by Lisa Nicol
Then Vincent’s mum and dad wrapped their arms around him and the three of them hugged and laughed.
Straightaway, Vincent recognised it.
It’s the vision! It’s the future! The future has arrived. It’s here!
CHAPTER 19
THE FUTURE
When Vincent woke the next morning, his chest felt heavy, as if someone had piled a full set of encyclopedias on top of it. And he had that feeling. Like sitting in the front carriage of a roller-coaster being hauled up a near vertical slope. The mechanical click as the cable drags the carriages to the top. The wobble of the wind, the staring straight ahead into nothingness as the skinny track stops climbing and falls away below.
Vincent was still unpacking polishes at the train station when he saw Rupert coming towards him. His stomach dropped.
‘Vincent!’ he said, trying to sound upbeat, but it was obvious something was very, very wrong. Rupert’s enthusiastic walk was flat. His smiling moustache a frown.
‘What it is? What’s wrong? Is it Florence?’
Rupert nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. She wants to see you.’
Vincent threw his polishes and brushes into the box, grabbed his stool and jumped into the waiting car.
Driving up the mountain, Rupert filled him in on what had been going on. Apparently, the day he left, Florence fell ill. At first Dr Nelson thought it was a bad case of the flu. And then, when she didn’t get better, he thought it must be something more serious, like pneumonia. But still Florence didn’t get better. She got worse. Dr Nelson ordered a battery of tests.
And that’s when they found it.
A tumour.
A tumour? Vincent’s brain ticked and crackled over the word like a Geiger counter hovering over a lump of radioactive uranium. He didn’t need to know what it was to know it was bad. Really bad.
‘Is she in pain?’
Rupert nodded. ‘A little.’
For the rest of the drive, Vincent and Rupert sat in silence.
As they drove through the gates of the hotel, the magnificence of the place flooded Vincent’s soul. He had forgotten how beautiful it was. His mind struggled to hold the two things at once. How could something so terrible happen here? How was it possible?
Rupert took him straight to The Grand’s hospital. Before they entered, he warned Vincent. ‘You need to prepare yourself. Florry’s very sick. She might not look like you rrr-remember.’
Vincent nodded. He didn’t care, he just wanted to see her.
Florence’s room was dark. The only light was a small lamp on the bedside table and the flashing machines that stood guard.
Bip … bip …. bip.
Florence lay flat on the bed. Her closed eyes looked like bruised and sunken shadows. A tube ran under her nose, another bandaged to her stick-thin arm. Draped across her tiny body was a red African shawl covered in elephants. And curled up in the crook of her neck was Emerson. Rupert went over, but Vincent hung back. It was terrifying. Seeing her like that. She was barely recognisable. And so small.
Rupert bent down and whispered in her ear. ‘Florry, it’s me, Rrr-rupert.’
Florence stirred but her eyes remained shut. ‘Any word from Mummy and Daddy?’
‘Not yet, dear. But there’s someone here to see you.’
Vincent could see the struggle, just to even lift her eyelids.
‘Vincent,’ she whispered.
He picked up her hand and squeezed it gently. It was hard to speak. Everything looked the same as the vision.
‘You came.’
‘Of course I came.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t call,’ said Florence, her breath short and shallow.
‘It’s me who’s sorry,’ he said, pressing her hand to his cheek. ‘I should have come. I wanted to. Every day. But …’
‘I know. But you’re here now.’
‘I’m so sorry, Florence. I made such a mess of things. I never should have left you alone.’
‘Don’t feel bad. I was the one who sent you away, remember?’
‘I didn’t leave you much choice. I mucked up everything, more than you know.’
To stop himself crying Vincent dug his fingernails into the palm of his clenched fist. He needed to be strong for her. He looked away, locking his eyes on her bedside table. There was a vase of fresh yellow flowers, an uneaten tomato sandwich and a smoking incense stick that smelt like licorice.
‘From Zelda,’ she said. ‘And the shawl. It’s ancient African medicine. She calls it muti.’
‘What about your parents? Are they back?’ asked Vincent.
