Mr Priddle sided with Warren. ‘I’m not spending Christmas with the Snorleys either and that’s flat,’ he said.
‘I’ve invited them!’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘What do you want me to say? “Sorry you can’t come, my husband finds you boring?”’
‘Well, at least invite someone else!’ said Mr Priddle.
‘Who?’ asked Mrs Priddle. ‘The Hoopers are going skiing, the Johnsons are away, we’re not even speaking to the Butterworths.’
Mr Priddle racked his brains. There had to be someone else. Someone more fun than the Snorleys. Someone who would make Christmas Day go with a swing. A wild, reckless thought occurred to him.
‘I suppose there’s always the Trolls,’ he said.
His wife gave him a withering look. ‘That’s one of your jokes, is it?’
‘They are our neighbours. They’ve had us to supper but we’ve never actually invited them here.’ Mr Priddle was starting to warm to the idea.
‘You don’t have to invite them,’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘They just turn up at the door. Dragging in mud on their great clumsy feet, smelling of earth and sweat and heaven knows what. Last time Mr Troll licked my hand. Licked it!’
‘Maybe he wanted to see what you taste like,’ said Warren.
‘But you can’t say they’re boring,’ argued Mr Priddle.
Mrs Priddle was about to say a good many things but just then the doorbell rang.
‘Good gravy! It’s them!’ hissed Mr Priddle, going into the hall. Three dark shadows could be seen through the dimpled glass of the front door. ‘You don’t think they heard us talking?’
‘Don’t be silly, Roger,’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘See what they want.’
Mr Priddle opened the door and took a step back at the sight of the three smiling trolls outside. Mrs Troll was wearing her best dress – the one with the ra-ra skirt that showed off her thick, hairy legs.
‘Hello, Piddle,’ said Mr Troll. He imprisoned Mr Priddle in a mighty hug that lifted him off his feet. Mrs Priddle hid behind Warren. The trolls walked straight into the lounge, where they squashed on to the sofa and made themselves comfortable.
‘We’ve got a tiddly problem,’ began Mr Troll. He looked at his wife, unsure how to go on. Mrs Troll took over. ‘It’s Eggy’s dad – we call him Grumpa. He’s coming to stay with us for Trollmas.’
‘You mean Christmas,’ corrected Mrs Priddle.
Mrs Troll shook her head. ‘No. Peeples have Christmas, trolls have Trollmas. We all sit in the dark and roar at the Great Troll in the sky.’
‘Sounds fun,’ said Mrs Priddle, thinking it sounded completely batty. ‘So what’s the problem?’
Mrs Troll hesitated.
‘Grumpa thinks that you’re trolls,’ said Ulrik.
The Priddles stared at them. ‘He thinks we are trolls?’ repeated Mrs Priddle.
‘Yes. He’s old. He gets a tiddly bit muddled,’ smiled Mrs Troll.
‘And Mum wrote it in her letters – that you’re trolls,’ explained Ulrik, helpfully.
Mrs Troll was starting to wish she’d come by herself. Egbert was being no help at all. He had plucked a banana from the fruit bowl and was sniffing it.
‘Well,’ said Mr Priddle, chuckling indulgently. ‘I can’t say anyone’s ever mistaken me for a troll before.’
‘No,’ agreed Mr Troll. ‘You’re as baldy as a bottom.’
Ulrik frowned. ‘Your bottom isn’t bald, Dad. It’s hairy.’
‘Yes, but peeples have baldy bottoms, don’t they, Mrs Piddle?’
Mrs Priddle felt the conversation was getting off track. She really didn’t wish to compare bottoms with her neighbours on a Saturday morning.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I don’t really see the problem. Your father will see for himself that we’re not trolls.’
Mrs Troll looked awkward again. ‘That’s the troubles – we want him to think you’re trolls. He hates the sight of peeples. So we wondered if you could keep out of sight for a while?’
‘Keep out of sight?’ repeated Mrs Priddle.
Mr Troll nodded. ‘Stay in the house. Just until Trollmas is over.’
Mrs Priddle exchanged looks with her husband. ‘You’re asking us to hide indoors for the whole of Christmas?’
‘Exactly!’ said Mrs Troll. ‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, why should we mind?’ said Mr Priddle. ‘It’s only Christmas. We’ll turn off all the lights, shall we, and creep around in the dark?’
‘Good idea!’ said Mr Troll.
‘Or, better still, we could stamp around the house and roar like trolls.’
