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.

My Dearest Holmes: an extract from Rohase Piercy's groundbreaking novel.

'My Dearest Holmes' is a novel of two halves. Part I, entitled 'A Discreet Investigation',

tells the story of an unconventional client's search for her missing companion – a quest

that Sherlock Holmes embarks on with enthusiasm and solves with relative ease. The

denoument of the case, however, has less to do with the resolution of Miss Anne

D'Arcy's dilemma than with Watson's admission, forced out of him by the circumstances

of the investigation, of his feelings for the great detective and his determination to seek a

'marriage of convenience' in order to protect them both from suspicion and scandal.

Part II, entitled 'The Final Problem' and set three years later, follows the same sequence

of events as the original Conan Doyle story of that name (in which Holmes plunges to

his death over the Reichanbach Falls in Switzerland, locked in the arms of his arch-

enemy Professor Moriarty) and carries the reader forward to the events of 'The Adventure

Of The Empty House' in which Doyle, finally bowing to public pressure, 'resurrects' his

hero and returns him to 221B Baker Street and to a conveniently-widowed Watson. In

other words, my version of 'The Final Problem' is an attempt to give an alternative

explanation for the fabled 'Great Hiatus'.

Those of you familiar with the original stories will recognise the setting of this extract,

in which Holmes and Watson, having excaped Moriarty's gang in London, travel across

France and Belgium towards Switzerland. My conceit, however, is that Conan Doyle

failed to disclose the real reason for their flight: Moriarty's threat to expose Watson's

homosexual lifestyle and bring down upon him the full rigour of the 1885 Criminal Law

Amendment Act - the same law under which Oscar Wilde was to be convicted and

sentenced to imprisonment with hard labour just a few years later.

A chance encounter with Dr Watson

We're delighted to have an extract from Rohase Piercy and Charlie Raven's A Case of Domestic Pilfering today, a light-hearted detective story set in the world of Sherlock Holmes. Enjoy a hot day, a walk in the park and a chance encounter with Dr Watson.

The park was cool in the shade.  The huge trees exhaled a faint green aroma, sweet and calm.  Max and Guy had stopped together, looking across the scorched grass to where white parasols and floating silhouettes passed like a mirage in the sunlight.

'Hot, isn't it?'  said Guy taking off his hat.  The hair was dark on his glistening forehead.  Max fanned him with his hat rim.

'It's just as well we're not going to your mother's,' he said.  'It's too hot to be out at all, really. I vote we gather ourselves for a quick sprint across the grass to an arbour of refreshment, and deal with a couple of ice-cold hock-and-seltzers.'

'I second that,' murmured Guy. He leaned ostentatiously against the tree, closed his eyes and muttered 'Water, water – I mean, hock, hock-and-seltzer!'

In his light suit and straw hat he should be on the river, thought Max.  In a punt.  Just he and I.  Cool, green, glassy waters.  He put out a hand and quietly touched his arm.

'Guy.'

Guy opened his eyes and smiled.  He has the face of a  Sun God, thought Max.

'Guy, you look just like Phoebus Apollo.'

Guy glanced quickly round.  'Oh Maxy, you are sweet.  If I'm Apollo then who can you be?  Daphne?'

They both shouted with laughter as they walked arm in arm into the sunlight.

Inside the bar the air was cool.  A breeze slid through the open windows, and the waiters looked clean in their starched white aprons.  Max was sitting back, trying not to scrutinise his own reflection in the enormous gilt mirror on the opposite wall.  He lit a cigarette from his new black-and-silver case a little self-consciously.  He watched the effect out of the corner of his eye.

Guy had ordered a bowl of ice cubes and was pretending to cool his face and hands at them, like a fire in reverse.  The waiter who brought their drinks looked bored.  It struck Max how foolish they must think their customers.  They had seen it all; they remained unimpressed.  What must it be like, to be a waiter?

'Your mother wasn't expecting us, was she?'

'No, no.  Not in the slightest.  Well, I do sometimes drop in on her at this time of day.  But it isn't expected.  Just once a week usually.  On a Tuesday.

'But it is Tuesday!'

