Author Archives: Mike Higginbottom

Crown & Kitchen

Crown & Kettle public house, Ancoats, Manchester

Researching the history and architecture of public houses is a minefield. Documentation is widely scattered, images are variable in quality and often undated, and personal memories are often vague because they’re born of habit.

The Crown & Kettle on the corner of Great Ancoats Street and Oldham Road north of Manchester’s city centre has a coherent story that’s repeatedly told but some of the details are open to debate.

The name is unusual, but not as strange as the earlier name, the “Iron Dish & Cob of Coal”. Neither has been satisfactorily explained.

The earliest reference to a building on the site is dated 1734 and indicates it was used as a courthouse, and the connection with justice leads to unlikely tales of a secret tunnel to Strangeways Prison (built 1866-68) and “hanging pits” beneath the gents’ lavatory.

The eighteenth-century building isn’t the present-day two-storey pub. Neil Richardson’s The Old Pubs of Ancoats (2016) cites a directory of 1800 and includes an 1820 sketch of a three-storey, eighteenth-century building with a distinctive sign of a crown and a kettle.

The Manchester Evening News (August 26th 1976) mentions that the Crown & Kettle held a drinks licence by 1799. There are repeated newspaper advertisements for auctions on the premises from 1800 onwards.

Whatever its origins the current grand building with a high-ceilinged ground floor makes an excellent hostelry and has been a landmark for something the better part of two centuries. Its interior is memorable for its elaborate Gothic plaster ceiling and the huge pendants which originally carried gasolier lighting fixtures.

Until the 1990s the snug had mahogany panelling which allegedly came from the R101 airship. This seems unlikely because the R101 was destroyed when it crashed and burst into flames near Beauvais, northern France, in October 1930 killing 48 passengers and crew. It’s possible that the panelling actually came from the R100, which was grounded and scrapped after the R101 tragedy.

In the mid-twentieth century the Crown & Kettle was a popular watering hole for journalists and printers from the Daily Express building next door. One history-forum contributor blamed the pub for the paper’s “speeling mistakes”. There’s a story that the Express photographer Jack Kay used to visit with his pet duck, which was teetotal and drank water from an ashtray.

The Crown & Kettle was listed Grade II in 1974. It was closed after an altercation on February 3rd 1990 between supporters of Manchester United and Manchester City that was variously described as a “fight”, a “riot” and “like the Wild West”, and according to the Manchester Evening News caused £30,000-worth of damage. Every member of staff on duty was injured.

A subsequent arson attack ruined the mahogany panelling in the snug.

It remained closed until 2005 when, with assistance from English Heritage, the ceiling was partly restored, leaving the remainder “as found”. After a change of ownership and a further refurbishment in 2000-2001 some of the interior walls were stripped back to the brickwork.

These vicissitudes have enhanced the atmosphere and appeal of the place. It was awarded the Greater Manchester CAMRA regional Pub of the Year 2015 and the Central Manchester Pub of the Year 2019.

The Crown & Kettle is a star in Manchester’s city-centre constellation of fine pubs. Its history is lengthy and robust, and loses nothing in the telling.

Semi-detached, suburban…

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Clifton Hall, Nottingham: Pages’ Room (1987)

The village of Clifton, on the south bank of the River Trent, opposite Nottingham, was a manorial estate dating back to the eleventh century. The family who owned it took their name from their property, and for centuries the first-born males were mostly called Gervase which can be confusing. Some dominant figures have soubriquets, such as the apparently lovable Sir Gervase the Gentle (d1588), and his grandson Sir Gervase the Great, 1st Baronet, who hosted a visit to Clifton by King Charles I.

The family were noted for picking the wrong side in conflicts: Sir Gervase Clifton (d1471) was beheaded after the turmoil of the Battle of Tewkesbury during the chaotic reign of King Henry VI. Sir Gervase the Great was a Royalist, and paid fines at the end of the Civil War, yet resumed his status and influence after the Restoration.