‘No. They’re caught in the middle of a civil war. In Asia somewhere. They can’t get out. I’m sure they’ll be here soon.’
Vincent squeezed Florence’s hand. He felt so terrible for her.
‘What about the hotel?’
‘Rupert’s doing as much as he can and everyone’s pitching in. But he can’t keep doing his job and mine much longer. I really need to get better.’
Florence drifted in and out of consciousness. Vincent felt a darkness closing in. He wished he’d found a way to do his job and protect Florence at the same time. He cursed himself for going into the Mirrors of the Future Room. If he hadn’t, would all this still be happening? Somehow it felt like this was all his fault.
Vincent looked at Florence.
‘I can do it,’ he heard himself say. A trail of light followed his words as they travelled through the room like a falling star.
‘What?’ Florence opened her eyes.
‘I can run the hotel. Till you’re back on your feet.’
Florence turned her head slowly towards him.
‘No, Vincent. I can’t ask you to do that. I’m sure my parents will –’
‘Rupert can help me,’ persisted Vincent, ‘and Zelda and Dr Maaboottee. I know I mucked up, but I’ve learnt from my mistakes. It’ll be different this time, I promise.’
‘I know, Vincent.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘You … are … the … best … friend … I’ve …’ Florence’s eyes drifted shut and she fell back into sleep.
Florence hadn’t said yes or no, but Vincent didn’t think she was in any condition to make such a decision. As far as he was concerned, Florence didn’t have a choice and neither did he. He hadn’t been able to change the future, but he could take care of her now.
‘Don’t worry, Florence,’ whispered Vincent. ‘You concentrate on getting better. I’ll take care of everything.’ Vincent kissed Florence on the hand and hurried out the door.
Rupert was waiting outside.
‘Rrr-righto. First things first.’ Rupert handed Vincent a pair of brand-new emerald boots, just like Florence’s.
Vincent’s mind did cartwheels.
‘But how did you know I’d offer to run the hotel? I … I didn’t even know myself.’
‘Oh come, come, come, Vincent! I know a lot of things. My moustache is an antenna. It picks up signals from the past, the present and the future. You should know that by now surely.’ Rupert twitched his rainbow moustache – which did indeed look like a pair of antennae. ‘I’m not the concierge at The Grandest Hotel on Earth for nothing, my boy.’
Vincent took off his shoes and pulled on the emerald boots. They were a perfect fit. He walked around in a small circle so he could hear them play.
‘Beethoven,’ announced Rupert with that strange mix of joy and fear you only ever hear in times of terrible trouble. ‘Just to rrr-remind you to do things your own way. Even now. In fact especially now. Okay what’s next? Ah, yes …’
Rupert pulled Min out of his top pocket and handed her to Vincent.
‘Min!’ He held her up against his cheek and she covered him in doggy kisses.
‘And thirdly. There’s no way you’ll be able to rrr-run the place and travel up and down to Barry. You and your family will need to move in. There’s no choice, I’m afraid.’
So Zelda was right, thought Vincent. Good things can come from bad. He had dreamt of bringing his f
amily to The Grand since the day he arrived. He just wished their good fortune had not blown in on such ill winds. As long as Florence was suffering, how could he share his family’s joy?
‘I’ll send a truck down and some movers to help you pack.’
Vincent nodded.
From somewhere off in the distance came a loud whirring sound, like a squadron of propeller planes flying low overhead.
‘What’s that?’ asked Vincent.
‘It’s the hummingbirds. Ever since Florence became sick they’ve been going off.’
Vincent didn’t know why but the sound of a field of hummingbirds beating their wings a million miles an hour made him nervous.
He looked down at his beautiful boots.
Just like the vision.
Suddenly it was all very real. He was in charge. He was going to have to run The Grandest Hotel on Earth!
Vincent’s confidence vanished. He felt a crushing weight on his shoulders as if someone had slowly lowered a bus onto them. What was he thinking? He didn’t know how to run a normal, straightforward hotel, let alone a place like The Grand.
‘I’m not sure I can do this, Rupert.’
