Goat Pie (3 page)

Dear Ulrik,

Thanks for inviting me for Trollmas. Will arrive Sunday.

Yours roaringly,

Grumpa

Mrs Troll closed her eyes. Mr Troll thumped his fist on the table, making the bowls and plates jump.

‘When's Sunday?' asked Ulrik.

‘Tomorrow,' said Mrs Troll. ‘Surely he can't mean tomorrow?'

Mr Troll slumped back in his chair. ‘We're done for,' he groaned. ‘We're up the creek without a puddle.'

‘I'm glad Grumpa's coming,' said Ulrik. ‘I miss him.'

‘But what are we going to do?' asked Mrs Troll. ‘What about the forest and the goats he'll be expecting?'

‘We'll just have to keep him indoors,' said Mr Troll.

‘For the whole of Trollmas? And anyway where's he going to sleep – in our room?'

‘Not on your bogles!' said Mr Troll flatly. ‘He snores like a warthog!'

‘Then he'll have to go in Ulrik's room,' said Mrs Troll.

‘Where will I sleep?' asked Ulrik.

‘In with us, my ugglesome,' replied Mrs Troll.

Ulrik didn't mind that for a few days. It would be just like being home in their old cave where they all huddled together for warmth.

Mrs Troll glanced around the room. There was so much to do and so little time before Grumpa arrived. She would have to go through the house, dirtying the place from top to bottom. Grumpa would be expecting a dark, draughty cave with cobwebs and mouldy leaves. Recently she'd noticed the house had started to lose its smell. The TV would have to be packed away out of sight, so would Ulrik's bed (Grumpa would expect to sleep on the floor in the dirt).

‘Ulrik,' she said, ‘see if you can find some bugs and spiders for your room.'

‘OK, Mum.'

‘And Eggy, this house hardly smells. We'll need some fresh cow-patties.'

‘What about next door?' said Mr Troll.

‘You won't find any there!'

‘No!' said Mr Troll. ‘I mean, what about the Priddles? You told Grumpa we live next door to a nice family of trolls. What's he going to say when he finds out the neighbours are peeples?'

Mrs Troll put a hand to her mouth. ‘Good goblins! I'd forgotten that.'

‘Maybe he'll like them,' said Ulrik. ‘I like peeples. They can't help being ugly.'

Mr Troll shook his head. ‘Grumpa will go tromping blunkers! You know how he feels about peeples!'

‘Then we'll have to make sure he never sees them,' said Mrs Troll.

Mr Troll rolled his eyes. ‘And how the bogles are we going to do that?'

At Number 8 the Priddle family were also sitting down to breakfast. Mrs Priddle poured some muesli into a bowl while her plump, freckled son, Warren, spread a mound of peanut butter on his third slice of toast. Mr Priddle opened his newspaper, hoping for a few minutes to read it in peace.

‘Roger!' said his wife. ‘When are we going to talk about Christmas?'

‘Mmm,' mumbled Mr Priddle.

‘Are you listening to me?' said Mrs Priddle. ‘You know the Snorleys are coming?'

‘Mmm,' repeated Mr Priddle. He lowered his newspaper slowly. ‘The Snorleys? Why on earth did you ask them?'

‘Mum!' protested Warren.

‘Don't talk with your mouth full, Warren,' said Mrs Priddle. ‘Of course I invited the Snorleys. They had us last year.'

‘Yes, and it was a disaster. I thought I was going to die of boredom!' said Mr Priddle.

‘Don't exaggerate,' said Mrs Priddle, reaching for her cup of tea.

‘I'm not exaggerating. Brian Snorley showed us his photos. For two hours!'

‘Well, it's nice he's got a hobby. I wish you had one.'

‘Jackie – they were photos of train stations!'

‘All right, I admit the Snorleys may not be very exciting but it's our turn to have them.'

Warren swallowed his toast. ‘Well, I'm not coming,' he announced. ‘If we've got to see the Snorleys, I'm not coming.'

‘Don't be silly, Warren,' snapped his mother. ‘It's at our house – how can you not come?'

‘I'll stay in my room,' scowled Warren.

‘It's Christmas Day. I expect you to behave nicely and play with Alice.'

‘Alice Snorley?' snorted Warren. ‘She's weird. She only eats vegetables.'

Mr Priddle sided with Warren. ‘I'm not spending Christmas with the Snorleys either and that's flat,' he said.

‘I've invited them!' said Mrs Priddle. ‘What do you want me to say? “Sorry you can't come, my husband finds you boring?”'

‘Well, at least invite someone else!' said Mr Priddle.

‘Who?' asked Mrs Priddle. ‘The Hoopers are going skiing, the Johnsons are away, we're not even speaking to the Butterworths.'