'Is it?  Ah well.  She won't worry.  She'll look at the weather, and she'll think of me, and she'll say to Davies, 'No cucumber sandwiches today, Davies.  Master Guy is drinking hock-and- seltzer with his friend Maximilian, that nice boy from the country who is such a good influence,' and – I declare!  It's my turfy fellow!'

Max looked round, following Guy's stare.  A gentleman had entered and was glancing round for a table.  Guy sprang up impetuously and dashed over;  Max groaned inwardly as he watched him flash his most charming smile, and indicate the way to their table.  The man gave an answering smile in which Max detected some amusement, and approached their quiet corner.  Max rose.

'Look who's come to sit with us Maxy!'  Guy's face was alight with naughtiness, and a flush bloomed on his cheek. 'Max, Max, I must present you.  Oh, I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself  yet - and I don't know your name either - in fact, I can't do the honours at all!  This is most irregular. What on earth shall we do?'

The gentleman laughed pleasantly.  'I suggest we overleap convention.  My name is Dr John Watson, and I am charmed by your invitation to join you both.  My thanks to you – the thanks of a thirsty man on a thirsty day.'

Max smiled.  He liked the man immediately.  He liked his wavy hair and the crinkles at the side of his frank blue eyes and the gentle voice which held the hint of a laugh.  He is in his late thirties, decided Max as they shook hands.

'Max Fareham.  Pleased to meet you, sir.'

'And I am Guy Clements,' interjected Guy; 'And we have met before!'

They all sat down, and Dr Watson gave his order to the waiter.  'So you mentioned, Mr Clements,' he said, 'but I cannot recall the meeting, I'm sorry to say.'

'Ah, but I can.  It was at the races, and you gave me a lot of excellent advice, which I ignored assiduously.  I lost an enormous, princely sum.'

'Ah!'  Dr Watson's eyes lit up and the pleasant crinkles became more pronounced as he smiled.  'The young man with a taste for champagne!  Of course.  I hope you don't mind my mentioning that,' he added, glancing at Max.

'Ooh la la!  Of course not!' cried Guy delightedly.  

Dr Watson chuckled.  'As a medical man,' he said in his warm, friendly voice, 'I recommend champagne as a universal pick-me-up.'

'In that case,' commented Max drily, 'Guy here is in the very pink and bloom of health.'

'And so I am!' said Guy severely.

'And so I trust you both are, and will long remain,' said Dr Watson, raising his glass.

They look so young, thought Watson; and so happy.  His heart went out to them, sitting in their new summer suits in the high-ceilinged room, looking slender and fresh and rather awkward.  He wished Holmes had come with him.  Good-humoured, outgoing youth might help him.  He thought of his friend's rooms, and the darkling figure lying on the couch, fretting against enforced idleness or weaving his drug-induced dreams.  Sunlight; he wished he could take Holmes some sunlight.  He sighed, and put down his glass, suddenly aware that Max was talking about the delights of the seaside in summer.

'At least one always enjoys a breeze there ...'

'Oh indeed,' agreed Dr Watson.  'My wife is at the seaside now.  So pleasant for her.'

'I suppose your practice keeps you in town?' asked Max.  He could not disguise the flat note that crept into his voice at the mention of a wife.   

'Yes, my practice – well, it's not a very demanding practice at the best of times,' said the doctor with a conspiratorial wink.  'And I have a friend who sometimes needs me.'

Guy stopped playing with the melting ice cubes, and Max hastily offered the Doctor a cigarette. Was this wife at the seaside sophisticated and understanding, he wondered, or just ignorant and rather dense?

'Thank you Mr Fareham,' said Watson, accepting.  'Also, I have work to clear which must be completed shortly, as I'm bound by contract.'

'How tedious for you,' murmured Guy.

'Medical work by contract, sir?' asked Max politely; 'I didn't know that was the custom – is it so many patients per month, or something?'

Dr Watson laughed heartily.  'Dear me, no!  What an interesting proposition – a sort of piece work, you mean?  A bushel of measles equals a week's rent?  No, I'm afraid it's nothing so lucrative.  I write a little.'

'Really?' asked Max.

