Horace Copeless (The Hopeless)

HORACE COPELESS

Isabella Paglia

Adriano Gon

written by Isabella Paglia illustrations by Adriano Gon First edition september 2012 ISBN 978-88-906105-9-2 Š 2012 CAMELOZAMPA All rights reserved info@camelozampa.com www.camelozampa.com

Isabella Paglia

Adriano Gon

HORACE COPELESS The story of how a born loser (or so he thought) becomes a real live hero!

A CATASTROPHIC YEAR

Hi, I’m Horace, Yes, that’s right, Horace. Good name, uh? With all due respect to the famous ancient Roman poet my parents were thinking of… but of all the three thousand four hundred million names there are in the world, why did they have to choose that one?

And that’s not my only bit of bad luck.

Have you ever felt out of place? Do you go around feeling you simply don’t fit in? To the point that all you really want for Christmas is a Harry Potter invisibility cloak so you can just disappear altogether? It might help.

Well, if you’re thinking to yourself: “That’s me”, all I can say is: “Welcome to the club!”

But instead of an invisibility cloak, I got given something that completely changed my life!

As if my life hadn’t been a big enough mess already.

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I mean it. I seemed to have attracted disasters like a magnet – even though I’d never broken a mirror!

Let me list a few of the things I had to put up with, in ascending order on the disaster scale: 1. I have to wear glasses. I’m short-sighted, which means I can’t see things at a distance; in other words, I’m as blind as a proverbial bat. But of course my glasses are cheap national health issue, not those trendy frames that make you look grown up and interesting. They’re the kind that make people yell out: “Hey, you, four-eyed Horace, how many fingers can you see?”

2. My parents are Super-Ultra-Vegans (that’s something to do with eating only healthy food and respecting all living things etc). In other words, I have to eat birdfeed when what I hanker after is a triple cheeseburger with bacon rasher extras, lashings of ketchup and mayonnaise so rich it glows, and an extra large serving of lovely, greasy French fries all to myself.

3. Because of my parents’ work we’ve had to move to another city so now I go to a new school and know practically nobody. Not that that was much of a great change to how things were before…

4. The last disaster (for now at least) and by far the worst was that the only sane person in my family, the person who 6

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would make me sticky fudge when my parents weren’t there, who would always take my side when I got in a spot, my Gran Geraldine, who would make me laugh ‘til tears rolled down my face, died suddenly of a strike, no, what’s it called… of a stroke, that’s it!

Not bad for starters, don’t you think. I should enter the “loser of the year” contest. I’d win.

But I’ll tell you something. That was what I thought before I opened the parcel my Gran left me, and before I found out that I would have been an idiot to throw it away!

That was before I was catapulted to the North Pole, before I was chased by a… That was all before!

Now things have changed completely.

I’ve even got a friend, here, but I’ll have others soon, and 5 humans + 12 dogs… there!

But perhaps I’d better start at the beginning.

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THE LESS SAID ABOUT SCHOOL THE BETTER

At the beginning of the school year my teachers called my parents.

“Let’s see now… Mmmmm… Horace Copeless. He does well in his essays, gets a good mark. But when he’s asked to speak, that’s where the trouble starts! If he’s asked to say anything he gets tongue tied, goes red in the face, breaks out in a sweat and utters not a word!” said the headmaster Mr Sturn.

“I think it’s probably a lot to do with the move” muttered Mr Copeless looking worriedly at his wife. “You know, new city, new house, new class. You know how moves can affect children…”

“I dare say you’re right, Mr Copeless, but it doesn’t account for everything. I fear there might be something else”, continued the Head.

“I knew it, dear!” sighed Mrs Copeless wringing her hands.

“You have to understand, headmaster. Horace only recently 9

lost his grandmother whom he was very fond of … his grandmother Geraldine. In fact we’ve just come from the notary about the will…”

“Yes of course, there’s that as well!” agreed Mr Wright, the maths teacher. “The emotional wrench, sense of insecurity….

