Prologue. The Morning After.

'Why are you smiling?'

I didn't know. The question widened my stupid, idiot smirk as my mind raced to come up with a rational explanation. Without one, the snigger that I had been repressing burst forth. Was it relief? I liked the job, and I paid a lot to train to do it. I would not be relieved for this to be over. The laugh that was taking me over was too wild, too free, and too maddening for that.

Maddening because I am skirting far too close to offending the almost sincere goodbyes playing out before between young people loitering with intent around their fully packed bags. I turn, in case they see me, and meet the eyes of my accuser.

Bright piercing eyes and a sly smile. Right now she is wearing a multicoloured sweater over a white t shirt, and a skirt. The latter is a new development, a celebration of the end of camping. Normally she would not approve of my attitude wearing a faded pair of loose jeans, sharp mud stains across them – as she would drag her trowel blade to clean it off – giving her an alarming camouflaged experience.

We had met aeons ago. She used to respect me, but time had cured her of that, and now she liked me, and did not approve of my unprofessional mirth.

'Stop it.' She commanded, and I fell victim to the giggles, folding in half with a blast of laughter. The people desperately trying to load their stuff faster and get out of their awkward extended farewells, looked over to me quizzically. What little there was left of the magic of the moment was shattered.

The dig was over, and as normal there was a voice swearing at me in Irish. She swept away to talk to the departing students, the last few stragglers of the last few weeks. I was left to laugh, and wonder why I was laughing.

There are a few patches of dull yellow grass, and the odd scattered tent bag, the only apparent remains of the little community we had inhabited. We had cleaned up well after ourselves, in deference to the desires of the usual owners of the ground. We did not want to offend them by leaving the ground in a terrible state, littered with the detritus of the party the night before.

Again.

But at least this time, nobody would be naked. But that was another story. One that involved Steve, a man who had already left the site. That I thought of him then, instead of any of the cohort that I had formed an attachment to, would have puzzled me if this had been my first dig.

The group was falling apart, and in the fullness of time, no matter what I came to experience later, the individuals would not stand out in my mind as much as the whole of them. The naked man, and the trouble he caused stays with me.

But that is for later.

Two months is a long time to spend in a field. The broken camp has seen its fair share of history. It's place in the shadow of the looming dark hill has been well documented by eager students, snapping themselves, their tents, the dog that occasionally sniffed around the bin bags that were stacked at the gate, and the view. There is mist in the air now, but I am so used to the setting that my mind puts each feature in its proper place.

Right then, at the end, I had a better feel for the place than I would ever have again. I am not laughing any more. Even though I cannot see it, I can still feel the tents around me, the empty spaces housing healing grass appears wrong.

There should be bright red and bright blue tents. Tight guy ropes securing them into place, the constant sound of the flapping wind should be the soundtrack to young people sliding between the tents, reading or running or doing whatever the hell they wanted in the free time between being on the site and sleeping.

I want to feel the rumble of activity in the tent. Listen to voices, occasionally broken by rude laughter, the unmistakeable sounds of life. I should be steeling myself for the call, the one that summoned all to the pub, lest they be labelled sober for the evening and left behind.

Maybe I had spent too much time outside of the group, not attending and being labelled sober. Perhaps that is for the best. When there are so many students to organise, and an excavation to manage every day the nights cannot always be filled by drinking, and socialising and experiencing the people around you. That is something for them to do, and part of the trip that we, the supervisors were simply there to facilitate. It was a lesson that I never really seemed to take to heart. And this year...

You can never quite separate yourself from a group of people. Distance is a thing spoken of by wise ones, who either have not experienced or have forgotten the benefits that preceded the pain of whatever mistakes were made. In my head I was unwinding the last eight weeks, recreating the village of tents surrounding the large white marquee that was our hearth and home. The damage that gradually came to them healed themselves, empty tents left to fall were occupied again, and her tent reappeared.

It was the early evening, and for the moment summer had decided to give a gorgeous haze to the evening. I am outside the galley tent, a dull yellow light coming from, along with the hum that carried the power to them. Voices rumbled quietly, academic ones, and the occasional dry laugh. Lifting the flap of the tent and moving in I was faced with a little over twenty faces staring at me, not recognising me, but surveying me with polite attention.

I take my place at the end of the line. At the centre was the professor, mid spiel about the ways and means of the archaeologist. Around him, the supervisors, the girl with blinding red hair, the wistful poet, the Welshman, his lady and Hope the Irish battleaxe. I am at the end, next to hope, who regards me with icy disapproval. I am late, and I would hear about this later.

As it happens I am just in time. He gestured to me a few moments later and has me tell the assembled students about myself, to justify the authority that I have been given over them, and to explain where I am in my life.

The eyes on me then show more respect than they ever will again.

If you have ever been in that position, you will know the hesitation that first grips you as you realise that you have not really prepared anything to say. In my case, it was that the thing I had planned was woefully inappropriate to the situation, and would completely undermine my authority with these people.

In that wild hesitation, a tiny part of my brain, the part of my brain that both saves and damns me in these situations decided to chime in.

'Fuck it', it said.

'Pleased to meet you,' I grinned, ' I am the bastard tasked with getting you out of bed in the morning.'

I think they thought I was joking, they laughed. They would learn.