Ulrik woke up. The first thing he remembered was that he had to go to school. School today, school tomorrow and the day after. Yesterday morning he had been so eager to find out what school was like, but now he wished he could just stay at home. He liked his new bedroom. It was cosier now it had a thick layer of mud and leaves on the floor. His mum had promised to look for some cow-patties to make it nice and stinksome. He’d begun a mud-painting on the wall over his bed – a picture of him playing ‘Roar and Sneak’ with his friends in the forest.
The worst thing about school, Ulrik thought, were the ‘playtimes’, which happened twice a day. Peeples seemed to play differently from trolls and he wasn’t sure how to join in.
His mum stuck her head round the door. ‘Ulrik, time to get up!’
‘Uhhh!’ groaned Ulrik. ‘I don’t feel very well.’
‘Don’t you, my ugglesome? What’s the matter?’
‘I think I’ve got the bellies-ache.’
‘Oh dear, you poor little troggler,’ said his mum. ‘Let me see.’
Ulrik pulled up his nightshirt to show his round belly. His mum gave him a playful poke in the ribs.
‘Ha ha hee! Don’t do that!’ he giggled, rolling around.
‘You don’t seem too bad to me. Hurry up and get dressed – breakfast’s ready,’ said Mrs Troll.
Ulrik plodded downstairs in his school uniform. His dad was already at the breakfast table. Ulrik noticed he had baked bean juice smeared round his mouth.
‘I thought you didn’t like it,’ he said.
‘I was hungry,’ said Mr Troll. ‘That was fun last night, eh? You and me chasing goblins.’
‘Yes,’ said Ulrik. ‘Did I do OK?’
‘You were uggsome,’ said his dad. ‘The roaring still needs work, but it’s coming on.’
‘I’ve been practising,’ said Ulrik. ‘You were scary, Dad!’
‘I was, wasn’t I?’ beamed Mr Troll. ‘Frighted the bogles out of them. Those goblins won’t be coming back to rob us again.’
‘My hairy, scary old husband,’ laughed Mrs Troll, kissing him on the snout.
Ulrik smiled. He was glad to see his parents looking happy again. Chasing robbers round the garden in the dead of night was just what his dad needed to cheer him up.
Ulrik still had the muddy trousers their visitor had left behind, though personally he wasn’t convinced they belonged to a goblin. Inside the label of the trousers he had found the letters ‘WP’ scrawled in red letters. Ulrik had thought it over and WP didn’t sound like the name of a goblin. It sounded more like Warren Priddle. He hadn’t told his parents his suspicions. There was always the chance his dad would throw a tantrum and storm next door.
Ulrik ate his baked bean slowly, drinking it cold through the holes in the tin. Soon it would be time for school and he wanted to put off the moment as long as possible.
‘Dad,’ he said, ‘you’ve got lots of friends, haven’t you?’
‘Lots back home,’ agreed Mr Troll.
‘But where did you get them?’ asked Ulrik.
Mr Troll looked puzzled. It seemed a funny question. ‘I didn’t really get them,’ he said. ‘Snorvik and Boglov have been my friends since I was a little troggler.’
‘But you must have started somewhere. I mean, what do you do when you want to be friends?’
‘Do?’ Mr Troll glanced worriedly at Mrs Troll. He’d never really thought about it. He cleared his throat. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Say I run into Snorvik, right?’
‘Yes,’ said Ulrik, paying close attention.
‘First off, I’d give him a great big huggle. Lift him clean off the ground. Then he’d roar and I’d roar back and he’d roar again, and we’d argue about who roars the loudest. Then we’d go off and look for some goatses to chase.’
Mr Troll sat back in his chair, looking pleased with himself. It seemed to him this perfectly summed up the nature of friendship. But it didn’t seem to satisfy Ulrik.
‘Oh,’ he said in a disappointed voice, and got down from the table. ‘Thanks for breakfast, Mum.’
‘What the bogles was that about then?’ asked Mr Troll, mystified.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘He does seem a bit quiet.’
Later Ulrik trudged along the road on his way to school. Maybe today will be better, he thought. He would be careful not to bite Mrs Melly and not to roar in class. If he was quiet, and tried not to look too big, perhaps the other children wouldn’t stare at him as if he was about to gobble them up.
Morning lessons passed without any trouble. When the bell went for break, Ulrik trooped outside with the others. He leaned against the railings, trying to look harmless and friendly. The shrieks and laughter from all corners of the playground only made him feel more alone. Everyone else seemed to have friends to play with. His classmates were playing football, swapping cards, skipping over ropes and talking in groups, but no one came near him. He wondered if he should run up to one of them and give them a mighty huggle. That’s what his dad would have done. But they might scream and think he was trying to hurt them.
One of the teachers, Miss Leach, was patrolling the playground followed by a gaggle of small children.
Some boys ran past him, chasing each other. Ulrik recognised Warren and called out to him. Warren stopped.
‘Oh. What do you want?’ he said.
‘Have you lost your trousers?’ Ulrik enquired.
Warren looked uncomfortable. ‘What? Are you being funny?’
‘No,’ said Ulrik. ‘It’s just – weren’t you in our garden last night?’
‘Don’t be stupid. I was in bed!’ snorted Warren, turning a deeper shade of red.
‘Oh,’ said Ulrik. Perhaps he’d made a mistake.
The other boys had gathered round him, hands on hips. ‘What are you playing?’ Ulrik asked. ‘Can I play?’
Danny pointed at Ulrik. ‘We’re not playing with him. He’s too ugly.’
‘And he bites,’ added Rashid.
‘I won’t,’ promised Ulrik. He sucked in his fangs so that he looked toothless.
‘Come on, why don’t we let him play?’ said Warren unexpectedly.
‘Can I?’
‘Yeah,’ said Warren. ‘It’ll be fun.’ He turned to his friends and gave them a sly wink.
‘You can be “On”, Ulrik,’ he said.
Ulrik beamed. ‘Uggsome! On what?’
‘Duh!’ said Warren. ‘It means you’ve got to chase us.’
‘And catch us,’ added Rashid.
‘All right. Then what?’ asked Ulrik.
‘Nothing. Whoever you catch is “On”. That’s the game.’
‘Oh, OK.’ It seemed too easy. At home Ulrik and his friends played ‘Pongo’ – a game similar to ‘Chase’ only smellier. But Ulrik didn’t explain the rules of ‘Pongo’1, he did as he was told and counted to ten while Warren and his friends ran off.
‘Eight … nine … ten!’ he shouted and hurried after them.
Although he was much bigger, the boys were quicker on their feet and dodged him time and again. ‘Yah! Missed me!’ they taunted.
Ulrik kept chasing them doggedly, till at last he cornered Warren, who was hiding behind rows of plants. ‘Ul-rik!’ sang Warren. ‘Come and get me!’
Ulrik didn’t really see the garden in its neat stone border. He just trampled straight across it. Tomatoes, lettuces and sweet peas were squashed to a pulp beneath his size ten feet.
‘Ulrik! GET OFF THERE!’ a voice boomed across the playground.
Ulrik turned to see Miss Leach pointing an angry finger at him.
‘Oh Ulrik!’ said Warren. ‘Trampling on the school garden. Now you’re really for it!’
Danny and Rashid smirked as Ulrik was led away by Miss Leach. Once again he found himself sitting outside the head’s office. Once again he had to endure a long, serious lecture. Mr Wiseman said it had taken months to grow the vegetables in the school garden, but it had only taken him a few seconds to destroy them.
Ulrik nodded sadly. He’d been looking forward to the trip to the farm. But now he wasn’t allowed to go. So far the only thing he’d learned at school was how to get into trouble.
Bubble Trouble
BACK home, Mrs Troll was dirtying the house. She had noticed a number of ugly clean patches in the dining room. It took a lot of effort dragging in mud and leaves from outside. The house lacked the homely stench of their old cave. Mr Troll had grumbled about it that very morning. ‘If you think it’s so stinkless, bring home some cow-patties,’ she’d told him. So he had gone out to look for a cow-patty shop and now she was all alone.
