Granny chic

Separated from her grandmother by the lockdown, Lauren Bravo has found a unique way to stay connected

My granny turned 94 a few weeks ago. Two months older than the Queen, which she’d point out if she were with me. She isn’t, of course — she’s in a nursing home 60 kilometres away, although the distance hardly feels relevant anymore. Like so many thousands of people with loved ones in lockdown, I have no idea when I’ll see her again. I can’t bring myself to write “if.”

Physically, she’s sturdy. After she survived cancer twice in her 80s, I’ve always fondly referred to her as a tough old bird. But right now she’s confused, mostly oblivious to what’s going on beyond her curtains (despite protests, she likes to keep them drawn to watch TV) and too deaf and befuddled for proper phone conversations. I can’t FaceTime or text her. I can only imagine her as she looks in my head, and always will — lipstick on, matching jewelry, leopard-print shawl on her knees.

And I can wear her clothes, although not with the same flair she would. An old sweater, a coat, a ring. A scarf I’ve taken to wearing around my head, Rosie the Riveter-style, with overalls, which is reference dressing verging on cartoonish. Given the circumstances, I’ve never been more glad to have little pieces of her in my wardrobe.

“Granny chic” is a long-standing joke in the fashion world; it’s how we summed up the period in the mid-Noughties, when the coolest thing to wear to a club was a cable-knit cardigan and a pair of oversize glasses on a chain. But my fascination with seniors’ wardrobes transcends irony and fashion; it goes back as far as I can remember.

My two grandmothers lived opposite each other on the same street. They spent Sundays together, went on bus trips, enjoyed a friendly rivalry when it came to seeing who could stuff their grandchildren the most — and they both really, really loved clothes.

Nanny was a flame-haired glamazon, never knowingly under-accessorized, who delighted in the trappings of elegance of times long past; dress gloves, handkerchiefs, hats. Dainty pairs of heels that I would struggle to cram my size sevens into. She died when I was 20, and I wore a fuchsia-pink vintage wiggle dress to her funeral, which felt scandalous, yet wholly appropriate. Afterward, I claimed one of her coats

— a glorious faux lamb with a furry, leonine collar — and have worn it every winter since. I’ve always wished she could have seen me in it. Perhaps she can.

With Granny, I’ve been luckier. Her feet are the same size as mine, for a start, and in her heyday her shoe racks were so comically laden that her family nickname was Imelda Marcos. She’s always been keen to pass on her treasures; to lend them out for fancy dress occasions and to announce with cheerful morbidity who would get what when she’s gone. Once, I admired a skirt she was wearing — a button-front ’80s midi in bright, splashy florals. She went upstairs, took it off and gave it to me.

And when she moved from her house to her care home aged 91, finally compliant after years of iron-willed resistance, I pilfered a few key gems in the clearout. Just as a stopped clock is right twice a day, so nine decades’ worth of fashion history will always throw up a few things that look so right just now. Her classic navy pea coat with shiny gold buttons and epaulettes became my take on the oversizeblazer trend. A kitsch chain-and-seashell print scarf was the perfect way to dip a toe in the craze for neckerchiefs and hair scarves. Her forest-green roll-neck sweatshirt became a wardrobe staple, especially since I chopped a foot off the bottom to make it fashionably cropped (she didn’t seem to mind). But while fashion has since moved on, I’m still wearing them all.

I don’t mean any of this to sound like I’m descended from a dowager countess. I’m not talking about Chanel suits and heirloom Hermès handbags. The sweater was probably from Marks & Spencer; the scarf is polyester, not silk. My favourite ring, a great nugget of an amethyst, was made for her 21st birthday out of her father’s best tiepin. Most of her clothes and shoes came from weekly trips to the resale shop, a passion I’ve inherited from multiple branches of my family tree: we all like a bargain.

But Granny knew the importance of caring for things well and investing in them for the long haul, whether they had financial value or just sentimental. Like so many women of her generation, to wear something once and then throw it away was unthinkable. Clothes were to be kept, looked after, altered, reinvented and worn, and worn and worn.

One of the most cherished pieces is a little handmade top dating from the late ’50s. My mom remembers her wearing it on the beach every summer, bombshell pin curls set just-so. Last year I wore it on the beach with a pair of cut-off vintage Levis. I showed her the photo, and it prompted — as photos often do with her — a lengthy monologue of old stories, some well-worn and some surprising. It’s as though the anecdotes sit half buried in her memory, just waiting for something to dust off a top layer of sand.

Many of us probably don’t look through elderly relatives’ wardrobes until it’s a sad, posthumous chore, but I’ve discovered how much nicer it is to do it while people are around to see their archive live on. To spread the love and purpose of those garments around a little more.

While there’s a smugness in telling people where each of my hand-me-downs came from (“Oh, this old thing?”), by far the best thing is being able to pass the compliments back to Granny and give her sartorial history a new lease on life.

And it’s my biggest comfort, just now. To be connected to her by a thread, or by many. As I write this it’s a beautiful day, all blue skies and blossom. I went for my daily walk at seven o’clock this morning, wearing her coat, and it felt comforting against the chill spring breeze. I’m wearing the sweater now, softened through decades of washes. I hope, in a few months, I’ll be able to call her and tell her that I’m lying in my yard, wearing the beach top she made more than half a century ago. I hope she’ll remember, and understand. But for now, I only hope she has her curtains open to see the sunshine.

IT’S MY BIGGEST COMFORT, JUST NOW. TO BE CONNECTED TO HER BY A THREAD, OR BY MANY.

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