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.

 

Tonight 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 parlour of her tenement in Merrybrook Place: by her own admission, a haven of cleanliness amidst the squalor of the surrounding neighbourhood.

 

The sun is setting on the late autumnal, cold November day. The golden orb, which has been shrouded in clouds for most of the day is now barely a dull greenish yellow glow above the rooftops of the tenements opposite Mrs. Boothby’s own terrace as a thick fog, fed by all the coal and wood fires heating the houses of London, begins to settle in. As darkness envelops the streets, warm flickering lights begin to appear in the windows of Merrybrook Place as its citizens settle in for an evening at home.

 

Mrs. Boothby has just reached for her tobacco when she hears a pounding on her door. Looking up in surprise, she remains silent and unmoving, all her senses suddenly alert. The hammering comes again. She gets up and walks over to the corner of the room where she reaches for her broom. The knocking comes a third time.

 

“Hoo’s there?” Mrs. Boothby’s cockney voice calls out in a steely fashion, attempting to project a stronger persona than the wiry and older little charwoman that she is. “Whatchoo want?”

 

“It’s me, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith voice calls weakly from the other side of the door. “Edith.”

 

Mrs. Boothby gasps aloud, swiftly unbolts the door and flings it open, appearing in the doorway, still with her broom in her hand. “Ere! Whatchoo doin’ ‘ere, Edith dearie? You come ‘ere on your own did ya?”

 

Mrs. Boothby’s eyes grow wide as she sees Edith’s tear stained face in the golden light reflected from the paraffin lamp that illuminates her parlour.

 

“I’m sorry to call on you unannounced,” Edith snivels. “I just didn’t know where else to go.”

 

The old Cockney woman quickly puts the broom aside, next to the open door, and embraces Edith in a firm hug. “Come in in wiv you, Edith dearie!” As she draws Lettice’s young maid-of-all-work into her tenement, she glances over Edith’s shoulder with owl eyes at the darkened streetscape slowly being softened by the greenish fog outside. There is no-one else around, but down at the end of her rookery**, where the privies are, she notices a flash of a shadow as two mangy stray cats hiss and spit at one another in either play or in a territorial war. In the distance a dog barks. Then she notices the tatty lace curtains in one of her neighbours’ windows rustle and quiver. “Keep your big bloody Yid*** nose out of my business, Golda Friedman!” Mrs. Boothby calls out angrily across the way.

 

“Ahh shuddup!” a strident male voice from somewhere above and further down the terrace calls out. Whether directed at Mrs. Boothby or elsewhere, the old charwoman doesn’t care as she begins to close her door. The curtains at Golda Friedman’s windows flutter quickly once again and then stop.

 

“Cor! You didn’t ‘alf give me a turn!” Closing the door behind her, Mrs, Boothby heaves a sigh of relief. “Edith dearie, whatchoo doin’ ‘ere?” she asks again. “You’re takin’ your pretty young life in your own ‘ands comin’ dawhn ‘ere this time of day. Poplar’s like an old shape shifter**** as the London fogs settle in for the night, and streets you fought you knew well, are suddenly strangers, unless you’re a local like me, whoo can find their way through the fog.”

 

“I’m sorry Mrs. Boothby.” Edith apologises again, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand before opening her green leather handbag and fetching out a dainty lace handkerchief embroidered with a cursive letter E in pale blue cotton. “I… I just didn’t know where else to go. What with Miss Lettice being out with Mr. Bruton at the Café Royal***** this evening, I just couldn’t bear to be alone at Cavendish Mews with my thoughts.”

 

“There, there, Edith dearie!” Mrs. Boothby enfolds Edith in an all-embracing hug again, tightening her wiry arms around Edith’s trembling figure and patting her on the back with her gnarled and careworn hands. “It’s alright. You’re ‘ere nawh. No ‘arm done.” Then she releases her, steps back slightly and looks again at Edith’s blotched and reddened face. Grasping her by the shoulders she gasps, “Youse didn’t get attacked by a man on the way dawhn ‘ere, did cha? That ain’t why yer cryin’ is it?”

 

Edith releases a snuffly guffaw. “No, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Fank the lawd for that!” the old woman casts her eyes up to the oatmeal cigarette smoke stained ceiling. “A nice girl dressed like you is, is ripe for pickin’s on them streets out there. You should only be comin’ dahwn ‘ere wiv me by your side to guide you, Edith dearie!”

 

A soft, hurried tapping on the wall adjoining the tenement next door breaks into Mrs. Boothby’s speech. “You alright in there, Ida luv? I ‘eard bangin’!” the anxious muffled voice of Mrs. Boothby’s neighbour, Mrs. Conway, calls out.

 

“Yes Lil, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby assures her. “It’s alright. Just a surprise visitor, and that nosey gossip Mrs. Friedman not mindin’ ‘er own business like usual.”

 

“Bloody Yid! Alright Ada, luv.” Mrs. Conway’s voice replies with relief. “Night.”

 

“Night Lil, dearie.”

 

“Miss Eadie!” comes a booming voice from the room.

 

Edith and Mrs. Boothby both glance across the kitchen-cum-parlour to the clean deal kitchen table. Ken, Mrs. Boothby’s mature aged disabled son sits at the table, his beloved worn teddy bear, floppy stuffed rabbit and a few playing cards in front of him. A gormless grin spreads across his childlike innocent face, but it falls away quickly when he sees that Edith has been crying. He drops his bear, his precious toy forgotten, his face darkening as he leaps up from his seat and hurries over to Edith and his mother in a few galumphing steps.

 

“Oh lawd!” Mrs. Boothby hisses. “Ken’ll be beside ‘imself!”

 

“Hoo did this, Miss Eadie?” Ken asks anxiously, hopping up and down on the spot with agitation before the two women. “Who hurt my Miss Eadie?”

 

“Nahw, nahw, son. ‘Ush nahw.” Mrs. Boothby says soothingly, raising her hands up to her son in an effort to placate him. “We don’t know niffink yet, do we?”

 

Ken’s large, careworn, sausage like finger fly to his mouth. “’Ooo made my Miss Eadie, cry?” he seethes, the anger blazing in his eyes. “I’ll kill ‘im!”

 

“Nahw, youse won’t go killin’ no-one, Ken!” Mrs. Boothby replies. “What are you like?”

 

“It’s alright, Ken,” Edith replies a little shakily. “It’s just my beau. He said something that upset me, but…”

 

“I’ll kill him!” Ken interrupts, his voice rising in anger. “I’ll kill that bastard!”

 

“Ken!” Mrs. Boothby snaps. “Whatchoo fink Miss Eadie is gonna fink, you cussin’ like that in front of ‘er! Fink I raised you up a bad’n, she will! Miss Eadie is a lady!”

 

“Oh!” Ken gasps in apology. “Sorry Mum!”

 

“It’s not me you need to be apologising to, Ken!” Mrs. Boothby snaps. “It’s Miss Eadie, ‘ere.”

 

“Sorry Miss Eadie.” Ken apologises earnestly.

 

“A nice lady like Miss Eadie ain’t gonna be your friend, nor bring you nice presents like she does, if youse go cussin’ and fretenin’ to kill ‘er beau like that in front of ‘er!”

 

“I will! I will!” Ken insists. “I’ll kill ‘im if ‘e made my Miss Eadie cry!”

 

“Oh, he didn’t mean to, Ken.” Edith assures Ken, reaching out and placing a hand comfortingly upon his forearm. “It’s alright. He just said something… something nice, but it just didn’t seem that nice to me when he said it. It’s alright. Really it is.”

 

“I’ll kill him.” Ken affirms again, but in a calmer voice as his agitation begins to dissipate.

 

“You’d never kill anyone, Ken.” Edith soothes. “I know you wouldn’t. You’re far to gentle. That’s why I like you and why I bring you pretty books and toys, because you’re gentle with them.”

 

“Whatchoo like, Ken?” Mrs. Boothby goes on. “Miss Eadie is right. You’d nevva ‘urt a fly!”

 

“Of course I’m right, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith goes on. “Look how gentle Ken is with his toys.” She nods at the teddy and rabbit lying on the table.

 

“Anyways, ‘ooo would Miss Eadie marry if you went and dun ‘er young man, in, Ken? Tell me that!”

 

“Me Mum!” Ken smiles cheerfully, the anger of moments ago forgotten in an instant. “She can marry me, Mum.”

 

“Oh that’s sweet of you, Ken,” Edith’s blush goes unnoticed because of her already reddened face. “But I think we’re probably better being very good friends, rather than stepping out together. Don’t you think?”

 

“Yes, Miss Eadie.”

 

“And you don’t have to be my beau in order for me to bring you presents, Ken.”

 

Ken’s eyes light up, this time with excitement. “Did you bring me a present, Miss Eadie?”

 

“Ken!” Mrs. Boothby scolds again. “What kind of question is that to ask our guest, when she’s not even sat down yet!”

 

Kenn immediately moves back to the kitchen table and draws out the ladderback chair that he was sitting on, encouraging Edith to sit upon it.

 

“I’m sorry Ken.” Edith apologises sadly. “No presents today. Maybe next time.”

 

“Next time is Christmas, Miss Eadie!” Ken replies, clapping his hands.

 

“Yes. Why yes it is, Ken.” Edith replies distractedly. “I’ll bring you a nice Christmas present.”

 

“You’ll do nuffink of the sort,” Mrs. Boothby hisses. “You spoil my son with all those gifts you give ‘im!”

 

“I can if I choose, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

Ignoring Edith’s reply the old woman says, “Nahw Ken, do me a favour, son. Run ‘n get me bag will you?”

 

“Yes Mum!” Ken replies as he scurries off.

 

“You ‘ungry, Edith derie?” Mrs, Boothby quickly asks Edith.

 

“Well, I hadn’t really considered it, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies.

 

“Well, I’m goona distract Ken by sendin’ im on an errand to go get us somfink for tea, so then you and me can ‘ave a quick chat alone wivout bein’ disturbed, if you know what I mean.” Mrs. Boothby whispers, winking at Edith. Then raising her voice more loudly, she continues, “Could you stomach some chippies, Edith love?”

 

“Well,” Edith replies with equal loudness, “Frank did take me for afternoon tea at Lyon’s Corner House****** this afternoon for sandwiches, but I did lose most of my appetite, so I’m quite peckish now.”

 

“Then some chippies will do you the world a good then, dearie!” Mrs. Boothby replies.

 

Ken quickly returns with Mrs. Boothby’s capacious blue beaded bag and hands it to his mother. She opens it and fishes around inside before withdrawing a small beaten brown leather coin purse with a silver metal clasp. She opens it and withdraws a coin. “Nahw Ken, what’s this then?” she asks, holding up a shiny bronzed halfpenny******* featuring King George on one side and Britannia seated holding a trident******** on the other between her right thumb and index finger.

 

“It’s money, Mum!” Ken scoffs with a broad smile. “I’m not dumb you know!”

 

“Ahh lawd love ya, son,” Mrs. Boothby runs her left hand lovingly along her son’s cheek before pinching it, making him smile even more broadly. “I know you ain’t. Ain’t I be the one what always tells ya not to let anyone tell you that youse fick? Nah! I know youse got more brains than a lot of people out there.” She gesticulates to the world outside their front door. “But if youse so smart, Ken, ‘ow much is it, I’d ‘oldin’ ‘ere?”

 

“It’s an ‘a’penny, Mum.”

 

“Good lad!” Mrs. Boothby agrees. “It’s an ‘a’penny bit.” She smiles proudly. “Nawh, I want you to take this ‘a’penny bit wiv ya and go round to Mr. Cricklewood’s and buy us an ‘a’penny bit’s worf of ‘ot chips, right?”

 

“Ain’t Mr. ‘Eath’s chippe closer, Mum?” Ken asks, his face crumpling up questioningly.

 

“It is, son,” Mrs. Boothby agrees. “But you know as well as I do, that Mr. Cricklewood’s chippies is much nicer. That’s why ‘e’s always got a queue out tha door on a Sunday night, ain’t it?”

 

“Yes Mum! Evva so much nicer, Mum!”

 

Mrs. Boothby drops the halfpenny in the palm of his hand. “So orf you go!”

 

“Yes Mum! An ‘a’penny bit’s worf of ‘ot chips.” Ken repeats back.

 

“Good lad!” Mrs. Boothby says encouragingly. “And whilst youse gawn, I’ll pop the kettle on, and fry us up a couple a nice eggs to go wiv ‘em. Reckon you could eat a couple a eggies, Ken?”

 

“Yes Mum!” Ken agrees in delight, rubbing his burgeoning stomach to show her how hungry he is.

 

As the door closes behind him, and Ken steps out into the dark and fog filling street, Mrs. Boothby heaves a sigh of relief.

