by Hazel Gaynor
Clover thinks for a moment. “Doesn’t ring any bells. Why?”
“I’ve a funny feeling I’ve met her before, but I don’t know where. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about her. Let’s get inside and dance!”
The Original Dixieland Jazz Band is playing a waltz when we enter the dance hall, a sea of bodies already moving, as one, around the dance floor. I love it here. The Oriental decoration, the music, the dancing, the sense of freedom and letting go. We sit at a table and order tea and a plate of sandwiches. Clover is wearing a lovely new dress, which I admire. Lavender rayon with a lace trim.
“Made it myself,” she says, twirling around and sending the hem kicking out as she spins. “Three yards of fabric from Petticoat Lane for two pounds. Hardly need any fabric to make a respectable dress these days. If Madame Chanel raises her hemlines a bit higher, I’ll be able to make a whole dress for sixpence.”
“It’s lovely,” I say, conscious of my faded old dress, which looks like a sack of potatoes beside Clover’s. I keep my coat on and complain of being cold. It isn’t a complete fib. I’ve had an irritating cough since arriving at The Savoy and it seems to be getting worse. Sissy says it serves me right for wandering around in the rain without an umbrella.
“So, how are things at Grosvenor Square?” I ask. “Is Madam as bad-tempered as ever?”
“Everything’s exactly the same. A new girl started as a kitchen maid to replace you. It’s strange to wake up and see her in your bed. She doesn’t say much. Her fella was killed in the war. When her work’s done, she knits endless pairs of socks. Seems to think they’re still needed at the front. Completely batty.”
I’m dying to show Clover the notice from The Stage and take the folded square of paper from my purse.
“Before you say anything, I know it’s a bit strange, but I couldn’t resist.”
But she isn’t listening. She’s distracted by Tommy Mullins, who has just arrived and is standing across the other side of the dance floor. Clover makes a big show of taking her lipstick from her purse and applies it as seductively as she can as he starts to make his way over. Tommy is a weasel of a man. I don’t care for him at all.
“I wish you wouldn’t encourage him, Clover,” I whisper, placing my hand protectively on hers. “Don’t dance with him. Not today. Wait for somebody else. Somebody better.”
She laughs. “You and your better. Somebody better. Somewhere better. There might not be anything better. This might be as good as it gets. Beggars can’t be choosers, Miss Dolly Daydream with your head in the clouds. I’m not being left on the shelf like a forgotten bloody Christmas decoration.” She stands up as Tommy reaches our table. “One dance,” she whispers, “then I’m all yours. Promise.”
As I watch them walk to the dance floor, giggling like teenagers, I fold the piece of paper and put it back into my purse. Clover would only tell me to forget about it anyway. And she’d be right. I probably should.
I pick up a limp ham-and-paste sandwich as Clover waves over to me. I wave back and pour the tea. It is as weak as my smile.
When the afternoon session ends, we head back up west, to Woolworth’s, where Clover insists on trying on the makeup. We rouge our cheeks and pat pancake and powder over our noses and squirt Yardley perfume onto our wrists until we feel sick with the smell of them all and go to admire the button counter. After Woolworth’s, we go to the picture palace, buy two singles and a packet of humbugs, and huddle together in our seats as the picture starts. There are the usual public-service announcements followed by the Pathé newsreel.
“I met a man last week who spoke like that,” I whisper. “Ever so handsome.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“Then why did you mention him?”
“I don’t really know!”
We burst out laughing, earning a sharp shush from a sour-faced woman behind us. We slide down into our seats as the silent movie starts. We are shushed three more times as we comment on the picture and unwrap our humbugs, but this only makes us giggle even more.
When the picture ends and the houselights go up, we make our way outside, where London has become a blaze of lights and color. The restaurants are buzzing. Strains of jazz and ragtime drift through open doors as lines of motor cabs wait outside the theaters to take the excited audiences home or on to supper parties. Smartly dressed page boys shout and whistle to hail passing motor cabs outside the hotels. A flower seller walks by, hawking her posies. Clover and I link arms and stroll together, arm in arm, as far as the corner of Wellington Street, where Clover hops onto her omnibus.
