There's a Viking in My Bed and Other Stories

by Jeremy Strong

  ‘Not “Who am I?”. You say “Where am I?”.’

  Mr Ellis heaved a deep sigh and made his way to the fuse box. A few minutes passed and the lights came back on. Siggy was on his feet in an instant, wildly waving his sword. ‘Where did that? Sigurd kill him!’

  ‘There's no need to kill anyone Sigurd. And you don't say “Where did that?” You must say “Who did that?”.’

  ‘Who did that?’ Sigurd repeated slowly.

  ‘Who did what?’ asked Mr Ellis, coming back into the room.

  Siggy looked at Mr Ellis, then at Zoe, and tried to puzzle out the new turn in the conversation. It was too much. His eyes narrowed to dark slits. ‘I kill him!’ he hissed.

  ‘Kill who?’ asked Mr Ellis, completely mystified.

  Mrs Tibblethwaite could stand it no longer. She rose majestically to her feet and bellowed at everyone. ‘That is quite enough of this gibberish. Perhaps we can get back to making the arrangements for the wedding. We shall have a church wedding, with a vicar and a white dress and a veil.’

  Tim giggled and whispered to his sister. ‘I didn't think vicars wore white dresses with veils.’

  ‘Sssh! That's not what Tibby means.’

  Zoe's reply was almost drowned out by the noise of Sigurd clambering on to a dining table. ‘By Odin!’ he thundered, ‘I say we have a Viking weeding. We kill ten sheep, five cows, eight pigs and forty chickens. We make fire for Thor to bless our weeding. Then you Viking woman.’

  Mrs Tibblethwaite hitched up her skirts and climbed up on the table beside her future husband. ‘Just a moment, Sigurd. We are not going to sacrifice anything. I shall have a white weeding dress – oh bother you! I mean a white wedding dress, and we will be married in a church by a vicar or we won't be married at all.’

  ‘Viking weeding!’ bellowed Sigurd, waving Nosepicker alarmingly close to the light again.

  ‘Church!’ screeched Mrs Tibblethwaite, stamping her foot on the table. All of a sudden there was an almighty crash as the table collapsed beneath their weight. Sigurd and Tibby vanished from sight, emerging seconds later as a struggling heap on the ground.

  They clung to each other as they struggled back to their feet.

  ‘All right, you win Siggy,’ laughed Mrs Tibblethwaite. But the Viking bowed low to her.

  ‘We marry in church,’ he said. ‘I am yours forever.’

  Tim turned away in disgust. ‘Yuk!’ he muttered. ‘I think I'm going to be sick.’

  Having finally agreed on the arrangements for the wedding, Sigurd and Mrs Tibblethwaite went to visit the vicar. Everything was going fine until the vicar asked Sigurd what his surname was.

  ‘Surname?’ repeated Sigurd, completely bewildered.

  ‘Yes. My surname is Buttertubs. What is yours?’

  ‘Buttertubs?’

  ‘Ah – so your name is Sigurd Buttertubs. That's quite unusual for a Viking, I think.’

  Mrs Tibblethwaite butted in. ‘Of course his name isn't Buttertubs. He doesn't know what you are talking about. Do you think I'd marry anyone called Sigurd Buttertubs? If he has to have a surname call him ‘Viking’. It's as good as anything else.’

  And so the marriage of Sigurd and Mrs Tibblethwaite went ahead. Tibby got her wish and arrived in a flowing white wedding gown and veil. Sigurd got his wish too. Halfway through the ceremony he threw a pile of twigs on the church floor, set them on fire and raised both his arms.

  ‘Hear me Thor,’ he thundered. ‘Bless this wedding. Make Mrs Tibblethwaite happy. Make…’

  Sigurd's touching speech was brought to an abrupt end as the vicar frantically baled water out of the font and over the fire. There was a loud hiss, followed by clouds of smoke and the guests ran coughing from the church and headed straight for The Viking Hotel to begin the celebrations. Mr Ellis opened several bottles of champagne. Siggy seemed to think that the delicate little glasses were just too little to drink out of. He seized a water jug and threw the contents to one side.

  There was a startled squeak. ‘Eeek! I'm soaked! I'm flooded! My new dress!’ cried the vicar's wife, as she stared open-mouthed at her soaking dress.

  Sigurd was crestfallen. ‘Very sorry, I make you better,’ he said and began to brush down Mrs Buttertubs with his huge hairy hands. At once she started screaming again.

  ‘Eeek! Get off me you brute! Don't touch me or I shall call the police! Help – police!’

