Trolls United Read online

  ‘I didn’t know your Ulrik played football,’ said Mr Priddle.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Troll. ‘He’s going to play for the school team.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ said Mr Priddle. ‘Warren’s been saying the same thing. I used to play a bit myself when I was his age. Just amateur stuff, of course, but I’ve got a few cups I could show you.’

  ‘I’ve got a teapot,’ said Mr Troll, not to be out-done.

  They watched Warren dribble round Ulrik and score another goal.

  ‘See that?’ said Mr Priddle. ‘Warren’s a natural. I was the same at that age.’

  ‘Spotty, you mean?’ said Mr Troll.

  ‘He isn’t spotty,’ scowled Mr Priddle. ‘He just has freckles. And I’ll tell you something else – he’s a better footballer than your Ulrik.’

  ‘The bogles he is!’ growled Mr Troll.

  ‘You want a bet on that?’ challenged Mr Priddle.

  ‘Maybe I do,’ said Mr Troll, sticking out his hairy chin.

  ‘All right then. Ten pounds says it’s my Warren who gets picked for the school team!’

  Mr Troll bristled. ‘You mean my Ulrik won’t?’

  ‘Not a hope!’

  ‘Oh no? We’ll see about that!’

  ‘It’s a bet then. Let’s shake on it.’ Mr Priddle stuck a hand over the fence, and Mr Troll grasped and it shook so hard that his neighbour’s teeth rattled.

  Ulrik came over to see them, tired of picking the ball out of the roses.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Mr Troll. ‘Who won the game?’

  ‘I did,’ said Warren, with a smug grin. ‘Thirteen-nil.’

  Mr Troll groaned and went back inside the house. Maybe he had been a little hasty to agree to the bet. He didn’t know anything about football and he didn’t have any peas in his pocket because so far he’d failed to find a job. All the same, he was fed up with listening to Priddle boasting about his big-headed blubber of a son. It was time for Ulrik to show what trolls were made of.

  Scrawly Stuff

  Back home, Ulrik could hear raised voices in the kitchen. It sounded like his mum and dad were having an argument. This wasn’t unusual – trolls will start an argument over nothing at all. Say ‘good morning’ to a troll and he’s quite likely to reply it is a bad morning and what business have you got calling it good? This is really just to give him an excuse to roar at you. Mr and Mrs Troll were like any other married trolls, which is to say they argued and sulked all the time. Ulrik was so used to it, he paid little attention. But the argument he heard as he entered the kitchen sounded interesting, so he sat down on a chair to listen.

  ‘I don’t know why!’ Mr Troll was saying. ‘I just didn’t get the job.’

  ‘But they must have given you a reason,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘I bet you roared at them, didn’t you? I warned you about that.’

  ‘I did not!’ protested Mr Troll. ‘I only roared once. Twice at the most.’

  Mrs Troll sighed. ‘Did you remember to be confident, like I said?’

  ‘I had confidence coming out of my ears,’ declared Mr Troll. ‘I even put my feet on her desk.’

  ‘Oh Eggy, you didn’t!’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ demanded Mr Troll.

  ‘You should have asked her first. Maybe she wanted to put her feet on the desk!’

  ‘Oh, for bogles’ sake!’ said Mr Troll, thumping his fist against a cupboard door.

  Mrs Troll shook her head. ‘You must be doing something wrong! You keep going for interviews and getting turned down. There must be some reason.’

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

  ‘I mean – there must be a reason!’

  ‘You keep saying that!’

  ‘Then just explain to me why it is you can’t get a job!’

  Mr Troll’s eyes bulged and he seemed to swell up like a great bullfrog. ‘The reason …’ he said. ‘The reason, if you really want to know, is … oh … GRAARRGH!’ He ended in a roar of frustration and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Mrs Troll sighed heavily and turned to Ulrik, who had been listening the whole time.

  ‘Hello, my ugglesome,’ she said. ‘How was your day at school?’

  ‘OK,’ said Ulrik. ‘Did Dad get me the feetball boots?’

  ‘Oh I’m sorry, hairling, I think he forgot. The interview didn’t go so well.’

  ‘I heard,’ said Ulrik. ‘He didn’t get the job.’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘I just wish I knew what he’s doing wrong.’

