Goat Pie

by Alan MacDonald

  He dragged the tree down the drive and came to a halt. The only thing he hadn’t worked out was how to get it through the front door.

  ‘Arggh! Gnhhhhh!’ he grunted, heaving with all his strength.

  ‘What the bogles are you doing?’ asked Mrs Troll, coming into the hall.

  ‘I brought a tree,’ said Mr Troll, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  ‘I can see that. Why are you bashing the door down with it?’

  ‘Ulrik wanted a tree for Trollmas. You stand them in the window.’

  Mrs Troll climbed over the dirty roots of the fir tree and inspected the green bushy part. One end was jammed in the doorway while the other was still out on the street.

  ‘Eggy! It’s huge!’ she said.

  ‘I know!’ grinned Mr Troll. ‘I didn’t want a tiddler.’

  ‘Well, you’ll never get it in here – you’ll have to put it in the back garden!’

  Ulrik was feeding Rosemary in the bathroom when he saw the shadow of a giant tree swaying outside the window. He left Rosemary’s bowl on the floor, dashed downstairs and out into the garden.

  ‘Wow! It’s uggnormous!’ he exclaimed.

  Mr Troll was packing earth around the tree’s roots. It was leaning drunkenly to one side but he thought this could be sorted out later.

  ‘You wanted a tree,’ he said. ‘This is like the ones we grow back home, Ulrik.’

  ‘Can I hang things on it?’

  Mr Troll waved a hand airily. ‘You can do what you like. It’s yours.’

  Ulrik set to work. He didn’t have any fairy lights or coloured balls, so he decorated his Trollmas tree with whatever he could find. He hung his socks on the branches, adding a vest and a pair of his mum’s extra-large knickers for good measure. Christmas trees were meant to be bright and colourful and this one certainly was. He was so absorbed in what he was doing that he didn’t notice Warren Priddle staring at him over the fence.

  ‘What is that?’ pointed Warren.

  ‘Oh, hello, Warren. Dad got me a tree!’ said Ulrik proudly.

  Warren gazed up at the gigantic fir tree which rose almost as high as the house.

  ‘It hasn’t got any lights,’ he pointed out. ‘Or a fairy on the top.’

  ‘No, but I used all my socks,’ said Ulrik. ‘I hung them up like you said.’

  ‘It’s stockings not socks,’ said Warren scornfully. ‘And you’re meant to hang them on your bed. Don’t you know anything about Christmas?’

  ‘Not really,’ admitted Ulrik cheerfully. ‘I think Trollmas is different.’

  Warren was looking round the garden. ‘What have you done with that goat?’ he asked.

  ‘Rosemary?’

  ‘Yes. My dad says you’ve eaten her.’

  ‘No, she’s in the bathroom,’ said Ulrik. ‘It’s a secret. We don’t want my grumpa …’ He broke off. A startled cry had come from the house.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Warren. Ulrik looked up at his bedroom window. A worrying thought crossed his mind. Five minutes ago he had been feeding Rosemary in the bathroom, but he’d been distracted by the sight of the tree at the window. In his excitement, had he remembered to close the door behind him? Surely he had.

  Grumpa’s face appeared at his bedroom window.

  ‘Help! There’s a wild goat in here!’

  Maybe he hadn’t.

  ‘Hadn’t you better go and help him?’ asked Warren, gazing up at the window.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ replied Ulrik. ‘Grumpa’s used to catching goats. He isn’t frighted of anything.’

  ‘Oh no?’ said Warren. ‘He looks pretty scared to me.’

  It was true that the fearless goat-hunter was behaving quite oddly. Grumpa was standing on the windowsill and had pulled the curtains round him for protection. Ulrik could hear Rosemary’s excited bleating—she probably thought he had biscuits in his pockets. He caught a glimpse of her head at the window.

  ‘Wait there, Grumpa!’ he called.

  But Grumpa had decided that ‘waiting there’ with a savage goat trying to bite his feet was out of the question. He opened the window and gingerly stepped out on to the ledge, edging towards the drainpipe.

  ‘Look out!’ said Warren. ‘He’s going to jump!’

  They both watched spellbound as Grumpa inched his way along the ledge. Halfway along his foot slipped and he was left clinging to the drainpipe with his feet dangling in mid-air. Rosemary poked her head out of the window and bleated.

  ‘Get away!’ cried Grumpa, kicking out in alarm. Ulrik doubted this was a good idea. Most drainpipes are not built to take the weight of a fully grown troll and this one was no exception. With a cracking, groaning sound the pipe started to come away from the wall.

