‘What’s that smell?’ asked Mum, coming in with the laundry.
‘It’s Joshua,’ said Katie. ‘He fell into a skip.’
Mum sighed, but Gary didn’t even notice. He was too shocked as he realized that he’d just made a poem.
Chapter Three
Troll Trouble
KATIE CALLED A crisis meeting. The three Lloyd children and Amber, the littlest Viking, were all to have an equal say. Unfortunately, as it happened, no one had a say at all, because they tried to meet in the play tent in the garden where Amber was living, and there wasn’t really room for the four of them. Also Amber’s pet squirrel, Ratatosk, kept trying to swing from one tent pole to the other over their heads. In the end the whole tent came down on top of them and they retreated to the bus shelter across the road.
The children all took this minor disaster in their stride. It’s amazing what you can get used to if a little girl turns up saying that she’s a Viking, a thousand years old and has come to stay, thank you very much.
‘Amber, you can’t live in the garden any longer,’ announced Katie, once everyone was seated comfortably on the wooden bench and Ratatosk had settled down to chew Gary’s shoelaces.
‘Why?’ asked Amber, who had already become rather attached to the garden and the notion of living under a mulberry bush in a tent shaped like a double-decker bus. Despite being Amber, Hammer of the North and a rough, tough Viking, her lower lip began to tremble.
‘It’s too cold. You’ll catch a chill living in that play tent, and Mum says that a chill can lead to all sorts of things.’ Joshua wanted to know what sorts of things, but Katie ploughed on. ‘We need to find you something else.’
‘Couldn’t we build a log house in the garden?’ asked Amber.
‘It’s not our garden,’ explained Gary. ‘It’s commun . . . commun . . . it belongs to everyone.’
‘No problem,’ said Amber brightly. ‘We’ll do what my cousins do in Iceland. They wanted to make it fair for everyone to get some land, so they have a rule – any man can have as much land as he can travel around on foot with a lighted torch in a single day, and a woman can claim any fields she can cross in a day while leading a two-year-old cow.’
The three children looked at their Viking friend.
‘I know you’re trying, Amber,’ said Katie, ‘but somehow I don’t think that would help.’
‘No,’ said Joshua after a short pause. ‘If we’re not allowed pets, I’m sure we won’t be allowed cows in the garden.’
‘You’ll just have to come and live in the house,’ said Gary, kicking a loose paving slab with his shoe and sending Ratatosk flying into the bus timetable by mistake. Gary was feeling rather confident. He’d won a prize at school for his poem on Viking sailing ships.
‘Mrs Marchmont won’t want a Viking in the terrace,’ said Katie. ‘She was cross enough when Doctor Ativan got a satellite dish.’ Gary kicked hard at the paving stone and scuffed his trainers. Ratatosk wisely stayed where he was.
‘Grown-ups!’ said Joshua with a heartfelt sigh.
‘Do you think they wouldn’t like me?’ asked Amber.
‘It’s not that,’ replied Katie. ‘They’re just . . . well, funny about anything . . . a bit different. I don’t know how we’d tell them. I mean, it’s quite awkward.’
Everyone felt miserable. They got up for a wander around the Pitch and Putt course, but that made them feel even more depressed. It was closed for the season, and there is nothing sadder than a peeling concrete clown’s face in the winter wind.
‘We must get everyone to want a Viking so much that they can’t think how they managed without one,’ said Amber. The children did not look convinced. ‘No, really. People will be happy if they get what they think they want – just like the parents of Peter Ox.’
With that, Amber cleared her throat, ready to tell one of her stories. Ratatosk stopped diving down the tunnels on hole number four, and crossed his paws to listen. The children sat down next to the windmill.
‘My great uncle had a neighbour who was very rich. He was a farmer and he and his wife worked very hard and got richer and richer, but they were sad because they didn’t have any children.’
‘They’d have got on with Mrs Marchmont then,’ muttered Gary. Amber ignored this interruption.
‘One day at market, the farmer saw the most wonderful calf and bought it for his wife as a present. The calf was very beautiful and seemed to understand everything the farmer and his wife said to it. The farmer’s wife named the calf “Peter”, and they both became very fond of it. So fond, in fact, that they treated it as if it were their child.