'For the Lancet!' said Guy, putting his forefingers to his temples and speaking in a mediumistic monotone.  'I see a medical magazine.  I see an article on - let's see now - on bunions ...'

'Shut up, Guy!' said Max, resting his chin on his hand and sighing.  'Is he right?' he asked their companion.

'Not exactly.  It's a little less highbrow than that.  For magazines, certainly – Lippincott's, The Strand, even Beeton's.'

'How interesting! Do you make up the stories out of your own head?'

'Not at all.'  Dr Watson looked rather rueful, as though he regretted mentioning the subject.  'I may fudge the issues, but the cases are true enough.'

'Dr Watson!' exclaimed Max suddenly.  'Oh, good Lord!  Of course!  The weather must have hard-boiled my brain.  Good grief, sir, I can't tell you how honoured I am to make your acquaintance!'  He leapt to his feet, and pumped the amused Doctor's hand for a second time.  

Guy looked from one to the other, agog.  'What am I missing here?' 

Max's face was flushed, and his eyes shone with excitement.  'Guy, this is the Dr Watson – the friend of – of Mr Holmes.  You know.'  He nodded quickly at his friend, half embarrassed.

'Oh, good Lord!' echoed Guy, his voice rising up the scale.  'You mean the one you're madly – the one you admire so much?  My dear sir,' he said turning to the Doctor, 'You're hardly likely to escape with your life in tact now.  There is but one thing in the world that Max Fareham lives for, and that is the chance to kiss the ground that Mr Sherlock Holmes walks on.'

Dr Watson laughed.  'Oh dear!' he said.

'Shall we have another drink?  Please, Doctor, you can't possibly go now!'  Max ordered more drinks, eagerness overcoming his natural shyness.  'Do you know,' he said, 'I've read everything you've ever written about Mr Holmes.  Tell me, is he – is he like you say he is?'

'How do you mean?' asked Dr Watson, his blue eyes twinkling.

'A – a genius.  I supposed that's what I mean.'

'Well, yes.  I can confirm that opinion.  I've never written less than my true evaluation of my friend's genius.  He is extraordinary.'

Max nodded encouragingly.

'But what's he like when he's not being a genius?' asked Guy rather insolently.  'Does he go out?  Mother could invite you both to dinner, and then Maxy could swoon at his feet.'

'Be quiet!' hissed Max.

Dr Watson chuckled.  'What a kind offer.  But I'm afraid he rarely dines out, and never goes into company if he can help it.'

'Ah, a recluse. How tedious he must find all this adulation,' said Guy, shaking his head sympathetically.  'But doesn't he get bored, in between cases?'

'H'mmm.  Yes.  I'm afraid he does.'

Dr Watson then deftly changed the subject.  Max tried his best to steer it back to Sherlock Holmes, but the Doctor firmly resisted all attempts to probe.

'I must be going,' he said after a while, pulling out his watch.

'Oh, we'll walk along together,' said Guy sweetly, smiling significantly at Max.

'Well … ' Dr Watson eyed them for a moment and then smiled.  'If you like,' he said. 

All those words left unsaid

Constance Wilde died on 7th April 1898. Inevitably linked for all time with the scandals of her famous husband Oscar, Constance's tumultuous interior life is imagined by Rohase Piercy in her novel The Coward Does It With A Kiss.

The curtain is moving in the breeze … it comforts me, like the rocking of a cradle.  Green, with turquoise motif – what are they?  Flowers?  Dragons?  I always loved green.  These are decadent curtains; you would not find them in an English hospital. The colours absorb the pain a little, and I find some ease.

Well, it is over; and the nuns who nurse me are  kind, and bring me morphine for the pain, and do everything for my comfort.  They have laid me on my side today, and I cannot move without help, so I watch the light move slowly across the window, and the curtain stirring where they have opened it a little to let in fresh air.  Faint voices drift up from the grounds below; a bell tolls in the distance.  I remind myself that you, Oscar, suffered worse things in prison.

If I could go back – oh, a long way back in my life, I could make all things as new as this new morning.  This must be what a newborn baby sees, light and movement, the edge of a curtain dancing in the breeze.  And all sound is muffled.