 

“Well, that’ll distract Ken for a while.” she says. She goes to the window and pulls back the red velvet curtain that excludes the cold of the night, and watches as Ken disappears into the darkness shrouded by the growing fog. “The queues outside Cricklewood’s Fish and Chippery are ever so long on a Sunday night, even a foggy one. That it’ll give you enuff time to dry you’re tears, and me enuff time to pop on the kettle, and for us to ‘ave a quick chat undisturbed an’ get to bottom of what’s got cha so upset, Edith dearie.”

 

“I’m sorry again for dropping in on you unannounced, Mrs. Boothby, and for upsetting Ken.” Edith says.

 

“Nawh, don’t you fret about that, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby replies with a dismissive wave. “I’m just glad you made it ‘ere before it gets too dark. The streets round ‘ere ain’t too safe for young slips of girls like you at night – ‘specially when there’s a fog brewin’ like tonight. Ken ‘n I will take you back to Cavendish Mews after our tea. ‘Ere, give me your coat ‘n ‘at, dearie.”

 

“Will Ken be alright?” Edith asks in concern, looking to the closed door anxiously as Mrs. Boothby shucks her out of her three quarter length black coat, a piece she picked up cheaply as per Mrs. Boothby’s recommendation from a Petticoat Lane********* second-hand clothes stall not far from Mrs. Boothby’s tenement, and remodelled it.

 

“’E’ll be fine, dearie. Don’t worry.” Mrs. Boothby replies, taking Edith’s black straw cloche decorated with black feathers and lavender satin roses obtained from Mrs. Minkin’s haberdashery in Whitechapel, another place that Mrs. Boothby recommended Edith to. “’Ooose gonna take on a great big bulk of muscle like my Ken, dearie? E’ll give anyone what tries a right royal bollockin’ if they do.” She hangs up Edith’s coat and hat on a hook behind the door. “Anyway, unlike you, our Ken’s a local, and there’s a certain amount of respect for locals, even ‘mongst the thieves and pickpockets round this way. You don’t make a mess, or enemies, in your own patch, nahw do you?”

 

“I suppose not, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies.

 

“Sit yourself dahwn, while I pop the kettle on. Nahw Edith dearie,” Mrs. Boothby says with concern, walking the few paces across her parlour to the old blacklead stove. “What’s all the commotion then?” She turns back and looks the young maid squarely in the face, a kindly look on her worn and wrinkled face. “Tell me why youse come to see me outta the blue like this on a Sunday night, and cryin’ at that? Are you alright?” She gasps. “Well obviously you ain’t! What was I finkin’ askin’ that? You said somfink about it to do wiv your young Frank Leadbetter? ‘As ‘e wound up in some trouble?”

 

“No Mrs. Boothby. It’s nothing as bad as all that.” Edith sinks down into the ladderback chair at the kitchen table, not too dissimilar from her one at Cavendish Mews, where Ken had been sitting, and toys idly with the paw of his well loved teddy bear. “I should be embarrassed for coming here really, and bothering you like this. You’ll think I’m stupid, no doubt.”

 

“Nahw you let me worry ‘bout what I fink about yer, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby chides Edith with a wagging finger as she fills her battered kettle from the small trough sink in the corner of the room and carries it the two paces over to the stove. “But I can tell you right nahw that I won’t fink you’re stupid, no matter what. Nahw, I ‘ope ya don’t mind, but I’m dying for a fag! I was just about ta ‘ave one when you knocked on me door.” Without waiting for a reply, Mrs Boothby starts fossicking through her capacious beaded bag, which she cast carelessly onto the tabletop after taking out the money for Ken, before withdrawing her cigarette papers, Swan Vestas and tin of Player’s Navy Cut. Rolling herself a cigarette she lights it with a satisfied sigh and one of her fruity coughs, dropping the match into a black ashtray full of used cigarette butts that also sits in its usual place on the table. “Nahw, tell me what all the trouble is then, Edith dearie.” she says, blowing forth a plume of acrid smoke.

 

“I’m almost too ashamed to tell you, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“’Ere! ‘E weren’t bein’ ‘andsy, were ‘e?” Mrs. Boothby gasps. “Under the table like at Lyon’s Corner ‘Ouse, takin’ liberties ‘e ain’t supposed to be?”

 

“Oh no, Mrs. Boothby, nothing like that.”

 

“That’s good! I didn’t ever take Frank Leadbetter as an ‘andsy sort of chap, or I’d nevva ‘ave tried settin’ you two up.”

 

“Oh, he’s a gentleman, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“And you ‘aven’t ‘ad a fallin’ out, ‘ave you?” the older woman asks warily.

 

“Oh no, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Then what’s ‘e done that’s upset cha?” Mrs. Boothby asks, before coughing again, sending forth another few billows of smoke accompanying her throaty outbursts.

 

“He was only trying to be nice, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith goes on. “You see, we had a lovely tea at Lyon’s Corner House up in Tottenham Court Road today after we went to see ‘The Notorious Mrs. Carrick’********** at the Premier*********** in East Ham. I knew Frank was distracted. I could tell he was itching to talk to me about something.”

 

“What was it, dearie? What did ‘e say?”

 

“He wanted to talk about our future, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“And that’s a bad fing?”

 

“Well no, but what he said has raised a lot of concerns for me, you see.”

 

“So, what was that then?”

 

“Well, you know how Frank has been spending time at these trade union meetings?” Edith begins. When Mrs. Boothby nods she goes on, “He went to a trade union meeting the other week and he met up with a chum of his who told him that he might have a position opening up Frank soon, as an assistant manager at a grocers.”

 

“Well what’s so bad about that, dearie?” Mrs. Boothby asks. She pulls a face. “Certainly nuffink to get upset about! I fought that’s whatchoo bowf wanted.”

 

“We do, Mrs. Boothby, but its where it may be that’s the problem.”

 

“Where is it then? The moon?” the old Cockney woman laughs light-heartedly. “It can’t be as bad as all that, can it?”

 

“It may just as well be the moon, Mrs. Boothby. The opening is for a grocers in one of those new estates being built north-west of London.”

 

“And where are they then?” Mrs. Boothby asks. “Pardon my hignorance.”

 

“Hertfordshire or Buckinghamshire!” Edith exclaims. “Miss Lettice’s sister lives in Buckinghamshire! It’s the country!”

 

“Ahh!” Mrs. Boothby sighs knowingly, placing her cigarette between her thin lips to free her hands so she can pick up her old Brown Betty************ and fill it with water from the now boiling kettle. “So, Frank wants you to move to the country then?”

 

“Yes.” Edith sighs. “I mean, Frank says that where he’s taking about isn’t really the country as such. It’s an estate built along the railway line, not far from Wembley Park, but it sounds like its all in the planning at the moment, and in my mind, its still very much the country.” She sighs again. “And I’ve never lived in the country, and having lived in the city all my life, I don’t think I much fancy country living, especially not after that awful time Hilda and I had in Alderley Edge when we visited our friend Queenie. Remember me telling you, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“I do dearie.” She nods as places the pot on the table, huffing out cigarette smoke as she speaks. “Everyone in those little villages knows everyone else’s business, and I ‘ate people nosin’ in on mine.” She eyes the door and pictures Mrs. Friedman’s twitching lace curtains beyond it.

 

“I mean Frank says it won’t be like that. He says there won’t be uppity families living in these new suburbs, because everyone will be working class, like us, or maybe middle-class, but there will still be the people who have lived in those areas for generations, surely, and they’ll be the ones who’ll rule the roost.”

 

“Indeed they will, Edith dearie. Country folk don’t like town folk any more than we like them.”

 

“Have you been to the country before, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Good lawd no!” Mrs. Boothby cries before coughing again as she stubs her cigarette butt out in the ashtray. “But I’ve read about it, mark my words. I’d never give up my life in the city. I ‘ave ‘eard and know enuff ‘bout the country to know it’s far too quiet out there for someone like me! Nah! I ain’t for the country and the country ain’t for me nivver.”

 

“Frank says that the air out there is fresher and healthier, with none of the pea-soupers************* we get here in London, like tonight.”

 

“I fink that talk ‘bout fresh air’s overrated. They got cows in the country, ain’t they?”

 

“Yes, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Then you tell me, wiv all them cows out there, ‘ow can the air be fresh? It’d be full of cow farts and cow droppin’ smells, and we all know that horse droppin’s stink, and I don’t imagine the same from cows would smell any better!”

 

“I hadn’t actually thought about that, Mrs. Boothby. I can’t say that I noticed the smell of cow droppings in Alderley Edge.”

 

“Well, it sounds like they’s far too grand there to even ‘ave cow droppin’s, so they might not ‘ave any, Edith dearie.”

 

“What really concerns me, Mrs. Boothby, more than the quiet, or the cow droppings, is the fact that I won’t have my family nearby, or the people I love: no Mum, no Dad, no Hilda, no you, Mrs. Boothby, and that’s what really made me upset. The realisation of how isolated I might be didn’t really strike me until I got back to Cavendish Mews and I was on my own with Miss Lettice out. I listened to the silence and I suddenly started to cry, and that’s when…” Edith cannot finish her sentence as she starts to cry again. She quickly fishes out her handkerchief again.

 

“And that’s when you come to see me.” Mrs. Boothby concludes, once again wrapping her arms around Edith.

 

“Exactly.” Edith’s muffled voice from within her handkerchief agrees. “I wanted to be with a friend.”

 

“And do you are! Nahw let me pour you a nice cup of Rosie Lee**************, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby fetches a dainty floral cup from her large Welsh dresser and sets it in front of Edith. She then gathers her sugar bowl and fetches a small glass jug of milk from a poky cupboard in a dark corner of the room that serves as her larder. She lifts up the well worn Brown Betty pot and pours a slug of brackish, well steeped tea into Edith’s cup. “I’ll let ya add your own milk ‘n sugar, dearie.” She pauses for a moment and looks across at Edith with worry in her eyes. “Although considerin’ the state yer in, I fink you should add a couple of sugars, personally. Then dry your eyes again. Ken’ll be ‘ome soon wiv the chippies I sent ‘im out for an’ ‘ell be beside ‘imself all over again like before if ‘e sees you blubbin’. ‘E won’t know whevva to punch the lights out of Frank, or give you a big ‘ug to make you feel better.” She releases another few fruity coughs. “Finkin of which, I better get on wiv fryin’ the eggs before ‘e does get back. Nahw you just sit there and enjoy your nice cuppa Rosie Lee and compose yourself, while I get cookin’.”

 

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

 

Mrs. Boothby walks quickly back to her larder and gasps as she withdraws some lard wrapped in foil and the eggs. “It’s Ken’s lucky day! I plumb forgot I ‘ad a rasher of bacon left over from breakfast! I’ll fry it up for ‘im to ‘ave wiv his chippie tea, and you and I‘ll ‘ave an egg each wiv ours.”

 

The old woman takes a battered old skillet and sets it on the stovetop after poking the coals to bring them to life and drive up the heat. She rolls herself another cigarette, and after lighting it, pops it between her lips and puffs away pleasurably, sending plumes and billows of acrid greyish white smoke about her like a steam locomotive. Using a wooden handled knife, she cuts some lard from the congealed square wrapped in foil and scrapes it into the skillet and leaves it to melt. Once it starts bubbling, she drops in the rasher of bacon and starts frying it.

 

“So you don’t think it would be advisable to go to the country then, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks.

 

“Well, that all depends.” she replies over the comforting sound of hissing fat, releasing another of her fruity coughs and a plume of smoke as she does.

 

“Depends? Depends on what?”

 

“On what the pros and cons of the circumstances are. You’ve said that you’re concerned about bein’ isolated. Fair enuff.”

 

“Well, Frank says that these estates won’t be in the country forever. He says that they are developing them all the time. He even said that places like Harlesden where Mum and Dad live and where I grew up, used to be the country.”

 

“’E’s got a fair point, Edith dearie. All of London was once countryside. Even ‘ere!” She shudders. “So, it may be a bit isolated to begin wiv, or it may not. Nahw, you’re worried that there may be some toffee-nosed people abaht.” Mrs. Boothby turns back and looks at Edith, who nods shallowly. “Well, I hate to tell you this, dearie, but there’s toffee-nosed people wherevva you go. Take that Golda Friedman from across the way.” She nods to the door again, a few pieces of ash falling from the burning end of her cigarette as she does and wafting gently through the air towards the ground. “She goes around wiv ‘er nose in the air wrapped up in that fancy paisley shawl of ‘ers, what needs a damn good wash, actin’ like she was the Queen of Russia ‘erself, lawdin’ it over us all. But she ain’t no better than the rest of us.”

 

“And Frank did say that there would be working-class people like us there too.”

 

“So, you could make some new friends there then?” Mrs. Boothby smiles as she shifts the bacon in the skillet, the aroma of cooked bacon starting to arise from the pan.

