Trolls on Hols Read online

  ‘Dad?’ Ulrik croaked. ‘Da-aaad?’

  ‘Baaaa!’ said the something. A fat sheep trotted out of the dark, followed a moment later by Mr Troll clutching an armful of sticks.

  Before long Ulrik was warming himself in front of a crackling fire. The wood was a little damp, but it soon caught and started to burn. Mr Troll was impressed with the rock circle he’d made.

  ‘Just the jobs,’ he said. ‘Where did you find them?’

  ‘Under the caravan. Someone must have left them there.’

  ‘I didn’t know Piddle collected rocks.’

  ‘Nor did I,’ said Ulrik. The gusting wind blew the smoke in his eyes so he had to look away. The caravan groaned and rocked on the hill. It gave a sudden lurch.

  ‘I used to collect rocks when I was your age,’ Mr Troll was saying.

  ‘Dad!’ said Ulrik, grabbing his arm.

  ‘Me and Snorvik used to swap them –’

  ‘Dad!’ interrupted Ulrik. ‘The caravan!’

  Mr Troll turned round just in time to see the caravan slip past him. It was parked at the top of a steep hill and the slope was taking effect. Slowly at first – like an ocean liner putting out to sea – the caravan began to drift downhill. It swayed and bumped over the grass and picked up a little speed.

  Ulrik and Mr Troll chased behind, shouting useful advice like, ‘Stop! Come back!’ but the caravan took no notice. Even when Ulrik caught up and tried to hang on to the back, it dragged him along until he lost his grip and fell over.

  Inside, Mr Priddle had woken with the first sudden jolt. At first he couldn’t think where he was, then he remembered he was warm and safe in his caravan. Except that something was wrong. The caravan was bumping and rattling as if it was caught in a force ten gale. Sitting up, he saw the farmhouse drift past the side window. Strange, he thought – farmhouses don’t usually do that. Unless …

  ‘JACKIE! WARREN! WAKE UP!’ he bellowed.

  His wife grunted. Warren rolled on to his side.

  ‘We’re moving! Wake up!’

  Mrs Priddle’s eyes blinked open. A glass rolled past her line of vision, followed by the bedside table sliding past. She sat bolt upright.

  ‘Roger! We’re moving!’ she shouted.

  ‘I know!’

  ‘But how …?’

  ‘Never mind how! Let’s get out before it’s too late.’

  Mrs Priddle dragged Warren protesting from the bed. The three of them stumbled and slid in their panic to reach the door. The floor was listing like the deck of a ship in a storm. The fridge door swung open, spilling out milk and eggs and turning the floor into an ice-rink. Warren trod on a gooseberry yoghurt and fell back on the bed which gave a twang and folded beneath him. To add to the confusion, Mrs Troll burst out of her bedroom in her pink nightie, roaring at the top of her voice. The caravan meanwhile hurtled downhill at an alarming speed, its wheels spinning like a custard-coloured Ferrari. Suddenly there was a bang, followed by an almighty splash as it ran out of the field. They bobbed around for a moment listening to bubbling, glugging sounds. Mr Priddle was the first to grasp the situation.

  ‘The pond! We’re sinking!’ he cried.

  ‘We’re going to drown!’ wailed Warren.

  Mrs Troll pushed past him and wrenched the door open with an effort. A flood of water gushed in over her feet. She grabbed Mrs Priddle by the arm and pulled her to the open door. ‘Jump!’ she urged.

  ‘Jump! Jump!’ cried Mr Priddle.

  Mrs Priddle jumped. She landed in cold, murky brown water up to her waist. It was full of weed – and other things. She slopped her way to the bank in her silk pyjamas and sat down among the reeds.

  Moments later Ulrik and Mr Troll arrived at the pond out of breath. Mr Troll took in the rapidly sinking caravan with the water flooding in the door. His wife was wading to the bank carrying Warren piggyback.

  Mr Troll shook his head and whistled softly.

  ‘Thank uggness!’ he said. ‘That could have been nasty.’

  A Bit of a Temper

  They all spent the night in the old barn, sleeping on bales of hay. It was draughty, uncomfortable and smelly, with a roof that leaked when it started to rain. At seven o’clock they were woken by Ogwen and his dogs, coming to take the sheep out to the field. Mrs Priddle opened her eyes to find the toothless farmer grinning down at her.

  ‘Morning!’ said Ogwen cheerfully. ‘I hope you slept well.’

  ‘Not really,’ groaned Mrs Priddle. Her back ached. Everything ached. Her best silk pyjamas were sopping wet. All her dry clothes were in the suitcase, which was in the caravan – which had sunk to the bottom of a filthy pond. It was hard to see how this holiday could get much worse.

  The others emerged from the mountain of hay, yawning and dusting themselves down. Farmer Ogwen took in their bedraggled appearance and chuckled.

  ‘Been for a midnight swim, have you?’

  ‘We had a bit of an accident. Our caravan ran away,’ explained Mr Priddle.

  ‘I know, I’ve seen it,’ said Ogwen, shaking his head. ‘You’re going to need a tractor to pull that out. You should have left the brakes on.’

  ‘Yes. Why didn’t you, Roger?’ asked Mrs Priddle coldly.

  ‘I did. I think they need fixing,’ said Mr Priddle. ‘But I’m sure I wedged some rocks against the wheels. I remember doing it.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ulrik so loudly that everyone turned to look at him.

  ‘What do you mean, “Oh?”’ asked Mr Priddle.

  Ulrik looked at his feet sheepishly. He had a feeling he was in trouble.

  Later that morning they all gathered around the pond to watch Ogwen attempt to rescue the sunken caravan. The muddy water came up to the bottom of the windows. Ogwen waded in up to his waist, trailing a thick rope behind him. He fished around in the water until he had located the towbar. Once the rope was securely attached, he waded back to the bank, climbed into the cab of his red tractor and revved the engine.

  The caravan came out with a loud sucking noise like a hippo emerging from a mud bath. Water gushed out of the door in a brown waterfall, bringing with it a lampshade, three tins of sweetcorn and a soggy toilet roll. Thick, smelly mud oozed off the wheels and clung to the sides.

  ‘It will be fine once we’ve cleaned it out,’ said Mr Priddle hopefully.

  ‘Fine?’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘FINE?’

  ‘Well, maybe a little damp.’

  ‘Look at it, Roger! It’s filthy! It will stink for days.’

  Mr Troll stuck his head in between them. ‘We don’t mind the stink,’ he said.

  Mrs Priddle gave him a severe look and yanked her husband to one side so they could speak in private. She lowered her voice.

  ‘Roger, I’ve tried,’ she said. ‘I’ve tried to put up with them. But there comes a point when it’s asking too much. They’ll have to go. Make up your mind – it’s either them or me.’

  The Trolls stood side by side watching the tractor tow the dripping caravan back up the hill. Mr Priddle approached them and cleared his throat awkwardly.

  ‘Ah, Piddle,’ said Mr Troll, turning round. ‘Everything’s all right then?’

  It was the wrong thing to say. Even Mr Troll saw that when Mrs Priddle’s eyes bulged like a toad.

  ‘All right?’ she burst out. ‘All right? You turn up here and ruin our holiday! You sleep in our beds and eat all our food! And, as if that’s not enough, last night you tried to drown us!’

  ‘You’re having a temper,’ observed Mr Troll.

  ‘I know I’m having a temper!’ shouted Mrs Priddle.

  ‘That’s OK, trolls have tempers. I roar when I’m having a temper. It makes you feel better.’

  ‘I don’t want to roar,’ glared Mrs Priddle. ‘I just want you to take your things and go!’

  Mr and Mrs Troll looked at each other and back at the Priddles. ‘Go?’

  ‘Yes – go!’

  Mrs Troll blinked. ‘But we were just starting to enjoy ourselves.’

&nbs
p; ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I am not enjoying myself,’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘I am cold, wet and miserable.’

  ‘And having a temper,’ added Mr Troll helpfully.

  ‘But where can we go?’ asked Mrs Troll.

  ‘I don’t care! Anywhere! Find a hotel, a bus shelter – anything you like as long as it’s not near us.’

  Mr Troll rubbed his snout. ‘So we’re not on holidays any more?’

