Singin' in the Drain

by Steven Butler

  Without a second’s thought, Neville dropped the paper on the ground and RAN!

  Bad News

  ‘Nev, my lump!’ Clod beamed as Neville raced into the kitchen through the green curtain. ‘How’d it go?’

  ‘HIDE ME!’ Neville yelped, darting behind Clod’s back and scrunching himself up as small as he could.

  ‘Hide you?’ Clod chuckled. ‘What’re you hidin’ from?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Neville said, pointing through the jam-jar walls to the enormous shape of Rubella lumbering up Washing Machine Hill. Neville hid his face in his hands and hummed the Captain Brilliant theme tune to himself. This was it – the moment his brute of a big troll-sister would finish him off.

  Malaria came downstairs with Pong riding on her shoulders.

  ‘Oh, Nev,’ she said, putting the little troll down at the dinner table. ‘Is Belly done already? I’m so exciterous to hear how it went!’

  ‘Erm,’ said Clod. ‘I’m not sure there’s such squibbly news.’ He scooped Neville up and squeezed him in a troll-hug.

  ‘She’s going to kill me,’ Neville whimpered.

  ‘Oh, nonkumbumps,’ said Malaria. ‘Why would Belly go and do a thing like that? What’s occurinatin’?’

  ‘I think we’re about to find out,’ Clod said, nodding to the curtained front door.

  Rubella burst through, sweaty-faced and scowling.

  ‘WHERE IS HE?’ she bellowed, looking crazily around the kitchen. ‘I’M GOIN’ TO SQUISH HIM!’

  ‘IT’S NOT MY FAULT!’ Neville yelled, then instantly buried his face in the fold of Clod’s arm.

  ‘YES, IT IS!’ Rubella shouted back. She ripped the flower out of her hair and threw it on the floor. ‘YOU MUST HAVE TRAINED ME WRONG!’

  ‘Belly,’ snapped Malaria. ‘You ain’t squishin’ Nev, so you can be forgettin’ about it right now.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Clod asked. ‘Didn’t you get into the pan-troll-mime?’

  Rubella’s mouth curled down at the edges and her bottom lip started to tremble.

  ‘Oh, my honker,’ Malaria said and put an arm round Rubella’s shoulders. ‘It’s nothin’ to go worry-wartin’ about.’

  ‘Yep,’ said Clod. ‘Just cos you ain’t in the pan-troll-mime, it don’t make you any less of a jumbly-Jennifer to us.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Neville said in a tiny voice.

  ‘Not what?’ asked Clod.

  ‘It’s not that Rubella didn’t get a part.’

  ‘Well, what’s goin’ on then?’ Malaria said. ‘Are you in? Are you the grumptious stepsister?’

  ‘NO!’ Rubella burst out crying.

  ‘Oh no …’ said Clod, screwing up his face and sticking his tongue out. ‘Are you Whingerella? That’s a pooky part.’

  ‘NO!’ Rubella wailed. ‘IT’S WORSE THAN THAT!’

  ‘What are you then?’ said Malaria.

  ‘I’M …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’M …’

  ‘Oh, spit it out, Belly,’ said Malaria, rolling her eyes. ‘I’ve got to put din-dins on in a winky bit.’

  ‘I’M THE TURNIP THAT GETS TURNED INTO A COACH!’ Rubella screamed.

  ‘Oh.’ Malaria coughed back a laugh. ‘I like turnips.’

  ‘IT’S DREADSY!’

  ‘No, it ain’t,’ said Clod. ‘I’m sure you’ll make a lummy turnip.’

  ‘WHAT?’ Rubella looked like she was going to rocket off through the ceiling.

  ‘Dooda’s right,’ Neville added, trying his hardest to smile. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t get the part you wanted, Rubella, but I bet you’ll be brilliant … and if it makes you feel better, I thought you were terrific today.’

  ‘NO, IT DOESN’T MAKE ME FEEL BETTER!’ Rubella stamped her feet and turned away.

  ‘Who’s playing the grumptious stepsister?’ Malaria asked Neville.

  ‘Gruntilda Bunt,’ said Neville. ‘She was awful; I don’t know how the judges picked her.’

  ‘That bony, snickerty, twiglin’ of a skinnifer!’ Rubella yelled. ‘I hope her branches break.’

  ‘Now, Belly,’ said Clod, in his Dooda-knows-best voice, ‘I’m sure she got the part fairy squarey.’

  Rubella glared at Clod, then at Neville, and grunted.

  ‘Well,’ Neville said after a long moment of awkward silence. ‘I suppose I should be getting back up the toilet now it’s all over. Mum and Dad will be wondering where I’ve got to.’

