Christmas Present for Ken! Christmas Present for Ken!

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.

 

Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat, and whilst we have not travelled that far physically across London, the tough streets and blind alleys of Poplar in London’s East End is a world away from Lettice’s rarefied and privileged world. We have come to the home of Lettice’s charwoman*, Mrs. Boothby, where we find ourselves in the cheerful kitchen cum living room of her tenement in Merrybrook Place: by her own admission, a haven of cleanliness amidst the squalor of the surrounding neighbourhood. Edith, Lettice’s maid, is visiting her Cockney friend and co-worker on a rather impromptu visit, much to the surprise of the old char when she answered the timid knock on her door on a quiet Sunday morning in early January and found Edith standing on her stoop, wrapped up against the winter cold in her black three quarter length coat – a remodelled piece picked up cheaply by the young maid from a Petticoat Lane** second-hand clothes stall, improved with the addition of a black velvet collar.

 

“Edith dearie!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims in delight and one of her fruity smokers’ coughs, a lit hand rolled cigarette in her right hand releasing a thin trail of greyish white smoke into the atmosphere. “What a luverly surprise! Whatchoo doin’ ‘ere then?”

 

“I’m sorry to pay a call unannounced, Mrs. Boothby, and I know you said I shouldn’t come here unescorted.” Edith apologises sheepishly.

 

“Not at all, dearie!” the old Cockney assures her, stepping back and opening the door to grant Edith entry. “That were ‘bout comin’ ere when it’s getting’ dark. Nastiness lurks and dwells in the shadows round these parts, but durin’ the day, so long as you ‘old onto yer ‘andbag and are aware of pickpockets, you’re pretty safe.” She stuffs the nearly spent cigarette into her mouth. “Come on in wiv ya. Can’t ‘ave you standin’ on the stoop in the cold. Got a nice fire goin’ inside to warm you up.”

 

“Thank you Mrs. Boothby.” Edith says gratefully.

 

Mrs. Boothby gives a hard stare over Edith’s shoulder as she ushers her in, glancing at the dirty lace scrim curtains of Mrs. Friedmann’s lamplit front window opposite, where she knows instinctively the nosy Jewess stands in her usual spot in one of her paisley shawls, observing the goings on of the rookery*** with dark and watchful eyes. “Piss off, Mrs. Friedmann!” Mrs. Boothby yells out vehemently across the paved court to her neighbour. “My guests ain’t none of your business, you busybody old Yid****!” She spits the cigarette butt she holds between her gritted tea and nicotine stained teeth out into the courtyard, and watches with satisfaction as the grubby and tattered scrim flutters. She turns her attentions back to Edith and says kindly, “Come on in, dearie.”

 

It takes a moment for Edith’s eyes to adjust from the weak winter light outside to the darkness within. As they do, Edith discerns the familiar things within the tenement front room that she has come to know over her occasional visits since befriending the charwoman who does all the hard graft for her at Cavendish Mews: a kitchen table not too unlike her own at the Mayfair flat, a couple of sturdy ladderback chairs, an old fashioned black leaded stove, a rudimentary trough sink on bricks in the corner of the room and Mrs. Boothby’s pride and joy, her dresser covered in a collection of pretty ornamental knick-knacks she has collected over many years. The thick red velvet curtains hanging over the windows – doubtless a remnant discarded by one of her employers last century – are drawn against the cold, their thick material performing an excellent job in excluding the draughts coming in through the small gaps around the shoddy and worn wooden window frames.

 

Mrs. Boothby shivers. “It’s a bit cold out there this mornin’, but the ‘ouse is nice and warm. I got the range goin’, Edith dearie.” the old Cockney woman says as she pulls a heavy tapestry curtain along a brass rail over the front door. The eyelets***** make a sharp squeal as she does, startling Edith. Mistaking the reason for the young woman’s head turn, Mrs. Boothby remarks, “Luverly, ain’t it?” She holds the heavily hand embroidered fabric proudly. “Got it from old Lady Pembroke-Duttson, a lady I used to do for in Westminster, ‘till ‘er ‘ouse burnt dahwn in November that is. This ‘ere were one of ‘er old bed curtains from ‘er fancy four poster. Got it in the fire sale of ‘er leftovers.” When Ediths eyes grow wide, Mrs. Boothby adds, “Oh don’t worry dearie. She ain’t perished in ‘er own fire! She lives at Artillery Mansions****** nahw, but they’s got their own live in staff to maintain the flats, so I don’t do for ‘er no more. But bein’ as she moved somewhere new and smaller, and wiv so many fings from ‘er old ‘ouse damaged by the fire, she ‘ad a fire sale and sold orf a lot of stuff that was still serviceable that she didn’t want no more. It’s good at keepin’ the draughts out. Pity the matchin’ ‘angin’ was burned up by the fire. I rather fancy smart matchn’ curtains for the windas, but you can’t ‘ave everyfink, can ya? It did pong a bit of fire smoke at first, but my cookin’ and fags soon put short shrift ta that!” She nods curtly, lifting the curtain fabric to her nose and taking a loud sniff.

