After my grandfather passed away, I claimed his heavy, silk-lined overcoat and wore it with Doc Martens. It became more than just a piece of clothing; it was a refuge against teenage insecurity. I sat on it in parks and slept under it on friends' sofas. Then, one day, it disappeared.
I was 15 when Grandpa died at 69. He was doing what he loved—digging at an archaeological site. We weren't particularly close, but I liked him. Mum said I could help myself to his wardrobe. I discovered he had been quite dapper, with collarless shirts and suits, including a silvery-grey mohair one. And this overcoat.
The coat was a proper Crombie of Aberdeen—black, knee-length, heavy, and silk-lined. It was worn by statesmen, royals, movie stars, and pop stars. For me, it was a thick new layer of protection against the cold and teenage vulnerability. It still carried a faint whiff of pipe smoke, even after dry cleaning.
In a photo from when I was about 16, I'm wearing the coat with an Echo & the Bunnymen badge on the lapel, Doc Martens, and green Country Born gel in my hair. I'm not sure what Grandpa would have made of that. I wore his coat throughout my teens until I decided it wasn't cool anymore, and it vanished from photos and memory.
Recently, at Mum's house, I found it hanging at the back of the airing cupboard. It's frayed and coming apart at the seams, but aren't we all. It must be 90 years old now. I reinherited it, though I rarely wear it—it seems funereal. I'll wear it next time I pay my respects. It's good to have it back, hanging in my own cupboard, maybe to be discovered by one of my sons someday.