  Ulrik nodded. He’d noticed his dad had been more grumpy than usual recently. Maybe there was something he could do to cheer him up.

  Outside, he climbed the high green hill which took up most of the Trolls’ garden. It was the only hill in Mountain View and could be seen for miles around. Soon after they’d moved into Number 10, Mr Troll had torn up the flower beds and replaced them with a pile of earth. He missed the mountains and hills of his home in Norway. After dark, Ulrik sometimes scrambled up here on his own and sat under the stars. If he stared into the darkness long enough, he could imagine he was back on Troll Mountain looking out over the misty blue peaks and forests. He liked Biddlesden, but sometimes he felt a little homesick.

  Reaching the top of the hill, he sat down next to his dad.

  ‘Sorry you didn’t get the job, Dad.’

  Mr Troll grunted. ‘Huh! I didn’t want it anyway. That shop smelled funny.’

  ‘Never mind. You’ll find another job,’ said Ulrik. ‘I brought you the paper.’

  He handed Mr Troll the jobs page of the Biddlesden Echo. Mr Troll spread it out on his lap and pretended to run his eye over the adverts.

  ‘What about the polices?’ suggested Ulrik.

  Mr Troll knew about the polices – they’d been round his house more than once.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’d be good at that. Catching robbers and locking them up. I could drive one of those cars with a flashing blue nose.’

  Mr Troll had come home in a police car the day he’d been arrested for lurking in a subway. It had made a deafening noise like a wailing troggler2 and other cars had to pull over to get out of the way.

  Ulrik pointed to an advert at the bottom of the page.

  ‘What about this one? “Taxi Driver Wanted. Must have own car.”’

  ‘I don’t have a car,’ said Mr Troll.

  ‘Oh – no,’ said Ulrik. ‘Still, there are lots of other jobs. Look at this one.’

  Mr Troll snapped the newspaper shut abruptly. ‘I can’t,’ he said.

  ‘Dad, you didn’t even read it!’

  ‘No, Ulrik, you don’t understand. I CAN’T.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘BECAUSE I CAN’T READ! I don’t know how.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ulrik. There was a bit of a silence.

  ‘I never learned, you see,’ explained Mr Troll. ‘When I growed up I didn’t need to read or write – I was out chasing goats every day. But here it’s all different – Get a job, earn some peas, write this, read that, fill in your name – I can’t do it, Ulrik. I haven’t got a blunking clue.’

  ‘Is that why you didn’t get the job in the shop?’ asked Ulrik.

  Mr Troll looked ashamed. ‘I ripped the form to pieces. It’s the same every time. I see all those black tadpoles on the page and it makes my brain boil. I can’t help it!’

  Ulrik laid his head on his dad’s shoulder. He understood now why he came back from every interview in a foul mood. The truth was, Mr Troll was embarrassed. He was a grown-up troll who couldn’t write his own name. Ulrik had only been at school for a term and he could already write whole sentences in his news book. ‘Yesterday, my dad threw a plate of bean at the wall’ he had written only last week.

  Suddenly an idea came to him.

  ‘Why don’t I help you, Dad? I know all my letters – I could teach you!’

  Mr Troll shook his head. ‘Thanks
, my hairling, but it wouldn’t work. I’m too old to learn now.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Ulrik. ‘Wait there!’

  He scrambled down the hill and disappeared into the house. A minute later, he was back with a pencil and paper. He sat down and began to write, his tongue working with concentration. At last he handed the piece of paper to Mr Troll.

  Mr Troll stared at the page blankly. ‘What’s this then?’ he said.

  ‘Your name,’ smiled Ulrik. ‘EGBERT.’

  Mr Troll marvelled at Ulrik’s handwriting. How had he managed to produce a son who was so clever? ‘This scrawly stuff is really me?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, now you have a go. Copy the letters.’

  ‘I can’t!’

  ‘It’s easy, Dad. Just try!’ said Ulrik.

  Mr Troll took the pencil. He spent a long time putting it to the paper and then drawing it back again, as if he thought it might burst into flames. Finally, he bent over the page and drew a wobbly line. After five minutes of painstaking labour, he showed Ulrik what he’d written.

  ‘OK! Good try,’ said Ulrik.

