We started late to avoid the worst of the morning chill, but ended up being the last car in the parking area at the end of the day. Although only 6 km's return distance, with a gain of only 700 m's, it took us 5 and a half hours to complete because we had to break trail for most of it...

... and there was light.

 

Kirkstone Pass links Penrith and Ullswater to Ambleside and the central Lakes .The road is just visible gaining height in the picture.

One moment winter story.

 

Lakhta .This small village on the northern shore of the Gulf of Finland, about 15 km northwest of the city, is home to human settlements on the banks of the Neva. It was on the territory of Lakhta that the remains of a man’s parking site of three thousand years ago were found.

In official documents, a settlement named Lakhta dates back to 1500. The name is derived from the Finnish-speaking word lahti - "bay". This is one of the few settlements that has not changed its name throughout its 500-year history. Also known as Laches, Lahes-by, Lahes and was originally inhabited by Izhora. In the last decades of the 15th century, Lakhta was a village (which indicates a significant population) and was the center of the eponymous grand-parish volost, which was part of the Spassko-Gorodensky graveyard of the Orekhovsky district of the Vodskaya Pyatina. In the village, there were 10 courtyards with 20 people (married men). In Lakhta, on average, there were 2 families per yard, and the total population of the village probably reached 75 people.

From the notes on the margins of the Swedish scribe book of the Spassky graveyard of 1640, it follows that the lands along the lower reaches of the Neva River and parts of the Gulf of Finland, including Lakhta Karelskaya, Perekulya (from the Finnish “back village”, probably because of its position relative to Lakhti) and Konduy Lakhtinsky, were royal by letter of honor on January 15, 1638 transferred to the possession of the Stockholm dignitary, Rickschulz general Bernhard Sten von Stenhausen, a Dutchman by birth. On October 31, 1648, the Swedish government granted these lands to the city of Nyuen (Nyenschanz). With the arrival of the Swedes in Prievye, Lakhta was settled by the Finns, who until the middle of the 20th century made up the vast majority of the villagers.

On December 22, 1766, Catherine 2 granted Lakhta Manor, which was then in the Office of the Chancellery from the buildings of palaces and gardens, "in which and in her villages with courtyards 208 souls," her favorite Count Orlov. Not later than 1768, Count J.A. Bruce took over the estate. In 1788, Lakhta Manor was listed behind him with wooden services on a dry land (high place) and the villages Lakhta, Dubki, Lisiy Nos and Konnaya belonging to it also on dry land, in those villages of male peasants 238 souls. On May 1, 1813, Lakhta passed into the possession of the landowners of the Yakovlevs. On October 5, 1844, Count A.I. Stenbok-Fermor entered into the possession of the Lakhtinsky estate, which then had 255 male souls. This clan was the owner of the estate until 1912, when its last representative got into debt and noble custody was established over the estate. On October 4, 1913, in order to pay off his debts, he was forced to go for corporatization, and the Lakhta estate passed into the ownership of the Joint Stock Company “Lakhta” of Count Stenbock-Fermor and Co.

After the revolution, Lakhta was left on its own for a while, here on the former estate of the counts Stenbock-Fermorov on May 19, 1919, the Lakhta excursion station was opened, which existed there until 1932. In the early 1920s, sand mining began on Lakhta beaches, and the abandoned and dilapidated peat plant of the Lakhta estate in 1922 took over the Oblzemotdel and put it into operation after major repairs. In 1963, the village of Lakhta was included in the Zhdanovsky (Primorsky) district of Leningrad (St. Petersburg).

  

At the beginning of Lakhtinsky Prospekt, on the banks of the Lakhtinsky spill, there was the village of Rakhilax (Rahilax-hof, Rahila, Rokhnovo). Most likely, under this name only one or several courtyards are designated. There is an assumption that the name of the village was formed from the Finnish raahata - “drag, drag,” because there could be a place for transportation through the isthmus of the Lakhtinsky spill (we should not forget that not only the bridge over the channel connecting the spill with the Gulf of Finland was not yet here, the duct itself was many times wider than the current one). The search book of the Spassko-Gorodensky graveyard of 1573, describing the Lakhta lands, mentions that there were 2 lodges in the “Rovgunov” village, from which we can conclude that we are talking about the village of Rohilaks, which the Russian scribes remade into a more understandable to them Rovgunovo. The village was empty in Swedish time and was counted as a wasteland of the village of Lahta.

  

On the banks of the Lakhtinsky spill, near the confluence of the Yuntolovka River, from the 17th century there existed the village of Bobylka (Bobylskaya), which merged into the village of Olgino only at the beginning of the 20th century, but was found on maps until the 1930s. It is probably the Search Book that mentions it Spassko-Gorodensky churchyard in 1573 as a village "in Lakhta in Perekui", behind which there was 1 obzh. With the arrival of the Swedes by royal letter on January 15, 1638, the village was transferred to the possession of the Stockholm dignitary, Rickshaw General Bernhard Sten von Stenhausen, a Dutchman by birth. On October 31, 1648, the Swedish government granted Lahti lands to the city of Nyuen (Nyenschanz). On the Swedish map of the 1670s, in the place of the village of Bobylsky, the village of Lahakeülä is marked (küla - the village (Fin.)). The village could subsequently be called Bobyl from the Russian word "bobyl."

The owners of Bobylskaya were both Count Orlov, and Count Y. A. Bruce, and the landowners Yakovlev. In 1844, Count A.I. Stenbok-Fermor entered into the possession of the Lakhtinsky estate (which included the village of Bobyl). This family was the owner of the estate until 1913, when the owners, in order to pay off their debts, had to go for corporatization, and the Lakhta estate was transferred to the ownership of the Lakhta Joint-Stock Company of Count Stenbock-Fermor and Co. By the middle of the 20th century, the village merged with the village of Lakhta.

  

The name Konnaya Lakhta (Konnaya) has been known since the 16th century, although earlier it sounded like Konduya (Konduya Lakhtinskaya) or just Kondu (from the Finnish kontu - courtyard, manor). Subsequently, this name was replaced by the more familiar Russian ear with the word "Horse". In the Search Book of the Spassko-Gorodensky Pogost in 1573, it is mentioned as the village "on Kovdui", where 1 obzh was listed, which indicates that there most likely was one yard. On January 15, 1638, together with neighboring villages, it was transferred to the possession of the Stockholm dignitary, Rickschulz General Bernhard Steen von Stenhausen, of Dutch origin. On October 31, 1648, the Swedish government granted these lands to the city of Nyuen (Nyenschanz). In a deed of gift, Konduya Lakhtinskaya is called a village, which indicates a noticeable increase in its population. Later, on the Swedish map of the 1670s, on the site of the present Horse Lahti, the village of Konda-bai is marked (by - village (sv)).

The owners of Konnaya Lakhta, as well as the villages of Bobylskaya and Lakhta, were in turn Count Orlov, Count Ya. A. Bruce, and the landowners Yakovlev. In 1844, Count A.I. Stenbok-Fermor entered the possession of the Lakhta estate (which included Konnaya Lakhta. This family was the owner of the estate until 1913, when the owners had to go to corporations to pay off their debts, and the Lakhta estate became the property of Lakhta Joint Stock Company of Count Stenbock-Fermor and Co. In 1963, Horse Lahta was included in the Zhdanov (Primorsky) district of Leningrad (St. Petersburg).

  

As the dacha village of Olgino appeared at the end of the 19th century and initially consisted of both Olgin itself and the villages of Vladimirovka (now part of Lisiy Nos) and Aleksandrovka. In the first half of the 18th century, this territory was part of the Verpelev palace estate, which in the second half of the 18th century was granted to Count G. G. Orlov, then it was owned by the family of landowners the Yakovlevs, in the middle of the 19th century the estate was transferred to the counts of Stenbock-Fermor. In 1905 A.V. Stenbok-Fermor, the then owner of Lakhta lands, divided the lands around Lakhta into separate plots with the intention of selling them profitably for dachas. So there were the villages of Olgino (named after the wife of Olga Platonovna), Vladimirovka (in honor of the father of the owner; the coastal part of the modern village of Lisy Nos) and Alexandrov or Aleksandrovskaya (in honor of Alexander Vladimirovich himself). It is likely that on the site of the village was the village of Olushino (Olushino odhe) - a search book of the Spassko-Gorodensky churchyard in 1573 mentions that there were 1 obzh in the village of Olushkov’s, which suggests that at least one residential the yard. On behalf of Olushka (Olpherius). Most likely, the village was deserted in Swedish time and then was already listed as a wasteland belonging to the village of Lahta. Thus, the name of the village could be given in harmony with the name of the mistress and the old name of the village.

The villages were planned among a sparse pine forest (the layout was preserved almost unchanged), so there were more amenities for living and spending time there than in Lakhta. A park was set up here, a summer theater, a sports ("gymnastic") playground, a tennis court, and a yacht club were arranged.

In the 1910s about 150 winter cottages were built in Olgino, many of which are striking monuments of "summer cottage" architecture. In 1963, the village of Olgino was included in the Zhdanovsky (Primorsky) district of Leningrad (St. Petersburg).

  

Near Olgino, in the area of ​​the Dubki park, there was a small village Verpeleva (Verpelevo), which consisted of only a few yards. In the first half of the XVIII century. this territory was part of the palace estate "Verpeleva", which in the second half of the XVIII century. It was granted to Count G. G. Orlov, then passed to the Counts of Stenbock-Fermor. The village has not existed for a long time, but the entire reed-covered peninsula (barely protruding above the water of the Verpier-Luda peninsula (Verper Luda (from the Finnish luoto - “small rocky island”)) still existed, and there was another spelling the name of this island is Var Pala Ludo).

  

Kamenka. The Novgorod scribal book mentions two villages in the Lakhta region with a similar name, referring to the possessions of Selivan Zakharov, son of Okhten, with his son and 5 other co-owners. On the lands of this small patrimony, which, unlike the estate was inherited, peasants lived in 3 villages, including: the village "Kamenka in Lakhta near the sea" in 5 yards with 5 people and arable land in 1,5 obzhi, the village "on Kamenka "in 2 courtyards with 2 people and arable land in 1 obzhu. For the use of land, the peasants paid the owners of the patrimony 16 money and gave 1/3 of the rye harvest. Thus, in the 16th century on the Kamenka River (another name for the Kiviyoki River, which is the literal translation of kivi - "stone", joki - "river") there was one large village of Kamenka near its confluence with the Lakhtinsky spill and the second, smaller, somewhere upstream. On the drawing of Izhora land in 1705, a village under this name is depicted in the area of ​​the modern village of Kamenka. The village of Kamennaya in the middle reaches of Kamenka and on the map of 1792 is designated. Other name options are Kaumenkka, Kiviaja.

In the second half of the 18th century, Kamenka became a vacation spot for Russian Germans. Here in 1865, German colonists founded their "daughter" colony on leased land. Since then, the village has received the name Kamenka Colony (so called until the 1930s). In 1892, a colony near the village of Volkovo "budded" from it. The inhabitants of both colonies belonged to the Novo-Saratov parish and since 1871 had a prayer house in Kamenka, which was visited by 250 people. He maintained a school for 40 students. The house was closed in 1935 and later demolished.

Currently, Kamenka exists as a holiday village, located along the road to Levashovo. Since 1961 - in the city, part of the planning area in the North-West, from the mid-1990s. built up with multi-storey residential buildings and cottages.

  

Volkovo. The settlement is about southeast of the village of Kamenka - on the old road to Kamenka, on the bank of a stream that flows into Kamenka between the village of Kamenka and the Shuvalovsky quarry. In 1892, a German colony emerged on the territory of the village, "budding" from a nearby colony in the village of Kamenka. The origin of Volkovo is not clear, the village is found only on maps of 1912, 1930, 1939, 1943. and probably appeared no earlier than the 19th century.

  

Kolomyagi. Scribe books of the XV — XVI centuries and Swedish plans testify that small settlements already existed on the site of Kolomyag. Most likely, these were first Izhora or Karelian, then Finnish farms, which were empty during the hostilities of the late XVII century.

The name "Kolomyag" connoisseurs decipher in different ways. Some say that it came from the "colo" - in Finnish cave and "pulp" - a hill, a hill. The village is located on the hills, and such an interpretation is quite acceptable. Others look for the root of the name in the Finnish word "koaa" - bark - and believe that trees were processed here after felling. Another version of the origin of the name from the Finnish "kello" is the bell, and it is associated not with the feature of the mountain, but with the "bell on the mountain" - a tower with a signal bell standing on a hill.

The owners of Kolomyazhsky lands were Admiral General A.I. Osterman, Count A.P. Bestuzhev-Ryumin, a family of Volkonsky. In 1789, the Volkonskys sold these lands to retired colonel Sergei Savvich Yakovlev. On his estate S. S. Yakovlev built a manor and lived in it with his wife and seven daughters. The once-Finnish population of Kolomyag was “Russified” by that time - it was made up of descendants of serfs resettled by Osterman and Bestuzhev-Rumin from their villages in Central Russia (natives of the Volga and Galich) and Ukraine. Then the name "Kellomyaki" began to sound in Russian fashion - "Kolomyagi", although later the old name also existed, especially among local Finns. And not without reason the indigenous Kolomozhites associate their origin with the Volga places, and the southern half of the village is now called “Galician”.

Yakovlev died in 1818. Five years after his death, a division of the territory of the manor was made. The village of Kolomyagi was divided in half between two of his daughters. The border was the Bezymyanny stream. The southeastern part of the village of Kolomyagi beyond Bezymyanny creek and a plot on the banks of the Bolshaya Nevka passed to the daughter Ekaterina Sergeevna Avdulina.

Daughter Yakovleva Elena Sergeevna - the wife of General Alexei Petrovich Nikitin, a hero of the Patriotic War of 1812, who was awarded the highest military orders and twice a gold sword with the inscription "For courage", died early, leaving her daughter Elizabeth. The northwestern part of Kolomyag inherited the young Elizabeth, so this part of Kolomyag was practically inherited by the father of Yakovlev’s granddaughter, Count A.P. Nikitin, who in 1832 became the owner of the entire village. It is his name that is stored in the names of the streets - 1st and 2nd Nikitinsky and Novo-Nikitinsky. The new owner built a stone mansion on the estate’s estate - an excellent example of classicism of the first third of the 19th century, which became his country house and has survived to this day and has been occupied until recently by the Nursing Home. It is believed that this mansion was built according to the project of the famous architect A.I. Melnikov. The severity and modesty of the architectural appearance of the facades and residential chambers of the Nikitin mansion was opposed by the splendor of ceremonial interiors, in particular the two-light dance hall with choirs for musicians. Unfortunately, with repeated alterations and repairs, many details of the decor and stucco emblems of the owners disappeared. Only two photographs of the 1920s and preserved fragments of ornamental molding and paintings on the walls and ceiling show the past richness of the decorative decoration of this architectural monument. The mansion was surrounded by a small park. In it stood a stone pagan woman brought from the southern steppes of Russia (transferred to the Hermitage), and a pond with a plakun waterfall was built. Near the pond there was a "walk of love" from the "paradise" apple trees - it was called so because the bride and groom passed through it after the wedding. Here, in the shadow of these apple trees, young lovers made appointments.

Under the Orlov-Denisov opposite the mansion (now Main Street, 29), the structures of an agricultural farm were erected, partially preserved to this day, and the greenhouse. Behind the farm were the master's fields. On them, as the New Time newspaper reported in August 1880, they tested the reaping and shearing machines brought from America.

In the 19th century, the provincial surveyor Zaitsev submitted for approval the highway called the Kolomyagskoye Shosse. The route was supposed to connect the village, gradually gaining fame as a summer residence of the "middle arm", with St. Petersburg. The construction of the road ended in the 1840s, and then horse-drawn and country-house crafts became the most important articles of peasant income. In addition, peasants either built small dachas in their yards, or rented their huts for the summer. Located away from the roads, surrounded by fields, the village was chosen by multi-family citizens.

The income from the summer cottage industry increased from year to year, which was facilitated by the summer movement of omnibuses that opened on the new highway from the City Council building. They walked four times a day, each accommodated 16 people, the fare cost 15 kopecks. Even when the Finnish Railway with the nearest Udelnaya station came into operation in 1870, the highway remained the main access road through which public carriages pulled by a trio of horses ran from the Stroganov (now Ushakovsky) bridge.

The covid-19 pandemic could set back gains in gender equality, according to a report by UN Women. With more people around the world staying at home due to lockdowns and other restrictions, the need for household chores has increased, says the report. But analysis of data from 38 countries suggests that, while all people have increased their unpaid workloads, “women are still doing the lion’s share”. The report also found that women are taking on a greater intensity of care-related tasks compared to men. “Everything we worked for, that has taken 25 years, could be lost in a year,” UN Women deputy executive director Anita Bhatia.

  

La pandémie de covid-19 pourrait faire reculer les progrès en matière d'égalité des sexes , selon un rapport d'ONU Femmes. Avec plus de personnes dans le monde restant à la maison en raison de verrouillages et d'autres restrictions, le besoin de tâches ménagères a augmenté, indique le rapport. Mais l'analyse des données de 38 pays suggère que, bien que tous les gens aient augmenté leur charge de travail non rémunérée, «les femmes font toujours la part du lion». Le rapport a également révélé que les femmes assument une plus grande intensité de tâches liées aux soins que les hommes. «Tout ce pour quoi nous avons travaillé, qui a pris 25 ans, pourrait être perdu en un an», a déclaré la directrice exécutive adjointe d'ONU Femmes Anita Bhatia.

 

A partial wreck of an Albatros D.I at White Waltham, for use in the film industry.

 

The Albatros D.I was the first in a series of biplane fighters that helped the Germans gain control of the air over the Western Front early in 1917.

Ok decided to offload a photo off to add this one on, also one found on the older DSLR that hadn't been downloaded until today.

 

Midland Classic had the previous year grown their operation with the purchase of the Burton depot operations, off Arriva Midlands, a couple of routes such as the 29 and X38 were retained by Arriva and moved to other depots.

 

The main types acquired in the deal were the bulk of the 52 plate DAF SB200, Wright Commanders that were new to Wellington (Telford) for the prime 44 'Redline' service between Leegomery - Telford Town Centre - Madeley. These Commanders had operated out of Burton with Arriva for a number of years prior and it's fair to say had worked hard with Arriva over the years. Only one of them gained Midland Classic livery and that was by default, having been accident damaged just before takeover, it was repaired and put into Midland Classic livery. We see it here on a 8 bound for Swadlincote.

Have an awesome day, everyone...

University Canada West-UCW, is an innovative business and technology-oriented institution located in the heart of vibrant Vancouver. Established in 2004, UCW offers a range of career-focused programs including the Bachelor of Commerce, Bachelor of Arts in Business Communication, Associate of Arts and Master of Business Administration. Courses are offered at our two downtown Vancouver campuses and online too. Offering courses online brings flexibility to education, allowing those who may not have otherwise had the opportunity to gain respected qualifications. UCW Vancouver is a University with a clear vision—to be a leading, respected independent University in Canada and abroad, known for innovation and effectiveness in preparing motivated students for professional-level careers and societal leadership. UCW Vancouver’s learning environment is dynamic and practical.

 

The City of Vancouver is a coastal, seaport city on the mainland of British Columbia. Located on the western half of the Burrard Peninsula, Vancouver is bounded to the north by English Bay and the Burrard Inlet and to the south by the Fraser River. It has an area of 114 square kilometers (44 square miles) with a population of 631,486 (according to the 2016 census. Vancouver is the largest city in British Columbia, and the eighth largest municipality in Canada; the Greater Vancouver metropolitan area (which includes neighboring cities such as Burnaby, Richmond, and Surrey) is the third largest in Canada. The coordinates: 49° 15' 39.14\" N, 123° 6' 50.23\" W measure from the City Hall. It has the Pacific time zone: GMT -8 as part of the Pacific maritime ecozone and has a huge and famous park called Stanley Park is one of the largest urban parks in North America. A very diverse city with a very high standard of living is also one of the most expensive cities in the world and for sure the most expensive one in North America. It is a beautiful city with water and forest and flowers all over.

 

A cidade de Vancouver é uma cidade costeira e portuária da Colúmbia Britânica, no Canadá. Localizada na metade ocidental da Península Burrard, Vancouver é delimitada ao norte pela English Bay e pela Burrard Inlet e ao sul pelo rio Fraser. Tem uma área de 114 quilômetros quadrados (44 milhas quadradas) com uma população de 631.486 (de acordo com o censo de 2016. Vancouver é a maior cidade da Colúmbia Britânica e o oitavo maior município do Canadá; a área metropolitana da Grande Vancouver (que inclui cidades vizinhas como Burnaby, Richmond e Surrey) é a terceira maior do Canadá. As coordenadas: 49° 15' 39.14\" N, 123° 6' 50.23\" W medem da Prefeitura. Tem o fuso horário do Pacífico : GMT -8 faz parte da ecozona marítima do Pacífico e tem um enorme e famoso parque chamado Stanley Park é um dos maiores parques urbanos da América do Norte. Uma cidade muito diversificada com um alto padrão de vida sendo também uma das mais caras cidades do mundo e com certeza a mais cara da América do Norte, é uma bela cidade com água e floresta e flores por toda parte.

 

La ciudad de Vancouver es una ciudad portuaria costera en la parte de tierra firma de la Columbia Británica. Ubicada en la mitad occidental de la península de Burrard, Vancouver limita al norte con English Bay y Burrard Inlet y al sur con el río Fraser. Tiene un área de 114 kilómetros cuadrados (44 millas cuadradas) con una población de 631,486 (según el censo de 2016). Vancouver es la ciudad más grande de la Columbia Británica y el octavo municipio más grande de Canadá; el área metropolitana del Gran Vancouver (que incluye ciudades vecinas como Burnaby, Richmond y Surrey) es la tercera más grande de Canadá. Las coordenadas: 49° 15' 39.14\" N, 123° 6' 50.23\" W miden desde el Ayuntamiento. Tiene la zona horaria del Pacífico : GMT -8 como parte de la ecozona marítima del Pacífico y tiene un enorme y famoso parque llamado Stanley Park es uno de los parques urbanos más grandes de América del Norte. Una ciudad muy diversa con un nivel de vida muy alto siendo también una de las más caras ciudades del mundo y seguramente la más cara de América del Norte. Es una ciudad hermosa con agua y bosques y flores por todas partes.

 

La ville de Vancouver est une ville portuaire côtière située sur le continent de la Colombie-Britannique. Située sur la moitié ouest de la péninsule Burrard, Vancouver est délimitée au nord par English Bay et Burrard Inlet et au sud par le fleuve Fraser. Il a une superficie de 114 kilomètres carrés (44 miles carrés) avec une population de 631 486 (selon le recensement de 2016. Vancouver est la plus grande ville de la Colombie-Britannique et la huitième plus grande municipalité du Canada; la région métropolitaine du Grand Vancouver (qui comprend villes voisines telles que Burnaby, Richmond et Surrey) est le troisième plus grand au Canada. Les coordonnées : 49° 15' 39.14\" N, 123° 6' 50.23\" W mesurent à partir de l'hôtel de ville. Il a le fuseau horaire du Pacifique : GMT -8 dans le cadre de l'écozone maritime du Pacifique et possède un immense et célèbre parc appelé Stanley Park est l'un des plus grands parcs urbains d'Amérique du Nord.Une ville très diversifiée avec un niveau de vie très élevé étant également l'un des plus chers villes du monde et certainement la plus chère d'Amérique du Nord, c'est une belle ville avec de l'eau, de la forêt et des fleurs partout.

 

La città di Vancouver è una città portuale costiera sulla terraferma della Columbia Britannica. Situata nella metà occidentale della penisola di Burrard, Vancouver è delimitata a nord da English Bay e Burrard Inlet ea sud dal fiume Fraser. Ha un'area di 114 chilometri quadrati (44 miglia quadrate) con una popolazione di 631.486 (secondo il censimento del 2016. Vancouver è la città più grande della Columbia Britannica e l'ottavo comune più grande del Canada; l'area metropolitana di Greater Vancouver (che comprende città vicine come Burnaby, Richmond e Surrey) è la terza più grande del Canada. Le coordinate: 49° 15' 39.14\" N, 123° 6' 50.23\" W misurano dal municipio. Ha il fuso orario del Pacifico : GMT -8 come parte dell'ecozona marittima del Pacifico e ha un enorme e famoso parco chiamato Stanley Park è uno dei più grandi parchi urbani del Nord America.Una città molto diversificata con uno standard di vita molto elevato è anche una delle più costose città del mondo e sicuramente la più cara del Nord America, è una bellissima città con acqua, foreste e fiori dappertutto.

 

De stad Vancouver is een kust-, zeehavenstad op het vasteland van Brits-Columbia. Vancouver, gelegen op de westelijke helft van het schiereiland Burrard, wordt in het noorden begrensd door English Bay en de Burrard Inlet en in het zuiden door de Fraser River. Het heeft een oppervlakte van 114 vierkante kilometer (44 vierkante mijl) met een bevolking van 631.486 (volgens de volkstelling van 2016. Vancouver is de grootste stad in British Columbia, en de achtste grootste gemeente in Canada; het grootstedelijk gebied van Vancouver (dat omvat naburige steden zoals Burnaby, Richmond en Surrey) is de derde grootste in Canada. De coördinaten: 49° 15' 39.14\" N, 123° 6' 50.23\" W meten vanaf het stadhuis. Het heeft de Pacific-tijdzone : GMT -8 als onderdeel van de maritieme ecozone van de Stille Oceaan en heeft een enorm en beroemd park genaamd Stanley Park is een van de grootste stadsparken in Noord-Amerika. Een zeer diverse stad met een zeer hoge levensstandaard die ook een van de duurste is steden in de wereld en zeker de duurste in Noord-Amerika.Het is een prachtige stad met water en bos en bloemen overal.

 

Die Stadt Vancouver ist eine Küsten- und Seehafenstadt auf dem Festland von British Columbia. Vancouver liegt in der westlichen Hälfte der Burrard-Halbinsel und wird im Norden von der English Bay und dem Burrard Inlet und im Süden vom Fraser River begrenzt. Es hat eine Fläche von 114 Quadratkilometern (44 Quadratmeilen) mit einer Bevölkerung von 631.486 (laut Volkszählung von 2016). Vancouver ist die größte Stadt in British Columbia und die achtgrößte Gemeinde in Kanada; die Metropolregion Greater Vancouver (einschließlich Vancouver). Nachbarstädte wie Burnaby, Richmond und Surrey) ist die drittgrößte in Kanada. Die Koordinaten: 49° 15' 39,14\" N, 123° 6' 50,23\" W, gemessen vom Rathaus. Es hat die pazifische Zeitzone : GMT -8 als Teil der pazifischen maritimen Ökozone und hat einen riesigen und berühmten Park namens Stanley Park ist einer der größten städtischen Parks in Nordamerika.Eine sehr vielfältige Stadt mit einem sehr hohen Lebensstandard, die auch eine der teuersten ist Städte der Welt und mit Sicherheit die teuerste in Nordamerika, eine wunderschöne Stadt mit Wasser und Wald und Blumen überall.

 

Η πόλη του Βανκούβερ είναι μια παραθαλάσσια, παραθαλάσσια πόλη στην ηπειρωτική χώρα της Βρετανικής Κολομβίας. Βρίσκεται στο δυτικό μισό της χερσονήσου Burrard, το Βανκούβερ οριοθετείται στα βόρεια από τον κόλπο English Bay και την είσοδο Burrard και νότια από τον ποταμό Fraser. Έχει έκταση 114 τετραγωνικά χιλιόμετρα (44 τετραγωνικά μίλια) με πληθυσμό 631.486 (σύμφωνα με την απογραφή του 2016. Το Βανκούβερ είναι η μεγαλύτερη πόλη στη Βρετανική Κολομβία και ο όγδοος μεγαλύτερος δήμος στον Καναδά· η μητροπολιτική περιοχή του Ευρύτερου Βανκούβερ (η οποία περιλαμβάνει γειτονικές πόλεις όπως το Μπέρναμπυ, το Ρίτσμοντ και το Σάρεϊ) είναι η τρίτη μεγαλύτερη στον Καναδά. Οι συντεταγμένες: 49° 15' 39,14\" Β, 123° 6' 50,23\" μέτρο Δ από το Δημαρχείο. Έχει τη ζώνη ώρας του Ειρηνικού : GMT -8 ως μέρος της θαλάσσιας οικοζώνης του Ειρηνικού και έχει ένα τεράστιο και διάσημο πάρκο που ονομάζεται Stanley Park είναι ένα από τα μεγαλύτερα αστικά πάρκα στη Βόρεια Αμερική. Μια πόλη με πολύ μεγάλη ποικιλία με πολύ υψηλό βιοτικό επίπεδο είναι επίσης μια από τις πιο ακριβές πόλεις στον κόσμο και σίγουρα η πιο ακριβή στη Βόρεια Αμερική.Είναι μια όμορφη πόλη με νερό και δάσος και λουλούδια παντού.

 

مدينة فانكوفر هي مدينة ساحلية ساحلية تقع على البر الرئيسي لكولومبيا البريطانية. تقع فانكوفر في النصف الغربي من شبه جزيرة بورارد ، ويحدها من الشمال خليج إنجليش ومدخل بورارد ومن الجنوب نهر فريزر. تبلغ مساحتها 114 كيلومترًا مربعًا (44 ميلًا مربعًا) ويبلغ عدد سكانها 631،486 نسمة (وفقًا لتعداد عام 2016. فانكوفر هي أكبر مدينة في كولومبيا البريطانية ، وثامن أكبر بلدية في كندا ؛ منطقة العاصمة الكبرى فانكوفر (التي تشمل المدن المجاورة مثل برنابي وريتشموند وساري) هي ثالث أكبر مدن كندا. الإحداثيات: 49 ° 15 '39.14 \ "شمالاً ، 123 ° 6' 50.23 \" غربًا من قاعة المدينة. بها المنطقة الزمنية للمحيط الهادئ : GMT -8 كجزء من منطقة المحيط الهادئ البحرية وبها حديقة ضخمة وشهيرة تسمى حديقة ستانلي وهي واحدة من أكبر المنتزهات الحضرية في أمريكا الشمالية. مدينة متنوعة للغاية مع مستوى معيشي مرتفع للغاية وهي أيضًا واحدة من أغلى مدن في العالم وبالتأكيد أغلى مدينة في أمريكا الشمالية ، إنها مدينة جميلة بها مياه وغابات وأزهار في كل مكان.

 

バンクーバー市は、ブリティッシュコロンビア州本土にある沿岸の港湾都市です。バラード半島の西半分に位置するバンクーバーは、北はイングリッシュベイとバラード入り江に、南はフレーザー川に囲まれています。面積は114平方キロメートル（44平方マイル）で、人口は631,486人です（2016年の国勢調査によると、バンクーバーはブリティッシュコロンビア州で最大の都市であり、カナダで8番目に大きい自治体です。バーナビー、リッチモンド、サリーなどの近隣の都市は、カナダで3番目に大きい都市です。座標：市庁舎から北緯49度15分39.14インチ、西経123度6分50.23インチ。太平洋のタイムゾーンがあります。 ：太平洋海事エコゾーンの一部としてのGMT -8で、スタンレーパークと呼ばれる巨大で有名な公園があります。これは北米で最大の都市公園の1つです。非常に多様な都市であり、生活水準も非常に高く、最も高価な都市の1つです。世界の都市、そして確かに北米で最も高価な都市です。それは水と森と花がいたるところにある美しい都市です。

 

वैंकूवर शहर ब्रिटिश कोलंबिया की मुख्य भूमि पर एक तटीय, बंदरगाह शहर है। बर्रार्ड प्रायद्वीप के पश्चिमी भाग में स्थित, वैंकूवर उत्तर में इंग्लिश बे और बर्रार्ड इनलेट और दक्षिण में फ्रेजर नदी से घिरा है। इसका क्षेत्रफल 631,486 (2016 की जनगणना के अनुसार) की आबादी के साथ 114 वर्ग किलोमीटर (44 वर्ग मील) है। वैंकूवर ब्रिटिश कोलंबिया का सबसे बड़ा शहर है, और कनाडा में आठवीं सबसे बड़ी नगरपालिका है; ग्रेटर वैंकूवर महानगरीय क्षेत्र (जिसमें शामिल है) पड़ोसी शहर जैसे बर्नाबी, रिचमंड, और सरे) कनाडा में तीसरा सबसे बड़ा है। निर्देशांक: 49° 15' 39.14\" N, 123° 6' 50.23\" W सिटी हॉल से मापता है। इसमें प्रशांत समय क्षेत्र है : जीएमटी -8 प्रशांत समुद्री इकोज़ोन के हिस्से के रूप में और स्टेनली पार्क नामक एक विशाल और प्रसिद्ध पार्क है, जो उत्तरी अमेरिका के सबसे बड़े शहरी पार्कों में से एक है। एक बहुत ही विविध शहर जिसमें उच्च जीवन स्तर भी सबसे महंगे में से एक है दुनिया में शहर और निश्चित रूप से उत्तरी अमेरिका में सबसे महंगा। यह एक सुंदर शहर है जिसमें पानी और जंगल और फूल हैं।

 

溫哥華市是不列顛哥倫比亞省大陸的沿海海港城市。溫哥華位於伯拉德半島的西半部，北接英吉利灣和伯拉德灣，南接弗雷澤河。面積 114 平方公里（44 平方英里），人口 631,486 人（根據 2016 年人口普查。溫哥華是不列顛哥倫比亞省最大的城市，加拿大第八大城市；大溫哥華都會區（包括本拿比、里士滿和素裡等鄰近城市是加拿大第三大城市。坐標：49° 15' 39.14\" N, 123° 6' 50.23\" W 從市政廳測量。它有太平洋時區: 格林威治標準時間 -8 作為太平洋海洋生態區的一部分，擁有一個名為斯坦利公園的巨大而著名的公園，是北美最大的城市公園之一。一個非常多樣化的城市，生活水平很高，也是最昂貴的城市之一世界上最貴的城市，當然也是北美最貴的城市。它是一個美麗的城市，有水、森林和鮮花。

 

Fort Gaines is an historic fort on Dauphin Island, Alabama, United States. It was named for Edmund Pendleton Gaines. Established in 1821, it is best known for its role in the Battle of Mobile Bay during the American Civil War.

 

Exhibits include the huge anchor from the USS Hartford, Admiral David Farragut's flagship on which he gave his world-famous command, "Damn the torpedoes – full speed ahead!" The fort also has the original cannons used in the battle, five pre-Civil War brick buildings in the interior courtyard, operational blacksmith shop and kitchens, tunnel systems to the fortified corner bastions, and similar features. A museum details the history of this period, as well as the French colonial presence beginning in the late 17th century. The fort was partially modernized for the Spanish–American War. It is a tourist destination with tours and historical reenactment events. The site is considered to be one of the nation's best-preserved Civil War era masonry forts and has been nominated for listing as a National Historic Landmark.

 

Significant masonry damages have been sustained during hurricanes and tropical storms in the past decade. Though these damages have been largely repaired, the fort continues to be under threat from erosion. The fort sits on the east end of Dauphin Island, only feet from the Gulf of Mexico. Ongoing erosional losses of sand dunes and beach total up to 10 feet per year. For these reasons, the Civil War Preservation Trust placed Fort Gaines on its History Under Siege listing on March 18, 2009. The listing identifies the ten most endangered Civil War battlefields in the United States. Additionally it was placed on the list of America's 11 Most Endangered Historic Places by the National Trust for Historic Preservation in 2011.

  

Credit for the data above is given to the following website:

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fort_Gaines_(Alabama)

I've gained a bit of weight since the lockdown began, so I've started working out again.

This photo was taken before I began working out, so I have a bit of a belly.

❤️❤️❤️

Not much of a shot left now with the overgrowth, however just up the line the trees & bushes at Magiscroft have been cut back

 

Anyway, Direct Rail Services Class 68, 68016 passing Gain Road, Cumbernauld working 4D47 Inverness - Mossend Stobart intermodal on the 16th of June 2020

Nikon D600

Nikkor Series E 50mm f/1.8

 

random | tumblr

As seen from out in the high desert of California.

A 320 shot panorama stack. 30 seconds on an equatorial mount, gain of 60, and a duo-band filter.

I think I like the lavender, tan, light grey combo so far

More xpro digital doodling. I love the jitter in the bokeh behind the bud.

large

 

HBWe x2!

Pentax K1,Pyrenees

Back during the quarantine Terri began to gain a little weight and became more body positive which is good. Very pleasurable watching her grow large. Grow Honey Grow.

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 have travelled twenty-five miles west of London into Berkshire to the picturesque town of Ascot, where the Ascot Racecourse is. The town, built up along meandering roads, is made up mostly of large red brick mansions nestled discreetly amidst well established manicured gardens behind trimmed hedges and closed gates. It is here that Lettice has come to meet a prospective new client: Mrs. Evelyn Hawarden, wife of fabric manufacturer Joseph Hawarden. Hawarden Fabrics have been embraced by the British public since first appearing on the market in 1919, for their quality and affordability, and have proved especially popular amidst the working classes who want colour and something better than what they have had in the post-war boom of optimism, including Lettice’s maid, Edith, who made her friend Hilda a new dance frock using some Hawarden Fabrics russet art silk*. This has raised the Hawarden’s expectations and Mr. Hawarden has recently acquired ‘The Briars’, a red brick Georgian mansion in Ascot that is more suitable for he and his wife’s new social standing.

 

Against her usual practices, Lettice has foregone the initial meeting she would have had at Cavendish Mews after Mrs. Hawarden explained that she was simply too busy with her new house to come down to Mayfair, and implored Lettice to consider coming up to Ascot for the day. As she rides the train through the rolling green countryside of Berkshire, Lettice cannot help but wonder whether her agreement to Mrs. Hawarden’s demands is against her better judgement. Since the publication of the interiors she completed for her friends and fellow members of her Embassy Club coterie, Dickie and Margot Channon, in the magazine, Country Life**, Lettice’s expertise as an interior designer has suddenly been in great demand after Henry Tipping*** described her as having a “tasteful Modern Classical Revival Style”. She has already had to decline several hopeful clients whose wishes for new interiors do not appeal to her own sense of design. Yet here she is, travelling to see a woman who has shown to be somewhat bombastic at her insistence that Lettice visit her, rather than the other way around, at a house that she knows nothing about beyond the fact that it is a recent acquisition of Mr. Hawarden. As she distractedly turns the page of “Whose Body?”**** in her lap, having only taken in half of Dorothy L. Sayers words as she contemplates her journey, Lettice feels an unease in her stomach.

 

As requested, when the steam of the train carrying Lettice and a great number of people attending the Ascot Races from London to Ascot railway station cleared, there stood Mrs. Hawarden’s chauffer, dressed in a smart grey uniform and cap, ready to take her to ‘The Briars’. As the Worsley drove up the long and slightly rutted driveway boarded by clipped yew hedges, she prepared for the worst, but was pleasantly surprised when the car pulled into a wide carriage turning circle before a rather lovely two-storey red brick Georgian mansion with two white painted sash windows either side of a porticoed front door and five matching windows spread evenly across the façade of the upper floor. Assisted to alight by the chauffer, Lettice notes looking up at the façade before her that whilst the house is nowhere near as large or as fine as her own palatial Georgian childhood home of Glynes*****, it does have graceful and elegant country charm which makes her feel more at ease with what may lie within its walls.

 

Striding across the crunching white gravel driveway with the footsteps of the daughter of a Viscount to the front door, it is opened by a maid dressed in her black moire afternoon uniform accessorised with an ornamental lace apron, cuffs and matching cap. Whilst she may look the part, Lettice notes critically that the maid only takes her pea green travelling coat, leaving her holding her matching green stub ended parasol as she shows her into the drawing room, where Lettice is told by the maid that she is expected.

 

Entering the room Lettice is greeted by a fug of greyish blue cigarette smoke that hangs like a pall in the atmosphere. Beneath a round table in the middle of the room, a small whorl of reddish brown fur in a plaited basket bares its teeth and growls.

 

“Yat-See! Don’t growl at the guest! My dear Miss Chetwynd!” enthusiastically exclaims a female voice with a thick Mancunian accent Lettice recognises as Mrs. Hawarden’s. “Here you are at last!”

 

Rising from her place nestled into a very comfortable white upholstered sofa, Mrs Evelyn Hawarden appears to be in her mid thirties, and therefore much younger than her voice portrayed when she telephoned Lettice’s flat. With red hennaed hair set about her rounded face in soft Marcel waves****** she looks quite pert and pretty. Although dressed in a similar style to her mother, Lady Sadie, in a tweed calf length skirt, a flounced white silk blouse and a silk cardigan – the classic uniform of a relaxed country lady – Mrs. Hawarden cannot disguise her more aspiring middle-class origins, for she wears a little too much powder on her nose and sports a pair of round rouge marks on her cheeks that Lady Sadie would never entertain on her own face. Mrs. Hawarden’s hair is perhaps a little too obviously coloured, and she wears four strands of creamy white pearls about her neck, rather than the customary two worn informally. Even as she stands, she tugs awkwardly at her skirt, implying that this is not what she is used to wearing. Nevertheless, she has a pleasant smile and the sparkle in her brown eyes is a jolly one.

 

“How do you do, Mrs. Hawarden.” Lettice replies.

 

“Please pardon my pet Pekingese, Yat-See, for growling.” The hostess indicates to the bristling bundle of fur with wary black currant eyes. “He’s rather protective of his Mummy, don’t you know.” Mrs. Hawarden’s painted face falls when she notices Lettice still clutching her parasol. She glances between it and Lettice’s face. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Chetwynd!” she exclaims apologetically. “Please just put your things down there.” She indicates with an open hand to the corner of a second cream sofa opposite the one she has been sitting on. “Barbara is new to being a maid. The house didn’t come with staff I’m afraid, and being new to the area ourselves, well, I think we’re seen as a rather unknown quantity, so getting help hasn’t been all that easy.”

 

“Oh it’s quite alright,” Lettice assures her hostess, gingerly lowering her parasol as Yat-See starts to growl again from his basket, and leans it against the soft edge of the sofa and deposits her handbag onto its seat. “I know how hard it can be to find good servants. I’m only grateful that I live in a flat and have requirements only for one maid.”

 

“Oh yes, I spoke to her the first time I telephoned you at Cavendish Mews. She seemed very efficient and was quick to get my details so that you could return my telephone call.”

 

“Thankfully Edith is a very capable maid, although I think you may have mistaken her efficiency for haste. Sadly, she has no love of the telephone and thinks it quite an unnatural contraption.” Lettice chuckles indulgently.

 

“What a load of rot!” blusters a burbling male Mancunian voice from behind a wall of newspaper, the utterance accompanied by clouds and curlicues of white cigarette smoke.

 

Yat-See immediately starts to bark in answer to the voice.

 

“Yat-see!” scolds Mrs. Hawarden. “Hush, or I’ll get Barbara to come and take you to the kitchen, which is where naughty boys go!”

 

Silently Lettice wishes her hostess would do just that. The dog seems to understand that he is being scolded and falls silent, but he continues to watch Lettice with his dark and suspicious eyes. Taking her gaze away from the pampered Pekingese and looking to the sofa behind her hostess, Lettice is suddenly made aware that she and Mrs. Hawarden are not the only two people in the room. The newspaper lowers to reveal a middle aged man, probably a little bit older than his wife, in a smart London suit, with slick black hair and a handsome mature face.

 

“Miss Chetwynd, may I present my husband, Mr. Joseph Hawarden, proprietor of Hawarden’s Fabrics.” Mrs. Hawarden says proudly, clasping her hands together.

