The Girl from the Savoy (6 page)

“I thought he was vile. Did you see the way he looked us up and down?”

“Looked
you
up and down, you mean. Serves you right for having those great big eyes and shapely ankles. Anyway, all the gentlemen look at the maids that way. The prettier ones, at least. You'd better get used to it, Miss Dorothy Lane.”

My stomach lurches at her words. I instinctively place a hand to my cheek. Sometimes I can still feel the pain; the sickening thud of his fist.

Reaching a white paneled door, Sissy knocks firmly and calls, “Housekeeping.” Hearing nothing in reply, she turns the key and steps inside. I hang the
MAID AT WORK
sign on the handle and close the door behind us.

The suite is breathtaking, a dazzling display of crystal chandeliers and polished walnut. An ornate chaise sits by a low window and Hepplewhite chairs are arranged beside a mahogany coffee table. The famous Savoy bed is big enough for half a dozen people to sleep in. Even with its crumpled linen and creased pillow slips, it is quite something. Following Sissy's lead, I check the blinds, switch the electric lights on and off to make sure they are all working, and turn the bathroom taps to make sure they're not dripping.

“It's funny to be among the things of someone I've never met, and probably never will,” I remark as we strip the bed. “I'm used to doing out the rooms of young ladies I'd see every day.”

“I like the anonymity,” Sissy says, bundling the dirty sheets into a neat pile. “It suits me to come in and set things right while they're out having lunch and cocktails. Never cared for all that gossip and familiarity in a private household. Part of the fun of working here
is imagining whose room you're in. Look at those black opera gloves over that chair. What do you reckon? A tall redhead with a dirty laugh?”

“Or maybe a short brunette with thick ankles?” I add.

We giggle as we conjure up increasingly awful images of who Miss Howard from Pennsylvania might be and as I lift beautiful necklaces from the dressing table, I imagine the pale neck they will decorate with their emeralds and jade. I replace the cap on a lipstick and see perfect crimson lips and the mark they will leave on a champagne glass. I breathe in the scent of sandalwood and rose as I dust beneath perfume bottles and face creams. I admire a small traveling pillow, running my fingers over the outline of a butterfly expertly captured by silk thread. I feel the rich fabric of each elegant dress, the soft satin of each shoe, the smooth gloss of every Ciro pearl, and for a delicious moment I am not Dorothy Lane, daughter of a Lancashire farmer, I am the daughter of an American shipping magnate with exquisite things to make my life perfect.

We work methodically following a careful routine, making neat hospital corners, plumping downy pillows, folding thick towels, replacing the scented lining paper in drawers, and placing freshly baked Marie biscuits into the silver boxes on the nightstands. The work is intense and time passes quickly.

As we finish the last room on our round, I pull at a final pucker on the counterpane. The room, once again, set straight. I step back to admire our work and think of something Teddy once said as he watched me iron the laundry until everything was as smooth as glass.
Life can't always be starched sheets and perfect hemlines, Dolly. Sometimes creases and puckers will sneak in, no matter how much you tug and smooth.
He had such wise and lovely words. It makes his silence all the more unbearable.

Sissy is watching me. “Penny for your thoughts.”

I let out a long sigh. “If only the mess we make of our lives could be tidied as easily. That'd be something, wouldn't it?”

She studies me for a moment. “What's his name, your mess? Mine's Charlie. Ran off with my best friend.”

I hesitate. I don't often talk about him, but something about Sissy makes me want to open up. “Teddy. He's called Teddy.”

“And what did Teddy do to make a mess of things?”

I look at her and then I look down at my feet. “Nothing. Teddy did nothing at all.”

Maghull Military War Hospital, Lancashire

March 1919

“I wonder if I might see your face among the clouds, because sometimes I forget you.”

M
y bed is the last in a long row of twenty on the ward. It means that I'm the last to be fed and the last to be seen by the doctors on their rounds, but it also means that I am beside the window, and for that I would come last at everything.

