(Offer tag)

This is a scanned print from a collection of photographs taken by the late Jim Taylor A number of years ago I was offered a large number of photographs taken by Jim Taylor, a transport photographer based in Huddersfield. The collection, 30,000 prints,20,000 negatives – and copyright! – had been offered to me and one of the national transport magazines previously by a friend of Jims, on behalf of Jims wife. I initially turned them down, already having over 30,000 of my owns prints filed away and taking space up. Several months later the prints were still for sale – at what was, apparently, the going rate . It was a lot of money and I deliberated for quite a while before deciding to buy them. I did however buy them directly from Jims wife and she delivered them personally – just to quash the occasional rumour from people who can’t mind their own business. Although some prints were sold elsewhere, particularly the popular big fleet stuff, I should have the negatives, unfortunately they came to me in a random mix, 1200 to a box, without any sort of indexing and as such it would be impossible to match negatives to prints, or, to even find a print of any particular vehicle. I have only ever looked at a handful myself unless I am scanning them. The prints are generally in excellent condition and I initially stored them in a bedroom without ever looking at any of them. In 2006 I built an extension and they had to be well protected from dust and moved a few times. Ultimately my former 6x7 box room office has become their (and my own work’s) permanent home.

  

It was the development of our second generation website with its photo gallery located quite cleverly on Flickr, rather than making our own site unwieldy, that led me to start uploading photos to Flickr. It was initially for my own and historic company photos but with unlimited storage and reasonable upload speeds I soon started uploading other stuff. Scanning one of Jims photos was a random choice one winters evening, initially very slow and time consuming I nevertheless stuck with it and things just snowballed. It was obvious that there are a lot of people interested in this type of thing. I can now scan and edit in Photoshop in a minute or so per print. Out of over 30,000 images on Flickr I have around 3500 of Jims photos. I don’t promote myself on Flickr – at all! So my viewing figures grow organically, without using the mutual favourite awarding etc. that is endemic on Flickr. The statistics tell me that travel (I don’t do porn) is the most popular genre. My travel photos, particularly later stuff receive far more views than transport. The transport stuff will hit a ceiling and then build very slowly over time, with lots of people coming back to them again and again. Travel of course is far more inclusive but there is an unbelievable amount out there, far more than the 1980’s UK transport stuff. The travel and landscape photos have pushed the views past 12 million, with a current average of around 40,000 views a day, peaking with an upload from a new destination at around 90,000 views. I recall being excited with a 100 views.

 

My reasons for buying the collection were mixed. On the one hand it was a unique snapshot of the transport industry, predominantly in the north of England, from around 1980 onwards. This was my patch and my era. I passed my Class One a few days after my 21st birthday in 1980 and spent the next 17 years being a Jack the Lad on the road, waving at and crossing paths with many of the wagons that Jim photographed, in fact my owns wagons are in the mix. Jim did travel to Scotland extensively and into the Southern Hemisphere a number of times hence there is a broad range of material in his collection. I knew I wouldn’t get a chance like it again. On the other hand the reason I gave up hauling scrap around the North of England in a Foden eight wheeler was the diagnosis of an incurable form of Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma at the age of 38, although a low grade cancer I was already a widower with four young children and I was looking at an uncertain future and it terrified me. I wasn’t remotely ill but was treated with Chemotherapy, again, I wasn’t ill and didn’t need time off work. The shock however brought me to my senses and I came off the road, I joined the normal world, up at 6.30 not 4.30am. I didn’t realise it at the time but I had closed the door on my wagon driving days. I was worried that, at some point, I wouldn’t be able to work physically hard, bearing in mind the family business is a scrap yard – a physical sort of environment. I had it in my mind that there was a possibility that I could use my own and Jims photos to supplement my income, I had four kids to feed and I knew there wouldn’t be any family financial support – it’s not that sort of family. I still have the NHL although thankfully you wouldn’t know it. This type of thing is now considered treatable – not curable- after around forty endoscopies, a 100 stomach biopsies, bone marrow samples and endless scans of different types, I may well get to die of old age, not cancer. It was discovered almost by accident at the time, not illness on my part, and long may it stay that way! The lack of illness made the shock all the greater though.

 

I hope to avoid posting images that Jim had not taken his self, however should I inadvertently infringe another photographers copyright, please inform me by email and I will resolve the issue immediately. There are copyright issues with some of the photographs that were sold to me. A Flickr member from Scotland drew my attention to some of his own work amongst the first uploads of Jims work. I had a quick look through some of the 30 boxes of prints and decided that for the time being the safest thing for me to do was withdraw the majority of the earlier uploaded scans and deal with the problem – which I did. whilst the vast majority of the prints are Jims, there is a problem defining copyright of some of them, this is something that the seller did not make clear at the time. I am reasonably confident that I have since been successful in identifying Jims own work. His early work consists of many thousands of lustre 6x4 prints which are difficult to scan well, later work is almost entirely 7x5 glossy, much easier to scan. Not all of the prints are pin sharp but I can generally print successfully to A4 from a scan.

 

You may notice photographs being duplicated in this Album, unfortunately there are multiple copies of many prints (for swapping) and as I have to have a system of archiving and backing up I can only guess - using memory - if I have scanned a print before. The bigger fleets have so many similar vehicles and registration numbers that it is impossible to get it right all of the time. It is easier to scan and process a print than check my files - on three different PC's - for duplicates. There has not been, nor will there ever be, any intention to knowingly breach anyone else's copyright. I have presented the Jim Taylor collection as exactly that-The Jim Taylor Collection- his work not mine, my own work is quite obviously mine.

 

Unfortunately many truck spotters have swapped and traded their work without copyright marking it as theirs. These people never anticipated the ease with which images would be shared online in the future. I would guess that having swapped and traded photos for many years that it is almost impossible to control their future use. Anyone wanting to control the future use of their work would have been well advised to copyright mark their work (as many did) and would be well advised not to post them on photo sharing sites without a watermark as the whole point of these sites is to share the image, it is very easy for those that wish, to lift any image, despite security settings, indeed, Flickr itself, warns you that this is the case. It was this abuse and theft of my material that led me to watermark all of my later uploads. I may yet withdraw non watermarked photos, I haven’t decided yet.

 

To anyone reading the above it will be quite obvious that I can’t provide information regarding specific photos or potential future uploads – I didn’t take them! There are many vehicles that were well known to me as Jim only lived down the road from me (although I didn’t know him), however scanning, titling, tagging and uploading is laborious and time consuming enough, I do however provide a fair amount of information with my own transport (and other) photos. I am aware that there are requests from other Flickr users that are unanswered, I stumble across them months or years after they were posted, this isn’t deliberate. Some weekends one or two “enthusiasts” can add many hundreds of photos as favourites, this pushes requests that are in the comments section ten or twenty pages out of sight and I miss them. I also have notifications switched off, I receive around 50 emails a day through work and I don’t want even more from Flickr. Other requests, like many other things, I just plain forget – no excuses! Uploads of Jims photos will be infrequent as it is a boring pastime and I would much rather work on my own output.

 

None of my photographs are free to use – without my permission - only free to view! If you breach my copyright you are stealing what is mine and if I find out, I will pursue the case until you rectify the situation. Arguments that attempt to justify copyright theft are just excuses for theft from people with little or no understanding of copyright law – or more frequently- deliberate, selective, misinterpretation of the law – to suit their own ends. I have never knowingly refused a reasonable request, I don’t join groups but am quite happy for people to add photos to groups. I dislike exchanging long and time consuming emails – I prefer to talk on the phone, being the opposite of anti-social in person, you can’t shut me up. I am generally speaking an anti-social, social networker, I just don’t have the time for it, in fact, I joke that I am going to start a social network for internet anti-social people, you’ll just register your name and that’s it – no networking and endless mindless twaddle. Face-less Book? The antidote to Facebook. I like to get out and chat to people face to face and welcome customers with an interest in photography in to my office to chat on a regular basis. I also print – and give- A4 prints to many of the drivers that visit our yard. I photograph wagons and plant that I come into contact with in a day’s work I don’t go looking to photograph them in my free time. Wagons are a necessary evil in my life these days and they cost me money – every day! For the extensive story and history of JB Schofield &sons Ltd look here; www.jbschofieldandsons.co.uk/

 

So far photography remains a hobby, and I refuse any offers to turn it into a business, the regulations surrounding scrap and transport and the running of the yard keep me occupied most of the time. In my free time I cycle hard for fitness, walk hard for pleasure, fitness, and the challenge, take photos for pleasure and the challenge, edit them because I have to, and lastly, drink wine because I want to. There isn't time for another business. The kids are now adults and all of them work for me, and with me, another challenge.

 

Two visitors of the Senso-ji temple offer a prayer at the entrance of the Kannondo, the main hall of the temple, under another huge chochin, the traditional paper lantern. The second gate of the temple complex, the Hozo-mon, can be seen in the background, behind the smoke rising from the incense burner at the entrance to the Kannon-do. The Hozōmon ("Treasure-House Gate"), whose latest iteration from 1964 was built using flame-resistant materials, houses in its upper story many of Sensō-ji's treasures, which include a copy of the Lotus Sutra that is designated a Japanese National Treasure and the Issai-kyō, a complete collection of Buddhist scriptures that has been designated an Important Cultural Property.

This image offers a crisp, head-on view of MIKI GAKKI BASS SIDE, a specialty bass guitar shop located in the heart of Osaka’s Amerikamura (American Village) district—Japan’s mecca for musicians and gearheads alike. With gleaming glass doors and a brightly lit showroom, the entrance to this bass-only annex beckons to players of all levels, from casual enthusiasts to seasoned professionals.

 

Inside, a stunning lineup of bass guitars in every imaginable color and configuration hangs in orderly rows, creating a visual rhythm that mirrors the music these instruments are designed to produce. The reflected lighting and spotless floors speak to the shop’s modern, premium feel, while its highly curated inventory makes it a destination shop for low-end lovers across Japan and beyond.

 

MIKI GAKKI, one of Japan’s most legendary music retailers since 1825, is known for its elite service and expansive product range. The BASS SIDE location continues that tradition with a focused dedication to electric basses, amps, accessories, and boutique brands. Posters in the window announce promotions, gear buybacks, and shop hours (12:00–20:00), reinforcing this shop’s reputation as both a showroom and a community hub for serious musicians.

 

Even the corridor leading to the shop adds to the sense of anticipation—with clean architecture, quiet lighting, and an invitingly wide-open approach that frames the shop like a stage. Whether you’re in the market for a rare custom bass or simply want to bask in the glow of expertly displayed instruments, MIKI GAKKI BASS SIDE is a must-visit stop on any music-lover’s Osaka itinerary.

  

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

 

Today we are still in Mayfair, and only a short distance from Cavendish Mews, out the front of an imposing Palladian style mansion on the grand thoroughfare of Park Lane, opposite Hyde Park. Lettice gulps as she looks up at the cascading layer cake of columns, balustrades, balconies and rows of windows, most shaded from the afternoon sun by striped awnings. At one window not covered by an awning, a maid in her afternoon uniform of black moiré with a lace cap, cuffs and apron gazes out over the street below. Lettice catches her eye and smiles meekly at her, but the maid does not return it, looking both quizzically and critically at her standing on the steps leading up to the front door of the palatial residence, before retreating into the shadows within. Lettice’s heart begins to flutter. For nearly a year Lettice has been patiently awaiting the return of her beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban by his mother, the Duchess of Walmsford, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wants to end so that she can marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Now Lettice has been invited to tea by Lady Zinnia, and it is the Park Lane mansion belonging to the Duke and Duchess of Walmsford that Lettice now stands before. Gulping again, she depresses the button next to the enormous white painted double front doors with black painted knockers. Deep within she can hear a bell ring, announcing her arrival. A tall and imperious looking bewigged footman in splendid Eighteenth Century style livery answers the door.

 

“The Honourable Lettice Chetwynd to see Her Grace.” Lettice says firmly, determined not to betray her nerves at being here.

 

“Is Her Grace expecting you, Miss Chetwynd?” and the footman asks, and when she affirms that she is, he steps aside, ushering her from the golden late afternoon light outside into the cool darkened marble hallway within.

 

Lettice feels that even the sound of her shallow breaths echo noisily off the marble of the lofty entrance hall as she enters it. The grand space is illuminated from skylights in a dome three storeys above, by a grand electrified crystal chandeliers hanging from vaulted ceilings and by sconces in the ornately carved columns about her. The footman politely asks her to wait whilst he strides silently up the sweeping carpeted spiral staircase with shining ostentatious silver banisters to the upper floors of the mansion. Lettice takes a seat in an elegant, gilded chair. The wine coloured velvet upholstery looks soft and comfortable, but Lettice quickly discovers that it is anything but that, feeling the hard horsehair beneath her as it forces her to sit up more straightly in her seat. “How very Lady Zinnia.” Lettice remarks bitterly as she waits. Somewhere, deep within the bowels of the house, behind one or more sets of tightly closed doors, the muffled sound of a clock chiming four o’clock makes its presence known. Lettice shivers, sighs and hopes that Lady Zinnia will not keep her waiting too long as part of a cruel joke of her own making. A short while later, the footman returns.

 

“Her Grace will see you now, Miss Chetwynd. Please follow me to the Cream Drawing Room.”

 

He leads her up the grand staircase to the second floor and then takes her through a suite of rooms with lofty, vaunted ceilings, polished parquet floors and walls lined with gilded columns. Each room is filled with gilt chairs and sofas upholstered in sumptuous satins and rich velvets, no doubt all as uncomfortable as the salon chair she has recently vacated. The walls of the chambers are hung with paintings of past generations of the Dukes of Walmsford and their families, all of them peering at Lettice with imperious gazes, silently judging her as an outsider by their dark, glazed and cold stares.

 

After what feels like an age to Lettice, they finally they stop before two rich mahogany doors inset with brightly polished brass. The footman knocks loudly upon the door three times.

 

“Miss Chetwynd, Your Grace.” the liveried footman announces as he turns the door handles, opens the doors and steps into the grand Cream Drawing Room with Lettice in his wake.

 

Lettice is awe struck for a moment by the room, which is even grander and more luxuriously appointed than those state rooms and apartments she has walked through thus far. Whether named for the furnishings, or whether the salon was decorated after being given its name, the White Drawing Room is decorated with white wallpaper featuring a very fine white Regency stripe, and the lofty space is full of sofas, chaises and chairs all upholstered in white or cram fabrics. Lettice suspects the pared back wallpaper design has been chosen deliberately, so as not to distract from the many gilt framed paintings hanging on them, not to draw attention away from any of the other fine pieces about the apartment. The furnishings are mostly Regency and show off the wealth of the former Dukes of Walmsford with their ornate gilding on chair arms and backs and table legs. Palladian console tables with marble surfaces featuring caryatids* covered in gold jostle for space with ornate ormolu** decorated Empire display cabinets and pedestals held aloft by swans with long necks. Across every surface and on each shelf in the cabinets stand pieces of porcelain from the Eighteenth Century, reflecting the current Duchess of Walmsford’s taste for mostly French ornaments. Vases, bowls, urns, ginger jars and figurines made by Veuve Perrin***, Limoges**** and Chelsea***** grace French polished mahogany and polished grey marble, each item carefully placed to show it off to its very best, whilst the cabinets burst with full dinner services of Sèrves***** covered in floral designs. The salon is flooded with light from the full length windows that overlook Park Lane, the ample sunlight, even on an autumnal London day creating additional brilliance, and the space is filled with the cloying scent of hothouse roses with cascade in ornate arrangements from some of the Duchess’ more impressive vases. The whole arrangement is designed to impress and intimidate visitors, and it achieves this with Lettice as she enters the room, mustering as much courage as she can to walk like the daughter of a viscount, yet feeling a sham amongst such excessive splendour, which even the King and Queen might well be jealous of.

 

And there, perching daintily on a gold and cream Regency stripe sofa adorned with glittering ormolu next to the crackling fire, sits the current Duchess of Walmsford herself, Lady Zinnia. Arrayed in a rose pink satin frock decorated with ornamental silk flowers, which like everything else around her oozes taste, wealth and status, Lady Zinnia still has the unbreakable steely hardness that sends a shiver down Lettice’s spine as she approaches her. Whilst the pale shade of her frock may not soften her look, it does successfully highlight her flawless pale skin. Several strands of perfect creamy white pearls cascade down the front of her outfit, whilst gold and large pearl droplets hang effortlessly from her lobes. Clusters of diamonds wink amongst her wavy tresses which are all deep blue black, save for the one signature streak of white shooting from her temple and disappearing like a silver trail amongst her darker waves.

 

“Your Grace.” Lettice utters, dropping an elegant and low curtsey before the Duchess.

 

Lady Zinnia’s pale white face with her high cheekbones and joyless calculating dark eyes appraise Lettice coldly as Lettice rises from the polished marquetry floor littered with expensive silk Chinese rugs. She purses her thin lips.

 

“Miss Chetwynd. Right on time.” Lady Zinna remarks as she glances away from Lettice dismissively to the ornate French Rococo clock adorned with porcelain roses sitting in the centre of the mantle. Her eyes dart back to Lettice who now stands before her hostess. “Please, do take a seat.” She indicates with a sweeping movement of her hand which artfully shows off a pearl and winking diamond bracelet at her wrist, to a chair matching the sofa on which she perches which is also drawn up to the fire opposite her.

 

Lettice does as she is bid, and lowers herself gingerly onto the edge of the walnut chair, feeling the smooth, cool metallic surface of the ormolu on the arms beneath her hands as she does. Glancing down she notices that the arms of both her chair and Lady Zinnia’s sofa are supported by gilded sphinxes. Lettice remembers the tutor who was hired at great expense by her father when she was a child to teach her the classics and smiles bitterly as she recalls him teaching her that the sphinx, with its head of a woman, haunches of a lion and wings of a bird is a treacherous and merciless being.

 

“Is something amusing, Miss Chetwynd?” Lady Zinnia asks, her clipped voice slicing the perfumed air between them.

 

“No, Your Grace.” Lettice replies. “I was just thinking, as I look around, how you have set this room in such a way that noting is left to chance. Everything is planned and placed with purpose.”

 

“How very adroit of you, Miss Chetwynd.” the Duchess replies. “But of course, as an interior designer of some moderate success, I should expect nothing less. You have a keen eye.”

 

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Lettice replies stiffly, allowing the slight cast by the titled woman to go unremarked upon. However as Lettice sits there, she now knows that this is to be tone of their meeting, and she silently seethes that even in defeat, Lady Zinnia will not be gracious.

 

“Now, knowing that in spite of the fact that you come from obscure and unremarkable aristocratic lineage,” Lady Zinnia remarks, eliciting a gasp of outrage from Lettice, much to her delight. “That your parents would have taught you the importance of timeliness,”

 

“Which they have.” Lettuce defends hotly.

 

“Admirably so, Miss Chetwynd. So, I have already ordered tea, coffee and cake for us.” Lady Zinnia indicates to the galleried gold rectangular Rococo tea table which stands between them, like a fortress, upon which sits a silver tea service and a cake plate on which stands a splendid looking Victoria sponge cake dusted with sugar and oozing jam and cream.

 

The Duchess takes up a small silver bell from the side table to her right and gives it two definite rings. The tinkle of the bell, high pitched and remarkably loud for such a dainty bell, pierces the charged, rose scented air between them. Immediately two more footmen in the Duke of Walmsford’s livery, different to the one who showed her upstairs, sweep through the White Drawing Room’s doors and stride across the room. They bow respectfully to Lady Zinnia and then turn in unison and nod their heads in acknowledgement of Lettice, before stopping between the two women, standing side by side in front of the tea table: hands behind their backs and heads lifted slightly, starting straight ahead impassively in complete silence and unmoving, as if they were mechanical and their mechanisms had wound down.

 

“Tea or coffee, Miss Chetwynd?” lady Zinnia asks.

 

“Tea, I think, Your Grace.” she replies.

 

One footman immediately springs to life, as if wound up again, and picks up the stylish silver teapot from the table with his white glove clad hand and pours tea into a dainty floral and gilt edged French porcelain teacup. The other footman takes up the cup and makes the few steps between his position and Lettice, and places the cup and saucer on the low occasional table to the right of her chair. Meanwhile the other footman has poured tea for the Duchess, which is then delivered to her in the same fashion as the tea was delivered to Lettice by the same footman.

 

“That’s a beautiful teapot, if I may say so, Your Grace.” Lettice admits begrudgingly.

 

“You may, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia replies politely. “The set is Georg Jensen********. I bought it just before the war.”

 

The footman who had poured the tea starts slicing the Victoria sponge with a silver knife, whilst the other footman removes the teapot and coffee pot from the small silver tray on which they stand. He then picks up the tray which still holds a dainty milk jug and a sugar basket containing sugar lumps and a pair of silver sugar nips*********.

 

“You’ll forgive me, but I’ve forgotten how you took your tea when we had dinner at the Savoy*********, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

The footman walks over to Lettice, bows slight with a stiff back and holds out the tray to Lettice, in his glove clad hands, allowing her to add her own milk and sugar to suit her own tastes to her beverage.

 

Lettice shudders as she remembers the dinner at the Savoy that Selwyn had organised with her. He had intended it to be a romantic evening for he and Lettice in honour of his birthday. However, when Lettice arrived in the main dining room, she was confronted not with the smiling face of her beau, but the haughty and cruel spectre of Lady Zinnia. It was there that Lettice learned about the pact Lady Zinnia had made with her son before packing him off to Durban for a year.

 

“That’s because I didn’t have tea with you that evening, Your Grace.” Lettice replies awkwardly as he drops first one and then a second lump of sugar in her tea, stirring the contents of her cup to dissolve the sugar before adding a small amount of milk.

 

“That’s right! You left directly after the caviar, didn’t you, Miss Chetwynd?” Lady Zinnia smiles cruelly. “You really did miss a fine repast that evening.”

 

“I’ll have to take your word for it, Your Grace.”

 

The footman who cut the cake places a generous slice each onto two dainty floral plates that match the teacups. As the other footman allows Lady Zinnia to help herself to sugar and milk for her tea, he takes up a plate and places it on the table next to Lettice’s teacup and saucer.

 

“I’m not all that hungry, Your Grace.”

 

Lady Zinnia looks up with her hard gaze from her teacup, still holding the now empty sugar nips aloft, seemingly unconcerned that the bowing footman at her side cannot straighten up again until she has replaced them in the bowl. “I seem to remember you saying that at the Savoy too, Miss Chetwynd. I must say, I find a woman who has little appetite rather tiresome, however pretty and charming she may be.” She continues to hold the sugar nips in her hand, suddenly taking great interest in the elegant repousse work*********** on the curved handle as she continues. “You Bright Young Things************ are so tiresome, worrying about being rake thin.”

 

The tray in the bent footman’s hands begins to quiver a little, causing the sugar basket and milk jug to rattle ever so slightly as he strains to maintain his stiff back and bent stance. Lady Zinnia’s eyes flick to him angrily, causing him to make a frightened intake of breath as he tries not to move.

 

“In my day.” Lady Zinnia goes on. “We ate as much as we could muster, and then simply tightened our stays a little more.” She sighs with irritation, and still holding the sugar tongs, pointing them accusingly at Lettice as she adds. “But of course you young flappers have all eschewed your corsets in favour of all those filly undergarments from Paris that have become so much in vogue, haven’t you.”

 

The tray in the footman’s hands tremble again. With a slow, and purposefully languid movement, Lady Zinnia replaces the tongs in the sugar basket and picks up the milk jug, pouring a decent amount into her cup, turning her brackish looking tea an insipid pale brown.

 

Replacing the jug to the tray she turns her attention to the young footman. “Get out!” she hisses through barred white teeth, her breath so forceful in its vehemence that Lettice can see it blows the young man’s fringe out of place.

 

The young footman starts in fright, making the silverware in his hands rattle all the more.

 

“Poole!” Lady Zinnia addresses the other footman.

 

“Yes, Your Grace?” he asks, standing stiffly to attention, his hands quickly placed behind hi back again as he stares ahead of him, rather than at Lady Zinnia.

 

“Poole, see to it that this pathetic excuse for a third footman doesn’t come back until he can serve me in the correct way a Duchess of the Realm should be served, or I’ll have you both reprimanded.” She looks Poole up and down appraisingly, seemingly pleased by his unflappability. “Do I make myself clear?”

 

“Yes, Your Grace!” Poole replies.

 

“Good!” She returns her attentions to the other footman. “And you! Just be grateful that you are only going to receive a reprimand and dock in your wages, and aren’t thrown out on your ear with no reference.” She pauses as she replaces her cup and saucer on the side table and picks up her cake plate and fork. “I shan’t be so lenient a second time.”

 

“Yes… yes Your Grace.” the footman replies quickly before depositing the silver tray back onto the tea table and joining his companion as the pair make a hasty retreat, far less composed and sleek as their arrival.

 

As the doors are closed behind them, lady Zinnia returns her attentions to Lettice. “Pardon that little…” She pauses and toys with her fork, sticking it into the tip of her sponge cake as she considers her words. “Unpleasantness, Miss Chetwynd. It’s so hard to find decent footmen with proper backbone amongst the pool of domestics available since the end of the war. Standards amongst servants are slipping. I’m sure your parents would agree with me.”

 

Lettice doesn’t reply, instead taking up her cup and saucer and sipping her tea.

 

Picking up where she had left off before berating her servants, Lady Zinnia continues, “And of course you left your birthday present for Selwyn behind at the Savoy as well. But don’t worry, I made sure to have it put aside for when he returns.”

 

Once again, Lettice does not rise to the Duchess’ bait and bites her tongue rather than replying.

 

Lady Zinnia slices her fork delicately through the light and fluffy Victoria sponge on her plate.

 

“You must despise me, Miss Chetwynd.” she says before slipping a small mouthful between her red painted lips.

 

“No, not at all, your Grace.”

 

“What?” Lady Zinnia replies, her eyes widening in surprise. “Not even a little, Miss Chetwynd? Are you a saint walking upon the earth?”

 

“No, Your Grace.” Lettice replies. “The truth is that I don’t hate you, because I don’t think of you.” she lies, lifting her cup to her lips partly to hide any sign of emotion that might suggest otherwise, and partly to prevent her from saying what she would really like to, to the Duchess.

 

An almost imperceptible ripple runs through Lady Zinnia’s composure and the woman’s thin lips move slightly as she chews, revealing themselves like a bright blood red gash across her perfect, white face. Lettice smiles behind the lip of her cup, knowing that her remark has hit its mark perfectly and irritated her titled hostess.

 

“Oh, I find that hard to believe, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia answers after a momentary pause. “Everyone who meets me, thinks about me. It’s only natural that they should.”

 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Your Grace, but as we don’t move in the same circles, me being so much younger than you,” Lettice replies, determined to show Lady Zinnia up for her almost unbelievable conceitedness. “I must confess I haven’t.”

