Goat Pie (8 page)

‘Don't just stand there!' said his wife at his shoulder. ‘Go down and shoo him away!'

‘Why me?' asked Mr Priddle. ‘Why don't you do the shooing for a change?'

‘I'm not dressed for it!' said Mrs Priddle. ‘I'm in my nightie!'

Warren poked his head round the bedroom door. ‘Dad! Guess what?' he said excitedly. ‘There's a goat in our garden!'

Mr Priddle opened the front door and padded nervously into the garden, wearing his dressing gown and slippers. Warren was watching him with interest from the kitchen window.

‘Hey!' said Mr Priddle. The goat's head appeared above one of the bushes. It had horns – small ones, but horns nevertheless. ‘Shoo!' said Mr Priddle, keeping his distance. ‘Shoo!'

He clapped his hands. The goat seemed to think this was an invitation to get to know each other better. It came trotting eagerly towards him.

‘No! I said shoo! GO AWAY!' said Mr Priddle, backing towards the door. The belt of his dressing gown was dangling loose and suddenly the goat
dipped its head and made a grab for it. It seized the belt in its mouth and began to pull.

‘Let go, you brute!' said Mr Priddle. It was either an undignified tug of war with a goat or abandon his dressing gown altogether. He hoped that none of the neighbours were watching.

‘Piddle!' boomed a familiar voice. ‘You found her!'

Two large hairy heads appeared above the front hedge. Mr Priddle groaned—he might have known the trolls were responsible for this.

‘Rosemary!' scolded Ulrik. ‘Naughty goats! I told you to stay in the garden.'

‘She's been eating my plants!' grumbled Mr Priddle. ‘Not to mention my dressing gown.'

‘Goatses eat anything,' nodded Mr Troll. ‘Grasses, berries, even dressing-gongs.'

‘I don't care what they eat. I want to know what's she doing in my garden!' said Mr Priddle.

‘She got out,' explained Mr Troll. ‘We tied her to the fence but she bited through the rope.'

‘But what's she doing here? Where on earth did you get a goat?'

Ulrik was about to explain about the farm, but Mr Troll hastily cut him off. ‘Oh, the post peeples brought her,' he said.

‘The postman?' said Mr Priddle. ‘The postman brought you a goat?'

‘Yes. She's a present,' said Mr Troll. Rosemary had spotted the holly wreath on the Priddles'
door and was now standing on her hind legs, trying to reach it.

‘Leave that alone!' said Mr Priddle sharply. ‘You can't keep a goat round here. You need a licence.'

‘Oh, we're not going to keep her,' said Mr Troll.

‘Aren't we?' said Ulrik.

‘No, no – goats is for eating. A young kid is tastesome, especially in a pie. We always have goat pie on Trollmas Day.'

Ulrik put his hands over Rosemary's ears. He thought his dad might at least keep his voice down. ‘Come on, Rosemary – let's find you some breakfast,' he said.

Mr Priddle watched them go, re-tying the soggy belt of his dressing gown. ‘And in future kindly keep her out of my garden!' he called after them.

Back home the Trolls discussed what to do while Rosemary trotted through the downstairs rooms in search of something else to eat. For a young kid she certainly seemed to have a healthy appetite.

‘Why can't she stay in the garden?' asked Ulrik. ‘She likes it there.'

‘That's no good,' said Mr Troll. ‘She'll only run
off again. And anyway, Grumpa is bound to see her. We don't want to spoil the surprise.' They had decided not to tell Grumpa about Rosemary yet. Mr Troll was looking forward to seeing his delighted face on Trollmas Day when he found that goat pie was on the menu.

Mrs Troll glanced over at Rosemary as she licked some dried bean juice off the wall.

‘I suppose we could just … you know …' she said.

‘What?' said Mr Troll.

Mrs Troll lowered her voice. ‘Cook her now.'

‘NO!' protested Ulrik.

‘She's only a goat, hairling,' said Mrs Troll. ‘She's got to be eaten!'

‘Can't we just keep her until Trollmas?' pleaded Ulrik.

‘But where, my ugglesome?' said Mrs Troll. ‘Where can we hide a goat?'

‘I know! The bathroom,' said Ulrik. ‘Grumpa never goes in there.'

‘That's true,' said Mr Troll. ‘He'd rather kiss a goblin than have a wash.'

‘Someone would have to feed her,' said Mrs Troll doubtfully.

‘I'll do it, Mum!' said Ulrik eagerly. ‘I'll go in every day.'

Mrs Troll considered. ‘Well, she could do with a bit of fattening up,' she said. ‘We don't want stringy goat in our pie!'

After supper that evening Ulrik slipped upstairs to the bathroom while no one was paying any attention. Under his jumper he had concealed a bowl of food. His parents and Grumpa were downstairs arguing in the kitchen.

