Horrible Horace: He's a little tyke!

Horrible Horace Takes a Little Vacation

You me and the cat next-door know already how naughty Horrible Horace can be, but for the benefit of those boys and girls who are only now joining us, I will say it again, Horrible Horace can be ever so bold, and then some. With that thought in mind, I will begin this little story...

Ring a ling a ling, ring a ling a ling, the sound of the school bell ringing told the children that it was time for their diner beak to begin. “Hurray,” they all shouted, streaming out from their classrooms. “Hurray!” they shouted again, streaming into the hall to begin eating their school dinners. “Hurray!” they shouted for a third time, when they had finished their dinners and began running out from the hall, into the playground. “Hurray!” the children shouted yet again, enjoying their playtime.

Outside the school playground, a coach full of happy, tired young girls pulled up to a halt in front of the school gate. “Who’s that?” one child asked, looking over the fence, scratching his head.

“Dunno...,” another boy answered, also scratching his head.

A third child, a redheaded, petit girl, said, “That’s the third year girls, returning from their outing, a weekend away from it all at Haling Island.”

A few minutes later, to one side of the playground, Barmy Bernard spotted his best friend. “Watcha, Horrible,” he said.

“Oh, hello,” Horrible Horace replied.

“What’s s up?” he asked.

Lying, Horrible Horace answered, “Nothing.”  

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Raising an eyebrow, his best friend said, “C’mon, Horrible, I know you better than that, spit it out.”

Realising that he was at nothing, trying to hide his true feelings from his best friend, he said, “It’s my sister...”

“You sister? What about you sister?”

Staring into his eyes, Horrible Horrid, said, “You saw her.”

“I did?”

“Yes,” he insisted, “On that coach!”

“Coach? Oh, that coach!” he replied. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I did!”

“You did?”

“Yes, in fact I have now said it twice!”

“You have?”

“Has anyone ever told you the uncanny resemblance you have to a parrot?”

“Parrot?”

Moving on from what he believed to be an increasingly nonsensical conversation, Horrible Horace said, “All that you need to know is that it’s tremendously unfair!”

“That you have a sister?”

“No, no!” Horrible Horace barked, “What planet are you on? I feel as if I am talking to a Martian, for all the sense I am getting from you!”

“Start again?” Barmy Bernard asked, vying for peace.    

“All right,” Horrible Horace replied, “but please do try and remember what I am telling you, this time!”

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When Horrible Horace had finished, telling his best friend about his sister’s school trip to Haling Island, and her return with her fellow classmates, minutes earlier, only to be sent home for the remainder of the day, Barmy Bernard breathed a sigh of relief, and he said, “Is that all?  From the way you were behaving, I thought the end of the worlds was coming. And I still can’t see what you consider so unfair,” he said. “They must be exhausted after their weekend away, and especially so your sister, being such a live wire.”

“The problem, my dear friend, is they – and especially so my sister, Miodering Maria – are getting the rest of the day off, and I am not!”

“What’s wrong with that?” Barmy Bernard asked, thinking his friend barmier that he.

“Because...”

“Because? That’s not much of an explanation,” his Barmy friend carped.

Feeling that he was at nothing, trying to explain the injustice he perceived (whether it be imaginary or not), Horrible Horace, said, “Forget about it, forget that I said anything at all.” Then he asked, “Have you seen Tinkering Tommy?”

“Tinkering Tommy?” he replied, pointing to the playing field at the rear of the school playground. “He’s over yonder, playing football. Shall we go play, also?”

“Yes,” Horrible Horace agreed. “But you go first. I want to get a drink of water; a piece of that chicken pie we had for lunch has got stuck in my throat.” With that, he began walking away, towards the school building.

“I’ll see you later, then,” said Barmy Bernard, walking in the opposite direction.

No sooner had he rounded the corner, Horrible Horace darted into the shadows, hiding. The school building, the drink of water and the piece of chicken stuck in his throat would have to wait, for he had other things planned...