‘Uggsome!’ said Mr Troll. ‘But you’ll need lessons. Your roaring wouldn’t fright an earwig.’
There didn’t seem to be any more to say.
He stood up with the banana still in his hand. Mrs Priddle snatched it back off him.
‘I’ve never been so insulted!’ she fumed.
‘Haven’t you?’ said Mr Troll.
‘Never! You come round here wanting us to hide away as if we’re … criminals. The nerve of it!’
Mr Troll’s face fell. ‘So you won’t?’
‘NO!’
‘What about keeping the curtains closed?’
The Trolls left, driven out by Mrs Priddle who aimed a banana at Mr Troll’s head as they hurried down the drive. She slammed the door shut behind them and turned on her husband.
‘And you wanted to ask them for Christmas!’
Grumpa
Sunday arrived. Mr and Mrs Troll were in a state of nervous anxiety. Would Grumpa really come? It was a long journey from the mountains of Norway. As the day wore on they began to hope that he might have changed his mind.
By seven o’ clock only Ulrik hadn’t given up and kept watch from the window. Despite his parents’ misgivings, he was looking forward to seeing his grumpa. He had already started to think of presents he could buy him for Trollmas. Goat skulls were Grumpa’s real favourite—he had an impressive collection hanging on the walls of his cave, although …
Just then a taxicab turned into Mountain View and pulled up outside the house. As the door opened, Ulrik heard a familiar deep, growling voice. Grumpa got out wearing his ancient goatskin coat. He seemed to be having an argument with the taxi driver.
Eventually the driver tossed his bag out on to the pavement and drove off at high speed with a squeal of tyres. Ulrik ran downstairs, calling to his mum and dad, ‘He’s here! Grumpa’s here!’
They hurried out to meet him at the gate. ‘Hello, Grumpa!’ said Ulrik, hugging him. Mr Troll and Grumpa roared in each other’s faces and thumped one another on the back.
‘Have a good trip?’ asked Mrs Troll.
‘Do I look like I’ve had a good trip?’ growled Grumpa.
‘Well …’
‘It nearly killed me. Nothing but peeples since I left home. Peeples on boats, peeples in motor cars. The smell of them! I was nearly sick. Where are all the trolls?’
‘Come in! Let me take your bag,’ said Mrs Troll, quickly changing the subject. Grumpa stepped through the door, still grumbling about the taxi driver who had demanded money from him.
He looked around. ‘Funny looking cave,’ he sniffed. ‘Doesn’t smell right.’
‘It’s got an upstairs, Grumpa,’ said Ulrik. ‘You’re sleeping in my room!’
‘Why don’t you show him, my ugglesome?’ suggested Mrs Troll.
Ulrik bounded up the stairs, carrying Grumpa’s bag.
‘I helped Mum dirty my room for you,’ he said, pushing open the door.
Ulrik’s bed had been removed so that the room was bare except for the mud and leaves covering the carpet. On the window stood Ulrik’s rock collection and one wall displayed his mud painting of home. Grumpa surveyed the room. ‘Humph!’ he said. ‘It’ll do, I suppose.’
‘Look, Grumpa, you can make it dark!’ said Ulrik. He flicked the light switch on and off.
Grumpa went to the window and looked out over the neat, lawned gardens of Mountain Vie
w. Luckily the Priddles were all in their house, safely out of sight.
‘Where are the mountains?’ said Grumpa.
‘Oh, there aren’t really mountains,’ said Ulrik.
‘No mountains?’ said Grumpa. ‘I’ve lived in mountains all my life.’
‘We’ve got a hill,’ Ulrik said, pointing it out. ‘Dad made it all by himself.’
He pointed to the mound that took up most of the back garden.
‘Call that a hill?’ snorted Grumpa. ‘It’s not even a pimple!’
Half an hour later they sat down to supper. Mrs Troll had spent hours at the supermarket trying to choose something that Grumpa would like. She dropped a smoking black lump on to his plate. Grumpa prodded it with a finger.
‘What’s this?’
‘Beefboogers. It’s a bit like goat. Try it,’ urged Mrs Troll.
Grumpa sniffed the meat, which had got slightly burnt when it caught fire.
‘Don’t you think Ulrik’s grown?’ asked Mrs Troll, trying to distract him. ‘Stand up, Ulrik. Let Grumpa look at you.’
‘Mu-um!’ protested Ulrik. He stood awkwardly while Grumpa looked him up and down.
