The Girl from the Savoy

by Hazel Gaynor

  “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.

  Back in my room, I change out of my dance leotard and pull my travel bag from beneath my bed, taking out the scrapbook I’ve kept since I was a young girl. Dolly’s Dreams, it says on the front. The pages crackle as I turn them. The paper is yellowed in places, but the images are no less stirring. I remember each one, each beautiful face, each glowing review. There are not many benefits to working in service to a wealthy family, but one is having access to discarded newspapers and magazines. Nobody knew that as I scrunched up pages to lay the fire or dry the insides of sodden riding boots, I tore out the parts I wanted to keep and put them in my pockets. In the privacy of my room I trimmed the edges, making them perfectly straight before sticking the cuttings into my scrapbook with a paste of flour and water. I remember the tingle of excitement as I looked at those images night after night, by candlelight or gaslight. What would it be like to dance on a West End stage? What would those dresses feel like against my skin? These were the images and words that kept my soul alive as I emptied chamber pots and drew water from the frozen pump on a frigid winter morning. These are the images and words that light a fire in my belly now as I turn the pages, dozens and dozens of them, filled with my dreams.

  I should probably give up. I should have given up many times before, but I can’t. I keep coming back to these pages; to Dolly’s Dreams, the naïve hopes of a young girl. I no longer chase a life onstage for myself. I chase it for a man called Teddy and a little boy called Edward, the boy I named in my mind, if not on paper, for the man who I had always imagined would be the father of my children. They are the reason I will keep going, keep trying, despite men like Peregrine Clements and Larry Snyder who dent my confidence and make me feel like dirt. I keep going for Teddy and Edward because if I stop now what on earth did I lose them for?

  I turn the pages in the scrapbook until the cuttings end. The remaining pages are empty, a reminder that my dreams, and the column inches dedicated to theatrical reviews, were temporarily replaced with the stark realities of war.

  As I close the book, my thoughts turn to my lost father and sisters, to Mam—alone in our little house in Mawdesley—distant fragments of my life, scattered across England. If only I could keep everything I have loved in one special place. If only I had a scrapbook to hold them all together.

  If only.

  The words that dreams are made of.

  25

  DOLLY

  “If nothing else, it will give you the opportunity to tell him what dreadful manners he has.”

  Over breakfast the next morning, O’Hara asks if she might have a quiet word.

  My heart sinks. “What have I done now, miss?”

  She looks at
me with something like compassion. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Dorothy. For once, I have no reason to reprimand you.”

  She takes my arm and guides me into a narrow linen cupboard in the corridor. In a hushed voice, she gives me the most extraordinary message. I am to meet a friend of the governor’s at the Weeping Muse monument in the Embankment Gardens at two o’clock. The friend, she informs me, is a very well-known actress. Her name is Loretta May.

  I barely feel the cold as I rush along the cobbles toward the river and the Gardens as the church bells across the city chime the hour of two. I see her immediately, a tall slender woman standing in front of the Weeping Muse, the monument to the composer Arthur Sullivan.

  I hang back for a moment and watch her. She leans forward slightly, resting a hand against the back of the statue known as the weeping muse of music. I try to compose myself, but it is impossible. I am about to speak to Loretta May. I’ve seen almost every play she’s been in. I’ve applauded her until my hands are sore. I’ve waited for a glimpse of her as she rushes from the stage door.

  I move forward until I am right behind her. “Excuse me.”

  She turns around. She is even more exquisite close up. Dark gold hair like syrup, perfectly styled. Heavy-lidded eyes, seductively penciled with dark kohl. Arched eyebrows. Crimson lips. She smells expensive and luxurious. She dabs her eyes with a lace handkerchief and places it in her pocket.

  “Miss Lane?”

  I nod. “Yes. They told me. At the hotel.”

  “Thank you for coming.” She extends a willowy arm and holds out a gloved hand.

  I shake it and hope I can bring myself to let go. “It’s such an honor to meet you, Miss May. You’re very huge. I’m a beautiful fan. I mean, you’re very beautiful and I’m a huge fan.” I’m talking nonsense. My teeth chatter with cold and nerves.

  She chuckles. It is a mesmerizing, seductive sound. “You’re very kind to say so. I think!” A stiff breeze whips around us, ballooning out our coats and threatening to dislodge our hats. “Gosh, that wind. It brings tears to one’s eyes,” she remarks, dabbing at her eyes again. “Let’s walk. It’s far too chilly to stand about.”

  My steps fall in time with hers as we follow the path through the Gardens. I am walking beside Loretta May. Clover would die if she could see me.

  “You must think this all terribly unconventional, Miss Lane.”

  “Yes! I can’t actually believe I’m here. With you!”

  She smiles politely, but I sense she isn’t interested in flattery today. I scold myself for being so giddy and excited.

  “It’s about my brother, you see.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid he acted rather appallingly toward you.” She stops walking and looks at me. “My brother is Peregrine Clements. You might know him better as a ‘struggling musical composer.’” I am speechless. Loretta May is Perry Clements’s sister. She starts to walk again. “Frightful business, abandoning you like that in the tearooms.”

  “He told you?”

  “He did. And I told him he was beastly to do such a thing. Someone with his upbringing should have better manners.”

  I’m not sure what to say. “It was a bit of a shock. I thought we were getting on very well.”

  “It was downright rude. But he’s dreadfully sorry. Truly. He’s really a very decent chap. I think he panicked.”

  “Panicked?”

  She turns to face me. “Look, it’s rather difficult to explain, but the reason I wanted to meet you, Miss Lane, is to ask if you might give him a second chance.”

