‘Are you sure?’ he said.
‘Of course I am, Eggy. He wants us to go on holidays with them!’
‘Blunking bogles!’ said Mr Troll. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said we should try it, all of us. He thinks we’d love it.’
Ulrik came into the kitchen. ‘Love what, Mum?’
‘A caravan holiday, hairling,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘The Priddles have asked us to go with them.’
‘Uggsome!’ said Ulrik. ‘Are we going?’
Mrs Troll looked at Mr Troll. ‘What do you think? Shall we, Eggy?’
Mr Troll picked at one of his fangs. ‘Won’t it be a bit squished? Six of us together in that tiddly tin can?’
‘It’s bigger inside than you’d think,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘It’s got a table that turns into a bed. Why don’t we, Eggy? No one’s ever asked us on holidays before.’
Mr Troll thought it over. It was true they didn’t have a caravan and the Priddles had a perfectly good one. This way too it wouldn’t cost them any money.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll go!’
Ulrik gave a loud whoop and threw himself on his dad, wrestling him to the ground. A mock fight broke out, with the two of them growling and laughing.
Mrs Troll left them to it and bustled upstairs. If they were going to leave early in the morning, she’d have to start packing. In fact there was hardly any point in going to bed. An idea struck her. Why not give the Priddles a lovely surprise? They could move into the caravan tonight so they’d be all ready for the early start in the morning. She couldn’t wait to see the look on Mr Priddle’s face when he opened the door.
Paradise View
The trolls slept soundly through the journey, lulled by the sound of cars overtaking on the motorway. They were still dozing when the caravan pulled into a driveway by a signpost that said ‘Paradise View’. The caravan rocked from side to side as it climbed a potholed track to the top of a hill. Mr Priddle parked and turned off the engine. He peered through the steady drizzle outside.
‘Is this it?’ asked Mrs Priddle. ‘Where are all the other caravans?’
The Priddles got out and looked around, huddled under a golfing umbrella. Even Mr Priddle had to admit that Paradise View fell short of what he was expecting. A few sheep grazed in a field of scrubby grass. There was one rusty tap, a barn with a rickety roof, a grim-looking farmhouse and not much else. Crows cawed in the woods behind them. A man came out of the farmhouse and strode towards them with two sheepdogs trotting at his heels.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Priddle. ‘This will be Ogwen.’
‘Tell him,’ his wife hissed. ‘Tell him we don’t want to stay.’
Farmer Ogwen stepped over a puddle. He had a face like a knobbly red potato. His cord trousers were tied at the waist with string and tucked into his muddy boots. Warren thought he looked more like a tramp than the owner of a caravan site.
The two dogs circled them, growling softly.
‘Quiet, Fang! Down, Claw!’ Ogwen barked. He smiled, revealing his two remaining teeth and held out a grubby hand.
‘Olwen Ogwen. Don’t worry about the dogs – they won’t hurt you. Quiet, boys! Quiet, I said!’
The dogs ceased their growling but Warren kept close to the caravan just in case.
‘You must be Widdle,’ said the farmer. ‘You found us all right then?’
‘Yes. It’s Priddle. Roger Priddle.’
‘Oh, right you are. So you’re on your holidays, are you? You’ll like it here. Paradise on earth it is.’
‘Ends of the earth more like,’ muttered Mrs Priddle.
‘Eh?’ demanded Ogwen.
Standing close to the caravan, Warren could hear strange noises coming from inside.
‘Dad!’ he said.
‘Not now, Warren – I’m talking. I was wondering, Mr Ogwen, where are all the other caravans?’
‘Oh. Too early in the season,’ said the farmer. ‘Packed this will be in a couple of weeks. They’ll be queuing right along the lane.’
Mrs Priddle tried to imagine the bare field crowded with happy holidaymakers but it was asking a lot of her imagination.
Mr Priddle looked around. ‘The advert …’ he began.
‘You saw that, did you? Wrote that myself,’ said Ogwen.
‘But it mentioned a swimming pool. I can’t see it.’
Farmer Ogwen pointed to the bottom of the hill. ‘Down there – look. By the reeds.’
‘That’s a pond,’ said Mrs Priddle, squinting into the rain.
