Horrible Horace

By Helen Bowles

BEHIND every neat front door, (which to the outside world seems to exude perfection), there often lies a different story. Flora, now a retired school teacher, tolerated the abuse and dominance from Horace her husband, a retired junior judge, for the sake of the twins.

WHEN they left home, she had continued to accept her lot, until one day she could take no more, the worm HAD finally turned.

SHE makes a stand and Horace gets his comeuppance in SPADES!

Light hearted, BUT do YOU know a HORACE?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Helen Bowles
• Release date: Apr 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781916884359

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The doorbell rang again.

‘Blast! That is the third time this morning,’ Flora muttered. Wiping her hands on a tea towel, she hurried to open the door. Just as she reached it, the bell chimed again, irritatingly.

‘Coming, give me a chance,’ she called out. Yanking at the door she opened it, only to be confronted by yet another huge cardboard box.

She heard a strangled voice, ‘Can I put it down, please? It’s not heavy, just awkward for a little chap like me.’

Flora stood aside. ‘Yes, come in and put it over there, please. That’s the fourth one to arrive. Goodness knows what my husband has bought?’

Staggering into the hall, the delivery man was clearly relieved to put it down.

‘Sign here please, Madam?’ The biro was on a piece of string attached to the board. Flora found it sticky to the touch and quickly handed it back to the little man. ‘I must wash my hands before I touch anything else,’ she thought. He looked as if he wanted to chat. The image of Horace loomed in her mind as he would soon be home demanding his lunch on the table on the dot of 12.30. She forced a smile as she gently eased him out of the door.

‘Thank you so much. Let’s hope that is the last one.’

The man shrugged his shoulders and left.

What with one thing and another, the morning had flown by. Her friend Mabel had phoned for a chat. The conversation had got a little intense, as she relayed the goings on of the new vicar’s girlfriend. His wife sang in the choir, so she would be bound to find out. Flora knew that Tulip was such a gossip she was sure to let the cat out of the bag. She sighed ‘Wait until the Bishop finds out, then the balloon will go up.’

‘Gosh, is that the time? I must go. Horace is a stickler for time. His lunch has to be on the table on the dot, otherwise he makes my life hell!’ She nearly added that he had been vile to her this very morning. But thought better of it.

‘Put your foot down and tell him to bog off, Mabel said.

‘You are right of course. I have often thought of doing that, but I have always chickened out in the end, really for a quiet life, must go. Speak soon.’

Lunch was going to be late. No, she couldn’t let that happen. Hurry! Turning the oven up as high as she dared, she put the filling in the parbaked pastry base, carefully placing it beside the jacket potatoes.

The tumble dryer pinged. Oh God, his shirt! She hurried into the utility room. She was sweating now with worry. He had loads of shirts, but, just to put pressure on her, she knew that it was odds on that he would want to wear his yellow shirt this afternoon, knowing full well that he had only put it in the laundry basket that morning together with three perfectly washed and ironed shirts, which he had deliberately scrunched up.

At breakfast that morning he had wagged his finger at her.

‘Flora, I found three shirts hanging in my wardrobe, with at least one crease in each. As such, I have scrunched them up and thrown them in the laundry basket where you can wash and iron them again, and this time: do it properly! To make sure you can’t cheat, I have put a tiny mark on each one. Your standards are definitely slipping, pull yourself together. Whilst we are on the subject, I found dust under the bed, in the corner, about one inch long. My sock drawer is not immaculate, and my shoes are not set straight, plus the decanter in the sitting room is low on scotch. Also, I left some soiled pants in the basket, had a bit of an accident, where are they? They are my best pair.’

Flora was shaking but summoned the courage to reply, ‘I binned them. They were so disgusting I refused to touch them.’

Horace hit the table with his fist. ‘How dare you throw my clothes away? You should have stood at the sink and washed them all morning until they were perfect. I won’t tolerate this, Flora, now go and get my shoes and jacket.’

Flora rose from her chair without demur. Kneeling on the floor she put on his shoes. Standing up she helped him on with his jacket. He stamped his feet.

