Trolls United

by Alan MacDonald

  Ulrik went back to the conversation.

  ‘You really think we could get in the team?’ he asked.

  ‘Why not?’ said Josh. ‘We’ve got as much chance as anyone else.’

  ‘That’s not what Warren thinks. He told me not to get my hopes up.’

  ‘Huh! Warren! I wouldn’t listen to him,’ said Josh, scornfully. ‘He’s such a bighead.’

  ‘Is he?’ said Ulrik. He tried to picture Warren’s head. It was quite big, when you thought about it.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Josh. ‘It’s Mr Wigg who decides. He’s running the team.’

  Before Ulrik could reply they were interrupted by the return of Mr Troll, who was carrying a bucket, which he set down on the table with a heavy thud.

  ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of seconds. No one seems to want them.’

  Ulrik stared in surprise. The bucket was full to the brim with bits of sausage, jam, carrots and cold rice pudding – all mixed together in a sludgy mess. Slowly it dawned on him what it was.

  ‘Dad! No!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t eat that …’

  But it was too late. Mr Troll had already plunged his spoon into the slop bucket and was raising it to his lips. He slurped down a mouthful noisily.

  ‘Mmm, not bad,’ he said, offering them the bucket. ‘Anyone want some seconds?’

  Alistair turned away. ‘Eugh! I think I’m going to be sick.’

  Ulrik realised the dining room had fallen quiet. Everyone had stopped eating. They were all watching Mr Troll in disbelief, as one spoonful after another disappeared into his mouth. A splodge of rice pudding escaped his tongue and dribbled down his chin, falling on to the table. Mr Troll wiped it up and sucked his finger.

  ‘You know, Ulrik, we should try this at home,’ he said.

  Ulrik buried his face in his hands. It was only the first day and already his dad had managed to embarrass him in front of the whole school.

  Size Tens

  Thankfully the rest of the afternoon passed without further disaster. During English, Mr Troll practised writing his own name over and over again while the rest of the class got on with writing a story. When he got home, he flopped into an armchair and flicked on the TV, declaring that all this learning had exhausted him.

  Ulrik went to find his mum to tell her about the football trial on Thursday. To his delight, she agreed to take him into town there and then to look for some football boots.

  He had never owned a pair of boots before, and he was very excited about it. Somehow he imagined that they would magically transform him into a better footballer. Scoring goals would come easily. He would be able to pass, dribble, tickle and do that juggling thing where you kept the ball in the air.

  ‘Now, you’re sure this is what you want?’ his mum asked when they reached Bagley’s department store.

  ‘Yes, Mum!’ said Ulrik impatiently. ‘Everyone has feetball boots. All my friends have got them.’

  ‘Yes, but remember you’re not used to them. You may find boots uncomfortable.’

  ‘I won’t!’ promised Ulrik.

  They went inside. The sports department was on the third floor. Ulrik enjoyed riding the escalator while Mrs Troll held on tight to the handrail and jumped off at the top, afraid that she might be sucked down the crack where the stairs were disappearing. Ulrik ran on ahead, stopping to stare at snooker tables, tennis rackets, skis and snowboards. He had never been in a sports shop before.

  ‘Look at this, Mum!’ he pointed. ‘A running machine.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ulrik. There’s no such thing. Machines can’t run.’

  ‘This one does. Can we see it?’

  Ulrik stepped on to the running machine. Nothing happened. He pressed a red button and the machine hummed into life, with lights flashing on the panel. Suddenly, the floor beneath his feet began to move at high speed. Ulrik shot backwards, landing in a heap among a display of golf clubs.

  ‘Woah!’ he said. ‘That was fun. Can I do it again?’

  ‘Excuse me, can I help you?’ asked a young shop assistant, switching off the running machine.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘My son needs some boots for school.’

  ‘Feetball boots,’ added Ulrik, getting up. ‘I’m going to play for the school team.’

  The shop assistant nodded. ‘Right, this way.’ She spoke in a bored, sing-song voice as if having to talk tired her out. They followed her to the footwear department.

  Ulrik gazed at the rows and rows of football boots on display.

  ‘Uggsome!’ he said.

  ‘What size is he?’ asked the assistant.

