A Pocketful of Holes and Dreams (29 page)

I was awakened next morning by the sound of the other traders readying themselves for the day ahead. With a towel over my shoulder and a toilet bag under my arm, I went in search of somewhere to freshen up. The only place I could find was a public Portakabin which, being in desperate need of a good clean, was not a pretty sight or smell. Trying my best not to breathe in, I washed and shaved in freezing-cold water – a far cry from the life I was once used to! Fortunately, there was a decent catering wagon close by, so I didn’t go short of tea and sandwiches.

I took £6,000 at that show, and it definitely put a spring back in my step and gave me the energy to drive non-stop back home to my family.

Throughout the summer, there is a county show almost every week in some part of England. I found out where they were and criss-crossed the country, selling lady’s fashion. The profits soon came rolling in, which enabled me to buy a good-quality second-hand marquee and a large box wagon. With my own caravan in tow, I was now as organized as my fellow traders. Everything was coming together, but I desperately missed my three girls.

In the school summer holidays, Gina, Katie and Faye would accompany me – it was a real family affair. Working through the day together and spending our nights in our small caravan, we often laughed ourselves to sleep. We were now really experiencing the travellers’ way of life!

Despite everything else I was doing, I still managed to retain my market stalls in Liverpool. But it meant working all the hours God sent. In the winter months, when the summer shows had finished, I did indoor events such as the Horse of the Year Show at Olympia in London, and the Ideal Homes Exhibition at Earls Court. I also did the BBC’s
Clothes Show
, which was held at the NEC in Birmingham. You name it, and I most probably did it. Anywhere I could find lots of women, I’d be there with clothes for sale.

I maintained this hectic pace for seven years, in order to pay the mortgage and my daughters’ school fees. It was very important to me that Katie and Faye had a good education. I certainly didn’t want them to suffer like I did.

*

The wintry weather came early in the year of 2000. It was the first Thursday in September, a day I will never forget. Karen and I were trading at Speke Market on the outskirts of Liverpool. The weather that day was cruel. Huge winds and driving rain were making it impossible to trade but, like always, I would not give in. Standing there like Jesus on the cross, my arms stretched wide, holding on to the stall’s canopy, I was fearful of the gale force winds blowing my hard-earned business away. Heavy rain was running down the canopy that was protecting all my stock from being destroyed. The water ran down the back of my neck and the inside of my sleeves, soaking every part of my body. Even my shoes were soon full of water, but I couldn’t let go. I held on for a good two hours, before the winds dropped slightly, allowing Karen and me the time to pack everything away into the wagon.

I arrived home that day without a penny in my pocket, only bundles of soaking-wet stock. Gina tried to salvage it, washing and ironing some fifty garments. At times like this, the markets were a cruel way of earning a living.

The next day, I arrived at the market at 5 a.m, as usual. But this time Karen was standing there waiting for me, which was odd, because she normally arrived at around eight. As I pulled up, she climbed into the passenger seat. I could tell by her expression she was upset.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

‘Jeff, I’ve been awake crying all night,’ she replied. ‘I can’t bear to see you struggling like this any more. You deserve better. I’ve had the pleasure of working alongside you for sixteen years now, through the Girls Talk and Kids Talk days, even the tough Tickled Pink times. But to watch you yesterday, struggling like that, was just too upsetting. You must get another shop. That’s where you truly belong. You’re far too talented to end up working like this. It’s tragic. It has to stop.’

I was totally shocked by Karen’s emotional outburst. I just sat there, not knowing what to say. But I knew she was right. As that day’s trading came to an end, her parting words were, ‘Jeff, please do something and get off the markets.’ Deeply affected by her pleas, I decided that, instead of going straight home, I would drive into the city centre to see if there were any suitable shops available – more out of curiosity than anything else. Parking my wagon, I walked along Church Street, where my old shop used to be, but there was not one ‘To let’ sign in sight. Making my way back, I found myself in Bold Street.

