After lunch, I finished the last of a BIG bag of cherries I brought home Friday. Tommy ate a few, but the most of them were eaten by me. I love cherries when they are plump and sweet, and the ones I have bought this summer have been very good.

 

I'm reading Julie & Julia, and I'm only on page 93, but so far I'm loving it. I remember when she was doing this "project" and writing about it in her blog. She's funny, and irreverent, but her language is somewhat, shall we say, rated R - just a warning! ;-)

I'm looking forward to the movie - I love Meryl Streep, and the trailers I've seen of her as Julia Child are great! She is spot on!

    

… it's on the kitchen table. Sharun says hello!" Suggested conversation from 50 years ago in a prairie farmhouse. Not just any kitchen either ...

 

Looks best on black ... click on the photo!

resurrectionfern.typepad.com/resurrection_fern/2010/04/if...

Our July 2014 Holiday incl. DUB-LGW-DXB-BKK-DXB-LGW-DUB || Hilton London Gatwick x2|| Banyan Tree Bangkok || Four Seasons Hotel Bangkok || Novotel Suvarnabhumi Hotel BKK || Our fourth visit to Thailand, our third visit to Bangkok || From culture, architecture, food and drinks to hospitality and urban beauty, Bangkok is the City of Life || Highly recommended || JULY 2014

299/365

 

FGR - Jars and TOTW - Obsessions

 

Obviously I may be a little obsessed with jars, and beads, and jewelry...a little? These are a few jars from a set of drawers in my sons room that I use to keep beads from broken necklaces and stuff...

 

Didn't know today was going to be so fun, but luckily it was alot better than yesterday! Woohoo! I was at a meeting today with a lady who was super struggling, and when she spoke she said, "I wish I could just bottle this up and take it with me," and a couple of guys told her she could, which was cool. But anyway, I gave her my number and got hers so I will give her a call tomorrow and just try to be a friend. She has a son who is conintuously in trouble with the law, and she wants to get sober and clean up her life so she could always use a friend who doesn't drink ya know? I'm hopeful I can add something to her life.

 

What are you guys obsessed with?

 

They have a building full of antique household objects many of which were too familiar to me. They were current artifacts when I was young which shows you how old I am. My parents had a table like this in a different color. The ice box and many of the objects that I haven't seen in years were every day equipment then.

Our July 2014 Holiday incl. DUB-LGW-DXB-BKK-DXB-LGW-DUB || Hilton London Gatwick x2|| Banyan Tree Bangkok || Four Seasons Hotel Bangkok || Novotel Suvarnabhumi Hotel BKK || Our fourth visit to Thailand, our third visit to Bangkok || From culture, architecture, food and drinks to hospitality and urban beauty, Bangkok is the City of Life || Highly recommended || JULY 2014

 

Our July 2014 Holiday incl. DUB-LGW-DXB-BKK-DXB-LGW-DUB || Hilton London Gatwick x2|| Banyan Tree Bangkok || Four Seasons Hotel Bangkok || Novotel Suvarnabhumi Hotel BKK || Our fourth visit to Thailand, our third visit to Bangkok || From culture, architecture, food and drinks to hospitality and urban beauty, Bangkok is the City of Life || Highly recommended || JULY 2014

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 however we are not in Lettice’s flat, and whilst we have not travelled that far physically across London, the tough streets and blind alleys of Poplar in London’s East End is a world away from Lettice’s rarefied and privileged world. We have come to the home of Lettice’s charwoman*, Mrs. Boothby, where we find ourselves in the cheerful kitchen cum living room of her tenement in Merrybrook Place: by her own admission, a haven of cleanliness amidst the squalor of the surrounding neighbourhood. Edith, Lettice’s maid, is visiting her Cockney friend and co-worker on a rather impromptu visit, much to the surprise of the old char when she answered the timid knock on her door on a quiet Sunday morning in early January and found Edith standing on her stoop, wrapped up against the winter cold in her black three quarter length coat – a remodelled piece picked up cheaply by the young maid from a Petticoat Lane** second-hand clothes stall, improved with the addition of a black velvet collar.

 

“Edith dearie!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims in delight and one of her fruity smokers’ coughs, a lit hand rolled cigarette in her right hand releasing a thin trail of greyish white smoke into the atmosphere. “What a luverly surprise! Whatchoo doin’ ‘ere then?”

 

“I’m sorry to pay a call unannounced, Mrs. Boothby, and I know you said I shouldn’t come here unescorted.” Edith apologises sheepishly.

 

“Not at all, dearie!” the old Cockney assures her, stepping back and opening the door to grant Edith entry. “That were ‘bout comin’ ere when it’s getting’ dark. Nastiness lurks and dwells in the shadows round these parts, but durin’ the day, so long as you ‘old onto yer ‘andbag and are aware of pickpockets, you’re pretty safe.” She stuffs the nearly spent cigarette into her mouth. “Come on in wiv ya. Can’t ‘ave you standin’ on the stoop in the cold. Got a nice fire goin’ inside to warm you up.”

 

“Thank you Mrs. Boothby.” Edith says gratefully.

 

Mrs. Boothby gives a hard stare over Edith’s shoulder as she ushers her in, glancing at the dirty lace scrim curtains of Mrs. Friedmann’s lamplit front window opposite, where she knows instinctively the nosy Jewess stands in her usual spot in one of her paisley shawls, observing the goings on of the rookery*** with dark and watchful eyes. “Piss off, Mrs. Friedmann!” Mrs. Boothby yells out vehemently across the paved court to her neighbour. “My guests ain’t none of your business, you busybody old Yid****!” She spits the cigarette butt she holds between her gritted tea and nicotine stained teeth out into the courtyard, and watches with satisfaction as the grubby and tattered scrim flutters. She turns her attentions back to Edith and says kindly, “Come on in, dearie.”

 

It takes a moment for Edith’s eyes to adjust from the weak winter light outside to the darkness within. As they do, Edith discerns the familiar things within the tenement front room that she has come to know over her occasional visits since befriending the charwoman who does all the hard graft for her at Cavendish Mews: a kitchen table not too unlike her own at the Mayfair flat, a couple of sturdy ladderback chairs, an old fashioned black leaded stove, a rudimentary trough sink on bricks in the corner of the room and Mrs. Boothby’s pride and joy, her dresser covered in a collection of pretty ornamental knick-knacks she has collected over many years. The thick red velvet curtains hanging over the windows – doubtless a remnant discarded by one of her employers last century – are drawn against the cold, their thick material performing an excellent job in excluding the draughts coming in through the small gaps around the shoddy and worn wooden window frames.

 

Mrs. Boothby shivers. “It’s a bit cold out there this mornin’, but the ‘ouse is nice and warm. I got the range goin’, Edith dearie.” the old Cockney woman says as she pulls a heavy tapestry curtain along a brass rail over the front door. The eyelets***** make a sharp squeal as she does, startling Edith. Mistaking the reason for the young woman’s head turn, Mrs. Boothby remarks, “Luverly, ain’t it?” She holds the heavily hand embroidered fabric proudly. “Got it from old Lady Pembroke-Duttson, a lady I used to do for in Westminster, ‘till ‘er ‘ouse burnt dahwn in November that is. This ‘ere were one of ‘er old bed curtains from ‘er fancy four poster. Got it in the fire sale of ‘er leftovers.” When Ediths eyes grow wide, Mrs. Boothby adds, “Oh don’t worry dearie. She ain’t perished in ‘er own fire! She lives at Artillery Mansions****** nahw, but they’s got their own live in staff to maintain the flats, so I don’t do for ‘er no more. But bein’ as she moved somewhere new and smaller, and wiv so many fings from ‘er old ‘ouse damaged by the fire, she ‘ad a fire sale and sold orf a lot of stuff that was still serviceable that she didn’t want no more. It’s good at keepin’ the draughts out. Pity the matchin’ ‘angin’ was burned up by the fire. I rather fancy smart matchn’ curtains for the windas, but you can’t ‘ave everyfink, can ya? It did pong a bit of fire smoke at first, but my cookin’ and fags soon put short shrift ta that!” She nods curtly, lifting the curtain fabric to her nose and taking a loud sniff.

 

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

 

“I know dearie, an’ it made you smile. I like it when youse smile, dearie.” The old woman joins in Edith’s laugh, releasing another of her fruity coughs as she bustles past Edith. “Nahw, you know where ta ‘ang up your coat ‘n ‘at. I’ll put the kettle on for a nice cup of Rosie-Lee*******, if this is a social call, that is.”

 

“Oh yes, thank you, Mrs. Boothby. That would be lovely.” Edith replies as she shucks herself out of her coat and hangs it on a peg by the front door. “Yes, I’ve been to services this morning already.”

 

Edith is comforted by the smells of soap and the lavender sachets Mrs. Boothby has hanging from the heavy velvet curtains to keep away the moths, the smells from the communal privy at the end of the rookery, and to a degree the cloying scent of tobacco smoke from her constant smoking.

 

“Good. Nahw, make yerself comfy at the table.”

 

“I’ll fetch down some cups.” Edith replies cheerfully.

 

“Oh you are a good girl, ‘elpin’ me out, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says gratefully, emitting another couple of heavy coughs as she stretches and pulls down the fine blue and white antique porcelain teapot she reserves for when guest come to call from the tall mantle shelf of the old fireplace out of which the old Victorian black leaded stove protrudes.

 

“Miss Eadie!” Ken, Mrs. Boothby’s mature aged disabled son, gasps in surprised delight.

 

Edith looks affectionately across the room to the messy bed nestled in the corner of Mrs. Boothby’s kitchen cum living room upon which Ken sits. Not unlike a nest would be for a baby bird, Ken’s bed is his safe place, and he is surrounded on the crumpled bedclothes by his beloved worn teddy bear, floppy stuffed rabbit and a selection of Beatrix Potter books. A gormless grin spreads across his childlike innocent face as he stumbles quickly off the bed and brushes his trousers down.

 

“Yes, it’s Miss Eadie, Ken!” his mother says brightly. “She come visitin’ us all the way from Mayfair.”

 

“Miss Eadie!” Ken exclaims again as, still clutching his teddy bear, he lollops across the room, enveloping Edith in his big, warm embrace. He smells of a mixture of cigarette smoke and the carbolic soap Mrs. Boothby uses to wash him and his clothes. A tall and muscular man in his mid-forties, his embrace quickly starts to squeeze the air from Edith’s lungs as his grasp grows tighter, making the poor girl gasp.

 

“Nah! Nah!” Mrs. Boothby chides, turning away from the stove quickly and giving her son a gentle slap to the forearm. “What do I keep tellin’ you, Ken! You dunno ya own strengf, son. Let poor Miss Eadie go will ya. You’ll crush ‘er wiv your bear ‘ug.” She emits another fruity cough as she gives him a stern look.

 

“Oh! Sorry!” Ken apologises, immediately releasing Edith from his embrace and backing away as if he’d been burned, a sheepish look on his face.

 

“It’s alright, Ken.” Edith replies breathily. “They might be crushing… but I like… your hugs.”

 

“Good!” he says definitely, the gormless grin creeping back into his face and turning up the ends of his mouth.

 

“You want some tea too, Ken luv?” Mrs. Boothby asks her son.

 

“Yes please Ma!” he replies.

 

“Good lad. Nice to ‘ear your good manners bein’ used.” she acknowledges. “Then sit dahwn at the table wiv Miss Eadie and I’ll make you a cup.”

 

Obediently, Ken takes a seat at the deal pine table on a low stool, leaving the two chairs drawn up to it for his mother and Edith as their special guest. He holds his teddy bear in front of him and looks intently at Edith. “Present!”

 

“What?” Mrs. Boothby asks, turning again to look at her son.

 

“Present!” Ken repeats, bouncing excitedly in his seat and gesticulating to a neat parcel wrapped up in brown paper and tied with blue and white twine which Edith has placed on the surface of the table. “Present, Ma!”

 

“What I tell you ‘bout pointin’, Ken!” Mrs. Boothby scolds her son. Then turning her attentions to where Ken is indicating she adds. “Just ‘cos somefink’s wrapped up in brown paper an’ tied up wiv a string don’t mean it’s a present for ya, son.”

 

“Christmas present!” Ken says, now no longer pointing, but still bouncing excitedly on his stool.

 

Mrs. Boothby rolls her eyes and shakes her head, glancing first at Ken, then at Edith and then back to Ken. “Lawd love you son, Christmas is long past! Baby Jesus is sleepin’ and won’t be back ‘till next Christmas, I told you. And that’s a whole year away!”

 

“Christmas present, Ma!” Ken continues to repeat.

 

“You want brainin’ you do!” Mrs. Boothby chides Ken good naturedly. “Oh get on wiv ya, Ken!” She chuckles as she kindly tousles her son’s hair affectionately. “Youse fink ev’ry time Miss Eadie comes visitin’ us, she’s got a present for you.” She turns her attention to Edith. “I swear he finks every parcel wrapped up is for ‘im, Edith dearie, even when it’s the sausages I done picked up from the butcher on the cheap.”

