There's a Viking in My Bed and Other Stories Page 3

  Siggy stared at the clean white tablecloths and napkins, the placemats and cutlery. Most odd, he thought. He picked up a table knife, ran his thumb down the blade and threw it to the floor. What a useless knife! You couldn't kill a grasshopper with something as puny as that.

  Zoe brought in some roast chicken and put it on the table. As she turned her back to fetch the vegetables and gravy, Sigurd seized a chicken leg and ate it in three seconds flat. He tore the meat off with his teeth and threw the bone over his shoulder. It disappeared half-way up the stairs, bounced off the banisters and hit Roger on the back of the head.

  ‘Ow! I wasn't doing nothing!’ muttered Roger, thinking his father had just clipped him round the ear.

  When Zoe returned with the gravy, Siggy took the gravy boat and began to drink straight from it, mistaking it for beer. He took two huge swigs. His eyes almost exploded, his cheeks swelled up and he spat the whole lot out over the tablecloth.

  ‘Siggy!’ Zoe cried. ‘What on earth did you do that for?’

  ‘Urgh, urgh,’ said Sigurd, drawing his sleeve across his mouth.

  The other guests watched with horror. Mrs Ambrose bent over her son and whispered in his ear. ‘Don't think you can behave like that, Roger. The man's a monster.’

  Zoe tried to put some Brussels sprouts and carrots on Sigurd's plate, but he swept the whole lot to the floor. He wanted meat – and lots of it. He pushed back his chair and went to all the other tables, seizing any chicken that was left and cramming it into his mouth.

  ‘Hey,’ cried Mr Ambrose. ‘That's my chicken!’ He tried to grab Sigurd's arm, but the Viking growled and fixed him with such a fierce stare that he meekly put his hands in his lap.

  ‘You're a coward, Herbert Ambrose,’ hissed his wife. ‘You've got to stand up to him. Ask him for your chicken back!’

  ‘But he's eaten it!’

  ‘Huh, any excuse! You're just a wimp. I always knew you were a wimp. You were a wimp when I married you and you're still a wimp.’

  Poor Mr Ambrose was bright red and slowly turning purple. ‘If I'm a wimp then you're a… you're a squidface!’ he blurted out – and seeing the look of shocked surprise on his wife's face, he went on. ‘You were a squidface when I married you and you're still a squidface.’

  Now he was laughing hysterically. His wife picked up her fork and jabbed at him.

  Zoe had already rushed back to the kitchen to fetch help, and her parents came hurrying into the dining room to sort things out. Siggy had just swiped the last of the chicken from the guests. The floor was littered with bones. Mr Ambrose was standing on a chair, shouting ‘Squidface!’ at the top of his voice; his wife was bombarding him with sprouts and carrots; Roger was hiding beneath the table, drinking boatfuls of gravy and seeing how far he could spurt them out again.

  Surprisingly, it was Mrs Tibblethwaite who came to the rescue. All this time she had been sitting in the far corner of the room, sternly watching everything. Now she rose to her feet and pushed back her chair.

  ‘This has gone on quite long enough,’ she announced. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.’ She marched across to Sigurd, grabbed him by the beard and led him back to his seat. Then she crossed to Mr Ambrose, yanked him from the chair and slapped his face, twice, pushing him into his place. She also slapped Mrs Ambrose across one cheek. Finally she reached under the table, hauled Roger out by the ear, gave it a good tweak and sat him down, too.

  This was followed by a shocked silence, during which four people clutched their faces and watched Mrs Tibblethwaite warily. She glared back at them, breathing heavily, hands on her hips.

  ‘I have never seen such behaviour at a dinner table in my life! Anyone would think this place was a zoo. Look at the state of this room. It must be cleared up at once, and you – all of you – are going to clean it!’

  Mrs Ambrose choked. ‘He started it,’ she blurted out, pointing at Sigurd.

  ‘That man is a Viking warrior,’ said Mrs Tibblethwaite. ‘How else do you expect him to behave? He doesn't know any better – but you do. Now start cleaning. Tim, fetch me Sigurd's sword!’

  Tim ran from the room and quickly returned with the mighty weapon. Mrs Tibblethwaite took it and stood over the Ambroses as they got to work with mop and bucket.

  ‘As soon as this is done, we're leaving!’ hissed Mr Ambrose. ‘This is the worst hotel we've ever stayed in. It's chaos and we're treated like slaves.’

