On With the Dance

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 is Tuesday and on Tuesdays, every third Thursday of the month and occasionally after a big party, Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman*, comes from her home in Poplar to do all the hard jobs and help Edith, Lettice’s maid. We find ourselves just a short distance from Cavendish Mews, quite near Mr. Willison’s grocers’ shop in Binney Street Mayfair, where Lettice has an account, and from where Edith orders her groceries for the Cavendish Mews flat. It is also from Willison’s grocers’ shop that Edith’s romantic love life stems, for she is stepping out with Frank Leadbetter, Mr. Willison’s delivery boy, who carries orders about Mayfair and the surrounding suburbs on the bicycle provided for him by his employer. As we look down Binney Street towards Cavendish Mews, we can see old Mrs. Boothby dressed in a long navy blue winter coat wearing a toque** with an aigrette*** sticking out of it, with a beaded blue bag hanging from the crook of her elbow and a cigarette stuck between the index and middle fingers of her left hand as she walks down the street after finishing her work at Cavendish Mews. She looks up in the direction of the side entrance to Mr. Willison’s Grocery, where Frank can be seen wheeling out the smart black Willison’s delivery bicycle with the business name emblazoned on a panel between the two spoked wheels and the wicker basket on the front loaded with paper bags of groceries ready for delivery.

 

“Frank! Yoo-hoo! Frank!” calls Mrs. Boothby, waving her hand, still holding the stub of her cigarette over her head as she approaches him. “It’s the man of the ‘our!” she says with a crooked smile. “We was just takin’ ‘bout you!”

 

“Hullo Mrs. Boothby!” Frank says brightly, pausing on his bicycle and smiling back at the old woman. “Were you now? Finished at Cavendish Mews for the morning, have you?”

 

“I ‘ave, young Frank! On me way to ‘Ilda at the Channons’ in ‘Ill Street. Let’s see what stories “Ilda ‘as about Mr. and Mrs. Channon for me today.”

 

The pair laugh wholeheartedly, imagining what stories their friend Hilda might shade about her employers, Lettice’s friends Margot and Dickie Channon, who live a short walk away at a flat in Hill Street, similar in size to Cavendish Mews.

 

“Weather looks not too bad, for a March day.” Frank looks up at the sky between the buildings.

 

“Not bad. Not bad at all, Frank.” Mrs. Boothby agrees as she follows Frank’s gaze and glances upwards from underneath her navy blue toque.

 

“Looks like spring might finally be in the air.” He indicates to the pale blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds that float soundlessly overhead, allowing for shafts if sunlight to bathe and warm Frank’s and Mrs. Boothby’s upturned faces for a few blissful moments at a time. “And how are you anyway, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Aaaww, fair to muddlin’, young Frank. Me back and knees ache, but that ain’t nuffink unusual. They dun call it ‘ousemaid’s knee**** for nuffink neiver.” She gives her left knee a slap with her left hand, sending forth a shower of cigarette ash. “An’ I’m still tryin’ to fill the time what I used to spend cleanin’ for old Lady Pembroke-Duttson down in Westminster.”

 

“What happened to Lady Pembroke-Duttson then, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Ooohh! It were awful, Frank!” She tosses her spent cigarette butt into the gutter. “’Er big old ‘ouse burnt dahwn in November! It were a bit ramshackle like an’ tumbledown, what wiv ‘er bein’ so old and on ‘er own there, but she ‘ad a lot of it shut up, so it weren’t too bad for me, since I only ‘ad to do for her in a few suites of downstairs rooms, the kitchen and ‘er bedroom and barfroom up top. She lorst so many luverly fings in that fire. Mind you, I scored a few nice bits ‘n pieces from ‘er fire sale of ‘er leftovers she didn’t want no more.”

 

“Did she…” Frank lowers his voice. “Did she perish in the fire, then? Is that why you have a gap in your work schedule?”

 

“Lawd love you, Frank Leadbetter! She ain’t perished in ‘er own fire! She lives dahwn 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, is all.”

 

“Oh!” Frank breathes a sigh of relief. “That’s a mercy then.”

 

“Not for me it ain’t! I got a big ‘ole in me, whachoo call it?”

