Albert belched as he supped the last of his ale and placed his cap on his head. Another would’ve been grand but he knew his pension wouldn’t stretch that far. His mouth watered as he thought of the homemade steak and kidney pudding his neighbours Mark and Jean had promised to make him for supper. He gripped the table and hauled himself up, flinching as he straightened out. It wasn’t easy being old. Once the ageing bones had set in the same position for more than a few minutes, they rebelled at being moved.

Partygoers drank, yelled, and played darts and pool. They danced as another pop anthem started on the jukebox. It was the run up to Christmas and he loved every minute of it. As he straightened his tie and buttoned his overcoat, he gazed through the leaded window, into the darkness. In a moment, he’d be out there getting drenched, leaving the warmth of the roaring fire behind. Grabbing his stick off the back of the chair, he shuffled through the crowd, thanking anyone who moved as he neared the door.

‘Bye, old Albert,’ shouted Jeff, one of the bar staff, as he pulled a pint for a man in a light-up Christmas jumper

‘Less of the “old”,’ Albert replied with a smile, winking. He watched as Jeff wiped his forehead on his sleeve before continuing to serve the revellers. He pushed the door open and gasped for breath as a gust of wind hit him face on. Water soaked his shoes as he waded through the puddle that had gathered at the doorstep. He knew his shoes were cheap, but they were all he could afford and they looked smart. A real man needed a collar and a shiny pair of shoes. He was amazed at how many youngsters would go out in tracksuit bottoms and T-shirts. That attire was for exercising in, not for making an impression. He smiled as he remembered the night he first cast his eyes on his Lillian.

Cleevesford Village Hall on the seventeenth of December 1954. It was the first Christmas without rationing for as long as he could remember. Wearing his only suit, he entered the hall and paid his fee. The room was filled with bodies dancing to ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll.’ His heart fluttered as he searched for a place to stand. Every man seemed to have a girl on his arm or be on the dance floor. He watched as they rock-and-rolled and lindy-hopped.

At eighteen, he’d had a couple of dates but he hadn’t been lucky enough to find someone to see again or go further with. He was the skinny, spotty boy that most girls avoided. He grinned, remembering his mother’s warning when he’d left earlier that evening: ‘Don’t you go getting some poor girl into trouble.’

The dancers moved closer as a woman stepped forward to sing ‘Secret Love’ by Doris Day. Albert bit his bottom lip and began nervously twiddling his fingers. He placed his empty glass on the table and turned. As he looked up, his gaze locked onto the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen in his life. She looked like an auburn-haired Marilyn Monroe. Well, the rest was history. He’d married his Lillian a year later, and they had two beautiful girls soon after.

He inhaled and all he could smell was pie as he squelched across the road, passing the chip shop. Steak and kidney pudding, he thought as he smiled. His socks were waterlogged and it began to bucket down once again. Raindrops bounced off the gurgling gutters and pummelled the windows of the terraced houses opposite. Water dripped off his cap and drizzled onto his nose before dripping off his chin. He shivered and scooted past the car park, towards Cleevesford Library – or Cleevesford Village Hall, as he’d always refer to it. Once again, his mind was filled with the music of that night.

Back then, he’d had his first real dance with Lillian to ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus’. How his Lillian had loved The Beverley Sisters. The night ended with him having his first proper kiss. He’d brushed lips with a girl before, but hadn’t felt anything special. Kissing Lillian had been real. He remembered the moment her soft lips first touched his.

Her rose-scented perfume filled his nostrils. He wanted to hold her tight and caress her smooth skin, but he’d been brought up properly. He held his arms out behind her, not daring to touch her back. She broke away from their kiss, reached behind and pressed his hands onto the small of her back before letting a little chuckle slip as she continued kissing him. Fifty-eight years later, any mention of Lillian still made his heart flutter. There would never be another.

He crossed the road, heading towards the library. One quick look, for old time’s sake. He placed his stick on the kerb and stepped up. The street lamp above flickered before finally staying off. He stared at the door as he adjusted his focus. Back in 1954 he’d seen a sign on that very door advertising the local dance, the only local dance that year.

‘Love you always, Lillian,’ he whispered as he smiled. He squinted at the small white bag of rubbish that lay on the doorstep, sheltered by the canopy above. ‘Damn litterbugs. Why use the floor when you have a bloomin’ bin right there?’ He placed his stick against the door and held his back as he bent down. His knees creaked and crunched as he reached for the rubbish. Why was there a red sash tying up the bag? He leaned further down until his fingers reached the mass. It was a towel. He reached again and tugged at the material. Whatever it was, it was going in the bin. He was sick of his streets and community being disrespected by the youth that congregated on the streets.

He grabbed the mass and the material fell open to reveal a doll. He squinted again and reached down. His trembling hand trailed across the head of the doll. It didn’t feel like plastic. It felt like skin – cold skin. His tremble turned into a full-on shake as he stepped back and tumbled into a puddle, wetting his backside. He tried to yell for help but his heart felt as though it was beating out of his mouth. Tears fell as he thought of the little bundle that lay before him. If only it was a doll. It should’ve been a doll. He rubbed his damp backside and crawled open-mouthed towards the bundle as he reached out once again. It was the tiniest and coldest baby he’d ever seen. The streetlight above hissed and flickered back on, revealing the baby’s delicate facial features. He had to get help. It might be too late to save the poor mite but he’d damn well try his best. As he steadied his frail body against the doorway, he managed to stand and grab his stick.

‘Help,’ he whispered. He tried again and again to call out. ‘Help!’ he finally yelled, hitting the doors of the terraced houses with his stick. The light behind the third door came on and a woman answered. ‘Call an ambulance and the police,’ he said as he panted in her doorway.

‘What’s happened? Here, come in. You’ll catch your death,’ said the woman as she assisted the soaking-wet man through the front door.

‘There’s a baby. You have to check on it. Get something warm. Please,’ he replied, grabbing her arm for support as he caught his breath.

‘A baby? Look, are you okay?’

‘Yes. I’ve just found an abandoned baby in the library doorway. Please go and help it,’ he said as he collapsed on the sofa, wetting all the cushions. The woman grabbed her mobile phone and ordered her teenage daughter to sit with Albert. The girl placed a blanket over his shoulders before heading over to the window and watching her mother from the comfort of their lounge. Albert shuddered at the thought of the stone-cold baby. It reminded him of the same stony coldness he’d felt after finding Lillian’s body in bed, back in 1985, after she’d passed away in the night from pneumonia. His heart missed a beat as he gasped for breath again and wept.