My sense of fashion is a little different to the Tyrone men’s. They wear jeans and shirts (often checked) with crew-neck jumpers, or chinos and zip-funnel pullovers. Plain, good-old inoffensive gear that their wives or girlfriends probably picked and the men would have no shame in saying that. “The woman buys my clothes. I wouldn’t know where the draper’s is.”
I like good jeans and Doc Martins and Harrington bomber jackets. Casual gear that harks back to the Belfast mod scene. Sharp and timeless. And I choose my own clothes.
So, a couple of months back when I collected some laundry in the town, I was surprised to discover a stylish men’s blazer.
“Is this ours?” I asked Fionnuala, who was busy getting Dermot dressed. “Is it yours?” she replied, barely looking.
“It was in the stuff I collected in town. It’s rather nice.”
I tried it on; coveted it. It was an olive-green, checked tweed jacket and it fitted me to the centimetre.
In the pub I caught a reflection of myself. I could have been in an Guinness ad
“That really suits you.” Fionnuala was now looking up. “You should get one like it.”
“Yeah.” I said, turning round. “It’s a shame I have to leave it back.”
But between one thing and another, the jacket didn’t get left back. Every time I put it in the car, something waylaid me and the launderette was forgotten about. And every time I put it back in the wardrobe, I tried it. It was a superb coat.
I saw the Harris Tweed label inside it and figured it was vintage. I actually bought a merino wool, black turtle-neck jumper that suited it perfectly. Based on the premise that I was going to purchase a tweed coat. But try as I might, I struggled to source one, new or second-hand.
And a sense of ownership had crept into my thinking. I hadn’t asked for this surprise when I collected the laundry that day and the launderette hadn’t asked for it back, so who really owned it?
“For God’s sake, Fabien, leave the coat back. It’s not yours,” Fionnuala said. I was modelling again in the kitchen, with a crisp blue shirt underneath. “Before it’s too late.”
She was right of course. Nothing is more wretched than a man conscious of his guilt. I had to banish all those greedy thoughts and do the honourable thing. So, when I was in town the next day, I stopped at the launderette.
“No, there hasn’t been anyone asking for a jacket.” The woman was Polish as far as I could guess
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“Shall I drop it in anyway?”
“What would be the point in that?” She was matter-of-fact. “It will just sit here. Leave your number and if an owner comes, we will call.”
As we sat in Mass that evening, I was as happy as a cat at milking time. Come to me, all you who labour and are overburdened and I will give you rest, the Gospel soothed.
We were going out afterwards with some of Fionnuala’s family and I was sporting my jacket. With navy slacks, a perfectly white shirt and tan brogues, I knew everyone was looking. Fr Austin even whispered at communion: “Nice threads.”
In the pub I caught a reflection of myself. I could have been in an Guinness ad. I had even brought a little vial of eau de toilette and smelt divine. Fionnuala snuggled up at one stage and my chest heaved with the sheer manliness of it all.
Then, when we went to leave, I noticed a man staring from across the bar. I tried to avoid his glare but he kept it up.
“He owns a huge quarry. You’ll have seen the lorries, Hillside Aggregates.” Fionnuala’s brother was filling me in. “Richer than God too.”
I looked back but he was gone. But I knew and he knew. And he knew I knew. It was his jacket.
Back home I got a big kiss from my wife. “I really love that jacket on you.”
But it was tainted now. She may as well have been kissing another man. And the dreamcoat I never dared to wear again was furtively returned to the launderette, where the Polish woman just shrugged.
“Nice jacket.”
