‘I’ll try harder,’ I said desperately. ‘I’ll try a new set of jokes, OK? Or I could put on a silly voice . . . ?’
‘Why not use your own voice, Elsa? And why do you have to try so hard? Just be yourself. Act natural,’ said the television man, chucking me under the chin. ‘Let’s start again, hmm? Tell us in your own words exactly what happened.’
‘But if I just say any old thing, without any jokes, then I’m not funny,’ I wailed.
‘Who says you’ve got to be funny?’
‘Well, I want to be a comedienne and get to be famous.’
‘You don’t have to be funny to be famous. And we don’t really want people chortling when this goes out on the news. We want to touch the heart. We’ve got a super story here. You’re a great little kid, Elsa. You’ll come over really well on television if you just relax.’
‘It’s kind of difficult to act relaxed when you’re standing on the pavement in your T-shirt and knickers and a whole bunch of strangers are asking you questions,’ I said, sighing.
I wasn’t trying to be funny. But the weirdest thing happened. Everyone chuckled appreciatively.
‘So what happened, Elsa? You woke up in the middle of the night and . . . ?’
And so I started to tell them exactly what happened. I said I thought the smell was someone cooking chips and I started – to get peckish and slipped out of bed to go and beg a few chips for myself. (They laughed again.) Then I told about tripping over Pippa’s My Little Pony. (More laughter – and I still hadn’t told a single joke!) Then I went on about the fire and dashing up and down the corridor banging on the doors and yelling. (I waited for them to laugh again, but this time they listened spellbound.) The television man asked what I’d yelled and I said ‘Fire’ and he said that wasn’t very loud and I said well, I did it a lot louder. And he said show us. So I did. I threw back my head and roared.
‘F-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-R-E!!!’
That nearly blew them all backwards. Most people had their hands over their ears. Some shook their heads, dazed. Then someone laughed. They all joined in. Someone else cheered. Someone else did too. Lots of cheers. For me. FOR ME!
It really was my Moment of Fame. I hadn’t blown it after all.
My interview went out on the television. I thought I sounded sort of stupid, but everyone else said it went splendidly. (Well, Mum moaned because her hair was a sight and she didn’t have any make-up on, and Mack fussed because they’d cut out most of his bits and he was only shown from the waist up so no-one could see his great hairy legs.) But they didn’t cut any of my bits.
I might not have made it into the Children in Crisis documentary. But guess what. My news interview was repeated later in the year in a special compilation programme called Children of Courage. And I got to do another interview with a nice blonde lady with big teeth, and Mum spent some of Mack’s betting money on a beautiful new outfit from the Flowerfields Shopping Centre for my special telly appearance. Mum made me try on lots of frilly frocks but they all looked awful.
So she gave up and let me choose instead. I wanted black jeans (so they wouldn’t show the dirt). Mum bought me a black top too, and tied her red scarf round my neck, and then guess what we found at a car-boot sale? Red cowboy boots! They were a bit big but we stuffed the toes with paper and I looked absolutely great.
The blonde lady with the big teeth loved my outfit too. She said I looked just like a cowboy. I was a bit nervous so without thinking I got launched into a cowboy joke routine.
‘Who wears a cowboy hat and spurs and lives under the sea? Billy the Squid!’
She laughed! It wasn’t that funny, one of my oldest jokes actually, but she laughed and laughed and laughed. She said she loved jokes, the older and cornier the better, and she said I could maybe come on her special show one day and do my own comedy routine !!!!!
We couldn’t go back to bed in room 608 when the firemen put the fire out at last. It wasn’t all burnt to bits. It was only the kitchen that had cooked itself into little black crumbs. But the whole corridor was thick with smoke and sloshy with water and all the rooms looked as if someone had run amok with giant paint-brushes and vats of black paint. All our stuff was covered in this black treacle, and there was a sharp smell that scratched at your nostrils.
‘Sorry, folks. You’ll have to stay in temporary accommodation for a few weeks,’ said the Chief Fireman, shaking his head.
