by Hazel Gaynor
As the chimes of Big Ben strike eight we leave the teashop. Clover says she has a headache and needs to go back to Grosvenor Square. I see her onto the omnibus and make my way back to the Strand. I wonder if I might tell Sissy about the musical composer. Or Gladys. She might understand. Then again, she might try to talk me out of it also.
It is a cold clear night. I tip my head back to look up at the stars, just like Teddy and I used to do. They shone so brightly in Mawdesley; so brilliantly. Here, the lights and fogs obscure them and I have to look closely to see any at all.
I walk on, passing the night screevers who are busy etching their drawings onto the paving stones with such patience and care. A small crowd has gathered to watch one of the artists. He’s copying a cover of Life magazine, a flapper girl with butterfly wings, the original propped up against the railings for him to use as a guide. He copies it very well. The word “love” is written in place of the title of the magazine. It prompts a memory of Teddy chasing butterflies with his net. He never kept them. He said he just liked to admire them for a while, that some things are so beautiful they’re worth chasing, even if you can’t keep them.
I think about his words, wrap my fingers around the photograph in my pocket, and head back to the hotel.
16
TEDDY
Maghull Military War Hospital, Lancashire
May 1919
“. . . lavender-, violet-, and rose-colored clouds,
and wispy white clouds of goose feather.”
Someone has brought a gramophone player onto the ward. The music has everyone as giddy as goats. The nurse tells me the names of all the songs and how she loves to dance. She says everything is better with music and talks for an age about Nellie Melba and Gertie Lawrence. She comes alive when she talks about these women. It is quite infectious.
A group of other nurses pair up and waltz around the room, earning a round of applause when the music ends. Someone calls for another and they dance a tango. As it ends, Matron enters the ward. She chastises the nurses for getting the patients overexcited and tells them that is quite enough tomfoolery for the day. They fall around laughing when she leaves, but the fun is over and we quickly get back to the business of being melancholy.
My young nurse settles into the chair beside me. Her cheeks are flushed from her exertions, her eyes bright. She takes the paper from the envelope. “It’ll have to be more letters, then, if she won’t let us dance.”
I close my eyes and listen to her voice. It is far nicer than any gramophone record.
July 12th, 1918
My dearest Teddy,
Here is a picture for you to keep in your head. Today I walked in the hills. I climbed to the top of the highest hill, spread out a blanket, and had a picnic for us both. I had two of everything. Two plates, two cups, two forks, two knives. I set everything out, just as we used to do, and imagined you were there with me.
What a day we had, Teddy, even though rationing made for slim pickings. I’d collected blackberries and gooseberries from the garden and we stuffed them into our mouths in great handfuls until our chins were purple with juice. And then we ran over the hills with the breeze whipping around us and the sun blazing down until our skin went pink and the fork handles were too hot to hold.
And then we lay on the blanket, side by side, heads together as we watched the clouds: lavender-, violet-, and rose-colored clouds, and wispy white clouds of goose feather. It was so perfect, Teddy. We snoozed away the afternoon until the sun sank low on the horizon.
Is it silly of me to imagine such things? Am I wrong to think that this will all be set right when you come home, that we can put things back the way they were? Mam says we can’t expect things to be the same; that it isn’t like an upset tea tray that we can set to rights. She says I should prepare myself for things to be cracked and spoiled.
Some mornings, when I see the postmaster’s bicycle coming along the lane, I prepare myself for the worst. Some mornings I think about how we will be married in the spring with the daffodils dancing in the breeze to cheer us along.
Some mornings I can’t think of anything at all.
I will close now. Mam needs me to help with some chores.
Your Little Thing,
Dolly
X
August 23rd, 1918
My dearest Teddy,
I haven’t heard from you for so long and I worry terribly. I know you are well because Alfie Barrow speaks of you in his letters to his mam, but he says you’re finding it hard out there, and I wish you would write.