 

“Oh Mrs. Boothby!” Edith laughs heartily. “You are a one!”

 

“I know dearie, an’ it made you smile. I like it when youse smile, dearie.” The old woman joins in Edith’s laugh, releasing another of her fruity coughs as she bustles past Edith. “Nahw, you know where ta ‘ang up your coat ‘n ‘at. I’ll put the kettle on for a nice cup of Rosie-Lee*******, if this is a social call, that is.”

 

“Oh yes, thank you, Mrs. Boothby. That would be lovely.” Edith replies as she shucks herself out of her coat and hangs it on a peg by the front door. “Yes, I’ve been to services this morning already.”

 

Edith is comforted by the smells of soap and the lavender sachets Mrs. Boothby has hanging from the heavy velvet curtains to keep away the moths, the smells from the communal privy at the end of the rookery, and to a degree the cloying scent of tobacco smoke from her constant smoking.

 

“Good. Nahw, make yerself comfy at the table.”

 

“I’ll fetch down some cups.” Edith replies cheerfully.

 

“Oh you are a good girl, ‘elpin’ me out, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says gratefully, emitting another couple of heavy coughs as she stretches and pulls down the fine blue and white antique porcelain teapot she reserves for when guest come to call from the tall mantle shelf of the old fireplace out of which the old Victorian black leaded stove protrudes.

 

“Miss Eadie!” Ken, Mrs. Boothby’s mature aged disabled son, gasps in surprised delight.

 

Edith looks affectionately across the room to the messy bed nestled in the corner of Mrs. Boothby’s kitchen cum living room upon which Ken sits. Not unlike a nest would be for a baby bird, Ken’s bed is his safe place, and he is surrounded on the crumpled bedclothes by his beloved worn teddy bear, floppy stuffed rabbit and a selection of Beatrix Potter books. A gormless grin spreads across his childlike innocent face as he stumbles quickly off the bed and brushes his trousers down.

 

“Yes, it’s Miss Eadie, Ken!” his mother says brightly. “She come visitin’ us all the way from Mayfair.”

 

“Miss Eadie!” Ken exclaims again as, still clutching his teddy bear, he lollops across the room, enveloping Edith in his big, warm embrace. He smells of a mixture of cigarette smoke and the carbolic soap Mrs. Boothby uses to wash him and his clothes. A tall and muscular man in his mid-forties, his embrace quickly starts to squeeze the air from Edith’s lungs as his grasp grows tighter, making the poor girl gasp.

 

“Nah! Nah!” Mrs. Boothby chides, turning away from the stove quickly and giving her son a gentle slap to the forearm. “What do I keep tellin’ you, Ken! You dunno ya own strengf, son. Let poor Miss Eadie go will ya. You’ll crush ‘er wiv your bear ‘ug.” She emits another fruity cough as she gives him a stern look.

 

“Oh! Sorry!” Ken apologises, immediately releasing Edith from his embrace and backing away as if he’d been burned, a sheepish look on his face.

 

“It’s alright, Ken.” Edith replies breathily. “They might be crushing… but I like… your hugs.”

 

“Good!” he says definitely, the gormless grin creeping back into his face and turning up the ends of his mouth.

 

“You want some tea too, Ken luv?” Mrs. Boothby asks her son.

 

“Yes please Ma!” he replies.

 

“Good lad. Nice to ‘ear your good manners bein’ used.” she acknowledges. “Then sit dahwn at the table wiv Miss Eadie and I’ll make you a cup.”

 

Obediently, Ken takes a seat at the deal pine table on a low stool, leaving the two chairs drawn up to it for his mother and Edith as their special guest. He holds his teddy bear in front of him and looks intently at Edith. “Present!”

