Anna Burns - Milkman

So while ma and Yes-but , with heads in hands on edges of beds, were, out of low morale, reverting back to being selfless and doing the right thing by yielding real milkman to nuclear boy’s mother, and with wee sisters trying valiantly to coax them out of it, I went downstairs and picked up the telephone. I was wary of ringing first sister because of all that tension that existed now between us. It had reached breaking point and both of us, without doubt, were well aware of that. Aware too, we were, that unless I renounced Milkman, gave up and stopped my immoral, red-light involvement with Milkman, and unless she stopped falsely accusing me of having an affair with Milkman, pretty soon this tension would erupt in either physical violence between us or, even worse, verbal violence in unforgivable nasty words. That meant I must preface the call. I must let her know immediately before she could launch her next offensive, that I was ringing, not for me, not for her, not for Milkman, and not for her horrible husband. Ma was in trouble. She needed help, first sister’s help. Needed it now, I’d say. If sister did launch into Milkman, for it seemed to be her number one compulsion-fixation with me, and if I responded in anger, which I would, given that was my number one compulsion-fixation with her, then one or other of us, most likely, would hang up. I wouldn’t like that. Knew I’d hate that. But it did feel a risk that in the moment I had to take. So I picked up the receiver and, as usual, checked for bugs, also as usual not knowing how to recognise what I was checking for. Then I rang her. As the ringing tone sounded I had the thought of her husband answering and so debated hanging up only he didn’t answer. First sister answered, which was when I remembered it wouldn’t have been him. First brother-in-law was in bed, recovering from a recent paramilitary beating-up.

To stop instant altercation, I launched into my preface as planned. ‘It’s me, eldest sister. This is about ma,’ and immediately I got into explanations. ‘… and so she needs help … That’s right, her friend, the man who doesn’t love anybody … Ach aye yeah … Ach aye no … It turns out, sister, she doesn’t want to be just friends … She thinks she can’t have him because the ex-pious women have sown seeds of guilt, saying— What? … Yeah … Uh-huh … Well, that’s right. That’s what I’ve been telling her but … Ach aye yes, I said that too, but she doesn’t listen to me … I know that, sister, but don’t forget, her nerves are gone and it’s not as if she’s experienced. She hasn’t had doings with any of this since da.’ Here I left out the whole wrong-spouse situation, given first sister herself might be tender in that area. ‘So it’s probably been years and years,’ I hurried on. ‘… What? Oh, I didn’t think of that but it’s no good anyway, because I can’t get through to her … That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her but it’s yes-but and yes-but and getting into dejection over her clothes, her body, some chair she can’t fit into … That’s right, chair. No. Chair ! I did say “chair”! … I’m not shouting! And no, sister, I’m not exaggerating. Listen. Cannot you hear her moans and sighs for yourself?’ At this, I held the receiver up the stairs where extreme expressions of mental anguish were issuing down clearly from ma in my bedroom. Also coming were the brave attempts of wee sisters to reassure her, telling ma she looked exactly as she should look which, given ma’s state of mind, was probably not the thing to say at this point. Wee sisters were alternating these attempts at comfort with rushing downstairs to hear what was happening at our end of the telephone conversation, then back up again to re-attempt assurance and to witness the latest insecurity being birthed up there. ‘See?’ I said, placing the receiver back at my ear. ‘So will you come, sister? She needs help. She needs you. You’re the only one who can turn this around and get through to her, talk to her, help her, do something with her confidence and her outfits. I can’t, not me, you can. So will you come? Can you come? Cannot you come? Now?’

