What's it all about Alfie

The dog's called Alfie. I am in no doubt the dog is called Alfie. She yells it often enough for all doubt to have been removed. And it's not just your run of the mill frustrated, dog won't do as he's told kind of yell. Oh no, this is yelling on a whole new level. A shrill, ear piercing, strangled cat kind of yell which appears to have no effect whatsoever on poor Alfie, other than rendering him partially deaf and more than a little fearful.
What was Alfie's crime today? Well, he dared to yearn for a tranquil escapade into a mysterious densely wooded area known locally as Lost Souls Copse—a haven shrouded in mystery since time immemorial. His tail was wagging frantically and though I'm not well versed in doggy speak, it was evident he was pleading with her to let him go and explore, maybe cock a leg on some new trees for he had already claimed ownership of every other tree along the monotonous cinder track that monopolised his daily existence.
Her name? I know not, she is an enigma veiled in secrecy. In my head I've taken to calling her Butterface, as every other attribute exudes allure but her face, a face that only surfaces when her eyes glare at me with seething intensity. I appear to have a strange otherworldly effect, that causes her to contort in an extraordinary alien like fashion every time she subjects me to a sudden gush of fury and vitriol. I'm not even sure of what she's saying anymore. That's either because she's lost the ability to string a coherent sentence together or my brain switches to scrambled egg mode and pictures her as Yoda from Star Wars, an eerie resemblance that cannot be dismissed.
A few weeks ago, when I first caught her attention, she made her feelings crystal clear. She strongly objected to my habit of spending my afternoons on the park bench, a bench that gradually became her park bench. During our early encounters, I reassured her that I also disliked spending my afternoons on a park bench. However, when faced with the choice between nature's awe-inspiring canvas of magnificent oaks and rolling hills, and the malodour of the graffiti-covered concrete tunnel known as Snetton underpass, the park always emerged as the unsurprisingly, preferred option. At one point, I naively attempted to engage in a rational conversation with her, specifically regarding the ownership of the park bench. It was from this moment onwards, judging by her reaction and unnecessary emotional breakdown that she morphed into Yoda during every subsequent interaction.
Today, buoyed by a glimmer of optimism, I plotted my evasion with care, seeking refuge upon a new bench strategically positioned near the park's entrance. Alas, my hopes were swiftly dashed as she quickly sniffed me out, homing in on my scent with canine precision.
I've never been able to establish exactly why she finds me so objectionable. Our encounters have not delved into the realm of profound conversations, where our diverging world-views clash so vehemently that acceptance becomes an impossibility. I do however, suspect she isn't particularly enamoured with my sense of dress. Admittedly, I have never been a devotee of fashion's whims. Designer labels fail to ignite any fervour within me, though I was once the proud owner of a pair of Nikey trainers that had been gifted to me by the local church. Proud that was, until a gobby little teenage scallywag stopped me in the street one day to tell me with some delight, they were in fact Chinese knock offs probably bought from 'Trev the Turk' on Freemo market. It transpires, in the world of Nike there is no room for the letter 'Y'.
Not that I was ever a snappy dresser. Even in my prime, I willingly embraced the role of the nutty professor, donning faded brown corduroy trousers, checked shirt, and a tweed jacket adorned with obligatory leather elbow patches. Today, I fiercely guard my collection of technicoloured, multi-layered, and haphazardly coordinated ensembles, a mishmash of discovered garments. They bestow upon me a distinctive appearance, which could be kindly labelled as unique or unkindly deemed tramp-like. Remarkably, my uniqueness was once acknowledged by a rather affable fellow who claimed to be a street photographer and asked if he could take some candid shots for an upcoming exhibition. Apparently, I'm the epitome of Hobo Chic. While I harboured no illusions about his dubious claims, I gladly accepted a McDonald's quarter pounder and a chocolate milkshake in lieu of payment. Regrettably, I have yet to grace the cover of esteemed publications such as The Gentleman's Gazette or GQ magazine. Three years have passed, and the clamour for my autograph or a coveted selfie remains an elusive fantasy.
Alfie's persistent defiance seems to have reached its boiling point, leading Butterface to take matters into her own hands. With a firm grip on his lead, she drags the poor, terrified soul behind her like a sack of potatoes. As sorry as I feel for him, it at least gives me some temporary respite until she completes her second circuit of the obligatory four, which will undoubtedly give her another opportunity to vent her spleen.