 

“I say, how do you do, Miss Chetwynd!” Mr. Hawarden says, not getting up from his seat, but reaching forward and extending his hand to his guest. “Jolly glad to have you here. Evelyn’s done nothing but talk about your skills and what she wants you to do here, for the last few weeks. She was most impressed with your interiors in ‘Country Life’.” he adds, glancing across to the inlaid round top of the table between the two sofas upon which sit a collection of newspapers, magazines and periodicals, including the copy of ‘Country Life’ featuring the interiors for ‘Chi an Treth’.

 

Lettice extends her own hand and allows it to be shaken in a rather heavy and businesslike fashion by the industrialist. “How do you do, Mr. Hawarden. I’m delighted to be here,” She glances at Mrs. Hawarden. “Although I wasn’t expecting you to be here for this meeting.”

 

“Oh, Joseph just happens to be home this afternoon, Miss Chetwynd.” laughs Mrs. Hawarden a little awkwardly. “It isn’t by design. I’ll be the one making the decisions.”

 

“Yes,” agrees Mr. Hawarden, leaning forward and snatching a dainty teacup decorated with blue roses from the table and taking a rather large gulp from it, the cup’s rim disappearing beneath his finely manicured thick black moustache. “This interiors business is more Evelyn’s department than mine. My fabrics are fashion, not furniture fabrics.” He chortles good-naturedly. “But since I’ll be the one footing the bills, you should give me an estimate of your costs.”

 

“Oh,” Lettice begins a little nervously. “I shouldn’t think we’ll be discussing that today, Mr. Hawarden.”

 

“What?” he scoffs. “No costs today?”

 

“I shouldn’t think so.” Lettice assures him. “Today is really, just about consultation. I would usually have conducted it at my premises in Mayfair,” She momentarily looks at Mrs. Hawarden again before returning to the industrialist. “However, your wife was insistent that she didn’t have the time to come down. Today is about discussing what Mrs. Hawarden hopes to do with the interiors of ‘The Briars’.”

 

“I see,” Mr. Hawarden replies, tapping his nose knowingly with his right hand, still clutching the smoking end of his cigarette. “You’re a smart businesswoman, Miss Chetwynd. Best lull Evelyn into a sense of security, so then you can unleash the bills on me, eh?”

 

“Oh no…” stammers Lettice. “I don’t mean… I mean it would…”

 

The man bursts out laughing, his fulsome guffaws intermixing with the slightly more timid and higher pitched giggle of his wife.

 

“Don’t listen to Joseph, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hawarden assures her guest. “He’s just trying to be funny, within his limited ability of being a boring businessman.” She rolls her eyes at her husband, who smiles back sheepishly at her before putting up the paper again. “He doesn’t mean what he says, Miss Chetwynd.” Indicating to the sofa again she continues, “Please have a seat, won’t you.” She walks up to the table. “Barbara may not know what to do with an umbrella, Miss Chetwynd, but she does make a fine cup of tea. When Johnston went to pick you up from the railway station, I had her brew us up a pot. May I interest you?” She picks up third, as of yet unused, china teacup and a pretty sleek silver Art Deco teapot. “Or would you prefer coffee?”

 

“Oh no, tea will be most satisfactory,” Lettice replies as she sinks into the comfortable enveloping upholstery of the sofa next to her handbag. “Thank you, Mrs. Hawarden.”

 

As Mrs. Hawarden fixes her tea, Lettice tries to ignore the hostile stare of Yat-See and glances around the well lit drawing room flooded with light from one of the ground floor windows she had spied upon her arrival. Tastefully appointed, the room features what looks like original Eighteenth Century hand painted wallpaper, which whilst dulled somewhat from many decades of warm wood fires, and perhaps more recently cigarette smoke – she glances at Mr. Hawarden as he sits, absorbed in his newspaper once more, his cigarette smouldering between his right index and middle finger poking around the edge of the newsprint – it still shows off lovely rich hues. Some of the furnishings are possibly original to the room too, such as a small demilune table to the left of the fireplace and the inlaid round table between the two sofas, but the room has been overlaid with other styles over time. The cream damask sofas are obviously pre-war, but perhaps not much more than a decade old. Paintings of different eras and styles hang on the walls in an easy comfort of familiarity. The objects scattered about the surfaces of the room suggest an eclectic, yet restrained hand: silver candlesticks, tall vases, decorative bowls, Meissen figurines and two pretty ‘cottage orneé’ pastille burners******* on the mantle.

 

Lettice gratefully accepts the cup of tea proffered by her hostess. “So, you were saying that you are newcomers to Ascot, Mrs. Hawarden?”

 

“Yes,” Mrs. Hawarden replies, subconsciously reaching up to her strands of pearls and worrying them at the mention of them being newly arrived. “My husband and I are from Manchester originally, as I’m sure you can tell from our accents.” Lettice politely sips her tea and doesn’t remark upon either of their thick accents which are so different to those born in the south of England. “We only recently acquired ‘The Briars’ so that my husband can be closer to his new fabric factory in Croydon and to his London office, and I have been craving the space and fresh air of the south.” The woman opens a small silver cigarette case on the table, offers one to Lettice, who politely declines with s small shake of her head, and then takes out a thin cigarette for herself and lights it. Walking across the carpet she tosses the spent match into the grate as she leans against the fireplace.

 

“Indeed.” muses Lettice as she watches Mrs. Hawarden take a long drag on her cigarette before blowing out a plume of bluish grey acrid smoke into the air between she and Lettice.

 

Yat-See suddenly picks himself out of his basket, making Lettice flinch and her cup rattle in its saucer as she fears he is about to attack her legs. Yet he pads across the Chinese rug and sits in front of his mistress protectively keeping guard to protect her from the stranger in the drawing room.

 

“And this place was up for sale, and I fell in love with it instantly, didn’t I Joseph?”

 

“Indeed, you did, Evelyn.” agrees her husband without looking up from his newspaper.

 

“So, we bought it: lock, stock and barrel.”

 

“Then the furnishings aren’t yours, Mrs. Hawarden?” Lettice asks, gesturing to their surrounds as she places her teacup on the small Georgian pedestal table at her right.

 

“No. Oh no!” Mrs, Hawarden replies, evidently wishing to distance herself from the elegant, yet comfortably lived in country house style. “Not at all Miss Chetwynd! That’s why I couldn’t come down to Mayfair to meet you like you had originally suggested. We’re only freshly moved in, and I’m still trying to find my feet here. I haven’t even had time to unpack my photos from our Manchester house yet.”

 

“Yet you already know that you want to redecorate, Mrs. Hawarden,” Lettice queries. “Even though you are only newly minted here?”

 

“Goodness yes, Miss Chetwynd!” exclaims the hostess, blowing out another cloud of smoke as she speaks. She bends down and strokes her dog on the head, his black eyes closing in pleasure ar her touch. With a slight groan she stretches back into an upright position. “These,” she gesticulates with a languid hand around her. “Are the interiors of a dead woman.”

 

“A dead woman?” Lettice queries again in concern.

 

“Yes. You see we bought ‘The Briars’ from the descendants of the last occupier. Alice… Alice… Oh, what was her name, Joseph? Moynahan?”

 

“Mainwaring, Evelyn my dear.” Mr. Hawarden looks up from his paper to his wife. “Alice Mainwaring.”

 

“Yes!” Mrs. Hawarden claps her hands, sending a tumble of ashes cascading through the air where they land in Yat-See’s red dioxide coat and on the dark slate hearth surrounding the fireplace. “That’s it! Alice Mainwaring. Her widowed aunt or some such lived here alone and died a few years ago, and she didn’t want to hold onto the place.”

 

“Humph!” mutters Mr. Hawarden. “More like she couldn’t afford to hold onto the place, owing to these bloody awful rates of Income Tax******** the Government dare to charge us all now. Mind you, she put a good face on it, I’ll say that.”

 

Yat-See starts barking again.

 

“Yat-See!” scolds Mrs. Hawarden again. “She didn’t even want the old family paintings.”

 

“I doubt she could afford to keep them, Evelyn my dear, even if she’d wanted to.” Her husband counters. “I would have offered her less for the place if she’d taken them.”

 

“Anyway, whatever the circumstances, I felt the house could do with a little,” Mrs. Hawarden weaves her hand dramatically through the air as if holding a magic wand. “Sprucing up********.”

 

“Sprucing up?” Lettice queries again, looking uncertainly at Mrs. Hawarden.

 

“Yes!” Mrs. Hawarden says with a sigh, sending two plumes of smoke rushing from her nostrils. “Brighten it up a bit and make it a bit more,” She pauses whilst she thinks of the right word she is seeking. “Modern.”

 

“And you are expecting furnishings from Manchester, Mrs. Hawarden?” Lettice asks.

 

“Good lord no!” the hostess exclaims. “The furniture from our Audenshaw house is even worse than these bits of sticks. Yat-See, our clothes, my photos and a few bits and bobs are about all we wanted to bring from there. Isn’t that right, Joseph?”

 

“Quite, my dear Evelyn. Quite.”

 

“No.” She smiles with smug pleasure. “We’ve left that life behind, and now we plan to make a new start here.”

 

“You do know,” Lettice remarks tentatively. “That some people would be quite happy, if acquiring a country house and its contents in its entirety, to leave it all in situ.”

 

“Ahh.” Mrs. Hawarden says with a wagging bejewelled finger and a knowing smile at Lettice. “But Joseph and I aren’t just anyone. That’s why as soon as I saw your article, I knew I wanted your expertise to help me bring life back into this poor old house.” She slaps the mantlepiece with the palm of her hand. “I read in Country Life that the rooms of the Channon’s house were a bit dark, so you lightened it.”

 

“Well, yes,” Lettice agrees hesitantly. “I did, but the house really was rather damp being built by the sea, and awfully neglected after having stood empty for many years. This house appears to be in much better condition and is far cosier than ‘Chi an Treth’ was, Mrs. Hawarden.”

 

“And,” Mrs. Hawarden continues, appearing not to have heard Lettice’s protestations. “I also read that some of the statues you used to furnish the house came from the Portland Gallery in Mayfair.”

 

“They did, Mrs. Hawarden, but I…”

 

“And I just love the modernity of some of the art in there. I’m currently in the process of acquiring some nice new modern artworks from several London galleries, although not The Portland, to hang in place of some of these rather drab daubs.” she indicates to the classical oil painting of a landscape hanging above the fireplace behind her.

 

Lettice glances sadly at the small, rather pretty late Nineteenth Century oil painting of a mother and daughter gathering flowers just to the right of the fireplace, silently apologising to the possible former owner of the house.

 

“Actually, Evelyn my dear, I think you’ll find, I’m acquiring them.” remarks Mr. Hawarden rather definitely.

 

“Don’t be bore, dear Joseph.” Mrs. Hawarden retorts kindly. “Yes, it’s true, you may be putting up the money for them, but we both know that of the two of us, I’m the one with the real artistic vision.”

 

“If you say so, Evelyn.” Mr. Hawarden returns to his paper.

 

Lettice looks sadly around her at the well appointed and comfortable room. In her mind, she can’t see anything wrong with it, other than perhaps the hostile presence of Yat-See, and sadly he cannot be papered over. The room’s décor has grown with the house, mellowed and softened into a comfortable semi-formal Edwardian country house interior over the decades since its original construction, not entirely dissimilar to that of her brother Leslie’s new home with his wife in the Dower House at Glynes, only not quite so old, it having been built in the 1850s. A queasiness begins to roil about in the pit of her stomach. Yat-See seems to pick up on it and quietly growls at Lettice again, until he receives a small nudge on the bottom by the dainty toe of Mrs. Hawarden’s brown leather shoe.

 

“You do know that my style is Modern Classical Revival, don’t you, Mrs, Hawarden?” Lettice explains politely. “I do not believe in flinging everything out and replacing it with something new.”

 

“Yes of course I know, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs, Hawarden smiles. “I’m not suggesting we ‘fling it all out’ as you say. I’d be happy if you felt it worth repurposing a few sticks of furniture. I believe you did repaint a demilune table, not unlike this one,” She reaches behind her and pats the surface of the table Lettice had noticed before. “For Mrs. Channon. You could do the same here, if you like. I’m happy to be led by you, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Well,” Lettice says. “Really, I should be the one who is led by you, Mrs. Hawarden. Perhaps you could suggest to me what you were thinking and we’ll… work from there. Shall we?” She takes a small sip of her tea. “What do you envisage, Mrs. Hawarden?”

 

The woman looks around her, humming and hawing as she screws up her mouth in concentration.

 

“Well, for a start, if I’m going to have new paintings hanging in here, I’ll need new wallpaper. How old do you think this paper is, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“I would say it is probably Eighteenth Century.” Lettice says with concern. “You do realise that it’s probably hand painted. My parents have similar at our home in Wilt…”

 

“Well there you go!” interrupts Mrs. Hawarden. “That explains why it’s so dull and dreary! No: new paper for new paintings. Definitely!” the Pekingese starts barking animatedly. “See, even my beloved little boy agrees, don’t you darling?” She blows him a kiss. “Maybe something geometric?” She looks questioningly at Lettice who simply smiles up politely at her from her place on the sofa but says nothing. She casts her eyes around the room. “And of course these dreadful settees will have to go!”

 

Lettice quietly cringes at the use of the word ‘settee’, giving away Mr. Hawarden’s aspiring middle-class origins**********.

 

“Pity Evelyn my dear,” her husband pipes up. “I quite like these. They really are rather nice and comfy.” He starts bouncing up and down slightly in his seat, making the springs inside the sofa protest quietly beneath the white damask upholstery which makes Yat-See start quietly growling again.

 

“No! I want something more streamlined,” Mrs, Hawarden insists. “Rather like Mrs. Channon’s settees I think.”

 

A discreet knock on the drawing room door interrupts Mrs. Hawarden’s thoughts and makes Yat-See yap loudly as he scurries over to the door.

 

“Yes.” she calls out imperiously.

 

Barbara, the maid who had opened the door to Lettice upon her arrival and shown her into the drawing room opens the door and steps in, almost stepping on the dog, who barks savagely at the poor domestic.

 

“Yat-See! Hush darling! Yes Barbara?”

 

“Begging your pardon, mum, but lunch is ready.” The maid bobs a curtsey. “You said I ought to tell you when it was ready, and Cook is serving up now.”

 

“Yes, yes,” mutters Mrs. Hawarden dismissively with a final puff of smoke, dropping her cigarette butt into the grate next to the spent match. “Thank you, Barbara.”

 

The maid bobs another curtsey and turns to go.

 

“Oh Barbara!” Mrs. Hawarden calls after her gaily.

 

“Yes, mum?” the maid asks.

 

“Barbara, next time we are receiving guests and they are carrying an umbrella,” Mrs. Hawarden adeptly snatches up Lettice’s green umbrella from the floor and holds it out to her maid in a smooth movement. “Make sure you put it in the receptacle that it was designed to be inserted into.”

 

“Mum?” the maid asks queryingly, reaching tentatively out and accepting the umbrella.

 

“Put it in the hallstand, Barbara, with the other umbrellas.”

 

“Oh, yes mum!” Barbara apologises and bobs another curtsey, first at her mistress and then at Lettice, before quickly withdrawing.

 

Lettice silently cringes slightly again at witnessing the public beration of the poor, inexperienced maid, however mild it was.

 

“Well!” gasps Mrs. Hawarden, snatching up her beloved dog from the floor with a swoop. “Shall we go through then, Miss Chetwynd? I’m sure after your trip up from London, you must be starving.”

 

“Oh, yes.” Lettice lies brightly, depositing the teacup and saucer back onto the small Georgian occasional pedestal table and standing up. She eyes the dog warily as he hangs from his owner’s left arm.

 

“Good! Good!” her hostess replies, clapping her hands with delight. “That’s just as well. I’ve asked Cook to prepare a lovely lamb roast. You love titbits from the table, don’t you Yat-See?” She rubs her dog’s forehead lovingly before she winds her right arm through Lettice’s left. “Please, let me show you the way. Just wait until you see the dining room! It’s yellow!” She cringes. “Positively gruesome! I shall be very keen to hear your thoughts around what we can do about that.”

 

Mrs. Hawarden gently, yet at the same time forcefully, guides Lettice to the door from whence the maid came.

 

“Are you coming my dear?” Mrs, Hawarden calls to her husband over her shoulder.

 

“Yes, of course Evelyn!” Mr. Hawarden deposits the newspaper on the sofa cushions and extinguishes his cigarette in the ashtray on the table and follows the figure of his wife and Lettice arm-in-arm. “I shouldn’t wish to miss one of Cook’s wonderful roasts!”

 

As Lettice is guided down the hallway by her hostess, she senses what feels like a boulder in the very pit of her stomach. For the first time ever, she has a potential client with whom she is completely at odds with aesthetically, and she isn’t quite sure how she is going to explain her difference in opinions to the insistent Mrs. Hawarden diplomatically.

 

*The first successful artificial silks were developed in the 1890s of cellulose fibre and marketed as art silk or viscose, a trade name for a specific manufacturer. In 1924, the name of the fibre was officially changed in the U.S. to rayon, although the term viscose continued to be used in Europe.

 

**Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.

 

***Henry Tipping (1855 – 1933) was a French-born British writer on country houses and gardens, garden designer in his own right, and Architectural Editor of the British periodical Country Life for seventeen years between 1907 and 1910 and 1916 and 1933. After his appointment to that position in 1907, he became recognised as one of the leading authorities on the history, architecture, furnishings and gardens of country houses in Britain. In 1927, he became a member of the first committee of the Gardens of England and Wales Scheme, later known as the National Gardens Scheme.

 

****Whose Body? is a 1923 mystery novel by English crime writer and poet Dorothy L. Sayers. It was her debut novel, and the book in which she introduced the character of Lord Peter Wimsey.

 

*****Glynes is the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife Arabella.

 

******Marcelling is a hair styling technique in which hot curling tongs are used to induce a curl into the hair. Its appearance was similar to that of a finger wave but it is created using a different method. Marcelled hair was a popular style for women's hair in the 1920s, often in conjunction with a bob cut. For those women who had longer hair, it was common to tie the hair at the nape of the neck and pin it above the ear with a stylish hair pin or flower. One famous wearer was American entertainer, Josephine Baker.

 

*******The Industrial Revolution in England caused a migration of people into the big cities in search of better wages and better working conditions. For the working class often this resulted in overcrowding in their housing conditions. There was poor sanitation and smells could be appalling. Pastille burners, sometimes called ‘cottage orneés’ were a way of combating these odours by burning pastilles of aromatic substances, which emitted sweet scented perfume into the room. They were made of porcelain or silver for the upper classes and by the late Eighteenth and early Nineteenth Centuries, pottery burners were bought by the middle and lower classes. They were modelled as cottages with a removable thatched roof, tollhouses, dovecotes decorated with flowers and by the 1830s the cottages had open windows so they became night lights as well. By 1840 designs for pastille burners included Chinese temples, Swiss cottages and turreted castles, all of which appealed to the Victorian taste. Pastille burners remained popular for all classes until 1870 when improvements to sanitary conditions were made.

 

*******In order to repay the expenditures made by the British during the Great War, like had been occurring since the Napoleonic Wars, the government increased Income Tax. The standard rate of income tax, which was six per cent in 1914, stood at thirty per cent in 1918. As a result of this, income tax rates amongst the wealthy were maintained at a high level, far in excess of those charged in the years before the war, making the management of estates very difficult if they were not productive, and many properties with stately homes left the ownership of their original families for the first time in generations, sold more often to wealthy industrialists or in the post-war era, wealthy Americans wishing for their own slice of British aristocratic history.

 

*********The verb spruce up means “to make neat or smart in appearance,” and it first appeared in English around the end of the 1500s.

 

**********Before, and even after the Second World War, a great deal could be attained about a person’s social origins by what language and terminology they used in class-conscious Britain by the use of ‘”U and non-U English” as popularised by upper class English author, Nancy Mitford when she published a glossary of terms in an article “The English Aristocracy” published by Stephen Spender in his magazine “encounter” in 1954. There are many examples in her glossary, amongst which are the word “sofa” which is a U (upper class) word, versus “settee” or “couch” which are a non-U (aspiring middle-class) words. Whilst quite outdated today, it gives an insight into how easily someone could betray their humbler origins by something as simple as a single word.

 

This comfortable country house drawing room interior may appear like something out of a historical stately country house, or a copy of ‘Country Life’, but it is in fact part of my 1:12 miniatures collection and includes items from my childhood, as well as those I have collected as an adult.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The Georgian style fireplace I have had since I was a teenager and is made from moulded plaster. The peacock fire screen and gilt fire tools I bought at the same time as the fireplace. Standing on the mantlepiece of the fireplace are two miniature diecast lead Meissen figurines: the Lady with the Canary and the Gentleman with the Butterfly, manufactured by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. They have been hand painted by me. Next to them on the mantlepiece are two silver candlesticks from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Also on the mantlepiece are two pottery cottage orneé pastille burners which have been hand made, painted and gilded by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. The dainty gilded clock is also made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland.

 

The two tall vases of flowers on the demilune tables flanking the fireplace are made by Falcon Miniatures, who are renown for the realism and detail in their miniatures.

 

The bowl decorated with fruit on the table on the left hand side of the fireplace was hand decorated by British artisan Rachael Maundy. The one on the right is a hand painted artisan miniature fluted bowl.

 

The two white damask sofas were supplied by Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The round table, an artisan miniature with a marquetry inlaid top, also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop, as did the small pedestal table next to the right hand sofa.

 

Lettice’s green handbag is also a hand-made artisan piece of soft green leather, made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures. Her furled umbrella is a 1:12 artisan piece made of hand painted wood, metal and satin.

 

The silver Art Deco tea and coffee pots and square tray on the round table were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland. The blue rose tea set came from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay. The Elite Styles magazine from 1923 sitting on the table was made by hand by Petite Gite Miniatures in the United States. The 1:12 miniature copies of ‘The Times’, ‘The Mirror’ and the ‘Daily Express’, are made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The copy of ‘Country Life’ sitting on the table was made by me to scale using the cover of a real 1923 edition of ‘Country Life’. The vase of red roses in the foreground was made by Falcon Miniatures.

 

All the paintings around ‘The Briars’ drawing room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop and the wallpaper is an authentic copy of hand-painted Georgian wallpaper from the 1770s.

Fort Gaines is an historic fort on Dauphin Island, Alabama, United States. It was named for Edmund Pendleton Gaines. Established in 1821, it is best known for its role in the Battle of Mobile Bay during the American Civil War.

 

Exhibits include the huge anchor from the USS Hartford, Admiral David Farragut's flagship on which he gave his world-famous command, "Damn the torpedoes – full speed ahead!" The fort also has the original cannons used in the battle, five pre-Civil War brick buildings in the interior courtyard, operational blacksmith shop and kitchens, tunnel systems to the fortified corner bastions, and similar features. A museum details the history of this period, as well as the French colonial presence beginning in the late 17th century. The fort was partially modernized for the Spanish–American War. It is a tourist destination with tours and historical reenactment events. The site is considered to be one of the nation's best-preserved Civil War era masonry forts and has been nominated for listing as a National Historic Landmark.

 

Significant masonry damages have been sustained during hurricanes and tropical storms in the past decade. Though these damages have been largely repaired, the fort continues to be under threat from erosion. The fort sits on the east end of Dauphin Island, only feet from the Gulf of Mexico. Ongoing erosional losses of sand dunes and beach total up to 10 feet per year. For these reasons, the Civil War Preservation Trust placed Fort Gaines on its History Under Siege listing on March 18, 2009. The listing identifies the ten most endangered Civil War battlefields in the United States. Additionally it was placed on the list of America's 11 Most Endangered Historic Places by the National Trust for Historic Preservation in 2011.

 

Credit for the data above is given to the following website:

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fort_Gaines_(Alabama)

Really, seriously this time, embiggen.

 

This right here is the reason I bought the 7D. It's not very often that anything in the real world warrants shooting at 8fps, but fortunately some of my friends are insane.

 

I really like being a photographer at times like these. While I'm sure I'd enjoy jumping off that thing, it's nice to be able to say "Oh, I would, but I've got to shoot the action instead."

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 northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid, is paying an unexpected call on her beloved parents whilst her mistress is away visiting her own parents in Wiltshire. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden as a Line Manager, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home. They live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street, and is far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s Mayfair flat, but has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith. Usually even before she walks through the glossy black painted front door, Edith can smell the familiar scent of a mixture of Lifebuoy Soap, Borax and Robin’s Starch, which means her mother is washing the laundry of others wealthier than she in the terrace’s kitchen at the rear of the house. Yet with her father’s promotion, Edith’s mother is only laundering a few days a week now, and today, rather than soap and starch greeting her on the street, she can hear familiar laughter.

 

“Mum!” Edith calls out cheerily as she opens the unlocked front door and walks in. “Mum, it’s me! Is that Bert with you?”

 

She takes a deep breath and holds it with anticipation as she runs down the narrow corridor with excited footsteps past the front room and down into the kitchen, which serves as the heart of Edith’s parent’s home. Bursting through the kitchen door she beams and gasps with delight, for there at Ada’s old and worn round kitchen table sits her mother and her brother Bert. Edith’s little brother works aboard the SS Demosthenes as a dining saloon steward, sailing between England and Australia. Australia was where Bert spent Christmas 1922, so he wasn’t with his family for Christmas. Yet now, just like in the postcard he sent from Queensland showing a bird called a kookaburra inside the shape of the great southern continent surrounded by yellow wattle flowers, he is home on shore leave.

 

“Bert!” Edith gasps in delight. “You’re home!”

 

“Hullo Edith!” Bert says with an equally happy smile as he leaps out of the comfortable Windsor chair usually inhabited by their father and enfolds his sister in an embracing hug.

 

“Oh Bert.” Edith presses herself against her brother, the comforting smell of their mother’s lux soap flakes filling her nostrils. Pressing her hands against his hips, she breaks their embrace and pushes herself back. “Let me look at you then!”

 

Although a year younger than his sister, Bert is taller than Edith now, after a final growth spurt when he was in his late teens. Dressed in one of their mother’s home knitted jumpers and a pair of grey flannel trousers his skin looks sun kissed after spending a few days ashore in Melbourne during the height of summer in the southern hemisphere before sailing back, and the sun has given his sandy blonde hair some natural highlights.

 

“The sea air agrees with you, Bert.”

 

“More likely the Australian sun!” Ada remarks as she picks herself up out of her own chair with a slight groan. “Just look at those colourful cheeks and those freckles.” She waves her hand at her son lovingly. “We don’t usually see them until high summer.”

 

“Hullo Mum!” Edith walks up and embraces her mother. ‘How are you?”

 

“Oh, I’m grand now our Bert is home, and you are too, Edith love.” Ada says in reply, a broad smile gracing her lips and a happy brilliance in her brown eyes. “Now, put that basket down and have a seat. I’ll pop the kettle on and brew us a fresh pot.” She begins to bustle around the great blacklead range and moves the heavy kettle onto the hob. Turning back to the table she picks up the beautiful, glazed teapot in the shape of a cottage with a thatched roof with the chimney as the lid, which Edith bought for her from the Caledonian Market**, and makes a grand sweeping gesture to show Edith it’s presence. “See Edith, a special occasion calls for the use of my special teapot.”

 

“Any day should be a special enough day for you to use that pretty teapot that Edith gave you, Mum.” Bert says, sitting back down at the table.

 

“That’s what I tell her!” Edith agrees.

 

“But then it wouldn’t be a special teapot any more, would it?” Ada says, stepping behind Bert and going to the small tough sink the corner of the kitchen where she turns the squeaky taps and rinses out the pot. “No. It’s a special teapot for special occasions.” She takes up the yellow tea towel with red stitching that hangs over a metal rail above the range and dries the pot. “I used it on Christmas Day didn’t I, Edith love?”

 

“Yes,” Edith agrees. “But you haven’t used it a day since then.”

 

“That’s because there hasn’t been a special occasion worthy of using it,” Ada defends. “Until Bert came home, that is.” She gently squeezes her son’s left shoulder.

 

“I give up!” Edith throws her hands in the air. She shucks off her black three quarter length coat and hangs it on a hook by the back door. She then places her hat on one of the carved knobs of the ladderback chair drawn up to the table next to her mother’s usual seat.

 

“Oh I told you, Edith!” Ada chides. “Don’t put your pretty hat there, love.” She walks over to the Welsh dresser that dominates one wall of the crowded kitchen and pulls out the battered tea cannister. “It might get damaged. Such a pretty hat should sit on the table where it’s safe. You know Edith made that, don’t you Bert?”

 

“Yes, I do, Mum.” Bert acknowledges cheerfully. “Our Edith is the cleverest girl I know.”

 

“I keep saying Mum, the hat’s nothing special. And besides, I didn’t make it. It came from Petticoat Lane***, just like my coat, and it’s not new. I simply decorated the hat with bits and bobs I picked up from a Whitechapel haberdasher Miss Lettice’s char****, Mrs. Boothby, told me about.”

 

“Well, homemade or not, it’s still too pretty to hang there.”

 

“It’s my hat, Mum. I always hang it there and it’s always fine, and I promise you, it’ll be fine there today.”

 

“Well, suit yourself, love. You’re an adult now, just the same as Bert.” Ada remarks dismissively but looks at her daughter doubtfully as she scoops out some black dried tea leaves and puts the heaped spoonfuls into the pot. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

“So,” Bert sinks back into his seat and toys with his teacup decorated with pink roses, slowly turning it in its saucer. “What’s the gossip with you then, Edith? How’s your Frank then? Mum says that she and Dad haven’t met him yet.”

 

“It’s become quite the mute point.” Ada remarks as she turns back from the dresser and folds her arms akimbo, frowning at her daughter.

 

“And I hope,” Edith defends herself, challenging her mother’s steely stare. “That she told you why.”

 

“I did!” Ada says crisply.

 

“Word is you’re meeting his mum soon, Edith.” Bert says excitedly.

 

“Well, not his mum. His parents died of the Spanish Flu, but I’m meeting his Granny, who is a bit like his surrogate mum.”

 

“That’s nerve wracking.” Bert replies.

 

“I know! I’m so nervous.” Edith confides, lowing her voice as she leans across the table conspiratorially and reaches for the battered McVitie and Price biscuit tin.

 

“That’s why I can’t get a girl to come home here.” Frank says with a wink and slight indicating nod to their mother. “Imagine meeting Mum.” He lifts the lid off the tin for his sister and lets her make her selection. “They’re all too scared of her.”

 

“Cheeky!” Ada says, laughing good naturedly and swatting her son with the tea towel. “Any girl would be lucky to have me as a prospective mother-in-law.” She shuffles her shoulders and tilts her head upwards as her face forms into a dignified expression. “Or boy.” she adds with undisguised meaning and importance.

 

“So, me and Frank are just fine, thanks Bert. We’re just tickety-boo.*****!” Edith tells her brother before popping a biscuit into her mouth.

 

“Tickety-boo!” Bert enthuses. “You are up on all the latest small talk and phrases, living with your Miss Chetwynd up in Mayfair.”

 

“She comes home with new phrases all the time.” Ada places the freshly refilled cottage ware teapot down on the table between them all. “Goodness knows I can’t keep up with her. It’s the influence of all those fine ladies and gentlemen and moving picture stars that frequent Mis Chetwynd’s flat.”

 

“Moving picture stars? Really” Bert asks excitedly.

 

“Oh Bert!” Edith scoffs, flapping her hand playfully at him. “I only answer the door to them, or serve them tea. And Miss Lettice has only had one moving picture star to tea since I’ve been there: Wanetta Ward.” She sighs. “She’s so beautiful! She works for Gainsborough Pictures******. You’re more likely to have a longer conversation with a moving picture star on board your ship as a dining saloon steward, Bert, than ever I will at Miss Lettice’s.”

 

“I doubt that. There aren’t that many moving picture stars sailing between Australia and home, well none that I know of. Although they are mad for moving pictures over there. There are picture houses everywhere, and they even make their own films there, just like here.”

 

“Anyway, I’m not the interesting one, Bert.” Edith says, seeing a way to turn the conversation to her brother and his news. “You are. Tell me about life on the ship this voyage.”

 

A short while later over tea and biscuits, Edith is brought up to date with Bert’s latest adventures on board his ship, and the interesting people he has served as a first-class saloon steward.

 

“Oh!” Ada suddenly gasps. “Bert! Aren’t you going to give Edith her present?”

 

“Present?” Edith asks with a querying look to her brother.

 

“Yes, Edith love. Don’t you remember Bert wrote it in his last postcard to us?”

 

Edith casts her mind back a few weeks to when her mother showed her the postcard Bert had sent from Australia.

 

“Right you are Mum!” Bert agrees. “So Edith, on Christmas Day, the Second Officer, Mr. Collins, organised a trip for we lads and some of the girls on the ship’s staff who were away from home for Christmas and that were at a loose end. A lot found their own amusements in Melbourne. It’s such a big and vibrant city, full of fun things to do. But about twenty of us didn’t have anywhere to go, so we said yes.”

 

“What did you do, Bert? What had Mr. Collins organised?” Edith asks in suspense.

 

“Well, Mr. Collins was born in Melbourne. Well no, actually he was born a few hours outside of Melbourne in the country at a place called Yarra Glen. It’s quite famous and lots of toffs go there to holiday, not that was where Mr. Collins took us.” Bert quickly adds, seeing the excitement in his sister’s face. “No, Mr. Collins was born on a farm out there – something they call a cattle station – and he took us all out there for a picnic on his parent’s station.”

 

“But a station is a railway station.” Edith mutters, shaking her head, her face crumpling in disbelief.

 

“Well in Australia there are railway stations and cattle station, which are big farms. So, Mr. Collins packed us all into a railway carriage at Flinders Street Railway Station and off we went. We left at ten in the morning and we didn’t get to the railway station at the Yarra Glen until nearly midday.”

 

“Was it hot?” Edith asks. “You always say Australia is hot around this time of year.”

 

“Well it was, but it was alright because we opened up our window in our carriage and poked our heads out so we could look at the passing countryside, so we had a nice breeze. The countryside is so different to here. It’s all yellow grasses and funny trees with washed out leaves: no real greenery at all so to speak, but it’s still really beautiful in its own way.”

 

“Hmph!” Ada snorts from her chair. “Nothing beats the Kentish countryside for beauty.”

 

“Well I guess beauty is a subjective thing, Mum.” Bert goes on, “Mr. Collins was telling us on the train trip down that sometimes travelling artists set up camp on his parent’s property just so that they can paint the landscape.”

 

“Fancy that, Frank!” Edith enthuses. “Did you like it?”

 

“Oh yes! It’s very pretty, in a foreign kind of way. Not many flowers. But we saw jumping kangaroos from the train on the trip down. They sat in the grass and watched us pass, and then some of them just up and jumped away. They can move very quickly when they jump. Anyway, we finally pulled into Yarra Glen. We had to wait whilst a big party of toffs and all their mountains of luggage were taken care of and packed up into cars. Mr. Collins says that there is a famous opera singer who lives out there, named Nellie Melba*******.”

 

“I’ve heard nellie Melba sing before!” Ada exclaims, dropping her pink and yellow floral teacup into her saucer and clapping her hands.

 

“You have, Mum?” Edith asks, the look of lack of comprehension on her face matching her brother’s as they both look to her.

 

“Well, not live of course!” Ada says, taking up her cup of tea before continuing. “But once when I was at Mrs. Hounslow’s, I heard her sing. She was playing records on her gramophone, and I asked who it was, and she invited me to stand in her parlour and listen to her recording of Nellie Melba sing ‘Ave Maria’.” Her children pull a face at the mention of their landlady, the rich and odious old widow whom they both grew up hearing about regularly, and seeing on the rare occasions she would deign to stop by to collect their rent in person, rather than her rent collector. “Now don’t be like that, children! Mrs. Hounslow’s husband died a hero in the siege of Mafeking in the Boer War.”

 

“And neither you, nor she will ever let us forget it.” Bert drones, rolling his eyes.

 

“Now I won’t have a bad word said about her, Bert.” Ada wags her finger admonishingly at her son. “She’s helped pay for many a meal in this house with her sixpences and shillings over the years, especially during the war when things were hard. You should be grateful to her. We all should be.”

 

“Pshaw!” Edith raises her eyes to the ceiling above. “Enough about old Widow Hounslow! Go on with your story, Bert.”

 

“Well,” Bert continues. “Miss Melba must have been home and hosting a big house party, but once they were all packed off, we were ushered to a charabanc******** which took us out to Mr. Collins’ family farm. Once we got to the house – which they call a homestead – Mrs. Collins, Mr, Collins’ mum, had picnic baskets for us, full of delicious sandwiches and pies and cakes. There was even beer and stout for us to drink. When Mr. Collins lead us away from the house to where we were to take our picnic, he took us to a place where there was a stream, so we could dunk the bottles of beer and stout into it to keep them warm. We tethered them to the bank with string he gave us. And so, we sat under these big trees with white bark and ate and drank and had a jolly time of it, all at Mr. Collin’s expense.”

 

“That was nice of him, Bert.” Edith remarks.

 

“It was! We were ever so grateful. He had brought a cricket bat and stumps from the house with him, so we played some cricket after luncheon until it got too warm, and then we sang Christmas carols.”

  

“It must have felt odd, singing Christmas carols in the summer sunshine.”

 

“Not really Edith.” Bert replies. “Christmas is Christmas all over the world, no matter what the weather, if you are in high spirits.”

 

“And the gift?” Ada says, patting her son’s arm as a reminder.

 

“So, when we were walking back from out picnic by the stream, I was carrying one of the picnic baskets, and I noticed what a pretty painted lid it had. When we arrived back at the homestead, I asked Mr. Collins’ mother about it. It turns out that Mr. Collin’s brother and his wife live on the property as well. She cooks for the farmhands and helps keep house for old Mrs. Collins, and she also makes picnic baskets from the reeds growing around the stream we used to keep our beer and stout warm. Her husband carves the lids and she paints them, and she sells them in Yarra Glen.” Bert reaches under the table and pushing his seat backwards, he stands up and places a picnic basket on the table. “So this is for you. It’s the picnic basket I brought back to the house, and then brought all the way from Australia for you. A belated Merry Christmas, big sister.”

 

Edith gasps and raises her hands to her mouth as a smile fills her face. The beautiful picnic hamper sitting proudly on the table has woven pale reed sides and two hinged lids on the top, both painted with stylised leaves and creamy yellow daisies.

 

“Oh Bert!” Edith gasps, as tears well in her eyes. “Oh it’s lovely!” She gets up and hurries over to her brother and embraces him. “Thank you so much!”

 

“I’m so glad you like it, Edith.” Bert replies. “I got more than a bit of ribbing from the other chaps on the sailing home. They took up calling me ‘Basket Bert’.”

 

“Oh they didn’t, Bert?” Edith cries. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Nothing for you be sorry for, Edith, but I afraid that I think it will stick,” Frank adds. “However it’s worth it, if you like the basket. I thought if things were still going well with Frank, you two might use it to go on a picnic in summer.”

 

“Oh, I will Bert!” Edith replies as she runs her hand along the thin and elegant handle. “It’s wonderful! Thank you so much!”

 

*The SS Demosthenes was a British steam ocean liner and refrigerated cargo ship which ran scheduled services between London and Australia via Cape Town. It stopped at ports including those in Sydney and Melbourne. She was launched in 1911 in Ireland for the Aberdeen Line and scrapped in 1931 in England. In the First World War she was an Allied troop ship.

 

**The original Caledonian Market, renown for antiques, buried treasure and junk, was situated in in a wide cobblestoned area just off the Caledonian Road in Islington in 1921 when this story is set. Opened in 1855 by Prince Albert, and originally called the Metropolitan Meat Markets, it was supplementary to the Smithfield Meat Market. Arranged in a rectangle, the market was dominated by a forty six metre central clock tower. By the early Twentieth Century, with the diminishing trade in live animals, a bric-a-brac market developed and flourished there until after the Second World War when it moved to Bermondsey, south of the Thames, where it flourishes today. The Islington site was developed in 1967 into the Market Estate and an open green space called Caledonian Park. All that remains of the original Caledonian Markets is the wonderful Victorian clock tower.

 

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

 

****A 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.

 

*****Believed to date from British colonial rule in India, and related to the Hindi expression “tickee babu”, meaning something like “everything's alright, sir”, “tickety-boo” means “everything is fine”. It was a common slang phrase that was popular in the 1920s.

 

******Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.

 

*******Dame Nellie Melba was an Australian operatic lyric coloratura soprano. She became one of the most famous singers of the late Victorian era and the early Twentieth Century, and was the first Australian to achieve international recognition as a classical musician. She took the pseudonym "Melba" from Melbourne, her home town. Melba studied singing in Melbourne and made a modest success in performances there. After a brief and unsuccessful marriage, she moved to Europe in search of a singing career. She succeeded in London and Paris. Her repertoire was small; in her whole career she sang no more than 25 roles and was closely identified with only ten. She was known for her performances in French and Italian opera, but sang little German opera. She returned to Australia frequently during the Twentieth Century, singing in opera and concerts, and had a house, “Coombe Cottage” built for her in the Yarra Valley outside of Melbourne.

 

********A charabanc or "char-à-banc" is a type of horse-drawn vehicle or early motor coach, usually open-topped, more common in Britain, but also found in places like Australia during the early part of the Twentieth Century. It has benched seats arranged in rows, looking forward, commonly used for large parties, whether as public conveyances or for excursions.

 

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 central focus of our story, sitting on Ada’s table, is the wicker picnic basket that Bert brought home for Edith. In truth it is not Australian made, but was made by an unknown miniature artisan in America. The floral patterns on the top have been hand painted. The hinged lids lift, just like a real hamper, so things can be put inside.

 

In front of the basket stands Ada’s cottage ware teapot. Made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson, it 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 rood and central chimney form the lid, just like the real thing. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics.

 

Surrounding the cottage ware teapot are non-matching teacups, saucers, a milk jug and sugar bowl, all of which have come from different miniature stockists both in Australia and the United Kingdom.

 

Sitting on the table in the foreground is a McVitie and Price’s Small Petite Beurre Biscuits tin, containing a selection of different biscuits. The biscuits were made by hand of polymer 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. McVitie's (Originally McVitie and Price) is a British snack food brand owned by United Biscuits. The name derives from the original Scottish biscuit maker, McVitie and Price, Ltd., established in 1830 on Rose Street in Edinburgh, Scotland. The company moved to various sites in the city before completing the St. Andrews Biscuit Works factory on Robertson Avenue in the Gorgie district in 1888. The company also established one in Glasgow and two large manufacturing plants south of the border, in Heaton Chapel, Stockport, and Harlesden, London (where Edith’s father works). McVitie and Price's first major biscuit was the McVitie's Digestive, created in 1892 by a new young employee at the company named Alexander Grant, who later became the managing director of the company. The biscuit was given its name because it was thought that its high baking soda content served as an aid to food digestion. The McVitie's Chocolate Homewheat Digestive was created in 1925. Although not their core operation, McVitie's were commissioned in 1893 to create a wedding cake for the royal wedding between the Duke of York and Princess Mary, who subsequently became King George V and Queen Mary. This cake was over two metres high and cost one hundred and forty guineas. It was viewed by 14,000 and was a wonderful publicity for the company. They received many commissions for royal wedding cakes and christening cakes, including the wedding cake for Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Phillip and Prince William and Catherine Middleton. Under United Biscuits McVitie's holds a Royal Warrant from Queen Elizabeth II.

