When?
Maybe later tonight.
Are you sure?
Maybe tomorrow.
So what are we going to do tonight?
He’s getting cold already, out here in the dark, what with it not even being spring yet, not for a few weeks anyway.
Tonight we’re going to watch it move, Róisín says, as she pulls her sleeping bag from inside the tent. If we lie here, we’ll be able to see the sky all night long.
Liam crawls inside the tent. He’s cold. He thinks that Róisín will follow him in, but he knows that’s a stupid thing to think – she’s never followed him anywhere. It’s always the other way round.
He takes Bobby out of the sleeping bag, brushes away at the bits of grass on the floor of the tent and sits him up in the corner instead.
But it’s not fun being in the tent on his own, even with Bobby, so he forces himself to count to one hundred and then he unzips the door again and looks out. Róisín is lying on her back in the sleeping bag.
He drags his sleeping bag out of the tent, lays it along the grass next to Róisín and wriggles inside.
I’m back, he says, although she doesn’t reply and even if she did all she’d say is that he is stating the obvious. He always seems to be doing that.
Hold your breath and count, she says. If you count long enough, and hold your breath long enough, you’ll be able to see it move. Because it’s flying.
No it’s not.
Yes it is. It’s flying so fast and so far away it can change the whole sky in the time you can hold your breath for. It’s the fastest thing in the solar system. You just have to hold on, and then you’ll see.
Liam lies as still as he’s ever been and watches, and waits, and holds on. The grass bristles against his skin, the night breeze blows his hair into his eyes but he doesn’t move to brush it away. His face gets hotter the longer he goes without breathing; his lips purse into a tight wiggly line, eyes wide and gleaming, his hand grasping onto his cousin’s.
Can you see it? she asks.
You breathed!
Liam lets out his breath, gasps in more night-time air – it’s the kind of air that smells of ice and fresh grass and pyjamas.
Róisín’s hand is clutching his, and they look at each other and breathe in unison, a big open-mouthed breath to sustain them for another thirty seconds, or sixty, as they turn their eyes back to the sky.
Nothing moves.
They both know what they want to be when they grow up. Liam is going to be a farmer like his dad and Róisín is going to move far away and become an astrophysicist. She knows the names of all the constellations, and the different shapes of the moon, and the order of the planets, and she knows when the comets are going to be in the sky. That’s why she persuaded Liam to camp out in the field with her tonight, the night when it will be at its brightest. She stares up at the sky and then, still lying on the grass, holds the notebook high over her face and starts drawing.
What are you doing? He wants to understand.
Astronomy, she says. I’m mapping the sky. I have to mark where the comet is now in relation to the stars. So that we can see how far it moves. Otherwise we might forget.
It’s not moving.
But it will. Have patience.
Liam rolls his eyes. This astronomy takes too long.
Look. She shows him her map. See those stars? I’ve marked them here. And the comet is in between those two right now. See?
He nods, reluctantly.
You can go inside if you really want.
I don’t want.
She tears off a blank sheet of paper and gives it to him, along with one of the spare pencils from her pencil case. She takes it with her everywhere, so she can always map the sky.
What should I draw?
Whatever you want to draw.
She always talks to him like this, as if she’s the grown-up, even though she’s only two years older than he is.
He frowns in concentration; he’s not going to ask her any more questions tonight. His pencil hovers over the page.
Liam falls asleep while the comet is still between the two stars overhead, buried deep into his sleeping bag with the zip done up to way over his head.
On the dew-damp grass in the early hours of the morning his drawing blends into indecipherable marks. The farm, the field, his house, the cows and sheep, his dad, the lack of his mum, and Róisín staring up at the sky: dots and lines that have been smudged out of context by a careless thumb until their meaning is lost.
YES, OF COURSE I WENT to the priest. You’re a nosy old man, you know that? I went on account of the dirty books I’ve been reading.
Severine’s granny has walked into the room, mid-sentence, uninvited; she has started talking to her ghosts again.
I said to him, in the confession, now, Father, there’s no point in you telling me to stop reading them because I’m not going to stop reading them and that’s that.
People say that Severine’s granny is mad in the head. Severine can see they’re thinking it now, in the way they look at her mother as if she should do something about it this time.
They’re my books now, I told him, they were given to me by my dead husband – God rest his soul – and I like reading them.
The ladies from the village sip silently at their tea and let their china cups rattle in their saucers.
Severine’s granny has finished saying what she wanted to say and is now turning her back, but before she leaves the room she looks at Severine with a wink and a nod of her head.
Severine understands. She waits five minutes then follows her granny upstairs, so she can talk to the ghosts as well, and maybe get a read of her granny’s books. She’s not sure why her mother seemed so embarrassed but she’s fairly sure that means the books would be worth a look.
Who’s here today, Granny?
Announce yourselves.
Her granny is not theatrical; her delivery is dry. A quick swipe of her hand in the air shows her impatience with the ghosts. Come on then, who’s here?
