‘Obvious, isn’t it? She’s somebody’s mistress. Somebody who matters. Well, when you’re as beautiful as Hélène Marchmont, you get to take your pick.’
‘I still say she’s with Raymond de Guise. It’s just too perfect.’
‘Too perfect is right. And, anyway, Lord de Guise hasn’t got time for her. He’s running himself ragged with all the guests. He goes up to their rooms with them, doesn’t he? Not just a dancer, that one . . .’
‘Wh-what do you mean?’ Nancy stammered.
‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it? There’s lots of wealthy women float through the Buckingham Hotel. Most of them got married out of duty, not out of love. So when a dashing man like Raymond de Guise is around and happy to escort them . . .’
In a fit of mirth, Rosa picked up her broom and mimed kissing it. Then she danced across the ballroom floor until she was looming over Nancy. ‘Come on, Nance. You be LaPegna, or one of them Spanish girls. They know how to drive ’em wild, don’t they?’
Suddenly, the air was filled with a single sharp word, ‘GIRLS!’ Nancy looked up to find that Mrs Moffatt had marched through the reception doors. Smirking, the carpenters and painters returned to their toil while the head housekeeper, face purpling with anger, marched onto the dance floor.
‘How can you be so reckless, girls? You silly, silly creatures! What if it had been Mr Charles who’d walked in? There are some things I can’t protect you from, and what Mr Charles thinks of girls shirking their duties is one of them.’ The anger had ebbed out of her as she spoke and, in the corner of her eye, Nancy saw Rosa and Ruth looking strangely chastened. ‘Well, if you’ve got time to dance, you must be near finished, no?’ Moments later, Mrs Moffatt was standing over Nancy, appraising their work. She hesitated before saying, ‘Get to the fourth floor, girls. Mrs Whitehead can use some help. The floor’s filling up today. Mr Chaplin and his entourage are back in town.’
Mrs Moffatt lingered until after they were gone. ‘Will you finish up here, Nancy?’ Then, in a whisper, she added, ‘Time for one of those barley sugars, I should think.’
Soon, she’d forgotten the burning red of her cheeks. She’d wanted to dance. Even with a broom. But . . . she reached for her leg. Nobody had noticed, not yet. But they would if she started to dance.
She looked up. The ballroom was empty now the carpenters had disappeared for lunch. She had it all to herself. The brooms were lying where Rosa and Ruth had abandoned them in their haste. Perhaps . . .
Leaving the last pieces of chandelier behind, she ventured onto the dance floor and took one of them in her hands. Then she closed her eyes. If she let herself go, if she let herself feel it, she could almost hear the sounds of the Archie Adams Band striking up. It was not easy – more than once she gave up, opening her eyes and ruining the magic – but, with practice, she could hear the other dancers eddying around her. On the edges of her hearing, there was the raucous laughter of ladies and gentlemen at the surrounding tables. Glasses were clinking. Toasts were being made. Somewhere, somebody was tapping their feet in time with the percussion.
She started to move. At first she was only swaying. Then, tentatively, she took one step, then two. Nancy had never learned to dance. There had been a dance hall in the neighbouring village and, once, she had persuaded her father to take her there, just to watch the village ladies coming and going. She tried to remember how they’d danced back then, and then how Raymond de Guise and Grusinskaya had danced, right here. Then, suddenly, she found that her feet understood. She stepped forward, then to the side, then back, cradling the broom as she described a simple box step on the floor. She turned – there was a twinge in her leg, but no more serious than any she felt changing beds or sweeping rooms – and began to believe that, when you did not think about it, it was not really so difficult at all. You just let the music in your mind carry you onward.
The music was cut short by a single braying laugh.
Vivienne Edgerton was standing in the arch where the dressing-room doors used to be, before they had been taken from their hinges and carted away to be sanded down and repainted. How long had she been standing there? She was wearing an exquisite gown. Her face was painted, as if she was about to dance for an audience herself. But the look of horror, tinged with delight, that she wore shone through all of the make-up.
‘It’s . . . you again, isn’t it? Daddy’s dancing chambermaid. My Lord, what on earth do you think you’re doing with that broom?’
