Trolls on Hols
by Alan MacDonald
illustrations by Mark Beech
For the brilliant Kate Shaw
who believed in trolls – A.M.
To my sister Janet – M.B.
Contents
Going Vestless
The Joy of Caravans
Paradise View
Painting Sheep
Swimming Lessons
A Darksome Night
A Bit of a Temper
Hide and Sneak
Missing Ulrik
Troll in the Hole
Beastly!
Wish you were Here!
Footnote
Also by the Author
Going Vestless
It was a hot, sunny day at the start of the summer. At Number 10 Mountain View the Trolls were out in their back garden. Mrs Troll lazed in a deckchair, leafing through a magazine while she cooled her hairy feet in a bowl of water. Her husband had stripped off his vest and stood knee-deep in a hole that he was digging with his bare hands. Every now and then showers of earth flew in all directions. Ulrik lolled on the grass, staring at the sky. It was only three days since he had broken up from school and he had nothing to do.
‘Mum,’ he said.
‘Yes, my ugglesome?’
‘When are we going on holidays?’
‘We are on holidays.’
‘Yes, but I mean real holidays. Where you go somewhere.’
Mr Troll paused to wipe away a drip of sweat that hung from his snout. ‘We could go to that stinksome hole under the high street, we haven’t been there for weeks.’
Ulrik shook his head. ‘That’s a subway, Dad. I mean a proper holidays!’
Mr Troll climbed out of his hole and wiped his hands on his gigantic belly. He looked at his wife in bemusement. ‘What the bogles is he talking about?’
‘Ulrik’s right. It’s in my magazine,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘That’s what peeples do in summer – go on their holidays.’
‘Well, where is it then?’ asked Mr Troll.
‘What?’
‘This holidays you want to go on.’
‘How should I know? I’ve never gone on it!’
‘Warren says it’s the seasides,’ explained Ulrik. ‘You take a towel and you have to lie on it till you get really hot, then you tromp into the sea to cool down.’
Mr Troll snorted. ‘Makes no sense. Why get all hot and blethered just so you can get cold again? Anyway, the sea is for fishes. Trolls don’t belong in the sea. Caves and forests – that’s where trolls live.’
‘And houses,’ Ulrik pointed out. ‘We live in a house.’
‘Yes, well, houses as well,’ agreed Mr Troll. ‘Caves and forests and houses.’
‘But couldn’t we go on a holidays, Dad? We’ve never been!’
Mrs Troll lifted her feet out of the bowl and waggled her toes.
‘It might be nice, Eggy. Why don’t we?’
‘But I’ve just started making a piddling pool!’ objected Mr Troll, pointing at the muddy hole he had dug.
‘You can finish it when we come back.’
‘Please, Dad!’ begged Ulrik. ‘Can we?’
Mr Troll sighed and picked up his vest. It was covered in dirt but he didn’t mind since it was pretty filthy in the first place. ‘We’ll see,’ he said. He studied the cover of Mrs Troll’s magazine, which showed a sandy beach crowded with hundreds of people who seemed to be wearing only their pants.
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘So how do you get to this seasides?’
Ulrik didn’t know, he’d never been to the sea. In fact, he’d never been much further than the high street. He’d been to Troll Mountain, of course – that’s where they used to live before they moved to Biddlesden – but there was no sea back home, only mountains, forests and grey mist. He didn’t know how far it was to the seasides. Could you walk there or did you have to catch a bus?
Mrs Troll had been thinking. ‘What about that shop on the high street, Eggy? The Trouble Agents. I’m sure they do holidays.’
Mr Troll looked puzzled. ‘You want to stay in a shop?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘You ask the Trouble Agent and he finds you a holidays. It’s like the supermarket only without the cornflakes.’
‘Oh,’ said Mr Troll. ‘Well, if you want we can try it tomorrow.’
Next door Mrs Priddle stared out of her kitchen window while she chopped up carrots with more force than was strictly necessary.
‘Look at him!’ she tutted. ‘It’s disgusting!’
‘What is?’ asked her son Warren, hurrying over to look.
‘That Mr Troll. Parading around in nothing but a tiny pair of shorts. As if I want to see that before my supper!’
