Anna Burns - 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 knew his age, not because he got shot and it was given by the media, but because there had been talk before this, for months before the shooting, by these people of the rumour, that forty-one and eighteen was disgusting, that twenty-three years difference was disgusting, that he was married and not to be fooled by me for there were plenty of quiet, unnoticeable people who took a bit of watching. It had been my fault too, it seemed, this affair with the milkman. But I had not been having an affair with the milkman. I did not like the milkman and had been frightened and confused by his pursuing and attempting an affair with me. I did not like first brother-in-law either. In his compulsions he made things up about other peoples sexlives. About my sexlife. When I was younger, when I was twelve, when he appeared on my eldest sisters rebound after her long-term boyfriend got dumped for cheating on her, this new man got her pregnant and they got married right away. He made lewd remarks about me to me from the first moment he met me about my quainte, my tail, my contry, my box, my jar, my contrariness, my monosyllable and he used words, words sexual, I did not understand. He knew I didnt understand them but that I knew enough to grasp they were sexual. That was what gave him pleasure. He was thirty-five. Twelve and thirty-five. That was a twenty-three years difference too.

So he made his remarks and felt entitled to make his remarks and I did not speak because I did not know how to respond to this person. He never made his comments when my sister was in the room. Always, whenever shed leave the room, it was a switch turned on inside him. On the plus side, I wasnt physically frightened of him. In those days, in that place, violence was everybodys main gauge for judging those around them and I could see at once he didnt have it, that he didnt come from that perspective. All the same, his predatory nature pushed me into frozenness every time. So he was a piece of dirt and she was in a bad way with being pregnant, with still loving her long-term man and not believing what hed done to her, disbelieving he wasnt missing her, for he wasnt. He was off now with somebody else. She didnt really see this man here, this older man shed married but had been too young herself, and too unhappy, and too in love just not with him to have taken up with him. I stopped visiting even though she was sad because I could no longer take his words and facial expressions. Six years on, as he tried to work his way through me and my remaining elder sisters, with the three of us directly, indirectly, politely, fuck off-ly rejecting him, the milkman, also uninvited but much more frightening, much more dangerous, stepped from out of nowhere onto the scene.

I didnt know whose milkman he was. He wasnt our milkman. I dont think he was anybodys. He didnt take milk orders. There was no milk about him. He didnt ever deliver milk. Also, he didnt drive a milk lorry. Instead he drove cars, different cars, often flash 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.

He appeared one day, driving up in one of his cars as I was walking along reading Ivanhoe. Often I would walk along reading books. I didnt see anything wrong with this but it became something else to be added as further proof against me. Reading-while-walking was definitely on the list.

Youre one of the whos-it girls, arent you? So-and-so was your father, wasnt he? Your brothers, thingy, thingy, thingy and thingy, used to play in the hurley team, didnt they? Hop in. Ill give you a lift.

This was said casually, the passenger door already opening. I was startled out of my reading. I had not heard this car drive up. Had not seen before either, this man at the wheel of it. He was leaning over, looking out at me, smiling and friendly by way of being obliging. But by now, by age eighteen, smiling, friendly and obliging always had me straight on the alert. It was not the lift itself. People who had cars here often would stop and offer lifts to others going into and out of the area. Cars were not in abundance then and public transport, because of bombscares and hijackings, was intermittently withdrawn. Kerb-crawling too, may have been a term recognised, but it was not recognised as a practice. Certainly I had never come across it. Anyway, I did not want a lift. That was generally speaking. I liked walking walking and reading, walking and thinking. Also specifically speaking, I did not want to get in the car with this man. I did not know how to say so though, as he wasnt being rude and he knew my family for hed named the credentials, the male people of my family, and I couldnt be rude because he wasnt being rude. So I hesitated, or froze, which was rude. Im walking, I said. Im reading, and I held up the book, as if Ivanhoe should explain the walking, the necessity for walking. You can read in the car, he said, and I dont remember how I responded to that. Eventually he laughed and said, No bother. Dont you be worryin. Enjoy your book there, and he closed the car door and drove away.

First time that was all that happened and already a rumour started up. Eldest sister came round to see me because her husband, my now forty-one-year-old brother-in-law, had sent her round to see me. She was to apprise me and to warn me. She said I had been seen talking with this man.

Fuck off, I said. Whats that mean been seen? Whos been seein me? Your husband?

Youd better listen to me, she said. But I wouldnt listen because of him and his double standards, and because of her putting up with them. I didnt know I was blaming her, had been blaming her, for his long-term remarks to me. Didnt know I was blaming her for marrying him when she didnt love him and couldnt possibly respect him, for she must have known, how could she not, all the playing around he got up to himself.

She tried to persist in advising me to behave myself, in warning me that I was doing myself no favours, that of all the men to take up with But that was enough. I became incensed and cursed some more because she didnt like cursing so that was the only way to get her out of a room. I then shouted out the window after her that if that coward had anything to say to me then he was to come round and say it to me himself. That was a mistake: to have been emotional, to have been seen and heard to be emotional, shouting out the window, over the street, allowing myself to be pulled into the momentum. Usually I managed not to fall into that. But I was angry. I had just so much anger at her, for being the wee wife, for doing always exactly what he told her to, and at him, for trying to put his own contemptibleness over onto me. Already I could feel my stubbornness, my mind your own business arising. Unfortunately whenever that happened, Id pretty much turn perverse, refuse to learn from experience and cut off my nose to spite my face. As for the rumour of me and the milkman, I dismissed it without considering it. Intense nosiness about everybody had always existed in the area. Gossip washed in, washed out, came, went, moved on to the next target. So I didnt pay attention to this love affair with the milkman. Then he appeared again this time on foot as I was running in the parks with the lower and upper waterworks.