And then the woman we have all been waiting for.
Loretta May.
The darling of the West End. The darling of London society. The rebellious society debutante dressed by Poiret and Lelong, photographed by Beaton, painted by artists, and written about by poets in their salons. It is Loretta May we have been waiting for. She is the reason we have saved every penny from our weekly wage to buy a ticket to tonight’s performance, to stand for hours just to see her in the flesh. She is the reason middle-aged women had taken in the milk off their doorsteps that morning and left their bewildered husbands without their breakfasts as they’d hurried off to Wellington Street to join the queue for the gallery door.
She appears from the wings amid a great stamping of feet and a frenzied cheering from the gallery. Tears prick my eyes as I tighten my grip on Clover’s arm. Miss May’s costume is beautiful: lavender chiffon with powder-puff posies at the waist and handkerchief draperies falling from either side of the skirt. Shimmering silver shoes with heels the color of cyclamen. Even several gentlemen in the stalls cannot resist the urge to stand up and shout their admiration.
Her very first line has the entire theater in peals of laughter. The Loretta May magic is in full force.
The show passes in a blur of dance, song, laughter, and wild applause. The final curtain prompts a great outpouring of affection from the gallery girls. “You’re marvelous! You’re marvelous!” we cry, our words echoing around the theater as we call for Miss May’s return to the stage. But she is gone, and it is over.
As the houselights go up, Clover tugs at my sleeve. “Come on. We might see her leave.”
“You go,” I say. “I’ll follow in a moment.”
As the others rush back down the steep stairs, hoping to get an autograph or perhaps an invitation to the dressing room, or at least a glimpse of Miss May as she leaves for the after party, I stand and stare at the stage. I close my eyes, imagining that I am dressed in lavender chiffon; soft silver dance shoes on my feet. I deliver my lines with deliberate sass and perfect timing. The audience roar for more and call my name every time I emerge from the wings.
“Not got a home to go to?”
I open my eyes. An usher is sweeping the floor around me. “Yes, of course. Sorry.”
“Fancy yourself down there, do you?”
“Pardon?”
“On the stage? All the gallery girls think they’ll be on that stage one day.”
“And what’s the harm in that?”
The woman has a sour face and sucks in her bottom lip with a great slurp. “No harm. Ain’t never gonna happen, though, is it? I dunno. You young girls with your heads all full of nonsense!”
She chuckles to herself and carries on with her sweeping as I pick up my handbag and make for the exit where Clover is waiting for me.
Outside, London is lit up like a circus. I stop to look at the front of the theater. LORETTA MAY blazes out in electric lights. I link my arm through Clover’s.
“I think ‘Dolly Lane’ would look well in lights. Don’t you?”
“I thought it was going to be Ninette Faye,” she says, reminding me of the stage name we’d concocted years ago. I giggle and pull her closer to me.
We stroll together along Shaftesbury Avenue and across Cambridge Circus, my head a jumble of thoughts.
Clover notices that I’m quiet; distracted. “What’s going on in that head of yours now?” she asks.
I rest my head on her shoulder. “Things.”
She guesses what it is I’m thinking about. “Why don’t you visit the hospital? See if you can find him.”
“I tried that before. All I found was a dead end.”
“But that was a few years ago. They might be more helpful now. There’s lots of girls have found their babies, or at least had word that they’re safe and well cared for. It might put your mind at rest if nothing else.”
“I’m afraid, Clover. What if I do find him? What if I find him and can’t bear to lose him again? What then? I’d be right back where I started.”
She pulls her arms around my shoulder. “But you won’t know until you find him, will you. And you can’t spend the rest of your life wondering.”
As we walk, we pass a brass band of ex-servicemen playing Christmas carols. Their sound is beautiful and haunting, the music drifting above the crowds of shoppers and theatergoers and revelers. As we stand for a moment to listen, I wonder what their stories are. Where they fought. Who they lost. How different their lives are now.
I wonder if Teddy hears music.
I wonder if he remembers how we used to love dancing.
I wonder if he thinks of me at all.
23
TEDDY
Maghull Military War Hospital, Lancashire
June 1919
It reminds me of a sunset I once saw
but I can’t remember where, or who I was with.
I suppose it was Dolly.
It was always Dolly.
More beds lie empty. I am one of only half a dozen patients left on the ward now. I seem to have become something of a medical marvel to the doctors. I almost wonder if they don’t want to let me go home so they can continue to write their reports about me. Not that I really mind. I will miss the nurse if I go home. She’s become something of a special friend to me.
“I found another letter,” she says. “It was written on Christmas Day. It seems a bit silly to read on such a lovely summer’s day, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Would you like me to read it?”
I nod.
She takes the letter from the envelope, pushes a curl from her eyes, and reads.
December 18th, 1917
Happy Christmas, Teddy!
How can it be the end of another year already? How can you have been gone so long? There’s been seven babies born in the village while you’ve been away—and the eight kittens. Poppy is getting very big. She’s the most gorgeous cat. I tell her all about you.
