I was the one who spotted it, chimes in her granny. There was a second marriage, to Elyn Enynimolan, 1459.
Brigitte’s skin is flickering now like the embers of a fire, threatening to catch light, hissing in the breeze that shouldn’t be there – you told me that before, she says.
They did, says Severine. But did you know Elyn had a son?
Severine braces herself for the rush of flame and anger that accompanies Brigitte’s jealousy, but this time it doesn’t come. Brigitte is staring at her, waiting.
There is no birth record for her son, Severine continues. And there’s no other mention of Elyn Enynimolan here. But I looked up the name, and it’s Irish – not French.
So what?
In Ireland they’ve started putting all their church records online, says Severine, glancing at her granny. The others couldn’t travel to keep searching, but I didn’t need to. I found a mention of her, Elyn, in a parish register from the west. She’s down as Elyn Enynimolan vidua. She was a widow. And it says she had a son. Áed Enynimolan, born 1456.
Brigitte sits quietly for a moment, her hand outstretched to stop anyone else from speaking.
Her child was born before she was married?
Or it was never her child in the first place.
What did she do with my son?
Severine turns to face the ghost.
I’ve not been able to find out what happened to him yet. But I’ve thought about it, and my guess is that he stayed in Ireland. Elyn was his mother, as far as he knew, so Ireland would have become his home.
Brigitte lets the information sink in.
But we still don’t really know what happened, she says.
We think he survived.
Brigitte is silent now. She had always hoped that, somehow, they would find her family – or her family would find her again. If only she had more time; another generation or two. Her silence is interrupted by the phone ringing, insistently, before going quiet again.
Oh, Severine, says Brigitte – and Severine looks up, expecting more questions about Ireland. Instead she says: What is going on with François?
Severine and her granny and Great-Grandpa Paul-François all look over to the phone that she has been ignoring since she got home from the restaurant.
He thinks I am mad, she says, laughing as if it is ridiculous, although the ghosts don’t laugh with her. And then she turns serious again. It is pushing us apart.
Her granny and her mother lock eyes, move closer to one another.
So, I’ll do what I have to do. I will keep him away from you, she says, and you away from him. Besides, the comet is fading – the ghosts look up to the sky, almost as if they had forgotten they needed to leave – so I’ll see you next time. And in the meantime, I’ll try to make things better with François.
And once they are gone, she thinks, she has to make things better with François, because soon he will be the only member of her family who is left.
THREE DAYS AFTER LIAM’S FUNERAL Róisín boards a flight back to New York. Being at home was only making her feel worse so maybe she needs to be far away.
They have run out of wine on the plane. She swears. She is full of anger and it has nowhere else to go.
In the queue at passport control there is a family, a mother and a father, two children. The youngest is held in her mother’s arms, toddler tears from before she joined the queue still patterning her face. The other, a boy, sees her staring, tugs on his father’s sleeve, who puts a hand on his shoulder, pulls him forward to face straight ahead. Róisín wraps her arms around her stomach. Her bag falls to the floor. She can’t stand up, she’s bent double, sobs shake her body. More strangers join the queue.
Róisín doesn’t want to look at the sky any more and she’s given up trying to understand the Earth. She imagines going back to that day when she first left home, when she saw the whole universe between two palms and imagined it would be beautiful. What crap.
She climbs up to the roof that night, to her terraced roof garden above her new apartment, but she doesn’t bother to scan the sky. She just wanted to get away from all the people crowding the streets; New York is all about the crowds, the people. She used to love that, but today it made her want to scream. She stays there all night, just sitting under the emptiness until, in the early hours of the morning, she gives a silent gasp, a dry retch, as something that was a part of her is torn away.
At coffee, the other postdocs and lecturers, students and professors all talk about galaxies, spectra, telescopes. She cannot care. She can hardly listen. What does it matter, that galaxy formation happened slower than we thought, or faster? How can she have spent her life looking at distant things too far away to hold?
We didn’t think you’d be back so soon, someone says.
She looks up, disorientated. Stares at his blue eyes, his pale green shirt; she has no words any more.
There is an arm placed around her shoulder, someone trying to take her hand on the arm of the chair. She is unaware of the tears cascading down her face.
Comet Lovejoy is nearly gone, visible only through a telescope. It survived its journey through the corona, but it’s not the same now as it was; its shape is distorted, its path irregular. This is a comet that will fly to the outer reaches of the solar system and never find its way back. She can’t say that she blames it.
Standing in Dr Joshi’s office Róisín hands over a neat white envelope containing her resignation.
Why on earth? says her boss. He is a little offended.
I can’t find any answers in the sky.
That depends on your questions.
Yes.
Give it some time. I understand your cousin . . .
I’m sorry, she says. She needs to get out of here – she’s afraid she’s going to cry again.
OK. Although . . . well, if you’re sure?
A nod; she manages that. And:
Thank you.
Do you know where you’ll go?
I don’t know. Somewhere remote. Isolated. I . . .
There is no need to explain to this man, who will have employed a replacement within the week, that finally she understands the need to be alone. It took Liam’s death for her to understand his life.
I’m sorry. I just can’t be here right now, she says.
