A Disappointing Telephone Call

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Lettice is sitting at her Hepplewhite desk next to the fire in her drawing room. Across it she has open a book of modern interpretations of folk art, a title that she has only recently picked up from her father’s favourite bookshop, Mahew’s* in Charing Cross Road. She has recently accepted a commission to redecorate the St. John’s Wood dining room of friends of hers, Charles and Minnie Palmerston, after Minnie papered the room in fashionable, but totally unsuitable, wallpaper. Charles and Minnie want a modern look to go with their modern art, so Lettice is hoping to gain some inspiration about wall treatments from the book. The colours and patterns she sees are beautiful, but nothing catches her eye as she flips though the pages. Suddenly her thoughts are interrupted by a noisy jangling.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

The telephone in the drawing room starts ringing.

 

Edith, Lettice’s maid looks through from the adjoining dining room where she is dusting. “That infernal contraption!” she mutters to herself.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“Oh Edith, be a brick and get that, would you.” Lettice calls sweetly to her maid, spying her through the open double doors.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“I think it would be better if you answered it, Miss.” Edith says doubtfully.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“Nonsense, it might be someone I might not want to be at home to. You answer it.” She waves her hand dismissively at the telephone and turns back to her book, before she continues to flip through it in a desultory fashion.

 

Edith walks in and up to the black japanned occasional table upon which the silver and Bakelite telephone continues to trill loudly.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“I know you don’t like it, Edith, but any household you work in will have one now, so you may as well get used to it.” Lettice says in a matter-of-fact way. “Just pick it up and answer it, Edith. “

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“I should pull your chord out next time I’m Hoovering.” Edith mutters. “Let’s hear you ring then!”

 

Edith hates answering the telephone. It’s one of the few jobs in her position as Lettice’s maid that she wishes she didn’t have to do. Whenever she has to answer it, which is quite often considering how frequently her mistress is out and about, there is usually some uppity caller at the other end of the phone, whose toffee-nosed accent only seems to sharpen when they realise they are speaking to ‘the hired help’ as they abruptly demand Lettice’s whereabouts.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

Smoothing her suddenly clammy hands down the apron covering her print morning dress she answers with a slight quiver to her voice, “Mayfair 432, the Honourable Miss Lettice Chetwynd’s residence.” Her whole body clenches and she closes her eyes as she waits for the barrage of anger from some duchess or other titled lady, affronted at having to address the maid. A distant male voice speaks down the line. “Oh Mr. Spencely, how do you do. Yes, this is Edith, Miss Chetwynd’s maid.”

 

“Selwyn!” Lettice squeaks excitedly. She waves anxiously to catch Edith’s attention. “Bring it over here!” she hisses, gesticulating enthusiastically to her maid to drag the phone across the drawing room.

 

“Oh, I’m not sure, Mr. Spencley,” Edith says with a cheeky smile playfully curling up the corners of her mouth. “I’ll just check and see whether she is in.”

 

Edith walks over to Lettice’s desk slowly, swaying her hips as she goes, dragging the white and black houndstooth flex behind her.

 

“Oh you!” Lettice mouths as she takes the receiver from her maid’s hand as Edith puts the base of the telephone on the desk next to Lettice’s silver roller.

 

With her amusement over, Edith retreats quickly through the green baize door, back to the kitchen, to give her mistress the privacy she deserves.

 

“Selwyn darling!” Lettice exclaims down the receiver. “What a lovely surprise! How are you?”

 

“I’m fit as a fiddle my Angel,” Selwyn’s voice calls down the phone over the constant pop of crackling. “How are you?”

 

“Never better.”

 

“I say, I do hope I haven’t caught you at an inopportune moment.”

 

“No, no,” she assures him. “Not at all! As a matter of fact you’re a lovely distraction. I’ve just taken on a new commission to decorate my friend Minnie’s dining room, and nothing is inspiring me. Perhaps you’ll help inspire me.”

 

“Well that’s good, my Angel.” he replies, his voice crackling with static.

 

“I say, where are you, Selwyn darling? You sound rather faint. You’re not at your club, are you? This line is quite dreadful.”

 

The line falls silent for a few moments as Lettice holds her breath.

 

“I’m at Clendon**,” he finally answers laconically.

 

“Clendon?” She pauses. “You haven’t forgotten that Priscilla and Georgie’s wedding is on Wednesday***, have you? Are you going to drive down from Buckinghamshire to London?” When there is no reply to her questions, just the constant crackle of the line, Lettice asks again, “Are you sure you’re alright, Selwyn darling.”

 

“Listen my Angel, I have to tell you something.”

 

Lettice swallows awkwardly as her joyful mood at talking to Selwyn suddenly dissipates and a roiling starts twisting her stomach.

 

“I’m so sorry, Lettice darling, but I can’t attend the wedding with you like we’d planned.”

 

“What?” Lettice asks as she feels the colour drain from her face. “Not come?”

 

“No. You see, I’m afraid that Zinnia has made some alternate arrangements that I didn’t know about. My Uncle Bertrand and Aunt Rosalind, the Fox-Chavers, are visiting Clendon for a week, and they’ve brought their daughter, my cousin Pamela. She is going to debut next year, and, well, I’ve been charged by Zinnia to help chaperone Pamela in the 1923 Season. I haven’t seen her since we were children together, rather like you and I. Zinna has organised this week for us to get to know one another again, so that I can do my duty and be a good chaperone. I’m so sorry.”

 

Lettice feels the stinging in the backs of her eyes, as tears threaten to spill from her lids.

 

“Couldn’t you… couldn’t you just….”

