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Letter generously translated by Immanuel; Dated 7.9.1917, the author sends a letter to his sweetheart.
Albrecht, Duke of Württemberg is photographed with Generalleutnant Konrad Krafft von Dellmensingen and another as yet unidentified württembergisch general.
On May 27, 1915, shortly after his promotion to Generalleutnant, Krafft took command of the newly formed Alpenkorps. He would lead the Alpenkorps until the end of February 1917, through fighting on the Italian Front, at Verdun, and in the invasions of Serbia and Romania.
He received the Pour le Mérite on September 13, 1916, and oak leaves to the Pour le Mérite on December 11, 1916.
Thank-you to Immanuel Voigt for his assistance in identifying Generalleutnant Krafft.
Divided reverse. Letter generously translated by Nettenscheider and xiphophilos, authored in Kittelau (now Kietlin in Poland) on 29.10.1917 and addressed to a Jäger Hermann Urban serving with 2. Kompanie, Feldbataillon Jäger 10, Jäger Regiment. 2. Postage cancelled a day later.
Field portrait of men from the VI Armeekorps circa mid to late 1917. Given their ages, I would suggest these fellows are reservists or even Landwehr. Although difficult to see from this angle, two of the men are toting not-often-seen types of bayonets (see notes on photo).
The pristine Iskele shoreline is home to the five-star Arkin Iskele Hotel. Magnificent freshwater pools are scattered around the site on an open terrace, where you may cool off in peace and quiet while admiring the stunning views of the Mediterranean Sea.
The 5* Arkin Iskele hotel rests on the stunning and upcoming coastline of Iskele. As you gaze at the stunning shoreline, you can cool off in exquisite freshwater pools. The Arkin Hotel’s golden sands and piers extend generously into the crystal waters of the Mediterranean Sea, offering the perfect spot for swimming, paddling, or simply relaxing by the sea. It’s perfect for soaking up the sun.
The hotel also offers room service, a kid’s club where children are taken care of and where they can enjoy a plethora of different arts, crafts and fun activities during their stay. There is also an aqua park featuring five unique slides for a splashing good time! With cosy sun loungers and beach umbrellas.
Arkin Iskele features a bar and lush gardens in addition to its 24-hour front desk. On-site, there is an international buffet restaurant to enjoy main meals and water slides for kids where they can have a splashing good time. The on-site spa offers body scrubs, body wraps and massages for anyone looking for a soothing wellness experience. Turkish baths and saunas are also available.
There are multiple bars to enjoy freshly prepared drinks and cocktails as well as a patisserie where cakes and tasty pastries are served at specific hours of the day. There is also an ice cream stand to find delight in many different flavours of ice cream. There is also a shuttle service nearby which is available to take guests to Famagusta.
Getting out and about after a day at the beach will not leave you disappointed in this phenomenal location. The Arkin Iskele Hotel is located very close to the gateway of the Karpas Peninsula, providing the perfect base from which to explore the spectacular natural beauty and unspoiled countryside of this region.
A protected beach area is found near the hotel where sea turtles lay their eggs. If you get there at the right time, you will be able to witness the mothers burying their eggs and little hatchlings scrabbling towards the sea - a breathtaking site for children as well. If you would like more information about turtle-watching sessions, please speak with your Rep.
As a great perk, Iskele is very close to the ancient Roman ruins of Salamis, an ideal day trip for both adults and children offering a chance to explore ancient gymnasiums and temples and discover profound artefacts.
There is also an opportunity to see Othello's Tower and Citadel mentioned in Shakespeare's play!
There are a variety of cafes, bistros, bars and restaurants in the charming historic town of Famagusta which is less than 25 minutes away. Iskele is also a stunning port town to explore, known for its incredible seafood restaurants and piers overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.
Trikomo is a town in Cyprus. It is under the de facto control of Northern Cyprus and is the administrative center of the Iskele District of Northern Cyprus, which mainly extends into the Karpas Peninsula , while de jure it belongs to the Famagusta District of the Republic of Cyprus . It gained municipality status in 1998. Before 1974 Trikomo was a mixed village with a Greek Cypriot majority.
In 2011 Trikomo had 1948 inhabitants.
Trikomo is located in the north-eastern part of the Messaria plain , 9 km south of the village of Ardana , about two kilometers from the Bay of Famagusta and four kilometers north-west of the village of Sygkrasi .
In Greek Trikomo means "three houses". In 1975 the Turkish Cypriots renamed it Yeni İskele to commemorate the origins of the town's current inhabitants. In Larnaca before 1974 Turkish Cypriots resided in the neighborhood called Skala ("İskele" in Turkish), so that when they settled in the village they renamed it with the same name (lit. "new İskele", later shortened to İskele ). Yeni means "new", so Yeni İskele literally means "New Scale/İskele".
Before the 1974 Turkish invasion of Cyprus , the population of Trikomo consisted almost entirely of Greek Cypriots , most of whom fled during the conflict while the rest were subsequently deported to the south. Among these, worthy of mention is Georgios Grivas (1898-1974), general of the Greek army , leader of the guerrilla organization EOKA, protagonist of the liberation struggle against the English and of the paramilitary organization EOKA B.
The Turkish Cypriot municipality of Larnaca which had been established in 1958 moved to Trikomo in 1974, soon after the Turkish invasion of the island .
In Trikomo is the Church of the Panagia Theotokos , deconsecrated and home to an icon museum displaying rare examples of medieval iconography in Cyprus. The church is divided into two sections, one Orthodox and one Catholic. The first is the oldest, dating back to the Byzantine era , while the second was built in the 12th century, during the period in which the island was ruled by the Lusignans
Before 1974 Trikomo was a mixed village with a Greek Cypriot majority. In the 1831 Ottoman census, Muslims made up approximately 18.4% of the population. However, by 1891 this percentage dropped significantly to 3.4%. In the first half of the 20th century the population of the village increased steadily, from 1,247 inhabitants in 1901 to 2,195 in 1960.
Most of Trikomo's Greek Cypriots were displaced in August 1974, although some remained in the town after the Turkish army took control. In October 1975 there were still 92 Greek Cypriots in the city, but in 1978 they were moved to the south side of the Green Line . Currently, like the rest of the displaced Greek Cypriots, Trikomo Greek Cypriots are scattered across the south of the island, especially in the cities. The number of Greek Cypriots from Trikomo displaced in 1974-78 was approximately 2,330 (2,323 in the 1960 census).
Today the village is inhabited mainly by displaced Turkish Cypriots from the south of the island, especially from the city of Larnaca and its district . In 1976-77, some families from Turkey, especially from the province of Adana , also settled in the village . Since the 2000s, many wealthy Europeans, Turks and Turkish Cypriots from other areas of the north of the island (including returnees from abroad) have purchased properties, built houses and settled in the vicinity of the city. According to the 2006 Turkish Cypriot census, the population of Trikomo/İskele was 3,657.
The city annually hosts the Iskele Festival , which takes place for ten days in summer, and is the oldest annual festival in Cyprus, having first been held in Larnaca in 1968. In 1974, the event was moved to Trikomo together to the Turkish Cypriot inhabitants of Larnaca who had moved there. The program includes an international folk dance festival, concerts by Turkish Cypriot and mainland Turkish musicians, various sports tournaments, stalls offering food and various competitions, along with other performances and competitions highlighting the city's cultural heritage.
The current mayor of the city is Hasan Sadıkoğlu, who was first elected in 2014 as an independent candidate. It was re-elected in 2018 as the candidate of the right-wing National Unity Party (UBP), winning with 54.6% of the vote. In the 2018 local elections, four members of the UBP, two members of the pro-settler Renaissance Party (YDP), and two members of the left-wing Turkish Republican Party (CTP) were elected to the eight-member city council .
Trikomo is twinned with:
Flag of Türkiye Beykoz, Istanbul
Flag of Türkiye Büyükçekmece, Istanbul
Flag of Türkiye Finike, Antalya , since 2015
Flag of Türkiye Mamak, Ankara
Flag of Türkiye Pendik, Istanbul
Flag of Türkiye Samsung , since 2006
Turkish Cypriot sports club Larnaka Gençler Birliği (also called İskele Gençlerbirliği ) was founded in 1934 in Larnaca, and was playing in the Süper Lig of the Northern Cyprus Football Federation in the 2018–19 season
Northern Cyprus, officially the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC), is a de facto state that comprises the northeastern portion of the island of Cyprus. It is recognised only by Turkey, and its territory is considered by all other states to be part of the Republic of Cyprus.
Northern Cyprus extends from the tip of the Karpass Peninsula in the northeast to Morphou Bay, Cape Kormakitis and its westernmost point, the Kokkina exclave in the west. Its southernmost point is the village of Louroujina. A buffer zone under the control of the United Nations stretches between Northern Cyprus and the rest of the island and divides Nicosia, the island's largest city and capital of both sides.
A coup d'état in 1974, performed as part of an attempt to annex the island to Greece, prompted the Turkish invasion of Cyprus. This resulted in the eviction of much of the north's Greek Cypriot population, the flight of Turkish Cypriots from the south, and the partitioning of the island, leading to a unilateral declaration of independence by the north in 1983. Due to its lack of recognition, Northern Cyprus is heavily dependent on Turkey for economic, political and military support.
Attempts to reach a solution to the Cyprus dispute have been unsuccessful. The Turkish Army maintains a large force in Northern Cyprus with the support and approval of the TRNC government, while the Republic of Cyprus, the European Union as a whole, and the international community regard it as an occupation force. This military presence has been denounced in several United Nations Security Council resolutions.
Northern Cyprus is a semi-presidential, democratic republic with a cultural heritage incorporating various influences and an economy that is dominated by the services sector. The economy has seen growth through the 2000s and 2010s, with the GNP per capita more than tripling in the 2000s, but is held back by an international embargo due to the official closure of the ports in Northern Cyprus by the Republic of Cyprus. The official language is Turkish, with a distinct local dialect being spoken. The vast majority of the population consists of Sunni Muslims, while religious attitudes are mostly moderate and secular. Northern Cyprus is an observer state of ECO and OIC under the name "Turkish Cypriot State", PACE under the name "Turkish Cypriot Community", and Organization of Turkic States with its own name.
Several distinct periods of Cypriot intercommunal violence involving the two main ethnic communities, Greek Cypriots and Turkish Cypriots, marked mid-20th century Cyprus. These included the Cyprus Emergency of 1955–59 during British rule, the post-independence Cyprus crisis of 1963–64, and the Cyprus crisis of 1967. Hostilities culminated in the 1974 de facto division of the island along the Green Line following the Turkish invasion of Cyprus. The region has been relatively peaceful since then, but the Cyprus dispute has continued, with various attempts to solve it diplomatically having been generally unsuccessful.
Cyprus, an island lying in the eastern Mediterranean, hosted a population of Greeks and Turks (four-fifths and one-fifth, respectively), who lived under British rule in the late nineteenth-century and the first half of the twentieth-century. Christian Orthodox Church of Cyprus played a prominent political role among the Greek Cypriot community, a privilege that it acquired during the Ottoman Empire with the employment of the millet system, which gave the archbishop an unofficial ethnarch status.
The repeated rejections by the British of Greek Cypriot demands for enosis, union with Greece, led to armed resistance, organised by the National Organization of Cypriot Struggle, or EOKA. EOKA, led by the Greek-Cypriot commander George Grivas, systematically targeted British colonial authorities. One of the effects of EOKA's campaign was to alter the Turkish position from demanding full reincorporation into Turkey to a demand for taksim (partition). EOKA's mission and activities caused a "Cretan syndrome" (see Turkish Resistance Organisation) within the Turkish Cypriot community, as its members feared that they would be forced to leave the island in such a case as had been the case with Cretan Turks. As such, they preferred the continuation of British colonial rule and then taksim, the division of the island. Due to the Turkish Cypriots' support for the British, EOKA's leader, Georgios Grivas, declared them to be enemies. The fact that the Turks were a minority was, according to Nihat Erim, to be addressed by the transfer of thousands of Turks from mainland Turkey so that Greek Cypriots would cease to be the majority. When Erim visited Cyprus as the Turkish representative, he was advised by Field Marshal Sir John Harding, the then Governor of Cyprus, that Turkey should send educated Turks to settle in Cyprus.
Turkey actively promoted the idea that on the island of Cyprus two distinctive communities existed, and sidestepped its former claim that "the people of Cyprus were all Turkish subjects". In doing so, Turkey's aim to have self-determination of two to-be equal communities in effect led to de jure partition of the island.[citation needed] This could be justified to the international community against the will of the majority Greek population of the island. Dr. Fazil Küçük in 1954 had already proposed Cyprus be divided in two at the 35° parallel.
Lindley Dan, from Notre Dame University, spotted the roots of intercommunal violence to different visions among the two communities of Cyprus (enosis for Greek Cypriots, taksim for Turkish Cypriots). Also, Lindlay wrote that "the merging of church, schools/education, and politics in divisive and nationalistic ways" had played a crucial role in creation of havoc in Cyprus' history. Attalides Michael also pointed to the opposing nationalisms as the cause of the Cyprus problem.
By the mid-1950's, the "Cyprus is Turkish" party, movement, and slogan gained force in both Cyprus and Turkey. In a 1954 editorial, Turkish Cypriot leader Dr. Fazil Kuchuk expressed the sentiment that the Turkish youth had grown up with the idea that "as soon as Great Britain leaves the island, it will be taken over by the Turks", and that "Turkey cannot tolerate otherwise". This perspective contributed to the willingness of Turkish Cypriots to align themselves with the British, who started recruiting Turkish Cypriots into the police force that patrolled Cyprus to fight EOKA, a Greek Cypriot nationalist organisation that sought to rid the island of British rule.
EOKA targeted colonial authorities, including police, but Georgios Grivas, the leader of EOKA, did not initially wish to open up a new front by fighting Turkish Cypriots and reassured them that EOKA would not harm their people. In 1956, some Turkish Cypriot policemen were killed by EOKA members and this provoked some intercommunal violence in the spring and summer, but these attacks on policemen were not motivated by the fact that they were Turkish Cypriots.
However, in January 1957, Grivas changed his policy as his forces in the mountains became increasingly pressured by the British Crown forces. In order to divert the attention of the Crown forces, EOKA members started to target Turkish Cypriot policemen intentionally in the towns, so that Turkish Cypriots would riot against the Greek Cypriots and the security forces would have to be diverted to the towns to restore order. The killing of a Turkish Cypriot policeman on 19 January, when a power station was bombed, and the injury of three others, provoked three days of intercommunal violence in Nicosia. The two communities targeted each other in reprisals, at least one Greek Cypriot was killed and the British Army was deployed in the streets. Greek Cypriot stores were burned and their neighbourhoods attacked. Following the events, the Greek Cypriot leadership spread the propaganda that the riots had merely been an act of Turkish Cypriot aggression. Such events created chaos and drove the communities apart both in Cyprus and in Turkey.
On 22 October 1957 Sir Hugh Mackintosh Foot replaced Sir John Harding as the British Governor of Cyprus. Foot suggested five to seven years of self-government before any final decision. His plan rejected both enosis and taksim. The Turkish Cypriot response to this plan was a series of anti-British demonstrations in Nicosia on 27 and 28 January 1958 rejecting the proposed plan because the plan did not include partition. The British then withdrew the plan.
In 1957, Black Gang, a Turkish Cypriot pro-taksim paramilitary organisation, was formed to patrol a Turkish Cypriot enclave, the Tahtakale district of Nicosia, against activities of EOKA. The organisation later attempted to grow into a national scale, but failed to gain public support.
By 1958, signs of dissatisfaction with the British increased on both sides, with a group of Turkish Cypriots forming Volkan (later renamed to the Turkish Resistance Organisation) paramilitary group to promote partition and the annexation of Cyprus to Turkey as dictated by the Menderes plan. Volkan initially consisted of roughly 100 members, with the stated aim of raising awareness in Turkey of the Cyprus issue and courting military training and support for Turkish Cypriot fighters from the Turkish government.
In June 1958, the British Prime Minister, Harold Macmillan, was expected to propose a plan to resolve the Cyprus issue. In light of the new development, the Turks rioted in Nicosia to promote the idea that Greek and Turkish Cypriots could not live together and therefore any plan that did not include partition would not be viable. This violence was soon followed by bombing, Greek Cypriot deaths and looting of Greek Cypriot-owned shops and houses. Greek and Turkish Cypriots started to flee mixed population villages where they were a minority in search of safety. This was effectively the beginning of the segregation of the two communities. On 7 June 1958, a bomb exploded at the entrance of the Turkish Embassy in Cyprus. Following the bombing, Turkish Cypriots looted Greek Cypriot properties. On 26 June 1984, the Turkish Cypriot leader, Rauf Denktaş, admitted on British channel ITV that the bomb was placed by the Turks themselves in order to create tension. On 9 January 1995, Rauf Denktaş repeated his claim to the famous Turkish newspaper Milliyet in Turkey.
The crisis reached a climax on 12 June 1958, when eight Greeks, out of an armed group of thirty five arrested by soldiers of the Royal Horse Guards on suspicion of preparing an attack on the Turkish quarter of Skylloura, were killed in a suspected attack by Turkish Cypriot locals, near the village of Geunyeli, having been ordered to walk back to their village of Kondemenos.
After the EOKA campaign had begun, the British government successfully began to turn the Cyprus issue from a British colonial problem into a Greek-Turkish issue. British diplomacy exerted backstage influence on the Adnan Menderes government, with the aim of making Turkey active in Cyprus. For the British, the attempt had a twofold objective. The EOKA campaign would be silenced as quickly as possible, and Turkish Cypriots would not side with Greek Cypriots against the British colonial claims over the island, which would thus remain under the British. The Turkish Cypriot leadership visited Menderes to discuss the Cyprus issue. When asked how the Turkish Cypriots should respond to the Greek Cypriot claim of enosis, Menderes replied: "You should go to the British foreign minister and request the status quo be prolonged, Cyprus to remain as a British colony". When the Turkish Cypriots visited the British Foreign Secretary and requested for Cyprus to remain a colony, he replied: "You should not be asking for colonialism at this day and age, you should be asking for Cyprus be returned to Turkey, its former owner".
As Turkish Cypriots began to look to Turkey for protection, Greek Cypriots soon understood that enosis was extremely unlikely. The Greek Cypriot leader, Archbishop Makarios III, now set independence for the island as his objective.
Britain resolved to solve the dispute by creating an independent Cyprus. In 1959, all involved parties signed the Zurich Agreements: Britain, Turkey, Greece, and the Greek and Turkish Cypriot leaders, Makarios and Dr. Fazil Kucuk, respectively. The new constitution drew heavily on the ethnic composition of the island. The President would be a Greek Cypriot, and the Vice-President a Turkish Cypriot with an equal veto. The contribution to the public service would be set at a ratio of 70:30, and the Supreme Court would consist of an equal number of judges from both communities as well as an independent judge who was not Greek, Turkish or British. The Zurich Agreements were supplemented by a number of treaties. The Treaty of Guarantee stated that secession or union with any state was forbidden, and that Greece, Turkey and Britain would be given guarantor status to intervene if that was violated. The Treaty of Alliance allowed for two small Greek and Turkish military contingents to be stationed on the island, and the Treaty of Establishment gave Britain sovereignty over two bases in Akrotiri and Dhekelia.
On 15 August 1960, the Colony of Cyprus became fully independent as the Republic of Cyprus. The new republic remained within the Commonwealth of Nations.
The new constitution brought dissatisfaction to Greek Cypriots, who felt it to be highly unjust for them for historical, demographic and contributional reasons. Although 80% of the island's population were Greek Cypriots and these indigenous people had lived on the island for thousands of years and paid 94% of taxes, the new constitution was giving the 17% of the population that was Turkish Cypriots, who paid 6% of taxes, around 30% of government jobs and 40% of national security jobs.
Within three years tensions between the two communities in administrative affairs began to show. In particular disputes over separate municipalities and taxation created a deadlock in government. A constitutional court ruled in 1963 Makarios had failed to uphold article 173 of the constitution which called for the establishment of separate municipalities for Turkish Cypriots. Makarios subsequently declared his intention to ignore the judgement, resulting in the West German judge resigning from his position. Makarios proposed thirteen amendments to the constitution, which would have had the effect of resolving most of the issues in the Greek Cypriot favour. Under the proposals, the President and Vice-President would lose their veto, the separate municipalities as sought after by the Turkish Cypriots would be abandoned, the need for separate majorities by both communities in passing legislation would be discarded and the civil service contribution would be set at actual population ratios (82:18) instead of the slightly higher figure for Turkish Cypriots.
The intention behind the amendments has long been called into question. The Akritas plan, written in the height of the constitutional dispute by the Greek Cypriot interior minister Polycarpos Georkadjis, called for the removal of undesirable elements of the constitution so as to allow power-sharing to work. The plan envisaged a swift retaliatory attack on Turkish Cypriot strongholds should Turkish Cypriots resort to violence to resist the measures, stating "In the event of a planned or staged Turkish attack, it is imperative to overcome it by force in the shortest possible time, because if we succeed in gaining command of the situation (in one or two days), no outside, intervention would be either justified or possible." Whether Makarios's proposals were part of the Akritas plan is unclear, however it remains that sentiment towards enosis had not completely disappeared with independence. Makarios described independence as "a step on the road to enosis".[31] Preparations for conflict were not entirely absent from Turkish Cypriots either, with right wing elements still believing taksim (partition) the best safeguard against enosis.
Greek Cypriots however believe the amendments were a necessity stemming from a perceived attempt by Turkish Cypriots to frustrate the working of government. Turkish Cypriots saw it as a means to reduce their status within the state from one of co-founder to that of minority, seeing it as a first step towards enosis. The security situation deteriorated rapidly.
Main articles: Bloody Christmas (1963) and Battle of Tillyria
An armed conflict was triggered after December 21, 1963, a period remembered by Turkish Cypriots as Bloody Christmas, when a Greek Cypriot policemen that had been called to help deal with a taxi driver refusing officers already on the scene access to check the identification documents of his customers, took out his gun upon arrival and shot and killed the taxi driver and his partner. Eric Solsten summarised the events as follows: "a Greek Cypriot police patrol, ostensibly checking identification documents, stopped a Turkish Cypriot couple on the edge of the Turkish quarter. A hostile crowd gathered, shots were fired, and two Turkish Cypriots were killed."
In the morning after the shooting, crowds gathered in protest in Northern Nicosia, likely encouraged by the TMT, without incident. On the evening of the 22nd, gunfire broke out, communication lines to the Turkish neighbourhoods were cut, and the Greek Cypriot police occupied the nearby airport. On the 23rd, a ceasefire was negotiated, but did not hold. Fighting, including automatic weapons fire, between Greek and Turkish Cypriots and militias increased in Nicosia and Larnaca. A force of Greek Cypriot irregulars led by Nikos Sampson entered the Nicosia suburb of Omorphita and engaged in heavy firing on armed, as well as by some accounts unarmed, Turkish Cypriots. The Omorphita clash has been described by Turkish Cypriots as a massacre, while this view has generally not been acknowledged by Greek Cypriots.
Further ceasefires were arranged between the two sides, but also failed. By Christmas Eve, the 24th, Britain, Greece, and Turkey had joined talks, with all sides calling for a truce. On Christmas day, Turkish fighter jets overflew Nicosia in a show of support. Finally it was agreed to allow a force of 2,700 British soldiers to help enforce a ceasefire. In the next days, a "buffer zone" was created in Nicosia, and a British officer marked a line on a map with green ink, separating the two sides of the city, which was the beginning of the "Green Line". Fighting continued across the island for the next several weeks.
In total 364 Turkish Cypriots and 174 Greek Cypriots were killed during the violence. 25,000 Turkish Cypriots from 103-109 villages fled and were displaced into enclaves and thousands of Turkish Cypriot houses were ransacked or completely destroyed.
Contemporary newspapers also reported on the forceful exodus of the Turkish Cypriots from their homes. According to The Times in 1964, threats, shootings and attempts of arson were committed against the Turkish Cypriots to force them out of their homes. The Daily Express wrote that "25,000 Turks have already been forced to leave their homes". The Guardian reported a massacre of Turks at Limassol on 16 February 1964.
Turkey had by now readied its fleet and its fighter jets appeared over Nicosia. Turkey was dissuaded from direct involvement by the creation of a United Nations Peacekeeping Force in Cyprus (UNFICYP) in 1964. Despite the negotiated ceasefire in Nicosia, attacks on the Turkish Cypriot persisted, particularly in Limassol. Concerned about the possibility of a Turkish invasion, Makarios undertook the creation of a Greek Cypriot conscript-based army called the "National Guard". A general from Greece took charge of the army, whilst a further 20,000 well-equipped officers and men were smuggled from Greece into Cyprus. Turkey threatened to intervene once more, but was prevented by a strongly worded letter from the American President Lyndon B. Johnson, anxious to avoid a conflict between NATO allies Greece and Turkey at the height of the Cold War.
Turkish Cypriots had by now established an important bridgehead at Kokkina, provided with arms, volunteers and materials from Turkey and abroad. Seeing this incursion of foreign weapons and troops as a major threat, the Cypriot government invited George Grivas to return from Greece as commander of the Greek troops on the island and launch a major attack on the bridgehead. Turkey retaliated by dispatching its fighter jets to bomb Greek positions, causing Makarios to threaten an attack on every Turkish Cypriot village on the island if the bombings did not cease. The conflict had now drawn in Greece and Turkey, with both countries amassing troops on their Thracian borders. Efforts at mediation by Dean Acheson, a former U.S. Secretary of State, and UN-appointed mediator Galo Plaza had failed, all the while the division of the two communities becoming more apparent. Greek Cypriot forces were estimated at some 30,000, including the National Guard and the large contingent from Greece. Defending the Turkish Cypriot enclaves was a force of approximately 5,000 irregulars, led by a Turkish colonel, but lacking the equipment and organisation of the Greek forces.
The Secretary-General of the United Nations in 1964, U Thant, reported the damage during the conflicts:
UNFICYP carried out a detailed survey of all damage to properties throughout the island during the disturbances; it shows that in 109 villages, most of them Turkish-Cypriot or mixed villages, 527 houses have been destroyed while 2,000 others have suffered damage from looting.
The situation worsened in 1967, when a military junta overthrew the democratically elected government of Greece, and began applying pressure on Makarios to achieve enosis. Makarios, not wishing to become part of a military dictatorship or trigger a Turkish invasion, began to distance himself from the goal of enosis. This caused tensions with the junta in Greece as well as George Grivas in Cyprus. Grivas's control over the National Guard and Greek contingent was seen as a threat to Makarios's position, who now feared a possible coup.[citation needed] The National Guard and Cyprus Police began patrolling the Turkish Cypriot enclaves of Ayios Theodoros and Kophinou, and on November 15 engaged in heavy fighting with the Turkish Cypriots.
By the time of his withdrawal 26 Turkish Cypriots had been killed. Turkey replied with an ultimatum demanding that Grivas be removed from the island, that the troops smuggled from Greece in excess of the limits of the Treaty of Alliance be removed, and that the economic blockades on the Turkish Cypriot enclaves be lifted. Grivas was recalled by the Athens Junta and the 12,000 Greek troops were withdrawn. Makarios now attempted to consolidate his position by reducing the number of National Guard troops, and by creating a paramilitary force loyal to Cypriot independence. In 1968, acknowledging that enosis was now all but impossible, Makarios stated, "A solution by necessity must be sought within the limits of what is feasible which does not always coincide with the limits of what is desirable."
After 1967 tensions between the Greek and Turkish Cypriots subsided. Instead, the main source of tension on the island came from factions within the Greek Cypriot community. Although Makarios had effectively abandoned enosis in favour of an 'attainable solution', many others continued to believe that the only legitimate political aspiration for Greek Cypriots was union with Greece.
On his arrival, Grivas began by establishing a nationalist paramilitary group known as the National Organization of Cypriot Fighters (Ethniki Organosis Kyprion Agoniston B or EOKA-B), drawing comparisons with the EOKA struggle for enosis under the British colonial administration of the 1950s.
The military junta in Athens saw Makarios as an obstacle. Makarios's failure to disband the National Guard, whose officer class was dominated by mainland Greeks, had meant the junta had practical control over the Cypriot military establishment, leaving Makarios isolated and a vulnerable target.
During the first Turkish invasion, Turkish troops invaded Cyprus territory on 20 July 1974, invoking its rights under the Treaty of Guarantee. This expansion of Turkish-occupied zone violated International Law as well as the Charter of the United Nations. Turkish troops managed to capture 3% of the island which was accompanied by the burning of the Turkish Cypriot quarter, as well as the raping and killing of women and children. A temporary cease-fire followed which was mitigated by the UN Security Council. Subsequently, the Greek military Junta collapsed on July 23, 1974, and peace talks commenced in which a democratic government was installed. The Resolution 353 was broken after Turkey attacked a second time and managed to get a hold of 37% of Cyprus territory. The Island of Cyprus was appointed a Buffer Zone by the United Nations, which divided the island into two zones through the 'Green Line' and put an end to the Turkish invasion. Although Turkey announced that the occupied areas of Cyprus to be called the Federated Turkish State in 1975, it is not legitimised on a worldwide political scale. The United Nations called for the international recognition of independence for the Republic of Cyprus in the Security Council Resolution 367.
In the years after the Turkish invasion of northern Cyprus one can observe a history of failed talks between the two parties. The 1983 declaration of the independent Turkish Republic of Cyprus resulted in a rise of inter-communal tensions and made it increasingly hard to find mutual understanding. With Cyprus' interest of a possible EU membership and a new UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan in 1997 new hopes arose for a fresh start. International involvement from sides of the US and UK, wanting a solution to the Cyprus dispute prior to the EU accession led to political pressures for new talks. The believe that an accession without a solution would threaten Greek-Turkish relations and acknowledge the partition of the island would direct the coming negotiations.
Over the course of two years a concrete plan, the Annan plan was formulated. In 2004 the fifth version agreed upon from both sides and with the endorsement of Turkey, US, UK and EU then was presented to the public and was given a referendum in both Cypriot communities to assure the legitimisation of the resolution. The Turkish Cypriots voted with 65% for the plan, however the Greek Cypriots voted with a 76% majority against. The Annan plan contained multiple important topics. Firstly it established a confederation of two separate states called the United Cyprus Republic. Both communities would have autonomous states combined under one unified government. The members of parliament would be chosen according to the percentage in population numbers to ensure a just involvement from both communities. The paper proposed a demilitarisation of the island over the next years. Furthermore it agreed upon a number of 45000 Turkish settlers that could remain on the island. These settlers became a very important issue concerning peace talks. Originally the Turkish government encouraged Turks to settle in Cyprus providing transfer and property, to establish a counterpart to the Greek Cypriot population due to their 1 to 5 minority. With the economic situation many Turkish-Cypriot decided to leave the island, however their departure is made up by incoming Turkish settlers leaving the population ratio between Turkish Cypriots and Greek Cypriots stable. However all these points where criticised and as seen in the vote rejected mainly by the Greek Cypriots. These name the dissolution of the „Republic of Cyprus", economic consequences of a reunion and the remaining Turkish settlers as reason. Many claim that the plan was indeed drawing more from Turkish-Cypriot demands then Greek-Cypriot interests. Taking in consideration that the US wanted to keep Turkey as a strategic partner in future Middle Eastern conflicts.
A week after the failed referendum the Republic of Cyprus joined the EU. In multiple instances the EU tried to promote trade with Northern Cyprus but without internationally recognised ports this spiked a grand debate. Both side endure their intention of negotiations, however without the prospect of any new compromises or agreements the UN is unwilling to start the process again. Since 2004 negotiations took place in numbers but without any results, both sides are strongly holding on to their position without an agreeable solution in sight that would suit both parties.
Nicole Eisenman’s new sculpture, ‘Love or Generosity’, has jbeen installed outside the New Amsterdam Courthouse. Gender-fluid, and featureless save for a bulbous nose, with mussed hair and chubby hands,this one is a real giant, , about 5 metres high, and it seems taller because of the implied height of its bent posture; at full height it would be twice that size. The formal choice of the bent posture is ingenious, and allows the figure to serve as an intermediary between the large scale of the 10-storey courthouse and the much smaller, human scale. The height of the building is gestured to in the giant’s latent height, while its attention, and therefore ours, is directed to its palm, which, full of intriguing objects, is at our eye level. (humourinthearts.com/2021/05/07/nicole-eisenmans-love-or-g...)
Tlaloc = name of the nahuatl Rain-God!
our park and playground under water ~ the generous 2008 rainy-season in Mexico!
Lago de Chapala, Jalisco, Mexico
Tláloc (a veces llamado Nuhualpilli) es nombre náhuatl del Dios de la lluvia y de la fertilidad en la religión teotihuacana y náhuatl.
Inspired by the generous and lovely Dirty Adored of BottleBird, this wonderful flower halter top from G.Field and the colour purple
Hair: [e] Elikatira
Skin: Curio- Pout
Eyes: Fashism
Tattoo: Para Designs
The Lotus Flower Philosophy
A lotus
The sacred gem of compassion
Floats serenely
On a shimmering lake
The soft petals
Awaken
Bathing in the light
Of a gleaming gold sunset
Caressed by the breeze
As it chants
With such eloquence
Yet so silent
Charming the depths of our souls
With its purity
Intoxicating our spirits
With its charm
Mesmerising our thoughts
With its tranquility
So alluring
Yet so untouchable
One of nature’s delicacies
Like the birth of a child
Like a mother’s love
Like friendship
A beauty
That cannot be described
But felt
In the depth of our souls
Where our hearts lay exposed
Craving the companionship
Of love
And compassion
This graceful lotus flower
Whose seed being the stagnant water
Sprouted radiantly through
The muddiest floors
With a pristine bloom
Teaching us
To never adhere ourselves
To the dirt in life
But to grow and progress
To the most important destination
And shine through
To the peaceful paradise
Just like a lotus
For it travels through
“The primeval mud of materialism
Through the waters of experience
And into the bright sunshine of enlightenment”
Revitalised
Despite the obstacles in its path
For life is a journey
Where every moment
Is a step closer to your purpose
And every experience
Is a source of wisdom
So live and let live.
The Lotus Flower Philosophy by ~tas-poetryy
A beautiful poem found by chance at my first search- it seemed to find me and asked to be included
*
I have found that among its other benefits, giving liberates the soul of the giver.
"Maya Angelou"
*
Let us not be satisfied with just giving money. Money is not enough, money can be got, but they need your hearts to love them. So, spread your love everywhere you go.
"Mother Teresa"
*
Generosity is giving more than you can, and pride is taking less than you need.
"Khalil Gibran"
*
P.S. This is from a collaborative photo-shooting session with a very dear friend of mine a week ago ... we had such a great fun ..
Love ya Nanooo <3
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 have travelled east across London, through Bloomsbury, past the Smithfield Meat Markets, beyond the Petticoat Lane Markets* frequented by Lettice’s maid, Edith, through the East End boroughs of Bethnal Green and Bow, and through the 1880s housing development of Upton Park, to East Ham. It is here that we have followed Edith and her beau, grocery delivery boy Frank Leadbetter, to the Premier Super Cinema**, where the pair are treating themselves to one of their favourite Sunday pleasures: a feature film with a newsreel and cartoon before the main event.
Even though spring is finally in the air, it is cold out on the streets of London today, with a biting cold wind, so the warmth of the cinema’s foyer is a welcome respite from the weather outside after the journey up the High Street from the East Ham railway station. The foyer is brightly lit and cheerful. The cinema, renovated in 1922, isn’t called a picture palace for nothing, and no expense was spared with thick red wall-to-wall carpets covering the floors and brightly coloured up-to-date Art Deco wallpaper covering the walls, upon which the latest films are advertised in glamourous and colourful posters. Throughout the space, button backed*** armchairs and settees are arranged in intimate clutches around small tables, allowing patrons like Edith and Frank to await the commencement of their session in comfort. It is at one of these clusters that Edith sits patiently in her black three-quarter length coat and black dyed straw cloche decorated with lilac satin roses and black feathers, with her green leather handbag at her feet as she awaits her beau.
“Here we are then,” Frank says cheerfully. “Tea for my best girl.” He places two utilitarian white cups in saucers from the nearby cinema kiosk on the table that he and Edith are occupying in front of a vase of fresh, fragrant flowers. He takes his seat opposite her, enjoying the luxury of his plush seat as he does. “And,” He fishes into his coat pocket withdrawing a purple box and presents it to his sweetheart with a flourish. “A box of Gainsborough Dubarry Milk Chocolates****!”
“Oh Frank!” Edith exclaims in delight, her cheeks flushing red as she speaks. “You are good to me.”
“Nothing too good for my best girl!” Frank assures her.
Edith smiles 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 with reverence.
“You’re being very solicitous today, Frank.” Edith remarks as she picks up her teacup, staring at Frank as she takes a sip of hot, milky tea from her cup.
“Am I?” Frank replies in a question, his voice full of nonchalance as he picks up his own cup.
“You are, Frank.” Edith opines. “You know you are.”
“How so, Edith?”
“Well for a start, you agreed to come and see ‘Peter Pan’*****.” Edith replies, placing her cup back into her saucer.
“I like ‘Peter Pan’, Edith!” Frank retorts. “I have read the book, I’ll have you know.”
“Yes, but when you may have one of your last chances to see the ‘Thief of Bagdad’****** with swashbuckling Douglas Fairbanks, and you demur to my choice...” Edith does not complete her sentence, but stares across at her sweetheart.
“Oh fie the ‘Thief of Bagdad’!” Frank scoffs. “It will still be running here for a week or two yet. We can see it next Sunday.” He waves Edith’s repark away with a dismissive hand. “Anyway, I chose the last film we saw, ‘Chu-Chin-Chow’*******, and that had enough swashbuckling with villain Abou Hassan being stabbed by Zharat and his forty thieves done away with.”
Edith looks sceptically at Frank. “And this box of chocolates on top of our slap-up tea at Lyon’s Corner House******** in Tottenham Court Road?”
“What?” Frank retorts with incredulity. “Can’t a chap spoil his girl once in a while?”
“Oh, please don’t misunderstand me, Frank!” Edith quickly pipes up with a smile. “I’m not complaining!”
“I should hope you wouldn’t be.”
“But I can’t help being a little bit suspicious.” Edith arches her eyebrow over her right eye and purses her pretty pale lips.
“Well I like that!” Frank answers back, folding his arms akimbo across his chest in defence.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I went to see a clairvoyant the week before last, would it, Frank?” Edith fishes. “And that I didn’t see you last Sunday, because you had to take care of your granny?”
“Clairvoyant? What clairvoyant, Edith?” Frank asks, pleading innocence.
“Oh come on Frank!” Edith laughs. “You know Mrs. Boothby loves a gossip!” she goes on, mentioning Lettice’s charwoman********* who comes to help Edith with all the hard graft around Cavendish Mews a few days a week. “You can’t imagine us not talking, Frank.”
Ignoring her gentle chuckle, Frank continues to decry his irreproachability. “I don’t know what you and Mrs. Boothby talked about.”
“She told me that she saw you Tuesday week ago, the same day I went to see Madame Fortuna the clairvoyant in Swiss Cottage**********, and she told you that I was going to see her. There’s no use trying to say she didn’t, because I know that for all her tall tales and gilding of the lily***********, Mrs. Boothby wouldn’t do that with a story about you.”
Frank unfolds his arms and picks up his teacup, taking a sip of tea. “Alright, so I did meet her that day, Edith, and yes, she told me that you were going to see a clairvoyant, although her description of her was perhaps a little bit less kind than that.”
“Oh yes.” Edith chuckles. “She told me that it was a lot of mumbo-jumbo too, Frank.”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d disagree with her, Edith.” Frank says in concern, cocking an eyebrow. “You know I am a believer in facts, not fiction.”
“Well, I happen to be a believer in Madame Fortuna, and what she had to say.” Edith replies defiantly. “Which I don’t believe to be fiction.”
“And what else did Mrs. Boothby disclose about our meeting in Binney Street, Edith?” Frank asks.
“Oh, not so very much, Frank.” Edith replies with a smirk. “Just that you were out delivering groceries when she saw you.”
“And?” Frank queries.
Edith sighs. “And that she told you how distracted I’ve been about not having a commitment from you about getting married.”
“Which is utter pish-posh************, Edith, and well you know it.” Frank says seriously. “You know I’m committed to marrying you. You’re the only girl for me.”
“I know that, Frank. But Mrs. Boothby also said that you should be a bit more demonstrative with your dedication.”
“I doubt Mrs. Boothby would have used either the word ‘demonstrative’ or ‘dedication’.” Frank laughs.
“Maybe not, Frank.” Edith concurs, chuckling as well. “But she made the point clear, as I’m sure she did with you, Frank.”
“Indeed, she did.”
“So, this is you being more demonstrative of your dedication to me.” Edith says with a smile, toying with the box of chocolates, turning the pretty packaging over in her careworn hands.
Frank thinks for a moment ruminating over in his mind as to whether to tell his sweetheart about Mrs. Boothby’s suggestion that he get on with asking Edith’s parents for their daughter’s hand in marriage, which he did do last Sunday on his afternoon off: a visit which resulted in both George and Ada Watsford readily agreeing to the match. Then he thinks otherwise. Frank may not yet be able to afford a gold wedding band like those which he and Edith saw in the window of Schwar and Company************* along Walworth Road in the South London suburb of Elephant and Castle************** a bit over a month ago, but he has almost finished paying off a silver ring intended for Edith at a smart jewellers shop along Lavender Hill***************, not far from his boarding house in Clapham Junction. Although simple, Frank is having his and Edith’s names engraved on the inside of the band, along with the year 1925. He still wants to surprise Edith with his proposal and the ring, so he decides not to say anything about visiting her parents, knowing that after his conversation with them, that they will not steal Frank’s thunder and give the game away, although it will be far harder for Ada, who is very close to her daughter.
Frank raises his hands. “Guilty as charged, Edith.”
“Oh Frank!” Edith exclaims, a smile of delight breaking out across her lips. “You really are sweet!”
Edith reaches out her hand to him across the polished wooden surface of the pedestal table. Frank stretches out his own hand and allows her to enmesh her fingers with his and squeeze them. The action is only small, but so intimate and full of emotion that Frank takes great comfort from it. Even though Edith does not know his grand plans yet, he knows that everything is alright between the two of them now, and any doubts Edith may have had about his commitment to her have been dispelled by his actions, Mrs. Boothby’s consoling words with Edith at cavendish Mews, whatever prediction Madame Fortuna the clairvoyant made, or most likely a mixture of all of these things. Frank smiles reassuringly across at his sweetheart, who returns his smile wholeheartedly.
“I keep telling you, Edith.” Frank murmurs as his cheeks colour. “You’re not only my best girl, you’re my only girl.” He returns her gentle squeeze with one of his own.
“Well, just you keep telling me that, Frank.” Edith replies softly, looking across at Frank with loving eyes a-glitter with emotion. “I may know it, but I’ll never tire of hearing it.”
“With pleasure, Edith, my best and only girl.” Frank answers.
Just then, the double doors near to them open and with the voluble burble of cheerful chatter, people begin to file out the door in pairs or small groups. Edith and Frank watch the passing parade of mostly women and a smattering of men in their Sunday best as they exit the cinema auditorium, all murmuring about the film they have just seen. As the crowd thins to a trickle with the stragglers leaving the theatre and the vociferous burble of voices dissipates, Frank turns to Edith.
“By the by, what did the clairvoyant, madame whatshername tell you, anyway?”
“Never you mind, Frank Leadbetter!” Edith replies with an air of mystery as she stands up, snatching up the box of chocolates as she does. “She told me the truth. That’s all you have to worry about.”
Frank gets up and follows Edith as they join the crowd of chattering cinema goers as they go into the brightly lit auditorium, and make their way to their plush red velvet seats.
Inside the theatre a fug of cigarette smoke fills the auditorium, a mixture of that created by the previous audience and a few new patrons who just start to light up before the house lights go down. The space is filled with the faint traces of various perfumes, which mix with the stronger traces of cigarettes, fried food, and body odour. Around them quiet chatter and the occasional burst of a cough or a laugh resound. It feels cosy and safe. At the front of the theatre, in a pit below the screen, a middle aged woman whom they have come to recognise by sight from their many trips to the Premier Super Cinema, appears dressed in an old fashioned Edwardian gown with an equally outmoded upswept hairdo that went out of fashion before the war. She starts to play the upright piano with enthusiasm, dramatically banging out palm court music for the audience before the beginning of the newsreel.
Settling in their plush red velvet seats in the middle of the auditorium, Frank winds his arm around Edith’s shoulder. “I love you, my best girl.”
Behind them the projector whirrs to life as the lights dim. Suddenly the screen is illuminated in blinding, brilliant white as the pianist in the pit below the screen starts to play the playful opening bars to the music to accompany Peter Pan.
“I love you too, Frank Leadbetter.” Edith replies as she opens her box of Gainsborough Dubarry Milk Chocolates and proffers the open end to Frank so that he may help himself to one of the delicious, foil wrapped chocolates inside.
*Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.
**The Premier Super Cinema in East Ham was opened on the 12th of March, 1921, replacing the 800 seat capacity 1912 Premier Electric Theatre. The new cinema could seat 2,408 patrons. The Premier Super Cinema was taken over by Provincial Cinematograph Theatres who were taken over by Gaumont British in February 1929. It was renamed the Gaumont from 21st April 1952. The Gaumont was closed by the Rank Organisation on 6th April 1963. After that it became a bingo hall and remained so until 2005. Despite attempts to have it listed as a historic building due to its relatively intact 1921 interior, the Gaumont was demolished in 2009.
***Button back upholstered furniture contains buttons embedded in the back of the sofa or chair, which are pulled tightly against the leather creating a shallow dimple effect. This is sometimes known as button tufting.
****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.
*****Peter Pan is a 1924 American silent fantasy adventure film released by Paramount Pictures, the first film adaptation of the 1904 play by J. M. Barrie. It was directed by Herbert Brenon and starred Betty Bronson as Peter Pan, Ernest Torrence as Captain Hook, Mary Brian as Wendy, Virginia Browne Faire as Tinker Bell, Esther Ralston as Mrs. Darling, and Anna May Wong as the Indian princess Tiger Lily. The film was seen by Walt Disney and inspired him to create his company's 1953 animated adaptation. The film was celebrated at the time for its innovative use of special effects (mainly to show Tinker Bell) according to Disney's 45th anniversary video of their adaptation of Peter Pan. In 2000, this film was deemed "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant" by the United States Library of Congress and selected for preservation in the National Film Registry.
******The Thief of Bagdad is a 1924 American silent adventure film directed by Raoul Walsh and starring Douglas Fairbanks, and written by Achmed Abdullah and Lotta Woods. Freely adapted from One Thousand and One Nights, it tells the story of a thief who falls in love with the daughter of the Caliph of Baghdad. In 1996, the film was selected for preservation in the United States National Film Registry by the Library of Congress as being "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant"
*******Chu-Chin-Chow is a 1923 British-German silent adventure film directed by Herbert Wilcox and starring Betty Blythe, Herbert Langley, and Randle Ayrton. Abou Hassan and his forty thieves descend on a small Arabian town on the wedding day of Omar and the beautiful Zharat and kidnap them. Abou sells Zahrat to Kasim Baba, the miser and money lender of Bagdad, while posing as Prince Constantine. Later, Abou poses as the wealthy Chinese prince Chu-Chin-Chow, and bids on Zahrat when she is placed at auction. She pierces his disguise and exposes him. He robs the other bidders of their wealth and escapes with Zahrat. Promising that she will live among untold wealth, he sets her free. After she finds Omar, Abou takes them to his treasure cave, making good on his promise. Ali Baba, brother of Kasim, accidentally discovers the cave and helps himself to the treasure. He then goes for aid to free Zahrat. Kasim, led by his greed, also comes to the cave but is captured and killed by Abou. Zahrat, now free, returns to Bagdad. Ali Baba gives a great feast. Abou appears as a merchant with forty jugs of oil, in which are hidden his forty thieves. Zahrat discovers the deception and, assisted by a powerful slave, they get rid of the hidden thieves. Left alone, Abou is denounced and the multitude turn on him. Cornered, he is stabbed by Zahrat who then returns to her village and finds happiness with Omar.
********J. Lyons and Co. was a British restaurant chain, food manufacturing, and hotel conglomerate founded in 1884 by Joseph Lyons and his brothers in law, Isidore and Montague Gluckstein. Lyons’ first teashop opened in Piccadilly in 1894, and from 1909 they developed into a chain of teashops, with the firm becoming a staple of the High Street in the United Kingdom. At its peak the chain numbered around two hundred cafes. The teashops provided for tea and coffee, with food choices consisting of hot dishes and sweets, cold dishes and sweets, and buns, cakes and rolls. Lyons' Corner Houses, which first appeared in 1909 and remained until 1977, were noted for their Art Deco style. Situated on or near the corners of Coventry Street, Strand and Tottenham Court Road, they and the Maison Lyonses at Marble Arch and in Shaftesbury Avenue were large buildings on four or five floors, the ground floor of which was a food hall with counters for delicatessen, sweets and chocolates, cakes, fruit, flowers and other products. In addition, they possessed hairdressing salons, telephone booths, theatre booking agencies and at one period a twice-a-day food delivery service. On the other floors were several restaurants, each with a different theme and all with their own musicians. For a time, the Corner Houses were open twenty-four hours a day, and at their peak each branch employed around four hundred staff including their famous waitresses, commonly known as Nippies for the way they nipped in and out between the tables taking orders and serving meals. The tea houses featured window displays, and, in the post-war period, the Corner Houses were smarter and grander than the local tea shops. Between 1896 and 1965 Lyons owned the Trocadero, which was similar in size and style to the Corner Houses.
*********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.
**********Swiss Cottage is an area in the London Borough of Camden. It is centred on the junction of Avenue Road and Finchley Road and includes Swiss Cottage tube station. Swiss Cottage lies north-northwest of Charing Cross. The area was named after a public house in the centre of it, known as "Ye Olde Swiss Cottage".
***********The term “gilding the lily” came about as a mistaken version of a line from King John, which was “to gild refined gold, to paint the lily.”, and means to adorn unnecessarily something that is already beautiful or perfect.
************Pish-posh is a phrase used in British slang to express disagreement or to say that something is nonsense. The exact origin of this phrase is not precisely documented, but it is considered a colloquial and informal expression that has been in use for many years. It is often used to express scepticism or disagreement in a light hearted manner.
*************Established in 1838 by Andreas Schwar who was a clock and watch maker from Baden in Germany, Schwar and Company on Walworth Road in Elephant and Castle was a watchmaker and jewellers that is still a stalwart of the area today. The shop still retains its original Victorian shopfront with its rounded plate glass windows.
**************The London suburb of Elephant and Castle, south of the Thames, past Lambeth was known as "the Piccadilly Circus of South London" because it was such a busy shopping precinct. When you went shopping there, it was commonly referred to by Londoners, but South Londoners in particular, as “going up the Elephant”.
***************Lavender Hill is a bustling high street serving residents of Clapham Junction, Battersea and beyond. Until the mid Nineteenth Century, Battersea was predominantly a rural area with lavender and asparagus crops cultivated in local market gardens. Hence, it’s widely thought that Lavender Hill was named after Lavender Hall, built in the late Eighteenth Century, where lavender grew on the north side of the hill.
This beautiful Art Deco cinema interior is not all it appears to be, for it is made up entirely with pieces from my miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Edith’s green leather handbag I acquired as part of a larger collection of 1:12 artisan 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.
The pedestal table , vase of flowers, white teacups and saucers and two flounced red velvet chairs all come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House in the United Kingdom, whilst the dainty box of Gainsborough Dubarry Milk Chocolates, which has been beautifully printed, on the table’s surface, comes from Shepherd’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
The chrome Art Deco smoker’s stand in the foreground is a Shackman miniature from the 1970s and is quite rare. I bought it from a dealer in America via E-Bay. The black ashtray inside it is an artisan piece, the bowl of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there). The match box in the stand was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.
The Art Deco pedestal stand in the foreground has been made by the high end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, whilst the vase of flowers on it comes from Falcon Miniatures in the United States, who are well known for their realistic and high quality miniatures.
The posters around the cinema walls were all sourced by me and reproduced in high quality colour and print.
The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, who did so in the hope that I would find a use for it in the “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
The thick and bright red carpet is in fact a placemat which I appropriated in the late 1970s to use as a carpet for my growing miniatures collection. Luckily, I was never asked to return it, and the rest of the set is long gone!
The expression "pay it forward" is used to describe the concept of asking that a good turn be repaid by having it done to others instead. The word Forward meaning instead of paying back the favour to the person who helped you (who has been helped before by others)they will find three other people to return the favour. They do not have to do it, but they will definitely want to do it, because they have been helped unselfishly and it truly is a pleasure to help without asking for any reward in return. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pay_it_forward
For the Macro Monday group "Generosity" theme www.flickr.com/groups/macromonday/
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Note: Original image of these bracelets in black and white was on the web page of the Pay It Forward site: www.payitforwardtoday.org/ I Photoshoped the colors in for this image.
Check out an interactive web site of people that post their own stories of "paying it forward"" iPayitFwd" www.ipayitfwd.com/
Letter generously translated by Immanuel Voigt; penned im Waldlager on 31.10.1915 sends his regards and hopes for some leave at Christmas time. Photogr. Hugo Schwerg, Pirna.
"Forest camp, Oct. 31, 1915
Dear Helene!
Sending you regards from here. I'm fine and I thought of our funfair today. Hoping for a healthy reunion at Christmas. Greetings from the far distance, Martin. Greetings to parents and your "Spatz" [literally translated would be "sparrow", but possibly means the boyfriend of his sister or her child?]
after my new year trip into the mountains I needed some new gaiters. I asked on another forum if anyone had any recommendations, and a member there offered to send me a set of canvas gaiters in more or less pristine condition, completely free. Here they are. These are not cheap.
I think such generosity deserves acknowledging.
...it is early morning in the middle-city urban tier at the level where people are not rich and still not poor...
a needle perforated old junkie walks around asking working class people if they could spare him some fractions of a credit, he is unlucky today, so he decides to sit down and shot up the last stash he has in to his torn veins...
the Drunk Reflagan from the aquatic kingdom is more lucky, he just got enough to get his first alcohol and is starting to get rather loud so a platform host cleaning the floor rushes over to tell him off...
most people don´t notice any of this, because their mind are dull and grey from overworking almost all day and then at night hooking up to the forbidden computer-net every night just to watch pirate movies about people living better lives or streaming new from their home world...
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 not long returned from 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 visited her family home for Christmas and the New Year until not long after Twelfth Night*. For nearly a year Lettice had been patiently awaiting the return of her then beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban by his mother, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wanted to end so that she could marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Having been made aware by Lady Zinnia in October that during the course of the year, whilst Lettice had been biding her time, waiting for Selwyn’s eventual return, he had become engaged to the daughter of a Kenyan diamond mine owner whilst in Durban. Fleeing Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion, Lettice returned to Cavendish Mews and milled over her options over a week as she reeled from the news. Then, after that week, she knew exactly what to do to resolve the unpleasant issues raised by Lady Zinnia’s unwelcome news about her son. Taking extra care in her dress, she took herself off to the neighbouring upper-class London suburb of Belgravia and paid a call upon Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.
Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show in Soho, where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening. Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Turning up unannounced on his doorstep, she agreed to his proposal after explaining that the understanding between she and Selwyn was concluded. However, in an effort to be discreet, at Lettice’s insistence, they did not make their engagement public until the new year: after the dust about Selwyn’s break of his and Lettice’s engagement settled. Sir John motored across from Fontengil Park in the days following New Year and he and Lettice announced their engagement in the palatial Glynes drawing room before the Viscount and Lady Sadie the Countess, Leslie, Arabella and the Viscount’s sister Eglantyne (known by all the Chetwynd children affectionally as Aunt Egg). The announcement was received somewhat awkwardly by the Viscount initially, until Lettice assured him that her choice to marry Sir John has nothing to do with undue influence or mistaken motivations. However, the person most put out by the news is Aunt Egg who is not a great believer in the institution of marriage, and feels Lettice was perfectly fine as a modern unmarried woman.
Today Lettice is entertaining her Aunt Egg in her elegantly appointed Cavendish Mews drawing room in an effort to curry favour with her and change her mind about the engagement of Lettice and Sir John.
“Oh Aunt Egg!” Lettice exclaims in exasperation, sinking in the rounded back of her white upholstered tub chair. “After the somewhat mediocre response to my engagement to John, I need someone in my corner.”
“And why would that be me, my dear Lettice?” Eglantyne asks.
“Well, I… I just thought.” Lettice stammers.
“You thought what, Lettice?”
“Well, usually you are at odds with Mater. If Mater says it is white, you say it is black. I thought, well I thought that since Mamma seems to be as lukewarm to the idea of me becoming the next Lady Nettleford-Hughes..”
“That I would immediately be for it, my dear?” Eglantyne finishes Lettice’s statement for her as she picks up her teacup and sips some more tea from it beneath lowered lids, avoiding Lettice’s imploring gaze, before returning it to its saucer.
“Well… well yes.” Lettice admits guiltily.
Lettice’s Aunt Egg, as well as being unmarried, is an artist and ceramicist of some acclaim. Originally a member of the Pre-Raphaelites** in England, these days she flits through artistic and bohemian circles and when not at her Little Venice*** home in her spacious and light filled studio at the rear of her garden, can be found mixing with mostly younger artistic friends in Chelsea. Her unmarried status, outlandish choice of friends and rather reformist and unusual dress sense shocks Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, and attracts her derision. In addition, she draws Sadie’s ire, as Aunt Egg has always received far more affection and preferential treatment from her children. Viscount Wrexham on the other hand adores his artistic little sister, and has always made sure that she can live the lifestyle she chooses and create art. Today Eglantyne has eschewed her usual choice of an elegant and column like Delphos gown**** and has opted instead for a rather loose and slightly mannish two piece suit of dark navy wool crêpe. However, as a lover of colour and bohemian style, she has accessorised it with a hand painted Florentine silk scarf splashed with purples and magentas, and as usual, she has strings of colourful glass bugle bead sautoirs***** cascading down her front. When she was young, Eglantyne had Titian red hair that fell in wavy tresses about her pale face, making her a popular muse amongst the Pre-Raphaelites she mixed with. With the passing years, her red hair, when not hennaed, has retreated almost entirely behind silver grey, save for the occasional streak of washed out reddish orange. Today she has hidden it beneath a very impressive turban, which in spite of being dyed navy to match her suit, is at odds with it, especially with a rather exotic aigrette****** of magenta dyed feathers affixed with a diamante brooch sticking out of it.
“Yes, I was more than a little surprised at Sadie’s lack of enthusiasm for your marriage to John when you announced your engagement, especially when you consider how much she tried to foist you under his nose.” She snorts derisively. “As if he didn’t know of your existence as a young jeune fille à marier*******.” Eglantyne goes on. “However, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Lettice my dear, but today I am not the Thoroughbred to back. For once,” She sighs resignedly. “I am in complete agreement with your mamma.”
“What?” Lettice asks, looking across the low black japanned coffee table at her aunt. “Won’t you wish your favourite niece well in her marriage Aunt Egg?”
“Who says you are my favourite niece?” Eglantyne asks finally engaging Lettice’s gaze with her own emerald green eyes and cocking an eyebrow as she does.
“You do!” Lettice retorts in surprise. Then she adds with a little hurt in her voice, “Or rather, you used to.”
“But as you have opined, my dear, on many occasions - you are quite sure I call your sister Lally and all your female cousins, ‘my favourite niece’. You’ll never know, will you my dear,” the older woman continues with a cheeky smile. “I like to keep you all guessing who will inherit my jewels when I die.”
“Oh Aunt Egg!” Lettice scoffs. “You mustn’t talk like that.”
“We all of us are going to die one day, Lettice. Anyway,” Eglantyne smiles and reaches out to her niece, wrapping her knee in one of her gnarled and bejewelled hands in a comforting and intimate gesture. “To allay your fears, you are probably the most like me out of all of you girls, with your artistic tendencies, so why shouldn’t you be my favourite? I’ve always enjoyed indulging you.” She withdraws her loving touch and sinks back into her seat. “Mind you, you might be more of a favourite to me if you let me smoke in here.” She taps her gold cigarette case containing her favourite Black Russian Sobranies******** sitting on the green and gold embroidered stool next to her.
“In case you’ve forgotten, Aunt Egg, my drawing room is also my showroom for my interior design business. It’s bad enough that Mrs. Boothby smokes in the kitchen when she comes.”
“So, this Mrs. Boothby of yours can smoke, but I can’t?” Eglantyne asks with effrontery.
“Mrs. Boothby is my char*********, Aunt Egg. You are my aunt. Good chars like Mrs. Boothby are hard to find, what with the servant problem**********.”
“And aunts are easily replaceable?” Eglantyne laughs.
“No, but you know what I mean, Aunt Egg!” Lettice laughs. “I’d hate for my drawing room to wreak of cigarette smoke.”
“You may not like to hear this my dear, but whilst you might be my favourite because you are most like me in temperament and artistic abilities,” Eglantyne smiles and picks up her teacup again. “In some ways, you are just like your mother.”
“Well, if I am your favourite niece, why won’t you give my engagement your blessing, Aunt Egg?” Lettice asks imploringly again.
“You know me well enough, my dear Lettice, to know that I have no faith in the institution of marriage.” Eglantyne replies matter-of-factly. “Why on earth should I wish to celebrate with congratulations and champagne, or tea for that matter.” She foists her cup upwards as she speaks. “The contract that sells my independent and intelligent niece with a head for business that many men could well do with, like a chattel to her husband?” She shakes her head. “We shan’t fall out over this, and please know that I love you dearly, but for once, I don’t understand you Lettice. You have a perfectly good and full life.” She gesticulates broadly around her with dramatic and sweeping gestures. “Why would you want to spoil it with an engagement?”
“Well I…” Lettice begins, but is interrupted by Edith, her maid as she enters the drawing room, ringing her hands anxiously. Lettice looks across at her. “Yes, what is it, Edith? I don’t think the pot needs replenishing yet, thank you.”
“Beg pardon, Miss, but I haven’t come to replenish the pot.” Edith explains. “There’s a man at the tradesman’s entrance with a parcel which he says is for you.”
“A parcel, Edith?”
“Yes Miss. A very large parcel too, all wrapped up in brown paper.”
Lettice looks first at her aunt who returns it with a quizzical gaze, and then glances down at the floral patterns in the Chinese silk carpet at her feet, her face crumpling as she does so. “I’m not expecting any parcels.”
“That’s what I thought, Miss.” Edith agrees with a curt nod. “I don’t know if I ought to let him in.”
“Well, why ever not, Edith?”
“Well, he looks a little rough, if you don’t mind me saying, Miss. He’s a delivery man you see, Miss.”
“Delivery men often look rough, Edith.” Lettice opines.
“What does he want, Edith?” Eglantyne asks.
“That’s just the thing, Miss Chetwynd.” Edith replies, addressing the older woman. “He says Miss Lettice is expecting his parcel.”
“But I’m not.”
“Yes Miss. Err… I mean, no Miss.” Edith stammers.
“Where is he from?” Lettice asks.
“The Portland Gallery in Soho, Miss.”
“The Portland Gallery? Oh!” gasps Lettice, placing her teacup aside and straightening her skirt so it sits neatly just over her knee. “Show him in!”
“Very good Miss.” Edith answers in a slightly worried tone, lowering her head and retreating.
“Mr. Chilvers must be sending me something very special on approval if I don’t know anything about it!” Lettice exclaims, bouncing a little in her seat as she trembles with excitement.
“Indeed.” her aunt agrees with a smile and a nod.
Just then, the bell at the front door rings. When no-one answers it, it jarringly sounds again.
“Edith!” Lettice calls from her seat. “Edith there is someone at the door!”
“Edith’s dealing with the tradesman from the Portland Gallery.” Eglantyne points out helpfully.
“Oh yes!” Lettice exclaims. She rises from her seat as the doorbell rings a third time. “Then I suppose I must go and answer it. Would you excuse me, Aunt Egg?”
As Lettice enters the entrance hall with its black japanned console table, Edith comes in through the doorway that leads from the service area of the house.
“Beg pardon, Miss. I’m just trying to deal with the man from the Portland Gallery. The parcel’s ever so large and he needs someone to hold the doors open for him, Miss.”
“It’s alright, Edith.” Lettice assures her with a wave and a nod of her head. “I’ll answer the front door.”
“Thank you, Miss.” Edith replies gratefully, retreating quickly back into the corridor behind the door.
When Lettice answers the door, she finds to both her surprise and delight, Sir John on her threshold, dressed in a splendid three-quarter length grey winter overcoat with a glossy beaver fur collar, it’s smart cut and perfect fit indicating at a glance that it has come from one of the finest Jermyn Street*********** tailors. He holds his silver topped walking cane in his grey glove clad hand and smiles warmly at Lettice, his eyes sparkling at the sight of her.
“Well, this is a surprise, John!” Lettice exclaims in pleasure.
“No more than it is a surprise to find you answering your own front door, Lettice my dear.” Sir John says with a mirthful lilt to his voice, a cheekiness turning up the corners of his smile. “What a thoroughly modern woman you are to dispense with the usual protocols.”
“Well,” Lettice replies with an awkward and embarrassed laugh. “Usually I wouldn’t, but… well Edith is occupied with a tradesman bringing me an apparently large package from the Portland Gallery.”
“That sounds rather thrilling, my darling!” Sir John replies with arched eyebrows. Elegantly, he leans in and kisses Lettice’s right cheek before stepping back slightly and withdrawing a bunch of beautiful red roses with a theatrical flourish and a smile from behind his back. “For you!”
“Oh John!” Lettice exclaims, accepting the proffered red blooms, their velvety petals slightly open and releasing a waft of sweet fragrance. “They’re beautiful.” She spends a moment admiring them and appreciating their scent before she suddenly realises that Sir John is still standing on her front doormat. “Oh, where are my manners!” she gasps. “Please, do come inside.” She steps aside and allows Sir John to enter. “Aunt Egg is visiting too. We’re just in the drawing room.”
“Oh splendid.” Sir John opines. “lead the way.”
