Shopping, Seduction & Mr. Selfridge

by Lindy Woodhead

  Flowers were an important part of the Chief’s persona. He loved giving them and he loved receiving them. Each year, on his birthday in January, the staff would contribute toward vast floral baskets and bouquets, presented with full ceremony to their beaming boss. Not everyone enthused about the collection for the ritual, one irate member scrawling “Balls to Gordon Selfridge” across the message on the staff notice board. Lord Woolton, the chairman of Lewis’s of Liverpool, was not impressed by such excess: “His room was filled with flowers, as though they had been placed on an altar. He asked me whether my staff in Lewis’s paid such testimony to me, and when I said ‘never a daisy,’ he said ‘you ought to give them a hint.’ ” Lord Woolton, whose firm would subsequently acquire Selfridge’s in the 1950s, wrote presciently about Selfridge: “He had commercial vision and courage of a high order, combined alas with personal vanity and pride in being a public figure, which has ruined so many men who have lost a sense of proportion in the exaltation that comes from surrounding themselves with yes-men.”

  He was right of course. Tucked away in an archive file is a record of a conversation between Selfridge and a close business friend, John Robertson, the advertising manager of the Daily Express. The two men were longtime poker partners, and Robertson had become used to watching Selfridge settle a business deal by flipping a coin. Soon after the group’s acquisition of Whiteley’s, the normally ebullient Selfridge seemed particularly low, admitting to Robertson that they had uncovered some serious problems ranging from missing inventory to merchandise too old or damaged to sell. Asked if he had made the deal “subject to contract following a valuer’s survey,” Selfridge admitted he hadn’t done any due diligence: the deal had gone through at speed and on trust. When Robertson suggested Selfridge sue Whiteley’s bankers for misrepresentation, the response was: “No. I cannot do that. It would not make me look very smart to have bought a business without safeguards.” He tackled the problem by asking his old colleague Alfred Cowper—the store’s first systems manager—to run Whiteley’s and he set up a new joint supply company. But the cracks in the empire were beginning to show.

  Early in 1929, Selfridge staged an exhibition of “English Decorative Art” at Lansdowne House, opening the event with a charity viewing attended by Queen Mary. A month later the property was sold. One by one, the stately homes of London were being turned into apartment blocks or hotels—the Duke of Westminster’s Grosvenor House, the Duke of Devonshire’s Devonshire House, the Duchess of Rutland’s Arlington House and, most recently, the Earl of Morley’s beautiful Dorchester House on Park Lane, which was sold to the McAlpine family for £500,000. It was, as the press remarked, the end of an era. Lord Lansdowne had already sold a vast tract of the garden to the developers of the Mayfair Hotel. Now, tempted by escalating property prices, he sold the house to American developers for £750,000. Selfridge had to move. Addicted to grandeur, he leased the Earl of Caledon’s residence, 5 Carlton House Terrace, taking it fully furnished, along with the earl’s staff of fourteen. The society hostess Emerald Cunard had recently moved on to Grosvenor Square, but illustrious neighbors still included the young Prince Aly Khan, the Earl of Lonsdale, the Duke of Marlborough, Lady Curzon, and Loel Guinness MP. Selfridge was also treading the hallowed turf of the late Mrs. Potter Palmer, who had once lived in the street.

  In Carlton House Terrace, Selfridge hosted large post-theater suppers, served in the newly fashionable buffet style. Each week, a horse-drawn van would arrive from the store with prodigious quantities of food and drink. Store porter Fred Birss was fourteen when he was on the Carlton House run, and he later recalled a typical delivery: “six cases of champagne, a dozen cases of whisky, six turkeys, four hams, twenty-four pounds of butter, a dozen loaves of bread, two boxes of cigars and several soda siphons.” This was the Monday order. The larder was replenished on Thursday, with smaller deliveries often made daily. Motorized vans also drove down to the Hampshire coast to provision the Conqueror. The cost of maintaining the yacht was enormous. In 1928 Selfridge spent nearly £17,000 on her (wages and victualing alone cost £8,264 3s 6d). The yacht was used to ferry the family to Deauville and Le Touquet in the spring and summer, calling in at the Isle of Wight en route, where Selfridge once famously annoyed the Royal Yacht Squadron by tying up at the royal buoy. But when he was going to Cannes or Nice, he continued to use le train bleu, only occasionally taking a Mediterranean cruise.

