Trolls on Hols (3 page)

Mrs Priddle clicked her tongue. ‘Don't be ridiculous, Roger,' she said. ‘The best thing about going away is we won't have to see them for two whole weeks.'

Next door at Number 10, Mrs Troll had reported the conversation to her husband.

‘Are you sure?' he said.

‘Of course I am, Eggy. He wants us to go on holidays with them!'

‘Blunking bogles!' said Mr Troll. ‘What did he say?'

‘He said we should try it, all of us. He thinks we'd love it.'

Ulrik came into the kitchen. ‘Love what, Mum?'

‘A caravan holiday, hairling,' said Mrs Troll. ‘The Priddles have asked us to go with them.'

‘Uggsome!' said Ulrik. ‘Are we going?'

Mrs Troll looked at Mr Troll. ‘What do you think? Shall we, Eggy?'

Mr Troll picked at one of his fangs. ‘Won't it be a bit squished? Six of us together in that tiddly tin can?'

‘It's bigger inside than you'd think,' said Mrs Troll. ‘It's got a table that turns into a bed. Why don't we, Eggy? No one's ever asked us on holidays before.'

Mr Troll thought it over. It was true they didn't have a caravan and the Priddles had a perfectly good one. This way too it wouldn't cost them any money.

‘All right,' he said. ‘We'll go!'

Ulrik gave a loud whoop and threw himself on his dad, wrestling him to the ground. A mock fight broke out, with the two of them growling and laughing.

Mrs Troll left them to it and bustled upstairs. If they were going to leave early in the morning, she'd have to start packing. In fact there was hardly any point in going to bed. An idea struck her. Why not give the Priddles a lovely surprise? They could move into the caravan tonight so they'd be all ready for the early start in the morning. She couldn't wait to see the look on Mr Priddle's face when he opened the door.

The trolls slept soundly through the journey, lulled by the sound of cars overtaking on the motorway. They were still dozing when the caravan pulled into a driveway by a signpost that said ‘Paradise View'. The caravan rocked from side to side as it climbed a potholed track to the top of a hill. Mr Priddle parked and turned off the engine. He peered through the steady drizzle outside.

‘Is this it?' asked Mrs Priddle. ‘Where are all the other caravans?'

The Priddles got out and looked around, huddled under a golfing umbrella. Even Mr Priddle had to admit that Paradise View fell short of what he was expecting. A few sheep grazed in a field of scrubby grass. There was one rusty tap, a barn with a rickety roof, a grim-looking farmhouse and not much else. Crows cawed in the woods behind them. A man came out of the farmhouse and strode towards them with two sheepdogs trotting at his heels.

‘Ah,' said Mr Priddle. ‘This will be Ogwen.'

‘Tell him,' his wife hissed. ‘Tell him we don't want to stay.'

Farmer Ogwen stepped over a puddle. He had a face like a knobbly red potato. His cord trousers were tied at the waist with string and tucked into his muddy boots. Warren thought he looked more like a tramp than the owner of a caravan site.

The two dogs circled them, growling softly.

‘Quiet, Fang! Down, Claw!' Ogwen barked. He smiled, revealing his two remaining teeth and held out a grubby hand.

‘Olwen Ogwen. Don't worry about the dogs – they won't hurt you. Quiet, boys! Quiet, I said!'

The dogs ceased their growling but Warren kept close to the caravan just in case.

‘You must be Widdle,' said the farmer. ‘You found us all right then?'

‘Yes. It's Priddle. Roger Priddle.'

‘Oh, right you are. So you're on your holidays, are you? You'll like it here. Paradise on earth it is.'

‘Ends of the earth more like,' muttered Mrs Priddle.

‘Eh?' demanded Ogwen.

Standing close to the caravan, Warren could hear strange noises coming from inside.

‘Dad!' he said.

‘Not now, Warren – I'm talking. I was wondering, Mr Ogwen, where are all the other caravans?'

‘Oh. Too early in the season,' said the farmer. ‘Packed this will be in a couple of weeks. They'll be queuing right along the lane.'

Mrs Priddle tried to imagine the bare field crowded with happy holidaymakers but it was asking a lot of her imagination.

Mr Priddle looked around. ‘The advert …' he began.

‘You saw that, did you? Wrote that myself,' said Ogwen.

‘But it mentioned a swimming pool. I can't see it.'

Farmer Ogwen pointed to the bottom of the hill. ‘Down there – look. By the reeds.'

‘That's a pond,' said Mrs Priddle, squinting into the rain.

‘Yes, natural pool that is. Beautiful on a hot day. The cows love it.'

Mrs Priddle turned pale. ‘Roger, say something,' she muttered.

