Harry Selfridge spent a miserable Christmas, comforted only by his faithful pug dogs and attended by his dutiful daughter Rosalie who, along with Serge and Tatiana, was also living in Brook House. Mr. Priestley, his favored barber from the store, came over each morning at 9:00 A.M. to shave him, Rosalie slipping him five shillings on his way out. He didn’t even have Marcelle Rogez for company. She had been cast in the British-made musical Big Fella and was now busy filming with Paul Robeson.
At the store, the coronation decorations had to be changed. Out went the insignia of King Edward VIII and in came those of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth. Carved panels celebrated England’s history since the Roman invasion and the exploits of national heroes such as Drake, Clive, and Wolfe. Selfridge believed passionately that the coronation would be “the event of all times” to lift London out of its gloom, and the decorations took on an almost mystical meaning for him. Supremely confident that hundreds of thousands of people would flock into town, all of them keen to buy new clothes and souvenirs, he restocked the store and hired extra display staff. The resident architect Albert Miller, the sculptor Sir William Reid Dick, and Professor Ernest Stern—a Romanian film production designer with a tendre for gilded opulence—created the most extraordinary scheme that Oxford Street had ever seen. Selfridge’s became the most decorated building in Britain.
Harry had spent a colossal fifty thousand pounds on the pageantry, but not everyone appreciated the result. E. M. Forster wrote scathingly in the New Statesman, “The decorations reminded me of nothing so much as a vulgar old woman, who has trotted out every scrap of her finery for an unaccustomed airing,” while Punch, playing on the “more royal than the royals” décor, ran a cartoon showing a policeman telling an elderly lady: “No, Madam, I understand Mr. Selfridge will not be appearing on his balcony tonight.”
Hundreds of thousands did visit London and many of them blocked Oxford Street to gaze in awe at the store. But they didn’t spend their money. Takings were nowhere near expectations. Perhaps hurt by the insults hurled at Wallis, the Americans simply didn’t come, and the British weren’t in the mood to buy—it was almost as if they were grieving at having been rejected by the man they had idolized. For a while at least, his brother was simply second-best. It took six weeks to dismantle the finery, which was packed away and stored in the sub-basement. Selfridge himself remained tight-lipped, while Mr. Holmes was infuriated by the cost of it all. The two men were now barely speaking to each other.
That same month, Harry Gordon Selfridge became a naturalized British citizen. Some said it was because he hoped for an honor in the king’s coronation list; others murmured about new, onerous American taxes imposed on Americans living abroad. Those closest to him knew it was simply because he wanted to become British. He wrote proudly to his friend Blumenfeld: “It is thirty-one years next Sunday since I came to London. Now I will be a true Briton and now I shall have to try to begin to act like a gentleman. As ever, Gordon.”
He had, of course, always behaved as a gentleman—never more so than in 1927 when he had promised a little old lady that Whiteley’s would pay a guaranteed 25 percent dividend for the next fifteen years. His promise had cost him dear. A decade later, the annual figure had reached five hundred thousand pounds. Profits were down. People were beginning to worry about the prospect of war. As the share price of the Gordon Selfridge Trust and Selfridge Provincial Stores Ltd. declined, The Economist wrote: “Selfridge Group prospects have occasioned special concern.” Harry went to America, ostensibly to launch the publication of his now famous “Callisthenes” column in the New York Herald Tribune but also to see bankers. His old friend Jules Bache was uncharacteristically gloomy about trading prospects, and Elizabeth Arden, with whom he lunched, was visibly moved by his dilemma, writing immediately to her London manager, “It’s a shame to see him so worried, we must give him every help possible.”
Back in London, he placed advertisements that declared: “There will be no slump. Let us kill the whole depressing idea by laughing it off.” Yet he knew, better than anyone, that price was a powerful persuader. Throughout the country, customers were flocking to Marks & Spencer who, since they had registered their St. Michael trademark in 1928, had moved rapidly to capture the hearts and minds of middle-market shoppers with their “quality and value” offerings. The chain now sold food, and some stores even had cafés. In a move that caused some annoyance at Selfridge’s, Simon Marks attracted a lot of publicity by launching a swath of “staff benefits,” which included subsidized canteens, health and dental services, hairdressing, restrooms, and even camping holidays—all of which Selfridge’s had been offering since the day the store opened, except perhaps the camping: Selfridge’s staff preferred the company’s skiing holidays. One thing the mighty Marks & Spencer did offer, however, was a staff pension scheme. Selfridge had never believed in compulsory pensions, feeling people should save for themselves. Regrettably, he hadn’t practiced what he’d preached.