  ‘Not with us you’re not!’ thundered Mrs Priddle, and stalked off up the hill with her husband following meekly behind. The Trolls stared after them, at a loss.

  ‘Well! For uggness’ sake!’ sighed Mrs Troll.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mr Troll. ‘Fancy getting all hot and blethered over a tiddly bit of water.’

  ‘It was quite a lot of water,’ admitted Mrs Troll. ‘But you know what peeples are like.’ Her husband nodded. ‘Mad as a sack of goblins.’

  ‘And just when I thought we were all getting on so well,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘What are we going to do now, Eggy? Where are we going to sleep tonight?’

  Mr Troll frowned. ‘I don’t know. Where’s Ulrik?’

  They looked around. There was no sign of him. Warren stood with his back to the barn and his hands covering his eyes. He seemed to be counting to himself.

  ‘Ahh! They’re playing a game!’ said Mrs Troll. ‘Why don’t we leave them, Eggy? There’s no sense in upsetting Ulrik now. We can come back for him once we’ve found somewheres to sleep.’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Mr Troll. ‘You think there might be caves?’

  ‘You never know.’

  ‘Come on, my lugly.’

  Mr Troll took his wife’s hand and together they set off towards the village.

  Hide and Sneak

  ‘… Forty-nine, fifty!’ Warren opened his eyes. Actually, he hadn’t kept them fully closed. He’d been peeking through his fingers the whole time in order to see where Ulrik went. Just as he suspected, Ulrik had made a beeline for the woods, since there wasn’t really anywhere else on the farm to hide. It wouldn’t take long to find him, though Warren wasn’t in a tearing hurry. The woods were dark and they backed on to Boggy Moor. Warren wasn’t scared himself, of course. All the same, as he entered the woods, he stopped to arm himself with a big stick.

  He followed a rough, muddy path and eventually came to a wide clearing overgrown with ferns. Looking around, he half expected to see Ulrik’s large hairy head or his bottom poking out from behind one of the trees. There was no sign of him. Warren went on, swishing at the tops of the ferns with his stick. Swish! Ogwen had warned them to stay out of the woods, he recalled. There wasn’t anything to worry about, of course – the beast only came out after dark. Swish, swish! Though you could never be certain. It might be here watching him right now.

  He halted and glanced around nervously. Maybe if he hadn’t stopped he wouldn’t have noticed the odd way the ferns lay on the ground ahead of him – as if someone had arranged them deliberately. He prodded one aside with his stick. Underneath was a piece of chicken wire and beneath that a dark, yawning hole. Warren squatted down to examine it more closely. It was some kind of animal trap and if he’d taken a couple more steps he would have fallen right into it! But why would someone dig a hole in the middle of the woods? It was far too big for catching rabbits and he hadn’t come across any other wild animals.

  The words in yesterday’s paper jumped into his mind – ‘£500 reward for catching the beast’. So that was it! – someone was after the reward! Warren almost wished he’d thought of the idea himself. Five hundred pounds was a lot of pocket money – think of all the sweets and ice creams he could buy with that! He pictured his photo on the front page of tomorrow’s paper and his name in the headlines. ‘Warren the beast-slayer’ they’d call him.

  Of course it was only a daydream. He was never going to catch the beast or get his hands on the reward … unless … A sly smile spread across Warren’s face. Nobody actually knew what the beast looked like, did they?

  Carefully, he replaced the ferns so that the hole was hidden from sight. Once he was satisfied, he stood up and raised his hands to his mouth.

  ‘ULRIK! Ulrik, over here!’

  Ulrik meanwhile was getting tired of hiding. He’d been crouching in the middle of a prickly bush for what felt like hours. One of his feet had gone to sleep. Maybe Warren had given up looking for him altogether. Maybe he was too scared to come into the woods. He pricked up his ears. Someone was shouting his name.

  He followed the voice until he came to a wide clearing, where he found Warren waiting for him.

  ‘Why didn’t you come to find me?’ he asked.

  Warren shrugged. ‘I’ve been looking. You’re too good at hiding.’

  Ulrik looked pleased. ‘Really? Does that mean I winned the game?’

