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. Instead, we are just a short distance away in London’s busy shopping precinct on Regent Street, where amidst the throng of London’s middle-class housewives and upper-class ladies shopping for amusement, two maids – Edith who is Lettice’s maid and her best friend Hilda who is the maid for Lettice’s friends Margot and Dickie Channon - are enjoying the pleasures of window shopping under the wide canvas awnings of Selfridges on their day off. The usually busy footpath outside the enormous department store with London’s biggest plate glass windows 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 do a little bit of early Christmas shopping. Already Edith is noticing that the shops are busier than usual, and even though Christmas is still a good two months away, there are signs of Christmas cheer with bright and gaudy tinsel garlands and stars cut from metallic paper hanging in shop windows and gracing shop counters. Around them, the vociferous collective chatter of shoppers mixes with the sound of noisy automobiles and chugging double decker busses as they trundle along Regent Street.

 

“So how are things at Hill Street, Hilda?” Edith asks her best friend as the pair stand before a window display of brightly coloured umbrellas just perfect to brighten the upcoming winter days. “Have you settled in alright?”

 

“Oh yes, I’ve settled in just fine,” Hilda begins, but her voice belies concerns.

 

“I sense there is a but. Don’t tell me it’s worse than awful old Mrs, Plaistow’s?”

 

“Oh no!” Hilda assures her friend, raising her glove clad hands in defence. “Far from it. It’s just that, well…” She pauses. “I don’t know where Mrs. Channon learned her housekeeping skills.”

 

Edith laughs. “Don’t be silly, Hilda. Mrs. Channon is a lady, and a future marchioness. She isn’t meant to know how to cook and clean! That’s what you are there for.”

 

“No Edith. I didn’t mean that.” Hilda deflects.

 

Edith tuns to her friend, but is momentarily distracted by the passing parade of shoppers behind them on the pavement and passenger faces in the fogged up windows of a red and cream double decker bus as it chugs noisily past them, belching out fumes. “What do you mean then, Hilda?”

 

“I meant that she doesn’t have the first idea about housekeeping. She’s the one who comes to me, asking me how much the housekeeping budget for the week should be.”

 

“Oh dear! Doesn’t Mrs. Channon give you a set amount each week then?”

 

“Well, I tried that, but it fluctuates from week to week.” Hilda replies exasperatedly. “Some weeks she gives me more than I’ve asked for. Sometimes she asks me if what I’ve quoted is enough, and some weeks she just adds extra in anyway, telling me to splurge on something extravagant to cook, or worse yet to buy something special and frivolous for myself!”

 

“No!” Edith gasps in incredulity.

 

“And yet on other weeks I tell Mrs. Channon how much I need, and she tells me that she can’t quite meet that budget.”

 

“Well maybe that’s why Mrs. Channon gives you a bit extra sometimes, to put aside for a rainy day.”

 

“To be honest, I don’t think Mrs, Channon would know a rainy day if it slapped her in the face with a wet fish*.” The pair of maids titter girlishly for a moment with their hands to their mouths as they imagine Margot Channon being slapped in the face with a salmon or a kipper. “She seems to have no real concept about money, other than she either has it or she hasn’t.”

 

The pair move across to the next window featuring an array of pretty autumnal hats with wide and narrow brims made of straw and brightly patterned fabric decorated with a mixture of feather, fur and floral trims.

 

“I don’t think either Mr. or Mrs. Channon even know the meaning of the word budget.” Hilda carries on. “Take these for example,” She points to the hats. “Mrs Channon’s father, Lord de Virre gave Mr. and Mrs. Channon a motor car as a wedding gift, but it sits gathering dust in the garage at Hill Street and they seldom use it because they don’t have the money for petrol to fill it. Yet they take taxis everywhere. I’m forever having to go down to the corner to the taxi stand to fetch one for them. And then Mrs. Channon comes home from a day of shopping with three, mind you three, new hats she really doesn’t need, and she asks me if I have sixpence left over from the housekeeping for the driver waiting downstairs to be paid!”

 

“Oh, that does sound rather chaotic, Hilda.”

 

“Chaotic is right!” Hilda agrees. “Mrs. Channon is just lucky that I do know how to work on a budget, and I don’t go spending the extra money she gives me some weeks on frippery and do have enough to cover the shortfalls when they happen. And goodness knows what that Pegeen did when she was working as maid at Hill Street!”

 

“Oh dear! Did you find another Pegeen present the other day?”

 

“Did I ever! Mr. and Mrs. Channon had Lord and Lady de Virre for supper the other night, so they had Harrods cater it.”

 

“You had the money for that then?”

 

“Yes, luckily, from Mr. Channon. Anyway, they asked for lobster, so when I went to the drawer for the lobster piks** I found it stuffed not only with a jangle of odds and ends of silverware, but half a dozen empty oyster shells, no doubt left over from another dinner party!”

 

“You’re lucky they didn’t smell!”

 

“I think they’d been there for a few months.” Hilda remarks dubiously. “I mean, I know Pegeen is Irish, but surely even they have dustbins in Ireland!”

 

Edith giggles again. “At least you have jolly good stories to regale me with on our days off, Hilda.”

 

The pair meander to the next window which is crowded with clusters of small children with their noses pressed to the glass, their harried mothers or frustrated nannies trying desperately to get them to come away. Peering over the top of the children’s heads, they see it is a window full of wonderful toys: teddy bears***, tin soldiers, brightly painted wooden castles and forts, games, blocks and books.

 

As they look, Edith’s eyes fall upon something and she gasps, clapping her hands in delight.

 

“What is it, Edith?” asks Hilda.

 

“Come on!” Edith says, grasping Hilda’s right hand in her left. “We have to go inside! I just found the perfect Christmas present!”

 

The pair enter Selfridge’s grand department store by one of the three revolving doors and are immediately enveloped by the wonderful scent of dozens of perfumes from the nearby perfumery counters. Despite Hilda’s protestations at being drawn away from the perfume and beauty counters, the pair make their way upstairs to the toy department.

 

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 parents. 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.

 

“What are we looking for?” Hilda asks in a desultory fashion as she tags along behind Edith who charges about like a woman with a purpose.

 

“I’ll know when I see them.” Edith says excitedly. Then she spies what she is seeking. “Ahh, how perfect! Right next to the register!”

 

The pair brusquely walk over to a glass topped counter on which sits a brightly polished brass cash register. In front of it is a display of wooden and plush rabbits, and there, nestled amongst them, a selection of books written by Beatrix Potter. Excitedly, Edith deposits her newly acquired from the Petticoat Lane Market**** second-hand snakeskin purse – almost an exact replica of Lettice’s – onto the glass counter. She snatches up a copy of ‘The Tale of Samuel Whiskers’ and ‘The Tale of Two Bad Mice’.

 

“I wonder which one he’d like?” Edith ponders as she holds the two brightly coloured books in her hands. “Then again, he does like rabbits.” she mutters aloud as she puts them back and takes up a copy of ‘The Tale of Benjamin Bunny’.

 

“Beatrix Potter Books?” Hilda queries, screwing up her nose as she sidles up alongside her friend, hooking her black handled brolly on the raised edge of the counter. “What do you want them for?” Then she pauses, her eyes growing wide. “Bert hasn’t got some poor stewardess in the family way has he, Edith?”

 

Edith’s eyes roll as she turns to her friend. “No, my brother hasn’t done any such thing, I’ll thank you very much, Hilda. No, these are for Mrs, Boothby.”

 

“Mrs. Boothby?” Hilda queries, thinking of the mature Cockney charwoman***** employed by both her mistress, Margot, and Edith’s mistress, Lettice, who does all the hard graft that neither she nor Edith have to do. “What on earth would Mrs. Boothby want with Beatrix Potter Books?”

 

Edith sighs in exasperation. “You can be so literal sometimes, Hilda! They aren’t for Mrs. Boothby. They are for…” Edith pauses mid-sentence and thinks before she speaks. Several weeks ago, Edith met Mrs. Boothby’s son, a forty-two year old man who is a simple and gentle giant with the aptitude of a six year old. The old Cockney charwoman’s words ring in her ears about how it is easier for her not to mention that she has a son, not because she is ashamed of him, but because not everyone would understand her wanting to keep and raise a child with such difficulties. She knows that Mrs. Boothby has taken her into her confidence by introducing her to her son, Ken. “For one of her grandchildren.” Edith fabricates.

 

“Grandchildren? I didn’t even know Mrs. Boothby had children, never mind grandchildren!”

 

“Well, there’s a lot about Mrs. Boothby you don’t know, Hilda.”

 

“And how do you know about her grandchildren, Edith?”

 

“Don’t you remember, Hilda? I went over to Mrs. Boothby’s in Poplar a few weeks ago and she sold me a second-hand sewing machine that she had found for me.” Altering the truth a little, Edith goes on, “Her grandson was playing next door. Mrs. Boothby’s neighbour looks after all the little local children whilst their parents work. He is quite partial to Peter Rabbit, so I thought I might buy him a new Beatrix Potter book for Christmas.”

 

“That’s very good of you, Edith.” Hilda acknowledges.

 

“Oh, it’s the least I can do Hilda, after Mrs. Boothby having sold me that sewing machine so cheaply. I’d never have been able to afford a new one. It’s made such a difference for me already.”

 

“May I help you, Miss?” asks a young shopgirl who has slipped up silently to the register as Edith and Hilda have been chatting.

 

“How much are these each?” Edith asks.

 

“They are three and six, Miss.” the shopgirl replies with a smile. “A lovely gift for birthday or Christmas if I may, Miss.”

 

“I’ll take this one, thank you.” Edith smiles, handing over ‘The Tale of Benjamin Bunny’ to the girl behind the counter and delving into her new snakeskin purse purchase to find the correct money, pleased to have found what she hopes will be a welcome Christmas present for Ken Boothby, the gentle giant of Poplar.

 

*These days we usually associate slapping people with a wet fish to Monty Python’s Fish Slapping Dance, but the term “to be slapped with a wet fish” goes back as far as the early Twentieth Century, if not earlier. In Marcel Proust’s novel, ‘Swann’s Way’ (1913, Dr Cottard compliments Odette by saying “I’d rather have it in my bed than a slap with a wet fish”. Two lines further on, the narrator refers to the statement as “that old joke”. The term however really came into the popular vernacular between the wars in the 1920s and 1930s.

 

**A lobster pick or lobster fork is a long, narrow food utensil used to extract meat from joints, legs, claws, and other small parts of a lobster.

 

***Developed apparently simultaneously by toymakers Morris Michtom in America and Richard Steiff under his aunt Margarete Steiff's company in Germany in the early Twentieth Century, the teddy bear, purportedly named after American President Theodore Roosevelt, became a popular children's toy very quickly, and by 1922 when this story is set, a staple of many children’s nursery toys.

 

****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.

 

This joyful shop counter display of children’s treasures may not appear to be what they really are, for however lifelike they are, they are in fact part of my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Central to this story, the copies of Beatrix Potter’s books are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! These are amongst the smaller number that do not open. 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. In this case, the magazines are non-opening, however what might amaze you 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 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, 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 two wooden rabbits are in fact wooden Christmas ornaments from Germany which I was given when I was about six. The plush white rabbit I acquired from an online stockist of miniatures on E-Bay. The Benjamin Bunny box and also the Noah’s Ark you can see on the shelves in the background, come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The brightly shining cash register was supplied by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom.

 

Edith’s snakeskin handbag with its gold clasp and chain comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom. Hilda's umbrella comes from Smallskale Miniatures 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 south of the Thames in the middle-class London suburb of Putney in the front room of a red brick Edwardian villa in Hazelwood Road, where Lettice has come to see her childhood chum Gerald’s friend, Harriet Milford. The orphaned daughter of a solicitor with little formal education, Harriet has taken in theatrical lodgers to earn a living, but more importantly for Lettice, has taken up millinery semi-professionally to give her some pin money*. As Harriet made Lettice a fetching picture hat for her brother Leslie’s wedding in November, Lettice thought that Harriet might benefit as much from her patronage as Lettice herself will by commissioning a new millinery creation for the wedding of Lettice’s friend Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon** who is marrying the Duke of York*** in a few months.

 

As the taxi she has taken from Mayfair putters away down the street, Lettice pushes on the black painted wrought iron gate flanked by two capped red brick pillars. It protests shrilly with the squeal of hinges as she opens it. She sighs and walks up the garden path snaking across a well clipped lawn. Lettice can hear the notes of an oboe being played as she walks.

 

“Coo-ee, Lettice darling!” comes a bright, rather effeminate call from above as the oboe music abruptly stops. Shading her eyes from the sun as she looks up, and peers to the roofline where she can see Cyril, one of Harriet’s theatrical lodgers, leaning out of his open oriel bedroom window above, waving madly. “Hattie! Hattie, Lettice is here!” he calls down over his shoulder. As well as being Harriet’s tenant, it has also come to light in more recent times that he is Gerald’s younger lover, and Lettice worries about Cyril’s indiscretion at being a homosexual, in comparison to Gerald who is very appropriately circumspect about his inclinations.

 

Without replying, she smiles and waves weakly in an understated way, embarrassed at being called to from above like a butcher’s boy or some other domestic. She glances around to make sure no-one has seen the interaction, not that there would be anyone she would likely know or run into in her upper-class circles in middle-class Hazelwood Road, Putney.

 

She goes to depress the doorbell next to the front door, but as she does, it is flung open exuberantly by Harriet, her mousy brown hair framing her pretty face, her bright print frock covered by a white cotton pinny, looking rather like the maids Lettice is used to answering doors for her, rather than mistress of the house she is about to enter. “How do you do, Miss Chetwynd!” she says brightly.

 

“Miss Milford.” Lettice replies with a pinched smile and a curt not of her head.

 

“Lord love Cyril, eh?” Harriet beams, glancing up, wincing into the unusually sunny sky above. “Who needs a doorbell when you can have an oboist trumpet your arrival. Right, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Err, quite.” Lettice says awkwardly.

 

“Right this way Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet says with a genuine smile of pleasure at receiving Lettice. “Well, you know the way.” she adds, flinging open the first door on the left side of the hallway and indicating with an extended arm for Lettice to enter her parlour cum salon. “I’ve got the kettle on already, and you can be the first to sample my freshly made fruitcake.”

 

“The second, actually, Hattie.” a rather deep and drooping male voice annunciates clearly. From behind Harriet’s shoulder, a mature man with white hair and an impressive, expertly waxed handlebar moustache appears dressed in full evening attire with a top hat in his hand. “I just appropriated a slice from the kitchen table on my way out. Good of you to cut it for me in anticipation of my expedient departure.”

 

“Oh you cheeky boy!” Harriet slaps the older gentleman on the forearm playfully. “Without even so much as a by-your leave!”

 

Eyeing Lettice standing in the hallway dressed in her powder blue three quarter length coat and matching hat with a large arctic fox fur wrapped around her neck and draped down her front, the man asks, “And who have we here Hattie, my dear? An ingénue come to steal away the hearts of your bevvy of lead actors?”

 

“No lady will ever steal your heart away!” she scoffs.

 

“Never a truer word was spoken, my dear.” He puts a hand to his mouth. “But a great thespian can put on a convincing act.”

 

“Miss Chetwynd, may I present Mr. Charles Dunnage.” Harriet announces. “Charles, this is the Honourable Miss Lettice Chetwynd.”

 

“The honour,” Charles replies. “Is all mine, dear lady.” Taking up Lettice’s kid glove clad hand in his own white evening glove clad ones, he raises it dramatically to his lips and kisses it.

 

“Oh, get away with you, Charles!” Harriet laughs. “We don’t want Miss Chetwynd thinking she’s entered a home for retired theatrical lunatics.” She turns to Lettice. “Sorry, Miss Chetwynd. Charles is a Shakespearean actor at the Old Vic****. I…”

 

“How many times must I tell you, Hattie!” Charles huffs irritably, suddenly animating his shoulders, making them rise and fall with every syllable. “I’m a thespian,” He emphasises the word with reverence. “Not an actor.” He spits the last word out like an insult. “He’s an actor.” He points upwards with his cane to the plastered ceiling above, where the sound of Cyril’s oboe playing can be heard. “Only true thespians can perform the works of the Great Bard. Anyone can be an actor, and anyone is!” He arches his eyebrows, causing her brow to furrow in folds of pale white flesh.

 

The oboe playing stops. “I can hear you, you know, Charlie Boy!” Cyril calls down from above.

 

Charles shudders. “Like I was saying, my dears,” he pronounces loudly so that Cyril can hear. “Anyone can be an actor, however only some of us have the strength of character to be a thespian!” Looking at Lettice he continues conspiratorially in a more moderately toned voice. “My dear Miss Chetwynd, I suggest you flee this den of iniquity and retreat to the salubrious surrounds from whence you came, before you are swept into the maelstrom of actors that pass through this door.”

 

Stunned into silence by his dramatic and verbose statement, Lettice can only look the older man in the face with wide eyes and a closed mouth.

 

“Oh get on with you, Charles,” Harriet laughs good naturedly. “Or you’ll be late for rehearsals. You don’t want to miss your train. When shall I be expecting you?”

 

“I’ll be home around eleven, my dear, but don’t feel you have to wait up. I have my latch key.” He reached into his pocket and pulls out a key tied to a russet coloured ribbon which he dangles from his finger.

 

“Right you are then, Charles. See you later then.”

 

And with a bow, the older man dons his top hat and sweeps down the garden path, his black evening cape billowing behind him.

 

“You must really think I run a theatrical madhouse, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet says apologetically with a shake of her head as both women watch Charles slip out the gate. “Please do go in and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a jiffy***** with tea and what cake is left that Charles hasn’t yet consumed.”

 

Stepping across the threshold of the room, Lettice’s critical eye again glances around the front parlour of the Putney villa, which doubles as Harriet’s sewing room and show room for her hats. She crinkles her nose in distaste. She finds the room’s middle-class chintzy décor an affront to her up-to-date interior design sensitivities, with its flouncy floral Edwardian sofa and roomy armchair by the fire, a pouffe hand embroidered by Harriet’s deceased mother and the busy Edwardian floral wallpaper covered with a mixture of cheap botanical prints and quaint English country scenes, all in gaudy gilded plaster frames. Yet what makes it even worse is that it seems that no attempt has been made to tidy the room in spite of Lettice and Gerald’s constant nagging of Harriet to present her hats in an orderly space. Harriet’s concertina sewing box on casters still stands cascaded open next to the armchair, threads, embroidery silks, buttons and ribbons pouring from its compartments like entrails. Hats in different stages of being made up and decorated lie about on furniture or on the floor in a haphazard way along with baskets of millinery provisions. The brightly patterned rug is littered with spools of cotton, scissors, ribbon, artificial flowers and dogeared copies of Weldon’s****** magazines. Lettice usually sits on the rather lumpy and sagging overstuffed sofa, but today that is an impossibility, with the seats covered in cardboard hat boxs spewing forth a froth of white tissue paper and hats stacked upon them. She sighs irritably and remains standing amidst the chaos of the room, unable to take a seat.

 

“I really am grateful that you’ve come back to see me again, Miss Chetwynd!” Harriet gushes as she steps across the threshold into the parlour carrying her wooden tray on which stand tea things for two and a silver platter with several slices of dark fruitcake on it. “You were true to your word, telling people at your brother’s wedding about who made your hat, and I’ve already had an order from a Mrs. Minchinbury and her sister, Miss Rentoul.”

 

Harriet unloads the teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl onto a small hexagonal Indian table, and whilst balancing the tray on the edge of her deceased father’s former chess table, she pushes aside cotton threads, ribbons, a tape measure and a pair of scissors in the shape of a stork with her elbow to make room for the teacups and the tray of fruitcake slices, which Lettice notices rest upon a pretty lace doily.

 

“Ahh yes, they are my second cousins on my mother’s side.” Lettice says.

 

“And a Miss Eglantine Chetwynd from Little Venice, who I believe is your aunt.”

 

“She is, Miss Milford.” Lettice smiles.

 

“Please do sit down, Miss Chetwynd,” Harriet says as she leans the tray against the flounced edge of the sofa. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony here.”

 

“I’d be happy to, if only I had a place to sit, Miss Milford.” Lettice remarks crisply.

 

“Oh!” Harriet’s eyes grow wide. “Sorry, Miss Chetwynd,” she mutters apologetically as she quickly whisks a tangle of ribbons off the salon chair she uses when at her sewing machine onto the floor and draws it up to the Indian and chess tables. “I know you and Gerry keep telling me, but, well as you can see, I still haven’t had an opportunity to tidy up in here yet. I just don’t seem to get the time.”

 

“It’s of no consequence, Miss Milford, so long as I can sit.” Lettice lies as she perches on the salon chair and hangs her crocodile skin handbag over its arm. “And I would imagine my Aunt Egg would have rather enjoyed the chaos of your theatrical household.”

 

“She did, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet admits with a shy smile and a nod.

 

“Shall I be mother******* then, Miss Milford?” Lettice asks poignantly staring at the teapot.

 

“Oh no, Miss Chetwynd,” Harriet springs from her own seat in the overstuffed armchair. “I’ll do it.”

 

Resuming her line of conversation whilst Harriet pours tea into the two pre-war Edwardian style cups, Lettice says, “Of course Aunt Egg would like this because she is an artist. However the likes of my cousins, or some of the finer people, even more exalted and refined, you may yet encounter doubtless wouldn’t approve,” She waves her hand around her. “Of all this.”

 

“Well, Gerry tells me that I should give this place up and move to your side of the river.”

 

“Gerald’s suggestion is quite a prudent one, Miss Milford.” Lettice replies, taking her teacup and saucer and placing them on the closed lid of the top layer of Harriet’s concertina sewing box.

 

“But I can’t afford that,” Harriet admits as she resumes her own seat. “At least not until I know my hat making can support me.”

 

“Then I strongly suggest that you take Gerald’s and my advice and make the time to tidy up in here.” Lettice takes a sip of tea. “Not to be unkind, Miss Milford, but it’s slovenly, and if you want to be taken seriously as a milliner, you need to present a professional front. Surely there is an equally light and spacious room upstairs you can use as a workroom.”

 

“You’re quite right, Miss Chetwynd. That wasn’t unkind at all. It’s the truth,” She looks guiltily at Lettice. “And I know it. I’ll do better. I promise.”

 

“I should hope so, Miss Milford, for I have a commission for you, and if you take it up, which I hope you will,” Lettice pauses for a moment for impact. “It could lead to many more commissions from much finer people than my second cousins.”

 

“I’ll be delighted to accept, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet says, moving forward slightly on her chair, her teacup and saucer perched on her knee, help in place by her hand. “What do you wish to commission?”

 

“Before I tell you, do I have your solemn promise of secrecy, at least for the time being?”

 

“Yes of course, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet’s brow furrows with concern. “What on earth is it you want?”

 

“My friend, Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, is going to marry the Duke of York in a few months.”

 

“But the papers say she is supposed to marry the Prince of Wales********.”

 

“It’s not been officially announced yet,” Lettice interrupts Harriet’s spurt of unfounded gossip. “But it will be very shortly, that she will marry the Duke of York.” Her eyes widen a she nods at Harriet, making her statement of fact clear. “And I need a hat for the occasion, Miss Milford, but not that one.” She points to a hat of straw decorated with garlands of lace ribbons and faux flowers around its wide brim sitting in a hat stand on Harriet’s appropriated work table. “Who on earth is that for? It looks like something the Miss Evanses would wear to one of my mother’s tombolas.”

 

“Well, I’m not sure who the Miss Evanses are, Miss Chetwynd, but this hat is meant for Mrs. Leonowens who lives down the street. Her granddaughter is getting married next Wednesday. She was very particular about what kind of hat she wanted, and its trimmings.” Looking critically at the hat she adds. “I suppose she is a little old fashioned in her taste,” She shrugs. “But that’s what she wanted.”

 

“Well, I’m very relieved to hear you say that your Mrs. Leonowens decided what was to go on that hat, and not you.” Lettice says with a sigh of relief. “After the beautiful creation you made for me for Leslie’s wedding, I consider you to have more than an ounce of good taste,” Looking again around her critically she adds. “In clothing and hats at any rate.”

 

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Miss Chetwynd,” Harriet says somewhat warily, yet with a smile. “I take it that Gerry is going to design your frock for the royal wedding?”

 

“He is, Miss Milford. Although even I am still a little unclear of the exact date, I believe the wedding will be in late April or early May at Westminster Abbey, so a spring wedding. Gerald thinks that as Lady Elizabeth is quite romantic, and loves pastel colours, that I should wear peach floral crêpe de chine, which I’ve agreed to. What do you propose, Miss Milford?”

 

“Well, Gerry and I can chat more about this when he visits Cyril later in the week,” Harriet pauses. “I take it I can talk to Gerry about this? I’m not sworn to secrecy from him, am I?”

 

“Oh no, Miss Milford! Gerald knows Lady Elizabeth too, so he knows her news and will doubtless be on the guest list too.”

 

“Oh, that’s a relief!”

 

“But not Cyril, even if he and Gerald are…”

 

“Friends, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Friends, Miss Milford, you mustn’t mention why you are making this hat for me, at last until after the official announcement of the engagement is made in the newspapers. I do not wish to be the source of more gossip. I know Lady Elizabeth is very irritated by the current rumours.”

 

“I doubt Cyril will care to ask why I’m making a hat for you, Miss Chetwynd, but if he asks, I shall make up an excuse. Now, if your friend Lady Elizabeth is romantic, and looking at her pictures in the papers, in keeping with your friend’s style and something that would suit you as well, I suggest a deeply crowned hat with a wide, poke style brim.” She gesticulates around her own head how wide the brim would be and how it would sit. “Stiffened of course.” she adds. She looks at Lettice’s expectant face. “Made of apricot felt, edged with the thinnest trim of white lace I think and ornamented with pink and orange taffeta roses. What do you think, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“That sounds quite splendid, Miss Milford!” Lettice says, returning her cup to her saucer and sitting back in her chair. “Yes, do it!”

 

“Splendid, Miss Chetwynd! It will be subtle and yet striking as well.” Harriet remarks. “You might even outshine the bride.” She giggles girlishly.

 

“I do hope not, Miss Milford.” Lettice replies, albeit with a slight smile.

 

“But secretly, you wouldn’t mind it if you did.” Harriet responds with a knowing look. “A slice of cake, Miss Chetwynd?” She holds out the silver tray on which lay four slices of rich, dark fruitcake with a thin layer of white marzipan icing.

 

Lettice saves herself from having to reply by putting the piece of cake to her lips and taking a bite of it, allowing the moist sliver to fall apart in her mouth.

 

*Originating in Seventeenth Century England, the term pin money first meant “an allowance of money given by a husband to his wife for her personal expenditures. Married women, who typically lacked other sources of spending money, tended to view an allowance as something quite desirable. By the Twentieth Century, the term had come to mean a small sum of money, whether an allowance or earned, for spending on inessentials, separate and in addition to the housekeeping money a wife might have to spend.

 

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

 

***Prince Albert, Duke of York, known by the diminutive “Bertie” to the family and close friends, was the second son of George V. Not only did Bertie propose to Elizabeth in 1921, but also in March 1922 after she was a bridesmaid at the wedding of Albert’s sister, Princess Mary to Viscount Lascelles. Elizabeth refused him a second time, yet undaunted Bertie pursued the girl who had stolen his heart. Finally, in January 1923 she agreed to marry him in spite of her misgivings about royal life.

 

****The Old Vic theatre in the London borough of Lambeth was formerly the home of a theatre company that became the nucleus of the National Theatre. The company’s theatre building opened in 1818 as the Royal Coburg and produced mostly popular melodramas. In 1833 it was redecorated and renamed the Royal Victoria and became popularly known as the Old Vic. Between 1880 and 1912, under the management of Emma Cons, a social reformer, the Old Vic was transformed into a temperance amusement hall known as the Royal Victoria Hall and Coffee Tavern, where musical concerts and scenes from Shakespeare and opera were performed. Lilian Baylis, Emma Cons’s niece, assumed management of the theatre in 1912 and two years later presented the initial regular Shakespeare season. By 1918 the Old Vic was established as the only permanent Shakespearean theatre in London, and by 1923 all of Shakespeare’s plays had been performed there. The Old Vic grew in stature during the 1920s and ’30s under directors such as Andrew Leigh, Harcourt Williams, and Tyrone Guthrie.

 

*****The expression in a jiffy was in use as early as 1780. It is a colloquial English expression for “in a short amount of time.” The origins of jiffy are unknown, though there are theories. One suggestion is that it comes from British thieves’ slang for “lightning,” hence very fast. An early instance appears in 1780 edition of Town and Country Magazine: “Most of the limbs of the law do every thing in a jiffy”.

 

******Created by British industrial chemist and journalist Walter Weldon Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was the first ‘home weeklies’ magazine which supplied dressmaking patterns. Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was first published in 1875 and continued until 1954 when it ceased publication.

 

*******The meaning of the very British term “shall I be mother” is “shall I pour the tea?”

 

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

 

This rather cluttered and chaotic scene of a drawing room cum workroom may look real to you, but believe it or not, it is made up entirely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism such as these 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 natural straw hat with white lace ribbon trim and faux flower garlands on the table was made by an unknown artisan in the United Kingdom and was sold through Doreen Jeffrey’s Small Wonders miniatures shop.

 

The concertina sewing box on casters which you can see spilling forth its contents is an artisan miniature made by an unknown artist in England. It comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the in the United Kingdom. All the box’s contents including spools of ribbons, threads scissors and buttons on cards came with the work box. The box can completely expand or contract, just like its life-sized equivalent.

 

The black japanned fire screen in the background, the black metal fire tools and the potted plants and their stands all come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop.

 

Harriet’s family photos seen cluttering the mantlepiece in the background are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are almost all from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each.

 

The porcelain clock on the mantlepiece is made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. The pot of yellow and blue petunias and the ornamental swan figurine on the mantlepiece have been hand made and painted by 1:12 miniature ceramicist Ann Dalton.

 

The tilt chess table I bought from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom, whilst the Indian hexagonal table comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The Edwardian tea set and plate of fruit cake slices on its surface come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop, as do the spools of threads, the silver sewing scissors in the shape of a stork and the spool of ribbon. The skeins of pink and blue thread I have had since I was a teenager, when I acquired the from a high street doll house miniature specialist shop.

 

The sewing basket that you can see on the floor just behind the chess table I bought from a high street shop that specialised in dolls and doll house furnishings. It is an artisan miniature and contains pieces of embroidery and embroidery threads.

 

The floral chintz chair is made by J.B.M. miniatures who specialise in well made pieces of miniature furniture made to exacting standards.

 

The Chinese carpet beneath the furniture is hand made by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia.

 

The Edwardian mantlepiece is made of moulded plaster and was acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The paintings and prints on the walls all come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House in the United Kingdom.

Inle Lake Fisherman Pose

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Lettice?” Lady Sadie remarks quizzically.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Matchmaking, Mamma?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Lettice…” Lady Sadie’s voice cracks.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Again this year I can enjoy good apricots

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

 

Today we are in the little maid’s room off the Cavendish Mews kitchen, which serves as Edith, Lettice’s maid’s, bedroom. The room is very comfortable and more spacious than the attic she shared with her friend and fellow maid, Hilda, in her last position. The room is papered with floral sprigged wallpaper, and whilst there is no carpet, unlike Lettice’s bedroom, there are rugs laid over the stained floorboards. The room is big enough for Edith to have a comfortable armchair and tea table as well as her bed, a chest of drawers and a small wardrobe. Best of all, the room has central heating, so it is always warm and cosy on cold nights.

 

Friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) in Penzance as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot in her desire to turn ‘Chi an Treth’ from a dark Regency house to a more modern country house flooded with light, has commissioned Lettice to help redecorate some of the rooms in a lighter and more modern style, befitting a modern couple like the Channons. Lettice has decamped to Penzance for a week where she is overseeing the painting and papering of ‘Chi an Treth’s’ drawing room, dining room and main reception room, before fitting it out with a lorryload of new and repurposed furnishings, artwork and objets d’arte that she has had sent down weeks prior to her arrival. In her mistress’ absence, Edith has more free time on her hands, and so she is spending the morning pleasurably laying out some new fabric that she recently bought from a haberdasher’s in Whitechapel and cutting out the pieces for a new frock she has been wanting to make for a few weeks, but hasn’t had the time to do so before now owing to Lettice having her future sister-in-law as a houseguest.

 

Today is Tuesday and on Tuesdays, every third Thursday of the month and occasionally after a big party, Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman*, comes from her home in Poplar to do all the hard jobs.

 

Edith is so emersed in running her hands joyfully over the soft cotton fabric featuring sprigs of pretty blue flowers that she doesn’t hear the familiar sounds of Mrs. Boothby as she climbs the service stairs of Cavendish Mews: her footfall in her low heeled shoes that she proudly tells Edith came ‘practically new from Petticoat Lane**’, nor the fruity cough that comes from deep within her wiry little body.

 

“Morning dearie!” Mrs. Boothby calls cheerily as she comes through the servants’ entrance door into the kitchen.

 

“Oh, morning Mrs. Boothby,” Edith calls in reply through her bedroom door. “I’m in here.”

 

The old Cockney woman’s head appears around the doorframe, her wiry grey hair hidden beneath a dark blue cloche hat, another purchase from Petticoat Lane, which frames her heavily wrinkled face. “Aye! Aye!” she says good naturedly with a cheery smile. “What ‘ave we ‘ere then? Whilst the cat’s away.”

 

Edith’s face flushes with embarrassment at Mrs. Boothby’s remark.

 

“Oh I’m only teasin’, dearie!” the old woman laughs, emitting another fruity cough from deep within her lungs as she does so. “What’s that what you’re doin’ then?”

 

“Well, with Miss Lettice being away,” Edith replies a little coyly. “I have a bit more free time, so I thought I’d make the most of it and cut out the pattern for a new frock I’m making. I was hoping to have it finished in time for summer, for when Frank and I went walking in Hyde Park, but I suppose Autumn is as good as summer for a new frock.”

 

“Course it is, dearie!” Mrs. Boothby concurs. She bends down with a groan and picks up a copy of Weldon’s*** Dressmaker magazine off the floor by the foot of Lettice’s armchair and looks at the four smart outfits on the front cover. “Any time’s the perfect time for a new frock if you ask me – ‘specially when someone is as pretty as you! What a picture you’ll look steppin’ out with Frank Ledbetter in that pretty pattern.” She scruitinises the fabric, admiring the blue flowers interwoven with stems and leaves in olive green on a cream background. “That come from Mrs. Minkin’s then?”

 

“It does, Mrs. Boothby,” beams Edith. “I can’t thank you enough for telling me about her. She’s a much better haberdasher than the old one I used to use in Holborn.”

 

“I should fink she would be,” Mrs. Boothby replies loftily with an appreciative nod. “We East Enders know better ‘n anyone ‘bout how to sew and patch a dress, and turn a silk purse from a sow’s ear, ‘cause that’s all we get.”

 

“Mrs. Minkin is so generous. Look. She gave me these buttons as a gift.” She withdraws a card of six faceted Art Deco glass buttons and wafts them in front of the old charwoman.

 

“Aye. She’s a gooden, that one. Not all Russian Yids**** is like that Golda Friedman what goes round my rookery***** wiv ‘er nose in the air like she was the Queen of Russia ‘erself. Mrs. Minkin’s taken a shine to you, that’s for certain. Tried to marry you off to one of her sons yet, ‘as she?”

 

Edith blushes again. “Well, she did, until I explained to her that I was stepping out with Frank.”

 

“Well, them Yids tend to marry uvver Yids anyways, so I s’pose it don’t matter that much. She’ll still treat you like ‘er surrogate daughter ‘til one of ‘em marries, and even then, she’ll probably still treat you special ‘cause youse so nice to ‘er, ‘cause you’re such a good girl.”

 

“Oh I don’t know about that, Mrs. Boothby,” Edith scoffs. “I just treat people as I’d like to be treated. Isn’t that what we all learned in Sunday School.”

 

“I’m not much of a church goer myself, but that’s one rule I do know and agree wiv, dearie. Nah, thinkin’ of treatin’ folk, I ain’t ‘alf parched after me trip up from Poplar this mornin!”

 

“Was the traffic bad again, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Bad? You should’ve seen the traffic at Tottenham Court Road, dearie! Quite bunged up it was! Nah, ‘ow about a nice reviving cup of Rosie-Lee*****, eh?”

 

“Oh, of course, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith says cheerily, pushing herself up off her knees and standing up.

 

A short while later, Edith and Mrs. Boothby are seated around Edith’s deal table which dominates the floorspace of the Cavendish Mews kitchen.

 

“Ta!” Mrs Boothby says. “Lovely.” She accepts the cup of tea proffered to her by Edith, and sticks a biscuit from the Hunley and Palmers******* tin on the table between her teeth and then starts fossicking through her capacious beaded bag before withdrawing her cigarette papers, Swan Vestas and tin of Player’s Navy Cut. Rolling herself a cigarette she reaches over to the deal dresser and grabs the black pottery ash tray Edith keeps for her. Lighting her cigarette with a satisfied sigh and one more of her fruity coughs, Mrs. Boothby settles back happily in the Windsor chair she sits in with her cigarette in one hand and the biscuit in the other.

 

Edith shudders almost imperceptibly. She hates the older woman’s habit of smoking indoors. When she lived with her parents, neither smoked in the house. Her mother didn’t smoke at all: it would have been unladylike to do so, and her father only smoked a pipe when he went down to the local pub. Nevertheless, she knows this is Mrs. Boothby’s morning ritual, and for all the hard work that the old woman does around the flat, Edith cannot deny her one of her few pleasures.

 

“I do like a nice ‘Untley and Palmer******* breakfast biscuit to go wiv me Rosie-Lee?” Mrs. Boothby sighs as she munches loudly on the biscuit, spilling a shower of golden brown crumbs into her lap as she speaks.

 

“I’m glad Mrs. Boothby,” Edith replies genuinely pleased as she pours herself a cup of tea.

 

“So dearie,” Mrs. Boothby queries. “Gonna whip your frock up on the sewin’ machine this afternoon are you?”

 

“This afternoon?” Edith looks questioning at Mrs. Boothby.

 

“Yes dearie, nah that you ‘ave the time on your ‘ands. Are you gonna stitch it up on your sewin’ machine?”

 

“Oh, I don’t have a sewing machine, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith adds sugar and milk to her tea and stirs her cup.

 

“Not got a sewin’ machine, dearie?” Mrs. Boothby draws deeply on her cigarette.

 

“No, Mrs. Boothby. There has never been one here, ever since I came to Cavendish Mews. No, I’ll take the cut pieces down to Mum’s when I visit her later in the week. She has a little Singer******** treadle that I can use.”

 

“Can you buy yourself one?”

 

“At forty pounds? I hardly think so!”

 

“You could get one through hire purchase********.”

 

“If I can’t afford one of Mrs. Minkin’s dressed hats, how can I possibly afford a sewing machine, even on hire purchase, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Well, can’t Miss Lettice buy you one then, dearie?” A plume of bluish grey smoke bursts forth in a tumbling cloud from the old woman’s mouth as she speaks.

 

Edith shakes her head as she selects a biscuit from the tin. “There’s no call for it, Mrs. Boothby. I seldom have to do any mending. Miss Lettice has Mr. Bruton mend any clothes for her. If she tears one of her stockings she simply goes and orders a new pair. The same can be said for any other article of clothing Mr. Bruton doesn’t make for her.”

 

“Lawd, to be that rich that I could toss a torn pair of stockings in the dustbin and buy a new pair wivvout thinkin’ twice!”

 

“I know. It seems like a wicked extravagance to me too, but I suppose Miss Lettice has always lived her life like that.”

 

“Yes,” Mrs. Boothby nods sagely as she slurps her tea loudly. “The ‘aves and ‘ave nots.”

 

“And any repairs required to the linen are done by the commercial laundry we use. No, I’ll take the pieces down to Mum’s and I can spend the afternoon there and sew it up then. She won’t mind.”

 

“Course she won’t mind, dearie. I just fink it’s a shame you don’t ‘ave your own sewin’ machine to make your own frocks on.”

 

“I get by well enough Mrs. Boothby, and Mum knows that if she ever wants to give up using it, I’ll have her Singer.”

 

The old charwoman nods and contemplates as she looks at Edith over the top of her own tea cup through the curtain of blueish grey cigarette smoke as she sips her tea.

 

An hour and a half later when Mrs. Boothby has finished scrubbing the bathroom, washing the kitchen linoleum and polishing the drawing room and dining room floors, she pops her head around Edith’s bedroom door again, where the young maid kneels laying out crisp white tissue paper patterns that she pins to the fabric before cutting them out with her shears. “Well, I’ll be off then, Edith dearie! I’ll see you Thursday.”

 

Edith looks up, her shears clasped in her right hand. “Yes, see you Thursday Mrs. Boothby. Even if I go down to Mum’s on Thursday, I’ll still be here in the morning to let you in.”

 

“Alright dearie. I’ll do Miss Lettice’s bedroom floor and the ‘allways on Thursday, and I’ll do the black leading. I’ll ‘elp you turn Miss Lettice’s mattress too, like we talked about.”

 

“Very good Mrs. Boothby.”

 

Mrs. Boothby looks down across Edith’s little chamber and takes in the Weldon’s and Lady’s World Fancy Workbook********** magazines scattered across the floor, Edith’s precious lacquered sewing box, a gift from her mother, from which spill knitting needles, spools of thread, pins and a tape measure, cards of buttons from Mrs, Minkin’s Haberdashery, her shears and the patterns for several fashionable frocks. The old Cockney sighs.

 

“Is anything wrong Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks, her own face filling with concern as she stares up into the thought filled face of the older woman.

 

“Well, I was just thinkin’ dearie.” She squeezes her pointy chin between her thumb and index finger thoughtfully.

 

“Yes, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“’Ow long is Miss Lettice away for?”

 

“At least until mid next week. She’s gone to redecorate Mr. and Mrs. Channon’s house down in Penzance and she is staying for an extra day or two afterwards to gauge their happiness with her designs and organise any changes. I think Mr. Bruton will be going down too at the end, as he is supposed to be bringing her back up to London in his motor.”

 

“So she’ll still be gone on Friday?”

 

“I certainly expect so. Why do you ask, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Well, I was just thinkin’ dearie, that I might ‘ave a solution for your sewin’ machine problem. Can you come dahn to my ‘ouse in Poplar on Friday afternoon when I finish work about midday?”

 

“I suppose so, Mrs. Boothby.” the young girl replies, rather perplexed. “But why?”

 

“Oh, never you mind nah, dearie. Give me a few days to see if I can’t sort somethin’ out. I’ll come pick you up about ‘alf twelve from ‘ere. Alright dearie?” She smiles broadly at Edith, showing her badly nicotine stained teeth, but the smile is a kindly one.

 

“Very well, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies with her own bemused smile. “I’ll be ready. What do I need to bring.”

 

“Oh just yourself, dearie. Nuffink more. Well, ta-ta then dearie. Till Friday.” And the old woman shuffles out, her familiar footfall announcing her departure.

 

*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.

 

**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.

 

***Created by British industrial chemist and journalist Walter Weldon Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was the first ‘home weeklies’ magazine which supplied dressmaking patterns. Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was first published in 1875 and continued until 1954 when it ceased publication.

 

****The word Yid is a Jewish ethnonym of Yiddish origin. It is used as an autonym within the Ashkenazi Jewish community, and also used as slang. When pronounced in such a way that it rhymes with did by non-Jews, it is commonly intended as a pejorative term. It is used as a derogatory epithet, and as an alternative to, the English word 'Jew'. It is uncertain when the word began to be used in a pejorative sense by non-Jews, but some believe it started in the late Nineteenth or early Twentieth Century when there was a large population of Jews and Yiddish speakers concentrated in East London, gaining popularity in the 1930s when Oswald Mosley developed a strong following in the East End of London.

 

*****A rookery is a dense collection of housing, especially in a slum area. The rookeries created in Victorian times in London’s East End were notorious for their cheapness, filth and for being overcrowded.

 

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

 

*******Huntley and Palmers is a British firm of biscuit makers originally based in Reading, Berkshire. The company created one of the world’s first global brands and ran what was once the world’s largest biscuit factory. Over the years, the company was also known as J. Huntley and Son and Huntley and Palmer. Huntley and Palmer were renown for their ‘superior reading biscuits’ which they promoted in different varieties for different occasions, including at breakfast time.

 

********The Singer Corporation is an American manufacturer of consumer sewing machines, first established as I. M. Singer & Co. in 1851 by Isaac M. Singer with New York lawyer Edward C. Clark. Best known for its sewing machines, it was renamed Singer Manufacturing Company in 1865, then the Singer Company in 1963. In 1867, the Singer Company decided that the demand for their sewing machines in the United Kingdom was sufficiently high to open a local factory in Glasgow on John Street. The Vice President of Singer, George Ross McKenzie selected Glasgow because of its iron making industries, cheap labour, and shipping capabilities. Demand for sewing machines outstripped production at the new plant and by 1873, a new larger factory was completed on James Street, Bridgeton. By that point, Singer employed over two thousand people in Scotland, but they still could not produce enough machines. In 1882 the company purchased forty-six acres of farmland in Clydebank and built an even bigger factory. With nearly a million square feet of space and almost seven thousand employees, it was possible to produce on average 13,000 machines a week, making it the largest sewing machine factory in the world. The Clydebank factory was so productive that in 1905, the U.S. Singer Company set up and registered the Singer Manufacturing Company Ltd. in the United Kingdom.

 

*********The hire purchase agreement was developed in Britain in the Nineteenth Century to allow customers with a cash shortage to make an expensive purchase they otherwise would have to delay or forgo. These contracts are most commonly used for items such as automobiles and high-value electrical goods where the purchasers are unable to pay for the goods directly. However in the 1920s and 1930s, they were also available for furnishings such as lounge suites and bedroom suites.

 

**********Published by Horace Marshall and Son of London since the 1850s, the Lady’s World Fancy Work Book, like Weldon’s, was a magazine which supplied dressmaking knitting, crochet and embroidery patterns. It was published quarterly on the first of the month in January, April, July and October.

 

This cheerful and busy 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.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The copies of Weldon’s Dressmaker and the Lady’s World Fancy Work Book are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. In this case, the magazines are non-opening, however what might amaze you 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 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, 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 Superior Quality buttons on cards are in truth tiny beads. They, along with the spool of cotton in the foreground, the sewing box, the spools of cottons pincushion, tape measure, silver embroidery scissors and the knitting needles in it all come from various online shops who sell dollhouse miniatures.

