Whiteley's Folly E-Book

Linda Stratmann

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2004

Beschreibung

Whiteleys was the Harrods of the 19th century. Its clients included English and overseas royalty and it offered - and delivered - "Everything from a pin to an Elephant". Created by William Whiteley, a draper's assistant from Yorkshire, who come to London with just a few pounds in his pocket, it was a remarkable achievement by a remarkable man.

Leseprobe

To Jenni

Acknowledgements

My grateful thanks to all the people and organisations who have helped me with this book. The British Library; Colindale Newspaper Library; The Family Record Centre, London; Alison Kenney of the Westminster Archives Centre; Helen Swinnerton and Tina Staples of HSBC Archives; West Yorkshire Archives; Chris Welch of the Wakefield Family History Society; Colonel AC Ward and Wendy Bazill of the Whiteley Homes Trust; Sally Kemp of Whiteleys Bayswater. Especial thanks are due to Jenni, who gave me the idea, and my husband Gary, who understands all about the downside of being married to a writer, and is still unfailingly supportive.

Contents

Title

Dedication

Acknowledgements

William Whiteley’s Guide to Success

Map of Paddington, London 1870s

Prologue

1

Bankruptcy Avenue

2

The Making of Westbourne Grove

3

Whiteley’s Windows

4

A Sadder and a Wiser Man

5

From a Pin to an Elephant

6

Conflict and Compromise

7

William and Louie and George and Emily

8

Out of the Ashes

9

The Burning Fiery Furnace

10

Old Farmer William

11

How to Succeed in Business

12

The Man of Mystery

13

Burying the Past

14

The Legacy of William Whiteley

Genealogical Tables

Bibliography

Plates

Copyright

William Whiteley’s Guide to Success

Work to live. Everything comes to him who works.

Make your business your hobby.

Think for yourself and rely upon yourself.

Be honest in all your dealings.

Watch the waste.

Remember civility costs nothing.

Avoid extravagance and needless expenditure.

Pay as you go. If you cannot pay, do not go.

Do not despise little things.

Keep cool and never lose your temper.

Be orderly and punctual.

Never, never, never say die.

‘If I had my life to live over – William Whiteley’,

Weekly Dispatch, 4 February 1906, p. 1

PROLOGUE

A Face from the Past

The anonymous stranger who called at the home of William Whiteley at 11.30 on the morning of Thursday 24 January 1907, requesting an interview, cannot have known much about the daily routine of the great man. The self-styled ‘Universal Provider’, though in his seventy-sixth year, had, punctually as ever, departed his home at nearby 31 Porchester Terrace so as to arrive at the world-famous emporium which bore his name shortly after 10 a.m. Apart from Sundays and his annual holiday, he had attended his business virtually every day for almost forty-four years. A short, square, stocky figure, with flowing white side whiskers, dark grey eyes glancing keenly about him, it was his habit to start the day by walking about the store inspecting each department, and though his smile could be genial and his manner friendly, no one was in any doubt about the storm which would break if he spotted something not arranged to his liking. Eventually, and much to everyone’s relief, he headed towards no. 43 Westbourne Grove.

Beside the umbrella counter at no. 43 was a door with a brass plate inscribed with Mr Whiteley’s name. Behind it was not an office in the strict sense, but a small windowless space, modestly furnished with a table, chairs and roll-top desk, which was the Universal Provider’s own private room. This was not a sign of personal humility, nor did it suggest that the old man was being sidelined by the younger, more active directors who had managed the business since it became a limited company in 1899. William Whiteley would never have sanctioned an office for himself which took up any more space than strictly required. Every square inch not used for the selling of goods was, in his eyes, wasted.

There, he would spend his days perhaps dashing off terse letters to his investment brokers, dealing with litigation, seeing visitors, writing articles, and planning, always planning for the future. Although in the autumn of his career, his iconic status as a figurehead of national and international trade meant that his opinions were still frequently sought, and every word of business advice that fell from his lips was received as a treasure. He had only recently been interviewed for a three-page memoir in the London Magazine of Commerce, due to go to press in a few days.

No. 43 was only one of an imposing row of shops, themselves part of an accumulation of properties covering 14 acres, with the Whiteley name everywhere in tall gilded lettering, and a flag waving high above. The retail premises, warehouses, staff dormitories, delivery depots, stables, factories, and laundries employed some 6,000 people. For a man of humble beginnings who had arrived in London with less than £10 to his name, it was a staggering achievement. Recently, his declining vigour had meant that many of the duties he had always attended to personally were now allotted to others, but William Whiteley had not loosened the reins of control. He was still the chairman of the company, and the only director on the board exempt from the regulations which entitled the others to remove one of their number.