 

“Sausages!” Ken gasps.

 

“Nah son!” Mrs. Boothby assures him. “Nah sausages today. Just bread ‘n drippin’********.” She eyes him and cocks an eyebrow, and Ken falls silent, although he continues to bounce up and down on the seat of the stool, albeit a little more calmly.

 

“Well as it turns out, Mrs. Boothby, Ken is right about this being a present for him.” Edith says, pushing the present slightly further across the table towards the disabled lad.

 

“See Ma!” Ken says triumphantly, leaping up from his seat and dancing around the stool, clutching his teddy bear in joy. “Christmas present. Christmas present for Ken! See Ma! See!”

 

“You what?” Mrs. Boothby asks sharply.

 

“Ken’s right, Mrs. Boothby,” Edith says loudly over Ken’s joyful cries. “It is a present for him.”

 

“Christmas present. Christmas present for Ken! “ Ken continues to chant excitedly.

 

“Yes! Yes!” the old Cockney woman says, trying to calm her son with softening hand movements. “Alright Ken!” she insists. “I ‘eard you the first time. Youse can open your present in a minute, but first,” She eyes him seriously. “Youse gotta calm dahwn an’ let Miss Eadie and I ‘ave a cup of Rosie-Lee. Right?”

 

“Right Ma!” Ken replies, stopping his galumphing around the stool.

 

“You want a cuppa too, don’t choo, son?”

 

“Yes Ma!”

 

“Right, well.” Mrs. Boothby continues. “Best you sit dahwn ‘ere on the stool then, and wait, like a good lad. Eh?”

 

“Yes Ma!” Ken says as he returns obediently to the stool and clutches his teddy bear, trembling with excitement as he beadily keeps his eye on the package in the middle of the table, tantalisingly close enough for him to snatch.

 

“Right!” Mrs. Boothby says, filling the elegant blue and white teapot with hot water from her kettle.

 

Mrs. Boothby busies herself in the relative temporary calm of her kitchen, placing the pot on the table next to the brown paper wrapped parcel. She fills a dainty non matching blue and white jug with a splash of milk from a bottle she keeps in the coolest corner of her tenement, underneath the trough sink. She places the jug on the table along with a small sugar bowl of blue and white porcelain of a different pattern again, its lid missing, which is probably the reason why the old Cockney charwoman even has it.

 

“Right.” Mrs. Boothby says again. “I reckon that’s ‘bout it then. Fancy a biscuit then, Edith dearie?”

 

“Oh, not for me, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith protests. “Thank you though. It’s too early, and I had a nice breakfast at Cavendish Mews before Sunday services and coming here.”

 

Edith remembers to carefully avoid the use of the words ‘chapel’ and ‘minister’, remembering that they upset Ken after some of the local Christian charities in Poplar tried to take him away from his mother at various times throughout his life. According to Mrs. Boothby, a Catholic priest in the district used to bother her to have Ken committed to an asylum quite regularly, until she gave him short shrift one day after he really upset Ken. Edith glances anxiously at Ken to make sure he isn’t getting upset now, but she sighs with relief as she sees him bobbing up and down on his stool, still eyeing his wrapped gift, as if expecting it to sprout wings and fly away any moment, it being his one and only focus.

 

“I tell you what Edith dearie, I’m dying for a fag!” Mrs Boothby says as she sinks into her seat. “Nuffink better than a fag to get the chatterin’ goin’.” She starts fossicking through her capacious blue beaded handbag on the table.

 

“You don’t need a cigarette to get you chatting, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith chuckles, shaking her head.

 

“Well, maybe not, but maybe I just want an excuse for a fag. Oh!” she then adds as she withdraws a rather smart looking box from her bag. “And to show orf my luverly new present from Ken.” She reaches over and rubs her son warmly on the back. “’E found it on ‘is rag’n’bone********* run wiv Mr. Pargiter’s boys, ain’t you Ken?”

 

“Yes Ma!” Ken says, momentarily distracted by his mother asking him a question, before returning his attention to his as of yet unwrapped present.

 

Mrs. Boothby proudly holds up an Ogden’s Juggler Tabacco********** box of thick card featuring the Union Jack in each corner, extolling its British patriotism. “Nice innit?”

 

“Very nice, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith opines.

 

“Just shows you that one man’s rubbish, is someone else’s treasure***********, don’t it?” Mrs. Boothby says, opening the box by its flappable lid and fetching out a pre-rolled cigarette from amongst the stash there, along with her matches. “You just gotta ‘ave a good eye, like my boy ‘ere.” She tousles Ken’s hair affectionately again.

 

Mrs. Boothby takes her cigarette and lights it with a match and utters a satisfied sigh as she drags on it, the thin cigarette papers and tobacco crackling as she does. Still holding it between her teeth, she emits one more of her fruity coughs, blowing out a tumbling billow of acrid cigarette smoke as she does. She drops the match into a black ashtray that sits on the table full of cigarette butts. Mrs. Boothby settles back happily in her ladderback chair and with her cigarette still between her thin lips, and blowing out plumes of blue smoke that tumbles through the air around her rather like a steam train, she pours tea for Ken, Edith and herself.

 

“Christmas present, Ma!” Ken pipes up as he accepts the cup of sweet and milky tea from his mother. “Christmas present for Ken, now?”

 

Mrs. Boothby’s face crinkles as she gives in. “Oh alright then!” She laughs and coughs again. “Miss Eadie ‘n I, ‘ll get no peace whilst that’s sittin’ there unopened!” She nods at the present.

 

Ken needs no second bidding as he leaps from his seat and pounces upon the gift, tearing at the paper and string.

 

“Careful nahw, Ken luv!” Mrs. Boothby mutters. “What if it’s a crystal chandelier youse openin’ there? You’ll break it.”

 

“Not a crystal chandelier, Ma!” Ken says joyfully with a child like chuckle as he tears at the paper.

 

“You wouldn’t know a crystal chandelier if it done ‘it you in the ‘ead.” the old Cockney woman opines. Then, thinking for a moment, she corrects herself. “Then again, maybe you would. Plenty ‘a uvver fancy bits ’n pieces land in Mr. Pargiter’s carts. Why not a crystal chandelier?”

 

As Ken tears the paper noisily asunder, the cover of a book, blue and ornately printed in black and red, appears. “A book Ma! Miss Eadie got me a book!” He drops the shreds of paper and blue and white twine on the tabletop and begins flipping through the book, skipping the black and white printing, but pouring with delight over the brightly coloured illustrations, running his fingers with careful and surprisingly delicate actions for such a bulking lad over the images of characters, houses, landscapes and ornate rooms. “Oh fank you, Miss Eadie!” he exclaims in awe.

 

“You’re welcome, Ken!” Edith purrs with delight, thrilled at how happy Ken is with his gift. “Merry Christmas.”

 

“Merry Christmas Miss Eadie!” he murmurs in reply, smiling broadly as he admires a double page illustration of a woman in a pink gown clutching a paper fan, draped across a blue upholstered gilt Regency style sofa with a creature with a warthog’s ears, snout and tusks sitting in an anthropomorphic************ way opposite her, rather like a gentleman.

 

“Oh Edith dearie!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims. “It’s luverly!” She admires the fine details of the illustration, running her own bony, careworn fingers over the image of an ornate Regency pianoforte************* with a large greenish blue vase containing a flowering tree atop it. She gazes at the anthropomorphic warthog who wears a monocle against his left eye. “This is Beauty ‘n the Beast, ain’t it?”

 

“Yes,” Edith says a little wistfully. “I thought Ken could do with some books that weren’t Beatrix Potter for a change, and maybe a story about the fact that even different people can still find happiness in life was appropriate.”

 

Mrs. Boothby looks across the table at Edith with a grateful smile. She turns back and watches Ken with delight as he continues to admire the details in the colourful illustration: a blue and white tea set on a gilt table between Beauty and the Beast, a leopard skin rug beneath their feet, a lute carefully leaning against a music Canterbury**************.

 

“You spoils us, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby murmurs.

 

“Well, Ken deserves spoiling.” Edith counters with a satisfied sigh as she sips her tea. “He’s such a good boy. Anyway,” she goes on. “Think of it as a thank you to you, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Me dearie?” the Cockney woman queries. “What I ever do to deserve such a pretty book as this?”

 

“You helped me, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies. “With Frank, and all that business over moving to Metroland***************.”

 

“Ahh,” Mrs. Boothby says noncommittally as she turns her attentions away from her son and back to her guest. “So, you ‘ad a chat wiv young Frank ‘bout it then, did cha?” Another billowing and tumbling cloud of cascading cigarette smoke obscure her face, making her look all the more inscrutable.

 

Edith nods shallowly and smiles shyly as she sips her cup of tea again. “We spoke about it on New Year’s Eve.”

 

“Whatchoo say then?”

 

“Oh, I was such a fool when I came here that day before Christmas, Mrs. Boothby, crying and moaning about moving to the country, when in fact it hasn’t even happened yet,” Her face colours with embarrassment as she blushes. “And it isn’t really the country, even if it does happen. It’s just like moving to a new place: always fraught with worries, but not so terrible as to not go.”

 

Mrs. Boothby smiles and nods as she listens to her young friend, puffing smoke like a contented steam shovel**************** as she does.

 

“So you told ‘im you’d go?”

 

“If the situation arises.” Edith counters.

 

“Knowin’ young Frank and ‘is fancy ideas of betterment, and a better life for the workin’ man, I wouldn’t be surprised if it did.” Mrs. Boothby remarks sagely. “Sooner rather than later.”

 

“I think you might be right, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith says with a chuckle infused with trepidation. “But I guess that’s part of being in a partnership, isn’t it? If the dream is so important to him, I have to be prepared to support him, even if it is scary.”

 

“It’s ‘ow my Bill n’ I rolled, Edith dearie. We didn’t know what life‘d be like raisin’ a special angel like Ken.” She takes a final long and satisfying drag of her cigarette before stumping it out in the ashtray as she blows out another plume of cigarette smoke in front of her. She turns and looks at her son with loving eyes as he now looks at a picture of Beauty in an ornate gown surrounded by monkeys and baboons dressed as flunkies*****************, the allegory of Eve and the serpent appearing in a decorative panel in the background. “We didn’t know ‘ow it was gonna be, raisin’ a kiddie what them god bovverers told me was gonna ‘ave no more brain than a six year old. But Bill ‘n me, we did it.” The old woman nods and screws up her nose in determination. “I fink I told you what Lil Conway next door told me.”

 

“Tell me again, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Lil told me that all kiddies is a blessin’, and she was right. Bill ‘n I took our chances wiv Ken, and maybe we ain’t always done right, but all in all we didn’t do too bad by ‘im. We taught ‘im ‘ow ta defend ‘imself, ‘ow ta get on in the world and ‘ow ta make a livin’. It were scary, but we ‘ad each uvver, and as you say, that’s what a partnership involves: the smooth ‘n easy and the scary and unknowable, and it all works out.” She turns back and nods ad Edith knowingly. “It’ll work out for you and Frank too, Edith dearie. You’ll see. One day when youse old and grey like me, you’ll look back on this ‘ere conversation and say, ‘that Ida Boothby were right’.”

 

“Frank has to propose first.” Edith says a little glumly.

 

Mrs. Boothby reaches out her hand and places it around Edith’s, giving it a gentle and comforting squeeze. “Waitin’s the ‘ardest part of courtship, dearie.” She smiles broadly. “Just enjoy the moment. The weddin’ will come along soon ennuf, and it’ll ‘ave its own trials and tribulations that’ll make you wish youse was never getting’ married. I’m right ‘bout that too.”

 

Edith doesn’t reply, but looks at Ken and his few book as he points something important out to his teddy bear, his voice such a hushed and contented mumble now that even though he is just across the table, she cannot hear what it is he is sharing with his toy companion.

 

“You will read him the story, won’t you, Mrs. Boothby? Tell him that the Beast is kind and loving and worthy of Beauty’s love.”

 

“Well,” Mrs. Boothby looks back at the book. “I don’t really ‘old much wiv books, as you know, and they’s some pretty dense pages of writin’ in there: a bit too much for a busy soul like me wiv so much to do. But yes, I’ll tell ‘im, Edith dearie. Although,” she adds. “I might shorten it a bit. Nuffink better than a good quick story at bedtime, Eh?”

 

She winks at Edith, the folds of her pale skin hiding her sparkling left eye momentarily.

 

“You’ll learn that too when you have babies of your own. And,” She delves into her Ogden’s Juggler cigarette box again and takes out another hand rolled cigarette. “I’ll be right ‘bout that too.”

 

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

 

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

 

***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.

 

*****Eyelets, also known as grommets, are used to describe the open ring that is usually made from metal. These rings that are incorporated into the top of the curtain, enable the curtain to be open or closed.

