Spellbound

All Because

All Because

A story from Spellbound by Joel Willans

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In 1968, Cadbury introduced the Milk Tray Man to the world. For nearly four decades, this tough action hero overcame a vast array of obstacles to deliver Milk Tray chocolates to beautiful ladies.

He was the first person I ever truly admired. That unabashed Romeo moving amongst the shadows was everything that I, a pimpled stick of a boy, could only ever dream of being. No wonder then that I so relished watching his daring deeds. Sitting in front of the TV, hugging my boney knees, I’d chew my knuckle as he dangled from helicopters or leapt from hurtling trains. No obstacle was ever too great to stop him delivering his precious cargo to the woman he loved.

My enthusiasm for him would most likely have withered and died, like so many childish things, had my parents not been so suddenly taken from me. Even now, years later, I can still see Mrs Mower’s expression as she called me to the front of the class, and I can still smell the rosewater on her floral blouse when she hugged me to her chest. A heady mix of emotions washed over me, yet it was only the tiniest taster of what was to follow when, after an eternity, she let me go and led me to the headmaster’s office to hear the news.

A terrible accident. He was very, very sorry. Try to be brave, he said. The rest of his words were lost as Mrs Mower sobbed and drew me once more to her immense bosom. And that was where I dealt with the news, wedged between her breasts. I don’t know how long I stayed there, but when she let go, I wished I might go back and stay in their warm embrace forever.

As an orphan, the gentleman in black became ever more important in my life, the father I no longer had. I imagined my mother, her beautiful eyes looking down upon me with delight as I planned a way of delivering joy to the women of the world. Look at my son, isn’t he a wonderful and sweet boy, so kind and brave, she’d say to the audience of angels, who’d flutter their wings and nod in agreement.

The older I got, the more determined I became to spread happiness. The love I could no longer give her, I would give to other women. I was fourteen when I made my first delivery. A box tucked under my arm, I sneaked into the girls’ dorm, heart pounding so loud I was sure that at any second the sleepers would stir and scream to the heavens. With a shaking hand, I slipped the package onto the bedside table of Anna Goodwin, pausing only for a second to admire the soft curve of her lips and the delicate slope of her nose. The pleasure I felt on returning to my bed was only surpassed the next day when news spread of the mysterious Milk Tray, which had so magically appeared beside her.

Even if I’d known what fate would await me, I wouldn’t have changed the course of my life. For without these adventures, my time on this earth would have been one of unbroken tedium. To some, it might seem strange that so much joy can be gained from the secret delivery of a box of chocolates. But let us not forget that chocolate, so readily available these days to every Tom, Dick or Harry, was in ancient times a gift from the gods.

Straight from paradise it came, so the Aztecs said. Carried by Quetzalcóatl himself as he travelled to earth on a beam of light. By eating it, you were blessed with wisdom and power. Though I’m no god, and I doubt my mouth-watering gifts endowed their recipients with these talents, I like to think that when the ladies awoke they felt something akin to wonderment.

This belief has carried me through the bleakest of days. It is what I repeated to the police officers who cuffed me like some common criminal, and what I told Detective Sergeant Heaton when he questioned me. It still pains me to remember the way he sneered at my answer.

But I do not ask for pity. I’m merely a product of a system that has treated me as an inconvenience since the very day my parents passed away. As I gaze over the skyline of a town that houses more than a million unhappy souls, I wonder why our society so vilifies a person whose genuine, heartfelt desire is to spread joy amongst his fellow human beings.

Now that parole has taken that opportunity from me, I have no choice but to leave the country of my birth. I do not for an instant blame Miss Brook for misunderstanding my intentions when finding me in her bedroom. I blame myself for being so casual in my preparation and so clumsy in my execution. Such sloppiness is unforgivable to one with so many years of success, so many missions completed and so many boxes of cheer left behind as magically as coins from a tooth fairy. Carelessness is no doubt a symptom of arrogance and it seems I fell pray to that very vice.

So now it must end. I have made all the preparations. My bag is packed and my bills paid. I have dressed for the journey in my uniform of black roll neck and trousers, but before I close my door forever I will indulge myself and enjoy a final Milk Tray fancy. Like any sane man, I have a soft spot for soft centres. My most enduring love affair, though, is with the Strawberry Kiss. It is not just its gooey sweetness, but the fond memories it provokes of my darling mother’s habit of always saving it till last.

Relishing this final taste, I think ahead to my new life in warmer climes. The only thing that tinges me with sadness is that when my quest begins anew, I will have to use a different box of chocolates. It will not be the same. Everybody knows that ladies love Milk Tray. But, although the magic they’ll feel upon awakening will not be as great, even the smallest dash of magic is surely better than no magic at all.

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