Scandal at Dolphin Square (eBook)

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MOVERS AND SHAKERS

What we now know as Pimlico (its name probably derived from that of the landlord of a popular hostelry over in Hoxton) was for many centuries a stretch of nondescript marshland that came to border an array of desirable neighbourhoods – Chelsea, Knightsbridge, Hyde Park and St James’s Park. The land was owned by the aristocratic Grosvenor family who, in the first half of the nineteenth century, partnered with an ambitious builder called Thomas Cubitt, a man of rare vision who would reshape several stretches of the city. It was he who first sculpted Pimlico into a residential neighbourhood catering for an overspill of the middling class gradually shifting west from the centre of London.

Cubitt located his Pimlico works on the site of what is now Dolphin Square, and it remained a hive of industry until his death in 1855. His son then reluctantly took over the family business and gradually the works were turned over to the army, who used it as a clothing depot. As the century rolled by, Cubitt’s original vision of a middle-class utopia gave way to something rather more down at heel. In 1902, Charles Booth noted in one of his famous surveys of the city that Pimlico still possessed ‘shabby gentility’ but showed signs of ‘decay’ and ‘grimy dilapidation’.1

Matters eventually came to a head in the 1930s. There were still a few pockets of middle-class domesticity but these tended to have faded, the residents of those neighbourhoods just about clinging on but generally not so well off to be able either to move to a more upmarket area or to ensure the good upkeep of their existing properties. Meanwhile, an increasing number of B&Bs and dosshouses had sprung up, while some streets were so ravaged by extreme poverty that they were little more than slums.

Yet there had been a vast upsurge in the number of people employed as civil servants in the city since the end of the nineteenth century, creating a demand for homes within easy reach of Westminster to suit the desires of this professional class. As things stood, there were simply not enough properties to meet the need. In addition, the army was preparing to relocate its clothing depot from its home in Cubitt’s old building works and were keen to stop paying the Grosvenor estate its not insignificant rent. Just as it had been a century earlier, the area was ripe for a shake-up. Cubitt’s attempt to turn Pimlico into a destination neighbourhood for London’s burgeoning middle class had only been a partial success. Now was a chance to finish the job.

The ‘new Cubitt’ for a while looked likely to be an American developer called Fred French. He purchased the freehold to the army depot site from Hugh Grosvenor, the Duke of Westminster, with an eye to creating a development modelled on successful projects he had overseen in the US. In particular, he wanted to replicate the success of his Tudor City development. Built in Manhattan in the 1920s, it was a complex that managed to meld the aspirations of the suburban middle classes to city skyscrapers. That was the dream for his Pimlico project, which was initially to be called Ormonde Court. But French soon ran up against a problem – the economic slump on both sides of the Atlantic was straining his company’s finances to near breaking point. Unable to secure the necessary finance, he began a desperate search for a building company to partner with.

Eventually, he alighted upon Costains, a family firm with a well-established reputation for speculative projects. They initially agreed to pool their talents but it was not long before French agreed to sell Costains his interest in the project. Costains then brought in architect Gordon Jeeves to revise the plans, while Oscar Faber was employed as consultant engineer. (Albert Costain, a director and brother of the company’s managing director, R.R. Costain, would serve as MP for Folkestone and Hythe between 1959 and 1983. That the company straddled the world of construction and politics no doubt helped inform the design of the Square, built in no small part with the political class firmly in mind.) Building began in September 1935 on the first of some 1,200 apartments on the 7.5-acre site. The intention was that Dolphin Square should house some 3,000 people by the time it was finished.

The first completed tranche of the development was officially opened by Lord Amulree on 25 November 1936. Amulree was a barrister and Labour politician who’d served as Secretary of State for Air in Ramsay MacDonald’s administration at the beginning of the 1930s. Also in attendance that day was Duff Cooper, the Secretary of State for War and MP for the nearby Westminster St George constituency. As a junior minister several years earlier, it had fallen to him to announce the closure of the army depot on which Dolphin Square now stood. Cooper had a love for a boozy dinner and possessed a liberal attitude to marital fidelity but, as far as we know, the opening went off without a hitch. It would not be long, though, before misbehaving politicians were starting to make their mark at the new apartments.

Although much of Dolphin Square was yet to be completed, it was already easy to see the appeal. The flats themselves benefitted from the latest soundproofing technology and came with such mod cons as fitted kitchens with fridges and self-controlled cookers, while telephones were also installed as standard. There were options to suit a variety of pockets too – you could get anything from a bedsit from £75 per year to a seven-room suite with provision for a maid from £455. But it was the abundance of extra amenities that really set the Square apart. As well as the gardens (which, rather than the buildings, were given a grade II listing in 2018), shops, restaurant and swimming pool (said to be based on the original Paris Lido), there was a library, beauty parlour, theatre booking office, laundry service, on-site childcare provision, a huge underground car park, valeting, shoe cleaning, errand boys and multiple postal collections and deliveries every day. If you so desired, it was quite possible to enjoy an elevated lifestyle without ever having to leave the Square again. It truly lived up to the aspiration expressed in a 1935 promotional booklet that residents might enjoy ‘at the same time most of the advantages of the separate house and the big communal dwelling place’.2 Reflecting the chauvinism of the day, one of the few concerns expressed in the advertising blurb was that ‘The Dolphin lady may be spoiled’. With so many of the concerns of domestic life addressed, there was a fear that ‘fortunate wives will not have enough to do. A little drudgery is good for wives, perhaps.’3

By the time Dolphin Square was completely finished in 1938, there were a total of thirteen Houses, each named after a significant figure from British naval history: Beatty, Collingwood, Drake, Duncan, Frobisher, Grenville, Hawkins, Hood, Howard, Keyes, Nelson, Raleigh and Rodney. These names tied in with the aquatic theme of the development but they also fitted into a wider narrative, one that spoke of British prestige, public service and personal glory. In short, these were the sorts of figures that the residents could look up to, and perhaps even hang a portrait of on the walls. Even if you weren’t a military sort, if you were more likely to wear a bowler hat than an admiral’s tricorn, there was the sense that within these buildings resided the sort of people who made this island nation great. As a verse published in Truth in December 1952 put it:

So, who was there among Dolphin Square’s early intake? Which names stand out among the lords and ladies, the vice admirals, majors and colonels, the city financiers and captains of industry, the poets and playwrights, the silver screen heartthrobs and West End hoofers?

Arguably, the most significant contemporary political figure in the 1930s was Arthur Greenwood, Clement Attlee’s deputy leader of the Labour Party. Greenwood, a tall, rather awkward Yorkshireman and not renowned as a great orator, moved into Keyes House in 1939, just as he was about to enjoy his finest moment in the House of Commons. On 2 September, as Britain stood on the brink of war, Attlee was in hospital for a medical procedure so the responsibility to speak for the party fell to Greenwood. Hitler’s invasion of Poland had commenced the previous day – an event set to trigger Britain’s entry into the war to defend its ally. But to the disquiet of members on both sides of the House, there was little sign of the Conservative Government putting its military might into action. Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain gave a holding speech in which he dangled the possibility that a negotiated peace might still be achievable, even as German troops swarmed over Poland. Besides, any British action must wait until France was ready to assist. Greenwood got to his feet, encouraging shouts coming from all directions. Notably, Leo Amery, the arch Conservative anti-appeaser, urged him to ‘Speak for England, Arthur!’ A clearly nervous Greenwood began his address, and soon found his rhythm: