Trolls Go Home!

  Trolls Go Home!

  by Alan MacDonald

  illustrations by Mark Beech

  To Sally with trollish love – A.M.

  To Robyn and Duncan for their ongoing

  support and encouragement – M.B.

  Contents

  Tall, Dark and Ugly

  Roaring Lessons

  Teachers Are Funny

  A Nice Kid

  Troll at School

  The Sweet Stink of Home

  Goblins!

  How to Make Friends

  Bubble Trouble

  Big Bad Goat

  All Together Now

  Footnotes

  Also by the Author

  Tall, Dark and Ugly

  ‘Jackie! Come and see! They’re moving in next door!’

  Mr Priddle had his telescope trained on a large blue removal van standing in next door’s drive. His wife’s voice floated up the stairs.

  ‘Roger! I hope you’re not snooping through that telescope?’

  ‘Of course I’m not,’ said Mr Priddle, with his eye pressed to the lens. ‘Wait! They’re getting out! I can see … Good gravy!’

  ‘What, dear?’ Mrs Priddle came into the front bedroom holding two mugs of tea. She was followed by her freckle-faced son Warren, who had come upstairs to find out what all the fuss was about.

  ‘They’re huge! Colossal!’ exclaimed Mr Priddle.

  ‘Well, some people are tall,’ replied his wife. ‘Just because you’re a bit on the short side, Roger.’

  ‘No, I mean really huge, Jackie. Take a look for yourself.’

  Mrs Priddle folded her arms. ‘I am not snooping on the neighbours through a telescope. What will they think if they see you peering through the curtains?’

  ‘I don’t mind snooping,’ offered Warren. ‘Let me have a look!’

  ‘In a minute, Warren,’ said Mr Priddle impatiently. ‘Good Lord! I’ve never seen anyone so hairy!’

  ‘Well, what if they are?’ replied Mrs Priddle. ‘Just because you’re bald as a newborn baby.’

  ‘I don’t just mean hairy. I mean hairy all over,’ said Mr Priddle.

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous!’

  ‘See for yourself!’ said Mr Priddle.

  ‘Let me look! It’s my turn!’ cried Warren, making a grab for the telescope.

  ‘Get your hands off, Warren!’ snapped his dad.

  ‘Don’t be so childish, Roger,’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘Let the boy have a go.’

  Warren pushed in front of his dad. Covering one eye, he used the other to squint through the lens. He could see one of the neighbours carrying a table towards the front door. The table was like the base of a tree trunk, but the creature – he couldn’t really call it a person – carried it as if it was no heavier than a matchstick.

  ‘Woah! Ugly or what?’ said Warren.

  ‘Warren!’ scolded his mother. ‘It’s not nice to say that about people.’

  ‘But Mum, they are ugly,’ Warren pointed out.

  ‘He’s right, Jackie,’ agreed Mr Priddle. ‘They’re brutes. From what I’ve seen they belong in a zoo, not a house.’ He elbowed his son aside so that he could reapply himself to the telescope.

  ‘You’re making it all up,’ said Mrs Priddle.

  ‘We’re not! Take a look for yourself!’

  ‘I told you I am not spying on our neighbours through a telescope. It’s rude.’ Mrs Priddle took a dainty sip of her tea.

  ‘There’s another one getting out,’ pointed Warren excitedly. ‘There are three of them!’

  ‘Move over,’ said Mrs Priddle. She smoothed back her blonde curls and put her eye to the telescope.

  ‘Oh, my giddy bananas!’ she said. ‘I don’t feel well.’

  The Trolls moving into Number 10 would have been a surprising sight for anyone. Mr Troll was wearing a white vest, a baseball cap and an enormous pair of bright red Bermuda shorts reaching to his knees. These were the only clothes he could find in the shop that were big enough to fit him. Mrs Troll was wearing a flowery cotton dress jammed so tightly over her body that at any moment the buttons threatened to burst off and shoot in all directions. Only their young son Ulrik looked halfway normal. But it was difficult for any troll to look normal standing in Mountain View, Biddlesden this sunny morning.

