Читать книгу The Girl From The Savoy - Hazel Gaynor, Hazel Gaynor - Страница 17

‘Sometimes life gives you cotton stockings. Sometimes it gives you a Chanel gown.’

After an exhausting week getting lost in the hotel, finding my way around my chores, and trying to keep in O’Hara’s good books and out of trouble, my first afternoon off can’t come soon enough. Mildred slopes off somewhere before anyone notices. Sissy and Gladys are disappointed I won’t join them at the Strand Palace, but I explain that I’ve promised to meet Clover for the weekly thé dansant at the Palais de Danse in Hammersmith and only a fool would break a promise made to Clover Parker.

Clover and I have been to the Palais every Wednesday since my first week in service at the house in Grosvenor Square. I was looking for a distraction. Clover was looking for a husband. Along with hundreds of others who swarm to the dance halls once a week to shake off the memories of war and the strict routines of work, Clover and I pay our two and six and forget about the troubles that weigh heavy on our shoulders as we foxtrot and waltz our way around the vast dance floor.

After years of rolling back the carpet in our shared bedroom and practising the latest dance steps over and over, we are both reasonably good on our feet. More than anything, I love to dance, to lose myself in the music until it wraps itself around me as tightly as the arms of my dance partner. More often than not, this is Clover. Such is the way of things now. There aren’t enough men to go around and we can’t always afford the extra sixpence to hire one of the male dance instructors, so us single girls make do, taking it in turns to be the man. Clover is a decent substitute, but even when I close my eyes and really imagine, it isn’t the same as having a man’s arms to guide me. It isn’t the same as having Teddy’s arms around me. He was a wonderful dancer. It was Teddy who first taught me to dance. It was Teddy who encouraged me to chase my dreams. It was always Teddy.

Changing out of my uniform as quickly as I can, I clock out at the back of the hotel and step outside for the first time in a week. It is still raining but I don’t mind. The cool breeze and damp air feel lovely against my cheeks as I turn up the collar on my shabby old coat and walk through the Embankment Gardens towards the river. I think about my collision with Mr Clements a week ago and the pages of music still hidden beneath my pillow. Although I’ve tried to push him from my mind, I can’t stop thinking about those grey eyes and that rich russet hair, and I can’t help wondering about the music I rescued from the litter bin. I feel a strange sense of duty to hear the notes played.

After the hushed order and sophistication of the hotel, London seems particularly grubby and alive. I notice things I’ve never really noticed before: the soot-blackened buildings, the pigeon droppings on the pavements and railings, the noise from the tugs and wherries on the Thames that toot to one another like gossiping girls, the smell of roast beef from the kitchens at Simpson’s. I dodge around smartly dressed ladies in rain-flattened furs who try to avoid the puddles that will leave watermarks on their expensive satin shoes. To them, this is just another dull October afternoon, but to me it is an exciting medley of noise and chaos; a place without restrictions and rules. To me, the pavements dance beneath the raindrops. To me, the roads sing to the tune of motorcars and puddles. To me, everyone quicksteps and waltzes around each other.

In the Embankment Gardens, I feel the vibrations of the underground trains through the pathway beneath my feet and smile as I watch two pigeons squabble over a piece of bread. Beyond the Gardens, I follow the bend of the river along the Embankment where the overnight work of the screevers – the pavement artists – has been spoiled by the rain. Only one drawing of a young girl is just visible. Beside it is written the word ‘hope’ in a pretty looping script. I’d like to take a closer look but I’m already late, so I hurry on. Clover gets cross with me when I’m late, and she’s already cross with me for leaving my position in Grosvenor Square.

She hadn’t taken well to the news of my position at The Savoy. Her reaction was twenty-two minutes of snotty weeping. I’d watched the clock over her shoulder as I consoled her in the A.B.C. teashop.

‘Things won’t be the same, Doll. They’ll lock you up in that fancy hotel and you’ll get all sorts of notions in that pretty head of yours and I’ll never see you again. I know it.’

