Rosemary Goring: Edinburgh without Jenners is like Paris without the Eiffel Tower

It was here that Christina Kay, the inspiration for Muriel Spark’s Miss Jean Brodie, could occasionally be seen in her cloche hat, examining the latest couture styles. She would then go home and recreate them for herself, at a fraction of the cost. Spark was a connoisseur of Edinburgh stores, having worked as secretary for the owner of Small’s which, with Forsyths and Patrick Thomson’s, Darlings, Binns and Maule’s, were in fierce competition with Jenners. In her autobiography she evokes the glamour: “The shop assistants in these super-elegant establishments all wore long black dresses and walked with a special gliding movement... On entering the store, the customer would be greeted by a tall man in morning coat and top hat. He would give a half-bow, a mere inclination: ‘Madam desires...?’ ”

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In an Italian family memoir, Mary Contini recounts when her husband’s mother went in search of a wedding dress, in 1952. The department head, a Miss MacDonald, recognised the task ahead in getting the bride-to-be’s mother to part with serious money, and plied her with champagne: “Miss MacDonald assessed her adversary. She looked extremely warm in her winter coat (‘1949, end of season sale,’ she whispered to her assistant).”

As a child, going to Jenners was like a trip to Disneyland. Its toy department was filled with rocking horses that cost more than the real thing, teddy bears as big as grizzlies, and trains sets that kept fathers occupied for hours on end while their wives sipped Earl Grey on the third floor, or had their hair done in its swanky hairdresser’s. With the shop’s layout constructed to mimic a magic mystery tour, the toilets were so hard to find it required the nose of a cadaver dog, or a degree in orienteering.

Until recently, the staff exuded a self-conscious sense of distinction. They were as soigné as cabin crew, but with added froideur. Such a manner was perhaps necessary, given the clientele they had to serve, many of them middle-class, demanding, loud and loaded. Morning and afternoon, middle-aged and elderly Edinburgh ladies could be found taking coffee and tea in the cafe with the best view in the city. The stands during a Hearts-Hibs Derby could hardly be noisier. At lunchtime the restaurant – serving a Sunday-style roast six days a week – was always packed. With its imminent closure, there are fears that much of Morningside will starve.

But it was not just women of a certain age who flocked to Jenners. Not so long ago, one of this penny-pinching nation’s fat cats was seen emerging, burdened with carrier bags. Always immaculately dressed, he waited every year until the store’s famous January sale to stock up on shirts and shoes.

For men of my husband’s vintage, Jenners formed part of a golden triangle, with Fopp a few yards from its rear entrance, alongside the Abbotsford Bar. Moments after the shop closed, members of the cosmetics department could be seen at the gantry, recovering from another shift battling the city’s bourgeoisie.

A job on the perfume and make-up counters was the retail equivalent of joining the Foreign Office. A relative who worked there one Christmas discovered that staff used a secret language to ensure customers would not understand what they were saying. Conversations between spies in John le Carre’s novels were no more heavily coded.

When Jenners as we know it finally departs the scene, it will take with it the last vestige of Edinburgh’s old air of elegance. Even so, calling it the Harrods of the North was always a misnomer. Unlike Harrods, which prides itself on attracting an international clientele, Jenners’ original and enduring purpose was to serve the locals. If an emporium could sum up a city, Jenners did. Its Victorian red sandstone grandeur was the embodiment of middle-class aspirations, status and image. Its splendid yet austere edifice upheld the principles of value for money, good taste, and understated snobbery. When Glasgow designated itself Miles Better, Jenners typified the capital’s riposte, which was Slightly Superior.

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How far off those days seem. One by one the great old stores have disappeared, like glaciers crumbling into the sea. The result is streets lined with global brands that could be found anywhere, from Bogota to Berlin. When Gray’s hardware store on George Street closed some years ago – like Crocketts’ big brother, it was a treasure trove of door hooks, bath plugs, vacuums and hostess trollies – it was obvious we were approaching the end times of traditional shopping.

Nor is Edinburgh alone in suffering a surfeit of closures. The casualties of the pandemic afflict almost every town and city. Glasgow too is reeling, not least with the recent demise of Debenhams’s in Argyll Street. Now House of Fraser on Buchanan Street and Harvey Nichols in Edinburgh are left to carry the torch of upmarket and glitzy department stores in central Scotland. Long may they thrive.

Perhaps there are reasons to remain optimistic. The Danish billionaire Anders Holch Povlsen, who owns the Jenners’ building, has ambitious plans for it, involving a hotel, rooftop restaurant and luxury department store. Whether these will revive its fortunes is unknown. Wisely, however, he seems intent on keeping Jenners’ name. Is it too much to hope that its closure in May might not signal its end, but a new lease of life?

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