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 a short distance north-east across London, away from Cavendish Mews and Mayfair, over Paddington and past Lisson Grove to the comfortably affluent suburb of Little Venice with its cream painted Regency terraces and railing surrounded public parks. Here in Clifton Gardens Lettice’s maiden Aunt Eglantine, affectionately known as Aunt Egg by her nieces and nephews, lives in a beautiful four storey house that is part of a terrace of twelve. Eglantine Chetwynd is Viscount Wrexham’s younger sister, and as well as being unmarried, is an artist and ceramicist of some acclaim. Originally a member of the Pre-Raphaelites* in England, these days she flits through artistic and bohemian circles and when not at home in her spacious and light filled studio at the rear of her garden, can be found mixing with mostly younger artistic friends in Chelsea. Her unmarried status, outlandish choice of friends and rather reformist and unusual dress sense shocks Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, and attracts her derision. In addition, she draws Sadie’s ire, as Aunt Egg has always received far more affection and preferential treatment from her children. Viscount Wrexham on the other hand adores his artistic little sister, and has always made sure that she can live the lifestyle she chooses and create art.

 

Before going into luncheon, Lettice is taking tea with her favourite aunt in her wonderfully overcluttered drawing room, which unlike most other houses in the terrace where the drawing room is located in the front and overlooks the street, is nestled at the back of the house, overlooking the beautiful and slightly rambunctious rear garden and studio. It is just another example of Lettice’s aunt flouting the conventions women like Lady Sadie cling to. The room is overstuffed with an eclectic collection of bric-à-brac. Antique vases and ornamental plates jostle for space with pieces of Eglantyne’s own work and that of her artistic friends on whatnots and occasional tables, across the mantle and throughout several glass fronted china cabinets. Every surface is cluttered to over capacity. As Lettice picks up the fine blue and gilt cup of tea proffered by her aunt, she cannot help but feel sorry for Augusta, Eglantine’s Swiss head parlour maid and Clotilde, the second parlour maid, who must feel that their endless dusting is futile, for no sooner would they have finished a room than they would have to start again since dust would have settled where they began. In addition to being a fine ceramicist, Eglantyne is also an expert embroiderer, and her works appear on embroidered cushions, footstools and even a pole fire screen to Lettice’s left as she settles back into a rather ornate corner chair that Eglantyne always saves for guests.

 

“So, how did you find Gossington, Lettice?” Eglantine asks as she sips tea from her own gilt edged teacup.

 

When she was young, Eglantine had Titian red hair that fell in wavy tresses about her pale face, making her a popular muse amongst the Pre-Raphaelites she mixed with. With the passing years, her red hair has retreated almost entirely behind silver grey, save for the occasional streak of washed out reddish orange, yet she still wears it as she did when it was at its fiery best, sweeping softly about her almond shaped face, tied in a loose chignon at the back of her neck. Large blue glass droplets hang from her ears, glowing in the diffused light filtering through the lace curtains that frame the window overlooking the garden. The earrings match the sparkling blue bead necklace about her neck that cascades over the top of her usual uniform of a lose Delphos dress** that does not require her to wear a corset of any kind.

 

“Oh it was splendid, Aunt Egg.” Lettice enthuses from her seat. “The Caxtons really are a fascinating and rather eccentric pair.”

 

“Yes,” muses Eglantine with a smile. “That’s why I like them, and always have. I knew you would too.”

 

“I didn’t know you were acquainted with them, and certainly not well enough to obtain an invitation for me, and Margot and Dickie.”

 

“Well, I didn’t want your first visit to Gossington be one you entered into by yourself. Whilst I know you can hold you own socially, my dear, I sometimes feel the first visit to Gossington can be a bit daunting if you are on your own, especially with so many witty young writers and poets in Gladys’ circle. I’ve heard and witnessed her houseguests saying the wrong thing in front of a wit, and before you know it, they become the butt end of witticisms all weekend, which can become rather tiresome after the first evening if you are subject to them.”

 

“Well, luckily nothing like that happened on my visit to me, Margot or Dickie: in fact no-one really.”

 

“It must have been a more sedate weekend then.” Eglantyne remarks sagely. “No Cecil or Noël then, I take it?”

 

“Cecil?” Lettice queries, before thinking again. “Cecil, Beaton***? Noël Coward****?”

 

“Yes.” Eglantyne remarks nonchalantly as she tugs at the edges of her soft pink silk knitted cardigan’s tassel ties to loosen it around her waist. “I do love them both dearly, and they’re terribly fun and awfully clever, but their wit, Noël’s especially, can be quite cutting. Noël’s planning to put out a new show later this year after his success in America and here with ‘The Young Idea’*****. It’s called ‘The Maelstrom’ or ‘The Vortex’****** or some such thing. It’s about a relationship between a son and his vain and aging mother.” She rolls her eyes. “Which could be really rather tedious, with two actors quipping at one another over three acts, except he’s decided to make the mother character a promiscuous creature with an extramarital affair at the heart of the play, and throw in some drug abuse just for a bit of spice, which should make it a roaring success, and an entertaining evening at the theatre, or at least we all hope so.”

 

“No, they weren’t there.” Lettice admits. “I would have loved it if Noël Coward was though. Gerald would have been green with envy. He has a fascination with him.”

 

“Well, I’m hardly surprised by that.” Eglantyne replies, looking her niece squarely in the face, giving her a knowing look. “They have so much in common, as he does with Cecil.” She cocks an eyebrow and moved her head slightly.

 

“Aunt Egg!” Lettice gasps, raising her hand to her throat, where she clasps at the dainty string of pearls she wears as she feels a flush of embarrassment begin to work its way up her neck and to her cheeks.

 

“Surely you aren’t shocked, my dear?” Eglantyne says, before carefully placing her cup back on to the galleried silver tray on her petit point embroidered footstool, on which the teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl stand. “When you’ve moved in the artistic circles I have, you learn very quickly that love comes in many forms – not just between a man and woman.”

 

“I am shocked, Aunt Egg.” Lettice admits, smoothing the crepe skirt of the eau de nil frock she is wearing. “I’ve always told Gerald to be so careful.”

 

“Oh, come dear: a man running a frock shop! It may be all well and good in Paris, but not in London, my dear!”

 

“There’s Norman Hartnell*******.” Lettice counters.

 

“Exactly!” replies Eglantyne with a knowing nod. “Anyway, however discreet Gerald may be, I have it on very good authority from acquaintances of mine in Chelsea, that he has been seen at select gatherings of like-minded souls with a rather talented and handsome young West End clarinettist on his arm.”

 

“Who told you about Gerald and Cyril?”

 

“Never you mind, Lettice my dear. I’m not giving up two of my very best sources of delicious London society gossip to you, just so you can go and tell them to keep mum! I want to know all the ins and outs of what is going on, especially about people I know. I need my little indulgences, since I cannot be everywhere as I’d like to be, and I am no longer quite the topic of drawing room conversation any more as my star fades. Even my art is now seen as Fin de Siècle********, rather than à la mode********* by the newer generation of artists, in spite of my best efforts to try new things and keep ahead of the trends.” She sighs. “I fear it is a lost cause. We all of us will fall out of fashion one day.” She pauses and considers something for a moment. “Goodness! I’m starting to sound like the mother in Noël’s new play. If I didn’t know he’d based her on Grace Forster**********, I might assume he had done so on me!” She reaches out and grasps Lettice’s bare forearm near her elbow and squeezes it comfortingly. “Don’t worry, I won’t speak out-of-turn about our dear Gerald. I know he’s your best chum from childhood days, and I love him almost as much as you do. His secret is perfectly safe with me.”

 

“Well, I’m grateful for that.” Lettice sighs. “I do worry about Gerald. I have known about his inclinations for a long time now, and I’ve met Cyril several times, but Cyril is more flamboyant and open about who he is than Gerald is.”

 

“Don’t worry. The gossip stemmed from a perfectly safe source, and as I said, they have only been seen together as a couple at select parties where such inclinations are not uncommon.” Eglantyne releases a satisfied sigh, indicating the conclusion of that particular conversation. “Now, thinking about acquaintances, and going back to your original question about my acquaintance with the Caxtons: I’ve known Gladys for longer than I’ve known John. I knew her when she had published her first Madeline St John novel. What she writes is ghastly romantic drivel in my opinion, and I was horrified to find you reading her romance novels, Lettice.”

 

“I don’t read them any more, thanks to Margot, who has broadened my reading range considerably from Madeline St John romances.”

 

“Well thank goodness for Margot Channon!” Eglantine breathes a sigh of relief. “Jolly good show, Margot. I never thought of her as a great reader of anything outside the society and fashion pages of the newspapers.”

 

“Oh, she’s a great reader, Aunt Egg. But my maid likes to read Madeline St John novels. She was positively beside herself with excitement when she found out I was meeting her favourite authoress.

 

“Well, I don’t know if I approve any more of your maid reading such romances than I do you, but whatever I may or may not think of the good of Gladys’ novels, they obviously have a broad appeal. Anyway, after her moderate success with her initial books, she met John, and then she became a patron to the arts thanks to the Caxton brewery money. She even bought more than her fair share of some of my ceramic pieces. Simply because she could, and she could promote my work.”

 

“I know, Aunt Egg. She showed me.”

 

“Anyway, it was really just by a stroke of good fortune that you received your invitation at just the right time.”

 

“Not according to Lally, Aunt Egg. She was put out because it rather spoiled the plans she had for us whilst I was staying with her at Dorrington House, and I think she was a little hurt that she wasn’t included in the invitation to Gossington, but Margot and Dickie were.”

 

“That might explain why she was so short with me when I telephoned Buckinghamshire last week to ask after her wellbeing and that of the children in Charles’ absence. Well,” She sighs in an exasperated fashion. “I cannot extend the largess of someone else any more than I already did to wrangle you and the Channons an invitation.” Eglantyne takes another sip of her tea. “It actually came about because Glady telephoned me a few weeks before Christmas. She was vying for an introduction to you after reading the article about you in Country Life. As you now know, her niece Phoebe has come into property here in London, and Gladys felt Phoebe needed a push to redecorate and make the place more her own, rather than simply adding a layer to her parent’s designs.” She pauses again. “I take it you did accept Glady’s commission.”

 

“Gladys is a little hard to refuse, Aunt Egg.” Lettice admits, before taking another sip from her cup. “She would have worn me down at length if I had said no.”

 

“Oh yes, that’s Gladys!” Eglantyne chortles, making the faceted bugle beads tumbling down the front of her sea green Delphos gown jangle about, glinting prettily. “She wears everyone down eventually.”

 

“But as it was, she didn’t have to, and I said yes.”

 

“Good for you, Lettice. It will be healthy for you to be working and creative. It will take your mind off all this Selwyn Spencely business. I take it you haven’t heard from him?” When Lettice bites her lower lip and shakes her head, Eglantyne continues. “Pity. I always thought him more of a man and would stand up to his bullying mother. She always did ride roughshod in everything she did when she was younger.”

 

“I wouldn’t dare go against lady Zinnia’s wishes, Aunt Egg. She’s positively terrifying.”

 

“You do realise that this is potentially your new mother-in-law if all goes according to your wishes for you and Selwyn, Lettice?”

 

“Of course!” Lettice replies. Then she pauses and her face clouds over. “Mind you, I hadn’t really considered the concept any more than an abstracted and distant idea until you just mentioned it. That is a rather frightening thought, especially if she doesn’t particularly like me.”

 

“Zinnia doesn’t like most women, Lettice, especially ones whom she perceives as a threat to her, or her well laid plans. You are young and pretty, and far more fashionable than she is. You are intelligent and often challenge the world and your place in it, as you should. However, like me, Zinnia’s star is fading as she gets older. She won’t always wield this power she currently has over Selwyn, especially if he comes back from Durban in a year feeling the same as when he left. You told me that Zinnia had agreed that Selwyn could marry you if he felt inclined upon his return.”

 

Lettice nods in response to her aunt’s statement, which comes across as more of a question.

 

“And you still love him?”

 

“Aunt Egg!” Lettice gasps. “How can you even ask?”

 

“You are young, my dear. When I was your age, I was forever changing my mind about all sorts of things: what to do, where to go, what to wear.”

 

“Well, Selwyn isn’t a Sunday best hat, subject to the fickle of fashion, Aunt Egg.”

 

“Just so, my dear. So long as you are sure.”

 

“I am, Aunt Egg.” Lettice replies with a steeliness in her voice. “Most definitely.”

 

The two ladies fall into a companionable silence for a short while, momentarily distracted by their own private thoughts. Between them on the mantle, Eglantyne’s gilt Georgian carriage clock marks the passing of the minutes with gentle ticks that echo between the two women, the sound absorbed by all the soft furnishings and knick-knacks around the room.

 

“Aunt Egg?” Lettice ventures tentatively at length.

 

“Yes, my dear?”

 

“What did you mean by Gladys wearing everyone down?”

 

“Just that my dear. Gladys has always had the power to pester people into submission.” Eglantyne laughs. “Why do you ask?”

 

“Well, it’s a few things, really. To begin with it was something Sir John said.”

 

“John?”

 

“Oh, not her husband, Sir John – Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.”

 

“Good heavens!” Eglantyne gasps. “Was he there? Nasty old lecher. I still can’t believe Sadie invited him to that matchmaking ball she held for you, when she knows as much about his reputation as a womaniser as I do.”

 

“He was there, Aunt Egg, and he was actually very nice to me throughout the weekend, and not the least predatorial.”

 

“Will wonders never cease? Does he have an ulterior motive?”

 

“Not that I’m aware of, Aunt Egg.”

 

“Well, just mind yourself around him, my dear Lettice. I’m no prude like your mother, but I do know that he isn’t a man with whom you can let down your guard. Always be on alert with him.”

 

“Yes, Aunt Egg.”

 

“Good girl. Of course, I should hardly be surprised that he was talking about Gladys. It’s no secret that when Gladys was still Gladys Chambers, she and Sir John Nettleford-Huges were an item. Then she met Sir John Caxton, and that ended the affair. You did know that, didn’t you Lettice?”

 

“Not before Sir John arrived late to dinner on our first evening at Gossington. But then Gladys told us a few stories about their time together over the course of the weekend.” Lettice blushes as she remembers the tale Lady Gladys told the company at dinner of Sir John eating fruit from the small of her back.

 

“Yes, I’m sure she did.” Eglantyne’s mouth narrows in distaste. “Her taste in men was always questionable prior to her meeting her husband. Anyway, what did Sir John Nettleford-Hughes have to say that would trouble you, my dear?”

 

“Well, he said Gladys usually wears people down to her way of thinking in the end.”

 

“And why does that concern you, Lettice? Are you worried that Gladys is going to insist on making changes Phoebe or you don’t like? I can assure you that she adores her niece. Phoebe is the daughter Gladys never planned to have, but also the child Gladys didn’t know could bring her so much joy and fulfilment in her life, as a parent.”

 

“I don’t doubt that, Aunt Egg, but it does seem to me that there is an ulterior motive to Gladys wanting Phoebe’s flat redecorated.”

 

“An ulterior motive, Lettice?”

 

“Yes.” Lettice sighs. “I think Gladys sees her dead brother and sister-in-law as some kind of threat to her happy life with Phoebe.”

 

“Threat?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s a very grave allegation, my dear Lettice.” Eglantyne says with concern. “What proof do you have to support your suspicions.”

 

“Nothing solid, only circumstantial anecdotes.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“Well, when she talks about her deceased brother and sister-in-law in front of Phoebe, or even to Phoebe, she refers to them as ‘Reginald and Marjory’, not ‘your mother and father’ or ‘Phoebe’s parents’.”

 

Eglantyne pinches the inside of her right cheek between her teeth as she considers Lettice’s observation. “Well, it probably helps keep the waters from getting muddy. The Chambers died out in India when Phoebe was still very young. I would imagine that Gladys and John are more like parents to Phoebe than Reginald and Marjory were.”

 

“Yes, but nevertheless, they are her parents.” Lettice counters.

 

“That’s true. But Gladys referring to them as she naturally would by their first names is no reason to see her feeling threatened by their memory, Lettice.” Eglantyne cautions with a wagging finger from which clings a large amethyst ring which sparkles in the light of the drawing room.

 

“But this brings me back to my concerns about what Sir John Nettleford-Huges said, which culminates with what you said just a moment ago. If Pheobe really is the child that Gladys never had, nor knew she wanted, but that subsequent to her discovery of the joy of parenthood Gladys’ narrative with Pheobe is for her to look upon Gladys more as a mother than her own mother, then she would naturally want to put an emotional distance between Phobe and the memory of her own mother. I think she is deliberately trying to eradicate the memory of Reginald and Marjory from Pheobe’s mind.”

 

“I really do think you are overdramatising things, Lettice my dear.” Eglantyne insists. “Gladys loves Phoebe. Why on earth would she want to banish her precious memories of her parents, who were taken far too soon?”

 

“Because she sees them as a threat to the legitimacy of her rearing of Phoebe.”

 

“But how can two dead people threaten what Gladys and John did, stepping in to take care of Phoebe as their ward?”

 

“Nothing, but that doesn’t mean that Gladys doesn’t think it. People can be irrational, Aunt Egg.”

 

“The only person I am thinking may be a little irrational at present, I’m sorry to say, is you, my dear.”

 

“But Gladys doesn’t have anything nice to say about her brother or sister-in-law. She is very dismissive of their memory, and she is openly disparaging in her remarks about Marjory.”

 

“Well, it is true that Gladys always felt that Reginald could have married someone grander than Marjory, who was just a middle-class solicitor’s daughter from Swiss Cottage***********. But really, Lettice, how does this dislike of Reginald’s choice in wife manifest itself as a threat to Gladys?”

 

“Well, when I was taking to Phoebe about redecorating her parent’s Bloomsbury flat, she seemed quite uninspired by the idea. She seems perfectly happy to leave things as they are, whereas it is Gladys who seems intent on redecorating every part of the flat, and in so doing remove any memory of her brother and his wife. She is quite enthusiastic about it, as a matter-of-fact.”

 

“Look, Lettice,” Eglantyne says, leaning forward in her wing backed chair and looking her niece earnestly in the face. “You’ve met Phoebe now. You know how fey she is.”

 

“Yes, that’s an apt description of her, Aunt Egg. My thoughts were that she has a very other worldly way about her.”

 

“Exactly, Lettice. So, you also know that she isn’t like Gladys. She doesn’t express her opinions readily.”

 

“I’ll say. It was hard enough to squeeze a colour choice to redecorate the flat with out of her.”

 

“And that’s why Gladys came to me, asking for your services. She is concerned that Phoebe is so disinterested in anything beyond her studies in horticulture that she will never redecorate the flat. She thought that being closer to Phoebe’s age, you might be able to make some headway where she, being so much older, has failed.”

 

“But would it be so bad for Phoebe to leave things the way they are in Bloomsbury, if the arrangement in existence suits her?”

 

“If Sadie had given you a fully furnished flat, would you have left it decorated in the way she gave it to you, Lettice?”

 

“Of course not!” Lettice scoffs.

 

“Exactly!”

 

“But that’s because I am an interior designer, and I have my own independent ideas about what my home should look like.”

 

“Of course you do.” Eglantyne soothes. “So, think for a moment. Even with her backwards ways of thinking, has Sadie ever tried to stop you from redecorating your own flat at Cavendish Mews?”

 

“Well, no.” Lettice says. “But what does that have to do with Gladys and Phoebe?”

 

“Sadie wouldn’t stop you from having some independence and would allow you to express your own opinions in style at the very least. Perhaps Gladys is trying to instil the same streak of independence in Phoebe, which is obviously so sorely lacking in her.” She tuts. “Consider that, my dear, before you go accusing Gladys of wishing to wipe away the memory of her brother and sister-in-law. Now.” The older woman gets to her feet with a groan. “I must see what is happening with luncheon.” She groans again as she rubs the small of her back. “Augusta is very good, but like me, she has been slowing down a little bit as of late. We’re all getting older. Please excuse me, my dear.”

 

Lettice sits in her chair and contemplates what her aunt has said as she watches the woman love elegantly around china cabinets the sofa and occasional tables as she wends her way to the drawing room door. What Eglantine says is true, but at the same time, Lettice cannot help but feel that her own judgement of the situation is somehow more in line with the truth of the matter. Lady Gladys has agreed to arrange a time, when she is back in London promoting her latest romance novel, to take Lettice to view Phoebe’s Bloomsbury flat, and she wonders what that occasion will be like.

 

*The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood (later known as the Pre-Raphaelites) was a group of English painters, poets, and art critics, founded in 1848 by William Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Michael Rossetti, James Collinson, Frederic George Stephens and Thomas Woolner who formed a seven-member "Brotherhood" modelled in part on the Nazarene movement. The Brotherhood was only ever a loose association and their principles were shared by other artists of the time, including Ford Madox Brown, Arthur Hughes and Marie Spartali Stillman. Later followers of the principles of the Brotherhood included Edward Burne-Jones, William Morris and John William Waterhouse. The group sought a return to the abundant detail, intense colours and complex compositions of Quattrocento Italian art. They rejected what they regarded as the mechanistic approach first adopted by Mannerist artists who succeeded Raphael and Michelangelo. The Brotherhood believed the classical poses and elegant compositions of Raphael in particular had been a corrupting influence on the academic teaching of art, hence the name "Pre-Raphaelite".

 

**The Delphos gown is a finely pleated silk dress first created in about 1907 by French designer Henriette Negrin and her husband, Mariano Fortuny y Madrazo. They produced the gowns until about 1950. It was inspired by, and named after, a classical Greek statue, the Charioteer of Delphi. It was championed by more artistic women who did not wish to conform to society’s constraints and wear a tightly fitting corset.

 

***Cecil Beaton was a British fashion, portrait and war photographer, diarist, painter, and interior designer, as well as an Oscar winning stage and costume designer for films and the theatre. Although he had relationships with women including actress Greta Garbo, he was a well-known homosexual.

 

****Noël Peirce Coward was an English playwright, composer, director, actor, and singer, known for his wit, flamboyance, and what Time magazine called "a sense of personal style, a combination of cheek and chic, pose and poise". He too was a well-known homosexual, even though it was taboo in England for much of his life.

 

*****’The Young Idea’, subtitled ‘A comedy of youth in three acts’, is an early play by Noël Coward, written in 1921 and first produced the following year. After a pre-London provincial tour it ran at the Savoy Theatre for 60 performances from 1 February 1923, and is one of Noel Coward’s first commercial successes, albeit moderate. The play portrays the successful manoeuvring by two young adults to prise their father away from his unsympathetic second wife and reunite him with his first wife, their mother.

 

******’The Vortex’ is a play in three acts by the English writer and actor Noël Coward. The play depicts the sexual vanity of a rich, ageing beauty, her troubled relationship with her adult son, and drug abuse in British society circles after the First World War. The son's cocaine habit is seen by many critics as a metaphor for homosexuality, then taboo in Britain. Despite, or because of, its scandalous content for the time, the play was Coward's first great commercial success. The play premiered in November 1924 in London and played in three theatres until June 1925, followed by a British tour and a New York production in 1925 and 1926. It has enjoyed several revivals and a film adaptation.

 

*******Norman Hartnell was a leading British fashion designer, best known for his work for the ladies of the royal family. Hartnell gained the Royal Warrant as Dressmaker to Queen Elizabeth (later the Queen Mother) in 1940, and Royal Warrant as Dressmaker to Queen Elizabeth II in 1957. Princess Beatrice also wore a dress designed for Queen Elizabeth II by Hartnell for her wedding in 2020. He worked unsuccessfully for two London designers, including Lucile (Lady Duff Gordon), whom he sued for damages when several of his drawings appeared unattributed in her weekly fashion column in the London Daily Sketch. He eventually opened his own business at 10 Bruton Street, Mayfair in 1923, with the financial help of his father and first business colleague, his sister Phyllis. In the mid-1950s, Hartnell reached the peak of his fame and the business employed some 500 people together with many others in the ancillary businesses. Hartnell never married, but enjoyed a discreet and quiet life at a time when homosexual relations between men were illegal.

 

********Fin de Siècle is a French phrase meaning 'end of century' and is applied specifically as a historical term to the end of the nineteenth century and even more specifically to decade of 1890s.

 

*********The term à la mode, meaning fashionable comes from the French and means literally "according to the fashion".

 

**********Grace Forster was the elegant mother of Noël Coward’s friend Stewart Forster. Grace was talking to a young admirer, when a young woman within earshot of Noël and Stewart said, "Will you look at that old hag over there with the young man in tow; she's old enough to be his mother". Forster paid no attention, and Coward immediately went across and embraced Grace, as a silent rebuke to the young woman who had made the remark. The episode led him to consider how a "mother–young son–young lover triangle" might be the basis of a play. Thus ‘The Vortex’ synopsis was born.

 

***********Swiss Cottage is an area of Hampstead in the Borough of Camden in London. It is centred on the junction of Avenue Road and Finchley Road and includes Swiss Cottage tube station. Swiss Cottage lies three and a quarter miles northwest of Charing Cross. The area was named after a public house in the centre of it, known as "Ye Olde Swiss Cottage". Once developed, Swiss Cottage was always a well-to-do suburb of middle and upper middle-class citizens in better professions.

 

This lovely tea set might look like something your mother or grandmother used, but this set is a bit different, for like everything around it, it is part of my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Aunt Egg's dainty tea set on the embroidered footstool is made of white metal by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The set has been hand painted by artisan miniaturist Victoria Fasken.

 

The footstool on which the tea set stands is made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, but what is particularly special about it is that it has been covered in antique Austrian floral micro petite point by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom, which makes this a one-of-a-kind piece. The artisan who made this says that as one of her hobbies, she enjoys visiting old National Trust Houses in the hope of getting some inspiration to help her create new and exciting miniatures. She saw some beautiful petit point chairs a few years ago in one of the big houses in Derbyshire and then found exquisitely detailed petit point that was fine enough for 1:12 scale projects.

 

The fireplace and its ornate overmantle is a “Kensignton” model also made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. The peacock feather fire screen, brass fire tools and ornate brass fender come from various online 1:12 miniature suppliers.

 

The round hand embroidered footstool at the left of the photograph acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom, as was the 1:12 artisan miniature sewing box on the small black japanned table in the background

 

The Oriental rug on the floor has been woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.

Copyright © Dave DiCello 2012 All Rights Reserved.

 

"Real generosity is doing something nice for someone who will never find out."

~Frank A. Clark

 

Today's shot is of the Bill Mazeroski statue outside the right field gate at PNC Park in Pittsburgh, taken at the blue hour with the skyline lit up in the background. Mazeroski hit a home run in game 7 of the 1960 World Series to win the game and the series for the Pittsburgh Pirates over the New York Yankees at Forbes Field in Oakland.

 

Original size

 

As always, you can read about the processing I've done on this shot and all my images on on my website.

 

New blog post today, Blue at the ballpark! Check it out if you have a chance!

 

My website: HDR Exposed Photography

My zenfolio: HDR Exposed - Zenfolio

 

Post Processing Workflow

Sun flare tutorial

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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.

 

For nearly a year Lettice has been patiently awaiting the return of her beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban by his mother, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wanted to end so that she could marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Now Lettice has been made aware by Lady Zinnia that during the course of the year, whilst Lettice has been biding her time, waiting for Selwyn’s eventual return, he has become engaged to the daughter of a Kenyan diamond mine owner whilst in Durban. Fleeing Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion, Lettice returned to Cavendish mews and milled over her options over a week as she reeled from the news. Then, after that week, she knew exactly what to do to resolve the issues raised by Lady Zinnia’s unwelcome news about her son. Taking extra care in her dress, she took herself off to the neighbouring upper-class London suburb of Belgravia and paid a call upon Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.

 

Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening.

 

Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Turning up unannounced on his doorstep, she agreed to his proposal after explaining that the understanding between she and Selwyn was concluded. However, in an effort to be discreet, at Lettice’s insistence, they are not making their engagement public until the new year: after the dust about Selwyn’s break of his and Lettice’s engagement settles. So, Lettice and Sir John have gone on about their separate lives, but in the lead up to Christmas they invariably ended up running into one another at the last mad rush of parties before everyone who hadn’t already, decamped to the country to celebrate Christmas.

 

Today we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife Arabella. Lettice is visiting her family home for Christmas. She motored down to Wiltshire with her old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. His family, the Brutons, are neighbours to the Cheywynds with their properties sharing boundaries. That is how Gerald and Lettice came to be such good friends. However, whilst both families are landed gentry with lineage going back centuries, unlike Lettice’s family, Gerald’s live in a much smaller baronial manor house and are in much more straitened circumstances.

 

It is Christmas morning 1924, and we find ourselves in the very grand and elegant drawing room of Glynes with its gilt Louis and Palladian style furnishings where the extended Chetwynd family is gathered around the splendidly decked out Christmas tree. Present are the Viscount and his wife, Lady Sadie, Leslie and Arabella, Lettice’s elder sister Lalage (known to everyone in the family by the diminutive Lally), her children, Lettice’s nephews and niece, Harrold, Annabelle and Piers, the children’s rather crisply starched nanny, and this year, Arabella’s mother, Lady Isobel and her brother, Nigel, Lord Tyrwhitt who have come the short distance from the neighbouring property adjoining the Glynes estate to the south, Garstanton Park, the grand Gothic Victorian home of the Tyrwhitts. The only members of the family not present are lally’s husband Charles and the Viscount’s sister, Eglantyne (known affectionately by the Viscount’s children as Aunt Egg) who have gone to enjoy the elicit pleasure of a cigarette together. Lady Sadie does not approve of men smoking indoors, much less her emancipated sister-in-law, so she will not counternance either of them smoking in her drawing room, even on Christmas Day. None of the family’s faithful retainers are present, as the tradition is that servants are given Christmas Day off after breakfast until the late afternoon, when they return and prepare to serve the family’s Christmas dinner in the Glynes dining room.

 

“Oh I am glad that Pater invited Nigel and Aunt Isobel over here for Christmas.” Lettice says with a smile as she watches Nigel help clear space on the Chinese silk drawing room carpet for he and Lettice’s nephew Harrold to play.

 

Last year Lord Sherbourne Tyrwhitt died suddenly, thrusting his wife, Lady Isobel into the role of widowed dowager and catapulting his unprepared eldest son, Nigel, into the title of Lord Tyrwhitt, and the position as a lord of the manor, one that Nigel felt quite ready for.

 

“Well, with just the two of them rolling around that big, empty and cold mausoleum over the knoll,” Leslie replies, referring to Garstanton Park as he waves his hands in the house’s general direction. “And Bella here with me, it only stood to reason. Bella can be with her mother,” He looks lovingly over at his wife who sits at the feet of her mother, Lady Isobel, resting her head on her knee like a child and smiling contentedly as the pair of them watch Nigel play with Lally’s children, Lady Isobel unconsciously stroking Bella’s raven waves. “And besides, Garstanton Park is too full of sadness for them to actually enjoy Christmas there this year. Better they be here with us where there is plenty of cheer and the sound of children’s laughter to distract them.”

 

“Agreed, Leslie. And we do have fun every year, don’t we?”

 

“I always look forward to you and Lally coming home for Christmas every year.” He sips coffee from the dainty gilt demitasse in his hand.

 

“What, even now that you have a beautiful and captivating wife on your arm, Leslie?” Lettice asks in mild disbelief.

 

“Of course I do! I mean, Bella is my wife, but you are my sisters, and that makes your homecoming pretty special, Tice.”

 

“Oh, don’t let Bella hear you say that too loudly, Leslie.” Lettice giggles. “She’ll get jealous.”

 

“I say Tice old girl,” Leslie remarks quietly with a solicitous tone as he takes a seat beside his little sister on one of the elegant gilt upholstered Louis Quinze drawing room sofas, cradling his cup of coffee. “I hope you won’t mind me saying this.”

 

“If you start off the conversation like that,” Lettice replies warily. “I shouldn’t wonder if I won’t.” Her pretty blue eyes widen over the edge of her own larger cup as she takes a sip of tea.

 

“I was only going to say that I think you’re being remarkably brave and stoic about all that rather beastly business with Selwyn Spencely.” Leslie admits, giving his sister a guilty sideways glance.

 

“Oh that!” Lettice replies, lowering her teacup into its saucer and waving her hand dismissively.

 

“Now don’t be like that, Tice.” Leslie chides. “In this case, despite whatever advice Mamma may give you as a jeune fille à marier*, false modesty doesn’t suit you. I may be a little biased,” He blushes as he speaks. “But I just want you to know that I think Spencely is a fool to let you go like that. He hardly needs the money that will accompany this diamond heiress into their marriage.”

 

“Kitty Avendale.” Lettice interrupts, uttering the name of the only child of Australian adventurer and thrill seeker turned Kenyan diamond mine owner, Richard Avendale, which was linked to her former fiancée.

 

“Whatever her name is, I wish Spencely no joy from the marriage.” Leslie spits hotly.

 

“Shh, shh,” Lettice hushes her brother calmly, placing a hand on his left forearm and giving it a gentle squeeze. “You don’t mean that Leslie. I know you don’t.”

 

“Oh don’t I?” Leslie mutters.

 

“Of course you don’t, Leslie.” Lettice replies resolutely. “You are my kind and gallant eldest brother, and therefore far too good hearted to wish him ill like that. I certainly don’t want Selwyn to be unhappy with his choice of a wife. He has enough to deal with, what with his horrible mother, whom he doesn’t have a choice not to have.” She sighs. “Anyway Leslie, it doesn’t matter now.” she adds, unable to quite hide the sadness in her voice, or the half-hearted smile on her lips. “It is all in the past.”

 

“Well, all the same I think Spencely is a cad and a bounder, so there it is! I’ve said it now.”

 

“Then let us say no more about it, Leslie.” Lettice holds up one of her elegant hands delicately in an effort to put the matter to bed. “After all, it is Christmas, and Christmas is supposed to be about kindness and good will to all men, is it not?”

 

“I suppose so.” Leslie agrees begrudgingly. “Still, I do think that after your initial reactions when that harridan of a mother of his sent Spencely away, you’ve been remarkably calm and good about it all.”

 

Like she did with her sister a few weeks before, Lettice longs to confide in her elder brother about her recent secret engagement to Sir John Nettleford-Hughes. Of all her siblings, Leslie is the one she feels closest to, in spite of the fact that he is the eldest and she the youngest child of the Viscount and Lady Sadie. Leslie has always been her protector, especially when it came to their brother Lionel and his ceaseless teasing and tormenting of Lettice when they were children, and he is the one who understands her the best. However, she also knows that like her sister and the rest of her family, Leslie would consider her sudden engagement on the heels of Selwyn’s abandonment of her a rash reaction. Unlike Lally, Leslie doesn’t entirely dislike Sir John, but he is well aware that he is a philanderer and does have a penchant for younger women, having witnessed Sir John leave Lady Sadie’s 1922 Hunt ball with a much younger female party guest on his arm after Lettice spurned his romantic overtures. Lettice suspects that if Leslie knew about her secret engagement, he would pressure her to break it off, and at the moment she is still too emotionally fragile and raw from Lady Zinnia’s revelations that she would not be able to refuse him. She knows, deep in her broken heart, that her reasoning behind keeping her engagement a secret until after the dust settles on her break with Selwyn is wise and sound, so once again she keeps her own counsel and remains silent on the matter of her engagement.

 

“In fact,” Leslie goes on, not noticing his sister’s deeply ponderous look as she carefully turns her head and looks at the beautifully decorated Chetwynd family Christmas tree covered in gold baubles and tinsel. “I’d go so far as to say you have been rather sporting about all this.”

 

“Well,” She takes a deep breath. “As I was saying to Lally a fortnight ago when she came to stay with me in London, it was never a definite thing that Selwyn was going to come back to me after a year. And with Selwyn’s absence for that long, I didn’t feel this ending quite so acutely, as I did his departure.”

 

As Lettice takes another sip of her tea, she is amazed by how quickly she has become accustomed to lying about her true feelings for Selwyn and his abandonment of their engagement. Her mother, Lady Sadie, sitting across from her in her usual position in the armchair closest to the drawing room fireplace, has schooled her well.

 

“Now, I’d like that to be an end of the matter, Leslie.” Lettice goes on steadfastly.

 

“Well…”

 

“At least for today, Leslie.” Lettice implores. “It is Christmas Day after all, and I want it to be happy one for the children – for us all.”

 

“Alright, Tice old girl.”

 

“Good, Leslie, old chap.” Lettice replies gratefully.

 

Lettice turns her attention to the tumble of beautiful new toys and brightly coloured discarded Christmas wrapping that litters the floor around the gaily decorated Christmas tree. Amidst it all, Lally’s children and Nigel play with their new toys. Lettice’s eldest nephew, Harrold, guides his smart new racing motorcar over the terrain of books, boxes and gold wrapping with Nigel’s assistance, whilst Annabelle, Lettice’s niece, picks out characters to play with in her new puppet theatre. She smiles with delight as she takes up one of Little Red Riding Hood carrying a basket, frozen forever in a skipping motion. Piers, Lettice’s youngest nephew, at the age of two, is still very much more interested in the colourful and noisy Christmas paper, which he crinkles up with glee, although Lettice has noticed that he is developing an affinity for the large brown mohair plush bear with the big red bow that his mother and father gave him for Christmas.

 

“You win again, Tice my dear.” Lally remarks as she stalks across from the tea table where she has just poured herself a fresh cup of coffee.

 

“What on earth do you mean, Lally?” Lettice asks, looking up at her sister, still dressed, as they all are, in a suitably sombre outfit worn to the Glynes Church of England Christmas service a short while ago. They will all change shortly into lighter and happier outfits before luncheon in the dining room.

 

“That of course,” Lally nods in the direction of the puppet theatre. “Aunt Tice may not live with us, Leslie, but she knows how to win my children over in a trice.”

 

“Oh Lally!” Lettice says dismissively. “That’s not true! Look how much Piers loves the bear you… err Father Christmas… gave him.”

 

“That’s only because he is still too young and remains immune to your charming gifts.” Lally laughs. “He still prefers the boxes they come in.”

 

“Come now, Master Piers,” Charles and Lally’s nanny fusses as she scurries over from her place standing next to the Christmas tree, watching the children like a benevolent angel in her uniform of a black moiré dress and a white apron. She tries to take a piece of metallic pink Christmas wrapping from his tight grasp as he tears it. “Give that to me. Give that to Nanny.” she cajoles.

 

Lettice, Leslie and Lally all watch with concern as little Piers’ face screws up and suddenly starts to redden with anger as his nanny tugs at the paper.

 

“It’s alright, Nanny dear.” Lally says swiftly, quick to avoid the potential of a two year old’s tantrum in the Glynes drawing room on Christmas Day.

 

“But Madam!” Nanny exclaims, a disgruntled look crossing her face as she feels undermined by Lally.

 

“He’s not doing any harm, Nanny. Let him play with the paper if he fancies it. At least it keeps him quiet, and my father,” Lally points to the Viscount’s slumped figure nestled into the corner of another of the Louis Quinze sofas. “Is having a morning snooze. Let him do so in peace, please Nanny.”

 

“Oh! Very good, Madam.” Nanny replies with frustration, retreating to her place, muttering as she does so.

 

“Well done, Lally, old girl!” Leslie says with approval.

 

“Ahh, ahh.” Lally cautions her brother light heartedly. “Less of the old thank you.” She self-consciously pats her sandy blonde hair streaked with grey, still set, albeit not as smartly as it had been, in a style similar to that which the fashionable London West End hairdresser had set it a few weeks beforehand when she stayed at Lettice’s cavendish Mews flat.

 

“It’s all this new small talk, Lettice brings with her from London,” Leslie defends himself. “It’s ‘old boy this’ and ‘old girl that’. It’s… it’s catching to we provincial county folk!”

 

“I say!” Lettice pouts. “That’s jolly unfair, Leslie, blaming me for your choices of language,” She pauses and then adds for effect, “Old boy.”

 

Lally gives her brother a sceptical look and shakes her head slightly.

 

“Poor Pater.” Lettice sighs, nodding in her father’s direction. “Playing Father Christmas seems to have worn him out this year.”

 

“Well, he’s not getting any younger.” Lally opines. “None of us are.”

 

“I think Pappa’s tiredness has more to do with Reverend Arbuthnot’s dreary and long Christmas sermon this morning.” Leslie suggests. “Than his age.”

 

“Oh yes, he did go on rather, didn’t he!” Lettice exclaims, raising her hand to her mouth covering what started as an imitation yawn, but then turned into a real one. “I thought he would never finish.”

 

“Well, isn’t that what the Reverend is supposed to do, Tice?” Leslie asks. “Pontificate I mean.”

 

“You’re only defending him because he married you and Bella.” Lettice retorts.

 

“Well, pontification to excess is not a quality I greatly admire in our Reverend Arbuthnot.” Lally opines in a definite tone. “I think I might have screamed if I heard him say ‘love thy neighbour this Christmas Day’ one more time.”

 

“I should have liked to have seen that!” Lettice giggles. “Imagine Reverend Arbuthnot’s face!”

 

“It might have woken up a few of the parishioners.” Lesley laughs before sipping some more coffee from his cup.

 

“Including Pater.” Lettice adds.

 

“Well, Mamma managed to stay awake throughout the sermon this morning,” Lally remarks. “And she doesn’t usually rise before ten o’clock. Yet look at her now, bright as button.”

 

The three siblings look at their mother who, dressed in a smart navy blue and pink floral patterned georgette frock with a lace collar, sits and speaks earnestly with her granddaughter, twisting her long ropes of pearls cascading down her front in her hands as Annabelle discusses which characters are best to have in her puppet show cast.

 

“Well, to be fair, it was Pappa who did the hosting of the carol singers last night in the hall.” Leslie says.

 

“What rubbish!” Lally scoffs. “We all went in and hosted them. With Mrs. Maingot leading the carollers and riding high on the crest of success of her latest Christmas panto,” She rolls her eyes sarcastically. “We could hardly leave her for Pappa to manage alone.”

 

“She can talk for hours without taking a breath.” Lettice agrees. “In fact, I don’t think she would even notice if everyone walked out of the hall and she was on her own, she’s so self-obsessed.” She turns to her brother. “Now she’s a pontificator if ever there was one!” She gives him a knowing look and nods.

 

“I think Bramley enjoyed giving out the snifters of brandy to all the carollers.” Lally adds, referring to the Chetwynd’s faithful butler. “Just like he did in the old days.”

 

“By the way,” Leslie asks. “Do you know who decided to revive the tradition of having the second Christmas tree in the entrance hall?”

 

“What does it matter, Leslie?” Lettice asks.

 

“Well, it’s just that Pappa stopped doing it the year after the war broke out, and I didn’t authorise it.”

 

“Do you need to authorise it?” Lally queries, arching her expertly plucked eyebrow as she looks to her sister. “It is just a tree after all.”

 

“I’m just saying, it does create a bit of a mess.”

 

“I’m sure that Bramley, or more likely Moira as head parlour maid, sweep up the dropped needles and dried candlewax, Leslie, not you.” Lally laughs.

 

“And now the word has spread that its back again, all the village make a pilgrimage to see it every Christmas now, which means we’re forever hosting groups of visitors in dribs and drabs nearly every night in the last few weeks before Christmas. Even with their beastly head colds, the Miss Evanses trudged up from the village.” Leslie adds, mentioning the two genteel busybody spinster sisters who live in Holland House, a Seventeenth Century manor house, in Glynes village. “Snuffling and coughing all over the place.”

 

“Well aren’t we full of Christmas cheer, dear brother?” Lally remarks sarcastically.

 

“Didn’t you hear Reverent Arbuthnot’s sermon this morning?” Lettice adds cheekily with a smirk. “Love thy neighbour this Christmas, brother dear.”

 

“Now don’t you start!” Leslie replies, wagging a finger warningly at his sister, but the happy glint in his eyes betrays the fact that he isn’t really cross with her.

 

“As a matter of fact, I think, I did.” Lally says.

 

“Did what?” Leslie asks.

 

“Revived the Christmas tradition of the second tree in the hall. I mentioned it to Pappa after Harrold asked me about the red glass baubles amidst the Christmas decorations.”

 

“No, we both did, Lally.” Lettice defends her sister. “After Harrod asked us about the decorations a few Christmases ago. What, 1922?”

 

“No,” Lally corrects. “It was 1921, because we were talking about the Hunt Ball Mamma threw for you in 1922.”

 

“That’s right! It was 1921. Anyway, regardless of when we mentioned it, I for one am not unhappy about the resurrection of that particular Christmas tradition at Glynes.” Lettice nods. “I think it looks wonderful in the hall, all sparkling with tinsel and glass baubles and lighted candles, greeting guests and family alike. It’s good to bring some joy and cheer to the villagers, even the Miss Evanses and Mrs. Maingot.”

 

“I agree, Tice.” Lally adds with a smile. “It seems to me like the world is finally coming out of the shadows of the war, so we should do our part to make the world bright, especially at Christmas.”

 

“In fact,” Lettice giggles. “You could make the world even brighter, and have no candle wax for Moira to scrub off the marble floors if you bought those electric faerie lights Lally and I saw in Selfridge’s windows a few weeks ago.”

 

“You can’t have Little-Bo-Peep and Little Red Riding Hood in the same play, Belle!” Harrold’s voice complains, his whining tones piercing the siblings’ conversation.

 

“Yes! Yes, Sadie my dear.” the Viscount mutters with a snort, awoken from his slumber by his grandson’s cries.

 

“Why not, Harrold?” Annabelle cries petulantly.

 

“Because you just can’t, Belle!” Harrold spits back.

 

“Harrold!” Lally exclaims.

 

“Says who?” asks Annabelle, folding her arms akimbo and pouting.

 

“It’s ‘says whom’, Annabelle dear.” Lady Sadie, always the instructress, corrects her granddaughter from her seat.

 

“Says whom, then?” Annabelle glowers at her elder brother.

 

“Harrold!” Lally says again.

 

“Well it’s true Mummy!” Harrold retorts. “They come from different stories. Tell her!”

 

“Harrold that’s not the point.” Lally says sternly. “Now apologise to your sister.”

 

“But I…”

 

“Harrold Cosmo Lanchenbury!” Lally says sternly, using her son’s middle name, given in honour of his grandfather, the Viscount. “Apologise to your sister at once.”

 

“Shall I take him upstairs to the school room, Madam?” Nanny pipes up with eagerness from the shadows cast by the shimmeringly beautiful Christmas tree.

 

“No!” Lally snaps with steely resolve, causing the older woman to shudder slightly at the sharp rebuke from her employer. Lally recovers herself immediately and continues in a softer voice. “No, thank you, Nanny. That won’t be necessary.” She looks at her son seriously. “Harrold is old enough to know when he has spoken out of turn, and gentlemanly enough,” She emphasises the last two words as she speaks. “To know when to apologise.”

 

“What’s this?” Aunt Egg asks she and Lally’s husband, Charles, walk back into the Glynes drawing room after finishing their cigarettes in the library.

 

“Lally darling?” Charles asks, taking in the scene with his son standing next to the Christmas tree amidst piles of presents, red faced next to his sister who is obviously upset, whilst Lally stands over them and the rest of the family look at him from their respective seats. There is a tenseness in the air. “What is it? What’s going on?”

 

“Nothing that I can’t manage Charles.” Lally replies calmly. “It’s fine.”

 

“It doesn’t appear fine to me, darling.” Charles replies in concern.

 

“Harrold and Annabelle were just having the fiercest argument, Charles dear,” Lady Sadie adds a little nervously. “Weren’t you, my lambs? And Harrold was just about to apologise to his sister.”

 

On cue, Piers, who until this time had been happily playing without compliant by himself releases a loud and unhappy bellow.

 

“Oh. Take Piers up to the nursery, Nanny.” Lally hisses in frustration.

 

“Yes Madam!” Nanny says smiling with satisfaction as she scuttles and fusses her way noisily through the presents and wrapping to where Piers sits. She coos as she picks him up, sweeping him into her arms and carries the snivelling child towards the drawing room door.

 

“Come here my lambs,” Lady Sadie says, opening her arms and encouraging the two remaining children to come over to her as she sits on the edge of her gilt chair. “That’s it.” She envelops them, winding an arm around each of them as she guides them to stand facing one another to either side of her. “Now, look at Grandmamma, both of you.” Both children lift their lolling heads and downcast eyes and gaze into their grandmother’s face. “You know that Christmas is a time of traditions, don’t you?” Both the children nod, Harrold slowly and Annabelle more animatedly. “We have a plum pudding today, which Mrs. Casterton makes for us every year on the twenty-fifth Sunday after Trinity*** with thirteen ingredients which represent Christ and the twelve apostles.”

 

“Yes Grandmamma.” Annabelle answers sweetly. “You and and Mrs. Casterton let us stir it.”

 

“That’s right, Annabelle.” Lady Sadie goes on. “You stir it east to west to honour the Magi****, and that is part of the tradition too.” She sighs deeply. “And you know that you receive gifts, as we all do, just as the Christ Child did when he received gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh from the Magi. That’s a tradition too.”

 

“Yes Grandmamma.” the children murmur, their voices the only things to break the silence of the room except for the quiet ticking of the clocks on the mantle and sideboard, the contented crackle of the fire in the grate and the distant wailing of Piers down the hall as Nanny takes him upstairs.

 

“And the carol singers come and join us in the hall just out there on Christmas Eve,” Lady Sadie points one of her diamond adorned gnarled fingers to the doorway which Nanny slipped out through with Piers in her arms moments ago. “And we sing beneath the Christmas tree. You restarted that tradition Harrold. Do you remember?”

 

Harrold nods. “Mummy says that Grandpappa stopped it when the war broke out, Grandmamma.”

 

“And so I did, Harrold my boy.” the Viscount concurs from his corner of the sofa. “But you restarted it, and by Jove we all enjoy it, don’t we?”

 

“Yes Grandpappa.” Harrold replies.

 

“And Mrs. Maingot delights us every year with a new Christmas pantomime.” Lady Sadie goes on, her words resulting in a smattering of stifled sniggers and quiet gasps of horror from the adults around her, all of whom witnessed the embarrassing scene of Mr. Lewis the church verger reprising his role Dame Trott***** in Christmas 1924’s performance of ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ in the Glynes village hall a few nights ago. “You enjoy them don’t you, my lambs, because they are magical?” When both children nod affirmatively, Lady Sadie beams and rubs their backs kindly. “And every year, Harrold, she mixes up all the characters to make the pantomime as magical as she can, and that includes breaking a few rules and taking characters from some stories to add to the one she and the Glynes Village Players are performing.” She pauses for a moment and then looks at her grandson. “So, young man, when your sister says that she wants to put Little Red Riding Hood and Little-Bo-Peep into the same play she is performing with her lovely new puppet theatre, she is entitled to do so. Don’t you think so?”

 

“I suppose so, Grandmamma.” Harrold says somewhat begrudgingly.

 

“Now, correct me if my observations are wrong, Harrold, but could it be that you are just a teensy bit jealous that your sister is making all these plans for her grand play and not including you too?”

 

“Maybe, Grandmamma.” he replies very quietly.

 

“More than maybe, young man!” Lady Sadie withdraws her right arm from around her grandson and squeezes his chin, which is fast losing the fat of childhood as he starts to grow older. “Grandmamma knows your heart better than you do; I think.” She chuckles. “Now, I have a proposition for the two of you children.” She claps her hands together animatedly. “Annabelle, if Harrold apologises to you, will you let him help you put together your play?”

 

“Oh yes Grandmamma.” Annabelle exclaims, crouching down slightly before rising up on her toes in a gesture of pride and happiness. “I’d love that!”

 

“And Harrold, would you like to help Annabelle put on her play for all of us?” Lady Sadie asks her grandson.

 

“Yes Grandmamma.” he affirms with a beaming smile.

 

“Then apologise to her, and you can both get on with it then!” the old woman says matter-of-factly. “It will be no time at all before we go in for Christmas luncheon, and I for one, want a show before I do.”

 

Harrold apologises to his sister immediately, and as if a magic spell has been cast, the two siblings hurry back to the puppet theatre and begin pulling out as many of the characters that came with it as they can find amidst the paper and other presents, giggling and chatting as if nothing had ever been awry between them.

 

“There!” Lady Sadie says to her startled family around her as she rises from her seat with a dignified nod. “Crisis averted! Peace is restored. Merry Christmas to all, and good will to all men.”

 

“Mamma!” Lally gasps as her elderly mother starts to walk proudly and purposefully across the drawing room carpet.

 

“What, Lalage?”

 

“Well, you amaze me, Mamma.” she says in surprise. “I never realised that you were such a consummate diplomat!”

 

“Yes, I suppose my diplomacy skills are a little wasted here.” Lady Sadie replies with a sigh a she looks around at all the awestruck faces watching her. Then with a very straight face as she goes on, “I should have married the Viceroy of India whilst I had the chance, but I married your father instead, so that’s an end to it.” She walks through the audience of her family, all with eyes agog and mouths hanging slack as she moves amongst them. “Now, after that crisis aversion, I think I might be entitled to a glass of sherry. Charles!”

 

“Sadie?” her son-in-law queries.

 

“A sherry for me, if you please.” She pauses. “But just a small one, mind you.”

 

“Yes Sadie.”

 

Lady Sadie turns back to her three children present in her house this Christmas. “Anyone would think I’d never managed a squabble between siblings at Christmas before. I’ll have you know that when you three were little, even without the eager and willing assistance of your dreaded brother, you all used to fight and argue on Christmas Day!” She points her finger at them, her diamond and sapphire ring glittering as she does. “And that was a Glynes Christmas tradition too!”

 

“Mamma!” Lettice gasps in surprise.

 

Lady Sadie accepts the proffered small glass of sherry from her son-in-law. “Now, if you would all excuse me. I’m going to take my sherry upstairs and have a little lie down before luncheon. Your father isn’t the only one who found Reverend Arbuthnot’s Christmas sermon a little tiring this morning. If one of you would kindly send Baxter up to me when the children are ready to show their play, and I’ll come back down after she helps me change for luncheon.”

 

And without so much as a glance back at her surprised family, Lady Sadie walks out the door of the drawing room, smiling with amusement as she does.

 

*A jeune fille à marier was a marriageable young woman, the French term used in fashionable circles and the upper-classes of Edwardian society before the Second World War.

 

**A pantomime (shortened to “panto”) is a theatrical entertainment, mainly for children, which involves music, topical jokes, and slapstick comedy and is based on a fairy tale or nursery story, usually produced around Christmas.

 

***Trinity Sunday is the first Sunday after Pentecost in the Western Christian liturgical calendar, and the Sunday of Pentecost in Eastern Christianity. Trinity Sunday celebrates the Christian doctrine of the Trinity, the three Persons of God: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

 

****The Magi are also known as the Three Wise Men or the Three Kings, who are the distinguished foreigners who visit Jesus after his birth, bearing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh in homage to him.

 

*****Dame Trott is the long suffering mother of Jack in the Christmas pantomime of Jack and the Beanstalk. She is outrageous, brash and loud, and traditionally played by a man in drag.

  

This fun Christmas tableau full of festive presents and wrapping may not appear to be all you think it is as first, for it is made up of pieces out of my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The books unwrapped for Christmas here are all 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. What might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. Not only did Ken Blythe create books, he also created other 1:12 miniatures with paper and that includes the wonderful puppet theatre you see here. The theatre includes scenery like cottages, hills and trees, three different backdrops and over a dozen characters including Little Red Riding Hood, the Big bad Wolf, Little-Bo-Peep, Cinderella, Prince Charming and the Faerie Godmother from Cinderella, Jemima Puddle Duck and Mother Goose. 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 beautiful teddy bear with his sweet face and red bow, the boxed doll, the toy motor car and the knights jousting all come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The lead knights have been painstakingly painted by hand with incredible detail and attention paid to their livery.

 

The Chetwynd Christmas tree in the background, beautifully decorated with garlands, tinsel, bows and golden baubles is a 1:12 artisan piece. It was hand made by husband and wife artistic team Margie and Mike Balough who own Serendipity Miniatures in Newcomerstown, Ohio. Margie and Mike Balough also made all the beautifully wrapped Christmas gifts gathered around its base.

 

The discarded pink and gold Christmas wrapping on the carpet of the drawing room are in reality foil wrappers from miniature Haigh’s Chocolate Easter Eggs.

 

The gilt salon chair is made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, but what is particularly special about it is that it has been covered in antique Austrian floral micro petite point by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom, which makes this a one-of-a-kind piece. The artisan who made this says that as one of her hobbies, she enjoys visiting old National Trust Houses in the hope of getting some inspiration to help her create new and exciting miniatures. She saw some beautiful petit point chairs a few years ago in one of the big houses in Derbyshire and then found exquisitely detailed petit point that was fine enough for 1:12 scale projects.

 

The three piece Louis XV suite of settee and two armchairs was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, JBM.

 

The Persian rug on the floor has been woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.

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 following Lettice’s maid, Edith, who together with her beau, local grocery delivery boy Frank Leadbetter, have wended their way north-east from Cavendish Mews on their Sunday off, through neighbouring Soho to the Lyons Corner House* on the corner of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. As always, the flagship restaurant on the first floor is a hive of activity with all the white linen covered tables occupied by Londoners indulging in the treat of a Lyon’s luncheon or early afternoon tea. Between the tightly packed tables, the Lyons waitresses, known as Nippies**, live up to their name and nip in and out, showing diners to empty tables, taking orders, placing food on tables and clearing and resetting them after diners have left. The cavernous space with its fashionable Art Deco wallpapers and light fixtures and dark Queen Anne English style furnishing is alive with colour, movement and the burbling noises of hundreds of chattering voices, the sound of cutlery against crockery and the clink of crockery and glassware fills the air brightly.

 

Amidst all the comings and goings, Edith and Frank sit at a table for two just adjunct to one of the glass fronted cabinets filled with delicious cakes on display, engrossed in a conversation over the film that they have just seen together in an East Ham cinema.

 

“Oh I did enjoy ‘The Notorious Mrs. Carrick’***, Frank.” Edith enthuses. “That Cameron Carr**** is such a handsome film star!” she sighs.

 

“Hey!” splutters Frank as he deposits his teacup back into its saucer. “I would hope you only have eyes for me, Edith Watsford, and not some flicker of light up on a screen at the Premier in East Ham*****.”

 

“Are you jealous, Frank Leadbetter?” Edith laughs, her amused giggles blending in with the vociferous chatting going on around them.

 

“Certainly not!” Frank retorts blusteringly, stiffening in his seat. “Don’t talk such rubbish!”

 

“I declare, you are!” Edith giggles.

 

“Am not!”

 

“You are, Frank, and don’t pretend you aren’t.” she teases. “I can tell when you are, and your flushing cheeks give you away.”

 

“Oh really?” Frank gasps, raising his hands to his cheeks and pressing his palms into them to hide the rising colour in his face.

 

“Oh Frank!” Edith continues to chuckle. “You know you have nothing to worry about. Those film stars are just matinee idols******. They aren’t flesh and blood like you are. They are…” She pauses for a moment to think of the right words. “They are creatures made of stardust and dreams.” She gesticulates waving her hands elegantly through the air between them. “They aren’t real. I’m just like most girls, Frank. I like the moving pictures for their fantasy and their escapism into another world, far away from the hand graft of our everyday lives.”

 

“Well, so long as you don’t become like those crazy girls who scream hysterically in the street about that Rudolph Valentino*******, making a scene, and fools of themselves.” Franks says with distain.

 

“As if I would, Frank!” Edith retorts, lifting her cup of tea to her lips. “You know me well enough to know I’d never do anything like that! If anything, Miss Lettice or some of her flapper friends strike me as being more inclined to behave like that, and even then Miss Lettice would only do it just to shock her parents.”

 

“Well, she does influence you,” Frank replies sagely. “Even if you don’t know it.”

 

“Oh, don’t talk such rubbish, Frank.” Edith scoffs with a wave of her hand. “It is true that I admire Miss Lettice - it makes it easier to work for her that I do – but I would never let her influence me like that! She already tries to fill my head with ideas about my place in this new post-war world, but I’m not prepared to be quite as revolutionary as she would have me be.”

 

Their conversation is interrupted by a Nippie carrying a blue and white china plate on which some dainty triangle sandwiches are prettily arranged and garnished with parsley sprigs. “Tongue and jelly sandwiches********.” she announces cheerily over the hubbub of chatter around them before lowing the plate onto the empty space on the white linen covered tablecloth between their plates and teacups.

 

“Thank you, Miss.” Edith says politely to the Nippie, who’s grateful smile brightens her slightly tired looking visage beneath her stiff linen cap. After the Nippie leaves, Edith turns her attention back to Frank and adds, “I was always taught that ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’ go a long way, in this world, and that you should always thank anyone who is serving you, whether it is a shop girl, or a Nippie.” She slips her starched linen napkin out from underneath her knife and shakes it out before draping it across her lap. “And my Mum taught me that by the way, not Miss Lettice.” she continues, as she makes a selection from the sandwiches on the plate, removing the top one from the stack.

 

“Well, I’m glad to hear it, Edith.” Frank says as he shakes out his own napkin and places it across his lap before selecting a sandwich for himself. “I’ve always admired you for your manners and how polite and kind you are to others. Your mother taught you well.”

 

“And your parents and grandmother taught you well… Francis.” Edith adds Frank’s proper name at the end of the sentence cheekily, teasing him.

 

“I wish Gran had never let that slip.” Frank mutters begrudgingly. “I’m Frank now. No-one at the trades union will take me seriously if I’m called Francis.”

 

“Oh, I’m only teasing, Frank.” Edith reaches out her right hand and grasps his left as it rests on the tablecloth next to his plate. She smiles in an assuring way towards Frank.

 

Edith takes a bite of her sandwich, enjoying the soft white bread and the spiced meat as she rolls it around her mouth, and sighs contentedly.

 

“Oh, and thinking of the trade unions, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about, Edith.” Frank remarks as he chews on a mouthful his sandwich.

 

Edith swallows her mouthful of sandwich hard and picks up her teacup. Sipping her tea she remarks, “That sounds very serious, Frank.”

 

Frank looks earnestly at Edith. “Well, I suppose it is, Edith.”

 

Replacing her cup into its saucer, Edith smiles sweetly at Frank. “What is it then, Frank?”

 

Frank reaches inside the inner breast pocket of his tweed jacket and withdraws an advertising leaflet. Slightly dogeared, he hands it over the table to Edith.

