Mr Wigg hurried over to meet them.
‘Where’s your dad, Ulrik? It’s nearly time for kick-off!’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ulrik.
‘We were hoping he might be here,’ said Mrs Troll worriedly. ‘I do hope nothing’s happened.’
Ulrik pointed past her shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Mum. Here he comes now!’
Mr Troll was striding across the field towards them, in the company of two police officers. Ulrik recognised them as the same pair who had arrested Mr Troll once before.
Mrs Troll threw her arms around her husband. ‘Eggy! Where on earth have you been?’
‘We found him in Bagley’s, madam, trying to steal a pair of boots,’ said the policeman.
‘I wasn’t stealing,’ said Mr Troll indignantly. ‘I just wanted to borrow them.’
‘We’ve been over this,’ said the policewoman wearily. ‘You can’t borrow things from a shop window. When you break the glass, it sets off the alarm.’
‘Oh Eggy, you didn’t!’ said Mrs Troll.
Mr Troll rubbed a bump on his forehead sheepishly. ‘It was an accident!’ he said.
‘And why didn’t you come home?’ asked Mrs Troll. ‘I’ve been out of my mind with worry.’
Mr Troll explained he had spent the night at the station. The police had asked him a lot of questions, after which they had given him a nice room of his own, with a bed. The sergeant had even locked the door so that he would feel safe.
‘Have you got to sleep there tonight?’ Ulrik asked.
‘No,’ said the policewoman. ‘Luckily for you, Mr Bagley has agreed to drop the charges.’
‘Who’s Mr Bagley?’ asked Mrs Troll.
‘Very important peeples,’ Mr Troll informed her. ‘Mr Bagley is the big boss at Bagley’s. He wants to see me on Monday morning.’
‘Oh dear!’ sighed Mrs Troll.
‘Anyway,’ said the policeman, ‘we’ll be getting back to the station. Looks like you’ve got a match to play.’ He smiled at Ulrik. ‘Nice boots. What position are you playing?’
Ulrik hung his head. ‘I’m just the reserve. But Dad’s playing in goal.’
‘In goal? He’s a bit old for that, isn’t he?’
Mr Troll looked offended. ‘I’m an uggsome goalie,’ he informed them. ‘You should stay and watch me make some savings.’
The opposing team stared in astonishment as a huge, hairy troll bounded across the pitch to take up his position in the goal. Mr Troll’s head was higher than the crossbar and when he crouched in the goal, it almost disappeared from view.
The teacher from Dewberry School tried to object. ‘You can’t play him,’ he grumbled. ‘He’s practically a giant!’
‘Actually, he’s a troll,’ said Mr Wigg. ‘And it’s not his fault if he’s big.’
Mr Troll smiled at the teacher, baring the two sharp fangs on either side of his mouth. That seemed to settle the matter. The teacher decided he had better find his whistle and start the game.
The match kicked off – Biddlesden in their red shirts playing against Dewberry in all-white.
‘Come on, Biddlesden!’ cried the supporters on the touchline.
‘Go on, Eggy!’ cried Mrs Troll excitably.
It soon became clear, however, that Biddlesden were in for a hard game. The Dewberry team were quicker to the ball and stronger in the tackle. They passed the ball swiftly, from player to player, so that Biddlesden hardly got a kick.
‘Don’t stand there! Stomp on them!’ Mr Troll bellowed to his defence. After only a few minutes, he was called into action. From a corner, the ball was crossed high into the penalty area and several of the Dewberry players ran in, ready to head it home.
‘I’ve got it!’ roared Mr Troll, and players on both sides scattered as he came charging out of his goal. In his excitement, he lost sight of the ball, but found it again when it struck him on the head and bounced away to safety.
‘Well done, Eggy!’ cheered Mrs Troll.
‘Great save, Dad!’ called Ulrik.
Mr Priddle shook his head. ‘He’s meant to catch the ball, not head it,’ he grumbled.
But Mr Troll had his own approach to playing in goal. As Dewberry took control and launched one attack after another, only Biddlesden’s hairy Number 10 kept them in the game. Shots rained in from every angle, but Mr Troll somehow kept them out. The ball bounced off his knee, thumped into his belly and cannoned off his legs to safety. Once, when he stopped to watch an ambulance pass by, a shot took him by surprise and struck him on the bottom.
At the other end of the pitch, his team rode their luck. On a rare attack, a long shot from Warren took a lucky bounce in the mud and skidded past the keeper – one-nil to Biddlesden.
On the touchline, Ulrik cheered with everyone else. He wanted his school to win, but he dearly wished he was out on the pitch taking part. For the last half hour he had been running up and down, trying to keep warm in the biting wind. Whenever the ball went off the pitch he ran to get it, hoping that Mr Wigg would notice and be impressed.
When the half-time whistle blew, Biddlesden were still in front and hanging on by a thread. Ulrik listened hopefully as Mr Wigg gave his team talk. Surely it would be his turn in the second half? But Mr Wigg didn’t mention his name or even glance in his direction. He walked away miserably.
