Tim Dowling: was that a ghost – or a small man who knows his tailoring?
When the oldest one was younger, and his birthday came round, I would invariably pretend not to know how old he was, as if the flight of time had overtaken me.
“So what are you, 30 now?” I would say.
“Yeah,” he would say, age 12.
I can’t do that this year, because this year he actually is 30. And for his 30th birthday he wants a suit.
The day before, we meet in a large clothing store in a mall. The oldest one and I were here together once 11 years ago, shortly after his last A-level exam, to buy some dark trousers for his school leavers’ party. It was a brisk expedition – we were in the shop for a total of four minutes – but this time we have his mother with us. We will not get off so lightly.
“Do you like this?” my wife says, holding a suit jacket under the oldest’s chin.
“No,” I say.
“I wasn’t asking you,” she says.
“The fabric is too heavy,” I say. “Try over here.”
We do this for about 20 minutes before my wife marches us across the mall to a different shop, then another, then another – half a dozen in total. Sometimes we only stay long enough to examine the price tag on a single coat.
“Holy shit,” I say.
“Turn around,” my wife says. “Everybody out.”
‘Madam, please,’ he says to my wife. ‘The jacket is far too low. This is not how you wear a suit’
Eventually we end up back at their more affordable first shop, selecting suits of two makes, in several sizes. I am sent back to the racks a few times, for larger trousers, and longer sleeves. The shop floor is full of zombified Christmas shoppers, but it’s quiet by the fitting rooms. The woman guarding them is softly yawning. I begin to feel sleepy in the stifling heat of the place.
Finally, the oldest one emerges in our collective first choice.
“Do up the button,” I say.
“Hold your arms out like this,” my wife says, pushing an imaginary shopping trolley. He obliges.
“What do you think?” I say.
“I don’t know,” says the oldest. “I mean, yes.”
“OK,” I say, “Let’s get it.”
“Excuse me,” says a tiny man at my shoulder. “May I just take a look, please.”
“Um,” I say. He is wearing a sleeveless pullover, with a tape measure round his neck. He certainly looks as if he works in a men’s clothing establishment; just not this one. In fact he appears to have stepped straight out of 1961.
“This is all wrong,” he says, shaking his head.
“Oh, I think it looks good on him,” my wife says.
“Madam, please,” he says. “The jacket is far too low. This is not how you wear a suit.”
“Isn’t it?” she says.
“Trust me, madam,” he says.
“Why?” she says.
“Sir, if I may,” he says, turning to me. “He needs the regular, not the long.”
“Maybe,” I say, “but the sleeves on the regular were …”
“Look at the way he’s holding his arms,’ he says. “He can’t walk around like that.”
“I told him to do that,” my wife says. “Just to see if …”
“He’s swimming in it,” he says, tugging on the lapels. “Is this the 42? He needs the 40.”
“We did try both,” my wife says. “And …”
“Stay right here, please,” he says, and vanishes. We stand in silence for a while.
“How long do we wait?” my wife says. “What if he never comes back?”
“Then we’ll know he was a ghost,” I say.
Five minutes later the little man returns with another jacket in the same colour, but 40 regular.
“How old are you, young man?” he asks.
“Me?” says the oldest one. “I’m 30.”
“Thirty! I can’t believe it. You look so young!”
“Thirty is young,” my wife says.
“There,” he says, pulling the jacket over my son’s shoulders. “The sleeve must come to the wrist, not the knuckle. You see?”
“Uh-huh,” says the oldest.
“And the jacket, just to there. Perfect. Yes, Madam?”
“Yes,” my wife.
“I have to know these things,” he says. “It’s my job.” And with that, he disappears.
“He’s right, though,” I say. “It is better.”
“It’s better,” my wife says. “Let’s get out of here.”
