A magical land consigned to childhood memory

May 28 2008 by Laura Davis, Liverpool Daily Post

IT’S the fans I remember best, with giant fins that hummed as they whirled, spinning coffee-scented air up our passive nostrils.

Those were the ones in the Buttery, a jungle of glossy green leaves, pure white crockery and metal teapots that dribbled no matter how often you tried to straighten the lid with the help of a spoon.

There were others in the lighting department, above the mirrors lined against the wall like a fairground attraction, where you could gain light relief from watching your parents debate the benefits of pull cords versus switches by watching your hop-scotching reflection.

George Henry Lee was a playground that came to life when your mum had turned her back to examine the quality of the bathroom towels – strangely glittery ramps that you had to concentrate hard to walk down, toe- to-heel, heel-to-toe until you had safely reached the bottom; long corridors like the chambers of an Aztec temple between the school uniforms and the wonderful, wonderful toy department; a lift built as a big metal cage that clanged as the doors slammed, trapping you inside.

Then there were the curiosities – cases of shiny brooches shaped like bejewelled butterflies and juicy strawberries; tubes of buttons and rolls of ribbons in a spectrum of colours; disembodied legs in zigzag- patterned stockings, their toes pointed towards the ceiling by an invisible ballerina.

There were rules to this palace of treasures that were flouted at your own considerable risk. Always tiptoe past the shelves of glassware, holding your body as rigid as possible and never, not for even a single second, lose control of your arms.

How quickly we learned that pressing the button six times in the lift would have no effect on its slow progress to the third floor, and that pulling more than one ticket out of the red machine in the children’s shoe department would not make the queue go faster.

Here, where kindly women asked you to place your foot in a green measurer to gauge the size of your new black patent T-bar shoes, time went at a different pace to the rest of the world – far more slowly than the gap between school and bedtime, but a little bit quicker than the eternity it took to gulp down a spoonful of medicine.

If you were lucky, your sister would be there, too, a fellow adventurer among the rows and rows of almost identical right-footed shoes.

Under no circumstance should you venture too far, however, as lingering too long at another display would cause the counter to move up from 113 to 1,208 in the blink of an eye, and you’d have to start at the back of the queue again.

Christmas visits were the most magical because of the pine tree that appeared to start in the basement and tower as high as the roof, positioned inside the spiral staircase for you to admire each branch as you climbed.

Tall stands filled with baubles in silver and gold, feathered angels waiting for a perch, and fat Santas still showing the consequences of too many mince pies took up most of one floor, or so it seemed to tiny eyes.

Last week, I went to say goodbye to the store that had already changed its name and now its location, to the haberdashery department with its huge rolls of fabric, boxes of red-tipped pins and detachable bra cups. Sadly, there wasn’t time for the toy department or the metal-caged lift.

There are many good reasons for John Lewis to move – limited floor space, confusing corridors, antiquated fixtures – but the features of the building which made it a difficult store to run will always be, for me, those which made it special.

I will join the shoppers as they enter the new glass- fronted shop in the Liverpool One development, and will no doubt appreciate the airy floors and wider range of stock, but a younger version of me, in patent T-bar shoes, will still be hop-scotching in front of the mirrors in Basnett Street.

lauradavis@dailypost.co.uk