The Girl from the Savoy (3 page)

Above the door, a sign says
FOR DELIVERIES KNOCK TWICE
. Since I'm not delivering anything I pull on the doorbell. In my head my mother chastises me.
“Late on your first day, Dorothy Mary Lane. And look at the state of you. Honestly. It beggars belief.
”

I hear footsteps approaching behind the door before a bolt is drawn back and it swings open. A harried-looking maid glares at me.

“You the new girl?”

“Yes.”

Grabbing the handle of my traveling bag, she drags me inside. “You're late. She's spitting cobs.”

“Who is?”

“O'Hara. Head of housekeeping. Put her in a right narky mood you have, and we'll all suffer for it.”

Before I have chance to defend myself or reply, she shoves me into a little side room, tells me to wait there, and rushes off, muttering under her breath.

I place my bag down on the flagstone floor and look around. A clock ticks on the mantelpiece. A picture of the King hangs on the wall. A small table stands beneath a narrow window. Other than that, the room is quiet and cold and unattractive, not at all what I'd expected of The Savoy. Feeling horribly damp and alone, I take the photograph from my coat pocket, brushing my fingers lightly across his image. The face that stirs such painful memories. The face I turn to after every housekeeper's reprimand and failed audition. The face I look at every time someone tells me I'm not good enough. The face that makes me more determined to show them that I am.

Hearing brisk footsteps approaching along the corridor, I put the crumpled photograph back into my pocket and pray that the head of housekeeping is a forgiving and understanding woman.

As she enters the room, it is painfully apparent that she is neither.

Wonderful adventures await for those

who dare to find them.

O
'Hara, the head of housekeeping, is a furious Irishwoman with a frown to freeze hell and an attitude to match. She is tall and strangely angular, her hair frozen in tight black waves around her face. Her arms are folded across her chest, her elbows straining against the fabric of her black silk dress, like fire irons waiting to prod anyone who gets in her way.

“Dorothy, I presume?” Her voice is clipped and authoritative.

I nod. “Yes, miss. Dorothy Lane. Dolly, for short.”

She looks pointedly at a watch fob attached to the chest panel of her dress. “You are five minutes late. Whilst I might expect poor timekeeping of flighty girls who work in factories and wear too much makeup and colored stockings and invariably come to a bad end, I do not expect it of girls employed at The Savoy. I presume this is the first and last time you will be late?”

Her words snap at me like the live crabs at Billingsgate Market. I nod again and take a step back. When she speaks the veins in her neck pop out, as if they are trying to get away from her. If I were a vein in O'Hara's neck, I'd be trying to get away from her too.

“Mr. Cutler is not impressed by tardiness,” she continues. “Not at all. Not to mention the governor.”

I have no idea who Mr. Cutler or the governor are, but decide that now is not the best time to ask. “I'm very sorry. I bumped into someone you see, miss, and the rain—”

A brusque wave of the hand stops me midsentence. “Your excuses do not interest me and I most certainly do not have time for them.” She consults the watch fob again, as if it somehow operates her. “Hurry now. Get your bag. Come along.”

She turns and sweeps from the room. I pick up my bag and scuttle along behind, following the familiar scent of Sunlight soap that she leaves in her wake. She moves with brisk neat steps, the
swish swish
of her skirt reminding me of Mam rubbing her hands together to warm them by the fire. We go up a short stone staircase that leads to a series of narrow sloping passageways, the plain walls lit by occasional lampless lights. We pass a large room where maids are stooped over wicker baskets sorting great piles of laundry, and another room where a printing press clicks and whirs and men with ink-stained aprons peer through spectacles at blocks of lettering. The air is laced with a thick smell of oil and tar. It is stark and industrial. Far from the sparkling chandeliers and sumptuous carpets I'd imagined.

“Your reference from Lady Archer was complimentary,” O'Hara remarks, looking over her shoulder and down her nose with a manner that suggests I don't match up at all with the girl she was expecting. “And the housekeeper spoke highly of you.”

“Really? That was very kind of them.” I'm surprised. I can't believe Lady Archer would be complimentary about anything, let alone me. I worked for her in my last position at a house in Grosvenor Square. She can't have said more than a dozen words to me in the four years I spent there and most of them were only to remark on my appearance and suggest how it might be improved.

“It wasn't kind, Dorothy. It was honest. Kindness and honesty are very different things. You'd be advised not to confuse one with the other.”

We walk on a little farther until she takes a sharp left and stops. “We'll take the service lift,” she says, checking her watch fob again and tutting to herself as she bustles me into a narrow lift and instructs the attendant to take us to second. He mutters a good afternoon before pulling the iron grille across the front and pressing a button on a panel in the wall.

