Toffle Towers 1 Read online

  ‘Nice one, Justin.’

  ‘Thanks, Ruby.’

  Chegwin tuned back in and caught the last of the comments. A sick feeling churned in his stomach – as it often did when he was being made fun of – and he mumbled an apology to no one in particular. Why was everyone so mean to him when he drifted off in thought? He wished more people were patient like his parents.

  If Chegwin had not been required to collect his ‘Referral and Recommendations’ report from school, he would have chosen to stay home and keep packing for Alandale. But as it stood, he had to endure one last day of insults.

  Just before the final bell, Mr Bridges’ flabby fingers dropped a piece of paper on Chegwin’s desk. ‘I think you’ll find this is a fair summary of your learning here with us.’

  Chegwin scanned the report.

  The bell rang and everyone hooted and cheered – not in celebration of the end of the day, but in recognition that Chegwin was leaving for good.

  Chegwin cleared out his desk – much to the delight of Mr Bridges, who had pulled up a seat to watch and was eating popcorn – and put on his backpack. He waved goodbye and left school for the last time.

  The walk home was strangely uplifting for Chegwin. It signalled the beginning of something new. Something unexpected. He was about to take charge of a grand hotel and it was the most important thing he’d ever had to do. There were people working at Toffle Towers who were relying on him to keep it running.

  His parents had discussed the importance of finding him a new school once they arrived in Alandale. Being a remote tourist town, he would likely have to travel some distance by bus. This intrigued Chegwin. Where would he have to commute to? What would his new teacher be like? How would he juggle homework and managing a hotel? And most importantly, would he be able to make any friends?

  Although feeling positive about the change, Chegwin sighed. The logical side of his brain told him that a new location would not likely change his experience of school.

  The sight of Mrs Flibbernut’s white picket fence suddenly gave him an idea.

  Chegwin stopped and selected a marigold for his mother. Then he retrieved some blank paper and a pencil from his backpack and wrote Mrs Flibbernut a letter. When he was finished, he slipped the note and some money for the flower into the old lady’s letterbox. He had just made his first decision as manager of Toffle Towers.

  Feeling on top of the world, the rest of the walk home was the stuff dreams were made of. Literally. Knowing that in a matter of days he would be saving jobs in Alandale – and far away from Mr Bridges to boot – Chegwin set loose the imaginative side of his brain. He wondered what other strange things people might inherit.

  Chegwin’s first impression of Toffle Towers came in the form of the hotel’s scruffy caretaker, Barry Rake. The unshaven, khaki-clad handyman had been sent to collect Chegwin and his parents from the bus terminal at Alandale, where they had arrived after an overnight coach trip.

  ‘Hop in,’ said Barry, leaning out through the window of a beaten-up shuttle bus. ‘That lawyer lady is expecting you in the lobby.’ He pointed to the boot, which Mr Toffle, wearing another of his band’s T-shirts (this one from Dunked Skunks and the Punkheads), loaded everyone’s bags into.

  The family had brought with them just enough luggage – two suitcases each – to settle into the hotel. The rest of their belongings would be held in storage and shipped over in small amounts as needed.

  ‘OFFLE TO E S’ was scrawled in peeling brown paint across the dented body of the shuttle bus, which clearly required maintenance. Chegwin began to wonder what he had gotten himself into.

  Those thoughts were soon washed away as the bus rattled along the main street of Alandale towards the river. Chegwin peered excitedly through the window at the row of shops – a specialist butcher, a pastry and dessert bar, a supermarket, a greengrocer, a delicatessen, two cafes, several boutique craft shops and a florist. Tourists spilled in and out of the doors, taking happy snaps and enjoying their purchases.

  Alandale’s crown jewel – the Gladberry River – sparkled gloriously at the end of the road.

  ‘Flamin’ oil needs replacing,’ grunted Barry as he changed gears, steering the bus right. ‘Never turn left at the river,’ he added. ‘Left takes you to that blasted Braxton Hotel.’

  Chegwin was completely wrapped up in the beauty of the river. Even from the bus, he could see how crystal clear the water was. Grassy slopes – dotted with picnickers – rolled from the road down to the riverbank. It was not the sort of place one would dare skinny-dip. The backdrop was picturesque snow-capped mountains that stretched out in either direction. Bike riders, skaters and walkers made their way along a wooden boardwalk that shadowed the river for miles.

