That evening, my heart nearly leaped out of my chest—if not for my gritted teeth. It all started with an ordinary phone call from my son: “Mum, Emily and I are popping round to yours soon. To meet you.” His voice was cheerful, confident, like someone who’d finally taken the plunge. My husband and I exchanged glances and grinned—about time our Jack settled down! How long could he keep playing the bachelor?
Jack’s always been a bit of a character. Independent from childhood, with a mind of his own. After school, he joined the army, then out of nowhere announced, “I’m off to the Highlands. Work. Earn some proper money.” His father and I were stunned but didn’t argue. He left—and true enough, started coming home with treats: fresh salmon, venison, berries. Said he loved it up there—harsh but stunning, and the people were salt of the earth.
Now, suddenly—marriage was on the cards. We laid out the good china, baked a fresh loaf, dressed smart, and waited. The doorbell rang. I answered. And then… I nearly lost the power of speech.
On the doorstep stood a woman. Well, first I saw only an enormous fur coat—the sort you’d expect on a Victorian explorer—and behind it, three children and Jack himself. The coat stepped in, shed itself, and out came a slight, petite girl with thick dark hair and a sharp, birdlike gaze. Jack announced:
“This is Morwenna. My fiancée.”
My heart plummeted. The girl gave a silent nod while the kids, without invitation, plonked themselves on the floor. One started wrestling off his wellies; another made a beeline for the windowsill. The youngest, Morwenna deftly tethered to the coffee table leg with a scarf to keep him from bolting. All this unfolded in silence, accompanied by a scent that suggested the entire Scottish moors had barged into our tidy Bristol flat.
We moved to the sitting room. I spread out the white tablecloth, laid the table. Morwenna began serving the children—with her hands! Herself, she used a fork, but jabbed it straight into her mouth between words. Spoke in clipped, abrupt sentences.
“Are these… yours?” my husband asked, eyeing the trio on the floor.
“Mine,” she answered flatly.
I shot a look at Jack’s father. Was this our family now?
“Jack, love, where did you two meet?” I asked, my voice betraying a wobble.
“In the Highlands, Mum. She’s got a voice like an angel—you should hear her!” Jack said, bright-eyed, suddenly a stranger to me.
“And where will you live?” my husband cut in.
“A bothy’ll do,” Jack shrugged, as casual as if he’d suggested a weekend in Brighton.
Something in me snapped. I retreated to the kitchen, husband in tow. We stared at each other—gobsmacked.
“What do we do?”
“No clue,” he muttered.
Back in the room, my husband sidled up to Jack and, avoiding eye contact, pressed a wad of notes into his hand.
“Here’s for a hotel. Sorry, son, but you can’t stay.”
Jack sighed.
“You always said, ‘Just marry someone—anyone!’ Well, here she is.”
They left. With the kids. The coat. The smell.
Forty minutes later: the doorbell again. I opened it. Them again. But different. Morwenna, now in a regular jacket, hair in a ponytail, eyes mischievous.
“Hello,” she said politely. “Sorry about earlier.”
“I don’t understand,” I mumbled, stepping aside.
Jack grinned and stepped forward.
“Mum, you’re always on at me: ‘Just get married, just get married!’ Well—I don’t want to. Not yet. This is Morwenna, my mate. We thought we’d have a laugh. She’s from Cornwall, visiting with her nieces and nephews. Nowhere to stay, so I figured—why not put on a show?”
I sank onto the hallway stool. My legs had given up.
“Jack, do what you like, but never, ever scare me like that again. I nearly had heart failure!” I gasped.
Back at the table, Morwenna—now chatty, helpful—pitched in with the washing-up. The kids sat properly, giggling. And my husband and I realised: yes, we’re getting old. But Jack’s prank? Pure gold—terrifyingly lifelike.
