Firhill had been a family home for my maternal great grandparents and their ten children. My great grandfather, and then my Uncle John owned the Albert engineering works at the foot of the hill opposite the house, so presumably they were fairly affluent. Certainly the photographs would indicate this, plus of course, the size of the house itself which was detached with gardens front and rear. Downstairs there was a kitchen, dining room, parlour, bedroom, cloakroom, bathroom and washroom all linked by long lobbies. Upstairs two large bedrooms, two smaller ones and a box room, all surrounding a large hall space.
In about 1925, my mum and her brother had been taken to Firhill to live, so that they could be educated in Scotland, my grandparents remaining in Spain until the start of the civil war. So, for my mum, it was home. A place she loved to be, somewhere she was completely comfortable. I loved it too, it was a fascinating old barn of a place. I’ll write more about it, but for now, I’ll concentrate on the kitchen, or rather the food that was prepared there:
The large family kitchen, which overlooked the back garden, had four or five 4” diameter poles across the ceiling on pulley systems. On wet Mondays all the washing would hang here and become imbued with the smells of the delectable food the aunties prepared freshly each day. Soups, broth or perhaps pea and ham, the roast fillet of beef or mince patties, all with vegetables fresh from the garden and cooked on one gas ring and the open fire which heated the oven.
Aunt Nan would stick her hand into the oven every forenoon and decide what, if anything, could be baked that day; it all depended on the mysterious ‘draw’ as far as I could make out.
Biscuits, rich tea, cream crackers and water biscuits, stayed crisp on the shelf at the top of the range and had to be moved out of the way whenever Aunt Nan would clean the flues, which I suspect was about once a month.
On Saturdays there would be a visit from various family members and Aunt Nan would get out the ‘girdle’, something which had been knocked up at the engineering works. The gas supply was plugged in to a pipe at the side of the girdle and a match put to holes in a series of narrow pipes which ran through the middle. As far as I’m aware this device never actually exploded, a minor miracle. There was a metal plate over the top, which is where the Saturday morning delights of scones and pancakes would be baked. First the surface was lightly greased with a lump of beef dripping, then the cooking started. As each golden disc of yumminess was cooked it would be placed in a tea towel to keep warm and then eaten with butter and syrup. The scones were an inch thick and very large, intended to be sliced and served. After we’d all had our fill, the remaining scones and pancakes would be wrapped up and put into tins, then produced after every evening meal for the next few days. Any stale pancakes which were still there mid-week would be fried for breakfast. (more to come)
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This vivid description reminds me of The Golden Locket by Dorothy Kathleen Kirby. Reading such descriptions takes you right into the room, with all senses awake to inpressions.
Margi x
Margi that’s the key isn’t it, the impact the sensory stuff has. I’m so glad you enjoyed the piece; I can tell a lot of stories about Firhill. I need to get on and do it! Several of my friends have lost parents recently and they have told me rich stories about their llives. I know so little about my own family, and am determined that my children will be able to get a sense of what I experienced growing up in the 1950s and 60s.