The pair walk back into the drawing room where Aunt Egg remains seated. Lettice scurries ahead and deposits the roses on the stool next to the seat her aunt occupies before she pulls a back japanned Chippendale chair across the carpet and draws it up to the coffee table between Lettice’s two armchairs.
“Look who it is, Aunt Egg!” Lettice says brightly.
“John!” Eglantyne replies. “What a surprise. How do you do.”
“How do you do, Eglantyne.” he replies. “I just happened to be passing, and I thought I’d stop, in the hopes of catching Lettice.”
“And with a bunch of roses!” Eglantyne remarks, reaching out at touching the rich blooms. “You are sure of yourself.”
Lettice turns to her fiancée as he places his derby on a small round chinoiserie tabletop and starts to unbutton his coat whilst still clutching his gloves and his cane in his left hand. “Here, let me take those.” she says apologetically, reaching out. Laughing awkwardly as she accepts his coat she adds, “As you can see, I’d never make a good maid.”
“It’s just as well that I don’t want to marry one then, isn’t it, Lettice my darling.” Sir John replies with a chuckle.
She smiles. “Aunt Egg and I were just having tea. I’ll have Edith fetch a third cup when she arrives.”
Moments later an unnerved Edith shows a rather burley fellow in overalls and a workman’s cap clutching a tall and wide parcel wrapped in brown paper into the drawing room where he stands awkwardly before the assembled company, somewhat dumbstruck by the elegant surroundings and well dressed inhabitants of Lettice’s drawing room as he glances around.
“You must be Mr. Chilver’s man.” Lettice says, breaking the awkward silence.
“Yes mum! Said ‘e ‘ad a package for you, mum. Special delivery.”
“Yes! Yes! Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting it, but if you would be good enough to lean it down here,” she indicates with a sweeping gesture to the Hepplewhite desk next to the fireplace. “Thank you.”
“Yes mum.” the delivery man says gratefully, gently lowering the parcel with a groan and leaning it against the edge of the desk.
“Excellent.” Lettice replies. “Oh Edith,”
“Yes Miss?”
“Could you take Sir John’s coat, hat and gloves, please.” Lettice proffers the clothing items to her maid. “And fetch another cup, please.”
“Yes Miss.” Edith replies, accepting the items and bobbing a quick curtsey before turning to go.
“Oh and Edith,” Lettice goes on.
“Yes Miss?” Edith answers, turning back.
“Please take a couple of sixpences out of the housekeeping money tin to tip our man here.” Lettice smiles gratefully at her maid. “I’ll replenish it later.”
“Yes Miss,” Edith replies bemused. “Very good, Miss.”
“Much obliged, mum.” the burly man replies, snatching his cap from his head and twisting it anxiously between his hands, before turning at Edith’s insistence and following her as she guides him back through the green baize door between the dining room and the service area of the flat.
“Were your ears burning, John?” Eglantyne asks.
“No!” he chuckles in reply. “Should they have been?”
“Lettice and I were just discussing your engagement.” Eglantyne elucidates.
“Were you?” Sir John arches his elegantly shaped eyebrows as he gazes knowingly and undeterred at Eglantyne. “Ahh well, thinking of that,” he goes on, a confident smile gracing his thin lips. “I know you wouldn’t have been expecting this parcel, Lettice my dear.” His smile broadens with pleasure, not least of all for having an audience in Eglantyne. “But it comes from me. I arranged to have it sent over. Mr. Chilvers has been kindly holding onto it for me.” He steps over to the parcel and hoists it up with a groan, leaning it against himself as the edge rests on the black japanned surface of the coffee table. “Now that it is official, and our engagement will be appearing in The Times, and the Wiltshire Times and Trowbridge Advertiser************, this is my gift to my bride-to-be!”
“Oh John!” Lettice exclaims.
“What is it?” Eglantyne asks, leaning forward, her beads trailing down her front rattling noisily together as she does.
“Well, why don’t you open it and find out, Lettice?” Sir John says, gazing at his future bride expectantly and extending his left hand encouragingly towards her as he speaks.
Lettice needs no second bidding. With trembling hands, she steps forward and gingerly tears at a loose piece of paper which rips noisily as she pulls it asunder. The corner of a simple wooden frame appears first, and then as she continues to tear at the paper, growing more excited with each rip, Lettice can soon see the bold colours and energetic strokes of thickly layered paint on canvas.
“Picasso’s ‘The Lovers’!” Eglantyne gasps in amazement.
“You bought it!” Lettice exclaims, raising her hand to her painted lips, upon which a broad smile appears. “For me?”
Angular lines pick out the faces and torsos of two figures on the canvas. Eyes, noses, hands, two thin lines making up a mouth. Fragmented, distorted and distracted the image radiates intimacy as much as it does boldness: a hand resting on a shoulder, the pair of figures’ heads drawn closely together, both with eyes downcast.
“Well, I could hardly declare that I would allow you to hang these daubs of modern art you so dearly, if in my opinion misguidedly, love, unless I gave you at least one to hang.” Sir John says proudly.
“Oh John! I don’t know what to say!” Lettice places a chaste kiss on his proffered left cheek.
“A thank you is customary.” Sir John answers with a chuckle.
“Thank you! You are a darling, John!” Lettice gushes, kissing him chastely on the lips this time, and embracing her fiancée. “Oh! I love it!”
Sir John chuckles. “I’m glad, Lettice darling.”
“But where will you hang it for now, Lettice?” Eglantyne asks. “Until you can hang it on one of John’s walls?” she adds, referring to Sir John’s previous comment.
“Well, I thought Lettice could hang it in here, above the fireplace.” Sir John answers for Lettice, indicating to the space above the mantle currently occupied by a colourful still life of pottery and fruit.
“Oh no!” Lettice exclaims, shaking her head. “It’s far too intimate a painting to hang in here.” The tips of her fingers run across her lips playfully and her eyes sparkle as Lettice drunks in the fine details of the colours and the textures of the brushstrokes. “I shall hang it in my boudoir, and that way I can look at it every morning until we are married, John darling!”
Lettice immediately turns on her heel and hurries out of the drawing room and into the entrance hall of the flat, calling for Edith to help her move a painting in her bedroom.
“Well,” Eglantyne remarks as she sinks back languidly into her seat again, staring up at the painting in Sir Johns hands. “You are full of surprises, my dear John.”
Sir John lifts the painting off the surface of the coffee table and shakes it, freeing it of the last of its brown paper protective wrapping.
“I never would have imagined you buying a Picasso.” Eglantyne goes on, admiring the boldness of the artwork as Sir John lowers it back to the ground and carefully leans it against the edge of the desk again.
“Well,” he remarks as he bends down and gathers up the paper, scrunching it noisily together in a big ball. “It’s not for me, but for Lettice.” He pauses with the large ball of paper in his hands and looks at Lettice’s aunt earnestly. “I really do care for her, you know.” he states with determination.
“Oh I don’t doubt it, John, but as I was saying to Lettice before your unexpected arrival, I cannot with all good conscience condone your engagement.”
“Why not, Eglantyne?”
“You know perfectly well, John, that I am a free spirit. I don’t believe in, nor have any faith in, the institution of marriage that society seems so desparate to conform us all to.” Eglantyne replies matter-of-factly. “As I remarked to Lettice just a short while ago, why on earth should I wish to celebrate the contract that sells my beautiful, intelligent and independent niece like a chattel?” She picks up her nearly empty teacup of now tepid tea. “Lettice had a perfectly good and full life before she became engaged to you.”
“Now don’t be bitter, Eglantyne dear.” Sir John chides.
“I’m not. I’m simply stating the fact that Lettice was perfectly fine on her own: a single and independent modern woman, just as she has every right to be.”
“Has she no right to be a happily married woman, Eglantyne?”
“She won’t be happy with you, John. No girl with marriage prospects like Lettice will. And, before you say it,” She wags a heavily bejewelled gnarled finger at Sir John. “I didn’t encourage her involvement with Selwyn Spencely either, unlike her mother who is so besotted with pedigree and titles, so I’m not playing favourites. Lettice was perfectly fine without any man in her life. In fact, she was just embarking on what promised to be a most successful career as an interior designer, but now pfftt!” Sir John can see her lips pursed tightly together in disapproval. Her eyes glow with frustration. “It’s gone! Just like that!”
“Says whom?” Sir John asks defensively.
“Your marriage contract.” Eglantyne replies with squinting eyes boring into him.
“No, it doesn’t, Eglantyne, or rather it won’t, which shows you just how little you know, and what little faith you place in me as a suitable suitor for your precious favourite niece!” When her eyes grow wide in surprise at his sudden harsh outburst at her, Sir John continues, “I’ll have you know that I have made an agreement with Lettice that when she marries me, she may continue her interior design business. Heaven save me from a bored and idle wife with nothing to do all day.” He rolls his eyes.
“Except interfere in your own affairs.”
“Exactly Eglantyne!” Sie John agrees. “I’m a businessman. She’s a businesswoman, and a successful one, as you’ve pointed out. Why should I stop her from reaching the heights she aspires to and her full potential?”
“Then you’re a better man than I took you for, John.” Eglantyne acquiesces.
“You did say I was full of surprises.”
“I did.”
“But?” Sir John says, picking up the unspoken word from Eglantyne’s lips. He shakes his head. “Do you really despise me so?”
Eglantyne lifts her eyes to the ornate plaster ceiling above as she shakes her own head as she raises her hand to her rumpled brow. She sighs heavily. “I don’t despise you, John.”
“Then what, Eglantyne?”
“Come.” She pats the Art Deco patterned cushioned seat of the Chippendale chair next to her. As he walks around the coffee table and lowers himself onto it, she continues, “You mustn’t spread this rumour around, John, but I actually quite like you as a person. I think you and I are rather alike in some ways, which is probably why I do like you. We’re both forthright, even when society suggests we ought not to be, and you’ve never conformed to the societal rule that you should get married.”
“Then…”
“Until now.”
“Well, maybe I just hadn’t met the right girl, up until now.” Sir John defends, smiling smugly with a cocked eyebrow, staring at Eglantyne with defiance.
“Oh come!” Eglantyne scoffs. “You’ve never involved yourself with the right girls to get married to in the first place, John. You’ve always had a penchant for chorus girls - young chorus girls. Everyone knows that.” She glances up and looks towards the open doorway of the drawing room. In the flat beyond it she can hear Lettice instruct Edith to help her remove a painting off her boudoir wall. “Well, almost everyone.”
“Is that all?” Sir John laughs.
“What do you mean is that all?” Eglantyne exclaims in effrontery. “I may not have the belief in the sanctity of marriage, but that isn’t to say my niece doesn’t! This is not an inconsequential step for her. I question your motives.” She eyes him now that they are at the same level. “Just what are you up to, John?”
“Me?” He feigns innocence as he holds his hands up in defence. “I’m not up to anything, as you so bluntly put it, Eglantyne. Perhaps your somewhat suspicious mind will be put at ease when I tell you that your intelligent young niece has walked into this marriage proposal with completely open eyes.”
“I doubt that!” Eglantyne scoffs again.
“Oh but that is where you are wrong, Eglantyne. She knows about my… err… dalliances, shall we say, just as you do.”
“So, she knows about Paula Young then?” Eglantyne asks, referring to the young up-and-coming West End actress who is the latest in Sir John’s list of conquests.
“Not by name as such, no.” Sir John admits. “I felt it was a little…” He pauses as he tries to think of the correct phrasing. “Indelicate at this sensitive stage in our engagement to introduce her by name. However, she does know, Eglantyne, and she also knows that I won’t shame her publicly – which I give you my assurance I won’t. I’ll never give her a reason to reproach me, and in return for her allowing me my little dalliances with the likes of Paula and those who follow her into my bed thereafter, and keeping them in her confidence, she gets to maintain her business unimpeded by me, be the chatelaine of all my properties, and live a life of luxury. In return, I get an intelligent and pretty wife to appear alongside me at social functions, and maybe some of that idle society gossip can finally be put to bed.”
“Really, John?” Eglantyne exclaims in disbelief. “It’s hardly a marriage I’d condone my niece to enter. A marriage of convenience that suits you.”
“I promise I’ll make her happy, Eglantyne.” Sir John assures her.
“With pretty paintings paid for with deep pockets?” Eglantyne gesticulates towards the Picasso.
“We’re both getting exactly what we want out of the bargain.”
“Really, John?” Eglantyne asks again with incredulity. “I don’t possibly see how being permitted to continue her business affairs is enough in a marriage to make Lettice happy.”
“If I’m being perfectly honest, which I know I can be with you, dear Eglantyne,” Sir John goes on. “As part of our arrangement, so long as she gives me an heir, and there is no question as to his paternity, I am also giving Lettice the opportunity to engage in arrangements of her own outside the marriage bed, should she choose to indulge.”
Eglantyne shudders. “I still cannot condone such a marriage, even with that clause. A marriage of two people loving anyone other than one another is recipe for tears and divorce. There is no happiness that I can see for poor Lettice.” She sighs. “Nor for you in the long run, you sad, misguided soul. However, she has made up her mind,” She pauses. “For now ,anyway, whilst she is besotted with the idea. Let’s see how long that lasts for once the realties of this arrangement of yours start to solidify in Lettice’s mind. Will you let her go if she comes to her senses before she walks up the aisle?”
“Of course, Eglantyne. Lettice isn’t the only one who has her eyes open. I know I’m much older than her, and that perhaps my dalliances may be too much for a sensitive soul like Lettice, but I aim to keep them as discreetly far away from her sphere as possible.”
“Can a leopard change his spots, thus?” Eglantyne leans forward. “Don’t forget that I have known you for a long time, John. Discretion has never been your strongest suit.”
“Well, Eglantyne,” Sir John stares back at her. “We shall just have to wait and see.”
“Indeed we will see.” Eglantyne nods knowingly.
*Twelfth Night (also known as Epiphany Eve depending upon the tradition) is a Christian festival on the last night of the Twelve Days of Christmas, marking the coming of the Epiphany. Different traditions mark the date of Twelfth Night as either the fifth of January or the sixth of January, depending on whether the counting begins on Christmas Day or the twenty-sixth of December. January the sixth is celebrated as the feast of Epiphany, which begins the Epiphanytide season.
**The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood (later known as the Pre-Raphaelites) was a group of English painters, poets, and art critics, founded in 1848 by William Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Michael Rossetti, James Collinson, Frederic George Stephens and Thomas Woolner who formed a seven-member "Brotherhood" modelled in part on the Nazarene movement. The Brotherhood was only ever a loose association and their principles were shared by other artists of the time, including Ford Madox Brown, Arthur Hughes and Marie Spartali Stillman. Later followers of the principles of the Brotherhood included Edward Burne-Jones, William Morris and John William Waterhouse. The group sought a return to the abundant detail, intense colours and complex compositions of Quattrocento Italian art. They rejected what they regarded as the mechanistic approach first adopted by Mannerist artists who succeeded Raphael and Michelangelo. The Brotherhood believed the classical poses and elegant compositions of Raphael in particular had been a corrupting influence on the academic teaching of art, hence the name "Pre-Raphaelite".
***Little Venice is an affluent residential district in West London, England, around the junction of the Paddington Arm of the Grand Union Canal, the Regent's Canal, and the entrance to Paddington Basin. The junction, also known as Little Venice and Browning's Pool, forms a triangular shape basin designed to allow long canal boats to turn around. Many of the buildings in the vicinity are Regency white painted stucco terraced town houses and taller blocks (mansions) in the same style.
****The Delphos gown is a finely pleated silk dress first created in about 1907 by French designer Henriette Negrin and her husband, Mariano Fortuny y Madrazo. They produced the gowns until about 1950. It was inspired by, and named after, a classical Greek statue, the Charioteer of Delphi. It was championed by more artistic women who did not wish to conform to society’s constraints and wear a tightly fitting corset.
*****A sautoir is a French term for a long necklace that suspends a tassel or other ornament.
******An aigrette is a headdress consisting of a white egret's feather or other decoration such as a spray of gems.
*******A jeune fille à marier was a marriageable young woman, the French term used in fashionable circles and the upper-classes of Edwardian society before the Second World War.
********The Balkan Sobranie tobacco business was established in London in 1879 by Albert Weinberg (born in Romania in 1849), whose naturalisation papers dated 1886 confirm his nationality and show that he had emigrated to England in the 1870s at a time when hand-made cigarettes in the eastern European and Russian tradition were becoming fashionable in Europe. Sobranie is one of the oldest cigarette brands in the world. Throughout its existence, Sobranie was marketed as the definition of luxury in the tobacco industry, being adopted as the official provider of many European royal houses and elites around the world including the Imperial Court of Russia and the royal courts of United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Spain, Romania, and Greece. Premium brands include the multi-coloured Sobranie Cocktail and the black and gold Sobranie Black Russian.
********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.
**********With new employment opportunities opening for working-class women in factories and department stores between the two World Wars, many young people, mostly female, left the long hours, hard graft and low wages of domestic service opting for the higher wages and better treatment these new employment opportunities provided.
***********Jermyn Street is a one-way street in the St James's area of the City of Westminster in London. It is to the south of, parallel, and adjacent to Piccadilly. Jermyn Street is known as a street for high end gentlemen's clothing retailers and bespoke tailors in the West End.
************The Wiltshire Times and Trowbridge Advertiser is weekly newspaper which serves the towns of west Wiltshire, including Trowbridge. Printed in Trowbridge it was established in 1854 by Benjamin Lansdown, as The Trowbridge and Wiltshire Advertiser. Benjamin was born in Trowbridge and was the son of a woollen mill employee but this was not the path he wished to follow and he was apprenticed as a printer alongside Mr John Sweet. He bought a hard press and second-hand typewriter before starting his own newspaper, along with establishing his own stationery shop in Silver Street around 1860. He moved the business into 15 Duke Street around 1876. Duke Street became home to the impressive R. Hoe & Co printing press that allowed printers to use continuous rolls of paper, instead of individual sheets, to speed up the process and countless copies of the newspaper rolled off the press at Duke Street for many years. The newspaper was based there for more than one hundred years and the business remained within the Lansdown family for generations until it was finally sold in the early 1960s. Over the years in had various names including The Trowbridge and North Wiltshire Advertiser from 1860 until 1880, The Wiltshire Times and Trowbridge Advertiser from 1880 until 1949, The Wiltshire Times between 1950 and 1962 and The Wiltshire Times & News between 1962 and 1963. It then became known as the Wiltshire Times – the banner it holds today. In 2019, the Wiltshire Times and its sister paper the Gazette & Herald moved to offices on the White Horse Business Park in North Bradley, stating that its Duke Street building was no longer fit for purpose. These offices later closed in 2020 as the three Covid-19 pandemic lockdowns struck. The Wiltshire times is still serving the local community both in a paper and an online format with a small team of journalists who passionately believe in the value of good trusted journalism and providing in-depth local news coverage.
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.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Central to our story, the “Lovers” painting by Picasso is a 1:12 miniature painted by hand in the style of Picasso by miniature artist Mandy Dawkins of Miniature Dreams in Thrapston. The frame was handmade by her husband John Dawkins.
Lettice’s tea set is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era called “Falling Leaves”. The glass comport is made of real glass and was blown by hand is an artisan miniature acquired from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The bunch of red roses to the far left of the image also comes from Beautifully handmade Miniatures.
The very realistic floral arrangements around the room are made by hand by the Doll House Emporium in America who specialise in high end miniatures.
The Vogue magazine that you see on Lettice’s coffee table 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, although this is amongst the exception. In some cases, you can even read the words of the titles, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection. 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.
Sir John’s silver knobbed walking stick is also a 1:12 artisan miniature. The top is sterling silver. It was made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures.
Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The Art Deco tub chairs are of black japanned wood and have removable cushions, just like their life sized examples. To the left of the fireplace is a Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair of black japanned wood which has been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the legs and inside the bureau. The Hepplewhite chair has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven. To the right of the fireplace is a Chippendale cabinet which has also been decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks.
On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame.
The fireplace is a 1:12 miniature resin Art Deco fireplace which is flanked by brass accessories including an ash brush with real bristles.
The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug, and the geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
from Japan...
My sister's family in Georgia is hosting a foreign exchange student from Japan. When her parents learned that she would be visiting my niece's grandparents (my parents who live with me) for Christmas, they sent the beautiful house coats for them - what a lovely generous gift from lovely generous people we will probably never meet...
Her family live in Northern Japan and thankfully were not directly affected by the earthquake....
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 east of Cavendish Mews and South of the Thames, past Lambeth to what is known as "the Piccadilly Circus of South London" the busy shopping precinct of Elephant and Castle. It is here that Edith, Lettice’s maid, and her sweetheart, grocer’s boy, Frank Leadbetter, have come for a wander and window shop together. With Lettice still staying with her family at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, Edith has a little more free time than usual, so she and Frank are taking advantage of the opportunity to spend a little bit of extra time together. Edith also wants to visit Elephant and Castle because there are so many shops in close proximity of one another, and unlike many of the retailers north of the Thames, the prices of goods are cheaper. As she plans for a future with Frank, Edith now has her eye on household goods. Emerging from the Elephant and Castle Underground Railway Station, the young couple pass the grand domed and turreted edifice of the Elephant and Castle Estate Building* built of red brick with Portland stone dressings and granite columns, and slowly wander up Walworth Road, a busy thoroughfare congested in both directions with all forms of traffic. The road is lined with two and three storey Victorian terraces with shops all along the street level, many covered by canvas awnings, with red and white ‘blood and bandages’** pointed arches and bay windows on the floors above. The footpaths on both sides of the road are busy with chattering shoppers and browsers: couples like them, mothers and their children, well-to-do suburban housewives and gentlemen in overcoats and hats, all bustling and milling about, walking in and out of establishments and admiring the goods proudly on display in the shop windows.
As they walk along Walworth Road, dark clouds roil overhead, swirling about, obscuring the light and tumbling over themselves as the weather takes a turn for the worst.
“Looks like the weather is making a turn for the worst.” Frank remarks, looking up and squinting at the threatening sky overhead.
“Looks like you’re right!” Edith agrees, grabbing hold of the hem of her plum coloured skirt and black three-quarter length winter coat as a sudden gust of cold wind snatches them and whips at them. “A real storm is brewing.”
As Edith and Frank snuggle closer together as they walk along the footpath, hugging the shop windows and doorways they pass, they watch as people hurry along the pavement around them in either direction, their heads bowed down into their collars, or their trilbies and cloches pulled low over their heads to protect them from the wind as their hurried footsteps scurry along the slick paving stones already wettened by an earlier shower. Umbrellas start to appear at the ready in glove glad hands amidst the bags of shopping being carried. Newspapers and other light pieces of rubbish tumble and dance down the footpaths, gaily skipping past them or wheeling and diving amidst the traffic of the noisy thoroughfare skipping between chugging motor cars, lorries and the constant stream of double decker electrical trams and the occasional horse drawn cart with placid plodding old work horses unperturbed by the belching of their mechanical usurpers or the inclement weather.
As a large drop of rain strikes Edith’s shoulder, she unfurls her rather battered old black umbrella. “I don’t know if this will survive the storm, Frank.” she admits.
“Come on!” Frank hisses. “Let’s take shelter over there!” He points a little further along the Walworth Road to a white and russet striped awning hanging over a brightly illuminated window of a two storey Victorian building.
The pair dash along the footpath, joining the game of dodging other pedestrians until they reach their destination, just as a clap of thunder erupts noisily from above, the sound unleashing a torrent of rain. Edith gasps and draws closer to Frank as the heavy downpour hammers the paving stones, splashing off them and splattering Edith’s best pair of black kid cross strap shoes and tan toned stocking clad legs exposed from beneath the hem of her coat. The wind blows the ruffled edges of the awning, sending a shower of droplets hanging from its hem into the air, however in spite of that, the awning provides enough shelter for them to keep relatively dry.
A middle aged man in a camel coloured overcoat and white polka dot blue scarf taking shelter with them tips his trilby politely at Frank and Edith when they catch his eye. “Lovely weather for ducks.***” he remarks with a gentle smile.
“Yes indeed!” Frank agrees and Edith nods her consensus.
“I think this is one of the best places to be, if one must be caught out of doors in weather like this.” the middle aged man opines, to which both Edith and Frank nod in acknowledgement.
Not really wanting to engage in conversation with the gentleman, Edith turns away from him and looks through the window of the shop whose awning they are sheltering under, and to her delight, she discovers that it is a jewellery shop. “Oh look Frank!” she gasps.
Turning around to join her and observe what she has seen, Frank bears witness to the beautiful sight of the display through the plate glass window on which the name Schwar & Co**** is written in ornate gilt copperplate. Unlike the cold and grey day, the window exudes warmth as light from within is reflected off beautiful pieces of gold jewellery. Stands draped with golden chains and sautoirs***** jostle for space with pads of red and blue velvet upon which are pinned brooches and bracelets, whilst in others, jewel studded rings wink and glitter coquettishly. Edith gasps as she spies first an emerald ring surrounded by diamonds, then a sapphire and diamond one. She smiles with delight. Frank points out a beautiful silk lined Travel de Nécessaire****** commenting on its ornate gold and enamel lidded jars, whilst Edith indicates to a beautifully bevelled hand mirror and brush set.
“Just look at those diamonds!” Edith gasps as she spies a necklace of winking, brilliant stones draped along the black velvet lined shelf of the window.
“I wish I could buy it for you, Edith.” Frank remarks looking at it with eyes agog as it shimmers and sparkles against the black.
“Oh Frank!” Edith scoffs, her greyish purple glove clad left hand coming to rest on his lower right arm affectionately. “Where would I ever wear such a thing, even if you could afford it?”
“Buckingham Palace!” Frank booms, with a sweeping gesture, laughing good naturedly as he does. “You could wear it the next time the King and Queen invite you to tea.”
Edith’s girlish giggles join Frank’s bolder chortles as they laugh over the idea of Edith, a humble domestic, being entertained at Buckingham Palace by the imperious monarchs.
Frank’s eyes flit from a small brooch of gold set with pearls pinned to a lace fichu******* draped over a display stand to a small selection of brooches near the front of the window: the latter gold with either pearls or amethysts set in them.
“That looks like Prince Albert!” Edith remarks, pointing to a large profile of a serious man carved in white against a creamy dusky pink background set in an ornate gold frame.
Frank looks closely at it before stating, “I think it may be.”
“It’s beautifully carved.” Edith observes.
“I’d say it’s a large cameo******** carved from agate.”
“You’re so knowledgeable, Frank.” Edith remarks with a sigh of admiration. “How do you know all the things you do?”
“I read a lot, Edith. You know that! I want to better myself, and the best way to do that is to gain knowledge.” Frank says proudly. “So, I make sure I use what little free time I have, not spent with you, being well read. There’s an old saying you know – a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing – which implies that people who are but a little informed could be dangerous and foolish, so I aim to make sure that I am more than a little informed.”
“I admire you for that, Frank.” Edith acknowledges her beau. “You read serious books and build up your knowledge.” She sighs with frustration. “Whereas all I seem to find the time or energy to read after a day’s hard graft are books about cooking or romance novels like those by Madeline St John.”
“Well, that’s good too, Edith!” Frank assures her.
“Not when you compare it to the things you read, and the things you know, Frank.”
“But as I’ve said before, Edith, we’re all good at different things, and you know how to make a cake, which is more than I know how to do! What could be more important than knowing how to feed people, Edith?” Frank says, pulling his sweetheart close to him by wrapping his right hand around her right forearm and embracing her comfortingly.
“Yes, but you know so many more important things, Frank: things about the world, like political and social ideas, which I know very little to nothing about. They’re more important than cake recipes, or how to mend a sagging hem.”
“There are plenty of politicians who think that what they say, and who they are, are important, Edith, but I can assure you that they aren’t.” Frank replies sagely.
“Oh, you know what I mean, Frank. I’m not very political. Not like you.” Edith remarks flippantly to Frank, yet at the same time she self-consciously toys with her blonde waves poking out from beneath her black dyed straw cloche as she speaks. “I mean, I know you’ve tried to teach me, but I can’t help it. I get confused between the parties and what they all stand for.”
“You aren’t alone in that, Edith.” Frank assures her. “Politicians are a breed of people who aim to bamboozle with their words.”
“Well, I’m relieved to hear that.” Edith admits.
“It doesn’t matter, Edith! You’re wonderful enough as you are, and there are things that you understand and are far better at than I’ll ever be. You might think that they are inconsequential, domestic things, but they aren’t! I’m no good to myself because I can’t cook. I have to rely on Mrs. Chapman, my landlady in Clapham to do that for me, and even if she serves me kippers, which I hate, I have to eat them, because I can’t make anything myself as an alternative. I’m lucky if I can boil the kettle for a good brew!” He chuckles light heartedly.
Edith chuckles along with him, feeling a little better about herself.
Frank looks his sweetheart earnestly in the eye. “One of the reasons why I’ve always admired you, Edith, is because you aren’t some silly giggling Gertie********* like some of the housemaids I’ve known in my time who live around Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico. You aren’t turned by just a handsome face, and your head isn’t filled with moving picture stars and nothing else.”
“Well, I do like moving picture stars too, Frank.” Edith confesses guiltily.
“Oh, I know you do, Edith, and I love you for that too.” Frank reassures her. “But it’s not all there is in there. You have a good head on your shoulders, and you’re wise for your years.” he acknowledges. “Your parents taught you well, and common sense is something a lot of people lack nowadays.”
“Oh thank you Frank.” Edith breathes softly, looking up lovingly into her beau’s face. “Then you aren’t ashamed of me then, just because I’m not the most political person?”
“I’ve said it before, but I’ll happily say it again,” Frank rubs Edith’s arm comfortingly. “Of course I’m not ashamed of you Edith, in any way! How could I ever be ashamed of you? I’m as proud as punch********** to step out with you! You’re my best girl.”
“Oh Frank!” Edith wraps her arms loving around Frank’s waist.
“I only wish I could afford to buy you a nice brooch like that.” He nods at an ornate gold brooch set with a single amethyst. “Purple is your colour.”
“You don’t have to buy me a brooch, Frank!” Edith insists in reply.
“I know, but I’d like to buy you one all the same. It will last longer than a box of Gainsborough Dubarry Milk Chocolates.”
“Mmmm,” Edith smiles and murmurs, “I like them too.”
“Yes, but a pretty brooch would look so nice,” Frank breaks their embrace and holds his sweetheart at arm’s length. He picks up the corner of her left coat lapel. “Pinned here for all the world to see that Frank Leadbetter loves Edith Watsford. It’s quite fashionable to wear brooches these days.”
“You are well informed, Frank.” Edith laughs in surprise. “And you’re right, but really, all I need is one of those on my finger on our wedding day.” She glances back into the jeweller’s window and nods at a pad of shiny gold wedding bands gleaming in the warm light cast from the lights at the top of the window.
“And you’ll get it, Edith,” Frank pauses. “In due course.”
“And when is that going to be?” Edith asks, looking seriously into her beau’s face, trying to read his expression as it causes his face to crumple.
“Well… well… when the time is right, Edith.”
“Isn’t now the right time, Frank?” she asks.
“Well… well of course… it could be.” Frank stammers.
“Could be, Frank?” Edith shudders as she feels someone walk over her grave***********. “What… is that supposed to mean?”
“I just mean I want the timing to be right when I ask you to marry me, Edith. That’s all.”
Edith doesn’t say anything straight away, but finally she gazes up at Frank and asks a little fearfully, “You do want to marry me, don’t you Frank?”
The question makes Frank feel like he has been punched in the stomach.
“Now what kind of a question is that, Edith?” He looks at Edith and sees her face drain of colour as the unshed tears welling in her eyes add a sparkle and glisten to them. “Of course I want to marry you!”
“Well, we’ve been stepping out for a while now, Frank, and you still haven’t asked me to marry you.”
“Well, I haven’t spoken to your dad yet, and asked his permission for your hand, Edith. First thing’s first you know!”
“I know you haven’t!” The tears that have been threatening to spill finally start: one large drop falls off her lash and lands on her left cheek, only to then be matched by one on her right.
“I’m just getting up the courage to ask, is all, Edith.”
“Well, I don’t see why you can’t ask him now. All that business with me agreeing to move to Metroland************ if you are offered an opportunity to manage a suburban grocers is done now. I’ve agreed, so I don’t see why you can’t ask. I know both Mum and Dad were a little disappointed that you didn’t ask them when you came to our New Year’s Eve party in Harlesden.”
“And you obviously were too.” Frank concludes Edith’s unspoken conclusion to the sentence.
When Edith nods shallowly, he sighs.
“I’m sorry Edith. I don’t mean to upset my best girl, and I know this must be difficult for you to understand, but I’m a man of principles. I want to ask your dad for your hand when I think I look most favourable.”
“But that time is now, Frank!” Edith retorts.
“Not for me it isn’t, or not just yet at least. I just want my prospects to look good enough to show that I can provide for you and be a good husband.”
“But they do, Frank, and you will be a good husband. Dad is very pleased with what you are doing to improve your situation at Mr. Willison’s Grocery, and even Mum is slowly coming around to your ideas of wanting to improve your lot in life. They both know that like them, you want the best for me. When will you ask them?”
“Soon.” Frank assures her. “But just not quite yet.”
“I think I need one of those clairvoyants I see adverting discreetly in the newspapers.” Edith mutters as she opens her slightly battered green leather handback and fossicks around inside it, huffing and puffing as she does. “They’ll give me the answers I seek.”
“No you don’t, Edith!” Frank holds her at arm’s length again whilst she dabs at her eyes with the embroidered lace handkerchief she has pulled out.
“You’re dragging your feet, Frank.” she snivels
“No I’m not, Edith. Please!”
“And I don’t see why. I know you want us both to save a little more money, so that we can set up house together, but just because we announce we are engaged, doesn’t mean we have to get married straight away.”
“Perhaps not,” Frank agrees. “But once the cat is out of the bag, well, there is always pressure put on the young couple to set a date.” He looks at her seriously. “Long engagements are not very fashionable, even when they are for all the right reasons.”
“Well,” Edith dabs her reddened nose. “Just don’t wait too long, Frank.”
“I won’t!” he assures her. “I promise. I don’t want us to quarrel over this.”
“Oh I don’t want to quarrel, Frank!” Edith concurs. “I’m just concerned is all.”
“Well you have no need to be, Edith. You’re my best girl, and eventually you will be my best bride.” He smiles broadly, albeit a little remorsefully, feeling bad for putting Edith in the position where she feels so upset about sometjing that should fill her with happiness. “I promise I will ask your dad the moment the time feels right to me.” He turns around and notices that the rain has stopped, with only showers of drips being blown from the ruffled awning edge by the wind now. They now stand alone together beneath the awning, with the man in the camel coat gone whilst they have been talking. “Look, Edith! It’s stopped raining. What’s say we go back to Lyon’s Corner House************* at the top of Tottenham Court Road for a slap up tea?” Edith manages to smile, and like the sun coming out from behind the clouds after a storm, it makes Frank glad. “I might not be able to afford a gold and amethyst brooch for you just yet, but I can at least afford that now.”
“Alright Frank.” Edith acquiesces with a sniff. “Let’s do that.”
*The Elephant and Castle Estate Building was a local landmark in the London suburb of Elephant and Castle between its construction in 1898 and when it was damaged and had to be demolished during the Blitz of the Second World War. The block of buildings was designed to cover the site of the Elephant and Castle Hotel, together with the shops adjoining. The estate formed an island amidst the busy junction of major thoroughfares, and was well known in a very conspicuous position, the headway facing the north, and having a frontage to Newington Butts and Walworth Road. The Elephant and Castle Estate Building contained a hotel. Th ground floor of the hotel was divided into a saloon, luncheon, private and public bars, and the basement had a three-table billiard-room and cellarage accommodation. On the first floor were a double table billiard-room and large dining room, whilst on the second and third floors, fourteen bedrooms and two large sitting-rooms, and on the top floor kitchen and domestic offices and four bedrooms. The rest of the large and conspicuous building was occupied by nine lock-up shops on the ground floor, with basements. The first floor was approached by a fireproof staircase from Newington Butts, and was designed for three suites of offices. The three upper floors had a fireproof staircase, approached from Walworth-road, and allowed for eight separate suites of residential flats. The building was badly damaged by bombs during the war, along with much of the area around it, and in 1965 the new Elephant and Castle Shopping Centre opened on the site.
**”Blood and Bandages” is an architectural style that was popular before the First World War where buildings are constructed of layers of red brick with intervening white stone dressings. Normally Portland Stone is used for the “bandages”, but in some cases white plaster rendering or tiling was popular. The rather macabre description of the late Victorian style came about as a result of people comparing the striped red and white of the buildings to the blood and bandages seen so commonly during the First World War.
***The expression “lovely weather for ducks” appears to have been in use from the first half of the 19th century. Given its humorous usage it may just be derived from a common reference to the common sight of ducks at ease in the rain.
****Established in 1838 by Andreas Schwar who was a clock and watch maker from Baden in Germany, Schwar and Company on Walworth Road in Elephant and Castle was a watchmaker and jewellers that is still a stalwart of the area today. The shop still retains its original Victorian shopfront with its rounded plate glass windows.
*****A sautoir is a long necklace consisting of a fine gold chain and typically set with jewels.
******A Travel de Nécessaire is an old fashioned style of travelling case. Designed for both men and women they contained necessary toiletry items like brushes, mirrors, button hooks, perfume and eau de cologne bottles, and jars for cosmetics. More elaborate ones could contain such items as travelling sewing kits, notepads, ink bottles, match vestas, hair pin tubes and much more, sometimes consisting of hundreds of items.
*******A fichu (from the French for "thrown over") is a large, square kerchief worn by women to fill in the low neckline of a bodice. It originated in the United Kingdom in the Eighteenth Century and remained popular there and in France through the Nineteenth Century with many variations, as well as in the United States. The fichu was generally of linen fabric or fine lace and was folded diagonally into a triangle and tied, pinned, or tucked into the bodice in front. A fichu is sometimes used with a brooch to conceal the closure of a décolleté neckline. The fichu can thus be fastened in the front, or crossed over the chest.
********A cameo is a material that is carved with a raised relief that often depicts a profile of a face or a mythical scene. Cameos are commonly made out of shell, coral, stone, lava, or glass. Cameo jewellery has varying quality factors including the intricacy of the carving to the quality of the setting.
*********Although obscure as to its origin, the term “giggling Gertie” is of English derivation and was often used in a derisive way to describe silly children and young people, usually girls, who were deemed as being flippant and foolish.
**********Although today we tend to say as “pleased as punch”, the Victorian term which carried on through into the Edwardian era when our story is set, actually began as “proud as punch”. This expression refers to the Punch and Judy puppet character. Punch's name comes from Punchinello, an Italian puppet with similar characteristics. In Punch and Judy shows, the grotesque Punch is portrayed as self-satisfied and pleased with his evil actions.
***********If you suddenly shudder or shiver, for no apparent reason, it is still likely that you will say that 'someone has just walked over your grave', meaning, of course, the site of your future grave. The first known written evidence for this notion is in Jonathan Swift's Polite Conversation from 1738.
************Metroland is a name given to the suburban areas that were built to the north-west of London in the counties of Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire and Middlesex in the early part of the Twentieth Century that were served by the Metropolitan Railway. The railway company was in the privileged position of being allowed to retain surplus land; from 1919 this was developed for housing by the nominally independent Metropolitan Railway Country Estates Limited (MRCE). The term "Metroland" was coined by the Met's marketing department in 1915 when the Guide to the Extension Line became the Metro-land guide. It promoted a dream of a modern home in beautiful countryside with a fast railway service to central London until the Met was absorbed into the London Passenger Transport Board in 1933.
*************J. Lyons and Co. was a British restaurant chain, food manufacturing, and hotel conglomerate founded in 1884 by Joseph Lyons and his brothers in law, Isidore and Montague Gluckstein. Lyons’ first teashop opened in Piccadilly in 1894, and from 1909 they developed into a chain of teashops, with the firm becoming a staple of the High Street in the United Kingdom. At its peak the chain numbered around two hundred cafes. The teashops provided for tea and coffee, with food choices consisting of hot dishes and sweets, cold dishes and sweets, and buns, cakes and rolls. Lyons' Corner Houses, which first appeared in 1909 and remained until 1977, were noted for their Art Deco style. Situated on or near the corners of Coventry Street, Strand and Tottenham Court Road, they and the Maison Lyonses at Marble Arch and in Shaftesbury Avenue were large buildings on four or five floors, the ground floor of which was a food hall with counters for delicatessen, sweets and chocolates, cakes, fruit, flowers and other products. In addition, they possessed hairdressing salons, telephone booths, theatre booking agencies and at one period a twice-a-day food delivery service. On the other floors were several restaurants, each with a different theme and all with their own musicians. For a time, the Corner Houses were open twenty-four hours a day, and at their peak each branch employed around four hundred staff including their famous waitresses, commonly known as Nippies for the way they nipped in and out between the tables taking orders and serving meals. The tea houses featured window displays, and, in the post-war period, the Corner Houses were smarter and grander than the local tea shops. Between 1896 and 1965 Lyons owned the Trocadero, which was similar in size and style to the Corner Houses.
This beautiful shop window display may look real to you, however, almost everything in this scene is made up with 1:12 size miniatures from my miniatures collection, except for a few select items that just happen to fit in perfectly amongst them!
Fun things to look for in this tableau:
Central to our story, the pad of “Weekend Wedding Rings” is a small artisan piece made by an unknown artist which I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom. The bras stand with the linen fichu from which the blue necklace hangs also comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop. The gold chain featuring five pointed stars which also hangs from it is one of three pieces of real jewellery I have in this tableau. It is a dainty baby’s bracelet made of nine carat gold that was mine when I was a baby. I still possess it after all these years!
The Victorian cameo of Prince Albert’s profile is a second piece of real jewellery and has only recently been acquired by me. Made in 1862 of shell and set in an ornate gold frame, this tiny cameo is only two centimetres in length, yet it is superbly and intricately carved with his undeniable likeness. This cameo would have been in the top range for its fine details considering its size.
The wooden tree of gold chains standing behind the wedding rings came from Melody Jane’s Dolls’ House Suppliers in the United Kingdom. All the chains are stuck in place along the arms of the tree.
Draped to the right of the cameo is a sparking “diamond” necklace made of tiny strung faceted silver beads. It, the tiny blue bead necklace hanging from the fichu in the background and the three brooches in the foreground in front of the wedding rings and cameo I acquired as part of an artisan jewellery box from a specialist doll house supplier when I was a teenager. Amongst the smallest pieces I have in my collection, the gold and pearl and gold and amethyst brooches, it is really quite amazing that they have not become lost during the many moves I have made over the passing years since I originally bought them.
The Christmas I was ten, I was given the Regency dressing table and a three piece gilt pewter dressing table set consisting of comb, hairbrush and hand mirror, the latter featuring a real piece of mirror set into it. The mirror and hairbrush you can see in the bottom right-hand corner of the photograph. Like the necklaces and brooches, these small pieces have survived the tests of time and never been lost, even though they are tiny.
On the left-hand side of the display, in the background, is a glittering Travel de Nécessaire (travelling case), which is hinged, has an inlaid top and is lined with red velvet. It contains an array of beauty aides any Edwardian woman, or her lady’s maid, would have used including curling tongs (which look like scissors), various perfume bottles, pill boxes and cosmetic jars and a shoe horn as well as a sizable mirror. It has been made by an unknown English artisan. The tiered wooden jewellery box, complete with miniature jewellery, to the right-hand side of the photo in the background, I acquired from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.
The small gold lozenge with a leaf motif upon it that you can see in the bottom left-hand corner of the photo is the third and final piece of real jewellery in the tableau. It is a small antique locket of rose gold set with seed pearls (which you cannot see in this shot). Coming from Paris, it was made for me by a jeweller as a birthday gift from some very dear friends.
The white lace in the far background is a piece of real antique lace which has been hand made and came to me from a collector of haberdashery in Dorset.
Creating a light block shot of pinkness blush inside the storm drain called Toadie was a fun & silly exercise in light painting
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid’s, parents live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home, although with her husband’s promotion as a Line Manager, she no longer needs to do it quite so much to supplement their income. Whilst far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s Mayfair flat, the Harlesden terrace has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith and her seafaring brother, Bert.
We find ourselves in Ada’s kitchen, the heart of the Watsford’s little home. Even before she walked through the glossy black painted front door today, Edith could smell the familiar scent of her mother’s delicious baking, and as she walked into the terrace’s kitchen at the rear of the house, she found Ada making one of her favourite seasonal treats: hot cross buns* for Easter.
Edith is sitting at her usual perch on a tall ladderback chair drawn up to the round table, worn and scarred by years of heavy use that dominates the cluttered, old fashioned kitchen as her mother withdraws a tray of four large and delicious looking hot cross buns from the baking oven on the left-hand side of the old kitchen range that dominates the far wall of the kitchen. The air of the kitchen is injected with the sweet, mouthwatering smell of cooked currants, cinnamon, nutmeg and a hint of orange. Holding the battered metal baking tray with a thick yellow cloth with red edging, Ada slips it onto the kitchen table with a clatter, making the four golden brown hot cross buns rattle around.
“Oh Mum!” Edith gasps with admiration as she looks at the perfectly baked buns with glistening raisins poking out of the dough like jewels, decorated with their creamy white flour paste crosses. “They look perfect!”
“They smell perfect too!” pipes up George, who, being a Sunday, is sitting in his chair by the range, enjoying his Sunday Express crossword** as he absorbs its cosy heat.
“Thank you, both of you.” Ada remarks with a satisfied smile, placing her hands on her fleshy hips as she admires her own handiwork with twinkling caramel brown eyes. “They aren’t bad, even if I do say so myself.”
“Mum!” Edith exclaims again. “They are far better than that! I can never get my hot cross buns to be as light and fluffy as yours.”
“Do you give it a good knead like I’ve told you to, Edith love?” Ada asks her daughter.
“I do, Mum.” Edith nods.
“And you remember my saying?” Ada continues.
“Yes Mum: ‘make fresh today and bake fresh tomorrow’. I make sure I let the dough rest and rise the day before, just like you’ve told me to do.” Edith replies. “I never bake hot cross buns with dough I’ve made the same day, and they still don’t come out as light and fluffy as yours.”
“Well, I know what I think it is, Edith love.” Ada says, tapping her nose knowingly with a careworn finger.
“What is it, Mum?”
“You won’t like it, Edith love.”
‘Oh, please tell me, Mum!” Edith pleads. “Is it something I’m doing wrong?”
“Oh no!” Ada retorts, quickly reassuring her daughter. “I wouldn’t say that. I think it’s your equipment.”
“But Miss Lettice’s kitchen is lovely and up-to-date, Mum! She even has a beautiful gas stove to bake in.”
“And therein lies the problem.” Ada replies, standing up straight and reaching over, tapping the cool black leaded top of her range with affection, smiling beatifically as she does. “Nothing beats these good old coal ranges when it comes to baking.”
“Oh Mum!” Edith exclaims aghast. “You’re so… so…”
“Old fashioned, Edith love?” Ada asks.
“Traditional, Mum!” Edith assures her.
“I told you, you wouldn’t like my reason,” Ada replies. “But there it is nonetheless, Edith love. They may be a bit old hat***, dirty, and somewhat problematic and recalcitrant at times, but nothing beats a good old coke**** range for baking.”
“Your Mum has a point, Edith love.” George remarks, looking over the top of his newspaper, his blue pencil clutched between his right index and middle finger peering around the edge of the printed sheets. “I can’t say there is anything she has baked in that oven that hasn’t come out looking and smelling wonderful.”
“You just want a freshly baked hot cross bun, George love.” Ada says, eyeing her husband knowingly and wagging a finger at him.
“Well,” George remarks, folding his newspaper crisply in half and casting it and his pencil onto the kitchen table as he drags his Windsor chair across the flagstones and sits at the table opposite his daughter. ‘Now that you mention it, I wouldn’t say no to one.” He rubs his stomach, enwrapped in an argyle patterned***** knitted vest, indicating his hungriness. “No-one makes hot cross buns as nicely as you do, Ada my love.”
“Oh you!” Ada flaps her red trimmed yellow cloth at him playfully, before leaning forward with a groan to kiss her husband tenderly on the lips. “You always know how to wrangle what you want out of me.”
“Flattery never fails.” George admits with a gormless grin.
“Alright Edith love.” Ada says with a sigh, albeit a happy one as she happily gives in to her husband’s indulgence. “Will you be a help and fetch down the tea things and some plates, whilst I fill the Brown Betty******.”
“Yes Mum!” Edith replies with eagerness, anxious to enjoy and savour the delight of one of her mother’s home made hot cross buns.
A short while later the table is set with a selection of Ada’s mismatched china pieces, all market finds she has made by her over the years, taken down from the shelves of the great, dark Welsh dresser behind Edith’s ladderback chair. George has a pretty blue and white floral sprigged Royal Doulton******* cup, whilst Ada has a pink, yellow and blue floral Colclough******** one, and Edith has her favourite yellow rose Royal Albert********* teacup with its dainty fluted sides and gilt edge. The Brown Betty sits gleaming between them, steam rising in delicate curlicues from her spot, flanked by a pretty Victorian milk jug and sugar bowl which is missing its lid.
“Right then!” Ada says cheerfully as she picks up a plate. “One for you George.” She picks up a hot cross bun and plops it on the plate and hands it to her husband, who accepts it gratefully with wide, hungry eyes. “And one for you, Edith love.” She picks up a second bun and places it on a plate which she then hands to her daughter. “And lastly one for me.” She adds one to her own plate. ‘Please help yourself to butter.” She indicates with an open hand to the small square of butter sitting in a gleaming clear glass dish.
“I wonder who will get the last one?” George asks, eyeing the remaining hot cross bun on the silver baking tray.
“Yes, I wonder.” Ada says sarcastically with raised eyebrows, knowing full well, as does Edith, that George will claim the last one for himself.
“You know the story of how your mum and I met, don’t you Edith love?” George asks as he cuts his bun in half with a knife.
Edith rolls her eyes. “Of course I do, Dad!” she replies with a good natured smile. “You have told Bert and I more times than I can count how you met Mum at the young people’s social picnic in Roundwood Park********** organised by the Vicar of All Souls***********. You tell us that Mum wouldn’t have been nearly as attractive if she hadn’t been carrying a tin of her best biscuits at the time.”
“Pshaw!” Ada scoffs as she butters her own hot cross bun before handing the dish to her husband.
“It’s true.” He accepts the butter dish. “Your mum knows the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and it certainly is mine.”
“Pshaw!” Ada repeats. “You mean you weren’t attracted to me anyway?” She turns back to her daughter. “I looked very fetching that day. I was wearing my new Sunday best dress for spring which I’d made especially for the picnic. It was made of cotton decorated with sprigs of pink roses, and it had leg-of-mutton sleeves************. I was wearing my best Sunday hat too, made of straw with the dried flowers around the brim.”
“Yes,” George replies, clearing his throat awkwardly. “You were as lovely as a summer’s day, Ada.”
Ada giggles rather girlishly, an unusual thing for Edith to witness and pushes a few loose strands of her mousy brown hair flecked with grey that has come loose from her bun behind her ear. “Your father was too shy to talk to me. It was only because I thought he looked rather handsome in his Sunday best suit and I asked him if he’d like a biscuit that we even spoke.”
“I say, steady on, old girl!” George retorts, clearing his throat awkwardly again. “That’s not how I remember it.”
“Men seldom remember the truth of things in the aftermath.” Ada winks at her daughter conspiratorially. “They are very good at inventing their own history.”
“Well, anyway,” George blusters as his cheeks redden with embarrassment, suggesting there is more than a little truth to his wife’s story. “What I wanted to ask you, Edith,” He focusses his attention on his daughter, trying to ignore his wife’s smug smile, pausing his buttering of his hot cross bun “Was, did I ever tell you about the first Easter Sunday picnic we had after your mother and I had been stepping out together?”
“No.” Edith replies, accepting the butter dish as he passes it to her, sitting more upright in her seat as she pays close attention. “I don’t think so.”
“Do you remember that picnic, Ada love?” George asks, smiling at his wife, his eyes sparkling with happiness and love.
Ada pauses for a moment, her buttered bun paused between her plate and her mouth. Her brow crumples over her eyes as she concentrates. “I remember the crocuses were out. The lawns near the old Lodge House Café************* were a sea of purple and lilac, with a smattering of orange.”
“As they are every spring, Ada love.” George remarks.
Edith bites into one half of her hot buttered hot cross bun and sighs with happiness, savouring the taste of the freshly baked and lightly spiced dough and warm, juicy currants as she chews.
“Do you remember anything else, Ada love?” George asks his wife as he bites into his own hot cross bun, washing the mouthful down with a swig of tea from his cup.
“I obviously must have made hot cross buns.” Ada adds hopefully, but the doubt in her voice demonstrates clearly that she doesn’t remember. “Or you wouldn’t have brought this reminiscence up.”
George chuckles, snoring through his nose as he finishes his mouthful of hot cross bun. “I’ll say you did!” he manages to say jovially as he chews.
Edith swallows her mouthful of bun and deposits the remainder on her plate. Picking up her teacup she asks before sipping its contents, “Well don’t keep me in suspense, Dad!” She swallows her tea. “What happened?”
“Yes, what did happ…” Ada begins, before halting mid-sentence and starting again. “Am I going to want our daughter to hear whatever you’re about to share, George Watsford?” She returns her untouched half of her bun to her plate and looks sharply at her husband.
“Goodness Ada, how suspicious you are.” George chuckles good naturedly. He turns to his daughter. “That’s marriage for you. Are you sure you want to marry Frank?” he adds jokingly.
“Oh Dad!” Edith laughs, flapping her hand dismissively at him.
“What are you going to tell our daughter, George?” Ada persists.
“I was simply going to tell Edith about how popular your hot cross buns were that day.” George elucidates.
“Oh well, that’s alright then.” Ada replies, heaving a sigh of relief, easing her tensed shoulders and settling back into the round spindled back of her Windsor chair. Picking up the half a hot cross bun she gives her permission by nodding and saying, “Go ahead.” She then takes a bite of her bun and sighs happily.
After quickly scoffing the remainder of his first half of his hot cross bun, George rubs his buttery fingers together before steepling them over his plate and staring at his daughter who returns his gaze with alert eyes, anxious to know what transpired. “Well Edith, as you know at these sorts of occasions, once again being a young people’s Easter Sunday picnic organsied by the Vicar, everyone knew everyone else.”
George pauses and looks at his wife to see if she remembers the picnic, however her face remains passive, her eyes inquisitive.
“Go on Dad.” Edith says with anticipation.
“And of course that meant that everyone also knew about your mum’s baking prowess.” George goes on.
“Oh George!” Ada gasps, blushing at her husband’s compliment.
“What happened, Dad?” Edith asks.
“Well, on the day of the Easter Sunday picnic, your mum had baked me a basket of fresh hot cross buns that we were able to share, but when we sat down,” He turns his attentions back to his wife. “Lilian and Ernie Pyecroft, who were of course only young lovers a-courting then too and not married, came and joined us.” George chuckles as he remembers. “Your mum offered them a freshly baked hot cross bun each, which they took. And then your Aunt Maud arrived with your Uncle Sydney and she offered them a bun each, and then the Vicar and his wife walked past, so she offered them one each.”
“It was the right and Christian thing to do, George,” Ada defends herself. “To offer the Vicar and his wife a hot cross bun each! I could hardly have not! I would have looked stingy.”
“Aha!” George laughs, pointing at his wife. “You do remember then, Ada!”
“Of course I remember, George love.” Ada replies, her face flushing with embarrassment.
“Well, what was so wrong with offering the Vicar and his wife a hot cross bun, Dad?” Edith asks. “I’d have done the same.”
“Of course you would, Edith love.” Ada purrs. “I’m proud of you.”
“Because,” George explains with a loud guffaw. “By the time she had done that, she’d given away all the hot cross buns she’s made for us, and I didn’t get to have a one that day!”
“Oh Mum!” Edith replies as she starts to giggle.
“I was just trying to be a good, Christian soul.” Ada defends herself again, folding her arms akimbo, but blushing bright red as she does.
“You were that,” George laughs harder. “To my detriment!”
Then even Ada starts to laugh at the tale of that Easter many springs ago before the war. “At least I made you some more the next Sunday when we had a picnic, George Watsford! And you were able to have as many as you wanted.”
George’s laughs start to subside, and he concurs with this wife.
“What did you eat then, if all the hot cross buns were gone?” Edith asks her parents.
“Oh don’t worry, Edith love. I knew your father had a good appetite, so I’d also made a nice cherry cobbler, which we made short work of.”
“We did that.” George agrees.
The family trio continue to enjoy their hot buttered fresh hot cross buns, chuckling away at George’s tale as they finish them off. The kitchen feels warm and cosy filled with the smell of Ada’s hot cross buns and the sound of their gentle enjoyment of them. True to his usual form, George scoffs the last of his first hot cross bun, and then helps himself to the last one on the tray between them all. Ada and Edith smile at him indulgently as they watch him enjoy it like a little boy.
“More tea, Edith love?” Ada asks, picking up the Brown betty and proffering its tilted spout towards her daughter’s teacup.
“Yes please, Mum.” Edith replies, lifting up her cup.
As Ada fills her daughter’s cup, a thoughtful look crosses Edith’s face.
“Mum, I’ve just had the loveliest idea.” she says looking up at her mother.
“What’s that, Edith love?” Ada asks.
“Well, why don’t we have a picnic on Easter Sunday in Roundwood Park: you Dad, me and Frank!” Edith enthuses. “You can bake hot cross buns and I’ll make some sandwiches. It will give me a good excuse to use the wonderful picnic basket Bert brought back from Australia for me.”
“What about Mrs. McTavish, Edith?” George asks.
“Oh, she’s gone to stay with her brother in Aberdeen, as she does every year at Easter, Dad, so it’s just Frank on his own.”
“Well, I think that sounds like a capital idea, Edith.” Ada agrees. “Let’s do it! What do you think, George?”
“I’m happy to, Ada love, but only on one condition though.” George adds.
“What?” Ada and Edith ask at the same time.
“That there are to be no giving of hot cross buns to any passenger vicars.” Georg says with a definite nod as he eats the last of his second hot cross bun.
*A hot cross bun is a spiced bun, usually containing small pieces of raisins and orange peel, marked with a cross on the top, which has been traditionally eaten on Good Friday in the United Kingdom, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Canada, India, Pakistan, Malta, the United States and the Commonwealth Caribbean. They are available all year round in some countries now, including the United Kingdom and Australia. The bun marks the end of the season of Lent and different elements of the hot cross bun each have a specific meaning, such as the cross representing the crucifixion of Jesus, the spices inside signifying the spices used to embalm him and sometimes also orange peel reflecting the bitterness of his time on the cross.
**The Sunday Express became the first newspaper to publish a crossword in November 1924.
***The term “old hat”, meaning out-of-date or old fashioned, is a relatively new saying, dating from 1911, taken quite literally from the words “old” and “hat”.
****Coke is a grey, hard, and porous coal-based fuel with a high carbon content. It is made by heating coal or petroleum in the absence of air. Coke is an important industrial product, used mainly in iron ore smelting today, but was also commonly used as a cheap fuel in stoves and forges in the Victorian and Edwardian eras before the and even in the immediate years after the Second World War. The unqualified term "coke" usually refers to the product derived from low-ash and low-sulphur bituminous coal by a process called coking.
*****An argyle pattern features overlapping diamonds with intersecting diagonal lines on top of the diamonds. They are traditionally knit, not woven, using an intarsia technique. The pattern was named after the Seventeenth Century tartan of Clan Campbell of Argyll in western Scotland.
******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.
*******Royal Doulton is an English ceramic manufacturing company dating from 1815. Operating originally in Vauxhall, London, later moving to Lambeth, in 1882 it opened a factory in Burslem, Stoke-on-Trent, in the centre of English pottery. From the start the backbone of the business was a wide range of utilitarian wares, mostly stonewares including storage jars, tankards and the like, and later extending to pipes for drains, lavatories and other bathroom ceramics. From 1853 to 1902 its wares were marked Doulton & Co., then from 1902, when a royal warrant was given, Royal Doulton. It always made some more decorative wares, initially still mostly stoneware, and from the 1860s the firm made considerable efforts to get a reputation for design, in which it was largely successful, as one of the first British makers of art pottery. Initially this was done through artistic stonewares made in Lambeth, but in 1882 the firm bought a Burslem factory, which was mainly intended for making bone china tablewares and decorative items. It was a latecomer in this market compared to firms such as Royal Crown Derby, Royal Worcester, Wedgwood, Spode and Mintons, but made a place for itself in the later 19th century. Today Royal Doulton mainly produces tableware and figurines, but also cookware, glassware, and other home accessories such as linens, curtains and lighting. Three of its brands were Royal Doulton, Royal Albert and (after a post-WWII merger) Mintons. Royal Doulton is one of the last great British bone china manufacturers still in existence.
******** Colclough Bone China was founded in Staffordshire in 1890 by Herbert J. Colclough, the former mayor of Stoke-on-Trent. Herbert loved porcelain and loved the ordinary working man. One of his desires was to bring fine bone china, a preserve of the upper and middle classes, to the working man. He felt that it would give them aspirations and dignity to eat off fine bone china. Colclough Bone China received a Royal Warrant from King George V in 1913. Colclough went on to innovate the production of fine bone china for the mass market in the 1920s and 1930s. They produced the backstamp brands Royal Vale and Royal Stanley. Colclough Bone China merged with Booth’s Pottery and later acquired Ridgeway China. Eventually they amalgamated with Royal Doulton in the 1970s.
*********In 1896, Thomas Clark Wild bought a pottery in Longton, Stoke on Trent, England, called Albert Works, which had been named the year before in honor of the birth of Prince Albert, who became King George VI in 1936. Using the brand name Albert Crown China, Thomas Wild and Co. produced commemorative bone-china pieces for Queen Victoria's 1897 Diamond Jubilee, and by 1904 had earned a Royal Warrant. From the beginning, Royal Albert's bone china dinnerware was popular, especially its original floral patterns made in rich shades of red, green, and blue. Known for incredibly fine, white, and pure bone china, Royal Albert was given to the sentimental and florid excesses of Victorian era England, making pattern after pattern inspired by English gardens and woodlands. With designs like Serena, Old English Roses, and Masquerade and motifs inspired by Japanese Imari, the company appealed to a wide range of tastes, from the simplest to the most aristocratic. In 1910, the company created its first overseas agency in New Zealand. Soon it had offices in Australia, Canada, and the United States. Willing to experiment with the latest in industrial technologies, the company was an early adopter of kilns fuelled by gas and electricity. Starting in 1927, Royal Albert china used a wide variety of more stylized backstamps, some with the crown, some without, and others stylized with script and Art Deco lettering. Some of these marks even had roses or other parts of the pattern in them. Patterns from the years between the wars include American Beauty, Maytime, Indian Tree, Dolly Varden, and Lady-Gay. The '40s saw patterns like Fragrance, Teddy's Playtime, Violets for Love, Princess Anne, Sunflower, White Dogwood, Mikado, Minuet, Cotswold, and the popular Lady Carlyle. Royal Albert incorporated as a limited company in 1933, and in the 1960s it was acquired by Pearson Group, joining that company's Allied English Potteries. By 1970, the porcelain maker was completely disassociated with its T.C. Wild & Sons origins and renamed Royal Albert Ltd. Pearson Group also acquired Royal Doulton in 1972, putting Royal Crown Derby, Royal Albert, Paragon, and the Lawleys chain under the Royal Doulton umbrella, which at this point included Minton, John Beswick, and Webb Corbett. In 1993, Royal Doulton Group was ejected from Pearson Group, for making less money than its other properties. In 2002, Royal Doulton moved the production of Royal Albert china from England to Indonesia. A few years later, Waterford Wedgwood absorbed Royal Doulton Group and all its holdings, which currently makes three brands, Royal Doulton, Minton, and Royal Albert, including the Old Country Roses pattern, which is Royal Albert’s most popular design.
**********Roundwood Park takes its name from Roundwood House, an Elizabethan-style mansion built in Harlesden for Lord Decies in around 1836. In 1892 Willesden Local Board, conscious of a need for a recreation ground in expanding Harlesden, started the process of buying the land for what is now Roundwood Park. Roundwood Park was built in 1893, designed by Oliver Claude Robson. He was allocated nine thousand pounds to lay out the park. He put in five miles of drains, and planted an additional fourteen and a half thousand trees and shrubs. This took quite a long time as he used local unemployed labour for this work in preference to contractors. Mr. Robson had been the Surveyor of the Willesden Local Board since 1875. As an engineer, he was responsible for many major works in Willesden including sewerage and roads. The fine main gates and railings were made in 1895 by Messrs. Tickner & Partington at the Vulcan Works, Harrow Road, Kensal Rise. An elegant lodge house was built to house the gardener; greenhouses erected to supply new flowers, and paths constructed, running upward to the focal point-an elegant bandstand on the top of the hill. The redbrick lodge was in the Victorian Elizabethan style, with ornamented chimney-breasts. It is currently occupied by council employees although the green houses have been demolished. For many years Roundwood Park was home to the Willesden Show. Owners of pets of many types, flowers and vegetables, and even 'bonny babies' would compete for prizes in large canvas tents. Art and crafts were shown, and demonstrations of dog-handling, sheep-shearing, parachuting and trick motorcycling given.
***********The parish of All Souls, Harlesden, was formed in 1875 from Willesden, Acton, St John's, Kensal Green, and Hammersmith. Mission services had been held by the curate of St Mary's, Willesden, at Harlesden institute from 1858. The parish church at Station Road, Harlesden, was built and consecrated in 1879. The town centre church is a remarkable brick octagon designed by E.J. Tarver. Originally there was a nave which was extended in 1890 but demolished in 1970.
************A gigot sleeve is a sleeve that was full at the shoulder and became tightly fitted to the wrist. It was more commonly known as a leg-of-mutton sleeve.
*************Oliver Claude Robson who designed Roundwood Park decided that a café would be a good addition to the park, so in 1897 a suitable building was designed and constructed by council employees. It was made of brick and timber with a steeply pitched slate roof and gables, with a verandah surrounding it. Various owners succeeded one another. In 1985, a new building was constructed because the old one became run down.
