A letter from a reader

At 67, I had not worn white in twenty years, and I could not tell you when I decided that

I will keep this simple, because writing does not come naturally to me. I have never put together anything like this in my life, and I have certainly never thought it my place to tell another woman what she ought to wear.

But three different women asked me about a jumper at Sunday lunch at the White Hart a fortnight ago, and I have now explained it enough times that it seemed easier to write it down properly.

It started when my sister June came up for the weekend. We were sat at my kitchen table and she had a white jumper on, and I heard myself say, well, I could never wear white. Not with the dog, not at my age, not with my luck with gravy. And June put her cup down and looked at me.

You do know you are allowed to wear white, Maggie.

I laughed it off at the time. But it stayed with me, because when I went upstairs later and opened the wardrobe, there was not one white thing in it. Navy, black, brown, grey. Twenty years of dressing, and somewhere in there I had crossed a whole colour off the list without ever once deciding to.

I do not think I am the only one. That is really why I am writing this.

How it happens

Nobody sits down one morning and decides to stop wearing white. It goes quietly, one sensible choice at a time.

You are told it shows every mark. You are told it is asking for trouble with a dog in the house and grandchildren at the table. You are told it washes badly, that it goes grey, that it is a colour for women with nothing to do all day. Some of that came from our mothers, and the shops finished the job, because when they cut white at all they cut it thin and skimpy for the young.

So you take the navy one to the till instead. It is fine. Navy is always fine. Nobody says anything, which is rather the point.

And twenty years later your sister has to tell you, at your own kitchen table, that you are still allowed a colour you never actually gave up on. It was given up for you.

What I had wrong

Here is the bit I got most wrong, and it took me until this month to see it.

It was never white that was the problem. It was the whites I had tried. Thin, plain, precious things that showed everything precisely because there was nothing to them, and that made me feel like I was wearing a tablecloth I was not allowed to touch.

A soft white with some texture to it is a different thing entirely. This one has little squares of texture worked all over it, and a few smart black ones scattered in between, and that changes everything. It does not read as precious. It does not read as plain. It reads as a decision. And a jumper you can be comfortable in stops being a colour you are frightened of and starts being the nicest thing in the wardrobe.

The jumper is called the Elke

It is from Manchester Boutique, a small British boutique that has been quietly dressing women our age for a few years now.

The jumper is called the Elke. A soft white with a classic round neck, a relaxed cut, and those textured squares with the black ones in between, so there is something to look at without it shouting. They do it in a black and a soft yellow as well, which I will come back to.

It is soft and it breathes, which matters more than I expected now the mornings have turned. The cut is relaxed and it skims rather than clings, and nothing about it feels restrictive when you sit down to eat. And the round neck sits properly on its own, or takes a scarf over the top without any fuss when it gets colder.

That is really all there is to it. It is not complicated. It is just a jumper that somebody thought about.

What happened at the White Hart

I wore it for the first time to Sunday lunch at the White Hart, with my navy trousers and my good earrings. June was down again, which felt right, since it was her doing.

Three women asked me about it before the plates were cleared. Three. One of them was Sylvia, who I have known for thirty years and who does not hand out compliments, and she told me white suited me, as if she was rather surprised about it. I have decided to take that as a compliment.

What I noticed more than the compliments, though, was that I forgot I had it on. I did not spend the meal holding my sleeve away from the gravy or dabbing at myself with a napkin. I sat, I ate a full roast, and I thought about the conversation instead of the jumper.

The next morning I put it straight back on to take the dog across the field, and felt completely myself in it. That is the rarest sort of jumper. The one that does a Sunday lunch and a muddy field in the same weekend and feels right in both.

Three things I have learned since

One. It goes with everything I own. Jeans, skirts, my navy trousers, the lot. Twenty years of dark bottoms turn out to be exactly what a white jumper was waiting for, which is a joke at my own expense I am still enjoying.

Two. The neck is right. A proper classic round neck that sits where it should on its own, and leaves room for a scarf when the weather turns. No gaping, no strangling, no fiddling with it in the car mirror.

Three. Comfort is the whole trick. It is soft against the skin and the relaxed cut does not pin you anywhere, and because of that you stand differently in it. Half of what I thought was white not suiting me was just me being rigid in things I was afraid to mark.

About the price

I want to be straightforward about this, because it was the thing that made me suspicious.

The Elke is £26.95. It was £54.00.

My first thought, honestly, was that there had to be a catch, because you can walk into any high street shop and pay more than that for a plain jumper with a lot less thought in it.

There is no catch that I have found. They are a small boutique selling directly, so there is no department store taking a cut in the middle, and they have a sale on at the moment.

I did what I imagine you are doing now and went and read the reviews before I ordered. Just over three hundred of them, sitting at 4.2 stars. Not the suspiciously perfect five you see on some websites, which if I am honest made me trust it rather more. One woman from Penrith had written, “Ordered the white expecting to regret it and it has barely been off my back. Lovely and soft and it does not cling anywhere.” That was the one that decided it for me.

Then I ordered the yellow one as well.

What I would tell you if we were friends

If you and I were sat at my kitchen table with the pot between us, this is what I would say.

If there is a colour you have not worn in twenty years, ask yourself whether you ever actually decided that, or whether it was decided around you, one sensible warning at a time. Because I did not miss white until it was back on, and then I realised I had missed it a great deal.

Not because a jumper changes your life. It does not. But there is something in catching sight of yourself in a colour you were told was not for you, and looking right in it, that I had quietly given up on, and I would rather you did not give up on it too.

Two practical things. The sale is on at the moment, and the first autumn stock is already going, which I found out because I went back for the yellow and had to wait on it. If you are tempted, sooner is better than later.

I wore white on Sunday, and the sky did not fall.

Maggie