In contrast, the ninth and last baronet, Sir Robert Clifton (1826-1869), stood as an Independent MP for Nottingham and won a succession of elections until his death. Thirty thousand people are estimated to have turned out to witness his funeral procession, and the historian A C Wood drily remarks, “With no sense of incongruity the local papers recorded that the long procession of family mourners, tenantry and friends…was headed by two mutes immediately followed by the presidents of the Beerhouse Keepers’ Association and the Licensed Victuallers’ Association.

The inevitable march of change in the twentieth century, including the approach of council housing towards Clifton Village, led Lieutenant Colonel Peter Thomas Clifton to sell up the estate and the Hall after the Second World War.

Clifton Hall, a magnificent Grade-I listed house incorporating medieval fabric skilfully tidied in c1778-90 by John Carr of York, became a girls’ grammar school in 1958, transferred to the then Trent Polytechnic in 2002, and was sold to the property developer Chek White, who planted fourteen modern houses in a gated community “basking in views of the spectacular, historic hall”. [Discover your dream home at Clifton Hall Drive … | Smith and Co Estates]

Clifton Hall itself was converted into two semi-detached residences which gained international fame when the property developer Anwar Rashid encountered disconcerting paranormal activity in 2007 as soon as his family moved in. They stuck it out for eight months and moved to nearby Wollaton.

The South Wing has spectacular rooms which probably result from John Carr’s ingenious conversion of a complex existing structure.

At the narrow east end of the house he provided a stone façade and a handsome bow running through all three storeys.

Behind the central loggia of the entrance front, three bays are occupied by the Octagon Hall built on the site of a medieval watchtower. It’s spectacular, but it restricted staff access between the two wings.

One of the earliest surviving features within the house is the magnificent chimneypiece in the Drawing Room (formerly the Great Chamber), ascribed to John Smythson, dated c1630 and perhaps associated with Charles I’s visit in 1631.

Of around the same date is the exquisite little Pages’ Room, its black and white painted panelling decorated with extremely rare early seventeenth-century paintings of soldiers’ drill.

Both these features suggest that Clifton at the time of the Civil War had something of the atmosphere that can still be sensed in the Little Keep of Bolsover Castle in Derbyshire.

Clifton Hall has been completely inaccessible to the public for many years now, but the whole building is currently for sale as two lots, each apartment priced at £2.5 million, and the agents’ website is copiously illustrated.

The 9-bedroom, 6-bathroom South Wing is described and illustrated at 9 bedroom semi-detached house for sale in South Wing, Clifton Hall, NG11. The video tour is located between slides 3 and 4.

The 6-bedroom, 5-bathroom North Wing, adapted from the nineteenth-century service quarters, is at 6 bedroom country house for sale in Holgate, Clifton Village, NG11.

Roupell Street

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When I booked a weekend in London at the Premier Inn London Southwark (Southwark Station), my London-based friend Eric prompted me to seek out the Roupell Street estate as an unexpected historic experience.

It takes only a couple of minutes to walk into a nineteenth-century time-warp of neat little terraces that are now marketed as two-bedroom houses at close on two million pounds each.

The area was developed in the early nineteenth century by the son of a jeweller, John Palmer Roupell (1771-1835), an ambitious, indeed rapacious gold-refiner and metal merchant, who bought seven acres of land in Lambeth Marsh in 1792. The area was previously tenter grounds, used for drying new-made cloth, until John Palmer Roupell introduced iron and lead works and later, from 1824, laid out streets which were initially named after him and his wife and only son.

This was not a happy family. The son, Richard Palmer Roupell (1782-1856), feared his father, who he knew would disapprove of his liaison with a carpenter’s daughter, Sarah Crane, with whom he had four clandestine children. He did not marry Sarah until both his parents were dead, and subsequently had a sole legitimate son, Richard (1840-1883).

The second of the four illegitimate children, William Roupell (1831-1909), assisted his father in developing fifty-five acres of land around Streatham Hill into the Roupell Park estate. He too was ambitious, and became MP for Lambeth in 1857 after spending £6,000 on campaigning. This was expedited by destroying his father’s will that left his estate to sixteen-year-old Richard, and forging a substitute that made his mother sole heir and himself sole executor.

