Shopping, Seduction & Mr. Selfridge (18 page)

Selfridge was becoming known for making too much noise. He tried too hard, and the new Royal couple were traditionalists. Though an avid shopper, Queen Mary preferred to patronize Harrods, John Barker and the very sedate Gorringe’s in Buckingham Palace Road. Despite Selfridge’s yearning for Royal patronage, she never once visited the store in his lifetime.

That Selfridge himself was a snob is undeniable. Nothing delighted him more than when his wife’s application for membership of that august body, the Daughters of the American Revolution, was accepted, proving her family’s long American lineage. Yet his snobbery was complex. He genuinely sought recognition for his staff as members of the ‘profession of retail’ and he was bitterly upset when, for example, the store director Percy Best sought membership of his local golf club and was rejected. But his passion for self-aggrandizement was too much for the establishment. Being in trade
was one thing. Being publicly proud of it was something entirely different.

Not that Selfridge himself was particularly concerned about criticism from establishment figures. By now he had his own, increasingly influential circle of friends: Albert Stanley (now Lord Ashfield), Ralph Blumenfeld, Thomas Lipton and Thomas Dewar, whom he fondly called ‘Tom Tea’ and ‘Tom Whisky’. He discussed spiritualism with Sir Oliver Lodge and played poker with Sir Ernest Cassel, dealing his own heavily embossed cards and using his own beautifully engraved mother-of-pearl chips. His admiration for Sir Oliver Lodge extended to his being given his own reserved table in the store’s Palm Court Restaurant, where on most days he would take tea and meet informally with his fervent admirers. Lodge spent his time in distinguished company. Friends and ‘believers’ of the noted physicist – a brilliant scientist and inventor who was also deeply involved in psychic phenomena – included Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, H. G. Wells and Jacob Epstein. The restaurant staff would hover uncertainly around his table, in part curious, in part nervous, for the great man readily admitted he believed in the spirit world and was known to take part in séances.

By nature more practical than spiritual, with his interests firmly rooted in the present – and the future – Selfridge seems unlikely to have shared Sir Oliver’s zeal for the afterlife, although he did have a ‘near death’ experience early in 1911 after a serious car crash in the Lake District. He was unconscious for over forty hours – long enough for his family to be gravely concerned – but then woke up quite suddenly, pronounced himself ‘fit as a fiddle’ and two days later, to the astonishment of colleagues who later said he had ‘wished himself well’, went straight back to work.

After the accident, perhaps feeling more in touch with his own mortality, he seemed even more hyper-charged than usual. From that point on, he developed insomnia, rarely sleeping more than four or five hours a night, although he did take brief cat-naps during the day. Time was the thing. Like the White Rabbit, he rushed around looking at his watch. He was always very nearly late, creating havoc
with travelling companions by seemingly enjoying arriving at the boat train just as the departure whistle was being blown. There just weren’t enough hours in the day to get everything done. Things were planned to the last second and he was a brilliant judge of timing, in more ways than one. When the
Daily Mirror
invited eighteen well-known figures to see if they could judge precisely how long a minute took to pass, only two of them got it right. One of them was Harry Gordon Selfridge.

Selfridge was always keen to investigate anything new. As he was a regular commuter to America as well as a devotee of the White Star shipping line, it might have been expected that he would have considered joining the maiden voyage of the
Titanic
in April 1912. His daughter Rosalie was by this time at Finch in New York, in those days a smart ‘post-graduate’ finishing school which offered the daughters of the rich a grounding in art and music, lectures on world affairs and advice on hiring and firing servants. Rose and Harry had in fact crossed the Atlantic in January and had plans to go again in June. Selfridge himself often went over every couple of months, but in April that year, assisted by their faithful butler and housekeeper Mr and Mrs Fraser, they were busy moving from Arlington Street to their new house at 30 Portman Square. As always with Selfridge’s English homes, it was a house with a history, having been the family home of George and Alice Keppel throughout ‘Mrs George’s’ affair with Edward VII, who had been a constant visitor.

