Holiday Hullabaloo

by Steven Butler

  Joan whacked her daughter-in-law with her stick and wriggled, but Marjorie held tight.

  ‘It’s so lovely to see you,’ Marjorie sobbed, bursting into pretend tears.

  ‘GET OFF ME, YOU SOGGY IDIOT!’

  Over Joan’s shoulder, Marjorie pointed to Neville and then the house.

  ‘Go!’ she whispered. ‘Run!’

  Neville darted up the path and in through the front door.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Nev,’ said Clod cheerily. ‘Thought you’d wash up at some point. That was a sploshly old time, eh?’

  ‘Not now,’ puffed Neville. ‘Grandma Joan has arrived.’

  ‘Who?’ said Malaria, pulling a dripping toilet brush out of her hair.

  ‘My grandma Joan. Y’know – mean, nasty, vicious Joan.’

  Malaria shrugged.

  ‘She’ll have you stuffed and turned into a sofa,’ said Neville.

  ‘I’ve never been a sofa,’ said Clod. ‘Sounds like fun.’

  ‘HIDE!’ shouted Neville, herding them up the stairs like cattle. He heaved and jabbed at their bottoms to get them moving faster.

  ‘Watch where you’re putting those pinchers,’ said Clod, huffing and puffing ahead of Neville.

  ‘Quick, Clod,’ groaned Malaria. ‘You’re getting chunky as a lardy lumper.’

  At the top of the stairs, they found Pong rolling and splashing in a puddle with the toilet seat round his neck and Rubella spread out on the bathroom floor like a beached whale in a yellow bikini.

  ‘Quick, Rubella!’ said Neville. ‘You have to hide. Grandma Joan’s here.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do, you little whelp,’ she grunted. ‘You’ve ruined my trolliday.’

  ‘But you’ve got to hide,’ Neville pleaded. ‘Grandma Joan will skin you and turn you into a pair of gloves if she finds you.’

  Confusion twitched across Rubella’s face.

  ‘Or stick your head on a wall, stuff it with straw and sew on little button eyes,’ Neville carried on. ‘That’s what she’s like.’

  ‘There’ll be no snacking at bedtime if you don’t hurry up,’ Clod threatened.

  ‘Come on, Belly,’ said Malaria as she picked Pong up from the floor. ‘Now.’

  They all bundled into Neville’s bedroom and slammed the door.

  Neville switched the light off and listened. He heard Grandma Joan yelling and his mum cry out in surprise. She wasn’t going to be able to hold Grandma Joan for much longer.

  ‘Now keep quiet,’ said Neville to the four troll-shaped shadows in the gloom, ‘and don’t move.’

  He slipped back out into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

  ‘What a disgusting mess,’ came Joan’s voice from downstairs. ‘You did this on purpose, you rotten nincompoop.’

  Marjorie ummed and ahhed, trying to think of an excuse.

  ‘We’re redecorating.’

  ‘Why did my son marry you?’ Joan said. ‘You can’t even keep a tiny hovel like this clean.’

  Neville leaned back against the door, crossed his fingers and toes and prayed to Captain Brilliant that Joan didn’t plan to stay for long.

  Meanwhile

  Joan glowered at a photograph of Herbert, Marjorie and their pathetic child in a frame above the fireplace. What a rotten little family. What were they up to? She could hear them whispering in the kitchen.

  Joan flexed her fingers, making the knuckles crack loudly. ‘Disgusting,’ she mumbled.

  She hated visiting her son … what was his name? Hubert? Harrold? Something like that … The only reason she still visited was because she enjoyed scaring them so much.

  Joan huffed. What was that smell? At her age, Joan’s eyes and ears weren’t what they used to be, but her nose never failed her. There was an odd scent in the air like something from a memory. It was a mix of mud, moss and old socks all rolled into one.

  ‘Hmmmmmm,’ Joan said quietly to herself. ‘Interesting.’

  Where’s the Ceiling?

  By the time Neville got back to his bedroom, it was past midnight. Grandma Joan had been horrible all evening, complaining and nitpicking, but at least the Bulches had stayed quiet and Joan had skulked off to bed none the wiser. Marjorie had made it very clear to Neville that he was in charge of their ‘guests’ and he had to keep them out of Grandma Joan’s sight.

