Middle-class welfare

Chris turned out to have a degree, too.

He hadn’t said anything, that first time we’d met: probably a bit wary, like me, in case they didn’t give him the job. You know, you could always imagine someone saying, "He won’t stick it ... only filling in time until he gets a proper job ... have to train someone else, anyway ... not worth taking him on ..’

Anyway, we got talking, obviously, when we’d got into our stride, and it was clear he wasn’t having any problems remembering the lists I’d call out to him, glancing at the ’extras’ page, as we pulled up to the next strategic stop.

"Numbers 3, 5, 9a, 13 and 15 ... one, one, two, two, one-and-an-O.J."

Doing it like that, he soon got the rhythm of the round: the best place to stop the float; the best grouping of houses to do together. We agreed I’d do the bookwork, that day, since he didn’t really need to be supervised on that ... and I’d do the left side of the road, generally, while he ’learned’ the right side.

I could tell he was enjoying himself ... the artistry of exploiting the shortcuts, minimising the toing and froing, maximising efficiency, so as to get done as quickly as possible. Not like an office job! You’d look at your watch, not in despair at the hours passing so slowly, but to see if you were ’on schedule’ for a record run. The rest of the day would be your own, and if the sun was already hot, at seven-thirty ... you could look forward to lounging on the beach, after lunch.

So it turned out he’d got a degree in something like European Studies, or Literature ... something arty like that from Sussex University. Couldn’t think of anything he particularly wanted to do with it, and nothing seemed to come up, through the P.E.R., so he decided he’d better find something to save being on the dole too long. Not that either of us had any particular objections to the dole, on principle.

’Way I see it,’ he confided, ’the State pays out less if I go on the dole, than if I stay on and do research, say. You know, it’s always tempting to stay in the cosy university world if you can ... middle-class welfare, and all that ... but I’d just as soon do things this way. Go on the dole when I want to do a bit of my own "research" – and then if there’s any jobs going, give it a go for a bit … But then again, I don’t need a "proper job" like your average family man, and so on, so I wouldn’t want to be depriving anyone, by taking a job someone else needs more than me. I suppose that sounds a bit daft …’

‘Not at all! Makes perfectly good sense, to me! Mind you, don’t go saying that sort of thing to the blokes who haven’t got a degree ... they’d think you were having them on ... taking the mickey, you know …’

‘Oh, no! Wouldn’t dream of ... but since you said you’d got a degree, too …’

‘You’d be surprised how many of us middle-class university sorts there are, on the milk, though! You know David L.? One of Spud’s "deputies" ...?’

’What ... the tall one, with glasses ...?’

’Mm. That’s David L.: he was a teacher. At least, I don’t know if he ever got a job, but he’s qualified. Then there’s Pete, out on the Lewes runs ... we don’t see much of him, obviously, but he’s a nice bloke. Degree in Chemistry, him.’

’So we’re not alone!’

’Far from it! Still a minority, mind you. The enlightened few!’

’Anyway, it just happened I saw Spud one morning: he was delivering my milk, and apologising about having to double up ... he said they were so short-staffed, even he had to try and cover this round, though he was supposed to be at the depot. So I thought, well, I wouldn’t be depriving anyone of a job there, then! And I asked him what you had to do to apply…’

‘And you had your "interview" with Perkins, right?! And the maths test ...?’

’Did you have to do that, too?!’

’Too right! 100%, me!’

’Beats my 92, then!’

’92?! They’ll be rewriting the exam, to make it harder, if they get any more like you and me!’

We laughed together, as I pulled up to the first of the two apartment blocks, before the council estate. We were making good time, so I suggested we take a short breather, and offered Chris half of my Mars Bar. He took a bite, and I explained about the ’returns’, as I opened a couple of bottles for us.

’I always bring a snack like this: keeps me going until breakfast. Have you been to the Egremont Caf?’ ’Don’t think so …’

‘You’ve got a treat in store, then. Still, I like my Mars and milk, especially when it’s a day like today.’

People were beginning to move, by now: children off to school, cars warming up and pulling out from ahead of us, clearing the streets a bit, making it slightly easier to get on with our work, without blocking the narrower streets. Breakfast smells, accentuating my appetite; housewives taking the milk off the doorsteps, or straight from us, with a smile and cheery "Mornin’!" A good point for us to take a short break.

’So. Not a bad job, really, if you can stick the "unsocial hours". No good for a family man, or if you value your night life. Still, I suppose it’s no worse than being on night shifts, if you have got a wife and kids, I don’t know. Anyway, they don’t seem to complain all that much … glad to have a job, and the money’s no worse than lots of jobs.’

’Do you ever get, you know, comments about your having a degree ..?’

’Funny enough, only the other day some woman on one of the Rottingdean rounds asked me what my "real" work was! I suppose she picked up on my accent not being exactly Brighton, or maybe it was something I said, I don’t know, but she said something like, "Is this a summer job, for you?" and I said no, and she wouldn’t have it! Asked if I’d got ’0’ levels – being nosey, you know, so I just said, "Yes, and a Cambridge degree in maths, ’n’all!" Should have seen her face! When she realised I wasn’t having her on, she goes, "So this isn’t your real job!" – like she’d made her point. So I just said, "I enjoy being a milkman, actually," and said good morning. Left her looking puzzled, on the door step!’

’I suppose you get given cups of tea, in the winter, and so on ... chance to have a chat, get to know some of your customers …’

‘Oh, in the winter, yes, you’re only too glad to get invited in for a tea and biscuit! Must admit, I usually like to get on with it, get finished ... but in the winter, your fingers freeze, and you can get pretty fed up! Being a milkman is really two jobs: winter and summer. You’ll look back on these summer mornings, in January, if you stick it that long, and think it was a dream!’

’Suppose so. Do you wear gloves ...?’

’Better not to, if you can help it, so as not to have the bottles slip out of your hands. But my mother knitted me a pair of those, you know, milkman’s gloves, with no finger tips, so you can still manage, like that …’

’And is it true what they say about milkmen, then?!’

’What, you mean …’

‘You know ... the lonely housewives ... that sort of thing …’