Horace
Gerrard Wilson
Copyright 2015 by Gerrard Wilson
Horrible Horace
Horrible Horace Flies a Kite
Miss Battle-Scars’ School Chair
A Little Vacation
Horrible Horace Flies a Kite
A Brown Paper Bag
Horrible Horace’s father arrived home from work, looking very proud of himself. Because he was on night work, it was morning time, and his wife was busy getting their children ready for school. “Off so soon?” he asked his children, Horrible Horace and Moidering Maria. They were donning their coats and hats, preparing to set off for school. “And before you have seen what I have got you,” their father said to them. With that, he produced a brown paper bag for their inspection
“They’re late,” his wife, scolded. “Off with you, Horace and Maria,” she ordered. Opening the front door, she ushered them out from the house. “I’ll follow you, on my bicycle,” she told them. “I will catch up with you before you get to the crossroads.” Although Horrible Horace’s mother dispatched her children to school on their own, each morning, she made a point of being with them at the busy crossroads a mile from home.
“But I haven’t yet shown them what’s in the bag,” her husband protested.
“It can wait until evening,” she told him.
Later, at school, Horrible Horace and Moidering Maria were mesmerised, captivated and enthralled, trying to work out what their father had in the bag.
“I bet it’s a bazooka,” Horrible Horace said to her.
“A bazooka?” Moidering Maria replied. “How on earth could he get a bazooka inside such a small bag?”
“If it’s not a bazooka,” he answered, “it must surely be a machine gun!”
“What has gotten into you?” she asked. “Ever since you saw that Terminator film you have been obsessed with guns, bombs and bazookas!”
“If you’re so smart,” Horace snapped, “tell me he has in the bag. Go on, I dare you!”
Put on the spot by her Horrible brother, Moidering Maria gave it her best shot, saying, “I think it’s a Diplodocus.”
“A Diplodocus,” he howled, laughing crazily at her suggestion. “They are hundreds of times bigger than bazookas! What sort of a bag do you think it is? No, don’t tell me, let me guess, it’s an elastic bag that stretches and stretches and stretches!” he hooted.
“You are now entering the world of fantasy, so you are,” she answered. “You know full well that I meant a model of a Diplodocus. Dad said he was going to get us one, when we saw that program on television last week.”
“I still don’t think it’s that,” her Horrible bother replied.
“Then we will just have to wait until after school, when we go home,” she said to him. “When we will see who is closer to the truth.”
“Right, we will,” Horace answered.
“I don’t know what has gotten into you two,” said the mother, when Horrible Horace and Moidering Maria pushed excitedly past her that evening, after school.
Running down the hallway and into the kitchen, they said, “Where is dad?”
“He’s not in here!” Moidering Maria bemoaned, disappointed that she had not found him in there.
“He must be in the sitting room,” said her Horrible brother. Tearing out from the kitchen, he flew down the hallway and into the sitting room. “He’s not in here either!” he groaned.
“Upstairs!” said his sister. “He must be upstairs!”
Climbing the stairs, two steps at a time, brother and sister frantically searched the remainder of the house for their father. However, despite searching it thoroughly they were unable to find him.
Confused, with no idea as to where he might be, Horrible Horace grumbled, “He’s not anywhere!”
“DAD, WHERE ARE YOU?” they cried out, “WHERE ARE YOU, DAD?”
Returning downstairs, they entered the kitchen, where their mother was making the tea. “Well,” she asked, “did you find him?”
“No,” they answered dejectedly.
“More haste less speed,” their mother said to them.
“Pardon?”
“Remember the race?”
“Race? What race?” Horace quipped.
“The race between the hare and the tortoise, of course,” she answered.
“And?”
“The slowest one won!” she explained.
“Oh,” said her Moideringly mad daughter.
“I see,” said her Horrible son. “More haste less speed, you say?”
Nodding that it was so, the mother put two plates of scrambled egg and toast on the table in front of them, “Eat your meal,” she said to them, “and when you have finished it, I will tell where your father is.”