With a simple turn of the head I can look out at the sky and the distant hills. I can watch the clouds and the weather rolling in across the Irish Sea. I can turn my back on the rest of the ward and forget that I am here at all.

Today the sky is a wonderful shade of blue. Bluebell blue. A welcome sight after yesterday's relentless sheets of gray rain. My nurse tells me she hopes to take a walk in the park later.

“It's lovely out,” she says, her voice cheery and bright. “Looks like spring has arrived at last.”

I don't speak. I barely acknowledge her as I stare at the window and watch a butterfly dancing around the frame. Unusual to see them at this time of year. A Peacock. Or maybe it's a Painted Lady.
I forget. I used to know my butterflies so well. Whatever it is, the nurses have let it out several times but it always comes back in.

“I've brought some more of the letters to read,” the nurse continues. “Shall I start?”

I turn my head toward her. She sits in a small chair beside the bed. Smoothes her skirt across her knees. Tucks a loose hair behind her ear. I nod. What else can I do? She's here now. She says the letters will help me remember.

She unfolds the page, and starts to read.

October 5th, 1916

My dearest Teddy,

I looked at the sky this morning. Not just a quick glance because a bird flew overhead, but really looked, like you always told me to. I stood perfectly still and did nothing but look up. It was all peaches and raspberries. Yesterday it was soft velvet gray, like moleskin. I wonder if the sky looks the same in France. I imagine it is different somehow. Darker.

Do you remember when we used to meet at the stone bridge and sit with our legs dangling over the edge, swaying like the bulrushes in the breeze? “Listen to the river,” you would say. “What can you hear?” I laughed at you. All I could hear was the water. But when I really listened I heard other things: the rush of wind through the grass, the hum of dragonfly wings, the splash as a fish took a fly from the surface. When I looked at the water all I could see was our reflections and the shadows of the clouds. But you told me to look beyond the surface and slowly my eyes would adjust and I'd see a fish. And like magic, an entire shoal would be there. They'd
been there all along, but I couldn't see them. I wasn't looking properly. And then all sorts would appear from the murk: the glint of a coin, a child's rattle, the flash of pink and gold as a trout flickered beneath the surface.

I remember.

It comforts me to know that we are looking at the same sky. If we look hard enough, what might we see, Teddy? I wonder if I might see your face among the clouds, because sometimes I forget you. I struggle to catch the image of you, like I struggled to see those fish. But I keep looking, keep searching, and suddenly there you are, as clear as if you were standing in front of me. As if you'd been there all the time.

I just need to keep looking and there you'll be.

Don't forget me, Teddy. Look for me.

Your Little Thing,

Dolly

X

P.S. I've been catching the leaves and making a wish like you showed me. I don't need to tell you what I wished for.

The words of the letters upset her. Sometimes she dabs a little cotton handkerchief to her cheek to wipe away the tears. Perhaps she wrote letters like this to someone too. Perhaps they stir memories of her own.

“Would you like me to read another?” she asks. I look back to the window; stare at the trees with their buds promising new life. I shrug. “I know it's difficult,” she says, “but it's good for you to hear them.” She places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “They'll help you remember. In time.”

I turn my head slowly to look at her. My eyes feel dull and tired. She looks distant; far away. Picking up another envelope from her lap, she removes the pages and continues.

November 12th, 1916

My dearest Teddy,

It is eight months since you left, and everything has changed so much. Conscription is so cruel. Everyone who is able to fight has gone now, even the married men. Those who are left—too young, or too old or infirm—drift around the village like dandelion seeds. They feel guilty and useless and wish they were out there fighting with you all. I tell them they should be grateful they're not and that I'd give anything to make you a year or two younger so you'd still be here with me.

We are all doing our bit. I seem to be knitting, mostly. Socks, gloves, and other comforts. It turns out I'm almost as bad at knitting as I am at sewing, but if I keep trying I might improve. Others are making Christmas puddings to send to you all and everyone's helping out on the farms. The Land Army, it's called.