 

“What?” Mrs. Boothby asks, turning again to look at her son.

 

“Present!” Ken repeats, bouncing excitedly in his seat and gesticulating to a neat parcel wrapped up in brown paper and tied with blue and white twine which Edith has placed on the surface of the table. “Present, Ma!”

 

“What I tell you ‘bout pointin’, Ken!” Mrs. Boothby scolds her son. Then turning her attentions to where Ken is indicating she adds. “Just ‘cos somefink’s wrapped up in brown paper an’ tied up wiv a string don’t mean it’s a present for ya, son.”

 

“Christmas present!” Ken says, now no longer pointing, but still bouncing excitedly on his stool.

 

Mrs. Boothby rolls her eyes and shakes her head, glancing first at Ken, then at Edith and then back to Ken. “Lawd love you son, Christmas is long past! Baby Jesus is sleepin’ and won’t be back ‘till next Christmas, I told you. And that’s a whole year away!”

 

“Christmas present, Ma!” Ken continues to repeat.

 

“You want brainin’ you do!” Mrs. Boothby chides Ken good naturedly. “Oh get on wiv ya, Ken!” She chuckles as she kindly tousles her son’s hair affectionately. “Youse fink ev’ry time Miss Eadie comes visitin’ us, she’s got a present for you.” She turns her attention to Edith. “I swear he finks every parcel wrapped up is for ‘im, Edith dearie, even when it’s the sausages I done picked up from the butcher on the cheap.”

 

“Sausages!” Ken gasps.

 

“Nah son!” Mrs. Boothby assures him. “Nah sausages today. Just bread ‘n drippin’********.” She eyes him and cocks an eyebrow, and Ken falls silent, although he continues to bounce up and down on the seat of the stool, albeit a little more calmly.

 

“Well as it turns out, Mrs. Boothby, Ken is right about this being a present for him.” Edith says, pushing the present slightly further across the table towards the disabled lad.

 

“See Ma!” Ken says triumphantly, leaping up from his seat and dancing around the stool, clutching his teddy bear in joy. “Christmas present. Christmas present for Ken! See Ma! See!”

 

“You what?” Mrs. Boothby asks sharply.

 

“Ken’s right, Mrs. Boothby,” Edith says loudly over Ken’s joyful cries. “It is a present for him.”

 

“Christmas present. Christmas present for Ken! “ Ken continues to chant excitedly.

 

“Yes! Yes!” the old Cockney woman says, trying to calm her son with softening hand movements. “Alright Ken!” she insists. “I ‘eard you the first time. Youse can open your present in a minute, but first,” She eyes him seriously. “Youse gotta calm dahwn an’ let Miss Eadie and I ‘ave a cup of Rosie-Lee. Right?”

 

“Right Ma!” Ken replies, stopping his galumphing around the stool.

 

“You want a cuppa too, don’t choo, son?”

 

“Yes Ma!”

 

“Right, well.” Mrs. Boothby continues. “Best you sit dahwn ‘ere on the stool then, and wait, like a good lad. Eh?”

 

“Yes Ma!” Ken says as he returns obediently to the stool and clutches his teddy bear, trembling with excitement as he beadily keeps his eye on the package in the middle of the table, tantalisingly close enough for him to snatch.

 

“Right!” Mrs. Boothby says, filling the elegant blue and white teapot with hot water from her kettle.

 

Mrs. Boothby busies herself in the relative temporary calm of her kitchen, placing the pot on the table next to the brown paper wrapped parcel. She fills a dainty non matching blue and white jug with a splash of milk from a bottle she keeps in the coolest corner of her tenement, underneath the trough sink. She places the jug on the table along with a small sugar bowl of blue and white porcelain of a different pattern again, its lid missing, which is probably the reason why the old Cockney charwoman even has it.

 

“Right.” Mrs. Boothby says again. “I reckon that’s ‘bout it then. Fancy a biscuit then, Edith dearie?”

 

“Oh, not for me, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith protests. “Thank you though. It’s too early, and I had a nice breakfast at Cavendish Mews before Sunday services and coming here.”

