There's a Viking in My Bed and Other Stories Read online

  Jeremy Strong once worked in a bakery, putting the jam into three thousand doughnuts every night. Now he puts the jam in stories instead, which he finds much more exciting. At the age of three, he fell out of a first-floor bedroom window and landed on his head. His mother says that this damaged him for the rest of his life and refuses to take any responsibility. He loves writing stories because he says it is ‘the only time you alone have complete control and can make anything happen’. His ambition is to make you laugh (or at least snuffle). Jeremy Strong lives near Bath with his wife, Gillie, three cats and a flying cow.

  Books by Jeremy Strong

  THE BATTLE FOR CHRISTMAS

  THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG

  THE INDOOR PIRATES

  BEWARE! KILLER TOMATOES

  CHICKEN SCHOOL

  GIANT JIM AND THE HURRICANE

  KRAZY COW SAVES THE WORLD - WELL, ALMOST

  MY BROTHER'S FAMOUS BOTTOM

  MY BROTHER'S HOT CROSS BOTTOM

  THERE'S A PHARAOH IN OUR BATH!

  JEREMY STRONG'S

  LAUGH-YOUR-SOCKS-OFF JOKE BOOK

  This is Sigurd the Viking

  But how did he come to be in a small seaside town… in the twentieth century?

  Nobody knows, but one thing's for sure - life will never be the same again!

  Jeremy Strong

  Illustrated by John Levers

  PUFFIN

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  puffinbooks.com

  Text copyright © Jeremy Strong, 1990, 1992, 1997

  Illustrations copyright © John Levers, 1990, 1992, 1997

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-0-14-190893-9

  Contents

  There's a Viking in My Bed

  Viking in Trouble

  Viking at School

  There's a Viking in My Bed

  For Zoe and Tim – who else!

  1

  Crash Landing

  Through the mist came the creak of many oars. Now and then there was a splash. The grey mist swirled and slid over the flat, grey sea, but not a sign could be seen of the boats: only the steady slap of oars and a few low curses.

  Then a dark shadow moved within the mist, growing blacker as it came nearer, until the great wooden hulk of a Viking war-boat emerged, trailing wisps of fog along its sides. Twenty oars bit into the water, and forty Viking warriors strained over the heavy poles.

  ‘Never have I seen a fog like this,’ hissed the leader. He was a tall Dane, with a huge moustache and beard, fiery red. ‘There is something I do not like about it.’ He cast a glance at the lookout, standing up by the great dragon-head prow. ‘Is there no sign of the fleet? Where are the other boats?’

  The lookout sucked one finger and held it up, as if to judge the wind direction. He stared into the mist, took off his helmet and pulled out both ears like radar scanners. His ears were big and red. The Viking leader cursed.

  ‘Sigurd is an idiot. Why do we use a fool for a lookout?’ Beside him, Tostig laughed. ‘It's quite simple, Ulric. Sigurd can't row or cook. What else is there for him to do? You know what happened the last time he was at the oars. We ended up going round in a circle for almost an hour. And when he was cook, he boiled up all our best meat in a pot of seawater – urgh! At least he's safe up there.’

  Ulric Blacktooth spat. ‘Look at him, holding out his ears. What a fool!’ He shouted forward. ‘What can you see, Sigurd?’

  ‘There's a lot of mist about,’ answered the lookout. ‘No, no, wait, there's something else. I can see something else through the mist!’

  Ulric Blacktooth gripped the mast. Had they found the rest of the war-party at last? ‘What is it? What can you see?’

  ‘Wait a minute, the mist is clearing. Yes! I can see it quite clearly now.’

  ‘What is it, what is it?’ bellowed Ulric impatiently.

  ‘There's water below, Ulric. I can see water. It's – the sea!’

  Ulric Blacktooth shut his eyes and banged his head several times against the ship's mast. ‘Tostig,’ he hissed, ‘that man will be the death of us all. Why are we cursed with such a fool?’

  Tostig was snorting through his nose, a sure sign that he was losing his temper. Temper-losing was something that Tostig was very good at. He did it quite often – and practice makes perfect. Now he drew his sword, which he had named Heartsplitter, and strode forward. In a moment he was beside the lookout.

  ‘Sigurd, of course you can see the sea. We are on a boat. We are at sea.’ Tostig spoke as if he wanted each word to hit Sigurd like a hammer. ‘Now, Sigurd, if you wish to stay alive, do something useful! Get yourself up that dragon's head, sit on top and don't say a word until you see the English coast. Do you hear?’

  So saying, Tostig thrust his sword (the pointed end) very close to Sigurd's backside. Sigurd gave a jump and scuttled up the prow, until he was right on the dragon's head. From there he turned and looked back at Tostig. ‘I was only trying to help,’ he complained.

  Tostig grunted and returned to Ulric, while Sigurd sighed and tried very hard to see through all the mist that surrounded them. He was bored and tired. He had been on lookout duty for days. For some strange reason, nobody would let him row. Sigurd had always thought rowing was his best subject.

