I want the children to have freedom to shout if they want to and not always be afraid of making a mess,’ I explained

After lunch there would be a bit more plink plonking at the piano and then, quite unasked, we would get the most wonderful recital for about half an hour or so after which he was gone until next year. Unfortunately, we were not a musical family but Mahri-Louise, from an early age, showed a predisposition towards music and at three could play simple tunes by ear.

I always wondered at that because even to this day I can’t make two notes work at all.

Perhaps my favourite music was always the natural sounds – the sound of wind and sea, the rustle of ripe barley, birdsong and especially the song of the canary which I always had in the kitchen in a cage hanging in the window.

Canaries were supplied to me by an old man from the village, Sam Cairns. He and his wife were neighbours of Mrs Hodge who came to give me a hand for a few hours once a week.

The Cairns had 13 children and the Hodges seven. In the early years when things were tough for them with so many mouths to fill, food was often shared across the fence. Drowned out If Ma Cairns had soup left over it was passed over and vice versa. Nowadays, Sam was retired but worked as a petrol pump attendant up in the village, probably to earn enough money to feed his canaries. He had the same deep love for them as the Piano Man had for music.

“One that sings, please Sam,” and he would always give me one of his best. So much so that sometimes the canaries drowned out the other noises in the kitchen. The more noise there was, the louder they sang. Sometimes Ronald would say: “Please just shut that bird up,” and I would have to put a cloth over the cage in the hope that this would stop it.

They were busy days, the kitchen days, but happy ones. Some seasons of the year they were busier than others.

In summer I made a lot of jam with raspberries, strawberries, plums and apples from garden and orchard.

For me, there’s no better smell than the aroma of raspberry jam unless it is the smell of bubbling plum chutney in the pan.

A lot of the time was spent in cooking and baking to feed hungry mouths, but it was something I loved doing and I couldn’t quite understand this new upsurge of women’s talk about drudgery in the kitchen, that we must go out and do something valuable and creative with our lives.

What was more valuable than feeding a family? What was more creative than making the most out of the foods available? So happily I made pigeon pie and jugged hare, baked scones, rock cakes and pancakes.

And my reward? To see happy well-fed children and have someone come into the kitchen and say: “What a glorious smell! What’s cooking?”

“You will need to get a girl to help you in the house,” Ronald said one day not long before Lindsay was born. “I’ll easily manage,” I said, “Remember, I looked after seven children under seven years old when we were in Canada.” Perfectionist “But you also have this big rambling house to see to,” countered Ronald. “You know I have often said it killed my grandmother and it killed my mother; she was found lying in the dairy one morning having had a stroke.

“Her children were grown-up and away and she had more help than you. That’s where we’ll find you if you don’t do a bit less.”

“Your mum was a perfectionist,” I said. “She kept the house like a palace – regularly wiped away all the cobwebs beneath the pictures. I’m afraid I’ll never be a perfectionist, Ronald.

“Housework and palaces don’t interest me enough. Besides, in the short time I came here before your mother died, you felt frightened to rumple a cushion or raise your voice much above a whisper, let alone muddy the floor.

“I don’t want to have a home like that. I want the children to have freedom to shout if they want to and not always be afraid of making a mess.”

“Well, I think you’ve certainly achieved that,” Ronald laughed and tried a different tack.

“Speaking from a selfish angle I need you more, Margaret, now that we have fewer men on the farm. Already you spend a lot of time answering the phone and the door, entertaining salesmen but more and more during the busy time especially, you’re very handy for running to get a spare part, extra seed or whatever.”

Reluctantly I was worn down and so Catherine came to us. Catherine was 18 years old and pretty enough in an unstartling way even if she looked sulky most of the time. I can’t remember how I heard of her. But what I do remember is going into Dundee and being grilled by nuns to see if I was a suitable person, being non-Catholic, to employ one of their girls.

I must have passed the test and Catherine arrived. Catherine was quite a competent worker and did lighten my load a bit, but she was a town girl with no great love for children which after a while began to show.

In a way she had a dual personality, She was reasonable enough most of the time, but when her bus driver boyfriend phoned she completely changed. It was down tools and off out with him as soon as she possibly could. Transformed I have never in all my life seen someone get ready to go out as quickly as she did. Straggling hair became a small stiff beehive. Jumpers and blouses were washed and dried with a hair drier and she was off in 15 minutes, transformed.

Apart from that, the house rang with songs from a loud record player she carried around with her. “Return to Sender” was played over and over again. It must have been her favourite song and it wasn’t long before I was feeling like returning her to sender.

The crunch came however a week before Lindsay was due to be born when I had had to go on an urgent errand. When I returned I found Mahri, now four, and Grant, two, left in the house alone; she was off with her boyfriend. That was no use to me at all. There was a row and she was gone. The next attempt came about six months later in the summer months when I was incredibly busy. We were now growing raspberries which involved a lot of extra work.

A friend phoned one day. “Margaret, I’ve got a couple of au-pairs from France here for the summer. I only really need one. I know how busy you are.” More tomorrow.