The Girl from the Savoy

by Hazel Gaynor

  “Don’t be factitious. You need to be look around. Take more notice of people.” I cough and pull my collar up to my chin as we turn the final corner and walk back toward the entrance to the club. “Either that or put an advert in The Stage.” I laugh at my joke as the doorman holds the door for us and we step inside.

  The tantalizing beat from the jazz band drifts up the narrow stairs. The cloakroom attendant takes my coat. I turn to check my reflection in the mirrored wall tiles, twisting my hip and turning my neck to admire the draped silk that falls seductively at the small of my back. I’m glad Hettie chose the pewter dress, the fabric shimmers fabulously beneath the lights. I shake my head lightly, setting my paste earrings dancing. I shiver as a breeze runs along my skin. Murray’s is one of my favorite clubs in London. I feel safe here. I can let loose for a while and forget about things among the music and dancing and cocktails.

  Turning on the charm, I glide down the stairs. My evening’s performance isn’t over yet.

  Perry orders us both a gin and it from the bar. We sit at the high stools and sip the sweet cocktail, perfectly positioned for people to see us. I watch the band with their glorious café au lait skin. The pulse from the double bass and the shrill cry of the trumpet seep through my skin so that I can feel the music pulse within me. The bandleader acknowledges me, as he always does, and leads the band in my favorite waltz of the moment, “What’ll I Do.” I smile sweetly and applaud when the song ends.

  When we are quite sure we’ve been noticed, Perry leads me to our table. The others are already there, the usual set of writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is vaguely interesting in London. Noël Coward, Elizabeth Ponsonby, Nancy Mitford, Cecil Beaton, and, of course, darling Bea, who—I am delighted to see—makes a special fuss of Perry. I kiss them all and settle into the seat between Noël and Cecil.

  “You were brilliant, darling!”

  “Simply divine. Your best yet, without a doubt.”

  I wave their words aside. “You are all wicked and mean to tease me. You’ve been sitting here drinking cocktails all night. You didn’t even see so much as the HOUSE FULL boards outside.”

  “But she was splendid, of course,” Perry adds as he pours us both a glass of champagne. “Regardless of what the notices might say in tomorrow’s papers.”

  I ignore his teasing and take a long satisfying sip. The bubbles pop and fizz deliciously on my tongue. Do I care what the critics say? It’s been so long since I’ve taken any real notice of the reviews. I haven’t needed to. It has simply become habit to read flattery and praise. My housekeeper-cum-secretary, Elsie, cuts out the notices from all the papers and sticks them into a scrapbook with an almost obsessive diligence. The slightest mention of me falls victim to her scissors—photographs, passing references to supper at The Savoy, charitable events, after-the-show reports, costume reviews—nothing escapes her scissors. I tell her I really don’t give two figs what they say, but she persists. She says it is important to keep a record; that people will be interested in my career in years to come. She’s too polite to say “when you’re dead,” but I know that’s what she means, and it occurs to me that perhaps she is right. The more I think about tonight’s performance, the more I realize that the notices do matter. There’s an astonishing honesty required of oneself when faced with one’s own mortality. The notices and observations in Elsie’s silly little scrapbook will soon become the record of what I am—who I was. It is how I will be remembered. It matters immensely.

  I tip my neck back to savor the last drop of champagne and hold my glass toward Perry for a refill, hoping that nobody notices the tremble in my hand.

  The night passes in a heady oblivion of dancing, laughter, and playful flirtation with handsome men who invite me to dance. I allow myself to be guided around the dance floor to quicksteps and tangos, spinning and twirling among elegant young couples who twist and turn as deftly around each other as the champagne bubbles that dance in my glass.

  As the night moves on, the band picks up the pace, holding us all spellbound on the dance floor, our feet incapable of rest. I say all the right things to all the right prompts, but despite the gaiety of it all and the adoring gazes I attract whenever I so much as stand up, part of me grows weary too soon and my smile becomes forced as I stifle a succession of yawns. As I watch the midnight cabaret show the room becomes too hot and the music too loud. I long to slip quietly away and walk along the Embankment to look for shooting stars. I was just six years old when my father told me that they are dying stars. “What you are looking at is the end of something that has existed for millions of years,” he said. It was the saddest thing I’d ever heard, and in a champagne-fueled fog of adulthood, the thought of it makes me want to cry.

