The Comet Seekers

by Helen Sedgwick

  And she thinks that Brigitte needs her help.

  But this is what Severine wants – she wants to see the world, to experience it, not spend her life waiting for the ghosts of people who no longer live in it.

  Her granny had said she hadn’t had to think about her choice. You are offered the chance to see someone you love again. Is that even a choice?

  Yes, yes, yes.

  Are they not going to stop her?

  And all of a sudden Severine finds herself standing in front of a man in the airline’s uniform who is asking to see her boarding pass and she can’t, she just can’t, there is something inside her that is breaking and she steps back, calls her son to her, leans on a seat for support and understands, finally, that she can’t leave them. She can’t be responsible for them disappearing and never being able to return. Even though there is a part of her longing to escape, there is that other part that is longing to stay, to be surrounded by generations of family that make her feel loved and accepted, that make her feel young, and more – that make her feel that she is a part of something bigger than her world. Who is she to break that connection? She can’t do it and so she gives in, she accepts, she shakes her head and doesn’t board the plane. She holds François in a hug that he’s squirming to escape from, just like he’s squirming to get on the plane, pulling her by the hand, desperate not to be left behind until he looks at her face and understands. They are not going to travel the world. They are going home to Bayeux. He should have known his mother would never leave.

  He stops trying to pull her towards the plane, and lets her hand drop. He doesn’t cry, and he doesn’t shout, but he knows that the next time she makes a promise to him he’s not going to believe her.

  Is it the ghosts again, Severine? He speaks with a hint of accusation, of frustration in his voice. It is like he has become the grown-up, she the child.

  No, she says, pulling him closer than he wants to be again. It’s me, it’s my – but she can’t find the words to explain to her son, so set on adventure, so aware of how big the world is and how much he wants to see, that, after all, her heart won’t let her leave.

  LIAM IS TALKING ABOUT SUSTAINABLE agriculture. There is some new code that’s been brought in – she’s only half listening, picking up words here and there while she thinks about what she’s going to do, how she’s going to live – something to do with nitrates, protecting water from pollution, soil P levels, nutrient management planning. The state of the world’s water is something she’s never considered, and something that he seems to think about on a daily basis. She wonders about how long it will be until we can launch manned space flight to other planets, if we’ll find water on Mars, on Titan, how a planet develops water in the first place. She doesn’t notice that his tone has changed, that he’s playing, that he doesn’t expect her to care about nitrates; obviously he doesn’t. But he keeps on going, allowing his voice to spill words about creating a sustainable balance between soil input and output, about stocking densities and waste management (he’s quite enjoying himself now) as he moves behind her chair and reaches down to kiss the back of her neck.

  They’re in the forest, walking through the afternoon’s low light, filtered through spring leaves and lost in the still-damp covering of moss and mud on the path.

  Where are we going? Róisín wants to know.

  Just walking, he says. Might find a deer, maybe a badger.

  But what they find is a squirrel.

  This is not a wilderness, Róisín says, resisting the temptation to stroke its bushy tail.

  Liam’s kneeling on the ground, trying to coax it closer with some of her fruit-and-nut bar.

  What shall we call her? he says.

  Be careful, they bite, you know.

  She’s not going to bite me, sure. Are you, Susie Squirrel?

  The squirrel gets closer, goes for a peanut, takes a chunk out of his thumb.

  Five minutes later, and the blood has nearly stopped gushing from his thumb into the undergrowth. They have coloured the leaf mould red.

  How did this happen? she says, and he laughs. Some creatures bite, he says, it’s not deep, it doesn’t hurt.

  But she takes his hand, inspects the bite, has no idea how to fix it, scrambles around in the rucksack for some kind of first-aid box.

  When she looks up again, he’s wrapped a handkerchief around his thumb.

  Problem solved, he says.

  Róisín’s not so sure.

  At home, she notices the white handkerchief lying by the sink, stained in red, and a shiver runs down her spine.

  Liam throws it in the machine, whistles his way upstairs.

  He gets up early, because he has to. When the night is still creeping about the farm and the cold is biting its way through the single glazing and she no longer feels the need to get up with him, she rolls over, pretends to be sleeping as he creeps out of the bedroom, down the stairs, to turn the key in the back door and close it as quietly as he can when he leaves.

  Once he is gone she rolls over again, onto her back, lies in the middle of the bed and stares at the ceiling, imagining there were no ceiling, imagining she could see all the way to the stars.

  She doesn’t get up till late. She enjoys this time of being on her own, of not always being one of two.

  But then she runs out to where he is working, tells him to be careful of his thumb. She had a sudden premonition that he could hurt himself – hurt himself badly – when she’s not there to help.

  Liam looks at her like she is insane, then grins. He’s not going to hurt himself. Still, it is good to know how much she cares.

  They go out of town for dinner, drive over to Galway and ask for a corner table, the one hidden beyond the bar. The first bottle of wine goes down fast; they order another to have with the main course.

