The Girl From The Savoy

‘What’s got into her?’ I ask, clambering back into bed and hugging my knees tight to my chest for warmth.

‘Nothing,’ Sissy says. ‘That’s the problem. Needs a good roll in the hay, that one does. She’s as stiff as a fire iron.’

The maids’ bathroom is like Piccadilly Circus on a Friday evening. A couple of the manicurists from the hairdressing salon are washing their stockings in the sinks. I catch snippets of their conversation, something about a Hollywood movie producer being sweet on one of them. I’d love to hear more, but they leave as the bathroom fills up with a dozen chattering maids.

‘The manicurists think they’re above us,’ Sissy says. ‘They don’t live in, but they’ll happily use our bathroom when it suits. Don’t know why they can’t wash their smalls at home.’

The narrow counter below the mirror is a jumble of caps and hairpins as we all fuss and fidget to make sure we look just right. Skinny arms and sharp elbows in matching blue print dresses jostle for position. I stand on my tiptoes, peering above the heads in front of me. It isn’t the first time I wish I were taller. ‘Not tall enough. Next, please.’ I’ve heard those words so many times, sometimes before I’d even danced one step.

Sissy gives me a shove in the back, pushing me forward. ‘Come on, girls. Give someone else a turn.’

With a ripple of annoyance, the sea of bodies in front of me slowly parts and finally I get in front of the mirror. I look pale and tired from my restless night and pinch my cheeks to draw some colour to them.

‘Here. Have some of this.’ Gladys hands me a pot of rouge. ‘Never know who you might bump into.’ She winks and rubs a little onto her cheeks. ‘Got to look your best.’

‘I thought we weren’t allowed to wear make-up.’

‘We’re not. You just wear enough to look a bit less dead, but not enough for O’Hara to notice.’

I pass up the offer and concentrate on pinning my unruly curls into some sort of order, before fixing my frill cap in place.

Sissy passes me a lipstick. ‘Got it in Woolworth’s last week. It’s called Vermilion.’ She’s already applied a little to accentuate her Cupid’s bow, just like the actresses in the silent pictures. She puckers her lips and pouts at herself in the mirror. ‘Well. What d’you think?’

I turn to look at her. ‘Very Mary Pickford!’

She laughs and wipes it off with a tissue. ‘Here. Try it.’

I can’t resist. I twist the bottom of the golden case. The bevelled edge slides easily over my lips. I press them together and rub them from side to side as I lean closer to the mirror to take a closer look. ‘It’s lovely.’

A girl beside me tells me it suits me. ‘You new?’ she asks.

‘Yes. I’m Dolly.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Dolly. I’m Tallulah.’

She mimics Tallulah Bankhead’s southern drawl perfectly. I laugh. ‘Did you see her in The Dancers? She was so beautiful.’

‘Went every night for a week,’ she replies. ‘Lost a shoe in the rush to get to the gallery the first night. Walked home in my stockings. Earned myself a clip round the ear from my mam.’

Sissy claps her hands together, drawing everyone’s attention. ‘Now, girls,’ she says, in her best Irish accent. ‘Everything must be neat and tidy and just so. The white frill cap and apron worn in a particular way, the shoes polished like glass, the hair curled and pinned perfectly.’ She stops and looks at me. ‘For the love of all that’s holy, Dorothy Lane. Look at your cap. That won’t do at all!’

I giggle as she helps me fasten my cap properly, but our good mood is interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

‘I hope this jolly attitude will remain with you through your day’s work, girls.’

‘Who’s that?’ I whisper to Gladys.

‘Head porter. Cutler.’

The voice continues beyond the door. ‘Far too many surly expressions in the corridors recently. It’s not good for the hotel’s ambience. Now, hurry downstairs. It is nearly half past. Mrs O’Hara will be along for her inspection soon.’

Gladys explains that Cutler is a moody old sod. ‘Nice as pie one minute but he’d fire you on the spot for anything inappropriate. Keep your nose out and your hands clean and you’ve no need to worry.’

But as we file out of the cramped bathroom, I do worry. There’s so much to remember, so many new faces to know. I’ve already met several floor-housekeepers, dozens of maids, floor-waiters and valets and lift attendants, not to mention the various members of the management team. As we rush down the staff stairs, the swishof our dresses mingles with the rumble of heels against the linoleum. I try to suppress the memories that lurk in every squeak of my shoes against the floor.

