Trolls United

by Alan MacDonald

  Ulrik closed his eyes, hardly daring to look.

  When he opened them again, his dad was holding a pale-looking Mrs Melly in his arms. He set her down on a chair as the class burst into applause.

  ‘And that,’ he said with a bow, ‘is how a troll catches a goat.’

  Mrs Melly didn’t reappear after break. The head said she had gone home to lie down and recover. Ulrik had a feeling that they wouldn’t be having Circle Time again for a while.

  That evening, Ulrik climbed the hill in the back garden. It was his favourite place when he wanted to be by himself and think. The sky was growing dark and the first stars were coming out in the sky. On the far horizon, he could see the hills that always reminded him of home. Footsteps approached and a hand touched him gently on the shoulder.

  ‘Come on, my ugglesome – time for bed,’ said his mum.

  ‘Not yet,’ pleaded Ulrik. ‘Can’t I just stay out a bit longer?’

  Mrs Troll sat down beside him and slid an arm around his shoulders.

  ‘Thinking of home?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ulrik. ‘I miss it sometimes – our stinksome old cave.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘I miss it too.’

  They sat in comfortable silence for a while, thinking about home and the friends they’d left behind.

  ‘How were the boots?’ asked Mrs Troll, at last.

  ‘Oh, they’re great,’ said Ulrik. ‘Warren says Brazil have boots like that.’

  ‘Brazil, eh? Is that good?’

  ‘Brazil are the best in the world, Mum.’

  ‘There you are, then. I told you they’d be OK. And how has school been today?’

  ‘OK,’ said Ulrik.

  ‘I mean, how is it working out with your dad?’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Ulrik studied the grass between his feet.

  ‘He hasn’t been getting into trouble, has he?’ asked Mrs Troll.

  ‘Well, not that much trouble.’

  Mrs Troll sighed. ‘I thought so. I hope he didn’t go roaring at the childrens?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Ulrik. ‘He only roared at Mrs Melly and she was being a goat.’

  He could tell he would have to explain the whole thing from the beginning. He told her about the goat hunting and Mrs Melly’s fright on the bridge. None of it was really his dad’s fault, Ulrik explained – it was just that school was still new to him.

  ‘But Mum,’ he said. ‘I was thinking …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How long’s it going to last – Dad coming to my school?’

  Mrs Troll glanced up at the starry sky. ‘I don’t know, my ugglesome. I only wish I did.’

  Temper, Temper

  As far as Ulrik could see, his dad had forgotten all about getting a job. He was enjoying himself far too much at school. It turned out that he was ‘a natural learner’ – as he told anyone who would listen. He couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t started school before – he had no idea he would be so good at it. The walls of the kitchen were covered in his pictures – pictures that said GOAT or CAR in his large, wobbly handwriting. During mealtimes he fell into a habit of spelling out words in conversation, which after a while got rather annoying. ‘Pass the M-I-L-K,’ he would say. Or, ‘Are we having B-E-A-N for supper?’

  On Wednesday, Ulrik checked the list on the noticeboard again. It had grown to twenty-one names, including his own. He had been working on his football skills in the garden every evening, but it was boring practising alone. He needed someone to help him. After school he went to find his dad, who was in the living room, hunched over a picture book called The Three Little Pigs.

  ‘Dad, can you help me practise my feetball?’ asked Ulrik.

  ‘Not now, Ulrik,’ said Mr Troll. ‘I’ve got homework to do.’

  ‘But, Dad, it’s the trial tomorrow. You haven’t seen me play in my new boots.’

  Ulrik proudly showed off the red wellingtons on his feet. Mr Troll closed his book with a sigh. He was just getting to the good bit where the little piggies got eaten.

  Outside, Ulrik set up a goal at the bottom of the garden.

  ‘You be the goalkeeper,’ he explained. ‘You’ve got to stop me scoring.’

  ‘That’s easy,’ said Mr Troll.

  He wrestled Ulrik to the ground and in a few moments was sitting on top of him.

  ‘Let’s see you score now,’ he said, tickling him under the arms.

  ‘No, Dad – ha ha! – get off!’ giggled Ulrik. ‘That’s not how you play feetball. You’re not allowed to fight me.’

  ‘No fighting?’ said Mr Troll. ‘What kind of game is that?3’

  He climbed off Ulrik and helped him to his feet. It seemed pointless to him. Where was the fun in a game if you couldn’t sit on your opponent?

