Confessions of a Milkman

by Timothy Lea

  ‘How much do you think she’s worth?’ I ask.

  Fred ignores my merry quip and makes off in the direction of the The Nightingale. It occurs to me that his ruddy conk may well be the result of drinking something a good deal stronger than milk. Boozers are often miserable old sods.

  The Alderman Wickham Estate is a series of grey skyscrapers and concrete corridors which have very nasty niffs in them. Most of the lifts and rubbish chutes are out of order and the walls exist to show that there are some people who can’t even spell four-letter words. Cardboard boxes full of rubbish fall apart in every corner and I can see why Fred Glossop decided to take a powder.

  I grab a crate of milk and the order book and head for the lift in Block F. It is out of order. That is no great surprise and I am heading for the stairs when I happen to glance back towards the float. A teeny tea leaf is in the process of half inching a couple of pints of ivory nectar. ‘Hey you!’ I bellow. I expect the little sod to put the stuff back but he darts across the tarmac still clinging to his swag. I do not hang about because Fred has explained that you get lumbered for any stocks that are lost or mislaid.

  ‘Come back here!’ I drop the crate and set off in pursuit like my whole future depends on it – which it might well do. I can’t see Fred taking kindly to any deductions from his last pay packet. The kid flashes up a flight of stairs and I am gaining fast when a plastic dustbin bounces down towards me and catches me just below the knees. The little perisher obviously fancies himself as James Bond. I pick myself up and come round the bend in the stairs just fast enough to see him taking off down a corridor. He stops outside the third door, and tries to open it. The door is locked. I allow myself a satisfied smile and begin to saunter down the corridor. A quick clip round the earholes and justice will be done. The kid tucks one of the bottles under his arm and reaches up to ring the doorbell. He is looking dead worried and his finger is pressed against the bell like it has become stuck to it.

  ‘All right, short arse,’ I say. ‘Hand them over.’ I step forward purposefully just as the door opens. A naked woman with dripping glistening boobs cops a pint in each hand. It would make a good advertisement really. The naked knockers and the milk. All together in the all together so to speak. It makes me wish I had drunk more of the stuff when I was a kid. About the age of the little bastard who is now scarpering back down the balcony.

  ‘What do you want?’ says the bint, retiring behind the door. ‘Haven’t you ever seen a woman before?’

  ‘I’m not certain,’ I say. ‘I thought I had but you make me have second thoughts. I reckon some of the others must have been blokes in drag.’

  ‘If that’s a compliment, thank you,’ says the bird. ‘Now piss off.’

  She tries to close the door but I put my foot in it – something I do quite often. ‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘But that’s my milk you’re holding.’

  It sounds a bit funny when I say it and the woman gives me an old-fashioned look in the area of the all the best. ‘As long as it tastes the same as the cow’s,’ she says.

  ‘Your kiddy nicked it off the float,’ I say, allowing an edge of impatience to creep into my voice. ‘If you don’t give us it back there could be trouble.’

  ‘You’re not our milkman,’ says the bird showing no sign of handing over the milk.

  ‘I’m helping Mr Glossop,’ I say. The bird’s face does not register recognition. ‘Meadowfresh,’ I prompt.

  The woman shakes her head. ‘I’m with Universal,’ she says. ‘I’m quite satisfied.’ She gives a funny little smile when she says that and I wonder what she means. Because I have a mind like that it occurs to me that she may not be referring only to the practical guidance on the beneficial properties of milk and all the guff so dear to Fred Glossop’s heart.

  ‘You may be satisfied but I’m not,’ I say. ‘Your little boy has just knocked off two pints of Meadowfresh milk.’

  ‘I never saw the child before in my life,’ says the bird. ‘You want to be careful the things you say. Why don’t you go away and stop plaguing people? Do you know how much it costs to heat bath water these days?’

  ‘About the price of a couple of pints of milk, I should think,’ I say. ‘Now, hand them over please. I don’t want to have to get nasty. I saw him taking them off the float with my own eyes.’

  I start to push forward but the bird throws her weight against the door. ‘I know who you are,’ she says. ‘You’re the one who’s been going round rattling the knocker flaps.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say. ‘I’m a milkman!’ I get a bit narked at that point and give the Rory a vicious shove. It flies back and the bird drops one of the milk bottles which shatters on the floor. The carpet is soaked and pieces of glass fly everywhere. The bird lets out 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 Clapham south side crumpet thrashers and I watch the large pink lump bump down the curve of her Ned Kelly. Another large pink lump is coming up from the other direction – though outside the bath. Yes! – percy is making the front of my trousers a lousy place to store a bunch of bananas. My hand follows the soap down below the water line and loses interest in it immediately. Something soft and slippery welcomes my inquisitive fingers and experience suggests that it is not an empty banana skin.

  ‘AAAAaargh!’ I was expecting a reaction but nothing quite so violent. Hardly have I sent my digits motoring up down passion alley than the lady grabs me and nearly hauls me into the bath with her. I wonder how long her old man has been in the nick? I hope he doesn’t choose this morning to come back on parole. There is enough blood on the carpet as it is. ‘I’m making your shirt all wet aren’t I?’