 

The patterns for three afternoon dresses are genuine 1922 modes and come from Chic Parisien Beaux-Arts de Modes and are modes 386, 387 and 388.

 

The shears with black handles on the fabric open and close. Made of metal, they came from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The fabric is real, and is a small corner of a few metres I acquired to have made into a shirt. Unfortunately, I cannot remember the name of the pattern.

 

The corner of Edith’s armchair that can be seen in the top of the photo is upholstered in blue chintz, and is made to the highest quality standards by J.B.M. Miniatures. The back and seat cushions come off the body of the armchair, just like a real piece of furniture.

 

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

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

 

Today however we have left the hustle and bustle of London, travelling southwest to a stretch of windswept coastline just a short drive the pretty Cornish town of Penzance. Here, friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot, encouraged by her father Lord de Virre who will foot the bill, has commissioned Lettice to redecorate a few of the principal rooms of ‘Chi an Treth’. In the lead up to the wedding, Lord de Virre has spent a great deal of money making the Regency house habitable after many years of sitting empty and bringing it up to the Twentieth Century standards his daughter expects, paying for electrification, replumbing, and a connection to the Penzance telephone exchange. Now, with their honeymoon over, Dickie and Margot have finally taken possession of their country house gift and have invited Lettice to come and spend a Friday to Monday with them so that she might view the rooms Margot wants redecorating for herself and perhaps start formulating some ideas as to how modernise their old fashioned décor. As Lettice is unable to drive and therefore does not own a car, Margot and Dickie have extended the weekend invitation to one of their other Embassy Club coterie, Lettice’s old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. Gerald owns a Morris*, so he can motor both Lettice and himself down from London on Friday and back again on Monday. After the retirement of the housekeeper, Mrs. Trevethan, from the main house to the gatekeeper’s cottage the previous evening, the quartet of Bright Young Things** played a spirited game of sardines*** and in doing so, potentially solved the romantic mystery of ‘Chi an Treth’ after discovering a boxed up painting, long forgotten, of a great beauty.

 

Now we find ourselves in ‘Chi an Treth’s’ Regency breakfast room with views through the French doors, overlooking the wild coast on a remarkably sunny day for this time of year. Dickie, Margot and Gerald are all seated around the table in their pyjamas and robes enjoying breakfast, some with more gusto than others, as Lettice stumbles into the room and joins them at the table.

 

“All hail the discoverer of lost treasures and the solver of mysteries!” cries Dickie dramatically as he doffs an invisible hat towards his friend.

 

“Oh!” gasps Gerald, raising his right hand gingerly to his temple. “Must you be so loud Dickie? Is he always like this in the mornings, Margot darling?”

 

“He is, Gerald,” Margot sighs from her seat opposite him at the breakfast table as she takes a slice of thinly sliced toast and spreads marmalade across it with as little noise as possible.

 

“Morning Dickie!” Lettice returns Dickie’s welcome, walking up to him and placing a kiss firmly on the top of his head amidst his sleep tousled sandy hair. “Good morning, Margot. Good morning, Gerald.” Stumbling down the room and reaching her seat at the table opposite Dickie she picks up her glass tumbler and then turns to Gerald to adds. “It could be worse.”

 

“What could be?” Gerald asks, taking the pot from Margot’s outstretched hand and proceeding to plop a generous spoonful of marmalade on his own toast slices.

 

“Dickie’s frightfully jolly morning personality trait.” she replies, walking back the way she came to the sideboard, where she helps herself to orange juice. “His cousin, the Earl McCrea, plays the bagpipes every morning to wake the guests when he’s on his Scottish estate.”

 

“How frightful,” Gerald winces at the thought before continuing in a withering voice. “After a night of champagne like we had last night, that’s the last thing I should want.”

 

“Apparently the Prince of Wales quite likes it though**** when he visits.” Margot adds. “Coffee, Lettice darling?”

  

“Tea,” Lettice replies laconically before turning her attention to the lidded chaffing dishes on the sideboard. Lifting one, she quickly drops it when she sees and smells what lies beneath it with a loud clatter that elicits a groan from Gerald, Margot and herself.

 

“Mrs. Trevethan’s kedgeree,” Margot remarks without looking up as she pours tea from a silver teapot into Lettice’s teacup.

 

“Ugh,” mutters Lettice.

 

“It takes some getting used to.” adds Margot.

 

“Is an acquired taste, I’d say.” observes Gerald wryly, looking about the plates at the table. “Since no-one appears to be having any.”

 

“I think my stomach will settle for a boiled egg and an apple.” Lettice places her glass of orange juice gingerly on the tabletop and reaches across to grab an apple from the glass comport in the centre of the table. She then sits before reaching for an egg from the cruet proffered by Margot.

 

“Freshly boiled by Mrs. Trevethan.” Margot says with a smile.

 

“What’s taking that woman so long to bring me a bloody aspirin?” quips Gerald.

 

“God how much did we drink last night?” Lettice asks.

 

“Before, or after you found the Winterhalter*****?” Dickie asks.

 

“That explains why my head is fit for cracking, just like an egg, this morning then.” Lettice rubs her own temples and winces. “I think I could do with a couple of aspirin too.”

 

“Surely they have heard of aspirin down here.” Gerald grumbles, his train of thought about his own sore head undisturbed by the conversation around him.

 

“It is only Cornwall, Gerald darling,” Margot gives him an aghast look. “Not the middle of the Sahara Desert or the Antarctic, you know.”

 

“I might have more luck getting some aspirin in the Sahara.”

 

“Now Gerald, there’s no need to be cantankerous, just because your hangover is purportedly worse than ours.” Margot quips.

 

“Was Mrs. Trevethan cross with the mess, we,” Lettice pauses, blushes and corrects herself. “I… made last night in the storeroom?”

 

“Not at all, dear girl!” Dickie pipes up cheerily, deliberately hitting his own egg with gusto to break the shell, eliciting a scowl from Gerald which he returns with a teasing smile. “Margot and Gerald did a capital job of tidying most of the mess up, and I think the old dear is rather pleased to have people to look after again.”

 

“She can’t care that much about us if it takes this long to fetch me an aspirin.”

 

“Oh do shut up, Gerald old boy,” Dickie barks, surprising even himself at the sudden change to his usual affable self. Taking a few deep breaths, he looks across the coffee pot, teacups and marmalade pot to his friend and continues in laboured syllables. “Look, we all need the bloody aspirins this morning, and they will get here when Mrs. Trevethan gets them to us. Alright, old boy?”

 

Gerald shrinks back in his seat, whilst both Margot and Lettice smirk at one another.

 

“I do like your bed jacket, Lettice darling.” Margot remarks. “It suits you. Did Gerald make it for you?”

 

“This?” Lettice pulls on the burnt orange brocade of her jacket, making the marabou feather trim quiver prettily about her pale face. “No. I actually bought this at Marshall and Snelgrove’s****** because I saw it and I liked the colour.”

 

“And what shall we do today?” Dickie asks the table, casting Gerald a warning look that makes Gerald think twice about saying that his head feels too poorly to do anything.

 

“Well,” Lettice remarks, turning around in her seat to peer through the French doors across the lawn and the windswept tree line. “It’s a fine day today. It might be nice to take advantage of the good weather and go exploring down along the cove.” She turns back. “That’s if no-one else has any other more appealing ideas of course.”

 

Margot smiles and starts nodding. “That sounds splendid, Lettice darling! You could bring your paints with you. There’s a rather nice vista featuring an old lighthouse that I know you would enjoy painting.”

 

“Capital idea, old girl!” Dickie agrees. “The bracing sea breeze will be a perfect way to dust off the fuzzy heads from last night.”

 

Gerald quietly sinks further back in his seat but says nothing.

 

At that moment, the door to the breakfast room creaks open and Mrs. Trevethan shuffles in, wearing the same rather tatty apron over another old fashioned Edwardian print dress of a rather muddy brown colour, carrying a silver tray on which she has several tumblers and a small jar of aspirin. When her eyes fall upon Lettice, she smiles broadly. “Metten daa******* Miss Chetwynd.” she says, dropping a bob curtsey.

 

“Good morning Mrs Trevethan.” Lettice replies.

 

The old woman shuffles across the room and around the oval breakfast table where she removes a glass and the jar of tablets and deposits them in front of Gerald. “Your aspirins, sir.”

 

Dickie gives him a knowing smile, and Gerald mutters a thank you in reply.

 

“I am sorry about the mess we made last night, Mrs, Trevethan.” Lettice apologises to the old Cornish woman as she places a glass tumbler on the table before her, feeling the heat of a fresh blush rising up her throat and into her cheeks as she speaks. “It really was an accident.”

 

“Oh!” scoffs the woman with a dismissive wave of her hand as if shooing a sand fly away. “That’s quite alright. It’s nice to have young people, any people, about the house again after so long. You did make a fine mess, but you cleaned it up pretty well.”

 

“Oh, that was Margot and Gerald’s doing, not mine.” she looks sheepishly to her two friends at either side of her at the table as she sips her orange juice. “I was quite shaken by the whole incident.”

 

“Well, that was quite a pile of things you brought down,” Mrs. Trevethan laughs as she looks down upon the slight girl before her. “Especially for one your size! But look at what hidden treasure you uncovered with it!”

 

“That’s true, Lettice old girl!” Dickie remarks. “If it weren’t for you, that Winterhalter might have sat there another century, evading would-be treasure hunters.”

 

“If it’s a Winterhalter, Dickie,” tempers Lettice. “It may not be. It may not be her.”

 

“Who?” Gerald asks, perplexed, passing Lettice the aspirin bottle after taking out two tablets for himself. “Winterhalter was a man.”

 

“The captain’s lost love of course, Gerald!” scoffs Lettice. “Don’t be dim.”

 

“Sorry, it’s the hangover.”

 

“Oh that’s Miss Rosevear in the painting,” Mrs. Trevethan remarks. “There is no doubt of that.”

 

Lettice eyes the old Cornish woman up and down. Even with her weather-beaten face and white hair indicating that she is of an advanced age, a quick calculation in her still slightly muffled head suggests that she cannot be so old as to have known the lady when the portrait was painted.

 

Mrs. Trevethan starts laughing again as she observes the changes on Lettice’s face, betraying her thoughts. “No dear, I’m not that old, but I still knew Miss Rosevear when I was young, and she was older, and even then, she was still a beauty. It’s her face make no mistake.”

 

“Really Mrs. Trevethan?” Margot gasps, sitting forward in her chair, her half finished cup of coffee held aloft as she sits in the older woman’s thrall. “How?”

 

“What was she like?” Lettice adds excitedly.

 

“Is there truth to the legend?” Dickie asks.

 

“Well, Mrs. Channon, I was a maid for the Rosevears when I was a girl and first went into service.” The old woman’s eyes develop a far away sheen as she reminisces. “Mr. Rosevear had a beautiful old manor about half-way between here and Truro. Burnt down now of course, but you can still see the ruins from the train, if you know where to look. There’s even an old halt******** where the house used to be: Rosevear Halt. My first ride on a train was taken from Rosevear Halt up to London when I was taken with a few of the other maids to clean Mr. Rosevear’s rented London house for the Season.”

 

“And Miss Rosevear?” Lettice asks with trepidation, hoping to glean information about the mysterious beauty in the painting and from the legend.

 

“Oh, Miss Elowen was the youngest of the three Rosevear daughters. They were all beautiful, but she was the loveliest, in my opinion anyway. She could dance and play the spinet, and she had a voice that could have charmed the angels from the heavens.” A wistful look crosses her face. “And she was blithe, or had been before my time at the house, I was told by some of the other maids. Her elder sisters were far more serious than she: set upon always wearing the most fashionable clothing and focussing upon good marriages, whereas the youngest Miss Rosevear, she just took life as it came to her without complaint. Although, she always had an air of sadness about her when I knew her.”

 

“Without complaint? What happened to her, Mrs. Trevethan?” Dickie asks, swept up in the tale as much as his wife and Lettice. “Why didn’t she marry my ancestor of sorts, the captain?”

 

“I don’t rightly know, sir, why she didn’t marry him. As I said, this all happened before my time with the Rosevears, but there were others amongst the older household staff who were witness to what happened, so I have some inkling. I think Mr. Rosevear took against the captain because,” Mrs. Trevethan pauses, lowering her eyes as she speaks. “And you’ll pardon me for speaking out of turn, sir.”

 

“Yes,” replies Dickie. “Go on.”

 

“Well, I think he took against the captain because he wasn’t a legitimate son of the Marquis of Taunton. The Rosevears were an old family you see, and well respected in the district. It might not have looked proper for someone of her family’s standing to marry the illegitimate son of the Marquis, even if he was a naval hero and well set up by his father. However,” She pauses again. “I don’t think things would have gone so badly for him, if it wasn’t for the other two Miss Rosevears.”

 

“What do you mean, Mrs, Trevethan?” asks Margot.

 

“Well, I said that Miss Elowen was the prettiest of all three, and I stand by that. Even when she was in her forties when I first met her, she had a look that could stop idle chatter in a room. Her two sisters weren’t so fortunate, and their looks had begun to fade by the time she met the captain, may God rest his soul. Miss Doryty, the eldest was ten years her little sister’s senior, and for all her plotting and planning for a good marriage, a good marriage never found her, nor her sister, Miss Bersaba. Miss Doryty was her father’s favourite as to look at one, you would like to see the other in appearance and temperament. I think she took against the captain because her little sister was likely to marry before her two siblings and Miss Doryty wasn’t going to have that any more than Miss Bersaba was. Miss Doryty was the eldest and felt it her right to marry first, and Miss Bersaba wanted Miss Doryty married off so that then she could get wed herself. Even when I worked for the Rosevears, both ladies still talked about her would-be suitors up in London, yet not a one ever materialised, and I never knew of them ever going to London. Miss Doryty always was bitter, and a bully. I think she swayed her father’s opinion on the captain. I also know, because I heard her say it often enough within my earshot, that she was of the opinion that it was Miss Elowen’s responsibility as the youngest daughter to care for her father and unmarried sisters into their dotage, since their mother had been in the churchyard many a year already.”

 

“And did she?” Lettice asks sadly, her hand rising to her mouth in upset.

 

“Like I said, Miss Chetwynd, Miss Elowen took whatever life dealt her with forbearance. She never complained, even though her sisters obviously treated her in a lesser way than they should their own kin.”

 

“And, she never married?” asks Margot.

 

“None of the Miss Rosevears did, Mrs. Channon. They lived alone in the Big House. I was still in service there after Mr. Rosevear died. The ladies continued to do good deeds in the district, and they used the house for tombolas and fetes to raise money for the poor. Then I met and married Mr. Trevethan and I had to leave the Rosevears’ service. I heard from friends who stayed on after I’d gone, that the house slowly fell into disrepair, but I was in Penzance with my own family, so I never went back to see for myself.”

 

“And you say there was a fire at the house?” Dickie asks.

 

“There was, sir.”

 

“How did it start, do you know?” continues Dickie.

 

“I couldn’t say for certain sir, but I’d imagine it started from a fallen log. The Rosevears had ever so many fireplaces without fireguards. It's why I won’t have Mr. Trevethan light a fire in any of the fireplaces here that don’t have fireguards. All you need is for a smouldering log to fall on a carpet, and before you know it… whoosh!” The old woman gesticulates dramatically interpreting the way of wild flames.

 

“And did Miss Rosevear die in the fire?” Margot asks. “How thrilling if she did.”

 

“And you say I love dramatics,” Gerald grumbles, looking at Dickie.

 

“What a terrible thing to say, my love.” Dickie looks at his wife with horrified eyes.

 

“Oh yes, but wouldn’t it be terrifically romantic?” gushes Margot in reply.

 

“None of the Rosevears died it the fire, Mrs. Channon. In fact, no one died in it, thank God! But the family lost a great deal of standing with the loss of the Big House and all its contents, and the sisters moved to Truro and lived in much reduced circumstances, I’m told. And that’s where they died. I don’t know who died first, Miss Bersaba or Miss Doryty, but my friend who used to help char for them after they moved to Truro said that the two elder sisters health declined dramatically, and Miss Elowen fulfilled the destiny predicted by her eldest sister, and she spent her life looking after her sisters.”

 

“Do you know if, after her sisters died, whether Elowen ever saw the captain again, Mrs. Trevethan?” Lettice asks tentatively.

 

“I can’t say for certain, Miss Chetwynd,” the old woman replies. “But almost certainly no, to my knowledge. Taking care of her sisters, Miss Rosevear became something of a recluse in Truro, and after Miss Doryty and Miss Bersaba had joined their parents in the churchyard, it was too late for Miss Elowen. She was set in her ways and lived as she had for many a year prior, alone and hidden from the world. The captain too. Mr. Trevethan and I only served him for about five years before he died, and he never left the property once during that time. He barely left the house. And I’d lived in Penzance my whole married life and we all knew about the sea captain in the house on the hill by the cove, and I never once heard of him coming to town. So, miss, I’d say he was much the same, a recluse. And so ends my tale.”

 

“Well, “ Dickie announces, releasing a pent up breath he didn’t realise he had been holding on to. “Thank you so much for sharing it with us, Mrs. Trevethan. I shall know who to come to the next time I want to know anything about local history.”

 

“I should be getting back now, sir. I have to reorganise that storeroom, and then there’s lunch to prepare.”

 

“Oh, we’ve decided to go down to the cove today so Miss Chetwynd can paint the landscape.” Margot announces with a smile. “Could you pack us a picnic luncheon to take with us, rather than having us eat it here, Mrs. Trevethan?”

 

“Oh, pur dha********* Mrs. Channon.” replies Mrs. Trevethan before dropping a quick bob curtsey and shuffling out through the breakfast room door again.

 

“Well, what a tragic tale!” enthuses Margot, taking up a slice of marmalade covered toast and taking a bite.

 

“Not so much tragic as just sad, my love.” Dickie replies.

 

“I say again,” Gerald grumbles. “You say I’m the one who loves drama.”

 

“Well you do, Gerald,” Lettice chimes in, stirring extra sugar into her almost forgotten cup of tea. “And we love you for it.” She assures him. “But I happen to agree with Margot. It is a tragic tale, more so than just sad. Sad is too… too…”

 

“Insipid?” Gerald offers.

 

“Thank you, Gerald. Yes, too insipid a word for it. The loss of youth and true love makes this a tragic tale.”

 

Dickie chuckles and shakes his head. “Well, I wouldn’t doubt that there was a little bit of wax lyrical about Mrs. Trevethan’s version of the story, as it would be with any local legend. However, what I think is important about the story is that it tells us exactly who the lady is in the Winterhalter painting. It gives us provenance, which makes it all the more valuable.”

 

“If it’s a Winterhalter, Dickie!” Lettice reminds him again. “It may not be.”

 

“Well, whether it is or it isn’t,” Margot adds in. “All this talk won’t get us out into this unseasonable sunshine and down to the cove so Lettice can paint the lighthouse. Let’s finish up breakfast and get ready to go out.”

 

*Morris Motors Limited was a privately owned British motor vehicle manufacturing company established in 1919. With a reputation for producing high-quality cars and a policy of cutting prices, Morris's business continued to grow and increase its share of the British market. By 1926 its production represented forty-two per cent of British car manufacturing. Amongst their more popular range was the Morris Cowley which included a four-seat tourer which was first released in 1920.

 

**The Bright Young Things, or Bright Young People, was a nickname given by the tabloid press to a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.

 

***Sardines is an active game that is played like hide and go seek — only in reverse! One person hides, and everyone else searches for the hidden person. Whenever a person finds the hidden person, they quietly join them in their hiding spot. There is no winner of the game. The last person to join the sardines will be the hider in the next round. Sardines was a very popular game in the 1920s and 1930s played by houseguests in rambling old country houses where there were unusual, unknown and creative places to hide.

 

****As a youth the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VIII and then Duke of Windsor) became a proficient player of the highland bagpipe, being taught by William Ross and Henry Forsyth. He frequently, until his later years, played a tune round the table after dinner, sometimes wearing a white kilt. He was also known to wake the guests at his house on the Windsor Great Park, Fort Belvedere, with a rousing rendition of a tune on the bagpipes.

 

*****Franz Xaver Winterhalter (1805 – 1873) was a German painter and lithographer, known for his flattering portraits of royalty and upper-class society in the mid-19th century. His name has become associated with fashionable court portraiture. Among his best known works are Empress Eugénie Surrounded by her Ladies in Waiting (1855) and the portraits he made of Empress Elisabeth of Austria (1865).

 

******Marshall & Snelgrove was an up-market department store on the north side of Oxford Street, London, on the corner with Vere Street founded by James Marshall. The company became part of the Debenhams group.

 

*******“Metten daa” is Cornish for “good morning”.

 

********A halt, in railway parlance in the Commonwealth of Nations and Ireland, is a small station, usually unstaffed or with very few staff, and with few or no facilities. A halt station is a type of stop where any train carrying a passenger is scheduled to stop for a given period of time. In Edwardian times it was not unusual for wealthy families with large houses close to the railway line to have their own halt stop for visiting guests or mail and other deliveries.

 

*********”Pur dha” is Cornish for “very good”.

 

Contrary to what your eyes might tell you, even though the food looks quite edible, this upper-class Regency country house domestic scene is actually made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The Royal Doulton style tea set featuring roses on the breakfast table came from a miniature dollhouse specialist on E-Bay, whilst the silver teapot on the left hand size of the picture comes from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom, as does the jam pot to the right of the toast rack. The toast rack, egg cruet set, cruet set and coffee pot were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The eggs and the toast slices come from miniature dollhouse specialists on E-Bay. The apples in comport on the centre of the table are very realistic looking. Made of polymer clay are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The comport in which they stand is spun of real glass and was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England as is the glass of orange juice on the table, the jug of orange juice and the bunch of roses on the sideboard at the back of the photograph. The remaining empty glass tumblers are all hand made of spun glass and came from a high street dolls’ specialist when I was a teenager.

 

The Queen Anne dining table, chairs and Regency sideboard were all given to me as birthday and Christmas presents when I was a child.

 

The fireplace in the background of the photo comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The two candelabra on it were made by Warwick Miniatures, and the Georgian Revival clock on the mantlepiece is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England. The vases came from a miniatures specialist on E-Bay.

 

All the paintings around the drawing room in their gilded or black frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States and Marie Makes Miniatures 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.

 

Lettice is sitting at her Hepplewhite desk next to the fire in her drawing room. Across it she has open a book of modern interpretations of folk art, a title that she has only recently picked up from her father’s favourite bookshop, Mahew’s* in Charing Cross Road. She has recently accepted a commission to redecorate the St. John’s Wood dining room of friends of hers, Charles and Minnie Palmerston, after Minnie papered the room in fashionable, but totally unsuitable, wallpaper. Charles and Minnie want a modern look to go with their modern art, so Lettice is hoping to gain some inspiration about wall treatments from the book. The colours and patterns she sees are beautiful, but nothing catches her eye as she flips though the pages. Suddenly her thoughts are interrupted by a noisy jangling.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

The telephone in the drawing room starts ringing.

 

Edith, Lettice’s maid looks through from the adjoining dining room where she is dusting. “That infernal contraption!” she mutters to herself.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“Oh Edith, be a brick and get that, would you.” Lettice calls sweetly to her maid, spying her through the open double doors.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“I think it would be better if you answered it, Miss.” Edith says doubtfully.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“Nonsense, it might be someone I might not want to be at home to. You answer it.” She waves her hand dismissively at the telephone and turns back to her book, before she continues to flip through it in a desultory fashion.

 

Edith walks in and up to the black japanned occasional table upon which the silver and Bakelite telephone continues to trill loudly.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“I know you don’t like it, Edith, but any household you work in will have one now, so you may as well get used to it.” Lettice says in a matter-of-fact way. “Just pick it up and answer it, Edith. “

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“I should pull your chord out next time I’m Hoovering.” Edith mutters. “Let’s hear you ring then!”

 

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!

 

Smoothing her suddenly clammy hands down the apron covering her print morning dress she answers with a slight quiver to her voice, “Mayfair 432, the Honourable Miss Lettice Chetwynd’s residence.” Her whole body clenches and she closes her eyes as she waits for the barrage of anger from some duchess or other titled lady, affronted at having to address the maid. A distant male voice speaks down the line. “Oh Mr. Spencely, how do you do. Yes, this is Edith, Miss Chetwynd’s maid.”

 

“Selwyn!” Lettice squeaks excitedly. She waves anxiously to catch Edith’s attention. “Bring it over here!” she hisses, gesticulating enthusiastically to her maid to drag the phone across the drawing room.

 

“Oh, I’m not sure, Mr. Spencley,” Edith says with a cheeky smile playfully curling up the corners of her mouth. “I’ll just check and see whether she is in.”

 

Edith walks over to Lettice’s desk slowly, swaying her hips as she goes, dragging the white and black houndstooth flex behind her.

 

“Oh you!” Lettice mouths as she takes the receiver from her maid’s hand as Edith puts the base of the telephone on the desk next to Lettice’s silver roller.

 

With her amusement over, Edith retreats quickly through the green baize door, back to the kitchen, to give her mistress the privacy she deserves.

 

“Selwyn darling!” Lettice exclaims down the receiver. “What a lovely surprise! How are you?”

 

“I’m fit as a fiddle my Angel,” Selwyn’s voice calls down the phone over the constant pop of crackling. “How are you?”

 

“Never better.”

 

“I say, I do hope I haven’t caught you at an inopportune moment.”

 

“No, no,” she assures him. “Not at all! As a matter of fact you’re a lovely distraction. I’ve just taken on a new commission to decorate my friend Minnie’s dining room, and nothing is inspiring me. Perhaps you’ll help inspire me.”

 

“Well that’s good, my Angel.” he replies, his voice crackling with static.

 

“I say, where are you, Selwyn darling? You sound rather faint. You’re not at your club, are you? This line is quite dreadful.”

 

The line falls silent for a few moments as Lettice holds her breath.

 

“I’m at Clendon**,” he finally answers laconically.

 

“Clendon?” She pauses. “You haven’t forgotten that Priscilla and Georgie’s wedding is on Wednesday***, have you? Are you going to drive down from Buckinghamshire to London?” When there is no reply to her questions, just the constant crackle of the line, Lettice asks again, “Are you sure you’re alright, Selwyn darling.”

 

“Listen my Angel, I have to tell you something.”

 

Lettice swallows awkwardly as her joyful mood at talking to Selwyn suddenly dissipates and a roiling starts twisting her stomach.

 

“I’m so sorry, Lettice darling, but I can’t attend the wedding with you like we’d planned.”

 

“What?” Lettice asks as she feels the colour drain from her face. “Not come?”

 

“No. You see, I’m afraid that Zinnia has made some alternate arrangements that I didn’t know about. My Uncle Bertrand and Aunt Rosalind, the Fox-Chavers, are visiting Clendon for a week, and they’ve brought their daughter, my cousin Pamela. She is going to debut next year, and, well, I’ve been charged by Zinnia to help chaperone Pamela in the 1923 Season. I haven’t seen her since we were children together, rather like you and I. Zinna has organised this week for us to get to know one another again, so that I can do my duty and be a good chaperone. I’m so sorry.”

 

Lettice feels the stinging in the backs of her eyes, as tears threaten to spill from her lids.

 

“Couldn’t you… couldn’t you just….”

 

“Look it’s no good, my Angel.” Selwyn cuts her off. “Zinnia has packed the week with all sorts of outings and excursions, luncheons and the like. You know there is nothing I would rather do than spend a wonderful afternoon with you, but you must understand, this is my duty. What kind of Duke will I be if I don’t fulfil my duties?”

 

As the dam breaks and the tears spill from her eyes and silently cascade down her cheeks, Lettice longs to ask Selwyn about his duty to her, but good breeding and an upbringing of etiquette doesn’t allow her to speak her unvoiced question.

 

“Of course.” she manages to utter in a strangled voice. “You must… you must do your duty to your cousin. You’re such a… such a gentleman,” The word feels hollow as she speaks it from her suddenly dry mouth. “So gallant. That’s one of the many reasons why I like you… Selwyn darling.” She tries to take a deep breath, but can only manage shallow ones, feeling as though she is wearing one of her pre-war whalebone corsets. “No wonder… Zinnia wants you to chaperone her. Who else in London society cold she trust when it comes to… to gentlemen?”

 

There is silence broken only intermittently by the crackling in the lines for a short while before Selwyn speaks again.

 

“Look, I know you’re disappointed….”

 

“It’s quite alright, Selwyn darling.” she cuts him off, glad that he is not before her now, where her face will give away the lie in her words and tone. “Don’t worry, I’ll get Gerald to escort me.”

 

The fact is that Gerald is a friend of Priscilla’s as well, and been invited to the wedding himself.

 

“Good old Bruton.” Selwyn replies with a sigh of relief. “Always so reliable.”

 

“Yes, he’s a good companion, and he… he always enjoys a good meal and some champagne at… at someone else’s expense.”

 

The words sound hollow as she speaks them down the line, even though the tone is a falsely cheerful one. Once again there is momentary silence.

 

“I promise I’ll make it up to you, my angel.” Selwyn says. “I really would rather be with you than Pamela, whom I barely know.” He sounds genuinely sad, although in her state of sudden disappointment, Lettice half wonders if she is imagining it, or willing it to be so. “As soon as this wretched week of entertaining is over, I’ll be back in London and we’ll have dinner. Simpson’s maybe?”

 

“Yes… yes that would be lovely, Selwyn darling.” She struggles to swallow. “You, you just let me know. I’m not going down to Glynes any time soon, and what with this new commission, I’ll be quite tied up here in London for ages.”

 

“That’s the spirit, my Angel!”

 

There is a whining call in the background at Selwyn’s end.

 

“Oh! That’s Zinnia!” There is a sudden urgency in his voice, almost as if he is frightened of getting caught out doing something wrong. “Look, I snuck into father’s study to make this call, and I’ve been missed. I really must go! I’ll speak to you next week, my Angel. Pip-pip****!”

 

“Pip-pip, then…” Lettice begins, yet already she is saying goodbye to nothing but dead air.

 

Deflated, Lettice hangs up the receiver in the cradle of the telephone where it makes a clunking, muffled ding. It is only then that she finally allows herself to vice her cries as she allows them to spill forth from within her, like the tears that dampen her cheeks as they run in rivulets down ger face.

 

*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.

 

**Clendon is the family seat of the Duke and Duchess of Walmsford in Buckinghamshire.

 

***Wednesdays were the most popular days for couples to get married in the 1920s. This is due to an old English wedding superstition very popular at the time. An auspicious rhyme from English folklore rules: “Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday best of all, Thursday for losses, Friday for crosses, Saturday for no luck at all”.

 

****Pip-pip, that particularly cheery of old-fashioned British farewells, is said to have been formed in imitation of the sound made by a car horn and first came into vogue in the early 1920s after the Great War.

 

For anyone who follows my photostream, you will know that I collect and photograph 1:12 size miniatures, so although it may not necessarily look like it, but this cluttered desk is actually covered in 1:12 size artisan miniatures and the desk itself is too. All are from my collection of miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Lettice’s Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair are beautifully and artfully made by J.B.M. miniatures. Both the bureau and chair are made of black japanned wood which have been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the arms of the chair and inside the bureau. The chair set has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven.

 

The book of folk art open on Lettice’s desk is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. It is a German edition called “Moderner Volkunst Zierat” (“Modern Folk Art Ornament”) by P. Siegel, consisting of ornament designs from the 1920s printed by the pochoir stencilling technique. You can see images of the illustrations faithfully reproduced in 1:12 size by Ken Blythe here: bibliodyssey.blogspot.com/2012/11/moderner-volkskunst-zie.... Most of the books I own that Ken Blythe 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 one of the books he has made. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into this volume, it contains twelve double sided pages of illustrations and it measures twenty-three millimetres in height thirty three millimetres in width and is only two millimetres thick. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just one of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame. The latter comes from Doreen Jenkins’ Small Wonders Miniatures in England, whilst the other two come from Melody Jane Dolls’ House, also in England. The photos themselves are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

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

 

Also on the desk, are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles, a roller, a blotter and a letter opener, 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 geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

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

 

Today however, we are just a short distance from Cavendish Mews, at Mr. Willison’s grocers’ shop. Willison’s Grocers in Mayfair is where Lettice has an account, and it is from here that Edith, Lettice's maid, orders her groceries for the Cavendish Mews flat, except on special occasions like the soirée that Lettice threw for Dickie and Margot Channon’s engagement, when professional London caterers are used. Mr. Willison prides himself in having a genteel, upper-class clientele including the households of many titled aristocrats who have houses and flats in the neighbourhood, and he makes sure that his shop is always tidy, his shelves well stocked with anything the cook of a duke or duchess may want, and staff who are polite and mannerly to all his important customers. The latter is not too difficult, for aside from himself, Mrs. Willison does his books, his daughter Henrietta helps on Saturdays and sometimes after she has finished school, which means Mr. Willison technically only employs one member of staff: Frank Leadbetter his delivery boy who carries orders about Mayfair on the bicycle provided for him by Mr. Willison. He also collects payments for accounts which are not settled in his Binney Street shop whilst on his rounds.

 

Lettice’s maid, Edith, is stepping out with Frank, and to date since he rather awkwardly suggested the idea to her in the kitchen of the Cavendish Mews flat, the pair has spent every Sunday afternoon together, going to see the latest moving pictures at the Premier in East Ham*, dancing at the Hammersmith Palais or walking in one of London’s many parks. They even spent Easter Monday at the fair held on Hampstead Heath***. Whilst Lettice is away in Cornwall selecting furniture from Dickie and Margot’s Penzance country house, ‘Chi an Treth’, to be re-purposed, Edith is taking advantage of a little more free time and has come to Willison’s Grocers under the pre-text of running an errand in the hope of seeing Frank. The bell rings cheerily as she opens the plate glass door with Mr. Willison’s name painted in neat gilt lettering upon it. Stepping across the threshold she immediately smells the mixture of comforting smells of fresh fruits, vegetables and flour, permeated by the delicious scent of the brightly coloured boiled sweets coming from the large cork stoppered jars on the shop counter. The sounds of the busy street outside die away, muffled by shelves lined with any number of tinned goods and signs advertising everything from Lyon’s Tea**** to Bovril*****.

 

“Miss Watsford!” exclaims Mr. Willison’s wife as she peers up from her spot behind the end of the return counter near the door where she sits doing her husband’s accounts. “We don’t often have the pleasure.”

 

Edith looks up, unnerved, at the proprietor’s wife and bookkeeper, her upswept hairstyle as old fashioned as her high necked starched shirtwaister****** blouse down the front of which runs a long string of faceted bluish black beads. “Yes,” Edith smiles awkwardly. “I… I have, err… that is to say I forgot to give Fr… err, Mr. Leadbeater my grocery list when he visited the other day.”

 

“Oh?” Mrs. Willison queries. “I could have sworn that we had it.” She starts fussing through a pile of papers distractedly. “That isn’t like you Miss Watsford. You’re usually so well organised.”

 

“Well,” Edith thinks quickly. “It… it isn’t really the list. It’s just that I left a few things off. Miss Chetwynd… well, you see she fancies…”

 

“Oh, well give me the additions, Miss Watsford,” Mrs. Willison thrusts out her hand efficiently, the frothy white lace of her sleeve dancing around her wrist. “And I’ll see to it that they are added to your next delivery. We don’t want the Honourable Miss Chetwynd to go without, now do we?”

 

With a shaky hand Edith reluctantly hands over her list of a few extra provisions that aren’t really required, especially with her mistress being away for a few days. As she does, she glances around the cluttered and dim shop hopefully.

 

“Will there be anything else, Miss Watsford?” Mrs. Willison asks curtly.

 

“Err… yes.” Edith stammers, but falls silent as she continues to look in desperation around the shop.

 

Mrs. Willison suspiciously eyes the slender and pretty domestic through her pince-nez*******. She scrutinises Edith’s fashionable plum coloured frock with the pretty lace collar. The hem of the skirt is following the current style and sits higher than any of Mrs. Willison’s own dresses and it reveals Edith’s shapely stockinged calves. She wears her black straw cloche decorated with purple silk roses and black feathers over her neatly pinned chignon. “Is that a few frock, Miss Watsford?” the grocer’s wife continues.

 

“Ahh, yes it is, Mrs. Willison. I made it myself from scratch with a dress pattern from Fashion for All********,” Edith replies proudly, giving a little twirl that sends her calf length skirt flaring out prettily, and Mrs. Willison’s eyebrows arching with disapproval as the young girl reveals even more of her legs as she does. “Do you like it?”

 

“You seem a little dressed up to run an errand here, Miss Watsford.” Mrs. Willison says with bristling disapprobation.

 

“Well, I… I err… I do have some letters to post too, Mrs. Willison,” Edith withdraws two letters from her wicker basket and holds them up in her lilac glove clad hand.

 

“Well, we mustn’t keep you from your errand, now must we, Miss Watsford? Now what else did you require before you leave?” the older woman emphasises the last word in her sentence to make clear her opinion about young girls cluttering up her husband’s shop.

 

“An apple.” Edith says, suddenly struck with inspiration. “I’d like an apple for the journey, Mrs. Willison.”

 

“Very good, Miss Watsford.” the older woman starts to move off her stool. “I’ll fetch…”

 

“No need, Mrs. Willison!” Frank’s cheerful voice pipes up as he appears from behind a display of tinned goods. “I’ll take care of Miss Watsford. That’s what I’m here for. You just stay right there Mrs. Willison. Right this way, Miss Watsford.” He ushers her with a sweeping gesture towards the boxes of fresh fruit displayed near the cash register.

 

“Oh Fran…” Edith catches herself uttering Frank’s given name, quickly correcting herself. “Err… thank you, Mr. Leadbetter.”

 

Mrs. Willison lowers herself back into her seat, all the while eyeing the pair of young people critically as they move across the shop floor together, their heads boughed conspiratorially close, a sense of overfamiliarity about their body language. She frowns, the folds and furrows of her brow eventuated. Then she sighs and returns to the numbers in her ledger.

 

“What are you doing here, Edith?” Frank whispers to his sweetheart quietly, yet with evident delight in his voice.

 

“Miss Lettice is away down in Cornwall on business, so I thought I’d stop in on my way through in the hope of seeing you, Frank.” She glances momentarily over her shoulder. “Then Mrs. Willison greeted me. I thought I was going to get stuck with the disapproving old trout and not see you.”

 

“The weather looks good for Sunday, Edith. It’s supposed to be sunny. Shall we go to Regent’s Park and feed the ducks if it is?”

 

“Oh, yes!” Edith clasps her hands in delight, her gloves muffling the sound. “Maybe there will be a band playing in the rotunda.”

 

“If there is, I’ll hire us a couple of deck chairs and we can listen to them play all afternoon in the sunshine.”

 

“That sounds wonderful, Frank.”

 

“Well,” pronounces Frank loudly as the stand over the wooden tray of red and golden yellow apples. “This looks like a nice juicy one, Miss Watsford.”

 

“Yes,” Edith replies in equally clear tones. “I think I’ll have that one, Mr. Leadbeater.”

 

“Very good, Miss Watsford. I’ll pop it into a paper bag for you.”

 

“Oh, don’t bother Fr… Mr. Leadbeater. I’ll put it in my basket.”

 

Frank takes the apple and walks back around the counter to the gleaming brass cash register surrounded by jars of boiled sweets. “That will be tuppence please, Miss Watsford.” He enters the tally into the noisy register, causing the cash draw to spring open with a clunk and the rattle of coins rubbing against one another with the movement.

 

Edith hooks her umbrella over the edge of the counter, pulls off her gloves and fishes around in her green handbag before withdrawing her small leather coin purse from which she takes out tuppence which she hands over to Frank.

 

“Here,” Frank says after he deposits her money and pushes the drawer of the register closed. He slides a small purple and gold box discreetly across the counter.

 

Edith gasps as she looks at the beautifully decorated box featuring a lady with cascading auburn hair highlighted with gold ribbons, a creamy face and décollétage sporting a frothy white gown and gold necklace. She traces the embossed gold lettering on the box’s lid. “Gainsborough Dubarry Milk Chocolates!”

 

“Can’t have my girl come all this way to see me and not come away with a gift.” Frank whispers with a beaming smile dancing across his face.

 

“Seeing you is gift enough, Frank.” Edith blushes.

 

“Ahem!” Mrs. Willison clears her throat from the other end of the shop. “Will they be going on the Honourable Miss Chetwynd’s account, Frank?” she asks with a severe look directly at her husband’s employee.

 

“Um… no Mrs. Willison. Don’t worry. I’ll be paying for them.” Frank announces loudly. Bending his head closer to Edith, he whispers, “I can see why Mr. Willison has her in here when he isn’t. You can’t get away with anything without her knowing: ghastly old trout.”

 

Edith giggles as she puts the small box of chocolates and the apple into her basket. “I’ll save them for Sunday.” she says with a smile. “We can share them whilst we listen to the band from our deckchairs.”

 

Frank smile broadens even more. “Righty-ho, Edith.”

 

“Righty-ho, Frank.”

 

“Well, as I was saying, Miss Watsford,” Mrs. Willison pronounces from her stool. “We mustn’t keep you from your errands. I’m sure you have a lot to do, and it is almost midday already.”

 

“Yes indeed, Mrs. Willison.” Edith agrees, unable to keep the reluctance out of her voice. “I really should be getting along. Well, goodbye Mr. Leadbeater. Thank you for your assistance.” She then lowers her voice as she says, “See you Sunday.”

 

Both Frank and Mrs. Willison watch as the young lady leaves the shop the way she came, by the front door, a spring in her step and a satisfied smile on her face, her basket, umbrella and handbag slung over her arm.

 

“Frank!”

 

Frank cringes as Mrs. Willison calls his name. Turning around he sees her striding with purpose behind the counter towards him, wending her way through the obstacle course of stacks of tins and jars of produce, hessian sacks of fresh vegetables and fruits and boxes of bottles.

 

“Yes, Mrs Willison?”

 

“Frank,” she says disappointingly. “I can’t stop you from stepping out with a girl in your own time,” She comes to a halt before him, domineering over him with her topknot, her arms akimbo. “And I’d say the Honourable Miss Chetwynd is foolishly modern enough to let you take her maid out on Sundays.” She looks at him with disapproving eyes. “However, I’d be much obliged if you kept your dalliances to your own time, and kindly keep them out of my husband’s establishment during business hours!”

 

“Yes Mrs. Willison!” Frank replies, sighing gratefully, now knowing that he isn’t going to be given notice for chatting with Edith during work hours.

 

“And I’ll make an adjustment to your wages this week for the chocolates.” she adds crisply.

 

“Yes Mrs. Willison.” Frank nods before hurrying away back to the stock room.

 

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

 

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

 

***Hampstead Heath (locally known simply as the Heath) is a large, ancient London heath, covering 320 hectares (790 acres). This grassy public space sits astride a sandy ridge, one of the highest points in London, running from Hampstead to Highgate, which rests on a band of London Clay. The heath is rambling and hilly, embracing ponds, recent and ancient woodlands, a lido, playgrounds, and a training track, and it adjoins the former stately home of Kenwood House and its estate. The south-east part of the heath is Parliament Hill, from which the view over London is protected by law.

 

****Lyons Tea was first produced by J. Lyons and Co., a catering empire created and built by the Salmons and Glucksteins, a German-Jewish immigrant family based in London. Starting in 1904, J. Lyons began selling packaged tea through its network of teashops. Soon after, they began selling their own brand Lyons Tea through retailers in Britain, Ireland and around the world. In 1918, Lyons purchased Hornimans and in 1921 they moved their tea factory to J. Lyons and Co., Greenford at that time, the largest tea factory in Europe. In 1962, J. Lyons and Company (Ireland) became Lyons Irish Holdings. After a merger with Allied Breweries in 1978, Lyons Irish Holdings became part of Allied Lyons (later Allied Domecq) who then sold the company to Unilever in 1996. Today, Lyons Tea is produced in England.

 

*****Bovril is owned and distributed by Unilever UK. Its appearance is similar to Marmite and Vegemite. Bovril can be made into a drink ("beef tea") by diluting with hot water or, less commonly, with milk. It can be used as a flavouring for soups, broth, stews or porridge, or as a spread, especially on toast in a similar fashion to Marmite and Vegemite.

 

******A shirtwaister is a woman's dress with a seam at the waist, its bodice incorporating a collar and button fastening in the style of a shirt which gained popularity with women entering the workforce to do clerical work in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries.

  

*******Pince-nez is a style of glasses, popular in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries, that are supported without earpieces, by pinching the bridge of the nose. The name comes from French pincer, "to pinch", and nez, "nose".

 

********”Fashion for All” was one of the many women’s magazines that were published in the exuberant inter-war years which were aimed at young girls who were looking to better their chances of finding a husband through beauty and fashion. As most working-class girls could only imagine buying fashionable frocks from high street shops, there was a great appetite for dressmaking patterns so they could dress fashionably at a fraction of the cost, by making their own dresses using skills they learned at home.

 

This cluttered, yet cheerful Edwardian shop is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Central to the conclusion of our story is the dainty box of Gainsborough Dubarry Milk Chocolates. This beautifully printed confectionary box comes from Shepherd’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Starting in the Edwardian era, confectioners began to design attractive looking boxes for their chocolate selections so that they could sell confectionary at a premium, as the boxes were often beautifully designed and well made so that they might be kept as a keepsake. A war erupted in Britain between the major confectioners to try and dominate what was already a competitive market. You might recognise the shade of purple of the box as being Cadbury purple, and if you did, you would be correct, although this range was not marketed as Cadbury’s, but rather Gainsborough’s, paying tribute to the market town of Gainsborough in Lincolnshire, where Rose Bothers manufactured and supplied machines that wrapped chocolates. The Rose Brothers are the people for whom Cadbury’s Roses chocolates are named.

 

Also on the shop counter is an apple which is very realistic looking. Made of polymer clay it is made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The brightly shining cash register, probably polished by Frank, was supplied by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. The cylindrical jars, made of real spun glass with proper removable cork stoppers which contain “sweets” I acquired as a teenager from an auction as part of a larger lot of miniature items. Edith’s lilac coloured gloves are made of real kid leather and along with the envelopes are artisan pieces that I acquired from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Edith’s green leather handbag I acquired as part of a larger collection of 1:12 artistan miniature hats, bags and accessories I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The umbrella comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom. Edith’s basket I acquired as part of a larger lot of 1:12 miniatures from an E-Bay seller in America.