In the Maids’ Hall I take a seat at the long table and pour a cup of tea. It is good and strong. Not like the pale sweepings I used to get at Mawdesley Hall. Triangles of toast sit in steel racks with pats of bright yellow butter in ramekins dotted about the table. The kitchen maids have been busy. I see the young girl who was scrubbing the steps yesterday and smile at her. She’s so engrossed in her chores she hardly notices me. I tuck into porridge and bread that’s still warm, fresh from the ovens of the hotel bakery. I let a piece melt slowly on my tongue and remember how me and my little sister, Sarah, used to stand outside the baker’s with a pillowcase, ready to fill it with whatever we could get for the sixpence Mam had given us. Mostly it was those awful flat brown loaves – cowpats we used to call them. If we were lucky, we’d get a roll to scoff on the way home. I’d tell Sarah to brush the crumbs from her lips and her pinafore so Mam wouldn’t notice.

All too soon, we hear brisk footsteps and O’Hara appears, the great bundle of keys jangling at her hip like a restless child. We all stand as she enters the room, chair legs scraping against the stone floor, spoons clattering against bowls and cups. The kitchen maids start to clear the breakfast things as O’Hara calls us to line up in the corridor. I follow the others, copying them as they fall into a long line: shoulders back, feet together, chin up, hands behind the back. I cross my fingers and say a silent prayer as O’Hara walks briskly along the line like a drill sergeant major, handing each girl a neatly typed house list. She stops occasionally to tug at a twisted apron strap or to inspect hands and nails. She stops in front of me. My heart pounds beneath my dress as I look straight ahead, trying not to focus on anything and avoiding O’Hara’s cold stare. She considers me for a second before leaning forward and brushing a fingertip along my upper lip.

‘Lipstick, Dorothy?’

Bugger. I forgot to wipe it off. The girl to my right takes a sharp intake of breath. My heart thumps.

‘We are not at some backstreet picture house now,’ O’Hara snaps. ‘Lipstick has no place on a maid’s lips until she clocks off.’ She passes me a handkerchief. ‘And even then it is quite unnecessary. Get rid of it. Immediately.’

‘Yes, miss.’ I rub the handkerchief frantically at my lips, turning to the girl beside me, who nods to confirm it is gone. As O’Hara continues down the line Sissy leans forward and mouths an apology. I shush the voice in my head that wonders if she might have done it on purpose to land me in trouble.

Finally, O’Hara is satisfied. ‘Everything seems to be in order. Let’s have a good day’s work and remember …’

The girls all join in a chorus of rehearsed instruction. ‘The smallest things can make the biggest difference. Attention to detail in everything. Our guests are our priority.’

O’Hara nods approvingly. ‘Quite so. Now, off you go – and, Dorothy …’ What now? ‘Yes, miss?’

‘Sissy Roberts will assist you with your rooms again today. Tomorrow, you’re on your own.’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Any questions?’

‘No, miss.’

‘I presume we won’t be seeing any crimson lips tomorrow?’

In my head I tell her it’s Vermilion. ‘No, miss. We won’t.’

My inquisitor nods firmly and swishes away with her sticky-out veins and pointy elbows. I lean back against the wall and breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Yes, miss. No, miss. Three bags full, miss.’

Sissy digs me in the ribs. ‘Cheeking the head of housekeeping already? I’d keep those thoughts to yourself if I were you. You’ll land yourself in trouble muttering under your breath like that. The hotel has eyes and ears. The less said the better.’

‘Well, she looks at me funny. Like I’m something she scraped off her shoe.’

‘She will scrape you off her shoe if she hears you bad-mouthing her. Keep your mouth shut and your corners neat.’ She grabs me by the elbow. ‘Sorry about the lipstick. Next time, wipe it off before you come downstairs, you silly sod. She’d have marched you straight to Cutler if it wasn’t your first morning. I’m certain of it.’

‘Let’s call it beginner’s luck, then, and forget all about it.’

Sissy checks the new house list as we make our way to the storerooms. ‘Well, look at this. Beginner’s luck indeed. First room on your list, Miss Dorothy Lane, is occupied by a Mr Lawrence Snyder. Friend of the governor. Manager to the stars.’

‘Snyder? That vile man we saw yesterday?’ I think about the way he looked at me. I think about the way I’ve been looked at like that before.