Trolls on Hols Page 3

  Mrs Troll stared open-mouthed. ‘What’s wrong with everyone?’

  ‘It’s you!’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘Didn’t you see the way they looked at you?’

  ‘Well, haven’t they seen trolls before?’

  ‘Of course they haven’t! This is Wales.’

  ‘But we weren’t trying to fright anyone,’ said Mr Troll. ‘I haven’t roared once.’

  Mr Priddle looked up and down the deserted beach. ‘Well, it looks like we’ve got the place to ourselves. We might as well enjoy it.’

  He began to set up the windbreak, hammering the poles into the sand while his wife spread out three beach towels. Once this was done, the trolls watched in surprise as the Priddles began to undress, stripping off their tops and shorts.

  Mrs Priddle caught them staring. ‘Aren’t you getting changed?’

  ‘Are we, Mum?’ asked Ulrik.

  ‘If you want, my ugglesome,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘Maybe we should.’

  She began unbuttoning the flowery summer dress she was wearing. Mr Troll shrugged and tugged his grubby vest over his head. He unzipped his shorts and kicked them off. He was about to take off his pants when Mrs Priddle stopped him.

  ‘WAIT!’ she screamed, turning pink. ‘Aren’t you wearing trunks?’

  ‘Trunks?’ said Mr Troll. He looked at his wife. ‘Have we got trunks?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Eggy.’

  ‘Then what are you going to wear?’ demanded Mrs Priddle.

  ‘Same as you. We’ll go bareskin,’ said Mrs Troll, stepping out of her dress.

  ‘Bareskin? You can’t walk around naked!’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘This is a beach – people are looking!’

  ‘No they aren’t. All the peeples ran away,’ said Mr Troll.

  ‘Well, I am a peeples … I mean, a person,’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘And if you haven’t got swimsuits at least keep some clothes on!’

  Mr Troll sighed and bent down to pick up his shorts. There was no pleasing peeples, he thought. First they told you to take off your clothes, then they wanted you to put them back on. In any case he couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Back home trolls went bareskin all the time.

  Mrs Priddle had settled herself on her towel and was rubbing some kind of cream on her legs. Mrs Troll watched enviously. She didn’t have a towel to sit on and she didn’t have any cream. She sat down next to Mrs Priddle and sniffed her legs. The cream smelled quite nice, like tinned peaches.

  ‘Isn’t there somewhere else you could sit?’ asked Mrs Priddle, coldly.

  ‘I haven’t got a towel,’ said Mrs Troll.

  ‘Of course not. No towels, no swimsuits – anything else you didn’t bring?’

  ‘Legs cream,’ said Mrs Troll, pointing at the tube in Mrs Priddle’s hand.

  ‘It’s called suncream. You put it on to stop you burning.’

  ‘Are you burning?’ Mrs Troll looked above Mrs Priddle’s head, checking for signs of smoke.

  ‘No, because I always wear suncream. I’ve got delicate skin,’ said Mrs Priddle, smoothing back her blonde hair. She sighed wearily. ‘Look, if you want some, there’s another tube in the bag.’

  Mrs Troll rummaged in the Priddles’ picnic bag. Under the sandwiches and crisps she found a large yellow tube which she assumed was the spare suncream. She squeezed a blob on to her hand. It was thick and yellow, though it didn’t smell of peaches. She began to rub it on to her arms. ‘Eggy!’ she said. ‘Can you rub some of this on my back?’

  ‘What for?’ asked Mr Troll.

  ‘It’s suncream – it stops you from burning. You should try some.’

  Mr Troll sniffed the tube and pulled a face. ‘Smells of eggs,’ he said. He squeezed out a large blob and began to rub it on to his wife’s hairy back. Warren, in the meantime, had changed into his swimming trunks and was waiting impatiently.

  ‘Are you ready, Dad? I want to go for a swim!’

  Mr Priddle groaned. ‘Not yet! I’ve only just sat down.’

  Mrs Priddle lay back on her beach towel and opened her book. ‘Go and swim with him, Roger. The water looks lovely.’

  Ulrik looked. It was true, the sun was sparkling and dancing on the waves.

  ‘I’ve never swimmed in the sea,’ he said a little nervously.

  ‘Never?’ said Warren.

  ‘No. Dad says the sea is for fishes.’

  Mrs Troll flicked off a wasp that was crawling up her thigh. ‘That’s because he’s frighted of water.’

  ‘I am not!’ growled Mr Troll indignantly.