I finished up at the big house and work in the munitions factory since I turned eighteen. It's hard work, but anything's better than domestic work and it pays better. We wear trousers! We clock in and out and fill the shells with TNT powder. They call us “canary girls” because the powder stains our skin yellow. The work is dangerous—there was a big explosion at a factory in Faversham down south—but at least I feel like I'm doing something to help, and sometimes, when we sit out on the grass on tea break, we feel quite happy. I know we shouldn't because there's a war on, but Ivy Markham says you
can't be maudlin all the time. We all feel terrible when one of the girls gets the King's Telegram. Oh, that's so awful, Teddy. We don't know what to say and I know everyone else feels the same as I do deep down—relieved that it wasn't news about our own, and that's an awful thing to think when someone's just lost somebody dear to them.

I'll try to write with happier news next time. Mam says I shouldn't be telling you sad things. She says the job of the women back home is to cheer you all up.

Your Little Thing,

Dolly

X

P.S. The camera arrived safely. I think you are right to send it back, considering the ban from the War Office. It would be silly to get into trouble if your officers found that you still had one, and worse still if it fell into enemy hands. I'll keep it safe until you come home.

The room is silent apart from the occasional cough from another patient. I look out at the distant chimney pots of the factories, reaching up toward the clouds like grubby fingers. The nurse tells me they made bombs in that factory during the war. They make ladies' gloves there now. Sometimes it all seems so pointless.

“Another letter?” she asks.

I shake my head. What's the point? She must have read these letters to me a dozen times and still I cannot remember this girl called Dolly who says such nice things. I hold out my hand and take the pages from her. They are watermarked and stained with the filth of war. She told me they were found in the breast pocket
of my greatcoat. A great bundle of them, carried against my heart. I fold the pages as neatly as I can, following the worn creases. The tremble in my hands makes hard work of what would once have been such a simple task.

She takes the pages from me and pats my hand. “Tea?”

I nod.

“Two lumps?”

I nod again. I can remember that much, two lumps of sugar in my tea. I can remember the name of my cat, the date of my mother's birthday, how to make a corn dolly. Trivial things. Everything else is a distant fog, my once apparently happy life slowly erased by years of war until I am left only with the nightmares that haunt me.

The doctors are troubled by my condition. They prod me and poke me and write things down. Words I don't understand for a condition they don't understand: delusions, hallucinations, hysterical mutism. I've seen their notes. But despite their many treatments—hypnosis, electric shock, basket making, warm baths—they can't make me better and they won't send me home. They have labeled me “Not Yet Diagnosed, Nervous.” A fancy name for what the men called shell shock. We all knew someone who was sent back from the front, suffering with their nerves. Lacking Moral Fiber, was another label the officers stuck on it. The young lad in the bed beside me says I need to pull myself together, that if I keep screaming at night and talking about the things I've seen they'll send me off to the county asylum. And this girl in the letters, this Dolly, she tells me of so many wonderful things I have seen and done. It seems such a shame that I can't do them anymore.

The guns are silent, but I am still fighting my war.

It is all I have now. War, the nurse, and the butterfly at the window.

“You look at things. Imagine things.

I bet you see shapes in the clouds.”

T
he hotel room is dark and unfamiliar when I wake. I lie still, listening to the rise and fall of the girls' breaths, the pop of a mattress spring as they move, the rustle of bedsheets as they fidget in their sleep. It is all so strange and new. I didn't think I would ever miss Clover's snoring, but I do. I hear other noises as the hotel wakes up: the rush of water through distant pipes, the yawn of a straining floorboard overhead, the whistle of a porter, the jangle of milk bottles in the courtyard below the window. I think of the sounds I woke to in Mawdesley: the cockerel, the wind in the eaves, the
knock knock knock
of the wonky leg at the kitchen table as Mam scrubbed it with sugar and soap until her fingers bled. She scrubbed that table for weeks, as though she might somehow scrub away the words on the telegram that told her my father had fallen in the line of duty. That relentless knocking became the sound of our grief until I couldn't bear it any longer and propped up the wonky table leg with
The Adventure Book for Girls
. The knocking stopped. Mam's tears continued. I had nothing to prop her up with.

