Charlie.
“It smells like rubber,” Meddling Maurice added.
“It’s a Rub-a-dub,” Mr Smith finally admitted. Looking up, eyeballing the dark, tumultuous cloud descending fast towards them, Mr Smith yelled, “RUN, CHILDREN! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!”
Miss Battle-Scars’ School Chair
One day, on his way to school, Horrible Horace said, “I’m fed up with having to go to school; it’s so boring. I want to do something interesting, something exciting with my life, like fishing, or sailing – or exploring, not sums, reading, geometry and all of the other boring old stuff that Miss Battle-Scars tries to drum into us.”
Despite having such strong feelings on the subject – how boring school was – Horrible Horace continued on his way, trundling along the same, tired old path he had used since he was five. When he arrived at school, he stopped at the gates. Looking through them, he said, “There must be more to life than going to school – there must!”
Just then, he heard the sound of the bell ringing, telling him and all of the other schoolchildren that it was time to get into line, ready for school.
Dragging his feet, Horrible Horace slipped reluctantly through the gate and into line, behind his friends, Barmy Bernard and Tinkering Tommy...
“Watcha, Horace,” said Barmy Bernard, “Do you want to know what I have in my satchel?” he asked, his eyes gleaming wild with excitement.
“No, not really,” Horrible Horace answered.
“What’s wrong with you, Horrible?” asked Tinkering Tommy. “Anyone would think you had lost your marbles, or ever worse – your conkers.”
“Conkers bonkers,” they chortled cheerfully.
Horrible Horace, however, did not hear them, for his thoughts, like his eyes, were on the ground, forlorn.
Nudging him, Barmy Bernard said, “Well, Horrible, do you want to see what I have in my satchel?”
“Let me take a look,” said Tinkering Tommy,” and if it’s what I think it is, I’ll show it to him.”
Opening his satchel, Barmy Bernard showed his second best friend (Horrible Horace being his first) the object he had secreted within it.
Delving a hand into the satchel, Tinkering Tommy grabbed hold of the item, then, letting it go, he cried out, “No! Get it away from me! I thought it was a frog, but it’s not! It’s a tarantula spider, all fat and hairy!” he gasped. “I could have been bitten to death!”
Laughing at his innocence, Barmy Bernard said, “It won’t bite you; it’s my pet.”
Unconvinced by his argument, Tinkering Tommy checked his fingers for bite marks. Seeing none, he edged away from the satchel, saying, “Why on earth did you bring a tarantula to school?”
Smiling mischievously Barmy Bernard said, “Because I’m a little bit barmy, maybe?”
“A little bit barmy?” he snapped. “More like a whole lot – and then some!”
“Stop talking, you two! And get into line!” Miss Battle-Scars ordered,
“But we are in line,” Tinkering Tommy protested, wiping his hands in his blazer (in case any poison from the spider happened to be on them).
“Well, make it a little less messy,” she barked. “And as for you, Horrible Horace,” she quipped, “You look so gloomy anyone would be forgiven for thinking you were going to a funeral.” Ringing her bell again, she waved the first line of children into the school.
Horrible Horace cast a glance at Miss Battle-Scars as he passed her on his way into the classroom. He usually had something to say to her, be it cheerful or cheeky (depending on his mood), but today he said nothing; words failed him.
Inside, sitting quietly at his desk, Horrible Horace took out his study book and opened it. It was the geography lesson, the only subject at school that he liked. The reason why he liked it was because of all the wonderful, exotic places he read about, places like Ecuador (where the best coffee comes from), Ceylon (where the finest teas come from), and Africa (where man-eating lions come from). Yes, he always enjoyed geography lessons. However, he still hated school; he hated it so much it hurt him.
After the geography lesson was over, Horrible Horace’s mood had lightened. You see, he had read about the South Pacific; wild and exotic places such as Tonga, Tahiti and Pitcairn Island, where the mutiny on the Bounty sailors had settled. Leaning across to his best friend sitting adjacent him, he whispered, “Well?”
“Well what?” Barmy Bernard replied.
“What have you got in your satchel that had Tinkering Tommy in such a flap?”
Grinning, his Barmy friend leaned down to his satchel resting on the floor beside his desk. Opening it, he said, “This!”
“Wow!” Horrible Horace gasped. “I’d never in a thousand years have imagined you had a tarantula in your satchel!”
