Singin' in the Drain

by Steven Butler

  ‘IT’S NOT STUPID!’ Rubella growled.

  ‘You said it was an emergency.’ Neville flinched away from the growling hippopotamus. ‘AND WHY DID YOU ASK ME? I CAN’T HELP!’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t ask anyone else, you rottler,’ said Rubella, ‘otherwise Gruntilda would find out I’m going to audition.’

  ‘But how am I supposed to help you? I don’t know anything about auditioning or acting or stuff.’

  ‘You know all about that acty-dancy-jiggedy stuff, you grubberlumper,’ Rubella said, pointing an accusing sausage-finger at Neville. ‘I saw the picture on the shelf last time we all came to stay at your house.’

  Neville opened his mouth to protest, but stopped himself. He knew exactly which picture Rubella was talking about. It was a photograph above the mantelpiece of him and his classmates in the school play.

  ‘It was only the school nativity,’ Neville said. ‘I don’t know –’

  ‘Exactly!’ interrupted Rubella, clapping her hands together. ‘You know all about it … aaand … no one else talks to YOU, so I’ll surprise them all.’

  ‘But I only played a sheep!’ Neville insisted. ‘And I wasn’t even a very good sheep.’ His tummy gurgled at the memory of wearing his scratchy costume and trying to remember all the words to ‘Away in a Manger’, and all those mums and dads staring. ‘I’m not a performer, Rubella.’

  ‘SHUT UP!’ Rubella shouted. ‘You know more than anyone else I could ask and you’re goin’ to tell me everythin’ you know, or … or … I’LL YANK YOUR EARS OFF!’

  ‘Ha ha!’ Clod beamed. ‘Our Belly wantin’ to be a star! How exciterous. What show is it?’

  ‘Whingerella,’ said Rubella.

  ‘OH, I LOVE THAT ONE!’ shouted Clod.

  ‘Whingerella? Like Cinderella?’ Neville was getting more and more angry. ‘But you said it was an emergency.’

  ‘It is,’ Rubella cried, smacking her hand dramatically across her forehead. ‘Gruntilda … You remember her?’

  Neville racked his brains … She was Rubella’s bony friend that he’d met the very first time he’d journeyed down the toilet to the Underneath.

  He nodded.

  ‘Gruntilda’s mum is in charge of the pan-troll-mime,’ Rubella said, leaning in like she was sharing a deep dark secret. ‘If I’m not extra good, Gruntilda will get the best part in the show … BUT I WANT TO PLAY IT!’

  ‘You want to play Whingerella?’ Neville asked.

  ‘UGH! NO!’ Rubella barked. ‘No one likes Whingerella. I want to be the grumptious stepsister that wears the grass slipper and marries the prince.’

  ‘I thought there were two stepsisters,’ said Neville. He was starting to get confused.

  ‘Not in Whingerella,’ said Rubella. ‘Everyone knows that the grumptious stepsister is far too grumptious for there to be more than one … I’m grumptious and I want to get all smoochery with the prince.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Clod. His grey-green cheeks started to blush. ‘I … erm …’

  ‘Who’s playin’ old princey-poo?’ asked Malaria, trying not to laugh. She handed out a tray full of mugs of steaming tea.

  ‘Thicket!’ Rubella said. ‘He plays it every yearly.’ She turned an odd shade of pink and almost swooned off her seat. ‘He’s the thorniest boy in the whole town.’

  Neville thought he might throw up. Yuck! The thought of having to kiss Rubella was enough to make someone sick for a whole week. Poor Thicket! Neville had never seen his troll-sister like this. Normally she was smashing things or bursting through walls or getting into fights. He’d never seen her act so … well … girly!

  ‘In that case,’ Clod said, rubbing his hands together excitedly, ‘we’d better make sure you’re tippy-top and the best beauty-beamer up on that stage, Belly.’

  ‘That sounds just squibbly, it does,’ Malaria joined in. ‘Our Belly, a princess.’

  Rubella turned to Neville. ‘What d’ya say, Nev?’ she said, smiling through gritted teeth. Neville was still angry and wanted to say no, but he noticed his troll-sister’s club-like hands balled up into fists. He nodded slowly.

  ‘Right then,’ said Clod. ‘What’s first?’

  Everyone looked at Neville expectantly. He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Well, um …’ Neville tried to remember the pantomime his friend Archie’s mum had taken them to. ‘I suppose –’

  ‘Don’t suppose, Nev,’ snapped Rubella. She mimed pulling his ears off across the table.

