Trolls on Hols (2 page)

‘It's ours!' said Mr Priddle proudly. ‘I bought it.'

The caravan was the colour of pale custard. It had lace curtains at the windows that might have been white in Queen Victoria's day.

Warren thought it was brilliant. ‘Can we look inside?' he asked eagerly.

‘Of course!' said Mr Priddle. ‘Just be careful with the light switch – it needs fixing.'

He took them on a tour. It didn't take too long since the caravan only had three rooms – a tiny bedroom, a tinier bathroom, and a kitchen-cum-dining-cum-everything-else room.

‘See?' said Mr Priddle. ‘You fold away the table like this and you've got another bed.'

‘And who's going to sleep on that?' asked Mrs Priddle, folding her arms.

‘Well, us,' said Mr Priddle. ‘When we're on holiday.'

Mrs Priddle pursed her lips. ‘If you think I'm having my holiday in this, you're mistaken–'

‘I like it, Dad!' shouted Warren from next door, where he was using the bed as a trampoline.

‘You promised me we'd have a proper holiday this year,' said Mrs Priddle.

‘And we will. What could be more fun than a caravan?'

‘A hotel,' said Mrs Priddle. ‘A five-star hotel with a view of the sea. And a swimming pool.'

‘Yes, but –'

‘And cooked breakfast!' shouted Warren from next door. ‘Sausage, bacon and eggs!'

‘Be quiet, Warren!' ordered Mr Priddle. ‘Anyway, we can have all those things – the view, the swimming pool – they'll all be on the caravan site.'

Mrs Priddle narrowed her eyes. ‘What caravan site?'

‘Um … well…' Mr Priddle stammered, ‘I mean, if we found one we liked.'

‘Roger,' warned Mrs Priddle, ‘if you've done something stupid I'm going to scream.'

Mr Priddle dug in his pocket and brought out a scrap of paper. This wasn't going as well as he'd hoped. ‘It's not a caravan site, it's more of a farm, really. I found the advert in
Caravan and Camping
.

His wife snatched the paper off him and read it out.

Paradise View
Find paradise in sun-kissed Wales.
Sea views, natural swimming pool, tennis court
- everything for a holiday you'll never forget.
Caravans welcome. Pets and children extra.
Phone: Olwen Ogwen – Boggy Moor 657770

‘Olwen Ogwen?' said Mrs Priddle. ‘What kind of a name is that?'

‘He's Welsh. Sounded a nice chap on the phone.'

‘You've spoken to him already?'

‘Well, yes I had to … when I um … booked the holiday.'

Mrs Priddle let out a piercing scream and kicked the folding bed. There was a twang as it collapsed.

‘Don't worry,' said Mr Priddle, ‘that can be fixed.'

The next morning the Trolls trooped into town to visit the Travel Agents. The sales assistant who greeted them was called Kelly. Ulrik knew this because she had a name badge on her bright blue jacket. She had very white teeth and bright pink nails and smelled of perfume. Ulrik moved his chair a bit closer to the desk so he could smell her better. He was curious about peeple's smells. Most trolls smelled much the same – mainly of earth and sweat and goat-meat, if that's what they'd had for breakfast – but
Ulrik had noticed peeples had different smells. Babies, for instance, smelled of sick while old ladies smelled of mints.

Kelly smiled with her dazzling white teeth. ‘How can I help?'

‘We want to go on a holidays,' said Mrs Troll.

‘No problem,' smiled Kelly. ‘What kind of holiday did you have in mind?'

‘Well, not a subway,' said Mrs Troll. ‘We've been to one of those.'

‘We want somewhere with mountains,' said Mr Troll.

‘And the seasides,' nodded Ulrik.

‘Towels too. It's got to have towels,' added Mrs Troll.

Kelly's smile had faded and she was looking slightly confused. ‘Towels?' she said.

‘Yes, to sit on. We don't want sandy bits on our bottoms.'

‘Well, no,' agreed Kelly. ‘But generally most people take their own towels.'

Mrs Troll shook her head firmly. ‘We don't have any.'

‘No,' said Mr Troll. ‘Trolls never wash – it takes away your stink.'

Kelly laughed, hoping this was a joke. They seemed to have got off the subject.

‘So you're interested in a beach holiday?' she said.

‘Is that at the seasides?' asked Mrs Troll.

‘Well, yes, most beaches are.'

‘Then that's what we want.'

‘No problem, we've got plenty of choice. Have you thought where you'd like to go? Spain? America? The Greek Islands?'

‘That sounds good. Can we walk there?' asked Mr Troll.

‘Which?'

‘The Goat Islands.'

‘Um … Greek Islands. Not really. You'd need to fly.'

Mr Troll snorted. ‘We're trolls, not ducky birds. How can we fly?'

Kelly glanced behind them. A queue of people were waiting.

‘You don't have to go abroad,' she said. ‘There are plenty of options at home. Where would you like to stay? In a hotel?'

Mr Troll leaned forward. ‘What about a cave?'

‘A cave?'

‘Yes, we'd like that,' agreed Mrs Troll. ‘A nice stinksome cave.'

Kelly shook her head. ‘I don't think we have any … um … cave holidays. If you want something cheaper, why don't you try camping or perhaps a caravan?'

‘A carry-bag?'

‘That's what Warren's going on!' said Ulrik eagerly. ‘He told me his dad's bought a carry-van and they're going to Wales.'

‘That sounds nice, Eggy,' said Mrs Troll. ‘I've always wanted to see whales.'

Mr Troll wrinkled his snout. ‘Big blubbery things.'

Kelly was busy tapping on her computer keyboard.

‘What about this?' she said. ‘Two weeks at Golden Sands Holiday Park in a luxury caravan.'

‘Luxury. That sounds nice, Eggy,' said Mrs Troll.

‘Uggsome!' said Ulrik. ‘Can we go, Dad?'

Mr Troll considered. ‘Does it have a piddling pool or do we have to dig our own?'

Kelly consulted her screen. ‘Let's see … there's an outdoor swimming pool.'

‘Then we'll go,' said Mr Troll. He'd had enough digging for one week.

Kelly tapped again. ‘Lovely. That will be £599 if you go before August.'

The Trolls looked shocked. None of them had considered they might have to pay for a holiday. They assumed that Travel Agents were giving them away. Mrs Troll reached into her bag and brought out the sock she used as a purse. She peered inside – they definitely didn't have that much money.

‘Let's talk to the Priddles,' she suggested. ‘They've got a carry-thing.'

‘So you don't want to book?' asked Kelly.

‘No thanks,' said Mr Troll. ‘Maybe we'll come back tomorrow.'

‘Of course.' Kelly stood up and smiled with relief. Tomorrow was Sunday and thankfully they were closed.

Later that evening Mrs Priddle happened to glance out of her bedroom window.

‘Roger!' she called downstairs. ‘You better get outside. Mrs Troll's looking at your caravan.'

‘Oh, good gravy!' cried Mr Priddle and hurried outside in his slippers. He found Mrs Troll with her snout jammed up against the back window.

‘What do you think? A beauty, isn't she? I only
picked her up yesterday,' said Mr Priddle, modestly patting the side of his caravan.

‘Has it got towels?' asked Mrs Troll.

‘Well, yes, it's got everything,' said Mr Priddle. ‘Want to have a look inside?'

Mrs Troll did. The caravan was a little on the small side and she had to duck low to fit through the door, but once inside she was enchanted with the cosy little room. Mr Priddle took her round, pointing out the cooker, the fridge-freezer, the shower and all the modern gadgets the caravan had to offer. Mrs Troll was especially impressed with the table that magically turned into a bed.

‘So what do you think?' asked Mr Priddle.

‘It's stinksome,' said Mrs Troll.

‘Well, yes, I know it could do with a good clean.'

‘No, don't spoil it. It's got a lovely stink.'

‘Oh well … thanks,' said Mr Priddle.

‘And you're going on this for your holidays?'

‘Yes, we're off bright and early tomorrow to miss the traffic. It's quite a journey to Wales.'

‘Yes, you only get them in the sea.' Mrs Troll nodded wisely. She looked around the caravan enviously. ‘Ulrik has been begging us for a holidays,
poor hairling. I wish we could go on a caravan.'

‘Well, you should try it,' said Mr Priddle.

‘Me?' said Mrs Troll.

‘All of you. There's nothing to beat it. Go where you like, stay as long you please – with a caravan you're free as a bird. Who needs an expensive hotel when you've got everything you need right here?'

Mrs Troll had never thought of it that way before. ‘Maybe you're right.'

‘I am right. You should give it some thought,' urged Mr Priddle.

‘Well, I will – if you're sure.'

‘Sure? I'm positive! I think you'd love it.'

‘All right. Thank you. I'll see what Eggy thinks.'

Mrs Troll's dark eyes were shining with delight and she suddenly hugged her neighbour.

Mr Priddle watched her go. She had seemed quite impressed with the caravan, though he had a nagging sense that they'd been talking about different things. What had she meant when she'd asked him if he was sure? Sure of what? He'd only meant they ought to consider buying a caravan of
their own. So why had she acted as if he was doing them an enormous favour?

Mrs Priddle was waiting for her husband in the kitchen. ‘Well, what did she want?'

‘Nothing really – just a look round. Actually, we had quite a nice chat. Very keen on the caravan.'

‘Huh!' snorted Mrs Priddle. ‘When you live in a pigsty, anything looks good.'

‘They're really quite friendly if you give them a chance,' said Mr Priddle.