by Jo Lloyd, winner of the 2009 Asham Award.

This is Edie, Wil, said his mother. She’s going to be helping me out.
He frowned at the girl, with her pale skin and hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she looked right back at him, cool as you like.
When was this decided? he said.
I told you I was going to get some help.
Didn’t think we’d settled on it, he said.

He remembered that there had been a conversation. We can’t afford it, he had said. The b&b’s the only thing making money, his mother had said. We just need the weather, he had said, the veg’ll pick up. I’m tired of it, she had said, morning noon and night, never a moment to call my own.
He had seen his mother stopping at her work, closing her eyes, seen her falling asleep in front of the telly in the evenings. He didn’t know what she would do different if she had more time.
It’s just for the summer, said his mother. While we’re busy.

Edie’s job was to do the cleaning, make up the rooms, help with the breakfasts, let his mother talk.
The guests had breakfast in the room that used to be the family sitting room. There were still relics of its former purpose in there, the dresser his mother thought was too good to bring into the kitchen, some old china she was proud of, a set of encyclopaedias his father had spent a lot of money on, thinking Wil might find some clues about the world in there. These things had been pushed to the corners to make way for the breakfast tables. On each table was a vase of plastic flowers, next to what Wil’s mother now called the condiments.

Wil had hardly been in that room since the b&b started. They lived in the kitchen now. He ate his breakfast there, sitting at the old table, eating the eggs and toast his mother gave him, watching Edie come in and out, fetching and carrying, telling his mother what people wanted, conveying comments and complaints in a matter-of-fact voice, as if she didn’t know what the words meant. His mother stood over the cooker, red from the heat, wiping her face with a tea towel, taking orders, while Edie floated about in her wispy top.

Give me some of that bacon will you, he said to Edie one morning.
She looked at him. Have you lost the use of your legs?
His mother brought him the bacon. You watch yourself, she said.

Edie was staying in the old caravan. When he was little they used to go on holiday in it, dragging it around with them like a piece of home they couldn’t leave behind. They went to grey beaches where a bitter wind blew off the sea and the pebbles bruised his cold feet. In the evenings they sat outside the caravan in their jumpers, watching insects hit the lamp and die. The caravan had flowery thin curtains, he remembered, that didn’t quite cover the windows. It trembled with the dreams of the people in it.
Edie was the first person to use it for years. When he was coming back from town at night, warm and hazy with beer, he looked across to where it stood, saw the light on, wondered what she did there every evening.
*
Edie liked the work. It required no thought and was hard enough to leave her tired. She did it a little better than it needed to be done. She cleaned behind things and under things. She polished the taps and mirrors until they shone. She smoothed the sheets down, tucked the corners, folded the blankets back gently.

Her work was over by the afternoon and then she was free. Sometimes, on her way out, she’d see Wil working in the field, planting, digging, stacking boxes of veg into the back of the old van. The summer was dry. The soil was starting to crack. Sometimes he’d be standing there, one foot on the fork, looking away into the distance, for minutes at a time.

She would take a book and go walking, along the river, up the hill, nearly as far as the sea sometimes. She would find herself a quiet place in the bracken, and lie there, the book unopened, breathing green bracken, gorse flowers, worm-turned earth, things pushing into life, things dying, things rotting down into the darkness. Insects busied themselves around her. Further away she could hear the sudden panic of lost lambs, the despondent bleat of those that had been lost a while. Further away still, the hum of cars heading for the coast.

In the evenings she kept to herself, refusing Mrs Parry’s invitations to join them in the house. She would slice some bread and cut some cheese and wash some lettuce in the tiny kitchen that was next to the couch that was also the bed that was next to the shower. She liked the smallness of the caravan, the few steps it took to go from beginning to end, the little space there was to accumulate things. Just what you needed and no more. Every morning she turned the bed into a couch, made it ready for the day, and every evening she turned it back into a bed. In the night she could hear creatures moving around outside, as if she wasn’t there.
*
The river path passed in front of the caravan. One day Wil, coming back that way at sunset, saw Edie sitting on the steps looking out over the river and the setting sun. The light caught her face, lit it up, as if a candle was burning beneath her skin. She said nothing as he approached, watching him, smoking a rollup.

Mind if I sit? he said.
It’s your caravan, she said. The corners of her mouth curled very slightly. He had never seen her smile properly, he thought.
Not mine, he said, sitting.
She passed him the tobacco. Your family’s, she said.
Yeah, he said. The family fortune. A caravan and a couple of muddy fields.
She watched him roll the cigarette. He was very careful and neat about it. His fingers were blunt. His nails were short and there was dirt under them. She looked away.
So you’re from London, he said.
Yes.
I been there a few times, he said. With the school. And once with the boys. He didn’t mention the once he’d taken Heulwen, thinking it would be romantic, and all she’d wanted to do was shop. It’s bloody expensive isn’t it?
I suppose it is.
Never thought it was worth it. What’s it got that you can’t get somewhere else?
The sun had gone. The light softened, the slightest breeze rolling up off the river.
Mam says you dropped out of college, he said.
Sort of.
How come?
Oh, this and that, she said.