As he put his gloves back on, Mr Troll felt a hand on his arm.
‘Eggy!’ said Mrs Troll. ‘Look over there.’
Mr Troll turned and, for the first time, noticed Ulrik on the touchline. He was sitting all by himself, hugging his knees to his chest to try and stop himself shivering.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked Mr Troll. ‘We’re winning!’
Mrs Troll stared at him. ‘Winning? Winning? You really haven’t a clue, have you?’ She stalked off in a huff.
Mr Troll furrowed his brow. He’d been so caught up in the game, he hadn’t given much thought to Ulrik. But it was obvious, even to him, that something was wrong. Things started to come back to him from the last few weeks. He remembered Ulrik asking him for a pair of football boots – boots that he’d failed to get him. He remembered Ulrik practising every day, thumping his ball against the dining room wall. He recalled the crestfallen look on Ulrik’s face when he wasn’t picked for the team. It finally dawned on him: some fat lump had stolen Ulrik’s place in the team – and the fat lump was him!
‘I’m a big useless,’ he muttered to himself. ‘The biggest useless in the world.’
The game restarted, but a few minutes into the second half disaster struck. Mr Troll came rushing out of his goal to clear a ball from his penalty area. No one saw what happened, but the next moment he had collapsed in a moaning heap. The ball bounced on and rolled very gently into the empty goal. Dewberry had equalised and there was worse to come. When Mr Troll tried to get to his feet he sat down heavily, clutching at his foot.
Mr Wigg came running on to the pitch, followed by Ulrik and Mrs Troll.
‘Eggy, are you all right?’ she asked, kneeling beside him.
‘Argh! Ohh!’ groaned Mr Troll. ‘I think I’ve sprained my uncle.’
‘Don’t you mean your ankle?’ said Mr Priddle.
‘Whatever it is, it hurts!’ replied Mr Troll, scowling.
He was helped off the pitch, supported between Mrs Troll and Mr Priddle and groaning with every step.
‘What a pity!’ said Mr Wigg, regretfully. ‘And just when he was playing so well.’
He turned to Ulrik. ‘Ulrik, you’ll have to go on. Josh can go in goal, you play in defence. And please try not to injure anyone.’
‘Yes, Mr Wigg,’ said Ulrik, already peeling off his top.
Mr Troll sat down on the touchline. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said with a wink. ‘You get out there. What are trolls?’
‘Fierce and scaresome,’ replied Ulrik.
‘Don’t forget it. Oh, and one other thing.’
‘What?’
‘Those boots. Maybe you’d play bette
r without them.’
Ulrik looked down at the red wellingtons. Perhaps his dad was right. He pulled them off and ran on to the pitch in his bare feet to applause from the small crowd of supporters. His stomach felt like it was tied in knots. He tried to remember the advice his dad had given him, but it seemed to have gone from his head.
It felt like an age before he got a touch of the ball and when he did he hurried his pass, which went to the other team. He saw Warren shake his head and turn away in disgust. Biddlesden were under pressure and without Mr Troll, it seemed only a matter of time before they would let in another a goal. When a clever pass slipped through the defence, Ulrik found himself racing for the ball with the tall, red-haired Number 9.
‘Stop him, Ulrik!’ called Mr Troll.
‘Boot it out!’ cried Josh.
Ulrik was about to scramble the ball out for a throw, when the Number 9 lunged in hard with his studs.
‘Owww!’ cried Ulrik, holding his foot and hopping around.
‘Oooh!’ cried the crowd.
‘Foul!’ protested Mrs Troll. But the referee was the Dewberry teacher, and he waved play on.
Looking up, Ulrik saw the Number 9 with the goal at his mercy, steadying himself to shoot. At that moment, Ulrik felt something rumbling up inside him: a roar that rose from deep in his belly and came out of his mouth, like the angry growl of a bear. ‘GRAAARGH!’
The Number 9 saw Ulrik coming and yelped, leaping high in the air to avoid the tackle.
Ulrik collected the ball and rampaged upfield. In seconds, he was over the halfway line. The white-shirted players made no attempt to tackle him – they’d never seen a troll in a temper before, and it seemed wiser to get out of the way.
To his left, Ulrik could hear Warren urging him to pass – but he kept going until he was bearing down on the goal, with only the nervous-looking keeper in his way.
He took aim and let fly. The ball flew like a missile towards the top corner. The goalkeeper made a despairing dive and got his fingertips to it, but it made no difference. The net shivered and a great cheer went up.
Ulrik stood blinking in amazement, wondering what had come over him.
On the touchline, Mrs Troll grabbed Mr Priddle in a bearhug that lifted him off the ground. Minutes later, the final whistle blew and Mr Troll bounded on to hoist Ulrik on to his shoulders and carry him off the pitch in triumph.
