In twelve months Dunedin had trebled in size. Gold drew in the prospectors—trade beckoned on every corner.
Above: George Street Wharf, Port Chalmers, 1863.
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The Arrival In 1862, Briscoes began selling its wares in New Zealand supplied direct from its Melbourne warehouse. In the next twelve months, the firm took steps to increase its New Zealand presence. Hugh MacNeil was the newest manager of British ironmongery and hardware firm Briscoe & Co. Well established, with a head office in Wolverhampton and a thriving Melbourne branch, MacNeil was the organisation’s first representative in New Zealand.
H
ugh MacNeil disembarked from the ship and made his way along the thick timber planks of the jetty toward the street. On his right, lighters and rowboats were tied up alongside ready to ferry passengers and cargo out to waiting vessels—clippers, steamers, pleasure craft—at least 50 or more at anchor in the harbour. The jetty soon gave way to the unsealed street in front of him, rising gently upwards from the port and heading to Dunedin centre. Single-storey wooden buildings, most with verandahs, some hotels, merchant quarters, a chemist, lined the street. Directly opposite the jetty, past the primitive customs house, was A. Haddock, Tinsmith & Plumber. Everywhere suggested rudimentary commerce. But MacNeil was not hanging for custom; he had a business of his own to get under way. He had already made a scouting trip six months earlier; now he was here with the capital of the organisation behind him. Briscoes had committed to buying a Dunedin central ironyard, and MacNeil as its first manager was determined to make the acquisition, the furthest outpost of this international business, one of its triumphs. A few days later, the Otago Daily Times heralded the moment. Atop a single column heading of the paper, the intent was unmistakable: ‘Arthur Briscoe and Co., from their Carron Warehouse — ON SALE.’
1860 Above: Hardware stores sold all manner of merchandise from nails and iron to seeds and silverware. Such firms relied on Briscoes to carry all they required.
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opened across the road in a section of land running between Bond Street and Crawford Street. At these yards Briscoes routinely kept 400 tons of bar iron—the thickest among them eight inches in diameter—30 tons of Staffordshire horseshoes, and 150 tons of nails. To support New Zealand’s coach-building industry, there were tons of rod, sheet, hoop, and galvanised iron, as well as American hickory and English ash. In the way of machinery, the Bond Street yard stocked anchors, hydraulic rams, boring machines, weighing machines, and chaff cutters. Not surprisingly, Briscoes was receiving goods through Port Chalmers at the rate of 100 tons per week, on average. Ironically, within five years of opening, Briscoes new Dunedin premises were no longer big enough. The company purchased the Café de Paris Hotel, which stood at the rear of the Princes Street building, and began its expansion. Contractors demolished the hotel and erected a complete three-storey-high extension, increasing the total floor area by a third. At the same time, the newly extended retail showrooms came in for a makeover—to the extent that these were opened until 10 p.m. on Christmas Eve 1878 as a public attraction. The firm emphasised that it was ‘at all times willing to show visitors over their extensive and well-stocked premises, having had it suggested to them that any country visitor might have no other opportunity afforded them of inspecting the many beautiful articles comprised in their new stock’. It was not the only time the Briscoes store came in for some heightened publicity. When Dunedin contractor and railway-builder David Proudfoot imported a Siemens light for use with the dredging of Dunedin Harbour, he chose the top of the Briscoes building to demonstrate his city spectacle for all to see. Dunedin citizens were not disappointed. As one newspaper correspondent wrote:
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1860
Dunedin Adventure
From Jetty Street to the Octagon, the street was so well illuminated that ordinary type could have been read without too much difficulty, while in front of Messrs Arthur Briscoe and Co.’s premises the light was quite dazzling. It seemed that the electric light would soon supersede gas in street illumination. However, innovation can take a while to catch on, and it was 1907 before electric lights were installed in Briscoes Dunedin branch, as with many other Dunedin firms and private residences. Briscoes expansion continued apace over the next two decades as the company sprawled out over several city sites. The Princes and Jetty streets store was eventually relinquished in favour of even larger premises on the company’s land between Crawford and Bond streets. Owning two ironyards opposite each other, it seemed logical to retain one as the bulk store and convert the other section to a purpose-built warehouse. The new flagship Crawford Street store was opened in 1907.
