The Trouble with Twins

By Steve Horne

Do twins mean double trouble? 

Friday 13 July, 1956. Peter and Mary Horne had not expected twins and with their premature arrival, Peter had difficulty convincing even his own father that he was now the proud dad of identical twins, Christopher Mark Horne and Stephen John Horne, born 5.55 and 6.00 in the morning at National Women's Hospital in Auckland. 

With laugh-out-loud humour, and a little humility, Steve writes of the twins' adventures and misadventures in an easy-to-read style.

Double trouble? Described by a harassed home-helper as 'cunning little buggers', you be the judge as you chuckle and reflect on their life experiences. 

As you read this memoir of adventures and misadventures, you will reach your own conclusions to this question. Written in chronological order, there are over 70 stories, many laugh-out-loud funny, divided into four sections. 

Part I   THE EARLY YEARS: an amalgamation of distant memories about what twin Steve Horne thinks happened, what actually happened and what he would like to have happened.

Part II THE NOT SO EARLY YEARS: the causes and consequences of trouble involve more family members and grown-ups.

Part III THE TEENAGE YEARS: contains the most stories. No surprise really. Teenage boys can do the dumbest things!

Part IV THE LATER YEARS: stories show that trouble in our later years happened to us both individually and collectively as Steve's twin, Chris, and he now live their lives in different locations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CreateBooks Publishing
• Release date: Nov 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393102731

Book preview

DEDICATION

To Peter and Mary Horne.

You loved your family unconditionally.

FOREWORD

By Jan Treliving-Brown MA

By the time Steve Horne left home at 19, he knew he was destined to be a storyteller, a raconteur, but he needed to bide his time. It was 1975. His twin brother Chris had already enrolled for teacher training leaving Steve languishing in a forestry job he hated. It was clearly time for a change and Steve joined Chris at North Shore Teachers’ College. Marriage to their teenage sweethearts followed soon after and it was around this time that my husband Mike and I first met Chris and Anne and became acquainted with Steve, Val and the rest of the Horne family. We are the very best of friends. A richer, more diverse and loving crew I have yet to find. And what fertile ground for the making and telling of stories!

There’s something boyish about these profound tales, as if Steve has grown up retaining a child’s eye for human endeavour. Each story made the cut on its ability to, in some way, be helpful to someone. What is our capacity for mischief? For making choices both good and bad?

Steve’s accounts are explicit, starting with his first memories of getting into trouble at 18 months old. He’s tried to be truthful. However Steve is mindful his pages are populated by others who might see these stories in a different light. To this end, Steve acknowledges the singularity of his own version and were he to be challenged by a sibling’s recollection of events, he would have an answer: Simply, there is no other version!

If there is a common thread it is this: Loving parents, old-fashioned virtues, children developing resilience through exploration. In one story about staggeringly dangerous trolley races down steep driveways, the potential for serious injury is indisputable. Nonetheless Steve would maintain the Horne parents did their children a favour by allowing the fear and adrenalin, the bumps and bruises to occur.

How else does one build character? No matter how different our genes, our upbringing, our intellect, our birth order, we all have in common the challenge of dealing with the unknown, honestly and without hubris.

In the end there’s nothing peculiar about discussing philosophy based on one’s own childhood experiences and Steve does it with humour, usually at Chris’s expense. They’re schoolboy rugby players and athletes one minute, smoking teens, braggarts, pyromaniacs, petty thieves, scallywags and scrappers the next.

But ultimately, their unwavering love for their parents and devotion to family is the winning ticket. I am all the richer for knowing both Steve and Chris Horne, the twins.

My deepest love and gratitude to you both and your sensational wives, Val and Anne, for feeding me and mine since 1980.

"To write your life story is to go down into the

dark and steamy kitchen of the soul, to lift

the lids of the cooking pots and examine

the contents, one by one..."

Lauris Edmond, Poet

INTRODUCTION

Does being a twin mean double trouble? As you read this memoir of adventures and misadventures, you will reach your own conclusions to this question. Written in chronological order, there are over 70 stories, many laugh-out-loud funny, divided into four sections.

Part I   THE EARLY YEARS: an amalgamation of distant memories about what twin Steve Horne thinks happened, what actually happened and what he would like to have happened.

Part II  THE NOT SO EARLY YEARS: the causes and consequences of trouble involve more family members and grown-ups.

Part III THE TEENAGE YEARS: contains the most stories. No surprise really. Teenage boys can do the dumbest things!

Part IV THE LATER YEARS: stories show that trouble in our later years happened to us both individually and collectively as Steve’s twin, Chris, and he now live their lives in different locations.

Part I

The Early Years

Rocky Ride

Twins are not as unique as they used to be. Did you know, that from 1915, when records began, about one in every 50 births were twins. In 1980 the rate began to increase and in 2001 the rate was just over 3%. Now one out of every 30 births produces twins. So there are more of us than ever before in New Zealand and around the world. For many parents and teachers, a scary thought!

Chris and I are identical twins. Mum couldn’t even tell us apart for a while after we were born. Neither could the nurses at National Women’s Hospital. They gave us the nicknames Basil (Steve) and Cecil (Chris).

In the late 1950s our family lived in Entrican Ave in Remuera, Auckland (Map p218). Houses in this street have been described in Real Estate advertisements as ‘homes with captivating views to Rangitoto Island and beyond’ and ‘a cloistered cul-de-sac with a family friendly feel’. Friendly? My twin brother Chris and our older sister Linda weren’t always friendly to me.

