Call Me Gran

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 at Cavendish Mews. We have travelled east across London, through Bloomsbury, past the Smithfield Meat Markets, beyond the Petticoat Lane Markets* frequented by Lettice’s maid, Edith, through the East End boroughs of Bethnal Green and Bow, to the 1880s housing development of Upton Park. It is here that Frank’s closest and only surviving relation lives: his elderly Scottish grandmother, Mrs. McTavish. Edith and Frank have just become officially engaged after Frank proposed to Edith in the middle of a photography studio in Clapham Junction on Wednesday, a carefully planned ruse with his friend who works at the studio, where Frank presented Edith with a dainty silver ring her bought from a jewellers in Lavender Hill** Edith wasted no time telling her parents, Ada and George, that day, but the pair of them decided to tell Mrs. McTavish together on their Sunday off.

 

Getting out at Upton Park railway station, the pair exit the polychromatic red and brown brick Victorian railway station with its ornate finials and elegant quoining walking out into the bright summer sunshine. The glare of natural light after being in the London underground blinds them momentarily. Before them the busy high street shopping precinct of Green Street stretches in either direction to their left and right, the noisy thoroughfare chocked with a mixture of chugging motor cars, lorries and the occasional double decker electrical tram. Even horse drawn carts with placid plodding old work horses unperturbed by the belching of their mechanical usurpers join the melee of trundling traffic going in either direction. People bustle past them on the footpath, going about their Sunday business cheerily, many off to the nearby Queens Road Market.

 

“Come on.” Frank says comfortingly as he sees his fiancée’s nervous face, grasping Edith’s hand. “Cross with me and you’ll be safe.”

 

Taking his proffered hand gratefully, Edith takes a deep breath as the pair cross the busy thoroughfare of Green Street, weaving their way through the traffic. Reaching the other side safely, the pair head west a short distance before turning down the elm tree lined Kings Road, which is flanked to either side with identical polychromatic cream and red brick two storey Victorian terraces with grey or painted stone dressings. As Edith looks at their façades over the top of their low brick fences, familiar to her now, each one with a small bay with two windows downstairs and two upstairs, a recessed porch and front door with a window above that, she remembers how the first time she walked down Kings Road with Frank beneath the shade of the elm trees, she noticed the slight flutter of several sets of lace curtains in the downstairs and imagined the owners eyeing her with suspicion. Now she has been down Kings Road so many times with Frank and been introduced to so many of them, she knows the names of some of the suburban housewives peering out from the comfort of their front rooms.

 

“Hullo Mrs. McClintock!” Edith says brightly, waving to a woman standing at her window in a floral sprigged patterned dress who waves back cheerfully in recognition of Edith.

 

“Remember how nervous you were the first time we came to see Gran?” Franks asks Edith, putting his arm comfortingly around her and drawing her to him.

 

“How could I ever forget that?” Edith replies with a chuckle that is a mixture of both relief and nervousness as she remembers. “I was sure that Upton Park was going to be full of grand houses, and your Gran was going to be some grand Victorian lady, like old Mrs. Hounslow, my parents’ landlady, all dressed in black with lace trimmings.

 

“That makes me laugh.” Frank guffaws. “Gran was quite chuffed about being presumed to be a high-and-mighty matron!”

 

Edith sighs and allows herself to fall into Frank’s protective embrace and press against his side as they walk. The familiar scent of him: a mixture of soap and the grocery shop, is comforting and familiar to her now.

 

“I told you that you had nothing to worry about, and that Gran was as nervous as you. Not that she’d ever tell me.”

 

“And you were right, Frank.” Edith sighs. “Thank goodness!”

 

They stop in front of a terrace behind a low brick wall just the same as all the others, its front door painted black and a small patch of lawn, devoid of any other vegetation filling the space between the street and the house.

 

“Come on then, Edith.” Frank says with a winning smile. “Let’s go tell Gran our good news.”

 

After walking through the unlocked main door and walking down the black and white lino lined hallway of the terrace, the couple let themselves into Mrs. McTavish’s ground floor flat and walk into her kitchen, a cosy room dominated by a big black range and featuring a dresser that is stuffed with all manner of mismatched decorative china and a panoply of cooking items, just like Edith’s mother’s Welsh dresser in Harlesden. The walls are covered with cream coloured wallpaper featuring dainty floral sprigs. Several framed embroideries hang around the room and a cuckoo clock ticks contentedly to the left of the range. A rug covers the flagstone floor before the hearth. A round table covered in a pretty lace tablecloth has several mismatched chairs and stools drawn up to it. On the table itself stands a healthy looking aspidistra which obviously benefits from the sun as it filters through the lace curtains at the large kitchen window. Just like her mother’s table when guests come to call, a selection of decorative blue and white crockery has been set out, ready for use. A shop bought Dundee Cake***, still with its ornamental Scottish tartan ribbon wrapped around it, sits on a plate. A sewing work table with a sagging floral bag for storage beneath it stands open, its compartments filled with needles, thread, wool, buttons and everything a sewer and knitter needs. And there, in her usual place in her very old and worn brown leather wingback chair sits Frank’s Scottish grandmother, Mrs. McTavish.