Your son needs all your attention. He needs to feel you are listening to his needs; that you’re by his side. Dialogue with parents at this age is vital!”

That chat with my teachers was the beginning of a nightmare.

Not long afterwards I found myself: 1. enrolled in a course of yoga - warmly recommended by Mum’s naturopath; 2. enrolled in a self-defence course - recommended by a Buddhist friend of my Dad: “Increases self-esteem”; 3. the owner of a Playstation + ten videogames given to me by my Aunty Tina: “They’ve all got them”; 4. the proud owner of fifty packets of prestige football cards: “So you can swop them and make friends”; 5. a season ticket for the local swimming pool because for some unknown reason, “it’s good for your back!”.

What with their work and the to-ing and fro-ing to all those extra-mural activities in the afternoon, my parents were certainly always by my side… in the car!

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Our dialogue consisted of: “Horace, have you got your bag?”, “Horace, have you remembered your swimming cap? Have you got your yoga mat?” interspersed by: “Just look at that fool! He cut right across me!” and “Sorry, love, just a minute… Got to answer my mobile…” as he or she swerved the car to take a shortcut hoping to make up for lost time.

The upshot of it all was that we saw a lot of each other but didn’t do much talking, only sometimes at traffic lights.

Not to mention the ferocious headaches that Mum and Dad seemed afflicted with all the time.

To put it bluntly, the new regime was not working.

At school nothing changed. When I was called to read aloud, I came out in a cold sweat, my legs trembled and my tongue seemed like it was stuck to the roof of my mouth with Attack.

The worse thing was being called to the executioner’s block, otherwise known as the blackboard. I could feel a thousand eyes boring into my back as I stood there.

I thought things couldn’t possibly be worse.

But of course, as always happens, when things start going badly, there seems no end to how bad things can get. Two boys in my class, popular with the other boys and adored by the girls, Mark Nobles and handsome Andrew Le Beau, started making fun of my ridiculous wobbly knees.

Every time a teacher asked me a question, they would mutter 11

snide remarks, which would be followed by tittering from some of the others.

“What’s up, Horace the Hopeless, feeling weak in the knees?

Four-eyed fish, need a magnifying glass? Did you swallow your tongue with your Rice Krispies this morning? Hey, Horace Hopeless are you dumb as well as blind? Horace the Hopeless, the school’s no-hoper!”

So from then on, most of the class called me… Horace the

Hopeless!

What wouldn’t I have given to be able to show them one day that I could…

Get my own back. That’s what I wanted!

How I’d love to get even with them just like The Count of Montecristo in that series I watch on telly every evening.

But as Gran Geraldine used to say: “He who laughs last laughs longest”…

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GRAN GERALDINE’S BEQUEST

Dear Granny Geraldine. She was the best Gran you could ever hope to have. She had a stentorious voice, a sunny disposition and an infectious laugh. Her figure was as wide as one of those ancient trees you read about. When I hugged her, my arms didn’t meet at the back.

Granny Geraldine.

Everybody told me she was happy where she was now, that we had to be thankful she hadn’t ended up paralyzed in a hospital bed, that her troubles were over and she was at peace.

But I wasn’t!

And I missed her. Really badly…

Even the day Mum and Dad returned home from the notary with old trunks, boxes of files and a strange package tied up with string, I was thinking how much I missed her.

“Horace, we’re back! Come and have a look! Among all this junk your grandmother left, there was something for you.

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This package is yours, dear. I’ve absolutely no idea what’s in it. There was no way I could peak inside. True to form, your grandmother had the box well and truly sealed. Oh yes, there’s also an envelope for you, addressed in huge lettering.