I hope the socks and muffler fit. I knitted them myself. I’m afraid I’m not very good with the needles. Some of the other women and girls knock them out in their dozens, but I’m still all fingers and thumbs and keep dropping stitches. Mam despairs of me. But I insist on trying and these are what I made. Mam says if they’re no use to you as socks you could always use them as an extra pair of gloves. I knitted them in the colors of our factory football team: black and white. The stripes are a bit wonky, but I don’t suppose that will matter much when they’re shoved inside your boots.
What will you do to celebrate Christmas? I hope everyone will stop fighting, even if only for the day, and take time to remember their loved ones back home. It is so awful to think of men killing each other at Christmastime. I’ve put a small bottle of rum and some extra smokes into the parcel. The pudding is from Mam. She insisted on making dozens for the men from the village. It gives her something to pass the time and take her mind off things.
We had the first snow flurries last week. I’d forgotten how pretty the village looks when it snows. Everything felt so calm and quiet for a while it was hard to believe we are a country at war.
I hope you see a little snow this Christmas, Teddy. Your socks will keep you warm if it does. Even with their wonky stripes.
With all my heart,
Your Little Thing,
Dolly
X
Wonky stripes.
I remember the wonky stripes on the socks. Black and white.
When I close my eyes, I can see them in my hands. I can hear myself laughing, knowing how hard she must have worked on them.
I remember. For the first time since I came here, I remember.
I open my eyes. Beside me, she folds the letter and dabs at her cheeks with a spotted blue handkerchief. I feel sorry for her; sorry that she has to be here in this awful place on such a lovely day. It is a day for walking. I know she’d much rather be outside.
I reach for her hand, wrapping my fingers around hers. They are soft, like velvet. I
close my eyes to a world of crimson and mandarin as the sunlight settles against my lids. It reminds me of a sunset I once saw, but I can’t remember where, or who I was with. I suppose it was Dolly. It was always Dolly.
She sits with me awhile, dozing with me in the sunlight. Only when Matron comes round for her daily inspections does she gather her things and leave. I watch her until she disappears through the swing door.
At the window, the butterfly spreads its wings, basking in a beam of sunlight. I sense that it is restless; that it will soon fly, and when it does I will watch it go, happy for its freedom.
It isn’t mine after all. It isn’t mine to keep.
24
DOLLY
“I’m not like that, Mr. Snyder. I’m not that kind of girl.”
Distracted by Christmas and the exhausting schedule of parties and luncheons, Mademoiselle Delysia appears to have forgotten about finding a new lady’s maid. I’ve settled into a comfortable arrangement where I know her routine and little nuances and she trusts me to do what is necessary. I know which dresses and shoes to lay out for her various engagements and appointments, and although I rarely see her in person, when I do she speaks softly and smiles sweetly and I bathe in the glow of her attention for hours afterward.
As for Snyder, I still mistrust him and his motivations for helping me out over the hair comb, but I eventually found the courage to approach him about an audition. It was an uncomfortable conversation, which left me far less excited than it should have, but as I’m beginning to understand, dreams don’t always arrive wrapped up in pretty packages. Sometimes they are awkward and misshapen and difficult to hold on to. I have to grasp any opportunity that comes my way.
When I’m alone, doing out my allocation of suites and apartments, I often think about Sissy telling me how the maids try on the ladies’ shoes or take a spritz of perfume. I remember how she’d draped an evening dress across her front and pretended to waltz around the room on our first morning’s work together, the hanger flapping down the back of her neck. She’d laughed at me when I told her she shouldn’t. I’ve known lady’s maids who have messed around with their mistresses’ belongings, but that was usually done in temper, a reaction to years of being put upon and talked down to. While there is less cause for bad feeling and resentment in the hotel, temptation is still everywhere.
I especially admire Mademoiselle Delysia’s dresses. She has the most magnificent Lanvin and Vionnet evening dresses in chiffon and satin that shimmer beneath my fingertips, and day dresses by Lucien Lelong with perfect pleats and soft lace trims. And apart from the dresses, her shoes are the most exquisite things I’ve ever seen. She owns a particular pair of dance shoes that catch my attention every time I see them. The silver brocade fabric is woven with a delicate pattern of roses and elaborate cutwork in the leather. Beautiful silver buttons secure the T-straps. The leather inside is embossed with the manufacturer’s mark: Perugia, Faubourg Saint-Honoré, Paris. So many times I’ve picked them up to wrap them in tissue paper before placing them into their velvet pouch and back into their box. So many times I have paused, and wondered.
I hesitate now as I put them away, running my fingertips over the soft fabric as I lift them to the window to admire the way the light shimmers and shifts across the material. I place one beside my foot. They are my size. Dare I?
Rushing to the door, I press my ear to the woodwork, listening for sounds of anyone approaching. All is quiet. I make the decision quickly.
