A LONDON ADVENTURE

CYRIL MUROMCEW

Some purchases are worth every penny

The unexpected may bring greater joy than the expected. This is the story of a friend’s journey to London.

Stephen was a friend and a classmate in college, but I lost track of him after graduation. His name would appear regularly in the alumni magazine.While I do not recall what his achievements were, I do know they were very important. We did, however, exchange Christmas cards every year, promising each other to meet at the next class reunion.

Then, one day, much to my surprise, I received a call from Stephen. He came right to the point: Did I know London and am I still a car buff? Yes, I replied. I spent some years in London, but it is a big place and I don’t know all of it. And, no, I am no longer an active car buff, but I remember a thing or two about cars, especially those that I coveted in my youth. Well enough, he replied. Will you have lunch with me soonest? I need your advice.

We met at a club downtown. After a few preliminaries such as “remember so-and-so” and “how is that old prof?” he began to tell me about himself. He had worked hard all his life; things had gone his way beyond his wildest expectations. He wanted to slow down now, and seek the experiences he had always dreamed about, but had never had the time or money to enjoy in the past. But now he was going to catch up. Carpe diem!

Stephen was about to go to London to purchase his dream car, a 1947 Rolls Royce Silver Wreath with a straight six engine and the coach work by Mulliner. He had seen it advertised in MotorCar. I was suitably impressed and gave him the names of old friends in London who, I was sure, would be happy to help steer him the right way.

Weeks passed without a word from Stephen, or even a postcard. Was he so preoccupied with his new purchase? Was he touring on the Continent with some young lovely lady who shared his passion for fine cars?

Finally, one gray morning in December, the phone rang and I heard Stephen’s voice. Yes, he was back from London. All was fine. Let’s talk about it when I see you, and I have something to show you, too. I simply could not wait.We met at his club and I was disappointed not to see a Rolls Royce Silver Wreath parked at the front entrance. Perhaps it was in the back, I thought.We met in the hall and even in the dim December light I immediately saw that he looked younger, trimmer, slimmer, and happier.We sat down and placed our orders.

A FINE VACATION

Stephen had met up with my London friends—I’ll call them Geoffrey and Muriel. They were only too glad to help, and offered to drive him the very next day to St. Albans, just north of London, where the garage offering the Rolls was located. Over a converted carriage house was a sign for “MERLIN’S GARAGE.” At the entrance they were met by the owner, a dapper elderly man of military bearing with a neat gray moustache and freshly pressed coveralls. It turned out that Merlin was a nickname he had earned in World War II, when he was considered an absolute wizard at working on the Rolls Royce Merlin aircraft engines used in Spitfire and Hurricane fighter planes during the Battle of Britain. Now he was an authority on vintage Rolls Royce automobiles.

Inside the carriage house, in all her glory under a dust cover, stood the object of Stephen’s dreams: a 1947 Silver Wreath Rolls Royce. The Mulliner coach work, all in black and maroon, was in impeccable condition. A mechanic opened the long hood to let Stephen admire the spotlessly clean 4.9 liter straight six engine known for its silky smoothness. Turning on the ignition,Merlin pressed the starter button and the engine immediately sprang to life and settled to a smooth idle, but perhaps not smooth enough for the ultimate test. An English pound coin would not stand on its edge on the radiator as the engine idled. Merlin looked embarrassed, swore softly under his breath, and finally said that it must be an oiled Lucas spark plug on the fourth cylinder.

With the engine off, Stephen climbed behind the wheel, which was on the right side, naturally. Entering a Rolls Royce, as he described it, was like entering a secret temple in a different world. Everything inside looked better, more opulent, more reassuring. The interior smelled of rich leather and exotic wood, with a faint whiff of wet hound, which meant that this fine motorcar must have spent some years on a proper English country estate.

Stephen caressed the big polished wooden steering wheel. He fondled the knob of the longish gear lever, and was informed that the first gear was not synchronized —this meant that engaging the first gear while the car was still in motion required some adroit double- clutching. The gas pedal, brake, and clutch were all within easy reach of his long legs. Yet he felt that something was amiss. The old blue jeans that he was wearing for the occasion, the sweat shirt with his faded class numerals, and his favorite L.L. Bean mocs—his clothes simply did not go with the Rolls Royce! Stephen promised to return to take an extended test drive in the Silver Wreath.

While motoring back to London, Stephen hesitantly raised his concern with Geoffrey and Muriel. Having listened politely in silence, they gently agreed that a Rolls Royce required proper attire, which also would not fail to increase his motoring pleasure. My friends suggested a way out of this dilemma: a visit to a true English tailor near Savile Row, right in the heart of London.

The very next morning, Stephen found himself walking up Regent Street. He turned left on Vigo Street and again right on Savile Row, the heart of the finest English custom-order, or “bespoke tailoring,” meaning made to individual order, largely by hand.Many of the houses lining the Row went back to the early 18th century, when the Earl of Burlington built the first houses there and named the street after his wife Savile. An enterprising tailor by the name of Henry Poole opened his shop on Savile Row and began making the finest clothing for the aristocracy, including the splendid uniform that Lord Nelson wore at the Battle of Trafalgar. The Poole Establishment exists to this day, and is a member of a small group of top-notch tailors known as the Companions of Savile Row. Others maintain that it was Beau Brummel (born in 1778), the undisputed arbiter elegantiarum, who established London as the center of bespoke tailoring.

