Comet Weather

by Liz Williams

  The last few days had been enervating. She’d closed herself off from Ben, telling him – when he finally texted her – that she had to work. They’d met once, in the local pub, for a constrained drink. She’d found him silent, but he was used to her nerves and fizzy fritteriness before a collection was completed and she hoped he’d put her own silence down to that. They seemed to be careering towards some kind of derailment and Serena, bewildered and hurt, didn’t know how to stop it. All she could do was put up the walls and hope for the best, trust in fate, trust in the stars. She had not been to any of his gigs; she had not wanted to meet Dana Stare again. If she had only been convinced that Ben wasn’t interested – but she could not be, and it was this that sapped her capacity for action.

  Then, the day after the rehearsal, she saw them. It was in Neal’s Yard, at the back of Covent Garden, and Serena had been to see a customer. It was a lingerie shop: very burlesque influenced. You stepped from the street into a dark crimson interior, accentuated with mirrors: it was supposed to look like a high class bordello and Serena had to admit that it succeeded. The proprietress was German, with an almost engineered scarlet bob of hair and very thick, black-framed glasses. She wore suits that reminded Serena of Berlin in the thirties. Muttering, clasping Serena’s arm, holding up piece after piece, she selected her range.

  “One of those, I like this, darling, in the coffee, and the burgundy, notice you haven’t bothered doing red, so wise, so tarty…”

  By the time Serena got out, she felt as though she’d been spat out of a whirlwind. She needed tea, and somewhere nice to drink it, not one of the chains. The café in Neal’s Yard fitted the bill and she rarely had the time to visit it.

  The Yard was swarming with multi-coloured pigeons, Serena did not know who dyed them, nor even whether it was legal: they always reminded her of Lord Merlin, in Nancy Mitford’s novels. They tumbled up into the roofscape, fairy-winged, as Serena came into the Yard.

  Ben and Dana were sitting at a table, outside one of the coffee shops. Their heads were close; they seemed to be studying a piece of paper, conferring. Then Dana looked up at Ben, her long black eyes slanted and alight. She gave a wicked grin and murmured something into his ear, nuzzling the lobe. Serena stood, frozen, at the entrance to the Yard. Everything seemed to slow down alongside her, even the flight of the pigeons retreating into slow motion. She did not want to watch and could not look away. Ben was the same as ever: leather coat, faded jeans, hair flopping over his face. Dana was speaking and he was listening to her. Serena recognised that intent look.

  Then Dana glanced across the Yard. She was staring directly at Serena, there was no way that she could have failed to have noticed her, but her face did not change. It was almost as though, Serena thought, Dana had known she was there all along. A ghost of a smile appeared on her face; it reminded Serena of a skull, the white skin framed in shadowblack. Then, slowly and with indifference, she turned back to Ben; Serena, the spell snapping, fled.

  She did not remember getting home. It felt like one of those dreams, when suddenly you are in one place rather than another. She went straight up the stairs, ignoring the studio where she could hear the murmur of voices – Charlie and one of the other girls – and into the bathroom. She was not sick, somewhat to her own surprise, but it was easier to simply stay put for a while, bending over the basin of the sink with her hands clasped firmly to the cool white china. At last she looked up to see her own face in the mirror: everything stripped down, her beaky nose pink-rimmed, arched brows high with surprise as though she had just received a shock – but I have – and everything faded, bleached out. She felt too shaken to cry.

  She wandered back downstairs to the kitchen. She did not feel up to speaking to anyone, so she slipped into the living room and quietly closed the door, then, with shuddery hands, lit a cigarette. It made her more light headed, and, paradoxically, clearer. She would speak to Ben, and sort things out, one way or another.

  But Ben could not be found. She left two messages, and then stopped herself from calling back. She did, however, send him a text, a classic I think we need to talk. After that, she thought that she would not have been surprised to receive no reply: he was like that, head-hiding in the sand. Maybe there was an innocent explanation – but Serena, remembering that cool, monochrome little smile of Dana’s, knew that there was not. Maybe it was just a fling… but to Serena, there was no such thing. She’d found that out the hard way, both ways.

