Trolls United!
by Alan MacDonald
illustrations by Mark Beech
To the children of West Bridgford Junior School – A.M.
To my mum, Catherine – M.B.
PRIDDLES: Roger, Jackie and Warren
Description: ‘Pasty-faced peeples’
Likes: Peace and quiet
Dislikes: Trolls
Contents
Grump
Robbers
Foul!
Scrawly Stuff
Two Times Troll
Size Tens
Goats
Temper, Temper
Trial
The Big Match
Job for a Troll
Footnote
Also by the Author
Grump
Thump, Thump, Thump! The sound of Ulrik kicking his new football against the wall echoed through the house.
‘Look, Dad! Watch this!’ he cried. The ball crashed against the wall, bounced on to the table and landed neatly in Mr Troll’s bowl, spraying him with milk and Coco Pops.
‘Ulrik!’ roared Mr Troll. ‘Stop doing that!’
‘Sorry, Dad. It was an accident. I’ve got to practise my shooting.’
‘Practise it somewhere else then.’
‘Oh Egbert, don’t be such a grump! Let him play!’ tutted Mrs Troll. For the past few weeks her husband hadn’t been himself at all. He did nothing but sit around the house all day watching television. Yesterday she’d found him with his nose pressed to the screen talking to people on a chat show called Richard and Judy.
She sat down at the table and emptied out a sock full of coins, stacking them into neat piles. Ulrik came to look over her shoulder.
‘What are you doing, Mum?’ he asked.
‘Counting our peas1,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘I’ve got to go shopping today.’
‘Are we rich?’ asked Ulrik.
‘I’m afraid not, my ugglesome. Everything costs a pile of peas. That’s why I have to go out to work in the mornings.’
‘Humph! Call that work?’ grunted Mr Troll. ‘Delivering newspapers!’
‘It’s a good thing someone round here does some work,’ replied Mrs Troll frostily. ‘If it was left to you, we’d all be living on Coco Pops.’
‘I like Coco Pops,’ said Ulrik. ‘But there’s never any left. Dad eats them all.’
‘I do not!’ protested Mr Troll. He shook the packet only to find it was empty.
‘Anyway,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘you’re not the only one who can get a job.’
Mrs Troll stared at him. Ulrik stopped playing with the coins on the table.
‘You got a job, Dad? Uggsome! What kind of job?’ he asked.
‘As a matter of fact, it’s in a shop,’ said Mr Troll proudly.
‘Eggy! But that’s wonderful!’ exclaimed Mrs Troll. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘Well, I haven’t got it yet.’
‘You just said you had!’
‘No, I didn’t,’ said Mr Troll. ‘The interview’s this afternoon. But once they meet me, they’ll probably want to make me big boss of the whole shop.’
Ulrik and his mother exchanged looks. In the last month the Job Centre had sent Mr Troll for half a dozen interviews, but not one of them had been successful. Somehow he always returned home in a foul temper and refused to discuss what had happened.
‘What kind of shop is it, Dad?’ asked Ulrik. ‘Do they sell feetball boots?’
‘They sell everything,’ said Mr Troll. ‘It’s that hulksome great shop in town.’
‘Bagley’s?’ said Mrs Troll. ‘Good goblins! You’d better change that vest.’
‘What’s wrong with my vest?’ asked Mr Troll, inspecting the greasy stains on it.
‘At least lick off the beans,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘And when you get to the interview don’t go roaring – you know how it frights peeples. Just speak slowly and softly.’
‘Slowly and softly,’ repeated Mr Troll.
‘And be confident.’
Mr Troll nodded and scratched his enormous bottom in a confident manner.
Mrs Troll glanced at the clock on the wall.
‘Well, I must get to the shops or there won’t be any supper tonight. Are you ready for school, my hairling?’ she asked Ulrik.
‘Yes, Mum,’ said Ulrik.
‘Let me see your fangs.’
Ulrik bared the two small fangs on either side of his mouth.
‘You haven’t been cleaning them again?’ asked Mr Troll.
‘No, Dad.’
‘Or going in that shower?’
‘No, Dad.’
