There's a Viking in My Bed and Other Stories

by Jeremy Strong

  ‘A present?’ repeated Mrs Ellis weakly.

  ‘To say thank you and how are you,’ explained Siggy. He hauled on the rope in his hand. There was a strange clumping noise beyond the door. Sigurd pulled harder and at last brought into the room a large black and white cow. It stood there next to the settee like an alien from a distant planet, watching everyone with vast, moony eyes.

  ‘This for you,’ Sigurd said to Mr Ellis. ‘Present from Thor, God of Thunder. We make offering.’ Siggy pulled Nosepicker from his scabbard. ‘Tonight we kill cow to say thank you for safe return and I not drown.’

  One of the Johnson children was hiding behind her father. The youngest one was holding his nose and pulling at Mrs Johnson's sleeve.

  ‘Mummy, mummy, I think that cow has just done a…’

  ‘Yes dear,’ interrupted Mrs Johnson quickly. ‘I know.’

  ‘Tonight we have feast,’ Sigurd went on. ‘Lots to eat. Yummy.’

  Mr Ellis sighed heavily. A few minutes earlier, he had wished Sigurd was still with them. Now the Viking was back and already Mr Ellis was wishing he'd gone down with the boat, gurgle-gurgle.

  ‘Zoe, please take Siggy and that cow outside,’ he said. ‘Explain why we can't sacrifice cows, and for goodness sake find out where this one came from. Take it back before some farmer slaps us all in jail. I shall try and sort out things here.’

  Mr Johnson had started to laugh. He got up from his chair and seized Mr Ellis by the hand, pumping it warmly. ‘I have an apology to make. I certainly do believe you. That Siggy must be a real Viking, couldn't be anything else. He's either a Viking or the biggest banana-brain I've ever met. Anyhow, I think it's fantastic. Question is, have you got a room for my family? We'd love to stay with a real Viking, wouldn't we?’

  Mrs Johnson looked at the mess on the lounge floor. ‘Only if the cow goes.’

  Mr Ellis hastily began to push the bemused cow backwards out of the room. ‘Of course, no problem. This cow hasn't paid its bill for weeks, anyway,’ he joked.

  Mrs Tibblethwaite let out a long sigh while Mr Ellis and Zoe rushed off to fetch keys and prepare beds. She could see how busy they were, so she quietly set about cooking supper for everyone.

  By the time bedtime arrived, the Ellis family were exhausted. Mr Ellis kissed his children good night. ‘I have an apology to make, too. I'm sorry I put Sigurd on that boat.’

  Zoe hugged her father tightly. ‘That's all right, Dad. He's come back to us, hasn't he?’

  ‘He certainly has,’ said Mr Ellis.

  By the time morning arrived, Mr Ellis had done some serious thinking. He had spent half the night discussing plans with his wife. They had a big new family staying at the hotel, and that meant a lot of extra work. This time they would really have to train Siggy to do some of it.

  ‘After all,’ said Mr Ellis, ‘it wasn't his fault that he put the washing-up in the washing machine.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ his wife smiled.

  ‘We'll train him to be a waiter. We always need extra hands when it comes to dishing up food. Tim and Zoe will be back at school, so they won't be able to help much longer.’

  The big plans were put into operation as soon as Sigurd appeared downstairs. Everybody was already at breakfast and Mr Ellis had warned them that Sigurd was going to help. ‘Please be patient. He has a lot to learn.’

  The smallest Johnson child poked his father's leg. ‘This is going to be fun, Dad!’

  Siggy appeared with two plates of scrambled egg and toast.

  ‘That's for Mr and Mrs Johnson,’ said Mr Ellis. ‘Now, watch me, Siggy.’ Mr Ellis carried a plate over to Mrs Tibblethwaite and put it in front of her. Sigurd grinned and took his plates across to the Johnsons. He tipped the contents on to the place mats. Ssplopp!

  ‘Oh dear,’ murmured Mrs Johnson.

  ‘Siggy, you have to leave it on the plates,’ explained Mr Ellis.

  The Viking shook his big hairy head. ‘No, make plaps dirty. No want dirty plaps.’

  ‘It's okay, it doesn't matter if they get dirty. We always keep our food on the plates. Understand?’

  ‘I understand,’ said Siggy and he began to pick up the scrambled egg with his fingers and smear it back on the plates. The smallest Johnson tittered.

  ‘He's funny,’ he said.

  ‘He's yukky,’ the oldest one said, with some disgust.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ said Mr Ellis hastily. He pulled Sigurd into the corner of the room and started hissing instructions at him. Mrs Tibblethwaite tapped Mr Ellis on the shoulder.

