The Girl From The Savoy

The suite is breathtaking, a dazzling display of crystal chandeliers and polished walnut. An ornate chaise sits by a low window and Hepplewhite chairs are arranged beside a mahogany coffee table. The famous Savoy bed is big enough for half a dozen people to sleep in. Even with its crumpled linen and creased pillow slips, it is quite something. Following Sissy’s lead, I check the blinds, switch the electric lights on and off to make sure they are all working, and turn the bathroom taps to make sure they’re not dripping.

‘It’s funny to be among the things of someone I’ve never met, and probably never will,’ I remark as we strip the bed. ‘I’m used to doing out the rooms of young ladies I’d see every day.’

‘I like the anonymity,’ Sissy says, bundling the dirty sheets into a neat pile. ‘It suits me to come in and set things right while they’re out having lunch and cocktails. Never cared for all that gossip and familiarity in a private household. Part of the fun of working here is imagining whose room you’re in. Look at those black opera gloves over that chair. What do you reckon? A tall redhead with a dirty laugh?’

‘Or maybe a short brunette with thick ankles?’ I add.

We giggle as we conjure up increasingly awful images of who Miss Howard from Pennsylvania might be and as I lift beautiful necklaces from the dressing table, I imagine the pale neck they will decorate with their emeralds and jade. I replace the cap on a lipstick and see perfect crimson lips and the mark they will leave on a champagne glass. I breathe in the scent of sandalwood and rose as I dust beneath perfume bottles and face creams. I admire a small travelling pillow, running my fingers over the outline of a butterfly expertly captured by silk thread. I feel the rich fabric of each elegant dress, the soft satin of each shoe, the smooth gloss of every Ciro pearl, and for a delicious moment I am not Dorothy Lane, daughter of a Lancashire farmer, I am the daughter of an American shipping magnate with exquisite things to make my life perfect.

We work methodically following a careful routine, making neat hospital corners, plumping downy pillows, folding thick towels, replacing the scented lining paper in drawers, and placing freshly baked Marie biscuits into the silver boxes on the nightstands. The work is intense and time passes quickly.

As we finish the last room on our round, I pull at a final pucker on the counterpane. The room, once again, set straight. I step back to admire our work and think of something Teddy once said as he watched me iron the laundry until everything was as smooth as glass. Life can’t always be starched sheets and perfect hemlines, Dolly. Sometimes creases and puckers will sneak in, no matter how much you tug and smooth. He had such wise and lovely words. It makes his silence all the more unbearable.

Sissy is watching me. ‘Penny for your thoughts.’

I let out a long sigh. ‘If only the mess we make of our lives could be tidied as easily. That’d be something, wouldn’t it?’

She studies me for a moment. ‘What’s his name, your mess? Mine’s Charlie. Ran off with my best friend.’

I hesitate. I don’t often talk about him, but something about Sissy makes me want to open up. ‘Teddy. He’s called Teddy.’

‘And what did Teddy do to make a mess of things?’

I look at her and then I look down at my feet. ‘Nothing. Teddy did nothing at all.’

5 (#ulink_357ac9c5-2882-59b6-a40f-bbbad930eed0)

Teddy (#ulink_357ac9c5-2882-59b6-a40f-bbbad930eed0)

Maghull Military War Hospital, Lancashire

March 1919

‘I wonder if I might see your face among the clouds, because sometimes I forget you.’

My bed is the last in a long row of twenty on the ward. It means that I’m the last to be fed and the last to be seen by the doctors on their rounds, but it also means that I am beside the window, and for that I would come last at everything.

With a simple turn of the head I can look out at the sky and the distant hills. I can watch the clouds and the weather rolling in across the Irish Sea. I can turn my back on the rest of the ward and forget that I am here at all.

Today the sky is a wonderful shade of blue. Bluebell blue. A welcome sight after yesterday’s relentless sheets of grey rain. My nurse tells me she hopes to take a walk in the park later.

‘It’s lovely out,’ she says, her voice cheery and bright. ‘Looks like spring has arrived at last.’

I don’t speak. I barely acknowledge her as I stare at the window and watch a butterfly dancing around the frame. Unusual to see them at this time of year. A Peacock. Or maybe it’s a Painted Lady. I forget. I used to know my butterflies so well. Whatever it is, the nurses have let it out several times but it always comes back in.