He looked surprised when all the residents of the Royal gave a hearty cheer. The Manager was prancing about in his silk boxer shorts, pointing out that only a few of the rooms were seriously fire damaged, and that the first few floors were barely affected. There was a lot of rushing around consulting, and eventually it was decided that only the people living on the top two floors need be evacuated.
Us sixth-floor and fifth-floor people hugged and danced and shouted. All the other residents booed and argued and complained. Naomi and I had a big hug because she’s on the fifth floor so she could come too. Then Funny-Face came and clapped hands with me because though he’s on the fourth floor their room is right below the burnt kitchen and water had swirled right down through the room underneath and was dripping through to them, so they couldn’t stay either.
We were all ferried off in police cars and coaches to this church hall, where several big bossy ladies with cardigans over their nighties handed out blankets and pillows and sleeping bags. They gave us paper cups of hot soup too – which we needed, because the church hall was freezing. The floor was slippery lino and fun to skid across in your socks, but not exactly cosy or comfy when we settled down to go to sleep. I didn’t exactly rate bed number eight – and it soon got crowded because Pippa unzipped my sleeping bag and stuck herself in too. She kept having nightmares and twitching and I had to keep waking her up and dragging her off to the toilet because I was all too aware of what would happen if I didn’t.
There was only one toilet and there were queues for it all night long. It was worse in the morning. There was only the one small washbasin too, and most people didn’t have their toothbrushes or flannels or towels anyway.
‘I don’t know why we were flipping cheering last night,’ said Mum, trying to wipe round Hank’s sticky face with a damp hankie. ‘Compared with this draughty old dump the Royal is practically a palace.’
‘We can’t stay here,’ said Mack, sitting up and scratching. ‘I’m going right down that Housing Department first thing.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Mum, looking at him. ‘You’re walking down the road in your underpants, right? Don’t forget you haven’t even got any trousers any more. And look at me! This is all I’ve got – the old nightie that I’m wearing. All my clothes, all my make-up, my crinoline-lady ornament . . . all gone! Even if they’re not ruined by that smoke then someone will be bound to nick them before I can get back to claim them.’ She started to cry so I went and put my arms round her.
‘Don’t cry, Mum,’ I said, hugging her tight. ‘You’ve still got us.’
Mum snuffled a bit but then hugged me back.
‘Yes, that’s right, Elsa. I’ve still got my family. My Mack. My baby. My little girl. And my special big girl.’
The special big girl went a bit snuffly herself then. I was glad that Funny-Face in the next row of sleeping bags was still fast asleep or he might have jeered. He looked oddly little, snuggled up under the blanket. And he sucked his thumb and all!
More big bossy ladies breezed into the hall and started heating up a big urn of tea. They had lots of packets of biscuits too. I helped hand them round to everyone. We could have seconds and even thirds. A Bourbon, a shortbread finger and a chocolate Hob Nob make quite a good breakfast.
Then the ladies started dragging in great black plastic sacks crammed with clothes.
‘Come and help yourselves! There should be enough for a new outfit for everyone.’
‘Oh, big deal,’ Mum grumbled. ‘It’s just tatty old junk left over from jumbles. I’m not wearing anyone�
�s old Crimplene cast-offs.’
She watched Funny-Face’s mum trying to squeeze herself into a tight black skirt.
‘She’s wasting her time. She’ll never get that over her big bum,’ Mum mumbled, and when Funny-Face’s mum had to give up the attempt, Mum darted out and snatched the skirt herself.
‘There! I thought so! That’s a Betty Barclay skirt. I’ve seen them on sale in Flowerfields. Hey, look, does it fit?’ Mum pulled it up over her narrow hips and stood preening. ‘I wonder if there’s a jacket to go with it, eh?’
