Reading and Reading

Art by Milla Kahl-el Gabry

Hatchards manager Francis Cleverdon on contemporary bookselling

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‘Would it be very very bad of me if I ran downstairs and picked up my coffee before we begin?’ I blink in assent, struck by the premonition that this strange man might evaporate into disembodied charm if I disrupt his script, and he rejoins the Hatchards shop floor in a peal of laughter. Francis Cleverdon speaks with a British melody that woefully few others can pull off. Martin Amis was one, Bill Nighy, perhaps the most famous customer of this age-old bookshop, is another. I had the pleasure of meeting the Hatchards manager last summer and his descriptions of a ‘delicious’ career in the ‘endlessly, marvellously disastrous’ world of bookselling have stayed with me ever since. Francis and his coffee are resettled on the other side of his desk before I have time to reach for a third edition of Sicilian Feasts. 

Hatchards is both the oldest bookseller in the country, and the only one granted Royal appointment. Since 1797, the five-floor Piccadilly branch has garnered its own literary mythology, featuring in works as disparate as The Waves and Jilly Cooper’s Riders. Francis’ connection to the store is appropriately nostalgic. He hails from Islington and, as an eight-year-old, was treated once a term to a Hatchards book and a cup of tea next door at Fortnum and Mason. A career through countless London bookshops ensued, disrupted only by university and forays into printing and luxury food (‘If you were very lucky you got to be the one who flew to Italy to buy the white truffles at the white truffle fair’). The Hatchards managership, though, which he unwaveringly calls ‘the nicest job in bookselling’, was always an aspiration. 

The Cleverdon name is not a household one, unlike those of Francis’s peers Tim Waterstone, the 85-year-old mogul who founded his eponymous chain in 1982, and James Daunt, of the forest green Daunt Books. Francis reflects on the differing auras of the two men, aligning his own more ‘demonstrative’ personality with that of Tim, a man with an undeniable presence. ‘Both James and Tim were so clear that bookselling is personal. It’s about picking the books, and it's about charm and brand.’ He explains that ‘if you’ve got more than one bookshop then they should be different from each other’, reflecting the location, customer profile and employees.

He unwavering calls Hatchards the nicest job in bookselling

Only 40% of Hatchards’ stock is geared towards bestsellers and sure-fire sales, which sit near the door under seductive signs like ‘smells like teen spirit’ and ‘better than the film’. Francis finds the size of Hatchards (five floors and between thirty and fifty staff) a happy medium where customers expect a broad but curated range, unlike the mothership Waterstones down the road, where a missing title would be scandalous.

The narrative that a traditional bookselling model is on its way out has persisted for years, with villains ranging from Bezos to oligopolies and e-readers. In the late 90s, the rise of Amazon spelt certain death for high street bookshops, but the e-commerce approach (sell all, sell cheap, sell virtually) has since proved antithetical to the idiosyncrasy that Waterstone, Daunt and Cleverdon value in a bookshop. Although undeniable competitors, both business models have gone from strength to strength, with Amazon growing what Tim Waterstone termed ‘the long tail’ of reading options. Readers still flock to shop floors and Francis reflects that the size, ethos and wealth of his shop (unlike many privately owned bookshops, Hatchards stock need not be dictated by prices and profits) enables a unique curation that customers trust. He delights in the Hatchard ability ‘to convince people that books are good. When we put our heads together and run our book of the month, people do take our word for it.’ Amazon’s reactive recommendations will never compete with the Hatchards' hive mind which can determine that Ariane Bankes’s The Quality of Love will likely move its reader to tears.

Yet, the obvious irony remains. Herein lies a hive within a hive: Hatchards is owned by Waterstones. Since 2011, Waterstones, which was at one point owned by W.H.Smith, has been run by James Daunt who is also responsible for the US behemoth Barnes and Noble. This industry’s family tree is small and powerful. I ask Francis about his favourite bookshops; which shop floors best exemplify a unique personality?