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 hot cross buns on the silver baking tray on the kitchen table have been made in England by hand 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 Brown Betty teapot, made of real glazed pottery, comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. various odd china pieces all come from online stockists of miniatures on E-Bay. The newspaper which features an image of Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, the future Queen Elizabeth and one day Queen Mother, is a copy of a real Daily Mail newspaper from 1925 and was produced to high standards in 1:12 by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The pencil on top of it is a 1:12 miniature as well, acquired from Melody Jane Dolls’ House Suppliers. It is only one millimetre wide and two centimetres long.
Edith’s handbag handmade from soft leather is part of a larger collection of hats and bags that I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel, including Ada’s tan soft leather handbag seen resting against her basket at the right of the picture.
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 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 revolutionised domestic cookery. Amongst other foods on the dresser are a jar of Bovril, a tin Bird’s Golden Raising Powder, some Ty-Phoo tea, a tin of S.P.C. canned fruit 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.
Bovril is the trademarked name of a thick and salty meat extract paste similar to a yeast extract, developed in the 1870s by John Lawson Johnston. It is sold in a distinctive bulbous jar, and as cubes and granules. Bovril is owned and distributed by Unilever UK. Its appearance is similar to Marmite and Vegemite. Bovril can be made into a drink ("beef tea") by diluting with hot water or, less commonly, with milk. It can be used as a flavouring for soups, broth, stews or porridge, or as a spread, especially on toast in a similar fashion to Marmite and Vegemite.
In 1863, William Sumner published A Popular Treatise on Tea as a by-product of the first trade missions to China from London. In 1870, William and his son John Sumner founded a pharmacy/grocery business in Birmingham. William's grandson, John Sumner Jr. (born in 1856), took over the running of the business in the 1900s. Following comments from his sister on the calming effects of tea fannings, in 1903, John Jr. decided to create a new tea that he could sell in his shop. He set his own criteria for the new brand. The name had to be distinctive and unlike others, it had to be a name that would trip off the tongue and it had to be one that would be protected by registration. The name Typhoo comes from the Mandarin Chinese word for “doctor”. Typhoo began making tea bags in 1967. In 1978, production was moved from Birmingham to Moreton on the Wirral Peninsula, in Merseyside. The Moreton site is also the location of Burton's Foods and Manor Bakeries factories. Typhoo has been owned since July 2021 by British private-equity firm Zetland Capital. It was previously owned by Apeejay Surrendra Group of India.
Bird’s were best known for making custard and Bird’s Custard is still a common household name, although they produced other desserts beyond custard, including the blancmange. They also made Bird’s Golden Raising Powder – their brand of baking powder. Bird’s Custard was first formulated and first cooked by Alfred Bird in 1837 at his chemist shop in Birmingham. He developed the recipe because his wife was allergic to eggs, the key ingredient used to thicken traditional custard. The Birds continued to serve real custard to dinner guests, until one evening when the egg-free custard was served instead, either by accident or design. The dessert was so well received by the other diners that Alfred Bird put the recipe into wider production. John Monkhouse (1862–1938) was a prosperous Methodist businessman who co-founded Monk and Glass, which made custard powder and jelly. Monk and Glass custard was made in Clerkenwell and sold in the home market, and exported to the Empire and to America. They acquired by its rival Bird’s Custard in the early Twentieth Century.
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.
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).
Letter on reverse generously translated by Nettenscheider; penned in Beverloo on 16.7.1918 and addressed to Obergefreiter Ludwig Stuffer serving with 3 bayer. Landwehr-Fußartillerie-Bataillone, 5 Batterie. Einheitsstempel: Infanterie-Ersatz-Truppe Beverloo.
Besides the training camps in Germany, two very large training centres were formed in the occupied territories; namely at Beverloo (east of Antwerp) in Belgium and at Warsaw in Poland.
The training centres acted as reservoirs for the supply of drafts / conscripts to the Western and Eastern Fronts respectively. Each had a permanent training establishment known as an Infanterie-Ersatz-Truppe.
The Infanterie-Ersatz-Truppe in Beverloo consisted of 11 battalions and Warsaw of 4 battalions ( see bottom explanation). Recruits were sent from these camps as required, either direct to units in the field or to the field recruit depots attached to fighting units in the field.
archiwum.allegro.pl/oferta/ksiazeczka-truppe-warschau-ost...
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 staying at her old family home for the festive season as she usually does between Christmas and Twelfth Night*. However, this year she had an extra reason for being with her family this Christmas.
For nearly a year Lettice had been patiently awaiting the return of her then beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban by his mother, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wanted to end so that she could marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Having been made aware by Lady Zinnia in October that during the course of the year, whilst Lettice had been biding her time, waiting for Selwyn’s eventual return, he had become engaged to the daughter of a Kenyan diamond mine owner whilst in Durban. Fleeing Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion, Lettice returned to Cavendish Mews and milled over her options over a week as she reeled from the news. Then, after that week, she knew exactly what to do to resolve the issues raised by Lady Zinnia’s unwelcome news about her son. Taking extra care in her dress, she took herself off to the neighbouring upper-class London suburb of Belgravia and paid a call upon Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.
Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening.
Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Turning up unannounced on his doorstep, she agreed to his proposal after explaining that the understanding between she and Selwyn was concluded. However, in an effort to be discreet, at Lettice’s insistence, they did not make their engagement public until the new year: after the dust about Selwyn’s break of his and Lettice’s engagement settled. Sir John motored across from Fontengil Park in the days following New Year and he and Lettice announced their engagement in the palatial Glynes drawing room before the Viscount and Lady Sadie the Countess, Leslie, Arabella and the Viscount’s sister Eglantyne (known by all the Chetwynd children affectionally as Aunt Egg). The announcement received somewhat awkwardly by the Viscount initially, until Lettice assured him that her choice to marry Sir John has nothing to do with undue influence, mistaken motivations, but perhaps the person most put out by the news is Aunt Egg who is not a great believer in the institution of marriage, and feels Lettice was perfectly fine as a modern unmarried woman. Lady Sadie, who Lettice thought would be thrilled by the announcement of her engagement, received the news with a somewhat muted response and she discreetly slipped away after drinking a toast to the newly engaged couple with a glass of fine champagne from the Glynes wine cellar.
We now find ourselves in the Glynes morning room where after noticing her prolonged absence, the Viscount has discovered his wife sitting quietly alone.
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 her 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 Glynes’ hothouse flowers stand on occasional tables, but even their fragrance cannot smother Lady Sadie’s Yardley Lily of the Valley scent which is ever present in the air.
“I say! What are you doing in here, old girl?” the Viscount asks as she sees his wife sitting at her bonheur de jour** in the corner of the morning room. “The rest of the family is still in the drawing room, including Lally and Charles, who have returned from their visit to Bowood.***”
“I’m well aware of that, Cosmo. I heard them come back.” Lady Sadie says peevishly. “And less of the old, if you don’t mind.”
“Sorry Sadie.” the Viscount apologises. “It’s having all the young ones around and their new vernacular. It’s ‘old boy this’ and ‘old girl that’. It’s catching.”
“That’s alright, Cosmo, so long as it doesn’t catch on, here.” Lady Sadie replies with a cocked eyebrow.
“We were wondering where you’d gotten to.” the Viscount says. “I’ve opened another bottle of champagne.”
“Have you, dear?” Lady Sadie remarks absently.
“Of course I have, Sadie!” the Viscount chortles. “After all, it isn’t every day that our youngest daughter gets married.”
“I suppose not, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie replies rather laconically.
The Viscount watches his wife as she picks up a studio photograph taken in London by Bassano**** of their eldest daughter, Lally as a gangly young teenager, and Lettice as a girl of seven, both dressed in the pre-war uniform fashion of young girls: white lawn dresses with their hair tied in large satin bows. She sighs.
“Sir John is suggesting that we all motor over to Fontengil Park for luncheon, now that Lally and Charles are back.” the Viscount remarks awkwardly in an effort to break his wife’s unusual silence. “To celebrate the good news as it were. I thought it was rather a capital idea! Don’t you agree, Sadie?”
Lady Sadie doesn’t reply, instead staring deeply at the faces of her two daughters forever captured within Mr. Basanno’s lens, her look expectant, as if she were waiting for them to speak.
“You know, I must confess, I wasn’t too keen on him to begin with, nor the idea of he and Lettice marrying.” He looks guiltily at his wife. “I never really liked him, and always thought him a bit of an old lecher, sniffing around young women half his age, like our daughter. But Lettice assures me that she has made up her mind to marry him, and that there was no undue influence in the making of her decision.”
“Undue influence.” Lady Sadie muses in a deadpan voice.
“And now that I’ve really met him and chatted with him properly, I actually don’t mind Sir John, even if I do worry that he may be a tad old for Lettice. He’s quite a raconteur, very eloquent and worldly, and he obviously wants to make her happy. He might be just what she needs after all: a mature man who can help guide her in life, and indulge her too. He says he has no intention of stopping her career as an interior designer.”
Lady Sadie does not reply to her husband’s observations.
“Of course Eglantyne is quite against the engagement.” The Viscount chuckles. “But then, you know her opinions about marriage.”
Lady Sadie’s silence unnerves the Viscount as he tries desperately to fill the empty void between the pair of them.
“I thought I might get Harris to motor Leslie, Arabella, the grandchildren, you and I over there together.” the Viscount goes on when no opinion is forthcoming from his wife. “It might be fun for Harrold and Annabelle to come for a ride with us in the big old Daimler. Charles and Lally can go in their car with nanny and the baby.”
“Piers is hardly a baby anymore, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie opines as she puts down the photo of Lally and Lettice and picks up one of their eldest son, Leslie, as a boy of six in a Victorian sailor suit, with his soft blonde waves swept neatly behind his ears. “He’s two now, nearly three.” She then adds, “Won’t that be rather tiresome for Sir John’s cook, catering for us all?”
“We are connected to the exchange, Sadie. He can telephone ahead.”
“As you like.” she replies in a rather non-committal way. “Although I might cry off with one of my heads.”
“You don’t have one of your heads, Sadie.” the Viscount says darkly.
“How do you know I don’t, Cosmo. You don’t suffer them as I do.”
“I’ve been married to you long enough to know when you have a headache and when you don’t.” he replies. “And you certainly don’t have one now, even if you say you do.”
Putting down the photo of Leslie and picking up one of their second son, Lionel also in a sailor’s suit, and wearing a straw hat, Lady Sadie shudders. His look is sweet, but already at the tender age of three or four he was causing trouble, playing nasty tricks and hurting his nannies and worse, his own siblings. When Lettice was born a few years after the photograph was taken, Lady Sadie had to warn Lettice’s nurses that they were never to leave her unattended in Lionel’s presence, lest he smother her with a pillow, which he tried to do on several occasions when the nurses were slack in their observation of Lady Sadie’s rule or they were caught off guard.
“And of course Sir John can take Lettice over there in that topping blue Bugatti Torpedo***** of his.”
“Ghastly, vulgar and showy.” Lady Sadie opines. “Tearing up the country lanes as he speeds along them, so that no decent person of the county can walk them any more without fearing for their lives when he’s visiting the district.” She sniffs. “Or so I have it on good authority.”
She returns to her perusal of photos.
“I say, Sadie,” the Viscount remarks in surprise. “What’s the matter?”
“Whatever do you mean, Cosmo?” she asks, lifting her head from a baby photo of Leslie sitting on the corner of a button back****** sofa taken at the same time as the one she has of him leaning precariously against a rocking chair in a silver frame standing on the right side of her bonheur de jour.
“You know perfectly well.” the Viscount retorts. “Don’t be obtuse.”
“I’m not being obtuse, Cosmo!” Lady Sadie retorts.
The Viscount sighs, knowing in order to get an answer, he must play his wife’s game of teasing out the answer from her: a game he is well versed in playing after many years of marriage.
“You’re obviously not happy about the engagement, which I have to say surprises me. Why have you suddenly taken so much against Sir John? I thought you’d be delighted by the announcement.”
Lady Sadie ignores her husband’s question and picks up a large and ornate framed photograph of a wedding group taken in the early years of the Twentieth Century. It features a rather beaky looking bride in a pretty lace covered white wedding dress and a splendid black feather covered Edwardian picture hat. Her groom, dressed in his Sunday best suit with a boutonnière******* in his lapel and a derby on his head sits back in his seat, looking very proud. Around them stand various men and women in their Edwardian best, but the flat caps and mismatched jackets and trousers of the men and similarly mismatched outfits of the ladies suggest that this is not an upper-class wedding. In front of the bride a five year old Lettice stands proudly dressed as a flower girl in a white lace dress with ribbons in her hair, clutching a bouquet.
“Didn’t you take that photograph with your first Box Brownie********, Sadie?” the Viscount asks as he walks over and stands next to his wife and looks at the photograph.
“Yes, I did, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie acknowledges. “How good of you to remember.”
“Oh, who could forget that occasion?” the Viscount chortles sadly. “That was poor Elsie Bucknell’s wedding to that wastrel who turned her head with all his talk of being a tailor to all the great and good of Swindon, when in fact he was nothing but a con man from Manchester.”
“You were very good to settle the debts he left her with after he and his real wife absconded with all her money.” Sadie says, pointing at the rather pretty woman in white and a neat picture hat sitting to the groom’s right.
“Well, it was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? As lord of manor, it was my duty to support her, poor jilted woman.”
“Yes, the right thing.” Lady Sadie agrees with a sigh. “You’ve always done the right thing, Cosmo.”
“Well, I also did encourage her to marry him when she asked my opinion of him.”
“You’ve not always been the best judge of character, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie remarks.
The Viscount laughs. “What does that say about me choosing you as my bride then, Sadie?”
“I did imply that your poor judgements of character only happen sometimes, not always.” She runs her fingers over the glass in front of Lettice’s smiling face. “Lettice was as pleased as punch to be the flower girl at that wedding. Do you remember?”
“I do believe she thought all the smiles and gushing of the adulating congregation were for her and not for Elise behind her.”
“I do believe you are right, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie chuckles. “Did you know that’s why they call them, ‘Flappers’?”
“Who dear?”
“The newspapers and magazines.” Lady Sadie muses. “I found out not all that long ago, from Geraldine Evans of all people, if you can believe it,” she remarks with another chuckle, mentioning the elder of two genteel spinster sisters who live in Holland House, a Seventeenth Century manor house, in Glynes village. “She told me that they call the young girls of the Bright Young Things********* ‘Flappers’ because it refers to the fact that when they were girls and their hair was still down, it was tied by flapping ribbons or tied in pigtails that flapped.” She points to the big bow in the young Lettice’s hair.
“No. No, I didn’t know.” the Viscount replies a little awkwardly. “Look, what’s all this got to do wi…”
“Thinking of the right thing, Cosmo, I really should take this photo out of the frame, what with all the sad connotations it has, but I can’t quite bear to do it.” Lady Sadie goes on, interrupting her husband. “I’m rather proud of this photograph.”
“There’s no need. Elise has long since left Glynes after all the scandal, so she won’t know. Anyway, it’s a very good shot, Sadie.” her husband agrees, putting his hand around her and giving her right shoulder an encouraging squeeze.
“I’ve never been what you’d call artistic, like Eglantyne,” Lady Sadie says, referring to her husband’s favourite younger sibling, who is an artist of some renown in London. “Or like Lettice, but I’m not bad at taking photographs.”
“I think you’re a dab hand at it, Sadie my dear.” He rubs his wife’s right forearm, and bestows a kiss on her greyish white waves atop her head. “Far better than me, or Leslie. But I ask again, what’s any of this to do with Sir John, and your sudden dislike of him?”
“You know, you think you know what, or who your children will become,” Lady Sadie says wistfully, replacing the photograph in the frame back on the surface of her bonheur de jour. “And yet, they always surprise you.”
“Oh, I don’t think either Leslie or Lally have been particularly surprising.” the Viscount retorts.
“No?”
“No. As the eldest son, Leslie has turned out to be the fine heir to the Glynes estate that we always wanted. He’s responsible, and goodness knows his insight and forward thinking has prevented us from finding ourselves in the straitened circumstances that the Brutons or poor Nigel Tyrwhitt and Isobel are in now. And now that he’s married, it will only be a matter of time before he and Arabella give us a grandson to carry on the Chetwynd line and one day become the next Viscount Wrexham.” He smiles indulgently at the thought. “And Lally’s marriage to Charles Lanchenbury is all we could hope for, for her. I mean, Charles may not inherit a hereditary title from old Lanchenbury, which is a bit of a pity. But still, he’s a successful businessman and she’ll never wont for anything. She seems to rather enjoy playing lady or the manor in High Wycombe with her brood.”
“Oh yes.”
“Lionel was a surprising one.” The Viscount picks up the photograph of his second son in his Victorian sailor’s outfit and wide brimmed straw hat that his wife had held before. “Who would have imagined that behind such an angelic face lurked the depraved character of the devil incarnate?” He feels his wife shudder again at the thought of their wayward son beneath his hand. “There, there, Sadie my dear.” he coos. “The further away from us he is, the less we have to think about him,” He heaves a great sigh of regret. “Or deal with his messy affairs.”
“You know I received a letter from him yesterday?” Lady Sadie asks.
“No.”
“Yes,” Lady Sadie snorts derisively. “From Durban of places, would you believe?”
“The same as young Spencely.”
“Yes! Isn’t that a coincidence? It was quite a good letter actually, and the first I’ve had since Leslie’s wedding where he doesn’t implore me to ask you to bring him back here. He writes that he went to Durban to show off two of his new Thoroughbreds to a perspective buyer: some playboy horse racing son of a nouveau riche businessman. It sounds like he’s had a bit of luck, as he seems quite flush at the moment, going to nightclubs and the like down there.”
“Squandering his earnings on gambling, women and god knows what else, down there, I’ll warrant.” the Viscount opines gruffly.
“No doubt.” Lady Sadie sighs.
“Poor Lettice.” the Viscount adds in a softer tone, as his mind shifts to his youngest daughter’s heartbreak at the hands of Selwyn Spencely.
“Aahh, and then there was Lettice.” Lady Sadie remarks, taking up a round gold frame featuring a studio photograph of a beaming Lettice at age ten in a smart winter coat and large brimmed hat, full of confidence sitting before the camera. “The most surprising child of all, not least of all because she was a surprise late pregnancy for me.”
“Oh, Lettice is no surprise to me, Sadie.” the Viscount retorts. “I mean, Eglantyne picked her as having an artistic temperament right from the beginning, and she was right. I knew she had more brains than our Lally has, which is why I gave her all those extra lessons.”
“You indulged her, Cosmo!” Lady Sadie remarks. “You’ve always spoiled her. So does Eglantyne. She’s your pet, and hers too.”
“Every bit as much as Leslie is yours, Sadie.” He points to the silver framed portrait of Leslie.
“You were the one who encouraged her to start up this ridiculous interior decoration nonsense.”
“Well, in reality it was really Eglantyne who drew my attention to her flair for design, but I’m glad that she did. Look at the successes she has had! She runs her own business, with very few hiccups or missteps,” He momentarily remembers the kerfuffle that there was with Lettice signing a contract drawn up by Lady Gladys Caxton’s lawyers without consulting the Chetwynd family lawyers. “And she’s very good at keeping accounts.”
“Excellent, she’ll make the perfect bookkeeper.” Lady Sadie remarks sarcastically.
“It will put her in good stead for running Sir John’s households, Sadie.” the Viscount tempers. “Goodness knows he has enough of them. And she has received accolades from Henry Tipping**********, printed in Country Life********** for all to see, and that is fine feather for her cap, you must confess.”
“I don’t deny that.” Lady Sadie agrees somewhat reluctantly.
“No, I always knew Lettice would be the greatest success of all our children.” the Viscount says proudly.
“Did you, Cosmo?”
“Of course I did, Sadie. I understand her.”
“You!” Lady Sadie scoffs. “You may decry that you love your youngest and favourite daughter so well, Cosmo, and without a doubt, you do. However, whatever you say, you don’t understand Lettice.”
“And you do, Sadie?” the Viscount retorts hotly. “When she comes home to lick her wounds after Zinnia sent Selwyn away, craving comfort, you drove her from the house, telling her she needed to throw herself into the social rounds, rather than stop and miss him. Is that understanding?” He folds his arms akimbo and looks away from his wife in disgust. “No wonder she kept her engagement to Sir John a secret for the last month or so, since you suddenly seem to despise her husband-to-be: a man whom I should like to point out, you thought was perfectly suitable for her not so very long ago. Sir John may not have the title of duke, but he has a title nonetheless, and I have no doubt that his fortune is equal to that of the Duke of Walmsford.”
“You misunderstand me, and my motives, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie replies, hurt by his words, but also resigned to the fact that he believes them. “As always, I am portrayed like one of Mrs. Maingot’s derided pantomime villains in the Glynes Christmas play.”
“If the cap fits, Sadie.”
“See, you think I don’t understand my children, but I assure you that, aside from Lionel, I do.”
“Who could ever understand that child of the devil, Sadie?”
“Indeed, well aside from our errant black sheep, I understand the others. You love them, Cosmo, probably far more than me, but I on the other hand, understand them.”
“How so, Sadie?”
“You misalign my actions because you don’t understand them, either. When Lettice came here after Zinnia packed Selwyn off to Durban, what did you do? You gave her a place to shelter, yes, but you mollycoddled her: feeding her shortbreads and allowing her to retreat from the world.”
“Well, that’s what she needed, Sadie.”
“No. That’s where you are wrong, Cosmo. She didn’t need mollycoddling. It just made things worse. It amplified her situation and how she felt as you allowed her to spend her empty days brooding. Lettice is apt to brood, when given the opportunity. What she really needed was to be told that the sun will still rise and set, in spite of her own innermost turmoil, and what she needed was to be sent back out into the world, so that she could be distracted, and build up her resilience. That’s what she needed, Cosmo, and I helped her achieve that. And that, my dear, is what I mean by truly understanding Lettice. Believe it or not, I understand her as a young woman, and I understand what she needs.”
“Well, if you wanted to build resilience in her, that’s what you’ve achieved, and admirably at that. Selwyn jilts our daughter and what does she do? Rather than moping, which is what you seem to think I would have encouraged her to do, she went out and got herself engaged to one of the most eligible bachelors in the county, in England no less. Yet you don’t seem at all happy about the engagement, even though you put Sir John into the mix at the Hunt Ball that you used as a marriage market for Lettice.”
“Once again, Cosmo, you see your daughter, but you don’t understand her.”
“Then pray enlighten me, Sadie because I certainly don’t understand you right at this moment.”
“Lettice’s heart is breaking, and ever since she was a child, when her heart is broken, she lashes out, like when Mopsy died. Remember her Cavalier King Charles Spaniel?”
“How could I forget that beautiful dog. But surely you aren’t comparing her tears and tantrums as a seven year old child, to now, Sadie? There are no tears this time, no tantrums.”
“But that’s where you are wrong, Cosmo. This is her tantrum. It just isn’t one that exhibits itself in the same way. Lettice is trying to prove to Selwyn,” She pauses for a moment and thinks. “No, more prove to Zinna, that she isn’t defeated by whatever nasty games she is playing to break the romance between Lettice and Selwyn. She’s trying to exact revenge on them both.” Lady Sadie sighs. “But she’s going about it all wrong.”
“What do you mean, Sadie?” The Viscount sighs as he sinks down onto the edge of one of the morning room chairs nearest him and looks across at his wife, who sits, slumped in her own seat at her desk, looking defeated.
“I blame myself really for this turn of events.” Lady Sadie gulps awkwardly. “I’m almost too ashamed to admit it, but I was misaligned in some of my thinking, and wrong in my judgement, and now the results have well and truly come home to roost.”
“What are you talking about, Sadie?”
“Sir John, Cosmo.” She says simply. “When I held that Hunt Ball, I practically threw Lettice at Sir John.”
“Well, to assuage your fears, Sadie, that is what I meant by confirming that there were no undue influences in Lettice’s decision.” the Viscount pronounces. “I asked her whether she felt obliged to marry Sir John because you had encouraged the match, and that she feared being stuck on the shelf.” He looks meaningfully at his wife. “But she says that neither of these had any influence on her decision. She says that Sir John isn’t perfect, but that he’s a good man, and that he isn’t lying to her. As I said - as you said – Sir John may not be young, but he’s eligible and wealthy to boot. Lettice will be chatelaine of a string of fine properties, and she’ll never have to worry about going without.”
“But Lettice is wrong about him nor lying to her.”
“What’s that?”
Lady Sadie snatches the lace handkerchief poking out of her left sleeve opening at her wrist and dabs her nose, sniffing as she does. “Several of my friends, Lally, and even Lettice tried to warn me about him. They said that he’s a lecherous man, with a penchant for younger women, actresses in particular.”
“Well,” the Viscount chuckles. “Plenty of men of good standing have been known to have the odd discreet elicit affair with a Gaiety Girl*********** or two.” He then blusters. “Not myself of course!”
“Of course not, Cosmo.” She reaches out one of her diamond spangled hands to her husband and takes his own proffered hand. “Never you. You were always too much of a gentleman to have a liaison with another woman. As I said, you always do the right thing, Cosmo. Do you know, I do believe that is why Zinnia stopped coming to our house parties. You weren’t for conquest, no matter how much she threw herself at you. And she did, quite shamelessly.”
“Did she?” the Viscount asks innocently.
“You know she did!” Lady Sadie slaps her husband’s wrist playfully. “Now who’s being obtuse?”
“Well, maybe I did sense her overtures towards me, but she never stood a chance, Sadie!” the Viscount replies with an earnest look. “You were only ever going to be the one for me.”
“That’s sweet of you Cosmo, and I appreciate it. But, for all his pedigree and wealth, and for all his apparent care for Lettice, your judge of character of Sir John is fatally flawed my dear.”
“Flawed?”
“Sir John Nettleford-Hughes is not for our youngest daughter.” Lady Sadie goes on. “Nor any good and upstanding young lady of society. I know now that he is a philanderer: discreet yes, but not discreet enough, and no matter how many houses he has, or wealth, he will never make Lettice happy – quite the opposite in fact, I fear, even if she can’t see that in her present state of besottedness. She will become the neglected, deserted wife and the ridicule of society. And that is why I am against Sir John, and this marriage, which will be as disastrous for her as dear Elsie Bucknell’s was for her.” Sadie points to the wedding party photograph again.
“What?”
“Yes.” Lady Sadie cocks an eyebrow as she gives her husband a withering look. “His latest conquest is an up-and-coming West End actress named Paula Young. Such a nasty, common name.” she opines. “Then again, it suits a nasty and common little upstart tart of an actress!”
“Sadie!”
“Sorry Cosmo, but that’s what she is, if she allows herself to be seen in such an…” Lady Sadie shudders. “An intimate situation with a man like Sir John.”
“Surely there is some kind of misunderstanding: just gossip, Sadie.”
“Gossip yes, but verified nonetheless.” Lady Sadie answers sadly. “Though I wish to god that I could say it wasn’t. My cousin Gwendolyn was having dinner at the Café Royal************ and saw them together herself less than a week ago.”
“What was Gwendolyn doing at the Café Royal?”
“She is a duchess, Cosmo dear, or have you forgotten?”
“Who could ever forget that Gwendolyn is the Duchess of Whiby, Sadie? She certainly won’t let anyone forget it.”
“Well, she was escorting her grand-nice Barbara who debuted last year as part of the London Season, because poor Monica had influenza and was confined to bed, and she noticed Sir John and that that cheap actress at a shaded corner table.”
“A simple dinner between two friends., Sadie.” the Viscount tries to explain the situation away.
“Gwendolyn says that he was practically devouring her as he lavished her bare forearms with kisses.” Lady Sadie replies with another shudder and a look of disgust. “In public! With an actress! How vulgar, and certainly not discreet, even if at a corner table in the shadows!”
“Gwendolyn goes looking for gossip wherever she goes, Sadie, even in places where it isn’t.” the Viscount cautions his wife.
“I know, but be that as it may, Cosmo, I also have it from your own sister, Eglantyne, that many years ago, before she was married, he also had an elicit affair with that awful romance novelist Gladys Caxton, whom Lettice and you had all the trouble with not long ago.”
“Well you know Eglantyne doesn’t believe in the institution of marriage.” the Viscount begins.
“This was before any of us even knew of the understanding reached between Lettice and Sir John, Cosmo.”
“Well,” he chuckles in an effort to shake he sudden concerns off. “If that affair was many years ago, who cares, Sadie? It has no significance now.”
Lady Sadie slides open a drawer of her bonheur de jour and takes out a sheet of paper on which is written a list of names.
“After Gwendolyn’s revelations, I did a bit of digging myself, and these are the actresses ingénues and parvenues I was able to connect him to.”
“The cad!” the Viscount gasps as his widened eyes run down the list. “There must be at lest two dozen women on this list.”
“There are twenty-nine to be exact, Cosmo, and they are only the ones I could find and link him to.”
“You know I always thought that he was an old letch.” the Viscount restates his long held belief again. “I can’t deny that I’d heard the rumours too, but being unmarried I didn’t pay them much mind. And when he showed up here today, all charm, and was so solicitous to Lettice, making my little girl so happy, well...”
“You were swayed on your judgment of this character.” Lady Sadie says with an arched eyebrow and a knowing look.
“I was.” the Viscount agrees. “I was persuaded: taken in by him as a matter-of-fact! What a fool I am!”
“Charming people can always beguile, dear Cosmo.”
“I shall go into the drawing room this very minute and have it out with him!” He gets to his feet, trembling with anger and frustration as his elegant hands form into fists. “I’ll fling Sir John out on his philandering ear!”
Lady Sadie reaches out again to still her husband, wrapping her hand comfortingly around his wrist. “No you won’t, Cosmo.” she says calmly and matter-of-factly, gazing up at him sadly. “It would be the wrong thing to do, and you know it. And, as we have agreed, you always do the right and decent thing. It would be too embarrassing to conduct such a scene before a houseful of guests, even if they are family: for Sir John, Leslie, Arabella, Lally, Eglantyne, me, you,” She lowers her voice and adds sadly. “For Lettice.”
“You’re right, Sadie.” the Viscount says, still trembling with anger. “Shall I speak to Lettice?” he suggests. “Pull her aside and have a discreet word with her?”
“Why, Cosmo?”
“I could forbid her to marry him. I could threaten to cut her allowance off.”
Lady Sadie laughs in a sad and tired fashion. “Cosmo, what purpose would that serve? She’s already told you that she intends to go through with this marriage, and that she won’t be swayed.”
“Well, Lettice might come to her senses if I tell her… tell her the reasons why I’m forbidding her to marry that… that bounder!”
“She knows already what kind of man Sir John is, Cosmo. She was one of the people who told me that he’s a philanderer.”
“What?”
“Lettice told me herself that he has a penchant for young ladies.”
“Well, if she hears it from me, her own father?”
“You’ll only drive her deeper into his arms, Cosmo. She’s angry. She’s hurting. She’s rebelling, God help us all!” Lady Sadie says knowingly. “She’s seeking revenge. And your threat to cut off Lettice’s allowance would be meaningless if she marries Sir John. As you have duly noted already, he’s richer than Croesus*************. Besides, thanks to you and Eglantyne she also has a successful business venture to support her now.”
“What the devil is she playing at then?” the Viscount asks. “Is it not bad enough that we have an errant son in Lionel, that we must now have a daughter who marries a known philanderer with a penchant for young actresses, and will doubtless end up being dragged through the divorce courts as a result, casting shame on the family?”
“I don’t know, Cosmo, other than she is lashing out at Lady Zinnia, exacting her revenge as she sees it.”
The Viscount looks down at his wife sadly and ponders. “You’re being remarkably calm about all this, Sadie.”
“Yes,” she replies with a derisive snigger as she starts to take up some of the lose photos and file them together. “I know. Usually, it’s me having histrionics, not you. However, there is something I keep reminding myself of that brings me solace as I mull this situation over in my mind.”
“What on earth can bring you solace about this disastrous situation Lettice has willingly foisted upon herself?”
Lady Sadie looks knowingly at her husband. “One swallow does not a summer make**************, Cosmo. And an engagement, especially a hasty one, does not necessarily lead to marriage.”
“What are you saying, Sadie?”
“I’m simply saying that if a man breaks off his engagement with a lady, he’s a cad and a bounder. However, a lady is perfectly entitled to break off her engagement with a gentleman. In fact,” She smiles smugly. “It is her prerogative to do so.”
“Are you suggesting that we should encourage Lettice to break her engagement with Sir John?” the Viscount asks. He sighs and rubs his cleanly shaven chin. “I say! What a clever ploy, Sadie.” he muses. “Quite brilliant! Quite Machiavellian, no less!”
“No, I’m not saying that at all, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie quips. “You misunderstand me again.” She releases an exasperated sigh. “This is also what I mean by you not understanding Lettice. There is no talking to her right now, she’s so focussed on her own hurt and anger, and is determined to exact her own misaligned form of revenge on Selwyn and Zinnia. At the moment you could say that Sir John is made of glass and will shatter into a thousand slivers the moment she marries him and stab her to death, and she’ll still marry him to spite them, because she simply cannot see straight. She’s so angry that she won’t listen to reason.” She settles back in her seat and steeples her fingers before her as she stares off into a future only she can see. “Lettice is like a blizzard: blustery, but eventually her anger will peter out.”
“So you are suggesting what?”
“So, what I’m suggesting is that in this case, we must be patient with Lettice. We must settle ourselves in for the long game, and just watch what happens when her storm peters out.”
“So, in your opinion, we do nothing, then?” the Viscount blasts.
“For the time being, no, Cosmo.”
“But if we do nothing, she’ll marry the cad, and then where will we be?”
“I’m not convinced, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie assures her husband. “I think that if we cool our heels and let things play out, Lettice will come to her senses in the fullness of time.”
“You seem very sure of that, Sadie.” the Viscount says with a dubious look at his wife.
“I am, Cosmo.”
“And if you’re wrong? What then?”
“I’m not.” she assures him. “But if I were to be, then we shall simply have to steer her back to her senses when she is in a frame of mind that best allows us to encourage her to break off this disastrous marriage with Sir John.”
The Viscount shudders. “How can I have a son-in-law who’s as old as I am, or older.”
“Not quite, Cosmo, dear.” Lady Sadie assures him. “He’s a year and a half younger than you. I know. I did my in depth research about him before putting him forward as a potential suitor in 1922.”
“Evidently not in depth enough, Sadie,” He holds up the sheet of paper before he wife before screwing it up in anger and throwing it vehemently into her waste paper basket. “If Lettice is now engaged to a wealthy womaniser who carries on with actresses in public.”
“Don’t worry.” Lady Sadie continues to soothe in a soft voice, “We won’t have Sir John as our son-in-law. You’ll see.”
“Now that I know what I know,” the Viscount sighs. “I just hope you’re right, Sadie.”
“I usually am, Cosmo,” Lady Sadie resumes shuffling the photographs. “In the end.”
*Twelfth Night (also known as Epiphany Eve depending upon the tradition) is a Christian festival on the last night of the Twelve Days of Christmas, marking the coming of the Epiphany. Different traditions mark the date of Twelfth Night as either the fifth of January or the sixth of January, depending on whether the counting begins on Christmas Day or the twenty-sixth of December. January the sixth is celebrated as the feast of Epiphany, which begins the Epiphanytide season.
**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.
***Bowood is a Grade I listed Georgian country house in Wiltshire, that has been owned for more than two hundred and fifty years by the Fitzmaurice family. The house, with interiors by Robert Adam, stands on extensive grounds which include a garden designed by Lancelot "Capability" Brown. It is adjacent to the village of Derry Hill, halfway between Calne and Chippenham. The greater part of the house was demolished in 1956.
****Alexander Bassano was an English photographer who was a leading royal and high society portrait photographer in Victorian London. He is known for his photo of the Earl Kitchener in the Lord Kitchener Wants You army recruitment poster during the First World War and his photographs of Queen Victoria. He opened his first studio in 1850 in Regent Street. The studio then moved to Piccadilly between 1859 and 1863, to Pall Mall and then to 25 Old Bond Street in 1877 where it remained until 1921 when it moved to Dover Street. There was also a Bassano branch studio at 132 King's Road, Brighton from 1893 to 1899.
*****Introduced in 1922, the Type 30 was the first production Bugatti to feature an Inline-8. Nicknamed the “Torpedo” because of its similar look to the wartime munition, at the time Bugatti opted to move to a small two-litre engine to make the car more saleable, lighter and cheap. The engine capacity also made the Type 30 eligible for Grand Prix racing, which was a new direction for the marque. Despite the modest engine capacity, the power output was still remarkable thanks to the triple-valve arrangement. Also benefiting the Type 30 was good road handling, braking and steering which was common throughout the marque. The Type 30 was also the first Bugatti to have front brakes.
******Button back upholstered furniture contains buttons embedded in the back of the sofa or chair, which are pulled tightly against the leather creating a shallow dimple effect. This is sometimes known as button tufting.
*******A boutonnière is a flower that someone wears in the buttonhole of, or fastened to, their jacket on a special occasion such as a wedding.
********The Brownie (or Box Brownie) was invented by Frank A. Brownell for the Eastman Kodak Company. Named after the Brownie characters popularised by the Canadian writer Palmer Cox, the camera was initially aimed at children. More than 150,000 Brownie cameras were shipped in the first year of production, and cost a mere five shillings in the United Kingdom. An improved model, called No. 2 Brownie, came in 1901, which produced larger photos, and was also a huge success. Initially marketed to children, with Kodak using them to popularise photography, it achieved broader appeal as people realised that, although very simple in design and operation, the Brownie could produce very good results under the right conditions. One of their most famous users at the time was the then Princess of Wales, later Queen Alexandra, who was an avid amateur photographer and helped to make the Box Brownie even more popular with the British public from all walks of life. As they were ubiquitous, many iconic shots were taken on Brownies. Jesuit priest Father Frank Browne sailed aboard the RMS Titanic between Southampton and Queenstown, taking many photographs of the ship’s interiors, passengers and crew with his Box Brownie. On the 15th of April 1912, Bernice Palmer used a Kodak Brownie 2A, Model A to photograph the iceberg that sank RMS Titanic as well as survivors hauled aboard RMS Carpathia, the ship on which Palmer was travelling. They were also taken to war by soldiers but by World War I the more compact Vest Pocket Kodak Camera as well as Kodak's Autographic Camera were the most frequently used. Another group of people that became posthumously known for their huge photo archive is the Nicholas II of Russia family, especially its four daughters who all used Box Brownie cameras.
*********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.
**********Henry Tipping (1855 – 1933) was a French-born British writer on country houses and gardens, garden designer in his own right, and Architectural Editor of the British periodical Country Life for seventeen years between 1907 and 1910 and 1916 and 1933. After his appointment to that position in 1907, he became recognised as one of the leading authorities on the history, architecture, furnishings and gardens of country houses in Britain. In 1927, he became a member of the first committee of the Gardens of England and Wales Scheme, later known as the National Gardens Scheme.
***********Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society
************Gaiety Girls were the chorus girls in Edwardian musical comedies, beginning in the 1890s at the Gaiety Theatre, London, in the shows produced by George Edwardes
*************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.
**************The idiom “richer than Croesus” means very wealthy. This term alludes to Croesus, the legendary King of Lydia and supposedly the richest man on earth. The simile was first recorded in English in 1577.
**************The expression “One swallow does not a summer make, nor one fine day; similarly one day or brief time of happiness does not make a person entirely happy” is attributed to Aristotle (384 – 322 BC).
Cluttered with photographs and furnishings, Lady Sadie’s bonheur de jour 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 Chetwynd’s framed 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 remaining unframed photographs and photograph album on Lady Sadie’s desk are a 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Ken Blythe is known for his miniature books. Most of the books crated by him that I own 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. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. The photo album, although closed, contains pages of photos in old fashioned Victorian style floral frames on every page, just like a real Victorian photo album. Not only did Ken Blythe create books, he also created other 1:12 miniatures with paper and that includes the photographs. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. He also made the packets of seeds, which once again are copies of real packets of Webbs seeds and the envelopes sitting in the rack to the left of the desk. 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!
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.
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 Oxford 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 noisily chattering crowds are swelled by visitors who have come in from the outer suburbs of London and the surrounding counties which are slowly being enveloped into the heaving, expanding metropolis to do a little bit of early Christmas shopping. However the two maids don’t mind, as the noisy burbling crowds around them and the awnings above them help protect them from the wintery wind as it blows down Oxford Street, wending its way around chugging auto busses, noisy belching automobiles and horse drawn carts that choke the busy thoroughfare. Already Edith is noticing that the shops are busier than usual, and even though Christmas is still a good few weeks 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 Oxford Street.
The pair meander in front of a 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.
“I’ve just thought of something! Come on, Hilda!” Edith says to her friend. “Let’s go inside.”
“Oh no!” Hilda bemoans. “Not to the Selfridges toy department again, Edith! Remember the last time we went in there in the lead up to Christmas? It will bedlam!”
As if on cue, a little girl in a cream knitted pixie bonnet** and matching cardigan releases a piercing shriek of protest as she is drawn away from Selfridges toy filled window by her rangy black clad nanny who mutters something about no nonsense as she does.
“No, silly!” Edith replies. “The book department. I think they will have a wider range of children’s books in the book department.”
“Well, only if it isn’t full of nasty little jam grabbers!” Hilda replies cautiously, looking askance at the children around her. “If it is, I’m leaving you and heading straight for the perfumery.”
“Alright Hilda.” Edith giggles, her pert nose curling slightly upwards as she does. “Come on.”
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.
“Couldn’t we just visit the perfumery first?” Hilda asks.
“You’re every bit as bad as the children you moan about, Hilda! I promise we’ll come back here after we’ve visited the book department.” Edith insists.
“Oh, alright Edith!” Hilda sighs.
“Think of it as a reward for coming with me.” Edith winks cheekily at Hilda and leads her towards the banks of lifts with their smart liveried female lift attendants***.
Stepping out onto the floor for the book department, Hilda breathes a sigh of relief, for unlike she imagines the toy department to be, the space is quiet and well ordered. As she and Edith walk towards the main body of the department, away from the central balconied atrium, she shudders as a high pitched scream of a child echoes from the toy department several storeys above and pierces her consciousness.
“Come on, old thing,” Edith says comfortingly, wrapping her arm through her best friend’s. “I promise I won’t force you to go up to the toy department.”
“Just as well I trust you, Edith.” Hilda replies squeezing her friend’s hand in return.
“Anyway,” Edith goes on with a broad smile. “I thought with your love of reading, you’d enjoy the book department more.”
“And you’d be right!” Hilda chortles.
The two young women walk along the thickly carpeted aisles. Around them stand sturdy shelves of all sizes covered in books, magazines, newspapers and periodicals. Some only stand as high as shoulder height, with shelves tilted slightly upwards from waist height, allowing easier access to titles for customers, whilst other shelves are much higher with rows of spines, or on some shelves the covers of the books on display. Central tables are weighed down with the latest novels like E. M. Forster’s ‘A Passage to India’****, ‘The Deductions of Colonel Gore’***** by Lynn Brock and Edith Wharton’s ‘Old New York’******, stacked in piles like precarious houses or cards. More valuable and larger books full of beautifully printed lithographs sit open on wide shelves inside glass fronted and topped cabinets, allowing customers the ability to peruse before asking to see them properly. Tops of cabinets share space with more novels and the occasional potted aspidistra, and small chairs and stools are discreetly secreted amongst the shelves and tables, allowing a customer to stop, sit and read a little of title before deciding whether to purchase it or not. Cosy and comfortable, the books muffle the burbling sounds of the departments beyond them and the whole space is flooded with light from lamps above, and through the large frosted glass windows that face out onto Oxford Street, making the Selfridges book department a very pleasant pace to shop.
“I thought you were a convert to a bookshop in Charring Cross that Miss Lettice frequents.” Hilda remarks, pausing and picking up a copy of ‘The Man in the Brown Suit’******* by Agatha Christie, and perusing the cover which shows a stylishly dressed woman in a fur trimmed green coat and matching cloche observing a man in an orange suit and a railway conductor looking for signs of life in what she can only assume to be the man mentioned in the title on the edge of an underground railway platform. She deposits the title back as Edith tugs at her arm, encouraging her to continue their exploration of the shelves, cabinets and tables around them.
“Whilst Mr. Mayhew******** does a splendid job of supplying copies of Agatha Christie novels with slightly soiled covers at a discounted rate for me to give to Dad, I don’t think he stocks the kind of book I want today.”
“What are you looking for, anyway, Edith?”
“I told you before, children’s books, Hilda.”
“Yes, but what kind of children’s books? Adventure books? Picture books?”
“I’ll know them when I see them.” Edith says excitedly. “Come on!”
“Who are you buying them for?” Hilda asks. “You don’t know any children that I know of.”
“They are for…” Edith pauses mid-sentence and thinks before she speaks. Having become a good friend of Lettice’s charwoman*********, Mrs. Boothby, she has had the rare pleasure of meeting the old Cockney woman’s son, Ken, a forty-four year old man who is a simple and gentle giant with the aptitude of a six year old. Mrs. Boothby’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 for all her love of gossip, in this matter Mrs. Boothby requires the utmost discretion and has been brave in taking Edith into her into her confidence by introducing her to Ken. Even though she knows that Hilda is every bit as discreet and trustworthy as she is, Edith cannot let it slip who the books are for. “For Mrs. Boothby’s grandchildren.” Edith fabricates. “Remember, Hilda? I bought them some Beatrix Potter books two Christmases ago.”
“Oh yes: I remember!” Hilda replies. “How could I forget that trip upstairs?” She casts her eyes to the white painted plaster ceiling above, imaging the horrors of the toy department crowded with excited children in toy heaven escorted by their frazzled parents. She pauses. “You know, even though I’m sure she shares confidences with me that she shares with you, Edith, Mrs. Boothby never talks about her family around me.” She stops, unlinks her arm from Edith’s and places her hands on her hips. “And nor has she ever invited me to her house for a slap-up tea!”
“There’s no need to get jealous, Hilda.” Edith replies calmly. “It’s hardly tea with Queen Mary.” she deflects. “It’s just a bit of toast and jam in Mrs. Boothby’s tiny two room tenement. It’s basic and clean, which is certainly more than can be said for the street outside.” She then adds to further discourage Hilda from pursuing the matter, “And she does go on and on and on about her grandchildren. You know what she’s like.”
“Oh yes,” Hilda agrees, her stance and facial expression softening into neutrality. “She can talk ‘till the cows come home**********, can old Mrs. Boothby.”
“Especially when she’s gossiping.” Edith laughs.
Edith feels pangs of guilt, not telling the truth to her best friend, but she assuages the feeling, knowing that it is being done for the greater good. She makes a mental note to make a point of telling Mrs. Boothby how trustworthy Hilda is, and what a good keeper of secrets she is, the next time she is at Cavendish Mews.
Edith continues to peruse the shelves until she finally comes across the children’s section.
“Here we are!” Edith says, spying a beautiful arrangement of colourful books on a round table in the middle of a brightly woven rug. “This is the sort of thing I’m after! Something colourful and bright, and not what you might see in Poplar.”
In front of them stand a selection of beautifully illustrated books by Walter Crane***********. A selection of folk and faerie tales stand alongside an alphabet book, a painting book and various others. All have colourful covers with elegant graphics on them.
“Oh! I remember these!” Hilda gasps, following her friend. “Mum used to bring them home from the library for my sisters and brothers and me when we were all little. They were called Toy Books************. Mum taught us our letters from this one.” She takes up ‘An Alphabet of Old Friends’ and cradles it in her arms. “I doubt any poor child in Poplar would have books as pretty as these: poor mites!”
“All the more reason to buy one then. Just look at the lovely illustrations!” Edith enthuses as she opens a copy of ‘The Frog Prince’ and sees a double page illustration of the little green hero of the story sitting on a fine damask tablecloth before the princess dressed in gold. Her father the king sists at the head of the table and scolds his daughter for making a promise to the frog that she didn’t intend to keep. The colours are bright and jewel like and the designs rich with interesting patterns and designs. “I wonder which one he… err they, would like?” Edith ponders aloud as she puts down ‘The Frog Prince’ and takes up a copy of ‘Beauty and the Beast’.
“I’m sure her grandchildren would be happy to have any of them, Edith.” Hilda remarks. “I know I would if I were a young child this book was made for.”
Edith doesn’t reply, keeping her silence about for whom the children’s picture book is really for.
“What about this one?” Hilda picks up ‘Walter Crane’s Painting Book’. “They could paint the pictures.” she suggests as she flicks through the pages where Walter Crane’s detailed illustrations are simply line drawings, allowing a child to paint the colours for themselves to match the complete matching colour illustrations printed on the opposite page. “I’m sure Mrs. Boothby could find them some watercolours, or better yet, you could buy them some, Edith.”
“It’s a lovely idea Edith, but he… err… they aren’t really painters.”
“How queer they sound!” Hilda exclaims. “Not like painting? When we were children, my sisters and I used to be mad about painting.”
“Well not everyone’s an artist like you are, Hilda.” Edith remarks in reply.
“I bet they really do like to paint,” Hilda goes on. “Only Mrs. Boothby is so used to cleaning for others, that she wants to keep her own house spic-and-span.”
“Well, she does like to keep her house tidy.” Edith agrees. “She calls it a clean haven from the outside world, and she isn’t half wrong. But I don’t think she would stop them painting, if that’s what they wanted to do. She loves children, even ones that aren’t her own kin.”
Edith looks at a few more of the titles, admiring the finely printed illustrations before finally settling upon one.
“I loved the story of ‘Beauty and the Beast’ when I was a girl.” Edith remarks. “Such a happy ending,” Her voice takes on a wistful air as she continues, “And proof that there is a handsome prince behind even the most unlikely of beasts.”
“Well, it’s a good lesson to teach children.” Hilda opines.
“Yes! I’ll buy this one.” Edith decides. She picks it up and cradles it to her chest lovingly. “It will make a lovely Christmas gift!”
“That’s very good of you, Edith.” Hilda acknowledges.
“Oh, it’s the least I can do Hilda. Mrs. Boothby’s become such a good friend to me since we first met. She was genuinely happy for me when I told her that I received an increase to my wages, and yet I bet you she didn’t get an increase from Miss Lettice for all the hard graft she does around Cavendish Mews.”
“And she works jolly hard for every penny she earns, too.” Hilda adds.
“That she does, so if I can bring her grandchildren some cheer this Christmas, I’ll be only too happy.”
“You put me to shame, Edith.” Hilda says guiltily.
“What are you talking about, Hilda?”
“Well, you’re so generous, thinking of others this Christmas.”
“Oh! You’re doing your bit for the less fortunate this Christmas, aren’t you Hilda? You’re knitting for Mrs. Minkin’s knitting circle’s Christmas drive for the needy.”
“Pshaw!” Hilda scoffs. “I don’t know how grateful the poor of Poplar and Whitechapel will be to have one of my knitted pairs of socks or scarves, not when you compare it to the knitting done by Mrs. Minkin, Miss Woolencroft, old Ma Badel or Mrs. Minkin’s lovely young nice, Katya Levi. Now she can knit beautifully, can Kayta! It must run though Mrs. Minkin’s family.”
“I’m sure that whatever the poor of Poplar and Whitechapel receive thanks to your knitting group’s industry will be gratefully received, Hilda, and that includes your contributions.”
“With the stitches I drop, there are a few small holes in a few pairs of socks, even before they’re worn, and my lack of tension control does mean my scarves are a bit…” Hilda pauses to think of the right word. “Uneven.”
“Well, dropped stitches and slight differences in tension or not, you’re still helping those who can’t help themselves this Christmas, and I’m sure they’ll be very grateful, Hilda.” Edith insists with a broad smile.
“I suppose so.” Hilda mutters, hanging her head.
“I know so, Hilda,” Edith replies encouragingly, giving her friend a friendly squeeze of the forearm. “Your knitting is getting better and better, the more you practice. Just remember that not that long ago, you couldn’t knit at all. Now look at you: knitting socks and scarves! I hope you’ve knitted me a Christmas present Hilda.”
Hilda blushes as she replies, “I have. I only hope that you’ll like it.”
“I shall love it, Hilda!”
“Even with a dropped stitch or two?” Hilda asks doubtfully.
“Most definitely, Hilda! It will be original that way.” Edith adds brightly. “No-one else will have what I have with stitches dropped in the same place.”
“You’re far to kind to me, Edith.”
“Seriously though, Hilda, I know I will love it, because you will have made it for me with love.” Edith enthuses. “Be proud of what you’ve achieved and how far you’ve come with your knitting.”
“Thank you, Edith!” Hilda gives her friend a grateful hug, which is reciprocated by Edith. “You’re the best friend a girl ever had, you know.”
“Well then, you must be the best friend I’ll ever have, because I know you’d do the same to buck me up when I’m feeling low.”
“You never have low spirits, Edith.”
“Well,” Edith ponders. “You always make sure that you include me in your intellectual conversations you have with Frank, and you explain things to me that I don’t understand in such a way that I don’t feel ignorant or stupid.”
“You aren’t ignorant, or stupid, Edith!” Hilda bursts. “You’re very smart.”
“Well, I don’t feel quite as smart as I think I should be sometimes, stepping out with a man as intelligent as Frank is. But you’ve helped me learn about things that are important to him, like labour rights and things of that sort. So, you help me too, just as I help you.”
“Alright Edith!” Hilda demurs, smiling broadly as she does. “I agree. I help you, and you help me, in equal measures, in different ways.”
“That’s it, Hilda!”
“Come on then, Edith. Best you buy that book for Mrs. Boothby’s grandchildren before someone else comes along and buys it.”
“You’re right Hilda!” Edith giggles.
“You’ll make their Christmas with that.” Hilda nods at the book, still clutched to Edith’s chest.
“I hope so.” Edith replies quietly, smiling shyly, thinking of Ken’s gormless grin when he sees her and imagining him giggling in delight and wonder at the beautiful illustrations in the book she now holds.
The pair of young women wend their way through the aisles of books again to the glass topped counter in front of a large mahogany shelf full of books
“May I help you, Miss?” asks a young shopgirl next to the register, who smiles at them cheerfully, her simple black moiré dress brightened with a pretty scarf featuring bright Art Deco patterns from the accessories department downstairs, and her rich chestnut coloured hair set in glossy and cascading, fashionable Marcel waves*************.
“How much is this, please?” Edith asks.
“Three and six, Miss.” the shopgirl replies with a smile, showing off her perfect pearly teeth as she glances at the book in Edith’s hands.
“A bit more than the sixpence they used to cost.” Hilda whispers in Edith’s ear. “Or free on loan from the library, like my Mum got them. You’ll spoil those grandchildren of Mrs. Boothby’s.”
“I hope so, Hilda.” Edith replies quietly as she blushes.
“A lovely gift for birthday, or perhaps for Christmas, if I may say so, Miss.” the shop girl says cheerfully. “It’s good to get in and do a spot of early Christmas shopping.”
“That’s the idea.” Edith replies, smiling pleasurably as she hands the book over to the girl behind the counter and fishes out her purse from her green leather handbag.
“The shops down Oxford Street are already starting to get busier, now that it’s December.” the shop girl goes on brightly. “People are suddenly realising that Christmas is just around the corner, really.”
*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.
**A pixie bonnet is a knitted bonnet usually worn by babies and small children which covers the whole of their head and is fastened under the chin. Adapted from more traditional styles of baby bonnets and introduced in the early 1920s, they quickly became popular with parents as suitable headwear for their young children as they protected the heads of babies with little to no hair from the cold, and were easily made using knitting patterns distributed through women’s periodicals.
***Harry Gordon Selfridge believed in women’s emancipation. When the Great War broke out in 1914 and many of his male lift attendants went off to fight, he allowed women to fill their roles, as well as many other roles formerly filled by men in his department store. When hostilities with Germany ended in 1918, many young men didn’t return, having made the ultimate sacrifice for King and country, which meant a scarcity of men. The female lift attendants had proven so popular during the war years that Harry Gordon Selfridge made them a permanent fixture in his department store, much to the shock of many shoppers. However, like most things, he used his choice to his advantage, advertising not only its uniqueness in the department stores along Oxford and Regent Streets, but also wooing the millions of emancipated women who were happy to shop under the roof of such an enlightened man in what was then a very patriarchal society dominated by men. By the 1924 when this story is set, his female lift attendants wore a smart livery of frock coats, breeches and caps in Selfridges colours.
****A Passage to India is a 1924 novel by English author E. M. Forster set against the backdrop of the British Raj and the Indian independence movement in the 1920s. It won the 1924 James Tait Black Memorial Prize for fiction. The story revolves around four characters: Dr. Aziz, his British friend Mr. Cyril Fielding, Mrs. Moore, and Miss Adela Quested. During a trip to the fictitious Marabar Caves (modelled on the Barabar Caves of Bihar), Adela thinks she finds herself alone with Dr. Aziz in one of the caves (when in fact he is in an entirely different cave; whether the attacker is real or a reaction to the cave is ambiguous), and subsequently panics and flees; it is assumed that Dr. Aziz has attempted to assault her. Aziz's trial, and its run-up and aftermath, bring to a boil the common racial tensions and prejudices between Indians and the British during the colonial era.
*****The Deductions of Colonel Gore is a 1924 detective novel by the Irish-born writer Lynn Brock. It was the first in his series of seven novels featuring the character of Colonel Wyckham Gore. Gore enjoyed popularity during the early stages of the Golden Age of Detective Fiction. t was also published under the alternative title ‘The Barrington Mystery’. Colonel Gore gives a Masai knife as a wedding present to Barbara Lethbridge. When he returns to England the following year he finds she stands accused or murder, as the knife has been plunged into a blackmailer Barrington with whom she is involved. Against his better instincts Gore takes on the role of amateur detective in order to clear her name.
******‘Old New York’ is a collection of four novellas by Edith Wharton, revolving around upper-class New York City society in the 1840s, 1850s, 1860s, and 1870s. The novellas are not directly interconnected, though certain fictional characters appear in more than one story. The New York of these stories is the same as the New York of ‘The Age of Innocence” (which had been successfully published in 1920), from which several fictional characters have spilled over into these stories. The observation of the manners and morals of Nineteenth Century New York upper-class society is directly reminiscent of ‘The Age of Innocence’, but these novellas are shaped more as character studies than as a full-blown novel. Some characters who overlap among these four stories and ‘The Age of Innocence’: Mrs. (Catherine) Manson Mingott, Sillerton Jackson, Mrs. Lemuel Struthers, Henry Van der Luyden. Other families and institutions also appear in more than one place among this extended set of New York stories.
******* ‘The Man in the Brown Suit’ is a work of detective fiction by British writer Agatha Christie, first published in the UK by The Bodley Head on 22 August 1924 and in the US by Dodd, Mead and Company later in the same year. The character Colonel Race is introduced in this novel. Anne Beddingfeld is on her own and ready for adventures when one comes her way. She sees a man die in a tube station and picks up a piece of paper dropped nearby. The message on the paper leads her to South Africa as she fits more pieces of the puzzle together about the death she witnessed. There is a murder in England the next day, and the murderer attempts to kill her on the ship en route to Cape Town.
********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.
*********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.
**********Meaning for a long time, the origin of the phrase “till the cows come home” comes from the practice of cows returning to their shelters at some indefinite point, usually at a slow, languid pace.
***********Walter Crane was an English artist and book illustrator. He is considered to be the most influential, and among the most prolific, children's book creators of his generation and, along with Randolph Caldecott and Kate Greenaway, one of the strongest contributors to the child's nursery motif that the genre of English children's illustrated literature would exhibit in its developmental stages in the later Nineteenth Century. Crane's work featured some of the more colourful and detailed beginnings of the child-in-the-garden motifs that would characterize many nursery rhymes and children's stories for decades to come. He was part of the Arts and Crafts movement and produced an array of paintings, illustrations, children's books, ceramic tiles, wallpapers and other decorative arts. Crane is also remembered for his creation of a number of iconic images associated with the international socialist movement.
************In 1863, the engraver and printer Edmund Evans commissioned Walter Crane to produce a set of designs for a potential book series. This was the period of greater mechanisation in publishing, and that this was often used as an excuse to neglect design. Walter Crane wrote: “The books for babies, current at that time (about 1865 to 1870) of the cheaper sort called toy books were not very inspiriting. These were generally careless and unimaginative woodcuts, very casually coloured by hand, dabs of pink and emerald green being laid on across faces with a somewhat reckless aim.” Edmund Evans believed paper picture books could be greatly improved and still sold for sixpence if printed in sufficient quantity. Walter Crane and Edmund Evans gradually transformed the toy book into a sophisticated art form using a variety of technical, intellectual and aesthetic means. Advances in the use of wood engravings for colour printing made it possible for Evans to accurately print Crane’s designs in a wide range of sophisticated colours. Crane’s designs were printed by Evans for the publisher Frederick Warne in a Sixpenny Toybook series, bound in pale yellow rather than white. In 1867 Crane began designing toy books for George Routledge. Over the next ten years, he illustrated thirty-seven of these toy books, which would become the most popular children’s books of the day.
*************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.
These books might be the kind of children’s book you may like to give someone you love for Christmas, but if you do, they may need a magnifying glass, for these are all artisan pieces as part of my extensive 1:12 miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The books on display here, and in the shelves behind are all 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. In this case, this selection of books designed by the prolific children’s illustrator, Walter Crane and two (Abroad and London Town) by this father Thomas Crane. I bought these on purpose because I have loved Walter Crane’s and Thomas Crane’s work ever since I was a child, and I have real life-size first editions of many of these books including, Abroad, London Town, A Masque of Days, Beauty and the Beast, the Hind in the Wood, Cinderella’s Picture Book and The Frog Prince, the latter of which stands open, showing an illustration from the book. What might amaze you 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 them all miniature artisan pieces. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.
The round display table on which the books stand tilts like a real loo table, and is an artisan miniature from an unknown maker with a marquetry inlaid top, which came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop 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.
Tonight however it is New Year’s Eve 1924, and we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid is celebrating the end of 1924 and the beginning of 1925 with her beloved parents, George and Ada. 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. With her brother, Bert, on shore leave from his job as a first-class saloon steward aboard the SS Demosthenes* for New Year’s Eve, George has decided to host a small New Year’s Eve gathering in their small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street. Although very far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s Mayfair flat and the smart and select cocktail parties she likes to host, the Harlesden terrace is a cosy and welcoming venue for such a party. Not being alone on shore leave, Bert has invited two of his fellow saloon stewards from the Demosthenes to join him for the evening’s revels: Conlin Campbell who grew up in Harlesden with both Edith and Bert and went to sea with Bert when he took his first seafaring job, and Irish lad, Martin Gallagher. Of course, Edith has invited her beau, grocer’s boy, Frank Leadbetter, to join them, and to even up the numbers of young women, Edith has arranged for old school friends Katy Bramall, Jeannie Duttson and Alice Dunn to join them too. For their part, George and Ada have invited Mr. and Mrs. Pyecroft to spend new year in the rarified surrounds of Ada’s front parlour, whilst the young ones enjoy being raucous in the kitchen. Ernie Pyecroft is the local Harlesden ironmonger** and he and George have bonded over their love of growing marrows at the local allotment, where they both have a plot. Ada went to school with Lilian Pyecroft and it is through this connection that the Watsfords and the Pyecrofts are such good friends. Sadly, Mr. and Mrs. Pyecroft lost both their sons in the Great War, and their daughter died of the Spanish Flu during the epidemic in 1918, so being alone now, George and Ada make sure they always spend New Year’s Eve together. However the divide between the generations has been broken down by Fank, who has brought with him a gramophone and a selection of popular music records that he has borrowed from a trade unionist friend of his for the evening, which has persuaded George, Ada and the Pyecrots to join the young ones in the kitchen, where after dinner they have enjoyed an evening of celebratory drinking and dancing. Lettice, having heard of the New Year’s Eve party, bestowed two bottles of champagne upon Edith as a Christmas gift, whilst Frank obtained two bottles of wine from his chum who runs little Italian restaurant up the Islington***. Bert has spent some of his wages on buying bottles of stout and ale from a local publican, and Mrs. Pyecroft has brought a bottle of her homemade elderflower wine.
We find ourselves in the heart of the Watsford’s family home, Ada’s cosy kitchen at the back of the terrace, where everyone except for Frank and Edith are busying themselves donning coats, hats, scarves and gloves as they prepare to ring in the new year underneath the nearby Harlesden High Street Jubilee Clock Tower**** with its four gas lamps and drinking fountain. Noisily they cheerfully chat and laugh over the musical strains of ‘I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General’***** which they have all ended up in fits of laughter over several times across the course of the party, after trying without success to sing all the tongue twisting lyrics correctly.
“I say Bert,” remarks Martin over the top of the jolly music on the gramophone. “You never told us your sister was such a beauty.”
“What?” Bert asks as he buttons up his heavy grey woollen overcoat.
“Your sister, Bert.” Martin replies, nodding in Edith’s direction and indicating to her with a half drunk glass of stout in his hand.
Bert looks up from fastening his coat and looks as Edith stands in front of Frank as he sits in her usual ladderback chair. Her hand rests on the edge of the festive cloth covered kitchen table where they had eaten their splendid New Year’s Eve roast chicken dinner cooked up by Ada earlier in the evening, which is now is littered with a selection of records in their paper sleeves. Dressed in a pretty pale pink cotton voile****** dress trimmed with matching linen that she made herself, she wears her long hair in a chignon at the back of her neck and has styled her blonde hair at the front into soft waves around her face, which are held in place with a fashionable pink bandeau******* made of pink ribbon. Being her sister, Bert has never really noticed how striking Edith is, yet as she stands, gazing seriously into Frank’s face, he sees that even without applying makeup, and without the aid of the expensive clothes and jewellery he sees many of the first class passengers in the dining saloon of his ship wear, she looks both elegant and beautiful. She catches Bert staring at her and smiles as she lifts the glass of champagne she holds in her right hand to her lips. Her smile beams like a beacon.
“Yes, she’s an English rose alright!” adds Conlin, shrugging on his coat. “Peaches and cream skin and pretty blonde hair.”
