The Girl from the Savoy (13 page)

My brothers survived. Aubrey was decorated a hero. Perry was
acknowledged as a loyal officer. It was, perhaps, the best any of us could have expected of him. Their return to Nine Elms was a joyous occasion, although we all knew that it was Aubrey whom Mother and Father were the most grateful to have safely home. I was grateful too. If we had lost Aubrey, Perry would have crumbled beneath the pressure of becoming Father's heir. He had crumbled enough as it was.

“E
tta? Etta, are you listening to me?”

The room becomes unpleasantly hot. I fan myself furiously and sip my water as a wave of pain washes over me. The lilting strains of the pianist fade in and out; soft then loud. A baby takes up a great bawling from somewhere nearby. The sounds prick at my ears as a shooting pain grips my chest, numbing my skin. I hold the edge of the table.

“Etta? Are you quite all right? You're ever so pale.”

Perry's words take on a strange muted quality. He moves in circles in front of me. I need the child to stop crying; the pain to go away. I try to place my hands over my ears but feel myself drifting away, slipping underwater until I cannot hear anything other than my name.

“Etta? Etta!”

“Air, Perry. I need air.”

My words sound as though they belong to someone else. I try to stand up and knock a teaspoon to the floor. Perry grabs me and helps me to my feet, placing his arm around me for support as he escorts me briskly from the Winter Garden, furtive whispers like rushing water following in our wake. I cling to Perry, gasping for air as we step outside.

“Loretta! Loretta! Miss May!”

The magnesium bulbs from the photographers
pop pop pop
until I am blinded by the fizzing white light. The maître d' is already there with our coats. The page flags a motor cab. My hand waves in front of my face to shield my eyes from the glare of the camera lights and then a deep darkness surrounds me and I allow myself to drift away to a safer place, where Roger is with me and his hand feels so perfect in mine.

I
wake in my bedroom the next morning. The sun streams through the window. Outside I can see the rooftops blanketed with a white dusting of frost, sparkling like diamonds beneath the sunlight. Perry is asleep on the chaise, his jacket draped over him as a blanket. He may be silly and irritating at times, but he cared enough to stay with me, and that gives me great comfort.

Elsie has brought a tray. Not wishing to disturb me, she has left it beside the bed. In a small white vase, a single pink peony. I slowly sit upright and pour myself a cup of tea. It is good and strong. I nibble at a triangle of toast, my appetite soon stimulated. The fire crackles in the grate. Such simple things, and yet I am so grateful for them all.

I will have to tell them soon.

The carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimes the hour of nine. I have three hours before I must be at the theater. Ample time to pull myself together. The spotlight may be fading, but the curtain hasn't fallen for me yet.

My dreams are what anchor me. Without them, without hope of making a better life, I am nothing.

M
y first six weeks at The Savoy pass quickly. With time comes a new assurance in my abilities, so that I can almost find some enjoyment and satisfaction in my work, and yet beneath the smooth linen sheets and carefully ordered routines, my heart remains a crumpled, complicated mess. I can't stop thinking about Edie Bishop. Forgotten names. Suppressed memories.
“Put it behind you and carry on. Isn't that what they told us?”
When I wake in the dark of the morning, I instinctively reach beneath my pillow, my fingers feeling for the rough edge of the photograph. My heart beats a little easier to know that he is there, but it isn't enough. I feel it like a hunger pain deep within me; a longing to know that he is loved and cared for. And all the while the pages of Perry Clements's music lie idle, the notes and melody remain unheard.

Since my encounter with Debroy Somers, I've often thought about the resident hotel band. I've stepped aside in the corridors so that they can pass by with their high waistbands and slicked brilliantine hair. Sissy says they act like they own the place. “They've their own dressing room and valets and God only knows what other privileges. Stuck-up, the lot of them. Wouldn't give the likes of us
the time of day.” But I remember my conversation with Debroy Somers, and while I haven't yet gathered the courage to find him in the Ballroom and ask him to play my pages of music, I know that I will. When the time is right.

The daily delivery of the house list is always a cause for excitement. Sissy, Gladys, and I read through it together, looking for names of American movie stars against our room allocations. I secretly hope to see a new occupant in suite 401, Larry Snyder's room, but while other guests come and go, he seems intent on staying for the season. I always leave his room until last, work quickly when I'm in there, and breathe a little easier when I'm done.

It is where I am now, folding the last few chamber towels, when the door flies open and Snyder strides into the room. We both jump at the sight of each other. My heart thumps beneath my dress.

He looks at me and then at his pocket watch. “I thought you would be finished by now.”

“I'm almost done, sir. I can leave these and come back later.” I place the towels on the foot of the bed and make for the door, but he steps in front of it, blocking my way.

“No need to leave on my account. Stay and finish. I just popped back for some papers.”

His hair is as black as the coalhole downstairs, slicked perfectly to one side. His face is sharp and angular, free of any creases or lines, like a freshly ironed bedsheet. He has an olive hue to his skin, the California tan that all the American guests from the West Coast have.