  The boat was part of a large Viking raiding fleet, headed for England. They had been at sea for seven days, and the mist had been with them for the last twenty-four hours. It was a creepy, evil mist, making everyone nervous and jumpy. Somehow they had become separated from the rest of the fleet. Now they were drifting, they knew not where.

  Sigurd strained his eyes to see through the swirling greyness. He pricked up his ears. What was that? Could he hear something? There was the splashing of the oars, but was there something else, perhaps the sound of breakers? Sigurd perched as far forward as possible, lying across the dragon's nose. He thought of shouting to Ulric and Tostig, but they'd only be cross.

  Sigurd stared and stared. The mist seemed even thicker. But the noise was louder now. It was breakers, surely? That could only mean one thing. They were close to land – maybe too close. Breakers meant a coastline, and that could mean rocks. He must tell Ulric. They were close to land
at last.

  ‘Ulric! Tostig! There's…’

  At that same moment there was a sickening crunch and the longship ran headlong on to low rocks. Sigurd was catapulted into the clammy English sea. The boat shuddered and stopped. Ulric picked himself up from the deck and shouted to the men.

  ‘Reverse, quick, hard astern, go back, turn about! Full speed backwards!’

  Twenty oars plunged into the sea, and the Vikings strained every muscle to move their boat off the rocks. Slowly the great wooden keel slid back. Slowly the sea caught hold of the longship and pulled her clear.

  ‘Back, back!’ Ulric bellowed, as the warboat gained speed. ‘Where's that idiot of a lookout?’

  Tostig glanced at the dragon's head. ‘Sorry to report, Ulric, I think he went overboard when we hit the rocks.’

  Ulric was about to shout, ‘Man overboard!’, but stopped himself just in time. Sigurd overboard? What a relief! Ulric smiled. ‘Full speed ahead, muffled oars,’ he commanded, and the longship slid silently away into the misty North Sea.

  Sigurd was not happy. The English sea was wet and cold. This was something he had always suspected, and he was disappointed to find it true. Why hadn't they gone to the South of France for a raid? The sea was warm and blue there. Why did they have come to grotty old Britain? He pulled a large piece of seaweed from beneath his helmet and waded ashore.

  Sigurd stood on the beach. Cold salt water ran out of his helmet and down his spine. It trickled down his legs and filled his boots. It was not a nice feeling. He walked forward a few steps, slipped on a dead jellyfish and fell flat on his back in a rock pool. A large crab took an angry swipe at one of his big red ears, then marched away.

  ‘Ow!’ Sigurd scrambled to his feet. ‘This isn't my lucky day,’ he muttered. ‘Well, there is only one thing to do. If the others are not here to raid a village, I shall just have to raid one by myself.’ He drew his trusty (and rusty) sword, which he had named Nosepicker, and set off across the beach.

  It did not take long to find the path up the cliffs. Indeed, Sigurd was surprised to find good steps cut into the rock face. He moved with all the stealth of a Viking raider, or so he thought. Here came the great warrior, eyes ablaze, sword drawn, soggy feet squelching in sodden boots!

  The mist did not make things easier. It still clung to almost everything, and there was little that Sigurd could see. At last he reached the top of the cliffs and he followed the well-worn path ahead. He felt there were buildings near-by before he actually saw them. The path became hard beneath his feet. It was made of something he had never seen before. Sigurd's heart beat faster.

  A cat ran yowling across his feet. Sigurd took a swipe with Nosepicker and almost chopped off his toes. Now he really could see houses. They were huge – much larger than he had expected. They had hard walls, and in the window spaces there was something he had never seen before. It was dark and shiny.

  Sigurd peered more closely and suddenly saw a fierce warrior glaring back at him. ‘Yargh!’ yelled Sigurd and thrust forward with Nosepicker. There was a shattering sound and the enemy had gone. Sigurd leaped backwards. What kind of magic was this?

  The mist was clearing all the time and Sigurd began to see such strange things. He could not even begin to describe them: there were no words in his language to do so. Things with wheels – yes, round wheels, but such small wheels, and certainly not made of wood. They were thick and black and had peculiar-shaped things on top.

  Suddenly, two bright eyes appeared. Huge white eyes, glaring at him from the mist. There was a strange clinking sound. The eyes started forward. They stopped. They started again, and were getting closer and closer. Sigurd drew back into the darkness of a doorway. His shoulder pressed against something small and round.

  ‘Bing-bong, bing-bong, bing-bong.’ Every time he moved, the same weird sound went off in his left ear.

  The bright eyes came closer still. A misty shape moved behind them, carrying something that clinked. The eyes whirred and moved away. Sigurd began to breathe more easily.

  ‘Bing-bong, bing-bong.’

  The door behind him began to open. Sigurd sprang to life and was off like a hare. He ran and ran, wherever the hard concrete paths took him. At one moment he saw those bright eyes again. They were moving much faster, coming straight at him and roaring angrily. Sigurd threw himself down a side path and one of those odd shapes on wheels rushed by. Sigurd stood there panting. He must find somewhere safe to hide.

