The Comet Seekers

by Helen Sedgwick

  She helps Neil outside in the garden – they sand and varnish an old wooden bench and picnic table, ready for the spring – and she plays computer games like when she and Conall were young, not minding when she loses every level; winning and losing was never really the point.

  She lies in bed, windows open to let in the cold, a hint of dew in the air, and thinks that perhaps she should go to the farm, but she doesn’t think she would be welcome there. She reaches for her phone instead, dials the number that she still has, and waits as it rings out and clicks over to an answerphone without a message. She would have liked to hear his voice, she realises as she hangs up the phone, but he has made it clear that he doesn’t want to see her. She tries to get to sleep; tomorrow she is going to Bayeux.

  Liam counts seven days on his calendar, seven days since he last drove to the supermarket that has opened outside the town and exchanged some words with the teenager working the till. Hello. Thank you. That’s OK, I can manage on my own.

  He can still see something in the way people look at him, as if they’ve heard the stories and want to know if they are true. Sometimes he wants to tell them that he did nothing wrong. Most of the time he just doesn’t want to be reminded at all.

  He counts the tins in his cupboard, the plates in his sink. He washes them carefully and puts them away.

  The world is busy, he thinks. That is all.

  It has been a long time since anyone else was in his home.

  He hears a crash, and looks outside at the latest broken tile that has fallen from the roof. Another thing he must try to fix.

  The comet is still there, in the sky. It hurts his eyes to look at it. But it will be destroyed in the sun, this one – he heard that on the radio. This is its one chance, its only chance to see what it came to see. Perhaps it’s up there waiting for it to happen.

  He remembers something Róisín once told him about Comet West. It had an orbital period of two hundred thousand years – when they saw it, the prediction was that its next visit to earth would be two hundred thousand years in the future – but no one knew that as it approached the sun it would break. It split into two pieces, so they thought at first, but looking closer they could see it was many, too many to count. This one comet, one amazing comet that he saw in the daytime sky when he was a child, had got too close; had fractured into pieces that would never be whole again.

  He goes outside at sunrise, picks up the pieces of the broken tiles that have fallen from the roof – more seem to be coming down every day. He doesn’t rush, and he doesn’t hesitate. There are birds awake already; the comet seems stationary overhead. It’s been such a long time since he saw the sky change, he’s given up believing that it can.

  He looks at the roof, knows that he needs to go up to see what is causing all the damage, besides the ice and the rain and the time. Perhaps it has just been there too long, he thinks. He walks round to the ladder propped up against the back of the house, raises the extension as high as the steps will go. When he reaches the top of the ladder, he can stretch to the attic window, pull himself up by the frame, make it to the roof. The patches where tiles are missing look bare and vulnerable. He can see a pool of water by the chimney, where one of the leaks must be coming in. So much to fix. So much he has never been able to fix.

  From the roof he can see the whole of the farm – the cowsheds, now empty, the barn with its door hanging off, fields that are turning to mud, old fence posts leaning over in the wind like old men. Not a single person in sight. He’s not afraid of falling, he realises as he looks around the farm that he was unable to save, lifting another loose tile from the roof and balancing it neatly beside him. And as he watches the scene that doesn’t change, that seems frozen in its decay, he thinks that, perhaps, it would be good to fall.

  EVERY SUNDAY FRANÇOIS GOES FOR lunch, without reminding Severine that he is coming; every Sunday she has lunch prepared, with a wine chilled or given space to breathe in advance. Every Sunday he checks the table and since that day, after he noticed the comet, there have been two places laid, as there should be, not six, as if she is losing her mind.

  He thinks perhaps she was just missing her mother, or was being metaphorical, or needed some time away.

  We could go on a holiday somewhere?

  She scoffs, lifts a tray of roast potatoes but it slips from her hand and clatters to the floor.

  The next day he buys tickets for them both to go to Iceland. It will be the first holiday outside of France they’ve had since he was a boy.

  What makes you imagine I would go away now, she says, when I’ve never done it before?

  Everyone needs a holiday, he says quietly, gently. He was trying to be kind.

  If you want to go away then you go, she says, you don’t need my permission.

  Come on, Severine, don’t be like that.

  I can’t leave the ghosts.

  There’s no such thing as ghosts!

  She looks angry for a second, angry at his words or the volume with which he spoke them. He didn’t mean to shout but this is ridiculous.

  Severine sees her son’s expression and the guilt hits her. All his life, she has been putting the ghosts first.

  Are we having a fight? she says, trying to soothe him with a smile, and François sees his mama’s face return to what he knows. I’m sorry.

  I only got the tickets for us to go together. Both of us. It will be so different – a different world.

  He holds his hands wide, to try and show her how much more there is for her to see, but to Severine his palms moving further apart seem like mother and son, with increasing distance in between. She shakes away the thought.

  Try this wine, she says. I think it will be perfect with our boeuf bourguignon.

  He wants to put his arm around her, but doesn’t know how.

