OUCH!

Guests are the lifeblood and heartbeat of any hotel. Each having their idiosyncrasies. These idiosyncrasies revealed themselves regularly in our main reception. The domain of our beloved head receptionist Moneypenny. Either on a guest’s arrival or by Royal Mail letter preceding said guest arrival. Occasionally by a Post Office Telegram.

Here are a few guests on arrival examples. The firmness of the hotel mattresses. The availability of a certain cigar or cigarette brand. Or a request that golden kippers be available for breakfast.

Opening letter requests was a task much prized by this young curious mind. One given with much fanfare to my good self, by Moneypenny.

Some favourites were as follows: One hundred roses to decorate a “specific” guest room; Twenty soft white bath towels available each day; A porter be stationed outside a particular guest’s room between the hours of 8 pm and 10 pm to fetch whatever was desired — for three nights. Last but by no means least; Is your horse stable still available? Sadly we responded, these had been adapted for the motor car many, many years previously.

Yes, they were endless and priceless.

First, each guest letter had to be assigned its relevant alphabeticalized pigeon hole. Next, any bills or similar correspondence delivered to Mother. And lastly letters of inquiry including those for a wedding, function or company Christmas Do, a guest booking a room or a simple request for Sunday Luncheon, a party of 10. All envelopes meticulously sliced with a highly polished dagger-like letter opener, their contents organized and handed onto Moneypenny.

Whilst we’re in Moneypenny's domain, let’s share a moment of learning in this young man’s education. One day whilst looking at our hotel registration ledger, it struck me that we had more than a few Mr. & Mrs. Smith’s staying, two or three Brown’s, not omitting the regular use of the name Green either. Naively this young brain is thinking, this must be some kind of record for The Imperial and needed to be broadcast in some manner.

Excitedly pointing this all out to a terribly proper and correct Moneypenny, who with a certain quizzical look, suggests I bring this anomaly up with Mother. Please don’t say you haven’t worked it out? Oh, come on, come on. Don’t be disappointing. Yes, bless you. Couples who weren’t married, having an affair and wanting to remain anonymous.

Naughty, naughty, naughty — yes indeed Peter hears you nod in agreement.

Imperial guests came in many shapes, sizes, and depth of pocket. (The latter applying to their wealth). Let’s begin with Mrs. Graham, a lady of independent means. The lovely (she tipped beautifully) Mrs. Graham was the owner of two very high-end couture dress stores. Garments for purchase were of the under and outer variety — the under being French lingerie.

Mrs. Graham would arrive on a Friday afternoon twice a month for one night. Occupying our best accommodation and somewhat treated like visiting royalty. With yours truly delivering many messages and other small items to her room. Noting on occasion, something Peters young curious mind could not fail, to trip over.

One: The difference in age of the two gentlemen sharing her room. Two: They rotated as her preferred room guest every other Friday; this confirmed many years later by Father. One arguably younger, the other older. One the husband and the other? (Mm?)

Which reminds me, on one occasion this young Peter was caught — being very naughty indeed. Right outside Mrs. Grahams room no less, attempting to look through the keyhole. Lord have mercy, you’re thinking. Well, let’s just say Mother had something to say about this scene playing out in front of her very eyes, with a well threaded Egyptian pillowcase, right across this wee person's rear end — OUCH!

Where Mother came from, is beyond this young soul’s comprehension?

What I can attest to is a very sore, red bottom. Sent to my room, no supper to be had and a very stern lecture from Father. Which on an occasion like this, caused his accent to get Scottish in a most ferocious fashion. Oh, least I forget, Bodo the boxer gave no helpful warning bark of Mothers impending approach, to his young master. Peters so-called best friend! What we’ll close this particular episode with is this — no, kindly don’t ask what I was hoping to see?

Mother always looking to help the financial standing of the Imperial, hit upon a new revenue stream. That of inviting the touring 40 seater motor coaches, with their beautiful livery, painted all colors of the rainbow — to avail themselves of the hotel with its many services and accommodations.

