Catching UP

We're delighted to share this generous extract from Rohase Piercy's upcoming short story collection. This one's from Catching Up, in which a series of nested memories produce unexpected revelations. Read on for the hilarious recollections of the youngest version of the narrator.

He hadn't wanted to go, but they'd insisted he was too young to be left home alone. 

'You're coming with us, and that's that!' his Dad had said, with Mum soothing it over: 'You like poor Auntie Kath, you know she always makes a fuss of you!'

Well, yes he did like Auntie Kath – who wasn't his real auntie, just his Mum's best friend from school - she was lovely and kind and cuddly and always had a calming air about her, with none of his Mum's emotional outbursts, but he didn't want to be made a fuss of at his age, and why was she 'poor' Auntie Kath all of a sudden? And he definitely did not like her husband, whom he refused to call 'Uncle' Tom and who was short and pompous and brash, and would no doubt go on and on about their snooty Chloe who was at Bristol University, and ask questions about Liam's own academic progress, or lack of it.

'But I haven't finished my English homework!' he pleaded desperately, and his Mum said, 'Oh, that won't be a problem, they've got a computer in their spare room, Tom'll set you up. Just bring what you need, and you can finish it after we've eaten.'

So there he was, loitering in the Taylors' lounge where a whacking great photo of bloody Chloe smirked on the wall surrounded by framed certificates, fingering all the stupid arty knick-knacks and eyeing up the bottles in the drinks cabinet while his Mum and Kath passed to and fro between kitchen and dining room with plates and stuff. Tom and his Dad were smoking in the garden, their voices crescendoing as they played their usual game of one-upmanship. So embarrassing - Liam deliberately tuned them out in favour of eavesdropping on the womenfolk. 

'So I've got the date for the op now and it's Wednesday week,' Kath was saying as she passed the door. 'Got a couple of pre-op appointments this week coming - no, honestly, it's fine, Annie, I'm all sorted for lifts and stuff, it's just great to know you're there for me. God knows Tom's no good in that department, I mean, he came with me to get the biopsy results, but he was more interested in interrogating the doctors than in supporting me. Do you know, when we got home he wouldn't even look at it – not even when it went all black where they'd put the needle in. It's like he just doesn't want to know.'

'Oh Kath, that's terrible', said his Mum, as Liam edged closer to the door. 'You should have phoned me, I'd have come with you! At least let me know what I can do to help afterwards – bit of cooking, bit of housework, whatever you need. And I'm just on the end of the phone, happy to chat at any time, if you want to get it off your … you know, if you just want to talk.'

'Thanks, Annie. No, Tom's taking me to the hospital, and to the pre-op too, I mean it's the least he can do, isn't it? But having a friend to talk to makes all the difference … I'm sorry I didn't tell you 'til after the results came in, but I didn't want to worry anyone unnecessarily, you know? Didn't want to share my suspicions in case they came true - which of course, they have. Tell you what, though, the nurses are wonderful, so kind and lovely, they've given me this number to ring if I've any concerns or questions, though I think the leaflets cover everything. I'm just mainly relieved that they've caught it in time – at least, I hope they have, they say they won't know for sure until they open it up – but I'll keep you posted from now on, I promise.' 

Liam lingered in the doorway, frowning – Auntie Kath was having an operation? He hoped she'd be all right … a rush of affection engulfed him and he felt six years old again, cuddled into her comforting, bosomy embrace after a fall, a cool pad soaked in Witch Hazel pressed to his bruised forehead. He wandered out into the hallway in hopes of hearing more, just as they exited the dining room. 

'Liam, what are you doing? Come and help me and Kath, there's side plates to be laid and you can take in the glasses if you're careful.' And that was that.

Dinner was boring and prolonged, with Tom droning on about different kind of asparagus and how the wine had been recommended by someone whose son worked at The Grand. Liam's Dad made a great show of swirling it round in the glass before taking a sip, saying 'very nice, a fruity, cheeky little number' in a faux plummy voice and adding 'no, son, you can't have any' in his own. There were three courses, the first consisting solely of asparagus in green sauce, the second a rather nice pie called a Beef Wellington – both unfamiliar, but he ate them anyway because it was eight o'clock and he was friggin' starving. Then there was ice cream and fresh fruit salad for dessert. 'Growing boy, eh?' said Tom with a leer, as Kath urged a second helping upon him, and Mum said 'Oh, he's always hungry, I don't know where he puts it'.

