'End of a Century'
The colour caught his eye first: a flash of bright sapphire in the middle of a rail full of second-hand tweeds and pinstripes. Des pushed the other suits aside, lifted his target and held it by the hook of its wire hanger into what amounted to light in the dusky, smoke-filled murk. Before even trying it on, he knew it had to be his.
‘I thought you’d go for that one,’ rasped the old man, from the gloom at the back of the little shop. He tapped his cigarette into the overflowing ashtray on the counter. ‘Just in from London. Never seen another one like it.’
‘Right up your street,’ said the jittery, ginger-haired younger man - Des had always assumed he was the cadaverous chain smoker’s son. ‘Reid and Taylor cloth, lovely Worsted. Says 1966 on the label. Thirty-eight long. Should be just your size.’
Des draped it over his outstretched arm for a closer look. The cloth held secrets in its shimmering weave: jewelled beads of red and black yarn which made the deep blue glimmer, even in the shop’s half-light. He turned up the collar, then looked inside the cuffs. The colour was still bright all over, without a hint of fading after nearly three decades. Slim lapels, three cloth-covered front buttons and working cuff buttons on the jacket, elastic fasteners on the waistband of the trousers and – he checked the hems to be sure – just enough room to take the trousers down an inch for a better fit, if necessary.
‘You should try it on,’ said the younger man.
Des checked his watch. He had promised to meet Sanj back at Paddy’s Market at 11.30. He had just enough time.
‘I’ll give it a go.’
He headed for the plywood cubicle which served as a changing room, privacy provided by a tissue-thin nylon curtain which dropped to just below knee level. He had his hand on the curtain, ready to step inside, when the old man coughed and said: ‘Your young lady otherwise engaged again this week?’
Des stiffened. Without turning around, he said: ‘That’s right,’ and entered the cubicle, closing the curtain with a sharp tug and sitting heavily on the plastic school chair in the corner to take off his shoes.
Tucked away behind the Trongate between a statistically implausible quota of pawnshops and criminal law practices, J Oaken & Co had been the source of most of Des’s prized vintage finds. It was also his special secret: despite visiting the shop every Saturday, he had never seen a single other customer enter or leave.
He removed his jacket – the rust-coloured late-fifties Hepworths suit was another J Oaken & Co treasure – hung it from the nail above the chair, then stepped out of his trousers, folded them and placed them on the chair. He held up the blue suit for another inspection. It was near-pristine. Even the cream viscose lining of the trousers was fresh and unstained. The colour was brighter than he’d usually go for – Des tended more towards muted browns and mossy greens – but there was something beguiling in the way the shade subtly rippled and shifted as the cloth moved.
He tried on the trousers. As expected, they’d need to be taken down a little, but that was nothing he couldn’t handle. He put on his shoes, not bothering to re-lace them, and exited the cubicle, slipping his arms into the sleeves of the jacket.
The younger man was fidgeting on the other side of the curtain. ‘I told you it would be your size, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘And that colour!’ he added, running a hand through his hair. He turned to the old man. ‘It looks spectacular, doesn’t it?’
The old man took a long drag on his cigarette, narrowed his eyes and said: ‘It certainly does, Gregory.’
Gregory took Des by the elbow and led him to the full-length mirror by the side of the counter. ‘Come and see.’
Des stood in front of the mirror, tugged at the sleeves, and buttoned up the jacket. He shifted to a three-quarter profile, tilting his head. He turned left, then right, admiring the suit’s near-perfect fit and clean lines and stealing only the briefest glances at himself. If he squinted and caught himself at just the right angle, though, he might almost be looking at someone confident and comfortable. Someone who deserved a suit as spectacular as this one. The details were all exactly right. With a carefully-matched shirt and a haircut, it could be a good look. It might even be a great look.
He glanced at the repurposed gift tag hanging by a piece of string from one of the cuff buttons. £17.
‘I’ll take it,’ he said.
‘I thought so,’ said Gregory. ‘I said you’d go for that one. Didn’t I? I said that, didn’t I?’ He looked back at the old man, who sucked hard on his cigarette before conceding: ‘He did say that.’
Back in the cubicle, Des changed into his own clothes before returning to the counter. He handed the suit to the old man, who glanced at the price tag and, tearing a slip of paper from a pad in front of him, wrote out a receipt. Des placed a £20 note on the counter, on top of a smudge of ash, while the old man pulled out a red metal cashbox.
