The Girl from the Savoy

by Hazel Gaynor

  20

  DOLLY

  “You are like a cat with nine lives, Miss Lane.

  The Savoy seems determined for you to stay.”

  On my return to the hotel, I am met by stern expressions and anxious glances in the Maids’ Hall, where everyone is assembled. I don’t even have time to remove my coat or hat before I’m instructed to stand beside the table with the others. I look for Sissy and Gladys, but they won’t meet my gaze.

  O’Hara stands in front of us all, her face scarlet with rage. “Something has occurred which causes me great concern.” We all look at each other, fearing the worst. “A hair comb is missing from one of the guest suites. We have reason to believe that it has been stolen.”

  A gasp ripples through us like a breeze. Everyone averts their eyes, the guilt implicit on each of our faces, even though we know it wasn’t us. We shuffle uncomfortably in our shoes.

  “I am quite sure that I need not spell out the severity of the punishment for anyone found guilty of tampering with guests’ possessions, or stealing from guest apartments. This particular item is missing from a suite on sixth. Sixth-floor maids, remain here. Everyone else may return to their rooms.”

  I smile awkwardly at Sissy and Gladys as they disappear. I know I have nothing to worry about, but there’s something formidable about O’Hara’s outrage. There are four of us left. I stifle a cough, the irritation in my chest bothering me again.

  O’Hara stands in front of us. Arms folded. Veins protruding. “If anyone would like to own up, now would be a very good time to do so. Otherwise, I will be forced to inspect your rooms. It is an indignity that I am sure none of us wishes to endure unnecessarily.” There is a terrible pause. The clock ticks loudly on the wall behind me. “Very well. I can only wonder how such a thing as a hair comb could really be worth it.”

  Leaving the Maids’ Hall, O’Hara commands us to follow her. There is a stony silence as we walk along the corridor. Outside my room, I’m surprised to see Snyder.

  O’Hara approaches him. “I have spoken to the maids, Mr. Snyder, and I’m afraid that nobody has come forward. I am left with no choice but to carry out a search.”

  “Would you mind if I wait?” he asks. “Mademoiselle Delysia would very much like the comb returned as soon as possible.” My breath catches in my throat. Mademoiselle Delysia? I feel guilty merely by association. “It belonged to her mother,” Snyder continues, “and carries a great deal of sentimentality. Such matters would usually be handled by her lady’s maid but, as we know, she is indisposed.”

  O’Hara is flustered. “Yes, of course you may wait. It won’t take long.”

  My heart thumps beneath my dress. My legs feel like lead. Snyder leans casually against the wall, ankles crossed. I smell Virginia tobacco as I walk past him into my room. I can feel his eyes settle on me, but I refuse to look at him.

  Sissy, Gladys, and Mildred are already waiting in the room.

  “Did you do it?” Sissy whispers as I walk in.

  “No!” I reply. “’Course not!”

  Sissy shrugs her shoulders. Gladys keeps her eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Mildred stares straight ahead.

  The four of us stand near the window as O’Hara opens drawers and cupboards and lifts books on nightstands. Her inspection revealing nothing, she tells us to get ready for bed, and makes to leave. As she does, Mildred asks if she might have a word in private. They step to one side and lower their voices so that I can’t hear what is being said. Nodding as she listens to whatever Mildred has to say, O’Hara turns back to us.

  “Remove your bedcovers and lift up your pillows.”

  I can’t wait for this to all be over. I’ve had a bad enough day as it is what with Mr. Clements running off like that, and it’s unsettling to know that Snyder is lurking outside the room, especially when I’ve decided to approach him about an audition and have absolutely no idea how to mention it without making myself sound desperate and needy. He strikes me as the sort of man who would be quick to take advantage of a desperate, needy girl.

  I lift my pillow and hug it to my chest, the crumpled pages of sheet music exposed for all to see. I think of my embarrassment at being left in the tearooms and want to throw them into the fire. At least my photograph is safe in my coat pocket, away from prying eyes. I bend to pick up the papers but O’Hara snatches them from me, holding them by a corner as if they were infected with the Spanish flu.

