Goat Pie Page 6

  ‘But it’s not just that, is it?’ said Mrs Troll.

  Grumpa shook his head sadly. ‘It’s the way they look when they’re about to charge. Those sharp hornses. I suppose I just lost my nerve.’

  Mr and Mrs Troll looked at each other. They hardly knew what to say. For years they had listened to Grumpa boasting about his skills as a hunter. He had claimed there wasn’t a goat alive that he couldn’t catch. Now it turned out his hunting days were over. Mrs Troll thought she understood why he spent so much time in his room. The truth was, a lot of things frightened him – not just goats but probably cars and noise and hairy-faced peeples.

  Grumpa got to his feet. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pack my bag tonight,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ll be gone before Trollmas.’

  ‘Eggy—say something,’ whispered Mrs Troll. But it was Ulrik who went over and gave his grumpa a hug.

  ‘Don’t go, Grumpa,’ he said. ‘It’s all right to get frighted. I am sometimes.’

  ‘Are you, Ulrik?’

  ‘Yes, but do you know what I do?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I give a big scaresome roar. GRARGHHHH!’

  Grumpa laughed and put an arm round Ulrik. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I think that roar is getting better.’

  Happy Trollmas!

  Ulrik sat up in bed. It felt like he’d been awake for hours but now at last he could see morning light through the curtains.

  He wondered what Rosemary was doing on Trollmas Day. He was glad they had managed to smuggle her back to Longbottom Farm the previous night. She seemed pleased to see her mother. He imagined the farmer peeples’ astonishment when he found his missing goat back in her pen.

  Ulrik looked at his dad’s rising-and-falling belly and jumped on top of him.

  ‘WAKE UP, DAD! It’s Trollmas Day!’ he yelled.

  ‘Uhhhh?’ groaned Mr Troll.

  ‘It’s six o clock! Can we go downstairs? I want to open my presents!’

  ‘All right, my ugglesome. Better see if Grumpa’s awake.’

  Five minutes later, Ulrik was bounding down the stairs. At the bottom he stopped and stared in wonder. Mr Troll had rescued the giant fir tree from the garden, minus its broken top. It now stood in the front room twinkling with lights. Socks hung from the branches, each of them stuffed with a present.

  ‘Happy Trollmas, hairling!’ beamed Mr and Mrs Troll.

  Grumpa came down and they all watched Ulrik unwrap his presents. There was a mud painting kit from his mum and dad along with a storybook called Goblinsocks and the Three Trolls.5 From Grumpa there was something small and hard, wrapped in brown paper. Ulrik tore off the wrapping.

  ‘A rock! Thanks, Grumpa! I’m collecting them.’

  ‘This is a special one, Ulrik. It’s my old rock-ball. I kept it for years, but now it’s time I passed it on to you.’

  ‘My own rockball!’ said Ulrik, admiring it. ‘Can we play a game?’

  ‘Later on,’ said Grumpa. ‘I’ll teach you a few tricks – the belly-butt and the ear-snapper.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘We’ll all be needing some breakfast.’

  ‘When are we going roaring, Dad?’ asked Ulrik.

  ‘As soon as it’s dark,’ promised Mr Troll. ‘We’ll start next door.’

  Mrs Troll looked worried. ‘Are you sure we should, Eggy? After what happened with the TV and the greenhouse, Mrs Priddle hasn’t spoken to us.’

  ‘This will cheer her up,’ said Mr Troll confidently. ‘There’s nothing like a good roaring to put you in a gladful mood.’

  Next door none of the Priddles was in a gladful mood. Christmas Day with the Snorleys was proving every bit as dull as Mr Priddle had predicted.

  ‘And this is Rainsworth Station,’ said Mr Snorley, passing round another photo. ‘It was rather foggy so you can’t see it very well. That’s Cynthia standing on Platform 5.’

  Mr Priddle took the photo from his wife, trying not to yawn. It looked like the other one hundred photos of stations he had already seen. He glanced at his watch – only five o’ clock. It might be hours before the Snorleys would be ready to go home.

  Warren sat at the other end of the sofa from Alice Snorley – neither of them had spoken a word to each other since Alice had arrived.

  ‘Well! Is it suppertime already?’ asked Mr Priddle, breaking the silence.

  His wife glared at him. ‘Not for an hour, Roger. Perhaps we could play a party game.’

  ‘Oh, we like games, don’t we, Brian?’ said Mrs Snorley. ‘Brian’s a marvel at quizzes. He has us in stitches.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a terrific one about trains,’ said Mr Snorley. ‘Shall I pop home and get it?’

  Mr Priddle groaned inwardly. Christmas Day and they were doomed to answering questions about trains with the boring Snorleys! He wished something would happen – anything, really – the lights going out or the turkey exploding in the oven.

  As if on cue a deafening noise made them all jump. It sounded like a thunderclap. Mrs Snorley ducked for cover behind her husband. Alice actually spoke – or at least squeaked.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Mr Snorley. ‘It came from outside.’