Nancy held the broom tighter, her palms sweating. ‘I’m sweeping, Miss Edgerton. If you please.’
‘Sweeping?’ Vivienne strode forward, her head cocked to one side in a way that expressed sincerity, yet her tone of voice made it clear she was anything but sincere. ‘Why, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen somebody box stepping as they swept. Show me that again, would you?’
Nancy could sense Vivienne moving closer to her, crossing the dance floor in poised, elegant strides. She was beautiful, Nancy decided. She was austere, but there was something of the look of a Greek goddess about her. She was imperial and proud and . . .
‘Can I . . . help you, Miss Edgerton? Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but the ballroom is closed for refurbishing. For cleaning.’
‘Well, you came here to dance. Maybe I came here to dance myself. And maybe I have permission. And, what’s more, maybe I don’t have a . . . Tell me, what exactly is wrong with your leg? You carry it an inch behind you, always. What is it . . . forgetful? Well, little leg, you won’t dance well like that! The body’s got to keep perfect time with itself if it’s to dance – even with a broom!’
Vivienne’s face creased with laughter – but, just as suddenly, it stopped. Her cat’s eyes glared threateningly. ‘Why don’t you take your old lady’s leg and get out of here for an hour? Leave the ballroom to me. You can take your broom with you. I wouldn’t want you getting lonely.’
Nancy wanted to say something. The words were in her throat – but something, whether it was fear or horror or just the idea that the Buckingham was drumming into her that she should know her place, made her choke them back down. Don’t get on her wrong side, she told herself, not again. The broom clattered out of her hand, spinning to a stop on the floor, and she turned on her heel. Then she was off, leaving behind all the half-polished pieces of chandelier.
As she hurried up the slope to the black-and-red tiles of the reception hall, her leg cried out. She stopped to grasp it, stifling a great sob, and was surprised to find Billy Brogan at her side, with his freckled face and his ears sticking out like milk-jug handles.
‘Has something happened, miss?’
Nancy shook her head fiercely, and Billy backed away.
‘Nothing. It’s only . . . my leg.’
‘Bad is it, miss?’
Not so very bad, thought Nancy, and yet bad enough that it doesn’t go unnoticed for long. It pained her, but the pain was not nearly as intense as the spiteful words of Vivienne Edgerton. Those words had cut her like a barb.
‘Thanks for your kindness, Billy,’ she said, ‘but . . .’
‘You mustn’t let them see you, Miss . . . Nettleton, isn’t it?’
‘Call me Nancy.’
‘Let ’em see you cry, Nancy, and they’ll never forget it. And crying in front of guests, it’s not the sort of thing that gets forgiven. It can get you pulled into an office for a stern talking-to. I’ve been on the receiving end of too many, miss, back when I was green. See, we’re meant to be invisible. Listen, there’s a washroom in housekeeping. Hardly ever gets used. Shall we . . .’
When Nancy took his hand, Billy felt a surge of such pride as he had rarely felt before.
‘We’ll have this sorted in a second,’ he said, ‘get you all cleaned up, and no one will be any the wiser.’
*
What Billy called the housekeeping washroom was really the site of the old hotel laundry, which had sat silent since the days before the Great Depression. Bi
lly had to kick old packing crates aside to usher Nancy through. Inside, light streamed in from the garages at the hotel’s rear entrance. There was a kettle and a hot plate and Billy set to fixing her a brew.
‘Officially it’s storage, but think of it as the hotel pages’ lounge. Take milk, do you?’
Nancy was about to stammer a reply when Billy added, ‘Well, we haven’t got none, so it’ll have to be nice and black.’
After Billy had handed her the hot tea, Nancy began to feel, if not better then at least a little more in control. She looked around, taking in the vast porcelain wash tubs, the great grey flagstones on which they sat, and the abandoned buckets and mops.
‘What is this place?’ she whispered.
