by Lisa Nicol
‘It is! Yes!’ They watched as the hippo surfaced, took a breath then continued on its lunar way. ‘That’s Maggie. She’s just arrived from Tanzania, but she’s already settled in nicely. We’ve never had a hippo before so we weren’t quite sure how she’d go. Now let me help you with your bags.’
Vincent looked down at his plastic bag and beaten-up old box and felt suddenly embarrassed. He wished he had one of those fabulous wheelie suitcases. Even the homeless guy who slept at Barry Train Station had one of those! ‘Oh, I-I-I’m good. I always travel light,’ fibbed Vincent, who never travelled at all.
‘Me too,’ replied Florence. ‘There’s no need to bring the kitchen sink, is there? I wish some of our other guests were as sensible. There’s absolutely nothing you could possibly bring you won’t find at The Grand. Trust me.’
Vincent and Florence headed off. As they walked along, Vincent struggled to say anything more intelligent than ‘wow’ as he listened intently to Florence’s running commentary about the exotic animals wandering around and the gardens and the birds. Her knowledge of everything from the laws governing the import of wild animals to the climactic variations of mountainous topographies and how to cross-pollinate roses so they smelt and looked like pink lemonade was positively encyclopedic! She explained how The Grandest Hotel on Earth had been built by her great-grandparents after the war, when the world was still in shock and trying to make sense of itself.
‘… and the Wainwright-Cunninghams have run the place ever since. My parents are away on business so it’s just me at the moment.’
Vincent stopped. ‘What? Just you?’ he said, trying not to look shocked. ‘Are you really in charge of this whole hotel?’
Florence laughed. ‘Yes. Just me. And yes, I really am. When you’re a Wainwright-Cunningham such things are a fait accompli, I’m afraid.’
Vincent had no idea what a ‘fait accompli’ meant, but he figured Florence hadn’t had a lot of say in the matter.
‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t love it,’ she explained. ‘I mean who wouldn’t want to run The Grandest Hotel on Earth?’
Vincent wasn’t sure he would, for one! He took a good look at Florence. She was surely about the same age as him and not a day older. ‘So where are your parents?’
‘You mean today? Bolivia, I believe … Oh no, hang on, that was yesterday. That’s right, they took the night flight to Turkey.’ Florence looked up at the sun. ‘It’s nine forty-two here, so they’d be landing in Istanbul as we speak.’
‘And when are they back?’
‘Well, it’s three years this June so I can’t imagine they’ll be too much longer. But you never know with these sorts of expeditions. I’m hoping they’ll be back sooner rather than later. Especially if this forgetful phase keeps up. I’d hate for something to go wrong while I’m captain of the ship.’
Vincent wondered what sort of expedition could possibly take three years. What were they searching for? Life on Mars? A Himalayan yeti?
‘What about you? How long have you been shining shoes?’ asked Florence.
‘Not that long,’ replied Vincent, trying to avoid being specific, given he’d been shining shoes for the grand total of one day. ‘I inherited my grandfather’s shoe-cleaning business fairly recently.’ Vincent blinked rapidly as he stretched the truth like a piece of bubblegum. A spot next to the snack machine and a beaten-up old box of polishes could hardly be called a family business.
‘How about that!’ cried Florence. ‘We both run family businesses. I just knew when I spotted you at the train station we’d have a lot in common.’
Vincent smiled. But he couldn’t imagine why Florence would have arrived at that conclusion. He thought an octopus and box of cereal probably had more in common than the two of them.
‘Here we are,’ said Florence.
Vincent stopped in his tracks. He felt like he was in a dream, but awake at the same time. Out front was a beautiful lake, a blurry upside-down reflection of the hotel floating across the surface like a field of yellow sunflowers. In the shallows, a flock of pink flamingos, their heads held high, moved as one across the aquatic meadow. As they flicked their black beaks from side to side, Vincent thought they looked as if they were dancing a bird version of the flamenco. He was familiar with the dance because Rose did it everywhere. She stuck drawing pins in the soles of her shoes and stomped about the kitchen, cape flying, snapping her fingers high in the air like they were castanets. Rose insisted every movie star must know how to flamenco. ‘If you don’t know how to flamenco, you don’t know anything about love and if there’s one thing a movie star needs to know about, it’s love!’
