PUFFIN BOOKS
Viking at School
Jeremy Strong once worked in a bakery, putting the jam into 3,000 doughnuts every night. Now he puts the jam in stories instead, which he finds much more exciting. At the age of three he fell out of a first-floor bedroom window and landed on his head. His mother says that this damaged him for the rest of his life and refuses to take any responsibility. He loves writing stories because he says it is ‘the only time you alone have complete control and can make anything happen’. His ambition is to make you laugh (or at least snuffle). Jeremy Strong lives in Kent with his wife, Susan, two cats, and a pheasant that sits on the garden fence with a ‘can’t catch me’ grin on his beak.
Other books by Jeremy Strong
THE AIR-RAID SHELTER
THE DESPERATE ADVENTURES OF SIR
RUPERT AND ROSIE GUSSET
DINOSAUR POX
FANNY WITCH AND THE THUNDER LIZARD
FANNY WITCH AND THE WICKED WIZARD
FATBAG: THE DEMON VACUUM CLEANER
GIANT JIM AND THE HURRICANE
THE HUNDRED MILE-AN-HOUR DOG
I’M TELLING YOU, THEY’RE ALIENS!
THE INDOOR PIRATES
THE INDOOR PIRATES ON TREASURE ISLAND
THE KARATE PRINCESS
THE KARATE PRINCESS AND THE CUT-THROAT ROBBERS
THE KARATE PRINCESS TO THE RESCUE
THE KARATE PRINCESS AND THE LAST GRIFFIN
LIGHTNING LUCY
MY DAD’S GOT AN ALLIGATOR!
MY GRANNY’S GREAT ESCAPE
PANDEMONIUM AT SCHOOL
PIRATE PANDEMONIUM
THERE’S A PHARAOH IN OUR BATH
THERE’S A VIKING IN MY BED
VIKING IN TROUBLE
Jeremy Strong
Viking at School
Illustrated by John Levers
PUFFIN BOOKS
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
www.penguin.com
First published by A & C Black (Publishers) Ltd 1997
Published in Puffin Books 1998
24
Text copyright © Jeremy Strong, 1997
Illustrations copyright © John Levers, 1997
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-0-14-192874-6
1
The Biggest Wrestling Match in the World
Mrs Tibblethwaite flew through the air, looking rather like an overstuffed rag-doll, and landed with an immense thud on the floor. She picked herself up and sighed groggily. It was strange being part of a top wrestling team. She stood and watched as a very large and scruffy Viking warrior zoomed over her head and crashed into the front row of the audience. Mrs Tibblethwaite sighed again. It was even stranger being married to a real Viking.
She climbed out of the ring and tried to pull Sigurd from the laps of three startled, elderly ladies, but they clung on to him and threatened Mrs Tibblethwaite with their bulging handbags.
‘We’re going to keep him!’ screeched the lady with huge, horn-rimmed glasses.
‘You can’t keep him,’ explained Mrs Tibblethwaite. ‘We are in the middle of a wrestling match, and besides, he’s my husband.’
‘Well you can’t have him,’ insisted the lady with thick brown stockings, locking both her arms round Sigurd’s hairy head. ‘He belongs to us. We’re his fan club.’
This was too much for Sigurd. The prospect of being carried off by three old age pensioners was a real blow to his pride. A Viking being kidnapped by women! It was unheard of! He was supposed to capture them! Sigurd leapt to his feet and scowled at the three old ladies. He’d show them!
‘I kidnap you!’ he cried. ‘I take you home. Now I have three sleeves.’
The ladies looked at Sigurd, glanced at each other and shook their heads with bewilderment. ‘You’ve only got two arms,’ observed the hornrimmed glasses, ‘so how come you’ve got three sleeves?’ But before they could say anything more Sigurd began to pluck them from their seats.
‘You my sleeves!’ he cried, tossing brown-stockings over his shoulder. ‘You do anything I say!’
Mrs Tibblethwaite shook her head. ‘I think you mean “slave” Sigurd, not “sleeve”. Anyway, they can’t be your slaves. That sort of thing isn’t allowed any more.’