 

Edith remembers to carefully avoid the use of the words ‘chapel’ and ‘minister’, remembering that they upset Ken after some of the local Christian charities in Poplar tried to take him away from his mother at various times throughout his life. According to Mrs. Boothby, a Catholic priest in the district used to bother her to have Ken committed to an asylum quite regularly, until she gave him short shrift one day after he really upset Ken. Edith glances anxiously at Ken to make sure he isn’t getting upset now, but she sighs with relief as she sees him bobbing up and down on his stool, still eyeing his wrapped gift, as if expecting it to sprout wings and fly away any moment, it being his one and only focus.

 

“I tell you what Edith dearie, I’m dying for a fag!” Mrs Boothby says as she sinks into her seat. “Nuffink better than a fag to get the chatterin’ goin’.” She starts fossicking through her capacious blue beaded handbag on the table.

 

“You don’t need a cigarette to get you chatting, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith chuckles, shaking her head.

 

“Well, maybe not, but maybe I just want an excuse for a fag. Oh!” she then adds as she withdraws a rather smart looking box from her bag. “And to show orf my luverly new present from Ken.” She reaches over and rubs her son warmly on the back. “’E found it on ‘is rag’n’bone********* run wiv Mr. Pargiter’s boys, ain’t you Ken?”

 

“Yes Ma!” Ken says, momentarily distracted by his mother asking him a question, before returning his attention to his as of yet unwrapped present.

 

Mrs. Boothby proudly holds up an Ogden’s Juggler Tabacco********** box of thick card featuring the Union Jack in each corner, extolling its British patriotism. “Nice innit?”

 

“Very nice, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith opines.

 

“Just shows you that one man’s rubbish, is someone else’s treasure***********, don’t it?” Mrs. Boothby says, opening the box by its flappable lid and fetching out a pre-rolled cigarette from amongst the stash there, along with her matches. “You just gotta ‘ave a good eye, like my boy ‘ere.” She tousles Ken’s hair affectionately again.

 

Mrs. Boothby takes her cigarette and lights it with a match and utters a satisfied sigh as she drags on it, the thin cigarette papers and tobacco crackling as she does. Still holding it between her teeth, she emits one more of her fruity coughs, blowing out a tumbling billow of acrid cigarette smoke as she does. She drops the match into a black ashtray that sits on the table full of cigarette butts. Mrs. Boothby settles back happily in her ladderback chair and with her cigarette still between her thin lips, and blowing out plumes of blue smoke that tumbles through the air around her rather like a steam train, she pours tea for Ken, Edith and herself.

 

“Christmas present, Ma!” Ken pipes up as he accepts the cup of sweet and milky tea from his mother. “Christmas present for Ken, now?”

 

Mrs. Boothby’s face crinkles as she gives in. “Oh alright then!” She laughs and coughs again. “Miss Eadie ‘n I, ‘ll get no peace whilst that’s sittin’ there unopened!” She nods at the present.

 

Ken needs no second bidding as he leaps from his seat and pounces upon the gift, tearing at the paper and string.

 

“Careful nahw, Ken luv!” Mrs. Boothby mutters. “What if it’s a crystal chandelier youse openin’ there? You’ll break it.”

 

“Not a crystal chandelier, Ma!” Ken says joyfully with a child like chuckle as he tears at the paper.

 

“You wouldn’t know a crystal chandelier if it done ‘it you in the ‘ead.” the old Cockney woman opines. Then, thinking for a moment, she corrects herself. “Then again, maybe you would. Plenty ‘a uvver fancy bits ’n pieces land in Mr. Pargiter’s carts. Why not a crystal chandelier?”

 

As Ken tears the paper noisily asunder, the cover of a book, blue and ornately printed in black and red, appears. “A book Ma! Miss Eadie got me a book!” He drops the shreds of paper and blue and white twine on the tabletop and begins flipping through the book, skipping the black and white printing, but pouring with delight over the brightly coloured illustrations, running his fingers with careful and surprisingly delicate actions for such a bulking lad over the images of characters, houses, landscapes and ornate rooms. “Oh fank you, Miss Eadie!” he exclaims in awe.

 

“You’re welcome, Ken!” Edith purrs with delight, thrilled at how happy Ken is with his gift. “Merry Christmas.”

 

“Merry Christmas Miss Eadie!” he murmurs in reply, smiling broadly as he admires a double page illustration of a woman in a pink gown clutching a paper fan, draped across a blue upholstered gilt Regency style sofa with a creature with a warthog’s ears, snout and tusks sitting in an anthropomorphic************ way opposite her, rather like a gentleman.

