The house that stood on the hill was never intended to be a Manse. It was to be a symbol of Victorian mercantile success, imposing, solid, but built with local grey whinstone which lacked the attractive lustre of granite. Unfortunately, business acumen only lasted to the second storey and it was sold to the then more financially endowed Church of Scotland before the attic interiors were completed.

It was in this house that I was born, the third and youngest daughter of the Manse. I was to be the last Manse infant as the house was pulled down at the end of my father's ministry. Two wars and twentieth century lifestyles eventually reduced church funds and the attics were never finished. The east coast winds sent drifts of soot and snow through the rafters, and years of cold were sealed into its walls.

Despite the cold, my childhood memories are of freedom, fun and stories. The two acres of wilderness garden, large shabby rooms and very busy parents presented a heaven-sent playground for Manse offspring and their wide circle of friends.

It was the stories that flowed through the house that gave us an early insight into human nature. Parishes are made up of a wide diversity of people who might not otherwise come together with a common purpose. In our small town, parish offices were unknown and our house was the hub of the church life. They all came, bringing their own individual slice of life: the sad and lost, the kindly and cheery, the angry and stubborn, the daft and the humbugs.

We were adept at reading the signs of these visitors. It was men's jobs to arrange funerals. They came in new black ties, sombre features etched with grief, men don't cry. Young giddy couples, came with the bride's mother to make sure weddings took place. Then there were those who came clutching emigration papers and a promise of new opportunities and a £10 fare to the Commonwealth. This brought poignant partings, as these enterprising families were invariably the up and coming pillars of the community and church. For a time names such as Toronto, Auckland and Sydney became-as familiar as Scottish cities while 'going down to London' was still a risky and foreign venture.

In Scotland marriages could take place outside the church and the Manse offered privacy for quiet weddings for those later in life, the hasty or for second time round. Every now and again the house would become fashionable. The old drawing room had style with its expansive view overlooking the Forth, even though original carpet was over a hundred years old and damp brought the wallpaper curling downwards. The garden had the perfect backdrop for the bane of my father's life -the wedding photographer. But we pre- television children had such fun watching the bridal entourage through banisters, in full white, best costumes, swish of taffeta and organza. There were the nervous giggles, the magic of confetti and the heavy lush perfumes that lingered for days.

After the ceremony there was ‘the scatter’. Children from nearby would come and gather round the drive waiting for the best man to throw a handful of pennies from the departing car. However, it was not seemly for daughters of the manse to join the scrum. I was most peeved by this churlish social restraint, particularly when a hapless groom tossed out a sixpence and sometimes a florin by mistake.

Funerals were the days when my father wore his frock coat and lum or top hat. Compassion and dignity was key to his ministry as well as chat and humour. Early in childhood we saw how laughter and tears work hand in hand. On funeral days it was the undertakers and drivers who would provide him with wry and caustic asides. Much later at my own parents' funerals it was the sons of these worthy men that ensured the utmost dignity and kindness were returned.

Much of these Kirk arrangements took place in the study, formerly the dining room. Despite my mother's vain attempts to transplant the name and nature of study to other parts of the house the papers, sermons and the typewriter, like homing pigeons, made their way back to the dining room table. Sermon writing time was sacrosanct, the only time we kept away. As a very small child I remember the tapping of the old keys, the practice reading aloud - developing an early appreciation of the good sermon. The calibre of a minister was judged on his sermons, depth with brevity.

Coming to St Mary's long after my parents and the Manse have gone is like anew homecoming; much has changed but the essential stories of life go on.

However, one thing does not change -the question of what to put in the Parish Magazine. At the end of the month all the messages and intimations had been said elsewhere and a cry for inspiration went out to anyone who happened to be in Manse at the time, we all became involved. It is now with a sense of rough justice that I offer this small contribution towards St Mary's Magazine.