On arrival and always diverse in nature, one could encounter an absent-minded retiring doctor, a shoe store owner or jockey. Along with many other ranks of British society, middle to lower of course. Allowing these uncanny passengers, a glimpse of the many wonders — that lay beyond their own back yards. Discovering a new-found freedom and heady taste for adventure. Bonding these happy travelers together was many a sing-along — performed in unison on their fine motor coach traversing the British Isles.

It has to be said, that I, as a young entrepreneur loved them all too. Would run hither and tither around the hotel, servicing their every need. Be it shoe cleaning, delivering messages, rescuing a bag delivered to a wrong room, no request was ever countermanded. Tips in the form of many coins jingling in a trouser pocket were music to this boys ears. Bodo, his ears now in full flight, recognized this sound too and knew he was in for a special treat, a juicy bone acquired through an upcoming visit to our local butcher. (Yummy).

On one embarrassing coach party visit to the hotel, Father reminded me of the time I went into total melted down, as I had not been assigned a seat at the bus drivers table. You see, to these eyes, these men of the open road, wore fine tailored uniforms and white caps, as if captains of the finest ships. Tell me dear reader, who wouldn’t want to be seen sitting — at their fine dining table?

Returning to shapes and sizes, let’s look at a more affluent visitor to the hotel. The cigar-smoking wheeler-dealers who paraded through the Imperial’s doors on many a business occasion. With signet rings worn on the pinky; cuff links flashing; these men with liberally applied hair tonic; pocket watches complete with Albert Chains and rounded tummies tucked into three-piece, pinstriped suits, all knew their role in society. Swirling their brandy, with two fingers around a balloon-shaped goblet base, laughing in a raucous Public School like manner, their mandate in life was putting the world to rights. These captains of industry had plenty to say, plenty to spend and plenty to tip with.

By looking after their chauffeurs with fresh coffee and sandwiches, these icons of the road, decked out in the finest black wool coats and sharply worn caps — were a brief passage to the high life for me too.

How? They permitted Peter to sit in the rear of their fine automobiles — on plush smelling English leather with a glass of lemonade and packet of crisps. And Bodo? Alas no.

It’s time now to pay historical homage to two very special visitors to the Imperial. First the ever-classic E-Type Jaguar, designed and unveiled to the great British public in 1961. On one occasion Peter came face to face with this big cat, in terms of being allowed to touch it — in a manner that had Father and I pushing it safely out of harm’s way and under-cover. Its owner, joining us as a guest for one evening, due to a flat tyre.

Not to be overtly snobby, British or boastful, back then it did have a top speed of 149mph taking this very small British schoolboys’ admiring breath away — BLIMEY, I hear you say.

Our second illustrious visitor was none other than "Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith". Her full title, by virtue of the British Royal Titles Act of 1953. If you have any doubt about the supposed accuracy of said information, do enquire at your nearest British Embassy.

Like all writers there are times, and this is one of them when we take creative license to the edge of our splendid alphabet. Truthfully speaking, her Majesty “drove” by the hotel (in her black Rolls Royce, her Royal Standard fluttering) on a certain visit to our fine city. One cannot be truly British and leave the Queen out of one’s Hotel Stories. With a delicate royal wave, let’s call for a rousing “God Save The Queen” and move on. That includes you, dear reader.

With another rousing anthem — namely Rule Britannia playing in our ears, let’s bid a fond farewell to Her Majesty, and preview the next vignette, which could play out somewhat like this. My Aunt Margaret (no, not the Queen's sister) and a pesky guest. Our housekeeper and the troublesome maids. Bodo reveals his true colours. 

Again, We digress. Does Peters rear end make a full recovery? Yes. Did Mrs. Graham ever find out? Bloody hell, I trust the answer was, no? Did Bodo end up in the dog house too? Yes. For once Bodo dutifully followed Peter into his room, head down, Mother watching over this funereal like scene.

© Peter Wood 2024