It was easy to deceive everyone in Stratharvar into thinking the romance was over. Netta went about her farmwork with a face like thunder, letting it be known that Rae Hunter was just another unreliable soldier boy. Then she took to her room with her sewing machine to make a pattern and design a dress with a bolero jacket. A trip to Dumfries for the lavender wool crepe from Barbour’s store blew all her clothing coupons away in one go. Peg left her alone to her secret trousseau-making, thinking the girl was comforting herself as usual with some stitchery. When sorrow sleeps best wake it not.

Netta waited anxiously for the letter that would signal their elopement. She had sneaked her birth certificate from Father’s deed box, along with her identity card and ration book; drawn out her savings in dribs and drabs from the Post office. Then, when the note came, she packed a little leather case with underwear and a nightdress sewn from parachute silk, appliquéd around the edge with lacy scallops, and her bridal outfit.

She paced her room, tormented with guilt, knowing that her flight would upset her parents and shame them before the district. But when love was this urgent it had to be obeyed and to hell with the consequences which would surely follow their deception.

‘Oh, Mother,’ she cried, ‘we have to be together. You would understand, I’m sure… he colours my heart with fire and he’s my life now.’

She passed the empty bedroom where Peg and Angus slept. The door was ajar and Netta found herself walking over to the mahogany dressing table with its kneehole and drawers to either side. In the bottom right-hand drawer was the blue box she had fingered so lovingly many times as a child. Quickly she slipped it into her coat pocket, placing a letter by the mirror.

After all, she argued to herself, I must borrow something and the necklace needs an airing: something old would be most of her bridal underwear, something new and blue was her two-piece suit. Something borrowed would bring them luck.

*

Rae was waiting to meet her at Gretna station. Under his black motorbike helmet his face was tired and tense. He had a ten-day pass in his pocket, enough time for the wedding and a honeymoon. They drove into the tiny village of Gretna Green and went straight to the blacksmith’s whitewashed cottage, site of so many famous runaway weddings for hundreds of years. Mr Rennison, the anvil priest, in his workaday overalls, shook his head sadly at first.

‘Did no one tell yous? I cannae marry you legally over the anvil, not since 1940, the churches have put a stop to a’ that. You’ll have to cross over to the Register Office in Gretna and give them two weeks’ notice.’

‘How long?’ asked Netta, clutching Rae’s hand.

‘Fifteen days… to see yer papers are in order. I’m sorry.’