  Harry’s addiction to the Dollies continued. It has been said that he wanted to marry Jenny, although his daughter Rosalie always denied it. But whatever his intentions, he lost his head, possibly his heart, and certainly his wallet. They played at Le Touquet, a resort long favored by the British smart set where by 1929 the casino was reported to be the most profitable in the world. They played at Deauville, a more international, café society sort of place, where Selfridge rented a “cottage,” as the large houses were always called, furnishing it beautifully and indulging the twins’ whims by throwing raucous parties which even he sometimes found overwhelming. One guest, present at what he described as “a pretty riotous affair,” later recalled that “The only restful thing in the place was the furniture and that white-haired old man, sitting all alone on the sofa.”

  Above all, the trio gambled at Cannes, where stories of their gaming became the stuff of legend. Time reported Rosie winning thirty-two thousand pounds in a single afternoon. On the same day, however, Jenny lost. Down by four thousand pounds, she stayed at the table until she hit a winning streak and finished forty-five thousand pounds up. But two hours later she apparently lost the lot. The Dollies attracted attention wherever they went. From Cannes, Vogue reported: “When one is tired of dancing, there is the gambling: in the baccarat rooms the Dolly sisters cause the greatest stir, with crowds six deep standing to watch them play. They wear the most wonderful diamonds, both with their little jumper suits by day and their sequin capes and feathered helmet hats by night. The sisters shout over the table, inhale a hundred cigarettes and win or lose hundreds of thousands of pounds … spectators stand dumb with admiration.”

  Jenny adored being known for her gambling almost as much as she had enjoyed being known for her dancing. “If I don’t know anything else,” she said gaily to a reporter, having pocketed five thousand pounds at Biarritz, “I know huit and neuf.” The arrangement she had with Selfridge was simple. If she won, she kept the money. If she lost, he covered her debts. The film producer Victor Saville recalled boarding le train bleu at Cannes when the Dollies were on the platform waiting to greet Harry, who had boarded at San Remo. Selfridge alighted, hugged the girls, handed them a diamond necklace each, and got back on board. In the dining car later that evening, he overheard a fellow passenger exclaiming: “You should have seen the Dolly sisters last night. They lost twenty-five thousand pounds in two sessions. I wonder who the silly old fool is who’s protecting them? There must be someone, mustn’t there?” Saville and Selfridge, heads down, quietly immersed themselves in their dinner.

  Very little of this activity ever hit the British press. Given that Selfridge was chairman of a public company, the famous and fashionable chronicler Lord Castlerosse could—maybe even should—have covered the story in his Sunday Express gossip column “Londoner’s Log.” But Castlerosse was astute enough never to expose Lord Beaverbrook’s friends, who included the Prince of Wales. Not that the prince wasn’t in the press. He was probably the most photographed person in the world at the time, and his every move made news. The British media, however, were loyally discreet about his penchant for married women. By now the prince’s affair with Freda Dudley Ward had ended and he was deeply involved with Thelma Furness.

  Frighteningly sophisticated at just twenty-four, the American Thelma and her sisters Gloria (married to Reggie Vanderbilt) and Consuelo (married to Benjamin Thaw, first secretary at the American Embassy in London) were just the sort of women the Prince of Wales liked—funny, fearless, just a touch fast, and charmingly devoid of deference. The prince liked to dance,
to sing along to the latest records, to talk about fashion—a topic that absorbed him almost as much as collecting stamps absorbed his father—but by now he had become disenchanted with touring the world and being on show. While the brusque shipping magnate Viscount “Duke” Furness spent his days hunting and shooting in Melton Mowbray, his wife Thelma and the Prince of Wales spent their nights out on the town. They dined at the Ritz and danced at the newly fashionable hot spot, the Café de Paris, where to avoid any hint of scandal they were rarely alone, their innermost circle of friends including the Duff Coopers, the Mountbattens, Prince George, and Major “Fruity” Metcalfe and his wife, Mary Leiter Curzon’s daughter Alexandra.

