The Holiday – Flash Fiction

“I say chaps! Who’s for some fried eggs?”

“This is hardly the time for such a question Bertie, what with the horse dead and the girls gone.”

“Well I just thought I would try and lighten the moment! A little nosh does wonders for the spirit don’t you know!”

I looked at the poor dead cart horse lying half in and half out of the stream and did not feel the mention of fried eggs did much wonder to the old spirit.

“And how much does a gypsy caravan cost?”

“I really couldn’t say dear chap.” said Bertie breaking eggs into the pan in a most annoyingly buoyant manner.

The smoldering remains of the once gaily coloured caravan gave off the smell of burned wood and reproach from the opposite bank.

“It was a little mean for Cecily and Gertie to go running off like that I must say.” Bertie gave the eggs a perturbed prod, bursting one of the yolks.


“Well you were rather mean about Cecily’s cooking.”

“Well, if it comes to that, it was Cecily’s “cooking”, as you choose to call it, that caused the whole thing in the first place.”

“I disagree.” Fossinton-Smythe’s voice came forth balefully from behind the tree where he was leaning, smoking.

Fossington-Smythe always disagreed.

“I distinctly told her to go light with the old methylated spirits.” said Bertie.

“I thought I heard you tell her to light all the methylated spirits.”

“I thought you had been drinking methylated spirits.”

“Shut up Fossinton!”

“Anyway, it was obviously an old cart horse.”

“Why is its age relevant pray?”

“Because, my dear chap, it is unlikely that a spritely young cart horse would have dropped dead just because a caravan exploded.”

“It did run two miles before it exploded.”

“My point exactly. It was all too much for the poor old thing.”

“Well that doesn’t excuse the girls going off in a huff.”

“You can’t expect a nice, well brought up girl like Cecily to understand how to use stoves and such. She has a cook for that sort of thing.”

“Obviously.” Fossington-Smythe pointed at the caravan with his cigarette holder.

“Shut up Fossington!”

“Well I thought that Gertie was made of sterner stuff at least. Her mother bakes her own pies so they say.”

“Obviously an anomaly. I thought that madness ran in her family when she insisted on bringing her pug dog.”

“There’s something! What ever did happen to that pug?”

“I think it fell out of the caravan somewhere between Gretna Green and Cambridge. Gertie was ridiculously cut up about it if I recall correctly.”

“Girls are such silly, sentimental things!”

“Alright Bertie, budge up. May as well have some eggs. Can’t have you scoffing the lot.”

“And what about all of this?” enquired Fossington with a broad sweep of his cigarette.

“Oh shut up Fossington!”


For Friday Fiction with Ronovan Writes – Holiday



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s