‘Yes, natural pool that is. Beautiful on a hot day. The cows love it.’
Mrs Priddle turned pale. ‘Roger, say something,’ she muttered.
‘Um …’ said Mr Priddle.
Warren, meanwhile, was listening. There was definitely something moving about in the caravan. Bumps and thumps and scrapes came from inside. ‘Dad!’ he said again.
‘Not now, Warren!’ snapped Mr Priddle. ‘And the tennis court? Where’s that?’
‘Oh, that went last year. Sheep kept eating the grass. And there’s the problem of droppings, see? Can’t stop sheep doing what’s natural, can you?’
Mrs Priddle gave a faint moan.
‘But the view,’ her husband ploughed on. ‘Your advert promised a “sea view”.’
‘Well, there is!’ smiled Ogwen, showing his two teeth. ‘If you climb the hill on a clear day you can see it across the moor. Of course it’s not clear now, mind – it’s raining. Always rains on Boggy Moor.’ He clapped his hands together, ‘So, if that’s all, I’ll leave you to get settled in, shall I?’
He turned to go, but a loud knocking sound caught his attention.
‘Someone in your caravan, is there?’
Mr Priddle glanced at his wife. ‘No.’
‘That’s what I keep telling you!’ said Warren. ‘There is something. Listen!’
They all stood and listened. A loud thump came from inside the caravan and Mr Priddle took a step back. The handle of the door rattled as if someone was trying to get out. Mrs Priddle looked as if she might faint. They had been travelling for hours, they had come to a place run by a toothless madman – and now this.
‘Better open the door, hadn’t you?’ said Ogwen.
Mr Priddle took a deep breath. He unlocked the door, turned the handle and leapt backwards as if he was releasing a caged lion. A hairy head appeared, blinking at them. Mr Troll was wearing his red Bermuda shorts and nothing else.
‘Ah, Piddle,’ he said, scratching under his arms. ‘What’s for breakfast?’
Mr Troll stepped out of the caravan into the drizzly rain, followed by Ulrik. Mrs Troll came next, wearing a flowing pink nightie, trimmed with silk bows.
‘My stars!’ said Ogwen. ‘How many have you got in there?’
Mrs Priddle glared at her husband. ‘Don’t look at me!’ said Mr Priddle. ‘I had no idea!’
Ulrik was looking around. He had been expecting a sandy beach with waves lapping on the shore, but all he could see was a muddy field and a dozen sheep. He tugged at his mum’s arm. ‘Where’s the seaside, Mum?’
‘Never mind that!’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
Mrs Troll looked mystified. ‘We’re on holidays, same as you.’
‘But you can’t just turn up! You can’t just move into our caravan, uninvited!’
‘We were invited,’ replied Mr Troll. ‘He invited us.’ He pointed a fat finger at Mr Priddle.
Mrs Priddle turned on her husband. ‘Roger! You didn’t!’
‘Of course I didn’t!’
‘Don’t tell fibwoppers. You did!’ said Mrs Troll.
‘No I didn’t!’
‘Oh yes you did!’
‘Don’t stop!’ grinned Ogwen. ‘This is better than a pantomime.’
‘You said we should try a caravan holiday. You told me we’d love it,’ said Mrs Troll.
‘Yes, but I didn’t mean come on holiday with us!’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘No!’
‘Then why did you invite us?’
Mr Priddle gave up – they were going round in circles. He should have known something like this would happen. It seemed the Trolls followed them around like bad luck.
‘Well, this is marvellous,’ said Mrs Priddle bitterly. ‘Just wonderful!’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Mr Troll, beaming. ‘All of us together! On holidays.’
Farmer Ogwen had been making calculations. ‘So there’s six of you,’ he said. ‘You only said three on the phone. I’m afraid six is going to be extra.’
Mrs Priddle jumped to her feet. This was the last straw. ‘There are not six of us,’ she said. ‘There is only room in this caravan for three.’
‘Well, that’s what I said,’ agreed Mr Troll. ‘So where are you going to sleep?’
Later that evening the Priddles sat round the table inside the caravan, drinking mugs of hot chocolate. Warren wiped the mist from the window beside him and looked out.
‘They’re still there,’ he said.
