The Girl from the Savoy (35 page)

The question to ask isn't why . . . it is why not?

I stand up. “You're right. There's nothing for me here. Why not go to America?”

His gray eyes smile. “Start to say your good-byes, Dolly. If America falls in love with you as quickly as London has, it may be some time before you're back. You may never come back at all!”

But there is one final question on my mind.

How will I ever tell Clover?

Some might say that I have lived my life recklessly.

I say only that I have lived, in every sense of the word.

I
lie in my bed and watch the curtains fluttering at the open window as broad leaves sway in two-four time on the horse-chestnut trees beyond. When the sun fades and darkness falls, I see shooting stars.

Life dances on.

When I close my eyes I hear the waves rolling in to shore, the endless ebb and flow of the tide. Sometimes my breathing matches the sound—in and out, in and out, in and out—so that I feel I could never die as long as the tide comes and goes.

There are days, hours, moments when I feel myself slipping away and I cling desperately on, refusing to give in. Other times I will myself to fall asleep and welcome whatever awaits beyond.

Some might say that I have lived my life recklessly. I say only that I have lived, in every sense of the word. I have loved and laughed, I have felt the darkest sadness and the brightest joy. I have affected people, left a mark, an imprint in the sand. Isn't that what matters after all? To know that even when you are no longer there, your words, your face, your story will be remembered. Your star will shine on.

But every performance must come to an end.

The lights are fading.

The curtain is falling.

The spotlight flickers and goes out.

I take my final bow and wait in the silence of a dead blackout before I turn and make my exit to the fading applause.

And there he is, waiting in the wings. His uniform pristine. A pink peony in his buttonhole. His hands outstretched.

I run to him and we fall into each other's arms and everything is wonderful as we commence our eternal waltz beneath the stars.

My heart folds in on itself as all my life

comes rushing toward me . . .

T
he news we have all been dreading arrives on a misty July morning and the houselights are dimmed across London's theaters.

She is gone and we are left with only our memories and Elsie's scrapbook and the empty spaces she leaves behind: rooms without the scent of her perfume, dinner parties without her caustic tongue and infectious laughter, dresses hanging limp in the cupboard, shoes unworn, theaters without her name blazing out front.

Loretta May. The darling of the West End. The actress who gave joy to so many. The woman who I was fortunate to know as more than her stage persona. Loretta May was a performance. Virginia Clements was a daughter, a sister, a friend, a nurse, a lover. The most important roles she ever played were those she played behind the curtain, away from the public's adoring gaze.

Arrangements are made and the sudden heartache of death becomes an endless series of things to organize. She is buried in her favorite Poiret gown with a posy of pink peonies in her hands. The funeral brings Londoners out in the thousands, lining the streets to watch the procession as we say our final good-byes and she is laid to rest.

Our star has fallen.

To cheer ourselves up, Perry and Bea insist on taking me to Claridge's for afternoon tea in the Winter Garden. “Loretta loved to come here,” Perry explains, and I can understand why. I am instantly charmed by it. “We met here every Wednesday. I complained about it rather a lot, but I think I will rather miss it now she's gone.”

“Then we must keep coming, darling,” Bea suggests as the waiter shows us to our table. “When we get back from America we will keep up the tradition. I think Loretta would rather like that.”

And so it is settled.

J
ust as she did when she was alive, Miss May is to have the last word. She leaves strict instructions that after a reasonably dignified period of somber reflection, we must all dress in our finest and celebrate her life. Charlot arranges for the entire cast to gather at The Savoy for an after-show party.

We arrive in an entourage of motorcars, the principal stars stepping out into the hotel courtyard to a volley of flashbulbs. Jack Buchanan, Gertie Lawrence, and Binnie Hale stand together, relishing the limelight. And then Perry and I step out of our car to the same pop and fizz of the bulbs and calls for us to look this way and that way.

I take a deep breath.
“You, Dorothy Lane, are a prime example of someone who will never get on in life. You will never become anything.”

Perry takes my hand and leads me toward the door. And there's Bert the doorman, and the smart young page boys.

“Front entrances are of no concern to a maid, other than when she is scrubbing the steps or polishing the handle.”

I see myself standing beside the florist's shop window not so many months ago, shoulders back, head held high, my hands
scrunched into tight determined balls. I hear my words.
“One day, Dorothy Mary Lane, you'll walk through that door. And when you do, you'll be dressed so beautifully and be so famous that
everybody
will notice you.”

I place the palm of my hand against the glass of the swing door, turn around, and smile my brightest smile. The cameras click and whir frantically behind me and everybody stares, everybody notices as the door opens and transports me into the Front Hall.

