by Heide Goody
“We are fully complemented with all modern services,” said the woman. “Tea and coffee making facilities.”
“Sorry?”
“No, you’re fine. You’re fine. You’ve not booked, but I do have a family room available.”
It was a hotel, Esther realised. A small hotel. Maybe a bed and breakfast. There was a tiny reception desk but the hall was big enough to suggest a large grand house with lots of bedrooms. The visible décor, dark and heavily patterned, reminded Esther of guesthouses she had stayed in when she was a child.
“Ah, no,” said Dave. “We don’t need a room, we just want to use the phone.”
“I did say,” said Esther.
“And is that all your luggage?” asked the woman. “People carry so much of it these days.”
“The phone,” said Dave. “Our car’s been vandalised.”
“Well, no one’s going anywhere in this weather, are they?” said the woman. “Come in. Boots there. You too, little miss.”
Guin slid her shoes off.
“No, we’re not staying,” Esther tried to explain. “We need to call the police.”
“Nearest is over in Great Eccles. Has something happened?”
“Our car,” said Dave.
“Ah, so it will wait.”
“I’d rather be the judge of that,” he said with forced reasonableness.
“Now, dinner is in thirty minutes.”
“No dinner,” said Esther.
“Should I put my shoes back on?” said Guin.
“Have you got somewhere else booked?” asked the woman.
“It’s not that—” said Dave.
“I didn’t think so. This close to Christmas. But we’re always open for guests. Otherwise it’s just my husband and I, and King Leopold of Belgium. And the cats, of course.”
“Cats?” said Newton.
“The phone,” said Dave.
“Of course,” she said and stepped aside to reveal an old dial telephone on the reception desk, next to a hideous and misshapen statue of a horse.
“Right,” Dave said, picking up the receiver to dial 999.
“Are we staying here?” Newton whispered to Esther.
“I hope not,” she whispered back.
“Did she say she lives with the king of Belgium?” whispered Guin.
Esther pulled a helpless face.
“There’s no tone,” said Dave and rattled the receiver cradle.
“Snow on the line,” said the woman. “Always causing problems.”
“Isn’t that trains?” said Newton.
“It’ll sort itself out soon enough. And, besides,” the woman smiled, “no one’s going anywhere in this weather. Now, let me take your coats and hang them up to dry while you get settled.”
Esther sighed and shrugged out of her coat.
“We’re staying?” said Dave.
“Are we?” said Newton.
“Is the car driveable?” said Esther. “If you can’t get through to the breakdown people…”
“Can’t we call a taxi?” said Guin.
“Same phone,” said Dave. “How much is the room for the night?” he asked the woman.
“We have so few guests this time of year,” she replied. “What seems reasonable?”
Dave laughed faintly. Esther could hear a note of hysteria in it. “Let’s sort that out later,” she said, taking off her coat.
The woman opened a large cupboard door, hanging up Esther’s first coat and then the others as offered.
“As I was saying, dinner is in thirty minutes. None of you have any of those special dietary requirements.” It was said as a statement not a question. “My husband would normally help you with your luggage, but Mr Scruples is out at the moment. You are welcome to inspect your room, or you can relax in our guest lounge.”
“Yes, the room,” said Esther.
“Of course,” said Mrs Scruples in a tone that suggested they had picked the wrong option. “I will just go and get the key.”
***
21
“But I don’t have a bag!” Guin pointed out as they tramped up the stairs behind Mrs Scruples. “I’m not packed for a night away.”
“Well, we weren’t planning this,” said her dad in a low voice. “And, if we’re lucky, we might still get away tonight. I wouldn’t have exactly picked this place.”
He looked up and around. The staircase was a broad U-shape, a spiral with only one turn and a grandfather clock placed on the large step of the turn. The high walls around were lined with tartan wallpaper and deep shelves. Mrs Scruples had said she had cats. The shelves were lined with them; gingers, tortoiseshells, fluffy white things, black cats with yellow eyes and fur like midnight. Guin counted at least twenty of them. All were dead and stuffed in straight-backed upright seated poses.