This fraud unravelled in 1862, and though he destroyed documents and fled to Spain, he chose to return and face charges. He repented in a confessional pamphlet, and after serving a fourteen-year sentence he went to live with his mother and sister on Brixton Hill, made himself respectable but not frugal, outlived the rest of the family and died in poverty. Three hundred people attended when he was buried in the family vault in West Norwood Cemetery, the last of the Roupells.

Roupell Street is the sole memento of these doings, an urbane enclave that takes no notice of Waterloo East Station and the South Bank. The elegant little cottages are built in a warm brown brick, many of them with gables that are oddly out of step with the rhythm of the front doors.

In the middle of the grid of streets is a dignified pub, the King’s Arms, which looks as if it hasn’t changed for a century, but boasts a fine Thai kitchen. The Londonist website [King’s Arms | Londonist] advises, “[it] might lazily be declared a ‘hidden gem’. Judging by the crowds who find the place every evening, there’s nothing very ‘hidden’ about it. Turn up of an afternoon, however, and you’ll find the perfect corner pub for a quiet pint.” Its interior is described and evaluated at King’s Arms, London – CAMRA – The Campaign for Real Ale.

If I didn’t know Eric, who knows London, I would never have found it.

Reawakening the Premier Electric Theatre

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Premier Electric Theatre, Somercotes, Derbyshire (2025)

Premier Electric Theatre, Somercotes, Derbyshire (1977)

The Premier Electric Theatre in Somercotes, Derbyshire, hasn’t screened a movie since Bonfire Night 1960.

It was built for the local wine-merchant, George Beastall, and opened on New Year’s Day 1912. At first it seated only three hundred, with a modest entrance between two shops, but was quickly enlarged to seat more than a thousand.

When sound was installed in 1930 an imposing brick façade replaced the shops and the seating capacity was increased to 1,180.

George Beastall sold the cinema in the mid-1940s and it changed hands repeatedly until it was bought by Ollerton Pictures Ltd which subsequently acquired the Empire Theatre opposite the Premier, as well as other small picture houses in the nearby villages of Pinxton, Jacksdale and South Normanton.

In contrast to these four modest cinemas, the Premier was equipped to show Cinemascope films in 1954, which attracted an audience from a wide area.

Its fortunes fell after the evening show on November 5th 1960 when a fire broke out. Earlier, teenagers had been seen outside throwing lit fireworks through the emergency exits. The manager, Mr Percy Dennis, told the Nottingham Evening Post (November 7th 1960), “Perhaps I’d better not say what I really think of teenagers.”

Ollerton Pictures clearly intended to reinstate the damage at a cost of £10,000. Their spokesman told the Nottingham Evening Post (Monday February 20th 1961), “Pull it down? Not at all. We are so sure that there is a demand in this area that we are turning it into a virtually new cinema.”

However, a year later the Birmingham Post (February 12th 1962) reported, under a headline “NEW CINEMA SEATS NOT WORTH WHILE”, that refurbishment was delayed because of an apparent shortage of second-hand seats. There must have been many cinema closures at the time releasing redundant seating but the Premier spokesman declared, “There was such a lot of seat-slashing by teenagers before the cinema closed that it would not be worthwhile to put in new seats.”

The building stayed dark until Walker’s Bingo Clubs made it comfortable for their purposes and opened it in 1974. An image on the Somercotes Local History Society website shows how it looked during “eyes down”. Walker’s Bingo eventually closed in 2013.

By 2018 the empty building had been converted to a cannabis farm, and in 2020 architects Windsor Patania submitted plans to demolish the auditorium and construct a three-storey block of twenty apartments, while restoring the 1930 foyer block.

This would have involved removing the fine “PREMIER ELECTRIC THEATRE” plasterwork from the blank wall facing Victoria Street.