  ‘Don’t go out there, Brian!’ warned Mrs Snorley. ‘It might be dangerous.’

  Mr Snorley didn’t look like he was about to go anywhere. He had turned very pale.

  The rumble shook the house once again. The third time Mr Priddle knew where he’d heard it before. It was the same noise that woke him at seven o’ clock every morning – only this time twice as loud. He went to the curtains and drew them back.

  ‘Arghhh!’ screamed Mrs Snorley as she caught sight of the four ugly faces grinning at them through the window.

  ‘It’s the Trolls,’ said Mr Priddle. For once he sounded almost pleased.

  ‘Don’t let them in!’ begged Mrs Snorley. ‘They’ll eat us!’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Mr Priddle. ‘They wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  He opened the French windows and the trolls stepped in, dressed in their best clothes. Mr Troll was wearing his Trollmas jumper with a pattern of leaping goats. Mrs Troll had got a little carried away with her lipstick—the splodges on her cheeks made her look like a large, hairy doll. Grumpa was in his usual smelly goatskin coat, while Ulrik for some reason had a rock in his hand.

  ‘Did you hear us roaring?’ he asked.

  ‘They could have heard you in Australia,’ replied Mrs Priddle. ‘You frightened the life out of us.’

  Mr Troll seemed pleased. He explained that ‘going roaring’ was an old trollish custom.

  ‘If we roar outside your cave three times it brings you good luck. Especially if you feed us.’ His eyes strayed to the table set for supper.

  ‘Oh well, you’re welcome to join us for supper, aren’t they, Jackie?’ said Mr Priddle.

  Mrs Priddle opened her mouth but seemed unable to speak.

  ‘Marvellous,’ said her husband. ‘After all, it is Christmas. The more the merrier!’

  The Trolls went round the room hugging and kissing everyone and wishing them ‘Happy Trollmas’.

  The Snorleys remained clinging to each other on the sofa, looking as if they might bolt for the door at any moment. Things were looking up, thought Mr Priddle.

  An hour later dinner was served and the party began to warm up. Two bottles of wine were uncorked (the Trolls were not used to wine and it made them even more noisy than usual). They pulled crackers and wore paper hats lopsidedly on their heads. They ate second and third helpings of Mrs Priddle’s roast turkey and declared it ‘nearly as tastesome as goat pie’ (even Ulrik forgot that he was a veggytellyum). After dessert Grumpa stood on the table to sing an old trollish hunting song and no one seemed to mind when he put his foot in the trifle.

  ‘A game!’ cried Mrs Priddle when the song ended. ‘We were going to play a game!’

  ‘Shall I pop home and fetch my quiz?’ offered Mr Snorley.

  ‘No!’ chorused the Priddles loudly and all at once.

&nbs
p; ‘I got a game for Trollmas,’ said Ulrik. ‘It’s called Rockball.’

  ‘Rockball?’ said Mrs Snorley. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.’

  ‘It’s great,’ said Ulrik. ‘This is the rock.’ He passed a rock about the size of a small cannonball across the table for Mrs Snorley to admire.

  ‘You’ve got the ball so you can start,’ said Grumpa.

  ‘Oh! Me? What am I meant to do with it?’ asked Mrs Snorley.

  ‘Try and keep it,’ said Ulrik.

  ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘Run!’ advised Grumpa.

  ‘Run?’ said Mrs Snorley. ‘Run where?’

  ‘Anywheres,’ said Mr Troll. ‘Before we grab you by the legses and snaffle it off you.’

  Mrs Snorley saw that Ulrik and Mr Troll were already getting to their feet. She screamed and fled from the table, holding the rock out in front of her as if it was a time bomb.

  The Trolls chased her through the kitchen and out into the back garden, pursued by Alice, Warren and a worried Mr Snorley. Grumpa and Mrs Troll stood with the Priddles by the back door to watch them go.

  ‘I do hope they’re not going to get carried away,’ said Mrs Priddle.

  From somewhere in the darkness came a surprised scream closely followed by a roar of triumph.

  ‘It sounds like Mrs Snorley’s the one being carried away,’ grinned Grumpa.

  It had turned out to be quite a merry Trollmas after all.

  Footnote

  1 Trollmas—Like Christmas, this falls on 25th December. Trolls like the dark and at Trollmas they celebrate the dark days of winter going on and on and on.

  2 It is a troll custom to go roaring from cave to cave on Trollmas Eve. Going roaring is similar to carol singing but less tuneful. Neighbours often throw rocks at the roarers to show their appreciation.

  3 Trollaby—bedtime song.

  4 Peas—money (as in 10 peas)

  5 Trolls have their own trollish fairy tales in which they are always the hero. Favourite stories include Trollerella, Tromplestiltskin and Sleeping Ugly.

  Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin, New York and Sydney

  First published in Great Britain in September 2007 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY

  This electronic edition published in August 2011 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Text copyright © Alan MacDonald 2007

  Illustrations copyright © Mark Beech 2007

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  eISBN 978 1 4088 1902 9

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