Home About Books Authors Services Competitions Submissions Contact
NOTES:
OPEN CATEGORY: SPRING 2008 - HIGHLY COMMENDED
This story text appears exactly as sent in by the writer. No changes or corrections have been made; however, all stories to be included in the published Anthology will be edited for grammar and punctuation before printing.
Please note: this work is copyright by the author and may not be used, copied or shared in any way whatso-ever without his/her express written permission. If you wish to be put in contact with this author, please contact us; details are not supplied on this web page, in order to protect the author's privacy.
.
"The Savile Row Suit"
by Edmund Jonah - Rishon L'Zion, Israel
HIGHLY COMMENDED: "OPEN" CATEGORY, SPRING 2008
As soon as they mingled with the shoppers on Golders Green Road, she relaxed. He knew the ordeal she endured at the Sabbath morning services, sitting among those smartly dressed women exuding the prosperity of their husbands. She had on the old Marks and Spencer dress she had worn last week and he the sports jacket and frayed trousers. It bothered him not at all but it mortified her.
“You’re to start looking for a job on Monday.” Her accent revealed her Yorkshire origins.
He looked up into the pale blue of the early summer sky over London, seeking warmth from the watery sunshine.
“Why don't you answer, Charles?”
“We’ll see,” he said.
“What do you mean, we’ll see?” she snapped, at once embarrassed as strangers looked round on her outburst.
He turned to her with that once endearing lop-sided smile that now brought the blood rushing to her head. “Don’t grin at me like a Cheshire cat,” she hissed.
Obediently, he turned away. “Let’s talk about it at home,” he said.
Home was a bed-sitter in a house of rented rooms. The landlord, a man in his early seventies, lived on the ground floor. “Good Shabbas,” he called as they passed on their way up.
She served him fish and chips. “It’s over a week since you received your results. Why are you making no effort to find a job? You think I like working? You think I like living in this hole? I’ll go crazy if I have to look at these miserable walls much longer!”
“Delicious, Sarah,” said Charles, forking fish into his mouth.
“Oooooh!” She stamped her foot. “You’re not listening!”
“Every word,” he said, “but Chartered Accountant or no, what kind of a job do you think I’d command in this old blazer and these frayed trousers?”
He was being evasive. He recalled the jolt to his stomach on receiving his results. The certificate testified he was a Chartered Accountant but, nevertheless, his lack of experience filled him with self-doubt. Would he be able to handle the complex accounting of a large organization? For that was what Sarah expected of him. She had sacrificed much so he could possess that certificate. She had supported him for the five years of his studies. She had pushed and prodded, goaded and encouraged, and complained only when he slackened. Being provincials, her goal was to rise above her station, ‘to better ourselves,’ as she put it. She harnessed all her physical and mental energies to suffer the hardships involved in being the wife of a student. It was time for her to enjoy the fruits of her struggle.
But Charles revelled in the quest for knowledge. A chance opportunity to do research on Systems Analysis with Professor Thompson of Cambridge University had fallen into his lap. It would mean an involvement of another five years with a pittance for income. Sarah would have to continue working. He desperately wanted to accept the position, so he offered the excuse he knew she would comprehend.
The reference to the blazer and trousers made her inexplicably calm. She said: “I have drawn out the Ten Pounds from the bank. After lunch we are going to Burton’s.” These were the days when one could buy a ten-pound suit from Burton Tailoring. It was all Sarah had managed to scrimp and save over the years.
Charles shovelled in another mouthful to give himself time to think. “I won’t be caught dead in a Burton’s suit,” he said.
“Then we’ll go to Selfridges,” Sarah persisted.
Charles shook his head.
“Harrods?” Sarah's inflection dripped sarcasm.
“Yes, all right,” said Charles equably.
Sarah was nonplused but a moment. “Fine!” she said. Charles’ eyes widened. “Harrods it is.”
On the way out, the landlord stopped them. “Where are you off to?” Sarah made every effort to avoid him and his questions but the snoopy old fellow, who had no life save that which he lived vicariously through his tenants, was not the least put out by Sarah’s snubs. Today Sarah had reason to be expansive. “To Harrods. My husband needs a new suit.” She held her head high as she walked down the narrow carpeted stairs. “Come on, Charles. We’ll miss the bus.”
Charles nodded shyly to the landlord. The old man said: “If you’re going to Harrods for a suit, you might as well try my old tailors on Clifford Street: Peabody, Thatch and Fisher. They're not far from Regent Street.”
“Thank you,” said Sarah coldly, waiting for Charles to open the front door. A moment later, they passed into the vapid sunshine.
He found something wanting in each of the four suits he tried at Harrods, marked from 28 to 35 guineas. “If we have to pay such prices for a suit, I want a perfect fit.” Sarah found the argument irrefutable.
Outside Harrod’s, Sarah said: “Let’s go to Clifford Street.”
“Where?”
“Clifford Street. You know, Peabody, Thatch and Fisher.”
“Who are they?”
“Oh, Charles!” cried Sarah. “You've a head like a sieve. Don’t you remember the landlord told us to try his tailor?”
