Chegwin’s first impression of Toffle Towers came in the form of the hotel’s scruffy caretaker, Barry Rake. The unshaven, khaki-clad handyman had been sent to collect Chegwin and his parents from the bus terminal at Alandale, where they had arrived after an overnight coach trip.

‘Hop in,’ said Barry, leaning out through the window of a beaten-up shuttle bus. ‘That lawyer lady is expecting you in the lobby.’ He pointed to the boot, which Mr Toffle, wearing another of his band’s T-shirts (this one from Dunked Skunks and the Punkheads), loaded everyone’s bags into.

The family had brought with them just enough luggage – two suitcases each – to settle into the hotel. The rest of their belongings would be held in storage and shipped over in small amounts as needed.

‘OFFLE TO E S’ was scrawled in peeling brown paint across the dented body of the shuttle bus, which clearly required maintenance. Chegwin began to wonder what he had gotten himself into.

Those thoughts were soon washed away as the bus rattled along the main street of Alandale towards the river. Chegwin peered excitedly through the window at the row of shops – a specialist butcher, a pastry and dessert bar, a supermarket, a greengrocer, a delicatessen, two cafes, several boutique craft shops and a florist. Tourists spilled in and out of the doors, taking happy snaps and enjoying their purchases.

Alandale’s crown jewel – the Gladberry River – sparkled gloriously at the end of the road.

‘Flamin’ oil needs replacing,’ grunted Barry as he changed gears, steering the bus right. ‘Never turn left at the river,’ he added. ‘Left takes you to that blasted Braxton Hotel.’

Chegwin was completely wrapped up in the beauty of the river. Even from the bus, he could see how crystal clear the water was. Grassy slopes – dotted with picnickers – rolled from the road down to the riverbank. It was not the sort of place one would dare skinny-dip. The backdrop was picturesque snow-capped mountains that stretched out in either direction. Bike riders, skaters and walkers made their way along a wooden boardwalk that shadowed the river for miles.

‘I’ve been reading up on Alandale,’ said Mr Toffle. ‘Such is the town’s photogenic quality, it holds the world record for the most postcards sent in a month.’

Chegwin could see why. But his father’s comment got him thinking about something else – the speed of mail delivery.

He had once sent himself a postcard from the corner shop to see how long it would take to arrive at his house. It took three days, four hours and thirty-two minutes, which he thought was far too long considering it was a six-minute walk from the corner shop to his letterbox.

The bus followed the river a short distance, then skidded to a halt at the base of a steep pebbled driveway.

‘Everybody out,’ ordered Barry. ‘We have to walk the rest of the way.’

Mr Toffle cleared his throat. ‘The suitcases are heavy and the driveway looks awfully long. Is there no way of driving?’

Barry shook his head as if it were a stupid question. ‘Of course not, mate! Look at the flamin’ incline. The engine would explode.’

Chegwin and his parents piled out of the shuttle and retrieved their luggage from the boot.

‘Follow me,’ said Barry.

Mr Toffle pointed to the bus. ‘Are you going to leave it parked here? It’s blocking the driveway.’

Barry laughed coarsely, his throat raspy from years of watching football. Had he chosen a more successful team to follow, the voice specialist informed him, he may not have developed throat nodules in the first place.

‘What’s so funny?’ said Mr Toffle.

‘Blocking the driveway!’ chortled Barry. ‘Who’s going to drive up there? We don’t get any visitors these days.’

Chegwin’s mind worked quickly, as it often did. ‘What about the solicitor, Savannah Hollis? You said she is waiting for us in the lobby.’

‘She arrived by helicopter, mate. Extremely professional, if you ask me.’

The tired family dragged and scraped their suitcases up the pebble driveway until they rounded a row of pine trees into a large clearing.

Chegwin saw the hotel first. ‘Toffle Towers …’ he whispered.

The imposing limestone building was symmetrical in design, with two three-storey wings spreading out from either side of a main tower. The first thing Chegwin noticed was that the curtains were all drawn, giving the hotel a dark, tired feel. The main tower must have once been home to a bell, though it had now been replaced with an orange wheelbarrow, which was hanging by some rope. Chegwin couldn’t help but wonder how it got there.