Nothing came of this and the local community is making a heroic effort to revive the building and make it useful: Derbyshire community event to save historic theatre and cinema.

Images on the ‘Reawaken the Premier Electric Theatre’ Facebook page indicate the dire state of the interior, suggesting that Councillor Jason Parker’s estimate of £4 million to put the place in order won’t leave much small change.

Nevertheless, there are cinema buildings in Britain that have been restored by the commitment of volunteers backed by experts who know what they’re doing. The tiny Harwich Electric Palace became a lair for feral cats before reopening for film in 1981. The vast New Victoria Cinema, Bradford, rescued after a thousand supporters joined hands in a “Hug the Odeon” demonstration, is about to reopen as a live music venue, and the Stockport Plaza has been pulling in the crowds since it reopened in 2000.

Such schemes don’t always work out. The Bronte Cinema in Haworth is in the same state as it was when I found it in 2016, despite occasional local expressions of interest. And, of course, there have been disasters like the Derby Hippodrome Theatre.

But I’d never underestimate the potential of volunteers with energy and flair – and expert backing – to bring dilapidated buildings back into use.

Northwick Cinema, Worcester

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The Northwick Cinema is a fluke. It’s strange to find a superb Art Deco cinema in a quiet suburb of a cathedral city, designed by an independent architect who specialised in cinemas in random places such as Sheerness, Kettering and Walton-on-Thames, containing the only surviving interior-design work of an exceptional artist who worked mainly in the North-East.

The proprietors of Scala (Worcester) Ltd had operated a city-centre picture-house of that name since 1922, and it’s unclear why this small local company expanded in the late Thirties by building a brand-new 1,109-seat auditorium out of the city centre.

They chose as their architect C Edmund Wilford of Leicester. He designed the Regal Cinema, Walton-on-Thames and the Regal Cinema, Bridlington (both 1938 – the same year as the Northwick): Bridlington’s hidden Art Deco gem | Mike Higginbottom Interesting Times.

The interior is by John Alexander (1888-1974), an artist of considerable talent whose watercolour perspectives are in the RIBA Drawings Collection and online at ‘ John Alexander (1888-1974)’ images and/or videos results. He not only designed but manufactured the plaster figures and motifs that distinguished his designs.

His innovative work, mainly located in Scotland and the north-east, has been so neglected that the Northwick contains his only design still surviving intact and in situ. For this reason, the Northwick was listed Grade II in 1985, and its Art Deco design is recognised as nationally important.

The auditorium is dominated by a fibrous plaster composition of mythical human figures, drawing the eye dramatically towards the proscenium. By the use of smooth curves, heightened perspective and strong geometric shapes, lit indirectly, the auditorium conveys a sense of excitement that heralds the entertainment it was intended to frame.

Unlike the Odeon house-architects’ use of Art Deco to create a streamlined interior that was smooth and literally dust-resistant, Alexander reinterpreted the baroque magnificence of the Victorian theatre in the larger-than-life scale of modernist architecture. Alexander’s work at the Northwick cost £1,138.

The cinema opened on November 28th 1938 and closed on October 10th 1966, reopening as a bingo club at the end of that month. Mecca, the unintentional saviour of so many such buildings, maintained it well and redecorated it abominably, until falling attendances led to closure in 1982.

There was much anxiety and some controversy about the building in the years it stood empty.

Ultimately a local property developer and entertainment impresario, Ian Perks, took over the building and engaged Martin and Nicolette Baines to refurbish Alexander’s interior, restoring the colour-scheme from his original water-colours and wherever possible utilising original fittings, lighting and carpet-fragments in the renewal.

The Northwick reopened as a theatre and concert venue on June 5th 1991, and hosted shows by – among others – the Drifters, Gene Pitney, Nigel Kennedy, Freddie Starr, the Searchers and Bernard Manning, but closed in 1996. The extent of its decline is portrayed in a 2024 article in the Worcester News: Worcester: The Northwick as a cinema, theatre and business | Worcester News.