Over the years he had been both admired and reviled, acquiring the kind of personal celebrity rarely achieved by tradesmen, but incurring the wrath and jealousy of those unable to keep pace with his all-devouring ambition. By 1907, however, the days of conflict were long gone, and he was now the popular Grand Old Man of Bayswater, symbol of its prosperity. The previous Christmas he had been unwell, and his doctor had told him to take life more slowly, warning that heart disease would probably claim him in another two years. Whiteley had taken the news stoically and determined to spend the time he had left where he felt happiest – at work.

That Thursday, at about 12.30 p.m., the same young man who had called at his house earlier, entered Whiteleys stores asking to see the proprietor. It was not unusual for the Universal Provider to see people without an appointment, and the visitor was told he must first apply to the chief cashier, Mr Goodman. In Goodman’s office he repeated his request, saying, ‘If you will tell Mr Whiteley I come from Sir George Lewis, he will admit me.’

Lewis was a well-known solicitor, the head of an eminent firm which had once acted for Mr Whiteley in a matter of some delicacy. Goodman cast a searching eye over the stranger. He saw before him a man in his late twenties, tall, well-dressed and gentlemanly, having all the appearance of a managing clerk. There seemed to be nothing remarkable about him, although had Goodman approached any nearer he might have noticed that the visitor had recently fortified himself with several glasses of brandy. The name of George Lewis was enough to gain an interview. Whiteley himself ushered the young man into his room and closed the door.

The business of the store bustled on as usual. It was remnant day, when crowds of ladies would descend upon Whiteleys, and for a time become surprisingly unladylike in their efforts to beat each other to the bargains. The noise was more than sufficient to obscure any sounds of the private interview. Mr Gross, Whiteley’s correspondence clerk, looked in briefly, and found the two men still in conversation, his employer testily impatient to bring the meeting to an end.

At about 1 p.m. the door of Whiteley’s room opened abruptly and he emerged, looking pale and agitated. His arms were by his sides and his fists were clenched. He strode up to Glyn James, an assistant in the nearby fur department, usually referred to as ‘Jules’ and said curtly, ‘Jules, fetch me a policeman!’ The assistant at once did as he was told. Whiteley waited outside his room for the police to arrive. About two minutes passed and he was about to go for lunch when the unknown visitor, who clearly did not, like Whiteley, think their meeting was over, pursued him into the store.

‘Are you going to give in?’ he demanded.

‘No,’ said Whiteley, a man for whom not giving in was, as his visitor should have known, a way of life. He made brusque gestures of dismissal.

‘Then you are a dead man,’ said the stranger. Before any of the horrified staff could make a move to intervene, he took from his pocket a black six-chambered Colt revolver, fired two shots point blank into the head of William Whiteley, then placed the muzzle to his own temple and fired again.

The career of the Universal Provider was over. The mystery of his death was just beginning.

ONE

Bankruptcy Avenue

On 29 September 1831 a small parcel of humanity, soon to be labelled William Whiteley, was delivered into the world. It is hard to imagine him as a placid infant. Even a newborn has personality, and he must have been an insistent little bundle, in a hurry to grow up and get bustling.

The scene was Agbrigg in the West Riding of Yorkshire, a hamlet south-east of Wakefield, whose population of less than a hundred consisted mainly of farming folk and artisans. Christmas was of early importance to young William, for he was baptised on 25 December in the parish of Featherstone. His father, Joseph, who was born around 1800 in the Wakefield area, was then a ‘mealman’ – a dealer in corn. William’s mother, Elizabeth, was the eldest daughter of Thomas and Mary Rowlandson, farmers from the village of Purston Jaglin, a rural hamlet on the borders of Featherstone, where Elizabeth was born on 8 October 1810. Her three older brothers, John, James and William, were farmers, and there were two younger sisters.