In the meantime he raised the bar by opening an even bigger bargain business, located in the store’s empty property across the street, calling it “John Thrifty.” It offered service with a smile, though customers had to carry their own shopping home. Staff still observed the store’s rules: no customer was called “Miss” or “Dear,” and staff themselves were called “assistants.” They were told to “walk tall” through the floors, encouraged to attend the long-established courses in “Voice Culture and Personal Magnetism” and, as always, urged to give “the utmost attention to the care of hair and hands.” The staff still loved the Chief. While newcomers didn’t quite share the evangelical zeal of their older colleagues, their affection for their mentor was tangible.
Harry still gambled, but his days as casino king were over. In the spring of 1938, he went back to Deauville with Marcelle, only to find he wasn’t welcome. In refusing him credit, Nicolas Zographos was in fact doing his one-time high-roller a huge favor. Harry could no longer afford to lose. He never went back, confining his gaming to poker, playing with his monogrammed cards and mother-of-pearl chips. He was visibly moved by the news of Suzanne Lenglen’s death in July from pernicious anemia at the age of only thirty-nine. That summer, he rented the Duke of Devonshire’s seaside villa, Compton Place at Eastbourne, and summoned his children and grandchildren for what would, in effect, be their last luxury holiday spent together. Gordon Jr.’s four children were not among the house party, and neither was his wife. Selfridge still refused to acknowledge them and Gordon Jr. was still happy to hide them away. Tatiana Wiasemsky was now eighteen, Violette’s son Blaise was fifteen, and her daughter Jacqueline, five. It was the last family holiday Violette and Jacques de Sibour would spend together. Their already fractured marriage broke apart soon after, leading to divorce. Beatrice fared no better in her marriage to Jacques’s brother Louis. Two years later, they too divorced. At the end of the year, Harry’s Christmas card showed a picture of his cherished “celebrity window,” the latest diamond-tipped signature being that of the Oscar-winning film director Frank Capra, who had visited the store while in London to promote his latest movie You Can’t Take It with You.
In 1939, with his unerring eye for a brilliant idea, Selfridge launched a groundbreaking television department with a major in-store exhibition. Convinced of the power of television, for years he had enthused about the latest technology: “Television is here—You can’t shut your eyes to it!” ran his advertisements in the London and national press. The store offered the most comprehensive range ever put together in the new business of broadcasting, showing many models two months before they were exhibited at the New York World’s Fair, including those by Pye, Cossor, G E C Ferranti, Marconiphone, Baird, His Master’s Voice, and Ekco. The seductive sets were priced from twenty-three guineas and, for those on a budget but who couldn’t resist temptation, Selfridge’s offered their own hire purchase terms.
As always with Selfridge’s, it wasn’t just about selling television sets but also about educatio
n and in-store entertainment. The store invested twenty thousand pounds in setting up a fully operational studio in the Palm Court which, in conjunction with the BBC, ran a live studio facility where visitors could see celebrities being filmed and, most appealing of all, where they could enter competitions to appear on-screen themselves. Dancers, singers, and comedians were encouraged to apply for a screen test, while eager mothers queued up to enter their daughters for children’s dance contests. Fashion shows introduced by Gordon Jr. were screened on fifty television receivers strategically placed throughout the store that broadcast at 11:00 A.M. each day. There were even makeup demonstrations to show how to eliminate shine before facing the camera. The Chief had thought of everything.
Selfridge’s had earned a unique place in retail history in championing television ever since Baird’s pioneering demonstration in 1925, but nothing could have prepared the public for the excitement of seeing themselves on-screen. Thousands of visitors poured into the Palm Court, scrambling to be part of the excitement. Yet curiously the media coverage was lackluster. Only The Times got the point of it all, but even then merely reported that “the Exhibition was an interesting and, indeed, exciting occasion.” Sadly for Harry Selfridge, the excitement was short-lived. On the outbreak of war in September, the BBC ceased transmission. Manufacturers’ skills were redirected toward weapons of war, and broadcasting wouldn’t resume until June 1946.
