Chapter 38

"Are you ready to dress?"

"Mom!" That was a wasted whine, "Dad!!"

"Sorry kiddo, you're stuck."

"But, Dad ... I LIKE Levis."

"If I have to go through it, you do too."

We loaded up, and under the direction of Sergeant Major Smythe, we headed for Westminster and Savile Row.

"Holy shit, dad ... it's a whole damn street," I whined, "How do we choose?"

"We don't. Vera does."

"Good God ... there goes the week."

No man ... convicted, but not guilty, ever dragged his feet to his doom so reluctantly as I did. This is going to be torture. Why did I ever agree to a second chance?

Sergeant Major Smythe said, "Buck up lad. It's not the end of the world. Give Amber a thrill ... get her into the dressing room."

My eyebrows went up, the corners of my mouth started up.

"They won't let her."

My brows went down. My lower lip popped out. "Evil, Sergeant Major ... just plain evil."

Smythe laughed ... not British Warrant Officer laughter ... sort of a golf clap but with your tongue. No. He laughed like a paid up British lower ranks sailor in the best whorehouse in Bangkok. Bastard!

Gieves & Hawkes, 1 Savile Row.

Remember; We did look like a bank robbery about to happen, but mom went in with her Preferred Depositor Barclays Bank book open and her finger on the bottom line.

"My son needs an outfit."

"Madam!"

"It's Mrs. Madams run houses of ill repute. Before you get hot under the collar ... read the bottom line." She handed him the bankbook and her passport.

His eyes got big... "Yes, Mrs..." He squinted at the passport name, "Austin. This fine young man needs a suit." I'd love to tell you that was a question ... but it was a statement ... irrefutable ... He looked me up and down and side to side, "From the skin out. And the services of a boot-maker ... and a haircut!"

Mother smiled, "I totally agree. Shut up, David. Amber, control your man."

Shit ... that's going to bruise! "OW!" That one was, too.

She broke into that subtitle language ... sans subtitles. Before I knew it we were seated in a 'Showing room' and men that made all four females drool began marching in and out.

After the fourth marcher, Amber said, "Oui."

The rest of the conversation was missing needed subtitles but the gist of it was:

"Which one?"

"All of them ... just the first four ... double breasted, please. Singles look funny."

She looked at mom, mom smiled. At least that was going better than I thought it would.

"Fabrics! We need to look at fabrics," Mom said.

" ... not swatches ... on the bolt." agreed Amber.

They were dressed in hair-caps and gloves and taken to the basement. The basement was a warren of slicing, dicing and sewing. Mother was pleased, the sewing was all done on site.

All the way to the far end of the basement, the fabric room was like a vault.

Or so I was told.

While the ladies looked at choices, I got to stand on a stool and have my privates fingered under the excuse of 'measurement.'

Oh ... I was asked one question: "Right or Left?"

Amber said, as she walked in carrying four bolts of cloth, "Right."

Measurements taken, the tailor, and his limp-wristed apprentices, disappeared in the nether regions of 1 Savile Row. We ... the girls and mom ... were seated in a very comfy salon. Dad and I were left standing.

Daddy said, "Well ... you can see who counts here."

After a reasonable wait, mother, Sally and Amber had tea, some small cakes called 'crumpets', and tiny cucumber sandwiches ... without the crust. Grace and I ... not considered adults but too old for biscuits and jam ... had cold chocolate. It was supposed to be hot but that didn't work. I don't know how far the 'likely lad' had to go to get it but Grace and I were parched by the time he got back ... and I had to TIP him.

Daddy was wrestled down and hogtied by a second team of husband-doggers. He was 'personally' measured, poked and prodded. All that was missing was Tomás de Torquemada and a few racks or Iron Maidens.

Mother and Amber, each with their personal choices of fabric, had their noses buried in Gentleman's Quarterly.

Amber said, "A tux ... for the wedding. And some casuals."

"You're right. And the Austin Tartan."

Amber clapped her hands, "Oh good, Scotland!"

Eventually, a tailor approached. He had a heavy duty canvas 'try on'. I was dressed ... and fitted. Millions of pins and he never poked me once. He went away ... and came back ... and chalked and snipped and chalked and snipped. More pins.