 

“Oh Edith dearie!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims. “It’s luverly!” She admires the fine details of the illustration, running her own bony, careworn fingers over the image of an ornate Regency pianoforte************* with a large greenish blue vase containing a flowering tree atop it. She gazes at the anthropomorphic warthog who wears a monocle against his left eye. “This is Beauty ‘n the Beast, ain’t it?”

 

“Yes,” Edith says a little wistfully. “I thought Ken could do with some books that weren’t Beatrix Potter for a change, and maybe a story about the fact that even different people can still find happiness in life was appropriate.”

 

Mrs. Boothby looks across the table at Edith with a grateful smile. She turns back and watches Ken with delight as he continues to admire the details in the colourful illustration: a blue and white tea set on a gilt table between Beauty and the Beast, a leopard skin rug beneath their feet, a lute carefully leaning against a music Canterbury**************.

 

“You spoils us, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby murmurs.

 

“Well, Ken deserves spoiling.” Edith counters with a satisfied sigh as she sips her tea. “He’s such a good boy. Anyway,” she goes on. “Think of it as a thank you to you, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Me dearie?” the Cockney woman queries. “What I ever do to deserve such a pretty book as this?”

 

“You helped me, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies. “With Frank, and all that business over moving to Metroland***************.”

 

“Ahh,” Mrs. Boothby says noncommittally as she turns her attentions away from her son and back to her guest. “So, you ‘ad a chat wiv young Frank ‘bout it then, did cha?” Another billowing and tumbling cloud of cascading cigarette smoke obscure her face, making her look all the more inscrutable.

 

Edith nods shallowly and smiles shyly as she sips her cup of tea again. “We spoke about it on New Year’s Eve.”

 

“Whatchoo say then?”

 

“Oh, I was such a fool when I came here that day before Christmas, Mrs. Boothby, crying and moaning about moving to the country, when in fact it hasn’t even happened yet,” Her face colours with embarrassment as she blushes. “And it isn’t really the country, even if it does happen. It’s just like moving to a new place: always fraught with worries, but not so terrible as to not go.”

 

Mrs. Boothby smiles and nods as she listens to her young friend, puffing smoke like a contented steam shovel**************** as she does.

 

“So you told ‘im you’d go?”

 

“If the situation arises.” Edith counters.

 

“Knowin’ young Frank and ‘is fancy ideas of betterment, and a better life for the workin’ man, I wouldn’t be surprised if it did.” Mrs. Boothby remarks sagely. “Sooner rather than later.”

 

“I think you might be right, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith says with a chuckle infused with trepidation. “But I guess that’s part of being in a partnership, isn’t it? If the dream is so important to him, I have to be prepared to support him, even if it is scary.”

 

“It’s ‘ow my Bill n’ I rolled, Edith dearie. We didn’t know what life‘d be like raisin’ a special angel like Ken.” She takes a final long and satisfying drag of her cigarette before stumping it out in the ashtray as she blows out another plume of cigarette smoke in front of her. She turns and looks at her son with loving eyes as he now looks at a picture of Beauty in an ornate gown surrounded by monkeys and baboons dressed as flunkies*****************, the allegory of Eve and the serpent appearing in a decorative panel in the background. “We didn’t know ‘ow it was gonna be, raisin’ a kiddie what them god bovverers told me was gonna ‘ave no more brain than a six year old. But Bill ‘n me, we did it.” The old woman nods and screws up her nose in determination. “I fink I told you what Lil Conway next door told me.”

 

“Tell me again, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Lil told me that all kiddies is a blessin’, and she was right. Bill ‘n I took our chances wiv Ken, and maybe we ain’t always done right, but all in all we didn’t do too bad by ‘im. We taught ‘im ‘ow ta defend ‘imself, ‘ow ta get on in the world and ‘ow ta make a livin’. It were scary, but we ‘ad each uvver, and as you say, that’s what a partnership involves: the smooth ‘n easy and the scary and unknowable, and it all works out.” She turns back and nods ad Edith knowingly. “It’ll work out for you and Frank too, Edith dearie. You’ll see. One day when youse old and grey like me, you’ll look back on this ‘ere conversation and say, ‘that Ida Boothby were right’.”

 

“Frank has to propose first.” Edith says a little glumly.