Ulrik tried to squirm away as his dad lifted his arms to sniff underneath. Only last week he’d caught Ulrik in the shower, dabbing himself with a bar of soap.
‘Nice and stinksome,’ he said, satisfied.
Mrs Troll planted a kiss on Ulrik’s cheek and another on top of her husband’s hairy head.
‘See you later, then! Good luck with the interview, Eggy.’
‘I won’t need luck,’ sniffed Mr Troll.
Ulrik gave his dad a hug. ‘I hope you get the job, Dad. Can you get me some feetball boots?’
Mr Troll patted him on the head fondly. ‘Of course I will, my ugglesome. Leave it to me.’
‘We’re going to have a feetball team at school,’ said Ulrik. ‘I’ve never been in a team before. Do you think I’ll be good enough?’
‘Good enough?’ said Mr Troll. ‘You’re a troll, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘And what are trolls like?’
‘Fierce and scaresome,’ said Ulrik, clenching his fists and baring his fangs.
‘That’s right!’ said Mr Troll.
‘But Warren is good at feetball,’ said Ulrik.
‘Huh! That porky kiddler next door? Have you ever heard Warren roar?’ demanded Mr Troll.
‘No,’ admitted Ulrik.
‘Because he can’t. Let me hear you roar, Ulrik!’
Ulrik took a deep breath, puffed out his chest and gave his best roar. ‘GRARGH!’
‘Not bad,’ said Mr Troll. ‘So if there are any feetball teams, who’s going to be in them?’
‘I am!’ said Ulrik, and he thumped his football against the wall, bringing down the clock with a crash.
Robbers
Mr Troll arrived at his interview almost an hour late. Bagley’s was a large department store which spread itself over five floors, making it easy to get lost. He had spent a lot of time going up and down in a lift. When he finally found his way to Mrs Fussell’s office on the fifth floor, it was almost four o’ clock.
Mrs Fussell was a small silver-haired woman who peered at him over the top of her glasses. Mr Troll wished he had a pair of glasses to peer over. He thought they would make him look important. When he was big boss of the shop he would wear a different pair of glasses every day of the week.
‘So, Mr Troll,’ said Mrs Fussell. ‘Tell me why you’d be suited to shop work.’
‘Well,’ said Mr Troll, ‘I’d be good at the roaring.’
‘The roaring?’
‘Yes. Would you like to hear me roar?’
Mr Troll stood up.
‘Thank you, not just now,’ said Mrs Fussell.
Mr Troll sat down again.
‘I’m afraid at Bagley’s we don’t really encourage … um … roaring,’ said Mrs Fussell. ‘I would worry about frightening the customers.’
‘Ah, but it’s not them I’d be frighting, it’s the robbers,’ Mr Troll explained.
Mrs Fussell peered over her glasses at him. ‘The robbers?’
Mr Troll wondered if she was a little deaf. She kept repeating everything he said. He spoke louder.
‘Yes, ROBBERS that go abo
ut ROBBERING peeples.’
‘Please don’t shout,’ said Mrs Fussell. ‘If you mean shoplifters, we have security guards to keep an eye out for them.’
‘I could keep two eyes out,’ said Mr Troll. ‘I’d be good at that. I would hide so they wouldn’t know I was there.’ He demonstrated how he would hide, squeezing his enormous body behind the filing cabinet in the corner.
‘When I see them going about their robbering, I’d jump out and catch them red-handled. That’s when I’d fright them with my roaring. GRARGH! GRARGH!’
Mr Troll roared so loud that the startled Mrs Fussell almost fell off her chair.
‘Mr Troll,’ she said. ‘I wonder if you’re quite suited to shop work. We’re really looking for someone with experience.’
‘Oh, I’ve got experience,’ said Mr Troll. ‘Buckets of it’. He wasn’t exactly sure what experience she meant, but he was doing his best to be confident. To emphasise his confidence, he placed his two hairy feet on the table and waggled his toes.
Mrs Fussell cleared her throat. ‘What kind of experience?’ she asked. ‘Have you worked in a shop before?’
‘Well, not exactly,’ admitted Mr Troll.