Once she had dirtied the house, she sat down at the table. There wasn’t a great deal to do. At home she would have taken a walk down to The Hubblings – the natural pools at the foot of Troll Mountain where warm water bubbled up from under the ground. Mrs Troll would sit for hours in the bubbling soup with her friends, listening to them grumble about their husbands or the sunny weather. Sometimes they made bubbles of their own.2
Mrs Troll missed chatting to her friends at The Hubblings. She had tried sitting in the bath upstairs but it was no fun talking to yourself. Perhaps I should get out of the house and visit someone, she thought. But who? She didn’t know anyone in Biddlesden. Once or twice she’d seen the peeples next door staring at her over the fence or from an upstairs window. The skinny bald one was called Roger and she’d heard him call his mate ‘Darling’. So far Darling and Roger didn’t seem very friendly, but Mrs Troll was prepared to make allowances. Peeples are shy, she thought. Not like trolls. Why not go next door and take Darling a present to show that she wanted to be friends?
She looked round the room for a suitable gift and her eye fell on the small pile of rocks on the table. Trolls collect rocks the way some people collect fridge magnets or china cats. In particular they are fond of rocks which bear any resemblance to a troll. In the garden Mrs Troll had found a rock that reminded her of a troll’s bottom, which she was very proud of. She was sure Darling would like it.
Clutching her present, she went next door.
Number 8, Mountain View appeared to be empty, but music was coming from somewhere inside. After knocking on the door several times, Mrs Troll walked round the side of the house and peered through the windows. There was no one in the kitchen or in the small room next to it. But at the next window she could hear the music plainly and pushed her nose up against the glass.
Inside, Mrs Priddle was taking a bath. After the frightening events of the night before she had got up late and filled the bath tub to the top with bubbles. From the lounge she was listening to her favourite ‘pan-pipes’ CD, which she found relaxing in times of stress. If she shut her eyes she could pretend that everything was normal. There were no dangerous trolls living next door, no bones buried in the garden and nothing to make her nervous. She sank lower in the bath, so that the bubbles rose up to her chin.
Outside, Mrs Troll was trying hard to catch her attention through the window. She waved the rock in her hand to show that she’d brought a present, but the rippled glass made it hard to see, especially as it was misted up on the inside. She rapped loudly on the window.
Mrs Priddle’s eyes blinked open and she caught sight of the monstrous shadow of the troll at the window. Its huge ugly face pressed against the glass, the snout squished to one side. It was smiling horribly. Mrs Priddle gave a shrill scream and sank down out of sight. ‘Roblobb!’ she gurgled, which is how the name ‘Roger’ sounds when you say it underwater. But her husband had gone to work and would not be back until six. Warren was at school. She was all alone in the house and not wearing a stitch. Surely this was some horrible nightmare?
The troll had a weapon in its hand – a rock that it was shaking at her. Maybe it was going to smash the window! Mrs Troll thought of trying to reach the phone in the lounge, but that meant getting out of the bath and she was too rigid with fear to move. If she just stayed where she was, perhaps her unwanted visitor would give up and go away.
The troll was tapping on the window, making muffled sounds which might have been threats. At last its dark shadow vanished. Mrs Priddle held her breath, listening to the heavy tread of footsteps on the gravel path outside. A moment later she heard it again at the back of the house, rattling the door. It was trying to get in! She remembered something that made her blood run cold. Sometimes Roger went out in the morning and left the back door unlocked. She had told him about it a thousand times. What if today was one of those days? Mrs Priddle looked around desperately for some kind of weapon. The only thing she could find was Warren’s plastic water pistol lying next to the soap dish.
There was the click of a door opening, followed by a loud slam. The troll was in the house! Mrs Priddle lay under her white blanket of bubbles, not daring to move.
‘Hello, Darling!’ called a voice. ‘It’s me!’
Mrs Priddle didn’t answer. The troll was trying to trick her into thinking it was her husband. But she wasn’t that stupid. Roger didn’t have a deep, growly voice and his footsteps didn’t sound like a giant doing a war dance.
She could hear the troll moving through the downstairs rooms, searching for her. For a few seconds everything went quiet and she dared to hope it had gone away. Then a large hairy head popped round the door.
‘Ah! There you are!’ smiled Mrs Troll.
Mrs Priddle stared at her. She pointed the water pistol with two trembling hands.
‘Don’t come any closer or I’ll fire,’ she said.
Mrs Troll held out the odd-shaped rock in her hand.