 

“What’s this then?” She glances at the colourful brochure. On its cover is a stylised drawing of a Tutorbethan style********* two storey house with a tiled pitched roof set amidst an idyllic and lush English cottage garden. “Metro-Land, price twopence.” she reads the golden yellow wording on a dark brown background in a vignette at the bottom of the booklet.

 

“How would you like to live there, Edith?” Frank asks, his voice breathy with excitement.

 

Edith looks up from the brochure with wide and startled eyes. “Have you broken the bank at Monte Carlo********** Frank?” she laughs. “We couldn’t afford to live in a house like this, even with my extra four shillings a month as part of our combined wages! I won’t be earning a proper wage after we get married*********** don’t forget, Frank.” she cautions. “Where is this anyway?” She flicks the pamphlet open. “Chalk Hill Estate.”

 

“For around five shillings a week, we could rent a nice little two-up two-down************ semi************* just like that, in the Chalk Hill Estate: maybe a little bit more if we want one that’s furnished.”

 

“You’re dreaming, Frank. We can’t afford this.” she scoffs as she runs her hand over the brightly coloured cover. “This is for the aspiring middle-classes, not for the likes of us.”

 

“Ah, but that’s where your reckoning is wrong, Edith.” Frank replies, picking up his cup and taking a sip of his milky tea. “You see, when I was at the trades union meeting the other week, I met up with my friend Richard, and well, he told me that there might be an opening or two in one of the new grocers shops being built in places like the Chalk Hill, Grange and Cedars Estates for an assistant manager position, which would lead eventually to a position where I’d be running my own corner grocer. Even as an assistant manager, I’d be earning a decent wage: we might be lower middle-class dare I suggest it.” Frank smiles proudly. “Richard gave me that pamphlet.”

 

“So where are these Metroland************** estates then, Frank?”

 

“Well, they are these new London suburbs being built north-west of London: Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire, Middlesex.”

 

“Buckinghamshire?” Edith splutters, nearly choking on the mouthful of tea she has just drunk. “But that’s where Miss Lettice’s married sister lives! That’s miles away! It’s the country!”

 

“Well not any more it isn’t Edith.” Frank assures her. “It’s all being subdivided now and served by the Metropolitan Railway. They are the ones who are developing it.”

 

“But I don’t want to move to Buckinghamshire, Frank!”

 

“It’s not so bad, Edith. The Chalk Hill, Grange and Cedars Estates are all being built along the railway line not too far from Wembley Park, so you’d be able to visit your parents easily, and they’d be able to come and visit us too. In fact, you’d be closer to them than you are at Cavendish Mews. We’d live in a nice little house behind the shop, with all the mod-cons like indoor plumbing and electricity, just like Miss Lettice’s flat at Cavendish Mews.”

 

“That all sounds splendid, Frank, but the country!”

 

“They aren’t the country. They are called the ‘new suburbs’. Anyway, don’t forget that Harlesden was once a country area too. You’ve heard your mother tell stories about how she and your grandparents lived on a farm when she was growing up.”

 

Edith contemplates what Frank says for a moment. “Well, I think they might have lived a bit further out than Harlesden, then Frank.”

 

“But even so, Edith, Harlesden was a rural area once. Anyway, if I were running a corner grocer, or even being an assistant manager of one to begin with, we would be right in the heart of the shopping strip, so you wouldn’t be far from anything.”

 

“I remember what Queenie told Hilda and I about life in a country village, and I saw it for myself,” Edith tempers, remembering the trip that she and her best friend took to visit their friend and fellow housemaid, Queenie, in Alderley Edge in Cheshire. “Everyone there knows everyone else’s business, and the ladies there were all horribly snobbish and mean to Queenie, and were equally snobbish to Hilda and I once they knew that we were maids – not that there’s anything wrong with being a humble domestic.”

 

“Of course there isn’t, Edith. However, Alderley Edge is different to one of these estates, Edith.” Frank assures her.

 

“I don’t see how, Frank.”

 

“Well, Alderley Edge was a village and an old one at that, and Cheshire has some very fancy people living in it. These estates like Chalk Hill,” He points to the leaflet hanging limply in Edith’s hand. “Are new. There are no existing big families with fancy titles and histories and all that. There’s no pecking order. It would be made up of working people – yes, many middle-class families looking to solve their housing problems, but aspiring working people like us, too. It would be far more…” He thinks for a moment. “Egalitarian.”

 

“And what does that mean, Frank?” Edith spits.

 

“Well, it’s a belief, a belief based on the principle that all people are equal and deserve equal rights and opportunities.”

 

“Hhhmmm…” Edith contemplates. “Well, we’ll see about that. That all sounds fine in theory, but in my experience there are people who look down on other people everywhere, like nasty old Widow Hounslow,” She utters the name of her parent’s doughy landlady with distaste. “In Harlesden. I think people wanting to start new lives and lord that fact over others might live in these new paradise suburbs of yours, Frank.”

 

“Oh now don’t be like that, Edith! You sound like your mother when you talk like that.”

 

“Well, you can hardly blame me, Frank. This,” She hands the pamphlet back to Frank with an air of distain. “Is a big change you’re suggesting we make.”

 

Frank accepts the thin booklet and slips it somewhat reluctantly back into his inner breast pocket. “But just think, we could have a lovely home together: a real home with a little garden.”

 

“Dad has an allotment.” Edith defends.

 

“I know, but imagine a proper garden for the children to run around and play in. The children we have, Edith, can grow up attending local schools and getting lots of fresh air. There would be no pea-soupers*************** for them to suffer through.”

 

Edith considers the great clouds of thick, dense fog enveloping the streets of London and seeping into the corners of even places as fine as Cavendish Mews during the winter months, and how everyone coughs badly during them and in their aftermath.

 

“Well that’s true.” she admits begrudgingly. “But…”

 

“And if we lived in a little house like this,” Frank pats his jacket where the pamphlet now resides. “We’d have room for Hilda or Queenie to come and stay. Wouldn’t that be nice.”

 

“Very nice Frank.” Edith replies a little disbelievingly. “But what about your Gran?”

 

“What about her, Edith?”

 

“Well, if we moved to one of these new Metroland estates of yours, we’d be closer to my parents, but further away from Upton Park, and your Gran is older than my parents are.”

 

“Oh!” Frank dismisses. “Gran will be fine with it. She’s been telling me that I should get out of London if I can for years now. Don’t forget that before she married my grandfather, Gran lived in a little Scottish village. London is the only big city she has ever lived in, and she still doesn’t like it even to this day.”

 

“But what about when she gets older, Frank? She’s already infirm now.”

 

“Well,” Frank admits a little sheepishly. “I’ve been thinking about that too.”

 

“And?”

 

“And I was thinking that she might come to live with us when the time came that she couldn’t be on her own any more, since we’d have a bit more room with a house of our own.”

 

“It sounds like this house of yours that you imagine for us might be made of elastic, Frank,” Edith snorts with mild amusement and disbelief. “What with our children, my parents, Hilda and Queenie visiting, and now you Gran coming to live with us. Where will everyone fit? Someone will have to sleep in the inside privy!”

 

“We’d make it work, Edith.” Frank assures her. “Together.”

 

“Well, it’s a lot to consider, Frank.” Edith says after taking a few minutes to chew another mouthful of sandwich, the bread, tongue and jelly suddenly heavy in her mouth and stomach.

 

“But you will consider it, Edith?” Frank asks, the hopeful lilt in his voice echoing the optimistic glint in his bright blue eyes and anticipative stance as he sits across from his sweetheart.

 

“Metroland.” Edith utters.

 

“Our future… in Metroland.”

 

Edith sighs heavily. “You have rather sprung this on me, Frank.”

 

“Well, I hadn’t even considered the idea until Richard mentioned it to me at the trade unions meeting.”

 

“It’s a lot for me to consider, Frank. It means a major shift in where I’d envisaged us living after we were married, and how we would live.”

 

“Oh, me too, Edith. The most I’d hoped for was to take a position as a buyer or merchandiser at another grocer, maybe one south of the Thames.”

 

“So, you have to give me time to warm to the idea.”

 

“I don’t see what’s to warm to, Edith. Imagine our live…”

 

Edith holds up her worn right hand to silence Frank’s immediate defence of his idea. “You know me, Frank. I’m not as enthused as you are about new ideas. You have to give me time, or this will never work.”

 

Frank smiles as he settles back more comfortably in his seat and picks up the remains of a triangle of tongue and jelly sandwich. “I’ll wait for as long as you need to be convinced that our future in Metroland will be for the best, Edith.” He takes a bite of the sandwich in his hand. “Anyway, it’s not like I’m marrying you tomorrow and whisking you away to Buckinghamshire.”

 

“And you won’t be, Frank Leadbetter.” Edith cautions him. “Just the other side of Wembley is one thing. Buckinghamshire is quite another.”

 

Edith picks up her teacup and takes a sip of her tea.

 

*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 name 'Nippies' was adopted for the Lyons waitresses after a competition to rename them from the old fashioned 'Gladys' moniker - rejected suggestions included ‘Sybil-at-your-service’, ‘Miss Nimble’, Miss Natty’ and 'Speedwell'. The waitresses each wore a starched cap with a red ‘L’ embroidered in the centre and a black alpaca dress with a double row of pearl buttons.

 

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

 

****Cameron Carr was an English actor of the silent era, born in 1876, he died in 1944. He made many films between 1918 and the early 1930s. Then like many stars of the silent era, the advent of talking pictures put an end to his career in films as he found the transition to talkies to difficult. He starred as the lead actor, of the 1924 silent film, “The Notorious Mrs. Carrick”, playing Mr. Carrick.

 

*****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 matinee idol is a handsome actor, admired for his good looks.

 

*******Rodolfo Pietro Filiberto Raffaello Guglielmi di Valentina d'Antonguella was born in May 1895, and was known professionally as Rudolph Valentino and nicknamed The Latin Lover, was an Italian actor based in the United States who starred in several well-known silent films including The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, The Sheik, Blood and Sand, The Eagle, and The Son of the Sheik. Valentino was a sex symbol of the 1920s, known in Hollywood as the "Latin Lover" (a title invented for him by Hollywood moguls), the "Great Lover", or simply Valentino. His early death at the age of 31 in 1926 caused mass hysteria among his fans, further cementing his place in early cinematic history as a cultural film icon. In spite of his appeal to women of the 1920s, it is now believed that Valentino was gay, or at the very least bisexual, with relationships with actress Pola Negri and actor Ramón Novarro in addition to his second wife Natacha Rambova. Despite claims of him being a “Latin Lover”, his first marriage to lesbian actress Alla Nazimova was never consummated.

 

********Tongue and jelly is a gelatinous food made from braided calves tongues, boiled with onions, celery, cloves, herbs, brandy and sugar which is then preserved in gelatine. Back in the 1920s, it is more likely that aspic would have been used, rather than gelatine. It was a very popular savoury topping on picnic sandwiches in the Victorian and Edwardian eras.

 

*********Tudor Revival architecture, also known as mock Tudor in Britain, first manifested in domestic architecture in the latter half of the Nineteenth Century. Based on revival of aspects that were perceived as Tudor architecture, in reality it usually took the style of English vernacular architecture of the Middle Ages that had survived into the Tudor period. Tudorbethan is a subset of Tudor Revival architecture that eliminated some of the more complex aspects of Jacobethan in favour of more domestic styles of "Merrie England", which were cosier and quaint. It was associated with the Arts and Crafts movement.

 

**********"The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo" (originally titled "The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo") is a popular British music hall song published in 1891 by Fred Gilbert, a theatrical agent who had begun to write comic songs as a sideline some twenty years previously.[1] The song was popularised by singer and comedian Charles Coborn. Coborn wrote in his 1928 autobiography that to the best of his recollection he first sang the song in 'the latter part of 1891.'[6] An advertisement in a London newspaper suggests, however, that he first performed it in public in mid-February 1892. The song remained popular from the 1890s until the late 1940s, and is still referenced in popular culture today. Coborn, then aged 82, performed the song in both English and French in the 1934 British film “Say It with Flowers”.

 

***********Prior to and even after the Second World War, there was a ‘marriage bar’ in place. Introduced into legislation, the bar banned the employment of married women as permanent employees, which in essence meant that once a woman was married, no matter how employable she was, became unemployable, leaving husbands to be the main breadwinner for the family. This meant that working women needed to save as much money as they could before marriage, and often took in casual work, such as mending, sewing or laundry for a pittance at home to help bring in additional income and help to make ends meet. The marriage bar wasn’t lifted until the very late 1960s.

 

************Two-up two-down is a type of small house with two rooms on the ground floor and two bedrooms upstairs. There are many types of terraced houses in the United Kingdom, and these are among the most modest. The first two-up two-down terraces were built in the 1870s, but the concept of them made up the backbone of the Metroland suburban expansions of the 1920s with streets lined with rows of two-up two-down semi-detached houses in Mock Tudor, Jacobethan, Arts and Crafts and inter-war Art Deco styles bastardised from the aesthetic styles created by the likes of English Arts and Crafts Movement designers like William Morris and Charles Voysey.

 

*************A semi-detached house (known more commonly simply as a semi) is a house joined to another house on one side only by a common wall.

 

**************Metroland is a name given to the suburban areas that were built to the north-west of London in the counties of Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire and Middlesex in the early part of the Twentieth Century that were served by the Metropolitan Railway. The railway company was in the privileged position of being allowed to retain surplus land; from 1919 this was developed for housing by the nominally independent Metropolitan Railway Country Estates Limited (MRCE). The term "Metroland" was coined by the Met's marketing department in 1915 when the Guide to the Extension Line became the Metro-land guide. It promoted a dream of a modern home in beautiful countryside with a fast railway service to central London until the Met was absorbed into the London Passenger Transport Board in 1933.

 

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

 

An afternoon tea made up with tea and a selection of triangle sandwiches like this would be enough to please anyone, but I suspect that even if you ate everything you can see here on the table in and in the display case in the background, you would still come away hungry. This is because they, like everything in this scene are 1:12 size miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau:

 

The plate of sandwiches in the centre of the table was made by an unknown artisan and was acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The coffee pot with its ornate handle and engraved body is one of three antique Colonial Craftsman pots I also acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop, as is the silver tray on which they stand. The milk jug and sugar bowl are made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The Lyons Corner House crockery is made by the Dolls’ House emporium and was acquired from an online stockist of miniatures on E-Bay. The J. Lyons & Co. Ltd. tariff in the foreground is a copy of a 1920s example that I made myself by reducing it in size and printing it. 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 table on which all these items stand is a Queen Anne lamp table which I was given for my seventh birthday. It is one of the very first miniature pieces of furniture I was ever given as a child. The Queen Anne dining chairs were all given to me as a Christmas present when I was around the same age.

 

In the background is a display case of cakes. The Victoria sponge (named after Queen Victoria) on the cake stand is made by Polly’s Pantry Miniatures in America. Whilst the cupcakes have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. All the cakes in the display cabinet came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The glass and metal cake stands and the glass cloche came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The glass cake stands are hand blown artisan pieces. The shiny brass cash register also comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures.

 

The wood and glass display cabinet and the bright brass cash register I obtained from a seller of 1:12 miniatures on E-Bay.

Elegant luxury loft apartment with generous scale for rent in a sought after pre-war Soho condominium with striking landmark views, brilliant light and high end contemporary condo finishes.

 

– Keyed elevator opens directly into a grand entertaining space with an attractive entry foyer, oversized living and dining areas, beamed ceilings soaring 12 feet high, oak wood floors, architectural millwork throughout, and 15 oversized Pella windows.

 

– Open chefs kitchen with center island features granite stone counter tops, custom Italian cabinetry, a pantry, and top of-the-line appliances including a fully vented Viking gas range and stove, a U-Line wine cooler, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, a GE microwave and a Bosch dishwasher.

 

– 2 spacious bedrooms in a split layout with en-suite marble bathrooms, expansive closet space and a powder room (2BR/2.5BA).

 

– Corner loft apartment with open city views North and East, including direct views of the Police Building, one of the cities most impressive Beaux Arts landmarks.

 

– Fully Vented GE Profile Washer and Dryer in the apartment.

 

– Luxurious master bathroom with double vanity sinks, soaking tub and separate shower.

 

– Central AC and an individual hot-water heater.

 

– Large storage locker in the basement with enough space for bicycles, luggage and much, much more.

 

– Landscaped roof deck.

 

– Full-time resident manager can help as handyman and can receive packages, 5 days a week.

 

– A sophisticated home steps from the best restaurants, shops and nightlife (Balthazar, La Esquina, Mondrian Soho, etc) New York City has to offer.

created for:Photoshop contest week 402

Spaghetti thanks to::yamada taro

texture by JoesSistah...

texture by:SkeletalMess

 

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, and her best friend and fellow maid-of-all-work, Hilda are visiting Edith’s beloved parents for a few hours on their Sunday off before going on to join Edith’s beau, grocer’s boy, Frank Leadbetter, for a late afternoon showing of ‘Claude Duval’* at the nearby Willesden Hippodrome**. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden as a Line Manager, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home. They live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street, and is far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s Mayfair flat, but has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith.

 

We find ourselves in the heart of the Watsford’s family home, Ada’s cosy kitchen at the back of the terrace. Ada is holding court, standing at her worn round kitchen table as she gives Hilda an impromptu lesson in baking as she rolls out some pale biscuit dough with her trusty old wooden rolling pin which had belonged to her mother before her. Her daughter and Hilda sit at the table on tall ladderback chairs to either side of her, Edith with a bowl of creamy white marzipan icing in front of her, and Hilda with a bowl of green icing next to her. A plate of iced biscuits sits in the middle of the table between the three of them. As Ada shares her baking wisdom with Hilda, the girls ice and decorate the biscuits Ada has already baked in the oven of her range. George sits in his comfortable Windsor chair next to the warm range and listens with half an ear as he reads the newspaper.

 

“And then all you have to do is roll the pastry out flat on a liberally floured board like this Hilda love. Dust the top with a bit more flour before rolling it out, and coat your rolling pin with plenty flour too to prevent it from sticking or tearing the dough as you roll it out. Oh, and make sure your biscuit cutters are nicely floured,” Ada instructs Hilda who watches her with rapt attention as Ada takes her silver metal Christmas tree biscuit cutter and pushes it with a gentle press into the dough rolled out before her. “And that will ensure that your biscuit comes out nice and cleanly.” She takes her kitchen knife and deftly slips it between her board and the dough and removes a bit of the dough around the bottom of the Christmas tree shape on the outside of the cutter and then slides the knife under the tree shape to support the bottom of her freshly made biscuit and withdraws it. Placing it to the side of her wooden board closest to Hilda, Ada removes the biscuit cutter to reveal a cleanly cut and perfectly shaped Christmas tree shaped biscuit. “See.”

 

“Goodness Mrs. W.!” Hilda gasps. “You make it look so simple!”

 

Hilda quickly scribbles Ada’s words of wisdom down using a pencil in the little notebook she brought with her in her handbag for just that purpose.

 

“It is that simple, Hilda love.” Ada says with satisfaction, looking down at her biscuit next to her rolled out dough, before beaming brightly at her daughter’s best friend.

 

“Mum always makes things look easy, Hilda.” Edith says as she carefully lathers some white icing onto a golden brown baked Christmas tree biscuit. “She uses really simple, failproof recipes, and that’s what makes her cooking so good.”

 

“Did you teach Edith all her plain cooking skills, Mrs. W.?” Hilda asks.

 

“Well, most of them, Hilda love, but once she had mastered the basics,” Ada dusts her hands with flour and then rubs another biscuit cutter, this one in the shape of bell. “Edith could adapt what I’d taught her and make up her own recipes easily enough, and learn other people’s recipes.”

 

“I wish I’d had a mum like you, Mrs. W.” Hilda remarks. “Oh, not that my Mum is mean or nasty or anything!” she adds quickly. “But she’s not a good cook like you are, so when Edith found me the job with Mr. and Mrs. Channon as their maid-of-all-work, I wasn’t prepared to cook. I didn’t really know how to cook, even plain cooking.”

 

“Yes, but look how far you’ve come since then!” Edith replies encouragingly, looking earnestly at her friend.

 

“Only thanks to you, Edith, teaching me your mum’s basic recipes.” Hilda insists.

 

“Well, I’m glad that Edith’s being a help to you, Hilda love.” Ada remarks.

 

“I’m just glad that Mr. and Mrs. Channon dine out a lot, and use Harrods catering department for any fancy dinners at home. I’m sure I couldn’t serve your recipes for beef stew and shepherd’s pie that Edith taught me, Mrs. W., to any of their fine friends that they have over for dinner parties.”

 

“Edith’s quite a dab hand in the kitchen,” Ada remarks. “Although,” she adds as she eyes her daughter critically as she starts to move the icing she has plopped onto the biscuit base across the surface of it with her spatula to smooth it. “She’s not the best at icing biscuits just yet.”

 

“What Mum?” Edith exclaims.

 

“Well look, Edith love!” Ada chides, slapping her palms together, sending forth a shower of light white motes flour. “You’ve added far too much icing onto that biscuit! Here!” She reaches across and takes both the biscuit and the spatula from her daughter and scrapes the icing back into the bowl. She smiles as she looks at her daughter. “Now watch how much of the icing I scoop up on the end of the spatula.” She dips the flat blade into the bowl and scoops up a small amount of creamy white icing and carefully spreads it with zig-zag strokes across the biscuit from the wider bottom up to the top. “See.” She holds the biscuit up so both Edith and Hilda can observe. “A smaller amount is much easier to work with. And if you don’t have enough, you can always scoop up a tiny scraping more to finish it off.” She smiles as she easily moves the icing around to the edge of the biscuit. “There.”

 

“Thanks awfully, Mum!” Edith says gratefully, accepting the iced biscuit and the spatula back.

 

“Now you decorate it with those pretty silver sugar balls, Edith love.” Ada directs her daughter. “You’re far better at that than me.” She turns to Hilda. “Edith has more patience for that kind of thing than I do. She got that from her dad.”

 

“She did, that!” George pipes up from his comfortable seat drawn up to the old kitchen range as it radiates heat. He lowers his copy of The Sunday Express*** which crumples nosily as he does so. “Some things in this world need patience, like growing marrows.”

 

“I need patience to deal with you, George Watsford!” Ada says, turning around and placing her still floured hands on her ample hips and giving her husband a dubious look.

 

“Growing marrows, Mr. W.?” Hilda queries.

 

“Oh, ignore him, Hilda!” Edith giggles. “Dad’s mad keen about his marrows, even when he can’t grow them as well as Mr. Johnston does.”

 

“You watch, oh-she-of-little-faith,” George nods in his daughter’s direction and gives her a serious look. “Mr. Pyecroft and I are going work out what’s in his fertiliser and grow a marrow bigger than he’s ever seen! You mark my words!”

 

“Yes Dad!” Edith replies, rolling her eyes and giving her best friend across the table a cheeky smile as she giggles.

 

“I’ll have no talk of fertiliser in my kitchen, George,” Ada says. “And that’s a fact!” Pointing to the Sunday Express open across his lap she adds, “Back to your crossword****.”

 

“With pleasure,” George remarks, coughing and clearing his throat as he lifts the paper back up again, obscuring his face from the three women around the kitchen table.

 

“Now Hilda love, you try icing a biscuit too.” Ada encourages, nodding at the large white bowl of green icing at Hilda’s right. “Do it the same way you just saw me do it. Just take up a bit of icing on the end of your spatula and smear it across left to right as you work your way up the biscuit.”

 

“Alright Mrs. W., I’ll try.” Hilda replies as she picks up a Christmas tree biscuit from the baked but undecorated stack of festively shaped biscuits on her left.

 

“You saw how much I scooped up on the end of the spatula, so you know now how not to overload it.” She watches carefully as Hilda dips her spatula into the bowl of peppermint green icing and coats it with a small amount of icing. “Good love. Good!” she approves as Hilda begins to smear the icing across the surface of a biscuit. “Edith and I will make a baker of you yet.”

 

“Oh I don’t know about that Mrs. W.” Hilda says doubtfully.

 

“Yes we will, Hilda.” Edith replies encouragingly. “We’ll have you baking cakes in no time!”

 

“And then, you’ll have every hungry young man come pounding on your door, Hilda love, you mark my words.” George says from behind the newspaper. “And you’ll never be short of handsome young suitors.”

 

“Mr. W!” Hilda blushes at George’s remark.

 

“Dad!” Edith exclaims.

 

“I’m just stating the truth, Edith love.” George replies as he lowers the newspaper again. Closing it and folding it in half, he slips his pen into his argyle check printed***** brown, white and burnt orange vest. He drops the paper on the hearth beside his chair and stands up. He takes a few steps across the flagstones to the kitchen table and stands next to his wife. Wrapping his arm lovingly around her shoulder he tells his daughter and her friend, “Your mum wouldn’t have been nearly as attractive the day I met her at that picnic in Roundwood Park****** organised by the Vicar, if she hadn’t been carrying a tin of her best biscuits at the time. She knows the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” He leans forward and reaches across the table, snatching up a decorated Christmas tree biscuit and scoffing half of it into his mouth before anyone can stop him.

 

“George!” Ada slaps her husband’s shirt clad forearm. “We’ll have no biscuits for Christmas Day, between you eating my biscuits and Edith eating the icing!” she scolds with a good natured chuckle. “Now back to your newspaper this minute,” She picks up her flour dusted rolling pin in her right hand and starts lightly slapping her open left hand palm warningly and eyes her husband. “Before I bar you from my kitchen and banish you to the front parlour.”

 

“What?” George exclaims. “With no fire up there in the grate! I’ll freeze!”

 

“It would serve you right, for pinching one of my biscuits! But since it’s so close to Christmas, and I’m full of festive cheer today, I’ll give you a reprieve. Back to your crossword, Mr. W.,” Ada says warningly, using Hilda’s shortened version of their surname, but saying it with a slight smirk to show that she isn’t really cross with him. “Right this minute, or you’ll be out in the cold!”

 

“Yes Mrs. W.!” George replies, munching contentedly on his mouthful of biscuit, holding the green iced trunk and lower branches of his stolen biscuit in his right hand.

 

“That’s very good, Hilda love.” Ada says, returning her attention to Hilda and looking at her biscuit, as George settles back down in his chair and takes up his newspaper again.

 

“Thanks awfully, Mrs. W.!” Hilda says with a smile as her face blanches at Ada’s praise.

 

“Oh! That looks beautiful, Edith love!” Ada exclaims looking at the pretty pattern of silver balls her daughter has made on the surface of her own white icing clad biscuit. “It looks too good to eat.”

 

“Almost!” Goerge pipes up from behind the Sunday Express again.

 

“Crossword!” Ada warns him.

 

Ada settles back into her rhythm of stamping out biscuits from her flattened dough: first a bell, then another Christmas tree, then a heart which she knows Edith is most looking forward to decorating for Frank for Christmas. She smiles with pleasure as she presses the heart cutter down lightly into the slightly resistant pillow like dough. The Watsford’s kitchen will once again be busy this Christmas with George and Ada’s seafaring son and Edith’s younger brother, Bert, on shore leave for the second year in a row just in time for Christmas, and Frank Leadbetter and his Scottish grandmother, old Mrs. McTavish, around their kitchen table. Ada’s elder sister, Maud, offered to host the Watsfords at the crowded little terrace in nearby Willesen that she shares with her husband Sydney and their five children, Harry, William, Ann, Nelly and Constance, but Ada declined. The two-up two-down******* Victorian terrace house isn’t much larger than the Watsford’s own Harlesden terrace and can barely fit Maud and her family, with Harry and William sleeping in the skillion roofed******** enclosed back verandah which serves as their narrow and draughty bedroom. So, with Frank and Mrs. McTavish to include in the number of guests for Christmas Day, Ada thought better of her sister’s kind offer. She, George, Edith and Bert will visit Maud and her family on Boxing Day instead, which is traditionally when the two families get together.

 

“Are all these biscuits for Christmas Day, Mrs. W.?” Hilda asks, breaking into Ada’s consciousness.

 

“Deary me, no, Hilda love!” Ada exclaims, raising her flour dusted hands in protest. “I always make tins of my homemade biscuits to give as gifts every Christmas.”

 

“That’s a good idea, Mrs. W.!” Hilda remarks. “Everyone enjoys a nice homemade biscuit or two with their tea, whoever they are, don’t they?”

 

“I for one, find one of Ada’s biscuits with tea to be one of life’s pleasures.” George remarks from behind the newspaper. Ada and the girls listen as he pops the last of his stolen biscuit in his mouth and munches on it noisily, sighing as he does.

 

“Well, play your cards right, and behave yourself, George,” Ada replies. “And you may have one with your tea when Hilda, Edith and I have finished.”

 

“No-one says no to a tin of Mum’s homemade biscuits.” Edith adds as she slips her spatula into her bowl of white icing and withdraws a much smaller amount of icing this time before starting on decorating a heart shaped biscuit from her pile.

 

“Much better amount, Edith love.” Ada nods approvingly.

 

“Will we have enough biscuits to give some to Frank and Mrs. McTavish on Christmas Day?” Edith asks.

 

“Didn’t we last year, Edith love?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So we will again this year, then.”

 

“That’s good, Mum. Thank you.”

 

“That’s alright, love. Although I know you’re only asking me because you just want to give Frank all the heart shaped biscuits you bake and decorate.” Ada smiles indulgently. “Don’t you, Edith love?”

 

Edith gasps and flushes at her mother’s wry observation. “Oh no, Mum!” she defends herself, but then adds, “Well, not all the heart biscuits, at any rate.”

 

“Aha!” Ada clucks. “I better make a few extra hearts then, hadn’t I?”

 

“It’s a shame you can’t come for Christmas too, Hilda!” Edith says. “Think what fun we’d all have playing charades********* after our Christmas dinner!”

 

“Oh thank you Edith,” Hilda replies. “That would be ever so much fun, but you’ve scarcely got enough room around this table for your family and Frank and his gran, never mind me.”

 

“We always have room at our table on Christmas Day for any waif or stray at a loose end.” George says, lowing the paper and looking earnestly at Hilda. “Isn’t that right, Ada?”

 

“George is right, Hilda.” Ada presses out a final gingerbread man biscuit and slips it along with the others on a battered old baking tray, ready for the hot oven behind her. She looks at Hilda and gives her a friendly smile. “You’d be very welcome.”

 

“Oh, it’s kind of you, Mrs. W., but I can’t even though I’d like to.”

 

“Well, I imagine you’ll want to be with your own family on Christmas Day, anyway.” Ada remarks as she picks up the tray of unbaked biscuits, turns around and walks over to the range where she opens the door of the baking oven with the aid of a protective tea towel and slips the tray into its glowing interior.

 

“Oh it isn’t that, Mum. Hilda will be in Shropshire with Mr. and Mrs. Channon on Christmas Day, pretending to Mrs. Channon’s lady’s maid again, to help her save face.”

 

“What’s that, Hilda love? Christmas with strangers, so far away?”

 

“Mr. and Mrs. Channon are hardly strangers, Mrs. W.,” Hilda answers. “And I don’t really mind.”

 

Edith smiles over the table at her friend decorating her biscuit with a random smattering of silver balls, rather than a carefully arranged pattern like her. “At least you’ll know all the quirks about how the Lancravens’ house works this year, and how you’re supposed to behave, where you’re supposed to sit, and what name you’ll have to answer to.”

 

“Edith’s is right, Mrs. W..” Hilda explains. “Mr. and Mrs. Channon and Mr. Channon’s parents the Marquis and Marchioness of Taunton have been invited to spend Christmas and New Year again this year at Lady Lancraven’s country house in Shropshire. We went there last Christmas. Lady Lancraven invites them so they can enjoy the foxhunt she hosts on Boxing Day. I have to go and pretend to be Mrs. Channon’s lady’s maid, as everyone else who stays has a lady’s maid, or a valet if you’re a man.”

 

“They call Hilda ‘Channon’ because she is Mrs. Channon’s maid.” Edith giggles.

 

“Yes, that’s how it is in those old country houses.” Ada says knowingly. “It’s a most peculiar tradition. Just as peculiar as the idea that men and women riding horses to chase after a fox is seen as sporting! How anyone can hurt a poor little fox and hunt it down’s beyond me.” Ada mutters shaking her head as she returns to the table from the oven.

 

“It’s what they do, Ada love,” George says, lowing his paper again. “And they’ve been doing it for generations. It’s a rum business**********, and that’s a fact, but,” He shrugs. “There’ll be no changing them now.”

 

“Luckily I don’t have to go to that part of the Christmas and New Year celebrations, Mr. W., but I do have to say that as servants, Lady Lancraven lets us have a bit of fun at Christmas. There is even a servants’ ball*********** held for us on Twelfth Night************.”

 

“I remember the servant’s ball at the big house my Mum used to work in back when I was still a little girl.” Ada says wistfully. “I was allowed to stay up late as a treat and go with Mum to the party, so long as I sat in the corner and kept out of trouble. Oh, the music was grand!” She sighs deeply as she remembers. “There was an upright piano in the servant’s hall which one of the men played, and someone else played the fiddle, and of course everyone sang back in those days with no wireless to listen to for entertainment. The master and mistress of the house would come down for a short while and he would dance with the housekeeper and she with the butler.”

 

“It’s the same at Lady Lancraven’s, although there’ll be no Lord Lancraven this year, since she’s a widow now.”

 

“The Merry Widow,” Edith giggles. “Is what the society pages call her.”

 

“Edith!” Ada chides.

 

“I’m only quoting what they say in the newspapers, Mum.”

 

“You’re quoting idle and wicked gossip, young lady,” Ada wags her finger at Edith. “And you know I can’t abide nasty gossip, even if someone thinks it worthy to print in the newspapers.”

 

“No Mum.” Edith mutters apologetically.

 

“As I remember it,” Ada remarks, shifting the conversation back to her own childhood memories of her life when Harlesden was still semi-rural************. “The Master and Mistress always found it a bit awkward, dancing and mixing with the servants, and they never stayed for long, but this was when the old Queen was still on the throne, and times were a bit different and more formal then.”

 

“Well, Lord and Lady Lancraven didn’t stay for long either, Mrs. W., but some of the younger guests upstairs who had come to stay for Twelfth Night festivities last year came down and joined us. It was rather a lark!”

 

“I hope none of those young men from upstairs tried to take advantage of you, Hilda!”

 

“No, just a leering footman.” Edith remarks, remembering her friend talk about Lady Lancraven’s presumptuous first footman who winked at Hilda and flirted with her last year.

 

“What’s that?” Ada queries.

 

“It’s alright, Mrs. W.. I have protection when I go there. The other reason why Mrs. Channon accepted the Lancravens’ invitation last year, and this year again, is because my elder sister, Emily, is Lady Lancraven’s lady’s maid, so it means I get to spend Christmas and New Year with her.”

 

“Oh that must be nice for you, Hilda love, especially since you’ll be so far from home.” Ada remarks as she begins pulling all the excess pieces of dough together and re-forming it into a ball to roll out again.

 

“And this year, because my sister explained that I was going up there again as Mrs. Channon’s lady’s maid, she asked Lady Lancraven if she could invite our Mum and bring her up from London by train and have her stay for Christmas and New Year, and she said yes!”

 

“Won’t your dad mind, Hilda love?” Ada asks. “He’ll be lonely at Christmas without your mum for company.”

 

Both girls stop decorating their biscuits and an awkward silence falls across the table.

 

“No Mrs. W.,” Hilda finally says. “My Dad was killed in the Great War, out in France, you see.”

 

“Oh!” Ada raises her hands to her cheeks, feeling the heat of an awkward blush beneath her fingers. “Oh I’m sorry love. I… I didn’t know.”

 

“It’s alright, Mrs. W.. I never told you.” Hilda replies. “Anyway, it’s Mum who gets lonely, what with Ronnie on the other side of the world for work, and Emily and me in service.”

 

“No doubt the fare up to Shropshire is at your sister’s expense.” George remarks dourly, tutting as he changes the subject slightly and shakes the newspaper noisily.

 

“No Mr. W.!” Hilda replies as she slides her decorated biscuit onto the white porcelain plate in the centre of the kitchen table. “Lady Lancraven’s not like that at all! She’s ever so nice, and generous too. She’s so nice in fact that she’s footing the cost of the railway ticket for Mum from London to Shropshire and back home again after Twelfth Night.”

 

“Well, that is a turn up for the books, Hilda love.” George remarks with a smile.

 

“It will be so lovely to have both Mum and Emily and me together for a few days at Christmas, even if Emily and I will still have to work. We’ll have fun when we’re not.”

 

“Couse you will, Hilda love.” Ada agrees.

 

“Well, we might not be a grand country house, Hilda, but we’re going to have ever so much fun right here on New Year’s Eve.” Edith enthuses.

 

“You aren’t going back to the **************Angel in Rotherhithe with Frank like the last two years, then, Edith?” Hilda asks.

 

“Why would they do that, Hilda love,” George asks. “When they can have a better time of it right here?”

 

“Dad’s decided that he wants to have a knees up right here, Hilda, especially since Bert is going to be home on shore leave for both Christmas and New Year this year. Bert is inviting some of his chums from the Demosthenes*************** who are also on shore leave and staying in London.”

 

“I hope his friends aren’t going to be too rough and rowdy.” Ada says with concern as she kneads the dough.

 

“Of course they won’t be, Ada love!” George tuts from his chair. “He’s working in the rarified surrounds of the Demosthenes’ first-class dining saloon, not her boiler room.”

 

“Well, rarified or not, I bet there are plenty of rowdy lads working in the first-class dining saloon, George.” Ada scoffs as she picks up her rolling pin and begins to roll out the lightly dusted ball of leftover dough into another, flat circle.

 

“Well I’m inviting some of my old chums from school,” Edith assures her mother calmly as she starts to ice a biscuit in the shape of a jolly, round snowman. “And that includes Alice Dunn****************, so Bert’s friends will just have to behave, Mum.”

 

“See, Ada love,” George opines. “Invite the Vicar’s daughter, and they’ll be sure to behave.”

 

“Pshaw!” Ada scoffs, flapping her hand, shooing away her husband’s remark flippantly. “With a bottle of champagne promised to Edith by Miss Chetwynd as a New year gift,” She stops rolling out the dough, turns and looks at her husband with a cocked eyebrow and a doubtful look. “I hardly think so.”

 

“Well, we’ll only be a few footsteps away, up in the front parlour with Mr. and Mrs. Pyecroft, Ada love, so I doubt there will be too many shenanigans going on.”

 

“I should hope not!” Ada goes back to rolling out the dough. “Shenanigans indeed!”

 

“It’s going to be so much fun!” Edith says. “I do wish you could come!”

 

“It’ll be more fun if Frank comes through with that gramophone he keeps promising.” George says.

 

“Oh, you know Frank, Dad.” Edith defends her beau steadfastly. “If he says he’ll do something, he does it.”

 

“That he does, Edith love.” her father agrees.

 

“A gramophone, Edith?” Hilda gasps. “How ripping!”

 

“Yes. Frank says he knows someone from the trades union with a gramophone. His friend will be away over Christmas, so he said that Frank could borrow it for New Year’s Eve. Apparently he had all the latest records.”

 

“That will make your New Year’s Eve, Edith! Do you remember that day we went down Oxford Street and went into His Master’s Voice***************** and you convinced me to come inside with you, so we could enjoy the elicit delight of listening to records we were never going to buy?”

 

“Faint heart never won fair lady, Hilda.” Edith giggles.

 

“That’s right!” Hilda exclaims. “That’s what you told me before you dragged me in there.”

 

“I hardly dragged you, Hilda.” Edith retorts. “You wanted to listen to Paul Whiteman.”

 

“And I did!” Hilda giggles with delight.

 

“Perhaps it’s more Edith and her girlfriends we need to worry about rather than Bert and his shipmates on New Year’s Eve, Ada love.” George ventures with a conspiratorial smile and a wink at his daughter.

 

*’Claude Duval’ is a 1924 British silent adventure film directed by George A. Cooper and starring Nigel Barrie, Fay Compton and Hugh Miller. It is based on the historical story of Claude Duval, the French highwayman in Restoration England who worked in the service of exiled royalists who returned to England under King Charles II.

 

**The Willesden Empire Hippodrome Theatre was confusingly located in Harlesden, although it was not too far from Willesden Junction Railway Station in this west London inner city district. It was opened by Walter Gibbons as a music hall/variety theatre in September 1907. In 1908, the name was shortened to Willesden Hippodrome Theatre. Designed by noted theatre architect Frank Matcham, seating was provided for 864 in the orchestra stalls and pit, 517 in the circle and 602 in the gallery. It had a forty feet wide proscenium, a thirty feet deep stage and eight dressing rooms. It was taken over by Sydney Bernstein’s Granada Theatres Ltd. chain from the third of September 1927 and after some reconstruction was re-opened on the twelfth of September 1927 with a programme policy of cine/variety. From March 1928 it was managed by the Denman/Gaumont group, but was not successful and went back to live theatre use from 28th January 1929. It was closed in May 1930, and was taken over by Associated British Cinemas in August 1930. Now running films only, it operated as a cinema until September 1938. It then re-opened as a music hall/variety theatre, with films shown on Sundays, when live performances were prohibited. The Willesden Hippodrome Theatre was destroyed by German bombs in August/September 1940. The remains of the building stood on the High Street for many years, becoming an unofficial playground for local children, who trespassed onto the property. The remains were demolished in 1957.

 

***The Daily Express is a national daily United Kingdom middle-market newspaper printed in tabloid format. It was first published as a broadsheet in London in 1900 by Sir Arthur Pearson. Its sister paper, the Sunday Express, was launched in 1918. Under the ownership of Lord Beaverbrook, the Express rose to become the newspaper with the largest circulation in the world, going from two million in the 1930s to four million in the 1940s.

 

****The Sundy Express became the first newspaper to publish a crossword in November 1924.

 

*****An argyle pattern features overlapping diamonds with intersecting diagonal lines on top of the diamonds. They are traditionally knit, not woven, using an intarsia technique. The pattern was named after the Seventeenth Century tartan of Clan Campbell of Argyll in western Scotland.

 

******Roundwood Park takes its name from Roundwood House, an Elizabethan-style mansion built in Harlesden for Lord Decies in around 1836. In 1892 Willesden Local Board, conscious of a need for a recreation ground in expanding Harlesden, started the process of buying the land for what is now Roundwood Park. Roundwood Park was built in 1893, designed by Oliver Claude Robson. He was allocated nine thousand pounds to lay out the park. He put in five miles of drains, and planted an additional fourteen and a half thousand trees and shrubs. This took quite a long time as he used local unemployed labour for this work in preference to contractors. Mr. Robson had been the Surveyor of the Willesden Local Board since 1875. As an engineer, he was responsible for many major works in Willesden including sewerage and roads. The fine main gates and railings were made in 1895 by Messrs. Tickner & Partington at theVulcan Works, Harrow Road, Kensal Rise. An elegant lodge house was built to house the gardener; greenhouses erected to supply new flowers, and paths constructed, running upward to the focal point-an elegant bandstand on the top of the hill. The redbrick lodge was in the Victorian Elizabethan style, with ornamented chimney-breasts. It is currently occupied by council employees although the green houses have been demolished. For many years Roundwood Park was home to the Willesden Show. Owners of pets of many types, flowers and vegetables, and even 'bonny babies' would compete for prizes in large canvas tents. Art and crafts were shown, and demonstrations of dog-handling, sheep-shearing, parachuting and trick motorcycling given.

 

*******Two-up two-down is a type of small house with two rooms on the ground floor and two bedrooms upstairs. There are many types of terraced houses in the United Kingdom, and these are among the most modest. The first two-up two-down terraces were built in the 1870s, but the concept of them made up the backbone of the Metroland suburban expansions of the 1920s with streets lined with rows of two-up two-down semi-detached houses in Mock Tudor, Jacobethan, Arts and Crafts and inter-war Art Deco styles bastardised from the aesthetic styles created by the likes of English Arts and Crafts Movement designers like William Morris and Charles Voysey.

 

********A skillion roof, sometimes called a shed or lean-to roof, is distinguished by a single, sloping plane extending from one side of the house to the other.

 

*********Charades is a word guessing game where one player has to act out a word or action without speaking and other players have to guess what the action is. It's a fun game that's popular around the world at parties, and was traditionally a game often played on Christmas Day after luncheon or dinner by people of all classes.

 

**********The word “rum” can sometimes be used as an alternative to odd or peculiar, such as: “it's a rum business, certainly”.

 

***********The servants’ ball has had a long tradition in the country house estates of Britain and only really died out with the onset of the Second World War. They were a cultural melting pot where popular music of the day would be performed alongside traditional country dance tunes. Throughout the Nineteenth Century and into the Twentieth, these balls were commonplace in large country homes.

 

************Twelfth Night (also known as Epiphany Eve depending upon the tradition) is a Christian festival on the last night of the Twelve Days of Christmas, marking the coming of the Epiphany. Different traditions mark the date of Twelfth Night as either the fifth of January or the sixth of January, depending on whether the counting begins on Christmas Day or the twenty-sixth of December. January the sixth is celebrated as the feast of Epiphany, which begins the Epiphanytide season.

 

*************It may be built up and suburban today, but Harlesden was just a few big houses and farms until 1840 when the railway was built. Irish immigrants escaping famine in the 1840s came to Harlesden to build canals and railways. Harlesden grew slowly, but by the 1870s and 1880s, when Ada would have been a girl, streets of small houses for railway workers, laundries and bakeries started to appear and the area slowly transformed from rural to suburban. The land around Harlesden Green, for the most part, was owned by the College of All Souls, Oxford, which was later to give its name to the Harlesden Parish Church.

 

**************The Angel, one of the oldest Rotherhithe pubs, is now in splendid isolation in front of the remains of Edward III's mansion on the Thames Path at the western edge of Rotherhithe. The site was first used when the Bermondsey Abbey monks used to brew beer which they sold to pilgrims. It is located at 24 Rotherhithe St, opposite Execution Dock in Wapping. It has two storeys, plus an attic. It is built of multi-coloured stock brick with a stucco cornice and blocking course. The ground floor frontage is made of wood. There is an area of segmental arches on the first floor with sash windows, and it is topped by a low pitched slate roof. Its Thames frontage has an unusual weatherboarded gallery on wooden posts. The interior is divided by wooden panels into five small rooms. In the early Twentieth Century its reputation and location attracted local artists including Augustus John and James Abbott McNeil Whistler. In the 1940s and 50s it became a popular destination for celebrities including Laurel and Hardy. Today its customers are local residents, tourists and people walking the Thames Path.

 

***************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 vicar of All Souls Parish Church in Harlesden between 1918 and 1927 was Ernest Arnold Dunn. Whilst I cannot find any details about his family life, I’d like to think that he was a happily married man of god and could well have had a daughter named Alice who no doubt played the organ in church on Sundays.

 

*****************The Gramophone Company, who used the brand of Nipper the dog listening to a gramophone, opened the first His Master’s Voice (HMV) shop in London’s busy shopping precinct at 363 Oxford Street in Mayfair on the 20th of July 1921. The master of ceremonies was British composer Sir Edward Elgar. The shop still remains in the possession of more recently financially embattled HMV and it is colloquially known as the ‘home of music since 1921’

 

This cheerful festive 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:

 

Central to our story are the delicious looking plate of iced and decorated Christmas biscuits, which is a miniature artisan piece gifted to me by my dear Flickr friend and artist Kim Hagar (www.flickr.com/photos/bkhagar_gallery/), who surprised me with it last Christmas. The silver miniature biscuit cutters, all of which have handles and raised edges, just like their life-sized counterpart, are also from her. I have been anxious to use these in a scene, but of course being festively themed, they have had to wait until now.

 

The flour and dough covered wooden board with its flour dusted rolling pin is also an artisan miniature which I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. Aged on purpose, the rather worn and beaten looking enamelled cannisters for flour and sugar, made in typical domestic Art Deco design and painted in the popular kitchen colours of the 1920s are artisan pieces I also acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop. The glass jar of sugar with its cork stopper and the silver spoon sticking out of the flour cannister also come from there.

 

The two bowls of icing you can just see to the left and right of the photo are also 1:12 artisan miniatures that I acquired from former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her food looks so real! Frances Knight’s work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination.

 

Ada’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 of either chair, but it is definitely an unmarked artisan pieces.

 

Ada’s worn kitchen table I have had since I was a child of seven or eight.

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 Tuesday and we are in the kitchen of Lettice’s flat: Edith her maid’s preserve, except on Tuesdays, every third Thursday of the month and occasionally after a big party. That is when Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman*, comes from her home in Poplar to do all the hard jobs. Edith is grateful that unlike her previous positions, she does not have to scrub the black and quite chequered kitchen linoleum, nor polish the parquetry floors, not do her most hated job, black lead the stovetop. Mrs. Boothby does them all without complaint, with reliability and to a very high standard. She is also very handy on cleaning and washing up duty with Edith after one of Lettice’s extravagant cocktail parties.

 

Lettice is away, staying with her family at Glynes, the Chetwynd’s grand Georgian Wiltshire estate, where she is visiting a neighbour of sorts of her parents, Mr. Alisdair Gifford who wishes Lettice to decorate a room for his Australian wife Adelina, to house her collection of blue and white china. Lettice’s absence allows Edith and Mrs. Boothby to tackle some of the more onerous jobs around Cavendish Mews before Lettice’s return later in the week. Whilst Mrs. Boothby has been giving the bathroom a really good going over with a scourer, Edith has climbed a stepladder, taken down all the crystal lustres of the chandeliers in the drawing room, dining room and hallway, washed them all and returned them to their freshly dusted metal frames. After a very full morning’s work, the two ladies are taking a well-deserved break in the kitchen of Cavendish Mews and sit around the deal kitchen table, enjoying a cup of tea, and the pleasant company of one another.

 

“Thank you for giving the bathroom a really good going over, Mrs. Boothby,” Edith says with a very grateful lilt to her voice as she pours some fresh tea into the old Cockney charwoman’s Delftware teacup. “I do try and keep it tidy, but… well…” Her voice trails off.

 

“Nah, don’t cha give it a second fort, Edith dearie,” Mrs. Boothby replies, blowing forth clouds of acrid pale greyish blue smoke across the tabletop covered with magazines, books and a tin of Huntley and Palmers** Empire Assorted Biscuits. “I know youse does, but what wiv all those lotions ‘n’ potions Miss Lettice uses to titivate ‘erself wiv, well, it just gets plain scummy, don’t it? I mean, what’s the point in all them fancy bottles of pink ‘n’ blue stuff wiv fancy labels if it’s all gonna go dahwn the plug ‘ole in the end, anyway?”

 

Edith smiles at Mrs. Boothby’s direct manner. Even though she has been working at Cavendish Mews, and thus Mrs. Boothby for five years now, there are still things that fly from the old woman’s mouth that surprise her.

 

“I mean all Ken and I use is a good old scrubbin’ wiv some carbolic,” Mrs. Boothby continues. “And look, ain’t I just as lovely as Miss Lettice?” She lifts her chin upwards and stretches out her arms slightly in a mock impersonation of a model. A serenely haughty look fills her heavily wrinkled face for just a moment, before she resumes her normal stance and starts laughing hard, her jolly guffaws punctuated by her fruity smoker roughened coughs.

 

“Oh Mrs. Boothby!” Edith titters. “You are a one!”

 

“’Ere! Don’t laugh, Edith dearie! That could be me on this ‘ere cover!” Mrs. Boothby laughs, carrying on the joke as she snatches up Edith’s latest copy of Home Chat from the tabletop in front of her and holds it up next to her face. “The face what sold a million copies!”

 

“Oh Mrs. Boothby!” Edith manages to splutter between laughs as tears roll down her cheeks. “You’re making my sides hurt.”

 

“Oh well, we can’t ‘ave none of that nah, can we?” the old woman says cheekily, returning the magazine to its place on top of a copy of Everylady’s Journal****. “Too much laughter eh? On ta somfink more serious. You clean all them dainty crystal drops what ‘ang off the lights then, did cha?”

 

“Oh yes, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith manages to say as she calms down and dabs the corners of her eyes with her dainty lace embroidered handkerchief. “It’s an awful job. I’m just glad Miss Lettice is away, so I can do it.”

 

“I agree. It does make it a bit easier when Miss Lettice ain’t ‘ome. You can leave a job and come back to it, ‘specially if it’s a big job, and not ‘ave to worry ‘bout pickin’ up after yerself in case she comes flouncin’ threw.”

 

“Her absence gives me a chance to think about some new menu options for my repertoire.” Edith adds, patting the covers of two cookbooks sitting just to her right. “I’m a good plain cook, but I’d like to be able to do a few fancier things too.”

 

“Nuffink wrong wiv a bit of plain cookin’, Edith dearie. That’s all I served me Bill when ‘e was alive, and ‘e nevva complained ‘bout anyfink I served ‘im up for tea.”

 

“I know Mrs. Boothby, and some the best recipes I know, I learned from Mum who is also a plain cook, but I’d just like to expand a bit. It would be nice to be able to make something fancier if Miss Lettice asks.”

 

“Well, just be careful, dearie.” The old charwoman picks up her cigarette from the black ashtray and takes a deep drag on it. “You’ll make a rod for your own back if you ain’t careful. Youse knows what them toffs can be like. Just look at poor “Ilda ‘avin’ ta grind coffee bits for Mr. Channon ev’ry mornin’ now, just cos once Mr. Carter the fancy American came visitin’ and made demands for fresh ground coffee, when Camp Coffee***** would ‘ave done just as well.” She blows out another plume of smoke and releases a few fruity phlegm filled coughs as she does. “Nah she’s gotta make it all the time, poor love.” Changing the subject after taking a slurp of her sweet hot tea, she continues, “So youse ready then, for Sunday?”

 

“Oh yes, I am!” Edith enthuses, thinking of the trip that she will be taking to Wembley to see the British Empire Exhibition****** with her beau, shop delivery boy Frank Leadbetter, her parents and brother, Bert, and Frank’s Scottish grandmother, Mrs. McTavish, on Sunday. “I can hardly wait. It all just sounds so amazing! All different pavilions from around the world.”

 

“Frank got your tickets then?”

 

“Well, he actually gave them to me, because he’s concerned that the daughter of Mr. Willison might pinch them, just to be nasty.”

 

“She sounds like a right piece a work, dearie. Best they stay safe wiv you, ‘ere at Cavendish Mews, then.”

 

“Yes, best to be on the safe side, for Henrietta,” Edith shudders as she mentions her name. “Is quite a little madam. Mind you,” She takes up a biscuit from the tin before her and takes a satisfied bite out of it. “I did give her what for that day you and I walked up to Oxford Street together.”

 

“Whatchoo do, Edith dearie?” Mrs. Boothby asks, snatching up a biscuit for herself with her long and bony, careworn fingers of her right hand, whilst holding her smouldering cigarette aloft in her left. She leans forward, excited to catch a little bit of gossip about her younger companion and friend.

 

“Well, after you left Frank and I together…”

 

“Ah yes!” Mrs. Boothby interrupts. “No place for an old woman like me when there’s young love in the air, is there?”

 

“We didn’t exactly shoo you away, Mrs. Boothby, as I recall it.”

 

“Well, be that as it may, go on.” She takes a long drag on her hand rolled cigarette, the paper crackling as the tobacco inside burns.

 

“Well, after you left and Frank and I talked for just a little while, I noticed we were being observed by that nasty little snitch. She accused us of cavorting in the street!”

 

“Did she now, fancy fine little madam?”

 

“As if she even knew what cavorting meant.”

 

“So whatchoo do, then, Edith dearie?”

 

“Well, I told her that we weren’t, and I told her to stop spying on Frank and I, or I’d tell Miss Lettice that I wanted to take our business elsewhere, and that her father would know that she was the cause of it.”

 

The old Cockney woman bursts out laughing and claps her hands in delight, showering flakes of ash and biscuit crumbs over the table before her. “Good for you, Edith dearie! I ain’t nevva fort youse ‘ave the guts to do somefink like that!”

 

“Nor did I, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith answers slightly shakily as she puts her hand to her heaving chest where her heart beats a little faster at the memory of her altercation with Henrietta Willison. “I don’t quite know where it came from, but I did, and I’m not unhappy that I did it.”

 

“Well, I say well done, dearie. That girl sounds like a nasty bit o’ work: spyin’ on people and spoilin’ their fun by threatenin’ ta steal tickets what they done paid for. It ain’t right. Sounds like she got what was commin’ to ‘er, and there’s a fact.”

 

“All the same, I do feel a little guilty about it.”

 

“Why, Edith dearie?” Mrs. Boothby munches contentedly on the remains of her biscuit as she settles back into the rounded back of the Windsor chair she sits in.

 

“Well, part of me thinks that for all her nastiness, it’s not entirely Henrietta’s fault that she is the way that she is.”

 

“’Ow’s that then?”

 

“Well, she’s at that difficult age. I don’t know if I was overly wonderful when I was her age either. Mum always said I was in a funk, which I put down to working for nasty old Widow Hounslow at the time, but looking back, I think I was emotional. My first chap who I was sweet on, the postman, had taken the King’s shilling******* and gone off to Flander’s Fields******* and never came back.”

 

“Bless all of ‘em takers of the King’s shillin’.” Mrs. Boothby interrupts, lowering her eyes as she does so.

 

“So I was a mess of emotions.”

 

“Course you was, dearie. Any girl wiv a sweetheart in the army would ‘ave been the same.”

 

“Maybe, but I think that even if there hadn’t been a war, I’d still have been emotional. You see it wasn’t just the war: everything made me emotional, or sullen.” She stops speaking and takes a gentle sip of her tea. “Do you know what I think, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“What’s that then, dearie?”

 

“I think Henrietta is sweet on Frank, even though she’s far to young for Frank, and I think she sees me as a threat.”

 

“Nah, nah, my girl!” Mrs. Boothby defends. “Youse ain’t no threat ta nobody!”

 

“You know that, and I know that, but I think in her emotional, difficult stage of life mind, Henrietta thinks that if I went away, Frank might notice her.”

 

“Well, whevva she finks that or not, she’s still got no business stealin’ a body’s tickets what they gone and paid for ‘emselves. She got what she deserved, which I ‘ope is a big fright!” Mrs. Boothby nods seriously as she screws up her face into an even more wrinkled mass of crumpled flesh.

 

“Maybe, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Would you go frew wiv it, then: ya threat, I mean?”

 

“Well, I haven’t had to yet, but if she continues to spy on Frank and I, or cause trouble, I will tell Miss Lettice, and I don’t think she’ll take too kindly to me being bothered in my own time by the daughter of our grocers.”

 

“Well, enuf ‘bout ‘er, Edith dearie. Nah you said your dad was lookin’ forward to seein’ the trains at the hexibition.”

 

“That’s right, Mrs. Boothby. The Flying Scotsman********* in the Palace of Engineering.”

 

“Right-o. But whatchoo lookin’ forward to seein’ the most on Sunday, besides Frank’s pretty blue eyes starin’ dahwn inta yer own, eh?”

 

“Oh Mrs. Boothby!” Edith gasps, raising her hands to her cheeks as she feels them flush. As the old Cockney chuckles mischievously from her seat adjunct to Edith, the young girl perseveres as she clears her throat. “Well, I’m looking forward to seeing the Palace of Engineering too.”

 

“I nevva took you for a train lover, Edith dearie!” Mrs. Boothby says in surprise.

 

“Oh, it isn’t the railway exhibits I’m interested in.” Edith assures her, raising her hands defensively before her and shaking her pretty head. “No. I saw in the newspapers the designer of the Lion of Engineering********** and I read what was going to be included in the pavilion, and there will be examples of new British labour-saving devices, so I’m very keen to see them.”

 

“Is that all?” Mrs. Boothby exclaims aghast. “A whole bunch of new fancy appliances? What about all the fings from ‘round the world? That’s what I’d be interested to see!”

 

“Oh I am. They say that there will be coloured people there from some of the African nations, living right there at the exhibition, giving demonstrations of native crafts and taking part in traditional cultural events.”

 

“Yes, I read that too! Fancy that! I don’t see many coloured people, even dahwn Poplar, where we’s all mixed in togevva, ‘cept maybe a sailor or two nah and then.”

 

“And there will be elephants roaming around too, and goodness knows what else. It’s all going to be amazing, I’m sure.”

 

“Well, I look forward to ‘earing all about it from you, Edith dearie. You’ll probably be the closest I get to seein’ it, meself.”

 

Edith cradles her cup in her hands and looks thoughtfully at the old woman. “Aren’t you going to go too, Mrs. Boothby. Everyone I know is going. Hilda is going, although one of her friends from Mrs. Minkin’s knitting circle asked her before Frank and I did, so she is going with some of them in a few weeks.”

 

“Yes, she told me she was goin’, too, but not wiv you, which is a bit of a shame.”

 

“Oh, I’m just glad that she’s going, and that she has made some new friends.” Edith replies happily. “Hilda, as you know, is quite shy, and she finds it hard to make friends. I don’t think we would have been friends if we hadn’t shared a bedroom at Mrs. Plaistow’s, even if we were both under housemaids and living under the same roof.” She sighs. “Anyway, Hilda and I get to see each other all the time, especially since we live so close by now. As a matter of fact, I’m actually going over to Hill Street tonight, with Miss Lettice’s blessing, to help wait table with Hilda for Mr. and Mrs. Channon. They have some important guests from America coming to dinner this evening, and Hilda can’t manage to serve Lobster à la Newburg*********** by herself. Thus, why I have pulled out my cookbooks. I need to have my head on right if I’m to be head cook for Hilda, who is petrified of spoiling the lobster for Mr. and Mrs. Channon’s guests.”

 

“Well, I ‘ope Mr. and Mrs. Channon is payin’ you, Edith dearie, is all I’ll say. They might be ‘avin’ some fancy toffs over for a lobster tea, probably that American Mr. Carter and ‘is snobby English wife, but they’s can barely scrape by payin’ the ‘ouse’old bills. “Ilda ‘ad the wine merchants boys over at ‘Ill Street last week whilst I was there. Luckily, Mr. and Mrs. Channon were genuinely out, so ‘Ilda didn’t ‘ave ta lie and say they weren’t ‘ome when they was, but it’s still pretty bad when the bailiff’s knockin’ at the door.”