  ‘DANCING!’ Neville said with a gulp. ‘You should practise some dancing.’

  ‘EASY!’ Rubella barked and darted up the stairs, mumbling to herself. ‘I’ll just get my …’

  Neville wrinkled his brow. He hadn’t quite caught the end of Rubella’s sentence, but … a twinge of fear crept up his spine. Surely he was going mad? Neville could have sworn he just heard Rubella say, ‘I’ll just get my … TUTU!’

  Meanwhile

  Somewhere, in one of the big houses on the other side of town, Gruntilda Bunt stood in the middle of a large room made from rusty old train carriages.

  ‘One, two, three and up,’ the troll-girl puffed. ‘One, two, three and up.’ She was doing knee bends and arm twirls. ‘Can I stop now?’ she called in her snickery little voice. ‘Moomsie? Can I stop now?’

  The door burst open and the shape of a tall, thin troll-woman emerged from the next room.

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘My arms are pooped,’ Gruntilda whinged. Her twiggy hair creaked as she bobbed up and down. ‘Look!’ She gave a little yelp as she spun her bony arms to show just how tired she was.

  The troll in the doorway scowled, then smiled the kind of smile you’d see on a slurch right before it ate you.

  ‘Dunklin’, you have to make sure you’re the best at the pan-troll-mime auditions or Moomsie won’t love you any more … You don’t want Moomsie not to love you, do you?’

  Gruntilda shook her head.

  ‘THEN SHUT UP AND PRACTISE!’

  Practice

  ‘A bit more round the ankle,’ Rubella whined. She sat on one of the barrel seats and wriggled her foot in the air. ‘Come on, Nev.’

  Neville could hardly believe what he was about to do. He glanced down at the bucket of oven grease in his hands and choked back the sour taste that rose into his mouth.

  ‘NEV, YOU WHELP! A BIT MORE GREASE ON MY ANKLE!’ Rubella yelled. She was sitting there, bulging half in and half out of a pink frilly tutu. ‘I CAN’T GET IN MY TIGHTS … AND IF I CAN’T GET THEM ON I CAN’T PRACTISE MY DANCE!’

  Neville jolted, but didn’t seem able to make his arms and legs work. He couldn’t help but gawp at his troll-sister’s grey-green rump, spilling out through the seams in all directions. It was like a bulldozer trying on a handkerchief.

  ‘Oh, Belly, you’re goin’ to look grumptious.’ Malaria chuckled, tugging at the tutu’s straps and heaving the pink material over the turnips on Rubella’s shoulders. ‘A proper dainty-dinklet.’

  ‘OY!’ Rubella kicked Neville in the leg. ‘GET ON WITH IT!’

  Neville slowly scooped up a great globule of grease and, with shaking hands, approached the enormous leg that dangled in front of him. He reached out and touched the hairy ankle like someone poking a deadly snake, then smeared the dinner-smelling sludge up and down it before he retched.

  ‘It’s about time,’ Rubella snapped, shoving Neville aside. The bucket of grease CLANG-ANGANGed across the floor, spilling its contents in a big yellowish pool. Pong cooed wildly, took a run up and slid through it on his stomach.

  ‘CCCCOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHH!’

  ‘All righty,’ said Clod, who’d been watching from the corner with a happy grin on his face. ‘Let’s get those tighties on you, Belly.’ He grabbed the top of Rubella’s tights and yanked them upwards.

  ‘PULL!’ Malaria shouted. ‘HEAVE!’ She joined in and grabbed hold of the other side. Neville watched in complete horror as his mooma and dooda huffed and groaned. The pink woollen tights were
close to bursting and they were barely beyond Rubella’s feet.

  ‘Breathe in,’ Clod wheezed, pulling harder and harder at the waistband.

  ‘I AM BREATHING IN!’ Rubella barked. ‘MAYBE WE NEED MORE GREASE?’

  ‘There is no more grease,’ Neville said, keeping out of his troll-sister’s kicking range.

  ‘PULL!’ Malaria ordered again. She and Clod were tugging so hard at the pink tights that Rubella had to grip hold of the barrel she was sitting on to stop herself from being hoisted into the air.

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ Rubella hissed at Neville. ‘HELP!’

  Neville didn’t know what to do. Rubella’s tutu was like a trap that was about to spring open at any moment. He could hear ripping noises coming from somewhere under her gargantuan bottom.