Since his trip into town, Grumpa seemed more
ill-tempered than ever. He complained that the cave they lived in was too large and the rooms were too dry and stinkless. The streets were full of pasty-faced peeples and he kept asking when he was going to meet another troll. Most of the time he sulked in his room, appearing only for meals. Ulrik could tell Grumpa was getting on his parents' nerves, but at least it would be Trollmas soon and everyone would be happy.

He opened the bathroom door. Rosemary got to her feet, pleased to see him. Little bits of the shower curtain littered the floor. He brought out the food he'd carefully prepared. His dad had said goats ate everything, so he'd brought a bit of anything he could find. There was some cold baked bean, a carrot, some broken biscuits and a small mound of Coco Pops. As an afterthought, he'd sprinkled a handful of grass on top.

‘There we are, little kiddler,' he said, placing the bowl in the bath.

Rosemary sniffed the food and began to eat hungrily. In a couple of minutes the bowl had been licked clean and she was nosing into Ulrik's pockets.

‘Sorry, that's all I've got,' said Ulrik, patting her head. ‘Time for bed now.'

Rosemary's brown eyes blinked back at him. ‘Bed!' said Ulrik. ‘Sleepy-bogles.'

He climbed into the bath and lay down, closing his eyes to show what he meant. Rosemary bent over and licked his face with her rough warm tongue.

‘No, no!' giggled Ulrik. ‘You in bath—go sleepy-leepy.'

He picked Rosemary up and set her down, struggling, in the bath. The goat blinked at him puzzled. Ulrik had an idea. When he was small and he couldn't get to sleep his mum used to sing him an old trollaby
³
. He began to croon it softly now.

‘Sleep troggler grunting,
Daddy's gone a-hunting.
Gone to bags a goats's skin,
To wrap the tiny troggler in.'

Maybe he should have picked a song with better
words but the trollaby seemed to do the trick. Rosemary folded her legs under her and lay down in the bath to listen. Her brown eyes began to droop and her head nodded forward. Ulrik went on singing until she was asleep. The door opened and his dad looked in.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Shhh! Singing Rosemary to sleep,' whispered Ulrik.

Mr Troll closed the door behind him and looked at the goat dozing in the bath. ‘I wish you'd stop calling her Rosemary,' he said.

‘Why?' asked Ulrik.

‘Because she's a goat! Goatses don't have names.'

‘Why don't they?' persisted Ulrik.

‘Because they're for eating, Ulrik. You can't cook someone called Rosemary!'

‘Shhh! She'll hear you!'

He sat down on the side of the bath. Mr Troll could tell that something was bothering him.

‘Dad, how do you … you know … before you put them in the pie?'

‘Swizzle them?' said Mr Troll. ‘Well, some trolls use their bare hands but, myselves, I've always used a rock. A rock does a nice quick jobs. One bash on the head and –'

‘Dad!' Ulrik had covered his ears.

‘What?' said Mr Troll. ‘You've got to learn sometime. I was thinking you could help me.'

‘No!' Ulrik shook his head sullenly. ‘Anyway, why do we have to eat goat?'

‘Why?' Mr Troll couldn't believe his ears.
‘Because we're trolls! Trolls eat goatses.'

‘But there are lots of other things we could eat,' Ulrik argued.

‘Nothing as tastesome as goat pie. It's always been your favourite, ever since you were a little troggler.'

Ulrik shrugged. ‘I think I've changed my mind. From now on I'm going to be a veggy-tellyum.'

‘A veggy … what the bogles is that?' asked Mr Troll.

‘Alice Snorley, in my class, is one. It's when you don't eat meat.'

‘DON'T EAT MEAT??' This was too much for Mr Troll. He stormed out of the bathroom, clumped downstairs and burst out of the back door. His roar could be heard halfway down the road.

Mr Troll plodded along the road with his head down, dragging the giant tree by its roots. People coming the other way had to leap off the pavement in order to avoid being swept into the gutter, but Mr Troll hardly noticed because he was thinking about Ulrik.

Grumpa was right, he said to himself. It was his fault that Ulrik wasn't more trollish. It was hardly surprising. Instead of playing in a forest like any normal troll he had to go to a school and sit in a classroom saying his seven times tables all day. It
was bound to get him muddled. Now he was calling goats Rosemary and talking about turning into a veggy-smelly-thing.

It was terrible! Shameful! He never thought he'd see the day when a son of his refused to eat goat. If Grumpa ever found out he would go raving blunkers. ‘WON'T EAT GOAT?' he'd roar. ‘Is he a troll or a rabbit?' Grumpa had eaten his first goat as soon as he'd got his baby fangs. In any case, Mr Troll had given it a lot of thought and he'd decided that the truth was Ulrik was missing home. Homesickness did funny things to you—it got you muddled and your eyes started leaking.