 

“Yes, I heard about that from Hilda. It’s a sorry state of affairs, and that’s a fact. I don’t think Mr. or Mrs. Channon can balance a budget to save themselves. Luckily, like you and Hilda, tonight’s wages will be paid to be by Mrs. Channon’s father, Mr. de Virre, who will also be in attendance.”

 

“Just as well. ‘E never fails to pay me wages.”

 

“Anyway, you were going to tell me why you and Ken aren’t going to the British Empire Exhibition. I’m sure Ken would enjoy the amusement park. Apparently it’s the biggest in Britain.”

 

“Big ain’t necessarily best.” Mrs. Boothby concludes sagely. “And it certainly ain’t for me Ken. I’m sure you’re right. ‘E’d love the rides and the colour, but they’s too many people there, and Ken gets hoverwhelmed, ‘e does if they’s too many strangers about. Besides,” she adds with a defensive sniff. “I don’t want no-one lookin’ sideways wiv funny glances at me Ken. ‘E’s a good lad, but folks outside ‘a Polar ain’t so kind to lads like ‘im, and I won’t ‘ave no strangers pokin’ fun at ‘im niver!”

 

“Well that’s fair enough, Mrs. Boothby. Shall I buy Ken a nice souvenir from the exhibition, then, since he’s not going to go himself?”

 

“Youse spoils my lad, Edith dearie. Nah, what youse should be doin’ is savin’ your shillin’s and pence for when you set up ‘ouse wiv Frank. Youse far too generous, dearie.”

 

“Nonsense, Mrs. Boothby. I think a treat for someone as sweet as Ken is only deserving.”

 

“Well, if I can’t talk you outta it, make it somethin’ small and cheap, eh?”

 

“Alright Mrs. Boothby.” Edith laughs good naturedly. “More tea?”

 

“Like I’d evva say no to a nice cup ‘a Rosie-Lee************, dearie!”

 

Just as Edith pours the tea, a jangling ring echoes through the peaceable quiet of the kitchen.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

Edith places the knitted coy covered pot back down on the table with an irritable thud and looks aghast through the doors wedged open showing a clear view to Lettice’s dining room. Beyond it in the Cavendish Mews drawing room, the sparkling silver and Bakelite telephone rings.

 

“Oh! That infernal contraption!” she mutters to herself.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

Edith hates answering the telephone. It’s one of the few jobs in her position as Lettice’s maid that she wishes she didn’t have to do. Whenever she has to answer it, which is quite often considering how frequently her mistress is out and about, there is usually some uppity caller at the other end of the phone, whose toffee-nosed accent only seems to sharpen when they realise they are speaking to ‘the hired help’ as they abruptly demand Lettice’s whereabouts.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“That will be the telephone, Miss Watsford,” Mrs. Boothby says with a cheeky smirk as she stubs out her cigarette and reaches for her tobacco and papers so that she can roll herself another one. “Best youse go see ‘oo it is, then.”

 

Edith groans as she picks herself up out of her comfortable Windsor chair and walks towards the scullery connecting the service part of the flat with Lettice’s living quarters. “I should have disconnected it from the wall the instant Miss Lettice left.” she says as she goes. “Then let’s hear it ring.”

 

“Oh! I should like to see Miss Lettice’s face if she came back and saw that!” Mrs. Boothby manages to say between her guffaws and smattering of fruity coughs as Edith disappears.

 

*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.

 

**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, morning and afternoon tea and reading time.

 

***Alfred Harmsworth founded Home Chat to compete with Home Notes. He ran the Amalgamated Press and through them he published the magazine. He founded it in 1895 and the magazine ran until 1959. It was published as a small format magazine which came out weekly. As was usual for such women's weeklies the formulation was to cover society gossip and domestic tips along with short stories, dress patterns, recipes and competitions. One of the editors was Maud Brown. She retired in 1919 and was replaced by her sister Flora. It began with a circulation of 186,000 in 1895 and finished up at 323,600 in 1959. It took a severe hit before the Second World War in circulation but had recovered before it was closed down.

 

****The Everylady’s Journal was published monthly in Australia and shipped internationally from 1911 to 1938, but began life as The New Idea: A Woman’s Journal for Australasia in 1902. The New Idea contained articles on women’s suffrage, alongside discussions about diet, sewing patterns and tips and tricks for the housewife and young lady. From 1911 The New Idea became the Everylady’s Journal. Published by T.S. Fitchett the fashion periodical changed its name to New Idea in 1938, and it is still being published to this day.

 

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

 

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

 

*******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 term “Flanders Fields”, used after the war to refer to the parts of France where the bloodiest battles of the Great War raged comes from "In Flanders Fields" is a war poem in the form of a rondeau, written during the First World War by Canadian physician Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, written in 1915.

 

*********No. 4472 Flying Scotsman is a LNER Class A3 4-6-2 "Pacific" steam locomotive built in 1923 for the London and North Eastern Railway (LNER) at Doncaster Works to a design of Nigel Gresley. It was employed on long-distance express passenger trains on the East Coast Main Line by LNER and its successors, British Railways' Eastern and North Eastern Regions, notably on The Flying Scotsman service between London King's Cross and Edinburgh Waverley after which it was named. Retired from British Railways in 1963 after covering 2.08 million miles, Flying Scotsman has been described as the world's most famous steam locomotive. It had earned considerable fame in preservation under the ownership of, successively, Alan Pegler, William McAlpine, Tony Marchington, and, since 2004, the National Railway Museum. 4472 became a flagship locomotive for the LNER, representing the company twice at the British Empire Exhibition and in 1928, hauled the inaugural non-stop Flying Scotsman service. It set two world records for steam traction, becoming the first locomotive to reach the officially authenticated speed of 100 miles per hour on the 30th of November 1934, and setting the longest non-stop run of a steam locomotive of 422 miles on the 8th of August 1989 whilst on tour in Australia.

 

**********Although largely forgotten today, British artist, sculptor and designer, Percy Metcalf had a great influence on the lives of everyday Britons and millions of people throughout the British Empire. He designed the first coinage of the Irish Free State in 1928. The first Irish coin series consisted of eight coins. The harp was chosen as the obverse. Metcalfe was chosen out of six designers as the winner of the reverse design of the Irish Free State's currency. The horse, salmon, bull, wolf-hound, hare, hen, pig and woodcock were all on different denominations of coinage that was known as the Barnyard Collection. In 1935, it was George V's jubilee, and to celebrate the occasion, a crown piece containing a new design was issued. The reverse side of the coin depicts an image of St George on a horse, rearing over a dragon. Due to its modernistic design by Metcalfe it has earned little credit from collectors. In 1936, Metcalfe designed the obverse crowned effigy of Edward VIII for overseas coinage which was approved by the King, but none was minted for circulation before Edward's abdication that December. Metcalfe was immediately assigned to produce a similar crowned portrait of King George VI for overseas use. This image was also used as part of the George Cross design in 1940. The George Cross is second in the order of wear in the United Kingdom honours system and is the highest gallantry award for civilians, as well as for members of the armed forces in actions for which purely military honours would not normally be granted. It also features on the flag of Malta in recognition of the island's bravery during the Siege of Malta in World War II. Metcalfe also designed the Great Seal of the Realm. He produced designs for coinage of several countries including Ireland and Australia. He created a portrait of King George V which was used as the obverse for coins of Australia, Canada, Fiji, Mauritius, New Zealand and Southern Rhodesia. To commemorate the extraordinary visit that George VI and Queen Elizabeth set out on to North America in 1939, three series of medallions were designed for the Royal Canadian Mint. The reverse side of the coins contained a joint profile of George VI and Queen Elizabeth, which was designed by Metcalfe. This design was also used on the British Coronation Medal of 1937. Metcalfe created a British Jubilee crown piece, which was exhibited in the Leeds College of Art in November 1946. Prior to all his coin designs, Metcalfe had taken up sculpting and designing objects as an art form at the Royal College of Art in London, and he was commissioned to create the great Lions of Industry and Engineering for the British Empire Exhibition in 1924.

 

***********Lobster Newberg (also spelled lobster Newburg or lobster Newburgh) is an American seafood dish made from lobster, butter, cream, cognac, sherry and eggs, with a secret ingredient found to be Cayenne pepper. A modern legend with no primary or early sources states that the dish was invented by Ben Wenberg, a sea captain in the fruit trade. He was said to have demonstrated the dish at Delmonico's Restaurant in New York City to the manager, Charles Delmonico, in 1876. After refinements by the chef, Charles Ranhofer, the creation was added to the restaurant's menu as Lobster à la Wenberg and it soon became very popular. The legend says that an argument between Wenberg and Charles Delmonico caused the dish to be removed from the menu. To satisfy patrons’ continued requests for it, the name was rendered in anagram as Lobster à la Newberg or Lobster Newberg.

 

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

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

Edith’s deal kitchen table is covered with lots of interesting bits and pieces. 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 the United Kingdom. The Huntley and Palmer’s Breakfast Biscuit tin containing a replica selection of biscuits is also a 1:12 artisan piece. Made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight, the biscuits are incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The Deftware cups, saucers, sugar bowl and milk jug are part of a 1:12 size miniature porcelain dinner set which sits on the dresser that can be seen just to the right of shot. The vase of flowers are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium and inserted into a real, hand blown glass vase.

 

Edith’s two cookbooks are made by hand by an unknown American artisan and were acquired from an American miniature collector on E-Bay. The Everywoman Journal magazine from 1924 sitting on the table was made by hand by Petite Gite Miniatures in the United States, whilst the copy of Home Chat is a 1:12 miniature 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 magazines like the copy of Home Chat. It is not designed to be opened. What might amaze you in spite of this is the fact is that all Ken Blythe’s books and magazines 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 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.

 

Also on the table, sit Mrs. Boothby’s Player’s Navy Cut cigarette tin and Swan Vesta matches, which are 1:12 miniatures hand made by Jonesy’s Miniatures in England. The black ashtray is also an artisan piece, the bae of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there). Made by Nottingham based tobacconist manufacturer John Player and Sons, Player’s Medium Navy Cut was the most popular by far of the three Navy Cut brands (there was also Mild and Gold Leaf, mild being today’s rich flavour). Two thirds of all the cigarettes sold in Britain were Player’s and two thirds of these were branded as Player’s Medium Navy Cut. In January 1937, Player’s sold nearly 3.5 million cigarettes (which included 1.34 million in London). Production continued to grow until at its peak in the late 1950s, Player’s was employing 11,000 workers (compared to 5,000 in 1926) and producing 15 brands of pipe tobacco and 11 brands of cigarettes. Nowadays the brands “Player” and “John Player Special” are owned and commercialised by Imperial Brands (formerly the Imperial Tobacco Company). Swan Vestas is a brand name for a popular brand of ‘strike-anywhere’ matches. Shorter than normal pocket matches they are particularly popular with smokers and have long used the tagline ‘the smoker’s match’ although this has been replaced by the prefix ‘the original’ on the current packaging. Swan Vestas matches are manufactured under the House of Swan brand, which is also responsible for making other smoking accessories such as cigarette papers, flints and filter tips. The matches are manufactured by Swedish Match in Sweden using local, sustainably grown aspen. The Swan brand began in 1883 when the Collard & Kendall match company in Bootle on Merseyside near Liverpool introduced ‘Swan wax matches’. These were superseded by later versions including ‘Swan White Pine Vestas’ from the Diamond Match Company. These were formed of a wooden splint soaked in wax. They were finally christened ‘Swan Vestas’ in 1906 when Diamond merged with Bryant and May and the company enthusiastically promoted the Swan brand. By the 1930s ‘Swan Vestas’ had become ‘Britain’s best-selling match’.

 

Edith’s Windsor chairs are both hand-turned 1:12 artisan miniatures which came from America. Unfortunately, the artist did not carve their name under the seat of either chair, but they are definitely unmarked artisan pieces.

 

The bright brass pieces hanging on the wall or standing on the stove all come from various stockists, most overseas, but the three frypans I bought from a High Street specialist in dolls and dolls’ house furnishings when I was a teenager. The spice drawers you can just see hanging on the wall to the upper right-hand corner of the photo came from the same shop as the frypans, but were bought about a year before the pans.

 

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 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.

 

The tin bucket, mops and brooms in the corner of the kitchen all come from Beautifully handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

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

 

Tonight, Lettice is entertaining her old childhood chum Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street, in the dining room of her Cavendish Mews flat: a room equally elegantly appointed with striking black japanned Art Deco furnishings intermixed with a select few Eighteenth Century antiques. The room is heady with the thick perfume of roses brought back from Glynes, the Chetwynd’s palatial Georgian family estate in Wiltshire, from where Lettice has recently returned after visiting a neighbour of sorts of her parents, Mr. Alisdair Gifford who wishes Lettice to decorate a room for his Australian wife Adelina, to house her collection of blue and white china. A bowl full of delicate white blooms graces the black japanned dining table as a centrepiece, whilst a smaller vase of red roses sits on the sideboard at the feet of Lettice’s ‘Modern Woman’ statue, acquired from the nearby Portland Gallery in Bond Street. Silver and crystal glassware sparkle in the light cast by both candlelight and electric light. The pair of old friends have just finished a course of Suprême de Volaille Jeanette: a fillet of chicken served with a rich white roux creamy sauce, ordered from Harrod’s Meat and Fish Hall* and warmed up and finished off by Edith, Lettice’s maid, in the Cavendish Mews kitchen. Gerald returns to the table with two small glasses of port after filling them from a bottle of liqueur in Lettice’s cocktail cabinet in the corner of the room just as Edith steps across the threshold of the dining room carrying a silver tray laden with three types of cheese and an assortment of biscuits, wafers and crackers.

 

“About time, Edith.” Lettice mutters irritably as Edith approaches and slides the tray gently onto the dining table. “Careful! Don’t scratch the table’s surface.”

 

“I’m sorry, Miss.” Edith says as she blushes, a lack of understanding filling her face. “I… I didn’t realise I was scratching it.”

 

“Well, you haven’t, Edith,” she snaps back. “But you need to be more careful!”

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith bobs a curtsey, a wounded look on her usually bright face.

 

Glancing between Lettice toying distractedly with the rope of pearls about her neck looking anywhere but at either her maid or himself, and the poor embarrassed domestic, Gerald pipes up, “There’s nothing to apologise for, Edith. There’s no harm done. Miss Chetwynd is just a bit tired and overwrought. Aren’t you Lettice darling?”

 

When Lettice doesn’t answer, whether because she hasn’t heard Gerald as she gets lost in her own thoughts, or because she knows that she is in the wrong, admonishing her maid like that for no reason, Gerald adds, “The Suprême de Volaille Jeanette was delicious. Thank you.” He then gently indicates with a movement of his kind eyes and a swift sweeping gesture of his hand that she should go.

 

“Yes Sir. Thank you, Sir.” Edith replies as she bobs a second curtsey and quickly scuttles back through the green baize door leading from the diming room back into the service area of the flat.

 

“You don’t seem yourself at all, Lettice darling!” Gerald says in concern once he estimates that Edith is out of earshot. “Upbraiding Edith like that, and for no good reason. She didn’t mark the table. You’ve been in a funk ever since you came back from Wiltshire.” He pauses momentarily and reconsiders. “Actually no, you’ve been like this for a little while before that.” He looks at her knowingly. “What’s the matter with you, darling?”

 

“Oh I’m sorry.” Lettice sighs.

 

“It’s not me you should be sorry to.”

 

“I’ll apologise to Edith a little bit later. I’ll let her settle down first.”

 

“Well, I should hope you will.” Gerald takes a sip and cocks his eyebrow over his eye as he stares at Lettice. “Alright, out with it! What’s the matter, then?”

 

“Looking at me the way you are, can’t you guess, Gerald darling?”

 

“It’s that rather awful Fabian** charlatan, Gladys, isn’t it?” Gerald replies. As he does, he shudders as he remembers the awful snub Lady Gladys gave him.

 

Through her social connections, Lettice’s Aunt Egg contrived an invitation for Lettice to an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Caxton, who are very well known amongst the smarter bohemian set of London society for their weekend parties at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, and enjoyable literary evenings in their Belgravia townhouse. Lady Gladys is a successful authoress in her own right and writes under the nom de plume of Madeline St John. Over the course of the weekend, Lettice was coerced into accepting Lady Glady’s request that she redecorate the Bloomsbury flat of her ward, Phoebe Chambers. When Lettice agreed to take on the commission, Lady Gladys said she would arrange a time for Lettice to inspect the flat the next time Lady Gladys was in London. The day it happened, Lettice was invited to hear Lady Gladys give a reading from her latest romance novel ‘Miranda’ at its launch in the Selfridge’s book department. Wanting company, and thinking he might enjoy the outing, Lettice invited Gerald to join her. When Lady Gladys met Gerald, she took an instant dislike to him and snubbed him, calling him ‘Mister Buttons’ much to his chagrin.

 

“Well done, Gerald darling.” Lettice replies sulkily, toying idly with her own glass.

 

“So, what’s the trouble with Gladys now?” Gerald asks. “Come on, tell me all the ghastly details.”

 

“What’s the point, Gerald darling? It won’t make one iota of difference.” Her shoulders slump forward as she speaks.

 

“You don’t know that.” Gerald counters. “If nothing else, it will probably make you feel better just talking about it, and hopefully by unblocking the frustrations you so obviously feel, you’ll be a bit kinder to poor Edith.” He gives her a hopefully glance.

 

“I know. Edith didn’t deserve my ire.”

 

“Especially when she didn’t do anything wrong. It would be a shame to lose such a good maid. Good servants like Edith are hard to come by.”

 

“I know, Gerald! I know!”

 

“If I could afford to employ her full time as a seamstress, I would. However I can only afford Molly to do some piecework for me a few days a week at the moment. But once my atelier expands, you’d better watch out. I’ll poach her.”

 

“Edith?”

 

“Yes of course, darling. Who else?”

 

“As a seamstress? Why?”

 

“Good heavens! Haven’t you noticed how smartly turned out she is when she’s not in uniform and is going out?” Gerald asks with incredulity. When Lettice shakes her head coyly he continues, “For a woman who has an eye for detail, you can be very unobservant sometimes. Edith, like most working girls, makes her own clothes, I’d imagine from patterns in one of those cheap women’s magazines directed towards middle-class housewives I see flapping in the breeze at newspaper kiosks. However, unlike a great many of them, she obviously has a natural aptitude for sewing. That’s why I’d take her on as a seamstress.”

 

“I must confess, I’ve never really noticed what Edith wears. She’s just…” Lettice isn’t quite sure how to phrase it. “She’s just there.”

 

“Well, one day she may not be,” Gerald warns before taking another sip of liqueur. “And then you’ll be in trouble trying to find her like as a replacement. Anyway,” he coughs. “I’m not going to pinch her from you just yet. Now, what’s the problem with Gladys?”

 

Lettice lets out a very heavy sigh. “Oh, she’s awful, Gerald darling: positively frightful. She rings me nearly every day, or sometimes several times a day, hounding me! I’m starting to make Edith answer the telephone more often now, because I’m terrified that it will be Gladys.”

 

“Well, we all know how much dear Edith hates the telephone.”

 

“Well, usually that would be true, but she knows that Gladys is Madeline St John, and I’ve told her that Gladys promises to give her a few signed copies of her books one of these days, so she doesn’t seem to mind when it’s her. Gladys seems to have that common touch with her.”

 

“Common is right.” quips Gerald. “Low-class gutter novelist works her way into the upper echelons by way of an advantageous marriage.”

 

“Gerald!” Lettice gasps

 

“It’s true Lettice, and you must know it by now, even if you didn’t know it before.”

 

“Well, whatever she may or may not be, Gerald, I just can’t talk to her directly. I need a moment to gird my loins*** before I take on the unpleasant task of talking to her, or perhaps a more appropriate description would be, being spoken to by her, at considerable length.”

 

“You haven’t corrupted poor Edith and coerced her into telling little white lies for you when Gladys does ring and say that you’re out.”

 

“No!” Lettice gives Gerald a guilty side glance. “Well not yet anyway.” she corrects. “I’ve thought about doing it, and it’s a very tempting idea. However, I know how much Edith already hates answering the telephone, and being such a despicably honest girl, I think asking her to fib for me, especially to her favourite romance writer, might be just a bridge too far for her.”

 

“Damn the goodness of your maid, Lettice darling.” Gerald replies jokingly with a cheeky smile causing his mouth to turn up impishly, as he cuts a slice of cheese and puts it on a water cracker wafer, before lifting it to his lips.

 

“Oh you’re no help!” Lettuce swats at her best friend irritably. “You make me feel guilty for even countenancing such a thought.”

 

“Well, someone has to try and keep you honest in this sinful city, darling.” he jokes again. “Mummy would never forgive me if I didn’t try and keep you as virtuous as possible.”

 

“I’d believe that of Aunt Gwen.” Lettice agrees. “On the other hand, Mater is convinced that you’re the root of the destruction of her precious, obsequious youngest daughter.”

 

“Sadie is wiser and more observant than I’ve ever given her credit for.” Gerald murmurs in surprise. “I should be more charitable to her in future as regards her intellect.”

 

“That I should like to see.” Lettice giggles, a smile breaking across her lips and brightening her face, dispelling some of the gloom.

 

“That you will never see.” Gerald replies firmly. “That’s better. At least I made you laugh.”

 

“You always make me laugh, darling Gerald.” Lettice reaches across the table and grasps his hand lovingly, winding her fingers around his bigger fisted hand. “You are the best and most supportive friend I could ever hope to have.”

 

“Jolly good, my dear. Now, besides telephoning far too often, what else is the trouble with Gladys?” Gerald presses.

 

“Well, she seems to want to be in control of everything in relation to Pheobe’s Bloomsbury pied-à-terre redecoration.”

 

“Isn’t Gladys footing the bill, Lettice darling?”

 

“Well yes, she is.”

 

“Then it seems to me that she has every right to be involved in the decision making that goes on, particularly as you’ve told me that Phoebe shows a lack of interest in the whole project.”

 

“Yes, but what Gladys is doing is taking over. I don’t think she’d even engage my services if I didn’t have the contacts in the painting, papering and furnishing business she needs. I have no chance to exercise any of my own judgement. Anything I do has to be checked by her: the paint tint for the walls, the staining of the floorboards, the fabric for the furnishings. And she has demonstrated that she has no real interest in my ideas.”

 

“Hhhmmm…” Gerald begins, chewing his mouthful of cheese and biscuit thoughtfully before continuing. “That does sound a trifle tiresome.”

 

“A trifle tiresome? Gerald, you always were the master of understatement.”

 

“I see no reason to panic. She is the client exercising her rights. And since she is the one paying for your services, indulge her in her necessity to be consulted on all facets of the redecoration.”

 

“Oh I’m doing that. Against my better judgement, I’m having floral chintz draperies hung in the drawing room and bedroom because that’s what she wants.”

 

“Good heavens!” Gerald exclaims, nearly choking on a fresh mouthful of cheese and wafer biscuit. “You, selecting chintz as part of your décor decisions?”

 

“My point exactly. It isn’t me that’s decided that, it’s Gladys who has. You know how much I loathe chintz at the best of times.” Lettice shudders at the thought. “I tried hinting at some plain green hangings instead as a very nice alternative, but like anything else where I try my best to negotiate for Phoebe, I am barked at and told in no uncertain terms that I will do no such thing.”

 

“Negotiate for Phoebe?”

 

“Yes, now that I’m well and truly wound up in what you rightly called Gladys’ sticky spiderweb, I’m beginning to see things for what they truly are.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“For a start, I don’t think Phoebe is disinterested in the renovations to her pied-à-terre at all. I’ve seen with my own eyes now, how whenever Pheobe expresses an opinion contrary to that of Gladys, Gladys quickly snuffs out any dissention. As far as Gladys is concerned, her choice is not only the best and right choice, but the only choice to make. Pheobe wants to keep some of her parents’ belongings in the flat, but Gladys won’t hear of it! She wants a clean sweep! I suggest a compromise, but Gladys dismisses it. So, the colours to go on the walls, the furnishings, the fabrics, even the hideous chintz curtains have all been decided upon and approved by Gladys, and Phoebe doesn’t even get a chance to express an opinion. Phoebe isn’t disinterested, she’s simply overruled and completely smothered by Gladys’ overbearing nature.”

 

“Delicious.” Gerald murmurs as he leans his elbows on the black japanned surface of the dining table and leans forward conspiratorially.

 

“It’s not delicious at all!” Lettice splutters. “It’s a frightful state of affairs!”

 

“Well, in truth, that really does sound bloody*****, Lettice darling!”

 

“Like I said, it’s a dreadful state of affairs! I feel as if I am betraying not only poor Pheobe, but the memory of her dead parents in favour of a domineering woman whom no-one it seems can stand up to.”

 

“Have you tried her husband, Sir John?”

 

“He kowtows to her wishes as much as anyone else. I now understand why he has such a dogged look upon his face. I thought it was just age.”

 

“When in fact it was just Gladys?”

 

“Indeed! And what’s even worse is that Gladys is wearing me down now too. It’s just easier to agree to everything she says, and not even attempt a compromise in Phoebe’s favour.”

 

“Well, whilst I know you don’t like the situation, from my own personal experience of dealing with difficult clients, I can say that the path of least resistance is sometimes the best. Do you remember that frock I made for Sophie Munro, the American shipping magnate’s daughter?”

 

Lettice considers Gerald’s question for a moment. “Yes, I think I do. Wasn’t it pale pink with blue trimming?”

 

“Indeed it was, Lettice darling: pink linen with blue trim, with a bias cut drape over one sleeve and a flounced skirt. Poor Sophie has an… ahem…” Gerald clears his throat rather awkwardly as he thinks of the correct phrase. “A rather Rubenesque figure, and the flounced skirt was perhaps less flattering than something with long pleats, which was I had suggested to Mrs. Munro.”

 

“But Mrs. Munro was like Gladys?”

 

“She was, darling, and she wouldn’t hear a word of it. A flounced skirt was what Mrs. Munro wanted, and a flounced skirt was what Sophie received, and she flounced her way back to America, where I’m sure her rather voluptuous derrière will be commented upon by every young eligible man on Long Island, for all the wrong reasons. However, I did it, and I cut ties with Mrs. Munro because now that my atelier is finally turning a modest profit, I can. I don’t need recommendations from her, but I do need her to be happy so that she will at least speak favourably of me, rather than say disparaging things. The same goes for you. Do what Gladys wants and then be done with her. Do it as quickly as possible, then the pain will be over, and she will praise you to boot.”

 

“I can’t help but feel badly for Phoebe though, Gerald.”

 

“I know you do, and I feel sorry for poor Sophie Munro being laughed at behind her back by young cads as she tries to be beguiling with a large derrière, but there you have it. You cannot be responsible to solve the relationship between mother and daughter.”

 

“Aunt and ward.” Lettice corrects.

 

“It equates to the same.” Gerald counters. “You are a businesswoman, Lettice, not an agony aunt******.”

 

“Well, you’re a businessman, and you seem to be a good agony aunt to me.”

 

Gerald and Lettice chuckle before Gerald replies, “Indeed I am, but I’m also a friend. You aren’t friends with Pheobe, and even if you were, you still wouldn’t be able to solve Gladys’ overbearing personality. She is who she is, and Pheobe has to learn how to make her way through life with it. Perhaps you will afford her a little freedom from Gladys by redecorating her pied-à-terre, so she can escape from under Glady’s overbearing shadow, even if the redecoration is not quite as Phoebe would have it. Even then, Phoebe will probably add her own personal touches to her new home over time. It’s only natural that she should.”

 

“Oh,” Lettice sighs heavily. “I suppose you’re right, Gerald.”

 

“Of course I’m right, Lettice darling. I’m always right.” he adds jokingly.

 

“Now don’t you start!” Lettice replies wearily before smiling as she recognises Gerald’s remark as a jest, teasing about Lady Gladys’ overbearing personality.

 

“Well, it sounds like you need a bit of cheering up, Lettice darling,” Gerald goes on as he places another slice of cheese on a biscuit.

 

“I could indeed, Gerald darling!”

 

“Well then, if you are a good girl, and apologise to Edith like I told you, like Cinderella you shall go to the ball!”

 

“Oh you do talk in riddles sometimes, Gerald darling! What on earth do you mean?”

 

“My birthday!” Gerald beams. “Come join me at Hattie’s down in Putney for my birthday!”

 

“You’re having your birthday at Hattie’s?” Lettice queries, her voice rising in surprise. “I thought we were going to the Café Royal****** to celebrate: my treat!”

 

“Now, now, be calm, Lettice darling! We are, but Hattie wants to throw a party for me on my birthday at Putney with Cyril, Charlie Dunnage and a few of the other chaps she has living with her in the house, so we’ll do that first, and then go to dinner at the Café Royal: your treat.”

 

“Well…” Lettice says warily. Her stomach flips every time Gerald mentions his lover, Cyril, an oboist who plays at various theatres in the West End and lives in the Putney home of Gerald’s friend Harriet Milford, who has turned her residence into a boarding house for theatrical homosexual men, not because she is in any way jealous of their relationship, but because she knows that Gerald being a homosexual carries great consequences should he be caught in flagrante with Cyril. Homosexuality is illegal******** and carries heavy penalties including prison sentences with hard labour, not to mention the shame and social ostracization that would follow any untoward revelations. It would mean the end of his fashion house and all his dreams.

 

Gerald misinterprets the look on his best friend’s face as being misgivings about the party. “Oh come on Lettice! Every time I’ve been spending the night with Cyril down in Putney, which has been quite a lot lately,” he confesses with a shy, yet happy smile. “I’ve been sneaking one or two bottles of champagne into his room, which he’s been stashing under the bed, so there will be plenty to drink, and Hattie is making me a birthday cake, so it will be a rather jolly party. You aren’t still imagining Hattie to be a usurper to you in my affections, are you Lettuce Leaf?”

 

“Don’t call me that Gerald! You know how I hate it!” scowls Lettice. “I’ll call you Mr. Buttons!” She threatens.

 

“You can call me what you like, Lettice darling, only please say you’ll come! You’re my best and oldest chum! It would make me so happy!”

 

“Oh very well, Gerald. Of course I’ll come.”

 

“Jolly good show, Lettice darling!” Gerald enthuses. “We’ll have a whizz of a time!”

 

*Harrod’s Meat and Fish Hall (the predecessor to today’s food hall) was opened in 1903. There was nothing like it in London at the time. It’s interior, conceived by Yorkshire Arts and Crafts ceramicist and artist William Neatby, was elaborately decorated from floor to ceiling with beautiful Art Nouveau tiles made by Royal Doulton, and a glass roof that flooded the space with light. Completed in nine weeks it featured ornate frieze tiles displaying pastoral scenes of sheep and fish, as well as colourful glazed tiles. By the 1920s, when this scene is set, the Meat and Fish Hall was at its zenith with so much produce on display and available to wealthy patrons that you could barely see the interior.

 

**The Fabian Society is a British socialist organisation whose purpose is to advance the principles of social democracy and democratic socialism via gradualist and reformist effort in democracies, rather than by revolutionary overthrow. The Fabian Society was also historically related to radicalism, a left-wing liberal tradition.

 

***To gird one’s loins: to prepare oneself to deal with a difficult or stressful situation, is likely a Hebraism, often used in the King James Bible (e.g., 2 Kings 4:29). Literally referred to the need to strap a belt around one's waist, i.e. when getting up, in order to avoid the cloak falling off; or otherwise before battle, to unimpede the legs for running.

 

****A pied-à-terre is a small flat, house, or room kept for occasional use.

 

*****The old fashioned British term “looking bloody” or “sounding bloody” was a way of indicating how dour or serious a person or occasion looks.

 

******An agony aunt is a person, usually a woman, who gives advice to people with personal problems, especially in a regular magazine or newspaper article.

 

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

 

********Prior to 1967 with the introduction of the Sexual Offences Act which decriminalised private homosexual acts between men aged over 21, homosexuality in England was illegal, and in the 1920s when this story is set, carried heavy penalties including prison sentences with hard labour. The law was not changed for Scotland until 1980, or for Northern Ireland until 1982.

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The silver tray of biscuits have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The empty wine glasses and the glass bowl in the centre of the table are also 1:12 artisan miniatures all made of hand spun and blown glass. They are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The vase is especially fine. If you look closely you will see that it is decorated with flower patterns made up of fine threads of glass. The cream roses in the vase were also hand made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The Art Deco dinner plates are part of a much larger set I acquired from a dollhouse suppliers in Shanghai. The cutlery set came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The candlesticks were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

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

 

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

 

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

Letter generously translated by 'hardpapier'; penned on 26.3.1917 in Lallaing, Northern France, the author writes to a friend - "Dear Ernst be glad that you are not in the field yet because it's not so good here and I don't like it at all so far." Photogr. Ernst Berka, Zittau O./L.

 

Recruits belonging to an unidentified Saxon infantry regiment photographed inside their barracks room possibly a year or two before the postcard was mailed.

 

The recruit seated on a box in the centre of the photograph is slicing a chunk from a loaf of Kommißbrot, a dark type of bread, baked from rye and other flours and known for its long shelf life. During the war, sawdust was sometimes added to compensate for shortages of flour.

Generosity

LTFRB Case No.: 84-9216

Chassis no.: FG8J-14418

Engine no.: JO8E-UG13456

Route: Cainta-Quiapo

Plate no.: AAI-9422

rarity

Berlin Tiergarten Bendlerblock. The generous donor.

"Working group of homosexual members of the Bundeswehr e.V."

HBW!!!

 

I have met so many great people on Flickr. I was most recently touched by Shelby's generosity. She is super-talented and mature beyond her years. She is the kind of friend you'd want in real life, and the kind of teenage daughter that any parent would wish for :-)

 

{This was processed by her "basic" cross-processing action}

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 east of Cavendish Mews, down through St James’, around Trafalgar Square and up Charing Cross Road, where, near the corner of Great Newport Street, Lettice is visiting A. H. Mayhew’s*, a bookshop in the heart of London’s specialist and antiquarian bookseller district, patronised by her father, Viscount Wrexham. It is here that Lettice hopes to find the perfect present for her oldest and dearest childhood chum, Gerald Bruton. Gerald is also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. It will soon be his birthday, and Lettice is treating him to an evening at the Café Royal** in Regent Street. However, she also wants something less ephemeral than a glittering evening out to dinner for Gerald to look back on in the years ahead as he turns twenty-five. Knowing how much he loves books, but also knowing that any profits his fledgling atelier makes must be re-invested in his business rather than indulging in books, Lettice has settled upon acquiring a beautiful and unusual volume for him from amongst the many tomes housed in Mr. Mayhew’s bookshop.

 

As Lettice lingers out the front of Mr. Mayhew’s, enjoying the luxury of peering through his tall plate glass windows that proudly bear his name and advertise that he does purchase libraries of old books, knowing that whether she is lucky enough to spot the perfect gift in the window display or not, somewhere amidst the full shelves inside, there will be a wonderful book for Gerald. She releases a shuddering sigh from deep within her chest as she remembers the last time she peered through these self-same windows in October of 1923 when the book she hoped to find was to give to Selwyn as a birthday gift in an effort to further solidify her commitment to him in his eyes. Her plan was to give him the book she bought – a copy of a volume of John Nash’s*** architectural drawings including his designs for the Royal Pavilion built for the Prince Regent in Brighton, Marble Arch, Buckingham Palace – at private dinner that he had arranged for the two of them at the Savoy****. However, from there everything had gone awry. When Lettice arrived at the Savoy and was shown to the table for two Selwyn had reserved for them, she was confronted not with the smiling face of her beau, but the haughty and cruel spectre of his mother, the Duchess of Walmsford, Lady Zinnia. Lady Zinnia, and Selwyn’s Uncle Bertrand had been attempting to marry him off to his cousin, 1923 debutante Pamela Fox-Chavers. Lady Zinnia had, up until that moment been snubbing Lettice, so Selwyn and Lettice arranged for Lettice to attend as many London Season events that year as possible where Selwyn and Pamela were also in attendance so that Lettice and Selwyn could spend time together, and at the same time make their intentions so well known that Lady Zinnia wouldn’t be able to avoid Lettice any longer. What the pair hadn’t calculated for in their plans was that Lady Zinnia is a woman who likes intrigue and revenge, and the revenge she launched upon Lettice that evening at the Savoy was bitterly harsh and painful. With a cold and calculating smile Lady Zinna announced that she had packed Selwyn off to Durban in South Africa for a year. She made a pact with her son: if he went away for a year, a year during which he agreed neither to see, nor correspond with Lettice, if he comes back and doesn’t feel the same way about her as he did when he left, he agreed that he will marry Pamela, just as Bertrand and Lady Zinnia planned. If however, he still feels the same way about Lettice when he returns, Lady Zinnia agreed that she would concede and will allow him to marry her. The volumes in Mr. Mayhew’s window begin to shimmer and blur as tears begin to sting Lettice’s eyes and impair her vision.

 

“Still.” Lettice breathes bitterly as she allows her head to lower as she closes her eyes. “Still, I cannot think of Selwyn without wanting to cry.” she thinks. “What is wrong with me? Come on. Pull yourself together, girl. Don’t let Lady Zinnia win.”

 

She sniffs and sighs deeply, taking a few deep breaths as she slowly regains her composure. After a few minutes of standing in front of the shop’s window, appearing to all the passers-by to be just another keen window shopper, Lettice finally feels composed enough to enter the shop.

 

“You won’t get the better of me, Lady Zinnia,” she mutters through barred teeth. “And you won’t destroy my love of books, nor my love for my best friend.”

 

She walks up to the recessed door of the bookshop which she pushes open. A cheerful bell dings loudly above her head, announcing her presence. As the door closes behind her, it shuts out the general cacophony of noisy automobiles, chugging busses and passing shoppers’ conversations. The shop envelops her in a cozy muffled silence produced by the presence of so many shelves fully laden with the volumes of the past. She inhales deeply and savours the smell of dusty old books and pipe smoke, which comfort and assure her that she has come to a safe place that will assuage her damaged heart. The walls are lined with floor to ceiling shelves, all full of books: thousands of volumes on so many subjects. Summer sunlight pours through the tall shop windows facing out to the street, highlighting the worn Persian and Turkish carpets whose hues, once so bright, vivid and exotic, have softened with exposure to the sunlight and any number of pairs of boots and shoes of customers, who like Lettice, searched Mayhew’s shelves for the perfect book to take away with them. Dust motes, something Lettice always associates with her father’s library in Wiltshire, dance blithely through beams of sunlight before disappearing without a trace into the shadows.

 

Lettice makes her way through the shop, wandering along its narrow aisles, reaching up to touch various Moroccan leather spines embossed with gilt lettering of titles and authors, until she nears the middle of the shop, where sitting at his desk before a small coal fire, smoking his pipe, sits the bespectacled proprietor, Mr. Mayhew, in his usual uniform of jacket, vest and bowtie, carefully cataloguing volumes he has acquired from a recent country house contents auction***** he attended in Buckinghamshire, his pipe hanging from his mouth, occasionally emitting puffs of acrid grey smoke as he works. The portly, balding gentleman is so wrapped up in his work that he does not notice Lettice as she walks up to his desk.

 

“Mr. Mayhew., how do you do” Lettice says, clearing her throat, her clipped tones slicing through the thick silence of the shop.

 

“Ahh,” Mr. Mayhew sighs with delight, puffing out another small cloud of pipe smoke as he realises who is standing before him. Removing the pipe from his mouth, he peers over the top of his gold rimmed spectacles. “Why if it isn’t my favourite Wiltshire reader herself.” He takes one final pleasurable puff of his pipe before reaching behind him and putting it aside on the pipe rack sitting precariously on the little coal fire’s narrow mantle shelf.

 

“I’m almost certain that you say that to every reader whom you know well, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice rolls her eyes and smiles indulgently.

 

“Not every reader I know well come from Wiltshire though, Miss Chetwynd” the old man remarks with a chuckle, lifting himself out of the comfort of the well worn chair behind his desk, wiping his hands down the front of his thick black barathea vest.

 

“You’re just like my Aunt Egg, complimentary, but with an air of mystery.”

 

“There is no mystery to me, Miss Chetwynd.” He reaches out and takes Lettice’s dainty glove clad hand and squeezes it. “I am like,” He chuckles lightly. “An open book as it were.” He sweeps his free hand expansively around him, indicating to all the tomes lining the shelves that hedge his cluttered workspace. “I will pay a compliment to any customer who takes the time to enter my shop, appreciate my books, and speak to me with politeness: especially when they are as pretty as you, Miss Chetwynd.” He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it.

 

“Oh, Mr. Mayhew!” Lettice laughs. “You speak such sweet, honeyed words.”

 

He gasps. “I do hope, Miss Chetwynd, that you don’t consider me to be as duplicitous as Richard III.” the old man says, picking up on Lettice’s literary Shakesperean reference******.

 

“Never, Mr. Mayhew!” Lettice exclaims

 

“Very good, Miss Chetwynd,” Mr. Mayhew replies. “I would hate for you to misjudge my motivations. I didn’t establish my little bookshop simply to make money. What a ludicrous idea that any shopkeeper would set up his establishment just to make money, when he can take equal measure of profit and pleasure from his endeavours. I have a great love of books, Miss Chetwynd, as I know you do too, my dear, both the written word and the engraving,” He waves his hands expansively at the floor to ceiling bookshelves around him, filled with hundreds of volumes on all manner of subjects. “As well you know.”

 

“Indeed Mr. Mayhew. I enjoy nothing more than spending time in my father’s library at Glynes, where more than one of your own volumes sits on his shelves.”

 

“And how is His Lordship, Miss Chetwynd? I sent him a beautiful 1811 calfskin vellum******* edition of Voltaire a few weeks ago with some lovely hand tinted engravings, a marbleised cover and colourful gilt bindings.”

 

“He is well, thank you Mr. Mayhew. I saw him just a few weeks ago, although it was only a fleeting visit, so he didn’t show me your volume of Voltaire.”

 

“A fleeting visit, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Mayhew queries. “What a pity you didn’t tarry longer with His Lordship. You must have him show you the Voltaire next time you go home to stay, Miss Chetwynd. Really it is rather lovely. It came to me after being sold at the second Stowe House Great Sale******** in 1921. I wanted to make sure it went to the right home, and I could think of no-one better than your father to be its custodian.”

 

“I have no doubt that it is, Mr. Mayhew. However, this time I went to Wiltshire not for pleasure, but to meet a gentleman who wishes to have a room redecorated as a surprise for his wife.”

 

“So, your interior design business is going well then, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Mayhew queries.

 

“It is indeed, Mr. Mayhew,” Lettice affirms. “Perhaps more successful than I had ever dreamed.”

 

“Well, that is splendid news, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Mayhew purrs rubbing his hands together. “And will you be accepting this gentleman’s commission.”

 

“Perhaps against my better judgement, I am, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice admits.

 

“Against your better judgement, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Well,” Lettice sighs. “The lady for whom this gentleman wants the room designed is his wife, and she is currently redecorating many other parts of the house. I am concerned that she won’t appreciate an interloper like me coming in and enforcing my designs upon her home. However, Mr. Gifford, the gentleman, assured me that if his wife doesn’t like it, he will accept any and all blame. So, in spite of my misgivings, I have accepted. Like Richard III, Mr. Gifford wooed me with his honeyed words.” Lettice sighs again. “In addition, he is the godson of Henry Tipping********* who has promised me a favourable review in Country Life********** if Mrs. Gifford likes the room.”

 

“Splendid! Splendid!” Mr. Mayhew says comfortingly. “We all have doubts and misgivings sometimes, Miss Chetwynd, however it sounds like a reasonable gamble.”

 

“I do hope you are right, Mr. Mayhew.”

 

“Now, what is it that I can entice you to add to your bookshelves today, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Mayhew steps out from behind his cluttered desk and speaks as he moves. “Something to help inspire you with this fraught new commission, perhaps?”

 

“Oh, that is a lovely idea, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice replies. “However, it isn’t me that I’ve come looking for a book for.”

 

“Then to what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“I want something for my friend, Mr. Bruton, Mr. Mayhew.”

 

“The costumier?” Mr. Mayhew queries.

 

“The couturier.” Lettice corrects the bookseller.

 

“Of course, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“He turns twenty-five next week, and I would like to find him a beautiful book on fashion for him to enjoy.”

 

“Oh.” Mr. Mayhew utters with a mixture of disappointment and concern. “Well, I’m afraid that I don’t have anything contemporary, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Oh, I don’t want something contemporary, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice assures him. “Rather I want something that is beautifully illustrated that he might enjoy.”

 

“Well, in that case, Miss Chetwynd, I may have some things that might suit your friend Mr. Bruton. I just hope that I shan’t disappoint you, my dear Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Mayhew returns her smile.

 

“You never disappoint me, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice counters. “But you never cease to surprise me, either.” she adds with the heavy implication that she hopes he can find for her the perfect birthday present for Gerald.

 

As if she has uttered magic words to strike the old bookseller into action, Mr. Mayhew’s face animates. “Then let Mayhew’s not let you down today, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

Mr. Mayhew picks up his spectacles and puts them on the bridge of his nose again before looking around him, squinting as he considers what buried treasures are hidden amidst the tomes on the shelves in the darkened, cosy interior of his bookshop. As a proprietor who knows his stock well – almost like one would know a family – he says, “I think I might have just the thing. Please, take a seat, Miss Chetwynd.” He indicates to the chair on the opposite side of the desk to his own. “If I may beg your indulgence, I won’t be too long.”

 

“You may, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice replies.

 

The bookseller makes a small bow before he bustles off, disappearing amidst the bookshelves.

 

Lettice initially perches herself on the edge of the rather hard Arts and Crafts wooden seat and peruses Mr. Mayhew’s cluttered desk which is piled with old leather volumes, some of which speak of times long ago with their worn covers and aged pages. Then she spies a book of beautiful rose prints standing open on top of the ornate mahogany bookshelf to the left of the fireplace. Standing up, she walks over to it and gently begins turning the pages, admiring the beautiful engraved*********** illustrations.

 

“That’s a very fine copy of Redouté’s*********** Roses from the 1820s with beautiful stipple engravings************. You have exquisite taste, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Mayhew says as he returns with several volumes in his arms.

 

“Then it is my mother who has good taste, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice replies. “I was just admiring it because I know my mother has a copy of this book in the morning room at Glynes. I think my father is a little jealous of her having it.”

 

“I would be too, Miss Chetwynd.” the old bookseller remarks as he slips the volumes with a soft thud atop the other closed books on his desk. “Now! Here we are!” Mr. Mayhew indicates to the books he has come back with. “Hopefully there is something here that Mr. Bruton will like.”

 

Lettice returns to her seat, whilst Mr. Mayhew also returns to his behind the desk. He hands her a large but slender volume with a rust coloured cover. Lettice reads on its cover in bold black printed typeface that it is a catalogue of ladies’ shoes from historical times to the present.

 

“It’s from the early 1810s, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Mayhew says proudly. “Around the time our beloved Miss Auten penned Sense and Sensibility, so even though it speaks of history in the title, the volume itself has become a part of history.”

 

Lettice murmurs her own delight as she turns the pages and looks at beautiful engravings of dainty shoes with fine court heels: each illustration clearly showing even the finest of details of each shoe. The illustrations are arranged in colours and dates, with three slippers illustrated on every page. “Delightful!” Lettice opines.

 

“Then there is this.” Mr. Mayhew holds out another volume, this time with an aquamarine coloured cover.

 

“Revue des Chapeaux,” Lettice reads.

 

“Published during the war, this book’s pages review in brilliant pictorial detail, millinery styles between 1913 and 1917.” Mr. Mayhew says with a sigh. “The photographs really are quite stylish, as is the presentation.”

 

Lettice turns the pages, admiring the images showing each hat usually contained, but occasionally stretching out of, a circle. The black and white photographs have been partially tinted before being printed to draw attention to some of the elegant ruffles and soft fabric roses of each hat. Lettice chuckles to herself as she spies a royal blue hat with a brim significantly smaller than some of the voluminous hats her mother wore before the war, the hat’s crown dominated by a bunch of pink hyacinths. “I used to have a hat similar to this.” Lettice muses, patting her own green cloche hat self-consciously as she does, as if distracted enough to believe that she is still wearing the old fashioned pre-war hat with its whimsical bouquet of flowers sticking from it.

 

“Did you indeed, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Mayhew purrs.

 

“Yes.” Lettice replies, suddenly snapping out of her reverie. “I think this one, however lovely, is perhaps not quite to Gerald’s taste.”

 

“Very well Miss Chetwynd.” the bookseller says obsequiously, withdrawing the offending volume. “As you wish.” He then fumbles a little as he takes a rather thin catalogue from beneath a much larger volume. He looks carefully at Lettice before asking, “You won’t be offended by a German volume, will you?”

 

Lettice laughs. “Good heavens, no, Mr, Mayhew! You sell my father antiquarian versions of Gothe*************! As his daughter, how could I possibly be offended?”

 

“No, of course not, Miss Chetwynd. Well,” Mr. Mayhew says rather awkwardly. “Will Mr. Bruton take offence?”

 

“I doubt it, Mr. Mayhew.” Lettice replies.

 

“That’s good, because in the years of anti-German sentiment of the war, after the Lusitania’s sinking**************, I had to hide this beautiful catalogue, along with quite a number of other books which I have only just recently started returning to my post-war shelves.”

 

Lettice takes the Victorian catalogue from Mr. Mayhew’s hands and opens it.

 

“It is a catalogue of coats, furs and blouses from 1898 from a Berlin manufacturer.”

 

She flips through the fine pages beautifully illustrated with chromolithographs***************. Ladies with synched waists and protruding bosoms thanks to the influence of S-bend corsets**************** wearing feather and flower adorned hats and bonnets, show off fur tippets*****************, automobiling coats and jackets with leg-o’-mutton sleeves******************. “Beautiful!” Lettice murmurs with admiration, running her hand over one mode of a woman in a coat of deep violet with fur lapels.

 

“I thought you might like that one, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Mayhew says proudly. “Of course, I only show this to a very small selection of privileged clients whom I think may be interested in it.”

 

“Well thank you, Mr, Mayhew.” Lettice replies with satisfaction. “I’m most grateful you did. I think this will do nicely for Gerald.”

 

“But wait, Miss Chetwynd. I do have one more volume to show you.” He holds up a very large buff coloured volume before handing it to Lettice. “It’s not marked, but this is a volume of Art Nouveau jewellery from Paris.”

 

Lettice gasps as she turns the pages of the volume in her lap as the sinuous, feminine lines of art nouveau appear in image after image in the shape of combs and pins, necklaces, cufflinks, brooches, cravat pins, hairpins, bracelets, hatpins and tiaras: fabulous creations made of gold, silver and platinum, studded with precious and semi-precious stones. Mr. Mayhew smiles and nods as he looks at Lettice’s transfixed face.

 

“For all his love of modernity, Gerald does have a rather silly soft spot for Art Nouveau.” Lettice utters.

 

“Then might I recommend that volume, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Mr. Mayhew, yet again you never cease to amaze me with what you have within your shop. I think you have just found me, the perfect birthday gift for Gerald.”

 

“Splendid, Miss Chetwynd! Splendid!” Mr. Mayhew claps. “I’ll return the others then.”

 

As he begins gather up the books, Lettice adds, “I’ll take the German catalogue too.” She smiles. “It seems a shame for it to remain hidden away. I’ll give it to Gerald for Christmas!”

 

“Very good, Miss Chetwynd.” the old bookseller acknowledges.

 

As he returns from having put the other two volumes back on the shelves from where they came, Mr. Mayhew asks Lettice, “By the way, Miss Chetwynd, I meant to ask you how your young aspiring architect liked the volume of John Nash’s architectural drawings you bought him?”

 

Lettice’s face, so bright and flushed with colour, suddenly drains and falls.

 

“Oh dear!” Mr, Mayhew gasps, putting his pudgy fingers to his mouth. “Did I just drop a social briquette, my dear Miss Chetwynd?”

 

Quickly recovering herself, Lettice blusters with false joviality, “No! No, Mr. Mayhew! Not at all!”

 

“However?” the old man asks, indicating for Lettice to go on with her unspoken statement.

 

“Well,” Lettice continues. “It’s just, I don’t actually know whether he liked it or not.” Remembering the book wrapped up gaily in bright paper and decorated with a satin ribbon left abandoned on her seat at the Savoy, she continues, “Things didn’t quite eventuate the way we’d planned for my friend’s birthday. He had to leave England quite unexpectedly, and I didn’t see him that night.” She pauses. “He… he’s gone to Durban for a year or so.”

 

“Oh.” Mr. Mayhew exclaims, shocked by her statement, knowing what he does about Lettice’s attachment to Selwyn. “But he will be back, Miss Chetwynd?” He returns to his seat behind the desk and reaches for his pipe. Striking a match, he lights it and puffs away with concern on it as he looks to Lettice.

 

Lettice doesn’t reply straight away, watching the bookseller looking her earnestly in the face, awaiting a response. “I hope so.” When Mr. Mayhew’s face falls, she quickly adds, “Of course! Of course he will return, Mr. Mayhew! Of course!” She cannot countenance losing her steely resolve and breaking down in tears in Mr. Mayhew’s bookshop.

 

Sensing Lettice’s unhappiness and awkwardness, Mr. Mayhew quickly pipes up, “Well, you can give it to him when he returns, Miss Chetwynd.” He begins fumbling through the pile of books he had been cataloguing before Lettice’s arrival. “That’s the good thing about books,” he says as he rifles through the marbleised volumes with leather spines. “Unlike cakes and chocolate, they will keep.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice breathes, sighing with relief at Mr. Mayhew’s perceptiveness and kindness. “You’re quite right.”

 

“Aha!” Mr. Mayhew withdraws a volume from the pile. “Here it is.” He hands it to Lettice. “Have you ever read this?”

 

“Jane Eyre.” Lettice reads from the gilded letters on the spine. “No, Mr. Mayhew. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything by the Brontë sisters.”

 

“Tut-tut, Miss Chetwynd!” Mr. Mayhew admonishes her teasingly. “You don’t know what literary treasures you have been missing out on all these years of your young life. Start with Miss Eyre. Take it from me as a gift.” He smiles.

 

“Oh, but Mr. Mayhew!” Lettice exclaims.

 

“Take it!” he sweeps her protestations aside. “I have plenty of other volumes of it on my shelves. It was just part of this lot, and I wanted it for the seven 1811 volumes of The History of Charles Grandison*******************.”

 

“But Mr. Mayhew…”

 

“You’ll be doing me a favour, Miss Chetwynd.” he assures her. “Really you will.”

 

Lettice turns the pretty volume over in her hands.

 

“Besides, I think you may just find Miss Eyre to be a little bit of an inspiration for you, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“How so, Mr, Mayhew?”

 

“Well, Jane Eyre came to know a lot about the vicissitudes of life.”

 

*A. H. Mayhew was once one of many bookshops located in London’s Charring Cross Road, an area still famous today for its bookshops, perhaps most famously written about by American authoress Helene Hanff who wrote ’84, Charing Cross Road’, which later became a play and then a 1987 film starring Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins. Number 56. Charing Cross Road was the home of Mayhew’s second-hand and rare bookshop. Closed after the war, their premises is now the home of Any Amount of Books bookshop.

 

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

 

***John Nash (18 January 1752 – 13 May 1835) was one of the foremost British architects of the Georgian and Regency eras, during which he was responsible for the design, in the neoclassical and picturesque styles, of many important areas of London. His designs were financed by the Prince Regent and by the era's most successful property developer, James Burton. Nash also collaborated extensively with Burton's son, Decimus Burton.

 

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

 

*****British and Irish country house contents auctions are usually held on site at the country house, and have been used to raise funds for their owners, usually before selling the house and estate. Such auctions include the sale of high quality antique paintings, furniture, objets d'art, tapestries, books, and other household items. Whilst auctions of estates was nothing new, by 1924 when this story is set, the sun was already setting on the glory days of the country house, and landed gentry who were asset rich but cash poor began selling off properties and their contents to pay for increased rates of income tax and death duties.

 

******In Shakespeare’s Richard III, after killing her first husband, Richard pursues Lady Anne, charming her and wearing her down until the mourning widow finally agrees to may him, only to discover that his charms are all a farce, and that in reality, he despises her, and thinks of her as mothing more than a trophy won, and to them be discarded. She opines to Queen Elizabeth:

“Even in so short a space, my woman's heart

Grossly grew captive to his honey words

And proved the subject of my own soul's curse,

Which ever since hath kept my eyes from rest;

For never yet one hour in his bed

Have I enjoy'd the golden dew of sleep,

But have been waked by his timorous dreams.”

 

*******Vellum is prepared animal skin or membrane, typically used as writing material. It is often distinguished from parchment, either by being made from calfskin, or simply by being of a higher quality. Vellum is prepared for writing and printing on single pages, scrolls, and codices.

 

********Stowe House is a grade I listed country house in Stowe, Buckinghamshire, England. It is the home of the private Stowe School and is owned by the Stowe House Preservation Trust. Over the years, it has been restored and maintained as one of the finest country houses in the UK. Stowe House is regularly open to the public. The house is the result of four main periods of development. Between 1677 and 1683, the architect William Cleare was commissioned by Sir Richard Temple to build the central block of the house. This building was four floors high, including the basement and attics and thirteen bays in length. From the 1720s to 1733, under Viscount Cobham, additions to the house included the Ionic North colonnaded portico by Sir John Vanburgh, as well as the re-building of the north, east and west fronts. The exterior of the house has not been significantly changed since 1779, although in the first decade of the Nineteenth Century, the Egyptian Hall was added beneath the North Portico as a secondary entrance. The house contained not one but three major libraries. Held by the aristocratic Grenville-Temple family since 1677, Reverend Luis C.F.T. Morgan-Grenville inherited Stowe House from his brother Richard G. Morgan-Grenville who died fighting at Ploegsteert Wood during the Great War in 1914. The Reverend sold Stowe House and most of its contents in 1921. The second Great Sale in October 1921, in which 3,700 lots were sold by Jackson-Stop Auctioneers.

 

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

 

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

 

************Pierre-Joseph Redouté (1759 – 1840), was a painter and botanist from Belgium, known for his watercolours of roses, lilies and other flowers at the Château de Malmaison, many of which were published as large coloured stipple engravings. He was nicknamed "the Raphael of flowers" and has been called the greatest botanical illustrator of all time

 

************Stipple engraving is a technique perfected by Pierre Joseph Redouté which helped him reproduce his botanical illustrations. The medium involved engraving a copper plate with a dense grid of dots that could be modulated to convey delicate gradations of colour. Because the ink rested on the paper in miniscule dots, it did not obscure the “light” of the paper beneath the colour. After the complicated printing process was complete, the prints were hand finished in watercolour to conform to the models Redouté provided.

 

*************Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 – 1832) was a German polymath and writer, who is widely regarded as the greatest and most influential writer in the German language. His work has had a profound and wide-ranging influence on Western literary, political, and philosophical thought from the late Eighteenth Century to the present day. Goethe was a German poet, playwright, novelist, scientist, statesman, theatre director, and critic. His works include plays, poetry and aesthetic criticism, as well as treatises on botany, anatomy, and colour.

 

*************Following the torpedoing and subsequent sinking of the British Cunard passenger liner RSM Lusitania by a German submarine (U-boat) in 1915, resulting in the loss of 1,195 deaths including many women and children, there was a wave of anti-German sentiment throughout Britain. Mobs of angry people stormed through the streets of British cities, hurling bricks through the windows of shops and restaurants with German sounding names, stealing merchandise in some cases, setting fires in others. Hotels refused rooms to people with Germanic names like Muller or Schultz, even when they could produce documents proving their British citizenship. Homes were ransacked and people driven from them, cars were vandalised, music by Mozart, Strauss and other German composers banned, German books destroyed, bottles of German Mosel smashed and according to more than one report of the day – a few mentally deficient patriots did their bit for the cause by chasing poor dachshunds down the street kicking them, or killing them!

 

***************Chromolithography is a method for making multi-colour prints. This type of colour printing stemmed from the process of lithography, and includes all types of lithography that are printed in colour. When chromolithography is used to reproduce photographs, the term photochrome is frequently used.

 

****************Created by a specific style of corset popular between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the outbreak of the Great War, the S-bend is characterized by a rounded, forward leaning torso with hips pushed back. This shape earned the silhouette its name; in profile, it looks similar to a tilted letter S.

 

*****************A tippet is a piece of clothing worn over the shoulders in the shape of a scarf or cape. Tippets evolved in the fourteenth century from long sleeves and typically had one end hanging down to the knees. By the 1920s, tippets were usually made of fox, mink or other types of fur.

 

******************A leg-o’-mutton sleeve (also known in French as the gigot sleeve) was initially named due to its unusual shape: formed from a voluminous gathering of fabric at the upper arm that tapers to a tight fit from the elbow to the wrist. First seen in fashionable dress in the 1820s, the sleeve became popular between approximately 1825 and 1833 – but by the time Queen Victoria ascended to the throne in 1837, the overblown sleeves had completely disappeared in favour of a more subdued style. The trend returned in the 1890s, with sleeves growing in size – much to the ridicule of the media – until 1906 when the mode once again changed.

 

*******************The History of Sir Charles Grandison, commonly called Sir Charles Grandison, is an epistolary novel by English writer Samuel Richardson first published in February 1753. The book was a response to Henry Fielding's The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, which parodied the morals presented in Richardson's previous novels.

 

This dark, cosy and slightly cluttered bookshop may appear real to you, but it is in fact made up of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

All the books that you see lining the shelves of Mr. Mayhew’s bookshop are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. So too are all the books you see both open and closed on Mr. Mayhew’s desk. 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 five of the books he has made. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into this volume and the others, the books contain dozens of double sided pages of images and writing. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. For example, published in 1917, “Revue des Chapeaux” (the book at the front on the right) reviews in brilliant pictorial detail, millinery styles between 1913 and 1917. The pages shown in my photo may be seen photographed from the actual book and uploaded to Flickr in these two links: here ( www.flickr.com/photos/taffeta/7062767671/in/album-7215762... ) and here ( www.flickr.com/photos/taffeta/7062758273/in/album-7215762... ). The other books are also real books, including the catalogue of historical ladies’ shoes from 1812, the French book of Art Nouveau jewellery and metalwork design, the jacket catalogue from a Berlin manufacturer and the copy of Les Roses (1824) by Pierre-Joseph Redouté in the background to the upper left-hand corner of the photograph. 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 a few of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

Also on the desk beneath the books are some old papers and a desk calendar which I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The Chippendale desk itself is made by Bespaq, and it has a mahogany stain and the design is taken from a real Chippendale desk. Its surface is covered in red dioxide red dioxide leather with a gilt trim. Bespaq is a high-end miniature furniture maker with high attention to detail and quality.