  Neville climbed down from Clod’s arms and hugged his dooda’s knee. ‘Bye, Dooda.’

  ‘Bye, Nev,’ said Clod, planting a kiss on Neville’s head. ‘Come again soon, won’t you.’

  Neville nodded and smiled. He turned to go and hug his mooma, when one of Rubella’s enormous feet stuck out and blocked his path.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ Rubella hissed, bending down and shoving her nose against Neville’s like Dumbly the angry dungle. ‘If I’m stuck bein’ a stonkin’ great turnip, you’re stuck here with me.’

  ‘What?’ Neville gasped. Butterflies suddenly rose up in his stomach.

  ‘I ain’t doin’ this on my own,’ said Rubella. ‘There’s loads of other parts in the pan-troll-mime. If I’ve got to do it, you’re doin’ it too.’

  ‘But, I …’ Neville stammered. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘TOUGH TONSILS!’ growled Rubella and flicked him on the end of his nose with her stumpy finger.

  Clod clapped his hands together.

  ‘Two younglings in the pan-troll-mime,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘How squibbly.’

  ‘But I can’t act,’ Neville insisted, his face turning white at the thought of being onstage again. ‘I was only a sheep before. I told you that right from the start.’

  ‘I DON’T CARE!’ Rubella screamed. ‘I’M A TURNIP BECAUSE OF YOU!’

  Off to Rehearsals

  BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANG!

  The ticker-dinger-thinger shook the house. Neville opened one eye and stretched. For one tiny blissful moment he’d forgotten where he was and –

  ‘AARGH!’ Neville screamed suddenly as Rubella grabbed his ankle and dragged him out of her laundry pile.

  ‘Morning, you pookery little dungle droppin’,’ she said flatly. ‘I can’t wait to see what squibbly things you’ll be doin’ onstage today. Just think – Nev in front of hundreds and hundreds of trolls.’

  ‘NO!’ Neville whimpered. ‘Get off!’

  Rubella swung Neville into the air and caught him under her arm like someone carrying a plank of wood.

  ‘LET ME GO, RUBELLA!’

  ‘Shut up, snot,’ she barked. ‘You’re going to have an absolunkly squibbly day at the theatre with winky ole me.’ Then she smiled a frightening smile and stormed down the stairs with Neville still tucked under her arm.

  ‘Mornin’, my actory types,’ Malaria said as Rubella reached the bottom step. Neville was flailing wildly, kicking and poking his troll-sister in her mammoth behind. He flailed so hard that one of his slippers flew off and landed in Malaria’s cooking pot with a SPLOOSH.

  ‘Oooh!’ Malaria chortled. ‘Thanks, Nev. That’ll make it taste delunktious. Who’s for a spot of something tummy-tinklin’?’

  ‘NO!’ Rubella barked as she clomped across the kitchen.

  ‘What about you, Nev?’

  ‘HE’S NOT HUNGRY,’ Rubella shot back at her mooma and pushed through the green curtain.

  ‘PLEASE, RUBELLA,’ Neville pleaded. ‘PUT ME DOWN.’

  ‘SHUT UP!’ She gave Neville a warning squeeze and he made a sound like a deflated bagpipe.

  ‘HOOOOOOOOF! ’

  Rubella burst out laughing. ‘Maybe you could be an instrument in the band,’ she teased.

  ‘HOOOOOOOOF!’ Neville wheezed. ‘STOP IT RU– OOOOOOOF! LET ME GO – OOOOOOOF! I’M GOING TO BE S– OOOOOOOF!’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Rubella sighed contentedly. ‘This will be more fun than I thought.’ With that, she lumbered off towards the theatre, playing Neville like a human one-man band.<
br />
  ‘HOOOOOOOOF!’

  Tonight is the Night!

  When they reached the theatre it was bustling with trolls preparing for the show. Rubella dumped Neville on the ground by the front door and stormed inside.

  ‘I’m goin’ to find Thicket,’ she barked over her shoulder. ‘Go and make yourself useful, worm.’

  Neville wriggled to his feet and dusted himself off. He felt sick with nerves – and from being squeezed like a humansized accordion. What was he going to do? He closed his eyes and thought of Captain Brilliant.

  ‘Eww.’

  Neville opened his eyes again with a start.

  ‘Eww, it’s you.’ Gruntilda came out through the front doors wearing an unfinished ballgown made from bed sheets. ‘I remember that ’orrible face. You’re the overling that lives with the … Bulches.’ She said ‘Bulches’ like it was a rude word.

  ‘I’m Neville,’ said Neville. He puffed up his chest and tried to look brave.

