Toffle Towers 1

  About the Book

  Meet Chegwin Toffle, a daydreamer who has just inherited a hotel. With nothing to lose, he and his parents pack their bags and set off, determined to save Toffle Towers.

  Chegwin soon discovers that running a hotel has its challenges – and disasters!

  But it’s nothing a bit of imagination can’t fix …

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  An Unexpected Letter

  Inside Chegwin’s Mind

  Questions and Answers

  Inheritance Accepted

  Shuttles, Contracts and Helicopters

  A Sterling Tour of Toffle Towers

  Barry and Larry

  The Shuttle Bus

  A Special Guest Arrives

  Uses for Sixty Thousand Litres of Milk

  Milkshakes, Garden Pots and Secrets

  Shopping in Alandale

  School Resumes

  Communication Breakdown

  The Right Wing

  Sneaky Adventures

  Going Local

  A Letter from the Bank

  The Grazing Room

  The Secret is Out

  Toffle Towers: The Great River Race

  Mr Bambuckle’s Remarkables Series

  About the Author

  About the Illustrator

  Books by Tim Harris

  Imprint

  Read more at Penguin Books Australia

  Chegwin Toffle’s curly blond hair was almost as wild as his imagination. His frizzy locks pointed in every direction imaginable, giving the impression he never combed his hair at all. This, in fact, was entirely untrue – he took great care to style it that way every morning.

  As a ten-year-old who loved to daydream, it would be fair to assume that Chegwin was like most other children his age. What set him apart, however, was the intensity of his thoughts. The entire world around him would fade away as a single idea took over. If he found himself wondering what it would be like to live inside a giant refrigerator, it would distract him from something as dangerous as an oncoming freight train. Which was happening now. But the freight train was his teacher.

  Mr Bridges stormed towards Chegwin, who was sitting in his usual seat at the back of the classroom. ‘Well, Toffle? What’s the answer to my question?’

  Chegwin was too busy imagining his bedroom in the vegetable crisper to notice the looming threat.

  ‘Toffle, answer my question immediately!’ Mr Bridges was close to throwing something at the boy. A pencil case, perhaps. Maybe a textbook. Or even better still – himself.

  ‘Toffle!’ The teacher slammed his chunky fists on Chegwin’s desk. ‘Pay attention!’

  The thud put an immediate end to the boy’s daydream. Which was a shame, thought Chegwin, because he was just about to arrange his dining room in the dairy compartment. This would have given him easy access to his favourite snack – raspberry yoghurt.

  ‘Are you listening?’ demanded the teacher. ‘I’ve been reading aloud from this textbook for the last hour. It’s important to know about the history of cardboard boxes. Fascinating stuff.’

  Mr Bridges was a plump man, whose high blood pressure had permanently turned his face the colour of grilled tomato. He was infamous for his short fuse, particularly when it came to students as apparently absent-minded as Chegwin.

  ‘Toffle, I’ve had it up to here with you,’ he spat. ‘All you do is stare out the window and imagine ridiculousness! You’re so far removed from the real world that you may as well be living in outer space. Dreamers like you never get anywhere in life. Grow a brain and pay attention for once!’

  This upset Chegwin terribly, because he was concentrating. Mr Bridges didn’t seem to appreciate the effort it took to build stairs between the egg tray and door shelf. Not to mention the difficulty of plumbing the bathroom in the meat keeper.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Bridges, sir, I –’

  ‘Be quiet! I haven’t finished berating you!’ Mr Bridges’ face scrunched up so much that he could have been mistaken for a bulldog, which had very nearly happened once in a restaurant when the waiter confused the angry teacher for a runaway pug.

  As Mr Bridge’s face grew redder and redder, Chegwin could feel himself shrinking in his chair. The eyes of his classmates – who were tired of him getting into trouble – bore holes in his skin.

  Mr Bridges stepped back and took a few quick breaths. Scolding his least favourite student had evidently puffed him out. ‘School is not for you,’ he said bluntly. ‘I don’t care if you turn up to class anymore. But if you do, I’m not going to waste my time trying to get through to you. You’re unteachable and you’ll never amount to anything.’