‘Gregory,’ said the old man, opening the box and placing Des’s money inside without looking, ‘did you remember to check the prices on those waistcoats?’ With his gaze still fixed on Gregory, who nodded nervously, the older man reached into the box, grabbed a fistful of coins and handed them to Des, before slipping the receipt into the inside pocket of the jacket and folding the suit into a black plastic bag. ‘Nice piece, that,’ he said. ‘Someone looked after it. I’m surprised they ever gave it up.’
‘I won’t be making that mistake,’ said Des, taking the bag from the counter and preparing to drop the change into his pocket. Something about the weight of it felt wrong, and he unfurled his fingers to check. ‘Here,’ he said, putting three one-pound coins on the counter. ‘You’ve given me back too much.’
The old man harrumphed and scooped the money into his box, and Gregory, busy rifling through a rail of waistcoats, said: ‘Happens all the time. He’ll put us out of business one of these days.’
‘Can’t have that,’ said Des, holding up the plastic bag as he turned for the door. ‘Where else am I going to get stuff like this?’ He gave them a wave and opened the door. Gregory and the old man both recoiled, Nosferatu-like, as a shaft of sunlight invaded the gloomy space.
‘See you next Saturday?’ asked Gregory, blinking into the light.
‘It’s a possibility,’ said Des. It was a near-certainty. It wasn’t that he was in a rut. He had a routine, that was all, a circuit which took him from the West End vintage stores – usually overpriced and overstocked with brash seventies fashions – to the more quirky second-hand shops of the city centre and then out towards the East End, where the real treasures were buried.
With the bag under his arm, he made the five-minute walk to meet Sanj at Paddy’s Market, excited to show off his latest purchase but already steeling himself for the Paddy’s experience. The place always made him itch.
The reek of over-cooked chip fat assailed him as he dodged piles of bric-a-brac, broken lamps and dog-eared paperbacks arrayed outside the old railway arches lining the lane. A toothless old woman in a deck chair parked beside a pile of household items – a scuffed Hoover, a three-bar electric fire and a pile of mismatched sandals – stared up balefully as Des passed.
Midday was still a half hour away and the sun was already beating down on the cobbles. Des could never decide if Paddy’s smelled worse in high summer or damp autumn. So far, summer was ahead in the stench stakes.
As promised, Sanj was in one of the indoor markets with his friend Mick, who ran a stall selling bootleg videos, ex-rental VHS tapes in varying states of disrepair and, from a suitcase hidden under his table, what he called his more sensual material. ‘Aye, aye,’ barked Mick when he saw Des winding his way through the throng towards them. ‘Here comes your boy.’
‘He’s not my boy,’ said Sanj, who was experimenting with a moustache and had controlled his long hair with a rubber band discarded by their postman. ‘Right now, he isn’t anybody’s boy.’
Des winced. ‘I thought you said you were going to try being nice to me?’
‘Why should he be nice to you?’ demanded Mick.
‘He’s having a rough time,’ said Sanj.
‘Aren’t we all?’ said Mick, pushing back his thinning hair. Somewhere deeper in the market, music blared from a distorted radio speaker. As the song faded, a voice burbled in the nasal melange of deepest Glasgow and West Coast USA peculiar to central Scotland DJs: ‘That’s the latest from Oasis, “Some Might Say” – a brilliant new single from the Manchester lads who’ve made Britannia cool again.’
Mick looked around the market, grimaced and spat on the floor. ‘That bawbag’s sat on his arse in a studio in Govan. What does he know about cool Britannia when he’s stuck up here at the arse-end of nowhere with the rest of us?’ He turned on Sanj and Des. ‘Are either of you buying anything today? You’re putting my real customers off.’
‘You don’t have any real customers,’ said Sanj.
‘He might,’ said Des. ‘Have you found any of the stuff I was looking for?’
Mick reached into his anorak pocket to pull out a pair of glasses and a crumpled piece of paper. He perched the glasses on the end of his nose and stabbed a finger at the note. ‘“Blowup”. Nope. “The Knack…And How To Get It”. Nope. “Morgan: A Suitable Case For Treatment”. Not a chance. I can slip you a mint copy of “Debbie Does Dallas” if you’d consider venturing past 1968?’
Des shook his head. ‘I’ll pass, on both counts.’
Sanj, growing impatient, tapped the black bag under Des’s arm. ‘Get anything good from Steptoe and Son?’
