JAMES Ingram's shop, Aberdeen Pawnbrokers, has a large window containing a red guitar, a decanter in the shape of an eagle, and a Yorkshire terrier.
This last item, named Katie, is a family pet and not for sale. Above the window, two silver balls dangle, slightly obscenely, in the chill George Street air. The traditional third ball fell off and has not yet been replaced.
Pawnbrokers are enjoyi
ng the recession, opening new stores in lots vacated by failing businesses, developing an online presence to reach the eBay generation, and attracting a new breed of credit-crunched middle-class customers. As a result, pawnbrokers have been in the news a lot lately, though some London stores are more like chic, discreet boutiques than the cobwebby dives of Dickensian legend.
Ingram is a stocky man of 65 in a dark suit from which he brushes the crumbs of his lunchtime buttery. The visor perched on his bald head has magnifying lenses for examining jewellery. Though he has a cellar full of guitars, most of his business is jewellery. He's been a pawnbroker since 1996 and last year was his most successful yet. He now gets men who run building firms coming in, pawning expensive watches and taking large loans to keep their businesses afloat. "Several customers were once multi-millionaires," he says.
The recession has also seen gold rocket in price, and Ingram makes good money selling to bullion dealers. Rings with precious stones go to auction houses, so if you pawn your engagement ring, and don't redeem, it will probably get auctioned. Pawn your plain wedding band and it's more likely to end up melted down.
I talk to Ingram in the back of the shop while his wife Doreen serves customers. A large pane of glass, which Ingram reckons would withstand a shotgun blast, separates the pawnbroker from his customers. Goods and cash are exchanged via a wooden hinged flap that opens from the inside. Ingram also keeps an axe handy as a security precaution, which makes me think of Rashkolinov in Crime And Punishment who killed a pawnbroker with an axe. All of this makes the atmosphere sound threatening, but it actually feels more like the local village shop. Most of the customers are regulars and seem happy enough about being in the place and about the money they are offered. There's a young man in a camouflage jacket pawning a gold chain for a hundred quid. A woman who comes in most days arrives with some rings. Her husband works offshore but she needs cash to get by till his wages come through, and she leaves with £120. The only person I see reject the money is a guy trying to pawn his wrestling championship belt and unwilling to accept £25.
If Ingram agrees to take your item, he will give you an agreed cash sum and you will pay 10 per cent interest each month for six months. At the end of that time, you buy back your item or, depending on the size of the loan, he either takes ownership or is obliged to sell it. Like all pawnbrokers, he would rather you redeemed your item. He makes his money in the interest payments and selling is a paperwork nightmare. So one of the factors he considers when deciding whether to take an item is the likelihood of the customer wanting it back badly enough to make the payments. In other words, the less you want to hand something over to a pawnbroker, the more keen that pawnbroker will be to take it.
That's why pawnbroking is often considered a trade in human misery – it's an emotional transaction. There is an alchemy about wedding bands in particular; love transformed into gold. Pawnbroking reverses this process, forcing customers to disregard what their rings mean and consider only their cash value. Out of curiosity, I ask Ingram to value my wedding ring, and though it's just an experiment, my heart feels heavier as soon as he puts it on the scales. Must be terrible to do that for real.
Ingram doesn't accept that pawnbrokers trade in misery. He considers himself to be providing a much-needed social service, offering loans smaller than the banks would entertain to people who need cash straight away. "I get people here who haven't got money to put their meter on and cook lunch. So they're getting maybe a tenner to put their card in the meter. That costs them a pound a month. Doesn't pay me much but it keeps them happy."
Ingram is an odd mix. He worked as a police constable for 18 years ("Never kissed enough arses to be a sergeant"), considers himself quite the hard man, collects Nazi and Jacobite memorabilia, and is in favour of drug dealers being executed in public. His mottos are "Trust no-one" and "If in doubt, give them nowt". He keeps a "book of shame" behind the counter in which he records the names and faces of local criminals. Yet he can be soft-hearted about customers, offering more than he needs if touched by a hard-luck story, maybe because he comes from a poor background himself. He reckons he understands society better than any politician or journalist because so many people, fallen on hard times, tell him their stories.
While I'm standing beside him behind the counter, a pale and tired looking woman comes in. She's 35, a cleaner, and has been coming here since her early 20s. She and Ingram, on first-name terms, have a joke together. Then she tells her story plainly, and it says everything about why pawnbrokers, which have been around since ancient Rome, continue to flourish in the 21st century. And it's got nothing to do with broke financiers pawning Rolexes.
"My kids are supposed to go to the cinema with their da' but he's spent the money," she says. "So I need enough for him to take them to the cinema and for a McDonald's. They want to see that Bolt where the little dog thinks he's a superhero."
Ingram examines her rings and offers 40 quid. "They're nae diamonds, quine," he says, gentle as he can.
