Milk Witch by Dr. Martina Cleary

FRONT COVER

Milk

Aoife Costello

Milk Witch

Acknowlegdements: This is for my great-grandmother Mary, my grandmother Celine and my mother Maria.

BACK COVER

Milk Witch

The morning sun pierced through the netted curtains and kissed

the freckles on my nose and cheeks. I pretended to be asleep but I could hear the sounds of plates moving in the kitchen

and my younger siblings giggling pretending to still be in

their dreams. A feeling of excitement came with the sun. There was nothing like it. Marie woke me up, she slowly walked into

the room, squeaking each floorboard every time she pressed her barefoot on the wood. She then shook the end of the bedpost

telling me today it was my turn. I hated that. I felt my belly

sink through the floor, passing the foundations of the bungalow, to the soil underneath where all the wiggly worms lived.

We needed to get a can of milk for our Mother Mary. This sounds

like an easy task but it comes with a catch! We needed to go all the way to Keoghs farm but we would have to pass her cottage

on the way. That caused a fright in me so bad that I could not

finish the end of my tea and swished it in my mouth side to side

and gulped the lukewarm liquid back. I imagined her sweeping

outside the lonely grey cottage. I could see her beautiful hair

swaying as she swept, it was like a soft midnight sky. Then she would turn around and the sounds of the birds singing left the

air. Grey strands of hair on top of her head would prick out of

the scalp, her frown was so strong we could see it from the very

corner of our eyes when we would try not to stare back. Dressed

for a funeral with such a small petite face full of rage. The consistent sweeping of the dusty dry ground would stop. My

heart would race and her knuckles would whiten. Her yell was so

loud and her frail body transformed into a bolt of lighting as

she began to chase us. We ran and she shouted, filling our ears

with her screams, like a banshee. My feet would be sore racing

through the Stoney path down-home, I knew she was a witch. Fran and I prepared for the worst, mam needed the milk today.

It was such a beautiful morning I went out to the warm sun

and made my way towards the shed. I slowly approached the can

that was empty, still wet from a wash with cold water, the

steel glistened in the sun. I sighed, my stomach hardened with the nerves that I almost felt dizzy. Then I had an uplifting

moment, remembering that we did have another option we could

avoid the witch today. The backfields to the farm felt like a godsend and we could travel back to collect the can of milk

this way. The day was not ruined yet.

The fields looked like meadows filled with wildflowers, we

unraveled through the long grass both holding the empty can. When I arrived at the farm I had collected more freckles on

my face that spread across my cheeks. A smile sprawled across

our faces as the two of us strutted with glee in completing

our mission impossible. Our battle was not over as we had to

venture through the jungle like grass again unable to see our

destination. It took the two of us to carry the can back home,

the task was trickier now. With every shuffle through the grass with our feet, the milk began to trickle from side to side.

Then the sound of dread came from a distance and her presence

surrounded us in the field. Get Out! Get Out! She was here. We

quickened our pace. The milk spilled more and more, The sun hid behind the clouds and the colour of the vivid green

grass. By

the time we got back to the path home, we had only half a can of milk left. The thieving Milk Witch.

Fran Bit Tommy

Saturday was cleaning day. Our mother Mary never had us

cleaning, it was always Marie. It was her day to go into

town, she would meet Aunt Chrissie after her messages and get the last bus back home to Mungret. The half six bus.

These mornings always came with a feeling of dread and we would hold onto these precious minutes of lying in bed

before she entered the room. Marie woke us, she would be

the first dressed, her hair was perfect as she took on the

role of being head of the house. This tiny bungalow. The sun hasn’t even burnt through the clouds yet and the bedroom would feel quite cool and airy as we prepared for our duties.

We would stagger from our beds, make them neatly half

asleep. Our hair is badly brushed. All the pots and pans

would be taken out of all the presses and all the cupboards in the kitchen. The clatter and screeches from shifting the steel stew pots sent shivers up our spines. They would all have to be re-scrubbed, washed, and polished again. Inside

the cupboards would need a good wash too with lukewarm soapy water, followed by getting a different cotton cloth to wipe

away our mother’s previous baking experiments, the leftover

dough would be dried up and stuck to the top and the corners of our counter. The crumbs looked like confetti on the

floor. The kitchen utensils would be brought outside to the side entrance of the garden. So they can be washed out and polished. They weren’t allowed back in until they were

shining and if the day was cloudy you would have to stay out there longer. The garden began to look like a car-boot sale on a Saturday. Everyone had to scrub.

Then there were the floors, the floor was the worst job to get. We would need to sweep till every corner of the floor was

clean, Marie would be behind your shoulder watching. Only

one person got to do this dreadful job of floor cleaning that took what felt like days to do. In the kitchen, they would

take hours to finish up, especially the waxing. Fran got the job today, she exhaled into a big sigh, her squirrel-like

cheeks began to drop and her mouth turned into a frown. She hesitantly picked up the sweeping brush and began to brush

away the confetti-like crumbs that were left on the floor of

the kitchen. Gloom hung over her head as she began hoovering the living room, the noisey hum of the hoover carried out to the front garden where the rest of us scrubbed the pots. Minutes began to feel like hours, the rest of us were

starting to come to the end of our chores. Fran was on her

hands and knees scrubbing, washing, and waxing. She counted the walnut floorboards that were left, Fran was almost

finished. Her arms felt heavy, dead weight and every movement began to make each finger ache with the pain. Her lower back

was strained from the continuous crouching down. There was a knock on the kitchen door. The rusty handle of the kitchen

door began to press down and Tommy stood there with his muddy boots. Fran continued her duties and ignored the visitor. He stood on the freshly waxed floorboard in the kitchen, the mud and leaves dropped from his boot and pressed into the walnut wood with his heel. Fran was scrubbing the floorboard right next to him vigorously. Ignoring the chores being carried

out around him, he continued to venture through the kitchen. A dark shade of pink took over Fran’s face and she slowly

approached his bare leg like it was a piece of prey. She sank her teeth into his right leg and he screeched with pain. She continued to bite until she felt like he got the message.

