A Pocketful of Holes and Dreams (17 page)

Gina and I spent the next half-hour taking the stall down and putting everything back in the van. By the time I got to the office, there was a queue of at least twenty people waiting outside. I asked a man at the back what the procedure was for
this
market, as if I generally knew the score. He said the inspector would arrive at nine, and we had to follow him around the market. If any of the two hundred regular traders didn’t turn up, he’d allocate their pitch, first come, first served. Anyone who didn’t get a pitch just had to try again the following week.

By 9.30 all the available spaces had been filled and the inspector announced there were no more left, before heading back to the warmth of his office. The remaining small crowd dispersed as Gina and I just stood there looking at each other in disbelief. Our dream of a business together was becoming a nightmare. But there was no way I was going to give up that easily, so I returned to the inspector’s office.

He was sitting behind a desk with a large mug of tea in one hand and a bacon and egg buttie in the other, just about to get stuck in. ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I interrupted him, ‘but there is no way I can go home. My life’s savings are stuck in the back of a van out there, and I need to sell today. Surely you must have some spaces available?’ He didn’t flinch. He’d obviously heard it all before.

Speaking with his mouth full, he replied, ‘I told you no, and that means no. Now shut the door on your way out!’ I couldn’t bring myself to tell him he had egg yolk dripping down his chin and it was just about to land on his uniform, thinking it would be best if he found out for himself. So I quietly left, closing the door behind me. But I still wouldn’t leave it, and so I searched up and down the place myself, finally finding the smallest of spaces around the back, where all the secondhand clothes were sold.

The inspector was rubbing his uniform with a damp cloth when I returned. He wasn’t too pleased when I told him about my great find, though he seemed to change his mind when I said there’d be a fiver in it for him.

Gina and I made the best of a bad situation, making our first sale at 11 a.m. After that, there was a steady flow of customers, and by the end of the day we were pleased with the way things had turned out. As we drove home, Gina sat next to me counting the takings. Her smile was getting bigger and bigger the more she counted. ‘Jeff, how much do you think we took?’ she asked me. ‘Go on, have a guess!’

‘About £70,’ was my estimate.

‘No – double that!’ She couldn’t contain her excitement.

‘£140? You’ve got to be joking!’

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘£140!’

That much money on our first day! I was almost singing with happiness. ‘We made that much and from such a bad position? Yippee, we’re going to be rich.’

The following Saturday, in a better location this time, we took £350, selling out on a lot of the styles we’d chosen. We were now up and running, but we still had a long way to go.

We’d taken Mrs Kumar’s advice on board and arrived at her warehouse on Friday at 7 p.m. in the hope of finding some really good stock. The place was full of Indian and Pakistani traders standing around talking; there must have been thirty or forty people there, also waiting for the London deliveries, and ours were the only white faces.

Half an hour later, a trapdoor was opened on the pavement outside and men were unloading boxes off a huge wagon and sliding them down a chute into the cellar. As they landed with an almighty bang on the floor, Mrs Kumar supervised as two of her men opened the boxes, pulling out the various styles for everyone to see while she called out the quantities and prices. Within a split second, one of the other buyers put his hand up and said something in a language I didn’t understand. A box was put to one side, exclusively for him. These were definitely big buyers, and they knew what they were doing, while we were small fish with only a little bit of money.

This went on for hours, until there were no boxes left. We got home at midnight, not a single sausage to our name, so I had to put my thinking cap on. The following Friday, I arrived half an hour early, with a big bunch of flowers for Mrs Kumar. She was taken by surprise, and the other traders stood around wondering what I was up to. Very quietly, I murmured in her ear, ‘Please, Mrs Kumar, please give some small traders a chance to survive as well.’ That simple token of a bunch of flowers clearly worked: from then on, Mrs Kumar always offered us first refusal, and we went from strength to strength.