  “Miss May. Would you care to dance?”

  I turn to see who is addressing me. “Mr. Berlin. What a joy! It would be my pleasure.”

  What I really wish is that he would hold me in his arms while I rest my head on his shoulder and weep, but that is what an ordinary girl would do, and I am not an ordinary girl. I am Loretta May. So I stand tall and look beautiful and allow myself to be led to the dance floor, where the music thumps and the bodies of a hundred beautiful people twirl and sway in a wonderful rhythm of jazz-fueled recklessness. The gin flows, beaded fabrics ripple against slim silhouettes, ostrich-feather fans sway in time to the music, the soles of satin shoes spin and hop, and legs in silk stockings kick and flick flirtatiously as the band plays on and on.

  I play my part perfectly well.

  Shooting stars, and the wishes and tears of an ordinary girl, will have to wait.

  9

  DOLLY

  “Sometimes life gives you cotton stockings.

  Sometimes it gives you a Chanel gown.”

  After an exhausting week getting lost in the hotel, finding my way around my chores, and trying to keep in O’Hara’s good books and out of trouble, my first afternoon off can’t come soon enough. Mildred slopes off somewhere before anyone notices. Sissy and Gladys are disappointed I won’t join them at the Strand Palace, but I explain that I’ve promised to meet Clover for the weekly thé dansant at the Palais de Danse in Hammersmith and only a fool would break a promise made to Clover Parker.

  Clover and I have been to the Palais every Wednesday since my first week in service at the house in Grosvenor Square. I was looking for a distraction. Clover was looking for a husband. Along with hundreds of others who swarm to the dance halls once a week to shake off the memories of war and the strict routines of work, Clover and I pay our two and six and forget about the troubles that weigh heavy on our shoulders as we foxtrot and waltz our way around the vast dance floor.

  After years of rolling back the carpet in our shared bedroom and practicing the latest dance steps over and over, we are both reasonably good on our feet. More than anything, I love to dance, to lose myself in the music until it wraps itself around me as tightly as the arms of my dance partner. More often than not, this is Clover. Such is the way of things now. There aren’t enough men to go around and we can’t always afford the extra sixpence to hire one of the male dance instructors, so us single girls make do, taking it in turns to be the man. Clover is a decent substitute, but even when I close my eyes and really imagine, it isn’t the same as having a man’s arms to guide me. It isn’t the same as having Teddy’s arms around me. He was a wonderful dancer. It was Teddy who first taught me to dance. It was Teddy who encouraged me to chase my dreams. It was always Teddy.

  Changing out of my uniform as quickly as I can, I clock out at the back of the hotel and step outside for the first time in a week. It is still raining but I don’t mind. The cool breeze and damp air feel lovely against my cheeks as I turn up the collar on my shabby old coat and walk through the Embankment Gardens toward the river. I think about my collision with Mr. Clements a week ago and the pages of music still hidden beneath my pillow. Although I’ve tried to push him from my mind, I can’t stop thinking about those gray eyes and that rich russet h
air, and I can’t help wondering about the music I rescued from the litter bin. I feel a strange sense of duty to hear the notes played.

  After the hushed order and sophistication of the hotel, London seems particularly grubby and alive. I notice things I’ve never really noticed before: the soot-blackened buildings, the pigeon droppings on the pavements and railings, the noise from the tugs and wherries on the Thames that toot to one another like gossiping girls, the smell of roast beef from the kitchens at Simpson’s. I dodge around smartly dressed ladies in rain-flattened furs who try to avoid the puddles that will leave watermarks on their expensive satin shoes. To them, this is just another dull October afternoon, but to me it is an exciting medley of noise and chaos; a place without restrictions and rules. To me, the pavements dance beneath the raindrops. To me, the roads sing to the tune of motorcars and puddles. To me, everyone quicksteps and waltzes around each other.

