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Macro Mondays 'anachronism' theme.
The image shows the gilt lined interior of a vintage solid silver cigarette case. My research on the hallmark discovered that it's by Henry Matthews and dates from 1896.
I was a bit surprised to see that there were still fragments of tobacco inside! This probably belonged to my great grandfather and hasn't been used for a very long time as neither of my parents ever smoked.
The image measures just over 2" in width.
Redux 2022- Vintage
Circa 1960's Vintage cigarette case manufactured by Park Industries, Murfreesboro, Tennessee. Two-piece sliding aluminum, pewter-like floral design holds soft pack.
For a view of the floral design, see:
www.flickr.com/photos/dionepsoc/52582277379/in/datetaken-...
Image measures 2 1/4" across.
Nikon D5500 with Helios 44-2 58mm and 12mm extension tube. Two image focus stack.
For Macro Mondays
Theme: Redux 2022- Vintage
It's that Macro Monday time again, this time with the subject 'Metal'. A search for metallic objects in the house resulted in a furious (and overdue) polishing session... in this instance of the cigarette box given to my Grandfather (I think) on 25 years service.
-- The learning bit of Macro Monday:
I have posted my image setup to my instragram account (www.instagram.com/p/BRfyeRUAspb/?taken-by=charlespuckle). This object was placed in a window lit white light tent, with black flag draped over to give shadow definition.
Image stability acheived with remote release and mirror lockup mode shooting.
Fellow members of the Flickr Macro Mondays group - I wish you a #HMM. If you see this image outside of Macro Mondays and want to join in the fun, come and join us at www.flickr.com/groups/macromonday/
--
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(c) Charles Puckle
Published in "Living the Photo Artistic Life," Issue No. 87, Apr 2022, p. 45, issuu.com. I created this after viewing a "Creating Atmosphere in Photoshop Masterclass" video series by Nucly. Image Sources: Woman: lugubrum_stock on Deviant Art; Sky from Adobe; Smoke and Light elements from Nucly; Cigarette Case from Kasebi on Amazon
This cigarette case belonged to my Uncle who was killed in his 20s while on leave from the service in August of 1951. I think having a silver case engraved with your signature to hold your cigarettes was pretty fancy.
Alle Marken scheinen dabei zu sein.
Das nennt man Kartell.
Statt 23 anfangs für 7 € sind jetzt nur noch 20 drin.
Pall Mall verlangt nur 6.30€
Ernte 6.80€
Einfach so, Corona Virus Gewinner!
●
Es sei davon auszugehen, dass die anderen großen Konzerne für Tabakprodukte in Deutschland, Reemtsma, JTI und British American Tobacco, bei der Preisgestaltung nachziehen werden, schrieben die Zeitungen. Die Hersteller hätten in der Vergangenheit Steuererhöhungen regelmäßig genutzt, um Preissteigerungen durchzusetzen.
●
französisch financier, zu: finance, Finanzen;
Hier Milchkuh, Steuerzahler!
Der deutsche Michel!
○
Zuletzt wurde die teure Polizei-Reform damit finanziert.
Neue Gebäude, Uniformen und neue Farben für Autos.
Ich nenne das legale Mafia Methoden.
Warum zahlen nicht alle?
Raucher finanzieren Polizei und Corona Virus Sonderausgaben!
Irgendwann ist der Bogen überspannt und der Bürger radikalisiert sich, wie in einer Revolution.
Das sieht nach Selbstbedienung aus!
A folding leaflet advertising a range of gifts and souvenirs that were purchaseable from BOAC cabin staff during flights. These include a BOAC Monarch tie, two patterns of silk scarves showing the Britannia and Comet 4 aircraft, two make-up powder compacts and, for the smokers, a BOAC Ronson 'Varaflame' lighter and cigarette cases badged with the BOAC 'Speedbird' logo.
The back fold shows an advert making flying so glamourous - with a carton of BOAC branded Benson & Hedges cigarettes.
Two ladies, two Hungarian Hussars, and a man offering a cigarette.
Photo mounted on cardboard, cabinet size, presumably taken in Hungary.
Checking her (probably) maternity blouse I think the lady on the right is pregnant.
A jobb oldali hölgy "kismamablúzt" visel, várandós.
A flower in my hair, boa for fluff, a full silver cigarette case and lipstick ready for a touch up...
The Fall
Book + CD :
Le Bauhaus
Mini Art Books
Skira
2009
Cigarette Case :
Marianne Brandt
Bauhaus
1930
Use Hearing Protection
GMA
At the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
All rights reserved. Please do not use or reproduce this image on websites, blogs or any other media without my permission.
A folding leaflet advertising a range of gifts and souvenirs that were purchaseable from BOAC cabin staff during flights. These include a BOAC Monarch tie, two patterns of silk scarves showing the Britannia and Comet 4 aircraft, two make-up powder compacts and, for the smokers, a BOAC Ronson 'Varaflame' lighter and cigarette cases badged with the BOAC 'Speedbird' logo.
The back fold shows an advert making flying so glamourous - with a carton of BOAC branded Benson & Hedges cigarettes.
A folding leaflet advertising a range of gifts and souvenirs that were purchaseable from BOAC cabin staff during flights. These include a BOAC Monarch tie, two patterns of silk scarves showing the Britannia and Comet 4 aircraft, two make-up powder compacts and, for the smokers, a BOAC Ronson 'Varaflame' lighter and cigarette cases badged with the BOAC 'Speedbird' logo.
