by Lisa Nicol
‘Of course. Any drinks, sir?’
‘Ah, a smoking raspberry soda please. Actually, make that two.’ Vincent had no idea what made the smoking sodas smoke – how’s that for a tongue twister? – but he couldn’t get enough of them.
Vincent dipped his last now-cold hot chip in a bit of popcorn and melted ice-cream and sat back against a wall of the softest pillows. Min was curled up on his tummy, which was so full he looked like he’d swallowed a bowling ball.
Trying not to disturb her, he reached across for the phone and called home.
Thom was screaming in the background. ‘Vincent!’ his mother yelled over the din. ‘How is it?’
‘It’s amazing! You won’t believe this place. I’ve got my own pock–’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t hear a word you’re saying,’ interrupted his mother. ‘Can you talk a bit louder?’
‘POCKET DOG! I’VE GOT MY OWN POCKET D–’
‘It’s no good, I can’t hear you. I’ll have to go and put some music on for Thom before he wakes your sister. I can’t deal with tantrums and movie stars at this time of night. I’m glad you’re having a good time, Vincent.’
Vincent and his mum yelled their goodbyes and hung up. He felt terrible that everyone at home was dealing with one of Thom’s tantrums while he cuddled his very own pocket dog and sucked back smoking sodas. But there was another part of Vincent that didn’t feel bad at all. In fact he felt a bit glad. Vincent tried not to visit that part of himself very often, but it wasn’t always easy.
The dogs arrived back from their evening piddle and Vincent got ready for bed. He began the fiddly business of extracting Rose’s eyebrow hairs from his toothbrush. He brushed his teeth and pulled his pyjamas out of his bag. A small package the size of a matchbox fell onto the bed. There was a note on top. Vincent took the rubber band off and read it. ‘For big tim movie prowdusers.’ It was a stack of homemade business cards.
Marilyn Montgomry
Versetile, dramatic actres
Can play leeding ladys or baddies
While Thom had knocked the dreams out of his parents, there was no knocking the dreams out of Rose! She’d wrapped herself up in dreams, just like her cape. There’s no way Rose would go to bed on her only night at The Grand. Rose never wanted to go to bed full stop. ‘The night is for stars,’ she would say, ‘and I am a WHOPPING BIG STAR!’
If I go to sleep, my day as a guest at The Grandest Hotel on Earth will be over. Rose is right. Not about those stars but real stars. This might be my one and only chance to see a falling star. Or those golf balls on the moon!
Vincent found a plush, silk bathrobe in the bathroom. He carefully slid the sleeping Min into a pocket, slung the binoculars round his neck and headed off into the night.
CHAPTER 7
HOT CHOCOLATE AFTER MIDNIGHT
It was exciting!
To be wandering around the hotel all by himself. At night! Vincent felt like a grown-up. He pushed the down button and heard twinkling, smoky piano music rise up the elevator shaft. Expecting to see Zelda, he was a little taken aback when the doors opened and he saw a man wearing an ill-fitted tweed suit and cap hunched over an upright piano.
‘Oh!’
‘Evening, boy, where you headed?’ asked the piano man. ‘The bar?’ He let out a raspy, deep cough. ‘Hweer hweer’, then thudded his chest, as if trying to dislodge a coin stuck in a snack machine.
Maybe I look grown-up too! Vincent adjusted his silky robe. ‘No, sir,’ he said in his deepest voice. ‘I’m going to the lobby balcony to look at the stars.’
‘You could of done that from your room.’
Vincent felt eleven again.
It was true. Like every room at The Grand, his had a large balcony that looked out across the plateau.
‘I didn’t think of that.’
The piano player resumed playing.
‘Are you the night-time piano player?’ asked Vincent.
‘I am. I prefer the night. A lot of birds come to sleep under my cap. I don’t get that in the day.’
Vincent looked hard at the man’s cap. He tried to imagine birds asleep on his head. He wanted to ask if there were any birds under there right now. Or where they came from, but decided against it. He didn’t want to look stupid. Perhaps night-shift elevator piano players always have birds asleep on their heads. What would he know?