  ‘You are, Eggy. You never go near it. Not since that time you got butted off a bridge by a billy goat.’

  Mr Troll scowled. He didn’t see the point of the seaside. There was nothing to chase and no one to roar at.

  Mr Priddle adjusted the waist of his swimming trunks and took a few deep breaths. ‘The best way is to run straight in,’ he advised Ulrik. ‘Don’t paddle about in the shallows. Just take a deep breath and dive in. Copy me and you’ll be fine.’

  ‘OK, I’ll try,’ nodded Ulrik.

  They ran down the beach. Ulrik was the first to reach the water and splashed in excitedly. A wave broke over his knees as he plunged in deeper. The water was as cold as ice. Mr Priddle jumped up and down shouting, ‘Ahhh! Heee! Ha-hooo!’

  ‘Ahhh! Heee! Ha-hoooo!’ repeated Ulrik, anxious to do everything correctly. They were up to their waists now. Mr Priddle stretched out his arms and flapped them as if he was a pigeon preparing for take-off. ‘Oh! Oh my … !’ he gasped, but the rest was lost as a huge wave crashed over all three of them and Ulrik got a mouthful of salt water. When he could see again, he found he was on his own. Mr Priddle was wading back rapidly towards the beach, spluttering and coughing. Ulrik splashed after him excitedly. ‘Uggsome!’ he called. ‘Did you see me? I swimmed!’

  Back on the beach they found Mrs Troll performing an odd kind of dance. She shook her head, flapped her arms violently and slapped at her thighs.

  ‘Do you have to do that?’ complained Mrs Priddle. ‘You’re kicking sand on me.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘It’s these buzzle-bees – they’re everywhere!’

  Mrs Priddle put down her book. A cloud of insects hovered over Mrs Troll, buzzing angrily. ‘They’re not bees, they’re wasps!’ she yelped, leaping to her feet.

  ‘Wisps?’ said Mrs Troll.

  ‘Wasps! Where did they come from?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Troll, swatting the air furiously. ‘But I wish they’d go back.’

  Mrs Priddle noticed the yellow drips running down Mrs Troll’s legs.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ she pointed.

  ‘Suncream.’

  Mrs Priddle saw the empty yellow tube lying on the sand and seized it. ‘Wait! You didn’t use this?’

  ‘Yes, it was in the bag.’

  ‘Not the picnic bag! That’s mayonnaise! It’s meant for the sandwiches!’

  ‘What?’ gasped Mrs Troll.

  She rushed off towards the sea with the angry wasps buzzing after her. On the way she passed Ulrik, who stopped to watch his mum plunge into the waves, flapping her arms above her head. For a beginner, she seemed to be getting the hang of swimming.

  Ten minutes later Mrs Troll sat shivering on the sand with a beach towel wrapped around her.

  ‘How are you feeling now?’ asked Mr Troll, sitting down beside her.

  ‘Sore,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘I’ve been stinged all over.’

  Mr Troll sniffed her shoulder. ‘You still smell stinksome,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, my lugly,’ said Mrs Troll.

  Warren and Ulrik had been trying to play football but the tide was coming in and the ball kept going in the sea.

  ‘Mum, I’m hungry! Can’t we get an ice cream?’ whined Warren.

  ‘I think that’s a very good idea,’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘Why don’t we all go to the café and have a nice cup of tea?’

  Sunny Bay Café was a small wooden building just down the hill fro
m the car park. Considering it was the holiday season it didn’t seem to be very busy. The only customers were an elderly couple drinking coffee at a table in the corner. When they saw Mr Troll duck his head to squeeze through the door, they banged down their cups and rose from their seats in alarm. The man spilled some coins on the table and they bolted for the door, almost knocking over the Priddles in their haste.

  ‘Well! Really!’ said Mrs Priddle.

  ‘Why does everyone run off as soon as we arrive?’ asked Ulrik.

  ‘They didn’t even finish their lunch,’ said Mr Troll. He helped himself to a half-eaten doughnut and licked the sugar off his fingers.

  Mrs Troll looked around the empty café. Under a glass case was a tempting display of cakes, pies and tarts, but there was no one to serve them. A coffee machine coughed and gurgled by itself.

  ‘That’s funny,’ she said. ‘There’s nobody here.’

  ‘Yes there is,’ said Ulrik.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there.’ Ulrik dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I think she’s playing Hide and Sneak.’ He pointed under one of the tables and they all bent down to look. A middle-aged woman in an apron was trying to sneak on her hands and knees towards the kitchen door. Ulrik crept over and bent down until his face was level with hers.