The back fold shows an advert making flying so glamourous - with a carton of BOAC branded Benson & Hedges cigarettes.
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 north of Cavendish Mews, beyond St John’s Wood, over the far side of Regent’s Park and London Zoo, past Primrose Hill in the affluent middle-class suburb of Swiss Cottage, named for the ornately gingerbreaded Swiss style cottage orné* of the Swiss Cottage Inn**, past which Edith, Lettice’s maid, is walking as she heads from Swiss Cottage railway station*** towards Strathray Gardens. Having eschewed her usual pleasurable pursuits with Hilda, or a visit to her parents on her usual Wednesday morning off, Edith has an appointment in the smart upper middle-class London suburb. She trudges down the rain slicked concrete footpaths beneath the bare branches of the plane trees that run down either side of the Victorian red brick villa lined streets, following her own hand written instructions as to how to reach Strathray Gardens from the underground railway station. The branches above look stark against the slate grey skies.
For the last few weeks, unable to contain her own excitement and curiosity, in a desperate attempt to try and get some inkling as to when Frank will propose to her, Edith has been corresponding with, according to her advertisement in the newspaper, a “discreet clairvoyant” named Madame Fortuna, at Box Z 1245, The Times, E.C.4., whom she has now discovered is in reality, a woman named Mrs. Fenchurch who lives in Strathray Gardens in Swiss Cottage.
As Edith walks past the smart old fashioned two and three storey red brick villas with their undulating façades built in the 1880s and 1890s, Edith cannot help but feel a sense that she is interloping – that she is being stared at and scrutinised through the lace curtains dressing and obscuring the windows, that she is being judged by the upper middle-class housewives sitting in their drawing rooms and morning rooms overlooking the relatively quiet streets, as she goes on her way to what she now considers as she gets closer to it, may be a ridiculous assignation.
Finally, she stops before an intimidating three storey Modern Gothic/Queen Anne revival style house of red brick with Tudoresque style gabling, gothic style tracery painted in white around its leadlight windows, and large bays crowned by a crenelled balconette, overlooking the empty tree lined street. Now Edith feels a sense of trepidation as she stands on the threshold of the drive that leads up to the front steps. Leaning against the stone gothic finial capped brick newel post that flanks the half circle carriageway, she fishes the rather old fashioned Art Nouveau postcard of a woman and flowers from her green leather handbag and consults the spidery, yet elegant writing on the reverse. She looks at the number on the post next to her. She looks up at the house again. The address is definitely the correct one. She sighs and takes a deep breath to give herself courage before walking across the carriage turn and up the five steps, trying to gain the confidence of her convictions which she suddenly doesn’t feel as she steps beneath the white painted gothic style vestibule portico and presses the gleaming brass call bell by the white painted front door flanked with panels of stained glass. At first there is no response to her ring. Just as Edith’s resolve starts to fail her and she turns to leave and retreat like a defeated and foolish girl to Cavendish mews, a light goes on inside the hallway, illuminating the lozenges of stained glass around the front door, showing off their bright colours.
The door is suddenly opened by a rather rangy looking maid with an angular face, dark button eyes and a thin, downturned mouth. She is dressed in a morning uniform of pale blue and white striped calico, topped with a mob cap with a trim of crisply goffered lace, which is all too familiar to Edith who has her own version of the same uniform hanging up in the narrow wardrobe of her maid’s room in Cavendish Mews.
“Yes?” the maid asks sharply, looking Edith up and down with an appraising gaze.
Edith suddenly feels a fraud and shabby to boot dressed in her black three-quarter length coat from a Petticoat Lane**** second-hand clothes stall that she has remodelled, beneath the wiry maid’s beady, hard gaze. Taken aback by the domestic’s hostile look and brusqueness, Edith doesn’t answer.
“Yes?” the maid asks again, cocking an eyebrow as her lips purse in irritation.
“I… err…” Edith stammers.
“Oh no!” the maid says, mistaking Edith’s dour winter coat and black cloche decorated with purple satin flowers. “No thank you Miss. We’ve already members of the congregation of St. Peter’s Belsize Park*****. We’ve no wish to join your Fellowship.”
As she goes to close the door, Edith in an act of daring that surprises both she and the domestic she faces, she quickly puts her foot, clad in her best black kid cross strap shoe, in the jam, stopping the maid from closing the door in her face.
The uniformed maid looks down at Edith’s offending shoe and scowls. “Get your foot out of my door!” she snaps in a curt hiss, staring vehemently at Edith. “If it’s converts you’re looking for, I told you we aren’t interested.”
“Who is it, Trudy?” comes a quavering, elderly female voice from somewhere close by inside the villa.
“No-one Madam.” the maid calls back quickly in a loud and jovial sing-song voice, never taking her eyes of Edith’s face as she does. “Just another Quaker****** from Hampstead*******.”
The maid says again, “Get your foot out of my door!” She considers Edith’s outfit: smart, but obviously homemade or cobbled together with a bit of apt dressmaking. Reassessing Edith’s reason for visiting a determined steely tone enters her already hostile tone as she says, “If its work you’re looking for, you’ll find none here. Madam has a cook, and me as her parlour maid, and that’s all she needs. Now go away.”
“I’m here to see Mrs. Fenchurch.” Edith suddenly blurts out awkwardly like an admission of guilt, before adding insistently in a slightly lower and imploring tone of voice, “I’m here to see Madame Fortuna.” The name she adds emphasis to in an effort to explain to the gatekeeping domestic the reason for her presence on the doorstep.
