Jan 25 2010
The Dragon’s Coat
In the town where I grew up there was a flea market. It was held every Saturday in a concrete courtyard behind the High Street shops, and it was where I spent most of my money between the ages of 10 and 18.
I collected things. My collections at one time included stamps, candles, tea tins and polished stones, but the collection I have maintained for most of my life has been that of old bottles and jars. Cod bottles with marbles, ink bottles, brown glazed cream jugs, 2-toned cider flagons and the occasional stone hot water ‘pig’. In my one-hour lunch break from my teenage Saturday job (in an achingly classy furniture and gift shop) I would buy a bag of chips and head for the market, browsing at a leisurely pace, the hot vinegary chips keeping my hands warm. The stallholders all knew me, and the man with the bottle stall would sometimes keep things by for me. I had very little money, so each purchase was made after an age of deliberation: sometimes it took me weeks to decide which lemonade bottle to buy.
There was a stall next to the bottle table which was crammed with vintage collectibles – stuff like old OXO tins, deck chairs and glass beads. I browsed there too, and occasionally bought something cheap like a small box that had once held Parma Violets.
One Saturday I followed my usual routine – chips shop, flea market, bottle stall. But my purposeful steps were halted suddenly by the junk stall. There, dangling from a wooden hanger, was the most amazing piece of clothing I had ever seen. It was a boxy jacket made of very dark blue, almost black, thin corded material. At its cuffs and geometric angular collar was a thin rim of dark red ribbon, and round every edge was a rope of gold braid. Down the double-breasted front marched a line of tarnished brass buttons. The lining was black satin and the smell of decades hit my nostrils as I tried it on. It was a perfect fit, albeit a bit long in the arms.
The man on the stall told me that it was the jacket of a cinema commissionaire, the uniformed presence who opened doors, presided over the foyer, helped ladies on with their coats and occasionally introduced the films, no doubt featuring Hollywood legends like Clarke Gable and Hedy Lamarr. The jacket evoked movie glamour; it had a quasi-military air and more than a hint of Sergeant Pepper about it. I wanted it so much my stomach hurt. The stallholder wanted £40.00 for it.
It was a huge amount of money for me at the time. My Saturday job paid £8.00 a week and that had to cover my clothes, my books, my going out, my Saturday chips, everything. The stallholder and I came to a deal. He dropped the price to £38.00 and he allowed me to pay in instalments. It was nearly 5 months before I paid the last of the money and got to slip the musty satin over my shoulders once more. I paraded around the market and let the stallholders see me – they all knew how long I had waited for that moment. They applauded and admired, and I felt like I was on top of the world.
I wore the jacket regularly for years. My favourite outfit at 18 was a pair of tight cream jeans, knee length leather boots, black t-shirt and the commissionaire’s jacket. People knew me by it. Several women and a couple of men tried to buy it from me. When one of my university boyfriends first saw me, I was wearing it: he turned to a mutual friend and said ‘Who the hell is that?’
Years later I made a disastrous attempt to turn over the thick ropes of braid. The gold was tarnished on the outside and shiny underneath and I wanted to reverse it to get the bright gold uppermost. I unpicked the sleeves at the shoulders to reveal wads of woollen padding that looked like furniture stuffing. My braid-reversal did not really work.
I still have the jacket in a box somewhere. I doubt whether I will ever mend it or wear it again; indeed, I was lightly toying with the idea of selling it on eBay. But now……now I’m not so sure.
20 responses so far
As much as I am certain I’d love your coat, I am currently having a lot of fun saying “Dragon’s Flagons” over and over a good bit.
There are of course, really only three kinds of rock songs in this world. There’s the my baby left me, bluesy depressing ones. The name as many cities or places as we can into a 3 chord song or ultimately, “the tight cream jeans, knee length leather boots, black t-shirt and the commissionaire’s jacket” babe kind of song. I take heart knowing she was real and that she lives on as a savvy and happy writer in Orkney!
I really enjoyed your descriptions of the flea market and your collectibles and your savvy negotiating of the price and subsequent saving up for it. I can read the lamentableness (probably not a word but perhaps it should be?) of the upbraiding in your good self as you described the situation.