‘I’m only going to The Savoy, not the moon!’

‘Might as well be going to the moon. You’ll make new friends and forget all about me. I can feel it in my waters.’

Clover feels everything in her waters. ‘Don’t be daft. How could I forget you?’

‘Then promise we’ll still go dancing on our afternoons off.’

‘Of course we will.’

‘Promise.’

‘I promise. I’ll meet you at the Palais every Wednesday. Same as usual. Cross my heart.’

I didn’t say ‘and hope to die’. Nobody says that anymore. And I have every intention of keeping my promise. Clover Parker gave me friendship, a shoulder to cry on, and a Max Factor mascara when I had absolutely nothing. I’ve grown to love her like a sister and can’t imagine sharing my make-up, my ciggies, or my worries with anyone else. But things had to change because I’d made another promise. A promise that I would make something of my life. I had to. Otherwise, how could I ever make peace with what I had done?

‘Why does everything always have to change, Dolly? Why can’t things stay as they are?’

‘I want more, Clover. Look at me. I’m as dull as a muddy puddle. When I watch those girls on the stage, I want to be there with them. I want silk stockings on my legs and silver Rayne’s dance shoes on my feet. I want Chanel dresses against my skin. I want to cut my hair and rouge my cheeks, not flinch every time I hear footsteps following me down the back stairs. I want to be appreciated, not discarded like a filthy rag. I feel like a stuck gramophone record, going round and round, playing the same notes of the same song over and over. I want to dance to a different tune. Don’t you want that too?’

She doesn’t. Clover is happy with her lot. A reliable job as a kitchen maid and a quick fumble with Tommy Mullins at the back of the dance hall is enough for her.

‘I don’t think about it, Dolly. I just am what I am. All I know for certain is that Archie Rawlins ain’t coming home and he was the only bugger ever likely to marry me. I’ll more than likely end up an old spinster with ten cats to keep me company. But there’s no use complaining. Sometimes life gives you cotton stockings. Sometimes it gives you a Chanel gown. That’s the way of it. You just have to make the most of whatever you’re given.’

Part of me wishes I could be more like Clover, settle for a life as a housemaid, marry a decent enough man, make do. But I have restless feet and an impatient heart and a dream of a better life that I can’t wake up from.

I’d been told that The Savoy prefers personal recommendations of employees from its current staff, and a discreet word by a friend of Clover’s cousin led to my engagement. Clover’s opinion is that a maid is still a maid, however fancily you package it up, but I disagree. The Savoy attracts movie stars and musicians, poets and politicians, dancers and writers; the Bright Young People who fill London’s newspaper columns and society pages with their extravagant lifestyles. The people who excite me. The people who fill my scrapbooks and my dreams.

At Trafalgar Square, I jump onto the back of the omnibus and take a seat downstairs, paying my tuppence to the conductor as I pick up a copy of The Stage left behind on the seat opposite me. I flick through the pages of adverts for dancing shoes and stage props, fat-reducing soap and seamstresses, and turn to the theatre notices, hoping to find something for my scrapbook.

In his latest production, HOLD TIGHT!, Cochran has taken something of a gamble with his leading lady, Loretta May. It is a gamble that has more than paid off. Miss May – one of the hardest-working actresses on the London stage – dazzled, captivating the audience with her acting and singing talents, and her comic timing. Miss May brings the stage to life in a way that many others simply cannot. The costumes were equally remarkable, Mr Cochran exceeding his previous best in this department. The gasps of admiration from the ladies in the audience could be heard all over town.

In her first full-length musical comedy, Miss May was triumphant in HOLD TIGHT! at the Shaftesbury. Her departure from revue was launched amid scenes of tumultuous applause. Kitty Walsh, the chorus girl selected at the very last minute to play the role of Miss May’s daughter, was captivating. She is most definitely a young actress to watch. The audience yelled themselves hoarse and refused to let the curtain go down.

