Confessions of a Milkman. Timothy Lea
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a cry of pain and irritation and I immediately felt guilty.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to do that.’
‘I should hope not,’ says the bird. She is trying to cover up her very obvious charms with a couple of arms and the remaining milk bottle and I feel that I ought to do something to make amends.
‘Where’s the kitchen?’ I say. ‘I’ll get a rag and clean it up.’
‘I should bloody well think so,’ says the bird. ‘If it wasn’t for the neighbours I’d call the police. Barging in here like some rapist. You don’t come from Cambridge, do you?’
Despite the way the bird is going on at me I can’t help feeling that she is well able to look after herself. She has a big pouting mouth and her lower lip sticks forward aggressively like it is trying to upper cut the end of her hooter. She is not tall but very curvy in all the places you would first look if checking her for smuggling hot water bottles. I rather fancy her bristling with anger – or perhaps I should say bristoling.
‘I’m on probation,’ I say, deciding to try and defuse the situation with a little chat.
‘That’s reassuring,’ says the bird over her shoulder as she disappears into the bathroom.
‘I mean I’m having a trial,’ I say.
‘My old man always went on probation after the trial,’ says the bint reappearing in a lilac-covered frilly housecoat. ‘Then they got his number and threw him in the nick.’
‘A trial as a milkman,’ ‘I say. ‘That’s why I was a bit up tight about the milk. I don’t want to put my foot in it.’
‘You just have,’ says the bird. ‘Gawd, you’re a clumsy custard, aren’t you? Don’t wipe it on the carpet!’
‘If you give me a rag—’
‘You’ll make even more of a mess. I’ll do it. You pick up the pieces of glass.’
It is funny but it is much more sexy now that she has the housecoat on. All pink and visible she was a bit overpowering. Especially with me wearing my these and those. I don’t mind being in the buff with a chick – in fact, I have been known to quite like it – but I never reckon it when one of us is standing there with all the clobber on and the other is as naked as a Tory Party Election manifesto. I can’t really think why. It just doesn’t seem natural.
‘Where’s your old man now?’ I ask.
‘I told you,’ she says. ‘In the nick.’
We are both kneeling down now and could post a letter in the gap between her knockers – mind you, it wouldn’t get very far even if the postman enjoyed opening the box.
‘You must be lonely,’ I say.
‘I don’t miss him,’ she says. ‘Thieving was the only thing he was good at – and he wasn’t very good at that, was he?’
‘I suppose not,’ I say. I am so busy looking at her knockers that I jab my finger against a bit of glass and cut it. ‘Ouch!’
‘I read you for a cack-handed twit the moment you came through the door,’ says the bird without great warmth. ‘Don’t drip all over the carpet! Blimey, come in the bathroom.’ She shoves my finger under the cold tap and rummages in the medicine cabinet. ‘Blast! There’s never one there when you want it.’
‘You play with those rubber ducks, do you?’ I say, looking at the tray across the bath.
‘Don’t be daft. They’re the—’ The bird breaks off and waves a finger at me. ‘Oh, cleversticks, eh? Trying to get back to your bleeding milk, are you? Listen, my kiddy would never take anything that didn’t belong to him.’
‘As opposed to his old man,’ I say.
‘That’s a nasty thing to say,’ says the bird striking a pose with her hands on her hips. ‘And me helping you out, too. I’d ask you to withdraw that remark. You’re the one who’s come barging in here without foundation.’
I nearly laugh when she talks about foundations because she could really do with one. She looks like the kind of woman who Marjorie Proops would take in hand and help to get the best out of herself. Mind you, I would not climb over her to get to Cyril Smith. She is quite handsome if you go for gentle curves – especially with the front of her housecoat drifting open and a hint of furry knoll revealing itself. The lady follows my eyes and draws her gown haughtily around her.
‘Cheeky bastard,’ she says. ‘What are you looking at?’
‘Your bath water’s getting cold,’ I say, sticking my finger in it.
‘Don’t do that! I don’t want your bloody finger in it!’ She springs forwards and grabs hold of my arm and there we are – touching each other in half a dozen different places at the same time, heaving, breathing – it is like an old Charlton Heston religious epic.
‘Hop in and I’ll scrub your back,’ I say.
The bird looks into my eyes and I hold my breath whilst continuing breathing. ‘You’d look,’ she says.
I shake my head. ‘Not so you’d notice.’
‘Keep your bleeding finger out of it.’
‘There must be an answer to that,’ I say.
But she isn’t listening. She slips out of her robe, chucks it over my head, and by the time I have taken it off she is in the bath, leaning forward so that her bristols are brushing against her knees – that’s something Wedgwood Benn can’t do. ‘All right,’ she says. ‘The soap’s behind you.’ She is right too. I grab hold of it and work up a nice rich lather. Cor, can’t be bad, can it? I knew there must be more to this milkman business than complaining about the empties not being washed out properly. I kneel down beside the bath and apply my Germans to the lady’s I’m alright. (I’m all right, Jack: Back; Ed) Oh dear. The moment I feel the soft, warm flesh, Percy gets an attack of the space probes. How untoward of him. I am trying to break the tension between myself and this Richard, and the old groin greyhound has to introduce another fifteen and a half centimetres of it – note: a metric-mad mick makes for more majestic mating, men.
‘Is that all right?’ I say.
‘I’ve known worse,’ says the bird. ‘Did you ever use to clean windows?’
‘Yes I did,’ I say. ‘That’s amazing! How did you know?’
‘Because you’ve practically pushed a couple of panes out of the middle of my back! Go a bit easy, will you?’
‘It’s the effect you have on me,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to be gentle but something about you excites my blood.’
‘Blimey!’ says the judy. ‘You’ve seen too much telly, haven’t you? Where did you learn to talk like that?’
‘It comes naturally,’ I say modestly.
‘Uum. Not the only thing I should think. I’m not surprised you’ve dropped the soap – OOH!’
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It slipped.’
‘It didn’t slip there, there isn’t room for it! Mind what you’re doing!’
‘Perhaps I’d better try the other side,’ I say.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she says.
‘Not if you don’t.’ I wack off another handful of lather and slap it onto her knockers – well, not so much slap as get it on before she can complain too loudly. Not that she does complain too loudly – in fact, she doesn’t complain at all. Her nipples turn to large acorns beneath my fingers and she closes her eyes and shivers.
‘Ooh!’ she says. ‘I bet you’re going to drop it again.’ A hint is seldom lost on the toast of the