And it’s not just me. Clover’s thoughts often seem to be elsewhere as we twirl around the dance floor or share a cigarette and a pot of tea at the teashop. She always seems to have a headache or a reason to head back to Grosvenor Square well before the ten o’clock curfew, so I often find myself back at the hotel long before the others. I take the opportunity to practice my high kicks and dance routines, but I can’t take much joy from my time alone. Much as I hate to admit it, a distance is growing between Clover and me. Even our trips to the theater aren’t as much fun as they once were. I’m too busy concentrating on the chorus girls to gossip with her. I watch every move, talking through their steps, nodding my head up and down in time to the music until Clover digs me in the ribs and shushes me. We don’t giggle and laugh like we used to. Clover rarely even smiles.
On the morning of my audition for Charlot, I wake early, giddy with excitement and nerves. The rehearsed steps and routines spin through my mind until they become a confusing jumble and all I can do is trip and stumble over them. I try not to think about it as I clutch little Edward’s photograph beneath the bedcovers. I say a silent prayer: that he is safe and loved, wherever he is, and that I will be blessed with light feet and a voice like a blackbird.
As soon as my morning’s work is done, I rush from the hotel and take the omnibus to Bond Street. I want to catch Clover before she leaves. I want to tell her about the audition and promise that I’ll make it up to her and go dancing at the Palais next week. If there is a next week. I haven’t even thought beyond the audition or what it will mean if I am engaged to Charlot’s production. There certainly won’t be time for a sixpenny dance at the Palais. How will I ever tell Clover that?
When I arrive at the Grosvenor Square house, a maid I don’t recognize answers the door. She is small and mean-looking.
“Is Clover Parker here?” I ask.
Her eyes scrunch together into a deep scowl. “Who wants to know?”
“Dolly. I used to work here. She’s a friend of mine.”
The maid leans against the doorframe and folds her arms across her chest. “She don’t work here no more. Left last night.”
“Left?”
She glances over her shoulder, steps forward, and pulls the door to behind her. “Given her marching orders after she was found out.”
“Found out about what?”
“Well, I’m not one to talk out of turn, but word is that she’s been earning extra money on the side.” She winks at me. “You know. Hanging around on street corners. Waiting for . . . customers.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “I’m looking for Clover Parker. You must have the wrong person.”
“Same person. Only one Clover Parker worked here. We was wondering how she was affording all them new hats and dresses. Told us the ladies had been passing them on to her. Told us she’d got them bruises taking a tumble down the back stairs. Now we know the truth of it, don’t we?” She shakes her head and tuts.
My mind whirls. All those new dresses I’d admired. The plum velvet hat. The silk stockings she bought me for Christmas. The makeup. “I don’t understand. Why would she do that?”
“Don’t ask me. But she did. Madam got wind of it and now she don’t work here no more. That’s all I know about it.”
I feel panicked. How did I not notice? Why didn’t she tell me? “Do you know where she went?”
“Ain’t got the foggiest.” She steps back inside the doorway. “Maybe you should try the corner of Tottenham Court Road.”
She laughs as she closes the door and I walk away with my head spinning. I’ve been so wrapped up in myself I hadn’t noticed the signs. All the nice things. All the excuses to leave early. The occasional bruise where she’d obviously been handled too roughly. I wince at the thought. I should have paid more attention; should have been a better friend. I rack my brain to think of all the places she might go if she was in trouble.
The tearooms. She’ll be in the A.B.C. at Piccadilly Circus.
I have an hour before my audition. I run back to the omnibus stop and take the number forty-three to Piccadilly. Please be there, Clover. Please let me help you.
I find her sitting at a table beside the window, stirring a cup of cold tea. She bursts into tears when she sees me and I throw my arms around her.
“Oh, Clover. What have you done, you silly old sod.”
She buries her face in my neck. “Secret’s out, then. I’m such a bloody idiot, Dolly.”
