The Girl From The Savoy

‘The very same. Gladys will be as sick as a dog when she hears. She’s convinced he’ll have her on the next boat to America.’ She nudges me in the ribs. ‘Well, come on. We won’t get much done standing around daydreaming. The rooms won’t clean themselves.’

I follow her as she strides off towards the linen stores, but my thoughts are elsewhere and my heart has rushed back to my room and wrapped itself around the photograph beneath my pillow.

The service floor is even more confusing than it was yesterday. A steady stream of porters, maids, chefs, and waiters fills the narrow corridors. When anyone in livery or formal dress passes, we step aside to make way for them. Sissy points out the head chef, a formidable Frenchman who forbids anyone, other than kitchen staff, to enter his storerooms. I catch a glimpse of some of the recent deliveries: gallons of cream in great vats, mountains of fresh pineapples, tanks full of live lobsters, vast saddles of venison, haunches of ham, and great slabs of beef. The hotel bakery alone is the size of a small house. My mouth waters at the aroma of freshly baked loaves being lifted from the ovens on huge paddles by red-cheeked young boys and burly men. Sissy swipes two milk rolls from the nearest tray, earning herself a friendly flick at her backside with the end of a paddle.

‘Do you ever see the guests when you’re in their rooms?’ I ask when we’ve loaded our trollies. ‘Gladys was telling me that the ladies sometimes keep maids talking for hours, to pass the time.’

‘They ask for more soap to be sent up, or hand towels, but really it’s just an excuse to have a bit of company. Bored, you see. I suppose there’s only so many times you can admire yourself in the mirror. It’s mainly the hairdressers and manicurists who are personally requested in the guests’ rooms. They spend hours up there, drinking coffee and eating delicate little cakes. Get sent bouquets and earrings and perfume and all sorts by their regulars. And they always get a good tip. Half a crown if they’re lucky.’

‘Really?’

‘Mind you, I’ve heard some guests show their gratitude in ways that might not be appreciated as much as a bouquet of roses, if you know what I mean.’

She winks as we step into the lift and ask the attendant to take us to fourth.

‘I didn’t think things like that would go on here,’ I whisper.

Sissy scoffs at my naïveté. ‘Same old divide. There’s us downstairs, and there’s them upstairs. A maid is as easily taken advantage of at The Savoy as she is anywhere else. You’d be a fool to think otherwise.’

The lift jolts to a stop and we step out as a gentleman emerges from a room to the left. He tips his hat as he passes. Larry Snyder. We stand to one side and wish him a good morning.

‘And to you both.’ He looks at me. ‘The new girl. Am I right?’

‘Yes, sir.’ I touch my fingers self-consciously to my lips, hoping the last traces of Sissy’s Vermilion have been rubbed away.

‘So my suite is your dress rehearsal!’

‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir.’

‘Movie stars. Actresses. Chambermaids. I suppose we all need somewhere to practise. My suite is all yours. Feel free to fluff your lines – or should I say pillows!’

He smiles warmly and I mutter a thank you.

‘Would you like your room attended to now, sir?’ Sissy asks.

‘Indeed. I shall be gone for the day.’ He walks on a few paces, stops, and turns around. ‘There might be a few papers scattered around the place. Leave them where they are, would you. Work in progress on a new script.’

‘Of course, sir.’

At the guest lift we hear him greet a friend. ‘John McArthur! What the devil has you at The Savoy?’

‘The wife, Snyder. The wife has me at The Savoy, and both my bank balance and I are suffering dreadfully as a consequence.’

Sissy and I burst out laughing and enter Snyder’s room.

As I sip my cocoa over supper that evening, my feet throb and my arms ache. I glance at the clock on the wall. The productions across London will be reaching their final act by now, the girls in the gallery hoarse from shouting their appreciation, the restaurants and nightclubs ready to welcome the after-show crowds for supper and dancing. I’m so tired even the thought of dancing makes me feel weary, and when I climb into bed I’m too exhausted to even read one page of Sissy’s magazine.

I shuffle under the blankets, listening to the scratch of Mildred’s pen on the page as she writes in her diary. I can’t think what she can possibly have to write so much about. Her life seems to consist of nothing more than the hotel. No hobbies. No interests. No dreams. By the time she turns out the light, Gladys is fast asleep and Sissy is already snoring. The room is plunged into darkness, but I know the lights from the hotel suites and the restaurant and ballroom still shine all around me. For a while, I listen to the distant sounds of music and laughter that float along the corridors, enticing me to follow, until I grow sleepy and close my eyes and I set my dreams free to drift and dance among those who have already made theirs a reality.

7 (#ulink_8ef04cb3-59ab-5bea-9dde-fc0b8c3404ec)

Loretta (#ulink_8ef04cb3-59ab-5bea-9dde-fc0b8c3404ec)

Sometimes I would happily swap the lonely peaks of stardom for the jolly camaraderie of the chorus.

