The Girl from the Savoy

by Hazel Gaynor

  Our conversation is interrupted as something lands with a clatter against the glass, making us both scream and jump backward. We peer down to see one of the porters grinning up at us. He has a handful of walnuts and sends another rattling against the window.

  Sissy pushes up the sash. A blast of cold air nips at my skin as she sticks her head outside. “Oi!” she shouts. “Watch it!”

  The porter blows her a kiss and carries on with his work.

  “Cheeky sod,” she says, closing the window and pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Billy Morris. He’s taken a fancy to me.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Have you taken a fancy to him?”

  Her cheeks redden as a smile crosses her lips. “Might have.”

  “What’s all the noise?”

  We both turn around to see that Mildred is awake.

  “It’s Dolly,” Sissy says. “She’s flirting with the porters.”

  I cuff her on the shoulder. “I am not!”

  Mildred looks at me with that same knowing look. “Well, Dolly should be careful or she’ll get herself a reputation before she gets her first pay packet.”

  Sissy and I look at each other and burst out laughing.

  Mildred throws her covers back and steps out of bed. “Honestly. It’s like being back at school.” She leaves the room, slamming the door behind her.

  “What’s got into her?” I ask, clambering back into bed and hugging my knees tight to my chest for warmth.

  “Nothing,” Sissy says. “That’s the problem. Needs a good roll in the hay, that one does. She’s as stiff as a fire iron.”

  The maids’ bathroom is like Piccadilly Circus on a Friday evening. A couple of the manicurists from the hairdressing salon are washing their stockings in the sinks. I catch snippets of their conversation, something about a Hollywood movie producer being sweet on one of them. I’d love to hear more, but they leave as the bathroom fills up with a dozen chattering maids.

  “The manicurists think they’re above us,” Sissy says. “They don’t live in, but they’ll happily use our bathroom when it suits. Don’t know why they can’t wash their smalls at home.”

  The narrow counter below the mirror is a jumble of caps and hairpins as we all fuss and fidget to make sure we look just right. Skinny arms and sharp elbows in matching blue print dresses jostle for position. I stand on my tiptoes, peering above the heads in front of me. It isn’t the first time I wish I were taller. “Not tall enough. Next, please.” I’ve heard those words so many times, sometimes before I’d even danced one step.

  Sissy gives me a shove in the back, pushing me forward. “Come on, girls. Give someone else a turn.”

  With a ripple of annoyance, the sea of bodies in front of me slowly parts and finally I get in front of the mirror. I look pale and tired from my restless night and pinch my cheeks to draw some color to them.

  “Here. Have some of this.” Gladys hands me a pot of rouge. “Never know who you might bump into.” She winks and rubs a little onto her cheeks. “Got to look your best.”

  “I thought we weren’t allowed to wear makeup.”

  “We’re not. You just wear enough to look a bit less dead, but not enough for O’Hara to notice.”

  I pass up the offer and concentrate on pinning my unruly curls into some sort of order, before fixing my frill cap in place.

  Sissy passes me a lipstick. “Got it in Woolworth’s last week. It’s called Vermillion.” She’s already applied a little to accentuate her Cupid’s bow, just like the actresses in the silent pictures. She puckers her lips and pouts at herself in the mirror. “Well. What d’you think?”

  I turn to look at her. “Very Mary Pickford!”

  She laughs and wipes it off with a tissue. “Here. Try it.”

  I can’t resist. I twist the bottom of the golden case. The beveled edge slides easily over my lips. I press them together and rub them from side to side as I lean closer to the mirror to take a closer look. “It’s lovely.”

  A girl beside me tells me it suits me. “You new?” she asks.

  “Yes. I’m Dolly.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Dolly. I’m Tallulah.”

  She mimics Tallulah Bankhead’s southern drawl perfectly. I laugh. “Did you see her in The Dancers? She was so beautiful.”

  “Went every night for a week,” she replies. “Lost a shoe in the rush to get to the gallery the first night. Walked home in my stockings. Earned myself a clip round the ear from my mam.”

