Mr Priddle had once taken up judo at an evening class. It seemed to involve wearing baggy white pyjamas and talking a lot about belts. Actually, he had only attended one of the classes and had returned home grumbling that he’d been chucked around all night like a beach ball. Still, he liked to give the impression that he knew a thing or two about self-defence.
Mrs Priddle came in and joined them by the window. Next door they could see Mr Troll prowling around the garden. He appeared to be marking out a large area in the flower bed.
‘What’s he up to now? He’s down on his hands and knees,’ said Mr Priddle.
‘Perhaps he’s weeding,’ said Mrs Priddle.
‘No. He’s … Good heavens! He’s digging with his bare hands. Digging up the flowers!’ said Mr Priddle.
Showers of earth flew into the air behind Mr Troll as he tore up the flower bed in much the same way as a dog digs up a bone.
‘What’s he digging for, Dad?’ asked Warren.
‘How should I know?’ said Mr Priddle. ‘Perhaps he wants to bury something.’
‘You mean like gold – or diamonds?’ said his wife hopefully.
‘Or a dead body,’ said Warren, in a low voice. They both looked at their son nervously and then back at the troll next door.
‘It’s certainly going to be a big hole,’ said Mr Priddle. ‘He’s going down deep.’
‘Maybe he’s a murderer,’ said Warren. ‘Maybe they murder people and bury them in the garden.’
Mrs Priddle let out a faint scream. ‘They’re living next door! It’s not right, Roger. Why didn’t they move in next to the Snorleys along the road? Why us? How do you expect me to sleep at night?’
‘Now steady, Jackie,’ said Mr Priddle.
‘I can’t be steady. My nerves won’t stand it, Roger. I want you to get rid of them.’
Mr Priddle put his arm around his wife. ‘Don’t you worry, sugarplum,’ he said. ‘I have a plan.’
‘Are you going to fight him, Dad?’ asked Warren hopefully. ‘Are you going to get him in a headlock?’
‘No,’ said Mr Priddle, drawing a red notebook from his pocket. ‘I’m going to keep a diary.’
Teachers Are Funny
Ulrik stood in the garden looking at the hole his dad had dug in the flower bed. Where rosebushes had once bloomed, now there was only a tall mound of earth. Ulrik scrambled to the top and looked round. He caught sight of two eyes peering over the garden wall at him. They belonged to one of the neighbours – a plump, freckled boy with rosy cheeks. Ulrik waved to him and the two eyes promptly vanished from sight. He went over to the wall and found the boy crouched beneath it.
‘Who are you hiding from?’ he whispered.
Warren Priddle sprang to his feet in alarm and backed away. ‘Nothing … I … I think my mum’s calling me,’ he stammered, making for the back door.
‘Don’t go,’ said Ulrik. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Warren,’ said Warren.
‘I’m Ulrik.’
‘You’re a troll,’ observed Warren. He was taking care not to get too close.
‘Yes,’ nodded Ulrik. ‘And you’re a peeples. Do you go to school?’
‘Of course. Everyone goes to school,’ said Warren scornfully. He decided the creature wasn’t going to eat him after all.
‘I’m starting school tomorrow,’ said Ulrik proudly. ‘It’s my first day. We could go together!’
Warren tried to imagine walking into the school playground with Ulrik. His friends would soon start avoiding him if he hung around with this hairy, ugly creature. He didn’t want Ulrik telling everyone at school they were friends. For that matter he wasn’t sure he wanted a troll at his school at all. He would have to find a way to get rid of him.
‘So. You’ve never been to school then?’ he said.
‘Never,’ said Ulrik. ‘Trolls don’t have schools, but my dad’s been teaching me. So far I’ve done roaring and tromping. Want to see?’
Ulrik tromped up and down the garden, stamping his feet and giving his best roar.
‘Great,’ said Warren, when he’d finished.
‘Is it?’ said Ulrik. ‘My dad says my roar wouldn’t scare a caterpillar.’
‘You should do that at school – all that roaring stuff,’ said Warren. ‘Mrs Melly will love it.’
‘Who’s Mrs Melly?’
‘Our teacher. We call her Mrs Smelly.’