 

Mrs. Boothby reaches out her hand and places it around Edith’s, giving it a gentle and comforting squeeze. “Waitin’s the ‘ardest part of courtship, dearie.” She smiles broadly. “Just enjoy the moment. The weddin’ will come along soon ennuf, and it’ll ‘ave its own trials and tribulations that’ll make you wish youse was never getting’ married. I’m right ‘bout that too.”

 

Edith doesn’t reply, but looks at Ken and his few book as he points something important out to his teddy bear, his voice such a hushed and contented mumble now that even though he is just across the table, she cannot hear what it is he is sharing with his toy companion.

 

“You will read him the story, won’t you, Mrs. Boothby? Tell him that the Beast is kind and loving and worthy of Beauty’s love.”

 

“Well,” Mrs. Boothby looks back at the book. “I don’t really ‘old much wiv books, as you know, and they’s some pretty dense pages of writin’ in there: a bit too much for a busy soul like me wiv so much to do. But yes, I’ll tell ‘im, Edith dearie. Although,” she adds. “I might shorten it a bit. Nuffink better than a good quick story at bedtime, Eh?”

 

She winks at Edith, the folds of her pale skin hiding her sparkling left eye momentarily.

 

“You’ll learn that too when you have babies of your own. And,” She delves into her Ogden’s Juggler cigarette box again and takes out another hand rolled cigarette. “I’ll be right ‘bout that too.”

 

*A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.

 

**Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.

 

***A rookery is a dense collection of housing, especially in a slum area. The rookeries created in Victorian times in London’s East End were notorious for their cheapness, filth and for being overcrowded.

 

****The word Yid is a Jewish ethnonym of Yiddish origin. It is used as an autonym within the Ashkenazi Jewish community, and also used as slang. When pronounced in such a way that it rhymes with did by non-Jews, it is commonly intended as a pejorative term. It is used as a derogatory epithet, and as an alternative to, the English word 'Jew'. It is uncertain when the word began to be used in a pejorative sense by non-Jews, but some believe it started in the late Nineteenth or early Twentieth Century when there was a large population of Jews and Yiddish speakers concentrated in East London, gaining popularity in the 1930s when Oswald Mosley developed a strong following in the East End of London.

 

*****Eyelets, also known as grommets, are used to describe the open ring that is usually made from metal. These rings that are incorporated into the top of the curtain, enable the curtain to be open or closed.

 

******Built in Westminster, quite close to the Palace of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament Artillery Mansions was just one of the many fine Victorian mansion blocks to be built in Victoria Street around St James Underground Railway Station in the late 1800s. Constructed around open courtyards which served as carriageways and residential gardens, the mansion blocks were typically built of red brick in the fashionable Queen Anne style. The apartments were designed to appeal to young bachelors or MPs who often had late parliamentary sittings, with many of the apartments not having kitchens, providing instead communal dining areas, rather like a gentleman’s club. Artillery Mansions, like many large mansion blocks employed their own servants to maintain the flats and address the needs of residents. During the Second World War, Artillery Mansions was commandeered by the Secret Intelligence Service as a headquarters. After the war, the building reverted to private residences again, but with so many of its former inhabitants either dead, elderly or in changed circumstances owing to the war, it became a place to house many ex-servicemen. The Army and Navy Company, who ran the Army and Navy Stores just up Victoria Street registered ‘Army and Navy Ltd.’ at Artillery Mansions as a lettings management company. By the 1980s, Artillery Mansions was deserted and in a state of disrepair. It was taken over by a group of ideological squatters who were determined to bring homelessness and housing affordability to the government’s attention, but within ten years, with misaligned ideologies and infighting, the squatters had moved on, and in the 1990s, Artillery Mansions was bought by developers and turned into luxury apartments.

 

*******Rosie-Lee is Cockney slang for tea, and it is one of the most well-known of all Cockney rhyming slang.

 

********Dripping is the fat that has melted and dripped from roasting meat, used in cooking or eaten cold as a spread. Being cheap to buy, in poorer households, dripping was usually a staple and often a valuable source of nutrition for what would otherwise be a very plain and mean diet.

 

*********A rag-and-bone man is a person who goes from street to street in a vehicle or with a horse and cart buying things such as old clothes and furniture. He would then sell these items on to someone else for a small profit.