The sinking of the
Titanic
stunned the world, not least because it shattered people’s faith in advanced technology. Among the 1,523 people who died in the catastrophe was Isador Strauss, the owner of Macy’s in New York, who had visited Selfridge in London just a few days earlier. The elderly Mr Strauss went to his death accompanied by his devoted wife who, having been offered a place on a lifeboat, refused to leave his side. Harry Selfridge also mourned his friend W. T. Stead, the editor of the
Pall Mall Gazette
, who had often dined with the family at Arlington Street. Stead was another member of Sir Oliver Lodge’s coterie and himself a great believer in psychical
research. He had often dreamed about drowning, and just before boarding the ship he wrote to his secretary, ‘I feel as if something is going to happen and that it will be for ever.’

Among the survivors were Lucy and Cosmo Duff Gordon who were bound for Lucile’s New York showrooms. Elinor Glyn was at her house in Green Street when news of the catastrophe started to filter through. Desperate for news of her sister and close to hysteria, she immediately rang Ralph Blumenfeld’s office. She needn’t have worried. Lucy and her husband had managed to get into a lifeboat, despite the convention of the day that priority should go to women and children. More disturbing was the subsequent news that the boat wasn’t even full and did not turn back to pick up other passengers. The Duff Gordons were bitterly attacked in the press, and gossip-mongers had a field day. Some said Duff had hastily piled on some of his wife’s exotic clothes and masqueraded as a woman to secure his place (unlikely, given that he had a full beard). Others claimed that Lucy had insisted he stay with her, which is more plausible. When the Duff Gordons were called to account for their actions at an inquiry, they were vindicated, but Lucile’s reputation in London never really recovered and she moved the hub of her fashion business to New York. Duff and Lucy soon separated, but both were haunted by the experience. For years afterwards, the accusation that they had deserted a sinking ship followed them wherever they went. Only today, ninety-five years later, has the truth come out with the publication of a letter from her maid, proving that luck had been on their side in being ushered by a crew member on to a virtually empty boat.

Social responsibility was high on Harry’s agenda, and he regularly hosted charitable events in the store. An auction or fashion show held in the name of a good cause had the added attraction of bringing the rich, the titled and the famous together. That April, a fund-raising auction in the Palm Court Restaurant was held in support of the
Titanic
‘Disaster Fund’, hosted by the celebrated actress Marie Tempest. Theatrical stars were a natural choice for Selfridge who was
addicted to the stage. They attracted the right sort of press attention and they were happy to sign customers’ autographs.

One of Harry’s favourite plays – not least because its theme was fashion – was
The Madras House
, written and produced by Harley Granville-Barker. Selfridge admired the young, ultra-fashionable playwright/producer enormously, buying blocks of tickets for all his productions and distributing them among the staff who felt compelled to attend whether they wanted to or not. For Granville-Barker, whose intriguing work often received mixed reviews, Harry’s generosity was a boon. For the store’s staff it was a mixed blessing.

By now store turnover was up and profits were slowly but steadily rising: in 1912 to £50,000, in 1913 to £104,000, and in 1914 to over £131,000. Selfridge, having made a bet with Sir John Musker on meeting targets, was soon proudly driving a new Rolls-Royce. The financial press attacks had eased.
The Economist
commented on the latest figures: ‘Not a roaring success, but the business is increasing.’

At the morning meetings, the ideas were still coming thick and fast. ‘Merchandise’ or gift vouchers were introduced. Sluggish morning trade was improved by special price-point promotions that ended at noon. A pet department opened, with special emphasis on the Selfridge family’s favourite pug dogs. During the 1912 eclipse of the sun, customers were invited to watch the excitement from the roof garden. Though they were given coloured glasses for protection, most preferred to watch the reflection in the well-stocked fish ponds. Roger, the boiler-room cat – perhaps divining the fish – padded eight floors up from the sub-basement but then fell off the roof. Thousands of Londoners mourned his passing.

The death of the ‘company cat’ had been announced by ‘Callisthenes’, Harry Selfridge’s new pet. The pseudonym appeared at the foot of a column which was published each day in the
Morning Post
. The column also appeared at random each day in various other newspapers, particularly
The Times
, the
Daily Telegraph
, the
Evening Standard
, the
Daily Mail
and the
Daily Express
, as well as the late Mr Stead’s
Pall Mall Gazette.
‘Callisthenes,’ explained Selfridge, ‘was the
original Public Relations man’ – in fact a relative of Aristotle who, having caught the eye of Alexander the Great, was invited to join him on his expeditions as official historian.

