Mark Goulding's suggestion involved a couple of phone calls. He hung up after the second one and beamed at us. "They can do it! It'll take them about two hours to get here from Stirling, but that should be on time for your wedding at two, won't it?"

Jack nodded. "Aye, fine, but are those marquees substantial enough?"

"So my friend assures me!"

Mark had been in Stirling for Bloody Scotland, an annual crime writing festival where scribblers of who-dunnits and their many fans gathered for readings, book launches and even a band, The Fun Lovin' Crime Writers, who cheerfully described themselves as murdering songs for fun.

Mark's friend, he told us, owned a company that provided tents and marquees for big events, and as the company was based in Scotland, it specialised in extra sturdy, thick canvasses held in place by steel poles. Able to withstand whatever Scotland's climate threw at it.

"Won't it be dark and gloomy?" I asked. We had no electricity after all.

"Candles and torchlight," Mark announced. "Bloody Scotland has a torch-lit procession from the Great Hall at Stirling Castle down into the old town and out to the Albert Halls. There are plenty of leftover torchlights you can use, along with candles."

Evie chose that moment to charge past us, bolting after poor old Mildred, our ancient ginger and white cat whose 18th birthday had came and went, but was still capable of speed when required, such as the necessity of escaping toddlers intent on picking her up.

"Torchlights, candles and bairns," Jack said, as Mark promised us his tent-owning friends also ran lots of Ye Olde Banquet type events at Stirling Castle where torchlights designed to emulate the olden days were suspended high up, well out of the way of small children.

Furious knocking on the door disturbed us once more. Dylan, again—his face no less scarlet than it had been the night before, and his hair plastered to his head.

"Gaby!" he yelled at me. "Is this the universe trying to send me a message?"

"Not at all! The universe wants you to marry Colm this very day. Promise! Go home and eat a big breakfast."

His departure coincided with Mhari's arrival. She pushed a tube into his hand and muttered something I didn't hear. He looked up, nodded, and wandered off again.

About to ask her what the tube contained, I changed my mind. Duh, Gaby. Better not to know...

"Mhari!" I said, welcoming her in. "Donnie's been as good as gold. He's still sleeping upstairs, but you can go up and—"

"He's still asleep? Ach, no I'll leave him wi' you. Nae point waking up a wee bairn, eh? As it turns oot, I've got an appointment at the hairdresser's this morning for an up-do."

"The hairdresser?" I asked, fiddling with my hair, which hadn't been washed in a few days and now would need to be done in ice-cold water. "But there's no electricity."

"Well spotted, Sherlock," Mhari said. "I'm off tae Oban to see Cheryl at A Cut Above. She does massage and manicures as well, so I'm getting the works. See you at the wedding!"

With that, she skipped out the door just as Donnie decided he'd had enough of sleeping and screamed his head off above us.

The next few hours passed in a blur. A steady stream of people trooped in and out of the house. Lachlan, assuring us The Bag Rock Pipers were fine to play 'raw' without sound systems. He ignored my question did he want to take his son with him when he left. Jamal with offers of yet more hummus and packets of super-spicy Doritos. My nanna claiming this reminded her of the Blitz, and how wonderful it was to watch the community pull together.

Jack, darting back and forth between our house and the Lochside Welcome, paused as he heard her deliver the oh-so-solemn declaration. "The Blitz?" he asked.

Nanna stared at him. "Yes, young man. When Britain got a lot of bombs dropped on it during the Second World War. Awful, awful times." With that, she sailed out the door.

Jack turned to me, mouth twitching. "Your nanna was born when?"

"Nineteen forty-six," I replied, doing my best not to laugh. "And the Blitz finished, so Wikipedia tells me, in 1941."

The tent people arrived at mid day—a large lorry and five burly boys and girls who rolled out of the tractor cab and began throwing up poles in the beer garden outside the Lochside Welcome. I watched from the safety of our front window. The wind might howl, those poles and the canvas the burly team pulled over them didn't budge.

We might, might be able to do this.

"Gaby, love!" The next interruption proved more welcome. My mum, already dressed up in a mother-of-the-groom, dusty blue knee-length chiffon lace dress and matching jacket. "D'you need anyone to keep an eye on the kiddie winkles for you?"

Oh, yes. I thrust Ranald into her arms and pointed at where Evie might be running around, causing chaos. When I admitted Donnie was here too, my mum batted her hand. Fine, she would round the three of them up and order them into obedience. Thank God.

I retreated upstairs to a cold shower. Even that felt luxurious. Time all on my own as I psyched myself up to stepping under the icy torrent of water. My outfit lay on the bed, encased in a plastic suit cover. It was an old favourite of mine—a bold print, wrap-around dress I'd worn for the first time just before I'd gone into labour with Evie. I stepped into it, shivering.

With no hairdryer, I had to make do with scrunching my hair into curls. YouTubers manage this effortlessly. My attempts resulted in a frizzy mess. Oh well, in torch and candlelight, it wouldn't be as visible.

Dressed and made-up, I made my way downstairs. The chaos hadn't abated, people wandering in and about all fretting about the lack of electricity and gathering here as if Jack and I might magic up a solution.

But at the bottom of the stairs stood the only person who counted. In his kilt, of course. Not the dressy version that took so long to put on you almost fell asleep doing so, but the one I'd first admired on him so long ago.

Plain plaid, wrapped around his bottom half, and over one shoulder. Shirt open enough to hint at a chest sprinkled with red-gold hair, thighs, calves, feet planted there, as one hand extended, inviting me to join him.

He winked. "Ma lady."

Well, you didn't get much more of an 18th century Scottish setting than this. A village in the Highlands, a downpour and no wretched electricity. All we needed now was a cattle stampede. I took his hand. His lips twitched once more as he leaned in.

"Want tae get the party started?"

"Oh, yes," I said, as we headed out of our house, followed by Caroline, my mum and three children in tow, ready to brave the wind, the rain and everything else to ensure the party of the century began when we, and not our circumstances, decreed. 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: thanks for reading. Final update, Saturday, 14 August, 2021! PS, Bloody Scotland is a thing!