4
All at Sea
Sigurd and Tim and Zoe stood in the head teacher's office looking across at Mrs Crock. ‘I think we got off to a bad start,’ said the head teacher. One of the cooks from the school kitchen had kindly lent the head teacher a cook's uniform, so that she had something dry to wear. Mrs Crock's hair was still rather bedraggled, and she had poked it up underneath a cook's cap. Tim was very surprised to see Mrs Crock in a blue uniform.
‘Are you going to do the cooking today, Mrs Crock?’ Zoe, who knew exactly why Mrs Crock was dressed like a cook, nudged her brother, but it was too late. Mrs Crock fixed him with a steely glare.
‘No, Tim, I am not going to do the cooking today. I am wearing this uniform because… because I wet my dress earlier and I had to change.’
Tim's eyes almost popped out of his head. ‘You wet yourself!’ he whispered in awe. Mrs Crock went very red.
‘Of course I didn't! Don't be so stupid! I meant that my dress became wet. In fact it was soaked, by your Viking friend here.’ Now the head teacher glared at Sigurd, and he shrugged.
‘I try to help,’ he explained.
Mrs Crock sighed. ‘I know. I understand that it was a mistake. However, if you are going to visit the classrooms today then I must ask you to make sure that you do not make the children, or the teachers, do anything silly: like all that ridiculous kissing and hugging.’
‘Viking custom,’ growled Sigurd.
‘Yes, I know it's a Viking custom. But we are not Vikings. We are civilised human beings.’
Sigurd frowned. ‘Scoose me,’ he said. ‘What is silly-fly human bean?’
‘Oh never mind.’ Poor Mrs Crock felt totally exhausted, and it was only a quarter to ten. ‘Tim, take Sigurd to your class, and please, please make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.’
‘I not stupid,’ Sigurd protested.
‘Of course you're not,’ smiled Mrs Crock, showing them the door and closing it behind them. ‘You're just a complete and utter nutcase,’ she muttered to herself before collapsing into a chair. Wearily she pulled open a little drawer in her desk and got out a small, silver hip-flask. It was astonishing how many people in Flotby had hipflasks. Sales were on the increase now that Sigurd was back in town.
Sigurd squeezed himself into the chair next to Tim, just managing to get his knees under the table. Tim grinned at his classmates, and they stared back at the great big hairy Viking sitting in their classroom. Mr Rumble smiled.
‘We are very lucky this morning, children. Tim's friend Sigurd is going to tell us about Viking times. I shall sit down in this quiet corner. Sigurd - why don't you come to the front of the class?’
The Viking beamed with pleasure and got up. Unfortunately his knees were still jammed under the table which overbalanced and crashed to the floor. Rachel Wagstaff sniggered.
‘He's very clumsy for a Viking,’ she murmured. ‘I bet he's not a real Viking. He's just pretend.’
‘He is real!’ hissed Tim, as he put the table back on its legs. ‘And you can shut up, Rachel.’
Rachel's hand shot into the air and waved about madly. ‘Mr Rumble, Tim told me to shut up!’
‘Good idea,’ thought Mr Rumble, but he smiled and said: ‘Over to you, Sigurd. What are you going to tell us about?’
Sigurd took off his helmet, scratched his head, put his helmet back on and stared at his feet. ‘I Viking!’ he announced.
‘Yes, we know that,’ sighed Mr Rumble.
‘I Sigurd, from Hedeby, Denmark.’
‘Yes. We know that too.’
‘I fierce warrior.’ Sigurd pulled his fiercest face and Mandy Perkins screamed. Mandy Perkins was always screaming about something.
‘He's only pretending,’ Tim pointed out with a groan.
‘It's all right, Mandy, Sigurd is acting,’ explained Mr Rumble. He turned to the Viking. ‘Tell us about life in Hedeby, Sigurd.’
‘Hedeby - my town. Lots of Vikings: some big like me, some small like baby, some young like Tim, some old like Crumble…’
‘Rumble!’ snapped Mr Rumble. ‘And I'm not that old either, if you don't mind. What did you eat?’
Sigurd closed his eyes and licked his lips. ‘Sometimes we have big feet,’ he said. ‘Very big feet to praise Thor, God of Thunder.’
‘He means feast,’ whispered Tim to the rest of the class, who were beginning to giggle.