 

******Built in Westminster, quite close to the Palace of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament Artillery Mansions was just one of the many fine Victorian mansion blocks to be built in Victoria Street around St James Underground Railway Station in the late 1800s. Constructed around open courtyards which served as carriageways and residential gardens, the mansion blocks were typically built of red brick in the fashionable Queen Anne style. The apartments were designed to appeal to young bachelors or MPs who often had late parliamentary sittings, with many of the apartments not having kitchens, providing instead communal dining areas, rather like a gentleman’s club. Artillery Mansions, like many large mansion blocks employed their own servants to maintain the flats and address the needs of residents. During the Second World War, Artillery Mansions was commandeered by the Secret Intelligence Service as a headquarters. After the war, the building reverted to private residences again, but with so many of its former inhabitants either dead, elderly or in changed circumstances owing to the war, it became a place to house many ex-servicemen. The Army and Navy Company, who ran the Army and Navy Stores just up Victoria Street registered ‘Army and Navy Ltd.’ at Artillery Mansions as a lettings management company. By the 1980s, Artillery Mansions was deserted and in a state of disrepair. It was taken over by a group of ideological squatters who were determined to bring homelessness and housing affordability to the government’s attention, but within ten years, with misaligned ideologies and infighting, the squatters had moved on, and in the 1990s, Artillery Mansions was bought by developers and turned into luxury apartments.

 

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

 

********Dripping is the fat that has melted and dripped from roasting meat, used in cooking or eaten cold as a spread. Being cheap to buy, in poorer households, dripping was usually a staple and often a valuable source of nutrition for what would otherwise be a very plain and mean diet.

 

*********A rag-and-bone man is a person who goes from street to street in a vehicle or with a horse and cart buying things such as old clothes and furniture. He would then sell these items on to someone else for a small profit.

 

**********Ogden's Tobacco Company was an English company specialising in tobacco products. The company was founded in 1860 by Thomas Ogden who opened a small retail store in Park Lane, Liverpool. Within a small period of time, he established more branches throughout Liverpool and then a factory on St. James Street in 1866. By 1890, Thomas Ogden had six factories in Liverpool. Then in 1901, the American Tobacco Company bought Ogden's factory for £818,000. But in 1902, with the establishment of the Imperial Tobacco Company, Odgen's Tobacco was back in British hands. The company remained in business until the 1960's. Half of the main factory was demolished sometime around the 1980s to make way for a new building for the site's new owners Imperial Tobacco Limited. They closed the site's doors in 2007. In 2016 the factory was demolished to make way for housing while the iconic Clock Tower was converted into nineteen Apartments. It was completed in 2019.

 

***********The phrase "One man's trash is another man's treasure" is often attributed to the Nineteenth Century German social reformer and writer, Ferdinand August Bebel. However, the origin of this saying is not precisely documented, and similar expressions have been used in various forms by different people over time. The sentiment behind the phrase conveys the idea that something considered worthless by one person might be highly valued by someone else.

 

************Anthropomorphism, on the other hand, involves non-human things displaying literal human traits and being capable of human behaviour.

 

*************A pianoforte is the full name of a piano.

 

**************A music Canterbury is a low, open-topped stand with vertical slatted partitions that frequently was designed with a drawer beneath and sometimes, was built with short legs and occasionally on casters, intended for holding sheet music, plates, and serveware upright, now often used as a magazine rack.

 

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

 

****************A steam shovel is a large steam-powered excavating machine designed for lifting and moving material such as rock and soil. It is the earliest type of power shovel or excavator. Steam shovels played a major role in public works in the Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries, being key to the construction of railroads and the Panama Canal. The sight of them on building work sites was common. The development of simpler, cheaper diesel, gasoline and electric shovels caused steam shovels to fall out of favour in the 1930s.

 

*****************A funky is a liveried manservant or footman.

 

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:

 

Central to our story, the copy of Walter Crane’s Beauty and the Beast on display here is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. In this case, I bought this book and various others illustrated by Walter Crane on purpose because I have loved Walter Crane’s and his father Thomas Crane’s work ever since I was a child, and I have real life-size first editions of many of their books including, a first edition of Beauty and the Beast from 1874. What might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. I can vouch that the double page spread illustration you see is an authentic replica of one from his Beauty and the Beast book, however if you wish to see it for yourself you can also see it here and judge for yourself: en.wikisource.org/wiki/Beauty_and_the_Beast_%281874,_Cran.... To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make them all miniature artisan pieces. Not only did Ken Blythe create books, he also created other 1:12 miniatures with paper and that includes the wonderfully detailed Ogden’s Juggler tobacco box and National Safety Match box, which have been produced with extreme authentic attention to detail. 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 black ashtray is also an artisan piece, the bae of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there).

 

Mrs. Boothby’s beaded handbag on the table is also a 1:12 artisan miniature. Hand crocheted, it is interwoven with antique blue glass beads that are two millimetres in diameter. The beads of the handle are three millimetres in length. It came from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

Edith’s handbag handmade from soft leather is part of a larger collection of hats and bags that I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel.

 

The paper and blue and white twine are real pieces I have retained to use in my miniatures photography from real parcels wrapped up in brown paper and tied up with string.

 

The various bowls, cannisters and dishes and the kettle in the background I have acquired from various online miniatures stockists throughout the United Kingdom, America and Australia.

 

The ladderback chair drawn up to the table and the black lead stove in the background are all miniature pieces I have had since I was a child.

 

The grey marbleised fireplace behind the stove and the trough sink in the corner of the kitchen come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The green wallpaper is an authentic replica of real Art Nouveau wallpaper from the first decade of the Twentieth Century which I have printed onto paper.

most of the letters i send are to my online friends

and i know i'm not the only one

the consumer marketer in me finds this behavior really fascinating

how the need for real world, tactile, and slow connections emerges from relationships born in the virtual, instant world

We did just build a cabinet for the kitchen. Now I'm once again the "messy" one in the relationship.=)

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.

Day at my grandparents' summer cottage. My grandfather built this tiny summer kitchen for my grandmother.

This is our kitchen table & chairs, set up for a small dinner party with another couple.

Yes, this is about half the size of our entire little kitchen. We transformed it into the screen printing studio for about a week in January to get all of the labels done for Nice Cream's winter line of flavors. Cramped space but nice lighting. No complaints. (also sorry for the low quality photo -- obviously julie took this one)

Another shot from my series on perspective. This series aims to show what the world looks like - and specifically what an average day looks like, through my eyes.

 

So this one is the next in the series after my previously uploaded shot where I'm going for a run - here's me having a post work-out snack of an apple and water and finishing listening to a particular song on my running playlist!

Surface: 28 x 28 (inches)

Height: 28.5 (inches)

Blogged (I think) : chadesign.blogspot.com/2007/09/blog-post_10.html

Our July 2014 Holiday incl. DUB-LGW-DXB-BKK-DXB-LGW-DUB || Hilton London Gatwick x2|| Banyan Tree Bangkok || Four Seasons Hotel Bangkok || Novotel Suvarnabhumi Hotel BKK || Our fourth visit to Thailand, our third visit to Bangkok || From culture, architecture, food and drinks to hospitality and urban beauty, Bangkok is the City of Life || Highly recommended || JULY 2014

Tigger on the table, claiming it as her own. She can do this as long as Norio doesn't jump up and scare her off...

Amelia turned 5 today, but instead of a party, her grandparents and family joined on mobile devices to sing her "Happy Birthday"

  

animumadvertere.blogspot.com/2014/09/magpie-cottage-on-tr...

grandparent's dining room

such a lovely house agh

She was telling me a story about how Jesus told the Chicago Cubs not to do anything until he gets back.

Looking up at the sun!

 

www.microscopy-uk.org.uk/mag/indexmag.html?http://www.mic...

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

 

Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat, and whilst we have not travelled that far physically across London, the tough streets and blind alleys of Poplar in London’s East End is a world away from Lettice’s rarefied and privileged world. We have come to the home of Lettice’s charwoman*, Mrs. Boothby, where we find ourselves in the cheerful kitchen cum living room of her tenement in Merrybrook Place: by her own admission, a haven of cleanliness amidst the squalor of the surrounding neighbourhood. Edith, Lettice’s maid, is visiting her Cockney friend and co-worker on a rather impromptu visit, much to the surprise of the old char when she answered the timid knock on her door on Easter Sunday morning and found Edith standing on her stoop, dressed in a lovely floral patterned cotton frock and the wide brimmed straw hat decorated with ribbon and ornamental flowers she bought from Mrs. Minkin’s Haberdashery in Whitechapel.

 

“Edith dearie!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims in delight and one of her fruity smokers’ coughs, a lit hand rolled cigarette in her right hand releasing a thin trail of greyish white smoke into the atmosphere. “What a luverly surprise!”

 

“I’m sorry to pay a call unannounced, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith apologises sheepishly.

 

“Not at all, dearie,” the old Cockney assures her. “Come on in wiv ya. Can’t ‘ave you standin’ on the stoop, what wiv all and sundry keepin’ an ear out for business what ain’t their own.” She gives a hard stare over Edith’s shoulder to the door of Mrs. Friedmann, where the nosy Jewess stands in her usual spot in her doorway, where she leans against its frame wrapped in one of her paisley shawls, observing the goings on of the rookery** with dark and watchful eyes. “Wanna paint a picture Mrs. Friedmann?” Mrs. Boothby calls out across the paved court, challenging her open stare with a defensive one of her own. “Might last you longer, your royal ‘ighness!” She casts her cigarette butt out into the courtyard, and makes a mock over exaggerated curtsey towards her, hitching up the hem of her own workday skirts. She turns her attentions back to Edith. “Come on in, dearie.”

 

It takes a moment for Edith’s eyes to adjust as the old Cockney woman scuttles ahead of her. As they do, Edith discerns the familiar things within the tenement front room that Edith has come to know over her visits since befriending the charwoman who does all the hard graft for her at Cavendish Mews: a kitchen table not too unlike her own at the Mayfair flat, a couple of sturdy ladderback chairs, an old fashioned black leaded stove, a rudimentary trough sink on bricks in the corner of the room and Mrs. Boothby’s pride and joy, her dresser covered in pretty ornamental knick-knacks she has collected over many years.

 

“Close the door behind you and come on in, dearie. It was a bit cold this mornin’, but the ‘ouse is nice and warm. I got the range goin’, so I’ll put the kettle on for a nice cup of Rosie-Lee***, if yer ‘ave the time that is.”

 

“Oh yes, thank you, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies as she closes the door behind her. “That would be lovely.

 

Shutting out the unpleasant mixture of odours outside with the closing of the door, Edith is comforted by the smells of soap and the lavender sachets Mrs. Boothby has hanging from the heavy velvet curtains to keep away the moths, the smells from the communal privy at the end of the rookery, and to a degree the cloying scent of tobacco smoke from her constant smoking.

 

“Good. Nah, go ‘ang up your ‘at ‘n make yerself comfy at the table.”

 

“I’ll fetch down some cups.” Edith replies cheerfully.

 

“Oh you are a luv to ‘elp, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says gratefully, emitting another couple of heavy coughs as she stretches and pulls down the fine blue and white antique porcelain teapot she reserves for when guest come to call from the top shelf of her dresser. “Look ooh’s ‘ere, Ken!” the old woman adds brightly.

 

Edith looks affectionately across the room to the bed nestled in the corner upon which Ken, Mrs. Boothby’s mature aged disabled son sits, playing with his beloved worn teddy bear and floppy stuffed rabbit on the crumpled bedclothes.

 

“Miss Eadie!” Ken gasps, a gormless grin spreading across his childlike innocent face as he recognises Edith.

 

“That’s right, son. It’s Edith come to pay us a call, and on Easter Sunday ‘n all.”

 

Ken drops his stuffed companions, leaps up from his bed and lollops across the room, enveloping Edith in his big, warm embrace, filling her nostrils with the scent of the carbolic soap Mrs. Boothby uses to wash him and his clothes. A tall and muscular man in his forties, his embrace quickly starts to squeeze the air from Edith’s lungs as his grasp grows tighter, making the poor maid cough.

 

“Nah! Nah!” Mrs. Boothby chides, turning away from the stove quickly and giving her son a gentle tap to the shoulder. “Let poor Edith go. You dunno ya own strengf, son. You’ll crush ‘er wiv your bear ‘ug.” She emits another fruity cough as she gives him a stern look.

 

“Oh! Sorry!” Ken apologises, immediately releasing Edith from his embrace and backing away as if he’d been burned, a sheepish look on his face.

 

“It’s alright, Ken.” Edith replies breathily. “Your mum is right though.” She huffs. “You… you do give strong hugs.”

 

“Eggies!” Ken answers excitedly, immediately forgetting his mild chastisement, pointing to some brightly painted eggs**** filling the wicker basket in Edith’s left hand as her arm hangs limply at her side.

 

“’Ere! Mind yer own business, son. What’s in Edith’s basket’s ‘er own affair right enuff.” The old woman strides over to her dresser where she takes down an ornamental Art Nouveau tin, which Edith knows well enough from her previous visits to Mrs. Boothby’s tenement, contains biscuits. “’Ere.” She takes out a shortbread biscuit from the tin and gives it to the bulking lad. “Nah, go sit dahn on your bed and play wiv your toys for a bit longer, and let Edith and I ‘ave a nice chat over a cup of Rosie-Lee. I’ll make you a cup ‘n all. And then Edith can share wiv you wot’s in ‘er basket later,” She turns to Edith and gives her a serious look. “If she wants to, that is.”