 

“Well,” Edith ponders. “I suppose so.”

 

“And youse concerned that you won’t ‘ave your mum ‘n’ dad round?”

 

“Or Hilda, or you, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

Mrs. Boothby smiles kindly as she moves the browning bacon to one side of the skillet and cracks two eggs from a small chipped white bowl into the space she has made. They hiss and fizzle as they hit the pool of bubbling fat. Smiling more broadly, she goes over to the dresser again and takes down four blue and white floral painted plates, placing three on the table, and the fourth on the edge of the stove next to the now cooling kettle.

 

“’Ere, ain’t that fancy Empire Stadium*************** what they built for the British Hempire Hexhibition**************** close to where your parents live, Edith dearie?”

 

“Well yes, I suppose.” Edith admits. “There’s even a big sign fastened to the Jubilee Clock***************** in High Street at the moment which says, ‘British Empire Exhibition, Wembley’ with a big arrow underneath it, so I guess it’s reasonably close by.”

 

“Nahw correct me if I’m wrong, but these new hestates what the’re buildin’ that your Frank is talkin’ ‘bout, they’s built along the railway line, yes?”

 

“Yes, Frank says it’s only a few stops on from Wembley Park to reach some of these estates he was thinking the openings might be in.”

 

“Well don’t that mean you’d be closer to your parents than where you are now, in Mayfair, Edith dearie?”

 

“Oh, I see what you’re doing, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith suddenly says with a smile.

 

“Hhhmmm?” Mrs. Boothby replies distractedly as she prods the edges of the eggs as they start to crisp. “What ‘m I doin’?”

 

“You’re trying to allay my concerns, aren’t you? You really think I should go to the country.”

 

“Well, just past Wembley Park ain’t the city, like ‘ere, but it ain’t the country neiver, and what I fink, don’t matter a jot. It’s what you and Frank fink, Edith dearie.”

 

“But I don’t know what to think Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies, her face suddenly clouding over.

 

“Is Frank askin’ you to decide about movin’ wherever nahw?” Mrs. Boothby asks, coughing again between her gritted teeth holding onto the fast reducing remains of her cigarette as she speaks.

 

“Well, no, not exactly.” Edith replies. “This just came up in conversation this afternoon as a possibility for Frank when he was at the trade union meeting, and Frank wanted to tell me about it. He wanted me to consider whether I’d be happy to go.”

 

“Right.” Mrs. Boothby says. She sets the white metal flip she is using to move the eggs and bacon about aside and turns back to Edith. Lunging over, she takes her spent cigarette from between her lips and stubs it out in the ashtray. “Then I will tell you what I fink, because you’re in such a state over nuffink right nahw, that I fink you need to ‘ear it, dearie.” She places her hands firmly on her bony hips. “I fink you is lookin’ too closely at what ain’t even ‘appened yet, Edith dearie. Frank ain’t said youse movin’ anywhere yet. You ain’t even wed yet! ‘E’s just askin’ you to fink about the possibility in yer future is all. ‘E could get a new position in Clapham or Putney or somewhere, couldn’t ‘e?”

 

“Well, he could, Mrs. Boothby, although he says they may not be as advantageous as the ones he is talking about.”

 

“But ‘e could?”

 

“Well yes, of course, Mrs. Boothby. Anything could happen.”

 

“So, what youse goin’ to do is ‘ave a lovely slap-up tea of egg ‘n’ chips ‘ere, wiv Ken and me, and then Ken and me, we’s gonna take you ‘ome to Miss Lettice’s where you belong, and where you need to be before she gets ‘ome from dinner in the West End tonight at that fancy café, so you can take ‘er coat and ‘at ‘n’ all and tuck ‘er into bed.”

 

“Oh I don’t really tuck her in….” The words die on Edith’s lips as Mrs. Boothby holds up her palm in protest to stop her.

 

“And then you’re gonna go to bed and get a good night’s sleep. And then tomorra, when youse wake up, you’re gonna see this all in a much more sensible light. Right nahw, you’re in shock, see? Frank sprung this on you as a surprise, so of course it’s gonna get your mind to tickin’ over like an alarm clock. But dearie, there ain’t nuffink to be alarmed ‘bout.” Mrs. Boothby smiles at Edith, sitting at her table. “When, or if, Frank gets offered one of these fancy manager jobs ‘e’s talkin’ ‘bout, well you just need to sit dahwn wiv ‘im and talk about it - just the two of you, mind - and work out what the pros and cons are. Share your concerns wiv ‘im, just like you did wiv me, and work out togevva, whevva youse gonna be ‘appy or not.”

 

“Yes, you’re so right, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith exclaims.

 

“Yes, I am, dearie!” Mrs. Boothby agrees proudly. “You don’t get to be on this earth as long as I’ve been and not be right at least once or twice in your life. Nahw listen to me. Frank loves you. It’s as plain as the nose on your face******************, and that’s a fact. So, ‘e’s not gonna make you do anyfink that won’t make you ‘appy, and that includes movin to Timbuktu or wherever. So, if the time comes, just be ‘onest wiv ‘im, and then you can work it out togevva. It’ll be alright. Tell ‘im nahw, if ‘e wants an answer nahw, that you’ll consider it when the time comes and not before. That way you won’t lose any sleep over what might not ‘appen.”

 

A smile, gentle and warm, breaks across Edith’s face, and as she looks at her, Mrs. Boothby can see the anxiety and concerns that had her arrive at her door in a state of tears. Lift and melt away.

 

“That’s better, dearie!” The old Cockney char leans forward and gives Edith’s hand a friendly and comforting squeeze. “Nah more tears.”

 

“You’re such a good egg, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith exclaims. “And such a good friend to me!” She leaps from her seat and gives the old woman a kiss on the cheek as she throws her arms around her neck. “What would I do without you?”

 

Just at that moment, both Edith and Mrs. Boothby hear a happy whistle in the foggy rookery outside.

 

“And thinkin’ of eggs, ‘ere’s our Ken, back from Mr. Cricklewood wiv an a’penny’s worth of chippes I ‘ope!”

 

The door bursts open and Ken’s bulk appears in the doorway.

 

“Hot chippies Mum!” he says as he smiles his gormless smile at his mother and Edith.

 

*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 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.

 

****A shape shifter is someone or something that seems able to change form or identity at will, especially a mythical figure such as a witch that can assume different forms (as of animals).

 

*****The Café Royal in Regent Street, Piccadilly was originally conceived and set up in 1865 by Daniel Nicholas Thévenon, who was a French wine merchant. He had to flee France due to bankruptcy, arriving in Britain in 1863 with his wife, Célestine, and just five pounds in cash. He changed his name to Daniel Nicols and under his management - and later that of his wife - the Café Royal flourished and was considered at one point to have the greatest wine cellar in the world. By the 1890s the Café Royal had become the place to see and be seen at. It remained as such into the Twenty-First Century when it finally closed its doors in 2008. Renovated over the subsequent four years, the Café Royal reopened as a luxury five star hotel.

 

******J. Lyons and Co. was a British restaurant chain, food manufacturing, and hotel conglomerate founded in 1884 by Joseph Lyons and his brothers in law, Isidore and Montague Gluckstein. Lyons’ first teashop opened in Piccadilly in 1894, and from 1909 they developed into a chain of teashops, with the firm becoming a staple of the High Street in the United Kingdom. At its peak the chain numbered around two hundred cafes. The teashops provided for tea and coffee, with food choices consisting of hot dishes and sweets, cold dishes and sweets, and buns, cakes and rolls. Lyons' Corner Houses, which first appeared in 1909 and remained until 1977, were noted for their Art Deco style. Situated on or near the corners of Coventry Street, Strand and Tottenham Court Road, they and the Maison Lyonses at Marble Arch and in Shaftesbury Avenue were large buildings on four or five floors, the ground floor of which was a food hall with counters for delicatessen, sweets and chocolates, cakes, fruit, flowers and other products. In addition, they possessed hairdressing salons, telephone booths, theatre booking agencies and at one period a twice-a-day food delivery service. On the other floors were several restaurants, each with a different theme and all with their own musicians. For a time, the Corner Houses were open twenty-four hours a day, and at their peak each branch employed around four hundred staff including their famous waitresses, commonly known as Nippies for the way they nipped in and out between the tables taking orders and serving meals. The tea houses featured window displays, and, in the post-war period, the Corner Houses were smarter and grander than the local tea shops. Between 1896 and 1965 Lyons owned the Trocadero, which was similar in size and style to the Corner Houses.

 

*******The British pre-decimal halfpenny, once abbreviated ob., is a discontinued denomination of sterling coinage worth 1/480 of one pound, 1/24 of one shilling, or 1/2 of one penny. Originally the halfpenny was minted in copper, but after 1860 it was minted in bronze.

 

********The original reverse of the bronze version of the coin, designed by Leonard Charles Wyon, is a seated Britannia, holding a trident, with the words HALF PENNY to either side. Issues before 1895 also feature a lighthouse to Britannia's left and a ship to her right. Various minor adjustments to the level of the sea depicted around Britannia, and the angle of her trident were also made over the years. Some issues feature toothed edges, while others feature beading.

 

*********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.

 

**********”The Notorious Mrs. Carrick” is a 1924 British silent crime film directed by George Ridgwell and starring Cameron Carr, A.B. Imeson and Gordon Hopkirk. It was an adaptation of the novel Pools of the Past by Charles Proctor. The film was made by Britain's largest film company of the era Stoll Pictures. It was released in July 1924.

 

***********The Premier Super Cinema in East Ham was opened on the 12th of March, 1921, replacing the 800 seat capacity 1912 Premier Electric Theatre. The new cinema could seat 2,408 patrons. The Premier Super Cinema was taken over by Provincial Cinematograph Theatres who were taken over by Gaumont British in February 1929. It was renamed the Gaumont from 21st April 1952. The Gaumont was closed by the Rank Organisation on 6th April 1963. After that it became a bingo hall and remained so until 2005. Despite attempts to have it listed as a historic building due to its relatively intact 1921 interior, the Gaumont was demolished in 2009.

 

************A Brown Betty is a type of teapot, round and with a manganese brown glaze known as Rockingham glaze. In the Victorian era, when tea was at its peak of popularity, tea brewed in the Brown Betty was considered excellent. This was attributed to the design of the pot which allowed the tea leaves more freedom to swirl around as the water was poured into the pot, releasing more flavour with less bitterness.

 

*************A term originating in Nineteenth Century Britain, a pea soup fog is a very thick and often yellowish, greenish or blackish fog caused by air pollution that contains soot particulates and the poisonous gas sulphur dioxide. It refers to the thick, dense fog that is so thick that it appears to be the color and consistency of pea soup. Pea-soupers were particularly common in large industrial cities like Manchester and Liverpool and populous cities like London where there were lots of coal fires either for industry and manufacturing, or for household heating. The last really big pea-souper in London happened in December 1952. At least three and a half to four thousand people died of acute bronchitis. However, in cities like Manchester and Liverpool, where the concentration of manufacturing was higher, they continued well beyond that.

 

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

 

***************A purpose-built "great national sports ground", called the Empire Stadium, was built for the Exhibition at Wembley. This became Wembley Stadium. Wembley Urban District Council was opposed to the idea, as was The Times, which considered Wembley too far from Central London. The first turf for this stadium was cut, on the site of the old tower, on the 10th of January 1922. 250,000 tons of earth were then removed, and the new structure constructed within ten months, opening well before the rest of the Exhibition was ready. Designed by John William Simpson and Maxwell Ayrton, and built by Sir Robert McAlpine, it could hold 125,000 people, 30,000 of them seated. The building was an unusual mix of Roman imperial and Mughal architecture. Although it incorporated a football pitch, it was not solely intended as a football stadium. Its quarter mile running track, incorporating a 220 yard straight track (the longest in the country) were seen as being at least equally important. The only standard gauge locomotive involved in the construction of the Stadium has survived, and still runs on Sir William McAlpine's private Fawley Hill railway near Henley.

 

****************The British Empire Exhibition was a colonial exhibition held at Wembley Park, London England from 23 April to 1 November 1924 and from 9 May to 31 October 1925. In 1920 the British Government decided to site the British Empire Exhibition at Wembley Park, on the site of the pleasure gardens created by Edward Watkin in the 1890s. A British Empire Exhibition had first been proposed in 1902, by the British Empire League, and again in 1913. The Russo-Japanese War had prevented the first plan from being developed and World War I put an end to the second, though there had been a Festival of Empire in 1911, held in part at Crystal Palace. One of the reasons for the suggestion was a sense that other powers, like America and Japan, were challenging Britain on the world stage. Despite victory in Great War, this was in some ways even truer in 1919. The country had economic problems and its naval supremacy was being challenged by two of its former allies, the United States and Japan. In 1917 Britain had committed itself eventually to leave India, which effectively signalled the end of the British Empire to anyone who thought about the consequences, while the Dominions had shown little interest in following British foreign policy since the war. It was hoped that the Exhibition would strengthen the bonds within the Empire, stimulate trade and demonstrate British greatness both abroad and at home, where the public was believed to be increasingly uninterested in Empire, preferring other distractions, such as the cinema.