Perfect time for a little sustenance. I delved into my carefully packed worldly possessions, securely stowed within two sturdy Waitrose bags for life—no cheap rubbish for me. A mild sense of panic gripped me as I failed to locate the one possession I deemed indispensable: a solid silver hip flask adorned with heartfelt inscriptions, a cherished gift from my former students during my final year as a professor of physics at Christ's College, Cambridge. This prized possession has accompanied me on my extraordinary journey into homelessness—a journey that my weary body and tired mind tell me is drawing to a close. Mild panic quickly escalated into sheer panic as I dug deeper, desperately searching. While the flask's sentimental value cannot be overstated, its contents—Lambs Navy rum, my elixir of life—holds paramount importance for my very existence. Aware that my mere existence already attracts unwanted attention, I had no desire to scatter the contents of my plastic suitcases across the meticulously manicured carpet of grass before me, for all the world to see.
As I ransacked my memory, I knew it had been a mere half hour since I last held the hip flask, so logically it couldn't have vanished into thin air. Yet, logic has a peculiar tendency to go on an impromptu vacation just when you need it most. Left with no other choice, I had to consider venturing into the depths of Lost Souls Copse and conduct a thorough search among my scattered belongings. As I reached over to grab my bags, there was sudden movement from within the confines of my military faux fur lined parka. Something tumbled out, landing with a resonating clatter on the metal-framed bench before rolling onto the grass. Ah, yes. I recalled the hasty moment when I spied Butterface swiftly approaching, prompting me to shove the hip flask into the recesses of my coat in a desperate attempt to conceal yet another one of my many flaws that she could wield against me. I retrieved the flask and cradled it in my hands. With provisions running low and uncertain prospects of acquiring the next bottle, I carefully poured a measure into the flask's silver top, designed as a perfect single serving. Adding it to my now tepid Costa coffee, I persuaded myself that consuming it in this manner indicated a refined taste rather than a drinking problem. After all, in polite society, a coffee liqueur is the epitome of sophistication.
No sooner had the concoction graced my lips, when from the corner of my eye, I spotted a young girl of maybe seven or eight striding towards me purposefully. She stopped abruptly, stared at me, and smiled. Seemingly unfazed by personal space, she settled herself down in uncomfortably close proximity. A shock of fiery red curls crowned her head, instantly capturing attention. She was clad in a navy blue school dress complimented with a familiar blazer, embellished with the emblem of a school I knew all too well—my very own primary school from countless moons ago. With deliberate care, she unburdened herself of a backpack adorned with graphics from a popular movie franchise and placed it by her side. An uneasy quiet descended, a period of awkward silence.
"Hello, my name's Lucy," she confidently announced staring straight ahead, and then after a brief pause, turned to me and said, "you smell."
I turned to look at her, summoning my most formidable glare in an attempt to assert dominance but she didn't avert her gaze. Realising I was unlikely to emerge victorious in this impromptu longest stare contest, I turned my attention back to a rare red squirrel that was darting around in front of me like a Ninja warrior searching for his autumnal harvest.
"No one invited you to sit here young lady," I hinted in a way I hoped would make her realise I simply wanted to be alone.
"I have to sit here," she replied. "Mummy said if we ever lose each other, I have to sit on this bench, and she will find me."
That brought me to a halt. Despite my desire for solitude, I had no intention of being the cause of separation between a mother and daughter, let alone being accountable for a child going missing.
"Your mother is very wise, and you are equally as wise for doing as you were told." I responded encouragingly.
The silence settled once more, interrupted only by the rhythmic swinging of Lucy's feet as she sat with her hands tucked beneath her legs. I felt the need for another tot of rum—not because my encounter with Lucy had been particularly traumatic, but simply because I had some left—I reached inside my parka, determined to find the elusive hip flask. However, my multiple layers of clothing and their numerous pockets proved to be a frustrating obstacle yet again. Aware that Lucy was watching me, I must have appeared like a comical figure, patting myself down and diving into deep dark crevices where only the brave or stupid would venture. Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was only a matter of seconds, I located my precious container of liquid gold. With utmost care, I poured another measure into what was now a cup deplete of any coffee, discreetly ensuring Lucy wouldn't form a negative impression of me. I sealed the flask and nonchalantly slipped it back into a pocket, fully aware that I would likely struggle to find it again when the time came.