  Serena herself was not her main concern, once the initial impact of the punch had started to recede a little. Bella must be the priority. She would be home from school soon, and Serena did not want her to find her mother sitting shell-shocked on the couch and reeking of cigarettes. She crushed the stub out in the ashtray, took it into the kitchen and emptied it, then opened the living room window so that the cool autumn air flooded in. She felt empty, but had no interest in eating: she would suggest to Bella that they order a takeaway. She had never not felt like eating Chinese. The prospect of this little trick on herself made her smile, for the first time that afternoon. She thought: you’ll survive, whatever happens. You have Bells and your family and the collection. You have a life. But she was grateful, all the same, when she heard the bang of the front door and the clatter of her daughter’s feet up the boards of the stairs.

  Luna

  They had gone down towards Devon on the back roads: to Sam, there were no other kind. Luna, with Moth at her side, watched from the driving seat of the wagon as the chalk hills turned to blue shadow in the distance behind them, and the countryside became increasingly familiar, as they left Wiltshire behind and came down into Somerset. They skirted Bath, creamy in the October sunlight as it lay in its bowl of hill. Sam did not trust Bath; said it was a bit too posh, that people would look askance at himself and Luna in their raggedy sweaters and dreads and boots, a couple of Medieval jesters behind the hairy piebalds, and Luna, her hackles going up at the thought, said he was probably right. There had been enough encounters with the police already.

  “Do you mind telling me how long you’re planning to be here, sir?”

  “You are aware that this is private property?”

  “There’s been a complaint that this vehicle is causing an obstruction…”

  After the first episode of this, Sam had told Luna to stay in the van while he handled it.

  “I’m used to this, had it all my life.”

  “I’m used to it, too,” she’d replied.

  “You’re used to protests and demos. It’s a bit different. Even with your hair like that, Luna, they can still tell the difference. No offence, but your accent – it’s still middle class.” He’d smiled. “A nice girl.”

  “Is that how you see me?”

  “It’s not an insult. It’s just what is. The law takes one look at me and they see – troublemaker, thief, drugs probably, all round dodgepot. Even though I don’t have particularly long hair, actually. They just know. It’s like I can always spot undercover coppers at festivals. We know each other – gut instinct. They’re mostly okay, anyway. They’re just doing their jobs. I know there was the Beanfield but that was a long while back now and the police did have to reckon with what they did. One of the nobs, actually, made them accountable. It’s not that I don’t trust you to handle them but you can get a bit bolshie and they don’t like that.”

  “But it’s not fair,” Luna said, as she had been saying for all of her life. “You’ve never stolen anything. You’ve never dealt in drugs. You don’t even claim benefits!”

  He laughed. “Straight as a die, that’s me. A model citizen. But it’s the way of the world.”

  So classy Bath – that would be a no. They rolled on, following the old Roman road that took them over the hills and faraway, up above the little Mendip villages where rabbits played over the barrows of the dead and there was often cloud down even in summer. Beech woods covered the lower slopes, framing the prosperous farms. They even stopped at a farm shop and bought home-
baked bread and greens for a treat, round golden beets to bake on the stove: very middle class, Sam said. Model citizens!

  As they pulled up over the final ridge, Luna saw Glastonbury Tor, an improbable hummock in the blue reaches of the Somerset Levels. They stopped for a minute to look at it.

  “Avalon,” Sam said, with a smile. “King Arthur’s under there, you know.”

  “Don’t Arthursplain to me! I grew up near here. There he lies with all his knights.”

  “Just waiting till Britain has need.”

  “You’d think he’d have showed up before now.”

  “What makes you think he hasn’t?” He looked at her. “So. You’ve got a decision to make, madam.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  “To stop, or not to stop.” Sam made a sweeping gesture which encompassed the hazy expanse before them. “Up to you. But we’re going to have to decide sooner rather than later.”

  Luna nodded. “Can I tell you right at the last minute?”