  The Trolls had coarse brown hair sprouting all over their bodies. It hid their faces apart from their coal-black eyes, their snoutish noses and the two sharp white fangs that stuck up either side of their mouths. Most trolls cannot be called beautiful. In fact, if you came upon a troll unexpectedly – say by wandering into a deep, dark forest – you would probably scream and climb the nearest tree quicker than a startled squirrel. A troll’s sheer size is enough to scare anyone. Their ugliness is legendary, enough to put a witch or a hag off their breakfast. Mr Troll was roughly the size of a grizzly bear standing on its hind legs – and next to him Roger Priddle would have looked like a stick insect on a diet. Even their new house at Number 10 looked rather small, as Mr Troll found out when he tried to get the table through the front door.

  ‘Arghh! Gnnnh!’ he roared. ‘It’s too small.’

  ‘It can’t be too small,’ said Mrs Troll, ‘it’s the same size as it always was.’

  ‘Not the table,’ groaned Mr Troll. ‘The door! The door’s too small for me to get in!’

  ‘Well, use your head then,’ sighed Mrs Troll.

  Mr Troll did. He thumped his big hairy head against the door frame and the plaster above it caved in, leaving a space large enough for him to squeeze through with the table.

  Next door, Mr Priddle gasped. ‘Did you see that? He smashed the door to pieces! With his head!’

  ‘I hope he’s not going to do that every time he comes home,’ said Mrs Priddle.

  Inside Number 10, the Trolls looked around their new home. Sunny yellow wallpaper brightened the walls and there were carpets on the floor.

  Mr Troll sniffed. ‘It’s very clean,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Don’t worry, Egbert,’ said Mrs Troll, ‘we’ll soon change that. A nice bit of dirt on the floor, a few mouldy leaves – it’ll soon look like home.’

  ‘I like it as it is,’ said Ulrik. ‘Much better than our old cave.’

  Mr and Mrs Troll exchanged dark looks. Ulrik ran into the hall.

  ‘Uggsome! There are stairs! Can I look up here, Mum?’ he called, jumping up them two at a time.

  In the bathroom, the Trolls stared at the gleaming white bath.

  ‘What is it, Mum?’ asked Ulrik.

  ‘It’s a bath, my hairling,’ explained Mrs Troll. ‘You lie down in it.’

  Ulrik climbed in and lay down. It was a tight fit, even for a young troll. His large hairy feet stuck out beyond the end of the bath. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, twisting a silver tap round. The shower came on above, soaking him with a hundred tiny jets of water. ‘Ha ha! It’s tickly!’ Ulrik giggled. ‘I’m all wet!’

  ‘Get out of there, Ulrik,’ growled Mr Troll. ‘The rain’s coming in.’

  ‘It’s not rain, it’s a shower,’ explained Mrs Troll, turning off the tap. ‘I read that peeples take a shower every day. To keep themselves clean.’

  ‘Clean?’ said Mr Troll, recoiling in horror. ‘You mean they wash? With water?’

  ‘Yes, and something called soap.’

  ‘I want to wash with a soap!’ shouted Ulrik.

  Mr and Mrs Troll exchanged another worried glance.

  ‘We don’t want you smelling all sweet as a daisy,’ growled Mr Troll. ‘Trolls smell of the forest, the earth, the dark. Those are the old Trollish smells.’

  Ulrik sniffed himself under his hairy arms. He liked his own smell. He wondered what peeples smelled like up close. Next time he got the chance he would make sure t
o smell one.

  By supper time they were all hungry. It had been a long journey coming from the far blue mountains of Norway. Mrs Troll set a single tin on the table in front of them. Mr Troll pointed at it with his fork. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s called Baked Bean,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘I got it at the shop on the corner.’

  Mr Troll screwed up his nose in disgust. ‘Bean? I can’t eat bean – what kind of a meal is that? Trolls eat meat! Where’s the goat pie?’

  Mrs Troll sighed. ‘We’re not at home now, Egbert. I don’t think it’s as easy to find goat.’

  ‘No goat pie?’ Mr Troll’s mouth fell open.

  ‘Don’t blame me,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘It was you that wanted to move here.’

  ‘We didn’t have any choice, you know very well,’ said Mr Troll darkly. ‘How could we stay after what happened?’

  ‘What did happen?’ asked Ulrik innocently. His parents had never explained why they’d left home in such a hurry. Mr Troll covered his face with his hands.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘He’ll have to know sometime,’ said Mrs Troll.

  ‘Know what?’ demanded Ulrik.