“I went to the house. The maid told me.” I hold her cheeks with my hands. “Why, Clover? Why? I’m so cross with you. Why didn’t you tell me? All those things—dresses and hats and silk stockings—nothing can be worth that. Surely.”
She blows her nose and wipes the tears from her eyes as I sit down beside her and light us both a cigarette. Through her tears and her shame she tells me everything.
“I stopped caring, Dolly. I flirted with Tommy Mullins ’cause it made me feel good about myself, made me feel like a woman again. He started calling to the house and asked to walk out with me. I never said nothing ’cause I know you don’t care for him, and I knew I’d get into trouble with Madam for having followers calling to the house, so I brushed him off. But he kept coming back and I was flattered by the attention. I agreed to go dancing with him one night.” She pauses and takes a long drag on her cigarette. “He took me to a boardinghouse afterward and, well, you know. Things happened.”
I grab her hand. “Oh, Clover.”
“I thought I would enjoy it, but I felt numb afterward. Cold and numb. Still, it was better than being alone. We started to meet more regularly and then he asked if I would go dancing with a friend of his. An ex-serviceman. Told me he hadn’t been with a girl since the war; that nobody would look at him ’cause of his scars. You know me, Dolly. I feel sorry for everyone. So I met him—the poor bugger—and we danced and he took me back to that same boardinghouse, and when it was over he got dressed and left some money on the table. I thought I was doing him a favor. He thought I was earning a living. That’s how it started. After that, Tommy told me he knew a woman who could help me earn better money if I was prepared to help other soldiers and go to boardinghouses like that more often. That’s why I started to head off early from our afternoons off.”
I sit and listen and hold her hand, and I cannot believe that all this time, while I’ve been dancing in a Mayfair apartment, my oldest friend has been going through this alone. I feel awful. Awful, and ashamed of myself.
“I’m so sorry, Clover. I let you down. I should have noticed. I’ve been so wrapped up in myself . . .”
“It’s not your fault, Doll. It’s mine. I got greedy. I had my eye on a hat in Selfridges—you know the one. I contacted Tommy’s friend and she made the necessary arrangements. I bought the hat with the first bit of money I made. It seemed so easy. The number of times that hat was admired made it all seem worthwhile. I felt special when I wore it. And it was the soldiers too. Poor buggers. Some of them stuttering and muttering and most of them with a leg missing or a mask over their face to hide the scars. I felt sorry for them. Convinced myself I was helping them.”
“I wish you’d told me. Maybe I could have talked some sense into you.”
“I couldn’t tell anyone. I was too ashamed. When I was with them, I thought of other things and just waited for it to be over. Most of them were decent enough sorts. Only a few got a bit out of hand.”
“The bruises?”
She nods. “Most of them just did the business, buttoned themselves up, and went home. Didn’t even know their names. But then I was set up with a friend of one of the valets and word got back to Madam and that was that. Marching orders. Told me to pack my things and leave immediately. Said she wouldn’t be associated with such things. She could hardly bear to look at me.”
“Oh, Clover. Where did you stay last night?”
“At the boardinghouse.” She sees the question in my eyes. “Don’t worry. I was alone.”
I can?
??t think of anything to say to help, so I give her a hug and let her sniffle on my shoulder, just as she did all those months ago when we sat in this very same tearoom and I told her I had a new position at The Savoy.
“Perhaps we’re not so different after all,” she says, as if she can read my thoughts. “Maybe we’re all searching for something to cling to, something to make us feel important.”
I feel guilt in every bone of my body for not being there for her. Worst of all, when my best friend in the world needs me more than ever, I am painfully aware of the minutes passing by. My audition starts in twenty minutes.
“I want you to come somewhere with me, Clover.”
“Where?”
“A theater. I’ve an audition. A big one. Come with me and we’ll go for something to eat afterward. Promise.”
“But . . . I can’t. Look at the state of me.”
“Never mind about that. Anyway, it’ll be dark inside. Come on. I’m not leaving you here. If you won’t come, I’m not going either.” I stand up and fold my arms across my chest to show her I mean it.
