The Toffle Towers shuttle bus proved to be quite a hit. In the week following the first booking, five other families – all persuaded by their children – signed up to stay at the hotel. Chegwin rotated the guests through the luxurious top floor on the left wing, ensuring they had the very best views of Alandale.

Pepper Perry was proving to be worth her weight in gold. The spunky teenage chef was in her element, whipping up a brand-new kids menu and treating guests to the finest cuisine in Alandale. Feedback for the Grazing Room was nothing short of spectacular.

‘I’ve never seen Bobby eat his greens without complaining – it’s a miracle!’

‘Can I have the recipe for that pizza base?’

‘Daddy, can we come here again?’

‘I need to buy more postcards.’

Chegwin stopped by the kitchen to test out Pepper’s latest offering – crispy chicken balls with a zesty crust. The flavours exploded in his mouth. He closed his eyes and imagined floating away in tastebud heaven. Katie had told him all about galaxy formations from a book she was studying for university. He was an astronaut among the stars, drifting away in an endless space of deliciousness. He had always wanted to experience gravity-free dining. Maybe this was something he could look into … Perhaps he could –

‘Well, what do you think?’ said Pepper, pulling Chegwin back down to Earth. She straightened her chef hat to cover her ponytail.

‘It’s perfect,’ said Chegwin.

‘Mmm, I agree,’ said Mikey, who was so distracted by the incredible taste that he forgot to hide the fact that he’d sneaked in and pinched a sample.

Pepper poked him in the shoulder. ‘Self-control, man. Stop nicking my food! I know you took that chicken soup.’

‘Chicken soup? That wasn’t me, I swear,’ said Mikey. ‘I only test your master creations.’

Katie walked into the kitchen. ‘Mikey, I need your help. We have to clear the dishes from table two. Plus, we’ve just had another booking for four!’

Chegwin fiddled with the loose button on his shirt. It was clear the restaurant was one of Toffle Towers’ strengths. He had to think of a way he could use it to bring in more people. Perhaps that was the secret to saving the hotel.

‘Out!’ snapped Pepper. ‘Go and deal with table two.’ She twisted up a tea towel and flicked it at Mikey’s bottom. ‘No more food pinching – get to work. I’ve got cooking to do.’

‘Ouch!’ Mikey bounded out to the restaurant before he could be whipped again. Katie rolled her eyes and followed him out, but that didn’t stop her dimples twinkling at the fun.

Chegwin stayed behind to chat with Pepper as she prepared the next order, picking her brains about how the kitchen operated. He asked her how she ordered food, how long it took to follow through with special meal requests, and if she could do with any help.

‘Now that we’re finally getting a few bookings, I have less time to test out new recipes,’ Pepper told him. ‘So I could use a hand with the ordering. Generally, I buy small samples from the shops in town, then order bulk from those big delivery companies. It’s cheaper that way.’

Listening to the logical side in his brain, Chegwin asked a few more questions about the ordering process. The imaginative side of his brain, however, had other ideas, and he soon found himself slipping in and out of exciting daydreams about the restaurant. As a result, he left the kitchen with some rather muddled information.

Later that day Chegwin turned on the computer in his office and typed in the manager’s password. He was determined to help out his star chef. He clicked open the folder with the title ‘Kitchen’ and found the link to food deliveries. With a bit of luck he’d be able to test things out by putting in a simple order first, before trying anything more complicated.

He clicked into the dairy section and selected ‘Milk’. He vaguely remembered Pepper saying something about a confusing decimal system and bulk units, but he couldn’t quite remember the specifics. It couldn’t be too hard, could it?

He ordered sixty litres of milk and clicked ‘Confirm’.

Bing.

An email landed in his inbox. He clicked ‘Open’.

Chegwin swallowed hard. He had never once shopped for dairy in his life, but the numbers screamed out at him. Milk shouldn’t wipe another full month off the budget, should it? What had he done? A watermelon-sized lump formed in his throat.

The young manager opened a drawer in his desk and whipped out a calculator. He frantically punched in some numbers. If his sums were correct, the hotel only had enough money to stay open for another four weeks until it went under. This wasn’t part of the plan.

Oh dear.

The next morning, Toffle Towers received two special deliveries. The first was an old lady with frizzy grey hair. She was carrying a small suitcase in one hand and a bunch of roses in the other.

‘Lucy, dear, these are for you,’ she said, handing the flowers to Chegwin’s mother, who had just returned from a walk.

‘Mrs Flibbernut – what a lovely surprise,’ said Mrs Toffle. ‘The flowers look scrumptious – I mean, ah, sumptuous. Thank you. What brings you to Alandale?’

‘Your son wrote me a very kind letter inviting me to live in his hotel,’ replied Mrs Flibbernut. ‘He said that if I agreed to teach him, I could stay as long as I liked. I’ve been itching to get away, and I do miss the classroom, so it seemed like the right thing to do.’

‘That boy never ceases to amaze me,’ said Mrs Toffle. ‘He’ll be thrilled to see you.’

Mrs Toffle’s phone rang. ‘Will you please excuse me?’ she said.

‘Of course,’ said Mrs Flibbernut.

‘Hello, Lovely Lucy’s Trading.’

Mrs Flibbernut sat down on her suitcase.

‘You may remember,’ said Mrs Toffle into the phone, ‘we discussed selling the Dawson shares if they doubled up …’

There was a pause.

And then she exploded.

‘DON’T GIVE ME THAT RUBBISH, YOU CLUELESS NINCOMPOOP! SELL, SELL, SELL!’

There was another pause.

‘Thank you ever so much. Goodbye.’

Overhearing his mother’s phone call, Chegwin wandered outside and spotted Mrs Flibbernut. ‘You came!’ he cried. Chegwin greeted her with a hug and, for a wonderful moment, he forgot about the hotel’s finances.

‘It was an offer too good to refuse,’ said the old lady.

Mr Toffle joined the small party in the lobby. He was wearing a one of his favourite folk band’s T-shirts – Dusty McTrusty and the Rusty Banjo Pickers. ‘Well then, I suppose we’ll have to cancel your appointment with that school, son.’

Chegwin beamed. And just like that, the horrible memories of school and Mr Bridges that had been worrying him were washed away.

‘You’ll be living in room thirty-four, Mrs Flibbernut,’ said Chegwin. ‘It has the very best view of Alandale. And you don’t have to worry about food. We’ll provide everything you need.’

‘How very kind of you.’ Mrs Flibbernut smiled. ‘I’ll be ready to start your lessons on Monday morning. Nine o’clock sharp.’

Chegwin couldn’t wait.

‘Delivery for Toffle Towers.’ A woman dressed in white overalls walked into the lobby. ‘Sign here, please.’

Chegwin stepped forward and scribbled his name.

‘What did you order, munchkin?’ said Mrs Toffle.

The woman in overalls answered for him. ‘Sixty thousand litres of fresh milk.’

Chegwin went pale. ‘But I thought I only ordered sixty …’ He now understood why the delivery cost so much. A revolting feeling – not too dissimilar to what one might experience if they drank sixty thousand litres of milk – churned in his stomach.

Mrs Flibbernut chuckled. ‘Looks like I’ll have to plan a bit of maths homework.’