 

“Oh come now, Miss Chetwynd,” Lady Zinnia scoffs. “Are you telling me that even though it was I, who has separated you and my son and prevented you from seeing him for a year, that you didn’t think of me?”

 

Determined not to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much Lettice has thought of her, she continues her plucky lie to Lady Zinnia. “Indeed no. I have felt Selwyn’s absence over the last year, very keenly. However, it is him I have been thinking of, Your Grace.” She gives Lady Zinnia a dismissive look and crumples her nose up in distaste. “Not you. However, I’ve been busy distracting myself by attending balls and functions to make Selwyn’s absence less obvious.”

 

“Yes, I’ve seen you in the society pages, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“And I’m sure your spies have kept you well informed too, Your Grace.”

 

“My spies!” laughs Lady Zinnia. “My, how you young people develop such fanciful ideas!”

 

Ignoring her remark, Lettice goes on, Tthen of course I have had my work to keep me occupied as well.”

 

“Ah yes!” Lady Zinnia acknowledges. “You’ve done some work for Gladys Caxton, I believe. Her ward’s flat here in London if I’m not mistaken.”

 

“Indeed, Your Grace. And I’ve designed a room for the wife of the godson of Sir John Nettleford-Hughes, at Arkwright Bury in Wiltshire.”

 

“Oh yes, Miss Chetwynd. My sources,” she emphasises the last word to draw Lettice’s attention to her choice of words. “Tell me that I am to expect a most favourable article about it by Henry Tipping****** in Country Life******* this month.”

 

“As I said, Your Grace,” Lettice replies. “Your spies keep you well informed as to the comings and goings in my life.”

 

The two women fall into an awkward silence again.,,,,,,,

 

“Anyway, the year of separation you have enforced upon Selwyn and I is almost at an end, without incident,” Lettice dares to say as her boldness grows. “And I am very much looking forward to seeing your son returned from Durban, and arranging for the formal announcement of our engagement.”

 

The Duchess doesn’t say anything.

 

“I imagine that is why you have summoned me here today. To concede defeat?” Lettice allows herself a triumphant smile. “After a year of enforced separation, one during which both of us have held to your wish that we not correspond with one another, Selwyn is returning to me and we will pick up just as we left off.” A thought comes into her head. “You might even consider giving me back the book I left at the Savoy. After all, it is my gift to give Selwyn, not yours, Your Grace.”

 

The stony silence and scrutinising stare Lettice receives in return unnerves her. She wonders what on earth is going on inside the mind behind those cold and dark eyes. However, she doesn’t have long to wait as the Duchess picks up her silver bell again, this time giving it three definite rings: two short ones and one long one, rather like a signal. She deposits the bell back on the table and takes another mouthful of cake. Her tongue darts out of her bitter mewl of a mouth and snatches up a crumb of cake that has lodged itself on her bottom lip.

 

The door to the White Drawing Room is suddenly opened again, by Poole the footman, and in bustles a woman in a smart printed cotton frock of sprigged flowers with a pale pink silk cardigan worn over the top of the bodice. Glass beads jangle about her throat, glinting in the light as she moves towards the two seated ladies. As Lettice expects, as the woman draws closer, she can see that she is quite plain looking. Lettice considers that it is likely that all the females on the Duchess’ household staff will be quite plain, to avoid any light being drawn away from the titled woman herself. The woman appears middle aged and has her straight, mousey brown hair tied in a neat chignon at the back of her neck. She approaches the Duchess and drops her a deep, respectful curtsey before rising, never releasing a buff coloured card folder that she hugs over her chest.

 

“Your Grace, you rang?” she asks in a soft, pleasant and well educated voice, which reminds Lettice a little of one of her less favourite nannies when growing up.

 

“Miss Chetwynd, may I present Miss Carroway, my Secretary.” Lady Zinnia announces.

 

“Carroway, Miss Chetwynd.” She sweeps her well manicured hand out in the direction of where Lettice sits.

 

Miss Carroway turns her head and looks towards Lettice with soft brown and kind eyes. “How do you do, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“How do you do, Miss Carroway.” Lettice replies, a little perplexed as to why Lady Zinnia has summoned her secretary.

 

“Do you have it, Carroway?” Lady Zinnia asks.

 

“Right here, Your Grace.” She releases her arms from around her and relinquishes the thin buff folder to her employer.

 

Lady Zinnia puts aside her slice of cake, accepts the proffered folder, opens it and looks at the contents inside. Her hands skim over whatever is inside, whilst her eyes flit over it quickly.

 

“I think you’ll find everything is in order, Your Grace.”

 

“Yes,” Lady Zinnia remarks rather distractedly as she continues to inspect the contents.

 

“Will that be all, Your Grace?” Miss Carroway asks.

 

“Yes, thank you, Carroway.” Lady Zinnia replies with a dismissive shallow wave, as though shaking something irritable from her left hand.

 

Miss Carroway retreats quickly and as she approaches the doors, Poole opens them again for her from outside and closes them behind her after she has scuttled out.

 

“What’s this then?” Lettice asks once the doors as closed again.

 

“This, my dear Miss Chetwynd, is what I summoned you here today to speak of.” Lady Zinnia replies in a very businesslike fashion.

 

“I thought I had come here so that we could discuss Selwyn’s imminent return to England.” Lettice retorts.

 

“And so we will, Miss Chetwynd, but perhaps the conversation may not be quite what you imagined or planned it to be.” she replies enigmatically.

 

“What do you mean, Lady Zinnia?” Lettice asks, the assured smile curling the Duchess’ lips upwards curdling her stomach. “What is in that folder, and how does it concern Selwyn?”

 

“What is in this folder pertains to you both, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia replies, the smile, cold and unfriendly, broadening on her face. “You see, as you have noted, my sources,” Once again she emphasises her choice of words. “Are spread far and wide, and one of my contacts in Durban was approached independently by a very reliable source who had access to and presented him with these.” Lady Zinnia withdraws a dozen pages from the folder and leans forward with them.

 

Lettice leans forward herself and grasps the papers over the tea table before settling back in her seat. Looking at them she sees that they are photos, cut from articles in newspapers, magazines or journals. She cannot help but emit a gasp as she sees Selwyn’s handsome, smiling face peering out from them. It is one of the few times in the last twelve months since she has seen a new photograph of him, with news from Durban society generally not worthy enough to be printed in London newspapers, and the Durban papers impossible to obtain in London. It is then as she spreads them out across her lap, that she notices that aside from Selwyn’s appearance, they all have something else in common.

 

“You see, Miss Chetwynd, what this source provided is photographic proof that when Selwyn comes home, he won’t be returning alone.”

 

Lettice’s head spins as she looks down at the smiling face of a young girl, laughing and cheerful, on Selwyn’s arm in each and every photograph. She looks to be about Lettice’s age, with light coloured hair coiffured into styles using large exotic flowers, dressed in fashionable looking gowns. There are photographs of her standing beside Selwyn, dancing with him, taking with him, and there is even one of the two of them riding horses together, whilst another shows the pair of them in fancy dress costumes: he as Sinbad the Sailor and she as Columbine according to the typed caption printed below.

 

“The young lady in these photos is Kitty Avendale,” Lady Zinnia goes on. “She’s the daughter of an Australian adventurer and thrill seeker turned Kenyan diamond mine owner. The jewels you see her wearing all come from his, by all accounts, very generous diamond mine.” She takes a sip of her tea.

 

Lettice’s mouth suddenly feels very dry.

 

“The output from his mines put the fortunes of the Duke of Walmsford in the shadows.” Lady Zinnia continues. “Mr. Richard Avendale may indeed be richer than the King himself. Of course it’s a bit hard to tell exactly quite how wealthy he is, even with access to some of his business ledgers. He’s a very discreet man: most admirable in an Australian, I must say. Kitty is twenty-three, which I think is also, your age, Miss Chetwynd. She’s Mr. Avendale’s only daughter - indeed his only surviving child - which makes her an heiress of some interest to many young men, but she seems to have tipped her hat towards Selwyn.”

 

Lettice looks at the smiling faces of Selwyn and Kitty in the photos in disbelief.

 

“The… the fact… the fact that they have been photographed together is no proof that Selwyn and Kitty are involved romantically.” Lettice manages to say, albeit without the conviction she hoped for. “If that were the case, I’d be engaged to half the eligible bachelors in London, and a few married men too.”

 

“That’s true,” Lady Zinnia agrees. “But you’ll find that if you feel behind a couple of those photos, the proof of the seriousness of their relationship.”

 

Lettice looks up uncomprehendingly at the Duchess. The older woman indicates with a bejewelled hand for Lettice to feel behind the back of the photographs. As she does, Lettice feels a few have a thin margin of paper folded up behind the bottom of some of them. She picks up one of Selwyn and Kitty posed together holding champagne glasses aloft and folds down the paper.

 

“Mr. Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, and Miss Kitty Avendale, only daughter of diamond mine millionaire Richard Avendale, engaged.” she reads. She lets the paper slip from her fingers into her lap, and blindly scrambles for another one. This one shows Selwyn standing behind a seated Kitty. “Mr. Selwyn Spencely and Miss Kitty Avendale, engaged.” She grasps another, showing Selwyn and Kitty dancing together. “The happy couple.” she reads. She drops it in her lap, unable to read any more as the tears mist her vision as they flood her eyes.

 

“So, there you have it, Miss Chetwynd.” Lady Zinnia says in triumph. “Incontrovertible proof. Selwyn has forsaken you, and forgotten your, foolish dalliance,” She smiles cruelly. “And he’s proposed to a peerless match greater than even I had hoped for.”

 

“No. No, he… No. No.” Lettice begins.

 

“Of course, Bertrand doesn’t mind, now that Pamela has gone against both his and my original plans and gotten herself engaged to that banker’s son, Jonty Knollys.” She sighs. “He may not have a title, or pedigree that Selwyn presented, but he is certainly from a wealthy family, so she could have done worse for herself.”

 

“No. No! No!” Lettice stammers in disbelief as the tears fall from her eyes, creating wet splotches on the newspaper clippings.

 

“And you, my dear Miss Chetwynd,” Lady Zinna rises from her seat elegantly. “You can still make a suitable match: one with a man more befitting your station, such as a viscount, or earl’s son, and all this nonsense you’d planned with Selwyn will all be swept under the carpet and quickly forgotten about.” She smiles piteously at the crumpled form of Lettice collapsed and tearful on the chair before her. “You’re young and pretty, and have a good enough lineage that will have country squires lining up to accept your hand. Give up this London life and move to the country near your parent’s estate, and you’ll soon forget Selwyn.”

 

Just at that moment, the clock on the mantle chimes the three quarter hour prettily.

 

“Goodness!” Lady Zinnia exclaims. “Is that the time? I’m so sorry, but this rather difficult conversation took a little longer than I imaged that it would, Miss Chetwynd. I’m afraid I really must go and get dressed. It’s awfully tiresome, but I’m having luncheon with the Queen today, and well, you can’t refuse a royal invitation can you? Would you excuse me?”

 

Without waiting for a response, the Duchess turns on her heels and walks towards the doors of the White Drawing Room, her heels sinking into the luxurious silk carpet.

 

As she starts to walk on the bare parquet floor, her Louis heels announcing to the footman outside of her approach, she pauses and turns back. “You may stay here as long as you need to, Miss Chetwynd, and when you feel composed enough to leave, then Poole will show you out. Have some more tea. There’s plenty left in the pot. I find tea in a crisis always helps.”

 

As Lettice cries piteously, her sobs echoing around the well-appointed White Drawing Room, Lady Zinnia quietly instructs her footman before slipping away. The doors close behind her, and Lettice is left alone to weep and wail and process this seismic shift in everything she has been planning for, for the last year.

 

*A caryatid is a sculpted female figure serving as an architectural support taking the place of a column or a pillar supporting an entablature on her head. The Greek term karyatides literally means "maidens of Karyai", an ancient town on the Peloponnese. Caryatids are sometimes called korai (“maidens”). Similar figures, bearing baskets on their heads, are called canephores (from kanēphoroi, “basket carriers”); they represent the maidens who carried sacred objects used at feasts of the gods. The male counterparts of caryatids are referred to as atlantes.

 

**Ormolu is the gilding technique of applying finely ground, high-carat gold–mercury amalgam to an object of bronze, and objects finished in this way. The mercury is driven off in a kiln, leaving behind a gold coating. The French refer to this technique as "bronze doré"; in English, it is known as "gilt bronze". The technique was banned in the Nineteenth Century on account of its toxicity.

 

***Veuve Perrin was a factory in Marseille, France, that manufactured Faïence wares between 1748 and 1803.

 

****Limoges porcelain is hard-paste porcelain produced by factories in and around the city of Limoges, France. Beginning in the late Eighteenth Century, Limoges was produced but the name Limoges does not refer to a particular manufacturer. By about 1830 Limoges, which was close to the areas where suitable clay was found, had replaced Paris as the main centre for private porcelain factories, although the state-owned Sèvres porcelain near Paris remained dominant at the very top of the market. Limoges has maintained this position to the present day.

 

****Chelsea porcelain is the porcelain made by the Chelsea porcelain manufactory, the first important porcelain manufactory in England, established around 1743–45, and operating independently until 1770, when it was merged with Derby porcelain. It made soft-paste porcelain throughout its history, though there were several changes in the "body" material and glaze used. Its wares were aimed at a luxury market, and its site in Chelsea, London, was close to the fashionable Ranelagh Gardens pleasure ground, opened in 1742.

 

*****The Manufacture nationale de Sèvres is one of the principal European porcelain factories. It is located in Sèvres, Hauts-de-Seine, France. It is the continuation of Vincennes porcelain, founded in 1740, which moved to Sèvres in 1756. It has been owned by the French crown or government since 1759. Its production is still largely based on the creation of contemporary objects today. It became part of the Cité de la céramique in 2010 with the Musée national de céramique, and since 2012 with the Musée national Adrien Dubouché in Limoges.

  

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

 

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

 

********Georg Arthur Jensen was a Danish silversmith and founder of Georg Jensen A/S (also known as Georg Jensen Sølvsmedie). Jensen made his first piece of jewelry in 1899, a silver and silver and gilt "Adam and Eve" belt buckle. In 1901, Jensen abandoned ceramics and began again as a silversmith and designer with the master, Mogens Ballin. This led Jensen to make a landmark decision, when in 1904, he risked what small capital he had and opened his own little silversmithy at 36 Bredgade in Copenhagen. Jensen's training in metalsmithing along with his education in the fine arts allowed him to combine the two disciplines and revive the tradition of the artist craftsman. Soon, the beauty and quality of his Art Nouveau creations caught the eye of the public and his success was assured. The Copenhagen quarters were greatly expanded and before the end of the 1920s, Jensen had opened retail in Berlin (1909), London (1921), and New York City (1924). The New York retail store, Georg Jensen Inc. (New York, NY), was founded and operated independently as a family business by Frederik Lunning, a successful salesman of Georg Jensen products first in Odense, then in Copenhagen. The first store, 1924-1935, was incorporated as Georg Jensen Handmade Silver, followed in 1935-1978 by the large Fifth Avenue department store selling many goods aside from Jensen silver, incorporated as Georg Jensen Inc

 

*********Sugar tongs, also known as sugar nips, are small serving utensils used at the table to transfer sugar pieces from a sugar bowl to a teacup. The tongs appeared at the end of the Seventeenth Century, and were very popular by 1800, with half of the British households owning them.

 

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

 

***********Repoussé from the French, meaning “pushed back,” refers to any type of ornamentation in which the design is raised in relief on the reverse or interior side of the metal material at hand.

 

This very grand and imposing drawing room full of treasures may appear like something out of a historical stately country house, but it is in fact part of my 1:12 miniatures collection and includes items from my childhood, as well as those I have collected as an adult.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The Victoria sponge (named after Queen Victoria) on the pedestal cake plate and its slices on the plates are made by Polly’s Pantry Miniatures in America. The silver tea service on its galleried tray are made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

The gilt Empire suite with its crem and gold striped upholstery, the gilt galleried central tea table, the Regency corner cabinet, the Regency gilt swan round side tables and matching swan pedestals are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. The Palladian console tables at the back to the left and right of the photograph, with their golden caryatids and marble was commissioned by me from American miniature artisan Peter Cluff. Peter specialises in making authentic and very realistic high quality 1:12 miniatures that reflect his interest in Georgian interior design. His work is highly sought after by miniature collectors worldwide. This pair of tables are one-of-a-kind and very special to me.

 

The elegant ornaments that decorate the surfaces of Lady Zinnia’s palatial Cream Drawing Room very much reflect the Eighteenth Century and early Nineteenth Century spirit of the room.

 

On the centre of the mantlepiece stands a Rococo carriage clock that has been hand painted and gilded with incredible attention to detail by British 1:12 miniature artisan, Victoria Fasken. The clock is flanked by a porcelain pots of yellow, white and blue petunias which have been hand made and painted by 1:12 miniature ceramicist Ann Dalton.

 

Next to them stand two porcelain vases of pink and white asters which have been made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures. All the pieces in the corner cabinet in the background are also made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik. The pieces comprise two different 1:12 miniature dinner and tea sets. The vase containing the pink roses on the console table to the right of the photo is also a M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik piece, as is the vase closest to us on the round side table to the left of the photo, the two large lidded urns on the swan pedestals, the pedestal cake plate on which the Victoria sponge stands, and Lettice’s and the Duchess’ cups and plates.

 

Also standing on the mantlepiece are two miniature diecast lead Meissen figurines: the Lady with the Canary and the Gentleman with the Butterfly, hand painted and gilded by me.

 

The painted fruit bowl on the right-hand console table has been painted by miniature artisan Rachel Munday. Her pieces are highly valued by miniature collectors for their fine details.

 

The remaining vases you see around the room are all miniature Limoges vases from the 1950s and 1960s. They all feature small green Limoges marks to their bottoms.

 

The Regency style fireplace , the black painted hearth and fire surround I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The pink and yellow roses were made by hand by the team at Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

All the paintings around Lady Zinnia’s Cream Drawing Room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The striped wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

 

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

offer up.

Size 7.5 ogs prolly gone for 300

9/10 size 7 ogs

10/10 air reversals, also have BN black Kendalls otw

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Tonight, we are in the drawing room of Cavendish Mews, where Lettice is entertaining her elder sister Lalage (known to everyone in the family by the diminutive Lally). Lally, who resides with her husband Charles Lanchenbury and their two children, Harrold and Annabelle, at Dorrington House, a smart Jacobean manor house of the late 1600s in High Wycome in the country of Buckinghamshire, has come up to London to do her Christmas shopping, and access the larger range of shops and Oxford Street department stores mot afforded to her in the country. Rather than motor up and then back to High Wycombe the same day, Lally is stopping the night with Lettice after the two siblings have spent the day shopping together. Tomorrow Lally will motor down to Wiltshire to their parents and drop off all hers and Lettice’s gifts for their annual family Christmas together at their country family seat before motoring back to Buckinghamshire. Just by good fortune, Lettice is going to one of the last big Christmas parties of 1924, and knowing the host and hostess very well, being part of her Embassy Club coterie, she has wrangled an invitation for Lally to attend too. Now the two, both dressed up in beautiful and delicate evening frocks and bedecked in jewels, with their hair freshly coiffed and set by a fashionable West End hairdresser, sit chatting, sipping champagne and cooling their heels before attending the party at a fashionably late respectable time.

 

“I say, Tice darling!” Lally remarks as she looks at the pink salmon mousse in the shape of a fish sprinkled with thinly slice cucumber and garnished with lemon wedges on the low black japanned coffee table between she and her sister. “This is all rather splendid!”

 

“Oh there’s more to come,” Lettice replies, picking up a sparking glass of champagne which almost blends into her silvery grey silk crêpe gown adorned with silver and gold sequins. “Edith is just bringing it now.”

 

“To use one of the phrases of the moment that you and your fashionable friends love, ‘how ripping’!” Lally replies, picking up her own glass and sipping the sparkling golden liquid from it.

 

“That’s the spirit, Lally darling! You’ll fit in perfectly tonight.” Lettice replies encouragingly.

 

“I must say, this is awfully good of you, Tice.”

 

“What is, Lally?”

 

“Well, all of this.” Lally replies, stretching her arms elegantly and gesticulating at the festively decorated drawing room around them with its bright Christmas tree covered in shining glass baubles surrounded by a mountain of presents, and garland draped fireplace covered in Christmas cards.

 

“What? The decorations?” Lettice asks. “But I would have decorated for Christmas , even if you weren’t coming, Lally darling.”

 

“No Tice!” Lally hisses in reply. “Not the decorations. I’m so grateful to you for allowing me to come and stay here tonight after my shopping expeditions to buy presents for the children and the rest of the family, not to mention the last minute invitation to the party.”

 

“Well, I wasn’t going to let my sister stay in a London hotel when there is a perfectly good spare bedroom here.” Lettice retorts.

 

“I mean, I know I could have motored back to Buckinghamshire after we’d finished shopping today, but it’s so much easier just to stay in town overnight.”

 

“Of course it is, Lally.” Lettice agrees. “Don’t give it another thought. And as for the party,” She wafts her hand breezily. “It was simple to get you an invitation. It helps when you know both the hosts intimately.”

 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to motor you down to Glynes* tomorrow, Tice?”

 

“No thank you, Lally,” Lettice declines. “Thank you all the same. I’m sure you won’t want me in the car with you tomorrow, all grumpy and woolly headed, nursing a beasty hangover after all the excesses of tonight. I plan on getting rather tight** tonight, since George and Cilla are footing the drinks bill.”

 

“Well, perhaps not, since you put it that way, Tice.”

 

“Besides, I doubt there would be room enough in your little Baby Austin*** for me as well as both your presents and mine for the family Christmas.” She nods in the direction of the pile of presents sitting underneath her Christmas tree all wrapped up in bright festive metallic papers and gaily coloured ribbons, and several very full bags from some of London’s best department stores.

 

“Yes, we did shop up quite a storm today, didn’t we?” Lally remarks a little guiltily.

 

“More you than me, Lally darling. I’ve already done most of my Christmas shopping.”

 

“Well, it’s too much of a temptation, isn’t it Tice? There are so many more wonderful shops here in London than there are in the counties, not to mention the department stores.”

 

“It was rather fun luncheoning at Derry and Tom’s**** café today.” Lettice smiles, casting her mind back to earlier in the day when the pair of them were ensconced in a cosy nook at a quiet table for two at the Kensington department store, with the table before them laid with fine white napery, gilt edged china, glinting silverware and gleaming glassware, with the hubbub of quiet and polite, predominantly female, chatter drifting around them as Edwardian matrons and their daughters or other well-heeled young women enjoyed a fine repast just like them between their Christmas shopping excursions.

 

At that moment, Edith, Lettice’s maid, slips through the green baize door that leads from the service area of the flat into the dining room, carrying a silver tray on which stands a bowl of gleaming black caviar, a plate holding an assortment of watercracker biscuits and another upon which stand an array of very smart looking canapés. She walks purposefully across the dining room and into the drawing room, lowering the tray onto the coffee table between the two sisters as they chat, gently pushing aside several cheerfully wrapped presents to make room for it.

 

“Not that High Wycombe feels like the country so much anymore,” Lally goes on. “What with those ghastly Metroland estates full of endless streets of mind numbingly matching two-up two-down***** rows of houses being developed up and down the railway line, chewing up the beautiful English countryside.”

 

Edith’s hands shake as a sudden shudder runs through her, making the plates and cutlery on the tray rattle noisily.

 

“I’m sure we’ll have a department store built in the high street before too long, what with the influx of commuters to London pouring into High Wycombe every weekday.”

 

“Are you alright, Edith?” Lettice asks in concern, reaching out a hand and grasping her maid’s shoulder.

 

As if struck with a hot poker, Edith quickly stands up and brushes down her lace trimmed afternoon uniform apron and her black silk moiré dress. “Yes Miss.” She replies stiffly. “I beg your pardon Miss,” She bobs a small curtsey and then turns to Lally and does the same. “Mrs. Lanchenbury.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure there’s nothing to forgive, Edith.” Lally replies kindly as she sinks back into the comfortable rounded back of one of the Lettice’s Art Deco tub armchairs.

 

“Indeed, there isn’t.” Lettice assures her maid. She looks into her pretty face and notices that Edith’s peaches and cream complexion looks a little pale. “Are you quite sure you’re alright, Edith?”

 

“Oh yes Miss!” Edith replies quickly. “It was just someone walking over my grave.”

 

“Well, let’s hope its not one of the three ghosts of Christmas.” Lettice chuckles, smiling wistfully as she remembers she and Edith sitting down to listen to a dramatised recording of Charles Dickens classic novella ‘A Christmas Carol’ on her new wireless, a gift from Selwyn Spencely, in December last year******.

 

“Oh indeed, Miss.” Edith smiles shyly as she agrees.

 

“Oh, and thank you for putting up with me for tonight,” Lally pipes up quickly. “And all of my,” She waves her hand laconically at all the presents spread about the flat’s drawing room. “My acquisitions.”

 

“Oh that’s quite alright, Mrs, Lanchenbury.” Edith assures her. “No bother at all.”

 

“That’s kind of you, Edith.” Lally acknowledges. “I’m sure I make extra, unnecessary work for you. And I really do appreciate it.”

 

The sisters watch as Edith withdraws and slips quickly behind the green baize door and back to her preserve of the Cavendish Mews kitchen.

 

“Do you think she’s really alight, Tice darling?” Lally asks with concern. “She looked a little pale.”

 

“Oh I think so, Lally. I noticed that too. But I think, like the rest of us, she’s just tired as the year comes to an end. Although she won’t admit it, I think she’s quietly quite looking forward to me going home to Glynes, so that she can go home and spend a lovely Christmas with her own family. She tells me that her steward brother has shore leave again this year.”

 

“I do hope I’m not being too much of an inconvenience, Tice darling.” Lally goes on, once they think Edith is safely out of earshot. “I know how hard it is to get good help these days, and maids can be so temperamental nowadays.”

 

“Oh, you’re no more a bother to Edith than you are to me, Lally darling. And if you were, you’re certainly making it up to me at any rate by taking my gifts down to Glynes with you.”

 

“It’s my pleasure, Tice.” Lally smiles at her sister. “Anyway, it makes sense. If I’m going to take most of the presents down there to avoid the children fossicking for them before Christmas at home, it makes sense to take yours down with me too.”

 

“Well, I am most awfully grateful, Lally darling.”

 

“So, when are you going down to stay with Mamma and Pappa then?”

 

“I’ve arranged to motor down with Gerald on the twenty second. When are you, Charles and the children going?”

 

“Well, we’ll be there before you. I’m taking the children and Nanny down on the twentieth. Charles will follow on the twenty second like you. He has some final business with Lord Lanchenbury before Christmas, whereas my last duty with the High Wycome WI******* for 1924 is to give my treasurer’s report to Mrs. Alsop.” Lally pulls a face. “On the eighteenth.”

 

“The ghastly gossip and bore, Mrs. Alsop!” Lettice deposits her glass back onto the coffee table and raises her hands to her cheeks in mock horror s she pulls a sad face.