‘What are they doing?’ asked Mr Priddle.
‘Getting wet.’
Mr Priddle glanced at his wife. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she said. ‘There isn’t any room.’
‘But we can’t leave them out there all night, Jackie. They’ll catch their death.’
‘You should have thought of that before you invited them.’
‘For the last time, I didn’t invite them!’ cried Mr Priddle. ‘It was all a mistake.’
Mrs Priddle glared back. ‘If you ask me, this entire holiday was a mistake. This place should carry a health warning. I can’t walk out the door without stepping in sheep muck, and as for that so-called swimming pool, the only things swimming in there are frogs and newts!’
Warren kept his nose pressed against the window. ‘Do you think they will catch their death?’ he asked.
‘Warren!’
‘I’m only asking. It might get cold tonight.’
‘They’re trolls,’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘They’re used to the cold.’
There was a silence. Mrs Priddle drained the last of her hot chocolate. Warren and Mr Priddle gazed at her reproachfully. The rain fell harder, drumming on the roof.
‘Oh, go on then,’ sighed Mrs Priddle. ‘I must be out of my mind.’
‘I’ll tell them,’ said Mr Priddle. He took the golfing umbrella and went outside.
The Trolls came in and stood by the door. Rain dripped off them, collecting in puddles at their feet.
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Troll, shaking himself like a dog.
‘It’s only for one night,’ warned Mrs Priddle. ‘You’d better get out of those wet clothes.’
‘Good idea,’ said Mr Troll, pulling off his soggy vest.
‘Not here!’ shouted Mrs Priddle. ‘Go in the bathroom and change. I’m afraid you’ll all have to squash in one bed.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘We’re used to squishing. We can squish in with you if you like.’
Mrs Priddle shuddered. ‘Please, no! Just go to bed. Maybe in the morning we’ll find this was all a nightmare.’
The Trolls retired and before long the only sound to be heard was the rumbling of Mr Troll’s snores. Ulrik lay awake listening to the rain pattering on the roof. Holidays were quite different from what he’d imagined. You seemed to spend a lot of time arguing and getting wet. Still, tomorrow was a new day; maybe if it stopped raining they’d go to the seaside.
Painting Sheep
The next day the clouds had blown away and the sun shone in a clear, blue sky. After a breakfast of scrambled eggs and burnt toast (Mr Priddle said the grill needed fixing) Ulrik and Warren asked if they could go off to explore by themselves.
The two of them wandered down the hill past the wood where the crows called to them. Ulrik could see Boggy Moor emerging from the morning mist. It looked wild and deserted, a bit like Troll Mountain, though obviously without the mountain.
‘Let’s play Hide and Seek,’ Warren suggested.
‘Is that the same as Roar and Seek?’ asked Ulrik. ‘I used to play that with my friends.’
‘It’s easy peasy. I hide and you’ve got to find me.’
‘And when do you roar?’
‘You don’t roar!’ said Warren impatiently. ‘There’s no roaring in this game, OK?’
‘OK. But how am I meant to find you?’
Warren rolled his eyes. ‘Look, it isn’t complicated. You just close your eyes, count to fifty, then come and look for me. Got it?’
‘Yes,’ said Ulrik. ‘Where will you be?’
‘Arghhh!’ cried Warren.
Ulrik frowned. ‘I thought you said there wasn’t any roaring.’
‘Just shut your eyes and count!’
Ulrik did as he was told and counted to fifty out loud. When he opened his eyes he was alone. He scanned the hill, trying to guess where Warren would have gone. Apart from the barn and the woods there weren’t many places to hide. He decided to try the barn first.
Pushing open the door, he breathed in the sweet smell of straw and muck. It smelled a bit like their house in Mountain View. At the far end of the barn someone was bending over, surrounded by sheep.
‘Found you!’ cried Ulrik.
But when the person turned round, it wasn’t Ulrik. It was Farmer Ogwen, who gave him a gap-toothed smile. He was wearing the same shabby clothes as yesterday and he’d forgotten to shave.
‘Hello,’ said Ulrik. ‘I was looking for Warren. Have you seen him?’
‘Not in here.’
‘We’re playing Hide and Sneak. I’ve got to find him but roaring’s not allowed.’
