Maine Bird List
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The Cheviot ewe was guarding her Crystalix supplment against all comers. Pregnant ewes need all the help they can get with extra minerals. These tubs with a molasses base encourage the sheep to lick the contents and get their extra minerals and vitamins
A supplement to the previous uploads under the theme "Azumino Valley in Spring." This is an alternative version of the Ooyamazakura grove by Lake Nakatsuna-ko.
Two photos were merged to get this image.
This photo was taken in late April.
A supplement to the series "Azumino and its vicinity in winter."
Kita Alps is half-hidden by snow clouds but this area does not have much snow unlike its neighbours of Hakuba and Otari.
Ikeda-Matsukawa Bridge over the Takasegawa river is locally known as a good view point of Kita Alps peaks, but the bridge itself is rarely shot.
It is so named as it is a boundary between Ikeda and Matsukawa municipalities.
Mt.Fuji-like peak near the centre is called Ariakesan (有明山 2,268 m). It is not very high but looks prominent. Hence it is regarded as a sacred mountain, and there are shrines at the foot and at the peak in Matsukawa village. It is not a volcano.
It is nicknamed Shinano Fuji. Shinano is the old name of Nagano prefecture. It is one of dozens of local Fuji mountains in Japan.
© Leanne Boulton, All Rights Reserved
Candid street photography from Glasgow, Scotland. Fighting with reams of supplements comes with the newspaper territory, I'd hate to have a 'paper round' these days - at least, way back when, it was only the Sunday papers that had all of those supplements in. Enjoy!
“The construction of beams
brings the fruition of dreams.
The casting of steel
makes your fantasy real…”
Read this post on a little virtual keyhole ☂
Love and sparkles,
Dea
Nutritional supplements are not a substitute
for a nutritionally balanced diet.
(Deepak Chopra)
Looking close... on Friday! - REFLECTION on BLACK BACKGROUND
(photo by Freya, edit by me)
Thanks for views, faves and comments!
This patch of light shining on the whole food vitamins and supplements I take each day fascinated me. Seeing this reminded me it has been such a challenging, painful, intense, lonely journey to get to this point. I’ve also experienced some growth, support, light and a tiny glimpse of life slowly returning. As I tried to heal and recover I was led down a path that involved psychiatric medications that only made things worse for me and prevented me from growing, recovering, and healing (which eventually I courageously discontinued three years ago). And while I’m still struggling a lot I reached a point that I’ve learned the importance of caring for myself in healthy ways—among many things, one way I do this is through these whole food vitamins and supplements.
I went for a nice ride on the e-trike today and saw this little scene. We have many little herds of cattle around us, but this one got a special treat. We have a local business here in Mount Gambier that makes delicious sweet and savoury scrolls, but when they don't sell on the day when they are at their freshest, they sometimes get donated to the cows who thoroughly enjoy their occasional sweet treat! Although the "delivery guy" had just dropped these scrolls over the fence, the cows would not come closer while I was there, possibly due to my day-glo safety jacket, but as soon as I left, the scrolls were quickly devoured and enjoyed!
It was finally a nice day for a ride after all the gale force winds we have had, but it also brought out the magpies. I had my first series of swoops for the season!
First trip out with the new 16mm ultra wide lens on the full frame RP body. A nice and very light weight lens to use!
Hummingbirds love nectar from flowers, but will come to the feeders as long as the sugar water is clean and fresh.
These RAW photos were taken while lying on my back, looking up with my camera, under the hummingbird feeder hanging from the corner of the screened-in porch. I only cropped them.
GASP !!!! Supplemental to my Anfield Murals series, and in the interests of courtesy and solidarity with our Blue neighbours, in their current predicament...also, because I don't want to raise the ire of lifelong Blue and super Flickr friend Elaine 55...I have decided to put my few Blue mural photos up, amongst the much more numerous ( and close to my heart ) Red ones.
These are all quite eye - catching, and are painted by the same artists that painted our murals...so...here we go.
Hummingbirds love nectar from flowers, but will come to the feeders as long as the sugar water is clean and fresh.
These RAW photos were taken while lying on my back, looking up with my camera, under the hummingbird feeder hanging from the corner of the screened-in porch. I only cropped them.
For more information about Ruby-throated hummingbirds that visit my garden, please click here:
ODC Eccentricity
When most people take a Calcium supplement they take Calcium Carbonate or Calcium Citrate. I didn't want to do that so I did my research and came up with something I felt was better. Ron Teagarden, from Dragon Herbs, sells this Calcium Supplement made from Fresh Water Pearls that are ground into a powder. We've been using Dragon Herb's teas for years so I trust this brand.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/European_hare
The European hare (Lepus europaeus), also known as the brown hare, is a species of hare native to Europe and parts of Asia. It is among the largest hare species and is adapted to temperate, open country. Hares are herbivorous and feed mainly on grasses and herbs, supplementing these with twigs, buds, bark and field crops, particularly in winter. Their natural predators include large birds of prey, canids and felids. They rely on high-speed endurance running to escape from their enemies; having long, powerful limbs and large nostrils.
Generally nocturnal and shy in nature, hares change their behaviour in the spring, when they can be seen in broad daylight chasing one another around in fields. During this spring frenzy, they sometimes strike one another with their paws ("boxing"). This is usually not competition between males, but a female hitting a male, either to show she is not yet ready to mate or as a test of his determination. The female nests in a depression on the surface of the ground rather than in a burrow, and the young are active as soon as they are born. Litters may consist of three or four young and a female can bear three litters a year, with hares living for up to twelve years. The breeding season lasts from January to August.
The European hare is listed as being of least concern by the International Union for Conservation of Nature because it has a wide range and is moderately abundant. However, populations have been declining in mainland Europe since the 1960s, at least partly due to changes in farming practices. The hare has been hunted across Europe for centuries, with more than five million being shot each year; in Britain, it has traditionally been hunted by beagling and hare coursing, but these field sports are now illegal. The hare has been a traditional symbol of fertility and reproduction in some cultures, and its courtship behaviour in the spring inspired the English idiom mad as a March hare.
Taxonomy and genetics
The European hare was first described in 1778 by German zoologist Peter Simon Pallas.[2] It shares the genus Lepus (Latin for "hare"[3]) with 31 other hare and jackrabbit species,[4] jackrabbits being the name given to some species of hare native to North America. They are distinguished from other leporids (hares and rabbits) by their longer legs, wider nostrils and active (precocial) young.[5] The Corsican hare, broom hare and Granada hare were at one time considered to be subspecies of the European hare, but DNA sequencing and morphological analysis support their status as separate species.[6][7]
There is some debate as to whether the European hare and the Cape hare are the same species. A 2005 nuclear gene pool study suggested that they are,[8] but a 2006 study of the mitochondrial DNA of these same animals concluded that they had diverged sufficiently widely to be considered separate species.[9] A 2008 study claims that in the case of Lepus species, with their rapid evolution, species designation cannot be based solely on mtDNA but should also include an examination of the nuclear gene pool. It is possible that the genetic differences between the European and Cape hare are due to geographic separation rather than actual divergence. It has been speculated that in the Near East, hare populations are intergrading and experiencing gene flow.[10] Another 2008 study suggests that more research is needed before a conclusion is reached as to whether a species complex exists;[11] the European hare remains classified as a single species until further data contradicts this assumption.[1]
Cladogenetic analysis suggests that European hares survived the last glacial period during the Pleistocene via refugia in southern Europe (Italian peninsula and Balkans) and Asia Minor. Subsequent colonisations of Central Europe appear to have been initiated by human-caused environmental changes.[12] Genetic diversity in current populations is high with no signs of inbreeding. Gene flow appears to be biased towards males, but overall populations are matrilineally structured. There appears to be a particularly large degree of genetic diversity in hares in the North Rhine-Westphalia region of Germany. It is however possible that restricted gene flow could reduce genetic diversity within populations that become isolated.[13]
Historically, up to 30 subspecies of European hare have been described, although their status has been disputed.[5] These subspecies have been distinguished by differences in pelage colouration, body size, external body measurements, skull morphology and tooth shape.[14] Sixteen subspecies are listed in the IUCN red book, following Hoffmann and Smith (2005): Lepus europaeus caspicus, L. e. connori, L. e. creticus, L. e. cyprius, L. e. cyrensis, L. e. europaeus, L. e. hybridus, L. e. judeae, L. e. karpathorum, L. e. medius, L. e. occidentalis, L. e. parnassius, L. e. ponticus, L. e. rhodius, L. e. syriacus, and L. e. transsylvanicus.[15] Twenty-nine subspecies are listed by Chapman and Flux in their book on lagomorphs, including in addition L. e. alba, L. e. argenteogrisea, L. e. biarmicus, L. e. borealis, L. e. caspicus, L. e. caucasicus, L. e. flavus, L. e. gallaecius, L. e. hispanicus, L. e. hyemalis, L. e. granatensis, L. e. iturissius, L. e. kalmykorum, L. e. meridiei, L. e. meridionalis, L. e. niethammeri, L. e. niger, L. e. tesquorum, and L. e. tumak, but excluding L. e. connori, L. e. creticus, L. e. cyprius, L. e. judeae, L. e. rhodius, and L. e. syriacus, with the proviso that the subspecies they list are of "very variable status".[5]
Description
The European hare, like other members of the family Leporidae, is a fast-running terrestrial mammal; it has eyes set high on the sides of its head, long ears and a flexible neck. Its teeth grow continuously, the first incisors being modified for gnawing while the second incisors are peg-like and non-functional. There is a gap (diastema) between the incisors and the cheek teeth, the latter being adapted for grinding coarse plant material. The dental formula is 2/1, 0/0, 3/2, 3/3.[16][17] The dark limb musculature of hares is adapted for high-speed endurance running in open country. By contrast, cottontail rabbits are built for short bursts of speed in more vegetated habitats.[5][18] Other adaptions for high speed running in hares include wider nostrils and larger hearts.[5] In comparison to the European rabbit, the hare has a proportionally smaller stomach and caecum.[19]
This hare is one of the largest of the lagomorphs. Its head and body length can range from 60 to 75 cm (24 to 30 in) with a tail length of 7.2 to 11 cm (2.8 to 4.3 in). The body mass is typically between 3 and 5 kg (6.6 and 11.0 lb).[20] The hare's elongated ears range from 9.4 to 11.0 cm (3.7 to 4.3 in) from the notch to tip. It also has long hind feet that have a length of between 14 and 16 cm (5.5 and 6.3 in).[21] The skull has nasal bones that are short, but broad and heavy. The supraorbital ridge has well-developed anterior and posterior lobes and the lacrimal bone projects prominently from the anterior wall of the orbit.[20]
The fur colour is grizzled yellow-brown on the back; rufous on the shoulders, legs, neck and throat; white on the underside and black on the tail and ear tips.[21] The fur on the back is typically longer and more curled than on the rest of the body.[5] The European hare's fur does not turn completely white in the winter as is the case with some other members of the genus,[21] although the sides of the head and base of the ears do develop white areas and the hip and rump region may gain some grey.[5]
Range and habitat
European hares are native to much of continental Europe and part of Asia. Their range extends from northern Spain to southern Scandinavia, eastern Europe, and northern parts of Western and Central Asia. They have been extending their range into Siberia.[5] They may have been introduced to Britain by the Romans (circa 2000 years ago) as there are no records of them from earlier sites. Undocumented introductions likely occurred in some Mediterranean Islands.[22] They have also been introduced, mostly as game animals, to North America (in Ontario and New York State, and unsuccessfully in Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and Connecticut), South America (Brazil, Chile, Argentina, Uruguay, Paraguay, Bolivia, Peru and the Falkland Islands), Australia, both islands of New Zealand and the south Pacific coast of Russia.[5][21][23]
Hares primarily live in open fields with scattered brush for shelter. They are very adaptable and thrive in mixed farmland.[5] According to a study done in the Czech Republic, the mean hare densities were highest at altitudes below 200 metres (660 ft), 40 to 60 days of annual snow cover, 450 to 700 millimetres (18 to 28 in) of annual precipitation, and a mean annual air temperature of around 10 °C (50 °F). With regards to climate, the study found that hare densities were highest in "warm and dry districts with mild winters".[24] In Poland, hares are most abundant in areas with few forest edges, perhaps because foxes can use these for cover. They require cover, such as hedges, ditches and permanent cover areas, because these habitats supply the varied diet they require, and are found at lower densities in large open fields. Intensive cultivation of the land results in greater mortality of young hares (leverets).[25]
In the United Kingdom, hares are seen most frequently on arable farms, especially those with fallow land, wheat and sugar beet crops. In mainly grass farms their numbers are raised when there are improved pastures, some arable crops and patches of woodland. They are seen less frequently where foxes are abundant or where there are many buzzards. They also seem to be fewer in number in areas with high European rabbit populations,[26] although there appears to be little interaction between the two species and no aggression.[27] Although hares are shot as game when they are plentiful, this is a self-limiting activity and is less likely to occur in localities where they are scarce.[26]
Behaviour and life history
Hares are primarily nocturnal and spend a third of their time foraging.[5] During daytime, a hare hides in a depression in the ground called a "form" where it is partially hidden. Hares can run at 70 km/h (43 mph) and when confronted by predators they rely on outrunning them in the open. They are generally thought of as asocial but can be seen in both large and small groups. They do not appear to be territorial, living in shared home ranges of around 300 ha (740 acres). Hares communicate with each other by a variety of visual signals. To show interest they raise their ears, while lowering the ears warns others to keep away. When challenging a conspecific, a hare thumps its front feet; the hind feet are used to warn others of a predator. A hare squeals when hurt or scared and a female makes "guttural" calls to attract her young.[21] Hares can live for as long as twelve years.[1]
Food and foraging
European hares are primarily herbivorous. They may forage for wild grasses and weeds but with the intensification of agriculture, they have taken to feeding on crops when preferred foods are not available.[1] During the spring and summer, they feed on soy, clover and corn poppy[28] as well as grasses and herbs.[21] During autumn and winter, they primarily choose winter wheat, and are also attracted to piles of sugar beet and carrots provided for them by hunters.[28] They also eat twigs, buds and the bark of shrubs and young fruit trees during winter.[21] Cereal crops are usually avoided when other more attractive foods are available, the species appearing to prefer high energy foodstuffs over crude fibre.[29] When eating twigs, hares strip off the bark to access the vascular tissues which store soluble carbohydrates. Compared to the European rabbit, food passes through the gut more rapidly in the hare, although digestion rates are similar.[19] They sometimes eat their own green, faecal pellets to recover undigested proteins and vitamins.[20] Two to three adult hares can eat more food than a single sheep.[21]
European hares forage in groups. Group feeding is beneficial as individuals can spend more time feeding knowing that other hares are being vigilant. Nevertheless, the distribution of food affects these benefits. When food is well-spaced, all hares are able to access it. When food is clumped together, only dominant hares can access it. In small gatherings, dominants are more successful in defending food, but as more individuals join in, they must spend more time driving off others. The larger the group, the less time dominant individuals have in which to eat. Meanwhile, the subordinates can access the food while the dominants are distracted. As such, when in groups, all individuals fare worse when food is clumped as opposed to when it is widely spaced.[30]
Mating and reproduction
European hares have a prolonged breeding season which lasts from January to August.[31][32] Females, or does, can be found pregnant in all breeding months and males, or bucks, are fertile all year round except during October and November. After this hiatus, the size and activity of the males' testes increase, signalling the start of a new reproductive cycle. This continues through December, January and February when the reproductive tract gains back its functionality. Matings start before ovulation occurs and the first pregnancies of the year often result in a single foetus, with pregnancy failures being common. Peak reproductive activity occurs in March and April, when all females may be pregnant, the majority with three or more foetuses.[32]
The mating system of the hare has been described as both polygynous (single males mating with multiple females) and promiscuous.[33] Females have six-weekly reproductive cycles and are receptive for only a few hours at a time, making competition among local bucks intense.[31] At the height of the breeding season, this phenomenon is known as "March madness",[32] when the normally nocturnal bucks are forced to be active in the daytime. In addition to dominant animals subduing subordinates, the female fights off her numerous suitors if she is not ready to mate. Fights can be vicious and can leave numerous scars on the ears.[31] In these encounters, hares stand upright and attack each other with their paws, a practice known as "boxing", and this activity is usually between a female and a male and not between competing males as was previously believed.[21][34] When a doe is ready to mate, she runs across the countryside, starting a chase that tests the stamina of the following males. When only the fittest male remains, the female stops and allows him to copulate.[31] Female fertility continues through May, June and July, but testosterone production decreases in males and sexual behaviour becomes less overt. Litter sizes decrease as the breeding season draws to a close with no pregnancies occurring after August. The testes of males begin to regress and sperm production ends in September.[32]
Does give birth in hollow depressions in the ground. An individual female may have three litters in a year with a 41- to 42-day gestation period. The young have an average weigh of around 130 grams (4.6 oz) at birth.[35] The leverets are fully furred and are precocial, being ready to leave the nest soon after they are born, an adaptation to the lack of physical protection relative to that afforded by a burrow.[21] Leverets disperse during the day and come together in the evening close to where they were born. Their mother visits them for nursing soon after sunset; the young suckle for around five minutes, urinating while they do so, with the doe licking up the fluid. She then leaps away so as not to leave an olfactory trail, and the leverets disperse once more.[21][36] Young can eat solid food after two weeks and are weaned when they are four weeks old.[21] While young of either sex commonly explore their surroundings,[37] natal dispersal tends to be greater in males.[33][38] Sexual maturity occurs at seven or eight months for females and six months for males.[1]
Mortality and health
European hares are large leporids and adults can only be tackled by large predators such as canids, felids and the largest birds of prey.[20] In Poland it was found that the consumption of hares by foxes was at its highest during spring, when the availability of small animal prey was low; at this time of year, hares may constitute up to 50% of the biomass eaten by foxes, with 50% of the mortality of adult hares being caused by their predation.[39] In Scandinavia, a natural epizootic of sarcoptic mange which reduced the population of red foxes dramatically, resulted in an increase in the number of European hares, which returned to previous levels when the numbers of foxes subsequently increased.[40] The golden eagle preys on the European hare in the Alps, the Carpathians, the Apennines and northern Spain.[41] In North America, foxes and coyotes are probably the most common predators, with bobcats and lynx also preying on them in more remote locations.[35]
European hares have both external and internal parasites. One study found that 54% of animals in Slovakia were parasitised by nematodes and over 90% by coccidia.[42] In Australia, European hares were reported as being infected by four species of nematode, six of coccidian, several liver flukes and two canine tapeworms. They were also found to host rabbit fleas (Spilopsyllus cuniculi), stickfast fleas (Echidnophaga myrmecobii), lice (Haemodipsus setoni and H. lyriocephalus), and mites (Leporacarus gibbus).[43]
European brown hare syndrome (EBHS) is a disease caused by a calicivirus similar to that causing rabbit haemorrhagic disease (RHS) and can similarly be fatal, but cross infection between the two mammal species does not occur.[44] Other threats to the hare are pasteurellosis, yersiniosis (pseudo-tuberculosis), coccidiosis and tularaemia, which are the principal sources of mortality.[45]
Relationship with humans
In folklore, literature, and art
In Europe, the hare has been a symbol of sex and fertility since at least Ancient Greece. The Greeks associated it with the gods Dionysus, Aphrodite and Artemis as well as with satyrs and cupids. The Christian Church connected the hare with lustfulness and homosexuality, but also associated it with the persecution of the church because of the way it was commonly hunted.[46]
In Northern Europe, Easter imagery often involves hares or rabbits. Citing folk Easter customs in Leicestershire, England, where "the profits of the land called Harecrop Leys were applied to providing a meal which was thrown on the ground at the 'Hare-pie Bank'", the 19th-century scholar Charles Isaac Elton proposed a possible connection between these customs and the worship of Ēostre.[47] In his 19th-century study of the hare in folk custom and mythology, Charles J. Billson cites folk customs involving the hare around Easter in Northern Europe, and argues that the hare was probably a sacred animal in prehistoric Britain's festival of springtime.[48] Observation of the hare's springtime mating behaviour led to the popular English idiom "mad as a March hare",[46] with similar phrases from the sixteenth century writings of John Skelton and Sir Thomas More onwards.[49] The mad hare reappears in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, in which Alice participates in a crazy tea party with the March Hare and the Mad Hatter.[50]
Any connection of the hare to Ēostre is doubtful. John Andrew Boyle cites an etymology dictionary by A. Ernout and A. Meillet, who wrote that the lights of Ēostre were carried by hares, that Ēostre represented spring fecundity, love and sexual pleasure. Boyle responds that almost nothing is known about Ēostre, and that the authors had seemingly accepted the identification of Ēostre with the Norse goddess Freyja, but that the hare is not associated with Freyja either. Boyle adds that "when the authors speak of the hare as the 'companion of Aphrodite and of satyrs and cupids' and 'in the Middle Ages [the hare] appears beside the figure of [mythological] Luxuria', they are on much surer ground."[51]
The hare is a character in some fables, such as The Tortoise and the Hare of Aesop.[52] The story was annexed to a philosophical problem by Zeno of Elea, who created a set of paradoxes to support Parmenides' attack on the idea of continuous motion, as each time the hare (or the hero Achilles) moves to where the tortoise was, the tortoise moves just a little further away.[53][54] The German Renaissance artist Albrecht Dürer realistically depicted a hare in his 1502 watercolour painting Young Hare.[55]
Food and hunting
Across Europe, over five million European hares are shot each year, making it probably the most important game mammal on the continent. This popularity has threatened regional varieties such as those of France and Denmark, through large-scale importing of hares from Eastern European countries such as Hungary.[5] Hares have traditionally been hunted in Britain by beagling and hare coursing. In beagling, the hare is hunted with a pack of small hunting dogs, beagles, followed by the human hunters on foot. In Britain, the 2004 Hunting Act banned hunting of hares with dogs, so the 60 beagle packs now use artificial "trails", or may legally continue to hunt rabbits.[56] Hare coursing with greyhounds was once an aristocratic pursuit, forbidden to lower social classes.[57] More recently, informal hare coursing became a lower class activity and was conducted without the landowner's permission;[58] it is also now illegal.[59]
Hare is traditionally cooked by jugging: a whole hare is cut into pieces, marinated and cooked slowly with red wine and juniper berries in a tall jug that stands in a pan of water. It is traditionally served with (or briefly cooked with) the hare's blood and port wine.[60][61] Hare can also be cooked in a casserole.[62] The meat is darker and more strongly flavoured than that of rabbits. Young hares can be roasted; the meat of older hares becomes too tough for roasting, and may be slow-cooked.[61][63]
Status
The European hare has a wide range across Europe and western Asia and has been introduced to a number of other countries around the globe, often as a game species. In general it is considered moderately abundant in its native range,[13] but declines in populations have been noted in many areas since the 1960s. These have been associated with the intensification of agricultural practices.[64] The hare is an adaptable species and can move into new habitats, but it thrives best when there is an availability of a wide variety of weeds and other herbs to supplement its main diet of grasses.[1] The hare is considered a pest in some areas; it is more likely to damage crops and young trees in winter when there are not enough alternative foodstuffs available.[21]
The International Union for Conservation of Nature has evaluated the European hare's conservation status as being of least concern. However, at low population densities, hares are vulnerable to local extinctions as the available gene pool declines, making inbreeding more likely. This is the case in northern Spain and in Greece, where the restocking by hares brought from outside the region has been identified as a threat to regional gene pools. To counteract this, a captive breeding program has been implemented in Spain, and the relocation of some individuals from one location to another has increased genetic variety.[1] The Bern Convention lists the hare under Appendix III as a protected species.[26] Several countries, including Norway, Germany, Austria and Switzerland,[1] have placed the species on their Red Lists as "near threatened" or "threatened".
