Free The Girl from the Savoy by Hazel Gaynor

everyone’s attention. “Now, girls,” she says, in her best Irish accent. “Everything must be neat and tidy and just so. The white frill cap and apron worn in a particular way, the shoes polished like glass, the hair curled and pinned perfectly.” She stops and looks at me. “For the love of all that’s holy, Dorothy Lane. Look at your cap. That won’t do at all!”
    I giggle as she helps me fasten my cap properly, but our good mood is interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
    â€œI hope this jolly attitude will remain with you through your day’s work, girls.”
    â€œWho’s that?” I whisper to Gladys.
    â€œHead porter. Cutler.”
    The voice continues beyond the door. “Far too many surly expressions in the corridors recently. It’s not good for the hotel’s ambience . Now, hurry downstairs. It is nearly half past. Mrs. O’Hara will be along for her inspection soon.”
    Gladys explains that Cutler is a moody old sod. “Nice as pie one minute but he’d fire you on the spot for anything inappropriate. Keep your nose out and your hands clean and you’ve no need to worry.”
    But as we file out of the cramped bathroom, I do worry. There’s so much to remember, so many new faces to know. I’ve already met several floor-housekeepers, dozens of maids, floor-waiters and valets and lift attendants, not to mention the various members ofthe management team. As we rush down the staff stairs, the swish of our dresses mingles with the rumble of heels against the linoleum. I try to suppress the memories that lurk in every squeak of my shoes against the floor.
    In the Maids’ Hall I take a seat at the long table and pour a cup of tea. It is good and strong. Not like the pale sweepings I used to get at Mawdesley Hall. Triangles of toast sit in steel racks with pats of bright yellow butter in ramekins dotted about the table. The kitchen maids have been busy. I see the young girl who was scrubbing the steps yesterday and smile at her. She’s so engrossed in her chores she hardly notices me. I tuck into porridge and bread that’s still warm, fresh from the ovens of the hotel bakery. I let a piece melt slowly on my tongue and remember how me and my little sister, Sarah, used to stand outside the bakers with a pillowcase, ready to fill it with whatever we could get for the sixpence Mam had given us. Mostly it was those awful flat brown loaves—cowpats we used to call them. If we were lucky, we’d get a roll to scoff on the way home. I’d tell Sarah to brush the crumbs from her lips and her pinafore so Mam wouldn’t notice.
    All too soon, we hear brisk footsteps and O’Hara appears, the great bundle of keys jangling at her hip like a restless child. We all stand as she enters the room, chair legs scraping against the stone floor, spoons clattering against bowls and cups. The kitchen maids start to clear the breakfast things as O’Hara calls us to line up in the corridor. I follow the others, copying them as they fall into a long line: shoulders back, feet together, chin up, hands behind the back. I cross my fingers and say a silent prayer as O’Hara walks briskly along the line like a drill sergeant major, handing each girl a neatly typed house list. She stops occasionally to tug at a twisted apron strap or to inspect hands and nails. She stops in front of me. My heart pounds beneath my dress as I look straight ahead, tryingnot to focus on anything and avoiding O’Hara’s cold stare. She considers me for a second before leaning forward and brushing a fingertip along my upper lip.
    â€œLipstick, Dorothy?”
    Bugger . I forgot to wipe it off. The girl to my right takes a sharp intake of breath. My heart thumps.
    â€œWe are not at some backstreet picture house now,” O’Hara snaps. “Lipstick has no place on a maid’s lips until she clocks off.” She passes me a handkerchief.