‘We don’t mind!’ cried the three old ladies, hanging halfway down Sigurd’s back. ‘We love Siggy – he’s our hero!’
Mrs Tibblethwaite shut her eyes and sat down on the edge of the wrestling ring. This was always happening. Whenever they appeared as one of the country’s top tag-wrestling teams half the old women in the audience fainted and swooned. They threw their hankies at Sigurd, and their pension books. And they always tried to sneak off with him.
Suddenly, Mrs Tibblethwaite was brought back to life by a loud and angry voice from above her head. ‘Oi! Are you two fighting us or not?’ shouted Bone-Cruncher Boggis, leaning over the ropes.
He had a shiny, bald head and he was wearing a black, spangly leotard with ‘MAD AND BAD’ written across the front in silver letters. He reached down with a long, hairy arm and grabbed Mrs Tibblethwaite by one ear.
‘Ow!’
Sigurd dropped the three ladies at once and rushed across to help his wife. ‘You leave my Tibby!’ he cried. ‘You nasty big belly!’
‘Who are you calling a big belly?’ demanded Monster Mash, Bone-Cruncher’s partner.
‘He means bully,’ squawked Mrs Tibblethwaite. ‘He’s calling you a big bully. Ow!’
Sigurd was not going to put up with any more of this. He leapt into the ring and seized Bone-Cruncher by one leg, dragging him across the floor. Monster Mash threw himself on top of Sigurd and all four of them rolled round and round the ring, making various squashed and squidged noises such as ‘Oof!’ and ‘Urrrff!’. Then Monster Mash jumped on top of Sigurd, and struck a triumphant pose. The breath came out of Sigurd’s flattened chest like the air rushing from a whoopee cushion…
‘Sspplllllrrrrrrrrrr!’
The three pensioners watched in dismay. Their hero was about to be beaten! In desperation, they clambered into the ring and started attacking Monster Mash and Bone-Cruncher with their handbags. ‘Take that!’
‘Leave Siggy alone!’
‘Bullies!’
The poor referee tried to intervene, but he was quickly caught in the crossfire of several whirling handbags and sank to the floor unconscious. Other members of the audience hurried from their seats to join in the bat
tle. Some of them were fans of Monster Mash and Bone-Cruncher and it was not long before the entire wrestling ring was filled with noisy, struggling bodies. After a few minutes, the fight spilled out beyond the ropes, on to the floor, up the aisles and amongst the audience.
Then the police arrived – all four of them. It wasn’t enough of course and they sent for reinforcements. Thirty more policeman hurried to the scene. But that wasn’t enough either. By now, the entire audience were at each other’s throats. Even more reinforcements were sent for and eventually the Fire Brigade arrived and hosed everyone down. That stopped the fighting, but it didn’t stop the quarrelling.
‘Who started it?’ demanded Inspector Hole, tipping a litre of water out of his hat.
‘He did!’
‘No – she did!’
‘It was the Viking!’
Fingers pointed in every direction, but mostly they pointed at Sigurd. He crawled out from beneath a squelchy pile of bodies, looking rather bedraggled. Inspector Hole sized him up cautiously. Oh yes! Here was the culprit if ever there was one.
‘Dressing up as a Viking eh?’ he sniggered. ‘That’s a bit childish, isn’t it?’
Mrs Tibblethwaite bristled. ‘He’s a real Viking,’ she snapped.
‘Oh yes? And how’s that then?’ the inspector smirked.
‘Sigurd sailed to England in a Viking longship with a raiding party a thousand years ago. He got separated from the others, went through some kind of Time-mist and ended up in our time; now he’s my husband.’
Inspector Hole wrinkled his nose. ‘Sounds like you’ve been watching too many fantasy films,’ he muttered. ‘Right then, let’s see – causing a disturbance – that’s about five years in prison. Fighting in public, assault, starting a riot, damaging property – and didn’t you say he was some kind of raider? That’s definitely not allowed nowadays. Must be another forty years or so…’
‘You can’t send him to prison!’ cried Mrs Tibblethwaite.
