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“Not much, actually. I haven’t always been…er…in the best of health.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Ryan,” I chided gently.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Matt flashed my son a quick smile. “I’m mostly better now.” He took a sip of his red wine. “I run a history website. Specialising in military history. I set it up with a man I used to know—my old history teacher, actually.” He nodded to me. “Cartwright. I took over completely after he died, and I expanded it.”
Another sip. “It’s not particularly time-consuming, and I hardly earn any money from it, but it suits me, because I love military history. So, it’s more of a hobby, I suppose. People share unusual stories—from diaries and stuff that they unearth in the attic. I have a network of enthusiasts all over the world. And I help collectors locate rare memorabilia.”
Ryan’s face lit up “That is so cool. Will you show me sometime?”
“Yeah, sure. I can show you on your laptop later if you like.”
“Do you work from home?” I asked. I’d seen the small table in the caravan, smothered with papers. I imagined him spending hours there, immersed in something he’d always seemed to have a passion for.
“Yes, although sometimes I use the university library in town. I can run the website from anywhere. And whenever. Lying in bed at three in the morning, talking to folk in America, if I want to. Or in a pub, or on the train.”
“Or sitting on the toilet!” cackled Ryan.
“Naked!”
Gotta love a bit of schoolboy humour. Matt had effortlessly tapped into Ryan’s wavelength, although his financial status now gave me something new to worry about. Us medics weren’t at all savvy when it came to careers other than our own, but even I knew running a single niche website didn’t provide much of a source of income. As he’d said, more of a hobby to keep his mind off other things.
We’d polished off nearly all the dinner. I stood. “How was your boeuf bourguignon, Ryan?”
He gave Matt a knowing look. “God, so nice, Dad. Even better than Mum’s.”
Always good to hear. “How about you, Matt?”
“Really tasty,” he agreed, beaming.
“I thought so, too.” Time for my favourite rugby dad joke. “Scrum-my, in fact.”
“And there’s my fiver,” crowed a triumphant Ryan. “Hand it over, Matt.”
After lunch, I stoked a fire and we settled in front of the telly. Ryan kept us company most of the afternoon, and he and Matt watched a couple more episodes ofSharpewhile I momentarily rested my eyelids. And allegedly snored and drooled. But in my defence, two hours of chasing teens on a rugby pitch followed by a hearty lunch and a glass of plonk could do that to a man. As Matt and I tidied up the kitchen together afterwards, a feeling of utter contentment settled over me like a warm duvet.
Trust me to go and spoil things.
“Are you okay for money?”
I wondered how to delicately ask and had failed to come up with a solution. So I blundered through as normal as we sat in the car outside his caravan, neither of us ready for the day and evening to end.
“I get by.” He folded his arms. “Not all of us need fancy German cars, you know.”
Way to go, Alex.I began flailing. “I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t get all touchy on me. It’s just that a website for military enthusiasts doesn’t sound like…like…”
“A sensible career choice?”
“No! I’m not criticising. I’m worried you don’t have enough money, that’s all.”
Christ, I sounded more like his dad than a prospective lover. Matt gave a heavy sigh.
“If I’m feeling skint, there’s a bloke on Boscombe market who’s always looking for help. I come and go, he knows that. And I didn’t say in front of Ryan, but I also run another website. A small business really.”
Oh God. My mind immediately leapt into the gutter. That could be anything. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. My alarm must have shown on my face as Matt let out a bark of laughter.