  I’m not sure what I was expecting when O’Hara gave me the message about meeting Loretta May, but it certainly wasn’t this. “But he left me a note. He said I wasn’t what he was looking for.”

  “Oh, never mind all that,” she says, waving a gloved hand dismissively as she walks on. “He’s a damned nuisance. Doesn’t know what’s good for him. You have every right to be furious with him and I understand if you never want to see him again—I’d prefer not to see him myself sometimes, but sadly one cannot choose one’s family.”

  I am furious with him, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. Nor have I been able to throw his silly music in the fire as I’d promised myself I would.

  Miss May sinks her chin into the fur collar of her nut-brown velvet coat and indicates that we should sit on a bench. “I’m intrigued, Miss Lane, as to why you replied to his notice in the first place. I presume there is more to this than the appeal of cherry cake and tea?”

  I push my hands deep into my coat pockets, my fingers curling around Edward’s photograph. “You think it was silly of me, don’t you. My friend Clover said the same.”

  “I don’t think it was silly of you at all. Actually, I think it was rather brave.”

  I’ve never thought of myself as brave. I suppose I was, in a way.

  I look at this woman, my idol, beside me and see a warmth in her piercing green eyes, a sense of someone other than the famous actress hidden within them. I have nothing to lose, so I tell her the truth. “I want more than a life as a maid, Miss May. I dream of dancing on the stage and when I saw the notice, I thought it might bring me a step closer to that dream. If only for an hour a week.” It all sounds so silly and unlikely as I say the words aloud.

  She nods and places her hand on my lap. “I understand.” She looks at me, really looks at me as she takes my chin in her hand and angles my head gently toward the sky. “There’s something about you, Miss Lane. I see it in your eyes. A sense of something more.” She pauses for a moment and lights a cigarette, offering me one. I decline. I’m trembling so much I’m sure I would drop it. “So, I’d like to propose one more meeting,” she says, “in my apartment to keep things on neutral territory. If Perry does anything to remotely offend or upset you, I promise we will never bother you again. I will be there to make you feel more comfortable. I’ll skulk about behind the door and you can call for me at any moment and that will be the end of it.” She studies me, watching for a reaction. “You have Wednesday afternoons off, I believe?”

  “Yes. And alternate Sundays.”

  “Then come on Wednesday afternoon. I’m at Fifty-Four, Berkeley Square.” I think about Clover and our arrangement to go dancing at the Palais. She’ll understand. “If nothing else, it will give you the opportunity to tell him what dreadful manners he has. I’ve always found something rather pleasing about having the last word in a disagreement. I’m offering you the chance to have yours.”

  There is a wonderful sense of mischief in her eyes. Clearly, this is a woman who is used to getting what she wants. “How can I say no to Loretta May?”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised, darling. Plenty of people do.” She stands up and we walk on. “You won’t regret it, Miss Lane. I will make it my personal business to see that you don’t.”

  It is easy to see why so many men have thrown themselves at her. She really is the most beautiful, enchanting woman I’ve ever met.

  As we approach the end of the path and the steps down to Embankment underground station, a few flakes of snow begin to fall. Miss May holds out her hand, letting the snowflakes settle onto her black glove.

  “Did you know that every snowflake is unique, Miss Lane? That every one of these tiny fragile flakes is as individual as you and I. I find that remarkable. Just because we cannot see their beautiful little structures doesn’t mean they’re not there. They are all around us, and they are no less beautiful for our blindness.”

  There is a lovely musicality to her voice. I could listen to her all day.

  “Well, I mustn’t keep you.” She offers her hand. “Thank you, Miss Lane. It has been a pleasure to meet you.” I stand mute before her, too starstruck to say anything in reply. “My brother will not let you down a second time. I promise. Oh, and I almost forgot.” She hands me an envelope. “Two tickets to my latest show. Do come along. It’s rather jolly.”

  I can’t take my eyes off her as she disappears b
eneath the archway and walks toward the river, shoulders back, head held high, neat dainty steps. I glance at my black shoes. How can I ever emulate such elegance when I’m cursed with such ugly footwear?

  As I walk back through the Gardens, I pass the monument of the Weeping Muse. I must have walked past it a dozen times but have never stopped to look at it properly. I read the inscription above the bust of Arthur Sullivan.

  Is life a boon? If so, it must befall that Death, whene’er he call, must call too soon.

  I wonder what the words meant to Miss May. Whatever it was, they stay with me as I walk back to the hotel, pondering what has just happened.

  I will go and see Perry again because Loretta May asked me to, and while I may very well end up wishing he would rot in hell, I already know that Loretta May I would follow all the way to the stars.

  26

  DOLLY

  “But we all wrinkle and fade in time, Miss Lane.

  Even the most beautiful bloom must eventually wither and die.”

  Wednesday cannot come quickly enough. I am restless and distracted, rushing my work and snapping at Sissy when she asks me what’s wrong. I haven’t told anyone about my disastrous meeting with Perry Clements, or my awful audition for Snyder. The shame of both lingers around me, affecting my mood so that I am irritable and short-tempered. And while Mildred acts as if we had never spoken about our shared experience at the Mothers’ Hospital, she still watches me, judges me. The sight of her stirs uncomfortable memories that nag at my conscience, telling me I should have done more to find little Edward.

  As soon as my morning rounds are finished, I change into the neatest dress I own and take the omnibus from the Strand along Haymarket and Piccadilly to Green Park, from where I walk up Bolton Street and along Curzon Street toward Berkeley Square. I know the area well, it being only a few streets away from the Archer residence on Grosvenor Square. I skirt around the square and run past the sweeping crescents of Mount Street and Carlos Place. I have a note in my pocket for Clover to explain why I can’t meet her at the Palais today.