  Mrs Ellis came to her rescue. She guided Sigurd away and went back to help Mrs Buttertubs recover. Meanwhile Sigurd had opened two more bottles of champagne, poured them into the water jug and was sitting in an armchair. He gazed lovingly across the room at his new wife and raised his jug of champagne to her.

  ‘Ears!’ he shouted.

  ‘Ears?’ muttered Mr Ellis. ‘Ears?’

  Zoe giggled quietly. ‘I think he means “cheers” Dad.’ Mr Ellis began to laugh. Soon everyone was going round the room saying ‘Ears!’ to each other and raising their glasses.

  Then some bright spark started saying ‘Legs!’ instead. The laughter got louder and louder.

  The only silent person now was Sigurd, who was completely baffled. Zoe sat down next to him, tears rolling down her cheeks. She tried to explain, but every time she began she was overcome with laughter.

  Nobody saw the small thin man in the dark suit enter the room and glance round suspiciously. He spoke seriously to each guest in turn until at last he came to Mr Ellis.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, in a voice that sounded as if it came from inside a very small tin can. ‘But my name is Mr Thripp. I have been staying at your hotel for the last four days.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ laughed Mr Ellis. ‘Hope you're enjoying yourself.’

  Mr Thripp pressed closer. ‘Actually, I can't say that I have. You see Mr Ellis, I work for the Health Department. I have been very concerned to see that the meals in this hotel are being served by one of the filthiest, dirtiest, most disgusting waiters I have ever seen in my life.’

  By this time Mr Ellis was on red alert. ‘Just what do you mean, Mr Thripp?’ hé demanded.

  ‘I mean that so-called Viking of yours. He is a public health hazard. He is revolting. I am going to have to report this hotel to the Health Department, which means that unless you do something about him straight away, you will be closed down. Good day, Mr Ellis.’

  The thin man slipped away through the guests like a slug through leaves. Mr Ellis stood quite still, the colour gone from his face and the enjoyment of the last few hours completely forgotten.

  2

  Taxi!

  When Mr Ellis told everyone about the Health Inspector's visit, they were all understandably upset… especially Sigurd… ‘I not dirty!’ he cried, banging both fists on his chest. Clouds of dust erupted from his furry top and several moths decided it was time to leave.

  Mrs Tibblethwaite sat down, a fierce look in her sharp eyes. ‘It's no use panicking. We shall have to work something out. What exactly is the problem?’

  Mr Ellis sighed deeply. ‘The problem is that if we don't find Siggy another job the hotel will be closed down and we shall go bankrupt.’

  Tibby looked surprisingly cheerful. ‘I really don't see what all the fuss is about. The answer is quite clear. We take my dear husband out of the kitchen and give him something else to do.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Zoe.

  ‘Making the beds? Gardening? Cleaning rooms?’ suggested Mrs Tibblethwaite.

  Mr and Mrs Ellis looked at each other thoughtfully. It hadn't taken long to teach the Viking how to wait at table. Maybe he could be taught how to do something else. Mr Ellis stood up.

  ‘Right then Siggy, how would you like to be a chambermaid?’

  ‘Dad – he can't be a chambermaid! He'll have to be a chamberviking!’ giggled Tim. Mr Ellis smiled. Sigurd looked puzzled.

  ‘I want you to clean the bedrooms, Siggy. Understand?’

  ‘I understand. I clean beetroots.’

  ‘Not beetroots – bedrooms. Mr Johnson is leaving R
oom Nine. I want you to get all the bed linen from his bed and take it to the laundry room, okay?’

  ‘Okey-dokey boss,’ Sigurd replied as he disappeared up the stairs leaving a bewildered Mr Ellis staring after him.

  ‘Where on earth did he learn to say “okey-dokey boss”?’

  Tim turned bright red and hurried off to find something to do, leaving Mr Ellis to draw his own conclusions.

  Upstairs, Siggy had reached Room Nine. He banged on the door and when there was no reply he marched straight in. Mr Johnson was still there, lying under the duvet, fast asleep. Sigurd bent over the unfortunate guest and shouted at him. ‘Hey you! I clean beetroots. I clean today. You get up and go away!’

  Mr Johnson stirred and groaned. ‘What? What's going on? Look, I've got a stinking headache and I don't have to leave for another hour. Leave me alone. I'm going back to sleep.’

  But the Viking wasn't having any of this. Mr Ellis had told him to collect the bed linen from Room Nine and that was exactly what he was going to do. Sigurd pulled out Nosepicker and pointed it at Mr Johnson. ‘I clean beetroots!’ he hissed.