 

The packed shelves you can see in the background is in fact a Welsh dresser that I have had since I was a child, which I have repurposed for this shot. You can see the dresser more clearly in other images used in this series when Edith visits her parent’s home in Harlesden. The shelves themselves are full of 1:12 artisan miniatures with amazing attention to detail as regards the labels of different foods. Some are still household names today. So many of these packets and tins of various foods would have been household staples in the 1920s when canning and preservation revolutinised domestic cookery. They come from various different suppliers including Shepherds Miniatures in the United Kingdom, Kathleen Knight’s Doll House in the United Kingdom, Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering and Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. Items on the shelves include: Tate and Lyall Golden Syrup, Lyall’s Golden Treacle, Peter Leech and Sons Golden Syrup, P.C. Flett and Company jams, Golden Shred and Silver Shred Marmalades, Chiver’s Jelly Crystals, Rowtree’s Table Jelly, Bird’s Custard Powder, Bird’s Blancmange Powder, Coleman’s Mustard, Queen’s Gravy Salts, Bisto Gravy Powder, Huntly and Palmers biscuits, Lyon’s Tea and Typhoo Tea.

 

In 1859 Henry Tate went into partnership with John Wright, a sugar refiner based at Manesty Lane, Liverpool. Their partnership ended in 1869 and John’s two sons, Alfred and Edwin joined the business forming Henry Tate and Sons. A new refinery in Love Lane, Liverpool was opened in 1872. In 1921 Henry Tate and Sons and Abram Lyle and Sons merged, between them refining around fifty percent of the UK’s sugar. A tactical merger, this new company would then become a coherent force on the sugar market in anticipation of competition from foreign sugar returning to its pre-war strength. Tate and Lyle are perhaps best known for producing Lyle’s Golden Syrup and Lyle’s Golden Treacle.

 

Peter Leech and Sons was a grocers that operated out of Lowther Street in Whitehaven from the 1880s. They had a large range of tinned goods that they sold including coffee, tea, tinned salmon and golden syrup. They were admired for their particularly attractive labelling. I do not know exactly when they ceased production, but I believe it may have happened just before the Second World War.

 

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

 

Golden Shred orange marmalade and Silver Shred lime marmalade still exist today and are common household brands both in Britain and Australia. They are produced by Robertson’s. Robertson’s Golden Shred recipe perfected since 1874 is a clear and tangy orange marmalade, which according to their modern day jars is “perfect for Paddington’s marmalade sandwiches”. Robertson’s Silver Shred is a clear, tangy, lemon flavoured shredded marmalade. Robertson’s marmalade dates back to 1874 when Mrs. Robertson started making marmalade in the family grocery shop in Paisley, Scotland.

 

Chivers is an Irish brand of jams and preserves. For a large part of the Twentieth Century Chivers and Sons was Britain's leading preserves manufacturer. Originally market gardeners in Cambridgeshire in 1873 after an exceptional harvest, Stephen Chivers entrepreneurial sons convinced their father to let them make their first batch of jam in a barn off Milton Road, Impington. By 1875 the Victoria Works had been opened next to Histon railway station to improve the manufacture of jam and they produced stone jars containing two, four or six pounds of jam, with glass jars first used in 1885. In around 1885 they had 150 employees. Over the next decade they added marmalade to their offering which allowed them to employ year-round staff, rather than seasonal workers at harvest time. This was followed by their clear dessert jelly (1889), and then lemonade, mincemeat, custard powder, and Christmas puddings. By 1896 the family owned 500 acres of orchards. They began selling their products in cans in 1895, and the rapid growth in demand was overseen by Charles Lack, their chief engineer, who developed the most efficient canning machinery in Europe and by the end of the century Chivers had become one of the largest manufacturers of preserves in the world. He later added a variety of machines for sorting, can making, vacuum-caps and sterilisation that helped retain Chivers' advantage over its rivals well into the Twentieth Century. By the turn of the century the factory was entirely self-sufficient, growing all its own fruit, and supplying its own water and electricity. The factory made its own cans, but also contained a sawmill, blacksmiths, coopers, carpenters, paint shop, builders and basket makers. On the 14th of March 1901 the company was registered as S. Chivers and Sons. By 1939 there were over 3,000 full-time employees, with offices in East Anglia as well as additional factories in Montrose, Newry and Huntingdon, and the company owned almost 8,000 acres of farms. The company's farms were each run independently, and grew cereal and raised pedigree livestock as well as the fruit for which they were known.

 

Founded by Henry Isaac Rowntree in Castlegate in York in 1862, Rowntree's developed strong associations with Quaker philanthropy. Throughout much of the Nineteenth and Twentieth centuries, it was one of the big three confectionery manufacturers in the United Kingdom, alongside Cadbury and Fry, both also founded by Quakers. In 1981, Rowntree's received the Queen's Award for Enterprise for outstanding contribution to international trade. In 1988, when the company was acquired by Nestlé, it was the fourth-largest confectionery manufacturer in the world. The Rowntree brand continues to be used to market Nestlé's jelly sweet brands, such as Fruit Pastilles and Fruit Gums, and is still based in York.

 

Bird’s were best known for making custard and Bird’s Custard is still a common household name, although they produced other desserts beyond custard, including the blancmange. They also made Bird’s Golden Raising Powder – their brand of baking powder. Bird’s Custard was first formulated and first cooked by Alfred Bird in 1837 at his chemist shop in Birmingham. He developed the recipe because his wife was allergic to eggs, the key ingredient used to thicken traditional custard. The Birds continued to serve real custard to dinner guests, until one evening when the egg-free custard was served instead, either by accident or design. The dessert was so well received by the other diners that Alfred Bird put the recipe into wider production. John Monkhouse (1862–1938) was a prosperous Methodist businessman who co-founded Monk and Glass, which made custard powder and jelly. Monk and Glass custard was made in Clerkenwell and sold in the home market, and exported to the Empire and to America. They acquired by its rival Bird’s Custard in the early Twentieth Century.

 

Queen’s Gravy Salt is a British brand and this box is an Edwardian design. Gravy Salt is a simple product it is solid gravy browning and is used to add colour and flavour to soups stews and gravy - and has been used by generations of cooks and caterers.

 

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

 

Huntley and Palmers is a British firm of biscuit makers originally based in Reading, Berkshire. The company created one of the world’s first global brands and ran what was once the world’s largest biscuit factory. Over the years, the company was also known as J. Huntley and Son and Huntley and Palmer. Huntley and Palmer were renown for their ‘superior reading biscuits’ which they promoted in different varieties for different occasions, including at breakfast time.

 

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

 

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

 

Today however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie. Lettice is visiting her old family home for the wedding of Leslie to Arabella, the daughter of their neighbours, Lord Sherbourne and Lady Isobel Tyrwhitt. Today is the big day, and as the weakening November sun rises in what is a remarkably sunny day for the bride and groom, Lettice will shortly join the guests to watch her brother and his future wife exchange vows at the chapel in Glynes village. Even now she can hear the chimes from the belfry ring across the rolling green undulations of Lettice’s father’s estate, calling the great and good of the village and the county to come and bear witness to the wedding of their future squire.

 

We find ourselves in Lettice’s boudoir at Glynes, a room which she considers somewhat of a time capsule now with its old fashioned Edwardian furnishings and mementoes of those halcyon pre-war summers. She hardly even considers it her room any more, so far removed is she from that giddy teenager who had crushes on her elder brothers’ friends and loved chintz covered furniture, floral wallpaper and sweet violet perfume. Lettice stands at the window of her bedroom, lolling against the dusky pink and pale green, slightly faded floral folded back curtains. Even as she stands there she can almost catch a whiff the violet perfume and hear her girlish whispers and giggles of yesteryear, like ghosts of a distant time and place. Beyond her in the great park, some stubborn traces of morning mist still loiter around a copse of trees, and the birds twitter in the topiaries and the parterre garden that lie beyond the sweeping gravel turning circle of driveway. Fingering the fine lace curtain that is always draped across the glass of her window, Lettice sighs. A pale, diffused light falls upon her face, the sunlight warming her cheeks. She closes her eyes, blocking out the cheerful golden gleam in the pale blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds tinged with pale grey and washed out ultramarine.

 

“Were you imagining the bells ringing for your wedding, Tice?” a voice interrupts her thoughts.

 

“Oh!” Lettice gasps, spinning around, dropping the curtain pulled back idly in her hands, releasing a myriad of dust motes tumbling into the sunlight streaming through the window. “Leslie! You startled me!”

 

“Sorry Tice.” her elder brother says, as he walks into the room.

 

“Look at you, my big brother,” Lettice smiles proudly. “All dressed up for his wedding day.”

 

“I feel ridiculously overdressed.” Leslie says, running a finger around the inside of his starched collar uncomfortably.

 

She walks up to Leslie and tweaks his bow tie that he has knocked awry with his fingering of his collar before taking a step back and taking in her handsome brother dressed in his new morning suit.

 

“You never did like dressing up for fancy occasions like Mamma’s Hunt Ball, did you, Leslie?” she asks.

 

“Never. Give me a tweed jacket and tie any day.”

 

“Oh no Leslie!” Lettice chides, not unkindly. “Not today. It’s your wedding day, and even our tenant farmers who would rather be in the comfort of their workaday clothes get dressed up for their wedding.”

 

“I feel…” he begins.

 

“Sshhh!” Lettice puts one of her elegantly manicured fingers to his lips to silence her brother. “Today isn’t really about you and your feelings, Leslie. It’s about Bella. And Bella would be so disappointed if you weren’t turned out as splendidly as you are.” She considers his appearance, as if seeing him for the first time. “You know, it’s a shame you don’t like getting dressed up. You really scrub up rather handsomely. I can see what Bella saw beneath all that tweed and houndstooth you habitually wear.”

 

“Need to wear, for estate business.” Leslie corrects his sister. “Imagine the distrust if I turned up at one of the estate farms or a meeting of the tenants dressed in something like this! They’d think I didn’t understand a thing about farming.”

 

“Well, today is not about farming.” Lettice replies kindly. “It’s about pomp and show from two of the county’s great families, and no-one does pomp quite as well as the Chetwynds and the Tyrwhitts.”

 

“Were you thinking about a wedding of your own just now, listening to the bells?” Leslie asks again.

 

“Me? No,” Lettice replies. “The bells aren’t tolling for me yet.” She brushes a stray piece of lint off his frock coat. “No,” she adds dreamily. “I was just thinking about how often before the war I used to stand at the window, longing to be in the wider world.”

 

“And now you’re a part of it.”

 

“Indeed.” Lettice muses contentedly. “I was considering how much has changed since then.”

 

“Ahh yes, those halcyon days before the war.” Leslie sighs.

 

“I think before the war was the last time we were all in the house together: you, me, Lally and Lionel, Mater and Pater. One big, happy family.”

 

Leslie scoffs. “Is that what we were?”

 

“No,” Lettice admits. “Lionel has always courted trouble and caused us pain, long before he had to go to Kenya in disgrace. Do you remember how much he enjoyed teasing Lally and I when we were children?”

 

“Relentlessly.” Leslie sighs. “Especially you. Yet you two are the closest in age and should have been best friends. He always did have a beastly, nasty streak.”

 

“And you had to come and defend us.”

 

“Endlessly! Kenya might agree with his health, but Lionel’s still as mean and nasty now as he was then.”

 

“Oh yes. I’m well aware of that. We all are. Even Mater and Pater are acutely aware of it since it’s been so nice doing without it for the last few years. Who will defend me now or hold me in a special place in his heart, now that you are getting married, and I will be usurped by Bella for your affections?”

 

“You’ll always have a special place in my heart, mon petite soeur!” Leslie laughs. “You of all people should know that! You’re my baby sister. Eldest brothers always have special places in their hearts for their little sisters. Anyway, I thought things were going well between you and Spencely.”

 

“Oh they are, they are.” Lettice says distractedly.

 

“Then surely there is a place in his heart, a special place, just for you.”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Lettice says as she turns away from her brother and walks over to the floral chaise lounge on which sit her new Harriet Milford made hat, her lemon yellow gloves and her matching handbag.

 

“You have doubts as to Spencely’s affections, Tice?” Leslie looks to his sister in concern.

 

“Oh no!” she assures him. “I’m sure he’s fond of me. It’s just…”

 

“Yes?” Leslie’s eyebrows arch over his questioning eyes.

 

“It’s just that I haven’t even met his parents yet. Surely you would think if he was serious about our romance and our future together that he would introduce me to his parents.”

 

“Have you asked him, Tice?”

 

“Several times, but Selwyn always dismisses it with a wave of his hand. He says I’ll get to meet them in the fullness of time. Surely after all these months, it’s time, even if we don’t get married yet. It’s a sign of intent.”

 

Leslie thinks for a moment. “The Duke and Duchess of Walmford.” He ponders. “I can’t say I know anything much about them, what with being buried in estate business. The social round is more Mater’s thing than mine.”

 

“Oh I can read all I want to in Debrett’s*, every bit as easily as Mamma can: names, dates of birth, clubs, lineage, pedigree. That isn’t meeting someone.”

 

“True.”

 

“I just have this nagging feeling in the back of my mind, and it curdles my stomach whenever I raise the moot point between us.”

 

“You don’t think he’s a bounder, do you? Spencely’s never struck me as being a cad. In fact, I always thought he was rather decent when it came to the ladies, especially when you consider that London’s society ballrooms are full of men like Lionel, whose predatory advances towards the fairer sex aren’t bundled off to Nairobi for society’s greater good like Pappa and Mamma did with him.”

 

“For all our good.” Lettice corrects him. She looks down at the oriental carpet beneath their feet, rich and exotic, yet also sadly worn and faded in places. A troubled look crosses her pale face. “It’s not actually Selwyn that troubles me. It’s his mother.”

 

“Lady Zinnia?”

 

“Yes. Do you remember her when we, well when I was little, and they used to come here for the hunt? You are ten years older than me. I can only vaguely remember a grumpy woman in black dragging Selwyn away from me after she caught us playing in the hedgerows together. Selwyn said that he received a dreadful tongue lashing from her, and there was no puddng for him that night. What was she like?”

 

“Well, it’s hard to say.”

 

“You don’t remember her?”

 

“Oh I do, but then you also have all the mythology about her wrapping around her and obscuring my memories of her.”

 

“What mythology, Leslie?”

 

“Oh just that she was a beauty of the age, a glacial, imperious beauty who was born to be the Duchess of Walmsford. I remember the photos of her in Mamma’s copies of The Tatler**, The Lady***, Country Life**** and Horse and Hound*****. Except for the latter she was always dressed in the most elegant gowns, dripping in diamonds, a tiara atop her head, entertaining the country’s great and good at one of their estates or another. It clouds what you remember.”

 

“Did she speak to you?”

 

“I’m sure she did. I can’t say as I remember, but I was only a teenage boy. She wouldn’t have been interested in me. My presence would barely have even registered with her.” He takes his right hand to his chin and rubs it with his index finger as he thinks. “Although one thing I do remember quite clearly about her was her laugh.”

 

“Well, that’s more than I remember Leslie. I just remember this sort of dull impressionistic like face screaming at me. What was it like that you remember it?”

 

“It was like breaking glass: not shrill, beautiful, but cruel. Now, when I think back on those occasions as an adult and being more worldly, if you can call working on the estate worldly, I think she flirted with men at the hunt a lot.”

 

“But she was married to the Duke then, wasn’t she?”

 

“The Duke didn’t always come, for whatever reason, and when he didn’t, she flirted with all the men, married or otherwise. I suppose being friends with Alice Keppel******, she was part of King Edward’s racy Sandringham set where flirtations, and more,” He blushes self-consciously. “Were de riguer*******. I think she liked being a great beauty and having men, all sorts of powerful and influential men, in her thrall.”

 

“And ladies?”

 

“I don’t seem to remember her spending a great deal of time with the ladies when she visited us. I don’t think she was a drawing room type, like Mamma is, dunking dry biscuits in tea and gossiping over embroidery. She liked witty people, men especially. I think the company of most women bored her as I don’t think she cared for gossip, especially not county gossip which she considered parochial. I remember she liked talking about politics and art: things as a young teenager I had no head for, and if I’m honest, I still don’t. I’m just your dull parochial country squire. Give me a cattle show or hunt meet over the Houses of Parliament any day.”

 

“Stop that Leslie!” Lettice admonishes him with a gentle slap to his forearm. “You’re a fine man. The world isn’t made up entirely of politicians and great thinkers. Bella’s lucky to have a man as loving, kind and caring as you.” She smiles at her brother. “But go on about Lady Zinnia.”

 

“Lady Zinnia.” Leslie thinks. “She was clever, and she enjoyed making the men laugh. Engaging with men was almost like a sport to her. Even when we went on the foxhunt, she was out in front with the men. She was an excellent horsewoman and could keep up with the head of the pack, even though she rode side-saddle. She was spirited. Yes,” Leslie nods. “That’s a good word for her. She was spirited. Why all this sudden interest in Lady Zinnia, Tice?”

 

“Because I think she is the problem between Selwyn and I, or at least the obstacle to us actually getting married and being happily together.” Lettice admits. “I don’t think she likes me, or she doesn’t approve of me.”

 

“But you just said yourself that she’s never met you, well not since you were a child. How can you say she doesn’t like or approve of you if she’s never met you as an adult?”

 

“I can’t quite pinpoint it, but that’s what I sense, Leslie.”

 

“That’s a very grave allegation, Tice.” Leslie’s face clouds over. “What proof do you have?”

 

“I don’t have any, really,” Lettice admits guiltily. “But it’s just something I feel, here in the pit of my stomach. It’s like a canker, sitting there.”

 

“You must have more to go on than that in order to feel this way, surely Tice.”

 

“Well, take today for example. I asked Selwyn to come, but apparently his family is entertaining his Uncle Bertram and Aunt Rosalind, the Fox-Chavers, at their Scottish estate, Kenmarric.”

 

“Well to be fair, Tice, if he hasn’t made formal overtures of marriage, it’s really not appropriate for him to attend as your guest. Besides it is partridge season, Tice.”

 

“Yes, I know.” Lettice admits with a huff. “But it seems that whenever we seem to be making a bit of progress, plan something special beyond a dinner or a picnic, something always comes up.” She rubs a worn patch of the rug distractedly at her feet with the toe of her golden yellow leather shoe. “And it usually involves his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers.”

 

“I’ve not heard of her.”

 

“She hasn’t been presented yet. Apparently, she debuts next year. There is to be a rather grand coming out ball for her in London at the Cecil********. She’s young and pretty from what I’ve gathered.”

 

“Tice! Tice!” Leslie puts his hands firmly on Lettice’s sunken shoulders, squeezing them comfortingly through the lemon satin capped sleeves of the frock Gerald made for her for the wedding. She looks up into her brother’s face unhappily. “It sounds to me like you’re making something up out of… well, where there is nothing.”

 

“I knew you’d say that, Leslie.” Lettice pouts as she sticks her toe into the silk of the rug.

 

“Don’t do that, or you’ll wear a hole in it. As the future master of Glynes and all the expenses that go with it, I don’t want to have to replace the carpet unnecessarily.”

 

“Oh no,” Lettice stops rubbing the carpet and looks back into her brother’s face, a sudden steeliness replacing the soft and teary vulnerability in her eyes a moment ago. “I want you to promise me that when you inherit Glynes, one of the first things you will do is let me redecorate my boudoir.” She looks around her at the Eighteenth Century floral wallpaper, the heavy Art Nouveau dressing table, the chintz chaise lounge. “Mamma keeps this room as a mausoleum. It’s like by keeping it exactly as I left it before the war, the more obliging, more obsequious, less irritating, less outspoken Lettice of my teenage years will come back. But she won’t! Do you know that none of those photos on the chimneypiece, except perhaps the one of Nanny Webb and I, are my photos in here? I took all mine to London when I moved there. Mamma put these in here to fill the space. She even put that one of me as a flower girl at Lally’s wedding in pride of place on that table, just to remind me of what a dutiful daughter I was. There is nothing of me in this room now. Nothing!”

 

“Alright, Tice,” Leslie chuckles. “I agree. But only if you’ll put these silly ideas of Lady Zinnia trying to come between you and Spencely out of your mind.” He looks earnestly at her. “It’s not uncommon for an older male cousin to escort his younger female cousin to functions and social engagements prior to her coming out. This, what’s her name?”

 

“Pamela,” Lettice spits. “Pamela Fox-Chavers.”

 

“Pamela will benefit from knowing someone at the balls and other functions of the Season that she is to attend. As I said before, Spencely strikes me as a good egg when it comes to the ladies, so he’ll help keep her safe, advise her about the SITs and NSITs*********, and probably stop her from getting into mischief. Don’t get jealous of a girl whom you don’t even know, and whom I’m sure you’ve no reason to be jealous of. You tell me I’m handsome and smart, well,” He spins her around to face a full length cheval mirror where she can see her reflection. “Look at yourself. You are beautiful and petite. You are smart. You live your own life up in London, away from Mater and Pater, which is more than a lot of girls of your age and background have. And you have a very successful business, which you created – no-one else. Think on that the next time you go to give me a compliment. You’re the most successful of all of us. Lionel lives as a rake in disgrace in Nairobi where he can do no harm other than drink too much gin or race a few thoroughbreds that really aren’t ready to be raced. Lally is married to a nice, if dull chap, and has brought forth a few progeny to carry on Charles’ line. I’ll inherit this old pile of bricks and pray I can weather the storm and keep it all going so that one of Bella’s and my progeny can take over when I’m gone. But you, you leave a legacy of beautiful interiors that are your own distinctive style. You influence taste and fashions. You are one of those Bright Young Things********** the papers are full of, and whom the world will talk about long after I’m buried and forgotten in that churchyard.” He points out the window, across the undulating hill to where the sound of the bells is coming from.

 

“Do you really think that, Leslie?” Lettice asks.

 

“Well of course I do, Tice.” he concurs. “We all do. Well, maybe not Mamma, and certainly not Lionel. But Lally, Father, Bella and I do, so we outnumber them. Nigel, Isobel and Sherbourne too. We’re all so proud of you. Even Mamma, though she would rather eat a pound of nails than say it, must have at least some unexpressed admiration for what you do and what you’ve achieved, Tice.”

 

“Leslie! Leslie there you are, old boy! Come on!” Lionel’s unusually suntanned face and sun bleached sandy blonde hair poke around the frame of Lettice’s dressing room door. “Oh, morning, Lettuce Leaf.” He nods to his little sister as an afterthought.

 

Lettice cringes at the use of her most hated childhood nickname, which is tolerable, or even amusing on occasion when said by her best friend Gerald, but like poison spat at her when it comes from her hated sibling.

 

“Look I hate to break this tender moment of sibling bonding between you two up.” Their brother sneers mockingly at them from beneath his mean sun blonde pencil moustache, mischief in his cold, glinting eyes. “I mean, it really is charming and all, but I’d like to remind you Leslie, that the car is waiting downstairs and the bells toll. Listen, can’t you hear them?” Dressed in his morning suit with a boutonniere of a white rose and some Queen Anne’s lace sticking from his lapel, he poses dramatically, lolling against the doorframe, a hand held to his ear as he perks up and peers through Lettice’s window into the bright morning beyond.

 

“Bugger off Lionel, you pillock!” growls Leslie warningly. “You’re only here for a few days. Pray you don’t leave with broken teeth.”

 

“Alright!” Lionel holds up his hands in defence. “Don’t shoot, or punch me.” He sneers again. “I’m just the messenger. Mater and Pater are downstairs with your best man, Leslie, and he’s getting anxious that his sister is going to arrive at the church to get married before you two do. The olds are trying to placate him, so I’d shake a leg and get a move on, if I were you.”

 

Smiling smarmily, Lionel slinks away, leaving Lettice and Leslie alone again.

 

“Look, I have to go, but, but we’ll talk later, Tice, alright?” Leslie assures his sister.

 

“No we won’t,” Lettice says, smiling sadly and reaching up to her favourite brother’s boutonniere, running her fingers along the soft silken petal of the white rose buds. “Not today at any rate.” She pats his arm comfortingly. “We both may hate Lionel, but even though I’d rather eat a pound of nails than say it, he’s right. The bells are chiming, and you’re getting married. I can’t hold you up from the most important moment of your life, and Bella would never speak to me again if I did. Off you go.”

 

“Tice,” Leslie begins, a hundred unfinished thoughts catching in his voice.

 

“I’ll be alright. I have Gerald to escort me this afternoon.” She smiles as she sees a mixture of anxiety and excitement in his eyes. “Just tell Mamma I’m fixing my hat and I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

 

“Alright, Tice.” He starts to leave. “I’ll see you in the chapel then.”

 

“Just try and stop me,” she replies with a smile. “It isn’t every day my big brother gets married. Now go, before Nigel has an aneurism on the drawing room carpet.”

 

With the pattering of hurried footsteps, Leslie disappears around the frame of the door and runs down the hall.

 

Lettice picks up her hat and walks over to her dressing table where she withdraws one of the long hatpins in the container standing on its surface. Carefully positioning her pretty lemon yellow straw hat with organza and artificial flower decoration against her straw yellow blonde chignon and affixes it with the hatpin. She listens to the crisp sound of the pin piercing the straw of her hat and feels the pin slide through the back of her hair. She tugs the brim gently, just to make sure her millinery is firmly in place and sighs as she considers her reflection. She admires her figure, expertly encased in the pale yellow satin frock with the Peter Pan collar*********** Gerald has made for her for the wedding. The two strings of perfect graduating creamy white pearls her parents gave her for her coming of age sit across her collar bones and a corsage of white roses sits daintily on her wrist.

 

Satisfied, she wanders back to the window and looks down. Through the lace scrim, she can see Nigel Tyrwhitt, Leslie’s bride-to-be’s brother and his best man, walk across the gravel towards her father’s Daimler, followed closely by Leslie. The two talk, but with the window closed and being two storeys up, Lettice can’t hear what they are saying, but she catches a waft of their laughter through the glass and knows that whatever they are saying, they are very happy that Leslie is about to marry Arabella. In the distance, the Glynes Church of England chapel bells peal, beckoning guest to enter to witness the marriage of Arabella Tyrwhitt, only daughter of Lord Sherboune and Lady Isobel Tyrwhitt to Leslie Cheywnd, son and heir of the Viscount and Viscountess of Wrexham, forever enmeshing two of the county’s great families.

 

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

 

**Tatler is a British magazine published by Condé Nast Publications focusing on fashion and lifestyle, as well as coverage of high society and politics. It is targeted towards the British upper-middle class and upper class, and those interested in society events.

 

***The Lady is one of Britain's longest-running women's magazines. It has been in continuous publication since 1885 and is based in London. The magazine was founded by Thomas Gibson Bowles (1842–1922), the maternal grandfather of the aristocratic and controversial Mitford sisters. Bowles also founded the English magazine Vanity Fair. He gave the Mitford girls' father (David Freeman-Mitford, Second Baron Redesdale) his first job: general manager of the magazine. Early contributors included Nancy Mitford and Lewis Carroll, who compiled a puzzle for the title

 

****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.

 

*****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.

 

******Alice Frederica Keppel was a British society hostess and a long-time mistress and confidante of King Edward VII. Keppel grew up at Duntreath Castle, the family seat of the Edmonstone baronets in Scotland. She was the youngest child of Mary Elizabeth, née Parsons, and Sir William Edmonstone, 4th Baronet. In 1891 she married George Keppel, an army officer, and they had two daughters. Alice Keppel became one of the best society hostesses of the Edwardian era. Her beauty, charm and discretion impressed London society and brought her to the attention of the future King Edward VII in 1898, when he was still Prince of Wales, whose mistress she remained until his death, lightening the dark moods of his later years, and holding considerable influence. Through her younger daughter, Sonia Cubitt , Alice Keppel is the great-grandmother of Queen Camilla, the former mistress and second wife of King Edward VII's great-great-grandson King Charles III.

 

*******In French, de rigueur means "out of strictness" or "according to strict etiquette"; one definition of our word rigor, to which rigueur is related, is "the quality of being strict, unyielding, or inflexible." In English, we tend to use de rigueur to describe a fashion or custom that is so commonplace within a context that it seems a prescribed, mandatory part of it.

 

********The Hotel Cecil was a grand hotel built 1890–96 between the Thames Embankment and the Strand in London, England. It was named after Cecil House, a mansion belonging to the Cecil family, which occupied the site in the Seventeenth Century. The hotel was the largest in Europe when it opened, with more than eight hundred rooms. The proprietor, Jabez Balfour, later went bankrupt and was sentenced to 14 years in prison. The Royal Air Force was formed and had its first headquarters here in the former Hotel Cecil in 1918. During the 1920s, it was one of the most fashionable hotels in London and was filled with flappers and young men, representing the spirit of the Jazz Age. The hotel was largely demolished in 1930, and Shell Mex House now stands on its site.

  

*********SIT is the acronym for “safe in taxis” and NSIT is the acronym for “not safe in taxis”. These acronyms were used by debutantes and their mothers to refer to young men who could and couldn’t be trusted to escort a debutante home in a taxi without getting handsy. Some aristocratic mothers with daughters of a marriageable age being introduced into society kept a list of these young men and the debutantes themselves would avoid them.

 

**********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.

  

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

 

Contrary to popular belief, fashion at the beginning of the Roaring 20s did not feature the iconic cloche hat as a commonly worn head covering. Although invented by French milliner Caroline Reboux in 1908, the cloche hat did not start to gain popularity until 1922, so even though this story is set in that year, picture hats, a hangover from the pre-war years, were still de rigueur in fashionable society and whilst Lettice is fashionable, she and many other fashionable women still wore the more romantic picture hat. Although nowhere near as wide, heavy, voluminous or as ornate as the hats worn by women between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the Great War, the picture hats of the 1920s were still wide brimmed, although they were generally made of straw or some lightweight fabric and were decorated with a more restrained touch.

 

This pretty and very feminine Edwardian boudoir may appear like something out of a historical house display, but it is in fact part of my 1:12 miniatures collection and includes items from my childhood, as well as those I have collected as an adult.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Lettice’s yellow straw hat decorated with ornamental flowers, fruit and organza. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism such as these 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 maker of this hat is unknown, but it is part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. Lettice’s lemon yellow purse is also an artisan piece and is made of kid leather which is so soft. It is trimmed with very fine braid and the purse has a clasp made from a piece of earring. The matching lemon yellow gloves are made from the same soft kid leather. They came as a set from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The floral chintz chaise lounge with its scalloped end comes from Crooked Mile Cottage miniatures in America, whilst the dainty fringed footstool with its tiny rose and leaf pattern ribbon was hand upholstered by an artisan in England.

 

The silver dressing table set on the dressing table, consisting of mirror, brushes and a comb, as well as the tray on which the perfume bottle stand has been made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

On the silver tray there is a selection of sparkling perfume bottles, which are handmade by an English artisan for the Little Green Workshop. Made of cut coloured crystals set in a gilt metal frames or using vintage cut glass beads they look so elegant and terribly luxurious. The faceted pink glass perfume bottle, made from an Art Deco bead came with the dressing table, which I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop.

 

The dressing table chair did not come with the dressing table, although it does match nicely. Upholstered in a very fine pink satin, it was made by the high-end dolls’ house miniature furniture manufacturer, Bespaq.

 

The plaster fireplace and its metal grate come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The fire pokers and bellows I have had since I was a teenager and come from a high street stockist who specialised in dolls houses and doll house miniatures.

 

The Chetwynd family photos seen cluttering the mantlepiece are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are almost all from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each.

 

The porcelain clock on the mantlepiece is made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. The other vases in the room, except for the one containing the irises come from various online miniatures stockists.

 

Made of polymer clay that are moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements, the very realistic looking blue irises are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The vase they stand in is a 1950s Limoges vase – one of a pair. Both are stamped with a small green Limoges mark to the bottom. These treasures I found in an overcrowded cabinet at the Mill Markets in Geelong. The pink roses on the dressing table and the cream roses on the round Regency occasional table come from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The tall Dutch style chest of drawers to the far right of the photo was one of the first pieces of miniature furniture I ever bought for myself. I chose it as payment for several figures I made from Fimo clay for a local high street toy shop when I was eight years old. All these years later, I definitely think I got the better end of the deal!

 

The oriental rug is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug and has been machine woven. The wallpaper is an Eighteenth Century chinoiserie design of white camellias. All the paintings on Lettice’s boudoir walls come from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers 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 northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid, is paying her usual weekly call on her beloved parents. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden as a Line Manager, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home. They live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street, and is far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s Mayfair flat, but has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith. Usually even before she walks through the glossy black painted front door, Edith can smell the familiar scent of a mixture of Lifebuoy Soap, Borax and Robin’s Starch, which means her mother is washing the laundry of others wealthier than she in the terrace’s kitchen at the rear of the house. Yet with her father’s promotion in 1922, Edith’s mother is only laundering a few days a week now. The money she makes from this endeavour she uses for housekeeping to make she and George’s life a little more comfortable, but she is able to hold a little back as pin money* to indulge in one of her joys, collecting pretty china ornaments to decorate their home with.

 

We are in Ada’s front parlour, which is where most of her decorative porcelain finds from different shops, fairs and markets around London are proudly displayed. With busy stylised floral wallpaper and every surface cluttered with ornaments, it can only be described as Victorian in style and it is an example of conscious consumption, rather than qualitative consumption, to demonstrate how prosperous the Watsford family is. Like many others of its kind in Harlesden and elsewhere in London, it is the room least used in the house, reserved for when special guests like the parish minister or wealthy old widow Mrs. Hounslow pay a call. Yet in spite of that, the front parlour’s clutter needs cleaning and dusting, and Edith is helping her mother do so today, all the while regaling her with the story about Lettice’s newest gadget, the wireless.

 

“Oh Mum!” Edith gushes enthusiastically, waving her dust cloth around animatedly. “It was amazing! It’s like having a whole band inside a little box!”

 

“As good as listening to the brass bands that play in the rotunda at King Edward VII’s Park**, Edith love?” Ada asks in amazement.

 

“Every bit as good as them, or the ones in Regent Park, Mum.”

 

“Well I never!” Ada pauses dusting a brightly painted bust of Queen Victoria on the parlour’s sideboard with her feather duster as she contemplates such a contraption. “Fancy that! A band in a box!” she gasps. “And you say it isn’t run by electricity then, Edith love?”

 

“No, it has a battery inside. That’s why it’s called a wireless, Mum.”

 

“Well, what won’t they think of next!”

 

“And the British Broadcasting Company*** plays news as well as music, every day.”

 

“Even on Sundays?”

 

“Even on Sundays, Mum. Miss Lettice says that I’m allowed to listen to it when I’m dusting the drawing room.”

 

“That’s very generous of Miss Chetwynd, Edith. I hope you said thank you to her.”

 

“Oh I did, Mum, but,” Edith pauses for a moment before continuing on a little more disappointedly. “Well, the broadcasts aren’t usually playing when I’m cleaning in there as it’s far too early. They only broadcast for a few hours a day, but Mr. Spencely, that’s Miss Lettice’s chap, says that will change once the wireless catches on. Besides, I don’t see why I can’t listen to it when Miss Lettice is out visiting or down in Wiltshire. What’s the harm?”

 

“Lucky Miss Chetwynd, and lucky you then, Edith love.”

 

“I didn’t think I’d take to it at first. We have enough contraptions in the flat, what with that awful telephone thing ringing away loudly day and night like the devil that it is.” Edith nods dourly.

 

“Well, those telephone contraptions are unnatural!” Ada frowns disapprovingly.

 

“That’s what I say, Mum.”

 

“Who needs a machine to talk into when it’s every bit as easy to send a postcard**** to convey your message? Not that it will because it’s just a toy for the toffs,” Ada scoffs. “But were that telephone thing ever to catch on, it would do our poor mailmen out of jobs.”

 

Edith looks across at where her mother, having picked up the feather duster, is cleaning again. As well as the bust of Queen Victoria there are commemorative plates marking the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria in 1897, coronation of King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra in 1902 and King George V and Queen Mary in 1911, as well as a plate featuring King Edward VII which was present from her Aunt Maude to her mother when she took a holiday to Folkstone. “I wonder what she would think of it?”

 

“Who?” Ada asks, pausing and looking across at her daughter, dusting cloth in hand over the tea table.

 

“The old Queen, Mum. I wonder what she’d make of the wireless.”

 

“I wonder what the old Queen would make about a lot of things from the Twentieth Century.” Ada replies. “The world has changed so much, even in the last twenty-two years since she has been gone, god rest her soul. There’s motorcars and lorries replacing horse drawn carriages and carts, and electricity being used more often and by more people these days.”

 

“Not that you have it here, Mum.” Edith adds cheekily, pointing to the three burner gasolier overhead.

 

“I should hope not! It’s unnatural, just like the telephone.” Her eyes grow wide. “I’ll stick with what I know, thank you very much.”

 

“Well, I use electricity at Miss Lettice’s, and I did at Mrs. Plaistow’s, and it hasn’t done me any harm.”

 

“So you think!” Ada wags the feather duster at her daughter, a shower of dust motes flying angrily from her agitation, tumbling through the air of the parlour between them. “You don’t know yet. Some of these things take time to show any ill effects.” She sighs. “But I hope for your sake, not. But going back to the old Queen and the music in a box, I’d like to think she’d like it.”

 

“Do you think, Mum? She was such an old lady.”

  

“She wasn’t always an old lady, you know, Edith love! Like all of us, she was young once, too.”

 

“It’s hard to believe.”

 

“That’s because you were still a babe in nappies, not even one, when she died, so all you know are images of her late in life. Even when I was young, the Queen was still a distant figure, although she was popular around the time of her Diamond Jubilee. But you listen to my Grandma, your Great Grandma, and she’d tell you different. Before her husband died, the Queen was ever so interested in new things. She used to take the train, when it was new and experimental, all over the country, and she took up photography when it was new. So why shouldn’t she have been interested in the wireless box. Tell me, is it easy to operate?”

 

“Oh yes Mum!” Edith assures her mother. “There is a knob to turn it on or off, a knob to adjust the volume, and a knob to tune it in, but once you have the radio station, you don’t need to tune it again. It does make a nasty noise when you first turn it on, but that’s only because it has valves inside and they have tow arm up. That only takes a minute or two, and then you have beautiful music, or news reports or whatever.”

 

“Well, it does sound splendid, Edith love.”

 

“Frank says that eventually everyone will have a wireless.”

 

“Does he now, Edith love?” Ada says with a snort and a doubtful smile.

 

“He does, Mum!”

 

“He sounds like a bit of a dreamer, does your Frank.” Ada replies. “Not that there is anything wrong with having dreams, mind you. We all have to dream of something.”

 

“Yes but Frank says that now is the time for the working man, and woman too.”

 

“I say, Edith love,” Ada asks in a worried voice. “He’s not one of those Communists is he? You know, overthrow the King and government and create anarchy like they did in Russia with the poor Tsar?”

 

“No Mum!” Edith laughs. “Like I’d step out with a Communist. No, Frank just thinks with all the new inventions being developed, wages increasing and things getting a bit more affordable for everyone, that it’s a better time to be a working person.”

 

“Well, I have to agree that things are getting better for us as working people. We live better quality lives, but I don’t think it is ‘our time’ as you say he says. This wireless thing may be wonderful, but it’s a rich man’s toy, just like the telephone contraption.”

 

“He believes in the emancipation of women, Mum.” Edith adds hopefully.

 

“Ahh, now on that point I think your Frank and I agree. Which is more than can be said for her.” Ada taps the crown on the bust of Queen Victoria. “I’m glad your Frank believes in the vote for all of us. Let’s hope it happens in both our lifetimes.*****”

 

The two ladies carry on dusting in silence for a short while before Ada asks, “Thinking of Frank, are you any closer to meeting his grandmother?”

 

“I did mention it to Frank when we went down to the Angel down in Rotherhithe on New Year’s Eve, Mum.”

 

“And what did he say, Edith love?”

 

“Well, he told me that he’s told her about me.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“He says that she might be a bit jealous of me usurping her.”

 

“Usurping her? What on earth does that mean, Edith love?” Ada asks in alarm. “It sounds like you’re trying to hurt her!”

 

“It means to take the place of someone.” Edith replies proudly. “Frank taught me that.”

 

“Did he indeed.” Ada cocks an eyebrow.

 

“Anyway, once she’s adjusted herself to the idea of me being in Frank’s life, he’ll ask me around for tea at her house in Upton Park.”

 

“And when’s that likely to be?” Ada asks with concern.

 

“In a few weeks Frank says.” Edith replies brightly. “She’s apparently already starting to come around to the idea.”

 

“Well that is good to hear, Edith love. I respect that your Frank wants to do things properly and introduce you to his family first, but your Dad and I are most anxious to meet him, you know.”

 

“Patience Mum! If I can wait, you can too. It will happen soon enough.”

 

“Enough of your cheek, young lady!” Ada retorts playfully. “I’ve the patience of a saint managing you and your brother when you were little!”

 

“We weren’t that bad, were we Mum?”

 

“Don’t you believe it! Your brother wanted to do anything his big sister did.” Ada chuckles, looking at the two family photos on the mantlepiece: one with George and Ada and Edith and one with the three of them and Edith’s little brother, Bert. Suddenly, she gasps. “I almost forgot! I got a letter from your brother the other day. It’s on the mantle in the kitchen. Goodness knows I’d forget my head if it weren’t screwed on!” She taps her head lightly three times with her fist. “It says he should be home soon, and he says he’s got something for you from his travels. Come on, Edith love. It’s time we had a nice cup of tea anyway. Let’s go read it over a pot, eh? Then we’ll come back and finish the dusting.”

 

Edith and Ada both put down their cleaning tools and laughing and continuing to chat jovially, they walk out of the front parlour and head down the short corridor to the kitchen at the back of the house.

 

*Originating in Seventeenth Century England, the term pin money first meant “an allowance of money given by a husband to his wife for her personal expenditures. Married women, who typically lacked other sources of spending money, tended to view an allowance as something quite desirable. By the Twentieth Century, the term had come to mean a small sum of money, whether an allowance or earned, for spending on inessentials, separate and in addition to the housekeeping money a wife might have to spend.

 

**King Edward VII Park is a large park in Willesden between Uffington Road, All Souls Avenue and Doyle Gardens. It features a large recreational ground, a sports ground, a rotunda, and although now gone, had one of London’s most popular lidos, an outdoor pool, which opened in 1911, with the adjoining chalet café.

 

***The British Broadcasting Company, as the BBC was originally called, was formed on the 18th of October 1922 by a group of leading wireless manufacturers including Marconi. Daily broadcasting by the BBC began in Marconi's London studio, 2LO, in the Strand, on November the 14th, 1922. John Reith, a thirty-three-year-old Scottish engineer, was appointed General Manager of the BBC at the end of 1922. Following the closure of numerous amateur stations, the BBC started its first daily radio service in London – 2LO. After much argument, news was supplied by an agency, and music drama and “talks” filled the airwaves for only a few hours a day. It wasn't long before radio could be heard across the nation, especially when radio stations were set up outside of London, like on the 6th of March when the BBC first broadcast from Glasgow via station 5SC.

 

****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. Postcards were cheap and plentiful, and readily available, so as long as you knew how to write and how to read, it was a cost effective way of communicating your intentions. At the height of the postcard mania in 1903, London residents could have as many as twelve separate visits from the mailman in a single day, excluding Sundays. This means that people in the early Twentieth Century amassed vast collections of picture postcards which today are highly collectible depending upon their theme.

 

*****It was not until the Equal Franchise Act of 1928 that women over the age of twenty-one were able to vote in Britain and women finally achieved the same voting rights as men.

 

This cluttered sideboard may look realistic to you, however it is in fact made up of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The bust of Queen Victoria was made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. It has been hand painted by me.

 

The commemorative plates of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee in 1897, the Coronation of King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra in 1902 and the Coronation of King George V and Queen Mary in 1911 are all made by the British miniature artist Rachel Munday. The plate on the far left is a piece of souvenir ware from around 1905 and is made of very finely pressed tin.

 

The feather duster on the parlour sideboard I made myself using fledgling feathers (very spring) which I picked up off the lawn one day thinking they would come in handy in my miniatures collection sometime. I bound them with thread to the handle which is made from a fancy ended toothpick!

 

The little white vase to the far right of the photo is mid Victorian and would once have been part of a tiny doll’s tea service. It is Parian Ware. Parian Ware is a type of biscuit porcelain imitating marble. It was developed around 1845 by the Staffordshire pottery manufacturer Mintons, and named after Paros, the Greek island renowned for its fine-textured, white Parian marble, used since antiquity for sculpture.

 

The ‘home sweet home’ embroidery and the painting on the wall come from online shops who sell dollhouse miniatures, as does the Art Nouveau vase on the left hand side of the picture.

 

The sideboard is a piece I bought as part of a larger drawing room suite of dolls house furniture from a department store when I was a teenager.

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

 

Today however we have left the hustle and bustle of London, travelling southwest to a stretch of windswept coastline just a short drive the pretty Cornish town of Penzance. Here, friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot, encouraged by her father Lord de Virre who will foot the bill, has commissioned Lettice to redecorate a few of the principal rooms of ‘Chi an Treth’. In the lead up to the wedding, Lord de Virre has spent a great deal of money making the Regency house habitable after many years of sitting empty and bringing it up to the Twentieth Century standards his daughter expects, paying for electrification, replumbing, and a connection to the Penzance telephone exchange. Now, with their honeymoon over, Dickie and Margot have finally taken possession of their country house gift and have invited Lettice to come and spend a Friday to Monday with them so that she might view the rooms Margot wants redecorating for herself and perhaps start formulating some ideas as to how modernise their old fashioned décor. As Lettice is unable to drive and therefore does not own a car, Margot and Dickie have extended the weekend invitation to one of their other Embassy Club coterie, Lettice’s old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. Gerald owns a Morris*, so he can motor both Lettice and himself down from London on Friday and back again on Monday. After the retirement of the housekeeper, Mrs. Trevethan, from the main house to the gatekeeper’s cottage the previous evening, the quartet of Bright Young Things** played a spirited game of sardines*** and in doing so, potentially solved the romantic mystery of ‘Chi an Treth’ after discovering a boxed up painting purportedly by the artist Winterhalter****, long forgotten, and of a great beauty.

 

Now we find ourselves out in the elements, along ‘Chi an Treth’s’ own stretch of wild coast on a remarkably sunny day for this time of year. Dickie, Margot, Gerald and Lettice all headed out after breakfast to allow the bracing sea air help to clear their heads, addled by too much champagne the previous evening. Lettice suggested it and Margot added that there were some vistas that Lettice might enjoy painting. So, Lettice packed up her folio and her watercolours and has just finished painting a view of an old lighthouse standing on a rocky outcrop whilst Margot, Dickie and Gerald all fossick for seashells and other treasures washed up into ‘Chi an Treth’s’ own little cove.

