This little tale came about because of a special request by Glendria (in London), who asked me (via my guestbook) to write a Horrid Henry story. I had admit that although I had heard of him, I had never before read any of his stories. A little bit of cunning research was called for...
A week later, having read a number of Horrid Henry’s superb exploits, I was ready to begin writing. The following story – Horrible Horace, Lousy Linda and Miss Battle-Scars' School Chair – is the result. I do hope that you all like it, and especially so, Glendria.
P.S. For legal reasons (because of all those nasty lawyers and solicitors lurking out there), I called my little effort Horrible Horace. Now on with the story!
Horrible Horace, Lousy Linda and Miss Battle-Scars' School Chair
One day, on his way to school, Horrible Horace said, “I’m fed up with having to go to school. It’s so boring. I want to do something interesting, something exciting with my life, like fishing, or sailing – or exploring, not sums, and reading, and geometry, and all that other boring old stuff that Miss Battle-Scars tries to drum into us.”
Despite having such strong feelings on the subject – how boring school was – Horrible Horace continued walking, trundling along the same, tired old path he had used since he was five, when he had started school. When he arrived at school, he stopped at the gates, and looking through them, he said, “There must be more to life than just going to school – there must!” Just then, he heard the sound of the bell ringing, telling him and all of the other schoolchildren that it was time to go inside and to get into line. Dragging his feet, Horrible Horace reluctantly slipped through the gate, and into line, behind his friends, Barmy Bernard and Tinkering Tommy...
“Watcha, Horace,” said Barmy Bernard, “Do you want to know what I have in my satchel?” he asked, his eyes gleaming wild with excitement.
“No, not really,” Horrible Horace replied, his eyes on the ground, along with his spirits.
“What’s wrong with you, Horrible?” asked Tinkering Tommy. “Anyone would think you had lost your marbles, or ever worse – your conkers.”
“Conkers bonkers,” the two boys chortled cheerfully.
Horrible Horace, however, did not hear them; he did not join in with their amusement, for his thoughts, like his spirits and eyes, were on the ground, forlorn.
Nudging him, Barmy Bernard said, “Well, Horrible, do you want to see what I have in my satchel?”
“Let me take a look,” said Tinkering Tommy,” and if it’s what I think it is, I’ll show it to him.”
Opening his satchel, Barmy Bernard showed his second best friend (Horrible Horace being his first) the object he had secreted within it.
Sticking his hands in (without looking, first), Tinkering Tommy cried out, “No! Get it away from me!” Withdrawing his hands – and as fast as he could – he said, “I thought it was a frog, but it’s not! It’s a tarantula spider, all fat and hairy!” he gasped. “I could have been bitten to death!”
Laughing at his innocence, Barmy Bernard said, “It won’t bite you. It’s my pet.”
Unconvinced by his argument, Tinkering Tommy, checking each and every one of his fingers, to be sure the spider had not bitten him, edged away from the satchel, saying, “Why on earth did you bring a tarantula into school?”
Smiling mischievously Barmy Bernard said, “Because I’m a little bit barmy, maybe?”
“A little bit?” he snapped. “More like a whole lot – and then some!”
“Stop talking, you two,” Miss Battle-Scars called out, pointing her bell at the two errant children. “And get into line!”
“But we are in line,” Tinkering Tommy protested, wiping his hands in his blazer (in case any poison from the spider happened to be on them).
“Well, make it a little less messy,” she ordered. “And as for you, Horrible Horace,” she quipped, “You look so gloomy anyone would be forgiven for thinking you were going to a funeral.” After ringing her bell for a second time, she waved the first line of children into the school.
On his way into his classroom, Horrible Horace, passing Miss Battle-Scars, cast a sneaky glance up at her. He usually had something to say, be it cheerful or cheeky (depending on his mood), but today he said nothing, the words simply failed him.
Inside, sitting quietly at his desk, Horrible Horace took out his study book and opened it. It was the geography lesson, the only subject that he actually liked. The reason why he liked it – and so much – was because of all the wonderful, exotic places they read about, places like Ecuador (where the best coffee came from), Ceylon (where the finest teas came from), and Africa (where man-eating lions came from), yes he always enjoyed geography lessons. However, he still hated school; he hated it with a vengeance.
