The Girl From The Savoy. Hazel Gaynor

dull as a muddy puddle. When I watch those girls on the stage, I want to be there with them. I want silk stockings on my legs and silver Rayne’s dance shoes on my feet. I want Chanel dresses against my skin. I want to cut my hair and rouge my cheeks, not flinch every time I hear footsteps following me down the back stairs. I want to be appreciated, not discarded like a filthy rag. I feel like a stuck gramophone record, going round and round, playing the same notes of the same song over and over. I want to dance to a different tune. Don’t you want that too?’

      She doesn’t. Clover is happy with her lot. A reliable job as a kitchen maid and a quick fumble with Tommy Mullins at the back of the dance hall is enough for her.

      ‘I don’t think about it, Dolly. I just am what I am. All I know for certain is that Archie Rawlins ain’t coming home and he was the only bugger ever likely to marry me. I’ll more than likely end up an old spinster with ten cats to keep me company. But there’s no use complaining. Sometimes life gives you cotton stockings. Sometimes it gives you a Chanel gown. That’s the way of it. You just have to make the most of whatever you’re given.’

      Part of me wishes I could be more like Clover, settle for a life as a housemaid, marry a decent enough man, make do. But I have restless feet and an impatient heart and a dream of a better life that I can’t wake up from.

      I’d been told that The Savoy prefers personal recommendations of employees from its current staff, and a discreet word by a friend of Clover’s cousin led to my engagement. Clover’s opinion is that a maid is still a maid, however fancily you package it up, but I disagree. The Savoy attracts movie stars and musicians, poets and politicians, dancers and writers; the Bright Young People who fill London’s newspaper columns and society pages with their extravagant lifestyles. The people who excite me. The people who fill my scrapbooks and my dreams.

      At Trafalgar Square, I jump onto the back of the omnibus and take a seat downstairs, paying my tuppence to the conductor as I pick up a copy of The Stage left behind on the seat opposite me. I flick through the pages of adverts for dancing shoes and stage props, fat-reducing soap and seamstresses, and turn to the theatre notices, hoping to find something for my scrapbook.

      In his latest production, HOLD TIGHT!, Cochran has taken something of a gamble with his leading lady, Loretta May. It is a gamble that has more than paid off. Miss May – one of the hardest-working actresses on the London stage – dazzled, captivating the audience with her acting and singing talents, and her comic timing. Miss May brings the stage to life in a way that many others simply cannot. The costumes were equally remarkable, Mr Cochran exceeding his previous best in this department. The gasps of admiration from the ladies in the audience could be heard all over town.

      In her first full-length musical comedy, Miss May was triumphant in HOLD TIGHT! at the Shaftesbury. Her departure from revue was launched amid scenes of tumultuous applause. Kitty Walsh, the chorus girl selected at the very last minute to play the role of Miss May’s daughter, was captivating. She is most definitely a young actress to watch. The audience yelled themselves hoarse and refused to let the curtain go down.

      I close my eyes, imagining what it would be like to be that young chorus girl, to sing and dance on the West End stage. The notices go on: Gertrude Lawrence ‘splendid’ in Charlot’s revue London Calling! Noël Coward’s musical score ‘triumphant’. Bea Lillie ‘radiant’ in Lelong. The descriptions of the costumes take up as many column inches as the commentary on the performances.

      Miss Bankhead’s costumes in The Dancers were admired repeatedly. Her first outfit was à la Egyptienne – composed entirely of silver sequins. Another outfit was lilac chiffon and green satin, adorned with lilac trails. Her final costume – a slim ‘magpie’ dress, a back of black charmeuse and a front of white, ending in white lace encrusted with black and crystal beads – was undoubtedly the finest we have seen on the London stage since Lucile Duff Gordon’s creations for Miss Elsie in The Merry Widow.

      Turning the pages, I read the calls for auditions. Chorus girls are wanted all over town, the bad fogs wreaking havoc with the health of many dancers and leading ladies so that understudies are needed for the understudies. I imagine the long lines outside the theatres, another batch of disappointed girls and crushed dreams travelling home on the omnibuses and trams later that day. I’ve been that girl so many times, watching with envy as the final name is announced for the callbacks. ‘The rest of you may leave. Thank you for your time.’ The words we all dread.

      As I read down the column of audition calls, something catches my eye. The print is small and I lift the page closer to read it.

       WANTED: MUSE

       Struggling musical composer seeks muse to inspire.

       Applicants must possess a sense of humour and the patience of a saint.

       One hour a week – arranged to suit. Payment in cherry cake and tea.

       Replies, outlining suitability, for the attention of:

       Mrs Ambrose, c/o Apartment Three, Strand Theatre, Aldwych

      I read the notice several times and tear the page from the paper. I’m not really sure why, other than that the words set my heart racing.

       ‘You need to stop asking why, Dolly. The question to ask is, why not?’

      I hear Teddy’s voice so clearly, his gentle words, his belief in me. I see his face, the empty stare, the uncontrollable tremble in his arms, the damp stain at his groin. No dignity for men like him. No future for would-be wives like me.

      I read the notice once more, fold it into neat quarters, and place it in my purse as Auntie Gert’s words whisper to me. Wonderful adventures await for those who dare to find them.

      Why not?

      Clover is already standing outside the Palais when I arrive. She runs to greet me as I step off the bus, nearly knocking me over as she throws her arms around me as if we’d been apart for months, not days.

      I hug her tight. ‘I’ve missed you, Clover Parker.’

      ‘Liar. Bet you’ve hardly thought about me.’ She loops her arm through mine as we walk up the Palais steps. ‘Go on, then. Tell me. What’s it like, this posh hotel of yours? I know you’re bursting to tell me.’

      I can’t help smiling. ‘I wish you could see it, Clo. Your eyes would pop out at the ladies’ dresses and shoes, and the gentlemen are so handsome and the hotel band plays the hottest sounds. I can still hear it sometimes when I go to bed. Ragtime and the latest jazz numbers.’

      Clover lights a cigarette for us both. ‘Told you. Head full of nonsense already! So, what are your roommates like? Please tell me they’re awful and you wish you’d never left Grosvenor Square.’

      ‘They’re nice, actually. One of them, Sissy, reminds me of you. Gladys is quiet, but nice enough. Very pretty. She wants to be a Hollywood movie star and I wouldn’t be surprised if she makes it. The other one, Mildred, is a bit miserable. Never has a word to say, and she looks at me funny. We didn’t work with anyone called Mildred, did we?’

      Clover thinks for a moment. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Why?’

      ‘I’ve a funny feeling I’ve met her before, but I don’t know where. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about her. Let’s get inside and dance!’

      The Original Dixieland Jazz Band is playing a waltz when we enter the dance hall, a sea of bodies already moving, as one, around the dance floor. I love it here. The Oriental decoration, the music, the dancing, the sense of freedom and letting go. We sit at a table and order tea and a plate of sandwiches. Clover is wearing a lovely new dress, which I admire. Lavender rayon with a lace trim.

      ‘Made it myself,’ she says, twirling around and sending the hem kicking out as she spins. ‘Three yards of fabric from Petticoat Lane for two pounds. Hardly need any fabric to make a respectable dress these days. If