You think she’s our ancestor?
Severine’s not daft; she knows where this has been leading.
Her granny’s eyes close over and she slips down her pillows. An alarm begins to sound.
She wakes again in the night. Severine’s mama has gone home to get some sleep; they’re alone in the room.
What will you call him? her granny says, struggling to touch the round bump of Severine’s belly.
I don’t know yet, Severine replies, there’s a chance he might be a girl.
Her granny chuckles. You’ll know soon enough now.
What do you want me to call him?
Severine is conscious of a tone in her voice that she doesn’t usually use with her granny; she is talking gently.
François, her granny says. After your great-grandpa Paul-François, of course.
Her granny looks over to the door, shakes her head sadly, holds up her hand as if asking someone to be quiet.
But don’t make him stay here, she says, pulling Severine closer. Tell him to travel the world. We have so many ghosts in this family already.
Severine looks around the hospital room; thinks about saying that there are no ghosts, that there never were any ghosts. That there is no such thing as ghosts.
But instead she takes her granny’s hand and says, OK, he’ll travel the world; we’ll travel the world together. There are things that I want to see with my own eyes, you know, and I intend to see them all. I’m not going to work in our épicerie forever.
That’s good, her granny says, hurriedly now. Perhaps you should go too. You should go now, though. Before—
I’m not leaving now, Granny! Why would you think . . .?
You don’t have to stay with me.
Severine wants to hold her granny tight, but she’s so frail she’s afraid she’ll hurt her and the expression on her face now – she looks paler, she looks like she’s giving up.
It’s OK, Granny, she says, tears filling her eyes. Stay with me. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to leave you. Please, I can’t do any of this without you.
Her granny’s eyes close, and Severine starts to panic.
I’m right here, she says, holding tight onto her granny’s hand, everything’s going to be OK.
Do you want to see me again?
It’s such a faint whisper, Severine doubts she heard the words right.
What?
Her granny’s eyes open, her expression now different to any she’s seen before.
Do you want to see me again?
Of course I’ll see you again, I’m staying here.
You don’t understand. There’s a price, to see ghosts.
You’re going to be OK.
I dreamed of travelling once—
I’ll call the doctor.
Don’t you dare.
Her granny stifles a laugh, pretends to look stern but it’s not her natural countenance; she can’t keep it up for long.
You’re not going to believe me, she says, but please listen anyway because you need to hear.
Her eyes close over again. Severine looks around for help, thinks of reaching for the alarm but something stops her.
You can see me again, she says, if you want to. It’s a choice. You’ll have to make a choice.
It’s OK, Severine says uselessly. You’ll be OK; I need you. Baby François needs you.
She feels alone, desperately alone.
Her granny smiles, opens her eyes.
It means staying here.
I’ve told you, I’m not leaving this room until you’re better.
Her eyes close again.
Look for the comets, she says.
Granny?
Severine feels the pressure on her hand release.
Severine’s granny doesn’t wake up again after that. A series of strokes kill her in her sleep shortly before sunrise. But when Severine wakes up in the chair next to her granny’s bed, it is not the nurses rushing into the room that she chooses to see. She doesn’t even look at the dead body, her granny’s expression still lingering on her lips. Standing in the corner, apologetically, Antoine looks the same as he did in the photos; he is still not quite a man.
Hello, she says.
I’m sorry about this, he smiles.
And there they all are, crowding into the room, too many for her to count; surrounding the bed where her granny has died and greeting her as they pass with a look of wonder, a hand to her shoulder, and a wry smile at the inevitable.
There are ghosts, she thinks to herself.
François? says Great-Grandpa Paul-François as he takes her hand and winks at her belly. It’s a good name. I like it.
Severine opens her mouth to reply but has no idea what words to speak, and besides, she is trying not to cry.
Then Great-Grandpa Paul-François turns to the bed to stroke her granny’s hair and gently kiss her forehead as if she were his daughter. Which, Severine realises, of course, she is.
LIAM’S DAD HAS MADE A steak and kidney pie with mashed potato; Liam pours water in pint glasses and sets the table ready for dinner. His dad pauses by the sink after washing his hands, tired. The silence feels like it has lasted for hours. Liam takes a hand towel and pushes it along the counter so his dad can see it. It stays there, part folded and part crumpled, and his dad wipes his hands on his trousers.
Is Róisín still coming?
I think so.
They look at the pie; it will spoil if she doesn’t get here soon.
It’s more of a dinner than his dad usually serves – as if the promise of having a woman in the house encourages him to make it feel more like a home.
This summer, I’ll get you properly trained, his dad says. About the farm.
Maybe we could look into a qualification, Liam says.
I can teach you. There’s no need to go . . .
OK. Yes. That’d be grand.