“Hurray!” they cheered, digging into their food, with gusto.
When they had finished their eating their meal Horrible Horace said, “Well, where is he?”
“Yes, where is he?” Moidering Maria asked her mother.
“Well what?” she replied, teasing them some.
“Where is he?” Maria asked her again.
“Please tell us, mum, lest I die of confusion!” Horrible Horace pleaded.
All right, I will tell you,” she answered, laughing at their innocence. “He’s at the end of the garden, where he is burning the rubbish. When you get there, tell him that his tea is ready.” They never heard what she was saying to them, because they were already half way along the garden path. “Ah,” said the mother, “they might as well enjoy themselves while they are young.”
Smoke filled the end of the garden; there was so much of it there Horrible Horace and his Moideringly mad sister found it difficult to see where they were standing let alone find their misplaced dad.
“Dad, where are you?” the Horrible son called out.
“Where are you, dad?” the daughter Moideredingly mad daughter enquired.
“I’m here,” he answered, from within the thick, pungent smoke.
“Where in the smoke are you?” Horrible Horace asked him to tell.
“We cannot see you!” Moidering Maria groaned.
“Stay where you are,” he told them. “I’ll find you, instead.” With that, their father abandoned his bonfire. “OW!” he wailed. “That hurt! Darn rake!”
Staring into the smoke, concerned for her father’s wellbeing, Moidering Maria said, “Are you all right, dad?”
“Yes,” he answered, “at least I think so...” Then, from out of the smoke, he appeared in front of them. His face and hands were black, as black as coal, and he had a large bump on his forehead.
“Dad,” they said excitedly, “where is it?”
“Where is what?” he asked, raising his hands, feigning surprise.
“THE BAG!” his Moideringly mad daughter told him.
“WHAT’S IN THE BAG?” his Horrible son enquired.
“Okay, okay,” he replied, “I will show you what is inside it, but let me have a wash first, huh?”
When their father had finished washing himself, he pulled out a chair from under the kitchen table and sat on it. “Ah, that’s better,” he said. “My feet are killing me.”
Handing her husband a plate of scrambled eggs on toast and also a mug of tea, his wife said, “Eat that and drink your fine tea.”
“Eggs?” Horrible Horace snivelled.
“Toast?” whimpered his Moideringly mad sister.
Ignoring their procrastinations, their father began eating his meal.
When their father had finished eating his meal, Horrible Horace and Moideringly mad sister were at bursting point. “DAD, YOU PROMISED TO TELL US WHAT YOU HAVE IN THE BAG!” they said to him.
Grabbing hold of his cup, their father made ready to drink his te
a. “NO!” they cried out. “Enough is enough! Dad – you promised!”
“Oh, alright,” he chuckled, “you win. I’ll get the bag.” Getting up from the table, he opened the door and disappeared into the garden.
“Where do you think he has gone?” Moidering Maria asked her Horrible brother.
“His shed,” he replied, that’s where he hides most things that he doesn’t want us to see.
“What do you think is in it, the bag?” his sister said to him.
“A bazooka, I hope,” he said hopefully.
When their father returned from the shed, he was holding the brown paper bag.
A few minutes later, having seen the contents of the brown paper bag, Moidering Maria said, “Is that it?”
“Is that really it?” Horrible Horace griped.
Taking the present – a DVD –from out of the bag, their father offered it to them. His children, however, said nothing. “It’s Mary Poppins, the movie!” he told them.
“We don’t like her,” they answered.
“But everyone likes her!” their father insisted.
“Everyone a thousand years ago, perhaps,” Moidering Maria told him.
“Everyone a million years ago,” his Horrible son insisted.
Showing the DVD to his wife, their father said, “What do you think, dear. Is this DVD really THAT bad?”
“Let’s go into the sitting room, and watch it,” she answered.
Horrible Horace Page 1
