An Outlaw's Final Hours

A short story about Mrs Horp, to make you cry

The sun was just squinting through the curtains as an ungainly letter flopped through the slim letter box. Mrs Horp wished not to open the letter, but the thought of it perched like a cormorant on her shoulder, tickling her with its feathers to tease her, and impaling her with its black claws to frighten her.

So, she finished up her coffee and her toast with a gulp and a gobble, and tore the letter open.

The words she read made her sweat turn sour:

“Dear Mrs Horp,

You have been found guilty of foul parking, and must pay a fine of £4000, or else you must surely die.

Hackney Council.”

Mrs Horp sat down on an upside-down barrel and wept convulsingly, wringing her hands and then wringing her uncle for financial support.

“Dear uncle,” she said on the phone, “how lovely to speak to you and I would also love to have £4000 but if it’s too much trouble any coppers you have lying around will do”

“Well” replied her uncle “if you clean my front garden and sponge down the pear tree I could dig up some pennies from my wallet for my favourite unclette?”

“Yes, £4000” wept his favourite unclette, and her nostrils shook to think of their misfortune.

It was a great day’s work sponging down the pear tree, and dear uncle was very grateful to see the little pear-bearing tree gleaming like a sponged down copper kettle.

“Great job” he said, digging deep into his wallet and fishing out a bright copper penny from 1942. “Buy yourself something tasty from the fish and chips shop. A saveloy?” he said and disappeared into his house, locking the door.

Another plan had failed, wept Mrs Horp on her barrel. There aren’t many ways to earn £4000, she snarled, apart from a stall selling a thousand knitted knickers for £4 each.

“If seven spinsters, from seven parishes, knit for seven years
Do you suppose,” Mrs Horp said, “They could knit a thousand pairs?”
The clouds did scatter and a voice from the sky
Issued promply the following reply:”

“Seven spinsters might struggle to produce a thousand knickers in seven years
However, give them twice the time and I think they might manage eleven pairs.”

Mrs Horp waited to see if any further divine guidance would issue from the heavens; however, the clouds covered the sky again, and it began to rain. Not encouraged, Mrs Horp gave up on her knitted knicker dreams. She slipped her wellies on and stalked gorgeously past gushing drains until she bumped into her old bully from school, Camilla Mockingbird. Camilla had adorned her hat with graceful feathers from exotic birds, but her hat had wilted like a disappointed chicken in the rain, which made Mrs Horp feel less bullied.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Camilla, just wonderful”, Mrs Horp lied.

“Dear Mrs Horp, you take me by surprise
My tears fall like crystals from my eyes
To see you again after all these years
Brings forth a river of flowing tears”

Camilla Mockingbird replied thus, and Mrs Horp inspected her face for the river of tears, but there was no sign of it.

“How have you been, Mrs Horp? I have been recently awarded gardener of the year for my arrangement of pansies, and my husband declares that he loves me more than ever, with every passing year. My children are all tallest in their class, and my oldest has been gifted £4000 by his school for exceptional performance in his grade 2 flute exam. How are you?”

“Unfortunately, I have recently been condemned to death by Hackney Council, unless I can raise £4000 that is.”

“Oh Mrs Horp, my tears again are beginning to stream! My oldest and dearest friend has been condemned to death and must surely die!” With this, Camilla hobbled away, crippled by grief, and her tears, by now, truly flowing. They mingled with the falling rain and formed muddy puddles, through which Mrs Horp waded.

Mrs Horp fannied about the streets until she was half deranged, pootling in and out of shops – florists, gift shops and delis – hoping to see a bargain so bounteous it would profit her £4000. Stewed sausages in a pot, 2 for the price of 1… Mrs Horp hovered about the charcuterie counter like a hovercraft caught in a storm.

The proprietor began to get a wind of Mrs Horp’s despair, and asked her if she’d like to wind down with a whisky on the rocks behind the counter. Mrs Horp sat down on the rocks behind the counter with a grateful sigh, and tucked herself in happily to the whiskey, like a shirt into a particularly refreshing pair of trousers.

She had always known that death would come to her one day, but she hadn’t dreamed it would happen this way. Death by council, she reflected, must be an easy death, more pleasant and humane than being eaten alive by termites or falling into a vat in a brewery and accidentally being fermented.

Feeling a deep sense of peace, she made her way to the council offices and gave herself up.