Beach strollers who drink aperitifs at small round tables near the sands are also wearing the new coloured rubber shoes or boots. The boots are most attractive, for if not patterned in “harlequin” fashion with many different colours, they are of bright red, bound with white or perhaps blue and white, with lacings to match the piping. These front lacings over the bare legs are left open for about one inch from the instep to above the ankle, and it is said that these boots provide just the right support when playing games upon the sands. Lady Louis Mountbatten and Lady Loughborough are keen polo players and in the morning, they too adopt the bright patterned bathing robes which are as gaily flowered as any cretonne.
London had entered the Jazz Age and the American queen, Sophie Tucker, was making her return appearance to the stage and club scene at the Kit-Kat Club in the Haymarket, advertised as the most luxurious dance club in the world. Sheila, who had been among the invited first-night audience in the United States a few months before, in March when Tucker had opened her New York club, Sophie Tucker’s Playground, on West 52nd Street, was at a table with Lord and Lady Mountbatten and Lord Beaverbrook.
Tucker recalled years later in her memoir:
The biggest thrill of the evening was when His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, came in. He sneaked in on the balcony, as he wasn’t dressed and he came only to hear me sing. I kept trying to spot him up there, but I couldn’t. I wondered how he was going to take one of my new songs, “I’m the one the prince came over to see” which, of course, was a play on his recent visit to the United States. The prince didn’t object to it. In fact, as I learned later, he was the one who laughed the loudest.
The singer was enthralled by the London nightclub scene, which had expanded rapidly since the end of the war; it consisted mostly of small and intimate places, each with its own loyal crowd. Some, like the 43 Club, reminded her of the American speakeasy joints “decorated with women and more women and more women”, but others were more glamorous, like the Kit-Kat Club or the Café de Paris in Piccadilly, which had opened in 1925 and 1924 respectively, and quickly established themselves among Europe’s leading nightspots.
Tucker also took delight in the genteel summer Sunday lunches at a hotel in the village of Bray on Thames outside London, where the well-heeled sat by the river in sporting clothes beneath coloured umbrellas; after lunch they would punt and canoe, then have cocktails from 6 to 7.30 and dine at 8 on the terrace. At 10 p.m., after dinner, she would entertain them with a small orchestra while everyone sat on cushions.
The venue would become notorious seventy years later when an MI5 document emerged that accused well-known American stage and screen actress Tallulah Bankhead, who was living in London, of being an “immoral woman” who had an orgy with five Eton boys, including “the grandson of Lord Rosslyn”. The report was wrong in the sense that it almost certainly referred to Loughie’s half-brother Hamish St Clair-Erskine, and therefore Lord Rosslyn’s son, who was expelled for his sexual adventure.
There was also a new trend in small dinner parties, at which Sophie Tucker would be asked to perform. She later recollected the night at Sheila Loughborough’s, at which she taught the Prince of Wales how to dance the Charleston:
The smartest of all parties was also the smallest. There were only eight guests. This was the party that Lady Loughborough gave for the Prince of Wales at her house in Talbot Square. During the evening I was sent for to sing for the prince. His equerry, Captain Alastair Mackintosh, came and escorted me to Lady Loughborough’s. That special intimate little party was as informal and full of fun as a party of college kids over here. I sang all the songs the prince called for. He loved playing the ukulele. He got me to teach him my song, “Ukulele Lady”. That same night I taught him the Charleston, then all the rage in the United States.
Sheila’s re-emergence as a single woman had coincided with one of the most exciting and rapidly changing periods in England’s history. The breakdown of social barriers and the class system had begun, if subtly, as ageing estates and family fortunes began to disappear. Parliament was in heated debate about further changes to the electoral system. Women had been given the vote in 1918, provided they were aged thirty, but now the push came to lower the female voting age to twenty-one, which was greeted in some quarters as a backward step.
