Gerry the tailor sat in his workshop steadily sewing. He was patching an old overcoat. His bright needle flashed like a tiny lightning spark streaking in and out of the thick material with swift unceasing movement. The tailor was famous for his repair work; the patches or alterations undetectable when he finished.

As he sowed Gerry hummed an old ballad – I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen; Kathleen being the name of his wife. Gerry did not make much money at his tailoring as most of his customers were as poor as was the tailor himself. He heard a cart rattle up outside and the door opened and in walked his friend Tommy Johnstone.

“Tommy you look as if your breakfast didn’t agree with you.”

“Ah, Gerry my eldest son Clive is dead.”

“That is terrible news.” Gerry put aside his work and went to a cupboard and took out a dark square bottle. He poured two measures of poteen and the men stood sipping the liquor and coughing slightly as the raw spirits caught in their throats. Gerry offered his friend a Woodbine and they stood smoking and drinking.

“That’s not the worst of it,” Tommy said, mournfully. “The priest won’t bury Clive because we’re not chapel.”

“Damn their mortal souls, there’s nothing as heartless as a pious priest.”

“What am I going to do, Gerry? I have poor Clive outside in the cart. I brought him into town to the chapel but they sent me away.”

“You can’t leave him out in the cold. Bring him in.” The pair carried in the body wrapped in its shroud. Clive was quite stiff and the workshop being small Gerry stood him upright against the fireplace.

“Leave Clive with me for now,” he told his friend. “We’ll have a think as to what to do.”

That afternoon a customer came in with a bolt of cloth and asked the tailor to make him a suit for his son’s wedding. “I’ll need to measure him,” Gerry told him. 

The customer pointed to the corpse propped against the fireplace. “He’s about the same size as that tailor’s dummy there.”

Gerry worked steadily all day and by night-time the suit was almost finished. Next morning he fitted the garments on the dead youth to make sure the suit hung right.

“A perfect fit, Clive,” Gerry exclaimed. “I’m sure you were never so well dressed in your poor short life.”

The sudden commotion outside drew his attention but when he realized it was the army on its regular recruiting drive he carried on working. There was a banging on the door and the soldiers barged inside.

“Recruits for the king. A shilling a day and all the grub you can eat.” Gerry had no qualms about being dragooned as he was too old for active service.

“Ah,” roared the sergeant, “that’s a fine young fella there.”

The tailor tried to protest but was brushed aside and two burly soldiers grabbed Clive and hustled him outside. They hurled him into a cart along with the rest of the unwilling recruits who being kindly fellows and thinking Clive was stiff with fright they tried to comfort him and sat him up amongst them. On arrival at the barracks the sergeants roared at the youngsters to step smart and line up for inspection. When the carriage was vacated one recruit remained inside.

“Get that malinger out of there. On the double.” The soldiers jumped up and grabbing Clive flung him out of the cart where he lay unmoving. A big brute of a sergeant kicked the inert body.

“On your feet, ye chancer. There’s no room for shirkers in the King’s army.” The sergeant bent and grabbed the corpse by the hair and pulled the head around. “By the Lord Almighty, the bugger is dead,” he exclaimed.

It was not long before the sergeant was summoned before the officers over the affair. “This is a terrible scandal. A man dies on his first day. What are we going to do?” They put their heads together and came up with solution they thought would suit everyone.

Gerry was working away, worrying how he was going to tell his friend he had mislaid his son’s corpse and wondering also what excuses he could make to the man who ordered the suit for his son’s wedding when Tommy walked in carrying a kitbag. He looked rather dazed as he handed Gerry a letter embossed with the royal insignia.

“Read that.”

“Dear Mr Johnstone we regretfully have to inform you, your son was killed in action. Right up to the last he was extremely brave and died a hero. He will be buried with full military honours and a pension will be accredited to his family as compensation for his loss.”

“This is all a complete mystery,” Tommy said. “The army have even sent me his belongings. There’s a new suit in there. I’ve no idea where it came from but I thought you might be able to sell it. Will you come with me to the burial service?”

“Of course, I’ll get my coat.”

The door opened and Gerry’s customer walked in.

“Is my son’s suit ready?” he asked. “The wedding is Saturday.”

# # #

Philip McCormac writes for Black Horse Westerns and Pioneering Press. He has also published crime thrillers, historical thrillers, supernatural thrillers as well as short stories in various genres. Philip was born in Northern Ireland. He lives with his wife in Leicestershire.