Hummingbirds love nectar from flowers, but will come to the feeders as long as the sugar water is clean and fresh.
These RAW photos were taken while lying on my back, looking up with my camera, under the hummingbird feeder hanging from the corner of the screened-in porch. I only cropped them.
“The construction of beams
brings the fruition of dreams.
The casting of steel
makes your fantasy real…”
Read this post on a little virtual keyhole ☂
Love and sparkles,
Dea
This is a top-to-bottom pano, inspired by MJ Northern's bikini stitching technique. With a rented 24mm PC-E I was able to try out MJ's technique on a subject that needed it. This is an exposure fusion of 2 images, with a SB-800 thru Gary Fong lightsphere CR to spotlight the drawers. Cropped to 4:5 aspect ratio.
Another STP working captured on a Sunday, as 66569 works north towards Craven Arms with a spent ballast engineers from Severn Tunnel Junction to Crewe Basford Hall. The former Onibury Station House is visible at the rear of the train.
The Marches is pretty devoid of freight traffic with the lack of coal workings, and less frequent steel trips to Shotton too, so anything is a bonus. Sunday 7.2.16
For the Phoenix Railway Photographic Circle on-line Journal - click on the link:
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie. Lettice is visiting her old family home for the wedding of Leslie to Arabella, the daughter of their neighbours, Lord Sherbourne and Lady Isobel Tyrwhitt. She has come a few days earlier than the other family members who are coming to stay at Glynes for the significant event.
Alighting from the London train at Glynes village railway station, Lettice is quickly swept away to the house by Harris, the chauffer, in the Chetwynd’s 1912 Daimler. As the Daimler purrs up the gravel driveway, Bramley, the Chetwynd’s butler, steps through the front door followed by Marsen, the liveried first footman. Descending the stairs Marsden pads across the crunching gravel and opens the door of the Daimler for Lettice.
“Welcome home, My Lady,” Bramley greets her with an open smile as she walks up the steps to the front door. “What a pleasure it is to see you back again.”
“Thank you Bramley,” she replies with a satisfied smile and a sigh as she looks up at the classical columned portico of her beloved childhood home basking in the weakening autumnal sunshine of the late morning. “It’s good to be home.”
She sweeps into the lofty classical Adam style entrance hall of Glynes where she waits for Bramley to accept her gloves, her fox fur stole and her grey travelling coat.
“How was the train journey from London, My Lady?” Bramley asks Lettice as helps her shirk her coat from her shoulders, revealing a smart silvery grey frock with a sailor collar, a double rope of perfect pearls given to her by her parents as a coming of age birthday gift about her neck.
“Oh, quite pleasant, thank you Bramley.”
“Her Ladyship is expecting you in the morning room.”
“I’ll just go upstairs and freshen up first.” Lettice points to her escape route up the stairs to her bedroom up on the third floor of the mansion.
“Very good My Lady. However… I should…” Bramley adds with a touch of hesitation. Sighing he continues, “Master Lionel has arrived home from British East Africa*.”
Lettice feels all the happiness she felt moments ago at returning to her childhood home for the wonderful occasion of her eldest brother’s wedding dissipate at the mere mention of her other brother’s name. Her face falls and the sparkle in her eyes is extinguished by a darkness. “Oh.” she mumbles, as she deposits her gloves in Bramley’s open and expectant hand.
“I… I thought you were better pre-warned, My Lady.” Bramley says dourly. “Her Ladyship has been anxious awaiting your arrival. She will wan….”
As if on cue, one of the double doors to the morning room just down the passageway opens with a squeak of door handles, the pop of a lock and the rasp of old wood.
“Ahh, Lettice!” Lady Sadie’s head crowned with her well-coiffed grey hair pops around the panelled door and smiles rather forcefully.
The older woman slips out the door, closing it quietly behind her before marching brusquely down the hall towards her daughter, the louis heels of her shoes clipping loudly on the parquetry floor beneath her.
“Thank god you’re here at last!” she sighs quietly with relief as she reaches her daughter’s side and places a hand heavily upon her forearm. “I thought you would never get here! I simply don’t think I can cope alone much longer with both your brother and Eglantine together in the same room.” She breathes heavily, as if her heart is under a major strain. “You must come and rescue me, at once.”
“But I was about to…” Lettice begins, gesticulating to the stairs.
“At once!” Lady Sadie demurs commandingly.
“Shall I bring some fresh tea, Your Ladyship?” Bramley asks.
“I’d prefer a dubonnet and gin at this moment.” Lady Sadie sighs, much to the surprise of both her unflappable faithful retainer and her daughter, both of whom exchange astonished glances. “My nerves are positively shot with Lionel and Eglantine to entertain all my own,” She looks accusingly at her daughter, as if she were responsible for the train arrival times from London. “And your father and brother conveniently nowhere in sight.”
“They’ll be out on estate business, Mamma.” Lettice chides her mother gently, as she unpins her hat from her head and passes it to the butler.
“It’s more convenience if you ask me.” She sniffs and stiffens, a steely haughtiness hardening the few softened edges of her face. “Considering the time of day, tea will have to suffice. Yes, Bramley. A fresh pot if you would, and some more biscuits if you can manage it.” Turning to Lettice she adds, “Your aunt always did have an over indulged sweet tooth, even during the war when we were on rations, and it seems that your brother has developed an unhealthy love of sugar during his time in Nairobi.”
“Very good, Your Ladyship.” Bramley says as he discreetly retreats with Lettice’s hat.
Wrapping her arm through Lettice’s, Lady Sadie forcefully guides her daughter towards the closed morning room door. “I know Emmery usually takes care of you when you are here, Lettice, but your Aunt Gladys’ maid has caught the flu, at the most inconvenient of times. So, Eglantine has graciously offered to share her maid with you.”
“Oh Mamma!” Lettice exclaims exasperatedly, her stomach tightening as they draw closer to the door. “I really don’t need a lady’s maid. I’m quite independent in London you know. It is 1922 after all – nearly 1923.”
“Now, now!” Lady Sadie scolds. “I can’t have idle servants’ gossip below stairs. What would the maids from the other guests think if their hostess’ daughter declines the use of a lady’s maid? Next, they’ll be calling you a bluestocking**!” Lettice rolls her eyes. “No!” Lady Sadie pressed her right hand firmly over Lettice’s left one. “We’ll just make up an excuse that your maid was taken ill too. In saying that, I can’t believe that Eglantine brought that awful girl!”
“Who, Lise?” Lettice queries, referring to her aunt’s lady’s maid by her first name. When Lady Sadie nods, she continues, “I’ve always found Lise to be very sweet and obliging.”
“It’s not her manner I mind,” the older woman lowers her voice. “It’s her cultural heritage that offends me.”
“Oh Mamma! How many times must you be told? Lise, just like Augusta and Clotilde, are Swiss, not German.”
“Swiss, German, it matters not! They are still foreign!” Lady Sadie snaps. “Eglantine always was contrary. Why on earth she had to have a foreigner when a good English lady’s maid would have been perfectly comparable is beyond my comprehension.”
“Well perhaps it’s…” Lettice begins, but her retort is cut short as her mother depresses the door handle to the morning room and pushes it open.”
“Here she is!” Lady Sadie announces brightly with false bonhomie to the guests sitting in her chairs. “Lettice is here at last!”
The Glynes morning room is very much Lady Sadie’s preserve, and the original classical Eighteenth Century design has been overlayed with the comfortable Edwardian clutter of her continual and conspicuous acquisition that is the hallmark of a lady of her age and social standing. China cabinets of beautiful porcelain line the walls. Clusters of mismatched chairs unholstered in cream fabric, tables and a floral chaise lounge, all from different eras, fill the room: set up to allow for the convivial conversation of the great and good of the county after church on a Sunday. The hand painted Georgian wallpaper can barely be seen for paintings and photographs in ornate gilded frames. The marble mantelpiece is covered by Royal Doulton figurines and more photos in silver frames. Several vases of Glynes’ hothouse flowers stand on occasional tables, but even their fragrance cannot smother Lady Sadie’s Yardley Lily of the Valley scent which is ever present in the air.
“Well, if it isn’t my favourite nice!” Eglantine, known by all the Chetwnd children by the affectionate diminutive name of ‘Aunt Egg’, exclaims as she sits regally in the straight-backed chair next to Sadie’s soft upholstered wingback chair.
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, held in place by an ornate tortoiseshell comb. Sitting with perfect posture in her chair with her arms resting lightly on the arms, she looks positively regal. Large chandelier earrings containing sparking diamonds hang from her lobes whilst strings of pearls and bright beads cascade down the front 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 strikingly beautiful shades of sea blue.
“Hullo Aunt Egg.” Lettice replies as she walks over to her aunt’s seated figure and kisses her first on one proffered cheek and then the other as her aunt’s elegant, yet gnarled fingers covered in rings reach up and clench her forearms firmly. “I keep saying that I’m sure you say that to Lally and all our female cousins.”
“And I keep telling you that you will never know until after I’m gone.” her aunt laughs raspily in reply. “For then the truth will be known through the disbursement of my jewels. To my favourite, or favourites, go the spoils!”
“Oh Aunt Egg!” Lettice scoffs. “You really mustn’t talk like that.”
“Eglantine always talks like that.” mutters Lady Sadie disapprovingly as she resumes her own seat.
“I wish I was six feet under when I can’t even smoke one of my Sobranies****.” Eglantine quips sulkily. “But your mother won’t let me smoke in here.”
“It’s undignified for a lady to smoke in public.” Sadie defends.
“I thought that we were in private, dear Sadie.”
“Don’t be so literal Eglantine, or are you being obtuse on purpose?” Sadie asks. Eglantine smiles mischievously behind one of her hands at the rise she has gained from her detested sister-in-law. “It’s undignified for a lady to smoke. Anyway, this is my house, so I should be allowed to make the rules.”
“Hullo Lettuce Leaf!” comes a male voice to Lettice’s right, its well-modulated tones dripping with a mixture of mirth, mischief and malice.
Cringing at the use of her abhorred childhood nickname, Lettice turns her head, to where her brother, Lionel’s reclining form lies amidst the overstuffed confines of their mother’s floral chaise lounge, where he flips rather languidly through a more recent copy of Lady Sadie’s Elite Styles*****. He looks up at her and purses his thin lips in what Lettice can only presume is his version of a mean smile, but looks more like he just smelt fresh horse droppings.
“Lionel.” Lettice says laconically in a peevish tone, returning his steely gaze of her with her own.
“Your brother has just been regaling us with wild tales of his horse breeding in British East Africa,” Eglantine remarks cheerfully, blissfully unaware of the animosity radiating already between the two siblings. “Haven’t you, my darling boy!” She lets go of Lettice and reaches over to her nephew’s hand, which he proffers to her so she can grasp it lovingly.
Lettice casts her eyes critically over her brother. His looks have changed over the three years of his exile to Kenya after fathering illegitimate children to not one, but two of the Glynes maids and the dullard daughter of one of their father’s tenant farmers in the space of one year. He has lost the softness of entitlement that he had, replaced now by a more muscular ranginess created through the exertions of breeding horses on a high altitude stud on the slopes of the Aberdare Range******. The African sun has bleached his sandy tresses blonde, a change made even more noticeable by the golden sunbathed pallor of his face. Yet for all these changes, Lionel still has blue eyes as cold as chips of ice, full of hatred, and a mean and malevolent smile beneath his equally mean little strip pencil moustache as he looks at her with barely contained detestation. Lettice shudders and looks away.
“It looks as though the Kenyan climate agrees with you, Lionel,” Lettice concedes. “You look remarkably well.”
“I am well, my dear little sister.” he replies in a rather bored tone. “The sun is glorious out there: full and rich, not like the weak version shining here.”
“Sit here, Lettice my dear.” Eglantine insists, standing up, snatching up her Royal Doulton rose decorated teacup and gliding around the table on which sits the remains of morning tea.
“Oh no, Aunt Egg.” Lettice protests. “I’ll be quite fine…”
“Nonsense, my dear.” Eglantine settles into the ornate Victorian salon chair of unidentifiable style opposite, the hem of her gown pooling around her feet like a cascade of water. “Your mother and I have had all morning to chat with Lionel. You two are the closest in age, and besides, you haven’t seen each other in three years, so I’m sure you have a lot to catch up on.”
Just at that moment there is a discreet knock at the door.
“Come.” calls out Lady Sadie commandingly from her throne by the cracking fire.
The door is opened by Moira, one of the Chetwynd’s maids who has taken to assisting wait table at breakfast and luncheon on informal occasions since the war, who walks into the morning room holding the door open for Bramley, who steps across the threshold carrying a silver salver on which stand a fresh pot of tea and coffee, milk, sugar and a cup matching the others already being used for Lettice.
“You had better have brought more of those biscuits, Bramley!” Lionel snaps at the butler, carelessly tossing the magazine he had in his thin hands aside onto the floral pouffe that acts as a barrier between he and his sister, the magazine clipping his cup, which rattles emptily as it jostles in its saucer. “A man needs to eat!”
“Yes Sir.” Bramley replies obsequiously, politely ignoring Lionel’s rudeness as he carefully slides the tray, on which stands a plate of fresh colourful cream biscuits, onto the round central table as Moira picks up the tray of used tea implements to take away.
As Moira straightens up, Lionel catches her eye and gives her a conspiratorial wink, making the maid smirk and colour flood her cheeks. Although not noticed by Lady Sadie or Eglantine who are now engaged in a conversation about flowers for the wedding, Lettice’s sharp eye doesn’t miss the silent exchange between the two, and as Moira curtseys to her mistress, Lettice makes a mental note to have a word with the Chetwynd’s housekeeper, Mrs. Casterton, later, and remind her to have her warn not only Moira, but all the new maids on the staff about her brother’s roué ways.