  ‘Almost there!’ wheezed Clod.

  Suddenly there was an enormous SNAAAAAAAAP and the tights and tutu sprang into place. Clod and Malaria both tumbled to the floor in a heap of grey-green arms and legs.

  ‘Ha!’ Rubella blurted, then did a twirl. The tutu was such a squeeze that Rubella’s gut was forced upwards and sat beneath her chin like a mildewed, warty pillow.

  ‘OOOHH, WE DID IT!’ Malaria cheered from the floor. ‘PRINCESS BELLY OF WASHING MACHINE HILL!’

  Neville looked at the horror in front of him and felt the urge to run away and hide.

  ‘You look like a right honker, Belly,’ Clod said as he clambered back to his feet. ‘Absolutely wonderbunkin’ … Don’t she, Nev?’

  Neville almost screamed. How could his dooda think she looked wonderful? He turned to Rubella and nodded, somehow managing not to pull a face. Maybe Neville was a better actor than he thought he was.

  ‘Righty-ho, Belly,’ said Malaria. She scooped Pong up from the grease puddle on the floor and sat down with him on one of the barrels. ‘Let’s see then.’

  Neville’s heart started to race. He dived on to the seat next to his mooma. This was it … Rubella was about to perform.

  CLLOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMPPPPPP!!!

  Neville barely had time to duck behind Malaria.

  THHUUUUUUUUUUDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!!!

  Rubella started clattering about the kitchen, a great pink mass of flapping arms and pounding feet. She twirled on the spot and stuck one leg out to the side, toppling a stack of dirty plates as she passed.

  ‘Yeah!’ whooped Clod. ‘Go on, my lump.’ He started whistling a tune and clapping his hands while his daughter hammered back and forth like a wrecking ball.

  ‘WATCH, NEV!’ Rubella yelled as she manoeuvred through a bunch of high leaps and groany lunges. Neville stared in total shock. Watch? He couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

  Every time Rubella landed from one of her enormous jumps, her spade-sized feet left large holes in the floor.

  CRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCKKKKKK!!!

  Rubella leapt straight up into the air and put her head through the ceiling. She dangled there in a cloud of broken plaster and splintered boards.

  ‘How squibbly,’ Malaria said, turning to smile at Neville. ‘I’ve never seen such a heart-hobblin’ performance.’

  Rubella’s head seemed to have got stuck. She hung there like a headless, overstuffed windsock, swinging her tree-trunk legs this way and that.

  ‘GET READY FOR THE BIG FINISH!’ Rubella’s voice shouted down from the floor above.

  Neville held his breath.

  Pong clapped wildly and screamed.

  CCRRRRAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSHHHHHH!!!

  Rubella finally came plummeting back towards the kitchen floor and landed doing the splits with all the grace of a grand piano dropped from the top of a building.

  ‘TA-DAH!’

  Clod and Malaria jumped to their feet and applauded the sweaty boulder in front of them.

  ‘How’s about that then?’ said Rubella, staggering back to her feet. ‘Wha’ d’you reckon, Nev?’

  Neville tried to smile. It was so much worse than he’d expected.

  ‘It’s very good,’ he lied. ‘I don’t think you need my help.’

  ‘Nonkumbumps,’ declared Malaria. ‘You’re a handy thing to ’ave about, Nev. What with all your yearlies of theatrics.’

  Neville groaned. This was terrible … Rubella was terrible! THE WHOLE THING WAS TERRIBLE!

  ‘What else?’ asked Rubella.

  ‘Well,’ said Neville. ‘You should probably practise your singing. Pantomimes normally have songs.’

  ‘Oh, there ain’t no nevermind there, Nev,’ said Clod. ‘Belly’s got the voice of a birdy.’

  ‘Yeah, a vulture,’ Neville whispered to himself.

  ‘What?’ Rubella scowled.

  ‘Nothing!’ Neville said. ‘I’d love to hear it.’

  ‘Go on, Belly,’ said Malaria, hugging Pong tightly. ‘Sing that thingy … y’know … the thingy about the … thingy.’

  ‘Oh, that one,’ Rubella said casually. ‘Yeah, all right.’

  All across the town of Underneath, trolls going about their daily lives staggered to a sudden halt as an ear-splitting screech echoed through the darkness, shattering every milk-bottle lantern within three blocks of the Bulches’.

  ‘That were lovely,’ said Clod, wiping a small tear from the corner of his eye.