  ‘Let me do this. You get back to the kitchen. I'll soon have him under control.’

  Mr Ellis retired gratefully to the kitchen, while Mrs Tibblethwaite slung a tea-towel over one arm and grabbed the Viking with the other. ‘Now, watch me,’ she ordered, and Sigurd followed her like a lamb.

  Mr and Mrs Ellis and Tim and Zoe watched spellbound from the kitchen. ‘You know, I do believe the old girl is quite enjoying herself,’ said Mr Ellis. ‘They make quite a pair, don't they, Penny?’

  ‘She's a bit like a Viking warrior herself,’ his wife suggested. ‘I'll be sad when she goes. She's been so helpful – more like one of the staff than a guest.’

  Mr Ellis smiled. ‘Maybe everything is going to be all right after all. Perhaps Siggy will bring us good luck.’

  ‘He's brought us a cow already,’ Tim pointed out.

  Zoe started to laugh.

  7

  Vanishing Act

  Mrs Tibblethwaite was having remarkable success with Sigurd. She bossed him about like nobody's business, but the Viking smiled and laughed and nodded. He was soon well on his way to becoming a star waiter. Meanwhile Mrs Tibblethwaite was often to be seen wearing Sigurd's helmet. She looked quite the part.

  The two weeks of Mrs Tibblethwaite's stay passed all too quickly. Mr and Mrs Ellis did not want the stout lady to go, as she had proved so helpful around the hotel. Tim and Zoe were both very fond of her because although she often had a strict and bossy manner, her heart was as soft as a king-size duvet.

  And when Sigurd discovered that Mrs Tibblethwaite was leaving, he went to pieces completely. He tore at his hair, stamped up and down the stairs, frightened all the guests with his shouts and raging. Nobody understood a word he said: it was all in his own tongue. He would not lift a finger to help in the hotel. In short, the Viking had gone on strike.

  Mrs Tibblethwaite was upset as well. She did not like to see Sigurd so unhappy, so she sat upstairs in her bedroom and tried to knit a jumper to take her mind off everything. The idea did not seem to work very well, as she ended up with the only jumper in the world that had three arms, no neck and a sock attached to one sleeve.

  ‘Can't Mrs Tibblethwaite stay?’ pleaded Zoe.

  ‘It's really up to her,’ explained Mrs Ellis.

  ‘Can't she work here?’ Zoe went on. Her mother stopped and looked at her in surprise.

  ‘I don't know, Zoe. It never occurred to me. I don't suppose she would want to work here. She's got her own home, hasn't she?’

  Even so, Mrs Ellis became very thoughtful after Zoe's suggestion, and decided she would talk to her husband about it as soon as possible. But there were other problems that needed seeing to first. All the chickens had disappeared from the kitchen table.

  Mrs Ellis was certain she had taken three chickens from the fridge, ready to roast for lunch. When she couldn't see them, she decided her husband must already have put them in the oven to roast. When Mr Ellis couldn't find them in the fridge he had thought she must have put them in the oven.

  It was now almost lunchtime, and they both went to the oven to get the chickens. But the chickens weren't there. They had quite disappeared. Mr and Mrs Ellis looked at each other and said the same thing at the same time. ‘Sigurd!’

  They raced upstairs to his room, where they found the Viking moping on his bed. Mr Ellis hauled him to his feet. ‘Chickens! What have you done with all the chickens?’

  ‘Chickens,’ repeated
Sigurd. It was not a word he knew.

  ‘Yes – chickens!’ roared Mr Ellis frantically. He began to strut up and down the room with his fists tucked under his armpits and his elbows waggling. ‘Parrk parrk paarkk!’

  Sigurd's eyes grew wider and wider. He took off his helmet and scratched his head. Mrs Ellis hurriedly joined her husband. ‘Parrkk puk-puk-puk-puk-puk parrkk!’

  ‘Chickens!’ cried Sigurd suddenly with a big smile, and he nodded feverishly.

  ‘Thank goodness he understands,’ panted Mr Ellis. But the Viking was now on his hands and knees, and had begun to crawl round the room.

  ‘Woof wuff-wuff rrrroooff!’ Sigurd looked up at Mrs Ellis with his tongue hanging from his mouth. ‘Rrrroooffff!’

  ‘I don't believe it. He thinks this is a game,’ moaned Mr Ellis. He grabbed Sigurd and pulled him on to his feet. ‘Sigurd, chickens, where are they? We want to eat. Eat chickens. Lunchtime. Understand?’