  ‘FOUND YOU!’ he cried.

  The woman started, banging her head on the table. She crept out and smoothed her apron into place.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked, edging behind the counter rather nervously.

  ‘Four nice creams,’ said Mr Troll. ‘And Mrs Piddle wants the potty.’

  ‘He means a pot of tea,’ said Mrs Priddle, turning pink.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Troll. ‘And what kind of pie is that?’ He pointed to the largest one.

  ‘Apple,’ said the woman.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Troll, disappointed. ‘I was hoping it might be goat.’

  The woman introduced herself as Mrs Evans and brought the tea and ice creams to their table on a tray. After the first shock of seeing the Trolls the colour had returned to her cheeks.

  ‘Gave me a fright you did, walking in like that,’ she said. ‘I’d just been reading that terrible article in this morning’s paper.’

  ‘What article was that?’ asked Mr Priddle, pouring his wife some tea.

  ‘You haven’t read it?’ asked Mrs Evans.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But surely you must have heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’ said Mrs Priddle.

  ‘Well … about the beast.’ Mrs Evans picked up the Aberduffy Herald from the next table and held up the front page for them to see.

  ‘BEAST STRIKES AGAIN!’ ran the headline in big bold letters.

  Mr Priddle took the paper and started to read. ‘Good gravy!’ he said, and a moment later, ‘Good gracious!’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Roger, what does it say?’ cried his wife impatiently.

  Mr Priddle read the article out loud. ‘Late last night the Beast of Boggy Moor struck again. Eyewitnesses report hearing ‘strange sounds’ coming from the moor after midnight. A dozen sheep have gone missing bringing the number of attacks this month to four.’

  ‘Attacks?’ gasped Mrs Priddle.

  ‘Police have appealed for calm,’ her husband went on. ‘“We are following a number of lines of inquiry,” said Sergeant Morgan of Aberduffy police. “Anyone with any information should remember there is a £500 reward for the capture of this beast.”’

  ‘Wow! Five hundred pounds!’ repeated Warren. He exchanged looks with Ulrik, remembering their puzzling conversation with Farmer Ogwen. No wonder he’d warned them to keep off the moor.

  Mrs Priddle had set down her teacup. ‘What do you mean by beast?’ she asked, nervously. ‘What kind of beast?’

  ‘Ah, that nobody knows,’ said Mrs Evans, drawing up a chair to sit down. ‘No one’s ever got close enough to say. There’s been several sightings in the last month. All late at night, and all on the moor.’

  She lowered her voice and they all leaned closer to listen. ‘Mrs Price saw it one night when her car broke down on her way back from Advanced Yoga. There’s an evening class in the village hall on–’

  ‘Never mind that! What did she see?’ interrupted Mr Priddle.

  ‘Oh yes. Terrified she was. Really shaken up. It passed by not a hundred yards from her car.’

  ‘What was it like?’ asked Warren.

  ‘Like a wolf, she said. Or maybe a werewolf – with burning eyes and savage teeth.’ She turned to look at Mr Troll. ‘In fact a bit like you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Evans. ‘You weren’t out on the moor late last night?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘We only arrived yesterday and Eggy was asleep with me.’

  ‘That’s true. We heard him snoring,’ said Mr Priddle.

  ‘Still,’ said Mrs Priddle, ‘It explains a lot.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Mrs Troll.

  ‘Well, that’s why people run away when they see you. They think you’re this dreadful beast creature.’

  ‘But what about the sheeps?’ Ulrik wanted to know.

  Mrs Evans looked at him. ‘That’s the strangest part. You’d think there’d be blood and bones, wouldn’t you. But there’s never any trace. It’s like they’ve been swallowed whole. A hundred sheep in the last month. I ask you, what kind of beast has that kind of an appetite?’ She sat back and smiled pleasantly. ‘So how’s the tea? Shall I bring you another slice of apple pie?’

  Mrs Priddle shook her head. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’m not feeling all that hungry.’

  A Darksome Night

  That evening the two families sat in the caravan, talking. It was past eleven o’clock but nobody had mentioned going to bed. The truth was they felt safer in one room. The lamp cast long shadows and the gas fire hissed softly. Steam rose from their mugs of hot chocolate.

  ‘Why didn’t Ogwen warn us? That’s what I’d like to know,’ said Mrs Priddle.

  ‘Maybe he didn’t want to alarm us,’ suggested her husband.