  ‘It’s wrong, isn’t it?’ said Mr Troll, staring at his writing hopelessly.

  ‘Not all of it. The Es are back to front and there are too many of them, but most of it’s right.’

  Mr Troll shook his head miserably. ‘I told you, I can’t do it. It’s a waste of time.’

  ‘No, it’s not. You just need more practice. At school, we do reading and writing every day!’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Mr Troll seemed very struck by this. For a long time he was silent, looking at the big wobbly letters he’d scrawled on the piece of paper. At last he stood up.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘If kiddlers can learn to read, then so can I!’

  ‘Uggsome!’ said Ulrik. ‘I can bring home some of my books and help you after school.’

  Mr Troll looked puzzled. ‘You won’t need to,’ he said. ‘I’ll be coming with you.’

  ‘With me? Where?’

  ‘To school, of course. If I’m going to learn, I’ve got to do it properly – with proper teachers and lessons.’

  Ulrik’s mouth dropped open. ‘But Dad …’

  ‘Think of it,’ said Mr Troll. ‘You and me in the same class – uggsome, eh?’

  Ulrik was lost for words. His dad going to school? To his school? Was that such a great idea?

  Two Times Troll

  Mrs Melly was dismayed to find a second troll in her class – it was bad enough having one. She hadn’t forgotten that on his first day at school Ulrik had bitten her. His dad looked like he could easily swallow her whole. He was sitting beside Ulrik now with his knees poking above the desk, like two hairy coconuts. The class were all staring at him in open amazement. It had taken them a long time to get used to Ulrik, but Mr Troll was another matter entirely. If he stood up, his head would almost make a dent in the ceiling.

  ‘That’s enough talking, Class 4,’ said Mrs Melly. ‘I’d like you to get on with your work.’

  She passed among the desks, handing out a worksheet. Mr Troll took one and stared at the rows of numbers in dismay. ‘Aren’t we doing reading and writing?’ he asked.

  ‘Not this morning. On Tuesdays we start with maths,’ said Mrs Melly.

  Mr Troll waited till she’d gone and turned to Ulrik. ‘What are all these tadpoles?’ he whispered.

  ‘Shhh! It’s maths. You know, Dad. Add up, take away – it’s easy!’

  Mr Troll looked blank. Take away what? The worksheet might as well have been written in Ancient Egyptian. What did + mean? Or = ? He looked around the class and saw that all the children were busily working through the questions.

  Ulrik seemed to be halfway through already.

  ‘Move your arm,’ Mr Troll whispered to him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ulrik, move your arm! I can’t see the answers!’

  Ulrik frowned at him. ‘Dad! You’re not allowed to copy. You’ve got to work it out for yourself.’

  Mr Troll blew out his cheeks and slumped back in his chair. How could he work out the answers when he didn’t understand the questions? He checked to see that no one was watching him. Pretending to yawn he stretched out his arms, leaning over Ulrik’s shoulder so that he could sneak a look at his paper.

  ‘Mr Troll!’ said a stern voice behind him.

  He swung round to see Mrs Melly, who had apparently been standing at the back of the class the whole time.

  ‘I hope you weren’t copying,’ she said.

  ‘Me?’ said Mr Troll.

  ‘Yes, you! I saw you, looking over Ulrik’s shoulder. Really, Mr Troll, I’m surprised at you. I expected you to set a better example.’

  Mr Troll hung his head. The other children were all gazing at him as if he had just robbed an old lady of all her peas. Mrs Melly pointed to an empty desk by the window, and told him to take his work over there. He did as he was told, dragging his big feet and grumbling to himself. School was turning out to be no fun at all. He could have been at home eating Coco Pops and watching his favourite cartoon on TV.

  At lunchtime, Ulrik joined the queue with his friends Josh and Alistair. It had been a long morning. His dad had hardly left his side for a moment. At break time, when he went out to play, his dad had tagged along. When they started a game of chase, he insisted on joining in. Even when Ulrik went to the toilet, his dad followed him in and talked through the door. It wasn’t that Ulrik minded exactly, but he could see the other children thought it was strange. No one else had brought their dad to school. Then again, no one else had a dad who could reduce a class of infants to tears just by poking his head round the door.

  Ulrik studied the menu on the wall by the serving hatch. He liked having school dinners. At home, they mostly ate cold bean straight from the can.