 

The photos you can see in the background, all of which are all real photos, are produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are from various suppliers, but all are metal.

 

The aspidistra in the blue jardiniere that can just be seen to the right of the fireplace in the background, the pipe and pipe stand, and the map also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

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

Generous and beautiful swap package received from talented Blufairy19

Classic eye chart generously provided by Vista Optical at Lloyd Center mall.

 

I wasn't sure that these still existed, but I asked at Vista Optical if they had one. I explained that I wanted to photograph it and why. Two were found in a plastic bag in a storage closet. I selected the least crumpled one and it was hung on wall for me to shoot. Thanks, Vista!

 

Photo taken for Our Daily Challenge: Letters.

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, Lettice is far from Cavendish Mews, back in Wiltshire where she is staying at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife. The current Viscount has summoned his daughter home, along with his bohemian artist younger sister Eglantyne, affectionately known as Aunt Egg by her nieces and nephews.

 

Through her social connections, Lettice’s Aunt Egg contrived an invitation for Lettice to an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Caxton, who are very well known amongst the smarter bohemian set of London society for their weekend parties at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, and enjoyable literary evenings in their Belgravia townhouse. Lady Gladys is a successful authoress in her own right and writes under the nom de plume of Madeline St John. Over the course of the weekend, Lettice was coerced into accepting Lady Gladys’ request that she redecorate her niece and ward, Phoebe’s, small Bloomsbury flat. Phoebe, upon coming of age inherited the flat, which had belonged to her parents, Reginald and Marjorie Chambers, who died out in India when Phoebe was still a little girl. The flat was held in trust by Lady Gladys until her ward came of age. When Phoebe decided to pursue a career in garden design and was accepted by a school in London closely associated with the Royal Society, she started living part time in the flat. Lady Gladys felt that it was too old fashioned and outdated in its appointment for a young girl like Phoebe. When Lady Gladys arranged for Lettice to inspect the flat, Lettice quickly became aware of Lady Gladys’ ulterior motives as she overrode the rather mousy Pheobe and instructed Lettice to redecorate everything to her own instructions and taste, whist eradicating any traces of Pheobe’s parents. Reluctantly, Lettice commenced on the commission which is nearing its completion. However, when Pheobe came to visit the flat whilst Lettice was there, and with a little coercion, Pheobe shared what she really felt about the redecoration of her parent’s home, things came to a head. Desperately wanting to express herself independently, Pheobe hoped living at the flat she would finally be able to get out from underneath the domineering influence of her aunt. Yet now the flat is simply another extension of Lady Glady’s wishes, and the elements of her parents that Pheobe adored have been appropriated by Lady Gladys. Determined to undo the wrong she has done by Pheobe by agreeing to all of Lady Glady’s wishes, in a moment of energizing anger, Lettice decided to confront Lady Gladys. However unperturbed by Lettice’s appearance, Lady Gladys advised that she was bound by the contract she had signed to complete the work to Gladys’ satisfaction, not Phoebe’s.

 

Thus, Viscount Wrexham has contrived a war cabinet meeting in the comfortable surrounds of the Glynes library with Lettice and Eglantyne to see if between them they can work out a way to untangle Lettice from Lady Gladys’ contract, or at least undo the damage done to Pheobe by way of Lettice’s redecoration of the flat.

 

Being early autumn, the library at Glynes is filled with light, yet a fire crackles contentedly in the grate of the great Georgian stone fireplace to keep the cooler temperatures of the season at bay. The space smells comfortingly of old books and woodsmoke. The walls of the long room are lined with floor to ceiling shelves, full thousands of volumes on so many subjects. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows facing out to the front of the house burnishes the polished parquetry floors in a ghostly way. Viscount Wrexham sits at his Chippendale desk, with his daughter sitting opposite him on the other side of it, whilst Eglantyne, a tall, willowy figure and always too restless to sit for too long, stands at her brother’s shoulder as the trio discuss the current state of affairs.

 

“So is what Gladys says, correct, Lettice?” the Viscount bristles from his seat behind his Chippendale desk as he lifts a gilt edged Art Nouveau decorated cup of hot tea to his lips. “Did you sign a contract?”

 

“Well yes of course I did, Pappa!” Lettice defends, cradling her own cup in her hands, admiring the beautifully executed stylised blue Art Nouveau flowers on it. “You told me that there should be a formal contract in place ever since I had that spot of unpleasantness with the Duchess of Whitby when she was reluctant to pay her account in full after I had finished decorating her Fitzrovia first-floor reception room.”

 

“And I take it, our lawyers haven’t perused it?” he asks as he replaces the cup in its saucer on the desk’s surface.

 

“No Pappa.” Lettice replies, fiddling with the hem of her silk cord French blue cardigan. “Should they have?”

 

The Viscount sucks in a deep breath audibly, his heckles arcing up.

 

“Cosmo.” his sister says calmingly, standing at his side, placing one of her heavily bejewelled hands on his shoulder, lightly digging her elegantly long yet gnarled fingers into the fabric of his tweed jacket and pressing hard.

 

The Viscount releases a gasp. He looks down upon the book he had been pleasurably reading before he summoned both his sister and daughter to his domain of the Glynes library, a copy of Padraic Colum’s* ‘The Golden Fleece and the Heroes who Lived Before Achilles’** illustrated by Willy Pognay, and focuses on it like an anchor to manage the temper roiling within him. Trying very hard to suppress his frustration and keep it out of his steady modulation, the Viscount replies, “Yes my girl,” He sighs again. “Preferably you should have any contracts drawn up by our lawyers, and then signed by a client: not the other way around. And if it does happen to be the other way around, our lawyers should give it a thorough going over before you sign it.”

 

“But a contract is a contract, Pappa, surely?” Lettice retorts before taking another sip of tea.

 

The Viscount’s breathing grows more laboured as his face grows as red as the cover of ‘The Golden Fleece and the Heroes who Lived Before Achilles’ on the tooled leather surface of the desk before him.

 

“Cosmo.” Eglantine says again, before looking up and catching her niece’s eye and tries to warn her of the thunderstorm of frustration and anger that is about to burst from the Viscount by giving her an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

 

The Viscount continues to breathe in a considered and deliberate way as he tries to continue, his deep voice somewhat strangulated by his effort not to slam his fists on the desktop and yell at his daughter. “A contact varies, Lettice. It depends on who has written it as to what clauses are contained inside, such as Gladys’ condition that she is to be completely satisfied with the outcome of the redecoration, or she may forfeit any unpaid tradesmen’s bills, not to mention your own. You should have read it thoroughly before you signed it.”

 

“Oh.” Lettice lowers her head and looks down dolefully into her lap.

 

The Viscount turns sharply in his Chippendale chair, withdrawing his shoulder from beneath his sister’s grounding grasp with an irritable shake and glares at his sister through angry, bloodshot eyes. When she was young, Eglantine had Titian red hair that fell in wavy tresses about her pale face, making her a popular muse amongst the Pre-Raphaelites she mixed with. With the passing years, her red hair has retreated almost entirely behind silver grey, save for the occasional streak of washed out reddish orange, except when she decides the henna it, and she still wears it as she did when it was at its fiery best, sweeping softly about her almond shaped face, tied in a loose chignon at the back of her neck.

 

“I place the blame for this situation solely at your feet, Eglantyne!” the Viscount barks at his sister.

 

“Me!” Eglantyne laughs in incredulity. “Me! Don’t be so preposterous, Cosmo.” She grasps at one of the many strings of highly faceted, winking bugle beads that cascade down the front of her usual choice of frock, a Delphos dress***, this one of silver silk painted with stylised orange poppies on long, flowing green stalks. “I call that most unfair!” she complains. “I’m not responsible for Gladys’ lawyers, or their filthy binding contract.”

 

“No, but you’re responsible for introducing Lettice to that infernal woman!” the Viscount blasts. “Bloody female romance novelist!”

 

“Language!” Eglantyne quips.

 

“Oh, fie my language!” the Viscount retorts angrily. “And fie you, Eglantyne!”

 

Always being her elder brother’s favourite of all his siblings, and therefore usually forgiven of any mistakes and transgressions she has made in the past as a bohemian artist, and very seldom falling into his bad books, Eglantine is struck by the forcefulness of his anger. Even though she is well aware of his bombastic temper, it is easier to deal with when it is directed to someone or something else. This unusual situation with his annoyance being squarely aimed at her leaves her feeling flustered and sick.

 

“Me? I… I didn’t know that… that Gladys was vying to get Lettice… before her so… so.. so she could ask her to redecorate her ward’s flat, Cosmo!” Eglantyne splutters. “How… how could I know?”

 

“Coerced is more like it!” Cosmo snaps in retort. “And you must have had some inkling, surely! You were always good at reading people and situations: far better than I ever was!”

 

“Well, I didn’t, Cosmo!” Eglantine snaps back, determined not to let her brother get the upper hand on her and blame her for something she rightly considers far beyond her control. “I mean, all I was doing was trying my best to get Lettice out of her funk over losing Selwyn.” She turns quickly to Lettice and looks at her with apologetic eyes. “Sorry my dear.” Returning her attention to her brother, she continues, “I didn’t want her wallowing in her own grief, something you were only too happy to indulge her in whilst she was staying here at Glynes with you!” She tuts. “Feeding her butter shortbreads and mollycoddling her. What good was there in doing that?”

 

“She was staying with Lally.” the Viscount mutters through gritted teeth.

 

“Same thing really.” Eglantine says breezily. “Like father like daughter. Lettice needed something to restore her spark, and quiet walks in the Buckinghamshire countryside weren’t going do that. I knew that Gladys enjoyed being surrounded by London’s Bright Young Things****, and she had spoken to me about Lettice’s interior designs.”

 

“Aha!” the Viscount crows. “So, you did know she had designs on Lettice!”

 

“If you’d kindly let me finish, Cosmo.” Eglantyne continues in an indignant tone.

 

The Viscount huffs and lets his shoulders lower a little as he gesticulates with a sweeping gesture across his desk towards his sister for Eglantine to continue.

 

“What I was going to say was that Gladys telephoned me and asked me about Lettice’s interior designs after she read that article by Henry Tipping***** in Country Life******, which you and Sadie, and probably half the country read. How could I know from that innocuous enquiry that Gladys would engage Lettice in this unpleasant commission? She simply telephoned me at just the right time, so I orchestrated with Gladys for Lettice and the Channons to go and stay at Gossington.” She folds her arms akimbo. “Lettice was stagnating, and that is not good for her. As I said before, she needed to have her creativity sparked. I thought it would do Lettice good to be amongst the bright and spirited company of a coterie of young and artistic people, and I wasn’t wrong, was I Lettice?”

 

Startled to suddenly be introduced into the heated conversation between her father and aunt about her, Lettice stammers, “Well… yes. It was a very gay house party, and I did also receive the commission from Sir John Nettleford-Huges for Mr. and Mrs. Gifford at Arkwright Bury, Pappa.”

 

“That old lecher.” the Viscount spits.

 

“Sadie doesn’t think so,” Eglantyne remarks with a superior air, a smug smile curling up the corners of her lips. “She seemed to think he’d be a good match for Lettice two years ago at her ludicrous matchmaking Hunt Ball.”

 

“Now don’t you start on Sadie, Eglantyne.” the Viscount warns with a wagging finger, the ruby in the signet ring on his little finger winking angrily in the light of the library, reflecting its wearer’s fit of pique. “I’m in no mood for your usual acerbic pokes at Sadie.”

 

“Sir John is actually quite nice, Pappa.” Lettice pipes up quickly in an effort to defuse the situation between her father and aunt. “Once you get to know him.” she adds rather lamely when her father glares at her with a look that suggests that she may have lost all her senses. She hurriedly adds, “And that’s gone swimmingly, Pappa, and as a result, Henry Tipping has promised me another feature article on my interior designs there in Country Life.”

 

“There!” Eglantyne says with satisfaction, sweeping her arm out expansively towards her niece, making the mixture of gold, silver, Bakelite******* and bead bracelets and bangles jangle. “See Cosmo, it’s not all bad news. An excellent commission right here in Wiltshire that guarantees positive promotion of Lettice’s interior designs in a prestigious periodical.”

 

“Well, be that as it may,” the Viscount grumbles. “You are still responsible for dismissing Lettice’s justified concerns about Gladys and her rather Machiavellian plans to redecorate her ward’s flat to her own designs and hold Lettice to account for it. You told me that you aired your concerns with your aunt, Lettice. Isn’t that so?”

 

Lettice nods, looking guiltily at her favourite aunt, fearing disappointment in the older woman’s eyes as she does.

 

“Well,” Eglantyne concedes with a sigh. “I cannot deny that Lettice did raise her concerns with me when we had luncheon together, but her concerns did not appear justified at the time.”

 

Ignoring Eglantyne’s last remark, the Viscount continues, addressing his daughter, “And that was before she commenced on this rather fraught commission wasn’t it?”

 

“Well Pappa, as I told you, I had already agreed in principle to accept Gladys’ commission at Gossington. Gladys is a little hard to refuse.”

 

“Bombastic!” the Viscount opines.

 

“Pot: kettle: black.” Eglantyne pipes up, placing her hands on her silk clad hips.

 

“Don’t test my patience any more, Eglantyne!” the Viscount snaps. He returns his attentions to his daughter. “But you hadn’t signed any contracts at that stage, had you, Lettice?”

 

“Well no, Pappa.” Lettice agrees. “But I think that Gladys was having the contracts drawn up by her lawyers at that time.”

 

“Why didn’t you intervene when Lettice spoke to you, Eglantyne?” the Viscount asks his sister.

 

“Because I didn’t see any cause for alarm, Cosmo.” she replies in her own defence.

 

“But Lettice told you that Gladys coerced her into agreeing to redecorate the flat, didn’t she?”

 

“Well yes,” Eglantyne agrees. “But as I said to Lettice at the time, Gladys wears most people down to her way of thinking in the end. It is a very brave, or stupid, person who challenges Gladys when she has an idea in her head that she is impassioned about.” She pauses for a moment before continuing. “I didn’t think it was a bad thing necessarily, Cosmo. Not only was it not unusual for Gladys to get her way, but at the time, Lettice needed someone to take the lead. Her own initiative was somewhat lacking after all that business with Zinnia shipping Selwyn off to Durban. So, I wasn’t concerned, and I doubt that you would be concerned about it either, were you in my shoes.”

 

“Well I wasn’t.” he argues. “What about Lettice’s other concerns about taking on the commission?” he softens his voice as he addresses his daughter, “What did you say to your aunt again, my dear?”

 

“I said I was concerned that Gladys had ulterior motives, Pappa.” Lettice replies.

 

“Which she did!” the Viscount agrees. “Go on.”

 

“I illuded to the fact that I thought Gladys saw her dead brother and sister-in-law as some kind of threat to her happy life with Phoebe, and she wanted to whitewash them from Phoebe’s life.”

 

“And I suggested to Lettice that that was a grave allegation to make without proof, Cosmo.” Eglantyne explains. “And all she had to back her allegations up were some anecdotal stories, which count for nothing.”

 

“You accused Lettice of overdramatising.” the Viscount says angrily.

 

“I know I did, Cosmo.” Eglantyne admits. “I did assuage Lettice of the concerns she had that Gladys was going to insist on making changes Phoebe or she didn’t like. I admit, I was wrong about that. I assured Lettice that Gladys adores her niece, and whilst in hindsight I may not now use the word adore, I’m still instant that Gladys only wants what she thinks is best for Phoebe. Phoebe is the daughter Gladys never planned to have, but also the child Gladys didn’t know could bring her so much joy and fulfilment in her life, as a parent. And to be fair, Cosmo, if you’d ever met Phoebe, you’d understand why I said what I did.”

 

“Go on.” the Viscount says, cocking his eyebrow over his right eye.

 

“Well Pheobe is such a timid little mouse of a creature. She seldom expresses an opinion.”

 

“That’s because Gladys has been quashing those opinions, Aunt Egg.” Lettice adds.

 

“Well, we know that now, but from the outside looking in, you wouldn’t know that without the intimate knowledge that you have now received from Phoebe, Lettice.”

 

“So what you’re implying Pappa is, that I have to see through the redecoration to Phoebe’s pied-à-terre******** to Gladys’ specifications, even if Pheobe herself doesn’t like them?”

 

“It does appear that way, my dear.” the Viscount concedes.

 

“Even if it is plain that Gladys is bullying her and taking advantage of the situation for her own means?” Lettice asks hopefully.

 

“It’s a sticky situation, my dear.” the Viscount replies consolingly. “I mean, you don’t actually have to go through with it. It isn’t like you need her money. If she doesn’t pay the tradesmen’s bills you’ll be a little out of pocket, but it won’t bankrupt you.”

 

“But,” Eglantyne says warningly. “You do run the risk of Gladys spreading malicious gossip about your business. Whatever Gladys may or may not be, she’s influential.” She sighs deeply. “It would be such a shame to ruin the career you have spent so long building and making a success.”

 

“And your mother wouldn’t fancy the trouble and scandals this poisonous woman could create, either.” adds the Viscount as an afterthought. “Especially when it comes to your marriageability.”

 

“Are you suggesting that Selwyn isn’t going to come back to me, Pappa?” Lettice asks bitterly, unable to keep the hurt out of her voice as colour fills her face and unshed tears threatening to spill fill her eyes.

 

“No,” the Viscount defends. “You know your happiness and security is of the utmost importance to me, Lettice my dear. No, I’m just being a realist. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Zinnia doesn’t have something nasty up her sleeve to spring upon the pair of you, even when he does come back. If there is even the slightest smear on your character, Lettice, she will use that against you. Zinna hasn’t spoken to you since that night, has she?”

 

“No, thank goodness!” Lettice replies.

 

“Well, that may not be such a good thing.” the Viscount goes on. “Zinnia enjoys playing a long game that can inflict more pain.”

 

“Your father speaks the truth, Lettice, and he is wise to be a pragmatist.” Eglantyne remarks sagely.

 

The older woman reaches into the small silver mesh reticule********* dangling from her left wrist and unfastens it. She withdraws her gold and amber cigarette holder and a small, embossed silver case containing her choice of cigarettes, her favourite black and gold Sobranie********** Black Russians. She depresses the clasp of the case and withdraws one of the long, slender cigarettes and screws it adeptly into her holder. She then withdraws a match holder and goes to strike a match.

 

“Must you, Eglantyne?” the Viscount asks. “You know Sadie doesn’t like smoking indoors.”

 

Eglantyne ignores her brother and strikes a match and lights her Sobranie, sucking the end of her cigarette holder, causing the match flame to dance and gutter whilst the paper and tobacco of the cigarette crackles. Whisps of dark grey smoke curl as they escape the corners of her mouth.

 

“I’m in your bad books, Cosmo, so I may as well be in hers too.” she says, sending forth tumbling clouds of acrid smoke. “No-one will deny me my little pleasure in life.” She smiles with gratification as she draws on her holder again. “Not even Sadie. And correction: Sadie only dislikes it when a lady smokes.”

 

“Well, I can’t stop you any more than I seem to be able to stop Gladys from forcing Lettice to decorate this damnable flat the way she wants it, rather than the way Phoebe wants it.” the Viscount replies in a defeated tone.

 

The three fall silent for a short while, with only the heavy ticking of the clock sitting on the library mantle and the crackle of the fire to break the cloying silence.

 

“What about Sir John?” the Viscount suddenly says.

 

“Sir John Nettleford-Hughes?” Eglantyne asks quizzically, blowing forth another cloud of Sobranie smoke.

 

“No, no!” he clarifies with a shake of his head. “Not that Sir John: Sir John Caxton, Gladys’ husband. Surely, we can appeal to him. He wouldn’t want Pheobe to be unhappy.”

 

“He’s completely under Gladys’ thumb***********.” Eglantyne opines.

 

“Aunt Egg is right, Pappa. The day I went to Eaton Square************ to have it out with Gladys, I saw John, and he couldn’t wait to retreat to the safety of his club and leave we two to our own devices. He’s as completely ruled by Gladys as Phoebe is.”

 

“I suppose you could turn this to your advantage and have Phoebe commission you to undo your own redecoration.” the Viscount suggests hopefully.

 

“I don’t think that would work very well, Cosmo.” Eglantyne remarks.

 

“How so?”

 

“Well, I don’t think Gladys would take too kindly to Lettice and Phoebe going behind her back, and we’ve just discussed the difficulties a scorned woman could cause to Lettice’s reputation, both personally and professionally.”

 

“Besides,” Lettice adds. “I don’t think the allowance Phoebe inherits from her father’s estate is terribly large, and I don’t imagine it will be easy as a woman to win any garden design commissions to be able to afford my services.”

 

“There’s Gertude Jekyll*************.” Eglantyne remarks.

 

“Yes, but she has influential connections like Edward Lutyens**************.” Lettice counters. “And as you have noted, Aunt Egg, Phoebe is rather unassuming. She doesn’t know anyone of influence, and wields none of her own. Besides, I’m sure Gladys won’t pay Phoebe to pay me to undo her prescribed redecorations.”

 

“You could always redecorate the pied-à-terre without charge,” the Viscount suggests hopefully.

 

“As recompense for the damage I’ve done redecorating it now, you mean, Pappa?”

 

“In a sense.”

 

“The outcomes would be the same unpleasant ones for Lettice as if Phoebe could afford to commission her to do it, Cosmo.” Eglantyne warns.

 

“Gerald was right.” Lettice mutters.

 

“About what, my dear?” her father asks.

 

“Well, Gerald said that Gladys was very good at weaving sticky spiderwebs, and that I had better watch out that I didn’t become caught in one.” She sighs heavily. “But it appears as if I have become enmeshed in one well and truly.”

 

“Well, however much it displeases me to say this to you Lettice, let this be a lesson to you my girl! In future, make sure that you engage our lawyers to draw up the contracts for you.”

 

“But I didn’t have this contract drawn up, Pappa,” Lettice defends. “Gladys did.”

 

“Well, make sure our lawyers review any contracts created by someone else before you undertake to sign one if future.”

 

Eglantyne stares off into the distance, drawing heavily upon her Sobranie, blowing out plumes of smoke.

 

“So, I’m stuck then.” Lettice says bitterly. “And its my own stupid fault.”

 

Eglantyne’s eyes flit in a desultory fashion about the room, drifting from the many gilt decorated spines on the shelves to the armchairs gathered cosily around the library’s great stone fireplace to the chess table set up to play nearby.

 

“Unless your aunt can come up with something, I’m afraid I don’t see a way out for you, Lettice.” the Viscount says. He then adds kindly, “But I wouldn’t be so hard on yourself, my dear. We all have to learn life’s lessons. Sometimes we just learn them in harder ways.”

 

Eglantyne continues to contemplate the situation her niece finds herself in.

 

“Well, I’ve certainly learned my lesson this time, Pappa.”

 

Eglantyne withdraws the nearly spent Sobranie from her lips, scattering ash upon the dull, worth carpet beneath her mule clad feet. “I may have one idea that might work.”

 

“Really Aunt Egg?” Lettice gasps, clasping her hands together as she does.

 

“Perhaps, Lettice my dear.”

 

“What is it, Eglantyne?” the Viscount asks.

 

“I don’t want to say anything, just in case I can’t pull it off.” Eglantyne contemplates for a moment before continuing. “Just leave this with me for a few days.”

 

*Padraic Colum was an Irish poet, novelist, dramatist, biographer, playwright, children's author and collector of folklore. He was one of the leading figures of the Irish Literary Revival.

 

**“The Golden Fleece and the Heroes who Lived Before Achilles” was a novel written by Padraic Colum, illustrated by Hungarian artist Willy Pognay, published by the Macmillan Company in 1921.

 

***The Delphos gown is a finely pleated silk dress first created in about 1907 by French designer Henriette Negrin and her husband, Mariano Fortuny y Madrazo. They produced the gowns until about 1950. It was inspired by, and named after, a classical Greek statue, the Charioteer of Delphi. It was championed by more artistic women who did not wish to conform to society’s constraints and wear a tightly fitting corset.

 

****The Bright Young Things, or Bright Young People, was a nickname given by the tabloid press to a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s Londo

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

********A pied-à-terre is a small flat, house, or room kept for occasional use.

 

*********A reticule is a woman's small handbag, typically having a drawstring and decorated with embroidery or beading. The term “reticule” comes from French and Latin terms meaning “net.” At the time, the word “purse” referred to small leather pouches used for carrying money, whereas these bags were made of net. By the 1920s they were sometimes made of small heavy metal mesh as well as netting or beaded materials.

 

**********The Balkan Sobranie tobacco business was established in London in 1879 by Albert Weinberg (born in Romania in 1849), whose naturalisation papers dated 1886 confirm his nationality and show that he had emigrated to England in the 1870s at a time when hand-made cigarettes in the eastern European and Russian tradition were becoming fashionable in Europe. Sobranie is one of the oldest cigarette brands in the world. Throughout its existence, Sobranie was marketed as the definition of luxury in the tobacco industry, being adopted as the official provider of many European royal houses and elites around the world including the Imperial Court of Russia and the royal courts of United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Spain, Romania, and Greece. Premium brands include the multi-coloured Sobranie Cocktail and the black and gold Sobranie Black Russian.

 

***********The idiom “to be under the thumb”, comes from the action of a falconer holding the leash of the hawk under their thumb to maintain a tight control of the bird. Today the term under the thumb is generally used in a derogatory manner to describe a partner's overbearing control over the other partner's actions.

 

************Eaton Square is a rectangular residential garden square in London's Belgravia district. It is the largest square in London. It is one of the three squares built by the landowning Grosvenor family when they developed the main part of Belgravia in the Nineteenth Century that are named after places in Cheshire — in this case Eaton Hall, the Grosvenor country house. It is larger but less grand than the central feature of the district, Belgrave Square, and both larger and grander than Chester Square. The first block was laid out by Thomas Cubitt from 1827. In 2016 it was named as the "Most Expensive Place to Buy Property in Britain", with a full terraced house costing on average seventeen million pounds — many of such town houses have been converted, within the same, protected structures, into upmarket apartments.

 

*************Gertrude Jekyll was a British horticulturist, garden designer, craftswoman, photographer, writer and artist. She created over four handred gardens in the United Kingdom, Europe and the United States, and wrote over one thousand articles for magazines such as Country Life and William Robinson's The Garden. Her first commissioned garden was designed in 1881, and she worked very closely wither her long standing friend, architect Sir Edward Lutyens.

 

**************Sir Edwin Landseer Lutyens was an English architect known for imaginatively adapting traditional architectural styles to the requirements of his era. He designed many English country houses, war memorials and public buildings in the years before the Second World War. He is probably best known for his creation of the Cenotaph war memorial on Whitehall in London after the Great War. Had he not died of cancer in 1944, he probably would have gone on to design more buildings in the post-war era.

 

Cluttered with books and art, Viscount Wrexham’s library with its Georgian furnishings is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The majority of the books that you see lining the shelves of the Viscount’s library are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. So too are the postcards and the box for them on the Viscount’s Chippendale desk. Most of the books I own that Ken 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, as can be seen on The Times Literary Supplement broadsheet on the Viscount’s desk. I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. “The Golden Fleece and the Heroes who Lived Before Achilles” by Padraic Colum, illustrated by Willy Pognay, sitting on the Viscount’s desk is such an example. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really do make these 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. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

On the desk are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles and a blotter on a silver salver all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame. The silver double frame on the desk also comes from Mick and Marie’s Miniature Collectables. The bottle of port and the port glasses I acquired from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay. Each glass, the bottle and its faceted stopper are hand blown using real glass.

 

Also on the desk to the left stands a stuffed white owl on a branch beneath a glass cloche. A vintage miniature piece, the foliage are real dried flowers and grasses, whilst the owl is cut from white soapstone. The base is stained wood and the cloche is real glass. This I acquired along with two others featuring shells (one of which can be seen in the background) from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The teapot and teacups, featuring stylised Art Nouveau patterns were acquired from an online stockist of dolls’ house miniatures in Australia.

 

The Chippendale desk itself is made by Bespaq, and it has a mahogany stain and the design is taken from a real Chippendale desk. Its surface is covered in red dioxide red dioxide leather with a gilt trim. Bespaq is a high-end miniature furniture maker with high attention to detail and quality.

 

The beautiful rotating globe in the background features a British Imperial view of the world, with all of Britain’s colonies in pink (as can be seen from Canada), as it would have been in 1921. The globe sits on metal casters in a mahogany stained frame, and it can be rolled effortlessly. It comes from Mick and Marie’s Miniature Collectables in Lancashire. The silver double frame on the desk also comes from Mick and Marie’s Miniature Collectables.

 

In the background you can see the book lined shelves of Viscount Wrexham’s as well as a Victorian painting of cattle in a gold frame from Amber’s Miniatures in America, and a hand painted ginger jar from Thailand which stands on a Bespaq plant stand.

 

The gold flocked Edwardian 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 however we have headed slightly west from Mayfair, across Hyde Park to Kensington Gardens, where on a bench along the path overlooking the Serpentine, not too far from the statue of Peter Pan* stands, Lettice’s maid Edith and her best friend and fellow maid, Hilda, are sitting, knitting in the early afternoon sun. Edith and Hilda met when they worked as under house maids in the Pimlico household of industrialist Mr. Plaistow and his wife. The two girls used to share a room together, up under the eaves of the grand Regency terrace house. When Edith left Mrs. Plaistow to work for Lettice she felt badly for her friend, not being able to bring her with her, but subsequently Edith helped Hilda to leave Pimlico by arranging for Hilda to become the live-in maid for Lettice’s married friends Margot and Dickie Channon, who live just a stone’s throw from Lettice’s Cavendish Mews flat in Hill Street.

 

Today is Sunday, a day that both ladies have free from their domestic duties to attend church and perhaps visit their families or enjoy themselves in the afternoon before returning to their jobs at four o’clock. Edith is stepping out with Frank Leadbetter, the young grocery delivery boy and sometimes window dresser of Mr. Willison’s Grocery in Binney Street, Mayfair. When Edith and Frank are not spending time together as a young courting couple, it is not unknown for the three of them to spend Sunday afternoons together, enjoying the delights of the latest moving pictures at the Premier in East Ham** or dancing at the Hammersmith Palais***, however today Frank is absent from the girls’ Sunday plans, with the young man escorting his elderly grandmother, Mrs. McTavish to Aberdeen in Scotland for the birthday of her brother, his Great Uncle, Finlay McBryde. Thus, the two friends are enjoying some time together instead, and they have decided to take advantage of the bright, sunny day and spend it sitting in the park, knitting. Around them, people promenade in their Sunday best: families of all classes, the children of wealthier families being taken for a Sunday afternoon perambulation in the park by their nannies, young couples enjoying the sunshine and men and women on their own, all going about their business in a more leisurely way as they enjoy what may be perhaps one of the last really sunny days of 1924. Beyond them, the bells of central London ring in the distance, calling the faithful who have not yet visited to afternoon prayers and masses.

 

“I do like your new hat, Hilda.” Edith remarks upon her best friend’s new cream coloured cloche.

 

Decorated with silk roses and long white feathers, the pretty bleached straw hat acquired from Mrs. Minkin’s Haberdashery in Whitechapel wraps around Hilda’s plump face and mousy brown waves fashionably.

 

“Oh, thank you Edith.” Hilda says with a smile, patting her crown self-consciously.

 

“See?”

 

“See what, Edith?”

 

Edith goes on. “I told you that you should have told Mrs. Channon that Miss Lettice had increased my wages sooner. Then you might have been able to afford your new hat sooner.”

 

“Oh, it just wasn’t the right time, Edith.” Hilda defends herself. “You know all about that spot of bother we had after the lobster dinner party,” Hilda pauses. Lowering her voice she continues in a conspiratorial whisper, “When Mrs. Channon had to hock her fur tippet to get me enough money to feed us all.”

 

“Oh yes, minced meat and potato stew for all.” Edith chuckles quietly in response. “But all that’s over and done with now, isn’t it, Hilda? It’s sorted?”

 

“Oh yes, we’re back to a more even keel.” Hilda scoffs in her seat, snorting as she does. “If you can ever call anything in Hill Street evenly keeled.” She pauses and counts her stitches. “It’s still the occasional robbing Peter to pay Paul*****, but there are no more mincemeat dinners for Mr. and Mrs. Channon.”

 

“But no more Lobster Newberg****** either, I’ll wager.” Edith clucks.

 

“Thank goodness, no!” Hilda gasps. “Don’t even jest about it, Edith!”

 

“Whyever not, Hilda?”

 

“Well, that night with that loud American millionaire Mr. Carter and his uppity wife: I was terrified that we were going to serve them something that they didn’t like, or that wasn’t done to Mr. Carter’s exacting tastes.”

 

“Well, you had me with you that night, and whilst there wasn’t anything wrong with the lobsters, or anything else we served that night, if there had been, you could have blamed me.”

 

“Never!” Hilda gasps. “I’d never blame my best friend for anything, especially since you were such a lifesaver that night! My nerves wouldn’t have coped with waiting table and cooking the lobster and the pudding that night.”

 

“Dessert,” Edith corrects her friend*******.

 

“Dessert,” Hilda repeats, smiling as she remembers the delicious gelatinous leftovers of Edith’s trifle******** which the pair scooped from one of Lettice’s large faceted Art Deco crystal bowls as they set about washing up the dishes from the Channon’s grand dinner party as the hosts and their guests enjoyed Hilda’s ground coffee in the Hill Street flat’s drawing room. “Anyway it wasn’t the moment in the aftermath of that bankrupting dinner party, what with all that going on, for me to ask for a wage increase. And even then, with Mrs. Channon’s father paying my wages, he hasn’t been as generous as your Miss Lettice has been.”

 

“Well, any wage increase is better than none, Hilda.”

 

“I’ll say, but you really can afford more of life’s little luxuries now, what with your extra shillings: a quarter pound of real cocoa, or some lovely Ivory********* lavender or rose scented soap.”

 

“I’m actually putting most of it away to keep for when Frank and I set up house, once we’re married.” Edith explains. She lowers her knitting to her lap momentarily. “Although I must confess I did use some of my new wages to buy that beautiful French lace the day we went to Mrs. Minkin’s to buy your hat.”

 

“Aha!” Hilda crows. “I knew you’d spend some of it. Mind you, it will be perfect as part of your trousseau**********.”

 

“Well,” Edith says with a sly smile. “I did think that when I saw it. It would make a lovely trim on some cami-knickers***********. Although it was a bit extravagant. I daren’t tell Mum. She’d be furious.”

 

“Well, why not? It’s your money, after all. You’ve earned it.”

 

“I should be saving as much as I can for after we’re married, after all, I’ll have to leave service once I’m Mrs. Frank Leadbetter************.”

 

“I don’t think a little treat every now and then does any real harm.” Hilda says, nudging her friend conspiratorially.

 

Edith smiles contentedly, pauses her knitting again and stares out at the expanse of undulating green grass where she sees a young married couple in their Sunday best, helping their baby to walk.

 

“Wait!” Hilda gasps, pausing her own knitting and swivelling in her seat on the park bench to face her friend. “He hasn’t proposed, and you haven’t told me yet, has he?”

 

“No, of course not, Hilda!” Edith retorts. “How could you even think such a thing?” She looks earnestly at her best friend. “You’ll be one of the first people I tell, Hilda!”

 

“That’s a relief, then!” Hilda puts a hand to her chest and heaves a sigh.

 

“Of course I’d tell you! You’re going to be my maid of honour: unless of course you get married before I do, in which case you can be my matron of honour.”

 

“Pshaw!” Hilda mutters dismissively as she takes up her knitting again. “Chance would be a fine thing.”

 

“You never know, Hilda.” Edith returns to her own ever growing rows of knitting. “One day, one of the ladies at Ms. Minkin’s knitting circle might have a handsome and eligible bachelor brother for you to meet. Wouldn’t that be just the thing?”

 

Hilda gives her friend a doubtful look, and they both laugh good-naturedly, but their laughter is tinged with a little sadness. Edith still hopes that her best friend will one day meet a young man, or even an older one, who will meet her desires for an intelligent match, and form a loving relationship with him.

 

“Mind you,” Edith continues her previous train of thought. “I have an idea as to how I can still make money after I am married.”

 

“How’s that then?”

 

“Well, you know how I told you that Miss Lettice apologised to me after she was all prickly with me.” When Hilda nods, Edith continues. “The day she did, she told me something else too, that got my mind to thinking.”

 

“What?” Hilda asks excitedly. “What did she say?”

 

“She told me that Mr. Bruton, you know her friend who makes frocks in Grosvenor Square?”

 

“I know of him, and you’ve shown me people wearing his frocks in cutouts stuck in your scrapbooks.”

 

“Well, she told me that Mr. Bruton told her that he’s take me on as a seamstress if he could afford to pay me the wages.”

 

Hilda screws up her nose. “That doesn’t sound like much of a plan. If he can’t afford to pay you, he won’t be much good.”

 

“But he might be able to by the time Frank and me is wed, Hilda, and then I can do what Mum does sometimes and make clothes, only I’d be getting paid better than she does for the piecework she used to take from awful old widow Hounslow and her crotchety and tight fisted old friends. I’d be working for a man who makes real gowns for real ladies! Just imagine that!”

 

“Yes, imagine!” Hilda says doubtfully.

 

“Oh, don’t pooh-pooh my idea, Hilda!”

 

“I’m not, but there’s no guarantee you will get to work for Mr. Bruton.”

 

“Well, no, but Frank hasn’t proposed yet, and there’s plenty of time until we are eventually married, Hilda.” She looks with hope filled dreams to her friend. “And even if a job doesn’t work out with Mr. Bruton, I’ve got good enough skills that someone else would be happy for me to take in piece work at home.”

 

“And Frank wouldn’t mind?” Hilda tempers. “He’s a proud man, Edith.”

 

“Oh no! Frank understands. We’ve even spoken about me doing a little something after we’re married, just to help make ends meet.”

 

“Well, that’s alright then, Edith.”

 

Edith sighs as she allows the late summer sun on an unusually sunny London day to soak into her bones as she allows the gentle, constant, rhythmic movement of her knitting to lull her comfortably. She listens to the noises around her as she lets her lids sink soporifically over her eyes: the twitter of birds in the undergrowth and in the trees behind her, the laughter and the occasional cry from the children playing on the lawns nearby and the click of heels and quiet chatter of the people passing by their bench. She lets her thoughts wander, and she imagines herself in a few years’ time, married to Frank and knitting booties and comforters for their babies.

 

“Oh pooh!” Hilda mutters, bringing Edith back to the present.

 

“What is it, Hilda?” Edith asks, pausing her knitting and opening her eyes.

 

Hilda is looking down at the knitting in her lap, a grumpy look crumpling her doughy face. Her sausage fingers begin tugging at the creamy coloured yarn.

 

“I dropped a stich in that last row!” Hilda grumbles, tugging at her carefully knitted stitches, undoing her work.

 

“Oh no!” Edith says consolingly.

 

“I’ll never be as good as you are at knitting, Edith!” Hilda opines. “Never!”

 

“I drop stitches too, you know.”

 

“You!” Hilda scoffs. “You can knit with your eyes closed, you can. I think you seldom drop a stitch.”

 

“That may be true,” Edith concedes. “But I still do, do it from time to time.” She then adds encouragingly. “And you’re doing it far less than you did when you first started.” She nods towards Hilda’s half completed scarf. “And your tension is so much more even now.”

 

“Thank you, Edith.” Hilda purrs, smiling proudly. “I don’t think I’ll ever be as good as you, but I am getting better.”

 

“Of course you are, Hilda. I think it was a jolly good idea of yours to join Mrs. Minkin’s knitting circle.”

 

“Thank you Edith.”

 

“If for no other reason,” Edith smiles cheekily at her friend. “That one day, one of the ladies there might just introduce you to the most handsome and eligible bachelor brother you’d ever hope to meet.” She makes cow eyes************* at her friend and bats her eyelashes.

 

“Oh you!” Hilda hisses. “You’re hopeless, Edith!”

 

The two girls burst out laughing, happily enjoying the joke and the ease that comes with one another’s company after knowing each other for so long.

 

“Anyway, enough about all that! What about your beloved Miss Lettice,” Hilda asks. “Where has she gone now?”

 

“Over to her Aunt’s house, to try and smooth over the romance novelist Madeline St John. Apparently, she and Miss Lettice had quite a to do. Ms St John promised me some signed copies of her books, which I love. I hope Miss Lettice hasn’t jeopardised that!”

 

“Oh, I do hope not, Edith! Signed copies of Madeline St John’s novels! Cor!” Hilda breathes. “Lucky you!”

 

“I know! Lucky me, if I ever get them!”

 

*The statue of Peter Pan is a 1912 bronze sculpture of J. M. Barrie's character Peter Pan. It was commissioned by Barrie and made by Sir George Frampton. The original statue is displayed in Kensington Gardens, to the west of The Long Water, close to Barrie's former home on Bayswater Road.

 

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

 

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

  

*****Although legend has it that the expression “robbing Peter to pay Paul” alludes to appropriating the estates of St. Peter's Church, in Westminster, London, to pay for the repairs of St. Paul's Cathedral in the 1800s, the saying first appeared in a work by John Wycliffe about 1382.

 

******Lobster Newberg (also spelled lobster Newburg or lobster Newburgh) is an American seafood dish made from lobster, butter, cream, cognac, sherry and eggs, with a secret ingredient found to be Cayenne pepper. A modern legend with no primary or early sources states that the dish was invented by Ben Wenberg, a sea captain in the fruit trade. He was said to have demonstrated the dish at Delmonico's Restaurant in New York City to the manager, Charles Delmonico, in 1876. After refinements by the chef, Charles Ranhofer, the creation was added to the restaurant's menu as Lobster à la Wenberg and it soon became very popular. The legend says that an argument between Wenberg and Charles Delmonico caused the dish to be removed from the menu. To satisfy patrons’ continued requests for it, the name was rendered in anagram as Lobster à la Newberg or Lobster Newberg.

 

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

 

********In Edwardian times, aspic and jellies were very much in vogue and commonly used in both sweet and savory courses to help chefs and cooks of grand aristocratic households and restaurants to keep foods fresh and appetising. By about 1912, with the advent of industrial refrigeration in restaurants the original use of aspic and jelly was rendered obsolete. Instead, the gelatinous medium provided chefs an opportunity to prepare dazzling visual creations to serve on London tables. This love of presentation and show carried through into the 1920s after the end of the Great War.

 

*********Ivory (known in France as Savon d'Ivoire) is an American flagship personal care brand created by the Procter & Gamble Company, including varieties of white and mildly scented bar soap that became famous for its claim of purity and for floating on water. Over the years, the brand has been extended to other varieties and products. The name Ivory was created by Harley Procter, one of the founders’ sons, who was inspired by the quote "all thy garments smell of myrrh and aloes and cassia out of the ivory palaces", from Psalm 45 of The Bible. In September 1879, Procter & Gamble trademarked "Ivory" as the name of its new soap product. As Ivory is one of Procter & Gamble's oldest products – it was first sold in 1879 – Procter & Gamble is sometimes called "Ivory Towers", and its factory and research center in St. Bernard, Ohio, is named "Ivorydale". Ivory's first slogan, "It Floats!", was introduced in 1891. The product's other well-known slogan, "99+44⁄100% Pure", which was in use by 1895, was based on the results of an analysis by an independent laboratory that Harley Procter hired to demonstrate that Ivory was purer than the castile soap available at the time.

 

**********A trousseau (now a rather archaic term) was used for a collection of personal possessions, such as clothes, that a woman takes to her new home when she gets married. A trousseau was often built up over many years by a young woman and her family. These days a bridal registry is more likely to fill the gap a trousseau would have filled in the past.

 

***********A camiknicker is a one piece bodysuit which comprises a camisole top, and loose French Knicker style bottom which gained popularity in the 1920s. They’re normally loose fitting enabling the wearer to step into them although some feature pop-studs or buttons at one side to give a more fitted look or a self tie belt to accentuate the wearer’s figure.

 

************Prior to and even after the Second World War, there was a ‘marriage bar’ in place. Introduced into legislation, the bar banned the employment of married women as permanent employees, which in essence meant that once a women was married, no matter how employable she was, became unemployable, leaving husbands to be the main breadwinner for the family. This meant that working women needed to save as much money as they could before marriage, and often took in casual work, such as mending, sewing or laundry for a pittance at home to help bring in additional income and help to make ends meet. The marriage bar wasn’t lifted until the very late 1960s.

 

*************To make cow eyes at someone is a wide-eyed expression meant to discreetly signal otherwise unstated romantic attraction to the one it is directed at.

 

Although it may look life-sized to you, this idyllic outdoor scene is in fact comprised of pieces from my miniatures collection, and the park background in in truth my front garden.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Edith’s black dyed straw hat with purple roses and black feathers, and Hilda’s white bleached straw hat adorned with pale pink roses and white feathers, were made by the same 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. Edith’s green handbag and Hilda’s tan one, are handmade from soft leather and are also from her collection.

 

The knitting, which is made of real stitches cast on large headed pins I acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The bench is made by Town Hall Miniatures, and acquired through E-Bay.

 

The brick footbath upon which the bench sits a very special piece, and one of my more recent additions to my miniatures collection. Made painstakingly by hand, this was made by my very dear Flickr friend and artist Kim Hagar (www.flickr.com/photos/bkhagar_gallery/), she surprised me with this amazing piece entitled “Wall” as a Christmas gift, with the intention that I use it in my miniatures photos. Each brick has been individually cut and then worn to give texture before being stuck to the backing board and then painted. She has created several floors in the same way for some of her own miniature projects which you can see in her “In Miniature” album here: www.flickr.com/photos/bkhagar_gallery/albums/721777203007....

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

 

Lettice recently visited her family home, Glynes, in Wiltshire after fleeing London in a moment of deep despair. Lettice’s beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, had organised a romantic dinner at the Savoy* for he and Lettice to celebrate his birthday. However, when Lettice arrived, she was confronted not with the smiling face of her beau, but the haughty and cruel spectre of his mother, the Duchess of Walmsford, Lady Zinnia. Lady Zinnia, and Selwyn’s Uncle Bertrand had been attempting to marry him off to his cousin, 1923 debutante Pamela Fox-Chavers. Lady Zinnia had, up until that moment been snubbing Lettice, so Selwyn and Lettice arranged for Lettice to attend as many London Season events as possible where Selwyn and Pamela were also in attendance so that Lettice and Selwyn could spend time together, and at the same time make their intentions so well known that Lady Zinnia wouldn’t be able to avoid Lettice any longer. Zinnia is a woman who likes intrigue and revenge, and the revenge she launched upon Lettice that evening at the Savoy was bitterly harsh and painful. With a cold and calculating smile Lady Zinna announced that she had packed Selwyn off to Durban in South Africa for a year. She made a pact with her son: if he went away for a year, a year during which he agreed neither to see, nor correspond with Lettice, if he comes back and doesn’t feel the same way about her as he did when he left, he agreed that he will marry Pamela, just as Bertrand and Lady Zinnia planned. If however, he still feels the same way about Lettice when he returns, Lady Zinnia agreed that she would concede and will allow him to marry her.

 

Leaving London by train that very evening, Lettice returned home to Glynes, where she stayed for a week, moving numbly about the familiar rooms of the grand Georgian country house, reading books from her father’s library distractedly to pass the time, whilst her father fed her, her favourite Scottish shortbreads in a vain effort to cheer her up. However, rather than assuage her broken heart, her father’s ministrations only served to make matters worse as she grew even more morose. It was from the most unlikely of candidates, her mother Lady Sadie, with whom Lettice has always had a fraught relationship, that Lettice received the best advice, which was to stop feeling sorry for herself and get on with her life: keep designing interiors, keep shopping and most importantly, keep attending social functions where there are plenty of press photographers. “You may not be permitted to write to Selwyn,” Lady Sadie said wisely. ‘But Zinnia said nothing about the newspapers not writing about your plight or your feelings on your behest. Let them tell Selwyn that you still love him and are waiting for him. They get the London papers in Durban just as much as they get them here, and Zinnia won’t be able to stop a lovesick and homesick young man flipping to the society pages as he seeks solace in the faces of familiar names and faces, and thus seeing you and reading your words of commitment to him that you share through the newspaper men. Tell them that you are waiting patiently for Selwyn’s return.”

 

Since then, Lettice has been trying to follow her mother’s advice and has thrown herself into the merry dance of London’s social round of dinners, dances and balls in the lead up to the festive season. Carefully heeding another piece of her mother’s advice, she has avoided being seen on the arm of any eligible young men, and just as Lady Sadie predicted, the press has been lapping up the story of Lettice’s broken heart as she shuns the advances of other young men whilst she awaits Selwyn’s eventual return from Durban, publishing the details in all their tabloids with fervour.

 

Today we are not at Cavendish Mews. Instead, we are just a short distance away in Knightsbridge on London’s busy shopping thoroughfare of the Brompton Road, where amidst the throng of London’s middle-class housewives and upper-class ladies shopping for amusement, Lettice is trying to throw herself enthusiastically into Christmas shopping with her best friend, Margot Channon, visiting Harrods**. The usually busy footpath outside the enormous department store with its famous terracotta façade seems even busier today as the crowds are swelled by visitors who have come in from the outer suburbs of London and elsewhere around England to join Lettice and Margot and do a spot of their own Christmas shopping. Around them, the vociferous collective chatter of shoppers mixes with the sound of noisy automobiles, chugging double decker busses and the occasional clop of horses hooves as they all trundle along the Brompton Road.

 

The two smartly dressed ladies enter London’s most expensive and grand department store, and following Lettice’s lead, they make their way upstairs to the toy department on Harrod’s top floor. The pair meander between tables laden with mountains of boxed dolls, teddy bears, toy tea sets and dolls’ house furnishings, jostling for space with excited children in toy heaven escorted by their frazzled nannies, or in a few cases, their distracted parents. Fleets of child sized tricycles, rocking horses, railway engines and pedal automobiles stand in line before the counters, their doll and teddy bear passengers awaiting their child drivers. Dolls houses with peaked roofs and beautiful gingerbreading stand open, displaying their tastefully decorated interiors for every passing girl to look at, admire and envy, whilst stacks of the latest sporting toys and equipment are ogled and pawed at by little boys. The air is punctuated with laughter, squeals of delight and the occasional sharp slap and harsh words of admonishment when a child does more than just look at what is on display.

 

“Even the most well-bred children become little monsters at Christmas time.” mutters Margot irritably as two giggling children in smart coats and hats tear past her, their hurried footsteps absorbed into the thick plush of patterned Art Nouveau carpet beneath their feet. “Not that I was of course. My nanny would have been dismissed immediately if I behaved in public the way some of these children are.”

 

Lettice doesn’t reply, but walks alongside her friend, looking absently at a selection of brightly decorated smiling golliwogs sitting on a three-tier display stand.

 

“You know what, Lettice darling?” Margot asks, picking up on a thread of conversation the two friends had begun as they looked through the windows of Harrods along the Brompton Road a few minutes before.

 

“What Margot?” Lettice asks rather distractedly as her gaze moves from the golliwogs to several plush toy poodles standing in front of a wonderful, fully rigged wooden sailboat.

 

“I may not be a great fan of Sadie,” Margot admits. “She’s difficult, exacting and far too critical of you as her daughter.”

 

Margot looks thoughtfully at Lettice, who appears somewhat diminished as she walks alongside her best friend, almost swimming in her familiar powder blue three-quarter length coat, her pale and wan face lacking its usual colour as she peers out from above her thick arctic fox fur stole wrapped around her. Even her smart hat, another millinery creation from her wonderful Putney discovery Harriet Milford, appears bigger on her today, and Margot notices that Lettice’s blonde hair, freshly set in soft Marcelle waves*** around her face, appears lacklustre in spite of her visit to the coiffeur.

 

“But,” Lettice asks, tentatively, pausing and looking at her friend dressed in a smart russet outfit of a three quarter length coat and matching hat, accessorised by a beautiful red squirrel stole.

 

“But what, Lettice darling?”

 

“Your sentence Margot. Don’t be coy, or worse obtuse,” Lettice tuts, looking her friend squarely in the face. “You may not be a fan of Sadie, but?”

 

“Well,” Margot says with a guilty lilt. “For once I jolly well agree with your mother.”

 

“You do?”

 

“I do!” admits Margot. “I think she was right to pack you off back here to London. It’s the only place you will get your shine back.” Margot pauses before adding. “You are looking a little peaky, my dear, if you will forgive me for saying.”

 

“I will, Margot darling. It’s a rare occurrence for Mater to ever insist I return to London.” Lettice snorts as they continue to slowly traverse the aisle lined with every conceivable toy and populated with a mass of wriggling and writhing excitable children. “Usually, it’s the other way around! Why must I come back to this big, horrible city when everything I could possibly need is right on my doorstep in dull old Wiltshire.”

 

“Moping about Glynes for too long would just have exacerbated your feelings of sadness.” Margot goes on. “Especially with your dear Pappa pandering to you.”

 

“Have you been talking to Mater about me?” Lettice asks in surprise, stopping in her tracks.

 

“No!” laughs Margot, looking back at her friend’s surprised face. “What a preposterous idea! We don’t even like one another! Why on earth would you ask that?”

 

“You’ll laugh when I tell you this,” explains Lettice. “But she intimated the exact same thing to me whilst I was staying down at Glynes.”

 

True to Lettice’s prediction, Margot does laugh. “Well, Sadie may lack empathy, but when it comes to matchmaking, it seems that she does have some common sense and knowledge.”

 

“So, you don’t think I’m foolish for doing what Mater suggested?”

 

“For getting on with things, or trying to at any rate?” Margot asks. “Good heavens, no! Why? Who has been saying you’re foolish for coming back to London?”

 

“When I arrived home, Cilla telephoned me and invited me to dine at the Langbourne Club****.”

 

“Humph!” opines Margot. “You’d think with her newly minted American millionaire husband, Cilla could find a new club to be a member of: somewhere more fitting than Fishmonger Hall Street to entertain you over luncheon.”

 

“Oh I don’t know,” Lettice brightens for a moment. “I rather enjoyed having tea and cucumber sandwiches surrounded by the working women of London.”

 

“Cilla would be wise to bury the fact that at one stage she and her mother were in such an impecunious position that she took up a secretarial course and worked in the city office of banker, just to keep the wolves away from the door.” mutters Margot bitterly. “Which she lied to all of us, her friends, about by saying it was a social experiment to aid her understanding of the conditions of working women in the city so she could help improve them.”

 

“Now, don’t be cruel, Margot.” Lettice chides her best friend mildly. “It doesn’t suit you.”

 

“But it’s true! Cilla lied to us all. I thought we were all friends.”

 

“We are, Margot darling.”

 

“But she lied to us, Lettice.”

 

“Only to save face, Margot darling. You know what that’s like. We all do.” Lettice soothes. “Anyway, you’re hardly a one to talk of impecunious circumstances when you think of some of the financial scraps you and Dickie have been in since you were married.” She cocks a knowing eyebrow. “We all know that he might be the future Marquess of Taunton, but he hasn’t a bean.”

 

“That’s besides the point, Lettice darling!” deflects Margot. “Anyway, what did Cilla have to say whilst you were luncheoning on soggy cucumber sandwiches and lukewarm milky tea with views of the Pool of London*****?”

 

“She thinks I’m silly to keep designing interiors and shopping and worse still for attending social functions, especially those where there are lots of photographers and reporters, whom she has noticed me talking to at length.”

 

“That’s because Cilla is a foolish girl who only ever reads silly romance novels and the social pages of the newspapers.” snaps Margot. “Now that she has her wealthy husband, and her future is secure, she thinks of little else.”

 

“I must confess,” Lettice admits guiltily. “I mean, I wasn’t really in the mood for her chatter anyway, but it was most awfully trying, listening to her prattle on about how wonderful life is, now that she’s Mrs. Georgie Carter.”

 

“It just goes to show you how thoughtless she is to talk like that around you when she knows of your heartbreak every bit as much as I do. It’s heartless and unthinking!”

 

“Never mind Margot darling. It’s done now. There’s no need to get cross over it.”

 

Seeming not to hear her friend, Margot continues, “She is just as self-obsessed as the heroines in those ridiculous romances she reads.” She casts her eyes up to the ornate white painted plaster cornicing above. “I’m glad I managed to introduce some alternatives to your reading repertoire.”

 

“Oh yes,” Lettice sparks up momentarily again. “I did enjoy ‘Whose Body?’******. Miss Sayers’ character of Lord Peter Wimsey is simply wonderful!”

 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Lettice darling!” purrs Margot with delight, seeing a welcome spark in her friend’s blue eyes and a tentative smile on her pale lips. “And to see you enthusiastic about something for a change. In spite of your most valiant efforts to be gay and put on a brave face, I cannot help but notice how farouche******* you have been since you came back from Wiltshire. Now, thinking of Glynes, I think Sadie’s suggestion that we get you in front of as many flashing camera bulbs and reporters desperate to report on your perceived ill-fated wait for Selwyn was pure genius!”

 

“Margot!”

 

“I know! I don’t imagine you ever thought you’d hear me say that about Sadie, but she genuinely is right. If you can’t communicate with Selwyn because Lady Zinnia forbids it, then let the newspapers do it for you. If they report on your pining for him, he’ll find out about it soon enough. Even if he doesn’t read the society pages, other people of his acquaintance in Durban will, and they will pop any mention of him in front of his very nose. You and I both know that when our names or pictures appear, everyone clamours to ask us whether we’ve seen ourselves in the society pages.”

 

“As if we hadn’t.” scoffs Lettice, rolling her eyes.

 

“As if we hadn’t.” agrees Margot with an affirmative nod. “No! Ignore silly Cilla, her judgement and her feeble ideas. Let’s do what your mother suggests and keep you out and about.” Margot looks rather nervously at a display of rather ghoulish looking French bisque dolls stacked to her left. “Thinking of which, why did you want to come to Harrod’s toy department anyway? Being surrounded by all these children,” A piercing scream from a little boy or girl pierces the air, making Margot cringe. “Really is most disturbing.”

 

“Well, it is getting towards Christmas, and I don’t have anything for my nice and nephew.” Lettice admits. “I’ve been too preoccupied with, well with other things, as you know.” she adds guiltily.

 

“You don’t have to justify your distractedness to me, Lettice, darling!” Margot links arms comfortingly with her best friend. “You know perfectly well that I understand and support you.”

 

“Thank you Margot, you really are a brick.” Sighs Lettice.

 

“That’s more like my Lettice of old.” Margot smiles. “Now, do you have any idea what your niece and nephew want from Father Christmas this year? The sooner we are out of here, the better as far as I’m concerned.”

 

“Do you think you’ll feel any differently about children, once you have your own, Margot darling?”

 

“Now don’t you start!” Margot snaps as she points a glove clad finger warningly at her friend.

 

“What did I say, Margot darling?”

 

“Oh, nothing.” Margot replies, deflating as quickly as she arced up. “I’m sorry, Lettice darling. Forgive me?”

 

“Of course, dear Margot, but whatever has happened to make you snap like that?”

 

“It’s just my awful mother-in-law the Marchioness is all.”

 

“Is she pressing you about starting a family again?”

 

“Again?” Margot laughs scornfully. “She never stops, even to draw breath. She tells me at every opportunity,”

 

“Which thankfully isn’t too many.” Lettice grasps her friend’s hands with her own glove encased ones.

 

“Thankfully no.” Margot agrees. “She tells me constantly that it’s my duty as a wife, and a Channon, to ensure the succession of the title by producing an heir. It isn’t as if,” She lowers her voice to a barely perceptible whisper as she moves her head close to Lettice’s. “Dickie and I haven’t been trying. We have. It just doesn’t seem to be happening. Unlike the Marchioness perceives, I’m not a clock that runs smoothly day in and day out.”

 

“Of course you aren’t, Margot darling.” Lettice assures her friend as tears start to well up in Margot’s eyes. “It will all happen, when time intends.”

 

A young girl nearby reaches up towards a teddy bear, and when she cannot reach it, her face turns from pale pink to red and then purple as she bellows loudly in protest with tears cascading down her fat cheeks.

 

“And when I do, I intend to give it to our nanny to take care of until it is at least of age.” Margot replies with disgust as she stares with open hostility at the crying child as a nanny in a grey cape and pillbox hat sweeps her up in her arms. “Filthy little beasts that children are.”

 

Lettice laughs at the combination of her best friend’s remark and look of repugnance.

 

“Come along Margot darling. Let’s keep going.”

 

Lettice comes to a halt before a glass fronted counter laden with such an array of wonderful toys and garlanded with festive tinsel******** that you can barely see it beneath all the festive cheer. Teddy bears of differing sizes jostle for space with a marvellous faerie tale castle upon which stand several painted lead and wooden soldiers. Two beautifully painted lead knights prepare to joust before its drawbridge entrance. Stacks of colourful bricks showing letters of the alphabet stand next to rocking wooden toys, whilst various games perch between them all.

 

“What are you thinking of?” Margot asks, looking at all the toys, before reaching out and giving a little model railway engine with red and grey livery and shiny brass workings a gentle nudge that projects it slightly further along the edge of the counter.

 

“Well,” Lettice begins. “I bought Harrold some jousting knights for Christmas last year. Lally said that between she and Charles posing as Father Christmas, Pappa and me, he ended up with a very fine collection.”

 

“So you think you might like to add to it?” Margot ventures as she gingerly picks up a knight in silver armour on horseback wearing cobalt blue livery.

 

“No,” Lettice says in a rather distracted fashion as she glances across the counter. “I don’t think I will this year. He has enough lead soldiers and knights.”

 

“Does any boy have enough lead soldiers and knights?” Margot laughs in rhetorical reply as she replaces the knight back onto the glassy surface of the counter.

 

“No, you’re right, dear Margot. But I was thinking I might buy him this.”

 

Lettice picks up a brightly decorated game box before her and holds it out to her best friend.

 

“The Wonderful Game of Oz*********,” Margot reads aloud, scruitinising the cover which features Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Cowardly Lion and the Tin Man on it, with the Emerald City sparkling in the background.

