midst of cooking breakfast, several bits of housework already finished, and the post on the sideboard, awaiting him to open and peruse. In those days, Alfie could expect dozens of cards from family and friends, and others, later in the day, brought by hand and delivered with smiles.

Now, he could spend time in the little shed, working on his latest bicycle project, or come home from fishing, or the allotment, and still have to wait for the sound of the letterbox flap clattering back into place and the flutter of letters, flyers and junk mail falling to the threadbare door mat. He didn't receive any birthday cards by post anymore, and deliveries by hand had fallen away as his friends and family had all passed away.

Not that he had ever really cared for his birthday. An excuse for a few pints down the Working Men's club, even though he never really needed an excuse. A present, or two, from the Duchess. Nothing to write home about. Nothing to celebrate. Only another day in a long slog of days that stretched further and further behind him.

As he returned to the house, a fresh coat of paint applied to the bicycle frame awaiting drying, he noticed the empty door mat. Later and later, if anything came at all. A breakfast of a soft-boiled egg with toast fingers to dip into. A hot cup of tea. A few more moments and he would place his cap on his head, fasten up his boots, and make a trip into town for no other reason than he had little else to do.

Chewing upon the egg-dipped toast, he toyed with the mobile phone he disliked so much, looking through footage from the new security cameras, only to find a procession of cats passing through his garden as though they owned the place, bats or night birds flapping by and, something wonderful, a fox sniffing and peering around. In all his long years, he had never actually seen a live fox, though he knew they were around, out in the green hills that surrounded the town in the valley.

The egg and toast did nothing to fill or satisfy him. A poor imitation of the food the Duchess would make for him, but, then again, everything had that feeling of falling far short of the past. Every day, little by little, he found less and less reason for carrying on. A never-ending drone of pointless words and even more pointless actions, broken up only by doing something he enjoyed, though even those things had become rote and mundane.

While he washed up, making more and more heavy sighs in the silence of a home that had started to feel less like a home and more like an echoing cavern that swallowed any enthusiasm he may once have held, he heard a low knock at the front door. He frowned, wondering who could have come to call at this hour. Wiping his hands on the dishcloth, Alfie folded it over the oven handle and made his way to the door.

"Good morning, Mister Dibbs and happy birthday." Ms Matheson stood behind Frederick, holding on to his shoulders. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "I think Frederick has some apologising to do. And myself. I am so sorry. I thought he had your permission."

"Permission? For what?" Alfie looked at Frederick, three packages in his hands and an envelope atop them, but Frederick didn't look up. "Ee! Where's my manners? Come in. Sorry the place is a mess."

He knew very well there was no mess, but it was something everyone in his life had said at the appearance of visitors. To make a mess, he would need to spend time in the house, when, in truth, he spent most of his time in the little shed, or outdoors. He stepped to the side, allowing Frederick and his mum to pass and the lad shambled forward, guided into the living room by his mother.

There, she turned Frederick around to face Alfie and reached over the lad's shoulder to take the envelope and the top-most package. Still Frederick refused to lift his eyes and Alfie recognised guilt when he saw it. Of course, Alfie had an idea what that guilt was, but he had chosen to forget it. To move on and not press the point. Making a fuss would help no-one and he, like as not, had missed the lad's visits.