Margaret McAllister

By the late white sun of a winter afternoon, three Viking warriors gazed across the sea. Tangled hair stuck out wildly from beneath their helmets. Behind them, on the cliff top, bitter black smoke filled the sky.

Were they gazing in triumph towards their homeland? No. Not these three. They were in disgrace.

The tallest, whose name was Torpid, was almost asleep. The others who were, in order of height, Vapid and Morbid, were wondering what would happen when the Viking leader caught up with him.

But to tell you how they came to be in trouble we have to go back to the early morning, when their longships were speeding across the sea.

In the prow of the leading ship stood their chief. His hair and beard were fair as a cornfield, his blue eyes were fierce, and his sword was in his hand. He was Harald Hairyhand. He was leading his men across the North Sea to ransack villages, take the animals, and carry great riches home to Norway.

At one time, men used to call him Harald Stubbylegs because he was the only Viking who had to stand on tiptoe to kiss his granny. But he had grown into a strong man and a powerful fighter, and the last man to call him 'Harald Stubbylegs' never spoke again. (Though some people thought that he was
saying 'sorry' as his severed head bounded across the ground.) Now he was the great Harald Hairyhand. From his yellow hair and beard to the toes of his enormous boots, (he wore very thick boots to make himself look taller), he was feared more than any other Viking - except one.

I was in a sunny corner of the playground before school, drawing cartoons. A good crowd had gathered round me to watch. I'd drawn my class teacher, Scary O'Leary, and Fungus the headteacher. Then I drew a nurse, because it was the day we were all getting our meningitis jabs.

We'd just moved house, and I'd started a new school. It wasn't very far from where we used to live - only about half an hour in the car - but it might as well have been another planet. Our old home had been near my
grandparents and the rest of my family, and my cousin Mark was my best friend. Moving wasn't easy.

Sometimes it's hard to fit in, when you go to a new place and the other kids have already made friends. I'm not brainy, but I'm good at cartoons. I'd sit and draw cartoons, and all the other kids would stand around saying, 'Do Fungus,' and 'Do Katie Melling in Year Four,' and all that.

So I drew this nurse wearing great thick glasses like bottle bottoms, and she's staggering along with a syringe the size of an elephant gun. I was just putting shaky lines around her hands when a loud, bossy voice said, 'let's see then.'

Danny MacDonald lived for football. He play it, watched it, talked and dreamed about it. It was his best lesson at school and his favourite game at break. At home he kicked a football around the garden, and at the park he got together with his friends for a kickabout.

You want to know if he was any good at football?

He wasn't brilliant, but he wasn't bad. Sometimes he was on the school under-twelves team, and sometimes he wasn't. When he was, he pretended he was playing for Lowgate United.

Danny had the Lowgate home strip and the away strip. He also had the scarf, the pyjamas, the duvet cover, the notebook, the socks, and four walls full of posters. His favourite poster, on his bedroom door, was a shot of Keith Connolly belting in a winner.

Keith Connolly was Lowgate's captain and their star striker. When he joined them, they shot into the Premier League. He could make stunning goals out of nothing. He could whack a ball into the net with his left foot from inside his own half...

....(all footballers have their weakness and Keith Connolly's is doughnuts. Danny has to rescue him from the Doughnut Dilemma...)