  Moving to the window, he looks out through the frosty glass to see a woman standing in the street, looking straight at him. It is a strange feeling, a jolt of recognition stronger than scent. But then she is turning, holding a mobile phone to her ear, and the spell is broken and she moves away.

  Later, Severine is pensive, rocking on her armchair of hand-carved wood.

  Maybe you are right, she says. You should go travelling; go anywhere you want. Go see the world. I’ve always thought you should see the world.

  I like it here.

  That’s what he says, but what he’s thinking is that he couldn’t leave, not when he doesn’t understand what’s wrong with her.

  I always used to want to travel, she says, wistful now. That was my plan, you know, to travel around the world. So, if you want—

  Why on earth would I want to leave? he says. I love it here. I want to live in Paris, near you.

  He decides that he will get a refund for the tickets. It wasn’t for him, this holiday, she is the one who needs to get away. Besides, somehow he knew it wouldn’t be that easy.

  RÓISÍN CHECKS IN TO A B&B near her old apartment in Bayeux, overlooking the garden where families used to camp out for the night – she’s sure she remembers seeing that happen, years ago. She meets her old research group in the bar where they’d said goodbye to her, though it is different now, of course, extended into a pretty terrace with outdoor heaters where they can sit in the evening’s low sun. Her old boss is greying now; colleagues show her pictures of their children in between talking about the new deep-field telescope, observations promising planets that hint at life – there could be so much life, she says, out there. She feels like the universe is filled with it.

  On the way back to the B&B she finds herself standing outside the garden, a locked gate between her and the trees and what sounds like a stream. She tests the strength of the lowest bar, climbs onto it and swings her legs over to the other side. She’s not sure why she’s doing it, but she finds herself slipping off her shoes and socks, walking barefoot on the grass to feel the damp stems soft between her toes. And she was right – there is a stream behind the trees. The water glitters over peb
bles in the moonlight and she dips her feet in, gasping at the cold, but liking it, following the flow until she comes to a clearing, lies out on the grass as water freezes on her skin and stares at the sky until she can see all the colours of the Earth in its shine.

  Creeping back to her B&B in the early hours, taking the stairs two at a time to try to avoid their creak, she feels young again. A smile plays about her lips.

  In the morning she goes to the university where they talk about new collaborations, sharing data across the ocean, and it feels wonderfully easy to be connected to all these people. New ideas spark as they talk: a new grant the research team could apply for, a postdoc who wants to join her in New York, a month’s research they could share in Hawaii next year. Promises to be in touch are given, kisses on both cheeks exchanged. Ah, see – they joke with her, their accents strong and lilting – you are French too, you are one of us.

  She calls in to the local patisserie for lunch, smiles at a display of cakes all colours of the rainbow: pineapple and blueberry, red velvet and peppermint with pure white icing. Sips her coffee and lets the flavours linger as she compares the tastes of different countries, different continents. Her favourite changes with her mood, but right now she can’t imagine anything better than this.

  She finds herself walking through the streets of Bayeux, reminding herself of the architecture she had loved, of the way the canals play hide-and-seek through the town, and she looks up next to a house on the outskirts that she’d forgotten about, though now she sees it again it feels familiar. There is a small fence around the front garden, a row of birds perched neatly along its top.

  Inside a woman is laughing in the kitchen, while a young man leaves her side to walk to the window. She hadn’t meant to stare in, but he looks back out at her. It is strange, the way his arm almost rises in a wave as if he knew her, the way she feels her smile grow.

  The sound startles her as the birds take off from the fence in unison. A rush of flapping wings and synthetic notes: a mobile phone. Her mobile phone. She reaches into her pocket, doesn’t know why her mum would be phoning her, or why her mum’s voice sounds like it is breaking.

  What’s wrong?

  She turns from the window.

  Mum, what is it?

  Liam, she says, it’s Liam. I’m so sorry. He’s . . .

  Róisín is already running, away from the house that felt both foreign and familiar, and away from the man inside.

  FRANÇOIS MISSES A SUNDAY LUNCH, can’t face another argument. The last time he was there she barely saw him; too busy talking to thin air, only looking up to invite him to join the imaginary conversation. It took him back to when he was a child, remembering how it felt to be unnoticed by his mama, and worse, not knowing what was wrong or how to make it stop. So instead he spends the day waiting for Severine to call. She doesn’t.

  Hélène makes sausages with roasted tomato and rosemary, one of the recipes he has taught her; she is kind enough not to ask why he has skipped Sunday lunch with his mama.

  He doesn’t mention that it was his mama’s recipe she has just cooked. But he phones the restaurant, offers to come in for an extra shift tonight.

  When François doesn’t arrive, Severine makes the ghosts wait for their lunch, and they sit impatiently around the table chattering about how she forgot to place the vegetable order this week – forgot to open the shop altogether on Thursday. Brigitte is the only one who doesn’t talk all the time, and Severine has come to appreciate that. She catches her eye over the table and Brigitte looks almost kind as she asks: What’s happened to your son, Severine?