‘What’s wrong with it? Dad sometimes wears shorts,’ Warren pointed out.
‘Yes, but he’s not a troll. Look at the size of that belly. The least he could do is cover it up.’
Warren stood on a chair to get a better look at Mr Troll’s belly. It was true it was impressively big. Warren had seen Mr Troll’s belly before, bulging beneath the filthy vest he always wore, but today it was on display to the world. It was a pale green with a forest of coarse dark hair that spread from his chest to his belly button. When Mr Troll walked his belly wobbled like a blancmange. Warren thought you could hold a party on it. If Mr Troll lay on his back you could use him as a bouncy castle.
The front door slammed.
‘Roger, is that you? Come and see this!’ called Mrs Priddle.
Mr Priddle came in humming to himself happily and planted a kiss on his wife’s cheek.
‘See what, my darling?’ he asked.
‘That!’ said Mrs Priddle, pointing next door. ‘Can you believe it?’
‘Oh! He’s not digging holes again?’
‘It’s not the holes that worry me,’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘Look what he’s wearing!’
Mr Priddle peered out of the window. ‘Shorts,’ he said.
‘He’s practically naked! I’ve never seen anything so horrible in all my life.’
‘Well, don’t look,’ said Mr Priddle.
‘This is my kitchen, Roger. I’ll look where I like. I’m not going to go round with my eyes shut just because that ugly brute can’t be bothered to wear a vest! This could go on all summer. Before we know it they’ll all be parading around the garden in their underwear!’
‘Ugh! Mum!’ said Warren, pulling a face.
‘Well, aren’t you going to speak to him?’ demanded Mrs Priddle.
‘You’re the one who’s offended. You speak to him,’ replied Mr Priddle.
‘How can I speak to him? He’s not wearing a vest!’
‘Never mind his vest!’ said Mr Priddle. ‘I’ve got something to show you. Both of you. Come out the front.’
‘Why?’ asked Mrs Priddle suspiciously.
‘You’ll see. It’s a surprise.’ Mr Priddle groaned.
‘Oh Roger, you know I hate surprises!’
Mr Priddle forced his wife and son to shut their eyes and, holding them by the arm, he led them outside.
‘All right. You can look now.’
They both opened their eyes. ‘Oh my giddy bananas!’ gasped Mrs Priddle.
‘It’s a caravan,’ said Mr Priddle.
‘I can see that, Roger. But what’s it doing on our drive?’
‘It’s ours!’ said Mr Priddle proudly. ‘I bought it.’
The caravan was the colour of pale custard. It had lace curtains at the windows that might have been white in Queen Victoria’s day.
Warren thought it was brilliant. ‘Can we look inside?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Of course!’ said Mr Priddle. ‘Just be careful with the light switch – it needs fixing.’
He took them on a
tour. It didn’t take too long since the caravan only had three rooms – a tiny bedroom, a tinier bathroom, and a kitchen-cum-dining-cum-everything-else room.
‘See?’ said Mr Priddle. ‘You fold away the table like this and you’ve got another bed.’
‘And who’s going to sleep on that?’ asked Mrs Priddle, folding her arms.
‘Well, us,’ said Mr Priddle. ‘When we’re on holiday.’
Mrs Priddle pursed her lips. ‘If you think I’m having my holiday in this, you’re mistaken–’
‘I like it, Dad!’ shouted Warren from next door, where he was using the bed as a trampoline.
‘You promised me we’d have a proper holiday this year,’ said Mrs Priddle.
‘And we will. What could be more fun than a caravan?’
‘A hotel,’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘A five-star hotel with a view of the sea. And a swimming pool.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘And cooked breakfast!’ shouted Warren from next door. ‘Sausage, bacon and eggs!’
‘Be quiet, Warren!’ ordered Mr Priddle. ‘Anyway, we can have all those things – the view, the swimming pool – they’ll all be on the caravan site.’
Mrs Priddle narrowed her eyes. ‘What caravan site?’
‘Um … well…’ Mr Priddle stammered, ‘I mean, if we found one we liked.’