‘The laces are too tight, get down and retie them, you really are a hopeless specimen of a human being. Now get out of my way.’ With that he pushed her head which made her fall backwards, banging her head on the kitchen cupboard; she’d had no chance to save herself.

‘That’s your fault - you get everything wrong.’ With that the front door slammed shut.

She heard him through the front door, shouting apparently to a neighbour. ‘You can’t park there. I’m coming out now and if that car is in my way, I will hit it deliberately.’

The innocent man was taken aback, he was about to move it anyway. ‘Keep your hair on, oh, you haven’t got any,’ Horace laughed. ‘Bloody funny, move it.’ Flora stuck her fingers in her ears.

* * *

Now, back to the moment. He would soon be home. Oh dear. Shaking the shirt as she removed it from the dryer, her luck was out - it was full of creases. Nothing for it, she turned the iron on. She was just putting it on the hanger, when she heard his car pull into the drive.

True to form, he had hardly closed the front door when he bellowed, ‘Flora is my lunch ready? I’m starving.’

‘Nearly,’ she managed to call out as she dashed into the kitchen and opened the oven door, willing the quiche to be cooked. Thank the Lord, it was. Removing it carefully, she eased it out of the tin, praying it would not crumble as this would be bound to unleash a torrent of abuse. She placed the salad bowl on the table, brimming with fresh green lettuce, cucumber and spring onions. She cut the quiche into quarters and, together with the jacket potato oozing with butter, she placed the plate in front of him.

‘There,’ she said, ‘bang on time.’ Horace grunted and sat down.

‘Aren’t you eating, woman?’ he demanded. She hated many things about her husband but calling her ‘woman’ was certainly one of them.

‘No, I shall eat later; I am not hungry at the moment,’ she said tersely. Always using any excuse not to sit at the table with him. She returned to the sink to busy herself.

She knew that she would now be forced to listen to his portentous nonsense. Horace tapped his glass impatiently.

‘Come along, Flora, wake up! I really should not have to wait like this, refill my glass! What has come over you?’ Flora removed her rubber gloves and went to the table, seething quietly. She reached for the bottle of wine, which was placed all of three inches from his hand, but he expected her to refill his glass. What she really wanted to do was to squash the rest of the quiche on his bald head.

He never said thank you, she wasn’t sure if he knew how, or whether it was nice or not, he just ate. Perhaps his bad manners came from years of sitting on the bench as a County Court Judge and being used to everyone bowing and scraping to him. Which of course was no excuse really, as she had met many charming judges on social occasions; in Horace’s case it seemed to have given him an inflated sense of his own importance.

It had been so different in the early stages of their marriage when he had been a struggling junior barrister. But, as the years went on, and he had been promoted to a Queen’s Counsel, and then, on finally becoming a member of the judiciary, the power simply had gone to his head. She supposed that the ‘public school ethos’ of being better than anyone else didn’t help either.

As a Junior School teacher, she felt that she and her colleagues had to have a different disposition altogether. Tolerance was key when dealing with children, and you had to have an easy-going temperament in order to survive: prepared from the outset to teach children of all learning abilities and to handle the endless paperwork added to a teacher’s workload by faceless civil servants. How she despised the whining wet jobs-worth, whom she felt would be hard pressed to find employment in the private sector. Her teaching career had meant everything to her. Rising to deputy head in the local primary school. On two separate occasions she had been offered the post of Head Teacher but it would have meant leaving the area. Horace would not hear of it; as far as he was concerned her career was secondary to his. She privately felt that he had reached the end of his career, as it was extremely unlikely he would be made a High Court judge. He quite simply did not have the brains.

Muttering about the washing, she managed to escape to the utility room. But she knew she had to go back to wait on him, otherwise he would only start ranting and raving. Eventually, she summed up the courage and returned just as he was pushing his plate away. He continued to gaze at his mobile phone without acknowledging her at all.

‘Horace?’ she asked, ‘All those boxes in the hall - are you going to move them or open them? Anyway, what’s in them?’