  Inside his room, everything was dark. Neville could make out the shapes of Malaria fast asleep on his bed, Rubella snoring on the rug and Pong lying on a pile of stuffed toys. Where was Clod?

  Neville tiptoed into the room. He was about to whisper his dooda’s name in case he’d missed him in the shadows, when he noticed his bedroom window was wide open.

  ‘Dooda?’ Neville whispered as he reached the window sill. The garden below was dark and shadowy, but Neville was pretty sure he’d be able to spot a hulking great troll if he was down there. ‘Dooda?’

  A grey-green arm suddenly appeared from above and wrapped itself round Neville’s middle. Then, like it had done a long time ago in that rusty sewer pipe, it lifted him into the air.

  Clod put Neville down gently on the roof next to him. He had his big grey-green knees tucked up under his chin and there were tears in his eyes.

  ‘Hello, lump,’ he said. ‘You should be snizzling away in your dreams by now.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Neville. He stretched as far as he could and put his little, short arm round Clod’s neck. ‘Why are you sad?’

  ‘Oh, nonkumbumps,’ said Clod. ‘I’m not sad, silly. I’m all happy and jubbly. Look.’ Clod pointed a finger into the night.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That!’ Clod said, pointing with both hands.

  ‘The sky?’ asked Neville.

  ‘I’ve never seen it before,’ said Clod. ‘When I was a wee nipster, my dooda told me all about you overlings not having a ceiling. Funny thing is … I never believed the old wotzit.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Neville. ‘Those are stars … and that big thing there, that’s the moon.’

  ‘The moon,’ said Clod. ‘How blunking wonderbunk! I’ve always wanted to see the moon.’

  ‘Well, now you have,’ Neville said, hugging his dooda.

  ‘Indeedy I have,’ said Clod. ‘Oh, but listen to me grizzling on. Why aren’t you snoring and slumber-snortin’? Can’t sleep?’

  ‘No,’ said Neville.

  ‘Well …’ Clod said, settling himself against the roof tiles. ‘Why don’t I tell you a snoozetime story?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Well, there’s the story of the time Dribble Hacklebottom got her tongue caught on a frozen water pipe and had to stay there for a whole bang, bong and boom. Then there’s the story of The Troll That Stole or the one about the plague of hinkapoots.’

  Neville thought for a moment. ‘Tell me about The Troll That Stole,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, that one,’ chuckled Clod. ‘She was a right nasty one was Lady Jaundice. She was a troll pirate – a truccaneer! D’you know that blighter broke into the Underneath left-sock store and stole every last one? She left us all starvatious, she did. It was ages till the next grab night and everyone got skinnier than a scrawner by the end.’

  ‘That’s horrible,’ said Neville.

  ‘Oh, you ain’t wrong there,’ said Clod. ‘No one ever found her. She’s still at large somewhere is old Lady Jaundice, the great big gonker.’

  Neville yawned.

  ‘But there’s armfuls of time for stories later,’ said Clod. ‘You need your rest, lump.’ He picked Neville up and stood with one foot on each side of the pointy roof. Neville didn’t think he’d ever been so high up in his life and he liked it.

  ‘I wonder what it’s made of?’ said Clod, glancing back at the sky once more.

  ‘What?’ asked Neville.

  ‘The moon.’

  ‘Oh. Some people think it’s made of cheese,’ said Neville.

  ‘Toe cheese?’ asked Clod, with a look of amazement.

  ‘Maybe.’


  ‘Jubbly,’ said Clod. He gave Neville a little squeeze.

  If either of them had looked down at that moment, they would have seen a small shadowy shape skittering across the lawn and vanishing into the bushes at the end of the garden. They might even have heard it cooing and laughing to itself, but they were far too distracted.

  ‘Well, my little grub,’ said Clod after a long while. ‘I think it’s about time for a snooze.’

  Clod swung down off the roof and into Neville’s bedroom window.

  ‘That,’ whispered Clod, ‘was squibbly.’

  Clod put Neville down, planted a big kiss on the top of his head, and Neville wandered over to a pile of stuffed toys to lie down.

  ‘Night, Nev,’ whispered Clod as he settled himself on the floor next to the bed.

  ‘Night, Dooda,’ Neville yawned back. He’d forgotten that only moments before, someone else had been asleep on that same pile of toys.