Mum used a three-seater pushchair, presumably to keep Linda, Chris and me contained while she got some fresh air and exercise around the local streets. Linda doubted she needed to be seated in it with us, and fair enough. After all, she was a whole three years old while we were a mere 18 months young.

Mum loved to show us all off at the Remuera Shopping Centre and enjoyed negotiating around the shops to the delight of her fellow shoppers. Unfamiliar women bedecked in gaudy jewellery and topped with blue rinsed hair would stoop down and pinch our already rosy cheeks. Never short of conversation, they would gush words of adoration. Ooh, aren’t they gorgeous, followed by, How ever do you manage darling?

This particular day prior to leaving home, Chris, without my knowing, had gathered some loose gravel out of the gutter and pushed it behind my seat cover. He had cleverly placed enough gravel there to hurt and irritate but not enough to be seen. Mum was all set to go. She strapped each of us in. Linda first, followed by Chris and then the youngest - me. She checked that the leather shoulder straps were securely buckled and off we went on our morning outing up Remuera Road, along Orakei Road, down Ranui Avenue and finally back home. As usual, Linda was setting a fake good example of how to behave in public, sitting quietly with her sweetest pretend smile.

Oddly, Chris too was behaving himself with his legs laying still and arms folded. Of course, as soon as I was strapped in, the effects of the handful of gravel began to be felt and I squirmed in my seat as I became increasingly uncomfortable. Chris looked at me, smiling. My complaining got louder. My efforts were wasted and Mum simply kept ignoring me. By now, Chris and Linda both looked very happy – way too happy. Sharp edges on the gravel inflicted still more pain, resulting in more complaining with the same result - total indifference from Mum and absolute joy from my pushchair pals.

Finally arriving home, Chris and Linda were released from their straps and immediately ran as fast as their legs could go to the back section of the house. Once I was released, I reached under the seat cover, grabbed some of the gravel and went in pursuit. Their hiding place was a bit silly - behind a tree that failed to conceal them. Wailing, I charged. Sadly, my pathetic under-arm throw of gravel in their direction was seen by our all-knowing Mum standing a few feet away.

Stephen John Horne! How many times have I told you not to throw stones on the lawn! No pudding for you tonight.

Mummy, stones hurting. My protests were futile. Worse still, Linda and Chris couldn’t stop giggling at my misfortune.

I now dreaded the pudding part of our evening meal. And sure enough, they slowly and theatrically ate their ice-cream and jelly in front of me. So unfair, and so funny, to them anyway.

Hosed Off

The ‘Terrible Twos’ applies to an age and to twins as well. We loved to help Mum and Dad at an early age – not. Let’s just say we were outside, somewhat feral toddlers who thought we only needed to come inside to eat. After one particular messy mid-morning snack, Chris and I wandered out of the kitchen, out the back door and down a few stairs onto a path that led to the back of the section. Chris spied the garden hose trickling water onto the lawn. With a furtive glance to check that no one was watching, he picked it up while I turned up the pressure. Our mini geyser danced crazily in the sunlight and Chris, being the budding arty type, was mesmerized by this optical delight.

Our excitement continued to grow as we took turns in spraying some trees that needed a wash. With our short attention spans we next focused on making a variety of shapes on the lawn by the kitchen window. Becoming a tad bored with outdoor free play, we wondered how else we could put the hose to good use. Now was the time, at long last, to help Mum and Dad.

And so it was with much enthusiasm that we inserted the garden hose through the open kitchen window, turning on the tap to full pressure. We squealed with delight at seeing the hose flail around like a demented snake. Water was spraying everywhere, wetting everything it reached. How happy Dad and Mum would be, to see our food scraps cleaned away with a simple swish of the hose. We giggled, gazed and pointed at the water and scraps coming out the door and cascading down the steps. Eventually, no more scraps appeared, so we turned the hose off.

We genuinely thought that our parents would be pleased with our cleanup efforts.

Surprise surprise. They were NOT pleased and we could tell by Mum’s voice, as she cried out, Boys! Our ‘random act of kindness’ was not going to end the way we expected. If we thought Mum was cross with us, she was mild in comparison to Dad. He loomed around the corner and yelled, Keep still! Our fight or flight impulses kicked in and we chose... flight!

We started to scamper away but with our little legs losing traction on the wet grass, Dad easily grabbed us both and applied a little ‘psychology’ to our backsides. We said sorry again and again with increasing volume and sincerity. Twin tears were flowing freely, rather like water out of the garden hose.

Father Christmas - Santa Banter

Mum was a good Anglican. Not so sure about Dad. Most Sunday mornings Mum would take our older sister Linda and her delightful twin brothers along with our younger sister, Jenny, to Sunday School at St Aidens Church on the corner of Remuera Road and Ascot Avenue in Remuera. We had somehow behaved ourselves for longer than five minutes, so were eagerly looking forward to the 1958 end of year visit from Father Christmas. The church hall was full of dressed up and excited children, sitting with their not so excited parents. Children were constantly reminded to behave themselves and to use their very best manners.

Brian, sit still!

Susan, make sure you say thank you.

Pursed lips could be seen everywhere. Father Christmas was running late and the patience of children and adults was being stretched.

The big guy in red finally arrived. Most children were sitting up straight and some even had their arms folded. Unfortunately, as we were soon to find out, Father Christmas began his gift giving by the door on the opposite side of the hall. Typically, Linda was sitting as far away from us as she could at the back of the hall with a few of her prissy friends. We quickly worked out we were going to get our gifts last. Not happy. Prim and proper little Remuera Road darlings thanked Father Christmas profusely. The larger and