The Girl from the Savoy (20 page)

Maghull Military War Hospital, Lancashire

June 1919

It reminds me of a sunset I once saw

but I can't remember where, or who I was with.

I suppose it was Dolly.

It was always Dolly.

M
ore beds lie empty. I am one of only half a dozen patients left on the ward now. I seem to have become something of a medical marvel to the doctors. I almost wonder if they don't want to let me go home so they can continue to write their reports about me. Not that I really mind. I will miss the nurse if I go home. She's become something of a special friend to me.

“I found another letter,” she says. “It was written on Christmas Day. It seems a bit silly to read on such a lovely summer's day, but I suppose it doesn't really matter. Would you like me to read it?”

I nod.

She takes the letter from the envelope, pushes a curl from her eyes, and reads.

December 18th, 1917

Happy Christmas, Teddy!

How can it be the end of another year already? How can you have been gone so long? There's been seven babies born in the village while you've been away—and the eight kittens. Poppy is getting very big. She's the most gorgeous cat. I tell her all about you.

I hope the socks and muffler fit. I knitted them myself. I'm afraid I'm not very good with the needles. Some of the other women and girls knock them out in their dozens, but I'm still all fingers and thumbs and keep dropping stitches. Mam despairs of me. But I insist on trying and these are what I made. Mam says if they're no use to you as socks you could always use them as an extra pair of gloves. I knitted them in the colors of our factory football team: black and white. The stripes are a bit wonky, but I don't suppose that will matter much when they're shoved inside your boots.

What will you do to celebrate Christmas? I hope everyone will stop fighting, even if only for the day, and take time to remember their loved ones back home. It is so awful to think of men killing each other at Christmastime. I've put a small bottle of rum and some extra smokes into the parcel. The pudding is from Mam. She insisted on making dozens for the men from the village. It gives her something to pass the time and take her mind off things.

We had the first snow flurries last week. I'd forgotten how pretty the village looks when it snows. Everything felt so calm and quiet for a while it was hard to believe we are a country at war.

I hope you see a little snow this Christmas, Teddy. Your socks will keep you warm if it does. Even with their wonky stripes.

With all my heart,

Your Little Thing,

Dolly

X

Wonky stripes.

I remember the wonky stripes on the socks. Black and white.

When I close my eyes, I can see them in my hands. I can hear myself laughing, knowing how hard she must have worked on them.

I remember. For the first time since I came here, I remember.

I open my eyes. Beside me, she folds the letter and dabs at her cheeks with a spotted blue handkerchief. I feel sorry for her; sorry that she has to be here in this awful place on such a lovely day. It is a day for walking. I know she'd much rather be outside.

I reach for her hand, wrapping my fingers around hers. They are soft, like velvet. I close my eyes to a world of crimson and mandarin as the sunlight settles against my lids. It reminds me of a sunset I once saw, but I can't remember where, or who I was with. I suppose it was Dolly. It was always Dolly.

She sits with me awhile, dozing with me in the sunlight. Only when Matron comes round for her daily inspections does she gather her things and leave. I watch her until she disappears through the swing door.

At the window, the butterfly spreads its wings, basking in a beam of sunlight. I sense that it is restless; that it will soon fly, and when it does I will watch it go, happy for its freedom.

It isn't mine after all. It isn't mine to keep.

“I'm not like that, Mr. Snyder. I'm not that kind of girl.”

D
istracted by Christmas and the exhausting schedule of parties and luncheons, Mademoiselle Delysia appears to have forgotten about finding a new lady's maid. I've settled into a comfortable arrangement where I know her routine and little nuances and she trusts me to do what is necessary. I know which dresses and shoes to lay out for her various engagements and appointments, and although I rarely see her in person, when I do she speaks softly and smiles sweetly and I bathe in the glow of her attention for hours afterward.

As for Snyder, I still mistrust him and his motivations for helping me out over the hair comb, but I eventually found the courage to approach him about an audition. It was an uncomfortable conversation, which left me far less excited than it should have, but as I'm beginning to understand, dreams don't always arrive wrapped up in pretty packages. Sometimes they are awkward and misshapen and difficult to hold on to. I have to grasp any opportunity that comes my way.

When I'm alone, doing out my allocation of suites and apartments, I often think about Sissy telling me how the maids try on the ladies' shoes or take a spritz of perfume. I remember how she'd draped an evening dress across her front and pretended to waltz
around the room on our first morning's work together, the hanger flapping down the back of her neck. She'd laughed at me when I told her she shouldn't. I've known lady's maids who have messed around with their mistresses' belongings, but that was usually done in temper, a reaction to years of being put upon and talked down to. While there is less cause for bad feeling and resentment in the hotel, temptation is still everywhere.

I especially admire Mademoiselle Delysia's dresses. She has the most magnificent Lanvin and Vionnet evening dresses in chiffon and satin that shimmer beneath my fingertips, and day dresses by Lucien Lelong with perfect pleats and soft lace trims. And apart from the dresses, her shoes are the most exquisite things I've ever seen. She owns a particular pair of dance shoes that catch my attention every time I see them. The silver brocade fabric is woven with a delicate pattern of roses and elaborate cutwork in the leather. Beautiful silver buttons secure the T-straps. The leather inside is embossed with the manufacturer's mark:
Perugia, Faubourg Saint-
Honoré, Paris
. So many times I've picked them up to wrap them in tissue paper before placing them into their velvet pouch and back into their box. So many times I have paused, and wondered.