 

“Incoming!” cries Gerald as a warning as he collapses dramatically onto the sand next to Lettice, sending a spray of golden granules up into the air.

 

“Oh Gerald! Must you?” cries Lettice in exasperation with an anguished expression, gently wiping sand off her watercolour of the lighthouse.

 

“Oh, what’s wrong my little Lettuce Leaf?” Gerald teases, pinching her dainty chin between his right thumb and forefinger.

 

“Don’t call me that, Gerald!” she scolds, her face crumpling even more. “We aren’t four anymore and you know how much I detest it.”

 

“Then tell me what’s wrong, darling.”

 

Lettice takes a deep breath of bracing sea air and looks around her. In the distance along the sparkling water’s edge, Margot and Dickie walk arm in arm, a pair of silhouetted lovers with their heads buried together conspiratorially, the conversation too distant to hear, but their body language giving a clue as to the sweet nothings and giggles being shared between them. The sun shines in the partly cloudy sky overhead and gulls caw and screech as they sail on the breeze, looking for food.

 

“Oh it’s just my head, Gerald, that’s all.”

 

“Ah-ah!” he tuts, wagging a warning finger at her. “You had no pity for me at breakfast.”

 

“That’s because you were being a sulky pillock this morning.”

 

“I had every right to be!” Gerald defends, settling back on his elbows into the soft dry sand. “I had a sore head. I still do.”

 

“You were rude about Mrs. Trevethan again,” Lettice points out. “Which was unfair. I don’t know why you’ve set against her. She’s a harmless old woman.”

 

“I think she’s a Cornish witch, and she has you in her thrall, especially after that story about the Rosevear sisters this morning.”

 

“Oh wasn’t it thrilling, Gerald?” gushes Lettice. “So romantic and tragic.”

 

“If a bit fanciful,” Gerald replies with doubt in his voice. “Like any local piece of folklore.”

 

“Well, I thought it was beautifully sad, even if you don’t.”

 

“Oh, I’m just saying that you should take what that old woman says with a grain of sand, is all, darling.”

 

“Don’t you mean a grain of salt, Gerald?” Lettice asks, looking across at her friend.

 

“Considering we’re on the Cornish coast,” He picks up a fistful of sand and allows it to pour from his enclosed fingers like an hourglass. “I think sand is more appropriate.” He smiles at Lettice.

 

“Oh you!” She gives him a friendly push before sinking back a little into her sand pillow.

 

Gerald sits up and looks at Lettice’s painting as it leans against her emerald green leather folio with its golden brown marbled lined interior. “I say,” he remarks, looking out across the water to the lighthouse and comparing the watercolour with the real view. “This is really rather good, Lettice.”

 

“You sound surprised, Gerald.” she replies. “You’re the one who keeps telling me I could do worse than apply for the Slade School of Art*****.”

 

“And so you could.”

 

“Oh, I don’t think I want to go to all that bother.” She yawns quietly, not bothering to cover her mouth as she lolls back against the sand. “Besides, I also don’t want some tutor telling me how to paint. Painting is an individual and unique experience, not to be dictated to by others who think they know better.” She looks at Gerald, who is watching her intently, listening to every word she says. “And now my interiors business is finally taking off.”

 

“Until Sadie marries you off at the Hunt Ball.”

 

Lettice’s eyes narrow. “I should throw sand in your face for that remark!” she quips.

 

“But you won’t, because you love your Gerry-werry to much to hurt him,” Gerald replies in a babyish voice. Clearing his throat, he then continues in a normal tone, “Plus you don’t want to get on my bad side and find yourself stuck in the wilds of Cornwall when I refuse to motor you back to London.”

 

“I don’t know,” Lettice muses, looking up into the blue sky spattered with fast moving white roiling clouds. “There could be worse places to find myself stuck.”

 

“Like ‘Uddersfield,” remarks Gerald in a mock Yorkshire brogue.

 

“Like Huddersfield,” agrees Lettice with a laugh. “After all, Cornwall is the home of the legend of King Arthur.”

 

“You’d miss London too much, darling. All the latest west end shows, the dinners in Soho,” Gerald looks seriously at Lettice. “The fabulous frocks from Grosvenor Street. Somehow Lettice, I don’t think the Penzance Repertory, Mrs. Cornwall’s Ye Olde Arthurian Teashop and her side line in dressmaking can complete with The Palladium******, The Café Royal******* and…”

 

“And your frocks!” Lettice scoffs, completing his sentence for him.

 

“Exactly.” Gerald replies with a satisfied sigh.

 

“You really are an awful snob, Gerald.”

 

“Thank you darling.” he sighs with satisfaction. “When you are as well lineaged as I am, yet practically destitute, what is there left to be but a snob? Anyway,” he adds, leaning over and picking up Lettice’s painting and glancing at the others carefully tucked into her portfolio’s interior. “All I was saying was that I think you should consider painting murals as part of your interior designs. Other designers do, and you have the talent, which some of them don’t.”

 

“Maybe,” Lettice muses with a sigh, repossessing her painting and putting it back next to her watercolours.

 

The pair sit back in companionable silence for a little while, basking in the dappled sunlight with their eyes closed until Lettice breaks it.

 

“Do you really think it’s a Winterhalter?” She gazes back over to Dickie and Margot, now ambling slowly back across the beach towards she and Gerald.

 

“Well,” Gerald sighs, sitting up and following Lettice’s gaze. “Dickie certainly seems to think so: especially after that story spun by that old Cornish witch about the young and beautiful Miss Rosevear.”

 

“And tragic,” Lettice adds.

 

“And tragic.” Gerald concedes.

 

“I do wish he wouldn’t get his hopes up. He’ll be crushed if it turns out not to be.”

 

“Too late, darling. I’d say all Dickie sees when he looks into the face of the younger Miss Rosevear are the pound signs.”

 

“Surely you don’t mean?” Lettice begins, turning to her friend with wide eyes.

 

“Obtain a young heiress, or sell a great master.” Gerald replies prosaically.

 

“But Margot is an heiress. Just look at all the money Lord de Virre has spent on fixing up ‘Chi an Treth’. Electrifying such an old house wouldn’t have been cheap, never mind the plumbing and the telephone.”

 

“Since when have you ever known Dickie to live within his, or someone else’s means, darling? He’s just like his father, or my father for that matter. None of them can live within their means, and as soon as they get hold of any money, it’s spent. Margot may have brought a sizeable dowery, but its not enough to line the empty vaults of the Marquess.”

 

“But Dickie said only this morning after breakfast that he would bring it back with them to London to take to Bonhams******** for authentication by an expert.”

 

“You mark my words, darling,” Gerald taps his nose in a knowing way with a sad smile. “The moment Dickie gets confirmation that it is a Winterhalter, Miss Rosevear’s fate will be sealed and she will never return to ‘Chi an Treth’.”

 

“Oh that is sad!” Lettice remarks.

 

“What’s sad, darling?” Marot asks, collapsing onto the picnic rug next to Lettice, weighed down by the picnic basket carefully packed by Mrs. Trevethan earlier in the day.

 

“Oh, nothing Margot.” she replies with a false joviality in her voice.

 

“We were just saying that it’s a shame we have to return to London tomorrow.” Gerald quickly chimes in, saving Lettice any embarrassment at trying to think of a story on the fly.

 

“Well, you can always come back,” Margot says with a friendly smile. “I’m so glad this place has cast its spell on you two, like it has on Dickie and I.”

 

“You can come and go as you please,” Dickie adds. “Treat the place as your own. You know there’s a train from London to Penzance, Lettice. You can always come down and Mr. Trevethan can pick you up from the station in the pony trap.”

 

“Anyway Lettice,” Margot continues. “You’ll have to come back soon to begin the redesigns to the drawing room, dining room and the reception hall. Have you had any ideas yet? I can’t wait to hang Miss Rosevear in her rightful place in my newly painted and papered, modern, drawing room.”

 

“Yes, of course, Margot darling.” Lettice says with a painted smile on her lips as she looks over at Dickie and wonders whether Gerald’s wry observation of his motives is correct.

 

*Morris Motors Limited was a privately owned British motor vehicle manufacturing company established in 1919. With a reputation for producing high-quality cars and a policy of cutting prices, Morris's business continued to grow and increase its share of the British market. By 1926 its production represented forty-two per cent of British car manufacturing. Amongst their more popular range was the Morris Cowley which included a four-seat tourer which was first released in 1920.

 

**The Bright Young Things, or Bright Young People, was a nickname given by the tabloid press to a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.

 

***Sardines is an active game that is played like hide and go seek — only in reverse! One person hides, and everyone else searches for the hidden person. Whenever a person finds the hidden person, they quietly join them in their hiding spot. There is no winner of the game. The last person to join the sardines will be the hider in the next round. Sardines was a very popular game in the 1920s and 1930s played by houseguests in rambling old country houses where there were unusual, unknown and creative places to hide.

 

****Franz Xaver Winterhalter (1805 – 1873) was a German painter and lithographer, known for his flattering portraits of royalty and upper-class society in the mid-19th century. His name has become associated with fashionable court portraiture. Among his best known works are Empress Eugénie Surrounded by her Ladies in Waiting (1855) and the portraits he made of Empress Elisabeth of Austria (1865).

 

*****Established by lawyers and philanthropist Felix Slade in 1868, Slade School of Fine Art is the art school of University College London and is based in London, England. It has been ranked as the United Kingdom’s top art and design educational institution. The school is organised as a department of University College London's Faculty of Arts and Humanities. Two of its most important periods were immediately before, and immediately after, the turn of the twentieth century. It had such students as Dora Carrington, Mark Gertler, Paul Nash, C.R.W. Nevinson and Stanley Spencer.

 

******Located on Argyll Street, London, in the famous area of Soho the London Palladium Theatre started life as The Palladium in 1910. The theatre holds 2,286 seats. Of the roster of stars who have played there, many have televised performances. Between 1955 and 1969 Sunday Night at the London Palladium was held at the venue, which was produced for the ITV network. The show included a performance by The Beatles on 13 October 1963. One national paper's headlines in the following days coined the term "Beatlemania" to describe the increasingly hysterical interest in the band. Whilst the theatre has a resident show, it is also able to host one-off performances, such as concerts, TV specials and Christmas pantomimes. It has hosted the Royal Variety Performance forty-three times, most recently in 2019. In March 2020, the venue closed due to the COVID-19 pandemic's effect on the theatre industry, but reopened over four months later on 1 August 2020.

 

*******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.

 

********Established in 1793, Bonhams is a privately owned international auction house and one of the world's oldest and largest auctioneers of fine art and antiques. It was formed by the merger in November 2001 of Bonhams & Brooks and Phillips Son & Neale.

 

Beautiful as it may be, this picturesque pastime on the beach may not be all it seems, for it is in fact made up of miniatures from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Renown in miniature collectors’ circles for making miniature books that you can actually read, the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe did not make books exclusively. He also made other small pieces like this artist’s portfolio. He did several different types of portfolios including this nautically themed one which contains four watercolour paintings which slip in and out of their marbled paper housing. 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. This was the first piece I bought from his estate. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

The box of watercolours, paint brushes and black paint box all come rom Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.

 

The shells scattered about on the sand are miniature shells I have collected from Apollo Bay and Brighton Beach over various visits with friends.

 

The sand that is spread about is in actual fact Très Or Sucre Or (golden sugar) imported from France which was a gift to me from a dear friend a few years ago. Too beautiful to stir into tea, I have used it numerous times for different photographic purposes.

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 south of the Thames in the middle-class London suburb of Putney in the front room of a red brick Edwardian villa in Hazelwood Road, where Lettice has come to collect a hat from her childhood chum Gerald’s friend, Harriet Milford. The orphaned daughter of a solicitor with little formal education, Harriet has taken in lodgers to earn a living, but more importantly for Lettice, has taken up millinery semi-professionally to give her some pin money*. As Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, has forbidden Lettice to wear a shop bought hat to Leslie, Lettice’s brother’s, wedding in November and Lettice has quarrelled with her own milliner, Madame Gwendolyn, Gerald thought that Harriet might benefit as much from Lettice’s patronage as Lettice will by purchasing one of Harriet’s hats to resolve her fashion conundrum. Today is judgement day as Harriet presents Lettice with her millinery creation.

 

Lettice’s critical eye again glances around the front parlour of the Putney villa, which doubles as Harriet’s sewing room and show room for her hats. She crinkles her nose in distaste. She finds the room’s middle-class chintzy décor an affront to her up-to-date interior design sensitivities, with its flouncy floral Edwardian sofa and roomy armchair by the fire, a pouffe hand embroidered by Harriet’s deceased mother and the busy Edwardian floral wallpaper covered with a mixture of cheap botanical prints and quaint English country scenes, all in gaudy gilded plaster frames. Yet what makes it even worse is that no attempt has been made to tidy the room since her last visit a month ago. Harriet’s concertina sewing box on casters still stands cascaded open next to the armchair, threads, embroidery silks, buttons and ribbons pouring from its compartments like entrails. Hats in different stages of being made up and decorated lie about on furniture or on the floor in a haphazard way. The brightly patterned rug is littered with spools of cotton, scissors, ribbon, artificial flowers and dogeared copies of Weldon’s** magazines. A cardboard hatbox spewing forth a froth of white tissue paper perches precariously on the arm of the sofa, whilst in an equally hazardous position on the right arm of the armchair, a sewing tin threatens to spill its content of threads, thimbles and a black velvet pincushion all over the chair’s seat and the floor.

 

“Sorry, Miss Chetwynd,” Harriet mutters apologetically as she ushers Lettice into the front parlour. “I still haven’t had an opportunity to tidy up in here yet.”

 

“It’s of no consequence, Miss Milford.” Lettice lies as she sweeps into the room swathed in a powder blue coat trimmed with sable that Gerald has made for her. She perches on the sofa in the same place where she sat on her last visit and deposits her crocodile skin handbag against its overstuffed pink and floral arm.

 

“Your censorious gaze and the reproving way you pass that remark tell me otherwise, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Are you always so observant, Miss Milford?”

 

“Just like my father,” Harriet replies, glancing up at a very Edwardian photographic portrait of a dour bespectacled man in a large oval frame on the mantelpiece.

 

“I’m sorry Miss Milford,” Lettice acknowledges her criticality politely. “But I must confess I am used to visiting tidier establishments.”

 

“Yes, I suppose Madame Gwendolyn’s shop is far tidier than my front parlour is.” Harriet admits. “But then again, I would imagine that she also has a retinue of staff to keep it so for her.”

 

“Perhaps,” Lettice agrees with a half-smile. “I’m only concerned that if you wish for your little enterprise to be taken seriously, you need to present a professional front. I myself use my own drawing room as a showroom for my clients, so I make sure to keep it tidy when I have clients or prospective clients visiting.”

 

“Or you maid does, Miss Chetwynd: the same one who bakes biscuits for you.”

 

“Touché, Miss Milford.” Lettice replies, cocking her eyebrows in amused surprise at Harriet’s quick, yet adroit remark. “I think your father should have taken more interest in your education. You might have made a very fine lawyer, had you been given the opportunity.”

 

“Thank you, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet replies, blushing at the compliment.

 

“The lack of education afforded to women in our country, just because we are women, is a scandal. Yet our patriarchal society is what will ensure that we remain the fairer and less educated sex.”

 

“You sound like you might have made a fine lawyer too, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet acknowledges. “I’m sure had you been born a few decades earlier you would have made a fine suffragette.”

 

“Or a radical.”

 

“However, that isn’t why you’ve come here today. You’ve come about a far more appropriately feminine pursuit, the acquisition of the hat for your brother’s wedding.”

 

“Indeed, Miss Milford. My mother would be suitably gratified to see me passing my time thus rather than in radical discussion, even if she would prefer it was at Madame Gwendolyn’s establishment.”

 

“Then I do hope I shan’t disappoint Lady Sadie, or you, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

Harriet walks over to a corner of the parlour and withdraws a yellow straw hat on a hatstand that she has kept concealed behind a brass firebox. She reverently carries it across the room and deposits it on the tilt chess table sitting empty between the seats of the two women s that Lettice might inspect it closely.

 

“Considering your colourings, the shape of your face and the soft chignon you wear at the nape of your neck, I’ve opted for a rather romantic picture hat rather like that featured on the cover of Weldon’s Spring Fashions.” Harriet explains as she holds up the magazine’s cover next to the hat for Lettice to make comparisons. “I know it’s autumn now, but it has been remarkably mind, and,” she adds. “This is for a wedding after all.”

 

Lettice examines the hat before her. The shape of the wide brimmed hat that sits low on its stand immediately appeals to Lettice, and she can easily see herself wearing it very comfortably. “Very observant again, Miss Milford.” she says approvingly.

 

“As you can see, I’m acknowledging the season and once again trying to compliment your own colourings with the trimmings.” Harriet says proudly as she carefully turns the hat on its stand. “A russet and golden brown satin rose and some ornamental autumnal fruits in golds and vermillion. I hope you will agree.”

 

Lettice reaches out and touches the satin rose, rubbing the luxuriant fabric between her thumb and forefinger with satisfaction. “Agree? Why my dear Miss Milford, you have managed to do something Madame Gwendolyn has never done for me.” She beams with delight. “You have made a hat that suits my personality beautifully. How could I fail but to be pleased? I must confess that I am more impressed with what you have created than I even dared hope for.”

 

“Then may I take it that you won’t quibble over my price of seven guineas, nine and sixpence?” Harriet asks, trying to keep the nerves out of her well modulated voice. She has never charged such an exorbitant price for one of her creations before, but Gerald told her that seven guineas, nine and sixpence should be the price she should ask Lettice for it. Thinking quickly she adds, “It is quite comparable to the cost of a mode from Selfridges.”

 

“You sell your skills to cheaply, Miss Milford.”

 

“I may possibly increase my fees if my ‘little enterprise’ as you continue to call it, really takes off, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“I shouldn’t speak so disparagingly of your enterprise, Miss Milford. I must sound unspeakably rude and patronising. Please forgive me.”

 

“Rude, no Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet acknowledges.

 

“As amends for my snobby behaviour,” Lettice proffers hopefully. “I shall happily promote your name to anyone at the wedding who asks me who made my hat.”

 

“I’d be grateful, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet replies with a grateful smile. “And I’ll try and get this place tided up should any of your friends come knocking. I did at least keep the telephone connected after father died, so I am in the book. I found it useful to have a telephone for enquiries about rooms to let initially, but now also for queries about hats.”

 

“Most prudent, Miss Milford.”

 

Harriet stands up, reaches past Lettice’s shoulder and takes up the plain cardboard hatbox stuffed with white tissue paper and places it on the seat of her armchair. She proceeds to pick up Lettice’s new hat, and like a mother tucking its child into bed, she lovingly places her creation into the box, nestling it amongst the nosily crumpling paper.

 

“Miss Chetwynd, do you mind if I make another frank observation?” she asks.

 

“My dear Miss Milford, you have made several so far,” Lettice laughs. “Why should I stop you now?”

 

Harriet snatches up the box and resumes her seat, placing the open hatbox on her lap.

 

“I’m glad you said yes Miss Chetwynd, for you see, something has been bothering me since your first visit here.”

 

“And what is that, Miss Milford.”

 

“Well, I couldn’t help but notice how ill at ease you seemed. Could it be because Gerry didn’t tell you about our friendship?”

  

Lettice looks across at Harriet whose mousy brown hair cut into a soft bob frames her pretty face, free of makeup. Her brown eyes have an earnest look in them. Lettice acknowledges Harriet’s question with a quick and curt nod, before casting her eyes down, ashamed that her feelings have been so easily perceived by someone she barely knows.

 

“I thought so.”

 

“I didn’t know you existed until Gerald pulled his motor up outside the front of your house.”

 

“I must confess I’m surprised, as Gerry talks about you all the time. You two are obviously the greatest of friends, and have been since you were children.” Harriet licks her lips a little awkwardly before continuing. “Perhaps he is a little embarrassed by our friendship, after all, I’m not an aristocrat’s daughter like you and some of your other friends he tells me about.”

 

“I’m sure that isn’t true, Miss Milford.” Lettice assures her hostess. “Gerald can be a frightful snob. I’ve pulled him up on it enough in recent times, and,” she admits a little begrudgingly. “He’s done the same with me. If Gerald really was ashamed of you, he wouldn’t have introduced us. That I do know.”

 

“He’s been wonderful to me since we met. I’m not sure if he told you, but I’m guessing not if he didn’t really tell you about me prior to our first meeting, but we met at the haberdashers we share in Fulham.”

 

“That Gerald did tell me.”

 

“Well, he’s given me encouragement and guidance as I try to get this millinery business up and running, and, well after my difficulties with the handsy General when I first started letting rooms, I feel more comfortable with gentlemen friends who don’t want to paw me.”

 

“Like Gerald and your Cyril, you mean.”

 

“Yes.” Harriet acknowledges with a blush.

 

“Where is Cyril, by the way? I haven’t heard his oboe playing today.”

 

“He’s in Norfolk, visiting his mother.” Harriet explains. She hesitates for a moment before carrying on. “I’ve never had many friends, you see. I was always the shy one at school, and not at all popular. What few friends I have had up until recently have been rather bookish and shy like me, so it was like a breath of fresh air when Gerry took an interest in plain and shy little me.”

 

“Hardly plain, Miss Milford.” Lettice counters kindly.

 

“You do know that I’d never want to intrude on your friendship with Gerry, don’t you? You’re his oldest and best friend, and he’s so proud of you and how you’ve set up your own business all by yourself. You inspire him you know.” Lettice blushes and glances back down into her lap at Harriet’s admission. “And you’re such a chum to him. He says you use the word ‘brick’ to describe your good friends, so you are his ‘brick’ then. Now that I know that he didn’t tell you about me, I must have come across as an interloper: a middle-class girl of no particular note trying to usurp you in Gerry’s affections. However, I can assure you that I’m not. Your friendship with him is perfectly safe. I’m just happy to bask in Gerry’s minor attentions for as long as he wishes to bestow them upon me.”

 

“Well, I must confess that I did suffer a few pangs of jealously when I first saw the two of you being so familiar together, but I realised after we left you, that you are no threat. Gerald and I had a frank conversation of our own on the way home.” Lettice admits. “Not that Gerald is bound to me by any means. He can be friends with whomever he likes, and so long as his dalliances with gentlemen are discreet, I’m happy. He just needs to be careful in that respect.”

 

“I tell Cyril the same thing.”

 

“So, if Gerald wants to be friends with you, who am I to argue? All the same, I am pleased to hear from you that you are no threat, Miss Milford.”

 

“Not at all, Miss Chetwynd.” She sighs with relief and places the lid on the hatbox on her lap before putting it aside. “Well, now that we have that awkward little conversation out of the way, might I interest you in some tea?”

 

“Some tea would be splendid, Miss Milford. Thank you.”

 

Harriet gets up and walks across the room. As she reaches the threshold of the parlour door she turns back and says, “You know we really do have quite a lot in common, you know, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“How so, Miss Milford?” Lettice looks up from smoothing down the hem of her frock over her knees.

 

“Well, we both have Gerry as our friend, and we are both forward thinking women in a patriarchal world.”

 

“That’s true, Miss Milford.”

 

“We both are trying to establish names for ourselves, albeit in different areas. And we both have progressed ourselves in spite of our parents’ lack of interest in furthering our education. We could almost form a sisterhood.”

 

Lettice doesn’t necessarily agree with Harriet’s point about her education, which is quite presumptuous. Her father, the Viscount Wrexham, unlike Lady Sadie, was quite indulgent with Lettice’s education, giving her far more opportunities than were afforded to her elder sister Lally. Harriet realises that she has overstepped the mark by being overly familiar when she sees a cool steeliness darken Lettice’s sparkling blue eyes and harden her features slightly, but it is too late for her to retract her words.

 

“I wouldn’t go so far as to presume that we will ever be bosom friends***, Miss Milford. However, let me get used to your existence,” Lettice concedes with all the good grace of a Viscount’s daughter. “And I’m sure that we can be friends of a sort that goes beyond a passing acquaintance or an agreeable business arrangement.”

 

“Very well, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet replies with a half-smile. “I’ll be satisfied with that. Better that we be friends of a sort than enemies for no reason. I think as women wanting to forward ourselves in this male dominated world, we probably have enough of them as it is.”

 

“Perhaps, Miss Milford. Let us see.”

 

*Originating in Seventeenth Century England, the term pin money first meant “an allowance of money given by a husband to his wife for her personal expenditures. Married women, who typically lacked other sources of spending money, tended to view an allowance as something quite desirable. By the Twentieth Century, the term had come to mean a small sum of money, whether an allowance or earned, for spending on inessentials, separate and in addition to the housekeeping money a wife might have to spend.

 

**Created by British industrial chemist and journalist Walter Weldon Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was the first ‘home weeklies’ magazine which supplied dressmaking patterns. Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was first published in 1875 and continued until 1954 when it ceased publication.

 

***The term bosom friend is recorded as far back as the late Sixteenth Century. In those days, the bosom referred to the chest as the seat of deep emotions, though now the word usually means a woman's “chest.” A bosom friend, then, is one you might share these deep feelings with or have deep feelings for.

 

Contrary to popular belief, fashion at the beginning of the Roaring 20s did not feature the iconic cloche hat as a commonly worn head covering. Although invented by French milliner Caroline Reboux in 1908, the cloche hat did not start to gain popularity until 1922, so even though this story is set in that year, picture hats, a hangover from the pre-war years, were still de rigueur in fashionable society and whilst Lettice is fashionable, she and many other fashionable women still wore the more romantic picture hat. Although nowhere near as wide, heavy, voluminous or as ornate as the hats worn by women between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the Great War, the picture hats of the 1920s were still wide brimmed, although they were generally made of straw or some lightweight fabric and were decorated with a more restrained touch.

 

This rather cluttered and chaotic scene of a drawing room cum workroom may look real to you, but believe it or not, it is made up entirely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my teenage years.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

At the centre of our story is Lettice’s yellow straw hat decorated with ornamental flowers, fruit and organza. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism such as these 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 maker of this hat is unknown, but it is part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The hat stand the hat rests on is also part of Marilyn Bickel’s collection.

 

The copy of Weldon’s Dressmaker Spring Fashions edition on the tabletop is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. In this case, the magazine is non-opening, however what might amaze you 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 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, 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 spools of ribbon, the tape measure, the silver sewing scissors in the shape of a stork and the box of embroidery threads and the box of cottons I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House in the United Kingdom.

 

The tilt chess table on which these items stand I bought from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The concertina sewing box on casters to the left of the photograph which you can see spilling forth its contents is an artisan miniature made by an unknown artist in England. It comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the in the United Kingdom. All the box’s contents including spools of ribbons, threads scissors and buttons on cards came with the work box. The box can completely expand or contract, just like its life-sized equivalent.

 

The round white metal sewing tin on the armchair is another artisan piece I have had since I was a young teenager. If you look closely you will see it contains a black velvet pin cushion, a pair of sewing scissors, needles, threads and two thimbles. Considering this is a 1:12 artisan miniature, imagine how minute the thimbles are! This I bought from a high street shop that specialised in dolls and doll house furnishings. It does have a lid which features artificial flowers and is trimmed with braid, but I wanted to show off the contents of the tin in this image, so it does not feature.

 

The spools of yellow, purple and blue cottons come from various online shops who sell dollhouse miniatures.

 

The bookshelf in the background comes from Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late eighteenth century.

 

Harriet’s family photos seen cluttering the bookshelf in the background are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are almost all from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each. The castle shaped cottage orneé (pastille burner) on the bookshelf has been hand made, painted and gilded by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. The bowl decorated with fruit on the bookshelf was hand decorated by British artisan Rachael Maundy.

 

Lettice’s snakeskin handbag with its gold clasp and chain comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The parlour palm in its striped ceramic pot I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The floral chintz settee and chair and the Art Nouveau china cabinet are made by J.B.M. miniatures who specialise in well made pieces of miniature furniture made to exacting standards.

 

The paintings and prints on the walls all come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House 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 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 and Edith shares the space with her. Although this can be a bit of challenge, especially as Mrs. Boothby likes to smoke indoors, 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. Edith also has to admit that after her original reluctance, Mrs. Boothby has turned out to be rather pleasant company and the two have had many fine chats over time.

 

“Oh Mrs. Boothby, after you’ve finished polishing the floors in the drawing room this morning, would you mind laying down this sheet on the space behind Miss Lettice’s chair and the Chinese screen?” Edith pushes a neatly folded white sheet across the kitchen table to the old char.

 

“Why ‘ave I got to put dahn an old sheet for?” She looks perplexed at the pile of fabric before her. “Don’t Miss Chetwynd ‘ave enough rugs?”

 

“Oh yes, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith trys somewhat unsuccessfully to cover her amused smile. “It isn’t for that.”

 

“Then what’s it for, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

 

“It’s a drop sheet, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith elucidates.

 

“Oh. She getting’ painters in then? I bet I could find her cheaper ‘ouse painters than ooever she got. My Bruvver does a bit a ‘ouse paintin’, an I reckon ‘e does a very fine job ‘n all.”

 

“Oh no, Mrs. Boothby. Miss Lettice is going to paint a table today.”

 

“Paint a table?” The old woman looks queryingly at her younger counterpart. “Why? Ain’t it any good as is?”

 

“Apparently not, Mrs. Boothby. However, it isn’t for her. It’s for Miss de Virre, I mean, Mrs. Channon. It’s a table from her house in Cornwall.”

 

“Tartin’ up tables!” The old cockney woman tuts as she casts her eyes to the ceiling. “What them rich fancy folk won’t fink up next. I just throw an oilcloth over my table when I got friends comin’ for tea. That covers up the marks good and proper.”

 

“Oh no, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith explains. “Miss Lettice is going to redecorate it as part of her re-design of Mrs. Channon’s drawing room.”

 

“Well,” grumbles the old woman. “Whatever she’s doin’ it for, I hope she don’t get paint on my nice clean polished floors.”

 

“That’s what the drop sheet is for, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Ere dearie, pop the kettle on so as we can ‘ave a nice cup of Rosie-Lee** before I get started on the floors.” Mrs. Boothby says to Edith. “Washin’ floors can be firsty work for a woman, so best I get a cuppa before I start.”

 

“Yes, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies, lighting the gas ring underneath the bright copper kettle and walking over to the pine dresser to fetch two Delftware cups, saucers a milk jug and the sugar bowl.

 

Mrs. Boothby groans as she bends her wiry body to the floor to check what she calls her ‘Boothby boxes’, which are two boxes kept in the corner of the kitchen next to the dresser. One contains her scrubbing brushes, dustpan, and polishing rags, whilst the other contains a plethora of cleaning products.

 

“Ah,” the old Cockney woman mutters as she delves through the latter, metal cans clunking against one another as she does her inventory. “Pop Vim on the shopping list, will you Edith love. This can’s all but empty nah.” She continues fossicking. “Oh, and we need some more floor polish too.”

 

“Do you like that Kleen-eze Mr. Willison sent me last time, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks as she lays out the tea things on the deal kitchen table above the char’s head.

 

“It weren’t bad stuff, that. Yeah, ta. Get ‘him to get us some more of it if ‘e can.” The old woman affirms.

 

“I’ll see if Frank can get me some,” Edith says blithely, yet as soon as the words are out of her mouth, she realises her mistake as a frisson of energy electrifies the kitchen.

 

Edith likes Mrs. Boothby, but she knows that any news will soon be spread around Poplar and the surrounding area once Mrs. Boothby hears it. She and the other charwomen she knows run a very well informed gossip chain, and there is little Mrs. Boothby can’t tell Edith about the comings and goings on in the household of her former employer Mrs. Plaistow, thanks to her charwoman friend Jackie who does work for her and quite a few other houses in Pimlico, including that of Lettice’s former client, successful Islington Studios*** actress, Wanetta Ward. Edith, who is a little starstruck by the glamourous American, often gets tasty titbits of gossip about her from Mrs. Boothby thanks to Jackie who also cleans for her, however Edith does not fancy the shoe being on the other foot. However, as she turns back from fussing unnecessarily over the kettle, she sees it is too late. Mrs. Boothby’s pale and wrinkled face, framed by her wiry grey hair tied up in a brightly coloured scarf is paying close attention to the young maid. Her dark eyes are gleaming with delight, and she smiles like the cat who ate the cream.

 

“Oh!” she says with one of her bushy eyebrows arching upwards. “Frank now, is it?”

 

“Well I…” Edith stutters, her own pale cheeks growing warm as a blush fills them with colour.

 

“Yes my girl?” Mrs, Boothby asks, as with another groan she resumes her upright state. “And just when did Mr. Willison’s young delivery boy go from bein’ Mr. Leadbeater or bein’ Frank? Last I ‘eard, you weren’t interested in ‘im.”

 

“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested in him, Mrs. Boothby,” Edith worries the blue rimmed edge of a saucer self-consciously. “I’d just never considered him as a prospect, is all. And I hadn’t Mrs. Boothby. Not until,”

 

“Yes,”

 

“Well, not until you’d mentioned it, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Aha!” the old cockney woman crows. “Ada Boothby does it again!”

 

“Does what, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks.

 

“Matchmakes, of course.” She smiles broadly, a glow of pride emanating from her slender figure in her grey dress and brightly printed cotton pinny. She rubs her careworn hands together with glee. “Oh I can’t wait to tell that damned Golda Friedmann dahn the end of my rookery****. She’ll be fit to be tied.”

 

“Wait!” Edith gasps, not understanding. “Who’s Golda Friedmann, and how she know about Frank and I? I don’t know her. She doesn’t work in the haberdashers in Poplar you sent me to.”

 

“Oh Lawd love you,” chortles Mrs. Boothby, the action resulting on one of her fruity hacking coughs that seem remarkably loud from such a diminutive figure. After catching her breath, she continues breathily, “She don’t know anyfink about you an’ your Frank.” She gulps again. “Nah! She’s the local matchmaker round our way, along with a few other Yids***** in Poplar. Goes around wiv ‘er nose in the air wrapped up in a fancy paisley shawl tellin’ folk she’s the one to match their son or daughter, like she was the Queen of Russia ‘erself.”

 

“Well she didn’t match me with Frank.” Edith says defensively.

 

“I know, Edith love.” Mrs. Boothby assures her with a calming wave of her hands.

 

“And nor did you, Mrs. Boothby,” Edith continues. “So I don’t see why you should feel so proud of yourself.”

 

“But you just said that if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t of considered ‘im!”

 

“Well,” Edith takes the kettle off the stove and pours hot water into the white teapot. “That’s true, but I’m the one that mentioned what you’d said to me about he and I on the night of Miss Lettice’s supper party for Mr. Channon and Miss de Virre.” She puts the lid on the pot with a clunk. “Err, I mean Mrs. Channon.”

 

Mrs. Boothby drags up a chair to the deal kitchen table and takes a seat, never taking her eyes off Edith’s face. “So ahh, when did you and Mr. Leadbeater, or should I say Frank, start, walkin’ out togevva?” She walks her index and middle finger across the clean table in front of her, as if to demonstrate her meaning.

 

“Only a few weeks now.” Edith admits with downcast eyes and a shy smile.

 

“A few weeks?” Mrs. Boothby gasps in outrage. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

 

“I guess it just slipped my mind, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith defends herself, setting out the tea cups in the saucers, pushing one across to the charwoman. “What with one thing an another. Besides,” she adds. “I didn’t want to tell you unless I was sure. I wouldn’t want to go disappointing you if it all came to aught.”

 

“But nah fings is workin’ out for the two of you then?” Mrs. Boothby asks as she accepts the cup and saucer and reaches for the milk jug, slopping a good glug into the bottom of her empty cup******.

 

“We seem to have struck a nice rhythm, and Frank and I have a lot in common.”

 

“Oh that’s lovely to ‘ear, dearie.” the old woman watches as Edith pours tea into her cup. “I told you, youse was pretty, didn’t I?” She takes hold of the sugar bowl and greedily spoons in several heaped teaspoons of fine white sugar into her tea before stirring it loudly. “And you never knew ‘till I told you. So where’ve you been goin’? The ‘Ammersmith Palais*******?”

 

“Yes, we’ve been there a few times, along with my friend Hilda.”

 

“She’s the parlour maid from your Mrs. Plaistow’s isn’t she?” Mrs. Boothby asks, before adding unnecessarily, “The plain one.”

 

“Oh I wouldn’t call her plain, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith defends her friend hotly as she pours tea into her own empty cup, before then adding a dash of milk. “That’s most uncharitable.”

 

“I didn’t say that, Jackie told me when I mentioned to ‘er that you was still friends wiv ‘er from when you worked there togevva.”

 

“Oh yes, I remember Jackie,” Edith picks up her cup and sips her tea. “Always with an ear out for gossip.”

 

“We chars ‘ave to take our pleasures where we can get ‘em, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says with a slightly haughty tone as she slurps her own tea loudly. “Bein’ a char is ‘ard graft day in, day out. And you can ‘ardly take the moral ‘ighground, what wiv you askin’ me about the goings on at Miss Ward’s, nah can you?”

 

Edith, suitably chastened, remains silent, her lack of response serving as an affirmation of the old Cockney’s statement.

 

“Anyway, I might never ‘ave met your ‘Ilda, but I bet she’s not a patch on you deary, what wiv your peaches n’ cream complexion and beautiful hair. What you got natural from God, so many women I know get from lotions and potions. Nah wonder Frank was nervous ‘bout askin’ you to step out wiv ‘im. Youse a real catch Edith love.”

 

“I never said he was nervous, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith giggles.

 

“But ‘e were, weren’t ‘e?” The old woman chuckles knowingly as she cradles her warm cup in both her hands. “All little boys what fink they’re big men, get nervous round a pretty girl.”

 

“Well,” Edith admits. “Maybe just a little.” Then she adds, “But I was nervous too.”

 

“Well, that’s nice, dearie. Youse just enjoy bein’ young an’ ‘appy togevva.” The old woman gazes into the distance, a far away look sodtening the sharpness of her gaze and the squareness of her jaw as her mouth hangs open slightly. She stays that way for a moment or two before she regains her steely composure and sharp look. Turning back to Edith she says, “Nah, ‘ow does this sound, Edith love? Mrs. Ada Boothby, Matchmaker and ‘Igh Class Char? That would shove it right up that uppity Golda Friedmann and ‘er matchmaker friends!”

 

“Oh Mrs. Boothy!” Edith giggles.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

****A rookery is a dense collection of housing, especially in a slum area. The rookeries created in Victorian times in London’s East End were notorious for their cheapness, filth and for being overcrowded.

 

*****The word Yid is a Jewish ethnonym of Yiddish origin. It is used as an autonym within the Ashkenazi Jewish community, and also used as slang. When pronounced in such a way that it rhymes with did by non-Jews, it is commonly intended as a pejorative term. It is used as a derogatory epithet, and as an alternative to, the English word 'Jew'. It is uncertain when the word began to be used in a pejorative sense by non-Jews, but some believe it started in the late Nineteenth or early Twentieth Century when there was a large population of Jews and Yiddish speakers concentrated in East London, gaining popularity in the 1930s when Oswald Mosley developed a strong following in the East End of London.

 

******In the class-conscious society of Britain in the 1920s, whether you added milk to your cup of tea first or the tea was a subtle way of defining what class you came from. Upper-class people, or those who wished to ape their social betters added milk after the tea, whereas middle-class or working class people comfortable in their own skins were known to add milk before the tea.

 

*******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.

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

In front of Mrs. Boothby’s box is a can of Vim with stylised Art Deco packaging and some Kleeneze floor polish. Vim was a common cleaning agent, used in any Edwardian household. Vim scouring powder was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight. Kleeneze is a homeware company started in Hanham, Bristol. The company's founder, Harry Crook, had emigrated to the United States with his family several years earlier, and whilst there joined Fuller Brush as a sales representative. He returned to Bristol several years later, and started a business making brushes and floor polish which were sold door-to-door by salesmen. Technically Kleeneze didn’t start until 1923, which is one years after this story is set. I couldn’t resist including it, as I doubt I will ever be able to photograph it as a main part of any other tableaux. Thus, I hope you will forgive me for this indulgence.

  

In the box are two containers of Zebo grate polish, a bottle of Bluebell Metal Polish and a can of Brasso. Zebo (or originally Zebra) Grate Polish was a substance launched in 1890 by Reckitts to polish the grate to a gleam using a mixture that consisted of pure black graphite finely ground, carbon black, a binding agent and a solvent to keep it fluid for application with a cloth or more commonly newspaper. Brasso Metal Polish is a British all-purpose metal cleaning product introduced to market in 1905 by Reckitt and Sons, who also produced Silvo, which was used specifically for cleaning silver, silver plate and EPNS. Bluebell metal cleaning products were a household name in the 1920s and 1930s after the business was incorporated in 1900.

 

The tin buckets, wooden apple box, basket, mop, brush and pan are all artisan made miniatures that I have acquired in more recent years.

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, laneways and blind alleys of Poplar in London’s East End is a world away from Lettice’s rarefied and privileged world. On Tuesday Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman*, discovered that Edith, Lettice’s maid, didn’t have a sewing machine when the Cockney cleaner found the young maid cutting out the pieces for a new frock. Mrs. Boothby made overtures towards Edith, inviting her to her home in Poplar in London’s East End with an air of mystery, saying she might be able to help her with her predicament of a sewing machine.

 

Friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) in Penzance as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot in her desire to turn ‘Chi an Treth’ from a dark Regency house to a more modern country house flooded with light, has commissioned Lettice to help redecorate some of the rooms in a lighter and more modern style, befitting a modern couple like the Channons. Lettice has decamped to Penzance for a week where she is overseeing the painting and papering of ‘Chi an Treth’s’ drawing room, dining room and main reception room, before fitting it out with a lorryload of new and repurposed furnishings, artwork and objets d’arte that she has had sent down weeks prior to her arrival. In her mistress’ absence, Edith has more free time on her hands, and so she was able to agree to Mrs. Boothby’s mysterious invitation. Even though she is happy with her current arrangement to take any items she wants to sew home to her parent’s house in Harlesden, where she can use her mother’s Singer** sewing machine on her days off. The opportunity of gaining access to a sewing machine of her own is too good for Edith to refuse.

 

Now the two women walk through the narrow streets of Poplar, passing along walkways, some concrete, some made of wooden planks and some just dirt, between tenements of two and three stories high. The streets they traverse are dim with the weakening afternoon light from the autumn sky blocked out by the overhanging upper floors of the buildings and the strings of laundry hanging limply along lines between them. Although Edith is not unfamiliar with the part of Whitechapel around Petticoat Lane*** where she shops for second hand clothes to alter and for haberdashery to do them, she still feels nervous in the unfamiliar maze of streets that Mrs. Boothby is guiding her down, and she sticks closely next to or directly behind the old Cockney char. The air is filled with a mixture of strong odours: paraffin oil, boiled cabbage and fried food intermixed with the pervasive stench of damp and unwashed bodies and clothes. Self-consciously, Edith pulls her three quarter length coat more tightly around her in an effort to protect herself from the stench.

 

“Below!” comes a Cockney female voice from above as a sash window groans in protest as it is opened.

 

“Ere! Look out, Edith dearie!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims, grabbing Edith by the arm and roughly pulling the maid out of the way, thrusting her behind her.

 

A moment later the air is filled with the harsh sound of slops splattering against the concrete path, and a pool of dirty liquid stains the concrete a dark muddy brown as it slowly dribbles down into a shallow drain that runs down the middle of the laneway.

 

“Wouldn’t want your nice clothes to get spoilt nah, would we dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says as she turns and smiles into Edith’s startled face.

 

“Was that?” Edith begins but doesn’t finish her question as she peers at the puddle draining away, leaving lumps on the path.

 

“I shouldn’t look too closely if I were you, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says kindly in a matter-of-fact way. “If you ‘ave to ask, you’re better off not knowin’. That’s my opinion, anyway. Come on. Not much further nah.”

 

“You… you will take me home, won’t you Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks a little nervously as they continue their progress down the lane which she notices is getting narrower and darker as they go.

 

“Course I will, dearie! You can rely on old Ida Boothby. I know these streets like the back of my ‘and. Youse perfectly safe wiv me.”

 

The laneway ends suddenly, and Edith is blinded for a moment by bright sunlight as they step out into a rookery**** with two storey Victorian tenements of grey stone and red brick either side of a concrete courtyard with a narrow drain running down its centre. The original builders or owners of the tenements obviously have meant for the sad buildings to be at least a little homely, with shutters painted a Brunswick green hanging to either side of the ground floor windows. Looking up, Edith notices several window boxes of brightly coloured geraniums and other flowers suspended from some of the upper floor windowsills. Women of different ages walk in and out of the open front doors, or sit in them on stools doing mending, knitting or peeling potatoes, all chatting to one another, whilst children skip and play on the concrete of the courtyard.

 

“Welcome to Merrybrook Place,” Mrs. Boothby says with a hint of pride in her voice. “My ‘ome. Though Lawd knows why they called it that. I ain’t never seen no brook, merry or otherwise, runnin’ dahn ‘ere, unless it’s the slops from the privvies dahn the end.” She points to the end of the rookery where, overlooked by some older tenements of brick and wooden shingling most likely from the early Nineteenth Century, a couple of ramshackle privies stand. “So just watch your step, Edith dearie. We don’t want you steppin’ your nice shoes in nuffink nasty.” She gives her a warm smile. “Come on.”

 

As they start walking up the rookery, one woman wrapped in a paisley shawl stands in her doorway staring at Edith with undisguised curiosity and perhaps a little jealousy as she casts her critical gaze over her simple, yet smart, black coat and dyed straw hat decorated with silk flowers and feathers.

 

“Wanna paint a picture Mrs. Friedmann?” Mrs. Boothby calls out hotly to her, challenging her open stare with a defensive one of her own. “Might last you longer, your royal ‘ighness!” She makes a mock over exaggerated curtsey towards her, hitching up the hem of her workday skirts.

 

The woman tilts her head up slightly, sniffs in disgust and looks down her nose with spite at both Edith and the Cockney charwoman before muttering something in a language Edith doesn’t need to speak to understand. Turning on her heel, the woman slams her door sharply behind her, the noise echoing off the hard surfaces of the court.

 

“Who was that, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks nervously.

 

“Lawd love you dearie,” chortles Mrs. Boothby, the action resulting on one of her fruity hacking coughs that seem remarkably loud from such a diminutive figure. “That’s that nasty local Yid***** matchmaker what I told you ‘bout.” Raising her voice she continues, speaking loudly at the closed door. “Golda Friedmann goes around wiv ‘er nose in the air wrapped up in that fancy paisley shawl actin’ like she was the Queen of Russia ‘erself. But she ain’t! She’s no better than the rest of us.”

