SOUTH MOLTON STREET, W1

New Zealand Listener, Volume 37, Issue 941, 23 August 1957, Page 4

SOUTH MOLTON STREET, W1

by

Walter

Brookes

JR EADERS of The Listener should know that I did not spend all of my time in England fossicking round places with literary associations and that sort of thing. In fact, the greater part of it was spent amid style, fashion, beauty and glamour: in short, while in London I worked in South Molton Street, W.1. It seems shocking to me now that when I went there I had never heard of South Molton Street, and knew nothing of the significance of W.1. But now I can say that South Molton Street stands in the same relation to Bond Street as The New Statesman once said The Times does to the Government: "Alongside and a little above it." As for W.1, you can visualise that when I quote from Paul Jennings, the essayist in The Observer, who tells how, ‘in a sudden burst of enthusiasm for fashion, one finds oneself "being measured for the suit that will look ridiculous outside W.1." Just imagine a place where people wear suits that will look ridiculous outside it, and you have W.1. exactly. I spent my time delivering gownsone of the more important occupations of W.1. This took me all over Mayfair and most of the West End, and often I went down to the City, too, to the Chamber of Commerce, to see about papers for the export of gowns to Paris, New York, Italy, Sweden, Curacao, Morocco, and places like that. It was surprising how many places gowns had to go to, and I saw that they went. But I also spent some of the time in the showroom, with Miss Blossom, the manageress, Coralie, her assistant, and Mr O’Flanagan, the London representative. Miss Blossom knew her fashions. *Do you know, Coralie,"’ she said, "someone told me curves were going out. I don’t believe it, but if they did I should like it. It’s a funny thing, but I always like what’s in fashion. I should hate

to be one of those people who don’t like what's in fashion, wouldn’t you?" "Of course," said Coralie, but she sighed. She was a very attractive young lady and had beautiful hair. She had bleached it grey and dyed part of it pink, and it looked-well, just right. You have to have beautiful hair for that style to look just right, "What wouldn’t I give," she said, "to be away from all this? In the wilds of Australia or somewhere." *"Wouldn’t we all," said Miss Blossom. "But we just have to stay here and stick it out." People in South Molton Street may differ from others in some ways, but they have this in common with people everywhere . else: they want to get away from all this. Mr O’Flanagan came in. He was a cheerful soul, Mr O’Flanagan. He had come to London from Ireland 30 years ago, from Tipperary, and there was no place like it in the world, but he hadn’t been back since, he hadn’t the time, he simply hadn’t the time. There was nothing about gowns that Mr O’Flanagan did not know-no, to be truthful I mean there was nothing about gowns that he did know. But there was never a man like Mr O’Flanagan for having a drink with a fellow and telling him a story,_and never a man like him for placing a chair for a lady or solicitously enquiring after her health or complimenting her on her clothes. He was a man of business through and through. "Good morning, Miss Blossom, good morning, Coralie," he beamed. "What a lovely blouse, Miss Blossom. Did you bring it back from Paris?" "Oh, no," said Miss Blossom. "That’s just something I picked up locally, In Bond Street." "Well, fancy that," said Mr O’Flanagan, "Just fancy that. You wouldn't credit it, would you?" "Yes," said Miss Blossom, "I just went in and told them, ‘It’s no use

trying to show me anything I don't like. You should know me well enough by now not to show me things I don’t like. Do that to other people by all means, but not to me.’" In my ignorance, before I came to South Molton Street, I thought shop assistants tried to show people things they do like, but apparently they try to show things people don’t like, and they shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. But the mention of Paris reminded me of something, Goodness! I had forgotten to go down to the City ‘to see about the papers for those gowns to go to Paris. I tore off. Why, people in Paris might be reduced to wearing things they picked up locally! I was taking it easy coming back, enjoying the sunshine, for it was midAugust, and at that time, of course, there is nobody in London. It may be difficult to envisage London with nobody in it, but that’s how it is, except, of course, for a few key people such as Miss Blossom, Coralie, and myself, who have to keep things moving and help to maintain England’s industrial supremacy. The others are doing their duty by taking a break and having their annual holidays at the seaside or in the country, where it is always raining at this time, so that they are prevented from overdoing things and thus get a chance to build up for the year’s efforts. It is absolutely not done-and that is the end of the matter-to stay in London in the sunshine in August if you can possibly manage to get away, any more than it is to leave London in the winter unless you are ont out on a stretcher, "Never give a penny. to the street musicians," Miss Blossom told me. "They leave London in the winter and go away to the south of France while we

