The Comet Seekers

by Helen Sedgwick

  I don’t want to go away.

  But you can come on an adventure. With me.

  Maybe one day.

  Liam doesn’t like lying to Róisín, but he doesn’t know how to make her understand.

  Well, I’m going to explore the universe, she says.

  Liam knows that they should go in soon, for breakfast. His dad will be waiting for them. It seems like his dad spends all his time waiting for people to come home, though most of them have gone for good.

  That’s what astronomers do, says Róisín; they go and explore the universe.

  Liam looks up at his cousin – she is spinning round and round now with her arms spread wide – and he forgets about his dad.

  I know, he says, with a cheeky smile – he doesn’t usually talk back to her – you’ve already told me about the universe.

  She stops spinning and looks surprised for a second, then pulls his bobble hat down over his eyes.

  Glad you were paying attention, she says, before grabbing the sleeping bag from the ground and running inside.

  That afternoon, Liam’s dad drives them to the village fete – Róisín stares out of the truck window at the sheep watching them pass, then into the woods where the trees hide weasels and badgers. As they wind through the outskirts of the village she waves at her house, even though she knows her mum is still away.

  You OK, pet? asks her uncle.

  Did you know that there are 100 billion stars in our galaxy?

  Look, he smiles, we’ve arrived.

  Róisín is up and out of the car, waiting impatiently for Liam to undo his seat belt.

  There are stalls lined up along the high street; sweets and candyfloss, wooden figurines painted in bright colours, soft rugs of sheepskin that Róisín can’t help but touch, knitted dolls and, on the green, an assortment of engines and tractor parts that have arrived on a huge truck.

  Róisín grabs Liam’s hand – come on – and leads her cousin, running, up to the toffee-apple stall.

  Can we have one? she asks, fishing in her bag for this week’s pocket money. The coins spread out on her palm when she shakes her hand, a jangle of silver and copper, pennies and a ten-pence piece. We’ll share.

  She passes it to Liam and smiles at Mr Toffeeapple (actually it’s Mr Morris that runs the toffee-apple stall) and they go to the green and sit on one of the benches by the trees.

  He’s my Latin teacher, Róisín says, nodding at Mr Morris.

  Róisín is in a different school to Liam, though when they’re older they’ll go to the same school in the town, because that’s where everyone goes.

  Do you want to know Latin? she asks.

  He doesn’t answer; he is preoccupied with the toffee apple, so Róisín starts reciting for him anyway, or maybe for herself.

  Amo, amas, amat, she says.

  Ama-mus, ama-tis, am-ant.

  Lego, legas, legat. Lega-mus, lega-tis, leg-ant.

  The textbooks they use in her Latin class tell stories, and actually Róisín likes the stories more than she likes amo amas amat. There is a Roman man called Caecilius who lives in Pompeii, and he has a wife called Metella, a son Quintus and a dog Cerberus.

  She knows that Vesuvius will erupt by the end of the year, but the whole family will refuse to leave their home. She’s flicked forward in the book and read the final chapters; she likes to know how things will turn out, but she doesn’t like the fact that they stayed in Pompeii. They should have run away when the ash started to fall. For now, Caecilius is going to do business in the agora and his son is playing with the dog in the garden. They are quite rich Romans; they used to have a slave but soon Caecilius is going to make him a freedman. It’s a very moral textbook.

  We could run away, she says. We’ll go on an adventure.

  Liam takes a bite of the toffee apple, smudges caramel on his chin.

  Down to the river, how about that? We can make a secret hut where no one will find us and we can explore all the country and you can bring Bobby.

  I don’t need to bring Bobby, he says, momentarily sounding older than he is; he can’t always be the baby.

  But we can build the secret hut?

  She takes a bite of the toffee apple, still clutched in his hand.

  Liam’s dad is looking at the tractor pieces on the green, but every now and then he turns round to check on the kids. They’re like brother and sister, those two, he thinks; it is good for Liam not to be on his own all the time. The last year has been hard, on them both.