I hesitate now as I put them away, running my fingertips over the soft fabric as I lift them to the window to admire the way the light shimmers and shifts across the material. I place one beside my foot. They are my size. Dare I?

Rushing to the door, I press my ear to the woodwork, listening for sounds of anyone approaching. All is quiet. I make the decision quickly.

Perching on the end of the bed, I kick off my dull black shoes and slip my feet inside the soft leather. They feel wonderful. A perfect fit. I stand up and walk across the carpet and back. I do a twirl,
a little hop, a step, and a kick. I stand in front of the looking glass to admire my reflection. My feet in silver shoes. So beautiful.

As quickly as I put them on, I take them off and return them to the wardrobe, my heart pounding with the thrill of having taken something without permission. As I attend to the rest of my work, billowing out the fresh bed linen, plumping pillows, rubbing thumbprints from gilt cigarette cases, my feet still feel the sensation of soft leather and the silver shoes nag and nag at my thoughts.

M
y audition with Snyder is arranged for nine o'clock on my Sunday off. He tells me to go to the stage door of the Prince of Wales Theatre. I have a borrowed dress from Clover, my dance leotard, and my battered old dance shoes. Apart from that, I have only my dreams for support.

He is standing outside when I arrive and grins when he sees me, crushing his spent cigarette beneath his shoe. “Ah. Good. You're here. You'd be surprised how many don't show up.”

I look around. “Where are the others?”

“The others?”

“The other girls auditioning.”

He laughs. “But this is a private audition, Miss Lane. Arranged especially for you. I suppose there has to be some benefit to cleaning a Hollywood manager's hotel suite!” He senses my hesitation. “Half the girls in London would be here in a heartbeat, but if you'd rather wait in a long line and take your turn . . .”

“No. It's fine.” I offer a nervous smile and step into the dark corridor. Snyder closes the door behind me with a thud.

“Do you need to change?” he asks.

“Yes. Please.”

“Dressing room's on the left. Take as much time as you need, then make your way to the stage.”

I wander along a narrow corridor until I find the dressing room and close the door behind me. I look for a lock, but there isn't one. I drag a chair toward the door to block the entrance. It is better than nothing.

I place my bag on a stool and drape my coat over the back of a chair. The room is small and cold. I shiver and rub my arms to keep them warm. A long dressing table sits along one wall, electric lights around the mirrors reflect off the glass. Every surface is covered with costumes and props. The dressing tables are cluttered with makeup and glitter and open pots of cold cream, the deep grooves of finger marks left in the cream. The air smells of Pears soap and hair spray. It's as if the performers have just stepped out. I try to not let myself be distracted by the thought of where I am and who might have been here last night, and change as quickly as I can into my dance leotard, keeping one eye on the door. I do a few quick stretches and high kicks and make my way back along the corridor toward the stage. It's such a long time since I last auditioned. I feel rusty and unsure and I hesitate at the steps that lead to the wings. Concentrate, Dolly. Concentrate. Taking a deep breath, I step out onto the stage, my heels clacking against the boards as I walk toward the spotlight in the center.

The auditorium is dark and silent.

“Hello?” My voice sounds impossibly small and lost.

Snyder steps forward from the wings on the opposite side of the stage. “Don't worry. I haven't abandoned you.” He gives me a quick once-over but doesn't remark on my appearance. “Did you bring any music?”

I hand him the pages of music, the same pages I've trawled around half of London over the last few years. He studies them for a moment and laughs. “Shouldn't we try something a little more modern? I presume you know the Charleston?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I'll play and you give me your best steps.” He hops down into the orchestra pit. “By the way, don't you want to ask me?”

“Ask you what?”

“Why I helped you out with that business over the hair comb.”

I squint through the dazzle of the spotlight, raising a hand to my eyes to shield them from the glare. “I presumed you were just following Mademoiselle Delysia's wishes.”

“You presume an awful lot for a maid. I don't recall hearing a thank you.”

His words are cutting. I swallow hard. “Thank you. It was very good of you to step in.”

“You should remember your manners, Miss Lane. Poor manners can land a girl in trouble.”

I look down at my feet, hoping he can't see the reddening of my cheeks. This isn't how it should be. This isn't what I'd imagined at all.

He laughs. “Why so serious? I'm only teasing you! Pulling your leg—isn't that what you Brits say? That's all forgotten about. Yesterday's news.” He coughs and settles himself at the piano. “I'll count you in. Ready?”

I nod. My heart thumps in my chest. My legs shake like jelly. My mouth is as dry as an autumn leaf.

“Three, four . . .”

The first bars of music burst into life. He plays well. I try to shake off my nerves and think about how often I've watched the girls dance on this very stage, and I smile my best smile and tap and twirl and kick as high as I can, stretching my arms out on either side, imagining that I am part of a line of girls all dancing together and that I am not alone in this vast place with a man I do not trust.

