Apricot jam

It is December 194l and there are six of us in the kitchen. The new baby, Peter, is in his pram being rocked by our father while our mother stirs apricot jam on the top of the wood fire. The apricots have been sent to her by her mother who lives in Angaston in the Barossa Valley where they are abundant at this time of the year. Edna, my mother’s red-haired sister, brought them when she came to visit. Edna has caught the bus for her long trip home, and we are left alone with the apricots and the heat.