It doesn't surprise me. In the summer he sits in the flat's doorway with the doors propped open in his wheelchair with his legs - what's left of 'em - covered up and his nose powdered to look more presentable. He's got this complaint, boozy old sod, where your face looks like melted wax. Not all over, lucky for him, just on one side. Neurofibroids or something. A schoolpal of mine had a grandfather who'd got it worse than Jim. He was a boozer, too. And he had it both sides. Terrible. I hated to look at it. But Jim's got a lot of life in him still. When Angela passes him with the kid to go up to her flat he always mucks about.

He likes children. He puts hls fists up to the little boy. Pretends to be sparring. "Come on, you little black bastard," he says, "you can't scare me, come on, wanna fight?" It's kind of funny to see him. In his chair, so big, and really bloated, squaring up to that tot. Angela has got to crack a smile. She can't help it. He tries to chat her up. "Sit on my knee for a bit in this lovely sunshine, Sunshine. You'll never get a good tan if you don't get some sunbathing in." It'd kill him if she did bloody sit on him, slim as she is. His legs wouldn't stand it.

I like having her under me, so to speak. It's nice to think of her being there. Especially when her husband's out at work. He does one week on nights and one on days. If I listen, I can hear her moving about. Doing things down there.

She's only been in the country two years. Married at 18 out there in Jamaica and came over. Pregnant straightaway. She's a lovely girl though. Married to this Jamaican lad who was born here. Well, so he says. The baby's about a couple of years old. They're buying their place. Not like me and old Jim. We're not as well off as they are. Our flats belong to the Association. We're on Benefit.

I think she likes me more than Jim. Because I talk to her properly. I'm not always flirting and mucking about like him. I talk about sensible things, like about how she's settling down. How she feels about all these blacks that cause all this trouble. Knifing and shooting and selling drugs and scrounging and that. I tell her she's lucky to have got one that's working for his living. Even if it is a kind of welfare job on subsidised buses. I warn her he's on a sticky wicket, though. They'll be privatised next year and people like him'll be first out. Definitely. Or they'll cut his pay and chop his pension and holidays. If he's lucky. Bet he thought he was fixed for life. She doesn't seem to worry, though. Seems kind of carefree. They don't worry as much as we do. Take things more as they come.

I take a real interest in her. It's great to have a really pretty young woman living so close. Sometimes she sings to the baby down there. Can't make out the words, but they might be hymns. I tell her she's got a nice voice. I've invited her to come up one afternoon and sing a bit while I knock out a tune on the piano. But she's too shy. I think she'd like to, though. We could have a nice time. I've got some white rum. They like that. She could always leave the baby with Jim's wife for an hour or two. Jim's wife loves children. They never had any. I did. I had two girls. A long time ago. But I've kind of lost interest in kids now, to tell the truth. I prefer them a bit bigger! But joking apart, I do like Angela and she appreciates that.

Her husband's not a bad sort of bloke. I talk to him a bit. About cricket, mostly. Though he doesn't seem to know all that much. Not as much as Jim downstairs, anyhow. I tell him what a lucky bugger he is with a wife like Angela. How nice she is. What a nice figure she has. What nice eyes. He likes that.

I help Angela with her washing when I can. I try to make my trips to the laundrette fit in with hers. So I can carry her stuff as well as mine, while she pushes the baby. Then I try to get two machines close together, so we can sit next to one another to keep an eye and talk. Once or twice I've filled her machine for her. I really like to do that for her, though I did think she got a bit embarrassed once. But she knows I'm a friend, so it's basically OK me handling her underwear and that. But it's mostly her husband looks after the washing lately. He's started to make a trip to the laundrette when he comes off a night, before he goes to bed. Maybe he doesn't need much sleep. He's a hefty sort of bloke. Got a good body on him. Strong as a horse.

I do other little things for her. I wait for the postman, and take her letters up. She gets letters all the time from Jamaica. From her family. Pages and pages. Full of family stuff. Sometimes all the family put their names; "your loving big brothers, your loving little sisters, your loving aunts." Like that, putting their names. Jason and Winston and Rudyard and Margaret and Victoria and Florence. And Nelson. I can't bother to read all the stuff they write, though. But I like to know about her, and it makes me feel kind of close. As if I'm reading with her. She looks at me a bit funny sometimes, when I pass them on, usually next day. Not that anything shows. I'm very careful. Now and then, I'm tempted to put a little flower or leaf in. A surprise! Something sort of tropical-looking. But she might mention it to them. Mind you, I suppose I could make practically certain she didn't get something back about it. But I don't feel like going to that length. It wouldn't be right, really.