  Weekends were spent at the prince’s newly acquired bolt-hole, Fort Belvedere in Great Windsor Park, where for the first time in his life, he felt truly at home. The Fort was his house, not a royal house, and he later admitted to “loving it like no other material thing.” Thelma Furness loved it too, helping him decorate and working with her lover in the gardens, hacking down overgrown laurels. She claimed to have “introduced him to the proper delights of Christmas,” finding a twelve-foot Christmas tree and shopping at Selfridge’s for the baubles: “Being American they had absolutely the best decorations.” Christmas at Selfridge’s was an opulent and emotional affair. The store was decorated throughout and smelled of cinnamon and spices, choirs sang carols, and the staff usually received a bonus along with an ornate card from the Chief.

  Thelma also took charge of the prince’s Christmas shopping, buying dozens of presents for his servants and senior staff. Many of them were bought at Selfridge’s, where the store superintendent, the ever-patient Mr. Peters, would escort her around the departments. The ritual went on for several years, the only change being that in due course Lady Furness was replaced by Mrs. Simpson. Mr. Peters liked Wallis Simpson—“I found her a very charming lady”—and admitted that they became quite friendly. As the efficient and apparently thrifty Wallis spent three days tackling the task, pen in hand, ticking off items from her lists, he certainly had time to get to know her. Since she lived for a time in Bryanston Square, and later in Cumberland Terrace, Selfridge’s was her local shop and Selfridge himself issued instructions that she was to be well looked after.

  There was very little the store didn’t sell. If something wasn’t in stock, someone went out that day to source it. Selfridge’s blended tobacco, allocating a special number for repeat orders. In the cloakrooms, attendants polished shoes, changed laces and sewed on buttons—all free of charge. There was a philatelic department so fine it would have impressed even the king. The travel bureau booked journeys by train, boat, and plane, organized hotels, and even arranged for luggage to be sent on ahead to await its owner’s arrival. The information center answered the most obscure of queries. The store stored, shipped, dry-cleaned and mended customers’ clothes, shoes, and soft furnishings. Virtually anything could still be made to measure. The switchboard dealt with forty thousand calls a day, and delivery vans covered a million miles a year.

  In 1929, invitations went out for the May 30 general election–night party. For the first time, women under thirty were able to vote. Ironically, it was the hated Home Secretary William Joynson-Hicks who had made that possible when, a year or so earlier, in a sparsely attended evening session, he had agreed to a Private Member’s Bill that committed the Conservative Party to enfranchising “men and women on the same terms.” His deed came back to haunt him when, through what came to be known as “the flapper vote,” the Conservatives lost the election. In fairness to the home secretary, bigger political issues than his fixation with nightclubs influenced the public. With high unemployment, recriminations about the general strike, rising prices and, for the first time, a genuine three-party fight between Lloyd George’s Liberals, Ramsay MacDonald’s Socialists and Stanley Baldwin’s Conservatives, it was a tough election.

  The election-night party at the store was a wonderful affair. Arnold Bennett arrived early, stayed late and described it all in a letter to his nephew:

  There must have been 2,000 people at that show. There was plenty of room for them, plenty of loudspeakers, two bands and as much Cordon Rouge as the entire 2,000 could drink, besides solid sit-down suppers for all who wanted it. I wanted it. The whole affair was magnificently organized.

  Bennett, a socialist, had real cause to celebrate that night. The cartoonist David Low, however, caught glum faces with his pen, and one observer, watching the huge crowds dancing and drinking, reflected as much on the decline in manners as on the loss of Tory seats when he said: “It is the end of an age. Our World is going out.” Propped up by the Liberals, Ramsay MacDonald returned to No. 10, little realizing what he would soon have to face.

