Great Expectations from the Noble People

Pip, the Charles Dickens character, had them and he was finally disappointed. And no matter how hard we try, it is the same for some of our guests. Like astrology, it’s all in the stars and the number of these held by your hotel is all important to some.

When you see a Bentley roll into your car park and the driver clamber out dressed in a tweed jacket plus fours and a shooting hat that casts a shadow on the nose that has sniffed at to many ports, if the number of stars on your door is less than five, it’s a fair bet that things may not go as well as you hoped. The man walks toward the manor with a decidedly dodgy gait like his legs were bent around a barrel. He is so bow-legged it maybe possible to drive a car between them I think to myself.

Knowing we were two short of the sort of number these people obviously expected, I leapt into action to try and remedy this unfortunate omission by carting their luggage for them. It wasn’t actually voluntary.

“Get my bags from the car and take them to my room.” He thrusts the keys into my chest with no please, thank you, or smile. Dr Nobles’ tone is an imperious one. I think, “Oh, Lord,” before reminding myself that he isn’t one, despite acting like landed gentry. I have little time to hope they’ve booked one of the suites and it is too late to pray before more precise instructions follow from Mrs. Noble.

“Put the suitcases on stands, so we can unload them with ease and place the vanity cases in the bathroom.”

This all seems a possibility, until she adds, “Run me a hot bath and put your bath robes on the bed, ready for me.”

“Madam, how hot would you like your bath?” I ask, but I want to say, “Don’t call me Butler, Andy will suffice.”

I have never been asked to run a bath for a guest before and hope she wouldn’t want me to scrub her back like a lady in waiting might. The lady waiting for a wash didn’t answer, instead shooed me away.

As I can’t find a Manuél, I take care of the requests personally while the couple take tea under the saucy scenes carved by the fireplace. I stride around like one of their butlers must have to, much like Basil Fawlty did for “Lord Melbury.”

Maybe the doctor’s tone is a little more than condescending, but as I have heard worse, I decide to try and acquiesce to his requests wherever possible. He reminds me of a character from a children’s book, but who? Mrs. Noble can exfoliate her own back with her tone; if she makes me do it, it’d be with a cheese grater.

I venture into the Oak Room, where I see the couple enjoying our Dorset Cream Tea.

“I have done as you asked with the exception of the robes.” I explain that we have no robes to offer, at which – apparently horror struck – they both stand up and leave the room and their tea to get cold. A room without robes is, I suppose, a unique sight for them.

“Show us the room.”

At reception I can show how much I have progressed from porter to butler and, now, receptionist. I grab the key and head towards the stairs.

“I will take the elevator. Where is it?” Dr. Noble asks.

I am forced to apologise to the doctor for this oversight on the part of the original builder who, four hundred years ago, had so lamentably cut corners by not having had one installed. He had, however, provided them with seventeen steps and a hand carved staircase – although this innovation does not arouse any deal of enthusiasm.

“Never heard of anything like it,” Dr. Nobles says. “All good hotels have lifts and bathrobes. What kind of place is this?”

“We run a three star hotel, albeit one that recently won Small Hotel of the Year.” But, I repeat, “We have just three stars.”

I wonder why I sound sorry. I begin to feel and wonder whether I have been transported directly into one of John Cleese’s intros to the episode that started with the re-arranged hotel sign that read “Flowery Twats.”

Once we have climbed the stairs and are inside the recently refurbished “Character” bedroom, the couple confer.

“This all seems in order dearest, shall we stay?”

I look on in bewilderment. I never realised that was a doubt until now.

“You should see the bathroom first,” I say.

I knew this would be a steamy visit. The bath I had run was scalding hot.

“While my husband checks the cleanliness of the ensuite, you can light the fire.”

My mind races to stop a sarcastic answer coming from the hole between my nose and my chin.

“The fireplace is an original but is laid only for show. I am sorry, we cannot light it,” I say. My explanation has her glaring back in disbelief.

“I only reserved this room because of the fireplace, and now I can’t light it?”

It doesn’t seem to help when I point out that it is hard to conform to this century’s fire regulations by lighting fires within guest bedrooms.

Dr. Noble has by now inspected the bathroom and says, “It’s too small to be of any use at all. I’m sorry, Darling, but this establishment falls wells below the standards we expect and I don’t want to stay another minute.”

“I agree darling, let’s leave,” she says.

Basil backs quietly out of the room when the penny drops and after pulling the plug from the bathtub, the doctor in the tweeds reminds me of Toad, from Wind in the Willows.

They catch me again at the reception desk. I try explaining the hotel policy for late cancellation, and inform them there will be a charge of 75% of the total booking. I choose not to leave this to the receptionist, thinking I might appear more determined. After all, we have provided everything a guest should expect from a three-star hotel, and more. Indeed, we were not offered a fourth star at the last inspection only because we have no lift and our staff are not predominantly uniformed and wearing name badges. But our quality score and grading are far higher than a standard four-star hotel. Also, we don’t have a chef on duty 24 hours a day to provide food service.

In our brochure, the room has not been described as having a fireplace, nor do we offer bathrobes as a complimentary inclusion. The bathroom and décor are completely new, clean, and of ample size (according to the AA and the Tourist Board), and even the courtesy products are posh Molton Brown. The room is clean, the flowers fresh and the cookies are warm – they aren’t booked into Toad Hall. I wonder whether Dr. Noble is a re-incarnation Mr. Toad himself at his most obnoxious.

I stand my ground in front of the angry Nobles because, in the time that they have been there, we have turned away several potential guests, as the hotel is full. I simply cannot accept the loss of revenue when we have kept our side of the contract and, anyway, Sybil would have my guts for garters. I would rather face an angry toad – even one wearing plus fours – than her, warts and all.

Failing to live up to unrealistic expectations is not a reason to allow a cancellation. As the luggage is brought down from the room and taken to the boot of the Bentley, a large group of guests arrive at the hotel to check in. Walking in to reception to witness Basil arguing with an irate aristocratic amphibian is not the first impression I like to give – and, worse, I am giving Mr. Toad my all. Somehow, the upper classes are able to utter four-letter expletives and seem less rude than normal people. He announces he won’t pay, and leaves clutching his bill.

I am far from calm, but I explain to the newly-arrived guests as best I can what had happened. I debit Mr Toad’s credit card, hands shaking with anger, and send him a receipt.

He follows with a great deal of correspondence, but the bank and Tourist Board support me. Eventually, Dr. Noble gives in. If you pay for a Volkswagen, don’t expect to drive home in a Mercedes-Benz or, perhaps, a Bentley, but then Toad preferred a horse drawn carriage with a silly hooter.

“Poop, poop,” cries a triumphant Basil.