Mum started skimming her way through the plastic sacks and came up with all sorts of goodies – even a pair of patent high heels her exact size. She had more trouble finding stuff for Mack, considering the only size he takes is out-size. She found a jumper that could just about go round him, but the biggest trousers could barely do up and the legs ended way above his ankles. Hank was a bit of a problem too – there were heaps of baby clothes, but he’s such a big baby that the average one-year-old’s sleeping suit came unpopped every time he breathed out and bent him up double into the bargain. Pippa was fine, fitting all the little frocks a treat, but I looked such a fool in the only one my size that Mum threw it back in the pile. (Naomi tried it on instead and looked gorgeous, but then she always does.) Funny-Face was delving in a sack of boys’ clothes so I had a sift through too and found some jeans and a jumper and a really great baseball bomber jacket with a picture of a lion on the back!
‘Well, we’re all kitted out like a dog’s dinner, but we’ve still got no place to go,’ said Mack.
But he was wrong.
Oh, you’ll never guess where we ended up!
Someone from the Social and the man from the Housing Office came round to the church hall to tell us. We were all going to be temporarily accommodated in another hotel. Not a special bed-and-breakfast DHS dumping ground. A real hotel. The Star Hotel. With stars after its name.
When we stepped through those starry glass doors it was like finding fairyland. There were soft sofas all over the reception area, and thick red carpet and flowers in great vases, and a huge chandelier sparkled from the ceiling. All us lot from the Oyal Htl crowded into the reception area, and Mum and Mack and Naomi’s mum and Funny-Face’s mum and dad and all the other grown-ups sprawled on the sofas while we all ran round and round the red carpet and up and down the wide staircase and rang all the bells on the lifts.
The Star Manager came out of his office to meet us. He didn’t look terribly thrilled to see us, but he shook us all by the hand, even the littlest stickiest kid, and welcomed us to the Star Hotel. Then there was a lot of hoo-ha and argy-bargy about rooms, with the Manager and his chief receptionist going into a huddle. This receptionist was dark instead of blonde, and fierce instead of fluffy, but she also had long pointy fingernails and she started to tap them very impatiently indeed. But at last it was all sorted out and she handed all of us little cards instead of keys.
We were in suite 13. It might be an unlucky number for some people, but it was lucky lucky lucky for us.
Note I said suite, not room. As we shot up one floor in the lift and padded along the thickly carpeted corridor, Pippa licked her lips hopefully, thinking we were going to be given a sweety sweet. Even I didn’t twig what suite really meant.
Suite 13 wasn’t just one room. It was a set of three rooms, just like a little flat. Only there was nothing little about suite 13. It was really big – and beautiful. The main room was blue, with deeper blue velvet curtains and a dark blue coverlet on the huge bed. There was a painting on the wall of a boy in a blue velvet suit and a blue glass vase on the bedside table filled with little blue pretendy rosebuds. There was a dressing table with swivel mirrors so you could see the back of your head, and a blue leather folder containing notepaper and envelopes, and a blue felt-tip pen patterned with stars. There was a big television too – a colour one – and it even had Sky!
There was a bathroom leading off this main room. It was blue too, with a blue bath, blue basin, even a blue loo. They all shone like the sea they were so sparkly clean. Laid out on the gleaming tiled shelf were little blue bottles of shampoo and bath gel and tiny cakes of forget-me-not soap. Mum sniffed them rapturously, her eyes shining.
Mack kicked his shoes off and lay on the big bed, Hank sitting astride his tummy. The bed was so big that even Mack could fit right inside it, and his feet wouldn’t stick out at the end. I thought we might all have to fit inside it, because it was the only bed in the room.
Then I saw another door and opened it. There was another bedroom, with three single beds, three little beside tables, and three little wooden chairs with carved hearts and painted roses. It was just like the three bears fairy story – and there were bears on the duvets too, and a painting of Goldilocks up on the wall. The carpet and wallpaper were pale blue but the ceiling was a deep navy, with stars scattered all over it. That night when I slept in my wonderful, soft, splendid bed number nine I could still see the stars, even with the light switched off. They glowed luminously in the dark, my own magic midnight stars. I didn’t want to sleep, just in case this was all a wonderful dream and when I woke up I’d be back in the grotty old Oyal Htl.