“I presume you haven't been in an electric lift before,” O'Hara says as the contraption jolts to life and we start our ascent.

“No. I haven't.” I push my palms against the wall to steady myself as the passage slips away beneath us. I'm not sure I like the feeling.

“The Savoy is the first hotel to be fully equipped with electricity,” she continues. “Electric lifts, electric lighting—and centrally heated, of course. No doubt there'll be plenty of new experiences for you here.” She pushes her shoulders back and stands proud. “You'll soon get used to it.”

“Yes. I suppose I will.” The sensation of the lift makes me queasy. My mouth feels dry. I could murder a brew.

Stepping out of the lift, I follow O'Hara along another corridor and into a large room, similar to the servants' room at Mawdesley Hall. She tells me this is the Staff Hall Maids' Room, where I will take all my meals. At least a dozen maids sit around a long wooden table, their faces lit by electric globe lights suspended on a pulley from the ceiling. The walls are distempered a sickly mustard yellow.

O'Hara waves an arm toward the table. “I'm sure you're capable of introducing yourselves. Afternoon break is ten minutes. Breakfast, lunch, and supper are all served in here. The tea urn can be temperamental. Wait there.”

She departs in a rustle of silk. I put my bag down and shove my hands into my coat pockets. “Seems like the tea urn isn't the only thing that's temperamental.” I mutter the words to myself but one of the girls sitting closest to me hears. She spits tea with laughing.

“That's the funniest thing I've heard all year. Where'd they find you then, the music halls?”

I have that uncomfortable feeling of being the new girl at school, unsure whether I should sit down and join the others or wait for the irate Irishwoman to return. The girls at the table chatter away like a flock of starlings. They pretend to pay no notice to me, but I can tell they are all trying to sneak a glance without obviously staring. A couple of them smile at me. One glares at me so intently that I wonder if I've worked with her before and offended her in some way, although I can't place her.

The youngest-looking girl pours tea from a pot and hands me a cup. “You been for a swim in the Thames?” she says. “You're soaked. And you're leaving puddles on the floor.”

I look down. A small pool of water has gathered on the floor as the water drips from the hem of my coat. I take it off and bundle it under my arm, telling the girl that it's cats and dogs outside.

The girl who spat her tea asks if I've ever heard of a thing called an umbrella. “Sissy, by the way,” she says. “Sissy Roberts.”

“Dorothy Lane,” I reply. “Dolly, for short. I never bother with umbrellas. Too much bumping into people and apologizing. Anyway, a bit of rain never hurt anyone.”

Sissy laughs. “It'll hurt the governor's Turkish carpets if you drip all over
them
.”

As I take my first sip of tea, O'Hara sweeps back into the room. “Come along now, Dorothy. I'll show you to the maids' quarters.” She stops and stares as if noticing me for the first time. “Goodness, girl! You're soaked. Did you swim here?”

Her comment sets the others sniggering again. Sissy mouths a “good luck” as I reluctantly leave my tea and rush along after O'Hara like a gosling following a mother goose.

We walk down another long passage that leads to a narrow staircase where two porters are struggling with a heavy-looking crate of champagne. One of them winks at me as they shuffle past. Cheeky sod. We pass a maid whose cap is just visible above a towering pile of linen balanced in her arms, and then a young page in a powder-blue uniform who stands obediently to one side to let us pass. He reminds me of a toy soldier with his smart white gloves and epaulets. He wishes O'Hara good morning and gawps at me like he's never seen a girl before. I flash him my best smile, setting him blushing like a ripe peach. O'Hara tells him it is rude to stare and to straighten his cap and to hurry along with whatever message he is delivering. His cheeks flare scarlet under her castigation.

“You'll share your room with three other maids,” O'Hara explains as she bustles on ahead. “I suggest you get out of those damp clothes straightaway or you'll have pneumonia before you've even changed so much as a pillow slip. Your uniform is laid out on your bed: two blue print morning dresses, two black moiré silk dresses for afternoons and evenings, three white aprons, two frill caps, black stockings, and black shoes. Laundry is sent out on Mondays. The hotel has its own laundry out Kennington way.” The mention of Kennington sets my heart tumbling, but I have no time to dwell on the memories stirred as O'Hara rabbits on. “Sissy Roberts will show you around the areas of the hotel you are permitted in. Pay attention. Nobody likes to see a maid where she isn't supposed to be. I'll stop by later with the house list.”

I haven't the foggiest what the house list is. I would ask, but my mouth is dry and my tongue feels as fat as a frog.

“Second floor is live-in staff quarters,” she explains. “Heads of department are accommodated on eighth. The governor—Reeves-Smith—keeps an apartment here, although he usually stays at our sister hotel, the Berkeley. Each guest floor has an assigned waiter, valet, and maid for floor service. You'll take instruction from them, as necessary.”

