When they reached the theatre it was bustling with trolls preparing for the show. Rubella dumped Neville on the ground by the front door and stormed inside.
‘I’m goin’ to find Thicket,’ she barked over her shoulder. ‘Go and make yourself useful, worm.’
Neville wriggled to his feet and dusted himself off. He felt sick with nerves – and from being squeezed like a humansized accordion. What was he going to do? He closed his eyes and thought of Captain Brilliant.
‘Eww.’
Neville opened his eyes again with a start.
‘Eww, it’s you.’ Gruntilda came out through the front doors wearing an unfinished ballgown made from bed sheets. ‘I remember that ’orrible face. You’re the overling that lives with the … Bulches.’ She said ‘Bulches’ like it was a rude word.
‘I’m Neville,’ said Neville. He puffed up his chest and tried to look brave.
‘You’re so ugly,’ Gruntilda sneered, poking Neville with her skinny finger to check that he was real. ‘Even uglier than that sister of yours.’
‘No, I’m not … BUT YOU ARE!’ retorted Neville bravely.
‘I’M NOT! I CAN’T BE UGLY! I’M THE GRUMPTIOUS STEPSISTER!’ Gruntilda shouted. ‘YOU’RE A BULCH … DISGUSTIN’! YOU CAN’T BE IN MY MOOMA’S PAN-TROLL-MIME. YOU’LL RUIN IT!’
‘Pardon?’ Neville said. Had he heard correctly?
‘EVERYONE WILL BE BLURTY IF THEY WATCH YOU ONSTAGE. I’M GOIN’ TO TELL MY MOOMSIE AND SHE WON’T LET YOU BE IN THE PAN-TROLL-MIME.’
Neville almost burst out laughing with joy. He didn’t care if that stupid bundle of bones thought he was ugly.
‘Oh, please let me be in the show,’ Neville lied. He clasped his hands together to make it look really convincing. ‘I really want to be in it … I just have to be … it’ll make me SOOOOO happy. I’ll die if I don’t get to perform.’
‘NO!’ Gruntilda said with spiteful glee. ‘You’ll never be in it now.’
She grabbed hold of Neville’s hand and pulled him towards the doors of the theatre.
‘You’re goin’ to regret this, you ugly, winky overling,’ Gruntilda hissed, completely unaware that Neville was grinning behind her. ‘Now, come with me.’
Neville followed Gruntilda into the theatre and gasped when he saw the commotion.
There were trolls everywhere. Some were clambering over high scaffolding, hanging extra milk-bottle lanterns, while others were painting huge cloths. One scene showed a strange, exotic landscape made from junk, and another was of the ballroom of a faraway troll-castle.
The troll-band was practising in the priddling pit and Mucus was on the stage with a team of very cumbersome, tutu-ed ballerinas, clapping out a rhythm as they twirled and jumped noisily.
‘One, two, three, four, bad toes, pointy toes!’ he shouted. ‘One, two, three … Nettle! Get those legs higher or you’re not in the show!’
The young troll named Nettle nodded enthusiastically and kicked her leg as high as it would go. Her overstretched tights ripped loudly and echoed round the theatre. Neville smiled to himself as the other trolls fell about laughing and Mucus stormed offstage, fluttering his grey-green hands and wailing, ‘I CAN’T WORK WITH THESE AMATROLLS!’
Neville suddenly felt a tingle of excitement – if he didn’t have to be onstage, a pan-troll-mime might be fun to watch!
Meanwhile, a pack of hefty troll-men in black rolled an enormous coach made from hundreds of hammered-together bits of clock on to the stage and positioned it in a pool of light.
‘That’s the coach Rubella is going to turn into,’ said Neville. ‘She’s the turnip.’
‘Ha!’ Gruntilda scoffed as she pulled him up the steps and on to the stage. ‘Don’t mention that name to me … Moomsie said she got the lowest score of every troll that auditioned.’
Neville grimaced to himself and hoped Rubella wouldn’t find out. She’d be crushed and would probably crush him in return if she did. ‘She wasn’t that bad,’ he said loyally.
‘BAD?’ Gruntilda laughed. ‘Moomsie said she was disgusterous.’
Neville stuck his tongue out at Gruntilda’s back.
‘Moomsie?’ Gruntilda said as they approached Abominatia. ‘Moomsie?’
Abominatia wasn’t listening. She stood there, gnarled hands on hips, shouting at something near the ceiling.
‘DAINTY, GRISTLE,’ she yelled. ‘You’ve got to be more dainty or my show will be ruined.’
Neville looked up just in time to dive out of the way as Gristle Pilchard whizzed past, dangling on the end of a long rope. She was wearing a sparkly dress, covered in milk-bottle tops, and had little wings made from stained paper plates on her back.