But it wasn’t a dream at all. I woke up early and lay luxuriating in my bed and then I crept into Mum and Mack’s room. They were all cuddled up together, looking friendly even though they were fast asleep. I sat down at the dressing table and practised a few funny faces and then I took a piece of paper and the felt-tip pen and wrote letters to all my friends.
There! I used up all the notepaper and gave myself a big appetite for breakfast.
Ooooh the breakfast! You have it in a lovely room with a dark pink swirly carpet and pink fuzzy paper on the walls and rose-pink cloths on the tables. You sit at a table and spread a rose-pink napkin on your lap and a waitress in a black frock and a white apron comes and asks what you want to drink. Then you go and help yourself to whatever you want to eat from the breakfast bar. You can have whatever you want. Lots and lots and lots of it.
Even Mum had more breakfast than usual. She had freshly squeezed orange juice and black coffee and toast and butter and marmalade.
Mack had tea and a bowl of porridge because he’s Scottish and then he had a big plate of bacon and egg and mushroom and fried potatoes and more bacon because that’s his favourite, and he tucked the extra bacon into toast to make a bacon butty.
Pippa didn’t copy me! She chose all by herself. Apple juice and Cocoa Pops and milk and a soft white roll and butter and honey.
Hank had hot milk and a little bowl of porridge like his dad and a runny egg and tiny toast soldiers. He loved this breakfast and wanted to wave his arms about to show his appreciation and he dropped a few crumbs (more than a few, actually) on the carpet, but no-one seemed to mind and the waitress tickled him under the chin and said he was a chubby little cherub!
Mum and Mack and Pippa and Hank all knew exactly what they wanted for breakfast. I was the one who simply couldn’t decide because it all looked so delicious. So guess what. I had almost all of it.
I had milky tea and cranberry juice and cornflakes sprinkled with rainbow sugar and then muesli with extra sultanas and apple rings and then scrambled egg on toast with tomato sauce and then sausages stuck in a long roll to make a hot dog and then a big jammy Danish pastry and I ate it all up, every little bit. It was the best breakfast ever.
What with the cranberry juice and the cherry jam in the pastry I ended up looking like Dracula. And that reminded me of a Dracula breakfast joke and that got me started.
I told jokes to Mum and Mack and Pippa and Hank and I shouted them to Naomi and Funny-Face across the tables and I tried them out on our waitress too because she seemed friendly and she said I was a proper caution.
Do you want to hear a small sample?
What does Dracula like for breakfast?
Readyneck.
What do ghosts like for breakfast?
Dreaded wheat.
What do cannibals
like for breakfast?
Buttered host.
What do Frenchmen eat for breakfast?
Huit heures bix.
How would a cannibal describe a man in a hammock?
Breakfast in bed.
What happens when a baby eats Rice Krispies?
It goes snap, crackle and poop.
I must stop rabbiting on like this. Well. Just one more.
What do you get if you pour boiling water down a rabbit hole?
Hot cross bunnies!
I’m not hot. I feel super-cool.
I’m not cross. I’m happy happy happy.
I’m not a bunny. I’m Elsa and I roar like a lion.
Hey, what do you get if you cross a lion with a parrot?
I don’t know, but if he says ‘Pretty Polly’ you’d better
SMILE
Table of Contents
Cover
Table of Contents
Copyright
The Bed and Breakfast Star
Bed
Bed and Breakfast
Tea at McDonald’s
Sugar Sandwiches for Breakfast
Sweets for Treats
Mega-Feast for Lunch
One Slurpy Square of Yorkie Bar
Pizza and Porky-Pies
Television and no Tea
Kentucky Chicken Takeaways
We Nearly Have Our Chips!
My Best and Biggest Ever Breakfast
The Bed and Breakfast Star Page 10
