I was 15 when Grandpa died. He was 69, too young, but on the plus side he was doing what he most loved – digging on an archaeological site. We weren’t close in the way I was with Granny; he could be quite scary. But we got along fine and I liked him. Mum said I could help myself from his wardrobe.
I had only known him dressed for retirement, in blue workers’ overalls for archaeological digging, or baggy beige shorts for caravanning holidays. But it seemed he had been quite dapper back in the day. I helped myself to collarless shirts and a couple of suits (the best was a silvery-grey mohair one that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Paul Weller’s wardrobe). And this overcoat.
It was a proper coat – black, knee-length, heavy, silk-lined – made by Crombie of Aberdeen and worn by statesmen and royals, but also movie stars and pop stars. And now by me. I thought it was cool, and it became more than a coat; it was a place of refuge, a thick new outer layer of protection, against not just the cold but teenage vulnerability and insecurity. Plus, it was a little bit of Grandpa, hard to forget with the faint whiff of pipe smoke that lingered, even after dry cleaning.
I’m probably 16 in the photo. You can just make out my Echo & the Bunnymen badge on the lapel; I’d quite liked to have been in Echo & the Bunnymen. I would have been wearing Doc Martens, or maybe my favourite burgundy winkle-pickers. I can still smell the green Country Born gel in my hair. A night out would have required more backcombing for a serious 80s haystack, maybe a little eyeliner. I’m not sure what Grandpa would have made of that.
I wore his coat throughout the rest of my teens, sat on it in parks, slept under it on other people’s sofas. And then I guess I decided it wasn’t cool any more, because it disappeared – from photos and from memory.
Until the other day, at Mum’s house (which used to be Granny and Grandpa’s house). I went to turn on the immersion heater, and there it was, hanging at the back of the airing cupboard. A little frayed at the edges and coming apart at some of the seams, but aren’t we all. It must be 90 years old now.
So I reinherited it. I haven’t worn it much, I don’t really know when to. Both shabby and posh, there now seems something funereal about it. Undertakerly, even. I’ll wear it next time I’m paying my respects. It’s good to have it back though, hanging at the back of my own cupboard, maybe to be discovered by one of my sons – or theirs – somewhere down the line.
