Lindbergh’s spectacular entrance into London on the evening of Monday, May 30, created pandemonium. Under the escort of six biplanes across the Channel, he flew up the Thames and across East London and the city before banking over Buckingham Palace and heading to Croydon, where he made his approach to land. But he was forced to abort because of the sheer size of the crowd, who had ignored the authorities and broken down picket fences in the stampede to get close to their hero. At the same time a grandstand collapsed and two people were injured in a plane crash on the edge of the airfield.
Lindbergh was forced to circle the airfield until police cleared a landing path through the estimated 150,000 people; after landing, he then had to wait for ten minutes in his plane while authorities beat a path through the well-wishers, who wanted to carry him around the airfield on their shoulders in celebration.
A photograph taken from one of his escorting planes shows the white crucifix shape of his aircraft against a swarming black sea of people, like ants invading a picnic. “Heaven help my machine,” Lindbergh called out, before he was taken to the control tower where he made a speech describing the scene as astonishing. This was all manna from the heavens, in terms of publicity for Sheila’s Derby Eve Ball.
Anticipation had built to fever pitch by the night of the ball and Sheila, who was feeling more relaxed with the news that her father appeared to be recovering from the operation, now faced a dilemma. Queues of people in their finery had formed at the Albert Hall, with people who hadn’t booked tickets desperate to get inside and catch a glimpse of the famous guests and entertainment. The venue had never held such a crowd, but there was a problem—it was illegal to sell tickets inside the hall. In an inspired stroke, Sheila set up a kiosk in Bayswater Road, outside the gate, where she signed guests in personally while dressed in her gown—“much in the same spirit as dominates famous actresses who autograph their photographs for large sums”, as one account later commented.
It was difficult to judge the size of the crowd, but it was easily the biggest event ever catered for inside London’s “village hall” and the most successful charity ball ever held. Inside, a giant model of a racehorse and jockey had been suspended over the dance floor. There was also a gigantic replica of the famous 1893 painting of the Epsom Derby by William Powell Frith, which hung from the Grand Tier, the highest ring of private boxes in the auditorium. But it was Lindbergh and the Prince of Wales the crowd had come to see.
The “Mariegold in Society” column in The Sketch magazine a few days later summed it up:
The Derby Eve Ball was one of the most successful festivities ever held. Cheer succeeded cheer at the Albert Hall when the two most popular young men in England arrived at different times—the Prince of Wales and Captain Lindbergh; while Teddy Baldock enjoyed an ovation too, when he appeared. But before the arrival of the Prince, the airman or the boxer, there was plenty of activity and much to see, the rose-adorned Royal Box being the centre of interest. Prince Arthur of Connaught was with Princess Arthur, the latter in a frock of pink georgette and diamante; and Prince and Princess Paul of Serbia were with them. Lady Loughborough, who worked so hard to make the ball a success, flitted from box to box, a charming figure in a deep orange dress. Lady Londonderry, who was wearing almost exactly the same shade, was in the above group, waving a huge orange and black fan; and so was Lady Cunard wearing black and silver. When Captain Lindbergh appeared in Sir Philip Sassoon’s box next door, it was Prince Arthur who brought the occupants of the royal box to their feet to greet the airman, who gave a delightful speech to the crowd before sitting down between Lord Lonsdale and Lady Cholmondeley. The Prince of Wales arrived very late, just as Teddy Baldock and Johnny Curley were to start their exhibition match, and this was held up while HRH greeted his friends. The biggest cheer rose when the Prince put out his hand to Lindbergh and held it as the latter climbed into the royal box from Sir Philip’s, so that he could be photographed by the Prince’s side.
Sheila watched from a few feet away: “The Prince of Wales and Lindbergh stood together in the front of my box, shaking hands and talking. The crowd went crazy. They sang ‘God Bless the Prince of Wales’ and ‘Old Glory’. It was very exciting!”
But as Sheila basked in the glow of her success, news filtered through by cable from Sydney that her father had taken a turn for the worse, and had died. The Sydney Morning Herald reported, succinctly, on June 11 that after the operation “he gradually became weaker, and for the last few days his death was expected”.
Neither Sheila nor her mother could attend the funeral, which was held just two days later at Rookwood Cemetery. The Herald’s report listed by name more than a hundred mourners who had turned out to show their respect for a man who had helped build Australia’s great bloodstock tradition and forge an international reputation. It was a reminder to Sheila of just how far she was from home and family, particularly at a time when she was rebuilding her own life as a single mother. Life wasn’t just about ball gowns.
Loughie and Sheila prepare to board the ship Nestor in 1923 that would take them back to London after two years in Australia. Sheila’s father Chissie is in the background.
The fun-loving Loughie, who carried the title Lord Loughborough as the eldest son of the Earl of Rosslyn, one of Scotland’s most famous families, photographed in 1926 as he faced divorce from Sheila and financial ruin from his gambling
Sheila’s house in Talbot Square was the scene of many dinner parties through the 1920s, often with a nightclub singer. This one, circa 1925, was held for the American jazz queen Sophie Tucker (centre rear). Sheila is standing to the left of Sophie. Freda Dudley Ward is in the middle of the table on the right.