I have short, jagged periods of sleep, and when I wake the bedclothes are drenched in sweat.  In my dreams I hear people shouting, aiming words at me like sharp, black beads.  What are they saying?  Next time I awake, I will try to make sense of it.  Is it just my name that I hear, repeated over and over?

Constance!  Constance!  Constance!

*****

I remember you called my name, and I ran out of the house, out of the front door and across the street to the beach; there were carriages, and pedestrians on the street turning to stare, and families on the beach.  This was Worthing, not Babbacombe; there were no nooks and crannies in which to hide.

I walked along the Esplanade, wringing my hands.  My agitation drew curious glances, but I kept my head down and walked to the pier, and to the end of the pier, and then all the way back to the house.  You were there in the little front parlour, alone.  I tried to dash past, to go up to my room, but you ran out and caught me by the arm.

“Constance.”

“Let me go, Oscar.”

“Constance, I have got to talk to you.”

“I don't want to talk.  Leave me alone.”

“Constance please.  Come in here, please, the children will hear.  Just one brief word, I beg of you.”

I followed you into the room, and you closed the door.  Wearily I sat down upon the sofa.

“Where are they?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Away. Does it matter? Constance, please listen.  I am sorry that you saw what you did.  I am sorry that I allowed Bosie to bring him here.  It will not happen again, my dear;  please try to put it out of your mind.”

“What will not happen again, Oscar?”

“Well, this – this intrusion into your domestic life.  I have told Bosie he is not to bring any more of his - friends to this house.  Really, the last thing I want to do is to upset you, Constance.  I promise to be more careful ...”

“More careful?  Careful to keep your sordid life out of sight, is that what you mean?  You do realise, don't you, that our children could have walked past that door at any moment?”

“No!  I mean yes, I suppose that is what I mean, and no, I made sure the boys were out with Fräulein Zeigler, or I would never ...”

“I see.  May I go now?”

“Constance, please try to understand.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly well, Oscar.  You are not sorry for what you and Bosie are doing, but you are sorry that I saw you do it.  You will not promise to give up your unsavoury companions and activities, but you will try to keep them out of my way.  Oscar, I don't know exactly what age that young man was, but he cannot have been more than fifteen at most.  Have you absolutely no sense of responsibility?  In a few years' time your own sons will be that age – does that not even give you pause for thought?”

You sighed, a long, shuddering sigh, and held your head in your hands.  At last you said quietly:  “But you knew, Constance.”

“I knew about you and Bosie, but not about this.  Where do you meet these boys, Oscar?  Do you do this in London?  Of course you do, how stupid of me.  You introduced me to that boy Edward Shelley, when I came home unexpectedly and found him in the house.  How can you – how can you corrupt the young like this, when you have children of your own?”

You blushed deeply, and murmured something inaudible.

“What?” I asked sharply, “What did you say?”

“I do not corrupt them, Constance.  There are boys that I know, but they are already hardened little … they are already leading that life, Constance, it is how they earn a living.”

“Oh, I see.  So you are kindly providing employment for the poor.”

“I did not say that, Constance.”

“Where do you meet them?  On the streets?”

“My dear, you don't want to know all this.”

“But I do!  I do!  I have a right to know, I demand to know.  Where do you meet them?  Do you bring them to our house on a regular basis, when I am away?”

“No!  I have a friend called Alfred Taylor.  He lives in Little College Street.  He – arranges introductions.  We go out for meals, to hotels … there.  That is all.  Now you know.  What are you going to do, Constance?  Are you going to divorce me, and take the boys away?”

You sounded so hopeless, so desolate, that I raged inwardly at my inability to keep pity at bay.

“No, of course not.  What would I have to gain by dragging our children's name in the mud?”

“Your freedom, my dear.  A new husband, perhaps.”

I was furious at having the tables turned on me at a time like this.

“What?  It is you who want freedom, not I!  Well, you have it.  You have always taken it, anyway.  Consider yourself free to do as you wish.  And I do not want a new husband.”

That was true.  I would have given anything, there and then, to have my old husband back, the husband I had courted so shyly and married so proudly only a decade ago.  Not this debauched and lascivious stranger.

