Epiphany, or Understanding Papa

Papa was my husband’s grandfather. He’d been a milkman all his life. By the time I met him, he was long retired; but he could still recite his old milk runs perfectly: Mrs Smith at number nine: 2 pints and a half of cream; Mrs Jones at number eleven: half a pint, no cream. And he could recite all the Melbourne Cup winners and place getters, and their trainers, jockeys and colours. He loved horse racing, and he spent Saturdays nipping up the back lane to place bets with the illegal bookie; or, later, at Moonee Valley gambling on the horses.