The Comet Seekers: A Novel (5 page)

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 serious 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.

When the floor rises up to meet them he feels too heavy; it is difficult to lift his feet and walk to the exit. Everyone else has gone and they are the last, alone, in this circle of faded paint but her hand is still in his, until she steps away, reaches out for the wall to steady herself and glances back at him, over her shoulder. Her eyes are not smiling; they’re saying something else now. It’s time to move on from the rotor. He stumbles, makes it look like he is dizzy from the ride, not that the contact of her hand on his hand is still enough to make him feel like he could fall.

Behind the metal fence of the carnival, behind the bikes chained up on it, there’s a row of trees that they used to climb on when they were kids. That’s where she leads him to, not running; people would see them running, but walking together without talking, still feeling the ground unsteady below their feet. She gets there a pace ahead of him, leans against the tree facing away from the carnival and as soon as she’s there he is there too, standing in front of her as she puts her arms around his waist, hooks a finger through the belt loop of his jeans; pulls him closer.

Liam forgets to look up, to see if anyone can see them. He’s never cared what people might think, not when he feels the warmth of her hands through his shirt and is pressed so close he can feel her breath on his lips. But he pauses there, allows himself the time to enjoy the seconds before they kiss. For years now, everything has been different when they are alone.

They hear a noise; some of the local kids are unchaining their bikes and Liam and Róisín freeze, still holding each other, breath racing in unison. The seconds drag into minutes. Róisín hides her mouth in his shirt collar to stifle a laugh; he holds her tighter, smiling too, lets his lips graze the top of her ear, lets his body press closer towards her.

When the coast is clear she says, come on, we should get back.

His eyes meet hers, playful, daring.

Should we?

He doesn’t want to let go, moves his face next to hers. But she places her hands on his hips.

My mum said she was coming down later, with Neil.

He takes a step backwards, swallows, then nods. He wonders if it would have made a difference to him, had his dad found someone new.

The sounds of the funfair return, and the lights come into focus again.

They stroll through the crowds like cousins, talking about the farm, about school, about nothing in particular, as Róisín nods and smiles at all the friends she sees. It’s a warm night; the clouds are keeping the heat close to the ground, shielding them from the cold of the sky. Róisín sees her mum in the distance, raises her hand in a wave when she is noticed; asks Liam with a look if he wants to come and say hello. He replies with a smile.

Róisín’s mum asks how his dad is getting on.

He replies about the year’s crops and the newborn calves, about the second-hand turntable his dad tinkers with every evening and the roof needing repaired.

She suggests a roofer he already knows and he doesn’t mention that he already knows about him, thanks her. She says that he is looking well.

The moon appears between the clouds and people from the village say hello as they are passing, and Liam, for a second, wants to put his arm around Róisín, to be able to stop feeling like he is hiding all the time except when he’s with her, alone.

Dad says Róisín can come for dinner tomorrow, if she wants.

That would be grand, Róisín’s mum answers, like she is encouraging her to be polite.

Yes, Róisín smiles, of course.

She knows what he is really suggesting.

We must all get together some time, her mum is saying, a proper family Sunday lunch . . .

I’ll tell Dad, he says, though he won’t – they haven’t had a proper family Sunday lunch since his mum died. He shifts on his feet, faces Róisín, see you at school tomorrow I guess, he says; hands tucked into jean pockets, a shrug of his shoulders, and he is gone.

Róisín looks round the funfair. It is suddenly so small, already like a memory from her childhood.

You’ll miss all this next year, her mum says, smiling like she expects to be contradicted.

Róisín struggles to find the words to reply.

She’d almost forgotten she was leaving.

SEVERINE HOLDS HER GRANNY’S ARM
as they walk; she hopes her granny will interpret it as a show of affection rather than a physical support. Her granny never much wanted support, unless it was to counter an argument with her imaginary ghosts. Severine gets a cramp in her stomach thinking about them, about her granny and her visitors; about the way her hand flew around her head last night as if brushing away a pesky mosquito, not the memories of a lifetime ago. She hadn’t seen her do that since she was a teenager.

Not far now, she says.

I’ve been making this walk for sixty years, I’m not going to forget the way now.

Severine loosens her grip.

That’s right, her granny says. I’m the one who should be helping you.

I’m fine, Granny.

Her granny’s face dissolves into a scowl, sweet rather than bitter on her old face, as Severine rubs her stomach.

You do help me, she says, and her granny takes her hand in a gesture that says she always will.

At the entrance, Severine pays the fee for one adult and one OAP as her granny sniffs at the price.

It should be free for you and me, she says. You should tell them who we are.

Who’s that then?

The woman on the till smiles kindly at them as they pass the ticket office and head for the long, wide display room of the Bayeux Tapestry.

Severine can see how other people edge around them. She wants to explain that her granny’s not dangerous; in fact, she wants to shout at them for being so bloody insensitive – this could be you, one day, you know? But she doesn’t. She pretends not to notice their stares and whispers as her granny carries on conversations with memories, only gently taking her hand to try and bring her back to reality. She brushes away the thought that they might be staring at her too, so heavily pregnant.

Great-Grandpa Paul-François wants to see the green horse with red legs.

Great-Grandpa Paul-François died, Granny, a long time ago.

Now, where is that panel?

The horses are all dark blue and yellow, you see?

Her granny pulls away, begins pressing her face close to the glass as she sidesteps around the room.

There, see? Oh, do be quiet, old man. She’s young; she’ll learn. Won’t you?

What’s that, Granny?

Bright green horse, just like I said, see?

I told you there is no . . . Severine begins to say, until she sees the green horse with red legs, prancing in mid-air, dancing rather than running, oblivious to the spears and axes that surround it. The words catch in her mouth.

She’s not convinced by her mother’s memory-loss idea; her granny’s memory seems to be sharper than the tip of an arrow. She feels that mild pain in her stomach again. No, pain is the wrong word, it is just a pressure, a reminder of what she’s carrying.

Some tourists move behind them, abandoning their view of the green horse for someone altogether more important on the next panel; someone with a crown.

She should talk to her mama, persuade her against sending Granny away. Not that her mama is speaking to her much these days. This is not what she had planned for her daughter. Severine suspects she’s always been a bit of a disappointment to her mama.

Do be quiet, you great fool! Nobody wants to hear you sing.

Severine turns. Her granny is poking at something in mid-air, and Severine can’t help but smile.

No! her granny continues. Not even me! And she clasps her hands over her ears and begins to sing – I can’t hear you, old man –
je dis que les bonbons, valent mieux que la raison
. . .

Let’s have a sit-down over here, Severine says, conscious of her granny’s stooped back as well as her singing; as well as the queue behind them.