‘Mrs Smelly,’ repeated Ulrik. He was a little confused. Perhaps teachers had two names.
‘I suppose you’ve never met a teacher either?’ said Warren.
‘Never,’ admitted Ulrik.
‘Better be careful,’ Warren advised him. ‘Teachers can be funny.’
‘Can they?’
‘Yes. For instance, when you meet Mrs Melly, she’ll probably do this.’ He held out his hand to Ulrik. Ulrik looked at it, baffled.
‘Why?’
‘It’s polite. That’s how we say hello.’
‘Oh, I see!’ said Ulrik. ‘And what do I do?’
Warren gave a weasel smile. ‘You bite it.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Ulrik doubtfully.
‘Of course. Give it a good, hard bite or she’ll think you’re rude.’
Ulrik shrugged. ‘OK. Like this?’ He took hold of Warren’s pink hand and sunk his fangs into it.
‘Arrrgh!’ yelled Warren. ‘Let go!’
‘Was that hard enough?’ asked Ulrik.
Warren nursed his hand. His eyes were watering. ‘Perfect,’ he winced. ‘Do it like that and Mrs Smelly will love it. She’ll probably give you a gold star.’
‘Uggsome!’ said Ulrik. ‘I’ve never had a gold star!’
Ulrik watched Warren go back inside the house. His hand seemed to be bothering him. Ulrik was glad that he’d made a new friend. Not all peeples he’d met were friendly – some of them ran away just when you wanted to talk to them. But Warren seemed to like him and it was kind of him to explain about teachers’ funny ideas. Ulrik couldn’t wait to start school tomorrow. Wouldn’t his parents be proud when he came home wearing a gold star?
A Nice Kid
That afternoon Mrs Troll took Ulrik to the supermarket. She had tried asking for goat again in the local shop, but they only seemed to have tins of the baked bean and something called spagotty hoops. She was pretty sure Mr Troll wouldn’t like it any better than the bean. He had been sulking a lot since they’d arrived in Biddlesden and Mrs Troll felt he needed some nice goat pie to cheer him up. She was sure the supermarket would sell goat, perhaps even a young kid, which was Egbert’s favourite.
Ulrik had never been in a supermarket. In fact this was only the second time he’d been in a shop, so everything seemed new and exciting. It took some time before Mrs Troll could drag him away from running in and out of the automatic doors. She let him push the trolley with the squeaky wheels and he scooted up and down, dodging in and out of startled shoppers who leapt out of his way.
‘What are those, Mum? Can we try them? Please, Mum!’ he begged. He was so excited that he forgot to look where he was going and crashed into the back of a young man in a blue jacket.
‘Careful!’ said the shop assistant, turning to glare at him.
‘Sorry,’ said Ulrik. He pointed at the trolley. ‘I said “Stop!” but it didn’t listen.’
Mrs Troll came puffing up the aisle, out of breath.
‘Ulrik! I told you not to go charging off on your own!’
‘Sorry, Mum, but look! I found where they keep the meatses.’
Ulrik pointed at the shelves either side of the aisle, stacked with meat of every kind.
Mrs Troll addressed the shop assistant politely. ‘I was wondering, where do you keep the goat?’
‘The what, madam?’
‘The goat. Egbert likes goat pie, you see – it’s his favourite – but so far I haven’t been able to find it.’
‘We have turkey,’ said the assistant. He pointed to the rows and rows of meat. ‘Chicken, lamb, beef, pork …�
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‘No, it has to be goat.’
The assistant scratched his head. No one had ever asked him for goat before.
‘What about a kid?’ suggested Mrs Troll.
‘A kid?’ said the assistant.
‘Yes, a nice young kid. Tender, not too stringy. Egbert would love that.’
A blonde-haired woman, who was passing with her trolley at that moment, stifled a scream.
‘I could roast it over a fire,’ said Mrs Troll.
‘Yum!’ said Ulrik. ‘Roast kid!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the assistant. ‘We don’t …’
But he didn’t get any further. The blonde-haired woman had fainted, passing out face down in her shopping trolley so that it overbalanced with a terrific crash.
‘Roger, you won’t believe it!’ said Mrs Priddle as soon as she burst through the kitchen door. ‘I heard the most terrible thing at the supermarket.’