 

Edith’s black dyed straw hat with purple roses and black feathers was made by an unknown artisan. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. This hat is part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel.

 

In the background you can see Ada’s dark Welsh dresser cluttered with household items. Like Ada’s table, the Windsor chair and the ladderback chair to the left of the photo, I have had the dresser since I was a child. The shelves of the dresser have different patterned crockery and silver pots on them which have come from different miniature stockists both in Australia and the United Kingdom. There are also some rather worn and beaten looking enamelled cannisters and a bread tin in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green. Aged on purpose, these artisan pieces I recently acquired from The Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. There are also tins of various foods which would have been household staples in the 1920s when canning and preservation revolutinised domestic cookery. Amongst other foods on the dresser are a tin of Macfie’s Finest Black Treacle, two jars of P.C. Flett and Company jam, a tin of Heinz marinated apricots, a jar of Marmite, some Bisto gravy powder, some Ty-Phoo tea and some Oxo stock cubes. All these items 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.

 

Robert Andrew Macfie sugar refiner was the first person to use the term term Golden Syrup in 1840, a product made by his factory, the Macfie sugar refinery, in Liverpool. He also produced black treacle.

 

P.C. Flett and Company was established in Kirkwall in the Orkney Islands by Peter Copeland Flett. He had inherited a small family owned ironmongers in Albert Street Kirkwall, which he inherited from his maternal family. He had a shed in the back of the shop where he made ginger ale, lemonade, jams and preserves from local produce. By the 1920s they had an office in Liverpool, and travelling representatives selling jams and preserves around Great Britain. I am not sure when the business ceased trading.

 

The American based Heinz food processing company, famous for its Baked Beans, 57 varieties of soups and tinend spaghetti opened a factory in Harlesden in 1919, providing a great deal of employment for the locals who were not already employed at McVitie and Price.

 

Marmite is a food spread made from yeast extract which although considered remarkably English, was in fact invented by German scientist Justus von Liebig although it was originally made in the United Kingdom. It is a by-product of beer brewing and is currently produced by British company Unilever. The product is notable as a vegan source of B vitamins, including supplemental vitamin B. Marmite is a sticky, dark brown paste with a distinctive, salty, powerful flavour. This distinctive taste is represented in the marketing slogan: "Love it or hate it." Such is its prominence in British popular culture that the product's name is often used as a metaphor for something that is an acquired taste or tends to polarise opinion.

 

In 1863, William Sumner published A Popular Treatise on Tea as a by-product of the first trade missions to China from London. In 1870, William and his son John Sumner founded a pharmacy/grocery business in Birmingham. William's grandson, John Sumner Jr. (born in 1856), took over the running of the business in the 1900s. Following comments from his sister on the calming effects of tea fannings, in 1903, John Jr. decided to create a new tea that he could sell in his shop. He set his own criteria for the new brand. The name had to be distinctive and unlike others, it had to be a name that would trip off the tongue and it had to be one that would be protected by registration. The name Typhoo comes from the Mandarin Chinese word for “doctor”. Typhoo began making tea bags in 1967. In 1978, production was moved from Birmingham to Moreton on the Wirral Peninsula, in Merseyside. The Moreton site is also the location of Burton's Foods and Manor Bakeries factories. Typhoo has been owned since July 2021 by British private-equity firm Zetland Capital. It was previously owned by Apeejay Surrendra Group of India.

 

The first Bisto product, in 1908, was a meat-flavoured gravy powder, which rapidly became a bestseller in Britain. It was added to gravies to give a richer taste and aroma. Invented by Messrs Roberts and Patterson, it was named "Bisto" because it "Browns, Seasons and Thickens in One". Bisto Gravy is still a household name in Britain and Ireland today, and the brand is currently owned by Premier Foods.

 

Oxo is a brand of food products, including stock cubes, herbs and spices, dried gravy, and yeast extract. The original product was the beef stock cube, and the company now also markets chicken and other flavour cubes, including versions with Chinese and Indian spices. The cubes are broken up and used as flavouring in meals or gravy or dissolved into boiling water to produce a bouillon. Oxo produced their first cubes in 1910 and further increased Oxo's popularity.

 

The large kitchen range in the background is a 1:12 miniature replica of the coal fed Phoenix Kitchen Range. A mid-Victorian model, it has hinged opening doors, hanging bars above the stove and a little bass hot water tap (used in the days before plumbed hot water).

Lisboa, Portugal

  

Graffiter: www.maismenos.net

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.

 

With a loud buzz, the electric doorbell announces the unexpected arrival of someone at the front door. Putting down the piece of table silver she is polishing, Edith, Lettice’s maid, goes to answer the front door, all the while wondering who is calling. Lettice usually advises Edith of any clients, existing or potential, who may be visiting, particularly because Edith needs to make sure that there are cakes and biscuits in the pantry to offer to them. Walking across the thick Chinese silk rug in the flat’s hallway, she can hear her mistress speaking animatedly on the telephone to a representative of Jeffrey and Company* from whom she is ordering papers for the dining room of her friend Minnie Palmerston. Lettice agreed to redecorate it before Christmas after Minnie asked her to, and work is now underway.

 

Edith opens the door to the dashing figure of Selwyn Spencely, the only son of the Duke of Walmsford, whom Lettice has been stepping out with, when their busy social diaries allow, since meeting him at her parent’s Hunt Ball last year. In his hands he holds a thick bunch of roses, a usual accessory every time he crosses the Cavendish Mews threshold.

 

“Good day, Edith. Is Miss Chetwynd home?”

 

“Mr. Spencely!” she gasps in surprise. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Yes, do come in.” She closes the front door and shuts out the cold January in the process. “It’s freezing out there. She’s just speaking with someone on the telephone in the drawing room, Sir, but I’ll announce you’re here.”

 

Shrugging out of his thick and expertly cut navy blue barathea coat, damp around the shoulders and down the back due the downpour outside, he lets it fall into Edith’s waiting arms. “Oh, don’t bother, Edith. I know my way. But if you could put these in some water for Miss Chetwynd.” He hands her the deep red roses which release a sweet fragrance as he does.

 

“Of course, Sir.” Edith replies, dropping a curtsey to her mistress’ guest.

 

As she turns to go, Selwyn calls after her, “Oh Edith! There will be a man with a large package knocking at the servants’ entrance shortly. When he does, just show him into the drawing room, will you?”

 

“Well yes, Sir.” Edith answers, her brow furrowing slightly. “But I…”

 

“It’s a surprise for Miss Chetwynd,” Selwyn interrupts her, giving her a winning smile and ending the conversation.

 

“Now just to confirm, it is the red dioxide metallic you are ordering, not the gold. Is that right?” Lettice asks in clearly enunciated tones down the telephone receiver as she sits at her Hepplewhite desk. “I don’t want the gold. It is rather expensive paper, and I’d hate for you to make a costly error.” She listens to the representative of Jeffrey and Company at the other end as he assures her that he has the correct details for her order. “Very well. And you’ll let me know when it arrives?” She listens again. “Very good. Good afternoon then.”

 

Lettice hangs up the receiver of the telephone with a half frustrated and half relieved sigh. In response the telephone utters a muffled ting of its bell as she hangs up. She begins scribbling notes in her black leather notebook with her silver fountain pen and with a rasp of nib against paper, she crosses off several things from her list for Minnie Palmerston’s dining room redecoration.

 

“I do like to see my favourite society interior designer, hard at work.” Selwyn pronounces, announcing his presence.

 

“Selwyn!” Lettice spins around in her chair, her eyes wide with shock as she sees him comfortably settled in one of her round white upholstered ebonised wood tub chairs. “What on earth are you doing here?” She self consciously pats the side of her elegantly marcelled** blonde hair and brushes her manicured fingers across the Peter Pan collar*** of her navy blue frock. “I wasn’t expecting you. What a delightful surprise!”

 

“Yes, your charming little maid was saying just the same thing not a moment ago when she answered the door to me.” Selwyn says, rising to his feet as Lettice rises to hers. “I just happened to be in the neighbourhood, and I thought I’d pop in, just on the off chance that you were here, to see how you are, my Angel. After all, I haven’t seen you since before Christmas.” He smiles warmly at his sweetheart who blushes prettily under his observant eye. “So I wanted to wish you all the very best for the season.”

 

“Oh yes!” Lettice breathes. “Happy 1923, Selwyn darling!” She stands up. “Are you stopping for long?”

 

“For a little while, my Angel.” he replies with an amused smile.

 

“Shall I ring for tea then?”

 

“Tea would be capital, my Angel. Thank you.”

 

Lettice depresses the servant’s call bell by the fireplace which she can hear echoing distantly in the kitchen. Edith appears moments later carrying a bulbous white vase containing the red roses Selwyn brough for Lettice as a gift.

 

“Oh Selwyn!” Lettice gasps. “Are these from you?” When he nods in acknowledgement, she adds. “They’re gorgeous!”

 

“Where would you like them, Miss?” she asks.

 

“Oh, on the telephone table, I think, Edith.” Lettice pronounces, as she picks up the telephone from her desk and walks it across the room, dragging the flex behind her, back to where it belongs.

 

“Very good, Miss.” Edith busily removes the vase of slightly withered yellow lilies and roses that were sitting on the table and replaces them with the roses. Picking up the other vase from where she placed it in the polished parquet floor she remarks, “There’s plenty of life left in these. I’ll pick through them and rearrange them in a smaller vase for you.”

 

“Oh no, you keep them, Edith. It will help brighten the kitchen up.” Lettice replies.

 

“That’s very kind of you, Miss. Thank you.”

 

“Oh, and could you please bring us some tea.”

 

“Yes Miss,” Edith answers with a bob curtsey. “Oh, and Mr. Spencely, that gentleman you mentioned is here. He’s in the kitchen at present. Shall I send him through?”

 

“Man? What man?” Lettice asks, glancing first at Edith and then at Selwyn.

 

“Yes, if you would, Edith. Thank you.”

 

“What man, Selwyn?” Lettice repeats to her beau as Edith retreats through the dining room and disappears through the green baize door into the service part of the flat.

 

Selwyn’s smile grows broader. “All will be revealed shortly, my Angel.” he assures her calmly.

 

The door Edith walked through opens and a workman carrying a large cardboard box steps across its threshold. Dressed in a flat cap damp from the rain outside and taupe coloured apron over a thick dark woollen jumper and black trousers, his face is florid with exertion as he breathes heavily and walks slowly.

 

“Ahh, put it down over here,” Selwyn commands as the deliveryman nears them, pointing with an indicating finger to the floor next to the table where Edith put the roses.

 

“You might ‘ave warned me I was goin’ ta have ta climb four flights of stairs with this, Guv!” the man huffs as he lowers the box onto the floor. He groans as he returns to an upright position and removes his cap. Withdrawing a grubby white kerchief from his pocket he wipes his brow before returning his cap to his head. He dabs his face with his kerchief as he inhales and exhales with laboured, rasping breaths.

 

“Good heavens!” Lettice gasps. “What on earth is in that box that’s so heavy?”

 

“Oh it’s not that ‘eavy, Mum,” the deliveryman pants. “If youse only takin’ it from room ta room.” He wipes the back of his neck with his kerchief. “Only if youse ‘oistin’ it up four flights of stairs!”

 

Selwyn ignores the deliveryman’s protestations as his focuses his attentions solely on Lettice. “I promised you when I had to withdraw from accompanying you to Priscilla’s wedding, that I was going to make it up to you, and this,” He taps the top of the box. “Is it!”

 

“What on earth is it?” Lettice asks with excitement and intrigue.

 

The red faced workman opens the box lid and delves into its interior. Newspaper scrunches noisily as he withdraws a shining lump of burnished brass with three fine finials which he places with a heavy laboured huff onto the telephone console.

 

“It’s a wireless, my Angel!” Selwyn says with a sweeping gesture towards the apparatus gleaming under the light of the chandelier overhead. “Merry Christmas, happy New Year,” He pauses. “And I’m sorry, all in one!”

 

“A wireless!” Lettice gasps. “Oh Selwyn, darling!” She jumps up from her seat next to the wireless and runs around the black japanned coffee table, throwing her arms around his neck. She looks over at the gleaming piece of new machinery with three knobs on the front below an ornamental piece of fretwork protecting some mesh fabric behind it. “How generous! I love it, darling!” She breaks away from Selwyn, her face suddenly clouding. “Oh, don’t you need a licence to have a radio?”

 

“The gent’s already paid fur it, Mum.” the workman says, reaching into the front pocket of his apron and withdrawing a slightly crumpled envelope. “Ten shillin’s, paid for through the General Post Office****.” He hands her the envelope.

 

“Ten shillings!” Lettice looks at Selwyn aghast. “On top of the apparatus itself. It must have cost a fortune!”

 

“Oh, it does, Mum!” the workman begins before being silenced by a sweeping gesture and a steely look from Selwyn. “Sorry, Guv.” He falls silent.

 

Turning back to Lettice, Selwyn continues, “It’s worth it to provide some pleasure to you, my Angel.”

 

“Oh Selwyn darling! You are a brick!” Lettice exhales in delight as she feels his hands pull her closer to him and kisses the top of her head tenderly. “But how does it operate?”

 

“Our good man here can tell you that better than I can, my darling.” Selwyn replies.

 

“Oh its really quite easy, Mum.” the workman assures Lettice. “It runs on a battery, oh, but just be careful! It’s an acid battery,” He points to his apron where his knees are. “So just watch yerself when youse moves it. Better youse ‘n yer maid move it togevva, side by side like, than youse on yer own, Mum.” He adds. “Turn it on ‘n off wiv this knob.” He points to the button on the left-hand side. “Turn the volume up or down wiv this knob.” He turns the button left and right. “And use the middle one to tune the wireless in.”

 

“Tune it in?” Lettice asks.

 

“Yes, Mum. ‘Ere I’ll show yer.” He leans down and turns the left knob to the right and it releases a satisfyingly crisp click. “We’ll just wait for the valves to warm up.” Slowly a quiet crackle begins behind the mesh. “This ‘ere’s the speaker, Mum.” He points to the fretwork covered mesh at the top of the wireless. “Sound‘ll come outta ‘ere.” he continues, feeling the need to clarify.

 

Just as Edith walks into the drawing room with a silver tray laden with tea things, the wireless releases a strangulated roar, making a juddering cacophony of discordant racket.

 

“Good heavens what’s that awful noise?” the young maid gasps, her eyes wide in horror as she allows the tray to clatter roughly onto the surface of the coffee table.

 

“It’s just the wireless warming up, Edith.” Selwyn assures her in a calm voice. “Do stay and watch this marvel of the modern age.”

 

“Marvel of the modern age!” Edith scoffs. “That infernal contraption is more than enough,” She glares at the shiny silver and black Bakelite***** telephone. “Without us having more gadgets around here.”

 

“Oh, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud, Edith.” Lettice chides her maid mildly over the sound of the wireless static.

 

“This, my dear Edith,” Selwyn pronounces with a satisfied sigh. “Is the sign of the new age! Soon everyone will have one of these.”

 

“Heaven help us all then!” Edith rolls her eyes.

 

“And like I says, yer tune it wiv this knob, Mum.”

 

The workman starts to slowly turn the knob to the right, and as he does, the static sounds change, growing momentarily louder and then softer, and then slowly the discordant cacophony of harsh sounds starts to dissipate as music begins to be heard in its place. Very quickly the static is gone and the strains of violins and piano stream through the wireless speaker as ‘Londonderry Air’****** plays.

 

“Well, I never!” gasps Edith. “Its like having your own private band to play for you in that little box!”

 

“That it is, Miss.” agrees the workman.

 

“Oh, it’s wonderful, Selwyn darling!” Lettice exclaims, throwing her arms around his neck before kissing him with delight on the cheek.

 

And just for a little while, Lettice, Selwyn, Edith and the workman all stand and look at the shiny new wireless, enjoying the beautiful music drifting from its speaker.

 

The introduction of a radio, or a wireless as it was then known as, is the first real change we have seen to Lettice’s drawing room since we first met her two years ago, and in many ways it represents the spirit of change that the 1920s have become synonymous with. The British Broadcasting Company, as the BBC was originally called, was formed on the 18th of October 1922 by a group of leading wireless manufacturers including Marconi. Daily broadcasting by the BBC began in Marconi's London studio, 2LO, in the Strand, on November the 14th, 1922. John Reith, a thirty-three-year-old Scottish engineer, was appointed General Manager of the BBC at the end of 1922. Following the closure of numerous amateur stations, the BBC started its first daily radio service in London – 2LO. After much argument, news was supplied by an agency, and music drama and “talks” filled the airwaves for only a few hours a day. It wasn't long before radio could be heard across the nation, especially when radio stations were set up outside of London, like on the 6th of March when the BBC first broadcast from Glasgow via station 5SC.

 

*Jeffrey and Company was an English producer of fine wallpapers that operated between 1836 and the mid 1930s. Based at 64 Essex Road in London, the firm worked with a variety of designers who were active in the aesthetic and arts and crafts movements, such as E.W. Godwin, William Morris, and Walter Crane. Jeffrey and Company’s success is often credited to Metford Warner, who became the company’s chief proprietor in 1871. Under his direction the firm became one of the most lucrative and influential wallpaper manufacturers in Europe. The company clarified that wallpaper should not be reserved for use solely in mansions, but should be available for rooms in the homes of the emerging upper-middle class.

 

**Marcelling is a hair styling technique in which hot curling tongs are used to induce a curl into the hair. Its appearance was similar to that of a finger wave but it is created using a different method. Marcelled hair was a popular style for women's hair in the 1920s, often in conjunction with a bob cut. For those women who had longer hair, it was common to tie the hair at the nape of the neck and pin it above the ear with a stylish hair pin or flower. One famous wearer was American entertainer, Josephine Baker.

 

***A Peter Pan collar is a style of clothing collar, flat in design with rounded corners. It is named after the collar of Maude Adams's costume in her 1905 role as Peter Pan, although similar styles had been worn before this date. Peter Pan collars were particularly fashionable during the 1920s and 1930s.

 

****With the advent of radio, as of the 18th of January, 1923, the Postmaster General granted the BBC a licence to broadcast. A licence fee of ten shillings was charged per wireless set sold, purchased through the General Post Office. Amateur wireless enthusiasts avoided paying the licence by making their own receivers and listeners bought rival unlicensed sets.

 

*****Bakelite, was the first plastic made from synthetic components. Patented on December 7, 1909, the creation of a synthetic plastic was revolutionary for its electrical nonconductivity and heat-resistant properties in electrical insulators, radio and telephone casings and such diverse products as kitchenware, jewellery, pipe stems, children's toys, and firearms. A plethora of items were manufactured using Bakelite in the 1920s and 1930s.

 

******The "Londonderry Air" is an Irish air that originated in County Londonderry. It is popular among the North American Irish diaspora and is well known throughout the world. The tune is played as the victory sporting anthem of Northern Ireland at the Commonwealth Games. The song "Danny Boy" uses the tune, with a set of lyrics written in the early Twentieth Century.

 

This 1920s upper-class drawing room is different to what you may think at first glance, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, including items from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Central to our story, the brass wireless, which is remarkably heavy for its size, comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Supplies in the United Kingdom.

 

Lettice’s tea set is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era. The green tinted glass comport on the coffee table , spun from real glass, is also from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

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

 

In front of the telephone sits a paperback novel from the late 1920s created by miniature British artisan, Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make these books miniature artisan pieces. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

The vase of red roses on the Art Deco occasional table is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.

 

Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The black japanned wooden chair is a Chippendale design and has been upholstered with modern and stylish Art Deco fabric. The mirror backed back japanned china cabinet is Chippendale too. On its glass shelves sit pieces of miniature Limoges porcelain including jugs, teacups and saucers, many of which I have had since I was a child.

 

To the left of the Chippendale chair stands a blanc de chine Chinese porcelain vase, and next to it, a Chinese screen. The Chinese folding screen I bought at an antiques and junk market when I was about ten. I was with my grandparents and a friend of the family and their three children, who were around my age. They all bought toys to bring home and play with, and I bought a Chinese folding screen to add to my miniatures collection in my curio cabinet at home! It shows you what a unique child I was.

 

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

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 we are in Lettice’s chic, dining room, which stands adjunct to her equally stylish drawing room. She has decorated it in a restrained Art Deco style with a smattering of antique pieces. It is also a place where she has showcased some prized pieces from the Portman Gallery in Soho including paintings, her silver drinks set and her beloved statue of the ‘Modern Woman’ who presides over the proceedings from the sideboard.

 

Lettice is hosting a luncheon for her future sister-in-law Arabella Tyrwhitt who will soon marry her eldest brother Leslie. As Arabella has no sisters, and her mother is too unwell at present to travel up to London from Wiltshire, Lettice has taken it upon herself to help Arabella shop and select a suitable trousseau. So, she has brought her to London to stay in Cavendish Mews, rather than opening up the Tyrwhitt’s Georgian townhouse in Curzon Street for a week, so from there she can take Arabella shopping in all the best shops in the West End, and take her to her old childhood chum and best friend Gerald Bruton’s couturier in Grosvenor Street for her wedding dress. Lettice has invited a few of her friends from her Embassy Club coterie whom Arabella met there the other night. Lettice has asked her best girlfriend, the recently married Margot Channon and one of her other dear friends Minnie Palmerston. As both ladies are married, Lettice is hoping they may be able to shed some light on what life is like as a married woman with Arabella whilst also sharing in an afternoon of delicious food and delightful gossip.

 

“Oh Gerald will make you the most wonderful wedding dress, Bella,” Margot enthuses to Arabella. “Believe me! He made me the most stylish gown for my wedding last year. You’ll be the talk of the Wiltshire downs.”

 

“I think your mother is a wonderful sport letting Lettice help you pick your wedding gown, Bella.” exclaims Minnie. “My mother wouldn’t let me choose so much as a button without her say so, and my wedding dress wasn’t anywhere near as modern and fashionable as I would have liked. It wasn’t even made by the couturier I wanted! I had to settle for old fashioned Lucille*.”

 

“Well,” Arabella says a little awkwardly. “My mother, err, she isn’t all that well at present, you see.”

 

“So,” Lettice quickly pitches in to avoid Arabella any awkward explanations. “I’m doing Lady Tyrwhitt the biggest favour whilst she is indisposed, by hosting Bella here in my flat and taking her shopping.” Arabella smiles in relief at her future sister-in-law who sits to her right at the head of the table. “I mean, what’s the point in opening up their London townhouse for just a few days when Bella is welcome here at any time?”

 

“And where everything is so lovely and welcoming.” Arabella says gratefully.

 

“Hhmm… that’s most sensible, Lettice.” Minnie says.

 

“And this way, I can take Bella to places like the Embassy Club whilst she’s up here, as well as take her frock shopping.” Lettice giggles with a wink at Bella. “I can show here what she’s missing being stuck in dull old Wiltshire.”

 

“Oh, it’s not as dull as all that, Tice,” Arabella remarks, her face flushing with mild embarrassment as she feels so unworldly in comparison to Lettice and her smart London friends. “After all, we have cattle shows, garden parties and…”

 

“Cattle shows!” baulks Margot, her left hand pressing over her mouth in horror, her diamond engagement ring glinting under the light of the dining room. “How beastly! I do hope that there aren’t any cattle shows I have to go on Cornwall! I should dislike that intensely.”

 

“I agree!” nods Minnie, her green glass chandelier earrings bobbing about as they dangle from her lobes.

 

“You both grew up in London, so of course a cattle show is beastly to you two,” Lettice replies. “But Bella and I both grew up in the country, so we are used to life there. Cattle shows are part of county social life.”

 

“If I had to go and look at beastly… well beasts, in order to meet eligible men,” Minnie says with an air of distaste as she wrinkles her nose. “I think I’d rather stay single.”

 

“Good job the closest thing you’ve come to the countryside is Hyde Park on a summer’s day then isn’t it, Minnie?” retorts Lettice with a playful smile.

 

“I quite enjoy the county social round,” Arabella admits with a shy smile. “And whilst I’m so grateful for you taking me to nightspots around London, Tice, I don’t think I’ll ever be a nightclub kind of girl.”

 

“Poor darling,” Lettice teases her good naturedly as she speaks out to her other friends at the table. “She doesn’t know yet how deliciously addictive nightclubs can be.”

 

“We’ll fix that,” giggles Margot, reaching out a hand across the table, past the central floral arrangement of lightly fragrant white roses in a glass bowl and enveloping Arabella’s smaller hand with her own. “Don’t you worry about that Lettice.”

 

Picking up her thoughts on life in Wiltshire, Bella adds, “Wiltshire isn’t quite the ends of the earth socially. Don’t forget, we do have balls and parties to go to there, like your mother’s glittering Hunt Ball.”

 

“Yes,” titters Minnie. “Where Lettice met that dishy Selwyn Spencely!”

 

Margot joins in with Minnie’s girlish peals.

 

“Oh do stop you two!” Lettice says with a playful wave of her hand. “I’ve only had to opportunity to have luncheon with him once thus far since the ball.”

 

“But you are planning to see him again, aren’t you Tice?” asks Arabella.

 

“Of course she is,” teases Margot with a wag of her bejewelled finger. “You can see it written all over her face!”

 

“Lettice!” Minnie cries, pointing her her elegant finger at her friend across the table. “You’re holding out on us. You’ve arranged to see him again, haven’t you?”

 

“Lettice!” gasps Margot. “Not fair! Spill the beans at once!”

 

“Well,” Lettice admits. “He did ring me this morning.”

 

“And?” Margot and Minnie ask, their breath baited with excitement.

 

“And we’ve arranged to have luncheon again after Bella returns home to Wiltshire.”

 

Margot and Minnie squeal and clap with delight, gushing forth congratulations as though Lettice had just announced her engagement to Selwyn.

 

“I hope you aren’t putting off seeing him just because I’m here, Tice.” Bella says quietly, a guilty look crossing her pretty face.

 

“Not at all, Bella!” Lettice reaches over and squeezes Arabella’s hand comfortingly. “He telephoned whilst you were in the bathroom this morning. You are my guest and as such, you have my undivided attention. Mr. Selwyn Spencely can wait a few days.”

 

“Well, they do say that absence makes the heart grow fonder.” remarks Margot. “It certainly did for Dickie and I.”

 

“Where are you going, Lettice?” asks Minnie eagerly.

 

“I’ll tell you where, but not what day.” Lettice agrees. “The last thing I want is for you and Charles to be sitting, goggle eyed at the next table.”

 

“As if I would!” Minnie gasps, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest.

 

“As if you wouldn’t, more like!” Lettice retorts.

 

“Well,” Minnie looks across an Margot guiltily. “Yes, we would.”

 

The pair giggle conspiratorially.

 

“So where?” Minnie asks.

 

“The Café Royal.**”

 

“Oh how deliciously luxurious, Lettice darling!” Margot enthuses.

 

“I shall have Charles book us a table there every night for the fortnight after Bella leaves.” giggles Minnie teasingly, but her wink to Lettice assures her that she won’t.

 

“Oh Minnie!” Margot laughs. “You are awful!”

 

Just as Margot and Minnie break into more girlish titters, Edith, Lettice’s maid, emerges from the kitchen through the green baize door and walks towards the table with a tray on which she carries four of her home made orange curd tarts.

 

“Ah! What good timing!” Lettice claps her hands. “Edith, you are a brick! Ladies, dessert!”

 

Edith bobs a curtsey to her mistress and begins to serve the desserts to her guests first by carefully holding the tray on an angle to Arabella’s left, so she may easily help herself to one without the whole tray tipping forward and the tarts spilling onto the polished parquetry dining room floor.

 

“Thank you for that roast beef luncheon, Edith,” Arabella remarks as she selects the tart closest to her. “It was quite delicious.”

 

“You’re welcome, Miss Tyrwhitt.” Edith murmurs in reply, her face flushing with pleasure at the compliment.

 

Edith moves on and serves Minnie and then Margot, before finally coming back to Lettice who selects the one remaining tart from the tray. Ensuring that everyone has a replenished drink, Edith retreats to the kitchen, allowing the four ladies to carry on their conversation undisturbed by her presence.

 

“This looks delicious, Lettice darling.” remarks Margot as she looks down at the tart before her, the pastry a pale golden colour, a twist of candied orange and a dollop of whipped cream decorating its top.

 

“Yes,” concurs Minnie. “You’re so lucky Lettice. I don’t know how you manage to find such good staff in London.”

 

“I told you, Minnie. Mater gave me the telephone number of an excellent agency. That’s where I got Edith from. I’ll give it to you.”

 

“Oh,” Minnie sulks. “I think even if I employed the most perfectly qualified maid, I’d do something to muck the whole arrangement up. I usually do.”

 

“Good heavens, whatever are you talking about, Minnie?” Lettice exclaims.

 

“She’s only saying that because of her dining room faux pas.” Margot elucidates as she picks up her spoon and fork to commence eating her tart.

 

“What dining room faux pas?” Lettice asks.

 

Minnie looks around Lettice’s dining room at the restrained black japanned furnishings, white Art Deco wallpaper and elegant decorations. “I should just have done what Margot did and engaged you to decorate it for me.” she remarks as she picks up her own spoon and fork and begins to disseminate her dessert.

 

“What dining room faux pas?” Lettice asks again.

 

“At least you have taste, Lettice, unlike me.” Minnie continues uninterrupted.

 

“Nonsense Minnie darling, you have one of the most tasteful and fashionable wardrobes in London!” Margot counters.

 

“Well, it obviously doesn’t extend to my ability as an interior decorator.” Minnie grumbles back as she stabs her tart with her fork.

 

“Minnie, what dining room faux pas?” Lettice asks again, the smallest lilt in her raised voice betraying her frustration at being ignored.

 

“Well, you know how Charles’ grandfather left us the house in St John’s Wood?” Minnie asks.

 

“Yes,” Lettice says, laying aside her spoon and fork, leaving her trat untasted as she looks intently into the green eyes of her redheaded friend.

 

“When we moved in, it was full of all of old Lady Arundel’s ghastly furniture. Charles’ grandfather hadn’t done a single thing to update the place, so it was all dusty of festoons and potted palms.”

 

“So pre-war Edwardian!” adds Margot just before she pops the daintiest piece of tart into her mouth, smiling as she tastes it.

 

“Charles says to me when I complain about how dark and cluttered it is: ‘Minnie darling, why don’t you redecorate’. So of course I thought to myself that if you could do it so effortlessly, why couldn’t I?”

 

“I wouldn’t say effortlessly, Minnie darling.” Lettice corrects her friend. “Anyway, do go on. I’m all ears.”

 

“Well, I was delighted! My first real project as a wife, making a comfortable home for my husband. I asked Charles what room I should start with, and he suggested the dining room. After all, bringing potential business partners home to his dead grandmother’s fusty old dining room wouldn’t look very good, would it?”

 

“Indeed not, Minnie darling.” Lettice agrees, her lids lowering slightly as she concentrates on her friend’s story.

 

“He said that perhaps rather than throw out Lady Arundel’s dining table, I might start by picking some papers that went well with the dark furniture and red velvet seats, but would match our wonderful modern paintings which we hung in place of the muddy oils that were in there.”

 

“You could see where the old paintings had been by the non-faded patches of red flocked wallpaper.” Margot titters.

 

“That sounds ghastly,” Lettice remarks. “How sensible Charles was to suggest the walls first. Then you can decide what your new dining room furnishings will be once you are ready, and there’s no rush to fling out what you have at present.”

 

“Very well observed, Lettice darling.” Margot agrees.

 

“So where is the faux pas in that, then?” asks Lettice, looking across the roses of the centrepiece at her two friends in a perplexed fashion.

 

“The faux pas is what I chose!” pouts Minnie. “I’d started off so well too. I had the old black marble fireplace torn out and replaced with a lovely new surround.”

 

“Very streamline and modern,” Margot agrees, taking another mouthful of tart.

 

“Oh yes!” Minnie exclaims. “Quite to die for. Then I went to Jeffrey and Company*** looking for papers. It’s where my mother got our wallpapers for our homes when I was growing up.”

 

“Mine too.” affirmed Margot.

 

“And the assistant showed me the most divine poppies pattern on a geometric background. I thought to myself that being red, the poppies were a perfect choice for the walls.”

 

“It sounds perfect to me, Minnie darling.” Lettice says. “I still don’t see where the faux pas is?”

 

“You haven’t seen it on the walls.” Margot remarks half under her breath, looking apologetically at Minnie.

 

“No, it’s true Margot.” Minnie admits defeatedly with a sigh. “It sounds wonderful, but it looks positively awful!”

 

“Oh I wouldn’t have said that,” Margot counters. “It is rather busy and rather draws attention away from your paintings, but it isn’t awful.”

 

“Well Charles thinks it is! He says it’s like eating in a Maida Vale**** dining room! He doesn’t even want to eat in there now, and he certainly won’t bring any potential business partners around for dinner. He’s rather take them to his club!” Minnie whines. She drops her cutlery with a clatter onto the black japanned dining room table’s surface and hurriedly snatches her napkin from her lap. Carefully she dabs at the corners of her eyes.

 

“Oh Minnie!” Margot says, quickly getting up from her seat, dropping her own napkin on the seat of her chair and walking around to her friend where she wraps her arms around her shoulders comfortingly.

 

“Minnie darling. Please don’t cry.” Lettice gasps, standing up in her seat.

 

“You have modern wallpaper, but it doesn’t feel like Maida Vale in here.” Minnie says tearfully, thrusting her arms around in wild gesticulations.

 

Discreetly, Arabella moves Minnie’s half empty champagne flute out of her immediate reach to avoid any adding any drama with the spilling of drinks or shattering of glass to what is already an uncomfortable enough situation with the young woman sobbing in her seat whilst being comforted by her friends. Quietly Arabella wonders if the hot rush of London life with all its drama is all that good for the constitution if people behave this way over luncheon tables in the capital, and she secretly longs to retreat to the safety of her much quieter home of Garstanton Park back in Wiltshire.

 

“Do you need the smelling salts, Miss?” Edith, who unnoticed with Minnie’s loud crying and moaning, has slipped back into the dining room from the kitchen.

 

“What?” Lettice turns and registers her maid’s presence. “Ahh, no. No thank you Edith. Mrs. Palmerston is just having another one of her momentary dramas.”

 

“I am not!” bursts out Minnie, causing her already flushed face to go even redder as another barrage of tears and moaning escapes her shuddering frame.

 

“Of course you are, Minnie darling.” Lettice counters calmly in a good natured way. Turning back to her anxious maid she adds, “It will be over in a minute. Thank you, Edith.”

 

“Very good Miss.” Edith replies bewilderingly with raised eyebrows and an almost imperceptible shake of her head as she looks again at Mrs. Palmerston, red faced and weeping in her chair, her bare arms being rubbed by Mrs. Channon who coos and whispers quietly into her ears.

 

“Minnie has always been highly strung.” Lettice quietly assures Arabella whom she notices is looking particularly uncomfortable in her seat. “It will pass in a moment, and then we’ll get on with luncheon.”

 

After a few minutes of weeping, Minnie finally calms down, and both Lettice and Margot return to their seats to finish their desserts, all three behaving as if Minnie’s outburst had never occurred, and that such behaviour was not only understandable, but perfectly normal. Arabella, with her head down, eyes focussed squarely upon her half eaten tart says nothing and follows suit. For a few moments, nothing breaks the silence but the sound of cutlery scraping against crockery.

 

“I know, Minnie darling,” Lettice breaks the embargo on speaking cheerfully. “Why don’t I come and look at your dining room.”

 

“Oh would you?” exclaims Minnie with a sigh of relief. “Could you? Oh! That would be marvellous! What a brick you are, Lettice.” Then she pauses, her sudden happy energy draining away just as quickly. “But you can’t.” She shakes her head. “You’re redecorating Margot’s.”

 

Arabella unconsciously holds her breath, waiting for Minnie to start crying again.

 

“Well, yes I am,” Lettice agrees. “But there’s no reason why I can’t have two clients at once.”

 

“She’s not actually doing anything at ‘Chi an Treth’ at present,” Margot says, picking up her wine glass and draining it. “Are you Lettice darling?”

 

“Well I can’t right now, you see Minnie.” Lettice elucidates. “Funnily enough I’m waiting for Margot’s wallpapers to be printed by Jeffrey and Company, but they won’t be ready for a few weeks. So I can come and have a look, maybe make some recommendation for you and Charles to consider. Then if you’re happy, I can commence work after I’ve finished Margot’s.”

 

“Oh, but what about Bella? You’re helping her shop for her trousseau.” Minnie protests.

 

“I can assure you, I don’t need any help shopping for clothes.” Arabella says, releasing her pent-up breath. “Tice has pointed me in the direction of Oxford Street, so I can take myself there.”

 

“As it happens, we’re visiting Gerald on Thursday for Bella’s first consultation for her wedding dress. Why don’t I come on Thursday for luncheon whilst Bella and Gerald consult? She doesn’t need me to help her decide what she wants. She already has a good idea, don’t you Bella?”

 

Arabella nods emphatically.

 

“Well Thursday is cook’s afternoon off, but if you think you could cope with some sandwiches.” Minnie says hopefully.

 

“That’s settled then!” Lettice says with a sigh.

 

Suddenly the mood in the room lightens and spontaneous conversation begins to bubble about Lettice’s dining table again as Margot and Minnie ask Arabella about her plans for her wedding dress.

 

*Lucile – Lucy, Lady Duff Gordon was a leading British fashion designer in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries who use the professional name Lucile. She was the originator of the “mannequin parade”, a pre-cursor to the modern fashion parade, and is reported to have been the person to first use the word “chic” which she then popularised. Lucile is also infamous for escaping the Titanic in a lifeboat designed for forty occupants with her husband and secretary and only nine other people aboard, seven being crew members. When hemlines rose after the war, her fortunes reversed as she couldn’t change with the times, always wanting to use too much fabric on gowns that were too long and too fussy and pre-war.

 

**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.

 

***Jeffrey and Company was an English producer of fine wallpapers that operated between 1836 and the mid 1930s. Based at 64 Essex Road in London, the firm worked with a variety of designers who were active in the aesthetic and arts and crafts movements, such as E.W. Godwin, William Morris, and Walter Crane. Jeffrey and Cmpany’s success is often credited to Metford Warner, who became the company’s chief proprietor in 1871. Under his direction the firm became one of the most lucrative and influential wallpaper manufacturers in Europe. The company clarified that wallpaper should not be reserved for use solely in mansions, but should be available for rooms in the homes of the emerging upper-middle class.

 

****Although today quite an affluent suburb of London, in 1922 when this scene is set, Maida Vale was more of an up-and-coming middle-class area owing to its proximity to the more up market St John’s Wood to its west. It has many late Victorian and Edwardian blocks of mansion flats. Charles’ remark that he felt like he was in a Maida Vale dining room was not meant to be taken as a compliment considering they live in St John’s Wood.

 

Lettice’s fashionable Mayfair flat dining room is perhaps a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures I have collected over time.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The orange curd tarts with their twist of orange atop each are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. The empty wine glasses and the glass bowl in the centre of the table are also 1:12 artisan miniatures all made of hand spun and blown glass. They too are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The vase is especially fine. If you look closely you will see that it is decorated with flower patterns made up of fine threads of glass. The cream roses in the vase were also hand made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The Art Deco dinner set is part of a much larger set I acquired from a dollhouse suppliers in Shanghai, as is the cutlery set. The champagne flutes that are filled with glittering golden yellow champagne were made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The candlesticks were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

In the background on the console table stand some of Lettice’s precious artisan purchases from the Portland Gallery in Soho. The silver drinks set is made by artisan Clare Bell at the Clare Bell Brass Works in Maine, in the United States. Each goblet is only one centimetre in height and the decanter at the far end is two- and three-quarter centimetres with the stopper inserted. Lettice’s Art Deco ‘Modern Woman’ figure is actually called ‘Christianne’ and was made and hand painted by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland. ‘Christianne’ is based on several Art Deco statues and is typical of bronze and marble statues created at that time for the luxury market in the buoyant 1920s.

 

Lettice’s dining room is furnished with Town Hall Miniatures furniture, which is renown for their quality. The only exceptions to the room is the Chippendale chinoiserie carver chair (the edge of which just visible on the far left-hand side of the photo) which was made by J.B.M. Miniatures.

 

The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug hand made by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia. The paintings on the walls are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Jazz www.youtube.com/watch?v=weJEgBs6FGQ

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 we have not strayed far from Cavendish Mews and are still in Mayfair, but are far enough away in her mind that Lettice has chosen to take a taxi, hailed for her by her maid Edith from the nearby square, to Bond Street where the premises of the Portland Gallery stand. She is sharing the taxi with her friend Minnie Palmerston, a banker’s wife whom she met at the Embassy Club, which is also on Bond Street. Minnie decided to attempt to redecorate her own dining room with disastrous results, so she has enlisted the assistance of Lettice, who has already established a colour palette and has ordered wall hangings and fabric for new dining chairs, to repair the damage she has done. As the taxi pulls up to the kerb, Lettice and Minnie both peer through the window at the impressive three storey Victorian building with Portland stone facings, which is where the gallery takes its name from. The ground floor part of the façade has been modernised in more recent times, and now sports magnificent plate glass windows through which passers by may look at the beautiful objets d’art artfully presented in them. Currently one window is full of brilliantly painted pottery which reminds Lettice of her Aunt Eglantine’s works, whilst the other has a single modernist statue of white marble set up against a rich black velvet curtain, bathed in light from a spotlight, giving it a very dramatic look.

 

“That’ll be four and six, mum.” the taxi driver says through the glass divider between the driver’s compartment and the passenger carriage as he leans back in his seat. Stretching his arm across the seat he tips his cap in deference to the well dressed ladies swathed in fox furs and stylish hats in the black leather back seat.

 

After paying the taxi fare for them both, Minnie encourages Lettice to alight from the taxi first. As they spill from its door, they are both mid laugh over an amusing story about a mutual acquaintance that Minnie shared with Lettice.

 

Minnie remarks excitedly as the taxi chugs away belching out fumes, “And thinking of gossip, I read in the newspapers that your friend Elizabeth* is going to be the Princess of Wales**.”

 

“You’re such a gossip, Minnie darling.” Lettice chides her friend mildly as she guides them both across the busy footpath and towards the door. “You’d be the last person I’d share Elizabeth’s confidences with.”

 

“So she has…”

 

“If she had shared any with me!” Lettice quickly extinguishes Minnie’s burrowing for gossip with a definite statement in serious and well modulated tones. “As it is, I haven’t seen her since she went to spend Christmas at St Paul’s, Walden Bury. Now come along. We are here to pick objets d’art for your dining room, not prattle about idle gossip.”

 

“You’re such a spoil sport!” Minnie sulks.

 

“I’m not when it comes to interior design.” Lettice assures her. “Now let’s find something to go with those wonderful paintings of your husband’s.”

 

Lettice ushers Minnie through the full length plate glass doors on which the Portland Galleries’ name is written in elegant gilt font along with the words ‘by appointment only’ printed underneath in the same hand. As the door closes behind them, shutting out the sound of noisy automobiles and chugging busses and the clatter of footsteps on the pavement and the chatter of shoppers, the air about them changes. In the crisp and cool silence of the gallery the ladies’ heels click across the black and white marble floor.

 

“Now, I’ve ordered wall hangings from Jeffrey and Company*** to deck out the dining room. It’s metallic and red dioxide in colour,” Lettice enthuses, suddenly aware of how her well modulated tones bounce off the hard surfaces and objects on display in the gallery. “It’s so striking, I know you’re just going to love it.”

 

“Hhhmmm,” Minnie muses in a non-committal fashion as her eye flits around the red painted gallery hung with paintings and populated with tables, cabinets and pillars upon which stand different sculptures and other artistic pieces.

