'Aye.'

'And-' began Israel.

'Anything strange or startlin', Jimmy?' said Ted.

Jimmy shook his head.

'Rosie?'

'Aye,' said Jimmy, nodding, not breaking stride with his reading of the paper or his smoking, and Ted walked off, through a door at the back of the reception, outside and along a paved path and through a picket gate in the direction of the rows of caravans.

'Hold on, Ted,' said Israel, catching him up.

'He'd talk a dog to death, Jimmy.'

'Yes,' agreed Israel. 'Where are we going?'

'We're going to see Rosie. Collect some books off her. She looks after the library books on site for everyone. Unofficial librarian, like.'

'Right.'

'You know Rosie.'

'Do I?'

'You do.'

'I don't think so.'

'Aye, you do,' said Ted knowingly. 'She runs a little childminding business.'

'What? Here? In a caravan?'

'They're not caravans, they're mobile homes,' said Ted.

'Right,' laughed Israel, mistaking Ted's statement for a joke. 'And so what's the difference exactly between a caravan and a mobile home? Is there a difference?'

'People live in mobile homes, Israel,' said Ted. 'This isn't a holiday for them. This is their life.'

Israel looked shamefaced, as they tramped over scrubland and grey gravel paths, towards sand-dunes in the distance: it was like approaching the edge of the world.

Rosie's home was one of the last on the site, at the very edge of the dunes-a long, creamy-brown, flat-roofed mobile home which had not been maintained to the highest of standards. There was a rusted barbecue outside, and rusted children's bicycles, rusted chairs, a washing-line and a rusted bin: the sand and wind and the sea air seemed to be gnawing everything down to stumps and bare bones. Ted knocked on the twisted aluminium door. A woman opened, with a beaming smile.

'Ach, Ted!' she said. 'There you are now! Come on in! Isn't that desperate weather altogether?'

Rosie Hart, it turned out, was the barmaid at the First and Last, the woman who had served Israel enough drink the night before to knock him down and lay him out flat. Today her dark black hair was tied back, and she was barefoot and she was wearing the kind of happy, slightly Scandinavian-looking clothes that one might at one time have associated with hippies, before hippy clothes became sanitised boho chic, and which Rosie seemed now to be successfully reclaiming for genuine dirty hippiness, and she ushered them into her caravan-her mobile home, rather-where four fat babies were rolling around on a play mat. In the background there was the unmistakable sound of Enya.

'This is Israel, Rosie,' said Ted. 'He's the new mobile librarian.'

'We've met,' she said teasingly. 'Last night.'

'Yes,' said Israel, ashamed.

'Of course,' said Ted, gloating. 'I almost forgot.'

'How are you feeling then?'

'OK,' said Israel, not feeling well at all.

'Good,' said Rosie. 'Now, you must have known I'd had the kettle on, Ted-it's only just boiled. What'll you have, fellas, tea or coffee?'

Israel looked at Ted, looking for a cue.

'Tea, please,' said Ted, who then got down on his stomach on the floor and started playing with the babies. 'OK, you wee rascals, who's for sparring?'

'Israel?' asked Rosie.

'Erm. I'll have a cup of coffee, thanks, if that's OK.'

'Who have we got here?' asked Ted.

'That's Liam with the hair. And Joel there with the cheeky grin. Charlotte in pink there. And Charlie with the bogeys-he's a wee dote, isn't he?'

'Aye,' said Ted.

'Sorry, Israel, what was it you wanted?'

'Coffee?'

'Now it's only instant, I'm afraid,' said Rosie, going down towards the kitchen area, Israel following.

'That's fine.'

'And it's mugs.'

'Fine.'

'Probably not what you're used to, though, eh?'

'Well…'

'Roasted coffee beans where you're from, I'll bet.' She took a few mugs from a mug-stand. 'And nice white china?'

'Well, I don't know about that exactly…'

'So?' she said, turning to Israel, hands on hips, having set out the mugs and put the kettle on to reboil, and fixing him with a quizzical gaze. 'How have you found it here so far?'

'It's been…'

Rosie crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

'It's been…' continued Israel, embarrassed.

'Och, I know, pet, don't worry. It's a dump, isn't it?' said Rosie, waving a hand in dismissal. 'It's all right. You can be honest.'

'Well…I don't know if I'd…'

'Not like what you're used to, I bet.'

'No, not exactly.'

'London, isn't it, you're from?'

'Yes.'

'You know, I'd love to live in London. Or New York. I've got a cousin in Hackensack.'

Israel had never heard of it.

'He went to Fairleigh Dickinson University?'

'Right. I'm afraid I'm not…'

'And one of my aunts lives in Greenford.'

'Really? In America?'

'Och, no. Greenford, in London. D'you not know it?'

'No. I'm afraid not.'

'Well. I've never been to visit her even.'

'That's a shame.'

'I'd love to live over there,' said Rosie, quietly and thoughtfully, pausing as she poured boiling water into the mugs.

'Well, why don't you?' asked Israel.

Rosie laughed, stirring tea bag and granules.

'This is where I live,' she said, gesturing at the four walls of the mobile home.

It was one room, with a stained and sagging red sofa dividing the living area from the kitchen, and the kitchen units were chipped and scratched and the brown carpet was worn and there were damp patches on the walls, but you didn't really notice any of that, or only for a moment, you didn't notice what was inside, because on three sides of the room were these huge windows, looking directly out to sea, which was all breaking waves under a slate-grey sky, headlands either side.

'That's quite a view you've got.'

'Aye,' said Rosie. 'The strand. Three miles, isn't it, Ted? Joel, don't do that.' Joel was punching Ted on the nose.

'He's all right,' said Ted.

'You sit here and it feels like being on a ship,' said Rosie. 'I could sit here all day, you know, just looking out, dreaming and that.'

In one corner of the room, under a window, by the television, was a table with a Star Wars chess set. 'Do you play chess?' asked Israel.

'No. That's my son. Conor!' she shouted. 'He loves chess.'

'Great game.'

'Is it?' said Rosie. 'God. I can't stand it myself. Conor!'

Ted was still wrestling with children on the floor. Rosie brought him his mug of tea.

'Thanks, Rosie,' said Ted. 'We've come about the books actually,' he continued, holding a baby up in the air. 'Lagalagalagalaa! Snaggleaggleuppaluss!'

'Oh, I'm sorry, Ted. I haven't collected them all in yet. I've only got ours.'

'It's all right,' said Ted. 'Weeee!' he called.

'We'll take whatever you've got,' said Israel.

'OK,' said Rosie. 'Conor!' she said. 'Conor! I'll go and get him. Are you all right with the wee ones there, Ted?'

'Aye. We'll manage. Here's one for you, Armstrong,' said Ted, trying to hand Israel a child.

'Erm. No, I'm all right thanks, Ted,' said Israel, clutching his mug of coffee tighter and backing away: he wasn't what you'd call a natural with children.

The baby started crying.

Rosie returned. 'Conor's there in his room-he's a wee bit shy of strangers, you know. I'd better deal with this one.' She picked up the crying baby and smelt its bottom. 'No, all right down that end. Let's get you something then, little man. Just pop your head round the door there, Israel, he'll let you in. Tell him I sent you. All the books are in there with him.'

Israel went to knock on the plyboard door at the end of the room. There was no answer.

'Hello?' said Israel, and he pushed open the door.

There was a boy sitting upright on his bed. He was about eight years old-but he had the face of an old man. The room was in most respects a typical boy's room-posters Blu-Tacked to the walls, clothes and toys everywhere. But it was also full, from floor to ceiling, with books. Towers and towers of books. A miniature New York skyline of books.