The Girl from the Savoy

by Hazel Gaynor

  I was making tea when I realized I had to find her. I was spooning the leaves carefully into the pot, watching a blackbird on the fence while I waited for the kettle to boil. It struck me how beautiful his song was, and I instinctively wanted Dolly to hear it too. It was as simple as that. In a moment, while the blackbird sang and the kettle whistled on the stove, I knew I had to be where she was. In London.

  I never expected to find her. Her mam wasn’t even sure where she was. She told me she used a poste restante address at Cambridge Circus and that she only wrote home occasionally. I went anyway. It was enough to know that I would be closer to her, that we might walk the same footpaths, see the same view, breathe the same air. Only briefly did I think about what I would do or say if I found her. What if she was happily married? What if she was horrified to discover that a piece of her past had jumped into her present? What if I unsettled her, caused her pain and sadness? What then?

  I went about my business and made something of a life for myself. I found work in factories and restaurant kitchens, anything to earn a living. It was a far cry from the life I’d once imagined, but I was alive and I was over the worst of my condition and there was a lot to be said for that. And when my day’s work was over I found a patch of pavement and drew my pictures on to the flagstones. I used the talent the nurses had nurtured in the hospital.

  They call us screevers: pavement artists. I like to work at night, leaving my drawings as a small gift to those who wake early to watch the dawn and catch the best of the day. I draw pictures of Dolly mostly, although I have no image to work from. I use the one I imprinted onto my mind the last time I saw her. It is as clear as any photograph.

  I draw her every day. Sometimes she is a daffodil. Sometimes a butterfly. And always, always she is surrounded by the things she wanted her life to be filled with: hope and love and adventure.

  ACT III

  ADVENTURE

  LONDON

  1924

  The phrase “Cochran has done it again” is becoming hackneyed, but it describes exactly the scenes at the first night of Nymph Errant at the Adelphi Theatre. The foyer was invaded by autograph hunters who burst through the strong cordon of police and mingled with the audience. Late arrivals almost had their dresses torn from their backs.

  —“Mr. Gossip” newspaper review, V&A Museum Theatre Archive

  39

  DOLLY

  I am wide-awake and I am right in the

  middle of my dreams.

  Nine Elms appears above the tree line, the high turrets and chimneys offering a tantalizing glimpse of the house that I will stay in for the next few days. I edge forward on the leather seat of the motorcar—sent to collect me from the train station—craning my neck awkwardly to get a better view. Wispy clouds hang like feathers in a perfectly blue sky, reminding me of the day I left Mawdesley. As I admire my beautiful peach chiffon day dress and shoes—gifts from Miss May and which I adore so much I might never take off—I reflect on how far I have come.

  Everything happened so quickly after the audition. When I told Perry that Charlot had appointed me, he lifted me off the ground and spun me around until I felt dizzy and wild and wonderful. He said he couldn’t be happier for me, that I deserved it, and then he told me that he and Loretta would like to invite me to their annual spring ball. When I protested about not being able to take time away from the hotel, he told me that Loretta had already spoken with the governor, who had agreed to give me special leave so that I could visit my sick aunt. “But I don’t have a sick aunt,” I’d said, confused. And then the penny dropped and I laughed. “Loretta May gets what Loretta May wants,” Perry said. “And she wants you to come to Nine Elms. If that means an unexpected addition to your family, then so be it.”

  And here I am.

  My cheeks are flushed with excitement and the warmth of the sun streaming through the motorcar window. My stomach somersaults as the driver makes a sharp turn through dramatic stone pillars that mark the entrance to the house, where we continue along a perfectly straight driveway lined with nine elm trees. I count them. The tires crunch over gravel as we round a final bend and I see the house for the first time. It is beautiful. Ivy-clad red brick. A dozen lattice windows glint in the sun. Several pristine motorcars are already parked on the carriage circle in front of the house, a steady stream of valets and butlers attending to luggage and travel-weary guests, all of whom are astonishingly attractive and elegant and all of whom seem to know each other. I grip the edge of the seat as the car pulls to a stop and a valet opens the door.

