The end of Alfred Stance

Alfred Stance dropped the tablet into his mouth and washed it away with too much whiskey. He paused to let a shudder pass and then drained the glass, not wishing to waste the end of his favourite bottle. His hand trembled as he set the glass down and he looked at it with disdain. The tremble seemed increasingly frequent but he supposed it didn’t much matter; besides, whiskey always helped and he would be asleep soon anyway. He listened as the clock ticked its noisy rhythm in the hallway and chimed rudely to announce 10pm. He hoped to be asleep before the next chime, but his brain was already recalling its first memory of the clock and he readily succumbed to it.

The young Alfred was a fool, he thought; a happy one, but a fool all the same. He was a passenger in life, never expecting to make an effort, instead wasting time, often waiting on the bench near his dad’s florist on Flitterall High Street. Fielder’s, the drab jewellers, sat across the road, rarely visited but strangely successful. He tended not to look at it any more than once a week, and then only by chance, but the day he first saw her enter it was the day he started looking nowhere else.

Alfred slumped further into his armchair and chuckled at the memory of her stumbling over the flat pavement, giving the innocent spot an angry glare. At the time he was too mystified by her even to notice the comedy entrance into his life. At the time he didn’t even stop to boast that the world was about to prove him right: that he could simply sit back and wait for life to happen. Of course, the world would also prove him wrong, but he didn’t know that then, and he wouldn’t have believed it anyway. She hurried into the jewellers and didn’t emerge before his lunch break was over, so he returned to endure another afternoon making too many wreaths to commemorate the passing of old people. The 19 year old Alfred struggled to find sympathy for the elderly and the 84 year old version chuckled at that memory as well, wondering whether the pills had affected his sense of humour.

The old man cast his memory over a few days wasted with daydreams of the tantalising young woman, and he recalled some terse words from his dad as productivity stuttered to a useless low. It was this that prompted his dad to send Alfred to collect a new clock; due to take residence in the small hallway to their equally small flat. Their previous clock, a wedding present for his parents, had recently made an emotional departure. A reminder of his mum, already 13 years late, it had lain idle too long to be kept and his dad had shed tears when he packed it away, passing apologies to Hettie Stance who would have laughed at the absurdity.

Alfred was instructed to collect the replacement clock, unexpectedly and without time to prepare. He hadn’t known she would be in the jewellers, so couldn’t have prepared anyway, but he would have appreciated more warning as he pushed through the stiff door and upset the nervous bell that announced his arrival. He stopped, drew breath and forced a smile over the stupefied face he was certain had accompanied his entrance.

“Alfred Stance,” he said, hand held out in an unlikely gesture.

“Hello Alfred Stance.” Her reply set soft tones in stark contrast to his and she took his hand briefly.

“I work in the florist over the road,” he said. “I say ‘work in’; it’s me dad’s shop. He owns it. Has done for years.” His accent sounded rough in such refined company and he paused to examine his words before deciding to start again; affecting an unusual inflection: “I have not seen you before.” He stopped again and reverted to his own voice for fear of appearing stupid. “Not before the other day, when I saw you the first time. Are you new here?” He mentally slapped his head for the stupid question. She smiled; face brightened beneath wide brown eyes and Alfred detected unwanted sympathy.

“It’s my uncle’s shop. He’s here if you’d like to speak with him.” She turned to call through the door and Alfred told her not to worry, he just wondered whether his dad’s clock was ready. He expected she wouldn’t know and she didn’t. He blinked as his brain gave itself another slap and she smiled sympathetically again.

Alfred hoped he would have acted differently had he known she’d soon be gone, but he couldn’t have known and was foolish enough to have acted the same even if he had. The disappointment stung sharply when he returned a day later, fresh orders from his dad not to forget the clock.

Mrs Fielder greeted him with melody. “Good morning, Master Stance,” she’d said, as if his world wasn’t about to end.

“Where is she?” He asked accusingly.

Mrs Fielder knew, but chose to torment him. “Who?”

“…ummmm.” He hadn’t asked her name and felt dim for not knowing. “The young woman. She was here the other day. Almost my height; brown eyes; lots of hair; lovely smile…” he trailed off, embarrassed by his frankness and Mrs Fielder nodded knowingly.

“Megan,” she said and Alfred committed her name to memory. “She’s gone home again, to Stenbrooke. Probably annoying the life out of Mr Fielder’s sister-in-law as we speak.” She chuckled and shook her head. “Off to University next week. In Ponterford, if you please.” Alfred tuned out, his eyes defocussed as the jeweller merged into a blur of brown cotton and fuzzy hair. He took the clock and left, quietly thanking Mrs Fielder for her help.

