Into Happy Havens

Seen from the outside, looking in, my ultra-modern hotel, set back a bit from a busy London ring road, was not conspicuous, nor did it stand out as a natural focal point for tired travellers. It lacked the clear-cut identity that those thoughtful designers can graft onto palaces and prisons, banks and battleships. By day, the hotel was not much different from its high-rise office block neighbours standing almost to attention in rank and file on both sides of the wide and busy road. But after sunset on a bleak winter evening, it took on a new identity, courtesy of the lighting wizards who could defy darkness with moving dazzle. Suddenly, the hotel became as bright as a new beacon, a guiding light for weary travellers from afar, a neon-lit lane leading to a peaceful backwater away from the main stream. Most of the guests, (known to the hotel staff as ‘punters’) arrived by car and sought a single room with bath. Some punters came by coach, usually as part of a package tour. They shared rooms. From this simple division flows the relative profitability of modern hotels. Shared rooms are good. Unshared rooms aren’t. The attraction of suburban hotels is free parking for all. As a bonus, the tariff is cheaper than city centre hotels which offer the same facilities but charge extra for parking cars. The significance of the reduced cost was not lost on corporate clients who kept their employees on the move. The front hall was full of punters eager to relax after a day of stress in other parts of London. A long queue trailed from the reception desk. More than one hundred punters were already booked in. An unknown number would follow. Most of the punters knew exactly what to do. No welcome speech was necessary. They checked in, signed the registration forms, went to their rooms, and got in touch with loved ones, bosses, or mates. From a busy well-lit hall, the regular punters fanned out all over the hotel. Most of them became immersed in daily reports. They worried about sales quotas, their competitors, and progress to date. They plugged their laptops into our dedicated terminals and received news, intelligence, orders, and omens from afar. They shared today’s events with colleagues everywhere. They rehearsed tomorrow’s appointments with joy or dread. They looked forward to going home on Friday. It was not the sort of hotel to send a postcard from. The visit was brief and businesslike. It was not memorable. Within the hour, nearly all the bedroom lights were on. In the adjacent buildings, nearly all the lights went out. From the inside, looking out, a different picture emerged. ‘Miss Tammond. Miss Tammond, there’s a punter out ’ere wants to see you.’ Ethel, my front office receptionist, delivered this message. She stood framed in the doorway of my office, a slight elfin figure dressed in the standard grey uniform of our employer, Happy Haven Hotels. The message was innocent enough, and it was spoken in the flat cockney monotone of a true Londoner, charmingly embellished with dropped aitches and a glottal stop that even a Hottentot would admire. This essentially had the effect of changing my gender. My lapel badge reads MARTIN HAMMOND, GENERAL MANAGER. But that gender switch alone was not enough to account for the rising wave of panic which the message produced. After all, why shouldn’t a guest of Happy Haven Hotels want to see me at 6.30 p.m. at the end of a busy day? My employers, Happy Haven Hotels, are in the business of accommodating travellers in their hotels, which are located in every significant city suburb in the land. The trademark of hospitality (‘our logo,’ they call it) is a round orange face wearing a huge smile from ear to ear, topped off by eyes screwed up in ecstasy. The logo is known affectionately as Walter. Although we have not met yet, I do know that Walter is the given name of our esteemed founder, an egomaniac blusterer and modern version of Genghis Khan, focused enough to start another Great Fire of London and blessed with the tunnel vision of a reversed telescope. His backers and bankers do not share Walter’s reputation for ferocity within his empire. He is well known, respected, and admired in established financial circles for his ability to repay loans in less than the contracted period. In purely fiscal terms, he is the Right Stuff. Walter is everywhere. He is on the rotating illuminated sign outside every hotel. He is on the handle of the door that lets you in. He is on the reservation form that you sign. He smiles at you from free pens, and he beams at you from the receptionist’s badge that adorns her left breast and reveals her name. He is on the menu in the lift that lists the goodies on tonight’s menu. He is on the key swipe to your room, and when you get inside, he peeps at you from curtains, towels, and bedspreads. By a strange omission, he is not on the loo paper, but he comes back at you almost immediately from the miniature cakes of soap that are laid out with precision beside the wash-hand basin. Walter is to be admired for his persistence, a characteristic which does not pass unnoticed by his city backers. If you read from the embossed folder in your room, you will discover that he can accommodate you in fifty-five different locations of his own. He can refer you to hundreds more all over the globe if you are a bona fide fare-paying traveller. If you move, Walter can accommodate you when you stop moving, anywhere, anytime.