  In the Embankment Gardens, I feel the vibrations of the underground trains through the pathway beneath my feet and smile as I watch two pigeons squabble over a piece of bread. Beyond the Gardens, I follow the bend of the river along the Embankment where the overnight work of the screevers—the pavement artists—has been spoiled by the rain. Only one drawing of a young girl is just visible. Beside it is written the word “hope” in a pretty looping script. I’d like to take a closer look but I’m already late, so I hurry on. Clover gets cross with me when I’m late, and she’s already cross with me for leaving my position in Grosvenor Square.

  She hadn’t taken well to the news of my position at The Savoy. Her reaction was twenty-two minutes of snotty weeping. I’d watched the clock over her shoulder as I consoled her in the A.B.C. teashop.

  “Things won’t be the same, Doll. They’ll lock you up in that fancy hotel and you’ll get all sorts of notions in that pretty head of yours and I’ll never see you again. I know it.”

  “I’m only going to The Savoy, not the moon!”

  “Might as well be going to the moon. You’ll make new friends and forget all about me. I can feel it in my waters.”

  Clover feels everything in her waters. “Don’t be daft. How could I forget you?”

  “Then promise we’ll still go dancing on our afternoons off.”

  “Of course we will.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise. I’ll meet you at the Palais every Wednesday. Same as usual. Cross my heart.”

  I didn’t say “and hope to die.” Nobody says that anymore. And I have every intention of keeping my promise. Clover Parker gave me friendship, a shoulder to cry on, and a Max Factor mascara when I had absolutely nothing. I’ve grown to love her like a sister and can’t imagine sharing my makeup, my ciggies, or my worries with anyone else. But things had to change because I’d made another promise. A promise that I would make something of my life. I had to. Otherwise, how could I ever make peace with what I had done?

  “Why does everything always have to change, Dolly? Why can’t things stay as they are?”

  “I want more, Clover. Look at me. I’m as dull as a muddy puddle. When I watch those girls on the stage, I want to be there with them. I want silk stockings on my legs and silver Rayne’s dance shoes on my feet. I want Chanel dresses against my skin. I want to cut my hair and rouge my cheeks, not flinch every time I hear footsteps following me down the back stairs. I want to be appreciated, not discarded like a filthy rag. I feel like a stuck gramophone record, going round and round, playing the same notes of the same song over and over. I want to dance to a different tune. Don’t you want that too?”

  She doesn’t. Clover is happy with her lot. A reliable job as a kitchen maid and a quick fumble with Tommy Mullins at the back of the dance hall is enough for her.

  “I don’t think about it, Dolly. I just am what I am. All I know for certain is that Archie Rawlins ain’t coming home and he was the only bugger ever likely to marry me. I’ll more than likely end up an old spinster with ten cats to keep me company. But there’s no use complaining. Sometimes life gives you cotton stockings. Sometimes it gives you a Chanel gown. That’s the way of it. You just have to make the most of whatever you’re given.”

  Part of me wishes I could be more like Clover, settle for a life as a housemaid, marry a decent enough man, make do. But I have restless feet and an impatient heart and a dream of a better life that I can’t wake up from.

  I’d been told that The Savoy prefers personal recommendations of employees from its current staff, and a discreet word by a friend of Clover’s cousin led to my engagement. Clover’s opinion is that a maid is still a maid, however fancily you package it up, but I disagree. The Savoy attracts movie stars and musicians, poets and politicians, dancers and writers; the Bright Young People who fill London’s newspaper columns and society pages with their extravagant lifestyles. The people who excite me. The people who fill my scrapbooks and my dreams.

  At Trafalgar Square, I jump onto the back of the omnibus and take a seat downstairs, paying my tuppence to the conductor as I pick up a copy of The Stage left behind on the seat opposite me. I flick through the pages of adverts for dancing shoes and stage props, fat-reducing soap and seamstresses, and turn to the theater notices, hoping to find something for my scrapbook.

  In his latest production, HOLD TIGHT!, Cochran has taken something of a gamble with his leading lady, Loretta May. It is a gamble that has more than paid off. Miss May—one of the hardest-working actresses on the London stage—dazzled, captivating the audience with her acting and singing talents, and her comic timing. Miss May brings the stage to life in a way that many others simply cannot. The costumes were equally remarkable, Mr. Cochran exceeding his previous best in this department. The gasps of admiration from the ladies in the audience could be heard all over town.