  The toffee-apple stick is thrown in the bin and Róisín’s on her feet again.

  Right, let’s go.

  It’s starting to get dark.

  But she’s pulling him along beside the green and heading for the river that runs by the village, through the woods.

  Then Liam’s dad is beside them, and he’s saying, where are you two off to?

  Just playing, Uncle Aedan.

  Time to go home, he says, taking Róisín’s hand and trusting Liam to follow along. Your mum asked me to look after you while she’s away, he says to her, and that’s what I’m doing.

  He’s not normally strict, Liam’s dad, he’s too preoccupied, and Róisín is surprised that he even noticed they were running away.

  So, he says, fish fingers for tea?

  Can we watch the comet again later?

  Liam’s dad looks up; he can’t see anything so unusual about the sky. She’s a funny girl, Róisín. Head in the clouds. And always staring at the stars, just like his brother, searching for something – not that that’s any excuse for running off the way he did. Taking Róisín in for the week was the least he could do.

  Of course you can, pet, he says kindly, wondering how a father could ever leave his child.

  At dusk, the stars begin to appear around the comet one by one.

  Tonight’s the night, Róisín says; she seems more excited than ever. They’re back out by the tent and she’s arranging the sleeping bag for them to sit on.

  But I’ve already seen it.

  That’s not the point. It’s not enough to just see it. You have to see it fly. You have to see it change.

  All right then. Liam looks up but her hands are suddenly clasped over his eyes. Not now. Not like this. Wait.

  She starts digging around for her maps and a sigh escapes his lips.

  She’s insisting he pays attention to the dots and lines on her sketch pad; some constellations are named, and they are the ones she points out to him.

  See this shape?

  Yes.

  OK, good, now remember that. And see here? That’s where the comet was last night. OK?

  Yes, yes, yes.

  Grand. I think you’re ready. And it’s nearly time.

  Her ponytail has come loose in the breeze and a strip of hair is caught in her mouth. He reaches to her face and brushes it away.

  Of course I’m ready, he says, and she looks at him as if she’s pleased.

  Liam wonders how his cousin got to be so bossy. He likes it though, in secret. It’s not often someone tells him what to do; it’s not often that someone even notices him. He once heard his dad talking about the farm to one of his great-aunts that came to visit from Dublin. It was just after the funeral, on the day everyone came for cake. He said that the world didn’t need the farm, but that his heart wouldn’t let him leave.

  When Liam remembers that, he wonders if it was really the farm his dad was talking about.

  Now, I’m going to prove to you that the comet is flying faster than anything else in the sky.

  But it’s still not moving.

  She puts her notebook down on the grass and squeezes his hand tight.

  I’ll help you.

  How are you going to help?

  Don’t look up, look here. Remember?

  She puts her map on his lap and he stares at it, trying to memorise the shapes, biting onto his bottom lip in the expression that he’s had when concentrating since he was learning to read and write; learning to build a farm w
ith wooden blocks.

  This is exactly what the sky looked like last night, at exactly this time. Now close your eyes.

  But I’ll miss it moving if I do that.

  You won’t miss it moving, you’ll notice that it has moved, and that’s different.

  OK, Liam says with a bit of trust, and a bit of uncertainty, and a bit of something else that he’s not able to describe.

  Go on, she insists. Close your eyes. For me. Please?

  This time Liam closes his eyes.

  He feels Róisín moving, but keeping hold of his hand. He can tell she’s sitting up. Next, he feels the air get warmer, his shivers stop, the breeze dies down. And then she plants a kiss on his lips. It is the swift, soft kiss of children, of cousins and best friends; of someone who has known you since the day you were born. She lies back down and the breeze picks up, the smells of the farm brush over his skin. His lips feel tingly. He keeps his eyes closed as he listens to the sound of her lying back down on the grass, and listens for the sound of the comet flying overhead. What kind of sound would that make? The sound of running out past the horses’ shelter, past the stream that winds along the bottom of the field and up the hill, up to the highest point of the village, to look back at things that are small and big and that make up everything he has known in his life.