Joseph Whiteley of Agbrigg married Elizabeth Rowlandson at Featherstone Parish Church on 1 June 1830, but their first-born son was not destined to be brought up by his parents.1 At the age of just nine months, and presumably freshly weaned, he was handed over to his uncle John in Purston Jaglin.2 John had married a Mrs Hill of Wakefield. They had no family, but enjoyed an income which suggested they adopt a child – these informal arrangements between siblings were not uncommon for the time. John later moved to Featherstone, where William obtained his first schooling. At the age of 6, he was sent to school at nearby Ackworth, walking there and back each day with Purston-born John Waller, who remained a friend for the rest of his life. The 1841 census shows that the occupants of Featherstone Cottage were John Rowlandson, farmer, his wife Mary, and little William, together with a servant girl. Ages in this census cannot be relied upon as there was a tendency to use round and not accurate figures. William’s 34-year-old uncle is shown as 30 and William is recorded as being 5 when he was actually 9. The rest of the Whiteleys – there were now four more children – were living in Thornes, near Wakefield. Mary Whiteley was born in 1833, and Sarah in 1836. Thomas Rowlandson Whiteley, born in 1837, was the first of the family to require a birth certificate, which described Joseph as a ‘shopkeeper’. Maria was born in Red Lion Yard, in the Kirkgate area of Wakefield in 1839, where Joseph was a ‘manager of a corn warehouse’. By 1841 Joseph’s career and, presumably, the family fortunes were in decline. According to Waller, he had been ‘rather unfortunate in business’.3 He is described in the census as a ‘corn porter’. In an age when all except the poorest households employed servants, there were none.

At 13, William went to Jefferson’s School, Pontefract, completing his education in 1846 at the age of 14. The next two years were spent ‘at home on the farm’.4 He was a vigorous, bouncy outdoor lad, keen on horses and traditional country pursuits. How much contact the young Whiteley had with his Wakefield family is unknown. He later wrote happily about this period of his life, saying nothing at all about his parents, and very little about his uncle, but a great deal about his acquaintance with the local squire, John Gully.

Gully must have been an extraordinary role-model for William. Born in Bristol in 1783, he had found himself, at the age of 21, in debtors’ prison following a business failure. Taking up bare-knuckle prize-fighting, he literally fought his way out of debt. He retired from the ring, a champion, in 1807 and, armed with a small amount of capital, an understanding of horses, contacts in the betting world, and a natural facility for figures, began to lay odds for betters. Building up his business and his fortune, he began to acquire horses of his own. In 1832, the year when both the Derby and the St Leger were won by his horses, he bought Ackworth Park, near Pontefract. In the same year he was returned as Liberal Member of Parliament for Pontefract. By 1841 he had retired from politics, but remained on the estate for several more years, living the life of a racehorse trainer and country gentleman. His observations on horse-racing must have made enthralling listening for the farm-boy, who learned early the value of absorbing knowledge from an expert.

I worked well, and sometimes played well [wrote William]. I was very fond of horses and riding, also shooting, and I think I can safely say that by the time I was sixteen there were not many better riders or better shots in the horsey and ‘gunny’ county of Yorkshire than myself. When I was only ten years old, I used to hunt regularly with the famous Badsworth Hounds, allowed to be the best, strongest and fastest pack ever known.

I used to ride a little snow-white pony, under thirteen hands, but with a wonderfully hard mouth, so that it was quite impossible for me to hold her; all that I could do was stick on, and away she used to go with my small self sticking to her like a limpet. Nothing could stop her; five barred gates, stone dykes, high hedges, wide streams, she either went over or through them, and I never once knew her to refuse.

Besides being well-mounted, I was in very good company, amongst whom I may mention John Gully, the great sportsman, and grandfather of the present Speaker of the House of Commons, Lord Hawke and his brother Stanhope, and Sir Charles Greaves, who rode nearly twenty stone and yet generally contrived to be there or thereabouts. I was the baby of the hunt, and I remember the first time I was out I was fifth in at the kill. They were going to give me the brush, but a lady came up and it was given to her, and I had to be content with the promise of it another time, a promise, I may say, faithfully fulfilled.

The members of the hunt were very proud of me, and very kind, because they thought me a real good sportsman, as whenever the meet was anywhere near my home, I was always there, no matter what the weather might be, and when, after a long run, we called at the nearest gentleman’s house, and had the usual crust of bread, piece of cheese and horn of home-brewed ale, they always took care that I was not overlooked and had my full share, Mr Gully in particular paying me special attention.5

Gully must have seen something of promise in the boy, for once, when William was working in a field, Gully rode up and asked him if he thought he could catch one of the ponies running loose in the next field. If William could catch the pony, said Gully, then he could ride him home and keep him. This was a challenge impossible to resist and William at once went to get a rope, and after a hard struggle, secured the pony and rode him home in triumph. Whether this was the mount he rode to the hunt, he did not say.

