we go to the playgroup. To my surprise, so do I. I feel a little awkward at first when Elspeth introduces me to the others, my years away making an incomer of me and a stranger in my own community. But children are a great icebreaker, and by the time Elspeth brings through the mugs of coffee on a tin tray we’ve already bonded over the sharing out of toys and a packet of sponge fingers. Daisy sits regally in the middle of a tartan rug, sucking the sugar from her biscuit, while Jack hands her a series of wooden animals from his Noah’s Ark. She sets each one carefully in her lap, unsure of what to do with them but pleased with the gifts nonetheless.
The other children are a little older, three self-assured toddlers who push cars up and down the ramp of a wooden garage and build towers of plastic blocks that can be knocked down with cries of glee.
‘Typical boys,’ smiles Elspeth. ‘It’s nice to have Daisy here to tip the balance a bit.’
One of the other mums pats her belly, which is swollen with pregnancy. ‘Maybe this one’ll be a lassie, too,’ she says. Then she turns to me with a grin. ‘It’s about time. I’ve three boys already.’
I kneel on the rug to remove a lump of soggy sponge finger from Daisy’s curls, and Jack – ever the perfect host – brings me a brightly coloured xylophone. I take the sticks that he proffers with it and pick out the opening notes of ‘The White Cockade’. He looks surprised at first, then grins as I softly hum the tune for him and Daisy beats time with the sticky remnants of her biscuit.
When I hand him the sticks to have a go himself, he passes them back to me. ‘More,’ he says, firmly.
‘Okay,’ I say, and sing the opening lines of ‘The Skye Boat Song’. It doesn’t seem to matter to Jack and Daisy that my voice is a little rough around the edges. One by one, the other mums join in with the familiar words, ‘Speed, bonny boat, like a bird on the wing . . .’ And their boys put down their cars and bricks and come to listen.
‘Would you look at that?’ exclaims Elspeth when we finish a repeat of the final chorus. ‘It’s said that singing will charm the seals from the loch but I never thought it could bring the wee boys away from their games. They love it.’
‘Och, all kids love music,’ I say, passing the xylophone to one of the toddlers who is showing a keen interest in the sounds it makes.
‘It reminds me of how we used to hear those songs sung when we were wee. Our parents’ generation was brought up with them – playing, too. My dad learned the fiddle when he was tiny but somehow he never had time to teach me, or if he did, I didn’t have the inclination to learn.’ Elspeth rummages in the toy box and brings out a tambourine, which she hands to Jack.
‘They’re not taught at school either these days. There’s not so much time for music in the curriculum now,’ chips in one of the mums.
‘More’s the pity – look how much they enjoy it.’ Another of the mums nods at the group of toddlers who are now enthusiastically banging on anything they can lay their hands on in an attempt to continue the singing session.
‘Maybe we could include some of the songs whenever we get together? Teach them ourselves?’
‘Great idea,’ says Elspeth. ‘Lexie can keep us right.’ She gives my arm a pat. ‘You know the tunes, after all, and you can remember way more of the words than I can. I’ve forgotten half of them these days.’
‘I’d need to brush up a bit,’ I reply. ‘But I’m sure there’s an old songbook of Mum’s at the cottage. I’ll dig it out.’
Elspeth nods. ‘Your mum was the one who really knew all the songs. I remember how she’d sing as she cooked the stovies for our tea on days when I came back to yours to do our homework together.’
Soon after that, playtime descends into chaos as the children grow hungry and tired. I scoop up my dishevelled daughter, who is now attempting to chew the head off a wooden giraffe, wiping the gummy residue of biscuit from her fingers. ‘Time to go home, Daisy-Mae.’
At the door, I thank Elspeth for the morning. She gives me a