Reborn? says Hélène. Resurrected?
She giggles at her choice of words.
It recovered, says François, more serious than Hélène. It keeps growing and changing – he looks at her, her laugh fading now – somehow it survives.
He wants to tell Severine about it, leave a message on her answerphone to match the message she left him about the comet, but he doesn’t. It is not conscious, but somehow the gratitude he felt then is retreating now, and being replaced with something else.
1927
Comet Skjellerup–Maristany
The sound of the war wakes Paul-François at night again, the blasts of battle and worse, the groans of men whose skin is rotting; slow deaths, as vivid as if he were lying among them. They gave him a medal when he returned – still, he doesn’t know what to make of that – a medal for killing men, or for not being killed. Perhaps it is just a medal for surviving.
His wife wakes beside him – she seems young to him, though they are the same age – eyes of concern, as though she is looking at a stranger in her bed. They did not really know each other when they married; they met as teenagers when he was on shore leave. And war changes people, that he is certain of now.
Paul-François, she says, will you come back to me?
But he doesn’t know how to answer that. He leaves the bedroom and creeps down the stairs that creak so that he can stand outside. The cold helps. The sky. There is a stack of wood at the end of the garden; he’s been collecting it though he doesn’t know why, but tonight he starts to build – he needs to create something after all the destruction he has seen. He has forgotten about his wife upstairs but she has followed him down and now she helps, as they saw and hammer wood through the night.
They finish what they are building as the dawn begins to break, and the comet overhead fades into the orange sweep of the horizon. Paul-François stands back, looks at the structure he has built.
It is a nice shed, says his wife, trying to make him smile.
But Paul-François still feels the weight of what he has seen; he doesn’t know if he can ever be the man that his wife married.
I remember your laughter, she says, placing his hand on her belly. I still believe it will return.
His unborn daughter gives his hand a little kick.
I remember it too, he says, and she smiles.
That is how it begins.
2011
Comet Lovejoy
LIAM KNEW IT WAS COMING but still he is unprepared for its insistence, for the way it makes his chest tighten – there hasn’t been a comet this bright in years. He doesn’t look up, it hurts too much, but he can feel it watching him. Perhaps that makes it worse; to be visible but unable to see.
He shakes his head. To be haunted by a lump of rock thousands of miles away. There are things closer to earth he should be worrying about.
He no longer allows himself to think about Róisín.
That’s a lie, obviously.
The colours of the world are earthy, here; browns and greens and the murky froth of a churning river. Frost comes overnight then melts during the day, causing wood to splinter and crack – he sees it in the walls of the barn, in the broken log that used to lead from the riverbank to the island, that is now only a mangle of bark and branches clinging to the shore.
One day he walks out to the field and shoots his only remaining cow. It’s not like before; this is not a culling, it is just goodbye to the last, sick heiferette he couldn’t bring himself to sell. He doesn’t say sorry – he can no longer see the point in talking to animals. He doesn’t think about her name. He throws the carcass on a pyre of wood and hay and boxes from the attic. The stink is of burning meat, it lingers for weeks afterwards on his clothes, on his skin. It taints the food he eats. The farm is silent now.
When he stands at the graveside his eyes wander from the dedication of his dad’s headstone, rest briefly on his mother’s matching one, then stray behind to members of his family that he never knew. They have lived on the farm for generations, and been buried in this patch of land beneath his feet; it is strange, to feel the weight of this history but get no comfort from it.
One by one he reads their names, for the last time – he has decided that he won’t be visiting again – like a roll call, a school register: Gone, he says, instead of here. Gone, gone, gone.
He stops opening his post; bills and bank statements, legal letters and birthday cards all go straight onto the fire. His denial does not discriminate. The lacy cream paper of a wedding invitation crackles and twists away to embers beneath a threatening demand for a loan repayment.
He sits out by the broken section of fence and allows himself to watch the sky. He makes a map of the night, marking on constellations, galaxies, stars that he can’t name, a swirl of cloud and the position of Comet Lovejoy. Without meaning to, he draws it on the top half of the page, leaving space for the farm below it. He leaves it blank for a while and he thinks about ripping it up or burying it in the mud, but stops short of acting each time he is about to let his anger surface.
Then, at around 2 a.m., he draws a herd of cattle, horses galloping down by the stream, sheep herded into the west field and four people sitting out by the barn. He draws it like a child’s picture, stick men and women with round smiling faces, the barn a four-walled box with square windows, the grass like little spikes rising up prettily from the ground.
Mum.
Dad.
Liam.
Róisín.
He skewers the page onto the broken wooden pole of the fence and heads back indoors.
Róisín has bought new furniture for her apartment, a bookcase and matching coffee table; she unpacks the boxes that have been delivered, half builds the shelves before getting bored with the job and heading outside.
It’s like a fairy tale, New York, one sprinkled with a harsh reality but full of more surprises than she’d imagined when she dreamed of living there. She walks past the university, a group of Japanese women stopping her to ask for directions; she’s pleased, she must look like she belongs here now, and this is a city that takes years to get to know.