Róisín is going to the farm for dinner, like she said she would; her mum is going out with Neil again, and it’ll be a good idea to give them space. She doesn’t mind about Neil. In fact she likes him, likes having him around, and that surprises her. She’s not jealous that her mum has found someone new; it makes her feel free. Recently she’s started calling her mum Adele to show how grown up she is – she wants to feel like they are equals.
When she walks across the field she opens her arms wide and imagines a world so big, so full of people, she would never tire of exploring it, her eyes fixed on the sky above until she slips on some sheep droppings, only just managing to catch her fall. Liam’s always telling her the ground is just as important as the sky.
Liam looks up to see Róisín peering through the glass in the door. She is waving. She is smiling. When she walks into the kitchen it’s as if the lights have been switched on – she kisses his dad on the cheek in a way that makes his father grin and pat her on the back; she turns on the radio and music, voices, stutter through the static then settle in the air, and she winks at Liam. His family comes alive again.
Thanks for coming, he says, and although it’s delivered with a casual smile he means it more than he can say.
Róisín takes a sip of her drink. She’s nervous, though trying not to show it – tonight, after dinner, she has to tell Liam that she is going away.
At dinner, Adele has gone quiet because she knows what it feels like to wait for a man to break bad news. When Róisín’s father left he didn’t sneak away in the night or drive off after a fight, he took her out for dinner to tell her he was going. And now a new man is avoiding her eyes and struggling with where to rest his hands, looking relieved when the waitress comes by because it gives him something to say.
Neil orders red wine and, when it arrives, he sips it in a way that barely reduces the volume in the glass. Then he tells Adele that his son has been diagnosed with autism. His ex-wife says she can’t cope. She has found a boarding home that specialises; she wants to send him away; his heart is breaking.
This is not a man who is l
eaving; this is a man asking for help.
Move in with me, she says. Both of you.
She puts her hand over his hand. It creates a new family.
Over dinner they focus on talking to Liam’s dad, don’t say too much to each other; they both understand caution. It has been this way for several years now. They are scared to act like cousins, because then they would be acting like they were close, and they have to hide how close they really are.
Liam accidentally brushes Róisín’s hand when he’s passing her the mashed potatoes. He immediately apologises.
The want he feels makes his face burn.
Amo, amas, amat.
His dad doesn’t notice.
When the dark starts to seep in through the window in the back door Liam stands, plates clatter into the sink, his dad wishes Róisín a good night, and then they are alone. She knows that it has to be now. She turns the radio off.
Something about this makes Liam’s throat dry.
No, now. I can’t wait, he says.
He speaks through breath that is fast and hard, like a man’s, not shallow like a boy’s.
We have to wait. Just till the light’s off.
They always used to wait till Liam’s dad’s light was off; it seemed the right thing to do.
No.
Róisín knows that she has changed things, and she’s not sure if they’ll be able to go back. She never intended her leaving to be a betrayal. Is this what happens when something undoubted becomes doubted?
She lets him fuck her against the fence, her skirt hurriedly pulled up around her waist, his trousers around his ankles.
Afterwards he sits in the grass and puts his head on his knees. His sobs are the sobs of a boy. She doesn’t know how to comfort him like this. She wishes she could.
I’ve found it, she says.
They haven’t moved; they are both sitting on the trampled grass by the fence.
Do you want me to show you?
He takes the binoculars from her and follows her instructions.
Nothing.
You have to keep looking. It’s very faint – look away from any nearby stars, try to see just dark space, and then concentrate.
After a while, he makes out a smudge of light that could be anything; a bit of dirt on the lens, his thumbprint.
Why London? he says.
She doesn’t answer. What answer can she give?
But you belong here, he says.
You could leave with me?
He doesn’t reply.
I mean it. After school, you could come to London too. We’ll find a whole new world, you’ll see . . .
I can’t!
She is shocked into silence by the force of his voice; he never shouts. He’s never shouted at her.
I can’t leave my dad, don’t you see? he says, quieter now, trying to find words to explain. The farm, I need to help and . . . he’s so sad. You could help, too? You do, by being here.
But Róisín knows she can’t stay, not now, couldn’t live on a farm with all this weight of silence, can’t keep on keeping a secret like this; she doesn’t want to live in the shadows, however much she wants to help.
It’s only four years, she starts to say, meaning her degree, but somehow she knows it’s going to be more than that.
This is a shite comet, he says. I can hardly see it at all, and the binoculars make a quiet thud on the grass. It’s too far away.
Give it some time, she says, hoping there might be some truth in what she is about to imply. It’s Halley’s comet; it always comes back.
AT FIRST, ALL SEVERINE CAN do is listen. She listens to their chatter and their affectionate bickering, listens as they discuss how grown up she is now: how very pregnant. She listens as they debate who the father is and smiles when they ask her, giving nothing away, telling them nothing of her life. She falls asleep to their words and wakes up surrounded by family and at last, in her pyjamas, two days after her granny has died, she begins to ask them questions.