If this is an accurate portrait of the youthful William Whiteley it reveals, apart from a love of the outdoor life, an irrepressible self-confidence, a shrewd under-standing of the importance of well-connected acquaintances, a keen sense of what was rightfully due for the effort spent, and a determination to be, and represent himself as being, the best. Whiteley could and would ‘stick on’ whatever might come, and metaphorically ride out in all weathers, for the rest of his life. Brick walls, fire and flood, every kind of obstruction in his path, once set, would be as nothing. Challenges were simply there to be met and overcome.

Whiteley spent two years on the farm, and during that time, he used to ride around the country with a ‘celebrated bone-setter and high-class veterinary surgeon’ – the insistence on the elevated status of this gentleman tells us as much about Whiteley as it does about his companion – and had ‘many strange cases’ to deal with, which unfortunately he did not describe.6

William Whiteley must have looked set for the life of a farmer, but the ambitious young man did not relish the prospect of a future tied to his uncle’s 12 acres of land. His 1938 biographer, Lambert,7 states that William thought of becoming a jockey, hoping for patronage from John Gully. If he did, it came to nothing. Despite his perambulations with the bone-setter, he seems not to have been attracted to the career of veterinary surgeon, high-class or otherwise, or perhaps there was no opportunity to continue his education. There was no prospect of advancement through his father. In 1851 the Whiteleys were still in Thornes where Joseph was now supporting two more sons, Benjamin and John, and was employed as a railway porter.

In 1848, William Whiteley at the age of 161⁄2 was bound apprentice to a Wakefield draper for seven years. At first glance, this seems a cruel fate for an all-weather farmer’s boy and keen horseman, but he was adaptable, and shrewd enough to see that humble as it was, the position had promise. Taking what fate offered, he could make it his own. The pinnacle of his ambition was probably to be master of his own shop, and if any man could achieve it, it was William Whiteley, armed only with determination, the ability to work hard, and monumental patience.

The firm was Harnew and Glover, and later, Whiteley could not resist the comment that it was ‘the largest drapery establishment in Wakefield (now raised to the dignity of a city) . . .’. At the time of the 1851 census, the firm employed nine men and five women. Apprentices were expected to live on the premises and it is here, at 5 Northgate, that we find the 19-year-old William Whiteley, receiving ‘a severe drilling into the arts and mysteries of trade’.8

Wakefield, a handsome market town on the north bank of the navigable River Calder, was then noted for its fortnightly cattle fairs, and its trade in corn, malt and wool. Once the centre of Yorkshire’s woollen trade, it had long been surpassed by Leeds and Bradford. Even if Harnew and Glover’s was the largest draper around, it was in a town whose days of glory were over.

The stock of a traditional draper was then divided into two areas, each with its own buyer. There were the heavy goods: rolls of plain and print fabrics, silks and velvets, wool and linen, table cloths, sheeting and towelling. There was little in the way of made-up garments; the exceptions were plain capes of merino wool, and at the luxury end of the market, colourful woven shawls. A woman who wanted new clothes either made her own or had them made for her. The fancy department stocked the smaller items which were kept carefully tucked away in boxes or drawers. There were all kinds of edgings and borders, the most expensive of which were fine lace, as well as sewing thread, handkerchiefs, neckerchiefs, gloves, crisp wide ribbons to trim bonnets, narrow ribbons to tie shoes.

The life of a draper’s apprentice was one of unremitting effort. As the lowliest member of the staff, young William would have risen at about 7 a.m., and helped take up the shutters, then cleaned and polished the exterior of the shop. He might also have had to do heavy portering work, carrying and arranging huge rolls of fabric, as well as attending to the wants of customers. The hours were long, and even if the shop shut at 10 p.m. there was tidying and cleaning to do afterwards which could have kept him busy beyond midnight. While the young men assistants would have had a room of their own to sleep in, apprentices were often accommodated on truckle beds underneath the counter.