Still grinning, his best friend replied, “Wait until you see what I am going to do with it. Listen to me...”
A few minutes later, Horrible Horace said, “Are you really going to do that with it? And do you really want ME to help you to do it?
“Yes,” Barmy Bernard replied, “unless you want me to ask Lousy Linda, instead?”
“No, don’t ask her!” Horrible Horace protested. (You see, last Christmas, during the performance of the nativity play, with Lousy Linda playing the part of Mary, and Horrible Horace playing the part of Joseph, when the three wise men entered the stable, presenting gifts, she had sneakily kissed him. Ever since that dastardly deed he had avoided her like the plague).
“So, you will help me?” Barmy Bernard asked Horace again.
Yes, yes of course I will,” he replied, “on condition that you tell no one about it.”
“But how will they know it was us, that did it?” his Barmy friend interjected.
“You and I will know,” he replied. “That’s how spies do business, and if it’s good enough for spies it’s good enough for us.”
During dinner break, Barmy Bernard stood guard in the doorway of the classroom, in case someone happened to pass by and see what he and Horrible Horace were doing. “What’s taking you so long?” he asked his Horrible friend.
“Almost finished,” Horrible Horace replied. Pushing Miss Battle-Scars’ chair carefully back into position, under her desk, he said, “There, it’s done.”
“Someone’s coming!” Barmy Bernard warned. “We’ve got to get out of here!” They dashed to the window, opened it and bailed out of the classroom.
Seeing them climb out of the window, Lousy Linda said, “What have you two been up to?”
“Don’t answer her,” Horrible Horace said to his Barmy friend. “Like spies, remember?”
“Spies it is,” he answered.
They began to walk away from Lousy Linda and the scene of their crime.
“I will tell Miss Battle-Scars,” she warned.
Knowing that she was only too capable of doing such a dastardly deed, Horrible Horace and Barmy Bernard stopped dead in their tracks.
“So, that got your attention,” she gloated.
“What do you want us to give you, to say nothing?” Barmy Bernard asked her.
Horrible Horace said, “Yes, what do you want us to offer you, to keep stumpf?”
With her hands on her hips, looking ever so smug, Lousy Linda replied, “A kiss, I want a kiss from each of you!”
“A kiss?” they groaned. “Anything but that!”
Standing her ground, fully intent on achieving her wish, no matter what, Lousy Linda said, “It’s a kiss or I go see the teacher.”
The boys, their heads lowered, ashamed that they had allowed themselves to get into such a dire situation, drew shapes in the dusty ground with their feet, hoping the moment might pass, but it did not.
“Well, are you going to kiss me?” she asked. “Or must I go tell teacher what you have been up to?”
“But...you didn’t see what we did!” mumbled Barmy Bernard.
“So, you have been up to something!” their Lousy classmate laughed triumphantly. “I knew it, I ju
st knew it!”
“But, but...” the Barmy bungler mumbled.
“Shut up!” barked Horrible Horace. “You have said enough already!”
Feeling powerful, in control of the conversation – and where it was heading (two big, fat and juicy kisses), Lousy Linda continued with her torturous line of enquiry, “Well, are you boys going to kiss me?”
Having painted themselves into a corner, they had no option other than facing their demons. “Okay,” said Horrible Horace, “I will do it, I will give you a kiss.”
“What? Are you stark raving mad!” Barmy Bernard croaked, thinking his best friend had flipped his cork.
“Hush,” said Horrible Horace,” we have a fair damsel to kiss.”
“What has gotten into you?” asked Barmy Bernard, “I thought you hated kissing girls.”
Ignoring him, Horrible Horace approached his nemesis, then, holding his breath, he kissed her on the cheek. Having done it, he retreated as fast as was humanly possible. Wiping his lips clean, he said, “It’s your turn now, Barmy, and the best of luck to you.”
Holding his breath, copying his best friend’s selfless example, Barmy Bernard kissed Lousy Linda on the other cheek. Then, retreating fast and furious, to what he considered a safe distance, he wiped his lips clean.
Smiling from ear to ear, Lousy Linda was in paradise. One boy kissing her would have been tremendously good, but two of them, doing it, left her speechless with delight.
“Okay,” said Barmy Bernard, “now that it’s over, what do we do next?”
Smiling mischievously, Horrible Horace said, “We wait until Miss Battle-Scars rings her bell.”
“Then we will go inside,” Barmy Bernard