“Aye. Everyone loves a blonde.” Martin adds, agreeing with his friend.
“And what am I then?” pipes up Alice Dunn’s voice plaintively as she looks to Conlin, with whom she’s been spending most of New Year’s Eve, either sitting next to him around the Watsford’s table or dancing in his arms to the music from the gramophone around the crowded kitchen.
“You, my dear Alice, are the Vicar’s daughter********,” Conlin replies matter-of-factly, as if his statement answers her question.
“So what if I am?” she replies with a shrug, winding her scarf around her neck carefully, so as not to mess her own arrangement of soft, mousy blonde waves that she has held in place by a pale blue ribbon bandeau of her own.
“It means my dear Alice,” Conlin continues, sweeping an arm around her waist, making her squeal girlishly. “That however much fun you are, you come with a clergyman as a father-in-law for any prospective suitor, and that, can only spell trouble for me.”
“And who says I’m looking for a suitor, Conlin Campbell?” Alice answers smugly. “Least of all you!”
“All girls are looking for a suitor, Alice.” Bert opines. “Even you! Just look at Edith over there. She’s got Frank, so she’s happy.” He raises his voice slightly over the cacophony of excited voices around him as he leans on the kitchen table in an effort to catch his sister’s attention. “In fact, she and Frank are so happy in one another’s company, the pair of them don’t even want to ring the new year around the Jubilee Clock with the rest of us!”
“Oh get along with you, Bert!” Edith replies, as both she and Frank turn their attentions to her brother. “Go and yell your lungs out around the clock with the rest of them. I’m done with all that! I’ll be much happier here with Frank where it’s quieter.”
“See?” Bert says, raising his hands.
“Lucky blighter.” murmurs Martin.
“Now you just keep your eyes off our Edith, young Martin!” Ada’s voice suddenly interrupts the young people’s conversation, her voice light, yet tinged with a seriousness. “She’s Frank’s sweetheart, not yours.” She taps him on the forearm.
“Yes Mrs. Watsford.” Martin replies apologetically.
“Luckily not all of us want to be Little Polly Flinders and sit home amongst the cinders*********, Martin!” laughs Katy. “Some of us are modern girls, aren’t we Alice?”
“Indeed we are,” Alice agrees in a solicitous voice as she winds her arm through Conlin’s.
“And we want to go out and have some fun!” giggles Jeannie, who cheekily squashes Bert’s hat on his head, encouraging him to get ready to go out. “So, hurry up, Bert Watsford! Goodness knows how anyone gets fed in the dining room of your ship when you’ve always been such a slowpoke!” She prods Bert in the ribs as she speaks, making him exclaim in surprise.
“We say the same, Jeannie,” Conlin agrees, squeezing Alice’s arm with his own as he draws her closer to him. “But Martin and I keep him on time, don’t we Martin?”
“Aye, we do that.” Martin concurs.
“We just have to wait for Mum and Dad and the Pyecrofts.” Bert defends himself against his friends and shipmates light hearted teasing.
“Well, I’m ready.” Ada replies, squashing her red velvet hat with springs of dried flowers around the brim onto her head.
“And we’re here too!” George announces, walking into the room with Lilian and Earnest Pyecroft, all three wrapped up in their coats and hats, ready to go out with the others to cheer in the new year around Harlesden’s Jubilee Clock Tower.
“Right! Let’s go then!” Jeannie exclaims excitedly.
“Will you like to lead the way, Ernie and Lilian?” George asks with a sweeping gesture towards the door.
“Come Lilian my dear.” Mr. Pyecroft says, chivalrously offering his wife his hand. “Shall we?”
“Rather!” Mrs. Pyecroft answers, taking his proffered hand with her right as she pulls the small fox fur collar at her throat a little tighter around her neck. “What a marvellous way to end a jolly good knees up, George.”
“Glad you’ve enjoyed it, Lilian.” George replies with pleasure.
Lead by Mr. and Mrs. Pyecroft, Martin and Katy, Conlin and Alice, Bert and Jeannie and George and Ada begin to drift noisily out of the kitchen, all full of good spirits and laughter.
“You know you have to kiss me when the clock strikes twelve, Conlin,” Alice says as the pair of them follow Martin and Katy through the door leading from the Watsford’s kitchen to the scullery and then out the back door.
“I promise to kiss those organ playing hands of yours, Alice Dunn.” he replies with a chuckle.
“I should hope you’ll kiss me on the lips, Conlin Campbell!” she replies indignantly.
“Only if you’re lucky.” his retort rewarding him with a kittenish slap to his upper left arm from Alice.
“Are you quite sure you don’t want to come and shout in the new year with the rest of us?” Bert asks his sister and Frank as he moves towards the frosted and stained glass paned door that leads to the scullery with Jeannie on his arm. “It will be ripping fun.”
“No thank you, Bert.” Frank replies steadfastly. He raises his hands and grasps Edith’s forearms affectionately. “I’ll be fine here with Edith.”
“You go on and cheer the new year in for me, Bert.” Edith assures her brother.
“It won’t be the same without you, Edith.” Bert says a little imploringly.
“Oh Bert!” Ada scoffs. “It won’t be the last new year that you are on shore leave.” She gives his shoulder a shallow swipe at his silliness. “Come along with you.” She starts to steer her son towards the door.
“Are you so blind, Bert, that you can’t see that Edith and Frank would much rather celebrate the new year together, and alone,” Jeannie emphasises the last two words as she speaks.
“Yes, let’s give the lovebirds a little privacy.” George agrees, winking at his daughter conspiratorially, making both she and Frank blush at his remark.
“Come on! Let’s go, or it will be midnight, and we won’t have reached the Jubilee Clock!” Jeannie urges Bert.
“Alright then.” Bert shrugs, allowing himself to be steered out the kitchen door. “I say!” he calls to Edith and Frank over his shoulder. “You won’t play ‘There’s Life in the Old Girl Yet’********** before we get back, will you?”
“We won’t be gone that long, Bert!” Jeannie insists in a hiss.
“We promise.” Edith assures her brother with a comforting smile.
As Jeannie, Ada and George bustle Bert out the back door, he stops on the threshold and says to Jeannie, “You go on ahead. I just want to have a quick word with Mum and Dad. We’ll catch up in a minute.” He gives her a gentle push.
“You always were such a slowpoke, Bert.” Jeannie teases again. She smiles as she wags her finger at him warningly. “Don’t be too long, or you really will miss midnight, and I’ll be disappointed if you do.”
“I promise I won’t, Jeannie.” he assures her, shooing her away.
“What’s all this about then, Bert?” George says seriously as they stand in the streak light cast through the chink in the curtains at the kitchen window and watch Jeannie’s hat covered head disappear out the back gate and into the alleyway that runs between the Watsford’s terrace and the terrace backing onto the next street.
“Sorry Dad.” Bert apologises. “I just wanted to ask, whilst we’re alone and no-one else is in earshot, but is everything alright between Edith and Frank?”
“What do you mean, Bert?” Ada asks.
“Has Frank actually proposed yet?” Bert asks with concern.
“Well, no. Not as such yet, that I know of, anyway. Ada?”
“Edith hasn’t said anything to me, Bert.” Ada answers, her breath spilling out in a cloud of white vapour in the cold of the winter’s night. “I mean, there is an understanding between the two of them. They are both just saving up a bit more money so that they can set up house together before they formalise anything.”
“But we are expecting some kind of announcement in the new year, Bert.” George assures his son. “Quite soon as a matter of fact.”
“Frank is a good lad,” Ada goes on. “He’d ask your Dad for permission before he formally proposes to your sister.”
“What’s all this about, Bert?” George asks, his face clouding with concern.
“Well,” Bert says, lowering his gaze and shifting a loose stone across the paving stone beneath the sole of his right boot. “It’s just I had this feeling.”
“Feeling? What feeling?” George persists.
“Tonight, when they were together, there just seems to be something between them.” Bert says a little uncertainly. “Something awkward.”
“I felt that too!” hisses Ada quietly. “On Christmas Day when Frank and old Mrs. McTavish came here.”
“I can’t quite put my finger on it.” Bert goes on.
“I can’t either, but Edith’s said nothing to me, and she usually tells me most things.” Ada adds.
“But not everything.” Bert says dourly.
“Look, I’m sure it’s nothing for either of you to worry about.” George assures them, winding an arm around each of them and placing a knitted glove clad hand on their shoulders.
“Perhaps that’s why they wanted to stay behind whilst the rest of us went out.” Bert goes on, his eyes brightening.
“Perhaps lad,” George agrees. “But if it is, it is none of our affair. So, let’s go and cheer in the new year and leave them to it. Eh?”
With a firm hand, George steers his wife and son towards the open gate at the rear of the courtyard.
In the Watsford’s kitchen, with the departure of everyone else, a stillness settles in. Edith removes the needle from the gramophone record of the ‘H.M.S. Pinafore selection’ performed by the Court Symphony Orchestra, which has reached its conclusion. The stylus had been sending a soft hissing noise through the copper-plated morning glory horn of the gramophone as the needle remained locked into the groove of the recording. She carefully lifts the record from the gramophone player and slides the shiny black shellack record back into its slip case which rustles as she does.
“Gosh!” Frank opines from his seat. “You don’t notice how noisy everyone is until they are gone, do you?”
Edith smiles and chuckles. “Bert and his friends are always loud, and Katy, Jeannie and Alice are such giggling girties*********** when they get together.”
“Still, they are all very nice,” Frank adds. “And very welcoming. You brother has been so solicitous to me this evening, offering me his stout.”
“And Katy dancing with you to try and make Conlin Campbell jealous.” Edith smiles.
“Is that her game, then?”
“Yes,” Edith laughs. “Although I don’t think it worked. I think Conlin was only happy to leave you in the arms of Katy and more to the point, her two left feet.”
“Yes,” Frank admits, sighing as he does. “She wasn’t exactly light on her feet when we danced to ‘Lady Be Good’************.”
“No, I could see that.” giggles Edith. “It was rather funny seeing the two of you dance.”
“For you, maybe!”
“It was… Francis.” Edith adds Frank’s proper name at the end of the sentence cheekily, teasing him.
“I wish Gran had never let that slip.” Frank mutters begrudgingly again, as he has several times in the past. “I’m Frank now. No-one at the trades union will take me seriously if I’m called Francis.”
“Still, it was awfully good of you to bring the gramophone and records tonight, Frank.” Edith waves her hand across the selection of records on the kitchen table next to the gramophone.
“Well, really it’s my friend Richard from the Trade Unionists that we have to thank. He’s spending the new year in Wales with friends, and they already have a gramophone up there, so he didn’t need his.”
“Then thank you to Richard of the Trades Union for lending them, but thank you to you, Frank, for being kind enough to bring them with you tonight.” Edith replies. “It certainly made for a much livelier party.”
“Well, I’m glad, Edith.”
“And it brough Mum and Dad and Mr. and Mrs. Pyecroft down from the front room.”
“I’m glad for that too.”
The pair fall silent, with only the deep ticking of the kitchen clock on the wall, the crackle from the coal range and the occasional distant squeal or cheer from a new year reveller in the darkened streets outside to break the quiet as it settles down around them. Edith pulls her mother’s Windsor chair up towards Frank so that she can sit opposite him, and once she has settled down comfortably into it, she toys absentmindedly with Frank’s fingers and he lets her.
“Frank, there is actually something important I want to talk to you about.” Edith says at length, her head lowered so Frank can’t read her expression as she speaks. “And that’s why I wanted us to stay behind whilst the others went on to the Jubilee Clock to ring in the new year.”
“I thought it might have been something like that.” Frank says seriously.
“Well, I just think that this needs saying before midnight, so that we can go into 1925 clear in our understanding.”
“Oh!” Frank gasps. “That does sound jolly serious, Edith.”
“It is serious, Frank.” Ediths head shoots up and she looks at him earnestly.
“Oh my!” Frank’s shoulders slump. “Best get it out then, Edith.” He turns and looks at the clock. “There are only a few minutes left in the old year, before the new one starts.”
“Well… Frank…” Edith wraps her fingers around Frank’s and holds them tightly in a still grasp as she heaves a heavy sigh. “I’ve been giving this some serious thought.”
“Should I be worried, Edith?”
“What?” Edith queries, shaking her head. “No. No, Frank. No.”
“That’s a relief.” It is Frank’s turn to sigh.
“Please Frank,” Edith pleads. “Just hear me out and don’t interrupt for a moment.”
When Frank nods shallowly and stares at her intensely with his loving eyes, Edith goes on.
“I’ve been thinking about that proposal you made to me that Sunday in the Corner House************* up Tottenham Court Road.”
“What proposal, Edith?” Frank blasts. “I haven’t actually proposed marriage yet.” Then he adds hurriedly, “Not that I won’t,” He pauses. “So long as you still want to marry me, Edith.”
“Frank!” Edith exclaims in frustration. “You don’t make things easy sometimes! I asked you not to interrupt me.”
“Oh! Sorry Edith. I won’t interrupt again.”
Edith shakes her head and sighs deeply again as she tries to recollect her thoughts.
“So, I thought long and hard about what you said that day. I won’t lie, Frank.” She looks him squarely in the face. “The idea of moving to the country from the city frightened me. In fact, it still does, if I’m being completely honest. I’ve only ever known the city you see.”
Realising what she is talking about, Frank longs to speak, and to take his sweetheart into his arms and comfort her, but he thinks better of it, understanding that Edith needs to speak her piece. So, he simply sits in his seat, leaning forward and giving her his full attention.
“But now I see that you are only trying to do the best by me, well by both of us really. After that afternoon, I went down to see Mrs. Boothby, and it was she who made me realise that if you and I do go and live in Metroland************** after we are married, it wouldn’t be so bad.” Edith takes a deep breath. “So, I guess what I’m saying, Frank, is that if the opportunity arises after we’re married, for a better position in Chalk Hill or wherever, I’ll go with you.”
“Oh Edith!” Frank gasps, standing up.
Edith stands too, and they both embrace lovingly.
“I knew the idea upset you, Edith, but not as much as it obviously has!” Frank exclaims. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s alright, Frank. I didn’t want to let you see how much it did, because I could see how much it meant to you. You only want a better paying job to help support me, and our family if God grants us one, and a better life for us all. I can see that now.”
“Well,” Frank holds Edith at arm’s length, beaming from ear to ear. “God bless Mrs. Boothby for helping you see that, and bless you for being so brave and courageous, my down dear Edith! I must be the luckiest man in the world to have you, Edith Watsford!”
“And I must be the luckiest girl.” Edith murmurs in return,
“I mean, a job hasn’t turned up yet, and it may not, but if it does, I promise you that you won’t regret it.”
The pair embrace again, even more deeply this time.
“I better not, Frank Leadbetter!” Edith says with a laugh. “I hope wherever you take me, I will be close to a cinema. I don’t want to miss out on the latest Wanetta Ward film, just because we are living in Metroland.”
“I promise you won’t miss out, dear Edith!” Frank assures her.
Suddenly there is the distant chime of clocks striking midnight and cheers going up.
“Listen!” Edith exclaims. “It’s midnight! Happy New Year, Frank.”
“Happy 1925 Edith.” Frank replies.
And with that, the two press their lips together in the first kiss between them for 1925, the new year suddenly full of possibility, trepidation and excitement.
*The SS Demosthenes was a British steam ocean liner and refrigerated cargo ship which ran scheduled services between London and Australia via Cape Town. It stopped at ports including those in Sydney and Melbourne. She was launched in 1911 in Ireland for the Aberdeen Line and scrapped in 1931 in England. In the First World War she was an Allied troop ship.
**An ironmonger is the old fashioned term for someone who sells items, tools and equipment for use in homes and gardens: what today we would call a hardware shop. Ironmongery stems from the forges of blacksmiths and the workshops of woodworkers. Ironmongery can refer to a wide variety of metal items, including door handles, cabinet knobs, window fittings, hinges, locks, and latches. It can also refer to larger items, such as metal gates and railings. By the 1920s when this story is set, the ironmonger may also have sold cast iron cookware and crockery for the kitchen and even packets of seeds for the nation of British gardeners, as quoted by the Scot, Adam Smith.
***The Italian quarter of London, known commonly today as “Little Italy” is an Italian ethnic enclave in London. Little Italy’s core historical borders are usually placed at Clerkenwell Road, Farringdon Road and Rosebery Avenue - the Saffron Hill area of Clerkenwell. Clerkenwell spans Camden Borough and Islington Borough. Saffron Hill and St. Peter’s Italian Catholic Church fall within the Camden side. However, even though this was the traditional enclave for Italians, immigrants moved elsewhere in London, bleeding into areas like Islington and Soho where they established bars, cafes and restaurants which sold Italian cuisine and wines.
****The cast iron Jubilee Clock has remained a Harlesden landmark since its erection at Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee in 1887. It is ornate, decorated with dolphins, armorial bearings, a fluted circular column with spirals, shields of arms and swags. When it was built, it featured four ornate gas lit lamps sprouting from its column and two drinking fountains with taps and bowls at its base. It also featured a weathervane on its top. During the late Twentieth Century elements were removed, including the lanterns and the fountain bowls. In 1997 the clock was restored without these elements, but plans are underway to restore of the weathervane and recreation of the original four circular lanterns to the clock and the two fountains.
*****“I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General” (often referred to as the "Major-General's Song" or "Modern Major-General's Song") is a patter song from Gilbert and Sullivan's 1879 comic opera “The Pirates of Penzance”. It has been called the most famous Gilbert and Sullivan patter song. The piece is difficult to perform because of the fast pace and tongue-twisting nature of the lyrics.
******Voile is a lightweight, plain woven fabric usually made from 100% cotton or cotton blend. It has the higher thread count than most cotton fabrics, which results in a silky soft hand. Voile fabric is a perfect dressmaking option for summer because it is lightweight, breathable and semi-sheer.
*******A bandeau is a narrow band of ribbon, velvet, or similar, worn round the head. They were often accessorised with jewels, imitation flowers, feathers and other trimmings in the 1920s when they were at the height of their popularity.
********The vicar of All Souls Parish Church in Harlesden between 1918 and 1927 was Ernest Arnold Dunn. Whilst I cannot find any details about his family life, I’d like to think that he was a happily married man of god and could well have had a daughter named Alice who no doubt played the organ in church on Sundays.
*********‘Little Polly Flinders’, is an English nursery rhyme which emerged in the early 1800s. Charles Dibdin, a talented English poet, is said to have composed this delightful ditty. The rhyme spins the tale of a young girl who, one fine morning, wakes up early and adorns her hair with roses. The rhyme was likely concocted as a cautionary tale and a relatable experience for young children. The primary message of the rhyme is to inspire a sense of responsibility, discipline, and order. It cautions against the consequences of neglecting one's duties, such as ruining one's garments. In the mid Nineteenth Century, the song's fame grew tremendously, frequently acting as a helpful aid for instructing children in reading and writing which is why the friends of the Watsford’s children would have known it so well.
**********‘There’s Life in the Old Girl Yet’ is a song that was very popular in Britain in 1924. With music and lyrics by Noël Coward the song comes from the 1923 London West End musical, ‘London Calling’ and was popularised by English singer and comic character actor Maisie Gay.
***********A “giggling girty” means a girl who laughs a great deal. The term was turned into a popular song in America by the “original radio girl” Vaughn DeLeath. The term has generally fallen out of fashion because the name Gertrude is equally out of favour today.
************‘Lady Be Good’ is a foxtrot from the Broadway musical ‘Lady Be Good’ written by George Gershwin, released in 1924.
************J. Lyons and Co. was a British restaurant chain, food manufacturing, and hotel conglomerate founded in 1884 by Joseph Lyons and his brothers in law, Isidore and Montague Gluckstein. Lyons’ first teashop opened in Piccadilly in 1894, and from 1909 they developed into a chain of teashops, with the firm becoming a staple of the High Street in the United Kingdom. At its peak the chain numbered around two hundred cafes. The teashops provided for tea and coffee, with food choices consisting of hot dishes and sweets, cold dishes and sweets, and buns, cakes and rolls. Lyons' Corner Houses, which first appeared in 1909 and remained until 1977, were noted for their Art Deco style. Situated on or near the corners of Coventry Street, Strand and Tottenham Court Road, they and the Maison Lyonses at Marble Arch and in Shaftesbury Avenue were large buildings on four or five floors, the ground floor of which was a food hall with counters for delicatessen, sweets and chocolates, cakes, fruit, flowers and other products. In addition, they possessed hairdressing salons, telephone booths, theatre booking agencies and at one period a twice-a-day food delivery service. On the other floors were several restaurants, each with a different theme and all with their own musicians. For a time, the Corner Houses were open twenty-four hours a day, and at their peak each branch employed around four hundred staff including their famous waitresses, commonly known as Nippies for the way they nipped in and out between the tables taking orders and serving meals. The tea houses featured window displays, and, in the post-war period, the Corner Houses were smarter and grander than the local tea shops. Between 1896 and 1965 Lyons owned the Trocadero, which was similar in size and style to the Corner Houses.
*************Metroland is a name given to the suburban areas that were built to the north-west of London in the counties of Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire and Middlesex in the early part of the Twentieth Century that were served by the Metropolitan Railway. The railway company was in the privileged position of being allowed to retain surplus land; from 1919 this was developed for housing by the nominally independent Metropolitan Railway Country Estates Limited (MRCE). The term "Metroland" was coined by the Met's marketing department in 1915 when the Guide to the Extension Line became the Metro-land guide. It promoted a dream of a modern home in beautiful countryside with a fast railway service to central London until the Met was absorbed into the London Passenger Transport Board in 1933.
This cluttered, yet cheerful and festive domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The wonderful nickel plated ‘morning glory horn’ portable gramophone, complete with His Master’s Voice labelling, is a 1:12 miniature artisan piece made by Jonesy’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. It arrived in a similarly labelled 1:12 packing box along with the box of RCA Victor records that you can see peeping out of their box to the right of the gramophone. The gramophone has a rotating crank and a position adjustable horn.
The records scattered across Ada’s kitchen table at the front of the gramophone are all made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Known for his authentic recreation of books, 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. What might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. Not only did Ken Blythe create books, he also created other 1:12 miniatures with paper and that includes the wonderful gramophone records you see here. Each record is correctly labelled to match its dust cover, and can be removed from its sleeve. Each record sleeve is authentically recreated just like its life-sized equivalent, right down to its creasing and curling corners. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make them all miniature artisan pieces. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.
The bottle of champagne is a 1:12 size artisan miniature made of glass by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The champagne glasses on the table are hand-made 1:12 artisan miniature pieces made from blown glass, acquired from Karen Ladybug Miniatures. The glass and bottles of ale are also :12 artisan miniature pieces made from blown glass, acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.
The tablecloth is actually a piece of bright cotton print that was tied around the lid of a jar of home made peach and rhubarb jam that I was given a few years ago.
The paper chains festooning Ada’s kitchen I made myself using very thinly cut paper. It was a fiddly job to do, but I think it adds festive cheer and realism to this scene, as fancy Christmas decorations would have been beyond the budget of Edith’s parents, and homemade paper chains were common in households before the advent of cheap mass manufactured Christmas decorations.
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.
You will also notice on the shelves of the dresser a few of the common groceries a household like the Watsfords’ may have had: Bisto gravy powder, Ty-Phoo tea and 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 packaging.
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.
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.
Oxo is a brand of food products, including stock cubes, herbs and spices, dried gravy, and yeast extract. The original product was the beef stock cube, and the company now also markets chicken and other flavour cubes, including versions with Chinese and Indian spices. The cubes are broken up and used as flavouring in meals or gravy or dissolved into boiling water to produce a bouillon. Oxo produced their first cubes in 1910 and further increased Oxo's popularity.
The large kitchen range in the background is a 1:12 miniature replica of the coal fed Phoenix Kitchen Range. A mid-Victorian model, it has hinged opening doors, hanging bars above the stove and a little bass hot water tap (used in the days before plumbed hot water).
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today we are in the kitchen of Lettice’s flat: Edith her maid’s preserve. Edith sighs as she places the notepad and pencil in front of her on the deal kitchen, enjoying the silence that has fallen across the flat in her mistress’ absence as she sips some tea from her delftware teacup and enjoys a biscuit from the brightly painted biscuit barrel. Lettice has gone to Charring Cross to acquire a present for her oldest childhood chum and fellow member of the aristocracy, Gerald Bruton. It will soon be his birthday, and Lettice is treating him to an evening at the Café Royal* in Regent Street. However, she also wants something less ephemeral than a glittering evening out to dinner for Gerald to look back on in the years ahead as he turns twenty-five.
Edith picks up the pencil and starts listing the items that she knows she needs to order from Willison’s Grocers around the corner on Binney Street. As she lists flour, a dozen eggs and caster sugar** the pencil scratches across the surface, and Edith thinks of seeing her beau, grocer’s delivery boy and part time window dresser, Frank Leadbetter. Her heart skips a beat as she thinks about his handsome face smiling down at her, and his arms wrapping her in one of his all-embracing hugs that she loves so much. Frank might be a wiry young man, but his arms are strong from all the heavy lifting of boxes of groceries for Mr. Willison. Edith and Frank have been stepping out together since that fateful day in February 1922 when Edith flippantly suggested to Frank that Mrs. Boothby, the charwoman*** that comes to do the hard graft around the flat commented on how she felt Edith was sweet on Frank. Since their first date to see ‘After the Ball is Over’ – a moving picture that starred one of Lettice’s clients, actress Wanette Ward – at the Premier in East Ham**** the pair have spent a great deal of their spare time together, and their relationship has become very serious. Edith knows that it is only a matter of time before Frank proposes, and whilst that doesn’t mean any immediate change to the current rhythm of her life, she knows that eventually, once she is married, she will be obliged to leave service***** and become a housewife. She has been keeping money aside to help her when she and Frank finally set up house, and she has started a few scrapbook in which she cuts out and affixes images of wedding gowns and cakes from Lettice’s discarded magazines, as well as sketches of wedding frocks and bridesmaids’ dresses that she has done on late evenings after Lettice has retired to bed.
Edith is still daydreaming at the kitchen table when a gentle tapping at the kitchen door leading to the scullery breaks into her thoughts.
“Yes?” Edith queries, surprised at the tapping, and then even more startled when Lettice’s head pops around the edge of the door.
When Edith first came to work for Lettice, Lettice had the rather unnerving, and to Edith’s mind irritating and irrational habit of walking into the service area of the flat, such as the kitchen or scullery, seeking Edith for some reason or other, rather than ringing the servants’ bells located around the public rooms. It was only once Wanetta Ward had raised the idea with Lettice that whilst Cavendish mews might be her flat, and it might be her kitchen, that it was really Edith’s preserve, that she stopped the habit of just barging in.
“Miss Lettice!” Edith gasps, and quickly forces herself out of her comfortable Windsor chair and stumbles onto her feet. “I didn’t know you were home yet. Did you have a nice trip to Charring Cross?” She drops an awkward curtsey.
“I did, thank you Edith.” Lettice gushes, stepping through the door, still holding her parcels from Mr. Mayhew’s bookshop******. “I bought Gera… err… Mr. Bruton, a lovely book on Art Nouveau design.” She squeezes the parcel a little more closely to her chest as she speaks.
“That must be nice for you, Miss.” Edith remarks a little awkwardly.
“Yes, it is.” Lettice agrees, as she looks around the tidy kitchen.
Edith notices that Lettice is still dressed in her pretty floral summer frock, designed by Gerald, with its handkerchief point hem and matching cloche hat made by Gerald’s friend Harriet Milford.
“Did you need something, Miss?” Edith presses, anxious that Lettice is regressing back into her old habit of barging into the kitchen unannounced.
“No… yes… no… well…” Lettice stammers, suddenly lunging towards the opposite side of the kitchen table, dropping her parcels and purse onto its scrubbed surface. “Well yes, actually Edith.”
“Miss?”
“Well… look, I know that I promised that I would ring the bell when I wanted you, and I have, haven’t I Edith?”
“Yes Miss.” Edith replies, somewhat perplexed by her mistress’ response.
“But this time it’s different, don’t you see?”
Edith cocks an eyebrow over her right eye and looks quizzically at Lettice. “Err… no. I’m afraid I don’t see.”
“Oh please, please Edith,” Lettice flaps her well manicured and bejewelled hand in the air between the two women. “Do sit back down.”
“Yes Miss.” Edith manages to reply as she sinks back down into her seat and watches as Lettice scurries across the black and white chequered linoleum and drags across the second kitchen chair to the table and sits opposite her.
“Well this is far more personal, and as it pertains to you specifically,” Edith’s face drains of colour at Lettice’s words. “Oh! Oh no!” Lettice quickly assures her with a calming gesticulation. “It’s nothing bad, dear Edith. I’m not going to dismiss you.”
Edith releases the deep breath she has inhaled with a sigh of relief, and she sinks more comfortably into the rounded back of the worn Windsor chair. “Oh, you did give me a turn then, Miss. I really thought for a moment that I was in for it.”
“Good heavens no, Edith.” Lettice smiles. “That is the last thing that would ever happen! You’re the best maid a girl like me could ask for.” She pauses as the smile falls from her painted lips. “Which is all the more reason why this is an awkward conversation to have, but one I had to have in here, in your,” She waves her hands around her. “Well, your realm as it were.” She coughs with embarrassment as her face begins to colour.
“Awkward, Miss?” Edith queries again. “I… I’m sorry. Call me dim, Miss, but I really can’t say that I’m following you.”
Lettice’s shoulders slump as she releases a frustrated sigh. “I’ve come to apologise, Edith.”
“Apologise, Miss?”
“Yes,” Lettice admits guiltily. “I’ve been,” She casts her eyes downwards to the table surface as she speaks. “A bit of a beast lately.”
“Oh I wouldn’t go…” Edith begins to defend, but the words die on her lips as Lettice holds up a hand to stop her protestations.
“No. It’s true. I have been a beast. And I’m sorry, Edith. Truly I am. Mr. Bruton pointed out how sharp I was with you at dinner the other night. You didn’t deserve to be berated like that, especially in front of Mr. Brunton, whom I know you respect.”
“I do, Miss.”
“Yes, well, he obviously has a lot of respect for you too, Edith.”
“He does, Miss?” Edith’s eyes grow wide and her jaw goes slack in surprise at the revelation.
“He does. Firstly, he called me out on my bad behaviour the other evening, which he had every right to do. Secondly, he complimented you on being such a good maid. And thirdly he said that he’d employ you as a seamstress if he could.”
“He would, Miss?” Edith purrs with pleasure, flushing at the compliment.
“Mr. Bruton has proven himself to be far more observant than me. I seem not to be able to notice the pearl under my very nose, Edith.” Lettice chuckles awkwardly. “He’s noticed how smartly turned out you are on the occasions he has seen you coming and going on your afternoons off when he’s been here with me, and I haven’t.”
“Goodness!” Edith’s blush deepens as she considers that a couturier such as Gerald has observed her humble dressmaking skills.
“So there you go! Your skills haven’t gone unnoticed, and I for one am going to try and be more grateful for your services around here, Edith. You really are a brick, you know, and I’m so lucky to have you here to look after me and try and keep things in order for me.”
“And answer that infernal contraption!” she remarks poignantly, referring to the Bakelite******* and chrome telephone in Lettice’s Cavendish Mews drawing room which she dislikes intensely.
“And answer the telephone, which I know you loathe, dear Edith.” Lettice agrees with a relieved sigh, knowing that Edith will forgive her for her recent rudeness. “See, you really are a brick!”
“Well, thank you, Miss.” Edith smiles broadly.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so short and snappy, lately. It’s not an excuse, or rather it shouldn’t be, but… well you know the lady novelist you like whose flat I am redecorating?”
“Madeline St John, do you mean, Miss?” Edith perks up, excited about anything that Lettice might be willing to divulge about her favourite romance novelist.
“Yes. Well, Lady Gladys, whom you know as Madeline St John, has been very difficult with me.”
“Ohe she’s been lovely with me over that infernal telephone when I’ve answered it and she’s been on the line. She’s ever so polite and chatty. She’s even promised to sign a few copies of her novels to give to you, to give to me, Miss.”
“Yes, well, not to disparage her, but that’s the public face that Lady Gladys wants everyone to see. However the private Lady Gladys is not so kind.”
“Why do you say that, Miss.”
“Because Edith, I sadly know the truth now, but after it was too late to stop her from being difficult and controlling. You see, I am acting on her wishes to decorate a flat for her, but the flat belongs to a young lady around your age, and that young lady can’t express her own opinion as to how she wants her flat to be decorated.”
“Oh that’s terrible, Miss! Poor her!”
“Poor her, indeed.”
“So what are you going to do to right the situation, Miss?”
“Well, I’m not exactly sure. I’m not even sure I can do anything.”
“Well,” Edith says comfortingly, picking up her pencil again and rolling it around in her fingers. “I’m sure you’ll find some way to fix it, Miss.”
Noticing Edith’s pad for the first time, Lettice clears her throat. She glances at the kitchen clock as it ticks quietly away on the wall. “My, my! Is that the time? Well, I mustn’t tarry here any longer and hold you up from your duties, Edith.” She stands and gathers up her parcels. “Are you writing to a friend?”
“No, Miss.” Edith holds up her pad. “It’s a grocery list, Miss.”
“Oh! Yes… well… very good, Edith.”
Lettice turns away and walks towards the kitchen door. Just as she is about to cross the threshold of the scullery, she turns back.
“You wouldn’t, would you, Edith?”
“Wouldn’t I what, Miss?”
“Leave me to go and work for Mr, Bruton as a seamstress.”
Edith feels the blush of embarrassment at the fact that her dressmaking skills have been noticed fill her cheeks.
“Never mind.” Lettice continues. “Don’t answer that, and forget I’ve asked you.”
“Yes Miss.” Edith replies, standing and dropping another hurried bob curtsey.
“I’ll raise your wages, just to be sure that Mr. Bruton can’t entice you away.” Lettice adds. “I should pay you more for all that you do, anyway. How does another four shillings a month sound?”
“Four shillings?” Edith gasps in amazement.
“That’s settled then.” Lettice smiles. “And I promise to try and be less prickly. I promise things will get better once Lady Gladys’ commission is finished.”
As Lettice retreats, her clicking footsteps quickly dissipating across the linoleum of the scullery before she disappears through the green baize door leading to the Cavendish Mews flat’s dining room, Edith can barely contain her excitement. In the space of a few minutes she has received an unexpected apology, discovered that her skills as a seamstress may pay her dividends in the future, and been given a generous increase to her wages. She settles back into her seat, reaches across and snatches up a chocolate biscuit, allowing her lids to close over her eyes as she does, and bask in the glory of what has just come to pass.
*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.
**Caster sugar is the term for very fine granulated sugar in the United Kingdom. British bakers and cooks value it for making meringues, custards, sweets, mousses, and a number of baked goods. In the United States, caster sugar is usually sold under the name "superfine sugar." It is also sometimes referred to as baking sugar or casting sugar, and can be spelled as "castor." The term "caster" comes from the fact that the sugar was placed in a shaker with a perforated top, called a caster, and used to sprinkle on fresh fruit. I have several sugar casters in my own antique silver collection from the Eighteenth, Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries.
***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 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.
*****Prior to and even after the Second World War, there was a ‘marriage bar’ in place. Introduced into legislation, the bar banned the employment of married women as permanent employees, which in essence meant that once a women was married, no matter how employable she was, became unemployable, leaving husbands to be the main breadwinner for the family. This meant that working women needed to save as much money as they could before marriage, and often took in casual work, such as mending, sewing or laundry for a pittance at home to help bring in additional income and help to make ends meet. The marriage bar wasn’t lifted until the very late 1960s.
******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.
*******Bakelite, was the first plastic made from synthetic components. Patented on December 7, 1909, the creation of a synthetic plastic was revolutionary for its electrical nonconductivity and heat-resistant properties in electrical insulators, radio and telephone casings and such diverse products as kitchenware, jewellery, pipe stems, teapot handles, children's toys, and firearms. A plethora of items were manufactured using Bakelite in the 1920s and 1930s.
This comfortable domestic kitchen scene is a little different to what you might think, for whilst it looks very authentic, it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my miniatures collection, some of which come from my own childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
Edith’s deal kitchen table is set for tea for one. The tea cosy, which fits snugly over a white porcelain teapot, has been hand knitted in fine lemon, blue and violet wool. It comes easily off and off and can be as easily put back on as a real tea cosy on a real teapot. It comes from a specialist miniatures stockist in the United Kingdom. The brightly painted biscuit barrel, attributed to the style created by famous Staffordshire pottery paintress Clarice Cliff, containing a replica miniature selection of biscuits a 1:12 artisan piece acquired from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The Delftware cup, saucer, plate, sugar bowl and milk jug are part of a 1:12 size miniature porcelain dinner set which sits on the dresser that can be seen just to the right of shot. The vase of flowers are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium and inserted into a real, hand blown glass vase. The pencil on the pad is a 1:12 miniature as well, and is only one millimetre wide and two centimetres long.
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 of either chair, but it is definitely an unmarked artisan pieces.
The bright brass pieces hanging on the wall or standing on the stove all come from various stockists, most overseas, but the three frypans I bought from a High Street specialist in dolls and dolls’ house furnishings when I was a teenager. The spice drawers you can just see hanging on the wall to the upper right-hand corner of the photo came from the same shop as the frypans, but were bought about a year before the pans.
In the background you can see a very modern and up-to-date 1920s gas stove. It would have been expensive to instal at the time, and it would have been the cook’s or maid’s pleasure to cook on and in. It would have included a thermostat for perfect cooking and without the need of coal, it was much cleaner to feed, use and clean. It is not unlike those made by the Roper Stove Company in the 1920s. The Roper Stove Company previously named the Florence-Wehrle Company among other names, was founded in 1883. Located in Newark, Ohio, the company was once the largest stove producer in the world. Today, the Roper Stove Company is a brand of Whirlpool.
On its top stand various jars of spices and tins of ingredients used in everyday cooking in the 1920s. The glass jars of preserves and spices came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom, whilst the other items come from by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, who specialise in 1:12 miniature grocery items, with particular attention paid to their labelling. Several other tins of household goods made by Little Tings Dollhouse Miniatures stand on the white painted surface of the dresser.
In addition to brass pots, the Delftware tea service and tins of household groceries, the dresser also contains two Cornishware cannisters which I found from an online stockist of 1;12 dollhouse miniatures. Cornishware is a striped kitchenware brand trademarked to and manufactured by T.G. Green & Co Ltd. Originally introduced in the 1920s and manufactured in Church Gresley, Derbyshire, it was a huge success for the company and in the succeeding 30 years it was exported around the world. The company ceased production in June 2007 when the factory closed under the ownership of parent company, The Tableshop Group. The range was revived in 2009 after T.G. Green was bought by a trio of British investors. Attached to the edge of the dresser is a gleaming meat mincer which is a 1:12 miniature that I acquired from a collector in the Netherlands. The demijohns underneath the dresser I have had since I was a teenager and were acquired from a small toy shop in London. The lettuce in the basket underneath the dresser I acquired from an auction house some years ago as part of a lot of hand made artisan miniatures.
On the bench in the background stands a bread crock. There is also a jar of Golden Shred orange marmalade made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. Golden Shred orange marmalade still exists today and is a common household brand both in Britain and Australia. It is 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 marmalade dates back to 1874 when Mrs. Robertson started making marmalade in the family grocery shop in Paisley, Scotland.
The tin bucket, mops and brooms in the corner of the kitchen all come from Beautifully handmade Miniatures in Kettering.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Tonight however we are not in Lettice’s flat, and whilst we have not travelled that far physically across London, the tough streets and blind alleys of Poplar in London’s East End is a world away from Lettice’s rarefied and privileged world. We have come to the home of Lettice’s charwoman*, Mrs. Boothby, where we find ourselves in the cheerful kitchen cum parlour of her tenement in Merrybrook Place: by her own admission, a haven of cleanliness amidst the squalor of the surrounding neighbourhood.
The sun is setting on the late autumnal, cold November day. The golden orb, which has been shrouded in clouds for most of the day is now barely a dull greenish yellow glow above the rooftops of the tenements opposite Mrs. Boothby’s own terrace as a thick fog, fed by all the coal and wood fires heating the houses of London, begins to settle in. As darkness envelops the streets, warm flickering lights begin to appear in the windows of Merrybrook Place as its citizens settle in for an evening at home.
Mrs. Boothby has just reached for her tobacco when she hears a pounding on her door. Looking up in surprise, she remains silent and unmoving, all her senses suddenly alert. The hammering comes again. She gets up and walks over to the corner of the room where she reaches for her broom. The knocking comes a third time.
“Hoo’s there?” Mrs. Boothby’s cockney voice calls out in a steely fashion, attempting to project a stronger persona than the wiry and older little charwoman that she is. “Whatchoo want?”
“It’s me, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith voice calls weakly from the other side of the door. “Edith.”
Mrs. Boothby gasps aloud, swiftly unbolts the door and flings it open, appearing in the doorway, still with her broom in her hand. “Ere! Whatchoo doin’ ‘ere, Edith dearie? You come ‘ere on your own did ya?”
Mrs. Boothby’s eyes grow wide as she sees Edith’s tear stained face in the golden light reflected from the paraffin lamp that illuminates her parlour.
“I’m sorry to call on you unannounced,” Edith snivels. “I just didn’t know where else to go.”
The old Cockney woman quickly puts the broom aside, next to the open door, and embraces Edith in a firm hug. “Come in in wiv you, Edith dearie!” As she draws Lettice’s young maid-of-all-work into her tenement, she glances over Edith’s shoulder with owl eyes at the darkened streetscape slowly being softened by the greenish fog outside. There is no-one else around, but down at the end of her rookery**, where the privies are, she notices a flash of a shadow as two mangy stray cats hiss and spit at one another in either play or in a territorial war. In the distance a dog barks. Then she notices the tatty lace curtains in one of her neighbours’ windows rustle and quiver. “Keep your big bloody Yid*** nose out of my business, Golda Friedman!” Mrs. Boothby calls out angrily across the way.
“Ahh shuddup!” a strident male voice from somewhere above and further down the terrace calls out. Whether directed at Mrs. Boothby or elsewhere, the old charwoman doesn’t care as she begins to close her door. The curtains at Golda Friedman’s windows flutter quickly once again and then stop.
“Cor! You didn’t ‘alf give me a turn!” Closing the door behind her, Mrs, Boothby heaves a sigh of relief. “Edith dearie, whatchoo doin’ ‘ere?” she asks again. “You’re takin’ your pretty young life in your own ‘ands comin’ dawhn ‘ere this time of day. Poplar’s like an old shape shifter**** as the London fogs settle in for the night, and streets you fought you knew well, are suddenly strangers, unless you’re a local like me, whoo can find their way through the fog.”
“I’m sorry Mrs. Boothby.” Edith apologises again, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand before opening her green leather handbag and fetching out a dainty lace handkerchief embroidered with a cursive letter E in pale blue cotton. “I… I just didn’t know where else to go. What with Miss Lettice being out with Mr. Bruton at the Café Royal***** this evening, I just couldn’t bear to be alone at Cavendish Mews with my thoughts.”
“There, there, Edith dearie!” Mrs. Boothby enfolds Edith in an all-embracing hug again, tightening her wiry arms around Edith’s trembling figure and patting her on the back with her gnarled and careworn hands. “It’s alright. You’re ‘ere nawh. No ‘arm done.” Then she releases her, steps back slightly and looks again at Edith’s blotched and reddened face. Grasping her by the shoulders she gasps, “Youse didn’t get attacked by a man on the way dawhn ‘ere, did cha? That ain’t why yer cryin’ is it?”
Edith releases a snuffly guffaw. “No, Mrs. Boothby.”
“Fank the lawd for that!” the old woman casts her eyes up to the oatmeal cigarette smoke stained ceiling. “A nice girl dressed like you is, is ripe for pickin’s on them streets out there. You should only be comin’ dahwn ‘ere wiv me by your side to guide you, Edith dearie!”
A soft, hurried tapping on the wall adjoining the tenement next door breaks into Mrs. Boothby’s speech. “You alright in there, Ida luv? I ‘eard bangin’!” the anxious muffled voice of Mrs. Boothby’s neighbour, Mrs. Conway, calls out.
“Yes Lil, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby assures her. “It’s alright. Just a surprise visitor, and that nosey gossip Mrs. Friedman not mindin’ ‘er own business like usual.”
“Bloody Yid! Alright Ada, luv.” Mrs. Conway’s voice replies with relief. “Night.”
“Night Lil, dearie.”
“Miss Eadie!” comes a booming voice from the room.
Edith and Mrs. Boothby both glance across the kitchen-cum-parlour to the clean deal kitchen table. Ken, Mrs. Boothby’s mature aged disabled son sits at the table, his beloved worn teddy bear, floppy stuffed rabbit and a few playing cards in front of him. A gormless grin spreads across his childlike innocent face, but it falls away quickly when he sees that Edith has been crying. He drops his bear, his precious toy forgotten, his face darkening as he leaps up from his seat and hurries over to Edith and his mother in a few galumphing steps.
“Oh lawd!” Mrs. Boothby hisses. “Ken’ll be beside ‘imself!”
“Hoo did this, Miss Eadie?” Ken asks anxiously, hopping up and down on the spot with agitation before the two women. “Who hurt my Miss Eadie?”
“Nahw, nahw, son. ‘Ush nahw.” Mrs. Boothby says soothingly, raising her hands up to her son in an effort to placate him. “We don’t know niffink yet, do we?”
Ken’s large, careworn, sausage like finger fly to his mouth. “’Ooo made my Miss Eadie, cry?” he seethes, the anger blazing in his eyes. “I’ll kill ‘im!”
“Nahw, youse won’t go killin’ no-one, Ken!” Mrs. Boothby replies. “What are you like?”
“It’s alright, Ken,” Edith replies a little shakily. “It’s just my beau. He said something that upset me, but…”
“I’ll kill him!” Ken interrupts, his voice rising in anger. “I’ll kill that bastard!”
“Ken!” Mrs. Boothby snaps. “Whatchoo fink Miss Eadie is gonna fink, you cussin’ like that in front of ‘er! Fink I raised you up a bad’n, she will! Miss Eadie is a lady!”
“Oh!” Ken gasps in apology. “Sorry Mum!”
“It’s not me you need to be apologising to, Ken!” Mrs. Boothby snaps. “It’s Miss Eadie, ‘ere.”
“Sorry Miss Eadie.” Ken apologises earnestly.
“A nice lady like Miss Eadie ain’t gonna be your friend, nor bring you nice presents like she does, if youse go cussin’ and fretenin’ to kill ‘er beau like that in front of ‘er!”
“I will! I will!” Ken insists. “I’ll kill ‘im if ‘e made my Miss Eadie cry!”
“Oh, he didn’t mean to, Ken.” Edith assures Ken, reaching out and placing a hand comfortingly upon his forearm. “It’s alright. He just said something… something nice, but it just didn’t seem that nice to me when he said it. It’s alright. Really it is.”
“I’ll kill him.” Ken affirms again, but in a calmer voice as his agitation begins to dissipate.
“You’d never kill anyone, Ken.” Edith soothes. “I know you wouldn’t. You’re far to gentle. That’s why I like you and why I bring you pretty books and toys, because you’re gentle with them.”
“Whatchoo like, Ken?” Mrs. Boothby goes on. “Miss Eadie is right. You’d nevva ‘urt a fly!”
“Of course I’m right, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith goes on. “Look how gentle Ken is with his toys.” She nods at the teddy and rabbit lying on the table.
“Anyways, ‘ooo would Miss Eadie marry if you went and dun ‘er young man, in, Ken? Tell me that!”
“Me Mum!” Ken smiles cheerfully, the anger of moments ago forgotten in an instant. “She can marry me, Mum.”
“Oh that’s sweet of you, Ken,” Edith’s blush goes unnoticed because of her already reddened face. “But I think we’re probably better being very good friends, rather than stepping out together. Don’t you think?”
“Yes, Miss Eadie.”
“And you don’t have to be my beau in order for me to bring you presents, Ken.”
Ken’s eyes light up, this time with excitement. “Did you bring me a present, Miss Eadie?”
“Ken!” Mrs. Boothby scolds again. “What kind of question is that to ask our guest, when she’s not even sat down yet!”
Kenn immediately moves back to the kitchen table and draws out the ladderback chair that he was sitting on, encouraging Edith to sit upon it.
“I’m sorry Ken.” Edith apologises sadly. “No presents today. Maybe next time.”
“Next time is Christmas, Miss Eadie!” Ken replies, clapping his hands.
“Yes. Why yes it is, Ken.” Edith replies distractedly. “I’ll bring you a nice Christmas present.”
“You’ll do nuffink of the sort,” Mrs. Boothby hisses. “You spoil my son with all those gifts you give ‘im!”
“I can if I choose, Mrs. Boothby.”
Ignoring Edith’s reply the old woman says, “Nahw Ken, do me a favour, son. Run ‘n get me bag will you?”
“Yes Mum!” Ken replies as he scurries off.
“You ‘ungry, Edith derie?” Mrs, Boothby quickly asks Edith.
“Well, I hadn’t really considered it, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies.
“Well, I’m goona distract Ken by sendin’ im on an errand to go get us somfink for tea, so then you and me can ‘ave a quick chat alone wivout bein’ disturbed, if you know what I mean.” Mrs. Boothby whispers, winking at Edith. Then raising her voice more loudly, she continues, “Could you stomach some chippies, Edith love?”
“Well,” Edith replies with equal loudness, “Frank did take me for afternoon tea at Lyon’s Corner House****** this afternoon for sandwiches, but I did lose most of my appetite, so I’m quite peckish now.”
“Then some chippies will do you the world a good then, dearie!” Mrs. Boothby replies.
Ken quickly returns with Mrs. Boothby’s capacious blue beaded bag and hands it to his mother. She opens it and fishes around inside before withdrawing a small beaten brown leather coin purse with a silver metal clasp. She opens it and withdraws a coin. “Nahw Ken, what’s this then?” she asks, holding up a shiny bronzed halfpenny******* featuring King George on one side and Britannia seated holding a trident******** on the other between her right thumb and index finger.
“It’s money, Mum!” Ken scoffs with a broad smile. “I’m not dumb you know!”
“Ahh lawd love ya, son,” Mrs. Boothby runs her left hand lovingly along her son’s cheek before pinching it, making him smile even more broadly. “I know you ain’t. Ain’t I be the one what always tells ya not to let anyone tell you that youse fick? Nah! I know youse got more brains than a lot of people out there.” She gesticulates to the world outside their front door. “But if youse so smart, Ken, ‘ow much is it, I’d ‘oldin’ ‘ere?”
“It’s an ‘a’penny, Mum.”
“Good lad!” Mrs. Boothby agrees. “It’s an ‘a’penny bit.” She smiles proudly. “Nawh, I want you to take this ‘a’penny bit wiv ya and go round to Mr. Cricklewood’s and buy us an ‘a’penny bit’s worf of ‘ot chips, right?”
“Ain’t Mr. ‘Eath’s chippe closer, Mum?” Ken asks, his face crumpling up questioningly.
“It is, son,” Mrs. Boothby agrees. “But you know as well as I do, that Mr. Cricklewood’s chippies is much nicer. That’s why ‘e’s always got a queue out tha door on a Sunday night, ain’t it?”
“Yes Mum! Evva so much nicer, Mum!”
Mrs. Boothby drops the halfpenny in the palm of his hand. “So orf you go!”
“Yes Mum! An ‘a’penny bit’s worf of ‘ot chips.” Ken repeats back.
“Good lad!” Mrs. Boothby says encouragingly. “And whilst youse gawn, I’ll pop the kettle on, and fry us up a couple a nice eggs to go wiv ‘em. Reckon you could eat a couple a eggies, Ken?”
“Yes Mum!” Ken agrees in delight, rubbing his burgeoning stomach to show her how hungry he is.
As the door closes behind him, and Ken steps out into the dark and fog filling street, Mrs. Boothby heaves a sigh of relief.
“Well, that’ll distract Ken for a while.” she says. She goes to the window and pulls back the red velvet curtain that excludes the cold of the night, and watches as Ken disappears into the darkness shrouded by the growing fog. “The queues outside Cricklewood’s Fish and Chippery are ever so long on a Sunday night, even a foggy one. That it’ll give you enuff time to dry you’re tears, and me enuff time to pop on the kettle, and for us to ‘ave a quick chat undisturbed an’ get to bottom of what’s got cha so upset, Edith dearie.”
“I’m sorry again for dropping in on you unannounced, Mrs. Boothby, and for upsetting Ken.” Edith says.
“Nawh, don’t you fret about that, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby replies with a dismissive wave. “I’m just glad you made it ‘ere before it gets too dark. The streets round ‘ere ain’t too safe for young slips of girls like you at night – ‘specially when there’s a fog brewin’ like tonight. Ken ‘n I will take you back to Cavendish Mews after our tea. ‘Ere, give me your coat ‘n ‘at, dearie.”
“Will Ken be alright?” Edith asks in concern, looking to the closed door anxiously as Mrs. Boothby shucks her out of her three quarter length black coat, a piece she picked up cheaply as per Mrs. Boothby’s recommendation from a Petticoat Lane********* second-hand clothes stall not far from Mrs. Boothby’s tenement, and remodelled it.
“’E’ll be fine, dearie. Don’t worry.” Mrs. Boothby replies, taking Edith’s black straw cloche decorated with black feathers and lavender satin roses obtained from Mrs. Minkin’s haberdashery in Whitechapel, another place that Mrs. Boothby recommended Edith to. “’Ooose gonna take on a great big bulk of muscle like my Ken, dearie? E’ll give anyone what tries a right royal bollockin’ if they do.” She hangs up Edith’s coat and hat on a hook behind the door. “Anyway, unlike you, our Ken’s a local, and there’s a certain amount of respect for locals, even ‘mongst the thieves and pickpockets round this way. You don’t make a mess, or enemies, in your own patch, nahw do you?”
“I suppose not, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies.
“Sit yourself dahwn, while I pop the kettle on. Nahw Edith dearie,” Mrs. Boothby says with concern, walking the few paces across her parlour to the old blacklead stove. “What’s all the commotion then?” She turns back and looks the young maid squarely in the face, a kindly look on her worn and wrinkled face. “Tell me why youse come to see me outta the blue like this on a Sunday night, and cryin’ at that? Are you alright?” She gasps. “Well obviously you ain’t! What was I finkin’ askin’ that? You said somfink about it to do wiv your young Frank Leadbetter? ‘As ‘e wound up in some trouble?”
“No Mrs. Boothby. It’s nothing as bad as all that.” Edith sinks down into the ladderback chair at the kitchen table, not too dissimilar from her one at Cavendish Mews, where Ken had been sitting, and toys idly with the paw of his well loved teddy bear. “I should be embarrassed for coming here really, and bothering you like this. You’ll think I’m stupid, no doubt.”
“Nahw you let me worry ‘bout what I fink about yer, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby chides Edith with a wagging finger as she fills her battered kettle from the small trough sink in the corner of the room and carries it the two paces over to the stove. “But I can tell you right nahw that I won’t fink you’re stupid, no matter what. Nahw, I ‘ope ya don’t mind, but I’m dying for a fag! I was just about ta ‘ave one when you knocked on me door.” Without waiting for a reply, Mrs Boothby starts fossicking through her capacious beaded bag, which she cast carelessly onto the tabletop after taking out the money for Ken, before withdrawing her cigarette papers, Swan Vestas and tin of Player’s Navy Cut. Rolling herself a cigarette she lights it with a satisfied sigh and one of her fruity coughs, dropping the match into a black ashtray full of used cigarette butts that also sits in its usual place on the table. “Nahw, tell me what all the trouble is then, Edith dearie.” she says, blowing forth a plume of acrid smoke.
“I’m almost too ashamed to tell you, Mrs. Boothby.”
“’Ere! ‘E weren’t bein’ ‘andsy, were ‘e?” Mrs. Boothby gasps. “Under the table like at Lyon’s Corner ‘Ouse, takin’ liberties ‘e ain’t supposed to be?”
“Oh no, Mrs. Boothby, nothing like that.”
“That’s good! I didn’t ever take Frank Leadbetter as an ‘andsy sort of chap, or I’d nevva ‘ave tried settin’ you two up.”
“Oh, he’s a gentleman, Mrs. Boothby.”
“And you ‘aven’t ‘ad a fallin’ out, ‘ave you?” the older woman asks warily.
“Oh no, Mrs. Boothby.”
“Then what’s ‘e done that’s upset cha?” Mrs. Boothby asks, before coughing again, sending forth another few billows of smoke accompanying her throaty outbursts.
“He was only trying to be nice, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith goes on. “You see, we had a lovely tea at Lyon’s Corner House up in Tottenham Court Road today after we went to see ‘The Notorious Mrs. Carrick’********** at the Premier*********** in East Ham. I knew Frank was distracted. I could tell he was itching to talk to me about something.”
“What was it, dearie? What did ‘e say?”
“He wanted to talk about our future, Mrs. Boothby.”
“And that’s a bad fing?”
“Well no, but what he said has raised a lot of concerns for me, you see.”
“So, what was that then?”
“Well, you know how Frank has been spending time at these trade union meetings?” Edith begins. When Mrs. Boothby nods she goes on, “He went to a trade union meeting the other week and he met up with a chum of his who told him that he might have a position opening up Frank soon, as an assistant manager at a grocers.”
“Well what’s so bad about that, dearie?” Mrs. Boothby asks. She pulls a face. “Certainly nuffink to get upset about! I fought that’s whatchoo bowf wanted.”
“We do, Mrs. Boothby, but its where it may be that’s the problem.”
“Where is it then? The moon?” the old Cockney woman laughs light-heartedly. “It can’t be as bad as all that, can it?”
“It may just as well be the moon, Mrs. Boothby. The opening is for a grocers in one of those new estates being built north-west of London.”
“And where are they then?” Mrs. Boothby asks. “Pardon my hignorance.”
“Hertfordshire or Buckinghamshire!” Edith exclaims. “Miss Lettice’s sister lives in Buckinghamshire! It’s the country!”
“Ahh!” Mrs. Boothby sighs knowingly, placing her cigarette between her thin lips to free her hands so she can pick up her old Brown Betty************ and fill it with water from the now boiling kettle. “So, Frank wants you to move to the country then?”
“Yes.” Edith sighs. “I mean, Frank says that where he’s taking about isn’t really the country as such. It’s an estate built along the railway line, not far from Wembley Park, but it sounds like its all in the planning at the moment, and in my mind, its still very much the country.” She sighs again. “And I’ve never lived in the country, and having lived in the city all my life, I don’t think I much fancy country living, especially not after that awful time Hilda and I had in Alderley Edge when we visited our friend Queenie. Remember me telling you, Mrs. Boothby?”
“I do dearie.” She nods as places the pot on the table, huffing out cigarette smoke as she speaks. “Everyone in those little villages knows everyone else’s business, and I ‘ate people nosin’ in on mine.” She eyes the door and pictures Mrs. Friedman’s twitching lace curtains beyond it.
“I mean Frank says it won’t be like that. He says there won’t be uppity families living in these new suburbs, because everyone will be working class, like us, or maybe middle-class, but there will still be the people who have lived in those areas for generations, surely, and they’ll be the ones who’ll rule the roost.”
“Indeed they will, Edith dearie. Country folk don’t like town folk any more than we like them.”
“Have you been to the country before, Mrs. Boothby?”
“Good lawd no!” Mrs. Boothby cries before coughing again as she stubs her cigarette butt out in the ashtray. “But I’ve read about it, mark my words. I’d never give up my life in the city. I ‘ave ‘eard and know enuff ‘bout the country to know it’s far too quiet out there for someone like me! Nah! I ain’t for the country and the country ain’t for me nivver.”
“Frank says that the air out there is fresher and healthier, with none of the pea-soupers************* we get here in London, like tonight.”
“I fink that talk ‘bout fresh air’s overrated. They got cows in the country, ain’t they?”
“Yes, Mrs. Boothby.”
“Then you tell me, wiv all them cows out there, ‘ow can the air be fresh? It’d be full of cow farts and cow droppin’ smells, and we all know that horse droppin’s stink, and I don’t imagine the same from cows would smell any better!”
“I hadn’t actually thought about that, Mrs. Boothby. I can’t say that I noticed the smell of cow droppings in Alderley Edge.”
“Well, it sounds like they’s far too grand there to even ‘ave cow droppin’s, so they might not ‘ave any, Edith dearie.”
“What really concerns me, Mrs. Boothby, more than the quiet, or the cow droppings, is the fact that I won’t have my family nearby, or the people I love: no Mum, no Dad, no Hilda, no you, Mrs. Boothby, and that’s what really made me upset. The realisation of how isolated I might be didn’t really strike me until I got back to Cavendish Mews and I was on my own with Miss Lettice out. I listened to the silence and I suddenly started to cry, and that’s when…” Edith cannot finish her sentence as she starts to cry again. She quickly fishes out her handkerchief again.
“And that’s when you come to see me.” Mrs. Boothby concludes, once again wrapping her arms around Edith.
“Exactly.” Edith’s muffled voice from within her handkerchief agrees. “I wanted to be with a friend.”
“And do you are! Nahw let me pour you a nice cup of Rosie Lee**************, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby fetches a dainty floral cup from her large Welsh dresser and sets it in front of Edith. She then gathers her sugar bowl and fetches a small glass jug of milk from a poky cupboard in a dark corner of the room that serves as her larder. She lifts up the well worn Brown Betty pot and pours a slug of brackish, well steeped tea into Edith’s cup. “I’ll let ya add your own milk ‘n sugar, dearie.” She pauses for a moment and looks across at Edith with worry in her eyes. “Although considerin’ the state yer in, I fink you should add a couple of sugars, personally. Then dry your eyes again. Ken’ll be ‘ome soon wiv the chippies I sent ‘im out for an’ ‘ell be beside ‘imself all over again like before if ‘e sees you blubbin’. ‘E won’t know whevva to punch the lights out of Frank, or give you a big ‘ug to make you feel better.” She releases another few fruity coughs. “Finkin of which, I better get on wiv fryin’ the eggs before ‘e does get back. Nahw you just sit there and enjoy your nice cuppa Rosie Lee and compose yourself, while I get cookin’.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith says gratefully.
Mrs. Boothby walks quickly back to her larder and gasps as she withdraws some lard wrapped in foil and the eggs. “It’s Ken’s lucky day! I plumb forgot I ‘ad a rasher of bacon left over from breakfast! I’ll fry it up for ‘im to ‘ave wiv his chippie tea, and you and I‘ll ‘ave an egg each wiv ours.”
The old woman takes a battered old skillet and sets it on the stovetop after poking the coals to bring them to life and drive up the heat. She rolls herself another cigarette, and after lighting it, pops it between her lips and puffs away pleasurably, sending plumes and billows of acrid greyish white smoke about her like a steam locomotive. Using a wooden handled knife, she cuts some lard from the congealed square wrapped in foil and scrapes it into the skillet and leaves it to melt. Once it starts bubbling, she drops in the rasher of bacon and starts frying it.
“So you don’t think it would be advisable to go to the country then, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks.
“Well, that all depends.” she replies over the comforting sound of hissing fat, releasing another of her fruity coughs and a plume of smoke as she does.
“Depends? Depends on what?”
“On what the pros and cons of the circumstances are. You’ve said that you’re concerned about bein’ isolated. Fair enuff.”
“Well, Frank says that these estates won’t be in the country forever. He says that they are developing them all the time. He even said that places like Harlesden where Mum and Dad live and where I grew up, used to be the country.”
“’E’s got a fair point, Edith dearie. All of London was once countryside. Even ‘ere!” She shudders. “So, it may be a bit isolated to begin wiv, or it may not. Nahw, you’re worried that there may be some toffee-nosed people abaht.” Mrs. Boothby turns back and looks at Edith, who nods shallowly. “Well, I hate to tell you this, dearie, but there’s toffee-nosed people wherevva you go. Take that Golda Friedman from across the way.” She nods to the door again, a few pieces of ash falling from the burning end of her cigarette as she does and wafting gently through the air towards the ground. “She goes around wiv ‘er nose in the air wrapped up in that fancy paisley shawl of ‘ers, what needs a damn good wash, actin’ like she was the Queen of Russia ‘erself, lawdin’ it over us all. But she ain’t no better than the rest of us.”
“And Frank did say that there would be working-class people like us there too.”
“So, you could make some new friends there then?” Mrs. Boothby smiles as she shifts the bacon in the skillet, the aroma of cooked bacon starting to arise from the pan.
“Well,” Edith ponders. “I suppose so.”
“And youse concerned that you won’t ‘ave your mum ‘n’ dad round?”
“Or Hilda, or you, Mrs. Boothby.”
Mrs. Boothby smiles kindly as she moves the browning bacon to one side of the skillet and cracks two eggs from a small chipped white bowl into the space she has made. They hiss and fizzle as they hit the pool of bubbling fat. Smiling more broadly, she goes over to the dresser again and takes down four blue and white floral painted plates, placing three on the table, and the fourth on the edge of the stove next to the now cooling kettle.
“’Ere, ain’t that fancy Empire Stadium*************** what they built for the British Hempire Hexhibition**************** close to where your parents live, Edith dearie?”
“Well yes, I suppose.” Edith admits. “There’s even a big sign fastened to the Jubilee Clock***************** in High Street at the moment which says, ‘British Empire Exhibition, Wembley’ with a big arrow underneath it, so I guess it’s reasonably close by.”
“Nahw correct me if I’m wrong, but these new hestates what the’re buildin’ that your Frank is talkin’ ‘bout, they’s built along the railway line, yes?”
“Yes, Frank says it’s only a few stops on from Wembley Park to reach some of these estates he was thinking the openings might be in.”
“Well don’t that mean you’d be closer to your parents than where you are now, in Mayfair, Edith dearie?”
“Oh, I see what you’re doing, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith suddenly says with a smile.
“Hhhmmm?” Mrs. Boothby replies distractedly as she prods the edges of the eggs as they start to crisp. “What ‘m I doin’?”
“You’re trying to allay my concerns, aren’t you? You really think I should go to the country.”
“Well, just past Wembley Park ain’t the city, like ‘ere, but it ain’t the country neiver, and what I fink, don’t matter a jot. It’s what you and Frank fink, Edith dearie.”