 

“Oh, what’s in my basket is what I’m here about, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies, depositing the basket onto the deal pine kitchen table before taking off her hat and hanging it up on a spare peg by the door.

 

“Eggies!” Ken says again.

 

“Oh get on wiv ya, Ken!” Mrs. Boothby chuckles as she kindly tousles her son’s hair affectionately. “Youse got a biscuit, nah go an’ sit dahwn like a told you, and you’ll find out soon enough about them eggs since Edith seems to fink they might be for you.”

 

“Yes Ma!” Ken replies.

 

“Good lad.” his mother replies as he retreats obediently to his bed, where he starts playing with his teddy bear and stuffed rabbit again, yet with half an eye on the basket of pastel coloured eggs on the table.

 

“I fought you’d be spendin’ Easter Sunday wiv Frank, or your parents, Edith dearie.” Mrs Boothby says as she pours hot water into the blue and white china pot and swirls it around to warm it, before pouring the water down the drain of the small trough in the corner of the room.

 

“Oh I’m only stopping for a short while, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith answers, reaching up and withdrawing three pretty blue and white china cups and saucers from the dresser. “I went to Easter services this morning at Grosvenor Chapel*****.”

 

“Chapel! Church! Priest!” Ken calls angrily from his truckle bed. “Priest bad!”

 

“Yes son! The priest is bad, but ‘e ain’t ‘ere so don’t you trouble your pretty ‘ead about it.” Mrs. Boothby says comfortingly, reminded of the Catholic priest that used to bother her to have Ken committed to an assylum. She looks over at her son, and just like a cloud momentarily blocking out the sun, Ken’s angry spat dissipates and he happily mumbles something to his teddy bear before laughing. “That bloody Irish Catholic priest offered to take Ken away, has a lot to answer for.” the old woman mutters as she adds spoonfuls of tea to the pot and tops it up with hot water. “Anyway, you was sayin’ ‘bout your plans today, dearie?”

 

Edith takes down the dainty blue and white sugar bowl and hands a non matching blue and white floral jug to Mrs. Boothby’s outstretched gnarled fingers. “I’m meeting Frank in Upton Park at midday and we’re going to visit his granny, for a few hours, and then, with Miss Lettice down in Wiltshire for Easter, I’ll have a light supper with Mum and Dad before heading back to Cavendish Mews tonight. I had Good Friday with them anyway.”

 

“Got time for some biscuits, Edith dearie?” Mrs. Boothby asks, filling the jug with a splash of milk from a bottle she keeps in the coolest corner of her tenement, underneath the trough sink.

 

“I’ve got the time, but I’d better not spoil my appetite. Mrs. McTavish is roasting lamb****** for lunch, and Frank tells me that she makes a delicious simnel cake*******, and she’s baked one especially for today because I’m visiting.”

 

“That’s so luverly of ‘er, dearie.”

 

Mrs. Boothby puts the pot of tea and milk jug on the table. She encourages Edith to take a seat in the sturdy ladderback chair in front of the dresser with a sweeping gesture, whilst she takes a seat in her own chair by the range.

 

“I tell you what Edith dearie, I’m dying for a fag!” Mrs Boothby says. “And a good chat before you do go on and see Frank and ‘is gran.” She starts fossicking through her capacious blue beaded handbag on the table before withdrawing her cigarette papers, box of National Safety Matches and tin of Player’s Navy Cut********* tobacco. Rolling herself a cigarette she lights it with a satisfied sigh and one more of her fruity coughs, dropping the match into a black ashtray that sits on the table full of cigarette butts. Mrs. Boothby settles back happily in her ladderback chair with her cigarette in one hand and sighs. Blowing out a plume of blue smoke that tumbles through the air around them, the old woman continues. “Nah, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, and what’s it got to do wiv them eggs?” She nods at the basket between them.

 

“Eggies!” Ken pipes up from his corner.

 

“Oh Lawd!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims, before stuffing the cigarette between her teeth. “I’d forget me own ‘ead if it weren’t screwed on good ‘n tight.” She snatches up one of the three teacups, sloshes in a splash of milk, adds two heaped teaspoons of sugar and pours in some tea. She stirs the milky tea with a tannin tarnished teaspoon. “Ere you are then, Ken!” She tuns around and holds the cup out to her son, who happily skips across the room and takes it from her hand. “Be careful wiv that, won’t cha love?” She runs a hand lovingly down his cheek to his chin, which she tweaks gently. “That’s Ma’s good china, ain’t it?”

 

“Good china.” Ken says with reverence as he looks down at the cup full of steaming milky tea in his hands.

 

“That’s my boy. Nah, go and have it over there just for nah.” she continues, pointing over to his truckle bed.

 

Edith pours tea for she and Mrs. Boothby whilst the old Cockney woman addresses her son.

 

“’E likes ‘is tea sweet ‘n milky, does my Ken.” Mrs. Boothby says as she turns back to Edith. “Oh fank you, dearie.” she adds as she sees the hot steaming black tea in her cup. She perches her cigarette on her black ashtray and pulls the cup towards her. “Much obliged.”

 

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies, as she adds some milk to her tea before handing the jug to her hostess.

 

Adding a splash of milk to her tea, Mrs. Boothby muses, “I’d a been glad of a daughter like you, if God ‘ad granted me annuva child.” She turns and looks momentarily back at Ken, who sits sipping his tea, looking almost comical as the bulking lad holds the cup so carefully and daintily. “Not that Ken ain’t gift enuff. “E’s one a God’s angels right ‘ere on earf.”

 

“Thank you Mrs. Boothby.” Edith murmurs in reply, blushing at the old woman’s compliment. “I learned my best manners from my Mum.”

 

“I should think you would!” She takes a long drag on her cigarette, the intake making the thin cigarette paper crackle as it is slowly consumed, before she exhales a long greyish plume of acrid smoke above their heads. “Any girl, or boy for that matter, should pay attention to their mas.”

 

“Well, thinking of mums, that’s why I came here today: to give you these.” Edith pushes the basket across the cleanly scrubbed pine surface of the table towards Mrs. Boothby. “With Miss Lettice having gone back down to Wiltshire to have a look at Mr. Gifford’s house and stay with her parents for Easter, Mum and I had time to enjoy an Easter tradition of ours this year, and we dyed these eggs for you as a gift.”

 

“For me?” Mrs. Boothby gasps in delight.

 

“Well, for you and Ken, or course.” Edith goes on.

 

“Eadie!” Ken calls back from his corner, smiling again at Edith.

 

“Oh that’s so luverly of yer both, dearie!” Mrs. Boothby puts her thin, careworn fingers around a bright yellow egg and takes it carefully out of the basket. “Just look at the colour in this one!”

 

“Onion skin.” Edith replies.

 

“What dearie?”

 

“My Mum and I use onion skins to make the yellow dye.”

 

“You never?” exclaims the old woman, her eyes widening in amazement.

 

“On yes, Mrs. Boothby. Onion skins make for a lovely dye. Don’t forget that my Mum is a laundress, so she knows a lot about natural pigments to dye fabrics with.”

 

“Well fancy that! I ain’t never ‘eard of onion skins bein’ used for anyfink much avva than rubbish!”

 

“We use spoiled red cabbage to make blue dye.” Edith smiles.

 

“But red cabbage is red!” Mrs. Boothby laughs, emitting a couple of fruity coughs as she does. She puts the yellow egg back and picks out a blue one. “’Ow can you get blue from red?” She shakes her head in disbelief.

 

“Well, you boil up the red cabbage leaves and then strain out the cabbage. That will make pink or even purple dye.” She takes out a pink egg from the basket and holds it up. “Then you add a tiny bit of baking powder to the cabbage liquid, and it will turn blue.”

 

“Go on wiv ya!” laughs Mrs. Boothby.

 

“It’s true, Mrs. Boothby, sure as…”

 

“As eggs is eggs, dearie?”

 

Edith laughs and sighs. “Yes, Mrs. Boothby! As sure as eggs are eggs. You have to be careful though. If you add too much baking powder, the dye turns green.” She replaces the blue egg and pulls out a green one. “Mum and I always dye pink and purple eggs first, then add a little baking powder to make blue dye, and then once we have enough blue eggs, we add more baking powder and dye green eggs.”

 

“Well, I never!” the old Cockney char exclaims. “I’s older than your ma is, I’ll wager, yet you just taught me sumfink new today. Come ‘ere, Ken!”

 

Ken comes over quickly, carefully replacing his now empty cup and its saucer onto the tabletop next to his mother’s bag.

 

“Good boy. See this ‘ere egg, son?” Mrs. Boothby asks, as she wraps her free right arm part way around her son’s girth.

 

“Yes Ma!” Ken says, smiling with delight at the egg in his mother’s hand, reaching out and carefully touching the dyed surface, running his fingers lightly along it.

 

“This ‘ere egg, Edith coloured and made just for you, ‘cos she knows ‘ow much you love blue.” She hands the egg to him, and Ken holds it carefully. “Nah, whacha say to Edith then, Ken?”

 

“Thank you Eadie!” Ken says lovingly. “Pretty!”

 

“You’re welcome, Ken.” Edith replies with a smile. “Happy Easter.”

 

“Happy Easter, Eadie!” he replies joyfully.

 

Edith watches with delight as Ken rolls the egg around his palms and carefully strokes the blue dyed surface of it.

 

“We’ll keep it for a bit sos you can admire it.” Mrs. Boothby says.

 

“I’m just sorry that they aren’t chocolate Easter eggs*********, Mrs. Boothby, but I can’t really afford that kind of luxury.”

 

“Nonsense Edith, dearie!” the old woman scoffs, waving away Edith’s apology dismissively before picking up what is left of her cigarette and drawing upon it. Billows of greyish smoke tumble from her mouth as she stubs out the butt in the ashtray and says, “You made these ‘ere eggs wiv your own fair ‘and, and look ‘ow ‘appy Ken is. What would ‘e want wiv a chocolate egg, eh? ‘E’s as ‘appy as a lark. Bless ‘im.” She squeezes her son lovingly. “Nah, after a few days of lookin’ at it, then I’ll break it up and we can ‘ave boiled egg on toast, eh Ken?”

 

“Yum Ma!” Ken remarks.

 

“You spoil ‘im, givin’ ‘im all these eggs.” Mrs. Boothby scolds Edith. “Don’t cha want some for Frank and his gran, Mrs. McTavish, since she’s makin’ ya a roast for Easter tea, and a simnel cake ta boot?”

 

“Oh I already gave some for Mrs. McTavish to Frank. He’s going to find a nice box to decorate and present them in, so he’s bringing them.” Edith explains with a smile. “But I did make a few extra for you because I did rather think that you might give them to your neighbour, Mrs. Conway. I remember seeing the children she looks after for the mothers of the neighbourhood who work. I thought you and Ken can take your pick, and you could give the rest to her to share with the children.”

 

“I dare say she’d love that dearie. We could ‘ave a egg rolling contest********** right ‘ere in Merryboork place! The kiddies would ‘ave a right royal time! Fank you for bein’ so thoughtful, Edith dearie.”

 

*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.

 

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

 

****People have been decorating eggs for thousands of years. Ancient Egyptians decorated ostrich eggs, and early Christians in Mesopotamia dyed eggs to mark Easter. Throughout history, people have given each other eggs at spring festivals to celebrate the new season. Eggs represent new life and rebirth, and it’s thought that this ancient custom became a part of Easter celebrations. In 1290 King Edward I paid for four hundred and fifty eggs to be coloured or covered in gold leaf and given to his entourage, and Henry VIII received one in a silver case as a present from the Pope. From the Eighteenth Century children decorated their own eggs at Easter, or recieved them as presents. These were called ‘pace eggs’. Pace eggs were made from hard boiled hen, duck or goose eggs, with decorated shells dyed with bright colours – just like in the medieval period. They were given as presents at Easter, or to the actors at pace egg plays. Pace egg plays were medieval style mystery plays, with a theatrical fight between a hero and a villain. The hero character was usually killed, before being brought back to life to triumph over the villain. In many plays, the hero character was St George. Pace eggs were also rolled along the ground in a race called an egg roll. Children would roll a decorated pace egg down a hill, and see whose egg rolled the furthest without breaking. It’s possible that these races started as a symbol of the rolling away of the stone from Jesus’ tomb.

 

*****Grosvenor Chapel is an Anglican church in what is now the City of Westminster, in England, built in the 1730s. It inspired many churches in New England. It is situated on South Audley Street in Mayfair. The foundation stone of the Grosvenor Chapel was laid on 7 April 1730 by Sir Richard Grosvenor, 4th Baronet, owner of the surrounding property, who had leased the site for 99 years at a peppercorn rent to a syndicate of four “undertakers” led by Benjamin Timbrell, a prosperous local builder. The new building was completed and ready to use by April 1731.

