Milk served warm
An escaped cow meant we weren’t allowed to play outside. Looking back there were a thousand reasons I should have kept quiet but it was a hot day and too much energy trapped inside on such a morning had manifested itself in mischief.
The bottles were warm, glass sweated condensation. The comfortingly unpleasant smell of milk-fat hung over us. We sat, pierced our silver foiled lids. Drank deeply. And then, I raised my hand.
“She took my milk, Miss.”
“Roberts! Come here.”
Margaret got a real roasting that day and although she was innocent, she never did lose that nickname.
About the Author
Lisa Williams. Domestic slattern. Obsessive reader. Writes a bit.
Published June 9 2016