Below: A steam threshing machine in Canterbury in the 1880s. Briscoes supplied agricultural equipment throughout New Zealand’s farming communities.
By 1880, tea was the thirdlargest imported commodity in New Zealand (behind drapery goods and sugar), with the country spending more on the beverage annually than it did on hardware and ironmongery.
Tea, Anyone? Tea is not the sort of product usually associated with a hardware company, but in the nineteenth century Briscoes was New Zealand’s largest importer of tea. It was a lucrative commodity: for New Zealanders, where the greatest proportion of the European population was of British extraction, the afternoon ‘cuppa’ was a staple beverage—everyone had one daily, and usually several. By 1880, tea was the third-largest imported commodity in New Zealand (behind drapery goods and sugar), with the country spending more on the beverage annually than it did on hardware and ironmongery. Even by 1900, New Zealand had the highest tea consumption per head of population in the world—nine pounds of tea for every man, woman, and child. As an importer with connections in the West Indies, Briscoes leveraged its network not
only to supply tea to thirsty New Zealanders, but also to produce its own house blends: Gold and Silver Crest, the Avondale Blend of pure Ceylon tea, and Surisanda. By 1898, the Briscoes Crest Blend was the most popular brand of tea on sale in the New Zealand market. In part, Briscoes attributed their success in the tea market to a strategic acquisition. An English tea expert, trained in Mincing Lane, London (the epicentre of tea and spice traders for the world trade in tea as a commodity), had been sent to Dunedin to run the New Zealand tea department and ensure that only the best blends were sold. It was a combination of ‘purity, strength, and economy’, said Briscoes, that made its tea business so good—before eventually exiting the trade in 1902, selling its tea department to a firm in Christchurch.
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Everything You Could Possibly Want By the 1930s, Briscoes stores around the country were a Mecca for everything you could possibly want for everyday life in the Dominion: household furnishings, garden tools, Pyrex dishes, sporting goods, lawn mowers, guns, radios, watches, crystal vases, tea sets, ‘Gumlypta’ disinfectant, even chimney pots.
In part, the comprehensive range on offer was because Briscoes, as a major wholesaler, serviced a diverse clientele of New Zealand shopkeepers and contractors. Its town and country sales reps called on plumbers, builders, engineers, small hardware stores, government departments, sporting clubs, even fruiterers. There remained, however, a keen difference between Briscoes in Australia and Briscoes in New Zealand: the New Zealand stores were retailers as well as wholesalers. The imposing Wellington store on Jervois Quay, for example, continually booked advertising space in Wellington’s Evening Post proclaiming its current promotions and special offers. As a result, the goods shown here, all promoted by Briscoes in the 1930s, offer a unique snapshot of
the eclectic tastes of New Zealanders. Where else could you find people equally at ease sipping tea from Royal Doulton china cups, at the same time as they were experimenting in the back shed with their new Lane’s Pattern possum trap? Equally, the 1930s saw the early stages of the home appliance boom, and refrigerators, washing machines, radios, and vacuum cleaners all made an appearance. The Briscoes Wellington branch, offering customers a late-night Friday, offered curious Wellingtonians plenty to choose from—for him, and for her.
As a result, the goods shown here, all promoted by Briscoes in the 1930s, offer a unique snapshot of the eclectic tastes of New Zealanders.
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Below: A soldier returns to Wellington in February 1945 after seeing action in the Middle East.
