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, being a Sunday we are not at Cavendish Mews. We have travelled east across London, through Bloomsbury, past the Smithfield Meat Markets, beyond the Petticoat Lane Markets* frequented by Lettice’s maid, Edith, through the East End boroughs of Bethnal Green and Bow, and through the 1880s housing development of Upton Park, to East Ham. It is here that we have followed Edith and her fiancée, grocery delivery boy Frank, on their Sunday off, to the Premier Super Cinema**, where Edith and Frank have just finished seeing a midday showing of ‘A Girl of London’***.

 

As they join the throng of theatre patrons leaving the cinema and step out through the double glass doors set in wooden frames of Brunswick Green**** and stand under the brightly illuminated portico which advertises this week’s showings in colourful red lettering, they both shiver against the December cold, which is at odds to the warmth of the cinema’s cosy interior. Along High Street, people wrapped up in thick coats hurry through the gloom of the afternoon. Only dull light manages to filter through the dark clouds hanging heavily overhead.

 

“Looks like rain.” Frank remarks glumly as he looks to the sky beyond the Premier’s portico. He bundles the russet and cream wool scarf knitted in a stockinette stitch***** by his Scottish grandmother, Mrs. McTavish a little more tightly around his throat.

 

“Well, the forecast in this morning’s papers****** said that there were rain showers due to arrive from mid-afternoon.” Edith adds, pulling the brim of her black dyed straw cloche decorated with purple satin roses and black feathers low over ears as the cold breeze blowing up High Street teases them uncomfortably. “Which is why I brought this!” She hoists up her old black brolly and smiles at Frank.

 

“I really need to get you a new one of them.” Frank says. “It’s a bit battered and shabby.”

 

“Oh, it does its job well enough.” Edith defends her slightly beaten and battered black hook handled umbrella as she looks down upon it and rubs it tenderly.

 

“It’s not anywhere near good enough or smart enough for my best girl.” Frank insists

 

Come on.” she adds brightly with a chuckle. “Let’s do a bit of window shopping before we have to go home.”

 

The pair look both ways before crossing over High Street, a noisy and busy thoroughfare, even on a Sunday, chocked with a mixture of chugging private motor cars, lorries and the occasional horse and cart. Edith looks across the road as they wait by the kerb to the ramshackle collection of two and three storey buildings constructed over two centuries opposite. Their canvas awnings fluttering in the breeze help to advertise an ironmonger*******, a barber, a haberdasher, a lamp shop, a chemist, a boot repairer, a grocer and a little further up the street, the large double fronted Woolworths******* display their wares. Christmas is not far away now, with only a few weeks until Christmas Day, and signs of festive cheer abound with bright and gaudy tinsel********* garlands and stars cut from metallic paper hanging in shop windows on either side of the busy thoroughfare.

 

“I did enjoy Genevieve Townsend********** as Lil in today’s picture, Frank.” Edith remarks as they cross the street after taking advantage of a lull in traffic.

 

“Hhhmmm…” murmurs Frank in reply.

 

“She is so glamourous, and such a dramatic actress.” Edith goes on. “She reminds me a bit of Wanetta Ward. Remember Miss Lettice’s client the American actress that ended up working here for Islington Studios***********?”

 

“Hhhmmm…” is all Frank says in reply.

 

“Miss Lettice received a Christmas card from here a few days ago, all the way from California! And she even remembered to include me in her Christmas wish!” Edith gushes. “Miss Lettice says I can keep the card for myself after Christmas is over.”

 

“Hhhmmm…” Frank murmurs again as they reach the opposite side of the road and begin to slowly meander the pavement as they wend their way back up the hill towards East Ham Tube Station************.

 

“I was reading in Photoplay************* that Miss Towsend grew up in in Freeport, Illinois and attended Mount Holyoke College, where she majored in English and English Literature. No wonder she acts with such conviction, if she studied the classics. Don’t you think so, Frank?”

 

“Hhhmmm…” Frank utters again.

 

“Frank, are you listening to me?” Edith queries as she stops in her tracks.

 

Broken from his own distracted thoughts by their sudden cessation of movement, Frank turns towards Edith and says, “Oh yes. Yes. Very interesting.” But his voice sounds hollow.

 

“No, you haven’t, Frank.” replies Edith a little disappointedly.

 

“Haven’t what, Edith?”

 

“Exactly!” Edith says with conviction, nodding her head as she withdraws her arm from where it is interlocked with Frank’s and folds her arms akimbo in front of her. “Listening to me, Frank! You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry Edith. I guess I’m just a bit distracted is all. That’s why I wanted to come to the pictures today – to get my mind off things you know?”

 

“What things, Frank?” Edith ask in concern, re-linking her arm with Frank’s as they slowly begin to walk again, passing by the brightly illuminated lamp shop where stars made from metallic cardboard, strung on pieces of bright red cotton hyang above the latest range of fashionable electric lamps with a mixture of modern geometric Art Deco shades and more traditional Victorian and Edwardian styles.

 

“Well, I just can’t help thinking about Gran.” Frank admits a little guiltily.

 

“What’s wrong with her?” Edith asks in concern.

 

“Oh, I didn’t want to worry you, Edith. Not on our day off.” Frank begins. “But…”

 

“What is it, Frank. What’s happened?”

 

“Well, I’m sorry to say this, but she’s sick, Edith.” Frank sighs heavily, releasing a pent-up breath. “She must have caught a chill the other week when I walked her home from our celebratory engagement tea at Lyon’s Corner House************** up Tottenham Court Road.”

 

“Oh I’m sorry Mrs. McT… err, I mean, Gran, isn’t feeling well.” Edith says with concern to Frank. She then utters a snorting half chuckle. “I still can’t get used to calling your grandmother, Gran, Frank.” She shakes her head

 

Frank joins her laughter and smiles - a moment of happiness amidst the worry. “No more than I can get used to calling your parents George and Ada, rather than Mr. and Mrs. Watsford.”

 

“I guess we’ll get used to it in time.” Edith says comfortingly. “It’s early days yet. We haven’t been engaged for all that long, after all.”

 

Edith wraps her arm a little more tightly through Frank’s as they wander further up the street, their soles clicking on the wet concrete beneath their feet.

 

“It was cold that afternoon, going home.” Edith adds.

 

“I’m worried that it might have gone to her chest.” Frank confides with a furrowed brow. “She had the Spanish Influenza as well as my parents, you know.”

 

“No, I didn’t know.” Edith falters.

 

“Oh yes! She nursed Mum first and then Dad, even though she herself was sick, but Gran is as tough as old boots***************, and she survived.”

 

Edith reaches up and squeezes Frank’s upper arm soothingly as she senses him flinch. “I’m sorry that your Mum and Dad wouldn’t be there to see us get wed, Frank, but I promise that my Mum and Dad will make up for their absence. They love you, Frank.”

 

“I know they do, and I know they will, Edith.” Franks says, looking down on his fiancée with a grateful smile. “Your Dad was generous to shout us all to that celebratory slap up tea at Lyon’s Corner House. What more can I ask in a father-in-law than one who cares so much and is so happy to see us get married?”

 

“It’s what you deserve, Frank!”

 

“I just hope Gran survives. Her chest was never the same after the Spanish Influenza, and a chill usually goes straight there when she catches one. That’s what’s got me worried this time. I’ve got Mrs. Claxton from upstairs keeping an eye on her, and she’ll go to the telephone box down the street on the corner to telephone for the doctor if needs be, or to telephone Mrs. Chapman’s boarding house if she needs to reach me. But I’ll feel better after I’ve stopped in myself to see her today, and see how she is.”

 

“Do you want me to come too, Frank? I’d love to see her and support you.”

 

“It’s lovely of you to offer, Edith, but best not, just today. The less chance Gran has to be exposed to any other coughs or sneezes, the better.”

 

“But I’m not sick, Frank.” Edith says, trying hard not to take offence from Frank’s off the cuff remark.

 

“Not yet, but you could be and just not know it yet. There are lots of coughs and sneezes going around.”

 

“Well, if that’s the case, then it means that you could be sick too, Frank.”

 

“I know, Edith, but I’ll cover my face with my scarf whilst I’m there.” Frank assures her. “I know you just want to be helpful, Edith.”

 

“Of course I do Frank!” Edith says, unable to keep the hurt out of her voice any longer.

 

“But if you do, the best thing you can do is stay on the Tube**************** and go on home to Cavendish Mews whilst I visit Gran. I’ve had to do this more than a few times since my parents died.” He adds soothingly. “I know what I’m doing.”

 

“Oh, of course you do, Frank.” Edith acquiesces. “You know what’s best.”

 

The pair stop in front of one of the rounded plate glass bay windows of the East Ham High Street Woolworths****************. The window is flooded with warm light which falls down upon a cornucopia of wonderful festive things for Christmas. Beneath a red ribbon garlanded and gold bauble studded Christmas tree a range of goods are artfully placed for maximum exposure to the passers-by on the footpath as they meandered before the window. Boxes of gaily coloured baubles in bright packaging smile out in metallic golds and greens, whilst other glass baubles sporting bright blue stripes or coats of the most festive red are placed on top of parcels wrapped in pretty papered and tied with satin ribbon. Boxes of Christmas Crackers****************** ready to grace any festive table with a splash of colour spill forth in yellow, blue, orange, red and pink crêpe paper, their paper hats, riddle, charade and small token sweet gifts inside waiting to burst forth when pulled with a snap. Both Frank and Edith stare at the colourful display in silence, momentarily lost in their own separate deep thoughts.

 

Finally, Frank breaks the quiet between them. “I’m even worried, so close to Christmas, that Gran and I might not be able to come you yours on Christmas Day.”

 

“What?” Edith gasps, her eyes widening. “Not come? Oh, Mum’s been planning Christmas Day for months now! She’ll be so disappointed! And this will be our first Christmas together affianced, Frank.”

 

“And that will disappoint you, Edith.”

 

“It will.” Edith mutters begrudgingly as her shoulders slump.

 

“I just don’t think she’ll be well enough to travel all the way to Harlesden on the Tube and then walk, Edith. I just don’t. I don’t want to spoil Christmas Day, but I don’t want her getting any sicker, and I won’t leave Gran alone on Christmas.”

 

“Oh, I’d never suggest you should, Frank. That would be awful for her!” Edith exclaims. She sighs heavily. “I understand.”

 

“We’ll see.” Frank says consolingly, wrapping his arm around Edith’s shoulder lovingly. “There is still a little bit of time between now and Christmas Day. You never know what can happen.”

 

Edith sighs again and bites her bottom lip to stop the tears that threaten to spill from her pretty blue eyes, so as not to upset Frank. As she stares through the mist of tears at a brightly decorated box of Christmas crackers depicting a father playing with his children around the Christmas tree on Christmas Day, she is suddenly struck with a thought. “Yes,” she murmurs under her breath, suddenly struck by a ray of hope. “You never know.”

 

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

 

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

 

***‘A Girl of London’ is a 1925 British silent drama film produced by Stoll Pictures, directed by Henry Edwards and starring Genevieve Townsend, Ian Hunter and Nora Swinburne. Its plot concerns the son of a member of parliament, who is disowned by his father when he marries a girl who works in a factory. Meanwhile, he tries to rescue his new wife from her stepfather who operates a drugs den. It was based on a novel by Douglas Walshe.

 

****Brunswick Green is a deep, rich, often gloss-finish green with a classic, historical feel, while Cottage Green is a bolder, vibrant, and rich green often associated with traditional schemes and country aesthetics. Brunswick Green is typically darker and more dramatic, pairing well with brass or gold for an elegant look, while Cottage Green is often used on its own or with lighter neutral accents to create a cohesive traditional or rustic feel. Brunswick green was a popular colour in the 1920s, especially for painting houses and architectural details. It was a common choice for the exterior trim on homes and commercial buildings, often paired with lighter colours like cream or off-white for walls. It was also popular in other applications, like for machinery and rolling stock, especially in Great Britain where it gained popularity for its use in racing cars as British Racing Green, a shade closely related to Brunswick Green.

 

*****The V pattern in a knitted scarf is called stockinette stitch, which is created by alternating rows of knit and purl stitches.

 

******Vice-Admiral Robert Fitzroy, founder of the UK Met Office, started collating measurements on pressure, temperature, and rainfall from across Great Britain, Ireland, and Europe in 1860. These observations were sent by telegraph cable to London every day where they were used to make a ‘weather forecast’ – a term invented by Fitzroy for this endeavour. After the Royal Charter ship sank in a violent storm in 1859, Fitzroy resolved to collect real-time weather measurements from stations across Britain's telegraph network to make storm warnings. Starting in 1860, observers telegraphed readings to Fitzroy in London who handwrote them onto Daily Weather Report sheets, enabling the first-ever public weather forecasts starting on 1st August 1861 and published daily in The Times newspaper. Fitzroy died by suicide in 1865 shortly after founding the UK Met Office, leaving his life's work trapped undiscovered in archives.

 

*******An ironmonger is the old fashioned term for someone who sells items, tools and equipment for use in homes and gardens: what today we would call a hardware shop. Ironmongery stems from the forges of blacksmiths and the workshops of woodworkers. Ironmongery can refer to a wide variety of metal items, including door handles, cabinet knobs, window fittings, hinges, locks, and latches. It can also refer to larger items, such as metal gates and railings. By the 1920s when this story is set, the ironmonger may also have sold cast iron cookware and crockery for the kitchen and even packets of seeds for the nation of British gardeners, as quoted by the Scot, Adam Smith.

 

********Woolworths began operation in Britain in 1909 when Frank Woolworth opened the first store in Liverpool, as a British subsidiary of the already established American company. The store initially sold a variety of goods for threepence and sixpence, making their goods accessible to everyone, not just the wealthy upper and middle-classes. The British subsidiary proved to be very popular, and it grew quickly, opening twelve stores by 1912 and expanding using its own profits to become a fixture on the high street. The stores became a beloved British institution, with many shoppers assuming they were originally a British company. In 1982, the United Kingdom operations underwent a management buyout from the American parent company, becoming Woolworth Holdings PLC. This followed the American parent company's sale of its controlling stake to a local consortium. Later, in 2000, the company's parent (by then known as Kingfisher Group) decided to restructure, focusing more on its DIY and electrical markets. The general merchandise division, including Big W stores, was spun off into a separate company called Woolworths in 2001. Unable to adapt to modern retail trends, the company faced increasing competition and financial difficulties. The last Woolworths stores in the United Kingdom closed their doors in December 2008 and January 2009, marking the end of an era.

 

*********One of the most famous Christmas decorations that people love to use at Christmas is tinsel. You might think that using it is an old tradition and that people in Britain have been adorning their houses with tinsel for a very long time. However that is not actually true. Tinsel is in fact believed to be quite a modern tradition. Whilst the idea of tinsel dates back to Germany in 1610 when wealthy people used real strands of silver to adorn their Christmas trees (also a German invention). Silver was very expensive though, so being able to do this was a sign that you were wealthy. Even though silver looked beautiful and sparkly to begin with, it tarnished quite quickly, meaning it would lose its lovely, bright appearance. Therefore it was swapped for other materials like copper and tin. These metals were also cheaper, so it meant that more people could use them. However, when the Great War started in 1914, metals like copper were needed for the war. Because of this, they couldn't be used for Christmas decorations as much, so a substitute was needed. It was swapped for aluminium, but this was a fire hazard, so it was switched for lead, but that turned out to be poisonous.

 

**********Genevieve Schmich, known professionally as Genevieve Smeek and Genevieve Townsend, was an American stage and film actress. She was born in Freeport, Illinois and attended Mount Holyoke College, where she majored in English and English Literature. After graduating in 1920, she moved to Britain, where she joined Frank Benson's theatre company. During the mid-1920s she had several lead roles in British silent films. She died in Switzerland, of tuberculosis, at the age of 29 in 1927. In 1928, Mount Holyoke College established the Genevieve Schmich Award in her honour.

 

***********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.

 

************East Ham London Underground railway station is located on High Street North in the East Ham neighbourhood of the London Borough of Newham in east London. It is on the District and Hammersmith and City lines, between Upton Park and Barking stations. The station was originally opened on 31 March 1858 by the London, Tilbury and Southend Railway on a new more direct route from Fenchurch Street to Barking. It became an interchange station in 1894 when it was connected to the Tottenham and Forest Gate Railway. The large Edwardian station building was constructed to accommodate the electric District Railway services on an additional set of tracks opened in 1905. Metropolitan line service commenced in 1936. British Railways service to Kentish Town was withdrawn in 1958 and the Fenchurch Street–Southend service was withdrawn in 1962, leaving abandoned platforms.

 

*************Photoplay was one of the first American film fan magazines, its title another word for screenplay. It was founded in Chicago in 1911. Under early editors Julian Johnson and James R. Quirk, in style and reach it became a pacesetter for fan magazines. In 1921, Photoplay established what is considered the first significant annual movie award. For most of its run, it was published by Macfadden Publications. The magazine ceased publication in 1980.

 

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

 

***************The idiom “tough as old boots” is used to describe someone who is physically strong and resilient, or something that is very difficult to break or damage, like a tough piece of food. The saying likely comes from the durability of leather boots, which were traditionally made to last a long time. The phrase evolved from an earlier version, “tough as leather,” to emphasise that a person or thing is very strong, resilient, and enduring, much like a well-worn but still functional boot.

 

****************People started calling the London Underground the "Tube" around 1900, after the opening of the Central London Railway. The railway's deep, cylindrical tunnels resembled tubes, and a newspaper nickname for it, the “Tuppenny Tube”, due to a flat fare of two pence, helped the term stick. Over time, the nickname spread to refer to the entire system.

 

*****************The East Ham Woolworth Three and Six store was located at 72 to 76 High Street North, in East Ham. At the time this chapter is set, the building it occupied was an old Arts and Crafts building with half timbered gables and bay windows in a Jacobethan style, with three rounded floor to ceiling bay windows of plate glass and two sets of double doors on the ground floor.

 

******************Christmas crackers first appeared in 1847 when London confectioner Tom Smith created them, inspired by the French "bon bon" sweets he encountered on a trip to Paris. He initially sold the sweets wrapped in tissue paper with a small motto or riddle inside. Smith later added the "snap" mechanism after being inspired by the sound of a log fire, creating the "bang" we know today.

 

This bright festive window display may look real to you, but it is not all that it seems, for this scene is made up entirely of miniatures from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun thing to look for in this tableau include:

 

The boxes of Christmas crackers and the Christmas Drawings book are 1:12 miniatures made by artisan Ken Blythe. I have a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my miniatures collection – books mostly. 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! Sadly, 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. As well as making books, he also made other small paper based miniatures including boxes of goods. The boxes are designed to be opened, and each one contains gaily coloured Christmas crackers made from real crêpe paper. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make them all 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 red and green boxes containing hand painted Christmas ornaments were hand made and decorated by artists of Crooked Mile Cottage in America. The patterned green box of red and green baubles at the front to the right was hand made by Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom, as is the box of hand made Christmas crackers in the box decorated with the holly and robin redbreast at the back of the display on the left. The central box of blue and white striped glass baubles are also handmade miniatures, bought from a woman in America by a very good friend of mine who knows I love to collect 1:12 miniatures.

 

The painted silver and red single loose baubles that litter the display come from an online miniature stockist in England through E-Bay.

 

The wrapped Christmas gifts decorated with ribbons are 1:12 artisan pieces, hand made by husband and wife artistic team Margie and Mike Balough who own Serendipity Miniatures in Newcomerstown, Ohio.

 

The Christmas tree at the back of the display is a hand-made artisan example from dollhouse artisan suppliers in America.

 

The red and silver backdrop is hand printed paper made by the company Zetta Florence in Fitzroy in Melbourne.

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 parents whilst her mistress is away enjoying the distractions of the London Season. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden, 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 flat, but has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith. 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.

 

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

 

“Edith!” Ada gasps in delighted surprise, glancing up to the door leading from the hallway into the kitchen. “I wasn’t expecting you. What a lovely surprise!”

 

Ada rises from her chair at the worn kitchen table and embraces her daughter lovingly. Holding her at arm’s length, she admires her three-quarter length black coat and purple rose and black feather decorated straw hat. “Look at you, my darling girl.” The older woman self-consciously pushes loose strands of her mousey brown hair back behind her ears. Chuckling awkwardly, she remarks with a downwards glance. “You’re far too fancy for the likes of us now, Edith.”

 

“Don’t talk nonsense, Mum!” Edith dismisses her mother’s comment with a flap of her hand. "My coat came from a Petticoat Lane* second-hand clothes stall. I picked it up dead cheap and remodelled it myself.”

 

“Taking after your old Mum then?” Ada remarks with a hint of pride.

 

“You taught me everything I know about sewing, Mum, and I’ll always be grateful for that.”

 

The joyful smile suddenly fades from Ada’s face as it clouds in concern. “But it’s Tuesday today. You don’t have Tuesdays off. Is everything alright, love?”

 

“It’s fine, Mum.” Edith assures her mother, placing a calming hand on her mother’s shoulder with one hand as she places her basket on the crowded kitchen table with the other. “Miss Lettice has gone to stay with friends on the Isle of Wight for Cowes Week**, so I thought I’d pop in and visit since I have a bit of free time whilst she’s away.”

 

“Oh! That’s alright then!” the older woman sighs with relief, fanning herself as she lowers herself back into her seat.

 

Feeling the stuffiness in the room from the lighted range and the moisture from the steaming tubs of washing, Edith takes off her 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 don’t put it there, love.” Ada chides. “It might get damaged. Such a pretty hat should sit on the table where it’s safe.”

 

“It’s nothing special, Mum. This came from Petticoat Lane too, and it’s not new. I 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 too pretty to hang there.”

 

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

 

“Well, suit yourself, love. Anyway, your timing is perfect. I just filled Brown Betty****. Grab yourself a cup and bring over the biscuit tin. Your Dad will be home for lunch soon. He’ll be glad to see you.”

 

Edith walks over to the big, dark Welsh dresser that dominates one side of the tiny kitchen and picks up a pretty floral teacup and saucer from among the mismatched crockery on its shelves: one of her mother’s many market finds that helped to bring elegance and beauty to Edith’s childhood home. She looks fondly at the battered McVitie and Price’s tin. “How’s Dad?”

 

“Oh, things are looking up for him.” Ada says proudly as she flips open her large sewing basket and fossicks through it looking for a spool of brightly coloured blue cotton thread.

 

“Oh?” Edith queries.

 

“Yes, there’s talk of him being made a line manager. Isn’t that a turn up for the books?”