‘Better than good,’ said Des, opening the bag just enough to give Sanj a look inside. ‘Perfect mid-sixties cut and in absolutely brilliant nick for a suit that’s … what? Twenty-nine years old?’
‘Sweet,’ said Sanj, with an admiring whistle. ‘It matches your eyes. And you can wear it tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
‘For Anita’s thing.’
‘What’s Anita’s thing?’ said Des.
Mick held up a hand. ‘I’m sure this is fascinating, lads,’ he said, ‘but I think I’ve got an actual paying customer here. Next week, yeah?’ He stepped behind his stall as a red-faced man approached, plastic bag in hand.
Sanj leaned close to the sweating customer and whispered conspiratorially: ‘Try “Schindler’s Fist”. It’s an absolute classic. If that’s not your bag, you should give “Beverly Hills Cock” a go.’
He waved to Mick. ‘Catch you later, man,’ he said, guiding Des through the market and into the alley. ‘Anita’s thing. I told you about it last week.’ Anita was Sanj’s sister. ‘It’s her twenty-fifth and she’s having a get-together. A soiree, even. She’ll have lots of friends from work there. Uni types. Young ladies who, I’m assured, are all considered very attractive by those who paddle at your end of the pool.’
Des groaned. ‘No paddling for me. I’m still waiting to find out what’s happening with Amy.’
‘The paddling is purely metaphorical, Desmond,’ said Sanj.
‘I know that, Sanjeev,’ said Des. ‘The point is, I’m not going out. I can’t. I need a haircut anyway.’
‘Your hair’s fine.’ Des was very particular about his hair. A few years earlier, one of Sanj’s friends had noted a slight resemblance to Damon Albarn and, while Des couldn’t see it himself, he had made sure to have a magazine with an eight-page Blur interview – and pictures – in his pocket the next time he visited his most trusted barber. ‘Well, whatever,’ continued Sanj. ‘You’ll just have to get over it, because you’re going. Drinks at the Halt, then back to Anita’s for wine, canapés and all that other fancy malarkey the grown-ups get up to.’
‘No malarkey for me either. I’m going to buy a selection of beers, then drink them at the flat while making this face.’ Des pulled the most dolorous expression he could muster.
‘News flash,’ said Sanj. ‘That face isn’t going to make Amy come back. In fact, it’s probably what made her chuck you.’
‘She hasn’t chucked me,’ said Des. ‘We’re just taking some time apart while we … consider things.’
‘Is that what you’re telling yourself?’
‘That’s what she told me.’
It was Sanj’s turn to make a face. His involved a slight tilt of the head, eyebrows raised as high as they would go and mouth downturned in exaggerated scepticism. ‘And is this what you really believe is happening?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Des. ‘I’ll find out eventually, won’t I?’
‘You could find out by calling her. But then you’d miss out on all that moping you enjoy.’
‘I don’t enjoy moping.’
‘Des, you ate a Pot Noodle for breakfast. In your boxers.’
This was, Des had to concede, true. ‘I’ve got some tricky emotional stuff I need to process, okay?’ he said.
‘Well, work it out fast, or I’m going to take the “Glasgow’s Most Annoying Flatmate” trophy away from Gary – and you know how hard he’s worked for it.’
‘Well, that’s between you and Gary. You two can talk about it when he gets back from Real Rachel’s place.’ There were only two women in their flatmate Gary’s life – Rachel from ‘Friends’ and Real Rachel, his girlfriend.
‘We will,’ said Sanj. ‘If I catch him before we go to Anita’s thing – to which you are most definitely going.’
‘You don’t need me there.’
Sanj sighed. ‘Are you going to make me beg? Is that what you’re going to do? Look, it’s important. Jonathan’ll be there.’
‘Which one’s Jonathan?’
‘The fringe. The little glasses.’
Des put a hand on Sanj’s arm and said in mock horror. ‘The acoustic guitar guy?’
‘Yes, he played an acoustic guitar that one time. It wasn’t that terrible.’
Des raised his eyebrows.
‘Okay, it was that terrible. But he’s gorgeous, and I think he likes me.’
‘Everyone likes you. You’re cheeky wee Sanj.’
‘I am not wee. I’m average. Anyway, will you come? Be my wingman? If I turn up on my own, I’ll look desperate.’
‘You are desperate.’