Selfridge was among the many who knew war was inevitable. On his frequent trips to Germany where the store had long maintained a buying office, he witnessed at firsthand Germany’s ruthless persecution of the Jews. Sensitive toward their plight, and with many Jewish friends of his own as well as customers who used the kosher food department and the Hebrew section of the book department, he wanted to do something to help. Throughout the spring of 1939, he devoted dozens of “Callisthenes” columns to the topic of “What Refugees Can Do for England,” being particularly supportive of German Jews seeking a safe haven.
At Brighton Technical College, in a hall so crowded that loudspeakers had to be rigged up outside for the overflow, he gave a talk to students, explaining that “much intelligent work is being done under the dictators Hitler and Mussolini and unless we of the democracies are going to do the same amount of work and use the same effort and intelligence, we are going to be beaten.” The young students were enthralled, the local Argus reporting that “they cheered and applauded until it echoed around the hall.”
Selfridge received another remarkable ovation at the shareholders’ meeting, despite the fact that he owed the store over one hundred thousand pounds and the board’s announcement that no dividend would be paid on ordinary shares. One colleague said he “positively glowed with faith in the future,” while a reporter remarked that “he didn’t look a day over sixty”—cheering news for a man who was now 83. Having finally been invited to Hollywood, Marcelle Rogez left London that year. Now Harry was, and would remain, alone.
On a business trip to America, Andrew Holmes was entertained by the new men in power at Marshall Field, by now also a business losing money. Asking about “mile-a-minute Harry,” Holmes was told: “He was the greatest sales promoter and publicity man the store ever had. Quite the perfect showman.” To Mr. Holmes, who didn’t believe in showmanship, this merely confirmed his belief that “Selfridge’s greatest illusion is that he was a merchant, which possibly explains many of his mistakes.” On holiday early that fateful summer, Mr. Holmes met the owner of an important carpet company, whose main topic of conversation was their long-overdue account. Faced with what he described as “a withering blast,” Holmes went back to London and examined the books, discovering that many suppliers, used to waiting patiently for six months to be paid, were now expected to extend credit for over a year. A lot of them couldn’t afford it. Worse, some were threatening legal action.
At some point that summer, Harry had a serious argument with his son, their uneasy relationship collapsing into acrimony. Playing politics, Gordon Jr. said: “Something has got to be done about my father.” In August, the group finance director and latterly company secretary, Arthur Youngman, always devotedly loyal to the Chief, retired after thirty-one years in the job. His departure signaled a board reshuffle and the appointment of a Holmes protégé, Arthur Deakin.
The store had spent the summer preparing for war. The Civil Defence Unit ordered five thousand sandbags, tons of sand and timber, hundreds of rubber boots, respirators and steel helmets, waterproof overalls, gas masks, and two and a half tons of bleach powder, to be used to extinguish fires. Staff underwent training under the direction of the indefatigable director Mr. H. J. Clarke, who energetically put his “emergency squad” through their paces on the roof and at the Preston Road sports ground. On September 2 the Wehrmacht marched into Poland. At 11:15 A.M. on September 3 the Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain announced that the country was at war. Sandbags were piled around the Chief’s private entrance at the rear of the store, and he was photographed going to work with a gas mask slung over his shoulder, smiling broadly for waiting photographers and saying it was “business as usual.” Rapid adjustments were made to stock inventory. Vast quantities of blankets were ordered and Nellie Elt astutely brought in quantities of lipsticks and boxed soaps. Handbags “designed to carry gas masks” were hastily put on sale and, for the lucky few, there was an exciting addition to the hosiery department—imported nylon stockings.
In a portent of things to come, the “Callisthenes” column ceased publication on September 2. For the past fifteen years, the column had been written by the journalist Eisdale MacGregor, but the last article, called “A Final Word,” was written by Selfridge himself:
Their spirit of happy enthusiasm and of good cheer is hardly consistent with the sterner atmosphere of war. The articles have endeavoured to dignify that fine thing called business and surround it with strong and unbreakable bands of integrity. With this, then final word—final for the moment—we conclude this long, interesting and, we hope, character-building series.