“But I don’t know what to think Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies, her face suddenly clouding over.
“Is Frank askin’ you to decide about movin’ wherever nahw?” Mrs. Boothby asks, coughing again between her gritted teeth holding onto the fast reducing remains of her cigarette as she speaks.
“Well, no, not exactly.” Edith replies. “This just came up in conversation this afternoon as a possibility for Frank when he was at the trade union meeting, and Frank wanted to tell me about it. He wanted me to consider whether I’d be happy to go.”
“Right.” Mrs. Boothby says. She sets the white metal flip she is using to move the eggs and bacon about aside and turns back to Edith. Lunging over, she takes her spent cigarette from between her lips and stubs it out in the ashtray. “Then I will tell you what I fink, because you’re in such a state over nuffink right nahw, that I fink you need to ‘ear it, dearie.” She places her hands firmly on her bony hips. “I fink you is lookin’ too closely at what ain’t even ‘appened yet, Edith dearie. Frank ain’t said youse movin’ anywhere yet. You ain’t even wed yet! ‘E’s just askin’ you to fink about the possibility in yer future is all. ‘E could get a new position in Clapham or Putney or somewhere, couldn’t ‘e?”
“Well, he could, Mrs. Boothby, although he says they may not be as advantageous as the ones he is talking about.”
“But ‘e could?”
“Well yes, of course, Mrs. Boothby. Anything could happen.”
“So, what youse goin’ to do is ‘ave a lovely slap-up tea of egg ‘n’ chips ‘ere, wiv Ken and me, and then Ken and me, we’s gonna take you ‘ome to Miss Lettice’s where you belong, and where you need to be before she gets ‘ome from dinner in the West End tonight at that fancy café, so you can take ‘er coat and ‘at ‘n’ all and tuck ‘er into bed.”
“Oh I don’t really tuck her in….” The words die on Edith’s lips as Mrs. Boothby holds up her palm in protest to stop her.
“And then you’re gonna go to bed and get a good night’s sleep. And then tomorra, when youse wake up, you’re gonna see this all in a much more sensible light. Right nahw, you’re in shock, see? Frank sprung this on you as a surprise, so of course it’s gonna get your mind to tickin’ over like an alarm clock. But dearie, there ain’t nuffink to be alarmed ‘bout.” Mrs. Boothby smiles at Edith, sitting at her table. “When, or if, Frank gets offered one of these fancy manager jobs ‘e’s talkin’ ‘bout, well you just need to sit dahwn wiv ‘im and talk about it - just the two of you, mind - and work out what the pros and cons are. Share your concerns wiv ‘im, just like you did wiv me, and work out togevva, whevva youse gonna be ‘appy or not.”
“Yes, you’re so right, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith exclaims.
“Yes, I am, dearie!” Mrs. Boothby agrees proudly. “You don’t get to be on this earth as long as I’ve been and not be right at least once or twice in your life. Nahw listen to me. Frank loves you. It’s as plain as the nose on your face******************, and that’s a fact. So, ‘e’s not gonna make you do anyfink that won’t make you ‘appy, and that includes movin to Timbuktu or wherever. So, if the time comes, just be ‘onest wiv ‘im, and then you can work it out togevva. It’ll be alright. Tell ‘im nahw, if ‘e wants an answer nahw, that you’ll consider it when the time comes and not before. That way you won’t lose any sleep over what might not ‘appen.”
A smile, gentle and warm, breaks across Edith’s face, and as she looks at her, Mrs. Boothby can see the anxiety and concerns that had her arrive at her door in a state of tears. Lift and melt away.
“That’s better, dearie!” The old Cockney char leans forward and gives Edith’s hand a friendly and comforting squeeze. “Nah more tears.”
“You’re such a good egg, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith exclaims. “And such a good friend to me!” She leaps from her seat and gives the old woman a kiss on the cheek as she throws her arms around her neck. “What would I do without you?”
Just at that moment, both Edith and Mrs. Boothby hear a happy whistle in the foggy rookery outside.
“And thinkin’ of eggs, ‘ere’s our Ken, back from Mr. Cricklewood wiv an a’penny’s worth of chippes I ‘ope!”
The door bursts open and Ken’s bulk appears in the doorway.
“Hot chippies Mum!” he says as he smiles his gormless smile at his mother and Edith.
*A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.
**A rookery is a dense collection of housing, especially in a slum area. The rookeries created in Victorian times in London’s East End were notorious for their cheapness, filth and for being overcrowded.
***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 shape shifter is someone or something that seems able to change form or identity at will, especially a mythical figure such as a witch that can assume different forms (as of animals).
*****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.
******J. Lyons and Co. was a British restaurant chain, food manufacturing, and hotel conglomerate founded in 1884 by Joseph Lyons and his brothers in law, Isidore and Montague Gluckstein. Lyons’ first teashop opened in Piccadilly in 1894, and from 1909 they developed into a chain of teashops, with the firm becoming a staple of the High Street in the United Kingdom. At its peak the chain numbered around two hundred cafes. The teashops provided for tea and coffee, with food choices consisting of hot dishes and sweets, cold dishes and sweets, and buns, cakes and rolls. Lyons' Corner Houses, which first appeared in 1909 and remained until 1977, were noted for their Art Deco style. Situated on or near the corners of Coventry Street, Strand and Tottenham Court Road, they and the Maison Lyonses at Marble Arch and in Shaftesbury Avenue were large buildings on four or five floors, the ground floor of which was a food hall with counters for delicatessen, sweets and chocolates, cakes, fruit, flowers and other products. In addition, they possessed hairdressing salons, telephone booths, theatre booking agencies and at one period a twice-a-day food delivery service. On the other floors were several restaurants, each with a different theme and all with their own musicians. For a time, the Corner Houses were open twenty-four hours a day, and at their peak each branch employed around four hundred staff including their famous waitresses, commonly known as Nippies for the way they nipped in and out between the tables taking orders and serving meals. The tea houses featured window displays, and, in the post-war period, the Corner Houses were smarter and grander than the local tea shops. Between 1896 and 1965 Lyons owned the Trocadero, which was similar in size and style to the Corner Houses.
*******The British pre-decimal halfpenny, once abbreviated ob., is a discontinued denomination of sterling coinage worth 1/480 of one pound, 1/24 of one shilling, or 1/2 of one penny. Originally the halfpenny was minted in copper, but after 1860 it was minted in bronze.
********The original reverse of the bronze version of the coin, designed by Leonard Charles Wyon, is a seated Britannia, holding a trident, with the words HALF PENNY to either side. Issues before 1895 also feature a lighthouse to Britannia's left and a ship to her right. Various minor adjustments to the level of the sea depicted around Britannia, and the angle of her trident were also made over the years. Some issues feature toothed edges, while others feature beading.
*********Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.
**********”The Notorious Mrs. Carrick” is a 1924 British silent crime film directed by George Ridgwell and starring Cameron Carr, A.B. Imeson and Gordon Hopkirk. It was an adaptation of the novel Pools of the Past by Charles Proctor. The film was made by Britain's largest film company of the era Stoll Pictures. It was released in July 1924.
***********The Premier Super Cinema in East Ham was opened on the 12th of March, 1921, replacing the 800 seat capacity 1912 Premier Electric Theatre. The new cinema could seat 2,408 patrons. The Premier Super Cinema was taken over by Provincial Cinematograph Theatres who were taken over by Gaumont British in February 1929. It was renamed the Gaumont from 21st April 1952. The Gaumont was closed by the Rank Organisation on 6th April 1963. After that it became a bingo hall and remained so until 2005. Despite attempts to have it listed as a historic building due to its relatively intact 1921 interior, the Gaumont was demolished in 2009.
************A 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.
*************A term originating in Nineteenth Century Britain, a pea soup fog is a very thick and often yellowish, greenish or blackish fog caused by air pollution that contains soot particulates and the poisonous gas sulphur dioxide. It refers to the thick, dense fog that is so thick that it appears to be the color and consistency of pea soup. Pea-soupers were particularly common in large industrial cities like Manchester and Liverpool and populous cities like London where there were lots of coal fires either for industry and manufacturing, or for household heating. The last really big pea-souper in London happened in December 1952. At least three and a half to four thousand people died of acute bronchitis. However, in cities like Manchester and Liverpool, where the concentration of manufacturing was higher, they continued well beyond that.
**************Rosie-Lee is Cockney slang for tea, and it is one of the most well-known of all Cockney rhyming slang.
***************A purpose-built "great national sports ground", called the Empire Stadium, was built for the Exhibition at Wembley. This became Wembley Stadium. Wembley Urban District Council was opposed to the idea, as was The Times, which considered Wembley too far from Central London. The first turf for this stadium was cut, on the site of the old tower, on the 10th of January 1922. 250,000 tons of earth were then removed, and the new structure constructed within ten months, opening well before the rest of the Exhibition was ready. Designed by John William Simpson and Maxwell Ayrton, and built by Sir Robert McAlpine, it could hold 125,000 people, 30,000 of them seated. The building was an unusual mix of Roman imperial and Mughal architecture. Although it incorporated a football pitch, it was not solely intended as a football stadium. Its quarter mile running track, incorporating a 220 yard straight track (the longest in the country) were seen as being at least equally important. The only standard gauge locomotive involved in the construction of the Stadium has survived, and still runs on Sir William McAlpine's private Fawley Hill railway near Henley.
****************The British Empire Exhibition was a colonial exhibition held at Wembley Park, London England from 23 April to 1 November 1924 and from 9 May to 31 October 1925. In 1920 the British Government decided to site the British Empire Exhibition at Wembley Park, on the site of the pleasure gardens created by Edward Watkin in the 1890s. A British Empire Exhibition had first been proposed in 1902, by the British Empire League, and again in 1913. The Russo-Japanese War had prevented the first plan from being developed and World War I put an end to the second, though there had been a Festival of Empire in 1911, held in part at Crystal Palace. One of the reasons for the suggestion was a sense that other powers, like America and Japan, were challenging Britain on the world stage. Despite victory in Great War, this was in some ways even truer in 1919. The country had economic problems and its naval supremacy was being challenged by two of its former allies, the United States and Japan. In 1917 Britain had committed itself eventually to leave India, which effectively signalled the end of the British Empire to anyone who thought about the consequences, while the Dominions had shown little interest in following British foreign policy since the war. It was hoped that the Exhibition would strengthen the bonds within the Empire, stimulate trade and demonstrate British greatness both abroad and at home, where the public was believed to be increasingly uninterested in Empire, preferring other distractions, such as the cinema.
****************The cast iron Jubilee Clock has remained a Harlesden landmark since its erection at Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee in 1887. It is ornate, decorated with dolphins, armorial bearings, a fluted circular column with spirals, shields of arms and swags. When it was built, it featured four ornate gas lit lamps sprouting from its column and two drinking fountains with taps and bowls at its base. It also featured a weathervane on its top. During the late Twentieth Century elements were removed, including the lanterns and the fountain bowls. In 1997 the clock was restored without these elements, but plans are underway to restore of the weathervane and recreation of the original four circular lanterns to the clock and the two fountains.
*****************A idiom used to describe something that is obvious and quite clear, “plain as the nose on your face” is attributed to Francois Rabelais in 1552 by Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations. It was also used by Shakespeare in England in 1594 in Act II, Scene I of Two Gentleman of Verona.
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 black skillet with the rasher of bacon and the two eggs frying in it are an artisan piece that I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. The blue and white plate on the edge of the stove to the right of the photograph also comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop.
The square of lard wrapped up in silver foil is an artisan miniature piece that I acquired from former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Frances Knight’s work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination.
The small serrated knife with the wooden handle on the blue and white Cornish Ware plate comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures Shop in the United Kingdom.
Cornishware is a striped kitchenware brand trademarked to and manufactured by T.G. Green & Co Ltd. Originally introduced in the 1920s and manufactured in Church Gresley, Derbyshire, it was a huge success for the company and in the succeeding 30 years it was exported around the world. The company ceased production in June 2007 when the factory closed under the ownership of parent company, The Tableshop Group. The range was revived in 2009 after T.G. Green was bought by a trio of British investors.
The Box of Sunlight Soap standing on the edge of the trough sink and the jars of Coleman’s Mustard and tartaric acid on the shelf of the stove 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.
Sunlight Soap was first introduced in 1884. 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.
Colman's is an English manufacturer of mustard and other sauces, formerly based and produced since 1814 for one hundred and sixty years at Carrow, in Norwich, Norfolk. Owned by Unilever since 1995, Colman's is one of the oldest existing food brands, famous for a limited range of products, almost all being varieties of mustard.
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.
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 grey marbleised fireplace behind the stove and the trough sink in the corner of the kitchen come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Miniatures.
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 still in Mayfair, and only a short distance from Cavendish Mews, out the front of an imposing Palladian style mansion on the grand thoroughfare of Park Lane, opposite Hyde Park. Lettice gulps as she looks up at the cascading layer cake of columns, balustrades, balconies and rows of windows, most shaded from the afternoon sun by striped awnings. At one window not covered by an awning, a maid in her afternoon uniform of black moiré with a lace cap, cuffs and apron gazes out over the street below. Lettice catches her eye and smiles meekly at her, but the maid does not return it, looking both quizzically and critically at her standing on the steps leading up to the front door of the palatial residence, before retreating into the shadows within. Lettice’s heart begins to flutter. For nearly a year Lettice has been patiently awaiting the return of her beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban by his mother, the Duchess of Walmsford, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wants to end so that she can marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Now Lettice has been invited to tea by Lady Zinnia, and it is the Park Lane mansion belonging to the Duke and Duchess of Walmsford that Lettice now stands before. Gulping again, she depresses the button next to the enormous white painted double front doors with black painted knockers. Deep within she can hear a bell ring, announcing her arrival. A tall and imperious looking bewigged footman in splendid Eighteenth Century style livery answers the door.
“The Honourable Lettice Chetwynd to see Her Grace.” Lettice says firmly, determined not to betray her nerves at being here.
“Is Her Grace expecting you, Miss Chetwynd?” and the footman asks, and when she affirms that she is, he steps aside, ushering her from the golden late afternoon light outside into the cool darkened marble hallway within.
Lettice feels that even the sound of her shallow breaths echo noisily off the marble of the lofty entrance hall as she enters it. The grand space is illuminated from skylights in a dome three storeys above, by a grand electrified crystal chandeliers hanging from vaulted ceilings and by sconces in the ornately carved columns about her. The footman politely asks her to wait whilst he strides silently up the sweeping carpeted spiral staircase with shining ostentatious silver banisters to the upper floors of the mansion. Lettice takes a seat in an elegant, gilded chair. The wine coloured velvet upholstery looks soft and comfortable, but Lettice quickly discovers that it is anything but that, feeling the hard horsehair beneath her as it forces her to sit up more straightly in her seat. “How very Lady Zinnia.” Lettice remarks bitterly as she waits. Somewhere, deep within the bowels of the house, behind one or more sets of tightly closed doors, the muffled sound of a clock chiming four o’clock makes its presence known. Lettice shivers, sighs and hopes that Lady Zinnia will not keep her waiting too long as part of a cruel joke of her own making. A short while later, the footman returns.
“Her Grace will see you now, Miss Chetwynd. Please follow me to the Cream Drawing Room.”
He leads her up the grand staircase to the second floor and then takes her through a suite of rooms with lofty, vaunted ceilings, polished parquet floors and walls lined with gilded columns. Each room is filled with gilt chairs and sofas upholstered in sumptuous satins and rich velvets, no doubt all as uncomfortable as the salon chair she has recently vacated. The walls of the chambers are hung with paintings of past generations of the Dukes of Walmsford and their families, all of them peering at Lettice with imperious gazes, silently judging her as an outsider by their dark, glazed and cold stares.
After what feels like an age to Lettice, they finally they stop before two rich mahogany doors inset with brightly polished brass. The footman knocks loudly upon the door three times.
“Miss Chetwynd, Your Grace.” the liveried footman announces as he turns the door handles, opens the doors and steps into the grand Cream Drawing Room with Lettice in his wake.
Lettice is awe struck for a moment by the room, which is even grander and more luxuriously appointed than those state rooms and apartments she has walked through thus far. Whether named for the furnishings, or whether the salon was decorated after being given its name, the White Drawing Room is decorated with white wallpaper featuring a very fine white Regency stripe, and the lofty space is full of sofas, chaises and chairs all upholstered in white or cram fabrics. Lettice suspects the pared back wallpaper design has been chosen deliberately, so as not to distract from the many gilt framed paintings hanging on them, not to draw attention away from any of the other fine pieces about the apartment. The furnishings are mostly Regency and show off the wealth of the former Dukes of Walmsford with their ornate gilding on chair arms and backs and table legs. Palladian console tables with marble surfaces featuring caryatids* covered in gold jostle for space with ornate ormolu** decorated Empire display cabinets and pedestals held aloft by swans with long necks. Across every surface and on each shelf in the cabinets stand pieces of porcelain from the Eighteenth Century, reflecting the current Duchess of Walmsford’s taste for mostly French ornaments. Vases, bowls, urns, ginger jars and figurines made by Veuve Perrin***, Limoges**** and Chelsea***** grace French polished mahogany and polished grey marble, each item carefully placed to show it off to its very best, whilst the cabinets burst with full dinner services of Sèrves***** covered in floral designs. The salon is flooded with light from the full length windows that overlook Park Lane, the ample sunlight, even on an autumnal London day creating additional brilliance, and the space is filled with the cloying scent of hothouse roses with cascade in ornate arrangements from some of the Duchess’ more impressive vases. The whole arrangement is designed to impress and intimidate visitors, and it achieves this with Lettice as she enters the room, mustering as much courage as she can to walk like the daughter of a viscount, yet feeling a sham amongst such excessive splendour, which even the King and Queen might well be jealous of.
And there, perching daintily on a gold and cream Regency stripe sofa adorned with glittering ormolu next to the crackling fire, sits the current Duchess of Walmsford herself, Lady Zinnia. Arrayed in a rose pink satin frock decorated with ornamental silk flowers, which like everything else around her oozes taste, wealth and status, Lady Zinnia still has the unbreakable steely hardness that sends a shiver down Lettice’s spine as she approaches her. Whilst the pale shade of her frock may not soften her look, it does successfully highlight her flawless pale skin. Several strands of perfect creamy white pearls cascade down the front of her outfit, whilst gold and large pearl droplets hang effortlessly from her lobes. Clusters of diamonds wink amongst her wavy tresses which are all deep blue black, save for the one signature streak of white shooting from her temple and disappearing like a silver trail amongst her darker waves.
“Your Grace.” Lettice utters, dropping an elegant and low curtsey before the Duchess.
Lady Zinnia’s pale white face with her high cheekbones and joyless calculating dark eyes appraise Lettice coldly as Lettice rises from the polished marquetry floor littered with expensive silk Chinese rugs. She purses her thin lips.
“Miss Chetwynd. Right on time.” Lady Zinna remarks as she glances away from Lettice dismissively to the ornate French Rococo clock adorned with porcelain roses sitting in the centre of the mantle. Her eyes dart back to Lettice who now stands before her hostess. “Please, do take a seat.” She indicates with a sweeping movement of her hand which artfully shows off a pearl and winking diamond bracelet at her wrist, to a chair matching the sofa on which she perches which is also drawn up to the fire opposite her.
Lettice does as she is bid, and lowers herself gingerly onto the edge of the walnut chair, feeling the smooth, cool metallic surface of the ormolu on the arms beneath her hands as she does. Glancing down she notices that the arms of both her chair and Lady Zinnia’s sofa are supported by gilded sphinxes. Lettice remembers the tutor who was hired at great expense by her father when she was a child to teach her the classics and smiles bitterly as she recalls him teaching her that the sphinx, with its head of a woman, haunches of a lion and wings of a bird is a treacherous and merciless being.
“Is something amusing, Miss Chetwynd?” Lady Zinnia asks, her clipped voice slicing the perfumed air between them.
“No, Your Grace.” Lettice replies. “I was just thinking, as I look around, how you have set this room in such a way that noting is left to chance. Everything is planned and placed with purpose.”
“How very adroit of you, Miss Chetwynd.” the Duchess replies. “But of course, as an interior designer of some moderate success, I should expect nothing less. You have a keen eye.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Lettice replies stiffly, allowing the slight cast by the titled woman to go unremarked upon. However as Lettice sits there, she now knows that this is to be tone of their meeting, and she silently seethes that even in defeat, Lady Zinnia will not be gracious.
“Now, knowing that in spite of the fact that you come from obscure and unremarkable aristocratic lineage,” Lady Zinnia remarks, eliciting a gasp of outrage from Lettice, much to her delight. “That your parents would have taught you the importance of timeliness,”
“Which they have.” Lettuce defends hotly.
“Admirably so, Miss Chetwynd. So, I have already ordered tea, coffee and cake for us.” Lady Zinnia indicates to the galleried gold rectangular Rococo tea table which stands between them, like a fortress, upon which sits a silver tea service and a cake plate on which stands a splendid looking Victoria sponge cake dusted with sugar and oozing jam and cream.
The Duchess takes up a small silver bell from the side table to her right and gives it two definite rings. The tinkle of the bell, high pitched and remarkably loud for such a dainty bell, pierces the charged, rose scented air between them. Immediately two more footmen in the Duke of Walmsford’s livery, different to the one who showed her upstairs, sweep through the White Drawing Room’s doors and stride across the room. They bow respectfully to Lady Zinnia and then turn in unison and nod their heads in acknowledgement of Lettice, before stopping between the two women, standing side by side in front of the tea table: hands behind their backs and heads lifted slightly, starting straight ahead impassively in complete silence and unmoving, as if they were mechanical and their mechanisms had wound down.
“Tea or coffee, Miss Chetwynd?” lady Zinnia asks.
“Tea, I think, Your Grace.” she replies.
One footman immediately springs to life, as if wound up again, and picks up the stylish silver teapot from the table with his white glove clad hand and pours tea into a dainty floral and gilt edged French porcelain teacup. The other footman takes up the cup and makes the few steps between his position and Lettice, and places the cup and saucer on the low occasional table to the right of her chair. Meanwhile the other footman has poured tea for the Duchess, which is then delivered to her in the same fashion as the tea was delivered to Lettice by the same footman.
“That’s a beautiful teapot, if I may say so, Your Grace.” Lettice admits begrudgingly.
“You may, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia replies politely. “The set is Georg Jensen********. I bought it just before the war.”
The footman who had poured the tea starts slicing the Victoria sponge with a silver knife, whilst the other footman removes the teapot and coffee pot from the small silver tray on which they stand. He then picks up the tray which still holds a dainty milk jug and a sugar basket containing sugar lumps and a pair of silver sugar nips*********.
“You’ll forgive me, but I’ve forgotten how you took your tea when we had dinner at the Savoy*********, Miss Chetwynd.”
The footman walks over to Lettice, bows slight with a stiff back and holds out the tray to Lettice, in his glove clad hands, allowing her to add her own milk and sugar to suit her own tastes to her beverage.
Lettice shudders as she remembers the dinner at the Savoy that Selwyn had organised with her. He had intended it to be a romantic evening for he and Lettice in honour of his birthday. However, when Lettice arrived in the main dining room, she was confronted not with the smiling face of her beau, but the haughty and cruel spectre of Lady Zinnia. It was there that Lettice learned about the pact Lady Zinnia had made with her son before packing him off to Durban for a year.
“That’s because I didn’t have tea with you that evening, Your Grace.” Lettice replies awkwardly as he drops first one and then a second lump of sugar in her tea, stirring the contents of her cup to dissolve the sugar before adding a small amount of milk.
“That’s right! You left directly after the caviar, didn’t you, Miss Chetwynd?” Lady Zinnia smiles cruelly. “You really did miss a fine repast that evening.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it, Your Grace.”
The footman who cut the cake places a generous slice each onto two dainty floral plates that match the teacups. As the other footman allows Lady Zinnia to help herself to sugar and milk for her tea, he takes up a plate and places it on the table next to Lettice’s teacup and saucer.
“I’m not all that hungry, Your Grace.”
Lady Zinnia looks up with her hard gaze from her teacup, still holding the now empty sugar nips aloft, seemingly unconcerned that the bowing footman at her side cannot straighten up again until she has replaced them in the bowl. “I seem to remember you saying that at the Savoy too, Miss Chetwynd. I must say, I find a woman who has little appetite rather tiresome, however pretty and charming she may be.” She continues to hold the sugar nips in her hand, suddenly taking great interest in the elegant repousse work*********** on the curved handle as she continues. “You Bright Young Things************ are so tiresome, worrying about being rake thin.”
The tray in the bent footman’s hands begins to quiver a little, causing the sugar basket and milk jug to rattle ever so slightly as he strains to maintain his stiff back and bent stance. Lady Zinnia’s eyes flick to him angrily, causing him to make a frightened intake of breath as he tries not to move.
“In my day.” Lady Zinnia goes on. “We ate as much as we could muster, and then simply tightened our stays a little more.” She sighs with irritation, and still holding the sugar tongs, pointing them accusingly at Lettice as she adds. “But of course you young flappers have all eschewed your corsets in favour of all those filly undergarments from Paris that have become so much in vogue, haven’t you.”
The tray in the footman’s hands tremble again. With a slow, and purposefully languid movement, Lady Zinnia replaces the tongs in the sugar basket and picks up the milk jug, pouring a decent amount into her cup, turning her brackish looking tea an insipid pale brown.
Replacing the jug to the tray she turns her attention to the young footman. “Get out!” she hisses through barred white teeth, her breath so forceful in its vehemence that Lettice can see it blows the young man’s fringe out of place.
The young footman starts in fright, making the silverware in his hands rattle all the more.
“Poole!” Lady Zinnia addresses the other footman.
“Yes, Your Grace?” he asks, standing stiffly to attention, his hands quickly placed behind hi back again as he stares ahead of him, rather than at Lady Zinnia.
“Poole, see to it that this pathetic excuse for a third footman doesn’t come back until he can serve me in the correct way a Duchess of the Realm should be served, or I’ll have you both reprimanded.” She looks Poole up and down appraisingly, seemingly pleased by his unflappability. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Your Grace!” Poole replies.
“Good!” She returns her attentions to the other footman. “And you! Just be grateful that you are only going to receive a reprimand and dock in your wages, and aren’t thrown out on your ear with no reference.” She pauses as she replaces her cup and saucer on the side table and picks up her cake plate and fork. “I shan’t be so lenient a second time.”
“Yes… yes Your Grace.” the footman replies quickly before depositing the silver tray back onto the tea table and joining his companion as the pair make a hasty retreat, far less composed and sleek as their arrival.
As the doors are closed behind them, lady Zinnia returns her attentions to Lettice. “Pardon that little…” She pauses and toys with her fork, sticking it into the tip of her sponge cake as she considers her words. “Unpleasantness, Miss Chetwynd. It’s so hard to find decent footmen with proper backbone amongst the pool of domestics available since the end of the war. Standards amongst servants are slipping. I’m sure your parents would agree with me.”
Lettice doesn’t reply, instead taking up her cup and saucer and sipping her tea.
Picking up where she had left off before berating her servants, Lady Zinnia continues, “And of course you left your birthday present for Selwyn behind at the Savoy as well. But don’t worry, I made sure to have it put aside for when he returns.”
Once again, Lettice does not rise to the Duchess’ bait and bites her tongue rather than replying.
Lady Zinnia slices her fork delicately through the light and fluffy Victoria sponge on her plate.
“You must despise me, Miss Chetwynd.” she says before slipping a small mouthful between her red painted lips.
“No, not at all, your Grace.”
“What?” Lady Zinnia replies, her eyes widening in surprise. “Not even a little, Miss Chetwynd? Are you a saint walking upon the earth?”
“No, Your Grace.” Lettice replies. “The truth is that I don’t hate you, because I don’t think of you.” she lies, lifting her cup to her lips partly to hide any sign of emotion that might suggest otherwise, and partly to prevent her from saying what she would really like to, to the Duchess.
An almost imperceptible ripple runs through Lady Zinnia’s composure and the woman’s thin lips move slightly as she chews, revealing themselves like a bright blood red gash across her perfect, white face. Lettice smiles behind the lip of her cup, knowing that her remark has hit its mark perfectly and irritated her titled hostess.
“Oh, I find that hard to believe, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia answers after a momentary pause. “Everyone who meets me, thinks about me. It’s only natural that they should.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Your Grace, but as we don’t move in the same circles, me being so much younger than you,” Lettice replies, determined to show Lady Zinnia up for her almost unbelievable conceitedness. “I must confess I haven’t.”
“Oh come now, Miss Chetwynd,” Lady Zinnia scoffs. “Are you telling me that even though it was I, who has separated you and my son and prevented you from seeing him for a year, that you didn’t think of me?”
Determined not to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much Lettice has thought of her, she continues her plucky lie to Lady Zinnia. “Indeed no. I have felt Selwyn’s absence over the last year, very keenly. However, it is him I have been thinking of, Your Grace.” She gives Lady Zinnia a dismissive look and crumples her nose up in distaste. “Not you. However, I’ve been busy distracting myself by attending balls and functions to make Selwyn’s absence less obvious.”
“Yes, I’ve seen you in the society pages, Miss Chetwynd.”
“And I’m sure your spies have kept you well informed too, Your Grace.”
“My spies!” laughs Lady Zinnia. “My, how you young people develop such fanciful ideas!”
Ignoring her remark, Lettice goes on, Tthen of course I have had my work to keep me occupied as well.”
“Ah yes!” Lady Zinnia acknowledges. “You’ve done some work for Gladys Caxton, I believe. Her ward’s flat here in London if I’m not mistaken.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. And I’ve designed a room for the wife of the godson of Sir John Nettleford-Hughes, at Arkwright Bury in Wiltshire.”
“Oh yes, Miss Chetwynd. My sources,” she emphasises the last word to draw Lettice’s attention to her choice of words. “Tell me that I am to expect a most favourable article about it by Henry Tipping****** in Country Life******* this month.”
“As I said, Your Grace,” Lettice replies. “Your spies keep you well informed as to the comings and goings in my life.”
The two women fall into an awkward silence again.,,,,,,,
“Anyway, the year of separation you have enforced upon Selwyn and I is almost at an end, without incident,” Lettice dares to say as her boldness grows. “And I am very much looking forward to seeing your son returned from Durban, and arranging for the formal announcement of our engagement.”
The Duchess doesn’t say anything.
“I imagine that is why you have summoned me here today. To concede defeat?” Lettice allows herself a triumphant smile. “After a year of enforced separation, one during which both of us have held to your wish that we not correspond with one another, Selwyn is returning to me and we will pick up just as we left off.” A thought comes into her head. “You might even consider giving me back the book I left at the Savoy. After all, it is my gift to give Selwyn, not yours, Your Grace.”
The stony silence and scrutinising stare Lettice receives in return unnerves her. She wonders what on earth is going on inside the mind behind those cold and dark eyes. However, she doesn’t have long to wait as the Duchess picks up her silver bell again, this time giving it three definite rings: two short ones and one long one, rather like a signal. She deposits the bell back on the table and takes another mouthful of cake. Her tongue darts out of her bitter mewl of a mouth and snatches up a crumb of cake that has lodged itself on her bottom lip.
The door to the White Drawing Room is suddenly opened again, by Poole the footman, and in bustles a woman in a smart printed cotton frock of sprigged flowers with a pale pink silk cardigan worn over the top of the bodice. Glass beads jangle about her throat, glinting in the light as she moves towards the two seated ladies. As Lettice expects, as the woman draws closer, she can see that she is quite plain looking. Lettice considers that it is likely that all the females on the Duchess’ household staff will be quite plain, to avoid any light being drawn away from the titled woman herself. The woman appears middle aged and has her straight, mousey brown hair tied in a neat chignon at the back of her neck. She approaches the Duchess and drops her a deep, respectful curtsey before rising, never releasing a buff coloured card folder that she hugs over her chest.
“Your Grace, you rang?” she asks in a soft, pleasant and well educated voice, which reminds Lettice a little of one of her less favourite nannies when growing up.
“Miss Chetwynd, may I present Miss Carroway, my Secretary.” Lady Zinnia announces.
“Carroway, Miss Chetwynd.” She sweeps her well manicured hand out in the direction of where Lettice sits.
Miss Carroway turns her head and looks towards Lettice with soft brown and kind eyes. “How do you do, Miss Chetwynd.”
“How do you do, Miss Carroway.” Lettice replies, a little perplexed as to why Lady Zinnia has summoned her secretary.
“Do you have it, Carroway?” Lady Zinnia asks.
“Right here, Your Grace.” She releases her arms from around her and relinquishes the thin buff folder to her employer.
Lady Zinnia puts aside her slice of cake, accepts the proffered folder, opens it and looks at the contents inside. Her hands skim over whatever is inside, whilst her eyes flit over it quickly.
“I think you’ll find everything is in order, Your Grace.”
“Yes,” Lady Zinnia remarks rather distractedly as she continues to inspect the contents.
“Will that be all, Your Grace?” Miss Carroway asks.
“Yes, thank you, Carroway.” Lady Zinnia replies with a dismissive shallow wave, as though shaking something irritable from her left hand.
Miss Carroway retreats quickly and as she approaches the doors, Poole opens them again for her from outside and closes them behind her after she has scuttled out.
“What’s this then?” Lettice asks once the doors as closed again.
“This, my dear Miss Chetwynd, is what I summoned you here today to speak of.” Lady Zinnia replies in a very businesslike fashion.
“I thought I had come here so that we could discuss Selwyn’s imminent return to England.” Lettice retorts.
“And so we will, Miss Chetwynd, but perhaps the conversation may not be quite what you imagined or planned it to be.” she replies enigmatically.
“What do you mean, Lady Zinnia?” Lettice asks, the assured smile curling the Duchess’ lips upwards curdling her stomach. “What is in that folder, and how does it concern Selwyn?”
“What is in this folder pertains to you both, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia replies, the smile, cold and unfriendly, broadening on her face. “You see, as you have noted, my sources,” Once again she emphasises her choice of words. “Are spread far and wide, and one of my contacts in Durban was approached independently by a very reliable source who had access to and presented him with these.” Lady Zinnia withdraws a dozen pages from the folder and leans forward with them.
Lettice leans forward herself and grasps the papers over the tea table before settling back in her seat. Looking at them she sees that they are photos, cut from articles in newspapers, magazines or journals. She cannot help but emit a gasp as she sees Selwyn’s handsome, smiling face peering out from them. It is one of the few times in the last twelve months since she has seen a new photograph of him, with news from Durban society generally not worthy enough to be printed in London newspapers, and the Durban papers impossible to obtain in London. It is then as she spreads them out across her lap, that she notices that aside from Selwyn’s appearance, they all have something else in common.
“You see, Miss Chetwynd, what this source provided is photographic proof that when Selwyn comes home, he won’t be returning alone.”
Lettice’s head spins as she looks down at the smiling face of a young girl, laughing and cheerful, on Selwyn’s arm in each and every photograph. She looks to be about Lettice’s age, with light coloured hair coiffured into styles using large exotic flowers, dressed in fashionable looking gowns. There are photographs of her standing beside Selwyn, dancing with him, taking with him, and there is even one of the two of them riding horses together, whilst another shows the pair of them in fancy dress costumes: he as Sinbad the Sailor and she as Columbine according to the typed caption printed below.
“The young lady in these photos is Kitty Avendale,” Lady Zinnia goes on. “She’s the daughter of an Australian adventurer and thrill seeker turned Kenyan diamond mine owner. The jewels you see her wearing all come from his, by all accounts, very generous diamond mine.” She takes a sip of her tea.
Lettice’s mouth suddenly feels very dry.
“The output from his mines put the fortunes of the Duke of Walmsford in the shadows.” Lady Zinnia continues. “Mr. Richard Avendale may indeed be richer than the King himself. Of course it’s a bit hard to tell exactly quite how wealthy he is, even with access to some of his business ledgers. He’s a very discreet man: most admirable in an Australian, I must say. Kitty is twenty-three, which I think is also, your age, Miss Chetwynd. She’s Mr. Avendale’s only daughter - indeed his only surviving child - which makes her an heiress of some interest to many young men, but she seems to have tipped her hat towards Selwyn.”
Lettice looks at the smiling faces of Selwyn and Kitty in the photos in disbelief.
“The… the fact… the fact that they have been photographed together is no proof that Selwyn and Kitty are involved romantically.” Lettice manages to say, albeit without the conviction she hoped for. “If that were the case, I’d be engaged to half the eligible bachelors in London, and a few married men too.”
“That’s true,” Lady Zinnia agrees. “But you’ll find that if you feel behind a couple of those photos, the proof of the seriousness of their relationship.”
Lettice looks up uncomprehendingly at the Duchess. The older woman indicates with a bejewelled hand for Lettice to feel behind the back of the photographs. As she does, Lettice feels a few have a thin margin of paper folded up behind the bottom of some of them. She picks up one of Selwyn and Kitty posed together holding champagne glasses aloft and folds down the paper.
“Mr. Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, and Miss Kitty Avendale, only daughter of diamond mine millionaire Richard Avendale, engaged.” she reads. She lets the paper slip from her fingers into her lap, and blindly scrambles for another one. This one shows Selwyn standing behind a seated Kitty. “Mr. Selwyn Spencely and Miss Kitty Avendale, engaged.” She grasps another, showing Selwyn and Kitty dancing together. “The happy couple.” she reads. She drops it in her lap, unable to read any more as the tears mist her vision as they flood her eyes.
“So, there you have it, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia says in triumph. “Incontrovertible proof. Selwyn has forsaken you, and forgotten your, foolish dalliance,” She smiles cruelly. “And he’s proposed to a peerless match greater than even I had hoped for.”
“No. No, he… No. No.” Lettice begins.
“Of course, Bertrand doesn’t mind, now that Pamela has gone against both his and my original plans and gotten herself engaged to that banker’s son, Jonty Knollys.” She sighs. “He may not have a title, or pedigree that Selwyn presented, but he is certainly from a wealthy family, so she could have done worse for herself.”
“No. No! No!” Lettice stammers in disbelief as the tears fall from her eyes, creating wet splotches on the newspaper clippings.
“And you, my dear Miss Chetwynd,” Lady Zinna rises from her seat elegantly. “You can still make a suitable match: one with a man more befitting your station, such as a viscount, or earl’s son, and all this nonsense you’d planned with Selwyn will all be swept under the carpet and quickly forgotten about.” She smiles piteously at the crumpled form of Lettice collapsed and tearful on the chair before her. “You’re young and pretty, and have a good enough lineage that will have country squires lining up to accept your hand. Give up this London life and move to the country near your parent’s estate, and you’ll soon forget Selwyn.”
Just at that moment, the clock on the mantle chimes the three quarter hour prettily.
“Goodness!” Lady Zinnia exclaims. “Is that the time? I’m so sorry, but this rather difficult conversation took a little longer than I imaged that it would, Miss Chetwynd. I’m afraid I really must go and get dressed. It’s awfully tiresome, but I’m having luncheon with the Queen today, and well, you can’t refuse a royal invitation can you? Would you excuse me?”
Without waiting for a response, the Duchess turns on her heels and walks towards the doors of the White Drawing Room, her heels sinking into the luxurious silk carpet.
As she starts to walk on the bare parquet floor, her Louis heels announcing to the footman outside of her approach, she pauses and turns back. “You may stay here as long as you need to, Miss Chetwynd, and when you feel composed enough to leave, then Poole will show you out. Have some more tea. There’s plenty left in the pot. I find tea in a crisis always helps.”
As Lettice cries piteously, her sobs echoing around the well-appointed White Drawing Room, Lady Zinnia quietly instructs her footman before slipping away. The doors close behind her, and Lettice is left alone to weep and wail and process this seismic shift in everything she has been planning for, for the last year.
*A caryatid is a sculpted female figure serving as an architectural support taking the place of a column or a pillar supporting an entablature on her head. The Greek term karyatides literally means "maidens of Karyai", an ancient town on the Peloponnese. Caryatids are sometimes called korai (“maidens”). Similar figures, bearing baskets on their heads, are called canephores (from kanēphoroi, “basket carriers”); they represent the maidens who carried sacred objects used at feasts of the gods. The male counterparts of caryatids are referred to as atlantes.
**Ormolu is the gilding technique of applying finely ground, high-carat gold–mercury amalgam to an object of bronze, and objects finished in this way. The mercury is driven off in a kiln, leaving behind a gold coating. The French refer to this technique as "bronze doré"; in English, it is known as "gilt bronze". The technique was banned in the Nineteenth Century on account of its toxicity.
***Veuve Perrin was a factory in Marseille, France, that manufactured Faïence wares between 1748 and 1803.
****Limoges porcelain is hard-paste porcelain produced by factories in and around the city of Limoges, France. Beginning in the late Eighteenth Century, Limoges was produced but the name Limoges does not refer to a particular manufacturer. By about 1830 Limoges, which was close to the areas where suitable clay was found, had replaced Paris as the main centre for private porcelain factories, although the state-owned Sèvres porcelain near Paris remained dominant at the very top of the market. Limoges has maintained this position to the present day.
****Chelsea porcelain is the porcelain made by the Chelsea porcelain manufactory, the first important porcelain manufactory in England, established around 1743–45, and operating independently until 1770, when it was merged with Derby porcelain. It made soft-paste porcelain throughout its history, though there were several changes in the "body" material and glaze used. Its wares were aimed at a luxury market, and its site in Chelsea, London, was close to the fashionable Ranelagh Gardens pleasure ground, opened in 1742.
*****The Manufacture nationale de Sèvres is one of the principal European porcelain factories. It is located in Sèvres, Hauts-de-Seine, France. It is the continuation of Vincennes porcelain, founded in 1740, which moved to Sèvres in 1756. It has been owned by the French crown or government since 1759. Its production is still largely based on the creation of contemporary objects today. It became part of the Cité de la céramique in 2010 with the Musée national de céramique, and since 2012 with the Musée national Adrien Dubouché in Limoges.
******Henry Tipping (1855 – 1933) was a French-born British writer on country houses and gardens, garden designer in his own right, and Architectural Editor of the British periodical Country Life for seventeen years between 1907 and 1910 and 1916 and 1933. After his appointment to that position in 1907, he became recognised as one of the leading authorities on the history, architecture, furnishings and gardens of country houses in Britain. In 1927, he became a member of the first committee of the Gardens of England and Wales Scheme, later known as the National Gardens Scheme.
*******Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.
********Georg Arthur Jensen was a Danish silversmith and founder of Georg Jensen A/S (also known as Georg Jensen Sølvsmedie). Jensen made his first piece of jewelry in 1899, a silver and silver and gilt "Adam and Eve" belt buckle. In 1901, Jensen abandoned ceramics and began again as a silversmith and designer with the master, Mogens Ballin. This led Jensen to make a landmark decision, when in 1904, he risked what small capital he had and opened his own little silversmithy at 36 Bredgade in Copenhagen. Jensen's training in metalsmithing along with his education in the fine arts allowed him to combine the two disciplines and revive the tradition of the artist craftsman. Soon, the beauty and quality of his Art Nouveau creations caught the eye of the public and his success was assured. The Copenhagen quarters were greatly expanded and before the end of the 1920s, Jensen had opened retail in Berlin (1909), London (1921), and New York City (1924). The New York retail store, Georg Jensen Inc. (New York, NY), was founded and operated independently as a family business by Frederik Lunning, a successful salesman of Georg Jensen products first in Odense, then in Copenhagen. The first store, 1924-1935, was incorporated as Georg Jensen Handmade Silver, followed in 1935-1978 by the large Fifth Avenue department store selling many goods aside from Jensen silver, incorporated as Georg Jensen Inc
*********Sugar tongs, also known as sugar nips, are small serving utensils used at the table to transfer sugar pieces from a sugar bowl to a teacup. The tongs appeared at the end of the Seventeenth Century, and were very popular by 1800, with half of the British households owning them.
**********The Savoy Hotel is a luxury hotel located in the Strand in the City of Westminster in central London. Built by the impresario Richard D'Oyly Carte with profits from his Gilbert and Sullivan opera productions, it opened on 6 August 1889. It was the first in the Savoy group of hotels and restaurants owned by Carte's family for over a century. The Savoy was the first hotel in Britain to introduce electric lights throughout the building, electric lifts, bathrooms in most of the lavishly furnished rooms, constant hot and cold running water and many other innovations. Carte hired César Ritz as manager and Auguste Escoffier as chef de cuisine; they established an unprecedented standard of quality in hotel service, entertainment and elegant dining, attracting royalty and other rich and powerful guests and diners. The hotel became Carte's most successful venture. Its bands, Savoy Orpheans and the Savoy Havana Band, became famous. Winston Churchill often took his cabinet to lunch at the hotel. The hotel is now managed by Fairmont Hotels and Resorts. It has been called "London's most famous hotel". It has two hundred and sixty seven guest rooms and panoramic views of the River Thames across Savoy Place and the Thames Embankment. The hotel is a Grade II listed building.
***********Repoussé from the French, meaning “pushed back,” refers to any type of ornamentation in which the design is raised in relief on the reverse or interior side of the metal material at hand.
This very grand and imposing drawing room full of treasures may appear like something out of a historical stately country house, but it is in fact part of my 1:12 miniatures collection and includes items from my childhood, as well as those I have collected as an adult.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The Victoria sponge (named after Queen Victoria) on the pedestal cake plate and its slices on the plates are made by Polly’s Pantry Miniatures in America. The silver tea service on its galleried tray are made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.
The gilt Empire suite with its crem and gold striped upholstery, the gilt galleried central tea table, the Regency corner cabinet, the Regency gilt swan round side tables and matching swan pedestals are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. The Palladian console tables at the back to the left and right of the photograph, with their golden caryatids and marble was commissioned by me from American miniature artisan Peter Cluff. Peter specialises in making authentic and very realistic high quality 1:12 miniatures that reflect his interest in Georgian interior design. His work is highly sought after by miniature collectors worldwide. This pair of tables are one-of-a-kind and very special to me.
The elegant ornaments that decorate the surfaces of Lady Zinnia’s palatial Cream Drawing Room very much reflect the Eighteenth Century and early Nineteenth Century spirit of the room.
On the centre of the mantlepiece stands a Rococo carriage clock that has been hand painted and gilded with incredible attention to detail by British 1:12 miniature artisan, Victoria Fasken. The clock is flanked by a porcelain pots of yellow, white and blue petunias which have been hand made and painted by 1:12 miniature ceramicist Ann Dalton.
Next to them stand two porcelain vases of pink and white asters which have been made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. All the pieces in the corner cabinet in the background are also made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik. The pieces comprise two different 1:12 miniature dinner and tea sets. The vase containing the pink roses on the console table to the right of the photo is also a M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik piece, as is the vase closest to us on the round side table to the left of the photo, the two large lidded urns on the swan pedestals, the pedestal cake plate on which the Victoria sponge stands, and Lettice’s and the Duchess’ cups and plates.
Also standing on the mantlepiece are two miniature diecast lead Meissen figurines: the Lady with the Canary and the Gentleman with the Butterfly, hand painted and gilded by me.
The painted fruit bowl on the right-hand console table has been painted by miniature artisan Rachel Munday. Her pieces are highly valued by miniature collectors for their fine details.
The remaining vases you see around the room are all miniature Limoges vases from the 1950s and 1960s. They all feature small green Limoges marks to their bottoms.
The Regency style fireplace , the black painted hearth and fire surround I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.
The pink and yellow roses were made by hand by the team at Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.
All the paintings around Lady Zinnia’s Cream Drawing Room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The striped wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
The Georgian style rug on the floor has been woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
This evening, we have not strayed far from Cavendish Mews and are still in Mayfair, but due to a constant barrage of rain, Lettice has chosen to take a taxi, hailed for her by her maid Edith from the nearby square, to Bond Street where the premises of the Portland Gallery stand. Tonight, Lettice has been invited to the exclusive opening night of the Portland Gallery’s autumn show: a very special occasion indeed, with attendance only offered to an exclusive group of artists, patrons of the arts and special customers, like Lettice to view the very latest finds by the gallery owner, Mr. Chilvers. The gallery has been closed for the last fortnight with its thick velvet curtains drawn, excluding the inquisitive eyes and goggling glances of the foot traffic walking up and down Bond Street. As the taxi pulls up to the kerb, Lettice peers through the partially fogged up and raindrop spattered window at the impressive three storey Victorian building with Portland stone facings, which is where the gallery takes its name from. The ground floor part of the façade has been modernised in more recent times, and its magnificent plate glass windows are illuminated by brilliant light from within as guests wander about, admiring the objets d’art artfully presented in them.
“That’ll be four and six, mum.” the taxi driver says through the glass divider between the driver’s compartment and the passenger carriage as he leans back in his seat. Stretching his arm across the seat he tips his cap in deference to the well dressed lady swathed in arctic fox furs wearing a beaded bandeau across her stylishly coiffured blonde hair in the black leather back seat.
After paying the taxi fare, Lettice opens the door and unfurls a rather lovely Nile green umbrella that closely matches the fabric of her frock beneath her fur coat and alights onto the wet pavement outside. She elegantly walks the few paces over to the full-length plate-glass doors on which the Portland Gallery’s name is written in elegant gilt font along with the words ‘by appointment only’ printed underneath in the same hand. The door is opened by a liveried footman who welcomes her by name to the gallery, accepting her invitation as she steps across the threshold. “Good evening. Welcome to the Portland Gallery’s autumn show, Miss Chetwynd.” He bows as he indicates for her to step inside the crowded gallery.
“May I take your fur, madam?” a second liveried footman asks politely, holding up his white glove clad hands at her shoulder height, ready to accept her fox as she shucks out of it elegantly, revealing the gold sequin spangled panels running down the front of her drop waisted frock. He then takes her umbrella and carefully hangs both inside a discreet coat cupboard nearby.
As the door closes behind her, the quiet London street outside is forgotten as Lettice is swept up into the electrifying atmosphere of the Portland Gallery’s latest show of new and avant-garde art. The burble of vociferous, excited chatter fills her ears. Her eyes flit around the red painted gallery hung with paintings and populated with tables, cabinets and pillars upon which stand different sculptures and other artistic pieces. Everywhere the cream of London’s artistic and bohemian set and wealthy members of the upper classes mill about in small clutches remarking on the works around her. As she smiles and waves a black elbow length glove clan hand at an acquaintance from the Embassy Club, she knows it won’t be long before she sees her Aunt Eglantyne, an artist of some note in her own right, amid the bright and colourful crowd of guests, no doubt arrayed in a Delphos gown* of a dazzling shade with a cascade of precious jewels tumbling down her front and a turban adorned with a spray of jewels and an aigrette** enveloping her red hennaed hair. She sniffs the air, which is filled with a fug of different perfumes and cigarette smoke to see if she can catch a whiff of the exotic scent of her aunt’s Balkan Black Russian Sobranies***. Grasping a coupe of glittering champagne from a silver tray carried around by a maid dressed in typical black moiré with an ornamental lace apron with matching cuffs and headdress, Lettice takes a deep breath and steps into the fray.
She smiles and pauses to chat with friends and acquaintances she knows through her well-connected aunt or her own associations as she slowly works her way around the room, admiring the artworks. She wends her way through the assembled guests, smiling occasionally to some and waving to others. She stops to speak to art critic P. G. Konody****, laughing lightly as he dismisses a Post-Impressionist painting they stand before as “unintelligible” before she excuses herself and moves on. She sees her aunt, dressed just as she imagined, in animated conversation with a diminutive woman with bobbed hair and waves to her, her indication acknowledged by a smile of recognition and a gaze that implies that she will catch up with Lettice once she extricates herself from her current conversation. Moving on, Lettice brushes against artist Frank Brangwyn*****. When he turns, she stops and asks with interest about his latest biblical etchings and how he feels they will be received by critics such as Mr. Konody. Wending her way still further through the meandering gathering of guests, she stops again and converses with New Zealand artist Frances Hodgkins****** about her explorations into painting fabric designs. “My Aunt Eglantyne is also looking at creating in fabric, Miss Hodkins, but she is looking more at weaving after being inspired by the native carpets she saw on a trip to South America.” Lettice remarks. “She has even bought herself a large loom that she has had installed at her studio.”
“Ahh, Miss Chetwynd! There you are!” comes a male voice, cutting through the hubbub of chatter with its well enunciated syllables.
“Mr. Chilvers!” Lettice greets a smartly dressed man with a warm smile and the familiarity of the regular client that she is. “How do you do.”
Born Grand Duke Pytor Chikvilazde in the Russian seaside resort town of Odessa, the patrician gallery owner with his beautifully manicured and curled handlebar moustache fled Russia after the Revolution, escaping aboard the battleship HMS Marlborough******* from Yalta in 1919 along with the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna and other members of the former, deposed Russian Imperial Family. Arriving in London later that year after going via Constantinople and Genoa, the Russian emigree was far more fortunate than others around him on the London docks, possessing valuable jewels smuggled out of Russia in the lining of his coat. Changing his name to the more palatable Peter Chilvers, he sold most of the jewels he had, shunned his Russian heritage, and honed his English accent and manners, to reinvent himself as the very British owner of an art gallery in Bond Street, thus enabling him to continue what he enjoyed most about being Grand Duke Pytor Chikvilazde and participate in the thriving arts scene in his new homeland.
“How do you do, Miss Chetwynd. What a pleasure to have you at my little gallery’s autumn showing, even if autumn is yet to arrive.” He takes up her hand and kisses it, perhaps one of the few Russian – and definitely not British – traits he still has.
“Well, I think with the rain outside and the cooling temperatures, it feels much more autumnal to me out there, so I think your autumn showing is well timed, Mr. Chilvers.”
“I hope then, Miss Chetwynd, that you are enjoying the sparkling champagne, the glittering company.” He nods in Miss Hodgkins’ direction, acknowledging her. “And the art, of course.”
“Of course, Mr. Chilvers.” Lettice replies with a smile, flattered by his attentions.
“Now, if I can extract you from the charms of Miss Hodgkins’ company, Miss Chetwynd, there is something in particular in my latest show that I should like to draw you attention to.”
Lettice and Mr. Chilvers excuse themselves from Miss Hodgkins’ presence and slowly wend their way through the milling clusters of party attendees, many turning heads, craning their necks or glancing surreptitiously and with a little jealousy at Mr. Chilvers to see which guest in particular has his undivided attention. The pair stop on the black and white marble floor before one if the gallery’s fireplaces,
“Is that?” Lettice begins as she stares up at the striking painting hanging above the mantle lined with pottery and glass.
“A Picasso?” Mr. Chilvers chortles with smug delight, rather like a child who has just won a game, completing Lettice’s unfinished question. “Yes, it is.”
Lettice admires the bold colours and energetic strokes of thickly layered paint on the canvas. Angular lines pick out the faces and torsos of two figures. Eyes, noses, hands, two thin lines making up a mouth. Fragmented, distorted and distracted the image radiates intimacy as much as it does boldness: a hand resting on a shoulder, the pair of figures’ heads drawn closely together, both with eyes downcast.
“It’s called, ‘Lovers’.” Mr. Chilvers goes on. “It’s part of his latest Cubist******** pieces.”
“It’s remarkable!” Lettice breathes with awe.
“I knew you’d like it, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Chilvers purrs. “Well, I’ll just leave you to contemplate Mr. Picasso’s new work, Miss Chetwynd. Come and find me if you’d like ‘Lovers’.” He smiles at Lettice’s transfixed face before silently gilding away and rejoining a nearby group of his guests where he begins chatting animatedly.
Lettice is still staring up at the intricacies of the brushwork in the painting when she hears her name being called by another male voice. “Lettice!” Turning her head away from the artwork she finds Sir John Nettleford-Hughes at her right shoulder.
Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a time when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Luckily Selwyn Spencely, the handsome eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford, rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable.
“Sir John!” Lettice gasps.
“Now, now!” he chides her. “Come Lettice. We are friends now, are we not?”
“Indeed we are.”
“Then enough of this ‘Sir John’ business. John will be quite satisfactory.”
Lettice laughs with embarrassment. “Oh, I’m sorry, John, but old habits and all that, don’t you know?” He smiles indulgently at her. Lettice blushes under his gaze as she goes on, “I… I wasn’t expecting to see you here this evening.”
“No?” he toys.
“No, I didn’t think a modernist exhibition like this would appeal to you, John. I’ve always assumed you to be more of a classical art appreciator.”
Sir John sighs a little tiredly. “Well, it’s true, I am a more classically inclined when it comes to art appreciation. I’ve just been taking to Ethel Walker********* over there about a portrait she has exhibited here, and I can’t say I particularly like it, much less abstractions like this.” He indicates to the Picasso above the fireplace. “Which looks unintelligible to me.”
Lettice laughs. “You sound like dear Mr. Konody over there.” She indicates to the art critic, now in conversation with two society matrons dripping in diamond and pearls over a clutch of pottery pieces by Bernard Leach**********. Turning back to the painting above the fireplace, Lettice continues, “So if you don’t like this style of art, then it begs the question, what are you doing here, John?”
“That’s easy, Lettice: Carter money.”
“Carter money?” Lettice queries.
This time it is Sir John who chuckles as he looks upon Lettice’s non comprehension with amusement. “I’m here with Priscilla.” he elucidates.
“Cilla?” Lettice queries again, at the mention of her Embassy Club coterie friend, now married to wealthy American Georgie Carter.
“Yes. Her husband’s department store money has opened the doors of the Portland Gallery to her, but whilst he is happy to foot the bill for anything that takes her fancy this evening, Georgie has cried off accompanying Priscila this evening after conveniently coming down with a sudden head cold, which I am no doubt sure will evaporate by breakfast tomorrow. So, as the honourary token uncle, I’m stepping in as chaperone for the evening.”
“Oh poor John.” Lettice puts a hand up to her mouth to obscure her smile and muffle the mirth in her voice.
“Oh I wouldn’t say it’s all that bad.” Sir John replies. “Whilst the art brings me little enjoyment, I do have the pleasure of your company as a result of Mr. Chilver’s little show. And,” He lifts his coupe of bubbling champagne. “The man does have fine taste in champagne.”
“Indeed.” Lettice agrees, raising her glass to Sir John’s where they clink together.
The pair walk together away from the Picasso painting and move towards the clutch of pieces by Bernard Leech. Lettice glances back over her shoulder at the painting one final time.
“Now, whilst this pottery isn’t my cup of tea either,” Sir John remarks, indicating to the brown glazed pottery jugs decorated with naïve images of animals and plants. ‘At least I know what they are.”
Lettice laughs. “Well, that’s a start, John. Cilla and I will make a modern art appreciator of you yet.”
“Don’t even try, Lettice.” he scoffs with a roll of his eyes. “Now, thinking of pottery, I am sure you will do a splendid job at Arkwright Bury. Adelina will adore the room you redecorate for her, and I know how excited Alisdair is about it. he’s told me that it will look quite marvellous! Thank you for taking it on.”
“Oh no, thank you for suggesting it to me at Gossington. Your nephew and Mrs. Grifford are delightful people.”
“I knew you’d like them, Lettice. And I believe Alisdair’s godfather, Henry Tipping************ will write another favourable article about you in Country Life************.”
“Apparently so, so long as Mrs. Gifford likes the room and keeps it.”
“I’m sure she will, Lettice. I just hope theis little job of decorating Adelina’s blue and white china room will be a good distraction for you.”
Lettice sighs heavily. “It will be, John. I’ve been throwing myself into my interior design work, so as not to think about Selwyn’s absence.”
“So, have you heard anything from young Spencely since he’s been banished to Durban, Lettice?” Sir John asks.
“No, I haven’t.” Lettice sighs heavily again.
“That’s a pity, but I’m hardly surprised. Based upon what you told me about the bargain he struck with his mother, I wouldn’t imagine he’d dare.”
“Have you heard anything from him at all, John?”
“Me? Why should I have heard anything?”
“Well, it’s just,” Lettice tries to keep the hopeful lilt out of her voice as she speaks. “You mentioned him, is all. I thought that perhaps you might have heard from him.”
“We don’t really move in the same circles, Lettice. Don’t forget that I’m a bit older than you two. I’m more inclined to be a contemporary of Zinnia,” Sir John continues, referencing Selwyn’s mother, the Duchess of Walmsford, by name. Seeing Lettice’s eyes suddenly grow wide he quickly adds, “Not that I am friends with her, I assure you Lettice. She’s a venomous viper, as you know, and I’ve every wish to avoid being in her orbit. And,” he adds. “I’m certainly not one of her spies, if you are at all concerned, Lettice.”
Lettice releases a pent up breath caught in her throat in a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad to hear it, John. After the revelation that Lady Zinnia knew about Selwyn and I, long before we even attempted to draw attention to our relationship, I’m not sure who to trust.”
“Well, I did try to warn you at Priscilla’s wedding, Lettice.”
“I know you did, John.” Lettice concedes, glancing down into her half empty glass. “I just didn’t want to listen.”
“Who ever wants to listen to advice they don’t want to hear, my dear?”
“No-one, I suppose.”
“Have patience, Lettice. I may not be friends with Zinnia, but I know enough about her, not to cross her, so don’t be too hard on young Spencely for doing the same, and keep your faith. If I know anything about Zinnia, it’s that she will have spies keeping an eye on everything her son does, even in far away Durban, and no doubt she is paying someone to steam open every letter he sends, and another person to read every scrap of correspondence he writes or reads, to make sure he isn’t trying to sneak a message to you, or you him.”
“Do you really think so, John? I’ve been hoping against hope, and I know my friends have too, that Selwyn would get a message to me somehow. However, to date I’ve had nothing, and I’m starting to lose hope. I do worry that a year apart may lead him to think less of me, or not at all.”
“Don’t, Lettice. Zinnia separated the two of you to try and break your bond, but if you can stay strong, you’ll win out over her scheming. She’d like nothing better than to catch Spencley sneaking you a letter, because then by way of her agreement with him, she could legitimately force him to marry someone else. He’s playing the long game, with you as the prize, I’m sure.”
“Do you really think so, John?”
“I do, Lettice.”
“Well, I must confess, you’re probably one of the last people I would have expected to hear that from.”
“As I said to you at Gossington, I was jealous that you’d had your head turned by Spencely, but I’m over that now. Jealousy in a single older man is equally as abhorrent in an older eligible bachelor as it is in a younger unmarried lady.” He gulps the last of his champagne. “However, in saying that, if anything should happen to cause your romance to Spencely fall through, don’t forget that I’m still here as an interested party.”
“Is there something you know that I don’t, John?”
“No.” Sir John replies breezily. “I’m only saying that if anything happens.”
Lettice pauses, straightens and stiffens as her eyes grow wide. For a moment she doesn’t say anything. “Is that a proposal, John?”
Sir John’s eyes flit about the crowded gallery as he considers his response before replying. “Hhhmmm… of sorts, I suppose.” He smiles enigmatically. “I’m not suggesting that I am trying to vie for your affections, Lettice. You are obviously in love with young Spencely, and I don’t wish to come between you two, or try to dissuade you from pursuing a relationship with him.”
“Then what are you proposing?”
“All I’m offering is an alternate choice, should your plans fall through for any reason. Just keep me in mind.”
Lettice lowers her gaze to the image of an owl etched into the side of a pottery jug with a long spout as she contemplates what Sir John has said. “But you’re,” She lowers her voice. “You’re a philanderer, John.”
“I’d never propose a conventional marriage, my dear Lettice, however let’s just say that if you married me, I’d pay for and let you hang a daub like that,” he indicates with a dismissive wave to the Picasso painting. “Wherever you like in any of our houses, if you let me take my enjoyment where I like it and not complain.”
He squeezes her glove clad upper arm discreetly. His touch makes the champagne in her mouth taste bitter.
“However,” he continues. “Don’t consider it now, consider it, only if the time should ever come - and I do mean, if.”
“Consider what, Uncle John?” Priscilla’s voice rings out as, dressed in a striking red frock with pearls cascading down her front she sidles up next to Sir John and Lettice. Wealth suits Priscilla, Lettice decides as she takes in the transformed figure of her friend who was once so poor that she discreetly took a typing course so as to take in secretarial work to help keep debt collectors at bay from she and her widowed mother’s door.
“I was just telling Miss Chetwynd to,” He pauses for a moment, unable to think of something to say to Priscilla instead of the truth..
“Sir John,” Lettice quickly fills in the awkward gap, reverting to formal terms like Sir John did in front of her friend to avoid any unnecessary gossip spread by Priscilla. “Was just telling me to think carefully and consider before making a decision as to whether I buy that Picasso.” She points to the painting above the fireplace.
Priscilla looks at the Picasso. “Oh Uncle John!” she exclaims in exasperation. Turning back to Lettice she continues, “I shouldn’t listen to him, Lettice, if I were you. He’s frightfully conservative when it comes to art: a real old stick-in-the-mud. I think it’s thrilling and so avant-garde, just like you. If you like it, buy it, that’s what I say, before someone else does! What is money for, if not to spend?” She giggles girlishly.
“I’ll consider all my options.” Lettice says with a smile.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve just gone and done!” Priscilla says, bursting with excitement as she changes the subject.
“I’m sure I’d never guess, Cilla.” Lettice replies. “Tell us.”
“Well, you see that woman in the brown dress over there.” She points to a woman with brown hair tied in a loose chignon at the base of her neck in a chocolate velvet dress.
“Ethel Walker, do you mean?” Lettice asks.
“Oh, you know her then.” Priscilla says, crestfallen.
“She’s quite a well known artist, Cilla darling.” Lettice soothes her friend’s ego. “That’s one of the reasons why she is at this soirée this evening.”
“What about her?” asks Sir John, his interest piqued.
“Well,” Priscilla pipes up again. “I’ve just agreed to sit for her. She walked right up to me and said she thought I had an interesting face, and she wants to paint me, even though we’d not even been introduced. It was all awfully thrilling.” She pauses for a moment before going on, “Although she told me I had to come bare faced*************,” She bites her lipstick coated lower lip, coloured almost the same shade of striking red as her frock. “As she wants to paint a portrait of who I really am.”
“Well, that’s a great honour, Cilla darling.” Lettice says. “Ethel Walker doesn’t paint anyone she doesn’t want to. Come let’s celebrate this wonderful announcement with some fresh champagne, shall we?”
