When the floor rises up to meet them he feels too heavy; it is difficult to lift his feet and walk to the exit. Everyone else has gone and they are the last, alone, in this circle of faded paint but her hand is still in his, until she steps away, reaches out for the wall to steady herself and glances back at him, over her shoulder. Her eyes are not smiling; they’re saying something else now. It’s time to move on from the rotor. He stumbles, makes it look like he is dizzy from the ride, not that the contact of her hand on his hand is still enough to make him feel like he could fall.
Behind the metal fence of the carnival, behind the bikes chained up on it, there’s a row of trees that they used to climb on when they were kids. That’s where she leads him to, not running; people would see them running, but walking together without talking, still feeling the ground unsteady below their feet. She gets there a pace ahead of him, leans against the tree facing away from the carnival and as soon as she’s there he is there too, standing in front of her as she puts her arms around his waist, hooks a finger through the belt loop of his jeans; pulls him closer.
Liam forgets to look up, to see if anyone can see them. He’s never cared what people might think, not when he feels the warmth of her hands through his shirt and is pressed so close he can feel her breath on his lips. But he pauses there, allows himself the time to enjoy the seconds before they kiss. For years now, everything has been different when they are alone.
They hear a noise; some of the local kids are unchaining their bikes and Liam and Róisín freeze, still holding each other, breath racing in unison. The seconds drag into minutes. Róisín hides her mouth in his shirt collar to stifle a laugh; he holds her tighter, smiling too, lets his lips graze the top of her ear, lets his body press closer towards her.
When the coast is clear she says, come on, we should get back.
His eyes meet hers, playful, daring.
Should we?
He doesn’t want to let go, moves his face next to hers. But she places her hands on his hips.
My mum said she was coming down later, with Neil.
He takes a step backwards, swallows, then nods. He wonders if it would have made a difference to him, had his dad found someone new.
The sounds of the funfair return, and the lights come into focus again.
They stroll through the crowds like cousins, talking about the farm, about school, about nothing in particular, as Róisín nods and smiles at all the friends she sees. It’s a warm night; the clouds are keeping the heat close to the ground, shielding them from the cold of the sky. Róisín sees her mum in the distance, raises her hand in a wave when she is noticed; asks Liam with a look if he wants to come and say hello. He replies with a smile.
Róisín’s mum asks how his dad is getting on.
He replies about the year’s crops and the newborn calves, about the second-hand turntable his dad tinkers with every evening and the roof needing repaired.
She suggests a roofer he already knows and he doesn’t mention that he already knows about him, thanks her. She says that he is looking well.
The moon appears between the clouds and people from the village say hello as they are passing, and Liam, for a second, wants to put his arm around Róisín, to be able to stop feeling like he is hiding all the time except when he’s with her, alone.
Dad says Róisín can come for dinner tomorrow, if she wants.
That would be grand, Róisín’s mum answers, like she is encouraging her to be polite.
Yes, Róisín smiles, of course.
She knows what he is really suggesting.
We must all get together some time, her mum is saying, a proper family Sunday lunch . . .
I’ll tell Dad, he says, though he won’t – they haven’t had a proper family Sunday lunch since his mum died. He shifts on his feet, faces Róisín, see you at school tomorrow I guess, he says; hands tucked into jean pockets, a shrug of his shoulders, and he is gone.
Róisín looks round the funfair. It is suddenly so small, already like a memory from her childhood.
You’ll miss all this next year, her mum says, smiling like she expects to be contradicted.
Róisín struggles to find the words to reply.
She’d almost forgotten she was leaving.
SEVERINE HOLDS HER GRANNY’S ARM as they walk; she hopes her granny will interpret it as a show of affection rather than a physical support. Her granny never much wanted support, unless it was to counter an argument with her imaginary ghosts. Severine gets a cramp in her stomach thinking about them, about her granny and her visitors; about the way her hand flew around her head last night as if brushing away a pesky mosquito, not the memories of a lifetime ago. She hadn’t seen her do that since she was a teenager.
Not far now, she says.
I’ve been making this walk for sixty years, I’m not going to forget the way now.
Severine loosens her grip.
That’s right, her granny says. I’m the one who should be helping you.
I’m fine, Granny.
Her granny’s face dissolves into a scowl, sweet rather than bitter on her old face, as Severine rubs her stomach.
You do help me, she says, and her granny takes her hand in a gesture that says she always will.
At the entrance, Severine pays the fee for one adult and one OAP as her granny sniffs at the price.
It should be free for you and me, she says. You should tell them who we are.
Who’s that then?
The woman on the till smiles kindly at them as they pass the ticket office and head for the long, wide display room of the Bayeux Tapestry.
Severine can see how other people edge around them. She wants to explain that her granny’s not dangerous; in fact, she wants to shout at them for being so bloody insensitive – this could be you, one day, you know? But she doesn’t. She pretends not to notice their stares and whispers as her granny carries on conversations with memories, only gently taking her hand to try and bring her back to reality. She brushes away the thought that they might be staring at her too, so heavily pregnant.