  ‘Well, he’s growing so big,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘Almost up to my chest.’

  ‘No, I mean what shoe size?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. He’s never worn shoes before.’

  ‘Right.’ The assistant regarded the trolls as if they were plainly out of their minds.

  ‘My dad says shoeses are for softies,’ explained Ulrik. ‘Trolls don’t need them because we’ve got hard, horny feet.’ He lifted his right foot to show the assistant the tough leathery skin underneath.

  ‘We’ll try a size five,’ she said.

  Ulrik tried on a pair of black boots that he liked the look of, but he couldn’t squeeze his foot inside – even when he lay on his back and pulled with all his might.

  ‘Have you got something a bit bigger?’ asked Mrs Troll.

  ‘Not in children’s,’ said the assistant. ‘That’s the largest pair. He’ll have to try an adult’s.’

  Ulrik spotted a boot in silver leather and took it down to admire it.

  ‘Look at these, Mum. They’re all shiny!’

  The assistant came and went, bringing different sizes of boot and rolling her eyes when Ulrik said they were too small. Finally, they found a size ten boot that fitted him snugly.

  ‘Walk around in them,’ urged Mrs Troll. ‘I don’t want you getting them home and saying they pinch your claws.’

  Ulrik walked up and down. He tried running in the boots. It felt good. He imagined he was playing for the school team and swung his foot at an imaginary ball. ‘Goal!’ he shouted, punching the air. A rack of sandals behind him toppled over and crashed to the floor.

  ‘OK, we’ll take those,’ said Mrs Troll hurriedly. She reached into her bag and brought out a sock. ‘How many peas?’

  ‘Peas?’ The shop assistant blinked.

  ‘You know, peas. Fifty peas, ninety peas.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ The assistant checked the label on the box. ‘They’re £59.99,’ she said. ‘I’ll put them in a box for you.’

  Mrs Troll’s mouth dropped open. Fifty-nine pounds? For one pair of football boots? It would take her weeks to earn that much! She emptied out the sock on the shop counter and a shower of coins spilled everywhere, some rolling off the counter and on to the floor.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ asked the assistant.

  ‘No, no. I’ve just got to count these,’ said Mrs Troll, picking up pennies from the floor.

  Ulrik bent down to help. People in the shop were staring at them.

  ‘Eight pounds, thirty-two peas,’ said Mrs Troll at last. ‘That’s not enough, is it?’

  The assistant shook her head. ‘I can take a credit card.’

  ‘What about some rice pudding?’ Mrs Troll offered a tin from her bag, but the assistant stared at her coldly and began to pack the boots back in their box.

  Mrs Troll looked at Ulrik. ‘Sorry, hairling, we don’t have enough peas.’

  Ulrik’s face fell. ‘But Mum, it’s the trial on Thursday. I’ll be the only one without boots!’

  Mrs Troll sighed and turned back to the shop assistant. ‘Haven’t you got anything cheaper?’ she said. ‘Please. There must be something.’

  ‘For eight pounds?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The assistant rolled her eyes and pointed at a rack to her left. ‘Only those.’

  ‘Are they boots?’

  ‘Wel
l, yeah. Wellington boots.’

  ‘But they’re for playing football?’ persisted Mrs Troll.

  The assistant shrugged, pushing out her lower lip. ‘’S’pose so. You can do what you like in them.’

  Mrs Troll went over to the rack and selected a pair of bright red wellingtons, which she held out to Ulrik. ‘What do you think, Ulrik? These are smart. Why don’t you try them on?’

  Ulrik sat down and reluctantly pulled on the boots. He didn’t want them. They weren’t like football boots at all. They were made of a soft, flubbery material and came up to his knees. When he walked, they flapped around.

  ‘They don’t have knobbly bits,’ he grumbled. ‘They’re meant to have knobbly bits on the bottom.’

  ‘We can give them knobbly bits,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  Ulrik stared down at his feet miserably. He wanted the silver football boots, but he knew that even if he waited for weeks his mum would never be able to afford them. In any case, the trial was on Thursday and he needed something to wear. It was the red wellingtons or nothing. He looked up at his mum’s hopeful face.

  ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Shall we take them?’

  Goats

  The next morning, Ulrik found his new boots sitting at the end of his bed. When he picked them up, he was surprised to find studs stuck to the soles. They weren’t the usual kind of studs – they were fashioned out of plastic bottle-tops stuck on with a generous amount of glue. His mum must have worked on them while he was asleep in bed.

  Ulrik felt a bit guilty that he’d sulked all the way home from the shop yesterday. He tried the boots on. The bottle-tops made a strange crunching noise underfoot. Since they were different sizes he found he walked unevenly, rolling from side to side, as if he was on the deck of a ship.

  ‘How are the boots?’ his mum smiled brightly when he came down to breakfast.

  ‘Oh, they’re … um … good,’ said Ulrik. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘Why don’t you take them to school? You can try them out.’

  ‘OK,’ said Ulrik. He squashed the boots into his school bag, pushing them down well out of sight.

  At break-time, he went in search of Mr Wigg’s notice and found it pinned on the board outside the school office. There were already eighteen names on the list and Ulrik added his own under Josh’s.

  ‘I was wondering when you were going to sign up,’ a voice said behind him. He turned and almost bumped into Warren Priddle.

  ‘Not long now,’ said Warren. ‘I hope you’ve been practising.’

  ‘I have,’ said Ulrik. He rubbed his snout awkwardly. ‘Actually, there’s something I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Want me to explain offside again?’ said Warren.

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Ulrik. ‘It’s these.’ He drew out the red boots from his bag and held them out for Warren to inspect. A grin spread slowly over Warren’s face.

  ‘Nice boots,’ he said.

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Oh yeah, these are cool, Ulrik.’

  Ulrik looked surprised. ‘I was going to wear them for the trial game,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

  Warren blinked at him. ‘You mean to play football?’

  ‘Yes. Why – are they the wrong kind?’

  Warren seemed to be having some trouble with his mouth, which was twitching upwards at the corners. He got it under control.

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘They’re great. Seriously, these are great boots.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Are you joking? Red wellingtons! I think Brazil play in these.’

  ‘Brazil? Is he good?’ asked Ulrik.

  ‘He? They’re only the best team in the world.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Ulrik. ‘So it’s OK to wear them tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course! Wear those and you’re bound to make the team.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Warren, with a sly grin.

  ‘OK. Thanks, Warren!’

  ‘No problem.’

  Ulrik put the boots in his bag and headed back to his classroom, feeling greatly relieved. For some reason he had been anxious about showing the boots to Warren. He had even imagined Warren might make fun of his bottle-top studs. But it turned out he needn’t have worried – the boots were fine. Better than fine. With boots like that, he was bound to make the team.

  Ulrik had been so worried about the new boots that he’d almost forgotten about his dad. He found Mr Troll waiting for him in the classroom.

  ‘Where did you go at break?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

  Mrs Melly clapped her hands and waited for the class to pay attention. She announced that they were going to have Circle Time. Ulrik normally enjoyed Circle Time – it was a chance for the class to talk about anything they wanted.

  ‘So,’ said Mrs Melly, ‘who has something they’d like to tell the class?’

  Ulrik raised his hand, eager to talk about his new boots. But next to him, his dad’s hand stretched highest of all.

  ‘Yes, Mr Troll, as it’s your first week, what would you like to tell us?’ asked Mrs Melly.

  Mr Troll rose from his seat. ‘I would like to tell about Norway. Norway is where trolls live.’

  ‘Yes, we know that,’ said Mrs Melly. ‘Perhaps you can tell us something about Norway? I’m sure it must be very different from Biddlesden.’

  ‘Very different,’ said Mr Troll. ‘Biddlesden is tiddly-piddly country. Norway is big.’ He stretched his hands wide apart. ‘Big mountains, big forests – big as a goblin’s nose.’ He looked at the class. Having explained the bigness of Norway, he wasn’t sure how to go on.

  Katie Morris raised her hand. ‘Are there other trolls like you?’ she asked.

  ‘Hundreds,’ said Mr Troll. ‘Trolls live high in the mountains where peeples never come. Peeples in Norway are frighted by trolls. They make up bad stories about us. They think we’re going to eat them.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t, would you?’ said Katie, eyeing Mr Troll’s fangs a little uncertainly.