‘On the contrary, Vincent, you’re the only person who can do this.’
‘But I’m not a Wainwright-Cunningham. I’m just a shoeshine boy.’
Rupert laughed. ‘You’re not just a shoeshine boy, Vincent! You’re a shoe-shifter! The finest shoe-shifter I’ve ever seen. It was plain as day the first time I laid my moustache on you at Barry Train Station.’
‘A what?’
‘A shoe-shifter!’ repeated Rupert.
‘What’s a shoe-shifter?’
‘A shoe-shifter has an uncanny gift for putting themselves in other people’s shoes. You know what it feels like to be them. That’s what you do, Vincent. And not just some people’s shoes. Any person’s shoes. That’s why you understand the true meaning of grand. And you don’t just understand with your head, you understand with your heart. There’s a big difference. You know with your heart why sometimes everyone deserves a bit of grand. Why do you think you always go to so much trouble with the shoes? It might seem like a small thing, but you can’t soothe anyone’s soul if they’ve got sore feet!’
A shoe-shifter. Rupert’s words hoisted the bus back up, till it hovered just above Vincent’s shoulders. ‘I hope you’re right.’
‘Of course I am. Now chop, chop, chop. We’ve lots to do.’
CHAPTER 20
MOVING IN
Perhaps it does not surprise you, modern reader, to find out there were no objections from Vincent’s family about moving into The Grandest Hotel on Earth. And despite having heard Vincent’s stories about the place, driving through the gates, his entire family, including Thom, had their tongues hanging out like bits of defrosted steak.
‘Breathe, everyone. Blink, everyone. Swallow, everyone. And don’t pee your pants!’ instructed Vincent.
On his first day behind the front desk, Vincent surprised himself. He felt strangely calm and in control. It’s funny sometimes how the small things in life can throw us right off track while the big things light it up like nightlights on a runway.
The first thing Vincent did was take two maintenance workers to the Mirrors of the Future Room and nail the door shut. Then he had the name removed and nine heavy locks installed around the outside. The only way anyone would ever get into that room again was if they stuck a stick of dynamite under the door and blew it off.
The second thing Vincent did was ask his father if he could take over his old job shining shoes. He told Vincent he was more than happy to take time off from FishyKittys. He said he didn’t think he was going to miss shoving massive, heavy trays of rotting seafood in and out of a 400-degree oven all day long. Not one bit!
The third thing Vincent did was take Rose over to the Grand Theatre. The new director from New York gave her a job as a stage sweeper. He said some of the best actors in the world started out that way, watching performances from the wings. And he said he didn’t need to see the hundreds of emotions Rose could express with just her eyebrows to know that someday she was going to be famous.
‘I can’t believe it,’ cried Rose. ‘I’ve been waiting my WHOLE LIFE for this moment! And now it’s here.’
And when he presented Rose with a real cape made out of satin that shimmered like the world from space she literally had to breathe into a paper bag to stop herself hyperventilating. The director made her sit down with her head between her legs so she didn’t faint.
‘This is so unglamorous,’ she wailed. To which the director responded she wasn’t the first actress to have this reaction, which made Rose start hyperventilating so hard she appeared to be auditioning for a horror movie.
‘Did you hear that? He called me an actress. THE DIRECTOR JUST CALLED ME AN ACTRESS!’
Luckily Rose had her mouth in a paper bag, otherwise the director may have heard the most vile swearing ever to have come out of the mouth of a seven-year-old girl. (For some reason my co-author thinks that’s hilarious so he too is now swearing enthusiastically into a paper bag and laughing like a pork chop.)
And while Vincent’s mum just planned to do what she always did – without the cooking and the cleaning and the shopping – and look after Thom, it turned out she didn’t have to. As soon as Thom walked into the lobby he ran straight for the elevator. He pushed the button and watched the light flick from one number to the next. When the doors opened, he rushed inside and lay down on the floor under Zelda’s grand piano.
‘You must be Thom. I’ve been expecting you. Welcome to The Grandest Hotel on Earth!’