 

“Err… your work schedule, Mrs. Boothby?” Frank asks helpfully.

 

“’Ere that’s it: me work whatchamacallit. Why, you know of anyone what needs a good char? Need me to do for ya’ Frank?”

 

“Not me, Mrs. Boothby!” Frank holds up his hands in defence. “My landlady Mrs. Chapman does all her own housework, and I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side if I suggested that she needed any help beyond her daughter who gives her a hand, even if she did need it. Mrs. Chapman would probably fling me out my ear for being an ingrate.” Frank lowers his voice again. “Just between you and me, Mrs. Boothby, she’s a real curmudgeon. It doesn’t take much to rile her up, let me tell you.” Hie eyebrows arch over his bright blue eyes. “So you probably wouldn’t want to work for her anyway. Still, the rent is cheap for me, so I will put up with Mrs. Chapman’s grumpy moods for now, whilst I keep saving money.”

 

“Well, I don’t fink I’d fancy goin’ to do a place in Clampham regular like anyway. It’s a bit outta me way, bein’ south side of the Thames. I’d ‘ave to take the Oxo cube******, and that’ll take too long.”

 

“Thinking of which.” He pats the Willison’s Groceries brown paper shopping bag in his basket. “I should be getting along myself. I’ve a delivery to do in Pimlico.”

 

“’Ere, nahw ‘ang on Frank. Can you wait a minute of two?”

 

Frank fishes out his grandfather’s silver pocket watch from his trouser pocket and glances at its face, worn over the years by the many times it has been withdrawn from pockets just like this: first by his grandfather, then his father and now Frank himself. “Well, I suppose I can, Mrs. Boothby.” His face crumples a little as he returns it to his pocket. “So long as it isn’t too long. I know you enjoy a good chin wag.” He chuckles good naturedly as he dismounts his bike and leans it up against the brick wall of the grocers, plastered with advertising that they are next to. “Or so Edith tells me. Thinking of Edith, I was going to invite her to Cruft’s*******,” He points to a poster of a rather grumpy looking terrier advertising the annual dog show as the Islington Agricultural Hall. “But time just got away from me. I know she likes dogs. Do you think Edith would like to go next year, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“I’m sure she would Frank,” the old Cockney char lowers herself onto the wooden bench next to Frank’s parked bicycle. “But I fink there’s somefink she’d be likin’ a lot more than an invite to Crufts.”

 

“Oh, what’s that, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

Mrs. Boothby doesn’t answer directly, as with a groan she starts fossicking through her capacious beaded bag before withdrawing her cigarette papers, Swan Vestas******** and tin of Player’s Navy Cut*********. Rolling herself a cigarette she strikes a match and lights her cigarette. She takes a long and pleasurable drag on it, and as she blows out a plume of grey smoke she releases a couple of her fruity coughs. “Oh loverly.” she says, unaware of Frank pulling a disturbed face as she coughs nosily again.

 

“Are you alright, Mrs. Boothby?” Frank asks in concern.

 

“Me?” she replies in surprise. “Never better! Why?”

 

“Well, it’s just,” Frank starts to gesticulate as he bends down and crouches in front of her. “Your cough, Mrs. Boothby!”

 

“Oh that!” She releases another hacking and spluttering cough. “It’s just me old chest,” She beats her chest heavily with her fist. “And these cold March mornin’s is all. The sooner spring is ‘ere, the betta, I say!” She coughs again and takes another drag on her cigarette, making the paper crackle as she does.

 

“Are you sure, Mrs. Boothby?” Frank queries, the uncertainty clear on his face.

 

“Oh yes!” she scoffs, flapping her hand about, sending forth a shower of ash and a swirl of acrid cigarette smoke into the air. “Don’t choo worry ‘bout me! Nahw listen!” she huffs. “I need to ‘ave a serious word wiv you, Frank Leadbetter.”

 

“Oh that does sound ominous, Mrs. Boothby.” Frank admits with a gulp. “You sound awfully like Mrs. Chapman when I’ve brought some mud in on my shoes and tread it into her freshly cleaned hall runner. What have I done?”