 

“Oh Mum! That’s wonderful news.” The younger woman enthuses as she puts the empty teacup, saucer and biscuit tin on the table and sits down next to her mother. “You might be finally able to pack all this in.” She waves her hand about the kitchen at the tubs of washing, drying laundry and pressed linens.

 

“Oh I don’t know about that, Edith. Anyway, I have built up a good reputation over the years.”

 

“Yes,” Edith remarks scornfully. “For charging too little for the excellent work you do.” She looks over, past her mother, to a neat pile of lace edged linens. “What’s that you’re doing now, Mum?”

 

“Oh it’s just some work for Mrs. Hounslow. She wants her new sheets and pillowcases monogrammed.”

 

“And how much are you, not being paid, for that, Mum?” Edith emphasises.

 

“Oh Edith! Mrs. Hounslow’s a widow.”

 

“I know, Mum. I’ve grown up hearing about how Mrs. Hounslow’s husband died a hero in the siege of Mafeking in the Boer War. But I’ve never heard of her scraping for a penny for a scrap to eat. And where are those pretty lace trimmed sheets from?”

 

“Bishop’s in the High Street.”

 

“See! No second-hand sheets for old Widow Hounslow!”

 

“Now I won’t have a bad word said about her, Edith.” Ada wags her finger admonishingly at her daughter before selecting a needle from the red cotton lined lid of her basket and threads it. “She’s helped pay for many a meal in this house with her sixpences and shillings over the years. You should be grateful to her.”

 

“Pshaw!” Edith raises her eyes to the ceiling above. “I wish you’d let me help out more, Mum. I live in, so I don’t have the expenses of lodgings, and Miss Lettice pays me well.”

 

“Now, I won’t hear of it, Edith.” Ada raises her palms to her daughter, still clutching the threaded needle between her right index finger and thumb. “You earned that money with hard work at Miss Chetwynd’s. You pay enough to help keep us as it is.”

 

“But Mum,” Edith pours tea into her mother’s and then her own teacup. “If Dad does get this better job at McVitie’s, and I paid you a bit more of my wage, you probably really could give up washing, sewing and mending for the likes of Mrs. Hounslow.”

 

“And then what would I do, Edith?” The older woman adds a dash of milk to her tea.

 

“Well, you might like to put your feet up for a bit or buy a few nice new things for around here. Get rid of our battered old breadbin and those cannisters.” She points to the offending worn white enamel green trimmed pieces on the dresser.

 

“Oh, so we’re not grand enough then, Miss Edith?” Ada says in mock offence as she looks down her nose at her daughter and she raises herself and sits a little more erectly in her seat. “I love my breadbin thank you very much. That was a wedding gift from your Aunt Maude.”

 

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Edith replies, shaking her head exasperatedly. Adding milk and sugar to her own tea she continues, “I just want you to have nice things, Mum: things like those I have at Miss Lettice’s.”

 

“I’m so pleased you like it there, love.” Ada places a careworn hand lovingly on top of her daughter’s.

 

“Oh Mum, it’s so much better than Mrs. Plaistow’s was. It’s so much smaller than their townhouse, and I don’t have to traipse up and down stairs all day. There’s a gas stove, so I don’t have to fetch coal in or blacklead grates. Even if there were, Miss Lettice has Mrs. Boothby do all the hard graft I used to have to do at the Plaistow’s.”

 

“And Miss Chetwynd? She’s still being good to you?”

 

“Yes Mum.” Edith takes a sip of her tea. “I still haven’t broken her of the habit of just waltzing into the kitchen whenever she feels like it, rather than ringing the bell.”

 

“And her, a lord’s daughter.” Ada tuts, shaking her head.

 

“Well, a Viscount’s daughter at any rate.”

 

“You think she’d know better.”

 

“I’m sure she’s different when she goes home to Wiltshire. It does sound like a very grand house.”

 

“So much grander than here, Edith.”

 

“Now don’t start again, Mum. You know I didn’t mean anything by what I said before. Anyway. I have a something for you, but I shan’t give it to you if you’re going to be contrary!” Edith teases.

 

“Contrary indeed!” Ada snorts derisively.

 

Edith takes a bulky parcel wrapped in cream butcher’s paper tied up with brightly coloured string from her basket and places it carefully on the table before her mother.

 

“Well what is it?” Ada asks in surprise.

 

“Why don’t you open it, Mum, and find out.” Edith replies playfully in return.

 

With trembling fingers Ada tugs at the knot in the string. Loosening it causes the protective layer of paper to fall noisily away to reveal a beautiful, glazed teapot in the shape of a cottage with a thatched roof with the chimney as the lid.

 

“Oh Edith, love!” gasps Ada. “It’s beautiful!”

 

“Since you won’t let me give you more money, I may as well buy you some nice things Mum!”

 

“Oh this must have cost a fortune!” Ada appraises the paintwork on the pot. “For shame, Edith! You shouldn’t have spent your money on me.”

 

“Nonsense Mum! I bought this at the Caledonian Markets***** where it was so reasonably priced as it was on its own and didn’t have the milk jug and sugar bowl to match. Do you like it?”

 

“Like it, Edith? Oh, I love it!” Ada hugs her daughter, batting her eyelids as she attempts to keep back the tears of appreciation and joy.

 

“Good! Then we can have tea out of this, rather than old Brown Betty!”

 

“What?” Ada cries. “Oh no, I can’t well do that! This teapot is far too nice to use everyday! There’s nothing wrong with Brown Betty. Brown Betty was your Great Grandma’s!” She runs her hand lovingly over the handle of the pot. “No, I’ll keep this pot for good. I’ll take it up to the parlour and we’ll use it on Christmas Day, when you and your brother are home.”

 

“Oh Mum!” Edith sighs, shaking her head in loving despair at her mother who beams with delight at her new present.

 

*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.

 

**Cowes Week is one of the longest-running regular regattas in the world, and a fixture of the London Season. With forty daily sailing races, up to one thousand boats, and eight thousand competitors ranging from Olympic and world-class professionals to weekend sailors, it is the largest sailing regatta of its kind in the world. Having started in 1826, the event is held in August each year on the Solent (the area of water between southern England and the Isle of Wight made tricky by strong double tides). It is focussed on the small town of Cowes on the Isle of Wight.

 

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

 

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

 

***** The 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.

 

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 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. The Brown Betty teapot in the foreground came from The Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

Sitting atop a stack of neatly folded 1:12 size linens sits Ada’s wicker sewing basket. Sitting open it has needles stuck into the padded lid, whilst inside it are a tape measure, knitting needles, balls of wool, reels of cotton and a pair of shears. All the items and the basket, except for the shears, are hand made by Mrs. Denton of Muffin Lodge in the United Kingdom. The taupe knitting on the two long pins that serve as knitting needles is properly knitted and cast on. The shears with black handles in the basket open and close. Made of metal, they came from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom. The blue cotton reel and silver sewing scissors come from an E-Bay stockist of miniatures based in 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.

 

Also on Ada’s table in the foreground there are several packets of Edwardian cleaning and laundry brands that were in common use in the early Twentieth Century in every household, rich or poor. These are Sunlight Soap, Robin’s Starch, Jumbo Blue and Imp Washer Soap. All these packets were made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

Sunlight Soap was first introduced in 1884 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.

 

Before the invention of aerosol spray starch, the product of choice in many homes of all classes was Robin starch. Robin Starch was a stiff white powder like cornflour to which water had to be added. When you made up the solution, it was gloopy, sticky with powdery lumps, just like wallpaper paste or grout. The garment was immersed evenly in that mixture and then it had to be smoothed out. All the stubborn starchy lumps had to be dissolved until they were eliminated – a metal spoon was good for bashing at the lumps to break them down. Robins Starch was produced by Reckitt and Sons who were a leading British manufacturer of household products, notably starch, black lead, laundry blue, and household polish. They also produced Jumbo Blue, which was a whitener added to a wash to help delay the yellowing effect of older cotton. Rekitt and Sons were based in Kingston upon Hull. Isaac Reckitt began business in Hull in 1840, and his business became a private company Isaac Reckitt and Sons in 1879, and a public company in 1888. The company expanded through the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries. It merged with a major competitor in the starch market J. and J. Colman in 1938 to form Reckitt and Colman.

 

Imp Washer Soap was manufactured by T. H. Harris and Sons Limited, a soap manufacturers, tallow melters and bone boiler. Introduced after the Great War, Imp Washer Soap was a cheaper alternative to the more popular brands like Sunlight, Hudsons and Lifebuoy soaps. Imp Washer Soap was advertised as a free lathering and economical cleaner. T. H. Harris and Sons Limited also sold Mazo soap energiser which purported to improve the quality of cleaning power of existing soaps.

 

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 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.

 

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).

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.

 

“Luncheon is served, Miss.” Edith, Lettice’s maid, announces in a brave voice, disguising her nerves cooking for Lettice’s father the Sixth Viscount of Wrexham as she drops a respectful curtsey on the threshold between the dining room and the drawing room.

 

“What’s that?” Viscount Wrexham pipes as he sits up in the Art Deco tub chair by the fire that he has been comfortably installed in for the last hour and a half.

 

“Luncheon, Pappa.” Lettice replies. “Thank you, Edith.”

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith replies. She bobs another quick curtsey and wastes no time scurrying back through the green baize door into the relative safety of the kitchen.

 

“Shall we go through, Pappa?” Lettice asks with a happy smile and an indicating gesture.

 

The Viscount and his daughter stand up and stroll into the dining room, leaving their empty aperitif glasses on the low coffee table. Lettice takes her place as hostess at the head of the table, whilst her father takes his place to her left.

 

“What’s this?” the Viscount burbles discontentedly as he looks across the black japanned Art Deco table.

 

“It looks like luncheon to me, Pappa.” Lettice replies sweetly, aware that her answer will irritate her father. “Edith’s roast chicken. How delicious.”

 

“I can see that Lettice.” Viscount Wrexham growls. “Don’t be obtuse!”

 

“Then be more specific, Pappa.”

 

“To be more specific. Why did that lazy girl just leave it in the middle of the table. Girl! Girl!” he bellows towards the door. “Come here, girl!”

 

“Pappa!” Lettice exclaims.

 

Edith hurries back through the door with a harried look on her face. “Yes, Your Lordship?” She makes a quick bob curtsey and gazes down at her fingers folded neatly in front of her.

 

The Viscount glares firstly at her, then turns silently to glare at the food causing offence on the table.

 

“Thank you Edith,” Lettice says apologetically in a soothing tone. “His Lordship was mistaken. You may return to your duties.”

 

“What? I…” the older man splutters, turning his offended gaze to his daughter.

 

“Pappa.” Lettice places her elegant hand with its manicured nails over her father’s bigger hand and waits until Edith has slipped back through the green baize door like a shadow. “Papa. You’re in London now, not in Wiltshire: in my flat, not in Glynes*. This is luncheon, à la London. And in London, in my flat, we serve ourselves luncheon on informal occasions. Would you carve?” She proffers the carving cutlery to her disgruntled father.

 

“Well, I suppose someone must, since you see fit to deprive us of a butler,” he mutters.

 

“Pappa, look around you. I live in a flat, not a mansion. I don’t need a butler. Edith does very well as a cook and maid-of-all-work. And I’d like to keep her, so please stop terrorising her by bellowing at her.”

 

“What about for a dinner party! Don’t tell me you insult your guests as you do your poor Father by forcing them to serve themselves. You’ll never have a single client if you do.”

 

“No Pappa,” Lettice sighs in an exasperated fashion. “Edith can wait table as good as any butler.”

 

“Ptah! What nonsense! A girl waiting table. It’s like the war all over again.”

 

“Or,” Lettice speaks over her father forcefully to prevent a tirade coming from his lips. “If needs be, I hire extra staff from a domestic agency in Westminster Mamma put me in touch with. It’s the same agency she uses when you both come up to London from Glynes.” She spoons some boiled vegetables onto her plate next to the piece of roast chicken her father placed on it. “Thinking of which, it was lovely of Mamma to send up some orange roses from Glynes.”

 

“Yes, your Mother has done particularly well with the roses in the greenhouses at Glynes this year. They have protected the blooms from the Wiltshire cold and provided a profusion of flowers.”

 

“They are beautiful.” Lettice smiles as she looks at the fiery orange blooms in the tall cut crystal vase on the table before her.

 

“Well, your Mother and I both agree that this London flat of yours, like so much of London, lacks colour. It’s all black and white, just like those Bioscopes** you young people so adore.”

 

“Nonsense Pappa! My flat has lots of colour. Just look at the art on my walls.”

 

“Finger paintings!” he snorts derisively as he takes a bite of his chicken. “Your Mother and I agree about that too. Not to mention,” the Viscount pauses, deposits his cutlery onto his plate and turns in his seat to look behind him at the statue of the bronze woman reclining, yet gazing straight at him with a steely gaze. “Ahem.”

 

“It’s called modern art, Pappa. And she is divine: the embodiment of the New Woman in bronze. Anyway, thankfully my clients happen to like my choice of ‘finger paintings’ and modern sculpture from the Portland Gallery.”

 

“Aah, yes well,” the Viscount clears his throat and dabs the edges of his mouth with his blue linen napkin. “Thinking of clients. That brings me to the purpose of my visit.”

 

“Of course. There has to be a reason beyond visiting your beloved youngest daughter just to see to her welfare.”

 

“Now, don’t be like that Lettice.” He wags a finger admonishingly at her. “Many is the time I’ve come up to town just to have the pleasure of your company over luncheon at Claridge’s. No. No, your Mother, heard from… a friend, ahem.” The older man clears his throat awkwardly. “That you designed some interiors for the wife of that banker, Hatchett: the chorus girl.”

 

Lettice purposefully lowers her fork. Picking up her glass of red wine she replies, “I did Pappa. What of it?”

 

“Oh Lettice! Your poor mother and I were hoping that it was just a rumour.”

 

“Well why shouldn’t I design interiors for her? I’m an interior designer and she needed some rooms redesigning.”

 

“Lettice! You know perfectly well why. I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you. You aren’t a child anymore. You know your position in society. Be an interior designer by all means, but at least stick to your own class and be a society interior designer, my dear.”

 

“That doesn’t pay the bills, Pappa.”

 

The Viscount looks askance at his daughter. “For shame, Lettice!”

 

“Pappa, I’m a businesswoman now. I must talk about money. At least the Hatchett’s paid for my services.”

 

“You’re of age now Lettice, and I pay you a damn good allowance that should more than cover your expenses, and maybe even extend to getting a decent butler rather than a maid. Frocks, even the ones you like, can’t be that costly, surely.”

 

“Pappa, it’s not so much about the money. It’s about the success of my business. I want to do something with my life. I can’t be a successful interior designer if I provide my services at no fee. I’d be a sham!”

 

“Well what about that cousin of your Mother’s in Fitzroy Square? Cousin Gwendolyn wasn’t it?”

 

“Pappa, the Duchess of Whitby still hasn’t paid me a third of what she owes for the redesign of her small reception room. I’ve sent her two reminders which she has politely ignored. She is never at home when I visit, and she is evasive to say the least over the telephone.”

 

“Oh.” the Viscount looks down at his plate. “Well… well, I’ll talk to your Mother about talking to Gwendolyn about that.”

 

“It would be even better if you did Pappa.” Lettice raises her glass of claret. “She is more inclined to listen to you, as head of the Chetwynd household.”

 

“Oh, very well Lettice.” he sighs and clinks glasses with his daughter.

 

“Thank you Pappa!” She leans over and pecks her father on the cheek, sending a flush of colour across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “You are a brick!”

 

The two continue to eat their luncheon from Lettice’s gilt blue and white Royal Doulton dinner set in an avant garde Art Deco pattern. For a short while the companionable silence is only broken by the sound of cutlery against crockery.

 

“Your Mother is right. I never could say no to you, Lettice.”

 

“You have to have a favourite Pappa.” Lettice smiles happily. “Why shouldn’t it be me?”

 

“It should be Leslie, as my son and heir.”

 

“Oh, he’s Mamma’s favourite.” Lettice flaps the remark away with a flick of her left hand. “We all know that. We’ve always known that.”

 

“Well Lettice, as I said before. Just remember your position in society. Your Mother and I, we’re prepared to tolerate your wish to dabble in this business folly of yours before you settle down and get married, but please be a society interior designer and design for your own class. Be discerning with your choice of clients. Hmmm?” He smiles hopefully at his daughter.

 

“We’ll see Pappa.” Lettice replies, a smile dancing on her lips as she sips her glass of claret.

 

*Glynes is the home of the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire.

 

** The Bioscope is an early term for what became by the mid 1920s a motion-picture theatre or cinema. The Bioscope was a hand-driven projector with a low-watt bulb placed behind the reel. Originally a Bioscope show was a music hall and fairground attraction. Mary Pickford was the original Bioscope Girl, so named because of the Bioscope films she starred in during the Great War and early 1920s.

 

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 tableaux include:

 

The roast chicken, tureens of vegetables and the gravy boat of gravy on the table all came from an English stockist of 1:12 artisan miniatures whom I found on E-Bay. They all look almost good enough to eat. The 1:12 artisan bottle of Pinot Noir is made from glass and the winery on the label is a real winery in France. The bottle was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The wine and water glasses, carafe of water and the vase are all 1:12 artisan miniatures too, made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The vase is especially fine. If you look closely you will see that it is decorated with lattices of fine threads of glass to give it a faceted Art Deco look. The orange 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.

 

In the background on the console table stand some of Lettice’s precious artisan purchases from the Portland Gallery in Soho. The pair of candelabra at either end of the sideboard are sterling silver artisan miniatures from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in England. The silver drinks set, 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, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. ‘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 and the Art Deco cocktail cabinet (the edge of which just visible on the far right-hand side of the photo) which were 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.

Boy coming back home at sunset hour

 

A rather low-income village, where despite the demoralizing effect of life lived in the poverty line, with few prospects and marred by economic conflicts, people are kind and generous, with that kind simplicity of being strangers to the stress and pressure of those residing in the big cities seeking ways to improve their living conditions and opportunities, pursuing a "better quality of life".

  

As in any small community, everybody knows each other. And by know I mean individual backgrounds, histories, and family situations. Even if you are a stranger to them or spent enough time away to become one, they´ll bow down to you whenever you walk past them (and it´s considered rude to not greet back). That creates an environment in which kids can wander around on their own, absolutely free and all safe from harm to play, explore and discover their "world".

 

Its modest infrastructure turnes into something like a large amusement park where the theme is nature, devoid of the trappings and accessories imbuing our daily life in the city. Children benefit from the opportunity to create their own fun using whatever it is the surrounding environment provides them with. I think this entertainment experience tends to promote the potential talents and resources of each child.

 

Yet, whether they are fully aware of it or not, they have their own concerns: isolation, lack of development and economic possibilities, almost forgotten and not representing priority concern for people who make decisions that will affect their present and future.

 

After spending great moments of my childhood in this quiet place, I think of myself as a small town spirit but undeniably hooked on the benefits of urban life.

 

This kid is my grandmother´s neighbor. He´s coming back home, I assumed after a long day playing in those dirt quiet streets.

 

As soon as I saw him walking towards me this question came to my mind, the dichotomy that exists in me between my preference for the calmness and peace of mind such places can provide on the one hand, and the city offer of easier access to the comforts money can buy on the other.

 

So what "better quality of life" really is?

  

Vivoratá

Buenos Aires

Argentina

 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

/ Terminé de jugar [sólo por hoy] /

 

Niño volviendo a casa al atardecer

  

Este es un pueblo de bajos recursos, donde a pesar del efecto desmoralizador de la vida vivida en el umbral de la pobreza, con pocas perspectivas y empañada por conflictos económicos, la gente es cálida y generosa, con esa simplicidad de ser extraños a la tensión y la presión de los que residen en las grandes ciudades buscando mejorar sus condiciones y oportunidades, persiguiendo una "mejor calidad de vida".

 

Como en cualquier comunidad pequeña, todo el mundo se conoce. Y me refiero a conocerce individualmente, conocer las historias y situaciones familiares. Incluso si se es un extraño para ellos o se ha pasado el suficiente tiempo lejos para convertirse en uno, los locales inclinarán su cabeza en un saludo cada vez que se pase junto a ellos (y se considera de mala educación no devolver la cordialidad recibida). Eso crea un ambiente en el que los niños pueden vagar por su cuenta, absolutamente libres y a salvo de cualquier daño, jugar, explorar y descubrir su "mundo".

 

La modesta infraestructura convierte a éste lugar en algo así como un gran parque de atracciones donde el tema es la naturaleza, desprovista de los adornos y accesorios que impregnan nuestra vida cotidiana en la ciudad. Los niños se benefician de la oportunidad de crear su propia diversión usando lo que sea que éste entorno les proporcione. Creo que esta experiencia de entretenimiento tiende a promover el talento y los recursos de cada niño.

 

Esto, sin embargo, implica otros costos, sean plenamente conscientes de ello o no: el aislamiento, la falta de posibilidades de desarrollo personal y económico, casi olvidados y no representando interés prioritario para las personas que toman las decisiones que afectan a su presente y futuro.

 

Después de pasar grandeiosos momentos de mi infancia aquí, me considero como con un espíritu pueblerino, pero sin lugar a dudas atrapada por los beneficios de la vida urbana.

 

Este chico es mi vecino de mi abuela. Regresaba a casa después de un largo día jugando en esas tranquilas calles de tierra.

 

Tan pronto como lo vi caminando hacia mí esta pregunta vino a la mente, la dicotomía que existe en mí entre mi preferencia por la calma y la tranquilidad que este entorno puede proporcionar por un lado, y la oferta citadina que facilita el acceso a las comodidades que dinero puede comprar, por el otro.

 

Así qué es "mejor calidad de vida" en realidad?

  

State Road 2

Main Street, Vivorata, Buenos Aires, Argentina

  

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 a call on her parents on her day off. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden, 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 flat, but has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith.

 

Edith is sitting at her usual perch on a tall ladderback chair drawn up to the round table, worn and scarred by years of heavy use, that dominates the cluttered, old fashioned kitchen, as Ada prepares a Christmas cake whilst her daughter regales her with tales from Cavendish Mews, her unusually liberated upper-class employer and her eccentric coterie of friends.

 

“And then he just swept me up, right where I stood,” Edith explains. “And spun me around in the most awkward waltz I think I’ve ever danced, Mum!”

 

“What? With the roses still in his arms?” Ada stops stirring the thick, shiny mixture in her large white mixing bowl as she looks at her daughter with incredulity.

