The Girl from the Savoy

by Hazel Gaynor

  We train from noon until four every day and I work hard on my dance steps and my fitness, determined to get better and better, to become the shining star I promised Miss May I would be. She sends occasional letters and telegrams from Devon to tell me how she’s doing. She tells me she is following the show’s success in the papers. My only regret is that she cannot see me perform.

  On Wednesdays, during my short afternoon break between training and performing, Clover meets me for a cup of tea and we chatter ten to the dozen about her life at The Savoy and my life at the Theatre Girls’ Club. She has settled in well at the hotel. We laugh about O’Hara’s funny ways and she tells me Mildred is becoming much friendlier. I think of the letter she wrote to me on my final day. A few short words to thank me for listening to her and to tell me that she will pray that I find little Edward and that I will find peace when I do. A few short words that meant so much to me.

  My hard work and dedication pay off and I quickly progress from the second line of the chorus to the front line and then to the coveted position of lead chorus, where I take a few precious moments alone in the limelight to dazzle and amuse. The gallery-ites hoot and cheer when I do my tumbles and turns. I look to them especially as I take my applause. The press notices flood in, my name picked out again and again.

  Each sketch and musical number is packed with verve, vivacity, and vim, skillfully choreographed by Max Rivers to the musical arrangements of Perry Clements, whose music has undergone something of a remarkable transformation. What a way to make a comeback! His numbers rival anything written by Coward or Porter or Berlin of late. As the audience left the theater, the words to the most popular numbers, “Dolly Daydream” and “The Girl from The Savoy,” were on everyone’s lips. I suspect we will hear much more of these particular numbers, such was their originality and impact. Each number and comedy turn leads to a frenetic climax that made the audience jazz in their seats. As the leading lady, Miss Binnie Hale had a total of fifteen costume changes, with only ninety seconds for each change. A special mention must be made of Dolly Lane, who amazes and amuses as the perfect lead chorus.”

  When one of the actresses playing a supporting role is struck down with laryngitis, I am asked to step in. Despite my nerves, I fill her shoes admirably. My name moves farther up the billing.

  As usual, Charlot’s Chorus was irresistible, but what especially caught this reviewer’s attention was Miss Dorothy Lane, a late replacement for Kitty Ellis in the role of Eleanor. Miss Lane dazzled each time she took to the stage. She is most definitely someone to watch. An ordinary girl with an extraordinary talent to charm an audience. I’ll wager that Miss Lane is going to become a very important person in the English theater.

  It is everything I have ever dreamed of, right there in black and white. An ordinary girl with an extraordinary talent to charm an audience. I’ll wager that Miss Lane is going to become a very important person in the English theater.

  My name is on everyone’s lips and I am center stage at the after-show parties, attracting admiring glances and attention wherever I go. The cry of “Miss Lane! Miss Lane! Over here!” from the press photographers is a sound I am becoming accustomed to.

  With the revue causing such a stir, Charlot asks Perry to work on a full score for a musical comedy based on the Act Two sketches and the song “The Girl from The Savoy.” Perry tells me Charlot has me in mind for the lead role when the production opens in America.

  “America?” I flop down into my chair at the dressing table.

  “Yes. America! For a seven-week run, starting in Baltimore and ending up goodness knows where. Broadway, maybe!” I don’t even know where Baltimore is. “And he wants me to write more numbers, especially for you. You’re to have your own billing, Dolly. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is, but . . . America. It sounds so far away.”

  Perry laughs. “It is far away! We’ll travel on the SS Caronia. What an adventure it will be!”

  “When do we leave?”

  “Three weeks. After the London run.” He senses the hesitation in my eyes. “This is everything you ever wanted, isn’t it? Your name at the top of the billing. Your name in lights out front! Just imagine it.”

  I have imagined it so often. “I didn’t think I would ever leave London. It’s all so sudden. So exciting. I was folding bed linen just a few months ago.”