  ‘Just work and don't backchat,’ warned Mrs Tibblethwaite, prodding him with Nosepicker.

  Mr and Mrs Ellis had slumped into chairs in the kitchen.

  ‘What are we going to do? That's three paying guests gone and one extra guest who squirts gravy everywhere. Oh Keith, we shall be ruined. We'll never have enough money to put things right!’

  Her husband's face was stony. It was all too true. The kitchen door swung open and Mrs Tibblethwaite strode in.

  ‘And what do you think you're doing, moping in here? Haven't you got a hotel to run? Come on, get on with it. People are still waiting for their lunch out there, and I don't suppose Sigurd has finished eating yet. You get some sausages cooking, while I sort out more vegetables. Come on, get cracking!’

  5

  Great Changes

  The next few days seemed to pass in a haze. So many things happened that the Ellises could hardly keep pace. First of all they had to cope with Mrs Tibblethwaite and Sigurd. It was impossible to say which one was worse. Mrs Tibblethwaite seemed to have changed from being a guest to becoming one of the hotel managers. She was everywhere – ordering people about, cleaning, polishing and cooking. And although she got on everyone's nerves, it had to be admitted that she was a great help. Mr and Mrs Ellis would probably have given up if it hadn't been for her.

  Siggy was like a giant, hairy child. His first ride in the car was remembered by most of Flotby. This was probably because he was so excited that he climbed out of the window and stood on the roof, waving Nosepicker and shouting to everyone, ‘Good morning, how do you do?’ (Zoe had taught him those words only the previous day, and he was still practising.

  Then there was the Viking's first bath. Zoe tried very hard to explain what he was meant to do. She ran a nice big hot bath. She showed him the soaps and shampoo. She acted out what bathing was all about. Then she pushed Siggy into the bathroom and shut the door. A few minutes later, she heard splashing and singing, and she happily went downstairs to report that all was well.

  Five minutes passed, and Siggy appeared in the lounge. He was dripping wet, but still had all his clothes on: he'd smeared them with soap and shampoo. Shiny, multicoloured bubbles slowly slid down his chest and legs and popped from his armpits. For some strange reason he'd stuck a bar of soap on to each helmet horn.

  ‘I don't think he understood me properly, Mum,’ Zoe murmured.

  Most spectacular of all was Sigurd's first attempt at helping out in the hotel. Mr and Mrs Ellis made him follow them round for a whole day, showing him what they had to do. He watched them vacuum. He picked up the pipe and put it to his face, only to have his beard sucked down it. Sigurd roared and ran off, dragging the vacuum cleaner behind him, until the plug was wrenched from the socket; the machine then stopped and the pipe released his beard.

  Sigurd watched all the dirty sheets and towels go into the washing machine. He sat amazed while they spun round and round. He examined them carefully when they came out and flashed a broad smile at Zoe.

  ‘Clean!’ he said, and nodded with delight.

  ‘He's learning ever so fast, Dad,’ said Zoe.

  ‘Good, he can do the washing up, then,’ said Mr Ellis snappily – for this was the job he hated most of all. Besides, he was in a bad mood, still brooding on the problems of running a hotel with hardly any guests and a lot of bills to be paid.

  The dirty dishes were piled up by the kitchen sink. Mr Ellis pointed at them. ‘Sigurd, you clean? Understand?’ Siggy came over to the sink. He picked up a dirty plate. Mr Ellis repeated his order. ‘You cle
an. Understand?’

  Sigurd gave a grin and nodded. ‘I clean. I understand. I clean plips.’

  ‘Not plips – plaps. No, I mean plates,’ said Mr Ellis wearily, and he went off to clear the tabletops.

  ‘I clean plaps,’ muttered Siggy to himself, looking round the kitchen. He gathered up an armful of dirty crockery, opened the washing machine and put it all inside.

  ‘Clean plaps very quick, easy peasy,’ said Sigurd as he switched the machine on. He pulled up a chair and sat down to watch.

  The machine filled with water. It began to rotate. The plates started to clatter against one another. Something broke. Something else cracked. The machine stopped. Siggy stared at it. He was about to open the door, when the things inside rotated the opposite way. There was a dreadful clatter and scrunch. An awful grinding noise came from the machine, along with the merry sound of tinkling glass and dozens of plates breaking into tiny pieces.