 

“And the champagne!” Edith giggles, raising her hand to her mouth as she does.

 

“Well!” the older woman gasps. “I’d never expect such odd behaviour from a gentleman! You did say he’s a proper gentleman?” she queries as an afterthought.

 

“Oh yes, Mum!” Edith assures her. “Mr. Brunton is a proper gentleman: rather theatrical and prone to posturing, but a gentleman, nevertheless. He and Miss Lettice grew up together on neighbouring estates in Wiltshire. His father is a sir or lord or some such.”

 

“Well, that’s alright then.” Ada sighs and starts stirring the sticky mixture with her big metal spoon again. “Mind you, there are plenty who claim to be gentlemen with their smart clothes and silvery tongues who are nothing of the sort.” She pauses again withdrawing the spoon from her mixture and pointing it at her daughter, the mixture dripping off it back into the bowl as she wags it at Edith. “Don’t you ever let your head get turned by one of those toffs, Edith. Whether he’s a gentleman or not, he’s still just a man under it all, and well, we all know that men are always out to chase pretty girls.” She lowers her eyes as a blush flushes her face with embarrassment. “And once he gets what he wants, he’ll drop you like a hot potato fresh from the oven. No gentleman ever married a maid so far as I can tell, ‘cept in those romance books you read.”

 

“Oh Mum! You don’t have to worry about me being around Mr. Bruton.” Edith starts spinning the well worn enamel canister marked ‘flour’ distractedly. “He’s far more interested in the frocks he makes for debutantes and going out to dinner with Miss Lettice than to take an interest in me. I’m just the maid who serves drinks and dinner and hangs his coat.”

 

“But I do worry about you Edith. You’re still only a young girl. Working on your own for a flapper,” She utters the last word with some distaste. “And living under her roof, well, you could be exposed anything for all I know! Now, I do know Miss Chetwynd is good to you, and pays you well, and I’m glad of that. Nevertheless, those flappers seem eccentric and always full of odd ideas and up to mischief.”

 

“Oh, that’s just what you read in the newspapers, Mum. I think the columnists of those stories sensationalise the tales they tell to try and sell more copies.”

 

“Nevertheless, sensationalist or not, those writers have to base some things on truth, so it can’t all be porky pies*!”

 

“Well, you read the articles from The Tattler that I gave you, showing all the photos from Miss Lettice’s cocktail party for Mr. and Mrs. Channon, didn’t you Mum?” When Ada nods her head affirmatively, Edith continues. “Well, that was all true, so you know that whilst Miss Lettice and her friends might be a bit eccentric, she’s still a respectable lady, as well as a flapper.”

 

Ada frowns and shakes her head a little, giving her daughter a questioning look as she observes her sitting across the table from her. “Stop playing with my cannisters and make yourself useful, Edith. I need some more fruit in this Christmas cake batter. Will you cut me some orange and lemon slices, please?”

 

“Yes Mum.”

 

Edith obeys her mother and dutifully gets up from her seat, yet the way she rises appears different to Ada’s sharp observation to the way she used to stand up. It seems elegant, yet affected somehow, with sloping shoulders and a languid head. Every week she notices small changes in Edith: a broader vocabulary and a general improvement in the smartness of her appearance which she likes, yet also an independent boldness and a questioning manner that she thinks unseemly in a young girl, especially one in service. Ada quietly wonders whether her daughter’s current employer will spoil her for any other position Edith may wish to acquire in the future. Edith’s last position with Mrs. Plaistow in Pimlico might have been harder work for a lesser wage, but at least she didn’t come home on her day off with her head turned by the glamour of American moving picture stars and society ladies who have influence over their futures. Girls like Edith have few choices in life, and Ada hopes her daughter doesn’t forget it.

 

“Anyway, enough about me, Mum,” Edith stands at the chopping board next to her mother, takes up Ada’s kitchen knife and starts to slice thin slivers from an orange. “What news of Bert? Have you heard from him?”

 

“Yes, your brother sent a postcard from Melbourne. It’s just up on the mantle.” Ada motions to the shelf above the kitchen range. “Read it.”

 

“It’s hard to imagine Bert on the other side of the world.”

 

“I’m just glad he’s only working as a steward on a passenger liner now, rather than in the navy, and that we aren’t at war anymore.”

 

“Oh I’m glad of that too, Mum.” Edith falls silent as she thinks of her own lost love, Bert the postman, and then quickly blinks away the tears briming in her eyes that threaten to spill over.

 

Determined not to be caught crying, Edith turns and wipes her hands, sticky with orange juice, on the yellow tea towel hanging from the rail beneath the mantle before picking up a postcard featuring a painted photograph of the Federal Parliament House in Melbourne**. She turns it over and reads aloud, “Leaving Melbourne on the Demonsthenes*** on Wednesday. First class dining saloon.” Edith looks over at her mother and smiles. “First class dining saloon! That’s a step up for Bert, Mum!” she remarks before continuing to read aloud. “Sailing home via Capetown. Arrive London twenty third of December.”

 

“Yes, he’ll be back in time for Christmas!” Ada beams as she dips her finger into the mix in the bowl, removing it and tasting the Christmas cake batter. She considers the flavour for a moment before shaking some cinnamon from the red box in front of her into the bowl. “Your Dad and I are so happy! We’ll have our Christmas present.”

 

“And what’s that, Mum?” Edith replaces the postcard on the mantle before turning back to the chopping board where she continues to cut thin slivers of orange.

 

“Having you both home for Christmas, of course!” Ada replies happily.

 

“So, you can use the cottage ware teapot I bought you from the Caledonian Markets****, then Mum.” Edith remarks playfully.

 

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Edith.” the older woman defends as she empties a tin of preserved red cherries into her Christmas cake batter. “It’s much too good to use.”

 

“But you promised, Mum!” Edith whines.

 

“I most certainly did not, Edith!” Ada retorts scoffingly.

 

“Yes you did, Mum!” her daughter responds. “Right here in this very kitchen, the day I gave it to you!” Edith stops cutting the orange, puts down the knife and folds her arms akimbo. “You told me that you’d use it on Christmas Day when Bert and I were home.”

 

Ada stops mixing the batter, puts her hands on her ample hips and stares at her daughter. “Your memory is far too good for remembering incidental things, Edith!”

 

Edith smiles. “I know, Mum.” She picks up a few slices of orange an continues, “Oranges?”

 

*Porky pies is Cockney rhyming slang for lies.

 

**Located on Spring Street on the edge of the Hoddle Grid, Melbourne’s Parliament House’s grand colonnaded front dominates the vista up Bourke Street. Designed by British Army officer and Colonial Engineer, Commissioner of Public Works and politician in colonial Victoria, Major-General Hon. Charles Pasley, construction began in 1855, and the first stage was officially opened the following year, with various sections completed over the following decades; it has never been completed, and the planned dome is one of the most well known unbuilt features of Melbourne. Between 1901 and 1927, it served as the meeting place of the Parliament of Australia, during the period when Melbourne was the temporary national capital.

 

***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.

 

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:

 

Ada’s kitchen table is covered with most of the ingredients needed to make a Christmas cake: red cherries, orange and lemon peel, raisins, flour, baking powder, brandy, cinnamon, eggs and sugar.

 

The bowl of Christmas cake batter, complete with red cherries, was 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.

 

On the chopping board and the table you will see two lemons and four oranges. The lemons and oranges are vintage 1:12 artisan pieces that have come from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in England. The attention to detail on these is amazing! You will see the stubs in the skin were the stalk once attached them to the tree, but even more amazing is that, if you look very closely, you will see the rough pitting that you find in the skins of real oranges and lemons! The orange and lemon slices on the chopping board come from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, England. The orange slices in particular are so small and so fine. They are cut from long canes like some boiled sweets are but are much smaller in size!

 

The kitchen knife on the chopping board with its inlaid handle and sharpened blade comes from English miniatures specialist Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniature store.

 

The rather worn and beaten looking enamelled cannisters, which match the bread tin on the Welsh dresser in the background, are painted in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green. Aged on purpose, these artisan pieces also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The tin of My Lady red cherries came from Shepherds Miniatures in the United Kingdom, as does the tin of Bird’s Golden Raising Powder (an old name for baking powder). 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. 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.

 

The Tate and Lyall sugar packet was acquired from Jonesy’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. 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.

 

The eggs in the bowl with the whisk are 1:12 artisan miniatures with amazing attention to detail which I have had since I acquired them as a teenager from a high street stockist.

 

The box of cinnamon was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

In the background you can see Ada’s dark Welsh dresser cluttered with household items. Like Ada’s table and the Windsor chair, 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 and the worn Art Deco tea canister and bread box that match the canisters on the table. 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 box of Typhoo Tea, a box of Bisto Gravy, a jar of Marmite, a jar of Bovril 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.

 

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 named in Typhoo Tea. The name Typhoo comes from the Chinese word for "doctor". Typhoo began making tea bags in 1967. In 1978, production was moved from Birmingham to Moreton on the Wirral peninsula of Cheshire. Typhoo Tea is still a household name in Britain to this day.

 

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.

 

Bovril is the trademarked name of a thick and salty meat extract paste similar to a yeast extract, developed in the 1870s by John Lawson Johnston. It is sold in a distinctive bulbous jar, and as cubes and granules. 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

 

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.

 

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).

A Tea for the Tillerman

Acte 3

 

Tea Party Shenanigans

 

The next hour and generous half were spent in a blur of social mixing, handing out and receiving compliments alike.

 

Most of which were genuine. For there were some rather pretty outfits being worn and equally pretty baubles. Ginny held her own against them, while I sometimes felt the pauper.

 

We had made a full circle before finding ourselves at the tea table standing next to mum, as we finally partook of the refreshments now fully laid out.

 

Mum was not much company, however, as the seemingly never-ending stream of guests, making their way in line, stopped to talk with her first.

 

Ginny and I, sharing a knowing look, grabbed ourselves a goblet of red wine each and fled to the sanctuary of the back garden for some relief and solitude over being social butterflies.

 

<<<<<<<<<<

 

Ginny and I go into the garden drinking from our goblets of wine. These were not our first drinks of wine, plus what we had had at the pub, and I’ll admit we were both a bit light-headed and giggly at this point.

 

Cleo, the neighborhood cat, is sunning himself by the small pagoda. Ginny gives me her goblet and bends down to pet the lazy fat bugger who probably last caught a mouse some 3 of his lives ago.

 

As she petted the scoundrel, Ginny’s dangling pendant was dripping in its’ display of brilliant, gloriously fiery cascading sparkles.

 

As I stared at the mesmerizing show of her necklace. I became aware of giggling young girls close at hand.

 

Ginny was still absorbed in petting the loudly purring Cleo, so I went off to find the source. without saying anything to disturb the pairs' bliss.

 

In the very backside of the garden, there is a white wrought iron bench. This was in the area I called the secret garden since it was surrounded by shrubs on the house side. My brother and I played many a game in this area, and in the wooded acres on the other side.

 

That was where I pinpointed that the giggling was coming from.

 

Feeling it was a time to be clandestine, I snuck up and peered through a gap in the shrubs…

 

There were three of them.

 

Twelve-year-old Estella, little Claire, and oddly enough, the “Wood Bead lady”. There was no sign of Mrs. Shannon or Gabrielle.

 

Apparently, the trio was playing a game of keep-away.

 

Claire was running between the other two as they tried to catch her. She was holding the wood beaded necklace that the “Wood Bead Lady” had been wearing. Estella soon captured the squirming tyke and taking the wood beads from her, gave them back to the waiting adult. Then Claire squirmed free and was hoisted up by the “Wood Bead Lady”. Estella then went to the bench, facing away from the pair.

 

“Wood Bead Lady” then put Claire down and pointed out Estella.

 

Giggling, Claire went over to Estella and pulled at her dress, holding her arms up to be held. Estella bent down, her black and white striped taffeta dress shimmering, and picked her up. Claire ran her arms up and hugged Estella.

 

As she did, the little nymph nimbly unhooked the rhinestone necklace and let it fall away from Estella’s throat.

 

Indicating she wanted down, she ran back behind Estella, scooped up the necklace from the grass, and went to the waiting “Wood Bead Lady” who pick her up, tickling the squealing child.

 

An odd game I thought, but at least the lady was keeping the toddler (and Estella)out of mischief.

 

I debated going back to gather Ginny and show her for a laugh, when I realized a sudden, undeniable urge, to go potty was making me tingle.

 

I slinked away, not wishing to disturb the happily playing group.

 

I go back and see that Ginny is still sitting on the pagodas’ steps petting Cleo.

 

I hailed her.

 

“Hey luv, I need to freshen up”

 

Ginny, sitting comfortably, hesitatingly asks if I need her to come along.

 

I laugh, coming up alongside the steps.

 

“No. I'm a big girl now...

 

I pick up her now empty goblet and walk away, saying…

 

“I’ll bring us back some refills”

 

I whip back around, giving Ginny and smirking eye…

 

“You just stay here and play with your pussy.”

 

Giggling, I dodged the pebble she threw at me, and lifting my skirt with my free hand, scurried off as quick as my heeled shoes would let me.

  

Heading back onto the green of the party area, I was soon waylaid by one of the guests, Cassie, who was a friend of Ginny’s mum.

 

I had not realized she was coming, for it was her first time here at one of our teas.

 

She was smashing in the looks department. Her long brown hair was tied in the back with a fancy pleat. Cassie was wearing a midnight black taffeta high-necked top with 3/4 length sleeves. A gold pleated satin skirl fell swirling from her waistline.

 

She was strikingly wearing a lovely gold necklace set with real diamonds and garnets that lay sparking along her downy soft top’s neckline, a very pretty thing I thought it was. Matching drop earrings, bracelets and rings completed the show.

 

After greeting her( shaking my leg in discomfort) she coincidentally asked me where the ladies' room was.

 

We had some rentals set up behind a hedge near the house for the guests, so I offered to lead her there.

 

Reaching them, Cassie asked me if Ginny was here today. Answering yes, I told Cassie where I had left her, giving her quick directions before apologizing that I really had a pressing errand. And that I would meet her there.

 

I circled the house, entering by the front door. In my room, I opened the drawer where I kept the case for my better jewellery. Lifting the lid, I pulled off both my rings, undid the bracelet, and laid them all inside. Making it to my bathroom in the nick of time.

 

I was in there, indisposed, for a long while.

 

Once I was finally through I freshened my makeup and headed back through the kitchen. Weaving my way amongst noisily working caterers.

 

Just outside the back door, I was intercepted by mum, who was still by the tables, calling me over.

 

She asked me to locate the reading glasses that she had left in the sunroom.

 

I go to the sun room searching, finally finding them by Papa’s wet bar.

 

Smirking to myself, I poured a shot of ginger brandy, and happily downed it.

 

Feeling rather warm inside, I picked up the errant reading glasses.

 

As I picked them up I could see out the long side windows Mrs. Shannon talking to some friends. Gabrielle was with her, the necklace glistening. I did not see Estella.

 

A silly game they had been playing I remember thinking to myself.

 

I scurry back outside, handed mum her readers, and listened in polity after she introduced me to the ladies with whom was chatting.

 

I broke away, snatched up full goblets of wine, and began my journey through the gauntlet of guests to collect Ginny.

 

It was then I remembered I had left my rings and bracelet inside my open jewellery case. I hesitated going back for them before deciding not to, I had left Ginny alone long enough.

 

It was then I spied Claire being carried by her new friend, the “Wood Bead Lady”, followed by that sly Estella.

 

They were approaching a 30-something lady, standing alone like she was waiting for the return of friends.

 

She was winningly wearing a long, very sleek, very tight, purple silk sleeveless dress that appeared to have been poured over her figure.

 

Claire was set down as the two ladies began chatting, with Estrella standing off to one side listening in.

 

As I passed I saw out of the corner of my eye that Claire had reached up her arms and the lady in purple silk was bending over to pick her up. The sapphire and diamond gemstones of the crescent moon-shaped silvery necklace she wore around her throat rippled flashily in the sunlight.

 

I passed them without a second thought, my mind focused on not spilling wine, as I made my way to rejoin Ginny.

 

I reached the pagoda where I had left her but found it deserted. Not even Cleo remained.

 

I went to the secret garden area, but it too was now void of anyone.

 

I started to walk the long way around the gardens trying to find where Ginny had gotten off too.

 

I had just passed one of the trimmed hedges when a hand is placed on my shoulder and I hear Ginny's voice from behind me, and see her arm reaching for one of the wine goblets I was holding

  

“Lost my pussy, didn’t I luv, then lost you ?” She giggled in my ear as she came up along sides me.

 

“Got bored waiting for you to come back, didn’t I? Been looking for you.” She said to me as a way of explanation.

 

We stand there drinking our wine as we watch the moving crowd of guests spread out upon the green lawn. Sun shining up in a cloudless blue sky. A perfect day.

 

“Lovely wine this “ Ginny said.

 

I turned to her smiling, meaning to ask if Cassie had found her.

 

But she had read my mind apparently, for she started to tell me that she had seen her mum’s friend, Cassie, holding Claire, talking to the odd lady we had met, the one wearing that turban. I didn’t want to interrupt them, you can guess why. So we will have to seek her out later…. What’s the matter?”

 

Ginny stopped her story, seeing the look on my face.

 

For, as I had faced Ginny, I had frozen, not really hearing My friend's words.

 

I brushed my fingers upon the vacant front of Ginny’s dress, just above the rhinestone dragons' clutching claw.

 

“Ginny, Where's your necklace?”

 

Eyes opening wide in horror, her hand shoots to her bare neck, feeling in vain around her throat.

 

“Buggers, it’s bloody gone!”

 

Next up the last Acte 4

 

A Most Curious Conclusion

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Cabarceno Wildlife park outside Santander is a spacious park with fairly generous enclosures for a range of European and world animals. The location itself is also interesting having once been a quarry, but includes many weird rock formations. We spent a good full day on site.

2017 one photo each day

2017 weekly alphabet challenge - generous. These lovely flowers are always generous with the way they keep flowering.

Flickr Lounge weekly theme photographer's choice.

A really generous man

  

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

 

Today is the 11th of November: Armistice Day*, and like so many of the citizenry of London, both Lettice and her maid, Edith, have addended the remembrance service at the Cenotaph** on Whitehall in Westminster. Only three years since the cessation of hostilities, the service caused an outpouring of grief amongst those who lost someone in the Great War. As the pair enter through the front door of Lettice’s flat together, Edith goes to walk through the service door back to the kitchen.

 

“Do you mind awfully, Edith,” Lettice asks quietly. “If we don’t stand on ceremony just at the moment?”

 

“Miss?” Edith queries, looking oddly at her mistress who looks a father forlorn figure standing in the vestibule in spite of her stylish black sheath coat with fur trim and elegant purple felt hat adorned with flowers.

 

Lettice looks up at Edith, her eyes red from having shed tears for the lost. “I know it isn’t conventional, but would you care to join me in the drawing room for a glass of sherry?” She smiles hopefully. “I could do with the company.”

 

“Of course, Miss,” Edith replies awkwardly, obviously uncomfortable at the idea of being treated as an equal by her mistress. “If that’s what you wish.”

 

Lettice leads the way into the drawing room. “Please sit.” She indicates, like the gracious society hostess she has been raised to be, to one of her white upholstered Art Deco tub chairs with a vague wave before walking into the adjoining dining room where she opens the black japanned cocktail cabinet and withdraws a faceted decanter of sherry and two small sherry glasses. Returning to the drawing room she places them on the low table between the two chairs and pours a little golden amber liquid first into Edith’s glass and then her own.

 

Edith perches nervously upon the edge of her seat, self-conscious about her second hand Petticoat Lane*** three quarter length coat and self-decorated black straw hat, which look smart when she is in her parent’s kitchen in Harlesden, but feel shabby to her amidst the refined elegance of Lettice’s Mayfair drawing room. As Lettice shrugs off her own coat and throws it carelessly onto the Chippendale chair by the china cabinet, Edith smooths her coat across her knees nervously.

 

“Please do feel free to take your hat off, Edith.” Lettice remarks as she unpins her own from her head and places it on the black japanned table next to the sherry decanter.

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith replies deferentially, withdrawing the long hat pin from her own hat, allowing her to remove it and place it upon the stool next to her.

 

Lettice takes up her glass and quietly sips her beverage before remarking, “It was so sad, wasn’t it Edith?”

 

“Well, it wasn’t that long ago that we were still at war with the Kaiser, Miss.” Edith gently picks up her glass and takes a very small sip.

 

“Yes, only three years.” Lettice muses. “Although in some ways I feel like the pre-war world was a lifetime ago. Don’t you Edith?”

 

“Me Miss?” Edith nearly chokes on her mouthful of sherry, surprised to be asked her opinion by her employer. She ponders the question for a moment before replying, “Not really Miss. Days like today make me feel like I’m still living in the shadow of the war.”

 

“But the world is moving on, and things are different. The world seems to move at a faster pace.”

 

“It certainly does, Miss.”

 

“And is perhaps more unsettled than its pre-war self was.” Lettice muses, licking her lips.

 

“The war shook down the order of things, Miss.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice agrees. “As women, we have more emancipation now than we did before the war. Even you, Edith, with your more conservative views of our place in the world, cannot complain about your new-found freedoms.”

 

Edith feels a blush fill her cheeks. “Well, I must confess, that’s true to a degree. My friend Hilda and I can go to the Palais de Danse**** without a chaperone now.”

 

“We proved that we’re not the weaker sex, taking men’s jobs and doing difficult work like nursing during the war.”

 

“Did you nurse during the war, Miss?”

 

“Yes. Part of Glynes***** was converted to a convalescent home for soldiers injured on the front, whilst we lived in the remainder.”

 

“Oh, you must have seen some terrible things, Miss.” Edith gasps.

 

“I suppose so.” Lettice says dismissively. Her face clouds for a moment as she contemplates the maimed men wheeled around the hallways and gardens of her childhood home over those few terrible years of the war, missing arms, legs, even part of their faces. Then she remembers the men who looked perfectly healthy and normal, but who screamed like banshees in the night or cowered beneath their beds like babies at the slamming of a door. Shellshock was what the Glynes village doctor and the matron from London had called it. She blinks the memories away quickly before she starts to cry. She takes another sip of her sherry and then smiles across at Edith. “I try not to think about it now.”

 

“These were a good idea.” Edith tugs at the bright red cotton poppy****** pinned to her lapel, a blue ribbon trailing from it upon which is written ‘British Legion Remembrance Day’. “I feel like I’m doing my bit for the veterans, widows and orphans of the war, even if it only cost a few pence.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice smiles at her maid. “Wasn’t that so poignant and moving?”

