Milkman

The day Somebody McSomebody put a gun to my breast and called me a cat and threatened to shoot me was the same day the milkman died. He had been shot by one of the state hit squads and I did not care about the shooting of this man. Others did care though, and some were those who, in the parlance, ‘knew me to see but not to speak to’ and I was being talked about because there was a rumour started by them, or more likely by first brother-in-law, that I had been having an affair with this milkman and that I was eighteen and he was forty-one.

I didn’t know whose milkman he was. He wasn’t our milkman. I don’t think he was anybody’s. He didn’t take milk orders. There was no milk about him. He didn’t ever deliver milk. Also, he didn’t drive a milk lorry. Instead he drove cars, different cars, often flashy cars, though he himself was not flashy. For all this though, I only noticed him and his cars when he started putting himself in them in front of me. Then there was that van – small, white, nondescript, shapeshifting. From time to time he was seen at the wheel of that van too.

All that running along the reservoirs where I had not ever seen him run had never been about running. All that running, I knew, was about me. He implied it was because of pacing, that he was slowing the run because of pacing, but I knew pacing and for me, walking during running was not that. I could not say so, however, for I could not be fitter than this man, could not be more knowledgeable about my own regime than this man, because the conditioning of males and females here would never have allowed that. This was the ‘I’m male and you’re female’ territory. This was what you could say if you were a girl to a boy, or a woman to a man, or a girl to a man, and what you were not – least not officially, least not in public, least not often – permitted to say.

Since my sixteenth birthday two years earlier ma had tormented herself and me because I was not married. My two older sisters were married. Three of my brothers, including the one who had died and the one on the run, had got married. Probably too, my oldest brother gone errant, dropped off the face of the earth, and even though she’d no proof, was married. My other older sister – the unmentionable second sister – also married. So why wasn’t I married? This non-wedlock was selfish, disturbing of the God-given order and unsettling for the younger girls, she said. ‘Look at them!’ she continued, and there they were, standing behind ma, bright- eyed, perky, grinning. From the look of them, not one of these sisters seemed unsettled to me. ‘Sets a bad example,’ said ma. ‘If you don’t get married, they’ll think it’s all right for them not to get married.’ None of these sisters – age seven, eight and nine – was anywhere near the marrying teens yet.

First thing that happened was again I got those spine shivers, those scrabblings, the scuttlings, all that shiddery-shudderiness inside me, from the bottom of my backbone right into my legs. Instinctively everything in me then stopped. Just stopped. All my mechanism. I did not move and he did not move. Standing there, neither of us moved, nor spoke, then he spoke, saying, ‘At your Greek and Roman class, were you?’ and this was the only thing, ever, in his profiling of me that the milkman got wrong.

In our district the renouncers-of-the-state were assumed the good guys, the heroes, the men of honour, the dauntless, legendary warriors, outnumbered, risking their lives, standing up for our rights, guerrilla- fashion, against all the odds. They were viewed in this way by most if not all in the district, at least initially, before the idealistic type ended up dead, with growing reservations setting in over the new type, those tending towards the gangster style of renouncer instead. Along with this sea change in personnel came the moral dilemma for the ‘our side of the road’ non-renouncer and not very politicised person. This dilemma consisted of, once again, those inner contraries, the moral ambiguities, the difficulty of entering fully into the truth.

In all the small time since he’d set his sights on me and had started in on destroying me, still only that first time in the car had he even looked at me, never either, said anything lewd or mocking or of outright provocation to me. Most especially he hadn’t laid a finger on me. Not one finger. Not once.

So I was heard, and it felt good and respectful to be heard, to be got, not to be interrupted or cut off by opinionated, poorly attuned people. For the longest while longest friend didn’t say anything and I didn’t mind her not saying anything. Indeed I welcomed it. It seemed a sign she was digesting the information, letting it speak to her timely, to authenticate also in its proper moment the right and just response. So she stayed quiet and stayed still and looked ahead and it was then for the first time it struck me that this staring into the middle distance, which often she’d do when we’d meet, was identical to that of Milkman. Apart from the first time in his car when he’d leaned over and looked out at me, never again had he turned towards me. Was this some ‘profile display stance’ then, that they all learn at their paramilitary finishing schools? As I was pondering this, longest friend then did speak. Without turning, she said, ‘I understand your not wanting to talk. That makes sense, and how could it not, now that you’re considered a community beyond-the-pale.’