  Sissy claps her hands together, drawing everyone’s attention. “Now, girls,” she says, in her best Irish accent. “Everything must be neat and tidy and just so. The white frill cap and apron worn in a particular way, the shoes polished like glass, the hair curled and pinned perfectly.” She stops and looks at me. “For the love of all that’s holy, Dorothy Lane. Look at your cap. That won’t do at all!”

  I giggle as she helps me fasten my cap properly, but our good mood is interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

  “I hope this jolly attitude will remain with you through your day’s work, girls.”

  “Who’s that?” I whisper to Gladys.

  “Head porter. Cutler.”

  The voice continues beyond the door. “Far too many surly expressions in the corridors recently. It’s not good for the hotel’s ambience. Now, hurry downstairs. It is nearly half past. Mrs. O’Hara will be along for her inspection soon.”

  Gladys explains that Cutler is a moody old sod. “Nice as pie one minute but he’d fire you on the spot for anything inappropriate. Keep your nose out and your hands clean and you’ve no need to worry.”

  But as we file out of the cramped bathroom, I do worry. There’s so much to remember, so many new faces to know. I’ve already met several floor-housekeepers, dozens of maids, floor-waiters and valets and lift attendants, not to mention the various members of the management team. As we rush down the staff stairs, the swish of our dresses mingles with the rumble of heels against the linoleum. I try to suppress the memories that lurk in every squeak of my shoes against the floor.

  In the Maids’ Hall I take a seat at the long table and pour a cup of tea. It is good and strong. Not like the pale sweepings I used to get at Mawdesley Hall. Triangles of toast sit in steel racks with pats of bright yellow butter in ramekins dotted about the table. The kitchen maids have been busy. I see the young girl who was scrubbing the steps yesterday and smile at her. She’s so engrossed in her chores she hardly notices me. I tuck into porridge and bread that’s still warm, fresh from the ovens of the hotel bakery. I let a piece melt slowly on my tongue and remember how me and my little sister, Sarah, used to stand outside the bakers with a pillowcase, ready to fill it with whatever we could get for the sixpence Mam had given us. Mostly it was those awful flat brown loaves—cowpats we used to call them. If we were lucky, we’d get a roll to scoff on the way home. I’d tell Sarah to brush the crumbs from her lips and her pinafore so Mam wouldn’t notice.

  All too soon, we hear brisk footsteps and O’Hara appears, the great bundle of keys jangling at her hip like a restless child. We all stand as she enters the room, chair legs scraping against the stone floor, spoons clattering against bowls and cups. The kitchen maids start to clear the breakfast things as O’Hara calls us to line up in the corridor. I follow the others, copying them as they fall into a long line: shoulders back, feet together, chin up, hands behind the back. I cross my fingers and say a silent prayer as O’Hara walks briskly along the line like a drill sergeant major, handing each girl a neatly typed house list. She stops occasionally to tug at a twisted apron strap or to inspect hands and nails. She stops in front of me. My heart pounds beneath my dress as I look straight ahead, trying not to focus on anything and avoiding O’Hara’s cold stare. She considers me for a second before leaning forward and brushing a fingertip along my upper lip.

  “Lipstick, Dorothy?”

  Bugger.
I forgot to wipe it off. The girl to my right takes a sharp intake of breath. My heart thumps.

  “We are not at some backstreet picture house now,” O’Hara snaps. “Lipstick has no place on a maid’s lips until she clocks off.” She passes me a handkerchief. “And even then it is quite unnecessary. Get rid of it. Immediately.”

  “Yes, miss.” I rub the handkerchief frantically at my lips, turning to the girl beside me, who nods to confirm it is gone. As O’Hara continues down the line Sissy leans forward and mouths an apology. I shush the voice in my head that wonders if she might have done it on purpose to land me in trouble.

  Finally, O’Hara is satisfied. “Everything seems to be in order. Let’s have a good day’s work and remember . . .”

  The girls all join in a chorus of rehearsed instruction. “The smallest things can make the biggest difference. Attention to detail in everything. Our guests are our priority.”

  O’Hara nods approvingly. “Quite so. Now, off you go—and, Dorothy . . .”

  What now? “Yes, miss?”