  Taking a deep breath, I step out onto the driveway, relieved to see Perry waiting on the steps of the house, a broad smile spreading across his lips as he sees me.

  I tug at my gloves, flexing my fingers against the light cotton fabric, and smooth the creases from my dress. It’s a warm day and the breeze is refreshing after the long journey. The sea is just distant on the horizon; the tang of salt in the air a welcome change from London’s soot.

  Perry greets me with a kiss on the cheek and stands beside me.

  “So this is where you grew up,” I say, gazing up at the impressive building and holding my hand over the top of my straw cloche to stop it blowing away. “No wonder.”

  “No wonder what?”

  “No wonder you prefer your little apartment above the theater. It must have been awful living somewhere so grand.”

  He laughs and puts his hands in his pockets. “Great houses don’t always make for great homes, Miss Lane. Nice to look at. Not always so nice to live in. Full of rules and regulations. Houses like Nine Elms are for grown-ups. A childhood can easily be lost in these vast rooms.”

  I sense there is more he would like to say, and there is a lot more I would like to ask, but now is not the right time.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks, turning to look at me. “Nervous? Excited?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Honestly.”

  “I’m terrified.”

  He smiles. “Don’t be. You’re our guest, just the same as everyone else. Don’t forget that.”

  But I am not the same as everyone else. However I might blend in on the outside, I will never be the same on the inside.

  As the valets busy themselves around us, Perry and I stand together, talking of this and that, and all the while sharing that now familiar gaze, searching for something behind each other’s eyes, floundering in a sea of emotions we can’t understand. Lover? Friend? Muse? What am I to him? And he to me? I long for him to tell me I look wonderful. I long for him to take my hand and lead me inside. I long to know what he feels when he looks at me that way, but we are interrupted as more friends arrive and rush over to Perry, the women smothering him with kisses and shrieks of excitement, the men slapping him on the back and urging him to join them in a game of cricket. He introduces me but I can’t remember anyone’s name.

  “You’ll be terrific,” he says as he guides me toward the house. “Just remember everything my sister taught you and you’ll be perfectly fine.” He pats me lightly on the shoulder, an act of reassurance. It is an oddly cold gesture that leaves me feeling more anxious than assured.

  Taking a deep breath and thinking of all the girls who would give anything to be standing in my shoes right now, I force a smile and follow Perry up the steps and into an impressive entrance hall, Loretta’s words tumbling through my mind as I walk. “Stand taller. Pull your shoulders back. Tilt your neck, just so, and you’ll immediately look less like a maid and more like a lady. Impressions are just that—impressions. We can be whomever we want to be if we act accordingly.”

  Maids and footmen rush past with trays of drinks and fresh flowers, hatboxes and sewing boxes. I try not to appear too impressed by my surroundings as my eye is drawn to a painting at the foot of the stairs: yellow swirls in an inky-blue sky above a sleepy village. I recognize it immediately. The same painting hung in the drawing room at Mawdesley Hall. It was the only one I didn’t mind dusting. Looking at it was like lo
oking at my dreams.

  Perry catches my eye. “Wonderful, isn’t it? Van Gogh. He called it Starry Night. ‘The sight of the stars makes me dream.’ You know he chopped off his own ear after drinking too much absinthe?”

  “You’re teasing me,” I say, walking over to look at the painting more closely.

  “He honestly did! The madness of art. I suppose we must all be a little afflicted in order to create.”

  Miss May appears from a side room and rushes over to greet us. “Darlings. You made it!” She kisses us both on the cheek. Perry embraces her warmly. In all the time I have spent with them both, I’ve never seen any real affection between them. Cool indifference, at most. Now his arms engulf her and I notice how thin she’s become. “I was worried the train strike would keep you trapped in London and I’d have to manage Mother and Father and all their dreadful guests on my own.”

  Perry laughs and fusses with a small Pekingese dog that leaps up at his knees. A maid rushes by, dropping a lady’s scarf as she passes. I almost bend down to pick it up but check myself. Old habits die hard.