  She’s talking about being away, describing the flats where she’s lived, the people she has known. We saw Shoemaker–Levy 9, she says, from the observatory on Blackford Hill – did you see it? she asks, but doesn’t wait for a reply – that was the one that collided with Jupiter, there’s still a storm raging because of it, churning up the surface of the planet.

  She thinks she is talking too much, but perhaps that’s how it always was with them; a conversation filled with her dreams. Until he reaches over and takes her hand: Maybe the planet is more interesting for the storm?

  She lets a moment of understanding undo the past hour of not getting each other, doesn’t mention the great storm on Jupiter, the thousands of storms that make the planet what it is.

  In Bayeux, she continues, I set my telescope up in the attic – I had this top-floor apartment – and I watched . . . Her voice trails off as she remembers his dad’s funeral, struggles for words until there is a voice:

  Róisín?

  Keira, from the baker’s, is walking over to them.

  Róisín pulls her hand away quickly. Prepares herself for a conversation that must be filled with lies.

  He worries – of course he does – as he begins work, as he works through the morning, as he doesn’t go home for lunch.

  By dinner time he thinks he has a solution.

  We have to just tell people, he says.

  She looks at him like he is insane. She doesn’t even smile.

  That won’t change a thing, she says. They already know.

  In the evening, the phone rings and neither of them makes a move to answer. Her mum’s voice leaves a stilted message on the answer-phone. It would be good to talk, she says.

  In the night, waking him on purpose but trying to make it seem like a natural thing, a thing that just happens. He is blurry, moving to get up as if it is time for work, until she pulls him back.

  I want to travel, she says. We haven’t left Ireland in almost a year. I want to see—

  I’ve got work to do.

  So did I, she says; spoken for the first time, this mention of what she has given up. I don’t even have any friends here—

  It’s the midd
le of the night, he says, as if that’s any kind of answer.

  Yes, it is.

  They spend the rest of the night both believing that the other has gone back to sleep.

  But you don’t have to keep doing this, she says. She is angry now. This farm is too lonely. There are things in the world we can’t change, but a job – it’s just a job – that can be changed. So change it.

  If Liam had been there to hear her, it would have been a good speech. He might even have been persuaded by it.

  She thinks that, if she insisted, she could probably get him to leave the farm. She allows the thought to stay with her, as she serves lunch to the three tourists in the pub, as she stares out of the window, uses her break to search the skies with her binoculars for a comet that is almost too faint now to be seen. But something about that knowledge makes her feel so cruel she pushes the thought away, promises herself she won’t start another fight. Liam belongs on the farm. And Róisín, perhaps, is searching for something other than belonging.

  He is cleaning out the stalls when he hears someone arrive, the grate of an engine finding its way over the noise of the cattle. He’s not expecting a visitor.

  His hands are dirty; he wipes them on his trousers but Adele doesn’t move any closer.

  She’s not here, he says. She’s working in the pub today. Sunday lunch. He smiles apologetically at her wasted trip, and at something else entirely.

  People are talking, she says.

  He is sweating beneath his shirt, aware that he smells of livestock. He thinks briefly about the new calf that was born last night.

  Adele turns and walks away without saying anything else.

  Róisín and her mum can be very alike sometimes.

  The calf is with its mother, for now, but Liam knows it can’t stay that way. They will be separated, so that the mother’s milk can be bottled and sold, so that the calf, which was a male, can be sold. So that he can keep this going. He knows that the sooner they are separated, the easier it will be on them both. He doesn’t know of any other way to make a profit on a farm. Every time, though, even now, he feels a sadness about it. He knows what it is like to be separated from your mother.

  Your mum came by today, he says over dinner.

  Róisín shakes her head. She’s still not ready to do this.

  She goes to the fridge, looks for a corkscrew in drawer after drawer before she realises the bottle has a screw top.

  Do you know what everyone’s saying about us, in the village? he says.

  I don’t care.

  Wine spills over the side of her glass.

  Shall we go out later? he says, his voice different, softer.

  Where is there to go?

  I was thinking we could visit our hut.

  That’s not still there, is it?

  She had almost forgotten; she can’t believe that she’d almost forgotten.

  He smiles. Sure it is. I’ll show you.

  It is twilight when they arrive by the stream, by the log that still bridges the bank and the island, although it is not the same log, of course. That one was swept away in the storm five years back or more. This one is a replacement.

  Liam lets Róisín cross first.

  Halfway over the log, Róisín stops, turns back. I can’t believe this is still here, she laughs, arms out for balance; it seems smaller than it did when we were kids, you know?

  As the water rushes over the pebbles and stones it bubbles up, reaching her feet, her toes through her trainers, but she doesn’t care.

  It is so quiet out here with nothing but the sound of water and the smell of leaves, of a late-summer evening, just before the leaves turn. She’s almost sorry when she reaches the end, steps onto dry land – not that it is dry, really; it’s damp from the stream and muddy. She turns, holds out her hand. It’s your go, she says.