  ‘Ah, chickens. Yum-yums. I give to gods for offering. I give chickens to gods in Valhalla. I say, Oh Gods be good and Mrs Dufflecoat no go away.’

  ‘WHERE ARE THE CHICKENS!’ screamed Mr Ellis.

  Sigurd paused and regarded Mr Ellis coolly. ‘I show you,’ he said calmly, and marched downstairs. He took them outside and pointed up to the porch roof. This had a triangular front, with a wooden spike at each corner. There was a farm-fresh oven-ready chicken stuck on each spike.

  Mr Ellis was about to break into a war dance when he saw the expression on Sigurd's face. The Viking was gazing upwards, his eyes half closed, his arms raised to the heavens.

  ‘Hear me, Odin!’ the Viking cried. ‘Hear me, Thor! Hear me all the gods in Valhalla! Take my small offering and speak to the heart of Mrs Dufflecoat so she no go away. Speak to the hearts of Mr Ellis and Mrs Ellis and Tim and Zoe, who look after me, so they no send Mrs Dufflecoat.’ Sigurd slowly lowered his arms.

  Mrs Ellis gave a small nod and led Sigurd back indoors. ‘I'm sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I didn't understand. Go back upstairs, Sigurd, and we'll cook beefburgers instead.’

  Mr Ellis was suddenly taken by an idea. He went straight to Mrs Tibblethwaite, explained the problem and asked her how she would solve it. Mrs Tibblethwaite looked him in the eye and said that the answer was perfectly obvious: ‘You offer me a job and I say yes, then I stay here and everyone is happy.’ And that was how Mrs Tibblethwaite came to work at The Viking Hotel.

  As for the chickens, they stayed up on the porch roof for a very long time. Zoe explained that it was quite normal for Vikings to make offerings like that: ‘Usually it was a pig or cow, I think. We learned about it at school.’

  Whether it was the chickens on the porch roof, Sigurd or Mrs Tibblethwaite, nobody could be sure – but more and more people wanted to come and stay at The Viking Hotel. The hotel was soon doing great business, with all rooms full and booked for months to come.

  The summer season ended with the great Flotby Viking Carnival. People all over the town had been preparing for weeks. It was a grand event, with parades along the streets, bands playing and a Viking Feast in the evening. There was dancing too.

  Sigurd was like a small child. When he first saw the streets filled with Vikings, he thought Ulric Blacktooth had found him at last. He sat at the front window, watching with a pensive, faraway look in his eye. Zoe sat down beside him. She thought he would be excited and happy, today of all days. This was quite unexpected.

  ‘You're thinking about home, aren't you, Siggy?’

  ‘Hedeby,’ grunted the Viking. Seeing all the people dressed like Vikings made his heart ache. Zoe left him to think alone.

  Later in the evening they all went down to the harbour, where the grand feast and dance were to take place. Riding the waves in the harbour was a small boat, all done up like a Viking longship. It had shields along the sides and a striped sail. It even had a dragon's head prow (made from painted egg-boxes). Sigurd gazed at it with a curious smile and said, ‘Baby boat,’ which made everyone laugh. They went into the dance and left Siggy standing by the harbour, looking out to sea.

  ‘He'll be all right,’ said Tim.

  ‘I'll go and have a word with him,’ said Mrs Tibblethwaite. ‘I'll see if I can get him to come and have a dance.’ She set off along the harbour wall.

  It was over an hour later that Mr Ellis suddenly realised he hadn't seen either Sigurd or Mrs Tibblethwaite come into the hall. Everyone had finished eating already, and there was no sign of them. His heart missed a beat as the truth came to him. ‘Zoe, Tim, Penny! Quick, follow me!’

  They pushed through the dancing crowds and out into the warm summer air. A brief glance at the harbour told them all they needed to know. The Viking longship had gone. They raced along the harbour wall and stared out across the dark sea.

  ‘Nothing,’ muttered Mr Ellis. ‘I can't see a thing.’

  ‘There! Over there, right on the horizon!’ yelled Zoe. Far, far out to sea was a tiny sail. They watched it as long as possible, until it became a speck and then nothing.

  The Ellises walked back to the hotel in a deep silence. On the porch steps they stopped and looked up at three very tatty old chickens.

  ‘Give them a safe voyage, Odin,’ said Mr Ellis quietly, and they went inside.

  It was well past midnight when there was a loud knock on the front door. Mr Ellis went down in his dressing gown. Outside were two extremely wet figures. One was short and stout, the other was tall and hairy.

  ‘We went round and round,’ grinned Sigurd.