 

“I bought Harrold ‘The Wonderful Wizard of Oz’********** and ‘The Land of Oz’ for his birthday, and Lally said that he just devoured them. He adored all the characters. I thought that now Annabelle is a bit older, brother and sister could probably play this companionably together, at least for a little while, and give Lally and Nanny a small amount of respite.”

 

“That sounds promising, Lettice darling.”

 

“I thought so.”

 

“May I help you, ladies?” asks a young male assistant who has slipped up silently to the counter as Lettice and Margot have been chatting.

 

“Aside from clearing the department of every single child under the age of eighteen,” Margot remarks, handing the clean shaven young man in Harrods livery the game box. “You might wrap this up for us.”

 

“Very good, madam.” he replies obsequiously.

 

“And don’t stray too far,” Margot adds. “We aren’t quite done yet.”

 

“Of course, madam,” the shop assistant agrees with a differential nod before retreating to wrap the box.

 

“Thank you,” Lettice says to her friend.

 

“And for your niece?” Margot asks.

 

“Well, after I gave her a big teddy bear like this one, last year,” Lettice tugs on the paw of a beautiful big buff coloured mohair bear. “I have heard nothing from Annabelle but how very much she wants me to give her a bear this year.” She picks up a pretty toffee coloured bear with black glass eyes and a sweet face with a vermilion bow about his neck. “So I think that’s an easy choice.”

 

Margot considers the bear in her friend’s hands. “He is sweet.” she remarks.

 

“Yes, he does have a rather lovely face.” Lettice agrees. “Oh, and ever since she discovered Rupert Bear*********** in her father’s ‘Daily Express’ she has been obsessed by him.” She picks up a pretty and colourful box decorated with Rupert bear rambling across the idyllic English countryside towards his home in Nutwood. “So perhaps this as well.”

 

“My goodness Lettice!” remarks Margot. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so decisive when it comes to shopping before.”

 

“Well,” admits Lettice, glancing awkwardly around her. “I must confess that being surrounded by all these noisy and rambunctious children is rather unnerving.”

 

“I couldn’t agree more.” replies Margot with a shudder.

 

“I don’t mind my own niece and nephew, in small doses, but all these excitable children really are too, too tiresome.”

 

“We’ll get these packaged up then, and we’ll go and take tea in the Georgian Restaurant************. Then we can talk more privately, and without a single child in sight, about your plans to keep Selwyn close to your heart, even if he is far away. What do you say, Lettice darling?”

 

“I think that sounds perfect, Margot darling!” Lettice sighs, smiling genuinely at her dear friend.

 

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

 

**Harrods is a department store located on Brompton Road in Knightsbridge, London. It is owned by Harrods Ltd. In 1824, at the age of twenty-five, Charles Henry Harrod established a business at 228 Borough High Street in Southwark. He ran this business, variously listed as a draper, mercer, and a haberdasher, until at least 1831. His first grocery business appears to be as 'Harrod & Co. Grocers' at 163 Upper Whitecross Street, Clerkenwell, in 1832. In 1834, in London's East End, he established a wholesale grocery in Stepney at 4 Cable Street with a special interest in tea. Attempting to capitalise on trade during the Great Exhibition of 1851 in nearby Hyde Park, in 1849 Harrod took over a small shop in the district of Brompton, on the site of the current store. Beginning in a single room employing two assistants and a messenger boy, Harrod's son Charles Digby Harrod built the business into a thriving retail operation selling medicines, perfumes, stationery, fruits and vegetables. Harrods rapidly expanded, acquired the adjoining buildings, and employed one hundred people by 1881. However, the store's booming fortunes were reversed in early December 1883, when it burnt to the ground. Remarkably, Charles Harrod fulfilled all of his commitments to his customers to make Christmas deliveries that year—and made a record profit in the process. Begun in 1894, the present building with its famous terracotta façade was completed to the design of architect Charles William Stephens. The same year Harrods extended credit for the first time to its best customers, among them Oscar Wilde, Lillie Langtry, Ellen Terry, Charlie Chaplin, Noël Coward, Gertrude Lawrence, Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, Sigmund Freud, A. A. Milne, and many members of the British Royal Family. Beatrix Potter frequented the store from the age of seventeen. First published in 1902, her children’s book, ‘The Tale of Peter Rabbit’, was soon on sale in Harrods, accompanied by the world's first licensed character, a Peter Rabbit soft toy (Peter and toys of other Potter characters appeared in Harrods catalogues from 1910). In 1921, Milne bought the 18-inch Alpha Farnell teddy bear from the store for his son Christopher Robin Milne who would name it Edward, then Winnie, becoming the basis for Winnie-the-Pooh. On 16 November 1898, Harrods debuted England's first "moving staircase" (escalator) in their Brompton Road stores; the device was actually a woven leather conveyor belt-like unit with a mahogany and "silver plate-glass" balustrade. Nervous customers were offered brandy at the top to revive them after their 'ordeal'.

 

***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.

 

****Langbourne Club on Fishmonger Hall Street, provided a place where women who worked in the city could lunch and meet. Less luxurious than some of the West End clubs for women, it still offered companionship and comfort, particularly for single women working in offices who lived in bedsits and boarding houses. The club was entered from Fishmonger Hall Street, a narrow lane leading out of Upper Thames Street just west of London Bridge. Next door was the great facade of Fishmongers' Hall. Progressively, members of the Langbourne Club were allowed to invite their male friends to luncheon. There were organisations within the club which dealt with dances, musical and dramatic societies.

 

*****The Pool of London is a stretch of the River Thames from London Bridge to below Limehouse.

 

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

 

*******Farouche is an old fashioned term for someone who is sullen or shy when in company.

 

********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.

 

*********’The Wonderful Game of Oz’ was just one of the many pieces of promotional merchandise that was produced after the great success of the Oz series of books written by L. Frank Baum. Based on the books and characters, the game board and pieces are based on the John. R. Neil book illustrations. John. R. Neil illustrated all the Oz books except ‘The Wonderful Wizard of Oz’ which was illustrated by W. W. Denslow. In the game, you make your way through Oz, from Munchkinland to the Emarald City. It was published by Parker Brothers in Salem Massachusetts in 1921.

 

**********‘The Wonderful Wizard of Oz’ is based on whimsical stories he told his children, Lyman Frank Baum’s book is known as the first American faerie tale. Following the adventures of Kansas girl Dorothy Gale and her friends the Scarecrow, Tin Man and Cowardly Lion across the Land of Oz, ‘The Wonderful Wizard of Oz’ was just the first of fourteen Oz books written by L. Frank Baum. Originally published somewhat reluctantly, the book is now one of the best-known stories in American literature and has been widely translated into any number of languages. It led not only to further books but to successful Broadway shows, silent films and of course the MGM movie musical, ‘The Wizard of Oz’ in 1939 starring Judy Garland as Dorothy.

 

***********Rupert Bear is a British children's comic strip character and franchise created by artist Mary Tourtel and first appearing in the ‘Daily Express’ newspaper on the 8th of November 1920. Rupert's initial purpose was to win sales from the rival ‘Daily Mail’ and ‘Daily Mirror’. In 1935, the stories were taken over by Alfred Bestall, who was previously an illustrator for Punch and other glossy magazines. Alfred proved to be successful in the field of children's literature and worked on Rupert stories and artwork into his nineties. More recently, various other artists and writers have continued the series. About fifty million copies have been sold worldwide. Rupert is a bear who lives with his parents in a house in Nutwood, a fictional idyllic English village. He is drawn wearing a red jumper and bright yellow checked trousers, with matching yellow scarf. Originally depicted as a brown bear, his colour soon changed to white to save on printing costs,[2] though he remained brown on the covers of the annuals.

 

************The Georgian Restaurant is a stalwart of Harrods Department Store, originally located on the top floor. Harry Gordon Selfridge was the founder of cafes and restaurants in department stores. His idea was that a restaurant or café dedicated strictly to the female clientele of a department store made the establishment a safe place where ladies could shop and socialise “unmolested”. Moreover, restaurants such as Harrods Georgian Restaurant served as a haven for ladies, tired of shopping, to stop and take light refreshments, before then continuing on with their shopping expedition, thus spending more money within the store. It worked wonderfully for Selfridges on Oxford Street and the idea was quickly taken up and replicated in all the major department stores of London.

 

This festive toyshop full of a wonderful array of toys may seem real to you, but it is in fact made up entirely of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The toys on the countertop come from various different suppliers. The teddy bears, the coloured blocks with letters on them, the dualling medieval knights on horseback, the rocking toy, the rocking horse, the little steam railway engine, the castle and the soldiers on them all came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. ‘The Wonderful Game of Oz’, ‘Father Tuck’s Plays in Fairyland’ and the ‘Teddy Bear Game’ are all 1:12 artisan miniature made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. ‘Father Tuck’s Plays in Fairyland’ even has authentic cut outs found in the original box inside! The box with Rupert the bear on it comes from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

On the shelves in the background, the teddy bears, toy soldiers Noah’s Ark and animals, dolls, wooden pull toys and drum all come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The little wooden trains and carriages I have acquired from various miniatures stockists over many years. The ‘Blow Football’ game is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

The garlands on both the counter and the shelves behind come from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The wood and glass display cabinet buried beneath the toys and Christmas garlanding I obtained from a seller of 1:12 miniatures on E-Bay.

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

 

Today however we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid’s, parents live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden as a Line Manager, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home. Whilst far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s Mayfair flat, the Harlesden terrace has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith and her brother, Bert.

 

Whilst Edith made a wonderful impression when she met Mrs. McTavish, her young beau Frank Leadbetter’s grandmother, less can be said for Frank who whilst pleasing George, rubbed Ada the wrong way at the Sunday roast lunch Edith organised with her parents to meet Frank. Ever since then, Frank has been filled with remorse for speaking his mind a little more freely than he ought to have in front of Edith’s mother. Finally, Edith hit upon a possible solution to their problem, which is to introduce Mrs. McTavish to George and Ada. Being a kind old lady who makes lace, Edith and Frank both hope that Mrs. McTavish will be able to impress upon Ada what a nice young man Frank is, in spite of his more forward-thinking ideas, which jar with Ada’s ways of thinking, and assure her how happy he makes Edith. After careful planning, today is the day that George and Ada will meet Mrs. McTavish, over a Sunday lunch served in the Watsford’s kitchen.

 

The kitchen has always been the heart of Edith’s family home, and today it has an especially comfortable and welcoming feeling about it, just as Edith had hoped for. Ada has once again pulled out one of her best tablecloths which now adorns the round kitchen table, hiding its worn surface and the best blue and white china and gilded dinner service is being used today. At Edith’s request, because Mrs. McTavish’s teeth are too brittle to manage a roast chicken for lunch, Ada has cooked a rich and flavoursome beef stew to which she has added some of her large suet dumplings: a suitably delicious meal that is soft enough for the old Scottish lady to consume even with her weak teeth. Now the main course is over, and everyone has had their fill.

 

“Well, I hope you have all had sufficient to eat.” Ada announces, pushing her Windsor chair back across the flagstones and standing up from at her white linen draped kitchen table.

 

“Och!” exclaims Mrs. McTavish. “I’ve had plenty, thank you Mrs. Watsford.” She rubs her belly contentedly. “Thank you for cooking something I could manage with my old teeth.”

 

“It’s my pleasure, Mrs. McTavish,” Ada says with a warm smile. “My family enjoy my hearty beef stews, so it was no hardship to serve it.”

 

“Well your suet dumplings are lovely and soft, Mrs. Watsford.” the Scotswoman croons in her rolling brogue. “If you’d be willing to share the recipe, I’d like to try and make them for myself at home.”

 

“Yes, of course, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada enthuses, pleased to be able to share one of her many wonderful recipes, as she has done over the years with her daughter as she has grown up.

 

“That was a fine Sunday tea, Ada.” acknowledges her husband as he tops up his and Frank’s glasses with stout from the glazed brown pottery jug on the table.

 

“Why thank you, love.” Ada replies, blushing at the compliment as she runs her clammy hands down the front of her dress, a small outward display of nervousness known only to her family.

 

“Possibly one of your best yet, love.” George adds in an assuring fashion, noticing his wife’s action and recognising its symbolism.

 

“Yes, thank you Mrs. Watsford,” agrees Frank politely. “It was a delicious lunch, and more than enough for me. Thanks ever so!”

 

“Oh I hope you’ll have room for some of my cherry pie, Frank,” Ada says. “Edith told me you liked it so much the first time you had it here, that I made it for you again.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure I can squeeze in a slice, Mrs. Watsford.” Frank assures her.

 

“Thank you Mum.” smiles Edith up at her mother.

 

Edith is so grateful to her mother for all her efforts for the day. Not only was Ada easily convinced of the idea of meeting Frank’s grandmother, Mrs. McTavish, but that she readily agreed to hosting a Sunday lunch for her and produced a fine repast. Edith had helped her mother polish the silver cutlery on her Wednesday off, so it was sparkling as it sat alongside Ada’s best plates and glasses. To top it all off, Frank has bought a bunch of beautifully bright flowers on route from collecting his grandmother from her home in Upton Park to the Watsford’s home in Harlesden. Now they stood in the middle of the table in a glass bottle that serves as a good vase, a perfect centrepiece for Ada’s Sunday best table setting.

 

“Well!” Ada remarks in reply to her company’s satisfied commentary, picking up the now warm enough to touch deep pottery dish containing what little remains of her stew. “I think we might let tea settle down first and then we’ll have some pudding. What do you all say?”

 

Everyone readily agrees.

 

“Alright gentleman,” Ada addresses her husband and Frank, seated next to one another. “You have enough time for a smoke then, before I serve cherry pie. I’ll just pop it in the oven to warm.”

 

“Thanks awfully, Mrs. Watsford, but I don’t smoke.” Frank quickly explains.

 

“Ahh, but I do, Frank my lad.” pipes up George. He stands up and walks behind his wife and reaches up to the high shelf running along the top of the kitchen range and fetches down a small tin of tobacco and a pipe. “Come on, let’s you and I step out into the courtyard for a chat, man-to-man.”

 

“Dad!” Edith exclaims, looking aghast at her father. “Don’t!”

 

“Don’t worry Edith love, I don’t need to ask young Frank here’s intentions.” George chortles, his eyes glittering mischievously beneath his bushy eyebrows. “It’s quite clear he’s mad about you.”

 

“Dad!” Edith gasps again as both she and Frank blush deeply.

 

“That he is,” Mrs. McTavish agrees, reaching across to her grandson and pinching his left cheek as he sinks his head down in embarrassment. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face, my bonny bairn: no mistake.” She smiles indulgently. “Get along with you now Francis!”

 

“Oh Gran!” murmurs Frank self-consciously. “How many timed must I say, I’m Frank now, not Francis.”

 

“Och! Nonsense!” the old Scottish woman says sharply, slapping her grandson’s forearm lightly. “You’ll always be Francis to me, my little bairn!”

 

“Come on Frank my lad,” George encourages the younger man, patting him gently on the back in a friendly way. He picks up his glass of stout. “Let’s leave our womenfolk to chat, and they call you what they like and we’ll be none the wiser for it.”

 

As George, followed by a somewhat reluctant Frank casting doleful looks at Edith, walk out the back door into the rear garden, Ada says, “Edith love, would you mind clearing the table, whilst I set the table for pudding.”

 

“Yes of course, Mum!” Edith replies, leaping into action by pushing back her ladderback chair.

 

“I’m pleased to see you make your husband go outside to smoke, Mrs. Watsford.” the old Scottish woman remarks with a satisfied smile. “I don’t approve of men smoking indoors.” she adds crisply.

 

“No, something told me that I didn’t think you would, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada replies with a bemused smile, not admitting that George usually smokes his pipe in the kitchen after every meal. She and her husband had agreed the night before as they both sat by the kitchen range warming their feet, Ada darning one of George’s socks and George puffing on his pipe pleasantly, that perhaps to give the very best first impression, George should smoke outside in the back garden whilst Mrs. McTavish was visiting.

 

“ ’Nyree’, my husband used to say to me. ‘Nyree, why don’t you let me smoke indoors like other wives let their husbands do?’ I’d always say that Mither* never let Faither** smoke his pipe in the house, so why should I let him?” She nods emphatically.

 

“Nyree,” Ada remarks, turning around from the oven where she has just put her cherry pie, stacked with ripe, juicy berries to warm. “That’s a pretty Scottish name.”

 

“Och,” chuckles Mrs. McTavish. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Watsford, but it’s quite literally as far removed from Scottish as you can get.”

 

“Where does it come from then, Mrs. McTavish?” Ada puts her hands on her hips. “It sounds so lovely.”

 

“Well, my family were fishing people going back many generations, and Faither was a seaman, and he sailed to places far further than the Hebrides*** that took him from home for months at a time when I was a wee bairn. Just before I was born, he came back from what was then the newly formed Colony of New Zealand****. He met some of the local islanders who were struck by his blonde hair. Apparently, they were all dark skinned and had dark hair, so they found him rather fascinating to look at.” She chuckles. “The story he told me years later was that they called him ‘Ngaire’, which he was told by some of his shipmates, who knew more about the natives of the colony, on the return voyage that it meant ‘flaxen’. Some of them told him that they named their own blonde daughters Nyree after the name ‘Ngaire’. So, when I was born, I had blonde hair, if you can believe that now.” She gently pats her carefully set white hair that sweeps out from underneath her old fashioned lace embroidered cap in the style of her youth. “So Faither told Mither that I should be called Nyree. So, Nyree I was.”

 

“What a lovely story, Mrs. McTavish.” Edith remarks, gathering the lunch plates together.

 

“Thank you, Edith dearie. Now, what can I do to help, besides telling old stories?” asks Mrs. McTavish with a groan as she leans her wrists on the edge of the table and starts to push herself somewhat awkwardly out of her chair.

 

“You don’t have to do anything, Mrs. McTavish,” Ada assures her, encouraging the older Scottish woman to resume her seat with a settling gesture. “You are our guest. Edith and I are very used to working together around this old kitchen of ours, aren’t we love?”

 

“Yes Mum.” Edith agrees, gathering up the dinner plates into a stack, scraping any remnants of stew and dumplings onto the top plate using the cutlery as she gathers it.

 

“You’re a good lass, dearie, helping your mam like that.” Mrs. McTavish opines as she settles back comfortably into the well-worn chair usually sat in by George and Ada’s son, Bert.

 

“Oh not really, Mrs. McTavish.” Edith replies dismissively. “Any daughter would help her mum.”

 

“Och, not just any lass, bairn. There are plenty I know of, up round my way, especially those who are domestics like you, who won’t lift a finger unless they have to on their days off. Slovenly creatures!”

 

“Well, I agree with you, Mrs. McTavish. I think that’s very lazy of them, not to mention thoughtless. We all ought to do our bit. Mum made a lovely lunch for us, so it’s only right that I should help tidy up. I’ll help wash the dishes properly later, Mum,” Edith addresses her mother. “I’ll just rinse them and stack them by sink for now.”

 

“Thanks Edith love.” Ada replies gratefully. As she puts out some of her best blue and white floral china cups she addresses Mrs. McTavish. “Yes, Edith’s a good girl, even if she does use fancy words now.” She glances at her daughter. “Lunch rather than tea.” She shakes her head but smiles lovingly. “What next I ask you?” she snorts derisively.

 

“Mum!” Edith utters with an exasperated sigh but is then silenced by her mother’s raised careworn hand.

 

“And her dad and I are very proud of her, Mrs. McTavish.”

 

“Now, thinking of Edith and being proud of your bairns,” Mrs. McTavish starts. “When Edith and Francis came to visit me at Upton Park the other week to suggest this lovely gathering of our two clans, such as they are,” She clears her throat with a growl and speaks a little louder and more strongly. “They told me, Mrs. Watsford, that you and your husband were a bit concerned about some of Francis’ more,” She pauses whilst she tries to think of the right word to use. “Radical, ideas.”

 

“Mrs. McTavish!” Edith exclaims, spinning around from the trough where she is rinsing the dishes, her eyes wide with fear as to what the old Scottish woman is about to say.

 

“Now, now, my lass!” The old Scottish woman holds up her gnarled hands with their elongated fingers in defence before reaching about herself and adjusting the beautiful lace shawl draped over her shoulders that she made herself when she was younger. “I won’t have any secrets between your mam and me if we’re to be friends, which I do hope we will be.” She turns in her seat and addresses Ada as the younger woman puts out the glazed teapot in the shape of a cottage with a thatched roof with the chimney as the lid that Edith bought for her from the Caledonian Markets*****. “When your Edith and my Francis came to visit me at home, and broached the subject of me coming here for tea, they suggested that I might be a calming voice that would soothe your disquiet about my Francis and his more unusual ideas.”

 

“Did they indeed?” Ada asks with pursed lips and a cocked eyebrow, looking at her daughter’s back as she stands at the trough, dutifully rinsing dishes with such diligence that she doesn’t have to turn around and face her mother.

 

“Now, don’t be cross with them, Mrs. Watsford.” Mrs. McTavish reaches out her left hand and grasps Ada’s right in it, starting the younger woman as much by the intimate gesture she wasn’t expecting as by how cold the older woman’s hand is. “You mustn’t blame them.” She turns and looks with affection at Edith’s back. “They are young, and in love after all. When your bràmair***** is perceived less than favourably by the other’s mam or da, you can hardly blame them for wanting to smooth the waves of concern, can you?”

 

“Well, I don’t know if I approve of them telling you what my feelings are about your grandson behind my back.” Ada folds her arms akimbo.

 

“Ahh, now Mrs. Watsford,” Mrs. McTavish says soothingly. “You were young and in love once too. Don’t deny it!” She wags her finger at Ada. “I believe you met Mr. Watsford at a parish picnic.”

 

“Yes, we both worship at All Souls****** and met at a picnic in Roundwood Park*******.” Ada smiles fondly at the memory of her in her flouncy Sunday best dress and George in a smart suit and derby sitting on the lush green lawns of the park.

 

“And no doubt if your mam or da was set against Mr. Watsford, you would have done anything to convince them otherwise.” Mrs. McTavish continues.

 

“Well, I didn’t have to. George was, and still is, a model of a husband.” Ada counters quickly.

 

“That may well be true, Mrs. Watsford, and I’m happy for you.” The old Scotswoman pauses. “But you would have, if he had been less that the perfect specimen of husband that he is.” She cocks a white eyebrow as she looks earnestly at Edith’s mother.

 

“Yes, I suppose I would have, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada concedes with a sigh.

 

“So, I have come today to plead my grandson’s case with you.” Mrs. McTavish announces plainly.

 

“I’d hardly call your son’s attitudes a case that requires pleading before me, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada scoffs in surprise at the old woman’s words.

 

“Well, you’ll forgive me for seeing things from a different perspective, Mrs. Watsford.” the Scotswoman elucidates. “For you see, from where I am sitting, it seems to me that Mr. Watsford quite likes Francis. They both have a common enjoyment of reading books, even if my Francis likes reading more serious books than the murder mysteries your husband prefers. You on the other hand are judge and jury, sitting in judgement of my Francis’ ideas because they are at odds to your own.”

 

“I think I see where he gets some of his outspokenness, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada remarks before turning away from her guest at picking up a blue and white floral milk jug from the great Welsh dresser behind her.

 

“Aye. I’ll not deny it, Mrs. Watsford. His parents, my husband and I all taught Francis to speak his mind and not be afraid to do so. I suppose we all come across a little bit abrasively as a clan to some, but we all have,” She pauses and smiles sadly. “Or rather, had, quite strong personalities and opinions about things. We all believed in free speech, so long as it is respectful. Now, Francis’ faither was the one who really encouraged him to look beyond his place in life though. He was a costermonger******** down in Covent Garden, but he always wanted to provide a better life for his wife and son. If ever he was sick, just like if his wife, my daughter, Mairi,” she clarifies. “Or I were sick, we couldn’t earn a shilling. I taught Mairi to sew lace like me, but all we ever got was piecemeal work, and it’s still the same for me today. Anyway, Francis’ faither taught his son to look for more stable work with someone else and then to save his pennies and perhaps one day own his own shop, rather than be a costermonger with a cart on the streets like him. And that is why Francis is always looking to improve himself. He’s looking for an opportunity to provide a good and steady income and a good life for your Edith.”

 

Edith turns back from rinsing the dishes and holding her breath watches the two other women in the kitchen: Mrs. McTavish, pale and wrinkled wrapped up in a froth of handmade lace and her mother standing over her, a thoughtful look on her face as she listens.

 

“Well,” Ada remarks after a few moments of deliberation. “I do find your grandson’s desire to improve himself admirable, even if my own aspirations don’t stretch to such lofty heights as his own. George and I are quite comfortable and happy with our lot.”

 

“But…” Mrs. McTavish prompts.

 

“But I find some of his ideas… disconcerting.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“Such as his talking of our class being on their way up, and the upper classes coming down. Forgive me for saying it, Mrs. McTavish, but he does sound a little bit like one of those revolutionaries that we read about in the newspapers who overthrew the king of Russia back in 1918.”

 

“Och!” chortles the old Scotswoman. “My Francis is no revolutionary, I assure you. He may have his opinion, but he’s not a radical and angry young man who feels badly done by, by his social betters. He may lack some refinement when explaining what he believes, especially when he is excited and passionate about something, which he usually is.” She sighs. “But he just wants things to be bit better for him and your Edith, and for their bairns if God chooses to bless them with wee little ones.” She looks earnestly at Ada again. “Don’t tell me you didn’t want the same thing for your bairns, Mrs. Watsford, when you were younger and full of dreams?”

 

“Well of course George and I want the very best for Edith and Bert.” Ada admits. “I just have a different way of explaining it, and going about it, Mrs. McTavish.”

 

“These are different times, Mrs. Watsford.” Mrs. McTavish says matter-of-factly. “The world has just gone through the most terrible war we have ever known. Those who are left and didn’t pay the ultimate sacrifice expect, no deserve, better for fighting for King and country. We cannot deny them that wish, nor condemn them for having it. They deserve a better world in which to live, surely? If not, why did they fight?”

 

“Well, I cannot deny that.” Ada admits with a sniff. “All those poor young men we sent off, bright faced and excited, never to return.”

 

“Well then.” smiles Mrs. McTavish. “Although my grandson was too young to enlist, he, like you, Edith and I, is a survivor of the war on the home front, and it shaped our lives. Who can blame Francis for not wanting better in the aftermath of war?” She looks into Ada’s thought filled face. “Tell me, Mrs. Watsford. Do you think Edith has good sense?”

 

“Of course I do, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada retorts. “My Edith has a good head on her shoulders.”

 

“I’m glad you think so, Mrs. Watsford.” Mrs. McTavish replies. She turns her attentions to Edith, who still stands silently, leaning against the trough sink observing the interaction between her mother and Frank’s grandmother. “What do you think, Edith dearie?”

 

“Me?” Edith asks.

 

“Yes, you.” Mrs. McTavish says strongly. “Don’t you want and strive for more? Don’t you want a better life for you and my grandson?”

 

“Oh yes, Mrs. McTavish. I worked hard to get the position with Miss Lettice. She’s a much nicer mistress than wither old Widow Hounslow or Mrs. Plaistow were. I get better pay, and better working conditions. I think Frank is right. There are more possibilities in the world now, although we do have to work hard for them.”

 

“Well said, Edith dearie.” Mrs. McTavish agrees, turning back to Ada. “So you see Mrs. Watsford. I think that your Edith and my Francis are well matched. They both want a better life for themselves. They’ll do better working together than making valiant efforts separately. Francis may be a little headstrong sometimes, but Edith will keep him grounded.”

 

Ada remains silent, deep in thought at her companion’s argument.

 

“Well, have a pleaded my grandson’s case, Mrs. Watsford?” the old Scottish woman asks.

 

Just then, the kitchen door opens and George and Frank walk noisily back into the kitchen, chuckling amiably over a shared joke, comfortable in one another’s company.

 

“I say Ada!” George exclaims. “That cherry pie of yours smells delicious, love. Is it about ready for eating, do you suppose?”

 

“Yes, I think it’s just about ready.” Ada agrees. “Edith love, will you fetch the jug of cream from the pantry for me, please?”

 

“Yes Mum!” Edith replies as she goes to the narrow pantry door and peers inside for her mother’s garland trimmed jug.

 

“So, who is going to have the biggest slice of my cherry pie?” Ada asks as she places the pie on the table amidst her best china.

 

“I think that right goes to me, as head of the Watsford household.” pipes up George with confidence.

 

“I say, Mr. Watsford,” retorts Frank. “That isn’t very fair. Just because you’re head of the house, doesn’t mean you are automatically entitled to the biggest share of the pie.”

 

“That’s a rather radical thought, young Frank.” laughs George good-naturedly. “I’m not sure if I approve of it, though.”

 

“Who should get the biggest slice then, my bairn?” his grandmother asks.

 

“Oh you know my answer, Gran.” Frank replies. “I shouldn’t need to tell you.”

 

“Yes, but tell the others, dearie. They don’t know you quite as well as I. State your case as to who should get the biggest portion.”

 

“Yes,” encourages Ada. “Tell us, Frank. Who do you think should get the biggest slice of the pie?”

 

Frank looks at Ada as she stands, poised with the kitchen knife in her hand, ready to cut through the magnificent cherry pie full of ripe and colourful berries, edged with a golden crust of pastry. “Why you of course, Mrs. Watsford.” he says matter-of-factly. “You’re the one who made it for all of us. You deserve the biggest share for all your hard work.”

 

Ada considers the bright eyed young man sitting at her table. “I like your thinking, Frank.” she says at length with a smile as she cuts into the steaming pie before her.

 

*Mither is an old fashioned Scottish word for mother.

 

**Faither is an old fashioned Scottish word for father.

 

***The Hebrides is an archipelago comprising hundreds of islands off the northwest coast of Scotland. Divided into the Inner and Outer Hebrides groups, they are home to rugged landscapes, fishing villages and remote Gaelic-speaking communities.

 

****What we know today as New Zealand was once the Colony of New Zealand. It was a Crown colony of the British Empire that encompassed the islands of New Zealand from 1841 to 1907. The power of the British Government was vested in the governor of New Zealand. The colony had three successive capitals: Okiato (or Old Russell) in 1841; Auckland from 1841 to 1865; and Wellington, which became the capital during the colony's reorganisation into a Dominion, and continues as the capital of New Zealand today. During the early years of British settlement, the governor had wide-ranging powers. The colony was granted self-government with the passage of the New Zealand Constitution Act 1852. The first parliament was elected in 1853, and responsible government was established in 1856. The governor was required to act on the advice of his ministers, who were responsible to the parliament. In 1907, the colony became the Dominion of New Zealand, which heralded a more explicit recognition of self-government within the British Empire.

 

*****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.

 

*****Bràmair in Gaelic is commonly used as a term for girlfriend, boyfriend or sweetheart.

 

******The parish of All Souls, Harlesden, was formed in 1875 from Willesden, Acton, St John's, Kensal Green, and Hammersmith. Mission services had been held by the curate of St Mary's, Willesden, at Harlesden institute from 1858. The parish church at Station Road, Harlesden, was built and consecrated in 1879. The town centre church is a remarkable brick octagon designed by E.J. Tarver. Originally there was a nave which was extended in 1890 but demolished in 1970.

 

*******Roundwood Park takes its name from Roundwood House, an Elizabethan-style mansion built in Harlesden for Lord Decies in around 1836. In 1892 Willesden Local Board, conscious of a need for a recreation ground in expanding Harlesden, started the process of buying the land for what is now Roundwood Park. Roundwood Park was built in 1893, designed by Oliver Claude Robson. He was allocated nine thousand pounds to lay out the park. He put in five miles of drains, and planted an additional fourteen and a half thousand trees and shrubs. This took quite a long time as he used local unemployed labour for this work in preference to contractors. Mr. Robson had been the Surveyor of the Willesden Local Board since 1875. As an engineer, he was responsible for many major works in Willesden including sewerage and roads. The fine main gates and railings were made in 1895 by Messrs. Tickner & Partington at theVulcan Works, Harrow Road, Kensal Rise. An elegant lodge house was built to house the gardener; greenhouses erected to supply new flowers, and paths constructed, running upward to the focal point-an elegant bandstand on the top of the hill. The redbrick lodge was in the Victorian Elizabethan style, with ornamented chimney-breasts. It is currently occupied by council employees although the green houses have been demolished. For many years Roundwood Park was home to the Willesden Show. Owners of pets of many types, flowers and vegetables, and even 'bonny babies' would compete for prizes in large canvas tents. Art and crafts were shown, and demonstrations of dog-handling, sheep-shearing, parachuting and trick motorcycling given.

 

********A costermonger is a person who traditionally sells fruit and vegetables outside from a cart rather than in a shop.

 

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:

 

On the table the is a cherry tart 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 blue and white crockery on the table I have bought as individual from several online sellers on E-Bay. I imagine that whole sets were once sold, but now I can only find them piecemeal. The cutlery I bought as a teenager from a high street dollhouse suppliers. The pottery ale jug comes from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in England. The glass of ale comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The cottage ware teapot in the foreground was 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 roof and central chimney form the lid, just like the real thing. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics. The vase of flowers came from a 1:12 miniatures stockist on E-Bay. The tablecloth is actually a piece of an old worn sheet that was destined for the dustbin.

 

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 Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. There are also tins of various foods which would have been household staples in the 1920s when canning and preservation revolutinised domestic cookery. Amongst other foods on the dresser are a tin of Macfie’s Finest Black Treacle, two jars of P.C. Flett and Company jam, a tin of Heinz marinated apricots, a jar of Marmite, some Bisto gravy powder, some Ty-Phoo tea and a jar of S.P.C. peaches. All these items are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, except the jar of S.P.C. peaches which comes from Shepherds Miniatures in the United Kingdom. All of them have great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars and cans.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

S.P.C. is an Australian brand that still exists to this day. In 1917 a group of fruit growers in Victoria’s Goulburn Valley decided to form a cooperative which they named the Shepperton Fruit Preserving Company. The company began operations in February 1918, canning pears, peaches and nectarines under the brand name of S.P.C. On the 31st of January 1918 the manager of the Shepparton Fruit Preserving Company announced that canning would begin on the following Tuesday and that the operation would require one hundred and fifty girls or women and thirty men. In the wake of the Great War, it was hoped that “the launch of this new industry must revive drooping energies” and improve the economic circumstances of the region. The company began to pay annual bonuses to grower-shareholders by 1929, and the plant was updated and expanded. The success of S.P.C. was inextricably linked with the progress of the town and the wider Goulburn Valley region. In 1936 the company packed twelve million cans and was the largest fruit cannery in the British empire. Through the Second World War the company boomed. The product range was expanded to include additional fruits, jam, baked beans and tinned spaghetti and production reached more than forty-three million cans a year in the 1970s. From financial difficulties caused by the 1980s recession, SPC returned once more to profitability, merging with Ardmona and buying rival company Henry Jones IXL. S.P.C. was acquired by Coca Cola Amatil in 2005 and in 2019 sold to a private equity group known as Shepparton Partners Collective.

 

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).

In the centre of the medieval stone London Bridge stood the chapel dedicated to St. Thomas of Canterbury, facing downstream. The bridge was built between A.D. 1176 and 1209 under the supervision of Peter of Colechurch, Cheapside. Houses on the bridge are first shown in the records of 1201, and in 1205 they record the death, and burial, in the chapel of its builder. The building was two-storeys high and access to it was from both the bridge level and the river. The crypt (cellar) was vaulted and the upper chapel had a groined roof springing from 'clustered columns of great beauty'. Technically it was under the control of the Parish of St. Magnus, London Bridge but the chaplain and other members of the 'Brothers of the Bridge' enjoyed a certain amount of freedom from the parish priest. In 1483 the chaplain, after a disagreement with the parish priest, was granted the right to keep the alms collected during services for himself and his community with the proviso that he make a generous contribution to the finances of the parish. Fishermen from the South coast on their way to sell their fish at Billingsgate passing over the bridge were controlled by the times of the services in the chapel. To prevent forestalling, salt fish could not be sold until the Office of Prime, and freshwater fish had to wait for the end of the mass.

 

After the Reformation, the chapel was desecrated and turned into a house, and later a warehouse. In the second half of the 18th century both the chapel and the houses on the bridge were demolished, at which time the bones of Peter of Colechurch were unceremoniously dumped into the river.

 

www.stmagnusmartyr.org.uk/history/chapel-st-thomas-%C3%A0...

  

St Magnus the Martyr, London Bridge is a Church of England church and parish within the City of London. The church, which is located in Lower Thames Street near The Monument to the Great Fire of London,[1] is part of the Diocese of London and under the pastoral care of the Bishop of London and the Bishop of Fulham.[2] It is a Grade I listed building.[3] The rector uses the title "Cardinal Rector". [4]

St Magnus lies on the original alignment of London Bridge between the City and Southwark. The ancient parish was united with that of St Margaret, New Fish Street, in 1670 and with that of St Michael, Crooked Lane, in 1831.[5] The three united parishes retained separate vestries and churchwardens.[6] Parish clerks continue to be appointed for each of the three parishes.[7]

St Magnus is the guild church of the Worshipful Company of Fishmongers and the Worshipful Company of Plumbers, and the ward church of the Ward of Bridge and Bridge Without. It is also twinned with the Church of the Resurrection in New York City.[8]

Its prominent location and beauty has prompted many mentions in literature.[9] In Oliver Twist Charles Dickens notes how, as Nancy heads for her secret meeting with Mr. Brownlow and Rose Maylie on London Bridge, "the tower of old Saint Saviour's Church, and the spire of Saint Magnus, so long the giant-warders of the ancient bridge, were visible in the gloom". The church's spiritual and architectural importance is celebrated in the poem The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot, who adds in a footnote that "the interior of St. Magnus Martyr is to my mind one of the finest among Wren's interiors".[10] One biographer of Eliot notes that at first he enjoyed St Magnus aesthetically for its "splendour"; later he appreciated its "utility" when he came there as a sinner.

 

The church is dedicated to St Magnus the Martyr, earl of Orkney, who died on 16 April in or around 1116 (the precise year is unknown).[12] He was executed on the island of Egilsay having been captured during a power struggle with his cousin, a political rival.[13] Magnus had a reputation for piety and gentleness and was canonised in 1135. St. Ronald, the son of Magnus's sister Gunhild Erlendsdotter, became Earl of Orkney in 1136 and in 1137 initiated the construction of St. Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall.[14] The story of St. Magnus has been retold in the 20th century in the chamber opera The Martyrdom of St Magnus (1976)[15] by Sir Peter Maxwell Davies, based on George Mackay Brown's novel Magnus (1973).

 

he identity of the St Magnus referred to in the church's dedication was only confirmed by the Bishop of London in 1926.[16] Following this decision a patronal festival service was held on 16 April 1926.[17] In the 13th century the patronage was attributed to one of the several saints by the name of Magnus who share a feast day on 19 August, probably St Magnus of Anagni (bishop and martyr, who was slain in the persecution of the Emperor Decius in the middle of the 3rd century).[18] However, by the early 18th century it was suggested that the church was either "dedicated to the memory of St Magnus or Magnes, who suffer'd under the Emperor Aurelian in 276 [see St Mammes of Caesarea, feast day 17 August], or else to a person of that name, who was the famous Apostle or Bishop of the Orcades."[19] For the next century historians followed the suggestion that the church was dedicated to the Roman saint of Cæsarea.[20] The famous Danish archaeologist Professor Jens Jacob Asmussen Worsaae (1821–85) promoted the attribution to St Magnus of Orkney during his visit to the British Isles in 1846-7, when he was formulating the concept of the 'Viking Age',[21] and a history of London written in 1901 concluded that "the Danes, on their second invasion ... added at least two churches with Danish names, Olaf and Magnus".[22] A guide to the City Churches published in 1917 reverted to the view that St Magnus was dedicated to a martyr of the third century,[23] but the discovery of St Magnus of Orkney's relics in 1919 renewed interest in a Scandinavian patron and this connection was encouraged by the Rector who arrived in 1921

 

A metropolitan bishop of London attended the Council of Arles in 314, which indicates that there must have been a Christian community in Londinium by this date, and it has been suggested that a large aisled building excavated in 1993 near Tower Hill can be compared with the 4th-century Cathedral of St Tecla in Milan.[25] However, there is no archaeological evidence to suggest that any of the mediaeval churches in the City of London had a Roman foundation.[26] A grant from William I in 1067 to Westminster Abbey, which refers to the stone church of St Magnus near the bridge ("lapidee eccle sci magni prope pontem"), is generally accepted to be 12th century forgery,[27] and it is possible that a charter of confirmation in 1108-16 might also be a later fabrication.[28] Nonetheless, these manuscripts may preserve valid evidence of a date of foundation in the 11th century.

 

Archaeological evidence suggests that the area of the bridgehead was not occupied from the early 5th century until the early 10th century. Environmental evidence indicates that the area was waste ground during this period, colonised by elder and nettles. Following Alfred's decision to reoccupy the walled area of London in 886, new harbours were established at Queenhithe and Billingsgate. A bridge was in place by the early 11th century, a factor which would have encouraged the occupation of the bridgehead by craftsmen and traders.[30] A lane connecting Botolph's Wharf and Billingsgate to the rebuilt bridge may have developed by the mid-11th century. The waterfront at this time was a hive of activity, with the construction of embankments sloping down from the riverside wall to the river. Thames Street appeared in the second half of the 11th century immediately behind (north of) the old Roman riverside wall and in 1931 a piling from this was discovered during the excavation of the foundations of a nearby building. It now stands at the base of the church tower.[31] St Magnus was built to the south of Thames Street to serve the growing population of the bridgehead area[32] and was certainly in existence by 1128-33.[33]

The small ancient parish[34] extended about 110 yards along the waterfront either side of the old bridge, from 'Stepheneslane' (later Churchehawlane or Church Yard Alley) and 'Oystergate' (later called Water Lane or Gully Hole) on the West side to 'Retheresgate' (a southern extension of Pudding Lane) on the East side, and was centred on the crossroads formed by Fish Street Hill (originally Bridge Street, then New Fish Street) and Thames Street.[35] The mediaeval parish also included Drinkwater's Wharf (named after the owner, Thomas Drinkwater), which was located immediately West of the bridge, and Fish Wharf, which was to the South of the church. The latter was of considerable importance as the fishmongers had their shops on the wharf. The tenement was devised by Andrew Hunte to the Rector and Churchwardens in 1446.[36] The ancient parish was situated in the South East part of Bridge Ward, which had evolved in the 11th century between the embankments to either side of the bridge.[37]

In 1182 the Abbot of Westminster and the Prior of Bermondsey agreed that the advowson of St Magnus should be divided equally between them. Later in the 1180s, on their presentation, the Archdeacon of London inducted his nephew as parson.

 

Between the late Saxon period and 1209 there was a series of wooden bridges across the Thames, but in that year a stone bridge was completed.[39] The work was overseen by Peter de Colechurch, a priest and head of the Fraternity of the Brethren of London Bridge. The Church had from early times encouraged the building of bridges and this activity was so important it was perceived to be an act of piety - a commitment to God which should be supported by the giving of alms. London’s citizens made gifts of land and money "to God and the Bridge".[40] The Bridge House Estates became part of the City's jurisdiction in 1282.

 

Until 1831 the bridge was aligned with Fish Street Hill, so the main entrance into the City from the south passed the West door of St Magnus on the north bank of the river.[41] The bridge included a chapel dedicated to St Thomas Becket[42] for the use of pilgrims journeying to Canterbury Cathedral to visit his tomb.[43] The chapel and about two thirds of the bridge were in the parish of St Magnus. After some years of rivalry a dispute arose between the church and the chapel over the offerings given to the chapel by the pilgrims. The matter was resolved by the brethren of the chapel making an annual contribution to St Magnus.[44] At the Reformation the chapel was turned into a house and later a warehouse, the latter being demolished in 1757-58.

The church grew in importance. On 21 November 1234 a grant of land was made to the parson of St Magnus for the enlargement of the church.[45] The London eyre of 1244 recorded that in 1238 "A thief named William of Ewelme of the county of Buckingham fled to the church of St. Magnus the Martyr, London, and there acknowledged the theft and abjured the realm. He had no chattels."[46] Another entry recorded that "The City answers saying that the church of ... St. Magnus the Martyr ... which [is] situated on the king's highway ... ought to belong to the king and be in his gift".[47] The church presumably jutted into the road running to the bridge, as it did in later times.[48] In 1276 it was recorded that "the church of St. Magnus the Martyr is worth £15 yearly and Master Geoffrey de la Wade now holds it by the grant of the prior of Bermundeseie and the abbot of Westminster to whom King Henry conferred the advowson by his charter.

 

In 1274 "came King Edward and his wife [Eleanor] from the Holy Land and were crowned at Westminster on the Sunday next after the Feast of the Assumption of Our Lady [15 August], being the Feast of Saint Magnus [19 August]; and the Conduit in Chepe ran all the day with red wine and white wine to drink, for all such as wished."[50] Stow records that "in the year 1293, for victory obtained by Edward I against the Scots, every citizen, according to their several trade, made their several show, but especially the fishmongers" whose solemn procession including a knight "representing St Magnus, because it was upon St Magnus' day".

An important religious guild, the Confraternity de Salve Regina, was in existence by 1343, having been founded by the "better sort of the Parish of St Magnus" to sing the anthem 'Salve Regina' every evening.[51] The Guild certificates of 1389 record that the Confraternity of Salve Regina and the guild of St Thomas the Martyr in the chapel on the bridge, whose members belonged to St Magnus parish, had determined to become one, to have the anthem of St Thomas after the Salve Regina and to devote their united resources to restoring and enlarging the church of St Magnus.[52] An Act of Parliament of 1437[53] provided that all incorporated fraternities and companies should register their charters and have their ordinances approved by the civic authorities.[54] Fear of enquiry into their privileges may have led established fraternities to seek a firm foundation for their rights. The letters patent of the fraternity of St Mary and St Thomas the Martyr of Salve Regina in St Magnus dated 26 May 1448 mention that the fraternity had petitioned for a charter on the grounds that the society was not duly founded.

 

In the mid-14th century the Pope was the Patron of the living and appointed five rectors to the benefice.[56]

Henry Yevele, the master mason whose work included the rebuilding of Westminster Hall and the naves of Westminster Abbey and Canterbury Cathedral, was a parishioner and rebuilt the chapel on London Bridge between 1384 and 1397. He served as a warden of London Bridge and was buried at St Magnus on his death in 1400. His monument was extant in John Stow's time, but was probably destroyed by the fire of 1666.[57]

Yevele, as the King’s Mason, was overseen by Geoffrey Chaucer in his capacity as the Clerk of the King's Works. In The General Prologue of Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales the five guildsmen "were clothed alle in o lyveree Of a solempne and a greet fraternitee"[58] and may be thought of as belonging to the guild in the parish of St Magnus, or one like it.[59] Chaucer's family home was near to the bridge in Thames Street.

 

n 1417 a dispute arose concerning who should take the place of honour amongst the rectors in the City churches at the Whit Monday procession, a place that had been claimed from time to time by the rectors of St Peter Cornhill, St Magnus the Martyr and St Nicholas Cole Abbey. The Mayor and Aldermen decided that the Rector of St Peter Cornhill should take precedence.[61]

St Magnus Corner at the north end of London Bridge was an important meeting place in mediaeval London, where notices were exhibited, proclamations read out and wrongdoers punished.[62] As it was conveniently close to the River Thames, the church was chosen by the Bishop between the 15th and 17th centuries as a convenient venue for general meetings of the clergy in his diocese.[63] Dr John Young, Bishop of Callipolis (rector of St Magnus 1514-15) pronounced judgement on 16 December 1514 (with the Bishop of London and in the presence of Thomas More, then under-sheriff of London) in the heresy case concerning Richard Hunne.[64]

In pictures from the mid-16th century the old church looks very similar to the present-day St Giles without Cripplegate in the Barbican.[65] According to the martyrologist John Foxe, a woman was imprisoned in the 'cage' on London Bridge in April 1555 and told to "cool herself there" for refusing to pray at St Magnus for the recently deceased Pope Julius III.[66]

Simon Lowe, a Member of Parliament and Master of the Merchant Taylors' Company during the reign of Queen Mary and one of the jurors who acquitted Sir Nicholas Throckmorton in 1554, was a parishioner.[67] He was a mourner at the funeral of Maurice Griffith, Bishop of Rochester from 1554 to 1558 and Rector of St Magnus from 1537 to 1558, who was interred in the church on 30 November 1558 with much solemnity. In accordance with the Catholic church's desire to restore ecclesiastical pageantry in England, the funeral was a splendid affair, ending in a magnificent dinner.

 

Lowe was included in a return of recusants in the Diocese of Rochester in 1577,[69] but was buried at St Magnus on 6 February 1578.[70] Stow refers to his monument in the church. His eldest son, Timothy (died 1617), was knighted in 1603. His second son, Alderman Sir Thomas Lowe (1550–1623), was Master of the Haberdashers' Company on several occasions, Sheriff of London in 1595/96, Lord Mayor in 1604/05 and a Member of Parliament for London.[71] His youngest son, Blessed John Lowe (1553–1586), having originally been a Protestant minister, converted to Roman Catholicism, studied for the priesthood at Douay and Rome and returned to London as a missionary priest.[72] His absence had already been noted; a list of 1581 of "such persons of the Diocese of London as have any children ... beyond the seas" records "John Low son to Margaret Low of the Bridge, absent without licence four years". Having gained 500 converts to Catholicism between 1583 and 1586, he was arrested whilst walking with his mother near London Bridge, committed to The Clink and executed at Tyburn on 8 October 1586.[73] He was beatified in 1987 as one of the eighty-five martyrs of England and Wales.

 

Sir William Garrard, Master of the Haberdashers' Company, Alderman, Sheriff of London in 1553/53, Lord Mayor in 1555/56 and a Member of Parliament was born in the parish and buried at St Magnus in 1571.[74] Sir William Romney, merchant, philanthropist, Master of the Haberdashers' Company, Alderman for Bridge Within and Sheriff of London in 1603/04[75] was married at St Magnus in 1582. Ben Jonson is believed to have been married at St Magnus in 1594.[76]

The patronage of St Magnus, having previously been in the Abbots and Convents of Westminster and Bermondsey (who presented alternatively), fell to the Crown on the suppression of the monasteries. In 1553, Queen Mary, by letters patent, granted it to the Bishop of London and his successors.[77]

The church had a series of distinguished rectors in the second half of the 16th and first half of the 17th century, including Myles Coverdale (Rector 1564-66), John Young (Rector 1566-92), Theophilus Aylmer (Rector 1592-1625), (Archdeacon of London and son of John Aylmer), and Cornelius Burges (Rector 1626-41). Coverdale was buried in the chancel of St Bartholomew-by-the-Exchange, but when that church was pulled down in 1840 his remains were removed to St Magnus.[78]

On 5 November 1562 the churchwardens were ordered to break, or cause to be broken, in two parts all the altar stones in the church.[79] Coverdale, an anti-vestiarian, was Rector at the peak of the vestments controversy. In March 1566 Archbishop Parker caused great consternation among many clergy by his edicts prescribing what was to be worn and by his summoning the London clergy to Lambeth to require their compliance. Coverdale excused himself from attending.[80] Stow records that a non-conforming Scot who normally preached at St Magnus twice a day precipitated a fight on Palm Sunday 1566 at Little All Hallows in Thames Street with his preaching against vestments.[81] Coverdale's resignation from St Magnus in summer 1566 may have been associated with these events. Separatist congregations started to emerge after 1566 and the first such, who called themselves 'Puritans' or 'Unspottyd Lambs of the Lord', was discovered close to St Magnus at Plumbers' Hall in Thames Street on 19 June 1567.

 

St Magnus narrowly escaped destruction in 1633. A later edition of Stow's Survey records that "On the 13th day of February, between eleven and twelve at night, there happened in the house of one Briggs, a Needle-maker near St Magnus Church, at the North end of the Bridge, by the carelessness of a Maid-Servant setting a tub of hot sea-coal ashes under a pair of stairs, a sad and lamentable fire, which consumed all the buildings before eight of the clock the next morning, from the North end of the Bridge to the first vacancy on both sides, containing forty-two houses; water then being very scarce, the Thames being almost frozen over."[83] Susannah Chambers "by her last will & testament bearing date 28th December 1640 gave the sum of Twenty-two shillings and Sixpence Yearly for a Sermon to be preached on the 12th day of February in every Year within the Church of Saint Magnus in commemoration of God's merciful preservation of the said Church of Saint Magnus from Ruin, by the late and terrible Fire on London Bridge. Likewise Annually to the Poor the sum of 17/6."[84] The tradition of a "Fire Sermon" was revived on 12 February 2004, when the first preacher was the Rt Revd and Rt Hon Richard Chartres, Bishop of London.

 

Parliamentarian rule and the more Protestant ethos of the 1640s led to the removal or destruction of "superstitious" and "idolatrous" images and fittings. Glass painters such as Baptista Sutton, who had previously installed "Laudian innovations", found new employment by repairing and replacing these to meet increasingly strict Protestant standards. In January 1642 Sutton replaced 93 feet of glass at St Magnus and in June 1644 he was called back to take down the "painted imagery glass" and replace it.[86] In June 1641 "rail riots" broke out at a number of churches. This was a time of high tension following the trial and execution of the Earl of Strafford and rumours of army and popish plots were rife. The Protestation Oath, with its pledge to defend the true religion "against all Popery and popish innovation", triggered demands from parishioners for the removal of the rails as popish innovations which the Protestation had bound them to reform. The minister arranged a meeting between those for and against the pulling down of the rails, but was unsuccessful in reaching a compromise and it was feared that they would be demolished by force.[87] However, in 1663 the parish resumed Laudian practice and re-erected rails around its communion table.[88]

Joseph Caryl was incumbent from 1645 until his ejection in 1662. In 1663 he was reportedly living near London Bridge and preaching to an Independent congregation that met at various places in the City.[89]

During the Great Plague of 1665, the City authorities ordered fires to be kept burning night and day, in the hope that the air would be cleansed. Daniel Defoe's semi-fictictional, but highly realistic, work A Journal of the Plague Year records that one of these was "just by St Magnus Church"

 

Despite its escape in 1633, the church was one of the first buildings to be destroyed in the Great Fire of London in 1666.[91] St Magnus stood less than 300 yards from the bakehouse of Thomas Farriner in Pudding Lane where the fire started. Farriner, a former churchwarden of St Magnus, was buried in the middle aisle of the church on 11 December 1670, perhaps within a temporary structure erected for holding services.[92]

The parish engaged the master mason George Dowdeswell to start the work of rebuilding in 1668. The work was carried forward between 1671 and 1687 under the direction of Sir Christopher Wren, the body of the church being substantially complete by 1676.[93] At a cost of £9,579 19s 10d St Magnus was one of Wren's most expensive churches.[94] The church of St Margaret New Fish Street was not rebuilt after the fire and its parish was united to that of St Magnus.

 

The chancels of many of Wren’s city churches had chequered marble floors and the chancel of St Magnus is an example,[95] the parish agreeing after some debate to place the communion table on a marble ascent with steps[96] and to commission altar rails of Sussex wrought iron. The nave and aisles are paved with freestone flags. A steeple, closely modelled on one built between 1614 and 1624 by François d'Aguilon and Pieter Huyssens for the church of St Carolus Borromeus in Antwerp, was added between 1703 and 1706.[97] London's skyline was transformed by Wren's tall steeples and that of St Magnus is considered to be one his finest.[98]

The large clock projecting from the tower was a well-known landmark in the city as it hung over the roadway of Old London Bridge.[99] It was presented to the church in 1709 by Sir Charles Duncombe[100] (Alderman for the Ward of Bridge Within and, in 1708/09, Lord Mayor of London). Tradition says "that it was erected in consequence of a vow made by the donor, who, in the earlier part of his life, had once to wait a considerable time in a cart upon London Bridge, without being able to learn the hour, when he made a promise, that if he ever became successful in the world, he would give to that Church a public clock ... that all passengers might see the time of day."[101] The maker was Langley Bradley, a clockmaker in Fenchurch Street, who had worked for Wren on many other projects, including the clock for the new St Paul's Cathedral. The sword rest in the church, designed to hold the Lord Mayor's sword and mace when he attended divine service "in state", dates from 1708.

Duncombe and his benefactions to St Magnus feature prominently in Daniel Defoe's The True-Born Englishman, a biting satire on critics of William III that went through several editions from 1700 (the year in which Duncombe was elected Sheriff).

 

Shortly before his death in 1711, Duncombe commissioned an organ for the church, the first to have a swell-box, by Abraham Jordan (father and son).[103] The Spectator announced that "Whereas Mr Abraham Jordan, senior and junior, have, with their own hands, joinery excepted, made and erected a very large organ in St Magnus' Church, at the foot of London Bridge, consisting of four sets of keys, one of which is adapted to the art of emitting sounds by swelling notes, which never was in any organ before; this instrument will be publicly opened on Sunday next [14 February 1712], the performance by Mr John Robinson. The above-said Abraham Jordan gives notice to all masters and performers, that he will attend every day next week at the said Church, to accommodate all those gentlemen who shall have a curiosity to hear it".[104]

The organ case, which remains in its original state, is looked upon as one of the finest existing examples of the Grinling Gibbons's school of wood carving.[105] The first organist of St Magnus was John Robinson (1682–1762), who served in that role for fifty years and in addition as organist of Westminster Abbey from 1727. Other organists have included the blind organist George Warne (1792–1868, organist 1820-26 until his appointment to the Temple Church), James Coward (1824–80, organist 1868-80 who was also organist to the Crystal Palace and renowned for his powers of improvisation) and George Frederick Smith FRCO (1856–1918, organist 1880-1918 and Professor of Music at the Guildhall School of Music).[106] The organ has been restored several times - in 1760, 1782, 1804, 1855, 1861, 1879, 1891, 1924, 1949 after wartime damage and 1997 - since it was first built.[107] Sir Peter Maxwell Davies was one of several patrons of the organ appeal in the mid-1990s[108] and John Scott gave an inaugural recital on 20 May 1998 following the completion of that restoration.[109] The instrument has an Historic Organ Certificate and full details are recorded in the National Pipe Organ Register.[110]

The hymn tune "St Magnus", usually sung at Ascensiontide to the text "The head that once was crowned with thorns", was written by Jeremiah Clarke in 1701 and named for the church.

 

Canaletto drew St Magnus and old London Bridge as they appeared in the late 1740s.[112] Between 1756 and 1762, under the London Bridge Improvement Act of 1756 (c. 40), the Corporation of London demolished the buildings on London Bridge to widen the roadway, ease traffic congestion and improve safety for pedestrians.[113] The churchwardens’ accounts of St Magnus list many payments to those injured on the Bridge and record that in 1752 a man was crushed to death between two carts.[114] After the House of Commons had resolved upon the alteration of London Bridge, the Rev Robert Gibson, Rector of St Magnus, applied to the House for relief; stating that 48l. 6s. 2d. per annum, part of his salary of 170l. per annum, was assessed upon houses on London Bridge; which he should utterly lose by their removal unless a clause in the bill about to be passed should provide a remedy.[115] Accordingly, Sections 18 and 19 of 1756 Act provided that the relevant amounts of tithe and poor rate should be a charge on the Bridge House Estates.[116]

A serious fire broke out on 18 April 1760 in an oil shop at the south east corner of the church, which consumed most of the church roof and did considerable damage to the fabric. The fire burnt warehouses to the south of the church and a number of houses on the northern end of London Bridge.

 

As part of the bridge improvements, overseen by the architect Sir Robert Taylor, a new pedestrian walkway was built along the eastern side of the bridge. With the other buildings gone St Magnus blocked the new walkway.[117] As a consequence it was necessary in 1762 to 1763 to remove the vestry rooms at the West end of the church and open up the side arches of the tower so that people could pass underneath the tower.[118] The tower’s lower storey thus became an external porch. Internally a lobby was created at the West end under the organ gallery and a screen with fine octagonal glazing inserted. A new Vestry was built to the South of the church.[119] The Act also provided that the land taken from the church for the widening was "to be considered ... as part of the cemetery of the said church ... but if the pavement thereof be broken up on account of the burying of any persons, the same shall be ... made good ... by the churchwardens"

 

Soldiers were stationed in the Vestry House of St Magnus during the Gordon Riots in June 1780.[121]

By 1782 the noise level from the activities of Billingsgate Fish Market had become unbearable and the large windows on the north side of the church were blocked up leaving only circular windows high up in the wall.[122] At some point between the 1760s and 1814 the present clerestory was constructed with its oval windows and fluted and coffered plasterwork.[123] J. M. W. Turner painted the church in the mid-1790s.[124]

The rector of St Magnus between 1792 and 1808, following the death of Robert Gibson on 28 July 1791,[125] was Thomas Rennell FRS. Rennell was President of Sion College in 1806/07. There is a monument to Thomas Leigh (Rector 1808-48 and President of Sion College 1829/30,[126] at St Peter's Church, Goldhanger in Essex.[127] Richard Hazard (1761–1837) was connected with the church as sexton, parish clerk and ward beadle for nearly 50 years[128] and served as Master of the Parish Clerks' Company in 1831/32.[129]

In 1825 the church was "repaired and beautified at a very considerable expense. During the reparation the east window, which had been closed, was restored, and the interior of the fabric conformed to the state in which it was left by its great architect, Sir Christopher Wren. The magnificent organ ... was taken down and rebuilt by Mr Parsons, and re-opened, with the church, on the 12th February, 1826".[130] Unfortunately, as a contemporary writer records, "On the night of the 31st of July, 1827, [the church's] safety was threatened by the great fire which consumed the adjacent warehouses, and it is perhaps owing to the strenuous and praiseworthy exertions of the firemen, that the structure exists at present. ... divine service was suspended and not resumed until the 20th January 1828. In the interval the church received such tasteful and elegant decorations, that it may now compete with any church in the metropolis.

 

In 1823 royal assent was given to ‘An Act for the Rebuilding of London Bridge’ and in 1825 John Garratt, Lord Mayor and Alderman of the Ward of Bridge Within, laid the first stone of the new London Bridge.[132] In 1831 Sir John Rennie’s new bridge was opened further upstream and the old bridge demolished. St Magnus ceased to be the gateway to London as it had been for over 600 years. Peter de Colechurch[133] had been buried in the crypt of the chapel on the bridge and his bones were unceremoniously dumped in the River Thames.[134] In 1921 two stones from Old London Bridge were discovered across the road from the church. They now stand in the churchyard.