 

“The wallpaper, Minnie,” Lettice sighs in exasperation, misunderstanding Minnie. “I’ve ordered it. Goodness, I do wish you’d concentrate for more than five minutes for a change.”

 

“Well, I’ve been thinking about that, Lettice darling.”

 

“About what?”

 

“About the wall hangings Lettice darling.” Minnie purrs. “I’m wondering whether we shouldn’t reconsider how the dining room is to be furbished.”

 

“Reconsider, Minnie?” Lettice looks with shocked and wide eyes at her friend. “What on earth do you mean, reconsider?”

 

“Well, I was just wondering whether it mightn’t be better to have gold wallpaper instead.”

 

“Gold wallpaper?”

 

“You know darling, to represent the golden sands of Egypt.” Minnie says with a dramatic air, raising her right hand to her forehead, her eyes drifting upwards in the affected stance of a silent film star. “Everyone I know is going positively wild over anything Egyptian after the discovery of that boy king’s tomb****. Simply mad for it, darling! All of Charles’ frightfully boring banking friends can talk of nothing else, and nor can their wives.” She giggles. “They’ve finally got something interesting to talk about.”

 

“But we’re here today, Minnie darling, to pick ornaments to decorate the room with. The papers are already ordered at great expense.” Lettice looks with concern at her friend. “You can’t go and change your mind now.”

 

“Of course I can, Lettice darling!” Minnie scoffs with a wave of her maroon coloured leather glove clad hand. “Charles is footing the bill. He’ll pay for whatever you ask, carte blanche.” She cocks one of her well manicured eyebrows over her glittering eye. “He’s convinced that anything you choose will be a patch on anything I’ve done thus far, which in reality probably isn’t too far from the truth.”

 

“Exactly!” Lettice retorts. “And I’ve chosen red dioxide as the colour for the dining room, not gold.”

 

“But gold would be so fashionable, Lettice darling!” Minnie insists. “So now!”

 

“And it might just as quickly be yesterday, tomorrow.” Lettice retorts, irritated at little by the fickle nature of her friend. “I’m trying to help you come up with a dining room that won’t need redecorating for a while.”

 

“But I…”

 

Lettice silences Minnie by holding up her navy glove clad hands in protestation. “I promise that it will be modern and fashionable, and yet timeless too.” She plays her trump card knowingly. “Don’t you trust me, Minnie darling?” She gazes at her friend with dewy eyes. “After all, you did ask me to redecorate the room for you. Don’t you trust my judgement any more?”

 

“Oh… oh no!” Minnie stutters in reply. “No! Of course I do. Your taste is excellent. Of course, you’re right.”

 

“Then metallic red dioxide wallpaper it will be.” Lettice says with a satisfied sigh.

 

“Well, I’ll settle for some rather exotic looking Egyptian statues then,” Minnie says. “Like that one you have on your mantle.”

 

“My ‘Theban Dancer’***** do you mean?”

 

“Yes, yes! She’s the one!” Minnie enthuses. “Or that daringly modern one you have on your dining room sideboard.”

 

“Well, they both came from the Portland Gallery, so I’m sure we can find some beautiful examples to suit you here.” Lettice assures her as she entwines her arm with her friend. “Come on, let’s see what there is.”

 

“Ah! Miss Chetwynd!” a mature frock coated man greets Lettice with a broad smile. Taking her hand, he kisses it affectionately, yet with respect. “How do you do.”

 

“Mr. Chilvers!” Lettice greets the smartly dressed man with a warm smile and the familiarity of the regular client that she is. “How do you do.”

 

“And to what do we owe this great pleasure of your visit today, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Chilvers asks obsequiously, releasing Lettice’s fingers and clasping his hands together in front of him.

 

Born Grand Duke Pytor Chikvilazde in the Russian seaside resort town of Odessa, the patrician gallery owner with the beautifully manicured and curled handlebar moustache fled Russia after the Revolution, escaping aboard the battleship HMS Marlborough****** from Yalta in 1919 along with the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna and other members of the former, deposed Russian Imperial Family. Arriving a in London later that year after going via Constantinople and Genoa, the Russian emigree was far more fortunate than others around him on the London docks, possessing valuable jewels smuggled out of Russia in the lining of his coat. Changing his name to the more palatable Peter Chilvers, he sold most of the jewels he had, shunned his Russian heritage, honed his English accent and manners, to reinvent himself as the very British owner of an art gallery in Bond Street, thus enabling him to continue what he enjoyed most about being Grand Duke Pytor Chikvilazde and enjoy a thriving arts scene. As one of his more high profile customers, Mr. Chilvers happily fawns over Lettice, delighted that she chooses to patronise his very exclusive gallery for pieces to decorate the interiors of her clients’ homes with.

 

“Mr. Chilvers, this is my friend Minnie Palmerston. I’m redecorating her St John’s Wood dining room. Minnie, this is Mr Chilvers. He owns and runs the Portland Gallery.”

 

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Mr. Chilvers raises Minnie’s hand to his lips and kisses it, all the while admiring the beautiful redhead with striking green eyes, swathed in maroon and draped in red fox furs.

 

“Minnie’s taken rather a shine to my ‘Theban Dancer’ and my ‘Modern Woman’, Mr. Chilvers,” Lettice explains. “Perhaps you can show us something of a similar vein?”

 

“It would be my pleasure, Miss Chetwynd, Miss Palmerston,” Mr. Chilvers croons. “Right this way. I think I might have just the thing.”

 

“He’s the gallery owner,” Lettice whispers to her friend behind her hand. “He always thinks he has something.” She pauses. “Although to be fair, this is an amazing gallery and he often does.”

 

Minnie looks at Lettice with a hopeful smile.

 

Indicating for them to follow him with an open palm gesture, Mr. Chilvers leads the ladies through the gallery.

 

The rich red walls are hung with all kinds of modern paintings, many not dissimilar to those that grace the walls of Minnie and Charles’ dining room. Lettice’s own drawing room paintings come from the gallery. Dour street scenes and vibrant abstract still lives hang alongside dynamic portraits. Most of the furnishings are black japanned wood and made in a very stark, yet stylish way, so as not to distract from the artworks that sit upon their surfaces. Hand painted pottery in bright colours and ornate spun glass pieces sit upon tables and buffets and inside mirrored cabinets whilst statues stand proudly on pillars and stands. The air is rich with the fragrance of ornate floral arrangements strategically set about the gallery as colourful foils to compliment various artworks. Everywhere there is colour and interest.

 

“What kind of display are you looking for, ladies?” Mr. Chilvers asks as Lettice and Minnie follow in his sweetly spiced eau de cologne wake.

 

Minnie looks alarmingly at Lettice, who quickly answers for them both, “I have two rather tall pillars that will stand either side of an existing new tile fireplace. I also have a simple black japanned sideboard.”

 

“Is there a mantle on the fireplace?” the gallery owner asks as they walk.

 

“A small central recess only, Mr. Chilvers.” Lettice says knowledgably, much to Minnie’s surprise, for even as the owner of the fireplace she has never so much as considered whether it has a mantle or not.

 

“And the specifics of the room?” Mr. Chilvers asks, running his index finger along the edge of a display table as he does, rubbing his clean thumb and forefinger together and releasing a satisfied sigh as he does.

 

“It’s my dining room.” Minnie begins. “I tried to do the redecoration myself but…”

 

Lettice quickly places a forbidding arm across Minnie’s chest, silencing her. Minnie glances at her friend whose eyes widen as she shakes her head to indicate that the gallery owner doesn’t need to know about Minnie’s decorative disasters.

 

“The room,” Lettice says smoothly over the top of her friend. “Is in an early Victorian townhouse, so it has high ceilings and is tall rather than wide. I have metallic red dioxide papers embossed with leaves and flowers on order from Jeffrey and Company. Mr. and Mrs. Palmerston are devotees of modern art, Mr. Chilvers, so the paper, whilst striking, is really there to support their paintings already chosen for the room.”

 

“Always the arbiter of smart and select taste, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Chilvers replies with a smile as he glances back at the two ladies and tweaks his moustache. “So, something tall, perhaps, with some gilding?”

 

“Quite so, Mr. Chilvers.” Lettice agrees.

 

“And nothing too ornate, of course.” he adds.

 

“Indeed no, Mr. Chilvers.” Lettice concurs.

 

“You are very fortunate in your choice of interior designer, Mrs. Palmerston.” He turns back and keeps walking. “Too many women with too much time on their hands take it upon themselves to redecorate rooms, creating a disastrous and gauche pale imitation of what they have seen elsewhere, which simply doesn’t suit their homes.”

 

Minnie’s eyes grow wide as she glances at Lettice in alarm. Lettice silently raises he finger to her lips to indicate that she hasn’t said anything about Minnie’s attempt to redecorate her dining room herself, which makes Minnie sigh with relief.

 

“Rather like creating a Maida Vale dining room in St John’s Wood, would you say, Mr. Chilvers?” Minnie asks a little nervously.

 

“Quite so, Mrs. Palmerston. Well said.” he agrees as his pace slows. “I do so dislike bored ladies like that. I have no time for artless women who dabble in art, and I won’t have them in my gallery.”

 

“Oh!” Minnie bluffs with false joviality. “Oh, my husband and I quite agree with you. There is nothing worse than a poorly decorated room, Mr. Chilvers, full of tasteless tatt.” She is so grateful that the imposing gallery owner has his back to her so that he cannot see the colour of her face betraying the truth of Minnie’s experience.

 

“Indeed, Mrs. Palmerston,” he agrees. “But that is something you won’t have to suffer under the skilled artistic eye and adept hands of Miss Chetwynd. She has found the profession that suits and showcases her skills admirably.”

 

“Yes,” Minnie says, blushing deeper and smiling coyly. “I’ve seen the work she has done to the home of friends of ours.”

 

“Ah,” Mr. Chilvers purrs as they reach a corner of the gallery. He stops in front of a beautiful, and unusually, round flame wood cabinet on a large pedestal. “I think, ladies, you might find something to your liking in here.” He opens up the doors and turns to the two ladies. “A selection of modern sculpture and some of my finest Venetian glass*******. There are also some rather fetching sculptures to either side.” he adds with a wave of his elegant hand. “Well, I’ll leave you to discuss your choices with your client, Miss Chetwynd. I do hope, Mrs. Palmerston, that you will find something to please you.”

 

The two ladies watch him sweep away before turning to the cabinet.

 

“Thank you for not telling Mr. Chilvers about my… you know.” Minnie starts gesticulating wildly.

 

“You nearly gave the game up yourself, Minnie.” Lettice chides her friend kindly in a conspiratorial whisper. “Mr. Chilvers is a frightful snob. It’s almost like he comes from the highest echelons of some European aristocracy, and yet even with Leslie’s help I’ve been unable to trace him prior to opening this gallery in 1920. He’s quite the mystery! And,” she adds. “He doesn’t let just anyone shop here, even by appointment.”

 

“Which would explain why Charles and I have never been here.” Minnie replies.

 

“Indeed. Well, I think Mr. Chilvers would refuse Charles automatically on face value. Being a banker, I think he would consider him far too gauche and newly minted for his establishment.”

 

“Oh.” Minnie casts her eyes downwards.

 

“Don’t do that, Minnie darling!” Lettice puts a comforting arm around her friend. “You are a good person, and so is Charles.” She rubs Minnie’s arm. “Don’t worry about Mr. Chilvers snobbery. I can already tell that he likes you. I knew he would admire you for your striking fiery red tresses and stunning green eyes. He finds you intriguing.”

 

“He does?”

 

“Yes. He didn’t even acknowledge poor Margot on the one occasion I brought her here.”

 

“But she’s richer and better connected than I am.”

 

“Sshhh!” Lettice shushes her friend with a finger to her lips. “He obviously doesn’t think so.”

 

“It’s a funny way to run a business, I must say.” Minnie says as she picks up a beautiful glass comport of aqua blue and toys with it in her hands, feeling the cool material between her fingers.

 

“Mr. Chilvers seems to rise above all that, which is why I think he is from a very aristocratic European family. Italian perhaps?” She picks up a tall Venetian glass vase with amber decoration around its base, holding it up as if it serves as proof as to Mr. Chilver’s lineage.

 

“With a name like Chilvers, he can hardly be Italian, Lettice darling!” Minnie replaces the comport on the shelf.

 

“Oh, you can be so dense sometimes, Minnie darling!” Lettice giggles. “You don’t imagine that Chilvers is his real name, do you?”

 

“Well…” Minnie gulps.

 

“Of course it’s not! If he’s an Italian prince, or count, he probably has a real family name of Chiavaroli or Chiodini.” Lettice giggles girlishly as the syllables roll around like a foreign language in her mouth. “Anyway, going back to what I was saying before, if through being connected with me, you receive a foray into the joys of exclusive shopping here, I know you will find many a fine piece to ornament your home with. Once Mr. Chilvers knows you have taste.”

 

“He hasn’t seen the disaster I made of my dining room.” Minnie blurts out, interrupting her friend.

 

“And he doesn’t have to know about it.” Lettice soothes quietly. “Just keep mum.”

 

“Yes!” Minnie sighs. “Me and my big mouth. One day you won’t be around, and I’ll get myself into real trouble.”

 

“Well, luckily I was here, Minnie darling.” Lettice says with a smile. “Anyway, once Mr. Chilvers knows you, he’ll forgive you if you bring Charles: especially if Charles brings an open chequebook.”

 

“Do you think he might be Russian?” Minnie asks quietly, looking discreetly over her shoulder to Mr. Chilvers as he sits at his black japanned desk in the middle of the gallery, scribbling notes into a ledger.

 

“Who?” Lettice asks, wide eyed as she removes the copy of the ‘Theban Dancer’ from the middle shelf of the cabinet and considers whether it will fit onto the recess of Minnie’s dining room fireplace.

 

“Mr. Chilvers, of course, Lettice darling! Now who’s being dense?”

 

“Good heavens no!” Lettice scoffs. “He’s English is far too good and his manners too impeccable to be a Russian emigree. Have you ever met any? They can be quite horrible and so terribly haughty, even if they are now all as poor as church mice.” She too looks over to Mr. Chilvers, who either doesn’t know he is being scrutinised, or is far too polite to acknowledge it. “No, he’s Italian, I’m sure of it.” She sighs as she admires his dark hair, pale skin, and sharp cheekbones. “Now, this isn’t helping us pick any pieces for your dining room, Minnie darling. I was thinking that the ‘Theban Dancer’ you like might just fit on the small recess on your fireplace. Do you really like her enough to want her? Is she exotic enough for your current tastes?”

 

The two women begin to look earnestly at the objects around them to select pieces for Minnie’s dining room, and all the while, Mr. Chilvers writes in his ledger, the nib of his fountain pen scratching across the surface of the page, his ears ever alert to every whisper of conversation in his gallery, but his eyes remaining downcast out of deference for Lettice, one of his favourite customers.

 

*Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, as she was known at the beginning of 1923 when this story is set, went on to become Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952 as the wife of King George VI. Whilst still Duke of York, Prince Albert initially proposed to Elizabeth in 1921, but she turned him down, being "afraid never, never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to". He proposed again in 1922 after Elizabeth was part of his sister, Mary the Princess Royal’s, wedding party, but she refused him again. On Saturday, January 13th, 1923, Prince Albert went for a walk with Elizabeth at the Bowes-Lyon home at St Paul’s, Walden Bury and proposed for a third and final time. This time she said yes. The wedding took place on April 26, 1923 at Westminster Abbey.

 

**In early January 1923 a newspaper ran a gossip item that Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon was soon to be engaged to Prince Albert the Duke of York’s elder brother, the Prince of Wales – a story that reportedly annoyed her. Rumour has it that part of Elizabeth’s hesitance to marry Albert was due to her being in love with David – the loftier “catch” – however, these stories are highly unlikely and probably have more to do with trying to explain her later hatred for Wallis Simpson. More likely, she knew that the story meant more pressure for her to make up her mind about Albert and she knew the rumour would wound him

 

***Jeffrey and Company was an English producer of fine wallpapers that operated between 1836 and the mid 1930s. Based at 64 Essex Road in London, the firm worked with a variety of designers who were active in the aesthetic and arts and crafts movements, such as E.W. Godwin, William Morris, and Walter Crane. Jeffrey and Company’s success is often credited to Metford Warner, who became the company’s chief proprietor in 1871. Under his direction the firm became one of the most lucrative and influential wallpaper manufacturers in Europe. The company clarified that wallpaper should not be reserved for use solely in mansions, but should be available for rooms in the homes of the emerging upper-middle class.

 

****On the 4th of November 1922, English archaeologist Howard Carter and his men discovered the entrance to the boy king, Pharaoh Tutankhamun's tomb in the Valley of the Kings, sparking a worldwide interest in all things Egyptian. The craze he started became known as Tutmania, and it inspired everything from the architecture of public building and private houses alike to interior design and fashion. Famously at the time, socialite Dolores Denis Denison applied one of the earliest examples of getting the media of the day to pay attention to her because of her dress by arriving at the prestigious private view of the King Tut Exhibition in London, dressed as an Egyptian mummy complete in a golden sarcophagus and had to be carried inside by her driver and a hired man. Although it started before the discovery of the tomb, the Art Deco movement was greatly influenced by Egyptian style. Many of the iconic decorative symbols we associate with the movement today came about because of Howard Carter’s discovery of Tutankhamun's tomb in the Valley of the Kings.

 

*****The exquisite sculpture “Theban Dancer” was cast by the esteemed Belgian-French sculptor Claire Jeanne Roberte Colinet, and is one of the most recognised figures representing the exoticism and frenetic energy and movement of the 1920s. Cast in the 1920s, the “Theban Dancer” is gilt and enamelled bronze, usually sitting upon a marble plinth.

 

******In 1919, King George V sent the HMS Marlborough to rescue his Aunt the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna after the urging of his mother Queen Dowager Alexandra. On the 5th of April 1919, the HMS Marlborough arrived in Sevastopol before proceeding to Yalta the following day. The ship took Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna and other members of the former, deposed Russian Imperial Family including Grand Duke Nicholas and Prince Felix Yusupov aboard in Yalta on the evening of the 7th. The Empress refused to leave unless the British also evacuated wounded and sick soldiers, along with any civilians that also wanted to escape the advancing Bolsheviks. The Russian entourage aboard Marlborough numbered some 80 people, including forty four members of the Royal Family and nobility, with a number of governesses, nurses, maids and manservants, plus several hundred cases of luggage

 

*******Venetian glass is glassware made in Venice, typically on the island of Murano near the city. Traditionally it is made with a soda–lime "metal" and is typically elaborately decorated, with various "hot" glass-forming techniques, as well as gilding, enamel, or engraving. Production has been concentrated on the Venetian island of Murano since the Thirteenth Century. Today Murano is known for its art glass, but it has a long history of innovations in glassmaking in addition to its artistic fame - and was Europe's major centre for luxury glass from the High Middle Ages to the Italian Renaissance. During the Fifteenth Century, Murano glassmakers created cristallo—which was almost transparent and considered the finest glass in the world. Murano glassmakers also developed a white-coloured glass (milk glass called lattimo) that looked like porcelain. They later became Europe's finest makers of mirrors.

 

Whilst this up-market London gallery interior complete with artisan pieces may appear real to you, it is in fact made up completely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces I have had since I was a teenager.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

On the top shelf of the round Art Deco display cabinet are a selection of 1:12 artisan glass pieces. Each one is made from real blown glass and is decorated with spun glass patterning in a different colour. They all come from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

On the middle shelf is a miniature artisan hand painted Art Deco statue on a “marble” plinth. Made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality of the detail in their pieces, it is a 1:12 copy of the “Theban Dancer” sculpture created by Claire-Jeanne-Roberte Colinet in 1925. She is flanked by two hand coloured spun glass comports. These I have had since I was a teenager. I acquired them from a high street shop that specialised in dolls and doll house miniatures.

 

The New Woman Art Deco statue on the bottom shelf of the cabinet is a hand painted 1:12 artisan pewter miniature also from Warwick Miniatures Ireland. She is named “Christianne”, and she also comes in a more risqué form as a nude.

 

The very striking round mirror backed mahogany Art Deco cabinet is made by high end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. It comes from their Swanson range. The two pedestals either side of it were also made by Bespaq.

 

The two statues on the pedestals are 1:12 artisan miniatures also from Warwick Miniatures Ireland, however they have been had painted by me.

 

The black console table and the table in the foreground were made by Town Hall Miniatures.

 

The two porcelain vases on the console table have been hand painted and came from an online miniatures specialist on E-Bay. The glass comport is a 1:12 artisan glass piece made from real blown glass and is hand tinted. It comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The paintings on the wall come from Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.

 

The vase of flowers in the foreground is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.

 

The Clarice Cliff style Art Deco tea set and tray on the table in the foreground have been hand painted and came from an online miniatures specialist on E-Bay.

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

 

Today however we are not at Cavendish Mews, although we are still in Mayfair, moving a few streets away to Hill Street, where Edith, Lettice’s maid, and her beau, grocery boy Frank Leadbetter, are visiting Edith’s friend and fellow maid Hilda. It is a beautiful, sunny Sunday and Sundays all three have as days off from their jobs as domestic servants and delivery boy. Taking advantage of this, all three are going to spend the afternoon at Hammersmith Palias de Danse*. As usual, Frank collects Edith from Cavendish Mews and the pair then go to the home of Lettice’s married friends Margot and Dickie Channon, where Hilda works as a live-in maid.

 

Being Hilda’s day off, her employers usually decamp for the day, and today they are visiting their friend Priscilla who recently married American dry goods heir Georgie Carter. The pair have just returned to London from their honeymoon which took in much of Europe before visiting Georgie’s family in Philadelphia. The quartet will dine at the Café Royal**, doubtless at the expense of Georgie since the Channons seem perpetually to have financial difficulties, but as a result, the Channons have invited the Carters back to their Hill Street flat for after supper coffee, which means that Hilda must do one of her most hated jobs: grind coffee beans to make real coffee for Georgie Carter, who is particular about his American style coffee. We find the trio in the kitchen of the Hill Street flat, the ladies’ dancing frocks and Frank’s suit at odds with their surrounds as Hilda grinds the coffee beans sitting in a white china bowl in the large wooden and brass coffee grinder. By preparing the coffee, ready to make before she goes out, it will be easy to serve when her employers and their guests return after dinner, and the beans will still be fresh enough for Georgie’s liking.

 

“You know,” Frank remarks as he stands at Edith’s elbow and watches Hilda turn the handle of the coffee grinder with gusto. “I don’t see why they can’t just drink Camp Coffee*** like the rest of us.”

 

“Oh Frank!” gasps Edith, looking up at her beau and patting his hand with her own as he squeezes her left shoulder lovingly. “You know perfectly well why not, Frank. Mr. and Mrs. Channon’s friend, Mr. Carter is an American gentleman, and just like Miss Wanetta Ward the American moving picture star, he doesn’t like British coffee.”

 

“What rot!” Frank scoffs at the suggestion. “There’s nothing wrong with British coffee! If British coffee isn’t to Mr. Carter’s taste, let him have tea then, and save poor Hilda the effort of having to grind up coffee beans for his lordship.” He slips off the jacket of his smart Sunday blue suit, revealing his crisp white shirt, red tie and smart navy blue vest. He drapes it over the back of the Windsor chair Edith sits in. “Come on old girl,” he says to Hilda as he moves around the deal pine kitchen table. “Give me a go then. Give your arms a chance to recuperate before we go dancing.”

 

“You’re such a Socialist, Frank Leadbetter.” pipes up Hilda as with a grunt, she pushes the handle of the grinder mechanism over a particularly recalcitrant coffee bean.

 

“What?” gasps Frank as he takes over grinding from the grateful maid. “I thought you’d come to my defence, Hilda, especially as I’m being so chivalrous as to grind coffee beans for you.”

 

“Oh I am grateful, Frank, ever so.” Hilda replies, rubbing her aching forearms with her fat, sausage like fingers. “But just because you are being gallant, doesn’t mean I can’t call you a Socialist.”

 

“Because a hard working man like me thinks I’m every bit as good as this friend of your Mr. and Mrs. Channon, I’m now a Socialist?” Frank asks in an appalled voice. “You’re as bad as Edith’s mum.” He nods in his sweetheart’s direction.

 

“Mum thinks Frank might be a Communist.” Edith explains. “Even though we’ve both told her that he isn’t.”

 

“Handsome is as handsome does.” remarks Hilda with a cheeky smile as she glances at Frank winding the red knob topped brass handle of the grinder.

 

“I’m neither, I’ll have you know, Hilda Clerkenwell!” Frank retorts. “I’d prefer to think of myself as more of a progressive thinker when it comes to the rights and privileges of the working man,” He looks poignantly at Hilda. “And woman.”

 

“Same thing.” Hilda retorts matter-of-factly as she starts to straighten the russet grosgrain bandeau**** embellished with gold sequins which has slipped askew whilst she has been grinding coffee beans.

 

“Pardon my ignorance,” Edith begins gingerly. “But what exactly is a Socialist?”

 

“Socialism is a political movement that wants to reform various economic and social systems, transferring them to social ownership as opposed to private ownership.” remarks Hilda as she runs her hands down the back of her hair.

 

“Well done, Hilda!” Frank congratulates her.

 

“You sound surprised, Frank.” Hilda says with a cheeky smile. “Don’t they have smart girls where you come from, present company excluded, Edith!” Hilda adds hurriedly so as not to offend her best friend.”

 

“Oh, you know I’m not very political,” Edith assures Hilda, yet at the same time self consciously toys with her blonde waves as she speaks.

 

“I must confess, Hilda, I am a little surprised.” Frank admits. “I don’t know many girls who are interested in social rights and can give explanations so eloquently.”

 

“I’m so sorry Frank!” Edith defends herself. “I know you’ve tried to teach me, but I can’t help it. I get confused between this ist and the other ist. They all seem the same to me.” She blushes with mild embarrassment at her own ignorance.

 

“No, no, Edith!” Frank assures her as he stops grinding the coffee beans and reaches out his left hand, clasping her right one as it rests on the tabletop and squeezes it reassuringly. “This isn’t a criticism of you! It was a compliment to Hilda. You’re wonderful, and there are things that you understand and are far better at than me.”

 

“Than both of us, Edith.” adds Hilda quickly, the look of concern about her friend taking umbrage clear on her round face.

 

“Yes, inconsequential things.” Edith mumbles in a deflated tone.

 

“No, not at all.” Frank reassures her soothingly as he takes up grinding coffee again. “What good am I to myself if I can’t cook a meal to feed myself.”

 

“And for all my love of reading, Edith, you know I can’t sew a stitch.” Hilda appends. “I could never have made this beautiful frock.” She grasps the edge of the strap of her russet coloured art satin***** dress as she speaks. “Not in a million years. We’re all good at different things, and no-one could say you weren’t smart, Edith.”

 

“That’s right.” Frank concurs, smiling at his sweetheart. “One of the reasons why I’ve always admired you is because you aren’t some silly giggling Gertie****** like some of the housemaids I’ve known. You aren’t turned by just a handsome face, and your head isn’t filled with moving picture stars and nothing else.”

 

“Well, I do like moving picture stars, Frank.” Edith confesses.

 

“Oh I know, Edith, and I love you for that too.” Frank reassures her. “But it’s not all that is in there. You have a good head on your shoulders.”

 

“And a wise one too.” Hilda interjects. “How often do I ask you for advice? I’ve always asked you for your opinion on things for as long as we’ve been friends.”

 

“You are clever, and insightful, and you want a better life for yourself too, and that’s why I really love you. We want the same things from life.” Frank says in a soft and soothing tone full of love as he gazes at Edith. “You are very pretty, and no-one can deny that – not even you,” He holds out an admonishing finger as Edith goes to refute his remark. “But beauty, however glorious will fade. Just look at our Dowager Queen Mother*******. When beauty fades, wit and intelligence remain, and you have both of those qualities in spades, Edith.”

 

“Oh Frank.” Edith breathes softly. “You aren’t ashamed of me then?”

 

“Of course I’m not Edith! How could I ever be ashamed of you? I’m as proud as punch******** to step out with you! You’re my best girl.”

 

Frank winds the gleaming brass coffee grinder handle a few more times before stopping. He pulls out the drawer at the bottom and as he does, the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans fills the air around them, wafting up his, Edith and Hilda’s nostrils. He sighs with satisfaction at a job well done.

 

“Good enough for his American lordship?” Frank asks Hilda.

 

She peers into the drawer. “Good enough.” she acknowledges with another of her cheeky smirks, nodding affirmatively.

 

“I still think he could jolly well grind his own, you know, Hilda!” Frank opines.

 

“Socialist.” she laughs in reply as she walks around Frank, withdraws the drawer of ground coffee and knocks the contents into the small, worn Delftware coffee cannister with careful taps, so as not to spill and waste any of the hard-won grinds.

 

“I bet you, your Wanetta Ward doesn’t grind her own coffee, Edith.” Frank goes on as he walks back around to Edith and slips his jacket on again.

 

“I bet you she does, Frank!” Edith counters.

 

“What? A moving picture star grinding her own coffee? I don’t believe it!”

 

“Miss Ward is a very unorthodox person, Frank, even for an American.” she assures him. “I think she might surprise you if you ever get the pleasure of meeting her one day.”

 

“Maybe.” Frank says doubtfully. “Well now that coffee is ground, we should really get going.” He runs his hands around the back of his jacket collar to make sure it is sitting straight. “The Hammersmith Palais waits for no-one, not even those who slave for undeserving Americans.” He laughs good heartedly. “Shall we go?”

 

“Oh yes!” enthuses Edith as Frank chivalrously pulls out her chair for her as she stands up. “I’ll fetch our coats.”

 

With her pretty blue floral sprigged frock swirling about her figure, Edith hurries over to the pegs by the door where Frank’s, Hilda’s and her own coat and hats hang. She moves lightly across the floor, practicing her dance steps as she goes, silently moving to the music she hears the band playing in her head.

 

“I really wonder why I bother sometimes.” Hilda says despondently as she pulls her brown coat on over the top of the luxurious man-made silk frock that Edith made for her and decorated with lace trimming and small bursts of sequins.

 

“Like I said,” Frank mutters. “He should settle for Camp Coffee like the rest of us, or have tea.”

 

“Not grinding coffee, Frank!” Hilda scoffs in reply. “I mean go dancing at the Hammersmith Palais week after week. What’s the point?”

 

“What do you mean, Hilda?” Edith asks gently, slipping her arms into her own black three-quarter length coat as Frank holds to open for her.

 

“I mean why do I bother going dancing when no man at the Palais ever looks at me, even in this beautiful new frock you made me, Edith.” She picks up the lace trimmed hem of her dance dress and lifts it despondently.

 

Edith and Frank both glance anxiously at one another for a moment. Both know they are thinking exactly the same thing. What Hilda says is true. Whenever the three of them go to the Hammersmith Palais de Danse there are always far more women in attendance than men. The Great War decimated the male population, and almost drove an entire generation of young men into extinction. Sadly, this means that more and more women are finding themselves without a gentleman to step out with, and are deemed surplus to needs by society. In spite of any of his faults, Edith knows how lucky she is to have a young man like Frank. Even the attentions of pretty girls are less in demand with fewer men in circulation desiring their company. Unlike Edith, Hilda is a little on the plump side, enjoying the indulgence of sticky buns from the bakers and an extra serving of Victoria Sponge at the Lyons Corner Shop********* at the top of Tottenham Court Road. Her face is friendly, with soft brown eyes and a warm smile, but she isn’t pretty. Even with the judicious application of a little powder and rouge acquired from the make-up counter of Selfridges********** her skin lacks the fresh gleam that Edith has, and for as long as she has known her, Edith has always found Hilda to have a very pale complexion. When the three of them do go dancing, Frank is often the only man she dances with when he partners her around the dancefloor, and more often than not, Hilda ends up taking the part of the man, dancing with any number of other neglected wallflowers, just to ward of the tedium of waiting for someone to ask her to dance. The plight, for plight it was, of women like Hilda was all too common, in the post-war world of the 1920s.

 

“Perhaps you’re looking in the wrong place, Hilda.” Frank says.

 

“What do mean, Frank?”

 

“Well, a girl with brains like you needs a man who will stimulate her mentally. Perhaps you might find the man of your dreams at a library.”

 

“A library!” Hilda’s mind conjures up images of pale bookish young men in glasses with phlegmatic characters who would much rather shake her hand limply and discuss the benefits of Socialism, rather than sweep her off her feet romantically.

 

“Not at all helpful, Frank!” hisses Edith as she watches her best friend’s face fall.

 

“I was only joking.” Frank shrugs apologetically, unsure what to say.

 

Edith hurries over and wraps her arm around Hilda’s slumping shoulders consolingly. “A faint heart never won a fair lady, Hilda.” She pulls Hilda to her lovingly. Hilda looks up at her friend sadly, yet thoughtfully. “And I think it works the same in reverse.”

 

Seeing a way to make amends for his ill-timed joke, Frank pipes up, “That’s exactly right, Hilda. Edith wouldn’t have been anywhere near as attractive to me if she hadn’t had a bit of pluck.”

 

“And you look splendid in the dance frock I made for you, Hilda,” Edith adds. “Really you do.”

 

“Do you really think so, Edith?” Hilda asks, looking at her friend.

 

“Of course I do! I’m a professional seamstress, and you are my best friend. I wouldn’t make something that didn’t suit you!”

 

“No, no of course not.” Hilda replies.

 

“And didn’t Mrs. Minkin say that russet satin would suit your colourings?”

 

“She did.”

 

“Well then,” Edith replies matter-of-factly. “There is nothing more to be said.”

 

“That’s right.” agrees Frank, and without further ado, he sweeps Hilda into his arms.

 

With the ease of a natural dancer, Frank begins to waltz his partner carefully across the black and white chequered linoleum floor of the Channon’s kitchen, guiding her around the kitchen table and the chairs gathered around it, past the black and white stove and the dresser cluttered with crockery and provisions.

 

“Oh Frank!” Hilda says, laughing joyously as she allows herself to be swept away. “You really are a one!”

 

Edith smiles as she sees a light return to her best friend’s eyes, and a smile appear upon her pert lips. She considers herself so fortunate not just because she has a chap to step out with, but because Frank is so kind and considerate. Not just any man would understand or appreciate Edith’s wish to include Hilda in their excursions to the Hammersmith Palais de Danse, and not every man would be as willing to take a turn with her on the dancefloor, as has been proven. Then again, Frank is no ordinary man, and as time goes on and she gets to know him better, the more she is becoming aware that her sweetheart is a very special man indeed. She laughs as Frank dips Hilda, making her squeal in delight, before raising her up again and restoring her to her feet.

 

“There!” Frank says with a huff as he catches his breath. “Now that your feet are suitably warmed up, you’re ready to go, Miss Clerkenwell. We’ll have no more talk of you not wanting to come dancing with us.”

 

“Today might be the day you meet someone, Hilda. Don’t give up on the chance.” Edith enthuses.

 

“Oh alright you two!” Hilda acquiesces. “I give up. Let’s go then.”

 

“That’s the spirit, Hilda!” Frank says. “That pluck will win you a fine and handsome gentleman with a brain that you deserve.”

 

“I can hardly battle both of you, can I?” Hilda laughs as she carefully places her floppy brimmed brown velvet and copper faille poke-style bonnet decorated with a beige rose and leaves atop her head.

 

The three friends walk out of the kitchen door that leads out onto the flat’s back stairs and begin to descend to the street. Hilda locks the door behind her and the coffee grinder and the as of yet to be ground coffee beans sit on the table, ready for when she returns later that day to serve to Margot, Dickie and their friends Priscilla and Georgie Carter.

 

*The Hammersmith Palais de Danse, in its last years simply named Hammersmith Palais, was a dance hall and entertainment venue in Hammersmith, London, England that operated from 1919 until 2007. It was the first palais de danse to be built in Britain.

 

**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.

 

***Camp Coffee is a concentrated syrup which is flavoured with coffee and chicory, first produced in 1876 by Paterson & Sons Ltd, in Glasgow. In 1974, Dennis Jenks merged his business with Paterson to form Paterson Jenks plc. In 1984, Paterson Jenks plc was bought by McCormick & Company. Legend has it (mainly due to the picture on the label) that Camp Coffee was originally developed as an instant coffee for military use. The label is classical in tone, drawing on the romance of the British Raj. It includes a drawing of a seated Gordon Highlander (supposedly Major General Sir Hector MacDonald) being served by a Sikh soldier holding a tray with a bottle of essence and jug of hot water. They are in front of a tent, at the apex of which flies a flag bearing the drink's slogan, "Ready Aye Ready". A later version of the label, introduced in the mid-20th century, removed the tray from the picture, thus removing the infinite bottles element and was seen as an attempt to avoid the connotation that the Sikh was a servant, although he was still shown waiting while the kilted Scottish soldier sipped his coffee. The current version, introduced in 2006, depicts the Sikh as a soldier, now sitting beside the Scottish soldier, and with a cup and saucer of his own. Camp Coffee is an item of British nostalgia, because many remember it from their childhood. It is still a popular ingredient for home bakers making coffee-flavoured cake and coffee-flavoured buttercream. In late 1975, Camp Coffee temporarily became a popular alternative to instant coffee in the UK, after the price of coffee doubled due to shortages caused by heavy frosts in Brazil.

 

****A bandeau is a narrow band of fabric worn round the head to hold the hair in position. Although bandeaus existed long before the 1920s, there was a resurgence in popularity for embroidered grosgrain ribbons to be worn around the head across the forehead in the 1920s, and they are synonymous with 1920s flapper fashion.

 

*****The first successful artificial silks were developed in the 1890s of cellulose fibre and marketed as art silk or viscose, a trade name for a specific manufacturer. In 1924, the name of the fibre was officially changed in the U.S. to rayon, although the term viscose continued to be used in Europe.

 

******Although obscure as to its origin, the term “giggling Gertie” is of English derivation and was often used in a derisive way to describe silly children and young people, usually girls, who were deemed as being flippant and foolish.

 

*******Queen Alexandra was Queen of the United Kingdom and the British Dominions, and Empress of India, from the twenty-second of January 1901 to the sixth of May 1910 as the wife of King-Emperor Edward VII. Daughter of King Christian IX of Denmark, at the age of sixteen Alexandra was chosen as the future wife of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, the son and heir apparent of Queen Victoria. When she arrived in England she was famed for her beauty and her style of dress and bearing were copied by fashion-conscious women. From Edward's death, Alexandra was queen mother, being a dowager queen and the mother of the reigning monarch. Alexandra retained a youthful appearance into her senior years, but during the Great War her age caught up with her. She took to wearing elaborate veils and heavy makeup, which was described by gossips as having her face "enamelled".

 

********Although today we tend to say as “pleased as punch”, the Victorian term actually began as “proud as punch”. This expression refers to the Punch and Judy puppet character. Punch's name comes from Punchinello, an Italian puppet with similar characteristics. In Punch and Judy shows, the grotesque Punch is portrayed as self-satisfied and pleased with his evil actions.

 

*********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.

 

********** Selfridges, also known as Selfridges & Co., is a chain of upscale department stores in the United Kingdom that is operated by Selfridges Retail Limited, part of the Selfridges Group of department stores. It was founded by Harry Gordon Selfridge in 1908. Harry Gordon Selfridge, Sr. was an American-British retail magnate who founded the London-based department store. His twenty year leadership of Selfridge’s led to his becoming one of the most respected and wealthy retail magnates in the United Kingdom. He was known as the 'Earl of Oxford Street'.

 

***********Faille is a type of cloth with flat ribs, often made in silk. It has a softer texture than grosgrain, with heavier and wider cords or ribs. Weft yarns are heavier than warp, and it is manufactured in plain weaving. It was especially popular in the Nineteenth Century, and its popularity, although somewhat dwindling, did carry through into the early decades of the Twentieth Century.

 

This cosy domestic kitchen scene is a little different to what you might think, for whilst it looks very authentic, it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

On Hilda’s deal table stands her coffee grinder with its brass handle, wooden base and drawer, and red knobs. It comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The little Delftware canister and the white china bowl also come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. The coffee beans in the bowl are really black carraway seeds. The vase of flowers comes from an online shop on E-Bay.

 

Hilda’s Windsor chair is a hand-turned 1:12 artisan miniature which came from America. Unfortunately, the artist did not carve their name under the seat, but it is definitely an unmarked artisan piece.

 

In the background you can see a very modern and up-to-date 1920s gas stove. It would have been expensive to instal at the time, and it would have been the cook’s or maid’s pleasure to cook on and in. It would have included a thermostat for perfect cooking and without the need of coal, it was much cleaner to feed, use and easier to clean. It is not unlike those made by the Roper Stove Company in the 1920s. The Roper Stove Company previously named the Florence-Wehrle Company among other names, was founded in 1883. Located in Newark, Ohio, the company was once the largest stove producer in the world. Today, the Roper Stove Company is a brand of Whirlpool.

C506 and C504 climb the grade away from the tiny township of Tungamah as 5CM5 empty SSR grain train from Port Kembla to Oaklands

 

Friday 15th September 2017

Yosemite is situated in the Sierra Nevada mountain range and is one of the most famous and most visited national parks in the US. For those of us that love the outdoors, Yosemite has everything: granite cliffs, waterfalls, rivers, streams, lakes, mountains, meadows, glaciers and sequoia trees, Yosemite has enchanted many for a long time. Galen Clark first championed the protection of Yosemite Valley, leading Abraham Lincoln to sign the Yosemite Grant in 1864. He was followed by John Muir, whose efforts helped establish a larger area beyond the valley to be included in what was to become a national park. The park gained even more acclaim through the photography of Ansel Adams. Adams' photo of Half Dome in 1927 named "Monolith" and his subsequent amazing black-and-white photos made Yosemite a must-visit location to the public. Yosemite's popularity continues today as more than 5 million people visited the park for the first time in 2016.

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 at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie. Lettice is visiting her family home after receiving a strongly worded instruction from her father by letter to visit without delay or procrastination. Over luncheon, Lettice was berated by her parents for her recent decision to decorate the home of the upcoming film actress, Wanetta Ward. Lettice has a strained relationship with her mother at the best of times as the two have differing views about the world and the role that women have to play in it, and whilst receiving complaints about her choice of clients, Lettice was also scolded by mother for making herself unsuitable for any young man who might present as an eligible prospect. Although Lettice is undeniably her father’s favourite child, even he has been less than receptive to her recent choices of clients, which has put her a little out of favour with him. After Lady Sadie stormed out of the dining room over one of Lettice’s remarks, Viscount Wrexham implored his headstrong youngest daughter to try and make an effort with her mother, which is something she has been mulling over during her overnight stay.

 

Now Lettice stands in the grand Robert Adam decorated marble and plaster entrance hall of her family home as she prepares to take her leave. Outside on the gravel driveway, Harris the chauffer has the Chetwynd’s 1912 Daimler ready to drive her to the Glynes village railway station for the one fifteen to London. She has bid farewell to her brother Leslie and her father. Now there is just one final member of the family whom she needs to say goodbye to.

 

“Thank you Marsden.” Lettice remarks to the liveried first footman as he carries the last of Lettice’s luggage out to the Daimler.

 

“I hope you have a safe journey back to London, My Lady.” Bramley, the Chetwynd’s butler remarks as he walks into the entrance hall to see Lettice off.

 

“Thank you, Bramley,” Lettice replies. “Oh, I’m glad you are here. Do you know where my Mother might be?”