The maid looks up, startled at Edith’s pronouncement, her eyes growing wide in what Edith perceives to be fear or perhaps concern. Still, rather than trying to crush her toe in the door, her stance eases slightly and she steps aside. “Come inside.” At first Edith doesn’t stir, remaining mute and immobile until the maid hisses, “Quickly girl, before the neighbours see you standing there!”
The domestic’s words create a result as like a tin toy when it is wound, Edith springs into action and steps across the threshold of the house into a large entrance hall tiled in black and white patterned tessellated pavers and panelled in white painted wood. A steep staircase with a dark runner held in place by shining brass stair rods******** leads upstairs, whilst a round table in the middle of the hall is covered in local circulars, several of the big London newspapers, including The Times, and a copy of the Tatler********* around a rather large aspidistra********** with glossy green leaves in a majolica jardinière***********. Against a wall, a large grandfather clock sonorously ticks the minutes away seriously.
“I’m nothing to be ashamed of.” Edith opines as she responds to the last remark of the truculent domestic. “I have every right to be here.”
“We’ll see about that. Name?” the maid snaps in a surly fashion, ignoring Edith’s statement as she glares at her.
“Edith.” Edith replies simply.
The domestic gasps with frustration, her eyes rolling to the ceiling above. Sighing with irritation she asks again, “Edith what?”
“Edith Watsford,” Edith replies nervously. “Miss Edith Watsford.” she corrects herself. She pauses for a moment before continuing in an uncertain fashion, “I’ve… I’ve corresponded with Madame Fortuna via The Times… and… and this is the time we agreed on that I should call upon her.”
“I don’t wish to know what you and Madam have corresponded about!” the maid says tersely. “Sit there.” She points sharply, indicating to a hard wooden hall chair sitting against the white wooden panelled wall. She turns on her heel and then turns back again suddenly. Pointing her finger at Edith this time she adds with a grim look, “And don’t move.” She then turns again and carefully opens a door pulled to that leads off the hallway into the downstairs room with the bay window overlooking the street.
Doing as she is bid, Edith sinks meekly onto the seat and waits, listening to the constant tick of the clock, and the muffled sound of the conversation between the maid and her mistress – the woman with the quavering voice. Leaning forward on her seat, Edith tries to listen to what is being said in the next room, but sitting against the far wall on the opposite side to the hall, and too frightened by the warning from the domestic to move closer, she cannot make out what is being said.
Finally, the door opens and the maid appears again. “Come in.” she says grimly, stepping aside. “Madam will see you now.”
Nervously Edith gets up from the hard hallway seat and walks across the entranceway, her low heels clicking noisily across the tiles. “Thank you.” she says politely to the maid as she slips apprehensively past the older woman.
“Miss Watsford?” the quavering voice Edith heard before asks as she steps into the room.
Edith finds herself in a rather overcluttered drawing room with a lofty ceiling. The salon is gloomy and stuffy in spite of the large bay window Edith saw from the street because what light manages to enter has to filter through a set of wooden venetian blinds and a set of thick red velvet hangings with a bobbled gold tassel trim, the stuffiness added to by very heavily patterned floral wallpaper. It is filled with heavy Jacobean revival furniture fashionable in the 1890s when the villa would have been built, with all the chairs and sofas jostling for space with one another upholstered in red velvet in an equally outmoded button back************ style. Every surface is cluttered with a lifetime of knick-knacks conspicuously displayed. Edith suddenly feels a pang of sadness for the poor maid standing at the door. No wonder she is crochety, having to dust all these objects by herself, if what she says is true and there only being a cook and herself to do all the domestic chores.
“Well, don’t stand at the door, letting in the draught, Miss Watsford,” the elderly female voice chides, but in a kindly manner, like an indulgent grandparent. “Please do come in and sit down.”
It is only then that Edith realises that Mrs. Fenchurch, or rather Madame Fortuna as she knows her, is seated in the bay in a high backed red velvet button backed Victorian armchair drawn up to a round table draped with a fine lace tablecloth and topped with another large aspidistra with glossy leaves. The woman’s appearance is as old fashioned as her décor, and she has, in common with many elderly women of her age, retained the hairstyle fashionable in her youth, some fifty years or so ago, her almost white tresses coiled at the back and covered in a dainty lace cap in a long obsolete fashion. Her black bouclé silk************* dress with its gigot sleeves************** and high, stiff neck is tightly corseted and is at complete odds to the contemporary and practical, loose style Edith wears and appears at least thirty years out of date. A large cameo is fastened at her throat, and she peers at Edith through a gold rimmed pince-nez***************, yet her eyes, unlike her maid’s, are friendly and her jowly face sitting above her embroidered collar is open and looks kind with a welcoming smile on her lips.
“Please, Miss Watsford,” the elderly lady says again, indicating with a sweeping gesture to a matching ballon button backed red velvet salon chair opposite her at the table. “Do take a seat.” She turns her attention to her maid. “We’ll have tea thank you, Trudy,” She glances quickly at Edith, appraising her through the lenses of her pince-nez before looking back at her servant. “Without the strainer, I think.”
“Yes Madam.” Trudy replies obsequiously.
“And some biscuits if you can manage it.” she adds.