‘Roger,’ warned Mrs Priddle, ‘if you’ve done something stupid I’m going to scream.’
Mr Priddle dug in his pocket and brought out a scrap of paper. This wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. ‘It’s not a caravan site, it’s more of a farm, really. I found the advert in Caravan and Camping.
His wife snatched the paper off him and read it out.
Paradise View
Find paradise in sun-kissed Wales.
Sea views, natural swimming pool, tennis court
- everything for a holiday you’ll never forget.
Caravans welcome. Pets and children extra.
Phone: Olwen Ogwen – Boggy Moor 657770
‘Olwen Ogwen?’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘What kind of a name is that?’
‘He’s Welsh. Sounded a nice chap on the phone.’
‘You’ve spoken to him already?’
‘Well, yes I had to … when I um … booked the holiday.’
Mrs Priddle let out a piercing scream and kicked the folding bed. There was a twang as it collapsed.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Mr Priddle, ‘that can be fixed.’
The Joy of Caravans
The next morning the Trolls trooped into town to visit the Travel Agents. The sales assistant who greeted them was called Kelly. Ulrik knew this because she had a name badge on her bright blue jacket. She had very white teeth and bright pink nails and smelled of perfume. Ulrik moved his chair a bit closer to the desk so he could smell her better. He was curious about peeple’s smells. Most trolls smelled much the same – mainly of earth and sweat and goat-meat, if that’s what they’d had for breakfast – but Ulrik had noticed peeples had different smells. Babies, for instance, smelled of sick while old ladies smelled of mints.
Kelly smiled with her dazzling white teeth. ‘How can I help?’
‘We want to go on a holidays,’ said Mrs Troll.
‘No problem,’ smiled Kelly. ‘What kind of holiday did you have in mind?’
‘Well, not a subway,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘We’ve been to one of those.’
‘We want somewhere with mountains,’ said Mr Troll.
‘And the seasides,’ nodded Ulrik.
‘Towels too. It’s got to have towels,’ added Mrs Troll.
Kelly’s smile had faded and she was looking slightly confused. ‘Towels?’ she said.
‘Yes, to sit on. We don’t want sandy bits on our bottoms.’
‘Well, no,’ agreed Kelly. ‘But generally most people take their own towels.’
Mrs Troll shook her head firmly. ‘We don’t have any.’
‘No,’ said Mr Troll. ‘Trolls never wash – it takes away your stink.’
Kelly laughed, hoping this was a joke. They seemed to have got off the subject.
‘So you’re interested in a beach holiday?’ she said.
‘Is that at the seasides?’ asked Mrs Troll.
‘Well, yes, most beaches are.’
‘Then that’s what we want.’
‘No problem, we’ve got plenty of choice. Have you thought where you’d like to go? Spain? America? The Greek Islands?’
‘That sounds good. Can we walk there?’ asked Mr Troll.
‘Which?’
‘The Goat Islands.’
‘Um … Greek Islands. Not really. You’d need to fly.’
Mr Troll snorted. ‘We’re trolls, not ducky birds. How can we fly?’
Kelly glanced behind them. A queue of people were waiting.
‘You don’t have to go abroad,’ she said. ‘There are plenty of options at home. Where would you like to stay? In a hotel?’
Mr Troll leaned forward. ‘What about a cave?’
‘A cave?’
‘Yes, we’d like that,’ agreed Mrs Troll. ‘A nice stinksome cave.’
Kelly shook her head. ‘I don’t think we have any … um … cave holidays. If you want something cheaper, why don’t you try camping or perhaps a caravan?’
‘A carry-bag?’
‘That’s what Warren’s going on!’ said Ulrik eagerly. ‘He told me his dad’s bought a carry-van and they’re going to Wales.’
‘That sounds nice, Eggy,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘I’ve always wanted to see whales.’
Mr Troll wrinkled his snout. ‘Big blubbery things.’
Kelly was busy tapping on her computer keyboard.
‘What about this?’ she said. ‘Two weeks at Golden Sands Holiday Park in a luxury caravan.’
‘Luxury. That sounds nice, Eggy,’ said Mrs Troll.
‘Uggsome!’ said Ulrik. ‘Can we go, Dad?’
