Mary-go-round
’… The "Milkman" image …’
’I mean ... do you ever get ’Propositioned?!’
Chris was embarrassed.
’The sort of stories you hear …’
‘But that’s the point, isn’t it. There’s an image. There’s an expectation, or question, hanging over ... so it’s a kind of self-fulfilling prophesy, or myth that reinforces ... feeds on itself …’
‘So it’s true ...!’
’True? You tell me what’s "true"! As Pilate said, more or less. Well, yes, if you like, it’s true …’
‘Go on ... tell me …’
‘Well, it’s up to you, isn’t it. You start from you’ve got the advantage of knowing that there’s this myth, this expectation diffused ... like a veil of mist hanging over the early morning streets …’
‘Very poetic! You should write ...!’
’I’ve tried, but it’s never any good. Anyway. You put yourself in her shoes – the "lonely housewife", I mean – and keep in mind that that’s a myth, too, on the same plane …’
‘Or a role that society imposes ... the lonely housewife, left at home with nothing to do, while hubby goes off to work And the kids are bundled off to school ... ‘
‘Yes, roles, rather than myths, if you like, and your role is the cheery, young, virile milkman!’
We laughed together, finishing off t;he half-pints of milk, and carefully replacing the silver tops. As it happened, the very scene was being enacted a few doors down from where we’d parked the float: a young mother, in blue dressing gown and slippers, was waving goodbye to her son and daughter, scurrying off to school, while the car outside the front door revved up, and hubby fastened his safety belt. A flurry of activity, the outward confirmation of the previous private scene, whose props would be: corn flakes, coffee, misplaced schoolbooks, hastily adjusted ties and shoelaces, radio or breakfast-T.V., pop-up toaster and jam jars, a briefcase, keys, dinner money, the morning paper.
’The door closes. She makes herself another coffee and then along comes Milkie, ringing her doorbell, because it’s collection day …’
‘Time to collect …’
’Time to settle the weekly account …’
‘So much down, so much on account ...!’
’So much the better ...!’
’Anyway. It doesn’t take much imagination. The scene has already been written: you just have to spot the leading lady …’
‘Spot the talent …’
‘Oh, there’s plenty of talent! This round isn’t bad, as they go …’
‘And do they?!’
’Go?’
’Well, there are a few goers ..’
‘Go on!’
Another laugh,
’You know, you’re all right, Chris! I take it you’re not unacquainted with a certain playwright by the name of Stoppard …’
He reached out his hand, shaking mine, as he grinned and said, ’Rosencrantz, I presume ...!’ ‘Guildenstern, your humble …’
‘Milkman!’
’Speaking of which ...’ And I looked at the book. ’We’re up to the flats. You take ... twelve pints ... in a crate, and you do this first block, right?’
’Mm.’
’Always go up in the lift, and start at the top. That way you can choose whether to use the lift, delivering as you stop at each floor – or use the stairs, if there are people waiting for the lift ... Also, if there are more extras than you’ve bargained for, you can nip in with what you’re missing, at the end, without going all the way to the top again ... follow me?’
’Mm.’
’So. From the top ... so it’s reverse order, if you’re reading the book ... remember it by floors: flats 17 and 16, one each; 14: three pints; 8, 6, 5: one, two, one. Got that?’
’No.’
’Oh. O.K. ... I’1l jot it down ... then you can get used to where they are ... the floors. Anyway, you’ll see, when you go in, which floors the flats are on …’
‘Mm. I suppose you don’t even have to look, or remember the flat numbers, when you know them…’ ’Right. But you do have to be particularly careful about the cancellations and extras. By the time you get back to the float with the empties, it’s easy to have forgotten exactly where there were alterations to be noted down, in the book …’
So I scribbled the numbers on a scrap of paper, and then went off to do the other block, while Chris did his. I finished first, and when Chris came back with his crate of empties, I got him to write in his ’extras’, before starting to tell him about Mary.
’There are variations on the theme, but you’ll find that out for yourself. There’s one that you won’t probably find on this route, I’ll tell you about – but I won’t tell you her address! Suffice it to say, she’s an extreme case, on one of the Saltdean runs. Could be one of the reasons they’ve made those rounds so long and generally unattractive, come to think of it ... an attempt to persuade the blokes they haven’t got time to "dilly-dally", as you might say ...!’
’Go on, I’m all ears! They don’t tell us these things "in school" ...!’
’Proper thing. Anyway, this particular scene you have to imagine like this. Let’s call her "Mary", for the sake of the play. She latches on to the fact she’s got a new, young man coming up her garden path – which, incidentally, leads to a door which can’t be seen from the other houses. Detached, with various greenhouses, garden sheds, and so on. And the milk has to be left inside her front porch, right? And the front door, facing you when you’re in the porch, is one of those frosted-glass types, right? So. The first few days you’re delivering there: nothing unusual. You find the usual milk-bottle holder, with the little arrow pointing to "two pints today, please" – you know the sort of thing. And when you go to collect, on the Saturday, she looks you up and down, and asks what’s happened to "her" milkman. You explain – that he’s off sick, or been transferred to another round, or whatever. You give her her change and stamps, and off you go. Same as all the other houses. You remember her vaguely, because she isn’t bad-looking – somewhere around thirty-five to forty-five: hard to be more precise – and because she’s given you a certain quizzical look, like.’
I had to break off, while we did another dozen houses. I’d clearly caught Chris’s interest, because he’d forgotten the pints for the last three houses, and had to come back to check in the book.
’So. Where was I?’
’The quizzical look.’
’Ah. So, anyway. Next day is Sunday, and you’re on the same round for the next week.’
’So she invites you in ...?’
’No. Sunday is a day of rest – and she’s still in bed with hubby.’
’So she invites you in, Monday …’
‘Wrong again! But Monday morning, when you get to her porch, at about half nine, or ten, you’re in for a surprise.’
’So surprise me!’
’You mechanically put down the two pints, and are putting your fingers into the necks of the two empties, when you glance up at the door, because you’ve noticed a slight movement, out of the corner of your eye. You freeze in that position, half bent over, as you realise she’s standing there, some feet from the frosted glass door ... completely naked!’
Chris whistles, ’And at ten in the morning ...!’
’Makes you think ...!’
’"Don’t think I hadn’t thought of it" ...!’
’So, obviously, you think to yourself, "my goodness me", or words to that effect …’
‘Quite …’
‘But you’re a serious young man, and you realise that not everyone gets up at four in the morning, and not everyone affords themselves the luxury of a dressing gown or housecoat …’
‘Well, naturally …’
‘So you close the door of the porch behind you, and go on to the next house.’
‘You what?!’
’Like I said – you’re a serious young man – and you wouldn’t want Spud getting any irate phone calls …’
’Ah.’
’Not that Spud is actually particularly bothered by irate phone calls of that type, mind ... given that he sometimes manages to end up with some of those "deliveries"...’
’Ah!’
’But you are a serious young man. So, when the exact same thing happens next morning, and she actually seems to be a bit closer to the door, you think to yourself, "oh ho!"’
’Or words to that effect ...’
’Or words to that effect. But you limit yourself to a cheeky – I mean cheery – little wave of the hand, and a "Mornin’!", as you politely close the porch door behind you, and go whistling a cheery tune, back towards the float.’
’Are we such serious young men, then?’
’Well, it is a long round, and you have got other commitments. But Wednesday morning, you make sure you park the old diesel van some distance away, when you’re ready for her …