 

**********Ogden's Tobacco Company was an English company specialising in tobacco products. The company was founded in 1860 by Thomas Ogden who opened a small retail store in Park Lane, Liverpool. Within a small period of time, he established more branches throughout Liverpool and then a factory on St. James Street in 1866. By 1890, Thomas Ogden had six factories in Liverpool. Then in 1901, the American Tobacco Company bought Ogden's factory for £818,000. But in 1902, with the establishment of the Imperial Tobacco Company, Odgen's Tobacco was back in British hands. The company remained in business until the 1960's. Half of the main factory was demolished sometime around the 1980s to make way for a new building for the site's new owners Imperial Tobacco Limited. They closed the site's doors in 2007. In 2016 the factory was demolished to make way for housing while the iconic Clock Tower was converted into nineteen Apartments. It was completed in 2019.

 

***********The phrase "One man's trash is another man's treasure" is often attributed to the Nineteenth Century German social reformer and writer, Ferdinand August Bebel. However, the origin of this saying is not precisely documented, and similar expressions have been used in various forms by different people over time. The sentiment behind the phrase conveys the idea that something considered worthless by one person might be highly valued by someone else.

 

************Anthropomorphism, on the other hand, involves non-human things displaying literal human traits and being capable of human behaviour.

 

*************A pianoforte is the full name of a piano.

 

**************A music Canterbury is a low, open-topped stand with vertical slatted partitions that frequently was designed with a drawer beneath and sometimes, was built with short legs and occasionally on casters, intended for holding sheet music, plates, and serveware upright, now often used as a magazine rack.

 

***************Metroland is a name given to the suburban areas that were built to the north-west of London in the counties of Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire and Middlesex in the early part of the Twentieth Century that were served by the Metropolitan Railway. The railway company was in the privileged position of being allowed to retain surplus land; from 1919 this was developed for housing by the nominally independent Metropolitan Railway Country Estates Limited (MRCE). The term "Metroland" was coined by the Met's marketing department in 1915 when the Guide to the Extension Line became the Metro-land guide. It promoted a dream of a modern home in beautiful countryside with a fast railway service to central London until the Met was absorbed into the London Passenger Transport Board in 1933.

 

****************A steam shovel is a large steam-powered excavating machine designed for lifting and moving material such as rock and soil. It is the earliest type of power shovel or excavator. Steam shovels played a major role in public works in the Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries, being key to the construction of railroads and the Panama Canal. The sight of them on building work sites was common. The development of simpler, cheaper diesel, gasoline and electric shovels caused steam shovels to fall out of favour in the 1930s.

 

*****************A funky is a liveried manservant or footman.

 

This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Central to our story, the copy of Walter Crane’s Beauty and the Beast on display here is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he 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. In this case, I bought this book and various others illustrated by Walter Crane on purpose because I have loved Walter Crane’s and his father Thomas Crane’s work ever since I was a child, and I have real life-size first editions of many of their books including, a first edition of Beauty and the Beast from 1874. What might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. I can vouch that the double page spread illustration you see is an authentic replica of one from his Beauty and the Beast book, however if you wish to see it for yourself you can also see it here and judge for yourself: en.wikisource.org/wiki/Beauty_and_the_Beast_%281874,_Cran.... To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make them all miniature artisan pieces. Not only did Ken Blythe create books, he also created other 1:12 miniatures with paper and that includes the wonderfully detailed Ogden’s Juggler tobacco box and National Safety Match box, which have been produced with extreme authentic attention to detail. 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.

 

The black ashtray is also an artisan piece, the bae of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there).

 

Mrs. Boothby’s beaded handbag on the table is also a 1:12 artisan miniature. Hand crocheted, it is interwoven with antique blue glass beads that are two millimetres in diameter. The beads of the handle are three millimetres in length. It came from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

Edith’s handbag handmade from soft leather is part of a larger collection of hats and bags that I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel.

 

The paper and blue and white twine are real pieces I have retained to use in my miniatures photography from real parcels wrapped up in brown paper and tied up with string.

 

The various bowls, cannisters and dishes and the kettle in the background I have acquired from various online miniatures stockists throughout the United Kingdom, America and Australia.

 

The ladderback chair drawn up to the table and the black lead stove in the background are all miniature pieces I have had since I was a child.

 

The grey marbleised fireplace behind the stove and the trough sink in the corner of the kitchen come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The green wallpaper is an authentic replica of real Art Nouveau wallpaper from the first decade of the Twentieth Century which I have printed onto paper.

Done