He waited. Right, he said. He looked at the river. You must’ve got good A levels then?
Yes.
What you get?
Good ones.
The cigarette had gone out. He relit it.
I could’ve done my A levels, he said. Could’ve gone to college.
Aha.
Left when I was 16. When my dad died.
She looked at him. How did he die?
Throat cancer. He held up the cigarette. Too many of these.
She nodded.
Least it stopped him talking. Nothing else would. He talked a lot of shit my dad.
Yeah?
I always thought cancer would be slow, he said. A slow way to die. But it was really quick. We hardly had time to get his suit cleaned for the funeral.
Down on the river, birds were flying home, low over the water, with small fluting calls.
You got any beer?
She shook her head. Sorry.
He nodded, shrugged.
I was going to do business studies, he went on. Thought it’d help with this.
She looked where he gestured, at the fields behind.
Dunno if it would of though. Only so much you can do with a spreadsheet, isn’t there?
I suppose.
Anyway, I can pay people to do all that. Once things pick up.
Aha.
Makes more sense. I’ll be too busy with the veg. Probably have to take on someone to help with that and all.
He frowned, looking out across the darkening river valley, then looked at her. So, you going to tell me how come you ended up here?
She smiled. Nope, she said.
He looked at her smile. You on the run from the FBI or something?
If I was, I probably wouldn’t want to tell you about it.
You should smile more, he said.
*
Wil came to find Edie the next day while his mother was at the Cash and Carry. Edie was cleaning toilets, wearing a nylon overall, a scarf tied around her hair, kneeling.
That’s a good look, he said, smirking.
She looked at him. Is that what you came to say?
No, he said, looking at the floor.
She kept looking at him.
Anyway, he said, some mates of mine are playing a gig in town. Want to come? As if it didn’t matter what she said.
Sure, she said. As if it didn’t matter.
*
What do you want? said Wil. He put his wallet out on the bar firmly, held it there, in front of her.
I’ll have a pernod, she said.
What?
Pernod. Her lips twitched.
Wil, said the barmaid. Hello. Nice to see you.
Bron, he said, looking over her head. Hello.
She glanced at Edie then back at him. Usual is it?
And a pernod for the lady, he said, still looking over her head.
Got that have we? said the barmaid, turning. I don’t remember it.

A space had been cleared for the band opposite the bar. There were four of them, and a double bass, there was hardly room for the customers. When they played, people sang along, clapped, cheered, laughed. Wil joined in. That’s a good one! he called. Nice one boys! He drank beer after beer.
After the first set he turned to Edie. Bloody good aren’t they.

Do you always drink like this? she said.
Like what? he said. Nothing wrong with having a few pints.
Do the girls like it?
What girls? He glanced over at the bar where Bron was pulling a pint, her cheeks pink with the rush. They don’t mind. He looked at Edie. Don’t you like beer then?
One of the band came past. Wil reached out. Hey Geth, come here. This is Edie.
Geth looked down at her. Lo.
Hello, she said.
She’s here with me, said Wil.
What did you think? said Geth looking at her.
I liked it, she said. It’s fun.
Yeah, it’s a laugh isn’t it. He looked at Wil. Alright Wil?
Great, said Wil. Fucking excellent.
Alright mate. See you later. Geth clapped him on the back and moved on.
Must be nice to have somewhere like this, said Edie.
Like what?
Where people know you.
Yeah. Don’t get this in London I bet.
The second set was quieter, lilting sad songs, the ukulele underneath like water running by on pebbles. She heard Wil start to hum along. He stopped when she looked at him.
*
In the narrow space between the band and the tables the usual people were dancing, old Dick Powell and his wife, in their Sunday clothes, waltzing carefully, a few underage kids, stupid on alcopops, holding each other up.
Do you want to dance? he said. He had been trying to say this for some time.
She shrugged. OK.
He got up. Then he hesitated. I’m not much of a dancer, he said.
She was already on her feet. It’s just standing with your eyes closed, she said, looking amused.
With his hands on her waist, he could feel her skin through the thin shirt. For all her paleness she was warm, like the stored heat of the sun.
When he opened his eyes she was looking right at him.
*
They got a lift back from a friend of Wil’s. This is Edie, said Wil, dragging a tall loose man toward her. She’s with me.
The man nodded, looking at the ground. He didn’t say a word all the way. Wil insisted Edie sat in the front. He sat in the back, leaning forward between the seats, talking for all of them.
*
They walked down the lane in the dark.
Night then, she said, when they reached the turnoff for the caravan.
Wil looked at her. How about a coffee? Or a fag? Or something.
I’ve got to get up to do the breakfasts, she said. And I think you’ll need your sleep.
Me? he said. I’m great. Never been better.
Good, she said.
I can hold my drink, he said.
Fine. Good. See you tomorrow then.
He watched her walk away into the darkness.
*
He started to come over to the caravan in the evenings. I got no money to go out, he would say.
OK, she would say. She thought it was probably true.
They would sit together, sharing her tobacco, watching the darkness fall.
Wish it would rain, he would say.
She had noticed that everything about the place was improvised, temporary. Patches of old carpet laid on the field, plastic sheeting propped up with coat hangers, gates tied with string. There was a broken window at the back of the kitchen with polythene taped over it.
We used to have all that, he told her, gesturing up toward the road. That field there, see, with the cows in it, my dad sold that to the estate. And those houses up there, across the road, that used to be our land once. My granddad’s land.
She looked at where he was pointing.
Nothing left to sell now. He frowned. Or it’ll be all gone.
What then?
He looked at her.