 

As Mrs. Boothby trudges on up the rookery another doorway opens and an old woman with a figure that shows many years of childbirth steps out, dressed in a black skirt and an old fashioned but pretty floral print Edwardian high necked blouse. “Afternoon Ida.”

 

“Oh! Afternoon Lil!” Mrs. Boothby replies. “Oh Lil! I got somefink in ‘ere for you.” She opens up her capacious blue beaded bag and fossicks around making the beads rattle before withdrawing a couple of thin pieces of soap, one bar a bright buttercup yellow, a second pink and the last white. “’Ere. For the kiddies.”

 

“Oh fanks ever so, Ida!” the other woman replies, gratefully accepting the pieces of soap in her careworn hands.

 

“Edith,” Mrs. Boothby calls. “This ‘ere is my neighbour, Mrs. Conway.” A couple of cheeky little faces with sallow cheeks, but bright eyes, poke out from behind Mrs. Conway’s skirts and smile up shyly at Edith with curiosity. “Hullo kiddies.” Mrs. Boothby says to them. “Nah sweeties from me today. Sorry. Mrs. Conway, this ‘ere is Miss Watsford, what works for one of my ladies up in Mayfair.”

 

“Oh ‘ow do you do?” Mrs. Conway says, wiping her hands down her skirts before reaching out a hand to Edith.

 

“How do you do, Mrs. Conway.” Edith replies with a gentle smile, taking her hand, and feeling her rough flesh rub against her own as the old woman’s bony fingers entwine hers.

 

“Well, must be getting on, Lil,” Mrs. Boothby says. “Ta-ta.”

 

“Ta-ra, Ida. Ta-ra Miss Watsford.” Mrs. Conway replies before turning back and shooing the children inside good naturedly.

 

“Goodbye Mrs, Conway. It was nice to meet you.” Edith says.

 

At the next door, one painted Brunswick green like the shutters, Mrs. Boothby stops and takes out a large string of keys from her bag and promptly finds the one for her own front door. As the key engages with the lock the door groans in protest as it slowly opens. The old woman says, “Just stand ‘ere in the doorway, Edith dearie, while I’ll open the curtains.”

 

She disappears into the gloom, which vanishes a moment later as with a flourish, she flings back some heavy red velvet curtains, flooding the room with light from the front window. It takes a moment for Edith’s eyes to adjust as the old Cockney woman stands for a moment in the pool of light, so brilliant after the gloom, surrounded by a floating army of illuminated dust motes tumbling over one another in the air. As her eyes adjust, Edith discerns things within the tenement front room: a kitchen table not too unlike her own at Cavendish Mews, a couple of sturdy ladderback chairs, an old fashioned black leaded stove and a sink in the corner.

 

“Close the door behind you and come on in, dearie. The ‘ouse is still warmish from this mornin’.” Mrs. Boothby says kindly as she tosses her beaded handbag carelessly onto the table where it lands with a thud and the jangle of beads. “Take a seat and I’ll get the range goin’ and pop the kettle on for a nice cup of Rosie-Lee******! I dunno ‘bout you, but I’m parched.”

 

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies as she closes the door.

 

Shutting out the unpleasant mixture of odours outside with the closing of the door, Edith is comforted by the smells of carbolic soap and lavender. Looking about she notices a couple of little muslin bags hanging from the curtains.

 

“Good. Nah, give me your ‘at ‘n coat and I’ll ‘ang them up.” Mrs. Boothby says. Noticing Edith’s gaze upon the pouches she explains. “Lavender to ‘elp keep the moths and the smells from the privy at bay.”

 

“Oh.” Edith replies laconically.

 

As Mrs. Boothby hangs up Edith’s coat and hat as well as her own on a hook behind the door and then bustles about stoking up the embers of the fire left in the stove, Edith says, “Mrs. Conway seems like a nice person to have as your neighbour, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“She’s a good un, that one. She takes care of all the little kiddies round ‘n ‘bout while their parents is at work.” Mrs. Boothby throws some coal into the stove and shoves it with a poker. “She’s got an ‘eart of gold she does. I owe ‘er a lot. She does ‘er best by them kiddies. Gives ‘em a meal made outta what she can, which for some might be the only meal they get. And she gives ‘em a good bath too when she can. That’s why I give ‘er the left over soap ends from the ‘ouses I go to.”

 

“Oh I’m sorry Mrs. Boothby. I always take Miss Lettice’s soap ends to Mum to grate up and make soap flakes from for washing.”

 

“Ahh, don’t worry dearie. I gets plenty from some of the other ‘ouses I go to. Some of ‘em even throws out bars of soap what’s been barely used cos they get cracked and they don’t like the look of ‘em no more. Some of them ladies up the West End don’t know just ‘ow lucky they is to ‘ave as many bars of soap as they like. Nah, you keep takin’ Miss Lettice’s ends to your mum. So long as they’s bein’ used, I’m ‘appy. Waste not, want not, I always say.”

 

With nothing to do whilst the older woman goes about filling the large kettle with water from the sink in the corner of the room, Edith has more time to look at her surroundings. The floor is made of wooden boards whilst the walls are covered in a rather dark green wallpaper featuring old fashioned Art Nouveau patterns. The house must one have had owners or tenants with grander pretentions than Mrs. Boothby for the stove is jutting out of a much larger fireplace surround, which although chipped and badly discoloured from years of coal dust, cooking and cigarette smoke, is marble. However, it is the profusion of ornaments around the small room that catches the young girl’s eye. Along the mantle of the original fireplace stand a piece of Staffordshire, a prettily painted cow creamer, a jug in the shape of a duck coming out of an egg and a teapot in the shape of Queen Victoria. Turning around behind her to where Mrs. Boothby gathers a pretty blue and white china teapot, some cups, saucers and a sugar bowl, she sees a large dresser that is cluttered with more decorative plates, teapots, jugs, tins and a cheese dish in the shape of a cottage.

 

“Not what you was expectin’ I’ll warrant.” Mrs, Boothby remarks with a knowing chuckle that causes her to emit yet another of her throaty coughs.

 

“Oh no Mrs. Boothby!” Edith replies, blushing with shame at being caught out staring about her so shamelessly. “I wasn’t really sure what to expect. I mean… I had no expectations.”

 

“Well, it’s nuffink special, but this is my ‘aven of calm and cleanliness away from the dirty world out there.” She points through the window where, when Edith turns her head, she can see several scrawny children playing marbles on the concrete of the courtyard. “And it’s ‘ome to me.”

 

“Oh yes, it’s lovely and clean and cheerful, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith assures her hostess. “No, I was just admiring all your pretty crockery. It reminds me of my Mum’s kitchen, actually. She is always collecting pretty china and pottery.”

 

“Well, who was it what told you to go dahn to the Caledonian Markets******* to buy a gift for your mum?” the old woman says with a cheeky wink. “Me that who!” She pokes her chest proudly, before coughing heavily again.

 

“So did you get all these from the Caledonian Markets then, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks, looking around again.

 

“Well, most, but not all. I got meself an art gallery from the Caledonian Markets, for when I washes the dishes.” She points to two cheap prints of classic paintings in equally cheap wooden frames hanging on the walls above the little sink. “Better than starin’ at a blank wall, even if it’s covered in wallpaper. Course, some a them ladies up the West End is awfully wasteful wiv much more than soap, and just like them soap ends, I get my share. Somethin’ a bit old fashioned or got a tiny chip in it and they’s throwin’ it out like it was a piece of rubbish, so I offer ta take it. Take that nice cow up there,” She points to the cow creamer on the mantle. “The lid got lost somewhere, so the lady from Belgravia what owned it told ‘er maid to throw it out, so I said I’d take it instead. That,” She points to the Staffordshire statue. “Was one of a pair, what the uvver ‘alf got broken, so it was being chucked, so I took it. I don’t care if it don’t ‘ave the uvver ‘alf. I like it as it is. It’s pretty. The Queen Victoria teapot was getting’ chucked out just ‘cos the old Queen died, and King Bertie was takin’ ‘er place. Well, I wasn’t ‘avin’ none of that. Poor old Queen! I said I’d ‘ave it if no-one else wanted it. And this teapot,” She withdraws the pretty blue and white china teapot from atop the stove. “This was just bein’ thrown out ‘cos it’s old and they’s no bits of the set left but this. But there ain’t nuffink wrong wiv it, and it must be at least a ‘undred years old!”

 

Mrs. Boothby pulls out a gilt edged blue and white cake plate which she puts on the table along with the tea cups, sugar bowl and milk jug. She then goes to the dresser and pulls down a pretty tin decorated with Art Nouveau ladies from which she takes several pieces of shortbread, which she places on the cake plate.

 

“That’s very lovely, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith points to a teapot in the shape of a rabbit sitting in a watering can. “It looks rather like Peter Rabbit.”

 

“Ahh… my Ken loves that too.” Edith’s ears prick at the mention of someone named Ken, but she doesn’t have time to ask who he is before Mrs. Boothby continues, “That bunny rabbit teapot is one of the few pieces I got what ‘as a sad story what goes wiv it. Poor lady what I cleaned for up in St. James’, it were ‘er baby’s, from the nursery, you know?” Edith nods in understanding. “Well, ‘e died. ‘E was a weak little mite ‘e were, ever since ‘e was born, and my poor lady was so upset when ‘e died that she got rid of everyfink in the nursery. She didn’t want nuffink to remind her of that little baby. So, I brought it ‘ome wiv me.” She sighs. “Well, the kettle’s boiled now, so ‘ow about a cup of Rosie-Lee, dearie?”

 

A short while later, Edith and Mrs. Boothby are seated around Mrs. Boothby’s kitchen table with the elegant Regency teapot, some blue and white china cups and the plate of shortbreads before them.

 

“Oh I tell you Edith dearie, I’m dying for a fag!” Mrs Boothby says. She starts fossicking through her capacious beaded bag 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 more of her fruity coughs, dropping the match into a black ashtray that sits on the table full of cigarette butts. Mrs. Boothby settles back happily in her ladderback chair with her cigarette in one hand and reaches out, taking up a shortbread biscuit with the other. Blowing out a plume of blue smoke that tumbles through the air around them, the old woman continues. “Nah, about this sewin’ machine. My Ken’ll be ‘ome soon, I ‘ope. ‘E’s a bit late today.”

 

“Mrs. Boothby, who is Ken?” Edith asks with a questioning look on her face.

 

Just as Mrs. Boothby is about to answer her, she gasps as she hears a rather loud and jolly whistle.

 

“Well, speak of the devil, ‘ere ‘e comes nah!”

 

The front door of the tenement flies open and the space is instantly filled by the bulk of a big man in a flat cap with a large parcel wrapped in newspaper tied with twine under his right arm.

 

*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.

 

**The Singer Corporation is an American manufacturer of consumer sewing machines, first established as I. M. Singer & Co. in 1851 by Isaac M. Singer with New York lawyer Edward C. Clark. Best known for its sewing machines, it was renamed Singer Manufacturing Company in 1865, then the Singer Company in 1963. In 1867, the Singer Company decided that the demand for their sewing machines in the United Kingdom was sufficiently high to open a local factory in Glasgow on John Street. The Vice President of Singer, George Ross McKenzie selected Glasgow because of its iron making industries, cheap labour, and shipping capabilities. Demand for sewing machines outstripped production at the new plant and by 1873, a new larger factory was completed on James Street, Bridgeton. By that point, Singer employed over two thousand people in Scotland, but they still could not produce enough machines. In 1882 the company purchased forty-six acres of farmland in Clydebank and built an even bigger factory. With nearly a million square feet of space and almost seven thousand employees, it was possible to produce on average 13,000 machines a week, making it the largest sewing machine factory in the world. The Clydebank factory was so productive that in 1905, the U.S. Singer Company set up and registered the Singer Manufacturing Company Ltd. in the United Kingdom.

 

***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 rookery is a dense collection of housing, especially in a slum area. The rookeries created in Victorian times in London’s East End were notorious for their cheapness, filth and for being overcrowded.

 

*****The word Yid is a Jewish ethnonym of Yiddish origin. It is used as an autonym within the Ashkenazi Jewish community, and also used as slang. When pronounced in such a way that it rhymes with did by non-Jews, it is commonly intended as a pejorative term. It is used as a derogatory epithet, and as an alternative to, the English word 'Jew'. It is uncertain when the word began to be used in a pejorative sense by non-Jews, but some believe it started in the late Nineteenth or early Twentieth Century when there was a large population of Jews and Yiddish speakers concentrated in East London, gaining popularity in the 1930s when Oswald Mosley developed a strong following in the East End of London.

 

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

 

*******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.

 

I would just like to point out that I wrote this story some weeks ago, long before The Queen became ill and well before her passing. However it seems apt that this story of all, which I planned weeks ago to upload today as part of the Chetwyn Mews narrative, mentions the passing of The Queen (albeit Queen Victoria). I wish to dedicate this image and chapter to our own Queen of past and glorious times Queen Elizabeth II (1926 – 2022). Long did she reign over us, happy and glorious. God bless The Queen.

 

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.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s beloved collection of ornaments come from various different sources. The Staffordshire cow (one of a pair) and the cow creamer that stand on the mantlepiece have been hand made and painted by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. If you look closely, you will see that the Staffordshire cow actually has a smile on its face! Although you can’t notice it in the photo, the cow creamer has its own removable lid which is minute in size! The duck coming from the egg jug on the mantle, the rooster jug, the cottage ware butter dish, Peter Rabbit in the watering can tea pot and the cottage ware teapot to its right on the dresser were all made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson. All the pieces are authentic replicas of real pieces made by different china companies. For example, the cottage ware teapot has been decorated authentically and matches in perfect detail its life-size Price Washington ‘Ye Olde Cottage Teapot’ counterparts. The top part of the thatched roof and central chimney form the lid, just like the real thing. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics. The Queen Victoria teapot on the mantlepiece and the teapot on the dresser to the left of the Peter Rabbit teapot come from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. All the other plates on the dresser came from various online miniature stockists through E-Bay, as do the teapot, plate and cups on Mrs. Boothby’s kitchen table.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s picture gallery in the corner of the room come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s beaded handbag on the table is also a 1:12 artisan miniature. Hand crocheted, it is interwoven with antique blue glass beads that are two millimetres in diameter. The beads of the handle are three millimetres in length. It came from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

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

 

The meagre foodstuffs on Mrs. Boothby’s shelf represent items not unusually found in poorer households across Britain. Before the Second World War, the British populace consumed far more sugar than we do today, partially for the poor because it was cheap and helped give people energy when their diets were lacking good nutritious foods. Therefore finding a tin of treacle, some preserved fruit or jam, and no fresh fruits or vegetables was not an unusual sight in a lower class home. All the tined foodstuffs, with the exception of the tin of S.P.C. peaches, are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, with great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars and cans. The S.P.C. tin of peaches comes from Shepherd’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. 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 rather worn and beaten looking enamelled bread bin and colander in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green, which have been aged on purpose, are artisan pieces I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

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

 

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

 

The grey marbleised fireplace behind the stove and the trough sink in the corner of the kitchen come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The green wallpaper is an authentic replica of real Art Nouveau wallpaper from the first decade of the Twentieth Century which I have printed onto paper. The floorboards are a print of a photo taken of some floorboards that I scaled to 1:12 size to try and maintain a realistic look.

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

 

Today however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife Arabella. Lettice is visiting her family home over the Christmastide and New Year period. 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 mid-morning and Lettice pads as quietly as possible across the cavernous Adam style entrance hall of Glynes, the louis heels of her shoes echoing around the space. Anxiously she looks over her shoulder down the corridor that passes the morning room, her mother’s domain where she knows Lady Sadie is right now, and where she does not wish to be drawn into. She turns to her right and walks up to a pair of beautiful walnut double doors and knocks loudly.

 

“Come!” comes a muffled male voice from inside.

 

Lettice opens the doors and walks through into the light filled library where she is greeted by the comforting smell of old books and woodsmoke. Although as masculine as the morning room is feminine, Lettice feels far more at home in her father’s library, partially because it is his domain and also because he and she both know that, with her reading extending not much further than The Lady*, Horse and Hound** or a sedate Regency romance, Lady Sadie is unlikely to disturb either of them as long as they remain within the library’s four walls. The walls of the long room are lined with floor to ceiling shelves, all full of books: thousands of volumes on so many subjects. Weak wintery sunlight drifts through the tall windows facing out to the front of the house, burnishing the polished parquetry floors in a ghostly way. The fire, another constant in the library, crackles contentedly. And there, sitting at his Chippendale desk, sits Viscount Wrexham, dealing with estate business.

 

“Ah! My darling girl!” the Viscount puts aside his pen, pushes his chair back over the richly woven carpet and stands.

 

Lettice walks down the length of the room carrying a tapestry carpet bag in shades of red wine and moss green – a piece of luggage that she used to convey her Christmas presents for the family down to Wiltshire, and the only piece that does not match any of her other elegant deep blue leather Vuitton*** luggage that accompanied her from London in Gerald’s motorcar.

 

“Have you a moment to spare for me, Pappa!” Lettice asks as she reaches her father’s desk.

 

“Yes,” the Viscount says a little wearily. “Only if it isn’t too long. Shall I ring for tea?”

 

When Lettice nods eagerly, the Viscount pulls the handle of the servants call bell. The Chetwynd’s faithful butler, Bramley’s, familiar footfall outside the library door precedes his knock, and he is quickly dispatched with an order for tea to be served indulgently in the Viscount’s favourite blue and white gilt Art Nouveau tea set.

 

Sitting opposite her father at his desk, Lettice ponders her father’s face, which looks wan, and she notices the dark circles in the sagging flesh under his eyes. “You look and sound tired, Pappa.” she states matter-of-factly. “Are you all right?”

 

“Oh, your brother and I have to deal with some not too pleasant business at Mile End Farm. It’s been keeping me awake at night, and I didn’t want to deal with it before Christmas.”

 

“What business, Pappa?”

 

“Estate business.” The Viscount brushes his daughter off with a dismissive wave. “Nothing you need to worry your pretty head about.”

 

“If it is causing you to have sleepless nights, and as the estate is our family’s, I think it is very much my business, Pappa.” Lettice presses. “Even if Leslie is to inherit it, and not me. Have you difficulties with old Farmer Cooper again?”

 

“Well,” the Viscount admits. “Since you insist, yes. Ever since his son died in Ypres, and his wife of influenza, he’s taken to drinking heavily, and all but given up on Mile End Farm, and I can’t have such fertile soil untilled. If Cooper doesn’t start working the farm again, Leslie and I will have no choice but to break his leasehold in favour of another farmer.”

 

“But Coopers have been farming Mile End Farm for generations.” Lettice protests.

 

“The estate is getting expensive to maintain. Taxes have increased to help pay for the war that the Kaiser dragged us into, yet the Weimar Republic won’t pay for****,” The Viscount sighs heavily. “And I can’t afford to run a charity any more, not even for the likes of Cooper, however long his family have worked our estate.”

 

“Charity?”

 

“He’s not paid his rent.”

 

“How in arrears is he?”

 

“Three months.”

 

“Oh my!” Lettice’s hand goes to her mouth.

 

“Now you see why I didn’t want to deal with this before Christmas.” The Viscount sighs sadly again. “For all his latter faults, Cooper doesn’t deserve to be given an ultimatum on Christmas Eve. But, I can’t wait any longer. I have at least three farmers I know of who would give their eye teeth to be given Mile End Farm to work, and as the future owner of the estate, Leslie needs to know how it works.”

 

“That’s sad, Pappa.”

 

“This is the new post-war world, Lettice. You know as much as anyone that the world has changed, inexorably so. If Cooper chooses to drink his life away, I can’t stop him.”

 

Their conversation is interrupted by the gentle knocking at the door.

 

“Come!” Viscount Wrexham calls commandingly again.

 

Bramley enters carrying a silver tray laden with the blue and white gild Art Nouveau tea things, just as requested. “Tea, My Lord.”

 

“Very good, Bramley.” the Viscount acknowledges the butler. “We’ll have it here, I think.” He looks to his daughter. “Yes?” To which she nods in reply.

 

With the tea things set up on the gilt tooled brown leather surface of the Viscount’s Chippendale desk, and Bramley discreetly retreated beyond the library doors this Viscount says, “Now, before Leslie and I pay a call on Cooper, what is it you wanted to see me about, my girl?”

 

“Well Pappa,” Lettice replies. “I need your advice on these.”

 

Lettice withdraws the four silhouettes in black ebonised frames that she bought from Mrs. Trevithick’s Treasures when working on Margot and Dickie’s house in Cornwall and places them on her father’s desk.

 

“And what have we here?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow as he admires the two Regency gentlemen and the Georgian lady and gentleman in black on white within the thin black frames. “Hhhmmm.” He scratches his cleanly shaven chin and ruminates quietly. “These look a little bit like something your mother has in the morning room. Wouldn’t you be better asking her?”

 

“Oh no, Pappa!” Lettice exclaims awkwardly and with a little too much protesting to be polite. “Mamma would only tell me what I already know about them.”

 

“And what do you know about them, my girl? What does your interior designer eye tell you?”

 

“They are silhouettes and two are Regency, or early Victorian and two are Georgian. The two gentlemen appear to be cut paper, and the Georgian couple possibly painted.”

 

“Where did you acquire these from, Lettice?”

 

“From a little curiosity shop in Cornwall when I was doing preliminary works on the redecoration of Dickie and Margot Channon’s house. I thought you might have a book on the subject?” Lettice asks hopefully.

 

The Viscount settles back in his seat and sips tea from his gilt edged cup, the blue and gilding glowing in the electric light of the chandelier overhead. He gazes around the shelves about them. Lettice holds her breath in anticipation of her father’s answer, not daring to speak for fear of breaking his considered concentration. Only the gentle ticking of the clock on the mantle and the quiet cracking of the fire breaking the silence.

 

“I think I do have a book on silhouettes here somewhere.”

 

He heaves himself out of his seat with a groan and dragging his library steps along the parquet floor to a section of shelves near the fireplace, he climbs up to one of the upper shelves. “I’m sure I had something up here, possibly ordered by your mother when she had a mania for collecting silhouettes that ended up in here when she grew tired of it.” He begins running his fingers along the dark vellum volumes with gilt letting and others with brightly coloured dustjackets. “Ah! Here we are!” He pulls out a blue coloured volume with gilt lettering. “The history of Silhouettes by E. Nevill Jackson*****!”

 

Taking the volume over to the desk, the pair begin to look through the photographic plates in the book, scanning image after image, sipping their tea as companionably they look at silhouette after beautiful silhouette.

 

“I’d say, looking at this,” Lettice points to an image of a gentleman in a top hat. “That the two gentlemen may be Swiss or German. See the similarity in the cut of the frock coats.”

 

“Very good, Lettice.” her father replies approvingly. “Well spotted, my girl. And they are thin card like these.” He indicates to the notes about how the image was created. “This would make them Biedermeier, then.”

 

They continue to look.

 

“Ahh, now this is interesting,” the Viscount announces as they reach a page featuring five very fine silhouettes. “Your Georgian couple, unlike the Biedermeier pair, appear to be Indian ink painted on paper, and look like the work of Francis Torond*******.”

 

“Who was Francis Torond?” Lettice asks excitedly.

 

“Let’s consult Ms Jackson’s biography section.” The Viscount flicks through the book. “Here we are. Francis Torond was French, but emigrated to England around 1796.” He scans the biography. “He only worked as a silhouette artist for about ten years. He painted in Indian ink on fine paper using a quill pen for fine detail. His works are usually in framed in oval turned ebonized wood or oval giltwood frames.” Lettice gasps. “And his works are often identified through trade labels. Let’s see.” The Viscount turns the picture of the Georgian lady over and using his silver letter opener, carefully prises the backing from its frame, and the pair see a very dirty paper label pasted across the back of the portrait. “There we are! Torond, number thirteen Wells Street, London. This is a Frances Torond! And I’ll wager the pair is then too!”

 

Outside in the entrance hall, the distant trill of the telephone can be heard ringing out anxiously.

 

“How much did you pay for them?” the Viscount asks, continuing to look at the portraits before him.

 

“Fifteen shillings each.”

 

“Quite the bargain then, I’d say.” the Viscount says proudly with an approving nod. “Canny girl.”

 

Their conversation is interrupted yet again by the gentle knocking at the library door.

 

“Come!” Viscount Wrexham calls commandingly again.

 

Bramley pokes his head around the door. “Sorry to disturb, My Lord.”

 

“Good heavens Bramley! Is Leslie here already?” the Viscount asks anxiously. “I’m afraid Lettice and I have quite lost track of the time. We’ve been quite engrossed in successfully solving a little mystery.”

 

“Ahh… no My Lord. It’s the telephone. My Lord.”

 

“Who is it then, Bramley?”

 

“It’s actually for Miss Lettice, My Lord.” the butler replies coolly in his friendly baritone voice.

 

“For me?” Lettice raises her hand to the pearls at her throat and toys with them.

 

“Yes, My Lady. It’s Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon******** ringing from St. Paul's, Walden Bury.”

 

“Oh well, I’ll take the telephone call in here then, Bramley.” Lettice says, walking over to the small round three legged Georgian pedestal table the old fashioned black candlestick telephone stands on. ‘That is if you don’t mind, Father.”

 

“Not at all.” the Viscount acquiesces.

 

Lettice picks up the telephone and picks up the receiver in her left hand, placing it to her ear, and speaks clearly into the round mouthpiece of the candlestick base that she holds in her right hand. “Hullo Elizabeth darling!” she exclaims happily. “What an unexpected surprise! Merry Christmas and happy New Year.” A distant female voice speaks down the line. “Oh yes! Yes, it was marvellous. Mamma wasn’t too painful. Lally, Charles and the children came up, and so did Aunt Egg, of course. And Pappa,” She glances over at her father who has resumed looking at the silhouette portraits in an effort to be discreet and not overhear his daughter’s conversation. “Gave me a wonderful book on Egyptian art. He thinks that the discovery like the boy king’s tomb by Mr. Carter********* in Egypt is going to start a new wave of Egyptomania**********.” She smirks. “How was yours?” She listens to Elizabeth’s voice. “Is he?” The voice at the other end grows more excited. “Did he really? Again?” The voice answers animatedly. “And what did you say?” Even the Viscount, however discreet with his back turned, cannot help but pick up his ears to his daughter’s conversation. “You did? Oh congratulations, Elizabeth darling!” Lettice beams with delight. “No misgivings this time, I hope?” She listens again. “Well, that is a relief! How absolutely thrilling!” She listens again. “Oh, thank you Elizabeth darling! Oh yes I’d love to!” The voice at the other end of the telephone grows more serious. “Well of course I will! How could I refuse? Well, I’ll be back in London the day after tomorrow. Gerald’s motoring us both back to town. You must come over for tea, or cocktails and tell me all about it.” The voice speaks again. “Yes, alright Elizabeth darling. Yes… yes, I shall see you then. And congratulations again! Alright. Goodbye for now!”

 

Lettice hangs up the receiver and squeals with delight.

 

“Well!” Lettice gasps with excitement. “You’ll never guess who that was, Pappa!”

 

“I was led to believe by Bramley that it was your friend, Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon.” her father says dourly.

 

“She won’t be Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon much longer! The Duke of York proposed for a third time, and this time she said yes!” Lettice squeals again, jumping up and down on the spot. “She’s going to become the Duchess of York!”

 

“Well, that is jolly news!” the Viscount replies. “I can’t wait to tell your mother! She’ll be beside herself with joy that she entertained the future Duchess of York here at the Hunt Ball last year! I might even get a few days without any quibbles from her thanks to the news. Here’s hoping, anyway.” He crosses his fingers. “I say,” he adds dourly at the end. “I do hope she knows what she’s doing, getting married to the Windsors. I can’t say I’d fancy the King and Queen as my in-laws, Queen Mary especially!”

 

“I suppose since this is the third time the Duke of York proposed, that she realises. She says that she has no misgivings this time. I’ll have to get Gerald to design me a new dress and get Harriet to make me a hat for the wedding.”

 

“When will the wedding take place?”

 

“Elizabeth doesn’t know yet, but I don’t imagine it will be too far away.”

 

“Yes, no doubt the Windsors want to secure her for the Duke and marry them quickly before she changes her mind, if this is the third proposal.”

 

*The Lady is one of Britain's longest-running women's magazines. It has been in continuous publication since 1885 and is based in London. It is particularly notable for its classified advertisements for domestic service and child care; it also has extensive listings of holiday properties.

 

**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.

 

***Louis Vuitton Malletier, commonly known as Louis Vuitton, is a French luxury fashion house and company founded in 1854 by Louis Vuitton. The label's LV monogram appears on most of its products, ranging from luxury bags and leather goods to ready-to-wear, shoes, watches, jewellery, accessories, sunglasses and books. The Louis Vuitton label was founded by Vuitton in 1854 on Rue Neuve des Capucines in Paris. Louis Vuitton started at $10,567 as a sales price. Louis Vuitton had observed that the HJ Cave Osilite trunk could be easily stacked. In 1858, Vuitton introduced his flat-topped trunks with Trianon canvas, making them lightweight and airtight. Before the introduction of Vuitton's trunks, rounded-top trunks were used, generally to promote water runoff, and thus could not be stacked. It was Vuitton's grey Trianon canvas flat trunk that allowed the ability to stack them on top of another with ease for voyages. Many other luggage makers later imitated Vuitton's style and design, but Vuitton was the choice of luggage for the rich and influential.

 

****In order to repay the expenditures made by the British during the Great War, like had been occurring since the Napoleonic Wars, the government increased Income Tax. The standard rate of income tax, which was six per cent in 1914, stood at thirty per cent in 1918. Following the ratification of article 231 of the Treaty of Versailles at the conclusion of the Great War, the Central Powers were made to give war reparations to the Allied Powers. Each of the defeated powers was required to make payments in either cash or kind. Because of the financial situation in Austria, Hungary, and Turkey after the war, few to no reparations were paid and the requirements for reparations were cancelled. Bulgaria, having paid only a fraction of what was required, saw its reparation figure reduced and then cancelled. Due to the lack of reparation payments by Germany, France occupied the Ruhr in 1923 to enforce payments, causing an international crisis and hyperinflation in Germany. As a result of all of this, income tax rates amongst the wealthy were maintained at a high level, far in excess of those charged in the years before the war, making the management of estates very difficult if they were not productive.

 

*****“The History of Silhouettes” by Emily Neville Jackson was published by The Connoisseur, in London in 1911. The first edition has blue cloth boards with gilt lettering on the cover. It has one hundred and twenty one pages of text and bibliography with an additional seventy two plates of photographs of silhouettes. Emily Jackson was a noted collector and authority on silhouettes, especially the work of Auguste Amant Constant Fidèle Edouart, who was a French-born portrait artist who worked in England, Scotland and the United States in the Nineteenth Century who specialised in silhouette portraits.

 

*******Francis Torond was an accomplished and successful silhouette artist of the late Georgian and Regency periods in England. He experienced financial difficulty and decided it was not a profitable career, so sadly only worked as a profilist for a decade. He is renowned today for his exquisite conversation pieces, and also for his clare-obscur style – the technique of using light and shade in a pictorial piece of art. Born around 1743, he emigrated withhis family from France to England around 1776, settling in Westminster in London. Francis Torond painted entirely in Indian ink on fine laid paper, using a quill pen to depict detail. He was incredibly skilled in highlighting the details of clothing and the background in which his sitters were painted. China, furniture and lighting were all beautifully painted. He did not use any mechanical means to produce his silhouettes, and he advertised that he could copy any silhouette onto furniture or jewellery. He died at his St Giles home in 1812.

 

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

 

*********On the 4th of November 1922, English archaeologist Howard Carter and his men discovered the entrance to the boy king, Pharaoh Tutankhamun's tomb in the Valley of the Kings. He unseals the entrance on the 16th of February 1923, discovering the most intact Egyptian burial chamber ever unearthed. It sparks a worldwide interest in all things Egyptian. The craze he started became known as Tutmania, and it inspired everything from the architecture of public building and private houses alike to interior design and fashion. Famously at the time, socialite Dolores Denis Denison applied one of the earliest examples of getting the media of the day to pay attention to her because of her dress by arriving at the prestigious private view of the King Tut Exhibition in London, dressed as an Egyptian mummy complete in a golden sarcophagus and had to be carried inside by her driver and a hired man. Although it started before the discovery of the tomb, the Art Deco movement was greatly influenced by Egyptian style. Many of the iconic decorative symbols we associate with the movement today came about because of Howard Carter’s discovery of Tutankhamun's tomb in the Valley of the Kings.

 

**********Egyptomania refers to a period of renewed interest in the culture of ancient Egypt sparked by Napoleon's Egyptian Campaign in the 19th century. Napoleon was accompanied by many scientists and scholars during this Campaign, which led to a large interest after the documentation of ancient monuments in Egypt. The ancient remains had never been so thoroughly documented before and so the interest in ancient Egypt increased significantly. Jean-François Champollion deciphered the ancient hieroglyphs in 1822 by using the Rosetta Stone that was recovered by French troops in 1799 which began the study of scientific Egyptology.

 

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 all the books you see both open and closed on the Viscount’s Chippendale 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 one of the books he has made. “The History of Silhouettes” by Emily Nevill Jackson was published by The Connoisseur, in London in 1911. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into this volume and the others, the book contains thirty double sided pages of silhouette images and script and measures thirty-three millimetres in height and thirty millimetres in width and is only five millimetres thick. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just one of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

The miniature silhouettes that Lettice bought in Cornwall were made by Lady Mile Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The Art Nouveau tea set I acquired from an online specialist of miniatures in E-Bay.

 

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.

 

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 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.

 

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 Persian rug you can just glimpse in the bottom left-hand corer of the photo was hand woven by Pike, Pike and Company 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.

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Truro

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 followed Lettice from her home to just a short distance away. Still in Mayfair, she is visiting Asprey* in Bond Street: jewellers to the royal family, silversmiths and goldsmiths and suppliers of luxury goods. With Dickie Channon and Margot de Virre’s engagement announced, Lettice is charged with finding a wedding gift not only of her own, but for her parents to send to the home of Margot’s parents. Leaving the busy shopping strip populated by suited men on their way to their offices and clubs and smartly dressed ladies enjoying a day of shopping, Lettice slips in through the beautiful full length glass doors of Asprey’s into the cossetted comfort of the light filled luxury shop. Leaving the bustle of London behind her with the quiet click of the doors closing, she breathes in the gentle waft of expensive perfume and leather.

 

“Ah! Miss Chetwynd!” a mature frock coated shop walker greets Lettice with a broad smile. “How do you do.”

 

Lettice greets the stout, smartly dressed man with the familiarity of the regular client that she is. “How do you do, Crosbie,” she addresses him as she does her family butler.

 

“And to what do we owe this great pleasure of your visit, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Crosbie asks obsequiously, clasping his glove clad hands together behind his back. “A finishing touch for one of your latest interiors, perhaps? I have some lovely silver tea services just in from our silversmiths.”

 

Lettice looks distractedly around the beautiful mahogany display cabinets filled with leather dressing cases and travel de necessaires, candelabras, coffee and tea services.

 

“Not today, Crosbie,” she flashes him one of her winning smiles, not fooled for a moment by the portly floor walker’s flattery and toady behaviour.

 

Lettice knows that when she walks into Asprey’s that she is a valued customer because of how much money she spends there and how much influence she has on others who also patronise the shop. Her mind slips back to her first visit to Asprey as a teenager before the war, when she accompanied her mother who was looking to buy some new jewellery for a court levee. The frock coated staff fawned over Viscountess Wrexham and her daughter noticed for the first time the deference paid not only to her mother, but to her as well as a member of a family held in such high esteem and a future patron of the shop.

 

“A new travel de necessaire for your next country house soirée, perhaps?” Mr. Crosbie asks attentively. “Or maybe some new pearls for the Season?”

 

“No, nothing like that today, Crosbie,” Lettice replies.

 

“Please,” Mr. Crosbie indicates with a sweeping gesture to a small mahogany Queen Anne style table decorated with a white vase filled with fragrant rose blooms, flanked by two dainty velvet seated salon chairs. “Some tea perhaps, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Oh Crosbie,” she sighs, sinking into one of the chairs, crossing her legs elegantly and propping her black handled green parasol against her thigh. “You are a brick!”

 

The older manager looks over and catches the eye of a junior member of staff to whom he nods almost imperceptibly. The younger man quietly slips away from behind a counter of silver salvers and trays and disappears into the back of the showroom.

 

“Then,” Mr. Crosbie asks, taking his place adjunct to Lettice. “What is your pleasure today, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

Lettice’s eyes the glittering shelves again. Champagne buckets, strawberry dishes, biscuit barrels, lidded chafing dishes, trophies and meat covers all polished to a gleaming sheen wink and glow against their mahogany housings or in glass display cases, under the morning light from the street outside and diffused light from crystal chandeliers overhead.

 

“Well, you would no doubt have read in The Times that my friends Margot de Virre and Richard Channon have recently become engaged.”

 

Crosbie’s gleaming brown eyes lift towards the ceiling and his mouth falls open ever so slightly as he considers the names of all the newly engaged couples of note announced in the London newspapers. “The Marquess of Taunton’s son and Lord de Virre’s daughter,” he remarks thoughtfully. “Yes, I did see that. Ah!”

 

The younger shop walker arrives with a silver tray laden with a sleek teapot, sugar bowl, milk jug, a cup and saucer and a selection of biscuits on a plate. He carefully places the tray on the table, next to Lettice’s crocodile skin handbag. Mr. Crosbie nods ever so slightly at the younger man and he retreats, walking quietly back across the carpeted floor.

 

“So, you see my dilemma Crosbie,” Lettice says. “I need a wedding gift.”

 

“Well, Miss Chetwynd,” the older man says in an assuring tone. “You aren’t the first person to visit Asprey to purchase a wedding gift for them.” He pauses. “However we have so many lovely things to choose from, that I feel sure we shall find the perfect gift from you.”

 

“Oh it isn’t just for me, Crosbie,” Lettice replies apologetically. “I also need a wedding gift for my parents.”

 

“Ah! How is his Lordship?” Mr. Crosbie asks. “And her Ladyship?”

 

“Quite well thank you, Crosbie,” Lettice states. “However, they are too ensconced in Wiltshire to come to London to select their own gift.”

 

“Well, I’m sure we can find a suitable gift for them too, Miss Chetwynd.” He smiles politely. “Shall I pour?”

 

“Oh, you are a brick, Crosbie!” Lettice says. “Yes please.”

 

As he pours, Mr. Crosbie artfully makes sure that the sleek body of the teapot and its elegant spout catches the light and the attention of his customer.

 

“That’s a lovely teapot, Crosbie,” Lettice remarks thoughtfully.

 

“It’s one of the new tea services we have just received from our silversmiths.” He adds hopefully, “It is Georgian Revival Moderne: very fashionable Miss Chetwynd. Will you take milk and sugar?”

 

“Yes, thank you, Crosbie. Oh, and the crockery?”

 

“Also in a new and very fashionable line, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Crosbie adds with delight that Lettice has noticed it. “Do have a chocolate or a vanilla Bourbon biscuit.”

 

“Thank you, Crosbie.” She picks up a chocolate cream Huntley and Palmer’s biscuit and munches daintily on it. After finishing her mouthful and taking a sip of tea she continues, “Now. I want something different. Something special for two of my closest friends: not just a tea set.” Crosbie’s face falls slightly at her words. “Anyone can give a tea set.”

 

“Indeed, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Crosbie acquiesces with a slight lilt of disappointment.

 

“No!” Lettice continues. “I want something, different. The Marquess is giving the newlyweds a house near Penzance as a country retreat. I am told it is a Regency house. I’d like to give them something suitable for there. What can you show me, Crosbie?”

 

The older man’s eyes light up again. “Ah! Well, Asprey’s do have a few rather lovely pieces that might suit. If I could beg your indulgence, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

Lettice nods in agreement as the man moves purposefully across the red carpeted floor to the mahogany display shelves where he fetches several pieces. She continues to enjoy the Bourbon biscuits and her tea whilst he searches for potential presents. Returning, he places two lidded boxes and a tray on the table before her.

 

“A Regency Revival letter tray, and two Georgian Revival tea caddies, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Crosbie says soothingly with a flourish of his hands worthy of a magician having produced a rabbit from a hat.

 

Lettice scrutinises each, carefully picking them up and considering them as gifts. Across the table from her, Mr. Crosbie quietly holds his breath as he watches, clutching his glove glad hands together beneath the table’s surface.

 

“Yes,” Lettice says at length. “Yes, I think the larger of the tea caddies, Crosbie.”

 

“Very good, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Crosbie enthuses. “And for your parents?”

 

“Oh, the tea service, definitely.” she replies with a wry smile. “They are very good at giving tea sets.”

 

“Very good, Miss Chetwynd. I’ll have the accounts drawn out. Shall I have the tea service and the tea caddy sent directly to Lord and Lady de Virre with a small note of compliments from you and the Viscount?"

 

“The tea set, yes,” Lettice says. “But the tea caddy, no. Please have that sent to me.”

 

“Certainly Miss Chetwynd. I can have it delivered to you this afternoon, if that suits.”

 

“Splendid Crosbie,” Lettice smiles and sighs, relieved that she has the perfect wedding gift for her friends. Finishing her tea, she grasps her parasol and handbag and prepares to leave. Then, as an after thought she adds, “Oh, and have another of those tea services sent to me as well.” She looks again at the sleek teapot glinting on the tray. “I quite like the way the pot pours.”

 

“Yes, Miss Chetwynd!” Mr. Crosbie says with undisguised pleasure.

 

*Founded in 1781 as a silk printing business by William Asprey, Asprey soon became a luxury emporium. In 1847 the business moved to their present premises at 167 Bond Street, where they advertised 'articles of exclusive design and high quality, whether for personal adornment or personal accompaniment and to endow with richness and beauty the table and homes of people of refinement and discernment’. In 1862 Asprey received a Royal Warrant from Queen Victoria. They received a second Royal Warrant from the Future Edward VII in 1889. Asprey has a tradition of producing jewellery inspired by the blooms found in English gardens and Woodland Flora. Over the decades jewelled interpretations of flowers have evolved to include Daisy, Woodland and sunflower collections. They have their own special cut of diamond and produce leather goods, silver and gold pieces, trophies and leatherbound books, both old and new. They also produce accessories for playing polo. In 1997, Asprey produced the Heart of the Ocean necklace worn in the motion picture blockbuster, ‘Titanic’.

 

This luxury goods shop floor with all its silver may appear real to you, however it is fashioned entirely of 1:12 miniatures from my collection. Some of the items in this tableaux are amongst the very first pieces I ever received as a young child.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

The panoply of silver items that full the shelves and cabinets were once commonplace items in both upper and middle-class households. These items include candelabras, candlesticks, a biscuit barrel, an egg cruet set, a lidded muffin dish, a punch bowl, a toast rack, vases, trophies, coffee sets, tea sets, a strawberry dish, lidded chafing and serving dishes, meat covers, gravy boats, a water jug, an ice bucket, a sweetmeat dish, silver trays and salvers, and tea caddies. Almost all of the silver pieces in this scene are exclusively made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The only pieces not made by them are the square tray and tea service in the foreground, and the three prong Arts and Crafts style candelabra which sits atop a stand in front of the mahogany cases. The square tray and tea service in the foreground, which come from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The three prong candelabra is an artisan piece of sterling silver made in Berlin and is actually only 3 centimetres in height and 3 centimetres in width.

 

The Queen Anne table and two chairs in the foreground were amongst the first miniatures I was ever given as a child. They were birthday presents given to me when I was seven years old.

 

Lettice’s snakeskin handbag with its gold clasp and chain comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom. Lettice’s umbrella also comes from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The Art Deco style teacup, saucer and plate come from an EBay stockist of miniatures, whilst the tiny chocolate and vanilla Bourbon biscuits from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. They specialise in miniature foods, and the array of items they have along with the fine and realistic detail of their hand made pieces is quite amazing!

 

The vase of roses on the Queen Anne table is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.

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

 

Today we are in the very modern and up-to-date 1920s kitchen of Lettice’s flat: Edith her maid’s preserve. Two of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie of bright young things are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. Lettice is hosting an exclusive buffet supper party in their honour at the end of the week, which is turning out to be one of the events of the 1921 London Season. Over the last few days, the flat has been in upheaval as Edith and Lettice’s charwoman* Mrs. Boothby have begun cleaning the flat thoroughly in preparation for the occasion. Things have been so tumultuous that Lettice has decamped and fled to Margot’s parents’ house in Hans Crescent in nearby Belgravia. This leaves Edith with a little more time to do the chores that need doing in the led up to the party, without having to worry about Lettice’s needs.

 

Whilst Edith awaits the arrival of Mrs. Boothby, she takes advantage of the beautiful morning and gathers pieces of silverware from around the flat and sets them up on her green baize cloth in the middle of the kitchen table where a pool of beautiful sunlight pours through the kitchen window. She takes out her tin of Silvo silver polish paste and her cleaning rags and sets about polishing each piece. Taking up one of the tall, elegant candlesticks that sit on either end of the console in the dining room Edith applies the paste with a small brush and then proceeds to wipe it with her cloth, burnishing away any sign of golden tarnish until the piece gleams in her hands. She sighs with satisfaction as she sets it aside where it winks and shines in the sunlight.

 

“A job worth doing is a job well done.” she says quietly as she grasps the next candlestick.

 

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, as Mrs. Boothby does them all without complaint, with reliability and to a very high standard. However, unlike the butler of the townhouse in Pimlico where she held her last position, Edith doesn’t mind polishing silver. She finds it more gratification in seeing the silver pieces shine, whereas for her a floor is just that – a floor. The items she polishes have elegant lines like the Georgian water jug and the Edwardian sugar castor, and in some cases, like the avant-garde Art Deco decanter and goblet set, are artisan pieces purchased by her mistress from the Portland Gallery in Soho. Putting aside the second candlestick, Edith reaches out and picks up one of the goblets from the drinks set. They each have several bands around the cup and have a sturdy weight to them. Applying Silvo paste she starts to hum ‘Look for the Silver Lining’**.

 

“Morning dearie!” Mrs. Boothby calls cheerily as she comes through the servants’ entrance door into the kitchen, a fruity cough that comes from deep within her wiry little body and her footfall in her low heeled shoes announcing her presence just as clearly as her greeting. “Oooh. Someone’s cheery today. Meetin’ a sweetheart this afternoon, are we?”