“Oh, yes,” said Charles vaguely and followed her into the tube station.
Clifford Street, off Old Bond Street, proved to be a short, quiet street not too far from Piccadilly Circus. The buildings with their imposing facades and polished brass plaques, looked, for all the world, like dignified law firms. Not till they observed the name of the street at the far end of Clifford Street, did they realize where they were.
Savile Row takes in a number of establishments on adjoining streets where tailors have measured suits for celebrities from every corner of the globe, from actors and politicians to princes and kings.
“Let’s go home,” said Charles, turning back.
“No,” said Sarah firmly.
They found the place and walked up a flight of stairs to the front door. Sarah pulled the handle marked ‘Bell’ and a muffled jangle was heard on the other side. The door opened and a dour gentleman in pinstriped trousers and dark jacket addressed them. “Good afternoon. Come in, please.”
They stepped on to the plush green carpet in the hallway. A chandelier sparkled above their heads. “This way, please,” said the impassive face that belonged with pinstriped trousers and dark jackets. He ushered them into a tastefully furnished lounge. If he had noticed their habiliments, he gave no indication of it. “Won’t you sit down?” He moved to a delicate Louis XIV cabinet. “Perhaps a sherry or a brandy?”
They sank into the deep womb of a sofa, unable to resist. Sarah accepted the sherry, Charles the brandy.
“May I ask who introduced you to us?”
Sarah swore later ‘Pin-stripe’ was demanding a reference.
“The name will mean nothing to you,” Sarah answered. “He made his last suit here perhaps twenty-five years ago.”
‘Pinstripe’ smiled. “Our records go back over a hundred years, but we do not insist, of course. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Jones will be with you in a moment.” He disappeared. They looked at each other over their drinks and smiled nervously.
Mr. Jones was about fifty, with thinning blond hair and supercilious grey eyes. His body stooped forward obsequiously as he entered but, in strange contrast, his head rose high on a thin, long neck, giving the discomfiting impression he looked down his nose at you. He held out his hand and Charles took it lamely. “Perhaps you’d care to follow me.” His accent was a clipped Oxford. “Bring your drinks with you.”
He led them to a large workroom with shelf-lined walls filled with roll upon roll of materials. On a wide table of polished wood, stretching across the centre of the room, were a pair of heavy scissors, a three-foot rule and a rolled up tape measure set in an open leather case. Two large mirrors hung on either side of the door and, in a corner, was the cubicle for changing.
Mr. Jones eyed Charles professionally, then running a hand across the shelves of materials, he pulled out a roll and laid it on the table. “This,” he said, “will best suit you, sah.”
Sarah stepped forward and took the cloth between her fingers. “How much?”
“One hundred and twenty five guineas, madam.”
“Would you show us something else, please?” Sarah put on a good show of self-possession.
“Certainly, madam,” said Mr. Jones through pursed lips.
Five more rolls of material produced nothing under seventy-five guineas. Charles cleared his throat. “Perhaps you have something lighter?” he said apologetically. “You see, I’ll be needing it for the tropics.”
The grey eyes narrowed. “The tropics, sah?”
“Er... (cough) yes, the tropics,” confirmed Charles.
Comprehension. With a lift of his head which could be described as a soundless sniff, Mr. Jones selected another roll and tossed it on the table. “Forty eight guineas,” he said tartly, making it clear it was the cheapest he had to offer.
Sarah again took the material between her fingers but her mind was busy with calculations. Four weeks at ten guineas a week, which was the very least he could expect to earn, plus the Ten Pounds in her bag would cover the cost. “Measure him up,” she said resolutely.
Charles was aghast.
“Will you step this way, sah?” said Mr. Jones and Charles followed with perplexed resignation.
The formalities of measuring and of registering the order completed, Sarah lifted her handbag. “Would you like a deposit?”
Mr. Jones cast his disapproving eyes upon her. “If you insist, madam, but it is quite unnecessary.”
Sarah lowered her handbag.
“When the suit is ready,” said Mr. Jones, “we shall send a note in the post. It should arrive in about ten days.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sarah, “but my husband and I are leaving for the continent next week on an extended holiday. We shan't be back for a month. Would you please hold the notice until we return.”
“Of course, madam,” said Mr. Jones dubiously. He made a notation on the card.
“Thank you,” said Sarah and Charles's mumbled thanks followed like an echo.
Mr. Jones pulled on an exquisitely patterned bell rope. Almost upon the musical tinkle in another part of the establishment, the pinstriped trousers and dark jacket appeared at the door. They were escorted back over the plush carpet, under the glittering chandelier, to the front door.
On Monday morning at 11.00 o’clock, having informed her office she was ill, Sarah sat before her cup of tea in Lyons at the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street, worriedly searching the entrance for her husband's face. When he entered, in his blazer and trousers, her face fell. “He’s wearing his sickly grin,” she said to herself. “He’s lost this too.”
He took his seat opposite her. “I got the job,” he said flatly.
“How much?”
“Ten guineas.”
“Exactly?”
“It’s what I asked for.”
“When do you begin?”