‘Are you used to dealing with customers?’
‘No.’
‘Then, do you know anything about clothes?’
‘Not really,’ said Mr Troll. ‘Where I come from, trolls don’t wear clotheses. As a troggler I used to run around naked …’
‘Yes, yes, I get the idea,’ said Mrs Fussell hastily. She didn’t really want to picture Mr Troll running around naked – he was ugly enough with his clothes on.
‘The thing is, I’d be good in a shop,’ said Mr Troll. ‘Just give me a try.’
Mrs Fussell prided herself on being a fair woman. Mr Troll seemed so eager, the least she could do was give him a chance. She stood up.
‘All right, let’s see how you deal with people. Imagine I am a customer and you’re serving me.’
‘You are a custard and I’m serving you,’ repeated Mr Troll, getting to his feet eagerly.
‘Now,’ said Mrs Fussell. ‘Let’s say I’ve come in with a complaint. I bought this jacket last week but it’s got a hole in the sleeve.’
Mr Troll looked bewildered. She was holding out her hands but there was nothing in them.
‘Is it an invisible jacket?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Mrs Fussell. ‘Use your imagination. Pretend I’ve got a jacket.’
‘Ahh!’ said Mr Troll. He knew about pretending. At home, he often pretended to be a goblin while chasing Ulrik around the garden. He carefully took the pretend jacket off Mrs Fussell and held it up to examine it.
‘Nothing wrong with it,’ he said at last.
‘What do you mean “nothing wrong with it”? I just told you there’s a hole in the sleeve!’
‘No, there isn’t,’ said Mr Troll, smiling pleasantly.
‘There is!’
‘There isn’t!’
Mrs Fussell smoothed back a lock of hair. ‘Look, let’s try again. I am the customer and I want you to replace this jacket with a new one.’
‘O-ho! Not on your bogles!’ said Mr Troll, wagging a fat finger. ‘I know what you’re up to.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You’re telling fib-woppers. Saying there’s a holey sleevey just to get a new jacket.’
Mrs Fussell peered at him over her glasses. ‘So you refuse to change it?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Mr Troll.
‘In that case, I demand to see the manager.’
‘You can’t,’ said Mr Troll, flatly.
‘Why not?’
Mr Troll spread his arms wide. ‘There aren’t enough peeples! You’re the pretend custard, I’m the pretend server – who’s going to be the pretend manager?’
Mrs Fussell gave up. It was impossible, she thought to herself. If Mr Troll didn’t frighten off all the customers, he would certainly drive them all mad.
‘Let’s just forget the jacket and sit down, shall we?’ she said.
Mr Troll sat down. ‘Did I get the job?’
‘We’ll let you know, shall we?’ said Mrs Fussell. ‘Now, I still have a few more people to see. Did you complete the form we gave you?’
Mr Troll’s face fell. He had hoped she had forgotten about the form. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his shorts. ‘This form?’ he asked.
‘That’s right. Just leave your name, address and telephone number.’
Mr Troll looked down at the form and then around the room, searching for some means of escape. The office suddenly felt much too hot.
‘Do you need a pen?’ asked Mrs Fussell, handing him her own.
Mr Troll took the pen and stared at the form again. Mrs Fussell was waiting for him to write something, but he just gazed helplessly at the page. The words seemed to swim before his eyes like tadpoles.
‘If you could hurry up,’ said Mrs Fussell. ‘I do have other people to see.’
Mr Troll breathed in deeply and out again. He bunched his hands into two fists. Finally he stood up and, with a bellow like an enraged bull, tore the form into shreds which scattered on the carpet like confetti. Without another word, he stormed out of the office and slammed the door behind him.
Foul!
Ulrik walked up the neat gravel path and knocked at the Priddles’ house. School was over for the day and he was eager to play with the new football he had tucked under his arm.
A plump, rosy-cheeked boy came to the door with a half-eaten chocolate biscuit in his hand. Warren Priddle was in the same class at school and, ever since the Trolls had moved in next door, Ulrik had adopted him as a friend.
