The Girl from the Savoy Read Free Page A

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 heavybuckets 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.
    â€œYou the new girl?”
    â€œYes.”
    Grabbing the handle of my traveling bag, she drags me inside. “You’re late. She’s spitting cobs.”
    â€œWho is?”
    â€œO’Hara. Head of housekeeping. Put her in a right narky mood you have, and we’ll all suffer for it.”
    Before I have chance to defend myself or reply, she shoves me into a little side room, tells me to wait there, and rushes off, muttering under her breath.
    I place my bag down on the flagstone floor and look around. A clock ticks on the mantelpiece. A picture of the King hangs on the wall. A small table stands beneath a narrow window. Other than that, the room is quiet and cold and unattractive, not at all what I’d expected of The Savoy. Feeling horribly damp and alone, I take the photograph from my coat pocket, brushing my fingers lightly across his image. The face that stirs such painful memories. The face I turn to after every housekeeper’s reprimand and failed audition. The face I look at every time someone tells me I’m not good enough. The face that makes me more determined to show them that I am.
    Hearing brisk footsteps approaching along the corridor, I put the crumpled photograph back into my pocket and pray that the head of housekeeping is a forgiving and understanding woman.
    As she enters the room, it is painfully apparent that she is neither.

2
DOLLY
    Wonderful adventures await for those
    who dare to find them.
    O ’Hara, the head of housekeeping, is a furious Irishwoman with a frown to freeze hell and an attitude to match. She is tall and strangely angular, her hair frozen in tight black waves around her face. Her arms are folded across her chest, her elbows straining against the fabric of her black silk dress, like fire irons waiting to prod anyone who gets in her way.
    â€œDorothy, I presume?” Her voice is clipped and authoritative.
    I nod. “Yes, miss. Dorothy Lane. Dolly, for short.”
    She looks pointedly at a watch fob attached to the chest panel of her dress. “You are five minutes late. Whilst I might expect poor timekeeping of flighty girls who work in factories and wear too much makeup and colored stockings and invariably come to a bad end, I do not expect it of girls employed at The Savoy. I presume this is the first and last time you will be late?”
    Her words snap at me like the live crabs at Billingsgate Market. I nod again and take a step back. When she speaks the veins in her neck pop out, as if they are trying to get away from her. If I were a vein in O’Hara’s neck, I’d be trying to get away from her too.
    â€œMr. Cutler is not impressed by tardiness,” she continues. “Not at all. Not to mention the governor.”
    I have no idea who Mr. Cutler or the governor are, but decide that now is not the best time to ask.