  Ulrik placed the ball, while Mr Troll went back to stand in his goal.

  ‘Ready?’ said Ulrik.

  ‘Ready,’ said Mr Troll.

  Ulrik ran up and thumped the ball as hard as he could. It sliced off the toe of his boot and rose high to the left. At the last moment, Mr Troll stuck out a large fist and swatted it away as easily as a fly.

  ‘Wow!’ said Ulrik. ‘Great save! You’re an ugg-some goalie, Dad!’

  ‘Am I?’ said Mr Troll, looking pleased with himself.

  Ulrik fetched the ball and tried again. This time he kept his shot low, but Mr Troll simply stuck out a foot and hoofed it away. After a dozen shots, Ulrik had only managed a single goal.

  ‘Maybe you’re not doing it right,’ suggested Mr Troll.

  ‘It’s these boots,’ complained Ulrik. ‘I keep slipping on the grass.’

  ‘Take them off then,’ said Mr Troll. ‘Boots are for babies!’

  ‘But everyone wears feetball boots, Dad. I won’t be in the team if I haven’t got boots.’

  ‘Of course you’ll be in the team,’ said Mr Troll. ‘It’s just a matter of confidence. What am I always telling you?’

  Ulrik thought hard. ‘To stay out of the shower.’

  ‘Besides that.’

  Ulrik thought again. ‘I’m too gentle for a troll,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly. You’ve got to get angry, Ulrik. Lose your temper.’

  Ulrik frowned. How could he lose his temper when he wasn’t sure he had one to lose?

  ‘Where does your roar come from?’ asked Mr Troll.

  Ulrik shrugged. ‘From my mouth.’

  ‘Wrong,’ replied Mr Troll. ‘A troll’s roar comes from his bellies. You’ve got to find your roar inside you, Ulrik. It starts deep down and comes rumbling up, like a belly burp.’

  ‘And will that get me in the school team?’ asked Ulrik.

  ‘Of course it will,’ said Mr Troll. ‘Now, I’m going inside. When I come back, I want to hear a roar that will scare the trousers off me.’

  As the sun sank lower in the sky, Ulrik ran up and down the hill, practising his roar. He tried to think about it coming from deep down in his belly, but that only made him hungry. A smell of cooking was coming from the kitchen where Mrs Troll was preparing supper.

  Next door, a curtain twitched at an upstairs’ window as two figures kept watch.

  ‘What’s he doing now?’ asked Mr Priddle.

  ‘Search me,’ said Warren. ‘Shouting at the trees. Whatever it is, it’s not football.’

  ‘You’re sure he won’t make the team?’ said Mr Priddle.

  ‘Ulrik? He hasn’t got a clue,’ said Warren scornfully.

  ‘Good I don’t want to lose my bet with old Hairy Face next door. And remember, I’ll double your pocket money if we win.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad. It’s in the bag,’ said Warren. ‘See what he’s got on his feet?’

  Mr Priddle pressed his nose against the window to look closer. ‘Hard to tell. They look like boots – wellington boots.’

  Warren grinned. ‘They are.’

  ‘What’s he wearing those for?’

  ‘Because he thinks they’re football boots.’

  Mr Priddle shook his he
ad, baffled. ‘He must be off his head. You can’t play football in wellington boots!’

  Warren bared his teeth in a sly grin. ‘Exactly.’

  The truth of this dawned on Mr Priddle, who was sometimes a bit slow on the uptake.

  ‘Poor old Ulrik!’ he said, chuckling to himself. ‘Poor old Ulrik!’

  Trial

  Ulrik pulled on his socks, trying to ignore the nervous gurgling of his stomach. In a few minutes, the game would be starting. He was wearing his best red T-shirt and a pair of shorts that were a little on the small side. Looking around the classroom, he noticed that everyone else had proper football kit in the colours of their favourite teams. Warren Priddle had a large Number 9 on the back of his Chelsea shirt, and his name in capital letters. He was kneeling down to lace up his boots.

  Ulrik reached into his bag and took out the red wellingtons. He sat on the floor to pull them on.

  Josh paused from fiddling with goalkeepers’ gloves to look at him.

  ‘What on earth are they?’

  ‘My boots.’

  Josh frowned and then broke into a grin. ‘Good one! I thought you were serious for a moment!’

