Caroline insisted we got to bed. "Lack o' sleep," she warned, waggling a finger at me, "is awfy bad for a person. Leads ye tae poor decisions, thoughts of suicide and heart attacks. The rain's no' gonnae stop just because you stare at it."

She'd always been someone who warned of the worst possible health outcome, but no, Jack and I peering out the window and shouting, 'Rain, rain go away, come again another day' was unlikely to do anything.

We gave in, trudging up the stairs to our room, raindrops thundering against the windows. Caroline promised she'd keep everyone from our door and take the phone off the hook. Too tired to remove my clothes, I collapsed on top of the bed, Jack snuggling up beside me. We were out cold in seconds.

Two wretchedly short hours later, Jack's alarm clock squawked into life—Donald, where's your troosers, that jokey tune he'd put on it months ago and neither of us able to work out how to get rid of the wretched thing—making me want to fling his phone across the room.

"Mummy! Ranald's stopped breathing again!"

Evie's shout sent me bolt upright at once, scrambling out of our room in record quick time. The Ranald holding his breath trick scared me half to death every time. In his cot, Ranald turned to grin at me. "Mo-mo-mo!", his hands flapping up and down. Evie stood at the side of the cot, the picture of innocence. I scooped Ranald up, showering his head in kisses.

"Evie," Jack said, coming in behind me and fastening her with one of those looks. "Mind that wee talk we had the other day about not tellin' the truth?"

"Daddy, he did! I held his nose and—"

Jack whisked her up. We had yet to work out what almost four-year-olds understood about right and wrong, and if a future as a serial killer awaited our daughter. ScottishDaDa, a YouTuber with a channel devoted to all things small children that Jack rated (me not so much) promised kids did all sorts of things they grew out of. On that point, he'd better be right.

"Still raining, then?" I asked. Stupid question, as I could see it for myself. Ranald's bedroom window showcased velvety-grey skies, Maggie Broon's Boobs indistinct in the cloudy haze.

"And no sign," I wandered out of the room and over to the window in our bedroom at the other side of the house, "of Scottish Power."

No, indeed. Outside, there were no green and purple vans with the slogan, Scottish Power, Power for the People, parked either side of our high street, their engineers busily shinning up poles, or whatever else they did to make the electricity flow freely once more.

"No," Jack said. "We're going to have to call the wedding off. Dylan will understand."

I puffed up my cheeks and blew out air. All that food we'd made. The Bagrock Pipers stepping in at the last minute and the way we'd thought of almost everything that could be done to make a wedding go ahead in extraordinarily difficult circumstances. Jack's eyes met mine over the top of our (potentially murderous) daughter's head.

"It's not the end of the world."

No, it wasn't. We made our way downstairs, both of us starting in surprise when Caroline turned to wave as us from the sofa, a stranger sat opposite her.

He nodded a hello, his smile warm. He must be in his mid to late 50s, the same age as Caroline, and an outdoorsy type by the look of him—tanned and lean, his peppery-grey hair receding slightly from a weathered forehead. Someone who spent plenty of time climbing hills and taking bracing dips in the sea.

"This is ma son, Jack," Caroline announced, "and his wife, Gaby. Wi' their bairns, Evie and Ranald."

"Ranald after your late husband?" the man asked, and Caroline nodded. "Aye. Wee Ranald made his appearance four months after my Ranald died."

Next to me, Jack bristled. Five years of living with him had attuned me to what the tiny movements of his body signified. Stillness, as he did now, his body statue-like as he took the stranger in, indicated pent-up suspicion—what a Highlander did of old when trying to figure out a newcomer's status. Good guy, bad guy, what?

And also, 'is this guy chatting up my mother and if so, STOP RIGHT NOW!'

Caroline must have recognised some of the body language. She got to her feet. "This is Mark Goulding," she said, "on his first visit tae Lochalshie!"

Again, five years of living with Jack meant I didn't need to look at him to know his expression mirrored mine – polite pretence we knew who Mark Goulding was. I rearranged my features into some semblance of, "oh, of course! Mark Goulding!"

We didn't fool the man for a second. He stood up too, stepping forward with his hand extended, shaking my hand first and then Jack's.

"I'm also known as Patricia Mackenzie."

Did that mean he was a trans—duh, Gaby. The realisation struck me the same time it did Jack, judging by the 'Ah!' he said in response. Mark Goulding, aka Patricia Mackenzie, was the author of the Dorothy Brady books, where a fictional GP in a small Scottish village stumbled on multiple murderers with kind, smiley faces, and outwitted the local police every time.

(No wonder our blasted daughter kept trying to kill our son. Inspiration for murder was all around her.)

But yes, for the last year, the wildly popular Murder in the Highlands had topped BBC iPlayer's most popular downloads week after week. They filmed the exteriors for the programme here in Lochalshie and that, thank the heavens and all the stars, had sent tonnes of tourists our way. Caroline had provided expert advice on the realities of working as a GP in a rural setting for the programme after the show's producer approached her.

"This place," Mark, aka Patricia, spread his arms wide, "is everything I ever imagined!"

What, a tiny place in the middle of nowhere with no electricity, and the rain currently flowing down the streets, monsoon like? I nodded politely.

"Mark," Caroline said, "turned up out o' the blue at the Lochside Welcome, and they sent him here. We've had a lovely wee chat."

Good lord. When she said chat, she sent him one of those side-eye looks you might, if the person in question wasn't your mother-in-law, call flirtatious. Jack took a deep breath in. That observation must have struck him too.

"I hear there's a wedding supposed to be taking place here today," Mark added, Jack nodding warily.

Mark turned to look out the window. "Gosh, in this weather and no electricity either."

Tell us something we didn't know.

"I've got a suggestion for you," he said, turning to smile at us once more. "Not ideal, but it might work..."

AUTHOR'S NOTE - thanks for reading! Next update, Wednesday, 11 August 2021.