Vincent arrived on the balcony. It was full of guests in silk robes reclining on lounges, eyes to their binoculars, staring at the night sky. As they released a chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’, Vincent found an empty lounge and lay down. He gazed up at the Milky Way. It was so clear! A jagged scar of light and diamonds and dust that slashed the sky in two.
The balcony let off a collective ‘Aah!’
Vincent grabbed his binoculars. He saw it. A falling star! His first-ever falling star! Sailing across the sky as if it was in no hurry whatsoever.
The balcony let off more ‘oohs’.
Another! His second!
And they kept coming, one after the other! Vincent was thrilled.
After two smoking drinks and a bowl of whatever-flavour-you-think-of balls, Vincent’s eyelids began to droop. He knew he had better get some sleep if he was to be his best shoeshining self in the morning.
As he got up to go, everyone removed their binoculars and waved. ‘Goodnight, compadre,’ they said with an enthusiasm and warmth shared only by people who lay together beneath stars as they fell from space.
Walking back to his room Vincent felt so happy. He enjoyed meeting the strange piano man as much as the stargazing. His only regret was when given the opportunity to taste any flavour he could think of, the only one he could come up with was cheese and bacon. He didn’t even like cheese and bacon! With his mind now overflowing with wild and delicious flavour ideas, Vincent was probably about halfway down the hall before he realised something wasn’t right.
The what room?
Hang on.
I don’t remember that room.
Vincent doubled back.
The Let It Be Room?
He walked back towards the elevator.
The Infinity Room? The Last Bets Room? The Fancy Seeing You Here Room? What?
Vincent walked up and down the hall, looking for the Puppy Room.
Oh no! I must have got out on the wrong floor!
And then he saw something that made his brain pulse and surge and fly off into orbit.
The Mirrors of the Future Room.
What the heck? A fortune-telling room? What on earth …? How can a room tell your future?
Vincent wasn’t even sure he believed in fortune-telling. How can anyone possibly see the future if it hasn’t happened yet?
Vincent reached out and touched the door. An electric sensation shot up his spine. Questions only the future knew the answers to flooded his mind.
Will Thom ever speak?
Will he ever be normal?
Will our family go back to the way it was?
Will he ever know I’m his brother?
Vincent felt drawn to the room as if it was a strong magnet and he was the Tin Man, yet at the same time something told him not to hang around. So Vincent pulled himself away and back stepped it to the elevator. It had jangled his nerves something terrible to think the answers to those questions could possibly be behind that door. Or any door! Could they? Most of him thought it impossible but another part of him believed anything was possible at The Grand! Rooms where you can remember your baby memories … a junkyard of dreams. The whole place felt as full of grand mysteries as it was wonder and beauty. Is there any sort of grand this hotel isn’t?
‘Vincent?’
Vincent swung round. ‘Florence?’
‘What are you doing here?’ she said, closing the door to the Fancy Seeing You Here Room.
‘Oh … I-I must have got out on the wrong floor.’ For some reason Vincent felt guilty, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
‘Oh my,’
said Florence, sounding flustered. ‘You should be careful, Vincent. It’s easy to get lost round here, more so than you might think. The Grand’s not like other hotels, you know.’
Not like other hotels was an understatement. Without ever having stepped foot in another hotel Vincent was sure of that.
Florence looked worried. ‘Are you okay?’ asked Vincent.
‘Oh yes,’ replied Florence, unconvincingly, ‘of course! Just can’t sleep, that’s all. I’m a total insomniac lately. Maybe that’s why I keep forgetting things. Fancy a hot chocolate in the Marshmallow Lounge? That usually does the trick.’
Sitting in a cosy booth that looked like a pair of giant marshmallows squished around a table, Vincent stirred a big mug of hot chocolate. ‘You’re so lucky to live in a hotel. You get to order room service, eat breakfast from a buffet …’
‘I know,’ replied Florence, ‘everyone always tells me how lucky I am. Lucky, lucky, lucky.’
‘Don’t you feel lucky?’ asked Vincent. ‘I mean The Grand, it’s paradise!’
‘That’s true. Which makes it worse.’ Florence fiddled with the beads on her hand-stitched jacket.
‘Makes what worse? What do you mean?’ Vincent heaped two teaspoons of mini marshmallows into his mug.