"What's that?"
I clearly hadn't been as discrete as I thought. Either that or Lucy was more astute than I gave her credit for.
"What's what?" I answered.
"What did you just put in your cup?"
"Oh, just a drop of sugar." I lied.
"It didn't look like sugar."
Floundering, I said "It's very special sugar, just for grown-ups," in the vain hope that would put an end to the conversation. It didn't.
"I'm not allowed coffee or sugar; mummy said it would make me 'lighter.' I said, 'you drink a lot of coffee mummy, and you just get heavier.' She just laughed."
"I think she probably said it would make you hyper, not lighter."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you might run around a lot and talk too much." I said with a strong emphasis on my last three words in a vain attempt to quieten the little darling.
"Oh, I always do that," she replied and then there was silence.
Although I suspected Lucy still had more to share, it appeared that my subtle hint had nudged her to relocate to the opposite end of the bench. Yet, against my better judgement, I found myself compelled to prolong the conversation. Perhaps it was curiosity or an inexplicable desire to bridge the distance she had created, but something urged me to keep the dialogue going. Even so, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of offence at her deliberate distancing, skirting the boundaries of her mother's instructions.
"Was it something I said?"
"You really are very smelly." She responded in that brutally honest way only children can get away with.
"Smelly by name, smelly by nature."
This seemingly innocent comment precipitated a fit of giggles, filling the moment with a buoyant energy that was disproportionate to my simple remark. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips, unable to resist the charm of her contagious laughter. Though solitude had always been my sanctuary, there was an undeniable allure to the unadulterated innocence of youth, gradually thawing the walls around my heart.
"Your name is Smelly?" she managed to blurt out as she struggled to control her giggling fit.
"It's Mr Smelly to you."
Excitedly she asked, "are you a Mister Man?"
I hesitated. I don't know if I had a sheltered upbringing, but I was confused by the question.
"Erm... I don't think so." I couldn't have been more unsure.
"Oh! OK. I wish you were Mr Silly. He's funny and he doesn't smell."
I didn't respond and watched as Lucy unzipped her backpack and gingerly extracted a package, crudely wrapped in a torn page from a comic book. Her nimble fingers unfolded the makeshift wrapping to unveil a sandwich nestled inside. With the comic book page now doubling as her impromptu napkin, she placed it on her lap. Taking hold of one half of the sandwich, she delicately lifted the top layer of bread, sniffed it, replaced it, and took a satisfying bite.
"Would you like some of my sandwich? It's peanut butter and Monster Munch, I made it myself."
"Mm... Sounds delicious, but I'm good thanks, still full of breakfast."
"Breakfast? That was lots of hours ago, you must be hungry now?"
"I'm saving myself for a big juicy steak later but thank you anyway."
"You're welcome." Lucy paused, "I don't eat cows, they have funny faces."
As I contemplated Lucy's explanation for her aversion to beef, Butterface once again honed into view, rising over the crest of one of the park's many undulations like the ghost of Christmas future, readying to remind me of the tragedies yet to come if I didn't change my ways. I braced myself as she quickened her step and strode towards me and made a quick decision that this time round, I would strike first, hoping to catch her off guard. However, before I could initiate any action, Lucy swiftly rose from her seat like a thunderbolt.
"Hello Mrs lady, can I stroke your dog please?"
Butterface stopped in her tracks, her rehearsed diatribe dissipating into thin air. The innocence emanating from Lucy had caught her off guard, disrupting her rhythm. As for me, I reclined on the bench, intrigued to witness whether Butterface had more than one facet to her personality or if her toxicity extended to all, including children, making her a one-dimensional antagonist.
"Of course you can, dear." Butterface replied with a smile that experience told me was a rare occurrence.
Lucy paused for a moment, her eyes flickering with uncertainty. It was difficult to discern whether her hesitation stemmed from perceiving the facade of feigned sincerity and the forced smile of Butterface, or if her unease was simply due to her fear of dogs.
"It's OK, he's friendly, he won't bite."
"What's he called?" Asked Lucy
"His name's Alfie."
