The Rag-Rug Boy

Monday : An Afghan Coat with quirky accessories
The sign over the door never failed to give him a thrill. Tristan LeBrun – Bespoke Couturier.  Tris knew he was one of the lucky ones – his own little empire with staff who shared his passion and the chance to spend time with beautiful fabrics and people who genuinely loved clothes.

“Nice outfit, Mr LeBrun,” Marina his assistant greeted him. That was the thing, thought Tris. The staff loved his unconventional style, his love of colour, his addiction to vintage. Not everyone appreciated that. People would stare as he went past. Sometimes they’d mock him openly. But he didn’t care. Let them mock. Anyway, his customers loved him and that was what counted.

Today he was wearing his grandmother’s Afghan coat, a rainbow bandana, a sporty scarf and a pair of string-backed driving gloves. The thought of his grandmother reminded him how much he owed to her encouragement. My little rag-rug boy had been her nickname for him because he’d been fascinated by the colours and textures of her fireside rag rug. Even as a small boy, he’d loved fabrics. She had been the one to teach him about needlework – in fact at the age of six he’d made a patchwork waistcoat under her tuition. Now, that waistcoat took pride of place in his workshop as a reminder of how much he had to thank her for.

“How was your journey today, Mr LeBrun?” Chantelle his embroidery expert said, giving him a sideways look. He knew why she was asking. In an unguarded moment he’d told her about the two lads outside the tube station. They’d been there again this morning but he decided to make light of it. “Fine thanks, Chantelle. Now there’s upwards of two hundred pearls to sew on this wedding dress. Let’s get cracking, shall we?”

He didn’t tell her that for the first time in his life he’d felt a frisson of fear that morning.  Mockery was one thing. The lads’ menacing demeanour was quite another.

Tuesday: Purple Dungarees and a French Beret
Tris felt good this morning. He loved the dungarees and as an extra touch he’d added a French beret. He unrolled a length of glorious aquamarine satin ready to start work on the prom dress for one of the sixth-formers from the nearby school. Lauren was her name and Tris was delighted by her excellent taste.

He saw Chantelle giving him that look again but he had no intention of talking about his journey. There’d been three of them this morning lounging by the tube entrance smoking, staring.

“Ladies, the prom dress,” he said, stroking the satin. “Shall we make a start?”

And the rest of the day passed in a whirl of patterns, pinking shears and humming machines. No time to think of anything else.

Wednesday:  Scarlet Leggings, Bovver Boots and a Biker Jacket
Tris got to the workshop early as Mr Oliphant was coming in for a fitting for his new smoking jacket. Hardly anyone wanted smoking jackets any more but when they did, Tris was your man. The lads hadn’t been there this morning and Tris felt reassured. Just lads, he thought. Nothing better to do.  Best forgotten about.

But then he had been early, hadn’t he. Maybe he’d gone before they got there.

Mr Oliphant was delighted with the jacket, particularly with the claret satin collar and cuffs. “Well done, young man,” he said. “I’ll tell all my friends to visit you.”

Chantelle and Marina arrived together, chatting about their boyfriends. “Morning, ladies. Marina, Mr Oliphant loved the jacket and admired the quilting, and Chantelle, that claret satin was a masterstroke. Well done, both.  Now, shall we get on?’

Thursday:  An Opera Cloak, Harlequin Tights and Platform Shoes
If he were honest, Tris had hesitated about this outfit. Maybe jeans and an Argyll sweater might have caused less unwanted attention. But he remembered his grandmother’s words. “Always be true to yourself, love. Hold your head up high.”

The reason he’d hesitated was because they’d been there last night outside the tube. They never came in the evening normally and there were four of them this time. One wolf-whistled and another – a big brute of a boy – spat on the pavement in front of him. He had to admit he was rattled by the time he got home.

And they’d been there again this morning, smoking, spitting, making coarse remarks.

“Everything alright, Mr LeBrun?” asked Chantelle. She waited, but when he didn’t answer she launched in. “Look, if it’s those lads from the school bothering you again you should tell the police. Or I can get my Dave to go there and have a word with them if you like.”

But Tris had the distinct feeling that either of those courses of action would only make matters worse. “I’m fine,” he said, lifting down a roll of suiting he was planning to use for Ronald Smith’s father-of the bride suit. “Just look at this gorgeous suiting. Mr Smith will love it.”

Already he was planning to leave a bit later that night and take a different route home. The walk would do him good.

Friday: Jeans and an Argyll Sweater
“Mr LeBrun, I hardly recognised you,” said Marina. “Is everything ok?”

“I’m fine thanks, Marina. Just felt like a change today, that’s all.”

But the change of outfit hadn’t made things any better. In fact, things had been decidedly worse. He’d dodged the lads the previous night but this morning there’d been more of them and they’d followed him a few paces behind singing coarse rugby songs and brushing against him. Then they’d formed a circle and danced round him. Ridiculous, but he’d almost cried.  Tris, the free-spirited, rag-rug boy had almost cried. He tried to hold his head up high as his grandmother had told him but it didn’t help. One of them spat directly in his face. “Pervert,” he shouted. They all started chanting: “Pervert  . . . pervert”.  There were lots of people in the street but no-one came to help him.

“You look a bit peaky Mr LeBrun. I’m going to make you a cup of tea,” said Marina, “and we’re going to get to the bottom of what’s been going on with these lads. We’re not stupid, Mr LeBrun. We need to sort this out.”

“No, please, Marina, let’s just leave it. It’s Saturday tomorrow and they’ll have got bored by next Monday. Shall we get on with Ronald Smith’s suit?”

But his heart wasn’t in it and a careless nick with his tailor’s scissors meant he wasted a piece of expensive material.

Saturday: White
His overwhelming impression was of white. White sheets, ill-fitting white gown of some sort of coarse fabric, too-bright white lights. It took him a while to focus on Marina and Chantelle at his bedside. There was another young woman too who he didn’t immediately recognise. Before he could say anything, a nurse loomed over him.  “Good, Thomas. You’re awake. Doctor will be along soon to have a chat but meanwhile drink this. It’ll help with the pain.”

“Excuse me nurse,” said Marina. “His name’s not Thomas Brown like it says over his bed. It’s Tristan LeBrun.”

But the nurse had moved on.

“Mr LeBrun . . .” It was Chantelle. “You were in a spot of bother last night going home. But they’ve got the little sods – pardon me – thanks to Lauren here.”

Of course, thought Tris. Lauren of the aquamarine satin.

“She heard them at the end of school planning to beat you up and she tried to tell a teacher but they told her it was none of her business. What happened after school was outside their control they said, so she rang 999 and when the police came she was able to give them the names of those little buggers – ‘scuse my French, Mr LeBrun.  She’s a real heroine this girl. No thought for her own safety.”

Tris tried to respond but the words stuck in his throat. He’d tried so hard to be himself as his grandmother had wanted but it just wasn’t working. There were too many mean people in the world.

He was aware that Marina was speaking again. “Are you really called Thomas Brown?”

He nodded.

“Well, we’re never ever going to call you that are we Chantelle? It doesn’t suit you.”

“No,” Chantelle replied. “Now you get better as soon as you can, Mr LeBrun. We need you back at work. Lauren here says her friends want to order dresses too, so chop chop.”

Yes, he thought. Lots of mean people. But lots of really kind people too.

And he owed it to them to get back to work as soon as he could.

Monday, two weeks later: Slashed Velour Tunic, Black Tights, Gothic Make-up

Christine says: I live in Gloucestershire and very much enjoy the lively writing environment of the county. I love the challenge of writing poetry and short stories – it’s safe to say that writing is a huge part of my life!