 

“The men and women queuing up to leave floral tributes at the Cenotaph, do you mean, Miss?”

 

“Yes.” Lettice replies wistfully. “The women especially. So many women.” Her voice trails off.

 

“So many people lost someone.” Edith says, falling silent for a moment as she sips some more of her sherry. “Did you lose anyone, Miss?”

 

“Me?” Lettice asks. “No. My eldest brother, Leslie, held a desk job here in Whitehall during the war, and my other brother, Lionel, was involved in strategic movements in France, or some such, which kept him well away from the front.” She puts her glass down on the coffee table. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if my father didn’t have something to do with that.”

 

“But you lost friends?”

 

“Oh yes Edith, so many friends. My mother is hosting her first Hunt Ball since before the war after Christmas, and I suspect she is finding it much more difficult to fill the room with eligible young men for me than she did when my elder sister had come out into society.” She studies her maid for a moment. “Did you?”

 

“Lose friends, Miss? Yes, ever so many.” She nods sagely.

 

“No. I mean, did you lose someone special?”

 

“Well my brother Bert served in the navy, but he came home alright,” Edith pauses and takes a larger sip of sherry in an effort to quell the emotions building within her chest. “But now you mention it Miss, yes, there was someone special I lost.”

 

“A beau?” Lettice asks. She quietly feels ashamed that she knows so little about her maid’s personal life. She knows she has parents who live in Harlesden, but this is the first that she has heard of a brother, and she never considered that Edith might have had a sweetheart at some stage in her life.

 

Edith drains her glass before placing it down with a slightly shaky hand on the table. “His name was Bert too.”

 

“Oh! I’m so sorry Edith!” Lettice gasps, her eyes widening. “I… I had no idea.”

 

“Oh, you weren’t to know, Miss.” Edith assures her employer as she blinks to keep her tears at bay. “My mum says I shouldn’t talk about him as there’s no point crying over the past. What’s done is done.” She sniffs. “Perhaps she’s right.”

 

“Do you have a photo of him?” Lettice asks, intrigued by her discovery about Edith’s past.

 

“Yes, I carried it with me today. I carry him wherever I go.” Edith reaches down and picks up her small green handbag off the floor and opens it. She fumbles through its contents, finally settling on what she is looking for. “This is Bert.”

 

Edith hands a slightly dog-eared sepia studio portrait of a rather handsome looking young man in a suit to Lettice. Carefully taking the photograph between her elegant fingers, Lettice stares down at the image before her. Although he is sitting stiffly and was possibly ill at ease dressed in his Sunday best when the photograph was taken, it cannot hide the kindness in his eyes, or the cheeky smirk that plays at the corners of his mouth. She suspects he might have been what Bramley, her father’s butler, would call “rather a lad”. His youthful face implies that he was no more than twenty when his likeness was taken. She chews the inside of her cheek as she tries to imagine what he must have sounded like.

 

“Bert was a postman. That’s how I met him.” Edith smiles sadly as she looks over at the photograph of Bert in Lettice’s hands. “He used to deliver mail in our street. We never had much post, but he’d find an excuse to stop if he saw me. This was before I had my first live-in post as a maid, so I was still at home.” She chuckles. “He even confessed to me that he used to come down our street even if he had no letters to deliver, just in the hope that he’d catch a glimpse of me and stop for a chat.”

 

“How old were you?” Lettice fills Edith’s glass again and then tops up her own.

 

Edith takes up her glass. “I was fourteen and he was eighteen. Mum said we were both too young to be tethering ourselves to one another, what with all our lives ahead of us, especially as Mum had started making enquiries about live-in posts for me after I’d cut my teeth skivvying for mean old Widow Hounslow for a year. His mum wasn’t too keen on him courting me either. She had expectations of Bert. She always felt that being employed in a steady job with the post office, he could make a successful career for himself, and could do better than a local girl with a dad who baked biscuits and a mum who laundered clothes. But we didn’t care. Bert fancied me, and I fancied him, and that was all that mattered to us.” She blinks back more tears, but cannot stop a few from spilling from her eyes and running down her cheeks. She opens her handbag again and withdraws a small white handkerchief, neatly embroidered with her initials in violet thread, and dabs her cheeks. “Then the war came, and Bert took the King’s shilling*******, like so many young men his age,” Edith sighs and sniffs again. “So that was that.”

 

Lettice pauses a moment, glass to her lips, before she asks, “How…er… how did…?”

 

“He died at the Battle of Passchendaele, Miss. He only had another year of the war to go, silly blighter. I always told him to keep his head down, but I suppose he was only following his captain’s orders. They all were.”

 

The pair of women fall silent, the air thick between them with unspoken words and unanswered questions.

 

“I read his name on the list of casualties posted up outside the post office,” Edith continues. “There’s irony for you.” She pauses and then looks directly into Lettice’s face. “His mother didn’t even have the courtesy to come and tell me herself. She disliked me so much, she let me read it on the high street where I broke down in tears and made a scene of myself in public, to my shame.”

 

“No, not to your shame, Edith!” Lettice assuages. “It’s only natural that you should cry over the loss of your sweetheart.”

 

“I just wish she’d told me. I would have cried in private at home. I could have maintained my dignity.” Edith blushes red with shame. “All those women and girls around me, looking piteously at me, whispering “she’s one… she’s lost someone” before turning away.”

 

“Didn’t any of them help you?”

 

“Mrs. Carraway, our neighbour two doors down, had just been at the fishmongers, having heard a roumour that there was some plaice to be had, and she saw me all distraught. She took me home to Mum.”

 

“Oh that’s awful, Edith.” Lettice reaches out her hand to her maid’s, but Edith withdraws it out of reach, uncomfortable with the familiarity and the sense of pity. Lettice pretends to have been reaching for her hat to cover her clumsy faux pas and toys distractedly with a lavender silk flower on its brim, tugging at the petals. “What a terrible thing to go through.”

 

Lettice pushes the photograph back across the table to Edith, who reaches down and picks it up. Without looking at it, she slips it back into her purse.

 

“Don’t you have a frame for that?” Lettice asks kindly. “It’s a shame to see the edges getting tattered.

 

“I wanted one, but like I said, Mum said there is no point carrying on about the past, so even though I wanted to, I never did.” She pats her handbag. “Still, it’s safe enough in here.”

 

Lettice nods and takes up her glass again.

 

“Now if you don’t mind, Miss,” Edith remarks, clearing her throat and sniffing once more. “I should really get on with my work.” She stands and picks up her hat, mustering her dignity. “I have lunch to prepare, and it won’t make itself.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice replies, looking up. “Yes of course. Well, thank you for sitting with me, Edith. And thank you for…”

 

Her sentence is cut short by Edith as she replies. “Oh, that’s quite alright, Miss. I hope you are feeling better.”

 

“I feel a little better now, Edith. I think I might just sit here and read for a little, recollect my thoughts, before luncheon.”

 

“Then I best be getting back to the kitchen, Miss.”

 

Lettice watches as Edith walks quickly around the tub chairs, following her with her eyes as she makes her way through the dining room and through the green baize door into the servery and the kitchen. She sighs as she sinks back into her chair, quite stunned by the revelations of her maid. The silence of the room is only broken by the gentle ticking of the clock on the mantle and the distant thrum of London traffic along Regent Street. And then she hears it: the quiet sobs of her poor maid, maintaining her dignity by crying for her lost love in private.

 

Lettice picks up her glass again and takes another sip. How lucky she considers herself to be to not have been engaged either before, or during the war, for it saved her so much heartache.

 

*Armistice Day or Remembrance Day is a memorial day observed in Commonwealth member states since the end of the First World War to honour armed forces members who have died in the line of duty. It falls on the 11th of November every year. Remembrance Day is marked at eleven o’clock (the time that the armistice was declared) with a minute’s silence to honour the fallen. Following a tradition inaugurated by King George V in 1919, the day is also marked by war remembrances in many non-Commonwealth countries.

 

**The Cenotaph is a war memorial on Whitehall in London. Its origin is in a temporary structure erected for a peace parade following the end of the First World War, and after an outpouring of national sentiment it was replaced in 1920 by a permanent structure designed by famous British architect Sir Edwin Lutyens (1969 – 1944) and designated the United Kingdom's official national war memorial.

 

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

 

****The 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.

 

*****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 remembrance poppy is an artificial flower worn in some countries to commemorate their military personnel who died in war. Veterans' associations exchange poppies for charitable donations used to give financial, social and emotional support to members and veterans of the armed forces. Inspired by the war poem "In Flanders Fields", and promoted by Moina Michael, they were first used near the end of Great War to commemorate British Empire and United States military casualties of the war. French national Madame Guérin (1878 – 1961), known fondly as “The Poppy Lady from France”, established the first "Poppy Days" in 1921 to raise funds for veterans, widows, orphans, liberty bonds, and charities such as the Red Cross. Today, the remembrance poppy is mainly used in the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth, where it has been trademarked by veterans' associations for fundraising. In these countries, small remembrance poppies are often worn on clothing leading up to Remembrance Day/Armistice Day, and poppy wreaths are often laid at war memorials. In Australia and New Zealand, they are also worn on Anzac Day.

 

*******To take the King’s shilling means to enlist in the army. The saying derives from a shilling whose acceptance by a recruit from a recruiting officer constituted until 1879 a binding enlistment in the British army —used when the British monarch is a king.

 

This upper-class domestic scene is different to what you may think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Lettice’s purple toque covered in silk flowers and lace, which sits on the coffee table is made by Miss Amelia’s Miniatures in the Canary Islands. It is an artisan miniature made just like a real hat, right down to a tag in the inside of the crown to show where the back of the hat is! 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. Miss Amelia is an exception to the rule coming from Spain, but like her American counterparts, her millinery creations are superb. Like a real fashion house, all her hats have names. This hat is called “Shona”. Edith’s black dyed straw hat with purple roses and black feathers was made by an unknown artisan. I acquired it as part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector, Marilyn Bickel.

 

The photograph of Bert on the table was produced by Little Things of Interest Miniatures in America. It is a 1:12 miniature replica of a real photograph, printed on photographic quality paper and remarkably detailed for something so small.

 

The vase of red roses on the Art Deco occasional table are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The vase on the mantlepiece was made by Limoges porcelain in 1950s. It is stamped with a small green Limoges mark to the bottom. I found it along with two others in an overcrowded cabinet at the Mill Markets in Geelong. The vase is filled with hand made pink roses produced by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. Beautifully Handmade Miniatures also produced the hand made green glass comport on the coffee table, which is made from genuinely hand blown glass.

 

Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The Art Deco tub chairs are of black japanned wood and have removable cushions, just like their life sized examples. To the left of the fireplace is a Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair of black japanned wood which has been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the legs and inside the bureau. The chair set has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven. To the right of the fireplace is a Chippendale cabinet which has also been decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks.

 

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 fireplace is a 1:12 miniature resin Art Deco fireplace which is flanked by brass accessories including an ash brush with real bristles.

 

On the left hand side of the mantle is an Art Deco metal clock hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken.

 

In the middle of the mantle is a miniature artisan hand painted Art Deco statue on a “marble” plinth. Made by Warwick Miniatures in England, it is a 1:12 copy of the “Theban Dancer” sculpture created by Claire-Jeanne-Roberte Colinet in 1925.

 

The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug, and 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.

 

It is the day after Lettice’s exclusive buffet supper party for two of her Embassy Club coterie of bright young things who are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. The soirée in their honour was a glittering success and will go down as one of the events of the 1921 London Season according to the Tattler’s society pages correspondent who busily scribbled notes about all the great and good of the land who were present and what they were wearing, whilst a photographer from the London magazine captured the guests in all their glittering finery.

 

The day has been spent setting the Mayfair flat back to rights and Lettice’s maid, Edith, with the help of Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman* and one of Mrs. Boothby’s friends, Jackie, have swept and polished, scrubbed and cleaned, whilst Gunter and Company’s** men have restored the furnishings to where they were before the drawing room was turned into a ballroom and the dining room into a buffet.

 

It's after midnight in the up-to-date modern kitchen and silence envelops the flat. Outside only the occasional drone of a taxi dropping late night revellers home, or the hiss of two fighting cats somewhere on the moonlight rooftops outside breaks the evening quiet. Edith has washed all the glasses, crockery and silverware from dinner and after such a busy day of work she should be tired and sleeping soundly like Lettice is, but instead she is still full of excitement from the previous evening as she sits at the deal kitchen table and thinks about all the beautiful people to whom she served drinks.

 

Her mistress looked beautiful in a powder blue silk georgette gown designed by her childhood friend Gerald Bruton who has his own dress shop in Grosvenor Street. Margot wore a stunning low waisted gown of silver satin. However, it was another guest at the party, Lady Diana Cooper *** who really caught Edith’s eye. With a neat, short chignon of waves and curls woven around a bandeau of diamonds, she wore a stunning blue gown of layer upon diaphanous layer of handkerchief point Lanvin blue silk taffeta which Edith knows from her mistress’ cast-off fashion magazines to be a ‘robe de style’**** with a full skirt supported by a wire hoop underneath the fabric. Pinned to the waist was a large pink satin rose with a slightly smaller one sewn to the right shoulder.

 

“Oh,” Edith sighs as she picks up a jam fancy biscuit from the Delftware plate in front of her and takes a bite. “How I should love to be reminded of that gown forever.”

 

As she munches on the biscuit and takes a sip of tea from her teacup, Edith suddenly has an idea. One of her pleasures in her spare time is to collect articles on the latest styles of clothes and hair from Lettice’s old magazines and paste them into scrapbooks. Her current scrapbook has a blank first page which she has kept for something special. Now she knows what that something special is.

 

Slipping quietly out into the drawing room of the flat, Edith fossicks carefully through the Chippendale gilded black japanned chinoiserie cabinet next to the fireplace and withdraws her mistress’ box of watercolours which she takes back to the kitchen. Going into her own little bedroom off the kitchen she withdraws a pack of coloured pencils from her chest of drawers and snatches up her scrapbook from its surface where it sits upright behind her sewing box, leaning against the floral papered wall. Returning to the kitchen she sets everything out on the table.

 

“Come on now girl,” Edith mutters encouragingly to herself as she takes up a grey lead pencil. “Let’s put that memory of yours to the test and see if we can’t get it out on paper.”

 

The pencil tip scratches across the paper as Edith’s hand moves deftly over the page. She starts to hum ‘After the Ball is Over’*****. Soon the figure of a woman emerges on the page with a short chignon dancing gaily with one arm out and another crossed over her chest. The room remains silent except for the tick of the clock, Edith’s soft humming and the sound of pencil against paper as the dress quickly takes form, with its cascades of layers billowing out over the model’s legs, the gown daringly showing her calves, just as Viscountess Norwich had when she danced with her handsome husband and other friends at the party.

 

“Not bad,” Edith says as she finishes her sketch. “Not bad at all. Now for some colour.”

 

She goes to the kitchen cupboard where she keeps the old Victorian jugs that Lettice uses for water when she is doing watercolour sketching and withdraws the smallest jug. Filling it with some water she goes back to her seat. She looks guiltily at her mistress’ watercolours resting atop the scrapbook.

 

“Well,” Edith reasons. “My schoolteachers all said I had artistic flair.” She sighs. “And if I were as lucky as Miss Lettice, I’d have had a tutor to teach me art, or maybe even have gone to the Slade School of Fine Art. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me using her paints just this one time.”

 

She releases a sigh of pleasure as she mixes the vibrant robin’s egg blue shade of the gown and begins to paint her sketched figure. The colour lightens as she reaches the hem, matching the stockings on her model. Adding more colour to the pool of blue she then defines the shoes. Rinsing the brush in the jug she waits until the blue paint is dry before adding the rose madder of the silk rose on the shoulder and sleeve, and blonde hair to match her own shade to her figure. Making notes about Lettice’s party in the margins around the edge of her picture, Edith waits until the watercolour is dry. Taking up her colour pencils she adds detail, highlights of colour and shading to her sketch, totally oblivious of the time as the hands on the kitchen clock pass one o’clock, all the while humming happily away.

 

“There!” Edith remarks at last, satisfied with her creation. “Perhaps I could give Mr. Bruton a run for his money.” She chuckles to herself at the thought. “Now I shall have Lady Cooper’s gown forever.”

 

As she starts to pack up the watercolours, pencils, sketchbook and tea things she continues to hum ‘After the Ball is Over’, her body swaying to the tune as she imagines herself dancing at a party in the beautiful gown she had just created from memory on paper.

 

*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.

 

**Gunter and Company were London caterers and ball furnishers with shops in Berkley Square, Sloane Street, Lowndes Street and New Bond Street. They began as Gunter’s Tea Shop at 7 and 8 Berley Square 1757 where it remained until 1956 as the business grew and opened different premises. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries Gunter's became a fashionable light eatery in Mayfair, notable for its ices and sorbets. Gunter's was considered to be the wedding cake makers du jour and in 1889, made the bride cake for the marriage of Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, Princess Louise of Wales. Even after the tea shop finally closed, the catering business carried on until the mid 1970s.

 

***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.

 

*****’After the Ball is Over’ was a popular 1891 song written by Charles K. Harris.

 

Believe it or not Edith’s sketch and her scrapbook as well as all the items around them are perhaps not quite as they appear, for all of them are 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Edith’s scrapbook is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. Therefore, it is a pleasure to give you a glimpse inside this wonderful scrapbook from the 1920s which contains sketches, photographs and article clippings. Even the paper has been given the appearance of wrinkling as happens when glue is applied to cheap pulp paper. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into this scrapbook, it contains twelve double sided pages of scrapbook articles, pictures, sketches and photographs and measures forty millimetres in height and thirty millimetres in width and is 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. 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. 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 one of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

The watercolour paint set, brushes, and Limoges style jugs (two of a set of three) come from Melody Jane Dolls’ House. So too do the pencils, which are one millimetre wide and two centimetres long.

 

The Huntley and Palmer’s Family Circle Biscuits tin containing a replica selection of biscuits is also a 1:12 artisan piece. 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. The design on the tin originates from the 1920s, but continued much later due to its popularity. The biscuits on the plate are 1:12 scale artisan pieces. The jam fancy is made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, whilst the chocolate chip biscuit has 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.

 

The tea cosy, which fits snugly over a white porcelain teapot, has been hand knitted in fine lemon, blue and violet wool. It comes easily off and off and can be as easily put back on as a real tea cosy on a real teapot. It comes from a specialist miniatures stockist in England.

 

The Deftware cup, saucer and milk jug are part of a 1:12 size miniature porcelain dinner set which I acquired from a private collection of 1:12 miniatures in Holland.

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.

 

After a busy morning working at her desk, painting some interior designs for the Duchess of Whitby, Lettice prepares to curl up in one of her armchairs and enjoy her latest library book from Boots, a thrilling mystery, when the telephone rings noisily on the occasional table beside her.

 

“Oh blast!” Lettice cries. “And just as I was getting comfortable.”

 

The silver and Bakelite telephone continues to trill loudly as Lettice brushes herself down and picks up the receiver.

 

“Mayfair 432,” she answers without the slightest trace of irritation in her very best telephone voice. A distant female voice speaks down the line. “Oh Mrs. Hatchett, how do you do. Yes, this is Miss Chetwynd speaking.” She listens. “You’d like me to visit your home in Sussex? Next Thursday? Well Mrs Hatchett, I am rather in demand at the moment, and it is after all, the Season, which makes it doubly difficult.” She listens to more simpering words coming down the line. “Let me just check my diary.”

 

Lettice deposits the receiver next to the telephone. She reaches across to the low table before her and helps herself to a sip of tea and a nibble of one of the biscuits Edith has brought her. She then flicks a few pages in her new novel. Finally, when she thinks enough time has passed, she reaches across past the telephone and picks up her leather-bound diary which is fastened with an ornate silver clip. Taking up her silver pen, she flicks to next Thursday, knowing full well that it is free. She puts a star next to the Friday to Monday country party inked in for the following day. She will have plenty of time to get down to Sussex by train to visit Mrs Hatchett’s parochial manor house and back again to London to then travel the next day to Worcestershire for the weekend party.

 

Picking up the receiver she says, “You’re lucky Mrs. Hatchett. Thursday is the only day I have free in my diary for next week.”

 

She smiles like a Cheshire cat as she listens to Mrs. Hatchett’s enthusiastic response.

 

“Now, if you’d just remind me of your address is Sussex please, Mrs. Hatchett.” She jots it in her diary. “And you will ensure your driver picks me up from Rotherfield and Mark Cross*?” She listens to Mrs. Hatchett’s reassurances. “Splendid! Shall we say one o’clock then?” She listens. “Yes? Very good. Yes… yes, I shall see you then. Good morning Mrs. Hatchett.”

 

Lettice hangs up the receiver and squeals with delight.

 

“Edith! Edith!” she calls.

 

Her maid scurries in, frustrated that her mistress insists of screaming through the flat rather than pressing the servants’ bell next to the fireplace. “Can I help you, Miss?”

 

“Oh Edith!” Lettice gasps, leaping up from her seat and clasping her hands in delight. “Such good news!”

 

“Yes Miss?” Edith asks, waiting to hear more.

 

“Your cake did the trick!”

 

“My cake, Miss?” Edith does not understand.

 

“Yes, yes! Your mother’s chocolate cake recipe, for Mrs. Hatchett. Remember?”

 

“Oh that cake!” Edith thinks to herself how many cakes she has made since the rather loud and somewhat gauche Mrs. Hatchett, wife of a banker, sat in Lettice’s drawing room, enthusing over her host’s taste and style. “Very good, Miss.”

 

“It’s splendid Edith. Mrs. Hatchett wants me to visit her next Thursday to look about her home to then propose some interior design ideas!” She throws her arms around Edith’s neck, much to the other woman’s consternation as she stiffens awkwardly at the overfamiliarity.

 

“I best fetch you the Bluebell timetable then, Miss.” Edith mutters, slipping from her mistress’ grasp.

 

“Edith,” Lettice called after her.

 

“Yes, Miss?”

 

“You’re such a brick!”

 

“Yes, Miss!”

 

Lettice sinks back down into her round tub armchair, picks up her book and sighs happily.

 

*The village of Rotherfield in East Sussex had a railway station open there on September 1st 1880. It was renamed Rotherfield and Mark Cross on November 11th 1901. It was never a busy railway station with only light traffic boarding to London, partly due to an inconvenient location. The station was finally closed on June 14th 1965.