In reality, the column’s closure was due to a massive cost-cutting exercise being orchestrated by Mr. Holmes, who was now poised to get rid of the most extravagant expense of all—Mr. Selfridge. Gordon Jr. vanished on an extended trip to America, staying away for over a month. Senior staff, curious about his absence, gossiped among themselves. When the blow came, most of Selfridge’s inner circle had been expecting it for weeks—everyone, that is, except the Chief. Miss Mepham greeted Mr. Holmes with professional politeness when he appeared at the door to the inner office on October 18. She wasn’t invited to take notes. At the meeting that followed, Holmes pointed out some salient facts. Selfridge owed the store in excess of £118,000. He owed the Inland Revenue in excess of £250,000 in back taxes. In addition, he had personal, undisclosed debts to the Midland Bank. All this was secured against his shareholdings in the company. He owned no freehold property, the store paid his costs at Brook House, and he had no company pension. Selfridge was given an ultimatum. Either he retire, relinquishing all form of executive control, or the company would demand immediate repayment of his debt. He was offered a pension of six thousand pounds a year free of tax on condition he gave his shares back to the business. He had no choice but to accept.
Selfridge sat silently as Andrew Holmes on behalf of the Prudential Assurance Company stripped him of his life’s work, ending everything he had held dear by handing him the draft of a resignation letter, which he was asked to approve on the spot. Always dignified, with that same remote quality that for decades his colleagues had yearned to penetrate, Harry Gordon Selfridge initialed his life away. Miss Mepham sat outside, knowing—as all good secretaries always do—exactly what was going on.
The board issued an abrupt and clumsily worded announcement to staff and the press:
The time has come when Mr. Selfridge feels that he should relieve himself from the duties of detail [sic] management and he has therefore asked his colleagues to accept his resignation. Advancing y
ears and their accompanying penalties have been bringing the wisdom of this step to Mr. Selfridge for quite a long time … his resignation has been received with the greatest possible regret and at the same time, in view of his unique association with the company since its foundation [the Board] have invited him to accept the title of President of the Company.
Harry spent a day or so composing his own leaving letter, which was circulated to the staff on October 21:
The time has come when I must relinquish the management of this great and beautiful business … which I created and founded over thirty years ago. My proverbial three score years and ten have long since been passed, and I have concluded, with much thought and great regret, to resign my several posts of Chairman and Managing Director and retire from the Boards of this Company and its subsidiary and associated companies … I have assumed the somewhat nominal title of President. This will not carry with it a controlling voice, but will put me in the position of an adviser when desirable … And now, my friends, I am taking a bit of a holiday. It is not that, but let us call it so. Another of my regrets is that if one of these raids occurs while I am away, I shall not be here to share it with you. During the last war I was in London continually and declined to allow the German bombs to interfere with my usual routine … wish me then, a good trip and a safe return to you all, and, as the man in the movies says—“I’ll be seeing you.” We can then again shake hands and talk about the yesterdays and the tomorrows.
And, as long as I live, my great love for this business and my deep feelings of friendship for the members of the staff will remain undimmed by time.
By the time the letter was circulated, he was gone. He couldn’t bear to say good-bye. Two weeks later he boarded the SS Washington for his last trip to America.
The great building in Oxford Street was no longer the store of H. G. Selfridge. The nameplates were swiftly put back up outside the building, and advertisements no longer showed the apostrophe in the title. Having pensioned off the father, Mr. Holmes turned his attention to the son. If Gordon Jr. had been under the impression there would be an enhanced role for him, he was wrong. There was no place in the business for the man whom Time relentlessly referred to as a “playboy.” Mr. Holmes restructured his job brief, obliging him to step down from his directorships of Whiteley’s and the Gordon Selfridge Trust, leaving him as titular head of the provincial stores. Three months later, the provincial stores were sold to John Lewis of Oxford Street. Gordon Jr. left the business, reportedly furious at the rapid dismantling of the empire. Within a matter of months he moved with his wife and children to America, where he took a job at Sears Roebuck in Chicago.
Shopping, Seduction & Mr. Selfridge Page 28