As Lettice walks away arm in arm with Priscilla, she glances back over her shoulder at the Picasso painting of ‘Lovers’, and Sir John Nettleford-Hughes, smiling mysteriously and saluting her with his own empty glass: two potential male influences in her future life to consider.
*The Delphos gown is a finely pleated silk dress first created in about 1907 by French designer Henriette Negrin and her husband, Mariano Fortuny y Madrazo. They produced the gowns until about 1950. It was inspired by, and named after, a classical Greek statue, the Charioteer of Delphi. It was championed by more artistic women who did not wish to conform to society’s constraints and wear a tightly fitting corset.
**The term aigrette refers to the tufted crest or head-plumes of the egret, used for adorning a headdress – most popular in the Edwardian eras between the turn on the Twentieth Century and the Second World War. The word may also identify any similar ornament, in gems.
***The Balkan Sobranie tobacco business was established in London in 1879 by Albert Weinberg (born in Romania in 1849), whose naturalisation papers dated 1886 confirm his nationality and show that he had emigrated to England in the 1870s at a time when hand-made cigarettes in the eastern European and Russian tradition were becoming fashionable in Europe. Sobranie is one of the oldest cigarette brands in the world. Throughout its existence, Sobranie was marketed as the definition of luxury in the tobacco industry, being adopted as the official provider of many European royal houses and elites around the world including the Imperial Court of Russia and the royal courts of United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Spain, Romania, and Greece. Premium brands include the multi-coloured Sobranie Cocktail and the black and gold Sobranie Black Russian.
****Paul George Konody was a Hungarian-born, London-based art critic and historian, who wrote for several London newspapers, as well as writing numerous books and articles on noted artists and collections, with a focus on the Renaissance.
*****Sir Frank Brangwyn was born in Bruges, Belgium and was a self taught artist, save for some instruction from his architect father. He is best known for his murals and large easel paintings on heroic and biblical themes. His first prints were wood engravings and he later trained as a commercial wood engraver. Around 1900 he began etching, producing over three hundred works by 1926. His larger etchings attracted some criticism for their deeply bitten and liberally inked plates. His smaller works were considered more successful, particularly those set figures against an architectural background. He was knighted in 1941.
******Frances Mary Hodgkins was a New Zealand painter chiefly of landscape and still life, and for a short period was a designer of textiles. She was born and raised in New Zealand, but spent most of her working life in England.
*******In 1919, King George V sent the HMS Marlborough to rescue his Aunt the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna after the urging of his mother Queen Dowager Alexandra. On the 5th of April 1919, the HMS Marlborough arrived in Sevastopol before proceeding to Yalta the following day. The ship took Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna and other members of the former, deposed Russian Imperial Family including Grand Duke Nicholas and Prince Felix Yusupov aboard in Yalta on the evening of the 7th. The Empress refused to leave unless the British also evacuated wounded and sick soldiers, along with any civilians that also wanted to escape the advancing Bolsheviks. The Russian entourage aboard Marlborough numbered some eighty people, including forty four members of the Royal Family and nobility, with a number of governesses, nurses, maids and manservants, plus several hundred cases of luggage.
********Cubism was a revolutionary new approach to representing reality invented in around 1907–08 by artists Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque. They brought different views of subjects (usually objects or figures) together in the same picture, resulting in paintings that appear fragmented and abstracted.
*********Dame Ethel Walker was a Scottish painter of portraits, flower-pieces, sea-pieces and decorative compositions. From 1936, Walker was a member of The London Group. Her work displays the influence of Impressionism, Puvis de Chavannes, Gauguin and Asian art.
**********Bernard Howell Leach was a British studio potter and art teacher. He is regarded as the "Father of British studio pottery".
***********Henry Tipping (1855 – 1933) was a French-born British writer on country houses and gardens, garden designer in his own right, and Architectural Editor of the British periodical Country Life for seventeen years between 1907 and 1910 and 1916 and 1933. After his appointment to that position in 1907, he became recognised as one of the leading authorities on the history, architecture, furnishings and gardens of country houses in Britain. In 1927, he became a member of the first committee of the Gardens of England and Wales Scheme, later known as the National Gardens Scheme.
************Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.
*************Ethel Walker was disapproving of cosmetics, and was known to rebuke women in public on account of their makeup. She required her models to remove lipstick and nail polish before entering her studio in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. A friend of hers recollected of her, “She executed commissions when she liked the look of the would-be sitters but before painting her women she would say ‘Take that filthy stuff off your lips’ for, always faithful to the motif, she could not tolerate the sudden assault of red upon an eye so sensitive to tone”.
Whilst this up-market London gallery interior complete with artisan pieces may appear real to you, it is in fact made up completely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection. This tableau is particularly special because almost everything you can see is a handmade artisan miniature piece.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Central to our story, the “Lovers” painting by Picasso is a 1:12 miniature painted by hand in the style of Picasso by miniature artist Mandy Dawkins of Miniature Dreams in Thrapston. The frame was handmade by her husband John Dawkins.
The painting hanging to the left of the photograph is also a hand painted artisan picture. Created by miniature artist Ann Hall, it is a copy of “Place du Théâtre Francois, Paris” by Pissarro. The two pen and watercolour images hanging to the right of the photograph are by miniature artist R. Humphreys. I acquired these through Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.
The jug and bowl on the fireplace mantle had been hand fashioned and painted by an unknown miniature artisan ceramicist, whilst the four bottles are hand blown by another unknown miniature artisan, as is the ship in the glass bottle on the stand to the left of the fireplace. The bottles came from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdon, whilst the jug and bowl I acquired from a private collector of miniatures selling their collection on E-Bay.
The rather lovely soapstone container on the pedestal to the right of the fireplace is Eighteenth Century Chinese, and was rescued from a wreck in the South China Sea.
The painted and glazed jugs and vases on the black japanned table in the foreground are all handmade miniature artisan pieces made by an unknown potter. They were acquired from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
The glass vases in unusual shapes on the black japanned table are in reality some beautiful glass bugle beads. Between 1923 and 1939, these beads and millions like them were produced from a very successful workshop on the outskirts of Toruń in northern Poland (then Pomerania) and sent to fashion houses both locally and in cities like Prague, Vienna and Paris. Then, with the coming of Hitler's invasion of Poland and the Second World War, the owners of the workshop closed their doors. They took the beads they had in the workshop and buried them in boxes in the ground beneath the floor of the workshop and then fled, hoping to return to reclaim them some day. And so the beads remained buried beneath the flagstones throughout the Second World War when the workshop was razed, and beyond during the re-building of post-war Poland. Although still in possession of the land on which the workshop had stood, the owners and their descendants never returned to Toruń to claim them, and the beads became a thing of legend. Nearly seventy years later, descendants of the original owners returned to Toruń to live, and decided to see if there was any truth to the stories of 'buried treasure'. Much to their astonishment and delight, what they uncovered beneath the flagstones were thirty great boxes, still well preserved in the earth, of 1920s and 1930s glass bugle beads! A selection of these beads came into my possession through the mother of my goddaughters and her mother, who are extremely close friends of mine and who are artists of Polish decent directly related to the owners of the Toruń workshop.
The two pedestals either side of the fireplace were made by the high end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.
The black ladderback chairs and the table in the foreground were made by Town Hall Miniatures.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
For nearly a year Lettice has been patiently awaiting the return of her beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban by his mother, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wanted to end so that she could marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Now Lettice has been made aware by Lady Zinnia that during the course of the year, whilst Lettice has been biding her time, waiting for Selwyn’s eventual return, he has become engaged to the daughter of a Kenyan diamond mine owner whilst in Durban. Fleeing Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion, Lettice returned to Cavendish mews and milled over her options over a week as she reeled from the news. Then, after that week, she knew exactly what to do to resolve the issues raised by Lady Zinnia’s unwelcome news about her son. Taking extra care in her dress, she took herself off to the neighbouring upper-class London suburb of Belgravia and paid a call upon Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.
Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening.
Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Turning up unannounced on his doorstep, she agreed to his proposal after explaining that the understanding between she and Selwyn was concluded. However, in an effort to be discreet, at Lettice’s insistence, they are not making their engagement public until the new year: after the dust about Selwyn’s break of his and Lettice’s engagement settles. So Lettice and Sir John are going on about their separate lives, but in the lead up to Christmas they invariably end up running into one another at the last mad rush of parties before everyone who hasn’t already decamps to the country to celebrate Christmas.
Tonight, we are in the drawing room of Cavendish Mews, where Lettice is entertaining her elder sister Lalage (known to everyone in the family by the diminutive Lally). Lally, who resides with her husband Charles Lanchenbury and their two children, Harrold and Annabelle, at Dorrington House, a smart Jacobean manor house of the late 1600s in High Wycome in the country of Buckinghamshire, has come up to London to do her Christmas shopping, and access the larger range of shops and Oxford Street department stores mot afforded to her in the country. Rather than motor up and then back to High Wycombe the same day, Lally is stopping the night with Lettice after the two siblings have spent the day shopping together. Tomorrow Lally will motor down to Wiltshire to their parents and drop off all hers and Lettice’s gifts for their annual family Christmas together at their country family seat before motoring back to Buckinghamshire. Just by good fortune, Lettice is going to one of the last big Christmas parties of 1924, and knowing the host and hostess very well, being part of her Embassy Club coterie, she has wrangled an invitation for Lally to attend too. Now the two, both dressed up in beautiful and delicate evening frocks and bedecked in jewels, with their hair freshly coiffed and set by a fashionable West End hairdresser, sit chatting, sipping champagne and cooling their heels before attending the party at a fashionably late respectable time.
“I say, Tice darling!” Lally remarks as she looks at the pink salmon mousse in the shape of a fish sprinkled with thinly slice cucumber and garnished with lemon wedges on the low black japanned coffee table between she and her sister. “This is all rather splendid!”
“Oh there’s more to come,” Lettice replies, picking up a sparking glass of champagne which almost blends into her silvery grey silk crêpe gown adorned with silver and gold sequins. “Edith is just bringing it now.”
“To use one of the phrases of the moment that you and your fashionable friends love, ‘how ripping’!” Lally replies, picking up her own glass and sipping the sparkling golden liquid from it.
“That’s the spirit, Lally darling! You’ll fit in perfectly tonight.” Lettice replies encouragingly.
“I must say, this is awfully good of you, Tice.”
“What is, Lally?”
“Well, all of this.” Lally replies, stretching her arms elegantly and gesticulating at the festively decorated drawing room around them with its bright Christmas tree covered in shining glass baubles surrounded by a mountain of presents, and garland draped fireplace covered in Christmas cards.
“What? The decorations?” Lettice asks. “But I would have decorated for Christmas , even if you weren’t coming, Lally darling.”
“No Tice!” Lally hisses in reply. “Not the decorations. I’m so grateful to you for allowing me to come and stay here tonight after my shopping expeditions to buy presents for the children and the rest of the family, not to mention the last minute invitation to the party.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to let my sister stay in a London hotel when there is a perfectly good spare bedroom here.” Lettice retorts.
“I mean, I know I could have motored back to Buckinghamshire after we’d finished shopping today, but it’s so much easier just to stay in town overnight.”
“Of course it is, Lally.” Lettice agrees. “Don’t give it another thought. And as for the party,” She wafts her hand breezily. “It was simple to get you an invitation. It helps when you know both the hosts intimately.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to motor you down to Glynes* tomorrow, Tice?”
“No thank you, Lally,” Lettice declines. “Thank you all the same. I’m sure you won’t want me in the car with you tomorrow, all grumpy and woolly headed, nursing a beasty hangover after all the excesses of tonight. I plan on getting rather tight** tonight, since George and Cilla are footing the drinks bill.”
“Well, perhaps not, since you put it that way, Tice.”
“Besides, I doubt there would be room enough in your little Baby Austin*** for me as well as both your presents and mine for the family Christmas.” She nods in the direction of the pile of presents sitting underneath her Christmas tree all wrapped up in bright festive metallic papers and gaily coloured ribbons, and several very full bags from some of London’s best department stores.
“Yes, we did shop up quite a storm today, didn’t we?” Lally remarks a little guiltily.
“More you than me, Lally darling. I’ve already done most of my Christmas shopping.”
“Well, it’s too much of a temptation, isn’t it Tice? There are so many more wonderful shops here in London than there are in the counties, not to mention the department stores.”
“It was rather fun luncheoning at Derry and Tom’s**** café today.” Lettice smiles, casting her mind back to earlier in the day when the pair of them were ensconced in a cosy nook at a quiet table for two at the Kensington department store, with the table before them laid with fine white napery, gilt edged china, glinting silverware and gleaming glassware, with the hubbub of quiet and polite, predominantly female, chatter drifting around them as Edwardian matrons and their daughters or other well-heeled young women enjoyed a fine repast just like them between their Christmas shopping excursions.
At that moment, Edith, Lettice’s maid, slips through the green baize door that leads from the service area of the flat into the dining room, carrying a silver tray on which stands a bowl of gleaming black caviar, a plate holding an assortment of watercracker biscuits and another upon which stand an array of very smart looking canapés. She walks purposefully across the dining room and into the drawing room, lowering the tray onto the coffee table between the two sisters as they chat, gently pushing aside several cheerfully wrapped presents to make room for it.
“Not that High Wycombe feels like the country so much anymore,” Lally goes on. “What with those ghastly Metroland estates full of endless streets of mind numbingly matching two-up two-down***** rows of houses being developed up and down the railway line, chewing up the beautiful English countryside.”
Edith’s hands shake as a sudden shudder runs through her, making the plates and cutlery on the tray rattle noisily.
“I’m sure we’ll have a department store built in the high street before too long, what with the influx of commuters to London pouring into High Wycombe every weekday.”
“Are you alright, Edith?” Lettice asks in concern, reaching out a hand and grasping her maid’s shoulder.
As if struck with a hot poker, Edith quickly stands up and brushes down her lace trimmed afternoon uniform apron and her black silk moiré dress. “Yes Miss.” She replies stiffly. “I beg your pardon Miss,” She bobs a small curtsey and then turns to Lally and does the same. “Mrs. Lanchenbury.”
“Oh, I’m sure there’s nothing to forgive, Edith.” Lally replies kindly as she sinks back into the comfortable rounded back of one of the Lettice’s Art Deco tub armchairs.
“Indeed, there isn’t.” Lettice assures her maid. She looks into her pretty face and notices that Edith’s peaches and cream complexion looks a little pale. “Are you quite sure you’re alright, Edith?”
“Oh yes Miss!” Edith replies quickly. “It was just someone walking over my grave.”
“Well, let’s hope its not one of the three ghosts of Christmas.” Lettice chuckles, smiling wistfully as she remembers she and Edith sitting down to listen to a dramatised recording of Charles Dickens classic novella ‘A Christmas Carol’ on her new wireless, a gift from Selwyn Spencely, in December last year******.
“Oh indeed, Miss.” Edith smiles shyly as she agrees.
“Oh, and thank you for putting up with me for tonight,” Lally pipes up quickly. “And all of my,” She waves her hand laconically at all the presents spread about the flat’s drawing room. “My acquisitions.”
“Oh that’s quite alright, Mrs, Lanchenbury.” Edith assures her. “No bother at all.”
“That’s kind of you, Edith.” Lally acknowledges. “I’m sure I make extra, unnecessary work for you. And I really do appreciate it.”
The sisters watch as Edith withdraws and slips quickly behind the green baize door and back to her preserve of the Cavendish Mews kitchen.
“Do you think she’s really alight, Tice darling?” Lally asks with concern. “She looked a little pale.”
“Oh I think so, Lally. I noticed that too. But I think, like the rest of us, she’s just tired as the year comes to an end. Although she won’t admit it, I think she’s quietly quite looking forward to me going home to Glynes, so that she can go home and spend a lovely Christmas with her own family. She tells me that her steward brother has shore leave again this year.”
“I do hope I’m not being too much of an inconvenience, Tice darling.” Lally goes on, once they think Edith is safely out of earshot. “I know how hard it is to get good help these days, and maids can be so temperamental nowadays.”
“Oh, you’re no more a bother to Edith than you are to me, Lally darling. And if you were, you’re certainly making it up to me at any rate by taking my gifts down to Glynes with you.”
“It’s my pleasure, Tice.” Lally smiles at her sister. “Anyway, it makes sense. If I’m going to take most of the presents down there to avoid the children fossicking for them before Christmas at home, it makes sense to take yours down with me too.”
“Well, I am most awfully grateful, Lally darling.”
“So, when are you going down to stay with Mamma and Pappa then?”
“I’ve arranged to motor down with Gerald on the twenty second. When are you, Charles and the children going?”
“Well, we’ll be there before you. I’m taking the children and Nanny down on the twentieth. Charles will follow on the twenty second like you. He has some final business with Lord Lanchenbury before Christmas, whereas my last duty with the High Wycome WI******* for 1924 is to give my treasurer’s report to Mrs. Alsop.” Lally pulls a face. “On the eighteenth.”
“The ghastly gossip and bore, Mrs. Alsop!” Lettice deposits her glass back onto the coffee table and raises her hands to her cheeks in mock horror s she pulls a sad face.
“Oh you!” Lally hisses with a cheeky smile. “You wouldn’t be so glib about ghastly Mrs. Alsop if you’d met her, Tice,” She nods seriously as her lips crumple disapprovingly.
“Well, mercifully Aunt Egg saved me from that fait accompli when she organsied the invitation to the Caxton’s Friday to Monday party at Gossington in Scotland,” Lettice remarks, before adding, “Not that that didn’t have ramifications of its own, in due course.”
“Indeed.” Lally replies sagely, her head bobbing up and down slowly.
“Mind you, I did receive a Christmas card from Gladys and John in the post the other day.”
“You didn’t!” Lally gasps in surprise.
“I did!”
Lettice stands up and walks over to the mantelpiece, cluttered with a dozen or so gaily coloured cards, all stylised in the simple lines of the Art Deco aesthetic movement that is swiftly becoming fashionable as the decade of 1920s moves forward. She fishes out a card hidden towards the back featuring a Christmas tree lined laneway at night with a car motoring down it. The car’s two beaming headlights and the crescent moon above are painted in gold paint which has also been used on the ‘Season’s Greetings’ written in bold text at the bottom of the card. She hands it to Lally who flips it open.
“’Best wishes to you and your family this festive season’,” Lally reads aloud. “’And a happy 1925 from Gladys and John.’” She closes the card and hands it back with an edge of distaste to Lettice, who slips it back behind a card featuring two bright red poinsettias on a blue background. “Well, it’s cursory, but not unpleasant.” Lally pronounces. “That’s somewhat of a turn up for the books, I must say!”
“Oh, I don’t think it was actually written by Gladys.” Lettice replies, returning to her seat and picking up her glass of champagne. “I think her dragon of a personal secretary, Miss Goodwyn, did it and simply gave it to Gladys and John to sign.”
“Yes, but she didn’t have to send you a card at all, did she, Tice darling?”
“I suppose not, but I think she knows that Phoebe and I have developed a friendship… mmm… of sorts… since that afternoon tea at Aunt Egg’s.”
“Is Pheobe finally starting to come out of her shell, now that she’s not under Lady Glady’s roof so much?”
“Since I set things right at her Ridgmount Gardens pied-à-terre********, yes.” Lettice replies with a satisficed smile. “I mean, she’ll never be frightfully outgoing, and I’d never call her one of my bosom friends*********, but Phoebe is actually turning out to be a rather pleasant companion, in a quiet and more reserved way. At least she expresses her opinions more readily now, and being on the quieter side, I’ve discovered that she is very good at observing people and noticing little things that others don’t.”
“Well that’s good.”
“Yes, it is rather.”
“Well, I must say this looks awfully jolly and festive.” Lally remarks, looking at the brightly coloured canapés and sleek black caviar on the silver tray. “Now, Tice darling, you must tell me all about this Christmas party we’re going to tonight.”
“Oh, well it isn’t strictly a Christmas party as such, Lally darling.” Lettice corrects her sister politely as she puts down her glass and picks up a thin watercracker biscuit which she smothers in glistening black caviar. She then deposits the silver spoon back into the bowl and passes the caviar lavished cracker to her sister.
“Thank you, Tice.” Lally says, accepting the watercracker gratefully. “It isn’t?”
“No. This is more of a transatlantic set, you see, what with Georgie being American and Cilla being British.” Lettice fixes herself a caviar smothered watercracker biscuit. “So, tonight is more of an amalgam of celebrations.”
“And amalgam?” Lally bites into the caviar and sighs with pleasure.
“Yes. It’s a Thanksgiving Christmas party, combining the American tradition of Thanksgiving with our Christmas traditions.”
“Then why can’t it be a Christmas Thanksgiving party, since it’s being celebrated here in England?” She finishes the caviar.
“Do have a canapés,” Lettice remarks, picking up the plate and holding it out to Lally. “They’re rather good.” As Lally accepts one from the proffered plate she goes on, “Well, firstly, Thanksgiving is celebrated before Christmas in late November********** apparently so it takes precedence, and secondly, it is technically Georgie’s party,” She takes a canapé for herself. ‘So he can call it whatever he likes, can’t he?”
“Oh these are jolly scrumptious!” Lally enthuses as she consumes the dainty canapé delicately.
“Do have another, Lally darling!” Lettice encourages, picking up the plate and passing it to her sister. “Help yourself. Eat up!”
Lally reaches over and accepts the plate gratefully. She selects another one. She pauses for a moment and thinks. “However, I don’t see why we need to eat so heartily before we attend this party of yours we’re going to, whatever it’s called. Isn’t there going to be any food?”
Lettice lifts her head fall backwards as she laughs lightly at her sister’s remark. “You’ve never been to one of the Carter’s parties before.” she says knowingly. “It’s not like Mater’s Hunt Balls with the local landed county gentry, where it’s all ‘no, after you’ politeness and no-one takes more than they need. Georgie is American, and frightfully well off thanks to things they call dry goods stores.”
Lally laughs. “What on earth are those?”
“I wish I knew.” Lettice laughs. “Gerald and I have been trying to get to the bottom of what they are ever since Cilla and Georgie got married.” She takes another sip of champagne before continuing. “Anyway, as a result of his dry goods store money, and Cilla’s positive obsession at acquiring as many new friends as possible now that she is rich, every acquaintance and hanger-on in London will be in attendance tonight, and believe me, when the food comes out, it’s like a pack of vultures swooping. We’ll be lucky if we get a few pieces of canapés each. So eat up!”
“How frightful!” Lally remarks, popping another canapé in her mouth and taking another from the plate before handing it back to Lettice, who places it back on the table.
“It is rather, but only when it comes to food, Lally darling.” Lettice lavishes another watercracker with caviar. “Georgie and Cilla’s ballroom in their Park Lane*********** mansion is to die for! It’s all Palladian columns, gilding and polished parquetry beneath crystal chandeliers they bought for a song from an old rundown château in the south of France whilst they were on their honeymoon.”
“Rather!” Lally exclaims.
“Old Philadelphia money also pays for the hottest new dance bands.” Lettice remarks conspiratorially before eating the caviar covered watercracker.
“Who will be performing tonight?” Lally asks excitedly.
“Only the Savoy Havana Band************!” Lettice enthuses, clapping her bejewelled hands.
“Heavens! How thrilling!”
“Georgie has paid goodness knows how much to Wilfred de Mornys************* for them to perform tonight! It’s going to be a whizzer of a party, Lally darling!” She takes a canapé and bites into it before continuing on. “And, for all Georgie and Cilla’s hangers-on, tonight will be the last big event of the 1924 Season, so we’ll be sure to be mixing with some very smart and select people: interesting and influential types, you know the sort, not to mention the brightest of the Bright Young Things**************.”
“Oh, I’m far too old to be mixing with the likes of them, Tice.” Lally scoffs with a dismissive wave of her hand. “That’s more your set. I’ll just blend into the background and be a wallflower tonight.”
“Nonsense Lally! You’ll do nothing of the sort!” Lettice retorts, looking her sister up and down, appraising her blonde hair, admittedly streaked with a few silver greys, set in a stylish cascade of waves and pinned elegantly in a chignon at the back of her neck, dressed in one of Gerald’s beaded evening frocks in striking French blue************** borrowed from Lettice’s wardrobe, diamonds sparkling at her ears and two strands of pearls encircling her neck. “You can hold your own with them. Anyway, I’ll introduce you and they’ll love the fact that you’re my elder sister.” She finishes her canapé. “They will grill you for dreadful stories of me misbehaving from childhood that they can then dine out on in the New Year, so best you try and remember my most ghastly exploits.”
“Like when you put a frog from the ornamental lake in Nanny Webb’s apron?” Lally giggles.
“That’s the ticket, Lally darling!”
“And you don’t mind?” Lally picks up a watercracer and adds a smaller amount of black caviar to it than her sister’s servings.
“My dear Lally, I relish it! There’s nothing more boring than not being spoken about.” She rolls her eyes.
“I should have thought that with that ghastly cad, Selwyn Spencely, breaking off your engagement like that, that being spoken about would be the last thing you’d want.”
Lettice doesn’t answer for a moment, but then replies, “Well, that’s why I need people to talk about and ask me about anything other than that. I don’t want people’s pity, least of all any of Cilla’s hangers-on, who don’t know me from a bar of soap****************.”
The sisters fall into an awkward silence. Lettice toys with the spoon sitting atop the caviar idly.
“You know, you really are being most frightfully decent about all that beastly business with Lady Zinnia,” Lally finally says, breaking the sudden, smothering quiet engulfing the siblings. “And Selwyn not even having the decency to come back and tell you that he’s engaged to someone else, himself!”
“Oh,” Lettice replies breezily, waving Lally’s remark away with a dismissive sweep. “I mean, it was never definite that Selwyn was going to come back to me. And with Selwyn’s absence for a year, I didn’t feel this ending quite so acutely, as I did his departure.” she lies.
“Oh but we’d all so hoped that it would work out: Mamma, Pappa, Leslie, Charles, all of us, really.”
“Not Aunt Egg.” Lettice counters.
“Well, Aunt Egg doesn’t believe in marriage, but all the same, she only wants your happiness.”
“Well,” Lettice rubs her hands together, flicking crumbs of golden puff pastry from the canapes on the Chinese silk carpet at her feet. “It’s done now, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Be that as it may,” Lally adds. “I have no doubt that you have something up your sleeve.”
“What do you mean?” Lettice asks as she sits up with a start, suddenly very alert as to what her sister is saying.
“Oh, nothing, Tice darling. Don’t worry!” Lally chuckles languidly. “I only meant that you won’t let the grass grow beneath your feet. You’ll have some plan or other to stop yourself from sitting idly by and missing Selwyn. A new interior design project or some such for the new year.”
Lettice longs to confide in her elder sister about her recent secret engagement to Sir John Nettleford-Hughes. Although the two siblings have not always been the closest, thanks largely to the selfish and jealous actions of their mother, Lady Sadie, who forced a rift between them by setting up cases of one-upmanship, now that they are aware of this and no longer play into Lady Sadie’s emotional clutches, they have become close again, so it pains Lettice not to be honest with Lally. However, she knows that not only would Lally consider her sudden engagement on the heels of Selwyn’s abandonment of her rather rash, but that Lally dislikes Sir John, and Lettice suspects that if she knew about it, she would try relentlessly to get Lettice to break off her engagement. She knows that her reasoning behind keeping her engagement a secret until after the dust settles on her break with Selwyn is wise and sound, so she keeps her own counsel and remains silent on the matter of her engagement.
Lally gets up from her seat and wanders over to the fireplace, warming herself by the glowing wood fire as it crackles pleasurably as she picks up the cards and reads whom they are from inside.
“Mrs. Hatchett?” She foists a card with a little black Scottish terrier in a hamper tied with a pink bow on the front before Lettice. “Isn’t she the wife of that Labour politician who was part of Ramsay MacDonald’s short-lived minority Labour government?”
“Charles Hatchett? Yes. I decorated the Hatchett’s house in Sussex back in 1921, and Mrs. Hatchett still sends me a Christmas card every year.”
“Thank God the country came to its senses and the Conservatives won the general election in October. We’re back to normal politically again.”
Lettice doesn’t reply as Lally continues to peruse the cards.
“Oh-ho!” Lally chuckles, holding up one featuring a painting of a pair of brightly coloured wooden dolls in festive Art Deco version of Victorian style outfits. “Pappa would habe you hung, drawn and quartered as a traitor if he knew you were in receipt of correspondence from the film star Wanetta Ward.”
“Why?” Lettice gasps. “I decorated her flat too.”
“Yes,” Lally muses. “I remember, and I remember all the stink that came about because you deliberately failed to tell Mamma and Pappa about it.” She wags her finger accusing at her sister, yet the impish smile on her face confirms that she isn’t in the last cross with Lettice.
“Well, I knew they wouldn’t approve,” Lettice defends. “And I wanted her as a client. She’s very high profile, and she boosted my own business profile with my decoration of her flat.”
“Yes, well, lets hope Pappa has forgotten about it.”
“Why is he suddenly even more vehemently against Miss Ward than he was when I decorated her flat? I held to the promise I made to him then. I haven’t decorated any more, and I quote, ‘unsuitable actress’’ houses since I did hers.”
“Didn’t Mamma write and tell you?” Lally asks.
“No. Tell me what?”
“Marsen’s gone.” Lally replies, referring to the Chetwynd family’s footman, who always faithfully opens the front door and carries Lettice’s bags when she visits Glynes.
“Gone? Gone where? Gone when?”
“He left about two weeks ago apparently,” Lally replies, replacing the card on the mantle. “After he came to London on one of his days off.”
“What has that to do with Wanetta Ward, Lally darling?”
“Everything, Tice!” Lally replies with a light hearted laugh. “He saw that awful cardboard costume cutout picture of hers set in London when the Thames froze over.”
“‘Skating and Sinning’.” Lettice breathes.
“Yes!” Lally gasps. Raising her hand to her throat and clutching her pearls she continues, “Don’t tell me you saw it, Tice darling?”
“Well, no. I only know about it because Miss Ward told me about it not long after I completed the redecoration of her flat.” Lettice eyes her sister suspiciously. “But it sounds to me, like you’ve seen it.”
“Heavens no!” Lally laughs again, releasing her pearls and replacing the card in front of Lettice’s statuette of the ‘Theban dancer’ which sits in the centre of the mantlepiece. “I only know about it because Mrs. Sawyer tells me about all the pictures she sees with her husband at The Grand***************** in High Wycombe on the weekends when we discuss the menus on Mondays.”
“So why is Daddy so black on Miss Ward? Don’t tell me he dislikes her films.” Lettice says in disbelief. “I doubt he’s ever been to the pictures; he speaks so disparagingly of them.”
“Indeed he hasn’t, Tice. No. You see when Marsden saw your Miss Ward in ‘Skating and Sinning’, he fell madly and passionately in love with her, much to his ruination, or so Mamma tells me, and he decided that one day he would become an actor in the pictures. It turns out that he took secret acting lessons from Mrs. Maginot.”
“Not Mrs. Maginot, the haberdashers in Glynes?”
“The very one, Tice!” Lally titters. “She does have rather a theatrical bent, and manages the Glynes Theatrical Players as well as her shop in the village.”
“I know, but we’ve all been subject to their awful plays before, especially the Christmas panto****************** which we’ll both have to suffer through painted smiles this year, since its on the night of the twenty second. It’s ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ this year, and goodness knows I don’t wish to see Mr. Lewis the church verger reprise his role Dame Trott*******************.”
“As awful as it’s bound to be, Tice darling, Mrs, Maingot must have something of a knack when it comes to acting, because after a year and a half of lessons with her, Marsen went up to London to Islington Studios******************** last month to try out for a bit part in an upcoming film to be released in 1925, and landed the role as the romantic lead opposite his beloved Miss Ward!”
“What?” Lettice bursts out laughing. “Well I never!”
“Indeed! So, he came home to Glynes and handed Mamma his notice then and there!” Lally joins her sister’s raucous laughter. “Can you believe it? Our Marsden, starring in a film?”
“They must have hired him for his looks and his height, Lally darling, not his acting skills. Well, we definitely can’t see that production!”
“I’m almost tempted to sneak into The Grand and see it with Mrs. Sawyer when it coms out next year.” Lally laughs.
“Well, fancy Marsen being an actor in the pictures!”
“Yes, Mamma is fit to be tied! She has put an advertisement in The Lady*********************, but of course you know how hard it is to get a young man to be a footman these days that I think it’s a hopeless endeavour.”
“Well, only the really grand houses have footmen these days.” Lettice mutters, shuddering as she remembers Lady Zinna’s imperious footmen at her Park Lane mansion on the day Lettice fond out that Selwyn had become engaged to someone else. “Poor Bramley will have to answer the door as well as all his other butlering duties.”
Lally continues to flick through the cards until she comes across a rater innocuous one of a cottage with a smoking chimney set against a forest of pine trees.
“Sir John Nettleford-Hughes?” Lally gasps. “That old lecher?”
Lettice blushes at the mention of his name. Before she became secretly engaged to Sir John, he had sent her an early Christmas card which she put up, and rather than take it down when her sister arrived to stay, she simply left it up, hidden discreetly towards the back of the cards on display.
“He’s really not that bad,” Lettice says, grateful that her elder sister is too preoccupied with putting the card back to turn around and see her flushed cheeks. “Not once you get to know him. He was at Gossington when I went to stay with John and Gladys, and I was seated next to him at dinner. He’s really quite interesting and entertaining.”
“Lecherous and handsy don’t you mean?”
“No, I don’t. He really is rather kind, and more of a gentleman than you might suppose, Lally darling. Honestly.”
“You’ve changed your tune.” Lally replies, finally spinning around and facing her sister. “I seem to remember you and I both agreeing not that long ago on what a ghastly handsy old man he is!”
“Well, that was before Gossington.” Lettice defends. “Anyway, I really have Sir John to thank for the wonderful review by Henry Tipping********************** in Country Life***********************. After all, it was thanks to him that I met Mr. and Mrs. Gifford properly and redecorated the Pagoda Room for them. Mr. Gifford is Sir John’s nephew, and Mr. Gifford’s godfather is Henry Tipping.”
“You are a dark horse, aren’t you Tice, my darling?” Lally says with a puzzled smile.
“What do you mean, Lally?”
“Well, you and your interesting assortment of friends: politicians wives, lady novelists, actresses and lecherous old men!” Lally replies with a chuckle. “If this is the artistic life of a London society interior designer, I think I’ll be glad to get home to the quiet life of a Buckinghamshire lady of the manor. No Miss Wards or Sir Johns there!”
“Not yet, Lally darling! Not yet. But wait until Metroland reaches you. See what neighbours you get then!” Lettice gently teases her sister. “Besides,” she adds with an enigmatic smile. “I’m going to corrupt you with London society at this Thanksgiving Christmas party of the Carter’s this evening. High Wycombe is going to appear even more dreary dull to you after tonight.” She pauses for a moment. “Oh, and by the way, Sir John will be at the party this evening.”
Lally’s eyes grow wide in surprise. “No!”
“Yes.” Before Lally has a chance to protest, Lettice goes on, “Sir John is a distant relation of Cilla’s, so it’s not unexpected that he would be there. So, I’ll have the chance to show you just how charming he really can be.”
“You make it sound like you’re going to convert me, Tice.” Lally says warily.
“And so I am, Lally darling! By the end of tonight, you’ll love him! Now, drink up! It’s high time we were away!” Lettice holds her half drunk glass of champagne out to her sister whilst taking a less than ladylike gulp from her own. “The night is still young, and we don’t want to miss all the fun, or the good quality champagne.”
*Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife.
**To get tight is an old fashioned term used to describe getting drunk.
***The Austin 7 is an economy car that was produced from 1923 until 1939 in the United Kingdom by Austin. It was nicknamed the "Baby Austin" and was at that time one of the most popular cars produced for the British market and sold well abroad. Its effect on the British market was similar to that of the Model T Ford in the US, replacing most other British economy cars and cyclecars of the early 1920s.
****Derry and Toms was a smart London department store that was founded in 1860 in Kensington High Street. In 1930 a new three storey store was built in Art Deco style, and it was famous for its Roof Garden which opened in 1938. In 1973 the store was closed and became home to Big Biba, which closed in 1975. The site was developed into smaller stores and offices.
*****Two-up two-down is a type of small house with two rooms on the ground floor and two bedrooms upstairs. There are many types of terraced houses in the United Kingdom, and these are among the most modest. The first two-up two-down terraces were built in the 1870s, but the concept of them made up the backbone of the Metroland suburban expansions of the 1920s with streets lined with rows of two-up two-down semi-detached houses in Mock Tudor, Jacobethan, Arts and Crafts and inter-war Art Deco styles bastardised from the aesthetic styles created by the likes of English Arts and Crafts Movement designers like William Morris and Charles Voysey.
******The BBC presented the first dramatised recording of Charles Dickens classic novella ‘A Christmas Carol’ in December 1922. The dramatic recital was performed by Cyril Estacourt (who went on to do a good many more recital pieces for the BBC over the ensuing years) with carol interludes performed by the Star Street Congregational Church Choir. The recording was actually broadcast on the BBC’s 5WA Cardiff, but I hope you will indulge my slight alteration by placing it in the London studios of the BBC for dramatic purposes.
*******The Women's Institute (WI) is a community-based organization for women in the United Kingdom, Canada, South Africa and New Zealand. The movement was founded in Stoney Creek, Ontario, Canada, by Erland and Janet Lee with Adelaide Hoodless being the first speaker in 1897. It was based on the British concept of Women's Guilds, created by Rev Archibald Charteris in 1887 and originally confined to the Church of Scotland. From Canada the organization spread back to the motherland, throughout the British Empire and Commonwealth, and thence to other countries. Many WIs belong to the Associated Country Women of the World organization. Each individual WI is a separate charitable organisation, run by and for its own members with a constitution agreed at national level but the possibility of local bye-laws. WIs are grouped into Federations, roughly corresponding to counties or islands, which each have a local office and one or more paid staff.
********A pied-à-terre is a small flat, house, or room kept for occasional use.
*********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.
**********In the United States, Thanksgiving Day is celebrated on the fourth Thursday in November.
***********Park Lane is a dual carriageway road in the City of Westminster in Central London. It is part of the London Inner Ring Road and runs from Hyde Park Corner in the south to Marble Arch in the north. It separates Hyde Park to the west from Mayfair to the east. The road was originally a simple country lane on the boundary of Hyde Park, separated by a brick wall. Aristocratic properties appeared during the late 18th century, including Breadalbane House, Somerset House, and Londonderry House. The road grew in popularity during the 19th century after improvements to Hyde Park Corner and more affordable views of the park, which attracted the nouveau riche to the street and led to it becoming one of the most fashionable roads to live on in London. Notable residents included the 1st Duke of Westminster's residence at Grosvenor House, the Dukes of Somerset at Somerset House, and the British prime minister Benjamin Disraeli at No. 93. Other historic properties include Dorchester House, Brook House and Dudley House. In the 20th century, Park Lane became well known for its luxury hotels, particularly The Dorchester, completed in 1931, which became closely associated with eminent writers and international film stars. Flats and shops began appearing on the road, including penthouse flats. Several buildings suffered damage during World War II, yet the road still attracted significant development, including the Park Lane Hotel and the London Hilton on Park Lane, and several sports car garages. A number of properties on the road today are owned by some of the wealthiest businessmen from the Middle East and Asia.
************The Savoy Havana Band was a popular British dance band of the 1920s. It was resident at the Savoy Hotel in London, between 1921 and 1927. The band made their first live outside broadcast on the British Broadcasting Corporation from the Savoy Hotel on the 3rd of October, 1923.
*************Wilfred de Mornys managed both the Savoy Havana band and their colleagues the more famous Savoy Orpheans, both of whom performed at the Savoy in London.
**************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.
***************French Blue is a rich, deep blue that exudes elegance and sophistication. This captivating hue is inspired by the vibrant blue uniforms worn by the French military in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries.
****************Meaning to be completely unacquainted with, “not to know – from a bar of soap” is often attributed as an Australian colloquialism, because it is there that it is most commonly used in everyday parlance, however the term was first used in the Chicago Daily Tribune in May 1877 when writing a review about the English comic opera singer and actress Emily Soldene: “The ‘prima donna’ does not know a bar of music from a bar of soap; the chief actor would not be allowed to play supernumerary in a dumb show.”
*****************Located about a mile from High Wycombe town centre. The Grand Cinema was opened on the 28th April 1913 with “Zigomar”. It was designed by T. Thurlow, and had an attractively decorated façade. There was a small stage and some dressing rooms for variety acts. It was closed for several months in 1953, and re-opened under new operators. It closed forever on the 8th September 1962 with Kenneth More in “Some People” and Ray Barrett in “Time to Remember”. Part of the building was demolished and the remainder was used as a tailors. It then became a furniture showroom for James Blundell, who seemed to have a knack of converting closed cinemas for their own use. It then became an electrical store, and the façade was re-modelled.
******************A pantomime (shortened to “panto”) is a theatrical entertainment, mainly for children, which involves music, topical jokes, and slapstick comedy and is based on a fairy tale or nursery story, usually produced around Christmas.
*******************Dame Trott is the long suffering mother of Jack in the Christmas pantomime of Jack and the Beanstalk. She is outrageous, brash and loud, and traditionally played by a man in drag.
********************Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.
*********************The 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.
**********************Henry Tipping (1855 – 1933) was a French-born British writer on country houses and gardens, garden designer in his own right, and Architectural Editor of the British periodical Country Life for seventeen years between 1907 and 1910 and 1916 and 1933. After his appointment to that position in 1907, he became recognised as one of the leading authorities on the history, architecture, furnishings and gardens of country houses in Britain. In 1927, he became a member of the first committee of the Gardens of England and Wales Scheme, later known as the National Gardens Scheme.
***********************Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.
I love Christmas, and I love decorating at Christmas too. This even extends to my miniatures collection. This upper-class domestic scene is different to what you may think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The elegantly decorated Christmas tree is a hand-made 1:12 size artisan miniature made by an artist in America. The presents beneath it and on the coffee table come from various miniature specialist stockists in England.
The 1:12 miniature garland over the Art Deco fireplace was hand-made by Karen Lady Bug Miniatures in England and the 1;12 Art Deco card selection on the mantle came from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature store in England.
The salmon mousse garnished with cucumber slices and lemon wedges is an artisan miniature by an unknown artist. It is even presented on a holly sprigged plate, so it is very festive! The champagne bottle, glasses and bowl of caviar are hand-made 1:12 artisan miniature pieces too, acquired from Karen Ladybug Miniatures.
Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The Art Deco tub chairs are of black japanned wood and have removable cushions, just like their life sized examples. To the left of the fireplace is a Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair of black japanned wood which has been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the legs and inside the bureau. The chair set has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven. To the right of the fireplace is a Chippendale cabinet which has also been decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks.
On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame.
The fireplace is a 1:12 miniature resin Art Deco fireplace which is flanked by brass accessories including an ash brush with real bristles.
On the left hand side of the mantle, behind the cards, you can just glimpse the turquoise coloured top of an Art Deco metal clock hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken.
In the middle of the mantle is a miniature artisan hand painted Art Deco statue on a “marble” plinth. Made by Warwick Miniatures in England, it is a 1:12 copy of the “Theban Dancer” sculpture created by Claire-Jeanne-Roberte Colinet in 1925.
The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug, and the geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
The roses in the People's Garden
Plan
Rosarium History - Classification
Floribunda - new color range - Casting
Tree roses - new plantings - Pests - Winter Care
Rambling Roses - fertilizing, finishes
Shrub Roses - Rose Renner - Sponsorship - variety name
The history of roses in the People's Garden
The People's Garden, located between the Imperial Palace and the ring road is famous for its beautiful roses:
1000 standard roses
4000 Floribunda,
300 rambling roses,
(Also called Rose Park) 200 shrub roses.
Noteworthy is the diversity: there are about 400 varieties, including very old plants:
1859 - Rubens
1913 - Pearl of the Vienna Woods
1919 - Jean C.N. Forestier
The above amounts are from the Federal Gardens. My own count has brought other results:
730 tree roses
2300 Floribunda
132 rambling roses
100 shrub roses
That's about 3300 roses in total. Approx. 270 species I was able to verify. Approx. 50 rose bushes were not labeled. Some varieties come very often, others only once or twice.
Molineux 1994
Rubens 1859
Medialis 1993
Swan lake 1968
Once flourished here Lilac and Rhododendron bushes
1823 People's Garden was opened with the Temple of Theseus. Then made multiple extensions.
The part of today's "Rosarium" along the Ring Road was built in 1862. (Picture fence 1874)
What is so obvious to today's Vienna, was not always so: most of the beds in the People's Garden originally were planted with lilac and rhododendron.
Only after the second World War II it was converted to the present generous rose jewelry.
Since then grow along the ring side creepers, high stem and floribunda roses. On the side of Heroes Square, with the outputs, shrub roses were placed, among which there are also some wild roses.
1889 emerged the Grillparzer Monument.
(All the pictures you can see by clicking the link at the end of the side!)
Rhododendrons, output Sisi Avenue, 1930
Classifications of roses
(Wild roses have 7 sheets - prize roses 5 sheets)
English Rose
Florybunda
Hybrid Tea Rose
Rambling Rose
At the Roses in the People´s Garden are hanging labels (if they do not fall victim to vandals or for souvenirs) with the year indication of breeding, the name of breeding and botanical description:
Hybrid Tea Rose (TB): 1 master, 1 flower;
Florybunda (Flb): 1 strain, many flowers;
English Rose (Engl): mixture of old and modern varieties Tb and Flb.
Called Schlingrose, also climbing rose
Florybunda: 1 strain, many flowers (Donauprinzessin)
Shrub Roses - Floribunda - Tree roses - Climbing Roses
Even as a child, we hear the tale of Sleeping Beauty, but roses have no thorns, but spines. Thorns are fused directly to the root and can not be easily removed as spines (upper wooden containers called).
All roses belong to the bush family (in contrast to perennials that "disappear" in the winter). Nevertheless, there is the term Shrub Rose: It's a chronological classification of roses that were on the market before 1867. They are very often planted as a soloist in a garden, which them has brought the name "Rose Park".
Hybrid Tea Rose: 1 master, 1 flower (rose Gaujard )
Other classifications are:
(High) standard roses: roses are not grafted near the ground, but at a certain strain level. With that, the rose gardener sets the height of the crown.
Floribunda roses : the compact and low bushy roses are ideal for group planting on beds
Crambling roses: They have neither roots nor can they stick up squirm. Their only auxiliary tool are their spines with which they are entangled in their ascent into each other
English Rose: mixture of old varieties, hybrid tea and Florybunda (Tradescanth)
4000 Floribunda
Floribunda roses are hardy, grow compact, knee-high and bushy, are durable and sturdy
There are few smelling varieties
Polyantha classification: a tribe, many small flowers; Florybunda: a tribe, many big blossoms
New concept of color: from red to light yellow
The thousands Floribunda opposite of Grillparzer Monument shimmer (still) in many colors. From historical records, however, is indicated that there was originally a different color scheme for the Floribunda than today: At the entrance of the Burgtheater side the roses were dark and were up to Grillparzer monument ever brighter - there they were then already white.
This color range they want again, somewhat modified, resume with new plantings: No white roses in front of the monument, but bright yellow, so that Grillparzer monument can better stand out. It has already begun, there was heavy frost damage during the winter 2011/12.
Colorful roses
2011: white and pink roses
2012: after winter damage new plantings in shades of yellow .
Because the domestic rose production is not large enough, the new, yellow roses were ordered in Germany (Castor).
Goldelse, candlelight, Hanseatic city of Rostock.
Watering
Waterinr of the Floribunda in the morning at 11 clock
What roses do not like at all, and what attracts pests really magically, the foliage is wet. Therefore, the Floribunda roses are in the People's Garde poured in the morning at 11 clock, so that the leaves can dry thoroughly.
Ground sprinklers pouring only the root crown, can not be used because the associated hoses should be buried in the earth, and that in turn collide with the Erdanhäufung (amassing of earth) that is made for winter protection. Choosing the right time to do it, it requires a lot of sense. Is it too early, so still too warm, the bed roses begin to drive again, but this young shoots freeze later, inevitably, because they are too thin.
1000 Tree roses
Most standard roses are found in the rose garden.
During the renovation of the Temple of Theseus the asphalt was renewed in 2011, which was partially only a few centimeters thick, and so was the danger that trucks with heavy transports break into. Due to this construction site the entire flower bed in front had to be replaced.
Now the high-stem Rose Maria Theresia is a nice contrast to the white temple, at her feet sits the self-cleaning floribunda aspirin. Self-cleaning means that withered flowers fall off and rarely maintenance care is needed.
Pink 'Maria Theresa' and white 'aspirin' before the temple of Theseus
Standard tree rose Maria Theresa
Floribunda aspirin
The concept of the (high) standard roses refers to a special type of rose decoration. Suitable varieties of roses are not grafted near the ground, but at a certain height of the trunk. With that the rose gardener sets the height of the crown fixed (60 cm, 90 cm, 140 cm)
Plantings - Pests - Winter Care
Normally about 50 roses in the People's Garden annually have to be replaced because of winter damages and senility. Till a high standard rose goes on sale, it is at least 4 years old. With replantings the soil to 50 cm depth is completely replaced (2/3 basic soil, 1/3 compost and some peat ).
Roses have enemies, such as aphids. Against them the Pirimor is used, against the Buchsbaumzünsler (Box Tree Moth, Cydalima perspectalis) Calypso (yet - a resistance is expected).
In popular garden roses are sprayed with poison, not only when needed, but also as a precaution, since mildew and fire rose (both are types of fungi) also overwinter.
Therefore it is also removed as far as possible with the standard roses before packing in winter the foliage.
Pest Control with Poison
The "Winter Package " first is made with paper bags, jute bags, then it will be pulled (eg cocoa or coffee sacks - the commercially available yard goods has not proven).
They are stored in the vault of the gardener deposit in the Burggarten (below the Palm House). There namely also run the heating pipes. Put above them, the bags after the winter can be properly dried.
Are during the winter the mice nesting into the packaged roses, has this consequences for the crows want to approach the small rodents and are getting the packaging tatty. It alreay has happened that 500 standard roses had to be re-wrapped.
"Winter Package" with paper and jute bags
300 ambling roses
The Schlingrosen (Climbing Roses) sit "as a framing" behind the standard roses.
Schlingrose pearl from the Vienna Woods
Schlingrose Danube
Schlingrose tenor
Although climbing roses are the fastest growing roses, they get along with very little garden space.
They have no rootlets as the evergreen ivy, nor can they wind up like a honeysuckle. Their only auxiliary tool are their spines with which they are entangled in their ascent mesh.
Climbing roses can reach stature heights of 2 to 3 meters.
4 x/year fertilizing
4 times a year, the soil is fertilized. From August, but no more, because everything then still new drives would freeze to death in winter. Well-rotted horse manure as fertilizer was used (straw mixed with horse manure, 4 years old). It smelled terrible, but only for 2 days.
Since the City of Vienna may only invest more plant compost heap (the EU Directive prohibits animal compost heap on public property), this type of fertilization is no longer possible to the chagrin of gardeners, and roses.
In the people garden in addition is foliar fertilizer used (it is sprayed directly on the leaves and absorbed about this from the plant).
Finishes in the Augarten
Old rose varieties are no longer commercially available. Maybe because they are more sensitive, vulnerable. Thus, the bud of Dr. F. Debat already not open anymore, if it has rained twice.
Roses need to be replaced in the People's Garden, this is sometimes done through an exchange with the Augarten Palace or the nursery, where the finishes are made. Previously there were roses in Hirschstetten and the Danube Park, but the City of Vienna has abandoned its local rose population (not to say destroyed), no exchange with these institutions is possible anymore.
Was formerly in breeding the trend to large flowers, one tends to smell roses again today. Most varieties show their resplendent, lush flowers only once, early in the rose-year, but modern varieties are more often blooming.
200 shrub roses
Some shrub roses bloom in the rose garden next to the Grillparzer Monument
Most of the shrub or park roses can be found along the fence to Heroes' Square. These types are so old, and there are now so many variations that even a species of rose connoisseurs assignment is no longer possible in many cases.
The showy, white, instensiv fragrant wild rose with its large umbels near des Triton Fountain is called Snow White.
Shrub roses are actually "Old Garden Roses" or "old roses", what a time
classification of roses is that were on the market before 1867.
Shrub roses are also called park roses because they are often planted as a soloist in a park/garden.
They grow shrubby, reaching heights up to 2 meters and usually bloom only 1 x per year.
The Renner- Rose
The most famous bush rose sits at the exit to Ballhausplatz before the presidential office.
It is named after the former Austrian President Dr. Karl Renner
When you enter, coming from the Ballhausplatz, the Viennese folk garden of particular note is a large rose bush, which is in full bloom in June.
Before that, there is a panel that indicates that the rose is named after Karl Renner, founder of the First and Second Republic. The history of the rose is a bit of an adventure. President Dr. Karl Renner was born on 14 in December 1870 in the Czech village of Untertannowitz as the last of 18 children of a poor family.
Renner output rose at Ballhausplatz
He grew up there in a small house, in the garden, a rose bush was planted.
In summer 1999, the then Director of the Austrian Federal Gardens, Peter Fischer Colbrie was noted that Karl Renner's birthplace in Untertannowitz - Dolni Dunajovice today - and probably would be demolished and the old rosebush as well fall victim to the demolition.
High haste was needed, as has already been started with the removal of the house.
Misleading inscription " reconstruction"?
The Federal Gardens director immediately went to a Rose Experts on the way to Dolni Dunajovice and discovered "as only bright spot in this dismal property the at the back entrance of the house situated, large and healthy, then already more than 80 year old rose bush".
After consultation with the local authorities Peter Fischer Colbrie received approval, to let the magnificent rose bush dig-out and transport to Vienna.
Renner Rose is almost 100 years old
A place had been found in the Viennese People´s Garden, diagonal vis-à-vis the office where the president Renner one resided. On the same day, the 17th August 1999 the rosebush was there planted and in the following spring it sprouted already with flowers.
In June 2000, by the then Minister of Agriculture Molterer and by the then Mayor Zilk was a plaque unveiled that describes the origin of the rose in a few words. Meanwhile, the "Renner-Rose" is far more than a hundred years old and is enjoying good health.
Memorial Dr. Karl Renner : The Registrar in the bird cage
Georg Markus , Courier , 2012
Sponsorships
For around 300 euros, it is possible to assume a Rose sponsorship for 5 years. A tree-sponsorship costs 300 euros for 1 year. Currently, there are about 60 plates. Behind this beautiful and tragic memories.
If you are interested in sponsoring people garden, please contact:
Master gardener Michaela Rathbauer, Castle Garden, People's Garden
M: 0664/819 83 27 volksgarten@bundesgaerten.at
Varieties
Abraham Darby
1985
English Rose
Alec 's Red
1970
Hybrid Tea Rose
Anni Däneke
1974
Hybrid Tea Rose
aspirin
Florybunda
floribunda
Bella Rosa
1982
Florybunda
floribunda
Candlelight
Dagmar Kreizer
Danube
1913
Schlingrose
Donauprinzessin
Doris Thystermann
1975
Hybrid Tea Rose
Dr. Waldheim
1975
Hybrid Tea Rose
Duftwolke
1963
Eiffel Tower
1963
English Garden
Hybrid Tea Rose
Gloria Dei
1945
Hybrid Tea Rose
Goldelse
gold crown
1960
Hybrid Tea Rose
Goldstar
1966
deglutition
Greeting to Heidelberg
1959
Schlingrose
Hanseatic City of Rostock
Harlequin
1985
Schlingrose
Jean C.N. Forestier
1919
Hybrid Tea Rose
John F. Kennedy
1965
Hybrid Tea Rose
Landora
1970
Las Vegas
1956
Hybrid Tea Rose
Mainzer Fastnacht
1964
Hybrid Tea Rose
Maria Theresa
medial
Moulineux
1994
English Rose
national pride
1970
Hybrid Tea Rose
Nicole
1985
Florybunda
Olympia 84
1984
Hybrid Tea Rose
Pearl of the Vienna Woods
1913
Schlingrose
Piccadilly
1960
Hybrid Tea Rose
Rio Grande
1973
Hybrid Tea Rose
Rose Gaujard
1957
Hybrid Tea Rose
Rubens
1859
English Rose
Rumba
snowflake
1991
Florybunda
snow white
shrub Rose
Swan
1968
Schlingrose
Sharifa Asma
1989
English Rose
city of Vienna
1963
Florybunda
Tenor
Schlingrose
The Queen Elizabeth Rose
1954
Florybunda
Tradescanth
1993
English Rose
Trumpeter
1980
Florybunda
floribunda
Virgo
1947
Hybrid Tea Rose
Winchester Cathedral
1988
English Rose
Source: Federal leadership Gardens 2012
Historic Gardens of Austria, Vienna, Volume 3 , Eva Berger, Bohlau Verlag, 2004 (Library Vienna)
Index Volksgartenstraße
www.viennatouristguide.at/Altstadt/Volksgarten/volksgarte....
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 a short distance from Cavendish Mews, in the nearby upper-class suburb of Belgravia where Lettice is paying an unexpected call on Lady Gladys Caxton at her Regency terrace in Eaton Square*. Through her social connections, Lettice’s Aunt Egg contrived an invitation for Lettice to an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Caxton, who are very well known amongst the smarter bohemian set of London society for their weekend parties at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, and enjoyable literary evenings in their Belgravia townhouse. Lady Gladys is a successful authoress in her own right and writes under the nom de plume of Madeline St John. Over the course of the weekend, Lettice was coerced into accepting Lady Glady’s request that she redecorate Phoebe’s small Bloomsbury pied-à-terre** in Ridgmount Gardens. Phoebe, upon coming of age inherited the flat, which had belonged to her parents, Reginald and Marjorie Chambers, who died out in India when Phoebe was still a little girl. The flat was held in trust by Lady Gladys until her ward came of age. When Phoebe decided to pursue a career in garden design and was accepted by a school in London closely associated with the Royal Society, she started living part time in Ridgmount Gardens. Lady Gladys felt that the pied-à-terre was too old fashioned and outdated in its appointment for a young girl like Phoebe. When Lady Gladys arranged for Lettice to inspect the flat, Lettice quickly became aware of Lady Gladys’ ulterior motives as she overrode the rather mousy Pheobe and instructed Lettice to redecorate everything to her own instructions and taste, whist eradicating any traces of Pheobe’s parents. Reluctantly, Lettice commenced on the commission which is nearing its completion. However earlier today Pheobe came to visit the flat whilst Lettice was there, and with a little coercion, Pheobe shared what she really felt about the redecoration of her parent’s pied-à-terre. Desperately wanting to express herself independently, Pheobe hoped living at the flat she would finally be able to get out from underneath the domineering influence of her aunt. Yet now the flat is simply another extension of Lady Glady’s wishes, and the elements of her parents that Pheobe adored have been appropriated by Lady Gladys. Determined to undo the wrong she has done by Pheobe by agreeing to all of Lady Glady’s wishes, in a moment of energizing anger, Lettice has decided to confront Lady Gladys, so now she is at Eaton Square.
“I’m sorry Miss Chetwynd, but if you haven’t made an appointment, I’m afraid that Lady Gladys cannot see you.” explains Miss Goodwin, Lady Gladys’ rather harried personal secretary, as she rustles papers, rearranging them distractedly into different piles on her small desk as she speaks. “She is simply too busy!”
“But Miss Goodwin…” Lettice begins.
“No, Miss Chetwynd!” the secretary replies more firmly. “Lady Gladys had a book reading in Charing Cross at two, and then there are the details of her American book tour to iron out.”
“You must be able to fit me in, Miss Goodwyn!” Lettice implores desperately. “I simply must see her about Phoebe’s pied-à-terre.”
“Is there something wrong with Miss Chambers’ pied-à-terre, Miss Chetwynd?”
“No… well, yes… well… it’s nearly ready, but it’s all wrong.” Lettice replies, flustered as she falls under the sharp, owl-like gaze of the middle-aged spinster secretary, made all the more prominent by her gold rimmed pince-nez****. “It’s difficult to explain.” she finally concludes in a rather deflated fashion.
Miss Goodwin arches her expertly plucked and shaped eyebrows over her eyes sceptically. “Evidently.” she remarks in a dismissive fashion. Reluctantly picking up her appointment book for Lady Gladys, she flips through the lined pages filled with her neatly written copperplate. “Let’s see.” she mutters, exhaling through her nostrils in frustration as she does. “I can fit you in next Tuesday at three o’clock if you like.” She picks up her fountain pen in readiness to record Lettice’s name.
“Next Tuesday?” Lettice retorts in horror. “But I can’t wait until next Tuesday, Miss Goodwin.”
“Oh?” Miss Goodwin queries. “But I thought you said the flat redecoration was nearly complete, Miss Chetwynd.”
“Well it is, Miss Goodwin.”
“Then, I’m sure this small matter,” the secretary emphasises the last two words as she speaks. “Can wait until then.”
Lettice gulps for air in an exasperated fashion. “But… I…”
“No, Miss Chetwynd!” Miss Goodwin says again, firmly pressing the palms of both her hands into the piles of paper before her defiantly.
“What’s all this sound of discourse then?” comes a male voice, booming through the charged air of Miss Goodwin’s small office on the ground floor of the Eaton Square terrace.
“Oh! Sir John!” the secretary exclaims, as Lady Glady’s husband, a tall and white haired gentleman in a smart morning suit pops his head around the door, his gentle face moulded into a look of concern. “Please forgive us. I was just explaining to Miss Chetwynd, that Lady Gladys cannot possibly see her now.”
“Oh enough of the ‘sir’ and ‘lady’, Goody,” Sir John says with a smile as he sees Lettice standing in front of the secretary’s desk, addressing Lady Glady’s secretary by the pet name given her by Sir John and Lady Gladys. “Lettice knows us intimately enough to know we don’t go by the titles bestowed upon us.” His smile broadens. “Lettice, what an unexpected pleasure.” He steps into the room and places his large hands firmly upon her shoulders. “I was just on my way out to Whites***** when I heard the commotion. Whatever is the matter, my dear?”
“Si… John,” Lettice begins, her eyes looking imploringly at Sir John as he towers over her. “It’s imperative I see Gladys right away. It’s about Pheobe and the flat.”
“That does sound serious.” he remarks, his face clouding over.
“Oh it is, and that’s why I must see Gladys now.” She turns her head slightly and glares at Miss Goodwin, whose own face is sternly defiant in her reluctance to admit Lettice.
“Well,” Sir John says with a chuckle. “I’ve quite literally just left her in her upstairs study, autographing some of her novels. She isn’t due at Foyles****** until two o’clock, is she, Goody?” Sir John doesn’t wait for her reply as he sweeps an arm around Lettice’s shoulder comfortingly and guides her away from the secretary and towards the door. “So come along.”
Leaving the affronted Miss Goodwin behind, Sir John leads Lettice up the grand main staircase of the terrace, with its thick stair carpet affixed with brass stair rods******* and stylish gilt detailed black metal balustrade.
“Are these all Caxtons?” Lettice asks as she gazes up the generous Regency proportioned stairwell at the portraits in oils hanging in gilded frames along the walls.
“Hhhmm… a few.” Sir John mutters. “Like him.” He points to a rather serious looking gentleman in middle-class mid Victorian sombre black. “But most of them I bought when I bought the house. It seemed a shame for them to be parted, especially as their former bankrupted owner had no use for them any more. He needed the money, and I… well…” He chuckles a little awkwardly.
“You needed the lineage.” Lettice completes his sentence.
“How perceptive you are, Lettice.” Sir John says without missing a beat as they walk. “It’s what comes with the pretentions of a social climbing first wife, and my acquired title*******. I’m not as fortunate as you to have such a distinguished lineage, having been born into a wool merchant family in Hallifax.”
Lettice doesn’t reply, and merely smiles and nods her acknowledgement.
“Now, what’s all this about Pheobe’s flat then, Lettice? I hope you aren’t having any problems with the wages for the tradesmen traipsing in and out of Ridgmount Gardens. I’ve been writing so many cheques for them lately that I can barely keep up.”
“Oh, it has nothing to do with their wages, John.”
“Then what? You sounded most insistent back there with Miss Goodwin, and whilst I don’t claim to know you well, you don’t strike me as a girl who gives in to having histrionic fits.”
Lettice smiles and chuckles softly as Sir John’s remark reminds her of her friend, ‘Moaning’ Minnie Palmerston, wife of a London banker, who is known for her histrionics.
The pair reach the landing between the ground and first floor, where a large marble bust of a gentleman in a periwig******** stares out with blind eyes and a frozen, magnanimous smile at the treetops of the garden square outside through a large twelve pane sash window. Lettice stops, causing Sir John to do the same.
“May I be frank, Si… err, John?” Lettice asks, gazing up at the man’s wrinkled face.
“Please, Lettice.” he agrees.
“Well, I’ve had concerns about this commission, ever since I first visited Ridgmount Gardens.”
“Concerns?” Sir John’s face crumples. “What concerns, Lettice?”
“When Gladys took me there, well no, even before that, I’ve been worried about Glady’s motivations for wanting the flat decorated.”
“What motivations?”
“It struck me, John, as she discussed the redecoration for the flat with me, that it is more to Gladys’ taste than Pheobe’s.”
“Is that all?” Sir John chuckles and sighs with relief. “You’ve met Pheobe. She’s a sweet child, and I love her as one of my own, but she isn’t overly forthcoming, is she?”
“But it’s more than that. I’ve observed that whenever Pheobe expresses an opinion that contradicts Gladys, that Gladys wears her down to her down, and brings her around to her own way of thinking.”
“Ahh..” Sir John says a little awkwardly. “Well, you may lay the blame for that solely at my feet, dear Lettice. I’m afraid that when I met Gladys, I was so taken by her pluck and spirit that I indulged her. I saw so much potential in her: potential that was stymied due to her lack of wealth. We’ve been married for a good many years now, and I’m afraid that she is rather used to getting her own way.”
“Well, I can work with that, John. Gladys isn’t without panache and certainly has a sense of style.”
“Then I don’t see the problem, my dear.” He looks quizzically at her. “You said you wanted to be frank. Speak plainly.”