  ‘Ulrik,’ said Mrs Troll, ‘your dad had a nasty experience. With a goat.’

  ‘No! Don’t speak about it!’ groaned Mr Troll.

  ‘He’s got a right to know,’ insisted Mrs Troll. ‘Are you going to tell him or shall I?’

  Mr Troll peered at his son over his hands. ‘It was a monster, Ulrik,’ he said. ‘A monster!’

  ‘It was a billy goat, Egbert,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘Don’t exaggerate.’

  Mr Troll looked at his son. ‘A giant goat, Ulrik. He had two brothers but next to him they were only tiddlers. I faced him on the bridge. He had hooves like iron, hornses as sharp as knives.’

  ‘What happened, Dad?’ asked Ulrik, wide-eyed. ‘Did you roar and chase him away?’

  Mr Troll shook his head, unable to speak the awful truth.

  Mrs Troll took over. ‘The goat charged,’ she said. ‘Your father lost his nerve and he got tossed from the bridge into the river. I had to drag him out by the ears, or he would have drowned.’

  ‘The shame of it,’ moaned Mr Troll. ‘The shame!’

  ‘So you see, Ulrik, that’s why we had to move,’ continued Mrs Troll. ‘Your father felt that if we stayed at home the other trolls would always be making fun of him.’

  ‘Beated by a goat! How could I look them in the eye again?’ asked Mr Troll pitifully.

  Ulrik went over to his dad and stroked his large, shaggy head. ‘Never mind, Dad. I bet those other trolls would have run away.’

  ‘You think so?’ Mr Troll managed a smile.

  ‘You faced a giant goat,’ said Ulrik. ‘I think you’re the bravest dad in the whole world.’

  Mr Troll gave his son a squeeze. He wiped away a speck of dirt that was making his eyes water. ‘What about this bean then, Ulrik? I’m starving,’ he said.

  Opening the tin was harder than Mrs Troll had expected. She watched Ulrik trying to bite into it with his sharp teeth, but even a troll’s teeth couldn’t make much of an impression. Mrs Troll tried cutting the can with a knife and fork, but each time it catapulted across the table like a slippery fish.

  All this time, Mr Troll’s face was growing darker and darker. He was starting to growl – a sure sign that he was about to lose his temper. (Trolls have short tempers at the best of times and Mr Troll liked to boast he had the shortest temper of anyone he knew.) Finally he reached out and grabbed the tin and flung it against the far wall with a great angry roar.

  ‘GRARRR!’

  The tin burst open and a thick gloop of baked beans in tomato sauce began to slide down the wallpaper. Ulrik reached out a finger and dipped it in the sauce, licking it off with his tongue.

  ‘Yum!’ he said. ‘Baked bean is uggsome!’

  But Mr Troll had stormed out of the house, banging the door behind him.

  Outside the sight of the neat green lawn and the sickly-sweet smell of the roses did nothing to improve his mood. All he could see for miles around were rows of identical houses. They had lawns and patios, wooden benches and flowers in neat borders.

  Biddlesden wasn’t a bit like home.

  He missed the lofty mountains of Norway with their heads in the clouds. He missed the wide open skies, the shadowy pine forests and the deep lakes that shone like mirrors.

  The stars were coming out in the night sky. He looked for the North Star, turned his face in the direction of home and sighed deeply.

  A small, warm hand crept into his own and, looking down, he saw little Ulrik at his side.

  ‘Never mind, Dad,’ said Ulrik. ‘Maybe we’ll have goat pie for supper tomorrow.’

  ‘Humph!’ said Mr Troll. ‘Let’s go in. You can lick that bean juice off the wall.’

  As they went up the path, Ulrik thought he saw a curtain twitch in an upstairs room next door.

  Roaring Lessons

  Roger Priddle liked Sunday mornings. What he liked best was lazing in bed, knowing he didn’t have to go to work at the bank. But on this Sunday morning his doze was disturbed by a deafening noise. It sounded as if a herd of wildebeest were stampeding through the house next door. Was it his imagination or was the room shaking? He looked up at the lamp hanging from the ceiling – it was definitely swaying to and fro.

  He prodded his wife in the back. ‘Wake up, Jackie! I think it’s an earthquake!’

  ‘Uh? What?’ said Mrs Priddle.

