The Milkboy and The Vampire by Michael Shawyer

“You’re too young to be gallivanting around looking for a job.”

“I’m nearly fourteen,” James puffed his chest out. “And jolly reliable.”

“Who says?”

“My sister.” He switched to a well-spoken accent, “One should always consider James for tasks of this nature. He is excellent and jolly reliable.”

“Hmmm. . . You’re a comedian as well? What does your mother say?”

“Gizz-on from under my feet. Time you got a paper-round.”

“Gizz-on?”

“She’s from Cornwall. It means get out of here.”

“Did you get a paper-round?”

“There’s none going so I am available to be your milkboy.” James beamed like the milkman had won the lottery and he was delivering the cheque.

“I need a hand Saturdays and Sundays. Can you run at 5:30 in the morning?”

“I can Sir, I’m a fast runner for my age. I beat Roger Wilde on sports day.”

“Roger Wilde? The Tinker’s Bottom lot?”

“I don’t know where he lives but no one has beaten him before. He wanted to fight me.”

“Did you?”

“No. He changed his mind when Adrian Ponting told him I beat up Michael Hopgood.”

The milkman scratched his head a second time. He had encountered the Hopgoods more than once and took a fresh look at the skinny boy.

“Them by the flour mills? Those Hopgoods?”

“I don’t know where he lives”

“His dad and brothers are always up before the beak.”

“What’s a beak?”

“Never mind.Where did you fight young Hopgood?”

“At school. He was bullying Adrian Ponting.”

“Mr. Gimblett still headmaster?”

“Yes Sir. He caned us.”

The disciplinarian headmaster made up for his stunted growth by enthusiastically wielding a bamboo cane. His feet left the ground when the cane made contact. The milkman glanced at his scarred knuckles. In his day it was a metal ruler, not a twitchy bamboo cane.

“Did you cry?”

James shook his head, “Put my hand under the cold tap.”

The milkman took a crate of empties from the float, “Can you lift that?”

James raised the crate waist high and smiled, “Higher?”

“That’ll do. Put it down. Never mind grinning like a monkey – put it down.”

The milkman shook his head, “Jesus boy, you’ll do yourself a mischief.”

“Wanna see me run?”

“If you run like you talk you’ll be fine. Be here tomorrow morning. 5:30. I’ll give you a try this weekend. The pay is two bob. I am Mr. Hill. People call me Ernie.”

“Thanks Mr. Hill. I am James, people call me Jimmy. Except my mum. Two shillings each day?”

Ernie nodded.

“So, twelve hours over the weekend. I deliver. You drive?”

“You’ve got it.”

“That’s fourpence an hour. Sounds like it should be half a crown each day. Five bob for the weekend. After all I’ll be the one running in and out. You’ll be sat in the driver’s seat giving out orders.”

“Haaa. I knew you were a comedian. It’ll be two bob a day plus a tanner bonus if you make me laugh. And you’ll get a thick ear if you break anything.”

“Best I can do,” he added in a take-it-or-leave-it tone and James grinned.

“Thanks Mr. Hill. . . Ernie, I’ll see you in the morning.”

James burst in and the door bounced off the wall.

“Sorry mum.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix broken glass. You need to slow down or you’ll do yourself a mischief.”

“What does that mean? You’re the second person to say you’ll do yourself a mischief.”

“It means you will hurt yourself. Who else said it?”

 “The milkman.”

“What milkman?”

“I’ve got a job. Milkboy. Two bob a day plus bonus.”

“Bonus?”

“A tanner every time I make Ernie laugh. He says I am a comedian.”

“Ernie is the milkman?”

James nodded, “He is Mr. Hill but people call him Ernie. Sings Speedy Gonzales. What’s a beak?”

“A beak is slang for magistrate.”

“He tested me lifting a crate.”

“You passed?”

“Easy-peasy. I have to run in and out with bottles of milk.”

“Don’t be smart with your easy-peasies. He didn’t test your running?”

“Said if I run like I talk I would be fine.”

Barbara smiled as James ran from the room, leaving her to wonder at a job that paid a laughter bonus and involved magistrates.

His mother’s words, better ten minutes early than one minute late, rang in James’s ears as he jogged along the lane and when the cows bellowed he mooed back. A longer and louder moo came from over his shoulder. Ernie, astride a jaded black bicycle that creaked in harmony with his pedalling. James ran alongside.

In the yard they loaded the milk-float with crates of silver and gold-topped bottles. Ernie fired questions.

“How many in your family?”

“Eight.”

“Eight!”

“Yes.”

“Boys?”

“Three girls. Three boys.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Six months.”

“Where did you live before?”

“Malta.”

“Malta!”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing in Malta?”

“Fishing. Swimming and stuff. School in the mornings.”

“Not you. Your family.”

“Mum looked after us. We were at school. Dad worked.”

“What does your Dad do?”

“Works for the government.”

“A spy?”

“I don’t know what he does. Prime Minister?”

The milkman hid a laugh with a cough.

“That’s a tanner!”

“Didn’t laugh. Coughed. How long were you in Malta?”

“Three years.”

“Your dad still work for the government?”

“Yes. We move every three years so he can’t be circumcised.”

“What?”

“So the Russians can’t trap him.”

“Compromised Jimmy, not circumcised.”

“That’s it. Compromised. What does circumcised mean?”

“Ask your mother. Two silver tops, number three. Run fast. They’ve a big, hairy dog.”

Ernie stopped the milk-float near a row of three red brick houses and James tiptoed past guardian gnomes stationed inside the gate. Ernie’s warning, they have a big hairy dog, in his ears and, sure enough, a lupine howl came from the back of the house. James stuffed the empties in his crate, dodged around the gnomes and leapt over the gate. The big hairy dog inches away.