  ‘I am,’ said Ulrik, standing up. ‘These studs feel a bit funny.’

  He stamped his feet to make sure the boots were on properly.

  ‘Ulrik!’ said Josh. ‘You’re not really going to wear those?’

  ‘Why not?’ Ulrik looked around. He saw Warren nudging Ryan. The two of them were darting looks in his direction and sniggering with their heads together.

  Mr Wigg came into the room with a football tucked under his arm. His bald head shone like a billiard ball under the lights.

  ‘Everyone changed?’ he said.

  ‘I am, sir,’ smirked Ryan. ‘But I think you ought to take a look at Ulrik.’

  Mr Wigg stood over Ulrik and stared down at his feet. By now, the other players were crowding round to see what was going on. Ulrik rubbed his snout. He wished everyone would stop staring.

  ‘What’s this then, Ulrik?’ said Mr Wigg.

  ‘My new boots, sir.’

  ‘I can see that. Where are your football boots?’

  ‘These are football boots, sir.’

  ‘Don’t be daft! They’re wellingtons, Ulrik. Wellies. This is football – we’re not going for a walk in the country!’

  There were hoots of laughter, with Warren’s high-pitched giggle rising above all the rest. Ulrik felt his face glowing. He was starting to feel he’d made a mistake.

  ‘Quiet!’ barked Mr Wigg. He lowered his voice, bending down to speak more kindly. ‘Haven’t you got anything else, lad? What about your trainers?’

  Ulrik shook his head miserably. ‘I haven’t got any.’

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to do the best you can then. Lucky for you, it’s raining outside. You can splash in the puddles.’

  The players ran out on to the pitch. Ulrik brought up the rear in his big, flapping boots.

  He glanced towards the touchline where his dad stood watching. Mr Troll waved and then pulled a scowling face to remind him that trolls were fierce and scaresome.

  Mr Wigg raised a whistle to his mouth and blew to start the game. For a long time Ulrik didn’t touch the ball, but he ran up and down a great deal while his dad gave him useful advice from the touchline.

  ‘Get him, Ulrik! Tromp on him! Grab him by the ears!’

  He was playing in midfield, but he wasn’t quite sure where that was. He tried to find someone on his team who looked like a midfield, but it was difficult to tell. The red boots flapped and squeaked as he ran, slowing him down. The rain fell steadily, and soon they were all caked in mud. Two of the bottle-tops had come off so that he ran in a curious, lopsided way, and sometimes lost his balance altogether.

  Warren had the ball and was racing towards the penalty area. A moment later, the ball flew past Josh’s outstretched hand and high into the net. Mr Wigg paused to write Warren’s name in his notebook.

  Ulrik always seemed to be too late to reach the ball. When he ran upfield, the ball would be booted over his head towards the other end. And when he ran back, the ball would zip past him going the other way. He knew he wasn’t doing enough to impress Mr Wigg and get in his notebook. But just before half-time, he found himself in the right place for once. The ball bounced in his own penalty area and Ulrik got to it before Warren could pounce to score.

  ‘Away, Ulrik!’ shouted Josh, coming off his line.

  Facing his own goal, Ulrik swung his foot, intending to launch the ball into the sky. But what he launched was his right boot. It flew off and struck Josh on the nose.

  ‘Owww!’ yelled Josh, going down in the mud.

  ‘Sorry, Josh!’ said Ulrik.

  ‘Goal!’ cried Warren, tucking the ball away into the net.

  Mr Wigg blew his whistle and ran over to check that Josh wasn’t seriously hurt. He had got to his feet, but his nose was the colour of an overripe plum.

  ‘It’s all right – nothing broken,’ said Mr Wigg.

  ‘Sorry, Josh,’ said Ulrik again. ‘It’s these boots. They won’t stay on.’

  Josh felt his nose. ‘You’re dangerous. You could have taken my head off!’

  Mr Wigg suggested that Josh come out of goal for a while, until he was feeling better. Josh peeled off his gloves but after what had happened, no one seemed eager to risk going in goal.

  ‘Come on,’ said Mr Wigg impatiently. ‘We can’t start the game without a goalkeeper.’

  ‘I could do it,’ said an eager voice from behind the goal. ‘I’m an uggsome goalie.’

