‘This is the life,’ she sighed. Then she twisted to look back through the garden doors. ‘Margarine!’ she shouted to Marjorie. ‘D’you fancy a mudmask? It’s good for your jowels … Margarine? MARGARINE!’
Neville had to do something. Joan would be arriving soon and it was up to him to get everything under control. He tore the tea towel away from his face, planted his feet wide apart – just like Captain Brilliant does – and yelled ‘STTOOOOOOOOPP!’ as loudly as he could.
Everybody stopped what they were doing and goggled at Neville. Rubella spat out the left sock she was chewing on, while Herbert made a quick dash through the kitchen door to escape and shut himself in the cupboard under the sink. Clod let go of his golf club in mid-swing and it flew across the room and smashed the window. ‘Oooops,’ he mumbled. Pong came back through the hole in the wall and Malaria stomped in from the garden, dripping squidgy mud everywhere and forming a little brown moat round her on the carpet.
‘What’s wrong with YOU?’ Rubella barked at Neville.
‘Look at this mess!’ he said.
The Bulches looked around the room.
‘What mess?’
‘My mum will go bananas when she wakes up and sees this!’ said Neville.
‘Oh, my little grunty-groaner,’ Malaria said, plodding over and putting a wet arm round Neville’s shoulders. ‘Stop your worrying, my lump. Margarine’s havin’ a jubbly ole time. Look.’ Malaria gave Marjorie a shake.
‘What the –?’ Marjorie muttered, slowly opening her eyes.
‘’Ello, Margarine,’ Clod said, waving.
‘I was just sayin’, weren’t I, Nev?’ said Malaria. ‘That you’re havin’ a bumfy old time, aren’t you?’
Marjorie glanced at Malaria and then down at her feet. She wriggled her pink-painted toes with a look of fright. Then she touched her new hairdo.
‘Huh?’ said Marjorie.
‘You look squibbly,’ Malaria added. ‘I did it myself.’
‘I can see that,’ said Rubella. ‘Margarine, you look like a right daft donker.’
Marjorie turned and scowled at Rubella.
‘Don’t she, Dooda?’ Rubella continued. ‘Don’t she look like mittens dressed as marmalade?’
Neville watched with butterflies in his belly as his mother turned round, saw all the mess and started dribbling with rage.
‘ENOUGH!’ Marjorie squawked. She launched herself at the nearest troll she saw, which happened to be Clod. Grabbing him by the lapels of his ten-sizes-too-small suit jacket, she pulled herself up to his eye line, pressed her nose against the end of his and screamed as loudly as she could. Neville had never seen his mother so angry.
‘YOU CAN SNATCH MY SON DOWN THE LOO! YOU CAN CHASE MY DOG AND STEAL ALL THE LEFT SOCKS! BUT DON’T YOU EVER, EVER, EVER MAKE A MESS IN MY HOME!’
Malaria and Rubella looked completely shocked. Clod’s lower lip started to tremble.
‘NOW YOU’RE GOING TO SIT DOWN AT THE TABLE LIKE REGULAR PEOPLE,’ Marjorie ordered, ‘AND SHUT UP!’
Fancy Nibbles
‘Well, I’ll be a munkle’s mumble,’ said Clod, poking at the plate in front of him. He shrugged at Neville, who was sitting on the other side of the table. ‘I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it.’
‘What is it?’ asked Rubella, stabbing at the white glop with a knife.
‘I think it’s slug purée,’ said Malaria, rubbing her hands together and licking her lips. ‘Good thing too … I’m starvatious.’
‘That,’ hissed Marjorie, with all the venom of a cobra with a headache, ‘is your dinner. It’s bean-sprout soufflé.’
‘Bean sprout?’ said Malaria, looking disappointed.
‘A WHAT-flay?’ sneered Rubella.
‘SOUFFLÉ!’ shouted Marjorie. ‘NOW SIT QUIETLY AND EAT THIS … AND IF I SEE ANY OF YOU MOVE SO MUCH AS AN INCH FROM YOUR CHAIR, I’LL … I’LL …’ Marjorie picked up a spare fork from the table and flung it at the door. It stuck in the wood with a high-pitched twang-ang-ang. ‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’
Everyone nodded silently.
‘GOOD!’
Then Marjorie stormed off into the kitchen to try and coax Herbert out from the cupboard under the sink.
