Toffle Towers 1 Page 6

  Barry leaned out of the window. ‘Morning, mate. You called?’

  ‘Take us back to the hotel, please,’ said Chegwin.

  The young manager and his star chef boarded the bus, turning around just in time to see the girl and the boy and the goose staring open-mouthed and open-beaked at the shuttle lifting off the ground.

  ‘Nice one, boss,’ said Pepper. ‘I love a dramatic exit. Now, you wanted to ask me something about the restaurant. I’m all ears. I’m a big fan of your ideas …’

  ‘I’ve some rather good news, Master Chegwin. The top two floors in the left wing are almost entirely booked out for the next three nights.’

  The tails of Lawrence’s tuxedo appeared sleeker than usual as he proudly shared the information.

  Chegwin opened his inbox to see the flood of bookings the butler was referring to. ‘Brilliant! It looks like the milkshake baths and shuttle bus have done the trick.’ The young manager let out a contented sigh. He had bought more time for his staff. And perhaps there was even enough money coming in to go ahead with his plan for the restaurant. Pepper had loved the idea. ‘It’s going to be a busy few days.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help, Master Chegwin?’ said Lawrence.

  ‘Yes, please. Ask Dusty and Mildew to prepare the ground floor in the left wing. I have a feeling we’ll soon need the extra rooms.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Chegwin smiled at Lawrence. Here was a man completely committed to his job. He deserved a place to work in without having to worry about his future. All of the staff did. It pushed the young manager into making a snap decision.

  As Lawrence turned to leave, Chegwin blurted out, ‘Oh, and cancel all bookings in the Grazing Room until further notice.’ His heart was racing. It was a big risk, but he had to go ahead with his master plan. If he succeeded, it would guarantee the survival of Toffle Towers. It would guarantee the survival of his staff.

  Lawrence raised an eyebrow. ‘May I be so bold as to ask why? The restaurant is one of our biggest assets.’

  Chegwin fiddled with his loose button. ‘Let’s just say the Grazing Room is about to undergo … refurbishments.’

  There was an abrupt tap on the office door. It was Mrs Flibbernut, who had arrived for Chegwin’s first lesson.

  Lawrence bowed. ‘I’ll pass the instructions on to Dusty and Mildew. I trust you enjoy some wonderful learning, Master Chegwin.’

  Mrs Flibbernut entered the room and sat down on the other side of the oak desk. She retrieved some books and papers from her handbag. ‘Goodness, it’s been a while,’ she said. ‘Now, let me get my glasses.’

  The old lady rifled through her bag again and pulled out two small drinking cups. ‘I can’t work without my glasses.’

  ‘What are those for?’ asked Chegwin.

  ‘Coffee, of course.’ Mrs Flibbernut poured steaming brown liquid into both cups. ‘Double shot,’ she said briskly. ‘Keeps me alert. Now, let’s start by learning some history.’

  ‘What sort of history?’

  Mrs Flibbernut took a sip of coffee and her eyes flashed wild. She stood on her chair then stepped onto the oak desk. She waved her arms around, pointing to the walls in the office. ‘The history of Toffle Towers, of course. I may be old, but I’m still as sharp as a tack and I do my research. Now, prepare to write this down … Terrence Toffle built this hotel when he was only eighteen …’

  The lesson was another welcome distraction for Chegwin. It kept his mind from thinking about his parents and worrying about the hotel’s finances.

  Mrs Flibbernut taught him – rather dramatically – all about Toffle Towers’ rich history. Stomping on the oak desk, she explained how Terrence was a dreamer who had run away from home at the age of fifteen because his parents were too strict on him.

  Terrence had built the hotel as an escape. He busied himself with different projects and threw huge parties for his guests. Bands would come to play in the Grazing Room and the celebrations would often spill down to the river.

  Mrs Flibbernut acted out a saxophone solo and pretended to fall into the Gladberry. ‘Best place for a saxophone is at the bottom of a river,’ she said. ‘Horrid instruments.’

  The old lady continued the lesson, retelling the story of how, one day, Terrence Toffle had fallen in love with a tourist from France and married her that same year. They had a child – a baby boy. But that’s when the family records became murky. There was no evidence of his wife or son beyond that.

  Chegwin couldn’t help but wonder what other secrets his family might have.

  Mrs Flibbernut explained that Toffle Towers had enjoyed years of healthy business until a new hotel appeared in Alandale. She puffed out her chest and enacted the fanfare of a grand opening.

  ‘You can see the Braxton Hotel from the top floor of the left wing,’ said Chegwin.

  ‘I see it every time I look outside,’ said Mrs Flibbernut. ‘Ugly place. No character.’

  Chegwin enjoyed studying the original plans of the hotel, which Mrs Flibbernut had discovered while doing her research.

  ‘I can only see forty-nine rooms on the blueprints,’ said Chegwin. ‘But Lawrence said they built fifty.’

  He was also surprised to learn that there was a basement in the right wing. He’d have to do some more exploring.

  The lesson finished and Mrs Flibbernut packed up her things, wiping her brow. ‘You’re a fine student, Chegwin,’ she said. ‘The report from that bongo-head at the other school is a load of nonsense.’

  ‘You’re a fine teacher,’ said Chegwin. ‘I can’t thank you enough for coming to Alandale and teaching me. School wasn’t really working out.’

  ‘Giving me an excuse to come to Alandale was more than I could ask for,’ said the old lady. ‘But there is just one more thing you could do for me …’

  ‘Anything,’ said Chegwin.

  ‘I’d like a bigger television in my room. The world rock climbing championship is underway and I want to experience it on widescreen. Mountaineering reminds me of life, you know. Sometimes you have to take risks to achieve something truly great – to reach the summit, so to speak.’

  This made a lot of sense to Chegwin. It was how he was feeling about his restaurant idea. He smiled as he walked Mrs Flibbernut to the door. ‘I’ll have Mikey bring you our biggest set.’

  Bing.

  A message had arrived in Chegwin’s inbox.

  Chegwin put down the phone and shrugged his shoulders. The number he had dialled – copied exactly from the email – failed to connect him with Derek Tiddlepop. It had instead put him through to the Zhou family in southern Oklahoma. He apologised for calling the wrong number, but encouraged the Zhous to visit Toffle Towers all the same. Mrs Zhou sounded quite enthusiastic about the idea, but her husband had to dash off before Chegwin could confirm a booking. The businessman had to meet with a candy manufacturer and he couldn’t be late.

  Chegwin began dreaming about lollies. Perhaps he could turn one of the guest rooms into a real-life candy land. He could line the walls with musk sticks and create beds out of marshmallows. Milkshake baths would become a permanent fixture and –

  ‘Master Chegwin, there are guests waiting in the lobby. Would you like to personally welcome them?’ Lawrence stood in the office doorway.

  The candy dream would have to wait. ‘I’d love to,’ said Chegwin.

  The guests were newlyweds. Chegwin could tell because the groom was holding the bride in his arms, and she was still wearing her wedding dress.

  ‘I promised I’d carry her,’ puffed the groom, his cheeks turning red.

  ‘You must be Mr and Mrs Turner,’ said Chegwin, standing on Lawrence’s back behind the counter. ‘Welcome to Toffle Towers. We’ve been looking forward to having you as our guests.’

  ‘Let me correct you,’ said the groom. ‘I was Mr Turner and my wife was Miss Round … We decided to join our surnames.’

  ‘So … that would make you,’ said Chegwin, pausing, ‘Mr and Mrs … Tur
ner-Round.’

  The groom spun in a circle. ‘What? Which way?’

  ‘Turner-Round,’ repeated Chegwin.

  He twisted the other way. ‘Why? What is it?’

  ‘Turner-Round,’ said Lawrence, who, despite being confined to all fours, was rather enjoying the moment and keen to join in. He could just see around the corner of the counter and make out the groom’s shoes shuffling this way and that.

  Mr Turner-Round twirled back to the front.

  ‘I’m getting dizzy!’ cried the bride.

  Chegwin winked down at Lawrence. The pair had had their fun.

  Lawrence called for Mikey, who popped up from the other side of the reception desk. He was wearing his brightest Hawaiian shirt yet.

  ‘How does he do that so quickly?’ Chegwin wondered aloud. ‘And without being seen beforehand …’

  ‘Mikey, kindly take Mr and Mrs Turner-Round’s suitcases to room four,’ said Lawrence.

  The gofer whisked the luggage up the staircase with Mr Turner-Round struggling to follow after him, still carrying his wife in his arms.

  All the while, Terrence Toffle watched the commotion from his portrait at the top of the stairs, the cheeky sparkle in his eyes shining brightly.

  Chegwin’s flying shuttle bus and milkshake baths had both done wonders for bookings. Though the dairy supply wouldn’t last much longer, there was now a small stream of income flowing into the hotel’s accounts. It wasn’t quite enough to add money to the budget, but it was helping to fund Chegwin’s restaurant idea.

  The truth was he still needed more guests. With expensive renovations underway, the money could run out at any moment. But it was a risk he had to take. He just couldn’t tell anyone about it. The last thing he wanted was a group of angry staff members shouting at him for wasting money. It had been a long time since anyone yelled at him, and he didn’t want it to start again now. Chegwin walked outside to clear his head, but the sight of his parents only muddled it further.

  ‘Chegwin, son,’ said Mr Toffle, walking over. He was wearing a vintage T-shirt by the group Waxed Backs and the Hackney Axe, who he had managed several years earlier. ‘We were just heading out for the afternoon, but we wanted to tell you how proud we are of the success you’re having. You’re making a real difference here. Skeep-beep diddly-bop-bop-ba-do.’

  Every muscle in the boy’s body tightened. He didn’t even notice his father hopping up and down to get a better look at the wheelbarrow in the main tower.

  ‘It truly would make a wonderful band name … Orange Wheelbarrow in a Belltower …’

  Chegwin’s mother detected the boy’s unease. ‘Are you okay, sugarplum?’

  The logical side of Chegwin’s brain told him that all he had to do was be honest and ask about the conversation he had overheard. His parents were reasonable people. They were not the sort to shy away from a sensible discussion. They might even be able to give him some advice about the hotel’s finances.

  The other side of Chegwin’s brain was so rattled it was doing backflips and playing heavy metal music. He couldn’t tame the confusion and he needed more time to think. ‘Everything’s fine … I’m just busy.’

  ‘You know where to find us if you need help with anything,’ said Mrs Toffle. ‘We love you, sweetie.’

  Chegwin left his parents standing on the lawn and made his way around to the other side of the hotel towards the workshop. He wanted to clear his head and he was keen to see how Barry and Dean were getting on with the restaurant project.

  Phunk!

  ‘Uh-oh. I’m stuck again.’

  ‘Your clumsiness is off the charts.’

  Honk!

  Chegwin did a double take. The same skinny red-haired boy was stuck in another garden pot. His friend was trying to pull him free, but she kept losing her balance and falling on top of him. The white goose was pecking away at the pot, honking loudly.

  ‘You’d be best to kick the side of the pot,’ said Chegwin. ‘It worked last time.’

  The girl jumped. She hadn’t seen him approaching.

  ‘Honk!’

  The boy was so surprised he managed to tip the pot over. He landed on his hands and knees, the bowl exaggerating the size of his bottom. He looked like a snail.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Chegwin.

  The girl met his eyes. Chegwin noticed how strikingly green they were against her dark hair. They looked like oval-cut garnets, blinking widely in the afternoon sun.

  ‘No point lying, I guess,’ she said with a shrug. ‘We came to say sorry for laughing at you. But Rufus Corkindrop here made sure we botched even that up.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Rufus, waving from his turtle position on the ground.

  The girl kicked the pot, breaking him free.

  ‘Honk!’

  ‘It’s okay, Doc,’ said the boy, rubbing his hip. ‘I’m free now.’

  ‘Sorry about the pot,’ said the girl.

  ‘That’s okay. What’s your name?’ said Chegwin. He found it hard to take his eyes off the girl’s face. There was a sharpness in her gaze that he liked, and something about it told him she was a deep thinker. People like that usually pointed out his untucked shirt or extra buttonhole, but this girl didn’t.

  ‘I’m Amy,’ she said. ‘Amy Silverlight.’

  ‘My name is Chegwin Toffle. I’m the –’

  ‘Manager. Yeah, I know. I’m sorry for not believing you,’ she said. ‘It was pretty cool how you ordered the flying bus to pick you up.’

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ said Rufus. ‘And I’m sorry for falling into the garden pot. Again. And just to let you know, I’m not really a fish.’