  ‘An earthquake! We’re all going to die!’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Roger,’ his wife yawned sleepily. ‘This is Biddlesden, we don’t have earthquakes. Not on Sundays.’

  Then came the bellow from next door that made them both sit upright and clutch at the duvet.

  ‘What was that?’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘It sounded like someone being murdered!’

  ‘It’s that lot next door,’ said Mr Priddle grimly.

  ‘Do something, Roger,’ urged his wife. ‘It’s seven o’ clock in the morning. Go round and tell them to stop.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ asked Mr Priddle. ‘Have you seen the size of them?’

  ‘Well, we can’t just lie here and listen to that racket.’

  The thumps and roars from next door were growing louder. Mrs Priddle banged on the wall with her slipper. No one seemed to hear her.

  At Number 10, Ulrik had woken up early. It was impossible to sleep when you were living in a new house where there were so many things to see.

  He ran into his parents’ room, where he found them both asleep. Under their considerable weight the bed sagged in the middle like a hammock. Ulrik jumped on top of his dad’s round belly, rising and falling in time with his snores, until Mr Troll woke up.

  ‘Come on, Dad!’ said Ulrik. ‘Time for my roaring practice.’

  Mr Troll groaned. ‘Isn’t it a bit early?’

  ‘You said I had to practise every day.’

  ‘All right, all right.’

  A few minutes later they were marching round the bedroom, stamping their feet as if they were crushing invisible ants. Sitting up in bed, Mrs Troll watched her son proudly as he followed behind his dad, copying him.

  ‘Remember,’ said Mr Troll, ‘trolls don’t walk. They tromp. They make the trees shake and the birdses twitter away.’

  ‘I like birdses, Dad.’

  ‘Are you tromping?’

  ‘Yes Dad,’ said Ulrik.

  ‘Now imagine there is a goat just around the corner and you’re going to scare it.’

  ‘Why do I want to scare it?’

  ‘Because you’re a troll. Trolls jump out and scare goatses. That’s what we do.’

  ‘Couldn’t I just say: “Hello, I’m Ulrik”?’

  ‘That’s not going to scare anything.’

  ‘Or I could sing them a song. Mum says she likes my singing.’

  Mr Troll rolled his eyes.

  ‘Look, is this singing practice or roaring practic
e?’

  ‘Roaring practice,’ admitted Ulrik.

  ‘Then let’s get on with it. Roar after me.’

  Mr Troll gathered himself. He took a deep breath, swelled out his hairy chest, threw back his head and let rip a roar like a thunderclap.

  ‘GRAAARRR!’

  This was the sound that made the Priddles sit bolt upright in bed, fearing that someone was being murdered.

  ‘Now you try,’ said Mr Troll.

  Ulrik gathered himself. He took a deep breath and tried to swell out his chest like his dad. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, with his eyes screwed up and his cheeks puffed out, he thought he looked like a wrinkled old goblin. He fell back on the bed, giggling. Mr Troll patted his young son on the head.

  ‘Never mind. We’ll have another practice tomorrow,’ he said.

  As Ulrik ran off to play, Mr Troll shook his head in despair.

  ‘See what I mean? Harmless as a kitten.’

  ‘He’s only young, hairling. Give him time,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘I’m sure they’ll have roaring lessons at school.’

  Later that morning, Mr Priddle trained his telescope on next door’s back garden. He had moved it into Warren’s bedroom, where he had a better view from the window.

  ‘What are they doing now, Dad?’ asked Warren.

  ‘Shhh!’ said Mr Priddle. ‘He’s just come out. The big one.’

  ‘He’s a troll,’ said Warren unexpectedly.

  ‘A what? How do you know?’ asked his dad.

  ‘I looked it up last night,’ said Warren proudly. ‘It’s in my junior encyclopedia.’

  He showed his dad a picture of two large, snarling trolls – a male and female standing side by side. They weren’t wearing Bermuda shorts or flowery summer dresses, but the resemblance was unmistakable. He read the caption below the picture.

  ‘Trolls: fierce race of creatures found in the mountains of Norway. They inhabit caves and underground dwellings.’

  ‘Good gravy!’ said Mr Priddle.

  ‘But what are they doing here, Dad?’ asked Warren.

  Mr Priddle shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But he certainly looks mean. A brute. I wouldn’t want to tackle him. With my judo skills I might get carried away and do him some serious damage.’