Goat Pie (4 page)

Sunday arrived. Mr and Mrs Troll were in a state of nervous anxiety. Would Grumpa really come? It was a long journey from the mountains of Norway. As the day wore on they began to hope that he might have changed his mind.

By seven o' clock only Ulrik hadn't given up and kept watch from the window. Despite his parents' misgivings, he was looking forward to seeing his grumpa. He had already started to think of presents he could buy him for Trollmas.
Goat skulls were Grumpa's real favourite—he had an impressive collection hanging on the walls of his cave, although …

Just then a taxicab turned into Mountain View and pulled up outside the house. As the door opened, Ulrik heard a familiar deep, growling voice. Grumpa got out wearing his ancient goatskin coat. He seemed to be having an argument with the taxi driver.

Eventually the driver tossed his bag out on to the pavement and drove off at high speed with a squeal of tyres. Ulrik ran downstairs, calling to his mum and dad, ‘He's here! Grumpa's here!'

They hurried out to meet him at the gate. ‘Hello, Grumpa!' said Ulrik, hugging him. Mr Troll and Grumpa roared in each other's faces and thumped one another on the back.

‘Have a good trip?' asked Mrs Troll.

‘Do I look like I've had a good trip?' growled Grumpa.

‘Well …'

‘It nearly killed me. Nothing but peeples since I left home. Peeples on boats, peeples in motor cars. The smell of them! I was nearly sick. Where are all the trolls?'

‘Come in! Let me take your bag,' said Mrs Troll, quickly changing the subject. Grumpa stepped through the door, still grumbling about the taxi driver who had demanded money from him.

He looked around. ‘Funny looking cave,' he sniffed. ‘Doesn't smell right.'

‘It's got an upstairs, Grumpa,' said Ulrik. ‘You're sleeping in my room!'

‘Why don't you show him, my ugglesome?' suggested Mrs Troll.

Ulrik bounded up the stairs, carrying Grumpa's bag.

‘I helped Mum dirty my room for you,' he said, pushing open the door.

Ulrik's bed had been removed so that the room was bare except for the mud and leaves covering the carpet. On the window stood Ulrik's rock collection and one wall displayed his mud painting of home. Grumpa surveyed the room. ‘Humph!' he said. ‘It'll do, I suppose.'

‘Look, Grumpa, you can make it dark!' said Ulrik. He flicked the light switch on and off.

Grumpa went to the window and looked out over the neat, lawned gardens of Mountain View. Luckily the Priddles were all in their house, safely out of sight.

‘Where are the mountains?' said Grumpa.

‘Oh, there aren't really mountains,' said Ulrik.

‘No mountains?' said Grumpa. ‘I've lived in mountains all my life.'

‘We've got a hill,' Ulrik said, pointing it out. ‘Dad made it all by himself.'

He pointed to the mound that took up most of the back garden.

‘Call that a hill?' snorted Grumpa. ‘It's not even a pimple!'

Half an hour later they sat down to supper. Mrs Troll had spent hours at the supermarket trying to choose something that Grumpa would like. She dropped a smoking black lump on to his plate. Grumpa prodded it with a finger.

‘What's this?'

‘Beefboogers. It's a bit like goat. Try it,' urged Mrs Troll.

Grumpa sniffed the meat, which had got slightly burnt when it caught fire.

‘Don't you think Ulrik's grown?' asked Mrs Troll, trying to distract him. ‘Stand up, Ulrik. Let Grumpa look at you.'

‘Mu-um!' protested Ulrik. He stood awkwardly while Grumpa looked him up and down.

‘Looks a bit scrawny to me. Have you been feeding him?'

‘Oh yes,' said Mrs Troll. ‘Most nights we have fresh goat, don't we, hairling?'

‘Um … goat, yes,' said Ulrik.

‘That's right,' said Mr Troll. ‘I've eaten so many goat pies sometimes I think I'll turn into one. Ha ha!'

Ulrik blinked at his parents. He hadn't tasted goat since they'd left home. It was odd – his parents were always warning him to tell the truth but here they were telling Grumpa the most enormous fibwoppers and expecting him to back them up.

Grumpa was asking him a question – something about his hunting hat.

‘Oh, it's in my school bag,' replied Ulrik.

‘Wear it to go hunting, do you?' asked Grumpa.

Ulrik glanced uncertainly at his dad, who nodded urgently.

‘Um, yes … I wear it a lot,' said Ulrik.

‘And how many goats have you baggsed so far? By yourself, I mean. Four? Five?'

Again Ulrik looked at his dad, who held up ten fingers behind Grumpa's head.

‘Well, none yet …' he said truthfully.

‘NONE?' roared Grumpa.

‘Not yet, Grumpa.' (Mr Troll hid his face in his hands.)

‘Know how many goatses I'd baggsed when I was your age?' asked Grumpa.

Ulrik shook his head.

‘Sixteen,' said Grumpa. ‘Six-teen.'