Unsurprisingly the first mention goes to John Sandoe, a direct competitor with Hatchards and, nestled in its Chelsea terrace, an independent black sheep. Other recommendations include the Islington Waterstones and the Ely branch of Topping: ‘a tiny rabbit warren of a shop where Robert nevertheless manages to have all the right books in all the right places.' He considers Blackwell’s ‘one of those enormous great old ladies of bookselling. Full of Beauty and age and expertise,’ but he admits he hasn’t been in one since Waterstones ‘started fiddling.’  Although the reach of Waterstones is considerable, it is over simplistic to lay the death of independent bookselling at their shop doors. Tim Waterstone wove youth into the fabric of his innovative business plan. He conceived of bright young graduates, chillingly well-read and passionate about books, running each of his stores with personal responsibility; within the seemingly homogenised Waterstones matrix, the spirit of independent, competitive bookselling thrived more than ever.

Francis volunteers that the failings of other (not to be named) bookshops may stem not from corporate structuring but the pride it can entail: ‘It's so easy to go on down your image line and not move with the times, or at least not be as good as you always were. It would be terribly easy with Hatchards to see sweet Americans saying ‘Gee Wiz’ and let yourself believe that that makes you a good bookshop. It’s not about that; it’s about the stock and the people.’ With a pause and a grin, he then tells me to not look at the pet section on my way out. 

But it’s as tempting as cats on YouTube. Indeed, the consequences of social media are a double-edged and much-discussed development in the world of books, as they seem to be in every walk of life. It is an undeniable influence in the ‘image line’ curse. A buzzy virtual presence has encouraged some well-known bookshops to taint their “literati” legacies and become self-marketing hubs that prioritise tote bag sales. 

Since the pandemic, reading as cultural capital has been on the rise. ‘#BookTok’ - a subculture of TikTok, characterised by gushing recommendations and cover-art slideshows - has contributed to this sense that a book choice is as valid an accessory as sunglasses. Celebrity involvement has ranged from model Kendall Jenner’s ‘book-stylist’ to popstar Dua Lipa’s ‘cultural concierge’ Service 95. This content, and the value shift it has caused, can foreground talented authors and be lucrative for bookshops. It has also exposed the bookselling scaffold, once a domestic flip side to an author’s public glitz, to a far wider audience than organic footfall. I had met Francis originally to report on why fans of The Mortal Instrument series were holding their selfie-geared phones up in front of the Hatchard shelves. He has been pestered by several glossy broadsheets in the last few years. In response to this unexpected celebrity, Francis raises his hands and deflects: ‘I know there are about nine things I’m terribly bad at, so there are actually three of us who run Hatchards. I’m the public face and they do most of the work.’

Francis cannot overstress that a diverse staff tastes will always be fundamental for good business. He gestures around at various genres in sight from the desk: ‘People’s taste, style and politics differ. If you’ve done a PhD in German irony then you’re probably a much better judge of Rilke than the rest of us. In this job, the people and the books are almost equally important.’ He pauses to recalibrate his words with characteristic precision: ‘They are undoubtedly equally important.’ This diverse staff readership is the powerhouse that keeps Hatchards ahead of the reviews, or, when reviews seem disproportionate, independent from them. Last year the team were quick to identify Alice Winn’s talent and sold many copies of her debut In Memoriam before other shops had ordered stock. And although Zadie Smith will always sell, Francis identifies her sixth novel The Fraud as his favourite book of the last twelve months, a steadfast Cleverdon Special considering the lukewarm reviews it amassed. 

Since the pandemic, reading as cultural capital has been on the rise.

I shut my laptop and ask if the rest of his day will be busy. ‘Completely madly!’, he assures me whilst staying politely still. ‘I’m being flown to New York to speak at a PayPal conference next week. Of course, I know nothing about PayPal - they just want to hear about Hatchards.’ There’s something rather offensive about anything that would take this man out of his bookish, London orbit. An intersection between bookselling and virtual payment platforms would, of course, have been inconceivable to the school child with a termly Hatchards book ration. It seems unlikely enough today. I’m reminded of James Daunt’s decision to stock e-readers [with the books of Daunt Press?] in the early 2010s, a move of considerable foresight which at the time many mistook for madness, even masochism. The tenets of ‘charm and brand’ have carried Francis Cleverdon and his peers through unforeseeable developments but, as his farewell blessing reminds me, the fundamentals never change: ‘the main thing is you have to need to read. And you  must go on reading. And reading and reading and reading and reading and reading and reading…’ 

ELIZA TRACY wants you to know that she's even better in person.