***

Alfred looked at his wife, so still and peaceful, her head consumed by the lardy pillow that closed its fat jaw around her face. He ached and his armchair pushed pointy irritation into his muscles, so he dragged himself into bed, slumped cosily with his wife. A smile bent his lips as he took her hand and ignored the rumbling that had begun in his stomach. The clock’s ticks beckoned tocks and Alfred swayed his feet in time, welcoming fresh air under the covers to cool the light fever he felt on the fringes.

Distraction came with a return to his youth and his efforts to forget Megan and wait for life to happen to him. It was easy at first. He returned to his lunchtime routine and allowed the world to revolve around him. His eyes may have landed more frequently on the tired looking jewellers, draining light in a shock of brown that even the most sparkling diamond would fail to lift, but that meant nothing, least of all that he was looking for Megan. It remained easy until his dad dispatched him to attend the monthly meeting with Ponterford Flowers and Shrubs. He’d met the supplier before, located somewhere in the confusion of cobbled streets that made up the old town; dominated by the gothic grandeur of the University.

Alfred hadn’t felt well all day; his stomach unhappy and churning angrily to register its displeasure. He quickly found himself lost amongst the narrow backstreets and his bowel decided it was ready to free itself of whatever horror brewed inside. A small café with large windows welcomed him with the promise of relief and he stumbled in. Ignoring the cluck of old ladies inside the door, he shielded his eyes to the moody proprietor who’d gauged Alfred’s intent and voiced objections to his plan. Alfred couldn’t be stopped, his momentum was too strong and the consequences too dire. Sanctuary came in the shape of a small toilet and his stomach did its best to bring it to ruin. A commotion brewed outside the door in anticipation of the young florist’s exit and he considered the small window to his right. His arms felt feeble and his shame was already too much to be caught half-trapped in cowardly retreat, so he accepted the door and drew deep breath, gagging as foul air snagged in his throat.

The hope of meeting Megan had plagued his thoughts all day, however unlikely in a City so large. He had pictured a romantic meeting on stone steps, where they held hands and looked at each other with unbridled happiness, but the reality that combined with his hasty departure from the cramped eatery was a whole world away. As he pulled the door open he saw the crowd gathered behind the red-faced proprietor, whose bulbous head shook in anger while Alfred emerged sheepishly, ready to make peace and even buy tea as payment for his lavatorial misdemeanour. Grey hairs curled above red ears and bobbed out of time with their owner’s motion and Alfred was lost in their sporadic movement. Faces fidgeted and blurred behind the angry man and Alfred’s eyes tried to settle anywhere they could find focus. Eventually they fell on a lone head where wild hair crowned brown eyes and sympathy smiled warmly at him. He smiled back as the café’s owner barked for his attention and Alfred dimly pointed a vacant grin at the mad face with a childish “what?” uttered in soft tones. The owner erupted and lifted huge hands to Alfred’s thin shoulders and dragged the stunned boy through the mob of yapping gawpers. He was willingly manoeuvred, limply letting the thick crowd obstruct his passage as he kept eyes on Megan, not wishing to miss a second of their second meeting. The owner aimed a comedy kick at Alfred’s retreat and made a grumbly return to his noisy café. Alfred quickly turned to look for Megan through the steamy window, his view obstructed by the raucous mob and he shrugged in disappointment as he turned away.

“Hello Alfred Stance,” said a gentle voice and Alfred fought to conceal his smile as he looked back, her head tilted and wide eyes offering warm welcome.

They spent the afternoon in Sam’s café, a few streets away from the scene of his earlier disgrace. They talked and laughed and she missed two lectures while he only reached the supplier as the door was being locked; offering garbled apologies with lies of van troubles. Alfred and Megan parted with a promise to meet the next month and he floated home behind a toothy grin and soppy eyes.

***

The 11th chime faded with the memory and an ache settled into the old man’s shoulder. Sadness swelled in his heart as he considered how different his wife had been since the accident. At first he felt like an unwilling passenger, helplessly carried through events he had no hope of controlling; trying only to remember her before, when she was still filled with life. She’d lived to her absolute fullest: a perfect mother to their son and a better wife than he had any right to hope for, even accepting her short temper that flashed and flared and kept him guessing. Her work defined her and she excelled in turn, still delivering lectures at her old University in Ponterford, up until the accident that robbed them both of her life and left an empty shell in its place.

He was grateful to have had the years they’d shared, but the conscription that sent him to the beaches of Normandy almost ensured they would be lost before they had even begun. His exploits in France had ended with a bullet lodged in his shoulder after only two weeks. His recuperation lasted longer and the pain lingered many years later.