The ‘Callisthenes’ column, usually about 500 words long and discreetly signed off with ‘Selfridges & Co. Ltd’, reflected ‘the policies, principles and opinions of this House of Business upon various points of public interest’. All sorts of topics were covered, from Harry Selfridge’s grand passion for a Channel Tunnel to the store’s concern at the volume of traffic in Oxford Street. From time to time the column was given over to a celebrity pleading a cause: one early writer was Elinor Glyn.

Most other retailers were bemused by ‘Callisthenes’, unable to understand why Selfridge paid for such oblique advertising. In reality, the columns were often fascinating, sometimes sweetly sentimental but always sincere, and they drew people into the Selfridge’s ‘family’.
New Age
magazine howled with laughter, calling them ‘utter cant’, but ‘Callisthenes’ forged a place in the daily life of Londoners until 1939.

‘Callisthenes’ was even bold enough to tackle female suffrage. Selfridge himself supported their cause, ensuring the store advertised regularly in the suffrage magazine
Votes for Women
, specifically promoting merchandise such as ribbons, belts and handbags ‘
in the Movement Colours’.
The store stocked stationery overprinted with the suffrage slogan ‘Votes for Women’ – and even sold Suffrage Christmas Crackers! When suffragettes went on the rampage in 1912, throwing bricks through West End store windows, they wreaked havoc, causing thousands of pounds’ worth of damage. The store director of Liberty’s mournfully told the
Evening News,
‘Women have regrettably turned against the shrines at which they usually worship.’ In the mêlée, Selfridge’s remained untouched. Perhaps Harry, as a sympathizer, remained immune – either that, or they knew the vast plate-glass windows were virtually impregnable.

The retail industry is often cited as being among the first to offer women career opportunities. In reality, most women only worked on
the shop floor – though in Selfridge’s, charmingly dressed in white pantaloons and faux-Russian tasselled boots, they also operated the lifts. There were of course lady buyers among the staff at Selfridge’s, and several of them were in charge of substantial budgets. Indeed, Madam Selfridge herself unveiled a charming bronze plaque on the roof terrace which stated: ‘This plaque is a tribute to women’s work in the establishing of this business and is set up as a permanent record of their splendid loyalty and the quality of the service they have rendered’. Despite the fine sentiment, however, during Harry Gordon’s lifetime and for long afterwards, no woman ever got anywhere near executive level, sat on the Board of Directors, or was involved in investment planning.

The night before Christmas Eve 1912, a musical revue called
Hello Rag-Time!
burst on to the stage at the London Hippodrome. It was a storming success, appealing to all tastes – Rupert Brooke admitted to seeing the show ten times. Its thumping music and its snappy, sexy chorus girls parading down the ‘joy plank’ through the cheering audience heralded the dawn of dance mania. The sell-out show was a display of uninhibited, unashamed fun. Rag-time was American through and through, as American as the two ice-cream soda departments that opened that season at Selfridge’s, where on an average day they got through 4 gallons of lemon squash, 4 gallons of chocolate, the same of coffee and 240 quarts of cream. The two departments were equipped with brand-new brine ice freezers and a new piece of technology called a Lippincott carbonator that whipped up 100 gallons in less than an hour. There were soon queues of customers standing in line for seats. There were queues too at the Hippodrome the following year when
Hello Rag-Time!
was replaced by
Hello Tango!
This was an altogether different type of show. The Latin American dance became just as much of a craze, but its unashamed eroticism attracted criticism from many who felt it was sleazy.

Selfridge’s hosted a charity costume ball on the roof, where the social set enthused over a tango demonstration by Maurice and Florence Walton, London’s premier dance duo. Selfridge’s were quick to stock
tango shoes and tango dresses, slit high up each side. The Bishop of London denounced the new craze as ‘shocking’, but respectable ladies soon started to host ‘tango teas’. Those yearning for something even more decadent went to the Cave of the Golden Calf, a breathtakingly avant-garde nightclub just off Regent Street, decorated with exotic murals painted by Wyndham Lewis, where a Negro jazz band played in a smoke- and dope-filled haze and customers danced as if the music would never stop.