 

******Like most families in Britain at the time, roast lamb was the meal most associated with Easter Sunday – the tradition of eating lamb on Easter has its roots in early Passover observances.

 

*******Simnel cake is packed with fruits and spices, and covered in marzipan – traditional cakes have 11 marzipan balls on top as well, to represent the 11 apostles (minus Judas).

 

********Made by Nottingham based tobacconist manufacturer John Player and Sons, Player’s Medium Navy Cut was the most popular by far of the three Navy Cut brands (there was also Mild and Gold Leaf, mild being today’s rich flavour). Two thirds of all the cigarettes sold in Britain were Player’s and two thirds of these were branded as Player’s Medium Navy Cut. In January 1937, Player’s sold nearly 3.5 million cigarettes (which included 1.34 million in London). Production continued to grow until at its peak in the late 1950s, Player’s was employing 11,000 workers (compared to 5,000 in 1926) and producing 15 brands of pipe tobacco and 11 brands of cigarettes. Nowadays the brands "Player" and "John Player Special" are owned and commercialised by Imperial Brands (formerly the Imperial Tobacco Company).

 

*********The first English chocolate Easter egg was sold by Fry’s in 1873, and Cadbury’s quickly followed them, introducing their own chocolate egg in 1875. These early Easter eggs were made using dark chocolate, and were smooth and plain, but in 1897 the famous Cadbury’s Dairy Milk Chocolate was first introduced. Chocolate eggs made with this new recipe were very popular, and soon became Easter bestsellers. Even today, most Easter eggs are made using milk chocolate.

 

**********Egg rolling is a tradition that goes back to the Eighteenth century in England. Commencing in Lancashire ‘pace eggs’ became very popular. It continues in some parts of England today, although nowadays it is chocolate eggs being rolled down the hill, rather than the traditional boiled and painted eggs of the past! There is an egg rolling event every year in Preston, Lancashire, but the most famous egg roll takes place in the United States of America, on the lawns of the White House, in Washington

 

This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene with its Easter festive tones 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.

 

The Easter eggs in the basket are 1:12 miniatures which came from Kathleen Knight's Dolls' House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s beloved collection of ornaments come from various different sources. The rooster jug, the cottage ware butter dish, Peter Rabbit in the watering can tea pot and the cottage ware teapot on the dresser were all made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson. All the pieces are authentic replicas of real pieces made by different china companies. For example, the cottage ware teapot has been decorated authentically and matches in perfect detail its life-size Price Washington ‘Ye Olde Cottage Teapot’ counterparts. The top part of the thatched roof and central chimney form the lid, just like the real thing. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics. All the plates on the dresser came from various online miniature stockists through E-Bay, as do the teapot, plate and cups on Mrs. Boothby’s kitchen table.

  

Mrs. Boothby’s beaded handbag on the table is also a 1:12 artisan miniature. Hand crocheted, it is interwoven with antique blue glass beads that are two millimetres in diameter. The beads of the handle are three millimetres in length. It came from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

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

 

The rather worn and beaten looking enamelled bread bin in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green, which have been aged on purpose, are artisan pieces I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The various bowls, cannisters and dishes, the kettle and the Brown Betty teapot I have acquired from various online miniatures stockists throughout the United Kingdom, America and Australia. A Brown Betty is a type of teapot, round and with a manganese brown glaze known as Rockingham glaze. In the Victorian era, when tea was at its peak of popularity, tea brewed in the Brown Betty was considered excellent. This was attributed to the design of the pot which allowed the tea leaves more freedom to swirl around as the water was poured into the pot, releasing more flavour with less bitterness.

 

The black Victorian era stove and the ladderback chair on the left of the table and the small table directly behind it are all miniature pieces I have had since I was a child. The ladderback chair on the right came from a deceased estate of a miniatures collector in Sydney. The Welsh dresser came from Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late Eighteenth Century. The dresser has plate grooves in it to hold plates in place, just like a real dresser would.

 

The grey marbleised fireplace behind the stove and the trough sink in the corner of the kitchen come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The green wallpaper is an authentic replica of real Art Nouveau wallpaper from the first decade of the Twentieth Century which I have printed onto paper. The floorboards are a print of a photo taken of some floorboards that I scaled to 1:12 size to try and maintain a realistic look.

+2 in the comments!

 

Check out my other photo where I blurb about my experience with the lens and a quick brush up on medium format!

 

Also it brings me so much joy to turn that nob like you wouldn't believe. Ask your friend with a hassy/rollei/what have you and never turn back :)

 

(I like to wind it without flipping the knob out)

 

TGIF!

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

 

Today is Tuesday and we are in the kitchen of Lettice’s flat: Edith her maid’s preserve, except on Tuesdays, every third Thursday of the month and occasionally after a big party. That is when Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman*, comes from her home in Poplar to do all the hard jobs. Edith is grateful that unlike her previous positions, she does not have to scrub the black and quite chequered kitchen linoleum, nor polish the parquetry floors, not do her most hated job, black lead the stovetop. Mrs. Boothby does them all without complaint, with reliability and to a very high standard. She is also very handy on cleaning and washing up duty with Edith after one of Lettice’s extravagant cocktail parties. All of this leaves Edith with a little more time to spend on the tasks around the flat that she does enjoy, such as baking cakes in the splendidly modern and clean gas oven installed in the Cavendish Mews kitchen, which is a delight for Edith to use.

 

Edith sighs with satisfaction as she carefully lowers her latest creation onto the deal kitchen tabletop: a light and fluffy lemon sponge, baked just as her mother taught her. Between the layers of sponge, which are springy to the touch, is a layer of thick cream, ready to ooze out as the cake is cut, whilst on its top, more dollops of cream are graced with slices of candied lemon.

 

“There we go, Edith dearie. That’s the barfroom done.” Mrs. Boothby’s smoke hardened voice announces as she walks through the door leading from the hallway into the service portion of the flat carrying a wooden handled mop and gleaming tin bucket with her. “Spick where speck was, ‘n’ span where squalor.” she adds proudly with one of her fruity, phlegmy coughs as she plops the bucket on the linoleum floor and leans the mop against the end of the kitchen dresser. Reaching into the capacious front of her bright floral pinny, she withdraws a can of Vim** and bends down to put it back into her little crate of heavy duty cleaning aids which sits in the corner of the kitchen.

 

“Thank you Mrs. Boothby.” Edith says gratefully as she reaches up next to Mrs. Boothby for a box of Lyon’s tea***. “Could you get those stains off the vanity?”

 

“What wiv a bit of elbow grease, I did.” the old Cockney woman replies. Pulling out a cleaning rag from her pinny pocket she holds it out for Edith to see the black smears on it. “Lawd knows what’s in that muck Miss Lettice wears on ‘er face, but it marks the porcelain good ‘n’ proppa.”

 

Edith places the box of tea on the table. “Well, I’m grateful you managed to, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“That’s alright, Edith dearie. That’s me job, ain’t it?” She walks across the kitchen muttering, “Back in my day, a lady weren’t a real lady if she ‘ad muck on ‘er face, if you know what I mean.”

 

Edith blushes as she replies, “I think I do.” She remembers her mother talking about girls who painted their faces as being no better than actresses or tarts.

 

As she returns from depositing her rags into the clothing chute that leads down to the cellar where a large hamper waits to catch them and from where the professional commercial launderers collects the dirty linens every week, Mrs. Boothby spies the cake sitting on the table surrounded by tea things. “Ooooh! Fancy! What’s the occasion?”

 

Edith laughs. “No occasion, Mrs. Boothby. It’s just my Mum’s lemon sponge cake.” When Mrs. Boothby cocks her eyebrow over her eye and gives the young maid a doubtful look, Edith adds, “Well, with a few embellishments.”

 

“Embellishments, is it?” Mrs. Boothby’s voice arcs as she puts her hands on her bony hips. “Well, down Poplar, we’d call that cake just plain fancy, and far too fancy to be havin’ for any ordinary tea.”

 

“It’s to serve to Miss Lettice and Mr. Gifford, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith looks up to the kitchen wall, beyond which in the Cavendish Mews flat’s parlour, Lettice is entertaining Mr. Gifford for the second time.

 

“So that’s the fancy chap what Miss Lettice ‘as wiv ‘er in the parlour, then?” Mrs. Boothby asks.

 

“Yes, that’s Mr. Gifford.” Edith replies as she busily sets two saucers and two teacups on the square silver tray that already has Lettice’s Royal Doulton ‘Falling Leaves’ Art Deco teapot and milk jug on it. “He’s a neighbour of sorts of Miss Lettice’s parents, down in Wiltshire.”

 

“Cor! ‘E can’t half talk, can he?” Mrs. Boothby opines. “I’ve been listen’ to ‘im go on and on about lawd knows what whilst I’ve been scrubbin’ the barfroom.”

 

Edith smothers a laugh as she nods. “He is a bit of a talker, Mrs. Boothby, and no mistake!”

 

“Some people got a bit too much ta say, if you ask me, and I reckon ‘e’s one of um.”

 

“Mrs. Boothby!” Edith chides the older woman.

 

“Well, it’s true.” the older woman replies dourly, wagging her finger. “Jibber-jabber, jibber-jabber*****, fillin’ the air wiv noise, and nuffink to show for it neither, and that’s a fact.” She nods once.

 

“Come, Mrs. Boothby, there’s no denying that you like your bit of gossip.”

 

“Gossip ain’t jibber-jabberin’, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby defends herself. “It’s a vital part of life.” She looks at Edith as she places two brilliantly polished teaspoons on the tray. “And don’t you pretend like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, Edith dearie. You like a bit of gossip too.”

 

“Not as much as you, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Says you!” laughs the old woman.

 

Eith chuckles and shakes her head. “I had to answer that infernal contraption, the other day,” she remarks, changing the subject back to Mr. Gifford and referring to the Bakelite**** and chrome telephone in Lettice’s Cavendish Mews drawing room which she dislikes intensely. “Because Miss Lettice was out at Croydon visiting Mr. Blessed the upholsterer, and Mr. Gifford was on the other end.”

 

“Talk a lot to yer, did ‘e?”

 

“Well, let’s just say I’m glad I didn’t have this lemon sponge in the oven when he rang.” Edith arches her eyebrows as she speaks.

 

“So, what’s ‘e ‘ere for anyways? Got news ‘bout Miss Lettice’s dad ‘n mum, ‘as ‘e?”

 

“Oh, heavens no, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith replies as she opens the narrow, brightly decorated box of Lyon’s tea and scoops out several spoons of fragrant tea leaves and puts them in the bottom of Lettice’s elegant teapot. She inhales the scent and sighs pleasurably. “If it were something like that, I’m sure Miss Lettice would have found out by other means, like…”

 

“Like that infernal contraption?” Mrs. Boothby adds cheekily, interrupting her young companion.

 

“Like that infernal contraption.” Edith agrees.

 

Mrs, Boothby chuckles with mirth, however her chuckles quickly turn into a fruity coughing fit. Edith snatches a glass from the dresser and rushes to the white enamel kitchen sink and fills the glass with water from the shiny brass cold tap. She quickly brings it back to the kitchen table and offers it to Mrs. Boothby, who has collapsed into Edith’s Windsor chair and is bent over double, with her head between her legs, coughing loudly.

 

“Quick! Drink this, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith insists, shoving the glass into her hand.

 

The old Cockney char takes a long draught of the clean cool water and gasps for breath raspily as she sits up and leans her bony frame back into the curved back of the chair. “Oh… oh…” she huffs. “Fank you…” She gulps. “Fanks, Edith dearie… you… youse a… a love.”

 

“That’s alright, Mrs. Boothby. Catch your breath.”

 

“That’ll teach me… for teasin’ ya… won’t it, dear… dearie?”

 

“Well, I’m not the vengeful type, Mrs. Boothby, but…”

 

Edith’s statement is suddenly broken by the sound of the green baize door that leads between the dining room and the service part of the flat creaking on its hinges. Both women are suddenly acutely aware as they hear Lettice’s soft footsteps slapping on the black and white linoleum floor of the cupboard lined scullery.

 

“Is everything alright, Edith?” Lettice’s head appears through the open kitchen door that leads to the scullery, a look of concern upon her pretty face as she takes in the scene of her maid and charwoman.

 

“Oh, yes Miss.”

 

“T’was… just me.. mum.” Mrs. Boothby manages to say. “I done… done lost me breaf, like an idiot,” She sighs and takes a sip of water, slurping it noisily from her glass. “An’… an… I couldn’t… catch it.”

 

“Are you quite alright, Mrs. Boothby?” Lettice asks, screwing up her nose with distaste at the old cockney woman’s unattractive slurping gulps of water. “It sounded quite serious from out there.”

 

“I’ll… I’ll be fine, mum.” She takes another noisy slurp of water. “Fanks ta Edith,” She pats Edith’s hand draped on her right shoulder with her free careworn and bony left hand. “She… got me a glass of… water.” she huffs. “Just need ta… catch me breaf is all, mum.”

 

“Good.” Lettice replies, although both Edith and Mrs. Boothby cannot help but catch a tinge of irritation in her voice. “Well, as long as everything is in hand, I’ll leave you to it.”