“See you next week, then,” I say, kissing her on the cheek.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
I feel guilty for the spring in my step as I walk back toward the Strand. Truth is, I want to run. I want to race along the pavement as fast as an express train, away from the soldiers who beg outside the theaters and remind me of war, away from my memories of Mawdesley and everything I left behind there. I think about the notice from The Stage neatly folded in my purse, and I curl my fingers instinctively around the photograph in my coat pocket. I feel a desperate urge to keep moving forward, toward a future where I might see him again. I feel it, deep down in the pit of my stomach, like a tightly twisted knot of possibility. If only I could find a way to untangle it all.
Reaching the Strand, I linger for a moment on the opposite side of the road to look at the hotel; this place I now call home. The lights shine from the windows of the private apartments and suites, decorating the front of the hotel like a Tiffany necklace: THE SAVOY. Even the name oozes charm. I repeat it over and over, savoring the feel of it against my lips. “Savoy. Savoy. Savoy.” I feel the flutter of hope swell and rise within me until I could burst.
Crossing the road, I stand just inside the hotel courtyard beside the hairdressing salon with its dazzling glass bottles of Parisian scent displayed in the window. I watch the beautiful creatures as they pirouette in and out of the swing doors. One after the other they come and go, dazzling visions in emerald silk, peacock-blue chiffon, ivory tulle, and ink-blue crepe, each dressed more exquisitely than the last. Damson and chestnut velvet cloches complement the matching fur-trimmed coats, sitting flawlessly over fashionable crops and glossy waves. Shoes are silver damask, mint-green silk, and gold brocade. These are not just women who walk, they are creatures who glide. Creatures whose silk stockings and satin evening gloves I pick up and fold, creatures whose private hotel-apartment doors—and the private worlds they conceal—have been opened up to me. I am enchanted by them.
A page boy jumps to attention as a silver Daimler glides to a halt in front of the hotel doors and a liveried doorman moves forward to open the car door. The vision that steps out takes my breath away: perfectly waved hair, sable fur, gold Louis heels, crimson lips, and smudged black kohl around those famous hooded eyes. Tallulah Bankhead. I would know her anywhere. I can’t take my eyes off her as she steps through the swing doors of the hotel and disappears into a world I can only imagine.
“Front entrances are of no concern to a maid, other than when she is scrubbing the steps or polishing the handle.”
I hear Piggy Griffin’s caustic words and feel the cheap cotton of my stockings more than ever. I pull my shoulders back, hold my head high, and make tight, determined balls of my fists. Piggy Griffin can get well and truly knotted with her steps to scrub and her bootlaces to be ironed and petticoats to be mended. I’ll show her. I’ll show them all.
“One day, Dorothy Mary Lane, you’ll walk through that swing door. And when you do, you’ll be dressed so beautifully and be so famous that everybody will notice you.”
I say this to nobody in particular, and to Miss Bankhead, and to anyone who has ever stood in my way, or trampled on my dreams, or told me I wasn’t good enough. Taking a deep breath, I blow my words into the night sky, wishing them all the luck in the world as they rise above the rooftops and drift across St. James’s Park and up, to mingle wit
h the stars.
Reluctantly, I leave the gliding creatures to their evening of cocktails and jazz, and run around to the back of the hotel, where a line of vehicles blocks the way to the service-entrance steps. I stand in the shadows for a moment and watch as instruments are off-loaded from trucks. The new hotel band must have arrived. Sissy told me they were due to arrive this week, the current resident band having left for a tour of Australia. A smartly dressed gentleman picks up a trumpet and starts to play, right there in the laneway. He is very handsome with slicked-back hair and a slim mustache.
As he finishes the tune, he notices me watching and tips his hat. “Good evening, miss.”
I’m embarrassed at being caught and mutter a good evening in reply.
He smiles. “Getting a free performance? You’re lucky. The guests inside pay good money to hear me play.”