  He takes my hands in his. “I know this is all happening quickly, Dolly, and I know how much you love London, but what do you have to lose? What is there here for you?”

  I think about Teddy and the drawings on the paving stones on the Embankment. Was I imagining the likeness after all? I think about little Edward. Is he lost to me, forever? Endless questions without any answers, always waiting, always wondering: what if?

  The question to ask isn’t why . . . it is why not?

  I stand up. “You’re right. There’s nothing for me here. Why not go to America?”

  His gray eyes smile. “Start to say your good-byes, Dolly. If America falls in love with you as quickly as London has, it may be some time before you’re back. You may never come back at all!”

  But there is one final question on my mind.

  How will I ever tell Clover?

  44

  LORETTA

  Some might say that I have lived my life recklessly.

  I say only that I have lived, in every sense of the word.

  I lie in my bed and watch the curtains fluttering at the open window as broad leaves sway in two-four time on the horse-chestnut trees beyond. When the sun fades and darkness falls, I see shooting stars.

  Life dances on.

  When I close my eyes I hear the waves rolling in to shore, the endless ebb and flow of the tide. Sometimes my breathing matches the sound—in and out, in and out, in and out—so that I feel I could never die as long as the tide comes and goes.

  There are days, hours, moments when I feel myself slipping away and I cling desperately on, refusing to give in. Other times I will myself to fall asleep and welcome whatever awaits beyond.

  Some might say that I have lived my life recklessly. I say only that I have lived, in every sense of the word. I have loved and laughed, I have felt the darkest sadness and the brightest joy. I have affected people, left a mark, an imprint in the sand. Isn’t that what matters after all? To know that even when you are no longer there, your words, your face, your story will be remembered. Your star will shine on.

  But every performance must come to an end.

  The lights are fading.

  The curtain is falling.

  The spotlight flickers and goes out.

  I take my final bow and wait in the silence of a dead blackout before I turn and make my exit to the fading applause.

  And there he is, waiting in the wings. His uniform pristine. A pink peony in his buttonhole. His hands outstretched.

  I run to him and we fall into each other’s arms and everything is wonderful as we commence our eternal waltz beneath the stars.

  45

  DOLLY

  My heart folds in on itself as all my life

  comes rushing toward me . . .

  The news we have all been dreading arrives on a misty July morning and the houselights are dimmed across London’s theaters.

  She is gone and we are left with only our memories and Elsie’s scrapbook and the empty spaces she leaves behind: rooms without the scent of her perfume, dinner parties without her caustic tongue and infectious laughter, dresses hanging limp in the cupboard, shoes unworn, theaters without her name blazing out front.

  Loretta May. The darling of the West End. The actress who gave joy to so many. The woman who I was fortunate to know as more than her stage persona. Loretta May was a performance. Virginia Clements was a daughter, a sister, a friend, a nurse, a lover. The most important roles she ever played were those she played behind the curtain, away from the public’s adoring gaze.

  Arrangements are made and the sudden heartache of death becomes an
endless series of things to organize. She is buried in her favorite Poiret gown with a posy of pink peonies in her hands. The funeral brings Londoners out in the thousands, lining the streets to watch the procession as we say our final good-byes and she is laid to rest.

  Our star has fallen.

  To cheer ourselves up, Perry and Bea insist on taking me to Claridge’s for afternoon tea in the Winter Garden. “Loretta loved to come here,” Perry explains, and I can understand why. I am instantly charmed by it. “We met here every Wednesday. I complained about it rather a lot, but I think I will rather miss it now she’s gone.”

  “Then we must keep coming, darling,” Bea suggests as the waiter shows us to our table. “When we get back from America we will keep up the tradition. I think Loretta would rather like that.”

  And so it is settled.

  Just as she did when she was alive, Miss May is to have the last word. She leaves strict instructions that after a reasonably dignified period of somber reflection, we must all dress in our finest and celebrate her life. Charlot arranges for the entire cast to gather at The Savoy for an after-show party.