My friends, however, guided Stephen beyond Savile Row. They advised him that the Row was becoming too well known and full of people from distant parts of the world with more money than style and manners. Stephen headed in the direction of Hanover Square and found a discreet establishment on St. George Street, where my friend Geoffrey had made an appointment for him that morning. A slim elderly man greeted him with the courtly reserve only the British can muster.

DECISIONS, DECISIONS

JC, the proprietor of this venerable establishment, conducted Stephen to a chair facing a fireplace and asked him in what way the firm could be of service. Stephen replied that he was interested, at least to start with, in a simple suit for country wear.As it turned out, this was not a simple matter at all. JC tried to be helpful by making several general suggestions. Would the gentleman perhaps have in mind a suit in a light tweed or cheviot in a 15- to 16-ounce weight range? Stephen agreed and asked for samples of these fine fabrics.

A large heavy table in the middle of the room was full of swatches. Both Stephen and JC started to look at some tweeds arranged at one end of the table. There were classic Harris Tweeds, hand-loomed tweeds from the Outer Hebrides with a faint smell of peat smoke, tweeds from woolen mills in Yorkshire, and cheviots from the North Country. JC recommended the heavier- weight fabric. British tailors, it must be said, are known for their obsession with the drape of the suit, not just the fit.

The tweed selected in the end was a rust-brown with a bold, dark red over-check. For the full effect of the cloth, JC offered to unroll a heavy bolt of that tweed. There must have been hundreds of fabric bolts stacked high all around the room.

The pattern looked fine, so the next step was to choose the style of suit. Here JC recommended a single-breasted style with side vents, a slightly flared “skirt” to the jacket, and slanted pockets. A change pocket on the right side was optional. For the full lining, a greenish Paisley silk would do nicely. A waistcoat of a different fabric with discreet lapels could be discussed later.

These crucial decisions made, the next step would be full measurements, to be taken in the fitting room in the back of the establishment. Upon entering the fitting room, Stephen was surprised to see a full-sized wooden horse—but with shortened legs. This, JC explained, was for the fitting of jackets. The customer would sit on the horse in a real English saddle to make sure that the drape of the hacking jacket would not interfere with the cantle of the saddle when the gentleman was taking his morning ride in Hyde Park.

The cutter who would be responsible for making the suit took many measurements, which were duly recorded in a heavy leather-bound book. The names of the customers, as well as their weight recorded in stones (1 stone = 14 pounds), would remain undisclosed forever. When measuring for trousers (never pants, which in England refer solely to undergarments), the fitter asked whether the gentleman preferred to dress left or right. Only when the question of having a buttoned or zippered fly came up did Stephen comprehend the meaning of dressing left or right. Also, the fitter mentioned that trousers should always be suspended by braces (suspenders), and not hitched up by a belt. Therefore, there would be buttons inside the waistband to accommodate the suspenders.

There was much fussing over the length of the sleeves, for many people have arms of different lengths, to be sure that the cuff of the shirt—also custommade, naturally—would protrude about an inch beyond the jacket sleeves. These measurements were of critical importance, and also would allow a fleeting glimpse of plain gold cuff links. All the measurements would then be transferred to a paper pattern from which the cloth would be cut. JC promised to store the patterns indefinitely to facilitate new orders.

Generally, two fitting sessions spread over two weeks would be needed to assure a perfect fit. Stephen felt totally exhausted after this long and demanding initial consultation, and repaired himself to one of the neighboring pubs. It took two pink gins to restore his equilibrium.

The next fitting went quite well. Special attention was paid to the set of the sleeves so they would feel comfortable when holding the steering wheel of a motor car. Or doffing his hat. The implication seemed to be that a gentleman does not operate a fine motor car in his shirt sleeves, especially not a Rolls Royce.

When the tweed suit was ready, Stephen wore it to take a stroll across Hyde Park, way up to the Speaker’s Corner at Marble Arch. He felt lighter, his step was springier and longer, and the whole world, or at least many young ladies, smiled at him. When he hailed a cab, the driver addressed him as Governor, not just guv, and when he stopped for a spot of lunch at Claridges, he was immediately shown to a good table by the window. The champagne cocktail was on the house.

Next morning, Stephen was back in JC’s able hands. This time he would order a dark business suit for more formal occasions. JC was ready to oblige and recommended a navy worsted fabric in the 12-14-ounce weight with a fine white stripe. Worsted fabrics, JC explained, are woven more tightly than tweeds, using combed long wool fibers to give the cloth a clearer and smoother finish. Worsted fabrics also held the crease better. The cloth chosen would be suitable, JC explained, for wearing in the board room of multinational corporations, the Parliament, or a good men’s club. By tradition, such a suit would be double breasted, with side vents, two buttons, and a dark red lining. The trousers should be without cuffs, but with a slight slant to give a distinct break over the shoes without an unseemly sag at the heel.