 When he was sure that no one was watching him, Horrible Horace darted out from the shadows, heading for the school gate, the very same ones the coach with his sister – Moidering Maria – within had pulled alongside, minutes earlier. “No one has seen me,” he whispered, stopping briefly just inside the gate. Then opening it, he passed silently through and entered the world of the street. “Hah!” he cried out, “If Moidering Maria gets time off school, so shall I! Yes,” he declared. “And no one is going to tell me otherwise!”

Sauntering along the pavement, feeling so happy that he had done it, that he had actually taken the remainder of the day off, without telling anyone, Horrible Horace felt like a king, a monarch supreme, an emperor benign, a pope in all of his holiness. “This is more like it,” he chirped, “no boring old school lessons for me, today. Like my silly old sister, I too have the rest of the day off, and I can do whatever I want, with it. Scratching his chin thoughtfully, he said, “Hmm, what shall I do with it?” He tried, he tried, and he tried some more, to think of something he might do, but no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to think of anything at all. Finally, eventually, he said, “I shall go home. Yes. That is what I shall do, and when I am there, I shall sit down and work out the best course of action. What an excellent idea!” So, with footsteps light and heart ever so cheerful, he headed for home.

Approaching the front door of his house, Horrible Horace’s confident footsteps faltered. Looking up at the large, brass knocker – a resemblance of a Lincoln Imp – he wondered what the reception would be, to greet him.  “The only one way to find out,” he said, “is to knock.” Gulping hard, standing on tiptoes, he reached up to the knocker. Lifting it ever so slowly, he then let go of it.

Boom! Boom! Boom! The door boomed loud and long as the doorknocker stuck it hard and square. “Who’s that?” his father asked on the other side.

“Cripes, it’s dad!” whispered Horrible Horace, “I forget he was on night work this week.” Then he said, “I wonder why they cannot make enough lino at the lino factory, during the day. He’ll be so mad, with him trying to sleep.”

Stepping away from the door, what little courage Horrible Horace had left, took a sudden nosedive.

“You go on up to bed” said his mother, “I’ll go see who it is.”

“Ah, mum’s coming,” he said cheerfully. “I can always sweet-talk her. She will listen. I will tell her the school boiler sprung a leak...that we all had to go home because it was so dangerous...that it could have blown up at any moment. Yes, she’ll believe that. Everything is going to be all right, Horrible.”

However, when the door opened, it was not Horrible Horace’s mother behind it. It was his father. “What are you doing home from school at so early an hour?” he boomed, louder than the door and its knocker had so recently done. “Don’t you know I am on night work, this week?”

“I, I...” his startled son mumbled, the excuse that he had worked out, to tell them, fading fast from his memory.

“Well?” his father asked for a second time. “Or has the cat got your tongue, again? It’s strange how you dry up for words whenever you are asked to explain yourself.”

“Who are you talking to?” asked his wife, appearing in the doorway beside him. Then seeing her son, her only beloved son, she said, “What are you doing home at this hour of the day, Horace?”

“I’ve already asked him that question,” her husband replied, “But the cat seems to have got his tongue, again, hasn’t it Horrible?”

“Don’t call him that!” his wife insisted. “His name is Horace.”

“Then why do all of his friends call him that?” he asked.

“There’ only children,” she replied. “You know how foolish young children can be.”

“I don’t know if I know anything anymore,” her husband grumbled, his thoughts returning to his bed and much needed slumbers. Climbing the stairs he said, “Make sure the little tyke keeps quite – and his Miodering sister – I’m bushed.” With that, he disappeared round the corner at the top of the stairs, heading for his bed.

“I don’t know what I am going to do with you, Horace,” his mother whispered, bidding him to enter the house. “In there,” she said, pointing to the kitchen. “Your father will not hear us speaking, from there.”

Closing the kitchen door, Horrible Horace’s mother, looking up at the ceiling, said, “You can whisper, but please don’t talk any louder than that. All hell will break loose if you wake up you father. He needs his sleep. Withdrawing one of the chairs from under the table, she sat upon it, instructing her son to do likewise. “Now,” she said, “will you please tell me what this is all about, why you are here and not in school?”

“It’s the boiler,” Horrible Horace replied, suddenly remembering his excuse.

An eyebrow rising, she said, “The boiler? What about the boiler?”