The Roaring Twenties brought with them radical changes in social attitudes, fashion and style. Hand in hand with jazz and the Charleston came the flapper look: exciting and reckless, it saw hemlines creep up to the knee while dresses became shapeless as hips and bustlines were eliminated. Women smoked luxuriously on long cigarette holders and dared to apply make-up in public. Chaperones were dispensed with and hairstyles followed the latest hemlines and attitudes—short and radical; bobbed, shingled and cropped.
Australian newspapers delighted in reporting:
The former Sheila Chisholm of Sydney is definitely ranked among the most interesting of London’s young society women. An acknowledged leader of fashion, Lady Loughborough is credited with being one of the first to adopt the shingle, at a time when long hair and the bob were the only admissible forms of hairdressing. Lady Loughborough’s shingle was said to be the closest cut in society and was so successful that her example was immediately followed by hundreds of other women. Always beautifully dressed, Lady Loughborough is a great favourite with the younger members of the Royal Family, and is often chosen to partner the Prince of Wales and his brothers at smart society functions.
The plaudits for her kept coming—at the Embassy Club “looking lovely dancing with John Milbanke”, winning applause playing Shakespeare’s Beatrice in a society performance at the New Theatre, or simply being beautiful, as espoused by “The Rambler” writing the “Talk of the Town” column in the Daily Mirror:
There were so many beautiful women at the Café de Paris gala last night in aid of the dockland settlements the discussion arose as to who were the reigning beauties of modern society. The three girls who came into the argument were, curiously enough, seated together at an adjoining table. They were Lady Loughborough, a beautiful Australian girl, Mrs Lionel Tennyson, Lord Glenconner’s lovely sister, and Miss Poppy Baring, the strikingly handsome daughter of Sir Godfrey Baring. At a table opposite sat Prince Obolensky, and I mention him in this connection because as good looks in the sternest sex are concerned, he is regarded as possibly the most handsome man in town.
Rather than fade into the background of society as a pitied divorcee with little money, Sheila Chisholm had emerged from the sadness of her marriage to be a woman to be noticed. And she was rapidly becoming one of the most socially prominent women of her time.
Yet she seemed unaware or, at least, coyly indifferent, as she noted in her memoir about the day she was teased by the Marquesa de Casa Maury, the former Paula Gellibrand: “Paula’s blonde beauty was quite unique. She had large, strange-coloured eyes and her hair was the colour of light and dark honey. She was tall and dressed to perfection. She teased me and said that I wore my clothes upside down. I knew it was useless for me to try and be chic—I just couldn’t be bothered or was not the type and even later on, when dressed by Patou and Molyneux, the fittings always bored me to death.”
Europe beckoned and in the spring of 1927 she travelled to Rome on a whim with Paula: “I just wanted to flaunt my freedom, I suppose. We stayed at the Grand Hotel for two weeks. I was spellbound by the beauty of Rome; it seemed a golden city. We did all the picture galleries, St Peter and the usual things. I was fascinated by the proportions of the Venus de Milo. She was about as tall as Poppy (5 foot 3 inches) and measured 45 inches around the hips (we revisited her with a measuring tape). We decided that she must have been very fat!”
They also became intrigued by the concept of “fiancées” in Italy—an affair between a married man and woman who had split from their respective spouses and begun a relationship while negotiating the difficult path of getting an annulment from the Catholic Church: “This arrangement was considered quite res
pectful,” Sheila commented with some triumph.
Sheila’s mother, Ag, was waiting when they returned to London. She had come to see her grandchildren and spend the summer. There was also a cable from Sydney with news that Chissie was ill and had to have what was regarded as a “slight” operation: “He cabled several times that we were not to worry—it was nothing serious.”
15
LINDBERGH AND THE DERBY BALL
In May 1856 a young surgeon at the University College London was dismissed for unbecoming language and conduct—apparently he had used the word “bloody” and slapped a patient on the buttocks. The controversial sacking of Dr Sherard Freeman Statham would prove a blessing for the city’s poor, particularly around Kings Cross, where, in the days before the National Health Service, medical facilities were all but non-existent for those who couldn’t afford to pay.