 

Considering her question, the old butler looks to the upper levels and ceiling of the hall before replying knowingly. “Well, it is still mid-morning according to Her Ladyship, so I would imagine that she will be in the morning room. Shall I go and see, My Lady?”

 

“No thank you Bramley. You have more than enough to do I’m sure, managing this old pile of bricks, without doing that for me. I’m perfectly capable of seeking her out for myself.”

 

Turning on her heel, Lettice walks away from the butler, her louis heels echoing off the marble tiles around the entrance hall in her wake.

 

“Mamma?” Lettice trills with false cheer as she knocks with dread on the walnut door to the morning room.

 

When there is no reply to her call, she considers two possibilities: either her mother is still in a funk with her and not speaking to her after the scene in the dining room yesterday, or she isn’t in the morning room at all. Both are as likely as each other. Taking a deep breath, she turns the handle and opens the door, calling her mother again as she does so.

 

The Glynes morning room is very much Lady Sadie’s preserve, and the original classical Eighteenth Century design has been overlayed with the comfortable Edwardian clutter of continual and conspicuous acquisition that is the hallmark of a lady of her age and social standing. China cabinets of beautiful porcelain line the walls. Clusters of mismatched chairs unholstered in cream fabric, tables and a floral chaise lounge, all from different eras, fill the room: set up to allow for the convivial conversation of the great and good of the county after church on a Sunday. The hand painted Georgian wallpaper can barely be seen for paintings and photographs in ornate gilded frames. The marble mantelpiece is covered by Royal Doulton figurines and more photos in silver frames. Several vases of flowers stand on occasional tables, but even their fragrance cannot smother her mother’s Yardley Lily of the Valley scent. Lady Sadie is nowhere to be seen but cannot have been gone long judging by her floral wake.

 

Walking over to the Eighteenth Century bonheur de jour* that stands cosily in a corner of the room, Lettice snorts quietly with derision as she looks at the baby photograph of Leslie, her eldest brother, which stands in pride of place in a big silver frame on the desk’s serpentine top, along with a significantly smaller double frame featuring late Nineteenth Century younger incarnations of her parents. Lettice, her sister Lally and brother Lionel have been relegated to a lesser hanging space on the wall, as befits the children seen as less important by their mother. Everything has always been about Leslie as far as their mother is concerned, and always has been for as long as Lettice can remember.

 

Lettice runs her fingers idly over several books sitting open on the desk’s writing space. There is a costume catalogue from London and a book on Eighteenth Century hairstyles. “Making plans for the Hunt Ball.” Lettice muses with a smile. It is then that she notices a much thicker book below the costume catalogue which has a familiar looking worn brown leather cover with a gilt tooled inlay. Moving the catalogue Lettice finds a copy of Debrett’s**

 

“Oh Mamma!” she exhales with disappointment as she shakes her head.

 

As she picks it up, she dislodges a partially written letter in her mother’s elegant copperplate hand from beneath it. Lettice knows she shouldn’t read it but can’t help herself as she scans the thick white paper embossed with the Wrexham coat of arms. Its contents make her face go from its usual creamy pallor to red with frustration.

 

“Ahh! Lettice!” Lady Sadie’s crisp intonation slices the silence as she walks into the morning room and discovers her daughter standing over her desk. “Heading back to London, are we?” she continues cheerily as she observes her daughter dressed in her powder blue travelling coat, matching hat and arctic fox fur stole. She smiles as she indicates to the desk’s surface. “I’m making plans for my outfit for the Hunt Ball. I thought I might come as Britannia this year.”

 

Lettice doesn’t answer her mother immediately as she continues to stare down at the letter next to her mother’s silver pen and bottle of ink. Remembering her father’s request, she draws upon her inner strength to try and remain civil as she finally acknowledges, “How appropriate that you should come as the all-conquering female warrior.”

 

“Lettice?” Lady Sadie remarks quizzically.

 

“Perhaps you might like to reconsider your choice of costume and come as my faerie godmother, since I’m coming as Cinderella.”

 

“Oh, now that’s a splendid idea! Although I don’t…”

 

“Or better yet, come as cupid instead!” Lettice interrupts her mother hotly, anger seething through her clipped tones as she tries to keep her temper.

 

“Now you’re just being foolish, Lettice,” Lady Sadie replies as she walks towards her daughter, the cheerful look on her face fading quickly as she notices the uncovered copy of Debrett’s on her desk’s surface.

 

“Not at all, Mamma! I think it’s most apt considering what you are trying to do.”

 

“Trying to do? What on earth are you talking about Lettice?” the older woman chuckles awkwardly, her face reddening a little as she reaches her bejewelled right hand up to the elegant strand of collar length pearls at her throat.

 

Lettice picks up the letter, dangling it like an unspoken accusation between herself and her mother before looking down at it and reading aloud, “My dear Lillie, we haven’t seen you at Glynes for so long. Won’t you, Marmaduke and Jonty consider coming to the Hunt Ball this year? Do you remember how much Jonty and my youngest, Lettice, used to enjoy playing together here as children? I’m sure that now that they are both grown, they should be reacquainted with one another.” She lowers her hand and drops the letter on top of the edition of Debrett’s like a piece of rubbish before looking up at her mother, giving her a cool stare.

 

“It isn’t ladylike to read other people’s correspondence, Lettice!” Lady Sadie quips as she marches up to her desk and snatches the letter away from Lettice’s reach, lest her daughter should cast it into the fire cracking peaceably in the grate.

 

“Is it ladylike to arrange the lives of two strangers without discussing it?”

 

“It has long been the prerogative of mothers to arrange their children’s marriages.” The older woman defends herself. “And you and Jonty Hastings aren’t strangers, Lettice. You and he…”

 

“Haven’t seen each other since we were about six years old, when we played in the hedgerows together and had tea in the nursery with Nanny Webb after she had washed the mud off us!”

 

“Well, all the better for the two of you to become reacquainted then, as I’m suggesting to his mother.” She runs her fingers along the edges of the letter in her hands defiantly. “And I am going to send this letter, Lettice,” Her voice gathers a steely tone of determination. “Whether you like it, or lump it.”

 

“Yes, Pappa told me after you,” she pauses for a moment to consider her words carefully. “Left, us at luncheon yesterday, that you had been making some discreet enquiries about inviting some eligible young bachelors for me to the ball this year.”

 

“And so I have, Lettice.” Lady Sadie sniffs. “Since you seem incapable of finding yourself a suitable match even after your successful debut London Season, I have taken it upon myself to do some…”

 

“Matchmaking, Mamma?”

 

“Arranging, Lettice. Tarquin Howard, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes…”

 

“Sir John is as old as the hills!” Lettice splutters in disbelief. “You surely can’t imagine I’d consider him a likely prospect!”

 

“Sir John is an excellent match, Lettice. You can hardly fail to see how advantageous it would be to marry him.”

 

“Once I look past the twenty five, no more, years age difference. No, better he be chased by some social climbing American woman looking for an entrée into the society pages. Perhaps I should ask Miss Ward to the ball. I’m sure she would love to meet Sir John.”

 

Lady Sadie’s already pale face drains of any last colour at the thought of an American moving picture star walking into her well planned ball. “Well, if you won’t countenance Sir John, I’ve also invited Edward Lambley and Selwyn Spencely.”

 

“Selwyn Spencely?” Lettice laughs. “The guest list just gets more and more implausable.”

 

“What’s so implausible about Selwyn Spencely, Lettice? The Spencelys are a very good family. Selwyn has a generous income which will only increase when he eventually takes his father’s place as the next Viscount Markham. He inherited a house in Belgravia from his grandfather when he came of age, so you two can continue to live in London until you become chatelaine of Markham Park.”

 

“Can you hear yourself, Mamma?” Lettice cries as she raises her arms in exasperation, any good will she tried to muster for her Mother quickly dissipating. “Do you want to pick what wedding gown I am to wear too?” Lettice laughs again. “Selwyn and I haven’t laid eyes on each other for almost as long as Jonty and I.”

 

“Well, he’s grown into a very handsome young man, Lettice. I’ve seen his photograph in The Lady.” Her mother bustles across the end of the floral chaise where a pile of well fingered magazines sit. “Look, I can show you.”

 

“Oh, please don’t Mamma!” Lettice throws her hands up in protest. “Please don’t add insult to injury.”

 

Lady Sadie turns around, a hurt look on her face. “How can you say that to me, Lettice? I’m only trying to do right by you, by securing a suitable and advantageous marriage for you.”

 

“But what about love, Mamma?” Lettice sighs. “What if I don’t wish to marry at all? What if I am happy just running my interior design business.”

 

“Oh what nonsense, Lettice! The younger generation are so tiresome. All this talk of love! I blame those moving pictures your Ward woman stars in that you and your friends all flock to slavishly! Your Father and I had our marriage arranged. We weren’t in love.” She emphasises the last two words with a withering tone. “We’d only even met a handful of times before we were married. Love came naturally in time, and look how happy we are.” She smiles smugly with self satisfaction. “And as for your business, you aren’t Syrie Maugham***, Lettice. You’ve always been told, from an early age, that your duty as a daughter of a member of this great and noble family, even as the youngest daughter, is to marry and marry well.” She sinks onto the chaise. “This foolishness about interior design,” She flaps her glittering fingers distractedly at Lettice. “Will have to end when you get married. Whether it be Jonty, Nicolas or Selwyn, you’ll have to give it up. No respectable man of position and good breeding will have his wife working as a decorator! He’d be ashamed!”

 

At her mother’s harsh words, Lettice abandons any attempt to try and make an effort with her. She looks up to the ornate white painted plaster ceiling and crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the room as she clenches her hands into fists. “Well,” she looks angrily at her mother. “We wouldn’t want my future husband to be ashamed of my success, now would we?”

 

“What success, Lettice?” her mother scoffs. “You were only able to decorate Gwendolyn’s small drawing room because I asked her to allow you to do it.”

 

“I’ve plenty of clients now, no thanks to you, Mamma!”

 

“Dickie and Margot don’t count, dear,” Lady Sadie replies dismissively as she fingers the edges of a copy of the Tattler distractedly. “They are your friends. Of course they were going to ask you to decorate their house.”

 

Lettice gasps as though her mother just punched all the air out of her chest. She stands, silent for a moment, her face flushing with embarrassment and anger. “You’ve always been so cruel to me Mamma, ever since I was little.”

 

“And you’ve always been so stubborn and obstinate, ever since you were a child! Goodness knows what I did to deserve a wilful daughter. Lally was so lovely and pliable, and certainly no trouble to marry off.” She folds her hands neatly in her lap over her immaculately pressed tweed skirt and looks up at her daughter. “I don’t mean to be harsh, Lettice, but someone has to make you see sense. Goodness knows your Father can’t, what with him wound around your little finger! You will have to marry eventually, Lettice, and preferably soon. It’s a foregone conclusion. It’s what is expected of you, and as I said yesterday, you aren’t getting any younger, and you certainly don’t want to be left stuck on the shelf. Just think of the shame it would bring you.”

 

“More think of the shame it would bring you, Mamma.” Lettice spits bitterly. “To have a daughter who is a spinster, an old maid, and in trade to boot!”

 

“Now there is no need to be overtly nasty, Lettice.” Lady Sadie mutters brittlely. “It’s unbecoming.”

 

A little gilt clock on an occasional table chimes one o’clock prettily.

 

“Mamma, however much I would love to sit here and share bitter quips and barbs with you all day over a pot of tea, I really do have to leave!” Lettice says with finality. “I have a train to catch. Gerald and I have a reservation at the Café Royal**** tonight.” She walks over to her mother, bends down and goes to kiss her cheek, but the older woman stiffens as she averts her daughter’s touch. Lettice sighs as she raises herself up again. “I’ll see you in a week for Dickie and Margot’s wedding and then after that for Bonfire Night*****.”

 

“Hopefully you’ll have come to your senses about marriage and this ridiculous designing business by then.”

 

Lettice raises her head proudly and takes a deep breath before turning away from her mother and walks with a purposeful stride across the room. “No I won’t, Mamma.” she says defiantly. As she opens the door to leave the morning room, she turns back to the figure of her mother sitting facing away from her towards the fire. “Pappa asked me to make an effort at the Hunt Ball, and I will. I will dance and flirt with whomever you throw in my general direction, be they old, blind or bandy-legged.” She sees her mother’s shoulders stiffen, indicating silently that she is listening, even if she doesn’t want to acknowledge that she is. “However, be under no pretence Mamma. I am doing it for him, and not you.”

 

“Lettice…” Lady Sadie’s voice cracks.

 

“And,” Lettice cuts her off sharply. “No matter who I dance with, or charm, I will not marry any of them. Goodbye Mamma.”

 

Lettice closes the door quietly behind her and walks back down the hallway to the entrance hall. She walks through the front doors with her head aloof, and steps into the back of the waiting Daimler. Marsden closes its door and Harris starts the engine. The chauffer can sense the tension seething through his passenger as she huffs and puffs in the spacious rear cabin, dabbing her nose daintily with a lace edged handkerchief, so he remains quiet as he steers the car down the sweeping driveway. As the car pulls away from Glynes basking in the early afternoon autumnal sun, Lettice can almost feel two sets of eyes on her back: one pair from her father looking sadly out from the library and the other her mother’s peering critically from behind the morning room curtains.

 

*A bonheur de jour is a type of lady's writing desk. It was introduced in Paris by one of the interior decorators and purveyors of fashionable novelties called marchands-merciers around 1760, and speedily became intensely fashionable. Decorated on all sides, it was designed to sit in the middle of a room so that it could be admired from any angle.

 

**The first edition of Debrett's Peerage of England, Scotland, and Ireland, containing an Account of all the Peers, 2 vols., was published in May 1802, with plates of arms, a second edition appeared in September 1802, a third in June 1803, a fourth in 1805, a fifth in 1806, a sixth in 1808, a seventh in 1809, an eighth in 1812, a ninth in 1814, a tenth in 1816, an eleventh in 1817, a twelfth in 1819, a thirteenth in 1820, a fourteenth in 1822, a fifteenth in 1823, which was the last edition edited by Debrett, and not published until after his death. The next edition came out in 1825. The first edition of The Baronetage of England, containing their Descent and Present State, by John Debrett, 2 vols., appeared in 1808. Today, Debrett's is a British professional coaching company, publisher and authority on etiquette and behaviour. It was founded in 1769 with the publication of the first edition of The New Peerage. The company takes its name from its founder, John Debrett.

 

***Syrie Maugham was a leading British interior decorator of the 1920s and 1930s and best known for popularizing rooms decorated entirely in shades of white. She was the wife of English playwright and novelist William Somerset Maugham.

 

****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.

 

****Guy Fawkes Day, also called Bonfire Night, British observance, celebrated on November the fifth, commemorating the failure of the Gunpowder Plot of 1605. Guy Fawkes and his group members acted in protest to the continued persecution of the English Catholics. Today Guy Fawkes Day is celebrated in the United Kingdom, and in a number of countries that were formerly part of the British Empire, with parades, fireworks, bonfires, and food. Straw effigies of Fawkes are tossed on the bonfire, as are—in more recent years in some places—those of contemporary political figures. Traditionally, children carried these effigies, called “Guys,” through the streets in the days leading up to Guy Fawkes Day and asked passersby for “a penny for the guy,” often reciting rhymes associated with the occasion, the best known of which dates from the Eighteenth Century.

 

Cluttered with paintings, photographs and furnishings, Lady Sadie’s morning room with its Georgian furnishings is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The books on Lady Sadie’s desks are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. Therefore, it is a pleasure to give you a glimpse inside two of the books he has made. One of the books is a French catalogue of fancy dress costumes from the late Nineteenth Century, and the other is a book of Georgian hairstyes. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into these volumes, each book contains twelve double sided pages of illustrations and they measure thirty-three millimetres in height and width and are only three millimetres thick. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. The 1908 Debrett’s Peerage book is also made by Ken Blythe, but does not open. He also made the envelopes sitting in the rack to the left of the desk and the stamps you can see next to the ink bottle. The stamps are 2 millimetres by two millimetres each! Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just two of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

On the desk is a 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottle and a silver pen, both made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles is made from a tiny faceted crystal bead and has a sterling silver bottom and lid.

 

The Chetwynd’s family photos seen on the desk and hanging on the walls are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are almost all from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each. The largest frame on the right-hand side of the desk is actually a sterling silver miniature frame. It was made in Birmingham in 1908 and is hallmarked on the back of the frame. It has a red leather backing.

 

The vase of primroses in the middle of the desk is a delicate 1:12 artisan porcelain miniature made and painted by hand by Ann Dalton.

 

The desk and its matching chair is a Salon Reine design, hand painted and copied from an Eighteenth Century design, made by Bespaq. All the drawers open and it has a lidded rack at either end. Bespaq is a high-end miniature furniture maker with high attention to detail and quality.

 

The wallpaper is a copy of an Eighteenth Century blossom pattern.

A Deep Hug and Hearfelt thank you to my Friend Emma for playing along

 

www.flickr.com/photos/193415394@N05

 

Masquerade Ball

 

“Raffles” Pitch

 

“Cheerio” A J Raffles at your service. Don’t know if any of you have ever heard of me, but I’ve been accused of being a man of many talents, but by no means was that always said as a compliment.

 

Also, I do love playing cricket.

 

Batting in a cricket match produces for me the same flow of adrenaline as that of my secret game: Jewel Thievery.

 

A J Raffles is a fictional character whom I admire for the introduction above. For I am, like him, a professional Jewel Thief.

 

And tonight was no exception as far as any adrenaline flow Raffles would have felt, for I was experiencing what I can imagine was the same exhilaration.

 

This evening I was attending a surprisingly posh masquerade ball being held at a large venue in Wales.

 

It was a very elegant affair, with the many ladies present putting on their most pretty attire and wearing out that evening, their most expensive vault kept baubles.

 

The venue seated about 500 guests with a raised dance floor at one end, next to a fully stocked bar and a large outside balcony overlooking some rose gardens lined by old woods.

 

I had decided to attire myself as said Raffles for a tongue-in-cheek tribute to what I hoped to gain this evening.

 

Mostly to gain some jewels by parting some of the ladies from the lovely ones they were wearing. Which, here tonight, presented a plethora of opportunities.

 

I would try and make it as pleasant as it possibly could be for my chosen female victims as my fingers worked over their exquisitely clad figures while removing their valuable jewels.

 

I find that a few kind words, some attention, and possibly dancing produced a little sugar that helps with the bitter pill I am giving them to swallow

 

This evening I was wearing all black attire of tails, vest, shirt, and tie. Since it was a masquerading affair, I wore a black phantom of the opera half mask. Since this was business as well as pleasure I was wearing no gentlemanly gloves, needing my nimbly flexible fingers to be free.

 

After I entered I made several slow rounds to learn the layout, doing some light mingling along the way.

 

The odd thing about this masquerading ball was that there were no fancy costumes. Everyone was dressed in their best evening out attire, with masks just added.

 

I made a catch right away as I impressed an older matronly lady enough that she called over her 30 something daughter to meet me.

 

It was now my turn to be impressed.

 

The daughter, Celcia, was dressed in a very elegant long-sleeved dress of silver satin. Her jewels were all set with diamonds. Her silver half mask is set in rhinestones.

 

We went off alone to look over the gardens from the balcony.

 

We guess what each other is “masked” as. I told her she must be “Lucy”

“Lucy?” she questioned

 

I laughed lifting her silky hair up and then running my fingers down the side of her long swaying diamond earrings, as I said. “lucy in the sky with diamonds. “

 

“Good guess, but I'm just Cecelia, not anyone else. And you sir, are you an undertaker?”

 

I chuckled. “ Not quite as dark as that, I'm shooting for a Raffles image tonight.”

 

“Well Mr. Raffles, not sure who you are, but it is my pleasure to meet you.”

 

We chatted for a bit more, then Celcia was called back inside by her mother who stood by the balcony entrance.

 

I took her hand, rings flashing. “ the pleasure is all mine dear ‘only Ceclia’l said grinning.

 

She rewarded me for my praise with a clingy hug.

 

I watched her leave with clenched fists, her gown swishing along down her figure quite provocatively. I opened one of my fists and admired the diamond bracelet that lay there. Her now naked wrist was covered up by the silver satin cuffed sleeve of the lovely Cecilia's dress, hiding her loss.

 

£23,000

 

I slipped it inside a hidden pocket of my vest, and patting it, went back inside.

 

The band had started playing and the dance floor was fast filling up.

 

I spied a group of ladies wearing feathery masks who were huddled at one end of the floor, blocking an aisleway, watching the assembling dancing couples. I approached and overheard that they were waiting for their partners to come back from the bar.

 

Since they were blocking my path, I went up and asked if I could cut through. They obligingly parted and as I went in between them one of the ladies tripped against another as I ‘accidentally’ stepped on her satin gowns’ long train as she moved to make way. I caught her and apologized as I held her, my fingers freely feeling along down her figure. I helped her back on her high heels, steadying her. Helping myself at the same time to the leaf-shaped diamond studded clip that was pinned to the side of her chocolate brown gown.

 

The diamond-studded clip soon joined the pocketed diamond bracelet.

 

£18,000

 

My third score that evening almost literally fell into my lap.

 

I had ordered a brandy at the bar figuring to take a brief respite. There were two ladies next to me chatting away. The one immediately next to me kept bumping against me as she laughed at almost everything the other lady was saying.

 

I didn't mine, for her thicke wine-colored silk blouse was a pleasure to feel rubbing up against me. Also, a pleasure to see where the magnificently large rings she was wearing on her fingers as well as the diamonds wrapped around her wrist.

 

Then it happened. The laughing lady’s friend knocked their drinks over. Some of which happily splashed on my arm.

 

As apologies were given and received, with much giggling, I came to the rescue with my silk handkerchief.

 

Lending it to them I allowed them to wipe themselves up. As we chatted, the lady next to me finished with it and handed it back. I took up her fingers as she did, and holding them down lifted and kissed the back of her hand. I also was running my damp handkerchief over her still wet fingers as I did, easily slipping of her largest flashy cocktail ring in the process.

 

£ 9500

 

Then the dancing began in earnest.

 

I was now sitting at a table on the outside balcony, watching the crowded dance floor and the amazing show of the ladies flowing attire, and their flickering jewels, that were being showcased there.

 

Also in my view was a table where a handsome bearded male was enviably sitting alone with not one, but two attractively attired and ornamented lades.

 

One lady was wearing a black satin blouse with a long thicke red velvet skirt. She was wearing rubies and diamonds around her throat and wrists that were just a treat to look at, and covet.

 

The other was fashionably wearing a slick satin high necked gown of deep red that spilled down along her figure in a most scintillating manner. Her jewellery was a winning collection of diamonds worn seemingly everywhere from her figure. Of those, I would award a purple ribbon to the dangling necklace that lay around and fell from her throat that dripped columns of diamonds down the front of her sheer red gown, as the best in the show.

 

I saw the man rise, and pull out the chair of the lady wearing the rubies. He then led her off to the upper dance floor, unknowingly leaving the lady in red vulnerably alone.

 

I saw the remaining lady stand up and with what I imagined to be a whimsical manner, walked to the edge of the balcony.

 

I started to rise.

 

But a gold mask-wearing bloke from another table approached her before I had half risen and began talking to her. I learned then that her name was Emma.

 

What was odd is that the man had been sitting at a table with a lady wearing a sky blue satin dress, black satin jacket, and pearls. She looked very sad watching her gold mask-wearing tablemate talking to Emma.

 

I had dejectedly sat back down, watching with curious interest.

 

The gold masked bloke took Emma by the hand and led her to the dance floor.

 

I saw the lady in sky blue satin, and the pricey pearl slowly rises and follow.

 

As then, did I.

 

The lady in blue was standing in the side of the dancefloor, her posture told me she was both sad and dejected.

 

I went up and stood next to her. Without looking at me the lady in sky blue sleek satin said...

 

“Why are men such idiots?” then she looked at me, and blushed apologetically “I am so sorry.”

 

I held up my hand. “Apology accepted, a dance though would help ease the pain.”

 

She eagerly went with me and taking her warm, soft figure in my arms we joined in.

 

She did not appear to want any conversation from me. I let her hold tightly against me. We danced in silence, both lost in our own respective thoughts.

 

I had decided that a dance would not be enough to ‘ease my pain’ and as she distractedly looked around for the gold masked bloke dancing with Emma, I allowed my hand the move up to her shoulder, then over to the single strand of glistening pearls that lay around her throat.

 

Easily locating, then slipping open, the hinged silver clasp, I gently pulled the slippery smooth necklace away from around her neck and quickly pocketed it.

 

£ 8700

 

I had no sooner done so than I felt her shake, and saw that we were now close to the gold masked male dancing with Emma. One would need a crowbar to separate him from her. I could tell Emma was not enjoying herself.

 

I was watching, with melancholy interest, Emma’s diamonds dripping down from the necklace that lay low along the high neckline of her luxurious red satin gown, just dangling below her breasts.

 

A desiring fire was starting to stir from deep within, my fingers felt like curling. So close and yet so far...

 

I turned my partner around so we were facing away. I started to say something when I felt an unexpected, firm tap on my shoulder.

 

Well, one could imagine where my mind went as I turned my head.

 

Relieved, I saw that it was not one of the rental security men.

 

It was the gold masked table partner of the lady in blue satin I was dancing with.

 

I saw his more recent partner, Emma, the one in red whose dazzling necklace was a stirring lure, standing there in the middle of the dance floor, alone and confused.

 

“Switch partners.” He told me, it was not a question.

 

I looked at mine and she nodded ok.

 

I left her to be grasped up in his arms and went to Emma, the lady in red, who willingly came into mine.

 

“What then, was that all about? I asked smiling.

 

Emma answered with a giggle. “ He was telling her he wanted to see other women. But she is not supposed to he dancing with other men, especially handsome ones like you!”

 

With a shy nod of my head I thanked her, telling her that I thought she looked extraordinarily beautiful this evening.

 

Sweetly smiling she turned her head down with blushing cheeks, thanking me.

 

My hand meanwhile, which had been resting motionless along her shoulder, moved to her throat, my fingers blindly seeking and locating the clasp of her necklace.

 

My partner felt none of that.

 

It was as she nodded after my words of praise that I flicked apart the jewelled chains’ clasp that my fingers had fiddled open.

 

As she looked back up I began to delicately slip the diamond chain up over her shoulder, watching as the diamonds hanging from its’ centre were gliding up effortlessly from along the front of her red satin gown, then up and around the gowns’ slick high neckline, before disappearing from my view.

 

She smiled most fetchingly into my eyes, oblivious to the fact her heavily jeweled diamond necklace had been disappearing over her shoulder.

 

£ 58000

 

The music was ending and I happened to look over by the double oak doors of the main entrance on the opposite side of the mammoth hall.

 

Who did I spy but the lady in the sleek sky blue satin dress and smooth black jacket being led out by the gold mask-wearing bloke who had cut in on us? I saw an opportunity to plant a seed.

 

I pointed it out to Emma. “Wonder where they are off too in such a hurry?”

 

“They do appear to be on a mission,” said Emma watching.

 

“I hope they weren't up to something?” I said suspiciously.

 

“Like what ?” Emma asked watching the couple scurrying out the door.

 

“Oh, nothing. I guess I read too many mystery novels. I answered stealing a look at the now bare neckline of Emma’s gown.

 

The music ended and I walked Emma back to the balcony. Her table was deserted so I took her over and seated her before taking my leave.

 

I began to make another round of the tables inside. On the lookout for fresh prey amongst the beautifully attired female guests.

 

I soon snagged a young damsel who had been deserted by her friends and looked bored. Not boring were the collection of rubies she was wearing with her elaborate maroon taffeta puffy ball gown that would have shamed a princess.

 

I asked and got permission to dance with her. She asked me who I was this evening. When I mentioned Raffle’s name she, unfortunately, caught on to who he was.

 

“Oh a thief, will make sure to lock my rubies up this evening to keep them safe! She giggled touching her handsome ruby and diamond necklace

 

I thought to myself... “Well, they are now.” while saying. “ I was thinking of him being a cricket player, not a thief.”

 

We both laughed over that, but I knew this one was a dead end. I could not wait until the dance was through so I could resume the hunt. I really had thought none of the younger ones would have ever read about AJ Raffles and that it would be my inside joke.

 

We parted after the dance, she headed off happily back to her friends.

 

I was watching her, deciding what to do next, when a soft gloved hand unexpectedly rested on my shoulder.

 

Turning, my eyes took in a young lady in downy soft, flowy peach chiffon over a shiny pink silk number, along with a row of sparkling matched diamonds around her throat. And earrings to match, as well as a thin band of diamonds holding back her freshly washed chestnut coloured hair. She wore a striking blue mask with ostrich feathers.

 

She shyly asked if I was available for the next dance. And I happily told her I was. She put her head down blushing. And I was able to savor her delectably pretty matched diamond stone necklace.

 

I whisked her off to the upper dance floor as the music began.

 

When the inevitable questions came up as to who I was this evening I answered...”The cricket player Raffles, at your service.”

 

She laughed with a Twitter. “Quite pleasant to meet you cricket player Raffles.” then she moved her hand higher up my back and came in a little closer.

 

I followed suit, feeling her hot figure slip in against my own. My fingers at her waist kept moving up until I reached the back of her neck. Carefully undoing her necklace I gave it a slight tug, figuring her soft smooth gown would allow the rest of my trick to work. It did, slipping off easily from around her throat, slithering like a glimmering snake up over her shoulder, out of my sight, and into my waiting hand behind her back.

 

My pretty dance partner felt nothing, as I then pocketed her expensive necklace.

 

£42,000

 

I then calmly began to finish the dance.

 

It was then, as I was looking down at the area below the raised platform of the dance floor, that I spotted something shiny, then a flashing brilliant fire erupted, all coming from one of the tables below the dancing areas raised platform.

 

I maneuvered us in closer for a better peek.

 

I made out a lone female sitting at a side table.

 

It was the vivid deep green of her shiny party dress that then first caught my eye.

 

It was the amazingly brilliant sparklers she was sporting from various points of interest along her delightful figure, especially the fiery necklace she was playing with, that finished the capture.

 

Only real jewels, or a remarkably good set of imitations, would produce that kind of bright gleaming shimmer!

 

I was betting they were real.

 

She was vulnerable, sitting there quite remarkably alone at her side table, drinking slowly from a small goblet of wine. Sitting there wearing in all appearances to be a collection of diamond sparklers that would easily be worth a cool £50 to £75 thousand of what the London ruffians would call “ice”.

 

They would also be rudely calling her “that loaded bird”. But to me, she was a rather fetchingly adorned Lass who needed some company, and perhaps just a wee bit of trimming.

 

The dance ended and I calmly led my partner back to her table before taking my leave. Though trying not to appear in a hurry. I still politely declined her offer to join in a drink at her table.

 

Then with eager anticipation, circled about hoping that the girl I had spotted was still there, and still alone.

 

When I got there I saw to my dismay that the bird had flown the coup. The table was deserted

 

I waited a few long minutes, eyeing around for other opportunities in the area, then my eyes lit up as I saw her coming back, alone.

 

I observed her for a satisfying few long minutes from a shadowy corner. She was younger than anyone I had yet met, but it was impossible to determine how young.

 

And she obviously was bored.

 

Intriguingly I could still not truly tell about the authenticity of her amazing collection of diamonds from my vantage.

 

The set was decidedly quite lovely, consisting of a dangling chain set with I guess were diamond chips and ending with a swaying diamond heart-shaped pendant, matching long earrings, a wide bracelet, and numerous shimmering rings.

 

The earrings were brilliant, falling from her ears in sheets of (synthetic/real ?) diamonds, larger stones were set at the earrings clasp, and they shone like the real thing.

 

They all contributed to making up the shimmer that surrounded her figure like some wickedly glittering halo.

  

She was wearing a black bandits mask, which I felt added to the mystic.

  

This young chick was certainly jeweled up, calling out to be looked into further.

 

I approached her from behind, placing a hand delicately upon a plushly soft shoulder, and daringly gave a greeting as I felt her startled figure flinch.

  

I cheerfully said, “Hello Samantha.”

 

She turned and said apologizing,

 

“I’m not Samantha, wrong girl.”

 

I answered back, disappointed “ No, you certainly are not my friend Samantha.”

 

I then carefully looked her over, up and down… before saying.

 

“Far prettier, if I dare say.”

 

I had ascertained by now that she was quite a bit younger than 20. And that most of her jewelry was quite good imitation’s. Her heart shaped pendent contained real diamonds, but not valuable enough for my attention. The only fly in the ointment was her earrings. They appeared to be worth quite a bit actually.

 

I decided to hold off judgment and went on playing her on. Much like a fly fisherman will play a trout, not sure if he still wants to actually land it.

 

I went on…

“Well stranger, How do you do, Hold anyone up lately?”

 

I had taken her off guard and she did not answer back right away.

 

She gulped., obviously making a decision.

 

She sweetly raised a hand. “How do you do sir, my name is Nancy, and no, despite the mask, I'm not a thief.”

 

Taking her hand I kissed it with much pageantry. “Pleasure is all mine, glad my watch and wallet are safe”. I chuckled merrily, looking down at her thoughtfully.

 

Then, still holding her hand, I boldly asked…” May I sit for a bit, rather tuckered out at the moment?”

 

She nodded her head without hesitation. Her flash earrings swayed with a beckoning motion.

 

I slipped in the seat in front of her, my back to the dance floor. She was looking at me with a curious smile.

 

I smiled back, asking…

 

“So Nancy, what then, does your character do for a living if she is not a thief?”

 

“ I am an amateur detective.”

 

I nodded before asking….

“ Well, that is quite interesting indeed, what kind of cases do you like working on?”

 

She did not know how to answer that and squirmed as I watchers her face turn red, really making the freckles show up on her cheeks.

 

I saved her discomfort by saying…

“ I bet you are really clever at catching thieves. And that is why you are here this evening? Or are you taking the night off?”

 

Taking the cue, She nodded saying in a low voice.

“No thieves here tonight.”

 

I laughed in what I hoped would be a winning manner while answering. “ I guess not, probably no reason for one to be here. So miss Nancy, you've not asked whom I am playing this evening.”

 

”Let me see, an Undertaker ?” ”Nancy,” said teasingly.

 

I chuckled..”Not even close. A.J. Raffles, cricketer, at your command my lady.”

 

She had no idea who A.J.Raffles was, I could see that. And I decided to enlighten her a bit by telling a story.

 

He chuckled. “Never heard of him? Well, Raffles loved to play cricket, as well as several other hobbies. And there is a story behind that, as a lad, that helped him choose his course as an adult. Care to hear it?”

 

She eagerly nodded yes, while taking a sip of wine.

 

I began my tale…

 

“When A.J. Raffles was a lad of ten he attended a wedding where his parents were both best man and maid of honor. A.J sat at a table with an older Great Auntie who paid him no heed.

 

He soon fell in with a group of bored older boys who had been throwing dice in a makeshift crown and anchor board. The game had been broken up by one of the servers and they had all been chased away

 

AJ was huddled in with that group as they watched the dressed-up wedding guests up on the dance floor. They began talking amongst themselves, commenting over the scene before them.

 

Look at dem jools the birds are wearing. Bet they'd be worth a lot. One of the lads said. Another quipped back that too bad those dames weren't their age. Yeah, like that would mean anything. What would you do, lift their jools? Came the teasing retort. Hell yeah, I would say a cocky lad. And someone else said I like to see you do it. AJ was taking all this in, squirming a bit because he had always had a secret desire to somehow make a collection of the pretty jewellery he'd seen ladies wearing. Tonight was no different.

 

“Nancy” smirked “Sounds like my brother.”

 

“There you go then, you know how he felt also “ I answered smiling curiously before continuing...

 

Well as fate would have it, two young teenage girls came walking past, purposefully close. They threw the group of boys a rather coy look while passing.

 

One was dressed in a slick satin high necked gown of deep red with a long rhinestone necklace and earrings. Her companion was wearing a sky blue sleek satin party dress, smooth black jacket, and strands of imitation pearls.

 

No sooner had they passed than the inner circle of boys began to dare and double dare. Money was put up in bets that enticed two of the lads to take up the challenge. That being to come away with the girl’s necklaces.

 

The two lads left, and as the others looked on, went up to the two young lassies and began to converse. The giggling girls finally allowed themselves to be led to the dance floor

 

As they began to dance, more bets were made amongst the remaining lads, with young AJ joining in. Spending his only farthing on blue satin losing her pearls, and doubling that it would be done without her noticing.

 

Both of the dancing boys made several amateur attempts upon their female partner’s jewels.

 

Blue satin, misinterpreting why her partner had his hand high up on her backside, giggled and fled away. Red satin ran off after her friend, but not before the wily lad who had been holding her had given even her a hug, nicking her shimmering necklace off from around the high collar of her slick gown as she struggled free.

 

He came back triumphantly to collect his winnings. Though some argued that seeing her necklace had not been touching skin it was not a real contest. He got his winnings in the end and the group wandered off, the prized necklace being passed around with envy.

 

AJ stayed behind contemplating. he watched as the lads stopped by a table where a young girl sat alone. She was wearing a long bridesmaid's gown of silk dyed in several shades of teal and green. A single string of real pearls hung down from her bare neck. Expensively swinging down elegantly. He knew what the group of lads was discussing in their private huddle. AJ moved off not wishing to see anymore.

 

“Those poor girls, I am glad your character walked away from that instead of embarking on a life of crime, “ said “Nancy” to me.

 

“Yes indeed. “ I answered, looking at my pretty partner. Her shiny emerald green blouse was mesmerizingly beautiful, but not quite as mesmerizing as the hanging rhinestone diamond chain and pendent she still wore due to my hesitation overtaking it.

 

My fingers curled seeking opportunity, cursing that I may have missed it.

 

“Nancy, out of curiosity, if I’m not prying, you mentioned your brother would like my Raffles’s story?”

 

Oh! I could see I hit a pleasant nerve, as she smiled excitedly at me, her hand playing with her pendant as she spoke, a bit hoarsely I noticed.

 

“Yes he would, your Raffle story is similar to a game he likes playing.”

 

“Please tell me more, it sounds like you have fun playing it,” I said, with curious intentions.

 

She giggled. “Well, we play it in the woods. I wear a play dress and play jewelry. My brother plays a thief who tries to rob me of my jewels. Then if he does, he hides and I play the detective trying to find him. I know it sounds rather odd.”

 

That really opened my eyes, and thoughts started to race through my head.

 

“I took her hand. “No, not at all odd, sounds rather exciting.”

 

So they like to play games of jewels stolen. Right up my alley. I thought to myself while eyeballing her necklace.

 

“No,” I said to myself. Not the necklace. If anything the earrings.”

 

But I could not see how It could be done. So I chased the teasingly tempting thought out of my head.

 

A silence ensued for a minute, and as I watched,” Nancy” was looking over my shoulder up at the raised platform of the dance floor behind me, watching something.

 

I turned around, following her eyes.

 

A man with a green cummerbund was dancing with an attractive redhead.

 

She was wearing an elegant eye-catching blue taffeta gown with a scooped neckline, ruffled half sleeves, and knee-length skirt. She was wearing what was probably her best jewels, a sapphire and diamond jewelry set that sparkled deliciously under the ceiling lights of the great banquet hall. The necklace was especially pretty. A heavy gold v shape set with large pear-shaped sapphires interspersed with smaller round diamonds. She wore a deep blue mask that covered her eyes and nose.

 

I turned back, and Nancy” dropped her eyes back onto mine.

I asked thoughtfully…

“I see you are looking at that lady, pretty in blue, with the sparkly sapphire jewels”

 

She guiltily nodded yes,

“If you wait a bit, you will meet them. That’s my mum and father.

 

I complimented her…

“You both are very pretty, if I may be so bold?”

Taking up her hand and I kissed it…

 

“But now, I must be toddling off, taken up too much of your time I’m afraid .”

 

We both stood up to say goodbye.

 

Shen then. Quite cheerfully, held out her hands for a friendly hug.

 

I did so willingly and my fingers securely patted up along her back. it felt very nice and I became aware of a rather pleasant prickling sensation causing a rise in my feelings.

 

“Well “Nancy” I hope you liked my Raffles story.

  

“Nancy” nodded yes, then asked me

“Do you think Raffles regretted not playing the games those boys were up to?”

 

Holding her hand, I patted down along her sleeve reassuringly… as I said

 

“I think Raffles is the type never to regret anything, what do you think?”

 

“Nancy” nodded her head happily satisfied. Her dazzling earrings flickered quite beautifully.

 

I smiled at myself broadly.

 

“Here “Nancy” allow me to get you seated.”

 

She sat. And as I gripped my fingers supportively along her arms as I slid the chair forward.

 

I then again lifted and kissed her hand.

 

“Righto” I nodded and was off.

 

I headed back around to the bar, when whom did I spy? “Nancy’s” mother, standing alone by the bar. I saw some drunken sod bump hard against her from behind, almost causing her to lose balance.

 

A handsome red-headed man was turning away from the bar holding a brandy and she fell against him.

 

It was her husband. The man she has been dancing with.

 

Laughing, the pair moved off.

 

Grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, I followed them out to the outside balcony. There I took a seat at my table and kept watch.

 

I watched as from another table, where a 40ish lady wearing a wedding ring was sitting alone, rise and began walking towards me.

 

She was resplendent in a long black sleeveless plush velvet gown, wearing long black satin gloves. Her pearl jewelry shone like do many small bright moons. Earrings, triple strand necklace, and a very wide bracelet set with not only valuably real pearls, but expensively with purple amethyst stones also.

 

The bracelet fits snugly around her shiny gloved wrist. And anyone in my profession knows a snug bracelet is a far simpler item to remove than a loose-fitting one.

 

The purple satin half-face mask she wore added much to her winningly pretty look.

 

She gave me the eye as she walked past and I rose to follow.

 

We ended up dancing. Her name, real name(and that of her character from the movie Breakfast at Tiffany's) was Holly.

 

Holly, like “Nancy”, had never heard of the Raffles character either.

 

I left her after we had danced, holding her heart.

 

The hand which she placed had placed over her heart, no longer sporting her expensively wide pearl and amethyst bracelet.

 

£ 23000

 

She then suddenly had to go to the loo and darted off. I looked back at her table and saw a man in a tiger-striped mask was pulling out a chair to sit there.

 

I also figured it was time to scurry off. I had gotten me one more score.

  

I went down the steps leading off the raised dance floor, running right into “Nancy’s” mum swishing her way around at the bottom of the platform

 

“Seize the day-old chap”

 

My thoughts of leaving were put on hold as I looked her pretty, and expensively attired, figure over.

 

I held her up, saying I needed to apologize.

 

She looked into my face, her eyes twinkling like her daughters. Her sapphire and diamond jewellery also twinkling. But unlike her daughter’s, these she was wearing were very real.

 

“Apologize for what?” she asked in all innocence. I could also tell she was a bit tipsy from drink. Which considerably lowered her guard with me.

 

“ I saw that twit rudely bumping against you at the bar earlier, without apologizing. So I am for him.” I said with a neat little bow.

 

“Aren't you just a dear." she gushed, blushing. Just like her daughter, she had freckles also.

 

“Would you husband mind if I offered a dance as a consolation?” I asked with daring.

 

“Oh, I think a quick one would be ok,” she said smiling, accepting my offer.

 

I placed my arm around her glossy taffeta sleek waist and led her to the lower dance area.

 

It was a slow dance, and I took her into my arms with a delightfully delicious feeling of anticipation. Her sleekly taffeta-covered figure was a pleasure to warmly hold in my arms, and her twinkling jewels a pleasure to watch.