Instinctively, I reach beneath my pillow for the photograph but my fingertips find the pages of music. The touch of them reminds
me: gray eyes, russet hair, a moment of something unspoken. I think about the music on the pages; unplayed, unloved. It nags at me like an itch I can't scratch. I feel again for the photograph and take it from its hiding place, pressing it against my chest as I pull back the bedcovers, wrap a blanket around my shoulders, and creep across the cold floor to the window. The gas lamps cast an eerie glow over the courtyard at the back of the kitchens, lending just enough light to the room for me to see his face. My heart collapses at the sight of him. So many questions I can't answer. So much pain. So much hurt and anger—and yet still so much love; an instinctive yearning to hold him in my arms. I clutch him tight to my chest, just as I did the day the photograph was taken. If only I could feel the warmth of him once more. That would be enough.

Beneath the window, porters and deliverymen are lifting supplies off wagons and carts after their trip to the markets. They work quickly, the men on the carts tossing pallets of fruit and vegetables to the next man, and on down the line. A rotten tomato lands on someone's head and I smile as the unlucky recipient throws one back in reply. Soon everyone is pelting each other with whatever they can grab: oranges, lemons, walnuts. “Silly buggers,” I whisper.

A mattress spring pops behind me. I look around to see Sissy sitting up in bed watching me. I startle at the sight of her, making us both giggle.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

“Looking.”

“At what?”

I shrug. “Nothing much.”

She wraps her blanket around her shoulders and joins me at the window. We stand for a moment, our foreheads pressed against the cold glass as we watch the porters larking about.

“You're a dreamer, aren't you, Dolly.”

“What do you mean?”

“You look at things. Imagine things. I bet you see shapes in the clouds.”

She is right. I do.

We watch as the lamplighter makes his way along the street with his long pole and ladder, extinguishing the lamps as a dove-gray dawn settles across the sky.

“Did you lose someone?” she asks.

I falter. What is the definition of loss? I place my fingertip on the glass, drawing patterns into the condensation formed from our breaths. “Yes.”

“Me too. The Somme. He'd only been there a couple of months. My brother, Davey.” She turns and points to the photograph on her nightstand. “That's him. Handsome bugger.”

I place my hand on hers. “I'm sorry.” It never sounds enough.

“Left a wife and two babies, a mother, and a sister. We're all sorry. His missus says she could bear it a little more if he'd written a good-bye. But there was no last letter in his pocket. Not our Davey. He wasn't one for words or soppy sentiments.” She draws a heart onto the glass and we watch as it fades away. “What about yours? How did he die?”

Our conversation is interrupted as something lands with a clatter against the glass, making us both scream and jump backward. We peer down to see one of the porters grinning up at us. He has a handful of walnuts and sends another rattling against the window.

Sissy pushes up the sash. A blast of cold air nips at my skin as she sticks her head outside. “Oi!” she shouts. “Watch it!”

The porter blows her a kiss and carries on with his work.

“Cheeky sod,” she says, closing the window and pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders.

“Do you know him?”

“Billy Morris. He's taken a fancy to me.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Have
you
taken a fancy to him?”

Her cheeks redden as a smile crosses her lips. “Might have.”

“What's all the noise?”

We both turn around to see that Mildred is awake.

“It's Dolly,” Sissy says. “She's flirting with the porters.”

I cuff her on the shoulder. “I am not!”

Mildred looks at me with that same knowing look. “Well, Dolly should be careful or she'll get herself a reputation before she gets her first pay packet.”