have to stay here with our noses to the grindstone," Anyhow, as I was walking back, enjoying the sunshine, I ran into Tootler, a key man in coats as I was in gowns. "Know where I’m going?" he asked. "Off to Claridge’s, Usual job." You will no doubt have heard of Claridge’s, where the Duke of Windsor always stays and so on, but you may not know what a hospitable place it is. In fact, sometimes they simply won't let their customers go until somebody arrives with a bribe and brings a taxi to make sure the parting guest is comfortable. It was often this way with Tootler’s boss’s brother when he came in from the country or wherever he stayed. Claridge’s was just round the corner, but I was always afraid to go in for that reason, You got all sorts of people in South Molton Street. Greta Garbo used to come to the shop of W. Tubb Ltd., to buy polo-necked sweaters and things like that. But I always walked over to the other side of the street when she stepped out of her car. Too familiar a manner, Always wanting to stop and have a chat. I can say that that sort of thing did not go down in South Molton Street. The old-established firm of W. Tubb, Ltd., had a wonderful business, but some said ‘it was all built on advertising. Certainly their advertising was brilliantly done, and they said that Mr Tubb did not even employ an agency, but did it himself. I would pick up a woman’s magazine and read: "W. Tubb, Ltd. Scotch Woollens. South Molton Street, W.1. Telephone Mayfair 9999." How forcefully and vigorously, and yet how subtly the quality and style of Mr Tubb’s goods and the service he gave were conveyed. The Americans, hardened as they were to advertising, had their sales resistance broken down by this, and crowded his shop. Mr Tubb’s shop had a plate on it stating that William Blake, poet and painter, once lived there. But that was (continued on next page)

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a long time ago, before South Molton Street became really fashionable, and nobody took any notice. How W.1 has changed. The house of George Frederick Handel (a rather rough type, one gathers) has had its ground floor turned into an espresso coffee lounge run by a Negro-great people for style, some of these Jamaicans. Hardie Amies makes dresses for the Queen where Richard Brinsley Sheridan lived (he might have got by here today, though). I once met a rather trying character, an Australian who was in London studying sociology or something. He seemed to think I didn’t know London at all. "You should get around a bit," he said. "There are other places in London besides South Molton Street and Bond Street." "If you mean there are Savile Row, Old Burlington Street, Regent Street, Albemarle Street, Berkeley Square (I go through it on the way to Shepherd’s Market), and all round that way," I said, "I know them perfectly well. Why, I walk along Savile Row every second day, and I like it because there’s never anybody there. I was only saying to the doorman at Hardie Amies.. ." "Oh, get away from all that kind of thing," he said contemptuously. "Go down to Whitechapel Road and have a look round. That will open your eyes." I went down there-I remember it well; it was about the time that lip-

stick changed from pink to coral. But there was absolutely nothing of interest at all, Most of the men were wearing trousers that simply weren’t the correct width. I don’t know why their tailors let them-surely it’s just as easy to do things the right way as the wrong way. Some of them looked as though they hadn’t any tailors at all, I have no idea where their clothes came from. And there were women wearing hats matching their suits that obviously hadn’t been specially designed for them by their milliners. With all the money now round this area, too. Miss Blossom always said that if you wanted to wear a hat matching your suit you simply had to have it specially designed for you. Otherwisewell, it just wasn’t right, that’s all. She was certainly a remarkable and versatile woman, Miss Blossom. She had a complete knowledge of two subjects, gowns and hats. "When I was head milliner in a firm in Bond Street," she said, "I used to tell the girls in the workroom that nothing was impossible. ‘If you just try,’ I said, ‘nothing is impossible. Absolutely nothing.’ " I realised how right Miss Blossom was when I looked at the hats around W.1. Of course, there were people who didn’t ‘fit into South Molton Street at all. Bert, who came to work with us, lived at the Elephant.

"Some firms wouldn’t give you a job if you gave your address as the Elephant," said the presser, Of the Elephant, which is short for the Elephant and Castle, a pub which gives its name to the district, I can say little except that the London County Council has announced its intention of making it the Piccadilly Circus of South-east London. Well, I ask you, could they? But the things they say about it can’t all be true. Bert did not stay very long, even though he was a conscientious, thrifty type who would pick up every cigarette butt he saw lying around when he was out. He suffered from a mysterious ailment which attacked him once a week, and sometimes he was not able to get to work at all on Mondays. He was very vague about it, something to do with the stormach, I think. The cost of living must have been very high at the Elephant, for he was regularly short of money on his return at the beginning of the week. His troubles must have soured him, for he made scathing comments about the good people round W.1, who were doing their best to show a brave face to the world in spite of their worries about high taxation and the constantly changing fashion, In the end he probably could not bear it any longer, for his absence one Monday was followed by his disappearance altogether. Of course, he was in South

Molton Street at an awkward time: Paris had decided to shorten skirts, London to lengthen them. People did not know where they were. About this Miss Blossom kept her head. "Wait and see what Rome will do," she said wisely. Of course, there were other things ag well as style and fashion in South Molton Street. Let me think now-there was Bowes-Lyon of Mayfair (marvellous Devonshire teas at only 15/-, closed in August, of course); Jno Judd, clockmaker since 1770; Denise, the Lady Desbrough; Susan’s; Barraud, chocolatier, confiseur; Gimpel Fils, paintings -oh, yes, the Women’s Advisory Council on Solid Fuel; I suppose it gave advice on how to buy a bag of coal and burn it, and things like that. There was a meeting once a month; big cars would roll up and very stylish ladies would get out. Sometimes a policeman would be detailed to keep a space clear for a special car. Whenever I asked him whom it was for he would invariably reply: "B and K." At first I thought he was having me on, but now I begin to wonder. When I read about Mr Khrushchov I notice signs of an elegance of manner, a polish and finesse, an indefinable something that could only have been picked up in South Molton Street, W.1. Perhaps he slipped over now and again to report on how women were getting on with solid fuel in Russia. I may have stumbled on a top secret.