‘Well, I know my parents’ work is important, but sometimes I just wish they were around to tuck me in at night instead of being off somewhere saving the world’s poorest children from starvation or the mountain mist frog from extinction,’ she confessed. ‘How bad is that?’
Vincent didn’t think it was bad at all. In fact he understood completely.
‘I know exactly how you feel,’ he said, stroking Min, who’d woken up and was now wrestling a marshmallow on the table. Then he told Florence all about Thom. How he never spoke and had terrible tantrums and ate nothing but eggs. ‘I love Thom. He’s my little brother. But sometimes I just wish our family could go back to the way it was before he was born. Sounds terrible when I say it out loud. I think my bad trumps your bad.’
‘Nah. I reckon it’s a tie.’
Vincent and Florence smiled at each other.
It felt good to talk.
‘You know, you’re the first person I’ve ever admitted that to,’ declared Florence. ‘I sound like such a spoilt brat.’
‘Well, you’re the first person I’ve ever spoken to about Thom. I never really talk about him. To anyone.’
‘How come?’
Vincent could feel his eyes prickle and mist. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t.’
Florence nodded, like she understood completely.
‘Well, that makes me feel special, Vincent.’
Vincent stared at Min. He worried if he caught Florence’s eye he might actually cry.
‘And can I just say, the chefs in the kitchen are going to be so excited to hear about Thom!’ exclaimed Florence.
‘What?’ Vincent was completely lost.
‘Eggs. They’re drowning in them.’
Florence explained The Grand’s hens were so happy they laid twice a day, sometimes three times. ‘The chefs are practically buried in them. That’s why they make life-size meringue giraffes and swans. They can’t bear to let them go to waste. Take home as many as you want. Please!’
Florence yawned.
Vincent yawned too. ‘Sleepy?’ he asked.
‘Sleepy. Do you want to have breakfast tomorrow?’ Florence looked at the clock on the wall. ‘Make that today.’
‘Okay, sure.’ Vincent couldn’t believe it was past midnight. No wonder he was exhausted. He couldn’t wait to get into his big comfy bed full of pocket dogs.
‘Perfect! If you get there before me, make sure to get a table near the windows.’
‘Why?’
‘That’d spoil the surprise. You’ll see!’
CHAPTER 8
VINCENT’S FIRST DAY AS THE SHOESHINE BOY
Vincent woke to find a pocket dog asleep on his face and two either side of his head like earmuffs. He tried to move and realised his whole body was covered in them, like periwinkles on a seaside rock. He removed the one from his face – it was Min. Vincent gave her a kiss and squeezed her into a spot on his chest. He lay there, enjoying every last moment of being buried in pocket dogs on a gigantic, comfy bed. His mind rewound back through his strange but wonderful night-time adventure, and arrived at the Mirrors of the Future Room. He’d heard of people who claimed to see the future but a room? Could you really find out what things were going to happen before they happened? His mind buzzed like a mozzie zapper in a swamp.
Vincent’s stomach growled. He was starving.
Buffet breakfast!
Ever since Florence had mentioned chocolate fountains, the buffet breakfast was one of the things Vincent was most excited about. He dug himself out from under his blanket of pocket dogs, showered and put on his clothes from yesterday. He looked at himself in the flashy mirror. He did the best he could with his ordinary hair. He tugged at his sleeves and tried tucking his shirt into his pants to see if he looked any smarter. He didn’t. Vincent wished he looked a little less like a scruffy kid from Barry and a little more, well, grand. But there wasn’t much he could do about that. It was still all so hard to believe. Today he was going to start work as the shoeshine boy at The Grandest Hotel on Earth. Whoever would have imagined such a thing!
Thank you, Grandpa! Thank you!
As he opened the door to head off for breakfast, Rupert arrived to collect the pocket dogs.
‘Ah, Vincent! How exciting. Your first day working at The Grand. That makes you family. Welcome to the family!’ Rupert threw his arms into the air and gave Vincent a great big bear hug. ‘Now give me a hand with all these pocket dogs, will you?’
Vincent and Rupert collected the pocket dogs and put them in the basket ready for the day’s new arrivals. Vincent was still holding onto Min, but as they picked up the last dog he knew the time had come to say goodbye.
‘Be good, Min,’ he said, sounding like a loose string on a guitar. He gave her a kiss on the nose and put her into the basket.
