by Sugar, Alan
‘I think I will. I think I will shut it down. I’ll go out and sell,’ he said. ‘If he can do it, then so can I.’
Johnnie put his company into liquidation, took some of his savings and went out in his Ford Zephyr to some of my suppliers and bought some car aerials and transistor radios to sell. He must have been about forty-five at the time, so it was a massive step he was taking. After all, he was now going into a completely different world to try to make a living. He set himself up under the title of J & M Wholesale – the M stood for Mark, Ann’s brother’s name. Mark wasn’t old enough to drive at the time, so he would travel around with Johnnie. Sometimes he’d take samples with him on foot, and remarkably pulled off a few sales himself.
Later, I heard from Ann that after I’d taken Johnnie out in my van and shown him the ropes, he’d told Rita I had more energy in my little finger than Harry had in his whole body! Harry was a lovely, kind and polite man, with the same nature as Rita.
Word about this must have spread throughout the Simons family because on subsequent occasions, when I was round their house in Redbridge for a gathering of the clans, I could see, slowly and surely, an increasing level of respect shown towards me. This, I was to find out later, was down to Johnnie and Rita singing my praises to the family.
I mention this point because I think that was the first time I’d ever experienced earning respect. I guess it boils down to this simple fact: it’s not what you say, it’s what you do. Time is your greatest friend if you really want to show who you are.
Mind you, I’d have to say that Izzy always loved me, right from the day he clapped eyes on me.
*
While running around London in my minivan, I decided to pop in and see my old boss Sam Korobuck to say I was now working for myself and, as a long shot, to see if there was any stuff I could buy from him. I discovered that his business was going down the pan and Robinson had gone. Sam was one of these people who are devoted to the science of their business – a ‘teckkie’ rather than a marketing man. The only thing he had for me to buy was equipment which had come back from retailers. As we walked round his warehouse and I spotted piles of record-players and tape recorders, my thoughts turned to Malcolm. Repairing tape recorders was beyond his scope – they were complex mechanical items – but record-players were certainly within his capabilities. Sam was desperate for money and the business was really suffering. I offered him a ridiculous price for the record-players because not only did they need repairing, but also the exterior cabinets needed cleaning up and the whole lot needed repacking. To my surprise, he accepted my offer.
The only problem was that I didn’t have the money or the space to store them. Mum wanted all my ‘junk (the TVs) out of the second bedroom. And I was definitely banned from having strangers coming to the flat. So I found a small storeroom in one of the big houses in Rushmore Road, Clapton. This house accommodated a few cottage industries. In the basement there was a sub-contractor to a garment factory employing ten machinists and on the ground floor there were a couple of blokes making blinds. The back room was vacant, so I decided to take it and move all my junk in, including the record-players – after I’d worked out where to get the money from.
I went back to see Sam and told him that I’d take the whole lot, but I was a bit short of cash. However, if he’d give me a week, I’d be able to give him all the money. I convinced him there was no point in me going backwards and forwards taking a few at a time and he should trust me to take the whole lot at once. I think I gave him about £300 there and then as a deposit, but I needed to find well over £1,000 in total.
With my minivan and Malcolm’s firm’s van, we did about four trips back and forth between Holloway Road and Rushmore Road. We whipped all the stuff away before Sam changed his mind!
The major fault with these record-players was that the valves in the amplifiers had died. All we had to do was replace them. The other problem was that some of the record-players were quite dirty. So, with a scrubbing brush and some Ajax, Malcolm not only applied his electronic skills, but also cleaned up the plastic ‘leatherette’ cabinets. Within a week or so, I’d sold the lot and paid Sam in full.
It was a real eye-opener because the margin I’d made was amazing, something like 125 per cent. I even gave some of the machines to Johnnie to sell. He shifted them easily and was soon pestering me to give him a few more. I pointed out that the price I’d charged him was exactly what I’d paid, plus spare parts, so I wasn’t making any money on these ones. This meant that the more I gave him, the more money I lost.
