I’ve told you that between our house and the pit there was a field, which
the farmer cultivated. It was normally sown with corn or hay and there were
corncrakes calling in it every summer. The farm labourers were away at the war
and to get the harvest in before the weather broke – this was southern
Scotland remember- the farmer called for volunteers from the local community. I
was only a boy but I helped as much as I could, which was often to go for water
for the men to drink. At the end of the last day, the farmer invited everyone
for tea and, everything being rationed, I joined in. From somewhere the farmer’s
wife produced slices of boiled ham, the smell of which was overpowering. When
the ham was eaten and there was only jam left and farm butter left, one of the
men put butter on a slice of bread and was reaching for the jam when the farmer
stopped him. ‘Naw, naw, no’ two kitchens,’ he told the man. I suppose for the
farmer, jam was the scarcity.
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