I have wrapped the parcel especially well to make sure everything reaches you safely. I’ve sent more OXO cubes since you complained about the soup. I’ve also sent a pencil, a candle, and some paper—you know what I wish you to do with them—and a photograph from the newspaper. This is the munitions factory football team. I’m the goalkeeper. I’ve saved more goals than anyone else in the league.
Remember to look at the sky and the stars, Teddy. That’s where I am. That’s where you’ll find me.
Your Little Thing,
Dolly
X
When she has finished reading, she tugs at the bedsheets and plumps the pillows behind my head. Swift, sure movements. Clear and precise. I envy her the assurance of hands that move as she wishes. I can barely manage the buttons on my trousers; can’t even go for a pee without needing somebody’s help. Like a child, I am helpless and unsure. I let her do her work and distract myself by watching the butterfly at the window. It is something of a companion now. The first thing I see when I wake in the morning. The last thing I see before I go to sleep.
She places a bunch of grapes in a bowl and tells me she has some woodbine for me.
“This place gets quieter every day,” she says. “I’m sure they’ll let you go home soon.”
Half the beds on the ward are empty now, their occupants recovered and sent home to their loved ones to carry on with whatever life they have left. Many of the voluntary nurses have also finished up. Their services no longer needed. I hope my nurse has a little while longer yet.
I turn my face to look at her. She’s a pretty thing. So young to be dealing with all this horror. There’s a brightness to her face, a gentleness in her eyes. I try to smile at her but my muscles can’t remember how and the smile becomes a grimace. I turn away so that she can’t see, and settle my gaze on the butterfly instead.
“That silly butterfly,” she says, opening the window. “I don’t know why it doesn’t fly away.”
She stands and looks at me for what feels like an age before moving toward the bed and sitting on the chair beside me.
“You’re making good progress, you know. By the end of the summer you’ll be running through those fields outside.” She squeezes my hand as reassurance but I pull away and slip my hand beneath the bedcovers. “On a warm summer’s day, you’ll be able to sit out in the gardens and listen to the birds singing and watch all the butterflies.” She dabs at her cheeks with a cotton handkerchief. “Won’t that be wonderful?”
I’m tired. I want to doze. I close my eyes but leave them open the smallest fraction so that I can still see her. She stays beside me for the rest of the afternoon, sometimes talking, sometimes dozing in the warmth of the sun. It is pleasant, just the two of us. When you feel at ease with a person, you don’t need grand gestures or loud music or wild dancing. There is an undeniable truth in those companionable silences. Just to know that she is there beside me is enough.
17
DOLLY
“The Savoy is much more than a hotel, Dorothy.
It has a personality all of its own.”
After the now familiar routine of breakfast and O’Hara’s inspection, Sissy, Gladys, and I scan the house list as usual. I’m not expecting any changes to my room occupancy and hardly pay attention to the names on the list when Gladys squeals and grabs my arm.
“You are the luckiest cow ever, Dolly Lane!” She snatches my copy of the list from my hands and
presses it to her chest. “You’ll never guess who’s coming?”
Her excitement is infectious. “I don’t know. Nellie Melba?”
“Nope. Better than that.”
“Tallulah?”
“No.”
“Valentino?”
“God, you’re hopeless.” She shoves the list into my hands. “Alice Delysia!” Her eyes shine with excitement. “And she’s staying in one of your rooms!”
Sissy is unimpressed. “Who’s Alice Delysia?”
I stare at her in disbelief. “You must know her. Star of Broadway and the West End. One of Cochran’s discoveries. Famed beauty. She’s wonderful. She’s really coming here?” I grab the list off Gladys to see for myself.
“Yes. She’s really coming here,” Gladys says. “You’re the luckiest maid in London. Not here two months and you’ve two of the biggest names in town. Snyder and Delysia. He’s her manager.”
I can’t believe it. There it is in black ink against suite 602. “Alice Delysia! I’ll die if I see her. I wonder if she’s as beautiful up close. I saw her in revue last year. I was hoarse for a week from cheering. Who do you both have?”