‘LIKE THIS?’ Gristle shouted, flapping her arms up and down like a bird. In one hand she held a magic wand made from a broom handle, with a cardboard star on the top, and she thrashed her walking stick back and forth with the other.
‘I really don’t think you need your walkin’ stick, Gristle,’ Abominatia shouted as the old fairy swung back the other way.
‘I CAN’T WALK WITHOUT IT, DEARY!’
‘YOU DON’T NEED TO WALK, YOU’RE IN THE AIR!’ Abominatia’s flytrap hair started twitching with frustration.
‘Erm … Moomsie,’ Gruntilda mumbled nervously.
‘WHAT?’ Abominatia glared at her daughter and pouted.
‘Well,’ Gruntilda said, ducking as Gristle Pilchard came back for another swing. ‘I was just telling this … thing –’
‘I’m Neville,’ Neville interrupted.
‘Ugh!’ Abominatia jolted when she saw him as if he was a nasty surprise. ‘You’re ugly.’ She leaned in for a closer look.
‘I’m not ugly, I’m an overling,’ Neville snapped.
‘I was just tellin’ Neville that Rubella Bulch was absolunkly gripeous at the auditions … wasn’t she.’ Abominatia clutched her throat as if she was about to be sick.
‘I can’t chattywag about it now,’ she said, tossing her shoulder ivy. ‘The memory of it is too upsetly.’ ‘Anyway,’ said Gruntilda, sidling wickedly next to her mooma and leering at Neville. ‘He called me ugly and I don’t want him in the show.’
‘YOU CALLED MY DAUGHTER WHAT?’
‘I called her really, really ugly,’ Neville said with his fingers crossed behind his back. ‘But I also really want to perform.’
‘NEVER!’ Abominatia yelled. ‘You will never be in the show.’
Inside, Neville felt like bursting into happy tears. Now it didn’t matter what Rubella said, he couldn’t be in the pan-troll-mime no matter what. He felt so squibbly he could –
‘We’ll find him another job to do instead,’ said Abominatia.
Neville’s heart jumped up into his throat.
‘What?’
‘It’s all grabbers on deck,’ Abominatia said, flourishing her twiggy arms. ‘We’ll find you another job.’ She called to one of the hefty trolls fixing a wheel on the coach and he plodded over immediately, nodding happily.
‘What seems to be the troublin’, Miss Bunt?’
Abominatia pointed at Neville. ‘This thing –’
‘MY NAME IS NEVILLE.’
‘Neville,’ said Abominatia, gesturing at the other troll, ‘this is Dunk … He’s in charge of all the technicky-ratchety-doo-dah stuff.’
Neville smiled nervously. The troll had tools and contraptions all over him. There were old rusty spanners and hammers sticking out of every pocket and belt loop. He even had a full set of pliers and hundreds of nuts and bolts knotted up in his grassy hair.
‘Dunk, we need to find a job for Neville,’ Abominatia ordered. ‘He called my daughter ugly, so make it a toughly one.’
‘Hmmm!’ Dunk looked at Neville as if he was the bravest thing he’d ever seen. ‘Well … um …’ Dunk scratched his tool-covered head and thought for a moment. Neville’s knees started to tremble.
‘Well … the hinkapoot trainer needs some help gettin’ ’em ready,’ the troll said. ‘They can be a winky bit tricksy.’
‘Perfect,’ Abominatia cooed. ‘You, Neville, will help our hinkapoots to look razzly and showish.’
‘What’s a hinkapoot?’ asked Neville, his mind filling with dread.
‘The overling is a nogginknocker,’ Abominatia huffed. ‘Every pan-troll-mime always has a team of teensy hinkapoots doin’ tricks. It wouldn’t be complete without them.’
‘Oh,’ said Neville. He thought about it for a moment. Maybe playing with hinkapoots would be fun. It had to be better than going onstage. ‘I’m quite good at looking after my dog, Napoleon.’
‘A dog?’ Gruntilda blurted.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Abominatia gasped. ‘Hinkapoots are nothin’ like dogs. Now wiffle off and help out … there isn’t much time and everythin’ has to be perfect.’
‘How long have I got?’ Neville asked.
‘This is pan-troll-mime,’ Abominatia proclaimed, looking dramatically at the ceiling. ‘With my artsy vision, we don’t waste our time with rehearsals … WE OPEN TONIGHT WHEN THE TICKER-DINGER-THINGER GOES BONG!’
Neville’s jaw dropped open. Tonight? The show would be a complete shambles.
‘Full cast meetin’ as soon as they’ve fixed the blunkin’ coach wheels. Now off you go!’
Dunk placed a hand on Neville’s shoulder and turned to lead him away.
‘And, Neville …’ Abominatia said in a raspy whisper. She slunk over, grabbed Neville by the collar of his pyjamas and pulled him in close. ‘I’ve got my peepers on you.’
