Gus raced off down the passage to bring back a crumpled account of the carnival procession from the Galloway News and his battered Viking helmet. She looked down at his dark pixie face with its shock of black hair and those piercing blue eyes; such a strange mixture, more Irish than Scots.

‘How long did this take you?’ asked Netta, amazed by his achievement. ‘It’s very good. Did Father find you the horns?’ Gus nodded, eyes still fixed on her luggage. One of their rituals on her arrival was for the suitcase to be opened and Gus to finger through the piles of clothing for any lumpy packages. ‘What’s this in your shoe? Is it a shoehorn?’

‘No.’

‘Is it toothpaste?’ Netta shook her head with a smile. ‘Look and see.’ It was a rolled up copy of the Beano. Gus ferreted about until he also found the packet of Liquorice Allsorts and the picture book and crayons. ‘Thanks, Auntie Netta! Come and see my toy farm. Father made it for me.’

His whitewashed bedroom at the back of the farmhouse was changing from an infant’s bedroom to a Boys’ Own den, with battered pre-war toys and half-made models cluttering the floor. He had a homemade wooden garage crammed with Dinky toys; a high bed covered with a candlewick bedspread in airforce blue. A moth-eaten stuffed animal of uncertain breed was tucked by the pillow. Yumpy had gone everywhere with Gus when he was small, on picnics and car rides, now he was relegated to the bed. ‘I spy Yumpy!’ Netta laughed and Gus looked crestfallen. ‘Mammy says I’m too big for a suckie.’

‘I expect Yumpy’s too old to play now so he stays in bed all day to keep it warm for you,’ Netta reassured him. Trust Peg to give the orders. All the Nichols were secret suckie sniffers. Netta’s old rag doll still sat on a wicker basket chair in her Griseley home. It was sad day when a little boy must give up his comforter but she supposed it was for the best.

‘Tea, folks!’ Peg shouted from the banister rail. ‘Wash yer hands afore ye sit down, Gus!’ He dunked his hands in the bathroom wash bowl and they trooped down together into the kitchen. There was a fine spread of ham and eggs, and a custard trifle with hundreds and thousands melting rainbows of colour on to the cream.

This was the moment when Netta always knew that she was a visitor and no longer a daughter of the house ready to take her family as she found them. Hands were washed, napkins unfolded and the holiday began.

On the first evening she would usually walk around the fields to view the stock with Father, admiring his fine herd of Ayshires and his field full of Belties, the black Galloway cattle with a white band round their middle, famous for providing succulent beef.