As the door closes softly and Trudy’s footfalls on the tiles in the hallway fade into the distance, the old woman lets out a sigh of relief and smiles broadly at Edith. “You mustn’t mind dear Trudy, Miss Watsford,” she says gently in her genteel, upper-class tones. “She can be a little terse, but that’s only because she doesn’t approve of my endeavours as Madame Fortuna, and she worries for our reputation as a respectable household in the neighbourhood, and our standing in the St Peter’s parish congregation.”
“I see.” Edith remarks, looking around her.
“But she’s good to me, and she allows me my indulgence.” Mrs. Fenchurch observes Edith’s wide eyes and slightly sagging mouth with mild amusement. “Are you quite alright, Miss Watsford?”
“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry!” Edith stammers in an embarrassed apology, realising that she has been caught looking agog at her surroundings. “Yes quite.” She pauses. “Umm… how should I address you? Mrs. Fenchurch or Madame Fortuna?”
“Whichever you feel more comfortable with.” Mrs. Fenchurch answers. “But most clients call me Madame Fortuna.”
“Then I’ll do the same if you don’t mind, Madame Fortuna.” Edith says with a sigh of relief as she peels off her gloves.
“Not at all, my dear Miss Watsford.” When she notices Edith’s eyes straying about the room in a desultory way again, Mrs. Fenchurch asks with a good natured chuckle, “Not quite what you were expecting from Madame Fortuna?”
“Well, I… I really don’t know, Madame Fortuna.”
“Perhaps you were expecting a cauldron, a book of spells and spiderwebs in the corners of the room?” Mrs. Fenchurch asks tongue-in-cheek. “Trudy would never let the latter occur, although she might permit me the former.”
“Oh no!” Edith quickly defends. “I wasn’t… well… well I don’t rightly know what I was expecting Madame Fortuna.” It is then that she notices a rather large glass sphere sitting in a footed ebonised wooden stand just to Mrs. Fenchurch’s left, partially obscured by the bulbous white porcelain planter and leaves of the aspidistra. “What’s that?” She points across the table towards it.
“This?” Mrs. Fenchurch turns her head and looks to where Edith is indicating. She smiles proudly and her eyes light up. “This, my dear Miss Watsford, is my crystal ball.”
“I thought only gypsies at fairs had them,” Edith pauses for a moment before quickly adding, “Not that I’ve ever seen one before, myself. What do you use it for, Madame Fortuna.”
The older lady runs her palm over the ball’s surface closest to her hand in a rather intimate and loving action. “My crystal ball aids me in my art of clairvoyance.” she says rather mysteriously. “I can gaze into it, and sometimes I can see shapes and light that help me to foresee possible outcomes of future events.”
“Goodness! Even on a winter’s day like today, Madame Fortuna?” Edith asks. “It’s awfully dark in here.”
“Well, I do have other clairvoyant aids that I can use.” Mrs. Fenchurch replies. “Like these.” She indicates to a deck of red and white patterned cards stacked in the middle of the table, adjunct to the potted aspidistra.
“Playing cards?” Edith queries.
“No, my dear, Miss Watsford, although playing cards can be used to tell fortunes. No, these are special fortune telling cards.” She places her palm on the deck. “How do you feel about me using them to answer the questions you have?”
Edith sits ramrod in her seat, clutching her green handbag and looks with startled eyes at the cards, as though they are about to explode or catch fire.
“No, I thought not.” Mrs. Fenchurch says kindly. “I think you and I will have some tea and get to know one another a little better, and then I’ll read your leaves. How does that sound, Miss Watsford?”
“Oh!” Edith sighs with relief. “Oh yes, that sounds much better, Madame Fortuna. There used to be an old woman down the street from us in Harlesden who used to read people’s tea leaves.”
“Is that where you come from, my dear? Harlesden?”
“Yes, Madame Fortuna. I was born in Harlesden. My Dad works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory there as a line manager.”
Just at that moment, the door to the drawing room opens and Trudy returns carrying a wooden tray holding a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and two cups, as well as a small glass dish of biscuits.
“And thinking of biscuits, here comes Trudy with our tea.” Mrs. Fenchurch smiles up at her maid, who with bowed head, avoids the gaze of either her mistress or Edith as she unpacks the tray with a serious face. As Trudy places the biscuits on the table’s surface, Mrs. Fenchurch asks, “I don’t suppose that selection is McVitie and Price’s, Trudy?”
The domestic stops what she is doing and looks with a crumpled look of concern at the older lady. “No Madam!” she exclaims. “They’re Huntley and Palmers****************, like always.” She looks quizzically at her employer. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s just Miss Watsford here, comes from Harlesden,” Mrs. Fenchurch says with a proud smile. “And her father works for McVitie and Price.”
Trudy doesn’t respond to her mistress’ revelation as to Edith’s family background, nor look at the younger woman. Instead, she says to Mrs. Fenchurch in a business like fashion, “No strainer, Madam, like you requested.”
“Thank you Trudy. That will be all for now.” Mrs. Fenchurch waves her hand through the air dismissively. “I’ll call you if I need you.”
“Yes Madam.” Trudy replies obsequiously, bobbing a curtsey and quickly retreating from the room.
“Do you mind frightfully if I smoke, Miss Watsford?” Mrs. Fenchurch asks. “I know it probably isn’t what you expect from a lady like me either, but it was recommended to me by my doctor. I found it calmed my nerves during the zeppelin raids in the war, but has become another rather pleasurable indulgence in the ensuing years.”
“It’s your house, Madame Fortuna.” Edith replies, even though she isn’t particularly enamoured by the habit. “But what have you to be nervous about? I’m the one who’s nervous.”