 

“Och my bairns!” Mrs. McTavish enthuses in delight when she receives the exciting news from the happy pair, her voice thick with her Scottish brogue. “Och! I’m so happy for you!”

 

Sitting in her old, worn leather wingback chair with the tartan rug draped over the back, the old Scottish woman with her wrinkled face, reaches out and grasps Edith’s hands as the younger woman crouches down before Mrs. McTavish. Edith can see her eyes, buried amid a myriad of wrinkles sparkling with tears of joy.

 

Edith squeezes Mrs. McTavish’s thin and gnarled fingers tightly. “I knew you’d be happy for us, Mrs. McTavish.” She says with a beaming smile.

 

“Och! How could I not be?” the old woman chortles back. “I’m getting my greatest wish.” She looks across to her grandson as he fiddles with her white china kettle, placing it next to the hob on her old black coal consuming range, and smiles lovingly. “My Francis is getting wed, at last! And not before time, I might add, Edith dearie!” She glances back at Edith and says in a staged whisper quite loud enough for Frank to hear, “I’ve been telling Francis for months to propose to you!”

 

“Oh Gran!” Frank gasps with embarrassment as he turns from the range to face his grandmother. “How many times must I ask you to call me Frank. I’m Frank now, not Francis!”

 

“Och! What onsense!” the old Scottish woman says sharply, leaning forward in her seat and slapping her grandson’s forearm lightly. “You’ll always be Francis to me, my little bairn! It was the name your mither**** and faither***** gave you when you were baptised, so Francis you’ll be.”

 

Frank rolls his eyes at Edith, who tries to stifle her girlish giggle as she does. “Francis is a girl’s name, not a boy’s one.”

 

“Nonsense bairn!” Mrs. McTavish says again. “Must I keep reminding you about Francis Drake the great Elizabethan explorer? Hhmm? He was no lady!”

 

“And must I keep reminding you, Gran, that we don’t live in Elizabethan times.” Frank retorts with a shake of his head.

 

“That’s enough cheek from you, my bairn!” Mrs. McTavish replies with another gentle slap. “This is your Gran you’re talking to.”

 

“Yes Francis.” Edith says with a cheeky smile. “Be polite and respect your elders.”

 

“You keep out of this, my girl!” Frank laughs, wagging a finger at his fiancée, looking lovingly at her.

 

“Och! Ignore him, the silly bairn! You’re a good girl, Edith dearie.” Mrs. McTavish says happily. “You’ll be such a good influence on him.”

 

“I’d like to think that we are both a good influence on one another, Mrs. McTavish.” Edith replies. “Frank and I believe in an equal partnership. Don’t we Frank?”

 

“We do, Edith.” he answers simply.

 

“Just so, dearie.” Mrs. McTavish agrees. “So it was with my husband and I, and Francis’ parents too.”

 

“So, you’ve been telling Frank to propose to me for a while have you?” Edith asks, standing up from before the old woman, picking up a bright brass tea canister and a teaspoon from the small pedestal table drawn up to Mrs. McTavish’s chair and handing them to Frank.

 

“Aye, that I have dearie.” the old Scotswoman replies. “But he just kept fobbing me off, telling me some nonsense that it just wasn’t quite the right time.”

 

“He said the same thing to me a number of times, Mrs. McTavish.” Edith laughs. “We had the most beastly argument about it the day we went up the Elephant****** to do some window shopping.”

 

“And I was right.” Frank replies with a tone of justification in his voice. “It wasn’t the right time then, as it happens.” He opens the canister and spoons in fresh tealeaves into the china pot.

 

“Remember to add an extra scoop for the pot, bairn*******.” Mrs. McTavish reminds her grandson.

 

“How many times have I made tea for us in my life, Gran?” Frank laughs lightly. “If I don’t know that by now, after all these years and the many pots I’ve brewed, then I never will.”

 

“Just making sure, bairn.” Mrs. McTavish nestles back into the padded back of her chair. Then she thinks for a moment, her eyes flicking as she sits forward again. “And don’t stir that pot with…”

 

“I know, Gran, with the handle*****.” Frank replies. “It’s bad luck.”

 

“Aye! That it is, bairn.” The old woman turns to Edith. “Once the tea is made, you must stir it with the bowl of the spoon, Edith dearie, and not the handle, or it will be nothing but strive for you when you get wed!” She nods emphatically with a stern mouth that has retracted to nothing but a think line across her old, weatherworn face.