“It sprang a leak. It was ever so dangerous,” he insisted. “We had to go home – all of us – or we would have been blown to smithereens!”

Her eyebrow raising further, his mother said, “A leak?”

“Yes. It was a whopper. There was stem – everywhere. They sent us out, into the playing field. We were standing there – for ages. Then the headmistress, Mrs Carcass, came out and she said, “Everyone go home, lest you are blown up to smithereens, and we’ll get the blame.”

“In that case,” said his mother, giving up (for the time being) on getting the truth, “you had better go into the garden and play. You will have to stay there for the rest of the day, until school time is over, when your father get’s up.

Smiling, hardly believing his luck, that his mother had actually believed his story, Horrible Horace jumped down from his chair and dashed out of the house, into the garden. Suddenly poking his head in round the door, he asked, “Where’s Moidering Maria?”

“You sister is upstairs, asleep. She’s as tired as an alley cat that stayed out all night.”

“Why did it stay out all night?”

“Never you mind, why,” she replied. “Now into the garden with you.”

Horrible Horace ran into the garden, to freedom.

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Alone in the kitchen, the mother whispered, “That child will either end up in prison, or become a millionaire.”

Outside, Horrible Horace searched for somewhere sit. He had a lot of thinking to do about the rest of his afternoon off and what he might do with it. Finding a place, a statue of the laughing Buddha, that his mother had installed in a shady nook to the rear of the garden, he sat upon its head. “What shall I do?” he mused. “Shall I play cowboys and indians, or cops and robbers?” Then he remembered that in order to play these games he needed his friends, friends who were still in school. “Drats,” he hissed. “I shall have to think of something else to play... I know,” he whispered, “I shall play, ‘let my sister’s guinea pigs out from their hutch.’ Hah, that’ll teach her, my rat bag sister, for taking the afternoon off without telling me, first!”

Getting up from the Buddha, Horrible Horace rubbed his sore bottom (Buddha’s can be very uncomfortable things to sit upon, especially so hard, concrete ones), then looking up to his sister’s bedroom, he saw that its curtains were drawn. “That’s good,” he whispered, “everything’s going according to plan. Looking up to his father’s window, he saw that its curtains were also drawn. Laughing, giggling away happily to himself, Horrible Horace made his way furtively through the garden, to where his sister’s guinea pig hutch was located...

“I don’t know why she keeps them,” he whispered, “because she never cleans them out. Nine times out of ten, I end up doing it, and I hate doing it. Their hutch is always so dirty and smelly!” Approaching the hutch, kneeling down, to be on the same level as the smelly rodents, he said, “Hello, little guinea pigs, I have cone to set you free.” Opening the door of the hutch, he said, “Come on out, it’s a fine day, freedom awaits you. And if anyone asks me why I did it, I shall tell them I was doing the pigs a favour, so I will, freeing them from such a smelly old hutch.”

” He had no sooner opened the door, than the three little pigs scampered out of the hutch, to freedom. And they were fast, very fast, so fast they took Horrible Horace quite by surprise. You see, he thought the rodents would have been happy to wander about the garden, the lawn, flowers beds and vegetable patch. The guinea pigs, however, had other ideas. Instead of cooperating with Horrible Horace’s wishes, they made a beeline for a hole in the hedge, and next door’s garden.

“No!” Horrible Horace cried out. “Don’t go in there! There is wicked old dog that will surely gobble each one of you up!” However, the rodents continued to scamper away from him, towards the promise of freedom in next door’s garden. Dashing after them, trying his utmost to stop their imminent escape, Horrible Horace finally managed to catch up with them. Diving at the hole in the hedge, like a goalie after his ball, he tried to bar their imminent escape. They were fast, the fastest rodents he had ever chased, and all three of them easily evaded his unwanted attention. Watching helplessly as they passed through the hole in the hedge, Horrible Horace heard their squeaks of delight on the far side.

“What am I going to do?” he cried out, “She’ll kill me, so she will, when she finds out what I have done. They don’t call her Moidering Maria for nothing!” he bawled.