The Robuck record-player venture stuck in my mind, and the thought of making a 125 per cent margin drove me on to try to find a product that nobody else had. Of course, it sounds a bit naïve – everyone wants a product that nobody else has. Usually, I was buying things for £5 and selling them for £6 – margins were slim and you had to sell a lot of stuff to make real money.
I was on a treadmill, buying and selling stuff for low margins. I was able to make a bit more money by selling further afield in places like Birmingham, Cambridge, Portsmouth and Norwich. Unlike the hard-nosed London dealers, these retailers were willing to pay my prices. But it was a very hard slog and the minivan was conking out every week. When it was in the repair shop, my alternative was to try to do business over the phone, but then I’d have to parcel my orders up at Rushmore Road and wait for British Road Services to turn up and take the parcels away – all time consuming.
Johnnie advised me, ‘If you have an old banger, it’s going to break down all the time. You need a new car – it’s as simple as that.’
Regrettably, I didn’t take his advice. I bought a second-hand Vauxhall Viva from some dodgy bloke who insisted it had been driven by a little old lady once a week on her way to church. He said I might even find a Bible on the back seat. He took my minivan in part-exchange. I should have known there was something wrong when he offered me sixty quid for it – I’d only paid fifty in the first place.
My cash flow was a problem at that point, so I asked my mum and dad whether they’d lend me a few quid for a couple of months to buy this car. I told them this one would be more reliable and had a big boot. They agreed, and one Sunday morning we went to their Benevolent Society office in the East End. They withdrew £250 and gave it to me as a loan to buy the car.
Young, thoughtless and in a hurry, I grabbed the dosh and was just about to shoot off and pick up the Vauxhall when my mum turned to me and said, ‘Aren’t you going to say thank you?’
‘Oh yeah, sorry – thank you.’
Typical of young people.
The Vauxhall Viva turned out to be a total disaster. The boot capacity was much smaller than the minivan’s and the car was breaking down all the time – worse than the minivan – and I was racking up more and more bills trying to fix it. But this was my first real car – I guess my choice was swayed by wanting to impress my mates.
Finally, I went to Wood & Lambert in Stamford Hill and looked at a brand-new automatic Ford Cortina Estate. This would kill two birds with one stone. As an estate, it would double up as a van and as a car, it would be a beautiful set of wheels.
I couldn’t afford the £1,050 price tag, so I decided to pay for it on hire-purchase. The salesman pointed out that I was under twenty-one and therefore ineligible to sign an HP agreement. On Friday night, during dinner, I explained what had happened and asked my father whether he would come with me tomorrow and sign the agreement on my behalf. ‘I’m not signing a thousand-pound bill,’ was his reaction.
I can now understand his feelings. He was sixty years old at the time and must have been thinking back to the days when a thousand pounds was like a million pounds now. Back then, I couldn’t understand his problem – I was sure I’d be able to make the payments. I explained how the Vauxhall Viva fiasco had taught me that I needed a vehicle that wouldn’t conk out – a new one with a guarantee – so I could be out on the road five days a week. Despite this, my dad wouldn’t budge.
&nb
sp; Then, remarkably, Shirley’s Harold said, ‘Don’t worry, Alan, I’ll come down and sign for you.’
There was a stunned silence. My dad turned to him and said, ‘You’ll sign?’
Harold said, ‘Yes. Alan’s explained everything clearly – there’s no problem. He’ll pay off the monthly payments. He’s earning good money.’
This embarrassed my dad into turning up on Saturday and signing the HP agreement for the car. I fully understand his mentality and I can appreciate his hesitation. That said, at the end of the day, he did back me.
*
Ann and I had two engagement parties. The first, organised by Ann’s parents at their house, was for close family only. The second, I organised myself in a small community hall in the flats, so we could invite our friends. An engagement party was traditional, but in my eyes it was a bit of a waste of time, not to mention money. A low-key event was best, as far as I was concerned. I’ve long since realised that parties are not for me, particularly if they’re in my honour – I find them a bit embarrassing and intimidating.