  ‘You’re so ugly,’ Gruntilda sneered, poking Neville with her skinny finger to check that he was real. ‘Even uglier than that sister of yours.’

  ‘No, I’m not … BUT YOU ARE!’ retorted Neville bravely.

  ‘I’M NOT! I CAN’T BE UGLY! I’M THE GRUMPTIOUS STEPSISTER!’ Gruntilda shouted. ‘YOU’RE A BULCH … DISGUSTIN’! YOU CAN’T BE IN MY MOOMA’S PAN-TROLL-MIME. YOU’LL RUIN IT!’

  ‘Pardon?’ Neville said. Had he heard correctly?

  ‘EVERYONE WILL BE BLURTY IF THEY WATCH YOU ONSTAGE. I’M GOIN’ TO TELL MY MOOMSIE AND SHE WON’T LET YOU BE IN THE PAN-TROLL-MIME.’

  Neville almost burst out laughing with joy. He didn’t care if that stupid bundle of bones thought he was ugly.

  ‘Oh, please let me be in the show,’ Neville lied. He clasped his hands together to make it look really convincing. ‘I really want to be in it … I just have to be … it’ll make me SOOOOO happy. I’ll die if I don’t get to perform.’

  ‘NO!’ Gruntilda said with spiteful glee. ‘You’ll never be in it now.’

  She grabbed hold of Neville’s hand and pulled him towards the doors of the theatre.

  ‘You’re goin’ to regret this, you ugly, winky overling,’ Gruntilda hissed, completely unaware that Neville was grinning behind her. ‘Now, come with me.’

  Neville followed Gruntilda into the theatre and gasped when he saw the commotion.

  There were trolls everywhere. Some were clambering over high scaffolding, hanging extra milk-bottle lanterns, while others were painting huge cloths. One scene showed a strange, exotic landscape made from junk, and another was of the ballroom of a faraway troll-castle.

  The troll-band was practising in the priddling pit and Mucus was on the stage with a team of very cumbersome, tutu-ed ballerinas, clapping out a rhythm as they twirled and jumped noisily.

  ‘One, two, three, four, bad toes, pointy toes!’ he shouted. ‘One, two, three … Nettle! Get those legs higher or you’re not in the show!’

  The young troll named Nettle nodded enthusiastically and kicked her leg as high as it would go. Her overstretched tights ripped loudly and echoed round the theatre. Neville smiled to himself as the other trolls fell about laughing and Mucus stormed offstage, fluttering his grey-green hands and wailing, ‘I CAN’T WORK WITH THESE AMATROLLS!’

  Neville suddenly felt a tingle of excitement – if he didn’t have to be onstage, a pan-troll-mime might be fun to watch!

  Meanwhile, a pack of hefty troll-men in black rolled an enormous coach made from hundreds of hammered-together bits of clock on to the stage and positioned it in a pool of light.

  ‘That’s the coach Rubella is going to turn into,’ said Neville. ‘She’s the turnip.’

  ‘Ha!’ Gruntilda scoffed as she pulled him up the steps and on to the stage. ‘Don’t mention that name to me … Moomsie said she got the lowest score of every troll that auditioned.’

  Neville grimaced to himself and hoped Rubella wouldn’t find out. She’d be crushed and would probably crush him in return if she did. ‘She wasn’t that bad,’ he said loyally.

  ‘BAD?’ Gruntilda laughed. ‘Moomsie said she was disgusterous.’

  Neville stuck his tongue out at Gruntilda’s back.

  ‘Moomsie?’ Gruntilda said as they approached Abominatia. ‘Moomsie?’

  Abominatia wasn’t listening. She stood there, gnarled hands on hips, shouting at something near the ceiling.

  ‘DAINTY, GRISTLE,’ she yelled. ‘You’ve got to be more dainty or my show will be ruined.’

  Neville looked up just in time to dive out of the way as Gristle Pilchard whizzed past, dangling on the end of a long rope. She was wearing a sparkly dress, covered in milk-bottle tops, and had little wings made from stained paper plates on her back.

  ‘LIKE THIS?’ Gristle shouted, flapping her arms up and down like a bird. In one hand she held a magic wand made from a broom handle, with a cardboard star on the top, and she thrashed her walking stick back and forth with the other.

  ‘I really don’t think you need your walkin’ stick, Gristle,’ Abominatia shouted as the old fairy swung back the other way.

  ‘I CAN’T WALK WITHOUT IT, DEARY!’

  ‘YOU DON’T NEED TO WALK, YOU’RE IN THE AIR!’ Abominatia’s flytrap hair started twitching with frustration.