 

“Don’t cha… worry your… pretty ‘ead about me, mum.” the old woman goes on breathily before taking another large gulp of water from the glass. “I’ll be right as rain****** in no time.”

 

“Very good, Mrs. Boothby.” Lettice concludes, turning around. Then she pauses and turns back. “Edith, if you could try to keep the noise to a minimum, I’d appreciate it. Mr. Gifford and I could both clearly hear the kerfuffle in here. It’s far too much noise.” She shakes her head. “Most unprofessional.”

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith quickly bobs an apologetic curtsey to her mistress and casts her eyes downwards as Lettice turns on her heel and walks back through the scullery and the green baize door, back to the drawing room and her guest.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry… Edith dearie. I were just ‘avin’ a laugh. I didn’t mean ta get youse inta no trouble.”

 

“It’s fine, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith assures her, sweeping down on her knee before the old Cockney char. Looking her squarely in the face, she gazes earnestly at her. “Honestly. Miss Lettice has been a bit out of sorts lately. I can’t say for certain, but I think she is having some difficulties with one of the commissions she has taken on.”

 

“Which one? She’s got so many, I can’t keep up wiv ‘em all.”

 

“I think it’s the one in Bloomsbury, where Miss Lettice is decorating the flat of a young lady.”

 

“Is the lady bein’ difficult then?”

 

“No, not her, but her mother, I think. The flat belongs to the lady, but her mother, Lady Caxton, keeps butting in and telling Lettice how she wants it decorated.”

 

“That doesn’t sound very nice. What about what the lady wants her flat ta look like? Don’t she care?”

 

“I’m not sure that matters, Mrs. Boothby. She keeps telephoning Miss Lettice. I’ve spoken to her a number of times when I’ve had to answer that infernal contraption. She’s very nice to me: actually far nicer than some of the other ladies that telephone here. I’m trying to stay on her good side, because Miss Lettice tells me that she writes romance novels, under the name of Madeline St John, and I love her books! Miss Lettice says Lady Caxton is going to sign a couple of her novels and give them to her to give to me as a gift.”

 

“Well, she can’t be all bad then, even if she’s givin’ Miss Lettice an ‘ard time. That’s a loverly fing ta do, givin’ you a couple a books, Edith dearie.”

 

“I know!” Edith enthuses. “Anyway, I’m sure this is just a passing phase with Miss Lettice, and it will all be fine in the end. She’s very good at smoothing things over with people. And thinking of which, I think you’re contrite enough now, Mrs. Boothby. You just sit there, and once the kettle is boiled, I’ll serve Miss Lettice and Mr. Gifford, and then I’ll make us a pot of tea too when I come back. That will revive you.”

 

“Nuffin’ like a good cup ‘a Rosie-Lee******* to fix everyfink, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby agrees. “Along wiv a fag.”

 

“Oh no you don’t, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith snatches Mrs. Boothby’s blue beaded bag out of her grasp and puts it out of the old woman’s reach on the wooden bench behind her. “I’m sure those things make you cough. In fact, I know they do, because I coughed when my brother Bert came home with some woodbines******* after his first trip out to sea as a bell boy. An older steward gave him the packet, telling him that smoking them would make him a man. We both hid behind Mum’s washhouse at home in Harlesden and shared one. It made us both cough.”

 

“Did your mum catch youse?”

 

“No, luckily. She was out shopping down on the high street at the time. I’m sure if she was home, Mum would have caught us: we made that much noise. We threw the packet over the garden wall into the back laneway after our little experiment and scrubbed our hands willingly with carbolic, so as not to get caught. I’ve never had one since!” Edith nods emphatically. “Besides,” she turns the fluted white gilt plate holding the lemon sponge decorated with whipped cream and candied lemon wedges, adjusting her view of the cake, smiling with pleasure as she looks down at it. “I don’t want you smoking up my cake before I serve it to Miss Lettice and Mr. Gifford.”

 

“Alright. Alright.” Mrs. Boothby puts the empty glass on the deal tabletop and holds up her hands in defence. “I don’t want cha getting’ in no more trouble than I may ‘ave got ya in already wiv me coughin’, Edith dearie.”

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith says gratefully.

 

“So goin’ back to me question, before I nearly chocked on me own breaf, what’s this Mr. Gifford doin’ ‘ere in Miss Lettice’s parlour, anyway?”

 

“Miss Lettice is taking him on as a client. He’s come up to London to sign the contract.”

 

“Oooh.” Mrs. Boothby enthuses. “What’s she doin’ for ‘im?”

 

“I’m not exactly certain, but I know that she went down to Wiltshire to visit his house, after he came here with a photo album. She has been painting a design over and over again with her watercolours of a little Japanese house, like you see on Blue Willow ware.”

 

“Oh, I know them. They’s called pagodas.”

 

“That’s them! Well, I’ve been cleaning up a lot of screwed up pieces of paper with pagodas on them, which obviously weren’t to Miss Lettice’s liking.”

 

“Sounds a bit rum, doesn’t it, Edith dearie?”

 

“Well, yes, but as I found out later, what she’s been painting is a wallpaper design for Mr. Gifford. I suppose she is going to get the pattern printed on paper and then hung for Mr. Gifford. Beyond that, I don’t know much else.”

 

“Oh well, that’ll be good business for ‘er, anyway.”

 

“Well, here is something I do know, because I overheard Miss Lettice talking to Mrs. Channon over tea and biscuits the other day.”

 

“Aha!” crows Mrs. Boothby, eliciting another phlegmy cough. “I was right! I said you likes a bit of gossip!”

 

“Well…” Edith mutters, blushing as she speaks. As the older woman cocks her ear and looks expectantly at Edith, she continues, “If whatever she does pleases Mr. Gifford, she’ll get another article in Country Life******** magazine! Apparently, Mr. Gifford is related in some way to the man who wrote the first article about Miss Lettice, and he promised to write another one if Mr. Gifford likes what Miss Lettice does at his house. Hopefully that might help brighten up Miss Lettice too!”

 

“Well then, Edith dearie, you’re going to have ta face the fact.”

 

“And what fact is that, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“That, that infernal contraption is goin’ ta be ringin’ off the ‘ook, just like it did ever since that first article in that fancy toff magazine got published, Edith dearie.”

 

The bright copper kettle on the stove rattles about, indicating that it is boiling. Using a cloth to protect her hand from burning, Edith grasps its handle and pours hot water into the tall and elegant teapot on the tray.

 

“I’ll just serve this to Miss Lettice,” Edith says to Mrs. Boothby. “And then we can have our own bit of jibber-jabbering over some tea.”

 

*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.

 

**Vim was a common cleaning agent, used in any Edwardian household. Vim scouring powder was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight.

 

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

 

****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.

 

*****The term to jibber-jabber was first seen in English in the early Sixteenth century. It is generally thought to be an onomatopoeia imitative of speech, similar to the words jabber (to talk rapidly) and gibber (to speak inarticulately).

 

******The allusion in the simile “right as rain” is unclear, but it originated in Britain, where rainy weather is a normal fact of life, and indeed W.L. Phelps wrote, “The expression 'right as rain' must have been invented by an Englishman.” It was first recorded in 1894.

 

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

 

********Woodbine is a British brand of cigarettes which, as of 2019, is owned and manufactured by Imperial Tobacco. Woodbine cigarettes are named after the woodbine flowers, native to Eurasia. Woodbine was launched in 1888 by W.D. & H.O. Wills. Noted for its strong unfiltered cigarettes, the brand was cheap and popular in the early 20th century with the working-class, as well as with army men during the First and Second World War.

 

********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.

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

Edith’s deal kitchen table is covered with everything required for a splendid afternoon tea. Edith’s delicious and very realistic looking lemon sponge cake has been made from polymer clay and was made by Karen Ladybug miniatures in England. Lettice’s “falling leaves” tea set is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era. The delicate silver tea is a miniature piece I have had since I was a child or about eight or nine. The forks on the plates and the teaspoons on the tray come from a large cutlery set acquired from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The box of Lyons Tea is a 1:12 miniature hand made with close attention paid to the packaging by Jonesy’s Miniatures in England. The vase of flowers are all beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium and inserted into a real, hand blown glass vase.

 

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

 

The bright brass pieces hanging on the wall or standing on the stove all come from various stockists, most overseas, but the three frypans I bought from a High Street specialist in dolls and dolls’ house furnishings when I was a teenager.

 

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.

I've painted the chairs with new bright colors

Our July 2014 Holiday incl. DUB-LGW-DXB-BKK-DXB-LGW-DUB || Hilton London Gatwick x2|| Banyan Tree Bangkok || Four Seasons Hotel Bangkok || Novotel Suvarnabhumi Hotel BKK || Our fourth visit to Thailand, our third visit to Bangkok || From culture, architecture, food and drinks to hospitality and urban beauty, Bangkok is the City of Life || Highly recommended || JULY 2014

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“What Mum?” Edith exclaims.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Dad!” Edith exclaims.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Crossword!” Ada warns him.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Didn’t we last year, Edith love?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So we will again this year, then.”

 

“That’s good, Mum. Thank you.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Edith!” Ada chides.

 

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

 

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

 

“No Mum.” Edith mutters apologetically.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“What’s that?” Ada queries.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“And I did!” Hilda giggles with delight.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

***************The SS Demosthenes was a British steam ocean liner and refrigerated cargo ship which ran scheduled services between London and Australia via Cape Town. It stopped at ports including those in Sydney and Melbourne. She was launched in 1911 in Ireland for the Aberdeen Line and scrapped in 1931 in England. In the First World War she was an Allied troop ship.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Ada’s Windsor chair is a hand-turned 1:12 artisan miniature which came from America. Unfortunately, the artist did not carve their name under the seat of either chair, but it is definitely an unmarked artisan pieces.

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Frank got your tickets then?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Did she now, fancy fine little madam?”

 

“As if she even knew what cavorting meant.”

 

“So whatchoo do, then, Edith dearie?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“’Ow’s that then?”

 

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

 

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

 

“So I was a mess of emotions.”

 

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

 

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

 

“What’s that then, dearie?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Maybe, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

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

 

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

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

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

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

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

 

Edith’s two cookbooks are made by hand by an unknown American artisan and were acquired from an American miniature collector on E-Bay. The Everywoman Journal magazine from 1924 sitting on the table was made by hand by Petite Gite Miniatures in the United States, whilst the copy of Home Chat is a 1:12 miniature made by artisan Ken Blythe. I have a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my miniatures collection – books mostly. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! Sadly, so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. As well as making books, he also made other small paper based miniatures including magazines like the copy of Home Chat. It is not designed to be opened. What might amaze you in spite of this is the fact is that all Ken Blythe’s books and magazines are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make them all miniature artisan pieces. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

In the background you can see a very modern and up-to-date 1920s gas stove. It would have been expensive to instal at the time, and it would have been the cook’s or maid’s pleasure to cook on and in. It would have included a thermostat for perfect cooking and without the need of coal, it was much cleaner to feed, use and clean. It is not unlike those made by the Roper Stove Company in the 1920s. The Roper Stove Company previously named the Florence-Wehrle Company among other names, was founded in 1883. Located in Newark, Ohio, the company was once the largest stove producer in the world. Today, the Roper Stove Company is a brand of Whirlpool.

 

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

2014 August Break -- on the table

We're down to the dastardly green here. Jigsaw puzzles are among Tal's favorite things. With predictions of days of rain leading into and including the weekend, a new one was just the thing. He's worked it in record time. Of course, we have to eat at the kitchen counter when a puzzle's underway.

My kitchen table... My mother bought it for my in the 90's when I was in high school... as a future wedding gift :) I loved the 1950's era Retro Kitchen way back then ... :)

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.

 

It’s Sunday, and whilst Edith usually spends the day either with her beau, grocery delivery boy Frank Leadbetter, or her best friend and fellow maid Hilda, today both have other plans. Frank has gone to a trade unions meeting down near the London docks, and Hilda has gone to her beloved knitting group at Mrs. Minkin’s haberdashery shop in Whitechapel. This leaves Edith with no definite plans, but luckily for her, unlike many young servants who would rather do anything than spend time with their parents, Edith has a wonderful relationship with Ada and George, and with her Sunday free until four, she has decided to spend it with them. Edith has spent a lovely morning helping her mother prepare a steak and kidney pie for their midday meal whilst George spends some time at his beloved allotment nearby, and Edith has also helped Ada by darning a few pairs of her father’s well worn socks. It’s now getting close to half past one according to the solemnly ticking wall clock hanging on the kitchen wall, and Edith and her mother have long since finished taking tea and cleared away the tea things, mending, and the midday meal preparations from the kitchen table. George is running late. Just as Ada mutters something about her pie getting spoiled in the warming oven where it bides it time before being served, both women hear a familiarly cheerful whistle in the garden as the latch rattles before the back door is opened.

 

“Well, if it isn’t his nibs* home at last.” Ada remarks to Edith as George’s familiar footfall can be heard stepping into the scullery. “You took your merry time, George Watsford!” Ada calls out to her husband.