After the geography lesson was over, Horrible Horace’s mood had lightened. You see, they had been reading about the South Pacific, wild and exotic places such as Tonga, Tahiti, and the ever so far away Pitcairn Island, where the mutiny on the Bounty sailors had settled. Leaning across to his best friend sitting at the desk beside him, he whispered, “Well?”
“Well what?” Barmy Bernard replied.
“What have you got in your satchel that had Tinkering Tommy in such a flap?”
Grinning, leaning down to his satchel resting on the floor next to his desk, his Barmy friend opened it, and said, “This!”
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“Wow! Wow! Wow!” said Horrible Horace. “I’d never in a thousand years have imagined you would have brought your pet tarantula into school!”
Still grinning, his best friend replied, “Wait until you see what I am going to do with it...”
“What? What? What?” said Horrible Horace. “Are you really going to do that with it? And do you truly want ME to help you to do it?
“Yes,” Barmy Bernard replied, “unless you want me to ask Lousy Linda, instead?”
“No, not her!” Horrible Horace protested. You see, last Christmas, during their performance of the nativity play (with Lousy Linda playing the part of Mary, and Horrible Horace as Joseph), when the three wise men entered the stable, presenting gifts, she had sneakily kissed him. Ever since that dastardly trick, he had avoided her like the plague.)
“So, you will help me?”
Yes, yes of course I will,” Horrible Horace, replied, “on condition that you tell no one.”
“But how will they know it was us, how will we get the credit for doing it, if we don’t tell anyone?” his Barmy friend interjected.
“You and I will know,” he replied. “That’s how spies do business, and if it’s good enough for spies its good enough for us. Now where is your satchel?”
During their dinner break, standing in the open doorway of the classroom, on guard for anyone who might happen to pass by, Barmy Bernard felt decidedly jumpy. “What’s taking you so long?” he asked his Horrible friend.
“Almost finished,” Horrible Horace replied, pushing Miss Battle-Scars chair carefully back into position under her desk. “There,” he declared, “it’s all done!”
“Someone’s coming!” Barmy Bernard cried out. “Get out!” With that, the two boys dashed across to the window, where after quickly opening it they bailed out of the classroom, into the playground.
“What have you two been up to?” asked Lousy Linda, when she saw them bailing of the window, falling hard to the ground.
“Ow! That hurt!” said Barmy Bernard, rubbing his soreness, searching for blood (he was sure he had cut something, but he was unable to spot blood, not even one tiny drop).
“Belt up, you berk,” Horrible Horace quipped, handing him back his satchel. “Like spies, remember?”
“Oh, yes, spies it is.”
Without answering Lousy Linda’s question, the two boys began walking away from her, and the scene of their crime.
“I’m going to tell Miss Battle-Scars,” she warned.
Stopping, knowing that she was all too capable of doing such a dastardly deed, Horrible Horace and Barmy Bernard turned and stared into the eyes of the girl of their nightmares.
“So, that got your attention,” she gloated.
His voice croaky with suspicion, Barmy Bernard asked, “What do you want...to say nothing?”
Raising an eyebrow, Horrible Horace said, “Yeh, what do you want, to keep stumpf?”
With her hands on her hips, looking ever so smug, Lousy Linda replied, “A kiss, I want a kiss from each of you!”
“A kiss?” the two boys bemoaned. “Yuk! Anything but that!”
Standing her ground, fully intent on achieving her wish, no matter what, Lousy Linda said, “It’s a kiss or nothing...”
The two boys, their heads lowered, ashamed that they had allowed themselves to get into such a dire situation, drew shapes in the dusty ground with their feet, hoping the moment might pass. It did not.
“Well, are you going to kiss me?” asked Lousy Linda. “Or must I go tell teacher what you have been up to?”
“But...you didn’t see!” mumbled Barmy Bernard.
“So, you have been up to something!” laughed their Lousy classmate. “I knew it, I just knew it!”
“But, but...” the Barmy bungler mumbled.
“Shut up!” warned Horrible Horace. “Don’t you think you’ve said enough?”
Feeling powerful, in control of the conversation – and where it was heading (two big, fat and juicy kisses), Lousy Linda continued with her torturous line of enquiry, “Well, are you boys going to kiss me, or do I have to go tell on you?”