Great-Grandpa Paul-François wants to see the green horse with red legs.
Great-Grandpa Paul-François died, Granny, a long time ago.
Now, where is that panel?
The horses are all dark blue and yellow, you see?
Her granny pulls away, begins pressing her face close to the glass as she sidesteps around the room.
There, see? Oh, do be quiet, old man. She’s young; she’ll learn. Won’t you?
What’s that, Granny?
Bright green horse, just like I said, see?
I told you there is no . . . Severine begins to say, until she sees the green horse with red legs, prancing in mid-air, dancing rather than running, oblivious to the spears and axes that surround it. The words catch in her mouth.
She’s not convinced by her mother’s memory-loss idea; her granny’s memory seems to be sharper than the tip of an arrow. She feels that mild pain in her stomach again. No, pain is the wrong word, it is just a pressure, a reminder of what she’s carrying.
Some tourists move behind them, abandoning their view of the green horse for someone altogether more important on the next panel; someone with a crown.
She should talk to her mama, persuade her against sending Granny away. Not that her mama is speaking to her much these days. This is not what she had planned for her daughter. Severine suspects she’s always been a bit of a disappointment to her mama.
Do be quiet, you great fool! Nobody wants to hear you sing.
Severine turns. Her granny is poking at something in mid-air, and Severine can’t help but smile.
No! her granny continues. Not even me! And she clasps her hands over her ears and begins to sing – I can’t hear you, old man – je dis que les bonbons, valent mieux que la raison . . .
Let’s have a sit-down over here, Severine says, conscious of her granny’s stooped back as well as her singing; as well as the queue behind them.
Not yet, I’m not ready yet, her granny says, calming down. I haven’t shown you what I brought you here to see. It’s important.
You have to be more careful, Severine says. Try to concentrate on the people who are really here.
Do I embarrass you, just like I embarrass your mother?
I think we’ve both embarrassed my mother, Severine says.
Her granny chuckles.
Well, that’s true, God knows.
What are you going to call him? her granny wants to know.
Severine sighs; she doesn’t want to have this conversation yet.
It’s not me that wants to know, you know.
She raises her eyebrows.
Your great-grandpa Paul-François has been asking.
Severine smiles.
I bet he has.
She tilts her head to one side, nods a few times, then holds her granny’s stare. You know, Great-Grandpa Paul-François is very keen for you to have a sit-down.
Mais non. What he actually said was that I should hurry up and show you what I brought you here to see. And he’s quite right, too.
Is it the Halley’s comet border? Because I saw that when I was a girl.
No, no, not that old thing. There’s something much more important for you to see. Now, let me think.
When, at last, the ghosts quieten down enough for her granny to find the panel she needs, she doesn’t even look – she points from halfway across the room and says: There. Go. Look. See for yourself.
Severine does as she is asked, leaving her granny behind. She goes to look, and she looks carefully, and she looks for a long time.
Two red pillars are spiralled with gold. At their tops, two dragon heads breathe tongues of fire. Between the pillars a woman stands; she is wearing a long robe of gold with a red scarf covering her head and neck. A cleric stands to her side, beyond the pillars, and he is reaching out; touching her face, no, perhaps striking her. Below them is a naked man, a dagger, a winged monster fleeing to the right. Above them, the words: Ubi unus clericus et Ælfgyva. She doesn’t know what it means.
Severine can see the texture of the cloth, stains that take it in patches from beige to brown, each thread of colour, the wonky lines of the pillar’s spirals, the shading on the cleric’s cloak. His fingers look long; his thumb is pointed where it reaches her face. The top of his head is bald.
What does it mean? Granny?
She turns around.
And then there is a rush of people trying to help – tourists, schoolchildren, the security guard who sits by the door and hands out the laminated information cards. So many people that Severine doesn’t even move, she just watches while all these eager hands help her granny, check her pulse, feel for her breath, and finally go running to the phone for an ambulance.
HE WAITS FOR HER BY the closed brown gate, like he always does at lunchtime. They squeeze through the broken slats in the fence, her first, then him. The rain is floating instead of falling; Liam likes the way it lingers in the air; Róisín would prefer it to fall, like pumice instead of ash.
Shall we go to our island?
She nods.
Róisín knows it’s going to be difficult to tell him the truth. She’s been putting it off for a while now. Maybe another day won’t hurt.
The stream is low. They could have waded across in bare feet, but instead they balance on the fallen tree trunk like tightrope walkers, unobserved.
They made the hut when they were still children; neither of them wants to mention how it’s too small now. They crawl inside and sit on the old sleeping bags they zipped together to make a padded floor mat. They end up with their feet sticking out of the entrance – they never got round to making a door, so it’s always been three-walled, with some rocks in the front. When all the wooden walls are gone, rotted away to more earth and soil and mud, the rocks will still be there, outlining a door-shaped gap on the ground – Look, you can see the remnants of the front wall, and here: this must have been where the door was. Can you imagine what it would have looked like? Can you imagine the people who lived here, all those hundreds of years ago?