  We arrive in an entourage of motorcars, the principal stars stepping out into the hotel courtyard to a volley of flashbulbs. Jack Buchanan, Gertie Lawrence, and Binnie Hale stand together, relishing the limelight. And then Perry and I step out of our car to the same pop and fizz of the bulbs and calls for us to look this way and that way.

  I take a deep breath. “You, Dorothy Lane, are a prime example of someone who will never get on in life. You will never become anything.”

  Perry takes my hand and leads me toward the door. And there’s Bert the doorman, and the smart young page boys.

  “Front entrances are of no concern to a maid, other than when she is scrubbing the steps or polishing the handle.”

  I see myself standing beside the florist’s shop window not so many months ago, shoulders back, head held high, my hands scrunched into tight determined balls. I hear my words. “One day, Dorothy Mary Lane, you’ll walk through that door. And when you do, you’ll be dressed so beautifully and be so famous that everybody will notice you.”

  I place the palm of my hand against the glass of the swing door, turn around, and smile my brightest smile. The cameras click and whir frantically behind me and everybody stares, everybody notices as the door opens and transports me into the Front Hall.

  I am instantly surrounded by an oasis of calm and elegance. Polite chatter, the clink of glasses, the lilt of the piano as liveried footmen, valets, porters, lift attendants, and cloakroom attendants all take their turn in a carefully orchestrated dance across the chessboard floor. I think about Cutler steering me away from the guests. “Back-of-house staff must not be seen. As far as our guests are concerned, they are invisible. You, Miss Lane, do not exist.” I see the smirk on Snyder’s face; feel his hand against my stocking. I see O’Hara’s starchy gaze and Mademoiselle Delysia, moving like silk around her suite. So many memories come rushing back.

  As my cape is taken from me, the governor appears, shaking Perry’s hand enthusiastically and kissing my cheek.

  “Miss Lane. Mr. Clements. You are both very welcome. We were desperately sorry to hear of Miss May’s passing.”

  Perry thanks him. “She was a wonderful sister to me and a wonderful friend to Miss Lane.”

  Reeves-Smith turns to me. “And any friend of Miss May’s is always welcome at The Savoy.”

  “And a friend of yours?” I prompt. “Would she be welcome here too?”

  He clears his throat, adjusts his bow tie, and lowers his voice. “It isn’t often one exits by the back door and returns through the front, Miss Lane. It is a most unusual turn of events. Most unusual indeed. You are an extraordinary young woman. You are welcome here anytime.”

  As the others make their way to the Ballroom, I excuse myself for a moment. Being careful not to be seen, I rush toward the back stairs, run up to the second floor, knock at the bedroom door, and push it open.

  There they are, as if I had never left. Sissy reading a magazine on her bed, legs sticking up in the air. Mildred’s pen scratching across the surface of a page. Clover, leaning over her sewing. At the click of the door, she looks up.

  “Well, would you look what the cat dragged in. It’s only Dolly bloody Daydream!”

  We look at each other and burst out laughing as she bounds toward me and I throw my arms around her. Dear Clover. Always the same, although she looks happier and healthier than I’ve seen her look in months.

  “Well, would you look at you!” she exclaims, turning me around. “Quite the little flapper.”

  “Oh, hush. I had a haircut. That’s all.” I put my fingers self-consciously to the nape of my neck. I still haven’t got used to my shingled bob.

  “Well, I feel like a pantomime horse with you all turned out so nice and proper. Come on, then. Tell us everything.”

  I sit on Clover’s bed and tell them about the show and life on the stage. I tell them about Loretta’s last wishes and the party we are having to celebrate her life and the photographers all shouting my name outside. It pours out of me like good champagne. When I tell them I’m leaving for America in two days, Clover bursts into tears. I laugh and hug her close to me and in my thickest Lancashire accent I tell her she’s a silly old sod and that I love her.