Sissy scans her list. “I’ve got an American actress I’ve never heard of. An unbearable diva according to one of the other maids. Mildred has an Indian prince of some sort and Gladys has a Russian business tycoon. The manicurists love it when he stays. He gives them the most extravagant gifts, but they can’t understand a word he’s saying!”
I’m not listening. I’m already lost in thoughts of Alice Delysia and Parisian dance shoes and Poiret dresses and what I will say if I see her.
The “French Actress,” as she becomes known, arrives on a frosty November morning. The hotel is fidgety at the prospect of this important guest. Tea trays have been dropped, bedsheets scorched by forgotten irons, fingers pricked by errant needles, and silverware has clattered to the ground. Everyone senses it. Even the doorman and the pages at the entrance are jittery.
I’ve persuaded one of the manicurists to let me watch Mademoiselle Delysia’s arrival from their little cubbyhole beside the Grill. I press my nose to the glass, watching every car that sweeps into the narrow courtyard as the doorman stamps his feet and claps his hands together to warm them in the crisp air. Across the courtyard I can see the florist at her window, peering around her displays to get a better view.
Eventually, the sleek lines of a black Rolls slide to a stop. The doorman steps forward and opens the back door. A white-gloved hand emerges, followed by the woman herself. She’s dressed in a fashionable wool day dress in rose pink and a cranberry velvet coat with sable trim. Her hair is a vision of perfect marcel waves. I almost forget to breathe, I am so mesmerized by her.
The porters lift her many trunks and cases onto a trolley as she adjusts her gloves, making sure she looks perfect before she makes her entrance. She takes a moment to say something to the doorman before she disappears through the famous swing doors. What happens on the other side is not for the likes of me to know.
I’m counting linen in the storeroom when O’Hara finds me later that morning. I’m so engrossed in my work I don’t hear her enter.
“Might I have a word, Dorothy?”
“Crikey, miss! You shouldn’t go sneaking up on people like that. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”
O’Hara doesn’t blink. “I might be about to give you another. We have a minor crisis with one of the guests which I hope you can help with.”
“What is it, miss?”
“One of the guests is missing her lady’s maid. Caught a fever in Calais or something. The end result being that she finds herself without her maid and would like to borrow someone while her people arrange a replacement. I checked your file and see that you have some experience as a lady’s maid, albeit fleeting. I’m hopeful it will suffice for a day or two.”
My experience as a lady’s maid was over Christmas several years ago. A guest was left without her maid who’d been delayed by a snowstorm. I was the only one with sufficient experience to step in. Apart from my being hopeless with the curling irons and almost ruining the woman’s hair, it had gone surprisingly well.
“It was only for a short while, but I’d be happy to help if I can,” I say.
“Very good. I’ll inform Mademoiselle Delysia straightaway.”
My heart thumps. “Alice Delysia?”
“Mademoiselle Delysia. Yes. Is there a problem?”
“No. No problem at all. I’m a huge fan of hers. Have you seen her? She’s very beautiful. I saw her in Mayfair and Montmartre last year and . . .”
O’Hara folds her arms across her chest and gives me that look of hers. I stop talking.
“Can you do the job or not? I’m quite certain Mademoiselle Delysia won’t want a giddy gallery first-nighter fussing over her. Perhaps I should find somebody else.”
“I can do the job, miss. What does she need me to do?”
“I have to discuss matters with her. I don’t expect it will be much. Laying out her clothes, dressing her. That sort of thing. She’ll use the hotel hairdresser.” That’s a relief. “And of course this doesn’t mean you are relieved of your normal duties. I’ll expect you to sign in at six thirty each morning as usual. Mademoiselle Delysia’s demands must be worked around your usual routine. I’m sure she’ll find a replacement before the week is out.”
“Of course.” I have no idea how I’ll get everything done, but I’m determined to find a way.
O’Hara looks at me. “You’re coming along quite nicely, Dorothy. I’ll admit that I didn’t have the greatest of hopes for you after your first day and Mr. Cutler’s report of a minor transgression in the Front Hall, but you have redeemed yourself amply, and you work hard.”
