Wonderful adventures await for those who dare to find them.
I think of Auntie Gert’s words and feel the flutter of restless wings on the edge of my heart. If adventures are waiting for me here, then I’m ready to find them.
‘Right, then,’ I say. ‘Where do I start?’
While Gladys and Mildred head out for their afternoon off, Sissy takes me down to the hotel storerooms and back-of-house operations, a bewildering maze of corridors and rooms housing all manner of weird and wonderful things. She shows me the audit room where male clerks hunch over desks, the stationery and fancy goods stores, stores for glassware and china, and even a silversmith’s repair and replating room. In the linen stores we collect bedsheets, pillow slips, and chamber towels and load them onto a trolley. Then we fill a wicker basket with cleaning products and supplies: feather dusters, scourer, polish, chamois cloths, soap tablets, tissue paper, drawer liners, and pomanders. When we have everything we need we push the trolley down another long passageway that leads towards a service lift. A cool draught blows through an open door. I shiver in the thin fabric of my dress and hope I haven’t caught a chill from standing around chatting to strange fox-haired men in the rain.
As we make our ascent to sixth, Sissy consults several pages of foolscap paper clipped together. The house list. ‘We’ll do suite 601 first,’ she says. ‘Occupied by a Miss Howard, travelling from Pennsylvania. Arrived yesterday evening. Daughter of an American shipping magnate. Plenty of expensive shoes to try on.’
I gasp. ‘You do not.’
‘’Course I do. We all do.’ She leans casually on the pile of towels. ‘Perk of the job. We’ll never live their lives, but what’s the harm in a dab of perfume or a quick try-on of a silk shoe?’
I’m shocked. ‘But what if you get caught?’
‘You don’t – or …’ She makes a dramatic slicing gesture across her throat. ‘Gone. Marching orders. On the spot. Never get a reference or work in service again and then it’s a life of prostitution and vice for you, my girl.’
She sees the look of horror on my face and bursts out laughing as the lift jolts to a stop. She slides back the grille, pulls the trolley out behind her, and strides off along the corridor.
Stepping out of the lift, I’m struck by the decor. It is rich and sumptuous, a noticeable contrast to the stark functionality of the rooms below. Elegant ferns and great palms drape like chiffon over willow-pattern pots. Impressive gilt-framed paintings of seascapes and ballerinas pattern the walls. Tiffany lampshades cast a soft creamy light and huge chandeliers dazzle like icicles above our heads.
Sissy calls over her shoulder. ‘Stop gawping. Wait till you see the river suites, and the Grand Ballroom. Makes these corridors look like the staff passage.’
I hurry after her, my feet sinking into the plush pile of the carpet. We pass two gentlemen discussing a painting of a ship being tossed around on a stormy sea. It makes me feel queasy just looking at it. One of the men wears small round spectacles. He is portly and dressed for dinner. The other man is dressed casually in cream slacks and a blue shirt with a mint-green knitted vest. He wears a lemon-coloured cravat at his neck and his black hair is slicked neatly to one side. He leans against the wall, his crossed ankles revealing plaid socks. The man with the spectacles looks up as we pass.
Sissy acknowledges them both. ‘Good afternoon, sir. Good afternoon, Mr Snyder.’
They bid us both good afternoon in reply as the elder of the two gentlemen stares at me. ‘I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,’ he says. ‘Are you new?’ His tone is authoritative, but not unkind.
I mumble a reply. ‘Yes, sir. I just started today.’
‘Ah. A new recruit! Splendid. Welcome to The Savoy – the largest and finest luxury hotel in the world.’
His colleague laughs. ‘In your opinion, old man. The manager of the Waldorf Astoria may not be inclined to agree!’ His accent is American. Brash and confident. As he speaks, his eyes travel from my shoes to my cap and everywhere in between. I feel uncomfortable under his gaze. ‘But your standards are most definitely going up,’ he continues. ‘Much prettier staff than last year. A carefully planned business strategy of yours, I presume? Anything to drag the punters in!’
My cheeks redden as they both laugh at the joke.
‘Don’t let us hold you up,’ the older gentleman says. ‘Plenty of work to do. Tempus fugit.’
I follow Sissy along the corridor. As we turn a corner, I glance over my shoulder. He is still staring.
‘Who was that?’ I whisper.
‘The governor. Reeves-Smith.’
‘No. Not him. The younger man with him.’
‘That’s Lawrence Snyder. Larry to his friends. Big Hollywood somebody or other. Comes over every season to spot the new talent. Entices them to America with the promise of starring roles in the movies. He’s the one Gladys has her sights on. Can’t blame her. He’s so handsome. And that accent!’
‘I thought he was vile. Did you see the way he looked us up and down?’
‘Looked you up and down, you mean. Serves you right for having those great big eyes and shapely ankles. Anyway, all the gentlemen look at the maids that way. The prettier ones, at least. You’d better get used to it, Miss Dorothy Lane.’
My stomach lurches at her words. I instinctively place a hand to my cheek. Sometimes I can still feel the pain; the sickening thud of his fist.
Reaching a white panelled door, Sissy knocks firmly and calls, ‘Housekeeping.’ Hearing nothing in reply, she turns the key and steps inside. I hang the MAID AT WORK sign on the handle and close the door behind us.
The suite is breathtaking, a dazzling display of crystal chandeliers and polished walnut. An ornate chaise sits by a low window and Hepplewhite chairs are arranged beside a mahogany coffee table. The famous Savoy bed is big enough for half a dozen people to sleep in. Even with its crumpled linen and creased pillow slips, it is quite something. Following Sissy’s lead, I check the blinds, switch the electric lights on and off to make sure they are all working, and turn the bathroom taps to make sure they’re not dripping.
‘It’s funny to be among the things of someone I’ve never met, and probably never will,’ I remark as we strip the bed. ‘I’m used to doing out the rooms of young ladies I’d see every day.’
‘I like the anonymity,’ Sissy says, bundling the dirty sheets into a neat pile. ‘It suits me to come in and set things right while they’re out having lunch and cocktails. Never cared for all that gossip and familiarity in a private household. Part of the fun of working here is imagining whose room you’re in. Look at those black opera gloves over that chair. What do you reckon? A tall redhead with a dirty laugh?’
‘Or maybe a short brunette with thick ankles?’ I add.
We giggle as we conjure up increasingly awful images of who Miss Howard from Pennsylvania might be and as I lift beautiful necklaces from the dressing table, I imagine the pale neck they will decorate with their emeralds and jade. I replace the cap on a lipstick and see perfect crimson lips and the mark they will leave on a champagne glass. I breathe in the scent of sandalwood and rose as I dust beneath perfume bottles and face creams. I admire a small travelling pillow, running my fingers over the outline of a butterfly expertly captured by silk thread. I feel the rich fabric of each elegant dress, the soft satin of each shoe, the smooth gloss of every Ciro pearl, and for a delicious moment I am not Dorothy Lane, daughter of a Lancashire farmer, I am the daughter of an American shipping magnate with exquisite things to make my life perfect.
We work methodically following a careful routine, making neat hospital corners, plumping downy pillows, folding thick towels, replacing the scented lining paper in drawers, and placing freshly baked