  “Sissy Roberts will assist you with your rooms again today. Tomorrow, you’re on your own.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Any questions?”

  “No, miss.”

  “I presume we won’t be seeing any crimson lips tomorrow?”

  In my head I tell her it’s Vermillion. “No, miss. We won’t.”

  My inquisitor nods firmly and swishes away with her sticky-out veins and pointy elbows. I lean back against the wall and breathe a sigh of relief. “Yes, miss. No, miss. Three bags full, miss.”

  Sissy digs me in the ribs. “Cheeking the head of housekeeping already? I’d keep those thoughts to yourself if I were you. You’ll land yourself in trouble muttering under your breath like that. The hotel has eyes and ears. The less said the better.”

  “Well, she looks at me funny. Like I’m something she scraped off her shoe.”

  “She will scrape you off her shoe if she hears you bad-mouthing her. Keep your mouth shut and your corners neat.” She grabs me by the elbow. “Sorry about the lipstick. Next time, wipe it off before you come downstairs, you silly sod. She’d have marched you straight to Cutler if it wasn’t your first morning. I’m certain of it.”

  “Let’s call it beginner’s luck, then, and forget all about it.”

  Sissy checks the new house list as we make our way to the storerooms. “Well, look at this. Beginner’s luck indeed. First room on your list, Miss Dorothy Lane, is occupied by a Mr. Lawrence Snyder. Friend of the governor. Manager to the stars.”

  “Snyder? That vile man we saw yesterday?” I think about the way he looked at me. I think about the way I’ve been looked at like that before.

  “The very same. Gladys will be as sick as a dog when she hears. She’s convinced he’ll have her on the next boat to America.” She nudges me in the ribs. “Well, come on. We won’t get much done standing around daydreaming. The rooms won’t clean themselves.”

  I follow her as she strides off toward the linen stores, but my thoughts are elsewhere and my heart has rushed back to my room and wrapped itself around the photograph beneath my pillow.

  The service floor is even more confusing than it was yesterday. A steady stream of porters, maids, chefs, and waiters fills the narrow corridors. When anyone in livery or formal dress passes, we step aside to make way for them. Sissy points out the head chef, a formidable Frenchman who forbids anyone, other than kitchen staff, to enter his storerooms. I catch a glimpse of some of the recent deliveries: gallons of cream in great vats, mountains of fresh pineapples, tanks full of live lobsters, vast saddles of venison, haunches of ham, and great slabs of beef. The hotel bakery alone is the size of a small house. My mouth waters at the aroma of freshly baked loaves being lifted from the ovens on huge paddles by red-cheeked young boys and burly men. Sissy swipes two milk rolls from the nearest tray, earning herself a friendly flick at her backside with the end of a paddle.

  “Do you ever see the guests when you’re in their rooms?” I ask when we’ve loaded our trollies. “Gladys was telling me that the ladies sometimes keep maids talking for hours, to pass the time.”

  “They ask for more soap to be sent up, or hand towels, but really it’s just an excuse to have a bit of company. Bored, you see. I suppose there’s only so many times you can admire yourself in the mirror. It’s mainly the hairdressers and manicurists who are personally requested in the guests’ rooms. They spend hours up there, drinking coffee and eating delicate little cakes. Get sent bouquets and earrings and perfume and all sorts by their regulars. And they always get a good tip. Half a crown if they’re lucky.”

  “Really?”

  “Mind you, I’ve heard some guests show their gratitude in ways that might not be appreciated as much as a bouquet of roses, if you know what I mean.”

  She winks as we step into the lift and ask the attendant to take us to fourth.

  “I didn’t think things like that would go on here,” I whisper.

  Sissy scoffs at my naïveté. “Same old divide. There’s us downstairs, and there’s them upstairs. A maid is as easily taken advantage of at The Savoy as she is anywhere else. You’d be a fool to think otherwise.”

  The lift jolts to a stop and we step out as a gentleman emerges from a room to the left. He tips his hat as he passes. Larry Snyder. We stand to one side and wish him a good morning.

  “And to you both.” He looks at me. “The new girl. Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir.” I touch my fingers self-consciously to my lips, hoping the last traces of Sissy’s Vermillion have been rubbed away.