‘Come and meet Rupert,’ cried Florence as she leapt, two at a time, up the front steps. Vincent, plastic bag swinging, leapt after her. As they reached the top of the stairs, two men in bright blue suits opened the doors:
‘Welcome,’ they announced, ‘to The Grandest Hotel on Earth!’
CHAPTER 4
BINOCULARS AND POCKET DOGS
Vincent dropped his bags again. His lungs stopped inflating and his eyeballs shook.
Vast and soaring, the lobby was the most magnificently beautiful room he had ever stepped foot in. A treasure chest of man and Mother Nature’s finest. Emerald-green velvet couches clustered beneath archways hanging with vines that fell like rain. Draped windows three storeys high looking out onto snow-capped peaks. Dogs asleep in front of roaring log fires. Chandeliers made from a thousand moose antlers and coloured glass lanterns that shimmered and dazzled like galaxies. Around the room, tiny ponies – no bigger than medium-sized dogs – with spectacular turquoise feathered headdresses and rainbow tails wandered about with trays on their backs delivering nibbles and drinks. In the centre, beside a clutch of palm trees and double-bass players, a fountain – filled with baby turtles – danced in time to the music. (The fountain that is, not the baby turtles. As far as I know turtles don’t dance. Although as my co-author just pointed out, only a fool would underestimate a turtle. They did, as he’s just reminded me, see off the dinosaurs and can find their way home across vast oceans. Seems unwise, if not arrogant, to suggest they couldn’t master a simple waltz or moonwalk.)
Vincent’s head rolled back and around as he watched tiny finches streak and flit across a domed gold and midnight-blue ceiling.
Suddenly he felt woozy. He started to wobble.
‘Breathe, Vincent,’ instructed Florence, before slapping him firmly in the middle of his back.
Vincent took a huge gulp of air. ‘Sorry, that keeps happening.’
‘Not at all. We’re used to a lot of fainting around here. That’s why we make sure all our staff at The Grand are well trained in resuscitation. You’ll get used to the place. Here comes Rupert.’
Vincent immediately recognised the man trotting towards them as the concierge from the market. He had a brilliantly shiny bald head and a techni-coloured moustache shaped like a smile. He also had a particular way of walking, as if his feet were a little too enthusiastic and further in front than they should to be. His hips, just as enthusiastic, added a wiggly, fallen-on-its-side-figure-eight flourish to each and every step.
‘Ah, Vincent! Welcome, welcome, welcome!’
Vincent went to shake hands, but instead Rupert pulled him into a bear hug. ‘Oh, no no no, we’re huggers here at The Grand, boy!’ Vincent strained to manoeuvre his head out of Rupert’s armpit as politely as he could so he could suck in a lungful of air. His need for oxygen was starting to resemble a fish that’d jumped out of the water and accidently landed on a rock. And in fact, that was sort of how Vincent felt – like he’d suddenly landed in another almost unrecognisable world.
‘I’ll see you later, Vincent,’ said Florence, disappearing behind the front desk. ‘I’d join you, but I have a four-truck delivery of Swiss chocolate about to arrive. If they’re not unloaded before noon, there won’t be enough chocolate for the breakfast fountains tomorrow. Peppy will take your bags.’
&nb
sp; Rupert released Vincent as Peppy – one of the dog-sized ponies – arrived to collect his bags.
‘Guest orientation’s just about to start. Come with me,’ said Rupert.
Marble fountains spurting melted chocolate splashed across Vincent’s mind as he followed Rupert’s wiggly hips over to a group of guests gathered near the palm trees. Everyone was staring up at the ceiling.
‘Looks like we have a live one,’ said Rupert.
Vincent looked up and saw what everyone was staring at. It was a young boy dangling from a moose-antler chandelier. Crikey! What’s he doing?
‘Get down, Max!’ cried the boy’s mother. ‘You’re making a spectacle of yourself! Have you forgotten what happened last time you swung from a light fitting?’
‘Your mother’s rrr-right, Max,’ agreed Rupert. ‘Although I do think you’d look marvellous with a pair of moose antlers, there’s over a hundred kilos of antler up there. Somehow I don’t think you could quite carry that off.’
Max’s mother climbed up onto an armchair and tried to grab her son by the ankle.