‘I’ve brought some more of the letters to read,’ the nurse continues. ‘Shall I start?’

I turn my head towards her. She sits in a small chair beside the bed. Smooths her skirt across her knees. Tucks a loose hair behind her ear. I nod. What else can I do? She’s here now. She says the letters will help me remember.

She unfolds the page, and starts to read.

October 5th, 1916

My dearest Teddy,

I looked at the sky this morning. Not just a quick glance because a bird flew overhead, but really looked, like you always told me to. I stood perfectly still and did nothing but look up. It was all peaches and raspberries. Yesterday it was soft velvet grey, like moleskin. I wonder if the sky looks the same in France. I imagine it is different somehow. Darker.

Do you remember when we used to meet at the stone bridge and sit with our legs dangling over the edge, swaying like the bulrushes in the breeze? ‘Listen to the river,’ you would say. ‘What can you hear?’ I laughed at you. All I could hear was the water. But when I really listened I heard other things: the rush of wind through the grass, the hum of dragonfly wings, the splash as a fish took a fly from the surface. When I looked at the water all I could see was our reflections and the shadows of the clouds. But you told me to look beyond the surface and slowly my eyes would adjust and I’d see a fish. And like magic, an entire shoal would be there. They’d been there all along, but I couldn’t see them. I wasn’t looking properly. And then all sorts would appear from the murk: the glint of a coin, a child’s rattle, the flash of pink and gold as a trout flickered beneath the surface.

I remember.

It comforts me to know that we are looking at the same sky. If we look hard enough, what might we see, Teddy? I wonder if I might see your face among the clouds, because sometimes I forget you. I struggle to catch the image of you, like I struggled to see those fish. But I keep looking, keep searching, and suddenly there you are, as clear as if you were standing in front of me. As if you’d been there all the time.

I just need to keep looking and there you’ll be.

Don’t forget me, Teddy. Look for me.

Your Little Thing,

Dolly

X

P.S. I’ve been catching the leaves and making a wish like you showed me. I don’t need to tell you what I wished for.

The words of the letters upset her. Sometimes she dabs a little cotton handkerchief to her cheek to wipe away the tears. Perhaps she wrote letters like this to someone too. Perhaps they stir memories of her own.

‘Would you like me to read another?’ she asks. I look back to the window; stare at the trees with their buds promising new life. I shrug. ‘I know it’s difficult,’ she says, ‘but it’s good for you to hear them.’ She places a comforting hand on my shoulder. ‘They’ll help you remember. In time.’

I turn my head slowly to look at her. My eyes feel dull and tired. She looks distant; far away. Picking up another envelope from her lap, she removes the pages and continues.

November 12th, 1916

My dearest Teddy,

It is eight months since you left, and everything has changed so much. Conscription is so cruel. Everyone who is able to fight has gone now, even the married men. Those who are left – too young, or too old or infirm – drift around the village like dandelion seeds. They feel guilty and useless and wish they were out there fighting with you all. I tell them they should be grateful they’re not and that I’d give anything to make you a year or two younger so you’d still be here with me.

We are all doing our bit. I seem to be knitting, mostly. Socks, gloves, and other comforts. It turns out I’m almost as bad at knitting as I am at sewing, but if I keep trying I might improve. Others are making Christmas puddings to send to you all and everyone’s helping out on the farms. The Land Army, it’s called.

I finished up at the big house and work in the munitions factory since I turned eighteen. It’s hard work, but anything’s better than domestic work and it pays better. We wear trousers! We clock in and out and fill the shells with TNT powder. They call us ‘canary girls’ because the powder stains our skin yellow. The work is dangerous – there was a big explosion at a factory in Faversham down south – but at least I feel like I’m doing something to help, and sometimes, when we sit out on the grass on tea break, we feel quite happy. I know we shouldn’t because there’s a war on, but Ivy Markham says you can’t be maudlin all the time. We all feel terrible when one of the girls gets the King’s Telegram. Oh, that’s so awful, Teddy. We don’t know what to say and I know everyone else feels the same as I do deep down – relieved that it wasn’t news about our own, and that’s an awful thing to think when someone’s just lost somebody dear to them.

I’ll try to write with happier news next time. Mam says I shouldn’t be telling you sad things. She says the job of the women back home is to cheer you all up.

Your Little Thing,

Dolly

X