Lucy's infectious giggle once again filled the air, briefly irritating Butterface and giving me hope that her facade was about to crumble. But then, to my surprise, Lucy's charm disarmed her, diffusing the tension that had been building up.
"My Grandad was called Alfie, but he's dead now. Your dog won't die if I stroke him, will he?
"Of course not, why would you say such a thing?"
"Because mummy said my Grandad Alfie died of a stroke."
Suppressing a laugh, I attempted to disguise it with a cough, but Butterface saw through my feeble attempt. She shifted her gaze in my direction, shooting me a silent warning. However, just as I thought I was about to face the full force of her disapproval, Lucy intervened, saving me from further scrutiny.
"I've got a rabbit called Algernon; he's only got three legs. He used to have four, but one went missing. We've never found it."
"What's your name sweety?"
"Lucy."
"And where is your mummy, Lucy?"
"I don't know, but it's OK. She said if we ever lose each other I must sit on this bench, and she will come and find me."
"I see. Would you like me to wait with you?"
Butterface may have fooled Lucy, but she didn't fool me. She wasn't concerned with the whereabouts of Lucy's mum; she was concerned about the company she was presently keeping. Could I rely on Lucy rescuing me yet again or did I need to take some affirmative action, which in all honesty only amounted to picking up my belongings and skulking away like a scolded child. I shouldn't have worried, my new best friend had me covered.
"No, I'm fine thank you and anyway you wouldn't want to sit next to Mr Smelly."
Butterface shot me another look; I simply shrugged it off. Lucy and I had formed an unspoken alliance, successfully outwitting the grumpy old hag. Feeling a surge of courage, I lifted my cup and, with a mischievous wink, silently conveyed to Butterface that we had emerged victorious.
"OK if you're sure." Said Butterface through gritted teeth. "I'll be by again in about ten minutes. Don't go anywhere until your mummy comes."
"I won't, I promise."
Reluctantly, Butterface commanded Alfie to heel, and as she passed by the bench, she covertly attempted to take my picture with her phone. Emboldened by the presence of my newfound ally, I responded with a childish gesture of sticking out my tongue, hoping to impress Lucy if she happened to notice. However, Lucy was preoccupied, rummaging through her backpack in search of a juice carton. The conversation had come to a halt, which was expected since we seemed to have little in common. Lucy, a sweet eight-year-old patiently waiting for her mother, and me, a sixty-four-year-old homeless man with a striking resemblance to Fagin. But the silence didn't bother me; I was accustomed to silence, unlike Lucy.
Nonchalantly she asked, "Why do you smell?"
Of course, there was an answer to this question, but I didn't feel inclined to go into gritty detail so went on the offensive.
"You ask far too many questions young lady."
"But how would I know things if I didn't ask questions?"
Good answer. Maybe time to school her in a little tact and diplomacy.
"Some things you should ask, some things you shouldn't."
"Why?"
"There you go again. Questions, questions, questions."
"You sound like my daddy."
"Do you ask him too many questions to?"
"Not really, but I think mummy did. He kept saying 'if you don't stop asking me about Eleanor, I'm leaving'. Then he left and didn't come back."
Well, that took an unexpected turn. My head told me to either change the topic or more sensibly to just shut up. My heart told me differently.
"Do you still see your daddy?"
"No. We moved to a new house, and I think mummy forgot to tell him."
"I see."
"But it's OK. It means mummy doesn't cry any more or have to go to hospital."
This time my head won, and I didn't respond. What I needed now was for Lucy's mother to appear on the horizon and for Lucy to run into her arms so I could bathe in the glory of a happy reunion and get on with my solitary life on a park bench. Unusually for me, it appeared my prayers had been answered as I spied a rather determined short, rotund looking woman approaching at some pace in our direction. I don't think I'd formed an opinion as to what Lucy's mother might look like, but the rather serious looking lady who was making a beeline for us wasn't what I expected. She was much older than I'd imagined for a start and the fact Lucy hadn't jumped off the bench and run into her arms as I'd hoped, told me something wasn't right. Still some distance away, the mysterious female bellowed "So here we are again."
Lucy remained unresponsive, engrossed in her carton of juice, alternating between sips and blowing bubbles with playful enthusiasm. Meanwhile, the mysterious woman drew closer, her presence looming large, and it was evident that she wasn't a happy bunny.
"Well, what have you got to say for yourself Madam?"