Mr Priddle racked his brains. There had to be someone else. Someone more fun than the Snorleys. Someone who would make Christmas Day go with a swing. A wild, reckless thought occurred to him.

‘I suppose there's always the Trolls,' he said.

His wife gave him a withering look. ‘That's one of your jokes, is it?'

‘They are our neighbours. They've had us to supper but we've never actually invited them here.' Mr Priddle was starting to warm to the idea.

‘You don't have to invite them,' said Mrs Priddle. ‘They just turn up at the door. Dragging
in mud on their great clumsy feet, smelling of earth and sweat and heaven knows what. Last time Mr Troll licked my hand.
Licked
it!'

‘Maybe he wanted to see what you taste like,' said Warren.

‘But you can't say they're boring,' argued Mr Priddle.

Mrs Priddle was about to say a good many things but just then the doorbell rang.

‘Good gravy! It's them!' hissed Mr Priddle, going into the hall. Three dark shadows could be seen through the dimpled glass of the front door. ‘You don't think they heard us talking?'

‘Don't be silly, Roger,' said Mrs Priddle. ‘See what they want.'

Mr Priddle opened the door and took a step back at the sight of the three smiling trolls outside. Mrs Troll was wearing her best dress – the one with the ra-ra skirt that showed off her thick, hairy legs.

‘Hello, Piddle,' said Mr Troll. He imprisoned Mr Priddle in a mighty hug that lifted him off his feet. Mrs Priddle hid behind Warren. The trolls walked straight into the lounge, where they squashed on
to the sofa and made themselves comfortable.

‘We've got a tiddly problem,' began Mr Troll. He looked at his wife, unsure how to go on. Mrs Troll took over. ‘It's Eggy's dad – we call him Grumpa. He's coming to stay with us for Trollmas.'

‘You mean Christmas,' corrected Mrs Priddle.

Mrs Troll shook her head. ‘No. Peeples have Christmas, trolls have Trollmas. We all sit in the dark and roar at the Great Troll in the sky.'

‘Sounds fun,' said Mrs Priddle, thinking it sounded completely batty. ‘So what's the problem?'

Mrs Troll hesitated.

‘Grumpa thinks that you're trolls,' said Ulrik.

The Priddles stared at them. ‘He thinks
we
are trolls?' repeated Mrs Priddle.

‘Yes. He's old. He gets a tiddly bit muddled,' smiled Mrs Troll.

‘And Mum wrote it in her letters – that you're trolls,' explained Ulrik, helpfully.

Mrs Troll was starting to wish she'd come by herself. Egbert was being no help at all. He had plucked a banana from the fruit bowl and was sniffing it.

‘Well,' said Mr Priddle, chuckling indulgently. ‘I can't say anyone's ever mistaken me for a troll before.'

‘No,' agreed Mr Troll. ‘You're as baldy as a bottom.'

Ulrik frowned. ‘Your bottom isn't bald, Dad. It's hairy.'

‘Yes, but peeples have baldy bottoms, don't they, Mrs Piddle?'

Mrs Priddle felt the conversation was getting off track. She really didn't wish to compare bottoms with her neighbours on a Saturday morning.

‘Anyway,' she said, ‘I don't really see the problem. Your father will see for himself that we're not trolls.'

Mrs Troll looked awkward again. ‘That's the troubles – we
want
him to think you're trolls. He hates the sight of peeples. So we wondered if you could keep out of sight for a while?'

‘Keep out of sight?' repeated Mrs Priddle.

Mr Troll nodded. ‘Stay in the house. Just until Trollmas is over.'

Mrs Priddle exchanged looks with her husband. ‘You're asking us to hide indoors for the whole of Christmas?'

‘Exactly!' said Mrs Troll. ‘If you don't mind.'

‘Oh, why should we mind?' said Mr Priddle. ‘It's only Christmas. We'll turn off all the lights, shall we, and creep around in the dark?'

‘Good idea!' said Mr Troll.

‘Or, better still, we could stamp around the house and roar like trolls.'

‘Uggsome!' said Mr Troll. ‘But you'll need lessons. Your roaring wouldn't fright an earwig.'

There didn't seem to be any more to say.

He stood up with the banana still in his hand. Mrs Priddle snatched it back off him.

‘I've never been so insulted!' she fumed.

‘Haven't you?' said Mr Troll.

‘Never! You come round here wanting us to hide away as if we're … criminals. The nerve of it!'

Mr Troll's face fell. ‘So you won't?'

‘NO!'

‘What about keeping the curtains closed?'

The Trolls left, driven out by Mrs Priddle who aimed a banana at Mr Troll's head as they hurried down the drive. She slammed the door shut behind them and turned on her husband.

‘And you wanted to ask them for Christmas!'