‘We eat chickens and pigs and sheets and coats.’
‘Sheep and goats,’ muttered Tim.
‘I don't think people should eat meat,’ said Rachel. ‘I'm a vegetarian.’ Sigurd scowled, leant over Rachel's table and put one hand on Nosepicker.
‘Vikings kill vegetables,’ he hissed.
‘Oh!’ squeaked Rachel, and she didn't say anything else for a long time.
After that things went quite well for a while. The children became engrossed in what Sigurd told them and they began asking questions. Tim sat back proudly and listened to his tenth-century friend and Mr Rumble dozed quietly in the corner. It was when Terry Reeves started asking about Viking longships that things began to go wrong – again. Terry wanted to know how everyone knew when to row.
‘I went in a rowing boat with my dad once,’ he said. ‘I had two oars and he had two oars but we couldn't put them in the water at the same time. We just went round and round until he bashed one of my oars with his oar and they both broke and we got told off and had to be rescued.’
Sigurd nodded; this was a problem he knew well. He was hopeless at rowing himself but he would never admit it. In fact, he pretended he was pretty good at it. ‘I show you how we row,’ he declared. ‘First we put tables on sides like this.’ He made two rows of tables down the classroom, with their legs pointing inwards. ‘Now you put cheese down middle.’
‘Cheese?’ repeated Terry. ‘I haven't got any cheese.’
‘I've got some cheese in my sandwich,’ James said. ‘But that's for my lunch.’
‘I think he might mean chairs,’ Tim suggested.
‘Cheese!’ grinned Sigurd, picking up one chair after another, and putting them in rows of four between the tables. ‘Now we get oars.’
Tim stared at the tables and chairs. ‘Siggy's made a longship!’ he cried. ‘Look, the tables are the sides of the boat and the chairs are the benches that the rowers sit on. Brill - I'll get some oars! James - you come with me, and Terry.’ The three boys dashed out of the classroom, while Mr Rumble snored away in the corner, dreaming about being a Viking.
A few moments later Tim and the others came racing back. They had raided the caretaker's cupboard and taken a whole assortment of long-handled brooms, mops, window-openers and anything that was long, thin and vaguely oar-like.
‘Now you take oars!’ cried Siggy. The children settled into their seats and seized their oars. ‘We go Hedeby! Oars forward!’
Fourteen assorted mops, brooms and window-openers waved in the air. Several flowerpots were knocked from the windowsill on the port side, while on the starboard bow a rack of newly-filled paint-pots crashed to the floor and began making a multicoloured ocean for the longship to sail across.
Sigurd had never seen such hopeless rowing. He leapt on to Mr Rumble's desk and pulled Nosepicker from its tatty scabbard. ‘You keep time with me!’ he roared, beating out a rowing rhythm on Mr Rumble's desk with Nosepicker's heavy blade. ‘In! Out! In! Out!’ Large chips of wood splintered off the desk and spun through the air.
The longship was beginning to sink. The rowers were all quarrelling because they kept hitting each other with their brooms and mops. Mandy Perkins started screaming. Sally threw a flowerpot at Adam because she thought he'd flicked her with paint and Terry pushed Tim overboard.
Sigurd jumped up and down so much that he managed to jam the horns of his helmet into one of the overhead light fittings and rip it from the ceiling. He couldn't quite keep his balance with a large fluorescent light fitting waving about on his helmet and after a few seconds, he went tumbling down into Mr Rum
ble's lap.
‘Eh? Eh? EH!’ cried Mr Rumble, scrambling out from beneath Sigurd. He gazed round his classroom. Children were crawling through a mixed-up sea of paint, mud and flowers and prodding each other with mops and brooms. Plaster trickled down from the ceiling where Sigurd had ripped out the light, and now the Viking was on his feet and striding round the classroom, still with a light tube stuck on his helmet and shouting ‘In! Out! In! Out!’
Mr Rumble joined in. ‘Out! Out! Out!’ he bellowed, seizing a window-pole and poking Sigurd. ‘Get out of my classroom at once! You're not a Viking - you're a disaster!’ And with one final, vicious prod he sent Sigurd scampering up the corridor.
It was now almost twelve o'clock and Sigurd had reduced the school to a shambles a second time.
