Peter Sackville's Vest ( VILLAGE TALES EP. 28

An unlucky tailor becomes a misanthropic recluse after being wrongly found guilty of arson. Only when some help is offered after a serious fall does he become reconciled to society and able to reclaim the respect and admiration as a master tailor that should have always been his.

In a small village you might think ‘characters’ would be thin on the ground but a sparse population gives room for some to develop their eccentricities. Peter Sackville was typical. Occasionally he would venture into The Drum for half of bitter, take a seat in the far corner and use the newspaper he had brought in with him to preserve his isolation. Only when he would rearrange his reading material would the rustle remind us he was still there.

The customers of that hostelry would seldom describe themselves as ‘sartorially elegant’ but it describes Peter to a tee. It was presumed he had spent a lifetime working in a prestigious gentleman’s outfitters and for all we knew he still did.

One afternoon an ambulance pulled up and asked me where they might find Coppice Cottage. Few addresses in our village have anything other than names so are hard to locate if you don’t know them, fortunately I did and it was Peter’s cottage that I directed them to. A few minutes later the ambulance passed me and I presumed with Peter aboard.

Coppice Cottage is on the outskirts of the village on a track which terminates by a large wood surrounding an old quarry and game pens, all of which belong to the Blythe estate. The track is only ever used by walkers so that was what I was doing when I passed the cottage as someone was leaving. Her uniform reminded me of the type worn by a district nurse. Well, to cut a long story short, that’s what she was and she was just checking up on Peter’s convalescence after a fall had fractured an ankle and bruised a couple of ribs. I asked if there was anything I could do and she explained that he needed some shopping done and did I know of anyone locally who could help.

‘Of course,’ I said, and she presumed I was volunteering. 

Peter was in his front room on a kind of day-bed so he didn’t have to use the stairs. The room was very plain and the furniture rather dilapidated, not at all what I would have expected the kind of place the sartorially elegant Peter Sackville would be living in.

The nurse left leaving Peter and I to sort out a shopping list. I returned later with everything and suggested I call in the following day to see if he needed anything else. He replied it would be alright so long as I kept it to myself because he didn’t want a load of ‘do-gooders’ coming and going making his life a misery. Well, I felt rather insulted and nearly told him what he could do with himself but I thought maybe it was due to the pain or the medication and told him I’d see him in the morning.

Ankles are complicated affairs and healing can take months. After a week or so I began regretting I’d ever offered to help, not that I did, as I could see no end to it. The district nurse was very complimentary but it was no compensation for the thankless task I was performing almost every day.

One morning I’d had enough. I made an excuse of some sort to the effect that I wouldn’t be able to call in any more. I saw the look on his face and relented saying I would get another two or three people to help out. He got quite annoyed, he said he only trusted me, no one else and how dare I let him down. We had a bit of an argument and I left saying that I’d see him alright to the end of the week then he’d have to find someone else to shout his orders at.

I felt terrible, but I compensated myself by observing that his ingratitude was perhaps the reason why he had become so aloof and he had nobody but himself to blame.

By the end of the week I had found nobody else to help but I was still resolved to make it my last visit. I let myself in as usual and called out. Peter, rather than being on the day-bed was sat at the table by the window. He was in his dressing gown as usual but on the day-bed was a jacket which I presumed he wanted me to help him into. It was a fine looking jacket, which was no surprise and I told him so.

‘It’s yours,’ he said.

Now that did surprise me but I pointed out that he was, how shall I put it, not the stocky figure that I was and that what might fit him was unlikely to fit me.

‘Try it on,’ he said.

Well to my astonishment it fitted perfectly. So perfectly that once on I couldn’t feel it and however I moved there was no tightness or discomfort anywhere. The style was traditional without being old fashioned, a sort of classic. My taste exactly in style and fabric. 

‘Where did you find it?’ I asked.

‘I made it,’ he said, but I had to get him to repeat it just in case I’d mis-heard. I looked closely at the four button cuffs, the lining, the cut of the lapels, all superb.

‘You made this?’ I asked to which he nodded and then pointed to the door suggesting I look next door.

I felt as if I’d walked straight into the cutting room of a West End tailors. Table, machines, manikin, rolls of fabric, brown paper patterns, all the paraphernalia of a high class bespoke tailor.

On the chimney breast were pinned newspaper and magazine cuttings featuring Peter with a series of dignitaries who, I presumed, were wearing his tailoring. On previous visits the door to the room had always been locked so I had no idea what was inside.