‘Looks a bit scrawny to me. Have you been feeding him?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘Most nights we have fresh goat, don’t we, hairling?’
‘Um … goat, yes,’ said Ulrik.
‘That’s right,’ said Mr Troll. ‘I’ve eaten so many goat pies sometimes I think I’ll turn into one. Ha ha!’
Ulrik blinked at his parents. He hadn’t tasted goat since they’d left home. It was odd – his parents were always warning him to tell the truth but here they were telling Grumpa the most enormous fibwoppers and expecting him to back them up.
Grumpa was asking him a question – something about his hunting hat.
‘Oh, it’s in my school bag,’ replied Ulrik.
‘Wear it to go hunting, do you?’ asked Grumpa.
Ulrik glanced uncertainly at his dad, who nodded urgently.
‘Um, yes … I wear it a lot,’ said Ulrik.
‘And how many goats have you baggsed so far? By yourself, I mean. Four? Five?’
Again Ulrik looked at his dad, who held up ten fingers behind Grumpa’s head.
‘Well, none yet …’ he said truthfully.
‘NONE?’ roared Grumpa.
‘Not yet, Grumpa.’ (Mr Troll hid his face in his hands.)
‘Know how many goatses I’d baggsed when I was your age?’ asked Grumpa.
Ulrik shook his head.
‘Sixteen,’ said Grumpa. ‘Six-teen.’
‘Uggsome!’ said Ulrik.
‘And I dragged them home by myselves, miles through that forest and up to Troll Mountain. The snow was so cold …’
‘… it froze your toeses,’ completed Mr Troll wearily. ‘We know. You’ve told us before, Dad.’
‘Well, and what is Ulrik learning here?’ demanded Grumpa. ‘In a place with no mountains and a cave that’s hardly got any stink?’
‘I’ve learned lots at school, Grumpa,’ said Ulrik.
‘School? Bah!’ scoffed Grumpa. ‘I never went to school.’
‘I like school,’ said Ulrik. ‘Shall I say you my seven times table?’
‘What’s the good of tables?’ demanded Grumpa. ‘Are they teaching you how to roar?’
‘Dad gives me roaring lessons at home,’ said Ulrik.
‘Show Grumpa,’ urged Mr Troll. ‘Go on, Ulrik. Show him how you roar.’
Ulrik hesitated. He never did his best roars when he had an audience. Somehow it made him nervous and his throat dried up. However, his mum and dad were nodding at him eagerly and Grumpa was waiting. Ulrik clenched his fists and tromped up and down a few times, stamping his feet to gather himself. Taking a deep breath and pushing out his chest, he roared. ‘Graaaaargh!’
His parents clapped. ‘Lovely, Ulrik!’ said Mrs Troll.
‘Pretty scaresome, eh?’ said Mr Troll.
Grumpa just scowled and folded his arms. ‘Humph!’ he said.
Later Ulrik lay in his parents’ bed, trying to get to sleep. From across the landing he could hear the rumble of Grumpa’s snores. Heavy footsteps came up the stairs. He closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. The door creaked open.
‘Look at him. Sleeping like a lambkins,’ said Mrs Troll fondly.
‘Too much like a lambkins if you ask me,’ grumbled his dad’s voice.
‘Shhh!’ said Mrs Troll. ‘He’ll hear you!’
Mr Troll peeled off his vest and threw it on the floor. He lowered his voice. ‘Maybe Grumpa’s right, it’s our fault. Ulrik should be out tromping the forest with trolls of his own age.’
‘He likes going to school. He’s made friends,’ said Mrs Troll. She sat down on the edge of the bed, which sagged to one side.
‘I know,’ said Mr Troll. ‘But he just isn’t … trollish.’
‘His roar’s improving,’ said Mrs Troll.
‘You heard him tonight. Feeble as a frog-hopper!’ said Mr Troll, climbing into the bed. Ulrik heard the springs beneath him groan in protest.
‘Stop worrying!’ sighed Mrs Troll. ‘Ulrik will be fine.’ Mr Troll grunted and rolled over. Before long both of them were snoring.
Ulrik lay awake, squashed between his parents in the hollow of the mattress, thinking over what he’d just heard. He tried hard to be more trollish, but somehow he always seemed to get it wrong. It was true he couldn’t roar like his dad and he didn’t have a temper like his grumpa. If only he could do something to prove his trollishness to his parents. If only he could bags a goat and bring it home for supper!
