Chapter 11
ASHA
I stretch when I get off the bus, my body protesting the long drive that is only half over. The days of walking tours are great, when I have no problem getting my steps in. Not so much on travel days, when my back has started to protest more and more the long hours sitting in one position.
That combined with the great food options in these amazing cities means I spend a lot of my time off working out and eating vegetables so my body gets some balance.
Callum doesn’t seem to have my problems. His body looks as hard and unyielding as his personality. Not that I’ll ever know, because unless the bus moves when we’re both standing, throwing me into him so I can cop an accidental feel, I’m sure I won’t be finding out.
Callum gets the group’s attention to start his lecture on Henry VIII dissolving the monasteries when he separated from the Vatican in 1534. I see eyes start to glaze over, and I feel compelled as a tour guide to interrupt.
“And do you know why Henry VIII separated from the Vatican and became the head of the Church of England?”
“He was horny!” Thomas yells at me from the back.
“Yes, he was! So horny! The Vatican wouldn’t give him a divorce, and he wanted out of his marriage to his former sister-in-law so he could marry the younger Anne Boleyn. And he wanted a male heir, which he had not had with Catherine. And does anyone know why that is especially infuriating?”
“Because sperm determines the baby’s sex,” Maria yells.
“Yes! And Anne Boleyn, who was his mistress’s sister, because that’s how good ol’ Henry rolls, refused to become his mistress when he started sniffing around her skirts.”
“And that’s why we have all these monastery ruins up here,” Callum says firmly, getting us back on track to the history and not the scandal.
“Because Henry took all their land and money, kicking the monks out. And in a lot of cases, he let the buildings go to ruin. You can go get your pictures now.”
“You can go explore, however you want to, with no judgment from us.” I glare at him.
Why is he always trying to insult our paying customers?
“If you’re hungry, there’s a café and restaurant.
I recommend getting something here, because it’s going to be only gas stations and fast-food options until London, which is another four hours away.
Feel free to bring food back to the bus to eat if you want to spend more time exploring and see you back here in two hours. ”
“Can you stop insulting them?” I whisper-yell at him once the group leaves to get a better view of the ruins.
“They make it so very easy.”
“Not everyone has to vacation like you to be right. For the millionth time, there is no right way to vacation! In fact, making rules for vacation kind of defeats the purpose of a vacation.” We start slowly after the group, not focusing much on the majestic ruin next to us, both having seen it plenty of times before.
But I’ve never spent this much time with Callum.
He snorts at me. “You never went on vacation with my mom.”
I rub my hands together. “Ah! Now we’re getting to the root of what makes you, you.”
“As fun as this pop psychology is, maybe we should leave any diagnosis to a professional?”
“What if I thought about being a therapist, would that count?”
“No.”
“Yeah, that’s fair.” I shrug. “What’s your mom like?”
“She loves history. She was never able to go to university for it because there wasn’t enough money and she had to start working right out of school.
She read voraciously as a way to learn more about the subject she loved.
The first memories I have are her reading me history books about the Celts.
They were her favorite.” He has a ghost of a smile on his face, then he shakes himself out of the memories.
“Anyway, she would plan all our vacations, and Dad always said they were better organized than a military campaign, because she had a packed itinerary for every moment that museums and historic sites were open. But she forgot small things like mealtimes or a full night’s sleep.
Dad always said he needed a vacation after her vacations. ”
“And you loved it.”
“Yeah. Dad thought when they had me that he would have someone to vote on his side for a nice, relaxing beach trip to Malaga. He was less than pleased when I always sided with Mom.”
“I can just imagine a child you, in a little suit most likely, marching around Stonehenge. Yelling at people who had the audacity to laugh and take pictures instead of soaking in the monumental history. Probably shaking a ruler at them.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “I am not that bad. A few photos are fine. But when it gets out of hand and interferes with my tour, then I don’t like them.”
“Hmm.” I shouldn’t give him my real opinion. That would make our working relationship even more strained. “So you didn’t just do this because it was the first job you could find?”
He pauses, like he needs to think about how to answer that. “No. I guess not. I might have a little of Mom in me.”
“Is there something else that made you take the job?”
“What else would there be?”
“Ah. You can’t fool me. My mom is a lawyer, so I learned young that answering a question with another question is basic evasion.”
He pauses. So long that I don’t think he’s going to tell me more.
But then he surprises me. “I wanted to be a professor, originally. Even got my PhD for it. But I got some rejections, and it was a bad job market. Not that there’s ever an ideal job market; it’s a hard field to get into.