‘I’m just making some tea,’ said Mr Priddle.
‘I don’t want tea. I want you to call the police. It’s just as I thought – we’re living next door to murderers. And worse than that …’ She lowered her voice and shut the kitchen door. ‘They’re cannibals,’ she hissed.
‘Cannibals? Who? What are you talking about?’ said Roger.
‘I told you. I was in the supermarket, minding my own business, and there she was.’
‘Who, Jackie? Slow down!’
‘Her – from next door! Who do you think?’
‘Mrs Troll, you mean?’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘How do you know her name?’
‘Warren told me. It seems he’s been chatting to the young one in the garden.’
‘Chatting? You let him speak to one of them? Are you out of your mind?’
‘Don’t worry, darling, he’s fine. Just tell me what happened.’
‘Well, she – Mrs Troll or whatever she calls herself – was talking to one of the shop assistants. And I heard her bold as you like. “I want a nice young kid,” she said. “A kid to roast for dinner!”’
‘A kid? What do you mean?’
‘I mean a kid, Roger! A kid! Like our little Warren!’
‘Good Lord! You can’t be serious!’
‘I heard her with my own ears. They cook them over a fire, Roger!’
Mr Priddle gasped and sat down heavily on a chair. It was a nightmare. Their next-door neighbours were cannibals! Monsters! Child-eaters! That would explain why the young one was so keen to ‘make friends’ with Warren. He was lining up his next meal. Suddenly Mr Priddle remembered something else.
‘Jackie! He’s going to Warren’s school,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Ulrik. The young one. Warren says he starts school tomorrow.’
Jackie let out a dramatic scream. She thought about fainting a second time, but her husband was the only one in the room and he wasn’t much of an audience.
‘We’ve got to do something,’ she said. ‘I’m calling the police.’ She picked up the phone but before she could dial, Mr Priddle took the receiver from her and replaced it.
‘Let’s think about this, Jackie,’ he said. ‘If you tell the police now, they’ll never believe you. Think how it will sound – cannibals living in Mountain View. They’ll think you’ve lost your marbles. No, first we’ve got to gather evidence.’
‘How? I’m not sitting here waiting for them to eat somebody,’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘They’ve probably had the paper boy already. What about my poor little Warren – going to school with that … that hairy savage?’
‘Leave it to me,’ said Mr Priddle. ‘I’m watching their every move. It’s all down here.’
He showed her the notes he’d made in his Troll Watch Diary.
‘As soon as we’ve got enough evidence we’ll call the police.’
Troll at School
Ulrik gazed at himself in the bathroom mirror. He liked his new school uniform. True, the shirt was a bit on the small side. It only reached to his belly button and the trousers looked more like shorts.
Nevertheless, he felt he looked smart. When he went downstairs his mother gave him a big huggle, lifting him right off the ground.
‘Is this my little Ulrik?’ she said. ‘All growned up!’
‘Get off, Mum!’ protested Ulrik, wiping away the kiss she planted on his cheek.
‘Now, don’t forget,’ Mrs Troll said. ‘Be good and do what your teacher tells you.’
‘I know, Mum,’ said Ulrik. ‘I’ve been talking to Warren. He’s in the same class as me.’
‘That’s nice, hairling,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘I’m glad you’re making friends already.’
Later that morning, Ulrik met his class teacher and gave her his best smile. He thought she looked a bit surprised to see him. Her mouth was hanging open as if she was trying to catch passing flies.
The truth was, nobody had warned Mrs Melly that ‘the new boy’ was a troll. She had never met one before, though of course she had read about them in story books. She knew they were wild, fierce creatures who made a habit of hiding under bridges. This troll was almost as big as her and he was showing his two sharp teeth.
‘You must be Ulrik,’ she said a little nervously.
‘Yes,’ said Ulrik. ‘And you’re Mrs Smelly.’
The class dissolved into fits of giggles.
‘Quiet!’ barked the teacher. ‘My name is Mrs Melly, Ulrik, Mrs Melly. Welcome to Class 4.’
She held out her hand to him. Ulrik remembered what Warren had taught him. It seemed a strange way to greet a teacher but then teachers were funny and he didn’t want to be rude. He bit Mrs Melly’s hand as hard as he could.
