| Savile Row tailor Mark Mathews, is getting ready for business one Monday morning when he over hears a situation outside the shop. Young Alfie Clark, his star apprentice has just parked up his new Vespa GS and seems to have incurred the wrath of one of the cutters of neighbouring Anderson and Sheppard, who considers himself to be Savile Row Aristocracy. “You can’t park that there young man.” “Do what Guv?” “I beg your pardon!!” “It’s quite alright David. Alfie’s one of my lads and he has my permission to park his scooter outside the shop.” Mark advised from the doorway. David St John frowned, gave Mark a hard stare and stormed off almost falling over the scooter as he turned. David’s mind was racing as he made his way along the West Side of Savile Row, and as his adrenalin level rose, he become determined to make sure Alfie’s tenure on Savile Row would be a short one. Inside the shop, Alfie was laughing so much he could hardly get the words out. “If looks could kill; you’d be; stone dead by now Guv.” Mark was trying to keep a straight face; he was expecting an important customer any minute and needed to create the right atmosphere. “Right young man, here’s the keys to the van; get off to C&J Listers and collect that cashmere order for Mr Simpson." Alfie felt at home at the drapers, it was in Soho the bohemian area of town, he spent Saturday nights in the Coffee Shops and Jazz Clubs tucked away off Regent Street and Oxford Street. It felt strange to him that everything in Soho was new and Avant Guard, but the other side of Regent Street was all traditional and stuffy. An idea was forming in his head about how he could blend his Modernist ideas with the Traditional crafts of Savile Row, because to him they needn’t be two separate worlds. “Five yards of Huddersfield’s finest, sign here.” Alfie felt the cloth before signing the consignment sheet; it was still slightly damp from being sponged down but even with the dampness he could feel the material’s softness. “There you go Squire.” Alfie signed the sheet and placed the bolt carefully on the passenger seat of the van. He picked his way carefully through the Streets, observing the crumpet on their way to work in the Large West End shops. A smile spread across his face as he caught a glimpse of Tracie Bennett, who he’d met briefly at the Lyceum on Saturday. “So she works round here somewhere?” He thought aloud. He’d assumed she’d lived up North with her accent; but no tourist was going to be racing down Regent Street at 8:50 on a Monday morning. He became curious as she turned into Old Burlington Street towards Mayfair. As he drew along side her he felt a slight apprehension, a flutter of nerves. “You goin’ my way darlin’ “she turned her head sharply in the direction of his open window. “I’m not you darli… oh it’s you, you nearly got a peace of my mind.” Alfie laughed, heart now racing, realising for the first time what, ‘I’ve never felt like this before’ means.” Well he continued, hoping she didn’t notice his embarrassment. “Bond Street, Jessica Davis hair salon” she answered. He carefully moved the cashmere as he let her in, and told her it’d have to go on her lap. “Wow look at that scooter, she exclaimed as they reached Savile Row” Alfie’s nerves suddenly left him as he proudly told her, the shiny new Vespa was his. Bond Street was the next junction, just enough time to make a date for Friday night; David St John’s morning wasn’t going so well. |