I close my eyes, imagining what it would be like to be that young chorus girl, to sing and dance on the West End stage. The notices go on: Gertrude Lawrence ‘splendid’ in Charlot’s revue London Calling! Noël Coward’s musical score ‘triumphant’. Bea Lillie ‘radiant’ in Lelong. The descriptions of the costumes take up as many column inches as the commentary on the performances.

Miss Bankhead’s costumes in The Dancers were admired repeatedly. Her first outfit was à la Egyptienne – composed entirely of silver sequins. Another outfit was lilac chiffon and green satin, adorned with lilac trails. Her final costume – a slim ‘magpie’ dress, a back of black charmeuse and a front of white, ending in white lace encrusted with black and crystal beads – was undoubtedly the finest we have seen on the London stage since Lucile Duff Gordon’s creations for Miss Elsie in The Merry Widow.

Turning the pages, I read the calls for auditions. Chorus girls are wanted all over town, the bad fogs wreaking havoc with the health of many dancers and leading ladies so that understudies are needed for the understudies. I imagine the long lines outside the theatres, another batch of disappointed girls and crushed dreams travelling home on the omnibuses and trams later that day. I’ve been that girl so many times, watching with envy as the final name is announced for the callbacks. ‘The rest of you may leave. Thank you for your time.’ The words we all dread.

As I read down the column of audition calls, something catches my eye. The print is small and I lift the page closer to read it.

WANTED: MUSE

Struggling musical composer seeks muse to inspire.

Applicants must possess a sense of humour and the patience of a saint.

One hour a week – arranged to suit. Payment in cherry cake and tea.

Replies, outlining suitability, for the attention of:

Mrs Ambrose, c/o Apartment Three, Strand Theatre, Aldwych

I read the notice several times and tear the page from the paper. I’m not really sure why, other than that the words set my heart racing.

‘You need to stop asking why, Dolly. The question to ask is, why not?’

I hear Teddy’s voice so clearly, his gentle words, his belief in me. I see his face, the empty stare, the uncontrollable tremble in his arms, the damp stain at his groin. No dignity for men like him. No future for would-be wives like me.

I read the notice once more, fold it into neat quarters, and place it in my purse as Auntie Gert’s words whisper to me. Wonderful adventures await for those who dare to find them.

Why not?

Clover is already standing outside the Palais when I arrive. She runs to greet me as I step off the bus, nearly knocking me over as she throws her arms around me as if we’d been apart for months, not days.

I hug her tight. ‘I’ve missed you, Clover Parker.’

‘Liar. Bet you’ve hardly thought about me.’ She loops her arm through mine as we walk up the Palais steps. ‘Go on, then. Tell me. What’s it like, this posh hotel of yours? I know you’re bursting to tell me.’

I can’t help smiling. ‘I wish you could see it, Clo. Your eyes would pop out at the ladies’ dresses and shoes, and the gentlemen are so handsome and the hotel band plays the hottest sounds. I can still hear it sometimes when I go to bed. Ragtime and the latest jazz numbers.’

Clover lights a cigarette for us both. ‘Told you. Head full of nonsense already! So, what are your roommates like? Please tell me they’re awful and you wish you’d never left Grosvenor Square.’

‘They’re nice, actually. One of them, Sissy, reminds me of you. Gladys is quiet, but nice enough. Very pretty. She wants to be a Hollywood movie star and I wouldn’t be surprised if she makes it. The other one, Mildred, is a bit miserable. Never has a word to say, and she looks at me funny. We didn’t work with anyone called Mildred, did we?’

Clover thinks for a moment. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Why?’

‘I’ve a funny feeling I’ve met her before, but I don’t know where. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about her. Let’s get inside and dance!’

The Original Dixieland Jazz Band is playing a waltz when we enter the dance hall, a sea of bodies already moving, as one, around the dance floor. I love it here. The Oriental decoration, the music, the dancing, the sense of freedom and letting go. We sit at a table and order tea and a plate of sandwiches. Clover is wearing a lovely new dress, which I admire. Lavender rayon with a lace trim.