“My, that is a lot of cats,” said Newton politely.
“Were they all yours?” asked Esther.
“I didn’t steal them,” snapped Mrs Scruples. “Here.”
She rattled a key in the lock Guin followed the others into a room. It was large, larger than any room they had at home. There was a big double bed, high like it belonged in The Princess and the Pea or some other fairy tale. There was a set of bunkbeds on the near wall between the sink and a wardrobe so huge and old it probably led to Narnia. A further door led to a little bathroom. On the furthest wall, a tall Georgian window bordered by heavy curtains overlooked the town square. There were the dots of fairy lights and the swirl of heavy snow. Everything else out there was black.
“Now, I must show you how the bath and shower work,” said Mrs Scruples. “We have one of those American mixer taps and they can be quite confusing if—” She faltered. There was the sound of a doorbell, playing Westminster chimes. “Another guest? We are popular tonight.”
“Maybe it’s your husband,” suggested Dave.
“No,” she said, soft and sombre. “No, it won’t be him. I’ll leave you to settle in.” And, with that, she was gone.
Guin stood in the centre of the room. A double bed and bunkbeds. Four beds. Four of them.
“We’re not staying, are we?” said Guin.
Her dad closed the door. “It’s not ideal,” he agreed.
“We discussed this.” Guin glared at him, jerked her head at Newton, pointed at the bunkbed and glared at her dad again. Through this silently furious pantomime, she hoped it was perfectly clear she was not okay with sharing a bedroom with the new boy.
“You promised,” she said between gritted teeth.
“It’s not ideal,” her dad repeated which was useless and very much a dad answer.
“Top or bottom, Guin?” said Newton, testing the mattresses.
She wanted to answer “Neither!” loudly and angrily, but that might mean Newton got to pick. She rapidly weighed up the pros and cons: having to climb past him while he watched if she was on top, the thought of having the big lump of a boy directly above her if she took bottom.
“I don’t snore,” said Newton, smiling.
“Top,” she said, immediately stomping up the little ladder and throwing herself on the mattress. The springs creaked like a mechanical donkey being tortured. At least she was elevated above them all. If she tried really hard, she could pretend they didn’t exist.
She laid out the few possessions she had with her. She opened her new wooden box and took out four of her creations. She placed them along the guard rail around the top of the bed – Bertie O’Cork, Scampious, Tinfoil Tavistock and Wiry Harrison. Tim the Robot stayed in the box because he was tired and in no mood to explore this stupid room in this stupid hotel.
The five pointed star fashioned from twigs and string which she’d been careful not to break she hung on the corner of the bed. She then opened the book she had found, the one which the silly woman in the big fur hat had clearly dropped.
There was no title on the cover but on the first proper page inside it said:
CHARGE OF THE SPRITE BRIGADE– THE ORIGINS OF LIT
TLE FOLK IN EUROPEAN FOLKLORE
DR EPIPHANY ALEXANDER
SHEFFIELD ACADEMIC PRESS
Underneath was written in biro:
Property of Elsa Frinton, B.A. Hons!!!
The B.A Hons bit was added in a different colour pen. Clearly, this Elsa Frinton (probably the woman with the flappy hat and no sense of who was around her) was very pleased with her B.A. Hons, whatever one of them was.
“There’s no wi-fi,” said Newton from the bottom bunk.
“We can ask the hotel manager about it when we go down,” said Esther.
“No, mum,” he said. “There’s literally no wi-fi. No networks of any kind.”
“Wow,” she said, faintly sarcastic. “It’s like we’ve travelled back in time to the nineteen nineties.”
“More like eighteen nineties,” said Dave, inspecting the décor. “You’ve picked a fine place here for us, Esther.”
“What did you want us to do?” she said.
“Don’t argue,” said Newton.
“We’re not arguing,” Esther and Dave said as one.
“Just don’t.”