Perching on the end of the bed, I kick off my dull black shoes and slip my feet inside the soft leather. They feel wonderful. A perfect fit. I stand up and walk across the carpet and back. I do a twirl, a little hop, a step, and a kick. I stand in front of the looking glass to admire my reflection. My feet in silver shoes. So beautiful.
As quickly as I put them on, I take them off and return them to the wardrobe, my heart pounding with the thrill of having taken something without permission. As I attend to the rest of my work, billowing out the fresh bed linen, plumping pillows, rubbing thumbprints from gilt cigarette cases, my feet still feel the sensation of soft leather and the silver shoes nag and nag at my thoughts.
My audition with Snyder is arranged for nine o’clock on my Sunday off. He tells me to go to the stage door of the Prince of Wales Theatre. I have a borrowed dress from Clover, my dance leotard, and my battered old dance shoes. Apart from that, I have only my dreams for support.
He is standing outside when I arrive and grins when he sees me, crushing his spent cigarette beneath his shoe. “Ah. Good. You’re here. You’d be surprised how many don’t show up.”
I look around. “Where are the others?”
“The others?”
“The other girls auditioning.”
He laughs. “But this is a private audition, Miss Lane. Arranged especially for you. I suppose there has to be some benefit to cleaning a Hollywood manager’s hotel suite!” He senses my hesitation. “Half the girls in London would be here in a heartbeat, but if you’d rather wait in a long line and take your turn . . .”
“No. It’s fine.” I offer a nervous smile and step into the dark corridor. Snyder closes the door behind me with a thud.
“Do you need to change?” he asks.
“Yes. Please.”
“Dressing room’s on the left. Take as much time as you need, then make your way to the stage.”
I wander along a narrow corridor until I find the dressing room and close the door behind me. I look for a lock, but there isn’t one. I drag a chair toward the door to block the entrance. It is better than nothing.
I place my bag on a stool and drape my coat over the back of a chair. The room is small and cold. I shiver and rub my arms to keep them warm. A long dressing table sits along one wall, electric lights around the mirrors reflect off the glass. Every surface is covered with costumes and props. The dressing tables are cluttered with makeup and glitter and open pots of cold cream, the deep grooves of finger marks left in the cream. The air smells of Pears soap and hair spray. It’s as if the performers have just stepped out. I try to not let myself be distracted by the thought of where I am and who might have been here last night, and change as quickly as I can into my dance leotard, keeping one eye on the door. I do a few quick stretches and high kicks and make my way back along the corridor toward the stage. It’s such a long time since I last auditioned. I feel rusty and unsure and I hesitate at the steps that lead to the wings. Concentrate, Dolly. Concentrate. Taking a deep breath, I step out onto the stage, my heels clacking against the boards as I walk toward the spotlight in the center.
The auditorium is dark and silent.
“Hello?” My voice sounds impossibly small and lost.
Snyder steps forward from the wings on the opposite side of the stage. “Don’t worry. I haven’t abandoned you.” He gives me a quick once-over but doesn’t remark on my appearance. “Did you bring any music?”
I hand him the pages of music, the same pages I’ve trawled around half of London over the last few years. He studies them for a moment and laughs. “Shouldn’t we try something a little more modern? I presume you know the Charleston?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I’ll play and you give me your best steps.” He hops down into the orchestra pit. “By the way, don’t you want to ask me?”
“Ask you what?”
“Why I helped you out with that business over the hair comb.”
I squint through the dazzle of the spotlight, raising a hand to my eyes to shield them from the glare. “I presumed you were just following Mademoiselle Delysia’s wishes.”
“You presume an awful lot for a maid. I don’t recall hearing a thank you.”
His words are cutting. I swallow hard. “Thank you. It was very good of you to step in.”
“You should remember your manners, Miss Lane. Poor manners can land a girl in trouble.”
I look down at my feet, hoping he can’t see the reddening of my cheeks. This isn’t how it shoul
d be. This isn’t what I’d imagined at all.
He laughs. “Why so serious? I’m only teasing you! Pulling your leg—isn’t that what you Brits say? That’s all forgotten about. Yesterday’s news.” He coughs and settles himself at the piano. “I’ll count you in. Ready?”
I nod. My heart thumps in my chest. My legs shake like jelly. My mouth is as dry as an autumn leaf.
“Three, four . . .”
The first bars of music burst into life. He plays well. I try to shake off my nerves and think about how often I’ve watched the girls dance on this very stage, and I smile my best smile and tap and twirl and kick as high as I can, stretching my arms out on either side, imagining that I am part of a line of girls all dancing together and that I am not alone in this vast place with a man I do not trust.
As he plays the final bar, the chord fades and all is silent. I stand in the center of the stage, my breathing heavy.
I hear Snyder chuckling from the darkness as he offers some measly applause. “Not bad. A little rusty, but I’ve seen worse. I don’t know why, but something about you amuses me, Miss Lane. You’re really quite charming. You remind me of Bea Lillie when she started out. Charlot’s little clown.” He laughs to himself. “Do you sing?”
“A little.”