Sometimes I send her a pretty leaf or a little flower myself. Yes, I really do! Just on its own in an envelope. No words. To make her feel good, and treasured. I sent her a really nice Valentine this year in the shape of a heart. Never would tell anybody about this sort of stuff. I always ask her if she wants something posting as well, just in case. She never does. So I don't know about the letters she writes. Maybe she doesn't write any.

These bloody flats are practically made of tissue paper. Still, as I say, I can never make out the words when she's singing down there. I can never make out what she says on the phone either. Or when they're talking between themselves. Not quite. But I'm hoping to overcome that. I've sent off for a special set of headphones for deaf people. You put a microphone near the telly and it amplifies. I'm not deaf at all, but I can't make out a sodding word down there. I'm hopeful when I get the headphones and put the microphone under the carpet that things'll improve. It kind of gets to me not hearing properly. I'd really like to listen to her in bed when she's on her own, as well. She must lie in bed just underneath me. And it'd be nice to go to sleep with her breathing beside me. Well, not really beside me. But sort of. I'd like to feel near her. Even if I'm not at all, in reality. Even though she's black, because she's really nice.

Wish I could afford a phone. I could ring her up more. At present I've got to turn out at night when he's at work and use the phone on the parade. It's a damn nuisance having to go all that way. And a lot of lads and young girls hang about up there, and I get harassed. They make remarks I only half catch. Usually something about my hair, or my boots. They seem to think my hair's a really big laugh.

So I don't ring up Angela very often. Maybe only three or four times when he's on a week of nights. Of course I never speak. But it started to seem bad manners and even too oddball listening to her saying "Hello, Hello, Hello" and not answering. So lately I've started to sing to her a bit. I use'd to have a good tenor. Used to be in the choir. I disguise my voice and sing from one of the old songs. Allan Water, All those endearing young charms, Jeanie with the light brown hair. Those kind of old favourites. Sometimes she listens for quite a while, before she puts the phone down. I think she likes to be sung to. Women do like that. I used to sing to the wife. And whistle for her. Yes, whistle! I could whistle sweet as a bloody blackbird once. She loved me to whistle Rose Marie for her. That was early on.

I do wish Angela'd come up one afternoon and have a singalong with me on the old joanner. I keep on asking her, but she only smiles and shakes her head. "I've got you some white rum," I told her. That seemed to give her a nice surprise. I'm sure she'll be knocking one of these afternoons.

She always draws the curtains at night. You can never see in. But sometimes when I come back late on from singing to her the light's on in the bedroom and there's a bit of a V showing at the top of the curtain. I keep thinking about that V. And I think about U boats. Vs and Us! I wonder if any body makes a good cheap periscope I could stick out and down to look through that V. I'd love to see her getting ready for bed. Or in bed. I'd really like that. If the earphones work OK I could wear them while I watch. Wonder if I could make a periscope with plastic tube and mirrors. Like the old song. With a ladder and some glasses you can see to Hackney Marshes, if it wasn't for the 'ouses in between. If it wasn't for the floorboards in between, if it wasn't for the curtains in between. So many things blocking me and Angela.

It's a big strain liking her as much as I do. I don't sleep too good sometimes. Sometimes I get angry, as well. I know I shouldn't get angry, but it's terrible being so fond of her like this and her only smiling and pretending to be so bleeding shy and modest all the time. Sometimes I think it's my age that holds her back. Prejudice. Just because I'm old. She doesn't realise, she just doesn't realise, that even an old bloke on Housing Benefit with grey hair and a bad foot could be really, I mean really, really, nice to her. If she'd let me. Still, she's friendlier than she was at first. She likes me better than Jim.

There's something bugging me. A month ago I saw a picture of our little block in an estate agent's window up in town. For Sale. One bedroom flat. Immediate possession. It's still there. There's only three one bedroom flats in our block. The Association would never shift Jim out. He's settled for good down there with his coughing wife and his legs and his bloody repulsive nose. And it's not me that's moving, either. They're not going to move me.

But Angela and her bloke wouldn't think of selling up without mentioning it to anybody? Without telling Jim and me, and not asking our advice or anything? Would they? That'd be really unfriendly, nasty. Inhuman, in fact. Nice people wouldn't do that. So maybe there's a mix-up somewhere. I hope it's a sort of mistake. I really do.