  “If you say to me, gee ’em up and let’s charge on through, my lady, that’s what I’ll do. Like a knight on the battlefield.”

  “My family’s not that bad,” Luna said. But she knew that she had already made her decision; it was hovering around her heart, fluttery and bird-like, giving her the shivers. It would have been so easy to just keep going, down to the next long ridge and the next – the Quantocks, and Exmoor beyond, into that rolling blue. After that was Dartmoor and whatever was to be found there: they were on a mission, she reminded herself.

  But Sam had taken her to meet Ver March. You don’t take a girl to see your gran unless you’re serious. You don’t take your bloke to meet your sisters unless – well. It was serious, Luna knew that. She was a serious person. Just because she didn’t have a job as such, or any plans to get one, didn’t mean that she was a laybout, or undisciplined. She helped Sam with his itinerant gardening jobs and she worked hard. Nor would she live off the state, or theft, or anything underhand. They were travellers; this was their work.

  The piebalds took them down the steep beech-fringed slope and past Wells, then onto the flat road which took them over the mercurial rhynes towards the Tor and its tower. Luna told Sam stories about the fairy king who is also said to live under the hill, his pack of red eared white hounds, and Sam gave a sidelong smile that suggested to Luna that he was familiar with all this already, had probably dropped in for tea and a natter with Gwyn ap Nudd many a time, but he listened anyway; he was good at that. The lurcher yawned, ghost-grey. One of Gwyn’s pack? She wouldn’t have been surprised.

  When they came to the top of the town, above the green park that held the ruins of King Henry’s clerical depredations, a roundabout led in two directions: towards the town of Street and the road south, or the road that led past the Chalice Well, around the foot of the Tor, its orchards heavy with ripening apples. Taking that second road would also, ultimately, lead south, down the old Roman way of the A37, but it would also eventually lead past the road which led to Hornmoon, and Mooncote, and Luna’s sisters.

  Sam turned to Luna and opened his mouth.

  “On!”

  “Right you are.” He clucked his tongue and shook the reins. They went on past the Tor, a queue of irritated traffic tailgating behind.

  As they drew closer, Luna became more and more nervous, answering Sam’s observations in monosyllables. Sam, in turn, grew more focused. At length, he kept his comments to himself and concentrated on driving: up, over, down, along. Luna pointed to the signpost as the countryside became increasingly familiar.

  “There. It’s there.”

  “All right.”

  Sam steered the piebalds down the lane. Immediately, they were enclosed: the gilded leaves of beech arching overhead. The road was not wide enough for two cars: Luna kept her fingers crossed that they would not encounter another vehicle. The piebalds could not back up and she didn’t really want to piss the neighbours off. But it was quiet, mid-afternoon before the school run, and the beech avenue came out into the wider expanse of the village, the church just visible at its end, and the little stream running through it, unchanged.

  “Where to?” Sam asked, for the road had forked.

  “Off to the right.” Her hands were clammy; she wiped her palms on her trousers. She could see the chimneys now, through the gaps in the chestnut trees. Sam looked like a small boy catching sight of the beach.

  “Really excited now,” he said and she had to laugh.

  “We are, in fact, nearly there yet.”

  She took over the reins, swapped seats and took the piebalds in through the gate. The wheels of the wagon crunched on the gravel and Luna brought it to a halt.

  “Jesus,” Sam said. “This is a bit posh, isn’t it?” But he sounded admiring, and not defensive.

  “I did tell you.”

  “Old England. Nothing wrong with that. What a great house.”

  There was the slam of a car door at the back of the house and the sound of voices. Luna got down from the driving seat just as Stella came round the side into the drive. Luna’s sister had not altered a great deal since the last time Luna had seen her; her fawn hair was now shoulder length, sun-streaked, not as straggly, and she wore jumper and jeans rather than her rave rags. Silver leaves dangled from her ears.

  “I thought I heard – oh my God. Luna!” She ran forward and gave Luna a hug. Moth thrust his long sad nose into her hand. “And a dog. Hello, dog.”