“I see you haven’t changed, Lionel.” Lettice remarks dryly as she takes her seat next to her abhorred brother, glancing meaningfully between him and the retreating figure of Moira.
“Evidently neither have you, Lettuce Leaf.” Lionel smirks with unbridled delight as his sister cringes yet again at the mention of her nickname. “You always were the Chetwynd with the sharpest eye. I should have aimed better at you with my slingshot when I was eight and you were six.” He shuffles forward on the chaise and snatches three biscuits greedily from the gilt edged plate before shuffling back with them, tossing two carelessly onto his saucer with a clatter and placing the remaining one to his lips. “If I’d had a sharper eye, I’d have had better aim. If I’d had better aim, I could have blinded you like I wanted to. If I’d blinded you, in one eye at least, it would have saved me a lot of trouble later in life, and banishment to the wilds of Africa.”
“You always were cruel to me,” Lettice mutters bitterly with a shiver as she remembers the sharp pain of the stone at it hit her temple and imbedded itself into her flesh. “To all of us, really. Lally, even Leslie,” She reaches up and rubs the spot where a faint scar still remains from the gash left by the stone shot from her brother’s catapult. “But cruellest of all to me. You savoured every hurt you could inflict on me.”
“Survival of the fittest, my dear Lettuce Leaf.” He bites meaningfully into the biscuit, growling menacingly, imitating a wild beast tearing at the flesh of its kill.
“You’re a brute, Lionel.” Lettice looks away in disgust. She reaches out and takes up the teacup Bramley brought her and pours tea into her cup.
“Top me up, Lettuce Leaf!” Lionel pipes up loudly.
“Oh!” gasps Eglantine from across the table. “I haven’t heard you called that for years, Lettice.” She chortles happily. “Haven’t you two grown out of calling each other childhood nicknames?” she remarks good naturedly, picking up her cup.
“Evidently not, Aunt Egg.” Lettice replies with false good humour.
From her wingback chair Sadie quickly glances with concern at her two youngest children before turning back to Eglantine and answering her question.
Lettice deposits her cup on the table between she and her mother and then reaches for the teapot. She leans over towards her brother, who indicates with lowered lids and a commanding nod towards his empty cup, however she ignores his lofty silent demand and hovers with the pot’s spout over Lionel’s groin.
“You wouldn’t dare.” Lionel snarls viscously as he glances with irritation at his sister.
“Oh, wouldn’t I?” She tilts the pot slightly, making Lionel flinch and squirm on the chaise in an attempt to avoid any hot tea hitting and burning him in such a sensitive area. Seeing his reaction, she smiles and returns the pot to an upright position in her hand. “I’m not the frightened little girl you said goodbye to here three years ago, Lionel.” she warns him quietly. “I live independently in London now, and I’m a lot more worldly than I was.”
“Slut!” he hisses.
His insult slices Lettice to the bone, but steeling herself, she remains poised and unflinching as she tilts the pot down again, this time allowing the smallest amount of hot tea to escape the spout. It splatters onto a cream coloured rose printed on the fabric of the chaise and is quickly absorbed. “Is that the kind of parlance fashionable in Nairobi these days?” she asks mockingly in a falsely sweet tone.
“I’ll tell you what I do know, my dear little sister, having been a damn good racehorse breeder these last three years.”
“And what’s that Lionel?” Lettice proceeds to pour tea into her brother’s empty cup.
“I can tell that you’re still a stupid little filly who needs a good siring from a stallion.” He gently grinds his groin back and forth, representing the act.
Unflinching, Lettice replies breezily, “Oh, so you’ve learned about animal husbandry whilst you’ve been away. Good.” She leans closer to Lionel. “But your use of that language and vulgar and unnecessary demonstration just makes me feel even more disgusted by you.” She screws up her nose in distaste and looks down upon him.
Undeterred, determined not to be outdone and to inflict hurt on his little sister, Lionel continues, “Mater told me that here you are at twenty-two and you’re still an old maid, despite her attempts to get you married off.”
“In case you’ve forgotten Lionel, there has been a war, and a whole generation of men far better than you have been wiped out.”
“Mater would happily foist you off onto any unwitting fool of a man, war cripple or otherwise that would have you. However, it appears that there are no takers: not even a shellshock victim or a blind veteran. If that’s what you call living an independent life, I pity you, Lettuce Leaf - shrivelled and dried up old Lettuce Leaf, trodden on and soiled, Lettuce Leaf.”
“I have a good life in London, I’ll have you know, Lionel. I run my own business now.”
“Oh yes, Mater told me that you’re pursuing this little interior design charade of yours to fill the gap that no husband will fill.”
“And I happen to be very good at what I do.” Lettice speaks determinedly over her brother’s hurtful words.
“If you say so, dear.” Lionel sneers. “Pass me the milk and the sugar.”
“I’ve been very successful” Lettice passes him the sugar bowl.
“Going to snitch to Pater and Mater again, are you, you little worm?” Lionel shakes his head as he hands the sucrier back to his sister. “Just like you did three years ago.”
“If I think there is a necessity, Lionel.” Lettice remarks as she returns the sugar bowl and takes up the milk jug. Leaning down in a pretence of adding milk to his tea, she quietly whispers to Lionel, “Have I cause to do so?”
“What?” Lionel snorts derisively as he takes the jug roughly from her. “With that little filly?” He glances to the door through which Moira exited with Bramley. “Fear not, my plucky little sister. My tastes have changed since I was forced to leave here.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” Lettice scoffs. “A leopard, his spots and all that.”
“No, I have, I assure you. I prefer mares now. The quality is better.”
“What are you insinuating, Lionel?”
“Well, despite Pater’s attempt to punish me for my dalliances: for the sewing of my wild oats,” Lettice looks away in abhorrence yet again as Lionel reaches down and rubs his inner thigh lasciviously. “He’s actually landed me in heaven on earth by sending me to Kenya.”
“Heaven?”
“Yes. The Muthaiga Club******* is full of hedonistic aristocrats, adventurers and elite colonial ex-pats,”
“No wonder you feel at home there.”
“Whose wives,” Lionel continues. “Are very bored in their husbands’ lengthy absences,” He hands her back the milk jug. “And their tiring presences. And unlike silly little fillies like the Moiras of this world, the mares know how not to get in the family way.”
“You sicken me, Lionel.” Lettice spits quietly.
In spite of her apparent engagement with Eglantine in conversation, Lady Sadie is keenly aware of the trouble brewing between er two children on the other side of the table, and her pale face crumples with concern.
“Nairobi is a veritable hotbed of drug taking and adultery,” Lionel goes on unabated. “Where promiscuity is de rigueur, little sister.” He smiles smugly as he takes a sip of his tea. “I was even taught a few things by the wife of a British peer who happens to be a good friend of Pater’s from his club!”
“Have you absolutely no shame?” Lettice asks in revulsion.
“Ahh, but that’s the good thing about Kenya. No-one has any need for shame there. Promiscuity and sexual prowess are badges of honour.”
“Then I’m sure you can’t wait to get back to your debauched lifestyle.”
“When I’m surrounded by British piety and hypocrisy here, my oath I am.”
“What are you two saying over there?” Lady Sadie pipes up nervously as she holds her cup and saucer in her lap.
“Oh, I was just asking Lionel when he has to go back to Kenya.” Lettice replies, looking gratefully to her mother for once.
“But he’s only just arrived, Lettice my dear!” chuckles Eglantine. “Surely you can’t want him to leave.”
“Oh it isn’t that, Eglantine,” Lady Sadie assures her sister-in-law. “It’s just that with the long journey both from British East Africa and back, he’ll have been away from the stud a good while, so he can only really stay until just after the wedding.”
“Oh really, Lionel?” Eglantine asks with a pout. “Can’t you even stay until Christmas? I don’t think we’ve had a Christmas with all you children under one roof since before the war.”
Knowing that his father, with whom he has a very strained relationship since being exiled in shame, only let him come back for Leslie and Arabella’s wedding for appearances’ sake, Lionel keeps up the pretence for his aunt’s sake and adds as he settles back into the scalloped back of the chaise, “Sorry Aunt Egg, but Mater is right. I’ll have been away from the farm for more than a month and a half by the time I get back.”
“But surely you have a steward you can leave in charge of the horse stud whilst you’re away.”
“Oh, I do, Aunt Egg.” Lionel agrees. “Capital chap too. Most capable.” He gazes down into his teacup. “However, it doesn’t pay to be away for too long. Kenya is full of treasure hunters and people on the make. I won’t let my stud suffer to line the pockets of, or up the prospects of, another man.”
“You always were competitive, even as child, my dear Lionel.” Eglantine smiles, shaking her head indulgently.
“Thinking of which, the Limru races will be coming up, not to mention the Kenya Derby******** so I have to be back for them!”
“Oooh!” Lettice sighs, raising her hand to her temple. “I think all this talk of wild Kenya is getting a bit much for me after my journey down from London.” She stands abruptly. “Would you all forgive me. I think I’d like to go to my room and lie down. I’m sure I’ll feel better after a short snooze and a freshen up.”
“Oh yes, do go up, Lettice.” Lady Sadie says soothingly, the look in her eyes betraying the fact that she knows how difficult it is for Lettice to even be in the same room as her brother. “It will be an hour or so before luncheon, so plenty of time to rest and recuperate. By that time your father and Leslie will be back from their estate rounds.” Turning to Eglantine she addresses her, “Eglantine, why don’t you and Lionel take a stroll around the gardens. I can’t stop you from smoking out of doors, and I’m sure Lionel would be happy to escort you.”
Lettice retreats, sighing with relief as she pulls the door of the morning room shut behind her, blocking out the hubbub of chatter. As she starts to retreat down the corridor, back to the main staircase, the door opens behind her and Lady Sadie slips out.
She scuttles up to her daughter. For the first time today, Lettice notices how pale and drawn her mother looks. Her pallor isn’t helped by her choice of a burnt orange coloured blouse, yet Lettice sees the dark circles under her eyes.
“Thank you for that, Lettice. I know that wasn’t easy for you.”
Lettice is stunned by her mother’s gracious acknowledgement and more so her thanks.
“Don’t worry,” Lady Sadie continues. “He’ll be gone the day after the wedding.” She heaves a shuddering sigh.
“If I don’t murder him before then.” Lettice seethes angrily.
“Well, if you do, I’ll help you bury his body in the rose garden.” Lady Sadie remarks with a smirk in a rare show of humour. “Your father has seen to it that Lionel will leave on Thursday, threating to cut him off without a bean if he doesn’t go quickly and quietly. Goodness knows the total of Lionel’s chits from the Muthaiga Club your father could practically re-roof this place with.”
“He’s just the same Mamma.” Lettice says with exasperation. “He hasn’t changed at all. In fact, I think he’s worse than before he left. He’s so full of bravado and priggish male privilege.”
“I’ve already told Mrs. Casterton to keep a sharp eye on all the maids whilst he’s here.”
“That won’t be easy with Leslie and Bella’s wedding to host, Mamma. You’d be better to tell her to warn all the girls to be on their guard.”
“Hhhmmm…” Lady Sadie considers. “Very sensible, Lettice. We’ll make you a suitable chatelaine of your own fine house, yet.”
“Oh Mamma!” Lettice sighs.
“Only until Thursday.” the older woman repeats.
“Only until Thursday.” Lettice confirms in reply.
*The Colony and Protectorate of Kenya, commonly known as British Kenya or British East Africa, was part of the British Empire in Africa. It was established when the former East Africa Protectorate was transformed into a British Crown colony in 1920. Technically, the "Colony of Kenya" referred to the interior lands, while a 16 km (10 mi) coastal strip, nominally on lease from the Sultan of Zanzibar, was the "Protectorate of Kenya", but the two were controlled as a single administrative unit. The colony came to an end in 1963 when an ethnic Kenyan majority government was elected for the first time and eventually declared independence as the Republic of Kenya.
**The term bluestocking was applied to any of a group of women who in mid Eighteenth Century England held “conversations” to which they invited men of letters and members of the aristocracy with literary interests. The word over the passing centuries has come to be applied derisively to a woman who affects literary or learned interests.
***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 Balkan Sobranie tobacco business was established in London in 1879 by Albert Weinberg (born in Romania in 1849), whose naturalisation papers dated 1886 confirm his nationality and show that he had emigrated to England in the 1870s at a time when hand-made cigarettes in the eastern European and Russian tradition were becoming fashionable in Europe. Sobranie is one of the oldest cigarette brands in the world. Throughout its existence, Sobranie was marketed as the definition of luxury in the tobacco industry, being adopted as the official provider of many European royal houses and elites around the world including the Imperial Court of Russia and the royal courts of United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Spain, Romania, and Greece. Premium brands include the multi-coloured Sobranie Cocktail and the black and gold Sobranie Black Russian.
*****Elite Styles was one of the many glossy monthly magazines aimed at leisured middle and upper-class women, describing and illustrating the popular fashions of the era.
******The Aberdare Range (formerly the Sattima Range) is a one hundred mile long mountain range of upland, north of Kenya's capital Nairobi with an average elevation of thirteen thousand one hundred and thirty feet. It straddles across the counties of Nyandarua, Nyeri, Muranga, Kiambu and Laikipia.
*******The Muthaiga Club is a club in Nairobi. It is located in the suburb of Muthaiga, about fifteen minutes’ drive from the city centre. The Muthaiga Country Club opened on New Year's Eve in 1913, and became a gathering place for the colonial British settlers in British East Africa, which later became in 1920, the Colony of Kenya.
********The annual Kenya Derby has been held since 1914, originally at Kenya’s principal racecourse in Kariokor, near Nairobi’s centre until 1954 when it was moved to the newly erected Ngong Racecourse.
Cluttered with paintings, photographs and furnishings, Lady Sadie’s morning room with its Georgian and Victorian furnishings is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my collection including pieces from my own childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The silver tea set and silver galleried tray on the central table has been made with great attention to detail, and comes from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The gilt edged floral teacups, saucers and plates around the morning room come from a miniatures specialist stockist on E-Bay. The wonderful selection of biscuits on offer were made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.
The Elite Styles and Delineator magazines from 1922 sitting on the end of the chaise lounge and the floral pouffe were made by hand by Petite Gite Miniatures in the United States.
Lady Sadie’s morning room is furnished mostly with pieces from high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. Lady Sadie’s cream wingback armchair is a Chippendale piece, whilst the gilt decorated mahogany tables are Regency style, as is the straight backed chair with unpadded arms. The ornate mahogany corner chair is high Victorian in style. The desk and its matching chair is a Salon Reine design, hand painted and copied from an Eighteenth Century design. All the drawers open and it has a lidded rack at either end. The china cabinet to the left-hand side is Georgian revival and is lined with green velvet and fitted with glass shelves and a glass panelled door. The cream coloured footstool with gold tasselling came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The floral chaise lounge and footstool I acquired from a miniatures specialist stockist on E-Bay.
The china cabinet is full of miniature pieces of Limoges porcelain that were made in the 1950s. Pieces include a milk jug, three sugar bowls and two lidded powder bowls. Also 1950s Limoges porcelain is the vase on the far left of the photo on the Regency table holding pink roses. The roses themselves are handmade miniatures that come from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.
The fluted squat cranberry glass vase on the table to the right of the photo is an artisan miniature made of hand blown glass which also came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. Made of polymer clay that are moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements, the very realistic looking red and white tulips are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The tiny gilt cherub statue I have had since I was a teenager. I bought it from a high street stockist who specialised in dolls houses and doll house miniatures. Being only a centimetre in height and half a centimetre in diameter it has never been lost, even though I have moved a number of times in my life since its acquisition.
The plaster fireplace comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom as well, and the fire screen and fire pokers come from the same high street stockist who specialised in dolls houses and doll house miniatures as the cherub statue. I have also had these pieces since I was a teenager. The Royal Doulton style figurines on top the fireplace, 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 Chetwynd’s family photos seen on Lady Sadie’s desk, the mantlepiece and hanging on the walls are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are almost all from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each. The largest frame on the right-hand side of the desk is actually a sterling silver miniature frame. It was made in Birmingham in 1908 and is hallmarked on the back of the frame. It has a red leather backing.
The two books about flower growing on Lady Sadie’s desk 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. What might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. He also made the envelopes sitting in the rack to the left of the desk. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.
The painting of the Georgian family above the fireplace comes from Amber’s Miniatures in the United States, whilst the two silhouette portraits come from Lady Mile Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The painting of the lady in the gold frame wedged up in the corner of the room surrounded by photos is made by Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
The Persian rugs on the floor has been woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however, we have travelled twenty-five miles west of London into Berkshire to the picturesque town of Ascot, where the Ascot Racecourse is. The town, built up along meandering roads, is made up mostly of large red brick mansions nestled discreetly amidst well established manicured gardens behind trimmed hedges and closed gates. It is here that Lettice has come to meet a prospective new client: Mrs. Evelyn Hawarden, wife of fabric manufacturer Joseph Hawarden. Hawarden Fabrics have been embraced by the British public since first appearing on the market in 1919, for their quality and affordability, and have proved especially popular amidst the working classes who want colour and something better than what they have had in the post-war boom of optimism, including Lettice’s maid, Edith, who made her friend Hilda a new dance frock using some Hawarden Fabrics russet art silk*. This has raised the Hawarden’s expectations and Mr. Hawarden has recently acquired ‘The Briars’, a red brick Georgian mansion in Ascot that is more suitable for he and his wife’s new social standing.
Against her usual practices, Lettice has foregone the initial meeting she would have had at Cavendish Mews after Mrs. Hawarden explained that she was simply too busy with her new house to come down to Mayfair, and implored Lettice to consider coming up to Ascot for the day. As she rides the train through the rolling green countryside of Berkshire, Lettice cannot help but wonder whether her agreement to Mrs. Hawarden’s demands is against her better judgement. Since the publication of the interiors she completed for her friends and fellow members of her Embassy Club coterie, Dickie and Margot Channon, in the magazine, Country Life**, Lettice’s expertise as an interior designer has suddenly been in great demand after Henry Tipping*** described her as having a “tasteful Modern Classical Revival Style”. She has already had to decline several hopeful clients whose wishes for new interiors do not appeal to her own sense of design. Yet here she is, travelling to see a woman who has shown to be somewhat bombastic at her insistence that Lettice visit her, rather than the other way around, at a house that she knows nothing about beyond the fact that it is a recent acquisition of Mr. Hawarden. As she distractedly turns the page of “Whose Body?”**** in her lap, having only taken in half of Dorothy L. Sayers words as she contemplates her journey, Lettice feels an unease in her stomach.