  AAAAAAAAAGGGHH!

  Neville woke with a start as Marjorie burst into his bedroom. She stood holding on to the doorframe like she was about to be sucked away.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

  ‘That wretched little thing has got out,’ Marjorie said. ‘It’s all over the news.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind “WHAT?”’ Marjorie snapped, half whispering, half grunting. She yanked Neville off the pile of toys. ‘Quick!’

  Neville ran downstairs to the living room. There were his dad and his mooma and dooda crowded round the television.

  ‘What if Grandma Joan wakes up and sees everyone?’ Neville gasped.

  ‘S’all right, son,’ Herbert said proudly. ‘I popped one of your mother’s sleeping tablets in her tea last night. She’ll snooze through to lunchtime easily. I think I did quite well really, if you ask –’

  ‘Shut up, you ninny,’ Marjorie said through gritted teeth. ‘What are we going to do?’

  Rubella was slumped on the sofa, picking her nose and smirking. All three of his troll family were wearing thick sunglasses, even though the curtains were drawn.

  ‘You’re in big trouble, Nev,’ Rubella chuckled.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Neville asked. If Pong really had got out, anything could have happened to him by now.

  ‘Looks like someone wasn’t watching Pong like they were supposed to,’ Rubella said. She flicked a fat bogey at him.

  Neville pushed through Clod and Malaria, who were transfixed by the television. They’d never seen one that actually worked before. Neville wasn’t sure whether they cared more about Pong being lost or the moving pictures on the screen. He reached out and turned the volume up as high as it would go.

  There was Silvia Simmonds, the morning newsreader, and behind her was a huge picture of Pong.

  ‘Reports are coming in,’ read Silvia, ‘of a strange new creature that was found after it smashed the front window of a shoe shop and ate half the stock.’

  ‘Oh, Pong does love a boot or two,’ said Clod. He was snacking on a pair of Herbert’s slippers himself. ‘I should have checked he’d grunched a few before we came up here.’

  ‘Shhh,’ said Malaria, putting a hand over Clod’s mouth. ‘Listen, our little grubling is famous. I’m so proud I could boogle my bunions.’

  ‘We now go live,’ said Silvia Simmonds, ‘to London Zoo, where the creature has been put on display.’

  A freckly man with spectacles and bright ginger hair came on to the screen.

  ‘Good morning, Silvia,’ said the freckly, ginger-haired man. ‘The creature is believed to be a new type of monkey-seal-pig. The first of its kind in fact.’

  ‘A monkey-seal-pig?’ said Neville.

  ‘I know,’ beamed Malaria. ‘We’ve never had a monkey-seal-pig in the family before. I’m as chuffed as a chuffer.’

  ‘Here at London Zoo, we’re all very excited,’ the ginger man continued. ‘The monkey-seal-pig will be our star attraction for many years to come.’

  Herbert turned the television off. ‘Marvellous,’ he said, rubbing his hands together contentedly. ‘Pong in a cage for …’

  ‘Years?’ said Clod. ‘Did that freckly-fuzzbonk just say “many years to come”?’

  Neville nodded.

  ‘They can’t put our Pong in a cage for –’ Malaria gulped – ‘years.’

  ‘Too right they can’t,’ said Marjorie from the doorway. ‘People will soon get bored of the little blighter, and when they do, they’ll come looking for more of you.’

  ‘What?’ said Malaria.

  ‘You mark my words,’ said Marjorie, wagging her finger at Malaria like she was a naughty schoolgirl. ‘We’ll have hordes of people here next, all wanting to meet a real-life troll.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Malaria. ‘This has bungled things right up. If we don’t get our lumpling back, we’ll have overlings snuffling and grippling us underlings all over the place. They might even wiffle down Underneath and … AND … TIDY UP!’

  ‘It’s not good,’ said Clod. ‘This is a right pickle.’

  ‘Forget the little monster,’ Herbert said to Neville, trying to look as stern as he possibly could. ‘He was nothing but trouble right from the start.’

  ‘We can’t leave Pong in the zoo,’ gasped Neville.

  ‘It’s none of our business,’ said Herbert. ‘That’s final.’

  ‘I blame Nev,’ said Rubella, pointing a stubby finger at him. ‘Let’s put him in the zoo instead.’