‘Nuh-uh,’ cried Max, pulling up his legs and sending the chandelier into a swing. This seemed to please Max, who began thrusting his body forwards and backwards to get it swinging even more. ‘Woo hoo!’
The chandelier let out a strange groan almost like a real moose.
The crowd of guests gasped and scattered.
‘Max, I beg you! Please! GET DOWN!’ cried his mother, the corners of her mouth flapping with fear and some kind of permanent crumbling exhaustion.
‘Vincent, why don’t you have a go?’ said Rupert.
‘What?’
‘Don’t panic. You’ll think of something. Everyone else, follow me. Welcome drinks are on the balcony. You must all be dying of thirst! Come, come, come,’ he gobbled, not unlike a turkey.
Everyone except Vincent and Max’s mother shuffled off at speed.
Vincent stood there in a state of shock. What on earth was he supposed to do? How on earth was he going to get mad Max down from the chandelier?
Meanwhile Max’s mother kept begging and flapping while Max kept right on swinging.
Fear filled Vincent’s stomach and climbed up his throat.
Then he had an idea.
Magic tricks! Vincent had taught himself a bunch of them – one of many failed attempts to get Thom’s attention. Anything was worth a try.
‘Hey, Max,’ he said. ‘Look at this.’ Vincent lifted up his arms and arranged his fingers so it looked as if he was pulling off the end of his thumb and putting it back on again. Max squinted to see what Vincent’s fingers were doing. Then he let go of the chandelier and fell into the armchair like a tangle of freshly cooked spaghetti into a bowl. He scrambled out and dashed over to examine Vincent’s detachable thumb.
‘Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!’ cried Max’s mother.
Vincent’s shoulders, which had been up around his ears, dropped back down into their usual position. He let out a sigh of relief and they headed off to catch up with the others.
‘Well done, Vincent,’ said Rupert, as the three of them arrived on the balcony. ‘My moustache told me you’d have that sorted out quick smart. Don’t like to boast, but I do have the most sensitive moustache this side of Kathmandu!’
Vincent gave Rupert a hesitant ‘no problem’ wave and hung at the back of the group. He couldn’t believe Rupert had appointed him with the task of rescuing Max! Did he usually outsource disaster management to eleven-year-old new arrivals? What if Max had fallen? Or the chandelier? And what on earth is a sensitive moustache?
‘Now gather rrr-round, gather rrr-round, gather rrr-round, everyone, and welcome to The Grandest Hotel on Earth!’ announced Rupert.
The view from the balcony was magnificent. You could see from one side of the valley right across to the other. Vincent began to recover and took a first real look at his fellow guests. He was surprised by what a mixed bunch they were. He had assumed everyone at The Grandest Hotel on Earth would be super posh, and some were, but others looked like they’d just knocked off work from FishyKittys. Their clothes were old. Their eyes tired. Their shoes scuffed.
‘My name’s Rrr-rupert,’ he continued with a drum-rolling ‘R’. ‘I’m the concierge here at The Grand. If you need anything, I’m your man. Don’t be shy. There’s not a rrr-request or problem I haven’t heard before. Rrr-right. First things first. Transport. As you can see, the hotel grounds are rrr-rather vast. At the bottom of the stairs here we have Guest Transport,’ Rupert signalled with both his hands not unlike the way cabin crew do on an aircraft when pointing out the exits in a safety demonstration. ‘Here you can collect a jet pack or llama, whichever you’d prefer.’
Jet pack or llama! Are you kidding me? Vincent had no doubt what he’d be choosing and it didn’t rhyme with chicken parmigiana.
‘Of course you’re more than welcome to walk,’ added Rupert. ‘We have old-fashioned maps for rrr-ramblers. Ah, wonderful!’ Rupert clapped his hands together. ‘Here come welcome drinks, binoculars and pocket dogs.’
Pocket dogs! Vincent’s heart skipped a beat. Pocket dogs! He spun round to see a line of hotel staff wheeling trollies towards them. One trolley was full of smoking, multicoloured drinks decorated with slices of fruit and cocktail umbrellas. Another trolley had rows and rows of black binoculars stacked high like some modern art sculpture. And the last trolley had a woven basket full of tiny, tiny dogs, their front paws and noses just poking over the edge.