The local council rejected a proposal to demolish in favour of an apartment complex in 2003, and the following year David and Helen Gray bought it to use as an antiques showroom, sympathetically preserving its external appearance including the “NORTHWICK” logo on the vertical fin above the entrance and featuring John Alexander’s interior design.

The Northwick opened in 2007 as Grays of Worcester, a company which has treated it well, making the most of its visual appeal to market their stock: HISTORY – Grays Of Worcester.

The auditorium rakes have been adapted to maximise horizontal display space, but circulation between levels is achieved using the original stairways. David Gray made a point of retaining the front-row seats in the circle so that it’s possible to appreciate the space as would a member of the cinema audience. The operating box at the top of the building serves as a workroom. The listed space is intact, and appears to be fully reversible.

The Northwick is currently up for sale, as Grays plan to downsize to smaller premises.

I hope it goes to an owner as enlightened and imaginative as David and Helen Gray.

Pride of Blackpool

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Basil Newby, the founder and proprietor of the Blackpool cabaret bar Funny Girls, has announced his intention to retire and has put the business on the market: Basil Newby: Blackpool’s pioneering drag bar owner to retire – BBC News.

He breathed new life into the resort’s declining tourist economy when he founded the Flamingo night club in 1979 before taking over the vast derelict Odeon Cinema and transforming it into Funny Girls in 2002: Funny Girls | Mike Higginbottom Interesting Times.

He had difficulty gaining a licence for the Flamingo because he refused to conceal his sexuality [When Basil Newby opened Blackpool’s first gay club, his solicitor had one question – LancsLive], yet when he opened Funny Girls the guest of honour was Joan Collins.

Funny Girls was and is inclusive, offering high-quality dance-entertainment introduced by a sharp-tongued compère, alongside the option of a pre-performance dinner, to gay and straight patrons.

Staid Lancashire businessmen at one time found it hard to believe that the glamorous girls on stage and the waitresses who served dinner were in fact men.

Straight Sheffield footballers of my acquaintance, and their girlfriends, made repeat visits because they thought the show was “a reyt laff”.

It’s a measure both of Basil’s achievement and the transformation of British culture since the 1990s that he has collected tributes ranging from a private box at the Grand Theatre to an MBE for services to business and to the LGBTQIA+ community.

And it’s heartening to see that he’s appointed the auctioneers Christie & Co specifically to find a suitable buyer to continue the venue’s proud tradition intact: Funny Girls drag cabaret bar in Blackpool for sale | Christie & Co.

Long may the old Odeon continue to offer holidaymakers what Dr Samuel Johnson called “the publick stock of harmless pleasure [and] the gaiety of nations”: Our Story | Funny Girls.

Hepworth’s Arcade

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Hepworth’s Arcade is a picturesque shopping opportunity in Hull’s Old Town, situated on the corner of Silver Street (the continuation of Whitefriargate) and Market Place.

It was built in 1894 for the Leeds tailor Joseph Hepworth (1834-1911), who had founded his clothing factory with his brother-in-law James Rhodes in Leeds in 1864. The company moved into retailing in the 1880s and the Hull arcade was part of Joseph Hepworth’s development of a chain of tailor’s shops across Great Britain.

In the years after Joseph Hepworth’s death the company became the largest clothing manufacturer in Britain. (Though greatly transformed, the company still exists; it’s now known as Next plc.)

The arcade was designed by Alfred Gelder & Llewellyn Kitchen, a practice that survived until 2021 with headquarters at Maister House, a few minutes’ walk away on Hull’s High Street.

Hepworth’s Arcade is L-shaped, lit by barrel-vaulted glazing linked by an octagonal glass dome and cupola. Most of the units were originally two-storey, except that those at the Silver Street (north) and Market Place (east) entrances have three storeys.

The street facades are described as “Renaissance” in style, with segmental-arched entrances and bay windows with swan’s-neck pediments.

Hepworth’s original “new and handsome” premises were at No 8 Silver Street, a spacious unit at the entrance to the arcade. It set the tone for affluent customers seeking fashionable apparel.