 

I, with real curiosity, asked who she was playing at this evening. She replied,” miss Moneypenny” then asked who I was.

 

Not wishing to jinx my good fortune, I lied. “ I am an undertaker, here to collect souls”

 

She laughed looking sassily into my eyes.

 

“Liar”

 

“Ok then, I'm really a bad cricket player.”

 

“Really, bad as in naughty?” she asked pleasantly vexed.

 

This one is fun, I thought to myself. I wondered mischievously if she was the catalyst if her children’s play game ideas had been inherited from her?

 

But I asked no questions along those lines. Instead, I decided to test the water with a story.

 

I then went into a similar story that I had told “Nancy” except to her mother I changed to arena from a wedding reception to a cricket match, and the group of lads was trying to steal kisses, not jewels, from their chosen victims.

 

My partner listened with a deep reflective interest.

 

So intent was she in my tale, that I was able to easily undo her necklaces ‘clasp and watch the shimmering beauty being slipped away by me from up her front, then around her throat, finally to be pulled out of sight behind her back. All skillfully done without the cheerfully happy lady feeling absolutely anything amiss.

 

Just like her daughter I thought. Innocent and as trusting as a lamb before being fleeced for the first time by a mock shepherd.

 

And reflectively, both had been dressed as soft as downy chicks when they had both caught the eye of the same wiley gilded feather plucking fox.

 

These were the thoughts in the back of my mind as I stowed my dance partner's glittering sapphire and diamond necklace away...

 

£6300

 

I finished my story just a few seconds after the music ended. We broke apart only once I had finished.

 

She hugged me and gave me a peck on the cheek for being so nice

 

“Here is a stolen kiss,” she whispered

  

She then, (of course after nicking her necklace) mentioned that her husband was also a cricket player. With his bloody police station’s team!

 

I was stunned. Half wishing she had told me her husband was a “copper” before I had nicked her jewels.

 

Figuring I had now finally worn out my luck, and welcome, I made up an excuse of my own and watched as her shiny evening dress swished and swayed all along with her lovely figure while she made her way back towards the unseen table where I knew her pretty daughter was sitting.

 

“Bloody fool, I had taken the necklace off a copper’s wife...“

 

I murmured this, chastising myself, shaking my head at my folly as I stared off in disbelief.

 

Understandably I think, I then decided I should probably best be on my way home.

 

I had already planned my exit earlier, not knowing when I would be needing it.

 

Deciding to avoid at all costs leaving by the main doors by which I had come in, I had earlier discovered a small set of stone stairs that led off the balcony.

 

The stairs were narrow and hidden from the view of the balcony. A simple rope with an “Off Limits” sign guarded the entrance. They led down to the small patch of woods that lined the rose gardens.

 

On the far end of the woods was a small cemetery, next to which I had discreetly parked my 61 Lotus elite sports car.

 

I made my way to the balcony and looked around. There weren't that many guests left out there. A group of men smoking cigars and drinking brandy stood at one end. I could make out the rather stout form of “Nancy’s” father in with them. His back was to me.

 

In a corner sat Emma with her tablemates. The male was telling a very animated story.

 

A few other tables were occupied, about 1/3 of them. None near the hidden stairway.

 

I made my way there. Reaching it, I again surveyed the area. I could see the 3 people sitting at Emma’s we're laughing. Emma had a hand to her chest. Suddenly a look of alarm crossed her face as she felt around, obviously not finding her diamonds. Her friends were asking what was wrong. I saw her look back at the empty table where the gold masked bloke had sat, the one who had cut in on me as after her deserting Emma on the dance floor.

 

As I disappeared unseen from view I remember thinking I was glad that I had sowed that seed of thought to Emma while we had watched the couple leaving the ballroom.

 

€€€€€€€€€€€

 

I got to the bottom of the stairs and made my way to the wooded path the ran the length of the gardens.

 

Thinking I was alone, made me feel safe to quickly begin to stroll away along the path, throwing the caution I had had all evening to the wind.

 

Suddenly I froze in step.

 

I had caught the unmistakable sight of a lady's sparkly jewels as she was walking through the gardens to the left of my path.

 

I was not out here alone?

 

And I could not believe lady would not be out here alone either.

 

I snuck up, cloaked by the shadows of the trees, to get a better look

 

Shocked I saw it was “Nancy”, out of her, apparently alone.

 

I watched “Nancy” as she moved about. My mind traveled into the realms of speculation.

 

What if my young friend had indeed been wearing jewels worth £75,000?

 

And I find her like this, vulnerably alone.

 

Would I be tempted to break character, and ….

 

I shook my head. I would probably not. Especially now that I knew her father was a policeman of some sort.

 

But someone who did not know her father was a “copper”, and perhaps thought the diamonds she was were real… well they may not feel the same about letting her be.

 

Suddenly a rabbit jumped from the judge, startling both of us. I see her have a gasp, hand shooting up to her chest.

 

As her jewels flickered in a mad frenzy, a thought popped in my head, making me grin with expectations.

 

“Time to give “Nancy” a taste of my games. I thought wickedly. “

 

I snuck up behind her, and placing my hands over her eyes, pulled her soft figure back up against my own.

 

“ Hello, Samantha, fancy meeting you here.”

 

“Raffles!” She blurted with relief…

 

I pulled my hands away, allowing them the liberty to feel through her hair, examining also her earrings, feeling along the hinged clasps to get a feel for what I was about to do...

 

I then stepped back, as she, with a deep sigh of relief, quickly turned around.

  

“Not playing a game alone, are ye Lass?” I asked, looking down into her pretty green eyes.

 

“No.” She said shaking her head, hair flying…

 

I smiled, placing my hands inside my pockets, as I watched her with interest.

 

She giggled while trying to lecture me…” you gave me quite the start sir. “

He placed a finger under my chin, lifting it so I was looking up into his eyes.

 

“Stand still,” I commanded and moved around behind her.

 

“Good thing I didn’t do what first popped into my devious mind...

  

I felt his knuckle go into my back…

 

”Stick ‘ em up miss .”

 

“Good thing you didn’t I would have peed myself... I giggled.

  

“Raffles” chuckled:

“Stay in character miss .” Was what I heard from behind me

  

I raised them up, imagining like I was actually being held up. My heart began to race again with a feeling of delicious danger as I spoke.

 

“What do you want from me?”

  

Raffles, still holding his knuckle into my back …reached out his other hand with an open palm as he spoke.

 

”Put your hands down, I’ve taken a fancy to that bracelet of yours. So please hand it over. “

 

I shivered, saying smartly. “I don’t believe a real thief would say please …”

 

My friend “Raffles” responded.

 

“Would my real victim ask that? Try a different tack.”

 

Trembling again, with delicious delight. I played along.

 

“No sir, not my bracelet, anything but that …”

 

“That’s better, a bit of heartfelt pleading can never heart.

After a second the hand withdrew.

 

Raffles laughed amiably…

 

“Ok miss, keep your bracelet then. “

 

He chuckled from behind, removing his knuckle….

 

“It was only a thought I had when I saw you out here walking alone, remembering the story of the games you play with your brother, did I do ok?”.

 

“Smashing .” I giggled gleefully “Spot on.”

 

She put my hands down to my sides as I placed a hand on her smooth satin-covered shoulder and ran it down her satin blouse’s sleeve as I came back around to face her.

  

“All kidding aside, you really shouldn’t be out here alone “Nancy” someone less inviting as me may have been about. And I don’t mean your brother let’s see you back safe Lass.”

 

I nodded.

 

He lifted my hand and pulled my back to him. Coddling along against his warm figure, Raffles led me back along the path to the stairway.

 

“I’ll be leaving you here “Nancy” I was on my way home.

 

I looked up into his face. “it was fun meeting you, sorry you have to go. “

 

“So am I Lass.”

 

As I looked down in her upturned face I realized by the look in her eyes, that I had her lulled into such a state of complacency that I found myself unable to control any longer my thieving impulse.

 

Police parent or not, those earrings “Nancy” was wearing deserved to be plucked.

 

My fingers began to curl as I pulled her to me, with wicked intent…

 

We for the second time, hugged goodbye, a deeply fulfilling embrace it was by all standards, as well as presenting a perfect opportunity to set myself in position.

 

We broke apart and I tickled my fingers up her smooth satin-clad sides, then lifted her hair high up over her head.

 

I let her hair back down, letting its silken strands spill over my fingers fingers

 

She giggled as it tickled. My fingers reached her dangling, desirable earrings.

I spoke, my eyes locked in hers, my fingers ready…

 

“A Very pretty one you are, and don’t ever let anyone say differently.”

 

I felt her squirm with excitement, her chin up, looking deep within my eyes.

 

I took the opportunity given me to curl my fingers around her old-fashioned hinged clasped earrings. I gently applied pressure to the backside of the hinges and in unison slipped off both danglers from her earlobes. As her shivering figure greatly aided my endeavor.

 

I let my hands drop to my vest pocket as I watched her shoulder-length red hair fall back into place, covering my dirty deed.

 

£2200

 

I had been holding my breath. For this type of maneuver was as tricky as stealing the diamond collar from around the neck of a sleeping Persian cat without waking her. “Nancy”, relishing in my praise, never felt a prick as I had taken them from her ears.

 

Releasing my breath I took a step back complimenting that her hair was much prettier when down.

 

As she looked up at me with those doe wide adult-looking mascara brushed eyes, I felt a flicker of unease over filching her earrings.

 

She suddenly propelled herself again in my arms and gave me a very smothering, very long hug.

 

We broke apart.

 

“Go now, you before I change my mind about playing games.”

 

I let her go with a chuckle, holding my ground as I watched her pretty green satin party dress swishing merrily along with her figure.

 

She started up the stairs, then stopping raised up her hands.

 

I froze, then saw she was merely blowing me a kiss.

 

Pulling my hands from my vest pocket as I deposited her earrings, I pretended to catch her kiss and added it to my collection.

 

“My second this evening,” I said mysteriously…

 

Then turning away, I went off down along the path.

 

Quickly reaching my car, I opened a secret compartment inside the boot, emptied my pockets of the purloined jewels, and stashed them safely away.

 

Then hopping in on the right, I fired the engine to life and drove away in the opposite direction.

  

Addendum

 

Several weeks after securely hiding the over £188,000 in jewels I had gotten away with, I was flabbergasted to read in their local paper that the robbery was believed to have been committed by a gang of thieves. With none of the descriptions given really matched mine...

 

Probably not so shocking was the statement giving the total value of the stolen jewellery, as reported to the insurance agencies from the 0ver 30 females claiming to be victims, coming in to a bit over...

 

£325,000!

 

To Read the story from ‘Nancy Drew’s “ Perspective

Click Below

 

flic.kr/p/2mX6UD5

 

A Prowling Affair

  

“A time for everything: A time to relax, and a time to be busy. A time to frolic and a time to labor. A time to give and a time to receive. A time to give, a time to begin and a time to finish.”

…Jonathon Lockwood Huie

 

“A time to lose and a time to gain. And for all these things, there is a first time, which is now.”

…Unknown

  

I’ve never cared for the rather unimaginatively given name of

 

“Pickpocket.”

 

Personally, I prefer the term “lifter” as a more adequately descriptive definition of what I was really into at the time.

Lifting as in from a pocket, purse, and beyond.

Beyond being lifting something specifically being worn by the person, such as a watch, bracelet, brooch, necklace, and even earring(s).

 

But then, that is just me being me.

 

So those statements being said, they are not really important to this story I am about to tell. For it was this occasion that “lifted” me into a whole different level of thievery.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

I was at one of my favorite haunts, a wedding reception. This one is very upscale and quite richly delicious.

 

Almost like I had walked into the aftermath of two rooms being completely dumped onto a third one full of people. One room was full of expensive designer attire, the other full of over-the-top expensive jewellery.

 

Hopefully, you get the picture of what I was seeing.

 

I was dressed for an evening out, wearing a sexily short-skirted black satin dress with loose ruffles down the open neckline, a gold belt, and gold dangling earrings. My long red hair was straight down with a curl at the ends. I carried my long black velvet shoulder purse.

 

The reception was supposed to be a private affair but had so many guests that it was not hard for strangers like myself to mingle in.

 

It was a late evening affair, held in the huge basement area of a five-star hotel, with an interior entrance and one large exterior front entrance. Both of which had manned security booths set up. However, in the far backside, we’re two long corridors. One had the ladies' loo and a door at the end that led to outside gardens. The other contained the gentleman’s loo with a door at the end leading to a back parking lot, not fenced in.

 

Neither outside door was watched, or locked. And people were going in and out of those doors regularly. Didn’t make much sense not to be watched, but that was how I gained a surprisingly easy entry.

 

Cautiously I entered, immediately spying a pair of sweet sixteeners coming out of the loo ahead of me. They definitely were not sisters. They were also definitely royally decked out. Both were wearing long sequined satin gowns(blue and peach)with matching gloves. The gowns were fitted, designer, made, and had obviously been bridesmaid’s dresses for a different wedding each. Both wore their long silky hair elegantly up, held by mother-of-pearl clasps. The twittering pair also were jewelled up, sporting sweet gleaming sets of real matched pearls that swayed with a mesmerizing motion to the girl’s perky gait.

 

They paid no heed to me, and I lazily followed them inside the main chambre.

 

Contemplating that if the young adults were dolled up like this, what must the legal adults be wearing?

 

I had my answer soon enough, and my first few minutes inside is what plopped the rooms being dumped together thought of mine which I wrote about at the beginning.

 

It was delicious, moving in and out as I canvassed the room,admiring the sumptuous attire of the men and ladies present, expensive jewellery beckoning, plump purses, and fat wallets invitingly everywhere. I was ever on the lookout for opportunities to use my skilled fingers over.

 

My first opportunity looked to come my way as I whimsically found myself following a short brunette wearing a simply lovely gown that I actually owned a non-designer version of in the same colour , which is what caught my eye.

 

It was a green gown with a tight velvet bodice and free-falling taffeta skirt. I wish I looked as good in my copy as she did in her fitted one.

 

She was handsomely sporting a dazzling teardrop emerald pendant surrounded by diamonds hanging from a solid gold braided chain. It was bouncing from her perky breasts as she walked, creating quite the taunting show.

 

I could well imagine myself looking into a mirror wearing my version of that gown while also wearing that emerald and diamond set pendant.

 

As a plus, her long hair was up, exposing the gold clasp of the necklace she wore. Since I was still getting my feet wet, I was content with just stalking and seeing if it led to something.

 

It did, but not for her necklace.

 

As I was following the brunette I spotted a gorilla of a man wearing a far too-tight tux. He was showing off by lifting a squealing lady over his head like one would lift a set of weights.

 

Three of the lady's girlfriends, dressed in gowns of lavender, maroon, and neon lime, formed a half circle as they all watched laughing, pushing, and pawing against one another’s well-dressed figures as they cheered the bloke on.

 

With a twinge of reluctance, I decided to pass on the brunette for this much easier opportunity.

 

So I left her to go on her hip-swaying way, then got in with the half circle of sumptuously dressed ladies and joined in with the touchy-feely fun.

 

As he was bending over to put her down, I saw his jacket was lifted exposing a thick wallet now protruding from his hip pocket.

 

The girl joined her friends and as the “gorilla” watched with a half-pleased smile, I left them and walked past him, patting him on the rear with a slight squeeze.

 

I easily helped his wallet out the rest of the way as I patted his rear while saying to the prat’s backside…

“That has to be more fun than working out in a gym, eh laddie?”

 

Ok, so that was picking a pocket. But I still prefer the phrase lifting.

 

As in the solid silver Cartier watch, and the loosely worn emerald gemstone cocktail ring I lifted off two of the three watchers as we giggled together, and I happily stroked my fingers along their too soft sleek gowned, giggly warm, unsuspecting bodies.

 

With three scores now under my belt, my fingers deliciously tingled as I continued meandering my way amongst the happily partying guests, biding my time as I enjoyed the showy glamour of the reception halls’ guests.

 

The first dance time for the Bride and her Consort came.

 

Lights dimmed.

 

I began pressing up from behind against the couples in front. Seeing a sea of arms wrapped around silken waistlines. I eased off a man’s Rolex from his wrist as he held it against his wife’s satin-gowned waist. Similarly, I then relieved a lady’s gloved wrist of a gold jewelled bracelet as I pressed the fingers of my free hand against the side of her delightfully tingling feeling taffeta gown. My apologies to her were accepted as my other hand pocketed the bracelet.

 

Then as the wedding party held the floor, another hip pocket of a male watcher was relieved of a fat billfold.

 

Two picks and a lift for you language police out there.

 

Then the dance area, with the lights still dimmed, erupted as couples swarmed onto the floor. I went with the flow. Lifting a plump wallet from a swinging purse in the process as I cut through.

 

I then stationed myself in the outskirts watching the dancers. A fast dance tune started up and many of the men retreated leaving mostly ladies in shiny flowing gowns and swinging long shimmery skirts gyrating and jostling to the fast beat.

 

I spotted a lady wearing a taffeta gown with a diamond broach holding at the side of her waist.

 

I started to swing to the beat myself, wading in.

 

I worked my way to her, passing in the process the two sweet sixteen-year-olds and their swinging ropes of pearls. Brushing alongside them I spotted my prey. I zeroed in and jostled against her sweaty figure. Managing to easily pluck off her pricey broach as I slipped past.

 

Love the feel of an expensive taffeta gown.

 

I briefly considered leaving at that point. But there was still one traditional part of the reception I was waiting for, the Bride’s Bouquet throw.

 

Think of the potential.

 

A group of jostling, well-dressed ladies all focused on one thing. With someone like myself focused on another. There is no other opportunity like this, with the possible exception of midnight on New Year’s when the lights are dimmed over a swarming sea of guests.

 

So I behaved myself, catching a smoke and a free drink as I waited with anticipation.

 

Finally, it was announced and all of us single girls went out onto the dance floor.

 

I watched and like a lioness in the bush, circled around in the back.

 

I saw a young lady of twelve coming out to take part. She was a darling, dollied and dressed up like an adult. She was wearing blue mascara, that matched the colour of the long flowing blue satin gown she adorably was wearing. A fancy Long rhinestone necklace of diamonds and sapphires, were glistening down the front of her gown as she boldly made her way in.

 

When she passed me I cut her off and bumped right into her. As she wobbled on her blue leather pumps, my right hand shot up, lifting the front of her necklace as my left unsnapped the simple clasp. I pulled her necklace off with my right hand as she went off an apologetic ”Sorry miss ” like it had been her fault.

 

I had taken her necklace because I felt peeved that anyone not of marrying age would feel she should be allowed to take part, spoiling the tradition. Like having a cap and gown graduation for preschoolers, complete with diplomas. Kinda of ruins the meaning for those of us graduating after long years of schooling.

 

Sorry, but really, was a twelve-year-old going to be the one to marry next?

 

Oh by the by, the young girl's obviously wealthy mum was not wearing jewellery, otherwise, I would have targeted her instead to make my silent point.

 

So after that random encounter, I went back on the prowl, quickly choosing a likely victim and legitimately eligible participant.

 

I happily positioned myself.

 

The girl I had chosen was a tall thin blonde tightly encased in a white silk dress. Her jewels consisted mostly of 14K gold chains. Except for a gold tennis bracelet set with diamonds and rubies which is what I had my sights on.

 

Then, who should pop up next to the blonde? Why it was the short brunette wearing that simply lovely green velvet and taffeta gown like the one I had back in my closet at the flat.

 

Also wearing that delectable dazzling pendant.

 

I had not seen her since I had first started to follow her, and truth be told, had almost forgotten all about her.

 

I immediately wedged against the girl next to me(a nice lady in a silk gown with pearls) and got behind the brunette

 

The brunette chick's hair was still up, exposing the gold clasp of the necklace she wore, with that expensively flashy jewelled pendant at its bottom. She was short, the neckline of her gown coming up to my chin. It was now all a matter of timing.

 

As the bridal bouquet of roses was thrown and everyone lunged forward my fingers snaked up the backside of her soft gown and reaching the necklace I lifted the clasp and with a perfectly executed lift, opened it, slipping off her necklace almost before her high-heeled feet were firmly back on the ground.

 

I pulled away with my prize. And she with hers, for my victim had actually been the one catching the bouquet.

 

I turned, almost bumping into the pair of sweet sixteens in the satin bridesmaids' gowns who had been standing off to one side of us trying their luck at catching the bouquet.

 

We exchanged smiles and actually started walking off in the same direction. I pulled back and discreetly followed them.

 

Watching with interest as their gowns were richly fluttering along their svelte youthfully pointed figures. They then entered the same back corridor where I had first encountered them.

 

I saw one pulling out a pack of cigarettes as they whispered between themselves.

 

Happily, I overheard that they were sneaking off for a smoke.

 

For I saw opportunity knocking.

 

Following the girls I stood at the door of the loo as they slipped out the back door.

 

I turned and followed.

 

I was anticipating a chance to use their fear of being caught by me outside smoking, to allow me to chum right in and once I told them I saw no reason why they shouldn’t be smoking, receive relieved hugs from them as I left. Relieving each of them in turn by trimming off some of their pearled baubles.

 

At least that was the scenario that played out in my head.

 

One that had worked for me before. Except for that last time, three well-dressed younger ladies had been outside sneaking drinks from a flask. A pair of diamond earrings, a gold braided necklace, and a stunning diamond pin, had been my relieving picks from them.

  

So deciding that an opportunity for a pearl lift may be at hand I circled out and just followed the giggling and smoke signals emitting from their hidden roost.

 

I maneuvered up, unseen, behind them. And once again, I was that lioness hidden in the bush, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

  

As I waited, watching their adorably gowned and pearled figures as they giggled and gabbed on freely, I easily overheard the pair of sweet ones talking about their planned sleepover at the one girl's house.

 

The pretty pair were going to be alone since both parents were staying overnight at the hotel next to the reception.

 

I thought to myself how lovely it would be to burgle that house. To acquire all of the girl's delicious pearls, and possibly more?!

 

Then an epiphany as new as it was intriguing shot into my mind.

 

Why not try it?

 

I already had a nice haul for the evening. So if I could not pull it off I stood to lose nothing.

 

It was a gamble I was willing to take.

 

I stood there and watched, listened until the pair finished and swished their way back inside, none the wiser that they(and their pricy jewellery)had been watched in close proximity by a thief.

  

In a total bit of whimsy I went back to my sports coupe parked across an empty street from the lot. Once there I lit a cigarette of my own and stood vigil over the back parking lot.

 

There I could see several fancy cars parked. Including the fire-red Porsche that I had learned the one girl would be driving herself and her friend home in for their sleepover. The sports car was a sixteenth birthday gift from her parents.

 

All I received on my sweet sixteen was a summons to the head mistress’s office.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

It was nearly two hours before I spied the fetchingly pretty pair walking out across that parking lot, smoking cigarettes like petite geysers.

 

They were vulnerably alone, their shiny long gowns flowing along svelte youthful figures with an air of elegance that called out to be noticed.

 

And with those gorgeous pearls, they were wearing, both clueless chicks presented a pair of prettily attired targets for a thief.

 

Fortunately, there were no muggers around. Only me, a thief with quite different aspirations on acquiring pearls this evening.

 

Seeing the girls leaving I got in my coupe and followed the red Porsche as it turned the corner.

 

It was easy to follow them. The driver was inexperienced enough not to have a lead foot.

  

The Porsche finally turned into the secluded driveway leading to a large two-story gothic stone structure, with small balconies outside the upper floor windows. As was a common sight with these large houses, a metal flower trellis reached up one side in between two balconies.

 

I found a place to pull over and quickly got out to sneak up and scout the grounds surrounding the house.

 

I saw a light go on upstairs, conveniently on the trellis side. Thankful my dress was tightly form-fitting, I went over and climbed up far enough to peek inside the upper-floor window

 

It was a bedroom, walls painted pink. Both girls were inside, starting to undress. Totally so into themselves that the pretty things had no idea a thief was eyeing them with sinister intent.

 

Licking my lips I watched the pair removing thier delicious pearls and piling them up on the vanity next to an open oak jewellery case, the contents shimmering in the light.

 

Then they pulled off their gloves and slipped out of their gowns, wearing only long slinking silk slips. Both girls, long hair now down, slipped into fancy satin robes and giggling, headed out the door.

 

I slipped back down the trellis and skirted the house. A light in the basement came on.

 

Crouching in the shadows I peeked in. The handsomely satin-wrapped pair were sitting on a couch in the furnished basement. Passing back and forth a clear bottle containing an amber-coloured liquor. Scotch I presumed.

 

Seeing they were becoming quickly intoxicated, I rose and with a feeling of utter confidence, went back to the trellis and climbed back up to the window.

 

It was conveniently left unlatched.

 

Piece of cake this burgling business apparently could be.

 

Turned out, It was a piece of cake.

 

Beginner’s luck, we’ll see.

 

I slipped over the sill and into the bedroom they had changed in.

 

The young lady's pearls piled on a vanity, next to the open jewellery case were my first target.

 

As the clueless young pair in the furnished basement was getting drunk, I put on a pair of satin evening gloves found on one of the gowns and lifted(or picked) the bedroom clean of valuables.

 

No persnickety housemaid could have done a more efficient job of picking clean that bedroom, or as quickly, as I did that early morning.

 

Then I left the room to hit the parent’s master bedroom.

 

It was the one on the opposite side of the hallway.

 

Inside I found a tall Jewelry Armoire. I opened it up and my eyes were dazzled by the display of pricy day jewelry it held. Or had held for another ten minutes until I emptied its contents into my already bulging purse.

 

I knew the mum would be wearing the good stuff at the wedding, the rest may be inside a safe, which was beyond my skill level in picking.

 

I briefly wondered if the owner of the red Porsche knew her parent's safe combination.

 

I thought of taking the time to find out. But shook my head no. Time to skedaddle.

 

Then I saw it. In my rush, I had almost missed a solitary piece of jewellery laying out on a nightstand.

 

It was a dazzler. An almost 7-centimeter wide bracelet, set with 7 strands of diamonds. Three strands of round stones each flanking a centre strand of pear-shaped stones. Vulgarly expensive.

 

But why was it out? A trap?

 

I edged up to the nightstand and looked around. Nothing else appeared out of place.

 

Except for that expensively flashy diamond bracelet.

 

Looking around, I carefully eased it off the nightstand. Nothing happened, not that I knew what could have happened.

 

I stuffed the bracelet inside my purse, still looking warily around.

 

I shrugged my feelings of danger off and left the room. Though perhaps a tad bit quicker than necessary.

 

I went back to the pink bedroom, then climbed back out the window and down the metal trellis

 

I stopped by the basement window for one last peek. The young shiny attired darlings were intensely hugging each other. The bottle of scotch was now almost empty.

 

Suddenly a naughty picture popped inside my head, with no proper rhyme, nor reason.

 

In that picture, I saw the pair still dressed voluptuously up in their satin gowns, tied up gagged, and sinister hands groping as the haplessly squirming sweet sixteeners were being relieved of pearls. Then long feminine fingers were tickling in the girl’s sensitive areas until a safe opening combination was coughed up.

 

It was a picture that would not go away. I shook my head to get them out and left.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

I ruined the dress I was wearing, but I realized I had gotten away with enough small pricey valuables that gave me a profit that more than doubled my pickings combined over the previous 4 months.

 

As I drove home I experienced such a rush of euphoria that I decided the experience just had to be relived.

 

When I got back to my rooms, I changed into my satin pjs and empty my purse onto the black satin sheets of my bed.

 

I lifted the pearls and couldn’t stop fingering them as my euphoria overwhelmed me with sweeping hot flashes of giddiness over my accomplishments.

 

It was a lovely feeling. Both sensuous and a bit of hard sexual desires.

 

Not really sure where the bound and gagged fantasy picture came from. Or what it was foretelling if anything.

 

But the reality of tonight’s experience lay in glittering heaps on my black satin sheets.

 

I picked up the far to valuably shimmering diamond bracelet.

 

Pondering.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

I bring that last memory up because years later I may have found out why the diamond bracelet had been left out.

 

For apparently some of the ultra-wealthy, as a ruse, will leave out several pieces of valuable jewels as a deterrent. Hoping the inexperienced thief will grab those and flee without searching further. Which is exactly what I did.

 

It also means that those two sweet sixteeners may have been the only barrier between me and a potentially small fortune in hidden jewels.

 

So maybe that fantasy vision I had about tickling to find a safe combination could have been an unrealized sixth sense moment?

 

One never knows.

 

Fini

 

The High Gain Antenna of ESA’s Hera asteroid mission for planetary defence seen being prepared for testing in the acoustic reverberation chamber of the IABG test centre in Germany. This involves blasting it with launcher-level noise through the speakers seen in the wall.

 

Hera is Europe’s contribution to an international planetary defence experiment. Following the NASA DART mission’s impact with the Dimorphos asteroid last year – modifying its orbit and sending a plume of debris thousands of kilometres out into space – Hera will return to Dimorphos to perform a close-up survey of the crater left by DART. The mission will also measure Dimorphos’ mass and make-up, along with that of the larger Didymos asteroid that Dimorphos orbits around.

 

Hera’s 1.13-m diameter High Gain Antenna will play a crucial role in mission success, by transmitting high-volume data back to Earth while receiving detailed telecommands in turn – with the mission’s Low Gain Antenna serving as backup for low data rate emergency communications.

 

The antenna has previously undergone radio frequency evaluation at ESA’s Compact Antenna Test Range at the ESTEC technical centre in the Netherlands before passing on to IABG in Germany for vibration testing then AAC in Austria for a stay in representative extreme-temperature vacuum conditions.

 

Constructed from carbon fibre, the High Gain Antenna was manufactured by HPS in Germany and Romania. It will boost Hera’s signals more than 4000-fold to reach Earth, focused down to only half a degree in the sky, so that the entire spacecraft will move in order to line up with its homeworld.

 

Later this year the antenna will be combined with all the rest of Hera’s subsystems, for the start of the spacecraft-scale environmental test campaign at ESA’s ESTEC Test Centre in the Netherlands, due to begin this autumn. Hera is scheduled to be launched in October 2024.

 

Credits: HPS

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 just a short distance from Cavendish Mews, at Mr. Willison’s grocers’ shop. Willison’s Grocers in Mayfair is where Lettice has an account, and it is from here that Edith, Lettice's maid, orders her groceries for the Cavendish Mews flat, except on special occasions like the soirée that Lettice threw for Dickie and Margot Channon’s engagement, when professional London caterers are used. Mr. Willison prides himself in having a genteel, upper-class clientele including the households of many titled aristocrats who have houses and flats in the neighbourhood, and he makes sure that his shop is always tidy, his shelves well stocked with anything the cook of a duke or duchess may want, and staff who are polite and mannerly to all his important customers. The latter is not too difficult, for aside from himself, Mrs. Willison does his books, his daughter Henrietta helps on Saturdays and sometimes after she has finished school, which means Mr. Willison technically only employs one member of staff: Frank Leadbetter his delivery boy who carries orders about Mayfair on the bicycle provided for him by Mr. Willison. He also collects payments for accounts which are not settled in his Binney Street shop whilst on his rounds.

 

Lettice’s maid, Edith, is stepping out with Frank, and to date since he rather awkwardly suggested the idea to her in the kitchen of the Cavendish Mews flat, the pair has spent every Sunday afternoon together, going to see the latest moving pictures at the Premier in East Ham*, dancing at the Hammersmith Palais or walking in one of London’s many parks. They even spent Easter Monday at the fair held on Hampstead Heath***. Whilst Lettice is away in Cornwall selecting furniture from Dickie and Margot’s Penzance country house, ‘Chi an Treth’, to be re-purposed, Edith is taking advantage of a little more free time and has come to Willison’s Grocers under the pre-text of running an errand in the hope of seeing Frank. The bell rings cheerily as she opens the plate glass door with Mr. Willison’s name painted in neat gilt lettering upon it. Stepping across the threshold she immediately smells the mixture of comforting smells of fresh fruits, vegetables and flour, permeated by the delicious scent of the brightly coloured boiled sweets coming from the large cork stoppered jars on the shop counter. The sounds of the busy street outside die away, muffled by shelves lined with any number of tinned goods and signs advertising everything from Lyon’s Tea**** to Bovril*****.

 

“Miss Watsford!” exclaims Mr. Willison’s wife as she peers up from her spot behind the end of the return counter near the door where she sits doing her husband’s accounts. “We don’t often have the pleasure.”

 

Edith looks up, unnerved, at the proprietor’s wife and bookkeeper, her upswept hairstyle as old fashioned as her high necked starched shirtwaister****** blouse down the front of which runs a long string of faceted bluish black beads. “Yes,” Edith smiles awkwardly. “I… I have, err… that is to say I forgot to give Fr… err, Mr. Leadbeater my grocery list when he visited the other day.”

 

“Oh?” Mrs. Willison queries. “I could have sworn that we had it.” She starts fussing through a pile of papers distractedly. “That isn’t like you Miss Watsford. You’re usually so well organised.”

 

“Well,” Edith thinks quickly. “It… it isn’t really the list. It’s just that I left a few things off. Miss Chetwynd… well, you see she fancies…”

 

“Oh, well give me the additions, Miss Watsford,” Mrs. Willison thrusts out her hand efficiently, the frothy white lace of her sleeve dancing around her wrist. “And I’ll see to it that they are added to your next delivery. We don’t want the Honourable Miss Chetwynd to go without, now do we?”

 

With a shaky hand Edith reluctantly hands over her list of a few extra provisions that aren’t really required, especially with her mistress being away for a few days. As she does, she glances around the cluttered and dim shop hopefully.

 

“Will there be anything else, Miss Watsford?” Mrs. Willison asks curtly.

 

“Err… yes.” Edith stammers, but falls silent as she continues to look in desperation around the shop.

 

Mrs. Willison suspiciously eyes the slender and pretty domestic through her pince-nez*******. She scrutinises Edith’s fashionable plum coloured frock with the pretty lace collar. The hem of the skirt is following the current style and sits higher than any of Mrs. Willison’s own dresses and it reveals Edith’s shapely stockinged calves. She wears her black straw cloche decorated with purple silk roses and black feathers over her neatly pinned chignon. “Is that a few frock, Miss Watsford?” the grocer’s wife continues.

 

“Ahh, yes it is, Mrs. Willison. I made it myself from scratch with a dress pattern from Fashion for All********,” Edith replies proudly, giving a little twirl that sends her calf length skirt flaring out prettily, and Mrs. Willison’s eyebrows arching with disapproval as the young girl reveals even more of her legs as she does. “Do you like it?”

 

“You seem a little dressed up to run an errand here, Miss Watsford.” Mrs. Willison says with bristling disapprobation.

 

“Well, I… I err… I do have some letters to post too, Mrs. Willison,” Edith withdraws two letters from her wicker basket and holds them up in her lilac glove clad hand.

 

“Well, we mustn’t keep you from your errand, now must we, Miss Watsford? Now what else did you require before you leave?” the older woman emphasises the last word in her sentence to make clear her opinion about young girls cluttering up her husband’s shop.

 

“An apple.” Edith says, suddenly struck with inspiration. “I’d like an apple for the journey, Mrs. Willison.”

 

“Very good, Miss Watsford.” the older woman starts to move off her stool. “I’ll fetch…”

 

“No need, Mrs. Willison!” Frank’s cheerful voice pipes up as he appears from behind a display of tinned goods. “I’ll take care of Miss Watsford. That’s what I’m here for. You just stay right there Mrs. Willison. Right this way, Miss Watsford.” He ushers her with a sweeping gesture towards the boxes of fresh fruit displayed near the cash register.

 

“Oh Fran…” Edith catches herself uttering Frank’s given name, quickly correcting herself. “Err… thank you, Mr. Leadbetter.”

 

Mrs. Willison lowers herself back into her seat, all the while eyeing the pair of young people critically as they move across the shop floor together, their heads boughed conspiratorially close, a sense of overfamiliarity about their body language. She frowns, the folds and furrows of her brow eventuated. Then she sighs and returns to the numbers in her ledger.

 

“What are you doing here, Edith?” Frank whispers to his sweetheart quietly, yet with evident delight in his voice.

 

“Miss Lettice is away down in Cornwall on business, so I thought I’d stop in on my way through in the hope of seeing you, Frank.” She glances momentarily over her shoulder. “Then Mrs. Willison greeted me. I thought I was going to get stuck with the disapproving old trout and not see you.”

 

“The weather looks good for Sunday, Edith. It’s supposed to be sunny. Shall we go to Regent’s Park and feed the ducks if it is?”

 

“Oh, yes!” Edith clasps her hands in delight, her gloves muffling the sound. “Maybe there will be a band playing in the rotunda.”

 

“If there is, I’ll hire us a couple of deck chairs and we can listen to them play all afternoon in the sunshine.”

 

“That sounds wonderful, Frank.”

 

“Well,” pronounces Frank loudly as the stand over the wooden tray of red and golden yellow apples. “This looks like a nice juicy one, Miss Watsford.”

 

“Yes,” Edith replies in equally clear tones. “I think I’ll have that one, Mr. Leadbeater.”

 

“Very good, Miss Watsford. I’ll pop it into a paper bag for you.”

 

“Oh, don’t bother Fr… Mr. Leadbeater. I’ll put it in my basket.”

 

Frank takes the apple and walks back around the counter to the gleaming brass cash register surrounded by jars of boiled sweets. “That will be tuppence please, Miss Watsford.” He enters the tally into the noisy register, causing the cash draw to spring open with a clunk and the rattle of coins rubbing against one another with the movement.

 

Edith hooks her umbrella over the edge of the counter, pulls off her gloves and fishes around in her green handbag before withdrawing her small leather coin purse from which she takes out tuppence which she hands over to Frank.

 

“Here,” Frank says after he deposits her money and pushes the drawer of the register closed. He slides a small purple and gold box discreetly across the counter.

 

Edith gasps as she looks at the beautifully decorated box featuring a lady with cascading auburn hair highlighted with gold ribbons, a creamy face and décollétage sporting a frothy white gown and gold necklace. She traces the embossed gold lettering on the box’s lid. “Gainsborough Dubarry Milk Chocolates!”

 

“Can’t have my girl come all this way to see me and not come away with a gift.” Frank whispers with a beaming smile dancing across his face.

 

“Seeing you is gift enough, Frank.” Edith blushes.

 

“Ahem!” Mrs. Willison clears her throat from the other end of the shop. “Will they be going on the Honourable Miss Chetwynd’s account, Frank?” she asks with a severe look directly at her husband’s employee.

 

“Um… no Mrs. Willison. Don’t worry. I’ll be paying for them.” Frank announces loudly. Bending his head closer to Edith, he whispers, “I can see why Mr. Willison has her in here when he isn’t. You can’t get away with anything without her knowing: ghastly old trout.”

 

Edith giggles as she puts the small box of chocolates and the apple into her basket. “I’ll save them for Sunday.” she says with a smile. “We can share them whilst we listen to the band from our deckchairs.”

 

Frank smile broadens even more. “Righty-ho, Edith.”

 

“Righty-ho, Frank.”

 

“Well, as I was saying, Miss Watsford,” Mrs. Willison pronounces from her stool. “We mustn’t keep you from your errands. I’m sure you have a lot to do, and it is almost midday already.”

 

“Yes indeed, Mrs. Willison.” Edith agrees, unable to keep the reluctance out of her voice. “I really should be getting along. Well, goodbye Mr. Leadbeater. Thank you for your assistance.” She then lowers her voice as she says, “See you Sunday.”

 

Both Frank and Mrs. Willison watch as the young lady leaves the shop the way she came, by the front door, a spring in her step and a satisfied smile on her face, her basket, umbrella and handbag slung over her arm.

 

“Frank!”

 

Frank cringes as Mrs. Willison calls his name. Turning around he sees her striding with purpose behind the counter towards him, wending her way through the obstacle course of stacks of tins and jars of produce, hessian sacks of fresh vegetables and fruits and boxes of bottles.

 

“Yes, Mrs Willison?”

 

“Frank,” she says disappointingly. “I can’t stop you from stepping out with a girl in your own time,” She comes to a halt before him, domineering over him with her topknot, her arms akimbo. “And I’d say the Honourable Miss Chetwynd is foolishly modern enough to let you take her maid out on Sundays.” She looks at him with disapproving eyes. “However, I’d be much obliged if you kept your dalliances to your own time, and kindly keep them out of my husband’s establishment during business hours!”

 

“Yes Mrs. Willison!” Frank replies, sighing gratefully, now knowing that he isn’t going to be given notice for chatting with Edith during work hours.

 

“And I’ll make an adjustment to your wages this week for the chocolates.” she adds crisply.

 

“Yes Mrs. Willison.” Frank nods before hurrying away back to the stock room.

 

*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.

 

**The Hammersmith Palais de Danse, in its last years simply named Hammersmith Palais, was a dance hall and entertainment venue in Hammersmith, London, England that operated from 1919 until 2007. It was the first palais de danse to be built in Britain.

 

***Hampstead Heath (locally known simply as the Heath) is a large, ancient London heath, covering 320 hectares (790 acres). This grassy public space sits astride a sandy ridge, one of the highest points in London, running from Hampstead to Highgate, which rests on a band of London Clay. The heath is rambling and hilly, embracing ponds, recent and ancient woodlands, a lido, playgrounds, and a training track, and it adjoins the former stately home of Kenwood House and its estate. The south-east part of the heath is Parliament Hill, from which the view over London is protected by law.

 

****Lyons Tea was first produced by J. Lyons and Co., a catering empire created and built by the Salmons and Glucksteins, a German-Jewish immigrant family based in London. Starting in 1904, J. Lyons began selling packaged tea through its network of teashops. Soon after, they began selling their own brand Lyons Tea through retailers in Britain, Ireland and around the world. In 1918, Lyons purchased Hornimans and in 1921 they moved their tea factory to J. Lyons and Co., Greenford at that time, the largest tea factory in Europe. In 1962, J. Lyons and Company (Ireland) became Lyons Irish Holdings. After a merger with Allied Breweries in 1978, Lyons Irish Holdings became part of Allied Lyons (later Allied Domecq) who then sold the company to Unilever in 1996. Today, Lyons Tea is produced in England.

 

*****Bovril is owned and distributed by Unilever UK. Its appearance is similar to Marmite and Vegemite. Bovril can be made into a drink ("beef tea") by diluting with hot water or, less commonly, with milk. It can be used as a flavouring for soups, broth, stews or porridge, or as a spread, especially on toast in a similar fashion to Marmite and Vegemite.

 

******A shirtwaister is a woman's dress with a seam at the waist, its bodice incorporating a collar and button fastening in the style of a shirt which gained popularity with women entering the workforce to do clerical work in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries.

  

*******Pince-nez is a style of glasses, popular in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries, that are supported without earpieces, by pinching the bridge of the nose. The name comes from French pincer, "to pinch", and nez, "nose".

 

********”Fashion for All” was one of the many women’s magazines that were published in the exuberant inter-war years which were aimed at young girls who were looking to better their chances of finding a husband through beauty and fashion. As most working-class girls could only imagine buying fashionable frocks from high street shops, there was a great appetite for dressmaking patterns so they could dress fashionably at a fraction of the cost, by making their own dresses using skills they learned at home.

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Central to the conclusion of our story is the dainty box of Gainsborough Dubarry Milk Chocolates. This beautifully printed confectionary box comes from Shepherd’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Starting in the Edwardian era, confectioners began to design attractive looking boxes for their chocolate selections so that they could sell confectionary at a premium, as the boxes were often beautifully designed and well made so that they might be kept as a keepsake. A war erupted in Britain between the major confectioners to try and dominate what was already a competitive market. You might recognise the shade of purple of the box as being Cadbury purple, and if you did, you would be correct, although this range was not marketed as Cadbury’s, but rather Gainsborough’s, paying tribute to the market town of Gainsborough in Lincolnshire, where Rose Bothers manufactured and supplied machines that wrapped chocolates. The Rose Brothers are the people for whom Cadbury’s Roses chocolates are named.