‘Look, Warren,’ said Ulrik. ‘I’ve got a new feet-ball.’ He held up the yellow ball. It was a bit muddy, but then the Trolls’ house was a bit muddy too. Warren took the ball and bounced it twice.
‘Shall we play a game?’ asked Ulrik.
‘You don’t know the rules,’ said Warren.
‘I know some,’ said Ulrik. ‘I know you’ve got to kick a goal.’
‘Score,’ corrected Warren. ‘You “score a goal”.’
‘OK, score a goal. Anyway, I’ve been practising my scores against the wall,’ said Ulrik. ‘I’m going to be in the school team.’
Warren let out a short laugh, which sprayed crumbs of biscuit over Ulrik. Half of the boys in his class wanted to be in the football team. Warren had told everyone he was going to be captain, but he’d never given Ulrik a second thought.
‘Look,’ explained Warren, ‘I shouldn’t get your hopes up. It’ll only be the best players who are picked. Like me.’
‘What about me?’ asked Ulrik. ‘I’ve never played in a team. And my dad’s getting me some feetball boots.’
‘Everyone’s got boots,’ said Warren scornfully. ‘Anyway, I told you, you don’t even know the rules.’
‘You could teach me,’ replied Ulrik. ‘We could have a game now.’
Warren wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. As a rule, his mum didn’t like the Trolls coming in the house. They dragged in dirt and leaves on their feet, and left behind a curious smell. His mum said she doubted that they’d ever heard of deodorant. All the same, Ulrik didn’t have to come into the house – they could play in the back garden. Come to think of it, Warren would take great pleasure in beating him at football.
Outside, Warren set up goals at either end of the lawn using some canes borrowed from his dad’s vegetable patch.
‘This is the goal,’ he explained. ‘You have to shoot the ball between these two posts.’
‘I know that,’ said Ulrik. ‘It’s easy.’
‘Not when you’re playing against me,’ said Warren, placing the ball in the middle of the pitch. ‘Ready then? I’ll be Chelsea. Who are you?’
Ulrik looked puzzled. ‘You know who I am.’
‘I mean, what football team are you?’
‘Oh. I don’t know any teams,’ said Ulrik. ‘Can I be Troll Uni
ted?’
Warren rolled his eyes. ‘OK. Troll United versus Chelsea. I’ll have kick-off because it’s my garden.’
The game kicked off. Warren dribbled towards Ulrik, keeping the ball close to his feet. This will be easy, he thought to himself. Although Ulrik was bigger, he was slow and clumsy and he wasn’t wearing any trainers on his big hairy feet. Added to that, he didn’t have a clue how to play football. All Warren would have to do was push the ball past him every time and he would win by a rugby score.
He stepped over the ball once or twice, showing off. Ulrik stood his ground, looking faintly puzzled – he thought the idea was to kick the football, not dance with it. He waited until Warren got closer then – WHUMP! – he bowled him over with the force of a runaway train, and dribbled away with the ball. When he reached the goal he thumped the ball between the two canes.
‘Goal!’ he shouted, with his arms in the air. ‘One score to me! Oh Warren, are you OK?’
Warren was lying face down on the lawn where he had landed. He got to his knees and spat out a mouthful of grass. ‘Foul!’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ said Ulrik. ‘I was only trying to tickle you.’
‘Tackle,’ said Warren, wiping mud off his nose. ‘You’re too big and clumsy – you’ll have to be more careful.’
‘OK, I’ll try,’ promised Ulrik. He knew he was a little clumsy. It came of having big feet and no boots.
Warren placed the ball for a free kick and, after making Ulrik move back a long way, he scored.
‘One nil to me!’ he said, punching the air.
Ulrik went to get the ball from under the rosebushes. Football turned out to be much more complicated than he had thought. It wasn’t just a matter of tickling and scoring – there were other things called ‘fouls’ and ‘free kicks’ to worry about. He was already beginning to get confused with so many rules to remember.
Meanwhile, Mr Troll had just returned from his interview. Hearing the thud of the ball against the garden fence, he came outside to see what the noise was about. He found his neighbour, Mr Priddle, watching Ulrik and Warren chase a ball up and down the garden.
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