 

Mrs. Boothby looks at him with a serious look, her eyes glittering like dark jewels imbedded in the winkles of her pale face. “It’s more ‘bout whatchoo ain’t done, Frank.” she says, arching an eyebrow knowingly over her left eye. “That’s the problem.”

 

“What haven’t I done, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Well, you know how fond I am of our Edith, don’t you, Frank?”

 

“Of course I do, Mrs. Bootby, and she’s very fond of you too.”

 

“Well, we agree on a lot ‘a fings, but they’s some fings we don’t always see eye to eye on, and this is one of ‘em!”

 

“What do you mean, Mrs. Boothby?” the young man asks in confusion with a perplexed look. “I don’t understand.”

 

“Well, I was just talkin’ wiv Edith at Cavendish Mews this mornin’ and she told me that rather than go and see ‘er mum ‘n dad tomorra, like she’d usually do if she ain’t goin’ out wiv you or ‘Ilda, she’s goin’ to see one of them mumbo-jumbo clairwhatsits! And it’s all your doin’, young Frank!”

 

“Edith’s going to see Clare whom, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“She ain’t gonna see a girl called Clare, you berk**********!” Mrs. Boothby retorts, coughing roughly again. “She’s goin’ to see one of them clairwhatsits tomorra! You know, one of them fortune teller types!”

 

“Oh, a clairvoyant!” Frank exclaims, suddenly understanding what Mrs. Boothby means.

 

“That’s them! And it’s a whole lot of mumbo-jumbo, and she’s goin’ to waste a good shillin’ or two talkin’ to one tomorra that’s probably a clairwhatsit charlatan***********!”

 

“Edith did remark in passing to me that she felt like going to see a clairvoyant,” Frank says as his face crumples in concentration. “But I just put it down to a foolish fancy and dismissed it.”

 

“Well, it may be a foolish fancy to you, young Frank, but she’s serious! She’s doin’ it, ‘n all, and it’s because of you!”

 

“Because of me, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“And you know it,” The old Cockney char nods sagely. “Because she wants to know when youse two are goin’ to get wed!”

 

Franks sighs, now fully understanding the situation. “That was when she mentioned it to me, Mrs, Boothby. We’d been up the Elephant************ and were caught in a rain shower. We ended up under the awnings of a jewellers on Walworth Road and she saw some wedding rings in the window, so she asked me when I was going to ask her dad for her hand in marriage.”

 

“And whachoo say?” Mrs. Boothby asks.

 

“Well, I said, soon.” Frank assures her. “But just not quite yet.”

 

“Exactly!” Mrs. Boothby says with an irritated sigh before drawing on her cigarette once more. “Not quite yet.” She exhales a plume of smoke. “You sound like you’re draggin’ your ‘eels, Frank my boy!”

 

“Edith said the same thing, but I’m not.” Frank replies in his own defence. “I’m just trying to save up a little more money, so that we can set up house together: a nice home. I want to ask Edith’s dad for her hand when I think I look most favourable. I want to I’m a man of principles.”

 

Mrs. Boothby chuckles and reaches out a careworn hand, running it along Frank’s pale cheek. “I know you are, young Frank, and principles is all fine in their place, but sometimes they are like blockers, and they stop us doin’ what we know we should do.” She pauses and drags on her cigarette again, blowing a plume of smoke into the air above their heads. “It sounds to me like Edith’s mum and dad are as anxious for you to ask ‘em for Edith’s ‘and in marriage as Edith is, and I’m sure wiv your gran getting’ on in years, she’d sleep better knowin’ that you’re goin’ to get married. Just because you ask Edith’s dad for ‘er ‘and doesn’t mean you ‘ave to get married right away.”

 

“Perhaps not,” Frank agrees. “But once the cat is out of the bag, there will be pressure from all our friends for us to get married. You know there will”

 

“Only if you tell ‘em.” Mrs. Boothby counters. “Just keep it just between you two, Edith’s parents and your gran for now. No-one else need know ‘till youse wanna announce it.”

 

“There is always pressure put on the young couple to set a date.” He looks at her seriously. “Long engagements are not very fashionable, even when they are for all the right reasons.”