  ‘Watch out, Grumpa!’ warned Ulrik.

  Grumpa had felt the drainpipe moving and caught hold of the only thing that was to hand – which happened to be a giant Norway Spruce. For a few seconds he clung to the top, like a life-size Christmas fairy. Then, as if in slow motion, the tree began to topple sideways.

  ‘ARGGHHHH!’ cried Grumpa.

  It was lucky there was something to break his fall on the other side of the fence. It was not so lucky that the something was the Priddles’ new greenhouse. There was a mighty crash – followed by several smaller crashes as the remainder of the roof fell in and the sides collapsed like a folding deckchair.

  Ulrik and Warren ran over to the fence to see what had happened.

  ‘Blunking bogles!’ said Ulrik.

  The tree had flattened a section of the Priddles’ fence but that was the least of the damage. Grumpa was sitting in the remains of a greenhouse, surrounded by socks, shattered glass and broken flower-pots. Part of the Christmas tree had snapped off and he was still clinging to it uselessly. On his head sat Mrs Troll’s extra-large knickers.

  Ulrik of course got the blame. His mum and dad blamed him for leaving the bathroom door open. Grumpa complained he should have been warned there was a goat on the loose. The Priddles came out into the garden to join in with all the pointing, roaring and shouting. In the middle of it all Mrs Priddle picked up a broken flower-pot and burst into tears. ‘It’s meant to be Christmas!’ she sobbed. ‘Christmas!’

  This put an end to the shouting and everyone looked at their feet awkwardly. Mr Priddle took his wife inside to make her a strong cup of tea while the Trolls returned to their house, feeling sorry about Mrs Priddle and her ruined Christmas.

  In all the commotion they had forgotten about Rosemary. They found her in the kitchen, hoovering up spilled Coco Pops from the floor.

  ‘This can’t go on,’ said Mrs Troll, sitting down heavily. ‘She’s driving me up the road.’

  ‘Me too!’ agreed Mr Troll. ‘And we’ll have to pay for the Piddles’ greenshouse.’

  ‘That wasn’t her fault!’ Ulrik pointed out.

  Grumpa limped in and sat down. ‘Don’t bother about me,’ he said bitterly. ‘I could have broken my neck but don’t worry about that!’

  ‘She didn’t mean any harm, Grumpa,’ said Ulrik. ‘You must have frighted her!’

  ‘Humph!’ said Grumpa.

  ‘Ulrik,’ said Mr Troll, ‘take Rosemary outside!’

  ‘But Dad –’ protested Ulrik.

  ‘Outside!’ ordered Mr Troll.

  Ulrik did as he was told. He sat on the fallen fir tree, trying to listen to what his parents were saying in the kitchen. He caught the words ‘pie’ and ‘blunking goat’ several times.

  Rosemary seemed to know something was wrong and tried to cheer him up by licking his ear. He stroked her head. ‘It’s not your fault, is it?’ he said. ‘You were just hungry.’

  The goat regarded him with trusting brown eyes.

  Tomorrow was Trollmas Eve, when his mum would start baking the pie for the big day. Rosemary’s time was running out. Ulrik glanced back at the house and made up his mind.

  Ten minutes later, Mr Troll came outside to look for him.

  ‘Ulrik!’ he said. ‘Ulrik, whe
re are you?’ He looked around.

  The back gate was open.

  On the Run

  On biddlesden high Street people were doing their last-minute Christmas shopping. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry and pushed past, carrying bags and looking tired and impatient.

  Ulrik kept bumping into people. Although he had Rosemary on a lead she seemed to be leading him rather than the other way round. He stopped outside the window of a bakery to gaze hungrily at the mince pies and jolly snowmen biscuits. In his pocket he had one sticky chocolate biscuit left but he was saving that for supper.

  Rosemary pressed her nose up against the window and tried to lick an iced bun through the glass.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t buy you anything,’ said Ulrik. ‘I haven’t got any peas4.’

  The pair of them seemed to be attracting some strange looks from passers-by. Ulrik wondered if it was obvious he was running away from home.

  Past the shopping centre, they came to a set of steps leading down into a dark passageway. Ulrik had slept in the subway once with his mum and dad. His dad said its sweet, stinksome smell reminded him of their cave back home. Ulrik led Rosemary down. He could hear the rumble of cars passing overhead and the trip trop of people’s feet as they hurried by.

