A French-made blue cotton twill double-breasted work jacket, thought to date from around the 1940s.
A special piece has come in.
At the left breast, "BARONNET.A" and "396" embroidered in red thread.
Whose jacket this once was remains plainly upon it.
In the France of the day, there was a custom of stitching on one's own name or number when handing work clothes over to a factory or a communal wash-house, so that they would not be mixed up.
"BARONNET" is the surname and "A" the initial of the given name. And "396" is, in all likelihood, the number allotted at the wash-house.
What is interesting is that another small tag is stitched inside at the hem.
That one carries the letters "G.B." and "27". Which is to say that this jacket has, in all likelihood, passed through at least two pairs of hands.
Someone wore it eighty years ago, it passed to somebody else, and now here it is.
The moments that quicken the pulse most in dealing with vintage may well be these.
And the form, too, is one of the destinations that anyone fond of French workwear longs for.
Two rows of buttons running down the front: the so-called "double-breasted" specification.
Double-breasted coveralls themselves turn up on the market often enough, but almost all of them are pieces of the 1950s and 60s.
Go back earlier than that, in cotton twill, and unexpectedly few survive.
Clues that speak to the date are to be found throughout the details.
First, the collar, cut large and round.
The soft curve of its taken-off corners is a device common to French workwear of the older years, turning more towards the straight as the decades pass.
And then the back.
A back yoke describing a wide arc curves around beneath the shoulder blades.
It is a seam for securing the range of movement of the arms, but drawing so smooth a curve demands work in both the pattern and the sewing, and in later years it was simplified into a straight yoke.
The shoulder seams, too, are set slightly towards the back.
This is a practice of the older tailoring, following the plain fact that the human body moves forwards, and pieces that have it sit remarkably well across the back when worn.
There is one pocket at the left breast and one at each hip.
No ornament whatever; only as many as are needed, placed where they are needed.
The buttons have a story of their own.
Lined up along the front are a metal button, a faded brown corozo button, and a black button.
The materials and colours are gloriously mismatched, which is nothing other than proof that each was replaced, as it was lost, with whatever came to hand.
That they do not match has become, in this piece, a virtue.
The fact that somebody went on wearing it while mending it is set out plainly, right along the front.
The cloth is a close-set cotton twill.
A twill that must once have been stiff and full of body has, after washing and wearing repeated more times than anyone could count, become astonishingly soft, settling smoothly into the hand.
Burnishing has come up white at the shoulders and sleeves, and a repair darned in blue thread remains at the hem of the back.
The colour is the ink blue that stands as the byword for French workwear.
The sun-struck parts have gone pale and dry, while the shadowed parts remain a deep indigo.
There is a range of light and dark within the single garment, and seen from the front and from the back it reads as an altogether different blue.
With just that one point of red embroidery set into it, the whole pulls sharply together — and there is even something rather endearing about it, don't you think.
I think it is best thrown lightly over a white shirt or a striped tee.
Black or ecru below is equally fine, but I would recommend combinations that let this blue take the lead.
There is no size marking, but in Japanese sizing it corresponds roughly to "XS~S".
It is a considerably compact make, cut to the build of the French of the period.
Both the width and the length are modest, so it should be just right for a man of smaller, slighter build, or for a woman.
There is wear — fading, soiling, traces of repair, replaced and missing buttons — but no significant damage that would affect wearing it, so there is a great deal of life in it yet.
Black stains and traces of white paint are scattered across the front, and some of the buttons are not the originals.
Yet start counting these as faults and I doubt half of this jacket's appeal would come across at all.
The cloth could perhaps still be woven today.
But the red name stitched at the breast, and the eighty years of somebody who went on wearing it while mending it — those cannot be bought.
I should be glad to hand it to whoever will take on the rest of that story.