To add to these feelings of concern, Horrible Horace heard the sound of a window opening, above. Shivers of dread ran down his spine. ‘Who is it?’ he thought, ‘Moidering Maria or dad.’ Shutting his eyes tight and sobbing, he said, “It doesn’t matter, for whomever it is, I am doomed, doomed for what I have done!”

No one spoke to him from above, but Horrible Horace, too frightened to look up, kept his yes firmly shut tight. The sound of the window closing, told him that whomever it was had either not seen him or was coming down to give him a good rollicking. Retreating to the ‘safety’ of the laughing Buddha, hoping to conceal his whereabouts behind it, Horrible Horace crouched down low.

The sound of the back door of the house opening, told Horrible Horace that the person was coming, be it his Moidering sister or ever so mad dad. Squatting down lower, he wished he was invisible, or at least had a cloak of invisibility, like Harry Potter.

“I see you!” said his sister, rubbing her sleepy eyes, Moidering for a fight.

Keeping perfectly still, her Horrible brother said nothing, not a word passed his trembling lips.

 Leaning over the Buddha, pulling hard on his jumper, yanking him up from his deception, Moidering Maria said, “Up with you!”

“How did you know I was here?” he asked, fighting back, reclaiming his jumper.

“You always hide here,” she said. “Why don’t you try somewhere more challenging?”

“Like?”

Like the coal bunker,” she replied, “or the dustbin, or even the compost heap.”

Thinking his sister was losing her marbles, he agreed with her, saying, “Yes, next time I will try somewhere else.”

“I’m sure you will,” she replied condescendingly. “But I will still check here, first. Changing the subject she said, “You woke me up, you do know that?”

He mumbled a yes.

“What on earth were you up to,” she asked, “running about the garden like a loony?”

“Running?” he asked, feeling braver, brazening it out, “I wasn’t running.”

Folding her arms, tapping a foot on the ground to show her annoyance with him, she said, “If you don’t tell me what you were up to, right here and now, I will go inside and tell dad!”

Raising his hands, in surrender, he said, “All right, I will tell you, but you will be mad...”

“I will if you don’t tell me!” she retorted.

Speaking, barely audible, Horrible Horace said, “I let out your guinea pigs...”

“I can’t hear you,” his sister replied. “Speak up!”

Coughing, clearing his throat, feeling so embarrassed for what he had done, he said, “I let out your three guineas pigs.”

“WHAT?” she screamed. “You let my guinea pigs out from their hutch?”

“I didn’t mean to,” he lied. “It was an accident.”

It will also be an accident when I brain you, you creep!” she yelled. “Where are they?”

Pointing to the hole in the hedge, he said, “In there.”

“In Mr and Mrs Slark’s back garden?” she asked. “They have a dog! He’s a nasty brute – you know that!”

“I know, I know. That’s why they call him Cruncher, as in bones,” Horrible Horace agreed. Lifting a finger, he added, “Though I must admit that I haven’t heard it.”

“Yet,” she screamed, the infuriation she was feeling all too visible, “you haven’t heard it yet!”

Lying upon the ground, on her stomach, the Moideringly mad girl stared through the hole in the hedge. “I can’t see them,” she said. “If anything happens to them, I’ll pulverise you, so I will!”

“That’s it!” her Horrible brother replied. “Their dog’s inside the house. They always bring it in for its tea, about now.

“It’s a bit early for tea.”

“Dogs eat early,” he explained. “Their body clocks are faster than ours, you know.” Lying down, pushing his sister away from the hole, Horrible Horace poked his head in, his eyes scanning the Slark’s garden for signs of her guinea pigs. “I can see them,” he whispered, afraid he might scare them away. “They’re over yonder, next to the garden shed.”

“Let me see,” said his sister, shoving him aside, reclaiming control of the hole. Poking her head in, she said, “You’re right. I can see them! Come back to momma,” she called, “and I’ll give you a special treat for your tea.”

“Momma?”

Glaring ever so coldly at her Horrible brother, Moidering Maria made it abundantly clear that she was in no mood for his wit.

“If we’re quick,” said Horrible Horace, shrugging it off, “I think we can retrieve them before Cruncher’s tea is over.”

“We?” she asked. “Who said anything about we?”

