Usually her visits followed a familiar route march. First she would arrive in Kirkcudbright by train, but, this time thanks to the loan of some petrol coupons she arrived in style in an old Ford van, parking by the harbour square. Then she usually stopped to steady her nerves with tea and scones upstairs in the Paul Jones Tearoom before catching the bus, looking out over the harbour as if from the prow of a boat, admiring the fishing fleet anchored in the estuary. This time she watched from the window for a glimpse of her stepmother, Peg Nichol, puffing along the street in her faded cotton frock and handknitted cardigan, weighed down with the weekly shopping; her wicker basket stuffed with extras from the High Class grocers in Cuthbert Street. With her was young Gus in shorts and Aertex shirt, itching to go crabbing somewhere on the edge of the harbour.

Netta liked to tiptoe up behind the boy to surprise him with an ice cream cone from Angelini’s Café. She’d watched him gulp it down while Peg sniffed about spoiling his dinner and warned him not to put sticky fingers on the car bonnet. Then they all piled into the van to wend their way westwards around the twisting lanes towards the coast and Brigg Farm.

Gus was already sunburned, having shot up inches since Netta’s last visit. The journey gave them all time to pass pleasantries, to warm to each other again for the sake of the child who bounced up and down in the back with the messages. Gus was dying to know what goodies Auntie Netta had brought from England in her leather case and hatbox.

She watched for the first sights of home: the bumpy track up the hill towards the grey Galloway farmhouse which stood four-square, lintels edged with red sandstone, attic windows jutting out of the roof, glinting in the afternoon sunshine.

Her father, Angus Nichol, would be hovering somewhere in the courtyard of the old whitewashed farm buildings ready with his usual gruff greeting, ruddy face weatherbeaten by fifty summers, sandy hair frizzled by salt and sun. Gus raced up the stairs ahead of her, hovering by the door of her old childhood bedroom with its iron bedstead, pegged rug and wash stand. The summer curtains were thin and barely closed, faded by sunshine from the southern aspect. He hovered excitedly while she unpacked, eyes scanning her luggage just in case…

‘Thank you for my birthday present. I’ve got a farm and tractor and loads of cars now. Jamie Paterson’s got a wee sister called Maisie and I’ve got a new calf. Do you want to see my pageant costume? We made helmets out of silver paper with real horns. The Sunday school teacher said mine was the best, so she did… and I got my photo in the paper, do you want to see it?’