I am instantly surrounded by an oasis of calm and elegance. Polite chatter, the clink of glasses, the lilt of the piano as liveried footmen, valets, porters, lift attendants, and cloakroom attendants all take their turn in a carefully orchestrated dance across the chessboard floor. I think about Cutler steering me away from the guests.
“Back
-of-house staff must not be seen. As far as our guests are concerned, they are invisible. You, Miss Lane, do not exist.”
I see the smirk on Snyder's face; feel his hand against my stocking. I see O'Hara's starchy gaze and Mademoiselle Delysia, moving like silk around her suite. So many memories come rushing back.

As my cape is taken from me, the governor appears, shaking Perry's hand enthusiastically and kissing my cheek.

“Miss Lane. Mr. Clements. You are both very welcome. We were desperately sorry to hear of Miss May's passing.”

Perry thanks him. “She was a wonderful sister to me and a wonderful friend to Miss Lane.”

Reeves-Smith turns to me. “And any friend of Miss May's is always welcome at The Savoy.”

“And a friend of yours?” I prompt. “Would
she
be welcome here too?”

He clears his throat, adjusts his bow tie, and lowers his voice. “It isn't often one exits by the back door and returns through the front, Miss Lane. It is a most unusual turn of events. Most unusual
indeed. You are an extraordinary young woman. You are welcome here anytime.”

As the others make their way to the Ballroom, I excuse myself for a moment. Being careful not to be seen, I rush toward the back stairs, run up to the second floor, knock at the bedroom door, and push it open.

There they are, as if I had never left. Sissy reading a magazine on her bed, legs sticking up in the air. Mildred's pen scratching across the surface of a page. Clover, leaning over her sewing. At the click of the door, she looks up.

“Well, would you look what the cat dragged in. It's only Dolly bloody Daydream!”

We look at each other and burst out laughing as she bounds toward me and I throw my arms around her. Dear Clover. Always the same, although she looks happier and healthier than I've seen her look in months.

“Well, would you look at you!” she exclaims, turning me around. “Quite the little flapper.”

“Oh, hush. I had a haircut. That's all.” I put my fingers self-consciously to the nape of my neck. I still haven't got used to my shingled bob.

“Well, I feel like a pantomime horse with you all turned out so nice and proper. Come on, then. Tell us everything.”

I sit on Clover's bed and tell them about the show and life on the stage. I tell them about Loretta's last wishes and the party we are having to celebrate her life and the photographers all shouting my name outside. It pours out of me like good champagne. When I tell them I'm leaving for America in two days, Clover bursts into tears. I laugh and hug her close to me and in my thickest Lancashire accent I tell her she's a silly old sod and that I love her.

“Promise me you'll never change, Clover Parker.”

“What would I be changing for? You don't need to worry about me. This is it for me now. I like it here. Posh hotels suit me!”

Sissy laughs. “She likes the porter she's walking out with, more like.”

Clover blushes and admits she's sweet on one of the porters. I know him and I approve entirely.

We talk for a while, remembering, laughing, until I have to go, and for the last time I leave the little room I once called home and head back down the stairs. The passing porters and maids gawp at me as if they've seen a ghost.

When I return to the Front Hall, the governor escorts me to the Grand Ballroom, where the music is already in full swing under the expert guidance of Debroy Somers. Taking my hand, Perry guides me to the dance floor. My companion. My dance partner. It is easy to be around him now, to let our friendship blossom without the nagging uncertainties of love. When we switch partners, I watch him and Bea together and feel nothing but happiness for them. With a little direction, we have all found the roles we were destined to play.

It is a perfect night, just as Loretta would have wanted, everyone laughing and dancing and sparkling beneath the crystal chandeliers as we foxtrot and tango our way past midnight and into a new day, a new scene, a new Act in this play of life.

W
e leave for America in two days. All the arrangements have been made. Our tickets for the SS
Caronia
to New York have been booked. Trunks and cases are stuffed full of shoes and dresses, costumes and hope.
Charlot's Revue
will play its opening night to an American audience in just over a fortnight's time. The thought of leaving London excites and troubles me. Questions linger. Doubts and uncertainties remain. I dream of Teddy and little Edward,
whose photograph I still keep beneath my pillow. I try to put him from my mind and focus on the future.

Hettie is working on costumes for the new numbers. She can hardly keep up with Charlot's demands, but the columnists are delighted by her creations and she is establishing quite a name for herself. She's been working on a dress especially for me and I have a final fitting to attend before we sail.