Briscoes 150 Years in New Zealand
The Tax Man Perhaps it was symptomatic of insufficient things to do during wartime, but in July 1941 Briscoes came under the scrutiny of the Tax Department. In an intensive audit of the company’s accounts, the department assessed that Briscoes had been guilty of excess profits and the company was charged additional tax as a result. Excessive profits, considering the woes of the previous decade, would have been welcome at Briscoes, but the company knew that this assessment was far from accurate. Briscoes contested the decision, and after a lengthy deliberation, won their appeal. As a result, Briscoes taxable income was reassessed downwards, and it received back £2,000 from the government. Clearly, the Tax Department did not like to lose. Twelve months later, there was another knock at the door and this time Briscoes was subjected to a tax audit covering the previous five years. If there was something untoward, the inspector and his team were determined to find it. When they had finished poring over the accounts, they managed to isolate an additional £578 in unpaid taxes. It wasn’t much: but a victory was still a victory.
Post-War With the conclusion of the Second World War in 1945, Briscoes was in a position to reassess its future. And, for the first time in six years, the New Zealand and Australian offices had a visit from their English counterparts, as chairman Captain Dick Briscoe and director Walter Briscoe travelled to Australasia to tour the branches. In New Zealand they received an enthusiastic welcome. The New Zealand management, sensing that the general feeling of optimism in the country was certain to translate into an economic upsurge, were hungry for expansion. Tarnished by six years of difficult wartime conditions, the British directors were understandably more cautious. Feeling that the capital of the company
was insufficient to support expansion, they expressed the view that ‘owing to the uncertain state of world affairs, the time was not opportune . . .’. World markets were not stable, but more significantly, the capital of the company internationally was still insufficient to support growth. Briscoes would have had to reach to the bank to support expansion, and the experiences of 1938 were likely still too raw for that to occur just yet. The hesitancy of the British directors even extended to world travel and mercantile arrangements. In May 1946, a year after Victory in Europe, Briscoes New Zealand considered sending a representative to the UK to investigate purchasing goods again. The London head office urged caution; it was felt that the manufacturers in the UK were not yet ready to receive overseas representatives. Not to be put off, a company representative was despatched to Australia to establish fresh leads on merchandise and returned with a range of manufacturers that Briscoes might represent in New Zealand. On reflection, the move towards Australian industry was probably the wiser choice; already the New Zealand
Above: Women queuing for rationed goods outside Salisbury’s in Wellington during World War II.
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Can You Drive a Broom? Seventeen-year-old Garth Barnsdale pulled his overcoat closer round his chin, and rocked from side to side outside the Briscoes Invercargill branch on the corner of Spey Street. It was 7.40 a.m. on this brisk 1948 March morning; Barnsdale’s first day at work, and the young man was determined to put on a good show. Getting the position had not been difficult. Barnsdale had already proved he was a young man with responsibility: the previous year he had represented New Zealand at the Sixth International Scout jamboree, held in France. It was the first world Jamboree since the Second World War and globally Scout membership at 4.5 million was at an all-time high.
Returning home, Barnsdale enjoyed the Christmas holidays in 1947 and then watched as an outbreak of infantile paralysis gripped New Zealand. Schools were closed for 10 weeks, to curb disease. Barnsdale’s father heard there was a position going at Briscoes and phoned the manager. Garth showed up for work. The first to arrive that March morning was longtime staffer Levy Foster. To Barnsdale the man looked about eighty years old. But Foster was no fool. As they walked across the darkened room over the deeply oiled timber floor, Foster eyed his young charge. ‘”I suppose you can drive a broom, can you?’ Barnsdale nodded. ‘Well, here’s the broom, start sweeping.’ Keen to put on a good impression, Barnsdale attacked the old oiled boards with all his might. Decades of dirt and grime gave way, mushrooming to an ever-growing dust cloud. For relief, Barnsdale pushed open the front doors and continued pushing the virulent dust out towards the street. Moments later, Foster burst through on the ground floor. ‘What are you doing?’ he yelled. Barnsdale thought his superior work was plainly obvious. ‘Sweeping the floor?’ Foster stared at him for a moment, before grabbing Briscoes main doors and slamming them tightly shut. ‘You can’t open the doors before 8.30,’ he said. ‘You’ll have the union round.’ It was young Barnsdale’s first introduction to commercial life in New Zealand: in the land of unions and six o-clock closing, it was play by the rules, or else. Fifteen minutes later, at precisely 8.30 a.m., Briscoes opened for business.