As she leaves the room she blinks and rubs, desperately, at her eyes. It makes no difference.
Beyond the buildings, which are ornate and magnificent, the sun is too bright to illuminate the world; it drowns it out. Róisín holds her hand up to her face, tries to shield her eyes but can’t. She needs darkness. She needs a wilderness away from people and light and hope, where the sky will get truly dark and her breath will freeze. She looks up, one more time, but she knows it is no use. There is nothing left in the sky and the ground beneath her feet is broken.
1957
Comet Arend–Roland
A brother and sister scamper around the house as their mother prepares dinner in the kitchen; frying aubergine in garlic olive oil and searing fish in butter, singing to herself, swinging her dress in time to the tune. Beside her, the ghost of her father chatters about the day she was born, reliving the story of the storm that cleared the air after a war, that left a piercing blue dawn to greet a wailing newborn into the world.
She is having so much fun she doesn’t hear the door open as her children take their games outside; they are boisterous, these youngsters, never do as they’re told – fearless of the world, as it should be. The sound of the traffic, still unfamiliar to her, doesn’t reach inside the house. No sounds make it into the kitchen until the scream and by then it is too late.
Aubergine burns to black in the minutes that follow, mirrored in black fabric and black skies in the days that follow that until, one morning, Antoine appears at his mother’s bed.
Why won’t she play with me any more? he says, talking about his sister, and his mother kneels by the bed and tries not to let her son see her tears.
Do
wnstairs, his sister sits, drawing swirls of dark colour in her sketch pad, and she doesn’t look up when he calls her name – Ariane – doesn’t notice when he does star jumps in front of her, or tries to pull off her socks. As weeks go by, their mother watches as Antoine slowly accepts that his sister will not see him, and she slowly accepts that look on her daughter’s face when she hears her talking to herself.
What are you doing, Mama? she says – the first words her daughter has spoken since the accident – and when she replies that she is talking to Antoine her daughter stares at her, says simply, no you’re not.
He’s here, if you want to see him, she tries for one last time.
No Mama, she says, he is gone now. He is dead.
2016
Comet PanSTARRS
FRANÇOIS FINDS SEVERINE CROUCHED UNDER the desk in the old study upstairs, a finger pressed to her smiling lips, as if she is playing hide-and-seek.
Mama, I brought courgettes.
Shhh! Her hands fly about her face for a moment.
Is there a mosquito?
Ha!
He knows there is no mosquito; she is seeing the ghosts. It is happening again, just like he has been dreading it would for the past five years.
What are you doing under there?
Hiding from Antoine, she giggles, he wanted to play a game. Then, more seriously: I think he gets lonely, being the youngest.
François can’t bring himself to say what needs to be said, but he thinks it – he has been thinking it since it happened before. She needs some help, and he needs help to know what kind. There is something wrong with her mind. She starts all of a sudden, noticing he is there, or re-noticing it.
You brought courgettes, she smiles, begins to stand up. He reaches forward for her arm, helps her to her feet even though she is up before he’s made a difference. She’s had her hair cut again, short like an actress from the sixties and it suits her.
It’s good to see you, François.
And you, Severine.
She stands on tiptoe to ruffle his hair.
Such a serious man, she says with a shake of her head, reaching for the courgettes. Shall we cook together tonight?
He puts his arm around her shoulders, and they head for the kitchen.
They play music while they cook, sip wine as they slice shallots and fry courgettes in olive oil. Severine sings along to the CD, and François can stop worrying for a while. It is always like this; just as he begins to think about speaking up, insisting she see a doctor, his mama switches back to herself and he lets the moment pass. He wonders if he is a coward.
You should go out, he says. What about signing up for an evening class? Or you could try that new restaurant on Rue Saint-Malô.
Promoting the competition?
They’re local.
Or maybe you’re just trying to get me away from the house.
Let the past be, he says, live your life now.
My life is more full than you know.
Her smile makes it look like she has a secret boyfriend, a secret hobby, a secret identity, but it doesn’t last. Her life is full, yes, but not in the way she’d imagined it would be – not in the way she has ever wished for him. She has suggested, a few times, that he take a holiday, go travelling the way he always wanted, but he hasn’t gone – it’s almost as if he’s keeping an eye on her.
Outside, it has begun to snow. It pulls François to the window in amazement; snow in the middle of summer! But no, it is just petals from the apple tree in the courtyard. Most fall to the ground; one settles on the windowpane, gravity defied.
He turns away, returns to the kitchen to see his mama has started playing hide-and-seek again, trying to squeeze under the table while the courgettes are burning.
When he leaves she tells him to give Hélène her love, then realises her mistake – I am sorry, François, I forgot for a moment. I . . .
It’s OK, Severine. He reaches down to kiss her on the cheek then walks to the bus stop.
His flat, when he reaches it, is not just empty of people but somehow, oddly, empty of his past as well. He’s not heartbroken – they met when they were very young and young people change, he understands that – but he feels sad. Hélène was his friend, and he didn’t want to lose his friend. He puts on the kettle and, looking at the phone, decides that he won’t. But he does have an appointment to make in the morning, and it is not something he can put off any longer.