Lettice sighs and her shoulders slump. “You’ll think it preposterous, and I am sorry to say this, but I think that Gladys is eradicating the memory of Pheobe’s parents.”
Sir John laughs. “You’re right, I do find that idea preposterous, my dear, but only because Pheobe has very little memories of her parents there to erase. She only ever lived the first year of her life in Ridgmount Gardens before Reginald took her and Marjorie back to India, and when he and Marjorie died out there, Pheobe was only five, and Gladys and I were married by that time, so we took Pheobe back to Gossington and she grew up there. She has no associations with Ridgmount Gardens, other than she has always known that her father bequeathed it to her and that she would take possession of it when she came of age.”
“John, Pheobe came to the flat today to fetch some of the books she needed that had been packed up when she decamped Ridgmount Gardens so the redecoration could commence, and she expressed the opinion which she also did with Gladys that she wanted to keep her father’s writing desk and her mother’s crockery. Pheobe says that she feels the essence of her parents in those pieces more than in the photographs she has of them.”
Sir John smiles indulgently. “That sounds like Pheobe. She’s always been fey and other world like, imagining that she can see inside people to their inner essence, ever since she was that forlorn child we brought back from Bombay.” He shakes his head dismissively.
“Yet Gladys has taken the bureau in spite of Phoebe’s wishes, claiming that her brother intended for her to have it, and she gave me the china to dispose of. Pheobe also told me that Gladys has said in front of her that her brother should never have married Phoebe’s mother. It seems to me that she is intentionally trying to remove any reminders of her brother and his wife.”
“It is true that there was never any love lost between Gladys and her sister-in-law. I’m not quite sure why, other that the fact she claimed that Marjorie stymied Reginald’s career in some way. I couldn’t see that myself. He was on his way to being a magistrate from what I could see. She was always evasive, never wanting to rake over the coals. I only ever met Reginald and Marjorie a few times around Gladys’ and my wedding day, and even then, it was only a fleeting visit, so I cannot say that I was critical of their marriage the way Gladys was. I did chide Gladys for speaking out of turn about Marjorie in front of Pheobe, but,” He looks guiltily at Lettice. “You know what Gladys is like. She’s always spoken her mind, and for all the fault in her that it may be, it is one of the reasons I love her.”
“But to intentionally remove any reminders of Mr. and Mrs. Chambers, John?”
“Oh I’m sure it isn’t intentional, Lettice.” Sir John assures her. “It’s good you’ve come when you have. You can speak to Gladys about this misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding?”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s all that it is. Whatever my wife may or may not be, she has tried all her life to do the best my Pheobe, and I’m sure that if Phoebe is as impassioned as you say she is about her father’s desk and her mother’s china, she probably just needs someone else to speak for her about it to Gladys.” He wraps his arm around Lettice assuring and gives her forearm a hearty rub. “And you’ll be capital about that. Now, come along.”
The pair take the final flight of stairs to the first floor in thoughtful silence. Sir John leads Lettice up to a doorway, knocks and opens it, walking in without waiting for a reply. “Look who I found downstairs, having the fiercest argument with your goodly protectress, Gladys.”
Lettice follows Sir John into a beautiful high ceilinged first-floor room flooded with light from two large and tall Regency windows. Like Gossington, the Scottish Baronial style English Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland belonging to Sir John and Lady Gladys, the walls are decorated with William Morris********* patterned wallpaper, and the room is furnished with Edwardian and Art Nouveau furnishings. However, unlike Gossington’s public rooms, which are crammed full of Edwardian clutter, the scheme in this room is far lighter, with the delicate and softer ‘Willow Bough’ pattern in the paper, and rather than being upholstered in Morris pattern as well, the sofas and chairs situated about the room are covered in a stripped back creamy Regency stripe, perhaps in deference to the terrace’s origins. Even the clutter here is less, with fewer vases and trinkets covering the surfaces of tables. In fact, the mantle is the most cluttered, and even then it is mostly with invitations and correspondence addressed to Lady Gladys’ non de plume of Madeline St John. And there, at a small black japanned regency desk sits Lady Gladys in her favoured pastel shades and pearls.
“Lettice!” she gasps, looking up from signing a copy of her latest Madeline St John romance novel, ‘Miranda’. “What an unexpected pleasure.” She picks herself up out of her high backed black japanned and gilt French Second Empire chair and opens her arms to Lettice, exposing the pretty knitted patterns woven through her light, pale pink cardigan that she has chosen to wear over a pink floral print cotton frock. As Lettice crosses the room, gracefully moving through the obstacle course of low occasional tables and comfortable salon and armchairs, Lady Gladys’ face clouds. “Or is it? Did… did we have an appointment today, my dear?”
“No, no, Gladys.” Lettice assures her as she reaches Lady Gladys and allows herself to enveloped in her lavender scented embrace. “It’s an unannounced visit.”
“Well then, I do hope that Goody wasn’t too cantankerous with you. I adore her, and she’s an excellent and superbly organised secretary, but Goody doesn’t particularly like surprise visits and will do almost anything to stick rigidly to her arrangement of my schedules.”
“I caught Goody in full flight, and rescued poor Lettice from her recalcitrant clutches.” Sir John remarks.
“Always the knight in shining armour, John. Bravo!” Lady Gladys applauds her husband.
“Well, I’m off then.” Sir John says.
“Oh, won’t you stay, John?” Lettice says, her voice cracking. She had been hoping he might stick to form as her rescuer and stay to help influence her pleas with Lady Gladys favourably.
“Oh no, Lettice my dear!” He starts to back away towards the door. “Whites waits for no man, and nor does my contract bridge partner. I’ve tarried long enough. Besides,” he adds. “This is between you two ladies.” And with that, he turns on his heel and retreats out the door, closing it quietly behind him.
“Say hullo to Fillmore for me, and give him my love, John.” Gladys calls after his retreating footsteps.
The room falls into a soft silence broken only by the twitter of birds in the trees outside, the purring of a passing motorcar on the road and the gentle tick of a gilt clock on a bombe chest between the two windows.
“Well, I have a little bit of time before I must away to Foyles.” Lady Gladys says, pulling back the sleeve of her cardigan and glancing at her delicate gold and diamond studded wristwatch. “Oh! Which reminds me, I must, must, must, sign copies of a couple of my novels for your maid. Edith, isn’t it?”
“Quite so, Gladys.”
“Good! You can take her a copy of ‘Miranda’ today.” Lady Gladys takes a seat again as she takes up a copy of the book and inscribes it with a flourish of her pen. “To Edith, with my best wishes, Madeline St John.” she utters as she writes. Finishing the inscription, she closes the cover of the book with a thwack. “I almost need a forger on my retinue of office staff to sign all the requested copies of my books.” She hands the book to Lettice. “Please, sit.” She indicates to a tall wingback armchair by the fireplace with an open gesture. As Lettice sits, she spins in her own seat, leaning heavily against the chair’s left ornately spindled arm. “Now, what can I do for you, Lettice?”
Lettice takes a deep breath. “Well, Gladys, I wanted to talk to you about the flat.”
“Oh yes!” Gladys crows, clapping her hands, the diamonds and other precious stones of her rings winking in the light. “My spies tell me that it has been quite the hive of activity at Ridgmount Gardens!”
“Your spies?”
“Oh, don’t look so shocked, Lettice.” Lady Gladys laughs. “Bloomsbury is such an artistic area, full of writers, many of whom I know.” She smiles slyly. “Writers are notorious for being observant of their surroundings. It doesn’t take long for the jungle drums to start beating, my dear.”
“Oh.” Lettice remarks.
“Now, what is it about the flat you want to talk about?” Yet even as she asks, she then adds, “Oh, the chintz curtains I wanted did arrive, didn’t they, Lettice?”
Lettice shudders at the thought of them. “Yes, Gladys, and they are hanging in the drawing room, just as you’d requested.”
“Excellent!”
“But it’s your requests,” Lettice gulps awkwardly. “Or rather… your demands… that I’ve come to speak to you about.”
“Demands?” A defensive edge makes its way into her well enunciated words as Lady Gladys queries Lettice’s remark.
“Commands.” Lettice blunders.
“Commands!” Lady Glady’s eyes flicker slightly.
“There’s a problem with your requests, Gladys.” Lettice tries to venture, her voice faltering and sounding weak as the words catch in her throat.
“A problem with my requests, Lettice?” Lady Gladys lowers her left arm so it dangles down by her side, whilst raising her right to her chin in a ponderous pose as she considers her visitor, perching on the edge of her seat awkwardly, as if seeing her for the first time. “What could possibly be wrong with any of the requests I have made? Have I made demands that are unreasonable? Is there something wrong with the shade of green of the walls, the choice of soft furnishings,” She pauses. “The chintz curtains?”
“Well,” Lettice tries to momentarily make light of the moment. “Chintz isn’t something I’d choose for myself, Gladys.”
“I chose those for Phoebe specifically,” Lady Gladys says sharply, the volume of her voice rising slightly as she does.. “Because I thought she might appreciate the connection between the nature she so loves and her living space.”
“And she does, Gladys.” Lettice defends. “She even remarked on them when she was at Ridgmount Gardens today.”
“Oh, so that’s where she went.”
“She came to fetch some books she left behind at the flat that she needs for her studies.”
“Or so Pheobe claims.” Lady Gladys retorts.
“And whilst we were there, we had a conversation,” Lettice tries to steal her voice as she adds, “An honest conversation.”
Lady Gladys does not reply immediately, but considers Lettice’s statement before asking, “And what was it in that honest conversation that now has you at my door, Lettice?”
Lettice notices, as she feels sure she is meant to, that the endearments of ‘my dear’, usually attached to her name, have suddenly vanished.
Well, you’ll forgive me, Gladys, but when Pheobe and I were speaking, she shared with me her concerns that the flat is perhaps not being redecorated,” Lettice quickly, yet carefully considers each word as she speaks it, conscious of the precarious situation she finds herself in. She doesn’t want to invoke Lady Gladys’ ire against phoebe, nor against herself. “In the… the style which she would prefer.”
“The style she would prefer?” Gladys suddenly leans back in her seat and starts laughing, but the laugh is devoid of joy. “Lettice, Pheobe has no opinion when it comes to style, the little mouse.” She stares out of the window into the sunshine bathing the trees of the gated garden square across the road. “Actually, she has very little opinion about anything, quite frankly.”
“Well, there I would beg to disagree with you, Gladys.” Lettice retorts, suddenly filled with a necessity to defend Phoebe.
“Do you indeed?”
“I do.” Lettice affirms, her voice growing stronger. “You see, you have a very… a very strong personality.”
“Forthright is what John would call my personality.”
“Strong, forthright: either description amounts to much the same. I’ve observed that on the rare occasions Phoebe disagrees with your opinion, you quickly snuff out any objection.”
“Such as?” Lady Gladys asks warily.
“Such as when I first visited Ridgmount Gardens with you, after we had been to your book launch at Selfridges, when Phoebe protested that she wanted to keep her father’s bureau desk, you wouldn’t let her.”
“Lettice,” Lady Gladys sighs heavily. “As I mentioned to you both then, and have repeated several times when the subject of my brother’s desk has been raised by Phoebe subsequently with me, Reginald wanted me to have it. He simply died before he had a chance to put his affairs in order.”
“And her mother’s china?”
“Good god, Lettice!” Lady Gladys exclaims. “Why on earth should Phoebe want those old hat Style Liberty********** cups, saucers and plates, when she can have something of far superior quality and are more up-to-date in style.”
“You seem to be a proponent of Style Liberty, Gladys.” Lettice indicates with waving gestures about the room.
“And as I said to you at Gossington, the style may have been fashionable when I was younger, but it died when all our young men did, during the war. It’s past: dead! Anyway,” she sulks. “They are cheap, nasty pieces of pottery, and many of them are chipped, even if Marjorie kept them for best. She never did have good taste.”
“Whether they are cheap or chipped, Gladys, Phoebe feels that her flat is missing her parent’s essence.” When Lady Gladys scoffs scornfully, Lettice continues, “She specifically mentioned the chips in her mother’s plates and teacups and the grooves and ink stains in her father’s bureau.”
“Phoebe always was an odd child,” Lady Gladys ruminates. “Going on about the essence of a person. She has photos to look at if she wants to get an essence of her long dead parents. Lettice, John and I have been far more of parents to her than Reginald and Marjorie.”
“I’m not disputing that, Gladys. All I am stating is what Phoebe told me. You have your own desk,” Lettice points to the delicate desk before which Lady Gladys sits. “Why not give Phoebe what she wants? Is it so hard?”
“I’ve been giving that child all that she needs and wants for years: ever since I brought her back from India as a five year old. I’ve given her everything a real mother would.”
“Then why not give her the bureau. Please, Gladys.”
“I repeat!” Lady Gladys snaps. “Reginald wanted me to have his bureau! It’s mine!”
Lady Gladys suddenly sits upright in her seat and slams her palms into its arm rests, huffing heavily with frustration. “Well Lettice, I have enjoyed our impromptu little tête-à-tête, but I’m afraid I really must go. I don’t wish to keep the Messrs Foyle waiting. They have been very good to me, arranging this reading at their bookshop.”
“But…” Lettice begins.
Lady Gladys picks up a silver bell from the surface of her desk and rings it, the metal bell emitting a high pitched ring. “Whom, may I ask is paying the bills for all the tradespeople you have engaged on your little project of redecorating Ridgmount Gardens?”
“Sir John.”
“Then let me remind you that Sir John is acting on my behalf, paying those bills. When you agreed to accept my commission, we entered into a contract: a contract that you and I both signed before our lawyers.”
“Yes, at your insistence.”
“Exactly, because I suspected a situation somewhat sticky like this might arise. I didn’t have to choose you to redecorate Phoebe’s flat. I could have chosen any number of my friends who dabble in interior design. Indeed Syrie Maugham*********** felt quite slighted that I chose you over her, with all her successes. I wanted to give you the opportunity to increase your profile as a society interior designer , because my word goes a long way.” “Lettice, I might be many things, but I’m not a woman without tact, but as our time today is up, you must force me to be blunt.” She begins to shuffle the remaining copies of her novels on her desk irritably. “You agree that you signed a contract with me, so as your client I request… no I demand,” She uses Lettice’s choice of words back at her. “That you do everything I want: everything, down to the last little detail, or I shall consider the contract null and void, and therefore I shall be under no obligation to arrange for John to pay any outstanding bills, and further to that, if you do anything forcing me to terminate our contract, I shall make sure that every drawing room is talking about your untrustworthiness, Lettice. Do I make myself clear?”
Just at that moment, Miss Goodwin bustles into the room. “You rang, Gladys?”
“Yes Goody.” Gladys says with a painted smile. “My delightful impromptu meeting with Miss Chetwynd is over. Would you kindly show her out. I must get ready for my reading at Foyles.”
“Yes Gladys.” She smiles at Lettice. “Right this way, Miss Chetwynd.”
As Miss Goodwin ushers Lettice towards the door, Gladys adds from her seat at her desk, “Thank you so much for visiting me today, my dear Lettice. I think it has helped us both better understand our positions. I’m sure you agree.”
“This way, Miss Chetwynd.” Miss Goodwin says again as she guides the shocked and silent Lettice out of the door, closing it quietly behind her.
*Eaton Square is a rectangular residential garden square in London's Belgravia district. It is the largest square in London. It is one of the three squares built by the landowning Grosvenor family when they developed the main part of Belgravia in the Nineteenth Century that are named after places in Cheshire — in this case Eaton Hall, the Grosvenor country house. It is larger but less grand than the central feature of the district, Belgrave Square, and both larger and grander than Chester Square. The first block was laid out by Thomas Cubitt from 1827. In 2016 it was named as the "Most Expensive Place to Buy Property in Britain", with a full terraced house costing on average seventeen million pounds — many of such town houses have been converted, within the same, protected structures, into upmarket apartments.
**A pied-à-terre is a small flat, house, or room kept for occasional use.
***Charing Cross is a junction in Westminster, London, England, where six routes meet. Since the early 19th century, Charing Cross has been the notional "centre of London" and became the point from which distances from London are measured. It was also famous in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries as being the centre for bookselling in London.
****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".
*****White's is a gentlemen's club in St James's, London. Founded in 1693 as a hot chocolate shop in Mayfair, it is the oldest gentleman's club in London. Notable current members include Charles III and the Prince of Wales and former British prime minister David Cameron, whose father Ian Cameron was the club's chairman, was a member for fifteen years but resigned in 2008, over the club's declining to admit women. The club continues to maintain its tradition as a club for gentlemen only, although one of its best known chefs from the early 1900s was Rosa Lewis, a model for the central character in the BBC television series “The Duchess of Duke Street”.
******W & G Foyle Ltd. (usually called simply Foyles) is a bookseller with a chain of seven stores in England. It is best known for its flagship store in Charing Cross Road, London. Foyles was once listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the world's largest bookshop in terms of shelf length, at 30 miles (48 km), and of number of titles on display. Brothers William and Gilbert Foyle founded the business in 1903. After failing entrance exams for the civil service, the brothers offered their redundant textbooks for sale and were inundated by offers. This inspired them to launch a second-hand book business from home. Flushed with success, they opened a small shop on Station Parade in Queen's Road, Peckham, where they painted "With all Faith" in gilt letters above the door. The brothers opened their first West End shop in 1904, at 16 Cecil Court. A year later they hired their first member of staff, who promptly disappeared with the weekly takings. By 1906, their shop was at 135 Charing Cross Road and they were described as London's largest educational booksellers. By 1910, Foyles had added four suburban branches: at Harringay, Shepherd's Bush, Kilburn and Brixton. Not long afterwards, the brothers moved their central London store to 119 Charing Cross Road, the Foyles Building, where it remained until 2014. Foyles was famed in the past for its anachronistic, eccentric and sometimes infuriating business practices (ones I have been personally involved in), so much so that it became a tourist attraction. It has since modernised, and has opened several branches and an online store.
*******A stair rod, also commonly referred to as a carpet rod, is an ornamental decorative hardware item used to hold carpeting in place on steps.
********Titles into the British Peerage weren't for sale as such, but a social climbing gentleman could certainly buy his way into the nobility if he were wealthy and well connected enough, and used the social and political power of wealth wisely. In the pre-war (Great War) years, when money went a great deal further than it did before the introduction of heavy income taxes and death duties, if you had money, it was not hugely difficult to effectively buy yourself a seat in parliament or a commission in the military (both of which were functionally up for sale), which could often result in a peerage being granted if you stayed around long enough in the right circles, or were favoured by the right people. The Tories of the late Eighteenth Century were infamous for packing the House of Lords with supporters in order to retain a majority (most aristocratic families had favoured the Whigs earlier in the Georgian era). If a man were shrewd enough to curry favour with a Tory like Lord North or Pitt the Younger, then he could probably get a title quite easily, since the Tory base of support was within the untitled gentry, and they needed to maintain control of the Lords. Currying favour with the monarch worked equally well, and King Edward VII was famous for minting fresh peers regularly, filling his levees with wealthy industrialists, manufacturers and men of business whom he found more engaging than the idle peers of long standing aristocratic titles.
********A periwig a highly styled wig worn formerly as a fashionable headdress by both women and men in the Eighteenth Century and retained by judges and barristers as part of their professional dress to this day.
*********William Morris (24th of March 1834 – 3rd of October 1896) was a British textile designer, poet, artist, writer, and socialist activist associated with the British Arts and Crafts movement. He was a major contributor to the revival of traditional British textile arts and methods of production. His literary contributions helped to establish the modern fantasy genre, while he helped win acceptance of socialism in fin de siècle Great Britain. In 1861, Morris founded the Morris, Marshall, Faulkner & Co. decorative arts firm with Burne-Jones, Rossetti, Webb, and others, which became highly fashionable and much in demand. The firm profoundly influenced interior decoration throughout the Victorian period, with Morris designing tapestries, wallpaper, fabrics, furniture, and stained glass windows. In 1875, he assumed total control of the company, which was renamed Morris & Co.
**********The artistic movement we know of today internationally as Art Nouveau, was more commonly known as the “Arts and Crafts Movement” or “Style Liberty” in the United Kingdom during the years before and after the Great War, driven by the Glasgow School of Arts, where a great many proponents of the style came from, and by the luxury London shop Liberty on Regent Street which sold a great deal of William Morris’ designs to the general public.
***********Gwendoline Maud Syrie Maugham was a leading British interior decorator of the 1920s and 1930s who popularised rooms decorated entirely in white. In the 1910s, Maugham began her interior design career as an apprentice under Ernest Thornton-Smith for a London decorating firm, learning there about the intricacies of furniture restoration, trompe-l'œil, curtain design, and the mechanics of traditional upholstery. In 1922, two years before this story is set, at the age of 42, Maugham borrowed £400.00 and opened her own interior decorating business at 85 Baker Street, London. As the shop flourished, Maugham began decorating, taking on projects in Palm Beach and California. By 1930, she had shops in London, Chicago, and New York. Maugham is best-remembered for the all-white music room at her house at 213 King's Road in London. For the grand unveiling of her all-white room, Maugham went to the extreme of dipping her white canvas draperies in cement. The room was filled with massive white floral arrangements and the overall effect was stunning. Maugham charged high prices and could be very dictatorial with her clients and employees. She once told a hesitant client, "If you don't have ten thousand dollars to spend, I don't want to waste my time."
This English Arts and Crafts 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.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Lady Glady’s pretty black japanned desk has been made by the high-end miniature furniture manufacturer Bespaq, and it has been hand painted with chinoiserie designs. Her Louis XIV white Regency stripe upholstered chair and its pair which can just be seen behind the desk to the left of the fireplace have been made by the high-end miniature furniture manufacturer, J.B.M. They too have been hand painted and decorated, even along the tops of the arms. On the desk are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles, a silver pen and a blotter 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 pen is a twist of silver with a tiny seed pearl inserted into the end of it The ink blotter is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame. The silver double frame on the top of the desk comes from Mick and Marie’s Miniature Collectables. The silver tray holding letters on the top left of the desk is sterling silver as well and was acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.
Also on the desk are some copies of Lady Gladys’ books. They are all examples of 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, this selection of romance novels are not designed to be opened. What might amaze you in spite of this fact 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 them all miniature artisan pieces. The books in the Art Nouveau fretwork cabinet in the background are all made by Ken Blythe as well. 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 correspondence on the fireplace mantle and on the silver tray on Lady Gladys’ desk were made meticulously by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. They are 1:12 miniature versions of real documents.
At either end of mantle stand a pair of Staffordshire sheep which have been hand made, painted and gilded 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 sheep actually have smiles on their faces!
The two Art Nouveau style vases at either end of the mantlepiece and the squat one in the middle half hidden by correspondence came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The irises in the vase on the left-hand side of the mantle are all made of polymer clay that is moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements. Very realistic looking, they are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany.
The two gilt edged paintings hanging to either side of the fireplace were made by Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The painting in the white painted wooden frame hanging above the mantlepiece comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop as does the finely moulded plaster fireplace itself and its metal grate.
The enclosed bookcase full of Ken Blythe’s miniature books in the background to the left of the photo with its glass doors and Art Nouveau fretwork was made by Bespaq Miniatures, as were the white Regency stripe upholstered wingback armchair in front of the fireplace and sofa just visible to the left of the photograph. The hand embroidered footstool in front of the armchair comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop.
The wallpaper used to decorate Lady Gladys’ walls is William Morris’ ‘Willow Bough’ pattern.
The Persian rug on the floor has been woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
For nearly a year Lettice has been patiently awaiting the return of her beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban by his mother, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wanted to end so that she could marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Now Lettice has been made aware by Lady Zinnia that during the course of the year, whilst Lettice has been biding her time, waiting for Selwyn’s eventual return, he has become engaged to the daughter of a Kenyan diamond mine owner whilst in Durban. Fleeing Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion, Lettice returned to Cavendish mews and milled over her options over a week as she reeled from the news. Then, after that week, she knew exactly what to do to resolve the issues raised by Lady Zinnia’s unwelcome news about her son. Taking extra care in her dress, she took herself off to the neighbouring upper-class London suburb of Belgravia and paid a call upon Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.
Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening.
Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Turning up unannounced on his doorstep, she agreed to his proposal after explaining that the understanding between she and Selwyn was concluded. However, in an effort to be discreet, at Lettice’s insistence, they are not making their engagement public until the new year: after the dust about Selwyn’s break of his and Lettice’s engagement settles. So, Lettice and Sir John have gone on about their separate lives, but in the lead up to Christmas they invariably ended up running into one another at the last mad rush of parties before everyone who hadn’t already, decamped to the country to celebrate Christmas.
Today we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife Arabella. Lettice is visiting her family home for Christmas. She motored down to Wiltshire with her old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. His family, the Brutons, are neighbours to the Cheywynds with their properties sharing boundaries. That is how Gerald and Lettice came to be such good friends. However, whilst both families are landed gentry with lineage going back centuries, unlike Lettice’s family, Gerald’s live in a much smaller baronial manor house and are in much more straitened circumstances.
It is Christmas morning 1924, and we find ourselves in the very grand and elegant drawing room of Glynes with its gilt Louis and Palladian style furnishings where the extended Chetwynd family is gathered around the splendidly decked out Christmas tree. Present are the Viscount and his wife, Lady Sadie, Leslie and Arabella, Lettice’s elder sister Lalage (known to everyone in the family by the diminutive Lally), her children, Lettice’s nephews and niece, Harrold, Annabelle and Piers, the children’s rather crisply starched nanny, and this year, Arabella’s mother, Lady Isobel and her brother, Nigel, Lord Tyrwhitt who have come the short distance from the neighbouring property adjoining the Glynes estate to the south, Garstanton Park, the grand Gothic Victorian home of the Tyrwhitts. The only members of the family not present are lally’s husband Charles and the Viscount’s sister, Eglantyne (known affectionately by the Viscount’s children as Aunt Egg) who have gone to enjoy the elicit pleasure of a cigarette together. Lady Sadie does not approve of men smoking indoors, much less her emancipated sister-in-law, so she will not counternance either of them smoking in her drawing room, even on Christmas Day. None of the family’s faithful retainers are present, as the tradition is that servants are given Christmas Day off after breakfast until the late afternoon, when they return and prepare to serve the family’s Christmas dinner in the Glynes dining room.
“Oh I am glad that Pater invited Nigel and Aunt Isobel over here for Christmas.” Lettice says with a smile as she watches Nigel help clear space on the Chinese silk drawing room carpet for he and Lettice’s nephew Harrold to play.
Last year Lord Sherbourne Tyrwhitt died suddenly, thrusting his wife, Lady Isobel into the role of widowed dowager and catapulting his unprepared eldest son, Nigel, into the title of Lord Tyrwhitt, and the position as a lord of the manor, one that Nigel felt quite ready for.
“Well, with just the two of them rolling around that big, empty and cold mausoleum over the knoll,” Leslie replies, referring to Garstanton Park as he waves his hands in the house’s general direction. “And Bella here with me, it only stood to reason. Bella can be with her mother,” He looks lovingly over at his wife who sits at the feet of her mother, Lady Isobel, resting her head on her knee like a child and smiling contentedly as the pair of them watch Nigel play with Lally’s children, Lady Isobel unconsciously stroking Bella’s raven waves. “And besides, Garstanton Park is too full of sadness for them to actually enjoy Christmas there this year. Better they be here with us where there is plenty of cheer and the sound of children’s laughter to distract them.”
“Agreed, Leslie. And we do have fun every year, don’t we?”
“I always look forward to you and Lally coming home for Christmas every year.” He sips coffee from the dainty gilt demitasse in his hand.
“What, even now that you have a beautiful and captivating wife on your arm, Leslie?” Lettice asks in mild disbelief.
“Of course I do! I mean, Bella is my wife, but you are my sisters, and that makes your homecoming pretty special, Tice.”
“Oh, don’t let Bella hear you say that too loudly, Leslie.” Lettice giggles. “She’ll get jealous.”
“I say Tice old girl,” Leslie remarks quietly with a solicitous tone as he takes a seat beside his little sister on one of the elegant gilt upholstered Louis Quinze drawing room sofas, cradling his cup of coffee. “I hope you won’t mind me saying this.”
“If you start off the conversation like that,” Lettice replies warily. “I shouldn’t wonder if I won’t.” Her pretty blue eyes widen over the edge of her own larger cup as she takes a sip of tea.
“I was only going to say that I think you’re being remarkably brave and stoic about all that rather beastly business with Selwyn Spencely.” Leslie admits, giving his sister a guilty sideways glance.
“Oh that!” Lettice replies, lowering her teacup into its saucer and waving her hand dismissively.
“Now don’t be like that, Tice.” Leslie chides. “In this case, despite whatever advice Mamma may give you as a jeune fille à marier*, false modesty doesn’t suit you. I may be a little biased,” He blushes as he speaks. “But I just want you to know that I think Spencely is a fool to let you go like that. He hardly needs the money that will accompany this diamond heiress into their marriage.”
“Kitty Avendale.” Lettice interrupts, uttering the name of the only child of Australian adventurer and thrill seeker turned Kenyan diamond mine owner, Richard Avendale, which was linked to her former fiancée.
“Whatever her name is, I wish Spencely no joy from the marriage.” Leslie spits hotly.
“Shh, shh,” Lettice hushes her brother calmly, placing a hand on his left forearm and giving it a gentle squeeze. “You don’t mean that Leslie. I know you don’t.”
“Oh don’t I?” Leslie mutters.
“Of course you don’t, Leslie.” Lettice replies resolutely. “You are my kind and gallant eldest brother, and therefore far too good hearted to wish him ill like that. I certainly don’t want Selwyn to be unhappy with his choice of a wife. He has enough to deal with, what with his horrible mother, whom he doesn’t have a choice not to have.” She sighs. “Anyway Leslie, it doesn’t matter now.” she adds, unable to quite hide the sadness in her voice, or the half-hearted smile on her lips. “It is all in the past.”
“Well, all the same I think Spencely is a cad and a bounder, so there it is! I’ve said it now.”
“Then let us say no more about it, Leslie.” Lettice holds up one of her elegant hands delicately in an effort to put the matter to bed. “After all, it is Christmas, and Christmas is supposed to be about kindness and good will to all men, is it not?”
“I suppose so.” Leslie agrees begrudgingly. “Still, I do think that after your initial reactions when that harridan of a mother of his sent Spencely away, you’ve been remarkably calm and good about it all.”
Like she did with her sister a few weeks before, Lettice longs to confide in her elder brother about her recent secret engagement to Sir John Nettleford-Hughes. Of all her siblings, Leslie is the one she feels closest to, in spite of the fact that he is the eldest and she the youngest child of the Viscount and Lady Sadie. Leslie has always been her protector, especially when it came to their brother Lionel and his ceaseless teasing and tormenting of Lettice when they were children, and he is the one who understands her the best. However, she also knows that like her sister and the rest of her family, Leslie would consider her sudden engagement on the heels of Selwyn’s abandonment of her a rash reaction. Unlike Lally, Leslie doesn’t entirely dislike Sir John, but he is well aware that he is a philanderer and does have a penchant for younger women, having witnessed Sir John leave Lady Sadie’s 1922 Hunt ball with a much younger female party guest on his arm after Lettice spurned his romantic overtures. Lettice suspects that if Leslie knew about her secret engagement, he would pressure her to break it off, and at the moment she is still too emotionally fragile and raw from Lady Zinnia’s revelations that she would not be able to refuse him. She knows, deep in her broken heart, that her reasoning behind keeping her engagement a secret until after the dust settles on her break with Selwyn is wise and sound, so once again she keeps her own counsel and remains silent on the matter of her engagement.
“In fact,” Leslie goes on, not noticing his sister’s deeply ponderous look as she carefully turns her head and looks at the beautifully decorated Chetwynd family Christmas tree covered in gold baubles and tinsel. “I’d go so far as to say you have been rather sporting about all this.”
“Well,” She takes a deep breath. “As I was saying to Lally a fortnight ago when she came to stay with me in London, it was never a definite thing that Selwyn was going to come back to me after a year. And with Selwyn’s absence for that long, I didn’t feel this ending quite so acutely, as I did his departure.”
As Lettice takes another sip of her tea, she is amazed by how quickly she has become accustomed to lying about her true feelings for Selwyn and his abandonment of their engagement. Her mother, Lady Sadie, sitting across from her in her usual position in the armchair closest to the drawing room fireplace, has schooled her well.
“Now, I’d like that to be an end of the matter, Leslie.” Lettice goes on steadfastly.
“Well…”
“At least for today, Leslie.” Lettice implores. “It is Christmas Day after all, and I want it to be happy one for the children – for us all.”
“Alright, Tice old girl.”
“Good, Leslie, old chap.” Lettice replies gratefully.
Lettice turns her attention to the tumble of beautiful new toys and brightly coloured discarded Christmas wrapping that litters the floor around the gaily decorated Christmas tree. Amidst it all, Lally’s children and Nigel play with their new toys. Lettice’s eldest nephew, Harrold, guides his smart new racing motorcar over the terrain of books, boxes and gold wrapping with Nigel’s assistance, whilst Annabelle, Lettice’s niece, picks out characters to play with in her new puppet theatre. She smiles with delight as she takes up one of Little Red Riding Hood carrying a basket, frozen forever in a skipping motion. Piers, Lettice’s youngest nephew, at the age of two, is still very much more interested in the colourful and noisy Christmas paper, which he crinkles up with glee, although Lettice has noticed that he is developing an affinity for the large brown mohair plush bear with the big red bow that his mother and father gave him for Christmas.
“You win again, Tice my dear.” Lally remarks as she stalks across from the tea table where she has just poured herself a fresh cup of coffee.
“What on earth do you mean, Lally?” Lettice asks, looking up at her sister, still dressed, as they all are, in a suitably sombre outfit worn to the Glynes Church of England Christmas service a short while ago. They will all change shortly into lighter and happier outfits before luncheon in the dining room.
“That of course,” Lally nods in the direction of the puppet theatre. “Aunt Tice may not live with us, Leslie, but she knows how to win my children over in a trice.”
“Oh Lally!” Lettice says dismissively. “That’s not true! Look how much Piers loves the bear you… err Father Christmas… gave him.”
“That’s only because he is still too young and remains immune to your charming gifts.” Lally laughs. “He still prefers the boxes they come in.”
“Come now, Master Piers,” Charles and Lally’s nanny fusses as she scurries over from her place standing next to the Christmas tree, watching the children like a benevolent angel in her uniform of a black moiré dress and a white apron. She tries to take a piece of metallic pink Christmas wrapping from his tight grasp as he tears it. “Give that to me. Give that to Nanny.” she cajoles.
Lettice, Leslie and Lally all watch with concern as little Piers’ face screws up and suddenly starts to redden with anger as his nanny tugs at the paper.
“It’s alright, Nanny dear.” Lally says swiftly, quick to avoid the potential of a two year old’s tantrum in the Glynes drawing room on Christmas Day.
“But Madam!” Nanny exclaims, a disgruntled look crossing her face as she feels undermined by Lally.
“He’s not doing any harm, Nanny. Let him play with the paper if he fancies it. At least it keeps him quiet, and my father,” Lally points to the Viscount’s slumped figure nestled into the corner of another of the Louis Quinze sofas. “Is having a morning snooze. Let him do so in peace, please Nanny.”
“Oh! Very good, Madam.” Nanny replies with frustration, retreating to her place, muttering as she does so.
“Well done, Lally, old girl!” Leslie says with approval.
“Ahh, ahh.” Lally cautions her brother light heartedly. “Less of the old thank you.” She self-consciously pats her sandy blonde hair streaked with grey, still set, albeit not as smartly as it had been, in a style similar to that which the fashionable London West End hairdresser had set it a few weeks beforehand when she stayed at Lettice’s cavendish Mews flat.
“It’s all this new small talk, Lettice brings with her from London,” Leslie defends himself. “It’s ‘old boy this’ and ‘old girl that’. It’s… it’s catching to we provincial county folk!”
“I say!” Lettice pouts. “That’s jolly unfair, Leslie, blaming me for your choices of language,” She pauses and then adds for effect, “Old boy.”
Lally gives her brother a sceptical look and shakes her head slightly.
“Poor Pater.” Lettice sighs, nodding in her father’s direction. “Playing Father Christmas seems to have worn him out this year.”
“Well, he’s not getting any younger.” Lally opines. “None of us are.”
“I think Pappa’s tiredness has more to do with Reverend Arbuthnot’s dreary and long Christmas sermon this morning.” Leslie suggests. “Than his age.”
“Oh yes, he did go on rather, didn’t he!” Lettice exclaims, raising her hand to her mouth covering what started as an imitation yawn, but then turned into a real one. “I thought he would never finish.”
“Well, isn’t that what the Reverend is supposed to do, Tice?” Leslie asks. “Pontificate I mean.”
“You’re only defending him because he married you and Bella.” Lettice retorts.
“Well, pontification to excess is not a quality I greatly admire in our Reverend Arbuthnot.” Lally opines in a definite tone. “I think I might have screamed if I heard him say ‘love thy neighbour this Christmas Day’ one more time.”
“I should have liked to have seen that!” Lettice giggles. “Imagine Reverend Arbuthnot’s face!”
“It might have woken up a few of the parishioners.” Lesley laughs before sipping some more coffee from his cup.
“Including Pater.” Lettice adds.
“Well, Mamma managed to stay awake throughout the sermon this morning,” Lally remarks. “And she doesn’t usually rise before ten o’clock. Yet look at her now, bright as button.”
The three siblings look at their mother who, dressed in a smart navy blue and pink floral patterned georgette frock with a lace collar, sits and speaks earnestly with her granddaughter, twisting her long ropes of pearls cascading down her front in her hands as Annabelle discusses which characters are best to have in her puppet show cast.
“Well, to be fair, it was Pappa who did the hosting of the carol singers last night in the hall.” Leslie says.
“What rubbish!” Lally scoffs. “We all went in and hosted them. With Mrs. Maingot leading the carollers and riding high on the crest of success of her latest Christmas panto,” She rolls her eyes sarcastically. “We could hardly leave her for Pappa to manage alone.”
“She can talk for hours without taking a breath.” Lettice agrees. “In fact, I don’t think she would even notice if everyone walked out of the hall and she was on her own, she’s so self-obsessed.” She turns to her brother. “Now she’s a pontificator if ever there was one!” She gives him a knowing look and nods.
“I think Bramley enjoyed giving out the snifters of brandy to all the carollers.” Lally adds, referring to the Chetwynd’s faithful butler. “Just like he did in the old days.”
“By the way,” Leslie asks. “Do you know who decided to revive the tradition of having the second Christmas tree in the entrance hall?”
“What does it matter, Leslie?” Lettice asks.
“Well, it’s just that Pappa stopped doing it the year after the war broke out, and I didn’t authorise it.”
“Do you need to authorise it?” Lally queries, arching her expertly plucked eyebrow as she looks to her sister. “It is just a tree after all.”
“I’m just saying, it does create a bit of a mess.”
“I’m sure that Bramley, or more likely Moira as head parlour maid, sweep up the dropped needles and dried candlewax, Leslie, not you.” Lally laughs.
“And now the word has spread that its back again, all the village make a pilgrimage to see it every Christmas now, which means we’re forever hosting groups of visitors in dribs and drabs nearly every night in the last few weeks before Christmas. Even with their beastly head colds, the Miss Evanses trudged up from the village.” Leslie adds, mentioning the two genteel busybody spinster sisters who live in Holland House, a Seventeenth Century manor house, in Glynes village. “Snuffling and coughing all over the place.”
“Well aren’t we full of Christmas cheer, dear brother?” Lally remarks sarcastically.
“Didn’t you hear Reverent Arbuthnot’s sermon this morning?” Lettice adds cheekily with a smirk. “Love thy neighbour this Christmas, brother dear.”
“Now don’t you start!” Leslie replies, wagging a finger warningly at his sister, but the happy glint in his eyes betrays the fact that he isn’t really cross with her.
“As a matter of fact, I think, I did.” Lally says.
“Did what?” Leslie asks.
“Revived the Christmas tradition of the second tree in the hall. I mentioned it to Pappa after Harrold asked me about the red glass baubles amidst the Christmas decorations.”
“No, we both did, Lally.” Lettice defends her sister. “After Harrod asked us about the decorations a few Christmases ago. What, 1922?”
“No,” Lally corrects. “It was 1921, because we were talking about the Hunt Ball Mamma threw for you in 1922.”
“That’s right! It was 1921. Anyway, regardless of when we mentioned it, I for one am not unhappy about the resurrection of that particular Christmas tradition at Glynes.” Lettice nods. “I think it looks wonderful in the hall, all sparkling with tinsel and glass baubles and lighted candles, greeting guests and family alike. It’s good to bring some joy and cheer to the villagers, even the Miss Evanses and Mrs. Maingot.”
“I agree, Tice.” Lally adds with a smile. “It seems to me like the world is finally coming out of the shadows of the war, so we should do our part to make the world bright, especially at Christmas.”
“In fact,” Lettice giggles. “You could make the world even brighter, and have no candle wax for Moira to scrub off the marble floors if you bought those electric faerie lights Lally and I saw in Selfridge’s windows a few weeks ago.”
“You can’t have Little-Bo-Peep and Little Red Riding Hood in the same play, Belle!” Harrold’s voice complains, his whining tones piercing the siblings’ conversation.
“Yes! Yes, Sadie my dear.” the Viscount mutters with a snort, awoken from his slumber by his grandson’s cries.
“Why not, Harrold?” Annabelle cries petulantly.
“Because you just can’t, Belle!” Harrold spits back.
“Harrold!” Lally exclaims.
“Says who?” asks Annabelle, folding her arms akimbo and pouting.
“It’s ‘says whom’, Annabelle dear.” Lady Sadie, always the instructress, corrects her granddaughter from her seat.
“Says whom, then?” Annabelle glowers at her elder brother.
“Harrold!” Lally says again.
“Well it’s true Mummy!” Harrold retorts. “They come from different stories. Tell her!”
“Harrold that’s not the point.” Lally says sternly. “Now apologise to your sister.”
“But I…”
“Harrold Cosmo Lanchenbury!” Lally says sternly, using her son’s middle name, given in honour of his grandfather, the Viscount. “Apologise to your sister at once.”
“Shall I take him upstairs to the school room, Madam?” Nanny pipes up with eagerness from the shadows cast by the shimmeringly beautiful Christmas tree.
“No!” Lally snaps with steely resolve, causing the older woman to shudder slightly at the sharp rebuke from her employer. Lally recovers herself immediately and continues in a softer voice. “No, thank you, Nanny. That won’t be necessary.” She looks at her son seriously. “Harrold is old enough to know when he has spoken out of turn, and gentlemanly enough,” She emphasises the last two words as she speaks. “To know when to apologise.”
“What’s this?” Aunt Egg asks she and Lally’s husband, Charles, walk back into the Glynes drawing room after finishing their cigarettes in the library.
“Lally darling?” Charles asks, taking in the scene with his son standing next to the Christmas tree amidst piles of presents, red faced next to his sister who is obviously upset, whilst Lally stands over them and the rest of the family look at him from their respective seats. There is a tenseness in the air. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“Nothing that I can’t manage Charles.” Lally replies calmly. “It’s fine.”
“It doesn’t appear fine to me, darling.” Charles replies in concern.
“Harrold and Annabelle were just having the fiercest argument, Charles dear,” Lady Sadie adds a little nervously. “Weren’t you, my lambs? And Harrold was just about to apologise to his sister.”
On cue, Piers, who until this time had been happily playing without compliant by himself releases a loud and unhappy bellow.
“Oh. Take Piers up to the nursery, Nanny.” Lally hisses in frustration.
“Yes Madam!” Nanny says smiling with satisfaction as she scuttles and fusses her way noisily through the presents and wrapping to where Piers sits. She coos as she picks him up, sweeping him into her arms and carries the snivelling child towards the drawing room door.
“Come here my lambs,” Lady Sadie says, opening her arms and encouraging the two remaining children to come over to her as she sits on the edge of her gilt chair. “That’s it.” She envelops them, winding an arm around each of them as she guides them to stand facing one another to either side of her. “Now, look at Grandmamma, both of you.” Both children lift their lolling heads and downcast eyes and gaze into their grandmother’s face. “You know that Christmas is a time of traditions, don’t you?” Both the children nod, Harrold slowly and Annabelle more animatedly. “We have a plum pudding today, which Mrs. Casterton makes for us every year on the twenty-fifth Sunday after Trinity*** with thirteen ingredients which represent Christ and the twelve apostles.”
“Yes Grandmamma.” Annabelle answers sweetly. “You and and Mrs. Casterton let us stir it.”
“That’s right, Annabelle.” Lady Sadie goes on. “You stir it east to west to honour the Magi****, and that is part of the tradition too.” She sighs deeply. “And you know that you receive gifts, as we all do, just as the Christ Child did when he received gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh from the Magi. That’s a tradition too.”
“Yes Grandmamma.” the children murmur, their voices the only things to break the silence of the room except for the quiet ticking of the clocks on the mantle and sideboard, the contented crackle of the fire in the grate and the distant wailing of Piers down the hall as Nanny takes him upstairs.
“And the carol singers come and join us in the hall just out there on Christmas Eve,” Lady Sadie points one of her diamond adorned gnarled fingers to the doorway which Nanny slipped out through with Piers in her arms moments ago. “And we sing beneath the Christmas tree. You restarted that tradition Harrold. Do you remember?”
Harrold nods. “Mummy says that Grandpappa stopped it when the war broke out, Grandmamma.”
“And so I did, Harrold my boy.” the Viscount concurs from his corner of the sofa. “But you restarted it, and by Jove we all enjoy it, don’t we?”
“Yes Grandpappa.” Harrold replies.
“And Mrs. Maingot delights us every year with a new Christmas pantomime.” Lady Sadie goes on, her words resulting in a smattering of stifled sniggers and quiet gasps of horror from the adults around her, all of whom witnessed the embarrassing scene of Mr. Lewis the church verger reprising his role Dame Trott***** in Christmas 1924’s performance of ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ in the Glynes village hall a few nights ago. “You enjoy them don’t you, my lambs, because they are magical?” When both children nod affirmatively, Lady Sadie beams and rubs their backs kindly. “And every year, Harrold, she mixes up all the characters to make the pantomime as magical as she can, and that includes breaking a few rules and taking characters from some stories to add to the one she and the Glynes Village Players are performing.” She pauses for a moment and then looks at her grandson. “So, young man, when your sister says that she wants to put Little Red Riding Hood and Little-Bo-Peep into the same play she is performing with her lovely new puppet theatre, she is entitled to do so. Don’t you think so?”
“I suppose so, Grandmamma.” Harrold says somewhat begrudgingly.
“Now, correct me if my observations are wrong, Harrold, but could it be that you are just a teensy bit jealous that your sister is making all these plans for her grand play and not including you too?”
“Maybe, Grandmamma.” he replies very quietly.
“More than maybe, young man!” Lady Sadie withdraws her right arm from around her grandson and squeezes his chin, which is fast losing the fat of childhood as he starts to grow older. “Grandmamma knows your heart better than you do; I think.” She chuckles. “Now, I have a proposition for the two of you children.” She claps her hands together animatedly. “Annabelle, if Harrold apologises to you, will you let him help you put together your play?”
“Oh yes Grandmamma.” Annabelle exclaims, crouching down slightly before rising up on her toes in a gesture of pride and happiness. “I’d love that!”
“And Harrold, would you like to help Annabelle put on her play for all of us?” Lady Sadie asks her grandson.
“Yes Grandmamma.” he affirms with a beaming smile.
“Then apologise to her, and you can both get on with it then!” the old woman says matter-of-factly. “It will be no time at all before we go in for Christmas luncheon, and I for one, want a show before I do.”
Harrold apologises to his sister immediately, and as if a magic spell has been cast, the two siblings hurry back to the puppet theatre and begin pulling out as many of the characters that came with it as they can find amidst the paper and other presents, giggling and chatting as if nothing had ever been awry between them.
“There!” Lady Sadie says to her startled family around her as she rises from her seat with a dignified nod. “Crisis averted! Peace is restored. Merry Christmas to all, and good will to all men.”
“Mamma!” Lally gasps as her elderly mother starts to walk proudly and purposefully across the drawing room carpet.
“What, Lalage?”
“Well, you amaze me, Mamma.” she says in surprise. “I never realised that you were such a consummate diplomat!”
“Yes, I suppose my diplomacy skills are a little wasted here.” Lady Sadie replies with a sigh a she looks around at all the awestruck faces watching her. Then with a very straight face as she goes on, “I should have married the Viceroy of India whilst I had the chance, but I married your father instead, so that’s an end to it.” She walks through the audience of her family, all with eyes agog and mouths hanging slack as she moves amongst them. “Now, after that crisis aversion, I think I might be entitled to a glass of sherry. Charles!”
“Sadie?” her son-in-law queries.
“A sherry for me, if you please.” She pauses. “But just a small one, mind you.”
“Yes Sadie.”
Lady Sadie turns back to her three children present in her house this Christmas. “Anyone would think I’d never managed a squabble between siblings at Christmas before. I’ll have you know that when you three were little, even without the eager and willing assistance of your dreaded brother, you all used to fight and argue on Christmas Day!” She points her finger at them, her diamond and sapphire ring glittering as she does. “And that was a Glynes Christmas tradition too!”
“Mamma!” Lettice gasps in surprise.
Lady Sadie accepts the proffered small glass of sherry from her son-in-law. “Now, if you would all excuse me. I’m going to take my sherry upstairs and have a little lie down before luncheon. Your father isn’t the only one who found Reverend Arbuthnot’s Christmas sermon a little tiring this morning. If one of you would kindly send Baxter up to me when the children are ready to show their play, and I’ll come back down after she helps me change for luncheon.”
And without so much as a glance back at her surprised family, Lady Sadie walks out the door of the drawing room, smiling with amusement as she does.
*A jeune fille à marier was a marriageable young woman, the French term used in fashionable circles and the upper-classes of Edwardian society before the Second World War.
**A pantomime (shortened to “panto”) is a theatrical entertainment, mainly for children, which involves music, topical jokes, and slapstick comedy and is based on a fairy tale or nursery story, usually produced around Christmas.
***Trinity Sunday is the first Sunday after Pentecost in the Western Christian liturgical calendar, and the Sunday of Pentecost in Eastern Christianity. Trinity Sunday celebrates the Christian doctrine of the Trinity, the three Persons of God: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
****The Magi are also known as the Three Wise Men or the Three Kings, who are the distinguished foreigners who visit Jesus after his birth, bearing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh in homage to him.
*****Dame Trott is the long suffering mother of Jack in the Christmas pantomime of Jack and the Beanstalk. She is outrageous, brash and loud, and traditionally played by a man in drag.
This fun Christmas tableau full of festive presents and wrapping may not appear to be all you think it is as first, for it is made up of pieces out of my miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The books unwrapped for Christmas here are all 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. What might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. Not only did Ken Blythe create books, he also created other 1:12 miniatures with paper and that includes the wonderful puppet theatre you see here. The theatre includes scenery like cottages, hills and trees, three different backdrops and over a dozen characters including Little Red Riding Hood, the Big bad Wolf, Little-Bo-Peep, Cinderella, Prince Charming and the Faerie Godmother from Cinderella, Jemima Puddle Duck and Mother Goose. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make them all miniature artisan pieces. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.
The beautiful teddy bear with his sweet face and red bow, the boxed doll, the toy motor car and the knights jousting all come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The lead knights have been painstakingly painted by hand with incredible detail and attention paid to their livery.
The Chetwynd Christmas tree in the background, beautifully decorated with garlands, tinsel, bows and golden baubles is a 1:12 artisan piece. It was hand made by husband and wife artistic team Margie and Mike Balough who own Serendipity Miniatures in Newcomerstown, Ohio. Margie and Mike Balough also made all the beautifully wrapped Christmas gifts gathered around its base.
The discarded pink and gold Christmas wrapping on the carpet of the drawing room are in reality foil wrappers from miniature Haigh’s Chocolate Easter Eggs.
The gilt salon chair is made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, but what is particularly special about it is that it has been covered in antique Austrian floral micro petite point by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom, which makes this a one-of-a-kind piece. The artisan who made this says that as one of her hobbies, she enjoys visiting old National Trust Houses in the hope of getting some inspiration to help her create new and exciting miniatures. She saw some beautiful petit point chairs a few years ago in one of the big houses in Derbyshire and then found exquisitely detailed petit point that was fine enough for 1:12 scale projects.
The three piece Louis XV suite of settee and two armchairs was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, JBM.
The Persian rug on the floor has been woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.
Elegant luxury loft apartment with generous scale for rent in a sought after pre-war Soho condominium with striking landmark views, brilliant light and high end contemporary condo finishes.
– Keyed elevator opens directly into a grand entertaining space with an attractive entry foyer, oversized living and dining areas, beamed ceilings soaring 12 feet high, oak wood floors, architectural millwork throughout, and 15 oversized Pella windows.
– Open chefs kitchen with center island features granite stone counter tops, custom Italian cabinetry, a pantry, and top of-the-line appliances including a fully vented Viking gas range and stove, a U-Line wine cooler, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, a GE microwave and a Bosch dishwasher.
– 2 spacious bedrooms in a split layout with en-suite marble bathrooms, expansive closet space and a powder room (2BR/2.5BA).
– Corner loft apartment with open city views North and East, including direct views of the Police Building, one of the cities most impressive Beaux Arts landmarks.
– Fully Vented GE Profile Washer and Dryer in the apartment.
– Luxurious master bathroom with double vanity sinks, soaking tub and separate shower.
– Central AC and an individual hot-water heater.
– Large storage locker in the basement with enough space for bicycles, luggage and much, much more.
– Landscaped roof deck.
– Full-time resident manager can help as handyman and can receive packages, 5 days a week.
– A sophisticated home steps from the best restaurants, shops and nightlife (Balthazar, La Esquina, Mondrian Soho, etc) New York City has to offer.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid, and her best friend and fellow maid-of-all-work, Hilda are visiting Edith’s beloved parents for a few hours on their Sunday off before going on to join Edith’s beau, grocer’s boy, Frank Leadbetter, for a late afternoon showing of ‘Claude Duval’* at the nearby Willesden Hippodrome**. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden as a Line Manager, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home. They live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street, and is far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s Mayfair flat, but has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith.
We find ourselves in the heart of the Watsford’s family home, Ada’s cosy kitchen at the back of the terrace. Ada is holding court, standing at her worn round kitchen table as she gives Hilda an impromptu lesson in baking as she rolls out some pale biscuit dough with her trusty old wooden rolling pin which had belonged to her mother before her. Her daughter and Hilda sit at the table on tall ladderback chairs to either side of her, Edith with a bowl of creamy white marzipan icing in front of her, and Hilda with a bowl of green icing next to her. A plate of iced biscuits sits in the middle of the table between the three of them. As Ada shares her baking wisdom with Hilda, the girls ice and decorate the biscuits Ada has already baked in the oven of her range. George sits in his comfortable Windsor chair next to the warm range and listens with half an ear as he reads the newspaper.
“And then all you have to do is roll the pastry out flat on a liberally floured board like this Hilda love. Dust the top with a bit more flour before rolling it out, and coat your rolling pin with plenty flour too to prevent it from sticking or tearing the dough as you roll it out. Oh, and make sure your biscuit cutters are nicely floured,” Ada instructs Hilda who watches her with rapt attention as Ada takes her silver metal Christmas tree biscuit cutter and pushes it with a gentle press into the dough rolled out before her. “And that will ensure that your biscuit comes out nice and cleanly.” She takes her kitchen knife and deftly slips it between her board and the dough and removes a bit of the dough around the bottom of the Christmas tree shape on the outside of the cutter and then slides the knife under the tree shape to support the bottom of her freshly made biscuit and withdraws it. Placing it to the side of her wooden board closest to Hilda, Ada removes the biscuit cutter to reveal a cleanly cut and perfectly shaped Christmas tree shaped biscuit. “See.”
“Goodness Mrs. W.!” Hilda gasps. “You make it look so simple!”
Hilda quickly scribbles Ada’s words of wisdom down using a pencil in the little notebook she brought with her in her handbag for just that purpose.
“It is that simple, Hilda love.” Ada says with satisfaction, looking down at her biscuit next to her rolled out dough, before beaming brightly at her daughter’s best friend.
“Mum always makes things look easy, Hilda.” Edith says as she carefully lathers some white icing onto a golden brown baked Christmas tree biscuit. “She uses really simple, failproof recipes, and that’s what makes her cooking so good.”
“Did you teach Edith all her plain cooking skills, Mrs. W.?” Hilda asks.
“Well, most of them, Hilda love, but once she had mastered the basics,” Ada dusts her hands with flour and then rubs another biscuit cutter, this one in the shape of bell. “Edith could adapt what I’d taught her and make up her own recipes easily enough, and learn other people’s recipes.”
“I wish I’d had a mum like you, Mrs. W.” Hilda remarks. “Oh, not that my Mum is mean or nasty or anything!” she adds quickly. “But she’s not a good cook like you are, so when Edith found me the job with Mr. and Mrs. Channon as their maid-of-all-work, I wasn’t prepared to cook. I didn’t really know how to cook, even plain cooking.”
“Yes, but look how far you’ve come since then!” Edith replies encouragingly, looking earnestly at her friend.
“Only thanks to you, Edith, teaching me your mum’s basic recipes.” Hilda insists.
“Well, I’m glad that Edith’s being a help to you, Hilda love.” Ada remarks.
“I’m just glad that Mr. and Mrs. Channon dine out a lot, and use Harrods catering department for any fancy dinners at home. I’m sure I couldn’t serve your recipes for beef stew and shepherd’s pie that Edith taught me, Mrs. W., to any of their fine friends that they have over for dinner parties.”
“Edith’s quite a dab hand in the kitchen,” Ada remarks. “Although,” she adds as she eyes her daughter critically as she starts to move the icing she has plopped onto the biscuit base across the surface of it with her spatula to smooth it. “She’s not the best at icing biscuits just yet.”
“What Mum?” Edith exclaims.
“Well look, Edith love!” Ada chides, slapping her palms together, sending forth a shower of light white motes flour. “You’ve added far too much icing onto that biscuit! Here!” She reaches across and takes both the biscuit and the spatula from her daughter and scrapes the icing back into the bowl. She smiles as she looks at her daughter. “Now watch how much of the icing I scoop up on the end of the spatula.” She dips the flat blade into the bowl and scoops up a small amount of creamy white icing and carefully spreads it with zig-zag strokes across the biscuit from the wider bottom up to the top. “See.” She holds the biscuit up so both Edith and Hilda can observe. “A smaller amount is much easier to work with. And if you don’t have enough, you can always scoop up a tiny scraping more to finish it off.” She smiles as she easily moves the icing around to the edge of the biscuit. “There.”
“Thanks awfully, Mum!” Edith says gratefully, accepting the iced biscuit and the spatula back.
“Now you decorate it with those pretty silver sugar balls, Edith love.” Ada directs her daughter. “You’re far better at that than me.” She turns to Hilda. “Edith has more patience for that kind of thing than I do. She got that from her dad.”
“She did, that!” George pipes up from his comfortable seat drawn up to the old kitchen range as it radiates heat. He lowers his copy of The Sunday Express*** which crumples nosily as he does so. “Some things in this world need patience, like growing marrows.”
“I need patience to deal with you, George Watsford!” Ada says, turning around and placing her still floured hands on her ample hips and giving her husband a dubious look.
“Growing marrows, Mr. W.?” Hilda queries.
“Oh, ignore him, Hilda!” Edith giggles. “Dad’s mad keen about his marrows, even when he can’t grow them as well as Mr. Johnston does.”
“You watch, oh-she-of-little-faith,” George nods in his daughter’s direction and gives her a serious look. “Mr. Pyecroft and I are going work out what’s in his fertiliser and grow a marrow bigger than he’s ever seen! You mark my words!”
“Yes Dad!” Edith replies, rolling her eyes and giving her best friend across the table a cheeky smile as she giggles.
“I’ll have no talk of fertiliser in my kitchen, George,” Ada says. “And that’s a fact!” Pointing to the Sunday Express open across his lap she adds, “Back to your crossword****.”
“With pleasure,” George remarks, coughing and clearing his throat as he lifts the paper back up again, obscuring his face from the three women around the kitchen table.
“Now Hilda love, you try icing a biscuit too.” Ada encourages, nodding at the large white bowl of green icing at Hilda’s right. “Do it the same way you just saw me do it. Just take up a bit of icing on the end of your spatula and smear it across left to right as you work your way up the biscuit.”
“Alright Mrs. W., I’ll try.” Hilda replies as she picks up a Christmas tree biscuit from the baked but undecorated stack of festively shaped biscuits on her left.
“You saw how much I scooped up on the end of the spatula, so you know now how not to overload it.” She watches carefully as Hilda dips her spatula into the bowl of peppermint green icing and coats it with a small amount of icing. “Good love. Good!” she approves as Hilda begins to smear the icing across the surface of a biscuit. “Edith and I will make a baker of you yet.”
“Oh I don’t know about that Mrs. W.” Hilda says doubtfully.
“Yes we will, Hilda.” Edith replies encouragingly. “We’ll have you baking cakes in no time!”
“And then, you’ll have every hungry young man come pounding on your door, Hilda love, you mark my words.” George says from behind the newspaper. “And you’ll never be short of handsome young suitors.”
“Mr. W!” Hilda blushes at George’s remark.
“Dad!” Edith exclaims.
“I’m just stating the truth, Edith love.” George replies as he lowers the newspaper again. Closing it and folding it in half, he slips his pen into his argyle check printed***** brown, white and burnt orange vest. He drops the paper on the hearth beside his chair and stands up. He takes a few steps across the flagstones to the kitchen table and stands next to his wife. Wrapping his arm lovingly around her shoulder he tells his daughter and her friend, “Your mum wouldn’t have been nearly as attractive the day I met her at that picnic in Roundwood Park****** organised by the Vicar, if she hadn’t been carrying a tin of her best biscuits at the time. She knows the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” He leans forward and reaches across the table, snatching up a decorated Christmas tree biscuit and scoffing half of it into his mouth before anyone can stop him.
“George!” Ada slaps her husband’s shirt clad forearm. “We’ll have no biscuits for Christmas Day, between you eating my biscuits and Edith eating the icing!” she scolds with a good natured chuckle. “Now back to your newspaper this minute,” She picks up her flour dusted rolling pin in her right hand and starts lightly slapping her open left hand palm warningly and eyes her husband. “Before I bar you from my kitchen and banish you to the front parlour.”
“What?” George exclaims. “With no fire up there in the grate! I’ll freeze!”
“It would serve you right, for pinching one of my biscuits! But since it’s so close to Christmas, and I’m full of festive cheer today, I’ll give you a reprieve. Back to your crossword, Mr. W.,” Ada says warningly, using Hilda’s shortened version of their surname, but saying it with a slight smirk to show that she isn’t really cross with him. “Right this minute, or you’ll be out in the cold!”
“Yes Mrs. W.!” George replies, munching contentedly on his mouthful of biscuit, holding the green iced trunk and lower branches of his stolen biscuit in his right hand.
“That’s very good, Hilda love.” Ada says, returning her attention to Hilda and looking at her biscuit, as George settles back down in his chair and takes up his newspaper again.
“Thanks awfully, Mrs. W.!” Hilda says with a smile as her face blanches at Ada’s praise.
“Oh! That looks beautiful, Edith love!” Ada exclaims looking at the pretty pattern of silver balls her daughter has made on the surface of her own white icing clad biscuit. “It looks too good to eat.”
“Almost!” Goerge pipes up from behind the Sunday Express again.
“Crossword!” Ada warns him.
Ada settles back into her rhythm of stamping out biscuits from her flattened dough: first a bell, then another Christmas tree, then a heart which she knows Edith is most looking forward to decorating for Frank for Christmas. She smiles with pleasure as she presses the heart cutter down lightly into the slightly resistant pillow like dough. The Watsford’s kitchen will once again be busy this Christmas with George and Ada’s seafaring son and Edith’s younger brother, Bert, on shore leave for the second year in a row just in time for Christmas, and Frank Leadbetter and his Scottish grandmother, old Mrs. McTavish, around their kitchen table. Ada’s elder sister, Maud, offered to host the Watsfords at the crowded little terrace in nearby Willesen that she shares with her husband Sydney and their five children, Harry, William, Ann, Nelly and Constance, but Ada declined. The two-up two-down******* Victorian terrace house isn’t much larger than the Watsford’s own Harlesden terrace and can barely fit Maud and her family, with Harry and William sleeping in the skillion roofed******** enclosed back verandah which serves as their narrow and draughty bedroom. So, with Frank and Mrs. McTavish to include in the number of guests for Christmas Day, Ada thought better of her sister’s kind offer. She, George, Edith and Bert will visit Maud and her family on Boxing Day instead, which is traditionally when the two families get together.
“Are all these biscuits for Christmas Day, Mrs. W.?” Hilda asks, breaking into Ada’s consciousness.
“Deary me, no, Hilda love!” Ada exclaims, raising her flour dusted hands in protest. “I always make tins of my homemade biscuits to give as gifts every Christmas.”
“That’s a good idea, Mrs. W.!” Hilda remarks. “Everyone enjoys a nice homemade biscuit or two with their tea, whoever they are, don’t they?”
“I for one, find one of Ada’s biscuits with tea to be one of life’s pleasures.” George remarks from behind the newspaper. Ada and the girls listen as he pops the last of his stolen biscuit in his mouth and munches on it noisily, sighing as he does.
“Well, play your cards right, and behave yourself, George,” Ada replies. “And you may have one with your tea when Hilda, Edith and I have finished.”
“No-one says no to a tin of Mum’s homemade biscuits.” Edith adds as she slips her spatula into her bowl of white icing and withdraws a much smaller amount of icing this time before starting on decorating a heart shaped biscuit from her pile.
“Much better amount, Edith love.” Ada nods approvingly.
“Will we have enough biscuits to give some to Frank and Mrs. McTavish on Christmas Day?” Edith asks.
“Didn’t we last year, Edith love?”
“Yes.”
“So we will again this year, then.”
“That’s good, Mum. Thank you.”
