That evening, my heart nearly leaped out of my chest—if I hadn’t clenched my teeth, it might’ve. I remember how it all started: a casual phone call from my son, Harry. “Mum, me and Emily are popping round to yours in a bit. Wanted you to meet her.” His voice was bright, confident, like a man who’d finally made up his mind about something big. My husband and I exchanged glances and grinned—about time our Harry settled down! How long could he keep playing the bachelor?
Harry’s always been his own man. Independent, strong-willed. After school, he joined the army, then out of nowhere: “I’m off to Scotland. Working. Save up some proper cash.” We were stunned, but didn’t try to stop him. And he did all right—came home with fancy smoked salmon, venison, berries. Said he loved it up there, the rugged beauty, the honest folk.
And now this—getting married! We laid out the good china, baked fresh bread, put on our best. Sat waiting. Doorbell rang. I answered. And then… I nearly lost the power of speech.
There stood a woman. Well, first I saw this massive fur coat—like something out of a Highland estate—and behind her, three kids and Harry. The coat stepped in, shrugged off, and out came this petite lass with thick dark hair and sharp, bird-like eyes. Harry beamed:
“This is Rhiannon. My fiancée.”
My heart plummeted. Rhiannon nodded silently while the kids, without waiting, plopped onto the floor. One started tugging off his wellies; the other climbed onto the windowsill. The youngest, Rhiannon deftly tethered to the coffee table leg with a scarf so he wouldn’t bolt. All this in silence, with a whiff of peat and heather—like the whole Highlands had barged into our flat in Manchester.
We moved to the living room. I’d laid out a clean tablecloth, set the spread. Rhiannon—with her hands!—started piling food onto the kids’ plates. Used a fork for herself, but twirled it in her mouth like a lolly. Spoke in short, clipped bursts.
“Are these yours?” my husband asked, eyeing the trio on the rug.
“Aye,” she said flatly.
Harry’s dad and I exchanged glances. Is this our family now?
“Harry, love, where’d you two meet?” I asked, my voice betraying me.
“Up in the Highlands, Mum. She’s got a voice like an angel—you should hear her!” he gushed, suddenly a stranger to me.
“And where will you live?” my husband cut in.
“A bothy’d do,” Harry shrugged.
Something in me snapped. I ducked into the kitchen, husband trailing. We stared at each other—gobsmacked.
“What do we do?”
“Dunno,” he muttered.
Back in the room, my husband handed Harry a wad of cash without meeting his eyes:
“Here’s for a hotel. Sorry, lad, but you can’t stay.”
Harry sighed. “You always said you’d take any lass so long as I married. Well, here she is.”
They left. With the kids. The coat. The smell.
Forty minutes later, the doorbell again. There they stood—but different. Rhiannon, now in a plain anorak, hair in a ponytail, eyes twinkling.
“Hello,” she said politely. “Sorry about that.”
“I don’t understand,” I stammered, stepping back.
Harry grinned and stepped forward:
“Mum, you’ve been on at me for years—just get married, just get married. But I’m not ready. Yet. This is Rhiannon, my mate. We thought we’d have a laugh. She’s from Inverness, visiting with her nieces and nephews. Nowhere to stay. So I thought—why not put on a show?”
I sank onto the hallway stool. Legs gone weak.
“Harry, do what you like, but never scare me like that again. Nearly gave me a heart attack!”
Back at the table, Rhiannon—now the picture of charm—helped in the kitchen. The kids giggled over cake. And my husband and I realised: we’re getting old. But Harry’s prank? Bloody brilliant. Terrifyingly real.
