A Love Affair With Department Stores

 

I fell in love with department stores from the moment my mother and I stepped through the imposing access doors of Bon Marche in Gravesend in 1945.    Later I learned that the original store was in Paris and it was said to be the oldest such emporium in the world.  By then I already realised that the doors had not actually been as imposing as I at first thought.  However, when I was five years old I had not yet heard of Paris and didn’t know all that much about doors and what made them impressive. 

What I did know was that Bon Marche was, at least as far as we were concerned, high-class and exclusive.   Their goods, according to my Grandmother were on the dear side, and my mother definitely agreed with her and sometimes said daylight robbery was involved.  Nevertheless we browsed their shelves and departments on a reasonably regular basis, observing Pringle twin sets and Burberry raincoats from afar and once we even bought some hair ribbons.   I couldn’t help noticing that we were reluctant to scrutinise some items of clothing too closely for fear of attracting the attention of a staff member who might enquire whether we needed assistance but at the same time look as if that notion was most unlikely.  

If we were on a serious buying expedition we avoided Bon Marche completely of course and went directly to British Home Stores where the goods were less costly and the staff less intimidating.   And we remained great fans of the market where back in those days both underwear and outerwear items were priced within the reach of those like us who weren’t made of money.  The only exception made by my mother was when we were buying shoes because she maintained that cheap shoes were a false economy so I never had to wear those the market offered. 

We definitely saw window shopping of all kinds as a pleasant pastime. From time to time we ventured further afield and went by bus to Chatham which I really enjoyed because on the way we saw flying boats on the Medway and caught glimpses of Rochester Castle.   The main reason for the Chatham trips was the vast and daunting Bentalls Store in the High Street where a whole morning could be spent loitering in the aisles and where staff attitudes were less alarming than those at Bon Marche.  Even more attractive was the fact that they used a cash carrier system that sent customer payments whizzing across the ceilings to the cash office whilst making a satisfying humming noise.   Watching this happen was for some reason extraordinarily exciting and seemed to place me at the cutting edge of technological advances.  Just as thrilling, there was also a café on the top floor where waitresses in black and white uniforms took orders for tea and scones or even hot meals.   We only patronised the café when in the company of several aunts or my Grandmother and when we did so we always ordered from the afternoon tea menu and I had to eat up every crumb ordered for me or I was in Big Trouble.  Meanwhile my love affair with Department Stores grew ever stronger.

I no longer recall if top floor cafes featured anywhere in Gravesend but if they did we didn’t go to them although I would have liked to though I knew my mother was of the opinion that they catered more to those who had more money than sense and anyway she was much more comfortable at the tea stall in the market.  All this might seem tedious now but the fact was that at an early age I developed a keen desire to be Upwardly Mobile even if I hadn’t much idea what that meant.

          Somehow the Department Store conveyed both style and glamour with its firmly designated areas, nightwear and underwear together in one almost welcoming space, women’s daywear adjacent, children and menswear separated by a journey in the terrifying lift perhaps even operated by a uniformed attendant who announced whether you were Going Up or Going Down just in case you were confused.  The magic started for me immediately upon entering the store, hopefully via astonishing revolving doors.   The unfamiliar and exotic fragrances emanating from ground floor perfumes and beauty items immediately transported me into a pleasantly parallel day-dream world where the possibility of a rooftop café was forever on the horizon.  Just as memorable, there might even be a bookshop hidden away in one of the corners where Enid Blyton story books, at that time still permitted, might be on sale for those children whose parents actually went in for buying books.   

          In those post-war years our serious purchases were invariably made at markets.  When she became interested in dress-making my mother always bought what she called Off Cuts from the fabric stall in Gravesend Market and then purchased the appropriate Simplicity pattern from the drapers in Northfleet High Street or Perry Street.   Nevertheless this didn’t stop her making a thorough examination of the fabrics and patterns in Bentalls.   By this time I was considered just old enough to be allowed to browse in the Children’s Books & Toys Department which I did very happily.   My worship of such shopping emporiums increased with each visit we made.

Little wonder that when I first went to work in London at nearly sixteen I spent a great deal of time savouring the delights of Oxford Street - Selfridges, Peter Robinson, Bourne & Hollingsworth, D H Evans and John Lewis.  The possibilities were breath taking.  Within just a few months I ventured further to Gamages of Holborn and The Army & Navy Stores in Victoria.   And somewhat belatedly I discovered Swan & Edgar at Piccadilly Circus.  In those early days I rarely made purchases and so I was very impressed when my cousin Connie, just a year older than me paid thirteen pounds for a pale blue raincoat at Gallery Lafayette in Regent Street without a great deal of accompanying drama.  

When tentatively stepping into bedsitter-land the fact that I was relatively close to the delights of Derry & Toms and Pontings and just a hop, skip and a jump from Harrods made the move from riverside North Kent seem enormously safe and secure.  Later with a move to Bayswater the proximity of Whiteleys of Queensway was comforting.  

Unsurprisingly as time progressed I was to deeply mourn the loss of the Department Stores and the disagreeable handover to the Age of the Shopping Mall.   It’s possible that I’ve never even tried to come to terms with the idea of Malls with their faceless, windowless thoroughfares and their food plazas where bright orange curry outlets sit dutifully alongside those offering dumplings or pizza and the same low key music plays in the background as you hurry with your tray to locate a table in the allotted space that offers a modicum of privacy.   Neither do I like their terrifying ability to ensure that it will be difficult for you to ever escape from their bland interiors by never providing proper Exit directions.

The Mall does of course offer elongated shopping hours together with endless parking bays whilst the Department Store of long ago might close its doors firmly at six pm leaving you stranded outside to struggle home by bus with your packages.   However, at the conclusion of shopping hours the soft interior lights would still glimmer and flicker invitingly and certainly enough to summon the would-be customer to hesitate for a moment and perhaps linger to examine what might be within.   Even a brief consideration of the window displays rarely let you down with their promise of what would be possible at 9am once the doors opened again.   Even if there was no purchase to be made there might at least be a café on the top floor where wait staff in uniform would take your order for afternoon tea.