 

“I’d already partially paid of your silver ring, Edith and had it engraved that afternoon we spent up the Elephant.” Frank goes on, picking up the conversation about the timing of his proposal to Edith. “I wanted to give it to you when I proposed, so it really wasn’t the right time to do it. I just wanted everything to be perfect for you.”

 

“I know that now, Frank.” Edith assures him. “And it was perfect. It was perfectly wonderful, and it is a day I shall always remember for the rest of my life!” She sighs happily.

 

“I should hope you would, Edith.” Frank answers with a good natured chuckle as he returns the canister to his grandmother’s table. “After all, it isn’t every day that you get a photographic portrait sitting and a proposal all in the one day!”

 

“I’ll say Frank.” Edith looks down fondly upon her new silver ring, gleaming on her ring finger.

 

Edith has decided not to tell Lettice of her engagement, only announcing it once she and Frank have set a date for the wedding, a decision her mother, Ada, is very much in agreement with, worrying that the engagement may make Lettice see Edith as a liability rather than the valued maid-of-all-work that she currently is. To stop the ring from getting damaged by the hard work she does, during the week Edith has taken up wearing it on a small chain around her neck, but every Wednesday afternoon and Sunday she has off, Edith slips it back onto her ring finger proudly once she is out of sight of Cavendish Mews.

 

“I’m still sorry that it is only silver, dear Edith.” Frank goes on as he fills the teapot with boiling water from Mrs. McTavish’s gleaming copper kettle.

 

“I keep telling you, Francis,” she emphasises Frank’s real name as she speaks, indicating that this the point she is about to make, she does not want to again. “That a silver ring is good enough for me. In fact, it’s more than enough. I wasn’t expecting an engagement ring at all.”

 

“Well,” Frank blushes. “All the same, you shall have a gold wedding ring. Edith can wear Mum’s wedding ring, can’t she Gran?” He turns and looks hopefully at his grandmother as she sits in her chair. “You still have it, don’t you?”

 

“Och!” the old woman scoffs dismissively. “Well of course I do, bairn!” She hooks her thin, wrinkled fingers into the lace collar of the white blouse and fishes out a small golden chain about her neck, upon which hang two golden rings. “Your mither’s and your faither’s.” She smiles. “Better than lying and going to waste in the ground, bairn. Edith can wear your mither’s, whilst you can wear your faither’s, and that way they remain the pair that they are.”

 

“Oh Mrs. McTavish!” Edith gasps. “I couldn’t…”

 

However, the old woman holds up a hand, stopping Edith from speaking any more.

 

“Help me will you, Edith dearie.” She indicates with gesticulations that she cannot unfasten the clasp of the chain by herself with her old hands. “And Francis.” She holds out a pretty knitted tea cosy that was sitting on the arm of her chair to her grandson. “Cosy!”

 

“Thanks Gran!” Frank says gratefully, slipping it over the teapot.

 

Obediently, Edith walks up to Mrs. McTavish, and with the dexterity of her nimble fingers, unfastens the clasp of the chain. The old Scottish woman holds up her right hand to catch the two rings in her palm as Edith carefully lowers the chain.

 

“Good girl.” Mrs. McTavish says with a sigh, looking at the two golden rings which gleam warmly in the light filtering through the kitchen window.

 

“Mrs. McTavish…” Edith begins again, only to be silenced by the old woman’s raised palm again.

 

“Mum and Dad would want us to have them and use them, Edith.” Frank assures her, as he swirls the cosy covered teapot in his hands before filling the dainty blue and white floral cup next to his grandmother with brackish red tea. “They’ll be looking down from above on our wedding day and smiling.”

 

“I don’t know, Frank.” Edith answers in a doubtful voice.

 

“You know, when Francis’ parents were taken by the Spanish Influenza,” Mrs. McTavish begins, looking earnestly at Edith. “I was broken hearted. Aye, I was.”

 

“Oh I can only imagine, Mrs. McTavish.”

 

“Eileen was my only daughter, and she and Bernard were a fine couple.” The old woman’s eyes mist up a little as she continues, glistening with unshed tears that threaten to spill from her lids. “They would want these rings to have a continued life, and I’m sure they couldn’t have wished for a happier one than that of their Francis and his new wife.” She reaches out her left hand and squeezes Edith’s clasped hands. “It’s just a natural progression of their rings’ lives. So, no arguing, Edith dearie.” Blinking back her tears she smiles, albeit a little morosely. “Alright?”

 

“Alright Mrs. McTavish.” Edith acquiesces quietly.

 

“Och!” the Scottish woman scoffs again. “We’re going to have to do something about that too!”