I’m just curious, says François, as the doctor looks at him with concern.
To generalise, early-onset dementia would be highly unlikely – highly unlikely – in anyone under the age of thirty. But everyone is different; every mind is different. There are tests . . .
Oh no, I don’t think . . . I don’t mean me.
The doctor holds out a hand, in mid-air, as if to soothe or create space for him to keep talking, François is not sure which. He stops talking, waits for more information to be offered.
It can affect people in their fifties, occasionally forties. The sooner it’s diagnosed, the more chance we have to help. But, it could be other things. You could talk to a psychiatrist, if you want?
He wonders how that conversation would go with Severine.
The carnival arrives in Bayeux. The ringmaster, a younger man than before, picks a plot close to the river and where they can be viewed from the bridge – he wants the town to come to him, and he gets what he wants. There are fairground rides, a hammer that can make a bell peal, a big tent where acrobats will fly and fire-eaters swallow fire.
François laughs when he hears his mama’s message, her voice so giddy, like a child: The carnival has come to town! Come this weekend, yes?
He arranges the duck à l’orange on the plate like a carnival scene, although he tells no one he has done that – they would think he was insane.
Hélène comes round to collect the rest of her stuff, some clothes she had forgotten and posters that were up on the walls. François opens a bottle of red and they talk for a while about her new place, the restaurant, their friends, then a new album that has been released by a band they both love. It’s friendly and they relax into their conversation; there are no hard feelings here. By the time the relationship had ended, they had both already left.
How’s your mama doing? she asks, and that is when François feels the difference, the regret.
She’s fine, he says, knowing that somewhere in between being together and breaking up he had kept things to himself that he should have been able to share, and that now it is too late.
Severine waits for him out in the street, the door closed and locked. She’s excited and she wants to get to the carnival before dark; she’s wearing her pleated skirt and lipstick. She feels young today.
François buys her a toffee apple, and one for himself, only getting halfway through before it has become too sweet and he has to drop it in the bin they pass on the way to the big top.
He watches his mama’s face as she lights up, covers her eyes, laughs at the magician and the acrobats, at the old man in the top hat and tails who looks like a relic from a lost time, a less cynical generation. François can see how most of the tricks are performed, but he keeps that to himself; besides, it is beautiful to watch, the bright colours of the performers, the bold red of the ringmaster’s cummerbund, the glow of the candles at the front of the stage. Severine is enjoying herself, and he hasn’t seen her laugh like this for years. Then she turns away from him, seems to forget that he is there at all, and starts talking to the empty seat beside her. People turn. They stare. They avoid her as they leave the big top at the end of the show. He gives her shoulders a squeeze.
It is not to be cruel that he says it; it is because he loves her, and because he is scared of what might happen if he doesn’t act now.
I made an appointment for you, for Tuesday, he says, his arm still around her shoulders. I’ll come with you, and we’ll see what the doctor thinks about the ghosts. OK?
Severine slumps under his
arm, but she doesn’t pull away and, as if realising that she has spent the last half-hour speaking to a hallucination, she silently nods her consent.
The ghosts come at a price, Severine has known that for a long time.
She has always tried to tell him her truth, she thinks, but he doubts her anyway; he is a different person to her. That is OK. Perhaps it means that he will lead a different sort of life. The thought makes her happy again, optimistic about the future. She stops, suddenly, at an old-fashioned ride, a small train for children that takes you through ghost villages in the Wild West and jungles of tigers and bears.
Shall we go on an adventure, François? she says.
He smiles, a little sadly, and buys them both a ticket.
THERE IS A LINE IN the introduction to the handbook of the British Antarctic Survey: unlocking the past, understanding the present. It goes on after that, something to do with the future and exploration, but it’s not the future that Róisín’s really concerned about. She’s not sure which part of the sweeping statement she is drawn to but when she reads it she thinks she is doing the right thing. This is what she needs. Somewhere wild and inhospitable and brutal where she can try to understand what has happened, and what is happening, and what it is she has been searching for since she was too young to know she was searching for anything.
There will be tests, they tell her. Physical, psychological, survival. There is something appealing in that. She would like to be told that she can survive.
Róisín tries to be logical, when she thinks about her life. There are some things that she knows, and she is glad that she knows them – the orbit of Halley’s comet around the sun, the tilt in the angle of the Earth’s axis, the way to move from place to place, orbiting home, never resting long enough to burn. She wants to tell herself that she doesn’t know why Liam chose to climb to the roof of his family’s farm at dawn. The days spent trawling through that farmhouse – once where she lived, too, but not for long enough to start using the word home, for her it had remained the farm – they hadn’t helped. For days she searched through drawers and cupboards, room to room, the dusty attic space empty but for a disused water tank that made her ache with its futility. There were drawings, childish drawings, of the farm, like he had drawn when he was a little boy: stick men and cartoonish animals. There were bills too, and a second mortgage she had been unaware of, followed by an hour or so of anger that he hadn’t told her, that he had chosen to hide so much of himself and pretend that her arrival had made everything all right. And she does wonder – of course she does – if it would have been the same had she stayed.
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