That’s sealed as well of course, trust your grandmother. Must be a letter…”

“Gran left me a package and a letter?” I asked. When I saw the handwriting, my curiosity was aroused. It read: For Horace To be opened only once I’m gone And only when you’re alone TOP SECRET KEEP OUT OF REACH OF PARENTS FOR THE PRIVATE AND EXCLUSIVE USE OF HORACE HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL! Confidential means just that, CONFIDENTIAL Got it, Mr and Mrs Copeless???

There was no doubt about it. It was a present from Gran. It was totally in character.

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Like the time she gave me a crash helmet signed by Valentino Rossi for Christmas.

And I don’t even have a motorbike.

Probably never will.

But anyway, I’ve got the crash helmet.

Gran had always promised that if we pooled my pocket money and her pension, by the time I was eighteen or twenty we would have had enough capital to buy one, a motorbike, I mean.

She was something else, my Gran!

“Horace, get a move on, you’ve got your Oshizo-Mizo lesion.

Hurry, or we’ll be late!

It was Dad shouting from the car.

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Don’t parents always choose the right moment to interrupt just when you’re beginning to have fun.

“Well anyway”, I thought to myself, “ I’d open it this evening”.

THE SPECIAL STONE

Finally, my homework finished, supper eaten, and Dad’s cross examination over “Everything all right, son?”

“How are things at school, Horace?”

“Had any tests lately?”

“What about your classmates?”

- negotiated by me with my usual non-committal answers “Au huh…”

“Like normal…”

“Like always, Dad…” …and after hearing Mum telling me for the nth time as I was watching the final stages of the third to last episode of The Count of Monte Cristo that before being turned into a TV series it had originally been a book… after all that, I had a bit of peace and quiet and found myself alone at last.

Gran Geraldine’s parcel!

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I raced to my room.

It was still on the bed where I had left it.

My parents hadn’t opened it, thank goodness.

Unfortunately that had not been the case with my diary that Copeless senior had somehow got his hands on, looking for goodness knows what secret goings-on that might be undermining a wholesome young life – with the result that I now had to hide my diary among the nuts and bolts and jars of worm bait on the topmost shelf in the garage.

The package looked very battered, as if it had travelled a very long way.

It was a brown cardboard box tied up with string. The knot had been secured with lead seals, making it as safe from prying eyes as a bank vault.

My Gran was certainly no fool! (Knew what she was about; knew a thing or two!)

I unwrapped the box.

In it was just a bag of picture stickers of what looked like exotic tourist destinations: Kathmandu, Welcome to Serengeti

park, Bienvenido a Cancun, Bienvenu a Paris, New Delhi for you…

There were loads of them.

Wait a minute. Something else was odd.

Bienvenu, Bienvenido…

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My Gran couldn’t speak any other language but her own and that was mostly dialect. She’d learned a bit of English from the last Guatemalan carer. So where did all these exotic places come in?

Gran had only travelled once when she moved from her remote Polish village to this country as young woman, and had never left home after that except once on a trip with the parish, to Lourdes, I think.

I opened the bag.

What was this?…

Inside there was just some sand as white as flour and a packet of photos. Nothing else.

Photos of her.

But… but… what on earth?...

Gran Geraldine riding an elephant?!

Gran Geraldine… surfing?!

Gran Geraldine…. at the pyramids?!

GRAN GERALDINE WITH THE MASAI?!? …And in Hawaii!!!

I felt dizzy. My ears were ringing. I began to see little dots in front of my eyes…

Relax, Horace.

As Mr Wright says: “There’s an explanation for everything”.

Perhaps the person in the photo was not really my Gran.

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But it looked very much like her.

Perhaps Gran Geraldine had an identical twin!

The best thing was to open the letter.

“Dear Horace, My dearest grandson, knowing you, you’d better have a drink of cold water and then take a seat…”

“Done!”

“No, I don’t have an identical twin sister. I know what you’re thinking. That’s really me in all those photos; me your old Gran who’ll loves you always…”

“But I don’t understand!”