Marks & Spencer provided a further magnet for customers when they opened one of their “Penny Bazaars” at 15, 17 and 19 Hepworth’s Arcade in 1899, transforming their units into an open-plan market which could be closed by roller shutters at the end of the trading day.

The departure of Marks & Spencer to prestigious premises (now abandoned) in Whitefriargate in 1931 signalled the beginning of a decline in shopping in the Old Town.

Nevertheless, in the repeated German attacks on Hull in 1941, the Arcade was blasted but not directly bombed, and its premises were in heavy demand while the city centre was redeveloped after the war.

Eventually, as the brand-new buildings between Queen Victoria Square and Paragon Station refocused the shopping area, the Arcade was taken over by Hull City Council in 1961.

It was listed Grade II in 1990 and refurbished in 1995 and again in 2002.

There’s a prodigious collection of photographs, from 360° panoramas to fine details, at Hepworth’s Arcade, Non Civil Parish – 1283101 | Historic England.

And all the history of shops and tenants that’s fit to print is set out in enormous detail in Graham Hardy, Hepworth’s Arcade: one hundred years of trading (Hutton Press 1996).

Finding the other Frick

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Every time I arrive in New York City I visit The Frick, Henry Clay Frick’s exquisite Fifth Avenue mansion housing his superb art collection, so when I travelled to Pittsburgh I made a point of seeking Frick’s family home.

This wasn’t easy, because I couldn’t get the hang of the local bus system. My first attempt landed me at Frick Park, which appeared to be a playground and tennis courts, a bequest from Henry Clay Frick, opened in 1927. There’s more to it than met my eye: Frick’s initial bequest ultimately extended to 644 acres.

Persistence pays. The following day I found the exact bus and bus stop to The Frick Pittsburgh.

It’s a compact site, with the original house, Clayton, in one corner: there’s a greenhouse, a café, a shop and an admirable display of carriages and early motor cars, and an art gallery, much of which I was told was closed, except for an exhibition of high-heeled shoes which I felt I could live without.

Henry and Adelaide Frick moved into Clayton shortly before the birth of their son, Childs Frick (1883-1965, named for his mother’s maiden name). He was utterly unlike his rapacious father – a scholarly palaeontologist, who grew up learning to love the animals that roamed in the grounds at Clayton, and he spent his life acting as a benefactor and trustee of the American Museum of Natural History in New York City.

Of the Fricks’ four children, the only other survivor to adulthood was their daughter, Helen Clay Frick (1888-1984). Her childhood was darkened by the deaths of her young brother and sister. Their father notoriously favoured Helen at Childs’ expense, and his will, leaving her $38 million, alienated her from her mother and brother.

Helen shared her father’s interest in art and art history. She travelled extensively in Europe with her parents, and advised her father on purchases for his collection. She also gathered a formidable archive of reproductions and catalogues, including records of many works of art lost in the two world wars. She curated what became the Frick Collection in New York City, and later established the Frick Art Museum in the grounds of Clayton where she habitually spent summers.

She liked the place as she remembered it in her childhood, so it was never modernised or extended. In the last few years of her life she resided at Clayton permanently, and died there aged ninety-six.

The house and grounds were opened to the public in 1996.

It’s a delightful place to spend a leisurely day. For lunch I was placed outside under a table-umbrella. I didn’t take notice of not being asked whether I wanted to be in the cool air-conditioned interior, where elegant ladies were eating at tables with tablecloths. I simply relished the experience of sitting in a beautiful place in beautiful weather and eating steak parmesan with a less than generous pot of house-blend tea.

I had time to sit in the lounge of the ultra-modern shop, well stocked with books about Frick, the architecture of the Golden Age (that is, late nineteenth-century eastern USA), fashion and high-heeled shoes until I was summoned by the docent, Pam, for the two-o’clock tour. Pam was wonderful. She was courteous, affirmative, formidably well informed, and managed the group with charm and precision.

The Frick Pittsburgh took some finding by bus, but it was well worth the effort.