Having painted themselves into a corner, the two boys had no option other than facing their demons.
“Okay,” said Horrible Horace, “we’ll do it, we’ll kiss you.”
“What? Are you stark raving mad!” Barmy Bernard asked, thinking his best friend had flipped his cork.
“Hush,” said Horrible Horace,” we have a fair damsel to kiss,
“What has gotten into you?” asked Barmy Bernard, “I thought you hated kissing, and especially so with HER!”
Ignoring his best friend, Horrible Horace approached his nemesis, then holding his breath he dived in and kissed her on the cheek. Having done it, he retreated as fast as was humanly possible. Wiping his lips clean, he said, “It’s your turn now, Barmy, and the best of British luck.”
Holding his breath, copying his best friend’s selfless example, Barmy Bernard waded in to the affray, kissing Lousy Linda on the other cheek, then retreating fast and furious, to what he considered was a safe distance, he also wiped his lips.
Smiling from ear to ear, Lousy Linda was in paradise. One boy kissing her would have been tremendously good, but two of them left her speechless with delight.
“Okay,” said Barmy, “Now that that’s over, what do we do next?”
Smiling mischievously, Horrible Horace said, “We wait until Miss Battle-Scars rings her bell.”
“Then we will go inside,” Barmy Bernard continued, speaking for him, “and sit down at our desks, waiting for her to do likewise?”
“Yeh,” his best friend replied, laughing. “And the fireworks will begin...”
“The fireworks?” Barmy asked.
Although she was standing a distance from the two boys, Lousy Linda was well within earshot. However, she showed no reaction, no reaction at all, to what they had been saying. Why would she, though, when she was still in paradise?
Ring a ling, the school bell called out, ring a ling a ling. “Dinner break’s over. Everybody into line,” Miss Battle-Scars ordered. “That also means you, Tommy Tilbert!”
When all of the pupils had lined up to her satisfaction, Miss Battle-Scars said, “First line of children will now proceed into school.” When they had gone in, she said, “Second line of children will now proceed into school.” And so it went on, until all of the children had filed past her, into their various classrooms.
Sitting down at his desk, Barmy said, “Where did you vanish to, Horrible?”
“I had a bit of business to attend to,” he replied.
“Business? What business?” his best friend asked.
“I can’t say anymore, like spies, remember?”
Seemingly satisfied with this explanation, Barmy Bernard said, “It won’t be long now, Horrible!”
“No, not long at all,” his best friend, answered indifferently
“What’s poured water on your party?” Barmy Bernard asked. “You are acting almost a glum as when you arrived at school, this morning.”
Nodding his head in the direction of Lousy Linda, he replied, “It’s her, old Lousy boots...”
“Her? I thought she was okay, that she was happy, after we made fools of ourselves, kissing her.”
She was...until she came back into class, to the scene of our crime... look at her, with those beady eyes of hers, scanning everything, wondering what we have done.”
“Do you think she will tell old Battle-Scars?”
“I’m sure of it...and that’s why I–”
“Arithmetic lesson,” said Miss Battle-Scars, as she entered the classroom and began wiping the blackboard with the duster. “Please take out your exercise books.”
Desks opened; small fingers and hands searched for the dreaded Arithmetic exercise books.
“Has everyone got their books open?”Miss Battle-Scars asked, eying each child as she spoke.
“Pst, Horrible,” Barmy Bernard whispered. “She’s not sitting down!”
“Shush!” Horrible Horace warned, speaking rather loudly. “Do you want everyone to hear?”
“Sorry,” Barmy apologised, “got a bit carried away.”
“What did you say?” asked Lousy Linda, from two desks behind.
Ignoring her, the two boys copied down the sums Miss Battle-Scars was writing on the blackboard.
“I heard what you said,” Lousy Linda retorted.
“Turning to face her, Barmy Bernard said, “Then why did you ask, if you already know that it’s on her chair?”
“Hah!” Lousy Linda cried out, “So that’s it, you’ve put something on Battle-Scars’ chair!”
“That’s it? What’s it?” asked Miss Battle-Scars, who had meanwhile stopped writing on the blackboard, to listen.