I’m glad of the darkness that conceals my blushes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”
“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t tell Wilfred I was messing with his trumpet.”
“It’s not yours?”
“Gosh, no. I’m the pianist. And the bandleader. Debroy Somers. You work here, I presume?”
“Yes. I’m a maid.”
“A maid who likes jazz?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must try and catch a rehearsal sometime. We’re in the Ballroom most afternoons. My trumpet isn’t bad, but I’m a far better pianist. Ragtime, jazz, foxtrot, Charleston. Whatever the guests demand.”
“Maids aren’t permitted in the Ballroom, sir.”
“And pianists aren’t permitted to mess around with expensive trumpets, but we all bend the rules every now and again, don’t we?”
Big Ben chimes the first stroke of ten. A reminder that I should be elsewhere and not loitering outside, talking to the hotel bandleader, regardless of how charming he might be.
“I’m sorry to seem rude, Mr. Somers, but I have to go.”
“Don’t forget. Afternoons in the Ballroom.”
He steps aside so I can pass as I run down the steps and inside, along the dark passageways, praying that I don’t bump into O’Hara or Cutler or any of the management team. I clock back in just before the last chime of the hour rings out and don’t stop running until I’m back in my room. Even then, thoughts of unplayed music beneath my pillow and of a muse wanted by a struggling composer swirl and dance through my mind, and all the while Auntie Gert whispers to me of adventures. And I am listening.
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.
I will write my reply first thing in the morning.
10
DOLLY
“But I do exist, Mr. Cutler,” I whisper.
“And I will be seen.”
The thick fog that has blanketed London for a fortnight finally lifts and is replaced with a wonderful autumn sun. My cough eases and my heart soars as long shafts of sunlight stream through the windows of the river suites, brightening the rooms with light and warmth. The chandeliers send shimmering reflections against the floor and I pretend I’m walking on fragments of crystal as I go about my work.
The hotel is at full capacity and my days are busy. Boat trains arrive daily into the capital, bringing new fashions, new music, and new stars of the screen and stage on the Atlantic steamers. The theaters open to packed houses every night. The maître d’ of the Grill sets extra tables and chairs to accommodate the post-theater supper crowd. The Grand Ballroom heaves to the thumping sound of Mr. Somers’s band, the thrilling beat of jazz rocking the chandeliers until the early hours of the morning. Everyone, from the potato peelers to the head porter, is rushed off their feet, but we are all in high spirits. Even Mildred almost smiles when she passes me in the corridor. There’s so much to remember that I barely know my own name as I climb into bed at night, exhausted, my feet and back aching with the satisfaction of a job well done. I don’t even have the energy to loosen the bedcovers, letting them cocoon me like a swaddled infant, and while the shadows of my past still linger, they don’t cling to me as tightly as they once did.
The last room on my morning round is always Larry Snyder’s. Thankfully, I haven’t encountered him again since my first morning. Gladys, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be able to stop bumping into him. She insists he’s a perfect gentleman and is convinced he’ll offer her an audition before the season is over. I don’t trust him an inch, but I, of all people, can’t deny Gladys her desire to dream.
Finishing my morning rounds, I take a moment to rest my cheek against the window, enjoying the warmth of the sun. London looks so lovely from up here. The Thames twists like a silver ribbon across the city as a steady stream of black motorcars snakes along the road beside it. The flagman guides the trams in and out of the tunnel from the Embankment to Kingsway as ladies stroll arm in arm with their gentlemen up Savoy Hill toward the Strand. Simpson’s for lunch, no doubt. I strain my eyes to read the poster bills on the passing omnibuses, promoting the new season’s shows and stars. I imagine my own name in large black type: DOROTHY LANE. Perhaps they would give me a stage name. Perhaps I would become somebody entirely new. Twisting the lock, I push up the sash window, lean my head out, and close my eyes. Lost in a daydream, I find my thoughts traveling across the London skyline, through the English countryside and home, to Lancashire.
