The Comet Seekers: A Novel (16 page)

But she is not lost.

She said she was coming home.

Two days. She has phoned to tell him when she will arrive, has given him the details of her flight, told him not to come to the airport.

I’ll come to the farm, she said, and he didn’t know why but didn’t question her.

In the barn, he had needed her in a way that terrified him. It had been so different, so urgent, his arms, hands, even now, thinking of it, cannot remain still.

And he cleans the house – oh, he is surprised to find himself doing it; didn’t expect to feel so anxious, so like he needs to impress – and he can’t sleep, he gets up in the night to pace the fields, to remember how he was. Has he changed, after all?

Another day goes by, the last day, and he doesn’t hear from her and forces himself not to call. He works, he spends all day and all evening working until he is exhausted, feels like he could sleep for two nights in a row, until he lies down and thinks of Róisín, arriving, tomorrow, Róisín coming home, and he cannot sleep. There is too much, too many things; things he can’t name and doesn’t even understand.

He turns on the radio.

They are talking about the latest comet.

The bar is busy. Such a French place, and she is glad of that – to have now something different from what she will have next. And they are kind, with their bottle after bottle of wine, their leaving cake dusted with chocolate, their understated goodbyes. But she
knows that none of them can understand what she’s doing, she saw the look of blank confusion on their faces when she told them. She’d had a fellowship opportunity; could have had three years’ funding without the need to teach and then this – to turn down every job offer and move to a village in Ireland no one has ever heard of. Not even a village – beyond a village, to a farm miles past the nearest village. They would have understood her moving to the city – even in Bayeux she used to talk about going to a bigger city. But this?

You will come back, someone says in deep lilting French. It is her boss, a quiet, committed man.

She smiles her No.

You’ll stay in touch, say the people she has worked with, searching for undiscovered planets beyond the known reaches of the solar system. We’ll see you again.

She fields questions about what she will do, what postdoc she will find, what university she can travel to. She understands how they must feel. If someone else was doing this, she would feel as they do. Like it was a mistake.

The skies will be clear, she says, not wanting to admit that after being surrounded by all these people she’s nervous about the isolation of the farm. She excuses herself from her farewell party at midnight, leaving the others to drink more Pinot Noir and wake up the next morning in one another’s beds.

Her boss tells her she can always return; he will find a position for her, when she needs it. I’ll let you know, she says, even though she knows that she won’t, and as she steps outside she feels like she is running away, but that is OK.

Because how can she explain, to these people that don’t really know her, that she is tied to a man so closely that she’s realised she can’t keep travelling the world without him. That she has fought the need to be with him, and she has lost, and now it is time to give in.

But the next day, arriving at the airport, she imagines seeing his face. She knows that he will be anxious, now, not quite believing she will be there. She remembers the way he used to see her and the way his expression changed into everything that mattered; the way he will see her again.

Is it real? he says.

She is standing by the back door, the one that opens into the kitchen. She has a suitcase with her, a bag thrown over her shoulder, another carried by its straps.

She steps inside.

Are you really here?

I told you I was coming, she says with a smile, but he cannot return it; he cannot laugh at this scene that he has wanted for so long.

He can’t walk towards her either. He can’t make that approach. It is as if he’s rooted to the spot, unable to move, to speak until she steps closer and makes this true.

Perhaps he is afraid of something, he thinks, as he looks at her, as his eyes try to take in the woman standing before him. Perhaps he is afraid that it’s a joke, that it is like someone who offers you a drink that tastes foul; when someone says they love you then leaves.

Are you not pleased to see me? she asks.

His face is burning. How can she be unsure, when he has been waiting for her all these years? It is like he’s swimming in chlorine, can’t see his way to the surface for breath.

And now she drops her bags to the floor, shuts the door carefully behind her and returns her gaze to him.

It’s me, she says.

And she thinks that a hug is how it should start, even that has been so long. There was once one Christmas when they shook hands – so awkward, so far from what they had been.

It’s good to see you, she says, as she steps forward, noticing that he doesn’t step forward to meet her. She is worried about him. There is loss in his eyes.

How are you, today? she says.

They are not far apart now, but it still feels like a distance; the pull between them making the final step seem meaningful. She’s unable to rush, so she takes it slow – stands in front of him, her jacket still on, a winter scarf in greens and gold hung loosely around her neck.

It’s quiet here, she says.

You’ll fix that.

She reaches one arm around his shoulder, one around his waist. Their bodies press together; his arms return her hug. They stand, for a moment, nothing pulling them apart, no pull at all, just this moment. And then a tipping point is reached; her hand brushes his neck, his fingers through her hair, his breath on her cheek, a word, her name, a sigh, her head turning away, so slightly, resting on his shoulder.

You are going to stay, aren’t you? he wants to ask, but he doesn’t. He forgets how to speak, forgets that he ever knew, and she whispers in his ear, like when they were children: It’s OK, she says, everything’s going to be OK now.

FRANÇOIS HAS HEARD HIS MAMA
talking to herself every day this month, though before the weather turned cold she hadn’t done that for ages. On the day it started she had been happy, giddy, dancing in the rain like the girls at school, but that’s not true any more – something has changed, and now she is on edge.

He finds her in the study, looking at his atlas – well, it was hers once, but now he thinks of it as his – and he goes and stands by her, pointing out all the places he wants to visit.