Vincent had always wanted a dog. He’d asked for one every birthday and Christmas since he could say ‘woof woof’. But Barry was a cat town. That was because everyone who worked at FishyKittys was entitled to half-price cat food. Unfortunately for Vincent though Thom enjoyed squeezing cats, which at no time had turned out well – for Thom or the cat. So Vincent had never actually had a pet of any description. Unless you include the time he built an ant farm in a jam jar. But it’s hard to love an ant.
‘Pocket dogs stay with you for the duration of your time at The Grand and, yes, of course they’re allowed to sleep in your bed!’ Rupert swivelled towards the middle trolley. ‘Binoculars, now these are not your garden variety. And at this altitude the sky’s clear enough to see the golf balls those messy Apollo astronauts left on the moon.’
‘Ooh, I want to see,’ cried Max. He snatched a pair of binoculars off the trolley. Regrettably he picked a pair from the bottom of the pile, not the top, sending the entire sculpture tumbling to the floor.
‘Oh my gawd!’ groaned Max’s mother. She grabbed another smoking drink, tipped it down her throat and began eating the small umbrella on the side.
Vincent felt bad for her. He knew exactly what it was like to be with the badly behaved kid. People looked at you as if it was somehow your fault.
‘Never mind, never mind, never mind,’ said Rupert, who had a habit of saying things in threes. Half a dozen staff appeared out of nowhere and began gathering up the binoculars and stacking them back on the trolley. Rupert smiled at Max’s mother. He took her hand and gave it an understanding squeeze.
‘Over this way, boys,’ said the parents of three large youngsters with noses that would have made excellent ski jumps at any Winter Olympics. ‘Come and choose a rocket dog! They look just like those critters you love blowing up in Battle for Beejaa III.’ Mr and Mrs Ski-Jump-for-a-Nose jostled their offspring as far away from Max and his crumbling mother as they could.
With eyes glued to their phones, the boys had not yet noticed a single thing going on around them. Not Max swinging from the chandelier, not the spilt binoculars and not the trolley full of pocket dogs. The three boys grunted and whined that they were right in the middle of a game.
‘We’ll pass on the rocket dogs,’ announced Mrs Ski-Jump-for-a-Nose. ‘Our boys are not really fond of animals. In fact they’re not very fond of living things.’
‘If we’re not having snocket dogs, I’ll be expecting some sort of discount,’ announced Mr Ski-Jump-for-
a-Nose to no one in particular.
(Rupert was used to extremely wealthy guests asking for discounts. They were often very attached to their money.)
‘Aw they’re SO CUTE!’ squealed a lanky girl with blue hair – not unlike the colour of Vincent’s favourite sports drink. ‘I want two.’
‘There’s just one dog each, Chelsea dear,’ explained her father.
‘Well, I’m having two because I’m such a big animal lover.’
‘All right, dear,’ replied her father, his droopy eyes and droopy arms drooping a fraction more. ‘You have mine. I’ll go without.’
‘Yay!’ Chelsea began fishing about in the basket, examining and tossing dogs aside as if she was selecting a piece of fruit.
Hovering to one side of the basket and clutching his hands together, Vincent waited excitedly while the other guests made their selection. His eyes were locked on a shaggy black-and-white pup sitting smack bang in the middle of the basket. It was no bigger than a teacup and the cutest dog he had ever seen.
When it was finally Vincent’s turn, he was almost trembling. A tingling feeling spread out from his feet and trickled down into each toe.
Only one dog remained.
It was the shaggy black-and-white pup he’d had his eye on.
He reached in and looked at her name tag: Jess.
‘Jess. Hello, Jess,’ he whispered. The puppy looked up at Vincent with big smiling eyes. The entire world around them blurred into a colourful smudge. Sound evaporated and time was swept away by the wind. Vincent scooped Jess up, but just as he was lifting her out of the basket a hand smashed through the colourful smudge, swooped down and snatched Jess right out of his hand.
‘Awww, this one’s even cuter!’ squealed Chelsea. She tossed her first choice of pup back into the basket and, with a dog in each hand, sashayed off to show her father.
Vincent was flabbergasted! He looked down at the poor fluffy ginger pup she’d just discarded. He gently picked it up and gave it a cuddle. He could feel its tiny heart thumping. Vincent flipped over her name tag: Min.