She stops still for a moment, listening, then begins the register in a voice not entirely unlike Severine’s schoolteacher. Severine is in quatrième but already the middle school feels too small, she can’t wait to start at the lycée.
We’ve got your uncle Antoine – hello, pet – Henri from the 1750s and the sisters in lace dresses, then there’s Ælfgifu, her soldier boy, and your great-grandpa Paul-François of course. And Brigitte. Over in the corner.
Hello ghosts, Severine says and curtsies to the room. She’s fourteen now and wants to make a good impression, behave like a grown-up; not like the last time they were here, when she was a child and ran around the room trying to catch them like moths in her palm.
Tell me about Mama, from before I was born.
Severine talks to Antoine, and her granny tells her his reply:
Your mother used to lead him into trouble, so he says, she says.
Severine can’t imagine her mother leading anyone into trouble, not ever. Her mama’s not fun like that.
Was Mama clever?
She was the cleverest, he says. But he thinks you knew that already— Oh! Do be quiet, you daft old man.
What? Granny! Tell me what he said!
He says they were best friends. That they used to camp out in the field past the stream, stay awake all night and watch the stars.
But what did Great-Grandpa Paul-François say? When you told him to be quiet?
He’ll tell you himself when he’s good and ready.
It’s not fair; her granny knows that Severine can’t hear the ghosts, and Severine doesn’t really believe she’ll ever be able to.
Maybe in their next visit, her granny softens, speaks kindly.
But that could be years from now.
Severine purses her lips, listens as hard as she can. Tries to believe.
What Antoine can’t believe is how old she’s got; the last time he saw her she was skipping between the grown-ups
’ outstretched arms. But now: almost a woman. And so like her mother, who still refuses to see him.
What would he say to her, if she could hear?
He doesn’t know the answer but he wishes this comet would stay for longer. He can feel himself being pulled away already, feel the earth slipping beneath his feet.
Severine!
Her mother is calling her from downstairs. Maybe she wants her to go and play the piano for the ladies.
Severine!
I’d better go, Severine says to the room. Please excuse me for a moment.
She quietly shuts the door behind her and heads back down the stairs.
Her mama wants to know if she’s done her piano practice yet, tells her she should be doing that instead of encouraging her granny’s nonsense.
Ten minutes later, Mozart morphs into ‘Mr Moonlight’ and her mother doesn’t even notice. She finishes with a flourish and leaves the piano. There are more important things to do today.
Severine passes the bookcases and looks out of the window, steps closer to peer up at the sky and measures the length of the comet’s tail between a thumb and forefinger held up close to her eyes.
Her granny says the ghosts will only stay for as long as she can see it in the sky. The brighter it is, the more they have to say. It’s already bright this evening, and it’s not even completely dark yet, so she still has time. She has to learn to hear them, if they do exist – she wants to know the truth, and her granny says they don’t come often, the ghosts and their comets. What would ghosts really talk about? she wonders.
But when Severine gets back upstairs, her granny is having her afternoon nap and the ghosts, so far as she can tell, are resting in the corners of the upstairs study; Great-Grandpa Paul-François’s ghost is probably curled up under the desk like a tabby cat.
Severine thinks about waking them, but her granny is always talking about her aching bones and she thinks maybe she should let her sleep, for a little while at least.
At school in needlework they are making a tapestry; well, really it’s more of a quilt. Everyone in her year has to embroider a square, stitching in colours and people, sewing on sequins and beads and small patches of fabric. The theme is Bayeux. It is their home.
Some of her classmates have stitched outlines of their houses, family members looking out from windows or standing in front gardens, wool and thread dyed especially for their hair. Others are making the countryside, with blue chiffon for a river, red beads hanging from cherry trees. Severine’s is full of faces – her granny in the middle, sitting on a chair that looks more like a throne, the room around her hidden behind all the faces of all the ghosts (at least the ones she knows about); there is Great-Grandpa Paul-François with cotton wool for his beard, Uncle Antoine who died when he was only a boy, Henri from the 1750s standing in between the sisters with lace dresses, Great-Great-Grandma Bélanger (she thinks that’s her granny’s granny), and behind them are others whose names she can’t remember, but whose stories she has heard; there’s the woman who originally built their house in Bayeux – Brigitte, she remembers, and looks out some orange fabric for flames.
Ça alors, you must have a big family, the teacher says, looking over her shoulder. How many of you are there, in your house?
It’s me, my mama, and my granny, Severine replies, needle in hand, lips pursed again in concentration as soon as she has spoken. There is a scattering of laughter from along the row but Severine ignores that. Behind her, the teacher frowns to herself but says nothing; moves on to the next girl embroidering the next version of a family.
Now – the teacher claps her hands to get their attention – how many of you have visited the real Bayeux Tapestry?
Granny, why do the ghosts come to visit? Severine asks, as she watches her granny beat the soft dough for the brioche.
Because they like to be seen – pass me the butter.
How am I supposed to see them if you won’t tell me how?
Her granny smiles, scrapes the dough from the sides of the bowl. Not everything is about you, sweetheart.