  “And these might be?”

  “Just some papers,” I say. “I’m minding them for a friend.”

  “Under your pillow?” I nod. “Do you keep many things under your pillow?”

  I shake my head. “No, miss.”

  She takes the pillow from my hands, giving it a slight flick of her wrist to loosen the cover. An ornate silver hair comb tumbles from the fabric and settles on the bed sheet.

  I take a step back. I feel choked, my breaths thin and shallow. “But . . . how did that get there? I swear I didn’t do it. I didn’t take it. I’ve never seen it before!”

  Sissy and Gladys look horrified. Mildred remains stony-faced. O’Hara snatches up the comb and grabs me by the wrist. Tears spring from my eyes as she marches me from the room, where Snyder is still lurking in the corridor.

  O’Hara stands in front of me and hands him the comb. “The good news, Mr. Snyder, is that we have found the missing hair comb.”

  “That’s a relief. Mademoiselle will be very pleased.”

  “The unfortunate news is that we have a thief in our midst. I shall take her straight to Mr. Cutler and have her collect her things.”

  I plead for O’Hara to believe me, protesting my innocence as she drags me along the corridor. Tears stream down my face. I see Mildred close the door to our room, shutting me out.

  Snyder follows us. “Perhaps the girl should at least be heard.”

  O’Hara stops. “There is nothing to be heard, sir. The hair comb did all the talking for her.”

  “Perhaps. But I wonder if I might propose something.”

  He looks at me. I can’t bear to meet his gaze and stare at the floor, everything blurring as I wipe hot tears from my cheeks with the palms of my hands.

  He lowers his voice as he takes O’Hara to one side of the corridor. I can just make out what he says. “Mademoiselle is an extremely generous person. She would not wish to see someone turned out at her expense. Perhaps some other punishment might be considered. Reduced wages. Or extra duties? I am sure we can reach a more satisfactory conclusion than seeing this young girl cast out onto the street. It is approaching the season of goodwill, after all. I presume that extends to maids as well?”

  O’Hara looks flustered. “Well, I really should . . .”

  Their conversation is interrupted by the appearance of a porter at the top of the stairs. He runs up to O’Hara. “Sorry to bother you, Miss. Spot of bother in a suite on seven. A young lady thinks she’s going into labor. They’ve asked for more towels and a doctor.”

  O’Hara looks at the porter and at me and at Snyder.

  “I’m very happy to handle this,” Snyder says, nodding in my direction. “I’ll take her straight to the head porter. Cutler, isn’t it?”

  O’Hara nods. “Very well. Take her straight to his office. I’ll join you there as soon as I can.”

  She rushes off to attend to the emergency, leaving Snyder and me alone in the corridor.

  “Somebody must have put it there. You’ve got to believe me,” I plead. “I’ve never seen it before. I promise.”

  He says nothing as he guides me down the staff stairway. On the ground floor, we walk to Cutler’s office, where he raps on the doorframe.

  Cutler looks up from a great pile of paperwork on his desk. “Ah. Snyder.” He stares at me as I wipe the tears from my eyes. “Nothing wrong, I hope?”

  Snyder lowers his voice. “Would you mind if we stepped inside, dear fellow? Spot of bother with one of the maids. I told your head housekeeper I would handle it. She was called to attend to anothe
r matter.”

  “Of course. Come in. Come in.” Cutler flaps about and pushes the papers to the side of his desk. He tugs at his bow tie to straighten it.

  “I didn’t take it. I promise.” I start sobbing again as Snyder offers me a handkerchief. I can smell his cologne as I dab at my cheeks.

  Cutler is confused. “Take what? Whatever has happened?”

  Snyder relates the events in a low tone and I notice him slip something into Cutler’s hand before he leaves us.

  I sniff and sob. I am utterly wretched and confused. “I don’t know what’s worse, sir. Being accused of something I didn’t do, or knowing that someone dislikes me so much that they intended for this to happen.”