Back in the front room it was as if a damn had broken. He suggested I sit. I did but not before carefully removing the jacket and replacing it on its hanger. He then clutched my hand and was about to speak but as his eyes welled up with tears he was unable to. I made some tea for us and gradually he collected himself before telling me his story.

Peter’s first job after leaving school was with a renown firm of West End tailors. After six years, when the owner died, he moved to one in Shepherds Bush. Four years later the area was redeveloped so his third place of work was run by a dubious character in Wandsworth who went bankrupt. Peter moved to Richmond where he was made head of alterations in a department store where he treaded water for seventeen years being superseded by those climbing the ladder over and beyond him. Times had changed and there was no room for his craftsmanship. Like the cutting table he had started his life working on, he was now just a piece of furniture bearing the cuts and bruises of accident and misfortune. 

At a stage when he was looking forward to his retirement, the department store, like so many others, was taken over and the alterations department was closed down. A local agency with out-workers would do all the work and Peter was put on their ‘books’. They paid little, gave nothing towards any expense incurred, and expected the work to be done immediately, if not sooner. 

With a small pension and some redundancy Peter found his life working from his rented flat acceptable. With part of his lump sum he had bought a good second-hand machine. Part of his flat he dedicated to his ‘tailoring’, a description that was rather too grand for the trouser shortening and waist expanding that was most of his work. He had not much money, no family, no property, he loved no one and as far as he knew, no one loved him. His only brush with romance was with a fellow machinist whilst he was working in Richmond. His attempts at courtship had been pathetic and clumsy and he had vowed never to embarrass himself again. But, he had his work, that was his love, each turn up and every expanded waist band was a joy to behold, if one bothered to look. We all crave something that will be a lasting proof of our existence and Peter was no different. He asked the agency if they could let their customers know who it was that had so expertly altered their clothing. The agency’s reply was curt, the customers weren’t interested in who did the work, only that it was done quickly.

Peter had an idea. It would only add a minute or two, but no matter how small the job, it was worth doing. As long as the garment existed so would he.Every piece of fabric that passed through his hands, even his own, would bear a small pale blue label witness to the fact that ‘Peter Sackville, Master Tailor’ had something to do with it, owned it, altered it, repaired it, shortened it, lengthened it, took it in, or let it out. It brought a spring into his step. He had the confidence to enter his local pub, to converse on equal footing. Asked what he did he would proudly reply he was a West End ‘tailor’, retired.

Looking at the pile of clothes ready to be returned to the agency, or those in his wardrobe, he was filled with a sense of pride that every garment was evidence of his existence. Even after his death people would know he’d arrived.

He returned one afternoon from the agency, ashen and stumbling. He had delivered fourteen pieces of clothing neatly pressed and each one a perfect job, as it always was. His work was beyond criticism but this had not stopped the agency telling him he was no longer wanted. Further more they had contacted every agency and business known to them warning them not to employ on whatever basis, Peter Sackville Master Tailor. They cited some legal obligation which he had contravened, they accused him of trying to undermine their business, trying to steal work from them and they had spread the word he could not be trusted. He would never work in the rag trade again.

A few weeks later Peter was arrested. An arson attack on the agencies offices had destroyed the building but the remains of a white fabric garment, probably a man’s vest had been found. It had been soaked in petrol or paraffin, and pushed through the company’s letterbox setting fire to the premises. Part of a small blue label on the vest was familiar to the owner and it was that evidence along with his being recently ‘let go’ and ‘holding a grudge’ that led to ‘Peter Sackville Master Tailor’ being put behind bars albeit always protesting his innocence. It was not what Peter wished to be remembered for.

It is difficult without experiencing injustice to understand the effect it can have. Peter once optimistic and gregarious became suspicious and private. Ironically during his incarceration he tailored several suits one of which was for the governor, it was he that found Peter his cottage on the Blythe estate but Peter’s trust in society had been destroyed.

I would only wear my new jacket for special occasions. One of which was a birthday and it coincided with one of Peter’s infrequent visits to The Drum. The jacket always attracted compliments and at last I had the opportunity to point out the man responsible. 

Peter was reluctant at first but the desire to demonstrate his craftsmanship was too strong and soon his reputation as a tailor far outshone any shadows from his past. Not only does every garment display his bright blue label, but a brass plate affixed to his cottage proudly announces that ‘Peter Sackville Master Tailor, now lives there and is open for business.

Listen to Village Tales and other short stories from the HONKEYMOON CAFE

 on Spotify, Anchor FM, Apple Podcasts, RadioPublic, Pocket Casts, 

Google Podcasts, Breaker and other platforms. 

Written and read by Barkley Johnson.