As requested, when the steam of the train carrying Lettice and a great number of people attending the Ascot Races from London to Ascot railway station cleared, there stood Mrs. Hawarden’s chauffer, dressed in a smart grey uniform and cap, ready to take her to ‘The Briars’. As the Worsley drove up the long and slightly rutted driveway boarded by clipped yew hedges, she prepared for the worst, but was pleasantly surprised when the car pulled into a wide carriage turning circle before a rather lovely two-storey red brick Georgian mansion with two white painted sash windows either side of a porticoed front door and five matching windows spread evenly across the façade of the upper floor. Assisted to alight by the chauffer, Lettice notes looking up at the façade before her that whilst the house is nowhere near as large or as fine as her own palatial Georgian childhood home of Glynes*****, it does have graceful and elegant country charm which makes her feel more at ease with what may lie within its walls.
Striding across the crunching white gravel driveway with the footsteps of the daughter of a Viscount to the front door, it is opened by a maid dressed in her black moire afternoon uniform accessorised with an ornamental lace apron, cuffs and matching cap. Whilst she may look the part, Lettice notes critically that the maid only takes her pea green travelling coat, leaving her holding her matching green stub ended parasol as she shows her into the drawing room, where Lettice is told by the maid that she is expected.
Entering the room Lettice is greeted by a fug of greyish blue cigarette smoke that hangs like a pall in the atmosphere. Beneath a round table in the middle of the room, a small whorl of reddish brown fur in a plaited basket bares its teeth and growls.
“Yat-See! Don’t growl at the guest! My dear Miss Chetwynd!” enthusiastically exclaims a female voice with a thick Mancunian accent Lettice recognises as Mrs. Hawarden’s. “Here you are at last!”
Rising from her place nestled into a very comfortable white upholstered sofa, Mrs Evelyn Hawarden appears to be in her mid thirties, and therefore much younger than her voice portrayed when she telephoned Lettice’s flat. With red hennaed hair set about her rounded face in soft Marcel waves****** she looks quite pert and pretty. Although dressed in a similar style to her mother, Lady Sadie, in a tweed calf length skirt, a flounced white silk blouse and a silk cardigan – the classic uniform of a relaxed country lady – Mrs. Hawarden cannot disguise her more aspiring middle-class origins, for she wears a little too much powder on her nose and sports a pair of round rouge marks on her cheeks that Lady Sadie would never entertain on her own face. Mrs. Hawarden’s hair is perhaps a little too obviously coloured, and she wears four strands of creamy white pearls about her neck, rather than the customary two worn informally. Even as she stands, she tugs awkwardly at her skirt, implying that this is not what she is used to wearing. Nevertheless, she has a pleasant smile and the sparkle in her brown eyes is a jolly one.
“How do you do, Mrs. Hawarden.” Lettice replies.
“Please pardon my pet Pekingese, Yat-See, for growling.” The hostess indicates to the bristling bundle of fur with wary black currant eyes. “He’s rather protective of his Mummy, don’t you know.” Mrs. Hawarden’s painted face falls when she notices Lettice still clutching her parasol. She glances between it and Lettice’s face. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Chetwynd!” she exclaims apologetically. “Please just put your things down there.” She indicates with an open hand to the corner of a second cream sofa opposite the one she has been sitting on. “Barbara is new to being a maid. The house didn’t come with staff I’m afraid, and being new to the area ourselves, well, I think we’re seen as a rather unknown quantity, so getting help hasn’t been all that easy.”
“Oh it’s quite alright,” Lettice assures her hostess, gingerly lowering her parasol as Yat-See starts to growl again from his basket, and leans it against the soft edge of the sofa and deposits her handbag onto its seat. “I know how hard it can be to find good servants. I’m only grateful that I live in a flat and have requirements only for one maid.”
“Oh yes, I spoke to her the first time I telephoned you at Cavendish Mews. She seemed very efficient and was quick to get my details so that you could return my telephone call.”
“Thankfully Edith is a very capable maid, although I think you may have mistaken her efficiency for haste. Sadly, she has no love of the telephone and thinks it quite an unnatural contraption.” Lettice chuckles indulgently.
“What a load of rot!” blusters a burbling male Mancunian voice from behind a wall of newspaper, the utterance accompanied by clouds and curlicues of white cigarette smoke.
Yat-See immediately starts to bark in answer to the voice.
“Yat-see!” scolds Mrs. Hawarden. “Hush, or I’ll get Barbara to come and take you to the kitchen, which is where naughty boys go!”
Silently Lettice wishes her hostess would do just that. The dog seems to understand that he is being scolded and falls silent, but he continues to watch Lettice with his dark and suspicious eyes. Taking her gaze away from the pampered Pekingese and looking to the sofa behind her hostess, Lettice is suddenly made aware that she and Mrs. Hawarden are not the only two people in the room. The newspaper lowers to reveal a middle aged man, probably a little bit older than his wife, in a smart London suit, with slick black hair and a handsome mature face.
“Miss Chetwynd, may I present my husband, Mr. Joseph Hawarden, proprietor of Hawarden’s Fabrics.” Mrs. Hawarden says proudly, clasping her hands together.
“I say, how do you do, Miss Chetwynd!” Mr. Hawarden says, not getting up from his seat, but reaching forward and extending his hand to his guest. “Jolly glad to have you here. Evelyn’s done nothing but talk about your skills and what she wants you to do here, for the last few weeks. She was most impressed with your interiors in ‘Country Life’.” he adds, glancing across to the inlaid round top of the table between the two sofas upon which sit a collection of newspapers, magazines and periodicals, including the copy of ‘Country Life’ featuring the interiors for ‘Chi an Treth’.
Lettice extends her own hand and allows it to be shaken in a rather heavy and businesslike fashion by the industrialist. “How do you do, Mr. Hawarden. I’m delighted to be here,” She glances at Mrs. Hawarden. “Although I wasn’t expecting you to be here for this meeting.”
“Oh, Joseph just happens to be home this afternoon, Miss Chetwynd.” laughs Mrs. Hawarden a little awkwardly. “It isn’t by design. I’ll be the one making the decisions.”
“Yes,” agrees Mr. Hawarden, leaning forward and snatching a dainty teacup decorated with blue roses from the table and taking a rather large gulp from it, the cup’s rim disappearing beneath his finely manicured thick black moustache. “This interiors business is more Evelyn’s department than mine. My fabrics are fashion, not furniture fabrics.” He chortles good-naturedly. “But since I’ll be the one footing the bills, you should give me an estimate of your costs.”
“Oh,” Lettice begins a little nervously. “I shouldn’t think we’ll be discussing that today, Mr. Hawarden.”
“What?” he scoffs. “No costs today?”
“I shouldn’t think so.” Lettice assures him. “Today is really, just about consultation. I would usually have conducted it at my premises in Mayfair,” She momentarily looks at Mrs. Hawarden again before returning to the industrialist. “However, your wife was insistent that she didn’t have the time to come down. Today is about discussing what Mrs. Hawarden hopes to do with the interiors of ‘The Briars’.”
“I see,” Mr. Hawarden replies, tapping his nose knowingly with his right hand, still clutching the smoking end of his cigarette. “You’re a smart businesswoman, Miss Chetwynd. Best lull Evelyn into a sense of security, so then you can unleash the bills on me, eh?”
“Oh no…” stammers Lettice. “I don’t mean… I mean it would…”
The man bursts out laughing, his fulsome guffaws intermixing with the slightly more timid and higher pitched giggle of his wife.
“Don’t listen to Joseph, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hawarden assures her guest. “He’s just trying to be funny, within his limited ability of being a boring businessman.” She rolls her eyes at her husband, who smiles back sheepishly at her before putting up the paper again. “He doesn’t mean what he says, Miss Chetwynd.” Indicating to the sofa again she continues, “Please have a seat, won’t you.” She walks up to the table. “Barbara may not know what to do with an umbrella, Miss Chetwynd, but she does make a fine cup of tea. When Johnston went to pick you up from the railway station, I had her brew us up a pot. May I interest you?” She picks up third, as of yet unused, china teacup and a pretty sleek silver Art Deco teapot. “Or would you prefer coffee?”
“Oh no, tea will be most satisfactory,” Lettice replies as she sinks into the comfortable enveloping upholstery of the sofa next to her handbag. “Thank you, Mrs. Hawarden.”
As Mrs. Hawarden fixes her tea, Lettice tries to ignore the hostile stare of Yat-See and glances around the well lit drawing room flooded with light from one of the ground floor windows she had spied upon her arrival. Tastefully appointed, the room features what looks like original Eighteenth Century hand painted wallpaper, which whilst dulled somewhat from many decades of warm wood fires, and perhaps more recently cigarette smoke – she glances at Mr. Hawarden as he sits, absorbed in his newspaper once more, his cigarette smouldering between his right index and middle finger poking around the edge of the newsprint – it still shows off lovely rich hues. Some of the furnishings are possibly original to the room too, such as a small demilune table to the left of the fireplace and the inlaid round table between the two sofas, but the room has been overlaid with other styles over time. The cream damask sofas are obviously pre-war, but perhaps not much more than a decade old. Paintings of different eras and styles hang on the walls in an easy comfort of familiarity. The objects scattered about the surfaces of the room suggest an eclectic, yet restrained hand: silver candlesticks, tall vases, decorative bowls, Meissen figurines and two pretty ‘cottage orneé’ pastille burners******* on the mantle.
Lettice gratefully accepts the cup of tea proffered by her hostess. “So, you were saying that you are newcomers to Ascot, Mrs. Hawarden?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Hawarden replies, subconsciously reaching up to her strands of pearls and worrying them at the mention of them being newly arrived. “My husband and I are from Manchester originally, as I’m sure you can tell from our accents.” Lettice politely sips her tea and doesn’t remark upon either of their thick accents which are so different to those born in the south of England. “We only recently acquired ‘The Briars’ so that my husband can be closer to his new fabric factory in Croydon and to his London office, and I have been craving the space and fresh air of the south.” The woman opens a small silver cigarette case on the table, offers one to Lettice, who politely declines with s small shake of her head, and then takes out a thin cigarette for herself and lights it. Walking across the carpet she tosses the spent match into the grate as she leans against the fireplace.
“Indeed.” muses Lettice as she watches Mrs. Hawarden take a long drag on her cigarette before blowing out a plume of bluish grey acrid smoke into the air between she and Lettice.
Yat-See suddenly picks himself out of his basket, making Lettice flinch and her cup rattle in its saucer as she fears he is about to attack her legs. Yet he pads across the Chinese rug and sits in front of his mistress protectively keeping guard to protect her from the stranger in the drawing room.
“And this place was up for sale, and I fell in love with it instantly, didn’t I Joseph?”
“Indeed, you did, Evelyn.” agrees her husband without looking up from his newspaper.
“So, we bought it: lock, stock and barrel.”
“Then the furnishings aren’t yours, Mrs. Hawarden?” Lettice asks, gesturing to their surrounds as she places her teacup on the small Georgian pedestal table at her right.
“No. Oh no!” Mrs, Hawarden replies, evidently wishing to distance herself from the elegant, yet comfortably lived in country house style. “Not at all Miss Chetwynd! That’s why I couldn’t come down to Mayfair to meet you like you had originally suggested. We’re only freshly moved in, and I’m still trying to find my feet here. I haven’t even had time to unpack my photos from our Manchester house yet.”
“Yet you already know that you want to redecorate, Mrs. Hawarden,” Lettice queries. “Even though you are only newly minted here?”
“Goodness yes, Miss Chetwynd!” exclaims the hostess, blowing out another cloud of smoke as she speaks. She bends down and strokes her dog on the head, his black eyes closing in pleasure ar her touch. With a slight groan she stretches back into an upright position. “These,” she gesticulates with a languid hand around her. “Are the interiors of a dead woman.”
“A dead woman?” Lettice queries again in concern.
“Yes. You see we bought ‘The Briars’ from the descendants of the last occupier. Alice… Alice… Oh, what was her name, Joseph? Moynahan?”
“Mainwaring, Evelyn my dear.” Mr. Hawarden looks up from his paper to his wife. “Alice Mainwaring.”
“Yes!” Mrs. Hawarden claps her hands, sending a tumble of ashes cascading through the air where they land in Yat-See’s red dioxide coat and on the dark slate hearth surrounding the fireplace. “That’s it! Alice Mainwaring. Her widowed aunt or some such lived here alone and died a few years ago, and she didn’t want to hold onto the place.”
“Humph!” mutters Mr. Hawarden. “More like she couldn’t afford to hold onto the place, owing to these bloody awful rates of Income Tax******** the Government dare to charge us all now. Mind you, she put a good face on it, I’ll say that.”
Yat-See starts barking again.
“Yat-See!” scolds Mrs. Hawarden again. “She didn’t even want the old family paintings.”
“I doubt she could afford to keep them, Evelyn my dear, even if she’d wanted to.” Her husband counters. “I would have offered her less for the place if she’d taken them.”
“Anyway, whatever the circumstances, I felt the house could do with a little,” Mrs. Hawarden weaves her hand dramatically through the air as if holding a magic wand. “Sprucing up********.”
“Sprucing up?” Lettice queries again, looking uncertainly at Mrs. Hawarden.
“Yes!” Mrs. Hawarden says with a sigh, sending two plumes of smoke rushing from her nostrils. “Brighten it up a bit and make it a bit more,” She pauses whilst she thinks of the right word she is seeking. “Modern.”
“And you are expecting furnishings from Manchester, Mrs. Hawarden?” Lettice asks.
“Good lord no!” the hostess exclaims. “The furniture from our Audenshaw house is even worse than these bits of sticks. Yat-See, our clothes, my photos and a few bits and bobs are about all we wanted to bring from there. Isn’t that right, Joseph?”
“Quite, my dear Evelyn. Quite.”
“No.” She smiles with smug pleasure. “We’ve left that life behind, and now we plan to make a new start here.”
“You do know,” Lettice remarks tentatively. “That some people would be quite happy, if acquiring a country house and its contents in its entirety, to leave it all in situ.”
“Ahh.” Mrs. Hawarden says with a wagging bejewelled finger and a knowing smile at Lettice. “But Joseph and I aren’t just anyone. That’s why as soon as I saw your article, I knew I wanted your expertise to help me bring life back into this poor old house.” She slaps the mantlepiece with the palm of her hand. “I read in Country Life that the rooms of the Channon’s house were a bit dark, so you lightened it.”
“Well, yes,” Lettice agrees hesitantly. “I did, but the house really was rather damp being built by the sea, and awfully neglected after having stood empty for many years. This house appears to be in much better condition and is far cosier than ‘Chi an Treth’ was, Mrs. Hawarden.”
“And,” Mrs. Hawarden continues, appearing not to have heard Lettice’s protestations. “I also read that some of the statues you used to furnish the house came from the Portland Gallery in Mayfair.”
“They did, Mrs. Hawarden, but I…”
“And I just love the modernity of some of the art in there. I’m currently in the process of acquiring some nice new modern artworks from several London galleries, although not The Portland, to hang in place of some of these rather drab daubs.” she indicates to the classical oil painting of a landscape hanging above the fireplace behind her.
Lettice glances sadly at the small, rather pretty late Nineteenth Century oil painting of a mother and daughter gathering flowers just to the right of the fireplace, silently apologising to the possible former owner of the house.
“Actually, Evelyn my dear, I think you’ll find, I’m acquiring them.” remarks Mr. Hawarden rather definitely.
“Don’t be bore, dear Joseph.” Mrs. Hawarden retorts kindly. “Yes, it’s true, you may be putting up the money for them, but we both know that of the two of us, I’m the one with the real artistic vision.”
“If you say so, Evelyn.” Mr. Hawarden returns to his paper.
Lettice looks sadly around her at the well appointed and comfortable room. In her mind, she can’t see anything wrong with it, other than perhaps the hostile presence of Yat-See, and sadly he cannot be papered over. The room’s décor has grown with the house, mellowed and softened into a comfortable semi-formal Edwardian country house interior over the decades since its original construction, not entirely dissimilar to that of her brother Leslie’s new home with his wife in the Dower House at Glynes, only not quite so old, it having been built in the 1850s. A queasiness begins to roil about in the pit of her stomach. Yat-See seems to pick up on it and quietly growls at Lettice again, until he receives a small nudge on the bottom by the dainty toe of Mrs. Hawarden’s brown leather shoe.
“You do know that my style is Modern Classical Revival, don’t you, Mrs, Hawarden?” Lettice explains politely. “I do not believe in flinging everything out and replacing it with something new.”
“Yes of course I know, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs, Hawarden smiles. “I’m not suggesting we ‘fling it all out’ as you say. I’d be happy if you felt it worth repurposing a few sticks of furniture. I believe you did repaint a demilune table, not unlike this one,” She reaches behind her and pats the surface of the table Lettice had noticed before. “For Mrs. Channon. You could do the same here, if you like. I’m happy to be led by you, Miss Chetwynd.”
“Well,” Lettice says. “Really, I should be the one who is led by you, Mrs. Hawarden. Perhaps you could suggest to me what you were thinking and we’ll… work from there. Shall we?” She takes a small sip of her tea. “What do you envisage, Mrs. Hawarden?”
The woman looks around her, humming and hawing as she screws up her mouth in concentration.
“Well, for a start, if I’m going to have new paintings hanging in here, I’ll need new wallpaper. How old do you think this paper is, Miss Chetwynd?”
“I would say it is probably Eighteenth Century.” Lettice says with concern. “You do realise that it’s probably hand painted. My parents have similar at our home in Wilt…”
“Well there you go!” interrupts Mrs. Hawarden. “That explains why it’s so dull and dreary! No: new paper for new paintings. Definitely!” the Pekingese starts barking animatedly. “See, even my beloved little boy agrees, don’t you darling?” She blows him a kiss. “Maybe something geometric?” She looks questioningly at Lettice who simply smiles up politely at her from her place on the sofa but says nothing. She casts her eyes around the room. “And of course these dreadful settees will have to go!”
Lettice quietly cringes at the use of the word ‘settee’, giving away Mr. Hawarden’s aspiring middle-class origins**********.
“Pity Evelyn my dear,” her husband pipes up. “I quite like these. They really are rather nice and comfy.” He starts bouncing up and down slightly in his seat, making the springs inside the sofa protest quietly beneath the white damask upholstery which makes Yat-See start quietly growling again.
“No! I want something more streamlined,” Mrs, Hawarden insists. “Rather like Mrs. Channon’s settees I think.”
A discreet knock on the drawing room door interrupts Mrs. Hawarden’s thoughts and makes Yat-See yap loudly as he scurries over to the door.
“Yes.” she calls out imperiously.
Barbara, the maid who had opened the door to Lettice upon her arrival and shown her into the drawing room opens the door and steps in, almost stepping on the dog, who barks savagely at the poor domestic.
“Yat-See! Hush darling! Yes Barbara?”