‘Made it myself,’ she says, twirling around and sending the hem kicking out as she spins. ‘Three yards of fabric from Petticoat Lane for two pounds. Hardly need any fabric to make a respectable dress these days. If Madame Chanel raises her hemlines a bit higher, I’ll be able to make a whole dress for sixpence.’

‘It’s lovely,’ I say, conscious of my faded old dress, which looks like a sack of potatoes beside Clover’s. I keep my coat on and complain of being cold. It isn’t a complete fib. I’ve had an irritating cough since arriving at The Savoy and it seems to be getting worse. Sissy says it serves me right for wandering around in the rain without an umbrella.

‘So, how are things at Grosvenor Square?’ I ask. ‘Is Madam as bad-tempered as ever?’

‘Everything’s exactly the same. A new girl started as a kitchen maid to replace you. It’s strange to wake up and see her in your bed. She doesn’t say much. Her fella was killed in the war. When her work’s done, she knits endless pairs of socks. Seems to think they’re still needed at the front. Completely batty.’

I’m dying to show Clover the notice from The Stage and take the folded square of paper from my purse.

‘Before you say anything, I know it’s a bit strange, but I couldn’t resist.’

But she isn’t listening. She’s distracted by Tommy Mullins, who has just arrived and is standing across the other side of the dance floor. Clover makes a big show of taking her lipstick from her purse and applies it as seductively as she can as he starts to make his way over. Tommy is a weasel of a man. I don’t care for him at all.

‘I wish you wouldn’t encourage him, Clover,’ I whisper, placing my hand protectively on hers. ‘Don’t dance with him. Not today. Wait for somebody else. Somebody better.’

She laughs. ‘You and your better. Somebody better. Somewhere better. There might not be anything better. This might be as good as it gets. Beggars can’t be choosers, Miss Dolly Daydream with your head in the clouds. I’m not being left on the shelf like a forgotten bloody Christmas decoration.’ She stands up as Tommy reaches our table. ‘One dance,’ she whispers, ‘then I’m all yours. Promise.’

As I watch them walk to the dance floor, giggling like teenagers, I fold the piece of paper and put it back into my purse. Clover would only tell me to forget about it anyway. And she’d be right. I probably should.

I pick up a limp ham paste sandwich as Clover waves over to me. I wave back and pour the tea. It is as weak as my smile.

When the afternoon session ends, we head back up west, to Woolworth’s, where Clover insists on trying on the make-up. We rouge our cheeks and pat pancake and powder over our noses and squirt Yardley perfume onto our wrists until we feel sick with the smell of them all and go to admire the button counter. After Woolworth’s, we go to the picture palace, buy two singles and a packet of humbugs, and huddle together in our seats as the picture starts. There are the usual public-service announcements followed by the Pathé newsreel.

‘I met a man last week who spoke like that,’ I whisper. ‘Ever so handsome.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing.’

‘Then why did you mention him?’

‘I don’t really know!’

We burst out laughing, earning a sharp shush from a sour-faced woman behind us. We slide down into our seats as the silent movie starts. We are shushed three more times as we comment on the picture and unwrap our humbugs, but this only makes us giggle even more.

When the picture ends and the houselights go up, we make our way outside, where London has become a blaze of lights and colour. The restaurants are buzzing. Strains of jazz and ragtime drift through open doors as lines of motor cabs wait outside the theatres to take the excited audiences home or on to supper parties. Smartly dressed pageboys shout and whistle to hail passing motor cabs outside the hotels. A flower seller walks by, hawking her posies. Clover and I link arms and stroll together, arm in arm, as far as the corner of Wellington Street, where Clover hops onto her omnibus.

‘See you next week, then,’ I say, kissing her on the cheek.

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

I feel guilty for the spring in my step as I walk back towards the Strand. Truth is, I want to run. I want to race along the pavement as fast as an express train, away from the soldiers who beg outside the theatres and remind me of war, away from my memories of Mawdesley and everything I left behind there. I think about the notice from The Stage