In bygone days, this had been Liverpool’s most prestigious shopping street and was regarded as the equal of London’s Bond Street. But over the years it had sadly declined, both in character and in the amount of high-class premises on offer.

I noticed one shop had a ‘To let’ sign above its entrance. On close inspection, it looked ideal for selling fashion. I wrote down the agent’s phone number and went home. That night, Gina told me she agreed with everything Karen had said. Their comments were making me re-think things.

It had been seven long years since the bank had destroyed my spirit. Maybe now was the right time to start again? I rang the agent and was informed there was a long list of applicants who were interested in the premises, and that I was wasting my time applying.

Over the years, I’d had many doors closed in my face, and my response had always been the same: never give up. When I told the agent I’d previously owned several shops in the city, he was intrigued and asked which ones.

When I told him, he said, ‘I remember you. You’re the one that had thousands of customers queuing up outside your shop every Christmas.’ Eighteen years had passed since then, and he still remembered. ‘What’s your name again, sir?’

I answered, and before I could say another word, he continued, ‘Mr Pearce, I am sure our clients would be more than happy with you as their tenant. When would it be convenient for you to view the premises?’

Gina, Karen and I visited the premises the following day. The shop consisted of 1,000 square feet of selling space on the ground floor only. A little small, I thought. But it was a start.

Rather than pay the £20,000 key money, I managed to negotiate a deal whereby I would use this money to refurbish the shop. A few weeks later, I collected the keys.

Over the years, I’d become pretty good at DIY, more through necessity than anything else. I worked all day and most of the night for two weeks until the shop was ready. My suppliers were once again more than happy to finance the £40,000 worth of new stock I needed to kickstart my new venture, now named Jeff’s of Bold Street.

On 22 September 2000, I opened the doors to the public. The
Liverpool Echo
ran a double-page spread headed, ‘Mr Fashion is Back!’ And from the start, our new business was thriving.

Gina and a few staff ran the shop while Karen and I continued on the markets. I didn’t want to give them up just yet in case something went wrong. With the run-up to Christmas, the sales went better than I could have imagined. That Christmas was the best Christmas for a long time, and I felt I had regained my usual high spirits once again.

As we moved into January, the strangest thing happened. The agent who had arranged the lease on the new shop called in to see me and asked if we could talk somewhere private. ‘Mr Pearce,’ he said, once I’d taken him into my office, ‘I’ll get straight to the point. Can you raise £400,000 in the next ten days?’

I nearly collapsed with shock. But at the same time, trying my best to look calm, I asked, ‘Why?’

‘There’s a freehold property for sale not more than a hundred yards from here that just might suit you.’

Part of me wanted to burst out laughing, because I didn’t have a pot to piss in, never mind £400,000. But I was also intrigued. ‘Where is it?’ I asked.

‘If you can spare the time, I can show you right now.’

As we left the shop, I grabbed Gina’s hand and said, ‘Come with me.’

The three of us made our way to a large property a few doors away, and the agent unlocked the door. Gina and I stood anxiously waiting to enter. The moment he turned the lights on, I knew this was the sort of building I had always dreamt of owning. My very own department store!

The property consisted of five floors, each with its own 1,500 square feet of selling space. It was perfect, except for one small problem – money! It needed at least £100,000 spending on it before it could be opened for business. And the purchase price alone was £400,000. Add to that the £200,000 which would be needed for stock, and it came to close on three-quarters of a million pounds!

My mind was full of different emotions; first excitement, next disappointment. There was no way Gina and I could possibly afford something as big as this. I thanked the agent for showing us round and kept my pride by telling him I’d think about it.

‘Mr Pearce,’ he said, ‘I don’t mean to push you, but the property is worth a lot more than £400,000. The owner is only prepared to sell it for that price if the deal is done within ten days.’ Little did he know there was more chance of me flying to the moon than there was of me raising that sort of cash.

Gina and I spent the whole evening talking about the possibility of owning such a great store. In the twenty-two years we had been partners in business, and in life, we had never made an important decision without both of us being in complete agreement. I have always been a risk-taker and a true optimist; I truly do believe in fate and destiny making your own luck in life. My wife, on the other hand, is much more cautious and wise. But it’s true what they say: opposites attract and can work well together.