  ‘Yep, you won. Come on, let’s go back now.’ Warren sounded impatient.

  ‘But isn’t it your turn to hide?’ asked Ulrik.

  Warren glanced down. One more step. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘I said, “Isn’t it your turn?”’

  ‘No! The game’s over. Hurry up!’

  ‘Oh. I thought …’ But Ulrik never got to say what he thought because he took another step towards Warren and suddenly the ground gave way beneath his feet. He fell into the trap, with branches and ferns crashing down on top of him.

  For a moment he lay still, more dazed than hurt.

  ‘What happened?’ he groaned.

  Warren peered down at him. ‘Looks like you fell in a hole.’

  Ulrik scrambled to his feet. He’d bruised his knee. The hole was so deep that even standing on tiptoe he couldn’t reach the top. He stretched up a hand to Warren.

  ‘Help me out!’

  Warren shook his head. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Warren!’

  ‘Sorry, you’re too heavy. You weigh a ton. If I try to pull you out I’ll probably end up falling in with you. Then we’ll both be stuck.’

  Ulrik blinked up at him. It was true, he was bigger and heavier than Warren.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Don’t worry, you stay there. I’ll go and fetch help.’

  ‘Wait!’ called Ulrik. ‘You’re not going to leave me all by myself?’

  ‘It won’t be for long. I’ll run back to the caravan and tell them what’s happened. Five minutes and I’ll be back again.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘Scout’s honour,’ said Warren, raising a hand in salute. He gave Ulrik a cheery wave and walked away, smiling secretly to himself. Of course he had never been in the Scouts, but Ulrik didn’t know that.

  Missing Ulrik

  Back at the farm, Mr Priddle was doing his best to clean out the waterlogged caravan.

  He squeezed muddy brown water from his mop into a bucket. His wife and son were refusing to help – Mrs Priddle said they were on strike. She looked up from the novel she was reading and shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re wasting time on that, Roger.’

  ‘The floor’s almost dry,’ said her husband.

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m not sleeping in there.’

  ‘You’ll get used to the smell after a while.’

  ‘I don’t want to get used to it. I want to move to a nice hotel.’

  Warren stopped juggling with his football. ‘Will the hotel have a swimming pool?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course it will, my poppet,’ said Mrs Priddle.

  Mr Priddle thumped his mop on the floor. ‘We’re not going to any hotel, we’re staying here! I’ve paid Ogwen for two weeks!’

  ‘Fine. You stay in your smelly old caravan if you like, Roger; we’re not,’ said Mrs Priddle, placidly turning her page.

  Mr Priddle emptied a bucketful of brown water into the grass.

  ‘The sun’s shining, you’re out in the fresh air, what more do you want?’

  Mrs Priddle gave him a withering look. ‘Dry clothes,’ she said.

  ‘Ca
n I have cooked breakfast at the hotel?’ asked Warren.

  ‘Have what you like, darling, your father’s paying,’ said Mrs Priddle.

  ‘Will the Trolls be coming too?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Priddle firmly. ‘They’re having their own holiday.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Warren.

  ‘I’ve no idea. That’s up to them.’

  Warren glanced anxiously back at the woods. It was hours since he’d left Ulrik and set off towards town with the intention of claiming the £500 reward. But the closer he got to the village, the more he’d begun to lose faith in his plan. For one thing, he wasn’t exactly sure where the police station was. For another, he doubted the police would believe a word of his story. Hairy and ugly he might be, but Ulrik didn’t sound much like a savage beast once he opened his mouth. He was far too gentle and good-natured. Even worse, Warren thought, what if Mr and Mrs Troll discovered that he’d tried to swap their son for £500? Warren had seen Mr Troll in a temper and he didn’t wish to be picked up and swung round by his ears. No, he’d decided in the end, it would never work. Far safer to go back and just keep quiet.

  When he returned to the caravan his parents were too busy arguing to even notice that Ulrik was missing. All the same, Warren was starting to feel uneasy. What if Ulrik never got out of the hole? What if he stayed there for ever and starved to death? Come to think of it, Warren was pretty hungry himself. Wasn’t it time for supper?