 

This year the FFF+ Group have decided to have a weekly challenge called “Snap Happy”. A different theme chosen by a member of the group each week, and the image is to be posted on the Monday of the week.

 

This week the theme, “connections/connected” was chosen by David, DaveSPN.

 

I have taken a slightly different perspective on the theme, but I hope that this telephone, which kept people connected in the 1920s and keep them equally connected today. This upper-class domestic scene is different to what you may think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

The black Bakelite and silver telephone is a 1:12 miniature of a model introduced around 1919.

 

The vase of red roses on the Art Deco occasional table and the glass vase of pink roses on the right-hand side of the mantlepiece are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.

 

Lettice’s tea set is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era. The biscuits are also artisan miniatures from a specialist stockist of food stuffs. He has a dizzying array of meals which is always growing, and all are made entirely or put together by hand.

 

Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The Art Deco tub chairs are of black japanned wood and have removable cushions, just like their life sized examples. To the left of the fireplace is a Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair of black japanned wood which has been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the legs and inside the bureau. The chair set has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven. To the right of the fireplace is a Chippendale cabinet which has also been decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks.

 

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 fireplace is a 1:12 miniature resin Art Deco fireplace which is flanked by brass accessories including an ash brush with real bristles.

 

On the left hand side of the mantle is an Art Deco metal clock hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken.

 

In the middle of the mantle is a miniature artisan hand painted Art Deco statue on a “marble” plinth. Made by Warwick Miniatures in England, it is a 1:12 copy of the “Theban Dancer” sculpture created by Claire-Jeanne-Roberte Colinet in 1925.

 

The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug, and 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.

 

Disclaimer: The contents of this chapter include very sensitive subject matter involving of death of family and the PTSD that comes with it and may be triggering to some individuals.

 

...

 

Vincent lifted his gaze from the picture and leaned his head back against the pillow propped up behind him and closed his eyes. Right now, he was very grateful to his cousin and her bhang concoctions. If not for that, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to get through this today. Honestly he was still uncertain if he still actually could do this.

But as Vincent settled in, a slight smile drew upon his lips as he began to speak as he let him go back four years ago. And as he did, Aiden relaxed more beside him and listened to his story.

"I suppose this story began with my promotion to Captaincy. My uncle is very much a generous man as much as he is proud. He threw a ball to celebrate me. After all, I was the son he never had and it was expected of us. I was to greet and receive endless congratulations by many Captains and their wives, several Lords and Ladies and the worst ones of all." There was a dramatic pause. "Marriage-minded mothers and their daughters."

Vincent actually shuddered which made Aiden laugh softly. But at the same time, it put Vincent in a somewhat new perspective for him: Vincent was not just any ship's captain. He came from a wealthy family; perhaps even possibly related to a Lord or Lady! He supposed he should have realized that last week when Vincent mentioned being required to attend a huge event such as the coming masquerade ball.

"So a couple of hours into my endless parade of greetings and congratulations I happened upon a conversation of a small group discussing horror novels."

"Sounds like something you could get into."

"Indeed. Shh."

"Sorry."

"As I approached, the main speaker turned out to be a woman elaborating about a book she'd read. It turned out to be by the same author who wrote the book you gave me. Her audience had been quite shocked as she spun the summarized tale of how a scorned witch took bloody revenge on all those who'd wronged her. And trust me, it was absolutely tame compared to the novel itself. No one seemed to know what to say. And so when I announced that I knew the novel she was speaking of and that I'd enjoyed it, myself, she'd turned in excitement with such a brilliant smile. She promptly took my arm and, I quote, 'Now HERE'S someone worth talking to! Hello, good Sir, my name is Miss Emily Fenton. It's a pleasure to meet you. Shall we grab some lemonade together?' And as I escorted her away she mentioned the party had been dull until I arrived and that I was right on time."

Both men chuckled softly and Aiden thought to himself that Vincent's wife must have been a very interesting woman. He was very amused that Vincent imitated an enthusiastic young woman's voice quite well.

"She really turned my world upside down. I remember thinking to myself, how did I not notice her before? As it turned out, she was a visiting cousin of an acquaintance of the family. I remember the details of her eyes, those little flecks of green that encircled her iris. How she smelled of lilies which happened to be her favorite flower. She had this sly smile which was so full of mischief and had the most twisted sense of humor which I adored. But you'd never know the depth of her by looking at her. Oh, she would smile and act as a lady should be in public. Well....mostly. She was sharp, witty, and very well-read. She was a scholar and loved to delve into book after book. But her mind and the things that would come out of her mouth! And she'd do it with a straight face too! And you'd never see it coming!"

And Vincent was laughing! Aiden grinned and he listened, painting this picture in his head of the eventual Mrs. Emily Dubois. She seemed quite the character! She sounded like someone Vincent could easily get along with and clearly did.

Vincent's laughter quickly settled and he licked his lips before reaching for the cup of bhang tea beside him and drained the rest of it. He knew by the end of this, he was going to need it in his system. It had been a couple of years since he'd really talked about any of this. The last time had been to Damien and it hadn't given him as much closure as he'd have liked. Of course, Damien had been there to witness the majority of it all and hadn't needed explanations. He'd simply been there as a shoulder for Vincent to lean on. Sure, talking to Damien HAD helped and eventually he was able to get through each day again but...something about this time was different. He was able to let it flow differently this time as he got to tell the actual whole story to someone for the first time. It felt good to finally talk about it.

"You have to know something about me. Well, about who I was. I was married to my career. I loved everything about my life in the sky and had everything I wanted. I had no need for marriage at the time. I was young; only twenty-three. I wasn't expected to look for a wife for several years and even so I didn't have to. I was a captain! I could live my life completely in the air if I wanted to! And it was what I did want. My thirst for knowledge paired beautifully with my love of travel and I could chart any course and go anywhere and learn anything I wanted when I wanted. I knew what my life would be. That was until I met Emily.

"I hadn't realized how much sharing the joys of sharing one's life with another person could be until I found myself in her presence nearly every day. She was a fascinating woman and very knowledgeable and well read. She was always happy to hear about places and things I've seen. In turn, I was happy to listen to her talk about her novels and things she'd learned in her studies and we shared deep, intellectual conversations. We became fast friends, but I knew it was more than that. I found myself waking every day with her in my thoughts. She had quickly become someone I had to keep in my life and she seemed to fit perfectly somehow. I felt alive in a new, different way.

"Of course it was perfectly possible for me to have a wife and live my life too. After all, I had grown up watching the love between my uncle and aunt and they had married young as well. My uncle was gone most of the time; home during Summers and occasionally throughout the year for important holidays and still does it to this day. And every time they are together, you can see the love and happiness they share together. It's as clear as day. And they are more in love than the day they married. And even then, I knew it. So I knew I could make it work with Emily if she were willing. Of course, fate would have it that I found out that Emily was due to return home and would be leaving the capitol the following week. It would be a long time before we would see each other in person. After all, she didn't live in a major port and I was due to start my first trip as captain soon. I was expecting to subject myself to written correspondence with her. But when I saw that forlorn look in her eyes and how she admitted that she'd miss seeing my face? Well, what else could I do but ask her to marry me?"

Vincent blinked and tears slid down his cheeks in memory of Emily as he saw her in her bridal gown and how she'd glowed that day. "We were happy. I knew my life would be perfect. Emily understood me and the expectations of my life. No, we wouldn't be together every day but we'd see each other more often than if she was going back to her hometown. She was happy and eager to get our lives started together. She'd made friends with my cousins and had her own cousin in town as well. She'd have a happy life here and once we had children, her days would be more joyful. She was looking forward to becoming a mother one day."

How wonderful Vincent made it seem! Of course, Aiden knew how this story would end. But it was important, he realized, for Vincent to talk about this...about her and their life. Something told him he'd not told this story before. Not like this. Aiden felt his heart go out to Vincent and he continued to listen to Vincent's story.

"As you can imagine, it was a very short engagement and a small wedding. I'd gotten us a place big enough for us and a little one for when we were ready. With all the excitement of a ball held in my honor, wooing my lady, and becoming a husband, I'd taken time off from work for quite some time. But it was time for me to get back into the swing of life and provide for my wife and our home together. So the day finally came where Damien and I were to set off for our first cargo trip on Leon's Claw. And that's when she gave me this."

Vincent leaned over and reached for the compass and brought it to his lap and opened it up. He held it along with the picture frame and just stared for a long moment. Aiden gazed at the compass over Vincent's shoulder with new appreciation. He'd noticed the slight smoothness of the spots where Vincent's fingers had rubbed it when he'd repaired it a few months ago. It was a well loved piece to have so much wear in such a short amount of time. And he'd certainly not forgotten Vincent's distraught expression when it had broken.

"'Though pleas`d to see the dolphins play, I mind my compass and my way,'" * Vincent recited the inscription inside the compass. "She said that it was to help me remember to stay my course; to seek to enjoy life and all it has to offer and to always help me find my way home. She was worried I'd find it silly and corny but I loved her for it."

"It was a thoughtful gift."

"It really is. I was touched."

Vincent closed the compass and held it tight in his hand for a long moment. He licked his lips and then glanced up at Aiden who gave him a small encouraging smile. But Vincent saw that something was off about Aiden and how he was smiling. A small part of him wanted to turn and reassure Aiden...but what was there to reassure him about? He wasn't sure what was wrong but he just seemed a little...despondent. Perhaps it was because he knew it was a sad story? Or was there something else bothering him?

"So what happened next?" Aiden inquired softly, not realizing that Vincent was reading him so well. Vincent gazed at him for another long moment, blinking a couple of times as he allowed himself to tuck this mental inquiry about Aiden away to think about later.

"What happened next? Well, I started my new life as Captain. I felt like I was living my best life! I was having a grand time with one of my best friends and got to live my dream every day. It was everything I hoped it would be. Though, I admit that for somewhat selfish reasons, we didn't stray too far from home." Vincent chuckled slightly to himself which drew a small smirk from Aiden. "Damien was pretty annoyed with me, I think. I had made him wait and wait while I courted my wife and then we were only gone not even a full two months before we came home again. And that's when I found out that I was to become a father." Aiden could see the joy through the sadness and tears that were forming in Vincent's eyes.

"Six months or so later my daughter was born: Lily. She...she had my eyes and hair and her mother's nose and mouth. Lily was so small but she was healthy and perfect. She was my pride and joy." The tears spilled down Vincent's face as he let out a soft sob and yet he still managed a bittersweet smile as he gazed up at Aiden. "I wish I could show you...she was so beautiful and sweet. She never cried and loved being held. I never realized that I could be that happy. And then...then much too soon it was time for me to go."

And here Vincent's smile faded and he drew his knees up a little and his shoulders sunk. His gaze returned to the photograph. Aiden knew what was going to happen next. This was where Vincent's world would be ripped from him.

"There had been talk of illness in neighboring countries with major air and sea ports. In my line of work, I was at risk but it wasn't like I could stop with a family to provide for. And we lived in a city of massive commerce. She was scared of never seeing me again but I still chose to go."

Beside him, Aiden felt his heart suddenly clench even worse. He remembered all too well when that happened just over three years ago. There had been rumors and people were scared. But it never seemed to come and people began to wonder if maybe it was just a hoax. Then suddenly it hit with ferocity everywhere that had air and sea ports, rumored to have come thanks to commerce and the critters that resided on the ships. Aiden's hometown was a city of commerce and sure enough it had claimed many lives there including that of his own mother who was prone to illness more easily than others.

"It was the hardest farewell I'd ever had to make," Vincent continued painfully. "I kissed my wife and baby and went on my way." Vincent inhaled deeply and let it out sharply before swallowing hard and gave a small nod. Aiden had a feeling he was having to push himself to keep talking at this point.

"Then 'this,'" Vincent grumbled and gestured aggressively towards his blind and damaged eye, "happened." He inhaled slowly and deeply through his nostrils as fresh tears began to pool in his eyes. "While Damien and I were recovering, news came that the capitol had been ravaged by the illness; especially in the poorer parts of town. I prayed that my family would be safe, all of them. But then that's when I got the letter from Emily. Our little Lily was sick, but it had been dated a couple of weeks earlier! I wanted to get home right away but no one was flying or sailing out; especially to the capitol. And, of course, mail was not getting out nearly as quickly anymore.

"We weren't far from here but it wasn't close at all if you traveled on land. And, of course, Leon's Claw needed repairs and Damien had suffered a severe trauma with losing his arm saving me. I was stuck! It took a week to get the proper repairs done so I could fly home myself. Thankfully Damien was fitted for his arm and I could get home to my wife and daughter! I prayed to whatever powers may be that Lily would be okay. I STILL hadn't heard from anyone even though I'd sent letters! Not Emily, my cousins, nor my aunt. Nothing. All I knew was my baby was sick! And when we arrived at the capitol, my cousin Abigail was waiting for me. I knew it the moment I saw it was her waiting there for me; not Emily. I was too late!"

At this point, Vincent was just letting it all out. Now that he was talking and crying, he just couldn't seem to stop! Aiden felt like he couldn't breathe as his heart kept breaking more and more for Vincent.

"It wasn't only my little Lily that I'd lost! I'd lost Emily, too! Emily died the day before I arrived home and Lily three days before! It's not fair! I lost them BOTH!!! Lily and Emily died ALONE while I was stuck two cities away! I wasn't there with them! She asked me to stay but I didn't! What kind of a man am I?! I should have stayed!"

Aiden cried silently beside Vincent as he gazed at the distraught man. What could he say? What could he do? What could possibly console Vincent with something as heartbreaking as this?

So this was why Vincent had spoken to him the way he had when they had met, Aiden realized. He was remembering as he repaired the compass Vincent had spoken to him about Aiden's convictions and determination to leave home. Vincent had tried to convince him that it would be better to stay home with his family. But Aiden had been determined that he wanted this. The feelings and reasonings that Aiden had come back with that had apparently convinced Vincent to hire him seemed like they would be something the late Emily would have encouraged. And quite possibly, it seemed, Vincent had seen a bit of himself in Aiden at the time.

Aiden swallowed hard as the realizations hit him. It took him a minute but he finally got his thoughts together before he spoke softly.

"But at least you have that final memory of them. Of kissing them goodbye and-"

"NO! I DON'T! Just...don't even! You have NO idea!"

Aiden had jumped at Vincent's strangled, sudden outburst! Then Vincent suddenly gave a wrenched sob as he pressed his hands to his face and sobbed even harsher than Aiden had heard thus far. Seconds later, he wrapped his arms around his knees and pulled them quite painfully towards his chest. In his agonized state of being, as well as the intoxication from the bhang, Vincent didn't care about the physical pain flaring to life in his abdomen! Aiden wanted to stop him but right now he didn't dare say or do anything as he stared wide eyed at Vincent.

"You just don't know, Aiden!" Lifting his gaze, he stared up into Aiden's eyes desperately. Aiden had the impression that Vincent was almost pleading with him to understand.

"I wanted to remember them forever like that. Of my wife's smile and my daughter looking so perfect in her arms as I kissed them farewell. I would have that memory and all our happy memories to sustain me. I felt like I was in a daze as I made my way home. Then that's...that's when..."

Vincent closed his eyes and tears slid down his cheeks as the memory came back so painful and fresh as if it happened just yesterday. When he opened them, he was gazing back at Aiden and continued, this time his voice more calm but every bit as heart-wrenching as he said in a near whisper, "I came home as their bodies were being carried out of the building and tossed onto the cart with the other corpses. And the workers they...they just were talking so casually about them and the way they tossed their bodies onto the pile I- I just-"

And he cut himself off and buried his face in his knees and sobbed. He found that he just couldn't stop. Beside him, Aiden sat in shock as all this unfolded. Vincent was inconsolable, but he needed this. Who knew how long he'd kept this torment inside? Surely, he'd never broken down like this before! This seemed too fresh. Aiden wasn't sure what to say to any of that. What could someone say to that?

"And every time I sleep, the dreams always end the same way! I kiss them goodbye and then I see their corpses like that! EVERY! TIME! And I know how alone she was! How miserable and scared she must have been! I should have been there with them! What did I do to deserve this?! I don't want to do this anymore, Aiden! I should have died with them! I don't want to be here anymore! I want to die but I'm too much of a coward to end it all myself!"

And suddenly Vincent was wrapped in the warmth of Aiden's strong embrace before he was gently but firmly held close.

"Shh...shh..."

"Let go!"

At first Vincent started to push him off, but as he felt Aiden's hand come to cup the back of his head, he felt all his walls break down as he allowed himself to lean against Aiden's chest and actually clung to his shirt. The sobs came all over again, but this time they just did not stop coming. Aiden simply held him and pressed his nose and lips to the top of Vincent's head and closed his eyes. He didn't know what else to do but let him get it all out.

Some time had passed. Neither man had paid attention to the time, but eventually Vincent's sobs quieted and he hiccupped as he just leaned against Aiden in a quiet daze as he came down from all that. Aiden gently slid his hand down and rubbed Vincent's back. He wasn't in a hurry to let Vincent out of his arms right now. Once Vincent's breathing was back to normal, Aiden lifted his head and pressed his chin gently atop his head.

"I'm glad you're here, Vincent," he told him softly. "I'd miss you terribly if you were gone."

"Bet you wouldn't miss days like this."

"I'd not be anywhere else."

"You can't really mean that."

"Look at me."

And Vincent did. He sniffed and lifted his head from Aiden's chest and gazed up into his eyes. In a slightly bold move, Aiden reached up and gently brushed away Vincent's tears before stating calmly, "I'd not be anywhere else but here. I will always be here no matter what; whether that be a shoulder to lean on or-... or if you need a poking to lighten up and laugh once in a while. You are important to me, Vincent. You're my best friend."

Vincent's eyes widened and he felt his stomach flutter to life with butterflies. Aiden must truly feel strongly about their bond! Of course, Vincent knew of friendships like this. He had a small group of people he trusted and he was so thankful that Aiden was part of that circle now. And he had to admit that he loved that Aiden could speak his thoughts so freely with him and threw caution and vulnerability to the wind. And Vincent felt like he could as well and it felt liberating each and every time. He felt more free to do so around Aiden than...well, he couldn't even remember!

"You're one of my closest friends too. I'm lucky to have you in my corner, Aiden. I don't know what I did to deserve you. but thank you."

"Of course. I'll always have your back. Always."

Aiden wanted to tell Vincent the truth of his romantic feelings. He truly did. However, he knew that right now was not the time for it; especially not after Vincent's awful breakdown over his dearly missed wife. And as for Aiden, when he'd asked Vincent to talk about Emily, he hadn't expected to compare himself to her the way he unintentionally had. It was hard not to feel a touch of doubt considering he wanted to win Vincent's heart, himself. Aiden and Emily were quite different people. Would Vincent even want him, a man? Would he be open to finding love again to begin with?

Aiden still had every intention of wooing Vincent and telling him the truth one day. He just needed to go about things differently now that he understood how deeply Vincent was hurting.

However, Vincent still needed him as his friend, so romance was not an option right now, but perhaps one day, Aiden thought. He'd just have to be part of his life and hopefully one day things would work out so that Vincent would come to feel he needed Aiden the same way that Aiden needed him.

A very short time later once Vincent was more settled, Aiden released him from his arms and they moved back into the positions they had been in before Bernadette's departure. Vincent was grateful for Aiden's help shifting around before the young man settled in, himself. Vincent had wrenched his body around during his breakdown and now his ribs ached badly. Though thankfully soon after, he wasn't even paying attention to anything else but his new book as his body settled down from all the excitement and the pain became more bearable again.

When Bernadette returned from her errands, she found the men where she'd left them: content and happy beside each other with Vincent nose-deep into his book and Aiden scribbling in his notebook. And she thought silently to herself with a smile, 'Is it just me or are they sitting closer than before?'

At one point very soon after, Vincent needed a moment of privacy to use the bedpan. But as soon as he was done and the bedpan cleaned? Well Aiden was back on the bed beside his best friend and enjoying his company. But what really gave Aiden a reason to smile was when Vincent actually refrained from opening his book and turned to ask Aiden what he was doing in his notebook.

"I'm designing upgrades for Pete!"

"Pete?"

"Pete the Spider Lantern! You met him already."

"Wait. Are you talking about that lantern that came with you to find me?"

"That's the one!"

And that was when Aiden launched into an explanation about Pete and showed him the sketches he'd made of Pete with little added parts to enhance him. Vincent had almost forgotten about the lantern that had come to the tower with Aiden. He remembered now that Aiden had come back from one of his shopping trips a while back with the lantern and declared that he had a project he wanted to work on with it. That was the last Vincent had seen or heard of it until last week when Aiden came to rescue him with it as at his side.

A couple of minutes later there was a knock at the front door to which Bernadette went to answer it. She wasn't expecting anyone else today so who could it be? Surely, not Damien. It was Aiden's turn this evening to babysit Vincent with her tonight. However, it DID turn out to be Damien after all and in his arms were two bags of groceries!

"Damien! We weren't expecting you but thank you! You're spoiling us." She grinned up at him and closed the door behind him.

"You're welcome. And what do you mean? I'm helping out with dressings tonight, remember?"

"Oh!" She paused as she reached to help with the groceries as she thought about it, arms outstretched. "Wait...are you sure?"

At that second, there was a burst of laughter from the other room that belonged to Aiden. Damien glanced towards the room then looked back at Bernadette with a slight smirk and handed her both bags and replied, "Of course I am! You must be tired. Don't worry, Bernie. I'm sure you'll be able to catch up on rest soon." Damien patted her on the shoulder and turned to head towards the bedroom to see what was going on in there.

Bernadette blinked and stood there with the bags of groceries as she stared at his departing backside. She opened her mouth then closed it before looking at the weighty bags in her arms. Feeling a bit confused and a touch irritated, she turned and made her way towards the kitchen and grumbled, "Asshole."

Then a moment later...

"What do you think you're doing?!"

Aiden jumped and blinked as he looked up and around to see who shouted. It was Damien at the door and he looked pretty upset! Why was Damien here anyway? Today was his day off, wasn't it? Aiden opened his mouth but beside him, Vincent was faster to respond with a slightly stern tone, "What's the problem?"

Damien kept his eyes on Aiden and elaborated, "You shouldn't be on the bed! What if Vincent gets hurt worse because of your jostling!"

"Damien, I'm fine!" Vincent cut in before Aiden could even respond and rolled his eyes with a chuckle. "Relax! Here, have some bhang tea."

"I don't want tea!"