Then afterwards it was, 'Right, shall we 'repair to the drawing room'? I've got a nice single malt you might like to try, Adam,' and his Mum said 'Oh, Liam's got some homework to finish, could you set him up at your computer?' and Auntie Kath said 'Of course! Tom, take Liam upstairs and put the computer on for him while Annie and I clear the table!'

So there he was, sitting at the big oak desk in what used to be the Taylors' spare room but was now apparently 'the office', with his English books in front of him and the internet winking from an enormous flat screen. Anxious to get back to his single malt, Uncle Tom had merely powered up the PC, commenting that Chloe had done 'all of her A Level research on this machine', cuffed Liam (rather hard) on the back of the head, told him to 'get down to it, and don't go fiddling about', and left him to it.

He dutifully typed in 'Wilfrid Owen, War Poet' and a load of stuff came up. Okay. He'd actually already done most of this, he'd only said it to his parents in the hope of getting out of the visit, it just needed a sentence or two just to finish off – Owen's vivid and graphic poems about modern warfare, almost all of which were published posthumously – hang on, they'd know he'd copied that, he'd better put 'published after he was dead' – helped to advance poetry into the Modernist era. Change 'Modernist' into 'modern', no, they'd already said 'modern warfare', how about 'helped to bring poetry into a new era'? Perfect! Sweet! Well done, boyo. Now, perhaps he could … well, browse a bit, see if they had MSN so he could chat to his friends, nothing wrong in that surely?

He crept quietly out to the landing, just to check that Tom wasn't loitering there, ready to make a bee-line for the loo if he was. But no, they were all downstairs in the lounge with the door open, Tom holding forth about music now.

'Never been to the opera? Oh, you should, you know, it's a whole new world, we went last month with James and Alison and loved it, didn't we, Kath?'

'Well, yes, it was very nice,' Liam could hear the soothed-over doubt in Auntie Kath's voice ..'but I don't think Annie and Adam want to listen to opera right now…'

'Nonsense, you'll never know if you don't try, here, give this a go. It's from Don Giovanni, heard of it? Oh, surely you have … this is the, er, the Catalogue Area, really catchy tune, have a listen!'

Liam shook his head in silent disbelief and slid back to the computer.

Less than five minutes later, a shout on the stairs made him jump out of his skin.

'Liam! Come down here for a minute, will you? We need your help!'

Reluctantly but swiftly, he joined his Dad on the stairs and followed him down to the living room.

'Yes, Liam's enjoying Spanish', Mum was saying proudly, 'He's doing well at it it, aren't you, Liam?'

'Er, yes …' what on earth was this? Surely they didn't expect him to recite something in Spanish, right out of the blue? He'd only just started it in September …Jesus ...

'Our Chloe got A-stars in French and German at GCSE level,' commented Tom, giving Dad the opportunity to say he thought Spanish was considered more useful nowadays before continuing in gleeful tones, 'Now, son, Tom and Kath like this song but they haven't a clue what it means, and it's obviously in Spanish so we thought you could enlighten us.' They all waited impatiently as Tom, sighing loudly, identified the track and reluctantly pressed 'Play'. This development was obviously not what he'd been expecting. Liam listened with growing horror as some bloke with a deep voice started singing very fast – something operatic, he couldn't follow it and it didn't even sound like Spanish.

'Come on, Liam, you must be able to make some of it out? España, that's Spain isn't it?' said his Dad hopefully, and he tried, he really tried, to make sense of what he was hearing and give his parent the victory over Tom he so obviously needed.

Ma in Ispagnia son già mille et tre, oh God, what the feck could that mean? Think, Liam, think!

'He says his mother lives in Spain, and she's a hundred and three!' he blurted out in desperation, and miraculously, that seemed to satisfy them.

'Hundred and three, eh? Well, that's certainly something to sing about, isn't it?' said Auntie Kath brightly, and although Tom grumbled something about a funny kind of catalogue, Liam's Dad ruffled his hair affectionately as he made his escape.

Back upstairs, his hands hovered over the keyboard. Sod MSN – what was he going to say to his mates, anyhow? 'We're at my parents' friends' house and they've just got me to translate a bit of Spanish opera for them?' He'd never hear the end of it! He could tell them about the posh PC, but actually Louis Danvers had one exactly like it in his bedroom, all to himself, and he'd only rub it in. So what? No use asking if they had the parental controls on, they were bound to be on just like everywhere, so if he typed in something outrageous like 'Big Tits' it'd come up with that guff about the song of the Great Tit being half a semitone lower in the country than in the city, or was it the other way round, he couldn't give a toss but was probably about to find out, yet again - 

Oh. My. God.