I could see the pub from my bedroom window, and lying in bed at night, the noise kept me awake; people leaving or being thrown out. The Captain was the worst.
He'd row and protest, shouting and swearing long after all the others had given up and gone home. When he finally lost his battle with the landlord, he’d curl up in the doorway, close his blind eyes and be asleep on the instant, snoring like a chainsaw.
My father said he wasn't a Captain at all but was named after the character from Under Milk Wood, although Captain Cat slept restlessly, tortured by the memories of old lovers and drowned shipmates. Our Captain slept like the dead.
His alarm clock was the electric engine of the milk float that came humming down the hill every morning. When the sound of tinkling bottles had safely passed, he’d make his way over the road, help himself to a pint of half-fat from our doorstep, and then back to the pub to wait for opening time. How he managed it without seeing, I don’t know.
I asked my mother if she wasn’t angry about the milk, but she said the Captain deserved a bit of kindness, that a pint of milk every now and then wasn’t worth making a fuss about.
But I felt cheated by him, and I was angry about being kept up at night. One bright morning I stormed over to the pub, brim full of vinegar and righteousness.
I found him, collapsed awkwardly against the green tile wall. His eyes were open but rolled back in his head, cloudy and white, like the milk dripping down his beard.
For weeks after the ambulance took him away, I still couldn’t sleep. I lay awake, listening out for closing time.
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Tom Cornfoot is a writer, designer, and illustrator. He’s spent over 30 years carefully developing a style of handwriting that’s almost illegible, doodling, and never getting around to learning to play the guitar.
These stories are plucked from the air, like everything else. There’s no consistent link or thread, unless of course you find one, in which case, it was entirely planned that way.
Words and pictures © 2025 Tom Cornfoot
So the Captain lives on and now the silence won't let our young man sleep. A true observation, Tom. I'm sure when my old dog has passed and no longer awakens me at 5am to let her out, I will be unable to enjoy the extra sleep I so grave and continue to wake up at 5am.
"...tortured by the memories of old lovers and drowned shipmates." Beautiful image, Tom, and one I understand well. God bless that mother and her compassion. And the last line is exactly right. We can become so accustomed to the most irritating things, and often miss them when they are gone. At least they were familiar and a part of the symphony of our life. Well done, my friend.