  OK. You can open your eyes now.

  Liam opens his eyes.

  At first he can’t find it. He looks back to the bright star it had been next to, then sideways to Róisín. He looks for the constellations, but the comet’s not where it should be. Róisín has her hair in a sideways ponytail so she can lay her head flat on the ground, and she’s grinning at him like she knows a secret she’s not quite decided to share.

  It’s there now, she points.

  And it’s true. The comet has moved on. It really must be the fastest thing in the whole of the sky. It has passed by stars and through the transparent scattering of clouds and even though it looks like everything is completely still overhead now, even though he hasn’t actually seen the comet moving, he knows that it has moved. Róisín’s hand is still holding his.

  He doesn’t want to take his eyes off the sky. He doesn’t want to move. He watches the comet for a long time – longer than ever before. They lie side by side and stare at the sky and Liam wonders if staying perfectly still is the way to live in one week, in one moment, for the rest of his life.

  But when he looks back down to the farm everything has moved. He can feel the rush of the wind as the Earth races around the sun. He feels like he needs to cling on, or he will go flying off into space. Things shifted while he wasn’t looking at the ground and now the world is different; everything is beautiful, and wild, and precarious, because now he knows how the sky can change.

  1759

  Halley’s Comet

  In Bayeux, two sisters in lace dresses read to one another as their husbands play cards and drink cognac. The family home was once deserted, so the story goes, burned down to its stone foundations, but it was rescued by twin sisters, like them, and now it is filled with books and flowers and laughter. They read in the paper about the naming of a comet after an astronomer who did not live to see it arrive, but they are not saddened by this. They know that their house is filled with more than children – sometimes, when a comet flies through the sky, they see generations past and know that their family is tied to the skies and to their home and they are glad.

  That evening as the sun starts to dip they look for it in the sky, Halley’s comet – it is flying low, over the sea to the north. So the sisters take the carriage out past Saint-Laurent-sur-Mer, with their three daughters and Henri, the youngest, the only son. He loves the beach, Henri; he runs along the coast exploring the caves and collecting sea-urchin shells. Don’t stray too far, his mother calls, and he turns back and waves before racing on – his mother likes to stay near Bayeux, he knows, but Henri wants to go to sea.

  The sisters watch the sky as the night falls and the stars begin to shine from the dark, but they don’t notice that the wind is building up and the waves are crashing closer to the shore. They point out constellations to their daughters and teach them to read the skies, to follow the patterns of light in the dark and watch how the comet moves between them. But then they look down.

  Where is Henri? A question at first, changing to a shout, his name called by his mama and aunt and sisters, but Henri doesn’t hear – he is trapped by the waves along the coast, the ground sinking beneath his feet as tides pull him further out to sea. He tries to gasp in air, to shout, but his mouth fills with water and his eyes sting with salt; he can’t see through the dark, through the crash of the waves, but then a hand is holding his, an arm pulled around his waist, and he is lying, coughing on the rough sand of the beach.

  Mama? he says, as soon as he is able, with his eyes still scrunched up from the salt and his sisters running to him.

  He forces his eyes open, sees the whites of the waves crashing on the rocks beyond the sand. His sisters are crying and his aunt is running deeper into the sea – why is she in the sea now? Her lace dress is ghostly as it catches the light of the stars, disappears beneath the waves, and reappears again. As she walks, falls, crawls back to the beach, her hair is soaked and sticking to her face like seaweed. She wants to collapse, but doesn’t.

  Mama?

  She shakes her head, looks down.

  Henri rushes towards the sea but his sister grabs his hand and his aunt pulls him into her arms, holding him through his cries.

  Overhead the comet continues on its journey, speeding towards the sun before circling round to race away. It travels from light to dark, from intense heat to the frozen edge of the solar system, until reaching its limit half a century later and turning, again, towards the warmth.