“That’s alright, love. Although I know you’re only asking me because you just want to give Frank all the heart shaped biscuits you bake and decorate.” Ada smiles indulgently. “Don’t you, Edith love?”
Edith gasps and flushes at her mother’s wry observation. “Oh no, Mum!” she defends herself, but then adds, “Well, not all the heart biscuits, at any rate.”
“Aha!” Ada clucks. “I better make a few extra hearts then, hadn’t I?”
“It’s a shame you can’t come for Christmas too, Hilda!” Edith says. “Think what fun we’d all have playing charades********* after our Christmas dinner!”
“Oh thank you Edith,” Hilda replies. “That would be ever so much fun, but you’ve scarcely got enough room around this table for your family and Frank and his gran, never mind me.”
“We always have room at our table on Christmas Day for any waif or stray at a loose end.” George says, lowing the paper and looking earnestly at Hilda. “Isn’t that right, Ada?”
“George is right, Hilda.” Ada presses out a final gingerbread man biscuit and slips it along with the others on a battered old baking tray, ready for the hot oven behind her. She looks at Hilda and gives her a friendly smile. “You’d be very welcome.”
“Oh, it’s kind of you, Mrs. W., but I can’t even though I’d like to.”
“Well, I imagine you’ll want to be with your own family on Christmas Day, anyway.” Ada remarks as she picks up the tray of unbaked biscuits, turns around and walks over to the range where she opens the door of the baking oven with the aid of a protective tea towel and slips the tray into its glowing interior.
“Oh it isn’t that, Mum. Hilda will be in Shropshire with Mr. and Mrs. Channon on Christmas Day, pretending to Mrs. Channon’s lady’s maid again, to help her save face.”
“What’s that, Hilda love? Christmas with strangers, so far away?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Channon are hardly strangers, Mrs. W.,” Hilda answers. “And I don’t really mind.”
Edith smiles over the table at her friend decorating her biscuit with a random smattering of silver balls, rather than a carefully arranged pattern like her. “At least you’ll know all the quirks about how the Lancravens’ house works this year, and how you’re supposed to behave, where you’re supposed to sit, and what name you’ll have to answer to.”
“Edith’s is right, Mrs. W..” Hilda explains. “Mr. and Mrs. Channon and Mr. Channon’s parents the Marquis and Marchioness of Taunton have been invited to spend Christmas and New Year again this year at Lady Lancraven’s country house in Shropshire. We went there last Christmas. Lady Lancraven invites them so they can enjoy the foxhunt she hosts on Boxing Day. I have to go and pretend to be Mrs. Channon’s lady’s maid, as everyone else who stays has a lady’s maid, or a valet if you’re a man.”
“They call Hilda ‘Channon’ because she is Mrs. Channon’s maid.” Edith giggles.
“Yes, that’s how it is in those old country houses.” Ada says knowingly. “It’s a most peculiar tradition. Just as peculiar as the idea that men and women riding horses to chase after a fox is seen as sporting! How anyone can hurt a poor little fox and hunt it down’s beyond me.” Ada mutters shaking her head as she returns to the table from the oven.
“It’s what they do, Ada love,” George says, lowing his paper again. “And they’ve been doing it for generations. It’s a rum business**********, and that’s a fact, but,” He shrugs. “There’ll be no changing them now.”
“Luckily I don’t have to go to that part of the Christmas and New Year celebrations, Mr. W., but I do have to say that as servants, Lady Lancraven lets us have a bit of fun at Christmas. There is even a servants’ ball*********** held for us on Twelfth Night************.”
“I remember the servant’s ball at the big house my Mum used to work in back when I was still a little girl.” Ada says wistfully. “I was allowed to stay up late as a treat and go with Mum to the party, so long as I sat in the corner and kept out of trouble. Oh, the music was grand!” She sighs deeply as she remembers. “There was an upright piano in the servant’s hall which one of the men played, and someone else played the fiddle, and of course everyone sang back in those days with no wireless to listen to for entertainment. The master and mistress of the house would come down for a short while and he would dance with the housekeeper and she with the butler.”
“It’s the same at Lady Lancraven’s, although there’ll be no Lord Lancraven this year, since she’s a widow now.”
“The Merry Widow,” Edith giggles. “Is what the society pages call her.”
“Edith!” Ada chides.
“I’m only quoting what they say in the newspapers, Mum.”
“You’re quoting idle and wicked gossip, young lady,” Ada wags her finger at Edith. “And you know I can’t abide nasty gossip, even if someone thinks it worthy to print in the newspapers.”
“No Mum.” Edith mutters apologetically.
“As I remember it,” Ada remarks, shifting the conversation back to her own childhood memories of her life when Harlesden was still semi-rural************. “The Master and Mistress always found it a bit awkward, dancing and mixing with the servants, and they never stayed for long, but this was when the old Queen was still on the throne, and times were a bit different and more formal then.”
“Well, Lord and Lady Lancraven didn’t stay for long either, Mrs. W., but some of the younger guests upstairs who had come to stay for Twelfth Night festivities last year came down and joined us. It was rather a lark!”
“I hope none of those young men from upstairs tried to take advantage of you, Hilda!”
“No, just a leering footman.” Edith remarks, remembering her friend talk about Lady Lancraven’s presumptuous first footman who winked at Hilda and flirted with her last year.
“What’s that?” Ada queries.
“It’s alright, Mrs. W.. I have protection when I go there. The other reason why Mrs. Channon accepted the Lancravens’ invitation last year, and this year again, is because my elder sister, Emily, is Lady Lancraven’s lady’s maid, so it means I get to spend Christmas and New Year with her.”
“Oh that must be nice for you, Hilda love, especially since you’ll be so far from home.” Ada remarks as she begins pulling all the excess pieces of dough together and re-forming it into a ball to roll out again.
“And this year, because my sister explained that I was going up there again as Mrs. Channon’s lady’s maid, she asked Lady Lancraven if she could invite our Mum and bring her up from London by train and have her stay for Christmas and New Year, and she said yes!”
“Won’t your dad mind, Hilda love?” Ada asks. “He’ll be lonely at Christmas without your mum for company.”
Both girls stop decorating their biscuits and an awkward silence falls across the table.
“No Mrs. W.,” Hilda finally says. “My Dad was killed in the Great War, out in France, you see.”
“Oh!” Ada raises her hands to her cheeks, feeling the heat of an awkward blush beneath her fingers. “Oh I’m sorry love. I… I didn’t know.”
“It’s alright, Mrs. W.. I never told you.” Hilda replies. “Anyway, it’s Mum who gets lonely, what with Ronnie on the other side of the world for work, and Emily and me in service.”
“No doubt the fare up to Shropshire is at your sister’s expense.” George remarks dourly, tutting as he changes the subject slightly and shakes the newspaper noisily.
“No Mr. W.!” Hilda replies as she slides her decorated biscuit onto the white porcelain plate in the centre of the kitchen table. “Lady Lancraven’s not like that at all! She’s ever so nice, and generous too. She’s so nice in fact that she’s footing the cost of the railway ticket for Mum from London to Shropshire and back home again after Twelfth Night.”
“Well, that is a turn up for the books, Hilda love.” George remarks with a smile.
“It will be so lovely to have both Mum and Emily and me together for a few days at Christmas, even if Emily and I will still have to work. We’ll have fun when we’re not.”
“Couse you will, Hilda love.” Ada agrees.
“Well, we might not be a grand country house, Hilda, but we’re going to have ever so much fun right here on New Year’s Eve.” Edith enthuses.
“You aren’t going back to the **************Angel in Rotherhithe with Frank like the last two years, then, Edith?” Hilda asks.
“Why would they do that, Hilda love,” George asks. “When they can have a better time of it right here?”
“Dad’s decided that he wants to have a knees up right here, Hilda, especially since Bert is going to be home on shore leave for both Christmas and New Year this year. Bert is inviting some of his chums from the Demosthenes*************** who are also on shore leave and staying in London.”
“I hope his friends aren’t going to be too rough and rowdy.” Ada says with concern as she kneads the dough.
“Of course they won’t be, Ada love!” George tuts from his chair. “He’s working in the rarified surrounds of the Demosthenes’ first-class dining saloon, not her boiler room.”
“Well, rarified or not, I bet there are plenty of rowdy lads working in the first-class dining saloon, George.” Ada scoffs as she picks up her rolling pin and begins to roll out the lightly dusted ball of leftover dough into another, flat circle.
“Well I’m inviting some of my old chums from school,” Edith assures her mother calmly as she starts to ice a biscuit in the shape of a jolly, round snowman. “And that includes Alice Dunn****************, so Bert’s friends will just have to behave, Mum.”
“See, Ada love,” George opines. “Invite the Vicar’s daughter, and they’ll be sure to behave.”
“Pshaw!” Ada scoffs, flapping her hand, shooing away her husband’s remark flippantly. “With a bottle of champagne promised to Edith by Miss Chetwynd as a New year gift,” She stops rolling out the dough, turns and looks at her husband with a cocked eyebrow and a doubtful look. “I hardly think so.”
“Well, we’ll only be a few footsteps away, up in the front parlour with Mr. and Mrs. Pyecroft, Ada love, so I doubt there will be too many shenanigans going on.”
“I should hope not!” Ada goes back to rolling out the dough. “Shenanigans indeed!”
“It’s going to be so much fun!” Edith says. “I do wish you could come!”
“It’ll be more fun if Frank comes through with that gramophone he keeps promising.” George says.
“Oh, you know Frank, Dad.” Edith defends her beau steadfastly. “If he says he’ll do something, he does it.”
“That he does, Edith love.” her father agrees.
“A gramophone, Edith?” Hilda gasps. “How ripping!”
“Yes. Frank says he knows someone from the trades union with a gramophone. His friend will be away over Christmas, so he said that Frank could borrow it for New Year’s Eve. Apparently he had all the latest records.”
“That will make your New Year’s Eve, Edith! Do you remember that day we went down Oxford Street and went into His Master’s Voice***************** and you convinced me to come inside with you, so we could enjoy the elicit delight of listening to records we were never going to buy?”
“Faint heart never won fair lady, Hilda.” Edith giggles.
“That’s right!” Hilda exclaims. “That’s what you told me before you dragged me in there.”
“I hardly dragged you, Hilda.” Edith retorts. “You wanted to listen to Paul Whiteman.”
“And I did!” Hilda giggles with delight.
“Perhaps it’s more Edith and her girlfriends we need to worry about rather than Bert and his shipmates on New Year’s Eve, Ada love.” George ventures with a conspiratorial smile and a wink at his daughter.
*’Claude Duval’ is a 1924 British silent adventure film directed by George A. Cooper and starring Nigel Barrie, Fay Compton and Hugh Miller. It is based on the historical story of Claude Duval, the French highwayman in Restoration England who worked in the service of exiled royalists who returned to England under King Charles II.
**The Willesden Empire Hippodrome Theatre was confusingly located in Harlesden, although it was not too far from Willesden Junction Railway Station in this west London inner city district. It was opened by Walter Gibbons as a music hall/variety theatre in September 1907. In 1908, the name was shortened to Willesden Hippodrome Theatre. Designed by noted theatre architect Frank Matcham, seating was provided for 864 in the orchestra stalls and pit, 517 in the circle and 602 in the gallery. It had a forty feet wide proscenium, a thirty feet deep stage and eight dressing rooms. It was taken over by Sydney Bernstein’s Granada Theatres Ltd. chain from the third of September 1927 and after some reconstruction was re-opened on the twelfth of September 1927 with a programme policy of cine/variety. From March 1928 it was managed by the Denman/Gaumont group, but was not successful and went back to live theatre use from 28th January 1929. It was closed in May 1930, and was taken over by Associated British Cinemas in August 1930. Now running films only, it operated as a cinema until September 1938. It then re-opened as a music hall/variety theatre, with films shown on Sundays, when live performances were prohibited. The Willesden Hippodrome Theatre was destroyed by German bombs in August/September 1940. The remains of the building stood on the High Street for many years, becoming an unofficial playground for local children, who trespassed onto the property. The remains were demolished in 1957.
***The Daily Express is a national daily United Kingdom middle-market newspaper printed in tabloid format. It was first published as a broadsheet in London in 1900 by Sir Arthur Pearson. Its sister paper, the Sunday Express, was launched in 1918. Under the ownership of Lord Beaverbrook, the Express rose to become the newspaper with the largest circulation in the world, going from two million in the 1930s to four million in the 1940s.
****The Sundy Express became the first newspaper to publish a crossword in November 1924.
*****An argyle pattern features overlapping diamonds with intersecting diagonal lines on top of the diamonds. They are traditionally knit, not woven, using an intarsia technique. The pattern was named after the Seventeenth Century tartan of Clan Campbell of Argyll in western Scotland.
******Roundwood Park takes its name from Roundwood House, an Elizabethan-style mansion built in Harlesden for Lord Decies in around 1836. In 1892 Willesden Local Board, conscious of a need for a recreation ground in expanding Harlesden, started the process of buying the land for what is now Roundwood Park. Roundwood Park was built in 1893, designed by Oliver Claude Robson. He was allocated nine thousand pounds to lay out the park. He put in five miles of drains, and planted an additional fourteen and a half thousand trees and shrubs. This took quite a long time as he used local unemployed labour for this work in preference to contractors. Mr. Robson had been the Surveyor of the Willesden Local Board since 1875. As an engineer, he was responsible for many major works in Willesden including sewerage and roads. The fine main gates and railings were made in 1895 by Messrs. Tickner & Partington at theVulcan Works, Harrow Road, Kensal Rise. An elegant lodge house was built to house the gardener; greenhouses erected to supply new flowers, and paths constructed, running upward to the focal point-an elegant bandstand on the top of the hill. The redbrick lodge was in the Victorian Elizabethan style, with ornamented chimney-breasts. It is currently occupied by council employees although the green houses have been demolished. For many years Roundwood Park was home to the Willesden Show. Owners of pets of many types, flowers and vegetables, and even 'bonny babies' would compete for prizes in large canvas tents. Art and crafts were shown, and demonstrations of dog-handling, sheep-shearing, parachuting and trick motorcycling given.
*******Two-up two-down is a type of small house with two rooms on the ground floor and two bedrooms upstairs. There are many types of terraced houses in the United Kingdom, and these are among the most modest. The first two-up two-down terraces were built in the 1870s, but the concept of them made up the backbone of the Metroland suburban expansions of the 1920s with streets lined with rows of two-up two-down semi-detached houses in Mock Tudor, Jacobethan, Arts and Crafts and inter-war Art Deco styles bastardised from the aesthetic styles created by the likes of English Arts and Crafts Movement designers like William Morris and Charles Voysey.
********A skillion roof, sometimes called a shed or lean-to roof, is distinguished by a single, sloping plane extending from one side of the house to the other.
*********Charades is a word guessing game where one player has to act out a word or action without speaking and other players have to guess what the action is. It's a fun game that's popular around the world at parties, and was traditionally a game often played on Christmas Day after luncheon or dinner by people of all classes.
**********The word “rum” can sometimes be used as an alternative to odd or peculiar, such as: “it's a rum business, certainly”.
***********The servants’ ball has had a long tradition in the country house estates of Britain and only really died out with the onset of the Second World War. They were a cultural melting pot where popular music of the day would be performed alongside traditional country dance tunes. Throughout the Nineteenth Century and into the Twentieth, these balls were commonplace in large country homes.
************Twelfth Night (also known as Epiphany Eve depending upon the tradition) is a Christian festival on the last night of the Twelve Days of Christmas, marking the coming of the Epiphany. Different traditions mark the date of Twelfth Night as either the fifth of January or the sixth of January, depending on whether the counting begins on Christmas Day or the twenty-sixth of December. January the sixth is celebrated as the feast of Epiphany, which begins the Epiphanytide season.
*************It may be built up and suburban today, but Harlesden was just a few big houses and farms until 1840 when the railway was built. Irish immigrants escaping famine in the 1840s came to Harlesden to build canals and railways. Harlesden grew slowly, but by the 1870s and 1880s, when Ada would have been a girl, streets of small houses for railway workers, laundries and bakeries started to appear and the area slowly transformed from rural to suburban. The land around Harlesden Green, for the most part, was owned by the College of All Souls, Oxford, which was later to give its name to the Harlesden Parish Church.
**************The Angel, one of the oldest Rotherhithe pubs, is now in splendid isolation in front of the remains of Edward III's mansion on the Thames Path at the western edge of Rotherhithe. The site was first used when the Bermondsey Abbey monks used to brew beer which they sold to pilgrims. It is located at 24 Rotherhithe St, opposite Execution Dock in Wapping. It has two storeys, plus an attic. It is built of multi-coloured stock brick with a stucco cornice and blocking course. The ground floor frontage is made of wood. There is an area of segmental arches on the first floor with sash windows, and it is topped by a low pitched slate roof. Its Thames frontage has an unusual weatherboarded gallery on wooden posts. The interior is divided by wooden panels into five small rooms. In the early Twentieth Century its reputation and location attracted local artists including Augustus John and James Abbott McNeil Whistler. In the 1940s and 50s it became a popular destination for celebrities including Laurel and Hardy. Today its customers are local residents, tourists and people walking the Thames Path.
***************The SS Demosthenes was a British steam ocean liner and refrigerated cargo ship which ran scheduled services between London and Australia via Cape Town. It stopped at ports including those in Sydney and Melbourne. She was launched in 1911 in Ireland for the Aberdeen Line and scrapped in 1931 in England. In the First World War she was an Allied troop ship.
****************The vicar of All Souls Parish Church in Harlesden between 1918 and 1927 was Ernest Arnold Dunn. Whilst I cannot find any details about his family life, I’d like to think that he was a happily married man of god and could well have had a daughter named Alice who no doubt played the organ in church on Sundays.
*****************The Gramophone Company, who used the brand of Nipper the dog listening to a gramophone, opened the first His Master’s Voice (HMV) shop in London’s busy shopping precinct at 363 Oxford Street in Mayfair on the 20th of July 1921. The master of ceremonies was British composer Sir Edward Elgar. The shop still remains in the possession of more recently financially embattled HMV and it is colloquially known as the ‘home of music since 1921’
This cheerful festive domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Central to our story are the delicious looking plate of iced and decorated Christmas biscuits, which is a miniature artisan piece gifted to me by my dear Flickr friend and artist Kim Hagar (www.flickr.com/photos/bkhagar_gallery/), who surprised me with it last Christmas. The silver miniature biscuit cutters, all of which have handles and raised edges, just like their life-sized counterpart, are also from her. I have been anxious to use these in a scene, but of course being festively themed, they have had to wait until now.
The flour and dough covered wooden board with its flour dusted rolling pin is also an artisan miniature which I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. Aged on purpose, the rather worn and beaten looking enamelled cannisters for flour and sugar, made in typical domestic Art Deco design and painted in the popular kitchen colours of the 1920s are artisan pieces I also acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop. The glass jar of sugar with its cork stopper and the silver spoon sticking out of the flour cannister also come from there.
The two bowls of icing you can just see to the left and right of the photo are also 1:12 artisan miniatures that I acquired from former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her food looks so real! Frances Knight’s work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination.
Ada’s Windsor chair is a hand-turned 1:12 artisan miniature which came from America. Unfortunately, the artist did not carve their name under the seat of either chair, but it is definitely an unmarked artisan pieces.
Ada’s worn kitchen table I have had since I was a child of seven or eight.
Letter generously translated by Nettenscheider and xiphophilos, penned somewhere in France on the 8th May 1915. The author writes to his sister and brother-in-law "Twice we've heard a double thunder, which we initially could not distinguish, that is, thunder from a lightening storm and the thunder of cannons. Of course, whenever they strike close by and burst, the difference is great." . Photogr. „Foto Automatic Union G.m.b.H. München“.
Another member of bayer. Reserve-Infanterie-Regiment No. 1 posing for a memento photograph somewhere near his Munich garrison. This fellow joins the thirteen other photographs I have, taken in exactly the same spot.
From the same photographer:
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Tonight, Lettice is entertaining her old childhood chum Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street, in the dining room of her Cavendish Mews flat: a room equally elegantly appointed with striking black japanned Art Deco furnishings intermixed with a select few Eighteenth Century antiques. The room is heady with the thick perfume of roses brought back from Glynes, the Chetwynd’s palatial Georgian family estate in Wiltshire, from where Lettice has recently returned after visiting a neighbour of sorts of her parents, Mr. Alisdair Gifford who wishes Lettice to decorate a room for his Australian wife Adelina, to house her collection of blue and white china. A bowl full of delicate white blooms graces the black japanned dining table as a centrepiece, whilst a smaller vase of red roses sits on the sideboard at the feet of Lettice’s ‘Modern Woman’ statue, acquired from the nearby Portland Gallery in Bond Street. Silver and crystal glassware sparkle in the light cast by both candlelight and electric light. The pair of old friends have just finished a course of Suprême de Volaille Jeanette: a fillet of chicken served with a rich white roux creamy sauce, ordered from Harrod’s Meat and Fish Hall* and warmed up and finished off by Edith, Lettice’s maid, in the Cavendish Mews kitchen. Gerald returns to the table with two small glasses of port after filling them from a bottle of liqueur in Lettice’s cocktail cabinet in the corner of the room just as Edith steps across the threshold of the dining room carrying a silver tray laden with three types of cheese and an assortment of biscuits, wafers and crackers.
“About time, Edith.” Lettice mutters irritably as Edith approaches and slides the tray gently onto the dining table. “Careful! Don’t scratch the table’s surface.”
“I’m sorry, Miss.” Edith says as she blushes, a lack of understanding filling her face. “I… I didn’t realise I was scratching it.”
“Well, you haven’t, Edith,” she snaps back. “But you need to be more careful!”
“Yes Miss.” Edith bobs a curtsey, a wounded look on her usually bright face.
Glancing between Lettice toying distractedly with the rope of pearls about her neck looking anywhere but at either her maid or himself, and the poor embarrassed domestic, Gerald pipes up, “There’s nothing to apologise for, Edith. There’s no harm done. Miss Chetwynd is just a bit tired and overwrought. Aren’t you Lettice darling?”
When Lettice doesn’t answer, whether because she hasn’t heard Gerald as she gets lost in her own thoughts, or because she knows that she is in the wrong, admonishing her maid like that for no reason, Gerald adds, “The Suprême de Volaille Jeanette was delicious. Thank you.” He then gently indicates with a movement of his kind eyes and a swift sweeping gesture of his hand that she should go.
“Yes Sir. Thank you, Sir.” Edith replies as she bobs a second curtsey and quickly scuttles back through the green baize door leading from the diming room back into the service area of the flat.
“You don’t seem yourself at all, Lettice darling!” Gerald says in concern once he estimates that Edith is out of earshot. “Upbraiding Edith like that, and for no good reason. She didn’t mark the table. You’ve been in a funk ever since you came back from Wiltshire.” He pauses momentarily and reconsiders. “Actually no, you’ve been like this for a little while before that.” He looks at her knowingly. “What’s the matter with you, darling?”
“Oh I’m sorry.” Lettice sighs.
“It’s not me you should be sorry to.”
“I’ll apologise to Edith a little bit later. I’ll let her settle down first.”
“Well, I should hope you will.” Gerald takes a sip and cocks his eyebrow over his eye as he stares at Lettice. “Alright, out with it! What’s the matter, then?”
“Looking at me the way you are, can’t you guess, Gerald darling?”
“It’s that rather awful Fabian** charlatan, Gladys, isn’t it?” Gerald replies. As he does, he shudders as he remembers the awful snub Lady Gladys gave him.
Through her social connections, Lettice’s Aunt Egg contrived an invitation for Lettice to an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Caxton, who are very well known amongst the smarter bohemian set of London society for their weekend parties at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, and enjoyable literary evenings in their Belgravia townhouse. Lady Gladys is a successful authoress in her own right and writes under the nom de plume of Madeline St John. Over the course of the weekend, Lettice was coerced into accepting Lady Glady’s request that she redecorate the Bloomsbury flat of her ward, Phoebe Chambers. When Lettice agreed to take on the commission, Lady Gladys said she would arrange a time for Lettice to inspect the flat the next time Lady Gladys was in London. The day it happened, Lettice was invited to hear Lady Gladys give a reading from her latest romance novel ‘Miranda’ at its launch in the Selfridge’s book department. Wanting company, and thinking he might enjoy the outing, Lettice invited Gerald to join her. When Lady Gladys met Gerald, she took an instant dislike to him and snubbed him, calling him ‘Mister Buttons’ much to his chagrin.
“Well done, Gerald darling.” Lettice replies sulkily, toying idly with her own glass.
“So, what’s the trouble with Gladys now?” Gerald asks. “Come on, tell me all the ghastly details.”
“What’s the point, Gerald darling? It won’t make one iota of difference.” Her shoulders slump forward as she speaks.
“You don’t know that.” Gerald counters. “If nothing else, it will probably make you feel better just talking about it, and hopefully by unblocking the frustrations you so obviously feel, you’ll be a bit kinder to poor Edith.” He gives her a hopefully glance.
“I know. Edith didn’t deserve my ire.”
“Especially when she didn’t do anything wrong. It would be a shame to lose such a good maid. Good servants like Edith are hard to come by.”
“I know, Gerald! I know!”
“If I could afford to employ her full time as a seamstress, I would. However I can only afford Molly to do some piecework for me a few days a week at the moment. But once my atelier expands, you’d better watch out. I’ll poach her.”
“Edith?”
“Yes of course, darling. Who else?”
“As a seamstress? Why?”
“Good heavens! Haven’t you noticed how smartly turned out she is when she’s not in uniform and is going out?” Gerald asks with incredulity. When Lettice shakes her head coyly he continues, “For a woman who has an eye for detail, you can be very unobservant sometimes. Edith, like most working girls, makes her own clothes, I’d imagine from patterns in one of those cheap women’s magazines directed towards middle-class housewives I see flapping in the breeze at newspaper kiosks. However, unlike a great many of them, she obviously has a natural aptitude for sewing. That’s why I’d take her on as a seamstress.”
“I must confess, I’ve never really noticed what Edith wears. She’s just…” Lettice isn’t quite sure how to phrase it. “She’s just there.”
“Well, one day she may not be,” Gerald warns before taking another sip of liqueur. “And then you’ll be in trouble trying to find her like as a replacement. Anyway,” he coughs. “I’m not going to pinch her from you just yet. Now, what’s the problem with Gladys?”
Lettice lets out a very heavy sigh. “Oh, she’s awful, Gerald darling: positively frightful. She rings me nearly every day, or sometimes several times a day, hounding me! I’m starting to make Edith answer the telephone more often now, because I’m terrified that it will be Gladys.”
“Well, we all know how much dear Edith hates the telephone.”
“Well, usually that would be true, but she knows that Gladys is Madeline St John, and I’ve told her that Gladys promises to give her a few signed copies of her books one of these days, so she doesn’t seem to mind when it’s her. Gladys seems to have that common touch with her.”
“Common is right.” quips Gerald. “Low-class gutter novelist works her way into the upper echelons by way of an advantageous marriage.”
“Gerald!” Lettice gasps
“It’s true Lettice, and you must know it by now, even if you didn’t know it before.”
“Well, whatever she may or may not be, Gerald, I just can’t talk to her directly. I need a moment to gird my loins*** before I take on the unpleasant task of talking to her, or perhaps a more appropriate description would be, being spoken to by her, at considerable length.”
“You haven’t corrupted poor Edith and coerced her into telling little white lies for you when Gladys does ring and say that you’re out.”
“No!” Lettice gives Gerald a guilty side glance. “Well not yet anyway.” she corrects. “I’ve thought about doing it, and it’s a very tempting idea. However, I know how much Edith already hates answering the telephone, and being such a despicably honest girl, I think asking her to fib for me, especially to her favourite romance writer, might be just a bridge too far for her.”
“Damn the goodness of your maid, Lettice darling.” Gerald replies jokingly with a cheeky smile causing his mouth to turn up impishly, as he cuts a slice of cheese and puts it on a water cracker wafer, before lifting it to his lips.
“Oh you’re no help!” Lettuce swats at her best friend irritably. “You make me feel guilty for even countenancing such a thought.”
“Well, someone has to try and keep you honest in this sinful city, darling.” he jokes again. “Mummy would never forgive me if I didn’t try and keep you as virtuous as possible.”
“I’d believe that of Aunt Gwen.” Lettice agrees. “On the other hand, Mater is convinced that you’re the root of the destruction of her precious, obsequious youngest daughter.”
“Sadie is wiser and more observant than I’ve ever given her credit for.” Gerald murmurs in surprise. “I should be more charitable to her in future as regards her intellect.”
“That I should like to see.” Lettice giggles, a smile breaking across her lips and brightening her face, dispelling some of the gloom.
“That you will never see.” Gerald replies firmly. “That’s better. At least I made you laugh.”
“You always make me laugh, darling Gerald.” Lettice reaches across the table and grasps his hand lovingly, winding her fingers around his bigger fisted hand. “You are the best and most supportive friend I could ever hope to have.”
“Jolly good, my dear. Now, besides telephoning far too often, what else is the trouble with Gladys?” Gerald presses.
“Well, she seems to want to be in control of everything in relation to Pheobe’s Bloomsbury pied-à-terre redecoration.”
“Isn’t Gladys footing the bill, Lettice darling?”
“Well yes, she is.”
“Then it seems to me that she has every right to be involved in the decision making that goes on, particularly as you’ve told me that Phoebe shows a lack of interest in the whole project.”
“Yes, but what Gladys is doing is taking over. I don’t think she’d even engage my services if I didn’t have the contacts in the painting, papering and furnishing business she needs. I have no chance to exercise any of my own judgement. Anything I do has to be checked by her: the paint tint for the walls, the staining of the floorboards, the fabric for the furnishings. And she has demonstrated that she has no real interest in my ideas.”
“Hhhmmm…” Gerald begins, chewing his mouthful of cheese and biscuit thoughtfully before continuing. “That does sound a trifle tiresome.”
“A trifle tiresome? Gerald, you always were the master of understatement.”
“I see no reason to panic. She is the client exercising her rights. And since she is the one paying for your services, indulge her in her necessity to be consulted on all facets of the redecoration.”
“Oh I’m doing that. Against my better judgement, I’m having floral chintz draperies hung in the drawing room and bedroom because that’s what she wants.”
“Good heavens!” Gerald exclaims, nearly choking on a fresh mouthful of cheese and wafer biscuit. “You, selecting chintz as part of your décor decisions?”
“My point exactly. It isn’t me that’s decided that, it’s Gladys who has. You know how much I loathe chintz at the best of times.” Lettice shudders at the thought. “I tried hinting at some plain green hangings instead as a very nice alternative, but like anything else where I try my best to negotiate for Phoebe, I am barked at and told in no uncertain terms that I will do no such thing.”
“Negotiate for Phoebe?”
“Yes, now that I’m well and truly wound up in what you rightly called Gladys’ sticky spiderweb, I’m beginning to see things for what they truly are.”
“Such as?”
“For a start, I don’t think Phoebe is disinterested in the renovations to her pied-à-terre at all. I’ve seen with my own eyes now, how whenever Pheobe expresses an opinion contrary to that of Gladys, Gladys quickly snuffs out any dissention. As far as Gladys is concerned, her choice is not only the best and right choice, but the only choice to make. Pheobe wants to keep some of her parents’ belongings in the flat, but Gladys won’t hear of it! She wants a clean sweep! I suggest a compromise, but Gladys dismisses it. So, the colours to go on the walls, the furnishings, the fabrics, even the hideous chintz curtains have all been decided upon and approved by Gladys, and Phoebe doesn’t even get a chance to express an opinion. Phoebe isn’t disinterested, she’s simply overruled and completely smothered by Gladys’ overbearing nature.”
“Delicious.” Gerald murmurs as he leans his elbows on the black japanned surface of the dining table and leans forward conspiratorially.
“It’s not delicious at all!” Lettice splutters. “It’s a frightful state of affairs!”
“Well, in truth, that really does sound bloody*****, Lettice darling!”
“Like I said, it’s a dreadful state of affairs! I feel as if I am betraying not only poor Pheobe, but the memory of her dead parents in favour of a domineering woman whom no-one it seems can stand up to.”
“Have you tried her husband, Sir John?”
“He kowtows to her wishes as much as anyone else. I now understand why he has such a dogged look upon his face. I thought it was just age.”
“When in fact it was just Gladys?”
“Indeed! And what’s even worse is that Gladys is wearing me down now too. It’s just easier to agree to everything she says, and not even attempt a compromise in Phoebe’s favour.”
“Well, whilst I know you don’t like the situation, from my own personal experience of dealing with difficult clients, I can say that the path of least resistance is sometimes the best. Do you remember that frock I made for Sophie Munro, the American shipping magnate’s daughter?”
Lettice considers Gerald’s question for a moment. “Yes, I think I do. Wasn’t it pale pink with blue trimming?”
“Indeed it was, Lettice darling: pink linen with blue trim, with a bias cut drape over one sleeve and a flounced skirt. Poor Sophie has an… ahem…” Gerald clears his throat rather awkwardly as he thinks of the correct phrase. “A rather Rubenesque figure, and the flounced skirt was perhaps less flattering than something with long pleats, which was I had suggested to Mrs. Munro.”
“But Mrs. Munro was like Gladys?”
“She was, darling, and she wouldn’t hear a word of it. A flounced skirt was what Mrs. Munro wanted, and a flounced skirt was what Sophie received, and she flounced her way back to America, where I’m sure her rather voluptuous derrière will be commented upon by every young eligible man on Long Island, for all the wrong reasons. However, I did it, and I cut ties with Mrs. Munro because now that my atelier is finally turning a modest profit, I can. I don’t need recommendations from her, but I do need her to be happy so that she will at least speak favourably of me, rather than say disparaging things. The same goes for you. Do what Gladys wants and then be done with her. Do it as quickly as possible, then the pain will be over, and she will praise you to boot.”
“I can’t help but feel badly for Phoebe though, Gerald.”
“I know you do, and I feel sorry for poor Sophie Munro being laughed at behind her back by young cads as she tries to be beguiling with a large derrière, but there you have it. You cannot be responsible to solve the relationship between mother and daughter.”
“Aunt and ward.” Lettice corrects.
“It equates to the same.” Gerald counters. “You are a businesswoman, Lettice, not an agony aunt******.”
“Well, you’re a businessman, and you seem to be a good agony aunt to me.”
Gerald and Lettice chuckle before Gerald replies, “Indeed I am, but I’m also a friend. You aren’t friends with Pheobe, and even if you were, you still wouldn’t be able to solve Gladys’ overbearing personality. She is who she is, and Pheobe has to learn how to make her way through life with it. Perhaps you will afford her a little freedom from Gladys by redecorating her pied-à-terre, so she can escape from under Glady’s overbearing shadow, even if the redecoration is not quite as Phoebe would have it. Even then, Phoebe will probably add her own personal touches to her new home over time. It’s only natural that she should.”
“Oh,” Lettice sighs heavily. “I suppose you’re right, Gerald.”
“Of course I’m right, Lettice darling. I’m always right.” he adds jokingly.
“Now don’t you start!” Lettice replies wearily before smiling as she recognises Gerald’s remark as a jest, teasing about Lady Gladys’ overbearing personality.
“Well, it sounds like you need a bit of cheering up, Lettice darling,” Gerald goes on as he places another slice of cheese on a biscuit.
“I could indeed, Gerald darling!”
“Well then, if you are a good girl, and apologise to Edith like I told you, like Cinderella you shall go to the ball!”
“Oh you do talk in riddles sometimes, Gerald darling! What on earth do you mean?”
“My birthday!” Gerald beams. “Come join me at Hattie’s down in Putney for my birthday!”
“You’re having your birthday at Hattie’s?” Lettice queries, her voice rising in surprise. “I thought we were going to the Café Royal****** to celebrate: my treat!”
“Now, now, be calm, Lettice darling! We are, but Hattie wants to throw a party for me on my birthday at Putney with Cyril, Charlie Dunnage and a few of the other chaps she has living with her in the house, so we’ll do that first, and then go to dinner at the Café Royal: your treat.”
“Well…” Lettice says warily. Her stomach flips every time Gerald mentions his lover, Cyril, an oboist who plays at various theatres in the West End and lives in the Putney home of Gerald’s friend Harriet Milford, who has turned her residence into a boarding house for theatrical homosexual men, not because she is in any way jealous of their relationship, but because she knows that Gerald being a homosexual carries great consequences should he be caught in flagrante with Cyril. Homosexuality is illegal******** and carries heavy penalties including prison sentences with hard labour, not to mention the shame and social ostracization that would follow any untoward revelations. It would mean the end of his fashion house and all his dreams.
Gerald misinterprets the look on his best friend’s face as being misgivings about the party. “Oh come on Lettice! Every time I’ve been spending the night with Cyril down in Putney, which has been quite a lot lately,” he confesses with a shy, yet happy smile. “I’ve been sneaking one or two bottles of champagne into his room, which he’s been stashing under the bed, so there will be plenty to drink, and Hattie is making me a birthday cake, so it will be a rather jolly party. You aren’t still imagining Hattie to be a usurper to you in my affections, are you Lettuce Leaf?”
“Don’t call me that Gerald! You know how I hate it!” scowls Lettice. “I’ll call you Mr. Buttons!” She threatens.
“You can call me what you like, Lettice darling, only please say you’ll come! You’re my best and oldest chum! It would make me so happy!”
“Oh very well, Gerald. Of course I’ll come.”
“Jolly good show, Lettice darling!” Gerald enthuses. “We’ll have a whizz of a time!”
*Harrod’s Meat and Fish Hall (the predecessor to today’s food hall) was opened in 1903. There was nothing like it in London at the time. It’s interior, conceived by Yorkshire Arts and Crafts ceramicist and artist William Neatby, was elaborately decorated from floor to ceiling with beautiful Art Nouveau tiles made by Royal Doulton, and a glass roof that flooded the space with light. Completed in nine weeks it featured ornate frieze tiles displaying pastoral scenes of sheep and fish, as well as colourful glazed tiles. By the 1920s, when this scene is set, the Meat and Fish Hall was at its zenith with so much produce on display and available to wealthy patrons that you could barely see the interior.
**The Fabian Society is a British socialist organisation whose purpose is to advance the principles of social democracy and democratic socialism via gradualist and reformist effort in democracies, rather than by revolutionary overthrow. The Fabian Society was also historically related to radicalism, a left-wing liberal tradition.
***To gird one’s loins: to prepare oneself to deal with a difficult or stressful situation, is likely a Hebraism, often used in the King James Bible (e.g., 2 Kings 4:29). Literally referred to the need to strap a belt around one's waist, i.e. when getting up, in order to avoid the cloak falling off; or otherwise before battle, to unimpede the legs for running.
****A pied-à-terre is a small flat, house, or room kept for occasional use.
*****The old fashioned British term “looking bloody” or “sounding bloody” was a way of indicating how dour or serious a person or occasion looks.
******An agony aunt is a person, usually a woman, who gives advice to people with personal problems, especially in a regular magazine or newspaper article.
*******The Café Royal in Regent Street, Piccadilly was originally conceived and set up in 1865 by Daniel Nicholas Thévenon, who was a French wine merchant. He had to flee France due to bankruptcy, arriving in Britain in 1863 with his wife, Célestine, and just five pounds in cash. He changed his name to Daniel Nicols and under his management - and later that of his wife - the Café Royal flourished and was considered at one point to have the greatest wine cellar in the world. By the 1890s the Café Royal had become the place to see and be seen at. It remained as such into the Twenty-First Century when it finally closed its doors in 2008. Renovated over the subsequent four years, the Café Royal reopened as a luxury five star hotel.
********Prior to 1967 with the introduction of the Sexual Offences Act which decriminalised private homosexual acts between men aged over 21, homosexuality in England was illegal, and in the 1920s when this story is set, carried heavy penalties including prison sentences with hard labour. The law was not changed for Scotland until 1980, or for Northern Ireland until 1982.
Lettice’s fashionable Mayfair flat dining room is perhaps a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures I have collected over time.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The silver tray of biscuits have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The empty wine glasses and the glass bowl in the centre of the table are also 1:12 artisan miniatures all made of hand spun and blown glass. They are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The vase is especially fine. If you look closely you will see that it is decorated with flower patterns made up of fine threads of glass. The cream roses in the vase were also hand made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The Art Deco dinner plates are part of a much larger set I acquired from a dollhouse suppliers in Shanghai. The cutlery set came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The candlesticks were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.
In the background on the console table stand some of Lettice’s precious artisan purchases from the Portland Gallery in Soho. The silver drinks set is made by artisan Clare Bell at the Clare Bell Brass Works in Maine, in the United States. Each goblet is only one centimetre in height and the decanter at the far end is two- and three-quarter centimetres with the stopper inserted. Lettice’s Art Deco ‘Modern Woman’ figure is actually called ‘Christianne’ and was made and hand painted by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland. ‘Christianne’ is based on several Art Deco statues and is typical of bronze and marble statues created at that time for the luxury market in the buoyant 1920s.
Lettice’s dining room is furnished with Town Hall Miniatures furniture, which is renown for their quality. The only exceptions to the room is the Chippendale chinoiserie carver chair (the edge of which just visible on the far left-hand side of the photo) which was made by J.B.M. Miniatures.
The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug hand made by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia. The paintings on the walls are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
Berlin Tiergarten Bendlerblock. The generous donor.
"Working group of homosexual members of the Bundeswehr e.V."
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, grew up. She is visiting her parents as she often does on her Wednesdays off. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price* biscuit factory in Harlesden as a Line Manager, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home. They live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street, and is far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s Mayfair flat, but has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith. Usually even before she walks through the glossy black painted front door, Edith can smell the familiar scent of a mixture of Lifebuoy Soap, Borax and Robin’s Starch, which means her mother is washing the laundry of others wealthier than she in the terrace’s kitchen at the rear of the house. Yet with her father’s promotion, Edith’s mother is only laundering a few days a week now, yet even though today is not a day for laundering, there is work to be done for Ada’s next laundry day. So we find ourselves in the Watsford’s scullery at the back of the terrace behind the kitchen, which like most Victoria era homes, also serves as the wash house.
Like all the houses in the terrace, the Watsford’s scullery has an old square-sided ceramic sink in the corner, set on bricks, joined to the same pipe as the one directly behind the wall in the corner of the kitchen, however the small room is dominated by the large built-in washing cauldron made of bricks, set above its own wood fire furnace with a copper cauldron in its centre. The distemper on the walls of the scullery are tinted ever so slightly blue, a traditional colour for laundries, as it made whites look even whiter. Around it stand wicker baskets for laundry, a dolly-peg** and a very heavy black painted mangle*** with wooden rollers, whilst on its top a panoply of laundry items stand, including an enamelled water jug, bowls, irons, a washboard and various household laundry products. The room smells comfortingly clean: scents of soap and starch that have seeped into every fibre of the space.
“Hand me that bar of Hudson’s Soap**** will you, Edith love.” Ada says to her daughter as she takes an old enamelled bowl and places it with a heavy metallic clunk on the top of the old red brick copper*****. Reaching for a silver grater she says with a resigned groan, “Time to make a batch of soap flakes******.”
“Oh, let me do that, Mum.” Edith says kindly, grasping the smooth, rounded top of the grater, just before her mother does.
“Ahh…thank you love.” Ada says gratefully, sinking down onto a small, long and worn wooden stool surrounded by baskets and tubs of soiled linen.
“You just keep sorting old Widow Hounslow’s bloomers.” Edith says with a cheeky smirk as she pulls out a bar of Hudson’s yellow soap.
“Now don’t spoil your generosity by saying nasty things about poor Mrs. Hounslow.” Ada cautions her daughter with a wagging finger.
“Pshaw! Poor my foot.” Edith pulls a face at the mention of the Watsford’s landlady, and her former employer, the wealthy and odious old widow draped in black jet and mourning barathea******* whom she grew up hearing about regularly, and seeing on the rare occasions she would deign to stop by to collect their rent in person, rather than her rent collector.
“You know Mrs. Hounslow’s husband died a hero in the siege of Mafeking in the Boer War.”
“And neither you, nor she will ever let any of us forget it, Mum.” Edith mutters, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.
“Now you know I won’t have a bad word said about her, Edith.” Ada gives her daughter a warning look. “Shame on you! She’s helped pay for many a meal in this house with her sixpences and shillings for her washing over the years.”
“Which she then takes back in exorbitant rent.”
“Exorbitant, is it now?” Ada scoffs. “Such fancy words, Miss Edith Watsford.”
“It means inflated or excessive, Mum, and you know it.” Edith counters. “She charges too much for this old place and she spends nary a penny on maintaining it. Look at this poor old thing.” She taps the crumbly red brick of the laundry copper dust from its limestone dressing coming off on her fingers in a light white powder. “I bet it hasn’t been touched by old Widow Hounslow since before I was born.”
“That’s because she doesn’t need it.” Ada says with a smile, looking affectionately at her laundry copper. “She was well made in the first place.”
“Well, whether it was well made or not, there are other things around here that old Widow Hounslow could spend some of your hard-earned money on.”
“Like what?”
“Like fixing up the plumbing, block the draughts around the windows.” Edith begins. “Maybe even install electricity.”
“Now I’m not having that put in this house!” Ada gasps. “You can’t trust it. What would I do with electricity anyway?”
“Well, you wouldn’t have to toast bread with a toasting fork over the grate. You could have a manual electric toaster********, or an electric ‘Smoothwell’ iron*********, like we have at Cavendish Mews, for a start.”
“As if I could afford either one of those contraptions!” Ada jeers with a sniff. “Not that I’d want one.”
“Well, you could at least have an electric light in the kitchen, so you and Dad could read in comfort.”
“Which we do quite successfully by oil lamp, just the same as we have been doing for many years now, thank you very much.”
“It’s not the same, Mum.” Edith takes the bar of soap and begins to run it up and down the grater, producing the first few shavings of soap as they fall into the bottom of the enamel bowl.
“It’s the devil’s work, that electricity!” Ada mutters, picking up a pillowcase from a basket and moving it to an old tub sitting at her feet. “You see the sparks come flying off the wires of the trams********** that run between Shepherd’s Bush and Hammersmith.”
“You ride it, nonetheless, Mum,” Edith replies with a smirk. She stops grating and gives her mother a knowing look. “I know you do, so it’s no good trying to pretend you don’t. The world is changing, Mum.”
“Those soap flakes aren’t going to magically make themselves, you know,” Ada nods at Edith’s still hands holding the bar of soap and the grater over the bowl. “Electricity or not.”
Edith sighs resignedly as she resumes making soap flakes. “So Mum, I saw Frank the other day,”
“Of course you did, Edith love.” Ada laughs good naturedly as she observes her daughter’s cheeks flush with pleasure at the mention of her beau. “And how is our young Frank?”
“He’s quite well, Mum. He was setting up Mr. Willison’s shop window,” Edith remarks excitedly.
“Oh, was he now? That must have made Frank very proud, getting to do something else for Mr. Willison, and being trusted with an important job like the front window.” Ada remarks cheerfully as she looks around for her brush, having spied some dried mud on the hem of one of Mrs. Hounslow’s petticoats.
“Oh yes, Mum.” Edith runs the bar of soap up and down the grater, sending a flurry of dusty flakes cascading down into the bowl as she speaks. “Mr. and Mrs. Willison had gone off to see their daughter receive an award of some kind at her school, so they let Frank do the window in their absence. Visual merchandising, he calls it.”
“Does he now?” Ada scrubs away the dried mud, revealing a shadow of brown stain beneath it on the linen.
“Oh it looked ever so splendid, Mum! Packets of tea, tins of golden syrup and black treacle, jars of jam and marmalade and colourful bunting.”
“Sounds like our Mr. Lovegrove down the High Street could learn a thing or two from Frank.” Ada remarks, more than a little tongue in cheek, smiling with delight at how proud her daughter is of her beau’s accomplishments as she brushes a loose strand of mousy brown hair streaked with silver that has escaped her bun, behind her ear.
“Well, I reckon he could, and all, Mum. There was even a pyramid of biscuit tins. Of course, McVities and Price was on the top.”
“So I should think, Edith love.” Ada remarks seriously. “There are no finer biscuits all of England than the ones your Dad keeps his eyes on. Fit for the King they are!” She breaks her seriousness and laughs jovially. “Well, it seems your young Frank is coming up in the world of business. I’m happy for him, Edith love.”
“I’m happy for him too, Mum. Guess what the window display was of, Mum?”
Ada considers her daughter’s question, albeit not seriously, for a few moments as she rummages through a tub of sheets, silently counting the number and keeping it in her head to work out what she will charge for all the laundry later. “I’m sure I couldn’t begin to hazard a guess, Edith love.”
“He was doing a window to advertise the British Empire Exhibition*********** at Wembley************.”
“Oh yes! Your Dad and I were talking about that, just the other day.”
“Really Mum?” Edith stops grating soap flakes for a moment.
“Yes, your Dad was reading me an article about it from the newspaper, by lamplight I might add,” Ada adds in pointedly at the end. “As I was doing my darning, also by lamplight.”
“Yes, yes, Mum. I take your point.” Edith rolls her eyes again.
“Well, it all sounds rather splendid, I must say, Edith love.”
“I think it will be quite a spectacle,” Edith muses. “I’ve read in Miss Lettice’s newspapers that there will be fifty-six displays and pavilions from around the Empire! Imagine that!”
“I hope she doesn’t catch you reading those newspapers of hers, Edith love.” Ada cautions her daughter.
“Oh, Miss Lettice doesn’t mind.” Edith replies breezily. “In fact, she encourages me to read them after she’s finished. She says that we women should all be aware of what is going on in the world, especially working women like me.”
“Does she indeed? It seems to me that your Miss Chetwynd has a lot of interesting ideas about what young women like you, should or shouldn’t be doing.”
“Oh she does, Mum! She’s ever so modern and forward thinking.” Edith drops the grater with a clatter into the enamel bowl and holds her arms out expansively, the half grated bar of yellow soap still in her right fist. “She says that if women want to go up in the world, and be taken seriously, then we need to keep abreast of what’s happening in the world, to prove that we aren’t stupid. Miss Lettice even says it won’t be too long before women like us will have the vote.*************”
“Well, I’m not at all sure that I agree with all Miss Chetwynd’s ideas, and I can’t say as I particularly like your head being turned by her talk about women’s suffrage************** and the like.” Ada sighs heavily. “But then again, she is one of those young flappers your Dad and I read about in the papers, and they don’t have any respect for the likes of your father’s or my opinion.”
“Oh, Miss Lettice isn’t like that at all, Mum. If she were sitting here, I’m sure she’d be ever so polite and listen to what you have to say.”
“Chance would be a fine thing!” Ada laughs, sitting back on her stool. “A fine lady like Miss Chetwynd in my scullery!” After she finishes chortling, she goes on, “Anyway, listening is one thing, Edith love. Doing is quite another. Besides, I’m sure that between the encouragement of your Miss Chetwynd and young Frank, you’ll do just as you like, with never a thought for what I consider proper for a young lady in your position.”
“Mum, as I said before, the world is changing.”
“I arrest my case. Well, the world may be changing in some respects, but it isn’t changing here in my laundry this very minute.”
“Perhaps not, Mum.” Edith concedes. “But Dad believes in women’s suffrage.”
“Your Dad,” Ada scoffs. “Believes in women’s suffrage so long as it doesn’t affect him getting his tea, nice and hot, when he comes home for it, Edith love.”
“Well, thinking of the world,” Edith says brightly in an effort to steer the conversation away from things she and her mother don’t necessarily agree on. “There will be palaces for industry, and art.”
“Where, Edith love?”
“At the British Empire Exhibition, Mum! Each colony will have its own pavilion to reflect its local culture and architecture.”
“Oh, yes,” Ada chuckles. “It will probably be quite a thing, getting to see all the countries of the world without even having to leave London.”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you, Mum, well you and Dad really.”
“What’s that, Edith love?”
“Well, Frank and I were talking, and we want to go and see the British Empire Exhibition,” Edith says tentatively. “And we thought, well, we were hoping, that you might like to come with us.”
“Oh what a lovely though, Edith love! Yes, I’m sure your Dad would love to go, and I know I would. Thank you!”
“Oh hoorah!” Edith drops the bar of soap on the edge of the copper and claps her soapy hands. “That will be ripping! We can all go! Frank is going to ask Granny McTavish.”
“Well, that will be nice, Edith love. I’m sure she’ll enjoy it, and your Dad and I would love to see her again.”
“We’ll make a day of it!” Edith says excitedly.
“How long is the British Empire Exhibition on for? I can’t remember.”
“It started last month, and it’s on until October.” Edith answers as she picks up the soap and grater again. “Why do you ask, Mum?”
“Well, I thought that maybe, if you and Frank were willing to wait, we’ll go when Bert gets his shore leave in June.”
“Oh.” Ediths face falls. “Oh, I’m sure Frank won’t mind.” She goes on a little less enthusiastically. “It will be lovely and summery then anyway: the best weather to enjoy all the wonders of the British Empire.”
“What’s the matter, Edith love?” Ada asks as she watches her daughter’s face cloud over.
“Do you think Bert would mind paying for his own ticket?”
“What a peculiar question to ask, Edith love.” Ada shakes her head. “I’m sure he won’t. What brought that out?”
“Well, its just that Frank and I thought we could pay for Granny McTavish, you and Dad, but I don’t know if we could stretch to paying for Bert too.”
“It’s good of you to buy a ticket for an old woman like Mrs. McTavish, but you mustn’t pay for us, Edith love! You Dad and I can buy our own tickets.”
“Oh, but Frank and I wanted to treat you.”
“You treat us to more than enough as it is, Edith love! Just look at that wonderful turkey you bought us for Christmas. No, you let us pay for ourselves, and save your money. You should be saving every penny of your wages that you can for when you and Frank have your own home.”
“Oh Mum! You’re as bad as Hilda!” Edith flaps her hand dismissively at her mother, swatting the idea of marriage away. “She keeps saying Frank will propose to me any day now.”
“And I shouldn’t wonder if he won’t, Edith love.” Ada replies sagely. “He obviously loves you. It’s only natural.”
“Well yes, but he’s not proposing yet.”
“But he will, Edith love, and when he does, it will be good to have some money behind you. Your Dad and I can help pay for your wedding breakfast***************, and I can help you sew your wedding dress and that of your bridesmaids, but you’ll need money to set up house together.”
“But Mum…”
“Don’t ‘but Mum’, me, my girl!” Ada wags a finger admonishingly at her daughter. “You want to talk about women’s rights? Well, it’s well within my right to say that your Dad and I will pay for our own tickets. You keep telling me that I don’t need to be doing as much laundry as I do, since your Dad got his promotion to line manager at McVities.”
“Well you don’t, Mum.”
“But that pin money**************** I make from it helps with the housekeeping, and enables me to pay for the occasional treat, like a trip to the British Empire Exhibition at Wembley.” Ada folds her arms akimbo and the steeliness in her jaw tells Edith that this is not a point she can win her mother over on. So that’s settled then. Your Dad and I will come, and Bert too, but we’ll pay our own way, thank you very much.”
“Oh, alright Mum.” Edith acquiesces.
“Good girl.” Ada purrs. “Are you still keeping your wages aside?”
“Yes Mum. I keep them in that tin you gave me for it*****************, when I went to work for old Widow Hounslow.”
“Good girl. You just keep putting any spare aside, and it will add up nicely, and be ready for the day that you do get married and need to set up house. Things may be changing in this world, but setting up home isn’t getting any cheaper.” Ada nods shrewdly. “You mark my words.”
*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.
**A dolly-peg, also known as a dolly-legs, peggy, or maiden, in different parts of Britain, was a contraption used in the days before washing machines to cloth in a wash-tub, dolly-tub, possing-tub or laundry copper. Appearing like a milking stool on a T-bar broomstick handle, it was sunk into the tub of clothes and boiling water and then used to move the water, laundry and soap flakes around in the tub to wash the clothes.
***A mangle (British) or wringer (American) is a mechanical laundry aid consisting of two rollers in a sturdy frame, connected by cogs and (in its home version) powered by a hand crank or later by electricity. While the appliance was originally used to squeeze water from wet laundry, today mangles are used to press or flatten sheets, tablecloths, kitchen towels, or clothing and other laundry.
****Robert Spear Hudson (1812 – 1884) was an English businessman who popularised dry soap powder. His company was very successful thanks to both an increasing demand for soap and his unprecedented levels of advertising. In 1837 he opened a shop in High Street, West Bromwich. He started making soap powder in the back of this shop by grinding the coarse bar soap of the day with a mortar and pestle. Before that people had had to make soap flakes themselves. This product became the first satisfactory and commercially successful soap powder. Despite his title of "Manufacturer of Dry Soap" he never actually manufactured soap but bought the raw soap from William Gossage of Widnes. The product was popular with his customers and the business expanded rapidly. In the 1850s he employed ten female workers in his West Bromwich factory. His business was further helped by the removal of tax on soap in 1853. In time the factory was too small and too far from the source of his soap so in 1875 he moved his main works to Bank Hall, Liverpool, and his head office to Bootle, while continuing production at West Bromwich. Eventually the business in Merseyside employed about 1,000 people and Hudson was able to further develop his flourishing export trade to Australia and New Zealand. The business flourished both because of the rapidly increasing demand for domestic soap products and because of Hudson's unprecedented levels of advertising. He arranged for striking posters to be produced by professional artists. The slogan "A little of Hudson's goes a long way" appeared on the coach that ran between Liverpool and York. Horse, steam and electric tramcars bore an advertisement saying "For Washing Clothes. Hudson's soap. For Washing Up". Hudson was joined in the business by his son Robert William who succeeded to the business on his father's death. In 1908 he sold the business to Lever Brothers who ran it as a subsidiary enterprise during which time the soap was manufactured at Crosfield's of Warrington. During this time trade names such as Rinso and Omo were introduced. The Hudson name was retained until 1935 when, during a period of rationalisation, the West Bromwich and Bank Hall works were closed.
*****A wash copper, copper boiler or simply copper is a wash house boiler, generally made of galvanised iron, though the best sorts are made of copper. In the inter-war years, they came in two types. The first is built into a brickwork furnace and was found in older houses. The second was the free-standing or portable type, it had an enamelled metal exterior that supported the inner can or copper. The bottom part was adapted to hold a gas burner, a high pressure oil or an ordinary wood or coal fire. Superior models could have a drawing-off tap, and a steam-escape pipe that lead into the flue. It was used for domestic laundry. Linen and cotton were placed in the copper and were boiled to whiten them. Clothes were agitated within the copper with a washing dolly, a vertical stick with either a metal cone or short wooden legs on it. After washing, the laundry was lifted out of the boiling water using the washing dolly or a similar device, and placed on a strainer resting on a laundry tub or similar container to capture the wash water and begin the drying and cooling process. The laundry was then dried with a mangle and then line-dried. Coppers could also be used in cooking, used to boil puddings such as a traditional Christmas pudding.
*****In the days before commercial washing machines and soap powder, soap flakes were often made by grating bars of washing soap into fine flakes. Soap flakes were used for a variety of purposes including bathing, laundering, and washing, including hair washing. Pure soap flakes were used alone or sometimes combined with other natural cleaning products such as baking soda, borax or washing soda to make a variety of more gregarious and specific cleaners. Soap flakes whilst labour intensive to make were an economical cleaning agent, and are still used today.
*******Barathea is a fine woollen cloth, sometimes mixed with silk or cotton, used chiefly for coats and suits. It was very popular during the Victorian era, and was often used to make widows weeds because it was good quality and would survive regular wear during the obligatory year of deep mourning and period of half mourning thereafter.
********With the arrival of wood and coal stoves in the 1880’s, a new toasting method was needed. This led to a tin and wire pyramid-shaped device which was the predecessor to what we know as the modern toaster. The bread was placed inside, and the device was heated on the stove. Fire was the source of heat for toasting bread until 1905 when the engineer Albert Marsh created a nickel and chromium composite, called Nichrome. Marsh’s invention was easily shaped into wires or strips and was low in electrical conductivity. Within months, other inventors were using Nichrome to produce electric toasters. The first successful version was brought out by Frank Shailor of General Electric in America in 1909. The D-12 model consisted of a cage-like device with a single heating element. It could only toast one side of the bread at once; the bread had to be flipped by hand to toast both sides. Better models soon followed, some with sliding drawers, others with mechanical ways to turn the bread, but the real innovation was the automatic pop-up toaster, conceived in 1919 by the American mechanic Charles Strite. The incorporated timer shut off the heating element and released a pop-up spring when the slice of toast was done. In 1926, the Waters-Genter Company used a redesigned version of the Strite’s toaster; it was called the “Toastmaster”. With a triple-loop logo inspired by its heating elements, it became part of the modern age of kitchen appliances. By the end of 1926 Charles Strite’s Toastmaster was available around the world, and became a standard in most upper-class and middle-class homes in Britain by the 1930s.
*********Originally sold in London’s Harrods department store in the early 1920s, the English Electric Premier System “Smoothwell” iron with a rubber, non-conducting handle, was supplied with its own trivet. Made in Birmingham, the ''Smoothwell Premier System'' appliance was patented as a revolutionary invention, powered by electricity. Many middle-class houses built for electricity after the war had a socket installed in the ceiling next to the light, allowing an electric iron such as the “Smoothwell” to be plugged in, allowing the modern Jazz Age housewife to iron over her kitchen table whether by day or night.
**********London United Tramways (LUT) began London's first electric tram service in July 1901. They electrified lines between Shepherd's Bush, Hammersmith, Acton and Kew Bridge. By 1906, ten municipal systems had been set up and by 1914 London operated the largest tram network in Europe. At their peak, over 3,000 trams carried a billion passengers a year over 366 miles of track. After the First World War tramways began to decline as the motor bus competed for passengers. By the late 1920s, the new buses offered higher standards of comfort, while the pre-war trams were shabby and in need of modernisation.
***********The British Empire Exhibition was a colonial exhibition held at Wembley Park, London England from 23 April to 1 November 1924 and from 9 May to 31 October 1925. In 1920 the British Government decided to site the British Empire Exhibition at Wembley Park, on the site of the pleasure gardens created by Edward Watkin in the 1890s. A British Empire Exhibition had first been proposed in 1902, by the British Empire League, and again in 1913. The Russo-Japanese War had prevented the first plan from being developed and World War I put an end to the second, though there had been a Festival of Empire in 1911, held in part at Crystal Palace. One of the reasons for the suggestion was a sense that other powers, like America and Japan, were challenging Britain on the world stage. Despite victory in Great War, this was in some ways even truer in 1919. The country had economic problems and its naval supremacy was being challenged by two of its former allies, the United States and Japan. In 1917 Britain had committed itself eventually to leave India, which effectively signalled the end of the British Empire to anyone who thought about the consequences, while the Dominions had shown little interest in following British foreign policy since the war. It was hoped that the Exhibition would strengthen the bonds within the Empire, stimulate trade and demonstrate British greatness both abroad and at home, where the public was believed to be increasingly uninterested in Empire, preferring other distractions, such as the cinema.
************A purpose-built "great national sports ground", called the Empire Stadium, was built for the Exhibition at Wembley. This became Wembley Stadium. Wembley Urban District Council was opposed to the idea, as was The Times, which considered Wembley too far from Central London. The first turf for this stadium was cut, on the site of the old tower, on the 10th of January 1922. 250,000 tons of earth were then removed, and the new structure constructed within ten months, opening well before the rest of the Exhibition was ready. Designed by John William Simpson and Maxwell Ayrton, and built by Sir Robert McAlpine, it could hold 125,000 people, 30,000 of them seated. The building was an unusual mix of Roman imperial and Mughal architecture. Although it incorporated a football pitch, it was not solely intended as a football stadium. Its quarter mile running track, incorporating a 220 yard straight track (the longest in the country) were seen as being at least equally important. The only standard gauge locomotive involved in the construction of the Stadium has survived, and still runs on Sir William McAlpine's private Fawley Hill railway near Henley.
*************In 1924 when this story is set, not every woman in Britain had the right to vote. In 1918 the Representation of the People Act was passed which allowed women over the age of thirty who met a property qualification to vote. Although eight and a half million women met this criteria, it was only about two-thirds of the total population of women in Britain. It was not until the Equal Franchise Act of 1928 that women over twenty-one were able to vote and women finally achieved the same voting rights as men. This act increased the number of women eligible to vote to fifteen million.
**************Suffrage refers to a person's right to vote in a political election. Voting allows members of society to take part in deciding government policies that affect them. Women's suffrage refers to the right of women to vote in an election.
***************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.
****************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.
*****************Prior to the Second World War, working-class people didn’t use banks, which were the privilege of the upper and middle-classes. For a low paid domestic like Edith, what little she saved she would most likely keep in a tin or jar, secreted away somewhere to avoid anyone stealing what she had managed to keep aside.
This cheerful laundry scene is not all you may suppose it to be, for the fact is that all the items are from my 1:12 miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in thus tableau include:
The red brick copper in the centre of the image is a very cleverly made 1:12 artisan miniature from an unnamed artist. Believe it of not, it is made of balsa wood and then roughened and painted to look like bricks. I acquitted it from Doreen Jeffries’ Miniature World in the United Kingdom.
The great wrought mangle with its real wooden rollers is made of white metal by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.
The dolly-peg is an antique Victorian dollhouse miniature and it’s tub is sitting behind it. I am just lucky that something from around 1860 just happens to be the correct scale to fit with my 1:12 artisan miniatures.
There is a panoply of items used in pre-war laundry preparation on the white painted surface of the copper. There are two enamel rather worn and beaten looking bowls and an enamel jug in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green. Aged on purpose, these artisan pieces I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. The grater and the two small irons also come from there. The boxes of Borax, Hudson’s Soap and Robin’s Starch and the bottle of bleach in the green glass were made with great attention to detail on the labels by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.
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.
On the little set if drawers on the wall, which came from Marie and Mick’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom, stands a box of Jumbo Blue Bag and some Imp Soap, also made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.
Reckitt and Sons who were a leading British manufacturer of household products, notably starch, black lead, laundry blue, and household polish 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.
The rusted metal washing tub that is full of white linens is an artisan miniature and comes from Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.
The stack of wood logs behind the mangle, used to feed the copper boiler, came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop, as does the basket hanging from the wall, the washboard and the airing rack.