A Pocketful of Holes and Dreams (21 page)

Finally, admitting defeat, I wished them all a Merry Christmas and left.

After breakfast the following morning, I was still wondering about the people outside the shop. The weather had changed for the better and the sun was shining. Thinking to myself that, it being Christmas Day, they must surely have gone home by now, I called Gina’s brother, Robert, who lived quite close to the shop, to ask him to drive past and see if there was anyone outside. A short while later, he rang me back.

‘What on earth is going on?’ he asked. ‘There must be around eighty to a hundred people queued up outside!’

I was astounded. ‘Are you sure? There can’t be that many!’

‘Well, I didn’t count each individual one,’ he replied. ‘I just estimated, that’s all. But it’s certainly close to a hundred.’

I thanked him and hung up. I was starting to panic. This was all getting out of control. I only had seventy-two pairs of pants. There were still two days and two nights to go. How many others would start queueing up? How was I going to cope? What the hell was I going to do?

When I told Gina, she was silent for a moment or two. ‘You idiot,’ she finally said. ‘What are we going to do now?’

I started to think positively about ways of cashing in on what now seemed to be something remarkable. It was no small achievement, getting people to give up their Christmas holidays to camp outside a shop for three nights and three days, just to buy a pair of leather pants for £1. One publicity stunt had led to this bizarre situation, and here was the perfect opportunity for another. But it had to be really good. Something really different.

As I sat there, sipping on yet another brew, it came to me. I needed to speak to Paul Feather, a guy I knew, who was the owner of an up-and-coming hotel and catering business. I told him what I had in mind, and sure enough, he was up for it.

On Boxing Day morning, there were about 150 people outside the shop, all sitting in a long line, their backs against neighbouring shopfronts. They were all chatting to each other, seemingly enjoying themselves, as if it were a trip to the sea-side or some great camping adventure. It really was quite something to see, and we just sat there, staring out of the car window, at a loss for words.

Soon afterwards, the Paul Feathers Catering van pulled up and two of his staff began unloading some heated trolleys, similar to the service trolleys you find on aircraft. Gina and I went over to help serve all the people on the pavement with tea, coffee and bacon butties.

Everyone was in good spirits and kept asking about the leather pants. I’d been in contact with Radio Merseyside, Radio City, the
Liverpool Echo
, the
Daily Post
and Granada Television, among others, and they’d all turned up, so after everyone had had something to eat and drink, I was kept busy giving interviews. We ended up on air, live, with BBC Radio Merseyside. Radio City had us on their news updates every hour on the hour, and the newspapers were interviewing people in the queue and taking lots of photographs. It must have been at least 3 p.m. by the time we were finished.

I had also been giving some thought to ‘security’ on the day of the sale itself. Gina had organized extra sales staff but the problem would be crowd control. The thought of hundreds of stampeding young females was a daunting one for the even the biggest and bravest of men. I would need men for the door.

I managed to get hold of John, my brother-in-law, and then Paul, Phil and Albie, three mates of mine. All four of them were tall and well muscled. We agreed that in order for them to look the part they would need long black overcoats, white shirts and black dickie bows, and all four of them spent the evening tracking down the appropriate clothing in order to be ready for the eight o’clock start the following morning.

Gina and I were too tense that night to sleep much, and it was almost a relief when the day of the sale dawned. Getting up early, we were ready to go by the time Bob and Brenda arrived to look after Katie. Leaving shortly after 7 a.m., both of us were apprehensive about what would be waiting for us.

On our way into town we passed the Army & Navy Stores near the Adelphi Hotel and saw lots of people queuing up outside. It was a relief to see that we were not the only shop with a long line of people outside it. But as I drove off down Ranelagh Street, I found myself almost following this long human chain, around the corner and the whole way down the road, until it came to an abrupt halt – outside our shop! The Army & Navy Stores queue wasn’t theirs, it was ours! I hadn’t counted the number of people as I drove past, but there must have been close on a thousand.