So that was what I said, deliberately too, employing ‘the man who didn’t love anybody’ instead of ‘real milkman’. Any mention of ‘milkman’ – any milkman – would definitely have caused frisson at this point. Sister didn’t pause. She said she’d be there in ‘fifteen minutes and ten minutes’ which meant twenty-five minutes which was understandable, the ten-minute area being so bleak and eerie that nobody liked to include it in with their normal time. ‘I’ll tell her,’ I said, then I said, ‘Thanks, sister,’ and we did goodbyes, not as protracted and exhausting as ordinarily they would have been had that underpinning of tension regarding Milkman not still been going on between us. The fact though, we did a few goodbyes more than just one goodbye or no goodbye meant some sign of tentative repair of sisterhood had taken place. So telephone call over, and with no big fight, no slaps in face, no words spoken that both of us would regret but be unable to take back after, she was coming. Thank God, in fifteen minutes and ten minutes she’d be here to sort ma out. I replaced the receiver then, not caring overduly if those ear-wiggers from the state had or had not been listening. I sighed relief also, then braced myself out of habit to face ma again upstairs.

Sister did turn up in fifteen minutes and ten minutes as promised. She had brought clothes and accessories appropriate to person and occasion; also her three youngling twin sons and one daughter, leaving her husband in their house to nurse his rough-justice wounds alone. Immediately she took charge as I knew she would and as it was proper she should, for she was more in accord with ma, had always been of like mind, in harmony, more a soul energiser than I for ma would ever be a soul energiser. Unerringly also, she was accurate as to what was wanted, so she set about roping in me, wee sisters and her own wee tots as gofers while she herself calmed and reassured ma. Yes-but was banished, indeed left of its own accord rather than attempt any battle with sister. The rest of us got involved and fetched and carried and were glad to do so for ma’s sake. Ma, meanwhile, perked up, became relieved and very, very trusting. First sister also perked up, becoming less sad and less grieving. So with ma pleased, first sister pleased, wee sisters pleased, wee tots pleased and me pleased, I said after a bit that while they got on with it, I’d go downstairs and put the teapot on.

And now, two whole weeks on from tablets girl poisoning me, also from her murder, and from ma with her love and insecurity issues kicking in regarding real milkman; two days on too, from chef and ex-maybe-boyfriend and their South American adventure plans, and from Milkman being dead, and from Somebody McSomebody nursing bruises and regretting things, here I was, with ordinary life once again going on. I was in the kitchen, making dinner for the girls. This was before they were to head out to play the international couple and before I was to put on my running gear and, for the first time since being poisoned, go to third brother-in-law’s house down the road. Wee sisters were saying it would be good if I’d hurry up, that they were all set to go, all ready to play, just as soon as they’d eaten and as usual it was Fray Bentos they wanted. ‘With chips,’ they added. ‘Or Paris Buns,’ they added. ‘With chips,’ they added. Or ‘bananas with chips’, or ‘soft-boiled eggs with chips’, or ‘shop-bought pies with chips’, and they carried on, with everything with chips even though already I’d explained they couldn’t have chips, one reason being that I didn’t know how to make them and felt sure that although it had not been proven by actuality, I’d burn the house down if ever I should try so never would I try. Another reason was I couldn’t face returning to the chip shop even though Milkman was dead – probably more so because he was dead. Those shopkeepers who’d capitulated even though I hadn’t made them capitulate would most likely now exhibit their grudges openly, with it only a matter of time before they wanted their money, as well as revenge, back. So it wasn’t over, this business of me and Milkman. Then again, I knew all along it wouldn’t be over. With these sorts of things you have to take each day, each person, each reprisal, at a time. Instead of chips, I said wee sisters could have whatever they liked by way of Fray Bentos, Opal Fruits, liquorice allsorts, ice-cream, those communion wafer flying-saucer confection sweetmeats in edible paper pouched with strong fizz which explode on the tongue which I knew they loved having, and boiled beetroot. ‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘Just not with chips,’ which half delighted and half disappointed but in the end, they settled on variations of those same baby treats I’d daydreamed about whilst recovering from being poisoned. So I prepared their tea, which meant basically getting it out of the cupboards. All the time though, it was, ‘Middle sister! Please hurry. Will not you hurry? Modest amounts please. But cannot you be more instanter than that?’