In the early hours of the morning, after Gina had gone to bed, I masterminded a plan to raise the money to buy the property. It involved borrowing money off friends and, unfortunately, it involved the dreaded bank once again. It meant our home, which had now doubled in value, would have to be put up as security.

I had always felt personally responsible for losing our family’s home the last time. Gina knew me better than anyone. She had faith in me and believed I would make a success of the new shop. So, with her blessing, I set the wheels in motion.

On 29 January 2001, just ten days after first setting eyes on 80 Bold Street, we signed on the dotted line and borrowed half a million pounds to buy and refurbish it. We’d done it, but the bank had tied me up in so many knots I could hardly move! My suppliers, on the other hand, offered me as much stock as I needed on a handshake.

Gina continued to look after the first shop at No. 72 – not to mention everything else. She truly was my rock in a stormy ocean, and I couldn’t have done it without her endless love and support. While I did my two best market days on Friday and Saturday, the other five days were spent in the new shop playing Bob the Builder.

Our new premises had been built a century earlier. The best way to describe what I had let myself in for was opening a very big can of worms. The monumental task of refurbishing the building was proving very difficult: the more I tried to fix something, the more it went wrong. I very soon realized it wasn’t a £100,000 shop refurbishment that was needed, it was a £250,000 rebuild!

Walking around the place for hours and noting all the problems, I finally realized there was only one option – I had to knock it all down and start again. Hiring ten of the strongest labourers I could find, we set to work gutting the whole of the inside. This involved dropping all the internal floors, leaving only the roof and four walls standing. I must have filled over fifty large skips with rubble.

Every time Gina popped in to see what progress I was making, the terrified look on her face was far from reassuring. On one occasion, she said, ‘Do you know what you’re doing? It looks like a bomb’s just hit it!’ But the driving force within me was irrepressible. Working seven days a week, I lived on five hours’ sleep a night. With the pressure well and truly on, I knew no other way.

Hidden in the basement was an old Second World War air-raid shelter, which took up quite a lot of space, so I decided to demolish it. In the process of demolition, the men discovered what they thought was a small rat hole. We filled it in; but a few days later, it had reappeared. Hoping to kill any rats that were down there, I forced a pole down the hole. But suddenly I found myself flat on my face and the pole had disappeared!

After a few seconds’ silence I heard the sound of the pole hitting water. Grabbing a torch and shining it down the narrow hole, I saw the beam shining back at me, as it reflected off the water at the bottom of this now seemingly endless shaft. Panicking, I thought, ‘Blimy! I’ve hit the River Mersey,’ and was assailed by frantic thoughts of the building collapsing around me.

I cleared the rubble beneath my feet and found a large stone slab, fear giving me the strength to push it to one side. As I shone the torch in front of me, I got the fright of my life, the shock sending me staggering several feet backwards. I lay down on the floor and inched forward on my belly, determined to discover what it was I had unearthed.

It was the darkest, blackest hole I had ever seen. How I hadn’t fallen down it I’ll never know. But peering over its edge, I was amazed to see a 30-feet deep, perfectly rounded shaft carved out of solid sandstone.

I was so intrigued I called the Liverpool History Museum to see if they could tell me anything. When their official arrived a few days later, he advised me to close down the site pending further examination by their archaeologists. Later, I was informed that the ‘rat hole’ was actually a well dating back to the early seventeenth century.

Never one to miss an opportunity, I removed my builder’s hard hat and donned a marketing one, ringing all the newspapers and radio stations. The next day my find was front-page news – one paper headlining it, ‘Well, Well, What Have We Got Here?!’ alongside a picture of me looking down the well. The media informed everyone they would have to wait till the grand opening of Jeff’s of Bold Street before they could see the 350-year-old well close up. I was on a roll: the story had generated loads of great publicity for us. I even appeared on the
Nine O’Clock News
!