“Okay,” he replied, “If I am quick, I think I might be able to retrieve them before Cruncher’s tea is over.”

“That’s better,” she answered, “because if you don’t, I am going to tell mum and dad, not to mention every one of your friends at school – and also Miss Battle-Scars!”

The mere mention of his teacher put Horrible Horace firmly in his place. He was on bad enough terms with her at the best of times, and if she ever found out why he had taken off from school (he was hoping his mother would write him a note, excusing him, saying he had been taken down unexpectedly by the plague, or anthrax, or even malaria) his life would  hardly be worth living.

 Grunting his annoyance, but not daring to say anything to antagonise his sister further, Horrible Horace began searching for something.

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“What are you looking for?”

“Mud,” he replied, his eyes scanning the garden, for any. “Ah, there’s some,” he said, darting across to a puddle beneath the outside tap. Sticking his fingers into the puddle, he withdrew a dollop of mud and set about plastering his face with it. When he had finished camouflaging his face with the mud, Horrible Horace returned to his sister, and the hole in the hedge.  Shuffling his way into the hole, he said, “See you later.”

“Hurry up!” Moidering Maria insisted, when her Horrible brother’s progress through the hole in the hedge suddenly stopped. “What’s taking you so long?”

“I’m trying,” he replied, his voice muffled by the abundance of foliage surrounding him, “but I seem to be stuck...”

“Stuck? You cannot be stuck!” she insisted. “You have my children to save!”

“Your Children?” Horrible Horace asked, his words quiet and low.

“Pardon? What did you say?”

“I said I’ll save them,” he lied. “Will you give me a push?” 

With his Moidering sister pushing, and him clawing his way forward, Horrible Horace’s head finally emerged on the far side of the hedge. “Phew!” he gasped, enjoying the cool air. “It was hot in there.” Then it happened, as he tried to pull the rest of his body through the hole, he became stuck, a sharp branch protruding out from the side of the hole having snagged his trousers hard. “Help!” he cried out, trying to yank himself free. “I can’t more! I’m stuck tight!”

“What do you mean you can’t move?” his sister asked, thinking it one of the peculiar jokes he had a habit of playing, that he found so amusing.

“I can’t move,” he complained, “I’m stuck as tight as an iceberg in the hull of the Titanic!”

“Iceberg? Titanic? What on earth are you blathering on about?” she asked.

Fuming that he had been ‘blessed’ with so stupid a sister, Horrible Horace yelled, “PUSH ME, AGAIN!”

They started over again, with Moidering Maria pushing with all of her might, and Horrible Horace pulling with all of his, trying his utmost to claw his way forward and out from the hole.

“PUSH HARDER!” he yelled, “Something’s giving – I can feel it – I think I’m beginning to move!”

Something was giving; unfortunately, it was not the branch. With a loud ripping sound, the sharp, protruding branch cut its way through the seat of Horrible Horace’s pants, splitting it in two. After shooting through the hole in the hedge, like a bullet, Horrible Horace found himself lying in an undignified heap on his next-door neighbour’s verdant green lawn.

 Staring through the hole in the hedge, his sister laughed heartedly at the spectacle of her Horrible brother trying (but in vain) to cover the hole in his trousers. “That’ll teach you,” she gloated, “for opening my guinea pigs’ hutch! And when mum sees your trousers, you will really be in for it.”

Having no other option other than ignoring his sister’s cutting remarks – and the hole in his pants – Horrible Horace set about what he had invaded the garden to achieve, the return of his sister’s three her guinea pigs, and pronto. Running across the lawn, to the shed next to which they were standing, his efforts were ‘rewarded’ by the sound of high-pitched squeaks, shrieks and whistles, as the startled little pigs hurriedly scuttled away in three very different directions.

“What are you doing?” said his sister, in alarm at his crazy antics. That’s no way to do it!”

Turning towards the hedge, he said, “And pray tell me what is the way?”

“Talk to them,” she told him. “Tell them their dada is coming to save them from the nasty old dog.”

