The Girl From The Savoy. Hazel Gaynor

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      ‘And what is it you do?’ he asks. ‘Other than knock unsuspecting gentlemen down in the street?’

      I hate telling people my job. My best friend, Clover, pretends she’s a shopgirl or a clerk if anybody asks. ‘Nobody wants to marry a domestic,’ she says. ‘Best to tell a white lie if you’re ever going to find a husband.’ I want to tell him I’m a chorus girl, or an actress in revue at the Pavilion. I want to tell him I’m somebody, but those grey eyes demand the truth.

      ‘I’m just a maid,’ I say, as Big Ben strikes the hour.

      ‘Just a maid?’

      ‘Yes. For now. I start a new position today. At The Savoy.’ The chimes are a reminder. ‘Now, actually.’

      ‘A maid with ambition. A rare and wonderful thing.’ A grin spreads across his face as he chuckles to himself. I’m not sure whether he is teasing me. ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you.’ He rolls the damp papers up and bundles them under his arm like a bathing towel. ‘Perry,’ he says, offering his hand. ‘Perry Clements. Delighted to meet you.’

      His hand is warm against the fabric of my glove. The sensation makes the skin prickle on my palm. ‘Perry? That’s an unusual name.’

      ‘Short for Peregrine. Frightful, isn’t it?’

      ‘I think it’s rather lovely.’ I think you are rather lovely. ‘Dorothy Lane,’ I say. ‘Dolly, for short. Pleasure to meet you, Mr Clements.’ I gesture to the paper bathing towel under his arm. ‘I hope it’s not completely ruined.’

      ‘You’ve done me a favour, to be honest, Miss Lane. Possibly the most dismal piece I’ve ever written.’

      And then he does something extraordinary and shoves the papers into a litter bin beside me, as casually as if they were the empty wrappings of a fish supper.

      I gasp. ‘You can’t do that!’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Well. Because. You just can’t!’

      ‘But apparently I just did. That’s the fascinating thing about life, Miss Lane. All its wonderful unpredictability.’ He slides his hands into his coat pockets and turns to walk away. ‘It was terribly nice to meet you.’ He is shouting above the din of traffic and rain. ‘You’re really quite charming. Good luck with the new position. I’m sure you’ll be marvellous!’

      I watch as he runs tentatively down the street, slipping and skidding as he goes. I notice that he carries a limp and hope it is an old war wound and not the result of our collision. He tips his hat as he jumps onto the back of an omnibus and I wave back. It feels more like an enthusiastic hello to an old friend than a polite good-bye to a stranger.

      When he is completely out of sight I grab the bundle of papers from the litter bin. I’m not sure why, but it feels like the right thing to do. Something about these sodden pages speaks to me of adventure and, as Teddy said when we watched the first group of men head off to France, you should never ignore adventure when it comes knocking. Little did any of us know that the experience of war would be far from the great adventure they imagined as they waved their farewells.

      Pushing the papers into my coat pocket, I run on down Carting Lane, being careful not to slip on the cobbles that slope steadily down towards the Embankment and the river. It is pleasantly quiet after the chaos of the Strand, even with the steady stream of delivery vans and carts that rumble past. I head for the service entrance, sheltered by an archway, and turn to walk down a flight of steep steps that lead down to a black door. A maid is stooped over, rubbing a great lump of hearthstone against the middle step. It seems to me a fool’s errand with the rain spilling down and dirty boots and shoes everywhere, but as I well know, it is not a maid’s place to question the sense of the chores she is given.

      She looks up and wipes her hands on her sacking-cloth apron. ‘Beg pardon, miss.’

      I smile at her. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

      Her cheeks are flushed from her efforts. She is young. Probably in her first position. I was that girl not so long ago, scrubbing steps, polishing awkward brass door handles, hefting heavy buckets of coal, constantly terrified to put a foot wrong in case the housekeeper or the mistress gave me my marching orders. The girl looks blankly at me and drags her pail noisily to one side so that I can pass. I go on tiptoe so as not to spoil her work.

      Above the door, a sign says FOR DELIVERIES KNOCK TWICE. Since I’m not delivering anything I pull on the doorbell. In my head my mother chastises me. ‘Late on your first day, Dorothy Mary Lane. And look at the state of you. Honestly. It beggars belief.’

      I hear footsteps approaching behind the door before a bolt is drawn back and it swings open. A harried-looking maid glares at me.

      ‘You the new girl?’

      ‘Yes.’

      Grabbing the handle of my travelling bag, she drags me inside. ‘You’re late. She’s spitting cobs.’

      ‘Who is?’

      ‘O’Hara. Head of housekeeping. Put her in a right narky mood you have, and we’ll all suffer for it.’

      Before I have chance to defend myself or reply, she shoves me into a little side room, tells me to wait there, and rushes off, muttering under her breath.

      I place my bag down on the flagstone floor and look around. A clock ticks on the mantelpiece. A picture of the King hangs on the wall. A small table stands beneath a narrow window. Other than that, the room is quiet and cold and unattractive, not at all what I’d expected of The Savoy. Feeling horribly damp and alone, I take the photograph from my coat pocket, brushing my fingers lightly across his image. The face that stirs such painful memories. The face I turn to after every housekeeper’s reprimand and failed audition. The face I look at every time someone tells me I’m not good enough. The face that makes me more determined to show them that I am.

      Hearing brisk footsteps approaching along the corridor, I put the crumpled photograph back into my pocket and pray that the head of housekeeping is a forgiving and understanding woman.

      As she enters the room, it is painfully apparent that she is neither.

       2

       Dolly

      Wonderful adventures await for those who dare to find them.

      O’Hara, the head of housekeeping, is a furious Irishwoman with a frown to freeze hell and an attitude to match. She is tall and strangely angular, her hair frozen in tight black waves around her face. Her arms are folded across her chest, her elbows straining against the fabric of her black silk dress, like fire irons waiting to prod anyone who gets in her way.

      ‘Dorothy, I presume?’ Her voice is clipped and authoritative.

      I nod. ‘Yes, miss. Dorothy Lane. Dolly, for short.’

      She СКАЧАТЬ