Mr Dibbs Fixes Bikes

7

As much as it bothered him to leave the gear cassette so filthy, Alfie only fixed the tyre, leaving the bicycle inside his gate for the lad to pick up when he decided to. He didn't have the heart for it, but it still bothered him. It bothered him so much, that he actually turned on that daft computer to search how to fix the things. He wasn't one for computers, but they had their uses. Those bloody glasses didn't help, though.

If he had to admit it, he needed something to take his mind off Arthur. Alfie had worried about him through the night and, in the morning before the cocks crowed, he had found a note dropped through the letter box. Arthur had died. Sat in the living room, tea going cold before him, breakfast uneaten, he read the note again, though there wasn't much there to read. Arthur had died. That was it.

The last of the wall sitters, barring himself. Were it only a few years ago, Alfie didn't doubt it would have upset him more, but it had become something of a regularity, now. Old friends, acquaintances, passers-by. Dying like flies as he continued to muddle on. Yes, it upset him, but the inevitability of it all weighed down on him more. The Duchess gone. Arthur gone. The three Georges. Charlie. Him. One day.

Maybe soon. Maybe not. The tray of tablets that sat beside the sink, upstairs in the bathroom, did nothing but hold back the tide. Pills for his heart. Pills for his blood. Pills for his arthritis pain. Pills for this, pills for that, pills for everything. A morning routine that he would jest would leave him rattling all day, were there anyone to tell the joke to. A pill for everything and everything needing a pill. Stubby, pained fingers fiddling with the little tykes till he managed to scramble them into his hand.

'Arthur died last night'. Four words. Only four. Scribbled, rather than written. The paper folded in haste, one half longer than the other, at an angle. Four words. He didn't even know who had left the note. With an absent mind, he lifted the mug of tea and grimaced at the cold bitterness and stared at the breakfast. Eggs wasted. Bacon drying. Toast still edible, if he didn't care about it being cold, but he couldn't stomach it. All destined for the bin and then on to the landfill where it would rot away, forgotten.

After clearing everything away, he returned to his cold, lifeless bedroom and began to dress. Shirt and tie. Trousers that hung from a belly that had long since expanded, forcing him to return to wearing braces to hold the buggers up. Old jacket from a suit that he once wore for Sunday best, now relegated to 'sitting on the wall' duty. He could as well not bother anymore, but, for today, he would sit there alone and remember those who had gone. For today.

Flat cap, tilted the right amount. Walking stick, leaning against the wall, collected and hung over his elbow. Before leaving, he drew the handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed his nose, from habit more than anything else, and returned it, folded, the embroidery facing outward. He took one last look toward the living room, where the note still sat on the table, flattened out, and then unlocked the door.

Rain. A downpour. The tarmac of the road slick with rushing water that filled the drains, leaving wide puddles kissing the centre of the road. Little rivers, cascading along the street, desperate to escape the hard surface and soak into soft earth. The boy's bicycle still sat at the side, but Alfie doubted the boy would come for it in this weather. He knew he should cover it, a few sheets of tarpaulin were easy to find in the little shed, but Alfie couldn't move.

From the moment he had picked up that note from the mat, he had wanted to sit on the wall. A gesture of remembrance that no-one else would care about, but he did. The clouds above were black and heavy, bulging with imminent rain that would keep the downpour constant. A Summer storm that chose this day to arrive. This day, when he needed the weather to hold, if only for an hour. Ten minutes.

The walking stick thudded against the thick, brown-bristled mat and he puffed out his cheeks, pursing his lips. Not today! He had a raincoat, not used in years, but good enough for today. And an umbrella, though he had had cause to try and fix that over the years, a broken rib welded back together for something to do until he found another project. Of course, anyone in their right mind would have bought a new one, but not Alfie.