‘You should be ashamed,’ she said, but she was not referring to my love affair with Milkman, which I assumed she was referring to because that was all anybody – whose business still it wasn’t – referred to. Instead she was talking about my colluding with Milkman to kill her in some other life. As well as her death, apparently I was responsible for the deaths of twenty- three other women – ‘some of whom were definitely doing herbs,’ she said, ‘just their innocent white medicine, and some of whom weren’t doing anything’ – and I did all these crimes during the time we – the whole twenty-six of us – were in this other life. She meant a past incarnation sometime during the seventeenth century and she gave dates and times and said he had been a doctor, but one of those quack doctors.

At the same time as saving me, of course she had a go at me. Along with her rapid physical examination and quick-fire questions to me – Was I cut? Was I knifed? What did I eat? What did I drink? Did someone out of the ordinary give me something out of the ordinary? Was I in a fight with someone? Had I been kicked in the head earlier by someone? Were all my trusted friends trustworthy? With what had I been poisoned? – came also her first judgemental remark. ‘Well, what do you expect, wee girl,’ she said, ‘if you go round stealing other people’s husbands?

So I took them and I didn’t pay for them and this was partly out of an angry ‘Yes, Milkman. Go. Kill. Kill all of them. Go forth. Attend me. I command you’ and partly it was out of sensibility and anxiousness for their feelings. It was not wanting to get into trouble with my elders as an eighteen-year-old daring to disrespect and correct their behaviour. So I lost presence of mind and allowed myself to be pushed into obtaining chips with menaces. Most damning therefore, my own behaviour, this handling of the chip shop badly, no matter there’d been a compelling of me by everybody in it exactly to handle it badly. I knew now though, what they’d known for some time which was that no longer was I a teenager amidst a bunch of other teenagers, coming into and going out of and gallivanting about the area. Now I knew that that stamp – and not just by Milkman – had unreservedly, and against my will, been put on.

So, said my spontaneity, maybe-boyfriend was my maybe-boyfriend; Milkman was not my lover. At the time of affirming this conviction, the resurgence of truth felt lucid and uplifting. Somewhat unaware in my feverish excitement that instead of lucidity and upliftment, however, I might instead be swinging from one extreme of despondency and powerlessness over to the other extreme of sudden and incongruous jollity, I scribbled a note for wee sisters. It said, ‘Put on your nightclothes. I’ll be back later to read you Hardy as promised.’ With that, I threw on my jacket and rushed to the bus-stop up the road.

He said then that for as long as I remained living in the family home, he’d call up to my door but wait outside and that I was to go to him. He said then he’d call at seven the following night in one of his cars. ‘Not this,’ he added, dismissing the van, mentioning instead one of those alpha-numericals. For my part – here he meant what I could do for him, how I could make him happy – I could come out the door on time and not keep him waiting. Also I could wear something lovely, he said. ‘Not trousers. Something lovely. Some feminine, womanly, elegant, nice dress.’

Three times in my life I’ve wanted to slap faces and once in my life I’ve wanted to hit someone in the face with a gun. I did do the gun but I have never slapped anybody. Of the three I’ve wanted to slap, one was eldest sister when she rushed in on the day in question to tell me the state forces had shot and killed Milkman. She looked gleeful, excited, that this man she thought was my lover, this man she thought had mattered to me, was dead.

Meanwhile, we two resumed our stretching then brother-in-law said, ‘Right? Are ye right?’ and I said, ‘Aye, come on, we’ll do it.’ As we jumped the tiny hedge because we couldn’t be bothered with the tiny gate to set off on our running, I inhaled the early evening light and realised this was softening, what others might term a little softening. Then, landing on the pavement in the direction of the parks & reservoirs, I exhaled this light and for a moment, just a moment, I almost nearly laughed.