The next obstacle we had to overcome was to establish ourselves as permanent stall holders on as many markets as possible in and around Liverpool. This proved to be quite difficult: firstly, you had to get there very early and sign on the casual list; then, after some months and sometimes even years, you would be offered a permanent pitch. Gina and I were lucky, as we started in January in bad weather, when a lot of stall holders stayed away, and in just five months we became established on four different markets.

Business was good, but it was still hard to find the right stock. We spent days walking around the Manchester fashion district knocking on the doors of the larger fashion labels, but it wasn’t working. Once they heard we were market traders they would literally shut the door in our faces, saying they didn’t want their brand being sold on market stalls.

Feeling rejected and frustrated, we decided to try and make our own styles. I placed an advert in the local paper for a pattern cutter and machinist working from home, and the response was very good. Finding a fabric merchant to supply us was a task in itself, but eventually we succeeded. I spent hour upon hour dropping off bundles of fabrics at machinists’ houses and going back four days later to pick up and pay for the finished products. It was hard work, but it was the only way we could get what we wanted. The first style we put into production was a checked, pleated mini-skirt. In the first week, we sold almost sixty on our four stalls – at Garston, Speke, Park Road and Paddy’s Market – eventually going on to sell around seven hundred in total.

Making our own styles worked well, and we shifed large quantities week after week. Gina and I were a real team and built up the business together, and in no time at all we had loads of regular customers. Mum had taught me how to survive on the markets and I hadn’t forgotten what I’d learnt.

I clearly remember one particular Tuesday at Garston Market. As we started to set up, Gina noticed that the stall opposite was selling exactly the same coats as we were, but £5 cheaper. Gina wondered whether we should put the coats back into the van or reduce the price, but I told her we would leave them as they were.

The stall opposite was run by Isaac, an old Jewish man who had been trading from the same spot for years. He was more than established and was literally an institution to all his customers. We were amateurs, while he was the master, and the better trader by far – in fact, he was everything I wanted to become.

As we were packing up to go home, I heard Isaac calling me over. Thinking he was going to have a go at me for selling the same coats, I was a bit hesitant, but he called out, ‘Hey, kid! I don’t know what you’ve got, but whatever it is, you should bottle it and sell it!’ Confused, I asked what he meant. ‘I’ve watched you sell at least four of those coats, for £5 more than I’m selling them for, and I haven’t sold one!’ he explained. ‘In all my years on the markets, I would never have believed it possible if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. What an extraordinary gift you must have.’

I smiled and thanked him for the compliment and returned to help Gina pack up. It was a good thing he hadn’t heard me telling my customers that my coats were perfects and not the rejects that are sometimes found on other market stalls! Only then did I appreciate how valuable all those years spent with Mum on the markets had really been.

Six months had now passed since we had started, and business was very good. June now worked with us on Saturdays, just like I had done with Mum. Gina and I had built up a good stock level and bought a larger van. Things were going well, so having worked non-stop for months, up at dawn and out in all weathers, we decided we could do with a holiday. We chose Benidorm so we could catch up with all our old friends and go back to all the places we’d gone to when we’d first met.

On our last night there I took Gina out to a beautiful restaurant overlooking the beach and we had a truly romantic candlelit dinner. We held hands and talked about the past year we’d spent together. I was madly in love with Gina and knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.

As the evening was coming to an end, we walked back along the beach, arm in arm. A familiar clear sky with bright stars glittered above our heads, and a full moon seemed to shine down just on the two of us. It was completely silent except for the sound of the Mediterranean gently washing up on the sand. The whole experience was magical. I stopped and turned Gina towards me. Holding both her hands, I got down on one knee in the sand and asked her to marry me. Giving me the most radiant smile, she softly said, ‘Yes.’

Getting to my feet, I held her close in my arms, and we kissed for what seemed like the longest time ever. It was a totally spontaneous proposal, but it couldn’t have been more perfect if I had planned it.

On returning to England, we couldn’t wait to break the news that we were getting married, and both Gina’s family and mine were more than happy for us both. A date was set for the following year, 19 May 1979.

