I leaned closer. “What?”
“It’s all handwritten.”
“Yes?”
“Grandad’s writing was atrocious. Look at this chicken scratch.” He smacked his hand down on one of the papers. “I can’t tell if this is a word or if he spilled his morning brew.”
“Let me see.” I nudged his hand out of the way. “It’s not that bad. And frankly, you have no room to complain. Yours is no better.”
“What’re you on about?” he said. “You’ve never complained about my handwriting before.”
“Because nine times out of ten, you’re emailing or texting me. But on the rare occasion you leave me notes, I’ve had to get good at deciphering your little squiggles.”
“I donotsquiggle,” he muttered, digging through another file.
“It’s okay, my liege, I think they have scribes you can employ.”
He shot me a grumpy side-eye before returning to the file. He paused, his expression shifting into something softer. “Oh, wow,” he murmured.
“What did you find?”
He dug an old, weathered photo from the box. The edges were slightly yellowed and curled. “Look here,” he said, showing me the picture. “That’s Gran standing with Grandad.” He whistled. “And my dad and uncle when they were boys. This must be almost forty years old. Maybe fifty.”
His grandmother had her arms wrapped around Pete’s neck. The sign behind them said Braeburn Summer Festival. Their smiles were giddy. “Did they run the festival together?” I asked.
Weston nodded. “Until she died. Then he continued as best as he could. I think the town got a lot more involved then.”
He handed the photo off to me. I flipped it over. On the back, in more of that chicken-scratch writing, were the wordsEllen, Pete, Charlie (10), Bryan (8), Braeburn.
“And this looks like an old festival layout,” he said, handing over what looked to be a photocopy of a hand-drawn map. He ran his finger along it. “This here is the high street. And all these squares in the middle of the street are the different booths.”
I sifted through the file, finding a first-place ribbon. “Looks like we’re going to need a judging panel.”
Weston nodded. “I remember there was always a haggis-making competition. Two categories. Traditional and contemporary. And Cullen skink. And then a bunch of desserts.”
“I know what haggis is, not that I ever want to willingly eat it.” I shivered at the mix of minced sheep organs, suet, spices, and who knew what else all wrapped up and cooked inside the sheep’s stomach. “But what the hell is Cullen…?”
“Skink. It’s basically fish stew. And when it’s made right, it’s delicious.”
Sure, he said that…but he also liked haggis. His opinions could not be trusted. “I’ll take your word for it,” I said diplomatically.
He smirked at me. “My grandparents were always on the judging panel. So don’t think you’re getting off without trying some true Scottish delicacies.”
“Great. Can’t wait to risk my life for sheep organs and fish stew that’s been sitting out under the sun all day.” I flipped through more of the file, finding additional photos. Pete and Ellen in front of a bunch of store fronts. Pete and Ellen standing around with a group of people, laughing and chatting. Pete in a kilt, flexing at the camera. I chuckled under my breath. “Man, these streets look packed.”
“Oh, they were,” Weston said. “People would come from all over the area. Sometimes we’d even get tourists up from Glasgow. It actually brought in a lot of money for the small businesses in town. People would come and stay for multiple days, enjoy the festival, and buy up all the pastries and local tartans and handwoven sheep’s wool jumpers.” He smiled fondly. “I remember getting to help with tear down afterward. Grandad would corral all the boys from the camp, and we’d spend a couple of long days cleaning up town. But at the end of it, he’d always treat us to a campfire night to close out the session.”
“Sounds like something you looked forward to.”
“Aye.” He nodded, unearthing more notes. “Thank Christ. Some of these are in Gran’s handwriting.”
“Let me see,” I said, scanning them quickly. “Bingo! This is a list of vendors. They’ve probably changed over the years, but it’s a good place to start.” I laughed. “I for one hope Bangers and Mashups is still around.”
“It was a sausage and bagpipe fusion booth,” Weston said.
“Food and entertainment in one,” I teased. “What is the Neeps and Tatties Express?”
“Turnips and potatoes,” he mumbled, distracted by another photo. I peered over his arm. It was Pete and Ellen, this time with a little boy between them.
