The Waxed Coat

Judith Jones-Ambrosini

The Waxed Coat

It was a dank, rainy afternoon. I sat in a café, sipping rich, comforting hot coffee. It was served in an oversized white china bowl. That’s when I saw it. Not the woman ... the coat. The moment it entered my line of vision, I knew had to have one.

The woman wearing it joined a group of friends at a corner table. When she slipped it off, I had to restrain myself from walking past the table, snatching up the coat, and bolting out the door. Of course I wouldn’t do that ... but ... that’s how much I liked the coat! However, manners prevailed. I waited until she stood, then approached her with what I hoped was casual admiration, though my heart was thumping like a drum in a parade.

“I love your coat,” I said. “I’ve been searching for one just like it. Would you mind telling me where you bought it?”

She smiled. “It’s perfect for this nasty weather. I bought it in Ireland. It’s a waxed coat, like the fishermen have worn for ages...only their coats smell of the sea. If you ever go to Ireland, you’ll find waxed coats everywhere.”

Everywhere?

I looked at her coat again. It was a deep stormy blue, the color of a sky deciding whether to brood or break open. Its style was vintage Sherlock Holmes, complete with a short shoulder canopy. It flowed past the knees with ease. I felt an instant kinship with it. I wanted it! I needed it!

As luck — Irish luck, though I’m Welsh — would have it, my friend Kate, a travel agent, was planning a scouting trip to Ireland. She and a group of other agents planned to visit castles and manor houses. Her usual companion couldn’t go.

“Would you be interested?” she asked.

Would I be interested!

Castles, manor houses, the Emerald Isle — and the possibility of finding THE coat? I was practically packed before she finished the sentence.

We stayed in magnificent historic places. Some of them had an atmosphere of drafty halls smelling faintly of peat smoke and velvet drapes heavy with centuries of gossip. Many had fireplaces that crackled like they had opinions.

I was the only non–travel agent in the group, and certainly the only one with a singular mission ... to find a waxed coat. And so, my search began. In every village, every pub, every tiny shop, I asked. And in every shop, I heard the same refrain:

“We don’t have any in stock at the moment, but we will soon.”

Soon ... A word that began to sound suspicious and lacked promise. After all, I only had ten days.

In Galway there was a shop that had a variety of waxed jackets but they were all in men’s sizes. I tried on a couple but none of them fit and none of them had the Sherlock Homes canopy. Onward we went ...next village, next town. Soon the entire group was rooting for me. My quest had become our quest. I never thought my waxed coat hunt would affect the group, but somehow it did.

Even though we all enjoyed the beautiful settings and characteristic villages, the brown bread and clotted cream, the scones and salmon, the whiff of the salty sea and the luxurious accommodations, tension about the coat grew with our group as we continued.

Time was slipping away as we reached our final stop, Dublin. The moment we checked into our lovely hotel off Drury Street, I asked the concierge for help. He must have sensed the desperation in my voice when I explained to him what I was looking for.

“There’s a small shop over on Smith Street,” he said. “You might try there.”

I hurried to change into my good walking shoes and headed for the lobby only to find the entire group waiting for me.

Our little parade marched out into a steady cold Dublin rain, colorful umbrellas blooming like flowers. The air smelled of wet pavement, stout, and a faint sweetness from bakeries along the way. After a few twists and turns, we found the shop. It was so narrow that we had to enter single file.

I took a deep breath. “Where do I find your waxed coats, please?”

The clerk hesitated. “Oh my. Hmm. Well… if you don’t mind climbing up to our attic along that thin staircase, you might find a few there.”

This was it. Now or never.

The attic was cramped and overflowing with clothing in no particular order. We began the final hunt. After ten minutes of rummaging, I sighed.

“It’s time to go,” I said. “It must not have been meant to ...”

When suddenly a shout came from the far end of the attic.

“I found one! I found one!”

It was Kate, triumphant. “I found a waxed coat!”

And she had.

Everyone gathered around Kate and the coat. They all encouraged me. “Try it on!” The moment I slipped my arms into it, I knew this was the coat that had been waiting for me. As I put it on the heaviness of It settled over my shoulders. It had the glossy veneer of smooth paraffin wax to ward off Ireland’s cold rain. It was lined with a soft plaid wool for warmth. I couldn’t help but smile and as I looked around, I noticed the entire group was smiling tool

We descended the narrow staircase victorious! The group returned to the hotel, but I continued to wander through the rainy Dublin streets wearing the new coat, grinning like a fool. The rain beaded on the waxed fabric and rolled off effortlessly.

I ducked into a small café and ordered a pot of Barry’s Gold tea and a slice of toasted brown bread with clotted cream and strawberry jam. The bread was warm, the jam bright and sweet. The fragrant tea was soothing. A person sat down next to me. I must have been smiling because he looked at me and said ... “Having a good day Luv?” I toasted him with my teacup.

I took another bite of the toasted bread, felt my waxed coat resting on the back of my chair, sipped my tea and thought. A good day indeed. A waxed coat. A tiny feast.... what better slice of life could there be ...