  Miss Lane takes me to one side. “You look divine, darling. I’m so eager to show you off to everyone. How are you feeling?”

  “Nervous. Terrified. Sick to my stomach.”

  She smiles and takes hold of my hand. “You’ll be wonderful. This is your chance to shine. Look at you. How could they not adore you? And you collected the evening dress from Hettie for the ball tomorrow?”

  “Yes. It’s beautiful.” I think about the little house in Shoreditch, the cramped sewing room at the back, so at odds with the beautiful dresses that emerge from it. I think about little Thomas, hiding behind Hettie’s skirts as he peered out at me. Such a sweet, shy little boy. “She did a wonderful job. I hardly dare wear it.”

  Miss May frowns in mock annoyance. “You will wear it and you will be the talk of the party. If you are not the subject of intense speculation by tomorrow evening, I will consider myself to have failed abysmally. Now, off with you. Madeline will show you to your room so you can freshen up. Drinks will be served on the lawn from three. There’s talk of a game of hide-and-seek later, and a treasure hunt tomorrow.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “I’m exhausted just thinking about it.”

  I follow Madeline up a wide staircase and along a long corridor to my room on the first floor. It feels strange being one of “Them”; to be on the other side of the divide. Strange but thrilling. My bags have already been delivered to my room. My dresses hung in the wardrobe. The curtains flutter in a pleasant breeze at the open window. Madeline leaves me, and for a rare moment in my life, I have absolutely nothing to do.

  I strip down to my undergarments, collapse onto the bed, and breathe. For once, my mind is as unruffled as the smooth damask pillow slip against my cheek, and with nothing to do and nothing to worry about, I soon fall into a deep asleep.

  I wake to the sound of jazz and laughter and the cheery clink of glasses. I’ve slept longer than I intended.

  I stand up and check myself in the looking glass. My face is flushed from sleep. Pillow-slip creases mark my cheeks. I press my palms against the window and then to my face, absorbing the lovely cool of the glass against my skin. Music drifts across the landscaped gardens and meadows beyond. The afternoon sun glints off the sea on the horizon. It really is beautiful here. I wish I could go for a walk to feel the sand between my toes and the wind in my hair, but people are waiting for me. Expecting me. And there haven’t been many times in my life when I could say that.

  I wash and dress as quickly as I can, fix my hair, and take a deep breath. I check my posture one last time before leaving the room and make my way downstairs. Despite my apprehension, I can’t help smiling to know that I am here, among these people. I am not scurrying along behind hidden corridors. I am not fetching or carrying anything. I am not apologizing for setting a tea tray down in the wrong place. I am just a young woman, beautifully dressed; the guest of a famous actress in her beautiful home. I am wide-awake and I am right in the middle of my dreams.

  Crossing the marble entrance hall, I follow the sound of music toward the library, through French doors, and out onto the terrace, grateful for the waiter who passes with a tray of champagne. I take a glass, savoring the sweet cool of the liquid as I drink it quickly. I take another. The waiter looks at me, astonished.

  “Dutch courage,” I say. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  He nods and rushes away.

  I hesitate on the top step, scanning the sea of faces for Perry or Miss May. I can’t see either of them, only beautiful people and fabulous dresses and the flutter of feather fans. I feel awkward and out of place, like a flea-market ornament among a shelf of priceless antiques. I drink the second glass of champagne too quickly and am relieved when I finally spot Perry on the lawn. He catches my eye and waves over to me enthusiastically.

  Threading my way through the guests, I try to remember my posture, “remember to glide rather than walk.” I already regret the two glasses of champagne I’ve drunk in as many minutes.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I whisper when I reach him. “I fell asleep.”

  “You didn’t miss much. Only Father’s annual speech, which very nearly sent us all to sleep.” He turns to the group gathered around him and introduces me. “Everyone, this is Miss Dorothy Lane, who I was telling you about. She’s been helping me write my new musical score and will be performing in Charlot’s Revue this summer. Miss Lane is going to be a huge star.”

