The Tailor of Panama by John le Carré

‘Still, you’d think it would be Braithwaite & Pendel, wouldn’t you? Old Braithwaite, senior partner after all. Ought to be first, even if he’s dead.’

Pendel was already shaking his head. ‘No, sir. Not so. It was Arthur Braithwaite’s express wish at the time. “Harry, my son, it’s youth before age. From now on we’re P&B, and that way we won’t be mistaken for a certain oil company.”‘

‘So who are these royals you’ve been dressing? “Tailors to Royalty.” Saw it on your sign. Busting to ask.’

Pendel allowed his smile to cool a little.

‘Well, sir, I’ll put it this way, and I’m afraid that’s as far as I’m allowed to go, owing to laze majesty. Certain gentlemen not a great distance from a certain royal throne have seen fit to honour us in the past, and up to the present day. Alas, we are not at liberty to divulge further details.’

‘Why not?’

‘Partly by reason of the Guild of Tailors’ code of conduct, which guarantees every customer his confidentiality, be he high or low. And partly I’m afraid these days for reasons of security.’

‘Throne of England?’

‘There you press me too hard, Mr Osnard.’

‘Hell’s the crest o’ the Prince of Wales hanging outside for then? Thought you were a pub for a moment.’

‘Thank you, Mr Osnard. You have noticed what few have noticed here in Panama, but further than that my lips are sealed. Sit yourself down, sir. Marta’s sandwiches are cucumber if you’re interested. I don’t know whether her renown has reached you. And there’s a very nice light white I can recommend. Chilean, which one of my customers imports and has the grace to send me a case of now and then. What can I tempt you with?’

For by now it was becoming important to Pendel that Osnard should be tempted.

Osnard had not sat down but he had accepted a sandwich. Which is to say he had helped himself to three from the plate, one to keep him going and two to balance in the ample cushions of his left palm while he stood shoulder to shoulder with Pendel at the applewood table.

‘Now these aren’t us at all, sir,’ Pendel confided, dismissing at one gesture a swatch of lightweight tweeds, which was what he always did. ‘Can’t be doing with these either – not for what I call the mature figure – all right for your beardless boy or your beanstalk but not for the likes of a you or a me, I’ll put it that way.’ Another flip. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

‘Prime alpaca.’

‘It is indeed, sir,’ said Pendel, much surprised. ‘From the Andean Highlands of South Peru, appreciated for its soft touch and variety of natural shades, to quote Wool Record, if I may make so bold. Well, I’m blessed, you are a dark horse, Mr Osnard.’

But he only said this because your average customer didn’t know the first thing about cloth.

‘My dad’s favourite. Swore by it. Used to. Alpaca or bust.’

‘Used to, sir? Oh dear.’

‘Dead. Up there with Braithwaite.’

‘Well, all I can say is, Mr Osnard, with no disrespect intended, your esteemed father knew whereof he spoke,’ Pendel exclaimed, launching upon a favourite subject. ‘Because alpaca cloth is in my fairly informed judgment the finest lightweight in the world bar none. Ever was and ever shall be, if you’ll pardon me. You can have all your mohair-and-worsted mixes in the world, I don’t care. Alpaca is dyed in the thread, hence your variety of colour, hence your richness. Alpaca is pure, it’s resilient, it breathes. Your most sensitive skin is not bothered by it.’ He laid a confiding finger on Osnard’s upper arm. ‘And what did our Savile Row tailor use it for, Mr Osnard, to his eternal and everlasting shame until the scarcity prevented him, I wonder?’

‘Try me.’

‘Linings,’ Pendel declared with disgust. ‘Common linings. Vandalism, that’s what it is.’

‘Old Braithwaite would have boiled over.’

‘He did, sir, and I’m not ashamed to quote him. “Harry,” he said to me – it took him nine years to call me Harry – “Harry, what they’re doing to the alpaca, I wouldn’t do to a dog.” His words and I can hear them to this day.’