 

“There won’t be no pressure from the Watsfords to get wed quick once you’ve committed yourself to Edith.” Mrs. Boothby assures him. “They’ll be ‘appy to wait, knowing that it will ‘appen when it’s meant to ‘appen, and then so will Edith, and she’ll ‘ave no need for this mumbo-jumbo clairwhatsit stuff she’s doin’!”

 

“So, what do you suggest, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

Mrs. Boothby picks herself up off the bench with a groan, takes a final drag from her cigarette and tosses the smouldering butt across the concrete of the footpath and into the gutter. She stands up and points to the London Underground advertisement on the wall behind them, next to the one for Cruft’s Dog Show. Frank looks at the advertisement. It shows a stylised. Art Deco image of a pair of young people at a dance together. He is dressed smartly in tails, and she in a gaily coloured, fashionable gypsy girdled************* dance frock. They stare lovingly into one another’s eyes.

 

“Get on wiv the dance, young Frank!” Mrs. Boothby says, quoting the phrase written below the image in bold russet coloured Art Deco style font. “Get yourself over to Mr. and Mrs. Watsford’s as soon as you can, and ask ‘em for Edith’s ‘and! You’ve got all you need to impress ‘em! Youse workin’ your way up ‘ere at Mr. Willison’s, and youse got your name dahwn at that trades ‘all place of yours for a new position in these fancy new suburbs they’s buildin’. You’re young, ‘ealthy and and doin’ well. No time like the present! Eh?”

 

“Well, I can’t do it now, Mrs. Boothby.” Frank replies. “I have to deliver these groceries to Pimlico.

 

Mrs. Boothby laughs throatily. “I don’t mean now, you berk! But the time is now, Frank! Don’t wait too long, or you’ll lose ‘er.” She smiles sadly. “And to lose a pearl like our Edith would be a tragedy!”

 

“I promise I won’t lose her, Mrs. Boothby.” Frank assures her. “It won’t be too much longer now. Trust me! I have a plan and I’ll put it into action.” He leans forward and gives her a peck on the cheek.

 

“Frank!” the old woman gasps, putting her hand to her right cheek where Frank’s lips were.

 

“Thank you for being such a good friend, Mrs, Boothby. Frank pulls up his bicycle and climbs astride it again. “You really are a brick!” He laughs. “Goodbye now.”

 

The old woman waves Frank off as he rides the bicycle out onto the road and settles onto the seat. He waves back to her, but doesn’t look back as he sets off down Binney Street towards his destination in Pimlico, whistling merrily as he goes.

 

*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.

 

**A toque is a small round, brimless hat which was especially popular during the Edwardian era.

 

***The term aigrette, taken from the French for egret, or lesser white heron refers to the tufted crest or head-plumes of the egret, or other birds, used for adorning a headdress or hats. The word may also identify any similar ornament, in gems.

 

****Prepatellar bursitis (known more commonly as “housemaid’s knee” is an inflammation of the prepatellar bursa at the front of the knee. It is marked by swelling at the knee, which can be tender to the touch and which generally does not restrict the knee's range of motion. It can be extremely painful and disabling as long as the underlying condition persists.

 

*****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.

 

******The Cockney rhyming slang for the London Underground, known commonly as “the tube” is “Oxo cube”.

 

*******Named after its founder, Charles Cruft, who worked as general manager for a dog biscuit manufacturer, travelling to dog shows both in the United Kingdom and internationally, which allowed him to establish contacts and understand the need for higher standards for dog shows, Crufts is an international dog show held annually in the United Kingdom, held since 1891, and organised by The Kennel Club. It is the largest show of its kind in the world. In 1886, Cruft's first dog show, billed as the "First Great Terrier Show", had 57 classes and 600 entries. The first show named "Crufts"—"Cruft's Greatest Dog Show"—was held at the Royal Agricultural Hall, Islington, in 1891. It was the first at which all breeds were invited to compete, with around two thousand dogs and almost two and a half thousand entries.