“Constance, I know that Arthur Humphreys is in love with you.”

“Don't talk nonsense, he's a married man,” I said, and left the room.

I lay on my bed and sobbed until I was nearly sick.  I remembered with revulsion my romantic indulgence of your friendships, and the spell cast over me, in the early days, by Bosie.  I bit my nails to the quick, and damned him to Hell a thousand times.  I thought of Ada Leverson, that wily old Sphinx on her pedestal; she knew you for what you were and revelled in it, and by watching you as I had done I felt that I'd brought myself down to her level.  As for you, Oscar – well, I planned my revenge in this way and that, and swore that I would make you suffer.  

When I came to myself, I found that you'd left for Brighton; and there was still the blood on my lips of all those words left unsaid, crying out for vengeance.

The boys had been clamouring to go out.  They wanted to know where Bosie was – he'd arrived out of the blue as was his wont, apparently completely oblivious to his father's threats and determined to muscle in on our family holiday, as always.  They wanted to go to the beach with you both, but I had no idea where you were so I sent them on a sedate afternoon walk with Fräulein Zeigler.  Poor dears, this was not turning out to be a happy holiday for them; they were restless and demanding, estranged by school and unable to settle.  

When you came in to find the parlour empty, you must have assumed I'd gone with them; but  I was in the kitchen, checking the supplies, suspecting that the local cook we'd engaged was not above a little domestic pilfering.  I found nothing amiss however, and after a while I made my way upstairs to lie down; as I passed the open door of the room I'd reluctantly allotted to Bosie, I saw you.

You were kneeling before a young boy lying on the bed, leaning over him, your fingers twined in his hair.  With your free hand you were loosening his clothes, quickly, deftly, while Bosie sat poised on the edge of the bedside chair, watching with a greedy, hateful expression on his face.  The boy slid his arm around your neck, and pulled you down to him.  You kissed first his lips and then his throat, moving slowly down his body.

I should have backed away, quickly and silently, but I stood in the doorway for some time and watched you quite calmly, until Bosie looked up and saw me.  I have never seen anyone's eyes become quite so round with shock.  I turned and ran back down the stairs, along the passage to the front door, and out into the street.  I heard your voices calling me:  “Constance!  Constance!  Constance!”

Poor Little Fool

Before Elizabeth by Rohase Piercy suggests a more complicated past for Anne de Bourgh than Jane Austen allows in Pride and Prejudice. In this extract, a very young Anne talks to her cousin Edward and discovers that the future holds surprises.

At first, Edward seemed amused by my questions. “Why, Anne, what is all this? Are you so concerned for my future? I shall not be an Ensign for long, you know; thanks to my father I can expect a rapid promotion, and in a year or so I shall be a Captain, with a hundred men under my command! And a Captain, you know, must be with his battalion for most of the time. But I shall always have a home at Evesham, I expect, unless my brother marries someone who takes a dislike to me; and yes, I shall probably take a house in town eventually. Why so serious, little cousin? I shall always come often to Kent, to visit my uncle and to assure myself that the heiress of Rosings is still the most beautiful and accomplished young lady in the country. Will that do?”     The phrase ‘heiress of Rosings’ was not lost upon me. I nodded and smiled, but persisted in my questioning: “Will you not need an estate of your own though, Edward, when you are married?”     My cousin knelt down amongst the daffodils and began to select blooms at random, suddenly preoccupied. At length he repeated, “An estate of my own! Well, I do not know about that. I shall do well enough for a younger son, I dare say; I'm sure plenty of people will advise me to marry a rich heiress, and acquire a grand house in that way. But as I said, I am to be a soldier. That is the life I have decided upon, and it will suit me well enough for the foreseeable future. I may choose not to marry at all; what do you think of that?”     I did not know what to think of it. “I thought everyone had to be married,” I said, heedlessly crushing the hem of my gown into the dirt as I sat back on my heels to consider the matter.     Edward laughed. “Well, it is not yet enshrined in English law! It is the general expectation, I suppose, and maybe in due course I shall give it some thought. But not yet, and certainly not now, on such a beautiful spring day when the Park is dancing with daffodils! Come now, cousin, you are not keeping to your part of the bargain - I have a fine armful of blooms already, and what have you? Nothing! You must match me stem for stem, and we will carry them back to the house and ask Mrs Jenkinson to bring us two great vases. Then we shall have a display to do justice to Mr Wordsworth! My uncle tells me you have been enjoying his poetry - will you read to me while I am here? I should dearly love to hear you.” 