Briscoes 150 Years
Later that week, events took another peculiar turn. With renovations occurring in the building, staff member Mr W. Young organised for a bottle to be planted under the floorboards, recording the events of the day. He started the note: ‘On this day, 18th March 1948, we planted this bottle under the floor of the packing room. Mr Sam Richardson will proceed to England this year, Mr Vernon Thomson managing director of London and Mr MacNeil of Australia are at present in Invercargill. Gordon Robertson the Lorry driver leaves the firm this year at the age of 60. Miss Baxter of the office will be wed in May. Jack Melvin, after 14 years of service, has prospects of being promoted to the shop. Matthew Scott bought a new racing bike.
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We should hear more of this youth. Mr Gray and Mr Foster still hold the fort in the ship with the assistance of Bob McArthur. S. Sopwell is still going strong on town orders. Garth Barnsdale started as message boy. Mr W. Young fixed this floor and left the bottle with the assistance of S. Sopwell, Mr W. Elliot, Mr S. Lipscombe (tile surrounds). Garth Barnsdale stayed with Briscoes for more than 40 years, rising to the position of manager of the Invercargill branch. And the bottle lay undisturbed and forgotten for the next 62 years. After Briscoes had long vacated their old Invercargill store, during renovations to the old Spey Street building in April 2010, local plumber Steve Ellens rediscovered the historic time capsule. It was preserved, just as it was the day it was buried.
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One Million Pounds
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Sears By the mid-1980s, Briscoes Dutch parent company, Hagemeyer, was itself in difficulties. By June 1985, the company had reported a loss of 13 million guilders, taking a hit in the commodity trade, mostly coffee. While it looked to sell off some of its real estate to generate cash, it also welcomed an approach from American retailer Sears Roebuck. Started in 1893 as a mail-order business, Sears Roebuck moved into retail stores in the 1920s and by 1985 was a 450,000-strong organisation with department stores, real estate services, shopping mall management, insurance, consumer banking, brokerage, and credit services. Sears World Trade Incorporated, the international arm of the company in charge of distribution and selling Sears product worldwide, took a 20 per cent stake in Hagemeyer. Under the deal, Sears received a controlling interest in Hagemeyer operations in North America and Asia, which included New Zealand. As a result, Briscoes New Zealand became 51 per cent
owned by Sears World Trade. The many possible upsides of being associated with the great name in US retailing were touted: none of which eventuated. Both Hagemeyer and Sears struggled in difficult retail market conditions. Sears World Trade by 1984 had made a loss of $10 million; by 1986 that loss had mushroomed to $60 million. After 13 uneventful months, Sears sold back to Hagemeyer the 20 per cent stake it had purchased. The ambitious Sears World Trade group was closed down, and merged back into the company’s merchandise unit. Hagemeyer again assumed total control of Briscoes in New Zealand, and its performance.
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The Hagemeyer Years
Overtaken by Events Import licensing and controls, instituted in 1938, had become accepted practice in New Zealand business activity. Even outside observers such as the International Monetary Fund urged New Zealand to remove the distortions in its economy, phase out import licensing, and deregulate sectors of the economy presently subjected to artificial regulations working against competition. It was a Labour government of 1984 that enacted the necessary changes. Elected in response to a snap general election, the administration of David Lange moved swiftly to bring about changes to the New Zealand banking sector, and following this, its industrial heartland. Within three months of the election, the new government had removed restrictions on who could bid for an import licence, and how many licences a particular firm could hold. A year later, import licensing was eased on 340 categories of products, and four months later, removed altogether on bicycles, sporting equipment, toys, and other goods as the deregulation of the New Zealand economy unfolded. Unless Briscoes moved quickly, it risked becoming a dinosaur. Other retailers had already begun bypassing wholesalers and purchasing lines direct from overseas and local manufacturers. In the garment trade the phenomenon had already occurred: New Zealand’s three largest wholesalers had all gone by the mid-1980s. Ross & Glendining did not make it past 1965; Sargood, Son & Ewen lasted until the early 1970s; Bing, Harris & Co. held on till 1984, but no longer. With deregulation, New Zealand’s industrial environment had changed for good. Left: A page from the Briscoes catalogue from Christmas 1986. The front page bears the slogan ‘The Store of Christmas Dreams’.