The Shaftesbury is sold out for opening night of HOLD TIGHT! Dear Cockie is delighted. Yet again he has shown his critics that while those who take risks in this business sometimes fall on hard times, they can also bask in the glory of success when it comes. From the ladies and gentlemen and distinguished guests dressed in their finery in the stalls and dress circle and boxes, all the way back to the raucous throng squashed together high up in the gallery, there isn’t a spare seat in the house, nor any space to stand. If ticket sales are a measure of success, we already have a hit on our hands, but experience has taught me that there’s a long way to go and many pages of script and musical score to be convincingly delivered before the final curtain falls.

As the audience roar their approval for the first act, the heavy velvet curtain drops in a dramatic swoop in front of me and the spotlight goes out, plunging the stage into a dead blackout. I savour the moment; the cocoon of pitch black. In that dark silence, I can pretend that nothing matters, other than the fading applause. I stand as still as stone and breathe. In and out. In and out. I wonder what my last breath will feel like.

A fine dust drifts down from the gantry high above, disturbed by the stagehands as they hoist and lower scenery. I stifle a cough as it settles on my arms and sticks to my clammy skin. My moment of silence interrupted, I walk offstage, feeling my way with the toe of my satin shoe down the five steps that lead from the wings.

Backstage is already a hive of activity. Stagehands, assistants, the pianist, and my leading man all congratulate me as I pass.

‘You’re terrific, Miss May.’

‘A wonderful first act!’

‘Fabulous, darling! Fabulous!’

‘Word perfect. Simply divine!’

I smile graciously, letting the compliments and platitudes wash over me. They are expected now, arranged by my people, regardless of how good or bad my performance. I don’t care for insincerity. Only dear Jimmy Jones, the stage-door manager and my unlikeliest of friends, remains silent. We have known each other through some of the hardest years we will ever know. He understands when words are not needed. He simply smiles, gives me a reassuring pat on the arm, and presses a bundle of carefully audited cards and messages into my hand. Only the kindest words, the most sincere letters of adoration from fans and amusing offers of marriage from respectable gentlemen ever make it past Jimmy’s careful scrutiny.

As I make my way to my dressing room a young girl from the chorus runs past. She stops as she recognizes me. She is a beauty, all wide-eyed and wondering, no doubt envying my leading role and my name in electric lights front of house. Little does she know that it is I who envy her and the other chorus girls with youth and vitality on their side: training from noon till four, twenty-five half-dressed girls crammed into one dressing room, stepping on each other’s corns, sharing make-up and jokes and a cup of pickled onions for a snack before curtain up, and all the while waiting for Friday when ‘the Ghost Walks’ so they can run straight to the shops to spend their hard-earned pay. Sometimes I would happily swap the lonely peaks of stardom for the jolly camaraderie of the chorus.

It wasn’t so very long ago that I was a defiant society girl with an unforgettable face and an unrelenting mother; the girl who found her place on the stage despite the disdain her parents expressed towards such an unseemly profession. That girl had fought and rebelled. That girl had shunned her chaperones to drink and dance to the exotic music of the Negro bands and mix with the chorus girls and actresses she admired. That girl was starry-eyed and carefree. She had passion and belief, just like the young girl in front of me now.

‘You are wonderful, Miss May,’ she gasps, all breathless and starstruck. ‘Just wonderful.’

I step forward and take her face in my hands. ‘And so will you be. Keep practising, keep believing, and you can have whatever you dream of.’ She gazes at me, adoringly. ‘Now run along and get changed before the wardrobe mistress has a fit.’

‘Yes, Miss May. Of course.’

I watch her as she runs off into the shadows and wish I could run with her, disappear into obscurity, and never have to tell anyone the awful truth of it all.

Stepping around tins of paint, precariously balanced props, ladders, and endless rails of costumes, I hurry along the cramped passageways, relieved to reach my dressing room and close the door on the noise and chaos behind me. Jimmy has been busy, arranging the boxes of chocolates and bouquets from gentlemen callers and well-wishers. I take a cursory look at some of the cards as Hettie, my seamstress and dresser, pushes several larger displays to one side so that I can see my reflection in the mirror. I slump down in the chair at the dressing table and look at the flowers surrounding me. A beautiful arrangement of pink peonies catches my eye. The rest are ghastly.

‘Why can’t people send roses, Hettie? Nobody sends roses anymore. They’re forever trying to outdo one another with gaudy-coloured orchids.’ I lift up some vile yellow blooms. ‘I don’t even know what these are.’

‘Shall I remove them?’ she asks.

I take off my dance shoes and slip my aching feet into silk slippers. ‘No. Leave them. Ask Jimmy to arrange a car to send them to the hospitals after the show.’

‘Of course.’

‘Tell him to leave the peonies. I’ll take them home.’ I run my fingers over the blooms, remembering my wedding posy. Pink peonies. Roger stole one for his buttonhole. It was all such a rush that buttonholes hadn’t been considered. He placed a single bloom in my hair and told me I looked more beautiful than the stars. ‘My very own slice of heaven.’

Hettie places a silk housecoat around my shoulders and pours me a glass of water. I’d far rather she pour me something stronger but she fusses about my drinking, especially during a performance, so I say nothing and take a couple of dutiful sips as she fetches my dress for the next act.