  Cutler pours himself a sherry and turns his back on me to drink it quickly. “Yes. Well. Snyder, being a capital fellow, has asked, on behalf of Mademoiselle Delysia, to have the matter overlooked. He believes that you didn’t take the hair comb, and are the unfortunate recipient of a malicious prank. He wishes no more to be said about the matter. He assures me that would be Mademoiselle’s wish.”

  I wipe my nose. “Really?”

  “Yes. Although if it were up to me . . .”

  “So, can I go?”

  “May I go? Sir.”

  “May I go, sir?”

  He sits back in his chair, blows onto his spectacles, and rubs the lenses with his handkerchief. “Yes, you may go, but for the life of me I’m not sure why you should. You are like a cat with nine lives, Dorothy. The Savoy seems determined for you to stay.” He glowers at me and replaces his spectacles. “I am, nevertheless, quite sure that Mrs. O’Hara will have more to say on the matter when she is relieved of the other crisis she is dealing with. Consider this a reprieve. Nothing more. Your name is appearing too often in my ledger.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I skulk from the office and make my way back to second, my mind whirling with thoughts of who would have done this, and why. The only person I can possibly think would do such a thing is Mildred, but I don’t know how she would have got hold of the hair comb in the first place, or why she should dislike me so much.

  Exhausted after everything that has happened, I’m relieved to get back to the room and find that it is empty, the others using the bathroom. Alone for a few moments, I dress for bed and climb wearily beneath the covers.

  Mildred is the first to come in. “Still here, then.”

  I glare at her. “Snyder intervened. I’ve been given a reprieve.”

  “You’re lucky. Most girls would have been out on their ear.”

  “I didn’t take it anyway. But I think I know who did.”

  She sits on her bed and fusses with her hair. “I know you think I did it, but you’re wrong. I have no wish to cause trouble for anyone.”

  “Then who did?” I ask.

  “None of my business.”

  She picks up a sheet of writing paper. I watch her for a moment as I pull on my nightcap. “Why are you so quiet, Mildred? So secretive?”

  She puts her pen down and looks at me. There’s a lost look in her eyes that I haven’t noticed before. “It’s perfectly acceptable to be quiet, isn’t it? We don’t all have to bounce around like an omnibus or be constantly powdering our nose, do we?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Suppose not.”

  She keeps looking at me as the fire crackles in the grate. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  I shake my head. “I thought I recognized you, but I’m not sure where from. And I’ve never known a Mildred.”

  “But you’ve known a Vera Green.”

  In an instant I know her. Edie Bishop and Vera Green. From the Mothers’ Hospital.

  “Come along, now. Don’t be making a fuss. It’ll be much easier if you just let go.” The awful tugging of my fingertips. The hollow ache in my arms; the weight of his absence. A woman in a yellow coat, the color of daffodils.

  “Vera Green.” My words are a whisper in the dim light of the room. “Vera Green. From the Mothers’ Hospital?”

  She nods and puts her pen and paper on her nightstand. “We all have secrets, Dolly. We all have a past.”

  She settles beneath her bedcovers as Sissy and Gladys barge back into the room. Gladys doesn’t say much to me, but Sissy is all talk about the incident with the hair comb.

  “I can’t believe you weren’t given your notice. You lucky cow!”

  I explain how Snyder intervened and arranged for the whole matter to be overlooked. Sissy wants to go over it all again and again but I ask her if we can leave it for tonight. I tell her I’m worn out from all the drama.

  The truth is, I’m too distracted by thoughts of Mildred and the Mothers’ Hospital and too angry with Mr. Clements and too ashamed at having to accept the help of awful Larry Snyder. I pull the bedcovers tight up to my chin and wait for Sissy to turn out the light.

  As I lie in the dark, the ghosts of my past creep closer. I think about him. I see his sleeping face as I lean over his cot. So innocent, unaware that he is about to be taken from me, unaware that another woman will soon press her cheek to his and feel the unfathomable lightness of him as she rocks him in her arms. I remember how Teddy’s little camera shook in my hand as I fumbled to expand the lens and press the shutter. I can still hear the click and whir of the mechanism as his image was captured within the tiny machine. Just one exposure left on the film. The only chance I would have to remember him. A face in a photograph.