5
A Viking all Alone
At lunch time, Mrs Crock took Sigurd home. She had taken one look at Mr Rumble's shipwrecked classroom and decided it was the best thing to do. Zoe and Tim went with her to keep an eye on Sigurd.
Mr and Mrs Ellis were not surprised to see Sigurd being frog-marched up the hotel steps by Mrs Crock, but they were rather bemused by the cook's uniform the head teacher was wearing. Zoe noticed both her parents staring.
‘It's a long story,’ she began.
‘It's a wet story,’ Tim added.
Mrs Crock only stopped long enough to make a brief announcement. ‘If this Viking comes anywhere near my school ever again I shall kill him,’ she said bluntly. ‘I shall probably strangle him with my bare hands. I might even slice him up on my paper-trimmer and put the bits in a thousand different files in my filing cabinet.’
‘Things didn't work out, then?’ offered Mr Ellis.
‘That, Mr Ellis, is an understatement.’ Mrs Crock turned on her heels and strode back to the car. The door slammed, the engine revved and with a great deal of wheelspin Mrs Crock vanished.
‘Wow! Can she drive!’ breathed Tim.
There was a long, cold, silent pause, while everyone stood on the hotel steps. Sigurd tried a helpful smile, and his dark eyes shot from one Ellis to another. Even Tim could sense that there was trouble ahead - big trouble. He felt for his sister's hand and together they slipped quietly into the hotel. They hid behind the front door and listened, desperate to know what was going to happen.
Mr and Mrs Ellis stood across the hotel doorway, blocking the entrance. ‘You can't come in,’ said Mr Ellis. ‘I'm sorry Sigurd, but we're not having you back here. Every time you turn up there is trouble. We cannot afford to keep paying for the mistakes you make and we are not prepared to let you live in our hotel any longer. You've got to go. Mrs Tibblethwaite can stay here until she finds somewhere more suitable. In the meantime you will just have to manage for yourself.’
Tim and Zoe came racing out from behind the front door. ‘Dad! Mum! You can't throw him out!’
‘Oh yes we can,’ said Mrs Ellis. ‘It might seem cruel to you, but Sigurd has to go. He has cost us hundreds, probably thousands of pounds. He has driven everyone mad. Your father and I cannot cope any longer. We have enough worries trying to run this hotel, especially with business so bad at present.’
‘But throwing him out!’ Zoe cried. ‘It's not right. He'll be homeless.’
‘I've thought of that,’ said Mr Ellis. ‘He can stay in the greenhouse until Mrs Tibblethwaite finds somewhere better for him.’
‘The greenhouse? But Dad, half the glass is broken.’
‘I know. Sigurd was the one who broke it, so that's his problem. Come on, everyone inside, the Ramsbottoms are waiting for their lunch.’ Mr Ellis pushed his children into the hotel with Mrs Ellis following hard on their heels. She turned on the doorstep and eyed Sigurd sternly.
‘You've made all these problems, Siggy,’ she said. ‘Just for once, you sort them out.’
She stepped inside and shut the door, leaning back against it, her face white and drawn. She was certain that this was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life; but it had to be done. Somehow Sigurd had to understand his responsibilities to other people.
Sigurd stood on the hotel porch, gazing at the closed door. All his friends, all the people he most loved were on the other side of that door, shut away from him. He backed slowly down the hotel steps, his eyes fixed on the front of The Viking Hotel, but the door didn't open. Then he turned and walked away.
Tim and Zoe sat on Zoe's bed with their backs to the wall and their knees hunched up against their chests. ‘The thing is,’ said Zoe, ‘Siggy could be out there anywhere. Anything might have happened to him by now.’
‘He could have been kidnapped,’ suggested Tim.
‘Yeah…’ said Zoe, although she couldn't imagine why anyone in their right mind would want to kidnap a smelly, dirty Viking warrior like Sigurd.
‘He might have had all his blood sucked out by Dracula,’ Tim continued. Zoe thought that this was also rather unlikely.
‘Or chewed to bits by a werewolf, or snatched from the planet by aliens with three heads and ten legs….’
‘Tim!’
Tim frowned to himself and counted carefully on his fingers before turning to his sister. ‘Zoe, if you have ten legs does that mean you must have five bottoms?’
‘TIM! What are we going to do about Siggy?’
‘It's Dad's fault,’ muttered Tim through his teeth.