‘Yes you can!’ shouted the referee. ‘He’s a menace to society – they both are. If it hadn’t been for them this would never have happened. Look at my Wrestling Hall! It will cost thousands of pounds to repair all this.’
Inspector Hole fished around in his pockets for a pair of handcuffs. Sigurd looked most upset. ‘I good boy,’ he muttered.
‘Yes he is,’ agreed one of the pensioners. ‘It wasn’t his fault, officer. If you try and send him to prison we shall complain to the Police Authorities.’ Sigurd grinned cheerfully at Inspector Hole.
‘They my sleeves,’ he explained somewhat confusingly.
Inspector Hole heaved a deep, deep sigh. It was obvious the crowd would make trouble if he tried to arrest the Viking and his wife. ‘Okay everyone,’ he grumbled. ‘The fun’s over. You’d better all go home before I decide to make a mass arrest.’
The referee was beside himself. ‘Aren’t you going to do anything?’ he demanded. ‘My hall is ruined.’
‘Nothing I can do I’m afraid,’ said the inspector, but the referee wasn’t going to put up with this.
‘Okay. If you won’t do anything, I will.’ He fixed Mrs Tibblethwaite and Sigurd with a stern eye. ‘You two are banned,’ he declared, ‘and not just in my wrestling hall, but anywhere in the world. You’ll never wrestle again. You’re banned for life!’ The ref turned and stalked back inside his sodden hall.
Inspector Hole grinned maliciously. ‘Well, it looks like you two are out of a job,’ he sniggered. ‘Serves you right,’ he added as he got into his car and drove off. The Fire Brigade packed away their hoses and drove off. Slowly, the crowd began to squelch back to their homes. Even the three old ladies shuffled away, quietly crying into their cardigans.
It took a little while for Sigurd to understand what had happened. ‘No more bish-bash?’ he asked. Mrs T. shook her head. ‘No more squish-squash?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Tibblethwaite.
‘No more leg-wrinkles and head-crinkles?’
‘NO!’ shouted Mrs Tibblethwaite impatiently.
‘You cross,’ he observed.
‘Yes! I’m cross!’
‘You very cross.’
‘Yes! I’m very cross!’ cried Mrs Tibblethwaite.
‘You very, very, VERY cross!’ said Sigurd.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake shut up!’ yelled poor Mrs Tibblethwaite, and she belted Sigurd so hard with her handbag that it stuck on one of his helmet horns.
As he struggled to pull it off, the clasp on the bag opened and half her belongings tinkled out through the hole.
Mrs Tibblethwaite wearily got down on her hands and knees and began to pick everything up. ‘I wish you understood how serious this is, Siggy,’ she told him. ‘We shall never be able to wrestle again. We have no work, and that means we have no money. How are we going to live?’
Sigurd looked at his wife with a cheerful grin. ‘Easy-peasy, Japanesey,’ he said. ‘We go see Mr and Mrs Ellis, and Tim and Zoe. We go back to Viking Hotel and God’s your ankle!’
‘Bob’s your uncle,’ corrected Mrs Tibblethwaite, before falling into silent thought. Go back to The Viking Hotel? Perhaps that would be the best thing to do – at least for the time being. Mind you, Sigurd was such a handful. He always seemed to bring trouble wherever he went. Mrs Tibblethwaite wondered what Mr and Mrs Ellis would think about the return of the Viking.
2
A Severe Case of Vikingitis
Zoe and Tim were delighted. They could not think of anything better than having Sigurd back at The Viking Hotel. They hurtled down the front steps of the hotel and launched themselves at the new guests.
‘Tibby!’ cried Zoe.
‘Siggy!’ yelled Tim.
‘May the good Lord save us all,’ murmured Mr Ellis to his pale wife.
He put on a brave smile and marched down the steps towards his uninvited guests. ‘Sigurd – how nice to see you again after all this time. How are you?’
‘How are you to you two too!’ beamed Sigurd.