  Ulrik had been thinking back to the morning. ‘He did sort of warn us. He told us to keep off the moor, didn’t he, Warren?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Warren, eager to have an opinion. ‘But he didn’t tell us why. I thought he was just trying to scare us.’

  ‘Huh! He managed that all right,’ said Mrs Priddle, bitterly. ‘No wonder there are no other caravans. It’s hardly a tourist attraction – a wild beast prowling the moor, devouring sheep.’

  Mr Troll hadn’t spoken for a while. He was staring intently out of the window. Suddenly he held up a finger. ‘Shhh!’

  Everyone fell silent.

  ‘What?’ whispered Mr Priddle.

  ‘That noise. Can you hear it?’

  They listened again. The caravan rocked slightly. Nobody moved for a full minute.

  ‘What kind of noise?’ whispered Mr Priddle at last.

  ‘That strange moaning noise. Like “Ooooooooh! Ooooooooh!”’

  ‘You mean like the wind moaning?’

  Mr Troll listened again and his expression relaxed. ‘Oh yes, it’s only the wind.’

  Everyone let out a groan. ‘Please don’t do that!’ said Mrs Priddle, irritably. ‘My nerves are on edge as it is. Maybe we should all get to bed.’

  Warren shook his head. Now it was dark he wasn’t feeling quite so brave.

  ‘What if it comes in the night?’ he said. ‘What if it tries to get in?’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t, Warren. We’ll lock the door.’

  ‘But maybe it’s a ghost. Ghosts can walk through doors.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Mr Troll. ‘I once heard of a headless goblin –’

  ‘PLEASE! Don’t start on goblins!’ shouted Mrs Priddle, banging her mug down on the table.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Mr Troll. ‘I was only going to say I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘Oh Lord!’ groaned Mr Priddle.

  �
��But I was thinking, why doesn’t one of us stay on guard? Then we’ll all be safe as mouses.’

  ‘Actually, it’s not a bad idea,’ admitted Mr Priddle. ‘But who’s going to stand out there in the dark?’ They all looked at each other.

  ‘I will,’ said Mr Troll. ‘I’m not frighted of hairy beasts.’

  Mrs Troll leaned over and gave him a kiss. ‘You’re my big hairy beast,’ she said.

  ‘Well, that’s settled then,’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘Egbert can stay on guard while the rest of us try to get some sleep.’

  Ulrik turned to his dad, as the others got ready for bed.

  ‘Dad, can I be on guard with you? I won’t be frighted,’ he said.

  Mr Troll smiled and ruffled his son’s hairy head. ‘Of course you can, my ugglesome.’

  Outside, Mr Troll stamped his feet and blew into his hands to keep warm.

  ‘You stay here, Ulrik, while I go and look for some firewood. A nice roaring fire will keep us warm.’

  ‘Can’t I come with you?’ asked Ulrik.

  ‘No, somebody’s got to stay on guard. I won’t be long.’

  Ulrik nodded doubtfully.

  ‘Remember, what are trolls?’ asked Mr Troll.

  ‘Fierce and scaresome.’

  ‘That’s right. And what do trolls do?’

  ‘They roar. Rarrgghh!’ growled Ulrik, pulling his fiercest face.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Mr Troll, patting him on the head. ‘If you hear anything, give a roar and I’ll be here in two shakes of a goat’s tail. All right?’

  Ulrik nodded again. His dad strode off into the darkness in the direction of the woods, leaving him alone. He hugged himself and tromped up and down to keep warm. It was a cold, blustery night with inky clouds racing across the moon. Actually he hadn’t told the truth about not feeling scared. With his dad around he felt safe, but he hadn’t expected to be left by himself in the dark. Trolls weren’t scared of the dark of course but it wasn’t the dark that worried him, it was what was out there in the dark.

  The light in the caravan suddenly went out, leaving him with only the moon and stars for company. He wished his dad would hurry up with that firewood. How long had he been gone now? The wind gusted and the caravan shuddered on the steep hill. Ulrik tried to think of something to take his mind off being scared. Maybe he could start building the fire. That would impress his dad. He knew the first thing to do was to make a circle of stones or rocks, so the flames wouldn’t set light to trees or caravans. Luckily he found just what he needed close at hand. Propped against the wheels of the caravan, he found four heavy rocks. It was almost as if someone had left them there on purpose. Surely no one would mind if he borrowed them for a bit? He began to drag them out one at a time. When he was almost finished something made him look up – the soft thud of footsteps in the dark. They were coming closer.