 

“Oh you!” Lally hisses with a cheeky smile. “You wouldn’t be so glib about ghastly Mrs. Alsop if you’d met her, Tice,” She nods seriously as her lips crumple disapprovingly.

 

“Well, mercifully Aunt Egg saved me from that fait accompli when she organsied the invitation to the Caxton’s Friday to Monday party at Gossington in Scotland,” Lettice remarks, before adding, “Not that that didn’t have ramifications of its own, in due course.”

 

“Indeed.” Lally replies sagely, her head bobbing up and down slowly.

 

“Mind you, I did receive a Christmas card from Gladys and John in the post the other day.”

 

“You didn’t!” Lally gasps in surprise.

 

“I did!”

 

Lettice stands up and walks over to the mantelpiece, cluttered with a dozen or so gaily coloured cards, all stylised in the simple lines of the Art Deco aesthetic movement that is swiftly becoming fashionable as the decade of 1920s moves forward. She fishes out a card hidden towards the back featuring a Christmas tree lined laneway at night with a car motoring down it. The car’s two beaming headlights and the crescent moon above are painted in gold paint which has also been used on the ‘Season’s Greetings’ written in bold text at the bottom of the card. She hands it to Lally who flips it open.

 

“’Best wishes to you and your family this festive season’,” Lally reads aloud. “’And a happy 1925 from Gladys and John.’” She closes the card and hands it back with an edge of distaste to Lettice, who slips it back behind a card featuring two bright red poinsettias on a blue background. “Well, it’s cursory, but not unpleasant.” Lally pronounces. “That’s somewhat of a turn up for the books, I must say!”

 

“Oh, I don’t think it was actually written by Gladys.” Lettice replies, returning to her seat and picking up her glass of champagne. “I think her dragon of a personal secretary, Miss Goodwyn, did it and simply gave it to Gladys and John to sign.”

 

“Yes, but she didn’t have to send you a card at all, did she, Tice darling?”

 

“I suppose not, but I think she knows that Phoebe and I have developed a friendship… mmm… of sorts… since that afternoon tea at Aunt Egg’s.”

 

“Is Pheobe finally starting to come out of her shell, now that she’s not under Lady Glady’s roof so much?”

 

“Since I set things right at her Ridgmount Gardens pied-à-terre********, yes.” Lettice replies with a satisficed smile. “I mean, she’ll never be frightfully outgoing, and I’d never call her one of my bosom friends*********, but Phoebe is actually turning out to be a rather pleasant companion, in a quiet and more reserved way. At least she expresses her opinions more readily now, and being on the quieter side, I’ve discovered that she is very good at observing people and noticing little things that others don’t.”

 

“Well that’s good.”

 

“Yes, it is rather.”

 

“Well, I must say this looks awfully jolly and festive.” Lally remarks, looking at the brightly coloured canapés and sleek black caviar on the silver tray. “Now, Tice darling, you must tell me all about this Christmas party we’re going to tonight.”

 

“Oh, well it isn’t strictly a Christmas party as such, Lally darling.” Lettice corrects her sister politely as she puts down her glass and picks up a thin watercracker biscuit which she smothers in glistening black caviar. She then deposits the silver spoon back into the bowl and passes the caviar lavished cracker to her sister.

 

“Thank you, Tice.” Lally says, accepting the watercracker gratefully. “It isn’t?”

 

“No. This is more of a transatlantic set, you see, what with Georgie being American and Cilla being British.” Lettice fixes herself a caviar smothered watercracker biscuit. “So, tonight is more of an amalgam of celebrations.”

 

“And amalgam?” Lally bites into the caviar and sighs with pleasure.

 

“Yes. It’s a Thanksgiving Christmas party, combining the American tradition of Thanksgiving with our Christmas traditions.”

 

“Then why can’t it be a Christmas Thanksgiving party, since it’s being celebrated here in England?” She finishes the caviar.

 

“Do have a canapés,” Lettice remarks, picking up the plate and holding it out to Lally. “They’re rather good.” As Lally accepts one from the proffered plate she goes on, “Well, firstly, Thanksgiving is celebrated before Christmas in late November********** apparently so it takes precedence, and secondly, it is technically Georgie’s party,” She takes a canapé for herself. ‘So he can call it whatever he likes, can’t he?”

 

“Oh these are jolly scrumptious!” Lally enthuses as she consumes the dainty canapé delicately.

 

“Do have another, Lally darling!” Lettice encourages, picking up the plate and passing it to her sister. “Help yourself. Eat up!”

 

Lally reaches over and accepts the plate gratefully. She selects another one. She pauses for a moment and thinks. “However, I don’t see why we need to eat so heartily before we attend this party of yours we’re going to, whatever it’s called. Isn’t there going to be any food?”

 

Lettice lifts her head fall backwards as she laughs lightly at her sister’s remark. “You’ve never been to one of the Carter’s parties before.” she says knowingly. “It’s not like Mater’s Hunt Balls with the local landed county gentry, where it’s all ‘no, after you’ politeness and no-one takes more than they need. Georgie is American, and frightfully well off thanks to things they call dry goods stores.”

 

Lally laughs. “What on earth are those?”

 

“I wish I knew.” Lettice laughs. “Gerald and I have been trying to get to the bottom of what they are ever since Cilla and Georgie got married.” She takes another sip of champagne before continuing. “Anyway, as a result of his dry goods store money, and Cilla’s positive obsession at acquiring as many new friends as possible now that she is rich, every acquaintance and hanger-on in London will be in attendance tonight, and believe me, when the food comes out, it’s like a pack of vultures swooping. We’ll be lucky if we get a few pieces of canapés each. So eat up!”

 

“How frightful!” Lally remarks, popping another canapé in her mouth and taking another from the plate before handing it back to Lettice, who places it back on the table.

 

“It is rather, but only when it comes to food, Lally darling.” Lettice lavishes another watercracker with caviar. “Georgie and Cilla’s ballroom in their Park Lane*********** mansion is to die for! It’s all Palladian columns, gilding and polished parquetry beneath crystal chandeliers they bought for a song from an old rundown château in the south of France whilst they were on their honeymoon.”

 

“Rather!” Lally exclaims.

 

“Old Philadelphia money also pays for the hottest new dance bands.” Lettice remarks conspiratorially before eating the caviar covered watercracker.

 

“Who will be performing tonight?” Lally asks excitedly.

 

“Only the Savoy Havana Band************!” Lettice enthuses, clapping her bejewelled hands.

 

“Heavens! How thrilling!”

 

“Georgie has paid goodness knows how much to Wilfred de Mornys************* for them to perform tonight! It’s going to be a whizzer of a party, Lally darling!” She takes a canapé and bites into it before continuing on. “And, for all Georgie and Cilla’s hangers-on, tonight will be the last big event of the 1924 Season, so we’ll be sure to be mixing with some very smart and select people: interesting and influential types, you know the sort, not to mention the brightest of the Bright Young Things**************.”

 

“Oh, I’m far too old to be mixing with the likes of them, Tice.” Lally scoffs with a dismissive wave of her hand. “That’s more your set. I’ll just blend into the background and be a wallflower tonight.”

 

“Nonsense Lally! You’ll do nothing of the sort!” Lettice retorts, looking her sister up and down, appraising her blonde hair, admittedly streaked with a few silver greys, set in a stylish cascade of waves and pinned elegantly in a chignon at the back of her neck, dressed in one of Gerald’s beaded evening frocks in striking French blue************** borrowed from Lettice’s wardrobe, diamonds sparkling at her ears and two strands of pearls encircling her neck. “You can hold your own with them. Anyway, I’ll introduce you and they’ll love the fact that you’re my elder sister.” She finishes her canapé. “They will grill you for dreadful stories of me misbehaving from childhood that they can then dine out on in the New Year, so best you try and remember my most ghastly exploits.”

 

“Like when you put a frog from the ornamental lake in Nanny Webb’s apron?” Lally giggles.

 

“That’s the ticket, Lally darling!”

 

“And you don’t mind?” Lally picks up a watercracer and adds a smaller amount of black caviar to it than her sister’s servings.

 

“My dear Lally, I relish it! There’s nothing more boring than not being spoken about.” She rolls her eyes.

 

“I should have thought that with that ghastly cad, Selwyn Spencely, breaking off your engagement like that, that being spoken about would be the last thing you’d want.”

 

Lettice doesn’t answer for a moment, but then replies, “Well, that’s why I need people to talk about and ask me about anything other than that. I don’t want people’s pity, least of all any of Cilla’s hangers-on, who don’t know me from a bar of soap****************.”

 

The sisters fall into an awkward silence. Lettice toys with the spoon sitting atop the caviar idly.

 

“You know, you really are being most frightfully decent about all that beastly business with Lady Zinnia,” Lally finally says, breaking the sudden, smothering quiet engulfing the siblings. “And Selwyn not even having the decency to come back and tell you that he’s engaged to someone else, himself!”

 

“Oh,” Lettice replies breezily, waving Lally’s remark away with a dismissive sweep. “I mean, it was never definite that Selwyn was going to come back to me. And with Selwyn’s absence for a year, I didn’t feel this ending quite so acutely, as I did his departure.” she lies.

 

“Oh but we’d all so hoped that it would work out: Mamma, Pappa, Leslie, Charles, all of us, really.”

 

“Not Aunt Egg.” Lettice counters.

 

“Well, Aunt Egg doesn’t believe in marriage, but all the same, she only wants your happiness.”

 

“Well,” Lettice rubs her hands together, flicking crumbs of golden puff pastry from the canapes on the Chinese silk carpet at her feet. “It’s done now, and that’s all there is to it.”

 

“Be that as it may,” Lally adds. “I have no doubt that you have something up your sleeve.”

 

“What do you mean?” Lettice asks as she sits up with a start, suddenly very alert as to what her sister is saying.

 

“Oh, nothing, Tice darling. Don’t worry!” Lally chuckles languidly. “I only meant that you won’t let the grass grow beneath your feet. You’ll have some plan or other to stop yourself from sitting idly by and missing Selwyn. A new interior design project or some such for the new year.”

 

Lettice longs to confide in her elder sister about her recent secret engagement to Sir John Nettleford-Hughes. Although the two siblings have not always been the closest, thanks largely to the selfish and jealous actions of their mother, Lady Sadie, who forced a rift between them by setting up cases of one-upmanship, now that they are aware of this and no longer play into Lady Sadie’s emotional clutches, they have become close again, so it pains Lettice not to be honest with Lally. However, she knows that not only would Lally consider her sudden engagement on the heels of Selwyn’s abandonment of her rather rash, but that Lally dislikes Sir John, and Lettice suspects that if she knew about it, she would try relentlessly to get Lettice to break off her engagement. She knows that her reasoning behind keeping her engagement a secret until after the dust settles on her break with Selwyn is wise and sound, so she keeps her own counsel and remains silent on the matter of her engagement.

 

Lally gets up from her seat and wanders over to the fireplace, warming herself by the glowing wood fire as it crackles pleasurably as she picks up the cards and reads whom they are from inside.

 

“Mrs. Hatchett?” She foists a card with a little black Scottish terrier in a hamper tied with a pink bow on the front before Lettice. “Isn’t she the wife of that Labour politician who was part of Ramsay MacDonald’s short-lived minority Labour government?”

 

“Charles Hatchett? Yes. I decorated the Hatchett’s house in Sussex back in 1921, and Mrs. Hatchett still sends me a Christmas card every year.”

 

“Thank God the country came to its senses and the Conservatives won the general election in October. We’re back to normal politically again.”

 

Lettice doesn’t reply as Lally continues to peruse the cards.

 

“Oh-ho!” Lally chuckles, holding up one featuring a painting of a pair of brightly coloured wooden dolls in festive Art Deco version of Victorian style outfits. “Pappa would habe you hung, drawn and quartered as a traitor if he knew you were in receipt of correspondence from the film star Wanetta Ward.”

 

“Why?” Lettice gasps. “I decorated her flat too.”

 

“Yes,” Lally muses. “I remember, and I remember all the stink that came about because you deliberately failed to tell Mamma and Pappa about it.” She wags her finger accusing at her sister, yet the impish smile on her face confirms that she isn’t in the last cross with Lettice.

 

“Well, I knew they wouldn’t approve,” Lettice defends. “And I wanted her as a client. She’s very high profile, and she boosted my own business profile with my decoration of her flat.”

 

“Yes, well, lets hope Pappa has forgotten about it.”

 

“Why is he suddenly even more vehemently against Miss Ward than he was when I decorated her flat? I held to the promise I made to him then. I haven’t decorated any more, and I quote, ‘unsuitable actress’’ houses since I did hers.”

 

“Didn’t Mamma write and tell you?” Lally asks.

 

“No. Tell me what?”

 

“Marsen’s gone.” Lally replies, referring to the Chetwynd family’s footman, who always faithfully opens the front door and carries Lettice’s bags when she visits Glynes.

 

“Gone? Gone where? Gone when?”

 

“He left about two weeks ago apparently,” Lally replies, replacing the card on the mantle. “After he came to London on one of his days off.”

 

“What has that to do with Wanetta Ward, Lally darling?”

 

“Everything, Tice!” Lally replies with a light hearted laugh. “He saw that awful cardboard costume cutout picture of hers set in London when the Thames froze over.”

 

“‘Skating and Sinning’.” Lettice breathes.

 

“Yes!” Lally gasps. Raising her hand to her throat and clutching her pearls she continues, “Don’t tell me you saw it, Tice darling?”

 

“Well, no. I only know about it because Miss Ward told me about it not long after I completed the redecoration of her flat.” Lettice eyes her sister suspiciously. “But it sounds to me, like you’ve seen it.”

 

“Heavens no!” Lally laughs again, releasing her pearls and replacing the card in front of Lettice’s statuette of the ‘Theban dancer’ which sits in the centre of the mantlepiece. “I only know about it because Mrs. Sawyer tells me about all the pictures she sees with her husband at The Grand***************** in High Wycombe on the weekends when we discuss the menus on Mondays.”

 

“So why is Daddy so black on Miss Ward? Don’t tell me he dislikes her films.” Lettice says in disbelief. “I doubt he’s ever been to the pictures; he speaks so disparagingly of them.”

 

“Indeed he hasn’t, Tice. No. You see when Marsden saw your Miss Ward in ‘Skating and Sinning’, he fell madly and passionately in love with her, much to his ruination, or so Mamma tells me, and he decided that one day he would become an actor in the pictures. It turns out that he took secret acting lessons from Mrs. Maginot.”

 

“Not Mrs. Maginot, the haberdashers in Glynes?”

 

“The very one, Tice!” Lally titters. “She does have rather a theatrical bent, and manages the Glynes Theatrical Players as well as her shop in the village.”

 

“I know, but we’ve all been subject to their awful plays before, especially the Christmas panto****************** which we’ll both have to suffer through painted smiles this year, since its on the night of the twenty second. It’s ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ this year, and goodness knows I don’t wish to see Mr. Lewis the church verger reprise his role Dame Trott*******************.”

 

“As awful as it’s bound to be, Tice darling, Mrs, Maingot must have something of a knack when it comes to acting, because after a year and a half of lessons with her, Marsen went up to London to Islington Studios******************** last month to try out for a bit part in an upcoming film to be released in 1925, and landed the role as the romantic lead opposite his beloved Miss Ward!”

 

“What?” Lettice bursts out laughing. “Well I never!”

 

“Indeed! So, he came home to Glynes and handed Mamma his notice then and there!” Lally joins her sister’s raucous laughter. “Can you believe it? Our Marsden, starring in a film?”

 

“They must have hired him for his looks and his height, Lally darling, not his acting skills. Well, we definitely can’t see that production!”

 

“I’m almost tempted to sneak into The Grand and see it with Mrs. Sawyer when it coms out next year.” Lally laughs.

 

“Well, fancy Marsen being an actor in the pictures!”

 

“Yes, Mamma is fit to be tied! She has put an advertisement in The Lady*********************, but of course you know how hard it is to get a young man to be a footman these days that I think it’s a hopeless endeavour.”

 

“Well, only the really grand houses have footmen these days.” Lettice mutters, shuddering as she remembers Lady Zinna’s imperious footmen at her Park Lane mansion on the day Lettice fond out that Selwyn had become engaged to someone else. “Poor Bramley will have to answer the door as well as all his other butlering duties.”

 

Lally continues to flick through the cards until she comes across a rater innocuous one of a cottage with a smoking chimney set against a forest of pine trees.

 

“Sir John Nettleford-Hughes?” Lally gasps. “That old lecher?”

 

Lettice blushes at the mention of his name. Before she became secretly engaged to Sir John, he had sent her an early Christmas card which she put up, and rather than take it down when her sister arrived to stay, she simply left it up, hidden discreetly towards the back of the cards on display.

 

“He’s really not that bad,” Lettice says, grateful that her elder sister is too preoccupied with putting the card back to turn around and see her flushed cheeks. “Not once you get to know him. He was at Gossington when I went to stay with John and Gladys, and I was seated next to him at dinner. He’s really quite interesting and entertaining.”

 

“Lecherous and handsy don’t you mean?”

 

“No, I don’t. He really is rather kind, and more of a gentleman than you might suppose, Lally darling. Honestly.”

 

“You’ve changed your tune.” Lally replies, finally spinning around and facing her sister. “I seem to remember you and I both agreeing not that long ago on what a ghastly handsy old man he is!”

 

“Well, that was before Gossington.” Lettice defends. “Anyway, I really have Sir John to thank for the wonderful review by Henry Tipping********************** in Country Life***********************. After all, it was thanks to him that I met Mr. and Mrs. Gifford properly and redecorated the Pagoda Room for them. Mr. Gifford is Sir John’s nephew, and Mr. Gifford’s godfather is Henry Tipping.”

 

“You are a dark horse, aren’t you Tice, my darling?” Lally says with a puzzled smile.

 

“What do you mean, Lally?”

 

“Well, you and your interesting assortment of friends: politicians wives, lady novelists, actresses and lecherous old men!” Lally replies with a chuckle. “If this is the artistic life of a London society interior designer, I think I’ll be glad to get home to the quiet life of a Buckinghamshire lady of the manor. No Miss Wards or Sir Johns there!”

 

“Not yet, Lally darling! Not yet. But wait until Metroland reaches you. See what neighbours you get then!” Lettice gently teases her sister. “Besides,” she adds with an enigmatic smile. “I’m going to corrupt you with London society at this Thanksgiving Christmas party of the Carter’s this evening. High Wycombe is going to appear even more dreary dull to you after tonight.” She pauses for a moment. “Oh, and by the way, Sir John will be at the party this evening.”

 

Lally’s eyes grow wide in surprise. “No!”

 

“Yes.” Before Lally has a chance to protest, Lettice goes on, “Sir John is a distant relation of Cilla’s, so it’s not unexpected that he would be there. So, I’ll have the chance to show you just how charming he really can be.”

 

“You make it sound like you’re going to convert me, Tice.” Lally says warily.

 

“And so I am, Lally darling! By the end of tonight, you’ll love him! Now, drink up! It’s high time we were away!” Lettice holds her half drunk glass of champagne out to her sister whilst taking a less than ladylike gulp from her own. “The night is still young, and we don’t want to miss all the fun, or the good quality champagne.”

 

*Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife.

 

**To get tight is an old fashioned term used to describe getting drunk.

 

***The Austin 7 is an economy car that was produced from 1923 until 1939 in the United Kingdom by Austin. It was nicknamed the "Baby Austin" and was at that time one of the most popular cars produced for the British market and sold well abroad. Its effect on the British market was similar to that of the Model T Ford in the US, replacing most other British economy cars and cyclecars of the early 1920s.

 

****Derry and Toms was a smart London department store that was founded in 1860 in Kensington High Street. In 1930 a new three storey store was built in Art Deco style, and it was famous for its Roof Garden which opened in 1938. In 1973 the store was closed and became home to Big Biba, which closed in 1975. The site was developed into smaller stores and offices.

 

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

 

******The BBC presented the first dramatised recording of Charles Dickens classic novella ‘A Christmas Carol’ in December 1922. The dramatic recital was performed by Cyril Estacourt (who went on to do a good many more recital pieces for the BBC over the ensuing years) with carol interludes performed by the Star Street Congregational Church Choir. The recording was actually broadcast on the BBC’s 5WA Cardiff, but I hope you will indulge my slight alteration by placing it in the London studios of the BBC for dramatic purposes.

  

*******The Women's Institute (WI) is a community-based organization for women in the United Kingdom, Canada, South Africa and New Zealand. The movement was founded in Stoney Creek, Ontario, Canada, by Erland and Janet Lee with Adelaide Hoodless being the first speaker in 1897. It was based on the British concept of Women's Guilds, created by Rev Archibald Charteris in 1887 and originally confined to the Church of Scotland. From Canada the organization spread back to the motherland, throughout the British Empire and Commonwealth, and thence to other countries. Many WIs belong to the Associated Country Women of the World organization. Each individual WI is a separate charitable organisation, run by and for its own members with a constitution agreed at national level but the possibility of local bye-laws. WIs are grouped into Federations, roughly corresponding to counties or islands, which each have a local office and one or more paid staff.

 

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

 

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

 

**********In the United States, Thanksgiving Day is celebrated on the fourth Thursday in November.

 

***********Park Lane is a dual carriageway road in the City of Westminster in Central London. It is part of the London Inner Ring Road and runs from Hyde Park Corner in the south to Marble Arch in the north. It separates Hyde Park to the west from Mayfair to the east. The road was originally a simple country lane on the boundary of Hyde Park, separated by a brick wall. Aristocratic properties appeared during the late 18th century, including Breadalbane House, Somerset House, and Londonderry House. The road grew in popularity during the 19th century after improvements to Hyde Park Corner and more affordable views of the park, which attracted the nouveau riche to the street and led to it becoming one of the most fashionable roads to live on in London. Notable residents included the 1st Duke of Westminster's residence at Grosvenor House, the Dukes of Somerset at Somerset House, and the British prime minister Benjamin Disraeli at No. 93. Other historic properties include Dorchester House, Brook House and Dudley House. In the 20th century, Park Lane became well known for its luxury hotels, particularly The Dorchester, completed in 1931, which became closely associated with eminent writers and international film stars. Flats and shops began appearing on the road, including penthouse flats. Several buildings suffered damage during World War II, yet the road still attracted significant development, including the Park Lane Hotel and the London Hilton on Park Lane, and several sports car garages. A number of properties on the road today are owned by some of the wealthiest businessmen from the Middle East and Asia.

 

************The Savoy Havana Band was a popular British dance band of the 1920s. It was resident at the Savoy Hotel in London, between 1921 and 1927. The band made their first live outside broadcast on the British Broadcasting Corporation from the Savoy Hotel on the 3rd of October, 1923.

 

*************Wilfred de Mornys managed both the Savoy Havana band and their colleagues the more famous Savoy Orpheans, both of whom performed at the Savoy in London.

  

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

 

***************French Blue is a rich, deep blue that exudes elegance and sophistication. This captivating hue is inspired by the vibrant blue uniforms worn by the French military in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries.

 

****************Meaning to be completely unacquainted with, “not to know – from a bar of soap” is often attributed as an Australian colloquialism, because it is there that it is most commonly used in everyday parlance, however the term was first used in the Chicago Daily Tribune in May 1877 when writing a review about the English comic opera singer and actress Emily Soldene: “The ‘prima donna’ does not know a bar of music from a bar of soap; the chief actor would not be allowed to play supernumerary in a dumb show.”

 

*****************Located about a mile from High Wycombe town centre. The Grand Cinema was opened on the 28th April 1913 with “Zigomar”. It was designed by T. Thurlow, and had an attractively decorated façade. There was a small stage and some dressing rooms for variety acts. It was closed for several months in 1953, and re-opened under new operators. It closed forever on the 8th September 1962 with Kenneth More in “Some People” and Ray Barrett in “Time to Remember”. Part of the building was demolished and the remainder was used as a tailors. It then became a furniture showroom for James Blundell, who seemed to have a knack of converting closed cinemas for their own use. It then became an electrical store, and the façade was re-modelled.

 

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

 

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

 

********************Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.

 

*********************The Lady is one of Britain's longest-running women's magazines. It has been in continuous publication since 1885 and is based in London. It is particularly notable for its classified advertisements for domestic service and child care; it also has extensive listings of holiday properties.

 

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

 

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

 

I love Christmas, and I love decorating at Christmas too. This even extends to my miniatures collection. This upper-class domestic scene is different to what you may think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The elegantly decorated Christmas tree is a hand-made 1:12 size artisan miniature made by an artist in America. The presents beneath it and on the coffee table come from various miniature specialist stockists in England.

 

The 1:12 miniature garland over the Art Deco fireplace was hand-made by Karen Lady Bug Miniatures in England and the 1;12 Art Deco card selection on the mantle came from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature store in England.

 

The salmon mousse garnished with cucumber slices and lemon wedges is an artisan miniature by an unknown artist. It is even presented on a holly sprigged plate, so it is very festive! The champagne bottle, glasses and bowl of caviar are hand-made 1:12 artisan miniature pieces too, acquired from Karen Ladybug Miniatures.

 

Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The Art Deco tub chairs are of black japanned wood and have removable cushions, just like their life sized examples. To the left of the fireplace is a Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair of black japanned wood which has been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the legs and inside the bureau. The chair set has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven. To the right of the fireplace is a Chippendale cabinet which has also been decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks.

 

On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame.

 

The fireplace is a 1:12 miniature resin Art Deco fireplace which is flanked by brass accessories including an ash brush with real bristles.

 

On the left hand side of the mantle, behind the cards, you can just glimpse the turquoise coloured top of an Art Deco metal clock hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken.

 

In the middle of the mantle is a miniature artisan hand painted Art Deco statue on a “marble” plinth. Made by Warwick Miniatures in England, it is a 1:12 copy of the “Theban Dancer” sculpture created by Claire-Jeanne-Roberte Colinet in 1925.

 

The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug, and the geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

balinese girl playing next to a rubbish cart loaded up with the remains of religious offerings. taken in ubud market.

 

www.facebook.com/balhamofficeday

  

After a turbulent few months since Utopia suddenly ceased operating, things are getting back to normal for bus users around the Selby district of North Yorkshire. A key route which took the longest to sort out a new solution for was the corridor between Cawood and York; originally only operated with an hourly service between Selby and York numbered 42, Utopia came along and offered a 422 service between York and Sherburn in Elmet via Cawood in addition to a 420 service operating in competition to Arriva; Utopia dropped the 420 service for a while until weight restrictions on Cawood swing bridge were more tightly enforced after damage was dicvoered, and so a previous weight limit exemption for service buses was abolished which then meant Arriva didn't have any suitable vehicles which kept within the 7t Max Gross Weight limit - giving Utopia sole access over the bridge with their minibuses... so when Utopia collapsed this all disappeared, and whilst NYCC tried to put in a contingency service during a period of hoping an operator would step forward with a commercial service along this route, the NYCC provision was a bit pathetic and ended up with just a single journey outbound from York to Cawood and Selby which departed at lunchtime. At the same time, works had been underway on the bridge to strengthen it and increase the weight limit to 10t MGW.