Blood and treasure

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Frick Building, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA: lobby, showing John LaFarge’s ‘Fortune and Her Wheel’

From time to time a public figure rises to prominence with hardly any redeeming features.

One such was Henry Clay Frick (1849-1919), the American steel magnate who took over the Andrew Carnegie Corporation, which he sold to J Pierpont Morgan to establish the US Steel Corporation in 1901.

Using family money from his grandfather’s whisky distillery and loans from the Pittsburgh banker Andrew Mellon (1855-1937) he founded the Frick Coke Company in 1871, which he renamed H C Frick & Co when he bought out his partners nine years later.

The rising Pittsburgh steel industry relied on coke-manufacturing, and Frick formed a partnership with Andrew Carnegie (1835-1919), and ultimately became chairman of the Carnegie Corporation.

The two men were complete opposites. Carnegie was a Scot who grew up in Pennsylvania, modest, phenomenally industrious and guided by strongly-held principles. His wealth derived from the steel industry, and in his lifetime he disposed of ninety per-cent of his fortune through philanthropy.

Henry Frick, on the other hand, cared for little but making money and spending it on fine art.

He joined a consortium of over sixty Pittsburgh businessmen who bought the largest earth dam in the world, built and later abandoned by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, in the hills upstream of the city of Johnstown, and established an exclusive resort, the South Fork Fishing & Hunting Club. Though the group possessed sufficient expertise and resources to make the leaky, badly maintained reservoir safe, they neglected its upkeep, lowered the height of the dam and partially blocked the spillway to conserve fish stocks, until on May 31st 1889 it failed, sending a sixty-foot wall of water down the Little Conemaugh River to Johnstown where 2,209 people perished. The Club evaded paying compensation for the disaster, and an independent engineers’ report was suppressed until 2018.

Though he shared responsibility for the Johnstown Flood with many others, he was solely responsible for the consequence of a bitter trade-union dispute when, in 1892, workers at the Carnegie works at Homestead, seven miles south of Pittsburgh, walked out and were locked out over wages. Andrew Carnegie, who himself supported trade unions, had delegated responsibility for running the company to Frick.

To break the strike, Frick hired and armed three hundred private security agents from the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. The vicious conflict that followed led to sixteen deaths and many injuries, and the strikers maintained their opposition until confronted with four thousand state militia. Frick himself was wounded in an attempted assassination. Ultimately, support for the strike evaporated, and the powerful Amalgamated Association of Iron & Steel Workers narrowly escaped bankruptcy.

He asserted his presence in the centre of Pittsburgh by building the Frick Building, designed by Daniel H Burnham and completed in 1902, over three hundred feet high and deliberately sited to cast a permanent shadow over Andrew Carnegie’s headquarters next door. The lobby is decorated with John LaFarge’s stained-glass, ‘Fortune and Her Wheel’ (1902) and two bronze sentinel lions (1904) by the sculptor Alexander Proctor.

When he married in 1881 Frick bought an existing eleven-room house which he called Clayton within easy reach of his steelworks and the city. Here he and his wife Adelaide raised their four children, two of whom survived to adulthood. In 1904 he built a 104-room summer residence, Eagle Rock, on Boston’s North Shore, and rented the William H Vanderbilt House on New York’s Fifth Avenue, until the completion of his Henry Clay Frick House, further uptown along Fifth Avenue, in 1913.

He willed his house and its fabulous art collection to the City of New York. It opened to the public as The Frick Collection in 1936, following Adelaide Frick’s death five years earlier.

Clayton is now known as The Frick Pittsburgh. It opened to visitors in 1990, six years after the death of Frick’s daughter, Helen Clay Frick.

Eagle Rock was demolished in 1969.

The biography by Les Standiford, Meet You In Hell: Andrew Carnegie, Henry Clay Frick, And The Bitter Partnership That Transformed America (Crown 2005), pulls no punches. A more recent study is Martha Frick Symington Sanger, Henry Clay Frick: An Intimate Portrait (Abbeville 2020).

