The Tailor of Panama Page #2

Smelly little bugger, was he?

If I may, sir.

Forty.

And the waist...

What's the damage?

A very creditable 34-plus.

Plus what?

Plus lunch, put it that way, sir.

Very good.

Do you ever miss it?

The old country? Savile Row?

The Row. Well, now...

...I do and I don't.

Nothing beats it,

but when I was there...

...I always felt very much

in old Arthur Braithwaite's shadow.

Though it was Arthur Braithwaite

who encouraged me to spread my wings.

- Good old boy, Arthur, was he?

- One of the old school, sir.

Now, if I might...

Very good, sir.

Do we dress right or left?

Most gentlemen favor left these days.

Don't think it's political.

Never know where the bloody thing is.

Bobs about like a windsock.

- You were saying?

- Saying, sir?

Braithwaite. Telling you

to spread your wings.

Yes, of course.

I remember it like yesterday.

I was cutting a nice muted check

hacking jacket for Lord Braeburn.

Finest mohair, dash of cashmere.

I looked up and he was looking

at me from the doorway.

Arthur Braithwaite, that is.

He was a big man, imposing.

He had a presence.

It's hard to put it into words.

- It was the moustache.

- Moustache?

Bloody great bushy job,

soup all over it.

- There was no moustache in my day.

- I can see it now. Bright brown.

I think we're being rumbled, Harry.

Admit nothing. Deny all.

I think your memory's playing tricks.

You're thinking of another man and

awarding his moustache to Braithwaite.

Go on.

"Harry," he says to me,

"I think you've earned your spurs.

How would you feel

about taking my name...

...and tradition to the New World?

I'm talking about a full partnership."

I don't mind saying,

there were tears in my eyes.

You've practically got tears in mine.

Thank you, sir.

I've never heard such a load

of bullshit in my life.

Come and sit down, Harry.

It's all right.

I'm your fairy godmother.

The thing is, Harry,

I know who you are.

More accurately,

I know who you aren't.

- I don't know what you're saying.

- It's all right. Relax.

Because I know. You're 906017 Pendel.

Six years for arson,

served two and a half.

Learnt your tailoring in the slammer.

Insurance scam, wasn't it?

Set fire to a warehouse

for your Uncle Benny.

They caught you

with the matches in your hand.

You've never been near Savile Row.

Braithwaite is your Uncle Benny...

...raised from the dead, born again

and given a size-nine halo.

Upon release, you did a runner to

Panama with your Uncle Benny's help.

Built up a fine business.

Married the daughter of an American

canal engineer. Well-respected man.

But you owe the bank 50,000,

thanks to that farm.

You've put in the shop

and the house as collateral.

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