Along with her teacher’s eyes, Lousy Linda felt those of every child in the classroom fixed doggedly upon her.
“Well?” Miss Battle-Scars asked. “What is so important that you have to shout about it, distracting your fellow pupils from their sums?”
“I, I, I was...” the Lousy pupil replied, her lame excuse fast running out of steam and momentum.
“There will be no ifs and buts, here,” her teacher chided.
“But I never said that...” she protested.
“There have been far too many of those types of excuses, already.”
“It was them – THEM!” Lousy Linda snarled, fighting back, pointing a trembling finger at Horrible Horace and Barmy Bernard. “It was those two creeps who started it!” she roared.
“If you are going to try and implicate your fellow pupils in something that is all too obviously of your own making,” Miss Battle-Scars warned, “I suggest you come up to the front of the classroom and sit in my chair, where everyone can keep a watchful eye on you.”
Begrudgingly, reluctantly, the Lousy pupil got up from her desk and made her way to the front of the classroom. Edging closer and closer to her teacher’s chair, Lousy Linda eyed it with growing concern.
“What are you waiting for, child?” said Miss Battle-Scars, “Sit, sit down and start arithmeticking!”
“But, but what if...”
“No ifs and buts, remember?”
Pulling the chair out from under the desk, Lousy Linda was certain she was going to see something lurking there, like a frog, or a wasps nest, or even a stink bomb, ready to explode anyone happened to sit on it, but she saw nothing, nothing at all. Breathing a huge sigh of relief, Lousy Linda plonked herself down on the chair...
KAPOW! BLAM, PHYZZT! The chair (with Lousy Linda still sitting upon it) shot high into the air, so high both it and the startled girl smashed hard into the ceiling.
“What are you doing up there, child?” asked Miss Battle-Scars, from below. “I told you to do your sums, not shoot into the air like a sky rocket. Get down here at once,” she warned, “and finish your sums!”
Grabbing hold of the light fitting, before the chair returned to earth with a bang, the frightened replied, “But...I can’t get down...”
“Of course you can,” Miss Battle-Scars insisted. “Let go of that light. I will catch you,” she said, standing beneath her, with both arms outstretched.
“Go on, go, on, go on!” the children chanted from the safety of their desks. “Jump, jump, jump!” they shouted.
Did Lousy Linda return safely to earth, or is she still up there, doing her sums, writing and arithmeticking from that lofty location? To find out, let us return to Horrible Horace and Barmy Bernard...
On his way home, Barmy Bernard said, “Horrible, I still don’t understand how Miss Battle-Scars chair was able to shoot up like that. My pet tarantula could never do that – and where is it, anyway?”
“There was a slight change of plan,” his best friend coyly admitted.
“A change of plan?”
“Yes,” he continued. “After Lousy Linda cornered us for a kiss – I can still taste it, the sugar and spice. Yuk! – I had to get my revenge, our revenge.”
“And?”
“Tinkering Tommy.”
“Tinkering Tommy? What about him?”
“I went looking for him – that’s why you couldn’t find me, I was with him. I asked for his help. You know how good he is at making things – and devices.”
“That he is,” his Barmy friend agreed, nodding. “He most certainly is.”
“With our Tinkering friend’s help, I substituted your tarantula with a powerful spring secreted under her seat. The rest is history.”
“But where did the spring come from?” Barmy asked, scratching his head in wonderment at it all.
Smiling ever so mischievously, Horrible Horace said, “From his dad’s motor bike and sidecar, of course. He said he hardly ever uses it! And do you want to know something else?” he asked.
“What?”
“With days such as this, I feel that school is going to be anything but boring from here on. Now what shall we do tomorrow?”
As our story finishes, with Lousy Linda having got her comeuppance, and with Horrible Horace and his best friend happy that they had been instrumental in it coming about, we see a middle-aged man, donning his helmet and gloves. Sitting casually atop his beloved old motorbike and sidecar, he is looking forward to a nice drive out into the countryside, then CRASH, BANG, WALLOP, the whole caboodle falls apart beneath him.
Pardon? You want to know what Horrible Horace did with the tarantula? He hid it inside Miss Battle-Scars desk, that’s what he did with it. Horrible Horace’s school days will without doubt never be boring again.