Sanj pressed his hands together in supplication and skipped to the side to avoid an oncoming platoon of Saturday shoppers. ‘Come on, be a pal. Come with me.’ He gave Des a nudge in the ribs and sing-songed: ‘It’ll give you a chance to show off your new suit.’
Des adjusted the black bag under his arm. ‘We’ll see. Shouldn’t you be at work by now?’
‘We’re not opening until half twelve. The boss has taken half our stock to a comic fair, so I’m in charge of half-a-shop, all on my own.’
Des wrinkled his nose. ‘Hot day. Your clientele might be a bit spicy by the time they make it to you.’
Sanj produced a clothes peg from his pocket. ‘I’m going prepared.’ Des couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
They took the underground from St Enoch back to the West End, with Sanj doggedly trying to cajole Des out of his sullen mood. As they rode the escalator up to street level at Kelvinbridge, the departing subway train propelled a gust of musty air behind them. ‘Aren’t you hot in that get-up?’ asked Sanj, who was wearing his perennial uniform of white T-shirt and blue jeans. ‘It’ll be roasting out there by now.’
‘No, I’m fine,’ said Des, looking forward to getting to the flat, taking off his clothes and treating himself to a cool bath and a long mope.
Sanj studied Des’s face. ‘And did you put on your sun lotion this morning? You’ll go all pink again.’ He dabbed a finger at Des’s cheek, and Des batted his hand away. ‘I’m just looking out for you,’ said Sanj. ‘If I had a face like that, I’d take bloody good care of it.’
‘Your face is fine, Sanj.’
‘“Fine”,’ sighed Sanj. ‘Damn me with faint praise why don’t you, Mr Cheekbones?’
Outside the station, a young man in tattered trainers, jeans and a stained sweatshirt sat against the wall, a polystyrene cup in his hand. He shook the cup as Des and Sanj stepped out onto South Woodside Road, and Sanj paused to press some change into his hand. Des was deep in thought, wondering how many weeks had to pass before a break officially became a break-up. He walked on, and it took a few seconds before he noticed that he was on his own. He turned to see Sanj fist-bumping the young homeless man.
‘Honestly,’ said Des, once Sanj had rejoined him, ‘you’re an easy mark. He wasn’t even selling the Big Issue.’
‘I don’t need a Big Issue,’ said Sanj. ‘I’ve already got one.’
‘He’ll just spend it on drugs, you know,’ said Des, not even convincing himself.
‘Good luck getting any kind of hit off of £2.87,’ said Sanj. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t hurt to help, does it?’
‘I help people all week,’ said Des, as they crossed onto Woodlands Road, a bustling stretch of pubs, takeaways, student flats and antique shops. ‘I’m allowed a day off.’
‘I’m sure Barry back there will be delighted to know Mr Fancy Solicitor Man’s got his back if he ever gets unfairly dismissed from his job rattling a cup at snooty west-enders.’
‘Barry?’ said Des, stealing a backwards glance just in time to see a smart young couple pointedly side-stepping the homeless youth. ‘How do you know his name?’
‘I asked,’ said Sanj. ‘So are you coming out tonight, or are you going to stay home wondering if you’re ever going to get back with Amy?’
Des, only half-listening, was looking over his shoulder at Barry. ‘I should go back, shouldn’t I?’ he said, guiltily putting a hand in his pocket in search of change.
‘That’s the last thing you need to do,’ said Sanj, striding ahead, his attention focused on a group gathered on the pavement up ahead. ‘You really need to start moving forward.’
They stopped outside Future Jock Comics, where a gaggle of wan young men were already pacing agitatedly outside. They clustered around Sanj as he hauled up the metal shutter and unlocked the door. ‘Afternoon, lads,’ he said. ‘Stay calm. You’ll be up to your oxters in comics in just a few seconds.’ He pushed past them to pull Des in for a hug. ‘Do me a big favour,’ he said.
‘How big?’
‘Humongous. Go home, have a shower, drink a beer and practice smiling in front of a mirror. We’re going out tonight, and at least one of us is going to have a good time. It might even be you. Trust me. It’ll be like that song you used to listen to at school – the one about going to a club and meeting somebody who really loves you.’
‘You’re forgetting the bit about going home, crying and wanting to die.’
Sanj clipped the clothes peg onto his nose and opened the shop door. ‘That’s the spirit. All right – cover me. I’m going in.’ He gripped Des’s shoulder. ‘I want to see your party face when I get home. Oh, and check your chest of drawers.’