Where is my granny?
Oh, she’s a bit busy, pet. You’ll see her next time.
With the next comet?
Yes.
How long will I have to wait?
Days. Or maybe years. Jusqu’à ce qu’ils décident d’arrêter.
Great-Grandpa Paul-François laughs, kindly. She had his hair wrong in her tapestry; he is not a white-haired old man, he’s dark, handsome, with laughter lines around his eyes.
She promised.
You’ll see her again, if you want to.
And who are all the others?
But Great-Grandpa Paul-François has opened the closet in the hall and is having too much fun trying on Severine’s mother’s hats to reply.
She watches the comet through binoculars from their attic window. It’s faint this time, Halley’s comet, not like the comet she saw as a child.
How many days do we have left?
One or two, I’d say.
Oh, it’s you.
Hello.
Severine puts her binoculars down, turns to face Antoine.
Where have you been? she asks, sounding far more like a teacher than she intends.
Antoine smiles.
Playing hide-and-seek, he says.
With the other ghosts?
With the stars in Cassiopeia, and he turns his voice to a whisper. When we’re not here, I like to think we’re out there. Don’t you?
She looks out of the window and tries to imagine what he means.
Never mind, he grins, your granny always said I had my head in the clouds.
She tries to remember all the things her granny ever told her. Look harder, she would say, look at the world, at the sky, and always at the ground beneath your feet.
Beneath Severine’s feet there is just the same old carpet they’ve always had, but standing on it are twenty or more dead family members, watching her inquisitively. There are twin sisters in long dresses of lace, young men in the different uniforms of different wars. An old woman who appears to be wrapped in a towel; I want to take a bath, she announces.
Severine hears her mother calling and glances around the room. Pads barefoot down the stairs.
Mama?
Just thought you might like some coffee.
It is a peace offering for an argument that was never voiced, and Severine is glad, and grateful, and would very much like some coffee.
Severine and her mama sit side by side at the table, each holding their coffee with their palms wrapped round their cups, warming their fingers. They have the same skin, the same shape to their heads, the same way of blowing over their cups to cool their drink.
How are you? Severine’s mother asks.
Ready to burst.
They both smile.
I remember when I had you.
I’ve seen the photo in the album.
Her mama looks tired, brushes her hair back from her face in a familiar gesture.
I’ll be there with you, she says. I wasn’t sure if you knew . . . I didn’t mean to seem angry about it. I just wanted you to . . .
Go to college, have a career. Get married?
I just wanted you to be free.
Severine lets go of her anger. She hadn’t realised it was still there until she felt it vanish.
Perhaps some things are better than freedom.
That’s what your granny would have said.
Only sometimes.
That’s true. She was a contradiction.
Just like us.
Even though her mama is crying now, there must be an unspoken memory of her own mother that makes her smile; makes her laugh despite her tears.
Severine wants to talk to her mama about the ghosts, but every time she tries something stops her. They would, surely, have appeared to her if she had wanted to see them.
But it’s more than that. She has seen too often how people looked at her granny, the concern, the pity, the embarrassment of watching a woman lose her mind. She doesn’t want that; she doesn
’t want to be looked at like that. She will try to keep the ghosts to herself.
What have you been doing upstairs? her mama asks, as if she could hear her thoughts.
Just resting, Severine says.
Her mama’s eyes, red for two days, search her own. She reaches forward and tucks Severine’s hair behind her ear.
You’ll let me know if you need anything?
Severine nods.
All I need is to be here.
She looks up, to the window.
Or maybe outside for a minute?
They take the picnic chairs out to their back garden, even though the evening is drawing in and it is cold. Severine used to think that she could see all the stars there were to see in Bayeux, the sky was so full of them, until her granny told her that there were layers upon layers they couldn’t see. Would every black space have a star in it, if we could only see well enough?
They wrap a blanket each around their shoulders.
What’s in the old shed? Severine asks, as her eyes fall on it.
That was my grandpa’s shed, her mama says; he built it himself.
So it’s empty now?
Granny kept her gardening tools in there, and some other things she imagined she had to hide from me.
It seems funny, that a mother would need to hide things from a daughter, but perhaps all mothers are doing it and it’s only the rarest daughter that realises and understands enough to leave well alone.
Do you think I could have a look tomorrow?
If you like, her mama says. I think she was keeping it all there for you anyway.
It feels good, to be outside talking with her mother, feels like something they should have been doing for years but haven’t. She takes her hand and they sit in silence for a minute. Severine is glad that the ghosts have stayed upstairs.
Where’s my father?
It’s a question she hasn’t asked since she felt afraid to keep asking as a child, but it feels right to ask it now, at last.
He wanted to travel, she says. You were a baby, but it was OK, somehow. He said he hadn’t found his home, not here. She looks at Severine with a fresh worry in her eyes. Do you miss him?
The Comet Seekers Page 5