 

“Sorry Ada love.” George replies as he walks into the kitchen through the open scullery door carrying a wooden crate containing the last of his allotment’s lettuce for the year.

 

“Luckily I put our tea in the warming oven.” Ada replies as she stands up with a groan as she presses her worn hands onto the arms of her Windsor chair and foists herself from its comfortable, well worn seat.

 

“Of course you did, Ada love.” George replies with a chuckle, knowing that in spite of the reprimand, his wife isn’t cross with him for being a half hour later than he had planned. It isn’t uncommon for George to lose track of the time as he tends to the vegetable and flower gardens of his allotment.

 

Edith looks her father up and down as he enters the warm kitchen which smells of baking pastry and savory meat. George dressed in his usual Sundays at home garb, rather than the more formal Sunday best** suit of black barathea*** that he wears to church. Instead, he is in a white shirt and dark muddy green tie*****, his heavy wearing chocolate brown corduroy trousers affixed by braces beneath his argyle pattern****** vest of warm mustard and rich golden brown. A flat reddish brown workman’s cap sits atop his head, and from the crook of his elbow, Edith sees a small wicker basket swinging.

 

“Ah-ah!” Ada scolds as she eyes her husband’s footwear. “Don’t you dare come tramping your muddy boots all over my nice clean flagstones!” She points at George’s black outdoor boots caked in mud around the soles with an accusational finger. “I only washed the floors on Friday. Get them off!”

 

“Yes love.” George agrees, gratefully sinking into his own favourite Windsor chair drawn up in front of the hearth. He slips into the seat and starts to unlace his boots. He glances up at his daughter. “Edith love, fetch my slippers from our bedroom, will you.”

 

“Yes Dad!” Edith replies cheerfully, always happy to be of any help to either of her parents during her frequent visits.

 

Edith smiles, gets up from Ada’s kitchen table and scurries out of the room and upstairs to her parents’ bedroom, where she finds her father’s worn, yet comfortable plaid felt slippers sitting on the rag rug******* made of brightly coloured old fabrics next to his side of the old cast iron bed he and Ada share. By the time she returns down the narrow, creaking staircase and back into the warm kitchen, George has finished removing his boots, and they sit in front of the hearth, steaming slightly as the heat of the coal fire dries their damp leather.

 

“So, what’s for tea… err… dinner, then?” George asks as he accepts his slippers from his daughter, correcting his choice of words, knowing how Edith has taken to improving herself with her words, having learned finer language choices from Lettice. Edith smiles indulgently at her father and silently nods her approval at his self-correction.

 

“It’s a steak and kidney pie.” Ada remarks as she bustles behind her husband’s back as she boils some carrots and peas on the old blacklead coal range.

 

“I helped make it for you, Dad.” Edith says proudly.

 

“That must be why it smells so good.” George smiles beatifically as he inhales the rich smell of spiced meat that permeates the air around them.

 

“You’re a godsend, cutting the onions up for me, Edith love.” Ada remarks gratefully as she stirs the saucepan of peas. “Even when soaked in water********, I still weep when I cut onions.”

 

“Ahh, you’re a good girl, helping your mum like that, Edith love.”

 

“Yes, but Mum made the pastry.” Edith admits with a shy smile after her father’s praise. “She’s better at it than me.”

 

“Well, she’s had more practice than you have, hasn’t she, Edith love?”

 

“No-one makes pastry as good as Mum.”

 

“Oh, you’ll get there, Edith love,” Ada remarks encouragingly, glancing over her shoulder and looking earnestly at her daughter. “You’re already mostly there anyway. It‘s just I’m a bit quicker is all.” She turns her attention to her husband. “And luckily for you George Watsford,” She taps him on the shoulder with her wet wooden spoon as she withdraws it from the saucepan of peas, leaving a small damp patch on his woollen vest. “The crust isn’t burnt even though it’s been sitting in the warming oven for the last quarter hour.”

 

“You know, you should get old Widow Hounslow to replace the range, Mum.” Edith remarks disparagingly of Mrs. Hounslow, her parents’ landlady, as she automatically goes to the dresser and starts to take down some of her mother’s beloved mismatched china, obtained from local flea markets over the years, from the big dark wood Welsh dresser that dominates almost an entire wall of the kitchen. “It’s so old fashioned and dirty.”

 

Edith snatches a pretty blue and white floral edged plate off the shelf a little too roughly as she thinks of Mrs. Hounslow, almost allowing the plate to slip from her fingers as she does. Edith worked for the doughy widow when she first went into service. The old woman is most certainly middle-class, and mean to boot, treating poor Edith very shabbily throughout her tenure as the woman’s toiling cook and maid-of-all-work. Her wealth comes from the property portfolio acquired by Mr. Hounslow before he died. Edith’s parents are just two of the many tenants Mrs. Hounslow has, renting out the houses she now owns, charging moderately, but not excessively, yet spending as little as possible on the upkeep of them, never mind modernising them.

 

“What?” Ada spins around and looks aghast at her daughter with wide eyes, as though the young girl has just sworn at her. “Get rid of my old lady? Never!” She turns back and runs her hand lovingly over the ornate lettering of the range’s brand situated just over her head over the open fire. “She may be old fashioned, but she’s served me well.”

 

“You know as well as I, Mum, that that penny-pinching old woman can well afford to take that old iron monster out and install a much more up-to-date gas cooker for you.” Edith remarks as she stacks the plates on the kitchen table. “She could put you on the mains whilst she was at it.”

 

“You know how your mum feels about electricity, Edith love.” George remarks, looking askance at his daughter.

 

“Don’t be so blasphemous!” Ada balks. “Eletrickery is more like it.”

 

“See.” George folds his arms akimbo in his seat.

 

“No,” Ada turns back and opens the warming oven, just to check on her steak and kidney pie, gratified to see her pastry top golden brown and not burned as it sits on its wire rack. “This old lady and I have been working together longer than you’ve been alive for, Edith love. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

“Miss Lettice has a lovely gas stove in Cavendish Mews, Mum.” Edith insists. “It’s ever so modern and easy to use: like those ones we saw at the British Empire Exhibition*********. It has a thermostat so there’s no need for me to stick my hand in the oven to gauge the temperature the way you have to.”

 

“That’s lazy cooking, that is.” Ada scoffs with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Every girl in service should know how to gauge an oven’s temperature with her hand.”

 

“No it’s not, Mum.” Edith retorts. “You saw at the British Empire Exhibition that they say it’s a way to ensure perfect cooking every time.” She goes on. “And because its gas, it doesn’t need coal, so it’s much cleaner. To use”

 

“What would I do with a gas stove and oven at my age, Edith love? I wouldn’t know how to use it, even if Mrs. Hounslow did install one for me. I’m too set in my ways and habits to go changing with all this new-fangled gas cookery. No!” She bangs the blacklead heartily. “I know her as well as I know the back of my own hand, Edith love. A gas stove might be alright for the likes of you, working for such a fine lady as your Miss Chetwynd, but I’m content with my old girl. We rub along well together, even if we do have our differences some days. Thank you all the same.”

 

“Well, I still think old Widow. Hounslow is a mean old landlady, Mum. She never spends a penny she doesn’t have to on this old place to make things easier or more comfortable for you and Dad.”

 

“Oh Edith! Poor old Mrs. Hounslow’s a widow.”

 

“I know, Mum. You’re like one of Miss Lettice’s gramophone records.”

 

“What do you mean?” Ada gasps, looking aghast at her daughter.

 

“Well, when Miss Lettice gets a new gramophone record, she plays it over and over again.”

 

George snorts and chuckles quietly in his seat at his daughter’s cheeky remark, which rewards him with a rap from his wife, who does so without even looking at him.

 

“You’re always using Mrs. Hounslow’s status as widow as a defence for her poor behaviour.” Edith goes on. “And it’s a poor excuse. I’ve grown up hearing about how poor old Widow Hounslow’s husband died a hero in the siege of Mafeking in the Boer War.” She releases an exasperated sigh as she turns back to the dresser and noisy fossicks through the cutlery drawer looking for knives and forks for them to eat their pie and vegetables with. “But he left her well off enough with plenty of houses like this to let out to the likes of you who pays more than you probably should for it, as well as a fine house of her own. I should know.” She snorts derisively. “I worked in it for long enough with no thanks, so I know how comfortably she has it, widow or not!”

 

“Shame on you Edith!” Ada says with hurt in her voice as she wags the wooden spoon at her daughter. “I helped you get your very first position with Mrs. Hounslow.”

 

“I know you did, Mum, and I’m not ungrateful to you for helping me get it.” Edith lets out another exasperated sigh as she returns to the kitchen table and starts to set three places for them. “All the same, I’ve never heard or seen Mrs. Hounslow have to scrape or work hard for anything, and it breaks my heart to see you slave over that old range and blacklead it, week after week, when you could have something so much nicer that wouldn’t put old Widow Hounslow into the poor house.”

 

“Now, you know I won’t have a bad word said about her, Edith.” Ada says, turning back to her pots on the range. “She’s helped pay for many a meal in this house with her sixpences and shillings over the years, paying for me to do her laundry.” She stirs the pot and angrily taps her wooden spoon noisily on its edge. “So let that be an end to it.” She nods emphatically.

 

George remains silent in his chair, arching his eyebrows as he looks helplessly at his daughter.

 

“Anyway, enough about Mrs. Hounslow.” Ada remarks. “George, where were you that it took you so long to come back from the allotment?” She leans down and sniffs near his mouth. “Well, you evidently haven’t stopped by the pub on the way home.”

 

George seizes his chance and leans forward and kisses his wife lovingly on the lips. Surprised by this unexpected intimate token of affection, Ada gasps and blushes as she stands upright again. She raises her right hand to her lips where a smile has formed, her frustration about her daughter’s dislike of Mrs. Hounslow forgotten. From across the table, Edith beams with delight as she pauses with a fork in her hand. Silently as she watches them, she hopes that she and Frank will be as contented in their marriage as her parents are in theirs.

 

“No, I haven’t, Ada love.” George replies with a cheeky smile.

 

“Then where were you, Dad?” Edith asks. “We were getting worried.”

 

“Well, I might not have stopped at the pub, but I did pop in to Mr. Pyecroft’s on the high street on the way home.”

 

“Mr. Pyecroft the ironmonger**********?” Edith queries.

 

“The very same.” George replies.

 

“But it’s Sunday***********, George love,” Ada observes. “What were you doing there on a Sunday?”

 

“Well I ran into Pyecroft when I was at the allotment, and he told me that he had some new Webbs************ seeds in stock, so I went home with him to get some.”

 

“What did you get, Dad?” Edith asks excitedly. “What are you going to grow?”

 

“Hopefully more carrots*************.” Ada remarks matter-of-factly as she slips past her husband carrying the heavy metal saucepans of carrots and peas, one in each hand, and proceeds to drain them in the small sink in the corner of the kitchen. “I prefer your home-grown ones to anything Mr. Lovegrove’s grocers can provide. They are so much tastier.”

 

“Well thank you, Ada love! That’s because I grew them for you.” George says over the noisy rush of water and the clang of saucepans and the vegetable strainer in the enamel sink. “With love in every turn of the sod.”

 

“Pshaw!” Ada flaps her hand at her husband distractedly as she laughs good naturedly. “Oh you!”

 

“I did get some carrots as a matter of fact,” George goes on, fishing a packet featuring a drawing of three good looking carrots on its front out of the wicker basket which now sits on the floor at his feet. “And some cauliflowers too.” he adds, withdrawing a packet depicting a fluffy white cauliflower surrounded by a halo of healthy green leaves.

 

“Oh good!” Ada enthuses as she pours peas into a plain white bowl sitting in readiness on the wooden draining board by the sink. “We might have caulis for Christmas this year, then!”

 

“We may will, Ada love.”

 

“I thought it was getting too cold to grow cauliflowers, Dad.” Edith opines as she fetches glasses to finish setting the table for them. “Aren’t they a summer vegetable?”

 

“You can plant them in spring, or in autumn, Edith love.” George replies knowledgably. “I also bought some runner beans,” He fishes out another packet from the basket. “But they won’t survive the winter frosts, so I’ll keep them aside in the bottom of the pantry with my other spring plantings.”

 

“Are you going to grow marrows again for the Roundwood Park************** Harvest Festival next April, Dad?”

 

“Try and stop him, Edith love.” Ada laughs before lifting the remaining saucepan over the sink and draining the carrots. “There hasn’t been a year, except for the war, when your dad hasn’t submitted a marrow to the festival.”

 

“I’m determined to win the coveted prize of best marrow from Mr. Johnson.” George says with steely determination. “I don’t know what he uses in his fertiliser, but he says it isn’t anything special.”

 

“Have you tried to work it out, Dad?”

 

“Has he ever!” Ada rolls her eyes to the soot-stained ceiling above as she speaks. “I’d be richer than Mrs. Hounslow if I received a penny for every after-tea conversation on a Sunday I’ve had with your Dad about the secret ingredient in Mr. Johnson’s fertiliser, after he gets back from the allotment.”