  ‘I know,’ said Rubella. She folded her arms over her giant pink gut and twiddled her hair. ‘What did you think, Nev?’

  Neville wasn’t listening. His ears were ringing and he seemed to be the only person that had noticed the entire side-wall of the kitchen exploding outwards down the hill. He gawped and stared with wide eyes.

  ‘He’s overwhelped,’ said Malaria. She wandered over and patted Neville lovingly on the head. ‘I think you’ve got a fan, Belly.’

  In the Morning

  The ticker-dinger-thinger, a giant troll-clock in the market square, BAAAANGED its morning bang and echoed across the town. Neville jolted awake and tumbled out on to Rubella’s bedroom floor like an oversized rag doll.

  ‘Ugh! Hello?’ he said, yawning. Neville had been fast asleep in his usual spot on top of Rubella’s laundry pile. He rubbed his eyes, then looked around the messy room. Rubella wasn’t in her hammock.

  ‘Belly?’ Neville called. Her pink tights and tutu were in a heap on the other side of the room and the bedroom door was wide open. Neville caught the familiar scent of moss cakes and warm pickled fisheyes drifting upstairs from the kitchen. How long had he slept?

  Quickly untangling his legs from a large pair of Rubella’s knickers, Neville headed across the room and down the stairs. His tummy felt strange, but he wasn’t sure if hunger or nerves about the day ahead were the cause.

  ‘Here he is!’ Clod beamed as Neville reached the bottom step. ‘We were startin’ to think you weren’t comin’ down at all.’

  ‘Mornin’, my snizzler,’ said Malaria. ‘You’re gettin’ all lazy like your sister, you are. I’m so chuffly.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Neville said, yawning again. He was exhausted. Rubella had insisted they stay up for half the night practising her singing. After what seemed like hours, Neville had finally convinced her to sing a little more quietly and not shatter the remaining walls with her wailing, which at least felt like a bit of progress.

  ‘I don’t believe you, Nev!’ Rubella grunted. ‘You were supposed to help me get ready.’

  Neville looked at his big troll-sister and stumbled off the last step in surprise. He wasn’t sure how many shocks he could take in such a short space of time.

  Rubella had a new outfit on. She was wearing a dress like the flamenco dancers Neville had seen on his mum’s favourite TV show. The top half of it was bright putrid green with sparkly bottle-tops sewn round the collar, and there was a frilly purple skirt, which was short at the front and flowing at the back. She looked like a nightmarish peacock.

  ‘You look just like one of them princessy types, Belly,’ Malaria said, chuckling. She twisted Rubella’s bristly hair into a bun and tucked an old dead flower into it for extra princessliness.
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  ‘I KNOW!’ Rubella snapped. ‘OF COURSE I DO.’

  Neville looked at his troll-sister and felt his heart sinking. If she didn’t get the part she wanted in the pan-troll-mime, she’d blame him and yank his ears off. What was he going to do?

  ‘How’s about a wee snifflet of breakfast, Nev?’ said Clod, offering up a plate of moss cakes.

  Neville reached out to take one, but Rubella’s great warty hand grabbed his wrist before he could.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Rubella said. She had rosy painted cheeks and bright red lips that made her look even more demented than usual. ‘Eat later … We’ve got to get a move on, whelp. COME ON!’

  With that, Rubella disappeared through the green curtain like a runaway circus tent, dragging Neville behind her.

  La La Laaaa!!!

  By the time Neville and Rubella reached the theatre in the centre of town, there was already a long line of hopeful young trolls shuffling nervously outside. Each and every one was dressed in an elaborate gown or suit made from all sorts of sewn-together rags and tatters.

  ‘Guh!’ Rubella huffed. She was out of breath from all the hurrying and sweating like a bullock on a bonfire. ‘This is your fault, Nev!’ She swished her flamenco skirt at Neville, almost knocking him off his feet.

  ‘We’ll have to wait,’ Neville said, as the thought of Rubella yanking his ears off crossed his mind again. ‘Anyway … the longer we spend in line, the longer you have to warm up and be really good.’

  Rubella raised her hand to swat Neville aside – then thought about what he’d just said and lowered it again.

  ‘Fine,’ she humphed, then started practising scales along with all the other eager performers. The noise was awful; not a single troll in the line could sing in tune. It was like listening to a thousand nails being scratched down a chalkboard. Maybe Rubella might have a better chance than Neville had first thought?