Severine goes quiet, but her granny doesn’t.
Now tell me, what are you learning about at school?
The Bayeux Tapestry.
Her granny’s eyebrows rise and fall; she looks to the corner of the room and smiles.
That’s good.
Severine runs to the corner of the kitchen and smacks her hands into the wall, leaving palm-prints of flour.
Are they here? she asks, spinning around. She’s getting impatient – who cares about school when there are ghosts to talk to?
They’re misbehaving today. No place for young ladies.
Granny.
The dough has to rise now. You know for how long?
Ninety minutes, says Severine. Maybe two hours.
Good, says her mother from the door. That means you can do your homework while you wait.
Severine looks up at her granny, who winks and nods. We’ll try getting some sense out of these crazy ghosts later, chouchou.
Her mother beckons her from the door, and reluctantly she leaves the kitchen and the ghosts, and her granny.
But why does Antoine come to visit? Severine asks later, as they spread the warm brioche with butter and redcurrant jam.
Her granny smiles. I think my son is here for me. Or perhaps your mother.
Mama? Severine asks, surprised, but her granny doesn’t respond.
And why does Brigitte always stand on her own?
Later. Stern, but softening again. I’ll tell you later, Severine. Have patience. If you want to see the ghosts, you have to be able to wait.
Severine does not finish her assignment about the Bayeux Tapestry; she spends the evening going through the old photo albums she’s found in the bookcase in the piano room. There are only a few of her mama from when she was really young – one when she was a baby and her granny had curly dark hair and a knowing smile.
Then a family holiday – with the only photo she knows of Great-Grandpa Paul-François. They’re on the beach with bucket and spade, Granny, Great-Grandpa Paul-François, and her mama and Antoine, in swimming costumes that go down almost to their knees.
There’s the one with her mother and father together, smiling at the fifties as they slipped into the sixties and everything was soon to change.
And then the final page: on top is a wedding photo, her mama in a white lacy dress that her granny had made by hand, and her dad in a suit, with the best man beside him.
Below that, the last in the album: a hospital photo, her mama smiling at newborn Severine, her father beside the bed. He was smiling too, maybe, but he is blurred and out of focus and her mother’s eyes are looking up, out of the room, straight out of the photo, as if searching for something hidden behind the camera’s lens.
WAKE UP!
Liam’s on a dark beach, full of crashing waves and salt that stings his eyes; he’s trying to shout but he can’t, trying to run but he falls and the rocks scrape away at his skin. He scrambles up from his knees, there is only fear and panic and the ground dissolving beneath his feet and he has to find his mother.
Come on. Róisín pulls the sleeping bag down despite his hands clutching it up above his head. You have to see this.
Is it daytime?
It’s morning, but it’s amazing now, it’s so bright.
What?
Wake up! I don’t know how much time we have!
Two countries, two channels away, Severine stands in front of a tapestry, the laughter of the others from her school all around her. The tapestry is behind glass – if it wasn’t she might have reached out to touch it. Instead, she just stares and stares.
In the corner of the panel, embroidered in shining thread, is what looks like a shooting star, all yellow and gold, like a child’s drawing of a comet-chariot, powered by the sun and the wind.
And there’s something she’s trying to remember, one of her granny’s stories from years ago; there was a girl who was in love
with a soldier, a boy who died on a battlefield. And their names, she was told their names once, strange-sounding names; not French, nor English – something else. And there’s something pulling at her mind, at her heart, that dissolves when a boy from school pulls on her ponytail.
Hurry up, he says. The teacher told me to get you. Everyone’s leaving. You’re out of time.
As it turns out, there’s all the time in the world for Liam and Róisín, that morning. The sky is orange peel and baled hay; clouds are gathering over towards the hills but the air is fresh as lemon juice. They are lying side by side on opened sleeping bags on the damp grass and staring at the comet that can be seen in the daytime sky.
It’s so rare, Róisín says, but she doesn’t need to explain, not really. Liam might not know so much about the stars but he knows that there is something special in what they are seeing. A comet so bright it can be seen in the daytime sky; that has to mean something. That has to be something worth watching.
How are you going to mark it on your maps?
I don’t know.
She sounds despairing.
You could draw it next to the farm. Between Dad’s shed there and the fence around the cows’ field?
Liam can see how that would work – when he imagines the world it is always somehow relative to the farm.
It’s not about the farm, says Róisín, a little stroppily.
He can’t answer that.
But it was a nice idea, she says, softening.
He looks from the comet to his cousin and back again.
The comet gets dimmer as the morning passes. Liam’s dad trudges around the farm, feeding, checking, clearing, talking to himself, or sometimes to the memory of his wife beside him.
Don’t you want to leave here? Róisín whispers.
No.
How could Liam leave his dad, when it’s just the two of them?
Not now, obviously, I get that . . . You’re still a kid. But when you’re a grown-up?
You’re still a kid too.
But there’s nothing left to explore on the farm.
The Comet Seekers Page 2