‘After Peter had lived with them a short while, a new man came to work at the local school. He was very clever and lots of people in the village went to him for advice.
‘“Do you suppose”,’ said the farmer one day to his wife, “that the new teacher at the school is clever enough to teach our Peter to talk? It would be wonderful if Peter could talk and be like a real child to us.”
‘The farmer’s wife was now so fond of Peter she thought the calf could do anything and so she sent her husband straight off to the school to find out about lessons. The farmer explained to the teacher that he wanted Peter to learn to talk so that he could adopt him and Peter might inherit all the farmer’s money.
‘Now the teacher was very crafty and he realised the farmer wasn’t very clever.
‘“Of course I can teach Peter to talk,” said the teacher, “but you mustn’t tell anyone. It is strictly forbidden to teach cows to talk, and I could get into serious trouble. I mean, if we taught all cows to talk, you’d never get any peace on a farm, would you?” The teacher also told him that very special and very expensive books would be needed for the lessons.’
Joshua interrupted. ‘I’m not surprised. They’d have to be big books for a cow!’
‘Sssh!’ said Katie.
Amber went on. ‘The farmer brought Peter to the teacher and gave him ten gold coins to buy books. After a week the farmer came to see how his calf was getting on, but the teacher said he couldn’t see Peter in case it made the calf homesick and he forgot everything he had been taught. However, the teacher said that Peter was doing very well and he would soon need another ten gold coins for more special books.
‘This same thing happened every week when the farmer came to visit the school. The teacher would say that Peter was talking away and being very clever, but that the farmer couldn’t see him in case it made the calf homesick. Then the farmer would pay ten gold coins for more books and go home.
‘After a few months, the naughty teacher took Peter and sold him to the butcher. He was just counting his money from the sale of the poor calf when he met the farmer in the street.
‘“How’s my lovely calf?” asked the farmer.
‘Now the teacher started to feel bad because he had just sold the calf to the butcher, and he wished he hadn’t told quite so many lies to get all the farmer’s gold coins. “I’m afraid Peter’s run away,” he said. “I don’t know where he can be.”
‘The farmer went home and he and his wife cried over their lovely calf who had run away.
‘A short while later, the farmer heard about a new arrival in a nearby town, called Peter Ox. Mr Ox was said to be very clever. The farmer was very excited and he called to his wife. “One might almost think that this was our Peter,” he said, and off he went to visit him.
‘The farmer met Peter Ox in a tavern. Mr Ox was a large man with bright red hair. As soon as the farmer saw him, he thought that he recognized him; the thick neck and broad forehead of the man were just like those of his beloved calf. “This,” he thought to himself, “is our lovely calf grown into a man.”
‘“Peter, my son,” cried the farmer, and he hugged the man. “How your mother and I have missed you!”
‘“What are you talking about?” asked the man, who had never seen the farmer before. “Neither my mother nor my father is alive.”
‘“Oh, I kno
w that,” said the farmer. “Your real father was sold in the market last Michaelmas and sadly your mother died while calving. But my wife and I adopted you. You will be my heir and you must call me father.” Then the father showed Peter Ox all his lands and riches. He was so wealthy that the man happily agreed to be his heir and inherit it all.
‘The farmer sold his farm and he and his wife moved into town with Peter Ox where they all lived very happily – and the teacher got ten more gold coins for doing such a good job in teaching the calf to talk. So you see, everyone was happy, because they all thought they got what they wanted.’
Ratatosk clapped his paws together at the fine story and fell backwards down a chute.
‘But what’s this story got to do with Amber staying in our house?’ asked Joshua.
‘We have to make everyone in the terrace believe that what they really want is to have Amber come and stay,’ explained Katie.
‘Oh, is that all?’ said Gary. ‘And I thought it was going to be difficult!’
‘We must have a plan,’ said Amber, pushing back her small helmet and scratching her head. ‘We need to discover who is on our side and who the enemies are. Once we know the enemies, we can attack them.’