“Begging your pardon, mum, but lunch is ready.” The maid bobs a curtsey. “You said I ought to tell you when it was ready, and Cook is serving up now.”
“Yes, yes,” mutters Mrs. Hawarden dismissively with a final puff of smoke, dropping her cigarette butt into the grate next to the spent match. “Thank you, Barbara.”
The maid bobs another curtsey and turns to go.
“Oh Barbara!” Mrs. Hawarden calls after her gaily.
“Yes, mum?” the maid asks.
“Barbara, next time we are receiving guests and they are carrying an umbrella,” Mrs. Hawarden adeptly snatches up Lettice’s green umbrella from the floor and holds it out to her maid in a smooth movement. “Make sure you put it in the receptacle that it was designed to be inserted into.”
“Mum?” the maid asks queryingly, reaching tentatively out and accepting the umbrella.
“Put it in the hallstand, Barbara, with the other umbrellas.”
“Oh, yes mum!” Barbara apologises and bobs another curtsey, first at her mistress and then at Lettice, before quickly withdrawing.
Lettice silently cringes slightly again at witnessing the public beration of the poor, inexperienced maid, however mild it was.
“Well!” gasps Mrs. Hawarden, snatching up her beloved dog from the floor with a swoop. “Shall we go through then, Miss Chetwynd? I’m sure after your trip up from London, you must be starving.”
“Oh, yes.” Lettice lies brightly, depositing the teacup and saucer back onto the small Georgian occasional pedestal table and standing up. She eyes the dog warily as he hangs from his owner’s left arm.
“Good! Good!” her hostess replies, clapping her hands with delight. “That’s just as well. I’ve asked Cook to prepare a lovely lamb roast. You love titbits from the table, don’t you Yat-See?” She rubs her dog’s forehead lovingly before she winds her right arm through Lettice’s left. “Please, let me show you the way. Just wait until you see the dining room! It’s yellow!” She cringes. “Positively gruesome! I shall be very keen to hear your thoughts around what we can do about that.”
Mrs. Hawarden gently, yet at the same time forcefully, guides Lettice to the door from whence the maid came.
“Are you coming my dear?” Mrs, Hawarden calls to her husband over her shoulder.
“Yes, of course Evelyn!” Mr. Hawarden deposits the newspaper on the sofa cushions and extinguishes his cigarette in the ashtray on the table and follows the figure of his wife and Lettice arm-in-arm. “I shouldn’t wish to miss one of Cook’s wonderful roasts!”
As Lettice is guided down the hallway by her hostess, she senses what feels like a boulder in the very pit of her stomach. For the first time ever, she has a potential client with whom she is completely at odds with aesthetically, and she isn’t quite sure how she is going to explain her difference in opinions to the insistent Mrs. Hawarden diplomatically.
*The first successful artificial silks were developed in the 1890s of cellulose fibre and marketed as art silk or viscose, a trade name for a specific manufacturer. In 1924, the name of the fibre was officially changed in the U.S. to rayon, although the term viscose continued to be used in Europe.
**Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.
***Henry Tipping (1855 – 1933) was a French-born British writer on country houses and gardens, garden designer in his own right, and Architectural Editor of the British periodical Country Life for seventeen years between 1907 and 1910 and 1916 and 1933. After his appointment to that position in 1907, he became recognised as one of the leading authorities on the history, architecture, furnishings and gardens of country houses in Britain. In 1927, he became a member of the first committee of the Gardens of England and Wales Scheme, later known as the National Gardens Scheme.
****Whose Body? is a 1923 mystery novel by English crime writer and poet Dorothy L. Sayers. It was her debut novel, and the book in which she introduced the character of Lord Peter Wimsey.
*****Glynes is 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.
******Marcelling is a hair styling technique in which hot curling tongs are used to induce a curl into the hair. Its appearance was similar to that of a finger wave but it is created using a different method. Marcelled hair was a popular style for women's hair in the 1920s, often in conjunction with a bob cut. For those women who had longer hair, it was common to tie the hair at the nape of the neck and pin it above the ear with a stylish hair pin or flower. One famous wearer was American entertainer, Josephine Baker.
*******The Industrial Revolution in England caused a migration of people into the big cities in search of better wages and better working conditions. For the working class often this resulted in overcrowding in their housing conditions. There was poor sanitation and smells could be appalling. Pastille burners, sometimes called ‘cottage orneés’ were a way of combating these odours by burning pastilles of aromatic substances, which emitted sweet scented perfume into the room. They were made of porcelain or silver for the upper classes and by the late Eighteenth and early Nineteenth Centuries, pottery burners were bought by the middle and lower classes. They were modelled as cottages with a removable thatched roof, tollhouses, dovecotes decorated with flowers and by the 1830s the cottages had open windows so they became night lights as well. By 1840 designs for pastille burners included Chinese temples, Swiss cottages and turreted castles, all of which appealed to the Victorian taste. Pastille burners remained popular for all classes until 1870 when improvements to sanitary conditions were made.
*******In order to repay the expenditures made by the British during the Great War, like had been occurring since the Napoleonic Wars, the government increased Income Tax. The standard rate of income tax, which was six per cent in 1914, stood at thirty per cent in 1918. As a result of this, income tax rates amongst the wealthy were maintained at a high level, far in excess of those charged in the years before the war, making the management of estates very difficult if they were not productive, and many properties with stately homes left the ownership of their original families for the first time in generations, sold more often to wealthy industrialists or in the post-war era, wealthy Americans wishing for their own slice of British aristocratic history.
*********The verb spruce up means “to make neat or smart in appearance,” and it first appeared in English around the end of the 1500s.
**********Before, and even after the Second World War, a great deal could be attained about a person’s social origins by what language and terminology they used in class-conscious Britain by the use of ‘”U and non-U English” as popularised by upper class English author, Nancy Mitford when she published a glossary of terms in an article “The English Aristocracy” published by Stephen Spender in his magazine “encounter” in 1954. There are many examples in her glossary, amongst which are the word “sofa” which is a U (upper class) word, versus “settee” or “couch” which are a non-U (aspiring middle-class) words. Whilst quite outdated today, it gives an insight into how easily someone could betray their humbler origins by something as simple as a single word.
This comfortable country house drawing room interior may appear like something out of a historical stately country house, or a copy of ‘Country Life’, 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 Georgian style fireplace I have had since I was a teenager and is made from moulded plaster. The peacock fire screen and gilt fire tools I bought at the same time as the fireplace. Standing on the mantlepiece of the fireplace are two miniature diecast lead Meissen figurines: the Lady with the Canary and the Gentleman with the Butterfly, manufactured by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. They have been hand painted by me. Next to them on the mantlepiece are two silver candlesticks from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Also on the mantlepiece are two pottery cottage orneé pastille burners which have been hand made, painted and gilded by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. The dainty gilded clock is also made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland.
The two tall vases of flowers on the demilune tables flanking the fireplace are made by Falcon Miniatures, who are renown for the realism and detail in their miniatures.
The bowl decorated with fruit on the table on the left hand side of the fireplace was hand decorated by British artisan Rachael Maundy. The one on the right is a hand painted artisan miniature fluted bowl.
The two white damask sofas were supplied by Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The round table, an artisan miniature with a marquetry inlaid top, also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop, as did the small pedestal table next to the right hand sofa.
Lettice’s green handbag is also a hand-made artisan piece of soft green leather, made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures. Her furled umbrella is a 1:12 artisan piece made of hand painted wood, metal and satin.
The silver Art Deco tea and coffee pots and square tray on the round table were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland. The blue rose tea set came from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay. The Elite Styles magazine from 1923 sitting on the table was made by hand by Petite Gite Miniatures in the United States. The 1:12 miniature copies of ‘The Times’, ‘The Mirror’ and the ‘Daily Express’, are made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The copy of ‘Country Life’ sitting on the table was made by me to scale using the cover of a real 1923 edition of ‘Country Life’. The vase of red roses in the foreground was made by Falcon Miniatures.
All the paintings around ‘The Briars’ drawing room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop and the wallpaper is an authentic copy of hand-painted Georgian wallpaper from the 1770s.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are not at Cavendish Mews, although we are still in Mayfair, moving a few streets away to Hill Street, where Edith, Lettice’s maid, and her beau, grocery boy Frank Leadbetter, are visiting Edith’s friend and fellow maid Hilda. It is a beautiful, sunny Sunday and Sundays all three have as days off from their jobs as domestic servants and delivery boy. Taking advantage of this, all three are going to spend the afternoon at Hammersmith Palias de Danse*. As usual, Frank collects Edith from Cavendish Mews and the pair then go to the home of Lettice’s married friends Margot and Dickie Channon, where Hilda works as a live-in maid.
Being Hilda’s day off, her employers usually decamp for the day, and today they are visiting their friend Priscilla who recently married American dry goods heir Georgie Carter. The pair have just returned to London from their honeymoon which took in much of Europe before visiting Georgie’s family in Philadelphia. The quartet will dine at the Café Royal**, doubtless at the expense of Georgie since the Channons seem perpetually to have financial difficulties, but as a result, the Channons have invited the Carters back to their Hill Street flat for after supper coffee, which means that Hilda must do one of her most hated jobs: grind coffee beans to make real coffee for Georgie Carter, who is particular about his American style coffee. We find the trio in the kitchen of the Hill Street flat, the ladies’ dancing frocks and Frank’s suit at odds with their surrounds as Hilda grinds the coffee beans sitting in a white china bowl in the large wooden and brass coffee grinder. By preparing the coffee, ready to make before she goes out, it will be easy to serve when her employers and their guests return after dinner, and the beans will still be fresh enough for Georgie’s liking.
“You know,” Frank remarks as he stands at Edith’s elbow and watches Hilda turn the handle of the coffee grinder with gusto. “I don’t see why they can’t just drink Camp Coffee*** like the rest of us.”
“Oh Frank!” gasps Edith, looking up at her beau and patting his hand with her own as he squeezes her left shoulder lovingly. “You know perfectly well why not, Frank. Mr. and Mrs. Channon’s friend, Mr. Carter is an American gentleman, and just like Miss Wanetta Ward the American moving picture star, he doesn’t like British coffee.”
“What rot!” Frank scoffs at the suggestion. “There’s nothing wrong with British coffee! If British coffee isn’t to Mr. Carter’s taste, let him have tea then, and save poor Hilda the effort of having to grind up coffee beans for his lordship.” He slips off the jacket of his smart Sunday blue suit, revealing his crisp white shirt, red tie and smart navy blue vest. He drapes it over the back of the Windsor chair Edith sits in. “Come on old girl,” he says to Hilda as he moves around the deal pine kitchen table. “Give me a go then. Give your arms a chance to recuperate before we go dancing.”
“You’re such a Socialist, Frank Leadbetter.” pipes up Hilda as with a grunt, she pushes the handle of the grinder mechanism over a particularly recalcitrant coffee bean.
“What?” gasps Frank as he takes over grinding from the grateful maid. “I thought you’d come to my defence, Hilda, especially as I’m being so chivalrous as to grind coffee beans for you.”
“Oh I am grateful, Frank, ever so.” Hilda replies, rubbing her aching forearms with her fat, sausage like fingers. “But just because you are being gallant, doesn’t mean I can’t call you a Socialist.”
“Because a hard working man like me thinks I’m every bit as good as this friend of your Mr. and Mrs. Channon, I’m now a Socialist?” Frank asks in an appalled voice. “You’re as bad as Edith’s mum.” He nods in his sweetheart’s direction.
“Mum thinks Frank might be a Communist.” Edith explains. “Even though we’ve both told her that he isn’t.”
“Handsome is as handsome does.” remarks Hilda with a cheeky smile as she glances at Frank winding the red knob topped brass handle of the grinder.
“I’m neither, I’ll have you know, Hilda Clerkenwell!” Frank retorts. “I’d prefer to think of myself as more of a progressive thinker when it comes to the rights and privileges of the working man,” He looks poignantly at Hilda. “And woman.”
“Same thing.” Hilda retorts matter-of-factly as she starts to straighten the russet grosgrain bandeau**** embellished with gold sequins which has slipped askew whilst she has been grinding coffee beans.
“Pardon my ignorance,” Edith begins gingerly. “But what exactly is a Socialist?”
“Socialism is a political movement that wants to reform various economic and social systems, transferring them to social ownership as opposed to private ownership.” remarks Hilda as she runs her hands down the back of her hair.
“Well done, Hilda!” Frank congratulates her.
“You sound surprised, Frank.” Hilda says with a cheeky smile. “Don’t they have smart girls where you come from, present company excluded, Edith!” Hilda adds hurriedly so as not to offend her best friend.”
“Oh, you know I’m not very political,” Edith assures Hilda, yet at the same time self consciously toys with her blonde waves as she speaks.
“I must confess, Hilda, I am a little surprised.” Frank admits. “I don’t know many girls who are interested in social rights and can give explanations so eloquently.”
“I’m so sorry Frank!” Edith defends herself. “I know you’ve tried to teach me, but I can’t help it. I get confused between this ist and the other ist. They all seem the same to me.” She blushes with mild embarrassment at her own ignorance.
“No, no, Edith!” Frank assures her as he stops grinding the coffee beans and reaches out his left hand, clasping her right one as it rests on the tabletop and squeezes it reassuringly. “This isn’t a criticism of you! It was a compliment to Hilda. You’re wonderful, and there are things that you understand and are far better at than me.”
“Than both of us, Edith.” adds Hilda quickly, the look of concern about her friend taking umbrage clear on her round face.
“Yes, inconsequential things.” Edith mumbles in a deflated tone.
“No, not at all.” Frank reassures her soothingly as he takes up grinding coffee again. “What good am I to myself if I can’t cook a meal to feed myself.”
“And for all my love of reading, Edith, you know I can’t sew a stitch.” Hilda appends. “I could never have made this beautiful frock.” She grasps the edge of the strap of her russet coloured art satin***** dress as she speaks. “Not in a million years. We’re all good at different things, and no-one could say you weren’t smart, Edith.”
“That’s right.” Frank concurs, smiling at his sweetheart. “One of the reasons why I’ve always admired you is because you aren’t some silly giggling Gertie****** like some of the housemaids I’ve known. You aren’t turned by just a handsome face, and your head isn’t filled with moving picture stars and nothing else.”
“Well, I do like moving picture stars, Frank.” Edith confesses.
“Oh I know, Edith, and I love you for that too.” Frank reassures her. “But it’s not all that is in there. You have a good head on your shoulders.”
“And a wise one too.” Hilda interjects. “How often do I ask you for advice? I’ve always asked you for your opinion on things for as long as we’ve been friends.”
“You are clever, and insightful, and you want a better life for yourself too, and that’s why I really love you. We want the same things from life.” Frank says in a soft and soothing tone full of love as he gazes at Edith. “You are very pretty, and no-one can deny that – not even you,” He holds out an admonishing finger as Edith goes to refute his remark. “But beauty, however glorious will fade. Just look at our Dowager Queen Mother*******. When beauty fades, wit and intelligence remain, and you have both of those qualities in spades, Edith.”
“Oh Frank.” Edith breathes softly. “You aren’t ashamed of me then?”
“Of course I’m not Edith! How could I ever be ashamed of you? I’m as proud as punch******** to step out with you! You’re my best girl.”
Frank winds the gleaming brass coffee grinder handle a few more times before stopping. He pulls out the drawer at the bottom and as he does, the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans fills the air around them, wafting up his, Edith and Hilda’s nostrils. He sighs with satisfaction at a job well done.
“Good enough for his American lordship?” Frank asks Hilda.
She peers into the drawer. “Good enough.” she acknowledges with another of her cheeky smirks, nodding affirmatively.
“I still think he could jolly well grind his own, you know, Hilda!” Frank opines.
“Socialist.” she laughs in reply as she walks around Frank, withdraws the drawer of ground coffee and knocks the contents into the small, worn Delftware coffee cannister with careful taps, so as not to spill and waste any of the hard-won grinds.
“I bet you, your Wanetta Ward doesn’t grind her own coffee, Edith.” Frank goes on as he walks back around to Edith and slips his jacket on again.
“I bet you she does, Frank!” Edith counters.
“What? A moving picture star grinding her own coffee? I don’t believe it!”
“Miss Ward is a very unorthodox person, Frank, even for an American.” she assures him. “I think she might surprise you if you ever get the pleasure of meeting her one day.”
“Maybe.” Frank says doubtfully. “Well now that coffee is ground, we should really get going.” He runs his hands around the back of his jacket collar to make sure it is sitting straight. “The Hammersmith Palais waits for no-one, not even those who slave for undeserving Americans.” He laughs good heartedly. “Shall we go?”
“Oh yes!” enthuses Edith as Frank chivalrously pulls out her chair for her as she stands up. “I’ll fetch our coats.”
With her pretty blue floral sprigged frock swirling about her figure, Edith hurries over to the pegs by the door where Frank’s, Hilda’s and her own coat and hats hang. She moves lightly across the floor, practicing her dance steps as she goes, silently moving to the music she hears the band playing in her head.
“I really wonder why I bother sometimes.” Hilda says despondently as she pulls her brown coat on over the top of the luxurious man-made silk frock that Edith made for her and decorated with lace trimming and small bursts of sequins.
“Like I said,” Frank mutters. “He should settle for Camp Coffee like the rest of us, or have tea.”
“Not grinding coffee, Frank!” Hilda scoffs in reply. “I mean go dancing at the Hammersmith Palais week after week. What’s the point?”
“What do you mean, Hilda?” Edith asks gently, slipping her arms into her own black three-quarter length coat as Frank holds to open for her.
“I mean why do I bother going dancing when no man at the Palais ever looks at me, even in this beautiful new frock you made me, Edith.” She picks up the lace trimmed hem of her dance dress and lifts it despondently.
Edith and Frank both glance anxiously at one another for a moment. Both know they are thinking exactly the same thing. What Hilda says is true. Whenever the three of them go to the Hammersmith Palais de Danse there are always far more women in attendance than men. The Great War decimated the male population, and almost drove an entire generation of young men into extinction. Sadly, this means that more and more women are finding themselves without a gentleman to step out with, and are deemed surplus to needs by society. In spite of any of his faults, Edith knows how lucky she is to have a young man like Frank. Even the attentions of pretty girls are less in demand with fewer men in circulation desiring their company. Unlike Edith, Hilda is a little on the plump side, enjoying the indulgence of sticky buns from the bakers and an extra serving of Victoria Sponge at the Lyons Corner Shop********* at the top of Tottenham Court Road. Her face is friendly, with soft brown eyes and a warm smile, but she isn’t pretty. Even with the judicious application of a little powder and rouge acquired from the make-up counter of Selfridges********** her skin lacks the fresh gleam that Edith has, and for as long as she has known her, Edith has always found Hilda to have a very pale complexion. When the three of them do go dancing, Frank is often the only man she dances with when he partners her around the dancefloor, and more often than not, Hilda ends up taking the part of the man, dancing with any number of other neglected wallflowers, just to ward of the tedium of waiting for someone to ask her to dance. The plight, for plight it was, of women like Hilda was all too common, in the post-war world of the 1920s.