I stand awkwardly beside the bed, my hands fumbling with the edges of the towels as he busies himself, rifling through the piles of paper spread over the writing desk. I was careful not to disturb them as I cleaned around them a short while ago, although I couldn't help noticing that they are pages of script for a new Broadway play.

“Ah, found them. The show
will
go on!”

He stands upright and grins at me. I stare at the towels and wait for him to leave, but he doesn't.

When I look up, his head is tilted to one side, studying me as if I was one of the paintings displayed in the corridor. He rubs his fingers along his slim mustache.

“A smile wouldn't go amiss. A surly maid can ruin a hotel's reputation, you know.”

Somehow I force a weak smile. “Yes. Of course.”

“And look how pretty you are when you manage it.” He tilts his head the other way. “Quite intriguing. Did anyone ever photograph you? Professionally.”

I shuffle my feet and pull at a loose thread on my apron. “No. Never.”

He makes a square with his fingers, holding his hands out in front of him and squinting at me with one eye closed, as if looking through a camera lens. “I'd say you'd be a natural in front of the camera. Good bone structure. Symmetrical features.”

There is nothing sensible I can think of to say in reply. I continue to fold the towels as he walks toward me. He smells of expensive cologne and shoe polish. He takes a towel from my hand, his fingertips sweeping over mine as he does. My stomach tumbles.

“I'm sure I can manage to fold these myself. Go. Grab an extra few minutes' break or something.”

I don't like to leave the towels unfolded, but I'm not especially keen to stay in the room with him either. I mumble a thank you and walk toward the door, fumbling with the handle as I try to pull my trolley behind me at the same time.

“One moment.” I turn around. Snyder is standing right behind me. A small white feather is pressed between his thumb and fore
finger. “It was on the back of your dress,” he says. “I thought the White Feather Brigade had stopped with the war.”

He laughs, but his words bite through me. I stare at the feather in his tar-stained fingers and see my mother standing up in church, passing the feathers to the men who had refused to fight. I see myself tug at her coat sleeve, the shame and embarrassment staining my cheeks red as I beg her not to.

My breath catches in my throat as he hands it to me. “It must have fallen from a pillow,” I say.

“I suppose it must.” He looks deep into my eyes, a cold emotionless gaze. He leans forward so that I can feel his warm breath against my cheek. “Lucky feather.”

He laughs too loudly and walks back toward the window, whistling a show tune.

I step out into the corridor, my heart racing as I close the door behind me. I stand for a moment with my back against the door and let out a long breath before I gather myself together and push my trolley toward the service lift. My legs tremble. The carpets feel stiff beneath my feet. The paintings look gaudy in their ornate gilt frames. A bulb on a wall light flickers and goes out.

The hotel is unsettled and so am I.

I
try to forget about Snyder as I stand in the post office at Cambridge Circus later that day, waiting for the postmistress to check if there is anything for me. I hope Mam will have replied to the letter I'd eventually plucked up the courage to send, although I'm not looking forward to hearing what she has to say about my new position. And, of course, I'm hoping to hear back from the musical composer. I presume he will reply, even if to say I'm not the sort of person he had in mind.

I pick at the quick on my fingernail as the woman peers into various pigeonholes and removes bundles of envelopes, adjusting the spectacles on the end of her nose so that she can read the addressee. I wish she would hurry up. As she searches I think about the years I spent writing letters to Teddy and waiting for his reply, everything an agonizing interval in the weeks and months between. His letters, his words, became everything to me.

I
'd never written a letter before the war. There was no need. Anybody I wanted to say something to was in the next room, or the next house or the next street. I wasn't one for writing anyway, reading was what I loved the most, despite the meager collection of books at home. My written schoolwork was described as “rushed and untidy,” the schoolmistress saying that if I could apply myself to the task of writing as much as I did to the task of reading, I would be “a much improved girl.” But I didn't have the patience to practice my writing and I remained unimproved.

When war came, letters were our lifeline, the only way to communicate with our loved ones. The writing of letters became the most important thing to me in the world. I asked the schoolmistress to help me put into words all the emotions I felt, and when I was done I walked to the post office, my letter in my coat pocket. I dreaded it. There was something so final about handing my letter to Mrs. Joyce, so I would delay and linger, let people go ahead of me until I was the only one left and she was closing for lunch. “Come along then, Dolly,” she'd say. “Hand it over. I'm parched.” Everyone knew how much Mrs. Joyce enjoyed her lunchtime cuppa and a roll-up. No matter who was waiting, or what was happening, she would close the hatch and lock the door. Reluctantly, I would hand over my envelope and walk home, blinking back the tears. So many emotions were contained within that neat little envelope. So
much hope. So much fear. What if he didn't reply? What if it was the last letter I would ever write to him?

More than once I ran back to the post office, hammering on the door until poor Mrs. Joyce thought the world was at an end and abandoned her cup of tea to open it. I would beg her to give me the letter back and then I would run home, throw it in the fire, take up a fresh sheet of paper, and try to find some better words; words that would tell him how much I loved him without admitting that it broke my heart to think that I might never see him again. We had to be brave so as not to make the soldiers worry. Positive news. Happy thoughts. Wonderfully proud. That sort of thing. And when the postmaster cycled past with the sack of mail on the start of its long journey to France, I would run to the end of the lane and wish my words a final farewell and pray that I would hear back soon.