Ann and I were married on 28 April 1968 in Great Portland Street Synagogue. Johnnie pulled out all the stops and laid on a wonderful wedding reception in the Tavistock Rooms, catered by a gentleman named Bert Barnett.
Again, while I’d have to say it was a memorable and wonderful occasion, I couldn’t wait till it was all over. Ann didn’t share that view. As a bride, she was very excited. In fact, on the morning of our wedding, she woke up with a howler of a sore throat and couldn’t speak. It must have been nerves, as she didn’t do too badly later in the day.
At the end of the evening, I shook Johnnie’s hand and thanked him very much for laying on a great wedding. Then Ann and I shot off to the Hilton where I’d booked a room for the night.
The next day, just before going on honeymoon to Cala Mayor, Majorca, we popped in to see my mum (Dad was at work). Mum seemed a bit depressed, and I couldn’t quite work out why. Looking back now, I think it was the reality hitting home that her last baby had left the nest.
We spent two weeks in Majorca and were treated very nicely by the other hotel guests, who realised we were honeymooners. However, by the end of the first week, I was running out of money fast, having underestimated just how much I’d need. There were no credit cards in those days and certainly the Spanish weren’t going to take a cheque.
I phoned Daphne, long-distance, reversing the charges. In those days, it was a nightmare – you had to pre-book the phone call to get a connection. I was stuck in the hotel room for about four hours before the connection was put through. Daphne was concerned at my predicament and she took a risk and stuck £20 in an envelope, sending it by airmail to our hotel. It turned up about three days before we left and got me right out of jail.
Just before we got married, we’d seen a house we liked in Marlands Road, Clayhall and bought it for £4,700. We got a mortgage with the Hearts of Oak Building Society with repayments of £32 per month, or £8 a week, as I was still thinking in those days. The house needed some renovation, including a brand-new kitchen.
Izzy, who had loads of grandchildren, had made it his policy to pay for their bedroom suites whenever one of them got married. He did the same for us as his wedding present. What’s more, he made sure he was there to scrutinise the work of the poor sod who fitted it.
While all the refurbishing was going on, we stayed at Daphne and Harold’s, not far away. They made us very welcome, but Ann was keen to settle down in our own place. Eventually, we moved in. Ann was delighted to be there and I was quite proud of the fact that we had our own house, considering this was not the norm for young married couples at the time. The house was semi-detached with a small front garden and a large garden at the rear which led to a small private road that serviced the houses with garages, all of which were located at the ends of the adjacent gardens.
Ann often jokes with me about my attempts to put into practice some of the bricklaying and building skills I’d picked up at Brooke House School. In a mad moment, I decided one day that I would make a concrete path running down the centre of the garden leading to the end, where I planned to build a garage. I spent a whole Sunday digging it out and putting in broken bricks as hardcore. Then, later in the week, a cement mixer came along and poured in a load of concrete. Ann named this path ‘the M1’ because I’d made it about 5ft wide! Considering the width of the whole garden was only 25ft, the path stood out like a sore thumb.
Nevertheless, the neighbours were quite impressed by my handiwork. They were even more impressed when I decided to build, from a kit, a garage with an up-and-over door. I saw the kit advertised in a national newspaper. The advert stated that a man and his wife could easily assemble it in a day – they forgot to mention that the wife had to be a twenty-stone Russian weightlifter. First, a concrete base had to be laid – a cinch. Now to build the shell of the garage. I managed to do this myself and, with a bit of help from Daphne’s Harold, we hung the up-and-over door. Good job. Again, tremendous admiration from the neighbours.
The reason for building the garage was that I had now acquired a Dor-mobile van. With Harold’s help, I racked out the van internally, so that I could carry my stock onboard and deliver the goods – effectively a mobile warehouse. It would have been risky leaving the van parked outside the house with all the stuff in it, so a garage was essential. It was also a requirement of the insurance company.