 

****************The cast iron Jubilee Clock has remained a Harlesden landmark since its erection at Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee in 1887. It is ornate, decorated with dolphins, armorial bearings, a fluted circular column with spirals, shields of arms and swags. When it was built, it featured four ornate gas lit lamps sprouting from its column and two drinking fountains with taps and bowls at its base. It also featured a weathervane on its top. During the late Twentieth Century elements were removed, including the lanterns and the fountain bowls. In 1997 the clock was restored without these elements, but plans are underway to restore of the weathervane and recreation of the original four circular lanterns to the clock and the two fountains.

 

*****************A idiom used to describe something that is obvious and quite clear, “plain as the nose on your face” is attributed to Francois Rabelais in 1552 by Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations. It was also used by Shakespeare in England in 1594 in Act II, Scene I of Two Gentleman of Verona.

 

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:

 

The black skillet with the rasher of bacon and the two eggs frying in it are an artisan piece that I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. The blue and white plate on the edge of the stove to the right of the photograph also comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop.

 

The square of lard wrapped up in silver foil is an artisan miniature piece that I acquired from former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Frances Knight’s work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination.

 

The small serrated knife with the wooden handle on the blue and white Cornish Ware plate comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

Cornishware is a striped kitchenware brand trademarked to and manufactured by T.G. Green & Co Ltd. Originally introduced in the 1920s and manufactured in Church Gresley, Derbyshire, it was a huge success for the company and in the succeeding 30 years it was exported around the world. The company ceased production in June 2007 when the factory closed under the ownership of parent company, The Tableshop Group. The range was revived in 2009 after T.G. Green was bought by a trio of British investors.

 

The Box of Sunlight Soap standing on the edge of the trough sink and the jars of Coleman’s Mustard and tartaric acid on the shelf of the stove are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, with great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars and cans.

 

Sunlight Soap was first introduced in 1884. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight.

 

Colman's is an English manufacturer of mustard and other sauces, formerly based and produced since 1814 for one hundred and sixty years at Carrow, in Norwich, Norfolk. Owned by Unilever since 1995, Colman's is one of the oldest existing food brands, famous for a limited range of products, almost all being varieties of mustard.

 

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

 

The black Victorian era stove and the ladderback chair on the left of the table and the small table directly behind it are all miniature pieces I have had since I was a child. The ladderback chair on the right came from a deceased estate of a miniatures collector in Sydney.

 

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.

Cleanliness is Godliness

Maryland State law requires all employee's must wash hands before returning to work. Wait... this was the 1950's, maybe not

 

From Woman's Personal Hygiene, by Leona W. Chalmers, published 1946.

Twice a day, everyday. Just after this photo we made a tad too much noise and heard the site manager hear us, and run for the stairs above us. We hid, then esacped to the roof once he passed us. We waited it out until we heard him drive off. At least we think he did - we crept out like true freaking ninjas.

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 Easter Sunday morning and found Edith standing on her stoop, dressed in a lovely floral patterned cotton frock and the wide brimmed straw hat decorated with ribbon and ornamental flowers she bought from Mrs. Minkin’s Haberdashery in Whitechapel.

 

“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!”

 

“I’m sorry to pay a call unannounced, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith apologises sheepishly.

 

“Not at all, dearie,” the old Cockney assures her. “Come on in wiv ya. Can’t ‘ave you standin’ on the stoop, what wiv all and sundry keepin’ an ear out for business what ain’t their own.” She gives a hard stare over Edith’s shoulder to the door of Mrs. Friedmann, where the nosy Jewess stands in her usual spot in her doorway, where she leans against its frame wrapped in one of her paisley shawls, observing the goings on of the rookery** with dark and watchful eyes. “Wanna paint a picture Mrs. Friedmann?” Mrs. Boothby calls out across the paved court, challenging her open stare with a defensive one of her own. “Might last you longer, your royal ‘ighness!” She casts her cigarette butt out into the courtyard, and makes a mock over exaggerated curtsey towards her, hitching up the hem of her own workday skirts. She turns her attentions back to Edith. “Come on in, dearie.”

 

It takes a moment for Edith’s eyes to adjust as the old Cockney woman scuttles ahead of her. As they do, Edith discerns the familiar things within the tenement front room that Edith has come to know over her 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 pretty ornamental knick-knacks she has collected over many years.

 

“Close the door behind you and come on in, dearie. It was a bit cold this mornin’, but the ‘ouse is nice and warm. I got the range goin’, so I’ll put the kettle on for a nice cup of Rosie-Lee***, if yer ‘ave the time that is.”

 

“Oh yes, thank you, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies as she closes the door behind her. “That would be lovely.

 

Shutting out the unpleasant mixture of odours outside with the closing of the door, 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. Nah, go ‘ang up your ‘at ‘n make yerself comfy at the table.”

 

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

 

“Oh you are a luv to ‘elp, 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 top shelf of her dresser. “Look ooh’s ‘ere, Ken!” the old woman adds brightly.

 

Edith looks affectionately across the room to the bed nestled in the corner upon which Ken, Mrs. Boothby’s mature aged disabled son sits, playing with his beloved worn teddy bear and floppy stuffed rabbit on the crumpled bedclothes.

 

“Miss Eadie!” Ken gasps, a gormless grin spreading across his childlike innocent face as he recognises Edith.

 

“That’s right, son. It’s Edith come to pay us a call, and on Easter Sunday ‘n all.”

 

Ken drops his stuffed companions, leaps up from his bed and lollops across the room, enveloping Edith in his big, warm embrace, filling her nostrils with the scent of the carbolic soap Mrs. Boothby uses to wash him and his clothes. A tall and muscular man in his forties, his embrace quickly starts to squeeze the air from Edith’s lungs as his grasp grows tighter, making the poor maid cough.

 

“Nah! Nah!” Mrs. Boothby chides, turning away from the stove quickly and giving her son a gentle tap to the shoulder. “Let poor Edith go. You dunno ya own strengf, son. 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. “Your mum is right though.” She huffs. “You… you do give strong hugs.”

 

“Eggies!” Ken answers excitedly, immediately forgetting his mild chastisement, pointing to some brightly painted eggs**** filling the wicker basket in Edith’s left hand as her arm hangs limply at her side.

 

“’Ere! Mind yer own business, son. What’s in Edith’s basket’s ‘er own affair right enuff.” The old woman strides over to her dresser where she takes down an ornamental Art Nouveau tin, which Edith knows well enough from her previous visits to Mrs. Boothby’s tenement, contains biscuits. “’Ere.” She takes out a shortbread biscuit from the tin and gives it to the bulking lad. “Nah, go sit dahn on your bed and play wiv your toys for a bit longer, and let Edith and I ‘ave a nice chat over a cup of Rosie-Lee. I’ll make you a cup ‘n all. And then Edith can share wiv you wot’s in ‘er basket later,” She turns to Edith and gives her a serious look. “If she wants to, that is.”

 

“Oh, what’s in my basket is what I’m here about, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies, depositing the basket onto the deal pine kitchen table before taking off her hat and hanging it up on a spare peg by the door.

 

“Eggies!” Ken says again.

 

“Oh get on wiv ya, Ken!” Mrs. Boothby chuckles as she kindly tousles her son’s hair affectionately. “Youse got a biscuit, nah go an’ sit dahwn like a told you, and you’ll find out soon enough about them eggs since Edith seems to fink they might be for you.”

 

“Yes Ma!” Ken replies.

 

“Good lad.” his mother replies as he retreats obediently to his bed, where he starts playing with his teddy bear and stuffed rabbit again, yet with half an eye on the basket of pastel coloured eggs on the table.

 

“I fought you’d be spendin’ Easter Sunday wiv Frank, or your parents, Edith dearie.” Mrs Boothby says as she pours hot water into the blue and white china pot and swirls it around to warm it, before pouring the water down the drain of the small trough in the corner of the room.

 

“Oh I’m only stopping for a short while, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith answers, reaching up and withdrawing three pretty blue and white china cups and saucers from the dresser. “I went to Easter services this morning at Grosvenor Chapel*****.”

 

“Chapel! Church! Priest!” Ken calls angrily from his truckle bed. “Priest bad!”

 

“Yes son! The priest is bad, but ‘e ain’t ‘ere so don’t you trouble your pretty ‘ead about it.” Mrs. Boothby says comfortingly, reminded of the Catholic priest that used to bother her to have Ken committed to an assylum. She looks over at her son, and just like a cloud momentarily blocking out the sun, Ken’s angry spat dissipates and he happily mumbles something to his teddy bear before laughing. “That bloody Irish Catholic priest offered to take Ken away, has a lot to answer for.” the old woman mutters as she adds spoonfuls of tea to the pot and tops it up with hot water. “Anyway, you was sayin’ ‘bout your plans today, dearie?”

 

Edith takes down the dainty blue and white sugar bowl and hands a non matching blue and white floral jug to Mrs. Boothby’s outstretched gnarled fingers. “I’m meeting Frank in Upton Park at midday and we’re going to visit his granny, for a few hours, and then, with Miss Lettice down in Wiltshire for Easter, I’ll have a light supper with Mum and Dad before heading back to Cavendish Mews tonight. I had Good Friday with them anyway.”

 

“Got time for some biscuits, Edith dearie?” Mrs. Boothby asks, filling the jug with a splash of milk from a bottle she keeps in the coolest corner of her tenement, underneath the trough sink.

 

“I’ve got the time, but I’d better not spoil my appetite. Mrs. McTavish is roasting lamb****** for lunch, and Frank tells me that she makes a delicious simnel cake*******, and she’s baked one especially for today because I’m visiting.”

 

“That’s so luverly of ‘er, dearie.”

 

Mrs. Boothby puts the pot of tea and milk jug on the table. She encourages Edith to take a seat in the sturdy ladderback chair in front of the dresser with a sweeping gesture, whilst she takes a seat in her own chair by the range.

 

“I tell you what Edith dearie, I’m dying for a fag!” Mrs Boothby says. “And a good chat before you do go on and see Frank and ‘is gran.” She starts fossicking through her capacious blue beaded handbag on the table before withdrawing her cigarette papers, box of National Safety Matches and tin of Player’s Navy Cut********* tobacco. Rolling herself a cigarette she lights it with a satisfied sigh and one more of her fruity coughs, dropping the match into a black ashtray that sits on the table full of cigarette butts. Mrs. Boothby settles back happily in her ladderback chair with her cigarette in one hand and sighs. Blowing out a plume of blue smoke that tumbles through the air around them, the old woman continues. “Nah, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, and what’s it got to do wiv them eggs?” She nods at the basket between them.

 

“Eggies!” Ken pipes up from his corner.

 

“Oh Lawd!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims, before stuffing the cigarette between her teeth. “I’d forget me own ‘ead if it weren’t screwed on good ‘n tight.” She snatches up one of the three teacups, sloshes in a splash of milk, adds two heaped teaspoons of sugar and pours in some tea. She stirs the milky tea with a tannin tarnished teaspoon. “Ere you are then, Ken!” She tuns around and holds the cup out to her son, who happily skips across the room and takes it from her hand. “Be careful wiv that, won’t cha love?” She runs a hand lovingly down his cheek to his chin, which she tweaks gently. “That’s Ma’s good china, ain’t it?”

 

“Good china.” Ken says with reverence as he looks down at the cup full of steaming milky tea in his hands.

 

“That’s my boy. Nah, go and have it over there just for nah.” she continues, pointing over to his truckle bed.

 

Edith pours tea for she and Mrs. Boothby whilst the old Cockney woman addresses her son.

 

“’E likes ‘is tea sweet ‘n milky, does my Ken.” Mrs. Boothby says as she turns back to Edith. “Oh fank you, dearie.” she adds as she sees the hot steaming black tea in her cup. She perches her cigarette on her black ashtray and pulls the cup towards her. “Much obliged.”

 

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies, as she adds some milk to her tea before handing the jug to her hostess.

 

Adding a splash of milk to her tea, Mrs. Boothby muses, “I’d a been glad of a daughter like you, if God ‘ad granted me annuva child.” She turns and looks momentarily back at Ken, who sits sipping his tea, looking almost comical as the bulking lad holds the cup so carefully and daintily. “Not that Ken ain’t gift enuff. “E’s one a God’s angels right ‘ere on earf.”

 

“Thank you Mrs. Boothby.” Edith murmurs in reply, blushing at the old woman’s compliment. “I learned my best manners from my Mum.”