The corridor is brighter than the passages below. Electric lights shine from sconces along the walls. My sodden shoes squeak against the nut-brown linoleum as I walk, the sound setting my teeth on edge. I follow O'Hara to a paneled door, where she stops and takes a key from the impressive collection hanging from her waist. She opens the door and we both step inside.

The room is neat, functional, and comfortably furnished. Far nicer than the sparse little room I'd shared with Clover at the top of the house in Grosvenor Square. It smells of furniture polish and lavender. A Turkey rug sits in the middle of the room, worn in patches from the footsteps of countless maids. Each of the four iron bedsteads is neatly made up with a white candlewick counterpane pulled tight across the sheets and mattress. O'Hara strides toward a narrow sash window and pulls it shut.

“The maids' bathroom is across the corridor,” she says. “The necessary is to the right. You'll be attending to guest rooms on floors four and six. All rooms are turned out daily, starting with unoccupied rooms for incoming guests, and then on to occupied rooms as soon as the guest departs for the day. Knock three times before announcing yourself by saying, ‘Housekeeping.' You'll hang a
MAID AT WORK
sign on the door and always close the door behind you. Nobody wishes to see the work in progress, as it were.” She tugs at the edge of a counterpane and plumps a pillow. “Should a guest return unexpectedly, you must vacate the room and finish it when instructed to do so. Things happen at peculiar and unpre
dictable times of the day in a hotel, Dorothy. You cannot expect the rigidity and routine of a regular household.”

“No. Yes. Of course.” My mind dances with thoughts of the hotel's impressive guest list. Hollywood stars. Privileged American heiresses. The darlings of London society. Far more impressive than the stuffy old ladies who visited Lady Archer for boring bridge evenings and dreary at-homes.

“You'll attend to various other duties throughout the day—sorting the linen cupboards, occasional sewing for guests, that sort of thing. You'll pull the blinds and curtains and turn down the beds in the evening. You must greet guests with a polite good morning, good afternoon, or good evening, and use their full title.”

I try to take everything in as O'Hara reels off her endless lists of instructions, but I'm preoccupied with thoughts of who the other three beds belong to, whether my roommates are pleasant, whether we will become good friends.

O'Hara chatters on. “I'm sure I needn't remind you that the utmost discretion is required at all times.” She raises an eyebrow. “Maids may occasionally see or hear things that are, shall we say, out of the ordinary. My advice to you is to turn a blind eye.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“You have a ten-minute morning tea break. Lunch is at twelve or one, depending on which relay you are on from week to week. Tea is at five, and supper—if all your chores are complete—is cocoa and bread and butter at nine. You have Wednesday afternoons and alternate Sundays off. I presume you'll be powdered and painted and heading off to the picture palaces or the dance halls like the others.” She tuts as she straightens the hearth rug. Her words fall off me like raindrops. All I can remember is cocoa and bread and butter at nine and my stomach rumbles at the thought. “Curfew is ten o'clock. Sissy Roberts will accompany you on your rounds
today and tomorrow. Then you are on your own. Watch and learn, Dorothy. Watch and learn.”

I set my bag down beside the bed where my uniform is laid out. “It's Dolly,” I mutter. “Dolly, for short.” She doesn't hear me, or if she does, she chooses to ignore me as she stoops to pick up a piece of lint from the rug.

“Any questions?”

I have dozens. “No. Everything seems straightforward. I'm sure I'll soon pick it up.”

“Very well. Then welcome to The Savoy, Dorothy. She is quite wonderful when you get to know her. I hope you will get along very well.”

She closes the door behind her, leaving me alone with the sound of the rain pattering against the window and a nagging voice in my head wondering how I'll ever remember everything.

Hanging my sopping hat and coat on the stand beside the door, I take a better look at the room. Beside the beds, occasional items on the nightstands suggest a hint of the other girls who sleep here: a framed photograph of a soldier in uniform, a copy of Jane Austen's
Persuasion,
a scallop-edged gilt powder compact that I can't take my eyes off, a well-thumbed copy of
The Sheik,
and a pile of
Peg's Paper
magazines. Clover's favorite.

Dear Clover. I wish she were here with me. She'd tell me to stop worrying. She'd say something to make me laugh. While I wonder about things, Clover just gets on with them, accepts her lot, and makes do. She teases me about my dream of a life on the stage, but she also believes in me. “There's something about you, Dolly,” she says. “Something in your eyes. I saw it the very first time I met you. And you're as stubborn as an old Lancashire goat. If anyone can get onto that stage, you can. I'd bet my best knickers on it.”