Sissy and I look at each other and burst out laughing.

Mildred throws her covers back and steps out of bed. “Honestly. It's like being back at school.” She leaves the room, slamming the door behind her.

“What's got into her?” I ask, clambering back into bed and hugging my knees tight to my chest for warmth.

“Nothing,” Sissy says. “That's the problem. Needs a good roll in the hay, that one does. She's as stiff as a fire iron.”

T
he maids' bathroom is like Piccadilly Circus on a Friday evening. A couple of the manicurists from the hairdressing salon are washing their stockings in the sinks. I catch snippets of their conversation, something about a Hollywood movie producer being sweet on one of them. I'd love to hear more, but they leave as the bathroom fills up with a dozen chattering maids.

“The manicurists think they're above us,” Sissy says. “They don't live in, but they'll happily use our bathroom when it suits. Don't know why they can't wash their smalls at home.”

The narrow counter below the mirror is a jumble of caps and
hairpins as we all fuss and fidget to make sure we look just right. Skinny arms and sharp elbows in matching blue print dresses jostle for position. I stand on my tiptoes, peering above the heads in front of me. It isn't the first time I wish I were taller.
“Not tall enough. Next, please.
”
I've heard those words so many times, sometimes before I'd even danced one step.

Sissy gives me a shove in the back, pushing me forward. “Come on, girls. Give someone else a turn.”

With a ripple of annoyance, the sea of bodies in front of me slowly parts and finally I get in front of the mirror. I look pale and tired from my restless night and pinch my cheeks to draw some color to them.

“Here. Have some of this.” Gladys hands me a pot of rouge. “Never know who you might bump into.” She winks and rubs a little onto her cheeks. “Got to look your best.”

“I thought we weren't allowed to wear makeup.”

“We're not. You just wear enough to look a bit less dead, but not enough for O'Hara to notice.”

I pass up the offer and concentrate on pinning my unruly curls into some sort of order, before fixing my frill cap in place.

Sissy passes me a lipstick. “Got it in Woolworth's last week. It's called Vermillion.” She's already applied a little to accentuate her Cupid's bow, just like the actresses in the silent pictures. She puckers her lips and pouts at herself in the mirror. “Well. What d'you think?”

I turn to look at her. “Very Mary Pickford!”

She laughs and wipes it off with a tissue. “Here. Try it.”

I can't resist. I twist the bottom of the golden case. The beveled edge slides easily over my lips. I press them together and rub them from side to side as I lean closer to the mirror to take a closer look. “It's lovely.”

A girl beside me tells me it suits me. “You new?” she asks.

“Yes. I'm Dolly.”

“Pleased to meet you, Dolly. I'm Tallulah.”

She mimics Tallulah Bankhead's southern drawl perfectly. I laugh. “Did you see her in
The Dancers
? She was so beautiful.”

“Went every night for a week,” she replies. “Lost a shoe in the rush to get to the gallery the first night. Walked home in my stockings. Earned myself a clip round the ear from my mam.”

Sissy claps her hands together, drawing everyone's attention. “Now, girls,” she says, in her best Irish accent. “Everything must be neat and tidy and just so. The white frill cap and apron worn in a particular way, the shoes polished like glass, the hair curled and pinned perfectly.” She stops and looks at me. “For the love of all that's holy, Dorothy Lane. Look at your cap. That won't do at all!”

I giggle as she helps me fasten my cap properly, but our good mood is interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

“I hope this jolly attitude will remain with you through your day's work, girls.”

“Who's that?” I whisper to Gladys.

“Head porter. Cutler.”

The voice continues beyond the door. “Far too many surly expressions in the corridors recently. It's not good for the hotel's
ambience
. Now, hurry downstairs. It is nearly half past. Mrs. O'Hara will be along for her inspection soon.”

Gladys explains that Cutler is a moody old sod. “Nice as pie one minute but he'd fire you on the spot for anything inappropriate. Keep your nose out and your hands clean and you've no need to worry.”