Hard work was not the least of the trials to be endured, if the master of the place adopted the position described by one contemporary commentator. A draper’s shop could be in a condition of

. . . perpetual martial law. Everyone, from the highest rank to the lowest, has to obey blindly the commands which may be given. Soiled goods, inferior goods, all must be sold in the way which is prescribed. No scruples of conscience are allowed, the merest observation receives summary dismissal. One is painfully impressed by the frightened looks which announce the sudden appearance of the Caesar of the establishment. No regiment in parade receives a stern colonel with greater fear, and whilst the eyes of the scared servants follow nervously the steps of their master, this all-important personage, well impressed with his own dignity, paces majestically up and down (no doubt, as he thinks), to the intense admiration of his feminine visitors. If for business reasons you have to enquire about the character of that man, do not seek any enlightenment from any of the suffering beings who live in these places; their mouths are sealed. . . . . Though companions in misery, the inmates do not even trust one another. . . . . But . . . let the servant leave that master; it is then you will receive the information you want, for who knows a master better than his servant?9

It is not known if Harnew and Glover operated in this fashion, and whether Whiteley himself adopted these traits when he achieved power is a matter which later aroused considerable debate.

After what he described as ‘four years of incessant toil’,10 William was allowed his first holiday, and he put it to good use, spending a week in London to see one of the defining attractions of the Victorian era. The Great Exhibition of 1851, the largest international collection of manufactured goods and art ever seen, housed in a revolutionary glass and iron structure, was opened by Queen Victoria on 1 May. It was an immediate and overwhelming success. The building covered an astounding 19 acres, its soaring artistry combined with a simplicity that did not detract from the glories within. The visitor was struck with a bewildering variety of displays, but the eye was first drawn to the great central fountain, then to the towering trees and colossal sculptures. Here were goods from every part of the world, 17,000 exhibitors, not only European, but from India, Africa, Russia, Persia and the United States; vases, ornaments, jewels, chinaware, lace, embroideries, silverware, clocks, perfumes, and scientific instruments. From Britain there was fine furniture and hardware, cotton and woollen looms in motion, and the best of its silks and shawls. Six million people visited the exhibition, which made a substantial profit. When it closed, the building was disassembled and taken to Sydenham where it was re-erected and opened in 1854. Sadly, it was destroyed by fire in 1936.

One of those swarming visitors was William Whiteley, and it is tempting to suppose, as Lambert does, that seeing such a vast array of goods of every variety, the idea formed in the mind of the 20-year-old draper’s apprentice that one day there might be such another magnificent place, called ‘Whiteleys’, not to exhibit goods, but to sell them. It was a prescience that Whiteley never claimed for himself. Even if he had, the idea of a store selling more than just one restricted class of goods was not a new one, even then. As early as the 1830s Kendal Milne & Faulkner, drapers of Manchester, had diversified into other areas such as upholstery, carpets and furniture, while in 1845 the Newcastle firm of Bainbridges sold furnishing fabrics, furs, mourning and ready-sewn muslin dresses in addition to traditional drapery. Whiteley did, however, at last see his future clearly, and it lay in London. If a man with a good understanding of business and a determination to succeed could not make his fortune in London, then he could scarcely make it anywhere else. ‘If the Exhibition impressed me, London impressed me still more, and I was so attracted to it that I there and then made up my mind that as soon as my apprenticeship terminated I would return and make my fortune.’11

As early as the eighteenth century, London men of business had begun to find pleasant dwellings away from the heart of the City, and with the later coming of the railways and omnibuses this trend gained pace. With increasing numbers of elegant town-houses in the West End, there arose new centres of luxury shops to serve wealthy customers, establishing the prime shopping areas which flourish today – Oxford Street, Bond Street and Regent Street. The upper storeys of these grand new shops were too valuable to be used as staff lodging and became additional selling space, while windows of the new ‘plate glass’ encouraged the development of the art of arranging goods in an attractive manner. The introduction of gas lighting enabled goods to be displayed under a flattering glow, and also meant that the hours of shopping could be extended up to midnight, the long hours of the assistants not in those days being a matter of great concern. These developments stimulated a new pastime – window shopping – as if the street itself had become a Great Exhibition, laid on for the entertainment of the passers-by.

Until the middle of the nineteenth century, prices of goods were not fixed, nor even displayed – they were to be haggled over, a point of skill that many a shopper prided herself upon. By the time of William Whiteley’s visit, the old custom of haggling was beginning to give way to the fixed price principle, especially in the more fashionable shops. There was to be no abatement, and any attempt to haggle would be met with dignified alarm. The old established shops in the West End took a particular pride in the high standards of honesty in their dealings with aristocratic patrons.