She looks over her shoulder as they talk, even though there’s no one there watching. She looks tired, more tired than he can remember, and he slips his hand into hers to bring her back.

This is Morocco, he says, pointing out place names on the page. Shall we cook something from Morocco tonight? And his mama smiles, her eyes back to his at last, as she begins listing the ingredients they need to make a tagine.

Pass me the coriander, she calls out as he climbs his plastic steps to reach the spice cupboard; and the cinnamon sticks.

François gives each stick a crack before throwing them into the pot, smelling the spice on his fingertips and then reaching for a handful of sultanas. The spiced sweet smell of lamb and apricots mingles with music from the radio as they cook together; it is a smell he will remember, as an adult, try to replicate but never be able to capture.

Watching them from the doorway, Brigitte stands unnoticed. She doesn’t want to see them like this but somehow she can’t bring herself to turn away. Severine is getting restless in Bayeux, Brigitte knows that much, even though she’s trying to hide it from the ghosts. But they’re dead, they’re not stupid – does she really imagine she’s fooling anyone?

François’s certainly not fooled, and he’s only ten. He can see something’s changed. But the thing is – and this is what really scares Brigitte – she thinks he’s on Severine’s side. He’s encouraging her to dream of going away; he wants the angry bit of her to win. The bit that will take them away from Bayeux, away from France, across the continent and beyond reach.

It is not fair. None of this is fair. Brigitte will not allow it.

Severine thinks they have no idea that she longs to leave, that she dreams of a wilderness to explore. She smiles, when they reappear
day after day, when she finds Great-Great-Grandma Bélanger in the bath every morning.

They cluster around her as she works, pleading with her to play hide-and-seek when she needs to be laying out that day’s display in the shop window. Antoine and Henri have taken to checking the latest deliveries of sweet oranges and avocado, but as she’s trying to get them to stop throwing fruit to each other her mother arrives, points out that the light in one of the fridges has gone. Severine replies with a thank-you, biting back the comment that obviously she already knew, that she will deal with it when she can. And the worst of it – waking up every night with nightmares of fire, with the sound of a woman screaming and a child’s cries. Severine never signed up for that. She never agreed to be haunted, not like that, and the angrier she gets herself the worse it seems to become.

Brigitte comes during the day sometimes, stands quietly in her long gown, her hair twisted into a plait, her eyes full of a terrible knowledge she doesn’t convey.

When are you from? Severine asks, one evening, her voice hardened at the edges.

Fourteen fifty-six, she says, not elaborating on whether that was the day she was born or the day she died. You don’t know what it’s like, to burn.

Severine wishes she hadn’t started the conversation, but at least Brigitte is calm now – perhaps she can be reasoned with.

What happened to you? she begins, but then François comes into the room – it’s as if he knows when they’re here – and Severine pulls her son into a hug and turns away from Brigitte, and when she turns back she is gone.

When the ghosts leave this time, they don’t really leave. They return, day after day. Severine is surprised by this, at first, but
soon comes to accept it – this comet will be visible for months, they say on the news, well into next year. Still, she was a fool not to appreciate the peace she had before, when the ghosts came for just a few days, every few years.

What is wrong with Brigitte? she demands of her granny, who is sitting in the old study, pretending to read the copy of
Thérèse Philosophe
her husband once gave her.

Her granny puts down the book and smiles at her.

What is it she needs?

Her granny’s expression is full of sadness and so Severine sits in her mother’s old chair and says, you didn’t tell me the whole truth, did you?

You chose to see us.

No, I chose to see you. I didn’t know that meant getting the others into the bargain. Brigitte . . .

Brigitte’s scared that you are the last, and that her time is running out.

What will happen if I am the last?

We will go, ma petite.

Where?

Her granny shrugs. It doesn’t matter, we will be gone.

But the rest of you don’t give me nightmares.

Brigitte’s story is different.

How so?

There’s someone she can’t let go of. And she can’t control the flames; she had a terrible death. It still haunts her.

Severine softens.

Then I need to help her.

Her granny looks up at her, shakes her head. We all tried, at one point or another – we don’t have the answers she seeks. And there’s a risk. François . . .

What do you mean?

Please, Severine, she says, please. Don’t push it.

Her tone is different now, far away, and something in it makes Severine want to hold her close, to tell her she is going to be OK.

If you let someone else’s loss take over your life you can lose something of your own, her granny says softly.

Don’t you think I might know something of compromise already?

Her granny laughs, returns to herself as she returns her eyes to the book. You know, you can make us all leave, if you want to, she says without looking up again. Or if that’s too hard, you can just leave yourself.

In her épicerie, the next morning, Severine tries something out.

She turns her back to the room, stacking shelves, and tells herself that there are no ghosts. She has been ridiculous, imagining she had to stay here, in this place, in this town, for all of her life; there is nothing holding her here. When she turns round to face the room, the ghosts are gone.

A customer comes in, orders some of her tomato and lentil soup with a baguette. Picks up some biscuits from the counter. Pays. Leaves again.

Severine is alone. She made them disappear.

All of a sudden she is scared of what she’s done – where have they gone? She wants their voices back, their playful jokes. She didn’t even say goodbye to her granny. She didn’t want to hurt them, to banish them forever . . .

She wishes they would come back.

And then she is not alone any more, and Antoine is sitting on the floor in the corner reading a comic book with Henri, and her granny is peering at the broken light in the fridge as if nothing has happened. And she is relieved, and grateful.