An Aquascutum Hug
“Let
your Grandma keep you warm in winter”: the reassuring words of my Grandma’s
best friend, in response to me inheriting one of Grandma’s most prized
possessions: her Aquascutum coat. That same saddened soul could just about
manage a nod and a touch on the arm when she saw me wearing it on the day of
the funeral. “That’s right”, she said tearfully, “That’s right.”
It wasn’t right though; Grandma wasn’t here
anymore. She had fallen
asleep and slipped away ever so peacefully, sitting with her hands in her lap
and her legs crossed just how she had always done, upright and elegant as
always. She looked so peaceful that my Dad nearly called Kate a “silly mare”
when we got there, “but she’s only asleep”. The seemingly endless arrangements that
followed just added to the dizzying feeling of loss that we all felt, and I had
the piercing realisation that my foundations were crumbling faster than I could
ever have imagined or prepared myself for.
She was my rock, my constant, the home I always had amongst all the
shifting and changing, but now that warm comfort, that unfading support and
belief was gone, replaced by the bitter emptiness of grief.
The
honour of deciding what Grandma would wear to her service was given to me.
Betty Northrop was the most stylish woman that many will ever know, even in her
late 80’s, and I felt her expectations of me so keenly, it was as if she was
pressing the item she wanted into my hands herself: Her Aquascutum coat. The
last one my Granddad had bought her before he had passed away 37 years ago.
Although not religious, I took comfort in the image of them strolling
hand-in-hand around the village in their winter coats once again. I felt so
strongly about it that my family daren’t argue, which is a great feat for the
Northrop family. I tried to ignore the doubt in their faces: Cremating the
coat? What would Grandma say?
I
woke up the next day having heard very clearly what Grandma would say, and I
bolted out of bed with the realisation of what I had been about to do. I ran to
the wardrobe and pulled out the coat. I undid the four horn buttons, and dived
into the comfortable embrace of my newly inherited wool coat...
Calm:
That is what I feel when I put the coat on, no matter what the occasion. The
gentle weight on my shoulders reminding me to pull them back and hold my head
up high. The smooth cool of the buttons encouraging me to keep my composure as
I put on my woollen shield. The swing of the fabric strengthening my confidence
as I march through the masses. The deep pockets reassuring me that I am safe in
my Grandma’s care, safe in my Aquascutum hug.
The
coat holds firm and keeps me upright through the funeral, soothing the sickness
in my stomach and the pain in my heart. I can’t breathe as my chest aches, and
my eyes are pricked relentlessly with salty sadness, but it pulls me through
the service and the mayhem afterwards with a quiet dignity, just as Grandma
would have done. I don’t even begin to pretend that I look as good as Grandma
did in it, but I know that while I am wearing it, I can borrow a little of her
confidence. I close my eyes and imagine what she looked like, with her movie
star looks and her unwavering style and grace. I feel my heart warm as I smile
at the image of dreamy excitement on her face when Granddad took her to London
in the Triumph to buy her gift. The
same joy that runs through me, half a century or so later, when I find that
perfect item: my sequined dress, my military coat, my floral pencil skirt.
I
take great comfort in the many similarities I have to my Grandma: her
creativity, her love of fashion, her strength, and her open-mindedness. And yet
I am so very grateful for the coat, as it lends me the two traits that I regrettably
did not inherit from my Grandma: her calm and her confidence. As much as I feel
I have an irreplaceable piece of me missing at the moment, I know that as long
as I have the memories, the genes, and the calm that the Aquascutum brings me,
my Grandma will always feel near.
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