But as we file out of the cramped bathroom, I do worry. There's so much to remember, so many new faces to know. I've already met several floor-housekeepers, dozens of maids, floor-waiters and valets and lift attendants, not to mention the various members of
the management team. As we rush down the staff stairs, the swish of our dresses mingles with the rumble of heels against the linoleum. I try to suppress the memories that lurk in every squeak of my shoes against the floor.

In the Maids' Hall I take a seat at the long table and pour a cup of tea. It is good and strong. Not like the pale sweepings I used to get at Mawdesley Hall. Triangles of toast sit in steel racks with pats of bright yellow butter in ramekins dotted about the table. The kitchen maids have been busy. I see the young girl who was scrubbing the steps yesterday and smile at her. She's so engrossed in her chores she hardly notices me. I tuck into porridge and bread that's still warm, fresh from the ovens of the hotel bakery. I let a piece melt slowly on my tongue and remember how me and my little sister, Sarah, used to stand outside the bakers with a pillowcase, ready to fill it with whatever we could get for the sixpence Mam had given us. Mostly it was those awful flat brown loaves—cowpats we used to call them. If we were lucky, we'd get a roll to scoff on the way home. I'd tell Sarah to brush the crumbs from her lips and her pinafore so Mam wouldn't notice.

All too soon, we hear brisk footsteps and O'Hara appears, the great bundle of keys jangling at her hip like a restless child. We all stand as she enters the room, chair legs scraping against the stone floor, spoons clattering against bowls and cups. The kitchen maids start to clear the breakfast things as O'Hara calls us to line up in the corridor. I follow the others, copying them as they fall into a long line: shoulders back, feet together, chin up, hands behind the back. I cross my fingers and say a silent prayer as O'Hara walks briskly along the line like a drill sergeant major, handing each girl a neatly typed house list. She stops occasionally to tug at a twisted apron strap or to inspect hands and nails. She stops in front of me. My heart pounds beneath my dress as I look straight ahead, trying
not to focus on anything and avoiding O'Hara's cold stare. She considers me for a second before leaning forward and brushing a fingertip along my upper lip.

“Lipstick, Dorothy?”

Bugger
. I forgot to wipe it off. The girl to my right takes a sharp intake of breath. My heart thumps.

“We are not at some backstreet picture house now,” O'Hara snaps. “Lipstick has no place on a maid's lips until she clocks off.” She passes me a handkerchief. “And even then it is quite unnecessary. Get rid of it. Immediately.”

“Yes, miss.” I rub the handkerchief frantically at my lips, turning to the girl beside me, who nods to confirm it is gone. As O'Hara continues down the line Sissy leans forward and mouths an apology. I shush the voice in my head that wonders if she might have done it on purpose to land me in trouble.

Finally, O'Hara is satisfied. “Everything seems to be in order. Let's have a good day's work and remember . . .”

The girls all join in a chorus of rehearsed instruction. “The smallest things can make the biggest difference. Attention to detail in everything. Our guests are our priority.”

O'Hara nods approvingly. “Quite so. Now, off you go—and, Dorothy . . .”

What now? “Yes, miss?”

“Sissy Roberts will assist you with your rooms again today. Tomorrow, you're on your own.”

“Yes, miss.”

“Any questions?”

“No, miss.”

“I presume we won't be seeing any crimson lips tomorrow?”

In my head I tell her it's Vermillion. “No, miss. We won't.”

My inquisitor nods firmly and swishes away with her sticky-out
veins and pointy elbows. I lean back against the wall and breathe a sigh of relief. “Yes, miss. No, miss. Three bags full, miss.”

Sissy digs me in the ribs. “Cheeking the head of housekeeping already? I'd keep those thoughts to yourself if I were you. You'll land yourself in trouble muttering under your breath like that. The hotel has eyes and ears. The less said the better.”