“Thank you my dear.” Mrs. Fenchurch takes a small red Morocco leather case from the tabletop and flips it open. She removes a thin cigarette and lights it before blowing a plume of tumbling smoke in the opposite direction to Edith. “We all of us, have our quirks, and I suppose a dose of nerves before one of my clairvoyant sessions is one of mine.” She slips the cigarette into the notch on the rim of the ashtray and leaves it to slowly burn. “And there is no need for you to be nervous with me. Now, shall I be mother***************** then, Miss Watsford?” she asks, picking up the silver pot, which Edith notices is badly tarnished. Seeing her critical look at the state of the pot, the older woman goes on. “So, you’re not a teacher then. You’re a domestic.”
Edith’s eyes grow wide in surprise. “Goodness! However, did you know that? Did your crystal ball tell you Madame Fortuna?”
Mrs. Fenchurch smiles as she pours tea into Edith’s blue and white floral patterned cup. “I could lie and say yes, Miss Watsford, but I don’t believe in my line of business, that lying is a good thing. Don’t you agree?” she asks rhetorically.
“No, Madame Fortuna.” Edith replies unnecessarily.
‘It was the way you looked at my teapot that betrayed you.” Mrs. Fenchurch goes on. “Trudy looks at it the same way whenever she raises the idea of polishing it with me. I tell her I won’t have the pot I use for reading leaves interfered with in any way.” She hands Edith her cup of tea. “I’ll let you help yourself to milk and sugar, since I don’t know how you take it, and my crystal ball won’t tell me that either.”
“Thank you, Madame Fortuna.” She gratefully accepts the cup from her hostess. She adds a large slosh of milk to her tea. “Yes, I’m just a humble domestic, like your Trudy.”
“And where do you work, my dear Miss Watsford, and for whom?” She picks the cigarette back up, draws upon it and exhales another plume of greyish white smoke into the air above them.
“I work as a live-in maid-of-all-work for the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd in Mayfair, Madame Fortuna.” Edith adds two heaped spoonfuls of sugar to her milky tea and stirs it. “I’m glad you’re honest, Madame Fortuna.” Edith admits, releasing a pent-up breath. “I must confess, even though I’d been saying it for a while, it took a lot of courage for me to finally write to you care of The Times.”
“And why did you choose me, Miss Watsford?” Mrs. Fenchurch asks, adding a level teaspoon of sugar to her tea. “There are other clairvoyants who advertise in The Times.”
“Well, because you said in your advertisement, that you are discreet.”
“Discretion is a byword here in Strathray Gardens, Miss Watsford.” Mrs. Fenchurch assures her as she adds a small amount of milk to her tea. “Please, do have a biscuit, even if it is only one from Huntley and Palmer.” She proffers the fluted clear glass plate of biscuits to Edith who picks a dainty jam tart.
The pair fall into a companionable silence for a short while. They sip their tea, eat biscuits and Mrs. Fenchurch finishes her cigarette before stubbing it out in the black ashtray. As she sips her tea and munches on her biscuit, Mrs. Fenchurch eyes Edith through her pince-nez, her mouth screwing up into a tight, wrinkled purse as she ruminates.
“Do you mind if I ask you a most indelicate question, Miss Watsford?” Mrs. Fenchurch asks at length.
Licking her lips of crumbs, Edith shakes her head.
“You’re not in trouble, are you Miss Watsford?”
“Me?” Edith’s eyes grow wide again. “No Madame Fortuna! I’ve never broken a law in my life.”
“No,” Mrs. Fenchurch chuckles sadly. “I didn’t mean like that. In meant trouble in the family sense, if you understand my meaning, Miss Watsford.” She looks seriously at Edith.
“Oh goodness no!” Edith gasps.
Mrs. Fenchurch holds up her hands in defence, displaying the frothy lace cuffs at her wrists. “Pardon me for asking, Miss Watsford, but in my… well, my line of work, I do get young ladies in trouble in my parlour looking for answers to their problems: answers my crystal ball and fortune telling cards can’t provide.”
“Oh no, Madame Fortuna!” Edith takes a gulp of her tea. “I can assure you, I’m not that kind of girl! Not in the least!”
“Well, that’s good.” Mrs. Fenchurch opines with satisfaction. “No, you didn’t strike me as such, but you never can tell. Dressed as smartly as you are, I wouldn’t have taken you for a domestic. That’s why I thought you might have been a teacher, or governess.”
“I’m quite handy with the needle, Madame Fortuna.” Edith says proudly. “I learned from my mum, who’s a laundress.”
“Very good.” The older woman sips her own tea thoughtfully. “So why are you here then, Miss Watsford? What is it that you want to know from Madame Fortuna?”
“I’m not sure you’ll think it worthy of your clairvoyant powers, Madame Fortuna.” Edith admits guiltily. “I very nearly retreated when your maid didn’t answer the door straight away.”
“Come now, Miss Watsford! It must be of some great importance to you, if you agonised so much before answering my advertisement.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have come.” Edith mutters as she drinks more of her tea.
“Don’t drain your cup, my dear!” Mrs. Fenchurch warns, flapping her hand towards Eith with her nose buried in the dainty blue and white floral teacup. “And I’m glad you have come. No matter is too insignificant for Madame Fortuna.” She reaches over and takes Edith’s cup and saucer from her as Edith replaces the cup onto the saucer. “So what is it you seek answers to, Miss Watsford?”
Edith doesn’t answer immediately as she thinks about what now seems a triviality in her life. “Well, it’s about the young man I’m stepping out with.”