I stare at her, speechless.
“Carry on, then. I’m sure you’ve plenty to do.”
I place my hands to my cheeks. They are flushed with excitement. Alice Delysia! Maid to Alice Delysia!
Giddy with excitement, I hitch up my skirt and dance around the storeroom, a broom as my partner. I knew some good fortune would come to me if I was patient. This is the start. I can feel it. This is where my adventure begins.
Within the hour, it is all confirmed. Over lunch, O’Hara tells me I’ve been summoned to the governor’s office.
“Mr. Reeves-Smith wishes to speak to you, Dorothy.”
“To me?”
“Yes. No doubt he wishes to impress upon you the importance of the extra duties you have been assigned.”
I leave my lunch and make my way from the Maids’ Hall.
“And remember your manners,” she calls after me. “Don’t say more than is necessary. I know how you girls like to let your tongues run away with you.”
She rushes off in a rustle of silk as I head in the opposite direction toward the service lift and ask the attendant to take me to eighth.
“Eighth?”
“Yes, Thomas. Eighth.”
I frown at him. The lift attendants really do think themselves something special.
The governor’s office is a river suite, commanding impressive views over London. The dome of St. Paul’s and the towers of Westminster Cathedral dominate the skyline, while oil paintings of similar scenes decorate the walls around his desk. My eyes are drawn to a collection of butterflies in a glass case, their wings pinned against a white card. They remind me of the library at Mawdesley Hall. One of the sons was an avid collector. He kept dozens of butterflies and moths beneath glass cases. I hated dusting them. The sight of them gave me a chill down my spine.
I perch, childlike, on the edge of the chair across the desk from the governor and worry at a loose thread on the edge of my apron.
“I understand from Mrs. O’Hara that you are assisting with one of our most esteemed guests?”
I nod. “Yes, sir. Mademoiselle Delysia. The actress.”
“I am aware of her profession.” I blush and lower my eyes. “And Mrs. O’Hara assures me that you have adequate experience and suitabl
e references.” I nod again. “It is a sudden and unexpected promotion of duties, which, I trust, you will handle appropriately?”
“I will. Yes, sir.”
“The fact is, Dorothy, that guests like Mademoiselle Delysia are of immense importance to a hotel such as The Savoy. Her stay provides the sort of publicity that the other London hotels would long for. This is far more than turning out a room and ensuring the taps are working.” He stands up and walks to the window, turning his back to me as he continues to talk. “I am quite aware that working at The Savoy gives an ordinary girl such as yourself access to the lives of some of the best-known and greatest stars of our time. Undoubtedly thrilling as this is, you are—I presume—aware of the need to turn a blind eye as you turn down the bedcovers?” He looks over his shoulder at me and raises an eyebrow.
“Yes, sir.”
“Things occur within the privacy of a hotel suite which may not occur elsewhere. I don’t need to remind you that what happens in the private suites at The Savoy is nobody’s business but the person paying the bill, and is most definitely of no concern whatsoever to a maid.”
“No, sir.”
“The Savoy is much more than a hotel, Dorothy. It has a personality all of its own. It casts a sort of spell on people the moment they walk through the door and step into the Front Hall. Even our most frequent guests tell me that they still sense something quite extraordinary about her.”
I shuffle in the chair and wonder why he is telling me all this. I’ve a lot to be getting on with.
“To you, the hotel may seem to be nothing more than surfaces to clean and polish, picture frames to dust, pincushions to place on the dressing tables. But soon it will become like a familiar friend to you. You will sense the hotel’s moods. You will know when she feels frivolous and gay. You will sense when she is petulant and irksome. She moves to the rhythm of the pistons in the engine rooms and the great pendulums that swing in the clocks, but she also moves to the rhythm of our guests and their unpredictable whims. They may be difficult and demanding. They may be pleasant and charming, and we all feel it, every single one of us. From the potato peelers in the kitchens all the way up here, we react to the shift and change, to the comings and goings, even though we might not realize it.”
