Are you free?

With the news announced this week that Smith and Caughey’s was closing its doors (and entire operation) forever and for good, I felt a real sadness. The grand old Dowager of Queen Street was to be no more. Of course I hadn’t shopped there for years, so in a way I’m the problem. But like the wallpaper at your Mum’s place, its only when you visit and find they’ve redecorated, that you yearn for the old familiar and the memories that evokes.

Smith and Caughey’s was my first real paying job. I worked there for the summer between leaving school and starting Uni. I was in the china department under the buyer Mr. Swan. He was hardly there, but always arrived with flair and was beautifully presented. I didn’t really have a clue what he did, but he looked fabulous doing it. I was also secretly pleased at the avian symmetry of Swan and Mr. Peacock. My co-workers were other students and Steven (to my mind, impossibly old at 27). He favoured skinny leather ties and had a dodgy moustache (we took dinner breaks together at the Hungry Horse in Elliot St) and Angela who glided serenely between china and dress fabrics. Angela worked at the store for decades. In later years, she was there whenever I visited. She never seemed to age and her hair was always exactly the same.

In those days (pre eftpos or Apple Pay) we handled a lot of cash. I learnt the art of counting change back to customers. There was a cashier in the middle of the floor and they’d only recently stopped using the pneumatic tubes to send money and paperwork around the building. If anyone paid by cheque or credit card (via zip zap machine – kids go ask your grandparents) then we were required to get ‘authorisation’. This meant roaming around the store to find a ‘floorwalker’. We had Mr. Andrew (a Caughey but only ever known by his first name) and another chap who looked like Alfred Hitchcock. We would present the documentation and ID and they would give a perfunctory glance and provide a squiggled initial to seal the deal.

Back then china was on the ground floor Queen St side. I spent a large chunk of everyday dusting. Not some feathered effort, but sleeves rolled up, bottle of methylated spirits in hand and wodges of tissue paper. Every surface and display shelf were wiped, and when we’d finished, we started again until the department and I both had the whiff of dipsomania. Behind the counter was a small room for gift wrapping and in there was a narrow staircase that led to the basement. Underground tunnels used as the china stock room. We had it all, your Lilliput Cottages, Lladro figurines, German dinner services and Waterford crystal. The basement had a wonderful smell. It was cool but not damp and the combination of cardboard and paper wrappings smelt like Christmas morning. I wrapped a lot of gifts, in fact to this day professional gift wrapper is still the job I aspire to.

A department store isn’t like any other shop. It has a personality, an energy. It opens it’s arms and holds you close. Arriving on shift always felt like an event in a way that arriving to an office never has. And the people watching is second to none. The gorgeous couple with model good looks. Her sobbing while he held her arm tightly and whispered furiously into her ear. Should I intervene? The husbands and boyfriends in a ‘tasty’ condition (as my Dad would say) rolling in at 20mins before closing on Christmas Eve, headed straight to the perfume counter to buy something that would keep them out of trouble the next day. The couple choosing their wedding register items. Her sparkly-eyed playing grown-up and him reconsidering his life choices. The ladies wot lunch, coming in twos or alone. Headed to the third-floor café for a curly sandwich, coffee and cake.

I was working there the night of the Queen St Riot. Without social media, and deep inside the S&C cocoon, I wasn’t really that aware of what was transpiring a block away. There was a small kerfuffle near the front doors. Floorwalkers and seniors huddled in conversation before the doors were locked. I remember the rioters put in one of the large plate glass windows on Wellesley St. Back then, no one really had a thought for staff health and safety/ duty of care. At closing we were all turfed out onto the street, in the middle of a riot. At the time I didn’t really think much of it (invincibility of youth) and so off I trotted up to Victoria Street to catch my bus home. Sure, there was a riot, but this was Auckland after all.

During my Uni days my shop girl career continued, but I moved to a part-time gig at Farmers on Hobson Street. Hector was dead and stuffed, but the rooftop Wonkeresque playground still ruled supreme. I spent a lot of my break time on the lower ground floor in the music department (vinyl records). There was a milk bar for ice creams and all my milkshake needs. In the days before Temu, it was difficult to find what you needed when you needed it. Department stores had range, styles, sizes, brands. As kids, Farmers was somewhere we shopped as a whole family. Everyone’s first bra fitting was either at S&C’s or Farmers. Necessities and treats.

I worked on the second floor in ladies’ wear. Shoes, clothing, lingerie. I sold many size 11 stilettos and foundation garments (corsets) to trans women. We had a separate fitting room we could offer them or they could use the main fitting rooms. The choice was theirs. I don’t recall there every being an issue with it and no one batted an eye. These days we’d have Posie Parker protesting outside and demanding foundation garment apartheid.

Its ironic then that many (many) years later I ended up working for NZ’s largest online retailer. And while digital software projects have their moments, nothing compares to trying on all the new shoe styles (in the stock room out back) before they go out on display for the first time.

When the shuttering of Smith and Caughey’s was announced on TV this week, there was a vox pop of the PM. I usually try to ignore him (listening never does any good). Like the badies in Five Go Mad in Dorset, there was a certain cadence to his words. Bricks and Mortar blah blah … Online Shopping blah blah ….

I was stuck by two thoughts. Firstly, the PM has no idea what he’s talking about. Just more meaningless business-speak word salad. And secondly, Christopher Luxon has (probably) never worked in ladies’ underwear.