“Well Horace, sometimes surprising, wonderful things happen, and sometimes things happen that aren’t so wonderful. But it’s all part of the incredible journey that is life. You have to live the things that happen to you without fear because each and every one of them holds an important lesson that will help you through that journey”.

“You know, when the doctors told me my health was bad, I realized I didn’t have much longer to live, at least on the Earth, my dearest. So I went to my old friend, Notary Goodman, and gave him the box you now have. I was careful to wrap it and seal it first though because I know that your parents worry about you and want to know what’s going on in your head, like the time they read your diary (don’t worry, I told them off in no uncertain terms; they won’t be doing that again).

Now, pay close attention to what I’m about to say. It’s important.

Take a good look at the sand.

There’s a little grey stone in it. It looks like a pretty ordinary stone … but looks can deceive”.

“Let’s see… Yes there it is. It looks just like the sort of small pebble you get in a shoe and can’t wait to get rid of”. “…Don’t be taken in by appearances… that ordinary looking 21

pebble attached to a leather tape is in fact a special stone.

He chose you!”

“He? Who? He chose who??”

“It’s a very special stone, Horace. It’s got extraordinary powers!”

“Powers?”

“You see, these powers are handed down from generation to generation but only to the most worthy family members. It belonged to your great, great, great grandmother Apollonia who travelled widely. The story goes that it originally came from Easter Island where it was stolen by a distant relative, a pirate, who made a gift of it to the Queen of Sardinia, Eleanor of Arborea with whom he had fallen hopelessly in love. I kept it hidden for years in one of my trunks in the loft. That stone can take you places you’ve never even dreamed of and have never ever seen. And remember your old Gran’s motto: “What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger!”

“But Gran, what kind of a present is this!? And what’s all this about a proverb? No, it can’t be…” I said to myself as I looked at the innocuous little stone lying there quietly in the palm of my hand giving no sign of being special. “…This is the secret of your grandmother and your valiant forebears, hidden for years in the loft, that I’m now about to 22

reveal to you…

Rub the stone and repeat the words: “Hush, my dear one, sleep serene

Now, my lovely, slumber deep.

Magic stone will let you dream, Close your eyes and welcome sleep, In time and space now take a leap.

Now you will fly over snow and sand But just take care of how you land!”

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Once you have uttered these words, the special stone will send you to sleep and take you on an incredible journey.

You’ll find yourself whisked to the furthest corners of the earth.

I was the chosen one before you, Horace!

One word of warning, though…

Where and when you go will be a surprise.

The stone decides!

Look at the photographs carefully. In all of them I’m wearing my red hairnet, the one I wear at night to keep my curlers in place. I never had time to take if off before leaving because the stone decides on the spur of the moment when you leave.

But don’t be frightened. I’ll always be with you.

I may have left, but I’ve never really gone away.

Not even for a moment.

In fact now I can be even closer to you.

I can’t tell you where I am. All I can say is that I’m in a fantastic place full of light. I’m with Granddad and a whole set of nice people I used to be reminded of by those little things I kept in my trunks up in the loft.

I’ve just been given a special job. I’m on mission, Horace…

I’ve just been appointed second pilot of your heart. That’s if you agree, of course…”

“Gran…”

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“I love you, Horace. See you soon”.

“So you never really left, then? Which means that I’ve never really been alone. I love you too, Gran, and I really can feel you’re here. Inside. I can feel you strong and clear”.

I finished the letter a bit distraught, my heart pounding. But I couldn’t wait to leave!

I’d have done anything to get away from that hated school, from Mark Nobles and Andrew Le Beau and the other swaggerers who bullied me, away from my parents, who however hard they tried, didn’t understand me and just kept asking questions and dishing up birdfeed between one out-ofschool activity and another.

It’s true I was ready to leave all my problems behind but only to land myself… in even greater trouble!

But that I was yet to find out.

translation by Stephanie Johnson ( Assointerpreti)

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