Róisín feels sorry for the archaeologists of the future who will get their hut so very wrong. Sorry, and also glad. It’s only fair.
He unbuttons her shirt slowly while she talks about Rome – she’s studying ancient history as well as science; the teacher calls her a contradiction – he kisses the nape of her neck, touches her right dimple when she smiles. Her woollen tights are navy blue today, like her skirt, which unbuttons at her waist and then has to be unwrapped from side to side. She rolls over along the ground and he gently pulls the fabric until she reaches the end of the sleeping bag; still lying on part of the pleated skirt she rolls back over towards him. This is what they do – roll away and roll back again, meet in the middle of their secret childhood hut with their clothes half off and their hands damp from the stream’s spray. His hand rests on her hip; hers on his shoulder.
You have stubble today, she says, her cheek brushing his chin.
He pulls her closer; the sleeping bag scrunches up underneath them until they are lying on an island within an island.
Theirs is not an urgent love; it is undoubted, whispered rather than shouted.
Stay there, she says. Stay inside me.
She kisses him, fleetingly, inhales the warm air next to his neck.
Liam rummages in his rucksack, his bare back white, patterned with criss-crossed lines from lying on the ground.
Look; no, wait. You’ll never guess. He throws her a smile over his shoulder. OK, look.
He has brought binoculars with him; he’s holding them out towards her, like a gift.
Do you know what day it is today?
She does know, but she doesn’t want to spoil his moment – she feels guilty enough already.
Today is the day that Halley’s comet will be at its brightest in the sky.
She smiles. However much he grows up, he will always be younger than her.
So I thought, you know, we could look for it.
We can try, she says, but it might be better to wait till later.
He looks disappointed, but it’s too faint to be seen during the daytime; she knows it’ll be masked by the sun. It is the dimmest appearance of Halley’s comet for centuries. It’s usually so bright – it’s one of the Great Comets, one of the greatest – but this year it will be invisible to the naked eye. If you don’t make a special effort to look for it though telescopes or binoculars, you would never even know it was there. It’s keeping its distance; losing interest in the Earth.
Later then? Will you come to the farm?
OK.
There is a change now; a restlessness in the hut that he doesn’t want. Róisín’s getting dressed.
Where are you going?
I have to get back to school. We can’t lie here all day.
Róisín gets back to the school gate on her own.
She slips through the broken slats of the fence and into the science block before the bell goes.
She stays after class to tell her science teacher about her acceptance to Imperial College, London. He was the one who recommended she apply there; without that push, she might have stayed in Ireland, continued orbiting her home on the same path. She’s grateful.
You’ll love London, he says. It’s a bigger world, so it is.
His arms are wide, palms open, like even he can’t grasp how big it is; bits of London leak out from between his splayed fingers and dance on the lab bench.
And he’s right, that is exactly what she wants – the promise of a bigger world, a cosmos, an expanding universe. She’s too tall to lie in an island hut forever. She knows it.
As she leaves the room, she blinks, brushes impatiently at her eyes.
Liam lies in the hut for the rest of the day.
The smell is of damp wood, the rush of fresh water over moss, cloud cover, familiarity, longing, loss.
DID YOU SEE, SEVERINE?
Her gra
nny is in a hospital bed; her words are slurred.
I’ve been with you all day, Granny.
But the tapestry?
They say you’ve had a stroke.
Well, I’m not surprised, with all these people fussing around me.
The room is empty.
But did you see Ælfgifu? She was very anxious that you see her.
Severine’s mother arrives with sachets of fruit teas and flowers and slippers – her granny’s slippers – and says: You’re awake?
Well, of course I’m awake.
Severine puts her arm around her mama’s shoulders. She knows that it is hard, not getting on well with your mother.
We’re worried about her mind, the doctor says; she seems to be seeing things.
She’s always done that, from time to time, Severine says.
Has she had a stroke in the past?
Her granny’s voice rises in the room behind the closed door – I’m waiting to get her alone, you impatient old man, honestly . . .
Her mother follows the doctor down the corridor. Severine squeezes her hand before she leaves.
It’s OK, her mama says, you go and talk with her. You’re the one she wants to see.
Severine wants to tell her mother she loves her, but doesn’t know how.
It smells in here.
Yes, Granny, it does.
Her granny is propped up with pillows now, and her eyes dart around the room.
Who’s here? Severine asks, but she’s ashamed of the question – she should be saying rest, your mind is broken, there are no ghosts here; if you pretend to be normal you might be able to come home.
She listens to the familiar roll call of ghosts like she did when she was a child; grandparents and great-grandparents and child-uncles and soldier boys, Brigitte who built their house and hangs around at the back, almost out of sight, so her granny says; and then there is Ælfgifu.
The Comet Seekers Page 4