  Chegwin helped Rufus off the ground. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Honk! Honk!’

  ‘Doc says sorry too,’ said Rufus. ‘He’s my pet goose. He always wanders off and he can be a bit noisy, but I love him all the same. I found him when he was just an egg.’

  The goose rubbed its neck against Rufus’s leg.

  ‘What are you doing wandering around, anyway?’ said Amy. ‘Shouldn’t you be in your office doing important manager things?’

  Chegwin pointed to the corrugated work shed. ‘I was just on my way to check up on a project.’

  ‘Do you get to boss everyone around?’ asked Rufus.

  ‘In a way,’ said Chegwin. ‘But it doesn’t work how you might imagine. There are protocols and systems.’

  Amy nodded, impressed. This boy was clever, just like her.

  ‘Do you get free food?’ said Rufus. ‘I love free food.’

  Chegwin laughed. ‘Well, I still have to pay for it out of the hotel’s budget.’

  Amy looked up at the tall limestone walls. ‘There must be a thousand rooms inside.’

  Chegwin stepped towards the nearest door. ‘Forty-nine, actually. There are supposed to be fifty rooms but we kind of lost one.’

  ‘Lost one! How do you lose an entire room?’

  ‘It’s that sort of hotel,’ said Chegwin. ‘Would you like to take a look inside?’

  ‘Okay!’ Amy and Rufus chorused.

  ‘Honk!’

  ‘Sorry, Doc,’ said Rufus. ‘You’ll have to stay outside.’

  As it turned out, the entrance led to one of the storerooms in the right wing. Because Chegwin had spent most of his time in the busy left wing, this side of the hotel was still somewhat of a mystery to him, particularly the lower floors. It reminded him to ask Lawrence about the key for room 49.

  The storeroom was home to various odds and ends – broken chairs, wobbly tables, spare lightbulbs, piles of old newspapers and shelves stacked with gadgets of yesteryear.

  ‘Check out this old slide projector,’ said Amy. ‘My dad told me about these. They were how people used to share holiday photos. They’d turn off all the lights and project the pictures against a wall.’ She took out one of the slides and lifted it up against the daylight outside. ‘Looks like a photo of the river.’

  ‘Check out the vintage cars in this
one.’ Rufus had picked up a slide too.

  Chegwin ran his fingers over the circular projector and selected a photo. He held it up to the light. ‘Oh my!’

  He stumbled backwards into a stack of chairs, dropping the slide on the floor.

  ‘What is it?’ said Amy. She picked up the photo and held it against the light. ‘Oh …’

  Rufus snatched it to take a look. ‘Whoa! Is that your twin?’

  It might well have been. The boy in the picture – standing in a rowboat on the edge of the Gladberry River – had curly blond hair, styled in the same dramatic way as Chegwin’s. His striped-blue shirt was untucked on one side and the buttons weren’t aligned with the holes. The boy’s chocolate-brown eyes told Chegwin this was not his great-uncle Terrence. It was someone else.

  ‘Who is it?’ said Amy.

  ‘I … I don’t know,’ said Chegwin. He took the photo out of Rufus’s hand and put it in his pocket, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in his gut.

  ‘Where does this lead?’ Amy was tugging on the handle of a small door in the corner of the storeroom.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Chegwin.

  Rufus flicked on a light switch to brighten the room.

  Chegwin tried a few of his keys in the door, but none of them would unlock it. ‘I have some other keys in my office. I’ll try them later.’

  Amy pushed open another door on the opposite side of the storeroom. It led to the main corridor on the ground floor. She took a few hesitant steps forward. ‘It’s a hallway.’

  Chegwin and Rufus followed her out to the red-carpeted corridor. Even though the doors at the far end were closed, Chegwin could hear Lawrence speaking with guests in the lobby.

  ‘Welcome to Toffle Towers. I trust you and your children enjoy your stay with us, Mr Evans. Your luggage will be taken to your room.’

  ‘Thank you for the positive feedback, Miss Rodrigues. I’ll be sure to let the manager know.’

  ‘The restaurant is closed until further notice, Mr Turner-Round. Would you like some ice for your back?’

  Amy walked along the corridor, away from the voices in the lobby. She turned the handle of the last door – number 17. ‘Check out the size of this room.’