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‘Aye, aye,’ said Ron. ‘Dinnae fret. We won’t keep you from your friends but we like to treat you. You’ve done so much for us.’
Have I?Not that much. They wouldn’t let him do more. They were the ones who’d given him the big break in the first place. When Ron’s mother died and left them her house, Ron and Anne had turned it over to eighteen-year-old Calum and told him to make the most of it. He had. Or he’d tried. Property could be a gamble but it had brought him success – and stress. No different from any job.
‘You look like you need a good dinner.’ Anne rested her hands on her hips and scanned him over. ‘You can come round any time and I’ll make you something if you don’t feel up to cooking.’
‘Really, Mum, I’m fine.’
They were always so kind. Had he lived up to their expectations? Done them proud? They’d never been able to have any more children. He was their only one. And after he’d let them down so badly as a schoolboy, well… He rubbed his forehead, pushing away those thoughts. He didn’t want to put a damper on his birthday treat.
‘Take a seat.’ Ron pulled out a deckchair and Calum flopped onto it.
‘I’ve made a cordial,’ Anne said. ‘We’ll try it before Joyce arrives. In case it’s yucky.’
She bustled back a few moments later, carrying a tray laden with a jug and glasses. Calum raised his eyebrow. ‘Very fancy.’
‘Probably tastes like piss.’ Ron stuck two fingers in his mouth, feigning throwing up.
‘Shut it.’ Anne eyeballed him. ‘You’ve got a crate load of beer anyway, so it won’t matter to you.’ She poured a glass and handed it to Calum. He sipped it slowly, bracing himself. It hit his taste buds with a sharp zing.
‘Mm, not bad.’
‘Good boy.’ Anne ruffled his hair like a dog.
Calum stretched on the deckchair, lifting his backside to remove his phone from his pocket.
‘I don’t know where you got the tall gene from.’ Anne shook her head at his legs.
‘Probably that bloody postman,’ Ron said.
‘Oh, wheesht, you.’ She flapped at her husband.
Calum smirked into his drink. Bonkers. Both of them. But they were his, and he wouldn’t trade them for the world. Both of them were heading for sixty but neither looked it. His mum’s bright personality took years off her and Ron worked on boats in the open air, which kept him fit along with the karate. He didn’t do that as much these days but he could still pack a mean punch and throw if he had to. ‘Are you doing the karate competition this year, Dad?’
‘Bugger no. I’m too old for all that jazz. You go knock ’em out, son. Give ’em the old one two for your dad.’
‘Yeah. I might enter but I’m out of training.’ He used to travel every Saturday to Oban on the mainland for practice. These days his training consisted of pulverising his dummy and occasionally working on throws with another guy on the island.
‘Aye, do that, it’ll be good for you.’ Ron cracked open a can of beer and adjusted a switch on the barbecue.
Calum woke his phone and several new messages blinked. Scanning through them, he dismissed them. ‘Honestly, tenants complain about bloody everything. What can I do about a rat in their parking area? I’m not frigging Rentokil.’
Ron chortled, flipping a sizzling burger. A tray of rolls landed on the table next to Calum and he looked up. ‘Mum, should I not help you?’
‘Absolutely not. Stay where you are. It’s your birthday. I insist you relax.’
Calum returned to his messages, ready to switch off his phone when an email caught his eye. He frowned at the sender. Rhona Lamond. That had to be a joke, right? Or some twisted game of Will’s? His chest tightened. Will wouldn’t be that stupid. But a Lamond messagehim? He tilted the screen away from Ron. No way could his dad read it from that distance, but consorting with a Lamond, even via email, in his parents’ garden was weird, like he was doing something illegal.
Dear Mr Matheson,
Mr Matheson? His frown deepened and his pulse sped up – a pounding, nagging beat. No one ever called him Mr Matheson unless they had a complaint or a false accusation. The Lamond MO.
Further to our meeting a few days ago, I would like to put to you a proposal. I have an MA in Archaeology from the University of Edinburgh and have over five years field experience in European archaeology. My knowledge of Scottish history and pre-history in an archaeological context is wide-ranging.
What the hell was this? He scratched at his temple. An application for a professorship? Why was she sending him a CV?
I am currently at a juncture in my career and working on an office-based research project. However, I am looking to get into consultancy work. To do that, I want to gain further relevant experience. If I was contracted to work on the Kilnarkie dig it would be invaluable for my career development. If you were agreeable to my working there, I would be happy to do it at a significantly discounted rate, so it would be beneficial to both of us.
