Story Ten - Johnny Paull, the milk boy

1953

Johnny Paull,

the milk boy

Doris, the milk lady with the very loud voice, drove a big dark blue Morris van, with an open back that was filled with milk crates. She delivered milk, cream, eggs and butter around the Battlefield. She came to our house in Gwavas Street at about 6 in the morning, dropping off a one-pint bottle. Aunty Tilly, next door, had two pints.

Saturday was the day when everyone paid their milk bill. One pint a day for the week came to 4 shillings and 8 pence. Each Saturday, Doris came in to our kitchen and had a cup of tea. Mum paid her weekly bill and, for a few minutes, she and Doris swapped gossip.

One particular Saturday, not long after the bread man incident, I heard Doris say that she was tired and needed help on the milk round. My ears pricked up – there it was! There was the opportunity I was looking for. I could be a milk lad.

When she left and went back to her milk float, I followed her. “Doris,” I said ”Can I help you on the milk round?” She looked down at me and smiled, “Course you can. Have to get up early, though, you know. About 5 in the morning is when I start ‘livering. What ‘e think, ‘Azel, can ‘e?”

And so it was I became a milk boy, up very early at 4 each morning, running down the dark streets with torch in hand to Bread Street to help with the loading of the milk crates, and then delivering bottle after bottle around Penzance and Long Rock I was back home in time to put on my school uniform and walk up to the Grammar.

Getting ready for school was always a rush, especially as I had to walk quite a distance to the Grammar.

I came  back again at midday for my dinner, and back yet again for afternoon school.

I was eleven. 

I soon learned what milk and extras our customers around the town wanted – a half pint there, two pints here. A pound of butter on a Wednesday, 6 eggs on a Friday, a quart of Cornish cream on a Saturday. As Fridays were payday for those in work, Saturdays were pay-yer-milk bill day. After delivering first thing in the morning, we’d go back to those houses that didn’t leave their money out on the doorstep. I didn’t like this routine as often we’d go inside a house where I’d see someone from school and, if spotted, I’d feel ashamed.

I liked Sundays, though. Delivering the milk early in the morning, seeing the sun rise over Mounts Bay, hearing families getting ready for the day, smelling the bacon and eggs being fried for breakfast was very special. About 10 in the morning, Doris would drive across the Eastern Green to Long Rock. We’d deliver milk to a couple of houses, then park the van down a side street. We’d  then visitn Mrs. Davis, one of Doris’s friends. Doris would give her a bottle of milk, some butter, a few eggs and a pound of sausage. Mrs. Davis would then fry three eggs, two slices of bread, and three pork sausages for me and Doris to share, washed down with a cup of steaming hot tea.

Bliss. Absolute bliss.

After swapping gossip, Doris would then drive back to Penzance, where we’d unload the empties, clean the van, and get ready for another day.

When everything was spotless, I would go home, wash off the smell of milk and cream, and play with Spotty, our dear black and white cat.

On Saturdays, when I gave my mum my pay, she’d give me back ten shillings and I’d go off to the pictures, buy some sherbert lemons,  and sit and watch the Saturday afternoon show.

Oh, and I’d buy a sixpenny orange ice lolly. Yummy!