Timothy Lea - Confessions of a Milkman

‘Comes, goes – you name it,’ I say. ‘I just hope your life insurance payments are up to date. It would be bad enough for Rosie hearing how you snuffed it. I remember when she grabbed my—’

‘She’s looking this way!’ hissed Sid. ‘I think she fancies me.’

‘Well, sign up then,’ I say. ‘That way you’ll be certain to get a crack at her.

‘I don’t have to sign up!’ says Sid. ‘I can pull her just as I am. I don’t have to hide my magnetism behind a milk float.’

‘Just as you like, Sid,’ I say. Frankly, I am a bit knackered after my chava with Mrs Gadney and the excitement of the first day and I don’t care what Sid does.

‘I’m going to pull her,’ says Sid, draining his pint. ‘You want to watch this. You’re never too old to pick up tips.’

‘You’ve got a bit of pork pie at the corner of your mouth,’ I say.

‘I was going to give her that for supper,’ says Sid. ‘Right, stand by for an attack of the old verbal magic.’ He tucks his paunch into his trousers and glides across the floor like he is on a monorail. Mrs Gadney has just fished in her bag for a fag and Sid arrives at exactly the right moment to set fire to it. He carries a lighter which he wears in a little leather pouch round his neck and he leans forwards sexily, and gazes moodily into Mrs Gadney’s eyes. It is a pity he does not look towards the fag because he would see that his tie is draped over the top of the lighter. He presses the plunger and I can smell the scorched fibres from where I am sitting. Oh dear, what a shame. Sid always fancied that tie, too. Anyway, it gets him into conversation with Nyrene and I suppose that is the main thing.

I am just wandering up to join them when the door flies open and a bloke comes in who commands attention. He is about six foot four with a thick tash and hands that hang so low they brush against his knees. He is slightly less wide than the Oval gasometer and if he has a smile he must have given it the evening off. It is not difficult to guess at his profession because he is wearing a striped apron and has a peaked cap tipped on the back of his head. The badge on the cap says UD and you don’t have to have ‘A’ Levels to know that stands for Universal Dairies. I suppose his arms must have lengthened after years of humping milk crates about. Either that or his mum was having it off with a gorilla. He looks round the room and when he sees Nyrene and Sid he gives a little shiver. Something about the gesture makes me slow down my progress towards Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman and I burrow into the crowd round the bar.

‘What’s this then?’ says the big Herbert waving a piece of paper under Nyrene’s nose.

Everybody looks round and Nyrene flushes a shade darker, ‘It’s what it says,’ pouts Nyrene. ‘I’ve decided to change. You were collecting empties late this evening, weren’t you?’

‘I came to see you!’ growls the bloke.

‘Well, that’s as may be,’ says Nyrene. ‘I’ve got fixed up elsewhere.’ She looks down the bar towards where she last saw me and I duck down so low that a bloke thinks I am trying to sup out of his pint. ‘Meadowsweet,’ says Nyrene.

‘Fresh,’ says Sid. ‘Meadowfresh.’

The bloke who has been staring at Nyrene slowly transfers his attention to Sid. It is like peeling chewing gum off moquette. ‘What did you say?’ he asks.

‘Meadowfresh,’ says Sid all helpful like. ‘The name of the firm is Meadowfresh. M – E – A–’ Sid falters when he sees the way the bloke is looking at him. ‘– D – O –’ The barman sweeps a handful of glasses beneath the bar. ‘– W. That’s one word. F – R –’

‘So! You’re trying to take the piss as well as my girl,’ says the geezer menacingly.

‘No!’ says Sid, wising up to danger. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. It’s not me it’s –’ WHUUUUMP!! I never thought it was possible to uppercut someone so that they could hop on to a bar but Sid goes up into the air like his jaw is glued to the end of the guy’s fist. ‘Wait a minute!’ he squeals. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. It’s not me you want it’s—’ WAMP!!

I must say, I do like this fellow’s timing. By the time Sid has bounced off the line of stout bottles at the back of the bar and slid down on to a crate of empties he has nothing to say about anything.

‘What did you do that for?’ squeals Nyrene, clearly annoyed. ‘He never did you any harm.’

‘Depends what you mean by harm,’ says the angry milkman. He leans over the bar and is trying to grab Sid when the landlord lays him out with a cricket bat. I can see that this milkman business is going to be tougher than I had thought.

‘Now, let’s go right back to where it all starts,’ says Miss Tromble. ‘The cow. We all know how many stomachs a cow has, don’t we?’

I nod, but I am not thinking about a cow’s stomach. I am thinking about Miss Tromble’s knockers. They move me – well, they move part of me. The bit that frays the inside of my Y-fronts. I have never seen a woman with such enormous bristols. They swell away from her chest like the sails on an ocean schooner running before a hurricane. When she comes round a corner they arrive a couple of minutes before the rest of her. They are beginning to prey on my mind. I can’t concentrate on the difference between homogenised and pasteurised milk or how much is lost in unreturned empties every year. All I can do is gaze upon the beginning of the snowy vastness and wonder what the whole lot looks like, feels like, tastes like! There is a loud crackling noise and I realize that in my passion I have squeezed the life out of a blackcurrant yoghurt container. Luckily it is empty. Miss Tromble looks at me coldly. That’s the trouble, she always looks at me coldly. She seems to have no awareness of how I feel about her – or would like to feel about her. She seems inexorably wed to her craft, that of a lecturer at Meadowfresh Residential Course for aspiring milkmen – perspiring in my case. It is warm in the lecture room and the Tromble knockers discreetly veiled behind their owner’s crisply laundered white coat are making me feverish. I must have a gander at them! I wonder if she is aware of the feelings she gives rise to? I glance round the other blokes on the course: Ted Gunter who took a first in dandruff at Oxford University, Norman Hollis with the leather patches on his elbows and the row of biros in his top pocket, Jim Keen with the beard and the polo neck. They are all watching her knockers like they are hypnotised by them. She must know. Perhaps the breast feature is an embarrassment to her. It must be terrible having blokes like me staring at you all the time. The least I could do is be a bit more discreet about it. I wonder where her room is. It must be somewhere in the buildings. All the staff are residential. When I think about it I get another little shiver to add to the crop down the front of my trousers. I don’t usually go much on being a peeping Tom but spying on Miss Tromble as she revealed her super chassis would be a bit special. There is something very haughty and reserved about her that brings out the lusty peasant in me. What the butler saw, that’s it. Humble, earthy Timothy Lea watches the lady of the manor stripping down to the buff – ‘crack!’ Another yoghurt container up the spout.

‘Do you mind not doing that?’ says the lovely Tromble, coldly. ‘Apart from being wasteful it’s very distracting.’

‘Exactly,’ says Gunter on my right. He is a real toffee-nosed berk who takes notes all the time and leaps about opening doors whenever Miss Tromble gets within forty paces. Why he wants to be a milkman, I don’t know. I reckon he must have got into a bit of trouble somewhere and ended up with the tin tack.