More mud travelled through the kitchen when Tommy ran out the door.

Sleepwalking Flower Girl

The flower girl’s eyes began to feel heavy and close, she

naturally curled up into a little ball of chocolate-stained

satin. The two upholstered chairs with painted gold frames are pulled together to form a little bed for Mia to take

off her crown of flowers and rest on the foam-filled cushion of the seat of the chair. She can still taste the cheese

and onion crisps on her lips, the room was filled with music and natter. From the bottom of the chair, her feet pressed up against her mothers’ lap. Mia began to rub the cotton

of her socks against her satin dress to begin her deep

slumber. So sleepy, so sleepy, from the long day, walking

in a pristine white dress, concentrating for hours to not

get it stained with green stems poking out from the flower basket. The basket she kept in her grasp as she slowly

walked down the aisle of the church. Step by step with all

eyes looking, her nervous belly rumbles and she feels the urge to sit down. A desire to be hidden underneath noses

and not in the center of everyone in the church’s eyes.

A priest speaks to empty minds kneeling in front of him,

their heads move around the room with wandering thoughts. Big inhales and big exhales, her breathing so deep she

begins to feel the cool air against her skin. She has been

shifted and is now being carried down the Barrick road

to Grandad’s house. Without lifting an eyelid Mia knows

exactly where she is by the sounds of feet crunching the

stones and the long grass whispering in the fields next to the path. Her heart is safe and slowly she is brought to

the room not disturbed by the opening and closing of doors. Mia’s little leg flinches every time it would escape the

warmth from under the satin white skirt, her toes were

carefully tucked underneath. Her heart was safe as she began to escape into her dreams.

In the dark, the door began to open and creek. Mia rose

up and gently walked towards the door not making a sound on the floorboards wearing wee cotton socks. Her eyes

still closed guided by the habit of walking through the

hallway. In her mind’s eye, she was able to see the small dark mahogany table with a cream dialing phone on top. Mia passes by the dark green walls with cement bubbles

poking, the coldness of the tiles rising through her socks to the soles of her feet. With her warm hands she pushed

down the cold metal handle of the door to enter the living area, it was still kept warm by the embers of the fire. Her feet guided her to the back door of the kitchen, she felt weightless like she was being guided.

The back door of the kitchen was unlocked, Mia pushed down the handle once more to enter the cold air of the night. She stepped out, her white cotton socks drank up the

moisture of the dewy soil and grass, it did not disturb

the sleeping flower girl, she continued her journey in her dreams.

Paper Nun

It was a grey cold morning in November, the night rain soaked the concrete footpaths and created small rock pools in the

craters of rock outside the front door. The earth was still

moist, small birds dug through the mud in search of pink slimy

worms for breakfast. Chrissie and Mary are still in bed, the

droplets of water glazed on the window pane darkening the wood. The dread of a school morning bubbled in their bellies as they

rose from their creaky wooden frame beds. Mary began to put on

her skirt, eyelids still heavy she gathered the waistband of her

skirt to button it up. The hem of her garment fell half an inch

above Mary’s knee, she forced the hem down, pulling at it trying

to cover as much of her knee as she could. A growing woman was

an awful thing, she carried on buttoning up her shirt trying not

to worry.

The walk to school felt like a never-ending miserable stretch to

nowhere. Chrissie eyes were so big and bright full of mischief.

The silence grew as we shuffled along. Chrissie gently tapped her

sister on the shoulder, two hand-rolled cigarettes made from

newspaper appeared in the palm of her hands. She had two stolen matches with her, Mary put the newspaper hand-rolled cigarette

to her lips. They both began to splutter and cough. The walk was

long and the smoke felt needed, we began to collect dock leaves

as we made our way to school. The two teenage girls began to rub

the leaves between each finger and rolled the leaves into small balls, they began to chew the leaf and spit out. Both looked

at one another to make sure they didn’t have green stains left on their teeth. This got rid of the smell of tobacco, Chrissie

thought it was clever and always suggested it.

They were close now as they entered the grey dreadful entrance.

The girl’s body frames appeared straighter now, they patted down

their hair and dusted their skirts. The student formed a neat

line and approached the door of the school, like little grey

soldiers waiting for their general to inspect them. Mary began to see the words of prayers running across her mind so she would not forget.

Eyes began to burn on Mary’s forehead, she didn’t even look

up but could feel the heat of trouble on her head. Sister

Josephia is standing by the door and has the most dominating

stance, sharp features, and strict tone. The cold nun pointed

at Mary’s skirt with disapproval and pressed hard down on the

young girl’s shoulder. Her skirt was disgustingly too short,

half an inch above the knee, it needed to cover her knee the

nun repeated over and over. Mary was brought into a room and

told to cover her legs. Sister Josephia began to rip up some

newspaper and then left Mary in a deserted classroom confused. Mary’s hands began to change to different shades of purple the

classroom was freezing and all the windows were open. The nun arrives back with a long ruler and a staple gun. Mary’s hand

stuck out shaking as it tried to stick out steady ignoring

the cold room, the corner of her eye looked at the staple gun

terrified. Sister Josephia tugged on Mary’s skirt and her knees

felt like they were about to buckle. The nun began taking the pieces of paper and stapling them onto the hem of the skirt,

the clicking sound of the staple continued until the skirt was

surrounded by uneven edges of the paper. Mary was so furious

and full of rage, she looked like a fool. Her appearance was altered without her consent.