“You’re concerned about his character?” Mrs. Fenchurch queries as she winds her wrinkled, yet elegant fingers around Edith’s teacup.
“Oh no!” Edith assures her. “Frank’s ever such a nice chap. He isn’t hiding any secrets from me.”
“Then what, Miss Watsford?” Holding the cup in her left hand, she swirls what is left at the bottom of it three times from left to right. “Tell Madame Fortuna.”
“Well, he says he wants to marry me, but he’s been dragging his heels about it.” Edith admits with a frustrated sigh. “We almost had a falling out over it when we were up the Elephant****************** a few weeks back. I just want to know he really means to marry me.”
“I see.” Mrs. Fenchurch says, and as she does, she flips Ediths cup upside down with her left hand, the loud sound of the teacup’s edge hitting the saucer startling Edith and making her jump in her seat. Speaking in a loud and dramatic tone, the older woman goes on, “Let Madame Fortuna and her advanced skills in tasseomancy******************* solve your quandary, Miss Watsford!”
The older woman leans forward over the cup, her puffed sleeves with their beaded embroidery panels acting like a protective shield as she rotates the cup three times before turning it back up again, carefully making sure the handle is pointing towards Edith. Mrs. Fenchurch peers inside.
“Come!” Mrs. Fenchurch commands Edith after spending a few moments examining the leaves left stuck on the inside of the teacup.
She begins to shuffle her seat towards Edith, and Edith does the same, until the pair are side by side with the bay window behind them, filtering light into Edith’s now empty teacup.
“What do you see, Madame Fortuna?” Edith asks with trepidation.
Mrs. Fenchurch points to the clump of tealeaves near the rim of the cup that seems to be drifting away from a larger clump. “Do you see that, Miss Watsford?” she asks.
“Yes Madame Fortuna.”
“Well that is a past love. Someone you are letting go of, or already have, and they are…”
“Oh that will be Bert!” Edith gasps, referencing her first serious beau who, before taking up the King’s shilling******************** and going to war in 1914 was her local postman. He died at the Battle of Passchendaele********************* in 1917. “He…”
“Ssshhh!” Mrs. Fenchurch hisses, holding up her left hand and placing her index finger against Edith’s lips to silence her. “Madame Fortuna doesn’t need you to tell her. She needs you to listen.” She points back to the small clump of leaves and continues. “This is your first love. He was a love that you held on to for a long time, maybe long after you should have stopped, but,” She pers more closely at the leaves. “You have done so now, and the bind you had is broken. He isn’t significant any more.”
“Yes Madame Fortuna.” Edith says, wide eyed.
“Now, this larger clump,” She points to another trail of leaves down near the handle of the teacup. “This is your new love. This is strong.” Her eyes grow wide. “You are committed to him,” She looks across at Edith and smiles confidently. “And he is committed to you.” She looks back into the cup. “Look at how enmeshed the leaves are. Your bond is strong.”
“Oh yes, Madame Fortuna!” Edith exclaims. “Frank…”
Mrs. Fenchurch hisses again, holding up her left index finger once more. “Listen. Madame Fortuna shall do the telling.”
Edith sits quietly in her seat, leans forward and looks first into the cup, then up at Mrs. Fenchurch’s serious face with its paper like translucent skin, and then back at the cup.
“See, Miss Watsford.” The old woman points to a line of leaves to the right of the large clump. “He has been stirred into action: made aware of your wish to wed, and he is now getting ready to take the next steps.”
“Oh when, Madame Fortuna? When?”
“Well, do you see how they are stuck to the side of the cup, Miss Watsford?” When Edith nods with excited anticipation, Mrs. Fenchurch goes on, “The rim of the cup symbolises the present, the sides represent the near future, and the bottom of the cup signifies the far future.” She smiles broadly at Edith, her gentle blue-grey eyes sparkling with quiet and controlled energy. “Your young man isn’t going to propose tomorrow, but he will do so in the near future.”
“Really, Madame Fortuna?”
“Really, my dear Miss Watsford.” Mrs. Fenchurch places the cup back onto the saucer, around which the excess wet clumps of leaves stick whilst a pool of milky tea, now cold, gathers in the base of it. “Madame Fortuna’s tasseomancy doesn’t lie. I hope that sets your mind at ease.”
“Oh it does, Madame Fortuna! Very much!” Edith exclaims, clasping her hands together in delight.
Mrs. Fenchurch grasps Edith’s right shoulder with her left hand and squeezes it comfortingly. “You just need to be patient, my dear Miss Watsford. It will come.”
A short while later, Mrs. Fenchurch stands at the front pane of her bay window and watches through the slats of the venetian blinds as Edith walks away down Strathray Gardens, back towards the underground railway station. The maid has a skip in her step and a lightness in her stance that she didn’t have coming. Mrs. Fenchurch smiles and sighs through her nose with satisfaction.
“You’ve been smoking again, Madam.” Trudy tuts as she sidles up alongside her at the window, clutching the heavily tarnished teapot. “It’s most unseemly in a lady like you.”
“Don’t chide me, Trudy! I’m a grown woman, and at a far more advanced age than you. If I choose to smoke, then that is my prerogative.”
Trudy follows her mistress’ gaze and watches Edith’s retreating figure through the glass. “What did you tell her, Madam: that silly slip of a girl?”
Mrs. Fenchurch twists the shiny shilling she took as payment from Edith for her tasseomancy session with Madame Fortuna in her fingers playfully. “I told her that her young man will propose soon.”