When Des arrived back at the flat a few minutes later, new suit cradled in his arms, Gary was back from Real Rachel’s, sprawled out on the couch and guffawing at the previous night’s episode of ‘Friends’.
‘Do you want to watch this?’ said Gary, turning to greet Des with a wave of the VHS remote. ‘I can rewind it if you want.’
’No, you go ahead. I might catch it later. Stuff to do.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll leave the tape in the machine for you.’
Fuck off, thought Des, with an immediate stab of remorse. ‘Cheers, mate.’ He crept off to his room, and Gary returned to his ‘Friends’.
Affable Gary From Work had seemed the ideal candidate when Des and Sanj found themselves in need of a third flatmate to help meet the rent for their flat on the corner of Woodlands Road and Arlington Road. How was Des to know Affable Gary From Work would turn out to be a monster who kept two toothbrushes on the go, one for morning and one for night, both ready-daubed in striped toothpaste? Gary yawned without covering his mouth, told interminable stories with no point or punchline, and left every ingredient for his evening meal – every spice, condiment, grain and herb – out on the kitchen counter the instant he came home from work. Sanj insisted they were in alphabetical order, but Des had never dared check.
Des closed the bedroom door, sat on his bed and took the blue suit from its bag, his eye drawn to the label on the inside breast pocket of the jacket: ‘G Harmer & Son, Tailors. 72a Inverness Street, Camden’. Beneath, in faded blue ink, was written: ‘D Mahoney. 29/6/66’.
He took his sewing kit from under the bed and began unpicking the trouser hems, pricked by guilt at undoing the tailor’s precise work but grateful to mum for her lessons in basic needlecraft (and making a mental note, almost immediately forgotten, to give her the telephone call he’d been promising for weeks). Soon, the trousers were hemmed and – thanks to the steam iron and ironing board he kept beside the wardrobe – carefully pressed. Along with the jacket, they still bore a hint of second-hand mustiness, so he opened the window and left the suit to air on the window frame while, as instructed, he investigated his chest of drawers. Sanj had left him a present.
A neatly-rolled joint lay on a piece of drawing paper. ‘Cheer up,’ Sanj had written, beside a caricature of a beaming Des beneath a colour-penciled rainbow.
Des popped his head around the living room door just in time to find Gary cackling at a Chandler one-liner. ‘You’re not going to need the bathroom for the next hour or so, are you?’ he asked.
Gary pointed at the white-painted coffee table in front of him, on which were arranged, in a perfectly straight row, a bowl of crisps, three Jammy Dodgers and a can of Fanta. Sanj’s alphabet theory held true, assuming the biscuits were arranged under ‘D’ for ‘Dodgers’.
‘Nah,’ said Gary. ‘I had a shower when I got back, and I’ve got everything I need right here.’
‘I’ll leave you to it.’
While he waited for the bath to fill, Des sat at his desk and lit the joint Sanj had left for him. He took a long drag, tapped the joint on his lucky ashtray – what, exactly, made it lucky had long since been forgotten – and skimmed the week’s music papers to find out what he was missing. Everything, it seemed. London was swinging, Camden was at the centre of it all and its white-hot heart was The Good Mixer, the Britpop elite’s pub of choice. Not for the first time, Des cursed his misfortune at being born too late for the first outbreak of Cool Britannia and stuck four hundred miles too far north for its second coming. There was a party going on, and he hadn’t been invited.
He set the papers aside and stared across at the new suit, hanging in the window. It should have been movie night with Amy, and he had already spent two aimless Saturday nights rattling around the flat on his own. He didn’t relish the prospect of another. Which shirt, he mused, would be the best match for the blue suit if he decided to join Sanj at Anita’s birthday bash? He took another puff, stubbed out the joint, and crossed the room to open the wardrobe, brushing the back of his hand against a row of already-ironed shirts and his collection of vintage suits: The green early sixties Burton’s three-piece, the cream-with-candy-coloured-pinstripes Hardy Aimes number which had seemed a good idea at the time, the dark navy two-button Crombie he kept for court days.
He checked on his bath - still only half-full - and returned to his room to try on the suit again. He stood in front of the mirror, jacket over his bare chest, and caught a glimpse – just a glimpse – of the confident, comfortable young professional he’d briefly spotted in the mirror back at the shop. A classic white shirt would work best for Anita’s soiree, he decided. No tie.