Damien scowled and folded his arms over his chest as he glared at the two of them. Vincent narrowed his eyes at Damien and sat up a bit straighter and gave him an even stare. Beside him, Aiden shrank where he sat. He wasn't going to get in the middle of this.

"What's really the problem?"

"I already told you!"

"No, you didn't but fine. Do you trust me?"

"Vincent-"

"Do. You. Trust. Me?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"Then trust me when I say I am fine! I'm not fragile! And in case you haven't noticed, Damien, I can handle a little bit of jostling." Vincent sarcastically gestured towards his beaten body. Then after a moment his gaze softened and he smiled a bit as he gestured towards Aiden's notebook. "Besides, Aiden is showing me his sketches! And he brought me a present! See?"

Instead of looking at whatever Vincent was holding up, Damien's gaze shifted towards Aiden who went a deep shade of red and brought his hand up to run through his hair with a shy chuckle and smile. Damien stared at him for a long moment before turning to look at what Vincent was holding out to him impatiently. Upon seeing what it was, Damien scoffed and chuckled, "Another book. Heh. Well, isn't that nice of him?"

Aiden blinked and made a slight face as he was feeling a little offended. And honestly? A little surprised. 'Another book?' he wanted to ask. Did he not know his own supposed best friend enough to know how much he loved and valued books? Surely, he had to! But even Aiden (who didn't enjoy novels the way Vincent did either) understood and appreciated what it meant to the man. And thankfully, it seemed, Vincent was of the same mind and jumped in his defense!

"It is, in fact! Look at it! Look! See who it's by?!" Vincent exclaimed eagerly with a grin. "It just released today!" In his excitement, Vincent had already brushed aside the intensity of Damien's arrival. He was used to Damien's worrywart personality by now and wanted to show off his present!

Aiden however, hadn't brushed it off yet. He knew he'd get over it, but right now he was still feeling a little sour towards Damien. 'What's with this guy?' he wondered silently as he watched Damien approach and ruin their alone time.

Damien finally took a seat on the chair beside Vincent. Even though he was looking at Vincent and listening to what he was saying, his mind was processing what he'd happened upon and the realizations that came with it.

So, Vincent had a brand new book and he hadn't shoved Aiden out the door? Not only that, he wasn't nose deep into it like Damien was used to him doing. His experiences had always taught him that Vincent liked to be left alone while reading, especially with a new book. So, why the Hell was Aiden allowed to be here? Damien certainly wasn't allowed to be! And wasn't this the second time Aiden had brought him a gift?

...was there something else going on between them that he didn't know about?

  

* "Though pleas`d to see the dolphins play, I mind my compass and my way." - Matthew Green

 

Inscription on the 'Madpea Compass' by MadPea which you can find on Marketplace!

 

---

 

Shout out to Stephen King and his book 'Carrie' for inspiring the book that Emily and Vincent were discussing during their meet-cute!

 

...

NEXT PART:

www.flickr.com/photos/153660805@N05/52441785152/in/datepo...

 

To start from the beginning or to read another chapter, here's the album link:

www.flickr.com/photos/153660805@N05/albums/72157717075565127

 

***Please note this is a BOY LOVE (BL/yaoi/gay) series. It is a slow burn and rated PG13!***

 

***

Special thank you to Vin Aydin Raven-Mysterious for collaborating with me on this series and co-starring as The Captain!

And a special thank you to our guest star: Khetas Nova as our spunky Emily Dubois!

  

DISCORD SERVER:

That's right! The Captain and The Engineer has a Discord Server! If you wanna join and chat with other crewmates and see what's new and happening before it gets posted to Flickr, click the link!

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***NEW!!!!***

 

The Captain and the Engineer now has a FACEBOOK PAGE! Please come Like, Follow, and join the crew! Thank you so much for all your support!

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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 slightly north of Cavendish Mews to London’s busy shopping precinct along Oxford Street, where ladies flock to window shop, browse department stores and shops and to take tea with their friends. With the Christmas rush of 1921 behind them, the large plate glass windows have been stripped of their tinsel garlands and metallic cardboard stars, and displays are turning to the new fashions and must have possessions of 1922. Oxford Street is still busy with shoppers as Lettice walks up it dressed in a smart navy blue coat of velvet with a lustrous mink fur trim and matching hat, and the road congested with London’s signature red buses, taxis and private traffic. Yet neither the road nor the footpath are as crowded as they were when she found Edith, her maid’s, Christmas gift in Boots the Chemist, and for that she is grateful. Her louis heels click along the concrete footpath as she takes purposeful and measured footsteps towards her destination, the salon of her milliner Madame Gwendolyn which is situated above all the hubbub of shoppers and London office workers on the first floor of a tall and ornate Victorian building.

 

Lettice breathes a sigh of relief as she walks through the wood and plate glass door of the salon, simply marked with the name Gwendolyn in elegant gilt copperplate lettering, leaving behind the chug of belching double deckers, the toot of horns, the rumble of motorcar engines and the droning buzz of female chatter. The faint fragrance of a mixture of expensive scents from Madame Gewndolyn’s other clientele envelops her, dismissing the soot and fumes of the world outside as the quiet sinks in. Lettice always feels calmer in Madame’s salon, tastefully decked out in an Edwardian version of Regency with finely striped papers and upholstery.

 

“Good afternoon Miss Chetwynd,” the female receptionist greets Lettice politely in well enunciated tones, rising from her desk, showing off her smart outfit of a crisp white shirtwaister* with goffered lace detailing and a navy skirt. “Your timing, as ever, is perfect.” She smiles as she walks over and without asking, takes the coat from Lettice’s shirking shoulders.

 

“Thank you Roslyn,” Lettice acknowledges her assistance. As she goes to take Lettice’s white lace parasol, Lettice stops the young receptionist. “No thank you. I need this for my consultation.”

 

If taken aback by Lettice’s unusual refusal to relinquish her parasol, Roslyn doesn’t show it as she simply smiles politely and says, “Madame is expecting you. Please do come through.”

 

The two women walk across the polished floor of the foyer covered in expensive rugs that their feet sink into, until they stop before an inner set of double doors. Roslyn’s polite rap is greeted by a commanding “come” from the other side.

 

“Miss Chetwynd, Madame,” Roslyn announces as she opens the door inwards, leading Lettice into a salon, similarly furbished as the foyer which is filled with an array of beautiful hats elegantly on display.

 

“Ah, Miss Chetwynd,” Madame Gwendolyn says in the same clearly enunciated syllables as her receptionist, with a broad smile on her lips. “How do you do.”

 

“How do you do, Madame.” she replies as Roslyn retreats the way she came, closing the doors silently behind her.

 

Madame Gwendolyn smile broadens as she notices Lettice’s blue velvet toque with the mink trim which she made to match the coat now hanging in the wardrobe behind Roslyn’s desk in the foyer. Then it fades as her eye falls upon Lettice’s parasol in her client’s left hand. “Oh Miss Chetwynd, I’m so sorry Roslyn didn’t,” and she reaches out to take it from her hand.

 

“Oh no! No Madame,” Lettice assures the middle-aged milliner. “Roslyn went to take it from me, but I said no. We will need it for our appointment you see.”

 

“Oh,” Madame Gwendolyn’s expertly plucked and shaped brow arches ever so slightly. “Very well. Won’t you please take a seat, Miss Chetwynd.” She indicates to two Edwardian Arts and Crafts chairs carefully reupholstered in cream Regency stripe fabric to match the wallpaper hanging in the salon.

 

Lettice selects the one to her right and hangs the parasol over its arm before gracefully lowering herself into the seat and placing her snakeskin handbag at her side. As she does so, Roslyn slips back into the room bearing a tray on which sits tea making implements for one, which she carefully places on the small table next to a few recent fashion magazines, easily in Lettice’s range.

 

Once Roslyn obsequiously retreats again, Madame Gwendolyn says, “Now, I believe you may have come about a new hat for The Princess Royal’s wedding*. Is that so, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“You are well informed, Madame.” Lettice replies, glancing down at her knee as she speaks.

 

Madame Gwendolyn smiles again, taking up a leatherbound notebook. “How delightful for you to be in attendance.”

 

“Well, we are well acquainted, Madame,” Lettice answers dismissively.

 

“Of course! Of course.” the older woman replies, her back stiffening as she raises her pale and elegant hands in defence. “Now, might I enquire as to who will be making your frock for the occasion?”

 

“Yes. Mr. Gerald Bruton of Grosvenor Street.”

 

“Ah. Excellent! Excellent.” Madame replies like a toady as she jots Gerald’s name in her book. “And the fabrics, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Oyster satin with pearl buttons and a guipure lace** Peter Pan collar***.”

 

“Excellent! Excellent!” Madame Gwendolyn repeats again, noting the details down. “White gloves, or grey?”

 

“Grey.”

 

The woman closes her notebook firmly, leaving it in her lap. “Well, I’m quite sure we can make something most suitable for the royal occasion to match your ensemble.”

 

The milliner rises and puts her notebook aside. Whilst she looks about her salon for possibilities, Lettice pours herself tea from the delicate hydrangea patterned pot on the table.

 

“Now, I could easily create something similar to this, in a soft grey, Miss Chetwynd.” Madame Gwendolyn returns with a beautiful picture hat of pale pink covered in a carefully crafted whorl of ostrich feathers.

 

“Hhhmmm…” Lettice considers.

 

“Or, this could easily be adapted to match your outfit, Miss Chetwynd,” she indicates to a more cloche shaped hat of white and black dyed straw with black ribboning. “By replacing the ribbon with a grey one. I also have some delightful pearl appliques that would add a beautiful touch of royal elegance to it.”

 

“Perhaps,” Lettice replies noncommittally with her head slightly cocked.

 

As she watches Madame Gwendolyn scurry across the salon and fetch a peach coloured wide brimmed hat with a band of silk flowers about the brim with an aigrette of cream lace, her thoughts drift back to the day the previous June when she and her dear Embassy Club coterie friend Margot were walking down Oxford Street, not too far from where she sits now. They had been discussing the Islington Studios**** moving picture starlet Wanetta Ward, whom Lettice had agreed to take on as a new customer, as well as Margot’s wedding plans. Ascot Week***** was fast approaching and Selfridges had a window display featuring four rather stylish hats, every bit as comparable in quality to those being shown to her by the toadying milliner before her at a fraction of the cost. Margot had laughed at Lettice when she had suggested that perhaps she should have worn a Selfridges hat to Royal Ascot, rather than the creation Madame Gwendolyn made her. Yet her hat from Madame Gwendolyn at twelve guineas was far from a roaring success in the fashion stakes. In fact, she had heard a fashion correspondent from the Tattler whispering a little too loudly that it might even have been a little old fashioned: a touch pre-war.

 

“Miss Chetwynd? Miss Chetwynd?” Madame Gwendolyn’s somewhat urgent calls press into her consciousness, breaking Lettice’s train of thought.

 

Lettice looks up into the face of the milliner with her upswept hairdo a mixture of pre-war Edwardian style mixed with modern Marcelling******. The woman is holding up a cream straw cloche decorated with pink silk flowers and an aigrette of ostrich plumes curled in on themselves.

 

“I think this one is most becoming. Don’t you think so, Miss Chetwynd? It would frame your face and hair so well. And, for you, because it is only the reworking of the decoration,” the older woman adds with a sly smile. “A bargain if I may say so, at only nine guineas.” She smiles in an oily way as she presses the hat closer to Lettice. “What do you think, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

Lettice looks blankly at Madame Gwendolyn for a moment before replying. “What I think, Madame, is I should like to give your suggestions some consideration.”

 

The milliner’s face drops, as do her arms as she lowers the hat until it hangs loosely in front of her knees in her defeated hands. “I… I don’t understand, Miss Chetwynd.” she manages to say in startled disbelief.

 

“Oh,” Lettice replies. “Haven’t I made myself clear, Madame? I’m not entirely convinced about any of the hats you have shown me. I don’t know if any of them will match my costume and parasol. I think they all look a little…”

 

“A little?” the older woman prompts.

 

“A little old fashioned. A little pre-war was how your hat for me for Royal Ascot last year was described. I want to look my very best. After all, this is a royal wedding.” She takes a final sip of her tea and then stands, picking up her purse and parasol. “So, I should like to consider my choices before deciding whether to accept one or not.”

 

As Lettice starts to walk across the salon floor, Madame Gwendolyn stutters, “Per… perhaps Miss Chetwynd… Perhaps you’d care to suggest your own ideas. I’m very open to a client’s ide…”

 

Lettice stops and turns abruptly to the milliner, cutting her sentence off. “Madame,” she says, a definite haughtiness growing in her gait, causing her shoulders to edge back almost imperceptibly and for her neck to arch. “If I had wanted to design my own hat, I would have made it myself, rather than come to you and pay you handsomely for it.”

 

“Oh, of course not Miss Chetwynd. How very careless of me to even suggest…. Such… such a gaffe! Please forgive me.”

 

“Really Madame, there is no need to apologise like some spineless, obsequious servant. I’d simply like time to consider what you’ve shown me, versus say, what Harry Selfridge has to offer.”

 

“Mr. Selfridge?” Madame Gwendolyn ponders, her eyes widening in surprise.

 

“Yes. He has a wonderful array of hats, many Paris models in the latest styles, in his millinery department, perhaps more suited to the more modern woman of today than the,” Lettice glances back at the hats on display in the salon. “The society matron. You really should take a look, Madame. You might see where the future of hats sits.”

 

Lettice pulls open the doors of the salon and walks purposefully out into the foyer, where Roslyn is busily scanning a copy of Elite Styles, cutting out images of hats with a pair of scissors behind her desk. She quickly gets up when she sees Lettice and her employer come out.

 

“Leaving so soon, Miss Chetwynd?” she asks, and without having to wait for an answer, turns to the white painted built in wardrobe behind her, opens it and withdraws Lettice’s coat.

 

As Lettice steps back into Oxford Street and is enveloped by its discordant cacophony of noise and potpourri of smells, she sighs and walks back the way she came with the measured steps of a viscount’s daughter. As she reaches the full length plate glass windows of Selfridge’s department store, she pauses when she sees two young women around her age, both obviously typists, secretaries or some other kind of office workers, scuttle up to the windows. Dressed in smart black coats and matching small brimmed straw hats with Marcelled hair in fashionable bobs, they look the epitome of the new and independent woman. They laugh lightly and point excitedly at things they see displayed in the department store window. Then, they agree and both scurry away and through the revolving doors of Selfridges.

 

“Why should I have my hats made at Madame Gwendolyn’s, just because Mamma does?” she asks no-one in particular, her quiet utterance smothered and swept away into the noisy hubbub around her.

 

She walks to the window, only to discover that it is full of hats, advertised as newly in from Paris.

 

“Oh, why not, then?” Lettice says, straightening her shoulders with conviction.

 

She follows the two office girls and steps through the revolving doors of Selfridges department store.

 

Contrary to popular belief, fashion at the beginning of the Roaring 20s did not feature the iconic cloche hat as a commonly worn head covering. Although invented by French milliner Caroline Reboux in 1908, the cloche hat did not start to gain popularity until 1922, so in early 1922 when this story is set, picture hats, a hangover from the pre-war years, were still de rigueur in fashionable society. Although nowhere near as wide, heavy, voluminous or as ornate as the hats worn by women between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the Great War, the picture hats of the 1920s were still wide brimmed, although they were generally made of straw or some lightweight fabric and were decorated with a more restrained touch. For somewhere as socially important as Princess Mary’s 1922 wedding, a matching hat, parasol, handbag or reticule and gloves to go with a lady’s chosen frock were essential.

 

*Mary, Princess Royal and Countess of Harewood (1897 – 1965), was the only daughter of King George V and Queen Mary. She was the sister of Kings Edward VIII and George VI, and aunt of Queen Elizabeth II. She married Viscount Lascelles on the 28th of February 1922 in a ceremony held at Westminster Abbey. The bride was only 24 years old, whilst the groom was 39. There is much conjecture that the marriage was an unhappy one, but their children dispute this and say it was a very happy marriage based upon mutual respect. The wedding was filmed by Pathé News and was the first royal wedding to be featured in fashion magazines, including Vogue.

 

**Guipure lace is a delicate fabric made by twisting and braiding the threads to craft incredible designs that wows the eye. Guipure lace fabrics distinguish themselves from other types of lace by connecting the designs using bars or subtle plaits instead of setting them on a net.

 

***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.

 

****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.

 

*****Royal Ascot Week is the major social calendar event held in June every year at Ascot Racecourse in Berkshire. It was founded in 1711 by Queen Anne and is attended every year by the reigning British monarch and members of the Royal Family. The event is grand and showy, with men in grey morning dress and silk toppers and ladies in their best summer frocks and most elaborate hats.

 

******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.

 

This enclave of luxurious millinary may appear real to you, however it is fashioned entirely of 1:12 miniatures from my collection. Some of the items in this tableau are amongst the very first pieces I ever received as a young child.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The cream straw hat second from the left with pink roses has single stands of ostrich feathers adorning it that have been hand curled. The yellow straw hat on the far right of the photo is decorated with ornamental flowers and organza. The maker for these is unknown, but they are part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The peach coloured hat with the flowers around the brim and the net aigrette second from the right, and the pink feather covered hat on the far left of the picture came from a seller on E-Bay. The black straw hat with the yellow trim and rose reflected in the mirror and the white straw hait with the black trim in the foreground were made by Mrs. Denton of Muffin Lodge in the United Kingdom. 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.

 

The wooden hat blocks on which the hats are displayed also came from American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel.

 

The dressing table set, consisting of tray, mirror and two brushes were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, but were hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken, sold through Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in England.

 

Lettice’s snakeskin handbag with its gold clasp and chain comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom. Lettice’s umbrella is a 1:12 artisan piece made of white satin and lace with a tiny cream bow. It has a hooked metal handle.

 

The Elite Styles magazine from 1922 sitting on the table was made by hand by Petite Gite Miniatures in the United States.

 

The blue hydrangea tea set came from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay.

 

The two Edwardian fashion plates hanging on the wall come from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in England.

 

The vintage mirror with its hand carved wooden frame was acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in England.

 

The two chairs, the tea table and the stands upon which two of the hats are displayed are all made by the high-end miniature furniture manufacturer, Bespaq.

 

The Regency sideboard I have had since I was around six or seven, having been given it as either a birthday or Christmas gift.

 

The cream Georgian pattern carpet on the floor comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in England. The Regency stripe wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, with the purpose that it be used in the “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.

 

Two of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie of bright young things are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. Lettice is hosting an exclusive buffet supper party in their honour this evening, which is turning out to be one of the events of the 1921 London Season. Over the last few days, Lettice’s flat has been in upheaval as Edith, Lettice’s maid, and Lettice’s charwoman* Mrs. Boothby have been cleaning the flat thoroughly in preparation for the occasion. Earlier today with the help of a few hired men they moved some of the furnishings in Lettice’s drawing room into the spare bedroom to make space for a hired dance band and for the guests to dance and mingle. Edith’s preserve of the kitchen has been overrun by delivery men, florists and caterers. Throughout all of this upheaval, Lettice has fled to Margot’s parents’ house in Hans Crescent in nearby Belgravia, only returning just as a red and white striped marquee is erected by Gunter and Company** over the entrance and the pavement outside.

 

Now we find ourselves in Lettice’s dressing room where she and Margot sit at Lettice’s Regency dressing table making last minute adjustments and choices to their eveningwear. The surface of the dressing table is littered with jewellery and perfume bottles as the two excited girls chat, whilst Margot’s fiancée, Dickie, whips up the latest cocktails for them at the makeshift bar on Lettice’s dining table down the hall in the flat’s dining room.

 

“Oh Lettice, I’m so nervous!” Margot confides, clasping her friend’s hands.

 

“Good heavens why, darling?” Lettice looks across at her friend in concern as she feels the tremble in her dainty fingers wrapped around her own. She notices her pale face. “You aren’t having second thoughts, are you?”

 

“About the party?”

 

“About Dickie!”

 

“Goodness no, darling!” Margot clutches her bare throat with her hand, the diamonds in her engagement ring winking brightly. “About him I have never been so sure. He’s always been the one for me, darling. You of all people should know that!”

 

“Then what, Margot darling?”

 

“Well, this party!”

 

“What on earth do you mean? Its going to be a thrilling bash.” Lettice soothes. “I’ve hired this divine little jazz quartet to play dance music for us. All our friends are on the guest list, and they are all coming. It will be just like being at the Embassy Club, only it will be here instead.” She waves her arms generously around her. “What’s to be nervous about?”

 

“Oh, it just all seems so formal.”

 

“Formal?”

 

“Yes,” Margot goes on. “So grown up. I mean it’s one thing to see your names printed together in the papers, yet it’s quite another to have a party thrown in honour of your engagement as you step out into society as an engaged couple. I’m not used to being the centre of attention.”

 

“Well, you’ll have to get used to it, at least for a little while.” Lettice smiles as she hangs a necklace of sparkling diamonds from her jewellery casket about her neck, allowing them to cascade down the front of her powder blue silk georgette gown designed and made for her by Gerald. She sighs with satisfaction at the effect before addressing Margot again. “Think of this as a rehearsal for your wedding day.”

 

Margot gulps.

 

“Only tonight,” Lettice continues wagging a finger in the air. “You can drink as much as you like.”

 

The pair are interrupted by a loud knocking on the door before it suddenly opens, and Dickie pokes his head around it. The sound of the jazz band tuning up in Lettice’s drawing room pours into the room.

 

“Get out!” Lettice cries, jumping up from her seat and flapping her hands at Dickie. “You aren’t supposed to see the bride yet! It’s bad luck!”

 

“That’s on the wedding day you silly goose!” Dickie laughs.

 

“Don’t bother us now, Dickie,” Lettice continues, leaning against the doorframe and then glancing at Margot’s anxious face reflected in the looking glass of her dressing table. “We’re fixing something.”

 

“Oh, secret women’s business, is it?” he whispers conspiratorially with a cheeky smile.

 

“Something like that,” Lettice says breezily. “Margot just has a case of centre stage jitters.”

 

Dickie face clouds over. He frowns in concern and presses on the door.

 

“She’ll be fine.” Lettice assures him, pressing hard against the pressure she can feel from his side of the door. “I just need a few more minutes with her. Alright darling?”

 

“Well,” Dickie says a little doubtfully. “Only if you’re sure. But don’t be too long.” He glances at Lettice’s pretty green onyx Art Deco clock on her dressing table. “The guests will be arriving shortly.”

 

“We won’t be, Dickie.” she assures him as she presses a little more forcefully on the door.