 

“I should think you would!” She takes a long drag on her cigarette, the intake making the thin cigarette paper crackle as it is slowly consumed, before she exhales a long greyish plume of acrid smoke above their heads. “Any girl, or boy for that matter, should pay attention to their mas.”

 

“Well, thinking of mums, that’s why I came here today: to give you these.” Edith pushes the basket across the cleanly scrubbed pine surface of the table towards Mrs. Boothby. “With Miss Lettice having gone back down to Wiltshire to have a look at Mr. Gifford’s house and stay with her parents for Easter, Mum and I had time to enjoy an Easter tradition of ours this year, and we dyed these eggs for you as a gift.”

 

“For me?” Mrs. Boothby gasps in delight.

 

“Well, for you and Ken, or course.” Edith goes on.

 

“Eadie!” Ken calls back from his corner, smiling again at Edith.

 

“Oh that’s so luverly of yer both, dearie!” Mrs. Boothby puts her thin, careworn fingers around a bright yellow egg and takes it carefully out of the basket. “Just look at the colour in this one!”

 

“Onion skin.” Edith replies.

 

“What dearie?”

 

“My Mum and I use onion skins to make the yellow dye.”

 

“You never?” exclaims the old woman, her eyes widening in amazement.

 

“On yes, Mrs. Boothby. Onion skins make for a lovely dye. Don’t forget that my Mum is a laundress, so she knows a lot about natural pigments to dye fabrics with.”

 

“Well fancy that! I ain’t never ‘eard of onion skins bein’ used for anyfink much avva than rubbish!”

 

“We use spoiled red cabbage to make blue dye.” Edith smiles.

 

“But red cabbage is red!” Mrs. Boothby laughs, emitting a couple of fruity coughs as she does. She puts the yellow egg back and picks out a blue one. “’Ow can you get blue from red?” She shakes her head in disbelief.

 

“Well, you boil up the red cabbage leaves and then strain out the cabbage. That will make pink or even purple dye.” She takes out a pink egg from the basket and holds it up. “Then you add a tiny bit of baking powder to the cabbage liquid, and it will turn blue.”

 

“Go on wiv ya!” laughs Mrs. Boothby.

 

“It’s true, Mrs. Boothby, sure as…”

 

“As eggs is eggs, dearie?”

 

Edith laughs and sighs. “Yes, Mrs. Boothby! As sure as eggs are eggs. You have to be careful though. If you add too much baking powder, the dye turns green.” She replaces the blue egg and pulls out a green one. “Mum and I always dye pink and purple eggs first, then add a little baking powder to make blue dye, and then once we have enough blue eggs, we add more baking powder and dye green eggs.”

 

“Well, I never!” the old Cockney char exclaims. “I’s older than your ma is, I’ll wager, yet you just taught me sumfink new today. Come ‘ere, Ken!”

 

Ken comes over quickly, carefully replacing his now empty cup and its saucer onto the tabletop next to his mother’s bag.

 

“Good boy. See this ‘ere egg, son?” Mrs. Boothby asks, as she wraps her free right arm part way around her son’s girth.

 

“Yes Ma!” Ken says, smiling with delight at the egg in his mother’s hand, reaching out and carefully touching the dyed surface, running his fingers lightly along it.

 

“This ‘ere egg, Edith coloured and made just for you, ‘cos she knows ‘ow much you love blue.” She hands the egg to him, and Ken holds it carefully. “Nah, whacha say to Edith then, Ken?”

 

“Thank you Eadie!” Ken says lovingly. “Pretty!”

 

“You’re welcome, Ken.” Edith replies with a smile. “Happy Easter.”

 

“Happy Easter, Eadie!” he replies joyfully.

 

Edith watches with delight as Ken rolls the egg around his palms and carefully strokes the blue dyed surface of it.

 

“We’ll keep it for a bit sos you can admire it.” Mrs. Boothby says.

 

“I’m just sorry that they aren’t chocolate Easter eggs*********, Mrs. Boothby, but I can’t really afford that kind of luxury.”

 

“Nonsense Edith, dearie!” the old woman scoffs, waving away Edith’s apology dismissively before picking up what is left of her cigarette and drawing upon it. Billows of greyish smoke tumble from her mouth as she stubs out the butt in the ashtray and says, “You made these ‘ere eggs wiv your own fair ‘and, and look ‘ow ‘appy Ken is. What would ‘e want wiv a chocolate egg, eh? ‘E’s as ‘appy as a lark. Bless ‘im.” She squeezes her son lovingly. “Nah, after a few days of lookin’ at it, then I’ll break it up and we can ‘ave boiled egg on toast, eh Ken?”

 

“Yum Ma!” Ken remarks.

 

“You spoil ‘im, givin’ ‘im all these eggs.” Mrs. Boothby scolds Edith. “Don’t cha want some for Frank and his gran, Mrs. McTavish, since she’s makin’ ya a roast for Easter tea, and a simnel cake ta boot?”

 

“Oh I already gave some for Mrs. McTavish to Frank. He’s going to find a nice box to decorate and present them in, so he’s bringing them.” Edith explains with a smile. “But I did make a few extra for you because I did rather think that you might give them to your neighbour, Mrs. Conway. I remember seeing the children she looks after for the mothers of the neighbourhood who work. I thought you and Ken can take your pick, and you could give the rest to her to share with the children.”

 

“I dare say she’d love that dearie. We could ‘ave a egg rolling contest********** right ‘ere in Merryboork place! The kiddies would ‘ave a right royal time! Fank you for bein’ so thoughtful, Edith dearie.”

 

*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 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.

 

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

 

****People have been decorating eggs for thousands of years. Ancient Egyptians decorated ostrich eggs, and early Christians in Mesopotamia dyed eggs to mark Easter. Throughout history, people have given each other eggs at spring festivals to celebrate the new season. Eggs represent new life and rebirth, and it’s thought that this ancient custom became a part of Easter celebrations. In 1290 King Edward I paid for four hundred and fifty eggs to be coloured or covered in gold leaf and given to his entourage, and Henry VIII received one in a silver case as a present from the Pope. From the Eighteenth Century children decorated their own eggs at Easter, or recieved them as presents. These were called ‘pace eggs’. Pace eggs were made from hard boiled hen, duck or goose eggs, with decorated shells dyed with bright colours – just like in the medieval period. They were given as presents at Easter, or to the actors at pace egg plays. Pace egg plays were medieval style mystery plays, with a theatrical fight between a hero and a villain. The hero character was usually killed, before being brought back to life to triumph over the villain. In many plays, the hero character was St George. Pace eggs were also rolled along the ground in a race called an egg roll. Children would roll a decorated pace egg down a hill, and see whose egg rolled the furthest without breaking. It’s possible that these races started as a symbol of the rolling away of the stone from Jesus’ tomb.

 

*****Grosvenor Chapel is an Anglican church in what is now the City of Westminster, in England, built in the 1730s. It inspired many churches in New England. It is situated on South Audley Street in Mayfair. The foundation stone of the Grosvenor Chapel was laid on 7 April 1730 by Sir Richard Grosvenor, 4th Baronet, owner of the surrounding property, who had leased the site for 99 years at a peppercorn rent to a syndicate of four “undertakers” led by Benjamin Timbrell, a prosperous local builder. The new building was completed and ready to use by April 1731.

 

******Like most families in Britain at the time, roast lamb was the meal most associated with Easter Sunday – the tradition of eating lamb on Easter has its roots in early Passover observances.

 

*******Simnel cake is packed with fruits and spices, and covered in marzipan – traditional cakes have 11 marzipan balls on top as well, to represent the 11 apostles (minus Judas).

 

********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 first English chocolate Easter egg was sold by Fry’s in 1873, and Cadbury’s quickly followed them, introducing their own chocolate egg in 1875. These early Easter eggs were made using dark chocolate, and were smooth and plain, but in 1897 the famous Cadbury’s Dairy Milk Chocolate was first introduced. Chocolate eggs made with this new recipe were very popular, and soon became Easter bestsellers. Even today, most Easter eggs are made using milk chocolate.

 

**********Egg rolling is a tradition that goes back to the Eighteenth century in England. Commencing in Lancashire ‘pace eggs’ became very popular. It continues in some parts of England today, although nowadays it is chocolate eggs being rolled down the hill, rather than the traditional boiled and painted eggs of the past! There is an egg rolling event every year in Preston, Lancashire, but the most famous egg roll takes place in the United States of America, on the lawns of the White House, in Washington

 

This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene with its Easter festive tones 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.

 

The Easter eggs in the basket are 1:12 miniatures which came from Kathleen Knight's Dolls' House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s beloved collection of ornaments come from various different sources. The rooster jug, the cottage ware butter dish, Peter Rabbit in the watering can tea pot and the cottage ware teapot on the dresser were all made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson. All the pieces are authentic replicas of real pieces made by different china companies. For example, the cottage ware teapot has been decorated authentically and matches in perfect detail its life-size Price Washington ‘Ye Olde Cottage Teapot’ counterparts. The top part of the thatched roof and central chimney form the lid, just like the real thing. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics. All the plates on the dresser came from various online miniature stockists through E-Bay, as do the teapot, plate and cups on Mrs. Boothby’s kitchen table.

  

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.

 

Spilling from her bag are her Player’s Navy Cut cigarette tin and Swan Vesta matches, which are 1:12 miniatures hand made by Jonesy’s Miniatures in England. 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). 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). 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’.

 

The rather worn and beaten looking enamelled bread bin in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green, which have been aged on purpose, are artisan pieces I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The various bowls, cannisters and dishes, the kettle and the Brown Betty teapot I have acquired from various online miniatures stockists throughout the United Kingdom, America and Australia. A Brown Betty is a type of teapot, round and with a manganese brown glaze known as Rockingham glaze. In the Victorian era, when tea was at its peak of popularity, tea brewed in the Brown Betty was considered excellent. This was attributed to the design of the pot which allowed the tea leaves more freedom to swirl around as the water was poured into the pot, releasing more flavour with less bitterness.

 

The black Victorian era stove and the ladderback chair on the left of the table and the small table directly behind it are all miniature pieces I have had since I was a child. The ladderback chair on the right came from a deceased estate of a miniatures collector in Sydney. The Welsh dresser came from Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late Eighteenth Century. The dresser has plate grooves in it to hold plates in place, just like a real dresser would.

 

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. The floorboards are a print of a photo taken of some floorboards that I scaled to 1:12 size to try and maintain a realistic look.

diggin the cleanliness for painting in between lines in the pitch black

There is always time for a quick wash and brush up!

I remember these from elementary, middle, and high school.

 

Sony a6000 + Sony E PZ 16-50mm 1:3.5-5.6 OSS

This is a statue of Asclepius, easily identifiable by the snake that's entwined around the rod the figure is holding.

 

Asclepius, the god of medicine, healing, rejuvenation and physicians, is lost in that over-sized niche designed for a larger statue.

 

Asclepius (/æsˈkliːpiəs/; Greek: Ἀσκληπιός Asklēpiós [asklɛːpiós]; Latin: Aesculapius) or Hepius[] was a hero and god of medicine in ancient Greek religion and mythology. Asclepius represents the healing aspect of the medical arts; his daughters are Hygieia ("Hygiene", the goddess/personification of health, cleanliness, and sanitation), Iaso (the goddess of recuperation from illness), Aceso (the goddess of the healing process), Aglæa/Ægle (the goddess of the glow of good health), and Panacea (the goddess of universal remedy).

 

He was associated with the Roman/Etruscan god Vediovis and the Egyptian Imhotep. He was one of Apollo's sons, sharing with Apollo the epithet Paean ("the Healer"). The rod of Asclepius, a snake-entwined staff, remains a symbol of medicine today. Those physicians and attendants who served this god were known as the Therapeutae of Asclepius.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Asclepius

  

The Rundāle Palace, Latvia.

 

What you're seeing here is part of the recreation of the interior of the Rundāle Palace, Latvia.. The restoration cost over 8 million Euros, which, when you see the results, doesn't seem nearly enough to produce the splendors one encounters at every turn.

 

What's not clear to me is whether any of decoration is original and restored and how much is brand new. This always frustrates me because I'm hung up on the concept of authenticity. I'll just come right out and say I don't get the same satisfaction from replicas that I do from originals.

 

One way to resolve this conundrum is to say this is an authentic replica of an 18th century palace that was, as the text below explains, "demolished in 1812 during the Franco-Russian [Napoleonic] War," and then "demolished [again in 1919] by the men of the Bermondt-Avalov army," which was commanded by a Cossack warlord who decided to take over newly-independent Latvia instead of fighting the Bolsheviks.