‘Yargh!’ Mrs Melly pulled her hand away and stared at the two sharp fang marks imprinted upon it.
‘You bit me!’ she said in astonishment.
‘Did I do it right?’ asked Ulrik.
Mrs Melly had turned a deep shade of purple.
‘At this school we do not bite,’ she said icily.
‘Oh. But Warren said …’
‘You will sit down, Ulrik,’ said Mrs Melly. ‘And if you dare to bite anyone again, I shall send you straight to the head.’
Ulrik hung his head and slunk away to sit down. He had done exactly what Warren had told him, so why was his teacher so cross? He had so wanted to make a good impression on his first day and get a gold star.
An idea came into his head. When he wanted to please his parents he showed them how his roaring practice was coming on. Warren had assured him Mrs Melly would love to see it. Maybe she wouldn’t scowl so much when she saw how hard he’d been practising.
Ulrik took a deep breath. He faced Mrs Melly and tromped down the aisle, stamping his feet in the ant-crushing style his dad had taught him.
‘Graaarr!’ he roared. ‘Graarrr!’
Mrs Melly was certain the troll was going to attack her. It was obviously working itself up into a rage. She backed away until she was up against her desk, then sat down on top of it.
‘Now, stop that, Ulrik,’ she said.
‘GRAAARRR!’ roared Ulrik, making the windows rattle.
Mrs Melly overbalanced backwards and disappeared from sight with a yelp.
Looking rather shaken, she emerged from underneath her desk and put her glasses straight. Ulrik looked pleased with himself.
‘Uggsome! That was my best roar ever!’ he said, beaming. But Mrs Melly didn’t seem pleased at all. She sent him to stand outside the head’s office.
Mr Wiseman sat him down and talked for a long time. He said that biting, stamping and roaring was shocking behaviour and he hoped Ulrik didn’t behave like that at home. Ulrik answered truthfully that he did, but that only seemed to make matters worse. Finally he was sent back to the class.
Mrs Melly sat him next to a girl called Nisha. Nisha moved her chair as far away from him as possible. None of the children sitting at the table spoke a single word to him all day. They all seemed to think he was going to try and bite them. Even Warre
n pretended not to notice when Ulrik waved at him across the class.
When the bell finally went for the end of school, he was glad he could go home.
‘Now,’ said Mrs Melly. ‘Don’t forget – Wednesday is our trip to the farm. Ulrik, here is a letter to take home to your parents. And I shall expect you to be on your best behaviour, is that clear?’
Ulrik nodded miserably. He was beginning to see why trolls didn’t go to school.
The Sweet Stink of Home
While Ulrik went to school, Mr Troll got up late as usual. He came downstairs feeling as hungry as a very hungry horse. Since arriving in Biddlesden he’d had very little to eat. Trolls have enormous appetites and would look on an entire roast chicken as little more than a tasty snack. As Mr Troll thumped downstairs he fancied he smelled the delicious aroma of goat coming from the kitchen. But it turned out he had imagined it. When he sat down, Mrs Troll placed a can on the table.
He groaned. ‘Oh no, not blunking bean again!’
‘No,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘This is different. It’s called spagotty hoops.’
Mr Troll prodded the can glumly. ‘Do I have to throw it at the wall?’
Mrs Troll shook her head. ‘I asked the lady in the shop. She gave me one of these to open it.’ She held up a tin opener with a sharp, hooked blade.
Mr Troll yawned as his wife tried to work out what to do with the tin opener. In the end she raised it high in the air like a dagger, and plunged it into the heart of the can. There was a puncturing THWUCK! Mrs Troll wiped a squirt of tomato sauce from her eye and examined the hole she’d made. ‘Hmm,’ she said.
BANG! THWUCK! BANG! She attacked the can again and again until it had as many holes as a string vest. ‘Pass me your bowl, Eggy,’ she said, panting for breath.
Mrs Troll held the can over the bowl and dribbled some stringy globs of spaghetti hoops into it.
‘Ugh!’ said Mr Troll, peering at the bowl in disgust. ‘Looks like maggot soup.’
Trolls Go Home! Page 2