  

In late October 2017 new service tenders were announced to provide permanent cover for the lost Utopia services, and the decision had been made to roll in the York-Cawood-Selby service together with local Selby service 8 and to have a single operator run right through from York to Drax via Cawood, Selby, Barlow and Camblesforth - the contract was awarded to Transdev York (an outpost of Yorkshire Coastliner) and a bit of vehicle shuffling initially saw a pair of Dennis / Plaxton Mini Pointer Dart's sent to York from spare stock at Keighley, with another later joining then during November, and the 2 buses allocated to new extended service 42 run to a frequency of every 90 minutes. It isn't as good as Arriva's original 60-minute headway, however this tendered service seems like it be a safety net so the operator can run this with funding to see if it can later operate unsupported.... I would be surprised if we're still here a year later with the 42 still running to the same times, though increasing frequency to hourly would require a third vehicle if the route itself is unchanged (and due to the route length it would not be possible to have an hourly service between York and Selby with a 2-hourly service to Drax, not unless the route was extended to Goole and Aimryn and possibly Swinefleet).

  

One of the cascaded buses to York is Mini Pointer Dart YG52 GDJ which is one of two at York to be wearing a black livery promoting a now discontinued mobile ticketing app, though perhaps the bus is only here temporarily until changes in Harrogate cascade some newer vehicles around. 703 is seen at York Piccadilly taking a 42 to Selby - the route now falls under the Little Explorers brand, and the bus has been given an orange swoop under the windscreen plus Little Explorers logo on the dash panel to replace the Keighley Bus Company logo - though I will admit this really does look like a temporary measure.

Lexus offered the first generation IS Series from model years 1999 to 2005 as a luxury compact with more of an emphasis on sport. This one is the SportCross version which was more wagon-like than the regular sedan version. Both the IS200 and IS300 were equipped with rear wheel drive and inline 6 engines, the latter of which with a version of Toyota’s notable 2JZ-series DOHC engine. The IS 300 had the non-turbo 2JZ-GE version.

Miscouche, PEI

Holga

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Oh don’t I?” Leslie mutters.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Well…”

 

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

 

“Alright, Tice old girl.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Including Pater.” Lettice adds.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Did what?” Leslie asks.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Why not, Harrold?” Annabelle cries petulantly.

 

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

 

“Harrold!” Lally exclaims.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Harrold!” Lally says again.

 

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

 

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

 

“But I…”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Yes Grandpappa.” Harrold replies.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Maybe, Grandmamma.” he replies very quietly.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“What, Lalage?”

 

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

 

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

 

“Sadie?” her son-in-law queries.

 

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

 

“Yes Sadie.”

 

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

 

“Mamma!” Lettice gasps in surprise.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

  

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The books unwrapped for Christmas here are all 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. What might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. Not only did Ken Blythe create books, he also created other 1:12 miniatures with paper and that includes the wonderful puppet theatre you see here. The theatre includes scenery like cottages, hills and trees, three different backdrops and over a dozen characters including Little Red Riding Hood, the Big bad Wolf, Little-Bo-Peep, Cinderella, Prince Charming and the Faerie Godmother from Cinderella, Jemima Puddle Duck and Mother Goose. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make them all miniature artisan pieces. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

The beautiful teddy bear with his sweet face and red bow, the boxed doll, the toy motor car and the knights jousting all come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The lead knights have been painstakingly painted by hand with incredible detail and attention paid to their livery.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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[ Al Vulo! ] / Calico Ingmann Creations! / .Insufferable Dastard .ID. / ::Modish:: / -FD- tattoo's / *RoTtEn DeFiAnCe* - [*RD*]* / [b.nuts] / SuPerBia / pr!tty / Phoebe's Piercings / [ S H O C K ] / ..::Energie::..

 

Pose: GOLA

Many bus operators offered parcles services for the transportation of small and lighter weight packages. Often these woudl be 'collected' or dispatched by services buses and, as here, a fleet of vans was available for 'off route' collections and final deliveries. For the most part these schemes withered away towards the end of the 1960s as route networks were curtailed and operational organisation changes making such sundry services less practicable or profitable.

 

This leaflet, undated by feels mid-1960s, is quite graphically clean and smart using simple colours, blocks and repetition. I like the simple four blocks and arrow motif, symbolising parcels and transport, used on the cover and possibly on the van fleet of the Ulster Transport Authority. The UTA was formed in 1948, mirroring the nationalisation and creation of the British Transport Commission in Great Britain, and it merged together the existing Northern Ireland Road Passenger Transport Board with the Belfast & County Down Railway. In 1949 came the railways of the previously LMS owned Northern Counties Committee and in 1957/8 came what was left of the Great Northern Railway (Ireland)'s system north of the border. The UTA were ruthless in reducing the railway network and replacing services with bus and coach operation. The UTA ceased to exist in 1967/8 witht he creation of Ulsterbus and Northern Ireland Railways.

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Well, I think you did the right thing, my dear.” Aunt Egg says with conviction in her sparkling green eyes. “That Mrs. Hawarden’s taste sounds absolutely vulgar. Mind you, what can one expect from the wife of an industrialist in Manchester! They breed them differently up north.”

 

“Aunt Egg!” Lettice exclaims. “I never thought I would hear such words fall from your lips. You are the one who always chides any one of us if we utter anything that isn’t egalitarian! You scoff at Mater because she is such a snob.”

 

“Well, she is a snob.” Replies the older woman, picking up a dainty biscuit from the plate perched upon a footstool covered in her own petit point handiwork. “I’m simply making a frank observation.” She pops the biscuit into her mouth and chews on it.

 

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

 

“Why on earth Mrs. Hawarden doesn’t simply go and reside in one of those awful Metroland*** Tudor Revival villas those developers keep advertising on the outskirts of London, I don’t know?” the older woman says once she finishes her mouthful of biscuit. “They would be better suited to be the blank canvas for her taste for dark brown stained woodwork and ubiquitous distemper. No, I say again, my dear, that it would be a travesty to tear apart all that wonderful history built up in that lovely house over many years.”

 

“That isn’t to say that it won’t happen, Aunt Egg.” Lettice replies. “Mrs. Hawarden has plenty of money to splash around. I’m sure there are a plethora of other interior designers who would love the opportunity to receive a commission from her.”

 

“Be that as it may, at least it isn’t you who is pandering to that woman’s whims. Your father and I taught you well - even Sadie to a degree – to respect the history of a home. A home is merely a house with history.”

 

“Well, I do hope that other people will like my Modernist Revival style as Mr. Tipping**** calls it.” Lettice replies a little desultorily.

 

“As one of the leading authorities on the history, architecture, furnishings and gardens of country houses in Great Britain, I have no doubt that there are far more people who will follow Mr. Tipping’s elegant and qualified taste, than will follow the whims of a vulgar and showy industrialist’s wife from Manchester who is of no consequence to anyone other than to herself.” The older woman nods matter-of-factly.

 

“I do hope you are right, Aunt Egg.”

 

“Of course I’m right, my dear.” Eglantine soothes from the comfort of her cream upholstered Chippendale wingback armchair. “Let me tell you a story. Once, some years ago, before you were born, I was very taken by the Ballet Russes who were performing here in London. I found their passion and colour exciting and stimulating. Your father, always happy to indulge my passions cultivated a friendship with a visiting Russian count, the Count Baronovska. However, it was his wife who truly fascinated me.

 

Why Aunt Egg?

 

Because my dear, the Countess Elena Ludmilla Baronovska was everything I ever dreamed of being. She was elegant and worldly,

 

But you are elegant and worldly.

 

When compared alongside the Countess, I felt anything but either of those things.

 

I can hardly imagine that, Aunt Egg. You were famed as a beauty when you were younger, and you still are extremely elegant.”

 

“Ah, how you flatter me child.”

 

“And I have always thought of you as wise and worldly, Aunt Egg. It’s why I come to you for advice.”

 

“Well, in comparison to a Bright Young Thing like you, I am worldly wise, but I knew nothing compared to the Countess Baronovska.”

 

“Tell me what she was like.”

 

“She was tall and statuesque, with a proud bearing, yet she was in no way haughty. Her skin was flawless and snowy white, like porcelain. The almost translucent quality of her flesh was only highlighted by her dark curls which framed her face. Her swan neck was made for the display of pearl chokers. Like so many White Russians before the Revolution, she had a fortune in jewels and she wore them with style and panache: ropes of pearls and circlets of diamonds and rubies placed in ornate gold settings graced her throat and cascaded down the front of her gowns, all of which were exquisitely made, not in Paris or London like those your mother and I wore, but by her own seamstress in St Petersburg.”

 

“She sounds amazing.”

 

“And so she was to look at. I’m quite sure your father had a mild crush on the Countess.” Aunt Egg chortles

 

“Did Mater know?”

 

“Discretion was never your father’s strong suit my dear. He still wears his heart on his sleeve, so I have no doubt that Sadie knew – not that your father would have done anything to reproach himself with. He has always been a gentleman. However, whilst your father was in love with her beauty, I was in love with her intellect and power.”

 

“Power?”

 

“On yes. The Countess Elena Ludmilla Baronovska was not like so many other members of the Russian court, filled with self importance and self entitlement. No, she cultivated her intellect and charms, and she used them to influence others to her advantage. I’m sure she only married the Count for his money, which sounds like an uncharitable thing to say, but she was a woman who had ambition in a time and a place where so few women, like your mother,” She rolls here eyes. “Did. She wanted the Count’s money to be used to greater benefit than the way he used it, which was to drink and play the gambling tables along with all the other Russian aristocrats.”

 

“So what did she do?”

 

“I’m not sure how, and she was so discreet that she would never confide it in me, but somehow she managed to get her husband to sign away all his wealth to her, so it was she who owned their lands and managed their fortune. It was she who gave her husband a small allowance and paid any of his unpaid gambling debts. The rest of the money she put to work by creating her own business, just like you.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes. In a time when it was almost unheard of that a woman ran her own business affairs, especially in a patriarchal society like Russia, the Countess Elena Ludmilla Baronovska did.”

 

“What business did she have?”

 

“The Countess was a woman who had her own unique style. She also loved beautiful objects and art, so she set up her own porcelain factory.”

 

“A porcelain factory? Truly, Aunt Egg?”

 

“Yes indeed. The Countess’ porcelain factory was in Crimea, and adjoined the Baronovska estate. As I said, the Countess had the most amazing mind, and she had a head for business. She was also smart that during a period when there was great worker discontent with other manufacturers treating those who worked in their factories no better than slaves, whilst living high off their hard work, the Countess made Baronovska Porcelain a place where people were not only happy to work, but made it a haven for young Russian artists who would never have had a chance to develop their talents were it not for her. As a result Baronovska Porcelain made high quality pieces that were beautifully designed and unique. With their connections within the inner circles of the Royal Court of the Tsar, pieces were highly sought after and commanded very high prices. Even today, if a piece of Baranovska Porcelain were to miraculously turn up at Sotheby’s or Bonham’s, it would command a very fine price.”

 

“She sounds like a very shrewd businesswoman.”

 

“You remind me of her a little. She was a woman who marched to the beat of her own heart, and stuck to her specific ideas about what was fashionable. She didn’t follow trends, she set them with her fine porcelain.”

 

“And she reminds you or me, Aunt Egg?”

 

“Why yes Lettice. See, by you refusing to do what that awful Hawarden woman wanted: paint her rooms oatmeal and strip back the many years of history that house her manufacturer husband bought her as a toy, you have stuck to your own ideals, just like the Countess Elena Ludmilla Baronovska.” She smiles at her niece. “I’m proud of you for not following her wishes, simply because she has the money to pay you for your services.”

 

“I’m starting to think that I perhaps should have been a little more direct with her.”

 

“Perhaps my dear, but she still may not have listened to you, and insisted on you doing her bidding against your own better and far superior judgement.” She reaches out and pats Lettice’s hands with her own gnarled bejewelled one. “Just like the Countess Elena Ludmilla Baronovska, I know that you too will be a trend setter, and in the not too distant future, I’ll wager.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Aunt Egg.”

 

“Nonsense my dear! Self-deprecation and hiding one’s talent under a bushel never did anyone any good, my dear. You will be the toast of London one day,” She taps her nose knowingly. “You mark my words.”

 

“Did you ever visit the factory, Aunt Egg?” Lettice says in an effort to change the subject.

 

“Actually, yes we did. That was when I received these two vases.” She indicates to two vases on the mantlepiece. “A gift from the Countess, whose generosity I can never repay.”

 

“Oh Aunt Egg! I have always admired those.”

 

“Well, perhaps I will leave them to you in my will when I die, my dear.”

 

“Oh Aunt Egg!”

 

“It’s a pity I didn’t buy more pieces whilst we were there. The Countess served us tea from the most delicate and dainty tea set with the same pattern painted upon it. Oh! It was the most beautiful tea set I think I have ever seen.” The older woman sighs. “Still hindsight is fine thing to have.”

 

“You said ‘we went’, Aunt Egg. Who is ‘we’?”

 

“Of course you weren’t born yet, but your father, your mother, Leslie, Lally and Lionel, even though he was only a toddler at the time, all visited the Count and Countess Baronovska in Russia. However, as I recall, the Count slipped off to St Petersburg as soon as it was polite for him to make a hasty retreat to the gambling tables allure. The Countess Baronovska had the most beautiful dacha in Crimea where we all stayed as her guests. She told Leslie and Lally as many Russian faerie tales that they could coax out of her. She had a soft spot for the children, since she and the Count had no children of their own.”

 

“Do you think the Countess planned it that way? It sounds to me like she had very definite plans for her future, and children may have been a hinderance.”

 

“In the case of children, I think not. I suspect that the Count was drawn to St Petersburg not just for the lavish life at court and the gambling, but for the allure of a number of women as well. I think the Countess would have liked to have had a large brood of her own. Although,” Aunt Egg’s voice becomes a little melancholy. “Considering what has come to pass in Russia, perhaps it is just as well that she never had children. The Countess invested some of the profits from her factory in the people who lived and worked on her estate and worked in her factory. She made sure that people had repaired roofs over their heads, nutritious food and access to healthcare, yet it still made no difference in the end. Like so many Russian Aristocrats, she fled when the Revolution came, and had to leave behind so much, including her beloved porcelain factory.” She sighs. “Goodness knows what has happened to it now.”

 

“Did you ever see the Countess Baronovska again?”

 

“Yes, your father and I did in,” She ruminates for a moment. “In 1919 as I recall. The Countess was still beautiful and elegant, in spite of what happened to her, and her somewhat diminished circumstances, although I do think she managed to escape with a king’s ransom in jewellery. She promised that we would stay in touch. We used to correspond for many years. I even sent her photographs of you as you grew up, and I told her about all your artistic attributes, which I know she would have appreciated, had she ever met you.”

 

“Where do you think she is now, Aunt Egg?”

 

“Goodness knows my dear. She has gone to ground, I know not where. However, I do know that it will be for her own good reasons that she has. Russian émigrés have been dispersed everywhere between here and Shanghai. Perhaps one day she will turn up again.”

 

“It’s sad that you have lost a friend who obviously meant a great deal to you, Aunt Egg.”

 

“We all lose people eventually my dear,” the older woman says with a sad smile. “Or they lose us. Death sees to that.”

 

“Please don’t talk like that, Aunt Egg.”

 

“Oh very well, my dear, if it troubles you to hear it, however true my statement is. At least I have some photos, many wonderful letters, and these two beautiful vases, to remind me of the lovely, clever and kind the Countess Elena Ludmilla Baronovska.”

 

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

 

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

 

***The trains that killed the English countryside made the suburbs, for they brought semi-rural areas ripe for development within easy reach of city. This huge expansion of London and the regional cities between the two world wars democratised home ownership and the rows of almost identical rows of houses were derided by the wealthy upper classes and were nicknamed “Metroland”, after the commute via Metropolitan Railway people would need to take each day to and from work. It applied to land in Middlesex, west Hertfordshire and south Buckinghamshire. “Metroland” was characterised by the construction of Tudor Revival suburban houses.

 

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

 

This overstuffed and cluttered late Victorian room might look a bit busy to your modern eye, but in the day, this would have been the height of conspicuous consumption fashion. What may also surprise you is that the entire scene is made up with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Central to our story today, the two vases standing on the mantle with their blue and gilt banding of roses are “Baroness” pattern, made by Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures.

 

The irises and tulips in the two vases and the foxgloves appearing to the far right of the photograph are all made of polymer clay that is moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements. Very realistic looking, they are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany.

 

Also on the mantlepiece are a pair of Staffordshire sheep which have been hand made, painted and gilded by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. If you look closely, you will see that the sheep actually have smiles on their faces! Between them stands a gilt carriage clock made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The pretty lace and floral fan behind it, leaning against the overmantle glass is a 1:12 artisan miniature that I acquired from a specialist doll house supplier when I was a teenager. The two “Japonism” style paper fans stuck into the fretwork around the overmantle mirror I acquired at the same time from the same shop as the lace fan. The one on the left-hand side is hand painted with flowers and has been lacquered before being attached to a little wooden handle.

 

The fireplace and its ornate overmantle is a “Kensignton” model made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. The mirrored china cabinet with its fretwork front was also made by Bespaq, as were Aunt Egg’s white floral figured satin upholstered Chippendale chair and the ornate white upholstered corner chair. The peacock feather fire screen, brass fire tools and ornate brass fender come from various online 1:12 miniature suppliers.

 

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

 

The hand embroidered footstool in front of Aunt Egg’s Chippendale wingback armchair and the hand embroidered pedestal fire were acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom, as was the 1:12 artisan miniature sewing box on the small black japanned table to the left of Aunt Egg’s chair. The tapestry frame in front of Aunt Egg’s chair comes from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The tea set on the embroidered footstool in the centre of the image is made of white metal by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, and has been hand painted by artisan miniaturist Victoria Fasken.

 

The two whatnots are cluttered with vases from various online dolls’ house miniature suppliers, several miniature Limoges vases and white and lilac petunia pieces which have been hand made and painted by 1:12 miniature ceramicist Ann Dalton.

 

The Royal Doulton style figurines in the china cabinet are from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland and have been hand painted by me. The figurines are identifiable as particular Royal Doulton figurines from the 1920s and 1930s.

 

The white roses in the blue and white vase on the sofa table are also made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. Aunt Egg’s family photos, all of which are all real photos, are produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are from various suppliers, but all are metal. The 1:12 artisan miniature blue and white jasperware Wedgwood teapot on the round table near the bottom of the photo is actually carved from wood, with a removable lid which has been hand painted. I acquired it from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures. The hand blown blue and clear glass basket next to it comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The paintings around Aunt Egg’s drawing room come from Amber’s Miniatures in the United States, V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The round pictures hanging on ribbons were made by me when I was twelve years old. The ribbons came from my maternal Grandmother’s sewing box, and the frames are actually buttons from her button box. The images inside (two Victorian children paintings on one and three Redoute roses on the other) were cut from a magazine.

 

The wallpaper was printed by me, and is an authentic Victorian floral pattern produced by Jeffrey and Company. Jeffrey and Company was an English producer of fine wallpapers that operated between 1836 and the mid 1930s. Based at 64 Essex Road in London, the firm worked with a variety of designers who were active in the aesthetic and arts and crafts movements, such as E.W. Godwin, William Morris, and Walter Crane. Jeffrey and Company’s success is often credited to Metford Warner, who became the company’s chief proprietor in 1871. Under his direction the firm became one of the most lucrative and influential wallpaper manufacturers in Europe. The company clarified that wallpaper should not be reserved for use solely in mansions, but should be available for rooms in the homes of the emerging upper-middle class.

 

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

Cry in the Wilderness

 

By Arthur Broomhall

  

Late in 1969 the Broomhall family - a mom, dad, four kids, dog, with tent trailer and canoe, reacted to an advertisement in BC Outdoors about Alexis Lake. Always ready for another adventure in wilderness, what the ad promised appealed to all. It offered an image of a serviced campsite (ice available), three other lakes accessible to canoes by portage, good fly fishing, and, no outboard motors allowed! Having experienced, by that time, many summer holidays in the Cariboo, our family had already fallen in love with the remoteness and quiet of BC’s Central Interior. This ad triggered a desire for even more - next season – but in the unfamiliar Chilcotin Country!

  

In 1970 the main road west from Williams Lake, Highway 24, was not paved, except for the ‘Sheep Creek Hill’ up from the Fraser River Bridge to the Chilcotin plateau. This part of the road, with its many switchbacks, was on the northeast face of the hill, always thawing out more slowly in the spring than more sun-exposed parts. To correct the inevitable slumping that came with every spring thaw, the Highways Department put in culverts for drainage in the critical places and paved that stretch.

 

Otherwise the road west to Bella Coola was mostly gravel or hard mud. In some places the gravel was like very coarse river bottom, in others, deep ruts added to drivers’ misery. It was hard on ‘regular’ automobiles, especially those pulling trailers. This, we were often told by disparaging locals, was truck country! For us, driving those one hundred miles from Williams Lake was always a challenge, but arrival at serene and beautiful Alexis Lake was the ultimate reward.

 

What we found that first visit was not quite all the advertisement promised. In some respects it was even more. We were expecting wilderness, but the character of it was so much more pristine, unspoilt, with more wildlife than anything we experienced before. Although we were supplied with drinking water, we later found the lake water clean enough to drink. We learned the ad’s statement of ‘no motors’ was not backed up with regulations, but the absence of boat ramps made it virtually impossible for large boats with motors to be launched. And, as far as having ice for our food storage, it was not going to be available in subsequent seasons.

 

One could hear the silence, the animals, and the wind in the trees. The swimming and fishing was good. It was dry belt, and what rain came in summer was in heavy showers, with thunder and lightning. Exploring was always a bit spooky, because the odds were great that we would never encounter anyone else. This also meant that we expected to run into big game – deer and bears. We found the country so wide open, if one wandered off a known, marked trail, it was easy to get lost. Away from camp there were few natural boundaries or landmarks to indicate where ‘home’ might be. And, in that the climate in this high country could change very quickly from the sublime to harsh, it was a bush country to be respected.

 

Happy with that first adventure, it was an easy family decision to return again. Thoughts of doing more than ‘just camping’ came into our family discussions. We searched out a lakeshore property we wanted for our own. In 1971 there were, perhaps, ten properties with cabins on the east shore of the lake. We filed our papers with the government’s Land Branch for a lot we had selected, and were kept on tenterhooks while the approval process wound its way through the bureaucracy. Approval took a long time coming and finally came through late in 1972. The lease required a habitable cabin to be built upon the land within three years. Earlier, in the summer of that year, already confident that the property would be ours, we camped on it, tidied up, and staked out its four corners. By the end of the 1973 summer season, as we departed, our property was fenced to keep out the cattle and, within, was a sealed-up, but unfinished frame cabin.

 

In the twenty-eight years since (I write this in year 2001), as property owners, we have learned much about the land, climate, and vicissitudes of settling in wilderness. Our lake is near the summit of the Alexis Creek watershed. It is at about 3,500 ft. above sea level, enough to offer cool nights after the hottest of summer days. The surrounding land is mainly high plateau, with a few gently rounded peaks that extend upward another thousand feet or so. A few rocky, volcanic outcroppings dot the terrain here and there. In recent times, it has mainly been forested land, covered by scrubby, overcrowded pine trees, white spruces in wet areas, some aspens, and here and some small stands of ancient Douglas firs. Many areas have been opened up for cattle pastures and growing hay. Logging and free-range cattle ranching have been the region’s mainstay for about a century.

 

About 65 years ago, a rancher downstream sought and obtained a water license on Alexis Creek to allow for irrigation and other water use on the lower reaches. Included in the license was provision for a small earth-filled dam and valve at Alexis Lake’s outlet. Once the dam and control were in place the lake effectively became a reservoir for the ranch’s water requirements. If the creek were ever to dry up, the license permitted water to be drawn from the lake.

 

It has been said, apart from some testing, the water control system on the dam was never used. Apparently, the normal summer flow of water down the creek was always sufficient for the needs of the ranch. It is possible the existence of the dam evened out seasonal water fluctu-ations. In high water seasons, lake water rises between two to three feet higher than pre-dam levels. This has been enough to kill off many spruce trees in low spots. And, over the years the beaver population has always caused the lake levels to fluctuate even more. Their dam building activity at the lake outlet continues to be a nuisance.

 

In 1986, the water license was abandoned. Despite that license, people seeking waterfront property upstream before and after 1986 were granted (indeed, encouraged to obtain) leases (and in a few cases obtained land in fee simple) by government – all subject to that license. So when the water license ended, riparian rights in a sense transferred from the ranch, downstream, to upstream and lakeshore property holders. The latter, we, in effect, became the water’s stakeholders.

 

A wake-up call faced Alexis Lake property owners when liabilities for the dam structure and valve no longer were the responsibility of the ranch. The abandonment of the license conferred those liabilities somewhere, but where? Faced with repairing a deteriorating dam mainly because of the road access it provided to the east lakeshore properties, the government’s Highways Department suggested the dam be removed and be replaced by a bridge. It would, they said, be less costly than having to replace the old dam with a new one built to standards required by the Environment Department.

 

Faced with the uncertainties of cost, and how a reduced water level might affect the shoreline or, for that matter, property values, many, perhaps most, owners objected strenuously to the removal of the dam. Also having to face this conundrum, government eventually settled upon having the Highways Dept. patch up the old dam and punch through a culvert. We were assured this would preserve existing water levels. Surprisingly, this arrangement has worked – but it still leaves us wondering about the future!

 

By the mid 80’s, logging companies were well into clear-cutting the Chilcotin. In 1970 it did not occur to us that it was only a matter of time before their operations would catch up to the plateau 70 miles west of the Fraser River. The impact of the hundreds of loaded logging trucks we encountered on our drives in and out did not register upon us for quite a while. For the kids counting trucks became a game. But, ominously, the effects of the logging became visible. We were not mistaken any longer – large swaths of denuded hills were appearing everywhere.

 

Off the main road our climb up to the plateau was at first through thick forest, mostly Douglas Firs in the lower elevations, but further up this changed to pine forest. There were large grassy openings here and there - well populated by free ranging cattle. Around Alexis Lake most of the forest was of poor quality. Either very dense, the native pines were so crowded they stretched tall and thin, reaching for available light, or they were undernourished from poor soil – possibly both. Most took fifty years or more to grow less than 25 feet. To our less than practised eye, they were good for little more than fence rails and posts.

 

During the time we were busy with building and finishing off our cabin, we took breaks to explore the territory around us. By hiking and driving around we saw the construction of a major logging road not half a mile from the north end of the lake, (now called the ‘4600’) and from it saw the approach of clear-cut logging. We watched, each year, as more and more of the once endless, far-as-the-eye-could-see forest was decimated.