  “His name is Moth,” Luna said. “I didn’t know you were here. You said you were never coming home again.”

  “That’s because I was a prat.”

  “Fair enough. This is Sam. My bloke.”

  “Sam.” Stella shook hands. “What an amazing wagon. And I love the horses. We’ve got a stable. It’s in a bit of a state, though. We did have a horse but he died, he was ancient, a year or so ago, and the ponies stay down in the field. I’ll clear the crap out of the stable but you can put them in the field if you think that’s better.”

  “That’s really kind of you,” Sam said. “They’ll be fine in the field. I like your house.”

  “It’s all right. Would you like some tea? Bee made a cake.”

  “I should have said we were coming. But we didn’t know. Until the last minute.”

  “That’s okay,” Stella said. “I was last minute as well.”

  She turned, leading the way to the house. Luna detached the piebalds and took them round to the yard, where she tied them temporarily to a ring. The feel of the smooth, cold metal brought back memories of childhood ponies, bareback up on the hill and the swish of bracken against her legs – Luna blinked. For a moment, she’d almost been there.

  When she came into the kitchen, Sam was sitting by the Aga with a cup of tea and a slice of cake. He should have looked out of place, New Age traveller in old age kitchen, and yet he did not. He fitted in, and this scared Luna, a little, but also pleased her. Her sister Bee turned and smiled.

  “Hey, Luna. Horses okay?” She gave Luna a hug.

  “Yes. I tied them to the ring. I’ll take them down to the field later.”

  “…over the Mendips,” Sam was saying to Stella. “But we’ve been up in Yorkshire, the north. Scotland. Way up.”

  “Back down south for the winter, eh? Did you do any of the festivals?”

  “Horse fair. And some of the folk festivals. But there’s too much money in it these days for the bigger ones.”

  “Yes, Pilton – Glastonbury, that is – costs a bomb now and it’s so hard to get tickets. You have to be right on it as soon as they go on sale. Sorry, you probably know all this.”

  “Yeah, pretty much, but that’s okay. I’m a bit of a loner, me. I don’t do the crowds. I pick up gardening work, here and there. Luna helps me.”

  “I know what you mean about crowds.”

  Luna accepted a slice of ginger cake and was re-introduced to Nell, whom she had not seen since she was a little girl. It was a shock, to see how much her cousin looked
like Alys. She wanted to mention Dartmoor, find out if Serena had said anything to Bee or Stella, but it did not feel quite the right time, somehow. Not that she didn’t appreciate the urgency: she felt itchy, that need-to-get-on-with-it sensation. She told herself to chill out. Alys had been gone for a year and yet – time’s getting on. The winter clock is ticking. She sat up straight, suddenly alert, wondering where the words had come from. When Stella rose and suggested getting the stable cleared before dark just in case the weather turned and they wanted to put the horses in there, Luna seized her chance. Stella must know that the piebalds were out in all weathers, all the time. It was an excuse for a private conversation and she intended to make the most of it.

  Her sister, occupied in moving boxes, heard her out in silence. Then she said, “Dartmoor, eh? Mum didn’t say anything about that but then she didn’t not say anything either. I wish she hadn’t been so bloody cryptic.”

  “Did you talk to Serena?”

  “No, but Bee says she’s having problems with Ben so her mind might be on other things. Also she’s more likely to have talked about her dreams to you, not me or Bee.”

  Luna took that as a compliment, because without quite knowing why, she felt that it had been meant as one. Then Stella said, “Why don’t I drive you down there?”

  “What, by car?”

  “No, by my team of tame unicorns. What did you think I meant?”

  Luna opened her mouth to say, We can’t, and then thought, why not?

  “It’ll be a damn sight quicker than going down in your admittedly brilliant vehicle. It’s only just over an hour from here. I can borrow Bee’s Landrover. Bee can drive, if she wants to come with us.”

  “She might do.”

  But in the end, it was Stella and Luna and Sam who went, Stella at the wheel.