He raised his head and looked at her, his face taking on a patronising smirk.

‘Mind your own business,’ he said through gritted teeth.

‘Well, they can’t stay there. They are in the way,’ she said.

He looked at her as if she was a piece of muck on his shoe.

‘Oh, very well if they bother you, carry them to my shed and don’t drop them or look inside. Do you understand?’

Flora nodded.

‘Now, I’m off for a round of golf. Afterwards, I have a lodge meeting. I won’t be back for dinner, but you can have some. Just make sure that you have cocoa ready when I return at about 10.30 and don’t fall asleep. I might also have a brandy.’ He wagged his finger at her as he spoke to her and left the room. She found herself poking her tongue out at the now closed door. Stupid, but she felt better for it... He called out.

‘What now? she thought.

‘Have you washed and ironed my Masonic gear?’

‘Yes’, she shouted through the closed door.

The door flew open and there he stood: fat, bald, pompous. He raged, ‘Don’t you take that tone with me, Flora; sometimes you annoy me so much I could give you a good backhander. I know many men who would.’

He walked to the fridge, opened it and poured a whole bottle of milk over the table. He then took the coffee pot and did the same. This time, the bone china lid fell off, clattering to the floor, where it lay in pieces. Flora’s mouth was wide open.

‘You are my little slave, and, as such, can now enjoy clearing that up.’

He walked into the hall and straightened his tie in the mirror. He acted as if it was perfectly normal to pour milk and coffee all over the table. He shouted. As if she was deaf.

‘Of course, on the bench I had to show a more lenient view to women but underneath I felt that most of them got what they deserved. Political correctness, feminism, all that nonsense I have no time for. It’s a man’s world and that’s how it will continue to be behind closed doors. Just you remember that, you stupid women.’ With that, he slammed the kitchen door and then the front door: two slams.

Flora sank onto the nearest kitchen chair and sobbed quietly into a tea towel. How had it come to this?

CHAPTER TWO

Flora tried to eat some lunch, but she was so upset the food just stuck in her throat. It had taken nearly an hour to scrub the coffee stain from the kitchen table. She stood in the panelled hall of their mock Tudor house and surveyed the boxes. She knew one thing for sure -there was no way she was going to carry them down the garden to his rotten shed. He could carry them himself. But curiosity got the better of her and she decided to open one. Little sobs still erupted involuntarily, as she tried at first to pull back the masking tape so that it could be replaced, and Horace would be none the wiser. But this proved too difficult. In the end she lost her temper and decided that she didn’t care if he did know. She wrenched at the unwilling strip with such force it nearly sent her flying. As she removed the packaging, those annoying tiny squares of polystyrene flying everywhere, she held up a tiny train and a rail. It was a model train set. The old fool had only gone and bought a train set. She burst out laughing.

He must have been embarrassed, that’s why he didn’t want me to see the contents.

She wondered if the passengers would be dressed as little Masons wearing their Masonic aprons. ‘Sounds about right: little children!’ she said out loud.

Wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, she sat in the drawing room staring out onto the manicured lawns of the garden. She knew that inside her the anger which had been building up for years was now turning into open rebellion. The last attack by Horace was the last straw. She knew that she had reached the end of her tether and had to do something about it for her own sanity. Her nerves were in shreds and her hands were shaking. Nature had called twice in the last ten minutes.

New laws had come into force over domestic abuse. Opening her laptop, she googled ‘coercion and emotional abuse’.

Slowly, she ran her finger down the screen:

Belittle you.

Blame you for the abuse or argument or deny it.

Insult you in front of family and friends.

Stop you going to college or work.

Make unreasonable demands on your attention.

Accuse you of affairs.

Tell you what to wear, who to see, where to go, and what to think.

Control your money.

5 year... maximum prison term

Wow! She continued to stare at the screen as if willing the unpalatable truth to go away. Every single one applied to her. Her head was thumping, and her heart was pounding. She had to get out of this house now. Perhaps, if she went away, the shock would bring Horace to his senses and his attitude towards her would change.