Barely a month later Stratham opened, at his own expense, a sixteen-bed hospital where he offered treatment for two hours per day to the poor of north London. Within a year it had been expanded to fifty beds, boosted by funds from railway companies, whose lower-paid workers were among the thousands now receiving treatment. His hospital had also attracted the help of twenty physicians, surgeons and dentists, who embraced Statham’s altruism.
The young doctor died a year later, struck down by tuberculosis, but his vision, which now became known as the Great Northern Hospital, continued to grow over the next seventy years, shifting and adding buildings and services, and eventually responding to the heavy demand by pioneering outpatient facilities.
In 1921 it changed its name to the Royal Northern Hospital, but, despite its success and the plaudits it received, it was constantly struggling for funds to keep its doors open, mainly because of the huge growth in patients and costs after the Great War, when those who had borne the brunt of the conflict—the poor—returned to their homes to resume their lives and tend their wounds.
By 1926 the hospital was being forced to close beds even as it nurtured expansion plans to cater for a continuing population growth. By now it had 400 beds and catered for almost 5000 patients a year and another 200,000 outpatients, in a surrounding population of 1 million citizens who had little or no money for health care. Dr Statham’s retort to his stuffy superiors had become the biggest general hospital within 100 square kilometres.
Because the hospital itself had no cash reserves and serious debts, its board, which included senior MPs, peers and even royals, wanted to tackle the financial problems head-on and to reduce or eliminate its debt burden. It decided to appeal to the city’s wealthy directly, through a series of letters addressed to prominent individuals, hoping to strike a chord. The appeal largely fell on deaf ears but there was a second plan brewing. Fundraising was already a staple for many institutions and a favourite pursuit of the otherwise idle rich—wealthy women in particular. The Royal Northern Hospital’s Ladies Association had previously run numerous events each year, but its contribution to date could only be counted in the hundreds of pounds, which was a drop in the bucket.
The hospital’s treasurer, Sir Philip Sassoon, MP and Under-Secretary for Air, thought he could do better than that. The Sassoon family was among the wealthiest in London. Sir Philip’s father, Edward, was Indian-born and a member of the Iraqi Sassoon family (he famously carried documents designed to prove he was a lineal descendant of Shephatiah, the fifth son of King David) and his French mother, Lady Aline, was a daughter of the Rothschild banking dynasty.
Sir Philip was private secretary to Field Marshall Sir Douglas Haig during the Great War and played the same role to the British Prime Minister David Lloyd George in the years before taking a senior cabinet role himself, helping to manage the fledgling Royal Air Force. He was probably best described as a “Bridesheadian” figure, in the mould of Evelyn Waugh’s great literary creation, but as politically and financially hardheaded as he was a figure of social hedonism. “We were fond of him but he was strangely impersonal,” Sheila observed.
In April 1927 Sir Philip launched his new fundraising campaign, appointing a committee to organise a new and spectacular charity ball to coincide with the biggest day on the English racing calendar, the running of the Derby. It would be bigger than anything seen in the city. The committee, in a flush of enthusiasm, booked the Albert Hall but a month later was struggling to sell the 2000 tickets it needed to fill the arena, and feared a financial disaster looming. The problem was that the ball could not be held on the night of the Derby because Lord and Lady Derby traditionally entertained society with a ball of their own.
In desperation, Sir Philip organised an “At Home” at his city residence in Park Lane to discuss alternatives. The evening was hosted by Sheila Loughborough, who had been encouraged to join the hospital’s Ladies Association and was then persuaded to take responsibility for the new venture. She had been handed a disaster: “Practically no tickets had been sold. Would I take it on? I reluctantly agreed.”
The gathering and its proposal was reported in the Daily Express on May 12: “A ball in the aid of the funds of the Royal Northern Hospital, of which the Prince of Wales is president, is to be held at the Albert Hall on Derby Eve, May 31. The ball is being supported by Lady Loughborough and promises to be one of the most brilliant functions of the season.”