It was a terrifying thought. We weren’t one of the large department stores, which could handle such a large volume. We were small, modest, humble … even our doors suddenly seemed too small to cope. My mind was racing as I passed the shop on the way to the car park. My four ‘security guards’ were positioned outside, looking very professional and well turned out. But I feared they weren’t nearly enough to cope with the throngs of people looking for a bargain at Girls Talk.

I needed an army, not four brave lads and a handful of sales assistants. All I could foresee was riots, people getting hurt, ambulances pulling up, the shop getting damaged. It was almost too much.

I looked at Gina. Her face showed the same amazement and disbelief at the spectacle before us. All we could do was look at each other in horrified silence. What were we going to do? I think we both felt like turning the car around and heading home.

Gina looked petrified and close to tears. Taking a deep breath, I said, ‘Come on, love, let’s go face the music, this is not going to go away. I’ll think of something on the way over, I promise you. It’ll be all right.’

As we walked along, I held her hand tightly, trying to give her a sense of strength and togetherness. In reality, I was the one quaking inside, and I was feeling as guilty as well. I alone was responsible for creating this mess, and it was up to me to sort it out. Keeping my eyes pinned on the shop entrance, I focused on John, Paul, Phil and Albie as if they were rocks in a stormy sea. My head and shoulders tense, I stared straight ahead, unable, unwilling to look towards the long queue of people just in case somebody recognized me and called out my name.

The boys were like the Four Musketeers, standing bravely solid against a large force of the king’s troops. The only difference was that the ‘troops’ in this case wore skirts and carried handbags as opposed to knee-high leather boots and swords. They greeted us both with a cheery ‘All right, boss,’ but as my mouth was dry, I was only able to mutter a strangled ‘Morning’ in response.

Fixing a smile as if nothing was wrong, I pulled out the keys and, with a trembling hand, started to open up the security shutters. As I did so, an unusual noise caught my attention. Turning in the direction it was coming from, I saw to my utter amazement about forty people standing outside Chelsea Girl, clapping and throwing comments in our direction. Chelsea Girl was the biggest fashion store in Liverpool at that time and was very successful. It was like the grand lady of fashion compared to the younger Girls Talk. The people gathered outside were the sales staff, and they were clapping at us, cheering us in our success and wishing us luck. Just then, the manageress, who I admired very much, called over to me: ‘Well done, Jeff. Good luck with the sale!’ The sense of pride I felt at that moment was overwhelming. I would love to have savoured the moment a little longer, but it was time to open up.

I didn’t feel any better once I was inside looking out. I really did need an army of men – and the only available army I could think of was the police. So at about 8.20 a.m. I rang Cheapside Bridewell, the main police station in Liverpool. The phone was answered, and I introduced myself, explaining that I needed to speak to someone in charge as a matter of urgency. But when I explained the situation, the policeman on the line just wouldn’t take me seriously.

Time was ticking away, so I tried again. It must have worked, as I heard the phone being dropped on the desk. When he came back on the phone, the tone of his voice had changed, and he asked my name again, and my telephone number, and instructed me to wait by the phone.

Within ten minutes it rang. It was the sergeant-in-charge. I repeated the story for the third time, stressing my concern that something could go terribly wrong, that the situation could get out of hand and people perhaps get hurt. His response was music to my ears. They would be here as soon as possible.

In no time at all, a police van had arrived. The sergeant looked very impressive, and he’d brought five officers with him, who would spread out along the queue in an effort to keep everything under control. He also told me that he was sending for reinforcements as the five were not nearly enough. The sheer number of people lined up was causing problems. The weight of bodies leaning against plate-glass shopfronts was causing the windows to bow inwards, and there was a fear of glass breaking and people being seriously injured. Furthermore, people were blocking the shop entrances, making it impossible for staff, let alone customers, to go about their business.

Nine o’clock came, the police reinforcements had arrived, and a degree of control had been established. We were ready to start trading. On my suggestion, we were going to start by letting customers in one at a time.