  “Promise me you’ll never change, Clover Parker.”

  “What would I be changing for? You don’t need to worry about me. This is it for me now. I like it here. Posh hotels suit me!”

  Sissy laughs. “She likes the porter she’s walking out with, more like.”

  Clover blushes and admits she’s sweet on one of the porters. I know him and I approve entirely.

  We talk for a while, remembering, laughing, until I have to go, and for the last time I leave the little room I once called home and head back down the stairs. The passing porters and maids gawp at me as if they’ve seen a ghost.

  When I return to the Front Hall, the governor escorts me to the Grand Ballroom, where the music is already in full swing under the expert guidance of Debroy Somers. Taking my hand, Perry guides me to the dance floor. My companion. My dance partner. It is easy to be around him now, to let our friendship blossom without the nagging uncertainties of love. When we switch partners, I watch him and Bea together and feel nothing but happiness for them. With a little direction, we have all found the roles we were destined to play.

  It is a perfect night, just as Loretta would have wanted, everyone laughing and dancing and sparkling beneath the crystal chandeliers as we foxtrot and tango our way past midnight and into a new day, a new scene, a new Act in this play of life.

  We leave for America in two days. All the arrangements have been made. Our tickets for the SS Caronia to New York have been booked. Trunks and cases are stuffed full of shoes and dresses, costumes and hope. Charlot’s Revue will play its opening night to an American audience in just over a fortnight’s time. The thought of leaving London excites and troubles me. Questions linger. Doubts and uncertainties remain. I dream of Teddy and little Edward, whose photograph I still keep beneath my pillow. I try to put him from my mind and focus on the future.

  Hettie is working on costumes for the new numbers. She can hardly keep up with Charlot’s demands, but the columnists are delighted by her creations and she is establishing quite a name for herself. She’s been working on a dress especially for me and I have a final fitting to attend before we sail.

  As I open the latch on the little gate at her house in Shoreditch, I see young Thomas standing at an upstairs window. He blows hot breaths onto the glass and draws pictures into the mist with his fingertips. He presses his nose and lips against the windowpane until they are completely squashed. I smile as I watch and wave up at him when he sees me, but he ducks down, too shy to wave back. I walk down the narrow path toward the front door.

  Hettie greets me, half-moon spectacles perched on the end of her nose and a tape measure snaking around her neck, as always
. I step inside the house. It is small, but neat and simply furnished.

  “Come through. The dress is all ready for you. I hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure I’ll love it.”

  I follow her along a narrow hallway into a small room at the back of the house, behind the scullery. A sewing machine sits on a little table, surrounded by swatches of fabric. Pincushions, pins, needles, and bobbins of multicolored cotton are spread over a narrow workbench and much of the floor.

  “It’s always so colorful in here,” I say, setting my purse down on a wooden stool. “It’s like walking into a rainbow!”

  “Like walking into a very messy rainbow, maybe.”

  She shows me some sketches she’s been working on for the new costumes and some of the materials she’s chosen. They’re all beautiful.

  “Let me get the dress and you can try it on. I can make a few last-minute adjustments if they’re needed.”

  I wriggle out of my dress and into the new one, ivory chiffon with beautiful beading and a handkerchief hem. I’m still surprised by the slim feel of my hips and stomach, the fabric slipping easily across my dance-toned body. No doughy flesh to pinch now. All my training has paid off. It fits perfectly.

  “It’s beautiful, Hettie. Thank you.”

  She brushes my compliments aside. “Don’t thank me. Thank Miss May for choosing such wonderful material.”

  “She chose it?”

  “A while ago. She told me to use it when the right opportunity came about. It looks beautiful on you.”

  I smile and turn my shoulder to admire the back in the looking glass.

  “I miss her terribly, Dolly.”

  “Me too. I only knew her for a short while, but she became everything to me: a mother, a teacher, a sister, a friend. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

  Hettie rests her hand on mine and we both try not to think about our loss.