The many faces of Sheila—glamorous, dishevelled or avant-garde—as seen here (third from left) dressed for a party in Florida in 1926 with friend Poppy Baring (far left). Sheila must have liked the look because she kept the photograph in her personal album.
Sheila in 1926 soon after returning from America where the film star Rudolph Valentino gave her his gold bracelet. Her fashion sense made her a society celebrity.
Buffles and Sheila relaxing with their two dogs in 1927. She would refuse his offer of marriage four times before finally agreeing.
Vincent Astor and Sheila pose casually on a windy Isle of Wight in 1927, surrounded by children, including Sheila’s sons Tony and Peter. It was the only photograph of the multi-millionaire in her album despite their close friendship.
Sheila on the occasion of being presented for a second time to the King and Queen in 1928. She wore the Dudley crown but felt foolish.
A beaming Buffles and Sheila on their wedding day in 1928. The marriage celebrations were front-page news and brought traffic along the Strand in central London to a halt.
Sheila poses with sons Peter and Tony in the garden at the Milbanke family home, Mullaboden, in Ireland in 1930.
Sheila with her racehorse, Dr Strabismus, which she bought for £50 in 1931. It won its first race at odds of 50 to 1.
Sheila and Buffles at Ascot. They sat in Lord Derby’s box every year, where she earned the nickname “Mascot” because she was next to the aristocrat on the day in 1932 when his horse, Hyperion, won the classic.
A caricature of Sheila and Poppy Thursby entering a nightclub in 1932, around the time they took over the management of one of London’s most famous clubs, Ciro’s, for a £100 bet, and turned a struggling venue into a success.
Sheila in the early 1930s at her most glamorous. She was aware of her beauty and effect on men but was often disdainful of the trappings.
16
AN INCOMPARABLE SHEILA
As London continued its exuberant recovery from the ravages of war, a young photographer emerged who would capture many of the most celebrated images of a unique period in history. Cecil Beaton, son of a successful timber merchant, began his celebrated career by encouraging his sisters and mother to pose, using an early model folding Kodak camera to capture their image, usually at their family
home in Hampstead in north London.
Beaton was a restless and precocious talent who had attended Harrow and studied art, history and architecture for a time at Cambridge but, disenchanted, left in 1925 without a degree. He lasted a week in his father’s timber yard before deciding to pursue his art, based on an eye for beauty and photography and a love of the famous and fashionable. By 1927 he was being used regularly by Vogue magazine. In that same year he held his first exhibition at a studio in New Bond Street, offering a mixture of painting and photography. But it was the latter that really grabbed the attention of the public—a collection of society figures in strange poses and costumes, described by the Daily Express as “the most entertaining photographs in London for years”.
The images captured the glamour and mystery of the social elite with a mixture of angles and settings. There were the Jungman sisters, Zita and Teresa, joined at the head like conjoined twins; Edith Sitwell posed as a Gothic tomb sculpture; Lady Cunard was in polka dots, Paula Gellibrand shining in foil and the actress Tallulah Bankhead in balloons.
And among them was a strange portrait of Sheila Loughborough. Far from the usual soft glamour of society magazine shoots, Beaton had used a “secret” technique to capture an image of her head inside a bell-shaped jar, as if in a trophy cabinet on a side table. Because of its ingenuity, this photograph would end up in the National Portrait Gallery. Beaton would remain a friend of Sheila throughout her life.
Beaton was one of the young elite dubbed the “Bright Young Things” by the media—the artistic, the bohemian and the spoiled who cut a swathe through London in the late 1920s. They were involved in a hedonistic search for pleasure and the exploits were closely documented by the press to provide vicarious pleasure for their readers. While some criticised their cavorting as the self-indulgence of the idle rich, others viewed them as the cutting edge of social change.
This was the generation that was too young to have fought in the Great War, but was forced to endure the guilt of their good fortune. Their answer was to live without consequence. They rebelled against the resolute conservatism of their parents, and Beaton’s motto seemed to provide their mantra: “Be daring, be different, be impractical, be anything that will assert integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the play-it-safers, the creatures of the commonplace, the slaves of the ordinary.”
Sheila flittered at the edges of the Bright Young Things. She was a mother of two, now aged in her early thirties and an accepted member of the establishment set, with membership at places like the Embassy Club; but there were crossovers socially and she had younger friends like Beaton and Poppy Baring, the Mitford sisters Diana and Nancy, the writer Evelyn Waugh and the Sitwell siblings. Among their number was also Hamish St Clair-Erskine, who would become romantically involved with Nancy Mitford for a period.
The “stunts” of the Bright Young Things were frequent, entertaining, disruptive, always theatrical, but childish at times. For example, one day they formed a conga line through Selfridges, up and down the lifts, through the departments and even over the counters. They staged chases through the streets of London, and held wild and exotic parties. Theirs was a life of theatre and fancy dress, fuelled by alcohol and drugs, and sexual experimentation; they were followed by an eager press, keen to report their latest exploits with feigned horror, such as the night they organised a table of divorced women at a prominent nightclub, having learned that the former husbands—all peers—were holding a celebration, entertained by a dancer, at the same establishment on the same night.
