mother of all kites, Horrible Horace and Tinkering Tommy wondered where they were going to make it. “Where can we make it?” asked Tinkering Tommy. “My bedroom is far too small for such a grand project.” Moreover, he was right; it was impossible to make such a large kite indoors.
“How about we make it at school?” Horrible Horace suggested.
“Miss Battle-Scars would never agree to us making it in the classroom,” Tinkering Tommy replied.
“No, not there,” his Horrible friend answered. “The place I have in mind is far less obvious that that.”
“Where do you mean?” Tinkering asked him.
“Follow me,” he answered, “and you will find out.”
A few minutes later, behind the school building, to the rear of the playing field, Horrible Horace and Tinkering Tommy stopped adjacent the ancient, air raid shelter. Horrible Horace pointed at it.
“No, you can’t mean THAT!” Tinkering Tommy protested, almost dropping the boxes and bags that he was carrying, with fright, when he heard it. “No one goes in there, not ever!”
However, he did mean it. Horrible Horace intended to make the mother of all kites inside the air raid shelter. “Apart from the school maintenance man, going in there at fete times,” he said, “no one goes in there. It’s perfect,” he said. His eyes lit up with anticipation as he spoke. “No one will know we are there. We will be safe from prying eyes.”
“But there are no windows,” Tinkering Tommy complained, “it will be pitch-black inside!”
“Of course it won’t,” his Horrible friend replied. “There must be a light in there! Look there’s a cable going in through the corner of it. That must be the power supply.”
“But...”
“No ifs and buts!”
“Okay, okay,” Tinkering Tommy answered, “as long as there are no rats in there!”
Ignoring the remark about rats, Horrible Horace said, “Let’s get this stuff inside.” Descending the grey concrete steps, Tinkering Tommy followed his friend inside.
Finding the switch, Horrible Horace turned on the lights. The boys found themselves in a large, empty room. “There is plenty of room down here for us to work on our kite,” Horace said to Tommy.
Pointing to a door at the far end of the room, Tommy said, “What’s that, then?”
“Let’s go see,” Horrible Horace replied. Turning the handle, he opened the door. “It’s another room,” he told him.
Stepping into the room, Tinkering Tommy marvelled at what he saw. “Wow! This one is packed to the gills!”
He was right, the room was packed full of stuff, all the way up to the ceiling. Everything needed for running a school fete was in there.
“C’mon, let’s get started on our little project,” Horace said to Tommy.
Raising an eyebrow, Tinkering Tommy said, “Little?”
“Okay,” he laughed, “Our big, our huge, our GIANT project; the mother of all kites!”
With that, they set about unpacking their boxes, emptying their bags, and unfolding the blueprints of Invincible...
Sunday evening found Horrible Horace and Tinkering Tommy standing back from their work, admiring the results of their endeavours.
“Well,” said Tinkering Tommy, “what do you think of it?”
Scratching his head, Horrible Horace said, “It’s good, in fact it looks so good I think it must surely be the best kite in the world.”
“Better than the one Cheeky Charlie and Meddling Maurice are making?”
Although he had not seen it, Horrible Horace dismissed it out of hand, saying, “Their paltry effort could never be as good as ours. Just look at the quality of our workmanship.” He fingered some of the stitching they had laboured over for hours upon end. “This is the mother of all kites, I tell you, and that is that!” Scratching his head again, he said, “Having said that, I have to admit that I can’t shake off the feeling that something is missing...”
“Missing?”
“Yes,” he replied. “But as to what it might be I have absolutely no idea... Oh well, I suppose it can wait until later... I need to sleep, I’m bushed.”
Rivals!
Next morning, Monday, was a school day, so the business of kites had to be put on the backburner. Miss Battle-Scars had other things to interest the children under her care. “Take out your arithmetic exercise books, everyone,” she told them. “We are having a test, today.”
“A test?” the children grizzled, thinking the first day of the week could not get any worse.
“Yes, a test,” she answered, and when it is over, I have something to tell you.”
“What is it?” they asked, “Please, Miss Battle-Scars, tell us what it is!”
“Is it a school trip?” one child, a redheaded girl, asked.
Another child said, “Or is it a special treat, like the milkshake straws we had, before?
A third child, a ruddy-faced boy, said, “We’re getting the rest of the day off, aren’t we?”