“Dada? Dog?”  He desperately wanted to say something – anything – about calling himself the dada of three guinea pigs, but when she said dog, reminding him of Cruncher and his ever so sharp teeth, his heart skipped a beat, for time was slipping away, with the crazy-mad dog’s return imminent. Searching frantically for the missing guinea pigs, he found them huddled together, having regrouped behind one of the cucumber frames. Going along with what his sister had told him to do (he felt ever so silly, doing it), he said, “Come to dada, little guinea pigs, and I’ll save you from the big, nasty dog.” He intended his words to calm the three rodents; however, they fell far short of the mark, because the frightened animals shot off for a second time in three entirely different directions.

“What are you doing?” he asked, shaking a fist at the last of the rodents to escape his unwanted attention. 

“What are you doing?” asked Moidering Maria, when she saw him shaking his fist at one of her precious pets.

“What are you doing?” Mrs Slark asked the camouflaged garden invader, when she opened the window above. “And what happened to your trousers?”

‘What am I doing here?’ thought Horrible Horace, chasing after the three rodents, determined to catch them, no matter what.

“I’ve got you!” he said, snatching the first one from under a raspberry bush.

“I’ve got you!” he cried out, securing the second pig, hiding beneath the giant leaves of a rhubarb plant.

“And I got you, little rascal,” he said to the last one, spiriting it away from under a under a clump of fine dahlias.

With a rodent held firmly in each hand, and the third held securely between his clenched teeth, Horrible Horace made a beeline for the hole in the hedge. He did not see Mrs Slark (how could he when he never looked up?), nor did he see Cruncher.

Having finished eating its dinner, the crazy-mad dog was itching to return outside. Mr Slark, opening the back door of his house, seeing the garden invader, said, “Go get him, boy!”

“Who are you?” asked Mrs Slark from her position, above.

“I’m coming!” yelled Horrible Horace, to his sister next door.

“Come faster,” she answered, lest my babies are tore by that dog, dreadful dog residing next door.

Diving into the hole, with both hands stretched out before him, holding their precious cargo for his sister’s delight, Horrible Horace tried desperately to return to safe haven, next door. He made good progress, at first, working his way through the hedge. The sharp, protruding branch that had caused him so much grief on his way in, offered him hindrance this time. Then he felt them, the sharp, pointy teeth of Cruncher, sinking deep into his exposed derriere.

“OW!” he hollered, spitting out the third guinea pig, “OW! OW! OW!”

“What on earth is wrong with you?” asked his sister, Moidering him, in his inconvenience.

“I’m attacked!” her Horrible brother confessed.

Grabbing the freed guinea pig, she said, “Quick, pass me the others!”

After relinquishing control of the two rodents, Horrible Horace offered his hands to his sister, for a much needed yank out from the hole. His sister, however, preoccupied with the welfare of her beloved pets, hardly noticed. Cruncher’s sharp teeth digging deep into his derrière for a second time, brought tears Horrible Horace’s eyes. “Help me,” he bawled, from under the hedge, “lest I have nothing left, back there, but the hole in my pants!”

After she had returned her guinea pigs to the safety of their hutch, and securely fastened it shut, Moidering Maria turned her attention to her brother. “Anyone would think you are being murdered,” she scolded. “It’s not a big dog.”

“That’s not what you were saying, before,” he grumbled, “when your three little rodents were in there.”  He nodded in the direction of next door’s garden, but she saw nothing of this. 

“Guinea pigs,” she said matter-of-factly, “they are called guinea pigs,”

“All right, all right,” her Horrible brother agreed, “anything, but PLEASE help me out from this hole and away from this dog ! OW! OW! He’s at it again, OW!”

By the time his Moidering sister had helped Horrible Horace free of the hedge, when he was safely away from Cruncher’s pointy sharp teeth, he was feeling decidedly downbeat. His grand afternoon off, the little vacation that he had so looked forward to, had turned out to be a disaster. “The next time,” he said, “someone gets time off from school I don’t want to hear about it... In fact, I’ll offer to do extra lessons, instead.” Giggling, he added, “They will have to be geography lessons, though, I so love reading about China, and India, Maluka, and Miafra and...”

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Read all about FLE (he's a very old elf)

in my new story Alice on Top of the World

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© Gerrard T Wilson 2009