hiya bucks in Bourne End, Flackwell Heath, Marlow, Wycombe, Wooburn November 2014 | Page 52

Alfie and Rose

A short story by Lucy Jane Gonzalez

The fridge is empty again. I remember a time
when it was always full to the brim. I used to
have to serve the grandchildren second, even
third helpings of pudding on Sundays, just so
that everything would fit in there. Trifle, pavlova,
caramel profiteroles. Of course, they never took
much persuading.
Since my George died, our daughters Sarah and
Pippa take it in turns to visit me at the house,
and help me buy my groceries on the world-wide
web. I’m not up to going to the supermarket,
not without George. It frightens me, with all the
noisy people being herded about, tempted by silly
things they don’t need. Three for the price of two,
what fun!
When my George was alive, he had a way of
turning this chaos into nothing more than an
opportunity for hilarious imitations. A stressed
mother with her unruly children would become,
as acted out by George, a witch-like character,
screaming and tearing out chunks of hair.
Teenage lads playing rap music on their mobile
phones would fall victim to George walking close
behind them, exaggerating their silly walks and
mannerisms. Among all of this comedy, though,
my favourite thing about our trips was that my
husband always made sure there was a treat for
me in the trolley. Ginger snaps were my favourite.
I don’t like it when the grocery deliveries arrive
at the house. The drivers are brash and impatient,
and they often bring the wrong things. Nappies as
a substitute for porridge, or something ridiculous
like that. On top of which, I always forget to
include a treat for myself in the order. Hastily,
Sarah and Pippa select only the essentials, and
as a result I drink countless cups of tea with no
biscuits on the side.
I move away from the kitchen into the sitting
room, my slippers flapping against the lino.
The fire is not lit, that was always George’s
responsibility. It frightens me, I never allowed
myself to get too close to it when it would roar
away of a winter evening. I nestle down in the
very middle of the sofa and pull the fading pink
blanket over my legs, shivering. I must remember
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to ask Sarah to buy me a thick roll neck sweater.
The cold snap is on its way.
I hear the cat flap bang and my heart leaps. It’s
Alfie, back from his evening hunt, wonderful,
handsome Alfie. He paces steadily into the cold
room, his piercing blue eyes focused cheerfully
on me and his paws sturdy like a lion’s. I fumble
in my skirt pocket for my glasses, longing for
a clearer look at my darling cat. A broad smile
stretches across my wrinkled face.
George and I bought Alfie thirteen years ago,
after we retired. We shared a mutual hostility
towards dogs, with their slobbering tongues and
unpredictable behaviour. Alfie was, as we both
noted the first time we saw him in Ivy Animal
Centre, like an alter ego of George. A mature
white Bengal, he is silvery grey, big-boned, and
confidently quirky.
According to my grandchildren, my George
was ‘the coolest OAP ever’. A few years ago,
when George was still alive and fit as a fiddle,
my grandson Lewis turned eighteen and had a
party in the golf club by Sarah’s house. While I
spent the evening timidly perched at a table with
some finger sandwiches and a shandy, George
had other ideas. He moved between the marquee
outside, where he smoked his cigars and made
jokes with the young lads, and the dance floor,
demonstrating to a cheering crowd the correct
routine to Greased Lightning.
George and I used to say that we were like Sandy
and Danny from Grease. Although we were
teenagers twenty years before the film is set, I
was a delicate little blonde thing who dressed
only in pastel pinks and yellows. I had a love of
academia, and every spare moment at school
was filled with solitary reading. George was a
devastatingly handsome, rugged type. At the
time, he reminded me of Marlon Brando, with
his slicked back quiff and prominent biceps.
When Grease was released, we were in awe of
the similarities between the couple and the two
of us. We laughed away endless evenings by the
fire, eating ginger snaps and singing Hopelessly
Devoted to one another.

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