As he plays the final bar, the chord fades and all is silent. I stand in the center of the stage, my breathing heavy.

I hear Snyder chuckling from the darkness as he offers some measly applause. “Not bad. A little rusty, but I've seen worse. I don't know why, but something about you amuses me, Miss Lane. You're really quite charming. You remind me of Bea Lillie when she started out. Charlot's little clown.” He laughs to himself. “Do you sing?”

“A little.”

“What do you know?”

My mind goes blank. “‘Look for the Silver Lining,' from
Sally
.”

I give a dreadful rendition, during which I hear him snigger again. I apologize at the end. “I'm very nervous, Mr. Snyder. I'm sorry. Should I start again?”

He hops back up onto the stage. “Dear God, no. Don't start again. Not to worry. We all suffer from nerves. Wouldn't be human if we didn't.”

He stands in front of me, hands on his hips, looking at me.

“So, how did I do?” I ask, longing for this to be over.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you can do for me in return.”

In an instant, I am back at Mawdesley Hall, pressed against the wall of the butler's pantry, the squeak of his shoes against the linoleum floor, the stench of Virginia tobacco covering my mouth. My first instinct is to run from the stage, but I don't. Anger rises from somewhere deep within me. I'm tired of men like Larry Snyder trampling all over me.

I stand as tall as I can and look him straight in the eye. “I'm not like that, Mr. Snyder. I'm not that kind of girl.”

He bursts out laughing; a cruel mocking laugh. “What? Oh, you hotel girls and domestics. You're all the same. One thing on
your mind. I suppose when you've spent your life surrounded by filth it's bound to creep into your mind as well as under your fingernails.”

I flinch at the cruelty of his words and walk from the stage, my legs trembling so much that I can hardly put one foot in front of the other.

He calls after me as I step down from the wings, but I ignore him and run to the dressing room. As quickly as I can, I throw my dress over my leotard, grab my coat and bag, and run back along the corridor to the stage door and out into the street. I turn to check if Snyder has followed. He hasn't. I close the door behind me and burst into tears.

I stand in the street, not sure where to go as I pull on my coat and hat. My hands tremble as I try to do up my buttons. I look at the ugly calluses on my hands, the immovable marks of who I am and who I have been, the scars of a life surrounded by filth.

“Miss Lane?”

I look up, wiping my eyes with my coat sleeve. “Mr. Clements? What are you doing here?”

His brow furrows with concern as our eyes meet. “Goodness, Miss Lane. Is everything all right? You're crying.”

He reaches a hand out to me but I pull back. “I'm fine. Everything's fine.”

“Are you quite sure? You really don't look as if everything's fine.” He takes a handkerchief from his breast pocket and passes it to me. I take it and blow my nose as he glances at the stage door behind me. “I'm not sure they open for a few hours yet.”

I look down at my feet. “I'm not going in. I was just leaving.”

“I see. Well, perhaps I could walk you somewhere?”

“I'd rather be alone. I'm good at being alone. Especially in tearooms.”

He winces at my sniping remark. “Ah, yes. About that. I should explain . . .”

But before he has the chance, the stage door opens and Snyder walks out. “Still here, Miss Lane?” I ignore him. Perry looks from me to Snyder and back again. “You'd be advised not to spend too much time hanging around stage doors,” Snyder continues. “You'll get yourself a reputation.”

Perry extends his hand. “I don't believe we've met. Peregrine Clements.”

Reluctantly, Snyder responds. “Snyder. Larry Snyder. Visiting from Hollywood.” He looks at me. “She's not bad, if you're looking to fill the back row of the chorus.”

“Actually, Mr. Snyder, I was just about to escort Miss Lane home.”

Snyder scoffs. “Home! Well, I suppose a hotel is home to some. I'll bid you both good morning.” He's still laughing as he turns the corner.

Perry puts his hands in his pockets. “Well, he seemed perfectly dreadful. I presume he's the reason for your tears.”

“He's not the only reason.” My words are sharper than I'd intended, but I'm glad of them all the same.

Perry shuffles his feet awkwardly. “Are you quite sure I can't walk you back?”

“I'm quite sure.” I'm angry with him—with everything—but there's a hopelessness in his eyes that I can't fully resist. “But thank you. For stepping in.”

“It was the very least I could do, Miss Lane. The very least.”

I offer a limp smile and walk away from him, part of me wishing he was walking beside me, part of me wishing I'd never set eyes on him, and all of me wishing I could crawl into my bed and hide from the world.

I walk along the Embankment to be beside the river. A stiff breeze tugs at my hat. The tips of my ears burn with the cold. I pass the pavement artists, the men and women I see here most weeks. I stop to watch them work for a while, particularly the artist who separates himself a little from the rest of the group. I've watched him work before, attracted by his use of vibrant colors. Today he has drawn several images of the same young girl. In one, her face is set within the trumpet of a daffodil. In another, she has butterfly wings. He works carefully, shading and adding definition until the girl looks as if she could almost fly free of the paving stones and walk among us. I put two pennies in his cap and walk through the Embankment Gardens to the hotel.