“Pshaw!” Trudy scoffs, stepping away from the window and back to the table where she begins to stack up the dirty tea things on her wooden tray. “You know no such thing.” She looks at the congealed tea leaves and dregs of cold tea on Edith’s saucer and mutters, “What a load of old mumbo-jumbo.”
“Madame Fortuna’s tasseomancy doesn’t lie. I told her what I read in her leaves. I told her the truth, Trudy.” Mrs. Fenchurch insists, turning away from the window and walking back towards her seat.
“You told her your version of the truth, more like it, Madam.”
“I saw what I saw in the leaves, Trudy.” Mrs. Fenchurch retorts, sinking down into the comfortable red velvet embrace of her chair. “And I told her what she needed to hear.”
“I’m going to go to the scullery right now and polish this pot, Madam.”
“Oh no you’re not, Trudy!” Mrs. Fenchurch replies with a commanding steeliness to her voice. “That pot is the vessel for my tasseomancy. I shan’t have you taint it with your domestic cleanliness! And that’s an end to it. If you are feeling industrious and want to polish something, go and polish the doorknobs.”
*A Cottage orné (French for 'decorated cottage') dates back to a movement of "rustic" stylised cottages of the late Eighteenth and early Nineteenth centuries during the Romantic movement, when some sought to discover a more natural way of living as opposed to the formality of the preceding Baroque and Neoclassical architectural styles. English Heritage defines the term as "A rustic building of picturesque design." Cottages ornés often feature well-shaped thatch roofs with ornate timberwork. Examples in England include Queen Charlotte’s Cottage in Kew Gardens, the German cottage used by the children of Queen Victoria at Osbourne on the Isle of White, and The Hermitage, Hanwell in Ealing, as well as the Swiss Cottage Pub after which the suburb of Swiss Cottage was named.
**According to the Dictionary of London Place Names, the district of Swiss Cottage is named after an inn called The Swiss Tavern that was built in 1804 in the style of a Swiss chalet on the site of a former tollgate keeper's cottage, and later renamed Swiss Inn and in the early 20th century Swiss Cottage.
***Swiss Cottage is a disused London Underground station in Swiss Cottage, north-west London. It was opened in 1868 as the northern terminus of the Metropolitan and St. John's Wood Railway (M&StJWR), the first northward branch extension from Baker Street of the Metropolitan Railway (now the Metropolitan line). Subsequent to the opening of a new Swiss Cottage station, which was served initially by the Bakerloo line (1939–1979) and is now on the Jubilee line (1979–present), this Metropolitan line Swiss Cottage station was closed in 1940.
****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.
*****St Peter's Church, Belsize Park is a Victorian church built in the gothic style with a clock tower. Built on Belsize Square, it was consecrated in 1859, and stands in its own garden.
******The Religious Society of Friends (or Quakers) began in 1643 in the United Kingdom, at a time of growing disillusionment with the established church. Inspired by George Fox, people sought an alternative, calling themselves “the Friends of Truth”. Commonly known today as the Religious Society of Friends, they are committed to working for equality and peace.
*******The Hampstead Meeting House is a Friends meeting house (a Quaker place of worship) at 120 Heath Street in Hampstead. It was designed by Fred Rowntree in the Arts and Crafts style in 1903.
********A stair rod, also commonly referred to as a carpet rod, is an ornamental decorative hardware item used to hold carpeting in place on steps.
*********Tatler was introduced on the 3rd of July 1901, by Clement Shorter, publisher of The Sphere. It was named after the original literary and society journal founded by Richard Steele in 1709. Originally sold occasionally as The Tatler and for some time a weekly publication, it had a subtitle varying on "an illustrated journal of society and the drama". It contained news and pictures of high society balls, charity events, race meetings, shooting parties, fashion and gossip, with cartoons by "The Tout" and H. M. Bateman.
**********Aspidistras are a flowering plant native to eastern and southeastern Asia, particularly China and Vietnam. They grow well in shade and prefer protected places, which made them the ideal indoor house plant for dark Victorian and Edwardian houses which often only had diffused light seeing in through window treatments of venetian blinds, curtains, lace scrim or a combination of all three.
***********Jardinière is a French word, from the feminine form of gardener. In English it means a decorative flower box, planter, planterette or plant pot which flowers or other plants are cultivated and displayed.
************Button back upholstered furniture contains buttons embedded in the back of the sofa or chair, which are pulled tightly against the leather creating a shallow dimple effect. This is sometimes known as button tufting.
*************Bouclé silk, pronounced “boo-clay” is derived from the French word for “curled” or “ringed,” reflecting the fabric's characteristic looped yarns. It is typically made from a combination of fibres, including wool, cotton, silk, linen, and synthetic materials. The loops can vary in size and tightness, giving the fabric a unique texture.
**************A gigot sleeve is a sleeve that was full at the shoulder and became tightly fitted to the wrist. It was more commonly known as a leg-of-mutton sleeve.
***************Pince-nez is a style of glasses, popular in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries, that are supported without earpieces, by pinching the bridge of the nose. The name comes from French pincer, "to pinch", and nez, "nose".
****************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.
*****************The meaning of the very British term “shall I be mother” is “shall I pour the tea?”
******************”Up the elephant” is an old fashioned term Londoners used to use to describe visiting the busy shopping precinct of Elephant and Castle, south of the Thames. In its heyday, Elephant and Castle was known as "the Piccadilly Circus of South London".