  My little Edward.

  My child.

  My reason for everything.

  ACT II

  LOVE

  LONDON

  1923–24

  There is a gallery first-nighter—a girl or woman with a shrill treble—who most disconcertingly persists in screaming to actors and actresses, good, bad, and indifferent, “You’re marvelous! You’re marvelous!”

  —Newspaper review, V&A Museum Theatre Archive

  21

  LORETTA

  There is an art to dying convincingly.

  Apparently, I do it rather well.

  I suppose one shouldn’t need a reason to visit one’s brother, but I have such an aversion to his dismal little flat above the theater that I must find compelling motives to go there at all. Discovering what happened with his muse is one. Telling him about my illness is another. Whilst I’ve thus far managed to admirably cover up my episodes with excuses about exhaustion and headaches and too many cocktails, I don’t know how much longer I can keep up the pretense. And yet I struggle to find the words to tell them: Perry, Bea, Cockie, Elsie, Hettie, Aubrey, Mother and Father. How exactly does one bring such a grim and depressing matter into the conversation?

  “Ice and a slice?”

  “Yes, please, darling. Oh, and by the way, I’m dying. They tell me I have a cancer. Dreadful nuisance, isn’t it. Anyone for croquet?”

  If only somebody could write the script. If only I could rehearse the lines and deliver them as if it were all another performance. I have died at least a dozen times onstage. There is an art to dying convincingly. Apparently, I do it rather well. But this is not a performance. This is frighteningly real.

  My hesitation not only comes from my staunch denial that I am ill at all, but from the knowledge that as soon as I tell people, everything will change. I won’t be me anymore. I’ll be someone who is dying. People will look at me in that awful sympathetic way and nobody will know what to say. They’ll tell me how dreadfully sorry they are and we’ll all feel crushingly awkward until it is me consoling them. I cannot bear it, and so my illness remains as silent as an unplayed gramophone record.

  Perry’s apartment at the top of the Strand Theatre is small and overfurnished with distasteful pieces collected from here, there, and goodness knows where. It is horribly suffocating in the summer and depressingly damp in the winter.

  “How on earth Mrs. Ambrose can even begin with the dusting is beyond me,” I say, sweeping my glove across a wonky shelf cluttered with ghastly china dogs and blown-glass figurines of de
er and swans. The trail my finger leaves behind in the dust suggests that dusting it is beyond Mrs. Ambrose too.

  Perry ignores me and stares at his reflection in a small hand mirror perched on a shelf above the washbasin. The crack in the mirror has been there for as long as I can remember. He says it is a reminder of his imperfections.

  I watch as he rubs at the lines on his forehead as if to erase the memories etched into them. He looks older than his twenty-nine years. Dark shadows beneath his eyes suggest another restless night. He has seen countless doctors, but they tell him there’s nothing they can do for him, apart from the drafts they prescribe to help him sleep. They say the memories that haunt him will fade, that he’ll forget, in time.

  I light a cigarette and sit down on a couch that has seen better days in some far-distant past. “Can’t you speak to the management about fixing the lift? It really makes me cross to think of you climbing those stairs every day. You are wounded, Perry. You aren’t as physically capable as you used to be.”

  He scoffs at my concerns. “Wounded! I have a limp, Etta. A bloody limp. Couldn’t even get injured properly, could I?”

  “Perry! That’s a dreadful thing to say.”

  “Well, that’s what Father thinks. Some poor buggers came home without their legs or arms. After everything they did for this country, they’re reduced to begging outside the train stations. That’s what makes me cross.” He splashes water over his face and stares into the mirror. “In the grand scheme of things, I really don’t think it is such an imposition to walk up a few stairs. Do you?”

  He ignores my mutterings and disapproving tuts. “Anyway,” I continue, “I don’t understand why you choose to live here at all when there are so many nicer places you could have.”

  “I like the location. And this place has character. It talks to me.”

  “It’s the damp you can hear talking to you, darling. It talks to me too.” I take a bottle of perfume from my bag and spritz a little here and there to mask the musty smell.