 

From talking to Ministry of Forests people, we learned of loggers’ plans for our immediate area – round-the-clock, highly automated cutting, bundling, and removal of trees – with cleanup (slash burning) in the fall when the forest fire season had passed. We received assurances private property would not be trespassed, and a fringe of trees would be left standing around the shores of the lake. We were not told about the 24 hour-a-day noise.

 

The forestry department staff made a point of telling us about the natural disasters, too, and their role in cleaning up after them. They pointed out the forest on the east side of Alexis Lake had been badly scorched in a forest fire in the early 40’s. At that time many older, large trees survived, but most living trees are scarred at ground level. Much of the remaining area was left open with little undergrowth – good for nothing but cottage development, they said.

 

They told of pine beetle scourges that infected the Chilcotin. Little is known about such infestations, why they arise or how they are best controlled. In some areas older trees were attacked while younger ones somehow remain unaffected, in other areas it was the opposite. A year or two after pine beetle grubs get into tree bark, the trees die and become a fire hazard. In nature, wildfires eventually take care of this. From the fertile ashes of an old forest, a healthier generation of trees grows.

 

In the Chilcotin, however, where, like everywhere else, the human population is growing slowly but inexorably, vast areas of dead forest have become a menace for ranches and people with cottages. It is a country where summer lightning starts forest fires. It has been decreed (by environment and forestry departments of government) that it is better to be rid of pine beetle damaged trees than it is to allow them simply to fall and rot or be incinerated. And, in that bug diseased trees, if recovered for processing within a year or two of dying, have commercial value, cutting licenses required ‘conditions’. Loggers found themselves bound to take out bad wood with the good. This imposition gave the lumber industry another argument in favor of using the ‘most modern’ clear-cutting logging techniques.

 

Today, the old forests in the Alexis Creek district have largely disappeared; little remains of what we encountered when we first arrived. In addition to the many stands of trees that became diseased, other natural events contributed to the forest decline. It has been said that as forest cover disappears, damage from thunderstorms and wind is more severe. Simply put, vast cleared-off areas leave built-up properties and unprotected stands of trees on the periphery of these cleared-off areas much more vulnerable to the elements.

 

As if to add insult to our injury, in the early 90’s, one particularly bad summer storm, a tornado, devastated a two to three mile strip of forest, perhaps 300 acres, along the crest of land paralleling the west shore of the lake. This precipitated a need for a further cleanup, and the logging crew that eventually arrived removed many more trees than just the blow-downs.

 

If there has been an upside from all this, it is the improvement to the roads in and out of the territory. The main highway is now paved, and the roads into the bush have been upgraded to standards that are safe for logging activity – which, in turn, has been good for our access. Tree removal and road straightening, more gravel, ditches, culverts, and better drying out, have made it easier to get about on these bush roads.

 

A true account of that access, however, would never be complete without mention of what one sees when driving through. For many years, now, the countryside has been an eyesore, looking more like a moonscape. Replanting has slowly changed that; the hills are greening up. But, like before, once done, there has been a noticeable absence of follow-through. Replanted trees now need thinning. Without this, the forest will revert into another in ‘decadent’ state and become susceptible again to insect infestations.

 

At the higher elevations of the Alexis Creek drainage, on the plateau, the land is relatively flat. Besides many lakes, there are hundreds of large and small bogs, creating wetlands with their own distinctive environments. The disappearance of the forests, generally, is causing much of this to dry out. Stands of trees adjacent to these wetlands, now more accessible, have been among the last to be opened up for timber removal. These are not large, profitable cut-blocks, and we wonder why this timber must be removed.

 

After witnessing (with varying degrees of consternation or horror) the highly automated round-the-clock forest cutting we could not fail to notice harmful environmental effects. A tree supporting many great blue heron nests (near Lake Two) simply disappeared, as did the blue herons. After rainstorms the lakes soon became silt-ridden (brown). Nearby clear-cuts, the follow-up slash burning, and even the building of the logging road, caused further soil erosion.

 

In that virtually no mature forest remains, the existing wetlands around us are bound to suffer from dry seasons. When I say ‘suffer’, I mean the chains of animal and plant life will be adversely affected. In turn, the aquifer, underground water, like everywhere else in the world suffering from clear-cut logging, will sink lower – and we, humans, will face difficulties like never before. Despite recent high water levels in the lake, some neighbors reported their wells drying up. Thus, there is no doubt what patches of forest that have been left standing must remain.

 

The collective “we” of property owners and campers at Alexis Lake, by receiving much deep joy and pleasure from the area’s unique serenity, have taken up the cause of preserving it from further adversity. But we cannot ignore the array of forces that simply don’t regard the fragility of an environment an issue that demands such commitment. Unfortunately, the ENVIRONMENT has no single advocate, and our government will never be a champion of it. The government sees land - and what’s in, on, or under it, as something it has a duty to exploit – to extract revenue from. It actually encourages business to bid for the use of land, and sees its role as one of sorting out competing interests over it, where they occur.

 

The Alexis Lake community already has established a somewhat substantial economy, given the private investment in property and improvements – and despite its remoteness. This economy benefits not only from the assessed values of the properties, or from cottagers’ continuing need for goods and services, but also from itinerant campers and other tourists who come up to enjoy the many remote forestry campsites. But despite the tax revenues, and infusion of outside money, many ‘locals’, who live year-round nearby, dismiss our claims that the region benefits more from our presence than if we had not settled there.

 

Throughout Canada loons have become a wilderness bellwether. If we hear the sound of loons at Alexis, we know all is well. If Ontarians hear them - the same may not be true. The press of human population upon ‘lake country’ in Ontario is so great that many families of loons have been driven away. Whether it is motorboats constantly disturbing their nesting sites, absence of feed, lowering water levels, or mercury pollution, or a combination of all these things, something is destroying that environment.

 

The notion of closing Alexis Lake to internal combustion motorboats was not a new one when it arose years ago. When our family saw the ad in 1969 (although having no ‘official’ validity) we knew someone cared, and also that it was consistent with the growing movement in BC for closing lakes to boats having outboard motors. The impetus was always one of having to protect pristine environments from noise, fouled water, and the disturbance of wildlife. And it was a foregone conclusion that without motorboats lakes were safer for swimmers.

 

At first, in the mid 70’s closing ‘our’ lake to motorboats became an obsession with a few, but as the issue was discussed among neighbors, it received growing support. A campaign developed. Many had a part to play. What was interesting was the ‘opposition’; it appeared unexpectedly from among the ranks of government officials. They declared they had a duty to balance our interests with those in opposition. Before they could do this, they said, they wanted evidence to substantiate our claims that loons were disturbed by the wakes of motorboats and would be driven away.

 

It did not matter how hard we argued that anyone knowing something about loons’ would know that their nests, right at water level, were little more than rafts of moss and lakeshore debris. This made them vulnerable to destruction by wave action. Common sense, we argued, had to prevail, and some environmental principles had to be developed for all ‘small lakes’ before the loons here and elsewhere were gone. First, we offered, motorboats should simply not be allowed on lakes with less than (say) 10 miles of shoreline, or (say) 1000 acres of surface water. Second, all such lakes, indeed watersheds, needed mandated ‘green spaces’ (no logging) for at least 500 meters back from watercourses – the riverbanks or lakeshores.

Officialdom didn’t take kindly to being lectured about principles. They wanted to make judgments without having them questioned. They had little else of consequence to offer - other than a desire to get on with their work - principles notwithstanding. Such officials often make the mistake of assuming that people in dispute over environment issues will be satisfied with compromises, or by becoming subject to regulation, rather than by a ‘correct’ decision that will leave people divided.

 

So, we wonder just how any official, put in a position of having to discuss, promote, or negotiate alternatives, can ever really serve as an unbiased advocate for the environment. We have yet to meet people working for government, even those in ‘Environment’, who, despite evidence of pollution, are really free to declare: ‘motorboats, operating in small BC lakes, are instruments of environmental destruction and will, henceforward, be banned’.

 

Fortunately our group of property owners, brandishing a strong consensus, were successful with their own efforts in closing the lake to internal combustion outboard motors. Their lengthy letter writing and lobbying efforts paid off. Government, at the receiving end of this constant harangue, eventually changed its focus. An official somewhere summoned up the courage to declare the case for motorboats was less compelling than the case against them.

 

We became empowered! That achievement made many of us wonder what more we could do. Today we maintain a careful watch over events that could be harmful to our interests. Just as there should be no procrastination over obvious carelessness, such as a discovery of a cow’s carcass floating in the lake, or of dead animals abandoned in the trap line (incidents which we learned about in the late 70’s), we must communicate quickly with one another about matters that arise which may be cause for concern - like the recent proposal for an airstrip adjacent to our lake.

 

Privately some of us harbor lofty expectations. We wish for the return of blue herons after their disappearance. (We saw just one last summer – after many years of wondering if they would ever return!). We yearn for more visits from the rare pelicans, hoping that they might acquire the confidence to nest in our waters. We wish to experience again the diving ‘swoosh’ of the peregrine falcon as it preys on small ducks – not for the duck’s sake, but for the balance in nature this represents. And year after year, despite the terrible depredations in the ospreys’ winter habitat in Central America, we celebrate their return to nest in a favoured refuge nearby.

 

As I write, the incumbent provincial government is facing an election. It is hard not to be cynical about the sudden priority it has given to improving its own ‘green’ image. It is clear Greenpeace (and other agencies) have succeeded in embarrassing it - and the lumber industry – for their lack of action over what have been broadcast about as unacceptable logging practices.

 

Politicians have awakened to the fact (probably too late for re-election in year 2001) that they must win more votes. They declared a three-year moratorium on hunting grizzly bears, and agreed in principle with Greenpeace’s proposal for protecting a large part of the Central Coast from clear-cut logging. Within the latter decision, stands of 1,000-year-old coastal rain forest trees, and the rare white Kermode (‘Spirit’) bears that live among them, will be spared forever. About the moratorium, feelings run high among the supporters of hunting. Maybe this will cost votes.

 

Speaking of politicians, laws and bears, odds are stacked against recreational property owners’ interests when their environment is threatened - for laws have been enacted by governments in such a hodgepodge fashion. One would think and hope the ‘senior government’s’ interest, as expressed by the federal Canadian Environment Assessment Act, would have enough status to attract legal testing in Canada, and to provide real environmental guidelines. There is a similar statute in the United States – which receives constant testing. In a recent enactment case concerning powered boats (April 2000), the US National Parks Service brought into effect ‘new restrictions that ban the use of Jet Skis in 66 parks, including Olympic National Park’. Although a limited step, it was challenged, but, on appeal, found within the National Parks’ mandate.

 

We learn from the stated purposes of the Canadian Act (which includes ‘opportunity for public participation in the environmental assessment process’) that most ‘participation’ winds up at the discretion of provincial or local authority, and is hardly ever exercised.

 

In the example of a recent application by a business for an airstrip, at Alexis Lake, (to which many of us objected) it was necessary for the applicant to have the Federal Department of Transport notified about the particulars. Fed-Transport’s main interest in such matters lies in public safety. So any concerns about environmental damage were transferred to BC authorities to review. Ultimately, they were dismissed as minimal. The latter’s focus, in this case, was (or remains) on the economics of land use and development.

 

Mixed government jurisdictions have caused no end of problems. Closing Alexis Lake to motorboats took twenty years to accomplish. Strident arguments from the opposition at first concerned ‘peoples’ rights’ - like with tobacco products, outboard motors, they had never been deemed illegal and were for sale everywhere. The argument went: as there were no restrictions on the purchase of motors, customers ought to be free to use them, with no restrictions. It was an argument compelling enough to bring the proceedings to a halt, not once but several times.

 

Provincial and federal authorities were wary about having this argument tested. However, as precedents (from settlements in other lake-closing cases) were finally factored in, especially where lakes served as drinking water reservoirs, pollution based concerns at last received some official recognition as a valid reason for closing lakes to motors.

 

Now, to the mention of bears... Most of us at the lake have no desire to encounter bears during walk-abouts. The Johnsons, during the years they lived full-time at Alexis Lake, had many encounters, and even disposed of one or two troublesome bears. I don’t know if we should be thankful Alexis Lake bears are ‘just’ black bears. Their numbers are increasing and we see their sign everywhere. It is likely what attracts them is the smell of food, so as the human presence in the wilderness increases, it is doubly important to dispose of waste properly, and to clean our barbecues! And, large dogs are useful to have around for insurance!

 

They say grizzly bears don’t live with us anymore. In the late ‘70’s when logging began in earnest, an elderly rancher, Paxton, whose entire life was spent in the Alexis Creek region, declared that with the arrival of ‘big’ logging there would be no more grizzlies. He talked about the last one killed in the territory, near his home at Spain Lake, in the late 60’s. It was a monster bear which, following the hunt, received recognition as a trophy animal. Despite Paxton’ prophecy, 30 years or so later, in the fall of 2000, horseback riding tourists in the Nazko high country – not far from us – reported a pair of grizzlies gambolling about in a meadow. So, maybe, they will appear close by again. How this will be received remains to be seen!

  

THE END

4350 words

 

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

 

Today however we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid, grew up. She is visiting her parents as she often does on her Wednesdays off. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price* biscuit factory in Harlesden as a Line Manager, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home. They live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street, and is far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s Mayfair flat, but has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith. Usually even before she walks through the glossy black painted front door, Edith can smell the familiar scent of a mixture of Lifebuoy Soap, Borax and Robin’s Starch, which means her mother is washing the laundry of others wealthier than she in the terrace’s kitchen at the rear of the house. Yet with her father’s promotion, Edith’s mother is only laundering a few days a week now, yet even though today is not a day for laundering, there is work to be done for Ada’s next laundry day. So we find ourselves in the Watsford’s scullery at the back of the terrace behind the kitchen, which like most Victoria era homes, also serves as the wash house.

 

Like all the houses in the terrace, the Watsford’s scullery has an old square-sided ceramic sink in the corner, set on bricks, joined to the same pipe as the one directly behind the wall in the corner of the kitchen, however the small room is dominated by the large built-in washing cauldron made of bricks, set above its own wood fire furnace with a copper cauldron in its centre. The distemper on the walls of the scullery are tinted ever so slightly blue, a traditional colour for laundries, as it made whites look even whiter. Around it stand wicker baskets for laundry, a dolly-peg** and a very heavy black painted mangle*** with wooden rollers, whilst on its top a panoply of laundry items stand, including an enamelled water jug, bowls, irons, a washboard and various household laundry products. The room smells comfortingly clean: scents of soap and starch that have seeped into every fibre of the space.

 

“Hand me that bar of Hudson’s Soap**** will you, Edith love.” Ada says to her daughter as she takes an old enamelled bowl and places it with a heavy metallic clunk on the top of the old red brick copper*****. Reaching for a silver grater she says with a resigned groan, “Time to make a batch of soap flakes******.”

 

“Oh, let me do that, Mum.” Edith says kindly, grasping the smooth, rounded top of the grater, just before her mother does.

 

“Ahh…thank you love.” Ada says gratefully, sinking down onto a small, long and worn wooden stool surrounded by baskets and tubs of soiled linen.

 

“You just keep sorting old Widow Hounslow’s bloomers.” Edith says with a cheeky smirk as she pulls out a bar of Hudson’s yellow soap.

 

“Now don’t spoil your generosity by saying nasty things about poor Mrs. Hounslow.” Ada cautions her daughter with a wagging finger.

 

“Pshaw! Poor my foot.” Edith pulls a face at the mention of the Watsford’s landlady, and her former employer, the wealthy and odious old widow draped in black jet and mourning barathea******* whom she grew up hearing about regularly, and seeing on the rare occasions she would deign to stop by to collect their rent in person, rather than her rent collector.

 

“You know Mrs. Hounslow’s husband died a hero in the siege of Mafeking in the Boer War.”

 

“And neither you, nor she will ever let any of us forget it, Mum.” Edith mutters, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

 

“Now you know I won’t have a bad word said about her, Edith.” Ada gives her daughter a warning look. “Shame on you! She’s helped pay for many a meal in this house with her sixpences and shillings for her washing over the years.”

 

“Which she then takes back in exorbitant rent.”

 

“Exorbitant, is it now?” Ada scoffs. “Such fancy words, Miss Edith Watsford.”

 

“It means inflated or excessive, Mum, and you know it.” Edith counters. “She charges too much for this old place and she spends nary a penny on maintaining it. Look at this poor old thing.” She taps the crumbly red brick of the laundry copper dust from its limestone dressing coming off on her fingers in a light white powder. “I bet it hasn’t been touched by old Widow Hounslow since before I was born.”

 

“That’s because she doesn’t need it.” Ada says with a smile, looking affectionately at her laundry copper. “She was well made in the first place.”

 

“Well, whether it was well made or not, there are other things around here that old Widow Hounslow could spend some of your hard-earned money on.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like fixing up the plumbing, block the draughts around the windows.” Edith begins. “Maybe even install electricity.”

 

“Now I’m not having that put in this house!” Ada gasps. “You can’t trust it. What would I do with electricity anyway?”

 

“Well, you wouldn’t have to toast bread with a toasting fork over the grate. You could have a manual electric toaster********, or an electric ‘Smoothwell’ iron*********, like we have at Cavendish Mews, for a start.”

 

“As if I could afford either one of those contraptions!” Ada jeers with a sniff. “Not that I’d want one.”

 

“Well, you could at least have an electric light in the kitchen, so you and Dad could read in comfort.”

 

“Which we do quite successfully by oil lamp, just the same as we have been doing for many years now, thank you very much.”

 

“It’s not the same, Mum.” Edith takes the bar of soap and begins to run it up and down the grater, producing the first few shavings of soap as they fall into the bottom of the enamel bowl.

 

“It’s the devil’s work, that electricity!” Ada mutters, picking up a pillowcase from a basket and moving it to an old tub sitting at her feet. “You see the sparks come flying off the wires of the trams********** that run between Shepherd’s Bush and Hammersmith.”

 

“You ride it, nonetheless, Mum,” Edith replies with a smirk. She stops grating and gives her mother a knowing look. “I know you do, so it’s no good trying to pretend you don’t. The world is changing, Mum.”

 

“Those soap flakes aren’t going to magically make themselves, you know,” Ada nods at Edith’s still hands holding the bar of soap and the grater over the bowl. “Electricity or not.”

 

Edith sighs resignedly as she resumes making soap flakes. “So Mum, I saw Frank the other day,”

 

“Of course you did, Edith love.” Ada laughs good naturedly as she observes her daughter’s cheeks flush with pleasure at the mention of her beau. “And how is our young Frank?”

 

“He’s quite well, Mum. He was setting up Mr. Willison’s shop window,” Edith remarks excitedly.

 

“Oh, was he now? That must have made Frank very proud, getting to do something else for Mr. Willison, and being trusted with an important job like the front window.” Ada remarks cheerfully as she looks around for her brush, having spied some dried mud on the hem of one of Mrs. Hounslow’s petticoats.

 

“Oh yes, Mum.” Edith runs the bar of soap up and down the grater, sending a flurry of dusty flakes cascading down into the bowl as she speaks. “Mr. and Mrs. Willison had gone off to see their daughter receive an award of some kind at her school, so they let Frank do the window in their absence. Visual merchandising, he calls it.”

 

“Does he now?” Ada scrubs away the dried mud, revealing a shadow of brown stain beneath it on the linen.

 

“Oh it looked ever so splendid, Mum! Packets of tea, tins of golden syrup and black treacle, jars of jam and marmalade and colourful bunting.”

 

“Sounds like our Mr. Lovegrove down the High Street could learn a thing or two from Frank.” Ada remarks, more than a little tongue in cheek, smiling with delight at how proud her daughter is of her beau’s accomplishments as she brushes a loose strand of mousy brown hair streaked with silver that has escaped her bun, behind her ear.

 

“Well, I reckon he could, and all, Mum. There was even a pyramid of biscuit tins. Of course, McVities and Price was on the top.”

 

“So I should think, Edith love.” Ada remarks seriously. “There are no finer biscuits all of England than the ones your Dad keeps his eyes on. Fit for the King they are!” She breaks her seriousness and laughs jovially. “Well, it seems your young Frank is coming up in the world of business. I’m happy for him, Edith love.”

 

“I’m happy for him too, Mum. Guess what the window display was of, Mum?”

 

Ada considers her daughter’s question, albeit not seriously, for a few moments as she rummages through a tub of sheets, silently counting the number and keeping it in her head to work out what she will charge for all the laundry later. “I’m sure I couldn’t begin to hazard a guess, Edith love.”

 

“He was doing a window to advertise the British Empire Exhibition*********** at Wembley************.”

 

“Oh yes! Your Dad and I were talking about that, just the other day.”

 

“Really Mum?” Edith stops grating soap flakes for a moment.

 

“Yes, your Dad was reading me an article about it from the newspaper, by lamplight I might add,” Ada adds in pointedly at the end. “As I was doing my darning, also by lamplight.”

 

“Yes, yes, Mum. I take your point.” Edith rolls her eyes again.

 

“Well, it all sounds rather splendid, I must say, Edith love.”

 

“I think it will be quite a spectacle,” Edith muses. “I’ve read in Miss Lettice’s newspapers that there will be fifty-six displays and pavilions from around the Empire! Imagine that!”

 

“I hope she doesn’t catch you reading those newspapers of hers, Edith love.” Ada cautions her daughter.

 

“Oh, Miss Lettice doesn’t mind.” Edith replies breezily. “In fact, she encourages me to read them after she’s finished. She says that we women should all be aware of what is going on in the world, especially working women like me.”

 

“Does she indeed? It seems to me that your Miss Chetwynd has a lot of interesting ideas about what young women like you, should or shouldn’t be doing.”

 

“Oh she does, Mum! She’s ever so modern and forward thinking.” Edith drops the grater with a clatter into the enamel bowl and holds her arms out expansively, the half grated bar of yellow soap still in her right fist. “She says that if women want to go up in the world, and be taken seriously, then we need to keep abreast of what’s happening in the world, to prove that we aren’t stupid. Miss Lettice even says it won’t be too long before women like us will have the vote.*************”

 

“Well, I’m not at all sure that I agree with all Miss Chetwynd’s ideas, and I can’t say as I particularly like your head being turned by her talk about women’s suffrage************** and the like.” Ada sighs heavily. “But then again, she is one of those young flappers your Dad and I read about in the papers, and they don’t have any respect for the likes of your father’s or my opinion.”

 

“Oh, Miss Lettice isn’t like that at all, Mum. If she were sitting here, I’m sure she’d be ever so polite and listen to what you have to say.”

 

“Chance would be a fine thing!” Ada laughs, sitting back on her stool. “A fine lady like Miss Chetwynd in my scullery!” After she finishes chortling, she goes on, “Anyway, listening is one thing, Edith love. Doing is quite another. Besides, I’m sure that between the encouragement of your Miss Chetwynd and young Frank, you’ll do just as you like, with never a thought for what I consider proper for a young lady in your position.”

 

“Mum, as I said before, the world is changing.”

 

“I arrest my case. Well, the world may be changing in some respects, but it isn’t changing here in my laundry this very minute.”

 

“Perhaps not, Mum.” Edith concedes. “But Dad believes in women’s suffrage.”

 

“Your Dad,” Ada scoffs. “Believes in women’s suffrage so long as it doesn’t affect him getting his tea, nice and hot, when he comes home for it, Edith love.”

 

“Well, thinking of the world,” Edith says brightly in an effort to steer the conversation away from things she and her mother don’t necessarily agree on. “There will be palaces for industry, and art.”

 

“Where, Edith love?”

 

“At the British Empire Exhibition, Mum! Each colony will have its own pavilion to reflect its local culture and architecture.”

 

“Oh, yes,” Ada chuckles. “It will probably be quite a thing, getting to see all the countries of the world without even having to leave London.”

 

“Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you, Mum, well you and Dad really.”

 

“What’s that, Edith love?”

 

“Well, Frank and I were talking, and we want to go and see the British Empire Exhibition,” Edith says tentatively. “And we thought, well, we were hoping, that you might like to come with us.”

 

“Oh what a lovely though, Edith love! Yes, I’m sure your Dad would love to go, and I know I would. Thank you!”

 

“Oh hoorah!” Edith drops the bar of soap on the edge of the copper and claps her soapy hands. “That will be ripping! We can all go! Frank is going to ask Granny McTavish.”

 

“Well, that will be nice, Edith love. I’m sure she’ll enjoy it, and your Dad and I would love to see her again.”

 

“We’ll make a day of it!” Edith says excitedly.

 

“How long is the British Empire Exhibition on for? I can’t remember.”

 

“It started last month, and it’s on until October.” Edith answers as she picks up the soap and grater again. “Why do you ask, Mum?”

 

“Well, I thought that maybe, if you and Frank were willing to wait, we’ll go when Bert gets his shore leave in June.”

 

“Oh.” Ediths face falls. “Oh, I’m sure Frank won’t mind.” She goes on a little less enthusiastically. “It will be lovely and summery then anyway: the best weather to enjoy all the wonders of the British Empire.”

 

“What’s the matter, Edith love?” Ada asks as she watches her daughter’s face cloud over.

 

“Do you think Bert would mind paying for his own ticket?”

 

“What a peculiar question to ask, Edith love.” Ada shakes her head. “I’m sure he won’t. What brought that out?”

 

“Well, its just that Frank and I thought we could pay for Granny McTavish, you and Dad, but I don’t know if we could stretch to paying for Bert too.”

 

“It’s good of you to buy a ticket for an old woman like Mrs. McTavish, but you mustn’t pay for us, Edith love! You Dad and I can buy our own tickets.”

 

“Oh, but Frank and I wanted to treat you.”

 

“You treat us to more than enough as it is, Edith love! Just look at that wonderful turkey you bought us for Christmas. No, you let us pay for ourselves, and save your money. You should be saving every penny of your wages that you can for when you and Frank have your own home.”

 

“Oh Mum! You’re as bad as Hilda!” Edith flaps her hand dismissively at her mother, swatting the idea of marriage away. “She keeps saying Frank will propose to me any day now.”

 

“And I shouldn’t wonder if he won’t, Edith love.” Ada replies sagely. “He obviously loves you. It’s only natural.”

 

“Well yes, but he’s not proposing yet.”

 

“But he will, Edith love, and when he does, it will be good to have some money behind you. Your Dad and I can help pay for your wedding breakfast***************, and I can help you sew your wedding dress and that of your bridesmaids, but you’ll need money to set up house together.”

 

“But Mum…”

 

“Don’t ‘but Mum’, me, my girl!” Ada wags a finger admonishingly at her daughter. “You want to talk about women’s rights? Well, it’s well within my right to say that your Dad and I will pay for our own tickets. You keep telling me that I don’t need to be doing as much laundry as I do, since your Dad got his promotion to line manager at McVities.”

 

“Well you don’t, Mum.”

