Toffle Towers 1 Page 4

  But Mr Bridges was far away and Chegwin already wasn’t the same boy that he had been in his old class. For one, he wasn’t being screeched at when he drifted off in thought. For the first time in his life, Chegwin wasn’t scared about being teased. Perhaps the fact he was in charge had something to do with it. But would this change if he started going to a new school? He remembered the plan he had put into place at Mrs Flibbernut’s letterbox and crossed his fingers for luck.

  On the final morning of Chegwin’s first week in Alandale, Barry entered his office. He wiped his oily hands on his khaki shirt, snorted loudly and grinned. ‘I reckon we’re ready, mate.’

  Early the next day, Chegwin stood at the bus terminal in Alandale, glancing between the sky and a family of four who had just stepped off an overnight coach. They were reading brochures about the local attractions and chatting excitedly about their holiday.

  A streak of smoke in the sky told Chegwin it was time to make his move.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said brightly. ‘Could I interest you in a night at Toffle Towers?’

  The father of the family grunted. ‘No, thanks. We’re just about to book a room at the Braxton Hotel. We’ve been told it’s the best accommodation in town.’

  Chegwin smiled. ‘At Toffle Towers we offer comfortable beds, delicious food … and one of the best connecting transport services going around!’

  The father’s left eye twitched at Chegwin’s untucked shirt. ‘Like I said, no thanks.’

  ‘Look up there!’ The oldest boy in the family pointed to the heavens.

  ‘Goodness,’ said the mother.

  ‘It’s flying!’ exclaimed the younger brother.

  The Toffle Towers shuttle bus – refitted, repainted and boasting six small rocket engines – touched down in the terminal. ‘TOFFLE TOWERS’ was painted in sparkling blue letters across the side of the bus – part of the rebranding strategy initiated by Chegwin.

  Barry leaned out of the window. ‘Morning, mate. Any bookings today?’

  ‘Can we go there?’ said the older boy. He was staring, transfixed by the rocket engines.

  ‘Yeah, let’s go there!’ echoed his younger brother.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said their mother, pulling her baffled husband towards the bus. ‘You only live once. We haven’t booked anything yet … Let’s try this hotel.’

  Chegwin helped load the family’s luggage into the back of the shuttle bus and closed the doors, then he jumped in the front next to Barry. The engines roared back to life and the bus lifted off the ground, giving the tourists a wonderful view of the river.

  ‘This is the best!’ exclaimed the oldest boy.

  ‘Quite spectacular,’ said the father, who had quickly come around.

  ‘I want to buy a postcard,’ said the youngest boy.

  The shuttle bus took a scenic route back to the hotel while Chegwin answered questions – as best he could – about Alandale. ‘Try the coffee at The Corkindrop, Mum reckons it’s up there with the best. It’s cheapest to hire canoes from Curly’s River Rafts, but don’t go skinny-dipping in the river – the water is too clear.’

  The shuttle landed perfectly on the driveway. Lawrence, who was as much surprised by the sight of new guests as he was by the flying bus, held the door open for the family as they made their way inside to the reception desk.

  ‘I’d be delighted to offer you our family suite with the best view,’ said Chegwin, who had ducked around to the service side of the counter.

  His curly blond hair poked over the top of the reception desk, which was built too tall for a ten-year-old.

  ‘Um, we can’t actually see you,’ said the mother.

  The presence of new guests at Toffle Towers triggered something in Lawrence. This young boy had delivered visitors to the hotel after just one week on the job. The butler was drawn to his new manager like a tuxedo-dressed moth to the flame. He got down on his hands and knees and crawled behind the counter, his top hat still perfectly in place despite the fact that he now looked like a Friesian cow. ‘If you will, Master Chegwin.’

  The boy stepped up onto the butler’s back and welcomed the family to Toffle Towers. He offered them complimentary pastries, which Pepper had prepared earlier. The Danishes tasted so good the family agreed to book an extra night. They also made a reservation for the hotel’s restaurant that evening.

  Chegwin tapped the bell and Mikey appeared instantly. He was wearing another one of his brightly coloured Hawaiian shirts and Chegwin wondered how someone dressed so conspicuously could appear unnoticed so suddenly.