Where should we go? they say.
Sure that depends on what you want to see, she smiles.
They laugh loudly, as if rising to the challenge of the twenty-four-hour buzz of New York.
She calls her mum from the North Woods in Central Park, finding a stone where she can sit and watch the stream away from the crowds that gather even in December.
We’ve chosen a dress you’ll like, I hope, for the wedding, her mum says. We’re thinking dark blue for you, like the night sky.
It sounds beautiful, she says. I’ll try it on as soon as I land.
We’ll be there, her mum says – she sounds excited – we’ll come to the airport. Can’t wait to see you!
Me too, Róisín smiles. Put Conall on, I want to tell him about this new flavour of ice cream I’ve found.
It’s the middle of winter—
Yes, but it’s avocado and prawn – it’s non-season specific.
To her surprise, after saying her goodbyes, Róisín lifts her phone again, looks up a number in her address book that she hasn’t used for a while. Her old boss in Bayeux answers – Róisín, you’re coming back to us? – No, she laughs, but maybe I could call into the department for a visit while I’m in Europe?
They’ve worked together on a few projects over the years, searching for clues that planets might exist further away than can be seen. It’s funny; when she lived there she imagined herself to be so far away from Ireland, but now, they’re like neighbouring villages when compared to a flight over the Atlantic. She can’t shake a feeling that she left something behind in Bayeux. Perhaps, she thinks, she was in too much of a hurry to leave.
SEVERINE TAKES FLOWERS TO HER mama’s grave every weekend, the colours changing with the seasons. Sometimes she leaves cakes or pastries too, and occasionally a bottle of Calvados brandy or amaretto. She hasn’t seen her since she d
ied, but she is waiting patiently and she thinks today’s the day – this comet is special, she knows it: this one is a sungrazer.
You do know this is very cruel, her mama says, appearing at last and standing beside her. I can’t even drink that.
But you remember the taste?
Her face lights up. Maybe some biscuits next week?
I’ll see what I can do.
Her granny’s shaking her head, her arm linked through her mama’s – they seem closer now than they ever did when they were alive – and Severine joins them, linking her arm through her mama’s and kissing her cheek before resting her head on her shoulder. Welcome home, she says.
Severine?
She turns, surprised by the voice; she had forgotten François was going to be coming today.
She tries to brush away the voices as if she were swatting flies away from her face. Then she stops.
I was wrong, you know, her mama says, that time in the kitchen. I understand now. You don’t lose people by listening. And you don’t lose people by speaking, either.
So, standing at her mama’s graveside with her mama’s arm linked in her own, Severine tells François, adult to adult, that there are two ghosts standing beside her.
Back in his own flat, François opens bottles of beer for himself and Hélène. She’s looking out of the window, watching the snow.
It’s the coldest December on record, she says.
He looks out at the snow as well; sees its beauty, and thinks of ice. It makes him long for something he can’t describe.
He hasn’t told her about that conversation with his mama yet – he doesn’t know what to make of it, the voices returning again after years of silence. He doesn’t want to think about what it might mean.
He misses his grand-mère; perhaps he could have spoken to her about this. Although she wasn’t one to put up with any nonsense.
Hélène’s hand on his shoulder is startling, the warmth of her leg next to his helps bring him back to earth. Her lips do the rest.
He wakes again, startlingly early. It is getting to be a habit. He gets up without waking Hélène, creeps to the kitchen to stand at the window. The snow has settled during the night; the world has turned to a perfect untouched white. He breathes out.
Hélène wakes and knows that François is up again, looking out of the window, probably, but she doesn’t follow him there. She’s tried that before, and it doesn’t make him any more likely to sleep through the night.
The NASA website says this comet will be difficult to see; it is bright, very bright, but it is too close to the sun. It is going to fly through the blazing heat of the sun’s corona and it may not survive. Even if it does survive it may never come back, they say, and Severine guesses that the damage sustained would make it unpredictable.
Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . shouts Antoine to Severine’s mother – they are both acting like children today, playing hide-and-seek – and there’s Great-Grandpa Paul-François crawling into the cupboard under the stairs.
Her granny presses her fingers to her lips.
Severine shakes her head, looks at her calendar with a smile that fades. She may not have very long, if this comet is heading towards death.
The view on her calendar is an iceberg floating in a clear sea.
She hasn’t heard from François since she told him about the ghosts.
In the restaurant, François’s hand slips. He curses; he is a fool – his mind was elsewhere.
He wraps a blue plaster around the cut. So unlike him, to let a knife slip.
It was the heat, he says to himself. He is no longer enjoying the heat.
For a second, a fraction of a second, he thinks about walking out. He could leave this job, travel the world, see temples and oceans, cook fishcakes and snake curry in places he has only seen on TV. But there are customers waiting and there are people in his life he cannot leave.
He needs to be more careful with his knife, that’s all.
He carries on cooking.
At home, Hélène says she will kiss him better.
Then we could go out? she says. Sophie and Marc are in Le Baromètre. A few drinks?