His kisses were soft at the start, careful, and then less so.
Under his clothes, sharp lines divided the rough brown skin that had been out in all weathers from the white skin that had been kept covered.
Don’t say anything to Mam will you, he said.
Every evening he came round. He took his clothes off easily as a child. She saw, as if from a great distance away, how naked he was. As if he had no idea how to protect himself.
*
He was watching telly with his mother in the kitchen after tea. They were sharing her Benson & Hedges, the ashtray balanced between them where the arms of the chairs were squeezed together.
Bloody comedians, she said. Making fun of people.
It’s just a laugh, Mam.
Like it’s our fault. Like we said Oh yes, I’ll get old and sore thanks very much. Now make fun of me.
He looked at her. She’d aged ten years when his father had died. Don’t take it so serious, he said.
Wait till you get to my age, she said. You’ll see what’s serious.
All the more reason to have a bit of fun, he said.
She looked at him. You’ve changed your tune.
He ground his cigarette out. Dunno why you say that.
She looked back at the television, the credits rolling too fast to read. You know Edie’ll be leaving next week, she said.
What?
Schools go back soon. Only a few bookings after this.
You can’t chuck her out.
Don’t start with me. You knew it was just for the summer.
It still is summer.
It’s not like she wants to stay. She’s got it all planned.
Where’s she going then?
You’ll have to ask her.
She lit another cigarette, eyes on the screen. Not the bloody news. Turn it over Wil. There must be something more cheerful on.
He didn’t go over to the caravan that evening, or the next.
*
Edie came to him where he was in the field, leaning on the van. Come for a walk, she said.
He looked at the rows of beans going past picking, the seedlings waiting to be planted out. He looked at her. Alright, he said.
They took the river path. The sun was fiercer than ever, as if it had to spend all its heat before winter came. In the middle of the river, where logs and shopping trolleys had lodged into temporary islands, cormorants held their wings wide, their throats to the sun.
You knew I’d be leaving, she said.
Course, he said, shrugging.
They climbed the hill over the river and sat, looking down over the valley, the bracken tall around them.
Where you going then? he said.
I’m thinking about Marrakech, she said.
Marrakech!
Yes. Morocco.
I know where bloody Marrakech is, he said.
Have you been there?
You’re joking aren’t you. I never been abroad.
Really? Not once?
Never been abroad. Never been on an aeroplane. I’m just a fucking peasant.
Don’t do that, she said.
I seen you thinking it, he said. With your pernod and your fancy accent.
That’s not what I think.
What, then?
She sighed, lay on her back, looking up at the sky. I think you are where you are.
What does that mean?
I don’t know. It’s a good thing.

They were silent for a minute. Wil pulled the curled end of a bracken frond through his fingers.
So you reckon you’ll be safe from the FBI in Morocco?
Turns out they’re everywhere, she said.
He looked at her. Her pale skin and the curve of her mouth. He thought of Heulwen on the train back from London, the warm weight of her sleeping against his shoulder, of kissing her in bus shelters and phone boxes and the back seats of buses, of Lisa in the pub, laughing at everything he said, her hand climbing his leg, of Jackie, of Bron, of girls whose names he couldn’t even remember, all their cheerful open faces, all of them the same, he saw now, just the same, too cheerful, too open.
He looked at the river, running by down below. I had this mate Rob, he said. In school. Used to get this dope that was supposed to be from Morocco. Good stuff it was. Moroccan black.
She smiled.
But I don’t think he’s ever been further than Cardiff.

It was the time in the afternoon when everything stopped moving. The gulls went down onto the river. Buzzards drifted away into the distance like shreds of cloud.
He got married, Wil said. Had a kid. Then he turned his car over. He was in a coma for three months. I don’t know. He’s not the same. Everything’s like a surprise to him now.
She looked up at him.

He’s there with his family, just like always, kid on his knee. Loves that kid. And he’s always smiling. Happiest person I know. But nothing’s joined up. Just bits floating about.
She kept looking at him, shading her eyes with her hand.
I could go to Morocco, he said. There’s no bloody law says I got to stay here.
He thought of the lettuces that he’d cut that morning, the cleanness of them, the cool outer leaves and the heart folded tight in on itself, of the way the land sloped down toward the river, the herons flying over, slow and wounded, to drop into the water, his father crumbling the soil between his fingers, the dark hollows where the sun never reached.
He lay down beside her and buried his face in her neck.
She smelled of soap and gorse flowers, of sunlight and bracken and earth, things living, things dying, things continuing in the same way.