The doors opened, and that very first girl, from all those many nights ago, came in. I couldn’t help but like her, and served her as quickly as possible. As she paid for her trousers, I gave her a lovely jumper worth about £25 by way of a thank you for her perseverance.

We continued in this manner, one shopper at a time, for the next hour. At the end of it, I could see that this method was not going to work, as we had only served seven people, and the queue was still endless. Taking me to one side, the sergeant muttered in my ear. ‘Excuse me, sir, for being blunt, but are you taking the mickey? At this rate, we’ll be here until midnight, and my men and I have better things to do. You had better get a move on.’

I returned to the floor, trying to speed things along as quickly as possible, until all the leather pants had been sold. It was now 11 a.m. Walking over to the sergeant, I shook his hand, thanked him for all his help and told him what a relief it had been having him and his men there. ‘Without wanting to presume too much,’ I added, ‘would it be possible to leave two police officers with me for an extra half-hour, while I walk up and down the queue telling everyone that all the leather pants have been sold?’

I felt sure that, once everyone knew that all the pants had gone, the crowds would disperse and everything would return to normal. Funnily enough, though, most of the people in the queue still stayed the whole day. We took more money in sales that day than we had ever done before – £25,000. The staff, although tired, said they had loved it, and even my four musketeers seemed to have enjoyed themselves. By the day’s end, Gina and I were exhausted. But as we walked back to the car hand in hand, the adrenalin and elation put a real spring in our step.

The next day, Tuesday 28 December 1982, I picked up a copy of the
Liverpool Echo.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. We were front-page news. The headline read:

THE BIG SALES SPREE

and there were two large photographs of the shop! Our little boutique was now a household name on Merseyside.

We did the same thing the following two years, and again dominated the front page. The third year, Girls Talk even shared it with a photograph of Diana, Princess of Wales, holding Prince Harry at his christening.

Some years later, a journalist on the paper told me that in the 130 years the paper had existed, there had only ever been three people who had achieved front-page headlines on three consecutive occasions: Jack the Ripper in the late 1800s; Prince Charles – and me, a young Scouser possessed with a vivid imagination.

20. A Licence to Print Money

Those headlines turned Girls Talk into Liverpool’s number-one fashion boutique, with queues at the tills a daily sight. And the phone didn’t stop ringing, with garment manufacturers wanting to supply us for a change! I received a telegram from the previous owner of the shop congratulating me on the phenomenal success we had achieved, which I thought was brave of him, considering his earlier comments about me not lasting more than twelve months. I also found myself having to refuse invitations to lunch from my bank manager as I was far too busy.

Life was good, and became even better with the birth of another special little girl on 25 March 1983. Faye Louise weighed in at 9lb 10oz. Gina and I were so proud of our two precious daughters, and so thankful for being blessed with two healthy baby girls.

Shopping for fashionable clothing for Katie and Faye was proving difficult, and Gina and I were amazed that there wasn’t a boutique specializing in trendy clothing for children. So when a shop became available four doors away, we jumped at the chance and opened Kids Talk. It took off like a rocket, and in less than a year it became as popular as Girls Talk.

Eventually, the time came when I had to make a very important decision – to give up the markets. It was sad leaving them behind, as Gina and I wouldn’t have been able to have achieved what we had without them. I made sure that all our regular customers knew where to find us, as they had become friends over the years. Saying goodbye to all my fellow traders was just as hard.

Having experienced success, I felt the urge to expand, so I started looking further afield, away from our shops in the city centre. Having visited Chester, a city popular with shoppers and only an hour’s drive away, I decided to concentrate my search for premises there. After weeks of having no luck trying to find the right-size shop in the right position, I approached another retailer, who had the perfect site right in the middle of the main shopping street in the town centre. This was where all the large multiples had their stores – just where I wanted to be. The negotiations went on for several hours, at the end of which I made him a substantial offer, which he would have been mad to refuse. It was another gamble on my part, but I believed, as always, that I was capable of making it work.