by Hobbs, Leigh
Chapter 8
It was a long walk, and I don’t mind telling you I was feeling grumpy. But as soon as a stately home appeared in the distance my bad mood mysteriously lifted.
I was looking forward to the rejoicing that would soon take place when my servants welcomed me to my new house.
I unlocked the front gate and walked up a gravel path. My stately home looked quite nice, and I remember thinking that I could rule from here after my coronation. Guards at the gate would keep autograph pests away. That is, until I had done my royal duties.
Anyway, back to my arrival at H.H. House. Now, Reader, I hope you are concentrating, for this was a journey of a lifetime, and as I said once before, it won’t happen to you because, sad and unfair though it may seem, you are not like me. Even if you wish you were. And many do. Forget it. I will tell you much in this book, but there is a lot that shall stay a secret forever.
I seized the mighty doorknocker, and with a Boom!Boom! Boom! I announced my arrival.
‘Horrible Harriet is here!’ I called, summoning the servants. The door swung open with a loud creak and groan. There was no answer. Maybe the servants were having afternoon tea. Bravely I walked in. I say ‘bravely’ because there could have been a zombie waiting for me behind the door.
At first I felt at home in my new house. It was very big, and I remember thinking that I hoped pushy Mr Chicken wouldn’t want to move in and take over and expect to be knighted.
I wasn’t missing him at all. There was no one about, but I didn’t feel alone.
BUT before I had time to get comfortable something strange began to happen, and for a moment I remembered the museum. It was happening again.
As much as I tried, I could not resist this mysterious power of old things. It told me to forget my suitcase and follow it. ‘Straight away,’ it ordered. I did as I was told and followed.
Even though I was in a deep trance, I noticed when I passed a mirror that I didn’t look any different.
Off I went – taken for a tour around my stately home. I hoped we would go to a kitchen soon, as I was hungry and felt like a sandwich, at least.
I saw many beautiful things.
And I felt something was seeing me.
I said hello as I marched past women in fancy dresses.
‘Welcome home, Harriet,’ they whispered.
‘Thank you,’ I answered. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Yes, well, that was all very friendly but it was getting late. In fact, it was around the time when Mr Chicken and I usually went for a walk. By now I knew he had probably discovered the spare fridge key. And eaten everything inside.
At last I found a place to sleep, thanks to expert directions from the spell. It wasn’t as comfy as my nest back at home, but I was tired and fell straight to sleep. I dreamt about all the royal relatives from long ago I had now got to know. In the morning when I woke up I wondered if the spell had worn off.
But alas, the spell was more powerful than ever.
What is this place? I wondered as I wandered. And how did I come to have so many ancestors?
I passed a painting that looked a lot like Queen Numee Powah. Was I related to everyone royal?
So many questions, but as I said, I’m not answering all of them here. I was looking forward to breakfast. If only the spell would show some mercy and take me to where I could have breakfast. What was the use of a big stately home if there was no food in a fridge? Or worse still, no fridge at all!!
I had thought royal people would have fridges STUFFED with food. Anyway.
Even though I was in a trance, I could tell that I was close to my ancestors.
On I went, along a passage to a window… where the spell let me stop for a minute.
In the distance, I saw a house. A little house.
I went straight out to investigate.
On the door it said ‘H.R.H. Horrible Harriet’ – Her Royal Highness Horrible Harriet.
Inside was breakfast, all ready, and a card that said ‘Welcome’. There was a pot of tea and some scones on the table. And warm toast. Just what I needed.
It was hard work being royal. I ate my breakfast up and decided to relax.
What was the point of being royal if you couldn’t relax?
I didn’t know why, but suddenly I began to worry about Mr Scruffy and Miss Plume. They would need to be fed. And my friends back at school – how they would miss me. And my poetry! And I had left my diary at home. And of course there was You-Know-Who, but we won’t mention his name.
It was hard to decide whether to go or stay in my stately home, so I wrote a list.
That solved everything.
Chapter 9
So, Reader, as you can see, here I am back at home, writing to you all about my wonderful travels. Not to mention my relatives – who you must feel like you know by now. And I suppose you are wondering why I came back?
Well, I decided to have my coronation later.
So I got on the train and I went back home.
And I’m glad that I did – for Mr Chicken HAD got into my fridge, just as I’d expected. And he HAD made himself quite at home. And Mr Scruffy and Miss Plume WERE running low on my pie and needed feeding. And school had started and homework was piling up.
And friends were missing me.
Go on, admit it. No one can cook like me!
Af ter my triumphant return, I wrote a letter to Sir Monsonby Crackerjack, or whatever his name was.
I haven’t got a reply yet, but one will come, I’m sure. He’s probably out to lunch.
Anyway. Now I have the best of both worlds – I have a holiday house on the coast to visit if I want to see my relatives…
…and a stately home of my own right here. Which you may visit. But only if you make a Royal Appointment first. And don’t ask questions, for it is a long story.
And not only that, I wanted to tell everyone about my adventure – though I later changed my mind. Let them buy the book! I thought.
My trip gave me many recipe ideas, and between cooking, poetry, my diary, concerto-writing and school, I have not had much time to do anything else. How would I have fitted in being a monarch or even a duchess with all that, I ask you?!
About the Author
Mr Leigh Hobbs is an artist and an author. His work in painting, sculpture and animation has all primarily been about characters.
This is especially so for the children’s books he writes and illustrates, for which he is best known.
Horrible Harriet is but one of these creations. There is also Mr Chicken, Old Tom, Fiona the Pig and Mr Badger.
And of course the Freaks in 4F, including Feral Beryl, Nearly Normal Nancy (she has three eyes) and Not So Nice Nora.
There is actually a world in which all of these misfits cohabit quite comfortably – and that world has been inside Mr Hobbs’ head since childhood.
