continued, speaking for him, “and sit at our desks, waiting for her to do likewise?”
“Yes,” his best friend replied. “Then the fireworks will begin.”
Although she was standing a distance away from the boys, Lousy Linda was well within earshot. However, she showed no reaction, no reaction at all to what they were saying. Why would she, though, when she was in paradise because of those kisses?
Ring a ling a ling, the school bell rang out, ring a ling a ling. “Dinner break’s over. Everybody into line,” Miss Battle-Scars ordered. “That also means you, Tommy Tilbert!”
When the pupils had lined up to her satisfaction, Miss Battle-Scars said, “First line of children file into school.” When they had gone in, she said, “Second line of children file into school.” And so it continued until all of the children had filed past her, and into their classrooms.
Sitting down at his desk, Barmy said, “Where did you vanish to, Horrible?”
“I had a bit of business to attend to,” he answered.
“Business? What business?”
“I can’t say; like spies, remember?”
Satisfied with this explanation, Barmy Bernard said, “It won’t be long now, Horrible!”
“No, not long at all,” his best friend casually answered.
“What’s poured water on your party?” Barmy Bernard enquired. “You are acting almost a glum as when you arrived at school this morning.”
Nodding his head in the direction of Lousy Linda, he said, “It’s her, old Lousy boots...”
“Her? I thought she was okay with us, after we kissed her.”
“That’ what I thought, his Horrible friend answered, “But ever since she came inside, she has been scanning the scene of our crime with those beady eyes of hers, trying to see 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,” Miss Battle-Scars ordered when she entered the classroom. Wiping the blackboard clean, she said, “Take out your exercise books.”
Desks opened; fingers 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 going to sit down!”
“Shush!” Horrible Horace snapped. “Do you want everyone to hear?”
“Sorry,” Barmy apologised, “got a bit carried away.”
“What did you say?” Lousy Linda asked, from her desk behind them.
Ignoring her, the 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 us, if you already know that it’s on her chair?”
“Hah!” Lousy Linda cried out triumphantly, “So that’s it, you’ve put something on Battle-Scars’ chair!”
“What is it?” Miss Battle-Scars asked Lousy Linda.
Lousy Linda felt everyone watching her, waiting to see what she said next.
“Well?” Miss Battle-Scars barked. “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 running fast out of steam.
“There will be no ifs and buts, here,” her teacher chided.
“But I never said that...” she protested.
“There have been far too many excuses of that type, here, already.”
“It was – THEM!” Lousy Linda suddenly blurted, pointing a trembling finger at Horrible Horace and Barmy Bernard. “It was those two creeps who started it!” she roared.
“Trying to implicate your fellow pupils in something that is all too obviously of your own making is not the way forward, young lady,” Miss Battle-Scars said to her. “Come 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. Arriving at the front of the classroom, she edged closer and closer to Miss Battle-Scars’ chair.
“Well, what are you waiting for, child?” said Miss Battle-Scars, “Sit on my chair 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, a wasps’ nest or even a stink bomb, but she saw nothing, nothing at all. Breathing a sigh of relief, Lousy Linda sat gratefully upon 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 hit the ceiling.
“What are you doing up there, child?” Miss Battle-Scars demanded to know. “I told you to do your sums, not shoot into the air like a sky rocket. Get down from there at once,” she ordered, “and finish your sums!”
Grabbing hold of the light fitting, before the chair returned to earth with a bang, the frightened girl replied, “But I can’t get down from here!”
“Of course you can,” Miss Battle-Scars insisted. “Let go of that light. I will catch you,” she told her.
“Go on, go, on, go on!” the children chanted. “Jump, jump, jump!” they ordered.
On the 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 make it do that – and where is it, anyhow?”
“There was a change of plan,” his best friend coyly admitted.
“A change of plan?”
“Yes,” he answered. “After Lousy Linda cornered us for a kiss, I had to plan 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. You see, I asked for his help. You know how good he is at making things.”
“That he is,” his Barmy friend agreed.
“With our Tinkering friend’s help, I substituted your tarantula for a powerful spring. And I secreted the spring under her seat. The rest is history.”
“But where did the spring come from?” Barmy Bernard asked, scratching his head in wonderment at it all.
Smiling mischievously, Horrible Horace said, “From Tinkering Tommy’s dad’s motor bike and sidecar, of course. He said he hardly ever uses it, so he won’t even know that it’s missing. Do you want to know something else?” he asked.
“What?”
“With days such as this, I have a feeling that school is going to be anything but boring from here on. What shall we do tomorrow?”
As my story finishes, with Lousy Linda having got her comeuppance, and with Horrible Horace and Barmy Bernard happy to have been a part of it, a middle-aged man dons his helmet and gloves. Sitting casually atop his motorbike and sidecar he is looking forward to a drive on the country, when CRASH, BANG, WALLOP, it falls apart beneath him.
Pardon? You want to know what Horrible Horace did with the tarantula? He hid it inside Miss Battle-Scars desk, for later. Horrible Horace’s school days will never be boring again.
A Little Vacation
You me and the cat next-door already know how naughty Horrible Horace can be, but for the benefit of the 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 my 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 break to begin.
“Hurray!” they shouted, streaming out from their classrooms.
“Hurray!” they shouted again, streaming into the hall, to begin eating their school dinners.
“Hurray!” they shou
ted yet again, when they ran out from the hall and into the playground, a while later. “Hurray!” the children shouted one more time, enjoying their playtime together.
Meanwhile, outside the school grounds, a coach full of tired but happy young girls pulled to a halt. “Who’s that?” a boy in the playground asked.
“Dunno,” another boy answered.
A third child, a redheaded 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, Barmy Bernard spotted his best friend. “Watcha, Horrible,” he said, greeting him.
“Oh, hello,” he glumly replied.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Lying, Horrible Horace said, “Nothing.”
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 feelings from his best friend, Horrible Horace said, “It’s my sister...”
“You sister? What about you sister?”
“You saw her.”
“I did?”
“Yes,” he insisted, “On that coach!”
“Coach? Oh, that coach!” he answered. “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?”
“No, they did not,” he answered. “Did anyone ever say it to you?”
Moving on from what he thought was an increasingly nonsensical conversation, Horrible Horace said, “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 out of you!”
“Start again?”