 

“Good morning Mrs. Boothby,” Edith replies without getting up from her Windsor chair. “No, I’m not meeting anyone this afternoon. I just happen to enjoy cleaning the silver.”

 

The older cockney woman shirks off her long dark blue coat and hangs it on the hook she has claimed as her own by the door. “You what?” Her eyes bulge from her wrinkled face as her mouth falls open in surprise.

 

“I enjoy cleaning silver.” Edith reiterates, holding out the half polished goblet. “See how nicely it burnishes up.”

 

Mrs. Boothby recoils from the proffered goblet with a disdainful look as she turns and hangs her pre-war blue toque up on the hook too. “Nah, just let me rest me weary bones for a few minutes before I start, Edith love!”

 

“There’s tea in the pot by the stove, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith indicates with a movement of her head to the stove behind her. “I’ve only just finished my own so it’s still warm and not too steeped.”

 

“Aah, nah that’s the ticket!” Mrs. Boothby drops her beaded bag on the table with a thud before bustling over to the dresser where she withdraws a Delftware teacup and saucer. “I’m parched after me trip up from Poplar this mornin’! Tottenham Court Road was a sewer of traffic! I swear I’m gonna get ‘it by a crazy cabby or lorry driver one a these days! Now, I’ll just sit ‘ere and ‘ave a reviving cup of Rosie-Lee*** and a fag before I get started.”

 

“What are you going to do this morning?”

 

“Give Miss Lettice’s barfroom a good scrub ‘n polish.” She pours tea into her cup and then walks over to the food safe where she takes out a pint of milk and adds it to her tea. “’Er makeup don’t half leave marks. Lawd knows ‘ow she gets that muck off ‘er face.” She shakes her head in disbelief.

 

“Snowfire Cold Cream.” Edith replies matter-of-factly as she puts aside the gleaming goblet and sets to task on an ornate Georgian lidded serving dish which has been borrowed from Glynes**** silver selection for the soirée.

 

“You know, in my day, a lady what painted ‘er face was, well, a you-know-what.” The old Cockney charwoman’s eyebrows arch over her eyes, wrinkling her forehead more as she gives Edith a knowing look.

 

“Yes, well, this is the 1920s, and some ladies paint their faces now.” Edith starts applying Silvo paste to the crimped edge of the serving dish’ lid. “It’s quite fashionable these days you know.”

 

“Don’t I evva!” Mrs. Boothby utters another barking cough. “It’s indecent the way some girls dress an’ paint their faces nowadays. Not that Miss Lettice is one of ‘em girls. She’s got a bit of class what does our Miss Lettice,” She pauses. “But only just.”

 

“My poor Mum would be horrified if I came home on my day off wearing makeup.” Edith remarks. “She might even take to scrubbing my face rather than the linens she has to wash.”

 

Both women chuckle lightly at the thought as they exchange smiles.

 

“Nah, you don’t need no makeup Edith, love! Youse pretty as a picture, you are, wiv your peaches ’n cream complexion. Youse a right English rose!”

 

“That’s very kind of you to say so, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith blushes awkwardly at the compliment from the old woman and busies herself even harder with burnishing the lid on the green baize before her.

 

Mrs. Boothby starts fossicking through her capacious beaded bag before withdrawing her cigarette papers, Swan Vestas and tin of Player’s Navy Cut. Rolling herself a cigarette she reaches over to the deal dresser and grabs a small black ashtray. Lighting her cigarette with a satisfied sigh and one more of her fruity coughs, she wanders over to the open window with her cup of tea in one hand, the ashtray in the other, and her cigarette between her teeth. She deposits the ashtray and her cup and saucer on the wide window ledge.

 

“You must be the only maid in London, what likes cleanin’ silver, dearie.” she observes as she blows a plume of blueish white smoke out of the window. “How can you get pleasure from cleanin’ somethin’ that’s just gonna get tarnished again?”

 

“Well, don’t you take pleasure from seeing the drawing room floor beautifully waxed, or the bathroom clean?”

 

The wry laugh that erupts from Mrs. Boothby’s ends up morphing into more barking, fruity coughs. “Good lawd, no!” She wipes her mouth with a cleanly laundered handkerchief from her pocket. “It’s the same! No sooner are them floors polished, than some la-di-dah toff comes along wiv their dirty boots traipsing muddy prints all over ‘em.” She shakes her head. “Nah! What I take pleasure from, is the thought of the bunse I get skivvying, and what I’m gonna do wiv that bunse.”

 

“Bunse, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Money, Edith love. Money!”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah, it’s the bunse wot get me frough cleanin’, scrubbin’ and skivvying all day, ev’ry day. Do you fink any of the toffs at this party is gonna look at the candlesticks you just polished and fink of the elbow grease you put into makin’ ‘em shine? No!”

 

“Oh I know, Mrs. Boothby. I don’t expect them to.” Edith replies. “But I’ll know. I want to do my job to the best of my ability. Mum always taught me, and Dad too, that any job doing, is worth doing right. If Miss Lettice or any of her friends notice the nicely polished silver, even if I never hear about it, that is an added bonus.”

 

Mrs. Boothby shakes her head in mild disbelief. “Youse too good for any of ‘em, dearie.”

 

“It’s funny you should say that, Mrs. Boothby. It’s what I keep telling Mum about old Widow Hounslow. I told her just the other week that she was too good for her when she told me that she was monogramming the nasty old so-and-so’s pillowcases.”

 

“Like mum, like daughter, then.” the older Cockney woman observes with a long and noisy slurp of tea.

 

“I suppose,” Edith smiles shyly.

 

“’Ere! Thinkin’ of your mum.” Mrs. Boothby points her smoking cigarette end at Edith. “Did she like the teapot you bought ‘er dahwn the Caledonian Markets**** then?”

 

“Oh yes!” Edith deposits the nicely polished ornamental lid onto the green baize. “Of course, she did exactly what I told you she would do.”

 

“Keepin’ it for good?”

 

“She says she’ll use it on Christmas Day when my brother Bert and I are home.”

 

“Well, Christmas Day is as good a day to use it as any, ‘specially if you and your bruvver is comin’ ‘ome. Better use it once a year, than not at all. Eh?”

 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

 

“Course I’m right.” Mrs. Boothby remarks with a satisfied smile, before taking another loud slurp of tea from her cup.

 

The two women remain in comfortable silence for a little while, each lost in their own thoughts, whilst outside the quiet kitchen, the constant burble of distant London traffic coming Mortimer and Regent Streets and the occasional twitter of a bird carries across the rooftops of Mayfair.

 

“Well, this ain’t gonna get the barfroom done, nah is it?” the old Cockney char remarks at length with a resigned sigh. She stubs out the butt of her cigarette in the ashtray where it is extinguished with a hiss and a final long curl of blueish white smoke. Downing the last of her tea, she thrusts herself forward forcefully, causing another of her rasping coughs to burst forth from within her diminutive frame.

 

“Just leave your cup and saucer in the sink, Mrs. Boothby, and I’ll wash it when I’ve finished polishing.” Edith remarks as she picks up a silver spoon to burnish.

 

“Alight dearie.” she replies. “Ta!”

 

Depositing the cup and saucer as instructed, the char reaches down below the sink to fetch her box of cleaning agents.

 

“When you’ve finished the bathroom, let me know, Mrs. Boothby,” Edith adds. “And we’ll borrow the caretaker’s ladder so we can dust and polish the crystal on the chandeliers in the drawing room and dining room.”

 

“Right-oh, dearie.” she replies.

 

As Mrs. Boothby is about to walk through the green baize door that leads from the kitchen into the dining room of the flat, Edith pipes up, “I do think of the wages I earn too, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“I should ‘ope so, dearie!” she replies with a smile. “I’s glad to ‘ear it though.”

 

“And why is that?” Edith deposits the spoon and picks up another to apply Silvo paste to.

 

“Cos, for a minute there I fought I was workin’ wiv a bloomin' saint!” Her smile changes, betraying her cheeky nature as her eyes light up. “Gawn!”

 

After the old woman has disappeared through the door with her cleaning box, Edith smiles and starts humming ‘Look for the Silver Lining’ again as she picks up another goblet to polish.

 

*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.

 

**’Look for the Silver Lining’ was a popular 1919 song written by Jerome Kern, popularised by singer Marion Harris in 1921.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

This selection of silver for Edith to polish is a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

All of Edith’s silver to clean are 1:12 artisan miniatures. The pair of candelabra at the end of Edith’s deal table are sterling silver artisan miniatures from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in England. The silver drinks set and tray 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. The sugar castor of sterling silver is one and a half centimetres in height and half a centimetre in diameter. It has holes in its finial actually and actually comes apart like its life size equivalent. The finial unscrews from the body so it can be filled. I am told that icing sugar can pass through the holes in the finial, but I have chosen not to try this party trick myself. A sugar castor was used in Edwardian times to shake sugar onto fruits and desserts. Georgian water jug, the salt and pepper in the foreground and the two Georgian lidded serving dishes were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

The green baize cloth on the table is actually part of a green baize cleaning cloth from my linen cupboard, and Edith’s sliver cleaning rag is cut from one of my own old Goddard silver cleaning cloths. The Silvo Silver Polish tub was made by me, and the label is an Edwardian design. Silvo was a British silver cleaning product introduced to market in 1905 by Reckitt and Sons, who also produced Brasso. Silvo has a Royal Warrant.

 

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

 

On the left hand draining board of the sink in the background stands a box of Sunlight soap. Produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories, Sunlight was one of the most popular brands of soap created by Lever Brothers in England. Port Sunlight also produced the popular soap brands Lux, and Lifebuoy. Sunlight Soap was first introduced in 1884.

 

To the left of the sink is the food safe with a mop leaning against it. 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.

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 southeast of Lettice’s flat at the Savoy Hotel*, where a lavish wedding breakfast** is being held for two of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie of bright young things who have just been married at St. Mark’s Church, North Audley Street***: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and the newly minted Margot Channon, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre.

 

“Cheers to you, dear Gerald.” Lettice remarks, raising her glass of glittering golden champagne to her friend.

 

“To me?” Gerald almost chokes on his last mouthful of cheese as he dabs at his mouth daintily with a fine damask napkin. “Whatever for, Lettuce…” He pauses mid nickname as he remembers they are not alone. As if pretending to clear his throat of water cracker biscuit crumbs he coughs. “Ahem… Lettice. Why me? Why not the bride and groom? This is,” He waves his hand about expansively. “After all, for them.”

 

“Oh, there will be plenty of that shortly with the dreaded speeches.” Lettice smiles, grateful that Gerald didn’t call her by her abhorred nickname within public earshot. “No, this is your moment too, as well as theirs.”

 

“I don’t see how you’ve come to that conclusion my dear. This isn’t my wedding.”

 

“Well no, it isn’t Gerald, not in name,” she indicates languidly over to Margot sitting at the bridal table next to Dickie, beaming with such happiness and looking radiant. “But it is your wedding gown that is on show today. And Margot is the perfect mannequin to show it off.”

 

“Do you really like it, Lettice?” Gerald barely dares to ask in a whisper, leaning forward his eyes sparkling with hope. “You aren’t just saying that because you’re my oldest and dearest chum?”

 

“Like it, Gerald?” Lettice stares at Gerald in amazement. “That daring asymmetrical hemline of satin and tulle, the cap sleeves, the boat neckline and that divine embroidery I’ve seen you work on for months: I absolutely love it! Margot will be the bride of the Season.”

 

“Do you really think so, darling?”

 

“You mark my words, Gerald. Just look at all the photographers outside St. Mark’s, waiting for a chance to capture the bride on the steps!” She thinks back to the last hour where the burst of flashbulbs that went off as Dickie and Margot stepped out of the chapel doors was blinding. “She’ll be in every society page up and down the country, in your dress, darling! A Gerald Bruton original.”

 

“Gosh! That is a rather thrilling thought.” Gerald smiles proudly as he tugs awkwardly at his collar.

 

A Savoy waiter discreetly reaches forth with white gloved hands and clears away the white gilt cheese plates and cheese and fruit knives.

 

“Thrilling? I’ll say Gerald! This will truly be the making of you, my clever darling. Cheers!”

 

Lettice raises her glass towards Gerald again, who this time lifts his own in return, the clink drowned out by the sounds of a string quartet playing salon music, vociferous chatter, and the scrape of silver against crockery as the wedding guests around them finish their cheese and fruit before desserts are served.

 

“Just think of all the future young brides here who will each want a frock equally as exquisite as Margot’s.” Lettice remarks before taking a sip of champagne. “Designed by you, of course darling.”

 

“Of course, darling!”

 

Sipping his own champagne, Gerald looks around the private dining room of the Savoy with its gold flocked wallpaper, gilt mirrors and Edwardian style Rococo inspired furnishings. Around the tables decorated with champagne and gold roses in crystal vases, several clusters of young women chat conspiratorially with heads as closely together as their picture hats will allow. He notices one group at a nearby table where a girl, caught pointing by his gaze, is indicating to him. She smiles shyly and quickly lowers her hand. He smiles broadly in return and raises his glass to her in acknowledgement. She takes up her own glass in return.

 

“See,” Lettice remarks proudly as she places a comforting hand upon her friend’s forearm. “You will have blushing brides-to-be and their mothers flocking to you before the fortnight is out.”

 

“Just the same, I don’t think the Marchioness of Taunton approved.” Gerald adds. “She did look rather grim throughout the ceremony as she watched Dickie and Margot get married.”

 

“Oh, pooh the Marchioness!” Lettice counters, looking to Margot’s mother-in-law who sits stiffly by her husband’s side wearing an old fashioned looking picture hat adorned with large silk flowers that perfectly match the powder blue shade of her very conservative and rather dowdy dress, a look of general distain on her sharp features as she looks down her nose at the happy wedding guests in her view. “I think she would look grim no matter what. Before the war, it was Harry who was heir apparent, not Dickie. I’m sure she imagined the heir to the Taunton title marrying someone more fitting than the daughter of a trade bought title like Lord de Virre. However, the dowery that that he brings to the marriage will be welcome in the Taunton coffers, I’m sure.”

 

“Lettice!” Gerald looks around him nervously, hoping that none of the other guests heard his friend speak so candidly about something that is commonly known, but seldom raised, especially somewhere so public.

 

“Lord de Virre told me so himself.” Lettice admits.

 

“Lady de Virre confided in me too,” Gerald adds quickly in an effort to change the subject. “That Vogue have asked for copies of the studio wedding photographs.”

 

“Well, that is exciting, Gerald! Your first appearance in Vogue!” Lettice enthuses. “The first of many, I’m sure. And today is Tuesday, so some of Margot and Dickie’s wealth is bound to rub off on you.”

 

“Whatever do you mean?”

 

“Well, you know the old rhyme, ‘marry on Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth’**** and so on.”

 

“I didn’t take you for believing in such superstitious nonsense, Lettice.” Gerald cocks an eyebrow in surprise at her.

 

“Oh I don’t,” she flaps the thought away as if it were cigarette smoke with her elegantly bejewelled hand. “But it was always a rhyme I remember Nanny Webb singing to me, no doubt under the Mater’s influence.”

 

Lettice looks over to the table where her parents sit. Lady Sadie is engrossed in a conversation over an arrangement of golden yellow roses with a grey haired old dowager wearing several strings of pearls about her neck and a haughty look of distain on her face as she catches Lettice’s eye. Lettice cringes.

 

“Is Sadie playing matchmaker with Lady Faversham?” Gerald asks discreetly, looking in the same direction as Lettice.

 

“Scheming more like.” Lettice mutters. “Do you know she has asked Sir John Nettleford-Hughes to the Hunt Ball after Christmas as a potential suitor for me?” Lettice screws up her nose.

 

“Sir John Nettleford-Hughes! Isn’t he in his mid-fifties?”

 

“More like his sixties!”

 

“Well, he’ll be in good company with Lady Faversham’s unmarried eldest son.”

 

“She doesn’t have an unmarried son too, does she?” Lettice’s eyes grow wide and her face pales at the thought, until she sees the cheeky smile on Gerald’s face as he raises his napkin to his lips attempting to hide it. “Oh you!” she hisses, slapping his wrist playfully and smiling.

 

“At least I made you smile.” Gerald says kindly.

 

“You will come to the Hunt Ball, won’t you darling?” Lettice’s squeeze of her friend’s left wrist highlighting the desperation of her plea.

 

“If we’re invited. The Brutons of leaky roofed Bruton Hall don’t have the panache of Sir John Nettleford-Hughes, not to mention the bank balance.”

 

“Of course you’ll be invited!” Lettice replies in outrage. “It’s traditional. Why you’re practically family being our neighbours. I’ll invite you all if Mater doesn’t: you, your mother, your brother and your father! You must come and rescue me from all the horrors Mater is planning to invite.”

 

“As a penniless spare to the heir, who earns his living making frocks for his financial betters: I’m hardly a suitable match for you to dance with at the ball, Lettice.” He smiles assuringly at his friend across the table and then places his own right hand over hers as it rests across his left wrist. “Who else am I protecting you from the attentions of?”

 

“Jonty Hastings.”

 

“Good god! Howling Hastings! I haven’t seen him since we were in the nursery. Didn’t we used to lock him in the airing cupboard at Bruton Hall?” Gerald asks mischievously.

 

“I’d forgotten that!” Lettice muffles her laughs with her napkin. ‘I think that’s why we gave him that nickname.”

 

“I think that might be the reason why we haven’t seen him since we were children.” Gerald chuckles. “Who else is Sadie pulling out of mothballs for you?”

 

The discreet gloved hands of the Savoy waiter places a blackberry tart topped with clotted cream, garnished with thinly sliced citrus in front of Lettice and Gerald.

 

“Tarquin Howard, Edward Lambley, Selwyn Spencely.” Lettice elucidates after the waiter withdraws.

 

“At least they are more our age,” Gerald says hopefully. “And Selwyn is dishy to boot.”

 

“Oh, you’re as bad as Mater!” Lettice flicks her napkin at him as she prepares to take a mouthful of her tart. “Can you believe she actually offered to show me his photograph in one of her magazines?”

 

“Well, I shouldn’t have minded that.” Gerald replies, uttering a satisfied sigh as he tastes the delicious dessert before him.

 

“Better you than me, Gerald. Do you know what else Mater said to me?”

 

Gerald looks questioningly to her, waiting for Lettice to continue.

 

“She said that Dickie and Margot only asked me to decorate their country house because they are my friends.”

 

“Well, they are, Lettice.”

 

“Yes, but she implied that my decorating isn’t good enough for anyone to put up with unless they are my friends.”

 

“She only said that to make you pack it all in so she can marry you off more easily, like she did your sister. But you and I know better.” Gerald says comfortingly. He picks up his champagne glass again and points it towards Lettice’s. “Pick up your glass, darling.”

 

Lettice looks questioningly at her friend as she wraps her fingers around the stem of her glass.

 

“Here’s to your success.” Gerald says, clinking her glass. “To the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd, successful society interior designer, and the best friend I could ever ask for!”

 

Lettice laughs, awarding Gerald with her beautiful smile.

 

*The Savoy Hotel is a luxury hotel located in the Strand in the City of Westminster in central London, England. 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 luxury hotel in Britain, introducing 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.

 

**A wedding breakfast is a feast given to the newlyweds and guests after the wedding, making it equivalent to a wedding reception that serves a meal. The phrase is still used in British English, as opposed to the description of reception, which is American in derivation. Before the beginning of the Twentieth Century they were traditionally held in the morning, but this fashion began to change after the Great War when they became a luncheon. Regardless of when it was, a wedding breakfast in no way looked like a typical breakfast, with fine savoury food and sweet cakes being served. Wedding breakfasts were at their most lavish in the Edwardian era through to the Second World War.

 

***St. Mark’s Church Mayfair, is a Grade I listed building, in the heart of London's Mayfair district, on North Audley Street. St Mark's was built between 1825 and 1828 as a response to the shortage of churches in the area. The population in Mayfair had grown with the demand for town houses by the aristocracy and the wealthy, as they moved in from the country. The building was constructed in the Greek revival style to the designs of John Peter Gandy. In 1878 the architect Arthur Blomfield made significant changes to the church, adding a timber roof, and introducing Gothic style features. The thirty-four feet (ten metre) façade, together with the elegant porch, is known as one of the finest in London. Being in Mayfair, it was a popular place for the weddings of aristocratic families. It was deconsecrated in 1974, and today it is used as a mixed use venue.

 

****In the first few decades of the Twentieth Century, up until the Second World War, it was customary to hold weddings on weekdays. An old folk rhyme that many of the people at that time would have known went: “Marry on Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday the best day of all, Thursday for crosses, Friday for losses, and Saturday for no luck at all”. It would have been considered bad luck to get married on a Saturday, and bad form to marry on a Sunday.

 

This upper-class gustatory scene, with fare such as you could expect from the Savoy, is not what you may first imagine, for it is actually made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

The Chippendale dining room table and matching chairs are very special pieces. They came from the Petite Elite Miniature Museum, later rededicated as the Carol and Barry Kaye Museum of Miniatures, which ran between 1992 and 2012 on Los Angeles’ bustling Wiltshire Boulevard. One of the chairs still has a sticker under its cushion identifying which room of which dollhouse it came. The Petite Elite Miniature Museum specialised in exquisite and high end 1:12 miniatures. The furnishings are taken from a real Chippendale design.

 

The table is set correctly for an Edwardian dinner, using cutlery, crockery and glassware from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. Each glass is hand blown using real glass. The plates have been gilded by hand and the cutlery set is made of polished metal. The napkin rings were made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom, as was the champagne flute that is filled with glittering golden yellow champagne. The silver cruet set, which peeps from behind the yellow roses, has been made with great attention to detail, and comes from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The gold candelabra on the table is also a 1:12 artisan piece that I was given as a teenager. The gold roses are hand-made, and the bowl they sit in is made of hand blown and decorated glass. They also come from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures, as do the blackberry tarts which look real and good enough to eat!

 

The sugar castor on the table is 1 ½ centimetres in height and half a centimetre in diameter. Its finial actually comes apart like its life size equivalent. The finial unscrews from the body so it can be filled. I am told that icing sugar can pass through the holes in the finial, but I have chosen not to try this party trick myself. A sugar castor was used in Edwardian times to shake sugar onto fruits and desserts.

We make a living by what we get, we make a life by what we give.

Sir Winston Churchill

British politician (1874 - 1965)

  

Fox Lake, Wisconsin

070813

  

© Copyright 2013 MEA Images, Merle E. Arbeen, All Rights Reserved. If you would like to copy this, please feel free to contact me through my FlickrMail, Facebook, or Yahoo email account. Thank you.

 

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This photograph has achieved the following highest awards:

 

Super Six, The Academy

 

InfiniteXposure, Level 7 VIOLET, (19)

 

Frame It! Level 5 (5)

 

Challenge Club Champion

 

DSLR Autofocus, Hall of Fame (5)

 

Photographed from Lenin Square, this building has the address 1/14 Serzhanta Lazarieva Street, Pripyat'. I presume it was a government building given the Soviet State Seal on top.

 

Pripyat’ (Ukrainian: Прип’ять) is a ghost city which was built to house the workers of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant, just 3 kilometres away. Named after the nearby river Pripyat, the city was founded on 4 February 1970, as the ninth nuclear city or “atomgrad” in the USSR. It was officially proclaimed a city in 1979 and had grown to a population of 49,360 by the time it was evacuated on the afternoon of 27 April 1986, the day after the Chernobyl disaster.

 

The Soviet authorities wanted to attract the best workers to the strategically and economically critical megaproject, so Pripyat’ had a notably high standard of living compared with most Soviet cities, with generously sized apartments, well-stocked supermarkets and hotels, and even its own amusement park.

Generous additions of Comet Motueka Southern Sublime and HBC 586 give this Hybrid Style full Fruit Flavour and Aroma with a Smooth fluffy Dark Malt Backbone

From Bomber Brewing in Eastvan on Adanac

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 followed Lettice southwest from her home, across St James’ Park to Hans Crescent in Belgravia, where the smart Edwardian four storey red brick and mock Tudor London home of the de Virre family stands. Two of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie of bright young things are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. Lettice is visiting the home of the bride, which is a hive of activity in the lead up to the forthcoming nuptials.

 

Lettice has just been spending time with Margot and her mother in the house’s gold drawing room and is just leaving to return home to Cavendish Mews to meet a potential client. As she walks brusquely down the hall, past Lord de Virre’s study, her louis heels click loudly against the parquetry floor.

 

“Margot! Margot, is that you?” Lord de Virre’s voice calls out through the partially open door.

 

Lettice stops, turns and pops her head into the study. Decorated with dark mahogany furniture, gold embossed wallpaper, thick Persian rugs and trophies and souvenirs of Lord de Virre’s travels, it is a masculine room which exudes comfort and cosiness. The room is dominated by a great mahogany rolltop desk, at which Lord de Virre sits hunched over. The scratch of a pen against paper can be heard, and a thin silver trail of exotic smelling smoke arises from the silver ashtray sitting to his right.

 

“No Lord de Virre,” Lettice answers his call. “It’s only me.”

 

“Ah!” Lord de Virre turns around in his seat, beaming at his young guest. “Lettice! We don’t see you nearly enough these days!”

 

“London calls,” she replies gaily.

 

“Yes, with all its delicious temptations for the young.” He picks up a small glass of port and sips it, and it is then that Lettice notices the finely faceted decanter of deep golden liquid on the desk’s surface. “Have you been visiting the bride-to-be?”

 

“I have Lord de Virre.”

 

“Good girl! She needs some distraction from her mother and her endless lists of wedding to-dos.”

 

“Is that why you’re hiding in here, Lord de Virre?”

 

The older man colours at Lettice’s suggestion. “Oh, I’m no good with table settings, wedding dresses and that sort of thing,” he blusters, fiddling with the writing paper on the desk in front of him. “Anyway, I’ve just been scribbling down a few words whilst I think of them for my father-of-the-bride speech.”

 

Lettice blushes too, not wishing to cause embarrassment to a man whom she likes very much. Charles de Virre, unlike her own father, has been anything but distant, and always showed interest in anything she spoke about when she came to visit or stay with de Virres, even as a silly little girl or teenager before the war. As a businessman, rather than a gentleman like her father, Lord de Virre always encouraged Lettice’s desire to follow her dream of becoming an interior designer, and his support and sound business advice has been welcome since the inception of her enterprise.

 

“You know,” Lettice remarks to try and dispel the unease she has created as she slips through the door and into the male preserve. “I always found this room fascinating: intimidating but fascinating nonetheless.”

 

“Yes, well,” Lord de Virre replies, picking up his cigarette and drawing on it before blowing out a plume of greyish white smoke. “The secrets of industry are always interesting to a young entrepreneur ahead of her time.”

 

“That’s very kind of you to say, Lord de Virre.” Lettice colours at the compliment. She walks over to Lord de Virre. “Margot and I used to sneak in here sometimes whilst you were away during the war.”

 

“Did you now?” He cocks an eyebrow at his slender young companion as she sidles up to his big desk. “I didn’t know that. Cheeky girls. I hope that Lucie never caught you in here.”

 

“No.” Lettice smiles. “She never did. We were careful. Margot always said that she had a sense of you in this room. She said if she could catch a whiff of your eau de cologne, or your cigarettes,” She glances at the half smoked cigarette in his hand. “Then you were alright. You might be in danger, but you would be alright.” She titters in an embarrassed fashion. “It sounds so silly hearing myself say that, but I guess it was Margot’s and my game, or mantra perhaps as the war went on and we grew up.”

 

“Well,” Lord de Virre replies softly, touched by Lettice’s confession. “It must have worked, because here I am.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice chuckles. “Here you are.”

 

“Well, it was either yours and Margot’s mantra, or Lucie’s photo.” He indicates to a photo of his wife in a brass frame on the desktop next to one of Margot as a baby.

 

“It’s a very pretty photo of her,” Lettice observes.

 

“Yes, Lucie had it taken in 1916. I carried it inside my coat in the pocket next to my heart for the remaining two years of the war. She swears that’s what brought me home.”

 

“Well, it was one thing or the other. The main thing is, Lord de Virre, you did make it home.”

 

“But many others didn’t.” the older man speaks the unspoken ending to her sentence. “Yes. I dare say that Lucie wouldn’t have been so happy with her prospective son-in-law had Margot come home with the news in 1914 when young Harry was still heir apparent.”

 

“Would you have minded, Lord de Virre?”

 

“Me? Good heavens no!” He takes another sip of his port, and indicates to the bottle, the invitation to imbibe declined politely by Lettice with a gentle shake of her head. “Margot could have loved him before he was the heir apparent, and he was destined to a life of impecuniosity and obscurity.”

 

“Margot said that she would have married him even if he was titleless, penniless and you disapproved.”

 

“Did she? Well! Bully for her! Good to know she has some of my fighting spirit that Lucie hasn’t managed to tame.” He smiles to himself as he runs his fingers over the frame of his daughter as a baby. “No, I have enough money from my business arrangements to have kept Margot in stockings and fans for a good many years. I think I can comfortably extend that largess to support them both. Just between you and I, Lettice, I suspect that is why the Marquess is so keen on the match of his heir with the daughter of a man in trade with a bought title.”

 

“Surely, surely you aren’t suggesting the Marquess?” Lettice’s question trails off.

 

“Unlike your father, perhaps under the wise influence of his eldest son, the Marquess hasn’t modernised, and unlike me, he didn’t have a good war. No, I’m afraid to say that he may be property rich, but,” He huffs awkwardly. “It appears that that’s where it ends.”

 

“But he’s giving Margot and Dickie a house in Cornwall!”

 

“And who do you think is bankrolling the renovations to have it electrified, connected to the Penzance telephone exchange, plumbed for goodness sake?”

 

“Oh, I had no idea!” Lettice rests her hand on the edge of the desk to steady herself at the news.

 

“Well,” Lord de Virre points the glowing end of his cigarette at Lettice. “Just don’t you say anything.” He taps the side of his nose knowingly. “At least Lucie is happy. She can’t do enough to please young Dickie. She finally gets her wish.”

 

“Margot’s happiness.” Lettice smiles

 

“Well yes, that too,” Lord de Virre remarks. “But first and foremost a real title in the family.” He chuckles cheekily to himself.

 

“Oh Lord de Virre!” Lettice scoffs. “You are awful!”

 

“Now, thinking of business, Lettice, I’m glad you’re here. I’d like to discuss a little bit of business with you.”

 

“With me, Lord de Virre?” she asks in surprise.

 

“Yes Lettice.” he replies matter-of-factly. “You are a successful young businesswoman, are you not?”

 

“Well, I don’t know if I’d go quite that far,” Lettice blushes again at the compliment. “Yet.”

 

“Nonsense! You’ve been listening to your parents too much, my girl! Now, I believe that once the honeymoon is over, the newlyweds are planning to invite you down to their new seaside residence in Penzance to show it off. When my darling daughter asks you to redecorate a few of the principal rooms,”

 

“That’s very presumptuous of you, Lord de Virre!”

 

“Not at all, Lettice. I know she will for a fact.”

 

“And how do you know?”

 

“Because I am the one who planted the seed in her mind.” He laughs good naturedly. “The house is really quite beautiful, but it’s not been lived in and neglected for far too long. The old retainers who caretake the place do as good a job as they are able, but it needs some modernisation and updating beyond electricity, a telephone and plumbed bathrooms. So, when she suggests that you do some redecoration for her, stand your ground and tell her that you won’t do it as a friendly favour. You’re a businesswoman Lettice, so she must pay.”

 

“But you just said that Dickie hasn’t a bean! How are they to pay?”

 

“Calm yourself, child,” Lord de Virre waves his hands in front of Lettice, trying to dampen her concerns. “Whatever she wants, whatever it costs, she can have. You just send your bills to me. Alright?”

 

“Really Lord de Virre?”

 

“Yes, Lettice. And just think what a feather that will be for your business hat. First the Duchess of Whitby, and then the daughter-in-law of the Marquess of Taunton!”

 

“Well, that would be something.” Lettice muses at the thought, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth upwards.

 

“Then we have an arrangement, Miss Chetwynd?” Lord de Virre extends his hand towards Lettice.

 

“I think we do, Lord de Virre.” Lettice takes his hand, and they shake in businesslike style to seal the arrangement.

 

Dark and masculine, this tiny corner of Lord de Virre’s study is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

The mahogany rolltop desk is a miniature that I have had since I was about eleven years old. The top does roll up and down, and the pigeon holes and writing area of the desk move forward, just like a real rolltop desk. I bought the desk along with a lot of other 1:12 miniatures from a High Street speciality dollhouse shop in England. The receipt with a few handwritten amendments is actually the scroll with the pinked edge in the far right pigeon hole of the desk! Much of the printing has faded, but as you an see the handwritten amendments can still be seen in black ink.

 

Lord de Virre’s family photos are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each.

 

On the desk are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles, stamps, a blotter, a roller and letter rack, all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame. The stamp is made of brass. The silver letter rack which contains some 1:12 size correspondence, also made by the Little Green Workshop. The silver pen with a pearl end and the letter opener with a cloisonné handle are also made by the Little Green Workshop. All the piles of correspondence, bills and documents atop the desk were made meticulously by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

Also made by the Little Green Workshop is the silver ashtray. Made from a metal piece used for jewellery making, it features faceted crystals inserted into it. It has ‘ash’ moulded inside it so it looks remarkably real. A single cigarette with a red burning tip rests against its lip. This is the smallest of my 1:12 miniature collection. The cigarette is a tiny five millimetres long and just one millimetre wide! Made of paper, I have to be so careful that it doesn’t get lost when I use it! Also on the desk is a box of Swan Vesta matches, which is a 1:12 miniature hand made by Jonesy’s Miniatures in England. 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 and 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 bottle of port in its faceted glass bottle and the tiny port glass are both actually made of plastic and come from a miniature suppliers in Shanghai.

 

Atop the desk stands a photo in a frame. Like the other two photographs in the pictre, it too is a real photo, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames is also from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and is made of are metal with glass. The Edwardian mahogany clock next to the frame is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England. Next to it you can just see the base of an urn. The urn is only two and a half centimetres high and is an antique miniature and has been hand turned and polished. It has an African ebony body and a bubinga wood top and base. Next to the urn, on the right-hand side of the rolltop desk’s top stand three ledgers from Shepherd’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

In the background you can catch tantalising glimpses of other things in Lord de Virre’s study including a Regency painting of a horse in a gold frame from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, and a hand painted ginger jar from Thailand which stands on a Bespaq plant stand. Bespaq is a high-end miniature furniture maker with high attention to detail and quality.

 

The Persian rug you can just glimpse in te bottom right-hand corer of the photo was hand woven by Pike, Pike and Company 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.

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

 

Today we are in the very modern and up-to-date 1920s kitchen of Lettice’s flat: usually Edith her maid’s preserve. However, this morning it has been invaded by two deliverymen from nearby Harrods department store. Two of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie of bright young things are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. Lettice is hosting an exclusive buffet supper party in their honour this evening, which is turning out to be one of the events of the 1921 London Season. Over the last few days the flat has been in upheaval as Edith and Lettice’s charwoman* Mrs. Boothby have been cleaning the flat thoroughly in preparation for the occasion. Today they will move some of the furnishings to make space for the guests to dance and mingle and roll up the carpets so Mrs. Boothby can give the parquet floors a good waxing before the first guest arrives. Lettice has fled her flat for the day to avoid all the upheaval and keep out of the way of her servants. The florist is expected at midday and the caterers from Harrods at four o’clock, but for now, all the alcohol for the party has arrived.

 

“Cor! Would yer look at all that!” Mrs. Boothby gasps as she slips into the kitchen via the door that leads from the flat’s entrance hall and stares at the kitchen table. “I was hopin’ for a nice reviving cup of Rosie-Lee** before I starts polishin’ the dinin’ room floor.”

 

“Not a chance I’m afraid, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith sighs. “Not until these gentlemen are finished. As you see, my table has been taken over by deliveries.”

 

“’Scuse me, Miss,” a green liveried deliveryman mutters as he tries to slip unobtrusively past Edith, a large wooden crate of champagne bottles in his broad, muscular arms.

 

“Sorry.” Edith slips a little closer to the stove and watches as the box is deposited onto the table with a soft thud and the rattle of bottles.

 

“Cor! ‘Ow many people is Miss Lettice expectin’ tonight, dearie?”

 

“About one hundred and twenty guests I think, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Gawd knows where they’s gonna fit.” Mrs. Boothby casts her eyes to ceiling. She picks out a bottle from the crate. Looking at the label is starts to read aloud, “Da Rock… da Rockegree.”

 

“De Rochegré,” Edith corrects her appalling French pronunciation.

 

“You certainly know French champagne!” The deliveryman cocks his eyebrow in obvious surprise, but gives her a happy smile, revealing a neat set of white teeth as his blue eyes sparkle.

 

“I work for a flapper,” Edith replies, blushing at the compliment, but daring to return his smile with a shy one of her own. “It pays to know.”

 

“Right you are, Miss!” the deliveryman exclaims, tapping his finger to his cap. “’Scuse me, but there’s more where these come from.” And he walks towards the door that leads to the back service stairs of Cavendish Mews, slipping aside to let another Harrods deliveryman, older than him wearing glasses carrying a bottle of gin and a bottle of Cinzano, pass.

 

“Humph!” Mrs. Boothby mutters in a disgruntled fashion, screwing up her nose and depositing the bottle back into the crate in a rather offhand way. “French!” she sniffs as it clatters back into the crate.

 

“What’s wrong with French champagne, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks, thinking to herself that it’s unlikely the old Cockney woman from Poplar has ever had so much as a taste of French champagne in her life.

 

“Well, it’s fancy ain’t it?” She crews up her nose. “And it’s foreign!” She glares at the offending bottle as its glass gleams in the morning sunshine pouring through the kitchen window. “I don’t like foreign. Give me a good pint of British beer at the ‘Appy Go Lucky** any day of the week.”

 

“Well, if Miss Lettice and her friends drink it, it can’t be all bad, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

The old woman gives her a doubtful look. “Well, nuffink’s as good as a nice reviving cup of Rosie-Lee is it?” she asked pointedly.

 

“Oh, alright then. I’ll make you a cup,” Edith gives in. “But you’ll have to have it over here by the stove. There isn’t any room on the table, what with the champagne buckets, glasses and bottles in the way.”

 

“Ta very much, dearie.” the Cockney woman says with a smug and satisfied grin.

 

Edith busies herself using the small shelf on the right-hand side of the stove to make a pot of tea for herself and the charwoman.

 

“Fetch me two cups, and the sugar bowl from the dresser, will you Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Right you are, dearie!” she replies cheerfully, pulling down two Deftware teacups and the sugar bowl.

 

“You’ll have to settle for milk directly from the bottle this morning,” Edith mutters as she walks over to the food safe and withdraws a pint bottle of milk. “As I shan’t have the time, or it looks like the space, to wash a milk jug.”

 

“I don’t mind, dearie! As long as I get my Rosie-Lee. I’m about parched, and I can’t be polishin’ the dinin’ room floor wiv a dry mouth.”

 

Edith pours hot water over the tealeaves in the pot and stirs it vigorously before hitting the rim of the pot three times with her spoon. Turning back to the table, she sighs. “Where is all this going to go?”

 

“Down the gullets of them rich fancy guests what’s comin’ tonight, I shouldn’t wonder!” The wiry thin Cockney woman bursts out laughing at her own joke, which turns into one of her bouts of fruity coughing.

 

“Well said!” the first and younger of the Harrods deliverymen pipes up as he steps across the threshold of the kitchen through the service entrance. “You are a card, aren’t you mother?”

 

“Mother!” Mrs. Boothby flaps her hand at him. “I ain’t your mother. Cheeky blighter!”

 

The deliveryman deposits another rattling crate of bottles onto the kitchen table. “A dozen Deutz and Geldermann.” he remarks, looking to Edith with another broad smile.

 

“Thank you.” she replies, daring to meet his eyes and smiling a little more broadly this time. Turning back momentarily to Mrs. Boothby she remarks, “More French champagne.”

 

The two women watch the handsome deliveryman leave again, his broad shouldered bulk filling the doorframe. They remain silent for a few moments.

 

“Well, you are a dark ‘orse, dearie!” Mrs. Boothby remarks, sizing up her companion with a wide eyed gaze.

 

“What on earth do you mean, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Well, look at you, all sweetness and innocence in your blue and white cotton print morning uniform, flirtin’ wiv the deliveryman!”

 

“I wasn’t flirting!” Edith splutters. She spins around and starts pouring the tea, trying to hide the flush of colour rising up her neck and flooding her cheeks. “I was only talking, that’s all.”

 

“You was talkin’, and smilin’, and flirtin’ my girl! Don’t you deny it!” The older woman leans on the shelf of the stove and peers from her vantage point up into Edith’s face, trying unsuccessfully to catch her eye, but clearly seeing her blush.

 

“Oh, you do create something from nothing.”

 

“And ‘ere I was, thinkin’ you was sweet the grocer’s delivery boy.” the older woman continues to tease, smiling cheekily as Edith squirms under her gaze.

 

“Frank Leadbetter? Mrs. Boothby, you do talk a lot of rot!” She looks up, her face now quite scarlet. “I’m just being friendly is all!”

 

“Aahh… friendly,” the older woman remarks with a cocked eyebrow and a knowing look as she picks up her cup of tea. “I see.”

 

“Mrs. Boothby!”

 

“Ahem!” The older of the deliverymen clears his throat, interrupting the two ladies.

 

Turning around in surprise, Edith and Mrs. Boothby stare across at the skinny middle aged man who returns their gaze critically over the top of his glasses. Clearly embarrassed at inadvertently catching them in the middle of a very personal conversation, he smiles awkwardly at them.

 

“Yes?” Edith asks, wiping her hands down her apron, but trying to hold his gaze with confidence she doesn’t now have.

 

“Aahh, that’s the last of the delivery, Miss. If you could just sign here, Miss?”

 

He hands her his clipboard and pen. Edith takes it from him and signs the form agreeing that the delivery is complete, without even glancing at the inventory. Anxious that he leaves so that she can recover her dignity, she thrusts the clipboard back to him. “Very good.”

 

Taking it back, he tips his hat and mutters, “Good day, ladies.”

 

Scuttling out the service door, Edith follows him, closes it behind him and snibs it. She stands with her back to the room for a moment whilst she regains her composure, taking a few deep and calming breaths, all the while feeling Mrs. Boothby’s eyes upon her.

 

Finally turning back, Edith mutters, “Oh you are awful sometimes, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

The Cockney charwoman smiles as she leans against the stove, her saucer in one hand and her cup raised to her lips. Lowering it to reveal a smile as mirth filled as her eyes, she says, “And youse a flirt, dearie.” She pauses, once again considering the young maid in a new light. “Still, I don’t blame you. Youse a pretty little fing, ‘though I suspect you don’t know quite how pretty you is. And,” She takes a deep sigh. “If I was firty years younger, I’d flirt wiv ‘im too.” She shakes her head and narrows her eyes as she glances towards the closed door. “‘E was a good looking fella, ‘e was.”

 

Anxious to change the subject and salvage some dignity, Edith walks across the room. “Come on Mrs. Boothby, help me move these bottles off the table and onto the bench. I need to clean all these glasses and sort the crockery and the silverware before the caterers arrive this afternoon. I’ll never be able to do it without my table to work on.”

 

“Is it worf a ‘Untley and Palmer’s to go wiv me Rosie-Lee?”

 

“You can have two Huntley and Palmers of your choice from the special box I ordered from Harrods for tonight’s party if you do.”

 

“Oh!” Mrs. Boothby beams in delight. “Ta!”

 

The two women begin moving the bottles, Edith’s embarrassment gone, and Mrs. Boothby’s mischief abated, as they focus on the job at hand.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

On Edith’s deal table is a panoply of bottles for the party. The Harrod’s crate, which I purchased from an EBay seller in the United Kingdom, is full of bottles of Deutz and Geldermann and De Rochegré champagne. All are artisan miniatures and made of glass and some have real foil wrapped around their necks. They and the various bottles of wine and mixers in the background are made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The bottle of Gordon’s Dry Gin, the bottle of Crème de Menthe, Cinzano, Campari and Martini are also 1:12 artisan miniatures, made of real glass, and came from a specialist stockist in Sydney. Gordon's London Dry Gin was developed by Alexander Gordon, a Londoner of Scots descent. He opened a distillery in the Southwark area in 1769, later moving in 1786 to Clerkenwell. The Special London Dry Gin he developed proved successful, and its recipe remains unchanged to this day. The top markets for Gordon's are (in descending order) the United Kingdom, the United States and Greece. Gordon's has been the United Kingdom’s number one gin since the late Nineteenth century. It is the world's best-selling London dry gin. Crème de menthe (French for "mint cream") is a sweet, mint-flavored alcoholic beverage. Crème de menthe is an ingredient in several cocktails popular in the 1920s, such as the Grasshopper and the Stinger. It is also served as a digestif. Cinzano vermouths date back to 1757 and the Turin herbal shop of two brothers, Giovanni Giacomo and Carlo Stefano Cinzano, who created a new "vermouth rosso" (red vermouth) using "aromatic plants from the Italian Alps in a recipe which is still secret to this day. Campari is an Italian alcoholic liqueur, considered an apéritif. It is obtained from the infusion of herbs and fruit (including chinotto and cascarilla) in alcohol and water. It is a bitters, characterised by its dark red colour.

 

The champagne glasses are 1:12 artisan miniatures. Made of glass, they have been blown individually by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering and are so fragile and delicate that even I with my dainty fingers have broken the stem of one. They stand on an ornate silver tray that I have had since I was around eight years old. The silver cocktail shaker is also made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The silver wine cooler in the foreground is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

On the first shelf of dresser that can be seen just to the right of shot stands the Deftware kitchen tea set. Each piece features the traditional painting of a windmill.

 

To the left of the dresser, a spice cabinet with six marked drawers hangs from the wall. Also hanging on the wall are three copper frypans with black metal handles which, along with the copper kettle on the stove came from a specialist dollhouse supplier.

 

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

 

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

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.

 

However today we are not in Lettice’s flat, rather we have followed her south from London into Sussex to the home of Lettice’s newest potential client, Mrs. Hatchett.

 

As requested, when the steam of the train carrying Lettice from London to Rotherfield and Mark Cross cleared, there stood Mrs. Hatchett’s chauffer, dressed in a smart black uniform. As the Worsley turned into the gates above which the name of the house was emblazoned in wrought iron curlicues, she prepared for the worst, but was pleasantly surprised to find that ‘The Gables’ was in fact a rather lovely Arts and Crafts country house with prominent gabling, from which it obviously took its name, sitting amidst a sympathetic and charming informal English garden.