Wren's church of St Michael Crooked Lane was demolished, the final service on Sunday 20 March 1831 having to be abandoned due to the effects of the building work. The Rector of St Michael preached a sermon the following Sunday at St Magnus lamenting the demolition of his church with its monuments and "the disturbance of the worship of his parishioners on the preceeding Sabbath".[135] The parish of St Michael Crooked Lane was united to that of St Magnus, which itself lost a burial ground in Church Yard Alley to the approach road for the new bridge.[136] However, in substitution it had restored to it the land taken for the widening of the old bridge in 1762 and was also given part of the approach lands to the east of the old bridge.[137] In 1838 the Committee for the London Bridge Approaches reported to Common Council that new burial grounds had been provided for the parishes of St Michael, Crooked Lane and St Magnus, London Bridge.

 

Depictions of St Magnus after the building of the new bridge, seen behind Fresh Wharf and the new London Bridge Wharf, include paintings by W. Fenoulhet in 1841 and by Charles Ginner in 1913.[139] This prospect was affected in 1924 by the building of Adelaide House to a design by John James Burnet,[140] The Times commenting that "the new ‘architectural Matterhorn’ ... conceals all but the tip of the church spire".[141] There was, however, an excellent view of the church for a few years between the demolition of Adelaide Buildings and the erection of its replacement.[142] Adelaide House is now listed.[143] Regis House, on the site of the abandoned King William Street terminus of the City & South London Railway (subsequently the Northern Line),[144] and the Steam Packet Inn, on the corner of Lower Thames Street and Fish Street Hill,[145] were developed in 1931.

 

By the early 1960s traffic congestion had become a problem[147] and Lower Thames Street was widened over the next decade[148] to form part of a significant new east-west transport artery (the A3211).[149] The setting of the church was further affected by the construction of a new London Bridge between 1967 and 1973.[150] The New Fresh Wharf warehouse to the east of the church, built in 1939, was demolished in 1973-4 following the collapse of commercial traffic in the Pool of London[151] and, after an archaeological excavation,[152] St Magnus House was constructed on the site in 1978 to a design by R. Seifert & Partners.[153] This development now allows a clear view of the church from the east side.[154] The site to the south east of The Monument (between Fish Street Hill and Pudding Lane), formerly predominantly occupied by fish merchants,[155] was redeveloped as Centurion House and Gartmore (now Providian) House at the time of the closure of old Billingsgate Market in January 1982.[156] A comprehensive redevelopment of Centurion House began in October 2011 with completion planned in 2013.[157] Regis House, to the south west of The Monument, was redeveloped by Land Securities PLC in 1998.[158]

The vista from The Monument south to the River Thames, over the roof of St Magnus, is protected under the City of London Unitary Development Plan,[159] although the South bank of the river is now dominated by The Shard. Since 2004 the City of London Corporation has been exploring ways of enhancing the Riverside Walk to the south of St Magnus.[160] Work on a new staircase to connect London Bridge to the Riverside Walk is due to commence in March 2013.[161] The story of St Magnus's relationship with London Bridge and an interview with the rector featured in the television programme The Bridges That Built London with Dan Cruickshank, first broadcast on BBC Four on 14 June 2012.[162] The City Corporation's 'Fenchurch and Monument Area Enhancement Strategy' of August 2012 recommended ways of reconnecting St Magnus and the riverside to the area north of Lower Thames Street.

 

A lectureship at St Michael Crooked Lane, which was transferred to St Magnus in 1831, was endowed by the wills of Thomas and Susannah Townsend in 1789 and 1812 respectively.[164] The Revd Henry Robert Huckin, Headmaster of Repton School from 1874 to 1882, was appointed Townsend Lecturer at St Magnus in 1871.[165]

St Magnus narrowly escaped damage from a major fire in Lower Thames Street in October 1849.

 

During the second half of the 19th century the rectors were Alexander McCaul, DD (1799–1863, Rector 1850-63), who coined the term 'Judaeo Christian' in a letter dated 17 October 1821,[167] and his son Alexander Israel McCaul (1835–1899, curate 1859-63, rector 1863-99). The Revd Alexander McCaul Sr[168] was a Christian missionary to the Polish Jews, who (having declined an offer to become the first Anglican Bishop in Jerusalem)[169] was appointed professor of Hebrew and rabbinical literature at King's College, London in 1841. His daughter, Elizabeth Finn (1825–1921), a noted linguist, founded the Distressed Gentlefolk Aid Association (now known as Elizabeth Finn Care).[170]

In 1890 it was reported that the Bishop of London was to hold an inquiry as to the desirability of uniting the benefices of St George Botolph Lane and St Magnus. The expectation was a fusion of the two livings, the demolition of St George’s and the pensioning of "William Gladstone’s favourite Canon", Malcolm MacColl. Although services ceased there, St George’s was not demolished until 1904. The parish was then merged with St Mary at Hill rather than St Magnus.[171]

The patronage of the living was acquired in the late 19th century by Sir Henry Peek Bt. DL MP, Senior Partner of Peek Brothers & Co of 20 Eastcheap, the country's largest firm of wholesale tea brokers and dealers, and Chairman of the Commercial Union Assurance Co. Peek was a generous philanthropist who was instrumental in saving both Wimbledon Common and Burnham Beeches from development. His grandson, Sir Wilfred Peek Bt. DSO JP, presented a cousin, Richard Peek, as rector in 1904. Peek, an ardent Freemason, held the office of Grand Chaplain of England. The Times recorded that his memorial service in July 1920 "was of a semi-Masonic character, Mr Peek having been a prominent Freemason".[172] In June 1895 Peek had saved the life of a young French girl who jumped overboard from a ferry midway between Dinard and St Malo in Brittany and was awarded the bronze medal of the Royal Humane Society and the Gold Medal 1st Class of the Sociâetâe Nationale de Sauvetage de France.[173]

In November 1898 a memorial service was held at St Magnus for Sir Stuart Knill Bt. (1824–1898), head of the firm of John Knill and Co, wharfingers, and formerly Lord Mayor and Master of the Plumbers' Company.[174] This was the first such service for a Roman Catholic taken in an Anglican church.[175] Sir Stuart's son, Sir John Knill Bt. (1856-1934), also served as Alderman for the Ward of Bridge Within, Lord Mayor and Master of the Plumbers' Company.

 

Until 1922 the annual Fish Harvest Festival was celebrated at St Magnus.[176] The service moved in 1923 to St Dunstan in the East[177] and then to St Mary at Hill, but St Magnus retained close links with the local fish merchants until the closure of old Billingsgate Market. St Magnus, in the 1950s, was "buried in the stink of Billingsgate fish-market, against which incense was a welcome antidote".

 

A report in 1920 proposed the demolition of nineteen City churches, including St Magnus.[179] A general outcry from members of the public and parishioners alike prevented the execution of this plan.[180] The members of the City Livery Club passed a resolution that they regarded "with horror and indignation the proposed demolition of 19 City churches" and pledged the Club to do everything in its power to prevent such a catastrophe.[181] T. S. Eliot wrote that the threatened churches gave "to the business quarter of London a beauty which its hideous banks and commercial houses have not quite defaced. ... the least precious redeems some vulgar street ... The loss of these towers, to meet the eye down a grimy lane, and of these empty naves, to receive the solitary visitor at noon from the dust and tumult of Lombard Street, will be irreparable and unforgotten."[182] The London County Council published a report concluding that St Magnus was "one of the most beautiful of all Wren's works" and "certainly one of the churches which should not be demolished without specially good reasons and after very full consideration."[183] Due to the uncertainty about the church's future, the patron decided to defer action to fill the vacancy in the benefice and a curate-in-charge temporarily took responsibility for the parish.[184] However, on 23 April 1921 it was announced that the Revd Henry Joy Fynes-Clinton would be the new Rector. The Times concluded that the appointment, with the Bishop’s approval, meant that the proposed demolition would not be carried out.[185] Fr Fynes-Clinton was inducted on 31 May 1921.[186]

The rectory, built by Robert Smirke in 1833-5, was at 39 King William Street.[187] A decision was taken in 1909 to sell the property, the intention being to purchase a new rectory in the suburbs, but the sale fell through and at the time of the 1910 Land Tax Valuations the building was being let out to a number of tenants. The rectory was sold by the diocese on 30 May 1921 for £8,000 to Ridgways Limited, which owned the adjoining premises.[188] The Vestry House adjoining the south west of the church, replacing the one built in the 1760s, may also have been by Smirke. Part of the burial ground of St Michael Crooked Lane, located between Fish Street Hill and King William Street, survived as an open space until 1987 when it was compulsorily purchased to facilitate the extension of the Docklands Light Railway into the City.[189] The bodies were reburied at Brookwood Cemetery.

 

The interior of the church was restored by Martin Travers in 1924, in a neo-baroque style,[191] reflecting the Anglo-Catholic character of the congregation[192] following the appointment of Henry Joy Fynes-Clinton as Rector.[193] Fr Fynes, as he was often known, served as Rector of St Magnus from 31 May 1921 until his death on 4 December 1959 and substantially beautified the interior of the church.[194]

Fynes-Clinton held very strong Anglo-Catholic views, and proceeded to make St Magnus as much like a baroque Roman Catholic church as possible. However, "he was such a loveable character with an old-world courtesy which was irresistible, that it was difficult for anyone to be unpleasant to him, however much they might disapprove of his views".[195] He generally said the Roman Mass in Latin; and in personality was "grave, grand, well-connected and holy, with a laconic sense of humour".[196] To a Protestant who had come to see Coverdale's monument he is reported to have said "We have just had a service in the language out of which he translated the Bible".[197] The use of Latin in services was not, however, without grammatical danger. A response from his parishioners of "Ora pro nobis" after "Omnes sancti Angeli et Archangeli" in the Litany of the Saints would elicit a pause and the correction "No, Orate pro nobis."

 

In 1922 Fynes-Clinton refounded the Fraternity of Our Lady de Salve Regina.[198] The Fraternity's badge[199] is shown in the stained glass window at the east end of the north wall of the church above the reredos of the Lady Chapel altar. He also erected a statue of Our Lady of Walsingham and arranged pilgrimages to the Norfolk shrine, where he was one of the founding Guardians.[200] In 1928 the journal of the Catholic League reported that St Magnus had presented a votive candle to the Shrine at Walsingham "in token of our common Devotion and the mutual sympathy and prayers that are we hope a growing bond between the peaceful country shrine and the church in the heart of the hurrying City, from the Altar of which the Pilgrimages regularly start".[201]

Fynes-Clinton was General Secretary of the Anglican and Eastern Orthodox Churches Union and its successor, the Anglican and Eastern Churches Association, from 1906 to 1920 and served as Secretary to the Archbishop of Canterbury's Eastern Churches Committee from 1920 to around 1924. A Solemn Requiem was celebrated at St Magnus in September 1921 for the late King Peter of the Serbs, Croats and Slovenes.

At the midday service on 1 March 1922, J.A. Kensit, leader of the Protestant Truth Society, got up and protested against the form of worship.[202] The proposed changes to the church in 1924 led to a hearing in the Consistory Court of the Chancellor of the Diocese of London and an appeal to the Court of Arches.[203] Judgement was given by the latter Court in October 1924. The advowson was purchased in 1931, without the knowledge of the Rector and Parochial Church Council, by the evangelical Sir Charles King-Harman.[204] A number of such cases, including the purchase of the advowsons of Clapham and Hampstead Parish Churches by Sir Charles, led to the passage of the Benefices (Purchase of Rights of Patronage) Measure 1933.[205] This allowed the parishioners of St Magnus to purchase the advowson from Sir Charles King-Harman for £1,300 in 1934 and transfer it to the Patronage Board.

 

St Magnus was one of the churches that held special services before the opening of the second Anglo-Catholic Congress in 1923.[207] Fynes-Clinton[208] was the first incumbent to hold lunchtime services for City workers.[209] Pathé News filmed the Palm Sunday procession at St Magnus in 1935.[210] In The Towers of Trebizond, the novel by Rose Macauley published in 1956, Fr Chantry-Pigg's church is described as being several feet higher than St Mary’s Bourne Street and some inches above even St Magnus the Martyr.[211]

In July 1937 Fr Fynes-Clinton, with two members of his congregation, travelled to Kirkwall to be present at the 800th anniversary celebrations of St Magnus Cathedral, Kirkwall. During their stay they visited Egilsay and were shown the spot where St Magnus had been slain. Later Fr Fynes-Clinton was present at a service held at the roofless church of St Magnus on Egilsay, where he suggested to his host Mr Fryer, the minister of the Cathedral, that the congregations of Kirkwall and London should unite to erect a permanent stone memorial on the traditional site where Earl Magnus had been murdered. In 1938 a cairn was built of local stone on Egilsay. It stands 12 feet high and is 6 feet broad at its base. The memorial was dedicated on 7 September 1938 and a bronze inscription on the monument reads "erected by the Rector and Congregation of St Magnus the Martyr by London Bridge and the Minister and Congregation of St Magnus Cathedral, Kirkwall to commemorate the traditional spot where Earl Magnus was slain, AD circa 1116 and to commemorate the Octocentenary of St Magnus Cathedral 1937"

 

A bomb which fell on London Bridge in 1940 during the Blitz of World War II blew out all the windows and damaged the plasterwork and the roof of the north aisle.[213] However, the church was designated a Grade I listed building on 4 January 1950[214] and repaired in 1951, being re-opened for worship in June of that year by the Bishop of London, William Wand.[215] The architect was Laurence King.[216] Restoration and redecoration work has subsequently been carried out several times, including after a fire in the early hours of 4 November 1995.[217] Cleaning of the exterior stonework was completed in 2010.

 

Some minor changes were made to the parish boundary in 1954, including the transfer to St Magnus of an area between Fish Street Hill and Pudding Lane. The site of St Leonard Eastcheap, a church that was not rebuilt after the Great Fire, is therefore now in the parish of St Magnus despite being united to St Edmund the King.

Fr Fynes-Clinton marked the 50th anniversary of his priesthood in May 1952 with High Mass at St Magnus and lunch at Fishmongers' Hall.[218] On 20 September 1956 a solemn Mass was sung in St Magnus to commence the celebration of the 25th anniversary of the restoration of the Holy House at Walsingham in 1931. In the evening of that day a reception was held in the large chamber of Caxton Hall, when between three and four hundred guests assembled.[219]

Fr Fynes-Clinton was succeeded as rector in 1960 by Fr Colin Gill,[220] who remained as incumbent until his death in 1983.[221] Fr Gill was also closely connected with Walsingham and served as a Guardian between 1953 and 1983, including nine years as Master of the College of Guardians.[222] He celebrated the Mass at the first National Pilgrimage in 1959[223] and presided over the Jubilee celebrations to mark the 50th anniversary of the Shrine in 1981, having been present at the Holy House's opening.[224] A number of the congregation of St Stephen's Lewisham moved to St Magnus around 1960, following temporary changes in the form of worship there.

 

In 1994 the Templeman Commission proposed a radical restructuring of the churches in the City Deanery. St Magnus was identified as one of the 12 churches that would remain as either a parish or an 'active' church.[226] However, the proposals were dropped following a public outcry and the consecration of a new Bishop of London.

The parish priest since 2003 has been Fr Philip Warner, who was previously priest-in-charge of St Mary's Church, Belgrade (Diocese in Europe) and Apokrisiarios for the Archbishop of Canterbury to the Serbian Orthodox Church. Since January 2004 there has been an annual Blessing of the Thames, with the congregations of St Magnus and Southwark Cathedral meeting in the middle of London Bridge.[227] On Sunday 3 July 2011, in anticipation of the feast of the translation of St Thomas Becket (7 July), a procession from St Magnus brought a relic of the saint to the middle of the bridge.[228]

David Pearson specially composed two new pieces, a communion anthem A Mhànais mo rùin (O Magnus of my love) and a hymn to St Magnus Nobilis, humilis, for performance at the church on the feast of St Magnus the Martyr, 16 April 2012.[229] St Magnus's organist, John Eady, has won composition competitions for new choral works at St Paul's Cathedral (a setting of Veni Sancte Spiritus first performed on 27 May 2012) and at Lincoln Cathedral (a setting of the Matin responsory for Advent first performed on 30 November 2013).[230]

In addition to liturgical music of a high standard, St Magnus is the venue for a wide range of musical events. The Clemens non Papa Consort, founded in 2005, performs in collaboration with the production team Concert Bites as the church's resident ensemble.[231] The church is used by The Esterhazy Singers for rehearsals and some concerts.[232] The band Mishaped Pearls performed at the church on 17 December 2011.[233] St Magnus featured in the television programme Jools Holland: London Calling, first broadcast on BBC2 on 9 June 2012.[234] The Platinum Consort made a promotional film at St Magnus for the release of their debut album In the Dark on 2 July 2012.[235]

The Friends of the City Churches had their office in the Vestry House of St Magnus until 2013.

 

Martin Travers modified the high altar reredos, adding paintings of Moses and Aaron and the Ten Commandments between the existing Corinthian columns and reconstructing the upper storey. Above the reredos Travers added a painted and gilded rood.[237] In the centre of the reredos there is a carved gilded pelican (an early Christian symbol of self-sacrifice) and a roundel with Baroque-style angels. The glazed east window, which can be seen in an early photograph of the church, appears to have been filled in at this time. A new altar with console tables was installed and the communion rails moved outwards to extend the size of the sanctuary. Two old door frames were used to construct side chapels and placed at an angle across the north-east and south-east corners of the church. One, the Lady Chapel, was dedicated to the Rector's parents in 1925 and the other was dedicated to Christ the King. Originally, a baroque aumbry was used for Reservation of the Blessed Sacrament, but later a tabernacle was installed on the Lady Chapel altar and the aumbry was used to house a relic of the True Cross.

The interior was made to look more European by the removal of the old box pews and the installation of new pews with cut-down ends. Two new columns were inserted in the nave to make the lines regular. The Wren-period pulpit by the joiner William Grey[238] was opened up and provided with a soundboard and crucifix. Travers also designed the statue of St Magnus of Orkney, which stands in the south aisle, and the statue of Our Lady of Walsingham.[239]

On the north wall there is a Russian Orthodox icon, painted in 1908. The modern stations of the cross in honey-coloured Japanese oak are the work of Robert Randall and Ashley Sands.[240] One of the windows in the north wall dates from 1671 and came from Plumbers' Hall in Chequer Yard, Bush Lane, which was demolished in 1863 to make way for Cannon Street Railway Station.[241] A fireplace from the Hall was re-erected in the Vestry House. The other windows on the north side are by Alfred Wilkinson and date from 1952 to 1960. These show the arms of the Plumbers’, Fishmongers’ and Coopers’ Companies together with those of William Wand when Bishop of London and Geoffrey Fisher when Archbishop of Canterbury and (as noted above) the badge of the Fraternity of Our Lady de Salve Regina.

The stained glass windows in the south wall, which are by Lawrence Lee and date from 1949 to 1955, represent lost churches associated with the parish: St Magnus and his ruined church of Egilsay, St Margaret of Antioch with her lost church in New Fish Street (where the Monument to the Great Fire now stands), St Michael with his lost church of Crooked Lane (demolished to make way for the present King William Street) and St Thomas Becket with his chapel on Old London Bridge.[242]

The church possesses a fine model of Old London Bridge. One of the tiny figures on the bridge appears out of place in the mediaeval setting, wearing a policeman's uniform. This is a representation of the model-maker, David T. Aggett, who is a Liveryman of the Worshipful Company of Plumbers and was formerly in the police service.[243]

The Mischiefs by Fire Act 1708 and the Fires Prevention (Metropolis) Act 1774 placed a requirement on every parish to keep equipment to fight fires. The church owns two historic fire engines that belonged to the parish of St Michael, Crooked Lane.[244] One of these is in storage at the Museum of London. The whereabouts of the other, which was misappropriated and sold at auction in 2003, is currently unknown.

In 1896 many bodies were disinterred from the crypt and reburied at the St Magnus's plot at Brookwood Cemetery, which remains the church's burial ground.

 

Prior to the Great Fire of 1666 the old tower had a ring of five bells, a small saints bell and a clock bell.[246] 47 cwt of bell metal was recovered[247] which suggests that the tenor was 13 or 14 cwt. The metal was used to cast three new bells, by William Eldridge of Chertsey in 1672,[248] with a further saints bell cast that year by Hodson.[249] In the absence of a tower, the tenor and saints bell were hung in a free standing timber structure, whilst the others remained unhung.[250]

A new tower was completed in 1704 and it is likely that these bells were transferred to it. However, the tenor became cracked in 1713 and it was decided to replace the bells with a new ring of eight.[251] The new bells, with a tenor of 21 cwt, were cast by Richard Phelps of the Whitechapel Bell Foundry. Between 1714 and 1718 (the exact date of which is unknown), the ring was increased to ten with the addition of two trebles given by two former ringing Societies, the Eastern Youths and the British Scholars.[252] The first peal was rung on 15 February 1724 of Grandsire Caters by the Society of College Youths. The second bell had to be recast in 1748 by Robert Catlin, and the tenor was recast in 1831 by Thomas Mears of Whitechapel,[253] just in time to ring for the opening of the new London Bridge. In 1843, the treble was said to be "worn out" and so was scrapped, together with the saints bell, while a new treble was cast by Thomas Mears.[254] A new clock bell was erected in the spire in 1846, provided by B R & J Moore, who had earlier purchased it from Thomas Mears.[255] This bell can still be seen in the tower from the street.

The 10 bells were removed for safe keeping in 1940 and stored in the churchyard. They were taken to Whitechapel Bell Foundry in 1951 whereupon it was discovered that four of them were cracked. After a long period of indecision, fuelled by lack of funds and interest, the bells were finally sold for scrap in 1976. The metal was used to cast many of the Bells of Congress that were then hung in the Old Post Office Tower in Washington, D.C.

A fund was set up on 19 September 2005, led by Dickon Love, a member of the Ancient Society of College Youths, with a view to installing a new ring of 12 bells in the tower in a new frame. This was the first of three new rings of bells he has installed in the City of London (the others being at St Dunstan-in-the-West and St James Garlickhythe). The money was raised and the bells were cast during 2008/9 by the Whitechapel Bell Foundry. The tenor weighed 26cwt 3qtr 9 lbs (1360 kg) and the new bells were designed to be in the same key as the former ring of ten. They were consecrated by the Bishop of London on 3 March 2009 in the presence of the Lord Mayor[256] and the ringing dedicated on 26 October 2009 by the Archdeacon of London.[257] The bells are named (in order smallest to largest) Michael, Margaret, Thomas of Canterbury, Mary, Cedd, Edward the Confessor, Dunstan, John the Baptist, Erkenwald, Paul, Mellitus and Magnus.[258] The bells project is recorded by an inscription in the vestibule of the church.

 

The first peal on the twelve was rung on 29 November 2009 of Cambridge Surprise Maximus.[260] Notable other recent peals include a peal of Stedman Cinques on 16 April 2011 to mark the 400th anniversary of the granting of a Royal Charter to the Plumbers' Company,[261] a peal of Cambridge Surprise Royal on 28 June 2011 when the Fishmongers' Company gave a dinner for Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh at their hall on the occasion of his 90th birthday[262] and a peal of Avon Delight Maximus on 24 July 2011 in solidarity with the people of Norway following the tragic massacre on Utoeya Island and in Oslo.[263] On the latter occasion the flag of the Orkney Islands was flown at half mast. In 2012 peals were rung during the Thames Diamond Jubilee Pageant on 3 June and during each of the three Olympic/Paralympic marathons, on 5 and 12 August and 9 September.

The BBC television programme, Still Ringing After All These Years: A Short History of Bells, broadcast on 14 December 2011, included an interview at St Magnus with the Tower Keeper, Dickon Love,[264] who was captain of the band that rang the "Royal Jubilee Bells" during the Thames Diamond Jubilee Pageant on 3 June 2012 to celebrate the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II.[265] Prior to this, he taught John Barrowman to handle a bell at St Magnus for the BBC coverage.

The bells are currently rung every Sunday around 12:15 (following the service) by the Guild of St Magnus.

 

Every other June, newly elected wardens of the Fishmongers' Company, accompanied by the Court, proceed on foot from Fishmongers' Hall[267] to St Magnus for an election service.[268] St Magnus is also the Guild Church of The Plumbers' Company. Two former rectors have served as master of the company,[269] which holds all its services at the church.[270] On 12 April 2011 a service was held to commemorate the 400th anniversary of the granting of the company's Royal Charter at which the Bishop of London, the Rt Revd and Rt Hon Richard Chartres KCVO, gave the sermon and blessed the original Royal Charter. For many years the Cloker Service was held at St Magnus, attended by the Coopers' Company and Grocers' Company, at which the clerk of the Coopers' Company read the will of Henry Cloker dated 10 March 1573.[271]

St Magnus is also the ward church for the Ward of Bridge and Bridge Without, which elects one of the city's aldermen. Between 1550 and 1978 there were separate aldermen for Bridge Within and Bridge Without, the former ward being north of the river and the latter representing the City's area of control in Southwark. The Bridge Ward Club was founded in 1930 to "promote social activities and discussion of topics of local and general interest and also to exchange Ward and parochial information" and holds its annual carol service at St Magnus.

 

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Magnus-the-Martyr

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

 

Today however, we are just a short distance from Cavendish Mews, in front of Mr. Willison’s grocers’ shop. Willison’s Grocers in Mayfair is where Lettice has an account, and it is from here that Edith, Lettice's maid, orders her groceries for the Cavendish Mews flat, except on special occasions, when professional London caterers are used. Mr. Willison prides himself in having a genteel, upper-class clientele including the households of many titled aristocrats who have houses and flats in the neighbourhood, and he makes sure that his shop is always tidy, his shelves well stocked with anything the cook of a duke or duchess may want, and staff who are polite and mannerly to all his important customers. The latter is not too difficult, for aside from himself, Mrs. Willison does his books, his daughter Henrietta helps on Saturdays and sometimes after she has finished school, which means Mr. Willison technically only employs one member of staff: Frank Leadbetter his delivery boy who carries orders about Mayfair on the bicycle provided for him by Mr. Willison. He also collects payments for accounts which are not settled in his Binney Street shop whilst on his rounds.

 

Edith, is stepping out with Frank, so as she nears the shop, she hopes that the errand she has to run for today will allow her to have a few stolen minutes with Frank under the guise of ordering a few provisions required immediately. As she crosses Binney Street, Edith is delighted to see Frank busily decorating the front window. Mr. Willison always has a splendid window display of tinned and canned goods, but as she approaches the window she can see that it is especially festive, draped with patriotic bunting of Union Jacks and blue and red flags. As Frank, crouched in the window, carefully places a jar of Golden Shred marmalade next to a box of Ty-Phoo tea and in front of a jar of Marmite where it glows in the light pouring through the plate glass, Edith taps gently, so as not to startle her beau.

 

Frank smiles broadly and waves enthusiastically as he looks up and sees his sweetheart on the other side of the glass and he beckons her in as he slips back into the shadowy confines of the grocer’s.

 

“Please come in, milady!” he says cheekily as he opens the plate glass shop door for her, bows and doffs an invisible cap as the bell tinkles prettily overhead. “Pray what may we get to you? Let Willison’s the Grocer’s satisfy your every whim.”

 

“Oh Frank!” Edith giggles as she steps across the threshold. “Get along with you!”

 

Stepping into the shop she immediately smells the mixture of comforting aromas of fresh fruits, vegetables and flour, permeated by the delicious scent of the brightly coloured boiled sweets coming from the large cork stoppered jars on the shop counter. The sounds of the busy street outside die away, muffled by shelves lined with any number of tinned goods and signs advertising everything from Lyon’s Tea* to Bovril**.

 

“Where is Mrs. Willison?” Edith continues warily, her eyes darting to the spot behind the end of the return counter near the door where the proprietor’s wife usually sits doing her husband’s accounts, looking imperiously down her nose at Edith through her gold framed pince-nez***.

 

“Luckily the old trout is out with Mr. Willison attending Miss Henrietta’s school.” Frank explains.

 

“Don’t tell me that impudent little minx is in trouble?” Edith asks with a cheeky spark of hope in her voice. She knows that it’s uncharitable, and unchristian of her to wish the young girl ill, but she is still riled over the last time Edith met Frank near the rear door of Mr. Willison’s grocers, where, as he stole a kiss from her, Henrietta spied upon them. Henrietta, who had seen the young couple from a lace framed upstairs window where she was often seen spying on the comings and goings of the neighbourhood, called out loudly to her disapproving mother downstairs in the shop that Edith and Frank were loitering in the back lane, which caused the woman with her old fashioned upswept hairstyle and her high necked starched shirtwaister**** blouse to come hurrying to the back door as fast as her equally old fashioned whale bone S-bend corset***** and button up boots would allow her, where she promptly berated both Edith and Frank with her acerbic tongue, accusing them of lowering the tone of Mr. Willison’s establishment by loitering with intent and fraternising shamelessly. Edith’s cheeks flush at the mere memory of that embarrassing moment with Mrs. Willison.

 

“No,” Frank goes on. “Miss Henrietta is receiving an award at school today for an essay she penned.”

 

“With poison, no doubt.” mutters Edith. She sighs heavily before continuing, “I hate how you call her ‘Miss Henrietta’. She’s no better than you, Frank. In fact she’s a darn sight lesser if you ask me.”

 

“Now, now, Edith. Calm down.” Frank places his slender hands on her forearms and wraps his long and elegant fingers around them comfortingly. “You may well be right, but she is my employer’s daughter.”

 

“And full of her own self-importance.” Edith interrupts.

 

Frank politely ignores her outburst as he continues, “So I must address her as such.”

 

“Well, it’s not right, Frank.” Edith sulks.

 

“That much is true too,” Frank agrees with a sad nod. “And you know I am a man who wants to right the wrongs dealt to hardworking fold like you and I, but this is one fight I can’t have yet, Edith. This bit of deference I need to keep up if I want to keep my job.”

 

“All the same, Frank. I don’t think it’s right.” Edith opines again.

 

“Anyway, let’s not let Henrietta Willison spoil this wonderfully rare moment where we find each other alone together, Edith.” Frank says, pulling her into an embrace. Quickly looking around the quiet shop interior filled with groceries to make sure no-one will see them, Frank gently kisses Edith lovingly on the lips.

 

After a few stolen moments, Frank reluctantly breaks their kiss.

 

“Oh Frank!” Edith exclaims, her head giddy with pleasure and voice heady with love.

 

“Now, Miss Watsford,” Frank asks in a mock businesslike tone. “What can I do for the maid of the Honourable Miss Chetwynd today?”

 

“Well, it’s a funny coincidence, but you happened to be putting what I need in your window display, just as I arrived, Frank.” Edith elucidates. “I need a jar of Golden Shred orange marmalade urgently.”

 

“Urgently?” Frank queries. “Gosh, that does sound extreme.”

 

“But I do, Frank. Miss Lettice has a potential new client coming up from Wiltshire today, and being a somewhat impromptu visit, I haven’t any cake to serve them. I was just about to make my Mum’s pantry chocolate cake when I realised that I’m out of orange marmalade.”

 

“Well that does sound like a serious situation.” Frank agrees.

 

“Don’t tease me Frank! I’m serious.” Edith’s pretty pale blue eyes grow wide. “If I don’t provide something nice to eat for Miss Lettice’s potential new client, everything could go awry, and then I’d get into such trouble.”

 

“Well, I can’t have my best girl getting into trouble because she is missing the essential ingredient to her mum’s delicious chocolate cake, can I?” Frank says. “However I don’t understand why you have marmalade in a cake. It sounds a bit odd to me.”

 

“That’s because you aren’t a baker, Frank. Mum taught me this recipe for chocolate cake which is based on cheap everyday staples you have in the pantry, and that’s why she calls it a pantry chocolate cake.”

 

“Go on,” Frank says, placing his elbows on the counter and resting his smiling face in his hands. “You have my full attention.”

 

“Well, I use the marmalade to give the cake a nice citrus flavour in addition to the chocolate, and it keeps it moist, so it doesn’t dry out when baking. This way, I don’t have to worry about peeling or squeezing oranges either.”

 

“Fascinating!” Frank breathes, smiling broadly as he listens to Edith.

 

“And that’s why I need the marmalade, Frank.” Edith says nervously. “I’ll be lost without it.”

 

“Well, that is a problem, but it’s one I think I can remedy easily.” He smiles as he fossicks behind the counter and withdraws a jar of orange marmalade from somewhere unseen beneath it. Smiling proudly, as though he is a magician who has just conjured his best magic trick, he places it on the surface of counter.

 

“Oh you’re a brick, Frank!” Edith exclaims with eyes sparkling at the sight of the jar as she reaches out and takes it, placing it carefully into her basket.

 

“I’ll add that to Miss Lettice’s account, shall I?”

 

“If you would, Frank.”

 

As Frank writes the purchase on a scrap of lined paper to give to Mrs. Willison to enter into Mr. Willison’s ledger in her fine looping copperplate when she returns, he asks, “So do you like my window display then, Edith?”

 

“Oh yes!” gushes Edith. “Very much so, Frank. It’s wonderfully gay and patriotic.”

 

“I should hope it would be!” Frank replies, as he finishes scrawling Edith’s purchase on the paper with a slightly blunt pencil.

 

“Why, what’s it in aid of, Frank?”

 

“Edith!” Frank gasps. “I must have failed abysmally if you can’t tell.” He frowns, lines of concern furrowing his young brow. “Mr. Willison will never let me arrange the window again if you’re anything to go by.”

 

“Oh, get on with you, Frank!” Edith laughs.

 

However, Frank doesn’t join in her light hearted laughter and continues to look dourly at the back of the window display he has set up. “I’m serious, Edith. Mr. Willison finally let me arrange a window on my own because I implored him that I wanted to do it, and you can’t even identify what it’s promoting.”

 

“Well,” Edith defends, blushing as she does so. “To be fair, I was more concentrating on you, Frank.” When the worried look still doesn’t vanish from his face she adds. “Now that you aren’t standing in it, distracting me, I’ll go and take another look.”

 

She turns around and walks over to the window and peers through the side over the tops of a pyramid of Sunlight soap and a stack of Twinings tea varieties. An equally high pyramid of biscuit varieties, all in bright and colourful tins stands on the other side, whilst several more tins of biscuits appear at the back of the wide window ledge used for advertising. In front of them stand tins of golden syrup and black treacle, jars of marmalade, packets of tea and jelly crystals, containers of baking powder and cocoa, and at the very front of the window, almost flush against the glass, a cardboard cut out of a gollywog advertising Robertson’s marmalade and a little boy smiling as he promotes Rowntree’s clear gums, which Edith knows Mr. Willison keeps safely out of reach behind the shop counter and away from sticky little fingers. Edith gasps as she realises why Frank had hung bunting in the window, for at the back of the display, where usually there would be an advertisement for Lyon’s Tea or Bisto Gravy******, there is a poster promoting the British Empire Exhibition******* at Wembly********. A crowd of figures from British history and the nations of the British Empire crowd for space along several rows, many proudly waving the flags of Empire, whilst the exhibition name and dates are flanked by two very proud stylised Art Deco lions.

 

“The British Empire Exhibition!” Edith gasps, as Frank’s head appears next to a Huntley and Palmer********* biscuit tin on the opposite side of the display to her. “Now that you aren’t crouched in the window, I can see it clearly, Frank.”

 

“Mr. Willison gave me strict instructions to fill the window with only British made products.”

 

“And you’ve done a splendid job, Frank.” Edith replies, causing her beau to smile with pride and blush with embarrassment at her effusive compliment. As she looks at all the products again, she adds, “And I’m glad to see McVite and Price********** at the top of the pyramid of biscuits.

 

“Well, I couldn’t very well step out with the daughter of a McVitie and Price Line Manager and not have it on the top, could I, Edith?”

 

“Indeed no, Frank.” Edith smiles. “Dad will be pleased as punch when I tell him.”

 

“Well, I’m glad to hear that, Edith.” Franks says with a sigh.

 

“I think it will be quite a spectacle,” Edith muses, as she stares at the poster. “I’ve read in the newspapers that there will be fifty-six displays and pavilions from around the Empire! Imagine that! There will be palaces for industry, and art.”

 

“And housing and transport too***********, don’t forget.” adds Frank. “Each colony will be assigned its own distinctive pavilion to reflect local culture and architecture.”

 

“I would like to see the Queen’s Dolls’ House************.” Edith sighs. “I hear it is a whole world in miniature, and it even has electric lights.”

 

“Well, isn’t that fortunate?”

 

Edith pauses mid thought and looks quizzically at Frank. “I suppose it would be,” she considers. “If you were a doll living in the Queen’s Doll House.”

 

Frank starts laughing, quietly at first before growing into louder and louder guffaws.

 

“What, Frank?” Edith asks, blushing. “What have I said? What’s so funny?”

 

After a few moments, Frank manages to recover himself. “You do make me laugh, dear Edith.” He wipes the tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes. “Thank you.” He sighs. “I was really saying it’s fortunate because, I was going to ask you whether you would like to go and see the British Empire Exhibition. I’m just as keen to see all the marvellous wonders of Empire as you are.”

 

“Oh Frank!” Edith gasps, any discomfort and displeasure at her beau laughing at her forgotten as she runs around to his side of the window and throws her arms around his neck. “Frank, you’re such a brick! I’d love to!” And without another word, she places her lips against his and kisses him deeply.

 

*Lyons Tea was first produced by J. Lyons and Co., a catering empire created and built by the Salmons and Glucksteins, a German-Jewish immigrant family based in London. Starting in 1904, J. Lyons began selling packaged tea through its network of teashops. Soon after, they began selling their own brand Lyons Tea through retailers in Britain, Ireland and around the world. In 1918, Lyons purchased Hornimans and in 1921 they moved their tea factory to J. Lyons and Co., Greenford at that time, the largest tea factory in Europe. In 1962, J. Lyons and Company (Ireland) became Lyons Irish Holdings. After a merger with Allied Breweries in 1978, Lyons Irish Holdings became part of Allied Lyons (later Allied Domecq) who then sold the company to Unilever in 1996. Today, Lyons Tea is produced in England.

 

**Bovril is owned and distributed by Unilever UK. Its appearance is similar to Marmite and Vegemite. Bovril can be made into a drink ("beef tea") by diluting with hot water or, less commonly, with milk. It can be used as a flavouring for soups, broth, stews or porridge, or as a spread, especially on toast in a similar fashion to Marmite and Vegemite.

 

***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".

 

****A shirtwaister is a woman's dress with a seam at the waist, its bodice incorporating a collar and button fastening in the style of a shirt which gained popularity with women entering the workforce to do clerical work in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries.

 

*****Created by a specific style of corset popular between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the outbreak of the Great War, the S-bend is characterized by a rounded, forward leaning torso with hips pushed back. This shape earned the silhouette its name; in profile, it looks similar to a tilted letter S.

 

******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.

 

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

 

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

 

*********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, morning and afternoon tea and reading time.

 

**********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.

 

***********The Palace of Engineering was originally called the Palace of Housing and Transport when the British Empire Exhibition opened. It contained a crane capable of moving 25 tons (a practical necessity, not an exhibit) and contained displays on engineering, shipbuilding, electric power, motor vehicles, railways, including locomotives, metallurgy and telegraphs and wireless. In 1925 there seems to have been less emphasis on things that could also be classified as Industry, with instead more on housing and aircraft. The Palace of Industry was slightly smaller. It contained displays on the chemical industry, coal, metals, medicinal drugs, sewage disposal, food, drinks, tobacco, clothing, gramophones, gas and Nobel explosives.

 

************Queen Mary's Dolls' House is a dollhouse built in 1:12 scale in the early 1920s, completed in 1924, for Queen Mary, the wife of King George V. It was designed by architect Sir Edwin Lutyens, with contributions from many notable artists and craftsmen of the period, including a library of miniature books containing original stories written by authors including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and A. A. Milne illustrated by famous illustrators of the time like Arthur Rackham and Edmund Dulac. The idea for building the dollhouse originally came from the Queen's cousin, Princess Marie Louise, who discussed her idea with one of the top architects of the time, Sir Edwin Lutyens, at the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition of 1921. Sir Edwin agreed to construct the dollhouse and began preparations. Princess Marie Louise had many connections in the arts and arranged for the top artists and craftsmen of the time to contribute their special abilities to the house. It was created as a gift to Queen Mary from the people, and to serve as a historical document on how a royal family might have lived during that period in England. It showcased the very finest and most modern goods of the period. Later the dollhouse was put on display to raise funds for the Queen's charities. It was originally exhibited at the British Empire Exhibition in 1924 and again in 1925, where more than 1.6 million people came to view it, and is now on display in Windsor Castle, at Windsor, as a tourist attraction.

 

This bright window display may look like it is full of real products from today and yesteryear, but just like Queen Mary’s Dolls’ House, these items are all 1:12 scale miniature pieces from my own collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The window is full of wonderful British household brands, some of which like Robertson’s Golden Shred Marmalade, Marmite, Oxo stock cubes and Twinings tea we still know today. All these pieces have been made by various artisans including Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire and Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, or supplied from various stockists of 1:12 miniatures including Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop and Shephard’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom, or through various online stockists. I created the Union Jack bunting that is draped to either side of the display. I also recreated the British Empire Exhibition poster.

 

The two carboard displays at the very front for Rountree’s Gums and Golden Shred Marmalade are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. The Golliwog advertising Robertson’s Golden Shred Marmalade in particular has some nostalgia for me, and takes me back to my own childhood. The famous Robertson's Golliwog symbol (not seen as racially charged at the time) appeared in 1910 after a trip to the United States to set up a plant in Boston. His son John bought a golliwog doll there. For some reason this started to appear first on their price lists and was then adopted as their trade mark. I have pins with the Robertson’s Golliwog on it that I collected as a child. Ken Blythe was famous in miniature collectors’ circles mostly for the miniature books that he made: all being authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection. However, he did not make books exclusively. He also made other small pieces like these advertising pieces for miniature shops. What might amaze you, looking at these cardboard stand-ups is that they are just like their real life equivalents, both front and back! To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a real 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 and through his estate courtesy of the generosity of his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

Golden Shred orange marmalade and Silver Shred lime marmalade still exist today and are common household brands both in Britain and Australia. They are produced by Robertson’s. Robertson’s Golden Shred recipe perfected since 1874 is a clear and tangy orange marmalade, which according to their modern day jars is “perfect for Paddington’s marmalade sandwiches”. Robertson’s Silver Shred is a clear, tangy, lemon flavoured shredded marmalade. Robertson’s marmalade dates back to 1874 when Mrs. Robertson started making marmalade in the family grocery shop in Paisley, Scotland.

 

In 1859 Henry Tate went into partnership with John Wright, a sugar refiner based at Manesty Lane, Liverpool. Their partnership ended in 1869 and John’s two sons, Alfred and Edwin joined the business forming Henry Tate and Sons. A new refinery in Love Lane, Liverpool was opened in 1872. In 1921 Henry Tate and Sons and Abram Lyle and Sons merged, between them refining around fifty percent of the UK’s sugar. A tactical merger, this new company would then become a coherent force on the sugar market in anticipation of competition from foreign sugar returning to its pre-war strength. Tate and Lyle are perhaps best known for producing Lyle’s Golden Syrup and Lyle’s Golden Treacle.

 

Peter Leech and Sons was a grocers that operated out of Lowther Street in Whitehaven from the 1880s. They had a large range of tinned goods that they sold including coffee, tea, tinned salmon and golden syrup. They were admired for their particularly attractive labelling. I do not know exactly when they ceased production, but I believe it may have happened just before the Second World War.

 

Founded by Henry Isaac Rowntree in Castlegate in York in 1862, Rowntree's developed strong associations with Quaker philanthropy. Throughout much of the Nineteenth and Twentieth centuries, it was one of the big three confectionery manufacturers in the United Kingdom, alongside Cadbury and Fry, both also founded by Quakers. In 1981, Rowntree's received the Queen's Award for Enterprise for outstanding contribution to international trade. In 1988, when the company was acquired by Nestlé, it was the fourth-largest confectionery manufacturer in the world. The Rowntree brand continues to be used to market Nestlé's jelly sweet brands, such as Fruit Pastilles and Fruit Gums, and is still based in York.

 

Twinings is a British marketer of tea and other beverages, including coffee, hot chocolate and malt drinks, based in Andover, Hampshire. The brand is owned by Associated British Foods. It holds the world's oldest continually used company logo, and is London's longest-standing ratepayer, having occupied the same premises on the Strand since 1706. Twinings tea varieties include black tea, green tea and herbal teas, along with fruit-based cold infusions. Twinings was founded by Thomas Twining, who opened Britain's first known tea room, at No. 216 Strand, London, in 1706; it still operates today. Holder of a royal warrant, Twinings was acquired by Associated British Foods in 1964. The company is associated with Earl Grey tea, a tea infused with bergamot, though it is unclear when this association began, and how important the company's involvement with the tea has been. Competitor Jacksons of Piccadilly – acquired by Twinings during the 1990s – also had associations with the bergamot blend. In April 2008, Twinings announced their decision to close its Belfast Nambarrie plant, a tea company in trade for over 140 years. Citing an "efficiency drive", Twinings moved most of its production to China and Poland in late 2011, while retaining its Andover, Hampshire factory with a reduced workforce. In 2023, Twinings ceased production of lapsang souchong, replacing it with a product called "Distinctively Smoky", widely considered to be inferior quality.

 

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

 

Bird’s were best known for making custard and Bird’s Custard is still a common household name, although they produced other desserts beyond custard, including the blancmange. They also made Bird’s Golden Raising Powder – their brand of baking powder. Bird’s Custard was first formulated and first cooked by Alfred Bird in 1837 at his chemist shop in Birmingham. He developed the recipe because his wife was allergic to eggs, the key ingredient used to thicken traditional custard. The Birds continued to serve real custard to dinner guests, until one evening when the egg-free custard was served instead, either by accident or design. The dessert was so well received by the other diners that Alfred Bird put the recipe into wider production. John Monkhouse (1862–1938) was a prosperous Methodist businessman who co-founded Monk and Glass, which made custard powder and jelly. Monk and Glass custard was made in Clerkenwell and sold in the home market, and exported to the Empire and to America. They acquired by its rival Bird’s Custard in the early Twentieth Century.

 

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.

 

Bournville is a brand of dark chocolate produced by Cadbury. It is named after the model village of the same name in Birmingham, England and was first sold in 1908. Bournville Cocoa was one of the products sold by Cadbury. The label on the canister is a transitional one used after the First World War and shared both the old fashioned Edwardian letter B and more modern 1920s lettering for the remainder of the name. The red of the lettering is pre-war whilst the orange and white a post-war change.

 

Peek Freans is the name of a former biscuit making company based in Bermondsey, which is now a global brand of biscuits and related confectionery owned by various food businesses. De Beauvoir Biscuit Company owns but does not market in the United Kingdom, Europe and United States; Mondelēz International owns the brand in Canada; and English Biscuit Manufacturers owns the brand in Pakistan. Peek, Frean & Co. Ltd was registered in 1857 by James Peek (1800–1879) and his nephew-in-law George Hender Frean. The business was based in a disused sugar refinery on Mill Street in Dockhead, South East London, in the west of Bermondsey. With a quickly expanding business, in 1860, Peek engaged his friend John Carr, the apprenticed son of the Carlisle-based Scottish milling and biscuit-making family, Carr's. From 1861, Peek, Frean & Co. Ltd started exporting biscuits to Australia, but outgrew their premises from 1870 after agreeing to fulfil an order from the French Army for 460 long tons of biscuits for the ration packs supplied to soldiers fighting the Franco-Prussian War. After hostilities ended, the French Government ordered a further 16,000 long tons (11 million) sweet "Pearl" biscuits in celebration of the end of the Siege of Paris, and further flour supplies for Paris in 1871 and 1872, with financing undertaken by their bankers the Rothschilds. The consequential consumer demands of emigrating French expatriate soldiers, allowed the company to start exporting directly to Ontario, Canada from the mid-1870s. On 23 April 1873, the old Dockhead factory burnt down in a spectacular fire,[1] which brought the Prince of Wales (later Edward VII) out on a London Fire Brigade horse-drawn water pump to view the resulting explosions. In 1906, the Peek, Frean and Co. factory in Bermondsey was the subject of one of the earliest documentary films shot by Cricks and Sharp. This was in part to celebrate an expansion of the company's cake business, which later made the wedding cakes for both Princess Elizabeth and Philip Mountbatten (later Queen Elizabeth II and the Duke of Edinburgh) and Charles, Prince of Wales (later King Charles III), and Lady Diana Spencer. In 1924, the company established their first factory outside the UK, in Dum Dum in India. In 1931, five personnel from the Bermondsey factory went to Australia to train the staff in the new factory in Camperdown, in Sydney. In 1949, they established their first bakery in Canada, located on Bermondsey Road in East York, Ontario, which still today produces Peek Freans branded products. After 126 years, the London factory was closed by then owner BSN on Wednesday 26 May 1989.

 

Carr's is a British biscuit and cracker manufacturer, currently owned by Pladis Global through its subsidiary United Biscuits. The company was founded in 1831 by Jonathan Dodgson Carr and is marketed in the United States by Kellogg's. In 1831, Carr formed a small bakery and biscuit factory in the English city of Carlisle in Cumberland; he received a royal warrant in 1841. Within fifteen years of being founded, it had become Britain's largest baking business. Carr's business was both a mill and a bakery, an early example of vertical integration, and produced bread by night and biscuits by day. The biscuits were loosely based on dry biscuits used on long voyages by sailors. They could be kept crisp and fresh in tins, and despite their fragility could easily be transported to other parts of the country by canal and railway. Carr died in 1884, but by 1885, the company was making 128 varieties of biscuit and employing 1000 workers. In 1894 the company was registered as Carr and Co. Ltd. but reverted to being a private company in 1908. Carrs Flour Mills Limited was incorporated after acquiring the flour-milling assets. It became part of Cavenham Foods in 1964 until 1972, when it was sold to United Biscuits group, along with Cavenham's other biscuit brands Wright's Biscuits and Kemps for $10 million. United Biscuits was sold by its private equity owners to the Turkish-based multinational Yıldız Holding in 2014; in 2016 all UB brands including Carr's were combined with Yildiz's other snack brands to form Pladis Global.

 

Macfarlane Lang and Company began as Lang’s bakery in 1817, before becoming MacFarlane Lang in 1841. The first biscuit factory opened in 1886 and changed its name to MacFarlane Lang & Co. in the same year. The business then opened a factory in Fulham, London in 1903, and in 1904 became MacFarlane Lang & Co. Ltd. In 1948 it formed United Biscuits Ltd. along with McVitie and Price.

 

A co-operative wholesale society, or CWS, is a form of co-operative federation (that is, a co-operative in which all the members are co-operatives), in this case, the members are usually consumer cooperatives. The best historical examples of this are the English CWS and the Scottish CWS, which are the predecessors of the 21st Century Co-operative Group. Indeed, in Britain, the terms Co-operative Wholesale Society and CWS are used to refer to this specific organisation rather than the organisational form. They sold things like tea, cocoa and biscuits.

 

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.

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

 

Tonight however we have headed east of Cavendish Mews, down through St James’, past Trafalgar Square and down The Strand to one of London’s most luxurious and fashionable hotels, The Savoy*, where, surrounded by mahogany and rich red velvet, gilded paintings and extravagant floral displays, Lettice is having dinner with the son of the Duke of Walmsford, Selwyn Spencely to help celebrate his birthday. The pair have made valiant attempts to pursue a romantic relationship since meeting at Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie’s, Hunt Ball. Yet things haven’t been easy, their relationship moving in fits and starts, partially due to the invisible, yet very strong influence of Selwyn’s mother, Lady Zinnia, the current Duchess of Walmsford. Although Lettice has no solid proof of it, she is quite sure that Lady Zinnia does not think her a suitable match for her eldest son and heir. From what she has been told, Lettice also believes that Lady Zinnia has tried matchmaking Selwyn unsuccessfully with his cousin Pamela Fox-Chavers. In an effort to prove that they are serious about being together, Selwyn suggested at a dinner in the self-same Savoy dining room a few months ago, that be seen together about town, and the best way to do that is to be seen at the functions and places that will be popular because they are part of the London Season. Taking that approach, the pair have discarded discretion, and have been seen together at many different occasions and their photograph has graced the society pages of all the London newspapers time and time again.

 

Lettice strides with the assured footsteps of a viscount’s daughter as she walks beneath the grand new Art Deco portico of the Savoy and the front doors are opened for her by liveried doormen. She still gets a thrill at being so open about her relationship with Selwyn amidst all the fashionable people populating the Savoy dining room, especially after the pair have been very discreet about their relationship for the past year.

 

Lettice is ushered into the grand dining room of the Savoy, a space brilliantly illuminated by dozens of glittering electrified chandeliers cascading down like fountains from the high ceiling above. Beneath the sparkling light, men in white waistcoats and women a-glitter with jewels and bugle bead embroidered frocks are guided through the cavernous dining room where they are seated in high backed mahogany and red velvet chairs around tables dressed in crisp white tablecloths and set with sparkling silver and gilt china. The large room is very heavily populated with theatre patrons enjoying a meal before a show and London society out for an evening. The space is full of vociferous conversation, boisterous laughter, the clink of glasses and the scrape of cutlery against crockery as the diners enjoy the magnificent repast served to them from the hotel’s famous kitchens. Above it all, the notes of the latest dance music from the band can be heard as they entertain diners and dancers who fill the parquet dance floor.

 

A smartly uniformed waiter escorts Lettice to a table for two in the midst of the grand dining salon, but Lettice stops dead in her tracks on the luxurious Axminister carpet when she sees someone other than Selwyn awaiting for her at the white linen covered table.

 

“Surprise.” a cool female voice enunciates, the single word lacking the usual joyful lilt when spoken. “Miss Chetwynd, we finally meet.”

 

Seated at the table is a figure Lettice recognises not only from old editions of her mother’s copies of The Lady** and Horse and Hound***, but from a more recent social engagement, when she attended the Royal Horticultural Society’s Great Spring Show**** in May. Her pale white face and calculating dark eyes appraise Lettice coldly as she stands, frozen to the floor.

 

“Lady Zinnia!” Lettice gasps with an involuntary shiver, before quickly recovering her manners and dropping an elegant curtsey. “Your Grace.”

 

“How very clever of you to recognise me, my dear.” Lady Zinnia replies with a proud smile that bears no warmth towards Lettice in it. “Please, do join me, won’t you? I was just arranging for some caviar to be served upon your arrival. You can serve the caviar now that my guest is here.”

 

“Very good, Your Grace.” the waiter answers with deference.

 

As Lettice allows herself, as if sleepwalking, to take her place adjunct to the Duchess of Walmsford with the assistance of the waiter withdrawing and pushing in her chair for her, she takes in the mature woman’s elegant figure. Dressed in a strikingly simple black evening gown adorned with shimmering black bugle beads with satin and net sleeves, her only jewellery is a long rope of perfect white pearls. Her careful choice of a lack of adornment only serves to draw attention to her glacially beautiful features. Her skin, pale and creamy, is flawless and her cheekbones are high. Her dark wavy cascades of hair only betrays her maturity by way of a single streak of white shooting from her temple, but even this is strikingly elegant as it leaves a silvery trail as it disappears into the rest of her almost blue black tresses. Her dark sloe blue eyes pierce Lettice to the core.

 

“You know, you’re even more beautiful in the flesh than you are in the newspapers my dear Miss Chetwynd,” begins Lady Zinnia. “Although I can still see beneath that polished, cosmopolitan chic exterior of yours, the wild bucolic child of the counties who dragged my son through the muddy hedgerows back before the war.”

 

“And I can still see the angry mother that bundled Selwyn away.” replies Lettice.

 

“Touché, my dear.” Lady Zinnia says with a slight smile curling up the corners of her thin lips. “I’m pleased that I left such a lasting impression upon you.”

 

“I was expecting to have dinner with Selwyn this evening, Your Grace.” Lettice says, deciding that there is no point in bartering barbs thinly disguised as pleasantries with the hostile duchess.

 

“Oh, I know you were, Miss Chetwynd, but I’m afraid that there was a slight change of plans.” Lady Zinnia answers mysteriously. “Oh, and I think we can dispense with the formalities. Lady Zinnia will be quite satisfactory.”

 

“A change of plans, Your Gr… Lady Zinnia?”

 

“Yes,” She chuckles quietly as she reaches down into her lap below the linen tablecloth and fumbles about for something. “So I will have to do, I’m afraid.” She withdraws a Moroccan leather case with her initials tooled on its front in ornate gilded lettering. “I know you don’t partake, but do you mind if I smoke, Miss Chetwynd?” She depresses a clasp in the side and it opens to reveal a full deck of thin white cigarettes. “It’s not so much of a taboo as it once was for a woman to smoke in public.”

 

“Feel free to catch on fire, Lady Zinnia.” Lettice replies as the older woman withdraws a silver lighter from the clutch purse she must have on her lap.

 

“Oh how deliciously droll, my dear Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia replies, apparently unruffled by Lettice’s own hostile barb. “Did you read that line in Punch****?”

 

“Where is Selwyn, Lady Zinnia?” Lettice asks, leaning forward, unable to keep the vehemence out of her voice.

 

“I’m afraid that my son,” She emphasises the last two words with heavy gravitas. “Had to go away quite suddenly, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia screws a cigarette in an unconcerned fashion into a small amber holder with a gold end.

 

“Go away?”

 

“Yes, Miss Chetwynd.” She looks directly at Lettice with her piercing stare, as if she were pinning a delicate butterfly to a mounting board with a sharp pin. “He was suddenly offered an opportunity to showcase his architectural panache in a place far more accepting of this preferred new modernist style he favours than London ever will.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Durban.” Lady Zinnia answers matter-of-factly before placing the cigarette holder to her lips and lighting the cigarette dangling from it with her silver lighter.

 

“Durban!” Lettice gasps. “As in, South Africa?”

 

“I’m glad to see you know your geography, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia says as she withdraws the cigarette holder from her lips and exhales an elegant plume of acrid silver grey smoke which tumbles out over itself. “Your father didn’t waste the money he spent on your expensive education.” She sighs with boredom. “Yes, Durban in South Africa.”

 

“But he didn’t indicate any of this to me.” Lettice mutters in disbelief.

 

“Oh, it was very sudden, Miss Chetwynd, and he hadn’t long to make up his mind.” the Duchess replies cooly. “As I indicated, it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and they seldom come around, as I’m sure you know only too well yourself, Miss Chetwynd, being the successful young interior designer that you are.”

 

Lettice silently presses the book of architecture sitting on the chair at her side that she bought at Mayhew’s****** just a few weeks ago for Selwyn for his birthday, wrapped in bright paper and tied with a gayly coloured ribbon by herself.

 

“He really had no choice but to leap at the chance.” continues Lady Zinnia.

 

“He would never have gone without saying goodbye to me first.” Lettice insists.

 

“You’d be amazed what I can make people do, Miss Chetywnd.” Lady Zinnia replies threateningly and then takes another drag on her cigarette, before blowing out a fresh plume of smoke. “Even my own beloved son.”

 

“You?” Lettice’s eyes, glistening with tears that threaten to burst forth, growing wide in shock. “You did this?”

 

“Well, let’s be honest, shall we? I really had no choice, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia replies. “No doubt you will despise me for it, but when you reach my age, my dear, you realise that you cannot be friends with everyone in this life. Besides,” she goes on, taking another drag on her cigarette, the paper crackling slightly as her cheeks draw inwards. “You cannot blame me entirely, when you yourself are at least partially to blame for this, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Me?” Lettice splutters hotly, her dainty hands clenching in anger at the older woman’s accusation. “How do you come to that conclusion?”

 

“Well, if you hadn’t blundered blithely into my son’s life, spoiling all my well laid plans,” Her dark eyes widen, increasing her look of vehemence towards Lettice. “There would be no need for him to go, now would there, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Durban. Durban!” Lettice keeps repeating hollowly.

 

“Yes, it’s rather a lovely place: beautiful sunny weather this time of year, although it a little out of the way, I must confess.” Lady Zinnia smiles at her own harsh amusement. “Perhaps when you one day get married, your husband will take you there for your honeymoon.”

 

Lettice looks with vehemence across the table at her companion, her view of her features slightly blurred by the tears in her eyes. “Yes, Selwyn can show me the buildings he designed during his stay there.” she replies with determination.

 

“Bravo, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia rests her almost spent cigarette in the black marble ashtray she has been provided with by the Savoy staff and quietly slowly claps her hands, her white elbow length gloves muffling the sound. “Such spirited words. I must admire your pluck. No wonder my dear Selwyn is attracted to you. He is determined to create his own world, against social conventions too.”

 

Just at that moment, two waiters approach their table. One carries a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne and two long crystal champagne flutes, whilst the other bears an ornate silver tray upon which stand a fan of biscuits, a plate of lemon slices and a bowl of glistening, jewel like caviar.

 

“Shall I pour, Your Grace?” the waiter with the champagne asks as he places the ice bucket on the edge of the table.

 

“Oh yes, please do!” enthuses Lady Zinnia jovially. “We are in a celebratory mood tonight, aren’t we Miss Chetwynd?” She does not even bother to look at Lettice as she speaks, and Lettice does not reply as her head sinks.

 

“May I be so bold as to ask what Your Grace is celebrating?” the waiter asks politely.

 

“Indeed you may,” replies Lady Zinnia. “My son is going to Durban for a year to design beautiful homes for South African families. He set sail this morning for Cape Town, and we are wishing him every success.”

 

“Congratulations to His Grace, Your Grace.” the waiter says as the cork in the champagne bottle pops and he pours sparkling golden effervescent champagne into the two glasses.

 

“Thank you!” Lady Zinnia replies, taking up her glass. “Well, Miss Chetwynd, shall we toast Selwyn’s success?”

 

She holds her glass up, and for appearance’s sake before the two waiters and the other guests of the Savoy dining room surreptitiously watching them from the nearby tables, Lettice picks up her own glass and connects it with the Duchess’, but she does not smile as she does so.