  ‘All right, go and clean beetroots if you have to, but leave me alone.’ Mr Johnson sighed and turned over with a large groan.

  Sigurd stared down at the poor guest. He pushed Nosepicker back into its scabbard and gritted his teeth. He reached down and grabbed all four corners of the bottom sheet. With one almighty heave he hoisted all the bedding, duvet and all, on to his shoulders, with Mr Johnson trapped inside and struggling to free himself.

  ‘Hey! What's going on! Put me down you oaf!’

  ‘I tidy!’ shouted Siggy, stomping triumphantly downstairs.

  ‘You're not tidy, you're filthy!’ came a muffled voice from inside the duvet. ‘Now let me out. Help!’

  Mrs Ellis was the first to hear the cries coming from the back of the hotel and she hurried round to see what was going on. She was greeted by the sight of Sigurd striding into the laundry with a huge sack on his back. It was wriggling and shouting and had arms and legs popping out from all directions.

  ‘Siggy? What is going on?’

  The Viking grinned. ‘I clean beetroot. This Room Nine.’ So saying, he let the bundle fall to the floor.

  ‘Ouch!’ Mr Johnson struggled from the sheets, and after falling down three times because his feet were caught up, finally stood up in front of Siggy, red-faced and fuming. ‘You idiot!’ he yelled. ‘You numbskull! Peabrain! Noodlebonce!’

  Siggy stepped backwards as Mr Johnson marched towards him. ‘I've never been in such an hotel!’

  Mrs Ellis hastily tried to calm things down. ‘I'm terribly sorry, Mr Johnson. Sigurd doesn't quite understand the rules of the hotel yet,’ she said apologetically. ‘Come with me and I shall make sure we give you a big discount on your bill.’ As she took Mr Johnson gently by the arm and led him away she glared back at Sigurd. ‘And you wait there and don't move!’

  As soon as Mrs Ellis had finished with Mr Johnson she went off to find her husband. There was more serious talking to be done. ‘I just can't cope with it all Keith. I am not going to spend the rest of my life giving our guests discounts because of that totally dopey Viking.’

  Mr Ellis gave his wife a comforting hug. ‘Don't worry. I think I've come up with a pretty good plan.’ Penny Ellis glanced at her husband. ‘You know how I've always complained about fetching and carrying guests to and from the station? Well, I thought I might teach Sigurd how to drive, and then he can do all that for us!’

  ‘Are you sure Keith? I mean do you think Siggy could cope?’

  ‘Of course, no problem! He'll love it. He'll take to it like a duck to water.’

  ‘I just hope you're right,’ murmured Mrs Ellis, already foreseeing disaster.

  Siggy's first lesson was in the hotel carpark. Mr Ellis had taken the precaution of making sure there were no other cars parked there. Sigurd sat in the front seat looking terribly proud. He was quietly making ‘brrrm brrrrrm’ noises into his beard and grinning madly at Mrs Tibblethwaite, who was standing by the back door watching.

  ‘Think of it like a boat,’ suggested Mr Ellis helpfully. ‘This steering wheel controls the rudder.’

  Sigurd appeared mystified. ‘No oars. No sail. No boat. No float.’ Mr Ellis wiped his forehead.

  ‘No, well, perhaps not,’ he said, beginning to wonder if teaching Sigurd to drive had been such a good idea after all. He took a deep breath. ‘Listen, this wheel here makes the car go where you want it to. Understand?’

  ‘Okey-dokey boss,’ grinned Sigurd.

  ‘Now, turn the key and start up the engine.’ Mr Ellis pointed to the ignition switch. Sigurd gave the key a twist and the engine burst into life. So did Siggy. He shouted with delight and clapped his hands, bouncing up and down on the seat and going ‘brrrm brrrrrm’ all over again. Mr Ellis tried to ignore him.

  ‘This is the handbrake. Take it off like this. Put your foot on the clutch and push it down. That's right. Now we put the gear lever into first gear. See that other pedal? That's the accelerator pedal. Push it down gently and take your other foot off the clutch and weh-hey-whoa-ooohaaaargh…!’

  Suddenly they were off. In a giant series of leaps and bounds the car began to spring across the carpark. Stones spurted from the wheels and shot out behind, showering Mrs Tibblethwaite. Mr Ellis hastily grabbed the steering wheel and tried to give the car some sense of direction. At last the car stalled and came to an abrupt halt.