On hearing those words every child in the classroom cheered their teacher, despite her rebuttals to the contrary.
After their test was over, Miss Battle-Scars told the children to go outside and play (that being their little treat). Enjoying the peace and quiet this offered, she corrected the test papers. Meanwhile, outside in the playground, Horrible Horace made a beeline for his comrade in arms, his workmate in aptitude, the co-creator of Invincible. “Watcha,” he said to Tinkering Tommy. His friend, however, sitting aloof, ensconced in his chair behind the bicycle sheds, said nothing. What’s up?” Horace asked him.
“Oh, sorry Horrible,” he answered. “I was thinking...”
“Thinking? Be careful you don’t have a brainstorm,” Horace warned.
“I have been thinking about what you were saying.”
“What I was saying?”
“Yes, you mentioned it a while ago. Because the kite is so big, it will need a lot of wind to get her into the air.”
Shaking off a sudden feeling of dread, Horrible Horace said, “And?”
“And as much as I hate to say it, I feel it is far too dangerous an occupation for anyone less than an adult to attempt.”
“WHAT?” Horrible Horace stormed. “No one is getting anyway near Invincible other than us!” he barked defiantly.
“Okay, okay,” Tinkering Tommy replied. “Keep your hair on!”
“I’m sorry,” said Horrible Horace, “it was my idea and I want to fly it. Is that too much to ask?”
“Forget that I said it.”
“Alright, I will,” he answered. “When are we going to test it, anyhow?”
“Saturday, I reckon.”
“That sounds good to me. Will we do it in the park?”
“Either that or the in old, abandoned quarry,” Tinkering Tommy replied.
“The quarry? Why the quarry?” his Horrible friend asked.
“There’s a bit of a hill, there,” he explained. “It will be perfect for catching the wind.” For some peculiar reason the mere mention of the word wind kept sending shivers of dread running down Horrible Horace’s spine.
“What about Cheeky Charlie and Meddling Maurice?” Tommy asked him. “Shall we tell them where we are going to test Invincible?”
“No!” his Horrible friend snapped, “The less they know about it, the better.”
The rest of the week passed slowly, painfully slowly for Horrible Horace and his Tinkeringly good friend. Miss Battle-Scars was no help, no help at all. In fact, she made it worse by giving them another two tests – English and History – to endure.
When Friday afternoon finally arrived, Horrible Horace and Tinkering Tommy listened for the school bell.
Ring a ling a ling, ring a ling a ling, the sound of the school bell ringing told the children what they wanted to hear, that it was time to go home for two glorious days of freedom. “Hurray!” they cheered, streaming out of their classrooms, “Hurray,” they cheered again as they exited the school grounds. “Hurray for the weekend,�
�� they cheered yet again, just for the fun of it.
Saturday morning found Horrible Horace and Tinkering Tommy standing adjacent the rickety gates outside the abandoned quarry. Struggling, trying to support what they truly believed was the largest, most powerful kite in the world they were ready for action.
“I think I can hold it on my own, if you are quick!” Horrible Horace told Tinkering Tommy. “Go open the gates,” he ordered.
Approaching the gates, Tinkering Tommy tried to open them, but he was unable to budge them, not even an inch.
“Hurry up!” said Horrible Horace. “I can’t hold Invincible forever!”
Although Tinkering Tommy tried even harder, the gates resisted his efforts to open them. “What’s stopping you?” his Horrible friend asked.
“It seems to be locked from the inside,” he told him. “Strange, it wasn’t like this the last time we were here, inspecting the place.”
“Give it a good yank, you berk! It’s only a gate, and a rusty old one at that!” Horace ordered.
“Okay,” he replied. “Here goes...” Pulling, tugging, yanking ever so hard, Tinkering Tommy finally managed to open the gates leading into the quarry.
“That’s more like it,” said Horrible Horace. “Now give me a hand with this kite. My arms are killing me!”
“Look at this,” Tinkering Tommy said to him. Pointing inside the gate, he showed his Horrible friend a bolt that someone had loosened. This gate,” he said, “was fixed closed from the inside!”
“Inside, outside,” said Horrible Horace, “what difference does it make? Come on; give me a hand with Invincible.”
Taking the strain for his Horrible friend, Tinkering Tommy said, “If someone is in here, they might interfere
Horrible Horace Page 3
