Trolls on Hols by Alan MacDonald

Going Vestless
    It was a hot, sunny day at the start of the summer. At Number 10 Mountain View the Trolls were out in their back garden. Mrs Troll lazed in a deckchair, leafing through a magazine while she cooled her hairy feet in a bowl of water. Her husband had stripped off his vest and stood knee-deep in a hole that he was digging with his bare hands. Every now and then showers of earth flew in all directions. Ulrik lolled on the grass, staring at the sky. It was only three days since he had broken up from school and he had nothing to do.
    â€˜Mum,’ he said.
    â€˜Yes, my ugglesome?’
    â€˜When are we going on holidays?’
    â€˜We
are
on holidays.’
    â€˜Yes, but I mean
real
holidays. Where you go somewhere.’
    Mr Troll paused to wipe away a drip of sweat that hung from his snout. ‘We could go to that stinksome hole under the high street, we haven’t been there for weeks.’
    Ulrik shook his head. ‘That’s a subway, Dad. I mean a proper holidays!’

    Mr Troll climbed out of his hole and wiped his hands on his gigantic belly. He looked at his wife in bemusement. ‘What the bogles is he talking about?’
    â€˜Ulrik’s right. It’s in my magazine,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘That’s what peeples do in summer – go on their holidays.’
    â€˜Well, where is it then?’ asked Mr Troll.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜This holidays you want to go on.’
    â€˜How should I know? I’ve never gone on it!’
    â€˜Warren says it’s the seasides,’ explained Ulrik. ‘You take a towel and you have to lie on it till you get really hot, then you tromp into the sea to cool down.’
    Mr Troll snorted. ‘Makes no sense. Why get all hot and blethered just so you can get cold again? Anyway, the sea is for fishes. Trolls don’t belong in the sea. Caves and forests – that’s where trolls live.’
    â€˜And houses,’ Ulrik pointed out. ‘We live in a house.’
    â€˜Yes, well, houses as well,’ agreed Mr Troll. ‘Caves and forests and houses.’
    â€˜But couldn’t we go on a holidays, Dad? We’ve never been!’
    Mrs Troll lifted her feet out of the bowl and waggled her toes.
    â€˜It might be nice, Eggy. Why don’t we?’
    â€˜But I’ve just started making a piddling pool!’ objected Mr Troll, pointing at the muddy hole he had dug.
    â€˜You can finish it when we come back.’
    â€˜Please, Dad!’ begged Ulrik. ‘Can we?’
    Mr Troll sighed and picked up his vest. It was covered in dirt but he didn’t mind since it was pretty filthy in the first place. ‘We’ll see,’ he said. He studied the cover of Mrs Troll’s magazine, which showed a sandy beach crowded with hundreds of people who seemed to be wearing only their pants.
    â€˜Hmm,’ he said. ‘So how do you get to this seasides?’
    Ulrik didn’t know, he’d never been to the sea. In fact, he’d never been much further than the high street. He’d been to Troll Mountain, of course – that’s where they used to live before they moved to Biddlesden – but there was no seaback home, only mountains, forests and grey mist. He didn’t know how far it was to the seasides. Could you walk there or did you have to catch a bus?
    Mrs Troll had been thinking. ‘What about that shop on the high street, Eggy? The Trouble Agents. I’m sure they do holidays.’
    Mr Troll looked puzzled. ‘You want to stay in a shop?’
    â€˜No,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘You ask the Trouble Agent and he finds you a holidays. It’s like the supermarket only without the cornflakes.’
    â€˜Oh,’ said Mr Troll. ‘Well, if you want we can try it tomorrow.’
    Next door Mrs Priddle stared out of her kitchen window while she chopped up carrots with more force than was strictly necessary.
    â€˜Look at him!’ she tutted.