“Look, we’re not arguing. We’re getting on just fine. Isn’t that right, smoochy-poos?” said Esther in a simpering lovey-dovey voice.
“It certainly is, pumpkin,” said Guin’s dad in an equally drippy tone.
Guin didn’t look up from her book – she didn’t want to – but when they began to make overly dramatic kissing noises she made a sharp and angry sound.
“Get a room, you two!” she said. “Everyone. Get a room. Not this room. Another room.”
“All right, all right,” said her dad. “Hey, Newton. How about we give these girls some space. Allow them to relax and freshen up before whatever delights Mrs Scruples is serving us for dinner. There might – might! – even be wi-fi downstairs.”
“Unlikely,” said Newton.
“Hey, it's Christmas, Newton, the time of miracles.”
***
22
When they stepped out onto the landing, Newton could hear the sound of music from downstairs. It was Christmas music, kind of like that old White Christmas song but not that one.
Dave heard it too and smiled. “Can’t beat a bit of Bing.”
“You could try,” said Newton.
“Ah, makes it feel all kind of Christmassy,” he said, heading for the stairs. “All of us snug inside. Snowing outside. Music. The smell of overcooked vegetables. The decorations.”
“Twenty stuffed cats?” said Newton.
“Sure. They’re in the extended version of The Twelve Days of Christmas.”
Newton loved animals and he loved cats. He wasn’t sure how he felt about them dead and stuffed and staring at him from on high.
“Look,” said Dave, “they’ve got an elf on the shelf. That’s Christmassy.”
He was right. On one of the lower shelves, tucked between a cross-eyed ginger and a fluffed up moggy was a little Christmas elf, dressed in red and green. At the end of his floppy striped legs were pointed boots with fur trimming.
“So, it is.”
Its round face was turned to look at them, its big blue eyes wide.
“Not at all creepy,” said Dave.
They went downstairs and followed the hallway as it turned right, and along the considerable width of the building. Behind a potted plant Newton saw a dumbwaiter built into the wood-panelled wall next to the guest lounge. He’d never seen one outside a Hollywood movie. He was about to point it out to Dave when there was as prolonged crash of pots and pans from behind a door at the far end of the corridor.
“You all right in there?” called Dave.
There was no reply.
Dave pushed open the door. Steam and a fug of boiled potatoes and sprouts rolled out into the hallway. Amongst multiple hobs and ovens and industrial kitchen equipment, Mrs Scruples battled against a cascade of oven trays and a wide scattering of roast potatoes.
“You all right?” Dave repeated.
Mrs Scruples plucked the roasties off the tiled floor one by one, dropping them back in the pan and trying not to burn her fingers. “Three second rule. Ow. Three second rule. Ow.”
“Let me help,” said Dave.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” insisted the hotelier.
“I can help,” said Newton.
“Too many cooks,” said Mrs Scruples.
“You’ll burn yourself,” said Dave. With a glance towards Newton of the ‘go on, I’ll deal with this’ variety, he slipped into the kitchen.
“I could have helped,” said Newton to no one. He went to explore.
Back along the hall a bit was the guest lounge. It was empty, of people at least. It appeared to have been entered into a how much furniture could be crammed into one room competition. There were eight over-stuffed armchairs and two sofas. All of them covered with blankets and those doily-type headrest covers. The thick carpet was layered with three overlapping rugs. Even the television in the corner had a table cloth over the top of it. To top that, every flat surface had ornaments on it. There were five table lamps. There was a china shepherdess, a pottery shire horse – the twin of the one on the reception desk – palely-glazed willowy women and forlorn children. There were three potted plants. And amongst all of that, room had been found for a Christmas tree, sprawling over the two sofas it had been planted between.
In the eye-watering detail of the crowded room, Newton forgave himself for not spotting the parrot sooner. It sat in a bell-shaped cage hanging from a heavy metal stand in the corner. It was a massive bird, bigger than any parrot he’d seen before. If a turkey went to a fancy-dress party as a cockatoo it still wouldn’t come close to the bulk of the thing.