 

Now sitting in Mrs. Hatchett’s old fashioned and overstuffed drawing room awaiting tea with her hostess, Lettice tries very hard not to pass judgement on her as she looks about her at all the heavy Victorian furnishings and clutter.

 

“I did warn you, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett begins, her apologetic tones bursting the silence only broken by the soft tick of the French barrel clock on the mantlepiece. “It is a bit of a mausoleum.”

 

Lettice has already counted five vases and just as many photograph frames that needlessly clutter the stylish Georgian style mantle. “No, no,” she interjects diplomatically with a defensive wave of her hands. “Victoriana can be quite charming Mrs. Hatchett. I know the Mater and Pater have plenty of it in our family home.”

 

“You are kind Miss Chetwynd, but I would imagine that your family home is much grander than ‘The Gables’ and therefore far more able to manage Victorian furnishings elegantly. Please let us not pretend that it is anything more than clutter here.” Mrs. Hatchett looks about her in dismay.

 

“Well…” Lettice begins, shifting awkwardly on the red velvet button back upholstered armchair.

 

“I didn’t invite you here today to approve of what you see, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett interrupts her guest. “But rather for you to reimagine what it could be, if you stripped all this old fashioned tatt out.”

 

A stifled gasp and a sniff interrupt her as a parlour maid appears at the door with a silver tray laden with tea things and a selection of biscuits.

 

“Oh! Thank you, Augusta. You may put the tea things here.” Mrs. Hatchett indicates to the oval table between the two women.

 

“My mistress barely five minutes in her grave,” the maid mutters.

 

“Thank you, Augusta!” Mrs. Hatchett snaps. “Miss Chetwynd doesn’t care to hear your opinion about the drawing room furnishings.”

 

Berated, the parlour maid silently sets out the tea things and retreats, but just as she reaches the door she says defiantly, “It’s not ‘tatt’, Madam!” And leaves.

 

“I’m so sorry Miss Chetwynd, like almost everything in this house, Augusta is the former Mrs. Hatchett’s legacy.” Picking up a photo in an ornate frame on the pedestal table next to her, she continues in a wistful voice, “It wasn’t what I imagined.”

 

“What wasn’t, Mrs. Hatchett?”

 

“My marriage.” She hands the portrait of herself and her handsome husband to Lettice. “You don’t imagine when you marry a dashing man in uniform,”

 

“He was a captain, wasn’t he?” Lettice looks at the stylish wartime couple in the wedding portrait.

 

“Yes, Charlie was a captain in the air force. He was handsome and smart, and so self-possessed in his stance that he radiated confidence.”

 

“And you…”

 

“I was a pretty chorus girl in ‘Chu Chin Chow’*, and he swept me off my feet. We were married after a whirlwind romance.” She smiles. “Well, it was wartime, wasn’t it? There was no time for a lengthy pre-war courtship. And then his leave was over, and I found myself married and rather than living in exciting London like I was used to, I found myself buried here in the country and living under my mother-in-law’s roof with Charlie flying over into France.”

 

“I see.” Lettice replies.

 

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t, Miss Chetwynd. You see, I didn’t realise until after the war, what a mummy’s boy I’d married. Handsome, yes, Charlie is handsome, but as soon as the uniform came off, he lost all his self-possession and went straight back to being under his domineering mother’s thumb and following her wishes. We stayed living here rather than have a home of our own, and he just let her undermine me and overrule me as his wife. I was nothing here. She never approved of the ‘chorus girl’. What would I know? No, the respectable Victorian widow knew how to hire and manage staff, plan meals and parties for her son, and was strict about ‘not redecorating’. I couldn’t change anything in the room we were given, which I’m sure was a guest bedroom. I’m surprised I was even allowed to hang my clothes in the wardrobe. Nasty old trout she was: so anxious to fling me out like yesterday’s newspaper!”

 

“So that’s why you want to throw all this,” Lettice waves her hands about her. “Out.”

 

“It’s not just that Miss Chetwynd, although I must confess I’d be happy to erase every last trace of my mother-in-law from this earth. Look, I know you don’t need me as one of your clients when you have duchesses and other titled ladies wanting you to decorate for them. I know that to you, like everyone in your class, that I am just a brash social climber with too much money: the chorus girl who found herself a rich banker. I don’t have the right pedigree, have the right manners or the right clothes. I try too hard to fit in, and the harder I try the more obvious I become.” She reaches out and grasps Lettice’s hand tightly. “But I need you, Miss Chetwynd. Not to try and ape the houses of peers with your taste, but to help support me to support my husband, and the only way I can do that, is to shine out from the tarnished shadow of his mother. Now that she is dead, Charlie has some of that confidence I fell in love with back and is finally embarking on doing something that he wants to do.”

 

“And what is that?”

 

“He wants to enter politics. When the war ended, the government announced that the men would come home to ‘homes fit for heroes’, but here we are, two years on since the armistice and there are men who fought for the empire, living in a disused prison in Worcestershire**. Can you imagine how they feel? The intention of the government is there, but where is the will? Charlie wants to represent these men, and that’s why I need you to decorate this house. I want to be able to entertain here to further Charlie’s political intentions, and I can’t do it when it looks like this. Contrary to my dead mother-in-law’s opinion, although I’m sure she knew better, I have confidence. I can entertain the influential and shine brilliantly as a hostess, but in order for me to do that, I need a house that represents Charlie and me.” She looks down at the tea table. “Oh damn that woman!”

 

“Who?” Lettice queries. “The former Mrs. Hatchett?”

 

“No, that wretched Augusta, although it may just as well be my scheming mother-in-law commanding from her grave! She has intentionally forgotten the teaspoons in order to show me up in front of you and make you think I’m an uncivilised chorus girl!” She pushes the servant’s bell by the fireplace. “Well, the sooner she is replaced, the better! Oh blast! I forgot the bell in here is out of service awaiting the repair man. I’ll be back in a moment, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Hatchett scuttles away, her receding heels clicking on the polished wooden floor of the corridor outside.

 

Lettice sits back uncomfortably in her chair and feels terribly guilty. A few minutes later, Mrs Hatchett returns with the missing teaspoons. She puts them down and smiles with satisfaction.

 

“Mrs Hatchett,” Lettice says, looking squarely at her hostess. “I owe you an apology.”

 

“Me, Miss Chetwynd? Goodness! What could you possibly need to apologise to me for?”

 

“For my snobbery, Mrs. Hatchett.”

 

Mrs. Hatchett waits for Lettice to continue.

 

“You’re right Mrs. Hatchett. We all read or heard the story about the ‘chorus girl who married the pilot who owned a bank’. None of us bothered… wanted, to know you. We all sit in judgement and laugh as you try with us and fail. So, don’t! Forget society and embrace politics. I really admire what you and your husband are trying to achieve now that I know about it. You may not be the kind of client my family, or even my friends want me to have, but I’m not always one to stick with social conventions. I’ll decorate your home for you, if you would like me to.”

 

“Yes, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett smiles gratefully. “I would like you to, very much!”

 

*‘Chu Chin Chow’ is a musical comedy written, produced and directed by Oscar Asche, with music by Frederic Norton, based on the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. It was the most popular show in London’s West End during the Great War. It premiered at His Majesty’s Theatre in London on the 3rd of August 1916 and ran for 2,238 performances, a record number that stood for nearly forty years!

 

** After the Great War, the plan was for house building programs for returned soldiers, dubbed ‘homes fit for heroes’. However, in 1921 European economic crisis saw the withdrawal of these programs. In Britain families were housed in many disused spaces available including a defunct prison in Worcestershire, with a single cell allotted per family!

 

This overstuffed and cluttered Victorian drawing room would have looked very old fashioned by 1920, and certainly to a young and modern flapper such as Lettice, or even a middle-aged woman like Mrs. Hatchett. This upper-middle-class domestic scene is different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

The family photos on the mantlepiece and Mrs. Hatchett’s wedding photo on the pedestal table at the right of the picture are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are from various suppliers, but all are metal. The one on the pedestal table and the matching one on the far left of the fireplace I have had since I acquired them from a specialist dolls’ house supplier when I was a teenager.

 

The marble French barrel clock on the mantlepiece is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England. Made of resin with a marble effect, it has had the gilding picked out by hand and contains a beautifully detailed face beneath a miniature glass cover.

 

The vase of flowers on the left-hand side of the fireplace is made beautifully by hand to extraordinary and realistic standards by Falcon Miniatures in England. This vase contains red roses, bearded blue Dutch irises and white lilies.

 

The walnut sideboard on the right-hand side of the fireplace is made by Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late eighteenth century. The sideboard features ornate carvings, finials and a mirrored back. On it stand three miniature grading jugs, a hand painted fruit bowl that I also bought as a teenager and two cranberry glass vases that have been hand blown and made from real glass by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. Beautifully Handmade miniatures also made the cranberry glass comport in the foreground and the tea set and plate of biscuits set out for Lettice and Mrs. Hatchett. On the sideboard’s upper shelf stands a bust of Queen Victoria made of pewter by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland which has been hand painted by me. The horse trophy on the mantlepiece at the back is also a Warwick Miniatures 1:12 miniature made of pewter.

 

The Art Nouveau jardiniere and the squat vase next to the wedding photo on the pedestal table were supplied by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in England.

 

The Victorian red velvet button back suite of gentleman’s and lady’s armchairs, settee, central pedestal table and occasional tables I bought from a high street dolls’ house supplier when I was twelve. Sets like this are still made in their millions today for doll houses around the world, but I have noticed that the quality in detail and finishing has diminished over the ensuing years.

 

The miniature Persian rug on the floor is made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney.

 

The two Georgian silhouettes of the gentleman and the lady are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Lady Mile Miniatures in England. The other two paintings of horses are also 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The wallpaper is William Morris’ ‘Compton’ pattern, featuring stylised Art Nouveau poppies. William Morris papers and fabrics were popular in the late Victorian and early Edwardian period before the Great War.

 

The wooden Georgian fire surround is made by Town Hall Miniatures, supplied through Melody Jane Dolls’ House Suppliers in England.

God was extra generous when he made Pagudpod, Ilocos Norte. If they have an airport close to this place, it will surely rival Boracay.

Now I know I shouldn't have tried this dress on but I was bored while in town today and it was the last one in my size and so it had to be done.

 

Needless to say I love it. something about a proper full skirted maxi dress that does it for me sadly at £70 in the sale its way out of my budget. Yeah I know 7 charity shop dresses at a tenner each or this. I will take the 7 charity shops ones mainly because I like the money going to a good cause.

 

Anyway it was lovely but sadly not to be

2011 LAMBORGHINI SESTO ELEMENTO FE

  

Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, New York City

April 27, 1961

 

Mr. Chairman, ladies, and gentlemen:

 

I appreciate very much your generous invitation to be here tonight.

 

You bear heavy responsibilities these days and an article I read some time ago reminded me of how particularly heavily the burdens of present-day events bear upon your profession.

 

You may remember that in 1851 the New York Herald Tribune under the sponsorship and publishing of Horace Greeley, employed as its London correspondent an obscure journalist by the name of Karl Marx.

 

We are told that foreign correspondent Marx, stone broke, and with a family ill and undernourished, constantly appealed to Greeley and managing editor Charles Dana for an increase in his munificent salary of $5 per installment, a salary which he and Engels ungratefully labeled as the “lousiest petty bourgeois cheating.”

 

But when all his financial appeals were refused, Marx looked around for other means of livelihood and fame, eventually terminating his relationship with the Tribune and devoting his talents full time to the cause that would bequeath the world the seeds of Leninism, Stalinism, revolution and the cold war.

 

If only this capitalistic New York newspaper had treated him more kindly; if only Marx had remained a foreign correspondent, history might have been different. And I hope all publishers will bear this lesson in mind the next time they receive a poverty-stricken appeal for a small increase in the expense account from an obscure newspaperman.

 

I have selected as the title of my remarks tonight “The President and the Press.” Some may suggest that this would be more naturally worded “The President Versus the Press.” But those are not my sentiments tonight.

 

It is true, however, that when a well-known diplomat from another country demanded recently that our State Department repudiate certain newspaper attacks on his colleague it was unnecessary for us to reply that this Administration was not responsible for the press, for the press had already made it clear that it was not responsible for this Administration.

 

Nevertheless, my purpose here tonight is not to deliver the usual assault on the so-called one-party press. On the contrary, in recent months I have rarely heard any complaints about political bias in the press except from a few Republicans. Nor is it my purpose tonight to discuss or defend the televising of Presidential press conferences. I think it is highly beneficial to have some 20,000,000 Americans regularly sit in on these conferences to observe, if I may say so, the incisive, the intelligent and the courteous qualities displayed by your Washington correspondents.

 

Nor, finally, are these remarks intended to examine the proper degree of privacy which the press should allow to any President and his family.

 

If in the last few months your White House reporters and photographers have been attending church services with regularity, that has surely done them no harm.

 

On the other hand, I realize that your staff and wire service photographers may be complaining that they do not enjoy the same green privileges at the local golf courses that they once did.

 

It is true that my predecessor did not object as I do to pictures of one's golfing skill in action. But neither on the other hand did he ever bean a Secret Service man.

 

My topic tonight is a more sober one of concern to publishers as well as editors.

 

I want to talk about our common responsibilities in the face of a common danger. The events of recent weeks may have helped to illuminate that challenge for some; but the dimensions of its threat have loomed large on the horizon for many years. Whatever our hopes may be for the future–for reducing this threat or living with it–there is no escaping either the gravity or the totality of its challenge to our survival and to our security–a challenge that confronts us in unaccustomed ways in every sphere of human activity.

 

This deadly challenge imposes upon our society two requirements of direct concern both to the press and to the President–two requirements that may seem almost contradictory in tone, but which must be reconciled and fulfilled if we are to meet this national peril. I refer, first, to the need for a far greater public information; and, second, to the need for far greater official secrecy.

  

The very word “secrecy” is repugnant in a free and open society; and we are as a people inherently and historically opposed to secret societies, to secret oaths and to secret proceedings. We decided long ago that the dangers of excessive and unwarranted concealment of pertinent facts far outweighed the dangers which are cited to justify it. Even today, there is little value in opposing the threat of a closed society by imitating its arbitrary restrictions. Even today, there is little value in insuring the survival of our nation if our traditions do not survive with it. And there is very grave danger that an announced need for increased security will be seized upon by those anxious to expand its meaning to the very limits of official censorship and concealment. That I do not intend to permit to the extent that it is in my control. And no official of my Administration, whether his rank is high or low, civilian or military, should interpret my words here tonight as an excuse to censor the news, to stifle dissent, to cover up our mistakes or to withhold from the press and the public the facts they deserve to know.

 

But I do ask every publisher, every editor, and every newsman in the nation to reexamine his own standards, and to recognize the nature of our country's peril. In time of war, the government and the press have customarily joined in an effort based largely on self-discipline, to prevent unauthorized disclosures to the enemy. In time of “clear and present danger,” the courts have held that even the privileged rights of the First Amendment must yield to the public's need for national security.

 

Today no war has been declared–and however fierce the struggle may be, it may never be declared in the traditional fashion. Our way of life is under attack. Those who make themselves our enemy are advancing around the globe. The survival of our friends is in danger. And yet no war has been declared, no borders have been crossed by marching troops, no missiles have been fired.

 

If the press is awaiting a declaration of war before it imposes the self-discipline of combat conditions, then I can only say that no war ever posed a greater threat to our security. If you are awaiting a finding of “clear and present danger,” then I can only say that the danger has never been more clear and its presence has never been more imminent.

 

It requires a change in outlook, a change in tactics, a change in missions–by the government, by the people, by every businessman or labor leader, and by every newspaper. For we are opposed around the world by a monolithic and ruthless conspiracy that relies primarily on covert means for expanding its sphere of influence–on infiltration instead of invasion, on subversion instead of elections, on intimidation instead of free choice, on guerrillas by night instead of armies by day. It is a system which has conscripted vast human and material resources into the building of a tightly knit, highly efficient machine that combines military, diplomatic, intelligence, economic, scientific and political operations.

 

Its preparations are concealed, not published. Its mistakes are buried, not headlined. Its dissenters are silenced, not praised. No expenditure is questioned, no rumor is printed, no secret is revealed. It conducts the Cold War, in short, with a war-time discipline no democracy would ever hope or wish to match.

 

Nevertheless, every democracy recognizes the necessary restraints of national security–and the question remains whether those restraints need to be more strictly observed if we are to oppose this kind of attack as well as outright invasion.

 

For the facts of the matter are that this nation's foes have openly boasted of acquiring through our newspapers information they would otherwise hire agents to acquire through theft, bribery or espionage; that details of this nation's covert preparations to counter the enemy's covert operations have been available to every newspaper reader, friend and foe alike; that the size, the strength, the location and the nature of our forces and weapons, and our plans and strategy for their use, have all been pinpointed in the press and other news media to a degree sufficient to satisfy any foreign power; and that, in at least in one case, the publication of details concerning a secret mechanism whereby satellites were followed required its alteration at the expense of considerable time and money.

 

The newspapers which printed these stories were loyal, patriotic, responsible and well-meaning. Had we been engaged in open warfare, they undoubtedly would not have published such items. But in the absence of open warfare, they recognized only the tests of journalism and not the tests of national security. And my question tonight is whether additional tests should not now be adopted.

 

The question is for you alone to answer. No public official should answer it for you. No governmental plan should impose its restraints against your will. But I would be failing in my duty to the nation, in considering all of the responsibilities that we now bear and all of the means at hand to meet those responsibilities, if I did not commend this problem to your attention, and urge its thoughtful consideration.

 

On many earlier occasions, I have said–and your newspapers have constantly said–that these are times that appeal to every citizen's sense of sacrifice and self-discipline. They call out to every citizen to weigh his rights and comforts against his obligations to the common good. I cannot now believe that those citizens who serve in the newspaper business consider themselves exempt from that appeal.

 

I have no intention of establishing a new Office of War Information to govern the flow of news. I am not suggesting any new forms of censorship or any new types of security classifications. I have no easy answer to the dilemma that I have posed, and would not seek to impose it if I had one. But I am asking the members of the newspaper profession and the industry in this country to reexamine their own responsibilities, to consider the degree and the nature of the present danger, and to heed the duty of self-restraint which that danger imposes upon us all.

 

Every newspaper now asks itself, with respect to every story: “Is it news?” All I suggest is that you add the question: “Is it in the interest of the national security?” And I hope that every group in America–unions and businessmen and public officials at every level– will ask the same question of their endeavors, and subject their actions to the same exacting tests.

 

And should the press of America consider and recommend the voluntary assumption of specific new steps or machinery, I can assure you that we will cooperate whole-heartedly with those recommendations.

 

Perhaps there will be no recommendations. Perhaps there is no answer to the dilemma faced by a free and open society in a cold and secret war. In times of peace, any discussion of this subject, and any action that results, are both painful and without precedent. But this is a time of peace and peril which knows no precedent in history.

  

It is the unprecedented nature of this challenge that also gives rise to your second obligation–an obligation which I share. And that is our obligation to inform and alert the American people–to make certain that they possess all the facts that they need, and understand them as well–the perils, the prospects, the purposes of our program and the choices that we face.

 

No President should fear public scrutiny of his program. For from that scrutiny comes understanding; and from that understanding comes support or opposition. And both are necessary. I am not asking your newspapers to support the Administration, but I am asking your help in the tremendous task of informing and alerting the American people. For I have complete confidence in the response and dedication of our citizens whenever they are fully informed.

 

I not only could not stifle controversy among your readers–I welcome it. This Administration intends to be candid about its errors; for as a wise man once said: “An error does not become a mistake until you refuse to correct it.” We intend to accept full responsibility for our errors; and we expect you to point them out when we miss them.

 

Without debate, without criticism, no Administration and no country can succeed–and no republic can survive. That is why the Athenian lawmaker Solon decreed it a crime for any citizen to shrink from controversy. And that is why our press was protected by the First Amendment– the only business in America specifically protected by the Constitution- -not primarily to amuse and entertain, not to emphasize the trivial and the sentimental, not to simply “give the public what it wants”–but to inform, to arouse, to reflect, to state our dangers and our opportunities, to indicate our crises and our choices, to lead, mold, educate and sometimes even anger public opinion.

 

This means greater coverage and analysis of international news–for it is no longer far away and foreign but close at hand and local. It means greater attention to improved understanding of the news as well as improved transmission. And it means, finally, that government at all levels, must meet its obligation to provide you with the fullest possible information outside the narrowest limits of national security–and we intend to do it.

  

It was early in the Seventeenth Century that Francis Bacon remarked on three recent inventions already transforming the world: the compass, gunpowder and the printing press. Now the links between the nations first forged by the compass have made us all citizens of the world, the hopes and threats of one becoming the hopes and threats of us all. In that one world's efforts to live together, the evolution of gunpowder to its ultimate limit has warned mankind of the terrible consequences of failure.

 

And so it is to the printing press–to the recorder of man's deeds, the keeper of his conscience, the courier of his news–that we look for strength and assistance, confident that with your help man will be what he was born to be: free and independent.

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

 

After a busy morning working at her desk, writing a list of some final tweaks to her friend Margot Channon’s interior designs for her Regency country house ‘Chi an Treth’, Lettice prepares to curl up in one of her armchairs and enjoy her latest library book from Boots*, a new romance, when the telephone rings noisily on the occasional table beside her.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

Edith, Lettice’s maid, is putting glassware back into the cocktail cabinet in the adjoining dining room and looks up anxiously. “That infernal contraption!” she mutters to herself. Edith hates answering the telephone. It’s one of the few jobs in her position 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!

 

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

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“This had better not be Mr. Fulton telling me that the lorry of furnishings and hangings and papers bound for ‘Chi an Treth’ has broken down between London and Penzance.” she grumbles.

 

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

 

“Mayfair 432,” she answers without the slightest trace of irritation in her very best telephone voice.

 

The line crackles for a moment before a clipped, upper-class male voice drifts down the line to the receiver at Lettice’s ear. “May I speak to Miss Chetwynd, please.”

 

“Yes, this is Miss Chetwynd speaking,” Lettice replies.

 

“Darling!” the unfamiliar male voice exclaims.

 

Lettice reddens at the familiarity of the term and nearly drops the receiver in shock. “May I ask who is calling, please?”

 

“Darling Lettice, it’s me,” the stranger on the end of the line says with a chuckle. When there is silence in response, he adds, “It’s Selwyn.”

 

“Oh Selwyn!” Lettice gasps in sudden recognition, and sits up abruptly in her seat, her face going from trepidation to a beaming smile, her eyes sparking with happiness.

 

Edith in the dining room, having put the glasses back into the cocktail cabinet makes to go, but Lettice waves her free left hand excitedly and beckons her maid over. Edith sighs but walks over reluctantly. As soon as she is within reach, Lettice reaches out and clasps her hand, encouraging her to stay, and refusing to let her go. She sighs again. Looking around the room she feels awkward as she overhears whisps of the conversation. She would much rather return to the kitchen and start cleaning the lidded serving dishes with Silvo silver paste, which is what she would be doing if her mistress hadn’t grabbed her as if her life depended on it.

 

“Darling Lettice, I’m going to be up in London for a few days.” Selwyn announces cheerily.

 

“When, Selwyn?” Lettice asks, almost too afraid to breathe.

 

“Next week,” he elucidates. “Tuesday and Wednesday. I have the designs of a house I’ve been commissioned to build for an artist couple in Hampstead.”

 

“How thrilling, Selwyn!” Lettice’s grip tightens around both the telephone receiver and Edith’s hand.

 

“Yes.” he says with a light laugh. “They’re quite progressive with their desires for designs on a new home. I was rather chuffed when they asked me to design it for them. So, I thought I’d also run a few errands whilst I’m in town. I’ll be staying at the Saville Club** whilst I’m up from the country.”

 

“Oh, so you’ll be quite close by then!” Lettice looks excitedly up at Edith, who awkwardly tries to evade her mistress’ eyes.

 

“Indeed yes. Just around the corner, really. I didn’t want Mummy and Daddy to open the London house just for a few days”

 

“No, I suppose that is wise.”

 

“And I was thinking that whilst I was in town, we might fulfil those plans that we made at the Hunt Ball.

 

“Plans Selwyn?” Lettice queries, a smile teasing up Lettice’s pale and full pink lips.

 

Edith cannot help herself and turns her head back and stares, open mouthed, in astonishment at her mistress’ obvious attempt to be coy. Ever since she returned from Wiltshire after the Hunt Ball Lettice has done nothing but talk about the handsome young Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, who was an old childhood friend whom she hadn’t seen in years. The way she spoke, the man danced like a dream and swept her off her feet that evening. Edith narrows her eyes and shakes her head at Lettice.

 

“Don’t you remember, darling girl, or had you had too much champagne?” His light-hearted chuckle emanates from his end of the line. “We planned to catch up when I was next in town if you were free.” He pauses for a moment and aside from a faint crackle down the line there is a palpable silence tinged with excitement and anticipation. “That is, assuming you’d still like to, of course, Lettice darling.”

 

Lettice pauses for a moment, giving her maid’s hand another squeeze before swallowing. “Oh yes, I should like that very much, Selwyn.” She winks at her maid cheekily. “What days did you say you would be in town again?”

 

“Tuesday and Wednesday. I was hoping you might be free for luncheon, or perhaps a cocktail?”

 

Lettice takes a deep breath before replying, “Well, I’ll just have to consult my diary. I’ve just sent some furniture down to Penzance for the house down there I’ve ben commissioned to redecorate.”

 

“Oh yes, I remember: your friends, the Channons.”

 

“You do have a good memory, Selwyn.”

 

“Well,” he pauses and chuckles, only this time a little awkwardly. “There are quite a few things I remember about you at the Hunt Ball.”

 

Lettice smile broadens on her lips as she feels a flush fill her cheeks and redden her neck. “And we still have so much to catch up on about what we’ve been doing over the last fifteen years since we were children together.”

 

“Yes,” Selwyn replies. “So, are you free on Tuesday or Wednesday, my dear Lettice?”

 

“Well, let me just check my diary, Selwyn.”

 

Lettice deposits the receiver on the surface of the black japanned table next to her novel and her cooling cup of tea. She reaches out and snatched as Edith’s other hand handing limply by her side and squeezes it as tightly as the other. She cannot help herself and let’s a quick little squeak escape her lips as she smiles up at her maid, who for all her attempts to be discreet cannot help but smile back. Lettice waits for a few more moments. Finally, when she thinks enough time has passed, she releases Edith’s left hand. The maid flicks her fingers back and forth, making sure the circulation her mistress cut off is restored to her digits.

 

Picking up the receiver Lettice says, “You happen to be in luck, Mr. Spencely. I am free for luncheon on Wednesday.”

 

“Oh hoorah!” Selwyn exclaims in delight. “Marvellous! I thought we might go to the Hotel Cecil*** for luncheon.”

 

“Oh no!” Lettice protests in return. “Everyone I know will be there!”

 

“You’d rather go to the Lyons Corner House**** on Tottenham Court Road?” Selwyn laughs good naturedly. “I’m sure no-one would know us there.”

 

Lettice sighs. “It’s not that I don’t want to be seen with you, Selwyn.”

 

“Then what?”

 

“I’m sure you’ll think me mad, but I can assure you that Mater has spies in her friends and their friends and acquaintances, who are only too happy to report what her youngest wayward daughter and her flatter friends are up to. I know I wouldn’t enjoy luncheon with you if I was forever wondering whether someone was watching us and planning on reporting every thing we do and every word we utter back to her before the day is out.”

 

This time when Selwyn laughs, it is a big, jolly guffaw.

 

“Don’t laugh at me, Selwyn, please! I know I sound quite mad, but it’s true.”

 

“Oh I’m sorry, Lettice darling. I know you aren’t mad. My mother does exactly the same and keeps tabs on all her children, so I know what it’s like. Now, if you told me that the potted palms in the Cecil reported back to your mother, well then, I would have to question your mental state.”

 

This time the pair of them laugh together, Lettice’s filled with relief.

 

“So, if the Cecil isn’t suitable this time, where do you suggest, my dear?”

 

Lettice thinks for a moment. “What about the Metropole*****?”

 

“I can’t say I’ve been there since the war.”

 

“Oh it’s very luxurious and the food is divine. I went there not long ago with a client of mine.”

 

“And it’s safe from your Mother’s spies?”

 

“Well,” Lettice admits. “Nowhere is that impenetrable, however we are less likely to find ladies dining there as we would at the Cecil, and those that are, are probably more inclined to be interested in politics and affairs of state rather than who is dining around them.”

 

“I’ll see if I can book us a discreet table, then, my darling girl.”

 

“If you would, Selwyn.”

 

“Shall we say one o’clock then, my angel?”

 

“Yes.” Lettice agrees. “Your angel…” she ruminates.

 

“I’m sorry Lettice. I didn’t mean to be so intimate,” Selwyn stutters hurriedly. “I apologise.”

 

“Oh please don’t, Selwyn!” Lettice assures him. “I was just thinking how lovely that sounds: to be your angel.”

 

“So, shall we say one then on Wednesday,” he pauses. “My angel?”

 

“Yes, one o’clock in the foyer of the Metropole Hotel. I shall see you then.”

 

“And I shall be counting the minutes until then, my angel.”

 

“Goodbye, dear Selwyn. Until then.”

 

“Goodbye my angel, until then.”

 

Lettice replaces the Bakelite receiver into the chrome cradle of the telephone.

 

“Well!” Lettice gasps with excitement. “You’ll never guess who that was, Edith!”

 

“I’m quite sure I couldn’t say, Miss.” Edith says with a downwards, disapproving look, hating having to be subjected to her mistress’ private telephone call.

 

“It was Selwyn Spencely! You’ll never guess what’s he’s gone and done, Edith!”

 

“I’m positive I’d never guess, Miss.” Edith replies, casting her eyes to the white painted ceiling.

 

“He’s taking me to luncheon at the Metropole on Wednesday!”

 

Lettice screams and jumps up and down, her long string of glass bugle beads jangling about in front of her as she wraps her arms dramatically around Edith’s neck and starts spinning her around. Edith stumbles and breaks away from her giddy mistress.

 

“Miss! Miss!” she chides. “Calm yourself and stop that jumping, or I’ll have Mrs. Clifford’s maid from downstairs up here in a trice, complaining about the light fixtures shaking, or plaster dust ending up in old Mrs. Clifford’s lunch.”

 

“Oh pooh old Mrs. Clifford and her luncheon!” Lettice laughs as she reaches out for her maid and starts dancing around with her again. “I’m gong to have luncheon on Wednesday with dreamy Selwyn Spencely, the most eligible and handsome young man in London!”

 

*Boots the chemist was established in 1849, by John Boot. After his father's death in 1860, Jesse Boot, aged 10, helped his mother run the family's herbal medicine shop in Nottingham, which was incorporated as Boot and Co. Ltd in 1883, becoming Boots Pure Drug Company Ltd in 1888. In 1920, Jesse Boot sold the company to the American United Drug Company. However, because of deteriorating economic circumstances in North America Boots was sold back into British hands in 1933. The grandson of the founder, John Boot, who inherited the title Baron Trent from his father, headed the company. The Boots Pure Drug Company name was changed to The Boots Company Limited in 1971. Between 1898 and 1966, many branches of Boots incorporated a lending library department, known as Boots Book-Lovers' Library.

 

**The Savile Club is a traditional London gentlemen's club founded in 1868, many of whose members have a common interest in the arts. Located in fashionable and historically significant Mayfair, its membership, past and present, include many prominent names.

 

***The Hotel Cecil was a grand hotel built 1890–96 between the Thames Embankment and the Strand in London, England. It was named after Cecil House, a mansion belonging to the Cecil family, which occupied the site in the Seventeenth Century. The hotel was the largest in Europe when it opened, with more than eight hundred rooms. The proprietor, Jabez Balfour, later went bankrupt and was sentenced to 14 years in prison. The Royal Air Force was formed and had its first headquarters here in the former Hotel Cecil in 1918. During the 1920s, it was one of the most fashionable hotels in London and was filled with flappers and young men, representing the spirit of the Jazz Age. The hotel was largely demolished in 1930, and Shell Mex House now stands on its site.

 

****Built by the Salmons and Glucksteins, a German-Jewish immigrant family based in London, J. Lyons and Company opened their first teashop in Piccadilly in 1894. From 1909 they developed this into a chain of teashops. The waitresses that worked in them were commonly known as Nippies as they were forever on their feet, nipping in and out of serving tables. The company also ran high class restaurants, founding the Trocadero in 1895, and hotels including the Strand Palace, opened in 1909, the Regent Palace, opened in 1915, and the Cumberland Hotel, opened in 1933, all in London. The last Lyon’s Corner House, in the Strand closed in 1977.

 

*****Now known as the Corinthia Hotel, the Metropole Hotel is located at the corner of Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place in central London on a triangular site between the Thames Embankment and Trafalgar Square. Built in 1883 it functioned as an hotel between 1885 until World War I when, located so close to the Palace of Westminster and Whitehall, it was requisitioned by the government. It reopened after the war with a luxurious new interior and continued to operate until 1936 when the government requisitioned it again whilst they redeveloped buildings at Whitehall Gardens. They kept using it in the lead up to the Second World War. After the war it continued to be used by government departments until 2004. In 2007 it reopened as the luxurious Corinthia Hotel.

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

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

 

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

 

Lettice’s tea cup and saucer is part of a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era.

 

Lettice’s romantic novel is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. This novel is one of the rarer exceptions and it has been designed not to be opened. Nevertheless, the cover is beautifully illustrated. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just one of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. To the left of the photograph is a Chippendale cabinet which has been hand decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks. The Art Deco tub chair upholstered in white embossed fabric is made of black japanned wood and has a removable cushion, just like its life sized equivalent.

 

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

 

In front of the screen on a pedestal table stands a miniature cloisonné vase from the early Twentieth Century which I also bought when I was a child. It came from a curios shop. Cloisonné is an ancient technique for decorating metalwork objects. In recent centuries, vitreous enamel has been used, and inlays of cut gemstones, glass and other materials were also used during older periods. The resulting objects can also be called cloisonné. The decoration is formed by first adding compartments (cloisons in French) to the metal object by soldering or affixing silver or gold wires or thin strips placed on their edges. These remain visible in the finished piece, separating the different compartments of the enamel or inlays, which are often of several colours. Cloisonné enamel objects are worked on with enamel powder made into a paste, which then needs to be fired in a kiln. The Japanese produced large quantities from the mid Nineteenth Century, of very high technical quality cloisonné. In Japan cloisonné enamels are known as shippō-yaki (七宝焼). Early centres of cloisonné were Nagoya during the Owari Domain. Companies of renown were the Ando Cloisonné Company. Later centres of renown were Edo and Kyoto. In Kyoto Namikawa became one of the leading companies of Japanese cloisonné.

I hydrated a generous helping of water balls over the past few days and had a play with them this evening. In my quasi-scientific way, I used the same technique as in my Day 93 shot, with a snooted strobe illuminating a colorful magazine image below and then shooting down through a water-filled dish full of water balls harkening back to my Day 54 image. It wasn't what I expected but it'll certainly do.

Next time... we combine both techniques... muhahahaaaaa. =D

Congress Center, Dresden

Sachsen, Deutschland

Hinrich Storch, Walter Ehlers, Martin Bockelmann, Reinhard W. Klaus

2004 eröffnet

This is Zyanya Remembers for the theme “be generous” in the Blythe a Day group on Flickr. I really got to thinking about giving and being generous when I was editing this picture…so much so that I decided to give my local animal shelter some items from their Amazon wish list! It was so easy, I just added the items to my cart and had them sent straight to the shelter. We have adopted six cats there over the years, so I am happy to help them out a little bit.

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

 

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

 

Now we find ourselves in Lettice’s dining room, which has become the focal point for half the party guests as her dining table is given over to a magnificent buffet created by Harrods catering, whilst Dickie stands at one corner, thoroughly enjoying playing the part of barman as he makes cocktails for all his friends.

 

Lettice sighs with satisfaction as she looks around the drawing room and dining room of her flat. Both rooms have a golden glow about them created by a mixture of electric light and candlelight and the fug of cigarette smoke. The rooms are populated with London society’s glittering young people, nicknamed “bright young things” by the newspapers. Men in white tie and tails with a smattering of daring souls wearing dinner jackets chatter animatedly and dance with ladies in beautifully coloured evening gowns with loose bodices, sashes and irregular and handkerchief hems. Jewels wink at throats, on fingers, dangling from ears and in carefully coiffed and finger waved hair, illuminated by the brilliant lighting. Bugle beads glitter as gowns gently wash about the figures of their wearers as they move. Everywhere gay chatter about the Season and the upcoming wedding of Margot and Dickie fills the air, the joyous sound mixing with the lively jazz quartet who play syncopated tunes lustily in a corner of Lettice’s drawing room.

 

“Dubonnet and gin?” Dickie asks Lettice as she stands by the buffet and picks up a biscuit lightly smeared with salmon mousse.

 

“Oh you are a brick, Dickie!” Lettice enthuses, popping the dainty morsel into her mouth. Accepting the reddish gold cocktail from him she adds, “But really, this is your party. You should be out there, socialising with Margot, not standing here making cocktails for everyone.”

 

“Why should I bother going out there to socialise,” he waves his hand across the crowded room to the edge of the makeshift dancefloor where his fiancée stands in a beautiful ankle length silver georgette gown studded in silver sequins, surrounded by a small clutch of equally elegant young guests. “When they all have to come to me for drinks.”

 

“Ahhh,” Lettice titters as she sips her cocktail. “So there is method in your madness, Dickie.”

 

“Isn’t there always, Lettice?” he laughs. “Now, you are technically hostess of this bash. Go out there and dazzle everyone.” Then he stops and adds, “Well, not quite everyone.” And he blows a kiss to his fiancée whose eye he has caught from across the crowded room.

 

“Alright Dickie,” Lettice laughs and she saunters off into the crowd, pausing to smile and say hullo and accept the compliments of her many guests.

 

Suddenly she spots a beautiful woman in a pale pink beaded gown with dark finger waved hair framing her peaches and cream complexion standing docilely by the dancefloor watching the stream of passing couples dancing past in each other’s arms. She seems distant and remote, even a little sad, and far removed from the frenetic energy and jolly bonhomie about her. Excusing herself from the couple who are addressing her, Lettice slips over to her.

 

“Hullo Elizabeth***!” Lettice embraces her warmly. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to come along tonight considering everything that’s happened.”

 

“I wasn’t sure myself, Lettice.” Elizabeth replies, a warm smile revealing a slightly crooked set of teeth. “But I couldn’t let Dickie and Margot down.” Then she adds quickly as an afterthought, “Or you, darling Lettice.”

 

“Well, I’m glad you’ve come. How are you feeling?”

 

“A little battered and bruised emotionally.” Elizabeth admits with a lilt of sadness. “But one mustn’t complain.”

 

“I still don’t understand why you said no to his marriage proposal. I thought you loved Bertie****.”

 

“I did.” Elizabeth remarks before correcting herself. “I do! But I’m afraid that if I said yes to him, I’d never, never again be able to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to. Besides,” she adds conspiratorially, glancing about her before continuing. “His mother terrifies me.”

 

“She terrifies all of us,” Lettice laughs lighty as she waves her hand gaily about the room. “Now, what you need to pick you up and forget your heartache is one of these.” She points to the glass in her hand.

 

“What is it?” Elizabeth asks, eyeing Lettice’s glass and sniffing its contents with suspicion.

 

“A Dubonnet and gin. Dickie will make you one. Go and ask him.” Lettice grasps Elizabeth by the shoulder and sends her toddling across to Dickie as he stands behind a line of bottles and a beautiful arrangement of roses.

 

“Lettice!” Margot suddenly calls from across the room, beckoning her over enthusiastically. “Lettice, darling!”

 

Squeezing between small clusters of well-dressed guests drinking and eating or leaving the dance floor, Lettice makes her way over to her friend.

 

“Hullo Margot, darling! Are you having a fabulous time?”

 

“Fabulous isn’t enough of a word to describe it, darling!” she replies with eyes shimmering with excitement and joy. “Such a thrilling bash! I can’t thank you enough!”

 

“Yes Lettice,” a deep male voice adds from behind her. “You certainly do know how to throw a party!”

 

“Lord de Virre!” Lettice exclaims, spinning around. “Oh! I didn’t know you’d arrived. Now, who can I introduce you to?”

 

“No-one my dear. My beautiful daughter has been doing an ample job of introducing me to so many people that already this old man cannot remember who is whom.”

 

“Never old!” Lettice scolds, hitting his arm playfully as she curls her own through the crook in his. “Then if I can’t introduce to anyone, perhaps I can entreat you into eating something.”

 

“Now that I won’t refuse, Lettice.”

 

Lettice and Margot guide Lord de Virre across the crowded dining room to the buffet table weighed down with delicious savoury petit fours, vol-au-vents, caviar, dips, cheese and pâte and pasties. Glasses full, partially drained and empty are scattered amidst the silver trays and china plates.

 

“Champagne, Sir?” Dickie calls out.

 

“Good show Dickie!” laughs Lord de Virre over the noise of the party. “Playing barman tonight, are we?”

 

“It’s the best role to play at a party, Sir.” He passes Lord de Virre a flute of sparkling champagne poured from the bottle wedged into a silver ice bucket.

 

Behind him Lettice spies Elizabeth with a Dubonnet and gin in her glove clad hand. Lettice catches her eye and discreetly raises her glass, which Elizabeth returns with a gentle smile.

 

“Now Lettice, darling,” Margot enthuses as she selects a dainty petit four. “Daddy has just reminded me of an idea we had a few weeks ago, which I meant to ask you about, but between all Gerald’s dress fittings and other arrangements for the wedding,” She flaps her hand about, the diamonds in her engagement ring sparkling in the light. “Well, I completely forgot.”

 

Lettice tries not to smile as she feels the gentlest of squeezes from Lord de Virre’s arm and remembers the conversation that she and he had some weeks ago in his study. “What is it?” She glances between Margot and her father, pretending not to know what is coming.

 

“Well, Daddy suggested… I mean… I was wondering…”

 

“Yes, Margot darling?”

 

“Well, you know how the Marquess is giving us that house in Cornwall?”

 

“Yes! Chi an… an…?”

 

“Chi an Treth!” Dickie calls out helpfully.

 

“Yes!” Margot concurs. “Beach House! Well, it hasn’t been lived in for ever such a long time, and it’s a bit old fashioned. Daddy is kindly organising for it to be electrified, re-plumbed and have it connected to the Penzance telephone exchange for us.” Margot pauses. “And… well he and… we… that is to say that I thought…”

 

“Yes?” Lettice coaxes with lowered lids as she takes a gentle sip of her Dubonnet and gin.

 

“Well, we… Dickie and I that is… well we rather hoped that you might consider fixing up a couple of rooms for us. Would you? I would just so dearly love a room or two decorated by you! Dickie even thinks that his father can pull some strings and get you an article in Country Life if you do?”

 

“Oh Margot!” Lettice exclaims, releasing her grip on Lord de Virre and depositing her glass on the table she flings her arms about her friend’s neck. “I’d love to!”

 

Lettice suddenly feels a gentle poking of fingers into the small of her back. Letting go of Margot, she stands back and looks at her, remembering the lines Lord de Virre asked her to come up with and rehearse upon agreeing to Margot’s request.

 

“Of course, I can’t do it straight away, you understand. You know I’m currently mid-way through Miss Ward’s flat in Pimlico.”

 

“Oh that’s alright,” Margot beams. “The modernisation isn’t finished yet, so we won’t even be going down there to inspect the place until after our honeymoon.”

 

Lettice feels Lord de Virre’s prodding in her back again.

 

“And I won’t do it for free, Margot. I have already given you a wedding gift. I’m a businesswoman now.”

 

“Oh, well that’s just the thing,” Margot exclaims, clasping her hands in delight. “Daddy has kindly agreed to pay for it all.”

 

Lettice looks up at Lord de Virre. He looks back at her seriously, but she can see a smile tweaking the edges of his mouth, trying to create a cheeky smile. She tries to keep up the pretence that she didn’t already know that Margot was going to ask her to redecorate for her and Dickie as she says, “Really Lord de Virre? All of it? That’s very generous of you.”

 

“Not a bit of it, Lettice. This is a good, sound business transaction. You may send your quotes to me for consideration,” He ennunciates the last word carefully to stress its importance, more for Margot’s sake than Lettice’s. “Once you have seen the rooms as they are now.”

 

“Thank you Lord de Virre,” Lettice replies. “Well Margot, I suppose that settles it then!”

 

“Oh Dickie!” Margot exclaims, scuttling over to her fiancée. “She said yes!”

 

“Who did, darling?” Dickie asks as he adds crème de menthe to colour his Fallen Angel cocktail a pale green.

 

“What do you mean, who?” Margot hits his arm jokingly as she sways excitedly from side to side. “Lettice of course!” She looks back over to her friend standing alongside her father. “She’s agreed to decorate for us.”

 

“Oh, jolly good show!” Dickie smiles. “Thanks awfully Lettice, darling! Now you’re the brick!”

 

“Always Dickie!” Lettice laughs back.

 

“Listen Dickie!” Margot gasps. “The band is playing ‘Dancing Time’*****! Come away from the bar and dance with me.”

 

“You’d best not refuse her, my boy!” teases Lord de Virre. “It’s madness if you try. I never could!”

 

The happily engaged couple hurry across the room, hand in hand, slipping between clusters of guests before disappearing into the crowd on the dancefloor as the music from the band soars above the burble of the crowd and the clink of glasses.

 

“So, we finally have an official arrangement, Miss Chetwynd?” Lord de Virre says discreetly as he raises his glass towards Lettice.

 

“I think we do, Lord de Virre.” Lettice smiles and clinks her glass with his as they toast their arrangement formally. “Your offer is simply too good to refuse.”

 

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

 

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

 

***Elizabeth Bowes Lyon as she was known in 1921 went on to become Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952 as the wife of King George VI. Whilst still Duke of York, Prince Albert initially proposed to Elizabeth in 1921, but she turned him down, being "afraid never, never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to"

 

****Prince Albert, Duke of York, known by the diminutive “Bertie” to the family and close friends, was the second son of George V. Not only did Bertie propose to Elizabeth in 1921, but also in March 1922 after she was a bridesmaid at the wedding of Albert’s sister, Princess Mary to Viscount Lascelles. Elizabeth refused him a second time, yet undaunted Bertie pursued the girl who had stolen his heart. Finally, in January 1923 she agreed to marry him in spite of her misgivings about royal life.

