Some years ago I bought a vintage suit. It’s made from ginger tweed that’s thicker than the cloth anyone would use to make an overcoat today, and while the jacket is cut close, with a nipped in waist, the pants are huge, with the ‘waist’ band fitting snugly under my sternum, and vast flapping legs that would billow in the wind like flags if the material wasn’t so heavy - they're so wide that they’re draughty in cold weather. From the cut, it’s probably from the 30s or 40s, and couldn’t in any case be later than the 50s, I would have thought
 |
| The Suit in Haparanda |
Shortly after getting it, I wore it to visit a pub near my flat. It was (and still is) in a historically working class area of 1950s council housing, alleys with Dickensian leftovers, and a few landmarks of Cockneydom from song and legend. Despite only being 20 minutes’ walk from my flat, which was near The Angel, it’s in EC1, which I suppose makes it the City rather than the East End.
While I was ordering my first pint, the landlord came over and introduced himself. He said he used to be a tailor, and he couldn’t help noticing my suit. We spoke about where I got it from, and various details of construction and style. My drink was on the house all night, and came with whiskey chasers, no matter how much I said I didn’t want them. In a short while, other men in well-tailored suits with interesting details began to arrive, and whenever I went to the bar, I would find myself in conversation with men slightly older than myself, discussing the intricacies of Mod fashion, and differences in details and style between where I come from and London at the time. One man was wearing a Victorian-style frock coat, and another a toned-down drape suit in a kind of restrained Ted style. The pub regulars seated on the stools at the bar also introduced themselves, and also offered to buy me drinks, which I tactfully declined.
On subsequent visits when the landlord wasn’t around, I wasn’t entirely surprised that my new best friends who sat at the bar completely ignored me, as they had on the many occasions previous to my being made a fuss of by the landlord.
The next time I was there when the landlord was present was with my wife and her brother and his wife, who were visiting from Sweden. They were to have what turned out to be an evening to remember.
After the landlord had favoured us with his mark of approval, all the regulars once again made their way to our table to tender their very fulsome respects, and we were eventually compelled to move to a regular’s table by the exercise of his considerable force of personality, as his invitations became almost threatening. He was wearing a Nehru suit and was loaded with more bullion bling than the late Bobby George - ropes of gold chains and sov rings forming a row of knuckle dusters on each hand. He was in his 60s, and despite his age, had an air of physical danger. He was whipcord thin with a face like a skull, that managed to sneer malevolently even while smiling (not that he smiled that often). We were inundated with drinks bought by him and sent by well-wishers, and we each had a queue of pints and shorts lined up in front of us all night. Conversation was a little difficult because this was Friday night and there was a turn on, belting out 50s and 60s pop over a karaoke-style backing track. I nonetheless managed to talk to our new drinking companion, having been given the place of honour at his left elbow.
Aside from our new friend’s appearance, I had begun to understand what kind of circle I’d been charmed into on my last meeting with the landlord from his answer to me when I asked where he’d been since then. He’d been ‘away’, but he told me that the pub was in his wife’s name (I knew that practically the only qualification for a publican is to have no criminal record, so I actually understood why that was relevant), and asked me if I knew Newmarket, where he’d most recently been visiting the stables where he kept a few racehorses. He also mentioned that he'd started taking an interest in the career of a young boxer.
So I was pretty sure my neighbour’s appearance wasn't just a hard man pose, but everything still felt a bit unreal, like finding myself in a Guy Ritchie film, and I made the mistake of pushing my luck.
Even though I knew he didn’t like me, and probably thought I was a middle-class tosser, and the respect he was showing was purely because of the landlord (who presumably ranked quite a bit higher in the crim heirarchy), I pushed my luck. I asked him what he did. He gave me a sharp look, and said he was retired. I asked him what he did before he retired. He gave me a longer look and paused before answering.
“I was an engineer.” in a flat tone that didn’t invite any further discussion.
And then I pushed my luck a bit further.
"What kind of engineer, Jack*? A civil engineer, a mechanical engineer, a…”
Before I got any further, I got a look of considerable annoyance, and he cut in with:
“I made problems go away - alright? Why all the fuckin’ questions?”
At that point, despite the amount I’d drunk, I felt a sudden spurt of fear, I understood that this wasn’t a Guy Ritchie film, that this man wasn’t an actor, that the way he was dressed wasn’t a joke, and that actions could have consequences I wouldn’t normally anticipate.
I was careful not to transgress the boundaries of our brief window of conviviality after that.
The next time I was in, the landlord wasn’t, and the regulars didn’t even glance in my direction. When I attempted to say hello to Jack*, he gave me a look of dislike and then ignored me.
After that, I didn't see the landlord again, or his underworld dandy friends, and I remained invisible to the other customers.
*Not his real name
 |
| The late Bobby George |