  ‘You’re so fast,’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s what I do,’ replied Mikey. ‘Plus, I need to be fast to dodge Pepper. She hates it when I try her food. Always gives me a good jab.’ He rubbed his shoulder.

  Chegwin was staring into space.

  ‘Hello? Are you with us?’ said Mikey. ‘Um, we have guests here.’

  Chegwin had tuned out. The sight of a Hawaiian shirt had made him think about palm trees. This had led him to wonder about desert islands and what would happen if he ever became stranded on one. He hoped he would be savvy enough to pack suncream and a good book.

  ‘Err, Chegwin?’ repeated Mikey.

  The young manager snapped out of it. ‘Please take this family’s luggage to room two,’ said Chegwin.

  He beamed at Mikey. Then he beamed at the family. He also beamed down at Lawrence, whose hands and knees were becoming quite sore. ‘We’re back in business, old chap.’

  The Toffle Towers shuttle bus proved to be quite a hit. In the week following the first booking, five other families – all persuaded by their children – signed up to stay at the hotel. Chegwin rotated the guests through the luxurious top floor on the left wing, ensuring they had the very best views of Alandale.

  Pepper Perry was proving to be worth her weight in gold. The spunky teenage chef was in her element, whipping up a brand-new kids menu and treating guests to the finest cuisine in Alandale. Feedback for the Grazing Room was nothing short of spectacular.

  ‘I’ve never seen Bobby eat his greens without complaining – it’s a miracle!’

  ‘Can I have the recipe for that pizza base?’

  ‘Daddy, can we come here again?’

  ‘I need to buy more postcards.’

  Chegwin stopped by the kitchen to test out Pepper’s latest offering – crispy chicken balls with a zesty crust. The flavours exploded in his mouth. He closed his eyes and imagined floating away in tastebud heaven. Katie had told him all about galaxy formations from a book she was studying for university. He was an astronaut among the stars, drifting away in an endless space of deliciousness. He had always wanted to experience gravity-free dining. Maybe this was something he could look into … Perhaps he could –

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ said Pepper, pulling Chegwin back down to Earth. She straightened her chef hat to cover her ponytail.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ said Chegwin.

  ‘Mmm, I agree,’ said Mikey, who was so distracted by the incredible taste that he forgot to hide the fact that he’d sneaked in and pinched a sample.

  Pepper poked him in the shoulder. ‘Self-control, man. Stop nicking my food! I know you took that chicken soup.’

  ‘Chicken soup? That wasn’t me, I swear,’ said Mikey. ‘I only test your master creations.’

  Katie walked into the kitchen. ‘Mikey, I need your help. We have to clear the dishes from table two. Plus, we’ve just had another booking for four!’

  Chegwin fiddled with the loose button on his shirt. It was clear the restaurant was one of Toffle Towers’ strengths. He had to think of a way he could use it to bring in more people. Perhaps that was the secret to saving the hotel.

  ‘Out!’ snapped Pepper. ‘Go and deal with table two.’ She twisted up a tea towel and flicked it at Mikey’s bottom. ‘No more food pinching – get to work. I’ve got cooking to do.’

  ‘Ouch!’ Mikey bounded out to the restaurant before he could be whipped again. Katie r
olled her eyes and followed him out, but that didn’t stop her dimples twinkling at the fun.

  Chegwin stayed behind to chat with Pepper as she prepared the next order, picking her brains about how the kitchen operated. He asked her how she ordered food, how long it took to follow through with special meal requests, and if she could do with any help.

  ‘Now that we’re finally getting a few bookings, I have less time to test out new recipes,’ Pepper told him. ‘So I could use a hand with the ordering. Generally, I buy small samples from the shops in town, then order bulk from those big delivery companies. It’s cheaper that way.’

  Listening to the logical side in his brain, Chegwin asked a few more questions about the ordering process. The imaginative side of his brain, however, had other ideas, and he soon found himself slipping in and out of exciting daydreams about the restaurant. As a result, he left the kitchen with some rather muddled information.

  Later that day Chegwin turned on the computer in his office and typed in the manager’s password. He was determined to help out his star chef. He clicked open the folder with the title ‘Kitchen’ and found the link to food deliveries. With a bit of luck he’d be able to test things out by putting in a simple order first, before trying anything more complicated.

  He clicked into the dairy section and selected ‘Milk’. He vaguely remembered Pepper saying something about a confusing decimal system and bulk units, but he couldn’t quite remember the specifics. It couldn’t be too hard, could it?

  He ordered sixty litres of milk and clicked ‘Confirm’.

  Bing.

  An email landed in his inbox. He clicked ‘Open’.

  Chegwin swallowed hard. He had never once shopped for dairy in his life, but the numbers screamed out at him. Milk shouldn’t wipe another full month off the budget, should it? What had he done? A watermelon-sized lump formed in his throat.

  The young manager opened a drawer in his desk and whipped out a calculator. He frantically punched in some numbers. If his sums were correct, the hotel only had enough money to stay open for another four weeks until it went under. This wasn’t part of the plan.

  Oh dear.

  The next morning, Toffle Towers received two special deliveries. The first was an old lady with frizzy grey hair. She was carrying a small suitcase in one hand and a bunch of roses in the other.

  ‘Lucy, dear, these are for you,’ she said, handing the flowers to Chegwin’s mother, who had just returned from a walk.

  ‘Mrs Flibbernut – what a lovely surprise,’ said Mrs Toffle. ‘The flowers look scrumptious – I mean, ah, sumptuous. Thank you. What brings you to Alandale?’

  ‘Your son wrote me a very kind letter inviting me to live in his hotel,’ replied Mrs Flibbernut. ‘He said that if I agreed to teach him, I could stay as long as I liked. I’ve been itching to get away, and I do miss the classroom, so it seemed like the right thing to do.’

  ‘That boy never ceases to amaze me,’ said Mrs Toffle. ‘He’ll be thrilled to see you.’

  Mrs Toffle’s phone rang. ‘Will you please excuse me?’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Flibbernut.

  ‘Hello, Lovely Lucy’s Trading.’

  Mrs Flibbernut sat down on her suitcase.

  ‘You may remember,’ said Mrs Toffle into the phone, ‘we discussed selling the Dawson shares if they doubled up …’

  There was a pause.

  And then she exploded.

  ‘DON’T GIVE ME THAT RUBBISH, YOU CLUELESS NINCOMPOOP! SELL, SELL, SELL!’

  There was another pause.

  ‘Thank you ever so much. Goodbye.’

  Overhearing his mother’s phone call, Chegwin wandered outside and spotted Mrs Flibbernut. ‘You came!’ he cried. Chegwin greeted her with a hug and, for a wonderful moment, he forgot about the hotel’s finances.

  ‘It was an offer too good to refuse,’ said the old lady.

  Mr Toffle joined the small party in the lobby. He was wearing a one of his favourite folk band’s T-shirts – Dusty McTrusty and the Rusty Banjo Pickers. ‘Well then, I suppose we’ll have to cancel your appointment with that school, son.’

  Chegwin beamed. And just like that, the horrible memories of school and Mr Bridges that had been worrying him were washed away.

  ‘You’ll be living in room thirty-four, Mrs Flibbernut,’ said Chegwin. ‘It has the very best view of Alandale. And you don’t have to worry about food. We’ll provide everything you need.’

  ‘How very kind of you.’ Mrs Flibbernut smiled. ‘I’ll be ready to start your lessons on Monday morning. Nine o’clock sharp.’

  Chegwin couldn’t wait.

  ‘Delivery for Toffle Towers.’ A woman dressed in white overalls walked into the lobby. ‘Sign here, please.’

  Chegwin stepped forward and scribbled his name.

  ‘What did you order, munchkin?’ said Mrs Toffle.

  The woman in overalls answered for him. ‘Sixty thousand litres of fresh milk.’

  Chegwin went pale. ‘But I thought I only ordered sixty …’ He now understood why the delivery cost so much. A revolting feeling – not too dissimilar to what one might experience if they drank sixty thousand litres of milk – churned in his stomach.

  Mrs Flibbernut chuckled. ‘Looks like I’ll have to plan a bit of maths homework.’

  Chegwin retreated to his office for some quick brainstorming. He had to fix this mess. If only he had listened more closely to Pepper. If only he had stayed focused. If only he had accidentally ordered sixty thousand litres of raspberry yoghurt instead.