So I applied to other jobs and found this a few weeks later.
I stopped looking for teaching positions. ”
“Do you still want to be a professor? I think you’d be good at it.”
“If I wanted to bore my students out of loving history, maybe. I think it might have been the in-person interviews that sank my chances.”
“Nooooo,” I say it with enough extra Os to make it seem disingenuous even to my own ears.
“Thanks, Wee Sunshine, for your vote of confidence in me.”
“No.” I say it more firmly this time. “You have a passion for this that any student would be able to see and appreciate. It would make them more engaged. Now, are you going to be the most entertaining professor? Maybe not.” That glare is back on me, but it can’t be a surprise that he doesn’t have a career in viral social media videos waiting for him.
“But you will be thoughtful and smart and teach the shit out of the kids.”
“It doesn’t matter. I have a job. And I’m too old to get another one now.”
I laugh directly in his face at that. “You’re in your late twenties, at most? I think there’s still time. And it’s not like being a professor is a young person’s game. Although you may need to publish some stuff. I don’t know how that works, to be honest. But they’d be lucky to have you.”
“And you’d be lucky to lose me.” He quirks an eyebrow at me and I’m about to protest when he starts talking again. “It’s a very competitive field.”
“I…the company would not be lucky.” My wishes are immaterial. And confusing.
But I’ve had professors in my groups before. Some keep in touch—the ones who don’t hate my tour style, at least. Maybe I can talk to them about jobs, and how Callum could go about applying to them.
We’ve been absentmindedly walking around the site while a light drizzle slowly and persistently drenches us.
It’s a good thing we’re heading to Italy soon; it’ll help me dry out before I return and start the process all over again.
“How do the people on these islands not have moss growing on them with all this moisture in the air all the time?”
Callum grunts at me, and I think I may have exhausted him, talking-wise. Or exhausted him by making him talk about something other than history, because that is the one subject he can go on for hours about.
No worries. I’ll pick up the slack, conversation-wise.
“I’m from a desert in Southern California, and that was probably the biggest adjustment when I moved to Scotland for this job, but I learned quick to carry a rain jacket around.
That and not having a car, even though the public transportation is amazing in Europe.
Oooh, and the accents, although my dad’s actually from London, from Southall, so in between visits to our family here and watching old TV shows from the UK, that part wasn’t too hard to get used to. ”
I launch into some more stories from my first few months in Edinburgh, checking in with Callum between stories to see if he’s irritated with me and I should stop.
If I’m irritating him, I could always wander off and let him brood in silence.
Especially since we’re close to the North Yorkshire Moors, the best environment (as shown in Wuthering Heights) for that activity.
But he doesn’t tell me to shove it. He doesn’t contribute much to the conversation, but at no point does he make any of his displeasure known. And he’s pretty famous among the tour leaders for making his displeasure known.
Nor does he just leave my side.
Even when I almost walk into that giant muddy puddle when I get wrapped up in the story I’m telling about how I almost got a group of thirty lost on my first tour. He gently grabs my elbow and nudges me a foot to the side, and then lets go when I’m clear. He grunts when I thank him.
But I can’t move on from how nice his hand feels on me, sliding against my skin with all the drizzle forming another layer on us that makes his hands slide and touch even more surface area than it would otherwise.
He even unbends enough to take a photo of me with the ruins without complaint when I shove my phone at him.
Then I snap a selfie when he hands my phone back, because no one will believe I’m having an okay trip with Callum.
Well, an okay trip once I ignore all his growls and glares.
Having fun with him is not something I expected.
We buy some sandwiches from the café to go, getting back to the bus to greet the group as they straggle back. They’re on time, and I think I can thank the weather, which progressed to a steady downpour, more than the innate conscientiousness and time management of the tourists.
At least they’re all safely on the bus, happily munching on sandwiches and salads.
And somehow people got beers, or brought them from Edinburgh and only now busted them out, which means I’m going to keep an eye on how often we need to take pee breaks.
At least the bus has a bathroom now that people can use in a pinch.
Best. Upgrade. Ever. For everyone involved.
Thanks to said beer, an hour after we leave, the back of the bus sounds like a party. Callum glares at it and then at me, like this is my fault. Don’t look at me, I can’t afford to buy these tourists beer. Despite how happy it would make them.
With one half entertained, and the other taking a nap, I get out my notes for the London walking tour to review. Since I’m a professional at blocking out tour noise.
Until I get interrupted by an unexpected source.