  You’re On Your Own

  ‘Well, I’m not having anything to do with it,’ barked Marjorie. She clapped her hands together as if she were brushing off something dirty. ‘Good riddance.’

  ‘Your mum’s right,’ said Herbert.

  ‘Your grandma will be awake soon,’ Marjorie added. ‘She’ll want to be entertained and you’ve got it seriously wrong if you’re expecting your father and I to do it alone. We need all the help we can get. Pong is NOT our problem.’

  Herbert and Marjorie humphed off to the kitchen to drink tea and feel sorry for themselves. Neville pulled a face as they went. Suddenly he wished it was his mum and dad in a cage at London Zoo.

  ‘This is dreadly,’ said Clod. ‘Our little Pong is lost again. What are we going to do?’

  ‘We need a brainy-bonker plan,’ said Malaria.

  ‘It’s not going to be easy,’ said Neville.

  ‘Count me out,’ Rubella scoffed, flicking through her Happy Holiday magazine.

  ‘Belt up, Belly,’ said Clod.

  Rubella scowled. This trolliday was turning out to be rubbish.

  There was a long silence … a very long silence.

  ‘Any ideas?’ Neville finally asked.

  ‘We could … erm … umm,’ said Malaria.

  ‘How about … ? Well …’ said Clod.

  Neville racked his brain. What would Captain Brilliant do at a time like this? How were they going to break Pong out of London Zoo?

  ‘Umm … Maybe we could try to –’ Neville said, before Rubella suddenly jumped off the sofa and interrupted.

  ‘I’LL DO IT!’ she yelled.

  ‘What?’ said Malaria. ‘You feelin’ all right?’

  ‘I’ve had a change of heart. I couldn’t bear to see my little brother locked away and all alone. Poor little pluglet.’

  Neville almost laughed. He didn’t think Rubella even had a heart to change.

  ‘Let me go to London and get him,’ Rubella begged. ‘I’ll run fast and keep out of sight, honest.’

  ‘It’s a blunking long way,’ said Clod.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Rubella. ‘Neville can come with me to keep me company. He can ride on my shoulders.’ Then she did the strangest thing Neville had ever seen. Rubella smiled at him.

  Something wasn’t right.

  ‘We’ll need a map,’ said Neville nervously. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what was wrong. ‘There’s one in my dad’s car.’

  ‘You’re so clever,’ said Rubella. Sh
e put a bumpy, turnip-covered arm round Neville. For a horrible moment, he thought he was going mad.

  ‘Good for you, Belly,’ said Clod with a grin. ‘Whoever knew you could be so teamly.’

  ‘I know,’ said Rubella and batted her crusty eyelashes.

  ‘First things first,’ said Malaria. ‘We need to make a distraction so Belly and Nev can get our porklet back without Herburg, Margarine and that oversized squoggle of a grandma knowing. Any ideas, Nev?’

  ‘Well, Grandma Joan likes to be complimented and she loves posh people,’ said Neville.

  ‘Hmmmm …’ said Malaria, hatching an idea.

  Rubella picked Neville up.

  ‘Let’s help Mooma and Dooda and then we’ll go find that map,’ she said.

  Neville gulped. He hadn’t noticed the rolled-up magazine in her hand that was turned to a page saying, ‘WHY NOT GO FOR A SPIN IN THE COUNTRYSIDE?’

  Meanwhile

  Grandma Joan reached for her cane, swung her gnarled old legs out of bed and hobbled blindly to the window. She put on her pointy glasses, peered out at the sunny morning weather and cursed. She never slept this late normally. Her head felt fuzzy like she’d drunk too much champagne.

  ‘What a horrid night,’ she snarled.

  A small bird bobbed along the window ledge on the other side of the glass.

  ‘Hmmmm,’ Joan mumbled. She slowly edged the window upwards and held out a hand towards the little creature. ‘Hello, you,’ she said.

  The little bird hopped forward and chirruped. Joan held her breath and waited very patiently until it was just inside the window sill … then, with a sickening laugh, she swung her cane like a golf club and thwacked it in a high arc across the garden. It landed in a dazed flurry of feathers and angry chirps in a flowerpot.

  ‘How marvellous,’ Joan chuckled. ‘Bye bye, birdie.’

  The Plan