The Comet Seekers: A Novel (12 page)

Perhaps that is her own fault. Hers, and his.

She doesn’t want to be haunted like this.

But she doesn’t want the Sams of this world either, the confident men with their city accents and easy conversation. She wants the whole world, a life full of different people, the bright lights dancing between her outstretched palms like she’d imagined as a child. And though nothing so far has compared to what she left behind she knows what she’s going to do. As the horizon blurs into a faded pink and she turns to see a child’s silhouette on the top of the hill, she knows; she is going to keep searching, because there is something more for her to see.

1858

Donati’s Comet

One minute the house was bursting with life and then the men were gone and the women, safe but left behind, feel the weight of silence as they wait. Crimea – not a place they had even thought of until it was all they could think of. And then there was no word. The war ended, but there was no word. The men did not return. Instead, a comet has appeared in the sky.

Mama Bélanger has not taken to her bed – that they would understand – she has taken to her bath and is refusing to get out. The comet is not here to hurt you, they say, but she has convinced herself it is poison invading her mind that only water can destroy. She scrunches her eyes closed, clasps her hands over her ears.

No! she shouts. No, I will not listen!

The doctor shrugs and says she is getting old, which she is, though what he means is that she must be going mad. Her eldest daughter disagrees. But that evening Mama Bélanger is calm again, and they can hear her softly singing a lullaby from when they were children.

Her eldest daughter brings her fresh hot water for the bath – if she must lie in there for days, she reasons, better to do it in the warm than in the cold.

Will you not get out tonight, Mama?

She pauses, wondering if she should go on.

This comet will do no harm, she smiles, reaches forward to brush her mama’s hair away from her face. I promise you that.

My sons are gone.

Yes, Mama, she says, glancing over, sadly, to the corner of the room. But your daughters are still here.

Mama Bélanger stands up and allows her daughter – who will one day be a mother and grandmother and great-grandmother – to help her out of the bath.

I want to show you something, Mama, she says.

Is there more I have to see?

Something more, yes, she replies, kissing her mama on the head.

She leads her out to the garden and they sit on the grass in the dark and gaze up at the stars overhead, and at the comet.

You see, Mama, she says. There’s nothing to be afraid of any more.

And she looks over to the ghosts of her brothers who are sitting opposite them in the moonlight and smiles.

Our family is changed, but will survive.

1996

Comet Hyakutake

FRANÇOIS’S MAMA IS FUSSING.

He takes the blackcurrant jam from the cupboard – they made it together at the weekend, fruit and sugar simmering in a pan for hours as they prepared the dough for the bread. He scoops out a teaspoonful, puts it upside down in his mouth as he watches her check there’s milk in the fridge for chocolat chaud, the book for his bedtime story, a list of emergency numbers pinned to the wall by the phone.

It’s OK, the sitter says. His mama told him she’s a student from the university. We’re going to have fun, she says to François, patting his blond hair as he pulls away and then, using a different voice to Severine: you too, enjoy your date.

His mama glances in the hallway mirror before she leaves. Her hair is loose, not tied up like it is when she’s working, and her dress is red and gold, her arms decorated with bangles.

Be good, she says to François.

You know, I don’t need a babysitter, he says, you could just trust me . . .

You’re only ten years old. We’ll talk about it later.

He scoops up another spoonful of jam and lets the rich flavours sink onto his tongue, waves goodbye.

In the restaurant, Severine starts telling lies and finds she cannot stop; the last ten years of her life have become a fiction for anyone who cares to listen. I spent a year in Vietnam, she says; the heat, the moisture, it fills your lungs, and the traffic – twelve lanes moving each way, criss-crossed, no separation between them, bikes, cars, buses, motorbikes, taxis, tuk-tuks, a mess of vehicles and if you want to cross the road, you just step out into it. It’s a leap of faith.

And where will you travel to next? he asks.

The opposite, maybe Greenland. It’s so empty, so big, you know? When you look on the globe it’s a mass of frozen land. What would that be like?

He’s leaning forward over the table, almost seems to be reaching for her hand.

I’d like to go to the desert, he says, to see sand dunes and hazy gold sky in every direction. I’d like to see a mirage.

Severine smiles.

A mirage of what?

Anything; an oasis, an iceberg, a civilisation.

I think I’d see the past.

But he shakes his head, not interested in that route; the past is done with, he says, I want the future. I’m only interested in what comes next.

François tells the babysitter he would like to read to himself in bed, and he selects the world atlas from the tall bookshelves
in the study, climbing up on his child’s plastic stepladder to reach it.

The sitter doesn’t seem to know what to do, watches on to check that he’s safe while he ignores her and carries his atlas down to the table, carries the stepladder back to the kitchen; politely wishes her a good night from the top of the stairs.

Goodnight, François, she says, turning back to the sitting room and marvelling at how a ten-year-old can make her feel too young to be a babysitter.

In bed, François opens up his atlas to the page he was up to: Indonesia, it says, and he traces his finger over the tiny dots of land that decorate a blue-and-white sea. Sangkapura, he says, rolling the consonants on his tongue, Belitung, Masalembo. The land here is drawn green and yellow and orange and he thinks that means there are mountains, rising up from the sea. Thirteen thousand, six hundred islands, it says, under Geography. He tries to think of something else with a number that big, but he can’t.

Severine and her date go for drinks after dinner, rich red wine in a dark candlelit bar where they flirt over what the future will bring. Slim buildings of glass that stretch to the clouds, a colony on Mars where people will live in the orangey glow of starting over, cities built on the crisp water of melted ice caps. His hand on her knee. A glass nearly spilled, then saved. But this is not real life, and underneath the flirting Severine knows it.