Rupert gave him a look that seemed to say, ‘Don’t be daft!’
Rupert dug Min back out. ‘Don’t be daft!’ he said. ‘Everyone who works at The Grand has their own pocket dog. And a pair of binoculars. It’s part of the uniform. We find a dog in the pocket and a handy set of binoculars helps keep the true meaning of grand in clear sight at all times.’
Well, I’m sure you know, modern reader, how Vincent felt.
Yet another scoop!
He began to wonder if that feeling of a towering ice-cream cone with never-ending scoops had something to do with the true meaning of grand that Rupert spoke of. Vincent put Min in his top pocket and, smiling like a laughing Buddha, headed off for the Breakfast Hall.
Standing at the entrance, Vincent took his time. Buffet breakfast at The Grand was a once-in-his-lifetime event and he wasn’t about to rush it. He let his nose suck up the sweet smells of fresh coffee, melting chocolate, buttery croissants and crispy bacon. He surveyed the room. On the right-hand side he saw an orchestra, the conductor swooping and diving in full musical flight as trolleys piled high with fresh pastries trundled past. At the buffet tables he watched a small army of chefs toasting muesli, tossing omelettes, frying eggs and flipping pancakes. And then he spotted them. Surrounded by a forest of fruit sculptures tall as trees at the far end of the room. Three glorious fountains spurting milk, dark and white chocolate ten feet into the air. Vincent’s tummy gurgled like a bucketful of farting frogs. He started to drool like a teething baby. Well, there’s absolutely NO WAY I’m having eggs!
Like a greyhound let out of the gate, Vincent grabbed a plate, piled it high with pancakes and headed straight to the chocolate fountains. When he got there he saw Mr Peach and his granddaughter, Lily. Dressed head to toe in sparkles, both of them were laughing like spotted hyenas as they tried to place their pancake stacks under the fountains without ending up looking like a pair of chocolate-coated jelly
babies themselves. It was impossible not to notice how their sad eyes of yesterday now sparkled like their bathrobes. Vincent joined them. He shoved his stack under the milk-chocolate fountain then ladled a pile of fresh raspberries on the top.
Remembering Florence’s instructions, Vincent sat down at a table near the tall arched windows.
‘Morning.’
It was April and her mother sitting at the next table along.
‘Morning,’ replied Vincent. He was about to ask about the Baby Memories Room when a giraffe stuck its big head through the open window, reached down and nudged April.
Right off her chair!
April laughed hysterically. As she stared up at the giraffe with its dark eyes and beautiful long lashes, a look of wonder and pure happiness swept across her face. April’s mother handed her a carrot. ‘Hold it up, as high as you can, April.’
The giraffe wrapped its long licorice tongue around the carrot and reeled it back into its mouth. They all laughed as it rolled the carrot round and round in its cheeks as if it was chewing gum.
Then Vincent felt a warm blast of nostril air on the back of his neck, followed by a firm nudge. Obviously the word about a bucket of carrots on table thirty-two had been passed around and two more giraffes had arrived, looking for their orange treat. Vincent stretched up and stroked the giraffe’s polygon-patterned neck and his soft, floppy hamburger-bun lips. Being up so close to such a magnificent creature was astonishing. Whoever dreamt you up? he thought. Vincent had never seen a giraffe let alone patted one. I probably don’t need to tell you, modern reader, there was no zoo in Barry. The most exotic creature in Barry was Mr Bidge, a budgerigar who sat behind the counter at the hardware store. (It used to be the parrot at the pet store, but you already know how that story ends.)
Vincent wolfed down his pancake stack in no time. Since Florence was yet to arrive he headed back to the buffet for a plate of waffles. On the way he had to do a double take when he passed Max and his mother. Mrs Peters was reading the paper and sipping a cup of tea. She looked completely relaxed while Max was eating breakfast with the sort of impeccable manners only the queen bothered with nowadays. Vincent could hardly believe it! Was this the same boy who less than twenty-four hours ago swung from the chandelier and dreamt of doing unspeakable things with elephant poo? Yesterday he was a bag of jiggles and insults, but today there was a calmness about him. He picked up his teacup, pinky finger raised, and sipped without a single slurp. He didn’t even scrape his fork on his teeth!