Too small for active duty, Eric spent the war at Fort McLellan in Alabama. I am sure he blended in seamlessly. Those that knew him will not be surprised to learn his role there: he was a drill sergeant—born for the role. The war had put a major kink in Eric’s plans, but when he got back, in 1946, he was determined finally to realize the dream he had set himself on leaving England: to be what he called a “top dealer.” No more shipping crate-loads of plated chafing dishes to Marshall Fields. No more supplying factory-made tea and coffee sets to Nieman Marcus. He moved in above Stair & Co., in a townhouse at 59 East 57th Street. Stair were one of the best English furniture dealers, and Alastair Stair, another recent English immigrant, had become one of Eric’s good friends. In an effort to draw people in through the door, Alastair let Eric put silver in the street-window, and thanks to this, two years on, Eric had a couple of serious collectors. The dream was in the works.
But as with any business with goods in the window and an entrance off the street, Eric got his share of pointless inquiries, time-wasting idlers, and sketchy characters, one of whom, on a cold November day, put Eric as close as he probably ever was to a make-or-break situation. As Eric told it, the man came in poorly dressed, not wearing a tie (“unheard of in those days”) and carrying large and mostly empty bags. The man was agitated. And as he wandered through the shop, he began brusquely asking prices: “how much is that? And how much is that?” and then: “Is your name Shrubsole?”
“Yes,” said Eric, hesitantly.
“So, you’re the son of a bitch that’s been robbing my daughter.”
For a moment, Eric was too stunned to speak. But when bewilderment gave way to umbrage, he forcefully asked the man to leave.
“Very well,” the man replied “but make no mistake about it, you’ve been robbing my dear Pamela, and I shall order her never to come back! I’ve seen what these items are worth and you are overcharging my child!”
Now, Pamela was the name of one of Eric’s best customers: a young woman who had bought some really exceptional things. And if it was that Pamela, which it obviously was, then this poorly dressed oddity was her father, Norman. And if Norman looked like he shopped at Woolworth’s, he did—to support his family business.
An heir to the five and dime fortune, brought up in England and educated at Yale, Norman Woolworth lived in the gorgeous Ziegler house at 3 East 61st Street, and was a major collector of American paintings. Not the kind of man you want to tell off even if his daughter isn’t your best client. So Eric swallowed his pride, and pleaded: “Sir, if your daughter has been buying seventeenth century silver, I can assure you she has been buying genuine, world-class things, and they are expensive, but please let me explain!”
Norman Woolworth, to his credit, sat down, stayed for an hour, and looked, and listened. He had “looked around” at “comparable items” and concluded Eric’s prices were high. But shown the difference between the good, the bad, and the ugly, he got it. He became a great client himself—in 1954 both father and daughter bought stunning sets of Lamerie candlesticks.
I’d heard this story about Norman Woolworth a hundred times, because Eric always lectured us that you can’t judge a man by his clothes. Every time he told it, he would get wistful about all the beautiful things he’d sold Pamela. And then, one day, when I was on vacation in Maine, Eric called. We’d gotten a post-card advertising a sale way up in central Maine, and there, in a little thumbnail photo, was something that he thought was a piece of Pamela’s silver. I was in the car before we were off the phone, and several hours later I was looking at some of the finest things I will ever see. They all quickly went to the great collectors of this generation, some of whom, no doubt, are reading this right now.