I imagine Mam looking out of our small cottage window, remembering happier times before war took her husband and influenza took two of her daughters. I haven’t written to her yet to tell her about my new position. She always thought my love of dancing and endless talk of actresses was a phase that would pass; the product of a young girl’s imagination. Mam is old-fashioned. She has funny notions about actresses and chorus girls. If I tell her I’m working at The Savoy, she’ll make a fuss about hotels attracting unsavory types. Worse still, she’ll find an excuse to travel to London and try to convince me to go back home. I’m not ready for that. Just as the people we love the most can sometimes cause us the deepest pain, so it is with places. Mawdesley holds too many painful memories.
I open my eyes as a cloud passes in front of the sun and close the window, leaving my secrets and my dreams to drift over London’s rooftops.
After morning break, I’m about to leave the Maids’ Hall when one of the porters rushes in.
“You. You’ll do.” He shoves a mop and a bucket into my hands. “Front Hall. Someone’s dog knocked over a vase. There’s water everywhere.”
Before I can say anything he rushes off, leaving me standing there with the mop and bucket in my hands.
“Well, go on, then.”
I turn around. Bessie, the potato peeler, is watching me. “But . . . we’re not supposed to . . .”
“Nobody ignores the Front Hall,” she says. “I’d get yourself up there if I were you. Quick sharp.”
Against my better judgment, I make my way down the stairs and rush along the back-of-house corridors until I reach the Front Hall. I hesitate behind the curtain that separates “Them” from “Us” and drink in the scene. It is busy and yet strangely calm, everyone going easily about their business: porters carrying packages and suitcases, ladies in beautiful dresses and furs chatting in small groups, gentlemen in dapper suits resting against the concierge desk, small dogs minded by immaculate children who look like the porcelain dolls in the windows of the department stores. Polite chatter mingles with the elegant lilt of piano. The air is laced with the scent of cigars and the perfume of freshly cut Oriental lilies that stand in tall vases on bone-china pedestals. Huge palms and ferns reach toward the ornate marble ceiling. It really is breathtaking.
I step hesitantly onto the black and white floor tiles, trying desperately hard not to stare at anyone as I keep my eyes to the floor and walk toward the pool of water beside the door. I’m nearly there when someone grabs my elbow and steers me sharply to one side until I’m concealed behind a particularly large fern.
A tall man with bulging eyes and an immense mustache confronts me. He isn’t liveried like the lift attendants or porters, but dressed in black tie, like the governor.
“What on earth are you doing?” he hisses. “Maids do not enter the Front Hall!”
“A porter told me to come,” I explain. “He said a vase had been knocked over.”
I feel my cheeks redden as I’m bustled back behind the curtain and down a short flight of steps toward a glass-paneled door. The tall man leans into a small office and hands a ledger to a young girl who is patting powder onto her nose.
“Report from the night porter,” he says. “I need it for the three o’clock meeting.”
“Anything special happen?” she asks, snapping the powder compact shut and barely glancing over the tops of her tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles.
“Nothing much. A delivery of champagne to one of the suites. A doctor called out. The usual.”
She opens the ledger and starts typing. The clack clack of the keys ends the conversation abruptly.
He turns back to me. “You. Follow me.”
I do as I’m told and follow him into another small office. A plaque on the door says MR. P. CUTLER—HEAD PORTER. I remember Gladys’s words. Moody sod. Nice as pie one minute but he’d fire you on the spot for anything inappropriate. He settles himself at a seat behind a cluttered desk and picks up a pencil.
“Name.”
“Dorothy. Dorothy Lane. I’m new.” My voice is thin and apologetic. He looks at me, raises an eyebrow, and scribbles something onto a piece of paper. “Am I in trouble, sir?”
He leans forward, rests his elbows on the desk, and steeples his fingers. “What do you think? Do you consider yourself to be in trouble?”
“It was a mistake.” I refuse to let myself cry. “The porter told me to come.” The mop and bucket feel like lead irons in my hands.
“Hotels have rules and regulations. Order and routine. And for good reason.”