Before getting the Dormobile, I used to store my stuff in a lean-to behind the kitchen – until one day the whole lot got nicked. The insurance company was not interested – I wasn’t insured for running a business from home. When I listed all the stuff stolen, they told me to forget it – they weren’t paying. I lost about £2,000 worth of stock, virtually the net asset value of the company at the time, a real knockback That’s what prompted me to get the Dormobile, alarm it up and get insurance cover. But it also put me into debt. Luckily, by then I had suppliers who would extend me credit and I was able to replenish my stocks and get going again, simply by using the cash flow of sales to Peter to pay Paul.
The Dormobile turned out to be a temporary measure, as it was becoming increasingly clear that I needed an office. Having expanded my customer base all over the country, I was spending more and more time sending parcels off. This was something that I couldn’t really do from home. Plus, I was starting to get repeat orders without having to chase. Customers would ring me at home, but I’d be out and Ann would be at work, so I was losing business – there were no mobiles in those days.
Luckily, I was dealing with a gentleman by the name of Freddie Ezekiel, a small-time importer who sold me radios now and again. He’d taken a lease on premises at 388 St John’s Street, Clerkenwell, but had soon realised he didn’t actually need the whole building. I negotiated a deal with him that allowed me to rent the ground floor and the first floor. The front room of the ground floor I made into a showroom, the back room I made into a strongroom, fully alarmed, and I used the first floor as an office. Freddie kept the second floor.
And who was to be my first employee, to man the station? I told my dad I’d like him to come and work for me for £20 a week clear. This was a good wage, considering he was earning £15 a week clear at the time.
Although he could see I had a nice little business and I’d already bought my own house, Dad’s cautious nature kicked in. He was hesitant to accept, worried that my success might not last. Eventually, I convinced him and he took the unprecedented step of announcing to his colleagues at the garment factory that he was leaving – something no one ever did.
‘Why are you leaving, Nat?’ they asked.
‘Well, I’ve got a better opportunity that’s come my way,’ he explained.
At the age of sixty-two, having worked for more than forty-five years in a sweat-shop environment, struggling for money, worrying whether he’d have any work the following week, it must have been a moment of glory for him to be able to tell them, effectively, ‘Stick your job where the sun doesn’
t shine.’
Dad manned the premises at St John’s Street, answered the phone and wrapped the parcels. I wouldn’t say we were tearing busy, but I was easily able to pay him. And it was useful for me to have him go and open up in the morning while I went out selling with my samples.
Occasionally, we would have customers visit the premises. He would proudly come downstairs and walk into the meeting, as if to say, ‘Right, okay, what’s going on here?’
The visitors would look up and I would say, ‘Yeah, that’s my father – he’s looking after the place for me.’
There was another great task my father performed at St John’s Street. Freddie Ezekiel’s wife, who worked with him, was pregnant. She worked right up to the last moment – and I literally mean the last moment: her waters broke while she was on the premises! Freddie was out at the time, so she screamed down the stairs. The only person in the building was my father, who sprung into action and organised an ambulance for her.
Freddie didn’t know what had been going on until he got back a couple of hours later. When he heard the news, he rushed to the hospital. Apparently, there were some complications with the birth, but due to Dad’s prompt actions, the baby was safely delivered. Freddie and his wife didn’t stop thanking my dad for at least a year afterwards. They even bought him a present.
As well as being a supplier of mine, Freddie also became a supplier to Johnnie. It was interesting to watch the two of them whenever Johnnie came down to negotiate for stuff. Freddie Ezekiel was an orthodox Jew, so when the pair of them got together they were both in heaven, pub-quizzing on which days they could work and which days they couldn’t.
It was at the St John’s Street premises that the turning point for A M S Trading Company came.
5
The Truck Driver and His Wife