‘D’you think she might be a bit moodsie?’ whispered Malaria behind her hand. ‘Must be something Hergberg said.’
Neville looked down at the lumpy white glop in front of him … bean-sprout soufflé? Was it the same bean-sprout soufflé that had been in a heap on the kitchen floor earlier that day? Whatever it was, the Bulches were all sitting up at the table and not causing any trouble. Neville breathed a small sigh of relief.
‘I’m all giddy and nervish,’ said Clod. He picked his plate up and gave it a big troll-sized sniff. ‘My first try of overling food.’
‘Looks like slurch snot, if you ask me,’ said Rubella.
Neville stuck his fork in a big chunk of soufflé and lifted it near his face. He squinted through his glasses. There was one of Napoleon’s hairs sticking out of it and a few grains of dirt clinging to the edge. It’s the same one, he thought. Mum has actually scooped it up from the kitchen floor and served it for dinner.
‘Ewwww,’ said Neville and pushed his plate away.
‘You can’t do that,’ said Clod.
‘Margarine’s gone to a lot of trouble preparing this … erm –’ Malaria didn’t look too sure – ‘tummytinkling treat.’
‘But there are dog hairs in it,’ said Neville. ‘And dirt from the kitchen floor.’
Clod’s face brightened.
‘Mmmmmm,’ said Rubella, hooking up a long piece with her finger.
‘Thank my lucky bits,’ sighed Malaria, spooning a big glob of the stuff into Pong’s open mouth. ‘I was so worried. It looked ’orrible.’
The Bulches were soon tucking into their hair-riddled soufflé like greedy pigs round a trough, licking and gobbling great chunks of it without even using their knife and fork.
‘Whoever knew that overlings could cook?’ said Clod between mouthfuls. ‘This on its own would be rotsome, but the dog hair gives it a lovely zingy tang.’
‘This is what trollidays are all about,’ said Malaria. ‘Jubbly.’
Rubella finished first. She guzzled down the last scrap of her dinner and smashed the plate on the floor next to her.
‘FINISHED!’ she yelled.
‘Sshhhhhhh,’ Neville said. ‘You can’t break things, Rubella.’
‘I can,’ growled Rubella and threw Neville’s plate at the wall. It splattered all over the wallpaper.
‘NO!’ shouted Neville as Pong burst into excited laughter.
‘Don’t fret, Nev,’ said Malaria. ‘It’s polite to smash your plate after eatin’ … I think.’
‘Yeah, Nev,’ said Clod. ‘Trollidays are all about funly, jiggish-type things like this. There’s no harm done.’
Neville groaned. They just didn’t understand.
‘You can’t break anything else and you’ve got to be quiet. My grandma Joan is coming to stay and she mustn’t find out you’re here.’
‘Oh, lummy,’ said Clod. ‘We’re going to meet the relatives –’
‘No!’ Neville interrupted. ‘Grandma Joan is a nasty old bat. She’d have you stuffed and mounted on a wall if she could. It’s her favourite hobby. She’s meaner than a slurch.’
He told them the story of Grandma Joan and the fox. And the one about her biting the milkman because he brought full-fat milk instead of semi-skimmed. And the terrible way she set the hounds on anyone who turned up unannounced.
‘Well, how ’bout that?’ Clod said, pulling a face. ‘A scary overling? I never heard of such a thingummy. Have you, Belly?’
Clod turned to where Rubella had been sitting, but she wasn’t there.
‘That’s odd,’ said Malaria. ‘She was there a teeny ticker ago.’
Neville had been so lost in his horror stories about Grandma Joan he hadn’t even noticed Rubella leave. She must have been gone for a while.
�
�Where’s she got to?’ said Clod. His question was answered by the clomp of heavy feet and the whoooooooosh … whoooooooosh of the bathroom taps upstairs.
‘She’s running a bath,’ said Neville, scratching his head. Somehow it didn’t sound right.
‘Belly?’ chuckled Clod. ‘Havin’ a scrub?’
‘That’s a bit wonky,’ said Malaria. ‘Belly doesn’t wash.’
‘You’re right,’ said Neville. ‘She can’t be. She wouldn’t even fit in the tub.’
‘Well, if she ain’t havin’ a bath,’ Malaria thought out loud, ‘why’s she been runnin’ those taps?’