As we wandered back happily towards the house with our saffron bundles, I determined to set Miss Harvey right at the earliest opportunity.  The only design that my cousin had upon Rosings was to visit often, and assure himself that its heiress - that was I - was still the most beautiful and accomplished young lady in the country!  I searched for her later that afternoon, but failing to find her I returned to the schoolroom to daydream amongst the daffodils, imagining a dozen pleasant future scenarios involving Edward, my father and my grown-up self before hitting upon the one that so obviously suited every convenience and solved every problem that I leapt to my feet, transported by the genius of my own imagination!

What was it that had Edward said? 'I'm sure plenty of people will advise me to marry a rich heiress, and acquire a grand house in that way.'  Well, I would be a rich heiress - why should he not marry me in due course, and come to live at Rosings? Unable to remain still, I began to dance about the room as the possibility took root in my imagination and began to put forth shoots. What if this had been Papa’s plan all along?  Would not that explain everything, from his special treatment of Edward to my cousin’s embarrassment when I brought up the subject of marriage?  Oh, what to do – should I speak to Papa immediately, or wait until the Fitzwilliams had left us? Mrs Jenkinson would certainly advise me to wait… but Miss Harvey …

Determined to find her there and then, I rushed headlong out onto the stairway, where I almost collided with Mrs Jenkinson coming to fetch me for supper.

“Oh Jenky!” I gasped, ignoring her gentle admonition, “Do you know where Miss Harvey is? I’ve been looking for her everywhere!”

“She is out walking,” was her cool reply, in tones so laced with disapproval that my curiosity was aroused.

“Out walking where?” I demanded, as she ushered me firmly along the corridor towards the nursery – and then, as an unmistakable peal of laughter rose up the stairwell towards us, I ducked out from her restraining grasp and rushed to the banister just in time to see my governess enter the hallway on the arm of my cousin John! Disengaging herself from his eager grasp, she removed her bonnet and re-arranged a stray curl; and as he pulled playfully upon her arm, Mrs Jenkinson pulled firmly upon mine, telling me not to tarry as my soup was cooling.  Dumbly I followed her, unable to make sense of the scene I had just witnessed - for had not Miss Harvey  described John, in tones heavy with contempt, as a 'great coxcomb' and 'a danger to the female sex'?  Why then would she walk with him, laugh with him, even – there was no other word for it – flirt with him in so obvious a manner?  I had never seen her behave so, and it troubled me deeply.  Upon reaching the nursery, I went straight to the table and ate my supper in silence - a silence upon which Mrs Jenkinson did not intrude, though she regarded me with watchful eyes.

John remained at Rosings until after Easter, giving me ample opportunity to observe the flirtation that he and Miss Harvey pursued whenever they thought themselves unobserved. They were discreet enough to escape the notice of my parents and uncle, but not that of the servants, whose barely concealed disapproval caused me agonies of mortification. It distressed me beyond words to see my beloved governess reduced to a simpering ninny by a man I so much disliked, and whose attentions she could surely not imagine to be serious.  Could she not see that she was being made a fool of?  When John left for London, abruptly and with no word of farewell to anyone save my mother, I breathed a long sigh of relief.

Miss Harvey’s red eyes on the following morning, however, could not but arouse my pity.  In an attempt to raise her spirits - and also to divert her attention towards a more deserving object - I invited her to join me in reading poetry with Edward that afternoon, a pastime which had already given me much pleasure.  She looked at me as though I were utterly mad.

“What a baby you are, Miss Anne,” she sniffed, tossing her red curls. “’Tis as well I set little store by your judgment of the male sex.  Go and read to Mr Edward by all means, but don’t expect me to hold your hand – not that you’ll need a chaperone in his company!”