  “So my suite is your dress rehearsal!”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

  “Movie stars. Actresses. Chambermaids. I suppose we all need somewhere to practice. My suite is all yours. Feel free to fluff your lines—or should I say pillows!”

  He smiles warmly and I mutter a thank you.

  “Would you like your room attended to now, sir?” Sissy asks.

  “Indeed. I shall be gone for the day.” He walks on a few paces, stops, and turns around. “There might be a few papers scattered around the place. Leave them where they are, would you. Work in progress on a new script.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  At the guest lift we hear him greet a friend. “John McArthur! What the devil has you at The Savoy?”

  “The wife, Snyder. The wife has me at The Savoy, and both my bank balance and I are suffering dreadfully as a consequence.”

  Sissy and I burst out laughing and enter Snyder’s room.

  As I sip my cocoa over supper that evening, my feet throb and my arms ache. I glance at the clock on the wall. The productions across London will be reaching their final act by now, the girls in the gallery hoarse from shouting their appreciation, the restaurants and nightclubs ready to welcome the after-show crowds for supper and dancing. I’m so tired even the thought of dancing makes me feel weary, and when I climb into bed I’m too exhausted to even read one page of Sissy’s magazine.

  I shuffle under the blankets, listening to the scratch of Mildred’s pen on the page as she writes in her diary. I can’t think what she can possibly have to write so much about. Her life seems to consist of nothing more than the hotel. No hobbies. No interests. No dreams. By the time she turns out the light, Gladys is fast asleep and Sissy is already snoring. The room is plunged into darkness, but I know the lights from the hotel suites and the restaurant and ballroom still shine all around me. For a while, I listen to the distant sounds of music and laughter that float along the corridors, enticing me to follow, until I grow sleepy and close my eyes and I set my dreams free to drift and dance among those who have already made theirs a reality.

  7

  LORETTA

  Sometimes I would happily swap the lonely peaks of stardom for the jolly camaraderie of the chorus.

  The Shaftesbury is sold out for opening night of HOLD TIGHT! Dear Cockie is delighted. Yet again he has shown his critics that whi
le those who take risks in this business sometimes fall on hard times, they can also bask in the glory of success when it comes. From the ladies and gentlemen and distinguished guests dressed in their finery in the stalls and dress circle and boxes, all the way back to the raucous throng squashed together high up in the gallery, there isn’t a spare seat in the house, nor any space to stand. If ticket sales are a measure of success, we already have a hit on our hands, but experience has taught me that there’s a long way to go and many pages of script and musical score to be convincingly delivered before the final curtain falls.

  As the audience roar their approval for the first act, the heavy velvet curtain drops in a dramatic swoop in front of me and the spotlight goes out, plunging the stage into a dead blackout. I savor the moment; the cocoon of pitch black. In that dark silence, I can pretend that nothing matters, other than the fading applause. I stand as still as stone and breathe. In and out. In and out. I wonder what my last breath will feel like.

  A fine dust drifts down from the gantry high above, disturbed by the stagehands as they hoist and lower scenery. I stifle a cough as it settles on my arms and sticks to my clammy skin. My moment of silence interrupted, I walk offstage, feeling my way with the toe of my satin shoe down the five steps that lead from the wings.

  Backstage is already a hive of activity. Stagehands, assistants, the pianist, and my leading man all congratulate me as I pass.

  “You’re terrific, Miss May.”

  “A wonderful first act!”

  “Fabulous, darling! Fabulous!”

  “Word perfect. Simply divine!”

  I smile graciously, letting the compliments and platitudes wash over me. They are expected now, arranged by my people, regardless of how good or bad my performance. I don’t care for insincerity. Only dear Jimmy Jones, the stage-door manager and my unlikeliest of friends, remains silent. We have known each other through some of the hardest years we will ever know. He understands when words are not needed. He simply smiles, gives me a reassuring pat on the arm, and presses a bundle of carefully audited cards and messages into my hand. Only the kindest words, the most sincere letters of adoration from fans and amusing offers of marriage from respectable gentlemen ever make it past Jimmy’s careful scrutiny.