On first inspection, Corporal Raeburn Hunter’s arrival did not impress the worthy wifies of Stratharvar. They doubted that this scruffy individual would ever suit Farmer Nichol’s only daughter. The village stalwarts with spy-glass eyes who usually picked out affairs of the heart before they actually happened were surprisingly slow on the uptake about this particular courtship, being in no position to pass comment until the fortress was stormed and fair lady carried off.

Netta herself did not think much of the soldier who roared up on his Triumph Tiger 70 motorbike to the Hogmanay Social, with Dougie Mackay, the Minister’s youngest son, riding pillion; two mess mates on a forty-eight hour pass from the Sixth Battalion of the Kings Own Scottish Borderers, an outfit that had been recruiting Border sons to arms since the Regiment was formed in 1689.

This particular recruit had three obvious defects. First, he was not an ‘in born bairn’. The safest bet for local girls was ‘to marry over the midden than over the muir’. Secondly he was sort of artist, one of they queer folk who cut off their ears if crossed. Thirdly he spoke with a pukka English accent, having been educated in a public school over the border.

To Netta he looked a tousle-haired, scruffy pup in baggy khaki trousers, roving restlessly up and down the lines of dancers as if he was looking for someone. He looked more like an Irish lurcher than a full-blooded Scottie, with his tight brown curls which even the regulation army short back and sides couldn’t tame. Yet there was something intriguing about the way he kept eyeing her up as she birled across the floor doing the Dashing White Sergeant. Then, when her pals sat lined up against the wall like a set of skittles, the others nudged her and giggled. He kept staring, making her blush.

‘Watch him, Nettie Nichol, he’ll begetting you up for the dancing next. Look, he’s giving you the eye!’

I don’t want his eye, I want his arm round my waist, Netta thought to herself with surprise. Don’t be so forward, she mused, let him do the running and see what he catches.

She tossed her curls and straightened her well-worn party frock of dark green tartan, its hem let down and disguised with matching green trim, trying not to feel the butterflies flitting inside her tummy.

As the evening wore on and the jollifications got rowdier and rowdier, the Corporal did not make one move in her direction but he kept on staring. Netta was so furious she began to think she had warts all over her nose. How dare he stand there eyeing her up like a farmer at a beef auction! Then she remembered they’d not even been introduced. She flounced around the edges of the dancing groups, trying to look casual, but everywhere she moved she could feel those eyes boring into her.