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 of the 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 baker’s 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, trying not 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.
‘Lipstick, Dorothy?’
Bugger. I forgot to wipe it off. The girl to my right takes a sharp intake of breath. My heart thumps.
‘We 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. ‘And even then it is quite unnecessary. Get rid of it. Immediately.’
‘Yes, miss.’ I rub the handkerchief frantically at my lips, turning to the girl beside me, who nods to confirm it is gone. As O’Hara continues down the line Sissy leans forward and mouths an apology. I shush the voice in my head that wonders if she might have done it on purpose to land me in trouble.
Finally, O’Hara is satisfied. ‘Everything seems to be in order. Let’s have a good day’s work and remember …’
The girls all join in a chorus of rehearsed instruction. ‘The smallest things can make the biggest difference. Attention to detail in everything. Our guests are our priority.’
O’Hara nods approvingly. ‘Quite so. Now, off you go – and, Dorothy …’ What now? ‘Yes, miss?’
‘Sissy Roberts will assist you with your rooms again today. Tomorrow, you’re on your own.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Any questions?’
‘No, miss.’
‘I presume we won’t be seeing any crimson lips tomorrow?’
In my head I tell her it’s Vermilion. ‘No, miss. We won’t.’
My inquisitor nods firmly and swishes away with her sticky-out veins and pointy elbows. I lean back against the wall and breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Yes, miss. No, miss. Three bags full, miss.’
Sissy digs me in the ribs. ‘Cheeking the head of housekeeping already? I’d keep those thoughts to yourself if I were you. You’ll land yourself in trouble muttering under your breath like that. The hotel has eyes and ears. The less said the better.’
‘Well, she looks at me funny. Like I’m something she scraped off her shoe.’
‘She will scrape you off her shoe if she hears you bad-mouthing her. Keep your mouth shut and your corners neat.’ She grabs me by the elbow. ‘Sorry about the lipstick. Next time, wipe it off before you come downstairs, you silly sod. She’d have marched you straight to Cutler if it wasn’t your first morning. I’m certain of it.’
‘Let’s call it beginner’s luck, then, and forget all about it.’
Sissy checks the new house list as we make our way to the storerooms. ‘Well, look at this. Beginner’s luck indeed. First room on your list, Miss Dorothy Lane, is occupied by a Mr Lawrence Snyder. Friend of the governor. Manager to the stars.’
‘Snyder? That vile man we saw yesterday?’ I think about the way he looked at me. I think about the way I’ve been looked at like that before.
‘The very same. Gladys will be as sick as a dog when she hears. She’s convinced he’ll have her on the next boat to America.’ She nudges me in the ribs. ‘Well, come on. We won’t get much done standing around daydreaming. The rooms won’t clean themselves.’
I follow her as she strides off towards the linen stores, but my thoughts are elsewhere and my heart has rushed back to my room and wrapped itself around the photograph beneath my pillow.
The service floor is even more confusing than it was yesterday. A steady stream of porters, maids, chefs, and waiters fills the narrow corridors. When anyone in livery or formal dress passes, we step aside to make way for them. Sissy points out the head chef, a formidable Frenchman who forbids anyone, other than kitchen staff, to enter his storerooms. I catch a glimpse of some of the recent deliveries: gallons of cream in great vats, mountains of fresh pineapples, tanks full of live lobsters, vast saddles of venison, haunches of ham, and great slabs of beef. The hotel bakery alone is the size of a small house. My mouth waters at the aroma of freshly baked loaves being lifted from the ovens on huge paddles by red-cheeked young boys and burly men. Sissy swipes two milk rolls from the nearest tray, earning herself a friendly flick at her backside with the end of a paddle.
‘Do you ever see the guests when you’re in their rooms?’ I ask when we’ve loaded our trollies. ‘Gladys was telling me that the ladies sometimes keep maids talking for hours, to pass the time.’
‘They ask for more soap to be sent up, or hand towels, but really it’s just an excuse to have a bit of company. Bored, you see. I suppose there’s only so many times you can admire yourself in the mirror. It’s mainly the hairdressers and manicurists who are personally requested in the guests’ rooms. They spend hours up there, drinking coffee and eating delicate little cakes. Get sent bouquets and earrings and perfume and all sorts by their regulars. And they always get a good tip. Half a crown if they’re lucky.’
‘Really?’
‘Mind you, I’ve heard some guests show their gratitude in ways that