 

“Well, I don’t know about you, Miss Chetwynd, but I’m famished.”

 

Lady Zinnia proceeds to select a biscuit which she places on her gilt edged white plate. She places a small scoop of sticky black caviar on it and tops it with a thin slice of lemon. Lettice does the same, but unlike Lady Zinnia, she does not attempt to eat anything on her plate.

 

Once the pair of waiters have retreated, Lettice turns back to Lady Zinnia and asks, “Why do you dislike me so as a prospective wife for your son, Lady Zinnia?” She shakes her head. “I make him happy. He makes me happy. I don’t understand.”

 

“No,” the duchess releases a bitter chuckle. “I don’t suppose you do.”

 

“What’s wrong with me? I come from a good family. My father’s estate is still quite successful. Unlike many other estates, Glynes is still turning a profit year on year. I’m well educated, like you are yourself.”

 

“I don’t think you are entirely unsuitable, Miss Chetwynd,” Lady Zinnia concedes, eyeing her young companion with a fresh look of consideration. “Although I would prefer Selwyn to pick a girl from a more notable linage.”

 

“We can trace our lineage back to Tudor times.”

 

“And mine can be traced back to the Norman Conquest.”

 

“Then why did you send him to my mother’s Hunt Ball in the first place, Lady Zinnia?”

 

“Well, I only sent Selwyn as my emissary to support dear Sadie. I must confess that I never really had a lot of time for your mother. I’d hardly call her a friend: more of a polite acquaintance. She prattles on, like so many other women of our generation, about pointless, meaningless things which I find fearfully tiresome.” She sighs. “Ahhh… but I do have time for your father. He was always very witty and he believed in the emancipation of women, a cause we had in common. He wasted his intelligence on someone as blinkered and old fashioned like your mother,” She sighs again. “However, that was the decision he made. So, when Sadie sent an invitation to her first Hunt Ball since before the war, I didn’t want to attend myself and be stuck with her idle gossip, but I did want to support her in some way, on account of your dear father, so I sent Selwyn instead. I didn’t realise that she was using the occasion to attempt to find you a husband.” She pauses and takes a dainty bite out of the caviar covered biscuit. “If I had known, I would never have sent Selwyn. I have my own plans for him.”

 

“Pamela?” Lettice asks quietly.

 

“Yes. Selwyn told me that he had shared with you the plans that his Uncle Bertrand and I had made to match Pamela and him, thus uniting our two great families.”

 

“Selwyn will never marry her, Lady Zinnia. He doesn’t love her.” Lettice hisses quietly.

 

“Temper, temper, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia cautions in reply. “As I said before, you would be amazed what I have made people do.”

 

“And Pamela doesn’t love him either.” adds Lettice.

 

“And that is a problem, even I must admit to. One reluctant party is one thing, but two is quite another.”

 

“She’s met a very nice banker’s son.”

 

“Yes, I know, my dear - Jonty Knollys.”

 

Lettice laughs bitterly. “Of course you know. You seem to have spies everywhere.”

 

Ignoring her remark, Lady Zinnia carries on, “So you see my dear Miss Chetwynd, I do not have anything against you perse, but you have been rather a fly in Bertrand’s and my ointment. When I saw you with your friend at the Great Spring Show, I knew you were going to be trouble, and when Bertrand told me that he and Rosamund met you at the Henley Regatta, and Rosamund told me that she had observed that there were little intimacies exchanged between the two of you, I knew that with Pamela taking an interest in young Mr. Knollys and Bertrand willing to break his and my long laid plans because Knollys is equally as wealthy as the Spencelys are, I had to step in to separate you two.”

 

“But why, Lady Zinnia?”

 

“As I said, I would prefer Selwyn to make a more advantageous match with a girl from a family not unlike that with the lineage and solid financial background of the Spencelys. Mr. Knollys may not have the lineage, but he does have the money to support Pamela handsomely, and she will cultivate enough social connections that people will overlook her husband’s lack of them. However, I am not without some understanding of the human heart, and I do admire a woman with spirit who is well educated and can stand her own ground, so I made a pact with Selwyn.”

 

“A pact?”

 

“Yes. I told him that if he went away for a year, a year during which he agreed neither to see, nor correspond with you, if he comes back and doesn’t feel the same way about you as he did when he left, he agreed that he will marry Pamela, just as Bertrand and I planned. If however, he still feels the same way about you when he returns, I agreed that I would concede and will allow him to marry you.”

 

“But if you knew that Lord Fox-Chavers was wavering towards agreeing to a match between Jonty Knollys and Pamela…”

 

“Aha, but Selwyn doesn’t, and now that he has made this agreement with me, even if you wrote to him, he will not break our pact and he won’t read your letters. He gave me his solemn promise, and he forfeits his right to marry you if he breaks it. Besides, I have made Bertrand make the same pact with Pamela.”

 

Lettice shakes her head in disbelief at what Lady Zinnia is saying between mouthfuls of caviar. “Why have you done this? All you are doing is making Selwyn, Pamela, Jonty and I miserable.” Lettice finally asks in exasperation. “If you love Selwyn, if you don’t really dislike me, why are you putting the pair of us through such pain unless you are an exceedingly perverse individual? I don’t understand your motives.”

 

“Perhaps I am perverse.” chortles Lady Zinnia. “I must confess, I actually quite enjoy being a little perverse. It’s really quite simple my dear Miss Chetwynd, I don’t want my son marrying an infatuation. I nearly made the same mistake and married for love, and I can tell you that if I had, I would not be in as advantageous a position socially or financially today. I want Selwyn to have a clear head before he proposes marriage, and I want him to follow the course I have firmly had set out for the last twenty years. I cannot let something as irritating as the first flushes of young love ruin my well laid plans.” She takes another bite of her caviar and after finishing her mouthful she continues, “Rest assured Miss Chetwynd that however perverse you may think me, I am as much a woman of my word as my son is of his. If he comes back from Durban in a year and he tells me that he still loves you as deeply and passionately that he wants to marry you, I shan’t stand in his way.” She takes out another cigarette from her case and screws it into her cigarette holder. “However, a year is an eternity for the flames of love, however strong you may think they are. A year is more than adequate time for it to be snuffed out and extinguished.” She smiles meanly as she lights her cigarette. Blowing out another plume of cascading grey smoke she concludes, “Don’t imagine for one moment that Selwyn will want to marry you upon his return. He will be a changed man: changed for the better I hope, and free of the shackles of foolish youthful love.” She spits the last word like it is something distasteful. “If I were you, I’d seek another suitor to marry you within the next year. It will help you save face and avoid unnecessary embarrassment.”

 

Lettice feels the grand Savoy dining room swimming about her as she tried to take in everything Lady Zinnia says. Without even saying a word in goodbye, she manages to raise herself out of her seat and begins to wend her way between the tables of diners, some of whom notice her elegant figure as she slips silently, unsteadily past. Never once does she look back. Never once does she allow her emotions to break free as her footsteps quicken, as she pushes more urgently past the elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen milling about the room. It is only when, after what feels like a lifetime, she reaches the portico of the Savoy and she feels the cool air of the London evening on her cheeks that she allows the tears to fall, and down they cascade, like a dam that burst its banks, in an endless pair of rivulets.

 

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

 

***Horse and Hound is the oldest equestrian weekly magazine of the United Kingdom. Its first edition was published in 1884. The magazine contains horse industry news, reports from equestrian events, veterinary advice about caring for horses, and horses for sale.

 

****May 20 1913 saw the first Royal Horticultural Society flower show at Chelsea. What we know today as the Chelsea Flower Show was originally known as the Great Spring Show. The first shows were three day events held within a single marquee. The King and Queen did not attend in 1913, but the King's Mother, Queen Alexandra, attended with two of her children. The only garden to win a gold medal before the war was also in 1913 and was awarded to a rock garden created by John Wood of Boston Spa. In 1919, the Government demanded that the Royal Horticultural Society pay an entertainment tax for the show – with resources already strained, it threatened the future of the Chelsea Flower Show. Thankfully, this was wavered once the Royal Horticultural Society convinced the Government that the show had educational benefit and in 1920 a special tent was erected to house scientific exhibits. Whilst the original shows were housed within one tent, the provision of tents increased after the Great War ended. A tent for roses appeared and between 1920 and 1934, there was a tent for pictures, scientific exhibits and displays of garden design. Society garden parties began to be held, and soon the Royal Horticultural Society’s Great Spring Show became a fixture of the London social calendar in May, attended by society ladies and their debutante daughters, the occasion used to parade the latter by the former. The Chelsea Flower Show, though not so exclusive today, is still a part of the London Season.

 

*****Punch, or The London Charivari was a British weekly magazine of humour and satire established in 1841 by Henry Mayhew and wood-engraver Ebenezer Landells. Historically, it was most influential in the 1840s and 1850s, when it helped to coin the term "cartoon" in its modern sense as a humorous illustration. From 1850, Sir John Tenniel (most famous for his illustrations for Lewis Carroll’s “Alice in Wonderland” and “Through the Looking Glass”, was the chief cartoon artist at the magazine for over fifty years. After the 1940s, when its circulation peaked, it went into a long decline, finally closing in 1992. It was revived in 1996, but closed again in 2002.

 

******A. H. Mayhew was once one of many bookshops located in London’s Charring Cross Road, an area still famous today for its bookshops, perhaps most famously written about by American authoress Helene Hanff who wrote ’84, Charing Cross Road’, which later became a play and then a 1987 film starring Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins. Number 56. Charing Cross Road was the home of Mayhew’s second-hand and rare bookshop. Closed after the war, their premises is now the home of Any Amount of Books bookshop.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau:

 

The caviar petit fours and the silver tray of biscuits have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The bowl of caviar and the two champagne flutes comes from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The two slightly scalloped white gilt plates and the wonderful creamy white roses in the vase on the table come from Beautifully handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The cutlery and the lemon I acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The lemon slices I acquired through an online miniature stockist of miniatures on E-Bay. The silver champagne cooler on the table is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The bottle of champagne itself is hand made from glass and is an artisan miniature made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The bottle is De Rochegré champagne, identified by the careful attention paid to recreating the label in 1:12 scale.

 

The two red velvet upholstered high back chairs I have had since I was six years old. They were a birthday present given to me by my grandparents.

 

The painting in the background in its gilded frame is a 1:12 artisan piece made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.

 

The red wallpaper is beautiful artisan paper given to me by a friend, who has encouraged me to use a selection of papers she has given me throughout the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Letter generously translated by xiphophilos; penned 23.12.1914 and sent to Fräulein Lieschen Wermelskirchen in Cöln. Photogr. Gebr. Notton, Metz.

 

An early war studio portrait of a stoic looking Musketier from an unidentified (Landwehr?) formation.

 

Thanks to the Treaty of Frankfurt of 1871, the French city of Metz was annexed into the German Empire, being part of the Reichsland Elsaß-Lothringen and serving as capital of deutsches Lothringen.

Letter generously translated by xiphophilos, authored in the field on 31.05.1918 the sender laments the war and tells his girlfriend he hopes the killing will end soon.

 

Three Allied casualties of the Kaiserschlacht lie beside a partially destroyed house sometime around March 1918.

 

The 1918 Spring Offensive or Kaiserschlacht was a series of German attacks along the Western Front beginning on 21st March 1918, which marked the deepest advances by either side since 1914. The Germans had realised that their only remaining chance of victory was to defeat the Allies before the overwhelming human and matériel resources of the United States could be fully deployed. They also had the temporary advantage in numbers afforded by the nearly 50 divisions freed by the Russian surrender (the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk).

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

 

Today however we are not at Cavendish Mews, although we are still in Mayfair, moving a few streets away to Hill Street, where Edith, Lettice’s maid, is visiting her friend and fellow maid Hilda. It is a beautiful, sunny Wednesday and Wednesday afternoons from one o’clock, both girls have time off from their jobs as domestic servants. Taking advantage of this, Edith and Hilda are planning to go and have some afternoon tea at the nearby Lyon’s Corner House* at the top of Tottenham Court Road. Edith has come to collect Hilda from the home of Lettice’s married friends Margot and Dickie Channon, where Hilda works as a live-in maid. However, Hilda is not quite ready to go.

 

When Edith walks in through the tradesman’s entrance of the Hill Street, she finds Hilda in the kitchen, pushing pieces of rather second-rate beef through a mincer, and the deal table is littered with cooking implements and food. As well as the tray of minced meat, there is a deep baking dish, a bowl of partially peeled potatoes, and several onions and tomatoes waiting to be sliced up. A large jar of salt stands to one side of a wooden chopping board, whilst a jar of mixed herbs perches precariously on the edge of the table next to the mincer.

 

“I won’t be long, Edith. I’m just finishing preparing tonight’s mince and potato stew for tea.”

 

“For dinner, Hilda,” Edith kindly corrects her friend**.

 

“Listen to you, My Lady!” Hilda chortles good naturedly, making her friend blush as she picks up a bright red tomato from in front of her. “Such fancy words from you Miss Edith Watsford! You must be the most well spoken maid in Mayfair.”

 

“I thought you wanted to improve yourself, Hilda.” Edith responds quietly, a little hurt by her best friend’s response. “I was only trying to help.”

 

“Oh, sorry Edith! I was only teasing.” Hilda apologises, smiling and kindly putting out her hand and clasping Edith’s in it as it rests on the arm of her chair. “I suppose it didn’t come across in quite the way I wanted. I’m just a little frazzled today.” She goes on. “Of course I’m all for self-improvement,” she assures her. “And I do appreciate you correcting me. I wasn’t really criticising you. Forgive me?”

 

Edith releases a breath she didn’t realise she was holding and sinks back into the rounded back of the Windsor chair she is sitting in. “That’s a relief! Of course I forgive you, Hilda: not that there’s anything to forgive, naturally.”

 

“Naturally.” Hilda retorts with a short nod. “Of course, whether it’s tea, dinner or supper,” she continues with a derisive snort. “It will all go down into our bellies, just the same.”

 

“I’d never want to offend you, Hilda.” Edith says seriously. “You’re my best friend.”

 

“You’d never offend me, Edith.” Hilda replies gently with a broad smile on her doughy face. “I know that. Best friends don’t offend one another, intentionally anyway.”

 

“Of course they don’t.” Edith replies with a relieved smile.

 

“And best friends help one another out.”

 

“Of course they do!” Edith enthuses.

 

“Then could you help me out?” She pushes a smaller wooden chopping board and knife towards Edith. “Could you cut up this onion for me?” She holds out a golden brown onion to her friend.

 

Edith’s mouth falls open in shock, but curls up at the corners as she takes in her friend’s beseeching look. “Hilda Clerkenwell! What crust you have! We’re going out for tea and cakes at Lyon’s Corner House, and you just don’t want your fingers smelling of raw onion!”

 

“Oh! Go on, Edith! Be a sport! You know I hate cutting onions. They always make me cry so much.” She pouts and looks hopefully at her friend. “Please?”

 

“Oh!” Edith huffs. “Only if you buy me a second slice of cake when we get to Lyon’s.”

 

“Done!” Hilda replies immediately, smiling as she places the onion in the middle of the board she has slid across to Edith.

 

“Any cake I like, mind.” Edith adds with a cheeky smile as she picks up the onion, knowing that she won’t ask for a slice of the most extravagant and expensive cakes in the glass counter of the Tottenham Court Road Lyon’s Corner House, even if she could, because she knows that Hilda works as hard, if not harder, for her meagre maid’s wage as she does.

 

“Thanks Edith! You are a brick!” Hilda replies with relief as Edith picks herself up out of her chair and picks up the chopping board and knife. “There’s plenty of carbolic at the sink for your hands afterwards.”

 

“You know, I keep telling you that there’s really nothing to it,” Edith remarks to Hilda as she walks across the black and white chequered linoleum floor of the kitchen and places the board on the enamel draining board of the sink beneath the kitchen window. “Just make sure there is plenty of fresh air around you.” She groans as she heaves open the squeaking sash of the lower pane of the window. “The breeze will carry away your tears.”

 

“Not mine.” Hilda says grumpily as she takes up a potato and begins peeling it. “That never works for me. Damn things.”

 

“Language!” Edith scolds. She takes up the knife and cuts off both ends of the onion and peels the skin off. “Small pieces, Hilda?”

 

“Please.” Hilda replies as she casts her potato peelings aside into a small pile to her right.

 

Edith begins to chop the onion up into small pieces quickly and efficiently, the sound of the knife’s blade banging dully against the wood of the chopping board as it slices through the flesh of the onion, giving her a sense of satisfaction as she watches it transform from a round vegetable into neat white cubes. Once she is done, she uses the flat of the knife to push all the pieces into a pile in the middle of the board and places the knife next to it before she turns on the brass hot and cold taps of the sink and washes her hands thoroughly with carbolic soap. Once her hands are clean, and odour free, to her satisfaction, Edith returns the chopping board topped with the knife and pile of diced onions to Hilda’s deal kitchen table and resumes her seat.

 

“I know you enjoy a nice stew, Hilda,” Edith comments a little awkwardly as she manoeuvres herself back into a comfortable position in her seat, blushing as she looks at the large deep brown glazed baking dish with its pristine white interior in the centre of the table. “But that looks like a lot just for you for dinner.”

 

“Oh, it’s not just for me.” Hilda replies matter-of-factly as she cuts into the ripe flesh of a tomato and begins slicing it thinly. “It’s for Mr. and Mrs. Channon too.”

 

“What?” Edith blurts with an incredulous explosion of laughter. “Mr. and Mrs. Channon eating a mince and potato stew for dinner?”

 

“Shh!” Hilda drops the knife on the chopping board in front of her with a clatter and puts her chubby, sausage like finger to her lips.

 

“What?” Edith asks, trying to regain her composure.

 

“Mr. and Mrs. Channon will hear you.” Hilda hisses. “They haven’t gone out today. They’re only just out there, in the drawing room.” She indicates towards the closed kitchen door and the world of the Wood Street flat beyond it, inhabited by the Channons.

 

“What are they doing?” Edith hisses.

 

“Playing cards I think.” Hilda admits. “Or they were when I took them tea and coffee a half hour ago.”

 

Edith quickly grasps the seriousness of the situation and lowers her voice. “They usually pay calls on a Wednesday.”

 

“They can’t afford to, just now.” Hilda replies dourly in an equally low voice as she resumes chopping the tomato. “Mr. Channon has spent his allowance for the month, including the portion for petrol for their motorcar. They aren’t going to traipse around London paying calls on foot. At least it went to a good cause.”

 

“Oh?” Edith queries.

 

“Yes, they paid off the wine merchant’s bill. It was fearfully overdue, and he was threating to withhold any future orders.”

 

“That’s frightful, Hilda.”

 

Reducing her voice to barely more than a whisper, Hilda retorts, “It’s better than me standing at the door telling his man a bald-faced lie that the Master and Mistress are out, when in fact they are both hiding behind the drawing room sofa.”

 

“That’s true.” Edith replies, her eyebrows arching high over her pale blue eyes. “I don’t think I could do that.”

 

“That’s because you’re too good by half, Edith – far better a soul than me. You’ll go to heaven and I’ll be stuck in purgatory.” Hilda giggles. “And it’s because of the paid wine merchant’s bill that we’re having mince and potato stew for supper. We’re paying the piper***, for the other week’s Lobster à la Newburg**** supper.”

 

“Oh dear.”

 

“Oh dear is right.” Hilda admits. “When I went to Mrs. Channon on Monday and said I needed money for the housekeeping, she gave me the most alarmed look I think I’ve ever seen on her face. It was as if I’d just told her that war had broken out again.”

 

“Heaven forbid!”

 

“She asked me where all the housekeeping money had gone.”

 

“What do you mean, Hilda?”

 

“Well, that was exactly what she said when I explained to her that whilst I can be a thrifty and canny grocery shopper, I’m not a miracle worker. Lobsters are expensive no matter where you buy them, or from whom.”

 

“And what did Mrs. Channon say to that?”

 

“Well, she told me that she would sort something out, but could I wait until the afternoon for the money. I said that I could, and she bustled off to her bedroom.”

 

“Her bedroom? Not to take the vapours*****, surely?”

 

“No, Edith, although she can be prone to fits of hysteria sometimes, especially when it comes to paying bills.”

 

“I’m sure her fits of hysteria aren’t anywhere near as bad as Miss Lettice’s friend, Mrs. Palmerston’s are. She caused quite a scene over luncheon last year when Miss Lettice’s sister-in-law was visiting Cavendish Mews.”

 

“Maybe not, but they can still be trying when the grocer is at the tradesman’s entrance demanding payment from me, and Mrs., Channon is suddenly indisposed.”

 

“So, if not for the vapours, why did Mrs. Channon go to her bedroom, Hilda?”

 

“Well, when I saw her a short while later whilst I was dusting the entrance hall, she bustled past all dressed up to the nines, looking very serious and carrying one of her small brown leather valises in her hand. I think she was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice me dusting the nook in the hallway, and I gave her ever such a fright when I wished her a good afternoon as she went to the door.”

 

“What happened, Hilda?”

 

“She dropped her valise on the entrance hall tiles, that’s what happened, and it popped open: not much mind you, but enough for me to see that she had one of her fox fur tippets****** inside. She hurriedly shut it again, and told me she was going out for a little bit, but that she hadn’t forgotten I needed the housekeeping money, and she left.”

 

“She didn’t get you to hail a taxi, then?”

 

“I don’t think she’d have dared, considering I had run out of housekeeping money.”

 

“Do you know where she went, Hilda?”

 

“No, I don’t, because as soon as she left, I hurried to her dressing room rather than peeping out of the drawing room windows to see in which direction she walked.”

 

“What did you find in her dressing room?”

 

“It was in the usual state of untidiness it’s in after she’s chosen what she’s going to wear: wardrobe doors flung and left open, hatboxes strewn about, clothes all over her pretty little Marie Antoinette chaise and the floor.”

 

“So, nothing amiss there.” Edith remarks.

 

“Indeed,” Hilda admits. “However, then I noticed that her tippet was missing from the wardrobe, as well as two of her older evening dresses: only the empty coat hangers were left on the rail.”

 

“You don’t think she…” Edith drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Hocked them, do you?” She gasps even at the thought of one of her own mistress’ dearest friends forced to deposit some of her beautiful clothes, even the older, more worn and less fashionable pieces, at a pawnbroker as a security for money lent.

 

“I hate to admit it, but I’m sure she did, Edith.” Hilda hisses guiltily. “She returned later that afternoon and paid me my housekeeping money just as she promised.” Hilda looks around, as if double checking to make sure Mrs. Channon wasn’t about to barge in and catch she and Edith gossiping about her. “In fact, she gave me enough housekeeping money, albeit on a far less lavish budget,” She indicates with a sweeping gesture to the minced meat, potatoes, tomatoes and onions on the deal kitchen table before her. “To keep us going until Mr. Channon receives his next month’s allowance from the Marquis in a fortnight. Mrs. Channon told me to use my thrift with the shopping, as that under no circumstances was she able to furnish me with any more money for the housekeeping until Mr. Channon receives his next stipend.”

 

“No!”

 

“Yes. I’m only grateful that Mrs. Channon’s father, Mr. de Virre pays my wages.”

 

“And Mrs. Boothby’s.” Edith adds.

 

“And Mrs. Boothby’s.” Hilda agrees quietly. “Otherwise, we might not get paid at all!”

 

“So Mr. and Mrs. Channon are economising, then.”

 

“As much as they know how to, I suppose.” Hilda shrugs. “They haven’t been to the theatre or to the Embassy Club in Bond Street for over a week now. Instead, they sit in the drawing room and play cards, read, or listen to the wireless.”

 

“At least they have a wireless for entertainment.” Edith points out.

 

“Yes, well, Mrs. and Mrs. Channon’s idea of economising is nothing like yours and mines are,” Hilda sighs. “But I suppose it’s all relative. Them not going to the theatre and spending a quiet night at home is probably as unusual and difficult for them to contrive as it is for us to be able to afford to go to the theatre in the first place.”

 

“I’ve never been to the theatre.” Edith points out. “And nor have you, Hilda.”

 

“Well, we’ve been to the music hall, and that’s the theatre.” Hilda defends.

 

“I’m sure the music hall is not what Mr. and Mrs. Channon call theatre.” Edith scoffs with an amused chuckle.

 

“Tea, dinner. Music hall, theatre. It’s all much of a muchness, isn’t it?”

 

“Poor Mrs. Channon. That must be awful for her, having to pawn her beautiful things, just to be able to afford to eat. I mean, I know you’ve said that she’s no dab hand at managing a budget…”

 

“Now that’s an understatement, if ever I heard one.” Hilda chuckles as she starts adding the minced meat, chunks of peeled potato, sliced tomatoes and Edith’s diced onions to the deep dish and sprinkling herbs on top. “But it’s more than just Mrs. Channon’s inability to balance the books.”

 

“What do you mean, Hilda?”

 

Hilda pours some Worcestershire sauce over the top of the food in the dish and stirs it all together, before draping a muslin cloth over the top of it. “There! That can steep for the afternoon, and it will be perfect come tea… err… dinner time.”

 

“You didn’t hear me, Hilda.” Edith persists. “What did you mean by Mrs. Ch…”

 

“Shh!” Hilda puts her finger to her mouth again, and looks warningly towards the kitchen door. “I did, actually. Come on Edith, let’s get our coats and hats. I’ll explain it all to you as we go up to Tottenham Court Road.”

 

The pair gather up their coats, hats, gloves and handbags and step out of the Hill Street flat through the rear tradesman’s entrance. “I’m off Mrs, Channon!” Hilda calls brightly before carefully closing the kitchen door, without waiting for a response.

 

As the pair walk down the back stairs of the flats, Hilda explains. “I don’t suppose when you were here a few weeks ago, you overheard the conversation over dinner?”

 

“Hilda Clerkenwell!” Edith gasps. “I never listen to conversations over the dinner table!”

 

“Yes, you’re far better than me in that respect.” Hilda admits guiltily.

 

“Anyway, even if I was prone to eavesdrop, which I don’t, I was too busy concentrating on what we needed to do in order to serve the next dish, that night.”

 

“Well, if you weren’t so good and pious, Edith, earing your place in heaven, you would have heard that loud American man, Mr. Carter…”

 

“The one who likes his ground coffee?”

 

“The very same. Well, he and his wife were talking about how Mrs. Carter was going to see a specialist in Harley Street*******.”

 

“A specialist?”

 

“Some fancy doctor, who is assisting Mrs. Carter in…” Hilda pauses and glances around to make sure that no-one is eavesdropping in the stairwell. “In the family way.”

 

Edith gaps. “I didn’t think Mrs. Carter was in the family way, Hilda! She certainly doesn’t look like it.”

 

“She’s not.”

 

Edith pauses mid step. “Hilda, what has a specialist in Harley Street and Mrs. Carter not being with child have to do with Mrs. Channon not being able to pay the household bills?”

 

“Mrs. Channon isn’t pregnant either,” Hilda says conspiratorially. “And that’s a problem, Edith.”

 

“Well, I must confess I did notice that they’ve been married for almost three years and there is still no sign of children, but I just assumed that being a flapper, and part of the Bright Young Things******** set I read about in the papers that Miss Lettice is part of too, well, I just assumed that with their busy lives, going to parties and nightclubs all that, that they didn’t have time to have a child.”

 

“Well, they might have put it down to that in the first place, but now there is some pressure being exerted on them to have a child.”

 

“What kind of pressure, Hilda?”

 

“Well, Mr. Carter’s family want grandchildren, but Mrs. Carter still isn’t with child, and it’s the same problem for Mr. and Mrs. Channon. The old Marquis and Marchioness are desperate for Mr. and Mrs. Channon to have a son who can inherit the title from Mr. Channon when he passes on, even though I’m sure it will be years before the old Marquis passes on and passes the title to Mr. Channon, never mind Mr. Channon passing on himself. But anyway, because Mrs. Channon isn’t with child yet, the mean old Marquis has cut Mr. Channon’s allowance.”

 

“Cut it?”

 

“Not entirely, but certainly cut it.”

 

“By how much?”

 

“I’m not really sure, but enough that I’m having to do more with less housekeeping. I think the old Marquis is hoping that if Mr. and Mrs. Channon live a quieter life and don’t go to the theatre or nightclubs as much, they will settle down to the business of having a child.

 

“Well, that’s awful of the old Marquis, but there is an element of common sense in what he is suggesting.” Edith admits.

 

“Maybe, but Mrs. Channon confided in me, and she told me that she and Mr. Channon have been trying to have a child. It just hasn’t happened. So, now that the pressure has been put upon them, they are resorting to visiting a specialist to see if they can help.”

 

“Oh poor Mrs. Channon.”

 

“Well, let’s just hope she doesn’t have to hock anything else.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, those doctors in Harley Street are expensive. Mrs. Carter was saying that lots of duchesses and the like go there for help to get in the family way. If Mrs. Channon can’t balance her household budget now, how will she manage the fees from a fancy doctor on top of that?”

 

*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.

 

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

 

***The idiom of “to pay the piper”, meaning to pay for the cost of something, derives from the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. The town of Hamelin agrees to pay the Piper to get rid of all the rats. When they fail to pay him, he steals their kids. The earliest known reference, according to the article, is from AD1300.

 

****Lobster Newberg (also spelled lobster Newburg or lobster Newburgh) is an American seafood dish made from lobster, butter, cream, cognac, sherry and eggs, with a secret ingredient found to be Cayenne pepper. A modern legend with no primary or early sources states that the dish was invented by Ben Wenberg, a sea captain in the fruit trade. He was said to have demonstrated the dish at Delmonico's Restaurant in New York City to the manager, Charles Delmonico, in 1876. After refinements by the chef, Charles Ranhofer, the creation was added to the restaurant's menu as Lobster à la Wenberg and it soon became very popular. The legend says that an argument between Wenberg and Charles Delmonico caused the dish to be removed from the menu. To satisfy patrons’ continued requests for it, the name was rendered in anagram as Lobster à la Newberg or Lobster Newberg.

 

*****In archaic usage, “the vapours” is a mental, psychological, or physical state, such as hysteria, mania, clinical depression, bipolar disorder, lightheadedness, fainting, flush, withdrawal syndrome, mood swings, or PMS in which a sufferer loses mental focus.

 

******A tippet is a piece of clothing worn over the shoulders in the shape of a scarf or cape. Tippets evolved in the fourteenth century from long sleeves and typically had one end hanging down to the knees. By the 1920s, tippets were usually made of fox, mink or other types of fur.

 

*******Harley Street is a street in Marylebone, Central London, named after Edward Harley, 2nd Earl of Oxford and Earl Mortimer. Since the Nineteenth Century it has housed a large number of private specialists in medicine and surgery. Since the Nineteenth Century, the number of doctors, hospitals, and medical organisations in and around Harley Street has greatly increased. Records show that there were around twenty doctors in 1860, eighty by 1900, and almost two hundred by 1914. When the National Health Service was established in 1948, there were around one and half thousand. Today, there are more than three thousand people employed in the Harley Street area, in clinics, medical and paramedical practices, and hospitals.

 

********The Bright Young Things, or Bright Young People, was a nickname given by the tabloid press to a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

On Hilda’s deal table stand everything required to make a mince and potato stew. There is a deep ceramic baking dish, a wooden chopping board with a kitchen knife, onions and slices of tomato on it, some potatoes and tomatoes, a tray of mince and salt and herbs. Attached to the edge of the table is a mincer. The chopping board, brown onions, tomatoes, potatoes, the yellow ceramic bowl and the cutlery all came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The tomato slices come from an English stockist of 1:12 artisan miniatures whom I found on E-Bay. The knife on the chopping board and the bread knife come from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures Shop in the United Kingdom. The dish of mincemeat, jars of salt and herbs and the deep baking dish base come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The meat mincer is a 1:12 miniature that I acquired from a collector in the Netherlands. The vase of flowers are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium and inserted into a real, hand blown glass vase.

 

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

 

In the background you can see a very modern dresser stacked with a panoply of kitchen items. Including a bread crock, cannisters and a toast rack that came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop.

 

Also 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.

 

The bright brass pieces standing on the stove all come from various stockists, most overseas.

 

The tin bucket, mops and brooms between the dresser and the stove all come from Beautifully handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

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 to the west of London, in nearby Buckinghamshire, at Dorrington House, a smart Jacobean manor house of the late 1600s built for a wealthy merchant, situated in High Wycombe, where Lettice’s elder sister, Lalage (known to everyone in the family by the diminutive Lally), resides with her husband Charles Lanchenbury and their three children, Harrold, Annabelle and baby Piers. Situated within walking distance of the market town’s main square, the elegant red brick house with its high-pitched roof and white painted sash windows still feels private considering its close proximity to the centre of the town thanks to an elegant and restrained garden surrounding it, which is enclosed by a high red brick wall.

 

Lettice is nursing a broken heart. Lettice’s beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, had organised a romantic dinner at the Savoy* for he and Lettice to celebrate his birthday. However, when Lettice arrived, she was confronted not with the smiling face of her beau, but the haughty and cruel spectre of his mother, the Duchess of Walmsford, Lady Zinnia. Lady Zinnia, and Selwyn’s Uncle Bertrand had been attempting to marry him off to his cousin, 1923 debutante Pamela Fox-Chavers. Lady Zinnia had, up until that moment been snubbing Lettice, so Selwyn and Lettice arranged for Lettice to attend as many London Season events as possible where Selwyn and Pamela were also in attendance so that Lettice and Selwyn could spend time together, and at the same time make their intentions so well known that Lady Zinnia wouldn’t be able to avoid Lettice any longer. Zinnia is a woman who likes intrigue and revenge, and the revenge she launched upon Lettice that evening at the Savoy was bitterly harsh and painful. With a cold and calculating smile Lady Zinna announced that she had packed Selwyn off to Durban in South Africa for a year. She made a pact with her son: if he went away for a year, a year during which he agreed neither to see, nor correspond with Lettice, if he comes back and doesn’t feel the same way about her as he did when he left, he agreed that he will marry Pamela, just as Bertrand and Lady Zinnia planned. If however, he still feels the same way about Lettice when he returns, Lady Zinnia agreed that she would concede and will allow him to marry her.

 

Leaving London by train that very evening, Lettice returned home to Glynes, where she stayed for a week, moving numbly about the familiar rooms of the grand Georgian country house, reading books from her father’s library distractedly to pass the time, whilst her father fed her, her favourite Scottish shortbreads in a vain effort to cheer her up. However, rather than assuage her broken heart, her father’s ministrations only served to make matters worse as she grew even more morose. It was from the most unlikely of candidates, her mother Lady Sadie, with whom Lettice has always had a fraught relationship, that Lettice received the best advice, which was to stop feeling sorry for herself and get on with her life: keep designing interiors, keep shopping and most importantly, keep attending social functions where there are plenty of press photographers. “You may not be permitted to write to Selwyn,” Lady Sadie said wisely. ‘But Zinnia said nothing about the newspapers not writing about your plight or your feelings on your behest. Let them tell Selwyn that you still love him and are waiting for him. They get the London papers in Durban just as much as they get them here, and Zinnia won’t be able to stop a lovesick and homesick young man flipping to the society pages as he seeks solace in the faces of familiar names and faces, and thus seeing you and reading your words of commitment to him that you share through the newspaper men. Tell them that you are waiting patiently for Selwyn’s return.”

 

Since then, Lettice has been trying to follow her mother’s advice and has thrown herself into the merry dance of London’s social round of dinners, dances and balls in the lead up to the festive season. However, even she could only keep this up for so long, and was welcomed home with open and loving arms by her family for Christmas and the New Year. On New Year’s Eve, Lally, sitting next to Lettice, suggested that she spend a few extra weeks resting and recuperating with her in Buckinghamshire before returning to London and trying to get on with her life. Lettice happily agreed, and since arriving at Dorrington House with her sister and brother-in-law, she has enjoyed being quiet, spending quality time with her niece and nephews in the nursery, strolling the gardens with her sister or simply curling up in a window seat and reading.

 

This morning we find ourselves in one of Dorrington House’s ten guest bedrooms: a pretty and cosy one overlooking the elegant rear garden in which Lettice has been accommodated since her arrival from Glynes. Lettice lies beneath the beautifully embroidered satin comforter, luxuriating in the joy of being allowed to have breakfast in bed at her sister’s house. If she were at home in Glynes, there is no way known that her mother would let her take her breakfast in her boudoir, never mind in bed, since Lettice is unmarried and therefore undeserving of such a privilege**. She sighs contentedly as she listens to the blackbirds and robins chirping in the greenery beyond the sash window of her comfortably appointed room. In the hearth a fire, lit for her by one of Lally’s lower house maids long before Lettice was awake, crackles cheerfully, its heat warming the room enough that Lettice may sit up against a nest of her pillows and have her bare arms exposed without feeling cold. In the distance she can hear the clock on the landing ticking away the minutes and hours of the day, and still further away the muffled sound of a childish squeal indicates that Lettice’s nephew and niece are awake and playing in the day nursery with their nanny. Lettice sighs again and stretches her legs beneath the covers, her left foot connecting with the wooden breakfast tray placed at the foot of the bed by Lally’s cook, Mrs. Sawyer, nudging it slightly, causing the breakfast china and the ornate Indian silver teapot on it to rattle in protest at being pushed out of the way. She picks up a current copy of Vogue that has been sent to her from London and silently peruses the latest frocks from Paris whilst she contemplates reaching down and taking up her breakfast tray to put on her lap to commence her breakfast, but just the thought of doing so seems like too much of an effort. So, she casts a desultory gaze over the newest designs by Jeanne Lanvin*** instead and dreams about dancing with Selwyn arrayed in such a gown.

 

As she admires a robe de style**** design in black with embroidered red poppies, Lettice’s morning daydreams are interrupted by a gentle tapping at her door.

 

Quickly tossing the copy of Vogue aside, Lettice snatches up her pale pink bed jacket trimmed in marabou feathers from the other side of the large bed, and drapes it across her bare shoulders and arms as the tapping begins for a second time. “Yes?” she asks as calmly as possible.

 

The door opens and Lally pokes her head around it. “It’s only me, Tice darling. May I come in?”

 

“Lally!” Lettice exclaims as she shuffles herself into a more upright position against the nest of pillows behind her. “Yes, of course! Do, do come in, darling.”

 

“Thank you.” Lally replies quietly, slipping into her sister’s room and closing the door behind her.

 

Lally looks around what she and Charles call the ‘Chinese Bedroom’ because of all the Eighteenth Century chinoiserie furnishings filling it, still unused to the best guest bedroom in the house being occupied. Traces of her little sister lie about everywhere. Her travelling set of brushes and a mirror sit on the dressing table’s surface, along with bottles of Lettice’s favourite perfumes and a selection of her cosmetics. A blue hatbox sits against the Chinese dressing screen with the hat Lettice wore to the wedding of Mary, Princess Royal***** to Viscount Lascelles in 1922 sitting atop it. Her peacock blue embroidered robe hangs from the end of the screen, whilst a row of dainty shoes sit just behind it, the latter obviously organised into neat order by one of the housemaids, since Lettice is not known for the organisation of her own wardrobe. The room is filled with the comforting fug of sleep intermixed with the scent of woodsmoke and roses brought in especially for Lettice from the Dorrington House greenhouse. And there, on the left side of the bed is Lettice, draped in her delicate bedjacket, her golden tresses spilling freely across the pillows behind her.

 

“I hope you don’t mind me popping in like this.” Lally says a little defensively. “Oh, you haven’t touched your breakfast.” She observes the undisturbed pot of tea, hard boiled egg, triangle of toast, square of butter from the home farm and orange from the Dorrington House orangery******. “Is everything alright?”

 

“Oh it’s fine, Lally, and yes,” Lettice lurches towards the breakfast tray, dragging it across the orange and yellow embroidered flowers of the counterpane towards her. “Breakfast is perfect. I was just about to start. I was just so engrossed in my latest copy of Vogue.”

 

“I see.” Lally purrs with a satisfied smile. “I see you received your post this morning then.”

 

“Yes, thank you Lally.” Lettice indicates with an open hand to the two copies of Vogue as well as a card sent down from London sitting atop a silver salver next to a silver letter opener near the raised mound of her feet beneath the covers.

 

“I received some post this morning too.” Lally admits, holding up a postcard featuring an idealised photographic scene of a couple in a donkey cart.

 

“Not a postcard from Charles, opining about me having breakfast abed, surely? He and Lord Lachenbury only left for India a few days ago.”

 

“Oh!” Lally says, laughing as she looks at the postcard. “No! No, Charles and Lord Lachenbury will still be en route abord the P&O*******. No, it will be ages before the arrive in Bombay.”

 

“Then what is it?” Lettice enquires.

 

“It’s an invitation for the two of us to attend a luncheon party at Mrs. Alsop’s down at Shalstone Cottage.”

 

“That sounds rather dull. A cottage? Who is Mrs. Alsop, Lally?”

 

“Head of the local branch of the WI********.” Lally pulls a face. “She’s a dreadful gossip, and rather a bore, I’m afraid. I can say you’re indisposed if you like, but as treasurer of the WI, I had better go.”

 

“Well,” Lettice says with a sigh, reaching down to the silver salver near the foot of the bed and snatching up the card from atop its envelope. “Even if I didn’t want to come, I’d go to support you, Lally. However, you may have to pass on my excuses anyway.” She holds the card out to her elder sister.

 

“What is it, Tice?”

 

“It’s from Aunt Egg.” Lettice wags the card in her sister’s direction. “Read it.”

 

Approaching the bed, Lally accepts the card from her sister. She smiles and snorts in amusement as she stares at the stylised gilt decorated Art Nouveau card featuring a woman in a long russet coloured tea gown facing away from the viewer, her old fashioned upswept hairstyle with its topknot clearly a feature of the design. “God bless Aunt Egg. Anyone would think she was living in 1904 not 1924.”

 

“I know.” agrees Lettice with a smile as she starts buttering her toast, the crisp scrape of her knife against the slice cutting through the air.

 

“She’s going to leave you all her jewellery, you know, Tice.” Lally says with a knowing look.

 

“Oh!” Lettice scoffs, waving her sister’s remark away dismissively with a wave of her hand. “She teases all of us with her flippant remarks about her jewellery. No, she plays her hand close to her chest.”

 

“But you’re the most like her, Tice: the most artistic. I’m just like all the other Chetwynd cousins – a rather pedestrian country squire’s wife who attends luncheons at the behest of the head of the WI – unlike you, who has her own successful interior design business and socialises with a smart and select London set.”

 

“Read the card, Lally.” Lettice hisses as she takes a bite of her toast.

 

Lally reads aloud, “’Dearest Lettice, I’m sorry to write like this, but I really can’t have you lolling about at Dorrington House, being pandered to, and mollycoddled by Lally.’” Lally drops her arms, the card still clenched tightly in her right hand. She stares wide eyes in astonishment at their aunt’s statement. “Mollycoddling! What a cheek, Aunt Egg!”

 

“Well,” Lettice indicates down to the breakfast tray across her lap as she gulps down a slice of toast. “Charles would doubtless agree with her. Let’s be honest, Lally, that whilst I have adored staying here with you, being feted, and waited upon hand and foot, you are pandering to me.”

 

“Well…” mutters Lally, blushing as she speaks.

 

“Keep reading.” Lettice insists as she takes up the silver teapot and pours hot tea into her dainty blue sprigged china teacup.

 

Lally takes up the card again. “Let’s see, where was I? Oh yes, ‘being pandered to, and mollycoddled by Lally. It’s time you stopped hiding away in the bucolic bosom of Buckinghamshire’,” Lally pauses again. “Aunt Egg does have a way with words, doesn’t she?” She sniggers and shakes her head.

 

“Keep reading!” Lettice insists.

 

“’And come home to London, where I will admit, you are missed by your Embassy Club coterie of friends. Only last week I heard from Cilla Carter Minnie Palmerston, and Margot Channon three times, asking when you were coming home. I simply must insist that you come back post haste. However, like me, I know you are a woman of your own will,’” Lally looks across at her sister as she sips her tea in bed. “She’s right there. The two of you are by far the most stubborn of the women in the Chetwynd family.”

 

“Keep reading, Lally!”

 

“’So, well aware of the fact that you won’t return solely upon my request, I have had to make arrangements to compel you out of your broken hearted stupor in the stultifying countryside and thrust you back into the beating heart of London society. I’ve managed to wrangle an invitation for you, and Dicke and Margot Channon, to attend one of Sir John and Lady Caxton’s amusing Friday to Monday long weekend parties at Gossington along with a host other notable Bright Young Things********. It will do you good to be with some people of your own age.’” Lally drops her arms again. “People your own age?” she blusters. “Does Aunt Egg suddenly think me ninety, rather than thirty five?”

 

“You know how she is, dear Lally.” She’s just trying to create a compelling reason for me to leave you and go back to London as she bids. Don’t take it personally.” Lettice implores as she takes another dainty bite of her toast. “Keep reading.”

 

“’The Channons will be expecting dinner at Cavendish Mews on Monday evening to discuss arrangements. Apparently, Dickie has enough money for petrol for the motor to be able to drive three of you up to Gossington! Will wonders never cease? Please wire, if indeed you can find a telegraph office in the wilds of Buckinghamshire, what train you will be arriving on at Victoria Station and I will arrange to collect you. With love, Aunt Egg.’”

 

“So you see, Lally darling, I’ll have to arrange a journey back to London.” Lettice says apologetically. “Perhaps you can drop me at High Wycombe railway station on your way to luncheon this afternoon, and then send Tipden back to fetch me after he drops you off at Mrs. Whatsit’s.”

 

“Mrs. Alsop.” Lally reiterates.

 

“Exactly!” Lettice sighs. “Quite right! By the time he’s back I’ll have sent a wire.”

 

“Well of course, Tipden and my car are at your disposal, Lettice darling,” Lally says in a disappointed voice. “But it really is too beastly of Aunt Egg to charge in and spoil our plans like this. I was arranging for us to visit Lady Verney********* at Claydon House********** in Aylesbury Vale whilst you were stopping with me. Oh well!” She sighs and raises her hands in despair. “I shall simply have to telephone her and cancel.”

 

“I’m sure you could still visit Lady Verney, even without me, Lally darling.”

 

“You’d like Lady Varney. She’s been a campaigner for girls’ education for decades now, and is really quite intelligent and independent.”

 

“Oh that is a pity, but I’m afraid it can’t be helped, Lally. An invitation from the Caxtons cannot be refused.”

 

“And who are Sir John and Lady Caxton?” Lally queries. “I don’t think I know them.”

 

“Oh, Sir John and Lady Gladys are very well known amongst the smarter bohemian set of London society for their amusing weekend parties at their Scottish country estate and enjoyable literary evenings in their Belgravia townhouse. Lady Gladys is a successful authoress in her own right and writes under the nom de plume of Madeline St John, so they attract a mixture of witty writers and artists mostly.”

 

“Oh!” Lally gasps. “So that’s who it is!”

 

“Who, Lally?”

 

“Aunt Egg mentioned to me when we were at Glynes over Christmas and New Year, that she was arranging something for you with a lady novelist. It must be this, Lady Gladys.”

 

“I suppose the artistic connection is how Aunt Egg knows the Caxtons, although, I didn’t actually know that they were acquainted.”

 

“Well she must be more than acquainted with them if Aunt Egg could,” Lally scans the message on the card in her aunt’s spidery cursive handwriting. “Wrangle you an invitation, Tice darling.” Lally sighs disappointedly before snatching the half eaten slice of toast off her sister’s plate and takes a large bite from it. After swallowing her mouthful she continues, “I don’t see why, if she has organised an invitation for Dickie and Margot Channon, why she couldn’t have arranged one for me. She knows Charles has set sail for India and that I’ll be alone without you.”

 

“You’re hardly alone, Lally darling. What about Mrs. Alsop?” Lettice says with a cheeky grin as she takes back what is left of her triangle of toast.

 

“Oh, ha-ha!” replies Lally sarcastically.

 

“But in all seriousness Lally, you aren’t alone here. There are Nettie Fisher and Alice Newsome, and all those other lovely friends of yours who have been so hospitable to me since I arrived. They are all quite wonderful.”

 

“I suppose.” Lally replies deflatedly.

 

“Well, this is all rather thrilling!” Lettice says excitedly, pushing aside her breakfast tray and throwing back the covers with a sudden surge of gusto. “The Caxtons are quite eccentric characters, especially Lady Gladys, and from what I’ve read of them, they are refreshingly different and amusing. Thus, there is never a shortage of guests for their Friday to Monday house parties, and invitations to Gossington are a highly desirable, yet all too rare commodity. Margot will be beside herself!”

 

“Well then, however sad it is, I shall bid you a fond farewell, dear Tice.”

 

Lettice climbs out of bed and embraces her sister lovingly, inhaling her familiar scent of Yardley’s English Lavender. “Don’t worry, Lally darling.” She kisses her affectionately on the left cheek. “I’ll come back down again as soon as this weekend with the Caxtons is over.”

 

“I bet you won’t, Tice!” Lally retorts resignedly. She holds her sister at arm’s length, taking in the sudden vitality that has put a sparkle back into her eyes and roses into her cheeks. “This will be the beginning of a welcome distraction for you.” Then she adds sadly, “And one that is far better than any remedy I can provide you with. Best you follow Aunt Egg’s instructions and go back to London.”

 

“Oh thank you, Lally Darling!” Lettice cries joyfully, throwing her hands around her elder sister’s neck and clinging tightly to her. “You are a brick!”

 

“Yes, you’ll get all of Aunt Egg’s jewellery, Tice darling. You are her favourite by far.”

 

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

 

**Before the Second World War, if you were a married Lady, it was customary for you to have your breakfast in bed, because you supposedly don't have to socialise to find a husband. Unmarried women were expected to dine with the men at the breakfast table, especially on the occasion where an unmarried lady was a guest at a house party, as it gave her exposure to the unmarried men in a more relaxed atmosphere and without the need for a chaperone.

 

***The House of Lanvin was named after its founder Jeanne Lanvin in 1889. Jeanne Lanvin was born in 1867 and opened her first millinery shop in rue du Marche Saint Honore in 1885. Jeanne made clothes for her daughter, Marie-Blanche de Polignac, which began to attract the attention of a number of wealthy people, who requested copies for their own children. Soon, she was making dresses for their mothers, which were included in the clientele of her new boutique on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. In 1909, Jeanne Lanvin joined the Syndicat de la Couture, which marked her formal status as a couturière. The Lanvin logo was inspired by a photograph taken for Jeanne Lanvin as she attended a ball with her daughter wearing matching outfits in 1907. From 1923, the Lanvin empire included a dye factory in Nanterre. In the 1920s, Lanvin opened shops devoted to home decor, menswear, furs and lingerie, but her most significant expansion was the creation of Lanvin Parfums SA in 1924. "My Sin", an animalic-aldehyde based on heliotrope, was introduced in 1925, and is widely considered a unique fragrance. It would be followed by her signature fragrance, Arpège, in 1927, said to have been inspired by the sound of her daughter's practising her scales on the piano.

 

****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.

 

*****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.

 

******An orangery or orangerie was a room or a dedicated building on the grounds of fashionable residences of Northern Europe from the Seventeenth to the Nineteenth Centuries where orange and other fruit trees were protected during the winter, as a very large form of greenhouse or conservatory.

 

*******In 1837, the Peninsular Steam Navigation Company first secured a Government contract for the regular carriage of mail between Falmouth and the Peninsular ports as far as Gibraltar. The company, established in 1835 by the London shipbroking partnership of Brodie McGhie Willcox (1786-1861) and Arthur Anderson (1792-1868) and the Dublin Ship owner, Captain Richard Bourne (1880-1851) had begun a regular steamer service for passengers and cargo between London, Spain and Portugal using the 206 ton paddle steamer William Fawcett. The growing inclination of early Twentieth Century shipping enterprises to merge their interests, and group themselves together, did not go unnoticed at P&O, which made its first major foray in this direction in 1910 with the acquisition of Wilhelm Lund’s Blue Anchor Line. By 1913, with a paid-up capital of some five and half million pounds and over sixty ships in service, several more under construction and numerous harbour craft and tugs to administer to the needs of this great fleet all counted, the P&O Company owned over 500,000 tons of shipping. In addition to the principal mail routes, through Suez to Bombay and Ceylon, where they divided then for Calcutta, Yokohama and Sydney, there was now the ‘P&O Branch Line’ service via the Cape to Australia and various feeder routes. The whole complex organisation was serviced by over 200 agencies stationed at ports throughout the world. At the end of 1918, the Group was further strengthened by its acquisition of a controlling shareholding in the Orient Line and in 1920, the General Steam Navigation Company, the oldest established sea-going steamship undertaking, was taken over. In 1923 the Strick Line was acquired too and P&O became, for a time, the largest shipping company in the world. With the 1920s being the golden age of steamship travel, P&O was the line to cruise with. P&O had grown into a group of separate operating companies whose shipping interests touched almost every part of the globe. By March 2006, P&O had grown to become one of the largest port operators in the world and together with P&O Ferries, P&O Ferrymasters, P&O Maritime Services, P&O Cold Logistics and its British property interests, the company was, itself, acquired by DP World for three point three billion pounds.

 

*******The Women's Institute (WI) is a community-based organization for women in the United Kingdom, Canada, South Africa and New Zealand. The movement was founded in Stoney Creek, Ontario, Canada, by Erland and Janet Lee with Adelaide Hoodless being the first speaker in 1897. It was based on the British concept of Women's Guilds, created by Rev Archibald Charteris in 1887 and originally confined to the Church of Scotland. From Canada the organization spread back to the motherland, throughout the British Empire and Commonwealth, and thence to other countries. Many WIs belong to the Associated Country Women of the World organization. Each individual WI is a separate charitable organisation, run by and for its own members with a constitution agreed at national level but the possibility of local bye-laws. WIs are grouped into Federations, roughly corresponding to counties or islands, which each have a local office and one or more paid staff.

 

********The Bright Young Things, or Bright Young People, was a nickname given by the tabloid press to a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.

 

*********Lady Margaret Maria Verney, was an English-born Welsh educationist. Verney was the daughter of Lady Sarah Elizabeth Amherst and her husband John Hay-Williams, 2nd Baronet Williams of Bodelwyddan. On the death of her father in 1859, she inherited his house "Rhianfa", on Anglesey, which she retained as a family home. In 1868 she married Sir Edmund Hope Verney, MP, then merely Captain Verney. She became a leading campaigner for girls' education in Britain. In 1894 she became a member of the Statutory Council of the University of Wales, holding the position until 1922.

 

**********Claydon House is a country house in the Aylesbury Vale, Buckinghamshire, England, near the village of Middle Claydon. It was built between 1757 and 1771 and is now owned by the National Trust. Claydon has been the ancestral home of the Verney family since 1620. The present Verney family, are the descendants of Sir Harry Calvert, 2nd Baronet who inherited the house in 1827. He was very tenuously related to the Verneys only through marriage. However, he adopted the name Verney on inheriting. The house was given to the National Trust in 1956 by Sir Ralph Verney, 5th Baronet. His son, Sir Edmund Verney, 6th Baronet, a former High Sheriff of Buckinghamshire, lived in the house until 2019.

 

This cosy boudoir may look real to you, but it is in fact made up of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The mahogany stained breakfast tray came from an English stockist of 1:12 artisan miniatures whom I found on E-Bay. On its surface the crockery, serviettes with their napkin rings came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The teapot also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. 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 cutlery came from an online stockist of miniatures. The orange comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The egg cup come from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The egg in the egg cup is amongst some of the smallest miniatures I own, and came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The square of butter in the glass dish 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 two copies of Vogue, the Art Nouveau style card and the addressed and postmarked envelope on the silver tray are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Ken Blythe was famous in miniature collectors’ circles mostly for the miniature books that he made: all being authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection. However, he did not make books exclusively. He also made other small pieces like the card and envelope. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make these 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 and through his estate courtesy of the generosity of 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 small silver letter salver is a 1:12 artisan miniature piece of sterling silver. The artist is unknown. Being made of silver, it is very heavy for its size. The sterling silver letter opener is made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures.

 

Lettice’s comforter is in fact a piece of beautiful vintage embroidered sari silk from the 1970s, laid over a box to give the appearance of the corner of a bed. I even put my fingers under the covers to give the impression of a body as you can see in the bottom right-hand corner of the image, where the comforter is raised slightly.

 

Lettice’s elegant straw hat sitting on the French blue hatbox in the background is decorated with an oyster satin ribbon, three feathers and an ornamental flower. The maker for this hat is unknown, but I acquitted it through Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism as this one is 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 blue hatbox in the background on which the hat sits is a 1:12 artisan miniature and made of blue kid leather which is so soft to the touch, and small metal handles, clasps and ornamentation. It has been purposely worn around their edges to give it age. It also comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in England.

 

The Chinese screen is made of black japanned wood and features hand painted soapstone panels, so it is very heavy. I picked it up at an auction some twenty years ago.

 

The dressing table featuring fine marquetry banding appears to have been made by the same unknown artisan who made the round table. This piece I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. The brush on its surface is part of a set painted by miniature artisan Victoria Fasken, and was also acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. The vase on the dressing table surface is a 1950s Limoges piece. The vase is stamped with a small green Limoges mark to the bottom. I found this treasure in an overcrowded cabinet at the Mill Markets in Geelong. The pink roses it contains came from beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The Chippendale style chair pushed into the dressing table is a very special piece. 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. It is part of a dining table setting for six. One of the chairs still has a sticker under its cushion identifying which room of which dollhouse it came. The Petite Elite Miniature Museum specialised in exquisite and high end 1:12 miniatures. The furnishings are taken from a real Chippendale design.

Walking along the Promenade at Portobello the other day, some very nice soul had laid out this box full of windfall apples with a note telling everyone to help themselves, and that they were great for making Apple Crumble. What a lovely gesture.

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

 

Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat, and whilst we have not travelled that far physically across London, the tough streets and blind alleys of Poplar in London’s East End is a world away from Lettice’s rarefied and privileged world. We have come to the home of Lettice’s charwoman*, Mrs. Boothby, where we find ourselves in the cheerful kitchen cum living room of her tenement in Merrybrook Place: by her own admission, a haven of cleanliness amidst the squalor of the surrounding neighbourhood. Edith, Lettice’s maid, is visiting her Cockney friend and co-worker on a rather impromptu visit, much to the surprise of the old char when she answered the timid knock on her door on a Saturday morning and found Edith standing on her stoop, out of breath, visibly distressed and awash with tears. The old woman quickly ushered her young friend inside with a protective arm wrapped around her, peering over her shoulder with a steely gaze as she observed the number of neighbours taking an unwelcome interest in the rather well dressed stranger at her door. “Youse right gawking there, Golda Friedmann?” she called out angrily to one of her neighbours, a Jewish busybody who lives at the end of her rookery**, causing the woman wrapped in the bright paisley shawl to turn away in shame at having been caught out staring at business that wasn’t her own.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Miss Lettice?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“So what ‘appened then, Edith?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“What?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“What did you do then, Edith dearie?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Nah! I mean, comin’ ‘ome ta London?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Who, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Edith eyes the older woman dubiously.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

**A rookery is a dense collection of housing, especially in a slum area. The rookeries created in Victorian times in London’s East End were notorious for their cheapness, filth and for being overcrowded.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection.

 

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

 

Also on the table are Mrs. Boothby’s Player’s Navy Cut cigarette tin and Swan Vesta matches, which are 1:12 miniatures hand made by Jonesy’s Miniatures in England. The black ashtray is also an artisan piece, the bae of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there). Made by Nottingham based tobacconist manufacturer John Player and Sons, Player’s Medium Navy Cut was the most popular by far of the three Navy Cut brands (there was also Mild and Gold Leaf, mild being today’s rich flavour). Two thirds of all the cigarettes sold in Britain were Player’s and two thirds of these were branded as Player’s Medium Navy Cut. In January 1937, Player’s sold nearly 3.5 million cigarettes (which included 1.34 million in London). Production continued to grow until at its peak in the late 1950s, Player’s was employing 11,000 workers (compared to 5,000 in 1926) and producing 15 brands of pipe tobacco and 11 brands of cigarettes. Nowadays the brands “Player” and “John Player Special” are owned and commercialised by Imperial Brands (formerly the Imperial Tobacco Company). Swan Vestas is a brand name for a popular brand of ‘strike-anywhere’ matches. Shorter than normal pocket matches they are particularly popular with smokers and have long used the tagline ‘the smoker’s match’ although this has been replaced by the prefix ‘the original’ on the current packaging. Swan Vestas matches are manufactured under the House of Swan brand, which is also responsible for making other smoking accessories such as cigarette papers, flints and filter tips. The matches are manufactured by Swedish Match in Sweden using local, sustainably grown aspen. The Swan brand began in 1883 when the Collard & Kendall match company in Bootle on Merseyside near Liverpool introduced ‘Swan wax matches’. These were superseded by later versions including ‘Swan White Pine Vestas’ from the Diamond Match Company. These were formed of a wooden splint soaked in wax. They were finally christened ‘Swan Vestas’ in 1906 when Diamond merged with Bryant and May and the company enthusiastically promoted the Swan brand. By the 1930s ‘Swan Vestas’ had become ‘Britain’s best-selling match’.

 

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

 

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

Em'lia generously donated this wonderful OOAK Fashion Royalty doll to the charity auction at the PFDF, and she got to travel to Paris with me :)

 

Once we arrived on Saturday morning, I felt terribly silly for forgetting to take a doll stand with me to display her in all her glory- but then again, almost all dolls were displayed in boxes and she sure didn't need to get out of her box to capture all the attention in the room! ;)

Explainer: While I wish I could fully dress, wig-up and make-up regularly, those days are rare. So I post these AI renderings. FYI: the photos are AI generated, from actual photos of me, enhanced slightly with FaceApp and then dressed from outfits I see and love on the interweb. Enjoy them or not! I do, that's all that matters! Love, Crystal

This CreativeMornings/Chicago event was generously hosted at Big Shoulders Coffee

  

Evie & Ashley were our speakers.

 

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Photo by

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Shah lolak Waterfall is located in Charmehin, about 66 Km drive from Isfahan. it has 70 meter height .

  

آبشار زیبای شاه لولاک ( شاهلورا، شاهلران، شالور) چرمهین دارای 70 متر ارتفاع و از دل کوه شاهلولاک جاری است. این کوه دارای 2700 متر ارتفاع جز ارتفاعات گردنه رخ و از رشته کوههای زاگرس می باشد و در 66 کیلومتری شهر اصفهان واقع شده است.