Going upstairs, she went to the bathroom and took two painkillers and two Kalms. She lay on the bed waiting for them to work. Aware of the clock ticking, she needed to get on. Changing into HER clothes, not the old-fashioned clothes Horace insisted that she wore, she pulled on her tight-fitting jeans - which showed off her slender legs, curves, and slim waist - adding a flowing cream blouse before slipping her feet into pale pink ballet pumps. The Gucci handbag, which she had hidden at the back of the wardrobe, she grabbed and swopped the contents over from her boring day bag. Throwing some things in an overnight case, she hurried to the car. She grabbed a white sheet of paper off the copier and wrote: Won’t be back tonight, don’t forget to feed the cat. Flora.

Ping, the electric garage doors opened and her Honda Jazz, as if sensing the emotion of the moment, flew out. She clicked the fob and the electric doors closed behind her. The excitement at being free took hold and it felt good. It occurred to her as she drove down the road that she no idea where she was going.

This won’t do. I must stop and decide where the hell I’m going.

She pulled into the nearest cul–de-sac. Her hands were still shaking. She sat and looked at them as if they didn’t belong to her. ‘For goodness sake, pull yourself together. You are getting away from that droning voice for at least twenty-four hours; that’s got to be worth a smile. She wanted to aim for somewhere not too far from her hometown of Oxford; in any event she didn’t feel well enough to drive too far. In all the years they had been together she had never thwarted Horace once, always preferring to take the line of least resistance, for peace. He was going to get such a shock. She wished she was a fly on the wall when he discovered she was not at home to wait on him.

Warming to the idea of getting away, her spirits started to lift as she tasted freedom! She could feel the tension draining from her. Rightly or wrongly, she was definitely going to try and enjoy herself. Tearing a piece of paper out of her notebook she tore it into six pieces. On each she wrote the name of a place she thought suitable for her sortie. She closed her eyes and pushed them around the front seat and finally with her eyes still closed, picked one. Aylesbury: great, now to find a hotel! She googled hotels and up came a four-star country house hotel. Superb! That would do. As it would be a late booking, she decided to phone the hotel direct. Yes, they could fit her in, so she went for it and booked a suite for herself. Looking in the car mirror she wondered if she was fit to be seen. Her eyes were red from crying but, with the help of a little make up, it was not so noticeable, she hoped.

The drive would take her about forty-five minutes. Remembering the smart designer ladies’ shop in Aylesbury she decided to buy herself a new dress. It would probably be expensive, but she just didn’t care, just at this moment - maybe later on, but not now. After all, she had her own money. Thank goodness she had never had to rely on Horace for money otherwise his controlling abuse would have escalated.

Her phone buzzed. It was her daughter, Tabatha, normally shortened to Tabby. She clicked the red button - she would speak to her later, or maybe not. Not having taken her grown-up children into her confidence, they would not understand her sudden actions and probably disapprove. She could hear Tabby in her head, ‘Now, Mum, we know what is best for you.’

Yuk! If only they all knew what she really thought! Well, actually, no-one bothered to ask her anyway. Oh perhaps, gaily, ‘How are you, Mum?’ In a tone which did not invite an honest reply. Now she had a nasty feeling that it all might come gushing out all at once. Oh dear!

She made a conscious decision to spend the next twenty-four hours devoted entirely to herself.

Arriving in the hotel car park, late afternoon, she thought that she was just in time for a nice cup of tea. Pulling her overnight bag across the gravel car park, and clutching her new purchases in her other hand, she climbed the three steps to reception. Pleased that she had managed to find a smart tailored dress, in off-white light grey, with navy piping, and a smart pair of court shoes which set it off nicely. She could never get on with, or, in fact, face wearing those wedges. They were ugly, break-your-ankle shoes to her. These showed off her slim legs, thanks to the gym and her mum.

There was a nice young man at the reception desk, whose name tab said ‘Toby: Asst. Manager’: very important. Well, not really, anyway he seemed pleasant enough.

