When Thomas Dickins first glimpsed Regent Street, it was little more than a well-appointed residential road. The young draper from Nottinghamshire had teamed up with William Smith and opened a linen shop on the far busier Oxford Street in 1803. Growth and partnership followed, and by 1856 the store, which had expanded its wares and moved south to number 232 Regent Street, was rebranded as Dickins and Jones.
By then, architect John Nash was transforming Regent Street into the epitome of contemporary Victorian design. Dickins and Jones bustled with upper-class shoppers, who alighted from their carriages to be greeted by white-gloved sales assistants.
Inside, these pioneers of consumer culture spent their growing fortunes on ceramics from China and the latest French fashions. Carriages turned into automobiles, which turned into cars. London shopped, and from its vaunted retail location, Dickins and Jones stood witness to it all.
It all came to an end in 2006. House of Fraser, the owner of the store, was engaged in a major brand consolidation, with its national portfolio of stores set to be divested or mono-branded as House of Fraser.
The official reason for the closure of Dickins and Jones was a 10-fold increase in rents that transformed the fortunes of the store from profit to loss overnight. In reality, its death is a familiar tale of a brand that failed the continual challenge of revitalization necessary to remain in the sweet spot of consumer affections.
When you win the loyalty of one generation, the challenge of retaining the business of the next becomes all the harder. Daughters never aspire to their mothers’ tastes. Success, popularity and fame are wonderful assets for the present, but often unassailable challenges for the future.
At some point in its venerable history, Dickins and Jones began to fall behind and its heritage began to outweigh its modernity. Its customer base aged and the store gradually acquired the poignant but damning status of an iconic London landmark.
The furious pace and brutal realism of retailing mean retail brands are particularly vulnerable to the threat of becoming old and dusty. According to House of Fraser chief executive John Coleman, ‘once you’re losing money, you’re losing money; there’s no place for sentiment … we have always said there are no sacred cows in our business’.
In its last week a very different customer base was inside Dickins and Jones, picking at the last remaining bones of this sacred cow.
On the ground floor, the only clue of what was to come were the sad, almost mournful, smiles of the beauty assistants. But as you climbed higher through the store, its imminent demise became more apparent.
On the top floor, bargain hunters scavenged through shop-fittings and damaged candelabra. Large sections were empty and cordoned off with gaudy yellow tape. The rooms were no longer cluttered with contemporary clothing, and, for the first time in decades, it was possible to appreciate the true majesty of the most recent building work completed in the 20s.
The windows on this floor offer an amazing panorama across Regent Street. Almost directly opposite is the Apple store; vibrant and engorged with a constant flow of shoppers, it dominates the view. The contrast with the silence and sadness on the other side of the street is potent.
Capitalism is a brutal business and brands die all the time. They leave no epitaph, and their buildings are quickly redesigned, renovated and rented to the 21st-century equivalent of Dickins.
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