  ‘I’ve been reading up on Alandale,’ said Mr Toffle. ‘Such is the town’s photogenic quality, it holds the world record for the most postcards sent in a month.’

  Chegwin could see why. But his father’s comment got him thinking about something else – the speed of mail delivery.

  He had once sent himself a postcard from the corner shop to see how long it would take to arrive at his house. It took three days, four hours and thirty-two minutes, which he thought was far too long considering it was a six-minute walk from the corner shop to his letterbox.

  The bus followed the river a short distance, then skidded to a halt at the base of a steep pebbled driveway.

  ‘Everybody out,’ ordered Barry. ‘We have to walk the rest of the way.’

  Mr Toffle cleared his throat. ‘The suitcases are heavy and the driveway looks awfully long. Is there no way of driving?’

  Barry shook his head as if it were a stupid question. ‘Of course not, mate! Look at the flamin’ incline. The engine would explode.’

  Chegwin and his parents piled out of the shuttle and retrieved their luggage from the boot.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Barry.

  Mr Toffle pointed to the bus. ‘Are you going to leave it parked here? It’s blocking the driveway.’

  Barry laughed coarsely, his throat raspy from years of watching football. Had he chosen a more successful team to follow, the voice specialist informed him, he may not have developed throat nodules in the first place.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ said Mr Toffle.

  ‘Blocking the driveway!’ chortled Barry. ‘Who’s going to drive up there? We don’t get any visitors these days.’

  Chegwin’s mind worked quickly, as it often did. ‘What about the solicitor, Savannah Hollis? You said she is waiting for us in the lobby.’

  ‘She arrived by helicopter, mate. Extremely professional, if you ask me.’

  The tired family dragged and scraped their suitcases up the pebble driveway until they rounded a row of pine trees into a large clearing.

  Chegwin saw the hotel first. ‘Toffle Towers …’ he whispered.

  The imposing limestone building was symmetrical in design, with two three-storey wings spreading out from either side of a main tower. The first thing Chegwin noticed was that the curtains were all drawn, giving the hotel a dark, tired feel. The main tower must have once been home to a bell, though it had now been replaced with an orange wheelbarrow, which was hanging by some rope. Chegwin couldn’t help but wonder how it got there.

  ‘Now, that would be a good name for a band,’ said Mr Toffle. ‘Orange Wheelbarrow in a Belltower. Do-bop-beep-diddly-beep.’

  The front doors at the base of the main tower opened and a woman dressed in pink waved the family over. ‘Yoo-hoo, this way – hurry, please.’

  ‘I’ll leave you here,’ said Barry. He looked Chegwin up and down for the first time. ‘Crikey. Bit young to be in charge, aren’t you?’ He sighed. ‘Well, the lawyer lady will take it from here.’ He shook Chegwin’s hand, eyeing the hotel lobby nervously as though there was someone else inside he wanted to avoid, then made his way over to a corrugated tin shed at the far end of the clearing.

  ‘Thanks for the lift,’ Chegwin called after him. He left his luggag
e at the bottom of the front steps and followed his parents into the lobby.

  The woman in pink was Savannah Hollis. She was waiting for them behind the reception desk, tapping her fake nails on the marble benchtop. ‘You must be Chegwin,’ she said. ‘Come on, sign quickly – I have other appointments this morning.’

  She flopped a thick document on the desk and handed him a pen. ‘Hurry, hurry, sign, please.’

  ‘Just to clarify,’ said Mr Toffle, ‘once Chegwin signs the contract, the hotel will be his?’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ said Savannah, slightly agitated. ‘It was all in the fine print.’

  ‘What fine print?’ asked Mr Toffle.

  Savannah pulled a copy of the original letter to Chegwin from her pink polka-dot handbag and placed it next to the contract. ‘This fine print.’

  Mr Toffle ran his eyes over the letter. ‘But there is no fine print … It’s just a main body of text.’

  ‘Nobody ever looks closely enough.’ Savannah sighed. Chegwin thought she sounded like a frustrated Mr Bridges when he repeated something for the third or fourth time.