  Liam makes his steps smaller than they would naturally be, almost heel to toe as he crosses the log, like he would if he was a little boy trying to show off. He stops in the middle, sways side to side for effect.

  On the opposite bank, Róisín has turned to shadow in the falling light, but he can see her eyes; she is watching.

  Are you clowning around? she says, hands on hips, and she is the image of who she used to be; strong-willed, in charge, pretend grown-up.

  She takes his hand once he is across, leads him the few paces to the entrance of the hut. They have to crawl to get inside.

  They lie down on their backs, two pairs of feet sticking out of the doorway, an old sleeping bag undone on the ground beneath them. They fill the space, barely room left between bodies and walls. It feels warmer in here, although it can’t be really, it is open to the elements through the door, through gaps between stones and branches once populated with leaves and moss.

  Róisín turns to the wall, tries to make out the shape of it in the darkness. It is not completely dark, in here, the moonlight, starlight is enough, now her eyes are used to it. She reaches out a palm, touches the rough handmade wall that is only a few inches from her face.

  Liam reaches out a palm, touches her shoulder.

  They imagine, of course, there is no one walking by the riverbank. To them it is as secluded as it ever was; invisible, existing only for them. They don’t think about where they throw their clothes, ending up in a tangle around their feet in the doorway. It’s not a night for thinking about what people will say or how they’re going to explain or how they are going to shape their future when their love is all about the past.

  Instead, they let themselves become who they were, side by side in their childhood hut that was always a bit too small, even before they grew too big. She lets her cheek brush against his, feeling his stubble like she used to; he lets his lips brush against her shoulder, her stomach, as cautiously as if he were a boy, and they return to a moment when this was all that mattered.

  They wake shivering, the cold a more thorough cover than the warmth of the sleeping bag they share. Liam puts his arms around her, holds her close as she buries her head in his chest. She is shaking.

  Here, I’ll warm you up, he says, but she’s shaking her head as well.

  Let’s go, she says, getting up. It’s time.

  Liam feels a stab of loss, mixed in with longing, and can’t explain why it seems so familiar.

  WHEN SEVERINE AND FRANÇOIS GET home the ghosts are not there. François stands quietly by the door as his mama rushes from room to room, calling out to no one. I’m back, she shouts, I’m here. He sits down cross-legged on the floor in the hallway and pulls over the suitcase – abandoned by Severine as soon as she stepped inside – and sets it down in front of him.

  The zip makes a slow, grating sound, and he doesn’t rush; he feels like something in him is changing although he couldn’t say what it is. He opens the top, holds it in his hands for a moment, then throws it backwards to make a quiet thud on the carpet behind, and he looks down into the muddle of clothes and maps and shoes and his old tiger and feels like he is looking into his childhood from beyond it. He pulls out the tiger, leaving a trail of clothes tumbling out of the case, and stands up.

  Severine rushes up the stairs – she had thought they would be here, waiting for her return, ready to congratulate her on making the right decision, but perhaps that is a scene that would only happen in her imagination. She slows, checks a bedroom, stands outside Great-Grandpa Paul-François’s study. Surprising herself, she knocks on the door.

  Inside, Antoine is curled up under Great-Grandpa Paul-François’s old desk, but when he sees her he crawls out – younger now, a boy, François’s age – and looks at her with his head tilted to one side.

  You wanted me to leave? she asks.

  He brushes down his T-shirt, stands straight.

  No, I wanted me to leave.

  Severine thinks she can see Brigitte shimmering into view, but she vanishes again, and instead of searching for more ghosts she kneels down beside Antoine, remembering what this room looked like from the viewpoint of a gir
l.

  Well, how’s this: I set you free, she says.

  Oh, that’s sweet, he smiles, but not how it works. If you get one of us, you get us all. Besides, there’s someone else I’m waiting for.

  She looks up to see Great-Grandpa Paul-François sitting behind the desk, a book raised in front of his face, a chuckle already resounding around the room. Henri from the 1750s is looking through the shelves, pointing out the books he likes to the sisters in lace dresses, and others appear, their clothes reflecting different centuries, and her granny – her granny calls her name so she stands and turns and sees her granny as a young woman, with dark curls and a knowing smile: Welcome home.

  When François gets to the top of the stairs, his tiger trailing from his right hand, he sees all the doors have been thrown open except for one, and he knows that is where Severine will be. He walks towards it, raises his left hand to the handle, but stops; finds himself again on the outside listening in. He can hear his mama’s voice, chattering away to no one, describing the journey, the airport, the return, then skipping on to conversations that make no sense to him: something about U-boats and oceans – he turns the handle and steps inside – something about tabby cats, and Severine’s laughter rings out and she doesn’t turn, doesn’t see him there.

  He remains where he is for long enough to see that she is happy, and that the conversations she is having with herself are more captivating than the ones he wants to have with her. Then he turns, leaves the room, walks quietly down the stairs into the kitchen, opens the bin with the foot pedal, drops the tiger inside, and thinks about making some soup for dinner.

  You all look different, Severine says; you are younger.

  Her granny smiles.