 

“But that pin money**************** I make from it helps with the housekeeping, and enables me to pay for the occasional treat, like a trip to the British Empire Exhibition at Wembley.” Ada folds her arms akimbo and the steeliness in her jaw tells Edith that this is not a point she can win her mother over on. So that’s settled then. Your Dad and I will come, and Bert too, but we’ll pay our own way, thank you very much.”

 

“Oh, alright Mum.” Edith acquiesces.

 

“Good girl.” Ada purrs. “Are you still keeping your wages aside?”

 

“Yes Mum. I keep them in that tin you gave me for it*****************, when I went to work for old Widow Hounslow.”

 

“Good girl. You just keep putting any spare aside, and it will add up nicely, and be ready for the day that you do get married and need to set up house. Things may be changing in this world, but setting up home isn’t getting any cheaper.” Ada nods shrewdly. “You mark my words.”

 

*McVitie's (Originally McVitie and Price) is a British snack food brand owned by United Biscuits. The name derives from the original Scottish biscuit maker, McVitie and Price, Ltd., established in 1830 on Rose Street in Edinburgh, Scotland. The company moved to various sites in the city before completing the St. Andrews Biscuit Works factory on Robertson Avenue in the Gorgie district in 1888. The company also established one in Glasgow and two large manufacturing plants south of the border, in Heaton Chapel, Stockport, and Harlesden, London (where Edith’s father works). McVitie and Price's first major biscuit was the McVitie's Digestive, created in 1892 by a new young employee at the company named Alexander Grant, who later became the managing director of the company. The biscuit was given its name because it was thought that its high baking soda content served as an aid to food digestion. The McVitie's Chocolate Homewheat Digestive was created in 1925. Although not their core operation, McVitie's were commissioned in 1893 to create a wedding cake for the royal wedding between the Duke of York and Princess Mary, who subsequently became King George V and Queen Mary. This cake was over two metres high and cost one hundred and forty guineas. It was viewed by 14,000 and was a wonderful publicity for the company. They received many commissions for royal wedding cakes and christening cakes, including the wedding cake for Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Phillip and Prince William and Catherine Middleton. Under United Biscuits McVitie's holds a Royal Warrant from Queen Elizabeth II.

 

**A dolly-peg, also known as a dolly-legs, peggy, or maiden, in different parts of Britain, was a contraption used in the days before washing machines to cloth in a wash-tub, dolly-tub, possing-tub or laundry copper. Appearing like a milking stool on a T-bar broomstick handle, it was sunk into the tub of clothes and boiling water and then used to move the water, laundry and soap flakes around in the tub to wash the clothes.

 

***A mangle (British) or wringer (American) is a mechanical laundry aid consisting of two rollers in a sturdy frame, connected by cogs and (in its home version) powered by a hand crank or later by electricity. While the appliance was originally used to squeeze water from wet laundry, today mangles are used to press or flatten sheets, tablecloths, kitchen towels, or clothing and other laundry.

 

****Robert Spear Hudson (1812 – 1884) was an English businessman who popularised dry soap powder. His company was very successful thanks to both an increasing demand for soap and his unprecedented levels of advertising. In 1837 he opened a shop in High Street, West Bromwich. He started making soap powder in the back of this shop by grinding the coarse bar soap of the day with a mortar and pestle. Before that people had had to make soap flakes themselves. This product became the first satisfactory and commercially successful soap powder. Despite his title of "Manufacturer of Dry Soap" he never actually manufactured soap but bought the raw soap from William Gossage of Widnes. The product was popular with his customers and the business expanded rapidly. In the 1850s he employed ten female workers in his West Bromwich factory. His business was further helped by the removal of tax on soap in 1853. In time the factory was too small and too far from the source of his soap so in 1875 he moved his main works to Bank Hall, Liverpool, and his head office to Bootle, while continuing production at West Bromwich. Eventually the business in Merseyside employed about 1,000 people and Hudson was able to further develop his flourishing export trade to Australia and New Zealand. The business flourished both because of the rapidly increasing demand for domestic soap products and because of Hudson's unprecedented levels of advertising. He arranged for striking posters to be produced by professional artists. The slogan "A little of Hudson's goes a long way" appeared on the coach that ran between Liverpool and York. Horse, steam and electric tramcars bore an advertisement saying "For Washing Clothes. Hudson's soap. For Washing Up". Hudson was joined in the business by his son Robert William who succeeded to the business on his father's death. In 1908 he sold the business to Lever Brothers who ran it as a subsidiary enterprise during which time the soap was manufactured at Crosfield's of Warrington. During this time trade names such as Rinso and Omo were introduced. The Hudson name was retained until 1935 when, during a period of rationalisation, the West Bromwich and Bank Hall works were closed.

 

*****A wash copper, copper boiler or simply copper is a wash house boiler, generally made of galvanised iron, though the best sorts are made of copper. In the inter-war years, they came in two types. The first is built into a brickwork furnace and was found in older houses. The second was the free-standing or portable type, it had an enamelled metal exterior that supported the inner can or copper. The bottom part was adapted to hold a gas burner, a high pressure oil or an ordinary wood or coal fire. Superior models could have a drawing-off tap, and a steam-escape pipe that lead into the flue. It was used for domestic laundry. Linen and cotton were placed in the copper and were boiled to whiten them. Clothes were agitated within the copper with a washing dolly, a vertical stick with either a metal cone or short wooden legs on it. After washing, the laundry was lifted out of the boiling water using the washing dolly or a similar device, and placed on a strainer resting on a laundry tub or similar container to capture the wash water and begin the drying and cooling process. The laundry was then dried with a mangle and then line-dried. Coppers could also be used in cooking, used to boil puddings such as a traditional Christmas pudding.

 

*****In the days before commercial washing machines and soap powder, soap flakes were often made by grating bars of washing soap into fine flakes. Soap flakes were used for a variety of purposes including bathing, laundering, and washing, including hair washing. Pure soap flakes were used alone or sometimes combined with other natural cleaning products such as baking soda, borax or washing soda to make a variety of more gregarious and specific cleaners. Soap flakes whilst labour intensive to make were an economical cleaning agent, and are still used today.

 

*******Barathea is a fine woollen cloth, sometimes mixed with silk or cotton, used chiefly for coats and suits. It was very popular during the Victorian era, and was often used to make widows weeds because it was good quality and would survive regular wear during the obligatory year of deep mourning and period of half mourning thereafter.

 

********With the arrival of wood and coal stoves in the 1880’s, a new toasting method was needed. This led to a tin and wire pyramid-shaped device which was the predecessor to what we know as the modern toaster. The bread was placed inside, and the device was heated on the stove. Fire was the source of heat for toasting bread until 1905 when the engineer Albert Marsh created a nickel and chromium composite, called Nichrome. Marsh’s invention was easily shaped into wires or strips and was low in electrical conductivity. Within months, other inventors were using Nichrome to produce electric toasters. The first successful version was brought out by Frank Shailor of General Electric in America in 1909. The D-12 model consisted of a cage-like device with a single heating element. It could only toast one side of the bread at once; the bread had to be flipped by hand to toast both sides. Better models soon followed, some with sliding drawers, others with mechanical ways to turn the bread, but the real innovation was the automatic pop-up toaster, conceived in 1919 by the American mechanic Charles Strite. The incorporated timer shut off the heating element and released a pop-up spring when the slice of toast was done. In 1926, the Waters-Genter Company used a redesigned version of the Strite’s toaster; it was called the “Toastmaster”. With a triple-loop logo inspired by its heating elements, it became part of the modern age of kitchen appliances. By the end of 1926 Charles Strite’s Toastmaster was available around the world, and became a standard in most upper-class and middle-class homes in Britain by the 1930s.

 

*********Originally sold in London’s Harrods department store in the early 1920s, the English Electric Premier System “Smoothwell” iron with a rubber, non-conducting handle, was supplied with its own trivet. Made in Birmingham, the ''Smoothwell Premier System'' appliance was patented as a revolutionary invention, powered by electricity. Many middle-class houses built for electricity after the war had a socket installed in the ceiling next to the light, allowing an electric iron such as the “Smoothwell” to be plugged in, allowing the modern Jazz Age housewife to iron over her kitchen table whether by day or night.

 

**********London United Tramways (LUT) began London's first electric tram service in July 1901. They electrified lines between Shepherd's Bush, Hammersmith, Acton and Kew Bridge. By 1906, ten municipal systems had been set up and by 1914 London operated the largest tram network in Europe. At their peak, over 3,000 trams carried a billion passengers a year over 366 miles of track. After the First World War tramways began to decline as the motor bus competed for passengers. By the late 1920s, the new buses offered higher standards of comfort, while the pre-war trams were shabby and in need of modernisation.

 

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

 

************A purpose-built "great national sports ground", called the Empire Stadium, was built for the Exhibition at Wembley. This became Wembley Stadium. Wembley Urban District Council was opposed to the idea, as was The Times, which considered Wembley too far from Central London. The first turf for this stadium was cut, on the site of the old tower, on the 10th of January 1922. 250,000 tons of earth were then removed, and the new structure constructed within ten months, opening well before the rest of the Exhibition was ready. Designed by John William Simpson and Maxwell Ayrton, and built by Sir Robert McAlpine, it could hold 125,000 people, 30,000 of them seated. The building was an unusual mix of Roman imperial and Mughal architecture. Although it incorporated a football pitch, it was not solely intended as a football stadium. Its quarter mile running track, incorporating a 220 yard straight track (the longest in the country) were seen as being at least equally important. The only standard gauge locomotive involved in the construction of the Stadium has survived, and still runs on Sir William McAlpine's private Fawley Hill railway near Henley.

 

*************In 1924 when this story is set, not every woman in Britain had the right to vote. In 1918 the Representation of the People Act was passed which allowed women over the age of thirty who met a property qualification to vote. Although eight and a half million women met this criteria, it was only about two-thirds of the total population of women in Britain. It was not until the Equal Franchise Act of 1928 that women over twenty-one were able to vote and women finally achieved the same voting rights as men. This act increased the number of women eligible to vote to fifteen million.

 

**************Suffrage refers to a person's right to vote in a political election. Voting allows members of society to take part in deciding government policies that affect them. Women's suffrage refers to the right of women to vote in an election.

 

***************A wedding breakfast is a feast given to the newlyweds and guests after the wedding, making it equivalent to a wedding reception that serves a meal. The phrase is still used in British English, as opposed to the description of reception, which is American in derivation. Before the beginning of the Twentieth Century they were traditionally held in the morning, but this fashion began to change after the Great War when they became a luncheon. Regardless of when it was, a wedding breakfast in no way looked like a typical breakfast, with fine savoury food and sweet cakes being served. Wedding breakfasts were at their most lavish in the Edwardian era through to the Second World War.

 

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

 

*****************Prior to the Second World War, working-class people didn’t use banks, which were the privilege of the upper and middle-classes. For a low paid domestic like Edith, what little she saved she would most likely keep in a tin or jar, secreted away somewhere to avoid anyone stealing what she had managed to keep aside.

 

This cheerful laundry scene is not all you may suppose it to be, for the fact is that all the items are from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in thus tableau include:

 

The red brick copper in the centre of the image is a very cleverly made 1:12 artisan miniature from an unnamed artist. Believe it of not, it is made of balsa wood and then roughened and painted to look like bricks. I acquitted it from Doreen Jeffries’ Miniature World in the United Kingdom.

 

The great wrought mangle with its real wooden rollers is made of white metal by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

The dolly-peg is an antique Victorian dollhouse miniature and it’s tub is sitting behind it. I am just lucky that something from around 1860 just happens to be the correct scale to fit with my 1:12 artisan miniatures.

 

There is a panoply of items used in pre-war laundry preparation on the white painted surface of the copper. There are two enamel rather worn and beaten looking bowls and an enamel jug in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green. Aged on purpose, these artisan pieces I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. The grater and the two small irons also come from there. The boxes of Borax, Hudson’s Soap and Robin’s Starch and the bottle of bleach in the green glass were made with great attention to detail on the labels by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

Before the invention of aerosol spray starch, the product of choice in many homes of all classes was Robin starch. Robin Starch was a stiff white powder like cornflour to which water had to be added. When you made up the solution, it was gloopy, sticky with powdery lumps, just like wallpaper paste or grout. The garment was immersed evenly in that mixture and then it had to be smoothed out. All the stubborn starchy lumps had to be dissolved until they were eliminated – a metal spoon was good for bashing at the lumps to break them down. Robins Starch was produced by Reckitt and Sons who were a leading British manufacturer of household products, notably starch, black lead, laundry blue, and household polish.

 

On the little set if drawers on the wall, which came from Marie and Mick’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom, stands a box of Jumbo Blue Bag and some Imp Soap, also made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

Reckitt and Sons who were a leading British manufacturer of household products, notably starch, black lead, laundry blue, and household polish also produced Jumbo Blue, which was a whitener added to a wash to help delay the yellowing effect of older cotton. Rekitt and Sons were based in Kingston upon Hull. Isaac Reckitt began business in Hull in 1840, and his business became a private company Isaac Reckitt and Sons in 1879, and a public company in 1888. The company expanded through the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries. It merged with a major competitor in the starch market J. and J. Colman in 1938 to form Reckitt and Colman.

 

Imp Washer Soap was manufactured by T. H. Harris and Sons Limited, a soap manufacturers, tallow melters and bone boiler. Introduced after the Great War, Imp Washer Soap was a cheaper alternative to the more popular brands like Sunlight, Hudsons and Lifebuoy soaps. Imp Washer Soap was advertised as a free lathering and economical cleaner. T. H. Harris and Sons Limited also sold Mazo soap energiser which purported to improve the quality of cleaning power of existing soaps.

 

The rusted metal washing tub that is full of white linens is an artisan miniature and comes from Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.

 

The stack of wood logs behind the mangle, used to feed the copper boiler, came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop, as does the basket hanging from the wall, the washboard and the airing rack.

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■ Itinerant Dinosaur Exhibition which took place in September 2015 in Torrejon de Ardoz (Madrid, Spain). Besides the many life-size dinosaur replicas (some of them animatronic, even offered as rides for young children) it also featured a prehistoric tour showing the way of life of Neanderthals, an assorted fossil collection and a hosted multimedia show. All in all, very worthwhile as an educational event and extremely enjoyable to children and parents alike.

 

Pic 20 of 30: Neanderthal people in their habitat after hunting deer for food.

 

Taken handheld with my Panasonic Lumix TZ7 (ZS3) in very scarce and rapidly changing available light, which made using the small built-in flash mandatory as well as selecting ISO 200/400 in all shots for increased flash range to cater for the very large subjects.

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■ Exhibición itinerante de dinosaurios que tuvo lugar en Septiembre de 2015 en Torrejón de Ardoz (Madrid). Además de las muchas réplicas a tamaño real de dinosaurios de todo tipo (algunos de ellos animatrónicos, que los niños podían montar) también incluía un recorrido por la prehistoria mostrando el modo de vida de los Neandertales, una colección de fósiles variados y un espectáculo multimedia conducido por un animador. En conclusión, una exhibición muy válida como evento educativo y un gran disfrute para padres e hijos.

 

Foto 20 de 30: Hombres de Neandertal en su habitat después de cazar ciervos para comer.

 

Tomada a pulso con mi Panasonic Lumix TZ7 (ZS3) en luz ambiente muy escasa y rápidamente variable, que hizo obligatorio el uso del pequeño flash incorporado y la elección de ISO 200/400 en todas las fotos para aumentar el alcance del flash en vista del gran tamaño de los sujetos.

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

 

Today however we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid’s, parents live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden as a Line Manager, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home. Whilst far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s Mayfair flat, the Harlesden terrace has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith and her brother, Bert.

 

Whilst Edith made a wonderful impression when she met Mrs. McTavish, her young beau Frank Leadbetter’s grandmother, less can be said for Frank who whilst pleasing George, rubbed Ada the wrong way at the Sunday roast lunch Edith organised with her parents to meet Frank. Ever since then, Frank has been filled with remorse for speaking his mind a little more freely than he ought to have in front of Edith’s mother. Finally, Edith hit upon a possible solution to their problem, which is to introduce Mrs. McTavish to George and Ada. Being a kind old lady who makes lace, Edith and Frank both hope that Mrs. McTavish will be able to impress upon Ada what a nice young man Frank is, in spite of his more forward-thinking ideas, which jar with Ada’s ways of thinking, and assure her how happy he makes Edith. After careful planning, today is the day that George and Ada will meet Mrs. McTavish, over a Sunday lunch served in the Watsford’s kitchen.

 

The kitchen has always been the heart of Edith’s family home, and today it has an especially comfortable and welcoming feeling about it, just as Edith had hoped for. Ada has once again pulled out one of her best tablecloths which now adorns the round kitchen table, hiding its worn surface and the best blue and white china and gilded dinner service is being used today. At Edith’s request, because Mrs. McTavish’s teeth are too brittle to manage a roast chicken for lunch, Ada has cooked a rich and flavoursome beef stew to which she has added some of her large suet dumplings: a suitably delicious meal that is soft enough for the old Scottish lady to consume even with her weak teeth. Now the main course is over, and everyone has had their fill.

 

“Well, I hope you have all had sufficient to eat.” Ada announces, pushing her Windsor chair back across the flagstones and standing up from at her white linen draped kitchen table.

 

“Och!” exclaims Mrs. McTavish. “I’ve had plenty, thank you Mrs. Watsford.” She rubs her belly contentedly. “Thank you for cooking something I could manage with my old teeth.”

 

“It’s my pleasure, Mrs. McTavish,” Ada says with a warm smile. “My family enjoy my hearty beef stews, so it was no hardship to serve it.”

 

“Well your suet dumplings are lovely and soft, Mrs. Watsford.” the Scotswoman croons in her rolling brogue. “If you’d be willing to share the recipe, I’d like to try and make them for myself at home.”

 

“Yes, of course, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada enthuses, pleased to be able to share one of her many wonderful recipes, as she has done over the years with her daughter as she has grown up.

 

“That was a fine Sunday tea, Ada.” acknowledges her husband as he tops up his and Frank’s glasses with stout from the glazed brown pottery jug on the table.

 

“Why thank you, love.” Ada replies, blushing at the compliment as she runs her clammy hands down the front of her dress, a small outward display of nervousness known only to her family.

 

“Possibly one of your best yet, love.” George adds in an assuring fashion, noticing his wife’s action and recognising its symbolism.

 

“Yes, thank you Mrs. Watsford,” agrees Frank politely. “It was a delicious lunch, and more than enough for me. Thanks ever so!”

 

“Oh I hope you’ll have room for some of my cherry pie, Frank,” Ada says. “Edith told me you liked it so much the first time you had it here, that I made it for you again.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure I can squeeze in a slice, Mrs. Watsford.” Frank assures her.

 

“Thank you Mum.” smiles Edith up at her mother.

 

Edith is so grateful to her mother for all her efforts for the day. Not only was Ada easily convinced of the idea of meeting Frank’s grandmother, Mrs. McTavish, but that she readily agreed to hosting a Sunday lunch for her and produced a fine repast. Edith had helped her mother polish the silver cutlery on her Wednesday off, so it was sparkling as it sat alongside Ada’s best plates and glasses. To top it all off, Frank has bought a bunch of beautifully bright flowers on route from collecting his grandmother from her home in Upton Park to the Watsford’s home in Harlesden. Now they stood in the middle of the table in a glass bottle that serves as a good vase, a perfect centrepiece for Ada’s Sunday best table setting.

 

“Well!” Ada remarks in reply to her company’s satisfied commentary, picking up the now warm enough to touch deep pottery dish containing what little remains of her stew. “I think we might let tea settle down first and then we’ll have some pudding. What do you all say?”

 

Everyone readily agrees.

 

“Alright gentleman,” Ada addresses her husband and Frank, seated next to one another. “You have enough time for a smoke then, before I serve cherry pie. I’ll just pop it in the oven to warm.”

 

“Thanks awfully, Mrs. Watsford, but I don’t smoke.” Frank quickly explains.

 

“Ahh, but I do, Frank my lad.” pipes up George. He stands up and walks behind his wife and reaches up to the high shelf running along the top of the kitchen range and fetches down a small tin of tobacco and a pipe. “Come on, let’s you and I step out into the courtyard for a chat, man-to-man.”

 

“Dad!” Edith exclaims, looking aghast at her father. “Don’t!”

 

“Don’t worry Edith love, I don’t need to ask young Frank here’s intentions.” George chortles, his eyes glittering mischievously beneath his bushy eyebrows. “It’s quite clear he’s mad about you.”

 

“Dad!” Edith gasps again as both she and Frank blush deeply.

 

“That he is,” Mrs. McTavish agrees, reaching across to her grandson and pinching his left cheek as he sinks his head down in embarrassment. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face, my bonny bairn: no mistake.” She smiles indulgently. “Get along with you now Francis!”

 

“Oh Gran!” murmurs Frank self-consciously. “How many timed must I say, I’m Frank now, not Francis.”

 

“Och! Nonsense!” the old Scottish woman says sharply, slapping her grandson’s forearm lightly. “You’ll always be Francis to me, my little bairn!”

 

“Come on Frank my lad,” George encourages the younger man, patting him gently on the back in a friendly way. He picks up his glass of stout. “Let’s leave our womenfolk to chat, and they call you what they like and we’ll be none the wiser for it.”

 

As George, followed by a somewhat reluctant Frank casting doleful looks at Edith, walk out the back door into the rear garden, Ada says, “Edith love, would you mind clearing the table, whilst I set the table for pudding.”

 

“Yes of course, Mum!” Edith replies, leaping into action by pushing back her ladderback chair.

 

“I’m pleased to see you make your husband go outside to smoke, Mrs. Watsford.” the old Scottish woman remarks with a satisfied smile. “I don’t approve of men smoking indoors.” she adds crisply.

 

“No, something told me that I didn’t think you would, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada replies with a bemused smile, not admitting that George usually smokes his pipe in the kitchen after every meal. She and her husband had agreed the night before as they both sat by the kitchen range warming their feet, Ada darning one of George’s socks and George puffing on his pipe pleasantly, that perhaps to give the very best first impression, George should smoke outside in the back garden whilst Mrs. McTavish was visiting.

 

“ ’Nyree’, my husband used to say to me. ‘Nyree, why don’t you let me smoke indoors like other wives let their husbands do?’ I’d always say that Mither* never let Faither** smoke his pipe in the house, so why should I let him?” She nods emphatically.

 

“Nyree,” Ada remarks, turning around from the oven where she has just put her cherry pie, stacked with ripe, juicy berries to warm. “That’s a pretty Scottish name.”

 

“Och,” chuckles Mrs. McTavish. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Watsford, but it’s quite literally as far removed from Scottish as you can get.”

 

“Where does it come from then, Mrs. McTavish?” Ada puts her hands on her hips. “It sounds so lovely.”

 

“Well, my family were fishing people going back many generations, and Faither was a seaman, and he sailed to places far further than the Hebrides*** that took him from home for months at a time when I was a wee bairn. Just before I was born, he came back from what was then the newly formed Colony of New Zealand****. He met some of the local islanders who were struck by his blonde hair. Apparently, they were all dark skinned and had dark hair, so they found him rather fascinating to look at.” She chuckles. “The story he told me years later was that they called him ‘Ngaire’, which he was told by some of his shipmates, who knew more about the natives of the colony, on the return voyage that it meant ‘flaxen’. Some of them told him that they named their own blonde daughters Nyree after the name ‘Ngaire’. So, when I was born, I had blonde hair, if you can believe that now.” She gently pats her carefully set white hair that sweeps out from underneath her old fashioned lace embroidered cap in the style of her youth. “So Faither told Mither that I should be called Nyree. So, Nyree I was.”

 

“What a lovely story, Mrs. McTavish.” Edith remarks, gathering the lunch plates together.

 

“Thank you, Edith dearie. Now, what can I do to help, besides telling old stories?” asks Mrs. McTavish with a groan as she leans her wrists on the edge of the table and starts to push herself somewhat awkwardly out of her chair.

 

“You don’t have to do anything, Mrs. McTavish,” Ada assures her, encouraging the older Scottish woman to resume her seat with a settling gesture. “You are our guest. Edith and I are very used to working together around this old kitchen of ours, aren’t we love?”

 

“Yes Mum.” Edith agrees, gathering up the dinner plates into a stack, scraping any remnants of stew and dumplings onto the top plate using the cutlery as she gathers it.

 

“You’re a good lass, dearie, helping your mam like that.” Mrs. McTavish opines as she settles back comfortably into the well-worn chair usually sat in by George and Ada’s son, Bert.

 

“Oh not really, Mrs. McTavish.” Edith replies dismissively. “Any daughter would help her mum.”

 

“Och, not just any lass, bairn. There are plenty I know of, up round my way, especially those who are domestics like you, who won’t lift a finger unless they have to on their days off. Slovenly creatures!”

 

“Well, I agree with you, Mrs. McTavish. I think that’s very lazy of them, not to mention thoughtless. We all ought to do our bit. Mum made a lovely lunch for us, so it’s only right that I should help tidy up. I’ll help wash the dishes properly later, Mum,” Edith addresses her mother. “I’ll just rinse them and stack them by sink for now.”

 

“Thanks Edith love.” Ada replies gratefully. As she puts out some of her best blue and white floral china cups she addresses Mrs. McTavish. “Yes, Edith’s a good girl, even if she does use fancy words now.” She glances at her daughter. “Lunch rather than tea.” She shakes her head but smiles lovingly. “What next I ask you?” she snorts derisively.

 

“Mum!” Edith utters with an exasperated sigh but is then silenced by her mother’s raised careworn hand.

 

“And her dad and I are very proud of her, Mrs. McTavish.”

 

“Now, thinking of Edith and being proud of your bairns,” Mrs. McTavish starts. “When Edith and Francis came to visit me at Upton Park the other week to suggest this lovely gathering of our two clans, such as they are,” She clears her throat with a growl and speaks a little louder and more strongly. “They told me, Mrs. Watsford, that you and your husband were a bit concerned about some of Francis’ more,” She pauses whilst she tries to think of the right word to use. “Radical, ideas.”

 

“Mrs. McTavish!” Edith exclaims, spinning around from the trough where she is rinsing the dishes, her eyes wide with fear as to what the old Scottish woman is about to say.

 

“Now, now, my lass!” The old Scottish woman holds up her gnarled hands with their elongated fingers in defence before reaching about herself and adjusting the beautiful lace shawl draped over her shoulders that she made herself when she was younger. “I won’t have any secrets between your mam and me if we’re to be friends, which I do hope we will be.” She turns in her seat and addresses Ada as the younger woman puts out the glazed teapot in the shape of a cottage with a thatched roof with the chimney as the lid that Edith bought for her from the Caledonian Markets*****. “When your Edith and my Francis came to visit me at home, and broached the subject of me coming here for tea, they suggested that I might be a calming voice that would soothe your disquiet about my Francis and his more unusual ideas.”

 

“Did they indeed?” Ada asks with pursed lips and a cocked eyebrow, looking at her daughter’s back as she stands at the trough, dutifully rinsing dishes with such diligence that she doesn’t have to turn around and face her mother.