“Perhaps you’re looking in the wrong place, Hilda.” Frank says.
“What do mean, Frank?”
“Well, a girl with brains like you needs a man who will stimulate her mentally. Perhaps you might find the man of your dreams at a library.”
“A library!” Hilda’s mind conjures up images of pale bookish young men in glasses with phlegmatic characters who would much rather shake her hand limply and discuss the benefits of Socialism, rather than sweep her off her feet romantically.
“Not at all helpful, Frank!” hisses Edith as she watches her best friend’s face fall.
“I was only joking.” Frank shrugs apologetically, unsure what to say.
Edith hurries over and wraps her arm around Hilda’s slumping shoulders consolingly. “A faint heart never won a fair lady, Hilda.” She pulls Hilda to her lovingly. Hilda looks up at her friend sadly, yet thoughtfully. “And I think it works the same in reverse.”
Seeing a way to make amends for his ill-timed joke, Frank pipes up, “That’s exactly right, Hilda. Edith wouldn’t have been anywhere near as attractive to me if she hadn’t had a bit of pluck.”
“And you look splendid in the dance frock I made for you, Hilda,” Edith adds. “Really you do.”
“Do you really think so, Edith?” Hilda asks, looking at her friend.
“Of course I do! I’m a professional seamstress, and you are my best friend. I wouldn’t make something that didn’t suit you!”
“No, no of course not.” Hilda replies.
“And didn’t Mrs. Minkin say that russet satin would suit your colourings?”
“She did.”
“Well then,” Edith replies matter-of-factly. “There is nothing more to be said.”
“That’s right.” agrees Frank, and without further ado, he sweeps Hilda into his arms.
With the ease of a natural dancer, Frank begins to waltz his partner carefully across the black and white chequered linoleum floor of the Channon’s kitchen, guiding her around the kitchen table and the chairs gathered around it, past the black and white stove and the dresser cluttered with crockery and provisions.
“Oh Frank!” Hilda says, laughing joyously as she allows herself to be swept away. “You really are a one!”
Edith smiles as she sees a light return to her best friend’s eyes, and a smile appear upon her pert lips. She considers herself so fortunate not just because she has a chap to step out with, but because Frank is so kind and considerate. Not just any man would understand or appreciate Edith’s wish to include Hilda in their excursions to the Hammersmith Palais de Danse, and not every man would be as willing to take a turn with her on the dancefloor, as has been proven. Then again, Frank is no ordinary man, and as time goes on and she gets to know him better, the more she is becoming aware that her sweetheart is a very special man indeed. She laughs as Frank dips Hilda, making her squeal in delight, before raising her up again and restoring her to her feet.
“There!” Frank says with a huff as he catches his breath. “Now that your feet are suitably warmed up, you’re ready to go, Miss Clerkenwell. We’ll have no more talk of you not wanting to come dancing with us.”
“Today might be the day you meet someone, Hilda. Don’t give up on the chance.” Edith enthuses.
“Oh alright you two!” Hilda acquiesces. “I give up. Let’s go then.”
“That’s the spirit, Hilda!” Frank says. “That pluck will win you a fine and handsome gentleman with a brain that you deserve.”
“I can hardly battle both of you, can I?” Hilda laughs as she carefully places her floppy brimmed brown velvet and copper faille poke-style bonnet decorated with a beige rose and leaves atop her head.
The three friends walk out of the kitchen door that leads out onto the flat’s back stairs and begin to descend to the street. Hilda locks the door behind her and the coffee grinder and the as of yet to be ground coffee beans sit on the table, ready for when she returns later that day to serve to Margot, Dickie and their friends Priscilla and Georgie Carter.
*The Hammersmith Palais de Danse, in its last years simply named Hammersmith Palais, was a dance hall and entertainment venue in Hammersmith, London, England that operated from 1919 until 2007. It was the first palais de danse to be built in Britain.
**The Café Royal in Regent Street, Piccadilly was originally conceived and set up in 1865 by Daniel Nicholas Thévenon, who was a French wine merchant. He had to flee France due to bankruptcy, arriving in Britain in 1863 with his wife, Célestine, and just five pounds in cash. He changed his name to Daniel Nicols and under his management - and later that of his wife - the Café Royal flourished and was considered at one point to have the greatest wine cellar in the world. By the 1890s the Café Royal had become the place to see and be seen at. It remained as such into the Twenty-First Century when it finally closed its doors in 2008. Renovated over the subsequent four years, the Café Royal reopened as a luxury five star hotel.
***Camp Coffee is a concentrated syrup which is flavoured with coffee and chicory, first produced in 1876 by Paterson & Sons Ltd, in Glasgow. In 1974, Dennis Jenks merged his business with Paterson to form Paterson Jenks plc. In 1984, Paterson Jenks plc was bought by McCormick & Company. Legend has it (mainly due to the picture on the label) that Camp Coffee was originally developed as an instant coffee for military use. The label is classical in tone, drawing on the romance of the British Raj. It includes a drawing of a seated Gordon Highlander (supposedly Major General Sir Hector MacDonald) being served by a Sikh soldier holding a tray with a bottle of essence and jug of hot water. They are in front of a tent, at the apex of which flies a flag bearing the drink's slogan, "Ready Aye Ready". A later version of the label, introduced in the mid-20th century, removed the tray from the picture, thus removing the infinite bottles element and was seen as an attempt to avoid the connotation that the Sikh was a servant, although he was still shown waiting while the kilted Scottish soldier sipped his coffee. The current version, introduced in 2006, depicts the Sikh as a soldier, now sitting beside the Scottish soldier, and with a cup and saucer of his own. Camp Coffee is an item of British nostalgia, because many remember it from their childhood. It is still a popular ingredient for home bakers making coffee-flavoured cake and coffee-flavoured buttercream. In late 1975, Camp Coffee temporarily became a popular alternative to instant coffee in the UK, after the price of coffee doubled due to shortages caused by heavy frosts in Brazil.
****A bandeau is a narrow band of fabric worn round the head to hold the hair in position. Although bandeaus existed long before the 1920s, there was a resurgence in popularity for embroidered grosgrain ribbons to be worn around the head across the forehead in the 1920s, and they are synonymous with 1920s flapper fashion.
*****The first successful artificial silks were developed in the 1890s of cellulose fibre and marketed as art silk or viscose, a trade name for a specific manufacturer. In 1924, the name of the fibre was officially changed in the U.S. to rayon, although the term viscose continued to be used in Europe.
******Although obscure as to its origin, the term “giggling Gertie” is of English derivation and was often used in a derisive way to describe silly children and young people, usually girls, who were deemed as being flippant and foolish.
*******Queen Alexandra was Queen of the United Kingdom and the British Dominions, and Empress of India, from the twenty-second of January 1901 to the sixth of May 1910 as the wife of King-Emperor Edward VII. Daughter of King Christian IX of Denmark, at the age of sixteen Alexandra was chosen as the future wife of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, the son and heir apparent of Queen Victoria. When she arrived in England she was famed for her beauty and her style of dress and bearing were copied by fashion-conscious women. From Edward's death, Alexandra was queen mother, being a dowager queen and the mother of the reigning monarch. Alexandra retained a youthful appearance into her senior years, but during the Great War her age caught up with her. She took to wearing elaborate veils and heavy makeup, which was described by gossips as having her face "enamelled".
********Although today we tend to say as “pleased as punch”, the Victorian term actually began as “proud as punch”. This expression refers to the Punch and Judy puppet character. Punch's name comes from Punchinello, an Italian puppet with similar characteristics. In Punch and Judy shows, the grotesque Punch is portrayed as self-satisfied and pleased with his evil actions.
*********J. Lyons and Co. was a British restaurant chain, food manufacturing, and hotel conglomerate founded in 1884 by Joseph Lyons and his brothers in law, Isidore and Montague Gluckstein. Lyons’ first teashop opened in Piccadilly in 1894, and from 1909 they developed into a chain of teashops, with the firm becoming a staple of the High Street in the United Kingdom. At its peak the chain numbered around two hundred cafes. The teashops provided for tea and coffee, with food choices consisting of hot dishes and sweets, cold dishes and sweets, and buns, cakes and rolls. Lyons' Corner Houses, which first appeared in 1909 and remained until 1977, were noted for their Art Deco style. Situated on or near the corners of Coventry Street, Strand and Tottenham Court Road, they and the Maison Lyonses at Marble Arch and in Shaftesbury Avenue were large buildings on four or five floors, the ground floor of which was a food hall with counters for delicatessen, sweets and chocolates, cakes, fruit, flowers and other products. In addition, they possessed hairdressing salons, telephone booths, theatre booking agencies and at one period a twice-a-day food delivery service. On the other floors were several restaurants, each with a different theme and all with their own musicians. For a time, the Corner Houses were open twenty-four hours a day, and at their peak each branch employed around four hundred staff including their famous waitresses, commonly known as Nippies for the way they nipped in and out between the tables taking orders and serving meals. The tea houses featured window displays, and, in the post-war period, the Corner Houses were smarter and grander than the local tea shops. Between 1896 and 1965 Lyons owned the Trocadero, which was similar in size and style to the Corner Houses.
********** Selfridges, also known as Selfridges & Co., is a chain of upscale department stores in the United Kingdom that is operated by Selfridges Retail Limited, part of the Selfridges Group of department stores. It was founded by Harry Gordon Selfridge in 1908. Harry Gordon Selfridge, Sr. was an American-British retail magnate who founded the London-based department store. His twenty year leadership of Selfridge’s led to his becoming one of the most respected and wealthy retail magnates in the United Kingdom. He was known as the 'Earl of Oxford Street'.
***********Faille is a type of cloth with flat ribs, often made in silk. It has a softer texture than grosgrain, with heavier and wider cords or ribs. Weft yarns are heavier than warp, and it is manufactured in plain weaving. It was especially popular in the Nineteenth Century, and its popularity, although somewhat dwindling, did carry through into the early decades of the Twentieth Century.
This cosy domestic kitchen scene is a little different to what you might think, for whilst it looks very authentic, it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
On Hilda’s deal table stands her coffee grinder with its brass handle, wooden base and drawer, and red knobs. It comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The little Delftware canister and the white china bowl also come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. The coffee beans in the bowl are really black carraway seeds. The vase of flowers comes from an online shop on E-Bay.
Hilda’s Windsor chair is a hand-turned 1:12 artisan miniature which came from America. Unfortunately, the artist did not carve their name under the seat, but it is definitely an unmarked artisan piece.
In the background you can see a very modern and up-to-date 1920s gas stove. It would have been expensive to instal at the time, and it would have been the cook’s or maid’s pleasure to cook on and in. It would have included a thermostat for perfect cooking and without the need of coal, it was much cleaner to feed, use and easier to clean. It is not unlike those made by the Roper Stove Company in the 1920s. The Roper Stove Company previously named the Florence-Wehrle Company among other names, was founded in 1883. Located in Newark, Ohio, the company was once the largest stove producer in the world. Today, the Roper Stove Company is a brand of Whirlpool.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however, on this fine summer day, we are following Lettice as she and Gerald head south-west through the London streets in Gerald’s little Morris*. Taking the Brompton Road, they drive through Belgravia and then Chelsea as Brompton Road becomes Fulham Road. They drive past the Brompton Cemetery and through the historic centre of Walham Green before going on through Fulham, finally turning south along the Fulham High Street. Passing the Hurlingham Club along the banks of the Thames they continue to go south.
As Gerald drives his Morris over the Thames on Putney Bridge, Lettice glances around her. “I thought you were taking me to buy a new hat, Gerald.”
“I am Lettice darling.” he replies good naturedly.
“But this isn’t Bond Street. Far from it, in fact.” she counters as they reach the south side of the bridge, and she takes in a semi-circle of tall two and three storey Victorian and Edwardian brick buildings to their right and the crenelled tower of a stone church on their left. “Where are you taking me?”
“For a woman who has lived in London for nearly two years, you haven’t strayed far from Mayfair, have you Lettuce Leaf?” Gerald observes with a smirk.
“Don’t call me that Gerald! You know how I hate it! If you weren’t driving this car, “ scowls Lettice. “I’d hit you with my handbag.”
“Think of this like your own personal tour of Putney.”
“Putney?” Lettice’s eyes grow wide. “You’re taking me to a hatters in Putney?”
“Don’t be such an elitist Lettuce Leaf.”
Sulking in her seat, clutching her handbag with her arms folded across her chest she mutters, “That’s rich coming from you, the man who bemoans middle-class money paying for the acquisition of his frocks.”
“Just sit back, relax and enjoy the view, darling.” Gerald replies breezily as he turns off the Putney High Street and into a tree lined avenue which Lettice reads as being Hazlewell Road.
The pair drive in silence for a little while, Gerald concentrating on where they are going and Lettice looking at the view as Gerald suggested from her vantage point in the passenger seat alongside him.
“The houses seem awfully samey here, don’t you think?” she asks as they pass double storey Edwardian villa after double storey Edwardian villa made of red brick with bay windows, set in neat gardens behind privet hedges or low brick fences.
“No more than Pimlico,” Gerald observes. “Just newer is all.”
Gerald’s Morris finally pulls up in front of one such Edwardian villa. Lettice looks out of her door at it. The villa looks exactly the same as all the others on that side of the street: red brick with crenelled bay windows upstairs and down to either side of a porticoed door. In fact, the portico is one of the few differences that distinguish it from its neighbours either side. It has an arched portico which matches the arch in the lunette above the white painted front door, whereas its neighbours have square porticos with crenelling that matches that along the tops of the bay windows. Two banks of chimneypots at either side of the villa rise from the steeply hipped roof of shingles and a central attic balconette with French doors is flanked by oriel windows.
“Now, I want you to be good, Lettuce Leaf!” Gerald cautions his friend with a wagging finger encapsulated by his Dents driving glove**. “This is the home of Harriet Milford. Her father was a family solicitor. He died last year, leaving her an orphan. The house he left to her, but with no other real inheritance. With no income, so to speak, she has taken in lodgers.”
Lettice screws up her face in horror. “Lodgers! You’ve brought me to a lodging ho…”
“I said behave, Lettuce Leaf!” Gerald scolds her, arching his eyebrows. “I haven’t finished talking yet. Mr. Milford believed in education, but sadly only for boys. He wasn’t expecting to pass away before his daughter married, so without any employable skills, she’s turned her hand to what she can do.”
“And how did you come to meet this, Harriet Milford?” Lettice asks, her mouth a thin red lipsticked line of disapproval with turned down ends.
“She and I frequent the same haberdashers. After running into one another several times, I finally asked her what she did to buy so much ribbon and so many artificial flowers. And that was when she told me that having no real skill other than sewing, after her father died, as well as take in lodgers, she has turned her hand to millinery to make end meet.”
“I hope, my dear Gerald, that you aren’t expecting me to buy a hat from her out of pity.”
“Not at all, my dear. I’ve been here a number of times now, to take tea with Harriet, and I can assure you that her hat making skills rival that of Madame Gwendolyn. Already she has gained quite a reputation amongst the local ladies.”
Lettice snorts dismissively at the thought of the middle-class matrons of Putney and their choices of millinery.
Undeterred, Gerald continues, “Since Sadie has forbidden you to wear a hat from Selfridges to Leslie’s wedding, and I can’t say I disagree…”
“My hats from Sel…”
“I still haven’t finished!” Gerald interrupts his friend. “Since Sadie won’t let you wear a Selfridges hat to the wedding, and I won’t sit next to you at the wedding breakfast if you do, and you won’t go back to Madame Gwendolyn, I thought Harriet’s hat making skills would be the perfect solution. Now, come.” He puts his hand on the handle of his door and pushes it down, opening it slightly. He pauses just before getting out and turns back to his friend. “And remember to behave.”
“I always behave, Gerald!” Lettice defends herself as she opens her own door and steps out onto the sunny footpath.
Gerald walks around the front of the car and joins Lettice on the footpath. “Shall we?” he proffers his arm to his friend, which she accepts.
They step up to the black painted wrought iron gate flanked by two capped red brick pillars. Gerald opens the gate and together they walk in and up the garden path snaking across a well clipped lawn. Standing beneath the arched portico, Lettice can hear the notes of an oboe being played through one of the oriel windows open above. “That will be Cyril.” Gerald remarks as he depresses the doorbell next to the front door. The hollow ring that resounds through the hallway within is answered by a pair of scuttling footsteps as the front door is flung open exuberantly.
“Gerry darling!” gasps a young woman around Lettice’s age who throws her arms enthusiastically and perhaps a little overly familiarly around Gerald’s neck.
Lettice feels a momentary pang of jealousy in her stomach as she sees Gerald return Harriet’s enthusiastic embrace in a way that she thought only she and Gerald shared. With a quick flutter of her eyelashes, she dismisses the thought, but the pang in her stomach does not go away.
“Hullo Hattie darling!” He holds her at arm’s length. “My you do look well.”
“I sold another two hats yesterday, so I’m tickled pink, Gerry darling!” she gushes with a girlish giggle and a proud smile.
Lettice tries to force a cough. At the sound of Lettice gently clearing her throat, the spell between Gerald and Harriet is broken and Gerald quickly returns his attentions to Lettice. “Harriet, may I present my childhood chum, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd. Lettice, Miss Harriet Milford.”
Lettice takes in Harriet’s appearance from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. Looking more closely at her Lettice decides that she is actually possibly a year or two younger than she and Gerald are, with mousy brown hair cut into a soft bob. Her floral cotton frock with its drop waist and side flounces must surely be home made, yet it is obviously made well as it sits on her slender figure every bit as smartly as Lettice’s outfit, which has been expertly cut for her by Gerald. Her shoes show the wear of a few years and her stockings have been carefully mended. She looks across at Lettice with a pretty face, free of makeup. Her brown eyes are like deep pools, clear and bright, and they are framed by naturally long lashes.
“How do you do, Miss Chetwynd.” Harriet says in a polite and well bred voice.
“How do you do, Miss Milford.” she replies, returning Harriet’s open smile with a polite one of her own.
“Tut, tut, Hattie!” Gerald says, reaching across and plucking a piece of red cotton off Harriet’s shoulder, which Lettice finds an uncomfortably intimate gesture. Holding it out in front of Harriet he continues, “You mustn’t be answering the door wearing loose threads.” He smiles cheekily.