  He pulled a notepad from his drawer and turned to the first blank page. He had to amend his dairy disaster and think of a way to earn some money back for the hotel. His staff were relying on him. Otherwise, in only four weeks’ time, it would be the end of Toffle Towers. He could hear the bulldozers now … Or perhaps that was the Dallas Dairy delivery truck driving away.

  Chegwin took a deep breath, then let his mind do what it did best: daydream. He jotted down notes as his mind flitted from one idea to the next.

  The true genius of Chegwin’s milkshake plan was that it appealed to a wide range of potential guests – both young and old. He stood on Lawrence’s back – who was hunched over on all fours like a Friesian cow again – and waved flyers in the air as passengers piled out of a coach at the bus terminal in town.

  ‘Complimentary milkshake baths for the next twenty bookings at Toffle Towers. Don’t miss out!’

  ‘Oooh, I’ve always wanted to bathe in milk,’ said an elderly man. ‘They say it does wonders for your skin. Count me in.’

  ‘Do you get to drink it too?’ asked a girl with glasses.

  ‘You sure do,’ said Chegwin. ‘You even get to choose the flavour.’

  ‘Let’s go there, Mamma!’

  The shuttle bus made several trips between the terminal and Toffle Towers that morning. While the bookings would only pay back a fraction of the lost milk money, it was a good start. It also meant that visitors were coming through the hotel and word might spread. Plus, the second floor of the left wing would finally be back in use.

  When the last of the guests touched down at the hotel, Chegwin met Barry on the driveway and high-fived him for his hard work. ‘The second floor looks great. Thanks for fixing it up, and thanks for flying the shuttle.’

  ‘No worries, mate,’ said Barry with a wink and a habitual throaty snort. ‘Dean and I haven’t had this much fun since we bulldozed his mother-in-law’s granny flat.’

  Chegwin grinned.

  ‘Oi, you two, get outta here!’ Barry had spotted something over Chegwin’s shoulder.

  Chegwin turned to see two dark shapes disappear around the far corner of the hotel.

  ‘Flamin’ kids,’ huffed the caretaker. ‘I’ll deal with ’em.’

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ said Chegwin. ‘You’ve done enough this morning. I’ll check it out.’

  Toffle Towers’ ten-year-old manager was on his first ever duty as security guard. He dashed ac
ross the pebble driveway to the other end of the building and skidded around the corner.

  Phunk!

  He crashed straight into a skinny red-haired boy and sent him flying – bottom-first – into an empty garden pot.

  ‘I’m stuck,’ said the boy, struggling to remove himself.

  ‘How typical of you,’ said a girl about the same age as Chegwin. She poked her tongue out at her clumsy friend, adding, ‘Pot pant.’

  The boy wriggled some more, then sighed and sat resting in the bowl.

  Chegwin thought the pot looked strangely comfortable. Perhaps it could be a new style of design for the sofas in the lobby. He could source giant garden pots and use the foam from some of the old lounges and –

  ‘Are you deaf or something?’

  The girl was waving her hand in front of Chegwin’s face. ‘I asked if you’re staying here.’

  ‘Oh, sorry about that,’ said Chegwin. ‘Sometimes I zone out.’

  ‘Weird,’ said the red-haired boy.

  ‘So are you staying here or not?’ the girl repeated.

  ‘You could say that,’ said Chegwin.

  ‘Either you are or you aren’t.’

  ‘Well then, yes. I am.’

  The girl exchanged a look with the red-haired boy. ‘Should we ask him about it?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Is it true the shuttle bus can fly?’ The two friends stared at Chegwin expectantly, waiting for his reply.

  ‘It sure can.’

  ‘I told you!’ said the girl. She turned back to Chegwin. ‘Have you been in it?’

  ‘I sure have.’

  ‘Is it fun?’

  ‘It sure is.’

  ‘How do you get to fly in it?’

  ‘You could sure ask the manager.’

  ‘Stop saying “sure”!’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Who’s the manager?’

  ‘Me.’

  The girl began to laugh. So hard, in fact, Chegwin wondered if her insides would burst out of her nostrils. ‘That’s a good one,’ she chortled. ‘Come on, we need to get going.’ With that, she kicked the side of the garden pot. It shattered and the red-haired boy landed in a pile of rubble.