There was always an expanding amount of children, especially on Saturdays and in the school holidays Margaret Gillies Brown

They were all decent boys – pleased to be out in the country, usually owning an old banger which was always giving trouble. When I think of those students I think of them either inside studying or outside with long legs stretching out from under old jalopies.

The kitchen was the heart of the home, by far the most used room. It was a large farm kitchen with a smaller scullery off it. Ronald’s parents had come to live at Inchmichael in the middle of the war after the death of Uncle Ronnie.

Ronald’s mother had insisted on the house being done up. It had fallen into disrepair during the years when the unmarried Uncle Ronnie had lived there with a housekeeper.

There was woodworm in the attic and the chapel at the far end of the house had been used as a tattie store. The farm belonged to Ronald’s mother but it was his father, the grain merchant, who wanted to run the farm and live on it.

“I’ll easily do that as well as look after the grain business,” he told her. “In fact, it will fit in well to have a farm. I’ll come to know the problems of the farmers better and the difficulties they have in getting good samples of grain.”

Improvements

So his wife agreed on condition that the house be renovated. “I’m not leaving a comfortable town house to freeze on a farm,” she declared.

Probably much more money was spent on the house than they could afford but I became everlastingly grateful to her for the improvements that she had made, particularly in the kitchen.

The old stone flags had been removed and in their place the most durable of green and brown bitumen tiles put down.

Also an enormous second-hand Aga was installed with four ovens and a huge stove at the far end for heating water.

The result was that the kitchen was never cold with the stove on night and day for nine months of the year. The kitchen faced west and had a big window with small panes.

It faced on to the large farmyard boxed in by old red sandstone cow byres, stables, outhouses of all sorts – no view but I thought the old buildings rather beautiful, especially when a westering sun sank its rich red tones into the pantile roofs.

It was handy, as I could see what was going on around the farm and it was also the place where the children played, racing round on their bikes, playing tig or hide-and-seek, cowboys and Indians, chasing each other with water pistols. Beside the garden wall a load of sand was dumped. Here the smaller ones would play happily for hours when the weather permitted.

However, the farmyard wasn’t the safest place in the world, especially at busy times when tractors would come racing in with grain. You had to keep a watchful eye on the children.

The kitchen also had several large cupboards and a long pine table against one wall and another antique table ruined, some would say, by a Formica top, in the alcove in the window. This was the oldest part of the house.

Magnificent

Here the walls were about three feet thick and made from a mixture of clay and horse hair. The adjacent scullery faced east.

It could have had the most magnificent view of the long green valley stretching to the distant city on the horizon had not Ronald’s mother put in opaque glass to prevent, I suppose, the maid looking out and being distracted from her work by the’ men on tractors coming along the farm road looking in.

It was many years before there were changes. I just accepted things as they were. However, I did get a joiner to make benches to use at the pine table where we ate most of our meals.

The reason was that there was always an expanding amount of children, especially on Saturdays and in the school holidays, when my children asked their friends down from the village.

It was two miles to Errol. Far too far, I was always told, for their friends to go back for a meal. Please, please could they stay. So meals became expandable and mince became the order of the day.

If I found I was going to be short I could always add cornflour and more Burdles Gravy Salt. Once I remember being really short of food in the house in the days before I had a freezer.

“But I don’t have enough food today boys, I really don’t. Colin will have to go home. He’s got a bike. The only other thing I’ve got is a tin of figs.”

At this there was some consultation between the boys and then Richard said: “Colin likes figs.” So Colin stayed and ate a whole tin of figs without apparently coming to any harm.

But it wasn’t only children who filled the kitchen. Everyone was entertained there – neighbouring farmers, salesmen, even on rare occasions the minister and if it got to meal time and discussion was still in progress another place or two was laid at the table.

There were always huge pots of soup on the Aga and I could always rustle up something.

All sorts of different people, as time went on, would appear in the kitchen. One man in particular that I remember was the Piano Man.

I can’t recall his real name as we always called him the Piano Man.

Amused

Once a year in July he would arrive unannounced to tune the old pianola that he’d fallen in love with. A man of indiscriminate age, he had the look of a rather absent-minded professor. Rather squat in stature, he wore an old brown tweed jacket which sat on him comfortably and went well with the calm of his smoking pipe.

He came in an old car, a bit bashed about, that certainly would not have passed its MOT today. He spent most of the day with us.

First of all the plinks and plonks of the tuning of the piano could be heard through the house and then lunchtime.

Ronald brought out the whisky bottle and a large measure was poured out for him. All through lunch you could see an amused smile on his face.

At that time of year it was always a packed table as it was holiday season and sometimes the kids were an unruly bunch.

Ronald sat at the head of the table; he could keep order quite easily if he wanted – one word of warning from him and they were quiet – but he had a way of treating the children like adults and some discussion would arise which might get quite heated.

The Piano Man never said much, just smiled, but one day he said to me: “I can’t help thinking of the film Seven Brides for Seven Brothers when I come here.”

More on Monday.