  ‘Ulrik! Hey, Ulrik, wait for me!’

  He turned to see his dad pushing his way through the lunch queue. Ulrik sighed. He had been hoping for some time alone with his friends. He could tell they were getting a bit tired of his dad trailing after them the whole time.

  ‘I’m starving,’ announced Mr Troll. ‘What’s for dinner?’

  Ulrik handed Egbert a tray from the pile. His dad raised it to his mouth and sunk his fangs into it. ‘Ugh! Blech!’ he said, spitting out a splinter of wood.

  ‘It’s a tray! You’re not meant to eat it!’ said Ulrik. ‘It’s just for carrying your dinner.’ He did his best to explain the system for lunch, pointing to the serving hatch, the menu and the rack where the dirty plates were stacked. When he’d first started school, Ulrik had found lunchtimes confusing and he could see his dad was puzzled by the whole idea.

  The queue had edged forward until they were in front of the hatch. Ulrik knew the dinner ladies by now – his favourite was Mrs Gibbs, who wore large, dangly earrings and greeted him in a friendly way. Mrs Gibbs had never met his dad. When Mr Troll’s large, hairy head bent into view, she dropped her spoon in the gravy.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Ulrik. ‘This is my dad. He won’t hurt you.’

  Mr Troll bared his fangs in a smile, and prodded a tray of sausages in batter. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Toad in the hole,’ replied Mrs Gibbs. ‘Would you like some?’

  Mr Troll pulled a face. ‘Are they dead?’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘These toads? I don’t want them jumping around in my bellies.’

  Ulrik nudged his dad’s elbow. ‘They’re not really toads,’ he whispered. ‘They’re sausages.’

  Mr Troll peered into the tray as if he doubted this very much. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Give me some toads.’

  ‘Please,’ added Ulrik, on his dad’s behalf.

  A portion of dinner was spooned on to Mr Troll’s plate and returned to him. He stared down at the two sausages in dismay.

  ‘Is that all?’

  Mrs Gibbs looked offended. ‘It’s the same as everyone else gets. What vegetables do you wa
nt? Carrots or broccoli?’

  Mr Troll wrinkled his snout. ‘Trolls don’t eat vegetables. They eat meat. This isn’t enough to feed a hedgepig!’ He pushed his plate back towards Mrs Gibbs.

  Ulrik glanced behind him. The queue had come to a standstill and people were starting to get impatient.

  ‘Dad! Please!’ he whispered. ‘Just take it and sit down. You’re holding everyone up!’

  They found a table in the middle of the hall. Ulrik sat between Josh and Alistair, while Mr Troll took a seat opposite them. He was still staring down sulkily at the two lonely sausages on his plate. Ulrik decided it was best to ignore him.

  ‘Have you seen the notice?’ Josh was saying excitedly. ‘It’s on Thursday, after school.’

  ‘What is?’ asked Ulrik.

  ‘The trial game – what do you think? You’ve got to sign up if you want to play.’

  Ulrik paused with a carrot halfway to his mouth. He hadn’t known the trials were going to take place so soon. Although he’d been practising every day, he wasn’t sure he was ready yet. He didn’t even have a pair of football boots to wear.

  ‘’Scuse me,’ his dad interrupted, ‘but are you eating that toad?’ He pointed to the remaining sausage on Josh’s plate.

  ‘Um, sorry … I am, really,’ said Josh.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Troll, disappointed. Ulrik could see his dad’s plate was already empty and he was looking around the dining room in search of something else to fill his empty stomach.

  ‘Why don’t you go and ask if there’s any seconds, Dad?’ he suggested.

  ‘Seconds?’ said Mr Troll. ‘Are they vegetables?’

  ‘No, second helpings,’ explained Ulrik. ‘There might be some more sausages.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mr Troll eagerly. ‘I can have as many as I want?’

  Ulrik shrugged. ‘As long as there’s plenty left over. You just have to ask.’

  He glanced back at the serving hatch where only a few children were now in the queue. Mr Troll set off with his empty plate, evidently cheered by the prospect of more food. At home he could easily work his way through six tins of bean by himself, noisily licking out the can when it was empty. The child-size portions served at school were no match for a troll of his appetite.