‘Now, that would be a good name for a band,’ said Mr Toffle. ‘Orange Wheelbarrow in a Belltower. Do-bop-beep-diddly-beep.’

The front doors at the base of the main tower opened and a woman dressed in pink waved the family over. ‘Yoo-hoo, this way – hurry, please.’

‘I’ll leave you here,’ said Barry. He looked Chegwin up and down for the first time. ‘Crikey. Bit young to be in charge, aren’t you?’ He sighed. ‘Well, the lawyer lady will take it from here.’ He shook Chegwin’s hand, eyeing the hotel lobby nervously as though there was someone else inside he wanted to avoid, then made his way over to a corrugated tin shed at the far end of the clearing.

‘Thanks for the lift,’ Chegwin called after him. He left his luggage at the bottom of the front steps and followed his parents into the lobby.

The woman in pink was Savannah Hollis. She was waiting for them behind the reception desk, tapping her fake nails on the marble benchtop. ‘You must be Chegwin,’ she said. ‘Come on, sign quickly – I have other appointments this morning.’

She flopped a thick document on the desk and handed him a pen. ‘Hurry, hurry, sign, please.’

‘Just to clarify,’ said Mr Toffle, ‘once Chegwin signs the contract, the hotel will be his?’

‘That’s the plan,’ said Savannah, slightly agitated. ‘It was all in the fine print.’

‘What fine print?’ asked Mr Toffle.

Savannah pulled a copy of the original letter to Chegwin from her pink polka-dot handbag and placed it next to the contract. ‘This fine print.’

Mr Toffle ran his eyes over the letter. ‘But there is no fine print … It’s just a main body of text.’

‘Nobody ever looks closely enough.’ Savannah sighed. Chegwin thought she sounded like a frustrated Mr Bridges when he repeated something for the third or fourth time.

The solicitor retrieved a small magnifying glass from her handbag and gave it to Mr Toffle. ‘Hold this, will you.’ She positioned his hand over the final full stop in the letter, then pulled out an even bigger magnifying glass to zoom in on the smaller one. ‘Read closely, but do get a wriggle on.’

As it turned out, there was indeed fine print. The full stop was a dense circle of minuscule text. Being an extremely professional solicitor, Savannah Hollis would not have dreamed of omitting the most important details of the contract.

Mr Toffle read the tiny words aloud. ‘Due to a continued lack of bookings, Toffle Towers can only afford to stay open another three months. After this time, savings will run out and the hotel must file for bankruptcy. Once Chegwin Toffle signs the contract, he will be responsible for closing the hotel and dealing with all of the boring paperwork involved in demolishing the building for good. Then he’ll have to sell the land to the local council of Alandale. It is recommended that he fire all of the current staff as quickly as possible so he can put them out of their misery. The foolish employees are hanging on to the hope that the hotel can pick up bookings again, which I personally think is hilarious because it will never happen. You can put the magnifying glass down now because this is the end of the fine print.’

Savannah smiled like a dodgy second-hand car salesperson. ‘As I was saying, it’s all in the contract.’

Mr Toffle looked at Chegwin. ‘Did you catch all of that, son? Do you want to think twice before signing or are you happy to go ahead? We’ll support you either way.’

But Chegwin didn’t want to think twice. He had already scribbled his signature on the document and was as intent as ever on not firing any of the hotel staff.

‘Thank you,’ said Savannah, hastily snatching the contract from the desk and tucking it into her bag.

The sound of a low-flying helicopter rumbled through the lobby doors. Savannah grabbed her bag, dashed outside and waved into the air.

Mr Toffle followed her onto the driveway. ‘You can’t leave now … What if we have questions about where to find things?’

A rope dropped down from the helicopter and Savannah tied it around her waist. ‘Pleasure doing business with you,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Goodbye!’

She was whisked off the ground and began hurtling through the air as the helicopter made its escape.

‘What do we do now?’ called Mr Toffle.

‘Lawrence will fill you in,’ sang Savannah as she turned to wave. She spun back around just in time to be slapped in the face by the branch of a pine tree. She shook a fist at the pilot. ‘That’s not very professional!’

The helicopter disappeared and Mr Toffle was left standing alone on the driveway.

‘Who’s Lawrence?’ said Chegwin, who had been watching from the doorway.

‘That would be me,’ replied a voice of most distinguished class.