I was 15 when Grandpa died. He was 69, too young, but on the plus side he was doing what he most loved – digging on an archaeological site. We weren’t close in the way I was with Granny; he could be quite scary. But we got along fine and I liked him. Mum said I could help myself from his wardrobe.
I had only known him dressed for retirement, in blue workers’ overalls for archaeological digging, or baggy beige shorts for caravanning holidays. But it seemed he had been quite dapper back in the day. I helped myself to collarless shirts and a couple of suits (the best was a silvery-grey mohair one that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Paul Weller’s wardrobe). And this overcoat.