  ‘He can't sail for toffee,’ giggled Mrs Tibblethwaite. ‘He's totally hopeless. First of all…’

  ‘He lost an oar,’ butted in Mr Ellis. ‘Don't tell me.’

  ‘Big waves, very wet,’ said Sigurd. ‘Sail come down.’

  ‘He was underneath, of course,’ Mrs Tibblethwaite put in. ‘Then he struggled to get out and he couldn't see what he was doing and kicked me overboard…’

  ‘Gurgle-gurgle,’ grinned Sigurd. ‘Sail go dropsy-flopsy. Mrs Dufflecoat make big splash. She make very, very, very big splash.’

  ‘Yes, well that's quite enough of that, Sigurd. You made a big splash, too.’ Mrs Tibblethwaite turned back to Mr Ellis. ‘He fell in as well, of course.’

  ‘Gurgle-gurgle,’ added Mr Ellis. ‘Come on inside, the pair of you.’ He began to switch on the hotel lights. ‘Penny! Zoe! Tim! Come downstairs. We have some important guests who have just arrived.’

  Sigurd stood in the hallway, with a large puddle of sea-water collecting round his feet. ‘Tomorrow I make offering to thank gods in Valhalla for safe return,’ he said.

  ‘That will be fine, Sigurd,’ said Mr Ellis. ‘You can have a slice of bacon and no more. We haven't got any pigs, sheep or cows, so a slice of bacon will have to do.’

  Sigurd stood and grinned at everyone like a huge, happy child. Suddenly he grabbed Mrs Tibblethwaite and gave her an enormous kiss. ‘Sigurd like Mrs Dufflecoat. Like very much.’

  ‘Oh – Siggy!’ Mrs Tibblethwaite had turned bright red.

  ‘Me love you!’ declared Sigurd, with his idioticsmile. Then he grabbed her once more.

  ‘All right, that's enough,’ said Mr Ellis. ‘Stop it at once. Time we ended all this.’

  Viking in Trouble

  This is for ‘Berserkers’ everywhere

  1

  Trouble Ahead

  The Viking Hotel in Flotby was famous throughout Britain – not for its fine cooking or excellent sea-views – but because it had a real Viking living and working there. People came from far and wide to see Sigurd. He was, after all, quite a sight. He had a fiercesome black beard and moustache and somehow managed to draw attention to himself wherever he went. This may have had something to do with the way he waved his huge sword *Nosepicker* about his head.

  Nobody was quite sure how Sigurd came to be in Flotby at the end of the twentieth century, but Siggy had a strange story to tell.

  ‘I from Hedeby in Denmark. I sail with Ulric Blacktooth. Sit on boat long time
and get dead bottom. Big war fleet. We come to kill everyone and steal everything. But mist come like cloud of darkness, all spooky-wooky. Boats go in mist, can't see, like helmet slip down too far. We listen to sea. I sit at front of ship and ship go bang-bang against rocks. I fall off. Splash. Very wet, very cold. I get up. Where boat? Boat gone. I climb up cliff. I come to house. Agh! It's me! Outside is sign with me – Viking Hotel. I walk in. Here I am. I am Sigurd from Hedeby in Denmark. Good morning and welcome! Hot baths in every room. Very well thank you. The toilets are over there. Goodnight!’

  At this point Sigurd would bow to his audience and there would be much applause. He had told this story many times. After all, he had been living at The Viking Hotel for almost a year now. Poor Mr and Mrs Ellis, the owners of the hotel, had been driven quite mad by him.

  The problem was very simple. Siggy had come straight out of the tenth century and into the twentieth. A lot of things had changed since 900AD, and Siggy was still trying to get used to them. Meanwhile Mr and Mrs Ellis were still trying to get used to him.

  The Ellis's children, Tim and Zoe, thought that Siggy' was marvellous. They enjoyed showing him off to their friends and Zoe had even undertaken the hard task of trying to teach Sigurd some English.

  Then there was Mrs Tibblethwaite, the widower who had first come to the hotel as a guest, but had stayed on – and on – and on. It wasn't much of a secret that Siggy was madly in love with her, or that Tibby, as she was affectionately known, had a very large soft spot for the daft Viking. It seemed quite obvious that they would get married.

  The decision bit was simple, but after that it got very complicated and very noisy.

  ‘We have Viking weeding!’ announced Sigurd.

  ‘Wedding, not weeding,’ corrected Zoe.

  ‘Ah! Viking wedding!’ shouted Siggy, waving Nosepicker above his head and slicing through the lampshade. There was a loud bang as the hotel electrics fused and everything went dark.

  ‘Who am I?’ bellowed Sigurd, crashing into a near-by table.