Salesmen were able to supplement their salaries with commissions or premiums known as a ‘tinge’. Certain articles would carry this bonus which might amount to anything from a few pence to several shillings. The anonymous author of Reminiscences of an Old Draper was able from an early age to earn 12–15 shillings a week from this source. An assistant’s remuneration, which could reach £100 per annum including commissions, was, when one included the value of accommodation and food, a modest but liveable salary. Better paid were the trusted buyers on whom the health of the business depended, but the real rewards and of course the risks were for the owner.

The cream of the custom was the ‘carriage trade’: ladies with money to spend who would be conveyed to the store in their own vehicles, thus advertising to passers-by the high-class nature of the shop and its goods. The carriage would remain impressively outside the shop while the lady was waited upon within, and when she departed a deferential young man was always available to carry her purchases for her. Keen salesmen, anxious for their ‘tinge’, would vie to display good manners and a smart appearance to cultivate such customers, hoping that they would be asked for personally on the next visit. This valuable connection could also be a stepping stone to setting up an independent business. Such a lady was too grand to pay in cash – or even on time. A discreet bill would be submitted later, often on an annual basis. The more timid, wavering customer of less elevated rank was, by contrast, often the victim of an overbearing salesman, who would reason her into a purchase she did not want, and effect a sale by sheer force of character.

William Whiteley, storing away his observations of the London trade, perforce returned to Wakefield, where his family was now living, to serve out the remaining years of his apprenticeship. The next few years were marked by tragedy. His sister Mary died of tuberculosis in 1852 at the age of 18, and in the following year Elizabeth Whiteley died, aged 43, after suffering from chronic peritonitis for nine months. By 1855, with William’s apprenticeship drawing to an end, Joseph was terminally ill. Despite this, William stuck to his resolve and the day after his indentures expired, he went to London. He had just £7 10s and out of that he had to pay 15s for a third-class rail fare. At the last minute his uncle offered him £5, but he refused it, saying, ‘I have never received a farthing that I have not worked for, and I mean to stick to it through life.’12

The following February, Joseph, aged 56, died of liver cancer, his death certificate describing his occupation as ‘railway labourer’. Eighteen-year-old Thomas assumed the position of head of the household. Despite this unfortunate start in life, all the Whiteley siblings did well, which suggests that William was not the only one with a drive to better himself. Thomas joined the prison service as a clerk, and climbed the administrative ladder; Maria later went to London to help William manage his business; Sarah married Henry Mason, a young clerk who was to qualify as a solicitor; John started a successful business as a toy and sporting goods dealer and Benjamin became a reporter with the Wakefield Express.

In London, William Whiteley required two things before he could realise the dream of opening his own shop: a thorough knowledge of the drapery trade in London, which he appreciated was of a different order from the solid worthiness of Yorkshire trade – and money. With a single-minded dedication he set out to acquire both. It took him eight years.

He determined always to be his own man, the sole master of himself and his business, never to share either the responsibilities or the profits with another. All was to be by his own effort and at his own risk. He must watch every detail himself, for only his eye would be good enough. He would observe others, learn from them, and as soon as he had mastered what they had to teach him, he would move on.

The East End of London he ignored. The shops of Shoreditch, Whitechapel and Aldgate concentrated on the sale of cheap and gaudy goods to the poor, and there was nothing there that he wished to know. In the West End, the brighter shops with their plate glass windows, exterior lighting and colourful displays must have attracted him, as well as the claim by Shoolbread Cooke and Son, mercers, drapers and carpet warehouse, at 154–156 Tottenham Court Road to be the largest of its kind in London. Nearby was Maples furniture store, founded in 1842, while at no. 203, Mrs Heal and her son were continuing the feather bed and mattress manufacture started by her late husband. Well-established and expanding their businesses were Dickins & Jones of Regent Street and Swan & Edgar of Piccadilly Circus. Peter Robinson in Oxford Street was on his way to managing a block of six shops, which sold, in addition to traditional drapery products, millinery, mourning and flounced silk skirts. Robinson’s rivals included Marshall & Snelgrove, founded in 1837, and the rather older business of Debenham & Pooley, whose buyer of silks and woollens was an ambitious young man named John Lewis. He was later to open his own, more modest establishment on the corner of Oxford Street and Holles Street.

It was a promising time for the drapery trade. The middle classes were out to show their new prosperity by the purchase and overt display of consumer goods, which for the ladies included elaborately trimmed and expensive clothing. Large families naturally meant large expenditure; indeed, a professional man, well aware of the financial drain of family life, was often obliged to postpone all idea of marriage until he felt his business was established and secure. London drapers of the 1850s were responding to the new demands by increasing not only the range and quality of their goods, but the size of their premises. This enabled buyers to acquire goods more cheaply in bulk and so attract shoppers with prices considerably lower than those of the smaller retailers.

