Mr Dibbs Fixes Bikes

5

There was a time when a host of folks sat on this wall, passing the time of day, relating work stories, or complaining about one thing or another. Just a selection of people, talking before heading out to work, or to whatever else they had to do that day. Good people, for the most part. Some had darker sides, as Alfie had come to learn over the years. And, over those years, the number of people that sat here alongside him ebbed and flowed.

Albert, the eldest of them all, a miner by trade from boy to man, passed away first. Lungs. Decades of working the colliery taking its toll. Then there were the three Georges. George was a popular name, back then. Sorted by when they had joined the folk sitting at the wall. George the the first, the second, and, lastly, George the turd. He hated that to his dying day, but everyone took great humour in calling him it, if only to see his face redden. All done in jest.

Whittled away. Taken one-by-one. Cancer, heart disease, accident, more cancer. Until, one day, Alfie sat on the wall and only one other came. Arthur. He and Alfie maintained the tradition, even in their dotage. Every morning, before Alfie took himself to the allotment. Sometimes after Alfie had finished fishing. Every day. Only, Arthur had taken sickly in recent weeks, coming to the wall less and less often. Each time becoming more drawn, thinner, older.

Now, Alfie sat here alone. Watching folk parade to the shops that sat beside the wall. People visiting the post office for stamps, or to send packages. Or to the paper shop, picking up their daily diet of hyperbole and outright lies. Made to prick at underlying angers and point readers to whichever 'other' the newspapers had decided people should hate this week. Alfie had stopped reading newspapers years ago, not even buying one for the racing.

Speaking of which, the bookies, in the middle of the row of shops, was on its way out. Up for sale, alongside the barbers that Alfie had used until he had little hair left to cut. The Square, as everyone called it, despite the patch of land being a triangle made from three roads, on the whole was on its way out, too. Like him. Destined to change, the old shops closing down, becoming offices, or flats. Destined to become forgotten by people that cared little for community any more.

From under the brim of his well-worn flat cap, he looked up to the sky in silence. The Duchess had bought him that cap, tossing out his old, ragged cap that he'd worn since leaving school without a qualification to his name. She had tried to replace this cap, also, every few years, but he had no need for a new one. It still had a good few years left in it, even now. No point wasting money where it needn't be wasted.

The walking stick had come after the Duchess had left him, otherwise she would have had that changed every other year or so, not that he would have agreed to that, either. He twirled it between his fingers, trying not to sigh. He seemed to do that more and more, of late. Deep, weary sighs, speaking of lost years and past regrets, boiling up and catching in his chest, waiting for him to expel them in one, long, protracted exhalation.

A sniff, and he leaned to the side, taking out the beloved handkerchief. Washed, again, he dabbed it under his nose, rubbing nostrils that, if he had to admit it, needed no attention. A habit. Something to cling to so that there was one thing, one tiny thing that he could rely on not to change. He was an old fool, he knew that well enough, but at least he kept his foolishness to himself.

There was a lot more traffic, these days. He watched the shiny, technological marvels that they drove today and knew he wouldn't know where to start to fix them. Everything was electronic now. From the keys to unlock the doors, to the transmissions, to the maps built into screens bigger than the first television he had ever seen. Electric cars, the low engine whine and the purr of tyres against tarmac the only way to know that one was coming. No doubt more than a few folk hard of hearing had come a cropper to them, but the world moved on.