My pity evaporated upon the spot, and I retaliated in kind: “Just because my cousin John has made a fool of you in front of the whole household, 'tis no reason to take it out on me!  And you were utterly wrong, you know, about Edward - Papa has no intention of adopting him.”

I saw her fist clench, and knew that she would have struck me had she dared.  Her face contorted into a sneer.  “Well, I can see that!” she snapped; “I was wide of the mark there, and no mistake. That will teach me to listen to peasants’ gossip! No wonder your poor mother complains - the sooner that young man goes into the Army, or gets married off to some poor undemanding fool, the better!”

At the mention of marriage I blushed involuntarily, and my cheeks burned hotter as Miss Harvey stared at me. Suddenly she began to laugh.

“Oh Lord!  I don’t believe it! You think you're to marry Mr Edward, don't you? You poor little fool!  Well I've news for you Miss Anne, 'tis another cousin who's in line for you - young Mr Darcy, your mother's sister's son!   What do you think of that?  And you’d better raise your expectations before the wedding or you’ll be in for a shock!”

I felt the blood drain from my face, leaving me as pale as I had been scarlet the moment before. “Young – young Mr Darcy?” I stammered, as William’s stern, aquiline features and haughty expression leapt into my mind. 

Miss Harvey laughed on, enjoying my discomfiture.  “Don’t tell me you had not an idea of it?  Why, your mother is quite determined upon it, ‘tis the talk of the household!  He’s quite the young gentleman, I hear, and handsome to boot – I’m sure I wish you joy.  I'd settle myself for a husband half so fine!”

I left her still laughing as I ran from the schoolroom, heading for the sanctuary of the nursery where I could be alone.  Closing the door behind me, I threw myself down upon the bed, burying my face in the bolster as the hot tears spilled.   

In less than three months' time we would be making our annual summer visit to Pemberley, which William's brooding presence and disapproving frown would no doubt once more drain of all enjoyment. It was always the same: my aunt and uncle would welcome me affectionately and do their best to put me at my ease, but all of their efforts would be brought to naught by their son's unsmiling, rigid manner.  Whilst remaining perfectly polite, he would make it clear that he found my presence an irksome nuisance to be borne only at his parents' behest; he would dutifully chaperone me and my cousin Georgiana on all outdoor excursions, observing our play with haughty composure whilst refusing all invitations to participate; he would converse with me only when strictly necessary, in tones designed to reduce me to painful confusion.  The possibility that this arrogant young man could be my future husband had never in my wildest dreams occurred to me.  Was I to be sent away from Kent into the rugged wilds of Derbyshire?  Was I actually to leave Rosings - my inheritance, my home – behind, and become the lifelong companion of someone whose society I dreaded?  Did Papa know of this?  Could this possibly have his approval?

With a few careless words Miss Harvey had rocked my world to its foundations, and now everything, everything was changed.

When are you coming home, Oscar?

Oscar Wilde died, disgraced and in exile, on 30th November 1900, famously saying 'Either this wallpaper goes, or I do' ... but what of his neglected wife Constance, who had predeceased him by two and a half years? How much did she actually know about her husband's sexual preferences? Rohase Piercy depicts Constance's state of mind in her novel, The Coward Does It With A Kiss. This is how she imagines the famous encounter between husband and wife at the Albemarle Hotel, where Oscar was staying with his lover Bosie, might have gone.

25th of April 1893

I have just returned from delivering O.'s letters – quite a few of them by now.  I went to the Albemarle, only to be told that he “and Lord Alfred Douglas” had left yesterday, apparently after some disagreement with the hotel manager.  I imagine that the disagreement was of a financial nature, for when the said gentleman eventually deigned to come and speak to me, he could hardly bring himself to tell me where they had gone.  At last he said, “They mentioned that they were going back to the Savoy, Madam,” oozing disapproval from every syllable, though whether of them or of the Savoy I am not certain.  By the time I arrived there, I was close to tears and the whole thing went very badly.

They were staying in one of the best suites of course, and I was shown into the sitting room; but they were still in the bedroom, and the door was open.  There was another gentleman present, and they were arguing, in French, about something to do with Salome.  When the boy announced me they all turned towards the door, very embarrassed, and O. apologised to the others in a low voice and came out to me in his dressing-gown.  He was very abrupt with me at first, but seeing that I was upset, and no doubt wishing to avoid a scene, he became kinder.

