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difference did it appear to make to our wee bouncing laddie, as he smiled broadly at everybody who tickled his chubby chin. Mind
you, when I think on the swaying he did in his pram, I’m certain my eight-months-old was drunk.
    Macduff was filled with a fresh sea breeze that blew gently through my new home to greet us each morning. Johnnie played safely at the front door, where the traffic was almost non-existent. Baby
Stephen soon threw away his bottle, refusing to suck on it any more and craving solids instead. At nine months he was eating the same as us, scrambled eggs and milky tatties being his
favourite.
    Life began to settle into a regular pattern, one that suited me fine. Mammy and I would take the boys on a daily walk across the bridge to Banff for messages, although fresh fish and vegetables
were delivered to our door by friendly Macduff van men.
    Davie helped Daddy at the painting and was well paid. We managed to afford a three-piece-suite and new kitchen table and chairs. Davie put his skills as a joiner to good use by building a fitted
kitchen, with permission of the house owner, of course.
    Neighbours were friendly, not at all the gossiping or in your house kind, just there if you needed them. One old dear was Sarah. Let me tell you about her.
    ‘Hello fine quine, fit like?’ This was the Macduff way of saying, ‘how are you this fine day?’ I turned around to see a very old lady smiling at me as I washed my small
windows. We chatted on the pavement, before the want o’ a cuppy had me invite her in. She politely refused this invitation, saying when we got to know each other better then she’d take
up my offer. Next day, as Davie was waving goodbye, Sarah appeared minutes behind him. It was seven o’clock in the morning, a very busy time of day for a young mum, but when she smiled and
held out a hot steaming loaf of crusty bread, how could I refuse. When inside she found the best seat and sat down. ‘Ah’ll play wi’ the bairns, while ye mak a fresh pot o’
tea, Jessie.’
    When I brought the buttered bread and cups of tea in, she’d washed and dressed both my boys. Who, may I add, loved her to bits. On a daily basis she’d pop along from her house to
mine, which was a mere hundred yards away, never empty-handed. If it wasn’t a pound of mince she had brought, then it was bread or cakes, and always sweeties. Thus began a wonderful
friendship between an old woman of ninety-four-years old, and a young mum of twenty-one.
    Davie and I seldom went out together, and this was sometimes noticed by Sarah who soon became a fixture in our busy house. In fact amongst our family noise she’d snooze happily. I got to
the point many times of leaving her asleep and going off with the boys for a walk. One day she came in and said, ‘There’s a dance in Banffy this weekend—why don’t you baith
gang?’ We told her my folks were away visiting family in Perthshire, and even though it would be nice to get out of the house for a time, there was nobody to baby-sit.
    ‘Fit’s wrang wi’ me? I’ll watch the bairnies.’
    Sarah was a dear old soul, but there was no way she could cope with two bairns. After all, she’d never had any of her own, and at her age—oh no, we couldn’t possibly burden
her, the responsibilities were far too great for her to manage.
    Sarah didn’t see herself as old, and insisted, reminding us, as she constantly did, ‘me and ma Wull, afore he deed, wid walk ten miles a day, an’ he’s only four year
deed.’ In other words this elderly lady was covering quite a distance at ninety!
    So we gave way, and, on the night of the dance, as I put the finishing touches to my hair, Sarah’s parting words were, ‘dinna drink spirits, for the demons will fill yer heed.’
Sarah hated alcohol, and would lecture us about how many a good man ‘fell tae the demon o’ the bottle’. I promised not to drink, but she’d wait on hell freezing over before
Davie would make the same