  In her first full-length musical comedy, Miss May was triumphant in HOLD TIGHT! at the Shaftesbury. Her departure from revue was launched amid scenes of tumultuous applause. Kitty Walsh, the chorus girl selected at the very last minute to play the role of Miss May’s daughter, was captivating. She is most definitely a young actress to watch. The audience yelled themselves hoarse and refused to let the curtain go down.

  I close my eyes, imagining what it would be like to be that young chorus girl, to sing and dance on the West End stage. The notices go on: Gertrude Lawrence “splendid” in Charlot’s revue London Calling! Noël Coward’s musical score “triumphant.” Bea Lillie “radiant” in Lelong. The descriptions of the costumes take up as many column inches as the commentary on the performances.

  Miss Bankhead’s costumes in The Dancers were admired repeatedly. Her first outfit was à la Egyptienne—composed entirely of silver sequins. Another outfit was lilac chiffon and green satin, adorned with lilac trails. Her final costume—a slim “magpie” dress, a back of black charmeuse and a front of white, ending in white lace encrusted with black and crystal beads—was undoubtedly the finest we have seen on the London stage since Lucile Duff Gordon’s creations for Miss Elsie in The Merry Widow.

  Turning the pages, I read the calls for auditions. Chorus girls are wanted all over town, the bad fogs wreaking havoc with the health of many dancers and leading ladies so that understudies are needed for the understudies. I imagine the long lines outside the theaters, another batch of disappointed girls and crushed dreams traveling home on the omnibuses and trams later that day. I’ve been that girl so many times, watching with envy as the final name is announced for the callbacks. “The rest of you may leave. Thank you for your time.” The words we all dread.

  As I read down the column of audition calls, something catches my eye. The print is small and I lift the page closer to read it.

  WANTED: MUSE

  Struggling musical composer seeks muse to inspire.

  Applicants must possess a sense of humor and the patience of a saint.

  One hour a week—arranged to suit. Payment in cherry cake and tea.

  Replies, outlining suitability, for the attention of:

  Mrs. Ambrose, c/o Ap
artment Three, Strand Theatre, Aldwych

  I read the notice several times and tear the page from the paper. I’m not really sure why, other than that the words set my heart racing.

  “You need to stop asking why, Dolly. The question to ask is, why not?”

  I hear Teddy’s voice so clearly, his gentle words, his belief in me. I see his face, the empty stare, the uncontrollable tremble in his arms, the damp stain at his groin. No dignity for men like him. No future for would-be wives like me.

  I read the notice once more, fold it into neat quarters, and place it in my purse as Auntie Gert’s words whisper to me. Wonderful adventures await for those who dare to find them.

  Why not?

  Clover is already standing outside the Palais when I arrive. She runs to greet me as I step off the bus, nearly knocking me over as she throws her arms around me as if we’d been apart for months, not days.

  I hug her tight. “I’ve missed you, Clover Parker.”

  “Liar. Bet you’ve hardly thought about me.” She loops her arm through mine as we walk up the Palais steps. “Go on, then. Tell me. What’s it like, this posh hotel of yours? I know you’re bursting to tell me.”

  I can’t help smiling. “I wish you could see it, Clo. Your eyes would pop out at the ladies’ dresses and shoes, and the gentlemen are so handsome and the hotel band plays the hottest sounds. I can still hear it sometimes when I go to bed. Ragtime and the latest jazz numbers.”

  Clover lights a cigarette for us both. “Told you. Head full of nonsense already! So, what are your roommates like? Please tell me they’re awful and you wish you’d never left Grosvenor Square.”

  “They’re nice, actually. One of them, Sissy, reminds me of you. Gladys is quiet, but nice enough. Very pretty. She wants to be a Hollywood movie star and I wouldn’t be surprised if she makes it. The other one, Mildred, is a bit miserable. Never has a word to say, and she looks at me funny. We didn’t work with anyone called Mildred, did we?”