Newton knew that parrots were intelligent creatures and lived a surprisingly long time. He wasn’t sure if they also grew bigger with age. This one certainly looked old. It was grey and blue and slowly regarded Newton.
“Hey, boy,” he said in a chirpy voice to see if he’d get a response.
The parrot repositioned itself, foot to foot, on its perch.
“Who’s a pretty boy then?” Newton tried in his best parrot squawk.
Nothing.
He approached cautiously. The bars of the cage were widely spaced. Not wide enough for the parrot to escape through, but enough for a hungry-slash-angry bird to lunge through and attack an unwary finger or nose.
“Let me guess,” said Newton. “You’re King Leopold of Belgium.”
It was a rational conclusion and allowed Newton to dismiss the possibility their host, Mrs Scruples, was a raving nutter. Unless King Leopold of Belgium was one of the dead cats. That didn’t seem any less mad.
Newton tried a few more “Hello”s and “Who’s a pretty boy then?”s, but the parrot was having none of it. It flexed its beak a little and gave him its full attention, one eye at a time, but did not indulge him in any parrot-speech.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, your majesty,” said Newton, who felt that politeness should be extended to all living things. “I’d best see if we’re staying for dinner.” He turned to leave.
“Stumid bmmy bfftrd,” muttered the parrot.
Newton looked back.
“Sorry?”
The parrot looked at him dumbly.
“Right,” said Newton and walked towards the door.
“Slly blmmy twrrt.”
Newton whirled. The parrot looked nonchalantly away. Newton squinted at it. King Leopold whistled a jaunty and innocent tune.
“It’s not polite to swear at people behind their back,” said Newton and left.
“Dffft bgger,” muttered the parrot.
***
23
Dave tried to assist Mrs Scruples in the kitchen but she firmly ejected him. He resisted momentarily, curious to know if she intended to serve up roast potatoes that had been thrown all over the floor.
“Bang the gong, if you must,” she said, “then take your seat.”
“Gong?” He found it back by the di
ning room, near the reception area. It was burnished brass, the size of a dustbin lid, and looked like an oversized pound coin.
“A gong to summon the diners,” he murmured. “How—” Quaint? Old-fashioned? Ridiculous? Very Fawlty Towers?
He struck it with enthusiasm, because there were limited opportunities in life for gong hitting. Newton appeared almost instantly.
“Good gong that,” said Dave and led the way into the dining room. There was one long table, laid out with silver cutlery and white crockery and one diner already seated. He recognised the cravat and the cable-knit jumper, but couldn’t quite place him. The man had called him “squire” several times, Dave remembered that much.
“Evening,” said Dave.
The man’s face at once became ebullient and alive. “And good evening to you! Not mein host is it? Fellow travellers perhaps? Also lodging at Madame Scruples hostelry.”
He stood and offered Dave a chubby hand. As he opened his mouth to introduce himself, Dave remembered his name.
“Duncan Catheter.”
“My reputation precedes me, squire,” said the man with a humble blush.
“We met,” said Dave. “Earlier.”
“We did?”
“We were eating pretzels,” said Newton. “Five pound ones.”
“’Tis the season,” said Duncan Catheter.
“And then I told you about my mum supporting Buy Nothing Day.”
“Oh, yes,” said Duncan Catheter, the horror of the memory returning. “I’d be fascinated to discuss that with her,” he added, although Dave suspected ‘fascinated’ wasn’t quite the right word.
“This is her,” said Newton as his mum and Guin entered.
“Did someone actually hit the gong?” asked Guin.
“I did,” said Dave proudly.
“I want to hit the gong,” she said.
“Another time. Two gongs might mean double the dinner.”
“Did you tell the woman about my allergies?”
“You don’t have any allergies.”
“That you know of.”
Esther nodded in greeting to Duncan Catheter.
“The Buy Nothing mother,” said Duncan. “Delighted to meet you, m’lady.”