  1986

  Halley’s Comet

  THE FAIR ARRIVES OVERNIGHT; TRUCKS and lorries and motorbikes moving snake-like through the high street, a multi-parted centipede of bright red and yellow, sparkling silver and plastic creatures and scenes of snow and forest and the Wild West.

  They set up during the day, the carousel, the twirly thing with swings that Róisín doesn’t know the name of, the rotor that spins so fast you can stay suspended against the walls after the ground disappears from below your feet.

  And that evening they open, and all the town arrives, and suddenly there are more people on the green than there have ever been. Róisín’s there with girls from school, all short skirts and coloured tights and trainers, jumpers that stop at their midriffs and hair blowing crazy wild in the wind. Róisín’s in skintight jeans, DM boots, silver hoop earrings that jangle down to her shoulders and catch the moonlight when she scoops back her dark hair.

  Is your cousin coming? they ask, all giggles; Liam has become the boy they want to impress.

  Róisín shrugs as if she thinks their latest crush is absurd, as if she couldn’t care less, but she scans the crowds as they move through the rides, past stalls, as they take turns to form a protective circle so one by one they can sip cider from the bottle concealed in her friend’s bag. And at the same time, she is somewhere else, she is above the clouds, waiting for Halley’s comet to get closer; and for Liam to find her.

  From the big wheel there’s a view over the trees, past the school, over fields and woodland and all the way to the farm; she thinks she can make out the sheds and stalls even in the dark, even with the fairground lights casting the rest of the world in shadow. Some kids in the carriage behind are swinging as hard as they can, screaming as they nearly overturn, almost make a full three sixty. Róisín doesn’t do that. She lets the carriage rock slowly in the wind and enjoys the world getting smaller beneath her.

  As she gets down she nearly trips on the metallic slats they use for steps but Liam catches her arm, steadies her.

  Didn’t think you were going to come, she says.

  His hand stays on her elbow for a moment.

  We all make sacrifices.

  His face is seriou
s but his eyes dance.

  Want to go on the rotor?

  She steps closer, lets her hand brush against his leather jacket, enjoys the way he is so much taller than her now; and without taking his hand she leads him through the queues to the only ride she really wants to go on, the only ride she thinks he might enjoy.

  Just this one, she says, then we can get out of here.

  A smile is playing about his lips; they know each other so well.

  He hands two tokens to the girl by the entrance and they step inside.

  There are ten of them in the circular room painted red and silver. She recognises another boy from the year below at school, smiles at how young he looks compared to Liam, how Liam already seems too old for this scene. Then at the last minute Rachel comes in as well, waves at Róisín from the opposite side of the circle, although it’s Liam she’s staring at – trying to get him to notice her – but then they all go quiet and wait for the room to move and the floor to drop.

  It starts slowly; someone laughs to break the silence but not Liam or Róisín, they are both waiting for the world to spin. They put their hands flat against the curved wall behind them, close to one another but not touching. Liam looks at the ground beneath their feet. It’s getting faster. He keeps his hand perfectly still but Róisín doesn’t, she moves it a few centimetres closer until her little finger touches his. It’s getting faster. And now the walls are starting to blur; red seeping into silver until they see flashes of light rather than stripes of colour, and they are pressed back hard into the wall and the floor starts to move. She can feel it sinking below her feet but she doesn’t sink with it, she stays suspended, weightless, needing nothing to stand on, closing her eyes so she can feel like she is able to fly and her hand moves again, presses over Liam’s and she doesn’t even hear the screaming and laughing of the others in the circle with them; she is soaring over the world.

  Beside her, Liam keeps his eyes open, although he wants to close them; he is afraid that if he did he would forget there are people watching. He can feel each one of her fingers over his own and as they spin faster the palm of her hand is pressed harder into the back of his and he moves his thumb in closer, holding her there, and he wants to do more than that and at the same time he likes this feeling, wants to stay in this moment of being together in a blurred world of colour and light.