By some miracle, a reply always came. He wrote of the birdsong he heard in the early morning, and the pleasure the boys got from the gifts we sent from home. Sometimes, his reply was a standard-issue form with the boxes ticked in all the right places. Sometimes, his words were censored, blacked out. But always, always he told me to never give up hope, to always love life and to chase adventures.

Hope. Love. Adventure.

That was all that mattered, he said. That was all.

And then the war ended. The guns fell silent. And so did Teddy.

“A
h, yes. Here it is. For a Clover Parker, you say?”

The postmistress hands me a slim envelope. “Yes, that's right.” I take it from her. “Nothing for Dorothy Lane?”

“No. Nothing today, dear.”

I thank her, and rush from the post office, ducking down a narrow side alley to read the composer's reply. I tear the envelope open, my hands shaking.

Dear Miss Parker,

Thank you for your reply, which I was delighted to receive. Might I suggest that we meet at the Coventry Street Corner House at 4
P.M.
on Wednesday, November 28th.

My method of finding inspiration must seem rather unusual, but I can assure you my intentions are entirely honorable. A public meeting in the tearooms will hopefully allay any concerns you might have.

I look forward to meeting you.

Sincerely,

S.M.C. (Struggling Musical Composer)

A grin spreads across my lips. A flutter stirs in my heart
.
I read the letter twice more before putting it back into the envelope and slipping it into my purse.

There is a bounce to my step as I stroll back along the Charing Cross Road and through Trafalgar Square. Even the pigeons amuse me.

A
t the Palais, Clover and I dance until our legs feel like they're going to drop off. The band plays foxtrots and tangos, swinging jazz numbers and the new dance called the Charleston. The dance instructors demonstrate the steps. Clover says they look like they're having a fit the way their limbs jerk about, but I rush to the dance floor to give it a try. I spend most of the afternoon perfecting the steps until I can do it quite well.

After dragging Clover away from an amorous embrace with awful Tommy Mullins, we head to the teashop for a simple supper of poached eggs and coffee. She has a new hat, plum velvet, which I admire and envy at the same time. She tells me one of the ladies at Grosvenor Square passed it onto her. Last season's color. She sees the flash of jealousy in my eyes and promises to give me the next hand-me-down.

As we settle at a table by the window, I take the advertisement from
The
Stage
from my purse and pass it to Clover. “What do you think of this?”

She leans forward onto her elbows, peering at the small print. “What is it?”

“Found it in a copy of
The
Stage
left on the omnibus a few weeks back. Read it.”

She picks it up, reads it, puts it down, and peers at me over the top of her coffee cup.

“So?” I prompt. “What do you think?”

“I think you've already replied and want to know what to do next.” She raises an eyebrow. “Am I right?”

I nod sheepishly.

“You're daft in the head. The only reason anyone would place a notice like that is to get a gullible young girl like you trotting round, and Lord knows what trouble you'll end up in.”

I wince. We both stir sugar into our coffee, willing her words away.

“Sorry,” Clover says. “I didn't mean it to come out like that. But men can't be trusted.” She lights a cigarette. “I take it you're planning to meet this ‘struggling musician' or whatever they call themselves?”

“He sent a reply. He wants to meet me at the Corner House on Coventry Street next week.” Clover studies me through narrowed
eyes. “It's not like I'll be on my own or anything, and there's no harm in meeting him, is there?”

“Well, don't say I didn't warn you.”

I pick the page up off the table and read it again. “Don't you think it's strange that I noticed it in the first place? Do you think it could be a sign?”

She takes a long drag of her cigarette. “You and your bloody
signs
. Tea leaves this and full moon that. Yes. It is a sign. A sign of a murdering lunatic who wants to lure girls to his apartment.” She shakes her head, but smiles at me in that knowing way only a true friend can. “You don't need to reply to adverts in the papers, Dolly. You'll make it, you know. One day. You just have to keep practicing and turning up to auditions.”

I fold the piece of paper and slip it back into my purse. I try to concentrate as Clover chatters on, telling me how she's been laid up sick most of the week and how the housekeeper caught the new girl dancing to a song on the wireless when she was supposed to be polishing the silver, but my thoughts drift constantly away. All I can think about is the reply in my pocket.
My method of finding inspiration must seem rather usual, but I can assure you my intentions are entirely honorable
. I think about the endless line of girls outside the Pavilion Theatre. Everyone who makes it needs a bit of luck along the way. Maybe this little piece of paper is mine. I don't blame Clover for imagining all sorts of awful things, but I'm not just a girl who walks around with her head in the clouds. My dreams are what anchor me. Without them, without hope of making a better life, I am nothing. Without them, he will remain forever absent from my arms. And that is a thought far more frightening than any of Clover's grim predictions.