‘Oh, pook,’ said Clod. Neville didn’t like the sound of it. Clod was pointing to the holiday magazine lying open on the table.
There, in big blue letters, above a picture of children swimming and splashing, it said:
Meanwhile
Grandma Joan seized her cane in her gnarled hand and smacked the driver on the back of the head. He swerved and the car almost crashed.
‘How much longer?’ she hissed. ‘The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.’
Joan sat back and sipped her champagne.
‘Oh, and, driver,’ she said, whacking him one last time for good measure, ‘if you see any rabbits or squirrels, try and run them over. Oh … and if you come across any pedestrians, try to get some of those too. I love the way they go bump-squelch.’
Rubella’s Swimming Pool
Neville had never run so fast in his life. He raced up the stairs, jumping two and three steps at a time, with Clod and Malaria galumphing after him.
‘Rubella!’ Neville yelled, banging his fists on the door. He could hear the whooshing of water and his troll-sister singing on the other side. ‘Rubella!’
‘Belly!’ shouted Clod from behind Neville. ‘I’m not sure this is such a jubbly idea.’
‘You get your bummly-bits out here right now!’ Malaria ordered.
Neville started to panic. There was already water running out from beneath the door and trickling down the stairs. How long had Rubella had the water on?
‘Rubella, please!’ Neville yelled. He banged again, but it was no use.
‘Can’t hear you!’ Rubella shouted above the noise. Then she started singing. Neville couldn’t hear too well, but it went something like this:
‘SPLISH, SPLASH, SPLOSH!
I’VE HAD SOME NOSH
AND NOW I’LL ’AVE A SWIM …
AND IF THAT GRUB
SPOILS MY RUB-A-DUB-DUB,
I’LL DROP A ROCK ON HIM.’
‘Here,’ said Clod, swinging Neville on to his back so he could look through the window above the door. ‘What’s she up to?’
Neville stood on Clod’s shoulders and looked down into the bathroom. It was worse than he thought. Rubella hadn’t just turned the bath and sink taps on, she’d pulled them off completely. Water was gushing out of the broken pipes and was already halfway up the walls – and rising. Rubella was lying on her back, floating in the middle of the room alongside all sorts of shampoo bottles, toothbrushes and Neville’s rubber duck.
‘GURGLE, BUBBLE
NEV’S IN TROUBLE!’
‘Stop it!’ Neville shouted through the glass. ‘You’ll flood the whole house.’
‘SPLASH AND SPLOSH,
FUN AND PLAY;
I’LL WASH YOUR STUPID
HOUSE AWAY!’
Rubella looked up at him and stuck out her tongue, then started doing the backstroke in little circles round the room.
‘What did you say, scab?’ she teased. ‘I can’t hear you.’
Neville pounded on the glass above the door, yelling his troll-sister’s name. With one final shove, the window suddenly flapped inwards on its rusty hinges and he toppled head first into the water.
For a moment, Neville couldn’t tell which way was up and which was down as he kicked and floundered in a storm of little bubbles. He tried to reach out and grab something to steady himself, but all he got was a squishy toilet roll and the pair of tweezers that Marjorie plucked her nose hair with.
‘GET OUT!’ Rubella screamed, grabbing Neville and hauling him up above the water. ‘This is MY swimming pool.’
Neville spluttered. He could hear Clod and Malaria on the other side of the door banging and yelling.
‘Y’right, Nev?’
‘What’s occurinating?’
Rubella splashed water in Neville’s face.
‘You’re ruining my trolliday, you dungle dropping.’
Downstairs, Marjorie stomped back into the living room. She’d given up trying to get Herbert out from the cupboard under the sink. He was still there and refusing to budge. She looked at the soufflé splat that was running down the wall and the smashed plate on the floor. Those trolls were in for it now. Marjorie stormed towards the hole in the wall.
‘Pull the plug!’ Neville shouted to Rubella. ‘We have to get the water out!’
Rubella splashed more water at Neville and snorted.
‘Don’t tell me what to do, you snot.’
‘You have to!’ Neville cried. He wasn’t a very strong swimmer and was starting to sink.
Malaria, on the other side of the door, began to get angry.
‘Right, you bonksome little madam!’ she bellowed to her daughter. ‘ENOUGH!’
With that, Malaria gave the door handle an almighty yank. There was a loud creak, followed by a thunderous GLUG as the whole bathroom door came off in her hands.