‘Uggsome!' said Ulrik.

‘And I dragged them home by myselves, miles through that forest and up to Troll Mountain. The snow was so cold …'

‘… it froze your toeses,' completed Mr Troll
wearily. ‘We know. You've told us before, Dad.'

‘Well, and what is Ulrik learning here?' demanded Grumpa. ‘In a place with no mountains and a cave that's hardly got any stink?'

‘I've learned lots at school, Grumpa,' said Ulrik.

‘School? Bah!' scoffed Grumpa. ‘I never went to school.'

‘I like school,' said Ulrik. ‘Shall I say you my seven times table?'

‘What's the good of tables?' demanded Grumpa. ‘Are they teaching you how to roar?'

‘Dad gives me roaring lessons at home,' said Ulrik.

‘Show Grumpa,' urged Mr Troll. ‘Go on, Ulrik. Show him how you roar.'

Ulrik hesitated. He never did his best roars when he had an audience. Somehow it made him nervous and his throat dried up. However, his mum and dad were nodding at him eagerly and Grumpa was waiting. Ulrik clenched his fists and tromped up and down a few times, stamping his feet to gather himself. Taking a deep breath and pushing out his chest, he roared. ‘Graaaaargh!'

His parents clapped. ‘Lovely, Ulrik!' said Mrs Troll.

‘Pretty scaresome, eh?' said Mr Troll.

Grumpa just scowled and folded his arms. ‘Humph!' he said.

Later Ulrik lay in his parents' bed, trying to get to sleep. From across the landing he could hear the rumble of Grumpa's snores. Heavy footsteps came up the stairs. He closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. The door creaked open.

‘Look at him. Sleeping like a lambkins,' said Mrs Troll fondly.

‘Too much like a lambkins if you ask me,' grumbled his dad's voice.

‘Shhh!' said Mrs Troll. ‘He'll hear you!'

Mr Troll peeled off his vest and threw it on the floor. He lowered his voice. ‘Maybe Grumpa's right, it's our fault. Ulrik should be out tromping the forest with trolls of his own age.'

‘He likes going to school. He's made friends,' said Mrs Troll. She sat down on the edge of the bed, which sagged to one side.

‘I know,' said Mr Troll. ‘But he just isn't … trollish.'

‘His roar's improving,' said Mrs Troll.

‘You heard him tonight. Feeble as a frog-hopper!' said Mr Troll, climbing into the bed. Ulrik heard the springs beneath him groan in protest.

‘Stop worrying!' sighed Mrs Troll. ‘Ulrik will be fine.' Mr Troll grunted and rolled over. Before long both of them were snoring.

Ulrik lay awake, squashed between his parents in the hollow of the mattress, thinking over what he'd just heard. He tried hard to be more trollish, but somehow he always seemed to get it wrong. It was true he couldn't roar like his dad and he didn't have a temper like his grumpa. If only he could do something to prove his trollishness to his parents. If only he could bags a goat and bring it home for supper!

The next morning Ulrik sat at the breakfast table, helping himself to Coco Pops out of the packet. He had set out all the bowls ready and made sure that none of them were clean. His mum was busy in the kitchen while his dad didn't seem to be up. Grumpa came downstairs, already dressed in his goatskin coat.

‘Hello, Grumpa! Did you sleep well?' Ulrik asked. ‘You were snoring.'

‘Humph!' replied Grumpa. ‘Where's your hat?'

‘It's hanging up.'

‘Run and fetch it then. We're going hunting. You and me.'

‘Hunting? Uggsome!' said Ulrik.

When he returned his mum was spooning cold beans out of a can.

‘Grumpa's taking me hunting, Mum!' said Ulrik.

‘Hunting?' said Mrs Troll, alarmed. ‘When was this decided?'

‘I decided it just now,' said Grumpa.

‘But where are you going to hunt?'

‘In the forest,' replied Grumpa.

‘Which forest, Grumpa?' asked Ulrik.

His mum gave him a meaningful look.
‘You know,
Ulrik – the forest I was telling Grumpa about in my letters. The one where we always go.'

‘Oh,
that
forest,' said Ulrik, nodding his head slowly. Now he understood. Grumpa thought there was a forest nearby where you could hunt goats, but actually there wasn't. He tried to hide his disappointment. For a moment he had believed he was going on his first hunting trip.

‘Why don't you go tomorrow?' Mrs Troll suggested. ‘I think it's going to rain.'

‘Hogswoggle!' snorted Grumpa. ‘A tiddly spot of
rain won't hurt us. I've been hunting when the snow's up to my bellies.'

‘Yes, but you don't know the forest here,' said Mrs Troll. ‘You might get lost.'

‘I never get lost,' said Grumpa, buttoning his goatskin coat. ‘Are you ready, Ulrik?'

Ulrik straightened his hunting hat. ‘Ready.'

Mrs Troll stood in the doorway, blocking their
path. ‘At least wait for Egbert. You don't even know the way.'