  Rosemary bleated and nuzzled in his pockets, searching for something else to eat.

  ‘All right, you greedy goat,’ said Ulrik.

  He broke the chocolate biscuit in two. One half he ate hungrily while he let Rosemary lick the remaining crumbs from his other hand. In a few seconds it was all gone. Ulrik wondered when it would start getting dark. It seemed like hours since they’d left home.

  ‘What are we going to do now?’ he asked. ‘I can’t take you back or you’ll end up in a pie. Maybe we should try and get you home. Would you like that? You could play with all the other goatses.’ Rosemary blinked at him and licked his face to see if any crumbs were stuck to it.

  Ulrik heard the echo of feet descending the steps. He shrank back in the shadows, putting an arm round Rosemary to calm her. Suddenly the subway didn’t seem such a safe place to hide. The footsteps drew nearer and halted.

  ‘Hello – who’s this? Aren’t you Ulrik?’

  Ulrik nodded. He had seen the policewoman before, the time she had brought his dad home in a panda car.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve run away from home,’ said Ulrik.

  ‘Is that right? And what about your four-legged friend – has she run away too?’

  Ulrik nodded. ‘This is Rosemary. My mum and dad want to cook her in a pie.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they don’t!’ said the policewoman.

  ‘They do,’ said Ulrik. ‘Goat pie is tastesome – at least I used to think so but now I’m a veggytellyum.’

  ‘I see,’ said the policewoman. ‘So you thought you’d better run away. Where were you planning to sleep tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ admitted Ulrik. ‘This isn’t so bad.’

  The policewoman sniffed. ‘A bit damp and smelly,’ she said. ‘Tell you what, have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘Only three biscuits,’ admitted Ulrik. ‘That’s all I could bring.’

  ‘Why don’t you come down the station with me?’ asked the policewoman. ‘I’m sure we can rustle up some lemonade and a bit of cake.’

  Ulrik considered. ‘What kind of cake?’

  ‘What kind do you like?’

  ‘Chocolate,’ said Ulrik. ‘Rosemary likes that too.’

  ‘Chocolate it is, then,’ said the policewoman. ‘I’ll just radio the sarge and tell him we’re on our way.’

  An hour later Ulrik was sipping lemonade in a room at the police station. There was a knock at the door. It was Sergeant Blott, who had been looking after them.

  ‘Someone to see you,’ he said.

  Mr and Mrs Troll burst in, looking greatly relieved.

  ‘Ulrik! Are you all right, my ugglesome?’ asked Mrs Troll, hugging him tightly.

  ‘He’s fine,’ said Sergeant Blott. ‘I’ve never seen chocolate cake disappear so fast.’

  Mrs Troll seized the sergeant in a hug. ‘Thank you for finding him!’ she said, planting a kiss on his bald head. The sergeant turned a deep shade of pink and struggled to escape. He found himself face to face with Mr Troll, who opened his arms.

  ‘No! No more kissing!’ said the sergeant hastily. ‘Just take him home and try to keep him out of subways in future.’

  ‘We will,’ promised Mrs Troll. She put an arm round Ulrik and gave him a squeeze.

  ‘Come on, hairling – you must be starving.’

  But Ulrik hung back. ‘What about Rosemary?’ he asked.

  Everyone looked at Rosemary, who had finished off the cake crumbs on the plate and was now nibbling the corner of a poster on the wall. Ulrik called her and she trotted over at the sound of her name. Seeing Mr Troll, she sniffed his hand and began to lick it.

  ‘Ha ha! Stop it – that tickles!’ laughed Mr Troll.

  ‘See, Dad – she’s pleased to see you,’ said Ulrik. He stroked Rosemary’s head.

  ‘You promise you’re not going to eat her?’

  Mr and Mrs Troll exchanged looks.

  ‘We can’t, Eggy,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘Not now.’

  ‘Can’t we?’ said Mr Troll.

  ‘Look at them!’ They both looked. Ulrik had his arms round Rosemary’s neck and the goat was nuzzling up to him. She gazed at them with her innocent brown eyes.

  Sergeant Blott sniffed and pulled a hanky from his pocket.

  ‘You mean no goat pie?’ said Mr Troll.

  Mrs Troll shook her head.

  ‘Not even on Trollmas Day?’

  ‘We’ll just have to go without this year.’

  Mr Troll sighed. ‘Back to blunking bean again.’