‘I brought you this, Darling,’ she said. ‘It looks like a bottom. Not your bottom of course but still, you could put it somewhere. Where do you want it?’
Mrs Troll was doing her best to be chatty, but her neighbour didn’t respond, she just kept pointing the thing in her hand. Perhaps it was a gift and she wanted to make a swap? It was hard to tell. Mrs Troll reached out for the water pistol and a jet of water squirted her in the eye.
‘Oooh!’ said Mrs Troll. It had made a wet patch down the front of her dress.
‘Please …’ whimpered Mrs Priddle. ‘Please!’
‘What is it, Darling?’ asked Mrs Troll. It was clear to her Mrs Priddle wanted something, but she seemed too shy to ask. Steam rose from the bath water and the bubbles looked inviting. Mrs Troll thought of The Hubblings and how she used to sit and chat with her friends. Perhaps Darling was inviting her to get in?
‘Room for a little one?’ she said. ‘You’ll have to move over.’
Mrs Priddle didn’t realise what was happening until the troll unzipped her dress and started to get into the bath. Then she shot out of the bath like a cork from a bottle.
Pausing only to grab a towel, she ran down the hall and right out of the front door. Her screams could be heard four streets away.
‘HELP! Murder! Somebody save me!’
Left alone, Mrs Troll wiped some bubbles from her snout. She climbed out of the bath with a weary sigh and got dressed. She left the bottom-shaped rock on the television before closing the front door quietly. ‘Peeples are very strange,’ she said to herself.
That night, in bed, she told Egbert the whole puzzling story.
‘And then the polices came back,’ she concluded. ‘“More complaints,”’ they said. ‘“Breaking into peeples’ houses. Frighting the neighbours.”’
‘Frighting them?’ snorted Mr Troll. ‘You only took her a rock to be friendly, for uggness’ sake.’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘Serves me right for trying to be nice.’
‘They’re as mad as bees in a bottle,’ said Mr Troll. ‘I asked for some fresh cow-patties in a shop this morning and they looked at me as if I was talking hogswoggle.’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘I don’t think we’ll ever get used to it. We’ve got no friends, the house d
oesn’t smell right, and every day the polices call round.’
‘Huh!’ grunted Mr Troll. ‘At least Ulrik has got friends.’
‘I hope so,’ said Mrs Troll doubtfully. ‘He doesn’t talk about school much. He’s got this farm trip tomorrow, but he hasn’t said a word about it.’ She rested her head on Mr Troll’s shoulder. ‘Eggy?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Couldn’t we just go home?’
‘No,’ said Mr Troll gruffly. ‘I told you.’
‘I’m sure the goat thing has blown over. No one wants to make fun of you.’
‘Oh no,’ said Mr Troll, with heavy sarcasm. ‘I’m sure they’ll never mention it.’ He imitated Snorvik’s booming voice. ‘Look, here comes old Egbert. Run into any monster goatses lately, Eggy? Fallen off any bridges?’
Mrs Troll patted his round belly. ‘It could have happened to anyone, hairling.’
‘I can’t go back,’ said Mr Troll stubbornly. ‘We’ve got to make the best of it here.’
Mrs Troll sighed. Mr Troll sighed. He got out of bed and tromped up and down it a few times, to see if it made him feel better. It didn’t. ‘Come on,’ he said at last.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Mrs Troll. ‘It’s the middle of the night!’
‘Somewhere more comfortable. We’ll wake Ulrik.’
Twenty minutes later they were all huddled in the cold, damp subway under the high street.
‘It’s stinksome,’ said Ulrik, sniffing the air.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ said Mr Troll. ‘Close your eyes and you can imagine you’re back in our own buggly old cave.’
Ulrik closed his eyes and tried to imagine being home. He imagined the drip drip of water and the sweet, earthy stench of their cave, the wind moaning outside like an ogre with toothache.
Above them the city streets were empty and only the occasional rumble told of a car passing overhead.
Ulrik snuggled between his mum and dad for warmth. Soon it would be daylight and that meant school. He hadn’t told his parents that he was banned from going on the school trip. Neither had he mentioned that he’d bitten his teacher or trampled on the school garden. Sooner or later they were bound to find out though, and that was the worst part of all.
Trolls Go Home! Page 4