  It was almost five o’clock when Mr Troll and Ulrik finally got home. Mrs Troll was waiting for them expectantly. In Ulrik’s honour she had cooked his favourite meal – a bean and banana pie, which she was just bringing out of the oven. She looked up as Mr Troll burst through the door, followed by Ulrik – both of them covered in mud from head to toe.

  ‘Hello, my hairlings!’ said Mrs Troll. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Oh, not so well,’ replied Ulrik, in a hollow voice.

  ‘It was uggsome!’ said Mr Troll. ‘You should have been there. I was amazing.’

  Mrs Troll looked puzzled. ‘You, Eggy? I thought you were only going to watch.’

  ‘I was!’ said Mr Troll. ‘But then Ulrik’s team were losing, weren’t they, Ulrik?’

  ‘Two nils,’ said Ulrik, gloomily.

  ‘And no one wanted to go in goal. So I said I didn’t mind going in and … guess what? It turns out I’m the best goalkeeper in the school!’

  ‘Really?’ said Mrs Troll dryly.

  ‘Dad was great,’ said Ulrik. ‘He saved everything. Mr Wigg wants him in the team on Saturday.’

  ‘Imagine that!’ said Mr Troll. ‘Me in the school team!’

  ‘Imagine!’ said Mrs Troll, glaring at him. She turned to Ulrik. ‘And what about you, my ugglesome? Are you in the team too?’

  Ulrik shook his head. ‘I’m just the reserve.’

  ‘The reserve? Well! That sounds important,’ said Mrs Troll.

  ‘It’s not,’ replied Ulrik, pulling off his muddy boots and throwing them into a corner. ‘It just means you sit on a bench and watch. Warren says nobody wants to be the reserve.’

  Mrs Troll sighed. She knew how much Ulrik had been looking forward to playing for the school team. He had been practising for weeks. It didn’t seem fair.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Sit down and have some supper. I’ve made your favourite, Ulrik.’

  ‘I’m starving,’ said Mr Troll, reaching over to cut himself a thick slice of pie. ‘Playing in goals makes you hungry. You’ll have to come and watch me on Saturday. Think of it – me in the school team!’

  He broke off. Ulrik had pushed his plate away with the pie untouched.

  ‘What’s the matter, hairling?’ asked Mrs Troll.

  ‘I’m not really hungry. I think I’ll just play in my room.’

  He trudged upstairs and they heard the door of his bedroom c
lick shut.

  Mrs Troll turned to glare at her husband.

  ‘How could you, Egbert! See how you’ve upset him!’

  ‘Me?’ said Mr Troll, with a mouthful of pie. ‘What did I do? You’re the one who made him wear blunking boots!’

  ‘He wanted them!’ said Mrs Troll. ‘He’s been begging me all week!’

  ‘Well, a fat lump of help they were,’ said Mr Troll. ‘He played like a ninny-goat on ice. Galumphing around and bashing peeples’ noses!’

  Mrs Troll stood up and squared her shoulders. ‘Well, at least I’m trying to help,’ she said. ‘Not like some trolls I could mention.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ bristled Mr Troll.

  ‘If you’d got a job, I could have bought him proper boots!’

  Mr Troll got to his feet. ‘Oh, it’s my fault, is it?’

  ‘Yes, it is!’

  ‘Well, we’ll see about that!’ said Mr Troll, picking up his plate. A second later the plate hit the wall, with beans and pieces of banana splattering the floor. Mr Troll stormed out of the room.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going now?’ shouted Mrs Troll.

  ‘To get some blunking boots!’ replied Mr Troll, as he slammed the front door.

  The Big Match

  Saturday, the day of the big game, finally arrived. Ulrik couldn’t help getting his hopes up.

  ‘Maybe someone won’t turn up,’ he said, on the way to the school. ‘Then Mr Wigg will have to put me in the team.’

  Mrs Troll didn’t answer. She had worries of her own. After last night’s argument, Mr Troll had failed to return home. It was quite normal for him to storm out of the house in a sulk, but she had never known him to be gone a whole night. She had hardly slept a wink.

  ‘You’re not listening, Mum!’ said Ulrik, tugging at her arm.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said “Is Dad going to meet us there?”’

  ‘Oh, I expect so, my ugglesome. He didn’t say.’

  When they reached the school, the two teams were already out on the pitch, practising at either end. A small crowd had come along to spectate, including the Priddles, who had come to watch Warren. But there was no trace of Mr Troll.