Ernie wiped his eyes with a blanket-sized handkerchief, “Funniest thing I’ve seen in years,”

“What?”

“You. Jumping the fence. Rex trying to bite you.”

“Rex?”

“The dog.”

“You know his name?”

“Meant to tell you. Give him a biscuit and he’ll be your friend for life.”

“Meant to tell me?”

Ernie was lost for words and nodded.

 I don’t think so,” James grinned. “Anyway.”

“Anyway what?”

“Anyway, that’s a bonus!”

It was worth every penny. Ernie’s only companion a fertile imagination and he didn’t laugh at home. His sour-faced landlady would call the men in white coats.

A thirty-something female in a lace camisole opened the door and took the bottles of Gold Top from James’s crate. Silently lined them up on the window cill.

James peeked sideways and Miss Blume watched him in the hall mirror.

“Who are you?”

“I’m the new milkboy.”

“Where’s Ernest? He usually comes in for cocoa on Sundays.”

James pointed at the milk float.

“Come on boy. Cat got your tongue? Name?”

“James. People call me Jimmy.”

“Well done James. You got that bit right.” She looked him up and down, “My regular visitors call me Miss Blume. You can call me Susan.” She drew the last syllable into a pout and James didn’t know whether to run for his life or search for pointed teeth. Vampires hid their fangs behind a pout but a vampire called Susan didn’t seem likely and he relaxed when Parma Violet breath tickled his nostrils.

A vampire’s favourite would surely be jelly babies. Bite the head off first.

“Would you like to come in for cocoa?” She touched his arm and the hairs stood up, “Have you had cocoa before?”

“Err no. . . No thanks Miss Blume.”

“Susan.”

“Sorry. Susan Blume.”

“Just Susan.”

Cocoa! Who’s she kidding? His arm hairs had raised the alarm. He’d wake with fangs, scared to go in the sunlight for fear of turning to dust and he retreated. Taking pantomime steps and wishing his mother was there. She’d soon whip out her crucifix and drive the vampire back in its lair.

Miss Blume followed him along the path.

“Don’t forget my name is Susan,” She lisped when James’s heel hit the gate. “My cocoa is the best.”

She made it sound like an exotic cocktail and James glimpsed flecks of red on her teeth.

Oh mother! She’s snacked on someone!

“Tell Ernest he’s a naughty boy. I will see him on Tuesday.”

James whipped the gate open and ran. Images of crazed vampire eyes, blood dripping from pointed teeth, fangs sinking in his neck. He leapt in the float.

“What’s a baker’s dozen?”

“Where did you get that?”

“The name of her house.”

“It’s from olden times. Bakers gave an extra loaf of bread when a customer ordered twelve. A baker’s dozen means thirteen.”

“Why?”

“So they couldn’t be accused of selling loaves that were too small.”

“Is her house cursed? Should it be number thirteen?”

“No. No, Miss Blume’s old man was a baker.”

“What does she do with four bottles of gold top every day? That’s a lot of milk for one person and a witch’s cat.”

“Well Jimmy,” Ernie tapped the side of his nose. “Miss Blume has become very sociable since Bernard passed on. Her cocoa is excellent.”

“Not a vampire then?” James sounded disappointed. “Her teeth are quite pointed. There was blood on them. She said Tell Ernest he’s a naughty boy and she’ll see you next Tuesday. I thought people called you Ernie. Why does she call you Ernest in a bossy voice?”

Ernie’s neck turned red. His discomfort unnoticed by James who didn’t wait for an answer. “I get it! Susan is a cocoa expert who dresses funny.”

He nodded to himself, “Must be good at it and very kind. She invited me in. Said her cocoa is the best.”

Ernie’s foot slipped from the pedal and the milk-float stop-started, “Susan?”

“She said to call her Susan but her visitors call her Miss Blume. That’s polite of them. Could we see her next weekend? Perhaps Susan could teach me to make cocoa.”

Potted bushes bordered a long drive. A Rolls Royce Silver Shadow outside a big red house and James smiled, “That’s a tasty motor. Someone rich lives here?”

“John Mount. Farmer. He married old money. Talk about chalk and cheese. Cecilia, his missus, is posh. Very hoity-toity.”

Ernie took on a well-spoken tone, “I say milko, One is having visitors. Leave an extra gold top, there’s a good chap.”

“Cecilia talks like the Queen?”

“She does. John likes a glass of beer on Fridays, down at The Mafeking Hero.” Ernie switched characters, “Oooarr Sandie, Oi’l have a paint a boilermaker luv, a propa glas’ wi’ an ‘andle.”

“What’s a paint?”

“That’s how he speaks. He means pint.”

“Does he take Cecilia for a paint?”

“Not on your life. I’ve heard young Jack, him that’s a bodybuilder, calls round. They have cocoa in the greenhouse. Several cups, so the housekeeper says.”

“Blimey. Cocoa is popular around here.”

“Country folk are different from Townies. Take the milk to the scullery door. Through the gate marked Tradesmen.”

The return journey down steep lanes with blind corners and Ernie whistled When the Saints Go Marching In while urging the float ever-faster. The bottles rattled, the rear wheels lifted around corners and James swung from the grab bar.

“Have you ever met someone coming up the hill?”

“I met Joby from School Farm once with his tractor and trailer. We got in a bit of a tangle, blamed a runaway horse. The insurance coughed up.”

“Was Joby Ok?”

“Right as rain. I arranged a cup of cocoa with Miss Blume. Joby smiled for days.”

“A cup of cocoa made him smile for days?”

“Well Jimmy, it was gold top.”

Michael Shawyer

Image. A white milk float loaded with crates parked at the roadside. George fry, CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons