The Bed and Breakfast Star

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘No, wait! Neil, come and get your nose wiped and stop that silly sniffling,’ Naomi said urgently. ‘And you, Nicky, pull your socks up.’

  ‘No, we want you just as you are, runny nose and all! Now, I want you to tell me how miserable it is in the hotel and how your little brothers keep crying and how lousy it is not to have enough money for lots of dolls and video games like other kids. OK, action!’

  Naomi chewed her lip anxiously, not going into action at all. She was thinking hard.

  ‘It is miserable sometimes. But my mum gives me a cuddle or I read my book or my friend Elsa tells me a joke and then I cheer up.’

  I cheered up too, but the director seemed determined to damp everything down. He practically told Naomi what she had to say. The first time she had a go she came out all weird and wooden, and she kept looking up at the director anxiously and hissing, ‘Is that right? Have I remembered it?’

  ‘No, sweetie, don’t keep saying that. Just act natural, for pity’s sake,’ said the director, practically tearing his hair.

  The bunny lady receptionist came clopping out into the street in her high heels, wagging her pointed nails at the television crew.

  ‘Now look! You’re harassing our tenants. We’ll call the police again. The Manager’s on the phone right this minute. And as for you kids, I’m warning you. We don’t have to house you, you know. If you’ve got any complaints then you can push off somewhere else.’

  She clip-clopped back into the hotel. Naomi stared after her worriedly, her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘Does she mean that? She wouldn’t really throw us out, would she?’ Naomi whispered. ‘We haven’t got anywhere else to go. And it’s so unfair, because we’ve put up with ever such a lot – we’ve even had those horrible bugs, cockroaches, squiggling all over the floor. One even got in the toe of our baby Nathan’s bootee, and yet the Manager wouldn’t even send for the pest-control people. He said it was our fault because we were dirty! And my mum cried when he said that because we’re as clean as we can be – we bath every day even when there isn’t any hot water, and my mum keeps the room spotless, and that’s not easy with the four of us kids. I don’t know what we’re going to do, because we’ve been waiting six months and we still can’t get a flat and if we get turned out the hotel then us kids will have to go into Care and we’ve got to stay with our mum.’

  ‘We want our mum,’ said Nicky.

  ‘Mum! Mum!’ wailed Neil.

  ‘Perfect!’ said the director. The cameras had been rolling for all of Naomi’s outburst. ‘Absolutely great, sweetie. Lovely emotive stuff. Right folks, I think we can hit the road now.’

  ‘But what about us?’ said Naomi, wiping her eyes. ‘Are we going to get thrown out?’

  ‘Mmm? Oh, I shouldn’t think so,’ he said vaguely.

  He’d turned his back on us. He didn’t know. He didn’t even care. He just wanted to make a good television programme.

  I put my arm round Naomi.

  ‘We’ll be OK,’ I said, giving her a hug. ‘Don’t take any notice of him. He’s just been using us. Still, it looks like you really will be on the telly after all, Naomi.’

  Naomi didn’t seem very thrilled about the idea. She still worried and worried that her family might get thrown out.

  ‘Look, they’ve threatened us too. That Manager thinks it’s all my mum and Mack’s fault. We’ll all be thrown out together. We’ll have to set up a little camp. It’s OK, Naomi. Don’t get in such a state.’

  I tried to cheer her up, but it wasn’t easy.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t got us all involved with those telly people,’ Naomi said, sighing.

  That’s what Mum and Mack were saying too in room 608. Only they were saying it a lot more angrily. I could hear them yelling from right down the corridor.

  ‘Oh-oh,’ I said.

  ‘It’s all your fault, you stupid Scottish git!’ Mum was screaming. ‘You shouldn’t have phoned them. Now that Manager will make our lives a misery.’

  ‘It’s a flaming misery as it is. It couldn’t be worse. I was simply trying to help, so stop giving me all this hassle, woman.’

  I slunk into the room. Pippa was crouched in the duck cot, clutching Baby Pillow. Hank was grizzling in bed, needing his nappy changed. I mopped them up and crept off with them. I don’t think Mum and Mack even noticed.

  It was getting near teatime and there were lots of cooking smells coming from the kitchen. Mum still said it was a filthy hole and we couldn’t cook in there or we’d go down with a terrible disease. I was starting to get so starving hungry I was willing to risk the terrible disease, but we didn’t have anything to cook.

  Naomi’s mum was stirring a very interesting bean stew that smelt ever so rich and tasty. She had baby Nathan on her hip, and he was smacking his lips in happy anticipation.

  Naomi told her mum all about the television people and the Manager’s threats, but Naomi’s mum didn’t get mad at all. She just went on stirring her stew.

  ‘We’ll be fine, little old lady,’ she said to Naomi. ‘You’re such a worry-guts. Here, tea’s just about ready. Have you got the plates set out in our room?’

  She saw Pippa and Hank and me looking at her hungrily.

  ‘Do you kids want to come and join us for tea?’ she said cheerily.

  We wanted to extremely badly, but there didn’t look that much of a stew and it seemed a bit mean to eat their food so I said we’d be having our own tea in a minute.

  But when I did a quick sortie back to room 608 the row was getting louder and fiercer and I knew there was no point disturbing them. So Pippa and Hank and I hung around the kitchen some more. Simple Simon’s mum came along and she cooked a whole load of chips in the greasy old chip-pan – so many that they almost came bubbling over the top. They smelt so good and she had such a lot that I decided we’d have a few if we got offered. Only we didn’t.

  Simon’s mum is very fierce.

  ‘What are you kids staring at?’ she said sharply. ‘Clear off out of it. Go and get your own tea.’

  But that was easier said than done. The row was still roaring. So we sat outside the room, our tummys rumbling. Mack came storming out eventually. He tripped right over me actually. I felt like calling him a Great Scottish Git too, but I sensed it wasn’t quite the moment. I knew where he was going. Down the pub. And he wouldn’t be back for ages.

  At least that meant we could get in our room. But Mum didn’t seem up to considering something ordinary like tea. She was in bed crying and when I tried to talk to her she pulled the covers up over her head. She went on crying for a bit and then she went to sleep.

  I felt really funny for about five minutes. Not funny ha-ha. Funny peculiar and horrible. It hadn’t been a good day. I wasn’t going to be on television. I didn’t have any tea. I felt like getting into my own bed and pulling the covers up and having a good cry.

  But Pippa and Hank were looking up at me and I couldn’t let them down. I switched on the telly and said they could stay up as long as they liked because Mum was asleep and Mack was out. And I hunted round the room for food and found some stale sliced bread and a pot of raspberry jam.

  ‘We’re going to have a really special tea, you’ll see,’ I said, scrabbling through Mum’s handbag for her nail scissors. I got snipping and scraping and made us ultra-special jam sandwiches.

  I made a clown jam sandwich for Hank.

  I made a teddy jam sandwich for Pippa and Baby Pillow.

  And I made a great red movie-star-lip jam sandwich for me,

  and the jammy lips kissed me for being such a good girl.

  I woke up early and read my joke books in bed . . .

  Why are tall people lazier than short people? Because they’re longer in bed, ha ha!

  . . . and then Pippa woke up for a cuddle and Hank woke up for a bottle and soon it was time to get up.

  Mum didn’t wake up. Mack didn’t wake up either. He was snoring like a warthog with catarrh.

  So I had to spe
ak up to make myself heard.

  Mum stirred at last.

  ‘Will you stop that shouting, Elsa!’

  ‘I’m not shouting,’ I said, wounded. ‘I’m simply speaking up a little because that Scottish git is snoring fit to bust.’

  Mum stirred more vigorously.

  ‘Don’t you dare call Mack names like that, you cheeky little whatsit!’

  ‘But that’s what you called him just last night.’

  We started to have a little argument. I might have got a bit heated. Suddenly the warthog stopped snoring. It reared up in the bed, a horrible sight.

  ‘If you don’t stop that shouting and screaming right this minute, Elsa, I’ll give you such a smacking you’ll never dare say another word.’

  He glared at me with his bleary eyes and then slowly subsided back under the covers. Hank gave a worried hiccup. Pippa started sucking her fingers. I blinked hard at the bulk in the bed. I opened my mouth, but Pippa shook her head and clutched me with her dribbly little hands. I gave her a hug to show her it was OK. I wasn’t going to speak. Mack might be an idle lout but he doesn’t make idle threats. He always follows them through.

  I waggled my tongue very impressively at the bed instead. Muni still had her eyes open but she didn’t tell me off. When I went to take Pippa and Hank downstairs for breakfast she sat up in bed and held her arms out to me.