‘Um …' said Mr Priddle.

Warren, meanwhile, was listening. There was definitely something moving about in the caravan. Bumps and thumps and scrapes came from inside. ‘Dad!' he said again.

‘Not now, Warren!' snapped Mr Priddle. ‘And the tennis court? Where's that?'

‘Oh, that went last year. Sheep kept eating the grass. And there's the problem of droppings, see? Can't stop sheep doing what's natural, can you?'

Mrs Priddle gave a faint moan.

‘But the view,' her husband ploughed on. ‘Your advert promised a “sea view”.'

‘Well, there is!' smiled Ogwen, showing his two teeth. ‘If you climb the hill on a clear day you can see it across the moor. Of course it's not clear now, mind – it's raining. Always rains on Boggy Moor.' He clapped his hands together, ‘So, if that's all, I'll leave you to get settled in, shall I?'

He turned to go, but a loud knocking sound caught his attention.

‘Someone in your caravan, is there?'

Mr Priddle glanced at his wife. ‘No.'

‘That's what I keep telling you!' said Warren. ‘There
is
something. Listen!'

They all stood and listened. A loud thump came from inside the caravan and Mr Priddle took a step back. The handle of the door rattled as if someone was trying to get out. Mrs Priddle looked as if she might faint. They had been travelling for hours, they had come to a place run by a toothless madman – and now this.

‘Better open the door, hadn't you?' said Ogwen.

Mr Priddle took a deep breath. He unlocked the door, turned the handle and leapt backwards as if he was releasing a caged lion. A hairy head appeared, blinking at them. Mr Troll was wearing his red Bermuda shorts and nothing else.

‘Ah, Piddle,' he said, scratching under his arms. ‘What's for breakfast?'

Mr Troll stepped out of the caravan into the drizzly rain, followed by Ulrik. Mrs Troll came next, wearing
a flowing pink nightie, trimmed with silk bows.

‘My stars!' said Ogwen. ‘How many have you got in there?'

Mrs Priddle glared at her husband. ‘Don't look at me!' said Mr Priddle. ‘I had no idea!'

Ulrik was looking around. He had been expecting a sandy beach with waves lapping on the shore, but all he could see was a muddy field and a dozen sheep. He tugged at his mum's arm. ‘Where's the seaside, Mum?'

‘Never mind that!' said Mrs Priddle. ‘What on earth are you doing here?'

Mrs Troll looked mystified. ‘We're on holidays, same as you.'

‘But you can't just turn up! You can't just move into our caravan, uninvited!'

‘We
were
invited,' replied Mr Troll. ‘He invited us.' He pointed a fat finger at Mr Priddle.

Mrs Priddle turned on her husband. ‘Roger! You didn't!'

‘Of course I didn't!'

‘Don't tell fibwoppers. You did!' said Mrs Troll.

‘No I didn't!'

‘Oh yes you did!'

‘Don't stop!' grinned Ogwen. ‘This is better than a pantomime.'

‘You said we should try a caravan holiday. You told me we'd love it,' said Mrs Troll.

‘Yes, but I didn't mean come on holiday with us!'

‘Didn't you?'

‘No!'

‘Then why did you invite us?'

Mr Priddle gave up – they were going round in circles. He should have known something like
this would happen. It seemed the Trolls followed them around like bad luck.

‘Well, this is marvellous,' said Mrs Priddle bitterly. ‘Just wonderful!'

‘Isn't it?' said Mr Troll, beaming. ‘All of us together! On holidays.'

Farmer Ogwen had been making calculations. ‘So there's six of you,' he said. ‘You only said three on the phone. I'm afraid six is going to be extra.'

Mrs Priddle jumped to her feet. This was the last straw. ‘There are not six of us,' she said. ‘There is only room in this caravan for three.'

‘Well, that's what I said,' agreed Mr Troll. ‘So where are
you
going to sleep?'

Later that evening the Priddles sat round the table inside the caravan, drinking mugs of hot chocolate. Warren wiped the mist from the window beside him and looked out.

‘They're still there,' he said.

‘What are they doing?' asked Mr Priddle.

‘Getting wet.'

Mr Priddle glanced at his wife. ‘Don't look at me like that,' she said. ‘There isn't any room.'

‘But we can't leave them out there all night, Jackie. They'll catch their death.'

‘You should have thought of that before you invited them.'

‘For the last time, I didn't invite them!' cried Mr Priddle. ‘It was all a mistake.'

Mrs Priddle glared back. ‘If you ask me, this entire holiday was a mistake. This place should carry a health warning. I can't walk out the door
without stepping in sheep muck, and as for that so-called swimming pool, the only things swimming in there are frogs and newts!'