Thanks for letting us into a little bit of your world.
Isn’t it amazing? One small piece of clothing can bring back a whole lifetime ago. This was a writing exercise set in our writing group, and it was one of the best we’ve ever done.
Thanks Greg - my/your vision of myself at 18 is probably far removed from the reality, alas, but who’s to gainsay us? Nobody! What I am very grateful for is the chance to develop my writing skills and foist my efforts on the readers and bloggers of IB. As I said, I’ll probably stop the daily blogs come February, but I’ll keep writing, never fear!
You must have been quite unmistakable in your jacket, SD. No doubt you were referred to as “You know, the one with the jacket”.
I remember my cousin once bought a fur coat from the Manchester equivalent of Paddy’s Market. When she brought it home, their Alsatian dog would go nowhere near it…
I have just discovered your blog - by accident - and have spent several happy hours over the last few days reading all your stories.
I will keep coming back now as I have it bookmarked and it is a great way to pass the time during these chilly winter months!
Wonderfully nostalgic story. Sorry I wasn’t there last night. Feeling miserable as have obviously missed out on a great session.
Loved that flea market. Used to go there with my brother to buy stamps with our carefully saved pocket money. Then we’d rush to the library to scan the valuing catalogues and see if we’d got a good deal or not! - I love your writing…does me good to get back in touch with real, well-written English.
‘Toying with the idea of selling it on ebay’ - go for it. I bet you got more nostalgia out of writing about it than any amount of fondling of it. No-one will ever want it as much as you did, but they might impress as many boys (or girls) in it. Sell it on condition you get a photo of it out and about and bask in the glow of spreading a bit of recycled glamour about.
Wise words Nic! Might be a good idea to let someone else get the joy of it - it’s doing no good mouldering in a box, and you’re right, the pleasure I get from it now is all in the memories. Just got to find it…..
Japrich……alright, I’m filling up now *sniff*…..
Landlady did better than fpu in Paddy’s Market. A really dismal impulse buy of a shiny nylon black&white ‘Afghan’
My Uncle Robert had some Oxford bags in what I think is called Urquhart check - very bold dogtooth-like, black and white and with a red thread for highlighting, and a waistcoat to boot. The tailor’s label revealed that the suit was made in 1929 and apparently had never been worn. He gave it to me. The trousers were wide enough at the foot end for a couple of Queen Marys to steam through. But drains were the thing in yr. correspondent’s young days. So a nice tailor took them in for me. It was JUST possible to get my rugger thighs into them. With a starched collar with ends turned up (a la Neville Chamberlain) and a natty tie the young man did feel rather smart. The looks on the faces of the rest of the rugger team when yr. c. donned the kit after a match and a hosing down were a big suprise. But everyone got over the shock and pints were consumed with the usual gusto by the time we got to the pub. There is actually a picture extant of the outfit on the young man, curiously enough perched up a tree, with scruffy cloth sailing shoes on his feet, while filming the installation of the new Rector (C.P. Snow for those who would like to know). That, my dears, dates one and the shoes were a dead give-away that it was not a real toff up there.
Oh please let A. Blogger post a scanned copy of said historic photographic delight Cap’n dear!
Yes please Barney, it would be much appreciated by all. Send it to me and I’ll post it…..
Dearest Dragon, your blog is your blog and mere mortals should not even consider to try to steal the merest beam of the limelight that is so deservedly yours. (Grovel, grovel). But your sweet thought is appreciated, as is that of the c-a-t.
Oh I wouldn’t get too excited landlady dear!
There speaks words of wisdom from a cat who has seen it all
I beg to disagree with Taddoe and wish it to be put on record that KC has NOT seen my rugger thighs, other than decently covered by trouser legs. Thereby has Taddoe been guilty of the heinous crime of hyperbole.
A slight frisson, LL? Or a shuddering, earth-moving sort of thing?
Yes cap’n ,but even “decently covered” KC,being such an intelligent cat would be able tell
don’t worry cap’n LL has a slight touch of the flu,nothing more 