She doesn’t need much persuading. We leave the tearooms and head for the Shaftesbury Theatre. I can’t think of anybody I would rather have beside me right now and I link my arm through Clover’s and rest my head on her shoulder.
“Who are you auditioning for anyway?” she asks as we hurry along.
“Oh, nobody special. Only one of the biggest theater producers in the business.”
“You’d better be bloody good, then.”
I laugh. “I suppose I’d better.”
The stage-door manager, Jimmy Jones, sees us inside. Miss May has told me all about him. He’s a kind man, and while I change in the dressing room he settles Clover into the auditorium with a tot of brandy. I change quickly and make my way to the wings along with a dozen other girls. We are told to assemble behind the safety curtain and wait.
After what feels like an age, a young gentleman with rolled-up shirtsleeves steps around the curtain and tells us they’re ready. We file out onto the stage, our heels clattering against the boards.
André Charlot stands at the front of the stage. He’s dressed in a smart tweed suit. A cigar smolders in his right hand. He has a gentle face and a round belly. I like him instantly.
“Come along, then. Two straight lines, girls. Come along, please.” His voice is firm yet kind, laced with the lilt of his French accent.
As we all shuffle into position I think of everything Miss May has taught me; all the hours spent in her apartment. I pull my shoulders back. “Walk tall, with poise and confidence, no matter how much your legs shake.” Her words ring in my ears. “Make him notice you from the very first moment he sets eyes on you. Stand out before you even dance one step.”
He catches my eye. I hold his gaze, willing him to remember me.
“Now, girls. Miss Williams will show you the steps and then you will all dance together. It’s no use to me if you can dance wonderfully on your own. The magic of the chorus is in dancing together. Understand?”
We all nod and mutter a collective yes as the dance mistress, Miss Williams, steps forward.
“Right, girls. This is a simple one. You place your feet apart, hands on your shoulders, and take a little kick out to the side with alternate feet with a little hop in between. Light on your feet. Toes pointed and a lovely flick with the ankle. Like this.” She shows us the step, counting out the beat herself. “One and two and one and two and. I want you to all keep in time, without any mistakes. Concentrate on following the music and hitting the beat.”
She assembles us all into a perfectly straight line and gives the pianist the cue. We all dance the step perfectly, our shoes stamping against the boards. We repeat the same step a dozen times until my calves burn. When she is satisfied, she shows us a more complicated step, following the same pattern and rhythm but using the steps to move herself around in a circle. The pianist starts the music and we dance again. One of the girls gets muddled in the middle of the step. The dance mistress pulls her to the front of the line and looks at me.
“You. What’s your name?”
“Dorothy, miss. Dolly, for short.”
“Come here. Show this girl the step again.”
I step forward from the line and repeat the steps, kicking and flicking my feet to the side and turning myself in a perfect circle. The other girl follows and gets it right. We both fall back into line.
We continue like this for thirty minutes. Step after step. High-kicking. Moving in a line to the left. Moving in a line to the right. Linking arms and kicking our way around in a circle without breaking the line. It’s exhausting. We each sing a verse of “Pack Up Your Troubles” and read a line of script from The Dancers. I mimic Tallulah Bankhead, affecting her slow southern drawl. Charlot smiles. Our final dance is a high-kicking routine that seems to last forever.
When he has seen enough he calls for the pianist to stop and for us to stop dancing. Our feet fall gratefully still and silent against the boards as he walks along the line, taking a moment to pause and look at each of us in turn. I think about my first morning at The Savoy and O’Hara scolding me for my vermillion lips. I almost smile at the memory. Walking back the other way, Charlot taps two girls on the shoulder and asks them to step forward. He walks past the others and comes back to me, at the very end of the line.
“Dorothy, isn’t it?”