 

Also on the shop counter is an apple which is very realistic looking. Made of polymer clay it is made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The brightly shining cash register, probably polished by Frank, was supplied by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. The cylindrical jars, made of real spun glass with proper removable cork stoppers which contain “sweets” I acquired as a teenager from an auction as part of a larger lot of miniature items. Edith’s lilac coloured gloves are made of real kid leather and along with the envelopes are artisan pieces that I acquired from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Edith’s green leather handbag I acquired as part of a larger collection of 1:12 artistan miniature hats, bags and accessories I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The umbrella comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom. Edith’s basket I acquired as part of a larger lot of 1:12 miniatures from an E-Bay seller in America.

 

The packed shelves you can see in the background is in fact a Welsh dresser that I have had since I was a child, which I have repurposed for this shot. You can see the dresser more clearly in other images used in this series when Edith visits her parent’s home in Harlesden. The shelves themselves are full of 1:12 artisan miniatures with amazing attention to detail as regards the labels of different foods. Some are still household names today. So many of these packets and tins of various foods would have been household staples in the 1920s when canning and preservation revolutinised domestic cookery. They come from various different suppliers including Shepherds Miniatures in the United Kingdom, Kathleen Knight’s Doll House in the United Kingdom, Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering and Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. Items on the shelves include: Tate and Lyall Golden Syrup, Lyall’s Golden Treacle, Peter Leech and Sons Golden Syrup, P.C. Flett and Company jams, Golden Shred and Silver Shred Marmalades, Chiver’s Jelly Crystals, Rowtree’s Table Jelly, Bird’s Custard Powder, Bird’s Blancmange Powder, Coleman’s Mustard, Queen’s Gravy Salts, Bisto Gravy Powder, Huntly and Palmers biscuits, Lyon’s Tea and Typhoo Tea.

 

In 1859 Henry Tate went into partnership with John Wright, a sugar refiner based at Manesty Lane, Liverpool. Their partnership ended in 1869 and John’s two sons, Alfred and Edwin joined the business forming Henry Tate and Sons. A new refinery in Love Lane, Liverpool was opened in 1872. In 1921 Henry Tate and Sons and Abram Lyle and Sons merged, between them refining around fifty percent of the UK’s sugar. A tactical merger, this new company would then become a coherent force on the sugar market in anticipation of competition from foreign sugar returning to its pre-war strength. Tate and Lyle are perhaps best known for producing Lyle’s Golden Syrup and Lyle’s Golden Treacle.

 

Peter Leech and Sons was a grocers that operated out of Lowther Street in Whitehaven from the 1880s. They had a large range of tinned goods that they sold including coffee, tea, tinned salmon and golden syrup. They were admired for their particularly attractive labelling. I do not know exactly when they ceased production, but I believe it may have happened just before the Second World War.

 

P.C. Flett and Company was established in Kirkwall in the Orkney Islands by Peter Copeland Flett. He had inherited a small family owned ironmongers in Albert Street Kirkwall, which he inherited from his maternal family. He had a shed in the back of the shop where he made ginger ale, lemonade, jams and preserves from local produce. By the 1920s they had an office in Liverpool, and travelling representatives selling jams and preserves around Great Britain. I am not sure when the business ceased trading.

 

Golden Shred orange marmalade and Silver Shred lime marmalade still exist today and are common household brands both in Britain and Australia. They are produced by Robertson’s. Robertson’s Golden Shred recipe perfected since 1874 is a clear and tangy orange marmalade, which according to their modern day jars is “perfect for Paddington’s marmalade sandwiches”. Robertson’s Silver Shred is a clear, tangy, lemon flavoured shredded marmalade. Robertson’s marmalade dates back to 1874 when Mrs. Robertson started making marmalade in the family grocery shop in Paisley, Scotland.

 

Chivers is an Irish brand of jams and preserves. For a large part of the Twentieth Century Chivers and Sons was Britain's leading preserves manufacturer. Originally market gardeners in Cambridgeshire in 1873 after an exceptional harvest, Stephen Chivers entrepreneurial sons convinced their father to let them make their first batch of jam in a barn off Milton Road, Impington. By 1875 the Victoria Works had been opened next to Histon railway station to improve the manufacture of jam and they produced stone jars containing two, four or six pounds of jam, with glass jars first used in 1885. In around 1885 they had 150 employees. Over the next decade they added marmalade to their offering which allowed them to employ year-round staff, rather than seasonal workers at harvest time. This was followed by their clear dessert jelly (1889), and then lemonade, mincemeat, custard powder, and Christmas puddings. By 1896 the family owned 500 acres of orchards. They began selling their products in cans in 1895, and the rapid growth in demand was overseen by Charles Lack, their chief engineer, who developed the most efficient canning machinery in Europe and by the end of the century Chivers had become one of the largest manufacturers of preserves in the world. He later added a variety of machines for sorting, can making, vacuum-caps and sterilisation that helped retain Chivers' advantage over its rivals well into the Twentieth Century. By the turn of the century the factory was entirely self-sufficient, growing all its own fruit, and supplying its own water and electricity. The factory made its own cans, but also contained a sawmill, blacksmiths, coopers, carpenters, paint shop, builders and basket makers. On the 14th of March 1901 the company was registered as S. Chivers and Sons. By 1939 there were over 3,000 full-time employees, with offices in East Anglia as well as additional factories in Montrose, Newry and Huntingdon, and the company owned almost 8,000 acres of farms. The company's farms were each run independently, and grew cereal and raised pedigree livestock as well as the fruit for which they were known.

 

Founded by Henry Isaac Rowntree in Castlegate in York in 1862, Rowntree's developed strong associations with Quaker philanthropy. Throughout much of the Nineteenth and Twentieth centuries, it was one of the big three confectionery manufacturers in the United Kingdom, alongside Cadbury and Fry, both also founded by Quakers. In 1981, Rowntree's received the Queen's Award for Enterprise for outstanding contribution to international trade. In 1988, when the company was acquired by Nestlé, it was the fourth-largest confectionery manufacturer in the world. The Rowntree brand continues to be used to market Nestlé's jelly sweet brands, such as Fruit Pastilles and Fruit Gums, and is still based in York.

 

Bird’s were best known for making custard and Bird’s Custard is still a common household name, although they produced other desserts beyond custard, including the blancmange. They also made Bird’s Golden Raising Powder – their brand of baking powder. Bird’s Custard was first formulated and first cooked by Alfred Bird in 1837 at his chemist shop in Birmingham. He developed the recipe because his wife was allergic to eggs, the key ingredient used to thicken traditional custard. The Birds continued to serve real custard to dinner guests, until one evening when the egg-free custard was served instead, either by accident or design. The dessert was so well received by the other diners that Alfred Bird put the recipe into wider production. John Monkhouse (1862–1938) was a prosperous Methodist businessman who co-founded Monk and Glass, which made custard powder and jelly. Monk and Glass custard was made in Clerkenwell and sold in the home market, and exported to the Empire and to America. They acquired by its rival Bird’s Custard in the early Twentieth Century.

 

Queen’s Gravy Salt is a British brand and this box is an Edwardian design. Gravy Salt is a simple product it is solid gravy browning and is used to add colour and flavour to soups stews and gravy - and has been used by generations of cooks and caterers.

 

The first Bisto product, in 1908, was a meat-flavoured gravy powder, which rapidly became a bestseller in Britain. It was added to gravies to give a richer taste and aroma. Invented by Messrs Roberts and Patterson, it was named "Bisto" because it "Browns, Seasons and Thickens in One". Bisto Gravy is still a household name in Britain and Ireland today, and the brand is currently owned by Premier Foods.

 

Huntley and Palmers is a British firm of biscuit makers originally based in Reading, Berkshire. The company created one of the world’s first global brands and ran what was once the world’s largest biscuit factory. Over the years, the company was also known as J. Huntley and Son and Huntley and Palmer. Huntley and Palmer were renown for their ‘superior reading biscuits’ which they promoted in different varieties for different occasions, including at breakfast time.

 

In 1863, William Sumner published A Popular Treatise on Tea as a by-product of the first trade missions to China from London. In 1870, William and his son John Sumner founded a pharmacy/grocery business in Birmingham. William's grandson, John Sumner Jr. (born in 1856), took over the running of the business in the 1900s. Following comments from his sister on the calming effects of tea fannings, in 1903, John Jr. decided to create a new tea that he could sell in his shop. He set his own criteria for the new brand. The name had to be distinctive and unlike others, it had to be a name that would trip off the tongue and it had to be one that would be protected by registration. The name Typhoo comes from the Mandarin Chinese word for “doctor”. Typhoo began making tea bags in 1967. In 1978, production was moved from Birmingham to Moreton on the Wirral Peninsula, in Merseyside. The Moreton site is also the location of Burton's Foods and Manor Bakeries factories. Typhoo has been owned since July 2021 by British private-equity firm Zetland Capital. It was previously owned by Apeejay Surrendra Group of India.

 

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. Instead, we are in central London, near the palace of Westminster and the Thames embankment at the very stylish Metropole Hotel*, where Lettice’s latest client, American film actress Wanetta Ward is living whilst her Edwardian Pimlico flat is redecorated by Lettice. We find ourselves in the busy dining room of the hotel where the gentle burble of voices fills the room and mixes with the sound of silver cutlery against the blue banded gilt hotel crockery, the clink of glasses raised and the strains of popular Edwardian music from the small palm court quartet playing discreetly by a white painted pillar. Surrounded by suited politicians and a smattering of older women, Lettice and Miss Ward sit at a table for two where a splendid selection of sweet and savory afternoon tea has been presented to them on a fluted glass cake stand by a smartly dressed waiter.

 

“Isn’t this fun?” Miss Ward giggles delightedly, looking at the delicacies placed before them. “Taking afternoon tea in London. What a wonderfully British thing to do. I’ve really taken to enjoying this rather quaint observance.” Pouring coffee from a silver coffee pot with an ebonised handle into her cup, she takes a sip. “Ugh!” she exclaims as she shudders and pulls a face. “Which is more than I can say for this sludge you British call coffee.” With a look of distain, she deposits the cup back into its saucer with a loud clatter. “No one makes coffee like we do back home.”

 

“Perhaps you might care for tea?” Lettice remarks quietly and diplomatically, indicating to the silver teapot beside her. “We’re very well known for our excellent tea.”

 

“Ugh!” Miss Ward says again, only this time without the melodrama of face pulling. “I think I’ll stick to the sludge, if it’s all the same to you, darling. You people might have conquered India and her tea plantations, but no-one makes tea like they do in Shanghai.” She sighs. “It’s almost an art form.”

 

“Perhaps we should have had cocktails then.”

 

“Now you’re talking, darling girl.”

 

“Only it might be frowned upon – two ladies alone, sitting and drinking in a hotel dining room.”

 

“See,” Miss Ward remarks in a deflated tone. “It’s like I told you when we met at my flat. You British are all a bunch of stuffed shirts**.” Looking around at the table of older gentlemen next to them, enjoying a fine repast as well as some good quality claret from a faceted glass decanter, she adds somewhat conspiratorially with a flick of her eyes, “And they don’t get much more stuffed that this bunch of politicians.”

 

“Are you always so frank, Miss Ward?”

 

“I’m American, darling. We’re known for our frankness as much as you are known for your diplomacy. I’d be letting the home side down if I wasn’t, especially whilst on foreign soil. Anyway,” she continues as a burst of guffaws come from the table as the gentlemen laugh at something one of them said. “I think they have been here for most of the afternoon, and that isn’t their first bottle. They aren’t going to pay enough attention to either of us to care what we two ladies are saying. I think they are happy if our secret women’s business stays secret. Don’t you agree Miss Chetwynd?”

 

Lettice discreetly looks over at them, noticing their florid faces and slightly rheumy eyes. “Yes, most probably.”

 

“In spite of the sludge they pass off as coffee here, I can say that afternoon tea at the Metropole is delicious.” The American woman picks up the cake stand and holds it aloft before Lettice for her to select a petit four. “Here! Try one.”

 

“I haven’t been here since before the war.” Lettice remarks, choosing a ham and tomato savoury before gazing around the room at the elegant Georgian revival furnishings, the restrained Regency stripe wallpaper, the watercolours of stately British homes in gilt frames and the white linen covered tables with stylish floral arrangements on each.

 

“Has it improved?”

 

“In looks, undoubtedly. It used to be very Victorian: lots of flocked wallpaper, dark furniture and red velvet. No, this is much brighter and more pleasant. The food however,” Lettice glances at the pretty petit four on her plate. “Is yet to be tested.” She picks up her cup and sips her tea. “Do you have your first script from Islington Studios*** yet, Miss Ward?”

 

“Oh I do, darling!” Miss Ward’s eyes grow wide and glisten with excitement. “The film is called ‘After the Ball is Over’. It’s a bit of a Cinderella story. A beautiful girl, despised by her haughty stepmother and stepsister wins the heart of a local lord, all set against the beautiful English countryside.” She picks an egg and lettuce savoury from the cake stand and takes a larger than polite bite from it before depositing the remains on her own plate.

 

“And are you the heroine?”

 

“Good heavens, no!” Miss Ward nearly chokes on her mouthful of egg and pastry. Placing the back of her hand to her mouth rather than her napkin, she coughs roughly, finishes her mouthful and then adds, “I’d rather die than play the heroine! They are always such insipid characters.” She pulls a face and then clears her throat of the last remaining crumbs. “No, I’m playing the stepsister, who uses her womanly wiles to charm the local lord in the first place.” She lowers her kohl lined eyes and smiles seductively. “She’s much more fun as a character, as are all mistresses and villainesses. Just think about the faerie tales you read when you were a girl. What a dull life Snow White or Cinderella would have led were it not for their wicked stepmothers.”

 

“I’d never considered that.” Lettice takes a small bite from her savoury.

 

“Trust me, I may not win the hearts of the audience, but I’ll be more memorable for playing the baddie than I ever would be for playing the helpless heroine.”

 

“How shockingly cynical, Miss Ward.”

 

“Cynical yes,” The American looks thoughtfully towards the ceiling for a moment before continuing, “But also truthful.”

 

“Well,” Lettice says a little reluctantly. “Thinking of truth, you haven’t invited me to afternoon tea just so I can enjoy the selection of sweet and savoury petit fours.” She withdraws her folio from beside her seat and places it on the table.

 

“Ahh!” Miss Ward’s green eyes sparkle with excitement. “The designs for my flat! I finally get to see them!” She rubs her elegant hands with their painted fingernails together gleefully.

 

“Now first, your boudoir.” Lettice withdraws a small pencil and watercolour sketch.

 

The sight of the picture makes Miss Ward gasp with delight as she stretches out her fingers to clutch the drawing. Bringing it closer to her, her painted lips curl up in pleasure.

 

“I thought a treatment of gold embellishment and brocade on black japanned furnishings might give a sense of luxury. I have kept the white ceiling, and white linens for the bed, but as you can see I’ve included some elements of red to bring that exotic oriental feel to the room you so wanted.”

 

“Delicious darling girl!” Miss Ward enthuses. “I have to admit, you were right when you said that white wouldn’t be boring if you used it. It helps balance the intensity of the black, red and gold.”

 

“I’m pleased you approve, Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh I do!” She hands the drawing back to Lettice. “What else?”

 

Lettice shows her a few more sketches showing her designs for the dressing room and the vestibule until she finally reaches the two for the drawing room and dining room. She places them on top of her folio, the pools of garish colour standing out against the white linen of the tablecloth and the buff of her folio.

 

“I remembered you telling me how much you like yellow, Miss Ward, but try as I might, I remain unconvinced that yellow walls are a suitable choice.” The American glances first at the drawings and then at Lettice but says nothing. “The colour is bold, and I know you wanted boldness,” Lettice continues. “But since we are being truthful, this strikes me as showy and déclassé.”

 

“Déclassé, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Inferior and lacking in the class and elegance of the other rooms’ schemes.”

 

Miss Ward leans forward and picks up the drawing room painting, scrutinising it through narrowed eyes. Dropping it back down, she picks up her coffee cup and takes a sip before asking with a shrug, “Alright, so what do you suggest then?”

 

“Well, it’s funny you should be holding your cup while you ask, Miss Ward.” Lettice observes astutely.

 

“My coffee cup?” Miss Ward holds the cup in front of her and screws up her nose in bewilderment. “You want to paint the walls coffee coloured?”

 

“Oh no, Miss Ward,” Lettice cannot help but allow a small chuckle of relief escape her lips. “No, I was referring more to the outside, which is blue with a gold trim. Here, let me show you what I mean.” She reaches inside her folio and withdraws a piece of wallpaper featuring a geometric fan design in rich navy blue with gold detailing. “I thought we might paper the walls instead, with this.” She holds it out to her client. “It’s very luxurious, and it makes a bold statement, but with elegance. I thought with a suitable array of yellow venetian glass and some pale yellow oriental ceramics, this would both compliment any yellow you add to the room, and give you that glamour and sophistication you desire.”

 

Lettice doesn’t realise it, but she holds her breath as the American picks up the piece of wallpaper and moves it around so that the gold outlines of the fans are caught in the light of the chandeliers above. The pair sit in silence - Lettice in anxiety and Miss Ward in contemplation – whilst the sounds of the busy dining room wash about them.

 

“Pure genius!” Miss Ward declares, dropping the wallpaper dramatically atop Lettice’s sketches.

 

“You approve then, Miss Ward?” Lettice asks with relief.

 

“Approve? I love it, darling girl!” She lifts her savoury to her mouth and takes another large bite.

 

“I’m so pleased Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh it will be a sensation, darling! Cocktails surrounded by golden fans! How delicious.” She replies with her mouth half full of egg, lettuce and pastry. She rubs her fingers together, depositing the crumbs clinging to them onto her plate. “And it will compliment my yellow portrait so well, you clever girl.”

 

“Your, yellow portrait, Miss Ward?” Lettice queries, her head on an angle.

 

“Yes, didn’t I tell you?”

 

“Ahh, no.”

 

“Well, I had my portrait painted whilst I was in Shanghai, draped in beautiful yellow oriental shawls. It’s really quite striking,” she declares picking up the remnants of her savoury. “Even if I do say so myself.”

 

“For above the fireplace?”

 

“Oh no! My Italian landscape will go there.”

 

“Your Italian landscape?”

 

“Yes, I bought it off a bankrupt merchant in Shanghai trying to get back home to the States along with a few other nice paintings.”

 

“How many paintings do you have, Miss Ward?”

 

She contemplates and then silently starts counting, mouthing the numbers and counting on her fingers. “Eleven or so. My beloved brother had them packed up and sent over. They should be arriving from Shanghai in Southampton next week. I’ll get them sent directly to the flat. I’ll leave it up to you darling girl to decide as to where they hang.”

 

“You are full of surprises, Miss Ward.” Lettice remarks with a sigh, picking up her teacup and taking a sip from it.

 

“Evidently, so are you,” the American replies, indicating with her eyes to the wallpaper. “I wasn’t expecting anything as modern and glamourous as that in London!”

 

Smiling, Lettice says, “We aim to please, Miss Ward.”

 

*Now known as the Corinthia Hotel, the Metropole Hotel is located at the corner of Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place in central London on a triangular site between the Thames Embankment and Trafalgar Square. Built in 1883 it functioned as an hotel between 1885 until World War I when, located so close to the Palace of Westminster and Whitehall, it was requisitioned by the government. It reopened after the war with a luxurious new interior and continued to operate until 1936 when the government requisitioned it again whilst they redeveloped buildings at Whitehall Gardens. They kept using it in the lead up to the Second World War. After the war it continued to be used by government departments until 2004. In 2007 it reopened as the luxurious Corinthia Hotel.

 

**The phrase “stuffed shirt” refers to a person who is pompous, inflexible or conservative.

 

***Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.

 

An afternoon tea like this would be enough to please anyone, but I suspect that even if you ate each sweet or savoury petit four on the cake plate, you would still come away hungry. This is because they, like everything in this scene are 1:12 size miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau:

 

The savoury petite fours on the lower tier of the cake stand and the sweet ones on the upper tier 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. Each petit four is only five millimetres in diameter and between five and eight millimetres in height! The selection includes egg and lettuce, ham and tomato, Beluga caviar, salmon and cucumber and egg, tomato and cucumber savouries and iced cupcakes for the sweet petit fours.

 

The blue banded hotel crockery has been made exclusively for Doll House Suppliers in England. Each piece is fashioned by hand and painted by hand. Made to the highest quality standards each piece of porcelain is very thin and fine. If you look closely, you might even notice the facets cut into the milk jug. Several pieces of the same service appear on the table in the background and the tiered sideboard to the left of the table.

 

The fluted glass cake stand, the glass vase on Lettice and Miss Ward’s table and the red roses in it were all made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The cake stand and the vase have been hand blown and in the case of the stand, hand tinted. The teapot is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The coffee pot with its ornate handle and engraved body is one of three antique Colonial Craftsman pots I acquired from a seller on E-Bay. The two matching pots are on the sideboard in the background. Lettice’s folio was made by British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Lettice’s interior design paintings are 1920s designs. They are sourced from reference material particular to Art Deco interior design in Britain in the 1920s.

 

The Chippendale dining room chairs are very special pieces. They came from the Petite Elite Miniature Museum, later rededicated as the Carol and Barry Kaye Museum of Miniatures, which ran between 1992 and 2012 on Los Angeles’ bustling Wiltshire Boulevard. One of the chairs still has a sticker under its cushion identifying which room of which dollhouse it came. The Petite Elite Miniature Museum specialised in exquisite and high end 1:12 miniatures. The furnishings are taken from a real Chippendale design.

 

On the table in the background luncheons of fish and salad and spaghetti bolognaise are waiting to be eaten. The fish and salad plates are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures and the plates of spaghetti bolognaise are made by Frances Knight. The vases of flowers on the table and on the stands are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The three plant stands are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, whilst the sideboard is made by high-end miniature furniture maker JBM.

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

 

Lettice is sitting at her Hepplewhite desk next to the fire in her drawing room. On her desk sit two brightly coloured interior designs she has created for her new client, American film actress Wanetta Ward, using her watercolours and pencils. Whilst she works away, her old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street, is sitting in one of her Art Deco tub arm chairs contentedly sewing beads onto his and Lettice’s friend, Margot de Virre’s, wedding dress bodice. Both have cups of tea from the pot Lettice’s maid, Edith, keeps replenishing.

 

“You sound displeased, Lettuce Leaf,” Gerald responds to a disgruntled huff from Lettice, drawing out his thread as he speaks. “What’s the matter?”

 

“Calling me that name doesn’t help, Gerald,” she mutters crossly. “I keep telling you, we aren’t children anymore. I hated it then, so imagine how much I detest it now?”

 

“Oh! We are techy tonight!” Gerald remarks without looking up as he pushes his needle back into the centre of a crystal bead. He pauses and looks up. “I’m sorry.” He pouts dramatically. “Friends again?”

 

Lettice looks over at him disgruntledly, but at the sight of her friend’s rather comical expression of remorse, she sighs, smiles and then laughs tiredly. “Yes Gerald.”

 

“So,” he looks over at the desktop littered with Lettice’s paints and jugs of murky water with brushes sticking out of them. “What’s wrong then?”

 

“It’s these designs!” She flicks her hands irritably at the offending pieces of paper and gives them a contemptuous look. “I’m not happy with them. Miss Ward says yellow is her favourite colour, yet I can’t quite manage yellow walls with blue furnishings.” She holds up a design of a music room with grand piano in yellow with blue accents.

 

“Oh,” Gerald’s eyes open widely as he nods. “Yes, I do begin to see what you mean. Well, it’s dramatic, I’ll say that.”

 

“It’s vulgar, is what it is.” She picks up her paint brush again, although is dumbfounded as to what to do to improve the image, other than to screw it up and start again, as she stares at the yellow wash spread across the page like a huge bruise.

 

“Well, she is an actress, darling.” Gerald remarks, going back to his sewing. “And part of the American mi…”

 

“Oh, don’t you start on the mediocre middle-classes again!” she interrupts, wagging her brush at him threateningly. “I scolded Margot when we were shopping at Selfridges last week. She sounded just like you.”

 

“Oh, bully for Margot!” Gerald smiles contentedly, taking up another bead, casting in onto his thread and plunging it into the fabric of the bodice. “I really must congratulate her next time I see her.”

 

“You’re a bad influence on her, with your overt snobbery.”

 

“It is true,” Gerald sighs. “But I can’t help it. It’s just part of my charm.” He bats his eyelashes across at his friend and smiles. “Anyway, you are the one who called Miss Ward gauche, so shouldn’t her home reflect a little of that gaudy, showy moving picture actress personality of hers?”

 

“Not if I’m designing it, Gerald. I have a reputation of exceptionally good taste to uphold.” She looks at her second design of a dining room, also with yellow walls. “Miss Ward be damned! Anyway Gerald, you of all people shouldn’t complain about the middle classes.”

 

Gerald sighs and drops the beaded bodice into his lap, whilst still keeping a firm hold of his needle. “That too is true, my darling. If it were not for Mrs. Hatchett and her coterie, well...”

 

“See,” Lettice smiles. “Did I not say that she would be the making of your couture house?”

 

“Hardly!” he retorts, giving her a shocked look.

 

“What? Aren’t she and her friends putting in countless orders for day dresses, tea gowns and evening frocks?”

 

“Oh they are!” he remarks. “But,” He exhales disappointedly. “Up-and-coming middle-class mediocrity Mrs Hatchett and her friends’ outfits are hardly going to make the pages of the Tattler or Vogue, are they? And even their money can’t make Grosvenor Street pay for itself. A day dress suitable for a Surrey village fête is hardly going to cost what a stunning piece of couture,” He holds up the exquisitely embroidered fabric. “For the London Season will. Why else do you suppose I’m sitting here embroidering Margot’s bodice in your Mayfair drawing room and not at home in Soho?”

 

“I assume because you enjoy my company.” Lettice teases with a smile.

 

“Oh I do darling,” Gerald says in earnest. “But I also love the fact that here I don’t have to pay the electricity bill.” He glances up at the glittering chandelier above them casting prisms across the white painted ceiling with its Art Deco cornicing.

 

“Nor the grocer’s bill,” Lettice smirks with a friendly chuckle, indicating to the plates on the black japanned coffee table containing the remnants of one of Edith’s chocolate cakes.

 

“Nor the wine merchant’s bill. The largesse of one’s friends is always welcome.”

 

Lettice looks back sadly at her friend. “Have you asked your father about an increase to your allowance, or perhaps an advance?” she asks hopefully.

 

“It isn’t as easy as that. I’m not you, Lettice.”

 

“I’ll have you know Gerald, that I get constant lectures from Pater about designing for my own class if I must insist on designing anything, and Mater just wants me to throw it all away and marry some dull member of the peerage, live in the country and have a dozen children.”

 

“A dozen?”

 

“Well at least three, like Lally.”

 

“Your sister is expecting again?”

 

“Yes, due in February, and Mummy is always comparing me to my propagating older sister, lording it over me that ‘Lally is married’, unlike me, and ‘Lally has children’, unlike me! She’s convinced my life is unfulfilled. I’m a girl, and I’m the youngest child and…”

 

“And you have your father wrapped around your little finger.” Gerald counters with a knowing look.

 

“Well,” Lettice blushes. “I can’t deny that I do seem to have some influence over the Pater.”

 

“Whereas I am just the second son: the spare.”

 

“Well thankfully you aren’t the heir, Gerald.” Lettice gives him a knowing look. “Otherwise, you would have to fulfil your duty to carry on the family line with some poor little debutante who must never know that her husband…”

 

“Is sexually inverted.” Gerald finishes Lettice’s sentence discreetly, stabbing the fabric with his needle. “Yes, I know that doesn’t help my cause in father’s eyes, any more than my wish to sew frocks for ladies.”

 

“At least you don’t wear them, revel in that fact and have photographic proof, unlike dear Cecil* does.”

 

“Nonetheless, being the second son, a fashion designer and a deviant,” Gerald blushes, looking towards the dining room, making sure that Lettice’s maid, Edith, isn’t listening at the green baize door. “I’m a disappointment, through and through. And my obvious shortfalls do not endear me to Father.”

 

“You asked him then?” Lettice asks with defeat. When Gerald nods in assent she adds, “Not even an advance?”

 

“Not a bean.”

 

“That’s so unfair.”

 

“My father isn’t your father, Lettice.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, we might be neighbours, but your father owns most of the neighbourhood. Your father is the Viscount of Wrexham with a fine estate, which Leslie has helped to modernise, thank goodness.” He raises his eyes to the ceiling. “Whilst my father is just Sir Bruton, a baron – an obstinate and old fashioned one, and an impecunious one at that – with a leaky roofed manor house on a plot of land that is getting smaller as he slowly sells it off. The golden pre-war days are gone, yet Father won’t face up to facts.”

 

“Poor Gerald,” Lettice says, standing up and putting a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder. Looking down at the beautifully beaded bodice in Gerald’s lap she continues, “Well, let’s hope that Margot’s wedding dress heralds better times for you as well as her and Dickie. At least this gown will appear in the Tattler, if nowhere else, and that means good business for you. That’s a beautiful pattern you are embroidering.”

 

“Thank you darling.” Gerald smiles as he looks down at his own work. Suddenly he sits up in his seat. “That’s it!”

 

“What’s it, Gerald?” Lettice looks up from her paintings in concern.

 

“Patterns!” He looks at her excitedly. “Did you not say Miss Ward was also interested in bold patterns?”

 

“Yes Gerald. What of it?”

 

“And did I not see you when I was here last week, flicking through some wallpaper samples?” He clambers up from his seat, carefully putting the beaded bodice aside.

 

“You did Gerald.” Lettice looks at him questioningly.

 

“The combination of blue and yellow is jarring when yellow is the main colour.” He gesticulates around him dramatically. “What if you swap it around? I’m sure there was a strong Prussian blue wallpaper amongst the samples: one that had a bold pattern highlighted in gold.”

 

“You’re right Gerald!” Lettice agrees excitedly. “It was a fan pattern! Of course! I’ve been looking at this the wrong way around! Paper the walls rather than paint them! What a dullard I am!” She grabs up her brush and dunks it into the jug of murky water.

 

“No! No! Don’t change your pictures!” Gerald gasps, anxiously hurrying around to Lettice’s desk and staying her elegant hand. “Use them. Show Miss Ward how jarring yellow is, and then pull out the paper. Show her how luxurious it is, and you’ll easily be able to convince her that it’s the right choice.”

 

“It is a bold pattern…”

 

“Yet an elegant one.”

 

“And it’s certainly glamorous.”

 

“And fans are very oriental, darling.” Gerald bats his eyelashes coquettishly as he pretends to hide behind an imaginary fan.”

 

“Oh Gerald!” Lettice giggles. “What would I do without you?”

 

“You’d never be able to decorate Miss Ward’s flat, that’s certain!” he smiles at his friend’s glittering eyes and gentle grin as she contemplates the possibilities he has helped instil in her mind.

 

*Cecil Beaton was a British fashion, portrait and war photographer, diarist, painter, and interior designer, as well as an Oscar winning stage and costume designer for films and the theatre. Although he had relationships with women including actress Greta Garbo, he was a well-known homosexual.

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

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

 

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

 

The watercolour paint set, brushes, and Limoges style jugs (two of a set of three) also come from Melody Jane Dolls’ House. So too do the pencils, which are one millimetre wide and two centimetres long.

 

Also on the desk, are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles, a roller, a blotter, a letter opener and letter rack, all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter, sitting behind the paint box and next to the jug’s handle is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame. The letter opener and roller are also sterling silver. The letter rack which contains some 1:12 size correspondence, is brass. Like the other pieces, it is also made by the Little Green Workshop.

 

Lettice’s two interior design paintings are 1920s designs. They are sourced from reference material particular to Art Deco interior design in Britain in the 1920s.

 

The fireplace appearing just to the right of the photograph is a 1:12 miniature resin Art Deco fireplace on which stands an Art Deco metal clock hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken.

 

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

www.myspace.com/452608523

   

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. Instead, we have followed Lettice south-west, through the neighbouring borough of Belgravia to the smart London suburb of Pimlico and its rows of cream and white painted Regency terraces. There, in a smart red brick Edwardian set of three storey flats on Rochester Row, is the residence of Lettice’s client, recently arrived American film actress Wanetta Ward.

 

Now that the flat is completely redecorated under Lettice’s deft hands, Miss Ward has vacated her suite at the Metropole Hotel* and has been living at her Pimlico address for a few weeks now. As a thank you to Lettice, the American has invited her to afternoon tea. And so, we find ourselves in the beautifully appointed, spacious drawing room.

 

“Now, darling girl!” Miss Ward says as she sweeps into the drawing room through the green baize door that leads from the service area of the flat. “You must try my own brew of coffee!” She enthusiastically hoists a beautiful china coffee pot decorated with cherry blossoms in the air. “I promise you that you’ll never go back to that sludge you British call coffee after you’ve had this.”

 

Lettice smells the rich aroma from the pot’s spout as Miss Ward places it with an appropriately theatrical swoop, enhanced by the brightly coloured Spanish shawl draped over her bare shoulders, onto the silver tray on the cherrywood table between the Queen Anne style settee and the matching pair of Chinese armchairs. “It smells divine, Miss Ward.”

 

“Darling!” Miss Ward enthuses. “Divine isn’t the word for this!”

 

“I look forward to tasting it, then.” Lettice replies with a bemused smile. “And afternoon tea, Miss Ward?”

 

“I know! I know!” the American brandishes her hands in the air. “I admit I said it was a quaint observance, but it’s one that I’ve come to enjoy since living here in England. We might not have petit fours like they do at the Metropole, but trust me, Harriet has found the most wonderful little local bakery that makes an amazing selection of cookies. Try one!” She indicates to the plate piled generously with an assortment of brightly coloured and delicious looking biscuits.

 

“Harriet, Miss Ward?”

 

The American picks up a biscuit as she speaks and then pauses with it to her lips. “My new maid, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

Lettice considers the woman with a rather angular face in black silk moiré afternoon uniform and lace collar, cuffs, cap, apron and cap who answered the door. She didn’t strike her as having such a lovely name. She looked to be more of an Augusta or Bertha.

 

Miss Ward’s American voice interrupts Lettice’s contemplation. “Oh, I must thank you too, for the number of that domestics employment agency you gave me.”

 

“You can thank my mother, Miss Ward.” Lettice selects a small pink macaron and takes a ladylike bite from it before depositing the remainder on her plate. She feels the pastry and filling melt in her mouth. “She and I may not agree about a good many things, but Mater certainly knows the best agency In London for staff.”

 

“Well, Harriet is perfect!” Miss ward exclaims. “She fits in here so well, and she doesn’t throw a fit with all my comings and goings at all hours to and from the studio, taking telephone messages for me with the efficiency of a secretary, and she doesn’t even seem to mind the unannounced arrivals when friends come to pay call.”

 

“I do hope you told her about me coming today, Miss Ward.” Lettice remarks in alarm.

 

“Oh I did, Miss Chetwynd! It’s quite alright!” She stuffs the biscuit into her mouth, rubbing her fingers together to rid them of crumbs which tumble through the air and onto her lap where they disappear amidst the fuchsia coloured georgette of her dress. “Mind you,” she continues, speaking with her mouth full. “I don’t think Harriet likes it when I insist on making my own coffee.” She gulps loudly. “She doesn’t like it when I go onto the kitchen. She says it’s her domain.” She looks across at Lettice perched elegantly on the settee, dressed in a pretty pastel yellow frock that matches the trim of her straw hat. “I imagine your maid is the same.”

 

“I’m sure I haven’t asked Edith, Miss Ward.”

 

“Well, perhaps you should, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“What a ridiculous notion!” Lettice laughs. “Of course she wouldn’t mind! It’s my flat. I can come and go where and when I please.”

 

“If you’ll pardon me, my dear girl,” Miss Ward picks up the coffee pot and pours the steaming, rich golden brown liquid first into Lettice’s cup and then her own. “But it’s a ridiculous notion that you don’t. If I may be so bold: it may be your flat, but you’re a lady, and even I, the egalitarian American in the room, knows that masters and servants don’t mix. You probably vex the poor little mouse when you swan into her domain, rather than ring the servant’s bell. Not that she would tell you that of course! Your maid is much to meek to speak her mind, whereas Harriet tells me that god invented servants’ bells, so I don’t have to go into her kitchen.” She smiles cheekily. “Mind you, I draw the line at her making coffee for me or my guests.” She indicates to the milk jug and sugar bowl. “Now, there is cream in the jug and sugar in the bowl Miss Chetwynd. Do help yourself.” She picks up the jug and glugs a dollop of cream into her coffee before scooping up two large heaped teaspoons of sugar.

 

After Lettice has added a small amount of cream and a flat teaspoon of sugar to her own coffee, she looks around the drawing room observantly whilst she stirs her cup’s contents. To her delight, and no little amount of surprise, the room remains as she designed it. She was quite sure that Wanetta would rearrange her well thought out designs as soon as she moved in, yet against her predictions the furniture remains where she had them placed, the gold and yellow Murano glass comport still standing in the centre of the mantelpiece, the yellow celadon vase with gold bamboo in place on the console table. Even the small white vase, the only piece left over from the former occupier’s décor, remains next to the comport on the mantle. The American was ready to throw it into the dustbin at every opportunity, yet it happily nestles between the comport and a large white china vase of vibrant yellow roses and lilies. It is as she notices the celadon vase that she sees the painting of Wanetta, which only arrived at the flat when its sitter did.

 

“So that’s the famous yellow portrait, Miss Ward,” Lettice remarks, admiring the likeness of the dark haired American, draped in a golden yellow oriental shawl, sitting languidly in a chair.

 

“Oh yes!” gasps Miss Ward as she turns around in her armchair to look at the painting hanging to the right of the fireplace, above a black console table. “You haven’t seen it, have you? Do you like it?”

 

“Yes I do,” acknowledges Lettice. “It’s a remarkable likeness, and the artist has captured the light in your eyes so well.”

 

“Thank you, darling girl! I think it’s beautiful.”

 

“So is your coffee!” Lettice remarks. “It’s quite delicious, and not at all what Bramley makes for me at Glynes**.”

 

“I told you, you British drink sludge.” She takes an appreciative, if overly large, gulp of her own coffee. “Now this, is real coffee.”

 

“So, have you christened your cocktail cabinet, yet?”

 

“Yes I have. I threw a cocktail party for the actors, actresses, director and crew when we wrapped up ‘After the Ball is Over’. It was quite the occasion!”

 

“Oh I could well imagine, Miss Ward.”

 

“Of course,” the American quickly adds. “I’m sure it wasn’t anywhere near as extravagant as your cocktail party that you threw for Mr. and Mrs. Channon.”

 

“You heard about that then, Miss Ward?”

 

“Heard about it? My darling girl,” Her eyes widen and sparkle with excitement. “I immersed myself in the article published by the Tattler, drinking in every little detail of your fabulous soiree. You looked stunning, darling!”

 

Lettice blushes and shuffles awkwardly in her seat on the settee at the brazen compliment. “Thank you, Miss Ward.”

 

“So did Mrs. Channon, of course! And wasn’t Lady Diana Cooper’s*** robe de style**** to die for?”

 

“Err, yes… quite, Miss Ward.” Lettice replies awkwardly. Anxious to change the subject and move away from her own private life, and thereby avoid the American’s potential attempts to try and gather some gossip to share with her fellow actors and actresses at Islington Studios*****, Lettice asks. “And what’s the next moving picture you will be making, Miss Ward? Another villainess role in a historical romance?”

 

“Oh, the studio is shutting for Christmas, so I’m sailing on the Aquitania****** on Monday, back to the States to visit my parents. I haven’t seen them in an age, and, well, they aren’t getting any younger. Besides, Islington Studios are paying for the journey and are organising for me to promote ‘After the Ball is Over’ at a few functions whilst I’m back home.”

 

“That will be lovely for you, Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh don’t worry, I’ll be back in the new year, when we start filming ‘Skating and Sinning’.”

 

“’Skating and Sinning’, Miss Ward?”

 

“Yes!” the American gushes as she picks up the coffee pot which she proffers to Lettice, who declines, and then proceeds to fill her own cup. “It’s the first picture planned for 1922. Another historical drama, set in London in the Seventeenth Century, when the Thames froze over.”

 

“Yes, 1607 I believe.”

 

“You’re a font of knowledge, Miss Chetwynd!” Miss Ward exclaims, clapping her ring decorated hands in delight. “You never cease to amaze me! A first-class interior designer and a historian!”

 

“Knowing trivial historical facts is just part and parcel of an education in a family as old as mine, Miss Ward.” Lettice deflects, taking another sip of her coffee. “And the sinning?”

 

“The sinning, Miss Chetwynd?” the American woman queries.

 

“Well, I assume the frozen Thames explains the skating part of the film’s title, Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh, the sinning!” Miss Ward settles back in her armchair with a knowing smile, placing her coffee cup on the black japanned table between the two Chinese chairs. “Well, that’s me, darling!” She raises both her arms dramatically, the Spanish shawl gathering about her shoulders as she does. “I will be playing a merry young, recently widowed, Duchess, with her eyes on our heroine’s young betrothed!”

 

“And do you succeed, Miss Ward?”

 

“Ah-ah! That,” She wags her finger playfully at Lettice. “Would be telling, darling girl. I can’t go giving away the ending, or you won’t come see the film.”

 

Lettice smiles at the actress. “Well, I’m glad that London has entranced you enough to return from the delights of America.”

 

“Well of course it has! And anyway, I have to come back to enjoy and show off my beautiful new home!”

 

Lettice blushes at the compliment.

 

“I’ll have you know Miss Chetwynd, that at my cocktail party, I had so many compliments about this beautiful room, the furnishings and the décor. You’ll be hearing from directors and future starlets in the new year, I’ll guarantee!”

 

“I shall have to see whether I can accommodate them, Miss Ward.” Lettice replies. “As you know, I will be decorating some of the principal rooms of Mr. and Mrs. Channon’s country house in the new year, and I have a few other potential commissions currently under negotiation.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be able to squeeze them in, darling! When the moving pictures come knocking, you just won’t be able to say no.”

 

“Well…” Lettice begins, imagining her mother’s face drained of colour, and her father’s flushed with anger, if she takes on another commission from a moving picture actress.

 

“Oh, and thinking of my flat. The other reason why I asked you here.” Miss Ward interrupts, standing up and walking over to the console table beneath her portrait, where some papers sit beneath the base of one of the Murano glass bottles. She fumbles through them and withdraws a small slip of paper. Walking over to Lettice she hands it to her. “A cheque to settle my bill before I set sail for home, darling girl.”

 

“Thank you, Miss Ward.” Lettice replies, opening her lemon yellow handbag sitting between her and her black and yellow straw hat on the settee and depositing the cheque safely inside. “I appreciate your prompt payment.”

 

“It’s my pleasure, Miss Chetwynd.” the American replies. “And thank you again for all that you have done.” Her glittering eyes flit about the room. “I just love being here! It’s so perfect! It’s so, so me! A mixture of the old, and the new, the oriental and the European, all of which I love.”

 

“I’m so pleased you approve, Miss Ward. It is your home, after all.”