"I'm not talking to you, you're not my mummy." Lucy responded defiantly.
"This is getting beyond a joke Lucy, pick up your backpack and get in the car now!"
"No."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said NO!"
The situation escalated rapidly. The furious woman swiftly grabbed Lucy by the arm and forcefully pulled her off the bench. However, Lucy's determination prevailed as she wriggled and squirmed, managing to break free from her grasp. Seeking refuge, she dashed behind me, disregarding the odour. For a moment, I imagined a comedic scene reminiscent of Benny Hill, contemplating adding sound effects as they circled the bench in a playful chase. Yet, it became apparent that the angry woman probably wouldn't share my affinity for 1970s sketch shows. She stood firm and surprisingly imposing, given her small stature. I could sense Lucy's hands gripping onto my coat, appealing for my protection. We found ourselves at an impasse, tensions mounting.
Should I intervene? Was it my place to meddle in their affairs? They clearly knew each other; they just didn't appear to like each other. Ultimately, curiosity got the better of me.
"Excuse me," I said in my best disarming voice, "I don't know who you are, but if her mother told her to wait here, I think she should wait here."
I wouldn't claim to have completely disarmed her, but I managed to evoke a response that was less enraged and more composed.
"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm Elaine, Lucy's foster carer."
OK, so now we were getting somewhere. The mystery deepens.
"Lucy's mother went missing over a week ago and she can't get it into her thick skull that sitting here every day after school isn't going to help find her."
I didn't get the chance to respond before Lucy bellowed at Elaine much too close to my ear, "Don't say that. She will come and find me. She told me if we ever lost each other I had to sit on this bench and wait for her and Mr Smelly said I am very wise just like my mummy."
"Don't be so rude Lucy," Elaine responded. "Say sorry to this gentleman now."
Lucy didn't speak, I didn't speak, which only left Elaine to break the silence.
"I said, say sorry to this gentleman now, you do not call people 'smelly'."
"Hey, it's fine honestly." I said in an attempt to ease the tension.
"No, it's not fine, she needs to learn some manners."
As a man who values tolerance and avoids conflict, I'm a lifelong member of CND for goodness' sake, it's rare for me to harbour negative feelings towards someone. However, there was an indescribable dislike I had towards this woman. While she couldn't quite match the intensity of Butterface, she had a knack for getting under my skin. Being a foster carer was undoubtedly challenging, and I respected that, but that didn't grant her the licence to embody the wicked stepmother persona depicted in Charles Perrault's fairy tale, Cinderella. And so, I mustered what I believed to be my cleverest retort of the day.
"And you Madam need to learn that my name is Mr Smelly."
I sat there with a satisfied smile, believing I had successfully silenced the old battleaxe. In my moment of triumph, I even toyed with the idea of imparting some rudimentary parenting wisdom on her. However, my momentary distraction in formulating my second cleverest retort allowed Elaine to seize the opportunity and fire back at me.
"And you, Sir, need to mind your own god damn business. If Lucy is not in the back of my car in two minutes, I will call the police and report you for harbouring a child."
Harbouring a child? Is that really a thing? I really couldn't be doing with a new moniker of 'harbourer'. I couldn't bear the thought of adding another unkind label to the already long list of names I had been called over the years. Instead, I turned towards Lucy and gestured for her to join me on the bench. Although hesitant due to the proximity of this unpleasant woman, Lucy eventually relented and sat next to me after some gentle persuasion.
"Lucy, sweetheart, I'm very proud of you for remembering what to do if you ever lost your mummy."
"And I'm very wise." Lucy interjected.
"And you're very wise, very wise indeed. But I don't think your mummy is coming today and it will soon be dark." Through clenched teeth I continued. "This lovely lady needs to make sure you are safe and that you don't come to any harm. I know she's a bit angry but that's because she worries about you."
"She doesn't scare me, she's not like my daddy, she's just not very nice like my mummy."
"Well, no one can ever be like your mummy, but she can look after you until your mummy is found. So, I'd like you to go home with Elaine now if that's OK?"
Lucy considered my request and reluctantly I suspect, agreed.
"Would you like to come too for some supper Mr Smelly?"
"That's very sweet of you Lucy but I'm having a big juicy steak later if you remember."
"I don't eat cows."
"I know, they've got funny faces."