 

Still, this begs the question of the meaning of such a place. A hot take is that it's an expression of Latvian nationalism. However, in the 18th century this region was ruled by Germans and then by Russians. Most ethnic Latvians were serfs. Perhaps the nationalist message is that the Latvians, once free from the rule of Baltic Germans, Czarist Russians, Nazis and the Soviets, had the wherewithal to recreate a palace once owned by an overlord and make it their own. To further make the point, the compound is now a major tourist attraction, so interiors once intended solely for the aristocracy, royalty and their hangers-on and servants are today filled to the brim with tourists like us.

 

Is is also a acknowledged center for the study of 18th-century interior design? The devil is in the details, and I haven't yet had time to delve into that.

 

If you're wondering why the point of view in these photos is from the top of the windows to the ceiling, it's because there were mobs of visitors that made it almost impossible to photograph whole walls, much less floors.

 

Here is the whole history of the construction of the palace from the palace's informative Web site. I recommend visiting it if for no other reason than to see the rooms devoid of visitors. Also, there's a section on the restoration.

rundale.net/en/

 

The name of Rundāle comes from the German place-name Ruhenthal (Valley of Peace).

 

The Rundāle Palace built during the 16th century was located on the northern side of the pond. It can be seen in the design of F. B. Rastrelli as a small square field with towers in the corners.

 

Rundāle Manor was already created at the end of the 15th century. It belonged to the Grotthus family from 1505 to 1681 and the palace was mentioned in the list of Livonian castles in 1555.

 

Facade finishing components have been found in the territory of the palace – cast fragments and fragments of coats of arms carved in stone dating to the middle of the 17th century. In 1735 Ernst Johann von Biron bought the Rundāle property for 42 000 thalers.

 

The old palace was completely torn down, and the stones, bricks and even the mortar were used in the construction of the new palace.

 

Duke Ernst Johann died in 1772, and the palace was inherited by his widow Duchess Benigna Gottlieb; during her time orchards were formed around the palace. Duke Peter did not come to Rundāle often, he mostly resided in the smaller Vircava Palace near Jelgava.

 

In 1795 Duke Peter gave up his throne and the Duchy of Courland and Semigallia was added to the Russian Empire. Catherine II gave Rundāle Manor as a present to Count Valerian Zubov who died in 1804.

 

During the distribution of inheritance Rundāle became the property of his brother Prince Platon Zubov, the last favourite of Catherine II.

 

During the time of Zubov the palace was refurnished, however the building itself remained untouched, only entrance porticos were added to the central building and several fireplaces were built inside.

 

The palace was demolished in 1812 during the Franco-Russian War – mirrors were smashed, silk wallpaper was torn down, the library given as a present from Catherine II was destroyed.

 

Prince Platon Zubov died in Rundāle Palace on 7 April 1822. His widow married Count Andrey Shuvalov, and Rundāle Manor belonged to this family until the agrarian reform of the Republic of Latvia in 1920.

 

The Shuvalovs rarely stayed in the palace, excluding the time period from 1864 to 1866 when Count Pyotr Shuvalov was the governor-general of the Baltic region and used Rundāle Palace as his official summer residence.

 

During this time unsuccessful renovation of the palace rooms was carried out, however during the 1880’s careful renovation of the interior design was performed. At the end of the 19th century part of the palace’s furniture and works of art was taken to Saint Petersburg.

 

During the time from 1915 to 1918 a German army commandant’s office and an infirmary was established in the palace. In 1919 the palace was demolished by the men of the Bermondt-Avalov army.

 

The palace was renovated in 1923 and some of its rooms were used as the primary school of Rundāle Parish. In 1924 Rundāle Palace was handed over to the Latvian Union of Disabled Veterans, but in 1933 it was taken over by the Board of Monuments which started the renovation of the building and the restoration of some of the rooms, and the western building was constructed for the needs of the primary school.

 

In 1938 the palace was handed over to the State Historical Museum that was planning to create a church art and decorative art museum there. The palace was also open to the public during World War II.

 

In 1945 a grain storage was formed in the halls of the palace, and the palace was closed to the public after that.

 

In 1963 some of the palace’s rooms were given to the Museum of Regional Studies and Art of Bauska, but in 1972 a permanent Rundāle Palace Museum was created and its main aim was to renew the whole ensemble of the palace by mainly orientating towards the condition of the palace during the second part of the 18th century.

 

The first restored rooms in the eastern building of the palace were opened to the public in 1981, gradually being followed by new interiors. Restoration of the palace was finished in 2014.

 

Construction history

 

Count Ernst Johann von Biron bought the Rundāle manor complex on 26 June 1735. In August of the same year the court architect of Russia Francesco Rastrelli came to Courland. From September until December agreements were being concluded with carpenters, masons, brickmakers, construction material suppliers, potters – stove makers.

 

The construction project was ready in January of 1736. The eight pages of the project are located in the graphic art collection “Albertina” in Vienna. It consists of a situation plan, two floor plans, a sketch of four facades and the altar of the palace church.

 

The first construction period from 1736 to 1740.

 

On 24 May 1736 the foundation-stone of the palace was set. Construction of the foundation was completed on 6 July, whereas on 13 October the central building was built to the level of the windowsill of the second floor. The construction of 12 brick-kilns and 12 brick storages was finished in June. 268 masons were working in the palace, but Rastrelli requested 500 men.

 

Construction was stopped on 1 November due to cold.

The construction works were restarted on 12 April 1737. On 28 May the central building was finished, and on 18 June covering was started to be placed on the side buildings, whereas the construction of the central building roof was finished at the end of June.

 

When the works were stopped on 10 October, one side building was roofed over, and the other one was covered with a temporary roof. The foundations of the stables were also ready. The bricklaying works were finished on 1 October 1737.

 

After Biron was elected Duke, he ordered to simplify the building. The finishing materials were produced by the master carpenters and woodcarver A. Kamaev of the Imperial Construction Bureau of Saint Petersburg, master potter I. Ushakov of the Neva brick factory with his team and painters I. Mizinov, I. Pilugin and I. Yevdokimov. Austrian potters were working in Vircava. The finishing materials were also being produced in Saint Petersburg.

 

In 1738 the volume of work in Rundāle decreased, as construction works of Jelgava Palace began. Some of the produced components were also taken to Jelgava. However, the works were moving forward – chimneys and room arches were being built, roofs were being finished.

 

From 14 June, when the construction of the main residence in Jelgava began, the construction works in Rundāle were moving at a slower pace. Master carpenter Eger had finished oak-wood panels for 33 rooms, as well as 13 oak-wood parquet floors. Ceilings boards were put up in the rooms, so that the plastering works could be started. In September the carpenters started working on the outside staircases. The construction of the gate tower was also started.

 

Entwurf von Rastrelli: die Nordfassade des Schlosses Rundāle mit dem Torturm

Rastrelli’s design, nothern facade of the palace with the gate tower.

 

In 1739 the interior plastering works were supposed to be carried out, but the Duke ordered to decrease the amount of plasterers and to simplify the work. Stucco formations were made only for the main staircase rooms and halls, the other rooms were left with smooth ceilings. Only ten craftsmen were working in Rundāle.

 

On 1 February after the order of Empress of Russia Anna Ioannovna all of the Saint Petersburg Construction Office masons were sent to Courland.

 

The components made for Rundāle, including carved doors, panels, parquet, Austrian potter stoves, plafonds painted on canvas and cast-iron facade decorations made by Bartolomeo Tarsia that can be seen in the Jelagava Palace facade, were transported to the main residence in Jelgava.

 

N. Vasilyev assisted Rastrelli in managing the construction works. Russian chamberlain Ernst Johann von Buttlar was in charge of finances and organisation and he was sending reports to Saint Petersburg regarding the work process.

 

In 1740 the woodcut altar of the palace church was transported to Jelgava. Supposedly the room decoration in the palace had been finished, but not all of the wall panels had been mounted and some of the stoves were also not set up, as a lot of the materials were in storage.

 

Work was stopped after the palace revolution of 20 November in Russia and the arrest and exile of Duke Ernst Johann. The prepared finishing materials and construction components were sent to Saint Petersburg, and some of the built-in components, such as doors, wall panels and parquet, were broken.

Overall more than a thousand different profession craftsmen and workers were employed in the construction works of the palace.

 

The second construction period from 1764 to 1770.

 

In 1762 Ernst Johann von Biron was granted mercy and returned to Courland in January of 1763.

In January of 1764 Johann Gottfried Seidel was appointed the court architect of the Duke, but in August Francesco Rastrelli returned to work for the Duke and was appointed to the position of main administrator of the Duke’s buildings.

 

During this time he arranged his construction designs and carried out general supervision of the Duke’s construction works.

The unfinished gate tower was torn down and the stable building construction was started. Latvian carpenters and woodworkers were sent from the Duke’s domain manors to Rundāle up until 1768. In 1765 woodworker Blanks, sculptor Zībenbrods, locksmith Šreibfogels, gold plating master Johans Endress, potter Šēfers, locksmith Horstmanis and coppersmith Mēmels were working in the palace.

 

In 1766 Severin Jensen from Denmark started working as the court architect. His style can be seen in the gateposts and in the stable buildings, which obtained a semicircular shape in contrast to Rastrelli’s rectangular design. A dating – 16 May 1766 – has been made in the keystone of the northern facade window.

 

In 1768 the gate was built and the forgings were placed.

 

The palace interior planning was changed slightly. By merging five smaller rooms the grand dining-room – the Grand Gallery – was created, whereas a dance hall known as the White Hall was created in the place of the palace church. Both front staircases, the Small Gallery, the lobby and galleries of the first floor were preserved from the original interiors of the first construction period.

 

The stucco decorative finishing of the interiors was carried out by the Berlin sculptor and stucco marble master Johann Michael Graff together with his team – his brother Josef and assistants Bauman and Lanz – from 1765 to 1768.

 

Sculpturesque decorations were made in twenty-seven rooms, but in two rooms of the Duke’s apartments and in the hall – synthetic marble panels. Works were started in the central building first.

 

The Marble Hall and the marble panel of the Gold Hall in which the dating has been engraved on the door lining, were finished in 1767. In July of 1768 Graff received payment for his final works – the White Hall, Oval Cabinet, Duchess’ Boudoir and vases for the 22 stair banisters.

 

The ceilings were painted by the Italian painters Francesco Martini and Carlo Zucchi from Saint Petersburg. They started working in August of 1766, but only the name of Martini is mentioned in documents starting with March of 1768. Francesco Martini received his last payment in March of 1769.

 

Ceilings of eight rooms, as well as the walls of two rooms were painted. One of the ceiling paintings got destroyed. The repainted wall paintings were later uncovered in the Grand Gallery and in the second study of the Duke.

 

The Duke came to Rundāle Palace in April of 1767 and stayed there until December with interruptions, although the finishing works were still in progress. The palace was also inhabited in 1768. The final works were carried out in 1770 when a fellow of J. M. Graff placed mirrors in the White Hall.

 

20.04.2018

They say that "cleanliness is next to godliness". Well, in India, the land of many gods, people certainly take their physical appearance very seriously - they scrub their skin and beat their clothes till they sparkle. In this land of dust and dirt, the white shirts and trousers rise above like a lotus of purity. Yet there is a problem...

 

There is a gap of awareness, a gap so great that it surprises and saddens me every time. For, while many people will keep themselves and their homes quite clean, they will think nothing of casting their litter and waste into the streets and across the land.

 

Once the soap has purified their bodies at the river or well, its wrapper is shed like a gun cartridge - a permanent memorial to this act of self-cleansing. A trillion plastic bags carpet the villages and countryside in a spattering of persistent colour. Bottles from train windows, wrappers and packets...

 

The days of banana-leaf plates and coconut-shell drinks are fading. The containers used to be bio-degradable and it was natural to feed them back into the soil, but education has not caught up. And the land weeps.

 

India, Journey to the East set

071716

 

Blogged here.

Here are all pictures and videos of German rubbergirls available for you, so that you can download and use everything as you want:

gofile.me/73Jsx/hI8yt30MO

www.deviantart.com/aliabdallahsgirls/gallery

www.deviantart.com/arvandrustam/gallery

www.artpal.com/aliabdullah222/

On Black, if you please.

Simple Cleanliness

View On Black

This gull was splashing and spraying its way to cleanliness near St.John's, NL.

 

If you look at my first posting of Durham Cathedral you will notice two tiny specks sitting on the weir below the cathedral. With my telephoto lens they are seen in a better light!

Eva doing her due diligence to check on the cleanliness of the kitchen surfaces at the cabin. Her assessment - clean, but not enough Shreddies.

 

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Taken as part of the Studio 26 assignment "little animal big frame" assignment. Here Eva occupies 0.2% of the frame. I think the main reasons this works are lines (from the counter top), colour contrast (blues versus her orangy-red), and interest/surprise (dog head in the kitchen). I would add in the annotated drawing, but I don't have powerpoint on this computer and my photoshop drawing skills are laughable at best.