Briscoes 150 Years
further inducement. She left university that afternoon and started three weeks later as a trainee sound engineer in Radio New Zealand’s Christchurch studios (with her mother’s blessing). Tweaking sound at Addington Raceway, helping to drop microphones through the ceiling of the Christchurch Town Hall, stitching the sound on commercials—Tammy did it all, and loved it—even disc-jockeying for 3ZM on the weekends. In 1985, she and school days’ beau Michael Wells were married. She had just turned 22. Broadcasting expanded when Tammy and a friend went to an acting workshop run by New Zealand TV personality Heather Eggleton. Afterwards, Eggleton approached her. ‘You know, she said, ‘you could earn some money doing this, Tammy.’ Wells followed her advice, getting herself an agent and going for some auditions. Then came her first break. ‘I became the queen of laundry products,’ she giggles. ‘I still remember it: “Put Frend to work; just squirt the dirt.”’ Soon she was appearing on supermarket laundry posters around the country. In late 1988, she was invited to audition for Briscoes—after their exhaustive search had so far failed to turn up the right candidate. Duke and Partington offered Wells a two-commercial contract. She was delighted. ‘I had a clay
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Above: Tammy promoting luggage and the Briscoes Homeware Super Sale in the 1990s.
1990 In a year, Tammy has shot as many as 30-plus commercials: two a day is common. Groups, too, invite her to speak about life as the Briscoes Lady.
baker that I’d bought from Briscoes years before,’ she says. ‘I was thrilled to be asked to do two commercials for them.’ The first commercial was filmed poolside, in a friend’s house in Christchurch: promoting the ‘End of Summer’ clearance: beach towels, outdoor furniture, BBQs, and Rover mowers. Wells was a natural, and a two-ad deal soon turned into a year’s contract. In 1990, Tammy was pregnant with first son, James. ‘I was terrified to tell them,’ she recalls. ‘We kept on filming; and in the end they just took the camera higher and higher. In those days, Briscoes used to sell Tommee Tippee products. I’d always hoped they’d use my pregnancy to push nurseryware and viewers could watch the Briscoes Lady get bigger and bigger on screen—it didn’t take off.’ In a year, Tammy has shot as many as 30-plus commercials: two a day is common. Groups, too, invite her to speak about life as the Briscoes Lady. Tammy used to do this often: she loves people, and photos of friends and family adventures adorn the house. ‘I’ve met some fantastic people,’ she says. ‘And folk are always unpredictable. I remember one group I spoke to, this lady came up to me afterwards. She smiled at me and said: “You make me sick!”
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Above: Rod Duke held a press conference inside Rebel Sport at the height of the Adidas controversy.