Trams on the move

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National Tramway Museum, Crich, Derbyshire: Liverpool 762 and Wallasey 78

Birkenhead can claim to be the historic foundation of street tramways in Britain.

The very first horse tramway in Europe opened from Woodside Ferry to Birkenhead Park in 1860.

The first British manufacturer of horse trams, George Starbuck, opened his factory at Cleveland Street, Birkenhead, in 1871 and, as G F Milnes & Co, the company built hundreds of electric trams before the Birkenhead factory closed in 1902.

In the 1990s Wirral Borough Council sought to commemorate this history by opening a museum and four hundred yards of track and overhead from the Woodside ferry terminal along Pacific Road, having commissioned two specially-built double-deck trams from Hong Kong Tramways, which were tested in Blackpool on arrival in Britain.

The reason for acquiring these bizarre vehicles is obscure. Though the trams that still operate in Hong Kong are directly derived from British models, they look nothing like any Merseyside originals, and the Hong Kong line is 3ft 6in gauge, so these two had to be built to standard gauge from scratch. Their only local connections are their historic liveries, one Birkenhead, the other Wallasey, and their numbers, 69 and 70, which continue the numbering of Birkenhead Corporation Tramways.

The Council enlisted the expertise of several volunteer enthusiast groups one of which, the Merseyside Tramway Preservation Society [MERSEYSIDE TRAMWAY PRESERVATION SOCIETY. About Us], had spent twelve years restoring the Liverpool “Green Goddess” 869, which now operates at the National Tramway Museum at Crich, Derbyshire.

The Woodside museum line was extended to a depot at Taylor Street, and the MTPS successively restored Birkenhead 20 (built in Birkenhead in 1900), Wallasey 78 (built 1920) and Liverpool 769 (built 1931-32). The group’s latest project is the restoration Warrington 28 (a hybrid identity based on two originals, the remains of 2 rebuilt to look like 8).

In 2006 National Museums Liverpool loaned Liverpool 245 (a smaller version the Green Goddess design, nicknamed a “Baby Grand”, built in 1938), which had been stored since the Liverpool tram system closed in 1957. The amount of volunteer work involved to restore it to operation is described here: 245 Restoration Progress Report.

The relationship between the Council and the MTPS was always vulnerable to instability. Council officers and elected members had only tenuous insights into transport preservation; the enthusiasts focused on raising finance to restore and maintain their growing fleet.

The wheels continued to turn until Covid, after which the Museum failed to recover. Tram service reopened November 20th 2021 and closed a day later because of trackwork problems. It reopened on February 26th 2022 and lasted until April 14th. No trams have operated on the line since.

The Council made an arrangement with a not-for-profit organisation, Big Heritage CIC, which had successfully revived the Western Approaches Museum [Western Approaches] in central Liverpool, and offered £4.5 million of ring-fenced money to expand the Wirral museum to interpret transport history on Merseyside more widely.

This didn’t work, and it’s difficult to discern why. The funding offer was reduced to £1.5 million and Big Heritage backed away. The MTPS eventually lost patience and donated their three electric trams to the National Tramway Museum and moved them to Crich in March 2025.

Other vehicles have been transferred elsewhere. Liverpool horse-tram 43, together with two weather-beaten Douglas horse-trams, is now installed at the Hooton Park Hangars and Trust at Ellesmere Port. A regauged 1930 Lisbon tram, 730, is now at the Beamish Museum in Co Durham.

The Wirral Transport Museum is left with one remaining genuine operational Merseyside tram, Liverpool 245, the part-restored Warrington hybrid and the two Hong Kong oddities.

In essence, you can’t move a museum, but you can move trams. The MTPS statement about the move to Crich ends, “While the MTPS were deeply saddened by this move the decision was made in the best interests of the trams, to secure their future and [to] be available for members of the public to use and enjoy.”

It’s difficult to disagree.

A succinct summary of situation can be found at Just what is going on with the Wirral Transport Museum? | British Trams Online News.

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