Trolls on Hols (7 page)

‘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.'

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.'

‘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.

‘… 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.