Ogwen raised one bushy eyebrow. ‘Just as well. You might have scared me.’
Ulrik shrugged modestly. ‘Dad says my roar’s getting fiercer. I’m having lessons.’
‘Good for you.’
Ulrik decided he liked Ogwen’s soft, sing-song way of talking. Most people he met for the first time backed away as if he was going to bite them, but Ogwen seemed quite at ease. He went back to colouring one of the sheep with the blue marker in his hand.
‘Aren’t they meant to be white?’ asked Ulrik.
‘What’s that then?’
‘Sheeps. You’re colouring them blue.’
The farmer chuckled to himself. ‘Oh, not blue all over. That’s my mark, see? Anyone finds this sheep, they’ll see that blue mark and they’ll know she belongs to me.’
‘Oh, I see! Like my feetball socks,’ said Ulrik.
‘Are they blue?’
‘No, they’re red, but they’ve got my name inside, so peeples at school know they’re mine.’
Ogwen nodded. ‘Same thing. Sheep are like socks, always getting lost.’ He gave Ulrik a wink. ‘You want to give me a hand?’
Ulrik nodded. He liked colouring. They did it at school, though mostly on paper rather than sheep. Ogwen showed him how to make a large splodge on the sheep’s fleece using the blue marker. Once he’d got the hang of it, he did several more. Some of the sheep had red spots, which Ogwen explained was a mistake that needed to be corrected. Ulrik was so involved in what he was doing that he didn’t notice Warren come into the barn.
‘Ulrik! I thought you were coming to look for me,’ he complained.
Ulrik swung round. ‘Oh, sorry, Warren. I forgot.’
‘It’s my fault,’ said Ogwen. ‘He’s been helping me.’
Warren leaned on the side of the pen sulkily. ‘I’ve been waiting for hours. You never would have seen me. I found this great place in the woods.’
Ogwen looked up sharply. ‘The woods?’
‘Yes,’ said Warren. ‘Why?’
‘You don’t want to go there. It’s close to the moor. I should have warned you.’
‘What’s wrong with the moor?’ asked Ulrik.
‘Wrong? Surely you know about Boggy Moor?’
They both shook their heads. Ogwen beckoned them over with a grimy finger and lowered his voice. ‘There’s
things happen on the moor, boys – bad things. No one goes there, not after dark. You take my advice.’
‘Why?’ asked Warren in an awed whisper. ‘Why don’t they go there?’
The farmer shook his head. ‘Take it from me, it’s not safe. You keep away from the moor. Keep away.’
He shook a bony finger in warning and then turned back to his sheep.
‘What do you think he meant?’ asked Ulrik as they left the barn.
‘I don’t know,’ said Warren. ‘He’s probably just pulling our leg. Trying to scare us.’
‘Yes,’ said Ulrik. ‘Probably.’ He glanced back at the wood, and the bleak moor beyond.
‘Anyway, I’m not scared,’ said Warren.
‘Nor me,’ agreed Ulrik. The caravan was in sight now and they broke into a run.
Swimming Lessons
Mr Priddle said that since the sun was shining they should spend the day on the beach. He had hoped the Trolls might have other plans but it turned out they had no plans at all.
The six of them squashed into the Priddles’ car, with Warren reluctantly forced to sit on Mrs Troll’s lap since he was the smallest. Once at the beach car park, they unloaded their bags, buckets and spades and followed the steep path down to Sunny Bay.
Down at the beach Ulrik noticed that everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at the Trolls. Shouts and laughter died away on the air. People drew back to let them through, pointing and whispering among themselves.
Mr Priddle set down his bags by some rocks.
‘Let’s stop here,’ he suggested. ‘The tide’s coming in.’
A little girl ran past and stopped in front of Ulrik. She pointed a chubby finger.
‘Dad! Dad! It’s the big bad beast!’
Ulrik bent down to give her his friendliest smile, but before he could say anything, the girl’s dad came running and gathered her up in his arms.
Looking around, Ulrik saw people were beginning to desert the beach. Some gathered up their belongings while others panicked and simply left their towels and rugs behind as they fled. Within five minutes of their arrival the beach was empty except for the Trolls and the Priddles.
Trolls on Hols Page 2