He greeted her with a broad grin, ‘Mrs Watson?’ he queried. ‘You rang earlier?’

‘Yes, indeed, that’s me.’ She smiled.

‘I have upgraded you to our master suite which has a Jacuzzi bath,’ he winked conspiratorially. She just smiled by way of reply. She had to admit that it was definitely a novelty for her to be smiled at just for herself. He ushered her to go before him and opened the door. This again was a new experience for the beaten-down Flora. She was used to walking behind her husband who seemed to enjoy treating her in public in a deprecating way; any views or suggestions she had the temerity to proffer were always ignored, or scoffed at, giving the impression that in his eyes she didn’t know anything. These thoughts were tearing round in her brain. How she had managed to keep the lid on them for so long she now had no idea.

The lift took them to the first floor and the porter opened the door to her suite. There was a four-poster bed.

‘Whoopee!’ she thought. ‘I have always wanted one of those.’ She poked her head into the bathroom and there was the Jacuzzi bath, ready to go.

As he withdrew, the porter said, ‘Would Madam like to book for dinner?’

‘Oh, yes, please. 7.30 okay?’

He nodded and closed the door.

After unpacking her clothes and having hung them up, she found herself dancing round the room shouting, ‘He he he, ha ha ha, he doesn’t know where I am, I’m free. Yippee!’ She looked out of the window onto the croquet lawn. The foggy cloud of misery had temporarily lifted. The blurb said that the hotel was set in forty acres of parkland; so not only could she go for long walk, but she could perhaps draw and paint, which was one of her hobbies which Horace hated. But maybe on reflection she would do nothing and just sleep. She stirred her tea and undid the wrapper of the biscuit provided. Lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling she nodded off, only to be woken by the trill of the phone right by her ear.

A voice said, ‘Hotel Reception, Madam, just checking that everything is to your satisfaction?’

‘Yes, yes,’ she managed to stammer, ‘I must have nodded off.’

‘Glad to hear it, sorry if I woke you,’ he replied. The line went dead.

‘Good job you did,’ she thought. Looking at her watch, she would just have time to try out that Jacuzzi. She was careful with the bubble bath essence as she remembered a night spent in a hotel in Nice where, having been over lavish with the bubble bath, she watched transfixed as the bubbles climbed up the bath and slowly proceeded to cover the whole bathroom floor. It was funny at the time.

The dinner was good. The waiter had seated her away from the piano at a window seat and the view of the garden cheered her up; there was such a profusion of colours. Her new dress and shoes had lifted her spirits and she was aware that other diners had at least clocked her. ‘Sophisticated’ she would say of herself. The salmon mouse was as smooth as silk, the Matelote Macconaise perfect. A favourite of hers, it was composed of different kinds of fish cooked in a red wine. Then brown shallots are added, and the sauce is thickened with a roux. She liked hers served with spinach to which is added nutmeg, cream, and parmesan. They had indulged her. The chef was so pleased to be properly appreciated that he came to the table and shook her hand... She was sure that he had grown an inch. She had a glass of white Burgundy with her starter and a glass of claret with the Macconaise; it deserved to be served with a good wine, and, anyway, if you liked red wine, no one would turn their nose up at a good margaux. On the rare occasion when Horace deigned to take her out, she had to drive. It never occurred to him to let her have a drink for a change and swap roles. Drink only served to make him even more obnoxious, if that was possible. She often found herself wondering whether he was as foul to other people as he was to her. She supposed that was something she would never know.

As she stirred her coffee, sitting in the hotel lounge, she realised that she was in such a state; one night was simply not enough. Could she, dare she? Well, the heavens would definitely open once she returned: so, in for a penny... She went to reception and negotiated a price for dinner bed and breakfast for another two nights. Now all she had to do was to tell Horace.

Once back in her room, she turned on her mobile, which immediately became animated. Ping: text messages, ping: emails, ping: missed calls, ping: voice messages. She stared at the phone like it was an unwanted monster. It rang and vibrated in her hand; staring at it, her resolve not to speak to anyone