  ‘Blech no!’ said Mr Troll, poking out his tongue. ‘Peeples taste bad. They smell like soap. What trolls like to eat is goat.’

  ‘Eugh!’ said Nisha.

  Mr Troll eyed her sternly. ‘Have you ever eaten goat pie? It’s the most tastesome thing in the world. Better than bean any day of the year.’ An idea came to him and his eyes lit up. ‘Shall I show you how a troll catches a goat?’

  The class all nodded eagerly. This sounded far more interesting than Circle Time. Ulrik could see that his dad had got the class’s attention, though he wasn’t so sure that a lesson in goat hunting was such a good idea. Mr Troll tended to get a bit carried away whenever he talked about his favourite subject.

  ‘Say I’m tromping along through the forest one morning, minding my own business,’ he began. He walked up and down, stamping his feet and humming a song to himself. Suddenly, he stopped and got down on all fours, sniffing the ground like a dog. ‘Then I smell something,’ he said. ‘The stinksome smell of a goat!’

  The class leaned forward, almost as if they expected a goat might trot into view at any moment. Mr Troll cast his eyes around the room for someone to help.

  ‘Mrs Melly,’ he pointed. ‘You be the goat.’

  ‘Oh no, I’d rather not,’ replied the teacher. ‘Perhaps one of the class …’

  ‘Too small!’ replied Mr Troll impatiently. ‘I’m not after kiddlers – this is a big ninny-goat I’m catching!’

  Mrs Melly wasn’t sure it was a compliment to be compared to a ninny-goat, but Mr Troll had her by the arm and was already pulling her into the middle of the circle.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.

  ‘Be a goat,’ said Mr Troll. He poked two fingers above his head as if they were horns. ‘You know – goat. Trot trot, bah baahh!’

  Feeling rather foolish, Mrs Melly took a few steps forward. ‘Bah!’ she said.

  Mr Troll gav
e her a pitying look as if this was the most unconvincing goat he’d ever heard. The class however were beginning to enjoy themselves. They’d never heard Mrs Melly do animal impressions before.

  ‘Now,’ said Mr Troll. ‘I can try to catch this goat, but goatses run faster than trolls, so what shall I do?’

  ‘Dig a hole,’ suggested Alistair.

  ‘Hide!’ suggested Nisha.

  Mr Troll nodded. ‘Hide! Exactly! Now you are thinking like a troll.’

  He began to rearrange the furniture, dragging a table into the middle of the circle. Either side of it he placed two chairs, forming steps up to the table.

  ‘What’s he doing now?’ Josh whispered to Ulrik.

  ‘Making a bridge,’ said Ulrik. He had a feeling he knew what was coming next and he was pretty sure that Mrs Melly wouldn’t like it.

  ‘Sooner or later, goatses always cross rivers,’ Mr Troll was saying. ‘Trip trop, trop trop they go over a bridge. And that’s where a clever troll hides, down in the danksome dark.’

  He crawled under the table on his hands and knees to wait for a passing goat. Only his hairy head could be seen poking out.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, with a hand to his ear. ‘I hear a ninny-goat coming!’

  Mrs Melly hesitated. No one had warned her she’d have to climb on tables. She didn’t have much of a head for heights. But the class were all looking at her expectantly, and it was a bit late now to put a stop to Mr Troll’s hunting lesson. She mounted the first chair a little unsteadily.

  ‘Bahh!’ Mr Troll reminded her, from under the bridge.

  ‘Bahh!’ replied Mrs Melly, setting one foot on the table.

  This was the moment Mr Troll had been waiting for. He sprang out from his hiding place and swung himself up on to the table, landing with such force that it shook like a leaf. Drawing himself up to his full height, he bared his fangs and let out an ear-splitting, blood-curdling roar. ‘GRARRRRRRGH!’

  If Mrs Melly had been a goat, she would have turned and fled. But goats are more sure-footed than teachers. She took a step back in alarm, and her foot missed the edge of the table. There was a moment when she seemed to be practising back-stroke in mid-air, then she tumbled backwards and disappeared from sight.