My heart bursts with hope. Restless wings flutter, longing to beat furiously. I nod. “Yes, sir.” I cross my fingers on both hands and squeeze them tight together. I see little Edward’s face. I see Teddy silhouetted against the setting sun. I see Perry smiling at me as he watches me dance with Miss May. Everything has come to this.
“Step forward, please.”
I can hardly move, my legs are shaking so much. I hear a little squeak from the darkness of the auditorium. Clover.
“The rest of you may leave. Thank you for your time.”
I stand apart from the other two girls. We look straight ahead into the pitch black as the heels of the other girls’ dance shoes trudge disappointedly from the stage. I can barely breathe. “Step forward, please.” In those words are everything I’ve ever hoped for. All the rejections and the failures, all the pain and the heartache melt away like snow in a thaw.
Charlot stands center stage and addresses us. “Thank you, girls. You impressed me. You are not the most conventional chorus girls I have ever auditioned—two of you are two inches too short for a start—but that is precisely what I’m looking for. Something different. And I see that in each of you. A spark of something that with a little care and attention might become something extraordinary.” He steps back a little to admire his selection. “Congratulations, girls. Welcome to the chorus of Charlot’s Revue. We start rehearsals in a week.”
The words I have dreamed of. The words I have imagined in my darkest moments. And now they are here, swirling around in front of me, lit by the spotlight, and they are mine to keep, to hear forever more.
Wonderful adventures await for those who dare to find them.
A wingbeat stirs in my heart and I urge it to fly. To grow stronger. To soar. I can’t wait to tell Miss May and Perry.
Clover is beside herself when I eventually join her at the stage door. “I’ve never seen you dance like that in your life! You were terrific. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Who knew, eh! Who knew our Dolly Lane had that in those little legs of hers?”
“Little legs but ever such shapely ankles, you know!”
I treat us both to a supper of poached eggs and toast and we talk properly for the first time in weeks. We listen to each other. Laugh. Cry. Just like we used to. It is one of the nicest suppers we’ve ever had. After seeing her safely back to the boardinghouse, and promising I’ll make inquiries about a position for her at The Savoy, I run all the way back to the hotel.
The evening is pleasantly still and warm and I take my time, following my preferred route along the Embankment. With the return of
warmer weather, the pavement artists have also returned to brighten the gray flagstones with their drawings. I walk slowly to admire their work. At the end of the railings are several images of a beautiful young girl. I lean forward to take a closer look. In colored chalks around the images are three words, written in beautiful looping script. Hope. Love. Adventure.
A coffee seller walks past, pushing his cart. He stops to look at the drawings beside me. “Dead ringer for her,” he says, looking at me and then back at the drawings.
“I’m sorry?”
“You. You’re a dead ringer for the girl in the drawings. See? Same eyes. Same lips. The very same. Funny, eh!”
He is right. The resemblance is striking. I look around for the artist, but everyone has packed up for the day. I stare at the images. They are so like me I could almost be looking into a mirror.
The coffee seller walks on, leaving me alone, staring at the drawings on the pavement; alone, surrounded by memories; alone with the echoes of my past that whisper in the leaves that dance in the breeze.
Alone, and yet I know that he is here. Only one person could have drawn such a remarkable likeness of me.
“Teddy?” I whisper. “Where are you?”
38
TEDDY
London
April 1924
Sometimes she is a daffodil. Sometimes a butterfly. And always, always she is surrounded by hope
and love and adventure.
I left Mawdesley on a frost-dusted November morning. No big announcement. No dramatic good-bye. I packed a bag, told Mam I’d be popping out for a while, and walked away.
I hadn’t planned to go. I hadn’t planned anything after returning from the hospital.
Slowly, I felt myself coming back together, as if all the lost pieces of me scattered around those muddy French fields gradually found their way back home. Piece by piece, I felt myself fitting back together. And yet peacetime came with a hesitant step and a frequent backward glance. We all wondered if we’d really seen the end to the horrors of war. But somehow we found a way to move forward. We all learned to walk again and talk again. Some even learned to love again.