 

“Well,” he remarks brightly in an effort to settle his fiancée’s nerves. “I’d only come down here to see if you two ladies fancied a special Dickie Channon pre-cocktail party cocktail?”

 

“Oh yes!” Lettice enthuses. “That sounds divine, darling! I’ll have a Dubonnet and gin. What will you have Margot, darling?”

 

“I’ll have a Bee’s Knees, thank you Dickie.” she replies with a less than enthusiastic lilt to her quiet voice.

 

The furrows on Dickie’s brow deepen as he glances between Margot and Lettice. Lettice raises a finger to silence the concerns he is about to express about Margot, and then she points back down the hallway to the dining room. Dickie’s mouth screws up in concern, and he shakes his head slightly as he withdraws.

 

“See you in a few minutes,” Lettice assures his retreating figure.

 

“He’s cross, isn’t he?” Margot asks as Lettice closes the door again.

 

“No, he’s just concerned is all,” she replies as she resumes her seat. “As am I.”

 

Margot’s stance of slumped shoulders displays her deflated feeling as much as the look in her dark eyes as she glances up at her friend.

 

“Look. How do you ever expect to be the Marchioness of Taunton one day, standing at the end of a long presentation line for a ball that you are hosting, if you can’t greet a few guests now?”

 

“I never wanted to be the future Marchioness of Taunton, just Mrs. Dickie Channon.”

 

“Well,” Lettice places a consoling hand on the bare shoulder of her friend. “The two come hand-in-hand, Margot darling, so you have to accept it, come what may.”

 

Lettice suddenly thinks of something and starts fossicking around in the drawers of her dressing table. She pulls open the right-hand drawer and pulls out some lemon yellow kid gloves and a pretty white bead necklace which sparkles in the light as she lays it on the dressing table top.

 

“What on earth are you doing, darling?” Margot asks Lettice.

 

Dropping a bright blue bead necklace on the surface of the dressing table next, Lettice makes a disgruntled noise and then reaches for the brass drawer pull of the left-hand drawer.

 

“I’m going to share something with you Margot. Something very special. I wasn’t going to, because it’s mine, and no-one else we know has it. However, it may give you the confidence you need for tonight to have something beautiful that nobody else does.”

 

She drags open the left hand drawer. Its runners protest loudly with a squeaking groan. Beads and chains spew forth as she does, spilling over the edge of the drawer.

 

“Ahh! Here it is!” Lettice cries triumphantly.

 

She withdraws a small eau-de-nil box with black writing on it. Opening it she takes out a stylish bevelled green glass Art Deco bottle which she places on the surface of her dressing table amidst pieces of her jewellery.

 

“What is it?” Margot looks on intrigued, a bemused smile playing upon her lips.

 

“I picked this up when I was last in Paris. I visited a little maison de couture on the rue Cambon. It was owned and run by a remarkable woman named Coco Chanel. She used to own a small boutique in Deauville and her clothes are remarkably simple and stylish. It’s simply called Chanel Number 5.***”

 

Margot picks up the scent bottle in both her elegant hands with undisguised reverence.

 

“Like her clothes, and even the perfume’s name, it is simple, yet unique. I’ve never smelt anything quite like it.”

 

“Oh its divine!” Margot enthuses as she removes the stopper and inhales deeply. ‘Like champagne and jasmine!”

 

“She wasn’t going to sell it to me as she only had the bottle on the counter for her own use, but I begged her after smelling it. No-one else at the party will be wearing this, so why don’t you Margot?”

 

“Really Lettice?”

 

“Yes,” Lettice smiles. “I’ll wear something else. It will be your scent of confidence for this evening.”

 

“Oh thank you darling.” Margot replies humbly. “This scent makes me feel better already.”

 

“Good!” Lettice sighs happily. “Then dab it on and let’s go. The first guests will be here soon, and it will be bad form not to be ready to greet them.”

 

“You’re right Lettice!” Margot agrees, sounding cheerier and more confident.

 

“Besides, Dickie will have made those cocktails for us now.”

 

Margot dabs her neck and wrists with scent from the Chanel Number 5. bottle with the round glass stopper whilst Lettice applies some Habanita****. The two gaze at themselves in Lettice’s looking glass, giving themselves a final check. Lettice with her blonde finger waved chignon and pale blue gown looks the opposite to Margot with her dark waves and silver gown, yet both look beautiful. Suitably satisfied with their appearances, they step away from the dressing table, walk out of Lettice’s dressing room and walk down the hallway to join Dickie who offers them both their cocktail of choice.

 

*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.

 

**Gunter and Company were London caterers and ball furnishers with shops in Berkley Square, Sloane Street, Lowndes Street and New Bond Street. They began as Gunter’s Tea Shop at 7 and 8 Berley Square 1757 where it remained until 1956 as the business grew and opened different premises. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries Gunter's became a fashionable light eatery in Mayfair, notable for its ices and sorbets. Gunter's was considered to be the wedding cake makers du jour and in 1889, made the bride cake for the marriage of Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, Princess Louise of Wales. Even after the tea shop finally closed, the catering business carried on until the mid 1970s.

 

***Chanel Number 5. was launched in 1921. Coco Chanel wanted to launch a scent for the new, modern woman she embodied. She loved the scent of soap and freshly-scrubbed skin; Chanel’s mother was a laundrywoman and market stall-holder, though when she died, the young Gabrielle was sent to live with Cistercian nuns at Aubazine. When it came to creating her signature scent, though, freshness was all-important. While holidaying with her lover, Grand Duke Dimitri Pavlovich, she heard tell of a Grasse-based perfumer called Ernest Beaux, who’d been the perfumer darling of the Russian royal family. Over several months, he produced a series of 10 samples to show to ‘Mademoiselle’. They were numbered one to five, and 20 to 24. She picked No. 5

 

****Molinard Habanita was launched in 1921. Molinard say that Habanita was the first women’s fragrance to strongly feature vetiver as an ingredient – something hitherto reserved for men, commenting that ‘Habanita’s innovative style was eagerly embraced by the garçonnes – France’s flappers – and soon became Molinard’s runaway success and an icon in the history of French perfume.’ Originaly conceived as a scent for cigarettes – inserted via glass rods or to sprinkle from a sachet – women had begun sprinkling themselves with it instead, and Molinard eventually released it as a personal fragrance.

 

This rather beautiful, if slightly messy boudoir scene may be a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my collection. Some pieces in this scene come from my own childhood, whilst other items in this tableau I acquired as a teenager and as an adult through specialist doll shops, online dealers and artists who specialise in making 1:12 miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Central to this story is the bottle of Chanel Number 5. which stands on the dressing table. It is made of very thinly cut green glass. It, and its accompanying box peeping out of the drawer were made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

Lettice’s Regency dressing table was given to me as part of a Christmas present when I was around ten years old. Made of walnut, it features a real bevelled mirror, a central well for makeup, two working drawers and a faux marble column down each side below the drawers.

 

The same Christmas I was given the Regency dressing table, I was also given a three piece gilt pewter dressing table set consisting of comb, hairbrush and hand mirror, the latter featuring a real piece of mirror set into it. Like the dressing table, these small pieces have survived the tests of time and survived without being lost, even though they are tiny.

 

Even smaller than the gilt dressing table set pieces are the tiny pieces of jewellery on the left-hand side of the dressing table. Amongst the smallest pieces I have in my collection, the gold bangle, pearl and gold brooch and gold and amethyst brooch, along with the ‘diamond’ necklace behind the Chanel perfume bottle, the purple bead necklace hanging from the left-hand drawer and the blue bead necklace to the right of the dressing table’s well, I acquired as part of an artisan jewellery box from a specialist doll house supplier when I was a teenager. Amazingly, they too have not become lost over the passing years since I bought them.

 

Lettice’s Art Deco beaded jewellery casket on the left-hand side of the picture is a handmade artisan piece. All the peary pale blue beads are individually attached and the casket has a black velvet lining. It was made by Pat’s World of Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

To the right of Lettice’s jewellery casket is an ornamental green jar filled with hatpins. The jar is made from a single large glass Art Deco bead, whilst each hatpin is made from either a nickel or brass plate pin with beads for ornamental heads. They were made by Karen Lady Bug Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

There is a selection of sparkling perfume bottles on Lettice’s dressing table and in its well which are handmade by an English artisan for the Little Green Workshop. Made of cut coloured crystals set in a gilt metal frames or using vintage cut glass beads they look so elegant and terribly luxurious.

 

The container of Snowfire Cold Cream standing next to the Chanel perfume bottle was supplied by Shepherd’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Exactly like its life size counterpart, it features a very Art Deco design on its lid with geometric patterns in traditionally popular colours of the 1920s with the silhouette of a woman at the top. It is only nine millimetres in diameter and three millimetres in depth. Snowfire was a brand created by F.W. Hampshire and Company, who had a works in Sinfin Lane in Derby. The firm manufactured Snowfire ointment, Zubes (cough sweets) ice cream powder, wafers and cornets; Jubes (fruit sweets covered in sugar). Later it made ointment (for burns) and sweetening tablets. The company was eventually merged with Reckitt Toiletry Products in the 1960s.

 

Lettice’s little green Art Deco boudoir clock is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England. Made of resin with a green onyx marble effect, it has been gilded by hand and contains a beautifully detailed face beneath a miniature glass cover.

 

Also from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom are the pale yellow gloves sticking out of the right-hand drawer. Artisan pieces, they are made of kid leather with a fine white braid trim and are so light and soft.

 

The 1920s beaded headdress standing on the wooden hatstand was made by Mrs. Denton of Muffin Lodge in the United Kingdom. You might just notice that it has a single feather aigrette sticking out of it on the right-hand side, held in place by a faceted sequin.

 

The painting you can see hanging in the wall is an artisan miniature of an Elizabethan woman in a gilt frame, made my Marie Makes Miniatures.

 

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 it is Tuesday, and we are in the very modern and up-to-date 1920s kitchen of Lettice’s flat: Edith her maid’s preserve. Being Tuesday, Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman* who comes on Tuesdays and every third Thursday to do the hard jobs is busy polishing the floors in Lettice’s bedroom, whilst Edith arranges tea things on the deal kitchen table in the middle of the room whilst she waits for the copper kettle on the stove to boil.

 

“Oh good!” Mrs. Boothby sighs as she slips into the kitchen via the door that leads from the flat’s entrance hall. “You’ve got the kettle on, dearie!” A fruity cough emanates from deep within her wiry little body as she deposits her polishing box beneath the sink and puts the dirty rags that require washing down the laundry chute. “Nah just I’ll just sit ‘ere for a few minutes and you can give me a reviving cup of Rosie-Lee** and I’ll ‘ave a fag before I get started on scrubbin’ the bathroom.”

 

“Oh no you don’t!” Edith says sharply as she places her own hand firmly over the opening of Mrs. Boothby’s blue beaded handbag before the old Cockney woman can grab her cigarette papers, Swan Vestas and tin of Player’s Navy Cut.

 

“What?” Mrs. Boothby looks up at Edith in surprise. “I’m only goin’ for me fags, dearie, not a pistol.”

 

“Miss Lettice has a guest and I’ve just made a Victoria sponge.” She indicates to the golden sponge cake with jam and cream oozing from its middle standing next to Lettice’s Art Deco tea service. “I don’t want it or the tea I’m making smelling of your foul cigarette smoke, Mrs. Boothby!”

 

“Me smoke ain’t foul!” the older woman snaps back.

 

“Yes, it is, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

How Edith hates the older woman’s habit of smoking indoors. When she lived with her parents, neither smoked in the house. Her mother didn’t smoke at all: it would have been unladylike to do so, and her father only smoked a pipe when he went down to the local pub.

 

“The stench comin’ from privy down the end of my rookery, now that’s foul, dearie.”

 

“It’s all relative Mrs. Boothby.” Edith says cheerily. “Now, I will make you a cup of tea since I’m boiling the kettle for Miss Lettice,”

 

“Oh, ta.” Mrs. Boothby says sarcastically.

 

“But if you want to smoke today,” Edith ignores her. “Please go and do so on the porch outside.”

 

Mrs. Boothby groans as she picks herself out of Edith’s comfortable Windsor chair. Grumbling quietly, but not so quietly that Edith can’t hear her muttering, the old woman fossicks through her capacious bag and snatches out a cigarette she had already rolled previously and her box of Swan Vesta matches. She mooches over to the kitchen door that leads to the tradesman’s stairs and lights her cigarette, folding her bony arms akimbo across her sagging chest.

 

“Thank you.” Edith says diplomatically, even though she doesn’t really want to thank the Cockney woman at all.

 

“So,” Mrs. Boothby blows a plume of blueish silver smoke out into the outer corridor. “An American, then.”

 

Edith knows Mrs. Boothby is fishing for gossip on Lettice’s guest, and she doesn’t like to gossip with the charwoman. Unlike her friend and fellow maid Hilda, Mrs. Boothby is not very discreet. “Mmn,” she says non-committally as she starts placing the tea things on a square silver tray, a new purchase by Lettice from Asprey’s.

 

“Oh come on, dearie,” Mrs. Boothby’s eyes roll as she speaks. “Don’t be prim and propa. Ooh is she then?”

 

“You know I don’t like to gossip, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies.

 

“Well, you’d be the only maid this side of St. James what don’t, dearie.”

 

“All I know is that Miss Lettice asked me to bake a Victoria sponge for her guest, and that’s what I’ve done.”

 

“Well ya know ‘er name anyroad, ‘cos ya let ‘er in. Ya can tell me that much at least.”

 

“Her name is Miss Ward.”

 

“Wanetta Ward,” Mrs. Boothby crows triumphantly. “I ‘eard Miss Lettice talkin’ to ‘er.”

 

“Well, if you’ve been listening at keyholes, Mrs. Boothby, I don’t suppose anything I told you would be news then.”

 

“Oh come on, dearie,” she cries. Knowing the chink in Edith’s armour she continues. “What’s she look like then?”

 

As soon as the words are out of Mrs. Boothby’s mouth, Edith’s eyes light up. She loves fashion and the glamourous people that Lettice mixes with. Not that Mrs. Boothby knows it, because she never goes into her room, but Edith has scrapbooks of cuttings of London’s rich and famous clipped from Lettice’s discarded newspapers and magazines in her drawers.

 

“Oh she’s very glamourous! Tall and statuesque.”

 

“Aah,” Mrs. Boothby says dismissively, but the cocked eyebrow that Edith can’t see gives away that her interest has been piqued.

 

“Her hair is a soft curly rich dark auburn set in girlish bob, and she has peaches and cream skin. She is wearing an orchid silk chiffon dress with a matching satin slip. It’s daringly short!” Edith gushes. “You can see the bottom of her calves even before sits down.”

 

“Well, she must be American for certain then, ta wear somethin’ so daring.” Mrs. Boothby coaxes carefully.

 

“She has a beautiful hat to match which is covered in silk flowers. She wouldn’t let me take it from her. Something about her luck? I didn’t really understand. She walks with a walking stick, just for show I think as she has a very elegant gait.”

 

“Oh. I wonder if she’s an actress on the stage?”

 

“Maybe. She certainly has the bearing of a person who commands attention.”

 

“Or maybe,” the charwoman continues, puffing out another cloud of smoke. “Maybe she’s one of them movin’ picture actresses, like what I’ve seen up at the Premier*** in East Ham.”

 

“Imagine!” Edith enthuses, her eyes sparking. “A real American moving picture star!” She looks to the green baize door that leads to the living areas of the flat.

 

“Yes, imagine.” Mrs. Boothby smiles wistfully as she takes a long drag on her cigarette.

 

“Oh, you are awful Mrs. Boothby!” Edith gasps, suddenly realising what she’s done. “You’ve made me gossip.”

 

“Oh, now don’t you worry your pretty ‘ead about it, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby soothes the young maid. “I’m only int’rested in ooh frequents the houses I clean for so I knows I’m in a respectable establishment. I won’t tell a soul. I promise!”

 

The charwoman smiles a yellow toothy grin that makes Edith regret her lack of discretion slightly.

 

“Per’aps she’s come ta be a film star in London. I read in the papers that they’s makin’ films ‘ere in London, over in ‘Oxton**** nah the war’s over!”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that Mrs. Boothby.” she mutters, turning her back on the Cockney woman to hide the blush crossing her face after realising that she has been taken in by her.

 

Taking the kettle off the stove Edith fills the elegant gilded white porcelain pot and stirs it. She goes to the dresser and removes a pretty Delftware teacup and saucer and puts it on the table. She pours of little of the tea from Lettice’s pot into the cup, adds a splash of milk and some sugar. She refills Lettice’s pot.

 

“Tea, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith places the Delftware teacup and saucer into the Cockney woman’s empty right hand as it pokes out from beneath her left elbow.

 

“Oh, ta!” she replies gratefully. Lifting the cup to her lips she takes a sip, savouring the delicious hot beverage.

 

“I must take the tea in to Miss Lettice.” Edith says in as businesslike a fashion as she can manage.

 

“And yer want ta get annuva geezer at your beautiful star again.” Another fruity cough escapes her throat as she chuckles to herself. “Ain’t I right?” She taps her nose with her left hand, the glowing but of the cigarette nestled between her index and middle fingers. “I know a young girl’s heart. B’lieve it or not, I used ta be a young slip of a fing once too!”

 

“Just leave the cup in the sink before you clean the bathroom.” Edith blanches at being caught out as starstruck. “I will have these things to wash later.”

 

Edith smiles conspiratorially at Mrs. Boothby, picks up the tray of tea things, holds her head high and slips through the green baize door into the dining room of the flat to serve her mistress and her glamorous guest, American Wanetta Ward in the drawing room beyond.

 

*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.

 

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

 

***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.

 

****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.

 

This busy domestic kitchen scene is a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my miniatures collection, some of which come from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Lettice’s tea set is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era. 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 Victoria sponge (named after Queen Victoria) is made by Polly’s Pantry Miniatures in America. The vase of flowers on the table is made of glass and it and the bouquet have been made by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The box of Lyon’s tea has been made by Jonesey’s Miniatures in England.

 

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

 

Edith’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.

dear friends!! as the new year begins, i offer this wish from the generous fishes: that you swim fearlessly in the ocean of this life, moving fluidly and spontaneously from moment to moment... that you find friendship, well-being, and meaning on your journeys...

 

may all travelers find joy!!

 

love and best wishes,

jeanne

 

scanned, assembled and altered image, december 31, 2006

  

Song birds pause momentarily to scrunch on seeds left by another park patron.

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. However, Lettice is not standing before one of these, but before a smart red brick Edwardian set of three storey flats on Rochester Row. Looking up, Lettice admires the red and white banding details of the building, macabrely known after the Great War as ‘blood ‘n’ bandages’ stripes. The beautiful façade features bay windows and balconies with ornate Art Nouveau cast iron balustrades. One of them is now the residence of recently arrived American film actress Wanetta Ward.

 

Approaching the front door Lettice sees the newly minted shiny brass plaque amongst those of the residents with Wanetta’s name emblazoned on it in neat, yet bold, engraved letters. She pushes open the heavy black painted front door with the leadlight windows and walks into the deserted communal foyer and takes the stairs up to flat number four, her louis heels echoing loudly throughout the cavernous space illuminated by a lightwell three floors above. Stopping on the first floor landing before a door painted a uniform black, but without the leadlight, bearing the number four in polished brass, she presses the doorbell.

 

From deep within the flat the sound of a bell echoes hollowly, implying what Lettice hopes – that the flat is now empty of its previous resident’s possessions. She waits, but when no-one comes to open the door, she presses the doorbell for longer. Once again, the bell echoes mournfully from deep within the flat behind the closed door. Finally, a pair of shuffling footsteps can be heard along with indecipherable muttering and a familiar fruity cough as the latch turns.

 

“Mrs. Boothby!” Lettice exclaims, coming face-to-face with her charwoman* as the old Cockney woman opens the door to the flat.

 

“Well, as I live an’ breave!” she exclaims in return with a broad and toothy smile. “If it ain’t Miss Lettice! G’mornin’ mum!” She bobs a curtsey. “You must be ‘ere to see Miss Ward. C’mon in.”

 

Lettice walks through the door held open by Mrs. Boothby and steps into a well proportioned vestibule devoid of furnishings, but with traces of where furniture and paintings once were by way of tell-tale shadows and outlines on the floor and walls.

 

“Come this way, mum. She’s just through ‘ere in the drawin’ room.” Mrs. Boothby says, leading the way, her low heeled shoes slapping across the parquetry floors.

 

“But how is it that you are here, Mrs. Boothby?” Lettice asks in bewilderment.

 

“Well, you know ‘ow I ‘as me friend Jackie, what cleans for you when I’s sick?” Lettice nods pointlessly to the back of the old woman’s head, but she continues as if sensing it through the rear of her skull. “Well, she got this cleanin’ job to tidy up after the last man up an’ left, and couldn’t do it on ‘er own, so she asked me to ‘elp. So ere I is, and we is just in ‘ere.”

 

The pair walk through a door into a light filled room devoid of furniture except for an old chair without its cushioned seat and two rather imposing built-in bookshelves either side of an old white plaster fireplace. A second charwoman is busy sweeping up the broken fragments of an old blue and white bowl with her dustpan and broom and depositing them into an old wooden crate that must once have held apples according to the label. The room is silent, but for the sound of sweeping and the clatter of crockery shards, and the sounds echo throughout the empty space. In the world outside Lettice can hear the clatter of horses hooves and the purr of a motor cars from street below. Lettice immediately spots Wanetta’s lucky pink hat covered in silk flowers hanging off the back of the solitary chair and her brass handled walking stick that she uses for affect leaning against it. And there, silhouetted against the light pouring through the bay window overlooking Rochester Row stands the elegant and statuesque figure of Wanetta Ward, the morning highlighting the edges of her hair in auburn.

 

“S’cuse me mum, I’s gotta get back to me dustin’.” Mrs. Boothby says as she goes over to the fireplace and picks up a feather duster.

 

“Miss Chetwynd, darling!” Miss Ward exclaims with delight, spinning elegantly around and striding towards Lettice with open arms.

 

Lettice allows herself somewhat awkwardly to be enveloped by the American’s overly familiar perfumed embrace. Dressed in a smart black suit, Lettice notices the accents of pink that match Wanetta’s lucky hat on the collar of her jacket and the hem of her calf length skirt.

 

“How do you do Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh, just tickety-boo**, I think you British say.” Miss Ward enthuses. “Except you’re still calling me Miss Ward, and not Wanetta, like I told you to.” She wags a grey glove clad finger at Lettice.