Meet the Neighbours
The next morning Ulrik sat at the breakfast table, helping himself to Coco Pops out of the packet. He had set out all the bowls ready and made sure that none of them were clean. His mum was busy in the kitchen while his dad didn’t seem to be up. Grumpa came downstairs, already dressed in his goatskin coat.
‘Hello, Grumpa! Did you sleep well?’ Ulrik asked. ‘You were snoring.’
‘Humph!’ replied Grumpa. ‘Where’s your hat?’
‘It’s hanging up.’
‘Run and fetch it then. We’re going hunting. You and me.’
‘Hunting? Uggsome!’ said Ulrik.
When he returned his mum was spooning cold beans out of a can.
‘Grumpa’s taking me hunting, Mum!’ said Ulrik.
‘Hunting?’ said Mrs Troll, alarmed. ‘When was this decided?’
‘I decided it just now,’ said Grumpa.
‘But where are you going to hunt?’
‘In the forest,’ replied Grumpa.
‘Which forest, Grumpa?’ asked Ulrik.
His mum gave him a meaningful look. ‘You know, Ulrik – the forest I was telling Grumpa about in my letters. The one where we always go.’
‘Oh, that forest,’ said Ulrik, nodding his head slowly. Now he understood. Grumpa thought there was a forest nearby where you could hunt goats, but actually there wasn’t. He tried to hide his disappointment. For a moment he had believed he was going on his first hunting trip.
‘Why don’t you go tomorrow?’ Mrs Troll suggested. ‘I think it’s going to rain.’
‘Hogswoggle!’ snorted Grumpa. ‘A tiddly spot of rain won’t hurt us. I’ve been hunting when the snow’s up to my bellies.’
‘Yes, but you don’t know the forest here,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘You might get lost.’
‘I never get lost,’ said Grumpa, buttoning his goatskin coat. ‘Are you ready, Ulrik?’
Ulrik straightened his hunting hat. ‘Ready.’
Mrs Troll stood in the doorway, blocking their path. ‘At least wait for Egbert. You don’t even know the way.’
Luckily Mr Troll came downstairs at that moment and Mrs Troll explained – with a great deal of eye-rolling – that Grumpa wanted to take Ulrik hunting in the forest.
‘The forest?’ said Mr Troll, puzzled. ‘Which forest?’
Ulrik could see they were going to have t
o go through the whole business all over again.
‘You know, Dad, the one where we always go hunting.’
Mr Troll looked blank.
‘The one I told Grumpa about in my letters, Eggy,’ said Mrs Troll, attempting to wink and roll her eyes at the same time.
‘Oh, that forest!’ said Mr Troll, finally remembering. ‘But they can’t go there. Haven’t you told him yet?’
It was Mrs Troll’s turn to look blank. ‘Told him what?’
‘About the goblins!’
‘Goblins?’ said Grumpa. ‘What are you blethering about?’
‘Goblins as big as bears,’ said Mr Troll.
‘Yes! Terrible, scaresome goblins,’ said Mrs Troll, catching on. ‘They live underground.’
‘They jump out and bite your toeses and won’t let go.’
Grumpa stared at them both. ‘I’ve never heard such a pile of cow-patties,’ he said. ‘Come on, Ulrik, we’re going.’ He opened the front door and strode down the path, with Ulrik trying to keep up. Mr and Mrs Troll exchanged worried looks and hurried after them.
At the gate Grumpa halted and looked left and right. ‘Which way?’ he demanded.
Mr Troll hesitated. ‘Um … well, that depends …’
‘Which way to the forest? It’s a simple question!’
‘Not really …’
Like most trolls Grumpa had very little patience – he had been scowling and grinding his fangs for some time, which was a sure sign that his temper was about to explode.
‘Oh, for UGGNESS’ SAKE!’ he roared. ‘I’ll ask in here – maybe they talk some sense!’
With that he turned into the Priddles’ driveway and to the Trolls’ horror marched up to the front door. Ulrik glanced back and saw his mum and dad, signalling to him frantically to do something. But what could he do? Grumpa was already hammering on the door with his fist.
Ulrik wondered how his mum and dad were going to explain this. The whole thing was getting very complicated. First Grumpa wanted to take him to an imaginary forest, now he wanted to meet the trolls next door who were actually peeples. Ulrik felt his mum should have thought of this when she was writing all those fibwoppers.
Goat Pie Page 2