Yes, he says, you’re right. Let’s go out.
Into the snow, she smiles.
He reaches for her hat on the side table, pulls it down over her eyes as she giggles.
Tall white candles twinkle in old-fashioned iron holders. The lights are low and warm, the voices around them animated. A dog stands by the fire, shakes his coat dry as snowflakes melt to water and scatter into drops of rain. It is busy, so François and Hélène share a chair, their arms around one another as they chat to their friends, telling stories of the restaurant and the troublesome customers, the manager whose face is redder by the day, the waitress having an affair with the head chef and how they are all pretending they have no idea it’s going on.
You can’t hide passion, laughs Hélène, her voice dipping playfully at the end of her sentence, squeezing François’s arm. And for the evening he forgets to worry about his mama and he forgets the claustrophobia of the kitchen. There are just his friends and Hélène and the heat of the bistro and the frosted glass and the falling snow outside. How perfect, he thinks, to live in a frozen white world.
On the way home he starts saying something he hadn’t meant to say; he’s not sure that he’s ready to share it but the drinks have relaxed him and he feels so close to Hélène tonight.
Do you believe in ghosts? he says.
It is just the beginning of a conversation, for him, a way to start, but her reaction makes it the end of the conversation as well.
Don’t be silly, she laughs – and she has a nice laugh, a young laugh, and it echoes between the tall buildings either side of the street. Are you feeling OK, chouchou? she says, still giggling, as she puts her hand on his forehead and he knows that he’s not going to tell her about his mama.
Severine is trying not to sleep. Brigitte doesn’t come in the day very often but she’ll come in the night, Severine knows that.
You’re looking for a way to help her? her granny says.
I’m trying . . .
You’re a kind girl, you always were, says her granny. But how do you find someone when you don’t even know their name?
The father?
Her granny shakes her head. There is no record of him having a son, even though he remarried.
What?
His first wife died, he remarried. We found her name in the parish records, your great-grandpa Paul-François and I. She had a strange-sounding name.
Yes?
I wrote it down, I think. I kept all my notes in the shed – they might still be there.
Why didn’t you just tell me?
The answer’s not there, Severine. I’m so sorry, I know what it’s like – and I know she can’t let it go – but you should. Brigitte’s son is gone. And I think perhaps you should be thinking about François instead.
In the night the worry creeps up on Severine, not about the ghosts but about the living: that look on François’s face. Was she wrong to tell him? Perhaps there are still some things that a mother should hide from her child. But she doesn’t want to hide. She is a daughter, and a granddaughter, and many generations beyond that too; why should she have to choose, between her ghosts and her son? Just because the women in her family have a history of losing their children, doesn’t mean it will happen to her.
She tries phoning him, of course, but she gets no answer and she doesn’t leave a message. He will come for Sunday lunch, she thinks, like he always has. She will give him time, and gradually he will come to understand about the ghosts.
THE WEDDING IS ON THE Sunday afternoon. They have sun, a glittering frost, a slight breeze, bouquets of bluebells and a photo that each of them will frame to remember: Adele and Neil, Conall and Róisín, in silver and dark blue. A second wedding for them both, there are no white dresses or confetti here; it is stars and comets, it is calm, and it is family.
&n
bsp; Only an overheard phrase can obscure the beautiful night sky: He never even leaves the farm.
Did Liam reply to the invitation? Róisín asks her mum in a quiet moment, her arm slipping comfortably around her shoulder.
She shakes her head, just slightly, sadly. These days he stays away. We haven’t seen him since last year. Should I have insisted?
Of course not. Róisín kisses her mum’s head – she is a few inches taller than her mum now, she doesn’t remember when that became the case.
I could phone?
No, don’t worry. It was his choice to make.
I suppose so.
He was always stubborn, Róisín thinks. The last time she saw him he was leaving the village shop a few days before Christmas, three years ago. She was out with her mum – she started walking towards him to say hello but he turned away. It’s been much longer than three years since she heard his voice.
She catches up with Keira; they wander over to the village green and sit on the bench, hands wrapped around their takeaway coffees for warmth. Keira has brought her some walnut cake. Róisín has a gift too, a small print, which she hands over with an embarrassed laugh.
Sorry it’s not a full poster, she says. It was all I could fit in my case . . .
Keira unwraps it, claps her hands and grins, wide-eyed.
It’s just a photo of the Horsehead Nebula, smiles Róisín.
It’s beautiful!
I’m glad you like it.
And although Róisín doesn’t ask, Keira mentions, in among the village gossip and news of the new cinema that might open in the next town, that no one has seen Liam for quite a while. After a moment of understanding, the conversation moves on to other things, and Róisín is grateful for that.
At dusk they stroll back through the village, arm in arm.
Driving out to the mountains, she spends a day walking with her mum, telling her about the people she knows in New York, the way the sun turns the windows of skyscrapers golden, the energy of the crowds that fill the streets with character. They pick early wild flowers to take home, arranging them in delicate glass vases along the windowsill when they return in the evening.
The Comet Seekers Page 18