 

“About what, Mrs. McTavish?” Edith asks.

 

“Yes Gran, about what?” Frank echoes as he takes the top over to the round dining table and fills his and Edith’s cups with tea.

 

“All this Mrs. McTavish business!” she replies, shaking her hands in front of her as if shooing away her name. “Mrs. McTavish this. Mrs. McTavish that. You can’t very well go on calling me Mrs. McTavish, Edith dearie, now you’re marrying my Francis.”

 

“That’s a good point, Gran.” Frank opines. “I hadn’t really considered that.”

 

“Well, luckily,” the old woman says sagely. “I did!”

 

“You’ll be a part of the Leadbetter family, Edith.” Frank says. “It’s true, you can’t go on calling Gran, Mrs. McTavish.”

 

“Well, I’ve been calling you Mrs. McTavish… err… Mrs. McTavish,” Edith replies apologetically. “Because that that was what Frank and I decided upon on that first day I met you.”

 

“We did and all!” Frank laughs. “In the hallway, just out there, before we came in.”

 

“I can’t call you Nyree, even though it’s such a lovely name, Mrs. McTavish.” Edith says. “It wouldn’t be right. You’re more senior than I am. It isn’t respectable.”

 

“Och what rubbish!” Mrs. McTavish replies, swatting the air at Edith’s remark. “Of course you can. And no-one has called me Nyree for a long time. Not really since my husband died in 1912, so it would be quite nice to be called that again.”

 

“No,” Edith insists. “It wouldn’t be right.”

 

The trio fall into silence for a few moments whilst they contemplate the question at hand. Only the quiet ticking of the cuckoo clock hanging on the wall by the range and the crackle of the range itself breaking the quiet as it settles thickly about them.

 

“Why not Gran, then, Edith?” Frank finally says, breaking the silence. “Like I do. What do you think, Gran?”

 

“Aye!” Mrs. McTavish agrees with a smile broadening on her face. “That’s a grand idea, Francis. You’re more than just a pretty face, my sweet bairn.”

 

“Thank you Gran.” he says with pride, for once not minding her calling him by his real name.

 

“Do you think you could call me, Gran, Edith dearie?” Mrs. McTavish asks Edith.

 

“Well,” Edith contemplates the suggestion. “I’ll have to get used to it, and I might not always do it to start off with.” She sighs. “Habits can be hard. However, I’d love to… Gran.”

 

A cosy kitchen this may be, but it is not quite what it seems, for it is made up entirely of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Dominating the room is the large kitchen range which is a 1:12 miniature replica of the coal fed Phoenix Kitchen Range. A mid-Victorian model, it has hinged opening doors, hanging bars above the stove and a little bass hot water tap (used in the days before plumbed hot water). The fringing hanging from the mantle is actually a beautiful scalloped ribbon that was given to me one Christmas time by a very close friend of mine.

 

Mrs. McTavish’s intentionally worn leather wingback chair and the sewing table are both 1:12 artisan miniatures. The inside of the sewing table is particularly well made and detailed with a removable tray made up of multiple compartments. Beneath it, the floral fabric lines the underside and opens up into a central bag. Both pieces come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom. The sewing items which sit on its top also came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop and various online specialists on E-Bay. The tartan rug draped over the back of the chair I have had since I was about six. It came with a blanket rocker miniature I was given for my sixth birthday.

 

The sewing basket that you can see on the floor next to the pedestal table I bought from a high street shop that specialised in dolls and doll house furnishings. It is an artisan miniature and contains pieces of embroidery and embroidery threads.

 

On the small pedestal table next to Mrs. McTavish’s chair comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop, as does the bright tea caddy, the blue and white china teacup and saucer and the spoon rest on its top. The spoon comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

On the wall just behind Mrs. McTavish’s chair hangs a hand painted cuckoo clock. It has been made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

The tea cosy on the arm of Mrs. McTavish’s chair, which fits snugly over a white porcelain teapot on the side of the range, has been hand knitted in fine lemon, blue and violet wool. It comes easily off and off and can be as easily put back on as a real tea cosy on a real teapot. It comes from a specialist miniatures stockist in the United Kingdom, as does the copper kettle on the hob.

 

The coal scuttle, containing real coal is a beautiful example of canal barge ware from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Narrow boat painting, or canal art is a traditional British folk art. This highly decorative folk art once adorned the working narrow boats of the inland waterways of Britain. Canal ware, barge ware, or gift ware, are used to describe decorated trinkets, and household items, rather than the decorated narrow boats.

 

In the background you can see Mrs. McTavish’s dark wood dresser cluttered with decorative china. I have had the dresser since I was a child. The shelves of the dresser have different patterned crockery which have come from different miniature stockists both in Australia and the United Kingdom.

 

The rug on the floor comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

Done