  He staggered up the path, his heart pounding. Then all at once he stopped. Right in front of him was a big picture: a portrait of himself! There were the moustache and beard. There were the horned helmet and handsome nose. There was Nosepicker, held aloft. It was himself, no question.

  Sigurd the Viking smiled and nodded. There was some strange lettering underneath which did not make sense, but Sigurd didn't care. Surely this was his home? He would be safe here at the sign of The Viking. He grinned up at the picture, mounted the steps, opened the door and went inside.

  Outside, the Viking on the sign almost appeared to wink. The writing underneath said:

  2

  Double Booking

  By eight o'clock in the morning, the mist had quite cleared and few people even realised it had been there earlier. The summer sun was now warming the pavements, and the sign outside The Viking Hotel swung a little on squeaky hinges. The Viking warrior did not seem quite so splendid in full sunlight. It was easy to see that the paint was peeling in many places. In fact, the warrior looked rather the worse for wear, as did the rest of The Viking Hotel.

  Paint was flaking from the window frames. Plants were wilting in the flower troughs. Dust and litter had blown up against the corners of the walls and stayed there.

  Mr Ellis fetched a broom and sighed. It was the same every day. He didn't know where the dirt came from, but it kept coming. He had washed the front windows only two days ago, and already they were smeary. It was no wonder there were hardly any guests at the hotel. It was the height of the summer season: the place should be full to bursting, but out of twelve guest rooms, only three were booked.

  Mr Ellis swept the front steps clean and went back inside.

  ‘Are you children up yet?’ he called up the stairs. There was a distant reply of thumping feet. He went to help his wife get breakfast ready and lay the tables in the dining room.

  Suddenly the staircase was filled with thunder. It shook and rattled as if an entire North American buffalo herd had decided to migrate down it. Zoe and Tim appeared breathless at the kitchen door.

  ‘What's the matter, Mum?’ Zoe asked, wondering why her mother was standing so still and pale. Mrs Ellis blinked.

  ‘Oh, nothing. I just thought someone had fallen down the stairs. For a moment, just for a moment, I was seriously worried. I might have known it was you two getting up.’

  ‘What's for brekkers?’ asked Tim, grabbing a banana from one of the plates.

  ‘Put it back. That's for the Ambrose boy, and you know how fussy he is. I don't know why his parents let him get away with it. You can have breakfast when you've laid the tables.’

  Their father pointed to the dining room. ‘Don't forget the small glasses for fruit juice.’

  It did not take long to set the tables, with so few guests. As soon as they were finished, Zoe and Tim went back to the kitchen, where Mr Ellis was frying some eggs for them. He asked them what they were planning to do all day. Zoe looked across at Tim and shrugged.

  ‘There is some shopping that needs doing,’ suggested Mrs Ellis. ‘Don't forget we have a new guest arriving this morning – Mrs Tibblethwaite.’

  ‘Mrs what?’ squeaked Tim.

  ‘Tibblethwaite.’

  ‘Fiddleplate?’ Tim repeated, his small tongue struggling to go in three different directions at once.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ smiled Mrs Ellis, ‘you'd better get it right before she arrives. Try again – Tibblethwaite.’

  ‘Mrs Tiddlefate!’ Tim jumped up with delight. ‘There! I've got
it, I've got it – Mrs Piddlegate!’

  ‘Oh, Tim,’ sighed Zoe. ‘Come on, let's go and get the shopping.’

  Mrs Ellis gave her daughter a list and asked her to see if she could get some sense into Tim before the new guest arrived. Mr Ellis watched them set off and then turned to his wife.

  ‘I don't suppose he'll get it right. He's only five and it is a difficult name. Perhaps Mrs Tibblethwaite won't mind. Just think, we'll have four rooms booked!’

  ‘Is her room ready?’ asked Mrs Ellis.

  ‘I did it last night. Honestly Penny, I don't know what we're going to do. We'll be completely broke soon. Nobody comes because the place looks like a dump, so we never make enough money to do it up again. It's a trap.’

  Penny Ellis slipped her arms round her husband's waist and hugged him. ‘Don't worry. Something will turn up.’

  ‘You're right. Something has turned up – Mrs Tibblethwaite. And she's early. You finish off the breakfasts. I'll see to her.’

  The latest guest was standing on the front step, looking at the hotel sign with some suspicion. She was a short, rather heavily built lady, with a large hat and even larger suitcase.

  ‘Good morning,’ cried Mr Ellis, flashing his best smile. ‘You must be Mrs Tibblethwaite. You've arrived early.’

  ‘Good morning,’ replied the lady stonily. ‘I always arrive early. You must be The Viking Hotel.’

  ‘I'm Mr Ellis. Did you have a good journey?’

  ‘No. The train was late: somebody smoked in a no-smoking compartment so I pulled the alarm cord. The train stopped and I was fined fifty pounds because they said it wasn't an emergency. I told them it most certainly was an emergency if I was going to be forced to die of lung cancer. And then the taxi couldn't find this place at all.’