  ‘I’m sorry, love,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t mean to get you into trouble. You’re a good girl really, I know you are. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  I cheered up a bit then, but when we went down to breakfast the bunny lady said loudly to the switchboard lady: ‘Oh-oh, there’s one of the little trouble-makers.’ She pointed at me with a lilac fingernail to match a new purple fluffy jumper. ‘The Manager wants to see your dad in his office,’ she announced.

  ‘He’s not my dad,’ I said and walked straight past, Hank on my hip, Pippa hanging on my hand.

  ‘Mack is my dad,’ Pippa whispered. ‘Is he going to get into trouble, Elsa?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said uncomfortably. Maybe we were all in trouble. Maybe we really were going to get chucked out.

  We went to sit with Naomi and her family at breakfast. They were looking dead gloomy too. Naomi’s mum didn’t smile at me the way she usually did.

  ‘I’ll tell you a really good joke about cornflakes,’ I said.

  ‘No jokes, Elsa,’ she said, sighing.

  ‘OK, I’ll tell you this cornflake joke tomorrow. It’s a cereal,’ I said. I roared with laughter. It wasn’t that funny, but I wanted to lighten the atmosphere.

  Naomi’s mum stayed resolutely gloomy. Naomi chewed her lip anxiously. Even Nicky and Neil couldn’t crack a smile.

  ‘What’s up, eh?’ I said, starting to feed baby Nathan, playing the aeroplane game.

  He at least seemed happy enough to play, but Naomi’s mum caught hold of my arm and took away my spoon.

  ‘No, leave him be. Leave all my family be. Haven’t you done enough?’

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ said Naomi. ‘It isn’t Elsa’s fault.’

  ‘She was the one who talked you into that television interview,’ said Naomi’s mum. ‘And now the Manager says we’ll have to go.’

  ‘Well, he says we’ve got to go too. But he doesn’t mean it. He just wants to scare us,’ I said. I tried to sound reassuring but I was getting scared too. ‘Look, I’ll go and see the Manager. I’ll tell him it was all down to me if you like. Then at least you’ll be OK.’

  So after we’d had breakfast I lumped Hank along to the Manager’s office, Pippa trailing behind us. I didn’t have a hand free to knock so we just went barging straight into his office. The Manager wasn’t on his own. He wasn’t having a little cuddle with the bunny lady. He was with Mrs Hoover, and he didn’t look at all cuddly. He was telling Mrs Hoover off, wagging his finger at her.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘Why is he being nasty to you, Mrs Hoover?’

  ‘You! Out of my office this instant,’ said the Manager. ‘It’s your mum and dad I want to see, not you lot.’

  ‘I keep telling you, I haven’t got a dad. That Scottish bloke is nothing to do with me,’ I insisted.

  ‘Oh yes! Thank you for reminding me. Yes, my receptionist informs me that there’s more disgusting graffiti about a Scots person inside the ladies’ downstairs cloakroom,’ said the Manager, still wag-wag-wagging that finger at poor Mrs Hoover.

  ‘She didn’t do that! I know for a fact that Mrs Hoover didn’t write all that stuff on the walls,’ I said quickly, my heart thumping. Everyone seemed to be getting into trouble because of me and it was awful. I decided to make a clean breast of things. (What a weird expression. I haven’t got a breast yet for a start. And it wasn’t even clean because the basin in room 608 was getting so gungy I hadn’t felt very much like washing recently.)

  ‘All the Mack jokes – they’re mine,’ I said.

  The Manager and Mrs Hoover both blinked at me.

  ‘You wrote all that revolting rubbish?’ said the Manager.

  ‘I thought some of the jokes were quite funny,’ I mumbled.

  ‘You children! Vandals! Hooligans!’ said the Manager.

  ‘It was just me. Not Pippa. She can’t write yet – and even if she could, she quite likes her dad. It’s just me that can’t stick him. But you can stop telling Mrs Hoover off because, like I said, it was me.’

  ‘Oh Elsa,’ said Mrs Hoover. ‘He knows I didn’t write it, silly. He’s cross because I can’t clean it all off. Only I keep telling him, that felt-tip just won’t budge even though I scrub and scrub.’

  ‘I never see you scrubbing. The hotel is a disgrace. No wonder we have television crews traipsing in here making trouble. If I’m reported to the authorities it will be all your fault.’