 

*****’Dancing Time’ was a popular song in Britain in 1921 with words by George Grossmith Jr. and music by Jerome Kern.

 

This rather splendid buffet of delicious savoury treats might look real to you, but in fact the whole scene is made up on 1:12 scale miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

On Lettice’s black japanned dining table delicious canapés are ready to be consumed by party guests. The plate of sandwiches, the silver tray of biscuits and the bowls of dips, most of the savoury petite fours on the silver tray furthest from the camera and the silver tray of Cornish pasties were 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 cheese selection on the tray closest to the camera were made by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as are the empty champagne glasses all of which are made of hand blown glass. The bowl of caviar was made by Karen Lady Bug Miniatures in England.

 

The tray that the caviar is sitting on and the champagne bucket are made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The bottle of Deutz and Geldermann champagne. It is an artisan miniatures and made of glass and has real foil wrapped around its neck. It was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. Several of the other bottles of mixers in the foreground are also made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The bottle of Gordon’s Dry Gin, the bottle of Crème de Menthe, Cinzano, Campari and Martini are also 1:12 artisan miniatures, made of real glass, and came from a specialist stockist in Sydney. Gordon's London Dry Gin was developed by Alexander Gordon, a Londoner of Scots descent. He opened a distillery in the Southwark area in 1769, later moving in 1786 to Clerkenwell. The Special London Dry Gin he developed proved successful, and its recipe remains unchanged to this day. The top markets for Gordon's are (in descending order) the United Kingdom, the United States and Greece. Gordon's has been the United Kingdom’s number one gin since the late Nineteenth century. It is the world's best-selling London dry gin. Crème de menthe (French for "mint cream") is a sweet, mint-flavored alcoholic beverage. Crème de menthe is an ingredient in several cocktails popular in the 1920s, such as the Grasshopper and the Stinger. It is also served as a digestif. Cinzano vermouths date back to 1757 and the Turin herbal shop of two brothers, Giovanni Giacomo and Carlo Stefano Cinzano, who created a new "vermouth rosso" (red vermouth) using "aromatic plants from the Italian Alps in a recipe which is still secret to this day. Campari is an Italian alcoholic liqueur, considered an apéritif. It is obtained from the infusion of herbs and fruit (including chinotto and cascarilla) in alcohol and water. It is a bitters, characterised by its dark red colour.

 

The vase of red roses on the dining table and the vase of yellow lilies on the Art Deco console are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. Also on the console table stand some of Lettice’s precious artisan purchases from the Portland Gallery in Soho. The pair of candelabra at either end of the sideboard are sterling silver artisan miniatures from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in England. The silver drinks set, made by artisan Clare Bell at the Clare Bell Brass Works in Maine, in the United States. Each goblet is only one centimetre in height and the decanter at the far end is two- and three-quarter centimetres with the stopper inserted. Lettice’s Art Deco ‘Modern Woman’ figure is actually called ‘Christianne’ and was made and hand painted by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland. ‘Christianne’ is based on several Art Deco statues and is typical of bronze and marble statues created at that time for the luxury market in the buoyant 1920s.

 

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

 

The 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.

Textures generously provided by Kim Klassen and Tim in Ohio.

My images are posted here for your enjoyment only. All rights are reserved. Please contact me through flickr if you are interested in using one of my images for any reason.

  

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In reality, I have trust and never look down on every single peny efforts that been contributed as helpful means, turning unrealistic dream alive is the goal in crowd funding excercise, No reason any single amount is regard to be too small when the strength of all individual wish gather to fulfill my little desire to make exist and keep alive. .

I sincerely look forward each and every participants who think alike crowds funding methodlogy works here no matter who come forwards with regardless any capital amount input be big or small , please help gather and pool raise my objective target amount as close to USD$10K or either acquisition from donation item list below:

 

1- ideally a high mega pixel Canon 5DS ( can be either new or use ok)

2- Canon 70-200mm F2.8 L IS lens ( can be either new or use ok)

Last but not least, a photography journey of life time for a trip to explore South Island of New Zealand and Africa.

.

My intended schedule may estimate about 1 month round trip self drive traveling down scenic Southern Island of New Zealand for completing the most captivating landscape photography and wander into the big five, the wilderness of untamed Africa nature for my project 2016 before my physical body stamina eventually drain off.

 

During the course, I also welcome sponsor's to provide daily lodging/accommodation, car rental/transportation, Fox Glacier helicopter ride and other logistic funding expenses, provide photographic camera equipments or related accessories .

Kindly forward all sponsors request terms of condition n collaboration details for discussion soon.

 

Great Ocean Drive- the 12 Apostle's

 

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

 

Today however we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid, is paying an unexpected call on her parents whilst her mistress is away enjoying the distractions of the London Season. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home. They live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street, and is far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s flat, but has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith. Even before she walks through the glossy black painted front door, Edith can smell the familiar scent of a mixture of Lifebuoy Soap, Borax and Robin’s Starch, which means her mother is washing the laundry of others wealthier than she in the terrace’s kitchen at the rear of the house.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Feeling the stuffiness in the room from the lighted range and the moisture from the steaming tubs of washing, Edith takes off her coat and hangs it on a hook by the back door. She then places her hat on one of the carved knobs of the ladderback chair drawn up to the table next to her mother’s usual seat.

 

“Oh don’t put it there, love.” Ada chides. “It might get damaged. Such a pretty hat should sit on the table where it’s safe.”

 

“It’s nothing special, Mum. This came from Petticoat Lane too, and it’s not new. I decorated the hat with bits and bobs I picked up from a Whitechapel haberdasher Miss Lettice’s char***, Mrs. Boothby, told me about.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Oh?” Edith queries.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Oh Edith! Mrs. Hounslow’s a widow.”

 

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

 

“Bishop’s in the High Street.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“You think she’d know better.”

 

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

 

“So much grander than here, Edith.”

 

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

 

“Contrary indeed!” Ada snorts derisively.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The central focus of our story, sitting on Ada’s table, is the cottage ware teapot. Made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson, it has been decorated authentically and matches in perfect detail its life-size Price Washington ‘Ye Olde Cottage Teapot’ counterparts. The top part of the thatched rood and central chimney form the lid, just like the real thing. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Sunlight Soap was first introduced in 1884 by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

In the background you can see Ada’s dark Welsh dresser cluttered with household items. Like Ada’s table, the Windsor chair and the ladderback chair to the left of the photo, I have had the dresser since I was a child. The shelves of the dresser have different patterned crockery and silver pots on them which have come from different miniature stockists both in Australia and the United Kingdom. There are also some rather worn and beaten looking enamelled cannisters and a bread tin in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green. Aged on purpose, these artisan pieces I recently acquired from The Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. There are also tins of various foods which would have been household staples in the 1920s when canning and preservation revolutinised domestic cookery. Amongst other foods on the dresser are a tin of Macfie’s Finest Black Treacle, two jars of P.C. Flett and Company jam, a tin of Heinz marinated apricots, a jar of Marmite and some Oxo stock cubes. All these items are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, with great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars and cans.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

“Good things aren’t supposed to just fall into your lap. God is very generous, but He expects you to do your part first.” - AH

 

www.keepinspiring.me/audrey-hepburn-quotes/

 

Audrey Hepburn - Restyled, Repainted and Re-Rooted by artist Noel Cruz of ncruz.com/ in a diorama by Regent Miniatures and featured are animals by Mr. Z! Mr. Z Animal Model MRZ036 FC005 1/6 Felis Black White Domesticus Cat& 1/6 Mr.Z Animal Model MRZ027-003 Japanese Shiba Inu W/Replaceable Heads Figure.

 

Audrey is also featured in the 1Sixth Winter Hardbound Edition available in Hardback/imagewrap or paperback cover. Also as a PDF or eBook.

 

Order here: www.blurb.com/b/9320555-1sixth

 

eBook: www.blurb.com/b/9320555-1sixth?ebook=690084

 

Photos by Steve McKinnis of stevemckinnis.com

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

 

It is a few days before the wedding of Her Royal Highness, Princess Mary* to Viscount Lascelles at Westminster Abbey, to which both Lettice and her childhood friend Gerald Bruton, have been invited, amongst other friends from their Embassy Club coterie. Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy, has tried to gain some financial independence from his impecunious family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. With some recent good press in Vogue after a wedding gown he designed for his and Lettice’s friend Margot de Virre featured, he has attained some modest success, and a few of his creations will grace female guests at the wedding. This hasn’t stopped him from making a frock of oyster satin with pearl buttons and a guipure lace** Peter Pan collar*** for Lettice to wear to the ceremony and he has just arrived at her Cavendish Mews flat with it in hand to deliver to her in person, only to discover that she is out on an errand.

 

“Oh Edith, is he still here?” Lettice gasps breathlessly as the front door to her flat is opened by her maid. “It took such an effort to get back here.” She places a slightly clammy glove clad hand on Edith’s shoulder as she tries to catch her breath.

 

“Mr. Bruton Miss?” Edith asks in surprise at her mistress’ flustered and panting state. When her question is responded to with an affirmative nod, she continues. “He’s only just arrived with your frock for the wedding, Miss. He’s in the drawing room.”

 

“Oh good!” Lettice sighs, quickly hurrying through the door into the drawing room without even taking off her coat or hat or depositing her parasol into the umbrella stand. “I’ll see him now.”

 

Edith shakes her head in puzzlement at her mistress as she watches her go, a large pink and white candy striped hat box with a green ribbon trim clutched in her arms along with her snakeskin handbag.

 

“Thank god you’re still here, Gerald darling!” cries Lettice, bursting into the room and charging across its length. Depositing the large round box on the black japanned coffee table along with her handbag, she drops her stub handled parasol next to her chair. Suitably freed of impediments, she embraces her friend in an enveloping hug of velvet, fur and Habanita****. “Sorry, the traffic getting back was so appalling that I gave up at Bourdon Street and ran the rest of the way!”

 

“You ran?” Gerald looks surprised at his dear friend. “I thought the daughter of a viscount never ran.”

 

“Well, they don’t,” she elucidates, shrugging off her velvet and fur coat, casting it across the room where it lands with a crumpled sigh onto a black japanned Chippendale chair. “Unless they are desperate to catch their friend before he leaves.”

 

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I Lettuce Leaf?”

 

Lettice slaps him with the velvet toque she has just removed from her head. “You’re a beast, Gerald Bruton!”

 

“What?” Gerald laughs as he dodges the flapping hat.

 

“You know perfectly well, what!” Lettuce scolds. “Will you never tire of calling me by my loathed childhood nickname?”

 

“Not as long as it peeves you, Lettuce Leaf!”

 

She slaps him kittenishly again. “And if it isn’t a pet peeve any longer?”

 

“Then you won’t care if I call you Lettuce Leaf or not.”

 

His response is rewarded with another few wallops from her hat until he finally begs for mercy, as both of them bust into fits of childish giggles.

 

“So, what is it that you so desperately needed to see me for, darling?” Gerald finally manages to ask.

 

Tossing the hat on top of her discarded coat, she turns back to Gerald. “This, darling.” she says with a conspiratorial smile as she pats the top of the round cardboard box which is decorated prettily with pink and green ribbons, a scrunch of frothy white lace and an artificial flower.

 

Gerald looks down at the box, but is singularly unimpressed by it. “A box? What do I care for a box, and more importantly, why do you, darling?”

 

“Oh it isn’t the box, Gerald. Don’t be dim!” Lettice laughs. “It’s what’s inside.”

 

“Well show me then!” He uncrosses his arms for a moment to flip his left hand at it dismissively before returning to his bemused stance with arms akimbo. “You have my attention.”

 

Lettice tears the lid from the box excitedly and delves into a froth of noisy, snowy white tissue paper before withdrawing a beautiful hat of straw – not quite a cloche and not quite a picture hat but something in between – decorated with a lustrous oyster coloured satin ribbon, three white feathers and a rather fetching peach coloured ornamental flower. As she lifts it out, a receipt flutters face down onto the tabletop. Gerald goes to pick it up. “No! No! No!” Lettice says, brushing his hand away before placing the hat neatly over her coiffed blonde Marcelle***** waves. Positioning herself in a rather dramatic, yet elegant pose, she asks, “What do you think, Gerald?”

 

“I say darling!” Gerald gasps, his hands rising to his mouth where a broad smile appears. “That’s a rather natty looking chapeau!”

 

“Good enough to go with your frock to Princess Mary’s wedding?”

 

“I should say so!” Then he pauses for a moment and ponders the cardboard packaging again. “But that isn’t a Madame Gwendolyn hatbox.”

 

“No, it isn’t,” Lettice replies with a smirk, but says no more as she places the hat on the tabletop next to the hatbox and the receipt, which still lies face down. Gerald quickly reaches again for the latter, but Lettice snatches it up in her own hands before he can reach it. “No! No! No!” she repeats, wagging a finger warningly at her friend.

 

Gerald looks at the hat again, and then at the mischievous look on Lettice’s pretty face. “Well then? Who made it? You have me intrigued.”

 

“Well, I’m going to create a fashion first at the royal wedding.” Lettice announces mysteriously.

 

“It’s a beautiful chapeau darling, but I’d hardly say that it’s a fashion first.”

 

Lettice holds up a finger to silence him, before then revealing the printed side of the receipt. Gerald’s eyes grow wide as he takes in the typed letters and logo at the top.

 

“Selfridges? You bought this hat at Selfridges?” he splutters unbelievably. “But it’s so…”

 

“Stylish?”

 

“Very à la mode! I can scarcely believe it!”

 

“Well, not everything Mr. Selfridge has is fit only for shop girls and typists, Gerald, contrary to what you and others may believe. He has some Parisian models exclusively for his department store. And it only cost me nine pounds, nine and sixpence! Can you believe that rogue Madame Gwendolyn was going to charge me nine pounds alone just to refurbish an existing hat of hers that she hasn’t been able to sell with some new ribbons and frou-frou?”

 

“Well, this is far better value for money, I must say.” Gerald picks up the hat and takes a closer look at the fine stitching around the hatband and how seamlessly the ornamental flower appears to be affixed.

 

“And that’s how I’m going to create a fashion first at Princess Mary’s wedding!” Lettice claps her hands in delight.

 

Gerald looks at her perplexed for a moment, then glances at the hat and them back into Lettice’s mirth filled face. His eyes widen again. “Surely… surely not, Lettice! You can’t!” he splutters.

 

“Why not Gerald?”

 

“It’s a royal wedding for heaven’s sake! You can’t seriously expect to wear a hat from Selfridges to a royal wedding? You’re the youngest daughter of the Viscount Wrexham!”

 

“No-one would actually know it was a Selfridges hat, Gerald, except you and me, oh and Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon****** because I alluded to my potential plan when I saw her a few days ago.”

 

“Oh wonderful!” Gerald throws his hands in the air in despair. “You told one of Her Royal Highness’ bridesmaids!”

 

“Elizabeth won’t say anything, Gerald.” Lettice assures her friend. “Anyway, she’ll be far too busy on the day with bridesmaids duties to even see my hat, never mind pass remarks on it.”

 

“And what will Sadie say, when she finds out?”

 

“She doesn’t need to know any more than anyone else, Gerald. I’m surprised you’d even countenance the idea.” Lettice casts an astonished look at her friend. “I think I’d rather tell Her Royal Highness that it’s a Selfridges hat than tell Mater!”

 

“Well, she’ going to know it isn’t from Madame Gwendolyn, because it isn’t, and that’s where she gets her hats from, including the one she will be wearing to Westminster Abbey, I’m sure.”

 

“Oh, I’ll just tell her that I’ve found a fabulous new designer who is more representative of the modern woman.” Lettice remarks offhandedly. “Those last two words will be enough to stop her making further enquiries.”

 

“Imagine a Selfridges hat at a royal wedding,” chuckles Gerald. “You’ll bring the establishment down yet, Lettice darling, piece by piece, with your modern woman thoughts.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

*****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.

 

******Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon as she was known in 1922 went on to become Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952 as the wife of King George VI. Whilst still Duke of York, Prince Albert initially proposed to Elizabeth in 1921, but she turned him down, being "afraid never, never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to" She was one of Princess Mary’s eight bridesmaids at her 1922 wedding.

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Lettice’s elegant Selfridges straw hat sitting on the black japanned coffee table 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 beautiful coloured card hatbox came from an online stockist of miniatures on E-Bay, whilst the receipt is a 1:12 miniature receipt, produced to exacting standards by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. Lettice’s snakeskin handbag with its golden clasp and chain also comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

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

 

Next to the telephone stands a glass vase containing blue dried flowers (although you can’t see the flowers in the photo). The vase is made of hand spun glass. These items I have had since I was a teenager when I acquired them from a high street doll and miniatures stockist.

 

The red elephant to the upper right-hand corner of the photo is actually a glass bead and used to be part of a necklace which fell apart long before I bought it. It and many other elephants from the necklace in red and white glass came in a box of bits I thought would make good miniature editions that I bought at a flea market some fifteen years ago.

 

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

 

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

 

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

Nikon D4 + 14-24mm f/2.8G | Yellowknife, NT, Canada, 20 Sep 2015

 

Thanks to the Capital Suites hotel management for their generous support and to its staff for their friendly service.

 

© 2015 José Francisco Salgado, PhD.

Do not use without permission.

josefrancisco.org | Facebook | @jfsalgado

Boy coming back home at sunset hour

 

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

  

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

So what "better quality of life" really is?

  

Vivoratá

Buenos Aires

Argentina

 

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

 

/ Terminé de jugar [sólo por hoy] /

 

Niño volviendo a casa al atardecer

  

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

  

State Road 2

Main Street, Vivorata, Buenos Aires, Argentina

  

This is one that we do see folks but just no like this one, ( for me anyway ). Almost done with this little project of the desk-top images that were slated for Flickr, kids and grandkids coming early Monday so once again there will be no posting nor commenting, sorry, but there be be looking and envy at all the beautiful things we see here on Flickr. Thank you so very much for the time to visit and for the generous comments and kind words.

 

Please View On Black

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

 

Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat. Instead, we have followed Lettice south-west, through the neighbouring borough of Belgravia to the smart London suburb of Pimlico and its rows of cream and white painted Regency terraces. There, in a smart red brick Edwardian set of three storey flats on Rochester Row, is the residence of Lettice’s latest client, recently arrived American film actress Wanetta Ward.

 

The flat is all and sixes and sevens today as removalists disgorge beautiful new furnishings from their lorry. Carefully they carry items that Lettice has specifically chosen for Wanetta’s flat through the communal foyer illuminated by a lightwell three floors above, and up the sweeping stairs to flat number four. The painters and decorators have already been through, hanging fashionable papers chosen by Lettice on walls and giving the wainscots, cornicing and ceiling roses a much needed fresh coat of paint. The floors have been polished and now each room is cluttered with Chinese screens, oriental tables, black japanned furniture, oriental rugs, Chinoiserie pieces, paintings and boxes of decorative items. Lettice stands in the central vestibule and directs the men to carry different pieces into different rooms, a clipboard across the crook in her left arm as she ticks items off her inventory for the flat. She and a handful of men will return in a few days to set things up properly. Today is really all about moving everything from Lettice’s warehouse near the docks to its new home.

 

Lettice sighs with relief when the last removalist leaves after depositing the final box in the vestibule. Now she can check the boxes to make sure that everything has arrived safely. She closes the door and luxuriates in the silence as it falls about her like a comforting blanket. Walking into the flat’s drawing room, she admires the French blue wallpaper with its stylised motif of golden fans as they run the length of the room across a wall now devoid of the floor to ceiling bookshelves that had cluttered it previously. She emits a sigh of satisfaction as she smiles at it glowing in the mid-afternoon sun pouring through the bay window. Taking up a crowbar, she starts to separate the lids nailed onto boxes and crates so she can remove their contents. She chuckles quietly to herself as she works, a cheeky smile dancing across her lips as she thinks of how horrified her mother would be to see her using such an implement so adeptly. Lady Sadie would struggle to lift a fire poker, never mind wrench the lid from a wooden crate.

 

Soon the surface of a low table and the floor around her is littered with tissue paper, oriental pottery and Murano glassware. Picking up a vase with elegant golden yellow fluting spiralling around its bulbous base, Lettice holds it to the light, admiring the brilliance of the colour as it is caught in the sun’s rays. Just as she sets it down again, she hears a key turning in the lock of the front door, its unique metallic groan echoing through the vestibule and into the drawing room.

 

“Hullo?” Lettice calls in the direction of the front door.

 

“Is that you, darling Miss Chetwynd?” Miss Ward’s American enunciations sound loudly down the hallway as the front door creaks open. “It’s only me, Wanetta!”

 

“I’m in the drawing room.” Lettice replies as the sound of the front door slamming closed resounds through the flat.

 

She listens to the American woman’s footsteps and the tap of her walking stick that she uses for dramatic effect as she walks across the hallway and peeps into each room off it to take a sneak peak of what is in each before finally walking into the drawing room, a vision in orchid silk with her lucky pink floral hat atop her head.

 

“I’m afraid that you’re far too early, Miss Ward,” Lettice beams up from her kneeling position on the floor. “I’ve only just had the furniture moved in a few hours ago. I haven’t set things straight yet.”

 

“Oh,” Miss Ward bats away Lettice’s protestations with a flapping hand glittering in jewels. “That doesn’t matter my darling girl! I only came here today because I’d heard from the shipping company that my paintings had been delivered. I just wanted to make sure they were all here.”

 

“And if by checking on their safe arrival you were given an opportunity to have a little peek as to how things are going with the redecoration, that wouldn’t go astray either?”

 

Miss Ward blanches at the suggestion but doesn’t deny it. “I’m an inquisitive woman, darling. It took all my inner strength not to come charging down here beforehand to see how it was all progressing.”

 

The American’s eyes dart about the room, taking in the general chaos of misplaced furniture, tea chests disgorging paper and crates spilling forth decorative china and glassware.

 

“They are over there, Miss Ward,” Lettice rises from her place, brushing her hands down the calico smock she wears as a protective cover over her smart outfit beneath, before pointing to a stack of paintings resting against the wall by the fireplace. “I had my men unpack them in readiness for hanging.”

 

“That’s very good of you, darling.” Miss Ward looks across at Lettice as she removes her hat and tosses it carelessly onto a white upholstered reproduction Chippendale settee. “Only you could look so stylish in a smock, dear girl!” she laughs loudly as she props her stick against the arm of the settee.

 

“It’s just to protect my clothes.” Lettice explains with a slightly embarrassed self conscious chuckle as she gazes down at her smock’s crumpled and slightly dusty front. “Anyway, I’m glad you are here, Miss Ward. We can discuss the placement of your artworks. Mind you, I didn’t see a portrait of you in yellow amongst them.”

 

“Oh! Well, you wouldn’t. I had that delivered to my hotel room. It can hang there until I’m ready to move in.”

 

“Then how am I to…” Lettice begins.

 

Miss Ward gasps, interrupting Lettice’s spoken thought, finally slowing down enough to notice the wallpaper. “That wallpaper truly is stunning, Miss Chetwynd, my darling, darling girl! Truly it is!” she enthuses with clasped hands. “I say again, a stroke of genius on your part!”

 

“I’m glad you approve, Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh I do!” she agrees readily. “It is divine and makes such a statement,” She walks up to the wall and runs her elegant fingers over the paper, feeling the embossed lines of the fan in the print. “But in an elegant way. Classy! Not… not de… de…”

 

“Déclassé. Indeed, Miss Ward.” Lettice agrees. “Now whilst you’re here, I’d like you to cast your eyes over these choices of ornamental glassware and make sure that they are to your liking.”

 

“Oh yes? Let me see!”

 

Miss Ward walks purposely across the room to the low table cluttered with boxes and objects made of glass either solely or tinted at the least with golden yellow colouring. She gasps as she picks up an elegant decanter with a long neck and bulbous end with a golden yellow stopper. Carefully putting it back down she turns her attention to a rather lovely large clear glass bowl with a gilt rim, a smile of pleasure causing her painted lips to curl upwards in delight. Then she glimpses another decanter made completely of yellow glass. She picks it up with both hands, holding it with reverence.

 

“They’re all pieces from Murano, a little glass blowing island in Venice,” Lettice explains.

 

At length Miss Ward finally replies, “Oh darling! They are gorgeous! Where do you envisage these going?”

 

“Well, I have a black japanned cocktail cabinet and console table on order from my cabinet maker which are due to be delivered in a few days. I thought the cocktail cabinet might go here.” She indicates with an open hand to the space behind the white settee and a rolled up oriental rug with gold patterning to the left of the fireplace. “And the console table, here.” She points to the right of the fireplace, currently cluttered with Miss Ward’s stack of paintings. “I was going to put a cluster of these on it along with a pale yellow celadon vase decorated with gold bamboo that is still packed in one of these crates somewhere.” She indicates to a few of the as of yet unopened boxes.

 

“Then my portrait shall hang above it!” Miss Ward declares. “It will look perfect there!”

 

“Very well, Miss Ward. If that is your wish.” Lettice acquiesces, even though it irks her a little to have not seen the portrait to know if it will really suit the space on the wall.

 

“Does Harrods sell oriental ginger jars?” Miss Ward laughs as she notices the elegant writing on the side of a small crate from which a green, brown and blue Japanese jar pokes.

 

“No,” Lettice chuckles, looking to where her client is gazing. “Though I’m quite sure if I asked them to, they would. No, this is a Japanese temple vase from my oriental importers. The box is mine, left over from a rather fun cocktail party I had a few weeks ago for some friends of mine who are getting married.”

 

“Oh,” Miss Ward remarks. “I think I remember reading something about your party in the society pages of the Tatler.”

 

“I’m surprised you have time to read the society pages, Miss Ward, what with your new career at Islington Studios*.”

 

“I quite enjoy reading magazines between takes, and when I’m having my makeup done.” Miss Ward elucidates. “It helps to pass the time.”

 

“And things are going well with your film?”

 

“Oh, ‘After the Ball is Over’ is already in the bag, darling!”

 

“Goodness, that was fast, Miss Ward.”

 

“Things move like quick lightning in the flicks, Miss Chetwynd. No time to stand around gawking though. My next picture is already underway - ‘A Night at the Savoy’ with me as an elegant society lady. I almost don’t need to act.” the American woman laughs heartly.

 

Lettice has the good grace not to remark on Miss Ward’s lack of refinement as she says, “Well that is good news for you. A second film already.”

 

“Yes! I might even be able to host a cocktail party here for the release of ‘After the Ball is Over’.” Miss Ward exclaims. “Won’t that be fun?”

 

The young woman begins to hum the tune to ‘After the Ball is Over’ as she starts to dance around the room, pretending that she is held in the arms of some dashing young man. Lettice watches her in silence, admiring her client as she moves elegantly around the room, her orchid dress sweeping around her slim and tall figure in elegant folds, her signature pearls dancing down her neck along with her.

 

Suddenly she trips over the tag on the rolled-up carpet leaning against the fireplace, causing it to slide and fall against the settee with a whoosh and a dull thump, breaking the spell of elegance. On the mantlepiece, a small white vase teeters.

 

“Careful!” Lettice cries, reaching out as much to the little vase as she does Miss Ward.

 

Miraculously, Miss Ward steadies herself and catches the vase in her elegant hand. She looks down at it, contemplating it for a moment before remarking, “Isn’t this the little vase that was sitting here the day I had those two charladies** in here, cleaning up after the last tenant?”

 

“It is, Miss Ward.” Lettice agrees, walking over to the American woman.

 

“But I told them to throw anything left by him, out.”

 

“I know,” Lettice takes the vase from Miss Ward’s hand and places it back on the mantlepiece. “But I asked them to leave it.”

 

“Why, Miss Chetwynd?” Miss Ward looks down at Lettice with a puzzled look on her pretty face.

 

“Call it fancy, Miss Ward, but I rather like the idea of a room retaining a little of its past. There wasn’t much in the way of its history to work with, save for this little vase.”

 

“You’re talking to a girl who has a lucky hat, darling girl. I’m the last one to challenge your fancy.” She looks at the vase again, scrutinising its simple elegance. “And, I suppose you did say that you were going to have elements of white in my décor.”

 

“I did, Miss Ward.” Lettice confirms. “However, I also said that it wouldn’t be boring, and this little vase, with its history, is certainly not boring.” She smiles at the other woman.

 

“Well, I must go, my dear, dear girl.” Miss Ward says. “I only popped in before going on to the studios. I’m so pleased to know that everything is coming together, tickety-boo***!” She snatches up her gold knobbed walking stick and pink floral hat from the settee and sweeps across the room towards the door. As she crosses the threshold, she turns back dramatically to Lettice. “Just tickety-boo, darling!” Then she turns and walks away. “Cheerio, Miss Chetwynd, until next time!”

 

With the bang of the front door, Miss Ward is gone, leaving only a whiff of her perfume as a reminder that she was even there, and Lettice feels the calming silence settling about her again. “Coming together, tickety-boo.” she mutters before releasing a little snort as she shakes her head. “Now where is that yellow celadon vase?” Taking up the crowbar, she resumes opening a box, the wood of the lid groaning in protest as she splinters it open.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

This slightly chaotic upper-middle-class still life of redecoration in progress is different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood and teenage years.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

All the glass items on the table have been blown and decorated and tinted by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The stoppers in the two decanters are removable. The ginger jar in the Harrods crate is also hand painted. It is an item that I bought from a high street doll house stockist when I was a teenager.

 

Wanetta’s lucky pink hat covered in silk flowers, which sits on the settee in the background is made by Miss Amelia’s Miniatures in the Canary Islands. It is an artisan miniature made just like a real hat, right down to a tag in the inside of the crown to show where the back of the hat is! 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. Miss Amelia is an exception to the rule coming from Spain, but like her American counterparts, her millinery creations are superb. Like a real fashion house, all her hats have names. This pink raw silk flower covered hat is called “Lilith”. Wanetta’s walking stick, made of ebonized wood with a real metal knob was made by the Little Green Workshop in England.

 

The stylised Art Deco fire screen is made using thinly laser cut wood, made by Pat’s Miniatures in England.

 

The paintings stacked in the background were all made in America by Amber’s Miniatures.

 

The miniature Oriental rug rolled up in the background of the photo was made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney

 

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

 

The striking wallpaper is an art deco design that was very popular during the 1920s.

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

***Born Lady Diana Manners, Diana Olivia Winifred Maud Cooper, Viscountess Norwich was an English aristocrat who was a famously glamorous social figure in London and Paris. As a young woman, she moved in a celebrated group of intellectuals known as the Coterie, most of whom were killed in the First World War. She married Duff Cooper in 1919. In her prime, she had the widespread reputation as the most beautiful young woman in England, and appeared in countless profiles, photographs and articles in newspapers and magazines. She was a film actress in the early 1920s and both she and her husband were very good friends with Edward VIII and were guests of his on a 1936 yacht cruise of the Adriatic which famously caused his affair with Wallis Simpson to become public knowledge.

 

****The ‘robe de style’ was introduced by French couturier Jeanne Lanvin around 1915. It consisted of a basque bodice with a broad neckline and an oval bouffant skirt supported by built in wire hoops. Reminiscent of the Spanish infanta-style dresses of the Seventeenth Century and the panniered robe à la française of the Eighteenth Century they were made of fabric in a solid colour, particularly a deep shade of robin’s egg blue which became known as Lanvin blue, and were ornamented with concentrated bursts of embroidery, ribbons or ornamental silk flowers.

 

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

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Edith’s scrapbook is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. Therefore, it is a pleasure to give you a glimpse inside this wonderful scrapbook from the 1920s which contains sketches, photographs and article clippings. Even the paper has been given the appearance of wrinkling as happens when glue is applied to cheap pulp paper. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into this scrapbook, it contains twelve double sided pages of scrapbook articles, pictures, sketches and photographs and measures forty millimetres in height and thirty millimetres in width and is only three millimetres thick. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just one of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

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

 

The Huntley and Palmer’s Family Circle Biscuits tin containing a replica selection of biscuits is also a 1:12 artisan piece. Huntley and Palmers is a British firm of biscuit makers originally based in Reading, Berkshire. The company created one of the world’s first global brands and ran what was once the world’s largest biscuit factory. Over the years, the company was also known as J. Huntley and Son and Huntley and Palmer. Huntley and Palmer were renown for their ‘superior reading biscuits’ which they promoted in different varieties for different occasions, including at breakfast time. The design on the tin originates from the 1920s, but continued much later due to its popularity. The biscuits on the plate are 1:12 scale artisan pieces. The jam fancy is made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, whilst the chocolate chip biscuit has been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination.

 

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

 

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

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

 

It's a quarter past eight and Lettice is still happy asleep in her bed, buried beneath a thick and soft counterpane of embroidered oriental satin brocade, whilst the rest of Mayfair is slowly awakening in the houses and flats around her. Her peaceful slumbers are rudely interrupted by a peremptory knock on her boudoir door.

 

“Morning Miss.” Edith, Lettice’s maid, says brightly as she pops her head around the white painted panelled door as she opens it.

 

Lettice grunts – a most unladylike reaction – as she starts to wake up, disorientated, wondering for just a moment where she is before realising that she is in her own bed in Cavendish Mews. Sitting up in bed she winces as Edith draws the curtains back along their railing, flooding the room with a light, which whilst anaemic, is still painful to her eyes as the adjust.

 

“It looks like it’s going to be a showery and overcast day today, Miss.” Edith says with seriousness as she looks out of the window onto the street below. “None too good for that charity event you are going to today.”

 

“Charity event?” Lettice queries, rubbing the sleep from her sore eyes and exhaling through her nose. “What,” She yawns, not bothering to stifle it and stretches her arms. “What charity event, Edith?”

 

“That theatrical one you are going to with Mr. Bruton in Regent’s Park, Miss.” Edith replies, walking across the floor of her mistress’ bedroom, snatching discarded lingerie and stockings from the floor as she goes as she opens the door to the adjoining bathroom.

 

“Oh that!” Lettice answers. “The Theatrical Garden Party isn’t until next week, Edith.”

 

“Oh, I thought it was today, Miss.” The maid lifts the upholstered lid on a wicker laundry basket just inside the bathroom door and deposits Lettice’s lacy undergarments and stockings into it. “I must have my weeks confused.” She emerges and goes to one of Lettice’s polished wardrobes where she withdraws a pale pink bed jacket trimmed in marabou feathers from its wooden hanger.

 

“No, the Actors’ Orphanage Garden Party* is definitely next week, Edith,” Lettice says aloud to assure herself as much as her maid as she allows Edith to drape the bed jacket around her shoulders. She sighs and looks out at the grey day that peeps through the window. “Thank goodness. We’d hate for it to be a wash-out. Last year drew such crowds.”

 

Edith goes back to the open bedroom door and disappears momentarily into the hallway before returning with Lettice’s breakfast tray.

 

Punching and fluffing her pillows behind her to her satisfaction, Lettice nestles into her nest as she sits up properly in bed and allows her maid to place the tray across her lap. She looks down approvingly at the slice of golden toast in the middle of the pretty floral plate, the egg in the matching egg cup and the pot of tea with steam rising from the spout. She goes to lift the lid of the silver preserve pot.

 

“Marmalade, Miss.” Edith elucidates.

 

“Very good, Edith.”

 

“You… err… finished the last of the Glynes plum and raspberry conserve yesterday, Miss.”

 

“Did I?” Lettice remarks, withdrawing her napkin from underneath the plate and draping it across her front. “Oh well, all good things must come to an end, mustn’t they, Edith?”

 

“I couldn’t say, Miss.” Edith replies, her mouth forming into a slim line on her face as she keeps quiet about what she considers to be an extravagant amount of jam that Lettice applies to her toast every morning. In her opinion her mistress may as well forgo the toast altogether and eat the jam directly from the pot with a spoon. “The marmalade is shop bought, Miss.”

 

“Is it? Oh well, never mind.” Lettice answers as she takes up a spoon and begins to dollop the rich gelatinous golden orange marmalade onto her slice of toast. “I’ll fetch some more conserve from Mater and Pater next time I’m back in Wiltshire.” She takes the knife and spreads the thick layer across the toast before cutting the slice in half with crunching strokes. “Any post yet, Edith?”

 

“Some tradesmen’s correspondence and a larger envelope without a return address on it, Miss.”

 

“That will be a begging letter,” Lettice points the knife at her maid, slicing the air with it. “Put them on my desk will you. I’ll see to them when I get up.”

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith bobs a curtsey and goes to withdraw, yet just as she is about to close the bedroom door she glances at something on the console table outside. “Oh, and there is this, Miss, which I should think you’ll want to see.”

 

Lettice looks down the length of the room to where Edith holds up a copy of Country Life** in the doorway. She gasps. “Oh hoorah! Bring it here this instant, Edith!” She holds out her arms, twiddling her fingers anxiously.

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith bobs a curtsey and brings the crisp magazine to her mistress’ bedside.

 

“What page is it on, Edith?” Lettice asks, grasping the folded pages from her maid and opening it before her, over the top of her breakfast tray.

 

“I couldn’t say, Miss.” Edith replies, her intonation reflecting the mild outrage she feels at being asked such a question. “As if I would go through your personal mail, Miss.” Even though she has done just as Lettice has suggested and found and skimmed the article on Lettice’s redecoration of ‘Chi an Treth’, there is no need for her to know.

 

“Oh of course you haven’t, Edith. I’m sorry” Lettice apologises, lowering the magazine and looking up at her maid with remorse in her blue eyes. “Forgive me?”

 

“Of course, Miss.”

 

“I’m so grateful to have a maid who doesn’t pry.”

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith answers with a smug smile. “Will that be all, Miss.”

 

“Yes, yes, Edith!” Lettice answers with a dismissive flip of her right hand as she lets go of half the copy of Country Life which drapes across her breakfast, narrowly avoiding being smeared with marmalade. “I should be finished in about a half hour and then you can clean up.”

 

“Very good, Miss.”

 

Once Edith has retreated and closed the door behind her, Lettice foists the breakfast tray from her lap onto the empty left half of the bed, the crockery and cutlery protesting noisily at being thrust so forcefully from her. Drawing her knees up, she rests the latest edition of Country Life on her thighs and turns to the contents page, scanning the list of articles and editorials. “Aha!” she gasps triumphantly upon finding it.

 

Flipping through the pages past other houses of note quicky, the paper rustles beneath her fingers until she reaches the editorial she wants. Taking a deep breath she begins to read quietly aloud to herself, “Country homes and gardens old and new. ‘Chi an Treth’, Cornwall, the seat of Mr. R. Channon.” She skims the first section of the editorial which explains how Dickie and Margot were gifted their country house, but pauses at the first two photographs beneath it. She smiles with satisfaction at the first one which shows the top of the demi-lune table that she painted by hand and then worried wasn’t going to meet Margot’s approval. The image beside it shows the stylish mirror topped Art Deco console table she installed beneath the portrait of the beautiful and tragic Miss Rosevear, flanked by two statues she acquired from Mr. Chilvers at the Portland Gallery. “A perfect balance of old and new.” she reads aloud from the caption below the photograph before allowing herself to release the pent-up breath she has been holding in her chest. Those few words consisting of twenty-six characters is enough to tell her that anything else she reads in Henry Tipping’s*** article will be sure to be favourable about her interior designs for the Channon’s Regency country house.

 

Looking across the gutter between the left-hand page and the right she reads, “in the capable hands of Miss Lettice Chetwynd, who has applied her tasteful Modern Classical Revival style.”

 

Lettice’s eyes stray to the large photograph of Dickie and Margot’s redecorated drawing room. She chuckles to herself, the action causing the corners of her mouth to curl up in a smile as she remembers her conversation with Margot in the week following the Country Life photo shoot at ‘Chi an Treth’. Margot complained bitterly about having to tidy the place up for Mr. Tipping and his crew, even though it was her housekeeper, Mrs. Trevethan, who really did the tidying up. Margot moaned about having to hide her novels like skeletons in the closet, and how Mr. Tipping tinkered around the rooms, moving small things like clocks and photos, whilst removing others for what he called photographic effect. Margot said that when it came to shifting Dickie’s pile of newspapers from the pouffe by the fireplace, his friendship with Mr. Tipping nearly came to an end. Gifted with a sense of drama, Lettice knew that Margot was over exaggerating this point, but she could imagine that having a photography crew traipsing through your newly decorated rooms would be somewhat of an inconvenience and more than a little irritating. Margot did however concede that the Country Life crew brought a magnificent array of flowers which they filled every conceivable space with when photographing, and then left behind for her pleasure upon their decampment.

 

“Miss Chetwynd’s treatment of the drawing room exemplifies a comfortable mixture of old and new furnishings to create a welcoming and contemporary room that is sympathetic to the original features.” Lettice reads. Dropping the pages onto her thighs, she smiles with unbridled delight at the complimentary way with which Mr. Tipping describes her interiors.

 

“Wait until Mater reads this,” she thinks smugly, remembering her request of the Country Life office to supply an advanced copy of the magazine to her parent’s home as well as her own once it was published. “Now she will have to take my interior decorating business seriously.”

 

As if on cue, the black and silver Bakelite telephone by her bedside begins to trill noisily. She looks at it, her eyes alive with excitement. Usually, it is Edith’s job to answer the telephone, one of her most hated duties in her position as Lettice’s maid. Lettice is amused by her hatred of ‘that infernal contraption’. However, today after reading what she has in the Country Life article about ‘Chi an Treth’ she feels magnanimous and picks up the receiver on the third shrill ring.

 

“Mayfair 432,” she answers with a happy lilt in her voice. A distant deep male voice speaks down the line. “Pappa! What an unexpected pleasure at this time of the morning. I would have thought you’d be out on estate business with Leslie at this time.” She smiles to herself and bites the inside of her lower lip in excitement and anticipation. “I do hope nothing is wrong, Pappa.” she adds cheekily. She listens. “Oh really? Did she? Whatever was the matter for Mamma to call you to her boudoir like that?” She listens again, her eyes crinkling at the corners in sheer delight as she listens, luxuriating in her moment of triumph. “Oh that!” She laughs feigning nonchalance as she curls the spiral cord of the telephone receiver around her left index finger. “You know Pappa, with all the excitement of preparing for Elizabeth’s**** up and coming wedding to the Duke of York and decorating Charles and Minnie Palmerston’s dining room, you know I had quite forgotten all about it.” She listens again. “Yes, yes, I had. I mean, it was so long ago when I decorated Dickie and Margot’s. You and Mamma did approve of me doing it considering that Dickie is the Marquess of Taunton’s son, didn’t you?” she asks teasingly. Her father’s voice, disembodied somewhere between London and Wiltshire booms bombastically down the line. “Well yes I can, Pappa. I’ll have to check my diary, but I think I could arrange to come down to Glynes at short notice,” She pauses. “Only that suits you, of course.” She listens again. “Yes, yes very well. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve booked a ticket which train I’ll be on.” There is more male burbling along the line. “Alright. Goodbye Pappa. I’ll see you soon.” She hangs up the phone.

 

There is a quiet knock at the bedroom door.

 

“Is everything alright, Miss?” Edith opens it and pops her head around.

 

“So much for a maid who doesn’t pry.” Lettice says with arched eyebrows, making Edith blush at the remark. “Yes, everything is fine, but,” She throws the comforter back and swivels herself around on the mattress, revealing her white lace brassier beneath her open bed jacket and her silk crepe de chine step ins as she stretches her legs out of the bed. “There has been a change of plans. I shall have to forego breakfast this morning. I need you to pack me an overnight valise, Edith. I’m off to Glynes for an evening stay. I just need to ring the Victoria Station booking office and arrange a ticket.”

 

“To Glynes, Miss!” Edith gasps. “Whatever for?”

 

Holding up the copy of Country Life, Lettice says, still with arched eyebrows, and a knowing, but not unfriendly smile. “I think you know only too well, Edith.”

 

*The Actors' Orphanage was started in 1896 and established as the Actors' Orphanage Fund in 1912. The fund continues but the orphanage closed in 1958. The charity was started in 1896 by "Kittie" Carson and Mrs Clement Scott. The first building was in Croydon. It was established as the Actors' Orphanage Fund in 1912. In 1915 the Orphanage moved to Langley Hall at Langley (was in Buckinghamshire - now in Berkshire). The orphanage was both a home and a school to approximately sixty children. At ages fifteen to seventeen pupils sat the School Leaving Certificate of Cambridge University and if ten subjects were taken, to Matriculation. Over the years many from the theatrical profession gave time and money to the running of the Orphanage. They also threw large garden parties in Regents Park with rides and entertainment from famous people in the theatrical profession to help raise funds. These events were highly patronised, drawing the biggest crowds between 1920 and 1925. Past presidents of the Orphanage included Sir Gerald du Maurier, Noël Coward, Laurence Olivier and Richard Attenborough.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

This editorial from the pages of country life complete with photographs may look real to you, but if you look carefully at the elegantly appointed drawing room with its modish Art Deco furnishings you will find that they are made up with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in the photographs in this article include:

 

On the coffee table sits a rounded bowl made from hand spun glass, which has been made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The ornamental glass bon-bon dish and other glass vases are also made from hand spun glass and were made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures, as are all the roses in the photographs.

 

The Statue of the nude Art Nouveau woman on the right-hand pedestal to the right at the back is based on a real statue and is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. It has been hand painted by me.

 

The glass topped demilune table in the background is a hand made miniature artisan piece, which sadly is unsigned. On its surface, made of real glass are decanters of whiskey and port and a cranberry glass soda syphon made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The silver Regency tea caddy is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland.

 

The wedding photo in the silver frame on the mantlepiece and the photos in frames on the demilune table behind the armchair are real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frame comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers.

 

The Georgian style demilune table behind and to the right of the armchair is an artisan miniature from Lady Mile Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Painted white and then aged, it has been hand painted with a Georgian style design on its surface.

 

The copy of Country Life on the pouffe was made by me.

 

The eau-de-nil suite consisting of armchairs, sofa and pouffe are all made of excellent quality fabric, and are very well made, as is the coffee table with its small drawer beneath the tabletop. All these pieces were made as a set by high-end miniatures manufacturer Jiayi Miniatures.

 

The Regency gilt swan pedestals and round tables are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

The fireplace is made of plaster, and comes from Kathleen Knight’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The stylised Art Deco fire screen is made using thinly laser cut wood, made by Pat’s Miniatures in England.

 

The paintings around the ‘Chi an Treth’ drawing room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by V.H. Miniatures and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom and geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series. The Geometrically patterned Art Deco carpet on the floor comes from a miniatures specialist store on E-Bay.

Generous amount of benches are in place along the walk for a quick break, or just to bask in the surrounding beauty.