“As you say,” John Paul answered cautiously.
“You don’t need to keep buying bulk clothes, you know. You have enough money to afford nicer clothing than that.”
John Paul’s tried to hide his sourness. He had no appreciation for some boy telling him his business, nor for comments on his finances. Not even if that boy was his nephew. But he counseled himself to relax; there was no reason to snap. He must have meant the remark innocently.
They walked for a few kilometers before arriving at the store; finally, Henry turned on his heels and swung an arm ‘round. “We’re here,” he added, if his manner hadn’t already been enough.
John Paul stood away from it for a moment. The top read Wittham Tailors, and in the front there were large glass windows. There was only a single stand with a suit jacket on display on a bust, but John Paul could see the quality already. Perhaps this wouldn’t be such a waste, after all.
They stepped inside, and a small man in his seventies looked up at them over his thin spectacles. “Ah,” he said. “Mister Henry Roche! Is this your uncle I’ve been hearing about?”
“Yes, I’ve finally talked him into getting some real clothes,” he announced.
“Now, then—” John Paul tried to protest, but Henry smiled.
“I’m only joking, Uncle.”
John Paul stepped up to the counter.
“So, what can I do for you, Uncle?”
“John Paul Foster.”
“Very well, Mister Foster.”
“I suppose I should get a few new suits. I will need at least two. One for the summer, and one for the winter, at least.”
“At least,” the old tailor agreed.
“I confess, I’ve never done this sort of thing before. I have really only shopped at department stores.”
“Yes, I can tell that, sir. What comes next, then?”
“What comes next, indeed.”
“Next, I’ll take your measurements, and we’ll discuss fabrics, and then you’ll leave and I’ll get to work. In a week or two, I’ll contact you when your clothing is done, we test the fit, I fix any issues, and then you take it home.”
“Very well.”
“So you’ll need to strip. Step into the back here with me.”
John Paul did as he was told. He stepped behind a curtain and stripped down to his smallclothes, piling his clothes on a stool. And then the small old man pulled out a tape measure and began making notes on a slate.
When at last they finished with that, John Paul dressed once more, and then the tailor walked him back to the front, where Henry waited. The old man offered a half-dozen appealing cotton and linen fabrics for the summer. Then he offered another half-dozen complementary wool fabrics for the cold.
John Paul looked at them for a moment before deciding that he had no frame of reference and couldn’t decide. He gestured for Henry to come over and have a look. He looked for a moment and then looked up at Wittham.
“I would go with the houndstooth for the heavier, and the gray linen for the lighter.”
The tailor’s eyes flicked from the younger man to the elder.
“Is that alright?”
“He seems to know more about it than I do,” John Paul confessed.
“Very good, sir,” the tailor said, making another couple of notes on the slate. He set it aside with ‘J.P. Foster’ written across the top. “About the matter of payment…”
John Paul left with a receipt and the promise of a couple of new suits that fit properly, and thought that seemed like a fair enough trade.