 

“I even have to concede that you were right about having touches of white in here. It adds a touch of class. And that wonderful wallpaper you suggested,” She indicates to the walls. “Well, it is the pièce de résistance of this room’s décor!” Stepping over to the fireplace, she picks up the small white vase. “This puzzles me though.” Her face crumples. “Why were you so anxious that I keep this vase?”

 

“Well, “ Lettice explains. “Call me sentimental, but I felt that it is part of your home’s story and coming from an old family home surrounded by history, I thought it would be a shame to see it just tossed away. I hope you don’t disagree.”

 

Miss Ward considers the small Parian vase in her manicured hands for a moment before replacing it. “Not at all, you sentimental girl you!”

 

The pair smile at one another, happily.

 

*Now known as the Corinthia Hotel, the Metropole Hotel is located at the corner of Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place in central London on a triangular site between the Thames Embankment and Trafalgar Square. Built in 1883 it functioned as an hotel between 1885 until World War I when, located so close to the Palace of Westminster and Whitehall, it was requisitioned by the government. It reopened after the war with a luxurious new interior and continued to operate until 1936 when the government requisitioned it again whilst they redeveloped buildings at Whitehall Gardens. They kept using it in the lead up to the Second World War. After the war it continued to be used by government departments until 2004. In 2007 it reopened as the luxurious Corinthia Hotel.

 

**Glynes is the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie.

 

***Born Lady Diana Manners, Diana Olivia Winifred Maud Cooper, Viscountess Norwich was an English aristocrat who was a famously glamorous social figure in London and Paris. As a young woman, she moved in a celebrated group of intellectuals known as the Coterie, most of whom were killed in the First World War. She married Duff Cooper in 1919. In her prime, she had the widespread reputation as the most beautiful young woman in England, and appeared in countless profiles, photographs and articles in newspapers and magazines. She was a film actress in the early 1920s and both she and her husband were very good friends with Edward VIII and were guests of his on a 1936 yacht cruise of the Adriatic which famously caused his affair with Wallis Simpson to become public knowledge.

 

****The ‘robe de style’ was introduced by French couturier Jeanne Lanvin around 1915. It consisted of a basque bodice with a broad neckline and an oval bouffant skirt supported by built in wire hoops. Reminiscent of the Spanish infanta-style dresses of the Seventeenth Century and the panniered robe à la française of the Eighteenth Century they were made of fabric in a solid colour, particularly a deep shade of robin’s egg blue which became known as Lanvin blue, and were ornamented with concentrated bursts of embroidery, ribbons or ornamental silk flowers.

 

*****Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.

 

******The RMS Aquitania was a British ocean liner of the Cunard Line in service from 1914 to 1950. She was designed by Leonard Peskett and built by John Brown and Company in Clydebank, Scotland. She was launched on the 21st of April 1913 and sailed on her maiden voyage from Liverpool to New York on the 30th of May 1914. Like her sister ships the ill fated Lusitania and the renown Mauritania, she was beautifully appointed and was a luxurious way for first and second-class passengers to travel across the Atlantic between Britain and America.

 

This upper-class 1920s Art Deco drawing room scene may be different to how it may appear, for the whole scene is made up entirely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces I have had since I was a teenager and others that I have collected on my travels around the world.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The cherry blossom patterned tea set, which if you look closely at the blossoms, you will see they have gilt centres, I acquired from an online stockist on E-Bay. It stands on a silver tray that is part of tea set that comes from Smallskale Miniatures in England. To see the whole set, please click on this link: www.flickr.com/photos/40262251@N03/51111056404/in/photost.... The wonderful selection of biscuits on offer were made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The wooden Chinese dragon chairs and their matching low table ,that serves as Wanetta’s tea table, I found in a little shop in Singapore whilst I was holiday there. They are beautifully carved from cherrywood.

 

The Queen Anne settee made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, JBM with great attention to detail.

 

The black japanned cocktail cabinet with its gilded handles was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

All the glass comport on the mantlepiece has been blown and decorated and tinted by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The white and gold Georgian Revival clock next to it is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England. The ginger jar to the right of the clock is hand painted. It is an item that I bought from a high street doll house stockist when I was a teenager.

 

The yellow celadon vase with gold bamboo painted on it, I bought as part of a job lot of small oriental vases from an auction many years ago. The soapstone lidded jar in the foreground came from the same auction house, but from a different job lot of oriental miniature pieces.

 

Lettice’s black straw hat with yellow trimming and a yellow rose, which sits on the settee is made by Mrs. Denton of Muffin Lodge. It is an artisan miniature made just like a real hat! 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. Lettice’s lemon yellow purse is also an artisan piece and is made of kid leather which is so soft. It is trimmed with very fine braid and the purse has a clasp made from a piece of earring. It come from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Lettice’s furled Art Deco umbrella is also a 1:12 artisan piece made of silk, acquired through an online stockist on E-Bay.

 

The vases of flowers on the mantle piece and side table are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.

 

The stylised Art Deco fire screen is made using thinly laser cut wood, made by Pat’s Miniatures in England.

 

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

 

Wanetta’s paintings, including the yellow portrait, were made in America by Amber’s Miniatures.

 

The miniature Oriental rug on the floor was made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney

 

The Georgian style fireplace I have had since I was a teenager and is made from moulded plaster.

 

The striking wallpaper is an art deco design that was very popular during the 1920s.

We hiked and found the Waldrip Cabin today to fulfill the 5/6th graders' "Social History" credit as they are finishing up the requirements to gain their badges as Indiana Junior Master Naturalists. This was one of our last field trips and one of the best.

 

As we were wandering around the outside of this 100+ year-old structure, we scared a giant black vulture out of its nest in the loft. It perched itself in the oak trees above us and didn't want to leave. It was, by far, the largest (and meanest) vulture I have ever seen.

 

The entire area, which is now dense woodland on the edge of a giant reservoir (a.k.a. Lake Monroe), was once a poor but functioning family farm full of children and chickens and hogs and fields and orchards. We were led along and told stories by a wonderful, sweet lady who worked with the Department of Natural Resources. She had explored the area and its history extensively, even interviewed the children who had once lived on the farm. As we were leaving, and even as Matt and I were discussing coming back another day (There IS a geocache ...), she asked us not to come back to the cabin if we could help ourselves at all. She said the DNR would actually like to detour people from finding the cabin and have tagged it an official "Attractive Nuisance," i.e., so lovely to explore but so stupidly dangerous.

 

I was reminded of the old Pike County fire tower of my childhood as it stands tall, missing most of its steps, and surrounded by ten-foot fencing and barbed wire, surely with the same official tag stamped on its paperwork.

 

She also said they will likely collapse the cabin soon so that it might still represent the history and place albeit no longer standing. The whole thing barely stands as is; it's incredible that it stands at all. Its tin roof is oddly in tact somehow supporting the weight of whole, fallen trees. There is even an old cellar right beside it, made of stacked limestone, ten feet deep and nearly full of rain water. And - YES - the cabin DOES beg you come inside. Even the black vulture seems to whisper a dare: "Try it." The stairs are still there. I feel I NEED to return to this place before the cabin falls ... I have to.

 

Attractive Nuisance, indeed. Might we all be so lucky as to obtain such a glorious label of distinction before we collapse.

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 have left the hustle and bustle of London, travelling southwest to a stretch of windswept coastline just a short drive the pretty Cornish town of Penzance. Here, friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot, encouraged by her father Lord de Virre who will foot the bill, has commissioned Lettice to redecorate a few of the principal rooms of ‘Chi an Treth’. In the lead up to the wedding, Lord de Virre has spent a great deal of money making the Regency house habitable after many years of sitting empty and bringing it up to the Twentieth Century standards his daughter expects, paying for electrification, replumbing, and a connection to the Penzance telephone exchange. Now, with their honeymoon over, Dickie and Margot have finally taken possession of their country house gift and have invited Lettice to come and spend a Friday to Monday with them so that she might view the rooms Margot wants redecorating for herself and perhaps start formulating some ideas as to how modernise their old fashioned décor. As Lettice is unable to drive and therefore does not own a car, Margot and Dickie have extended the weekend invitation to one of their other Embassy Club coterie, Lettice’s old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. Gerald owns a Morris*, so he can motor both Lettice and himself down from London on Friday and back again on Monday.

 

After the retirement of the housekeeper, Mrs. Trevethan, from the main house to the gatekeeper’s cottage, the quartet of Bright Young Things** find themselves alone in the sprawling double storey Regency residence of white stucco with ample time on their hands owing to a lack of distractions beyond what parlour games from the Nineteenth Century they found mouldering in the games room cupboard. Encouraged by the consumption of several bottles of French champagne before, during and after dinner, Lettice, Margot, Dickie and Gerald have embarked upon a game of sardines*** after Lettice suggested them playing it earlier in the day. An old house, new to them all, full of wonderful nooks and crannies is too much of a temptation not to play the game. So far Gerald has been found hiding behind an old oriental screen in one of the disused bedrooms and Margot inside the capacious, if slightly musty, interior of an empty wardrobe. Lettice was the last of them to find Margot, so it is her turn to hide and await the other three sardines to seek her out.

 

Abandoning the ideas of the disused bedrooms upstairs, Lettice has returned to the ground floor of ‘Chi an Treth’ in search of a much better hiding place. Seeking out the service entrance, she quietly pushes open the green baize door studded with dull brass tacks. Like all the other doors and windows of ‘Chi an Treth’, it groans on its hinges, but gives way easily, leading Lettice into the servants’ quarters of the house with its white painted walls and bare lightbulb utilitarian décor. She is about to go into the kitchen to seek out the pantry or a dry store cupboard when her eye catches a narrow wooden door standing partially ajar at the end of a rather short corridor with no other doors off it and only a small bench for furniture.

 

“Perfect!” she breathes with excitement, scuttling along the old, worn flagstone floor, her louis heels clicking loudly. “Shhhh!” she hisses at them in her slightly inebriated state. “You’re sure to give me away if I don’t hurry!”

 

Unusually, the door opens outwards, and unlike the green baize door, whilst it does creak, its groaning protests are far quieter than its counterparts. Slipping inside, Lettice finds the light pull cord and with eyes closed, yanks on it, hoping that this rather out-of-the-way store cupboard has been electrified. Her wishes are granted as with a click and the almost imperceptible buzz of electricity, the room is suddenly flooded in a soft golden light from a naked bulb above. A small flurry of dust motes disturbed into the air are illuminated in the glow.

 

“Oh bully for Lord de Virre!” Lettice exclaims, clasping her elegant hands in delight. “Thank goodness he insisted the service area of the house was electrified as well as the living areas.”

 

Happy with her choice of hiding place, Lettice settles to await for the others to find her out and sardine with her.

 

Figuring it will take a little while for her friends to find her and finding sitting in one spot doing nothing rather boring, Lettice decides to explore her cupboard hiding place more thoroughly. She works out quickly that it must be a storage room for things for the nearby dining room as there are stacks of neatly folded table linens on the lower shelves. There are also interesting odd pieces of various dinner sets including tureens without lids, jugs, bowls and stacks of mismatched plates.

 

“Hhhmmm. No longer usable, but evidently too good to throw away.” she remarks as she picks up a blue and white sugar bowl without a lid bearing a pretty floral pattern. She turns it over in her hands thoughtfully. “This must be Regency era. I wonder if the old captain himself used this.”

 

Putting it back, she continues to explore, finding incomplete canteens of cutlery, lacquered stands for vases and bowls and boxes of any amount of different cleaning agents from different eras of the house’s history. Lettice quietly wonders whether there are cupboards like this at Glynes**** and if so, what she might find in them.

 

“Perhaps my own family’s long lost portrait,” she remarks aloud, even though there is no one to hear her. Peering curiously into a Huntley and Palmer’s***** biscuit box full of age discoloured napkins she adds, “Not that we have one that I know of.”

 

Stepping back, she suddenly discovers that the pale blue satin front of her bodice has come away with dust from the Huntly and Palmer’s box.

 

“Oh no!” she exclaims, batting at the sooty looking smears with her hands. “Oh, Gerald will kill me if I ruin one of his dresses!”

 

Unwilling to pull out any of the neatly folded table linens on the lower shelves out and sully them for fear of Mrs. Trevethan’s wrath if she is in fact the regular user of them, Lettice begins to fossick for alternatives to dust down her gown and manage, if not eradicate, any marks on her bodice. Forgetting the box of old linen napkins in her panic, she searches the shelves high and low for a cloth of some kind.

 

It is then that she spots a muslin cloth which looks quite clean dangling from a stack on an upper shelf. Lettice stretches up, but isn’t quite tall enough to reach it, even when she stands on her toes. She jumps up but misses it. She jumps again and feels the fabric teasingly caress her fingertips like a light breeze. She jumps a third time, and this time catches the fabric between her right index and middle fingers. Locking them tightly, she lands on the ground again, but doesn’t realise that by doing so she is also bringing with her the rest of the pile as well as the cloth, and down it comes, colliding crashing, making such a din that Lettice screams in fright, adding to the discordant cacophony as wood splinters, newspaper crumples and china shatters over the unforgiving flagstone floor.

 

The little broom cupboard is plunged into a thick silence in the immediate wake of the accident. Standing with her back against a shelf, Lettice is momentarily shocked into stillness before her body starts to react to the near miss of the shower of objects that now lie smashed and broken across the ground, as opening her tightly clenched eyes she starts to tremble and then sob.

 

“Lettice! Lettice!” Dickie cries are heard getting closer and closer to her hiding place along with the thunder of his approaching footsteps as he bursts into the cupboard. His eyes widen at the carnage of splintered porcelain, pottery and glass across the floor along with shattered pieces of wood. As he takes it in, he looks over at his friend, dusty and sobbing, but apparently unharmed. “Lettice dear girl! Are you alright?”

 

It is like the floodgates open with his words and Lettice stumbles across the broken items into Dickie’s arms and cries, uttering great juddering sobs as she clings to him.

 

“There, there, old girl,” Dickie soothes reassuringly, running his hands over Lettice’s blonde hair as she buries herself into his chest. “It’s alright. You’re alright. No harm done. You’ve just had a bad fright is all.”

 

“Lettice!” Gerald’s voice calls anxiously as his running steps grow louder before finding Dickie and Lettice on the threshold of the store cupboard. “Lettice are you alright? Answer me.”

 

“Shh. Shh.” Dickie mutters. “It’s alright old girl.”

 

“Oh my god, Lettice!” Margot gasps, appearing at the door. “Dickie! Dickie, is she injured? Oh! I’ll never forgive myself if she’s been hurt.”

 

“It’s alright darling, it’s fine Gerald.” Dickie assures them. “Lettice just had a rather nasty fright and a near miss is all.” He sways gently, rocking Lettice slowly as she continues to cry, only with less force now as she starts to calm down. Looking over his shoulder at his wife’s face, looking even more pale than usual against her dark hair he says, “Go fetch the brandy from the drawing room would you, my love?”

 

“Of course! Of course!” Margot replies breathlessly as she turns to leave.

 

“And for god’s sake, don’t run Margot. Just walk.” he chides as she goes. “We don’t want you turning an ankle on the flags to top it all off.”

 

“What happened?” Gerald asks, looking at the mess lying across the ground and the swirl of dust motes dancing in the golden light cast by the naked lightbulb above as it gently circles above.

 

“I’d say a few boxes went for a tumble, dear boy.” Dickie observes. “But there’s been no harm done to Lettice here. Now has there?” He directs his last comment to the young lady in his arms.

 

“Which is more than I can say for the captain’s old dinner service.” Gerald remarks, bending down and picking up a chunk of white pottery by its brightly painted handle. “What a mess you’ve made Lettuce Leaf.”

 

Sniffing, Lettice releases herself from Dickie’s arms and wipes her eyes with the back of her now rather grubby hand, smearing kohl across her cheek. “Don’t… don’t call me that, Gerald,” she says in a breaking voice. “You know I don’t like it.”

 

Gerald smiles gratefully firstly at her and then at Dickie. “No,” he smirks. “No harm done to Lettice.”

 

“Here’s the brandy,” Margot calls, appearing at the door clutching the crystal decanter from the drawing room and a faceted glass tumbler.

 

“Capital, my love.” Dickie says gratefully.

 

Gerald takes them from Margot and pours several large slugs of brandy into the tumbler and hands it to Lettice, who takes it in both of her still slightly trembling hands and raises the glass to her quivering lips.

 

“I say old girl,” Dickie pipes up cheerfully in an effort to break the tension. “I always took you for being an expert at playing sardines!”

 

“Yes darling,” Gerald adds. “You know that you’re supposed to let us find you, not alert us of your hiding place by creating a ruckus.”

 

“Or a mess,” Lettice snuffles. Looking down at the broken pieces she notices what is left of an old pendulum wall clock amongst the debris, it’s glass face covering shattered and its hands telling the incorrect time of ten past ten, no doubt never to move again. “Oh, I am sorry Dickie.”

 

“Come, come!” Dickie replies, placing a caring arm around his friend’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter about that. They’re just things. So long as you’re not hurt.” He smiles at her. “That’s what’s important.”

 

“Oh but Mrs. Trevethan!” Lettice protests. “She already has so much to do, looking after us and keeping the house tidy without this!” She extends a hand to the debris at her feet.

 

“Oh, pooh Mrs. Trevethan!” Margot replies, walking into the storeroom. “They don’t call this a broom cupboard for nothing!” She goes to a corner of the room which has remained undisturbed and pulls out a handmade birchwood broom and a metal bucket. “I’ll clean this up.” She looks over at Gerald, lolling languidly against the door frame holding the decanter of brandy. “And Gerald will help me, won’t you Gerald?”

 

“What? Me?” Gerald’s eyes grow wide as he looks back at Margot in shock as she withdraws a dustpan and brush. “But… but I’m a guest.”

 

“And such a helpful guest too,” Margot answers back in honeyed tones. “He designs frocks and sweeps floors.” She thrusts the dustpan and brush out to him forcefully. “What more could a hostess ask for?”

 

“But.. but what about Dickie?” he splutters.

 

“Dickie is playing nursemaid to Lettice,” she replies matter-of-factly. “So he’s got his hands full.”

 

“Evidently so have I.” Gerald replies glumly as he begrudgingly accepts the dustpan and brush from Margot.

 

Lettice giggles, but quickly smothers it with her hand as she receives a glare from her childhood friend.

 

“That’s better!” Dickie smiles. “Now, you just come out here, and we’ll leave Margot and Gerald to this.” He ushers Lettice out of the cupboard. “There’s a little seat out here in the hallway.”

 

The pair sit down on the small wooden bench in the hallway and watch in silence as Gerald and Margot start sorting things.

 

“Well, I don’t think this will ever go again.” Gerald chuckles as he picks up the wall clock and leans it against a corner of the shelves atop a stack of flour bags, its springs and cogs protesting metallically with its movement.

 

“If it even was going before, Gerald.” Margot replies. “I think our Mrs. Trevethan is a little bit of a hoarder, with so much space to store things and the run of the house her own until now.” She considers and assesses the mess on the floor with her left hand resting on her hip as she clutches the broom, looking a peculiar sight dressed in an elegant deep blue satin evening frock and high heels whilst holding it. “Now, any broken bits of wood can go into here.” She puts down a metal bucket. “And we’ll use it for firewood. And any broken glass and porcelain can go here.” She places a second bucket next to the first. “And I’ll get Mrs. Trevethan to deal with it in the morning.”

 

“I say,” Gerald remarks as he leans over a cracked square of wood and some discoloured tissue paper. “What’s this?”

 

“What’s what?” Margot asks as she starts sweeping broken pieces of pottery and shards of glass into a pile.

 

“This.” Gerald replies as he starts to move the splintered piece of wood.

 

“Gerald now isn’t a time for playing,” Margot says exasperatedly as she leans on the broom handle. “We’ll never get this cleaned up by breakfast time if you insist on fiddling with everything. Let’s just tidy this up. It won’t take long!”

 

“No!” protests Gerald, transfixed by what he has found. “I’m serious.”

 

“So am I, Gerald.” grumbles Margot.

 

Not hearing her querulous remark, he ignores her, and he moves closer to the pile of wood. “It looks like an old frame.” He shifts the wood aside. “A gilded frame.”

 

“Houses like this are full of old frames, Gerald,” Dickie calls from his seat on the bench next to Lettice where he cradles her with one arm, and the decanter of brandy in his other hand. “You know that. We English never like to throw away anything that might be of service at a later date.”

 

“No, this is different. It’s a beautiful frame. It must have been boxed up as it’s in splendid condition.”

 

Outside the store cupboard, Lettice and Dickie hear Margot’s broom cease its gentle swishing as the pair in the storeroom cease speaking.

 

“Margot? Gerald?” Dickie calls. “Are you alright?”

 

When no answer is forthcoming, both he and Lettice pick themselves up off the bench and walk to the door of the storeroom.

 

“I say you two,” Dickie continues. “What is going on here?” He looks at his wife and friend who are standing in the middle of the space, staring at the gilded frame as it gleams in the light, nestled comfortably amid a bed of crumpled tissue paper. His eyes widen.

 

“What is it, Gerald?” Lettice asks.

 

Gerald turns around and stares at Lettice, a look of amazement on his face. “See for yourself, darling.” he breathes.

 

Lettice looks at the painting inside the frame. Looking out from behind a thin layer of protective glass, a young lady with dark curls shaped into a stylish fashion by a host of red ribbons gazes over the bare shoulder. Two ropes of pearls hang about her elongated neck. However, it is her face, beautiful and radiant, with a knowing smile and soulful brown eyes that follow you about that catches her own eyes. She gasps.

 

“Lettice, dear girl,” breathes Dickie softly. “I think you may have inadvertently discovered the long lost Winterhatler****** of ‘Chi an Treth’.”

 

*Morris Motors Limited was a privately owned British motor vehicle manufacturing company established in 1919. With a reputation for producing high-quality cars and a policy of cutting prices, Morris's business continued to grow and increase its share of the British market. By 1926 its production represented forty-two per cent of British car manufacturing. Amongst their more popular range was the Morris Cowley which included a four-seat tourer which was first released in 1920.

 

**The Bright Young Things, or Bright Young People, was a nickname given by the tabloid press to a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.

 

***Sardines is an active game that is played like hide and go seek — only in reverse! One person hides, and everyone else searches for the hidden person. Whenever a person finds the hidden person, they quietly join them in their hiding spot. There is no winner of the game. The last person to join the sardines will be the hider in the next round. Sardines was a very popular game in the 1920s and 1930s played by houseguests in rambling old country houses where there were unusual, unknown and creative places to hide.

 

****Glynes is the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie.

 

*****Huntley and Palmers is a British firm of biscuit makers originally based in Reading, Berkshire. The company created one of the world’s first global brands and ran what was once the world’s largest biscuit factory. Over the years, the company was also known as J. Huntley and Son and Huntley and Palmer. Huntley and Palmer were renown for their ‘superior reading biscuits’ which they promoted in different varieties for different occasions, including at breakfast time.

 

******Franz Xaver Winterhalter (1805 – 1873) was a German painter and lithographer, known for his flattering portraits of royalty and upper-class society in the mid-19th century. His name has become associated with fashionable court portraiture. Among his best known works are Empress Eugénie Surrounded by her Ladies in Waiting (1855) and the portraits he made of Empress Elisabeth of Austria (1865).

 

This cluttered storage space full of interesting remnants of times past may not be all that it first appears, for this scene is made up of items from my miniatures collection, including pieces that I have had since I was a child.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The lost Winterhalter painting of ‘Chi an Treth’ in its gilded frame is a 1:12 artisan piece made by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The pendulum wall clock behind the frame I have had since I was a young child. It was either a Christmas or a birthday gift, but I cannot remember which.

 

The tin buckets, mop and birchwood broom are all artisan made miniatures that I have acquired in more recent years.

 

The feather duster on the top shelf I made myself using fledgling feathers (very spring) which I picked up off the lawn one day thinking they would come in handy in my miniatures collection sometime. I bound them with thread to the handle which is made from a fancy ended toothpick!

 

The table linens on the bottom right-hand shelves are all 1:12 size miniatures with beautiful tint stitching to finish each piece off. They were acquired from Michelle’s Miniatures in Sydney.

 

The porcelain jugs, bowls, tureens, plates and cups all come from different eBay online sellers.

 

The Huntly and Palmers’ box to the top right of the photograph comes from Jonesy’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Huntley and Palmers is a British firm of biscuit makers originally based in Reading, Berkshire. The company created one of the world’s first global brands and ran what was once the world’s largest biscuit factory. Over the years, the company was also known as J. Huntley and Son and Huntley and Palmer. Huntley and Palmer were renown for their ‘superior reading biscuits’ which they promoted in different varieties for different occasions, including at breakfast time.

 

In front bottom right hand corner of the photo is a can of Vim with stylised Art Deco packaging. It was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as was the box of Sunlight soap in the small tin bucked to the right of the photograph. Vim was a common cleaning agent, used in any Edwardian household. Vim scouring powder was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. 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. Kleeneze is a homeware company started in Hanham, Bristol. The company's founder, Harry Crook, had emigrated to the United States with his family several years earlier, and whilst there joined Fuller Brush as a sales representative. He returned to Bristol several years later, and started a business making brushes and floor polish which were sold door-to-door by salesmen. Technically Kleeneze didn’t start until 1923, which is two years after this story is set. I couldn’t resist including it, as I doubt I will ever be able to photograph it as a main part of any other tableaux. Thus, I hope you will forgive me for this indulgence.

 

On the shelf to the left of the photograph is some Zebo grate polish made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Zebo (or originally Zebra) Grate Polish was a substance launched in 1890 by Reckitts to polish the grate to a gleam using a mixture that consisted of pure black graphite finely ground, carbon black, a binding agent and a solvent to keep it fluid for application with a cloth or more commonly newspaper.

 

The tin buckets, wooden apple box, basket, mop, brush, pan and birchwood broom are all artisan made miniatures that I have acquired in more recent years.

Gaining grip of manual focus, taking up more brain power than auto...

 

As the sun pokes through at the conclusion of another day, Trustybus Optare Solo M920 FY52RZC begins the descent down Chapel Hill in Stansted Mountfitchet on a Route 7 working for Stansted Airport 27/04/21

606 (WS46) SN64CVA seen approaching Finchley Memorial Hospital having worked on route 383 from Barnet, The Spires.

 

Having been used as the morning extra for the 395 during the first term, the vehicle is now allocated to the 383, the 395's morning extra now covered by just a vehicle from RATP.

 

It also gained the route branding, which is applied to 601-604, as well as 605 (SDE11).

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 have headed north-west from Cavendish Mews, across Marylebone, past Regent’s Park, the London Zoo and Lords Cricket Ground to the affluent and leafy residential streets of nearby St. John’s Wood. It is here that Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie friends Minnie Palmerston and her husband Charles reside in a neatly painted two storey early Victorian townhouse on Acacia Road that formerly belonged to Charles Palmerston’s maternal grandparents, Lord and Lady Arundel.

 

Having taken her future sister-in-law, Arabella Tyrwhitt, to her old childhood chum and best friend Gerald Bruton’s couturier in Grosvenor Street Soho for her initial wedding dress consultation, Lettice has left the two together to discuss designs whilst she visits Minnie in St John’s Wood. Minnie, a highly strung socialite, has redecorated her dining room in a style not to her husband’s taste, or so she was told by Minnie over a luncheon Lettice hosted for Arabella last week. Known for her melodrama, Lettice quietly ponders whether it really is as awful as Minnie implies as she pays the taxi driver the fare from Soho to St John’s Wood and alights the blue vehicle onto the street.

 

The day is bright and sunny, and the street is quiet with only the occasional bark of a dog and the distant rumble of traffic from busy Finchley Road in the distance as Lettice strides across the road and walks up the eight steps that lead up to Minnie’s black painted front door. She depresses the doorbell which echoes through the long hallway inside and waits. Moments later, there is the thud of Minnie’s hurried footsteps as she flings open the door dramatically.

 

“Lettice darling!” she cries, standing in the doorway in a beautiful may green day dress which compliments her red hair and green eyes, with cascades of green and black bugle beads tumbling down the front. “Come in! Come in!” she beckons her friend with enthusiastic waves which make the green, black and gold bangles on her wrist jangle noisily.

 

“Minnie.” Lettice leans in for a whispery kiss on the cheek as she steps across the threshold and follows Minnie’s indications and steps into a drawing room off the hallway, the room filled with diffused light from a large twelve pane window that looks out onto the street. Looking around her, she quickly takes in the overstuffed cream satin settees, nests of occasional tables, clusters of pictures in gilt frames in every conceivable space on the William Morris style papered walls and the potted parlour palms. “Oh yes,” she remarks as she removes her green gloves. “I do see what you mean. Very Edwardian.”

 

“Isn’t it ghastly, Lettice darling?” Minnie asks as she steps into the drawing room. “Here let me take your, umbrella, coat and hat.” She helps her friend shrug off her forest green coat and takes her rather artistic beret with its long tassel. “I think Lady Arundel could walk in here and not find a thing out of place!”

 

“It could be worse,” Lettice remarks, looking up at the crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling high above. “It could be decorated in high Victorian style and lit with gasoliers*.”

 

“True darling.” Minnie calls from the hallway where she hangs up Lettice’s things on a heavy Victorian coatrack. “But you have yet to see my dining room faux pas.”

 

“Now Minnie, no matter what I say, I want no histrionics today like we had over luncheon last week,” Lettice chides her friend with a wagging finger. “Poor Bella didn’t know where to look.”

 

“Oh I am sorry.” Minnie apologises. “Coming from the country, she probably isn’t used to our London ways.”

 

“Your emotional outbursts have nothing whatsoever to do with London ways, so don’t go foisting it off.” Lettice replies, cocking one of her delicately plucked eyebrows at her friend.

 

“You sound just like Gladys.” Minnie says.

 

“Well, I hope I’m not as shrill sounding as her,” Lettice replies with a chuckle.

 

“And how is the beautiful bride-to-be?”

 

“Happily ensconced with Gerald in his Soho atelier, no doubt talking about all the finer details of the dream wedding frock I have already heard about from dear Bella.”

 

“She seems quite lovely, Lettice darling.”

 

“Oh, I adore Bella.” Lettice agrees with a wave of her hand. “Given we grew up running in and out of each other’s houses, living on neighbouring properties, it was inevitable that she would marry one of my brothers, or Lally or I marry one of Bella’s brothers. I’m just glad that it wasn’t the latter. All Bella’s brothers, whilst charming, take after their grandfather, and he was not a handsome man. Bella has her mother’s delicate and pretty genes and she and Leslie are well suited. They both love the country, and as you know from luncheon last week, Bella likes the county social round. As Pater says, Bella will one day make a wonderful chatelaine of Glynes**, supporting Leslie as a dutiful wife, hosting important county social functions like the Hunt Ball, opening fetes and awarding prizes at cattle shows.”

 

“How does Lady Sadie feel about her usurper?”

 

“Oh Mater loves Bella as much as we all do.” Lettice replies breezily. “Of course, Pater doesn’t dare express his appreciation quite so volubly in front of Mater, but I’m sure she is silently thinking the same thing, not that she would ever share that with any of us. No, the problem will be if Pater decides to pop his mortal clogs before she does. I don’t know how happy she will be to hand over the mantle of lady of the manor to her daughter-in-law, even if she does love her.”

 

“Well, let’s hope we don’t have to worry about that for a good while yet.” Minnie says soothingly.

 

“Indeed yes!” agrees Lettice. “Now, show me this dread dining room of yours, Minnie darling. I’m famished, and I’m intrigued to see just how much of a faux pas it really is.”

 

“Come right this way, interior decorator to all the great and good of this great country of ours,” Minnie says rather grandly as she walks towards a door that leads from the drawing room to the next room. Suddenly she pauses, clasping the brass doorknob in her hand and turns back to Lettice who has trailed behind her. “Prepare yourself my dear for l’horreur!” And she flings the door open.

 

Minnie and Lettice walk into the townhouse’s dining room, which like the adjoining drawing room has a high ceiling. Lettice is surprised that after the grandeur of the drawing room, it’s a much smaller room, perhaps more suited for intimate dining rather than a large banquet. She glances around and quickly takes in the mixture of old and new. An Edwardian dining setting in Queen Anne style fills the majority of the space, whilst a late Victorian sideboard and spare carver chairs press against the wall. To either side of the new Art Deco gas fireplace stand two modern stands on which sit rather old fashioned urns. Modernist paintings in bold colours hang on the walls, but Lettice can barely see them for the bold wallpaper of red poppies against a black background with green and white geometric patterns.

 

“Oh I see.” Lettice remarks, neither enthusiastically nor critically, but in a rather neutral way.

 

Lettice walks around the dining table on which stands a Georgian Revival tea set with steam snaking from the spot of the pot, a small carafe of water and glassware, crockery and cutlery for two at the head of the table. She stands before the Streamline Moderne fireplace surround and runs an elegant hand over one of the bold red blooms, feeling the slightly raised pattern. She sighs as she contemplates what she sees.

 

“Do you think it looks like something out of Maida Vale, Lettice darling?” Minnie asks hesitantly.

 

For a moment, Lettice doesn’t answer as she traces one of the green lines towards the gilt edge of a frame holding a painting of a tiger. “Tyger Tyger burning bright***,” she murmurs the beginning of the William Blake poem.

 

“Yes,” Minnie acknowledges her friend with a sigh of pleasure. “He’s rather glorious, isn’t he?”

 

“He is,” Lettice agrees. “However his gloriousness is diminished somewhat by the wallpaper which draws away attention from him, and the red fox.” She points to a larger canvas hanging over the sideboard.

 

“So you do think it’s middle-class Maida Vale then.” Minnie pronounces in a downhearted fashion.

 

“No, I don’t.” Lettice clarifies, turning around and placing a comforting hand on the slumped left shoulder of her friend. “And I think it was very unkind of Charles to say so. The wallpaper is beautiful, Minnie. It just doesn’t suit this room.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, this is quite an intimate room: taller with these high ceilings, rather than wide. This wallpaper would suit a longer room with low ceilings, where expanses of this pattern could be exposed uninterrupted.”

 

“Like a mansion flat?”

 

“Exactly, Minnie! I did something similar for the moving picture actress, Wanetta Ward last year. She had a long, exposed wall and the bold pattern I used worked beautifully. And this wallpaer does nothing to show off yours and Charles’ beautiful paintings. It detracts rather than enhances. The paintings and the wallpaper vie for attention. Think about the National Gallery, or the Tate Gallery****. When you see pictures hanging on the wall, what do you notice about the surrounding to the painting?”

 

Minnie thinks for a moment, screwing up her pert nose with its dusting of freckles. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever actually noticed the walls, Lettice darling.”

 

“Correct again, Minnie. No-one thinks about the walls because you’re not meant to. Your focus is meant to be on the paintings.”

 

“So you think I should strip the walls and paint them? Is that what you’re saying?”

 

“Well, you could, Minnie.” Lettice replies. “Or you could paint the walls and decorate the upper edge with a nice frieze paper.”

 

“Then it really would look like Maida Vale.” Minnie argues. “Only people who can’t afford wallpaper get friezes hung.”

 

Lettice considers her friend’s remark for a moment. “Mmm… yes, you’re quite right Minnie. Well, Jeffrey and Company***** do stock a range of beautiful papers in vibrant colours with pattern embossed into them. They look very luxurious.”

 

“Oh!” Minnie clasps her hands in delight. “I do like the sound of that! What colour would suit this room do you think?”

 

“Oh I should imagine a nice warm red or orange to go with this.” Lettice taps the top of the tiled fireplace surround. “And that colour range would also compliment your polished floors.”

 

“And I could get black japanned furniture like you, Lettice darling! I do like your chairs.”

 

“Oh no.” Lettice shakes her head. “Black japanned furniture is fine, but not my chairs. They are far too low for this room. You need an equivalent high backed chair.” She reaches out and pats one of the dining chairs. “Lady Arundel chose these well as they echo the height of the room. Perhaps if you had something high backed padded with a complimentary fabric to the paper: say red or orange.”

 

“Oh Lettice you are so clever!” enthuses Minnie. “When can you start.”

 

“Don’t you want to ask Charles before you go spending his money on redecorating, Minnie?” Lettice laughs. “Surely he’ll want a say.”

 

“Oh Charles told me today when I reminded him that you were coming for luncheon before he left for the office, that he’ll happily pay for anything you recommend, or better yet your services. So you don’t need to worry on that account.”

 

“Well, I would have to finish Dickie and Margot’s.” Lettice tempers.

 

“Oh, of course.” Minnie agrees.

 

“Well, I don’t have another redecorating assignment after them, so let me contemplate it.”

 

“I’ll go and get luncheon whilst you contemplate.” Minnie exclaims with a clap of her hands before scuttling away through a second door to the left of the fireplace.

 

With her exuberant friend gone, Lettice looks around the dining room, contemplating what she has suggested, picturing what embossed wallpaper in a rich red or vibrant orange would look like as a backdrop for the paintings. “Pity.” she muses as she again runs her hands over the stylised poppies in the pattern on the wall. Turning around she looks across the room. “Sorry Lady Arundel,” she remarks, tapping the top of the nearest dining chair again. “But it looks like your granddaughter-in-law wants to modernise.

 

“I’m afraid it’s Cook’s afternoon off today,” Minnie says apologetically as she walks back through the door through which she went, carrying a tray of tomato, ham and cucumber sandwiches. “So we’ll have to settle for these.” Looking down at the plate of appetising sandwich triangles as she places them on the dining table’s surface she adds. “I do hope she remembered not to make tongue****** ones. She should remember that I can’t stand cold tongue.”

 

Lettice peers at the fillings of bright red tomato, vivid green cucumber, and pink ham. “I think we’ll be safe.”

 

“Well, there’s half a trifle left over for dessert just in case they aren’t nice.” Minnie adds hopefully.

 

Lettice is suddenly struck by something. “Minnie?” she asks. “Minnie, why are you carrying the tray? And come to think of it, why did you answer the door? Where is Gladys?”

 

Minnie blushes, her pale skin and smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose reddening. “She handed in her immediate notice the week before last.”

 

“Oh no! Not another one Minnie?”

 

“She said she couldn’t work for a woman who had such histrionics as I do, and she’s gone back to Manchester.”

 

“Oh Minnie!” Lettice shakes her head dolefully.

 

“See! I told you, you sounded like Gladys, Lettice. I’ve been getting by with the tweeny*******, but Cook grumbles, so I can’t keep pinching her. That’s why I’m so grateful you gave me that telephone number for that domestic employment agency in Westminster. I’ve a new maid starting next week. Her name’s Siobhan, so I figured that she can’t complain about my histrionics as she’d be used to them, being Irish.”

 

“Well, let’s hope so Minnie.” Lettice chuckles as she pulls out her dining chair and takes her seat. “I can’t keep up with the revolving door of maids that come in and out of this house. How long have you been here for now?”

 

“Seven months or thereabout.” Minnie replies vaguely as she takes her own seat in the chair at the head of the dining table.

 

“And how many maids have you had in that time?”

 

“Nine.” Minnie replies with a guilty gulp.

 

“No wonder Charles feels his club is better suited to entertain prospective business associates.” Lettice shakes her head disapprovingly. “A tweeny waiting table.”

 

“Well hopefully, with Siobhan starting next week, and you agreeing to redecorate my dining room faux pas,” She looks around the room with glittering, excited eyes, as she imagines the possibilities. “Charles will be happy to start entertaining here.” She pauses and thinks for a moment. “You will won’t you?”

 

“Will I what, Minnie?”

 

“You will redecorate my dining room, won’t you?”

 

Lettice reaches around Minnie’s teacup and squeezes her friend’s hand comfortingly. “Of course I will. I’ll come up with some ideas of what I think might suit this room and then I’ll show you and Charles. Charles has to have some input, even if he has told you that you that I have carte blanche when it comes to redecorating.”

 

*A gasolier is a chandelier with gas burners rather than light bulbs or candles.

 

**Glynes is the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie.

 

***”The Tyger” is a poem by English poet William Blake, published in 1794 as part of his “Songs of Experience” collection and rising to prominence in the romantic period of the mid Nineteenth Century. The poem explores and questions Christian religious paradigms prevalent in late 18th century and early 19th century England, discussing God's intention and motivation for creating both the tiger and the lamb. Tiger is written as Tyger in the poem as William Blake favoured old English spellings.

  

****In 1892 the site of a former prison, the Millbank Penitentiary, was chosen for the new National Gallery of British Art, which would be under the Directorship of the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square. The prison, used as the departure point for sending convicts to Australia, had been demolished in 1890. Sidney R.J. Smith was chosen as the architect for the new gallery. His design is the core building that we see today, a grand porticoed entranceway and central dome which resembles a temple. The statue of Britannia with a lion and a unicorn on top of the pediment at the Millbank entrance emphasised its function as a gallery of British art. The gallery opened its doors to the public in 1897, displaying 245 works in eight rooms from British artists dating back to 1790. In 1932, the gallery officially adopted the name Tate Gallery, by which it had popularly been known as since its opening. In 1937, the new Duveen Sculpture Galleries opened. Funded by Lord Duveen and designed by John Russell Pope, Romaine-Walker and Gilbert Jenkins, these two 300 feet long barrel-vaulted galleries were the first public galleries in England designed specifically for the display of sculpture. By this point, electric lighting had also been installed in all the rooms enabling the gallery to stay open until 5pm whatever the weather. In 1955, Tate Gallery became wholly independent from the National Gallery.

  

*****Jeffrey and Company was an English producer of fine wallpapers that operated between 1836 and the mid 1930s. Based at 64 Essex Road in London, the firm worked with a variety of designers who were active in the aesthetic and arts and crafts movements, such as E.W. Godwin, William Morris, and Walter Crane. Jeffrey and Cmpany’s success is often credited to Metford Warner, who became the company’s chief proprietor in 1871. Under his direction the firm became one of the most lucrative and influential wallpaper manufacturers in Europe. The company clarified that wallpaper should not be reserved for use solely in mansions, but should be available for rooms in the homes of the emerging upper-middle class.

  

******Beef tongue (also known as neat's tongue or ox tongue) is a cut of beef made of the tongue of a cow. It can be boiled, pickled, roasted or braised in sauce. It is found in many national cuisines, and is used for taco fillings in Mexico and for open-faced sandwiches in the United States.

 

*******A tweeny is a between maid, who works in the kitchen as well as above stairs, assisting at least two other members of a domestic staff.

 

This rather bright dining room is perhaps a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of pieces from my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection, some pieces from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The Queen Anne dining table, chairs and sideboard were all given to me as birthday and Christmas presents when I was a child.

 

The three prong Art Deco style candelabra in the sideboard is an artisan piece made of sterling silver. Although unsigned, the piece was made in England by an unknown artist. The vase of flowers to the left of the candelabra is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The carafe to the right of the candelabra is another artisan piece made of hand spun glass. I acquired it as a teenager from a high street dollhouse stockist.

 

The ornately hand painted ginger jar is one of a pair and comes from Melody Jane Dollhouse Suppliers in Britain. The tall stand on which the ginger jar stands was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

The paintings on the walls are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The stylised floral and geometric shape Art Deco wallpaper is a real Art Deco design which I have sourced and had printed in high quality onto A3 sheets of paper.

 

On the dining table the tray of sandwiches are made of polymer clay. Made in England by hand by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight they are very realistic with even the bread slices having a bread like consistency look. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The water carafe came from the same high street stockist as the carafe on the sideboard. The Art Deco dinner set is part of a much larger set I acquired from a dollhouse suppliers in Shanghai. The Georgian Revival silver tea set on its tray I acquired from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The Streamline Moderne pottery tile fireplace surround I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.