آبشار داراي سه قسمت آبشارهاي فصلي (هلكي )ابشار دائمي وآب چكانهاست .

منحصربفردبودن آبشار ازاين جهت است كه آبشار بصورت چشمه از قلب كوه سرچشمه مي گيرد در حالي كه اغلب آبشارها ي موجود كشوربصورت جوي روان از روي سطح كوه به سمت پائين سرازير مي گردند.

 

قسمت زيرين آبشار دائمي با قنديل هاي عظيم نمكين به طرز باشكوهي آراسته گرديده است ،با توجه به ارتفاع زياد آبشار واستقرار قنديل هاي فوق آب هنگام ريزش با اكسيژن هوا تركيب شده ودر برخورد با قنديل ها به صورت پودر به زمين

پاشيده مي شود. سطح روئين اين قنديل ها با خزه وجلبك پوشيده شده كه به زيبايي آن مي افزاید

...

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 very far from Cavendish Mews, and in fact far from London. Taking advantage of their employers’ attendance of an amusing Friday to Monday country house party in Scotland, Lettice’s maid, Edith, and her best friend Hilda, the maid of Lettice’s married Embassy Club coterie friends Dickie and Margot Channon, with permission, have arranged to take a weekend trip to Manchester where they are staying for Friday and Saturday nights, before returning to London on Sunday so that they are ready to receive their employers upon their return on Monday. Both maids landed upon the idea to visit their friend Queenie on the Saturday. She lives in the village of Alderley Edge, just outside of Manchester, which is easily accessible via the railway, allowing them to take tea with her at a small tearoom in the pretty Cheshire village.

 

Queenie, Edith and Hilda all used to work together for Mrs. Plaistow, the rather mean wife of a manufacturing magnate who has a Regency terrace in Pimlico. Queenie was the cheerful head parlour maid, so both Edith and Hilda as younger and less experienced lower housemaids, fell under her instruction. Queenie chucked her position at Mrs. Plaistow’s a few years ago and took a new position as a maid for two elderly spinster sisters in Cheshire to be closer to her mother, who lives in Manchester. Still in touch with Edith, Queenie writes regularly, sharing stories of her life in the big old Victorian villa she now calls home, half of which is shut up because one of the two sisters is an invalid whilst the other is in frail condition and finds it hard to access the upper floors.

 

However, life for Queenie proved to be not as bright as her letters indicated, and all three maids were made to feel unwelcome at Mrs. Chase’s Tearooms in Alderley Edge because of their working class backgrounds by the snobbish proprietor and equally class conscious patrons, and Queenie revealed more sad stories after they left Mrs. Chase’s establishment, leaving both her friends aghast.

 

Now we find ourselves back in Manchester along Deansgate* where after returning to the city from Chester by railway, Edith and Hilda are taking advantage of their free time before dinner at their cheap, but respectable, hotel for single and travelling women, by taking in a few more of the sights of Manchester and are currently shopping at a beautiful manchester and linen shop along the ground floor of a tall four storey building towards the north end of Deansgate.

 

The soft linens covering the surfaces of tables and counters, as well as hanging from the walls of the shop serve as a buffer against the noisy sounds outside the large plate glass windows as heavy foot traffic fills the pavement of Deansgate, and electric trams** rattle noisily along the thoroughfare, their sound mixing in with the chug of motorcars and buses and the vociferous sound of human chatter. The smell of freshly laundered linen filling the air of the establishment, and keeping out the miasma of mechanical motorcar and lorry fumes, reminds Edith of her mother, who is a laundress, and of the kitchen of her family home in Harlesden where she does all the ironing on the big, round kitchen table. Extra protection from the acrid fumes outside is provided by the fragrance of fresh flowers which stand about in pretty vases on the surfaces of tables and chests of drawers, adding a bright shock of colour to the otherwise mostly snowy white surrounds of the establishment.

 

“This is nice, Edith.” Hilda remarks, picking up a dainty lace doily from a round table covered with a long lace tablecloth which is covered in napery and dollies, all arranged around a squat blue and white vase filled with brightly coloured pansies. “You could add this to your glory box***.”

 

“Hhhmmm…” Edith mutters distractedly, glancing up from where she thumbs a bunch of crisply pressed white sheets.

 

“For your glory box, Edith.” Hilda says again.

 

Edith considers the dainty piece of diamond shaped intricate lace in her best friend’s sausage like fingers. “No, I don’t think so, Hilda. Mum has already acquired a whole lot of beautiful lace doilies for me from flea markets.”

 

“Yes, but just imagine having something new like this.” Hilda enthuses. “No one has ever used it before.”

 

“If they’ll take my grubby maid’s wage here.” Edith mutters sulkily, releasing the sheet from between her index finger and thumb.

 

“Here, here!” Hilda exclaims, carefully replacing the doily amidst the pieces carefully arranged for display on the table and hurries over to her friend. “You mustn’t talk like that, Edith.” She winds her arms around her friend’s back and squeezes her upper arms beneath her plum coloured coat comfortingly.

 

“Why not?” Edith asks grumpily. “It’s how I feel.”

 

“And here I was thinking I was the one most put out by Mrs. Chase’s snobbery and that of her snooty customers.”

 

Edith sighs with frustration. “Evidently not, Hilda.” She runs her fingers over the knobbly woven lacework of a tablecloth that has been rolled up and stacked on top of the sheets she was considering for potential purchase.

 

“You mustn’t let this afternoon spoil our holiday.” Hilda insists, giving Edith’s shoulders another squeeze, before releasing her and moving alongside her at the table covered in table linen. She looks her friend squarely in the face. “Don’t tar everyone with the same brush. Yes, that nasty Mrs. Chase, or whatever her name was, was a nasty snob. But you said yourself that in a big city like London or Manchester, we can blend in with everyone else, and no-one knows who we are, or what we do for a living. You’re money’s every bit as good here as some mill owner’s wife or manchester merchant.” She nods seriously.

 

“Oh you’re right.” Edith sighs again. “I don’t mean to be out of sorts, but it’s more than the snobbery that’s gotten to me, Hilda. It’s the other business Queenie mentioned that really upset me the most.”

 

Edith’s mind drifts back to the charming Cheshire village of Alderley Edge where she and Hilda had had cream teas at Mrs. Chase’s Tearooms. After hurriedly finishing their scones and tea, scoffing them in less than ladylike gulps, the three friends had retreated to the relative safety of the street, where the late winter air around them felt warmer than the atmosphere of the tearooms. Following Queenie as she walked down the high street towards the Victorian villa owned by her employers, the Miss Bradleys, Hilda and Edith remained in awkward silence as they waited for their friend to explain why they had been made to feel so unwelcome in Mrs. Chase’s. The wide street, lined with neat Victorian and Edwardian double story shops, many built of red brick with slate roofs and Mock Tudor gabling, was relatively empty, with only a handful of smartly dressed people going about their business and a smattering of automobiles and lorries trundling past them in either direction, their chugging more noticeable in a village setting than in the busy streets of London where such noises are constant.

 

“At least no-one can make us feel second rate here on the footpath.” Hilda had said. ‘We have just as much right to be here as anyone else.”

 

Finally, Queenie stopped walking and sank down onto a public bench near the kerbside. She apologised to her two friends for spoiling their visit. “I should have insisted that I come to Manchester and meet you there. It’s just that when I received your postcard****, Edith, you and Hilda had arranged everything so nicely. You’d obviously worked out the railway schedules so you knew what time you would arrive and which train to take to get back to Manchester at a reasonable hour, so I just thought I’d take you to the only tearooms I know of that are nice in Alderley Edge. I didn’t want to spoil your plans.”

 

Queenie went on to explain that whilst Alderley Edge was a beautiful village, living in such a small community was different to living in a big city like London, which afforded anonymity. In her new home, everyone knew who Queenie was, and that she was the maid-of-all-work to the Miss Bradleys, and dining in the same establishment as a maid did not sit well with the snobbish mistresses of the neighbourhood who frequented Mrs. Chase’s Tearooms as well.

 

“You really need to leave here, if this is how things are, with everyone knowing who you are and judging you unfairly for it. Edith said to Queenie in concern. “Come back to London. There are plenty of jobs for parlour maids. With your experience, you could have the pick of the lot.”

 

“Well, it is true that I am currently looking for a new situation.” Queenie admitted. “However, it has its own complications, and I’m not looking to come back to London. I want to stay in Manchester, so I can be closer to Mum.”

 

“What complications?” Hilda queried from her seat beside her friend on the bench.

 

“Well, I haven’t told either of you, but old Miss Ida, the infirm Miss Bradley, had a fall and died about two months ago.” Queenie elucidated. “She hit her head on the patterned tiles in the hallway. She must have been trying to go upstairs in the night, although goodness knows why. Her mind seemed to have been slipping in the months prior. She was always looking for things she thought she’d lost, and at odd times of the night. It was almost as if she couldn’t rest until she’d found what she wanted. And she called me Nellie too, which Miss Florence told me was the name of their maid when their father was still alive, and she’s been buried in the churchyard many a winter. Once I caught Miss Ida trying to go out of doors at three in the morning, dressed only in her nightdress and bedcap, barefoot and raving that she would be late for school!”

 

“School?” Edith asked with wide eyes.

 

“Like I said, she was losing her mind, and I think Miss Florence knew it, because she instructed their lawyers to summon their nephew, Mr. Skellern to come and stop for a while. He’s been staying with us ever since just before Miss Ida died, but unlike the Miss Bradleys, he’s not a nice person. He’s haughty, demanding, and more of a snob than the ladies in Mrs. Chase’s, if you can believe that.” She paused for a moment, contemplating whether to continue. “He never calls me by my name: as if calling me Queenie, like I was christened, is too lowering for him. He calls me ‘girl’ instead. ‘Girl come here!’ ‘Girl, do that.’ ‘Get out of this room at once girl.’ ‘Do as I say, girl, and don’t question me.‘ And he’s accused me of trying to thieve from the sisters, which I’d never do!”

 

“Of course you wouldn’t!” agreed Hilda and Edith in their friend’s defence.

 

“I caught him counting the silverware one afternoon, and he accused me of stealing a carving set with silver collars that belonged to his great uncle, the Miss Bradley’s father, which I had never seen. I had to go to Miss Florence in her bed to plead my case, and she cleared up the matter with Mr. Skellern.”

 

“How did she do that?” Hilda asked.

 

“She told him that the set he mentioned, which Mr. Skellern had only ever seen in a photo taken of Mr. Bradley before he was even born, had been given away as a donation for a charity auction to raise money for wounded Boer War soldiers, years before I ever came to work for the Miss Bradleys.”

 

“That’s awful!” Edith cried in horror at Queenie’s story.

 

“What’s worse is that,” Queenie blushed red as she spoke the next words. “You implied in Mrs. Chase’s that I might have been with child, which I’m not,” She put up her careworn hands in defence of herself. “But only because luck’s a fortune.”

 

“Did Mr. Skellern try and take advantage of you?” Edith asked Queenie anxiously.

 

Queenie confirmed Edith’s worst fears with a shallow nod. “In the library. I was dusting the books, at his instruction, and was up the library steps. He tried to get his hands up under my skirt, and my camiknickers***** from John Lewis****** down, but I fought him off.”

 

“That’s disgusting!” Hilda burst hotly. “Good for you, Queenie!”

 

“Yes, but Mr. Skellern took offence to my refusal of his advances, and now I’m concerned that he’s trying to put his aunt into a convalescent home. He keeps threatening to dismiss me without a reference, and I’ve only been saved from that disaster by Miss Florence’s presence. Miss Florence won’t hear a bad word said about her nephew, nor will she contemplate writing me a reference because as far as she is concerned, she isn’t leaving her home, and I’ve been very happy within the employ of she and her sister. So, I’m trying to find a job as a hotel chambermaid in Manchester.”

 

“A chambermaid, Queenie?” Hilda asked in horror.

 

“They are less picky about references, and the pay’s better.” Queenie admitted a little guiltily.

 

“But you may be assaulted by a man like Mr. Skellern, Queenie!” Edith gasped. “You’ve heard the stories.”

 

“I don’t have many other options without a reference from Miss Florence. Thus is the plight of a poor, humble parlour maid. I could do far worse than be a hotel chambermaid, Edith.” Queenie cocked her eyebrow knowingly. “I’ve been told by more than Mr. Skellern that I’m pretty.”

 

“Don’t even consider it, Queenie!” Hilda shuddered. “Please!”

 

“Not all men are like Mr. Skellern.” Queenie replied with a cheeky glint in her eyes. “There have to be nice, wealthy men out there, who are just waiting to meet their Cinderella and sweep her from the ashes.”

 

The subtle clearing of a male throat near to her interrupts Edith’s reminisces about the conversation she and Hild had with Queenie in Alerley Edge earlier in the day. She gasps and looks to her left.

 

“I’m so sorry, madam.” a suited man says politely in an educated Mancunian accent. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

 

“It’s quite alright.” Hilda replies for her friend.

 

“I was just wondering whether there was anything I could assist you with, today, ladies.” he goes on.

 

“Ladies?” Edith pulls a face and nods at Hilda. “Well!”

 

“It isn’t often we get two such well dressed visitors from London in our humble establishment. You are from London, aren’t you, ladies?”

 

“Indeed we are!” Hilda answers for she and Edith in surprise.

 

“It’s your accents.” the floor walker goes on, answering Hilda’s unspoken question. “You’re either from London, or perhaps Cheshire?”

 

“London, most definitely.” Edith affirms.

 

“Then is there anything I can show you two London ladies that might be of interest?” he asks politely.

 

“See, I told you,” Hilda hisses to her best friend. “They aren’t all like Mrs. Chase and her cronies.”

 

Edith smiles at her friend before addressing the male assistant. “I was wondering what you had in the way of napkins, but not white ones. I’m rather partial to ecru or yellow.”

 

“Well, as you may have seen on the table over there,” he indicates with a sweeping, open palmed gesture to the round table where Hilda had found the dainty diamond shaped doily. “We do have some rather pretty mats with a yellow embroidered trim, and some rather fetching yellow napkins.” He reaches under the counter, out of sight of Edith and Hilda, and withdraws several placemats and napkins neatly folded and pressed into triangles. “Perhaps these might be of interest.”

 

*Deansgate is one of Manchester’s oldest thoroughfares. In Roman times its route passed close to the Roman fort of Mamucium and led from the River Medlock where there was a ford and the road to Deva (now Chester). Part of it was called Aldport Lane from Saxon times. (Aldport was the Saxon name for Castlefield). Until the 1730s the area was rural but became built up after the development of a quay on the river. The road is named after the lost River Dene, which may have flowed along the Hanging Ditch connecting the River Irk to the River Irwell at the street's northern end. ‘Gate’ derives from the Norse gata, meaning way. By the late Nineteenth Century Deansgate was an area of varied uses: its northern end had shopping and substantial office buildings while further south were slums and a working-class area around St John's Church.

 

**In the first half of the Twentieth Century, Deansgate was a route for trams operated by the Manchester Corporation Tramways, and subsequently carried numerous bus services when the trams were decommissioned.

 

***A hope chest, also called dowry chest, cedar chest, trousseau chest, or glory box is a piece of furniture once commonly used by unmarried young women to collect items, such as clothing and household linen, in anticipation of married life.

 

****One hundred years ago, postcards were the most common and easiest way to communicate with loved ones not only across countries whilst on holidays, but across neighbourhoods on a daily basis with the minutiae of life on them. This is because unlike today where mail is delivered on a daily basis, there were several deliveries done a day. At the height of the postcard mania in 1903, London residents could have as many as twelve separate visits from the mailman.

 

*****A camiknicker is a one piece form of lingerie which comprises a camisole top, and loose French Knicker style bottom. They are normally loose fitting enabling the wearer to step into them although some feature poppers or buttons at one side to give a more fitted look or a self tie belt to accentuate the wearer’s figure.

 

******John Lewis opened a drapery shop at 132 Oxford Street, London, in 1864. Born in Shepton Mallet in Somerset in 1836, he had been apprenticed at fourteen to a linen draper in Wells. He came to London in 1856 and worked as a salesman for Peter Robinson, an Oxford Street draper, rising to be his silk buyer. In 1864, he declined Robinson's offer of a partnership, and rented his own premises on the north side of Oxford Street, on part of the site now occupied by the department store which bears his name. There he sold silk and woollen cloth and haberdashery. His retailing philosophy was to buy good quality merchandise and sell it at a modest mark up. Although he carried a wide range of merchandise, he was less concerned about displaying it and never advertised it. His skill lay in sourcing the goods he sold, and most mornings he would go to the City of London, accompanied by a man with a hand barrow. Later he would make trips to Paris to buy silks. It is said that in 1905 John Lewis walked from Oxford Street to Sloane Square with twenty £1000 notes in his pocket and bought the Peter Jones department store. Sales at Peter Jones had been falling since 1902 and its new owner failed to reverse the trend. In 1914 he handed control of the store to his son Spedan. Lewis was regarded as an autocratic employer, prone to dismissing staff arbitrarily. The stores had difficulty retaining staff (there was a strike in 1920) and performed poorly compared to his rivals such as Whiteleys, Gorringes and Owen Owen. His management style led to conflict with his sons who disagreed with his business methods. It was only after his death that the company was transformed into the John Lewis Partnership, a worker co-operative. By the 1920s, when this story is set, there were John Lewis stores up and down Britain, including in Manchester. Today located in the Trafford Centre, John Lewis Manchester is one of the largest department stores in Europe, carrying half a million product lines.

 

This may look like a wonderful array of linens you might like to lay upon your table, but you might need a smaller surface for them, as this whole scene is made up of 1:12 size miniatures from my miniatures collection including pieces I have had since I was a child.

 

Fun thing to look for in this tableau include:

 

All the lace around the shop come from different places, including: Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom, Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom, and Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. There are also a few miniature artisan pieces from private collectors and there are even a few life size lace doilies cleverly disguised in this scene. The two lace doilies on the central table in the midground I have had since I was a child, and were acquired from a high street specialist shop who stocked 1:12 size miniatures. The placemats with their hand sewn gold trim and the lemon yellow napkins I acquired along with an artisan picnic basket from America. The lace tablecloth on the round central table is in reality a small lace doily that I bought from an antique shop in Inglewood in provincial Victoria. The dainty floral edged piece hanging on the wall at the back to the far left also came from there. The blue and yellow embroidered floral cloth in the foreground is an old hand embroidered doily from the 1920s that I have had in my possession for a long time. The starched sheets tied with ribbon on the table in the foreground and the clothes horse you can just see the edge of to the left of the photo come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.

 

All the floral arrangements come from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

Edith’s green handbag and Hilda’s brown one are 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 black umbrella came from an online stockist of 1:12 miniatures on E-Bay.

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

 

Today however we have headed south-west across London, away from Cavendish Mews and Mayfair, over Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens to the comfortably affluent Kensington High Street. Here, amidst the two and three storey buildings that line either side of the street, Edith, Lettice’s maid, walks amidst the other pedestrians with purpose. Dressed in her three-quarter length black coat which she bought from a Petticoat Lane* second-hand clothes stall and remodelled herself, and wearing the black straw cloche decorated with purple satin roses and black feathers she picked up from Mrs. Minkin’s - a Whitechapel haberdasher recommended by Lettice’s char**, Mrs. Boothby – she tries to blend in with the other affluent local women on pleasant pre-Christmas shopping outings. However, if she is concerned about how fashionably she is dressed, no-one else around her seems to give it a thought. 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. The windows themselves are full of the latest fashions, toys and gadgets for the ladies of Kensington to choose their perfect Christmas gifts from. The shops are busy, and the pavement is crowded with meandering shoppers and window shoppers alike. Yet as her heels clip along the footpath, Edith has no time to tarry admiring window displays. She has an important errand to run in Kensington on her Wednesday off before heading north to the working-class London suburb of Harlesden, where she will pay her usual weekly visit to her parents.

 

Finally Edith reaches the splendid blue and white tile decorated façade she has been walking brusquely towards. Stylised and elegant gilt lettering on the windows to either side of the central double doors reads: ‘Langham’s – meat, fish, poultry, game and ice’. She peers through the large plate glass window at the splendid Christmas fare on display. A huge turkey sits in pride of place on a large silver platter, decorated with ornamental feathers and surrounded by greenery and raw vegetables. She sighs and walks quickly through the door of the butcher’s shop. The shop bell releases a cheery tingle as the wood and glass door closes behind her, shutting out the constant chugging of the engines of passing traffic and red double-decker London motorbuses, and the burble of human traffic passing by, and enveloping her in serene silence. Edith closes her eyes for a moment before opening them again. As her eyes adjust to being indoors the now familiar layout of the butcher’s shop emerges. Edith remembers with awkward embarrassment the first time Frank had brought her into Mr. Langham’s butcher’s shop and how intimidated she was by it. Unlike Mr. Chapman’s, the local butcher’s shop in Harlesden where she grew up, which has a warm and cosy feel to it, Mr. Langham’s establishment is spacious, stylish all about show. The floors are tiled in luxurious black and white chequered linoleum, just like the kitchen floor at Cavendish Mews, with not a wood shaving**** in sight, as most of the butchering is done by Mr. Langham and his sons out of sight of customers in a back room. The walls are lined from floor to ceiling with white tiles with a few bands of decorative green ones, and hung with brightly painted metal signs advertising condiments. Rather than a wooden counter like Mr. Chapman’s, which encouraged shoppers to lean in and tarry for a gossip, Mr. Langham’s counter is made of panelled glass and filled with the most wonderful displays of meat, fish and poultry. Yet as soon as Frank introduced Edith to his friend Percy, dressed in a uniform of a navy blue vest and a blue and white striped apron just like Mr. Chapman’s, her nerves fell away. He smiled at her broadly and welcomed her warmly, even if she was most likely the only girl from Harlesden ever to be served by him in his establishment. A mature, rather portly man with a jolly disposition to match his apple cheeks, Mr. Langham was delighted to meet his friend Frank’s young lady, and was only too happy to be of service to her once Frank explained what Edith’s plans were. And ever since then, a fortnightly ritual had occurred where she visited Mr. Langham before going on to see her parents on her Wednesdays off.

 

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite maid from Mayfair!” Mr. Langham remarks with his usual smile and easy manner from behind the counter as he sees Edith walk through the door.

 

“Oh Mr. Langham!” Edith blushes at his compliment. “You do know how to make a maid feel like a lady!”

 

“Come to get away from the Christmas rush out there then, have you, Miss Watsford?” the butcher chortles as he carefully adjusts the position of a fat turkey on a white raised platter on his counter, fussing over several large feathers used to decorate it until they fan out perfectly.

 

“Oh yes,” remarks Edith with a timid chuckle. “It’s so busy out there this week.”

 

“Never get between a Kensington housewife and her Christmas shopping, Miss Watsford.” Mr. Langham says jovially. “That’s my advice.”

 

“And very wise and welcome it is too, Mr. Langham.” Edith replies with a sigh as she walks up to the counter.

 

Over the ensuing months since Frank first brought her to Mr. Langham’s butcher’s shop in Kensington, Edith has discovered, much to her delight, that whilst it might be glass and used for the successful display and promotion of his fare, Mr. Langham’s counter is every bit as welcoming as a place to perch and chat as Mr. Chapman’s is in Harlesden. Edith places her green leather handbag across the glass countertop and hooks her black umbrella over the slightly raised maple edging and she leans in to peer at what lies under the glass. Trays of fat sausages and rich beef mince sit alongside steaks and chops, whilst a whole boar’s head with an apple stuck in his mouth peers back at her from another raised platter with squinted eyes and a broad smile.

 

“Fancy having that sitting in the middle of your Christmas table, Miss Watsford?” the butcher says in an ebullient voice, noting where Edith’s eyes have strayed to.

 

“No fear, Mr. Langham!” Edith replies, holding up her purple glove clad hands in defence. “I’d rather not have my meal looking at me as Dad prepares to carve it!”

 

“Well,” Mr. Langham says, looking down upon the boar. “He’s destined for a house in Rosary Gardens in Chelsea next week for a pre-Christmas dinner party. Mrs. Phyllida Cavendish is hosting a cocktail party, and he is to be the centre of her light buffet supper. To amuse her guests, he will be sporting a festive Christmas crown that she is making for him,” He sniffs. “Or so I have been told by Mrs. Cavendish several times.”

 

“That sounds positively frightful, Mr. Langham!” Edith pulls a face.

 

“Quite so, Miss Watsford.” agrees the butcher. “But then again, Phyllida Cavendish is an artist, so no doubt she and her odd bohemian friends will find some macabre humour in it. Perhaps they shall dance some pagan rights with him in her rear garden after midnight.”

 

“You do have some odd customers, Mr. Langham.” Edith remarks, clasping at the scarf at her throat.

 

“Only the ones from bohemian Chelsea.” he replies with a chuckle.

 

“Well, I think I’ll just stick to a nice old fashioned and succulent turkey from your shop this Christmas, Mr. Langham.”

 

“Come to pay off the final instalment have you, Miss Watsford?”

 

“Just as we agreed, Mr. Langham.” Edith nods cheerfully.

 

“I’ll just go and fetch my accounts book from the office.” he replies as he moves away from Edith, almost gliding across his elegant black and white linoleum floors as befits the owner of this elegant establishment.

 

As he does, Edith smiles to herself. How surprised her whole family will be when a fine, fat turkey arrives at her home in Harlesden just before Christmas, big enough to feed her parents, her brother – who will be home for Christmas on shore leave, Frank, Frank’s Scottish grandmother Mrs. McTavish and herself, and have leftovers for after Christmas. Christmas in the Watsford household has never been a lean one, even during the Great War with rationing, especially with her father’s canny ability to procure certain foods at a reasonable price, like the smaller turkey he acquired two Christmases ago, and her mother’s ability to make a feast out of anything left laying around her kitchen. However, even with those skills, George and Ada have expressed concerns about being able to feed everyone sufficiently on Christmas Day, even with Mrs. McTavish suphome-madee of her homemade Christmas puddings. Edith had caught her mother looking through old recipe books for imitation foodstuffs to supplement or replace real ones usually used by her at Christmas, and seen her carefully count the housekeeping money, scrimping and saving where she feels she can, to allow for extra expenditures for Christmas. Despite her mother’s refusal to take any of her wages from her, Edith wanted to contribute to Christmas this year especially since it was she who had suggested inviting Frank and his grandmother to Christmas lunch. When Frank mentioned how Mr. Langham was a butcher friend he had, and it was from him that he procured a small roast chicken for he and his grandmother every year, Edith knew immediately how she was going to contribute to Christmas 1923.

 

“Well, Miss Watsford,” Mr. Langham announces as he returns with her account. “I’m very pleased to accept your final payment for your family’s Christmas turkey. And a fine one he is too, if I may say!”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Langham. You may.” Edith replies with pride in her voice as she fetches out her small reticule***** from her handbag and counts out the last few shillings payment for the turkey.

 

“No, thank you, Miss Watsford, for being such a polite and promptly paying customer. I wish more of my customers were like you.”

 

“Oh I’m sure the likes of Mrs. Cavendish spend far more than I do.” Edith replies, indicating to the boar’s head.

 

“Oh, Phyllida Cavendish is very good at filling up my account book, but she is far less prompt paying what she owes.” Mr. Langham says with a cocked eyebrow and a knowing look. “No,” the butcher continues cheerfully as he accepts Edith’s shillings and pops them with a clink into his gleaming brass till. “I wish I had a daughter like you. It isn’t every day a daughter buys a turkey for her whole family for Christmas.”

 

“Well,” Lettice replies, blushing again. “Langham and Sons sounds and looks far more impressive over the front door than Langham and daughter.”

 

“Be that as it may, I’d give anything for my lads to offer to pay for our Christmas turkey, Miss Watsford, let me assure you!”

 

“Will you be supplying your own turkey then, Mr. Langham?”

 

“If not me, then who else, Miss Watsford? Mrs. Langham is expecting a fine turkey this year, and that is what she shall have if I know what’s good for me and want a peaceable festive season.”

 

“Oh you are a wag, Mr. Langham!” Edith laughs, flapping her hand at the middle-aged butcher. “I’m sure Mrs. Langham is the most charming and delightful wife in Kensington.”

 

“That she is, Miss Watsford,” agrees the older man. “But if you don’t mind me saying, she isn’t half as pretty as you.”

 

“Oh Mr. Langham!” Edith puts her hands to her cheeks as she feels the warmth of the colour filling them.

 

“I know! I know!” Mr. Langham raises his hands in defence. “You’re spoken for. That Frank Leadbetter is a lucky chap, stepping out with a girl as thoughtful and beautiful as you.”

 

In an effort to change the subject, Edith asks, “So the turkey will be delivered on what day, Mr. Langham?”

 

“Friday the twenty-third, Miss Watsford,” the butcher replies. “To the address you’ve given me here.” He taps George and Ada’s address in Harlesden on the top of Edith’s account with his grey lead pencil. “When will you tell your Mum?”

 

“Well, now that it’s paid off, I might tell her today.” Edith contemplates. “I’m off to visit her now. And,” she adds. “If I tell her and Dad today, then Dad won’t go and organise something else in the meantime, like he usually does.”

 

“Good thinking, Miss Watsford.” Mr. Langham replies cheerily, tapping his nose in a knowing fashion.

 

“Well, I must be going, Mr. Langham.” Edith announces, taking up her handbag and umbrella from the shop counter. “I have to get over to Harlesden, and that’s no short trip from here.”

 

“Well, you must take a slice of Mrs. Langham’s Christmas fruit cake for the journey.” the butcher replies, indicating to four thick slices of cake encased in a thick layer of white royal icing sitting on a tray directly below one of his wife’s beautifully decorated Christmas cakes on a raised platter sitting on the counter next to the till.

 

“Oh I couldn’t possibly, Mr. Langham!” Edith declines vehemently. “They are for your customers to promote your wife’s excellent baking skills. Have you sold many of Mrs. Langham’s Christmas cakes this year?”

 

“Quite a few as a matter of fact.” he announces proudly. “Certainly enough to have had her baking a few extra cakes in the last few months.” He smiles at Edith. “But at this late stage in the lead up to Christmas, no-one is going to want to buy one of her cakes now. Those slices will only go to the children who visit me with their parents, or go to waste as they dry out sitting there.” He goes on, “And since this will be the last time I see you before Christmas, Miss Watsford, consider it a Christmas present, and a small token of both mine, and my wife’s esteem.”

 

He picks up the square silver dish and holds it out to Edith.

 

“Well…” Edith acquiesces hesitantly.

 

“That’s my girl!” Mr. Langham’s eyes light up. “Take a slice for your Mum too. I’m sure it isn’t every day she gets the treat of a cake baked by someone other than her.”

 

“Indeed no, Mr. Langham. She taught me how to bake, but even I don’t dare serve her one of my cakes. She’s a seasoned baker is my Mum.”

 

“Well, so is Mrs. Langham, Miss Watsford.” He smiles broadly. “I’ll just wrap them up in some brown paper and twine. Merry Christmas Miss Watsford.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Langham.” Edith answers happily.

 

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

 

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

 

***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.

  

****Regardless of where the butchers shop was, whether a suburban or up-market shop or a small concern in a village, the standard practice was to dust the wooden floorboards of the shop behind the counter where the butchering was done with sawdust. The idea was that the sawdust would sop up any spilled blood or dropped offcuts of meat that was easy to sweep away and helped prevent slips.

 

*****A reticule also known as a ridicule or indispensable, was a type of small handbag or purse, typically having a drawstring and decorated with embroidery or beading, similar to a modern evening bag, used mainly from 1795 to before the Great War.

This smart and stylish upper-class Edwardian butchers 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.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The dressed turkey on the counter and the stuffed pig’s head and trays of cuts of meat inside the counter come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The joints of meat in the background, on the bench, in the meat safe and hanging from hooks above it also come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.

 

The cranberry glass footed platter on the counter is made of real, finely spun glass, and comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The beautifully decorated Christmas cake atop it is a 1:12 artisan miniature which also comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The slices of fruitcake in front of it on the silver plate is a 1:12 artisan miniature I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

To the left of the photo is a food safe. In the days before refrigeration, or when refrigeration was expensive, perishable foods such as meat, butter, milk and eggs were kept in a food safe. Winter was easier than summer to keep food fresh and butter coolers and shallow bowls of cold water were early ways to keep things like milk and butter cool. A food safe was a wooden cupboard with doors and sides open to the air apart from a covering of fine galvinised wire mesh. This allowed the air to circulate while keeping insects out. There was usually an upper and a lower compartment, normally lined with what was known as American cloth, a fabric with a glazed or varnished wipe-clean surface. Refrigerators, like washing machines were American inventions and were not commonplace in even wealthy upper-class households until well after the Second World War.

 

The shiny metal cash register comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The red and black painted scales and weights, I have had since I was a teenager.

 

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 black umbrella came from an online stockist of 1:12 miniatures on E-Bay.

 

The advertising signs in the background come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom.

  

"Give thanks for your blessings and share them generously."

~ Anonymous

 

memories, memories, memories...

 

Thanks for stopping by

and God Bless,

hugs, Chris

 

Leaving Deal and driving out into the countryside, I see the octagonal shingled tower of Worth, and winder if it was open.

 

I drive down the one of the two roads into the village, they meet at the pond, the same corner which the church sits.

 

Jools went to check if it is open, and I am rewarded with a thumbs up from over the wall of the churchyard.

 

A lady is on duty all day, armed with a book, newspaper and CD player, I tank her generously as her dedication and of people like her, make ride and stride and heritage weekend possible.

 

Despite wanting to get back insode for nearly a decoade, truth is, once inside there isn't too much I missed, just the detail, really.

 

Some fine Victorian tiles, some with a round camel motif, can't say I've see that before, if I'm honest.

 

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

 

WORD.

WRITTEN formerly Worthe, is the next parish eastward from Woodnesborough, which latter is the original Saxon name, the letter d in that language being stricken through, making it the same sound as th. (fn. 1)

 

There are three boroughs in this parish, viz. Felderland, Word-street, and Hackling; the borsholders for the two former of which are appointed at Eastrycourt, being within the jurisdiction of that manor; for the latter at Adisham, which manor claims over a part of this borough.

 

THE PARISH OF WORD lies very flat and low, and is very unhealthy; it is in shape very long and narrow, being near three miles from east to west, and not more than one mile across the other way. The village called Word-street, containing twenty-nine houses, having the church close to it, is situated nearly in the middle of the parish; at the southern boundary of which, is the hamlet of Hackling, containing five houses, the principal estate in which, called Hackling farm, belongs to Mrs. Eleanor Dare, of Felderland. At the western extremity of the parish is the borough and hamlet of Felderland, or Fenderland, partly in Word, and partly in Eastry, formerly esteemed a manor, the property of the Manwoods, afterwards of the Harveys, of Combe, and now belonging to the right hon. PeterLewis-Francis, earl Cowper; adjoining to which, in the same borough, is the farm of Upton, situated about a quarter of a mile westward of the church, the estate of which likewise belongs to earl Cowper.

 

At a small distance further the marshes begin, where there is a parcel of land called Worth, or Worde Minnis, and belongs to the archbishop, the present lessee being Mr. Thomas Rammel, of Eastry. Here are two streams, called the south and north streams, which direct their course through these marshes northwestward towards Sandwich; the latter of these was formerly the famous water of Gestling, through which the sea once flowed, and was noted much for being the water in which felons were punished by drowning, their bodies being carried by the current of it into the sea. The marshes here are called Lydden valley, (from the manor of Lydde-court, in this parish, below described, called formerly Hlyden) which is under the direction of the commissioners of sewers for the eastern parts of Kent; and to which the north stream is the common sewer. The marshes continue beyond this stream about half a mile northward, where the sand downs begin.

 

These sand downs are a long bank of sand, covered with green swerd of very unequal surface, and edge the sea shore for five miles and upwards from Peppernesse, which is the south east point of Sandwich bay, as far as Deal. They are about a quarter of a mile broad, except about the castle, which is, from its situation, called Sandowne castle, where they end with the beach, but a little way within the shore, about the middle of them is a cut, called the Old Haven, which runs slanting from the sea along these downs, near but not quite into the river Stour, about three quarters of a mile eastward below Sandwich. The castle of Sandowne is situated about half a mile from the north end of the town of Deal; it was built with Deal castle, and several others, by king Henry VIII. in the year 1539, for the desence of this coast, each being built with four round lunets of very thick stone arched work, with many large portholes; in the middle is a great round tower, with a large cistern for water on the top of it; underneath is an arched cavern, bomb proof; the whole is encompassed with a fossee, over which is a draw-bridge. It is under the government of the lord warden, who appoints the captain and other officers of it, by the act of 32d of king Henry VIII. This castle has lately had some little repair made to it, which, however, has made it but barely habitable.

 

This parish contains about fifty houses. The lands in it are of about the annual value of 3000l. The soil is very rich and fertile, and may properly be called the garden of this part of Kent, and is the most productive for wheat, of any perhaps within the county. There are no woodlands in it. There is no fair.

 

THE PRINCIPAL MANOR in this parish is that of LYDDE-COURT, written in Saxon,Hlyden, which was given by Offa, king of Mercia, in the year 774, to the church of Christ, in Canterbury, L. S. A. as the charter expresses it, meaning, with the same franchises and liberties that the manor of Adisham had before been given to it. After which, this manor continued with the priory of Christ-church, and king Edward I. in his 7th year, granted to it the liberty and franchise of wreck of the sea, apud le Lyde, which I suppose to be this manor; and king Edward II. in his 10th year, granted to the priory, free-warren within their demesne lands within it; (fn. 2) and in this state this manor continued till the dissolution of the priory in the 31st year of king Henry VIII. when it came into the king's hands, who settled it, among other premises, in his 33d year, on his new erected dean and chapter of Canterbury, by whom it was afterwards, in the 36th year of that reign, regranted to the king, who sold it that year to Stephen Motte, and John Wylde, gent. and they alienated it to Richard Southwell, who in the 1st year of king Edward VI. passed it away by sale to Thomas Rolfe, and he afterwards conveyed it to William Lovelace, serjeant-at-law, who died possessed of it in 1576, and his son Sir William Lovelace, of Bethersden, alienated it to Thomas Smith, esq. of Westenhanger, from whom it descended down to Philip, viscount Strangford, who sold it to Herbert Randolph, esq. and he passed away a part of it, called afterwards Lydde Court Ingrounds, with the manor or royalty of Lydde-court, in Word and Eastry, and lands belonging to it, in 1706, to Sir Henry Furnese, bart. of Waldershare, and his grandson of the same name, dying in 1735, under age and unmarried, his estates became vested in his three sisters, as the three daughters and coheirs of his father Sir Robert Furnese, in equal shares, in coparcenary. After which a partition of them having been agreed to, which was confirmed by an act next year, this manor, with the lands and appurtenances belonging to it, was allotted to Selina, the third daughter, (fn. 3) who afterwards married E. Dering, esq. and entitled him to this estate. He survived her and afterwards succeeded his father in the title of baronet, and continued in the possession of this estate till 1779, when he passed it away by sale to Mr. William Walker and Mr. James Cannon, of Deal, Who are the present owners of it.

 

The house, called the Downes house, is the courtlodge, but no court has been held for many years.

 

THE REMAINING, and by far the greatest partof this estate, called, for distinction,

 

LYDDE-COURT OUTGROUNDS, was likewise in the possession of the Smiths, of Westenhanger, and was demised by Thomas Smith, esq. of that place, to Roger Manwood, jurat of Sandwich, for a long term of years, at which time the outer downs were enwarrened for hares and rabbits.

 

From Thomas Smythe, esq. this estate descended down to Philip, viscount Strangford, who sold the whole of it, with the manor, royalties, &c. as has been mentioned before, to Herbert Randolph, esq. who passed a way the manor and part of the lands belonging to it, to Sir Henry Furnese, bart. and the other, being by far the greatest part of it, since called Lydde Court Outgrounds, to Richard Harvey, esq. of Eythorne, who in 1720 alienated it to Sir Robert Furnese, bart. before mentioned, in whose descendants it continued down to Catherine, his daughter and coheir, who carried it in marriage, first to Lewis, earl of Rockingham, and secondly to Francis, earl of Guildford, to whom on her death in 1766, she devised this estate. He died possessed of it in 1790, and his grandson, the right hon. George Augustus, earl of Guildford, is the present possessor of it. This estate comprehends all that tract of land, partly sandy, partly marshy, and the whole nearly pasturage, lying on the south side of Sandwich haven, bounded on the east by the sea shore, and on the west by the ditch, along which the footway to Deal leads, and which is the eastern boundary of Lydde court Inngrounds.

 

In the year 1565, there was a suit in the star chamber, respecting a road from Sandowne gate and Sandwich, to the castle in the Downes, which was referred to the archbishop and Sir Richard Sackville; who awarded, that there should be a highway sixteen feet broad over Lyd-court grounds.

 

SANDOWNE, so called from the sand downs over which it principally extends, is a manor, which lies partly in this parish, and partly in that of St. Clement's, in Sandwich, within the jurisdiction of which corporation the latter part of it is. This manor was antiently the estate of the Perots, who held the same, as the private deeds of this name and family shew, as high as the reign of king Henry III. Thomas de Perot died possessed of it in the 4th year of that reign, at which time he had those privileges and franchises, the same as other manors of that time; Henry Perot, the last of this name, at the beginning of king Edward III.'s reign, was succeeded by John de Sandhurst, who left an only daughter and heir Christian, who married William de Langley. (fn. 4) After which it continued in his descendants till it passed to the Peytons, and thence in like manner as Knolton above described, by sale to the Narboroughs, and afterwards by marriage to Sir Thomas D'Aeth, bart whose grandson Sir Narborough D's Aeth, bart. now of Knolton, is the present owner of it. A court baron is held for this manor.

 

There are no parochial charities.The poor constantly relieved are about twenty-five, casually as many.

 

THIS PARISH is within the ECCLESIASTICAL JURISDICTION of the diocese of Canterbury, and deanryof Sandwich.

 

¶The church, which is dedicated to St. Peter and St. Paul, is a small mean building, having a low pointed wooden turret at the west end, in which are two bells. The church consists of a nave, two isles, and a chancel, the north isle extending only about halfway towards the west end. In the south wall of the chancel is an arched tomb, on which probably was once the figure of some person, who was the founder, or at least a good benefactor towards the building. In the south isle are several gravestones for the Philpotts, of this parish; and an altar monument for Mr. Ralph Philpott, obt. 1704.

 

In the church-yard are altar tombs to the memories of the same family of Philpott.

 

The church of Word, or Worth, has ever been esteemed as a chapel to the mother church of Eastry, and continues so at this time, being accounted as a part of the same appropriation, a further account of which may be seen in the description of that church before. The vicar of Eastry is inducted to the vicarage of the church of Eastry, with the chapels of Shrinkling and Word annexed to it.

 

It is included with the church of Eastry in the valuation of it in the king's books. In 1578 here were communicants one hundred and forty-four, in 1644 only one hundred and fourteen.

 

The rectorial or great tithes of this parish, as part of the rectory of Eastry, were demised on a beneficial lease, to the late countess dowager of Guildford, whose younger children are now entitled to the present interest in this lease.

 

The lessee of the parsonage is bound to repair the chancel of this church.

 

www.british-history.ac.uk/survey-kent/vol10/pp145-151

Divided reverse. Letter generously translated by xiphophilos authored on 20th May 1916 and addressed to a Herr Johann Halder in Wengen (Allgäu).

 

Infanterist Josef Holzer advises his cousin he is in positions in the mountains (Upper Alsace) and that he is faring well. The 6.Bavarian Landwehr Division was rated as fourth class, it was only used in the calmest sectors of the front.

 

______________________________________________

Notes:

 

Name: Josef Holzer

Geburtsdatum: 29. Mai 1876

Geburts-ort: Grund Gem Großholzhausen O A Wangen Württemberg

Truppengattung: Infanterie

Formation: Ersatztruppenteile der Landwehr-Infanterie-Regimenter

Truppenteil: bayer. Landwehr-Infanterie-Regiment No. 12 Ersatz-Bataillon

 

b. Landwehr-Infanterie-Regiment Nr. 12

 

Aufgestellt in Neu-Ulm (R.Stb., I., II.) und Neuburg/Donau (III.)

Unterstellung:2. gem. L.Brig.

Kommandeur:Oberstleutnant Frhr. v. Bouteville (Unteroffizierschule

Fürstenfeldbruck)

 

I.:Major z. D. Streling (Truppenübungsplatz

Hammelburg)

II.:Major a. D. Bolte, Johann

III.:Major a. D. Schleicher

 

Verluste:7 Offz., ca. 350 Uffz. und Mannschaften.

 

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Annapurna trekking region of Nepal enjoy with magnificent view close to highest and impressive mountain range in the world. Day exploration in Pokhara and morning morning flight to Jomsom or drive to Besishisahar from Kathmandu begin of trek. High destination, Muktinath 3800m and in generally highest point of whole Annapurna is 5416m. Thorangla la is situated in Buddhist Monastery, an eternal flame, and Hindus Vishnu Tempe of Juwala Mai making it a pilgrimage site for both Hindus and Buddhists and Muktinath is on the way down from popular trekking it call Thorang la pass which is incredible view in Annapurna region. Whenever possible we will arrive at lodging mid-afternoon, which should leave plenty time for explore the local villages, enjoy the hot springs at Tatopani, continue to Ghorepani where there is forever the possibility of sunrise hike to Poon Hill for spectacular views of Dhaulagiri, Fishtail, Nilgiri and the Annapurna Himalaya range. Continue on to Birethanti finally between with the Baglung road where we will catch cab to Pokhara, next day drive or fly to Kathmandu.

 

Everest trekking region, although fairly effortless compare to some of other trek, takes you high along trails to Tengboche monastery Everest Solu Khumbu is the district south and west of Mount Everest. It is inhabited by sherpa, cultural group that has achieve fame because of the develop of its men on climbing expeditions. Khumbu is the name of the northern half of this region above Namche, includes highest mountain (Mt. Everest 8848m.) in the world. Khumbu is in part of Sagarmatha National Park. This is a short trek but very scenic trek offers really superb view of the world's highest peaks, including Mt. Everest, Mt. Lhotse, Mt. Thamserku, Mt. Amadablam and other many snowy peaks. Fly from Kathmandu to Lukla it is in the Khumbu region and trek up to Namche Bazzar, Tyangboche and into the Khumjung village, a very nice settlement of Sherpas people. This trek introduction to Everest and Sherpa culture with great mountain views, a very popular destination for first time trekkers in Nepal. Justifiably well-known world uppermost mountain (8848m.) and also for its Sherpa villages and monasteries. Few days trek from Lukla on the highland, takes you to the entry to Sagarmatha National Park and town of Namche Bazaar is entrance of Everest Trek. Environment of the towering Himalayas is a very delicate eco-system that is effortlessly put out of balance.

 

Langtang trekking region mixture of three beautiful trek taking us straight into some of the wildest and most pretty areas of Nepal. Starting from the lovely hill town of Syabrubensi our trek winds during gorgeous rhododendron and conifer forests throughout the Langtang National Park on the way to the higher slopes. Leads up to the high alpine yak pastures, glaciers and moraines around Kyanging. Along this route you will have an chance to cross the Ganja La Pass if possible from Langtang Valley. Trail enters the rhododendron (National flower of Nepal) forest and climbs up to alpine yak pastures at Ngegang (4404m). From Ngegang we make a climb of Ganja La Pass (5122m). We start southwest, sliding past Gekye Gompa to reach Tarkeghyang otherwise we take a detour and another unique features of trekking past, the holy lakes of Gosainkund (4300 m.) cross into Helambu via Laurebina to Ghopte (3430 m) and further to Trakegyang. Northern parts of the area mostly fall within the boundaries of Langtang National park.

 

Peak Climbing in Nepal is great view of Himalayas and most various geological regions in asia. Climbing of peaks in Nepal is restricted under the rules of Nepal Mountaineering Association. Details information and application for climbing permits are available through Acute Trekking. First peak climbing in Nepal by Tenzing Norgey Sherpa and Sir Edmund Hilary on May 29, 1953 to Mt. Everest. Trekking Agency in Nepal necessary member from Nepal Mountaineering Association. Our agency will arrange equipment, guides, high altitude porters, food and all necessary gears for climbing in Nepal. Although for some peaks, you need to contribute additional time, exertion owing to improved elevation and complexity. Climbing peaks is next step beyond simply trekking and basic mountaineering course over snow line with ice axe, crampons, ropes etc under administration and coaching from climbing guide, who have substantial mountaineering knowledge and for your climbing in mountain.

 

Everest Base Camp Trek well noon its spectacular mountain peaks and the devotion and openness of its inhabitants, the Everest region is one of the most popular destination for tourists in Nepal. While numerous of the routes through the mountains are difficult, there are plenty places to rest and enjoy a meal along the way. Additionally, don't worry about receiving lost. Just ask a local the way to the next village on your route, and they will direct you. Most Sherpas under the age of fifty can at least understand basic English, and many speak it fluently.

 

Annapurna Base Camp Trek is the major peaks of the western portion of the great Annapurna Himalaya, Annapurna South, Fang, Annapurna, Ganagapurna, Annapurna 3 and Machhapuchhare and including Annapurna first 8091 meters are arranged almost exactly in a circle about 10 miles in diameter with a deep glacier enclosed field at the center. From this glacier basin, known as the Annapurna base camp trek (Annapurna sanctuary trek), the Modi Khola way south in a narrow ravine fully 12 thousand ft. deep. Further south, the ravine opens up into a wide and fruitful valley, the domain of the Gurungs. The center and upper portions of Modi Khola offer some of the best short routes for trekking in Nepal and the valley is situated so that these treks can be easily joint with treks into the Kali Gandaki (Kali Gandaki is name of the river in Nepal) region to the west.

 

Upper Mustang Trekking name Make an escapade beginning from world deepest gorge Kaligandaki valley into world's highest area of Lo-Mangthang valley that passes through an almost tree-less barren landscape, a steep stony trail up and down hill and panorama views of high Annapurna Himalaya including Nilgiri, Annapurna, Dhaulagiri and numerous other peaks. The trek passes through high peaks, passes, glaciers, and alpine valleys. The thousands years of seclusion has kept the society, lifestyle and heritage remain unaffected for centuries and to this date.

 

Helicopter Tour in Nepal having high mountains and wonderful landscape of countryside but is effortlessly reachable by land transport, is known as helicopter tours country. Helicopter services industry in Nepal is now well well-known with many types and categories of helicopters for the fly to different of Nepal. The pilots are very knowledgeable expert with 1000 of flying hours knowledge in Nepal. We have service for helicopter is outstanding reputations and established records for reliable emergency and rescue flight too. Here we would like to offer some of amazing helicopter tour in Himalaya country of Nepal. Further more details information about Nepal tour itinerary for helicopter tour in different part of Nepal contact us without hesitation.

 

Kathmandu Pokhra Tour is an exclusive tour package specially designed for all level travelers. Kathmandu Pokhara tour package is effortless tour alternative for Nepal visitors. This tour package vacation the historically significant and ethnically rich capital (Kathmandu ) of Nepal and the most stunning city of world by the nature, Pokhara. Mountain museum and world peace stupa are another charming of Pokhara tour. Pokhara is the center of escapade tourism in Nepal. Package tour to Kathmandu Pokhara is design to discover highlighted areas of Kathmandu and Pokhara valley. Nepal is the country which is socially and geographically different that’s why we powerfully recommend you discover Nepal to visit once in life time. It is hard to explore all Nepal in one Nepal tours trip in this way we design this trip to show you the highlights of Nepal especially in Kathmandu and Pokhara.

 

Adventure trekking in the southern part of the asia continent there lays a tiny rectangular kingdom squeezed between two hugely populated countries, China to the north and India to the south, this country is Nepal a world of its own. Adventure trekking is a type of tourism, involving exploration or travel to remote, exotic and possibly hostile areas. Adventure trekking in Nepal is rapidly growing in popularity, as tourists seek different kinds of vacations. The land of contrast is presumably the exact way to define the scenery of Nepal for you will find maximum world highest peaks high high up above the clouds determined for the gods above. Straight, active and attractive learning experience adventure trekking in Nepal that engross the whole person and have real adventure. Mt. Everest, Kanchenjunga, Daulagiri, and Annapurna and many more are there for the offering for mountain-lovers, adventurers and travelers.

 

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Lepanthes felis 'Kevin's Generosity' AM/AOS, CCM/AOS - Ron Parsons

Divided reverse. Brief letter generously translated by xiphophilos, the author notes this photograph is a memento of the time spent in positions in the Vosges.

 

Unteroffizier Theodor Ruge from the Garde-Schützen-Bataillon standing in front of the entrance to what appears to be a sturdy blockhaus constructed around a natural rock formation somewhere on the Hartmannswillerkopf.

 

The Garde-Schützen-Bataillon was one of the first formations deployed to the western front, where it participated in the attacks on Belgium and northern France. After fighting near the Aire on 13th September 1914 the battalion suffered significant losses with only 213 men, out of an original 1,250 remaining fit for action.

The generous amounts of sweet clover, helped by the rain, make a great background.

I am going to be on vacation, headed to the mountains! See you in a week!

For centuries, the former royal abbey of Saint-Denis illuminated the artistic, political and spiritual history of the Frankish world.

The abbey-church was designated a "basilica" in Merovingian times. In the 12th century the abbot of Saint-Denis, Suger, still qualified it in his works as a "basilica". This qualifier was applied from the 4th century to churches whose floor plans were the same as those of Roman civic buildings with three naves, used for trade and the administration of justice. They were often erected outside towns and over the tomb of a saint. They were the site of a major pilgrimage and often the cause for the development of a neighbourhood or borough, like the town of Saint-Denis, which developed around the abbey and its economic potential.

Basilica is also an honorary title given to all kinds of churches, of all eras, that were the seat of a major pilgrimage. Only a cathedral is of superior rank. In 1966, the basilica was elevated to cathedral status, a name derived from "cathedra", meaning the seat of the bishop, the head of the diocese located there. A copy of the throne of Dagobert, the original of which is in the Cabinet des Médailles of the Bibliothèque Nationale, is currently used by the bishop as an episcopal see.

The first building rises from the tomb of Saint Denis, a missionary bishop who died under the yoke of Roman rule in the second part of the 3rd century. The body of the saint attracted many princely burials around him from the late 4th century. Besides a partly Carolingian crypt, the remains of the building consecrated in the presence of Charlemagne in 775, the basilica preserves the testimony of buildings that were decisive for the evolution of religious architecture: the façade (1135-1140) and the apse (1140 -1144), the work of abbot Suger, which constitute a hymn to light, a manifesto of new early Gothic art; other parts of the present church built in the time of Saint Louis from 1230 to 1280 are a testimony of the heyday of Gothic art, known as "Rayonnant", such as the exceptionally vast transept accommodating the royal tombs.

A place of remembrance from the early Middle Ages, the Dionysian monastery was able to link its fate to that of the monarchy, gradually asserting itself as the privileged tomb of the royal dynasties, taking advantage of the cult of Saint Denis. Forty-two kings, thirty-two queens, sixty-three princes and princesses and ten men of the kingdom rest in peace there. With over seventy recumbent effigies and monumental tombs, the royal necropolis of the basilica is today the most significant group of funerary sculptures from the 12th to the 16th century in Europe.

But the basilica of Saint-Denis was not the "graveyard of the kings" from the beginning of the Frankish kingdom as qualified by a chronicler of the 13th century. Until the 10th century, the abbey was in fierce competition with many other cemeteries, especially with Saint-Germain-des-Prés. At the accession of the Capetians in 987, its role as a royal necropolis gradually became confirmed and most sovereigns were buried there until the 19th century; although, for political, religious or personal reasons, some kings, like Philip I in 1108, Louis VII in 1180, Louis XI in 1483, Charles X in 1836 and Louis-Philippe in 1850, would be buried in other places. Louis XVIII, who died in 1824, was the last king to be buried in the basilica.

Throughout history the Frankish kings were always in search of legitimacy, which partly explains their will to be buried with the relics of Saint Denis, Rusticus and Eleutherius (all three having been martyred together). By way of their powers, the kings thought they had acquired power and protection during their life, particularly for their battles, and for going directly to Paradise.

The rallying cry of the knights on the battlefield in the 12th and 13th centuries, "Montjoie Saint Denis!", inscribed on the scarlet banner, interspersed with the golden flames of the famous oriflamme of Saint-Denis, became the motto of the kingdom of France, which was thus placed under the protection of the titular saint of the kingdom, Saint Denis. This standard is a beautiful image of the personal union between the abbey, the patron saint and the king. This ensign was always raised in time of war by the rulers who came to collect it from the hands of the abbot on the altar of the holy martyrs. It is one of the major objects of the mediaeval epic around which a first national sentiment formed. A 1913 copy, little conform to the original, remains in the basilica.

The Hundred Years' War, the Wars of Religion and political unrest contributed to the decline of the royal abbey of Saint-Denis long before the Revolution precipitated matters. In 1793, revolutionaries attacked the symbols of the monarchy, but the basilica escaped total destruction. In 1806, Napoleon Bonaparte ordered the restoration of the building. Then Louis XVIII restored the role of necropolis to the abbey. The restoration work continued throughout the 19th century and was conducted, in particular, by architects François Debret and Eugène Viollet-le-Duc from 1846.

 

2 - A royal monument

Burials before the 13th century

The rich and influential Parisian noblewoman, Saint Geneviève, showed special devotion to Saint Denis. She undoubtedly had the tomb of Saint Denis expanded or had a building built around it in 475. The development of a vast necropolis, which extended well beyond the church, in the 6th and 7th centuries, led to expanding the church.

Many high-ranking figures, mostly women, were then buried "ad sanctos" as close to the saint as possible. The discovery in 1959 of the sarcophagus of Queen Arnegunde, daughter-in-law of Clovis, who died around 580, shows the power of attraction of the sanctuary in this early period. The jewellery associated with her burial is kept in the Musée d'archéologie nationale du Domaine de Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

Fifty years later, in 639, King Dagobert was the first Frankish king to be buried in the basilica of Saint-Denis. Some Merovingians and Carolingians were buried there, such as Charles Martel, Pepin the Short and Emperor Charles the Bald.

Dagobert distinguished himself by making generous donations to the abbey and legend has it that he created the Saint-Denis fair that was held each October and was a great source of wealth for the monastery.

Charles Martel died in 741. Even though he was only the Mayor of the Palace he was given a prestigious burial, opposite the great King Dagobert. He thus enabled his family, the Pippinids, future Carolingians, to rise to the ranks of the greatest noblemen. His recumbent effigy, created in the 13th century, shows him crowned as the Capetians considered him as the ancestor of the great Carolingian dynasty.

Pepin the Short, the son of Charles Martel, was anointed by Pope Stephen II at Saint-Denis in July 754, thus sealing the alliance between the Frankish kings and the papacy. He was the first Frankish sovereign to be crowned as the image of God on earth in the image of king David. On this occasion he had the church rebuilt along the lines of the Roman buildings known as basilicas. Featuring a wooden ceiling, dozens of marble columns and decorated with thousands of oil lamps, for the first time it was combined with a crypt that housed the relics of Saint Denis until the 12th century. A few remains of this Roman-style martyrium, decorated with paintwork imitating marble, can still be seen.

 

Recumbent effigies said to be commissioned by Saint Louis

Louis IX (Saint Louis), who was canonised in 1297, was called a "superman" by the pope. A man of great faith, this king was particularly attached to Saint-Denis. He continuously strengthened the basilica’s role as a royal necropolis. The series of 16 recumbent effigies, said to be commissioned by Saint Louis in around 1265, is the largest funerary sculpture series of the European Middle Ages. Today 14 of the original sculptures remain. They are placed in both arms of the transept, virtually in their old locations evidenced by 18th-century engravings.

The mediaeval effigies, said to be commissioned by Saint Louis, are designed on the model of the statue-columns that decorate church portals. In the 13th century, they were among the first funerary sculptures made for the abbey of Saint-Denis. Previously, only the engraved stone slabs arranged on the floor near the altar marked the location of the royal tombs. The reorganisation of the necropolis, launched by the Capetian rulers, led to the discovery and transfer of the remains of the 16 sovereigns, buried between the 7th and 12th centuries. Their bones were then placed in boxes above which 16 recumbent figures with idealised faces were installed, a majestic expression of the royal function. The mode of representation of these sculptures is relatively uniform. The sovereigns wear a crown and carry a sceptre. These recumbent effigies, which were originally painted in bright colours, are dressed in the fashion of the 13th century. They are not represented dead; they have their eyes open to the eternal light. They assert belief in the Resurrection. They are turned towards the east, towards the sunrise, the image of Christ whose return they await.

But the layout desired by the Capetian rulers was also political. Through this grandiose setting, Louis IX developed the myth of monarchical continuity between the Merovingians, Carolingians and Capetians and aimed to link his family to Charlemagne, the most impressive figure in mediaeval monarchical ideology.

The inscriptions on the new tombs identify the kings and queens and clarify the genealogies. In the Middle Ages, in the centre of the transept, the gilded silver tombs of Louis VIII and Philip Augustus, the grandfather of Saint Louis, victor of the Battle of Bouvines in 1214, had the places of honour. The central tomb of the series is that of Louis VIII, the father of Louis IX. Indeed, according to the Dominican Vincent of Beauvais, an intimate of Saint Louis, the mixed blood of the Carolingians and Capetians flowed in the veins of Louis VIII as his mother, Isabella of Hainaut, was of Carolingian ancestry. It thus symbolises, in the Capetian family, "the return to the throne of the race of Charlemagne". Indeed, in the 11th century, Saint Valery had prophesied that the Capetian kingdom could only be maintained up to the seventh king, which was precisely Philip Augustus, father of Louis VIII.

This series was completed in around 1280 by erecting a magnificent tomb of goldsmithery in honour of Saint Louis, "the most beautiful tomb in the world" according to his chronicler Guillaume de Nangis. It was destroyed, as well as the other goldsmithery tombs, during the Hundred Years' War.

Thus the accomplishment of this sculpted series ensured the title of royal necropolis to Saint Denis, to which its abbots had long aspired, and offered the Capetian dynasty a legitimacy and prestige that it had hitherto been lacking.