“I must report back in an hour. They’re desperate. They were left in the lurch.”
“Why didn't you demand more?”
“I could have, I’m sure. I said the first figure that popped into my head and we had been talking of ten guineas a week to pay for the suit.”
Sarah said nothing. Relief flooded over her. Charles had a job. It mattered little what he was earning. The essential thing was he had a job.
As the end of the month approached, Charles said: “I hope they’ve forgotten about us. Who needs a Savile Row suit?” He was thinking about Cambridge and Professor Thompson.
Sarah smiled to herself.
The card arrived exactly thirty-one days from the date of their visit to Savile Row. It requested him to call the following Saturday morning. His pay cheque on Friday would give them the money they needed for the suit.
Sarah said: “I’m not going with you, Charles.”
“What do you mean?” he said.
“I mean I'm not going with you. You'll have to face Peacock on your own.” Sarah ignored his silence.
Saturday came wet and grey and Charles stood holding his umbrella before the steps of Peabody, Thatch and Fisher. He could not explain his nervousness. After all, the cash was in his pocket. He was determined not to let Peacock intimidate him this time. He was paying good money for the suit. He would accept nothing less than perfection. It was the least one could expect from a Savile Row suit. He walked up the stairs and pulled the bell handle. ‘Pinstripe’ let him in. “Would you care for a drink, sir?”
“No, thank you.”
With his umbrella in a Victorial umbrella stand, he was led straight to Mr. Jones in the workroom. Peacock extended his hand like he was spreading his tail. “Ah! How do you do, sah?”
Charles shook the proffered hand limply.
“Here’s your suit, sah. Would you like to try it on?”
Charles donned the suit in the cubicle, emerged and stood before the large mirror. He turned this way and that, searching for a flaw. If ever a suit was perfect, this was it. It draped itself elegantly over his limbs and, with the waistcoat he was wearing for the first time in his life, he exuded a prosperous air. But there must be something! Perfection could be achieved only in mathematics. He undid the jacket button and peered at the mirror.
“The waistcoat... um... the last button... um... it doesn’t button,” he said almost penitently.
The cold, supercilious eyes glared in astonishment. The leaning body uprighted itself as best it could. The nose rose to new heights. Speaking in deliberate, measured tones, Mr. Jones said: “Sah! That button is nevah buttoned!”
There was a dreadful silence.
“Yes... yes... of course,” said Charles colouring and fled to the cubicle.
He fumbled in the pockets of his ex-best trousers.
“C-could you let me have the bill, please,” he stammered.
“That,” said Mr. Jones, “will be sent with the suit, sah.”
“I’ll take the suit with me,” said Charles, his face quite red.
“Oh no, sah.” Mr. Jones was having great difficulty remaining unruffled. The thought of a client walking out of his establishment with a box under his arm made him tremble. He eyed with apprehension the cash Charles was holding in his hand.
“I want to pay for it now,” said Charles, mustering the remnants of his tattered self-respect.
“If you insist, sah.” Mr. Jones was inexorable. “It’s quite unnecessary. You could send us a cheque in the post.”
“No. I want to pay cash.”
And he did.
Two weeks later, he wore his new suit to an important interview with an international company advertising for bright, young accountants. The interviewer was suitably impressed, both with Charles and with the suit.
“Are you prepared to work in the tropics?”
“In the tropics?” repeated Charles, unbelievingly.
“In the tropics?” cried Sarah when he told her.
“Calcutta!” said Charles and the two of them laughed together in their little bed-sitter, till the tears rolled down their cheeks.
Copyright (c) 2008 by Edmund Jonah - do not reproduce
without the author's written permission!
COMMENTS FROM OUR COMMISSIONING EDITOR, Jo Holloway:
A seemingly ordinary story percolated with interest and humour; I enjoyed it very much, and liked the twist in the tail. Well presented.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Edmund Jonah was born in Calcutta, India, the second of two sons of parents of Iraqi Jewish origin, and educated in the Himalayan mountains (Darjeeling) by Belgian and Canadian Jesuit priests. He moved to London, England at the age of 22; then 10 years later to Tel Aviv, Israel with a wife and daughter; had two ‘Sabra’ sons and spent the last decades as an Israeli. He is now grandfather to three beautiful girls from his daughter and son-in-law.
Edmund has always been interested in the Arts - has been associated with Theatre all his life. He is a founding member of the Tel Aviv Community Theatre (TACT) and of the Shakespeare Reading Circle. He has directed plays critically acclaimed in Israel, and at International Festivals in Dundalk, Eire. He has been invited several times to lecture on Shakespeare's Shylock.
He writes in his spare time. He took six months off to complete a book on Jesus. He has written a number of short stories and some verses, which can form the basis for a second book. Seven of those stories and an article about the Western Wall in Jerusalem have been published by Horizon, a Canadian magazine. The Writers’ Café published a story in an Anthology. Two stories and three poems were published in the Matrix magazine in New Zealand. The Jimston Journal in the U.K. published another of his stories. He has a second novel tucked away in his mind.
|
Home About Books Authors Services Competitions Submissions Contact |