  The solicitor retrieved a small magnifying glass from her handbag and gave it to Mr Toffle. ‘Hold this, will you.’ She positioned his hand over the final full stop in the letter, then pulled out an even bigger magnifying glass to zoom in on the smaller one. ‘Read closely, but do get a wriggle on.’

  As it turned out, there was indeed fine print. The full stop was a dense circle of minuscule text. Being an extremely professional solicitor, Savannah Hollis would not have dreamed of omitting the most important details of the contract.

  Mr Toffle read the tiny words aloud. ‘Due to a continued lack of bookings, Toffle Towers can only afford to stay open another three months. After this time, savings will run out and the hotel must file for bankruptcy. Once Chegwin Toffle signs the contract, he will be responsible for closing the hotel and dealing with all of the boring paperwork involved in demolishing the building for good. Then he’ll have to sell the land to the local council of Alandale. It is recommended that he fire all of the current staff as quickly as possible so he can put them out of their misery. The foolish employees are hanging on to the hope that the hotel can pick up bookings again, which I personally think is hilarious because it will never happen. You can put the magnifying glass down now because this is the end of the fine print.’

  Savannah smiled like a dodgy second-hand car salesperson. ‘As I was saying, it’s all in the contract.’

  Mr Toffle looked at Chegwin. ‘Did you catch all of that, son? Do you want to think twice before signing or are you happy to go ahead? We’ll support you either way.’

  But Chegwin didn’t want to think twice. He had already scribbled his signature on the document and was as intent as ever on not firing any of the hotel staff.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Savannah, hastily snatching the contract from the desk and tucking it into her bag.

  The sound of a low-flying helicopter rumbled through the lobby doors. Savannah grabbed her bag, dashed outside and waved into the air.

  Mr Toffle followed her onto the driveway. ‘You can’t leave now … What if we have questions about where to find things?’

  A rope dropped down from the helicopter and Savannah tied it around her waist. ‘Pleasure doing business with you,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Goodbye!’

  She was whisked off the ground and began hurtling through the air as the helicopter made its escape.

  ‘What do we do now?’ called Mr Toffle.

  ‘Lawrence will fill you in,’ sang Savannah as she turned to wave. She spun back around just in time to be slapped in the face by the branch of a pine tree. She shook a fist at the pilot. ‘That’s not very professional!’

  The helicopter disappeared and Mr Toffle was left standing alone on the driveway.

  ‘Who’s Lawrence?’ said Chegwin, who had been watching from the doorway.

  ‘That would be me,’ replied a voice of most distinguished class.

  Lawrence Sterling, resident butler at Toffle Towers, was dressed in a black tuxedo with tails. He stood with such perfect posture that it seemed near impossible his matching top hat could ever fall off. ‘It’s a pleasure and an honour to meet you, Master Chegwin.’ He offered his hand to the boy. ‘I’m delighted to welcome you to Toffle Towers. Though I must admit, I wasn’t expecting someone quite so … young.’ His English accent was so sensible and rich, it wouldn’t be out of place narrating a wildlife documentary.

  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ said Chegwin, noticing how soft Lawrence’s hand felt. ‘I may be young, but I … but I …’

  An awkward silence followed.

  ‘Yes?’ prompted the butler.

  Still more silence.

  ‘Are you with us, buttercup?’ said Mrs Toffle.

  Chegwin snapped back to reality. ‘Sorry, I drifted off. I was wondering if giraffes get sore throats in winter.’

  Mr Toffle stepped forward and shook Lawrence’s hand. ‘You’ll have to excuse our son. Skeet-skeet ba-ching diddly-twang. He tends to get lost in his thoughts … Who knows where he gets it from. He is young, but he has a great heart. Did you know that synthesisers became popular in the nineteen-eighties? Particularly in progressive rock bands.’

  ‘A most unusual fact,’ said Lawrence.

  Although the butler didn’t show it, he was rather bemused by the father and son. He shot a quick glance at Mrs Toffle, who stood there smiling patiently. He detected a hint of flowery perfume, which matched the theme of her dress.