Not long after we got back from holiday, Gina passed her driving test, which enabled us to put another van on the road. She now went off with Sue, her friend, to trade on four markets a week, while I managed to do five, with Alan, another friend of mine. The remaining two days were spent trying to find stock from all over Manchester.

If I had learnt anything in my short time in the fashion business, it was that buying was the most important part. Finding the right product to sell was the key to success. The teenage girls in Liverpool were some of the most fashionable in the country, and it was my aim to come up with styles they would buy. I had no other alternative than to go to the heart of the fashion industry, London, in search of new suppliers.

Leaving home at 4.30 a.m. dressed in a smart suit, shirt and tie, I set off in the van on the 500-mile round trip to the capital. With £2,000 cash in my pocket, I headed straight for the West End. Looking at the fantastic displays in the windows of the large fashion houses excited me, even though I was more nervous than usual. Having finally built up enough courage to go inside one and take a look, I opened the door and was greeted politely by an immaculately dressed woman in her forties or fifties. Still feeling nervous, and a little intimidated by her posh voice, I kept up the pretence of being a successful businessman.

‘I’m looking to buy some stock for my company,’ I said.

‘Well, you have certainly come to the right place,’ was her response. ‘Follow me, I’ll show you our latest collection.’

I followed her into a larger show room, where there were thousands upon thousands of the most fabulous garments hanging on the rails. In my wildest dreams, I could never have imagined a place like this. ‘Is this the sort of thing you are looking for?’ she asked. Speechless, I could only nod, silently saying yes to style after style. I wanted to buy them all.

After a while, she asked, ‘Where is your shop?’

‘Liverpool,’ I replied.

‘Whereabouts?’ she pressed.

I started to feel very uncomfortable, knowing that she probably wouldn’t like the truth. I carried on talking while a hole started to appear at my feet.

‘All over really,’ I answered. Clearing my throat, the hole got deeper.

‘How many shops do you have?’ She did seem interested.

‘Several,’ I replied. Knowing that she would go on asking, I carried on. ‘They are not quite shops, though.’ I paused for a moment. ‘More like very nice stalls.’

‘
Stalls!
’ Her soft voice became a shriek of horror and I was quickly ushered to the door. As I stepped out into the street I heard her final comment: ‘I am sorry, but we couldn’t possibly supply the likes of stallholders. Good day!’

Turning around to protest, I was faced with the door being slammed firmly shut in my face. I tried a couple of other companies, but received the same response. I gave up and drove the 250 miles back to Liverpool feeling desperately disappointed and rejected. What was wrong with market stalls? That was how all retail had begun. Marks & Spencer started out as a small market stall, after all.

Gina and I enjoyed the market way of life. There was a real sense of being part of a small community, and most traders are some of the most genuine, kindest and hard-working people you could ever wish to meet – a very special breed. It’s not an easy life, setting up shop in the early hours, come sleet or shine, working ten hours at a time, then taking your stall down at the end of the day, only to repeat the whole process all over again the following day. You need real dedication.

Gina and I worked hard that winter. The weather was nearly always horrible, and I got so fed up getting blown to bits in the wind and rain that I bought a large box trailer and converted it into a small mobile shop. The back and one side could be opened up to create awnings, and steps leading into the trailer allowed our customers to come in out of the cold. It even had a changing room in one corner, which gave people privacy when they wanted to try things on. Our market trailer was the first of its kind and was admired by all. I had plush carpets laid on the floor, and it soon became known as the ‘Harrods’ of the markets.

17. Three Wise Men

Another Christmas came and went, and our wedding day was drawing closer. We were working all the hours God gave, and not having much spare time, we still hadn’t found a place to live.

One night, Gina went to visit a friend of hers who had just got married and moved into her own home. The next day Gina told me how gorgeous it was and that there was another house for sale nearby, so we made arrangements to visit it the following Sunday. It was situated in Whiston, on the outskirts of Liverpool, and as soon as we saw the house, we fell in love with it. It was a three-bedroom semi with a small front garden and a larger one at the rear, and after two hours I managed to negotiate a purchase price of £16,000. It was hard to believe that soon it would be ours.