  The afternoon bell rang, saving Chegwin from more of his teacher’s onslaught. Though the pain didn’t end there. His frustrated classmates elbowed him as they spilled into the corridor.

  ‘Wake up, lazybones. Stop dreaming.’

  ‘You’re a waste of space, Chegwin. You always put Mr Bridges in a bad mood.’

  ‘Why can’t you pretend to listen like the rest of us?’

  ‘You’re nothing but a fantasist.’

  ‘Fantasist. Nice vocabulary, Ralph.’

  ‘Thanks, Sienna.’

  Chegwin was hurt by the comments and he walked home feeling glum that afternoon. No matter how hard he tried at school, he couldn’t seem to do anything right. The classroom was not for him.

  He was so wrapped up in misery that he almost forgot to pick a flower for his mother. He leaned over Mrs Flibbernut’s white picket fence and selected a purple tulip. At least flowers couldn’t give insults.

  Chegwin opened Mrs Flibbernut’s letterbox and slid some money inside. It was much more than the flower was worth, but he knew old Mrs Flibbernut was saving for a holiday. Her husband had passed away, and she needed a change of scene.

  While many people in the neighbourhood sympathised with Mrs Flibbernut’s situation, it was only the Toffles who took a practical approach to helping her. Chegwin’s father had increased his son’s pocket money, instructing him to think of a useful way to encourage the old lady. So, thinking outside the box as only he could, Chegwin had arranged to buy flowers from Mrs Flibbernut’s front yard and give them to his mother. That way, he could help Mrs Flibbernut save for her holiday and, at the same time, put Mrs Toffle in a good mood. His mother’s high spirits would no doubt rub off on his father, increasing the boy’s chances of another pocket money raise.

  This was how Chegwin’s mind operated. Beneath the blond curls and behind the chocolate-brown eyes worked the brain of a genius. Only nobody apart from Chegwin’s parents knew his true potential, because he was always drifting off in class.

  The knot in Chegwin’s stomach tightened as he remembered Mr Bridges’ crimson face. He had never meant to get in so much strife. He always tried hard to be polite and pay attention, but he simply couldn’t help it if a new idea popped into his head. Perhaps Mr Bridges was right. Dreamers like him were never destined to amount to anything.

  Chegwin’s mood changed when he arrived home. The front door was wide open – which it never was – and his parents sat on the edge of the sofa as though they were waiting for him. Judging by their faces, he couldn’t tell if someone had died, or if they had won the lottery. In the end, it turned out to be a bit of both.

  ‘Take a seat, son … whenever you’re ready …’ said Mr Toffle, tapping the sofa next to him. As a dreamer himself, he had learned the best way to get through to his son was by being patient. Chegwin had always appreciated this, so he gave his mother the tulip and sat down.

  ‘It’s a lovely flower, pumpkin,’ said Mrs Toffle sweetly. ‘It looks delicious.’

/>   ‘Huh?’ Chegwin’s mouth popped open like a goldfish. ‘Did you just say delicious?’

  Mrs Toffle quickly put down the tulip. ‘Of course not, muffin … Perhaps you imagined it.’

  She had him here. Sometimes the imaginative side of Chegwin’s brain was so excitable that the lines between reality and fantasy blurred. The logical side of his brain was forced to concede. ‘But I thought you said … never mind.’

  Mr Toffle picked at a loose thread on his T-shirt. It was a concert souvenir from one of the bands he managed – Screeching Green Lorikeets on Bicycles. ‘I’ll get straight to the point, son. Some important mail arrived for you today …’

  Suddenly Chegwin was imagining himself being delivered by letter. If the envelope was large enough – and with lots of soft padding – it could be quite a comfortable ride. It would also be a lot cheaper to post yourself to a holiday destination, rather than pay for a regular flight. There was a business idea in something like this. Maybe he could test it out on himself next school holidays by using an old mattress and –

  ‘Chegwin, honey, are you listening?’ said his mother. Her gentle tone brought him back. Though she never raised it, there was something about her soft voice that got through to her son more often than not.