  I blush under his compliment as I’m introduced to a glittering array of beautiful young things: Elizabeth Ponsonby, Nancy Mitford, Cecil Beaton, Bea Balfour, Stephen Tennant, and half a dozen others; people I have known only as names in the gossip columns. Perry has often spoken about the Bloomsbury set—the “Bright Young People,” as they have become known in society circles—an eccentric collection of Oxford and Cambridge graduates, writers, artists, and poets. Their lifestyle is generally considered to be extravagant; their behavior improper. They are wild and daring and exciting. I find them alluring and strange.

  I shake hands and smile politely but I can’t help staring at the ladies’ beautiful dresses, at their headdresses and fans, and at the gentlemen’s oddly effeminate faces. I notice the obvious connection between Perry and Miss Balfour, a playful familiarity, and I sense a stab of jealousy as I see how enchanted he is by her. She’s extremely beautiful and perfectly lovely. Why would he not be enchanted by her?

  Everyone is pleasant and polite but I soon feel lost in their conversation, unable to keep up with their shared jokes and increasingly intellectual debate. I excuse myself to fetch another drink. As I walk away, I hear the women teasing Perry.

  “She’s quite delightful, Perry. Wherever have you been hiding her?”

  “Didn’t have you down as a stage-door Johnny! Is it true that Loretta set you up?”

  I can’t hear Perry’s reply over the sound of the band.

  As the afternoon progresses, the Bloomsbury set insist on a game of hide-and-seek. Their enthusiasm is infectious. As soon as we are organized into hiders and seekers, I rush off toward the walled garden, becoming a child again, the little girl who squealed with excitement as her sisters chased her around the house and out into the fields beyond. They could never find me. I was always the best at hiding, finding the smallest gaps to crawl into, blending into the fabric of the rooms. I would press myself against a wall and stand completely motionless so that even when they burst in, calling my name, they wouldn’t see me. Tess always accused me of cheating, insisting that I must have changed hiding place in the middle of the game. But I never did. I simply disappeared. Became invisible. I was always good at that.

  I run among the ornamental privet hedges and birdbaths as a whistle blows to let the hiders know that the seekers are on the hunt. I find a dark nook behind a gazebo adorned with amber roses and a screen of delphinium that matches the color of my dress. Stepping as carefully as I can among the flower beds so as not to damage the plants
, I crouch down and wait, listening to the squeals and roars of jubilation when the hiders are found. I hold my breath as a gentleman dashes among the gravel pathways in the garden, but he runs straight past, never seeing me.

  Gradually the excitement of hiders and seekers fades along with the afternoon sun as most of the guests make their way back to the cocktail waiters and the music. I stay where I am, a childish stubbornness insisting that I hold out a little longer. And then I hear women’s voices approaching and I freeze as Bea Balfour and a friend settle on a seat directly in front of my hiding place.

  “She’s very striking,” Bea remarks as she lights a cigarette. “Unconventionally beautiful. And he does seem awfully fond of her. Always looking for her across the room. Talking about how marvelous she is. I’m afraid he has fallen in love with her, Violet.”

  Her companion reassures her that this is not the case as I wonder who it is they are talking about. “Don’t be silly. He only has eyes for you, Bea. You know that very well. What if she’s secretly an escort? Gosh, how delightfully improper.” They giggle at the prospect of such scandal. “Still, I wonder where he found this Miss Lane.”

  Me? It is me they’re talking about. I screw my eyes up tight and force myself to remain motionless, hardly daring to breathe.

  “I heard Perry telling Geoffrey that he met her at an audition,” Bea explains. “He was playing the piano. She was dancing. They started talking. She has apparently become something of a muse for him. Miss Lane is the inspiration behind the new music he’s writing for Charlot’s Revue.”

  “A muse?”

  “Yes. Loretta encouraged it by all accounts. You know what she’s like, always wanting the best for Perry. She told me that she felt he needed someone to inspire him. It would seem that Miss Lane is that someone.”

  “But surely if anyone was to be Perry’s muse it would be you, Bea. He’s been besotted with you since you were a young girl dashing about on these very lawns.”