The Bed and Breakfast Star (19 page)

I made a teddy jam sandwich for Pippa and Baby Pillow.

And I made a great red movie-star-lip jam sandwich for me,

and the jammy lips kissed me for being such a good girl.

I woke up early and read my joke books in bed . . .

Why are tall people lazier than short people? Because they’re longer in bed, ha ha!

 . . . and then Pippa woke up for a cuddle and Hank woke up for a bottle and soon it was time to get up.

Mum didn’t wake up. Mack didn’t wake up either. He was snoring like a warthog with catarrh.

So I had to speak up to make myself heard.

Mum stirred at last.

‘Will you stop that shouting, Elsa!’

‘I’m
not
shouting,’ I said, wounded. ‘I’m simply speaking up a little because that Scottish git is snoring fit to bust.’

Mum stirred more vigorously.

‘Don’t you dare call Mack names like that, you cheeky little whatsit!’

‘But that’s what
you
called him just last night.’

We started to have a little argument. I might have got a bit heated. Suddenly the warthog stopped snoring. It reared up in the bed, a horrible sight.

‘If you don’t stop that shouting and screaming right this minute, Elsa, I’ll give you such a smacking you’ll never dare say another word.’

He glared at me with his bleary eyes and then slowly subsided back under the covers. Hank gave a worried hiccup. Pippa started sucking her fingers. I blinked hard at the bulk in the bed. I opened my mouth, but Pippa shook her head and clutched me with her dribbly little hands. I gave her a hug to show her it was OK. I wasn’t going to speak. Mack might be an idle lout but he doesn’t make idle threats. He always follows them through.

I waggled my tongue very impressively at the bed instead. Muni still had her eyes open but she didn’t tell me off. When I went to take Pippa and Hank downstairs for breakfast she sat up in bed and held her arms out to me.

‘I’m sorry, love,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t mean to get you into trouble. You’re a good girl really, I know you are. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

I cheered up a bit then, but when we went down to breakfast the bunny lady said loudly to the switchboard lady: ‘Oh-oh, there’s one of the little trouble-makers.’ She pointed at me with a lilac fingernail to match a new purple fluffy jumper. ‘The Manager wants to see your dad in his office,’ she announced.

‘He’s not my dad,’ I said and walked straight past, Hank on my hip, Pippa hanging on my hand.

‘Mack is my dad,’ Pippa whispered. ‘Is he going to get into trouble, Elsa?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said uncomfortably. Maybe we were all in trouble. Maybe we really were going to get chucked out.

We went to sit with Naomi and her family at breakfast. They were looking dead gloomy too. Naomi’s mum didn’t smile at me the way she usually did.

‘I’ll tell you a really good joke about cornflakes,’ I said.

‘No jokes, Elsa,’ she said, sighing.

‘OK, I’ll tell you this cornflake joke tomorrow. It’s a cereal,’ I said. I roared with laughter. It wasn’t
that
funny, but I wanted to lighten the atmosphere.

Naomi’s mum stayed resolutely gloomy. Naomi chewed her lip anxiously. Even Nicky and Neil couldn’t crack a smile.

‘What’s up, eh?’ I said, starting to feed baby Nathan, playing the aeroplane game.

He at least seemed happy enough to play, but Naomi’s mum caught hold of my arm and took away my spoon.

‘No, leave him be. Leave all my family be. Haven’t you done enough?’

‘Oh, Mum,’ said Naomi. ‘It isn’t Elsa’s fault.’

‘She was the one who talked you into that television interview,’ said Naomi’s mum. ‘And now the Manager says we’ll have to go.’

‘Well, he says we’ve got to go too. But he doesn’t mean it. He just wants to scare us,’ I said. I tried to sound reassuring but I was getting scared too. ‘Look, I’ll go and see the Manager. I’ll tell him it was all down to me if you like. Then at least you’ll be OK.’

So after we’d had breakfast I lumped Hank along to the Manager’s office, Pippa trailing behind us. I didn’t have a hand free to knock so we just went barging straight into his office. The Manager wasn’t on his own. He wasn’t having a little cuddle with the bunny lady. He was with Mrs Hoover, and he didn’t look at all cuddly. He was telling Mrs Hoover off, wagging his finger at her.

‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘Why is he being nasty to you, Mrs Hoover?’

‘You! Out of my office this instant,’ said the Manager. ‘It’s your mum and dad I want to see, not you lot.’

‘I keep telling you, I haven’t
got
a dad. That Scottish bloke is nothing to do with me,’ I insisted.

‘Oh yes! Thank you for reminding me. Yes, my receptionist informs me that there’s more disgusting graffiti about a Scots person inside the ladies’ downstairs cloakroom,’ said the Manager, still wag-wag-wagging that finger at poor Mrs Hoover.

‘She didn’t do that! I know for a fact that Mrs Hoover didn’t write all that stuff on the walls,’ I said quickly, my heart thumping. Everyone seemed to be getting into trouble because of me and it was awful. I decided to make a clean breast of things. (What a weird expression. I haven’t got a breast yet for a start. And it wasn’t even clean because the basin in room 608 was getting so gungy I hadn’t felt very much like washing recently.)

‘All the Mack jokes – they’re mine,’ I said.

The Manager and Mrs Hoover both blinked at me.

‘You wrote all that revolting rubbish?’ said the Manager.

‘I thought some of the jokes were quite funny,’ I mumbled.

‘You children! Vandals! Hooligans!’ said the Manager.

‘It was just me. Not Pippa. She can’t write yet – and even if she could, she quite likes her dad. It’s just me that can’t stick him. But you can stop telling Mrs Hoover off because, like I said, it was me.’

‘Oh Elsa,’ said Mrs Hoover. ‘He knows I didn’t write it, silly. He’s cross because I can’t clean it all off. Only I keep telling him, that felt-tip just won’t budge even though I scrub and scrub.’

‘I never see you scrubbing. The hotel is a disgrace. No wonder we have television crews traipsing in here making trouble. If I’m reported to the authorities it will be all your fault.’

‘If you get reported to the authorities it’ll be because you run a lousy hotel,’ said Mrs Hoover. ‘How can I possibly hope to keep a huge place like this anywhere near up to standard? Why don’t you employ more staff?’

‘I’ll be employing one less member of staff if you don’t watch your tongue,’ said the Manager.

‘All right then. That suits me. You can stick your stupid job,’ said Mrs Hoover, whipping off her overall and throwing it right in his face.

Then she turned on her heel and flounced straight out of his office. I decided it wasn’t quite the right time to plead Naomi’s case to the Manager. I ran after Mrs Hoover instead.

‘Oh gosh, have you really lost your job now? And it’s my fault because I did all the scribbling on the walls,’ I wailed. ‘Oh Mrs Hoover, I’m so sorry!’

‘Mrs Whoosit?’ said Mrs Hoover. ‘Here, is that what you kids call me? Well, don’t you fret yourself, pet. I’ve had it up to here hoovering for that dreadful man. I’ll get another cleaning job, they’re not that hard to come by even nowadays.’