On the walk home, it happens: a shiver of warmth, a rush of relief and Severine is not alone any more.

I’m sorry, she says to the man beside her whose name she’s already starting to forget. You can’t come any further. But thank you.

As he walks away, confused, she pulls her shawl over her head, around her neck; a smile already building somewhere in her chest.

The ghosts walk beside her, their steps turning to skips and bounds as their casual greetings become a flurry of words and questions and playful amusement.

By the time she reaches home, there are five of them; by the time she has paid the sitter and made her way upstairs to François’s room, there are eleven. Henri from the 1750s is here, the sisters in lace dresses, and Great-Great-Grandma Bélanger with her wet hair in curlers. Behind them all a soldier boy shimmers out of view, and the laughter, the relief is bubbling inside her because they are here, and she is surrounded by family.

François is woken up by voices and at first he is afraid. He sits up in bed, listens hard and hears his mama – he thinks it is his mama – but she sounds different, and she’s not making any sense.

You daft old man, she’s saying. You think you can be funny now, do you?

And then she’s laughing, and François is opening his bedroom door quietly so he can see who’s there, see who it is that’s making his mama sound so young and happy.

As he tiptoes to the banister he sees her, but he rubs his eyes, doesn’t understand, because she is talking and laughing with no one at all.

Granny, she calls, arms wide.

François looks for his grand-mère but she’s not here, and if she were then his mama would be talking in a different kind of voice, he’s sure of that.

We’ll watch it tonight, she is saying, quieter now, as if she’s remembered he’s sleeping upstairs and is trying not to disturb him. And I’ll always be here, I’ll stay in this house, I’ll listen to your stories – but please leave François alone.

He sits on the top stair, hidden behind the banister, and shuffles down, a step at a time.

I don’t want her scaring him, his mama says, and perhaps for the first time François does feel really scared, with the kind of worry that sits in your stomach and makes your throat go dry.

He pushes the door to the kitchen open and stands there in his pyjamas, looking at his mother, his toy tiger trailing from one hand.

Mama?

She smiles, a big open smile that looks like it shouldn’t be hiding anything.

Do you want to go on an adventure? she says.

He stays by the door, unsure at first, not understanding, but his mama’s eyes focus on him now and she kneels down beside him and says, let’s go on a midnight adventure, just you and me.

OK, he says, his smile widening.

They open the cupboard, search inside for François’s red tent, the one he got for his ninth birthday. It’s more of a tepee really, light wooden poles holding up a triangle of red fabric with a door flap at the front that zips down; a red sleeping bag to match.

They make up flasks of coffee and hot lemon cordial – François’s favourite. Bring the home-made pain au raisin left over from the shop (François was hoping there’d be some left for him) and a selection of fruit, clementines and pears.

François carries his rucksack on his back with supplies while Severine carries the tent and binoculars. He thinks perhaps this is going to be a good adventure after all. His mama was just being silly before.

Severine turns to check that her granny is still there, and she is; she is following them, she is smiling.

The night is clear, spring-fresh, clouds floating past the moon and carried on the wind. Even though it’s a public garden, the gate’s
now locked – but it’s not high. François wants to go first. He wants to be an explorer, like his mama said he would be when he was younger. He climbs easily, jumps down the other side.

Hurry up, Mama!

Severine gathers her dress up and ties the hem round her waist so it won’t catch, climbs over and then they run through the gardens, searching for the perfect spot – over by the trees? Near the lake? François is excited now, his laughter carried on the night air.

And they find a space in the open, an oasis of grass bounded by trees for shelter and a clear view of the skies. They set up the tent and sit on the grass in front of it, flasks at the ready.

François likes it just the two of them, it’s how it is at home most of the time anyway, except when his grand-mère comes by and brings him dried apricots and ginger. His grand-mère says that when he grows up he can be anything he wants to be, so he’s thinking about that. He likes watching the chefs on television, and he likes drawing. But mostly he wants to discover new lands.

Severine likes that they’re all here today, every one she’s ever seen and heard of; it feels like at last the whole family is united. It hasn’t been easy, waiting here in Bayeux – she is well aware of what she is giving up to have them here. They’re sitting in a wide circle in front of François’s small tent and she listens to their chatter without replying, not wanting to show how much she is enjoying herself; just wanting to protect François. She thinks her granny understands – in among their chatter she is quiet, watching Severine.

You don’t have to worry about Brigitte scaring him, she says eventually, underneath the banter of the others, when only Severine can hear. François won’t be able to see us. Not yet, anyway.

How can you be sure? Severine asks quietly.

He hasn’t lost anyone yet, she says, and moves to put her arm around Severine’s shoulders.

THE STREETS OF BAYEUX ARE
golden in the evening light; the rivers reflecting the sunset, fading to black as they wind in and out of the petite arched bridges. It is so different to Scotland. A smaller city than Róisín usually wants to live in, but there’s something about it that fits. Perhaps it was just a name she had always heard, wondered about, and it is charming, the way its history seems to blend with its present. Róisín stops on a bridge towards the edge of the main town, thinks of taking a photograph looking down to the bustling medieval high street, but doesn’t. She’s not a tourist here, she’s going to make this place her home. For a while.

She positions her telescope to point out of her Velux window. There is no observatory at the Université de Caen Basse-Normandie, not like there was in Edinburgh or even on the rooftop at Imperial. But here she can study Planetary Sciences, the Earth as seen from the universe, not the other way round. It was time for a fresh perspective. That’s what brought her here to Normandy.