Meanwhile, a shopping revolution was taking place. A small retail store called the Bon Marché had opened in Paris in 1852, and, like the earlier Newcastle and Manchester shops, diversified its range of goods. American visitors noted the advantages of fixed prices combined with regular sales, high turnover at reduced margins, daily deliveries, and the right for customers to return unsatisfactory goods, and copied the business model when opening their own shops. The modern department store was born.

Whiteley’s first employer was R. Willey and Co., an old established retailer at 15 and 16 Ludgate Hill, which was owned by a Yorkshireman. His salary there was £30 a year plus board and lodging. His need to acquire savings imposed a strict economy. Smoking and drinking were pleasures (and expenses) he left to others, and, if his later reminiscences are to be believed, he made work his sole interest and his sole hobby. It may well have been during this time that he began to learn about the wise investment of funds, something that remained a key concern for the rest of his life. He was not a mean man, but he knew the value of money, and every penny spent and every penny forgone had to be for a purpose.

He remained at Willey’s for fifteen months, after which he felt he needed to gain experience of the wholesale side of the business, so he left and took an engagement with Morrison Dillon and Co. of Fore Street, which was later known as the Fore Street Warehouse Company. There he remained for two and a half years, when he received a tempting offer. His old masters, Harnew and Glover, had not forgotten the apprentice of obvious ability who had been steadily gaining experience in the metropolis. A partner of the firm was about to retire and they wanted young Mr Whiteley to take his place. He was offered a three-year engagement at a reasonable salary, after which he would become a partner for another three, the whole business to come into his hands at the end of that time.

He hesitated. It was nearly eight years since he had recognised that his future lay in London, but such an offer from the largest draper in Wakefield could not be ignored. Eventually, without committing himself to anything, he agreed to go back to Harnew and Glover’s for a trial period of three months. Morrison and Dillon were sorry to see him go, and intimated that should the trial prove unsuccessful they were eager to have him back. As soon as he returned to Wakefield, William Whiteley knew that it would not do. Many years later, the erstwhile farmer’s boy wrote, ‘I knew that I could never settle in the country after London . . .’.13 ‘There was that within me which would not let me rest content with the narrow bounds of a provincial town. Here in London, the great centre of the world’s commerce, here alone was there a field sufficiently spacious for my energies, sufficiently vast for my ambition . . .’.14 He returned to Fore Street and stayed there another two and a half years.

The next offer he received was in 1861, from a Mr Graham and a Mr Green who were respectively the foreign and English ribbon buyers for Messrs Leaf, Sons and Co. of Old Change. They were both about to leave their old firm and open their own business, and they were very anxious to have Whiteley join them. As silk buyer he now commanded a salary of £200. Again, it was not exactly the future he had mapped for himself, but again, he allowed himself to be persuaded. The business seems not to have been a success. Before it was a year old, Mr Graham and Mr Green had sold it to another firm, Messrs Borras and Son. Whiteley remained with the new owners until the shop was closed, and at that point began to wonder if the time was at last ripe for him to go into business alone.

His speciality, with the expertise he had absorbed from Mr Graham and Mr Green, was the ribbon trade, yet at that time the market for such items was dear, and he decided to postpone his plans till the following spring. He had an offer from another draper, Messrs Bradbury Greatorex, Beall & Co. At first he declined, for he objected to the travelling that he knew would come with that position. ‘The genus bagman does not rank high with me . . . I hate knocking about the country begging for orders, sleeping in damp sheets at night, having to mess in the comercial [sic] travellers’ room, and drink all round on penalty of being Boycotted.’15

The offer of a large salary and the agreement that his travels would be limited to visits once every two months to Manchester, Liverpool and Birmingham, tempted him, and he took the job, but after a year he was determined to wait no longer. He had by then accumulated savings of between £700 and £800, and he deemed it would be enough.

The big question was, where to go? The East End was out of the question and the West End was far too expensive. That left the suburbs. His friends had cautioned him against two places; one was Islington, where the fierceness of the competition made it very difficult to make a profit, and the other was Westbourne Grove, Bayswater. This street was so notorious for failed businesses that it was often referred to as ‘Bankruptcy Avenue’.