 

“You never complain.”

 

Ada smiles to herself as she slips the carrots into a bowl. “Of course I don’t, love. I don’t mind. I can’t say I understand half of what you talk about, I’ll admit that. But I know gardening makes you happy, and that makes me happy.” Ada picks up the bowls. “Here, put these on the table will you, Edith love,” She passes the bowls to her daughter. “Whilst I fetch out the pie from the warming oven.”

 

“Dinner is served!” George chortles, as he gets up and drags his chair over to the table.

 

Ada removes the steak and kidney pie from the warming oven and places it on the kitchen table between the three of their place settings. The crust glows golden brown, its decorative puffed edges raised to perfection as steam and the delicious aroma of meat, herbs and onion arises from it through the holes made in its top by Ada. She sighs with satisfaction, whilst her husband and daughter both sniff the air appreciatively.

 

“I seem to remember you used to grow flowers and vegetables in the back garden, Dad.” Edith remarks a little while later as she enjoys her meal of piping hot steak and kidney pie, boiled peas and carrots with her parents.

 

“Goodness! Fancy you remembering that!” George gasps. “You were only a toddler, back then!”

 

“Bert was still in his pram the last time you pulled a marrow from its vine out there.” Ada adds before taking a mouthful of her own meal.

 

“So, I wasn’t imagining it, then?” Edith ventures. “I thought I might have.”

 

“No, you weren’t, Edith love.” George acknowledges.

 

“I can’t imagine you growing anything out there,” Edith adds. “Grass barely grows out there in that miserable, gloomy yard.”

 

“Well, it wasn’t always like that, Edith love.”

 

“Your dad made a lovely garden out there: small, but manageable before you were born when we first came to live here.”

 

“I did!” George agrees, a wistful lilt in his voice as he remembers. “I had a small vegetable garden, and I grew asters, pinks, phlox and pansies too. Remember Ada love? You used to pick flowers to put in here.”

 

Edith smiles happily as she listens to her father.

 

“You used to pick flowers too, Edith love.” Ada adds. “Do you remember?”

 

“No, Mum. Did I?”

 

“Oh yes!” Ada explains. “You used to have your own little floral painted vase that I bought for a penny at a local flea market for you. You used to pick flowers close to the ground and put them in it.”

 

“You would have stripped my garden bare if I hadn’t stopped you.” George laughs.

 

“What happened then, to the garden?” Edith asks.

 

“Well, you’ve seen it out there, Edith love.” George replies as he cuts into his slice of pie, spraying tiny flecks of Ada’s golden pastry across his plate and onto the kitchen table’s bare surface as he does. “It’s too shady there now to grow much of anything.”

 

“Then what happened to make it like that, Dad?”

 

“Why the terrace of houses behind us, of course!” her mother remarks. “They cast the yard into shadow for too much of the day for any plant to really take root and grow.”

 

When Edith looks quizzically between her parents, George goes on, “It’s Mrs. Hounslow, again.”

 

“Now George.” Ada remarks warningly as she purses her lips and cocks her eyebrow as she eyes her husband at the table next to her.

 

“It’s alright, Ada love. I’m not speaking out of turn about Mrs. Hounslow. I’m only telling the truth.”

 

“What’s old Widow Hounslow to do with our back yard, Dad?” Edith asks. “Besides her owning it, that is?”

 

“Well, when you were born, the two-up two-down*************** terrace of houses wasn’t there. There were a couple of old, single storey cottages back from the time when Harlesden was still a village, on the next street.”

 

“They must have been a good hundred years old, or more, and they weren’t terribly well built in their time, and were in a shocking state of disrepair,” Ada pipes up, interrupting her husband. “No-one could live in them.”

 

“But the land was owned by Mr. Hounslow.” her father goes on. “But he never knocked the cottages down. Anyway, a little while after he died, Mrs. Hounslow had the old houses pulled down and she constructed the two storey terrace that’s there now. When there were just the cottages there, we had plenty of light for a garden, but now,” George shrugs. “Oh well.”

 

“That awful old Widow Hounslow knows how to spoil everyone’s fun.” Edith grumbles.

 

“What did I say about disparaging Mrs. Hounslow, Edith?” Ada remarks warningly as she eyes her daughter.

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that old Mrs. Hounslow was all bad, Edith love.” George remarks.

 

“How so, Dad?” Edith asks before taking a drink of water from her glass, swallowing her mouthful of steak and kidney pie.

 

“Well, you might not believe this, Edith love, but it’s Mrs. Hounslow that Mr. Johnson, Mr. Pyecroft and all the working men like me have to thank for even having an allotment.”

 

Edith chokes on her mouthful of water. “Really?” she splutters. “Old Widow Hounslow?”

 

“Well, it is her land. She could have developed it and put some terraces on it, like this one, or the ones she built behind us, but she didn’t. She recognsied that we men wanted nice gardens, so she arranged the allotment for us.”

 

“Which you have to pay for.” Edith quips.

 

“No he doesn’t, Edith.” Ada ventures.

 

“Your Mum is right, Edith.” her father agrees. “I have to pay for my plants and fertiliser, but I don’t have to pay for my plot. They were gifts in perpetuity to the men and women gardeners of Harlesden to help provide some cheer, and make the lives of her tenants just a bit nicer.”

 

“In perpetuity?” Edith queries.

 

“That’s right. It means that she will never turn the site of the allotments over to any other purpose, and if Bert wants it when I die, he can take over the allotment.”

 

“And if he doesn’t?” Edith asks, doubting whether her seafaring brother will ever want to settle down in Harlesden and grow carrots, peas and cauliflowers, entering marrows in the local flower and vegetable show to try and win prizes, like her father.

 

“Then it goes to the next person on the waiting list. We have a list of men and women from hereabouts who would like a plot of their own, so the allotment committee decided that should anyone move away and leave their plot, or should someone without children pass on, or should the children of an allotment owner not want the plot, that it would be offered to the next person on the waiting list.”

 

“Is that right, Dad?” Edith asks a little more brightly.

 

“It is, and that’s why when Miss Bunting the organist at All Souls**************** died last winter of influenza, Mr. Corrigan of Ashdon Road was given her allotment. And we’re very grateful, as he has a better green thumb than she had in her later years, and he brought in a bumper crop of pears from her tree this year.”

 

“Did he now?” Edith asks.

 

“And he’s very generous with his produce,” Ada adds. “And I for one, am not too proud, and am really most grateful to accept a few of his Comice pears***************** to stew or put into a pie.”

 

“So, you see, Edith love, whatever you may think of Mrs. Hounslow and her penny-pinching ways, she’s really not all bad.”

 

*Meaning a person in authority, he origin of “his nibs” is obscure, but it might have come from the slang term “my nabs,” meaning “my gentleman” or “myself.” The word “nab,” refers to a head or a coxcomb (a fop or a dandy).

 

**One’s Sunday best is a term used for a person’s finest clothes. This expression, coined in the mid Nineteenth Century, alludes to reserving one's best clothes for going to church; indeed, an older idiom is Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes ( meeting here meaning “prayer meeting”).

 

***Barathea wool is a tightly woven fabric that is resistant to snagging and tearing, making it an ideal choice of fabric for suits, which were often the most expensive item in a man’s wardrobe in the 1920s. Due to its coarse texture, the fabric has natural recovery abilities and quickly returns back to its natural shape, barathea was popular to make suits from as working men usually only has one suit.

 

****Although it sounds formal in today’s society, in the 1920s, a respectable man would seldom be seen without a tie, thus differentiating himself from a common labourer who would have gone about without a tie. Perhaps the sporting arena was one of the few exceptions to the rule, meaning that a respectable man would have worn a tie even when relaxing at home or following more leisurely pursuits, like doing gardening.

 

*****The argyle diamond pattern derives loosely from the tartan of Clan Campbell of Argyll in western Scotland, used for kilts and plaids, and from the patterned socks worn by Scottish Highlanders since at least the Seventeenth Century (these were generally known as "tartan hose"). Modern argyle patterns, however, are usually not true tartans, as they have two solid colours side-by-side, which is not possible in a tartan weave (solid colours in tartan are next to blended colours and only touch other solid colours at their corners). Argyle knitwear became fashionable in Great Britain and then in the United States after the First World War. Pringle of Scotland popularised the design, helped by its identification with the Duke of Windsor. Argyle patterned socks, pullovers and vests were common sights across all classes throughout the 1920s and 1930s.

 

******A rag rug is a rug or mat made from rags. Small pieces of old fabric from damaged or worn clothes are recycled and are either hooked into or poked through a hessian backing, or else the strips are braided or plaited together to make a mat. Other names for this kind of rug are derived from the material or technique. Other names for this kind of rug are derived from the material (clippy or clootie rug) or technique (proggie or proddie rug, poke mats and peg mats). In Britain, these thrift rugs were popular in the Nineteenth Century and during the Great War in working class homes seeking to reuse precious material. The hessian back may have come from a food sack, whilst the fabrics could have been shirts, trousers or frocks that were too far gone to mend.

 

*******Soaking onions in cold water is an old fashioned remedy to help prevent crying when cutting onions. A cold water bath chills the onion, which slows down the production of the chemicals that cause our eyes to water.

 

********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.

 

*********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.

 

**********Although by the mid 1980s, many shops, particularly larger department stores, flouted the law, Sunday trading only became legalised in the United Kingdom and Wales in 1994. Sundays were always considered sacrosanct, although small High Street businesses selling essentials, such as bakers, were allowed to open for a short period on Sundays. The Shops Act legislated that large shops were to remain closed on Sundays. Goods were not allowed to be shipped on Sundays, and many shops also had a half-day where doors would close early on a certain weekday, as decided by each local council.

 

**********Edward Webb and Sons, known more commonly simply as Webbs, were an English seed merchants or seedsmen, dating back to around 1850 when Edward Webb started a business in Wordsley, near Stourbridge. By the 1890s, Webb and Sons had been appointed seedsmen to Queen Victoria, and had become a household name around Britain. Fertilisers being crucial to the nursery industry, the Webbs in 1894 took over Proctor and Ryland, a well-known bone manure works in Saltney near Chester, and considerably expanded its activities, becoming Saltney's second largest business. Edward Webb and Sons were awarded a Gold Medal at the Royal Horticultural Society's Chelsea Flower Show in 1914. During World War II the firm was the primary supplier of grass seeds and fertiliser for airfields, both under the Air Ministry and local municipalities. The seeds used for this purpose were chosen to withstand heavy aircraft traffic. Webb and Sons also assisted in the camouflage of landing strips.

 

***********Carrots grow best in cool weather, so they are usually planted in early spring for an early summer harvest, or late summer for an autumn and early winter harvest. They are easy to grow from seed.

 

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

 

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

 

***************The Doyenné du Comice pear originated in France, where it was first grown at the Comice Horticole in Angers in the 1840s. The Comice pear is large and greenish-yellow, with a red blush and some russeting. Its flesh is pale, melting, and very juicy. Because the skin is very delicate and easily bruised, it requires special handling and is not well suited to mechanical packing. The Comice pear has received great acclaim. The London Horticultural Journal in 1894 called it the best pear in the world. It is the most widely grown pear tree variety in the United Kingdom today because of its cropping reliability, good disease resistance and self-fertility.

 

This 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.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

George’s basket, which comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, is full of and surrounded by delightful little vegetable seed packets. These seed packets are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Ken Blythe is better known for his miniature 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, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. This however does not extend to these packets, whose graphics are on full display for all to see. Like his books, the vegetable seed packets are copies of real packets of Webbs seeds. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

To the right of the basket of seeds is a rather worn and beaten looking enamelled jug in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green. Aged on purpose, this artisan piece I acquired from The Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

Behind the basket of seeds and jug, standing on the hearth is a wooden crate from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures, which contains a bunch of lettuce. The leaves of lettuce are artisan made of very thin sheets of clay and are beautifully detailed. I acquired them from an auction house some twenty years ago as part of a lot made up of miniature artisan food.

 

George’s high black gardening boots I acquired from Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, who are better known for their wonderful array of authentic packaged food stuffs, but also do a small line of shoes and shoe boxes.

 

George’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 large kitchen range which serves as a backdrop for this photo 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).

 

The worn old kettle comes from an online stockists of miniatures on eBay.

 

The brooms and brushes in the background from a mixture of places including Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures, Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop and Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The tiny mousetrap also comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop.

EXPLORED: #409

 

...who suggested that my yellow weeds would look lovely as a bouquet on my blue and white tablecloth.

 

Darn it, Madge, I couldn't find any with open blooms, so here they are with their very distant cousin, Miss Azalea of 2009. ;-)

 

Here's another look: For Jainbow - she wanted to see more of the table, I think.

farm4.static.flickr.com/3543/3345340764_d1c61df338.jpg

Assortment of heirloom and cherry tomatoes on a light surface

blogged at http:www.resurrectionfern,typepad.com/

...at the kitchen table.

What a 2nd grader looks like.

Light + Still Life = Magic.

I've recently become a bit obsessed with still life.