  Sigurd sprang to his feet. This was certainly not meant to happen. He shouted at the washing machine. ‘No, no! You clean, you clean plaps!’ He punched the controls helplessly and started the spin programme. Faster and faster whirled the crockery, while Sigurd tugged at his beard in anguish.

  Just as Mr Ellis came running to the kitchen to see what all the noise was, Siggy opened the machine door. Fragments of china came flying out at high speed, along with several gallons of soapy water. Mr Ellis screamed, raced to the power plug and switched off. The machine ground to a halt.

  Siggy stood up in a deep puddle, from which poked a hundred bits of broken plate, sticking out like the hulls of sinking ships. He bent down and picked up a fragment. He looked at it dolefully and said with some sadness, ‘Plaps gone small.’

  ‘I'll give you plaps, you overgrown hairy meatball!’ shouted Mr Ellis. ‘Look what you've done! Look!’ He seized a carving knife and began to advance on the Viking, who backed towards the door. ‘Get to your room at once and stay there! Don't you dare come out until I say so. Do you hear? Now MOVE!’

  Whether Siggy understood the words, or just reacted to the knife, it's hard to say, but he ran up the stairs four at a time and barricaded himself into Room Twelve.

  The episode with the washing machine was followed by a big conference within the Ellis family. Mr Ellis kept saying that Sigurd would have to go: they simply couldn't afford to keep him in the hotel, which was losing enough money already.

  Zoe and Tim were almost in tears, especially when their mother said she thought their father was right. ‘Too many things go wrong when Sigurd's around,’ she added.

  ‘But where will he go, Mum?’ Zoe sniffed. ‘You can't put him out on the street.’

  ‘No,’ snapped Mr Ellis. ‘But we can jolly well put him on a boat and send him back to Denmark.’

  Everyone stopped and stared at Mr Ellis. ‘Don't look at me like that,’ he said. ‘I'd like to know why not? That's where he came from. He rowed over here – he can bloomin' well row back. Come on!’

  A strange procession made its way down to the beach. Tim and Zoe tugged at their father, trying to get him to change his mind. Mrs Ellis kept repeating that it had to be done. Besides, Siggy would be so much happier at home in his own country. As for Siggy himself, he didn't know what all the shouting was about, and was much more interested in all the boats in the harbour. He pointed at them and said a lot in his own language.

  ‘See?’ said Mr Ellis. ‘He wants to go home.’ He fished a handful of money from his pocket and paid for the hire of a large rowing boat.

  ‘How long for, mate?’ asked the owner.

  ‘How long does it take to row to Denmark?’ muttered Mr Ellis darkly.

  ‘What's that?’

  ‘Just keep the change,’ snapped Mr Ellis. He pushed Sigurd into the boat and thrust the oars at him. ‘There. Denmark is that way,’ he said, pointing out across the open sea. ‘Start rowing!’

  Siggy nodded happily and grabbed the oars. This was wonderful. ‘Siggy go home. Hedeby! Goodbye, so long, how do you do!’ The boat slowly moved out through the first few waves. ‘I go. No more plaps. No more bathpoo.’

  ‘Shampoo,’ Zoe corrected tearfully. The rowing boat was now some distance away, and steadily getting smaller. Its path through the waves was a bit crazy, but it was moving out of sight.

  ‘Bye, Siggy,’ whispered Tim. Zoe reached down and held her brother's hand tightly.

  Mr Ellis watched grimly until the rowing boat was out of sight. Penny Ellis slipped an arm round his waist. ‘Do you think he'll be all right?’

  ‘Of course. He's a Viking – born to the sea. Those Vikings sailed to North America, right across the Atlantic Ocean. This time tomorrow, he'll be safe at home.’

  Mrs Ellis sighed. ‘You know, in a strange way, I shall miss him.’

  ‘I won't,’ grunted her husband, and they made their way back to the hotel.

  On their return, Mrs Tibblethwaite came hurrying down the front steps to meet them.

  ‘There you are! I am so glad you're back. Now, there's a family in the lounge. They want to know if you have any rooms vacant, as they wish to stay for two weeks. I must say, they seem very nice. And there are children, so Tim and Zoe will have people to play with. They're very excited and dying to meet Sigurd.’

  ‘Sigurd?’ repeated Mr Ellis. ‘What do you mean, dying to meet Sigurd?’