The pain at missing Megan had nearly been as profound and not a day had passed when he hadn’t wished to be in Sam’s, watching her snort with laughter and then hide her face as embarrassment took its place. Their planned rendezvous coincided with his transfer to convalesce in a military hospital in England, languishing in poor health, tantalisingly close to her home. Alfred waited for a visit from his dad, hoping the familiar bald head would appear around the door, a nervous smile playing on his chubby cheeks as it did each day at home, the sing-song “Good morning” delivered in comically gruff tones. But his dad was misinformed of an inglorious demise for his son and his spirit was taken from him, as though the bullet that failed to kill the son had dispatched the father instead. Alfred’s eventual homecoming brought some relief, but his dad had already let go of life and fallen too far to grab hold again.

At home he resisted the return to normality while his dad’s poor health and a perilously dull world conspired with the ever-present jewellers to keep Megan in his restless brain. Mrs Fielder sadly reported her niece’s belief that he had passed, and with it the news of her engagement to a well-healed young man named Peter, who had met with rapturous approval from Megan’s mother.

“She doesn’t light up like she did when she talked about you,” was the jeweller’s view of Peter and Alfred thanked her for it. “You should go to see her,” she’d suggested, but he wasn’t convinced, believing it best to concede defeat and wait for love to look for him again, even if it wasn’t trying very hard.

While Alfred resisted it, normal life continued in spite of him and his dad’s ailing health heaped responsibility upon him in droves. The florist flourished as war tore through Europe and the dead were remembered with colour and scent. Alfred found commitment to fallen comrades through work; physically divorced, but emotionally attached as many fell to German fire. Although normality kept him from maudlin thoughts, it couldn’t keep his mind from Megan and Mrs Fielder trapped her there with regular reports of a loveless life that needed him in it. A visit to Ponterford soon loomed, their supplier unhappy with the lack of contact since Alfred’s dispatch to fight in France. The meeting was brief and Alfred lingered outside as his brain and heart argued over a visit to the University. His heart proved most persuasive, moving his legs before his brain objected and dumped him in a world entirely lost on him.

***

Alfred fidgeted irritably and wriggled on soggy sheets dampened by his sweat. The clock's tick felt torturous and guilt mounted as he considered his son, soon to suffer fresh grief for his father’s actions. His son had sided with the hospital, convinced his mother should remain in their care, but that didn’t fit with Alfred’s plans and he wasn’t prepared to remain a passenger on such an important part of their journey. Naturally Alfred felt sadness for his wife, her ending written when the lorry struck and a full stop dropped onto the page with a fatal flourish of his own hand. At least she finally lay in peace, a place he longed to be if his mind would only keep council long enough to allow for sleep.

Some guilt still stretched, however thinly, to cover his actions against Peter, who was so deeply distracted by love for Megan that he’d failed to notice Alfred’s arrival amongst the dusty words that lay redundant in the library’s high shelves. Megan was equally oblivious, working hard to maintain distraction enough not to suffer Peter’s puppy-dog gaze, pointed in persistent adoration of his sweetheart. Alfred hesitated between sense and action: head and heart in new turmoil while his eyes refused to leave unless Megan agreed to go with them.

“Can I help you?” It was Peter who broke first, taking exception to the scruffy stranger lurking in the murky library.

“Alfred!” Megan yelped, joy and surprise lifting her voice an octave above subtle. Peter growled jealous anger and Alfred turned too fast and slipped, stumbling away with slapstick clumsiness.

“I say, don’t you walk away from me. I know who you are,” Peter called, politely disrupting the cavernous building. Alfred kept moving, keen to leave of his own volition and he upped his pace to evade the looming toff in his wake. Peter proved too quick and scooped the surprised Alfred up by his clammy pits, ejecting him with a grumpy harrumph, the heavy door slammed shut with a resounding clang that shocked a lingering pigeon into flight. Alfred flopped onto the cold stone that stepped away from the library and pondered his loss.

“Perhaps you might not be thrown out next time I see you,” said a kind voice and Alfred jumped to his feet, falling a few steps before he regained some composure.

“He’s a bit rough, for a posh fella,” he said with a nervous laugh. “He’s not going to follow you, is he?”

“Maybe, let’s go. How does Sam’s sound to you? They haven’t kicked you out yet.” They laughed and Megan took his hand as she passed him on the steps. Alfred’s heart almost burst in his chest.

***

As the clock began its midnight chime old Alfred smiled and squeezed his wife’s hand tighter; superimposing the softness he’d felt the first time he held it. Tiredness ran the length of his body and he knew sleep was near. He took a final, long look at his wife, her soul already free and waiting for his to join it. He’d learnt to take control and had made sure the end of Alfred Stance was entirely how he decided it should be, ably assisted by whiskey and pills that hurried him to his journey’s conclusion.

“See you soon, Megan,” he whispered as he faded into his mind and the final few chimes rang out to a lifeless house with no ears to hear their sound.