And wherever the Bright Young Things went and whatever they explored, society inevitably seemed to follow them, even if at a discreet distance. In the summer of 1928, for example, the BYTs held what would become an infamous event they called the “Bath and Bottle” party at a swimming pool in the centre of London. Tom Driberg, then a young journalist with the Daily Express, was an invited guest and immediately realised the potential newsworthiness of the gathering, rushing out to file a story from a nearby telephone box to describe the scene:
Bathing costumes of the most dazzling kinds and colours were worn by the guests. Dancing took place to the strains of a Negro orchestra, and the hardy leaped later into the bath, of which the water had been slightly warmed. Great rubber horses and flowers floated about in the water, which was illuminated by coloured spotlights. Many of those present brought two or three bathing costumes, which they changed into in the course of the night’s festivities. A special cocktail, christened the Bathwater Cocktail, was invented for the occasion.
Swimming dinner parties suddenly became the rage across London, as other social “sets” followed the fun. One of the first was held at Maidenhead in Berkshire on July 20. Driberg went along and wrote another account:
Lady Loughborough was one of the first to change her evening dress for an extremely becoming black and white bathing dress and to plunge into the water, and her example was rapidly followed by the honorary Imogen Grenfell whose aquatic prowess was greatly admired by everybody present. Lady Patricia Ward was another who found the attraction of the river irresistible and so did her brother, Lord Ednam, Mrs Euan Wallace and Lord Blandford. It is curious how few good swimmers there are among society women and girls.
“Gossip journalism” in British newspapers can be traced back to the late 17th century, when a sexual tryst between a lady, her maid and a mastiff was reported, although not by name. In the 18th century such weighty matters as the details of public hangings and “soup swilling” by Scottish lairds found their way into the pages of the London newspapers; authors of the calibre of Daniel Defoe got their start by writing such material as the tone changed from private to political scandal and the battle between the Whigs and the Tories hotted up. In the 19th century, Charles Dickens hired Lady Blessington to supply information for his newspaper, the Daily News.
The art of the “paragraph writer” had developed in the early 20th century as society hostesses themselves either fed journalistic contacts or even paid other women with contacts to provide titbits to columnists, often just a few simple sentences about their travels—“Lord and Lady Blah Blah are leaving tomorrow for the continent”—or even their health and recovery. There were numerous examples of the travels and travails of Sheila, as Lady Loughborough, being reported by The Times “Court Circular” in the pre- and post-war period—seemingly irrelevant snippets, which gave the subject an air of importance and attention, rather than of scandal and derision.
In the mid-1920s, the style and subject matter changed again as newspapers began employing struggling aristocrats to write about the world they inhabited. For the first time, the gossip journalist worked from inside the story. Driberg was one of the most prominent columnists of his age; a young Oxford graduate, he had begun his career as a £3-per-week journalist with the Daily Express where, after the Bath and Bottle scoop, he was assigned to help a senior colleague, Colonel Percy Sewell, to write the much-read “About Town” gossip column under the esoteric pseudonym of “The Dragoman”, which was defined by the dictionary as an interpreter or guide in Eastern countries.
The colonel spent most of his afternoons on the golf course and wrote about the older set—“elderly aristocratic ladies and aged clubmen”—while Driberg concentrated on his Oxford contemporaries and their friends, such as the author Evelyn Waugh, whom he had met at university. His copy was usually laced with quirky observations about “green beer” and other extravagances of the ruling class, whom he often satirised because of his political views (he was a member of the Communist Party).
But Driberg was also a participant, often attending the parties he reported upon and behaving as badly as the guests he named. The art of the newspaper gossip column was changing just as society was evolving; it was becoming more daring and carefree, and eager to test the boundaries of social acceptability. Others newspapers followed the Daily Express, realising the value of inside information. There was Lady Eleanor Smith writing “Window in Mayfair” in the Weekly D
ispatch and Lord Castlerosse’s “Londoner’s Log” in the Sunday Express; Lord Balfour was “Mr Gossip” in the Daily Sketch and Lord Donegall penned for the Sunday News. The author Nancy Mitford was said to provide information about her friends, as did Randolph Churchill, son of Sir Winston.
Waugh, a friend of both Mitford and Churchill, would parody this world in his novels. He despised the Bright Young Things for their privileged birthright and yet revelled in their artistic bravery. Although he insisted that the characters in his books were entirely fictional, it was clear to others that they were at least loosely based on the men and women with whom he partied and those who watched. The gossip writers in the 1930 novel Vile Bodies were based on Castlerosse, Donegall, Balfour and Driberg.
Sheila Loughborough seemed to sail through this period effortlessly, straddling two worlds. She was part of established, serious society and yet she was young enough and exotic enough to be considered part of the new style:
July 28, 1927
Daily Mirror
Lady Betty Butler differs from most modern girls in that she makes no attempt to appear self-assured or to entertain the guests at a dinner party by hyena-like yells and imbecile remarks. The beautiful Lady Loughborough is another . . . She is going to spend the summer in the Isle of Wight where she has taken a house with Lady Morvyth Benson.
Sheila Page 17