‘And Mum's,’ Zoe added. ‘They should be arrested and taken to court and charged with um….’ Zoe couldn't quite decide what her parents ought to be charged with.
‘Cruelty to Vikings,’ suggested Tim.
‘Yeah, something like that.’ There was a short silence during which Tim gave up trying to think for himself.
‘Maybe we could smuggle him back into the hotel,’ Zoe murmured.
‘Smuggle him back in? Brilliant idea! We could hide him in my room!’
‘I don't think that would work Tim. The best place for him would be one of the empty guest rooms.’
‘You can be quite clever sometimes, for a girl.’
Zoe glanced up at her brother's smiling face. ‘And you can be quite stupid,’ she replied. ‘Most of the time.’ Tim's smile vanished.
‘That's not very nice,’ he grumbled. She grinned and grabbed hold of his hand.
‘Come on. Let's see if we can find Siggy. He'll probably be down on the beach somewhere. He always goes and stares at the sea when he's upset about something.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Tim, who had never noticed anything of the sort.
‘Because I'm a girl and I'm clever.’
Tim had no answer to this. It was a real pain being two years younger than his sister. It meant that Zoe was always two years older. She was always ahead of him. He would never, ever be able to catch her up. Life was very unfair.
Zoe was right, too. Sigurd was down on the beach, standing at the water's edge and staring out at the flat, grey shimmering sea, while little waves rolled up to his feet and frothed over them. The children went and stood quietly at his side.
‘Siggy?’ Zoe held his big hand.
‘Mmmmm?’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I think Sigurd stupid,’ growled the Viking. ‘He biggest stupid in whole world.’
‘No you're not!’ cried Tim.
‘More stupid than donkey; more stupid than dog; even more stupid than eeny-weeny-teeny-titchy-witchy-snitchy mouse.’
‘No you're not!’ Tim repeated. Sigurd gave a big gloomy sigh and threw a stone into the sea.
‘I more stupid than carrot,’ he announced sadly.
Zoe felt that the conversation was rapidly slipping into a list of animals and vegetables. Sigurd could probably keep up this display of self-pity for hours. ‘Listen, Tim and I have got an idea. We could smuggle you back into the hotel.’
‘Scoose me, what is smuggle?’
‘We sneak you into the hotel when no one's looking, and you can hide in one of the spare rooms.’
Sigurd picked up another stone and hurled it as far
as he could. The stone seemed to curve through the air for ages before at last it dived down into the distant sea. A burst of foam exploded into the air, marking where the stone hit the surface, before it vanished from sight. Sigurd turned to Zoe and shook his head.
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I no go smuggling and sneaking. Mr, Mrs Ellis - they very angry with Sigurd. They right. I bad man.’
‘You're not bad!’ protested Zoe. ‘You're just, sort of, different.’
‘I make mess,’ Sigurd went on. ‘I break things, make people cross. I no good in hotel. I good one thing only - make trouble. Trouble easy-peasy for me. People say - Sigurd, what you do? I say I do trouble. I do good trouble. You want big trouble, small trouble, or piddle-size trouble?’
‘Sigurd,’ pleaded Zoe. ‘Don't go on like that. Please come back to the hotel.’
But the Viking pulled his big hand away from hers. ‘Go home Tim. Go home Zoe. I find place to sleep. Maybe I go to bluehouse like Mr Ellis say.’
‘Greenhouse,’ said Tim. ‘Not bluehouse.’
Sigurd shrugged. ‘Greenhouse, bluehouse - it good place for man like carrot. You clever - hotel your house. Now I stay here alone. Want to think.’
Tim and Zoe trudged back across the wet sand without him. ‘He's not really as stupid as a carrot, is he?’ asked Tim.
‘Of course he isn't. He's just feeling a bit sorry for himself.’
‘And he isn't trouble either, is he?’
Zoe thought for a few moments before answering. ‘Well, he is a bit,’ she said. ‘Really.’ She walked several steps and then spoke again. ‘I think that's why I like him so much.’
6
With a Mud-pat Here, and a Cow-pat There…
Tim and Zoe pleaded with their parents all evening, but it was no use. Even Mrs Tibblethwaite thought that Mr and Mrs Ellis had done the right thing. ‘I would have thrown him out long ago,’ she said.
There's a Viking in My Bed and Other Stories Page 10