‘Now that’s a story,’ grinned Billy. ‘See, there was a time when everything got laundered right here, in the hotel. You’d have washerwomen in here, day and night, scrubbing stains out of sheets and hanging them out to dry on those radiators yonder end. Well, things was easy before the Depression, but then it hit. Maynard Charles was like a captain of a sinking ship. Spent day and night baling out water, just to stay afloat. And one night he figures, well, I can save costs on the hotel laundry if I send it all out to one of those industrial laundries south of the river. Forty staff given their marching orders, and all so a few extra shillings could be saved. All you’d have had to do to save them, o’ course, would have been to charge a few of the counts and baronesses who stay in this place a little extra every night – but, well, the world doesn’t work like that, does it? The rich have got to be looked after, while the rest of us rot. And that . . . that’s why I tell you, Nancy, don’t let ’em see you cry. Don’t let them think you’re struggling. Mrs Moffatt won’t let on, but things ain’t exactly running like clockwork in this hotel even now. The Depression might be gone, but that stuff’s like a bad stink. It lingers. And now there’s the Imperial putting on its cabarets. The Savoy’s had its own ballroom refitted. Old Mr Charles, he’s more worried than I seen him. He’ll be debating more culls, I shouldn’t wonder. Wondering where he can start saving costs again. He’s staked everything the hotel has on this Christmas and New Year. If we have the best festivities, if all the society pages are talking about is what happened at the Buckingham Hotel, well, we’ll get through another year – and another after that . . .’
Billy had been talking for so long and so quickly that he had quite forgotten why he had brought Nancy Nettleton here. Only now did he remember. ‘Nance!’ he laughed. ‘Here am I rabbiting on about lords and ladies and society and . . . there’s you, on the wrong end of Miss Edgerton. I . . .’
Nancy was taking small sips of the scalding tea, but at the mention of Miss Edgerton’s name, something cracked in her. She started to sob.
Billy Brogan, who spent many a night consoling his crying sisters, knew exactly what to do. He leaped forward and wrapped her in his arms.
‘There, there, Miss Nettleton. It can’t be that bad. Miss Edgerton’s just a—’
‘Oh, it isn’t just her,’ Nancy said, her face pressed up against Billy’s shoulder. ‘It’s . . . everything. It’s me. I . . . I don’t belong, do I, Billy? I thought I could. I thought it would be easy. I been through worse and I thought I could come down here and slide straight in, like nothing was too much for me. But there are different rules. Things I didn’t understand . . . It was me in the ballroom the other night. Miss Edgerton saw me and started shrieking and the only thing that saved my job was when Mr de Guise stepped up to stop her so I could slip away. But she knows, Billy. And she’s making me pay for it.’
Now that Nancy had vented her words, she seemed steadier. Billy was reluctant to let go of her, but he eased her off his shoulder and stepped back. She was very pretty, he decided. Her eyes were red and her hair was out of place but she was the most beautiful thing Billy thought he had ever seen.
‘The thing to learn about Miss Edgerton is she isn’t here of her own accord. When Lord Edgerton married her American mother, he brought them both over from New York. Only, he didn’t want Miss Edgerton in his home. Might be he wanted her mother all to himself. No distractions, see. So Miss Edgerton, she’s a permanent guest here at the Buckingham. At first she thought it was a jolly. You’d see her in the ballroom every night, in a new gown she’d bought with that ridiculous allowance of hers. She’d have the concierges hail taxis for her to take her out shopping. She’d sashay through every bar in the hotel and every restaurant in London town. But she is so often alone. The Buckingham might be elegant and grand, but to Vivienne Edgerton it’s a cage. And caged animals, well. I sneaked into the zoo up on Regent’s Park once. Animals, they don’t like to be caged.’
For a moment, there was silence. Billy dared to hope that his story had helped her, if only a little.
‘I have to get back, don’t I?’ Nancy whispered. ‘Before I’m missed.’
Billy grinned. ‘Go back out there like nothing ever happened.’
Nancy nodded. ‘I will. And, Billy . . . thank you.’
‘Nancy, if ever you need someone to talk to, somebody who knows what it’s like to not belong, to have to work it all out for his self, well, you come straight here. You’re not alone in the Buckingham Hotel. I came up the same way as you did. I came here to make my own way in the world. So you’ll never be alone here. You see, you got me.’
