Confessions of a Milkman. Timothy Lea
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give her dilly pot a few more tongue tickles and then reckon that the time is favourable to give Percy his head – well, he has had her head, hasn’t he? Rising to my shapely knees I prepare to drive proud perce home – and I don’t mean back to 17, Scraggs Lane, ancestral home of the Leas. As it turns out this task is unnecesary because Meadowfresh’s latest recruit has her greedy mits round it like she fears it might disappear if exposed to the light. With the speed of British Leyland going on strike she has whipped my action man kit into her snatch and clamped her ankles over mine. ‘Wheeh-ouch!’ Unfortunately her bum catches on a ridge where the lino is breaking up but the floor is so slippery that we don’t stay in one place for long. I try and brace my legs against the door, but end up sliding the length of the room and nearly fracturing my nut against the washbasin holders.
‘This is no good,’ I say. ‘Come on!’ I sit on the edge of the bath and the bird is on to my lap like your moggy on to Dad’s favourite armchair. The aim is what you might call unerring. I bet she is a minor miracle at quoits.
‘Ooh,’ she says. ‘This is the third time I’ve come. Do you do deliveries on Sundays? That’s when Edwin goes to his Gran.’
‘Not every Sunday,’ I say, beginning to calculate that I could be on the way to an early grave if all my new customers appreciate the same line of sales technique. ‘Ooh! Ow! Eeh! Ah!’
Fortunately, release in the form of sending a few million sperm cells to a better place and falling backwards into the bath comes to my aid and I am eventually able to limp away with an assurance from Mrs Nyrene Gadney – for that is the lady’s name – that it is Universal out and Meadowfresh in! What a triumphant start to my new career. Fred Glossop will be pleased with me. I do not exactly dance but my step is light as I emerge from the staircase and find the man himself standing by the empty milk float. ‘Where in the name of the Lord have you been!?’ he says.
‘Just signed up a new customer, Fred,’ I say. ‘A Mrs Gadney. Nice lady. I’ve got her down for—’ I break off when I see that Fred is staring at the empty float and shaking. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘You had to finish the round by yourself, did you? I didn’t know it was going to take so long. It took a bit of time to get her interested in my bollocks – I mean, products!’
‘You stupid half wit!’ shouts Glossop. ‘I haven’t delivered a drop. While you’ve been frigging about, the whole bleeding lot has been knicked by kids!’
CHAPTER THREE
‘Pissed off with it yet, are you?’ says Sid.
‘Course not,’ I say. ‘It’s very interesting. I wish they’d turn the bloody muzak down in this place.’
Sid refuses to be diverted. ‘I reckon it’s a comedown, myself,’ he says. ‘You wouldn’t catch me trying to flog bleeding yoghurt.’
‘They haven’t got around to putting blood in it yet.’ I say. ‘Are you going to buy me a drink? My glass has dried out.’
‘A half?’ says Sid hopefully.
‘Pint, thanks,’ I say. ‘What are you doing these days?’
‘I’m weighing things up,’ says Sid.
‘On the veg counter at Sainsbury’s?’
Sid pats my cheek. ‘You’re full of fun today, aren’t you?’ he says. ‘How would you fancy a plate of scrambled teeth for dinner? When I say “weighing up” I am referring to a judicious appraisal of the career opportunities currently pissing themselves to get at me.’
‘So you’re on the sausage,’ I say.
Sid sighs. ‘How typical,’ he says. ‘You have difficulty seeing to the end of your hooter, don’t you? I don’t want to insult the welfare state by not taking what’s due to me. Just because I’m public-spirited it doesn’t mean that I can’t organise my own destiny. I’m not rushing, that’s all.’ He breaks off and sucks in his breath sharply. ‘Cor. She’s a bit of all right, isn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Hello Nyrene.’
‘You know her?’ says Sid.
‘She’s a customer,’ I say, nonchalantly wiping some froth off my hooter with the end of Sid’s tie.
‘She turned a funny colour when she saw you,’ says Sid. ‘You given her one, have you?’
‘Sid, please,’ I say ‘A gentleman never discusses things like that. Let’s just say we shared something rather beautiful. Afternoon.’ I am addressing the girl in the black halter neck nightie I saw on the job with Fred Glossop – I mean, on the round with Fred Glossop. She is wearing a stretch sweater that must have belonged to one of her kid sister’s dolls.
‘Another customer?’ says Sid. He takes a quick, dabbing swig at his beer.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Nice kid.’
‘Er – what’s it like down at the depot?’ says Sid, very casual-like.
‘Thinking about a job?’ I say.
Sid splutters. ‘What? You must be joking. Just expressing an interest, that’s all. I wouldn’t take a job I didn’t want just because there was a bit of crumpet going with it. What was she like?’
‘Which one?’ I say.
‘The one with the big knockers. The first one.’
‘Nyrene?’ I say. ‘Well—’ I look round and lower my voice discreetly. ‘Would you believe fantastic?’
‘Go on,’ says Sid.
‘That’s just what she said,’ I tell him. ‘Honestly, there was no holding her. I was frightened for my life once or twice, I don’t mind telling you.’
Sid gazes towards the stool on which Nyrene is perching showing a fair amount of Scotch egg. ‘She looks a goer,’ he says thoughtfully.
‘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