 

“Now, don’t be cross with them, Mrs. Watsford.” Mrs. McTavish reaches out her left hand and grasps Ada’s right in it, starting the younger woman as much by the intimate gesture she wasn’t expecting as by how cold the older woman’s hand is. “You mustn’t blame them.” She turns and looks with affection at Edith’s back. “They are young, and in love after all. When your bràmair***** is perceived less than favourably by the other’s mam or da, you can hardly blame them for wanting to smooth the waves of concern, can you?”

 

“Well, I don’t know if I approve of them telling you what my feelings are about your grandson behind my back.” Ada folds her arms akimbo.

 

“Ahh, now Mrs. Watsford,” Mrs. McTavish says soothingly. “You were young and in love once too. Don’t deny it!” She wags her finger at Ada. “I believe you met Mr. Watsford at a parish picnic.”

 

“Yes, we both worship at All Souls****** and met at a picnic in Roundwood Park*******.” Ada smiles fondly at the memory of her in her flouncy Sunday best dress and George in a smart suit and derby sitting on the lush green lawns of the park.

 

“And no doubt if your mam or da was set against Mr. Watsford, you would have done anything to convince them otherwise.” Mrs. McTavish continues.

 

“Well, I didn’t have to. George was, and still is, a model of a husband.” Ada counters quickly.

 

“That may well be true, Mrs. Watsford, and I’m happy for you.” The old Scotswoman pauses. “But you would have, if he had been less that the perfect specimen of husband that he is.” She cocks a white eyebrow as she looks earnestly at Edith’s mother.

 

“Yes, I suppose I would have, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada concedes with a sigh.

 

“So, I have come today to plead my grandson’s case with you.” Mrs. McTavish announces plainly.

 

“I’d hardly call your son’s attitudes a case that requires pleading before me, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada scoffs in surprise at the old woman’s words.

 

“Well, you’ll forgive me for seeing things from a different perspective, Mrs. Watsford.” the Scotswoman elucidates. “For you see, from where I am sitting, it seems to me that Mr. Watsford quite likes Francis. They both have a common enjoyment of reading books, even if my Francis likes reading more serious books than the murder mysteries your husband prefers. You on the other hand are judge and jury, sitting in judgement of my Francis’ ideas because they are at odds to your own.”

 

“I think I see where he gets some of his outspokenness, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada remarks before turning away from her guest at picking up a blue and white floral milk jug from the great Welsh dresser behind her.

 

“Aye. I’ll not deny it, Mrs. Watsford. His parents, my husband and I all taught Francis to speak his mind and not be afraid to do so. I suppose we all come across a little bit abrasively as a clan to some, but we all have,” She pauses and smiles sadly. “Or rather, had, quite strong personalities and opinions about things. We all believed in free speech, so long as it is respectful. Now, Francis’ faither was the one who really encouraged him to look beyond his place in life though. He was a costermonger******** down in Covent Garden, but he always wanted to provide a better life for his wife and son. If ever he was sick, just like if his wife, my daughter, Mairi,” she clarifies. “Or I were sick, we couldn’t earn a shilling. I taught Mairi to sew lace like me, but all we ever got was piecemeal work, and it’s still the same for me today. Anyway, Francis’ faither taught his son to look for more stable work with someone else and then to save his pennies and perhaps one day own his own shop, rather than be a costermonger with a cart on the streets like him. And that is why Francis is always looking to improve himself. He’s looking for an opportunity to provide a good and steady income and a good life for your Edith.”

 

Edith turns back from rinsing the dishes and holding her breath watches the two other women in the kitchen: Mrs. McTavish, pale and wrinkled wrapped up in a froth of handmade lace and her mother standing over her, a thoughtful look on her face as she listens.

 

“Well,” Ada remarks after a few moments of deliberation. “I do find your grandson’s desire to improve himself admirable, even if my own aspirations don’t stretch to such lofty heights as his own. George and I are quite comfortable and happy with our lot.”

 

“But…” Mrs. McTavish prompts.

 

“But I find some of his ideas… disconcerting.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“Such as his talking of our class being on their way up, and the upper classes coming down. Forgive me for saying it, Mrs. McTavish, but he does sound a little bit like one of those revolutionaries that we read about in the newspapers who overthrew the king of Russia back in 1918.”

 

“Och!” chortles the old Scotswoman. “My Francis is no revolutionary, I assure you. He may have his opinion, but he’s not a radical and angry young man who feels badly done by, by his social betters. He may lack some refinement when explaining what he believes, especially when he is excited and passionate about something, which he usually is.” She sighs. “But he just wants things to be bit better for him and your Edith, and for their bairns if God chooses to bless them with wee little ones.” She looks earnestly at Ada again. “Don’t tell me you didn’t want the same thing for your bairns, Mrs. Watsford, when you were younger and full of dreams?”

 

“Well of course George and I want the very best for Edith and Bert.” Ada admits. “I just have a different way of explaining it, and going about it, Mrs. McTavish.”

 

“These are different times, Mrs. Watsford.” Mrs. McTavish says matter-of-factly. “The world has just gone through the most terrible war we have ever known. Those who are left and didn’t pay the ultimate sacrifice expect, no deserve, better for fighting for King and country. We cannot deny them that wish, nor condemn them for having it. They deserve a better world in which to live, surely? If not, why did they fight?”

 

“Well, I cannot deny that.” Ada admits with a sniff. “All those poor young men we sent off, bright faced and excited, never to return.”

 

“Well then.” smiles Mrs. McTavish. “Although my grandson was too young to enlist, he, like you, Edith and I, is a survivor of the war on the home front, and it shaped our lives. Who can blame Francis for not wanting better in the aftermath of war?” She looks into Ada’s thought filled face. “Tell me, Mrs. Watsford. Do you think Edith has good sense?”

 

“Of course I do, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada retorts. “My Edith has a good head on her shoulders.”

 

“I’m glad you think so, Mrs. Watsford.” Mrs. McTavish replies. She turns her attentions to Edith, who still stands silently, leaning against the trough sink observing the interaction between her mother and Frank’s grandmother. “What do you think, Edith dearie?”

 

“Me?” Edith asks.

 

“Yes, you.” Mrs. McTavish says strongly. “Don’t you want and strive for more? Don’t you want a better life for you and my grandson?”

 

“Oh yes, Mrs. McTavish. I worked hard to get the position with Miss Lettice. She’s a much nicer mistress than wither old Widow Hounslow or Mrs. Plaistow were. I get better pay, and better working conditions. I think Frank is right. There are more possibilities in the world now, although we do have to work hard for them.”

 

“Well said, Edith dearie.” Mrs. McTavish agrees, turning back to Ada. “So you see Mrs. Watsford. I think that your Edith and my Francis are well matched. They both want a better life for themselves. They’ll do better working together than making valiant efforts separately. Francis may be a little headstrong sometimes, but Edith will keep him grounded.”

 

Ada remains silent, deep in thought at her companion’s argument.

 

“Well, have a pleaded my grandson’s case, Mrs. Watsford?” the old Scottish woman asks.

 

Just then, the kitchen door opens and George and Frank walk noisily back into the kitchen, chuckling amiably over a shared joke, comfortable in one another’s company.

 

“I say Ada!” George exclaims. “That cherry pie of yours smells delicious, love. Is it about ready for eating, do you suppose?”

 

“Yes, I think it’s just about ready.” Ada agrees. “Edith love, will you fetch the jug of cream from the pantry for me, please?”

 

“Yes Mum!” Edith replies as she goes to the narrow pantry door and peers inside for her mother’s garland trimmed jug.

 

“So, who is going to have the biggest slice of my cherry pie?” Ada asks as she places the pie on the table amidst her best china.

 

“I think that right goes to me, as head of the Watsford household.” pipes up George with confidence.

 

“I say, Mr. Watsford,” retorts Frank. “That isn’t very fair. Just because you’re head of the house, doesn’t mean you are automatically entitled to the biggest share of the pie.”

 

“That’s a rather radical thought, young Frank.” laughs George good-naturedly. “I’m not sure if I approve of it, though.”

 

“Who should get the biggest slice then, my bairn?” his grandmother asks.

 

“Oh you know my answer, Gran.” Frank replies. “I shouldn’t need to tell you.”

 

“Yes, but tell the others, dearie. They don’t know you quite as well as I. State your case as to who should get the biggest portion.”

 

“Yes,” encourages Ada. “Tell us, Frank. Who do you think should get the biggest slice of the pie?”

 

Frank looks at Ada as she stands, poised with the kitchen knife in her hand, ready to cut through the magnificent cherry pie full of ripe and colourful berries, edged with a golden crust of pastry. “Why you of course, Mrs. Watsford.” he says matter-of-factly. “You’re the one who made it for all of us. You deserve the biggest share for all your hard work.”

 

Ada considers the bright eyed young man sitting at her table. “I like your thinking, Frank.” she says at length with a smile as she cuts into the steaming pie before her.

 

*Mither is an old fashioned Scottish word for mother.

 

**Faither is an old fashioned Scottish word for father.

 

***The Hebrides is an archipelago comprising hundreds of islands off the northwest coast of Scotland. Divided into the Inner and Outer Hebrides groups, they are home to rugged landscapes, fishing villages and remote Gaelic-speaking communities.

 

****What we know today as New Zealand was once the Colony of New Zealand. It was a Crown colony of the British Empire that encompassed the islands of New Zealand from 1841 to 1907. The power of the British Government was vested in the governor of New Zealand. The colony had three successive capitals: Okiato (or Old Russell) in 1841; Auckland from 1841 to 1865; and Wellington, which became the capital during the colony's reorganisation into a Dominion, and continues as the capital of New Zealand today. During the early years of British settlement, the governor had wide-ranging powers. The colony was granted self-government with the passage of the New Zealand Constitution Act 1852. The first parliament was elected in 1853, and responsible government was established in 1856. The governor was required to act on the advice of his ministers, who were responsible to the parliament. In 1907, the colony became the Dominion of New Zealand, which heralded a more explicit recognition of self-government within the British Empire.

 

*****The original Caledonian Market, renown for antiques, buried treasure and junk, was situated in in a wide cobblestoned area just off the Caledonian Road in Islington in 1921 when this story is set. Opened in 1855 by Prince Albert, and originally called the Metropolitan Meat Markets, it was supplementary to the Smithfield Meat Market. Arranged in a rectangle, the market was dominated by a forty six metre central clock tower. By the early Twentieth Century, with the diminishing trade in live animals, a bric-a-brac market developed and flourished there until after the Second World War when it moved to Bermondsey, south of the Thames, where it flourishes today. The Islington site was developed in 1967 into the Market Estate and an open green space called Caledonian Park. All that remains of the original Caledonian Markets is the wonderful Victorian clock tower.

 

*****Bràmair in Gaelic is commonly used as a term for girlfriend, boyfriend or sweetheart.

 

******The parish of All Souls, Harlesden, was formed in 1875 from Willesden, Acton, St John's, Kensal Green, and Hammersmith. Mission services had been held by the curate of St Mary's, Willesden, at Harlesden institute from 1858. The parish church at Station Road, Harlesden, was built and consecrated in 1879. The town centre church is a remarkable brick octagon designed by E.J. Tarver. Originally there was a nave which was extended in 1890 but demolished in 1970.

 

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

 

********A costermonger is a person who traditionally sells fruit and vegetables outside from a cart rather than in a shop.

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

On the table the is a cherry tart made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The blue and white crockery on the table I have bought as individual from several online sellers on E-Bay. I imagine that whole sets were once sold, but now I can only find them piecemeal. The cutlery I bought as a teenager from a high street dollhouse suppliers. The pottery ale jug comes from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in England. The glass of ale comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The cottage ware teapot in the foreground was made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson, it has been decorated authentically and matches in perfect detail its life-size Price Washington ‘Ye Olde Cottage Teapot’ counterparts. The top part of the thatched roof and central chimney form the lid, just like the real thing. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics. The vase of flowers came from a 1:12 miniatures stockist on E-Bay. The tablecloth is actually a piece of an old worn sheet that was destined for the dustbin.

 

In the background you can see Ada’s dark Welsh dresser cluttered with household items. Like Ada’s table, the Windsor chair and the ladderback chair to the left of the photo, I have had the dresser since I was a child. The shelves of the dresser have different patterned crockery and silver pots on them which have come from different miniature stockists both in Australia and the United Kingdom. There are also some rather worn and beaten looking enamelled cannisters and a bread tin in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green. Aged on purpose, these artisan pieces I recently acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. There are also tins of various foods which would have been household staples in the 1920s when canning and preservation revolutinised domestic cookery. Amongst other foods on the dresser are a tin of Macfie’s Finest Black Treacle, two jars of P.C. Flett and Company jam, a tin of Heinz marinated apricots, a jar of Marmite, some Bisto gravy powder, some Ty-Phoo tea and a jar of S.P.C. peaches. All these items are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, except the jar of S.P.C. peaches which comes from Shepherds Miniatures in the United Kingdom. All of them have great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars and cans.

 

Robert Andrew Macfie sugar refiner was the first person to use the term term Golden Syrup in 1840, a product made by his factory, the Macfie sugar refinery, in Liverpool. He also produced black treacle.

 

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

 

The American based Heinz food processing company, famous for its Baked Beans, 57 varieties of soups and tinend spaghetti opened a factory in Harlesden in 1919, providing a great deal of employment for the locals who were not already employed at McVitie and Price.

 

Marmite is a food spread made from yeast extract which although considered remarkably English, was in fact invented by German scientist Justus von Liebig although it was originally made in the United Kingdom. It is a by-product of beer brewing and is currently produced by British company Unilever. The product is notable as a vegan source of B vitamins, including supplemental vitamin B. Marmite is a sticky, dark brown paste with a distinctive, salty, powerful flavour. This distinctive taste is represented in the marketing slogan: "Love it or hate it." Such is its prominence in British popular culture that the product's name is often used as a metaphor for something that is an acquired taste or tends to polarise opinion.

 

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

 

S.P.C. is an Australian brand that still exists to this day. In 1917 a group of fruit growers in Victoria’s Goulburn Valley decided to form a cooperative which they named the Shepperton Fruit Preserving Company. The company began operations in February 1918, canning pears, peaches and nectarines under the brand name of S.P.C. On the 31st of January 1918 the manager of the Shepparton Fruit Preserving Company announced that canning would begin on the following Tuesday and that the operation would require one hundred and fifty girls or women and thirty men. In the wake of the Great War, it was hoped that “the launch of this new industry must revive drooping energies” and improve the economic circumstances of the region. The company began to pay annual bonuses to grower-shareholders by 1929, and the plant was updated and expanded. The success of S.P.C. was inextricably linked with the progress of the town and the wider Goulburn Valley region. In 1936 the company packed twelve million cans and was the largest fruit cannery in the British empire. Through the Second World War the company boomed. The product range was expanded to include additional fruits, jam, baked beans and tinned spaghetti and production reached more than forty-three million cans a year in the 1970s. From financial difficulties caused by the 1980s recession, SPC returned once more to profitability, merging with Ardmona and buying rival company Henry Jones IXL. S.P.C. was acquired by Coca Cola Amatil in 2005 and in 2019 sold to a private equity group known as Shepparton Partners Collective.

 

The large kitchen range in the background is a 1:12 miniature replica of the coal fed Phoenix Kitchen Range. A mid-Victorian model, it has hinged opening doors, hanging bars above the stove and a little bass hot water tap (used in the days before plumbed hot water).

offer up.

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.:* SL Frees & Offers *:.

 

- Thrift Shop 8.0

- Jack or Jill Hunt 4.0

- With Love Fair 2015

 

Blog: slfreeworldforall.blogspot.com.es/2015/02/will-you-love-m...

 

Also in this blog: slfreesandoffers.blogspot.com.es/2015/02/will-you-love-me...

SL Frees & Offers in Second Life

 

slfreeworldforall.blogspot.com/2012/08/ready-to-go.html

 

Vintage Fair 2012

the Swimming Pool Blues Hunt - SPB Hunt

Fairest of them All! Hunt - FOTA Hunt

 

.:* Right *:.

[HUSH] / tram / Eyelure / ArisAris / Maxi Gossamer - MG - / Blueberry / ~ Amberdragon Designs~ / izm. / N-core

 

.:* Left *:.

[ S H O C K ] / tram A811 / ArisAris / Izzie's / *Tentacio* / ::Duh!::

 

.:* Furniture *:.

Senzafine / SFW Industries

 

::WetCat::

The Version offered for Export to the Azmirian Military.

 

The well armored vehicle holds 3 Crew and 7 passengers.

It is armed with a remote controlled turret wit a 23mm autocanon and coaxial medium machinegun, as well as an ATGM launcher that has to be reloaded from a hatch behind the turret and can also be detached from the turret for use by the dismounts.

 

Compared to the first enty, the Crabat, it is tracked, a bit shorter and wider, has a remote controlled turret and an aditional hatch at the top. Its armor protection is better due to the assult gun origins and the side skirts. Due to not having a manned turret the 10 persons inside are not as crammed together.

The downside is a lower Speed and higher weight.

  

Fixed the Colors, but I still have to note that the orignal LDD Version of the Assult gun was made several years ago, though it was never published before and the IFV Version was made specificly for the contest.

 

20 studs long, 12 studs wide.

All images available for licensing via me. I offer commercial and editorial pet photography on a commissioned basis. And with a pet picture database with thousands of hand-picked images of dogs, cats, as well as horses, I might already have what you are looking for. All pictures here can be licensed.

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Series 62 Convertible

In 1948 Cadillac became the first production car to offer fins on some it's models. General Motors styling boss, Harley Earl, was inspired to apart them for use on automobiles after being shown a Lockheed P-38 Lighting Fighter during WWII. Each year through the 1950s the fins grow larger and by 1959 grow to resemble rockets instead of fighter planes. That same year Bill Mitchell was appointed his replacement and his preference for cleaner angular shapes dictated that the fins be gradually reduced in height until they disappeared completely. They made their last appearance on the 1965 Series Seventy-Five Sedans and Limousines.

 

French postcard by Editions P.I., Paris, offered by Les Carbones Korès "Carboplane", no. 796.

 

During our trip to Italy, the French actress Françoise Arnoul passed away after a long illness in Paris on 20 July 2021. In the early 1950s, the cute and pretty actress was presented as the new French sex symbol. Soon she was overshadowed by the spectacular Brigitte Bardot, but Arnoul had enough talent and range to forge a decent film career for herself. Françoise Arnoul was 90.

 

Françoise Arnoul was born as Françoise Annette Marie Mathilde Gautsch in Constantine, France (now Algeria), in 1931. Her father was a general in the army, Charles Gautsch; her mother was a former stage actress, Jeanne Gradwohl, who worked before her marriage under the name of Jeanne Henry. Françoise grew up in Rabat and Casablanca, and after WWII she returned to Paris. Her mother proved to be valuable support when her daughter expressed a desire to take courses in drama. She attended the drama classes of Andree Bauer-Thérond, and made her film debut as an extra in Rendez-vous de Juillet/Rendezvous in July (Jacques Becker, 1949). Her first bigger role was in L'Épave/Sin and Desire (Willy Rozier, 1949) in which she had some undressed scenes. It made her a star overnight. She was touted as the newest French sex symbol in films like Nous irons à Paris/We Will All Go to Paris (Jean Boyer, 1950) opposite nice and attractive Philippe Lemaire. In the morally rigid 1950s, she played sexy and sensuous characters, that were also often troubled and destructive. She was the perverse femme fatale in films like the Georges Siménon adaptation Le Fruit défendu/Forbidden Fruit (Henri Verneuil, 1952) in which she seduces a country doctor played by Fernandel, La Rage au corps/Tempest in the Flesh (Ralph Habib, 1953) in which she is the unfaithful wife of Raymond Pellegrin, and especially in the wildly successful Film Noir La Chatte/The Cat (Henri Decoin, 1958) in which she played a black leather-clad resistance fighter during World War II. Arnoul made of her questioning scene by the Nazis an erotic extravaganza as she slowly removes her stockings under the officer's lecherous eyes.

 

The unusually pretty and petite Françoise Arnoul proved her talent and range in such highly regarded films as Michelangelo Antonioni’s episode film I Vinti/The Vanquished (1953), the wonderful Fernandel comedy Le Mouton à cinq pattes/The Sheep Has Five Legs (Henri Verneuil, 1954), and Jean Cocteau's Le Testament d'Orphee/The Testament of Orpheus (1960). In Jean Renoir's classic French Cancan/French Can-Can (1955), she played Nini, a young laundress from Montmartre, who conquers the Moulin Rouge with her sexy dance. In 1964, during the shooting of Compartiment tueurs/The Sleeping Car Murder (Costa-Gavras, 1965), she met director Bernard Paul who would become her life partner. From 1956 till 1960, she had been married to publicity agent Georges Cravenne, the future father of the César and Mollière awards. In the following years, she focussed on assisting Paul with his first films. Together with Marina Vlady, they founded in 1968 the production company Francina, which would produce films like Dernière sortie avant Roissy/Last Exit Before Roissy (Bernard Paul, 1977). Paul died in 1980. His loss affected Francoise dearly and she had difficulty regaining a foothold in the cinema. During the 1970s, her film career had tapered off, but she appeared in Raul Ruiz’ Diálogos de exiliados/Dialogues of the Exiled (1975) and Violette & François (Jacques Rouffio, 1977) as the mother of Violette (Isabelle Adjani). She also had some success as a television actress. In the late 1990s, Françoise Arnoul returned on the screen in character roles in such films as Temps de Chien/Dog Days (Jean Marboeuf, 1996), Post coitum animal triste/Smell of Geraniums (Brigitte Roüan, 1997) and Merci pour le geste/Thanks for the Gesture (Claude Faraldo, 2000). She published her autobiography entitled 'Animal doué de Bonheur' (Animal Endowed with Happiness) in 1995. In 1997, she was the president of the jury of the Caméra d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival. Françoise Arnoul remained active as a TV actress. In his bio at Les Gens de Cinéma, Yvan Foucart wrote: "The young vamp has given way to a blooming woman whose wonderful face radiates serenity. She kept her beautiful smile, her eyes still have the same sparkle and she kept an admirably slim silhouette. (...) So, dear Francoise, you understand why we can not forget you. And why we are still in love with you." At the age of 90, Françoise Arnoul passed away after a long illness in Paris on 20 July 2021.

 

Sources: Yvan Foucart (Les Gens de Cinéma - French), Sandra Brennan (AllMovie), AlloCiné (French), Wikipedia, and IMDb.

 

And, please check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.

Teals

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Atelier House

Amongst all the tourist attractions the city of Budapest has to offer, there is one that is not so well known but certainly worth mentioning. In Kelenhegyi út, not far from the city’s most famous spa facility, Gellért Bath there is a workshop-house designed back in 1903 by the Hungarian architect and painter Gyula Kosztolányi Kann.

The building hosts an art gallery and a number of art studios.Its architectural design is inspired by the Art Nouveau style and it has a yellow, white and light blue façade. The most notable hungarian painters and sculptors had lived there since 1903 to the present.

 

www.kieselbach.hu/muvesz/kosztolanyi-kann-gyula_698

 

hu.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kosztol%C3%A1nyi-Kann_Gyula

 

"A Mányoki út–Kelenhegyi út kereszteződésénél található, 1903-ban felavatott gellérthegyi műteremház a XX. század legelejének pezsgő szellemi életéről tanúskodó műemlék, amely az összes európai művészeti lexikonban szerepel. Jelentőségét mi sem bizonyítja jobban, hogy falai dolgoztak évtizedeken keresztül és mind a mai napig a magyar képzőművészet jelentős képviselői. A műteremház falán márványtábla is hirdeti, ki mindenki dolgozott itt: hatvan éven át Herman Lipót, a magyar festészet jeles képviselője és a hazai művelődéstörténet sokoldalú krónikása; Kerényi Jenő, szobrászművész; Czóbel Béla Kossuth-díjas, kiváló művész Hosszan sorolhatnánk még a neveket Uitz Bélától Bolgár Józsefig, Domanovszky Endrétől Mattioni Eszterig. Ma többek között itt alkot, Szkok Iván, Almássi Aladár, Kovács Péter valamint a Vojnich Erzsébet és Szűcs Miklós művészházaspár, illetve a ház lakója volt egészen tavaly bekövetkezett haláláig Kokas Ignác.

A késő szecessziós és kissé eklektikus épület terveit Kosztolányi-Kann Gyula festő-építész készítette. A Kelenhegyi úti épületet eredetileg máshová tervezték; "a város régebbi határozata értelmében művészeti célokra fenntartott" VI. kerületi, Kmetty utca 29-31. számú telken épült volna fel a műteremház.

A terv megvalósítása azonban meghiúsult a főváros 1901. április 17-ei közgyűlési határozatán, amelynek értelmében a főváros "csak meghatározott időtartamra volt hajlandó a szóban forgó telkeket rendelkezésre bocsátani." A megváltozott építési területről és az építkezés történetéről ad összefoglalót a Művészet című lapban megjelent, valószínűleg Lyka Károly tollából származó írás: "...Ezután a társulat igazgatósága, meggyőződvén róla, hogy a székesfővárostól kedvezőbb határozatot nem kaphat, az időközben beérkezett ajánlatok közül azt, amely a Gellérthegy déli lejtőjén, a Kelenhegyi-uton kínált egy telket megvételre, a választmány elé terjesztette s az 1901. évi június 21-én tartott ülésből kifolyólag kapott felhatalmazás

alapján 1902. évi július 2-ikán megkötötte és a kb. 740 négyszögöl kiterjedésű telket 40 000 korona vételáron megvásárolta. Ez a telekcsere az eszme megvalósításának csak előnyére vált, amennyiben az új telek kiterjedése lehetővé tette, hogy rajta olyan épület emeltessék, amely tizenkilenc műtermet és egy lakást foglaljon magába, míg a régi tervek csak tizenkét műteremről szóltak. Kann Gyula műépítész időközben sürgősen elkészítette a megvásárolt telken építendő műteremház terveit és folyamodott a székesfővároshoz az építési engedély elnyeréséért. A tanács az építési engedély kiadását, az építési szabályzatra való hivatkozással, mely a villa-rayonokban kétemeletes ház építését tiltja, megtagadta, erre vonatkozó határozatát azonban a társulat megföllebbezte és a Közmunkák Tanácsa az építési engedélyt a Társulatnak 1902. évi augusztus 28-án megadta, úgy hogy hosszú vajúdás után az építkezésnek immár semmi sem állott utjában. Az építkezést Kann Gyula tervei szerint azonnal megkezdték úgy hogy az épület még 1902-ben tető alá került és 1903. évi augusztus hó 1-én teljesen készen átadható volt rendeltetésének. Megjegyzendő még, hogy időközben az építési költségek fedezésére szükséges kölcsön fölvétele a társulatra nézve

fölöslegessé vált, mert a társulat Andrássy uti bérháza eladatván, a társulat ennek vételárából hasította ki a még hiányzó összeget. A kétemeletes műteremház, mely a Ferenc József-híd budai környékének egyik legszebb ékessége, minden tekintetben a legmodernebb kényelemmel van berendezve és úgy művészies külseje, mint célirányos osztása és ízléses berendezése révén tán egyedül áll a maga nemében az egész kontinensen. Az épület földszintjén lévő lakás az összes szükséges mellékhelyiséggel felszerelt négy szobából áll, a műtermek közül pedig kettőnek a kivételével mindenikhez egy szoba és egy fürdőszoba készült. Az összes helyiségekben úgy a légszesz, mint a villamos világítás be van vezetve s úgy a műtermek, mint a lakás amerikai szerkezetű és anthracittal fűlő kályhákkal van fölszerelve. Az új műteremházban ez időszerint a következő művészek dolgoznak: Bezerédy Gyula, Dudits Andor, Gergely Imre, Glatter Ármin, Grosz Aladár, Grünwald Béla, Kimnach László, Kacziány Ödön, Karvaly József, Nagy Zsiga, Ujlakyné Madarász Evelin, Reich Kálmán, Tarján-Huber Oszkár, Tölgyessy Arthur, Madarász Viktor és Zombory Lajos. Az új műteremházban a legdrágább műterem évi bére 880 korona, a legolcsóbbé pedig 510 korona, s így az új intézmény minden tekintetben megfelel annak a célnak, melyre készült, hogy tudniillik alkalmas, jól világított, tágas és olcsó műtermekkel szolgáljon a magyar művészeknek..." (Művészet, 1903/6 p. 421-436.)