Chapter Thirteen
THE NEXT MORNING, BILLY BROGAN was up before dawn, breakfasted before his brothers and sisters scrambled out of bed, and out of the door even before his father was off to Billingsgate for the day. Crossing London before dawn broke, you could fool yourself into thinking the city was yours alone. A lone street sweeper walked over the bridge at Westminster; Piccadilly seemed eerily silent; even as he walked into Mayfair, the city seemed to sleep. It was only in the Buckingham Hotel itself that time didn’t stop. The night managers had worked feverishly through the smallest hours. When Billy crept in through the staff entrance, he heard porters hurrying back and forth across the reception hall. Mr Simenon, the head concierge, was lurking by the guest lifts. He had a vampiric look about him, thought Billy with a sly grin, remembering the posters for a picture show: VAMPIRES OF PRAGUE! Mr Simenon looked as if he might have joined the thespians on that billboard very well. He was long and lean, with a nose as hooked as a beak; his face was drawn and the black lines around his eyes were surely the sign of a dark enchantment.
‘What have you got for me?’ Billy chirruped, delighted at the way the head concierge startled at him coming close.
‘Brogan,’ Mr Simenon seethed, ‘you’re late. I was expecting you at dawn.’
‘Been up all night, have you, sir?’
Mr Simenon raised a hand and cuffed Billy around the ear. ‘That’s for your cheek,’ he spat, ‘and this is for your duty.’
Billy found a small roll of pound notes being pressed into his hands. With expert ease, he slipped it into a back pocket.
‘On with you, Brogan. Hurry now before Mr Charles realises you’re gone.’
*
The first light of morning was casting its rays across London when Billy emerged from the fine townhouses of Mayfair and made his way across Regent Street in the shadow of the day’s first trolleybus. When London awoke, it did so as suddenly as the ogres Billy told his rabble of brothers and sisters about at bedtime each night – but, for now, calmness remained.
Office clerks and workers were streaming up out of the Underground tunnels and the streets were thronged by the time he stood outside the Midnight Rooms. Billy had once passed this way at nightfall, when the music played and you might see girls dancing on the corner. The Midnight Rooms sat off a little alleyway behind the Berwick Street market. The market was already a maelstrom of activity as tinkers and florists and fishmongers and grocers set out their stalls, griping at each other as they staked out their plots. Billy weaved his way through the hubbub and slipped into the open door of the Midnight Rooms itself. At the bottom of a thin, narrow sta
irwell, some of last night’s revellers remained. Billy could hear them bickering, their voices ripe with whisky and gin, but when he reached the bottom of the stairs he could go no further. The darkness had hardened around him. A heavy wooden door, marked with iron rivets, stood in his way.
He knocked and the door drew back.
‘You again, Brogan,’ came a bass, Irish voice from somewhere down in the dark.
‘Aye,’ said Billy, ‘back again.’
There was silence. Then, the same voice muttered, ‘Come through.’
When Billy emerged back into the morning, ten minutes later, he had a small drawstring purse in his hands: a pouch of pink felt stitched with indigo thread and a ribbon to tie it together. Billy weaved through the market’s first punters, helping himself to a bright red apple from the grocer’s on the way. Sleight of hand was something he’d turned into a high art form in the Buckingham, and the grocer was none the wiser as Billy sank his teeth into the juicy flesh.
By the time he tumbled back through the staff entrance, the hotel was stirring. Maynard Charles always said that there was something dramatic in the way the hotel woke up each morning and today Billy felt it. The lift opened and out stepped the first guests. The kitchens came to life as the dining rooms filled for breakfasts and the flock of waiters marched out to war. If it had all been serenaded by the dramatic trumpet blasts of the Archie Adams Band, it might have seemed something fit for the London Palladium.
Billy kept his head down as he crossed the reception. A short burst up the servants’ stairs and into Vivienne Edgerton’s suite, and his work for Mr Simenon would be done. Yet, as he barrelled onward, a voice startled him. He looked up. Vivienne Edgerton was standing by the great obelisk, in a pale blue house dress with a cap hiding her auburn hair. By her side stood Maynard Charles himself.
The doors to Berkeley Square opened and Billy saw that a black limousine had drawn up outside. Moments later, the doorman stepped into the reception hall, inclining his head in a deferential bow. The next thing Billy saw, through the open doors, was the rounded peak of a top hat as its owner ascended the marble stairs.
One Enchanted Evening Page 11