Marjorie came through the hole in the wall and looked up the stairs to the landing. She saw Clod pounding on the wall and Malaria pulling at the bathroom-door handle. She opened her mouth to speak … and …
What Marjorie wanted to say was ‘WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? HOW DARE YOU COME HERE AND RUIN MY LOVELY HOUSE, YOU ROTTEN, STINKING BRUTES. GET OUT! GO ON – GET OUT!’
What actually came out of her mouth was something closer to ‘BLAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!’ when she saw a wave as high as the ceiling plunging down the stairs with Malaria and Clod surfing on the bathroom door like a ride at a theme park.
‘Look out, Margarine!’ shouted Clod as he and Malaria caught hold of the banister and clung on as the water raged past them.
The wave roared like some fierce watery monster, taking picture frames and bath towels with it as it surged down the stairs. Neville shot out through the bathroom door, flapping his arms and kicking his legs. He tried to shout, but vanished beneath the churning water as it sped towards his mum.
Marjorie turned and ran towards the front door, screaming like a baby. No sooner had she opened it than the wave hit her and sent her shooting across the front garden like a soggy bullet from a house-shaped gun.
Marjorie landed with a sploosh on the lawn. She wriggled on to her belly, then yelped as Neville landed on top of her with an almighty ‘OOOOOOMMPH!’
Marjorie was just about to give him the smacked bottom of a lifetime when she saw a pair of very prim, very shiny black leather boots. She followed the skinny ankles upwards … grey stockings … a woollen, peacock-blue coat … sparkly rings on every gristly finger … an elegant old fox fur … pointy horn-rimmed glasses and a scowl to match Rubella’s …
Grandma Joan peered down at Marjorie and Neville like they were worms in the dirt.
‘Revolting,’ she said.
Grandma Joan
‘Hello, Grandma,’ Neville said. His slippers were full of water and made rude slurpy noises as he scrabbled to his feet.
Joan flinched as if even the sound of his voice hurt her ears.
‘Shut up, you little wart,’ she hissed. ‘Children should be like stuffed animals. Very still and very silent.’
Marjorie coughed politely.
‘What –’ Joan said, lifting Marjorie’s chin with the point of her cane – ‘are you doing?’
‘Joan!’ Marjorie jumped up and tried to give the old woman a hug. ‘We were just … um … gardening … in the dark.’
Joan whipped her cane out and barred Marjorie’
s way. ‘Come any closer in those wet clothes and I’ll throw you head first into the tumble-drier, d’you hear?’ she said. ‘You people are strange, and strange people upset my nerves.’
Neville stared at his grandma. In the light of the street lamps she looked like a mummy that had lost its bandages. Her hair was like silver wire and her skin was thin and foldy like old paper. She had the permanent expression of someone sucking on a super-sour sweet.
‘Well?’ said Grandma Joan. ‘Are you going to show me inside or do I have to stand out here all night?’
The old woman shoved between Neville and Marjorie and stalked up the garden path towards the front door, her cane clicking and splishing on the gravel as she went.
Neville stuck his tongue out at his grandma’s back as she tottered towards the house like an angry stick insect. She always visited at the same time every year and she was always meaner than the last time.
‘You old bat,’ Neville whispered to himself. He wished Captain Brilliant were there. That mean weasel wouldn’t stand a chance against someone like Captain Brilliant. He’d boot her in the backside and send her packing in no time.
‘Uuhhgh,’ Marjorie suddenly grunted. She was pointing towards the house with the kind of look that belonged on the face of someone who had just swallowed a hive of bumblebees.
Neville saw what his mum had spotted and gasped.
The front door was wide open and he could plainly see Clod and Malaria climbing off the banister and coming down the stairs.
What was he going to do? Grandma Joan was heading straight towards them. In a few seconds, she’d look up. Even a blind old fossil like Joan couldn’t miss two enormous trolls lumbering in her direction. She’d call the police or wake up all the neighbours with her screaming, or drop down dead with shock, or worse, hunt the Bulches down and have them turned into troll-skin rugs.
‘WAIT,’ wailed Marjorie. ‘I must give my favourite mother-in-law a proper hug!’ She grabbed the old woman by the scruff of the collar, spun her round and threw her arms and legs round Joan’s middle.
Holiday Hullabaloo Page 2