Goat Pie (5 page)

Luckily Mr Troll came downstairs at that moment and Mrs Troll explained – with a great deal of eye-rolling – that Grumpa wanted to take Ulrik hunting in the forest.

‘The forest?' said Mr Troll, puzzled. ‘Which forest?'

Ulrik could see they were going to have to go through the whole business all over again.

‘You know, Dad, the one where we
always
go hunting.'

Mr Troll looked blank.

‘The one I told Grumpa about in my letters, Eggy,' said Mrs Troll, attempting to wink and roll her eyes at the same time.

‘Oh,
that
forest!' said Mr Troll, finally remembering. ‘But they can't go there. Haven't you told him yet?'

It was Mrs Troll's turn to look blank. ‘Told him what?'

‘About the goblins!'

‘Goblins?' said Grumpa. ‘What are you blethering about?'

‘Goblins as big as bears,' said Mr Troll.

‘Yes! Terrible, scaresome goblins,' said Mrs Troll, catching on. ‘They live underground.'

‘They jump out and bite your toeses and won't let go.'

Grumpa stared at them both. ‘I've never heard such a pile of cow-patties,' he said. ‘Come on, Ulrik, we're going.' He opened the front door and strode down the path, with Ulrik trying to keep up. Mr and Mrs Troll exchanged worried looks and hurried after them.

At the gate Grumpa halted and looked left and right. ‘Which way?' he demanded.

Mr Troll hesitated. ‘Um … well, that depends …'

‘Which way to the forest? It's a simple question!'

‘Not really …'

Like most trolls Grumpa had very little patience – he had been scowling and grinding his fangs for some time, which was a sure sign that his temper was about to explode.

‘Oh, for UGGNESS' SAKE!' he roared. ‘I'll ask in here – maybe they talk some sense!'

With that he turned into the Priddles' driveway
and to the Trolls' horror marched up to the front door. Ulrik glanced back and saw his mum and dad, signalling to him frantically to do something. But what could he do? Grumpa was already hammering on the door with his fist.

Ulrik wondered how his mum and dad were going to explain this. The whole thing was getting very complicated. First Grumpa wanted to take him to an imaginary forest, now he wanted to meet the trolls next door who were actually peeples. Ulrik felt his mum should have thought of this when she was writing all those fibwoppers.

As luck would have it, no one answered the door.

‘I think they're out, Grumpa,' said Ulrik.

Grumpa puzzled over the holly wreath on the front door which said ‘Merry Christmas!'

‘What's down there?' He pointed at the gravel path leading to the side gate.

‘Oh, that goes to the back but we can't go in there, Grumpa …'

Too late. Grumpa had bulldozed through the gate and disappeared.

The back garden was empty and there was no sign of the Priddles when they peered through the French windows. Ulrik caught sight of a head peering at him over the garden fence. It was making some complicated hand signals, but he had no idea what they were supposed to mean.

‘Maybe we should go, Grumpa,' he said anxiously.

‘Hogswoggle!' replied Grumpa. ‘They're trolls. They won't mind if we make ourselves at home.'

Grumpa rattled the back door. It was locked but that didn't stop him. He took a run at it and butted it with his head. There was a splintering of wood as the bolt buckled and the door gave way, falling inwards. They left it hanging by one hinge as they walked into the kitchen.

Grumpa stared at the rows of neat cupboards and the spotless cooker. He continued into the lounge, where he gaped at the cream-coloured carpet, the leather sofa and the TV in the corner.

‘What kind of trolls are they?' he asked in disgust. ‘It's clean! It smells sweet as buttercups!'

‘Maybe they haven't dirtied it for a while,' said Ulrik. ‘Come on, Grumpa – let's go!' He tugged at the sleeve of his coat. If the Priddles came back now and discovered them in the house, there would be all kinds of trouble.

Grumpa shook his head stubbornly. ‘We'll go hunting later,' he said. ‘First I want to meet these trolls. Someone needs to speak to them. They're living like peeples. It's disgustive!'

The Priddles' car turned into the drive and parked in front of the garage. Poking out of the boot was the Christmas tree they'd bought from the garden centre.

‘Can we put it up now, Mum?' asked Warren excitedly.

‘Of course we can, darling,' said Mrs Priddle. ‘Help your dad to carry it through to the back.'

As they were dragging the tree out of the boot, Mr and Mrs Troll came rushing out of their house. They had seen the Priddles' car pull into the drive and were anxious to head them off.

‘Piddle!' said Mr Troll.

‘Can't stop – got to get this tree put up,' said Mr Priddle.

‘Don't do it now,' said Mr Troll. ‘Come round. Have some pots of tea.'