  Severine feels a tugging at her heart. It is strange, the way her words sink in and their meaning expands, the emotion of them suddenly binding the women together as she shakes her head and says: What happened to your son, Brigitte? And she knows she has to go looking; not for François – if he wanted to come for lunch he would come – but for the child that was stolen. She can’t force her own son to understand, or to believe her, but perhaps she can find another son who is lost.

  She abandons lunch – or rather serves it up to the ghosts and leaves them to it – and she starts in the shed, throwing boxes and suitcases out of the way until she finds her granny’s old notes. It’s not enough, so she goes straight to the church; running now, suddenly convinced that she has to find the answer. They’re surprised to see her, though less so when she insists it is the parish records she wants to visit, and not the service.

  Every table is loud and laughing in the restaurant and there’s a queue out of the door. In this weather, what are they doing, go home – they laugh in the kitchen – but secretly they are enjoying themselves. All François can think about though is the heat and the noise and the smell and the heat, it’s impossible to think about anything else and that’s what he needed tonight; so it’s hardly surprising he doesn’t realise he’s being called from the door. He’s working, he can’t stop; everything is perfectly timed, stepping out would ruin it. But there’s that voice again.

  François, it’s important.

  He stops what he’s doing, looks up.

  François!

  His mama is standing in the restaurant kitchen, shouting to him.

  The head chef glares at him – members of the public are not supposed to be back here, and besides, she looks a little crazy, her hair and clothes drenched from the snow, a puddle of melted ice already forming on the floor.

  I’ve had an idea, she’s smiling, I had to share it with you.

  Mama – he never calls her mama, what does it mean that he’s calling her mama instead of Severine? – what are you talking about?

  One of the ghosts, she begins.

  The embarrassment hits him unexpectedly, a rush of blood to his face; everyone will hear this.

  And then she’s talking to other people too, people who aren’t here; she’s looking over her shoulder, laughing at God knows what, arguing with an old man who isn’t there. This is the worst he’s ever seen it.

  Severine.

  There was a baby, she’s saying, and he was stolen, and I think I know what happened to him.

  Mama.

  She looks straight up at him.

  He takes her by the arm.

  There’s a quiet cafe, round the corner, he says. Come on. This way.

  He wraps his coat around her shoulders, gently guides her out of the kitchen and towards the street, feels his back burning where every set of eyes are staring at her – and staring at him.

  She lays out a family tree on the table, with little heaps of salt and pepper for people and toothpicks connecting the branches. He encourages her to drink some peppermint tea. It is quiet here, at least; that is a relief.

  Do you see? she says.

  He looks at the mess on the table, remembers a night when he was a boy, when she dragged him out of bed in the middle of the night and said they were running away to Paris.

  Severine, he says, taking her hand, Mama, I think there’s something wrong. I . . . I think we should talk to a doctor.

  You’re not listening to me. Brigitte, she had a child.

  There is no Brigitte. She doesn’t exist, Mama, this is nonsense.

  It is not nonsense.

  And her face is different; an expression of stubbornness he remembers from when he was a boy.

  He runs his hand through his hair, tries to find the words to make her see the reality.

  But just as suddenly she is back, as he knows her. I’m sorry, she says. I interrupted your evening – as if she’s only just realised he was at work – you should go back to the restaurant, she smiles. I’ll get the next train home. Back to Bayeux.

  As she stands up, she stumbles against the table and the family tree scatters, black and white salt and pepper falling to the floor like ash.

  Then she stops in mid-stride, turns back for a minute with sadness in her eyes.

  You missed Sunday lunch, she says. You were missed at Sunday lunch.

  François desperately wan
ts to say he’s sorry. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, he’d just wanted to avoid a scene – this one, in fact – until he’d worked out how to deal with it. But then she changes again; never mind, she says, never mind, everyone else was there, and she turns and walks towards the door.

  François reaches for a serviette, starts to clean up the mess then stops and rests his head in his hands. Looking up he sees Severine open the door, step outside, and rush off down the street without looking back.

  He walks home that evening through the melting streets of Paris – snow turning to slush, sheets of ice into puddles – and tries to let the changing beauty of his city distract him from his thoughts. There is a comet in the sky, but tonight he will not stand outside in wonder.

  They hadn’t teased him when he got back to the kitchen, though he was expecting it; they had been concerned. Chefs are usually more raucous than that – all rough language and rough skin. That’s how you know when something is really wrong, he thinks to himself, when people who usually prefer to goad offer kindness.

  He doesn’t know what is happening to his mama.

  Later, Severine sits straight up in bed and puts the light on, even though Brigitte hates it.

  I’ve had an idea, she says.

  An idea about what?

  What happened to your son.

  There is a pause before Brigitte replies.

  He is alive?

  He died five hundred years ago. But he might have lived beyond that night, I think.

  Brigitte is still, her face lit by the moonlight.

  Great-Grandpa Paul-François begins, describing their arrival at the old chapel in Bayeux, sixty years ago. How they went to the archives, down in the baptistery, found records barely legible in faded ink and misspelled scribbles.