‘Attack?’ exclaimed Katie, not sure that things weren’t getting out of hand. But she was drowned out by the whoops and war cries from the boys, who were already running up to the house. Amber pulled Ratatosk out of the chute and set off with her hand firmly clasped on the hilt of her sword and her helmet pulled down low over her eyes. Katie had an uneasy feeling about it all.
There were seven houses in the terrace, all of which belonged to the Residents’ Association. Katie decided to begin the search for enemies with Mum, as they knew her best and, anyway, it was lunch time. In the kitchen, Mum was looking a bit distracted. You know what mums can get like when they’re cooking and the phone keeps ringing.
‘I’m not having anything to stay that isn’t house-trained. Hello? Yes, this is Mrs Lloyd. The gas board?’
Katie took this to mean a ‘yes’, even though she hadn’t actually explained that Amber was a Viking. Joshua was impressed that Amber was house-trained, as he sometimes still had trouble in that department himself. Gary finished his tuna sandwich and thought it was time to start questioning the neighbours.
Mr Gray at house number 4 was a specialist supplier of plumbing accessories and worked from an office at home. He’d had a nice man from the Inland Revenue visiting all week, and looked rather tired and emotional. He said that he didn’t care who stayed in the terrace as long as everyone got receipts.
Dr Ativan in number 7 was a bit trickier. He came from one of the Eastern European countries that doesn’t exist any more, and that seemed to make him grumpy. He lived alone and his house smelled of disinfectant and home-made garlic sausages. He was at home when the children rang the doorbell, as he had the man from ‘Rid-O-Rodent’ in. Katie asked how he felt about a guest from Nordic times.
‘Bah!’ exploded the doctor. ‘Ze Norsemen! Vhere vere zhey vhen ve needed zem?’
‘Probably dead,’ replied Gary, but Dr Ativan had already slammed the door shut. Katie thought that this was a definite ‘no’ vote, so Gary put him on the enemy list.
Old Mrs Paling in number 5 was quite deaf, and thought the children asked her if she wanted to ‘go biking’. Then her nephew turned up and said she needed peace and quite and would they please go away.
Pat and Bobby Kane at number 6 weren’t at home. They were in show business (‘Raising Kane – The Husband and Wife Double Act’) and always spent winter at the Tropical Leisure Park in Skegness. Katie put them down as friendly, however, as they always had all sorts of people to stay, including those two jugglers from the Hungarian Navy whom Mrs Marchmont had complained about.
Last came the Belchers, who rented out rooms at number 3. When she wasn’t on a cream-cake binge, Mrs Belcher made her own bread, and she had once even tried to keep chickens on the balcony until Mr Gray complained. Gary pulled the short straw and had to go and ask Mrs Belcher. In spite of – or perhaps because of – their healthy living, the Belchers always seemed to have a faint smell of gas about them. Gary gave a slight cough as he opened the front door. He began to explain that Amber was a real, thousand-year-old Viking, but before he could get very far, Mrs Belcher interrupted him. She was happy to have any ‘native’ person staying in the terrace, however old they were. She also gave him a home-made bun, which was very heavy. Gary thought it might come in handy later on as a weapon.
Amber was waiting for them back in the garden.
‘Well?’ she asked. ‘How many enemies have we got?’
Katie looked down her list. ‘Mr Gray, Doctor Ativan and Mrs Paling against. Pat and Bobby Kane, Mum and the Belchers for. I’m afraid that leaves Mrs Marchmont with the deciding vote.’
Joshua groaned. ‘Not Mrs Marchmont, she’s totally wicked.’
Amber’s eyes lit up. ‘Is she a troll? I could deal with her. I wouldn’t mind even if she has three heads. I could cut them all off as easily as slicing an apple with an axe. Or six heads. Of course, a nine-headed troll is slightly more difficult. You have to try and catch them when they’re going through a doorway.’
‘Why?’ asked Gary, despite the fact that none of this was very relevant.
‘Well,’ said Amber thoughtfully. ‘You see, although I’ve never actually seen a nine-headed troll in real life, I’m sure it would have to turn sideways to get through a door. That would slow it up enough for you to chop at least one or two heads off.’
‘This isn’t getting us anywhere.’ Katie sighed, wondering if they were wasting their time. Yet Amber was off. The little Viking was strutting up and down the garden booming out instructions about trolls in her very loud voice.