 

“I think,” Lettice remarks, carefully choosing her words but speaking firmly. “That would add a certain… overfamiliarity to our professional relationship. I’m sure you’ll agree.”

 

“Oh you British are such stuffed shirts***,” Miss Ward flaps her arms dismissively at Lettice. “But have it your own way. So,” She spins around, stretching out her arms expansively in a dramatic pose. “What do you think?”

 

Lettice looks around at the spacious room. “It’s very elegantly proportioned from what I’ve seen so far.”

 

“So, do you think it will suit a young up-and-coming film star?”

 

“I take it the screen test went well then, Miss Ward?” Lettice smiles at her hostess.

 

“Meet Islington Studio’s**** newest actress!” the American woman exclaims with a cocked manicured eyebrow as her painted pink lips curl in a proud smile.

 

“Congratulations Miss Ward! That’s wonderful news!”

 

“Thank you, darling. I play my first part next week.”

 

“Excellent! I shall look forward to hearing more as the weeks go by.”

 

“You mean?” Miss Ward gasps, clasping her hands in hope. “You’ll take me on?”

 

“I think so, Miss Ward.” Lettice replies. “It will be quite fun to have a completely clean slate to work with.”

 

“Oh, you darling, darling girl!” Miss Ward jumps up and down on the balls of her feet in delight.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s friend Jackie looks up from her floor polishing and discreetly shakes her head at the American woman’s dramatic outburst.

 

“Miss Ward, tell me about the treatment you were hoping for in here.” Lettice asks, looking around at the old fashioned flocked wallpaper.

 

Miss Ward starts to stalk around the room. “Now, I want colour, darling! My favourite colour is yellow, so I was thinking yellow vases, lamps, glassware, that sort of stuff.”

 

“I see,” Lettice listens attentively, nodding. “I can see if my Italian contacts can find some nice Murano glass for you.”

 

“Excellent! Excellent!” The American claps her painted fingers in delight. Gesticulating energetically around the room to imaginary tables and pedestals she adds, “And remember, I want oriental too!”

 

“I have an excellent merchant right here in London who imports the most wonderful items from the far east. You might even find you possess a little piece of Shanghai, Miss Ward.”

 

“Sounds perfect, darling! Now, I was thinking that with these bookcases pulled out, this will make a wonderful wall for vibrantly coloured wallpaper.” She stretches her arms dramatically in two wide arcs, as if representing the daring colour that she envisages in her mind. “Something with a bold pattern.”

 

“And how does your new landlord feel about you having these bookshelves removed?”

 

“Oh! Captain Llewellyn? He won’t mind, so long as I smile prettily and bat my eyelashes enough.” the American woman giggles.

 

“That’s not Captain Wynn Llewellyn, by chance, is it Miss Ward?”

 

“Why yes darling!” She beams another of her bright smiles. “Do you know him?”

 

“Yes, Miss Ward. He’s a family friend.”

 

“Gosh! What a small world!”

 

“Too right it is!” pipes up Mrs. Boothby from in front of the bookshelves she is busily dusting, whilst carefully eavesdropping on every word in the conversation between the two ladies. “She knows me ‘n all!”

 

“You do?” Miss Ward gives the old charwoman a doubtful look and then Lettice a questioning one.

 

“Mrs. Boothby cleans for me every week, Miss Ward.” Lettice elucidates.

 

The American nods. “Well, a girl like you must know everyone there is to know in London, darling.”

 

Lettice blushes at the candid remark and looks away, hiding her embarrassment whilst she composes herself. “Well, at least in this case I know your landlord, so there shouldn’t be any trouble with removing the bookshelves. Now, I must say that with such wonderful light in here, I really do think you’ll need some white to offset the bold colours you want.”

 

“White?” Miss Ward whines. “But I just said I want colour. No white!” She pouts her lips petulantly, which silently Lettice admits gives her a smouldering look which perhaps explains how she succeeded with her screen test. “White is so… so… white, and boring.”

 

“It won’t be boring the way I use it, Miss Ward, I can assure you.” Lettice wanders over to the fireplace, carefully and politely avoiding the area that Mrs. Boothby’s friend Jackie just polished. Picking up a small white vase sitting on the mantlepiece she continues, “You need something to temper bright colours. If I am to be your interior designer, Miss Ward, you are going to have to trust my judgement.” She turns the vase over in her hands thoughtfully. “I promise you that I won’t lead you astray.”

 

“Alright,” Miss Ward replies, looking doubtfully at Lettice. “But not too much white.”

 

“With bold colours and patterns, dark furnishings, some golden yellow elements and white accents as I suggest, your flat will exude elegance and the exoticism of the orient,” Lettice purrs reassuringly, replacing the vase on the mantlepiece. “Just as you desire.”

 

“Well…”

 

“Where will you be staying whilst your flat is redecorated, Miss Ward?” Lettice boldly speaks over Miss Ward, swiftly crushing any disagreement.

 

“At the Metropole***** near the Embankment.”

 

“Excellent. What I will do is create some sketches for you with my ideas for your interiors and then we can meet at the Metropole for tea, in say a week or so. Then you can see my vision and you may pass your judgement.”

 

“Very well, darling.” the American woman replies meekly.

 

“Wonderful!” Lettice smiles happily. “Now, you’d best show me around the rest of the flat so I can envision what it could look like. It’s quite inspiring, you know!”

 

“Then please, step this way and I’ll show you my future boudoir.” Miss Ward says, suddenly regaining her confidence and sense of drama. Purposefully, she strides towards the drawing room door, indicating for Lettice to follow her with a flourishing wave that is fit for a rising film star with the world at her feet.

 

As Lettice moves to join her newest client on a tour of the rest of the flat, she stops short and turns back.

 

“Oh Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Yes mum?” the old Cockney woman asks.

 

“Please don’t dispose of that vase. Just leave it on the mantlepiece if you would.” She points across the room to the vase sitting forlornly. “I have plans for it.” she muses quietly.

 

*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.

 

***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.

 

***** 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.

 

Although this may appear to be a real room, this is in fact made up with 1:12 miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The Chippendale dining room chair is a very special piece. Part of a dining setting for six, it 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 from which room of which dollhouse it came. The Petite Elite Miniature Museum specialised in exquisite and high end 1:12 miniatures. The chair is taken from a real Chippendale design.

 

Wanetta’s lucky pink hat covered in silk flowers, which hangs of the back of the chair on the right is made by Miss Amelia’s Miniatures in the Canary Islands. It is an artisan miniature made just like a real hat, right down to a tag in the inside of the crown to show where the back of the hat is! 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. Miss Amelia is an exception to the rule coming from Spain, but like her American counterparts, her millinery creations are superb. Like a real fashion house, all her hats have names. This pink raw silk flower covered hat is called “Lilith”. Wanetta’s walking stick, made of ebonized wood with a real metal knob was made by the Little Green Workshop in England.

 

In front of the basket is a can of Vim with stylised Art Deco packaging and some Kleeneze floor polish. 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.

 

In the basket is a second can of Vim with slightly older packaging, some Zebo grate polish and a can of Brasso. 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. Brasso Metal Polish is a British all-purpose metal cleaning product introduced to market in 1905 by Reckitt and Sons, who also produced Silvo, which was used specifically for cleaning silver, silver plate and EPNS.

 

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. Sadly, the broken bowl is a result of an accident, which is unusual for me. When this bowl arrived it was wrapped in a small sealable plastic bag which slipped from my fingers and the blue and white porcelain bowl shattered on my slate kitchen floor where I unpack my parcels! I kept it as a reminder to be careful when unpacking my miniature treasures. Don’t worry, I have a replacement bowl which I am very careful with.

 

The feather duster on the fireplace mantle 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 little white vase on the mantlepiece is mid Victorian and would once have been part of a doll’s tea service. It is Parian Ware. Parian Ware is a type of biscuit porcelain imitating marble. It was developed around 1845 by the Staffordshire pottery manufacturer Mintons, and named after Paros, the Greek island renowned for its fine-textured, white Parian marble, used since antiquity for sculpture. The vase and a matching jug I picked up as part of a job lot at auction some years ago.

 

The Georgian style fireplace I have had since I was a teenager and is made from moulded plaster.

 

The flocked wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend who encouraged me to use it as wallpaper for my 1:12 miniature tableaux.

Divided reverse. Letter generously translated by xiphophilos, penned on 1 December 1917 and addressed to a Herr Edmund Happ, master shoemaker, in Markt Wald near Türkheim (Bavaria). Einheitsstempel: Bayer. Res. Pi. Komp. [Nr. 19?] Deutsche Feldpost 752. Postage cancelled the same day.

 

A2170 was on a bombing mission to Somain in Northern France on 23rd November 1917 when it was brought down by heavy AA fire near Douai. The official report states that the pilot, 2Lt R. Main had his foot blown off but landed the aircraft relatively intact before it overturned.

 

The unique white crescent insignia was allotted on 26th of August 1917. The "L" represents "B" flight.

Divided reverse. Letter generously translated by Nettenscheider, the author writes to his cousin and jokingly tells them he he and his baker-colleagues take cover behind the loaves of bread they bake.

 

Bakers from an unidentified Prussian formation in Brussels 1914.

 

Germany declared war on Belgium on 4 August 1914 after which it's armies crossed the border and attacked Liège. The Belgian army was forced to retreat and by August 20 the Germans entered Brussels on its way to France. The Belgians elected not to defend the city and the Germans marched through unhindered.

Would you believe all this arrived in my mailbox from ONE person?!?! Yet another surprise package from the astoundingly generous Melissa Allen of SnitchesGetStitches fame! This time landing on my doorstep in a box big enough to fit three Sadies and featuring a candy & carnival/circus theme!

 

My hubby damn near had to dig out the smelling salts to revive me! I could have practically filled a bathtub with the goodies that she sent! There was no way in the world it was all going to fit into one picture frame... there's so much missing here... a package of stylish serviettes, a delectable 'Parasite Pals' purse & darling plastic 'Teacups Ride' thingy, etc. This is just a taste of what the MONSTER-SIZED box contained!

 

This girl seriously MAKES ME CRY she is so endlessly thoughtful & sweet! I was just about weeping with joy reading the handwritten note that came with it. Such incredible sentiment expressed. It was the next best thing to receiving Melissa in the mail herself!

 

Melissa you have GOT to stop doing this or you will put me in the grave! :) I heart you so DANG much! You do not know how completely shell-shocked I am, nor how grateful I am to know the bottomless well of kindness that is YOU!

 

Thank you, thank you, thank you, with all my Missy-might! <3

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Part of large stained glass window at Huntington Gardens in San Marino, California

Generously loaned for display at the Washington Auto Show.

Registered in Feb 1993, obviously quite a late one, the 'Azura' being a run out edition. I particularly liked seeing the over generous use of reflective door guards.

 

With 78k registered at it's last test, but 90k in 2007 you would assume this Sierra is still getting a lot use.

 

Current owner since 2005.

This was the first site I visited with the wonderfully generous Balta and I was absolutely blown away. There it was, a complex with multiple structures, its buildings with the ornate facades still mostly intact, just sitting in the jungle with not a soul around but us. I felt incredibly lucky to be able to visit and see such an an amazing site. It was a very special day.

 

Andrews ("Xkichmook Revisited") believes Xkichmook was built about 800AD. H.E.D Pollock ("The Puuc") states that "with the exception of Edifice 1, the structures at Xkichmook do not seem to be of major importance, and I should guess the site to be small to medium size" but it was certainly spectacular to me.

 

If you'd like, take a look at my infrared images and my images from Yucatan.

Este trabalho foi feito especialmente para minha adorável e inesquecível amiga do Flickr, Georgina Rose. Com muito amor, um pensamento especial de agradecimento por todo o seu carinho comigo, suas doces e generosas palavras que levarei para sempre. Super obrigada por tudo minha querida Georgina, sei que você está brilhando em um plano muito superior ao nosso. A você também Caroline, por me apresentar esta pessoa rara. Finalizo com as sábias palavras do nosso genial escritor Guimarães Rosa: “As pessoas não morrem, elas ficam encantadas”... Muito amor e luz pra você...

  

This work was made especially for my lovely and unforgettable friend of Flickr, Georgina Rose. With much love, a special thought of gratitude for all her kindness with me, her sweet and generous words that I 'll take forever. Super thank you for everything my dear Georgina, I know you're shining on a plane far superior to ours. And you too Caroline, for introducing me to this rare person. I conclude with the wise words of our great writer Guimarães Rosa: "People do not die, they become enchanted…" Much love and light to you…

 

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Photographer : Marshad AlMarshad

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A Tea for the Tillerman

Acte 3

 

Tea Party Shenanigans

 

The next hour and generous half were spent in a blur of social mixing, handing out and receiving compliments alike.

 

Most of which were genuine. For there were some rather pretty outfits being worn and equally pretty baubles. Ginny held her own against them, while I sometimes felt the pauper.

 

We had made a full circle before finding ourselves at the tea table standing next to mum, as we finally partook of the refreshments now fully laid out.

 

Mum was not much company, however, as the seemingly never-ending stream of guests, making their way in line, stopped to talk with her first.

 

Ginny and I, sharing a knowing look, grabbed ourselves a goblet of red wine each and fled to the sanctuary of the back garden for some relief and solitude over being social butterflies.

 

<<<<<<<<<<

 

Ginny and I go into the garden drinking from our goblets of wine. These were not our first drinks of wine, plus what we had had at the pub, and I’ll admit we were both a bit light-headed and giggly at this point.

 

Cleo, the neighborhood cat, is sunning himself by the small pagoda. Ginny gives me her goblet and bends down to pet the lazy fat bugger who probably last caught a mouse some 3 of his lives ago.

 

As she petted the scoundrel, Ginny’s dangling pendant was dripping in its’ display of brilliant, gloriously fiery cascading sparkles.

 

As I stared at the mesmerizing show of her necklace. I became aware of giggling young girls close at hand.

 

Ginny was still absorbed in petting the loudly purring Cleo, so I went off to find the source. without saying anything to disturb the pairs' bliss.

 

In the very backside of the garden, there is a white wrought iron bench. This was in the area I called the secret garden since it was surrounded by shrubs on the house side. My brother and I played many a game in this area, and in the wooded acres on the other side.

 

That was where I pinpointed that the giggling was coming from.

 

Feeling it was a time to be clandestine, I snuck up and peered through a gap in the shrubs…

 

There were three of them.

 

Twelve-year-old Estella, little Claire, and oddly enough, the “Wood Bead lady”. There was no sign of Mrs. Shannon or Gabrielle.

 

Apparently, the trio was playing a game of keep-away.

 

Claire was running between the other two as they tried to catch her. She was holding the wood beaded necklace that the “Wood Bead Lady” had been wearing. Estella soon captured the squirming tyke and taking the wood beads from her, gave them back to the waiting adult. Then Claire squirmed free and was hoisted up by the “Wood Bead Lady”. Estella then went to the bench, facing away from the pair.

 

“Wood Bead Lady” then put Claire down and pointed out Estella.

 

Giggling, Claire went over to Estella and pulled at her dress, holding her arms up to be held. Estella bent down, her black and white striped taffeta dress shimmering, and picked her up. Claire ran her arms up and hugged Estella.

 

As she did, the little nymph nimbly unhooked the rhinestone necklace and let it fall away from Estella’s throat.

 

Indicating she wanted down, she ran back behind Estella, scooped up the necklace from the grass, and went to the waiting “Wood Bead Lady” who pick her up, tickling the squealing child.

 

An odd game I thought, but at least the lady was keeping the toddler (and Estella)out of mischief.

 

I debated going back to gather Ginny and show her for a laugh, when I realized a sudden, undeniable urge, to go potty was making me tingle.

 

I slinked away, not wishing to disturb the happily playing group.

 

I go back and see that Ginny is still sitting on the pagodas’ steps petting Cleo.

 

I hailed her.

 

“Hey luv, I need to freshen up”

 

Ginny, sitting comfortably, hesitatingly asks if I need her to come along.

 

I laugh, coming up alongside the steps.

 

“No. I'm a big girl now...

 

I pick up her now empty goblet and walk away, saying…

 

“I’ll bring us back some refills”

 

I whip back around, giving Ginny and smirking eye…

 

“You just stay here and play with your pussy.”

 

Giggling, I dodged the pebble she threw at me, and lifting my skirt with my free hand, scurried off as quick as my heeled shoes would let me.

  

Heading back onto the green of the party area, I was soon waylaid by one of the guests, Cassie, who was a friend of Ginny’s mum.

 

I had not realized she was coming, for it was her first time here at one of our teas.

 

She was smashing in the looks department. Her long brown hair was tied in the back with a fancy pleat. Cassie was wearing a midnight black taffeta high-necked top with 3/4 length sleeves. A gold pleated satin skirl fell swirling from her waistline.

 

She was strikingly wearing a lovely gold necklace set with real diamonds and garnets that lay sparking along her downy soft top’s neckline, a very pretty thing I thought it was. Matching drop earrings, bracelets and rings completed the show.

 

After greeting her( shaking my leg in discomfort) she coincidentally asked me where the ladies' room was.

 

We had some rentals set up behind a hedge near the house for the guests, so I offered to lead her there.

 

Reaching them, Cassie asked me if Ginny was here today. Answering yes, I told Cassie where I had left her, giving her quick directions before apologizing that I really had a pressing errand. And that I would meet her there.

 

I circled the house, entering by the front door. In my room, I opened the drawer where I kept the case for my better jewellery. Lifting the lid, I pulled off both my rings, undid the bracelet, and laid them all inside. Making it to my bathroom in the nick of time.

 

I was in there, indisposed, for a long while.

 

Once I was finally through I freshened my makeup and headed back through the kitchen. Weaving my way amongst noisily working caterers.

 

Just outside the back door, I was intercepted by mum, who was still by the tables, calling me over.

 

She asked me to locate the reading glasses that she had left in the sunroom.

 

I go to the sun room searching, finally finding them by Papa’s wet bar.

 

Smirking to myself, I poured a shot of ginger brandy, and happily downed it.

 

Feeling rather warm inside, I picked up the errant reading glasses.

 

As I picked them up I could see out the long side windows Mrs. Shannon talking to some friends. Gabrielle was with her, the necklace glistening. I did not see Estella.

 

A silly game they had been playing I remember thinking to myself.

 

I scurry back outside, handed mum her readers, and listened in polity after she introduced me to the ladies with whom was chatting.

 

I broke away, snatched up full goblets of wine, and began my journey through the gauntlet of guests to collect Ginny.

 

It was then I remembered I had left my rings and bracelet inside my open jewellery case. I hesitated going back for them before deciding not to, I had left Ginny alone long enough.

 

It was then I spied Claire being carried by her new friend, the “Wood Bead Lady”, followed by that sly Estella.

 

They were approaching a 30-something lady, standing alone like she was waiting for the return of friends.

 

She was winningly wearing a long, very sleek, very tight, purple silk sleeveless dress that appeared to have been poured over her figure.

 

Claire was set down as the two ladies began chatting, with Estrella standing off to one side listening in.

 

As I passed I saw out of the corner of my eye that Claire had reached up her arms and the lady in purple silk was bending over to pick her up. The sapphire and diamond gemstones of the crescent moon-shaped silvery necklace she wore around her throat rippled flashily in the sunlight.

 

I passed them without a second thought, my mind focused on not spilling wine, as I made my way to rejoin Ginny.

 

I reached the pagoda where I had left her but found it deserted. Not even Cleo remained.

 

I went to the secret garden area, but it too was now void of anyone.

 

I started to walk the long way around the gardens trying to find where Ginny had gotten off too.

 

I had just passed one of the trimmed hedges when a hand is placed on my shoulder and I hear Ginny's voice from behind me, and see her arm reaching for one of the wine goblets I was holding

  

“Lost my pussy, didn’t I luv, then lost you ?” She giggled in my ear as she came up along sides me.

 

“Got bored waiting for you to come back, didn’t I? Been looking for you.” She said to me as a way of explanation.

 

We stand there drinking our wine as we watch the moving crowd of guests spread out upon the green lawn. Sun shining up in a cloudless blue sky. A perfect day.

 

“Lovely wine this “ Ginny said.

 

I turned to her smiling, meaning to ask if Cassie had found her.

 

But she had read my mind apparently, for she started to tell me that she had seen her mum’s friend, Cassie, holding Claire, talking to the odd lady we had met, the one wearing that turban. I didn’t want to interrupt them, you can guess why. So we will have to seek her out later…. What’s the matter?”

 

Ginny stopped her story, seeing the look on my face.

 

For, as I had faced Ginny, I had frozen, not really hearing My friend's words.

 

I brushed my fingers upon the vacant front of Ginny’s dress, just above the rhinestone dragons' clutching claw.

 

“Ginny, Where's your necklace?”

 

Eyes opening wide in horror, her hand shoots to her bare neck, feeling in vain around her throat.

 

“Buggers, it’s bloody gone!”

 

Next up the last Acte 4

 

A Most Curious Conclusion

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Inle lake View at SHWE INN THA Floating Hotel and Resort

 

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Great Ocean Drive- the 12 Apostle's

 

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"Would you like a cookie?"

Rose from David Austin.

Background texture from Pareeerica, textures from Boccacino and leslie Nicole (French Kiss).

 

It took some generous self-coaxing but I pried my butt from a throughly comfortable couch to doll up for Disco vs. Retro: Ten Year Anniversary Party at Project Ai Dallas. I wound up having a fantastic time but I'm paying the price for it today (groan). My dance-muscles need some serious toning. Thanks to everyone who came by to chat :)

is about the heart"

 

Brighter Lives co-founder, Peter Towle from England, he is having a new challenge, Coast to Coast bike ride on June 9th, from Morecambe to Whitby. He wants to raise awareness and funds to help our children in Honduras. Would you help him? follow his instructions in the poster, thank you so much for helping and sharing!!

www.blchonduras.com

Robert Kaufman generously donated a charm pack for each member of participating chapters in the Modern Quilt Guild to use for a challenge project of our choosing.

 

The NOVA Modern Quilt Guild selected the Bright palate (http://www.robertkaufman.com/pre-cut/konareg_cotton_solids_bright_palette1/) to work with and each of us made one or more mini quilts (29"x29" to 45"x45"). The members were allowed to add fabric from their stash as long as the charms remained the stars of the show. The quilts will be donated to the INOVA Fairfax Children's Hospital NICU.

 

This quilt was created by me

neighborhood kids. On good authority, she said that Butch did not die in Bolivia but escaped back to Utah and lived a full life under a different name. He died of old age and was buried in an unmarked grave in the Parowan, UT cemetery.