A custom-made suit takes about 40 hours to complete and requires at least three and a half yards of cloth to make. The cost of highly skilled labor, added to the price of the cloth, lining, accessories, and horse-hair stiffening, can add up to a handsome sum. In bespoke tailoring, the price is expressed in guineas, not in pounds sterling, i.e., 21, not 20, shillings to the pound.

Thus, all said and done, what does it feel like to put on a bespoke suit? Stephen reported to me that it is certainly a very uplifting feeling. One cannot say divine, for nobody knows what suits, if any, are worn in heaven or, for that matter, in places below heaven. It certainly feels good to wear something that fits so well, and masks one’s imperfections. You simply cannot help but cut a good figure in a bespoke suit.

What makes a bespoke suit so appealing is the great attention paid to every detail. A bespoke suit feels supremely comfortable because many seams are handstitched, which makes the suit feel soft and elastic. All the buttonholes are hand-finished. All four buttons on each sleeve can be unbuttoned and rolled back when the gentleman washes his hands. The buttonhole, or boutonniere, about an inch long in the left lapel of the jacket, is also hand-finished to accept a carnation, the stem of which is then anchored in a small loop at the back of the lapel.

Bespoke tailors of London do not believe in showy labels with their names on them. They leave that to French and Italian couturiers. A good London suit has the tailor’s label stitched upside down on the inside of the right-hand breast pocket, showing the tailor’s name, the customer’s name, and the date of delivery. Only this, and nothing more. Some tailors may have their own discreet trademarks, too many to mention here, but visible to the trained eye.

As Stephen finally took delivery of his second suit, he felt a bit sad. He had never thought in all his life that going to a tailor could be such a pleasant and reassuring experience. How it brightened one’s outlook on life! JC bemoaned the fact that these days there was no strong leadership in the sartorial world. King Edward VII, the grandfather of the present Queen Elizabeth, had set the sartorial tone for the whole of the British Empire and some colonies, too. For instance, he insisted on the sharp crease in front of a man’s trousers. The Duke of Windsor was another undisputed arbiter elegantiarum for the whole civilized world. The late Sir Anthony Eden set a fine example for the British Foreign Office. He insisted that the lowest button on the waistcoat should always remain unbuttoned. But look now, o tempora, o mores! Hordes of barbarians, dressed in ready-made polyester suits, are howling at the gates of the old British bespoke tailoring establishment.

Stephen shook hands with JC, settled his account, and walked out on to St. George Street whistling a happy tune. Birds were singing in Hanover Square and all was well with the world. Suddenly, he stopped. As a man of affairs, he was quick with figures. It suddenly struck him that having paid for his trip expenses and the tailor, there was little left for the Rolls. And he was out of time.

The two suits, with accessories, took about one-third of the planned Rolls budget. He could absorb that amount without calling his broker. He realized that owning a Rolls would put a heavy responsibility on him. He had to think of proper upkeep and there were no known Merlins on the East Coast. He also realized that the garage in his townhouse might not be large enough to accommodate the stately motorcar. He certainly could not keep a Rolls on the street. He swore softly. Yet, he was a man who all his life could deal with triumph and disaster. He bit his lip and marched on in silence.

A FITTING CONCLUSION

On his last night in London, Stephen invited Geoffrey and Muriel for dinner to a club on Pall Mall that he had heard much about, but had not had the occasion to try. As he made reservations for dinner, he made sure that ladies would be welcome on that evening.

The truly impressive façade resembled a Grecian temple. As he entered through the massive doors, he immediately sensed that this club was not given to excessive gaiety or play. There were several gray-haired men standing in a group, all dressed in black and in long black gaiters, creating a sacerdotal aura about them. Stephen, while waiting for Geoffrey and Muriel to arrive, hesitated to join this group, feeling that he lacked the talent for engaging Church of England bishops in light-hearted badinage. Fortunately, Geoffrey and Muriel soon made their appearance and the three of them headed for the large, high-ceilinged dining room.

The dinner was good, solid, and free of continental frills. Stephen was sad to say farewell to his London friends, who in a very short time had shown him a new and unknown world. Stephen looked dashing in his new formal suit. “You look a real swell, Stephen,” said Muriel. “If you take good care of these suits, they’ll last you forever.”“Not as long as a Rolls,” quipped Geoffrey. As they stood outside the club, waiting for a taxi, they said good-bye once again. Stephen felt close to tears... but managed to keep a stiff upper lip.

Back in Washington, his story told, it had grown late but we were still at our table. I could not get over how well Stephen looked. He was looking so much younger than when I saw him last, and perfectly at peace with the world. As we finished our second snifter of VSOP, I could not resist asking: “But how about the Rolls?”“The Rolls?” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The damn Rolls will have to wait. But I’ll tell you something more important. Do you know what Ralph Waldo Emerson had to say about it all? He said, ‘The sense of being perfectly well dressed gives a feeling of inner tranquility which [even] religion is powerless to bestow.’”

Cyril Muromcew (CC ’73) is a retired State Department official who studied and worked for several years in England.

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