  ‘They saw him in Flotby, standing on a car roof and waving a sword. They seem to think it was some kind of advertising stunt. I told them he was a real Viking: they don't believe me, of course, but they will as soon as they meet him. Anyhow, the children are pestering their parents to let them stay at the hotel with the Viking, so here they are But where's Siggy? They won't wait much longer, you know.’

  Mr Ellis slumped into a chair and closed his eyes. He couldn't believe his bad luck. Surely this couldn't be happening to him? When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Tim and Zoe watching him, their faces full of accusation.

  He leaped to his feet and raced down to the beach. ‘Siggy!’ he yelled. ‘Come back! You can come back, Siggy – please!’ Mr Ellis stared out across the grey water to the endless horizon. There was nothing to be seen but waves and a few gulls circling slowly in the empty sky.

  6

  A Present from Thor

  How do you explain to four excited children and their parents that you have just got rid of a real Viking? Mr Ellis winced and began. ‘You see, we did have a real Viking. His name was Sigurd and he arrived from nowhere. We don't know how or why. Mrs Tibblethwaite found him in her bed. Then he hid in the cupboard, you see…’ his voice trailed away. The story sounded so unreal, he could hardly believe it himself. Mrs Ellis carried on.

  ‘He put the cups and saucers in the washing machine drank gravy by the boatful and stuck the soap on his helmet, so we put him in a rowing boat and now he's rowing back to Denmark.’

  ‘By himself?’ asked Mrs Tibblethwaite in surprise. ‘Really, Mr Ellis, I'm rather shocked.’

  ‘It wasn't an advertisement then?’ interrupted Mr Johnson.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He was a real Viking but we can't see him because he's rowing to Denmark?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you expect us to believe all that?’ Mr Johnson sat and grinned at them all. ‘Come on, you're joking, and it's a pretty good joke too.’

  Mrs Tibblethwaite grunted and drew herself upright. ‘It is no joke, Mr Johnson. I believe it because I know it is true, and I expect you to believe it too. I have been staying at this hotel for a week, and so has Sigurd. I know him very well.’

  Mrs Johnson stifled a giggle. ‘Oh I see – Mr Sigurd is your husband?’

  ‘Of course he isn't!’

  ‘But he was in your bed?’ Mr Johnson added.

  ‘Yes, I mean no – yes! Look, are you calling me a liar?’ demanded Mrs Tibblethwaite angrily.

  ‘No,’ replied Mr Johnson. ‘But you might be a nutcase. Surely you don't really think this character was a real Viking?’

&nb
sp; Mrs Tibblethwaite sat down in despair. Mr Ellis started to say that obviously nobody was likely to believe them. Perhaps it was best if the Johnsons left. After all, Sigurd had gone.

  He was half-way through this speech, when there was a heavy thudding and a clatter from the hallway. It sounded as if half an army had just broken down the front door and ridden into the hall. Zoe was about to go and investigate when the door burst open and Siggy squelched in. He was soaking wet and clutching a long piece of rope that trailed out of the room. Several bits of seaweed flapped about the horns of his helmet.

  ‘Siggy!’ cried Zoe, hugging him, even though he was wet.

  ‘Siggy, Siggy!’ Tim yelled, climbing up his dripping leg. ‘Yuk!’ he added and quickly let go.

  ‘It's the Viking!’ screamed all the children.

  ‘How do you do, good evening, it's a lovely yesterday,’ said Sigurd, beaming from ear to ear beneath his beard. ‘I go row Hedeby. I row and row, round and round. Boat go this way, boat go that way. Where am I? Only water, no land, can't see. I stand up to see better. One oar go away.’

  ‘What does he mean, “One oar go away”?’ asked Mrs Johnson.

  ‘He lost an oar,’ Zoe said quickly. ‘Go on, Siggy. Then what happened?’

  ‘I row and row, one oar, I go round in circle, only smaller. I stand up again…’

  Mr Ellis groaned. ‘Don't tell me, you lost the other oar.’

  Sigurd shook his head and drops of sea-water sprinkled from his beard. ‘No, I keep oar, but fall into sea, splishy-splashy. Climb into boat but boat fall over, slopsy-wopsy. Boat sink. I sink. Gurgle-gurgle.’

  ‘Good grief, who taught this idiot to speak?’ moaned Mr Ellis.

  ‘I swim. I reach land. I come here.’ Sigurd stopped and grinned madly at everyone. ‘I bring present. Present for Mr Ellis and Mrs Ellis.’