James
Michael stamps into the room, shaking sleet off himself like a dog.
He makes for the larder, rummaging around before he fishes out a can, waving it at me, brows raised.
“Mmm… yes. Thanks."
He reaches for another, plonks it on the table beside me then flops down onto the chair at the other side. Flipping open the ring-pull, he sucks out half the can in one go, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. “Ah, that's good. One thing about living in primitive conditions. Old stone larders are a good way to keep beer."
I open my own can and take a gulp. “Hard day?"
He swipes a hand back through sweaty, grit-filled hair. “Mmm, yes. Long day too. And the short winter daylight isn't helping either. We're having to do a lot of the work on lights and cables." He nods down at the stack of files