  ‘Well – er yes, I suppose you – maybe I’d better take it – yes!’

  It doesn’t take you long to get the drift with this lady. Once she has decided that she likes you she doesn’t send messages in code. She helps me off with my shirt and three of its buttons and if I did not stand against the wall to take off my trousers she would have the zip out of them as well.

  ‘It’s terrible what you milkmen do to get business,’ she says squirting another load of foaming suds into the bath. ‘You stop at nothing, do you?’

  I don’t answer her at once because it had never occurred to me that there was a business angle to what I am doing – or about to do. It goes right back to Sid’s golden maxim when we were cleaning windows – keep the customer satisfied. There was I, feeling a bit guilty about being on the job when I should be on the job, and all the time I am on the job. If this little session is going to help me wrestle a customer from Universal it is well worth while apart from any pleasure given and received along the way. With this happy thought bubbling through my mind I step forward briskly and discover that my hostess has two bars of soap. One in the bath and the other the one I stand on before breaking a new record for aquatic muff dives.

  ‘Oh, you impetuous fool!’ she says, as I raise my dripping nut from between her legs.

  ‘How do you hold your breath down there?’ And before I can answer she has shoved my crust down again.

  ‘Madam, please!’ I say, struggling to the surface. ‘Are you trying to kill me?’

  ‘What a way to go,’ she says.

  ‘For you, maybe,’ I say. ‘I have plans to die in bed.’

  ‘We’ll try the bed later,’ says the woman, hardly pausing for breath. ‘Come here, it’s lovely when we’re all slippery together.’

  She does not hang about but shoves her arms round me and hugs me to her Bristols – definitely First Division material. She lies back and another couple of gallons of water slop on to the floor. Honestly, you should see the place. It is like the fountains in Trafalgar Square – though without the bloody pigeons, thank God. Water is still dripping off the ceiling from when I dived into the bath and the floor is awash. Still, that is not my problem. Once again, I am succumbing to my sensitive nature. Think of Meadowfresh, Lea. Think of this lovely lady’s snatch wriggling enticingly against the tip of your hampton. Yes, I think I prefer the second inducement. My playmate can’t use a water softener because my tonk is more rigid than a tungsten steel tuning fork. I lunge through the H2O and clobber the clam first go. Dead centre – you can always tell because you don’t meet anything until your balls bang into each other as they lock shoulders in the entrance to the love shaft.

  ‘Ewwwgh!’ Forgive me if I have spelt it wrong but it sounds a bit like that. The contented expulsion of air from the throat of the owner of a barbecued Berkeley. Another tidal wave hits the floor and I get enough suds up my hooter to wash Idi Amin’s smalls for a week – well, half a week. Wishing that I had knees with small rubber suckers attached to them, I try and achieve some purchase against the bottom – excuse that word – of the bath. My new friend has wrapped her legs round
me and I reckon she could crack boulder-sized walnuts if she put her mind to it – which in the position she is adopting would be quite an achievement. Honestly, I find the whole performance – and the hole performance, too – very difficult. I read in a book once about this couple having it off in the bath and floating glasses of champagne backwards and forwards between each other but I don’t see how they could have done it. The only way I can screw this judy satisfactorily is with her head under the water and this can’t be very nice for her after the first five minutes.

  ‘Let’s get on the floor,’ she says.

  ‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘That’s where most of the bath water is.’ I am not kidding. One of the rubber ducks has floated across the room and is bumping against the door like it is trying to peck a hole in it.

  ‘Who’s a nice clean boy?’ says the bird as we flop on to the floor. ‘I could eat my dinner off you, couldn’t I?’ Without more ado she drops her nut and starts on the first course. Very arresting it is too. I reckon she would have a water ice down to the stick in about thirty-five seconds. Not that I am grumbling. I would rather have her lips round my hampton than a swarm of bees any day of the week.

  ‘Ooh!’ I say. ‘Ah! No! Don’t – don’t – don’t – DON’T STOP!’

  ‘You’re sex-mad,’ she says, looking up from my gleaming knob. ‘You’re an animal, aren’t you?’

  ‘Do you like animals?’ I say.

  ‘Ye-es’ says the lady and she starts again.

  O-o-o-o-o-o-o-H! Talk about thrills running up and down your spine. Mine are travelling by motor bike – and I wish my old man was wearing a crash helmet. If she goes on like this much longer there is going to be a nasty accident. O-o-oh! Another few seconds and she stands to cop the cream off the top of my bottle. This cannot be in the best interest of ultimate client satisfaction and my astute business brain wakes up to its responsibilities. Removing my dick from the lady’s cakehole – it is rather like trying to take a bone away from your pet pooch – I measure the bird’s length against the slippery lino – five foot two and eyes of blue – and give her rose hips a gentle going over with my brewer’s bung. She is clearly not averse to this treatment and squeezes my hampton like it is one of those gadgets for strengthening your grip.