An excerpt from the 1951 Chapter in The Man Who Wore Mismatched Socks.
Background: John Buxomley is a recovering alcoholic; he has just recently hit “rock bottom” and is working hard at conquering his addiction. Gladiola Wallingford is a woman who he had feelings for back during the war, and he has just found her again. Against great odds, they succeed in going on a picnic together.
In this passage I wanted to explore:
-The idea of how an independent woman could build a business in an environment (back in 1951) when the business world was dominated by males.
-The idea of how small businesses should consider talking to one person at a time rather than mass marketing as their principal growth strategy. My growth philosophy has evolved to this: mass marketing is for big companies and for commodities. If you’re big, and/or if you deal in commodities, mass (talking to “everyone”) is a logical way to proceed. If, however, you own or work in a small business, it makes absolutely no sense at all. Talking to one person at a time and being patient is far more effective in the long term. (Hint: that’s the hard part. It takes time and persistence.)
-How this “talking to one” could be done in pre-Internet days.
-The notion of substantive, meaningful conversation between men and women who are romantically interested in each other. Flirtation is all well and good, but if taken too far can lead to objectification and treatment of the other as interchangeable, temporary and disposable. “What is truly important to you?” is a fair, even vital, question in the realm of romance, and yet most fiction and film attempts to make us believe otherwise.
Here, then, is my excerpt:
They talked about a thousand things, and the time ran away like water over a falls. She was clearly fascinated with everything that he said, and Buxomley was happy to be able to talk freely about his newly repaired car, his new job at Red & Black Ltd, his amateur astronomy, his interest in math…
For his part, he wanted to know everything about what she had been doing. It turned out she had established a bakery, Purebread, right there in Twickenham, shortly after the war. (It had been so bloody close to him! How had he missed it all this time?) In spite of the tremendous odds stacked against it, her little concern had prospered beautifully. When he asked how she had done it, she spoke of using only the finest ingredients, and the remarkable qualities which all her breads, cakes, muffins and scones possessed. She also made every effort to know her customers. And then there were the letters…
He asked, and she explained. Gladiola took down as many customers’ names and addresses and phone numbers as they would allow; most didn’t object. Each working day, she phoned one customer and asked how they had liked what they had bought from Purebread. She also sent one letter to a customer chosen at random each and every day. She chose them randomly, and thus many people got more than one letter from her, over time. Her letters were simple missives. They thanked her patron for purchasing from her. She praised the simple pleasures of the English table and expressed her hope that her creations had added to the enjoyment of the family meal. She encouraged her customers, without pressure, to write back to her.
At first, she only heard from one out of dozens of recipients. After a time though, as people received more than one letter from her, and especially as they started to have conversations amongst each other about their letter-writing baker of Twickenham, it became fashionable to write back. Pretty soon, Gladiola had gathered quite a tight little tribe about her, people who eagerly anticipated her breads and cakes and muffins, but who also relished the entire experience of her creations. A Purebread at the table meant so many things! Good taste, absolutely- they were always so delicious! Delightful packaging- breads always came in that charming yellow cardboard box, tied with a bit of burgundy red string, and her desserts were in that same yellow box but with a light green lid, also tied with that red string. Very distinctive, nothing else came wrapped like this! And then of course there was the chance of being belled by Miss Wallingford herself, or, best of all, finding one of her letters in the post.
By 1951, most of her patrons were writing back.
Buxomley was astonished. “Gladiola, I’ve never heard of such spectacular success coming from such simple acts. Well, except for the Gacks, but, you know, as much as I love them, they’re all a bit barmy. What you’ve done though- totally hatstand! What made you think of it?”
She smiled lightly. “Well, it was something Victoria and her parents said, once when I was visiting at their home. Just after the war, you know. She was planning to start up her education again. She’s studied economics, and her particular interest is Bertrand competition. It’s a bit more racy to call it ‘a race to the bottom’, so we always call it that. ‘Bottom-racing’, what a funny little term!”
This wasn’t exactly romantic conversation, but it was certainly interesting conversation. And anyway people all made so damn much out of silly superficial things when it came to romance. But wasn’t it better to be talking to a beautiful woman about her accomplishments than about how her hair reflected the sunlight, or how rapidly her eyelids fluttered? Interactions between hair and sunlight were largely beyond her control; nature bestowed what nature bestowed. Her accomplishments, though- those were hers, and hers alone.
“What does that mean, then, Gladiola?”
She burst out with her answer, all flushed with the excitement of sharing her success with someone she cared about. “Bertrand’s 'race to the bottom' goes rather like this: if a company, like my own bakery, or your accounting firm, any company- starts lowering its price to gain market share, their competitors tend to start doing the same thing. Each tries to undercut all the others until the price of the product or service in question is just above the cost of production. They've all raced to the bottom.”
“I see. That would attract the buyers looking for something at the lowest price, which we all do from time to time. Don’t we?”
“Yes, we do, and there’s really nothing wrong with that. But as owner, I had a decision to make. If you're trying to sell to everybody, you've got to become more average to do so. You become a commodity. Further, John, it's a matter of vulnerability. Commodities are vulnerable to bottom-racing. If you're indispensible to your customers, if you are constantly delighting them or solving problems for them, you are invincible. You are racing to the top. Your competitors cannot force you down.”
“That’s amazing, Gladiola!”
“I suppose I don’t really solve any critical problems for my customers…”
Excited for this wonderful woman who had unexpectedly come tumbling back into his life, he grinned. “Of course you do! Everyone has got to eat! And you make their meals better when they buy such excellent food…”
“Still, John, I focus on the other thing. Delighting them. And it’s worked for me. I have a thriving business going.”
“You certainly do! I can’t wait to come down to Twickenham and buy one of everything!”
She laughed and smiled and her cheeks flushed all red. And looking back on it later, John Buxomley realized that at the moment he had said those words, “I can’t wait to come down to Twickenham and buy one of everything,” that this was the first moment in his life in a very long time when he had forgotten completely about alcohol.