*******************Tasseomancy, known more commonly as tasseography, is the art of identifying symbols and interpreting messages found in the shapes and configurations of tea leaves.
********************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.
*********************The Third Battle of Ypres, also known as the Battle of Passchendaele, was a campaign of the First World War, fought by the Allies against the German Empire. The battle took place on the Western Front, from July to November 1917, for control of the ridges south and east of the Belgian city of Ypres in West Flanders, as part of a strategy decided by the Allies at conferences in November 1916 and May 1917.
This overstuffed and cluttered Victorian drawing room would have looked very old fashioned by the mid 1920s when this story is set, and it may look real to you. However, this upper-middle-class domestic scene is different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
The crystal ball in its stand is actually a glass marble used for arranging flowers. I deliberately chose one that had lots of bubbles inside it to give the image a magical feeling. The stand is made of glazed brown pottery and is really the stand for a small cloisonne egg.
The teapot also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. It is sterling silver, hallmarked Birmingham 1910 and has a removable lid, so it was probably a commissioned piece of Edwardian whimsy for someone wealthy, be they an adult or child. The blue grape and vine tea set came from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay. The design is a copy from an Edwardian Royal Doulton set.
The black ashtray is also an artisan piece, the bae of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there). The cigarette lighter is made of sterling silver and was made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The cigarette case, which can be seen just behind the teapot is an artisan miniature as well. It is made of red Morocco leather and opens on a minute hinge to reveal cigarettes inside.
Edith’s handbag handmade from soft leather is part of a larger collection of hats and bags that I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel.
The tarot cards are a desk of 1:12 sized playing cards which came from an online stockist of miniatures on E-Bay.
The Aspidistra to the left of the photo comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.
The tablecloth is a hand hade lace edged doily which I bought from an antique and curios shop some years ago.
The Victorian red velvet button back lady’s armchair and the salon chair in the background, I bought from a high street dolls’ house supplier when I was twelve.
The wallpaper is a replica of real Victorian era floral wallpaper. It is very heavily decorated and colourful, and would have been very expensive to have made and hung.
Alles beisammen
All in one
Hardbox
metal
lighter
cigarettes
Schwimmen ist gesünder, aber es passt keine Badehose hinein.
😂😂😂
From my collection of transport-related odds and ends, two souvenirs of ships that have long since passed into history:
- Brass cigarette ashtray from the Canadian Pacific Steamships ocean liner "RMS Empress of France" which sailed regularly between Montreal, Canada and Southampton, England, typically including ports-of-call at Quebec City, Halifax NS, New York, Greenock and Liverpool, from 1947 to 1960. As such, our family members would have travelled on this ship to visit relatives in the UK, hence the souvenir. This ship was launched in 1928 and originally known as "SS Duchess of Bedford" until receiving a substantial upgrade of passenger accommodation in 1947. (not to be confused with a 1913 CP ship of the same "Empress of France" name).
- Silver cigarette case with blue enamel flag insert, a souvenir of the launching ceremony for the 1929-built cargo-liner SS Godfrey B. Holt, owned by John Holt & Co. The launch would have been at Birkenhead, England where the ship was built by the Cammel Laird & Co. shipyard. The ship lasted until the 1960's.
Photos of the original items.
This device, built by Nikola Tesla, actually shoots invisible beams of electricity straight into your brain. Seriously. He received inspiration for this from the fine, fine aliens of Alpha Centauri. Hey, Tesla was a weird guy. He built free energy machines and earthquake devices. You think he didn't build a brain-beam?
(Ahem, okay, so maybe it's just the inside of an old art deco cigarette case.)
(Maybe.)
202107002 Cigarette Case, borown leather cigarette case with "Yorkshire" printed in gold under flap; Original box says "Cigarette Case" and #6550 on bottom-Image from the SDASM Curatorial Collection.Note: This material may be protected by Copyright Law (Title 17 U.S.C.)--Repository: San Diego Air and Space Museum
70.60.A 1 cigarette case, 1 cigarette, and 1 plaque presented to Alexander Lippisch by his staff at the German Research Institute for Sailplanes; Cigarette case is silver with a gold colored interior; "To our 'Papa' on his birthday and ten-year anniversary" is inscribed in German on the inside of the cigarette case according to the plaque-Image from the SDASM Curatorial Collection.Note: This material may be protected by Copyright Law (Title 17 U.S.C.)--Repository: San Diego Air and Space Museum
Brass cigarette case by Tallent England showing two clips at rear to hold cigarettes in place. 1935/40.
Gold, guilloché enamel, rose-cut diamond, silk.
House of Fabergé. Malcom Forbes amassed an amazing collection of Fabergé objects including nine Easter Eggs. They were exhibited in the lobby of his magazine on Fifth Ave. admission was free. The space was intimate and amazing. After his death the family sold the collection for a reported 60 billion euros. It is now the centerpiece of the Fabergé Museum located in the Shuvalov Palace in Saint Petersburg, Russia.
This metal case is great for holding your ID safe from RF scanners. It can be used in place or with your regular wallet. Can also be used as a cigarette case.
Cover by Tom Adams. Fontana Books twenty-seventh impression paperback (April 1976).
First published 1928.
Nice example of vintage japanese repousse work, with engraved detailing. I always thought the disc in the upper left corner was the sun....but I've since learned that it is a toy ...a ball... (or a pearl, symbolizing the pursuit of wisdom...thanks, Laurie!)....and that is what makes this a 'happy dragon'.