Revisiting the 1921 doll's house village fire, on Hampstead Heath

Over the weekend I had cause to venture into the unnerving, multi-level attic of our home, in a search for the origin of a disconcerting line of mottled damp that had appeared along a sloping section of the ceiling, just outside the bathroom. My cursory inspection of the point where the roof of the extension joins with the old roof provided me with no insight into the root of the problem, beyond my observation that there are no visible pipes that might be causing the leak.

While I was shuffling backwards towards the loft hatch, over a collage of loose wooden boards, I accidentally knelt down on a shoebox, squashing it at one end. I took it with me into the spare room to inspect the contents and to see whether it could be repaired. Inside I found several bundles of very old, miscellaneous photographs, in an assortment of proportions and small sizes, none larger in length or width than three inches. They had been wrapped-up in loosely folded sheets of brown paper that turned out to be dismantled envelopes (I could still see the flaking glue lines marking the flaps) and bound with hairy twine, like small parcels.

Out of curiosity I unfastened one of these packets and leafed through the contents. One image that caught my eye, and that subsequently warranted more detailed scrutiny under a magnifying glass, was a sepia-toned print of Hubert Claytor, who is either my great, great, great grandfather or my great, great, great, great grandfather. 

The picture had been taken on Hampstead Heath, almost 100 years ago, in late July 2021. Hubert is posing as an insurance assessor. He is bending over slightly at the waist, so as to better meet the gaze of a sooty-faced young girl in a party dress, who is standing in front of the burned-out remains of a doll's house. Stretching along the arc of the footpath are other doll's houses and their owners, who are all in a similarly-distressed state. The picture gives off an air of having been staged, though I do not imagine that it was. Hubert, while smartly dressed, somehow manages come across as scruffy. This, it would seem, is a family trait.

The great doll's house fire of 1921 occurred at the climax of a public event billed as the 'Young Ladies' Village', in which “a future generation of housewives” were invited to display their doll's houses in a temporary settlement on the heath. The festival attracted attendees from across London and from farther afield. There is a famous picture of doll's houses line-up along the platform at Brighton Railway Station, where they are being loaded onto a special carriage.

Judges were in attendance at the event to hand out awards along with other treats. The organisers had gone to great lengths to ensure that nobody who had taken the trouble to bring their doll's house would leave empty handed. Up until the moment when tragedy struck the event had proceeded more or less smoothly. A man had been apprehended by police attempting to carry away one of the houses on his back, like a snail. He claimed to the arresting officers that he was an orphan keeper and that he had taken the house to give to the children under his care. This was later proven not to be the case. The relieved owner, who left the display early, must have been doubly thankful in light of what happened not long after.

The fire is thought to have originated in the bedroom of one of the doll's houses; the predictable result of an unknown party either thoughtlessly or vindictively pushing a lit cigarette through one of the windows. The smoke first became noticeable at around twenty past four, as the prize giving ceremony was drawing to its close. By half-past four a state of pandemonium held sway, as the owners of the doll's houses, along with their families and well-meaning onlookers formed human chains, conveying water from a nearby pond in an attempt to douse the fire. In total over 374 doll's houses were claimed by the inferno.

Upon hearing of tragedy, Hubert, who was, at the time, Chief Warden of St Lidwina's church in Holborn, made the decision that the roof repairs in the vestry could wait another week. He took the collection money, gathered during the previous weekend's services, and made his way to the heath with the intent of providing restitution to those young ladies who had lost their first homes.

The money, when divided up, did not go very far. Any hopes that “the man from the insurance company” might make everything right were dashed when each girl was handed just a few meagre shillings. The defeated body language of the girl in the photo is of one who knows that what she has been given is not enough to recreate what has been lost.

In memory of the fire, a large 'doll's mansion' was constructed from stone on the heath, in accordance with plans drawn up by Fred Cowgill, who had built several full-size houses in the area. An industrialist named David Glennon was so impressed by the design that he considered commissioning Cowgill to create a life-size version of the house, several miles away, in Buckinghamshire. These plans did not reach fruition and, in fact, both men later lost their fortunes and died in penury.

The doll's house on the heath became known as 'The Orphanage'. During the daytime, the front and back walls were rolled to one-side, along metal rails that were sunk into the ground, fully exposing the rooms inside. Incredibly Glennon wanted this feature recreated in his proposed full-size version of the house. At night the walls were rolled back into place by a park keeper and then padlocked shut.

Any dolls or furnishings that were left in the house and not reclaimed became permanent residents. Joyce Thurlow recalls accidentally leaving her dolly in The Orphanage the day before her family emigrated to India. Seven years later, when she returned to England, she was surprised to find the well-thumbed doll still living in the house, where she had apparently become known as “Margaret.”

On the 7^th October, 1941, the doll's house was destroyed during a German air raid on the capital.

The area where it once stood has been intentionally colonised by woodland. Fragments of the mansion are still occasionally discovered by ramblers and dog walkers. My friend, Win Palmer, once literally stumbled over one of the larger windows which she now uses to frame her wedding photo.