“Oh I’m busy making a new hat to replenish my stocks.” Harriet replies, blushing as she lowers her lids, and holds out her hands to accept the trailing thread of red. “Please, come this way Miss Chetwynd,” she adds, ushering Lettice and Gerald into the house. “You know the way Gerry darling.”
“Gerry darling?” Lettice queries quietly with a cocked eyebrow and a mirthful smile as she slips past the blushing Gerald and follows her hostess across the threshold into the black and white tiled hallway stuffed with Edwardian vestibule furniture.
“Please make yourself comfortable in here, Miss Chetwynd,” Harriet says, flinging open the first door on the left side of the hallway and indicating with an extended arm for Lettice to enter. “I’ll be like Polly and pop the kettle on. Back in a jiffy*** my dears!” And with scuttling footsteps she disappears into the gloom of the house further down the hallway.
Walking into the room as she has been told, Lettice gazes around it. Noting the flouncy Edwardian settee an matching armchair by the fire she remarks, “This is obviously the parlour.” Noticing a sewing machine sitting in the bay window where it can get the best light she adds, “Or was.”
It is then, as Gerald indicates with an open gesture to what must once have been a tea table, that Lettice sees several beautifully fashioned hats propped on wooden hatstands basking in the diffused light coming through the lace scrim curtains of the bay window. She gasps at the sight of them and immediately walks up to scrutinise them more closely. Two are made of straw and one of felt. The felt hat is dyed a dramatic turquoise colour and is trimmed with fine braid, garlands of ribbons and feathers dyed to match the shade of the felt. One of the straw hats is dyed a romantic shade of soft mauve, whilst the other remains its natural colour. The mauve hat’s romance is added to by a mixture of artificial flowers and clusters of ribbons woven expertly around the brim. The other hat is plainer with less decoration, yet its restrained treatment makes it every bit as elegant as the mauve hat. None of them would look out of place at Ascot or a tea party at Buckingham Palace.
Lettice thumbs the may green ribbon of the plain straw hat thoughtfully. “These are exquisite, Gerald.”
“I knew you’d like Hattie’s work.” Gerald sighs with satisfaction.
*Morris Motors Limited was a privately owned British motor vehicle manufacturing company established in 1919. With a reputation for producing high-quality cars and a policy of cutting prices, Morris's business continued to grow and increase its share of the British market. By 1926 its production represented forty-two per cent of British car manufacturing. Amongst their more popular range was the Morris Cowley which included a four-seat tourer which was first released in 1920.
**Dents is a British company that crafts luxury leather gloves, handbags, small leather goods. Dents is known for its hand cutting, sewing, and stitching techniques, which are still practised today on some limited top end products, most merchandise being purchased from third-party factories. Dents was established in Worcester in 1777 as a manufacturer of fine leather gloves by John Dent (1751–1811). It is possibly Britain's oldest existing fashion manufacturer. Dent's sons, John and William, helped the company expand throughout the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries. In 1845, mechanical sewing was introduced to the company to assist craftspeople. The company has a modern factory in Warminster, Wiltshire, having been present in the town since 1937.
***The expression in a jiffy was in use as early as 1780. It is a colloquial English expression for “in a short amount of time.” The origins of jiffy are unknown, though there are theories. One suggestion is that it comes from British thieves’ slang for “lightning,” hence very fast. An early instance appears in 1780 edition of Town and Country Magazine: “Most of the limbs of the law do every thing in a jiffy”.
Contrary to popular belief, fashion at the beginning of the Roaring 20s did not feature the iconic cloche hat as a commonly worn head covering. Although invented by French milliner Caroline Reboux in 1908, the cloche hat did not start to gain popularity until 1922, so even though this story is set in that year, picture hats, a hangover from the pre-war years, were still de rigueur in fashionable society and whilst Lettice is fashionable, she and many other fashionable women still wore the more romantic picture hat. Although nowhere near as wide, heavy, voluminous or as ornate as the hats worn by women between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the Great War, the picture hats of the 1920s were still wide brimmed, although they were generally made of straw or some lightweight fabric and were decorated with a more restrained touch.
This rather cluttered and chaotic scene of a drawing room cum workroom may look real to you, but believe it or not, it is made up entirely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism such as these are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. The natural yellow straw hat with green trim and the mauve dyed straw hat with mauve and green trim were both made by the same unknown artisan in America. The aqua hat behind the two straw hats was made by an unknown British artisan. All three hats were acquired through auctions on E-Bay. The hat stands the hats rest on are all part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The multi coloured feathers in the earthenware vase on the table behind the hats also belonged to Marilyn Bickel.
The copies of Weldon’s Dressmaker and the Lady’s World Fancy Work Book are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. In this case, the magazines are non-opening, however what might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s books and magazines are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.
The spools of ribbon, the tape measure, the silver sewing scissors in the shape of a stork and the box of embroidery threads I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House in the United Kingdom.
The table on which all these items stand is a Queen Anne lamp table which I was given for my seventh birthday. It is one of the very first miniature pieces of furniture I was ever given as a child.
The sewing machine to the left of the photo, I bought from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom. It is made with extreme attention to detail, complete with a painted black metal body, authentic sewing mechanisms and a worksurface “inlaid” with mother-of-pearl.
The round white metal sewing tin on the sewing machine’s surface is another artisan piece I have had since I was a young teenager. If you look closely you will see it contains a black velvet pin cushion, a pair of sewing scissors, needles, threads and two thimbles. Considering this is a 1:12 artisan miniature, imagine how minute the thimbles are! This I bought from a high street shop that specialised in dolls and doll house furnishings. It does have a lid which features artificial flowers and is trimmed with braid, but I wanted to show off the contents of the tin in this image, so it does not feature.
The spools of red, yellow, orange and blue cottons come from various online shops who sell dollhouse miniatures.
The salon chair drawn up to the sewing machine is part of a Marie Antionette suite with pretty floral upholstery which has been made by the high-end miniatures manufacturer, Creal.
Harriet’s family photos seen cluttering the mantlepiece and the bookshelf in the background are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are almost all from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each.
The porcelain clock on the mantlepiece is made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures.
The Edwardian mantlepiece is made of moulded plaster and was acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House in the United Kingdom.
The bookshelf in the background comes from Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late eighteenth century.
The paintings and prints on the walls all come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House in the United Kingdom.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are not at Cavendish Mews. Instead, we are just a short distance away in London’s busy shopping precinct on Regent Street, where amidst the throng of London’s middle-class housewives and upper-class ladies shopping for amusement, two maids – Edith who is Lettice’s maid and her best friend Hilda who is the maid for Lettice’s friends Margot and Dickie Channon - are enjoying the pleasures of window shopping under the wide canvas awnings of Selfridges on their day off. The usually busy footpath outside the enormous department store with London’s biggest plate glass windows seems even busier today as the crowds are swelled by visitors who have come in from the outer suburbs of London and elsewhere around England to do a little bit of early Christmas shopping. Already Edith is noticing that the shops are busier than usual, and even though Christmas is still a good two months away, there are signs of Christmas cheer with bright and gaudy tinsel garlands and stars cut from metallic paper hanging in shop windows and gracing shop counters. Around them, the vociferous collective chatter of shoppers mixes with the sound of noisy automobiles and chugging double decker busses as they trundle along Regent Street.
“So how are things at Hill Street, Hilda?” Edith asks her best friend as the pair stand before a window display of brightly coloured umbrellas just perfect to brighten the upcoming winter days. “Have you settled in alright?”
“Oh yes, I’ve settled in just fine,” Hilda begins, but her voice belies concerns.
“I sense there is a but. Don’t tell me it’s worse than awful old Mrs, Plaistow’s?”
“Oh no!” Hilda assures her friend, raising her glove clad hands in defence. “Far from it. It’s just that, well…” She pauses. “I don’t know where Mrs. Channon learned her housekeeping skills.”
Edith laughs. “Don’t be silly, Hilda. Mrs. Channon is a lady, and a future marchioness. She isn’t meant to know how to cook and clean! That’s what you are there for.”
“No Edith. I didn’t mean that.” Hilda deflects.
Edith tuns to her friend, but is momentarily distracted by the passing parade of shoppers behind them on the pavement and passenger faces in the fogged up windows of a red and cream double decker bus as it chugs noisily past them, belching out fumes. “What do you mean then, Hilda?”
“I meant that she doesn’t have the first idea about housekeeping. She’s the one who comes to me, asking me how much the housekeeping budget for the week should be.”
“Oh dear! Doesn’t Mrs. Channon give you a set amount each week then?”
“Well, I tried that, but it fluctuates from week to week.” Hilda replies exasperatedly. “Some weeks she gives me more than I’ve asked for. Sometimes she asks me if what I’ve quoted is enough, and some weeks she just adds extra in anyway, telling me to splurge on something extravagant to cook, or worse yet to buy something special and frivolous for myself!”
“No!” Edith gasps in incredulity.
“And yet on other weeks I tell Mrs. Channon how much I need, and she tells me that she can’t quite meet that budget.”
“Well maybe that’s why Mrs. Channon gives you a bit extra sometimes, to put aside for a rainy day.”
“To be honest, I don’t think Mrs, Channon would know a rainy day if it slapped her in the face with a wet fish*.” The pair of maids titter girlishly for a moment with their hands to their mouths as they imagine Margot Channon being slapped in the face with a salmon or a kipper. “She seems to have no real concept about money, other than she either has it or she hasn’t.”
The pair move across to the next window featuring an array of pretty autumnal hats with wide and narrow brims made of straw and brightly patterned fabric decorated with a mixture of feather, fur and floral trims.
“I don’t think either Mr. or Mrs. Channon even know the meaning of the word budget.” Hilda carries on. “Take these for example,” She points to the hats. “Mrs Channon’s father, Lord de Virre gave Mr. and Mrs. Channon a motor car as a wedding gift, but it sits gathering dust in the garage at Hill Street and they seldom use it because they don’t have the money for petrol to fill it. Yet they take taxis everywhere. I’m forever having to go down to the corner to the taxi stand to fetch one for them. And then Mrs. Channon comes home from a day of shopping with three, mind you three, new hats she really doesn’t need, and she asks me if I have sixpence left over from the housekeeping for the driver waiting downstairs to be paid!”
“Oh, that does sound rather chaotic, Hilda.”
“Chaotic is right!” Hilda agrees. “Mrs. Channon is just lucky that I do know how to work on a budget, and I don’t go spending the extra money she gives me some weeks on frippery and do have enough to cover the shortfalls when they happen. And goodness knows what that Pegeen did when she was working as maid at Hill Street!”
“Oh dear! Did you find another Pegeen present the other day?”
“Did I ever! Mr. and Mrs. Channon had Lord and Lady de Virre for supper the other night, so they had Harrods cater it.”
“You had the money for that then?”
“Yes, luckily, from Mr. Channon. Anyway, they asked for lobster, so when I went to the drawer for the lobster piks** I found it stuffed not only with a jangle of odds and ends of silverware, but half a dozen empty oyster shells, no doubt left over from another dinner party!”
“You’re lucky they didn’t smell!”
“I think they’d been there for a few months.” Hilda remarks dubiously. “I mean, I know Pegeen is Irish, but surely even they have dustbins in Ireland!”
Edith giggles again. “At least you have jolly good stories to regale me with on our days off, Hilda.”
The pair meander to the next window which is crowded with clusters of small children with their noses pressed to the glass, their harried mothers or frustrated nannies trying desperately to get them to come away. Peering over the top of the children’s heads, they see it is a window full of wonderful toys: teddy bears***, tin soldiers, brightly painted wooden castles and forts, games, blocks and books.
As they look, Edith’s eyes fall upon something and she gasps, clapping her hands in delight.
“What is it, Edith?” asks Hilda.
“Come on!” Edith says, grasping Hilda’s right hand in her left. “We have to go inside! I just found the perfect Christmas present!”
The pair enter Selfridge’s grand department store by one of the three revolving doors and are immediately enveloped by the wonderful scent of dozens of perfumes from the nearby perfumery counters. Despite Hilda’s protestations at being drawn away from the perfume and beauty counters, the pair make their way upstairs to the toy department.
The pair meander between tables laden with mountains of boxed dolls, teddy bears, toy tea sets and dolls’ house furnishings, jostling for space with excited children in toy heaven escorted by their frazzled parents. The air is punctuated with laughter, squeals of delight and the occasional sharp slap and harsh words of admonishment when a child does more than just look at what is on display.
“What are we looking for?” Hilda asks in a desultory fashion as she tags along behind Edith who charges about like a woman with a purpose.
“I’ll know when I see them.” Edith says excitedly. Then she spies what she is seeking. “Ahh, how perfect! Right next to the register!”
The pair brusquely walk over to a glass topped counter on which sits a brightly polished brass cash register. In front of it is a display of wooden and plush rabbits, and there, nestled amongst them, a selection of books written by Beatrix Potter. Excitedly, Edith deposits her newly acquired from the Petticoat Lane Market**** second-hand snakeskin purse – almost an exact replica of Lettice’s – onto the glass counter. She snatches up a copy of ‘The Tale of Samuel Whiskers’ and ‘The Tale of Two Bad Mice’.
“I wonder which one he’d like?” Edith ponders as she holds the two brightly coloured books in her hands. “Then again, he does like rabbits.” she mutters aloud as she puts them back and takes up a copy of ‘The Tale of Benjamin Bunny’.
“Beatrix Potter Books?” Hilda queries, screwing up her nose as she sidles up alongside her friend, hooking her black handled brolly on the raised edge of the counter. “What do you want them for?” Then she pauses, her eyes growing wide. “Bert hasn’t got some poor stewardess in the family way has he, Edith?”
Edith’s eyes roll as she turns to her friend. “No, my brother hasn’t done any such thing, I’ll thank you very much, Hilda. No, these are for Mrs, Boothby.”
“Mrs. Boothby?” Hilda queries, thinking of the mature Cockney charwoman***** employed by both her mistress, Margot, and Edith’s mistress, Lettice, who does all the hard graft that neither she nor Edith have to do. “What on earth would Mrs. Boothby want with Beatrix Potter Books?”
Edith sighs in exasperation. “You can be so literal sometimes, Hilda! They aren’t for Mrs. Boothby. They are for…” Edith pauses mid-sentence and thinks before she speaks. Several weeks ago, Edith met Mrs. Boothby’s son, a forty-two year old man who is a simple and gentle giant with the aptitude of a six year old. The old Cockney charwoman’s words ring in her ears about how it is easier for her not to mention that she has a son, not because she is ashamed of him, but because not everyone would understand her wanting to keep and raise a child with such difficulties. She knows that Mrs. Boothby has taken her into her confidence by introducing her to her son, Ken. “For one of her grandchildren.” Edith fabricates.
“Grandchildren? I didn’t even know Mrs. Boothby had children, never mind grandchildren!”
“Well, there’s a lot about Mrs. Boothby you don’t know, Hilda.”
“And how do you know about her grandchildren, Edith?”
“Don’t you remember, Hilda? I went over to Mrs. Boothby’s in Poplar a few weeks ago and she sold me a second-hand sewing machine that she had found for me.” Altering the truth a little, Edith goes on, “Her grandson was playing next door. Mrs. Boothby’s neighbour looks after all the little local children whilst their parents work. He is quite partial to Peter Rabbit, so I thought I might buy him a new Beatrix Potter book for Christmas.”
“That’s very good of you, Edith.” Hilda acknowledges.
“Oh, it’s the least I can do Hilda, after Mrs. Boothby having sold me that sewing machine so cheaply. I’d never have been able to afford a new one. It’s made such a difference for me already.”
“May I help you, Miss?” asks a young shopgirl who has slipped up silently to the register as Edith and Hilda have been chatting.
“How much are these each?” Edith asks.
“They are three and six, Miss.” the shopgirl replies with a smile. “A lovely gift for birthday or Christmas if I may, Miss.”
“I’ll take this one, thank you.” Edith smiles, handing over ‘The Tale of Benjamin Bunny’ to the girl behind the counter and delving into her new snakeskin purse purchase to find the correct money, pleased to have found what she hopes will be a welcome Christmas present for Ken Boothby, the gentle giant of Poplar.
*These days we usually associate slapping people with a wet fish to Monty Python’s Fish Slapping Dance, but the term “to be slapped with a wet fish” goes back as far as the early Twentieth Century, if not earlier. In Marcel Proust’s novel, ‘Swann’s Way’ (1913, Dr Cottard compliments Odette by saying “I’d rather have it in my bed than a slap with a wet fish”. Two lines further on, the narrator refers to the statement as “that old joke”. The term however really came into the popular vernacular between the wars in the 1920s and 1930s.
**A lobster pick or lobster fork is a long, narrow food utensil used to extract meat from joints, legs, claws, and other small parts of a lobster.
***Developed apparently simultaneously by toymakers Morris Michtom in America and Richard Steiff under his aunt Margarete Steiff's company in Germany in the early Twentieth Century, the teddy bear, purportedly named after American President Theodore Roosevelt, became a popular children's toy very quickly, and by 1922 when this story is set, a staple of many children’s nursery toys.
****Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.
*****A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.
This joyful shop counter display of children’s treasures may not appear to be what they really are, for however lifelike they are, they are in fact part of my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my own childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Central to this story, the copies of Beatrix Potter’s books are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! These are amongst the smaller number that do not open. I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. In this case, the magazines are non-opening, however what might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s books and magazines are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.
The two wooden rabbits are in fact wooden Christmas ornaments from Germany which I was given when I was about six. The plush white rabbit I acquired from an online stockist of miniatures on E-Bay. The Benjamin Bunny box and also the Noah’s Ark you can see on the shelves in the background, come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.
The brightly shining cash register was supplied by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom.
Edith’s snakeskin handbag with its gold clasp and chain comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom. Hilda's umbrella comes from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are 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.
Having recently met Mrs. McTavish, the grandmother of Frank Leadbetter, Edith’s young beau, Edith has now arranged for Frank to join her for a Sunday roast with her parents, so that they might finally meet. Wishing to make the right impression, Frank arrived on the doorstep of the Watsfords dressed in his Sunday best suit, and presented Ada with a bunch of beautiful yellow roses and George with a bottle of French red wine. Frank has not been the only one wishing to make a good impression, with Ada scrubbing her home from top to bottom in the days leading up to the visit.
The kitchen has always been the heart of Edith’s family home, and today it has a particularly special feel about it. Ada had pulled out one of her best table cloths 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. Ada has even conceded to Edith’s constant reminders that she promised to use the pretty Price Washington ‘Ye Old Cottage’ teapot that Edith bought her.
The kitchen is filled with the rich smells of roasted ham and pumpkin, boiled potatoes and vegetables, gravy warming over the grate and the faint fruity aroma of one of Ada’s cherry tarts as it sits waiting to be served for dessert on the dresser’s pull out extension.