  ‘Erm … Moomsie,’ Gruntilda mumbled nervously.

  ‘WHAT?’ Abominatia glared at her daughter and pouted.

  ‘Well,’ Gruntilda said, ducking as Gristle Pilchard came back for another swing. ‘I was just telling this … thing –’

  ‘I’m Neville,’ Neville interrupted.

  ‘Ugh!’ Abominatia jolted when she saw him as if he was a nasty surprise. ‘You’re ugly.’ She leaned in for a closer look.

  ‘I’m not ugly, I’m an overling,’ Neville snapped.

  ‘I was just tellin’ Neville that Rubella Bulch was absolunkly gripeous at the auditions … wasn’t she.’ Abominatia clutched her throat as if she was about to be sick.

  ‘I can’t chattywag about it now,’ she said, tossing her shoulder ivy. ‘The memory of it is too upsetly.’ ‘Anyway,’ said Gruntilda, sidling wickedly next to her mooma and leering at Neville. ‘He called me ugly and I don’t want him in the show.’

  ‘YOU CALLED MY DAUGHTER WHAT?’

  ‘I called her really, really ugly,’ Neville said with his fingers crossed behind his back. ‘But I also really want to perform.’

  ‘NEVER!’ Abominatia yelled. ‘You will never be in the show.’

  Inside, Neville felt like bursting into happy tears. Now it didn’t matter what Rubella said, he couldn’t be in the pan-troll-mime no matter what. He felt so squibbly he could –

  ‘We’ll find him another job to do instead,’ said Abominatia.

  Neville’s heart jumped up into his throat.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s all grabbers on deck,’ Abominatia said, flourishing her twiggy arms. ‘We’ll find you another job.’ She called to one of the hefty trolls fixing a wheel on the coach and he plodded over immediately, nodding happily.

  ‘What seems to be the troublin’, Miss Bunt?’

  Abominatia pointed at Neville. ‘This thing –’

  ‘MY NAME IS NEVILLE.’

  ‘Neville,’ said Abominatia, gesturing at the other troll, ‘this is Dunk … He’s in charge of all the technicky-ratchety-doo-dah stuff.’

  Neville smiled nervously. The troll had tools and contraptions all over him. There were old rusty spanners and hammers sticking out of every pocket and belt loop. He even had a full set of pliers and hundreds of nuts and bolts knotted up in his grassy hair.

  ‘Dunk, we need to find a job for Neville,’ Abominatia ordered. ‘He called my daughter ugly, so make it a toughly one.’

  ‘Hmmm!’ Dunk looked at Neville as if he was the bravest thing he’d ever seen. ‘Well … um …’ Dunk scratched his tool-covered head and thought for a moment. Neville’s knees started to tremble.

  ‘Well … the hinkapoot trainer needs
some help gettin’ ’em ready,’ the troll said. ‘They can be a winky bit tricksy.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Abominatia cooed. ‘You, Neville, will help our hinkapoots to look razzly and showish.’

  ‘What’s a hinkapoot?’ asked Neville, his mind filling with dread.

  ‘The overling is a nogginknocker,’ Abominatia huffed. ‘Every pan-troll-mime always has a team of teensy hinkapoots doin’ tricks. It wouldn’t be complete without them.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Neville. He thought about it for a moment. Maybe playing with hinkapoots would be fun. It had to be better than going onstage. ‘I’m quite good at looking after my dog, Napoleon.’

  ‘A dog?’ Gruntilda blurted.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Abominatia gasped. ‘Hinkapoots are nothin’ like dogs. Now wiffle off and help out … there isn’t much time and everythin’ has to be perfect.’

  ‘How long have I got?’ Neville asked.

  ‘This is pan-troll-mime,’ Abominatia proclaimed, looking dramatically at the ceiling. ‘With my artsy vision, we don’t waste our time with rehearsals … WE OPEN TONIGHT WHEN THE TICKER-DINGER-THINGER GOES BONG!’

  Neville’s jaw dropped open. Tonight? The show would be a complete shambles.

  ‘Full cast meetin’ as soon as they’ve fixed the blunkin’ coach wheels. Now off you go!’

  Dunk placed a hand on Neville’s shoulder and turned to lead him away.

  ‘And, Neville …’ Abominatia said in a raspy whisper. She slunk over, grabbed Neville by the collar of his pyjamas and pulled him in close. ‘I’ve got my peepers on you.’

  Halitosis and her Amazing Hinka-Circus

  Dunk led Neville along a hallway behind the stage. There were dressing rooms on either side with the actors’ names painted sloppily on each door and the occasional poster of past shows. Neville read each one as he shuffled past.