Briscoes 150 Years in New Zealand
watchdog Consumer jumped into the debate, suggesting that Adidas should get a ‘gobbledygook award’, for its suggestion that fluctuating currency had anything to do with the New Zealand price differential. And by Friday, even global poverty campaigner Oxfam had waded in, accusing Adidas of paying its jersey-producing Chinese workers poverty wages of 60 cents per hour. Over the following weekend, it got worse. Adidas went on the defensive, claiming that its $220 price was fair and reasonable. This triggered a response from New Zealand Prime Minister John Key, who remarked that while he didn’t want to tell Adidas how to run their business, ‘I’ve always found that when you are in the hole you should stop digging.’ The NZRU backed Adidas as fans started a Boycott Adidas page on Facebook (with 300 members in its first 12 hours). Six Adidas company cars had their company branding removed after being targeted by irate members of the public. At Rebel Sport, the phone was running hot between Adidas New Zealand and the national sporting goods chain. Rebel, and others, wanted the company to reduce their New Zealand price. On Monday afternoon, a week after the storm erupted, Rod Duke and the Rebel team held an intensive meeting with Adidas to try and score a price concession to pass on to the New Zealand public. Kiwis were keen to know the outcome. Duke called a press conference the next day. As the cameras rolled, he stated: ‘At Rebel Sport we know only too well that times are very tough for Kiwis at this moment. We always set out to make sporting goods readily available at
150 Years in New Zealand
prices that would work for the average Kiwi household. Imagine our dismay when we discovered that All Black rugby jerseys were available for a lower price online than in retail stores in this country. We happen to believe that this jersey belongs to the New Zealand rugby public. The NZRU are custodians on behalf of all of us, and Adidas, for the time being, are sponsors of that jersey. They don’t own it—we do. We cannot have a situation where New Zealanders pay more for All Black jerseys than almost every other country in the world. Quite frankly, this is intolerable and it is a circumstance that we will not accept. Yesterday afternoon I met with Adidas in an attempt to convince them to reduce the price to a level comparable to the online price. They pointblank refused to reduce the price even one cent. I just don’t understand this position and have decided to make a stand for the benefit of the New Zealand rugby public. I am here to announce that Rebel Sport will, with immediate effect, reduce the price of World Cup All Black replica player jerseys from $220 to $170 dollars. I am confident this price reduction, which is entirely funded by Rebel Sport, will enable thousands of Kiwis to enjoy what we all know will be a wonderful rugby tournament. Punters flocked to the stores. Duke received thousands of emails, letters, and phone calls of support. Rebel Sport doubled its expected sale of jerseys to local fans. Adidas never moved off its price. New Zealand won the World Cup. As one lone internet blogger lamented, ‘I guess everyone knows the story about Adidas and the expensive All Black jerseys here in New Zealand . . . .’ And they did—that was just the point.
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Above: The result New Zealand dreamed of—victory for the All Blacks on their home ground.
Left: With $50 off the World Cup All Blacks replica player jersey and $40 off the standard All Blacks shirt, Rebel Sport made a stand for New Zealand sports fans.
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Below: A magazine advertising feature gives readers a sumptuous array of products to choose from.
Briscoes 150 Years in New Zealand
There was more good news, as Meo announced a special 10 cents per share dividend, paying out $21.4 million to Briscoes shareholders. The dividend payout hardly touched the sides: there was still a further $30 million-plus in the company’s cash reserves. On the share market, the company shares obediently climbed 14 cents. At last. One interesting parallel with the past is that Briscoes today is moving ahead in a style not dissimilar to that which it pursued 150 years ago. In 1862, the company used its buying power and prestige to bring the best of international manufactured goods to New Zealand customers, offering colonists an otherwise unobtainable choice of merchandise. Using its savvy buying and international reach, the business is again doing just the same thing for New Zealanders through the 80-store network of Briscoes Homeware, Rebel Sport, and Living & Giving. Focus also plays a part. With a cadre of 1750 loyal and supportive staff, the company is focused on delivering value to its customers and running its business in a way that is unpretentious and consistent: there is little spent on the way of ornaments or embellishment in any Briscoes office from the managing director’s down. The attention is on the business: the stores, the customers—not on ornate corporate trappings. It is a discipline that has proved both lucrative and prudent. Indeed, some have questioned the amount of money Briscoes has in the
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Left: Tammy and Rod in 2012—looking forward to a bright future.
bank—‘a lazy balance sheet’, said one shareholder. But such concerns always need to be addressed in context and companies that have been in existence for a long time provide the answer to such a criticism. Briscoes strength in the early part of the twentieth century was its burgeoning sales and substantial cash reserves. The cause of three decades of destitution and scraping from the 1920s to the 1950s was hitting the 1929 Depression bereft of cash reserves and in a falling market. It is the same today. For any company, running a lean balance sheet presumes that the firm will continue to trade in a healthy, growing economy in which tomorrow’s order is waiting ready at the door. But as the past four years have shown, to assume that will always be the case is ill-advised. Conservative cash management buys a company options, and while not a complete defence against difficult times, having money when you need it is one of the key ingredients of long-lasting companies. Briscoes, at 150 years old and looking toward its next century in business, is now firmly in that category.