  Sigurd threw open his door and leapt out on to the carpark, where he began a madcap dance of triumph. Even Mrs Tibblethwaite joined in, while Mr Ellis sat in his car breathing heavily and saying a few prayers of thanksgiving for a safe delivery. All at once Siggy was back in the driving seat.

  ‘Again,’ said the Viking. ‘I go faster.’ ‘Steady on,’ said Mr Ellis. ‘Don't get too excited. Right, start up again and this time we'll go for second gear.’

  ‘Second fear!’ shouted Sigurd incorrectly.

  ‘You said it,’ muttered Mr Ellis as the engine came to life and the little car began bucking round and round the carpark. ‘Put the clutch in,’ yelled Mr Ellis above the roar of the overworked engine. ‘Now put the gear lever into second gear.’

  ‘Second fear!’ cried Siggy again as the speed of the car increased by about twenty miles an hour.

  ‘Slow down, Siggy! Take your foot off the gas! Slow down! Watch the corners! Change gear! Slow down! Turn left! No right! Left! Change gear! Steer! Watch that…!’ Mr Ellis's voice trailed away to a helpless whimper as the car went charging round and round in circles that were getting wider and wider and faster and faster.

  ‘Brrrm brrrm brrrm,’ yelled Sigurd, grinning madly. Mr Ellis put his hands over his eyes. Never had ‘second fear' seemed so real.

  It was at this point that Siggy grew tired of going round and round in circles and yanked the steering wheel in the opposite direction. The turn was so sharp that the car almost turned right over. Mr Ellis was hurled against the side door and when he next looked straight ahead he was alarmed to see that they were now heading for the hotel garden. There was a sickening crunch as the car bounced up the kerb and then they were on the grass. Mr Ellis made a last attempt to grab the steering wheel and save them both, but it was too late.

  ‘Brrrm brrrm brrrrm!’ cried Sigurd once more as, with a final burst of speed, the car shot across the lawn and did a nose dive into the hotel pond.

  ‘Water!’ announced Sigurd. ‘Splish splash! I get out now.’ He climbed from his seat out into the pond and struggled to the shore. The car sank a bit deeper. Mr Ellis pulled himself from the passenger seat and followed the Viking back to the hotel.

  Sigurd looked back at the sinking car with great disappointment. ‘That car no good,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It no float. Bad car. I go clean beetroots for Mrs Ellis.’

  Mr Ellis watched him squelch into the hotel with a look of despair. He knew that Mr Thripp would soon be back, but for now he didn't have the energy to do anything about
it.

  3

  Deathsnore!

  It took the breakdown truck over an hour to pull the car out of the hotel pond. Thankfully, apart from the car being rather wet not too much damage had been done. The car wouldn't start of course, and had to be towed to the garage to be dried out. Meanwhile, the Ellises were still left with the problem of how to employ Sigurd.

  Tim suggested that maybe Sigurd could carry guests' bags up to their rooms, but Mrs Ellis was not so sure.

  ‘I think that half the problem is that Siggy doesn't know how to talk to people normally. After all, he does come from the tenth century. It must be so difficult for him.’

  Her husband gave a half-hearted smile and kissed his wife on the cheek. ‘You're so forgiving. Sigurd does all these awful things and you forgive him.’

  ‘That's because he's locked in a time-warp. You're not, Keith, and if you don't get that hedge trimmed soon YOU certainly won't be forgiven.’

  ‘Ah – well I've had a really good idea about that hedge,’ began Mr Ellis. ‘I am going to hand over the gardening to Sigurd. It's ideal for him. A bit of grass cutting, some hedge trimming and so on – just the job.’

  Mrs Ellis was doubtful. ‘You may be right Keith, but knowing Sigurd you probably aren't. Give it a try anyway. He can't be any worse at it than he was at cleaning the bedrooms. Goodness me – look at Mrs Tibblethwaite, she doesn't look very happy. I wonder what's up.’

  Mrs Tibblethwaite was indeed very unhappy and quite unlike her usual self. She hurried over to Mrs Ellis. ‘I don't know what to do. I just don't know,’ was all she could say.

  ‘Please Mrs Tibblethwaite, do try and keep calm,’ said Mr Ellis. ‘Whatever's the matter?’

  ‘I've just had this awful telephone call. I don't know what to do. My sister, you remember, she came to the wedding – she lives in Scotland. Well, her next door neighbour has just telephoned to say she's had a nasty fall. She's been taken to hospital with goodness knows what broken.’ She turned her pale face towards Mr Ellis. ‘What am I to do?’