  Lawrence pointed to a portrait hanging above the wooden staircase in the foyer. ‘If only dear Terrence had the opportunity to welcome you here himself. He will be sorely missed.’

  Terrence Toffle’s lifelike image gazed over the lobby with pride. He was wearing a dark green suit and was standing next to a bookshelf. His bright blue eyes sparkled with mischief and he sported the same curly blond hair as Chegwin.

  ‘Wow,’ said Mr Toffle, looking from the portrait to his son. ‘What a remarkable likeness.’

  ‘Terrence poured his heart and soul into Toffle Towers,’ said Lawrence. ‘Though sadly, as his health and energy declined, so did the state of the hotel.’

  ‘Barry told us you don’t get many visitors,’ said Mrs Toffle.

  Lawrence appeared to grimace at the mention of Barry’s name. ‘Unfortunately, that is the case. We haven’t had a booking for almost two years. No thanks to the Braxton Hotel opening its doors.’ Lawrence winced again. ‘We’ve been relying on savings to stay in business, but even so, we’ve had to take shortcuts. I’m sure Ms Hollis explained we only have three months left of funding. We desperately need guests.’

  ‘How many staff do you employ?’ asked Chegwin.

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s how many staff do you employ, Master Chegwin,’ Lawrence corrected. ‘Let me see … There are exactly eight full-time employees at Toffle Towers, all of whom reside on site.’

  ‘Then that’s eight jobs I need to save,’ said Chegwin brightly.

  ‘Why does the hotel employ eight full-time staff when there aren’t any bookings?’ asked Mr Toffle.

  Lawrence turned to the portrait. ‘Terrence was fiercely loyal to his staff. He treated us like dear friends. He promised no jobs would be lost, no matter how bad things became.’

  ‘Well, I think that’s wonderful,’ said Chegwin. ‘It must be nice to have friends.’

  The butler fixed his gaze on the boy. ‘Perhaps we should take a tour of the hotel. You had best become familiar with the layout.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ said Chegwin. ‘I’ve been dying to know how many rooms the hotel has.’

  The imaginative side of Chegwin’s mind was throwing a party. At long last this question of intrigue would be answered.

  ‘There are forty-nine guest rooms altogether, made up of twenty-four in the left wing and twenty-five in the right wing. The left wing is more popular due to its superior views.’

  ‘Forty-nine is a strange number,
’ said Chegwin. ‘Why didn’t they just make fifty?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Lawrence, ‘word has it there were fifty rooms built, but only forty-nine can be found.’

  ‘How can you lose an entire room?’ said Mrs Toffle.

  ‘It’s that sort of hotel.’

  Lawrence led the family up the main staircase, which smelt musty and creaked underneath their weight.

  SQUEAK!

  The floor beneath the painting felt like it might give way.

  ‘Oh my,’ said Mrs Toffle.

  ‘It appears you have discovered our very best creaky floorboard,’ said Lawrence. ‘It’s impossible to walk by without setting it off.’

  Chegwin looked up at the portrait of Terrence Toffle, which filled the space at the top of the stairs. It was the sort of painting where the eyes of the subject follow your every move. Most children would find it creepy, but Chegwin found it riveting. He liked the cheekiness in his great-uncle’s face.

  ‘The main staircase takes you to the second of three floors,’ explained Lawrence. ‘There are separate stairs to the upper level halfway along each corridor. The ground floors can be accessed via the lobby.’

  Lawrence guided the family along the walkway to the left, then took the second set of stairs. ‘This is the top floor of the left wing,’ he said. ‘The rooms up here are for our higher-paying guests. Each comes with two bathrooms and has the best view of Alandale and the Gladberry River.’

  Chegwin tapped on one of the doors. ‘Are we allowed to look inside?’

  Lawrence nodded rather formally. ‘Master Chegwin, may I remind you that this is your hotel. You may do as you please.’ The butler wanted to add ‘Deary, deary, deary me’, but restrained himself. He had known Terrence Toffle long enough to trust there would be purpose in his plan. There must be a reason his former employer had chosen this boy to inherit his hotel.

  Chegwin pushed open the door.

  It was dark inside the room and there were old bedsheets covering the furniture. Mrs Toffle opened the blinds and natural light – which the room hadn’t seen in months – flooded the space.