  ‘If you get reported to the authorities it’ll be because you run a lousy hotel,’ said Mrs Hoover. ‘How can I possibly hope to keep a huge place like this anywhere near up to standard? Why don’t you employ more staff?’

  ‘I’ll be employing one less member of staff if you don’t watch your tongue,’ said the Manager.

  ‘All right then. That suits me. You can stick your stupid job,’ said Mrs Hoover, whipping off her overall and throwing it right in his face.

  Then she turned on her heel and flounced straight out of his office. I decided it wasn’t quite the right time to plead Naomi’s case to the Manager. I ran after Mrs Hoover instead.

  ‘Oh gosh, have you really lost your job now? And it’s my fault because I did all the scribbling on the walls,’ I wailed. ‘Oh Mrs Hoover, I’m so sorry!’

  ‘Mrs Whoosit?’ said Mrs Hoover. ‘Here, is that what you kids call me? Well, don’t you fret yourself, pet. I’ve had it up to here hoovering for that dreadful man. I’ll get another cleaning job, they’re not that hard to come by even nowadays.’

  But I couldn’t be absolutely sure she was telling the truth. I wished I was as little as Pippa so she could pick me up and give me a big hug to reassure me. I felt little inside. And stupid. And sad. And sorry.

  I was extra loud and noisy and bouncy and bossy at school to try to make myself feel big again. It didn’t work. I kept telling jokes to Funny-Face and he kept laughing, but Mrs Fisher was frowning and she made us stay in at playtime and write out I MUST LEARN TO BEHAVE PROPERLY IN THE CLASSROOM fifty times.

  Funny-Face is not very good at writing. His words wobble up over the line and slide down below it. His spelling’s a bit wobbly too. He missed out one of the ‘s’s in classroom. Mrs Fisher pointed this out huffily. I was scared she might make him do it all over again, so I tried to lighten things a little.

  ‘Why can’t you remember there are two ‘s’s in class?’ she said crossly. ‘I’ve told you enough times.’

  ‘Which ‘s’ did he leave out this time, Mrs Fisher?’ I said.

  It was a joke. A bit of a feeble one, but a joke all the same. Only Mrs Fisher just thought I was being cheeky.

  Do you know w
hat happened? We had to stay in at lunchtime too. Funny-Face had to write out CLASSROOM another fifty times, and I had to write out a fresh fifty: I MUST LEARN NOT TO BE CHEEKY IN THE CLASSROOM.

  ‘That’s silly, anyway,’ I muttered. ‘That sounds like I can be cheeky in the hall and cheeky in the corridors and cheeky in the toilets and cheeky all over the place. And I wasn’t blooming cheeky to start with. I was just joking.’

  ‘You and your *@!+!@* jokes!’ said Funny-Face, laboriously drawing ‘s’s.

  ‘Hey, don’t be like that. Listen, this boy was kept in at lunchtime just like us and his teacher said he had to write out this sentence of not less than fifty words, right? So do you know what he wrote?’

  ‘No, and I don’t care,’ said Funny-Face. ‘Here, I’ve got all these poxy ‘s’s in the right place, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes. Though hang on, you’ve started to miss out your ‘o’s now. There are two in classroom. Like us two in this classroom. But listen to the punchline bit of my joke. This boy wrote, “I went to call my cat in for the night so I stood at the door and called: ‘Here, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty . . .’”’

  ‘Shut up, Elsa.’

  ‘No, I haven’t done enough kittys – there are supposed to be fifty. And you’ve missed out another ‘o’ there – and there.’

  ‘You’ll be going O in a minute, when I punch you right in the nose,’ Funny-Face growled.

  ‘What do you give a pig with a sore nose? Oinkment,’ I said, snorting like a little pig myself because I think that’s one of my funnier jokes.

  Funny-Face didn’t think it funny at all.

  ‘Why don’t you shut your cakehole?’ he said, and he sounded so menacing I did what he said.

  I wished he hadn’t used that expression. We still hadn’t been allowed to have our dinners and I kept thinking very wistfully of cake. When horrible old Mrs Fisher eventually let us go, we had to squeeze in right at the end of second-sitting dinners, when all the goodies had long since gone. Not one chip left. We had to make do with a salad, and no-one ever chooses bunny food from choice. I know some excellent bunny jokes but I decided it might be better to keep them in their burrow in my head. Funny-Face still didn’t look ready for mirth as he chomped his way morosely through his lettuce.