Hazel Gaynor - The Girl From The Savoy

A ribbon of rainwater slips off the edge of the peppermint-striped awning of the florist’s shop beside us, pooling in the crown of his hat. Grabbing the last of the papers, he ducks beneath the awning and the moment drifts away from us like a child’s lost balloon and all I can do is watch it disappear over the rooftops. I join him beneath the awning as he pats at his elbows with a white handkerchief and inspects a small tear in the knee of his trousers.

‘Damned new shoes,’ he mutters. ‘Treacherous in weather like this.’

His shoes are smart two-tone navy-and-tan brogues. I glance at my black lace-ups, hand-me-downs from Clover, as battered and worn as old Mrs Spencer at the fish shop. I place one foot over the other, self-consciously. ‘That’s why I don’t bother with them,’ I say. ‘Old shoes are more reliable. Same with men.’

My Lancashire accent sounds common beside him and I regret giving up the elocution lessons I’d started last year. Couldn’t stand the stuck-up woman who taught me. In the end I told her to get knotted with her how-nows and brown cows. Now I can’t help feeling I might have been a bit hasty.

I watch as he fusses and fidgets to set himself right, adjusting his coat and replacing his trilby: nut-brown felt with a chocolate-ribbon trim. Ever so smart. Dark shadows beneath his eyes suggest a late night. He smells of whisky and cigarettes, brilliantine and rain. I can’t take my eyes off him.

‘If you don’t mind me saying, you look knackered.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Are you always this complimentary to strangers?’ That smile again, tugging at the edge of his mouth as if pulled by an invisible string. ‘It was a late night, if you must know.’

‘Hope she was worth it.’

He laughs. ‘Well, aren’t you the little comedienne! I needed some amusement today. Thank you.’

As I hand him the sodden pages that I’ve rescued from the pavement, I notice the lines of musical notes. ‘Do you play?’

‘Yes.’ He takes a page from me. ‘I write it actually.’

‘A composer? Blimey! Blues or jazz?’

‘Blues, mainly.’

‘Oh.’

‘You sound disappointed.’

‘Prefer jazz.’

‘Doesn’t everybody?’

I hand him another page. ‘Is it any good then, your music?’

He looks a little embarrassed. ‘I’m afraid not. Not at the moment, anyway.’

‘That’s a shame. I love music. The good type, that is. Especially jazz.’

He smiles again. ‘Then perhaps I should write some.’

‘Perhaps you should.’

And here we are again, grinning at each other. There is something about this fox-haired stranger that makes me smile all the way from my sodden toes to the top of my cloche. Nobody has made me feel like this since I was eight years old and first met Teddy Cooper. I didn’t think anybody would ever make me feel that way again. Part of me has always hoped nobody ever would.

‘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.’