  ‘As I was saying,’ said Mr Toffle patiently, ‘although this is an enormous decision, your mother and I think we should honour the letter and let you choose …’

  Chegwin spotted his afternoon tea on the kitchen bench: an apple and a muesli bar. He wondered what it would taste like if he ate them both at the same time. Probably quite nice. He’d have to cut the apple into tiny pieces and –

  ‘So what do you think, son?’ said Mr Toffle.

  Chegwin refocused. ‘What were you saying?’

  Mrs Toffle ran her hand through Chegwin’s blond hair. It was the same colour as hers, though much curlier. The twists came from his father’s side of the family. ‘Were you thinking about something else, cutie pie?’

  Chegwin nodded.

  ‘Now pay close attention,’ said Mr Toffle, who had almost drifted off himself brainstorming band names. He leaned over and gently held his son’s head between his hands. ‘Something important has happened. A letter arrived for you, and a big decision must be made … It’s taken your mother and me by surprise, but we trust you will make the right choice.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Chegwin, who was now not only focused but utterly intrigued.

  Mr Toffle blinked once, then delivered some news that would change his son’s life. ‘You just inherited a hotel.’

  ‘The news is certainly out of the blue,’ said Mr Toffle. ‘I expect you’ll have some questions.’

  ‘How many rooms does –’ Chegwin stopped himself. Despite the thoughts bubbling inside his head, he opted for a more systematic approach to his line of questioning. Logic had won out this time. ‘Who did I inherit the hotel from?’

  ‘It’s all here in the letter,’ said Mr Toffle. ‘Your mother and I received a duplicate copy, but you may want to open yours and read it for yourself.’

  Chegwin took the envelope from his father and tore it open.

  Chegwin stopped reading and looked at his parents. ‘Did you know I had a great-uncle?’

  Mrs Toffle shook her head. ‘This is as much a surprise to us as it is to you.’

  ‘There were rumours of a runaway in the family,’ said Chegwin’s father. ‘It appears your great-uncle Terrence may have just solved that mystery.’

  ‘But why did he leave the hotel to me?’ said Chegwin. ‘He’s never even met me. Why not you or Uncle Blackbeard? I’m the only Toffle child. Don’t inheritances usually go to the oldest surviving relative?’

  Mr Toffle shrugged his shoulders. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, son.’

  Chegwin turned back to the letter.

  Chegwin read the letter a second time. Then he read it a third time for good measure. He would have read it again, but he was beginning to think about other things like the apple and muesli bar on the kitchen bench. Plus, something in the letter was bothering him. ‘People could lose their jobs if I say no.’

  ‘Aaaaw.’ Mrs Toffle sighed. ‘You’re worried about the workers at Toffle Towers, aren’t you, my baby cucumber? They won’t have anywhere to work if you don’t go.’ Her voice was sugary and delicate. It was easy to see how she’d earned the nickname Lovely Lucy at high school – a name that had managed to stick well into her mid-thirties, as well as lend itself to the title of her stock trading company.

  A fire lit in Chegwin’s brown eyes. It was a different flame to the one that had been in Mr Bridges’ stare earlier that day. This fire burned with compassion. ‘Yes, the letter says the hotel will be sold and liquidated if I don’t take charge. I don’t want it turned into a drink.’

  ‘Liquidated doesn’t mean the hotel will turn into a drink,’ Mr Toffle explained. ‘It means it will be collapsed.’

  ‘Flat drinks are even worse!’ said Chegwin. ‘All I know is there wouldn’t be a hotel left to work in. I don’t want people to lose their jobs because of me.’

  A powerful silence followed Chegwin’s words. Dreamer or not, the boy’s thoughtfulness for others often left his parents speechless. Though this was something they were quite prepared for. Prior to Chegwin’s arrival home that afternoon, Mr and Mrs Toffle had had a lengthy heart-to-heart about the letter. They had guessed their son would feel this way.