Tim burst out laughing. ‘He sounds like an owl, doesn’t he Zoe? Doesn’t he sound like an owl? Too-wit, too-hoo, wooty-too, tooty-wooty-hooty…’
‘All right, Tim,’ said Mrs Ellis. ‘I think we get the picture.’ She turned to Mrs Tibblethwaite, took her suitcase from her and immediately ground to a halt because she couldn’t manage the weight. Mrs Tibblethwaite picked it up with one hand. ‘What’s all this about?’ asked Penny Ellis. ‘This is a surprise.’
Mrs T. gave her a sharp look and nodded. ‘I thought you might not be too pleased,’ she sighed.
‘Oh, it’s not that…’ Penny trailed off in confusion as her cheeks turned a delicate and embarrassed red. Mrs Tibblethwaite patted Penny’s arm.
‘It’s quite all right. I thought you might be a just a touch apprehensive about Siggy coming back here, but I’m afraid my dear that we had little choice.’
‘We thought you were on another wrestling tour,’ said Mrs Ellis.
‘We were on a wrestling tour. Unfortunately things got a little out of hand at our last match…’
‘How surprising,’ murmured Penny, with a knowing glance at her friend. ‘I don’t suppose it had anything to do with Sigurd?’
‘Of course it did, but it wasn’t really his fault.’
‘It hardly ever is,’ Mrs Ellis pointed out. ‘It’s just that he’s always there when things go wrong.’
‘Quite,’ sighed Mrs Tibblethwaite. ‘Anyway, to cut a long story short, we have been banned from wrestling in public ever again, so we are both out of a job. We didn’t know what to do…’
‘So you came here,’ finished Penny and Mrs Tibblethwaite nodded glumly. ‘Don’t worry,’ Penny went on brightly. ‘You are very welcome – although I am not so sure about Siggy! Just look at him out in the garden with Tim and Keith.’
The two women peered out through the window. Sigurd seemed to be giving Tim lessons in swordsmanship. Tim was staggering round trying to lift Nosepicker above his head and going cross-eyed with the eff
ort.
‘You have to be like wild animal!’ shouted Sigurd. ‘You roar and stamp and scare your enemies! You rush at them and go Rraaaargh!’
‘Sigurd,’ interrupted Mr Ellis. ‘Do you think you could look where you’re going? You’re treading on our new flowers. I only planted them last week.’
But Sigurd was far too busy showing Tim how fierce a real Viking warrior could be. ‘I show you. You watch me. I scare panties on all enemies.’
‘Siggy! You have to scare the pants off your enemies, not on them!’ Tim giggled. Sigurd seized Nosepicker from him. ‘Raaargh!’ he yelled, whirling the fierce blade round his head like a helicopter about to take off. ‘Raaaargh!’ ‘Mind out!’ cried Mr Ellis. ‘You’ve just chopped my new forsythia bush in half!’ ‘Death to forsythia!’ yelled Sigurd, taking another great swipe. ‘It’s only a bush, Siggy. It’s not your deadly…argh! Help!’ Mr Ellis suddenly set off round the garden as Sigurd leapt after him, growling and scowling and waving Nosepicker like a giant carving knife.
Round the garden they went, five times, until at last Sigurd stopped, put his hands on his hips and burst out laughing.
‘You see me, Tim? I scare his panties all over the place.’
Mr Ellis collapsed exhausted on to the garden bench. His wife came out with a tray of tea and biscuits. ‘Are you having fun, dear?’ she asked gently. ‘Playing Vikings with Siggy and Tim?’ She winked at Mrs Tibblethwaite and Zoe. Poor Mr Ellis couldn’t answer at first. He was too busy panting.
‘That man’s a maniac! He could have killed me! Will he be staying long? Oh I do hope not. I don’t think I could cope. We’ve enough problems with the hotel as it is.’
‘Oh please, Dad!’ pleaded Zoe. ‘Let him stay a bit. It’s fun when Siggy’s around.’
‘Fun?! Look at this place! That Viking has only been here ten minutes and already the garden looks like the surface of the moon!’
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