  ‘Does that mean you promise?’ asked Ulrik.

  ‘We promise,’ nodded Mrs Troll. ‘Maybe we should take Rosemary back to the farm where she belongs.’

  Ulrik ran to his parents and hugged them each in turn. ‘Thanks, Dad! Thanks, Mum!’ Sergeant Blott dabbed his eyes and pretended he needed to blow his nose.

  ‘There’s just one thing,’ said Mr Troll as they left the police station. ‘How are we going to explain this to Grumpa?’

  Hairy Weakling

  Not eat her?’ said Grumpa when he heard the news.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Troll rather sheepishly. ‘We’ve decided to take her back.’

  ‘You’ve lost your bogles!’ said Grumpa. ‘You’re mad as a sack of goblins. She’s a goat!’

  ‘I know, Dad, but –’

  ‘Trolls eat goats,’ Grumpa went on, tromping up and down and waving his arms. ‘We hunt them and catch them and cook them in pies. That’s what trolls do!’

  ‘I know …’ said Mr Troll.

  ‘And what about tomorrow? You promised me a pie! You can’t have Trollmas Day without goat pie!’

  ‘We’ll open a nice can of bean,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘Maybe with some fish’s fingers.’

  Grumpa gaped at her. ‘Fingers? Bean? On Trollmas Day?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘I know it’s not the same, but Ulrik’s so fond of Rosemary. It just wouldn’t be right to eat her.’

  Grumpa slumped down into an armchair. The shock was too much to take in. His own family! His own grandson – friends with a goat! What would his friends at home say if they ever got to hear of it?

  ‘Well,’ he said, regarding Mr Troll darkly, ‘I suppose it’s only to be expected. He’s just like his dad – harmless as a hedgepig.’

  ‘Me?’ growled Mr Troll. ‘Are you calling me harmless?’

  Mrs Troll sighed. Sooner or later she knew it would end in an argument.

  ‘Harmless! Meekling! Hairy weakling!’ said Grumpa, warming to his theme.

  Mr Troll glared at his dad and the two faced each other snout to snout.

  ‘Eggy’s not a weakling,’ objected Mrs Troll.

  ‘Oh no?’ said Gru
mpa. ‘Isn’t that why you had to move? Because he runs away from ninny goats?’

  Mr Troll bristled. ‘I didn’t run away,’ he said. ‘I was butted off a bridge.’

  ‘And look where it’s got you,’ said Grumpa. ‘Living next door to peeples! It’s shamesome. Since I got here I haven’t met one single troll. Not one! So tell me – where are they all hiding?’

  Mr Troll sighed deeply. It was no use trying to pretend any longer. ‘There aren’t any,’ he said.

  ‘Ha! I thought so. And all this blether about hunting in forests!’

  ‘I made it up,’ admitted Mrs Troll. ‘We found Rosemary on a peeples’ farm.’

  ‘You see?’ Grumpa jabbed a stubby finger. ‘Nothing but a pack of fibwoppers! Call yourself trollish? I’m ashamed of you. You’re too frighted even to come home.’

  Ulrik had been listening while he fed a carrot to Rosemary. Now he looked up. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘all trolls get frighted sometimes.’

  ‘Hogswoggle!’ snorted Grumpa. ‘I’ve never been frighted in my life!’

  ‘Yes you have, Grumpa,’ Ulrik reminded him. ‘Remember this morning when Rosemary got into your room?’

  Grumpa suddenly looked embarrassed. He had never actually explained how he came to be hanging from a Christmas tree.

  ‘That’s different,’ he said. ‘She woke me up.’

  ‘But you called for help. You shouted, “Help! There’s a wild goat in my room!”’

  Mr Troll stared at his dad. ‘You? Frighted by a little ninny goat?’

  ‘Of course I wasn’t frighted!’ snapped Grumpa. ‘I was trying to catch her!’

  Ulrik frowned. ‘You couldn’t catch her climbing out the window, Grumpa.’

  Grumpa opened his mouth, but for once he seemed to be lost for words.

  Mr Troll burst out laughing. ‘The fearless goat hunter!’ he chuckled. ‘Who’s been telling fibwoppers now?’

  The brave hunter sat down again. He suddenly looked smaller, like a balloon that had gone down.

  ‘When did you last bags a goat, Dad?’ asked Mr Troll. ‘The truth.’

  Grumpa’s shoulders drooped. ‘Not for years. The goats are so quick, I can’t keep up with them.’