A gellérthegyi műteremház létrejötte amellett, hogy a kor fontos beruházása volt, rávilágít arra is, hogy a korszak városfejlesztési koncepciójában milyen fontos szerepet játszott a XI. kerület központi magjának kialakítása (a Gellért hegy Kelenhegyi útjától, a Bartók Béla, Bocskai út, a Budafoki és Fehérvári út). Az időszak folyamán a Bartók Béla út mindkét oldalán elhelyezkedő bérházak legfelső szintjére műtermeket építettek, aminek következtében a környék hamarosan igazi párizsias hangulatú „művésznegyeddé” vált. A művészek kedvelt találkozóhelye és Buda szellemi életének egyik fő helyszíne volt az 1910-től 1949-ig működő Hadik kávéház, mely nevét a pár házzal arrébb álló volt Hadik laktanyáról kapta, a XX. század első felében. A házon található emléktábla tanúsága szerint Karinthy Frigyes és írótársainak törzshelye volt, de Kosztolányi Dezső, Móricz Zsigmond és Déry Tibor is gyakran látogatta. A környéken számos műtermes művészlakás volt, a Hadik kávéház épületének tetején lévő egykori műteremben például Csontváry Kosztka Tivadar alkotott, szemben, a Bartók Béla út 15/D alatt Ottlik Géza lakott évekig."

Szabó Noémi művészettörténész, galériavezető

 

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

 

This morning Lettice is entertaining a neighbour, of sorts, of her parents, Mr. Alisdair Gifford, nephew of Sir John Nettleford-Hughes. Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a time when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Luckily Selwyn Spencely, the handsome eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford, rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. As she was leaving to return to London on the Monday, Sir John approached her and asked if she might meet with his nephew, Mr. Gifford, as he wishes to have a room in his Wiltshire house, Arkwright Bury, redecorated as a surprise for his Australian wife, Adelina, who collects blue and white porcelain but as of yet has no place to display it at Arkwright Bury. With a smile Lettice agreed, and thus Mr. Gifford now sits opposite her in her Mayfair drawing room.

 

She appraises Mr. Gifford as he helps himself to a biscuit from the plate on the low coffee table between them. He is a slight man, probably not more than ten years older than herself with pale patrician skin over a fine bone structure, and a mop of auburn hair which is streaked with silvery white hairs, possibly prematurely owing to his experiences in the war. He is dressed in a very smart morning suit with a silver fob watch chain hanging from his cherry red waistcoat pocket. He movements are as delicate as his frame, and his sparking blue eyes are further enhanced by the strong prescription of the glasses persistently sliding down his nose.

 

“Now, this is what I wanted to show you, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford says in well educated and modulated tones from the comfort of one of Lettice’s round backed Art Deco arm chairs.

 

He reaches down with his elongated fingers into the slightly battered and worn brown leather case at his feet, which he arrived with, but refused to allow Edith, Lettice’s maid, to take from him. From it he withdraws an old photograph album. Covered in vibrant green Morocco leather, Lettice notices its bumped corners, which have worn down over many years losing their sharp edges, and a sun faded spine that tells of sitting for many a year, closed on a bookshelf. There is no writing on the cover, but glancing at the thick creamy card pages contained within the covers, she recognises it as a photograph album.

 

“This is a very precious piece of Arkwright Bury’s, and my own family’s, history.” Mr. Gifford goes on.

 

“I’m very looking forward to seeing it then.” Lettice remarks with curiosity as she leans forward in her own armchair.

 

“I don’t know whether my Uncle John told you or not when you were at the Caxton’s country house party at Gossington, but Arkwright Bury was badly damaged in a fire in 1879.”

 

“No,” Lettice admits. “Your uncle didn’t tell me a great deal about Arkwright Bury at all, Mr. Gifford, other than it fell into some disrepair when your elder brother went off to war, and that since you and your wife inherited it, you have been restoring it.”

 

“Quite right, Miss Chetwynd,” Mr. Gifford passes over the album to Lettice, who takes it with reverence into her elegant hands. “However, this will give you an idea of what Arkwright Bury used to look like in the 1860s and 70s, before the fire. It’s an album rescued from the conflagration which consists mostly of photographs of the house and its interiors, and not family photographs.”

 

“How very unusual.” Lettice remarks.

 

“Well, my grandfather was very passionate about architecture and photography, so I think this may have been a pet project of his.”

 

“And thus, perhaps why it was saved, Mr. Gifford?” Lettice asks tentatively.

 

“Perhaps, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford replies with a gentle shrugging roll of his shoulders.

 

Lettice finds an old photograph of an unassuming Regency style country house, partially overgrown with creepers, set amidst a simple English park style garden on the front page. The house has a low pitched roof which is hidden from view by the building’s parapets. It has five bays of large sash windows over its two storeys and an Ionic columned portico.

 

“We think Arkwright Bury may have been designed by Anthony Keck*,” Mr. Gifford explains, assuming that Lettice will know who the Georgian architect is. “Although we cannot confirm it. Like so many things, the precious architectural drawings of Arkwright Bury went up in flames in the 1897 fire. I mean, his work isn’t found in Wiltshire, and if it is his, then it most probably was built after his retirement, and would be the only example in the county. I do know it was built in 1796, and Anthony Keck died just a year later.”

 

“And you have brought me this album because?” Lettice queries as she starts to turn the page.

 

“Well, because this has the only known surviving photograph of the Pagoda Room.” Mr. Gifford answers.

 

“The Pagoda Room?” Lettice asks.

 

“Yes. Just flip through the first few pages.” The gentleman says helpfully as he leans forward over the black japanned coffee table covered with Lettice’s Art Deco Royal Doulton tea set and tray of biscuits. “It should be on page six or so.” Lettice does as he says, counting the pages in her mind silently as she turns them. “Ahh! There it is.”

 

Lettice looks to where he points, and there, on a thick card page, beige and greyish and mottled with age, framed by flowers hand painted by one of the more artistic Gifford females of history, is an old photograph, underneath which is written in a delicate looped hand, ‘The Pagoda Room – July 1876’.

 

“Being from 1876, I’m sure my grandfather took this photograph.” Mr. Gifford explains. “It was called the Pagoda Room because as you can see on the walls, there is some Georgian wallpaper, hand painted and imported from China we assume, which features Pagodas on it. Of course I wasn’t born until after the fire, but my father remembers he and his sister, my Aunt Eugenia, making up stories about Chinese people who lived inside the pagodas.”

 

“I say!” Lettice laughs. “How frightfully jolly.”

 

Lettice looks at the image. It depicts the corner of what must have been a larger room with a high dado, papered with the Georgian wallpaper Mr. Gifford mentioned, featuring the stylised pagodas that gave the room its name. The corner is filled with Georgian and Regency furniture that is intermixed with pieces from later periods, the surfaces of tables and the shadowy interiors of a Georgian corner cabinet are cluttered with a collection of decorative porcelain that owed much to the conscientious consumption of the wealthy in the mid Victorian era. Paintings of Gifford ancestors hang on the walls in thick gilt frames, whilst a top heavy elaborate floral display of roses and ferns sits atop a heavily carved Victorian pillar. Overstuffed, yet comfortable looking chairs and sofas fill the space, their owners gone, but their presence marked by a stack of leatherbound books with decorative covers, a sewing basket and embroidery hoop, and a silver teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl and dainty china teacups on a galleried silver tray.

 

“My grandmother loved needlework, so I’m sure that’s her embroidery frame and basket in the photograph, and my grandfather was an avid reader.”

 

“Indeed.” Lettice remarks, lowering the page and allowing the well loved album to sit comfortably open across her lap as she reaches over to the black japanned side table on which her telephone stands and picks up her teacup. “And besides for its interesting historical context, you have brought me this album, why, Mr. Gifford?”

 

“Well, the Arkwright Bury fire tore through that part of the house and destroyed it entirely, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Mmmm…” Lettice sips her tea.

 

“Or at least I thought it had until recently.” Mr. Gifford continues.

 

“Go on, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“Well, as my uncle explained to you, Adelinde and I have almost completed a full restoration of Arkwright Bury, and we only have a small amount left to do. This includes my brother, Cuthbert’s, study.”

 

“He died before the end of the war, didn’t he, Mr. Gifford?” Lettice asks gently.

 

“He did, Miss Chetwynd. He was honourably discharged after the Battle of Ypres**, but he came back a very changed man.”

 

“You never went to France yourself, did you, Mr. Gifford?”

 

“No,” Mr. Gifford admits a little guiltily. “But please don’t hold that against me, Miss Chetwynd. I wasn’t accepted because of my appalling eyesight.” He pushes his pair of thick lensed glasses up the bridge of his aquiline nose with awkward embarrassment. “I did however work under Mr. Churchill*** in the Admiralty.”

 

“I won’t hold your not going to battle in Flanders Fields**** against you, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice assures him with a comforting smile.

 

“Thank you.” he sighs. “That’s a relief.”

 

“Anyway, the war has been over for more than five years now.”

 

“Not for some people, it hasn’t.” Mr. Gifford says sadly. “And just because I’m not maimed physically like those poor returned soldiers you see selling matches at the top of Tottenham Court Road or in Piccadilly Circus, there is a certain amount of stigma against me: people thinking I didn’t do my bit during the war.”

 

“Well, I won’t jump to any incorrect conclusions about what you did, or didn’t do, during the war. My eldest brother returned from the conflict with all his limbs intact, both his eyes and most importantly his mind unaltered, thank god, so I’m hardly in a position to judge you for a lack of injuries.”

 

“Well, many others feel differently, especially those young, embittered war widows or fiancées, of which there are so many about. You were not affianced to a young officer or captain yourself, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Thankfully no, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“Poor Cuthbert came back with all his limbs and his sight, but his mind was disturbed from what he witnessed over in France, and he killed himself: shot himself in the temple with his gun before Armistice Day*****.” Mr. Gifford says dryly.

 

“Yes, I had heard the rumour.” Lettice murmurs quietly in admission.

 

“And that’s why his study is one of the last places Adelina and I have to deal with.”

 

“Too many painful memories, Mr. Gifford?”

 

“Yes,” he admits. “But also, too much mess quite frankly. As I said, Cuthbert came back from the Western Front with his mind addled and his study reflects that, with piles of papers and books in all kinds of disorder, the meaning of which known only to him, so it’s just been too hard to deal with. In fact, Adelina and I closed the door on it, and more often than not have been using it as a storage room whilst we’ve been restoring other parts of Arkwright Bury, shoving furniture and boxes of things between Cuthbert’s belongings. Recently Adelina has been using it to store her boxes of blue and white porcelain that we brought over from Briar Priory, plus a few newly acquired pieces.” He sighs. “It’s actually only been recently that I have had the stomach to start sorting out Cuthbert’s things. Adelina wants to turn the study into a display room for her collection, since we can’t seem to find anywhere else suitable in Arkwright Bury to display it, which seems odd,” He laughs. “When you think that Briar Priory was so much smaller than Arkwright Bury is.”

 

“And that’s why you’ve come to see me?” Lettice asks, trying to get Mr. Gifford to explain himself and share his intentions.

 

“Yes.” Mr. Gifford agrees. “If you’re willing to take it on, I’d love for you to redecorate Cuthbert’s study as a surprise for Adelina. It would make it a happy space to be in, rather than a sad and neglected one.”

 

“Although that still doesn’t explain the necessity for this.” Lettice half raises the green Morocco leather photo album in her lap with her spare left hand.

 

“Well, I wanted you to look at the photo of the Pagoda Room because, I thought it had been completely destroyed by the fire, until I started going through Cuthbert’s study. Before it was Cuthbert’s study, it was my father’s study, and my grandfather’s before him. So much Gifford history was lost with the fire that my grandparents didn’t have the heart to try and replicate what they had, and the study was created from part of the shell of the Pagoda Room.”

 

“How do you know this, Mr. Gifford?”

 

“Well, do you see that corner cabinet?” Mr. Gifford points to a glass door decorated with delicate fretwork, half hidden in the shadows behind the elaborate floral arrangement on the pedestal. When Lettice affirms with a nod he continues, “Well I didn’t recognise it at first, but this is what my brother, father and grandfather all used as a corner bookcase. It was only when I was doing an inventory of Cuthbert’s books in it, that I suddenly looked at the door, and I recognised it as being the same one from the photograph of the Pagoda Room. So, I took out my penknife******.” He withdraws a small blade with an ebony handle from his pocket. “So useful. I never go anywhere without it being in my pocket, and I took to the red wallpaper just next to the cabinet. I cut away a little, and what do you think I found beneath it, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“The Chinese pagoda paper, I presume, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice laughs.

 

“Just so, Miss Chetwynd!” Mr. Gifford exclaims, bouncing on his seat excitedly. “It’s badly degraded of course, but I thought it would make a splendid backdrop to Adelina’s blue and white porcelain collection!”

 

“Aah… then I’m very sorry, Mr. Gifford,” Lettice begins to apologise. “But you have wasted your journey up to London from Wiltshire. I’m a redecorator and designer, not a restorer.”

 

“Oh I know that, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford replies. “However, I also know from what I read in Mr. Tipping’s******* article in Country Life******** that you are a fine artist. You painted a demilune table********** for Mr. and Mrs. Channon, did you not?”

 

“I did Mr. Gifford. But what of it?”

 

“I had rather thought you might paint the design of the pagoda wallpaper from this photograph for me.”

 

“A demilune table is entirely different to a mural, Mr. Gifford!” Lettice exclaims in horror. “I’m hardly a muralist!”

 

“Oh I’m sorry, Miss Chetwynd, if I in any way implied that I wanted you to paint a mural.” Mr. Gifford defends raising his hands in concern. “No. I thought that because you have connections with wallpaper manufacturers who produce papers based on individual designs submitted, I was rather hoping you would design a panel of the pagoda wallpaper, which could then be reproduced as wallpaper to hang.”

 

Lettice ruminates on Mr. Gifford’s idea for a moment. “Well,” she says cautiously. “I suppose I could speak to Jeffrey and Company***********. They do produce bespoke wall hangings. Mind you, to be frank, it isn’t at all inexpensive, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“Oh I don’t mind, Miss Chetwynd. The Pagoda Room may have been large once, but I can assure you that Cuthbert’s study isn’t a terribly large space. I certainly don’t mind paying the cost to have it papered.”

 

“Well, I know it’s precious to you, but may I have this photograph then, Mr, Gifford?”

 

“Of course you may, Miss Chetwynd. Just slip it out of the album.”

 

As Lettice carefully extracts the old black and white photograph from the album she says. “I can see if I can recreate a design as close to the original as I can make out from this photograph. I take it you can tell me what the colours of it are from the little bit of paper you exposed?”

 

“I have it here, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford replies with a sigh, delving into his satchel once more and withdrawing a crumbling piece of paper that shows a small piece of the pagoda door and some roof tiles in French blue and sage green on an ecru background that must once have been white, which he carefully hands over to Lettice with trembling fingers.

 

“Yes, well. Using this, I could come up with a panel, that once it meets your approval, I can then take to Jeffrey and Company, and see if they are willing to reproduce it, and at what price.”

 

“Capital, Miss Chetwynd! Capital!” Mr. Gifford enthuses excitedly.

 

“I’d have to see the room as well, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice says. “To establish the amount of wall space we are discussing to have papered.”

 

“Are you by chance coming down to Wiltshire to visit your family soon, Miss Chetwynd?” asks Mr. Gifford with a toothy smile.

 

“As a matter of fact, I am, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“Then perhaps I could extend an invitation to you, to take tea with my wife and I at Arkwright Bury, whilst you are in residence at Glynes.”

 

“That sounds splendid, Mr Gifford.”

 

“Of course, you cannot let on to Adelina about this, Miss Chetwynd. This would be strictly between us. I want this redecoration to be a surprise for her.”

 

“You are being presumptuous, Mr. Gifford. I haven’t said that I will take you on as my client yet.” Lettice cautions with a wagging finger. “There are many dependencies and counter-dependencies yet to consider. But I will consider your request after I have seen the room for myself.”

 

“Oh thank you, Miss Chetwynd!” Mr. Gifford replies, clapping his hands in delight.

 

“I said, consider, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice says again, attempting to temper Mr. Gifford’s enthusiasm.

 

“Well, thinking of consideration, Miss Chetwynd. I do have one final titbit that might just make you consider my request a little more favourably.” He pauses for affect.

 

“And what might that be, Mr. Gifford?” Lettice asks with intrigue.

 

“Well, Mr. Henry Tipping is my godfather.” Mr. Gifford says with a smile that makes him look like the cat who just ate the cream. “And when I mentioned your name to him as a potential candidate for redecorating Cuthbert’s study, he said to me that he would happily consider writing an article on your redecoration of the room for Country Life, if you agreed.”

 

“Well!” Lettice replies, her expertly shaped eyebrows arching over her glittering blue eyes. “That is an interesting incentive, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“I thought that might pique your interest, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford replies with a satisfied sigh as he settles back in his armchair again.

 

*Anthony Keck (1726 – 1797) was an Eighteenth Century English architect with an extensive practice in Gloucestershire, Worcestershire, Herefordshire and South Wales. He designed at least fifty country houses in the South-West of England and South Wales.

 

**The Battle of Ypres was a series of engagements during the First World War, near the Belgian city of Ypres, between the German and the Allied armies (Belgian, French, British Expeditionary Force and Canadian Expeditionary Force). During the five engagements, casualties may have surpassed one million.

 

***Sir Winston Churchill (30th if November 1874 – 24th of January 1965) was a British statesman, soldier, and writer who twice served as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, from 1940 to 1945 during the Second World War, and again from 1951 to 1955. Apart from two years between 1922 and 1924, he was a Member of Parliament from 1900 to 1964 and represented a total of five constituencies. Ideologically an adherent to economic liberalism and imperialism, he was for most of his career a member of the Conservative Party, which he led from 1940 to 1955. He was a member of the Liberal Party from 1904 to 1924. In October 1911, Prime Minister Asquith appointed Churchill First Lord of the Admiralty, and he took up official residence at Admiralty House. He created a naval war staff and, over the next two and a half years, focused on naval preparation, visiting naval stations and dockyards, seeking to improve morale, and scrutinising German naval developments. As First Lord, Churchill was tasked with overseeing Britain's naval effort when the First World War began in August 1914. In the same month, the navy transported 120,000 British troops to France and began a blockade of Germany's North Sea ports. Churchill sent submarines to the Baltic Sea to assist the Russian Navy and he sent the Marine Brigade to Ostend, forcing a reallocation of German troops. In September, Churchill assumed full responsibility for Britain's aerial defence. In May, Asquith agreed under parliamentary pressure to form an all-party coalition government, but the Conservatives' condition of entry was that Churchill must be removed from the Admiralty. Churchill pleaded his case with both Asquith and Conservative leader Bonar Law but had to accept demotion and became Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster.

 

****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.

 

*****Armistice Day or Remembrance Day is a memorial day observed in Commonwealth member states since the end of the First World War to honour armed forces members who have died in the line of duty. It falls on the 11th of November every year. Remembrance Day is marked at eleven o’clock (the time that the armistice was declared) with a minute’s silence to honour the fallen. Following a tradition inaugurated by King George V in 1919, the day is also marked by war remembrances in many non-Commonwealth countries.

 

******A penknife, or pen knife, is a small folding knife. Today penknife is also the common English term for both a pocketknife, which can have single or multiple blades, and for multi-tools, with additional tools incorporated into the design.

 

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

 

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

 

**********A demilune is a half-moon shaped table that was created and very popular in the Eighteenth Century. With no hard edges or corners and a shallow profile, this type of accent table works well in so many tight spaces. Georgian rooms were often quite small, so they were a useful surface to have in bedrooms, hallways and entryways.

 

***********Jeffrey and Company was an English producer of fine wallpapers that operated between 1836 and the mid 1930s. Based at 64 Essex Road in London, the firm worked with a variety of designers who were active in the aesthetic and arts and crafts movements, such as E.W. Godwin, William Morris, and Walter Crane. Jeffrey and Company’s success is often credited to Metford Warner, who became the company’s chief proprietor in 1871. Under his direction the firm became one of the most lucrative and influential wallpaper manufacturers in Europe. The company clarified that wallpaper should not be reserved for use solely in mansions, but should be available for rooms in the homes of the emerging upper-middle class.

 

This may look like an old photograph taken in the Victorian era and inserted into a photograph album, affixed with corners, but it is in fact a photograph made up completely of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my teenage years, which has then been post produced as an old black and white photograph.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The embroidery frame, which features a partially completed embroidery, complete with a 1:12 miniature needle inserted into it was made by Falcon Miniatures, who are known for their detail in relation to their miniature pieces. I acquired it from Doreen Jeffrey’s Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The sewing basket sitting next to it on the overstuffed sofa is a 1:12 artisan miniature which I have had since I was a teenager. I acquired it from a high street dolls’ house and miniatures supplier and it is amongst my very first artisan pieces I purchased.

 

The silver tea set on the pedestal table, consisting of milk jug, sugar bowl and teapot come from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The silver tray upon which they stand also comes from Warwick Miniatures. The two dainty floral teacups with gilt edging are part of a larger tea set that I acquired from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The books on the table, by the slipper chair and on the sofa in the forefront of the picture are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. These books are amongst the rarer exceptions that have been designed not to be opened. Nevertheless, the covers are copies of real Victorian bindings. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s books and magazines are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

The overstuffed white settee and matching slipper chair, the two pedestal tables, the demilune table upon which the three vases sit, the three vases themselves, the corner cabinet and the china inside it, the hand embroidered footstool in front of the slipper chair, the two pillows on the sofa in the foreground, the paintings on the walls the extravagant floral arrangement and the two matching ornamental Victorian pillars I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The hand painted oriental ginger jar on the pedestal in the background next to the corner cabinet I acquired from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.

 

The floral sofa in the foreground I obtained from Crooked Mile Cottage Miniatures in the United States.

 

The oriental rug is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug and has been machine woven. The wallpaper is an Eighteenth Century chinoiserie design of pagodas and would have been hand painted in its original form.

The tower

One of the birding highlights of a visit to Sani

Lodge is spending a morning atop the recently

constructed, new 37-m canopy tower, which is

sited reasonably close to the south-west corner

of the lagoon and constructed around a mighty

Kapok Ceiba pentandra tree. This permits an

exclusive view of and above the rainforest canopy.

It also provides a privileged opportunity to observe

many birds that are practically impossible to find

from a position on the forest floor. The best time

of day for the tower is first thing in the morning or

during that initial ‘bird boom’ directly following

a rainstorm. The late afternoon, while decidedly

quieter than the ‘dawn chorus’, still offers the

chance of phenomenal birding with the backdrop

of a fabulous treetop sunset. The tower is also a

particularly special place to listen to the frogs and

owls commence their evening activities, and to

catch a glimpse of the fabulous Amazonian starlit

sky, which is normally so hard to see from within

the depths of the rainforest.

The Near Threatened Harpy Eagle Harpia

harpyja is naturally high on the target list of many

birders, be it first-timers or old South American

hands, and the canopy tower at Sani is one of

the best places in the Napo region to see this

magnificent eagle, although sightings are far from

guaranteed. Nonetheless, given the increasing

number of observations of the species in the

environs of Sani, it appears likely that there is a

nest in the area, and the local guides are searching

intently for it. This would be an incredibly exciting

discovery, as rather few nests of Harpy have been

found in the wider area of the lower Napo in recent

years. Like the Harpy, Crested Eagle Morphnus

guianensis is also classified as Near Threatened

and is recorded even less frequently from the

tower at Sani. A rapid population decline, at least

in Ecuador, is reinforcing this eagle’s reputation as

being notoriously challenging to find, with many a

Neotropical birder left disappointed after a search

for this stunning bird.

Species of particular note that are recorded

with some regularity from the tower include

Blue-throated Piping Guan Pipile cumanensis,

Hook-billed Kite Chondrohierax uncinatus,

Ornate Hawk-Eagle Spizaetus ornatus, Longbilled

Starthroat Heliomaster longirostris, Purplish

Galbula chalcothorax and Paradise Jacamars

G. dea, the diminutive Yellow-browed TodyFlycatcher

Todirostrum chrysocrotaphum, the

bizarre Bare-necked Fruitcrow Gymnoderus

foetidus, White-browed Purpletuft Iodopleura

isabellae and Olive Oropendola Psarocolius

yuracares. Other characteristic and equally

attractive species include five species of macaws,

Golden-collared Toucanet Selenidera reinwardtii,

Many-banded Pteroglossus pluricinctus and

Lettered Araçaris P. inscriptus, White-throated

Ramphastos tucanus and Channel-billed

Toucans R. vitellinus, White-fronted Nunbird

Monasa morphoeus, and the comically plumaged

Amazonian Umbrellabird Cephalopterus ornatus.

The superbly coloured Spangled Cotinga cayana

and Plum-throated Cotingas C. maynana can also

be seen from the tower, as well as elsewhere at

Sani, as can the rare Black-necked Red Cotinga.

It is rumoured that a fair few hours walk on the

south side of the Napo there is a Black-necked Red Cotinga lek, but this is not yet confirmed and

sightings of this species in the area are far from

guaranteed.

 

Taken from:

Sani Lodge: the best-kept secret in the Ecuadorian Amazon--until now.

Author: Nicki Hollamby.

 

I would add on a trade

Tigers size 7.5

Absolutes size 8

Takedowns size 8.5

Rulons size 8