  ‘Where is Alandale, anyway?’ asked Chegwin.

  ‘The other side of the country, dewdrop,’ said Mrs Toffle.

  Mr Toffle looked at his wife. She smiled and nodded, giving him permission to share what they had discussed earlier. ‘Chegwin, your mother and I want you to know something very important … I finally found the perfect electric guitar for those seventies sounds I’ve been trying to emulate. It comes with a wah-wah pedal and –’

  ‘Ahem,’ interrupted Mrs Toffle gently. ‘Perhaps you could tell him the other thing we talked about.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course. Bo-diddly-do-bop. Skeet-skettle-beep-beep!’

  ‘Now is not the time for one of your jazz songs, my love,’ said Mrs Toffle.

  ‘Yes, sorry, right you are,’ said Mr Toffle, who had been known to break into freestyle scatting without warning. He was often distracted by musical thoughts – no matter the genre. ‘Now, Chegwin, we want you to know something else too. Whether you choose to stay here or move to Alandale and manage the hotel, the decision is yours and we will support you either way. We are lucky enough to have jobs that allow us to work from home, so moving is not a problem at all. We’ll be behind whatever choice you make. I remember my own father once told me …’

  But Chegwin wasn’t listening. He was already planning how he would save those people’s jobs. That, and the best way to cut an apple into tiny pieces.

  And so, with the full support of his parents, Chegwin accepted the role of owner-manager at Toffle Towers. The inheritance would be transferred into his name upon the family’s arrival at Alandale.

  The Toffles decided to start packing at once. This meant wrapping things up quickly at Chegwin’s school. His final day there, however, was not a particularly pleasant occasion. Mr Bridges made sure of it.

  ‘Tuck in your shirt, Toffle!’ snapped the teacher. ‘We are about to embark on a three-hour study of brick density and you must be ready to focus.’

  Chegwin was wearing his favourite blue-striped, button-up shirt, which was not only untucked on one side, but fastened skewiff. You could learn a lot about someone by the way they reacted to your shirt, thought Chegwin. If a person’s left eye twitched at the sight of an extra buttonhole, he figured that person was the sort worth avoiding. If someone thought nothing of the way he dressed, well, that was the sort of person he’d like to be friends with.

  Not that Chegwin was very good at making friends. Truth be told, he had never really had any. As much as he tried to be nice at school, his peers preferred to keep their relationship distant. After all,
nobody wants to be seen with the teacher’s punching bag. Perception is a powerful thing.

  The only person at school that Chegwin had taken a liking to was old Mrs Flibbernut, who occasionally filled in for Mr Bridges when he was away at meat pie eating competitions. Mrs Flibbernut’s lessons were both theatrical and logical. Chegwin found it awfully difficult to drift off when she explained things such as the life cycle of a frog. Her leg kicks were quite believable, and once she even managed to catch a fly with her tongue. But best of all, she never mentioned anything about Chegwin’s shirt.

  Mr Bridges’ left eye was twitching now. ‘I’m glad you’re leaving, Toffle. We all are. This class will be brighter for your absence.’

  ‘Where’s he going, Mr Bridges?’ asked Ralph, preferring to address the teacher rather than Chegwin.

  ‘Alandale,’ said Mr Bridges. ‘I pity the people there as they’re about to inherit a dillydallying dreamer.’

  Fortunately, Chegwin didn’t hear that last comment. He had managed to distract himself by wondering what the life of an aardvark would be like if it could fly.

  Sienna raised her hand. ‘My cousin visited Alandale last year to watch the Great River Race.’

  ‘Soon they’ll have the Great River Nutcase,’ said Mr Bridges.

  This triggered a flurry of cruel remarks.

  ‘I wish you’d leave right now, Chegwin.’

  ‘School will be so much better without you.’

  ‘I hope you fall into the river.’

  ‘Don’t be mean … Rivers shouldn’t have to put up with ninnies like him.’