  Times were changing fast. What had been modern was suddenly becoming obsolete. As always, film and fashion led the way. Hollywood studios fitted soundstages and dozens of panicking movie stars were sent for voice tests. Many failed. You could take a beauty out of Brooklyn, but even MGM’s magic couldn’t take Brooklyn out of her voice. Household names vanished overnight and a whole new generation of mellow-toned movie stars filled the screen. In Paris, women wearing short skirts fidgeted in their seats at Patou’s show when the designer—who among other celebrities dressed the Dollies and Suzanne Lenglen—launched his longer lengths. Madeleine Vionnet had already introduced her stunning, bias-cut evening gowns—deceptively simple slivers of charmeuse—which, eagerly adopted by Hollywood costume designers, became the quintessential look of the decade to come. For the first time ever, couture collections featured sportif daywear. Hermès launched its signature headscarf, and along every smart coastal promenade—to the confusion of many a maître d’hôtel struggling to uphold a dress code—women took to wearing beach pajamas. As the androgynous, cropped-haired girl of the 1920s evolved into the soignée, sophisticated woman of the 1930s, many mourned her passing. The flapper had, after all, been great fun.

  As if signaling the financial catastrophe to come, in September 1929 the police arrested Clarence Hatry, whose business empire—reported to have been worth over £10 million—turned out to have been built on shifting sands. News of the financier’s disgrace echoed across the Atlantic, where the Dow Jones—having hit an-all time high—shuddered and fell back. Hatry had been massaging the company books for some time, but now he was caught issuing forged stock certificates. Remanded in Brixton and refused bail, he was sentenced to fourteen years’ imprisonment. Some financial analysts predicted the end of the great bull market. Others ignored the warnings at their peril. In October 1929, Wall Street was swimming in debt. By the 29th, it had collapsed and nine billion dollars was wiped off the stock market in a matter of hours. The impact in America and Europe was not felt by consumers for some months, but major retailers and manufacturers, already jittery about reduced spending patterns, were worried, and with reason. Recession would soon turn into the Great Depression.

  In London, the hedonistic lifestyle of the young and carelessly rich came to an end. As if a portent of the misery to come, the winter of 1929 was one of the coldest in history. Hundreds of people died and Kate “Ma” Meyrick, incarcerated in a freezing Holloway prison cell, developed chronic pneumonia. Selfridge himself refused to panic. He’d lived through enough recessions in America to know what people wanted in time of crisis—on the one hand a bargain and, on the other, a little luxury. The display manager Leslie le Voi was briefed to make the window themes ever more exotic and exciting, featuring everything from newly installed city traffic lights to the world’s first television set, Baird’s “televisor.” In February 1930, the store announced record figures, with pretax profits of £480,000. Eternally optimistic, Selfridge told Business magazine, “Business is still largely what you make it. By reiterating that business is bad, people hypnotize themselves into a state of apathy. We broke all our past records in fifty-nine departments during October, and almost as many in November. New methods of selling, new channels of distribution, new ways of advertising ar
e transforming our performance.”

  By now, markdowns weren’t just on offer in the Bargain Basement but were promoted throughout the store on separate eye-catching “Bargain Tables.” The tables—tidied by the hour—were never allowed to get tatty. Goods purchased from them were wrapped and tied with the exclusive “Selfridge knot” just as though they had been bought at full price: those who bought for less were never made to feel cheap. One manager exclusively controlled the reduced stock offerings, coping with what Selfridge himself called “the peculiar problems of merchandising bargains in every department outside of the traditional sale-time.” The store came of age in March with twenty-first birthday celebrations. Decca records pressed a souvenir disc of massed bands playing “The March of the Gladiators,” while the Chief’s gift from his loyal troops was an impressive bronze plaque in his honor, set into the pavement in the main entrance loggia. Worn thin by the footfall, rarely noticed by people pushing to enter the great doors, the plaque is still there, its quasi-religious inscription echoing that of Zola’s “great cathedrals”:

  LAID BY MEMBERS OF THIS STORE IN ADMIRATION OF HIM

  WHO CONCEIVED AND GAVE IT BEING

  1909–1930

  The store might be twenty-one, but no one, not even his children, really knew how old Harry Selfridge was. “I don’t want to rest,” he said when asked about retirement, “I want to go on—and on—and on!”