A pair of indigo hemp linen cross-belt work trousers, made in France, which we date to around the 1940s.
A special piece has come in.
"So such a thing exists" — that was my first reaction.
I have seen French vintage trousers beyond counting, but I must admit I have never before come across a pair with a cross belt at the waist.
A construction that crosses over at the front of the waist and fastens there, calling to mind Gurkha trousers. And it appears on a French garment, on workwear at that.
The dealer we bought from stated it was French-made. But the specification is so seldom seen that it may have been born in some tailor's workshop, or from somebody's own hands.
There is nothing to compare it against. So in all honesty, we do not even hold a measure by which to judge how rare this pair might be.
There are neither belt loops nor brace buttons, and the front is a button fly.
From these elements, we place the period at around the 1940s.
Now, let us look at the details.
The waist takes two pleats.
For trousers of this period, two pleats is a considerably lavish way of building them.
Firmly folded pleats at the front create the volume from waist to thigh, letting the cloth fall without tracing the line of the leg.
And then the cross belt at the heart of it.
Self-fabric straps extend from either side, cross at the front of the waist and fasten with hardware. Rusted fittings and a small loop.
One of the fasteners is a metal button with a four-leaf motif in relief, on which traces of blue paint and red-brown rust live side by side — a genuinely fine sight.
A small coin pocket sits at the right of the waist.
At the back, welted pockets with button fastenings on both sides.
The inside of the waistband is faced in unbleached cotton, a beautiful contrast against the deep indigo outside.
The hems are turned up.
That is a finish that folds the cloth back on itself in a double layer, and this thickness puts weight at the feet, tethering the lightness of the linen to the ground.
The material is hemp linen.
Look closely and the yarn is not uniform in thickness. Slubs rise here and there, and irregular shadows form within the weave.
An expression close to handwork, which no machine could produce.
And the hand. There is that distinctive drape peculiar to French linen, which seems to quiver as it moves.
Stiff, yet supple. Lift it and the cloth undulates; set it down and it falls quietly.
Against the skin it is cool, and you can see at once that this was a cloth made on the assumption of being worn in summer.
Linen is a material that grows softer the more it is worn.
What begins as a firm, springy response drops into softness with each washing, and your own creases enter behind the knee and around the hips. That after eighty years there should still be room to grow is, I think, the formidable thing about this cloth.
The colour is "indigo".
Not merely navy.
Indigo as a dye has the property of remaining on the surface rather than penetrating to the core of the fibre.
So white shows through where it has rubbed, colour lifts along the creases, and the depth changes from plane to plane.
This pair is exactly so: surfaces catching the light turn a bright blue, while parts falling into shadow sink to a deep navy like night.
Indigo-dyed pieces are few in French vintage to begin with, and this is a pair we can only rarely secure.
The silhouette is a straight cut, not overly wide.
A shape that falls honestly.
With this colour and this material, white or unbleached above will look best. A linen shirt, a cotton T-shirt, a loosely knitted jumper. Build the outfit on the affinity between materials and it will come together.
At the feet, sandals or leather shoes alike.
A length that leaves the turn-ups visible suits this pair well.
Whether or not there is one pair of deep indigo linen in a summer wardrobe.
That alone should change the range of choices open to you in the hot season considerably.
There is no size marking, but I should say they correspond to roughly a Japanese "S to M".
Being a cross-belt specification with neither belt loops nor brace buttons, there is almost no scope for adjusting the waist.
We recommend them only to those for whom the measurements are an exact fit. Put the other way: if the size suits you, this is a pair that will not disappoint.
There are marks of use — soiling, fraying, tears, traces of repair — but no major damage that would impede wearing, so there is plenty of life in them yet.
All of these marks are equally proof that this pair actually worked, was mended, and worked again.
Whether you take that as character or as a fault will vary from person to person, so please examine the condition photographs carefully before deciding.
Having nothing to compare against is something that happens from time to time in this trade.
By whom, and where, this pair was made, and why the choice of a cross belt was arrived at — there is most likely no longer anyone holding the answer.
Yet looking at the two straps crossing at the waist, one comes to feel that there was certainly a moment when whoever made them thought, "this way works better".
Eighty years on, that judgement still holds perfectly good.
Someone's ingenuity reaches us across time.
In the end, that is what I find most interesting about handling old clothes.