Thom lay beneath the piano with his eyes closed and listened to Zelda’s glorious playing. He was so happy he looked as if he was floating on the music itself. By lunchtime, Thom had learnt how to count from one to sixteen. He then moved to the stool in the corner where he pressed the buttons for the guests. Even more surprisingly, he greeted and smiled at each and every one of them. Which left Vincent’s mother idle for the first time since Vincent was born eleven years ago.
At first she just sat in the lobby, dogs at her feet, and marvelled at the mysterious ways of The Grandest Hotel on Earth. She watched selfish guests become generous, the cold-hearted become kind, the cranky become sweet and the sad have their spirits lifted. In no time at all, it became apparent to Vincent that his mother had a natural gift for selecting just the right room. Rupert, who had trained under Nana Wainwright-Cunningham, said he hadn’t seen such a talent since Nana herself. In fact he wept as he watched her work. ‘Oh yes,’ he sobbed, ‘that’s exactly the rrr-room Nana would have chosen. Bravo, bravo!’ Which left Rupert worry-free and able to conduct guest orientations and help Vincent whenever needed. Which was often. The Grand was, after all, a HUGE operation and Vincent had much to learn. Supplies, deliveries, room maintenance, animal care, staff, food, entertainment, the upkeep of the grounds. But most importantly, ensuring every guest who walked through the gates was treated to a bit of grand.
Once his family was settled Vincent threw himself into his work and the hotel hummed along to the strains of Beethoven’s ninth. With Vincent at the helm, the place ran as harmoniously as an orchestra that had played together a lifetime. Of course there were hiccups but no guest ever left without a bit of grand. And at the end of the day that was all that mattered. At lunchtimes and after work, Vincent sat with Florence. He brought her tomato sandwiches – which occasionally she nibbled – and read her letters from her parents, who were still stuck in a war zone. He told her stories about the guests and kept her up to date with the animals and all the day-to-day goings-on of the hotel. Every spare moment he had, Vincent was by her side. Sometimes he told himself he could see some colour back in her golf-ball cheeks or a bit more meat on her protruding bones. But it was wishful thinking more than anything.
Then one lunchtime when Vincent arrived, Florence was sitting up. She ate a whole tomato sandwich and two whatever-flavour-you-think-of balls.
‘What flavour?’ asked Vincent.
‘Pancakes and maple syrup,’ she said. ‘You?’
‘Cheese and bacon again! Would you believe it? As soon as I pop one in my mouth I can’t think of anything else!’ Which made Florence smile. Her funny Vincent.
‘I’ve never had a friend like you,’ she said, licking her fingers. ‘No one’s ever taken care of me. We Wainwright-Cunninghams are not taken care of. It’s not what we do.’
‘Well, maybe we met each other at exactly the right time,’ said Vincent. ‘You needed help and I needed to help. We sort of saved each other.’
‘You have saved me, Vincent. You have. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.’
‘You don’t need to, Florence. We’re friends remember. That’s what friends do.’
That night, Vincent slept the sleep of the gods. He woke next morning fresh as the mountain air itself, full of sunshine and hope. But by day’s end, Florence had taken a turn for the worse. When Vincent arrived at the hospital, something felt different. Her pocket dog, Emerson, was curled up right on top of her heart. Florence didn’t open her eyes or lift her index finger the way she usually did to signal she knew Vincent was in the room. He could tell she didn’t have the energy to even listen. So he just sat down by her side and held her hand.
Florence looked so small. Her emerald glasses enormous on her now-hollow cheeks. Her cinnamon hair dull and brittle. Vincent’s mind flew up the mountain to the platform where they ate tomato sandwiches and watched the birds soar. He tried to picture the old healthy Florence, the one who flew up the front steps two at a time or thrashed him in a rocking-horse race. But he couldn’t. It felt like she was slipping away.
A lightning bolt flashed in the distance, lighting up the whole room.
A storm was coming.
‘Looks like we’re in for a rough night, Florry,’ he whispered to her. ‘I’m just going to baton down the hatches and check on the guests. I’ll be back as soon as I can, promise.’