“My letters!  But how delightful to receive so many, and by special delivery!  Tite Street?  Is that really my address?  Do you know, it is so long since I have been to Tite Street that I'd quite forgotten I have a house there!  Thank you, my dear,” (kissing me on the cheek) “for reminding me that I have an address, even as lesser mortals.  Remember, O Poet, thou too art human!”

The others emerged somewhat shamefacedly from the bedroom, and Bosie greeted me in a quiet, sulky manner and then introduced me to the French gentleman, since O. was too absorbed in reading his correspondence to do so.  Monsieur Pierre Louys - I had never heard of him before.  He seemed quite at a loss, which made me suspect that the ignorance was mutual.  Bosie asked after the children, and I'm afraid I replied quite coldly, as I am now far from happy about his effect upon them.  Evidently he was supposed to be studying during his stay at Babbacombe, and had even brought a tutor with him; but if Cyril is to be believed, he avoided his lessons at every opportunity, and encouraged my boys to do the same.  Poor Miss Squine confirmed that she had a very difficult time with them while I was away.  Of course, I have not been able to speak to O. about it.

After a while O. interrupted the conversation, waving an invitation card under Bosie's nose.

“Did you know about this, dear boy?”

Bosie took and read it, with some surprise.  “Certainly not.  I have not been invited myself!  How very remiss of Mama.  I shall telegraph her about it today, and ask what she means by it!”

“Probably she does not know where you are.  There, Constance, it is not only I who deserve reproach; Lady Queensberry would no doubt sympathise with you.  You have an errant husband, she an errant son.”

“You're invited too, by the way, Constance,” said Bosie carelessly, handing the card to me – and I intercepted a look of annoyance from O. as I took it.  Sure enough, it was addressed to Mr and Mrs Oscar Wilde, and requested the pleasure of our company at Lady Queensberry's May Ball, to be held at Bracknell on the 19th.  I am utterly convinced that O. would have gone without me, and never said a word about it.

“It is very kind of your mother, and I shall write and thank her,” I said after an awkward silence.  Bosie gave an enigmatic smile.

“But will you come, Constance?”  His use of my Christian name, which I once thought so charming, was now beginning to grate on me.

I looked from him to my husband.  O. looked uncomfortable and disapproving, Bosie sly and vicious.  It dawned upon me that they had been having an argument, and that Bosie was endorsing his mother's invitation to me purely to cause chagrin.  How dared either of them think to use me as a pawn in their sordid little game!

My first instinct was to refuse; but I have said that I will accept the invitation, and have undertaken to write to Lady Q today on behalf of both O. and myself to that effect.  Why, I wonder?  I can hardly imagine that I will enjoy myself.  Did I do it purely out of spite?  Or am I just curious to meet Bosie's mother?  I should like to meet her, if only to find out what she thinks of O. and of his friendship with her son.  How much does she know, I wonder?

Yes, I admit it, I'm curious, and I am also spiteful.  O. had no right to humiliate me this morning in front of his friends.  I suppose he would say it was my fault, for turning up unannounced.

He bade me farewell in a very jovial manner.

“When are you coming home, Oscar?” I asked plainly.

“Home?  Ah yes, to Tite Street!  How I should love to visit Tite Street!  They tell me I have a charming house there.  Don't worry my dear, you shall certainly be seeing me at Tite Street sooner than you think.  The rates these hotels charge nowadays are quite shocking, and I hear that quite a number of perfectly respectable people are being forced to live at their own houses simply because they cannot afford to live anywhere else!”

I bade them all farewell, I hope reproachfully.  M. Louys looked amazed, and quite upset.  Yes, I think he was completely ignorant of my existence.

I could see the bedroom very clearly, by the way. There was but one bed.  I can hardly believe that O. and Bosie have been sleeping quite openly together in the same bed.  How could he do anything so blatant?  Is he completely mad?  Is he completely past caring what people will think of him?  Is he past caring what people will think of me?