Hazel Gaynor – The Girl From The Savoy (страница 18)

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.