 

This was a little harder to capture than I imagined and the light not quite right as it is more of a proof of concept shot for me. Eva does this move popping up on her hind legs like a circus bear to inspect the counters, but will not take anything from them (usually).

 

And yes, the kitchen at our cabin is that retro. So, I had to indulge myself and use some retro processing filters.

instagram.com/p/mhs2KfydoE/

Darlinghurst, Sydney

Photographed at the Palazzo Altemps, Museo Nazionale Romano, Rome Italy

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 Saturday morning and found Edith standing on her stoop, out of breath, visibly distressed and awash with tears. The old woman quickly ushered her young friend inside with a protective arm wrapped around her, peering over her shoulder with a steely gaze as she observed the number of neighbours taking an unwelcome interest in the rather well dressed stranger at her door. “Youse right gawking there, Golda Friedmann?” she called out angrily to one of her neighbours, a Jewish busybody who lives at the end of her rookery**, causing the woman wrapped in the bright paisley shawl to turn away in shame at having been caught out staring at business that wasn’t her own.

 

Settled at the kitchen table, Mrs. Boothby has divested Edith of her smart black straw cloche decorated with feathers and satin roses and her three-quarter length black coat, and seated her comfortably in a chair by the warm old fashioned blacklead stove whilst she busies herself about her simple, yet clean, kitchen. She puts out a gilt edged blue and white cake plate on the surface of her scrubbed deal pine kitchen table, on which she carefully arranges a selection of biscuits from her pretty biscuit tin decorated with Art Nouveau ladies. The plate sits between two dainty blue floral tea cups, a sugar bowl and milk jug, whilst a Brown Betty*** sits to the side, steam snaking from her spout.

 

“Nah Edith dearie,” Mrs. Boothby says with concern, sinking with a groan down into her ladderback chair adjunct to Edith. “What’s all the commotion then?” She looks the young maid squarely in the face, a kindly look on her worn and wrinkled face. “Tell me why youse come to see me outta the blue like this on a Staurday? Are you alright? Is it something to do wiv your young Frank Leadbetter then? ‘As ‘e wound up in some trouble or other wiv them Bolshevik types ‘e ‘angs around wiv?”

 

“Oh it isn’t me, Mrs. Boothby,” Edith replies in an upset fashion as she tries to catch her breath. “Nor Frank. He’s fine. We’re fine.” Her breath rasps as her breathing slowly starts to settle down. “It’s Miss Lettice!”

 

“Miss Lettice?”

 

“Yes, Mrs. Boothby. It’s really quite distressing.” Edith pulls out a little embroidered handkerchief from the sleeve of her lace trimmed blouse and sniffs as she dabs her eyes with it with a shaky hand.

 

“Nah, nah!” the old Cockney char says. “Youse not makin’ no sense, Edith dearie. What’s ‘appened to Miss Lettice? She been in an accident or somefink?”

 

“No, Mrs. Boothby. Well yes… Well no, not that kind of accident.”

 

“Youse confusin’ me, dearie. Let’s get you a nice cup of Rosie-Lee**** and then youse can start from the beginnin’.” Mrs. Boothby lifts up the well worn Brown Betty pot and pours a slug of brackish, well steeped tea into Edith’s dainty floral cup, before adding some to her own. “I’ll let ya add your own milk ‘n sugar, dearie.” She pauses for a moment and looks across at Edith with worry in her eyes. “Although considerin’ the state yer in, I fink a couple of sugars might be in order.”

 

“You may well be right, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies with a sigh, picking up the elegant Regency blue and white sugar bowl, adding two heaped spoonsful of sugar to her tea and stirring it vigorously.

 

“That’s it, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says kindly. “Nah, ‘ere’s the milk.” She passes her a jug decorated with blue grapes and accepts the sugar bowl in return.

 

Whilst Edith adds milk to her tea, Mrs, Boothby adds two heaped spoons of sugar to her own from the sugar bowl, not to offset any shock, but simply because she has a sweet tooth.

 

“’Elp yerself to some biscuits, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby indicates with a nod to the selection she put out on the cake plate. “I’ve plenty more in ‘ere.” She taps the biscuit tin at her left with her gnarled and careworn hand with its bulbous knuckles. “Bad news is always betta on a full stomach, I find.”

 

“Oh I couldn’t right now, Mrs. Boothby,” Edith assures her hostess. “But perhaps in a little bit, once I’ve caught my breath and had some tea.” She lifts the cup to her mouth and gingerly takes a sip of the sweet strong tea, sighing contentedly as the hot liquid reaches her tongue and the flavour hits her tastebuds

 

“As you like, Edith dearie. Nah, I ‘ope ya don’t mind, but I’m dying for a fag! I was just about ta ‘ave one when you arrived.” Without waiting for a reply, Mrs Boothby starts fossicking through her capacious beaded bag sitting on the table before withdrawing her cigarette papers, Swan Vestas and tin of Player’s Navy Cut. Rolling herself a cigarette she lights it with a satisfied sigh and one of her fruity coughs, dropping the match into a black ashtray full of used cigarette butts that also sits on the table. Mrs. Boothby settles back comfortably in her ladderback chair with her cigarette in one hand and reaches out, snatching up a chocolate biscuit with the other. Blowing out a plume of blue smoke that tumbles through the air around them, the old woman continues. “Nah, what’s ‘appened to our Miss Lettice then, that’s got you in such a state, Edith dearie. Start at the beginnin’, nice and slow like, so I can keep up.”

 

“Well, it all started last night when Miss Lettice went out to the Savoy***** to have a celebratory birthday dinner with Mr. Spencely.”

 

“That’s Miss Lettice’s fancy man, ain’t it?” Mrs. Boothby asks, blowing out a plume of curling acrid grey smoke.

 

“Yes, he’s a duke, or rather going to be a duke someday.” Edith takes another, slightly deeper sip of tea. “I helped Miss Lettice pick a beautiful frock for the evening. She was so nervous about everything being just perfect for Mr. Spencely’s birthday that she couldn’t decide for herself and wanted my opinion. With my help she settled upon a nice green georgette frock with gold beaded panels over the skirt. Wrapped up in one of her furs, with Mr. Spencely’s present nicely wrapped under her arm, I bundled her into the taxi I had hailed from the stand down on the square and then with Miss Lettice gone, I settled down to a pleasurably quiet evening on my own in with my latest copy of Photoplay******.”

 

“And then what ‘appened?” Mrs. Boothby asks, chewing loudly through a large mouthful of biscuit.

 

“Well, not an hour later as I sat in the kitchen reading about Gloria Swanson’s new film ‘Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife’******, I heard the front door fly open and then slam closed. It gave me such a shock!” She puts her hand to her heart. “I hurried into the hallway, just in time to see Miss Lettice disappearing into her room, still in her gown but without her fur, crying as if her heart were breaking.”

 

“She ‘asn’t broken up wiv ‘er fancy man the duke, ‘as she, dearie?”

 

“Well, here’s the thing, Mrs. Boothby. I followed Miss Lettice into her boudoir, and there she was, pulling out her valise from her dressing room. She was in a terrible state! All her beautiful makeup was running down her face from the tears she was crying. She was muttering and talking to herself in a most distressed state, and she was shaking like a fir tree. I think she must have walked, or more likely run from the Savoy judging by how heavily she was breathing, and looking at the state of her shoes. The toes were all scuffed and marked and the heels are ruined.”

 

“So what ‘appened then, Edith?”

 

“Well, I walked up to her and I grasped her by the shoulders. It was almost as though until that moment, she hadn’t even noticed I was there. She started babbling on to me about how she had to pack to go to home to Wiltshire right away, and how she was going to catch a train from Victoria railway station that very night, although it was hard to make any real sense of what she was saying. She started sentences but didn’t finish them, or started part way through, and she was so breathless that half her words were lost anyway. I tried to calm her and had her sit down on her bed. I offered to pack her valise for her, and whilst I did, I asked her what had happened.”

 

“And?” Mrs. Boothby asks, her cigarette burning down almost to the butt as she holds it half way between her lips and the ashtray as she hangs on every word Edith says.

 

“Well, it turns out that when she got to dinner, Mr. Spencely’s mother, Lady Zinnia was there instead of Mr. Spencely himself!”

 

“No!” Mrs. Boothby takes a long drag on her cigarette, the paper crackling as she does.

 

“Yes,” Edith replies, taking another sip of the restorative tea. “Aand she told Miss Lettice that she had packed Mr. Spencely off to South Africa!”

 

“South Africa?” Mrs. Boothby queries, her question becoming a cloud of grey cigarette smoke, tumbling through the air. “Whyever ‘as she done that then?”

 

“Well, Miss Lettice confided in me that she and Mr. Spencely suspected that Lady Zinnia and Mr. Spencely’s uncle wanted to marry him off to the uncle’s daughter, his cousin who is one of this year’s debutantes, and that neither of them wanted Miss Lettice to be stepping out with Mr. Spencely. In fact, from what I can gather, I don’t think that horrible Lady Zinnia likes Miss Lettice at all, even though she hasn’t seen Miss Lettice since she was a little girl!”

 

“What cheek!” mutters Mrs. Boothby, stamping out her cigarette indignantly into the ashtray as though she were squashing the titled lady herself. “Miss Lettice is a very fine lady: much nicer than some of them uvver muckety-mucks I’s got ta deal wiv up the West End! What business is it of that woman who ‘er son wants to step out wiv?”

 

“Exactly, Mrs. Boothby, but you know how obsessed those old aristocratic families can be about their sons and heirs marrying the right daughters of the right families.”

 

Mrs. Boothby releases another fruity cough in a disgusted response.

 

“Anyway, she told Miss Lettice that she has sent Mr. Spencely away to South Africa for a year, just so she could break them up! Isn’t that frightful?”

 

“Awful!” spits Mrs. Boothby hotly before popping the rest of her biscuit into her mouth.

 

“Miss Lettice isn’t even allowed to write to Mr. Spencely.”

 

“Not at all?” the old Cockney char manages to utter through her mouthful of biscuit, spraying a smattering of biscuit crumbs onto her lap and the floor.

 

“Not even a postcard, Mrs. Boothby, and he isn’t allowed to write to her either, nor talk on that infernal contraption the telephone.”

 

“Does they even ‘ave telephones in them out-of-the-way places like South Africa?” asks Mrs. Boothby.

 

“Oh I’m sure they probably do these days, Mrs. Boothby, after all it is the Twentieth Century, but even so, Miss Lettice isn’t allowed to talk to Mr. Spencely even if they do have them: not for the whole year. Lady Zinnia said that she doesn’t want her son marrying for love.”

 

“’Ow cold ‘earted she must be, not lettin’ ‘er son marry the Miss Lettice if ‘e loves her!”

 

“Lady Zinnia said that if Mr. Spencely comes back from South Africa in a year and he tells her that he still loves Miss Lettice, she will let her and Mr. Spencely get married, but that if he doesn’t, that he’ll agree to marry his cousin the debutante.”

 

“What?”

 

“Yes that’s right!” Edith puts down her cup. “Mr. Spencely will marry the woman that Lady Zinnia and his uncle want him to marry if he doesn’t feel the same about Miss Lettice.” She picks up her cup again and takes another sip. “And a year is such a long time to wait!”

 

“Oh it certainly is, ‘specially if youse can’t even write a letter to one annuva. Oh what an ‘orrible fing for that Lady Zinnia to do! She sounds like a right piece of work, she does!” Mrs. Boothby crosses her bony arms as she sists back in her seat. “I’d like to get my ‘ands on ‘er, so I could wring ‘er neck! Pity she ‘as such a pretty name. My old Dad used ta grow zinnias in a pot by the back door. Lovely fings they was too: all bright and colourful.”

 

“Well Lady Zinnia certainly doesn’t take after her namesake, Mrs. Boothby. She’s horrible! It was awful to see Miss Lettice so upset like that.”

 

“What did you do then, Edith dearie?”

 

“Well, I packed Miss Lettice’s valise for her, made her a nice calming cup of cocoa, and then she took a taxi to Victoria Station. As far as I know, she’s gone home to Wiltshire to nurse her poor broken heart.”

 

“No wonder you was so upset when youse turned up ‘ere unannounced.” Mrs. Boothby says, shaking her head in pity at the young girl.

 

“Oh I’m sorry Mrs. Boothby, but I didn’t know who else to turn to who knows Miss Lettice! I just feel so… so very helpless.”

 

“Nah, nah, dearie,” Mrs. Boothby reaches across the table and gives Edith’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Youse done the best for ‘er, by doin’ what she wants and takin’ good care of ‘er when she can’t do it ‘erself.” She smiles kindly at the young girl across the table from her. “You’re a good girl, Edith, and that’s no mistake.” The old woman settles back in her seat again. “Did she say when she’s comin’ ‘ome?”

 

“Well, she’s gone home, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Nah! I mean, comin’ ‘ome ta London?”