 

********Swan Vestas is a brand name for a popular brand of “strike-anywhere” matches. Shorter than normal pocket matches they are particularly popular with smokers and have long used the tagline “the smoker’s match” although this has been replaced by the prefix ‘the original’ on the current packaging. Swan Vestas matches are manufactured under the House of Swan brand, which is also responsible for making other smoking accessories such as cigarette papers, flints and filter tips. The matches are manufactured by Swedish Match in Sweden using local, sustainably grown aspen. The Swan brand began in 1883 when the Collard & Kendall match company in Bootle on Merseyside near Liverpool introduced “Swan wax matches”. These were superseded by later versions including “Swan White Pine Vestas” from the Diamond Match Company. These were formed of a wooden splint soaked in wax. They were finally christened “Swan Vestas” in 1906 when Diamond merged with Bryant and May and the company enthusiastically promoted the Swan brand. By the 1930s “Swan Vestas” had become “Britain’s best-selling match”.

 

*********Made by Nottingham based tobacconist manufacturer John Player and Sons, Player’s Medium Navy Cut was the most popular by far of the three Navy Cut brands (there was also Mild and Gold Leaf, mild being today’s rich flavour). Two thirds of all the cigarettes sold in Britain were Player’s and two thirds of these were branded as Player’s Medium Navy Cut. In January 1937, Player’s sold nearly 3.5 million cigarettes (which included 1.34 million in London). Production continued to grow until at its peak in the late 1950s, Player’s was employing 11,000 workers (compared to 5,000 in 1926) and producing 15 brands of pipe tobacco and 11 brands of cigarettes. Nowadays the brands "Player" and "John Player Special" are owned and commercialised by Imperial Brands (formerly the Imperial Tobacco Company).

 

**********The full phrase Berkeley (or Berkshire) hunt has been shortened to "berk," which has become a milder slang word of its own, but was originally used by Cockneys. Berk means idiot, as in "you're being a berk."

 

***********By the end of 1919, belief in Spiritualism was spreading like wildfire. Spiritualism is defined as a relatively modern religion that is based on the beliefs that the spirits of the dead exist, and both have the inclination and the ability to communicate with the living. This raised interest in clairvoyance in general, and saw a surge in spirit mediums, fortune tellers and seers, most of whom were theatrical charlatans using smoke and mirrors to pretend to communicate with the dead or foretell the future, preying upon a mourning populace in the aftermath of the Great War.

 

************The London suburb of Elephant and Castle, south of the Thames, past Lambeth was known as "the Piccadilly Circus of South London" because it was such a busy shopping precinct. When you went shopping there, it was commonly referred to by Londoners, but South Londoners in particular, as “going up the Elephant”.

 

*************A gypsy girdle became a popular feature of women’s dresses from the mid 1920s, consisting of a wide sash fastened over the hips. It was gathered vertically at the centre front where it was often accented by a fashionable rhinestone, or real jewel, brooch or a mirror image clasp.

 

The street scene may look real to you, but it is in fact made up of pieces from my 1;12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Frank’s black metal delivery bicycle with its basket on the front came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The sign on the body of the bicycle I made myself with the aid of the brown paper bag in the front of the basket which bears the name “Walter Willison’s Tea and Grocery”. The paper bag is filled with grocery items, which along with the bag were made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

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. The umbrella came from and online stockist of miniatures on E-Bay.

 

The bench is made by Town Hall Miniatures, and acquired through E-Bay.

 

The tree that is blurred in the foreground and the red metal wall mounted letterbox both came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The advertisements along the wall of the shop, aside from the two advertising the British Empire Exhibition which I made myself, are all 1:12 size posters made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Ken is known mostly for the 1;12 miniature books he created. I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but he also produced other items, including posters. All of these are genuine copies of real Edwardian posters. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make these items miniature artisan pieces. 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 brick wall upon which they are stuck is a very special piece, and one of my more recent additions to my miniatures collection. Made painstakingly by hand, this was made by my very dear Flickr friend and artist Kim Hagar (www.flickr.com/photos/bkhagar_gallery/), she surprised me with this amazing piece entitled “Wall” as a Christmas gift, with the intention that I use it in my miniatures photos. Each brick has been individually cut and then worn to give texture before being stuck to the backing board and then painted. She has created several floors in the same way for some of her own miniature projects which you can see in her “In Miniature” album here: www.flickr.com/photos/bkhagar_gallery/albums/721777203007....

Done