As I open the latch on the little gate at her house in Shoreditch, I see young Thomas standing at an upstairs window. He blows hot breaths onto the glass and draws pictures into the mist with his fingertips. He presses his nose and lips against the windowpane until they are completely squashed. I smile as I watch and wave up at him when he sees me, but he ducks down, too shy to wave back. I walk down the narrow path toward the front door.

Hettie greets me, half-moon spectacles perched on the end of her nose and a tape measure snaking around her neck, as always. I step inside the house. It is small, but neat and simply furnished.

“Come through. The dress is all ready for you. I hope you like it.”

“I'm sure I'll love it.”

I follow her along a narrow hallway into a small room at the back of the house, behind the scullery. A sewing machine sits on a little table, surrounded by swatches of fabric. Pincushions, pins, needles, and bobbins of multicolored cotton are spread over a narrow workbench and much of the floor.

“It's always so colorful in here,” I say, setting my purse down on a wooden stool. “It's like walking into a rainbow!”

“Like walking into a very messy rainbow, maybe.”

She shows me some sketches she's been working on for the new costumes and some of the materials she's chosen. They're all beautiful.

“Let me get the dress and you can try it on. I can make a few last-minute adjustments if they're needed.”

I wriggle out of my dress and into the new one, ivory chiffon with beautiful beading and a handkerchief hem. I'm still surprised by the slim feel of my hips and stomach, the fabric slipping easily across my dance-toned body. No doughy flesh to pinch now. All my training has paid off. It fits perfectly.

“It's beautiful, Hettie. Thank you.”

She brushes my compliments aside. “Don't thank me. Thank Miss May for choosing such wonderful material.”

“She chose it?”

“A while ago. She told me to use it when the right opportunity came about. It looks beautiful on you.”

I smile and turn my shoulder to admire the back in the looking glass.

“I miss her terribly, Dolly.”

“Me too. I only knew her for a short while, but she became everything to me: a mother, a teacher, a sister, a friend. I still can't believe she's gone.”

Hettie rests her hand on mine and we both try not to think about our loss.

We talk for a while as she makes a few small adjustments to the dress, pinning it here and there. “I'll have it ready for you tomorrow. I can drop it to the theater if you like.”

“Don't trouble yourself. I'll call by. You've enough on your plate with little Thomas to mind. How is your sister?”

“She's doing much better. She's up and about again. She'll be here to collect him soon. I still take him the odd morning until she gets back to full health. To be honest, I love having him around. Gives me a bit of company.”

As she sees me back through into the hallway Thomas bounds
down the stairs. He stands and looks at me, his fingers stuck into his mouth.

“Well, hello there, Thomas,” I say.

He looks at his feet as Hettie ruffles his hair. “I thought I told you to wait upstairs while the lady was with me,” she whispers. He looks up at her with big brown eyes. She can't be cross with him and scoops him up into her arms.

“It's all right,” I say. “I don't mind a bit. It's always lovely to see you, Thomas.” I hold out my hand to shake his but he hides in Hettie's hair.

“If only he was this quiet all the time,” she laughs, rubbing his back.

“He's adorable. Such gorgeous brown eyes. Does he get them from your sister?”

She hesitates. Lowers her voice. “We're not sure who he gets them from. Thomas was adopted.”

“Oh. I'm sorry. I just assumed . . .”

“No need to apologize. Most people assume.” She lets him down from her arms and he runs through to the scullery. “My brother-in-law was left badly injured after the war and unable to father a child. Thomas was abandoned at a Mothers' Hospital. He was only a few weeks old when Helen took him. He's never known anyone but her as his mother. She loves him with all her heart.”

I feel dizzy as she speaks.
Thomas was abandoned . . .
It sounds so harsh. So thoughtless and cruel.

“I'd better get going. Thank you again, Hettie. The dress is perfect.”

She smiles and takes my coat from the stand as there's a knock at the door. “That'll be your mother, Thomas! Come along now.”

She opens the door and I watch as little Thomas squeals with excitement and runs into his mother's arms.

Like a pause between breathing in and breathing out, everything is suspended.

She is standing in front of me, like spring in a daffodil-yellow coat.

Thomas buries his face in her red hair as he perches so naturally on her hip. I almost fall sideways with the need to feel him on mine. I look at him and I look at her.
“
Thomas was adopted
.
”
His eyes so brown, like mine, when hers are so blue.
“Thomas was abandoned at a Mothers' Hospital.”
I stall on the doorstep and I stare at them both.
“He was only a few weeks old when Helen took him. He's never known anyone but her as his mother. She loves him with all her heart.”