Not only would guests get “an unusually good all-star cabaret”, but there would also be a fancy dress competition, “an excellent supper” and door prizes, including a car—a two-tone Austin 7 Swallow that, in popularity, was the English equivalent of the Model T Ford in the United States.
The plan was audacious, given that there were only a few weeks in which to organise the event; they were gambling heavily on the organising skills of Sheila and her ability to harness her society influence and burgeoning address book. The media was to become a key component of her strategy: Sheila would provide a continuous drip-feed of details about the function, aimed at whetting the appetites of the social climbers who wanted to be seen at the height of the Season.
First up came an interview with the man who would organise the cabaret, Joe Coyne, an American-born vaudeville star who had crossed the Atlantic to London with the rise of musical comedy in the 1920s and was one of the most popular leading men on the West End stage. The entertainment he outlined for the Derby Eve Ball was a series of acts that read like a musical circus. Included were: a woman dancing the Charleston on her head; an acrobatic dancing duo called Nervo and Knox, whose acts included slow-motion wrestling; a strong man, plus numerous others.
But Coyne hinted at something more—a unique mystery performance, “something you’ve never seen at the cabaret”, which would begin after the arrival at midnight of the Prince of Wales, whose presence alone was expected to spark a ticket rush. Sheila’s friendship with the prince had paved the way for the hurried rearrangement of his schedule.
Four days before the event, Joe Coyne’s mystery was revealed: there was to be an exhibition boxing match between two Londoners, Teddy Baldock and Johnny Curley: “This exceptional attraction will add still further to the interest of this remarkable ball which bids fair to prove the financial and social success of the season. Nearly all the boxes have broadly been sold. A few tickets can still be obtained.”
Baldock, a bantamweight aged just nineteen, had set London alight a few weeks earlier when he fought fifteen rounds against US veteran Archie Bell before a sell-out crowd at the Albert Hall and became the youngest-ever British world boxing champion. Curley, a former English lightweight champion, had been one of his sparring partners, but Baldock was the main billing because, even though his army of supporters from his East End home would crowd into a fleet of omnibuses to follow him to bouts, he had also been embraced by the elite from the West End.
The Prince of Wales had even attended one of his bouts and asked to meet him afterwards, although the young man was so shy he had to be dragged from his dressing room to shake hands with the prince. And women loved him, as the Daily Express noted: “Women, of wh
om there were more present last night than have ever been seen in an Albert Hall boxing crowd, adore him. He has large, soulful eyes and a tip-tilted nose and he is as wiry and muscled as a lusty colt.”
But the evening’s pièce de résistance was still to be revealed. And it was a piece of luck and Sheila’s determination that clinched it. Two days before the ball, the organisers announced a surprise guest—American airman Captain Charles Lindbergh, who a week earlier had completed his historic non-stop trans-Atlantic flight from New York to Paris in his plane, the Spirit of St Louis. It was by chance that Lindbergh had decided to fly on to London and was due to arrive the day before the ball, but Sheila made the most of this opportunity, pestering Lord Beaverbrook who offered Lindbergh a fee to write his story for the papers and attend the ball. The coup led to a rush on tickets, as was reported by the Daily Mirror:
The interesting announcement that Charles Lindbergh, the young hero of the recent transatlantic flight, will attend the ball which is being organised by Lady Loughborough at the Royal Albert Hall next Tuesday evening has immediately led to enormous demand for tickets. Nearly £5000 has already been taken and it now seems certain that all previous Albert Hall records will be surpassed. Indeed I have grave doubts whether the number of tickets will be sufficient to satisfy the demand.
He was right, although Sheila might have been forgiven for being disengaged. Two days earlier, her 69-year-old father, Harry, had been rushed to hospital back in Sydney for an operation. He had been unwell for some months but the speed of the decision to hospitalise him was distressing, exacerbated by the fact that her mother, Margaret, was with her in London for the Season. What might have been a moment of personal triumph was now tinged with worry.
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