‘No thanks!' said Mr Priddle, heading for the gate. ‘We've had one.'

‘Breakfast then!' said Mrs Troll. ‘I've got eggs and jam.'

‘Another time,' said Mrs Priddle. They disappeared through the side gate, leaving the Trolls looking after them helplessly.

Warren helped his dad carry the tree to the back door, where they halted unexpectedly. ‘Ow!' cried Warren, getting tangled up with the rear end.

‘Where's the back door?' asked Mr Priddle. He stared at the gap where the door used to be.

‘Didn't you lock it when we went out?' asked Mrs Priddle.

‘Of course I locked it! Look! Someone's broken it down!'

‘Shhh!' Mrs Priddle held up a hand for silence. ‘I can hear someone. They're inside!'

‘Burglars!' gasped Warren.

Mrs Priddle clutched at her husband's arm. ‘They're in the house! Call the police, Roger!'

Mr Priddle checked his pockets. ‘I left my phone upstairs,' he groaned.

‘What's it doing up there?'

‘I don't know! I wasn't expecting to be burgled today!'

‘See?' said Warren triumphantly. ‘If I had a mobile phone,
I
could phone the police!'

‘Be quiet, Warren!' hissed Mrs Priddle. ‘What are we going to do? They're in there now stealing our things. My jewellery, Roger. The TV's brand new. And all the presents are on top of the wardrobe!'

‘Are they?' said Warren, who had been trying to find them for some time.

‘You'll just have to scare them off,' Mrs Priddle continued.

‘Me?' said Mr Priddle. ‘What if they're dangerous? They might be thugs! Criminals!'

‘Of course they're criminals – they're burgling our house!' said Mrs Priddle. ‘Make a lot of noise – that's what they say you should do.'

‘Do they?' said Mr Priddle nervously. ‘Don't they say you should wait for the police?'

‘Roger! They're in our house! Are you just going to stand there and let them get away?'

Mr Priddle could see his wife was working herself into a temper. He wasn't sure if he would rather face her or the burglars. Screwing up his courage, he gripped the only weapon he had – the bushy green Christmas tree. It wasn't much but it would certainly give them a scratch or two.

‘When I count to three, shout and make a racket,' he said.

‘Can I shout “bogeys”?' asked Warren.

‘Certainly not!' said Mrs Priddle.

‘Shout anything! Just make it loud!' said Mr Priddle. He decided he was better holding the base of the Christmas tree – that way the burglars would get the pointy end. He took a deep breath. This was probably the bravest thing he'd ever done in his life – or the stupidest. ‘I'm starting to count,' he said. ‘One … two … three!'

‘Arghhhh!' screamed Mrs Priddle.

‘BOGEYS!' hollered Warren.

‘Raaaaarrrrr!' roared Mr Priddle, charging in through the kitchen and shedding pine needles in all directions. He burst in through the lounge
door and found he was running so fast that it was impossible to stop.

There was a loud BANG! followed by a shattering of glass as the point of the Christmas tree embedded itself in the screen of the new television.

Ulrik had leapt to his feet. So had Grumpa, who was roaring partly from fright and partly because trolls never miss a chance to roar.

Mr Priddle looked round slowly and saw a large elderly troll staring at him. He was dressed in a filthy coat and standing on their sofa.

‘Who … who are you?' asked Mr Priddle.

‘Never mind that,' growled Grumpa. ‘Who the bogles are you?'

Ulrik looked from one face to the other. He could see this was going to take quite a bit of explaining.

Mr Troll had been trying to clamber over the back fence when he heard the bang from inside the house. He had hoped he could get Grumpa out before things got awkward, but the bang and the shouting told him he was too late.

When he and Mrs Troll finally went round to ring the doorbell it was answered by a very cross-looking Mrs Priddle. She had a good mind, she said, to report the whole matter to the police. If they couldn't control their elderly
relatives, they ought to be kept indoors.

What did Grumpa think he was doing breaking into houses and stealing food from the fridge? (The remains of three chicken drumsticks had been found on the carpet.) The back door was hanging off and the new TV they'd bought for Christmas had shattered in a million pieces. (Mr Priddle pointed out he was partly to blame for the TV, but Mrs Priddle shouted at him not to interrupt.)

‘And that isn't the worst of it,' she concluded. ‘Do you know what he called me?'

‘What?' sighed Mrs Troll.

‘A pasty-faced peeples!' said Mrs Priddle. ‘I've never been so insulted in my whole life.'

Mr Troll found this hard to believe – he could certainly think of some much better insults.

Once everyone had calmed down, the Trolls promised they would pay for the damage and returned to their own house. They sat at the breakfast table, trying to decide what to do. In all the confusion, Grumpa had disappeared.