 

“Look it’s no good, my Angel.” Selwyn cuts her off. “Zinnia has packed the week with all sorts of outings and excursions, luncheons and the like. You know there is nothing I would rather do than spend a wonderful afternoon with you, but you must understand, this is my duty. What kind of Duke will I be if I don’t fulfil my duties?”

 

As the dam breaks and the tears spill from her eyes and silently cascade down her cheeks, Lettice longs to ask Selwyn about his duty to her, but good breeding and an upbringing of etiquette doesn’t allow her to speak her unvoiced question.

 

“Of course.” she manages to utter in a strangled voice. “You must… you must do your duty to your cousin. You’re such a… such a gentleman,” The word feels hollow as she speaks it from her suddenly dry mouth. “So gallant. That’s one of the many reasons why I like you… Selwyn darling.” She tries to take a deep breath, but can only manage shallow ones, feeling as though she is wearing one of her pre-war whalebone corsets. “No wonder… Zinnia wants you to chaperone her. Who else in London society cold she trust when it comes to… to gentlemen?”

 

There is silence broken only intermittently by the crackling in the lines for a short while before Selwyn speaks again.

 

“Look, I know you’re disappointed….”

 

“It’s quite alright, Selwyn darling.” she cuts him off, glad that he is not before her now, where her face will give away the lie in her words and tone. “Don’t worry, I’ll get Gerald to escort me.”

 

The fact is that Gerald is a friend of Priscilla’s as well, and been invited to the wedding himself.

 

“Good old Bruton.” Selwyn replies with a sigh of relief. “Always so reliable.”

 

“Yes, he’s a good companion, and he… he always enjoys a good meal and some champagne at… at someone else’s expense.”

 

The words sound hollow as she speaks them down the line, even though the tone is a falsely cheerful one. Once again there is momentary silence.

 

“I promise I’ll make it up to you, my angel.” Selwyn says. “I really would rather be with you than Pamela, whom I barely know.” He sounds genuinely sad, although in her state of sudden disappointment, Lettice half wonders if she is imagining it, or willing it to be so. “As soon as this wretched week of entertaining is over, I’ll be back in London and we’ll have dinner. Simpson’s maybe?”

 

“Yes… yes that would be lovely, Selwyn darling.” She struggles to swallow. “You, you just let me know. I’m not going down to Glynes any time soon, and what with this new commission, I’ll be quite tied up here in London for ages.”

 

“That’s the spirit, my Angel!”

 

There is a whining call in the background at Selwyn’s end.

 

“Oh! That’s Zinnia!” There is a sudden urgency in his voice, almost as if he is frightened of getting caught out doing something wrong. “Look, I snuck into father’s study to make this call, and I’ve been missed. I really must go! I’ll speak to you next week, my Angel. Pip-pip****!”

 

“Pip-pip, then…” Lettice begins, yet already she is saying goodbye to nothing but dead air.

 

Deflated, Lettice hangs up the receiver in the cradle of the telephone where it makes a clunking, muffled ding. It is only then that she finally allows herself to vice her cries as she allows them to spill forth from within her, like the tears that dampen her cheeks as they run in rivulets down ger face.

 

*A. H. Mayhew was once one of many bookshops located in London’s Charring Cross Road, an area still famous today for its bookshops, perhaps most famously written about by American authoress Helene Hanff who wrote ’84, Charing Cross Road’, which later became a play and then a 1987 film starring Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins. Number 56. Charing Cross Road was the home of Mayhew’s second-hand and rare bookshop. Closed after the war, their premises is now the home of Any Amount of Books bookshop.

 

**Clendon is the family seat of the Duke and Duchess of Walmsford in Buckinghamshire.

 

***Wednesdays were the most popular days for couples to get married in the 1920s. This is due to an old English wedding superstition very popular at the time. An auspicious rhyme from English folklore rules: “Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday best of all, Thursday for losses, Friday for crosses, Saturday for no luck at all”.

 

****Pip-pip, that particularly cheery of old-fashioned British farewells, is said to have been formed in imitation of the sound made by a car horn and first came into vogue in the early 1920s after the Great War.

 

For anyone who follows my photostream, you will know that I collect and photograph 1:12 size miniatures, so although it may not necessarily look like it, but this cluttered desk is actually covered in 1:12 size artisan miniatures and the desk itself is too. All are from my collection of miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Lettice’s Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair are beautifully and artfully made by J.B.M. miniatures. Both the bureau and chair are made of black japanned wood which have been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the arms of the chair and inside the bureau. The chair set has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven.

 

The book of folk art open on Lettice’s desk is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. It is a German edition called “Moderner Volkunst Zierat” (“Modern Folk Art Ornament”) by P. Siegel, consisting of ornament designs from the 1920s printed by the pochoir stencilling technique. You can see images of the illustrations faithfully reproduced in 1:12 size by Ken Blythe here: bibliodyssey.blogspot.com/2012/11/moderner-volkskunst-zie.... Most of the books I own that Ken Blythe has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. Therefore, it is a pleasure to give you a glimpse inside one of the books he has made. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into this volume, it contains twelve double sided pages of illustrations and it measures twenty-three millimetres in height thirty three millimetres in width and is only two millimetres thick. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just one of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame. The latter comes from Doreen Jenkins’ Small Wonders Miniatures in England, whilst the other two come from Melody Jane Dolls’ House, also in England. The photos themselves are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

The black Bakelite and silver telephone is a 1:12 miniature of a model introduced around 1919. It is two centimetres wide and two centimetres high. The receiver can be removed from the cradle, and the curling chord does stretch out.

 

Also on the desk, are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles, a roller, a blotter and a letter opener, all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame.

 

The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Done