is right. I do.
We watch as the lamplighter makes his way along the street with his long pole and ladder, extinguishing the lamps as a dove-grey dawn settles across the sky.
‘Did you lose someone?’ she asks.
I falter. What is the definition of loss? I place my fingertip on the glass, drawing patterns into the condensation formed from our breaths. ‘Yes.’
‘Me too. The Somme. He’d only been there a couple of months. My brother, Davey.’ She turns and points to the photograph on her nightstand. ‘That’s him. Handsome bugger.’
I place my hand on hers. ‘I’m sorry.’ It never sounds enough.
‘Left a wife and two babies, a mother, and a sister. We’re all sorry. His missus says she could bear it a little more if he’d written a good-bye. But there was no last letter in his pocket. Not our Davey. He wasn’t one for words or soppy sentiments.’ She draws a heart onto the glass and we watch as it fades away. ‘What about yours? How did he die?’
Our conversation is interrupted as something lands with a clatter against the glass, making us both scream and jump backwards. We peer down to see one of the porters grinning up at us. He has a handful of walnuts and sends another rattling against the window.
Sissy pushes up the sash. A blast of cold air nips at my skin as she sticks her head outside. ‘Oi!’ she shouts. ‘Watch it!’
The porter blows her a kiss and carries on with his work.
‘Cheeky sod,’ she says, closing the window and pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders.
‘Do you know him?’
‘Billy Morris. He’s taken a fancy to me.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘Have you taken a fancy to him?’
Her cheeks redden as a smile crosses her lips. ‘Might have.’
‘What’s all the noise?’
We both turn around to see that Mildred is awake.
‘It’s Dolly,’ Sissy says. ‘She’s flirting with the porters.’
I cuff her on the shoulder. ‘I am not!’
Mildred looks at me with that same knowing look. ‘Well, Dolly should be careful or she’ll get herself a reputation before she gets her first pay packet.’
Sissy and I look at each other and burst out laughing.
Mildred throws her covers back and steps out of bed. ‘Honestly. It’s like being back at school.’ She leaves the room, slamming the door behind her.
‘What’s got into her?’ I ask, clambering back into bed and hugging my knees tight to my chest for warmth.
‘Nothing,’ Sissy says. ‘That’s the problem. Needs a good roll in the hay, that one does. She’s as stiff as a fire iron.’
The maids’ bathroom is like Piccadilly Circus on a Friday evening. A couple of the manicurists from the hairdressing salon are washing their stockings in the sinks. I catch snippets of their conversation, something about a Hollywood movie producer being sweet on one of them. I’d love to hear more, but they leave as the bathroom fills up with a dozen chattering maids.
‘The manicurists think they’re above us,’ Sissy says. ‘They don’t live in, but they’ll happily use our bathroom when it suits. Don’t know why they can’t wash their smalls at home.’
The narrow counter below the mirror is a jumble of caps and hairpins as we all fuss and fidget to make sure we look just right. Skinny arms and sharp elbows in matching blue print dresses jostle for position. I stand on my tiptoes, peering above the heads in front of me. It isn’t the first time I wish I were taller. ‘Not tall enough. Next, please.’ I’ve heard those words so many times, sometimes before I’d even danced one step.
Sissy gives me a shove in the back, pushing me forward. ‘Come on, girls. Give someone else a turn.’
With a ripple of annoyance, the sea of bodies in front of me slowly parts and finally I get in front of the mirror. I look pale and tired from my restless night and pinch my cheeks to draw some colour to them.
‘Here. Have some of this.’ Gladys hands me a pot of rouge. ‘Never know who you might bump into.’ She winks and rubs a little onto her cheeks. ‘Got to look your best.’
‘I thought we weren’t allowed to wear make-up.’
‘We’re not. You just wear enough to look a bit less dead, but not enough for O’Hara to notice.’
I pass up the offer and concentrate on pinning my unruly curls into some sort of order, before fixing my frill cap in place.
Sissy passes me a lipstick. ‘Got it in Woolworth’s last week. It’s called Vermilion.’ She’s already applied a little to accentuate her Cupid’s bow, just like the actresses in the silent pictures. She puckers her lips and pouts at herself in the mirror. ‘Well. What d’you think?’
I turn to look at her. ‘Very Mary Pickford!’
She laughs and wipes it off with a tissue. ‘Here. Try it.’
I can’t resist. I twist the bottom of the golden case. The bevelled edge slides easily over my lips. I press them together and rub them from side to side as I lean closer to the mirror to take a closer look. ‘It’s lovely.’
A girl beside me tells me it suits me. ‘You new?’ she asks.
‘Yes. I’m Dolly.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Dolly. I’m Tallulah.’
She mimics Tallulah Bankhead’s southern drawl perfectly. I laugh. ‘Did you see her in The Dancers? She was so beautiful.’
‘Went every night for a week,’ she replies. ‘Lost a shoe in the rush to get to the gallery the first night. Walked home in my stockings. Earned myself a clip round the ear from my mam.’
Sissy claps her hands together, drawing 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.
‘I hope this jolly attitude will remain with you through your day’s work, girls.’
‘Who’s that?’ I whisper to Gladys.
‘Head porter. Cutler.’
The voice continues