Mr Troll considered. ‘Does it have a piddling pool or do we have to dig our own?’
Kelly consulted her screen. ‘Let’s see … there’s an outdoor swimming pool.’
‘Then we’ll go,’ said Mr Troll. He’d had enough digging for one week.
Kelly tapped again. ‘Lovely. That will be £599 if you go before August.’
The Trolls looked shocked. None of them had considered they might have to pay for a holiday. They assumed that Travel Agents were giving them away. Mrs Troll reached into her bag and brought out the sock she used as a purse. She peered inside – they definitely didn’t have that much money.
‘Let’s talk to the Priddles,’ she suggested. ‘They’ve got a carry-thing.’
‘So you don’t want to book?’ asked Kelly.
‘No thanks,’ said Mr Troll. ‘Maybe we’ll come back tomorrow.’
‘Of course.’ Kelly stood up and smiled with relief. Tomorrow was Sunday and thankfully they were closed.
Later that evening Mrs Priddle happened to glance out of her bedroom window.
‘Roger!’ she called downstairs. ‘You better get outside. Mrs Troll’s looking at your caravan.’
‘Oh, good gravy!’ cried Mr Priddle and hurried outside in his slippers. He found Mrs Troll with her snout jammed up against the back window.
‘What do you think? A beauty, isn’t she? I only picked her up yesterday,’ said Mr Priddle, modestly patting the side of his caravan.
‘Has it got towels?’ asked Mrs Troll.
‘Well, yes, it’s got everything,’ said Mr Priddle. ‘Want to have a look inside?’
Mrs Troll did. The caravan was a little on the small side and she had to duck low to fit through the door, but once inside she was enchanted with the cosy little room. Mr Priddle took her round, pointing out the cooker, the fridge-freezer, the shower and all the modern gadgets the caravan had to offer. Mrs Troll was especially impressed with the table that magically turned into a bed.
‘So what do you think?’ asked Mr Priddle.
‘It’s stinksome,’ said Mrs Troll.
&n
bsp; ‘Well, yes, I know it could do with a good clean.’
‘No, don’t spoil it. It’s got a lovely stink.’
‘Oh well … thanks,’ said Mr Priddle.
‘And you’re going on this for your holidays?’
‘Yes, we’re off bright and early tomorrow to miss the traffic. It’s quite a journey to Wales.’
‘Yes, you only get them in the sea.’ Mrs Troll nodded wisely. She looked around the caravan enviously. ‘Ulrik has been begging us for a holidays, poor hairling. I wish we could go on a caravan.’
‘Well, you should try it,’ said Mr Priddle.
‘Me?’ said Mrs Troll.
‘All of you. There’s nothing to beat it. Go where you like, stay as long you please – with a caravan you’re free as a bird. Who needs an expensive hotel when you’ve got everything you need right here?’
Mrs Troll had never thought of it that way before. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
‘I am right. You should give it some thought,’ urged Mr Priddle.
‘Well, I will – if you’re sure.’
‘Sure? I’m positive! I think you’d love it.’
‘All right. Thank you. I’ll see what Eggy thinks.’
Mrs Troll’s dark eyes were shining with delight and she suddenly hugged her neighbour.
Mr Priddle watched her go. She had seemed quite impressed with the caravan, though he had a nagging sense that they’d been talking about different things. What had she meant when she’d asked him if he was sure? Sure of what? He’d only meant they ought to consider buying a caravan of their own. So why had she acted as if he was doing them an enormous favour?
Mrs Priddle was waiting for her husband in the kitchen. ‘Well, what did she want?’
‘Nothing really – just a look round. Actually, we had quite a nice chat. Very keen on the caravan.’
‘Huh!’ snorted Mrs Priddle. ‘When you live in a pigsty, anything looks good.’
‘They’re really quite friendly if you give them a chance,’ said Mr Priddle.
Mrs Priddle clicked her tongue. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Roger,’ she said. ‘The best thing about going away is we won’t have to see them for two whole weeks.’
Next door at Number 10, Mrs Troll had reported the conversation to her husband.
Trolls on Hols Page 1