 

“No, she didn’t say. I suppose she’ll send word when she’s ready. A few days, maybe? A week? I don’t know what else to do, except wait.”

 

“Well, that’s all you can do, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby raises her hands expansively. “It’s all any of us can do. Just wait, and be there when Miss Lettice needs us, just like youse done for ‘er last night.”

 

“Oh I just feel so helpless, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith’s eyes start to well with unshed tears again. “To see her beautiful blue eyes so dull and sad, and surrounded by smeared kohl******* like that was horrible. She was so unhappy, and that made me so sad.”

 

“I know, dearie, but youse just got ta get on wiv fings. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if ‘er old mum dahn the country was tellin’ ‘er the same fing right this very minute.”

 

“I don’t think you know Lady Sadie, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith says doubtfully.

 

“I may not, Edith, but I do know mums. I certainly should do, bein’ one meself. And I can tell youse that any mum will tell their broken’earted daughter ta pick ‘erself up and get on wiv life. The sky ain’t fallen in, ‘though it’s cloudy out there today ‘n all. So Miss Lettice will shed a few tears, and then she’ll realise that there is life worth livin’ out there, even wiv a sore and sorry ‘eart.” Mrs. Boothby pauses, withdraws another cigarette paper and rolls herself another cigarette. As she lights it she asks, “Did she say what she were gonna do?”

 

“Who, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Lawd child!” the old char rolls her eyes to the smoke and coal yellowed ceiling above. “Miss Lettice of course! Did she say whevva she was gonna wait for ‘im?”

 

“She did say to me last night that she loves Mr. Spencely, and even though it’s hard, she’d be willing to wait for him.” Edith sips gingerly at her tea as she contemplates the idea of waiting for Frank for a year without any contact between either of them. She quickly banishes the idea as she blinks away tears. “Mind you, a year is such a long time to wait.”

 

“Ahh,” Mrs. Boothby utters as she releases another heavy cough. “You only fink that cos yer a young’n. When youse get a bit older, you’ll come to realise that a year can fly by in the blink of an eye.”

 

Edith eyes the older woman dubiously.

 

“I don’t ‘pect you ta believe me right nah, but one day you’ll wake up and ask yerself where that time’s gone.”

 

“But a whole year and not being allowed to write to one another, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Well, there is that I s’pose, but my Bill were never a writer, an’ when ‘e went off ta sea and I wouldn’t ‘ear from ‘im for months and months, it were always wonderful when ‘e come home again. In fact, it made the time we did ‘ave all the more intense. We ‘ad ta cram the love we ‘ad for one annuver into a smaller space.” The old woman scratches her wiry grey hair. “What’s that old sayin’ about absence and yer ‘eart?”

 

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Edith replies wistfully as she stares into her half empty teacup.

 

“There ya go then!” Mrs. Boothby slams the table, making all the crockery and the tin rattle. “If Miss Lettice really loves ‘er fancy man, an’ ‘e loves ‘er equally, then it’s meant to be, and no amount of time or distance can change that.”

 

“Do you really think so, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Course I do. That fancy Lady Zinnia might think she’s bein’ smart ‘n all by splittin’ her son from Miss Lettice, but she may find it might just backfire on ‘er, and serve her bloody right, if you’ll pardon me! I also know that they says that true love conquers all.” She smiles wisely, her dark eyes glinting from amongst her wrinkles in her weathered skin. “So let’s just ‘hope to God that Miss Lettice and ‘er duke really are truly in love.”

 

“Well, I think they are madly in love, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Good! That’s a start then.” the old cockney woman replies positively. “Nah, best youse dry your eyes again, cos my Ken’ll be ‘ome soon for ‘is tea, an’ ‘ell be beside ‘imself if ‘e sees you blubbin’. ‘E won’t know whevva to punch the lights out of ‘er what made yer upset, or give you a big ‘ug to make you feel better.” She releases another few fruity coughs before taking another deep drag on her cigarette. “’E’s taken a shine to you ever since you gave ‘im those new Beatrix Potter books for Christmas, you know.”

 

*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 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.

 

***A Brown Betty is a type of teapot, round and with a manganese brown glaze known as Rockingham glaze. In the Victorian era, when tea was at its peak of popularity, tea brewed in the Brown Betty was considered excellent. This was attributed to the design of the pot which allowed the tea leaves more freedom to swirl around as the water was poured into the pot, releasing more flavour with less bitterness.

 

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

 

*****The Savoy Hotel is a luxury hotel located in the Strand in the City of Westminster in central London. Built by the impresario Richard D'Oyly Carte with profits from his Gilbert and Sullivan opera productions, it opened on 6 August 1889. It was the first in the Savoy group of hotels and restaurants owned by Carte's family for over a century. The Savoy was the first hotel in Britain to introduce electric lights throughout the building, electric lifts, bathrooms in most of the lavishly furnished rooms, constant hot and cold running water and many other innovations. Carte hired César Ritz as manager and Auguste Escoffier as chef de cuisine; they established an unprecedented standard of quality in hotel service, entertainment and elegant dining, attracting royalty and other rich and powerful guests and diners. The hotel became Carte's most successful venture. Its bands, Savoy Orpheans and the Savoy Havana Band, became famous. Winston Churchill often took his cabinet to lunch at the hotel. The hotel is now managed by Fairmont Hotels and Resorts. It has been called "London's most famous hotel". It has two hundred and sixty seven guest rooms and panoramic views of the River Thames across Savoy Place and the Thames Embankment. The hotel is a Grade II listed building.

 

******Photoplay was one of the first American film fan magazines. It was founded in 1911 in Chicago, the same year that J. Stuart Blackton founded Motion Picture Story, a magazine also directed at fans. For most of its run, Photoplay was published by Macfadden Publications. In 1921 Photoplay established what is considered the first significant annual movie award. The magazine ceased publication in 1980.

 

*******’Bluebeard's Eighth Wife’ is a 1923 American silent romantic comedy film produced by Famous Players–Lasky and distributed by Paramount Pictures. It was directed by Sam Wood and stars Gloria Swanson. The film is based on the French play ‘La huitième femme de Barbe-Bleue’ by Alfred Savoir which is based on the Bluebeard tales of the Fifteenth Century. The play ran on Broadway in 1921 starring Ina Claire in the Swanson role. Mona (Swanson) marries John Brandon and immediately after discovers that she is his eighth wife. Determined that she will not be the eighth to be divorced from him, she sets out on a teaser campaign which proves very effective until Brandon tells her that she is bought and paid for. Furious, she determines to give him grounds for a divorce and is subsequently found in her room with another man. In the end, however, Brandon discovers that she really loves him and they leave for a happy honeymoon.

 

*******Cosmetics in the 1920s were characterized by their use to create a specific look: lips painted in the shape of a Cupid's bow, kohl-rimmed eyes, and bright cheeks brushed with bright red blush. The heavily made-up look of the 1920s was a reaction to the demure, feminine Gibson Girl of the pre-war period. In the 1920s, an international beauty culture was forged, and society increasingly focused on novelty and change. Fashion trends influenced theatre, films, literature, and art. With the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb in Egypt, the fashion of kohl-rimmed eyes like Egyptian pharaohs was very popular in the early 1920s.

 

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.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s beloved collection of decorative “best” blue and white china on the kitchen table come from various online miniature stockists through E-Bay. The biscuits on the cake plate have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. They actually come in their own 1:12 miniature artisan tin, complete with appropriate labelling. The pretty Alphonse Mucha, Art Nouveau style, biscuit tin came as part of a job lot of miniature bits and pieces at an auction house more than twenty years ago. All the other pieces were too big for my requirements, but I bought the lot just for this tin. The Brown Betty teapot came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. Mrs. Boothby’s beaded handbag 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.

 

Also on the table are Mrs. Boothby’s Player’s Navy Cut cigarette tin and Swan Vesta matches, which are 1:12 miniatures hand made by Jonesy’s Miniatures in England. 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). 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). 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’.

 

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 black Victorian era stove and the ladderback chair on the left of the table and the small table directly behind it are all miniature pieces I have had since I was a child. The ladderback chair on the right came from a deceased estate of a miniatures collector in Sydney.

From Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, 1890. “Cleanliness is next to Godliness. Gentlemen”!

 

Found on:

twitter.com/RCSEdArchive/status/1448971205717991425/photo/1

 

Credit:

RCSEd Library & Archive

@RCSEdArchive

Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and the khadem constantly sweeps the floor keeping it spotless.

via Instagram ift.tt/2tYdoZi

There is a very huge difference in terms of speed and delays, cleanliness, smells... between high speed train (like the brand new Frecciarossa 1000) and normal speed train. Local trains in Italy really suck. High speed trains are confortable and fast.

Rue Suffren Reymond | Rue Princesse Florestine 07/06/2017 12h16

Just a Monegasque street corner. Order and cleanliness prevail in Monaco.

 

Monaco

Monaco, officially the Principality of Monaco (French: Principauté de Monaco), is a sovereign city-state, country and microstate but claimed by the Occitan nationalism, located on the French Riviera in Western Europe. France borders the country on three sides while the other side borders the Mediterranean Sea. Monaco has an area of 2.02 km2 and a population of about 38,400 according to the last census of 2016.

With 19,009 inhabitants per km², it is the second smallest and the most densely populated country in the world. Monaco has a land border of 5.47 km, a coastline of 3.83 km, and a width that varies between 1,700 and 349 m. The highest point in the country is a narrow pathway named Chemin des Révoires on the slopes of Mont Agel, in the Les Révoires Ward, which is 161 metres above sea level. Monaco's most populous Quartier is Monte Carlo and the most populous Ward is Larvotto/Bas Moulins. Through land reclamation, Monaco's land mass has expanded by twenty percent; in 2005, it had an area of only 1.974 km2. Monaco is known as a playground for the rich and famous, due to its tax laws. In 2014, it was noted about 30% of the population was made up of millionaires, more than in Zürich or Geneva.

Monaco is a principality governed under a form of constitutional monarchy, with Prince Albert II as head of state. Although Prince Albert II is a constitutional monarch, he wields immense political power. The House of Grimaldi have ruled Monaco, with brief interruptions, since 1297. The official language is French, but Monégasque, Italian, and English are widely spoken and understood.

[ Source and more Info: Wikipedia - Monaco ]

 

Nikkormat 1974 Film Camera.

  

Beautiful fallow deer - Mum inspects kiddo's cleanliness.

found this pic on the net, and started messing around with it, "fixing it" if you will. see notes for the various changes I made...

Given the cleanliness, and that I've not seen it around my area before, I'd hoped that this was in longterm ownership and visiting over the Bank Holiday weekend - it just gives that impression.

 

However, last owner change in 2015! Looked great. It is down as a 3 owner car, so two owners over 22 years is pretty good and a testament to its condition.

The cleanliness of the Nouvelair planes has improved quite a lot recently. The livery seems coherent on most of the fleet as well...

People without shoes are generally regarded lowest in status in a Hindu society where ritual cleanliness plays a very important role. See these children eying for a pair of flip flops. At that time, a pair cost roughly a dollar.

They always used to say "cleanliness is next to godliness" so if this class 66 operated by DB Schenker is anything to go by it must be down there beside the Devil himself !

 

I know its seen use on a RHTT train but they finished several weeks ago. Typically these days with next to no washing plants left at the remaining DB Schenker operated depots the locos used for RHTT work are now back out in the daily freight use pool with not so much as a cursery clean. In stark contrast to those operated by DRS just down the road which come back to their depot for steam cleaning and jet washing. Fitting staff at some location have done the minimum and cleaned the ends so the yellow paint is visible plus the loco number but drivers coats have been left to clean the doors on entry and exit while the rest is just a filthy brown mess. I guess this one will be left to nature to clean up as it runs though countless winter rain showers.

 

For the record it is stabled in Kingmoor Yard Down Recess Sidings having worked in with an empty coal set running as 4M85 02.44 ex Drax Power Station to Kingmoor Yard.

The cleanliness of the Nouvelair planes has improved quite a lot recently. The livery seems coherent on most of the fleet as well...

via Instagram ift.tt/1RniDsI

A novel use for a dog bowl...a quick wash and brush-up!

swiss cleanliness mania...

walk through Uzwil

I've had a bit of trouble finding interesting insects in the yard lately, so it's back to the good old Katydid. I think the problem is that we've been much better lately about attracting birds with the feeder, and having a bunch of birds hanging around all the time inevitably leads to birds eating many of the bugs. Perhaps I need to order some ladybugs off the internet...

Toilet Series - Cleanliness is Next to Godliness. Which bathroom experience is yours? [Photo of the collage framed are mock ups.]

 

Comes unframed / Measures at: 5” x 7”

 

Link to purchase: www.morganlappin.com/originals/toilet-series-blood-alley-...

Public event cleaning and cleaning out stations.