‘Funny,’ remarked Mr Priddle to his wife. ‘A moment ago, he could hardly walk.’
Mrs Priddle clicked her tongue. ‘Well, I hope that will teach you to make silly bets, Roger. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Mr Priddle reluctantly took out his wallet and drew out a ten-pound note. Half of it, he decided, would be coming out of Warren’s pocket money.
Job for a Troll
The following Saturday, Ulrik found himself once again outside Bagley’s department store with his mum.
‘You’re sure he said to meet him here?’ said Mrs Troll.
‘Yes, I told you.’
‘But why? What’s this all about?’
Ulrik shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t say. He just said to come to the shop.’
Mrs Troll smoothed down her best floral dress. Ever since her husband had been to see Mr Bagley on Monday morning, he had been acting very mysteriously. He had stopped going to school, but every morning he left the house early and returned home at six o’ clock, with a secretive smile on his face. He wouldn’t tell them where he went, even though Ulrik tried to get it out of him by tickling his feet. ‘Wait and see,’ Mr Troll had said. ‘Just wait and see.’
Inside, the store was so crowded that it was hard to move without bumping into someone. Ulrik wrinkled his snout at the strong smell of perfume coming from one of the counters. His mum flopped down on a nearby sofa.
‘This is hopeless!’ she said. ‘We’ll never find him in all these peeples.’
‘GRARRGH!’ A burly figure leapt out from behind a chest of drawers, making them both jump. Mr Troll burst out laughing at the surprised look on their faces.
‘Dad!’ said Ulrik. ‘You frighted me!’
‘I did, didn’t I?’ said Mr Troll, looking pleased with himself. ‘I’ve been watching you ever since you came in. If you were a robber, I’d have caught you red-handled.’
Mrs Troll stared at her husband. He was dressed in a smart brown jacket, with a peaked cap perched on the back of his hairy head.
‘What’s this, then?’ she said.
‘My uniform,’ said Mr Troll, showing it off proudly. ‘See, it’s even got my name on the badge. Egbert Troll – Security Guard. Egbert with two Es.’
‘You mean – you work here, Dad?’ said Ulrik, greatly impressed.
‘That’s right, Ulrik. I have to keep my eyes out for robbers and shopsniffers.’
‘Wow! And what if you see one?’
‘I chase them through the shop and sit on their bellies till the polices arrive.’
‘So that’s where you’ve been sneaking off to every morning,’ said Mrs Troll.
‘I told you I’d get a job,’ said Mr Troll.
‘And you were right, my clever old snuggler,’ said Mrs Troll, kissing her husband on the tip of his snout.
Mr Troll took them on a tour of the store. On the way, he explained that it had been Mr Bagley who had offered him the job. The last security guard had taken early retirement, as he was getting too old to chase shoplifters along the street. Mr Bagley said he needed someone big and fearless, and Mr Troll fitted the bill perfectly.
‘Well, I’d better get back to work,’ he said, at last. ‘You never know when one of these shopsniffers might be trying to rob something.’
By the door, he paused. ‘Oh Ulrik, wait a minute. I got something for you.’
Mr Troll reached under a counter and brought out a slim white box.
‘What is it?’ asked Ulrik.
‘Open it and see.’
Ulrik took off the lid and peeled back the layers of tissue paper. Inside was a pair of shiny silver football boots.
‘I hope they’re OK,’ said Mr Troll, smiling bashfully.
Ulrik’s eyes shone. ‘OK?’ he said. ‘They’re uggsome!’
Footnote
1 Peas: pence or money. Most trolls do not understand money. Offer them a nice rock or a thousand pounds and they will choose the rock.
2 A troggler – a baby troll. Troll babies wail almost continuously for the first six months of their lives. Parents give them to an old troll called a Troggle-Nurse who is stone deaf.
3 A troll’s favourite game is Rockball, where two teams try to gain possession of a rock in a forest. Biting, kicking and wrestling are permitted. The game ends when both teams admit they have lost the rock and a draw is declared.
Also by the Author
Other titles in the Troll Trouble series
Trolls Go Home!
Look out for
Goat Pie
Trolls on Hols
MR TROLL: Egbert / Eggy
Description : Tall, dark and scaresome
Likes: Roaring, tromping, hiding under bridges
MRS TROLL: Nora
Description: Gorgeous (ask Mr Troll)
Likes: Huggles and kisses, caves, the dark
ULRIK TROLL
Description: Big for his age
Likes: Smells, singing, Rockball
GOAT
Description: Strong-smelling, beardy beast
Likes: Mountains, grass
Dislikes: Being eaten
First published in Great Britain in 2006 by Bloomsbury Publishing plc
36 Soho Square, London, WID 3QY
This electronic edition published in 2007 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Text copyright © Alan MacDonald 2007
Illustrations copyright © Mark Beech 2007
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
(including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,
printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages
A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
eISBN 978 1 4088 1903 6
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Trolls United Page 5