‘This Mrs Marchmont is probably very nice underneath. We must simply rid her of the troll hide she is wearing and then she will be on our side.’
‘You know, Katie,’ said Gary, ‘Amber might be right.’
Katie was exasperated. ‘Mrs Marchmont is not a troll,’ she shouted, just as Mr Patterson shuffled by on his way to mope over his Pitch and Putt course. Katie waved to him feebly as Gary shoved Amber behind a bush. He needn’t have bothered. Mr Patterson didn’t seem to see her.
‘Amber may have a point,’ said Gary. ‘I know Mrs Marchmont’s not a troll but under all that grumpiness she might really be nice. We just need to find a way to get to the niceness.’ Amber struggled out from the bush.
‘Yes, you must rid her of her troll hide,’ she repeated.
‘How do we do that?’ asked Joshua, who hadn’t followed the conversation and wasn’t in the least bit surprised to find that Mrs Marchmont was a troll.
‘At home,’ said Amber, beginning to march up and down again and slap her sword with her hand, ‘you take a troll and beat her with the twigs of nine new birch brooms and rub the hide off her in three tubs of milk. Then you scrub her in a bath of last year’s whey, cover her in sour milk and finally rinse her off in sweet milk.’ Amber paused triumphantly to see what the children thought of her plan.
‘There’s a can of evaporated milk in the larder,’ said Gary, ‘but I think Mum said it was past its sell-by date.’
‘We must face the troll and let nothing stand in our way.’ Amber marched up the stairs from the garden and round to the front of the house. All the children followed her.
Mrs Marchmont’s white front door had a large brass door knocker with a face like an Egyptian sphinx.
‘Look,’ whispered Amber. ‘She has gods to protect her. She must be a very powerful troll.’
‘Go and hide, Amber,’ urged Katie. ‘Let’s at least get her used to the idea of a Viking first before she meets one.’
Amber slipped behind a wall as Katie reached up and banged the sphinx door knocker. The sound reverberated through the house, and Joshua decided he would keep Amber company in hiding. The children could hear the tapping of Mrs Marchmont’s cane as she made her way to open the fron
t door. It seemed to take for ever, and even Katie, who as the oldest knew better, half expected to see a troll with three heads when the door finally opened.
‘What do you want?’ asked the old lady dressed all in black.
‘We . . . uh . . . that is, Gary and Joshua and Amb— and I wondered if we could talk to you about a visitor,’ stammered Katie, wishing she’d never started.
‘Go away!’ snapped Mrs Marchmont, raising her cane in a temper. This was too much for Amber. She leaped up from behind the wall and drew her sword.
‘Don’t you be horrid, you rotten old troll,’ she shouted at the top of her voice, which was very loud indeed and sent Ratatosk scurrying for cover. Katie, Joshua and Gary froze. Amber jumped between them and the old woman, ready to do battle, but Mrs Marchmont seemed to look right through the little Viking.
‘I am Amber, Hammer of the North,’ continued Amber, a little less confidently.
‘What are you children staring at?’ mumbled Mrs Marchmont, wondering why the children hadn’t at least run off. She stepped back and slammed the door shut so that the sphinx head rattled and banged in fury.
‘Should have cut her head off,’ mumbled Amber.
‘No,’ said Joshua. ‘Mum would have been cross.’
‘She didn’t see you,’ said Katie. ‘Looked right through you.’
‘Maybe we’re the only ones who can see Amber,’ wondered Gary.
‘Come on, let’s find out!’ shouted Joshua gleefully, pulling Amber in front of Dr Ativan’s house and ringing the bell. Amber stood defiantly with her sword drawn, but the good doctor saw nothing. Neither did Mrs Paling, nor Mr Gray. Mrs Belcher did think she saw a squirrel floating in mid-air, but went back inside and had a cup of camomile tea to calm her nerves.
In the end, the children didn’t ask anyone. Amber came inside to the Lloyds’ house and slept in the bottom drawer in Katie’s bedroom. She liked it straight away. She said it was ‘the very thing’ and fell fast asleep with her head on an old tracksuit top.
The Littlest Viking Page 3