“It’s a pleasure to finally have you at our table on a Sunday after all this time, Frank.” Ada says welcomingly from her seat in the high backed Windsor chair in front of the kitchen range, smiling across the round kitchen table at their guest.
“It’s a great pleasure to be here and to meet you too Mrs. Watsford,” Frank answers, before quickly looking to his right and adding, “And of course you too, Mr. Watsford.”
“Yes,” adds George. “All we ever seem to hear from our Edith these days is ‘Frank and I did this’ or ‘Frank said that’, and we wondered when we were going to get to meet you.”
“Dad!” admonishes Edith hotly, her cheeks flushing with colour at her father’s direct remark.
Frank looks to his sweetheart and smiles at her, silently indicating that what her father said was fine with him. “I am sorry we haven’t met sooner, but I am a stickler for doing things properly.”
“Yes, so Edith told us.” Ada answers.
“So, she may have told you that I wanted her to meet my family first. Sadly, my parents aren’t alive any longer, but I still have my maternal grandmother, who had more than a hand in my upbringing. I needed to ease her into the idea that I have a sweetheart, you see. It has just been she and I since 1919. I didn’t want to upset our routine, so I slowly introduced the idea of Edith being my sweetheart to her before finally introducing them.”
“Edith tells us that the introduction to Mrs. Mc… Tavish, is it?” Ada begins querying. When Frank nods, she continues. “That her introduction to Mrs. McTavish went very well.”
“It did indeed. In fact, it went even better than I’d hoped.” Frank enthuses. “You must both be very proud of Edith.”
Edith blushes again and looks down into her napkin draped across her lap.
‘And now they’ve met,” Frank continues. “It means that we could meet.”
“Well,” Ada says kindly. “I think that’s very respectful of you, considering your grandmother’s feelings like that.”
“I’m sure Edith would do the same, were she in a similar position, Mrs. Watsford.” Frank replies with a slight blush of his own now gracing his usually pale cheeks.
“And thank you again for the lovely roses, Frank.” Ada adds, glancing at the bunch of fat yellow roses on the table that Frank presented to her upon his and Edith’s arrival at the Watsford family home.
“Oh, and the wine.” Edith points to the bottle of red wine also sitting on the table.
“I’m not really a wine drinker myself,” George remarks. “More of stout man, me.” He taps the reddish brown earthenware jug next to him comfortingly.
“It doesn’t matter, George.” Ada admonishes her husband. “It was very thoughtful of you, Frank. I’m sure you make your grandmother as proud as Edith makes us.” Yet even as she speaks, Ada looks distrustfully at the bottle of red wine with its fancy label decorated with garlands and writing in a foreign language. “And where did you find this wine, Frank?”
“I did make sure to ask Edith whether you were teetotal, Mrs. Watsford.” Frank assures Ada. “If you disapprove, I’ll take it away. I meant no disrespect.”
“Oh it’s not that, Frank. We just aren’t used to it is all. As my husband says, we don’t often have a cause to have wine in this house.”
“I don’t think we’ve ever had wine in the house.” George adds.
“Oh, when Mum was alive and used to make elderflower or blackberry wine, I always had a small demijohn*** of them on the dresser.” Ada corrects him. “Not that there was ever a great deal in the house.”
“I don’t remember that,” George chortles. “But then again,” he adds, raising his bushy eyebrows. “There are a good many things I don’t remember these days.”
“Well, I’m afraid this didn’t come from my Granny.” Frank apologises. “But she doesn’t make wine.”
“No, but she does make very pretty lace, Mum.” Edith turns to Frank. “So where did you get it from Frank?” she asks. “I don’t remember Mr. Willison being a wine merchant.”
“Well, that’s because he’s not. This is a bottle of French wine which comes from a chum of mine who runs a little Italian restaurant up the Islington****.” Frank looks at Edith and smiles. “I’ll take you there one day, Edith, for a very special dinner of home-made spaghetti.”
“I’d like that, Frank.” Edith beams.
“A French wine from an Italian restaurant?” George queries.
“Giuseppe, my chum, serves wine from different countries with his meals, and I asked him what might be best to have.” Frank explains. “And he sold me this bottle.”
Ada picks up her tumbler of wine, sniffing at its red liquified contents rather suspiciously before taking her first tentative sip. Swallowing the wine, she isn’t quite sure whether she likes it or not as it glides down her throat. She can taste the fruitiness of it, but it is matched by an acidity that surprises her. It doesn’t taste like the blackberry wine she remembers her mother making. “Once again, it’s very thoughtful of you to give us such a… treat.” Returning her tumbler to the table she discreetly pushes it away from her place at the table, hoping that Frank won’t notice or take offence.
“Mum has always said that good manners are the hallmark of a gentleman.” Edith adds with a smile and a nod towards er mother, knowing that Frank has made a good impression with her by the simple gesture of a gift.
“And so they are.” Ada nods.
“Yellow roses are the universal symbol of friendship.” Frank explains. “And I do sincerely hope that we will be friends, Mr. and Mrs. Watsford.” he adds hopefully, the statement rewarded by a kind smile from both of Edith’s parents.
“Where did you learn that from, Frank?” Ada asks.
“I came across an old book at the Caledonian Markets* Mrs. Watsford, called, ‘Floral Symbolica’** which lists the meaning of ever so many flowers.”
“That sounds very fancy.” George remarks. “Floral… floral sym… what?”
“Symbolica, Mr. Watsford.” Frank confirms.
“Frank’s a big reader, Dad.” Edith announces, attracting her father’s attention to common ground between the two of them.
“What else do you read then, Frank?” George asks with interest. “Besides books of flowers, that is.”
“I read lots of things, Mr. Watsford.” Frank replies proudly. “Anything to improve my mind.”
“Well, I wish you’d help improve Edith’s mind. She seems only to be interested in romance novels.” George teases his daughter cheekily.
“That’s not true, Dad!” Edith gasps, taking her father’s bait far too easily. “I read lots of different things, not just romance novels.”
“What do you like to read, Sir?” Frank asks helpfully in an effort to save his sweetheart further embarrassment and character assassination at her father’s hands.
“I probably don’t read things you’d like, Frank. I prefer to read for escapism. A good story that grabs me is what I like, like those Fu Manchu***** mystery books, or that new female mystery writer. What’s her name?” He clicks his fingers as he tries to recall her name. “Help me, will you Edith. The woman who wrote ‘The Secret Adversary’ and ‘The Mysterious Affair at Styles’.”
“Christie.” Frank pipes up.
“That’s it!” George sighs with relief. “Agatha Christie******. Thank you Frank. Do you read her books too?”
“No, I’m afraid I’m not much of a mystery reader myself, Mr. Watsford.”
“No, you don’t strike me as a murder mystery type, Frank.” George muses as he eyes the serious young man in his Sunday best suit up and down. “You seem to be a more studious type.” He shrugs. “Pity, she writes ripping good yarns.”
“And you’re a delivery lad I believe?” Ada asks, turning the subject more towards knowing more about Frank’s prospects as a potential suitor for her daughter.
“That’s right, Mrs. Watsford.” Frank replies proudly, sitting a little straighter in his seat at the table. “I work for Willison’s the Grocers in Mayfair, and I do deliveries around the neighbourhood.”
“But he’s doing more than just deliveries now, Dad.” Edith pipes up a little anxiously, seeing the creases in her father’s serious face.
“Yes!” Frank adds. “Mr. Willison has taken me under his wing so to speak and is teaching me about displaying goods in the window and the like.”
“It’s called visual merchandising.” Edith explains.
“Is it now?” Ada remarks, pursing her lips in distrust and raising her eyebrows. “Such fancy words. Our Edith is always coming home with fancy words from your neck of the woods these days.”
“Good for you, Lad!” George booms. “Mrs. Watsford here,” He glances beyond the bunch of yellow roses at his wife. “Is perhaps a little less at ease with the idea of bettering yourself than Edith and I are.”
“I wouldn’t say that, George.” Ada defends herself. “I don’t think there is anything wrong with a young man improving his lots in life.”
“But?” George asks, picking up on the silent second half of his wife’s statement.
“But I think that there is such a thing as aspiring too high. There is a class structure that has done us well for time long before I was born.”
“For some of us, Mrs. Watsford.” Frank pipes up.
Edith’s eyes grow wide as she realises that the conversation over Sunday luncheon is suddenly careening swiftly towards a topic that Frank feels very passionately about, but also one that rattles her mother. She worries that Frank’s enthusiasm might not be so well received by either of her parents. However, even as she thinks these thoughts, it is already too late as Frank opens his mouth and continues.
“Now is the time for the working man, and working woman too, to rise up and be better than the lot in life we’ve been dealt, Mrs. Watsford.”
Edith watches the almost imperceptible shifts in her mother’s features as they steels and harden.
“You may be happy with your place in life, but I for one want to do better. I don’t want to be a grocer’s boy forever. I want to do better, so that I can afford to give Edith a good home.”
“Do you plan to own your own grocer’s, lad?” George asks with an air of impossibility.
“Maybe, Mr. Watsford. I don’t see why I shouldn’t, or at least shouldn’t try. I have a lot of dreams you see, and ideas for the future.”
Ada takes a mouthful of ham, swallowing stiffly as she answers, “Yes, I’ve heard a great deal about your ideas from Edith, Frank.”
“I can assure you, Mrs. Watsford, that I am not a Communist.” Frank defends himself, having heard from Edith about her mother’s concerns. “I just want a better world for Edith, for me, for my children.”
“And that’s admirable, Frank.” Ada counters. “And I don’t disagree with you. Aspiring to a better life is good. I just think a little less radically than you do, and you’ll forgive me for saying this, but as a person who has had more years on this earth than you have, Frank, I don’t think my opinions are less valid, in spite of their lack of ambition for change.”
An uncomfortable silence falls over the table.
“Oh I’m sorry, Mrs. Watsford.” Frank says after a moment, dabbing the edge of is mouth with his napkin. “I didn’t mean to cause any offence. Edith tells me that when I get passionate about something, I talk before I think. I apologise for shooting off my mouth.”
“That’s alright lad.” George replies soothingly, covering over his wife’s stony silence. “It’s good to feel strongly and want change: a better future for yourself. Ada and I,” He places his bigger hand comfortingly and in a sign of solidarity over his wife’s as she still holds her fork, resting her wrist on the table. “Well, you’ll probably laugh at our old fashioned ideas, but we’ve made positive changes for ourselves and our children in our own, more quiet ways.”
“Sorry Mr. Watsford.” Frank sighs. “It’s not the first time my mouth has gotten me in trouble.”
“It’s alright, Frank.” Ada says quietly, releasing the handle of her fork and entwining her fingers with those of her husband. “I like you, in spite of the fact that you and I may not entirely agree with the way the world should be or how we go about making it a better place, but I just can’t help worrying about our Edith being with you and your revolutionary ideas.”
“Mum!” Edith gasps, raining her hands to her mouth.
“I’m sorry, Edith,” Ada says. “But I have to say my peace. I do worry about you. As a mother you do worry, about all your children.”
“I promise you that I won’t ever put Edith in harm’s way, Mrs. Watsford.” Frank swears earnestly.
“Not intentionally, I know, Frank, but what about unintentionally?” Ada says. “You’re a good lad, and I can see that by your thoughtfulness and your manners. You obviously treat Edith very well. However, the vehemence with which you spurn your new ideas around is frightening to me.” She looks at Edith seriously and continues earnestly. “You’re of age now, Edith love, and I can’t stop you from stepping out with Frank here. You can make your own decisions as to whether he is the right young man for you.”
“Oh he is, Mum! I promise you!” Edith pipes up, looking deep into her mother’s serious face.
“I suppose I’m just a bit like your granny was with our Edith, Frank. I need to get accustomed to you.” She looks at the plump yellow rose blooms. “George and I accept your offer of friendship, and we hope that you won’t feel too awkward after today to join us for Sunday tea again.”
“Oh I assure you Mrs. Watsford, I’d be delighted.”
“Good. But in extending the warm hand of friendship, I’d be obliged if you would perhaps temper your more modern and revolutionary ideas, whilst I get used to you, Frank.”
All four diners spend a few minutes quietly eating their dinner, with only the scrape of cutlery against crockery to break the silence.
As Edith chews her mouthful of boiled potato, she finds it hard to swallow, and when she finally does, she feels it slide down her throat and land heavily in the pit of her stomach. She glances across at Frank to her right, but he doesn’t look up from his plate as he puts a sliver of orange roast pumpkin in his mouth. She had warned Frank to try and curtail his passionate ideas before her parents, but realises now that to ask him to do so is to deny him one of the most important things in his life. She worries whether Frank and her mother will ever see eye-to-eye on things.
“So, enough about changing the world,” George says at length, breaking the silence. “What football team do you support then, young Frank?”
Edith smiles gratefully at her father, who winks at her over the rim of his glass as she takes a swig of ale.
“West Ham United, Sir.” Frank says proudly.
“Good lad!” George chortles. “See, he’s not all bad, Ada!”
“You must be as excited as me about West Ham playing Bolton at the inaugural Empire Stadium******* match that’s coming up then, Mr. Watsford.” Frank says, also smiling gratefully at George for being the peacemaker and easing the tension in the room.
“Oh we all are, lad!” agrees George. “Would that I could get tickets for the match, but being the opening of the stadium, tickets are hard to come by.”
“If they finish it in time.” Frank remarks. “There isn’t long to go now, and yet from what I’ve read, it’s nowhere near done yet.”
“Now, now, lad!” George admonishes Frank good naturedly, wagging his fork with a speared piece of cauliflower on it. “Have a bit of faith in British construction. That stadium is going to be the centrepiece of the British Empire Exhibition. No full blooded British man is going to let the Empire down by not competing it.”
“Yes, you’re quite right, Sir.” Frank agrees.
As the mood at the table lifts and shifts a little, Edith is suddenly heartened by the possibility that maybe Frank might win approval from both her parents in the end, if Frank can win her father over. Her father’s opinion matters a great deal to her mother. She slices her knife through another boiled potato on her plate and sighs quietly, knowing that whilst this first meeting of Frank and her parents was not all that she had hoped for, all is not lost and some bridges have been built.
*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.
**’Floral Symbolica; or, The Language and Sentiment of Flowers’ is a book written by John Ingram, published in London in 1870 by Frederick Warne and Co. who are perhaps best known for publishing the books of Beatrix Potter. ‘Flora Symbolica; or, The language and Sentiment of Flowers includes meanings of many species of flowers, both domestic and exotic, as well as floral poetry, original and selected. It contains a colour frontispiece and fifteen colour plates, printed in colours by Terry. John Henry Ingram (November the 16th, 1842 – February the 12th, 1916) was an English biographer and editor with a special interest in Edgar Allan Poe. Ingram was born at 29 City Road, Finsbury Square, Middlesex, and died at Brighton, England. His family lived at Stoke Newington, recollections of which appear in Poe's works. J. H. Ingram dedicated himself to the resurrection of Poe's reputation, maligned by the dubious memoirs of Rufus Wilmot Griswold; he published the first reliable biography of the author and a four-volume collection of his works.
***A demijohn originally referred to any glass vessel with a large body and small neck, enclosed in wickerwork. The word presumably comes from the French dame-jeanne, literally "Lady Jane", as a popular appellation; this word is first attested in France in the Seventeenth century. Demijohns are primarily used for transporting liquids, often water or chemicals. They are also used for in-home fermentation of beverages, often beer or wine.
****The Italian quarter of London, known commonly today as “Little Italy” is an Italian ethnic enclave in London. Little Italy’s core historical borders are usually placed at Clerkenwell Road, Farringdon Road and Rosebery Avenue - the Saffron Hill area of Clerkenwell. Clerkenwell spans Camden Borough and Islington Borough. Saffron Hill and St. Peter’s Italian Catholic Church fall within the Camden side. However, even though this was the traditional enclave for Italians, immigrants moved elsewhere in London, bleeding into areas like Islington and Soho where they established bars, cafes and restaurants which sold Italian cuisine and wines.
*****’The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu’ was a 1913 novel by prolific writer Arthur Henry Sarsfield Ward under the non-deplume Sax Rohmer that portrayed Chinese as opium fiends, thugs, murders and villains. His supervillain Fu-Manchu proved so popular that he wrote a whole series of sequels featuring the odious character between 1914 ad 1917 and then again from 1933 until 1959. The image of "Orientals" invading Western nations became the foundation of Rohmer's commercial success, being able to sell twenty million copies of his books in his lifetime.
******By 1923 when this story is set, detective mystery fiction writer Agatha Christie had already written two successful novels, ‘The Mysterious Affair at Styles’ published by The Bodley Head in 1921, which introduced the world to her fictional detective Hercule Poirot, and ‘The Secret Adversary’ also published by The Bodley Head, in 1922, which introduced characters Tommy and Tuppence. In May of 1923, Agatha Christie would release her second novel featuring Hercule Poirot: ‘The Murder on the Links’ which would retail in London bookshops for seven shillings and sixpence.
*******Originally known as Empire Stadium, London’s Wembley Stadium was built to serve as the centerpiece of the British Empire Exhibition. It took a total of three hundred days to construct the stadium at a cost of £750,000. The stadium was completed on the 23rd of April 1923, only a few days before the first football match, between the Bolton Wanderers and West Ham United, was to take place at the stadium. This first match was the 1923 FA Cup final, which later became known as the White Horse final. The stadium's first turf was cut by King George V, and it was first opened to the public on 28 April 1923. Much of Humphry Repton's original Wembley Park landscape was transformed in 1922 and 1923 during preparations for the British Empire Exhibition. First known as the "British Empire Exhibition Stadium" or simply the "Empire Stadium", it was built by Sir Robert McAlpine for the British Empire Exhibition of 1924 (extended to 1925).
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 roast ham dinner that really does look good enough to eat is 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 gravy boat of gravy is also Frances Knight’s work. The knife sitting alongside the ham comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom. 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 and the glasses (which are made from real glass) 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 salt and pepper shakers come from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The 1:12 artisan bottle of Bordeaux, made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, is made from glass and the winery on the label is a real winery in France. The vase of yellow roses 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 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.
Also on the dresser on the pull out drawer is a cherry tart made by Frances Knight. Next to it stands a cottage ware teapot. Made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson, it has been decorated authentically and matches in perfect detail its life-size Price Washington ‘Ye Olde Cottage Teapot’ counterparts. The top part of the thatched 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 large kitchen range in the background is a 1:12 miniature replica of the coal fed Phoenix Kitchen Range. A mid-Victorian model, it has hinged opening doors, hanging bars above the stove and a little bass hot water tap (used in the days before plumbed hot water).
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
It is evening and Lettice is sitting at her Hepplewhite desk next to the fire in her drawing room. Her desk is covered with reference books, paper and pencils. Whilst she works away, 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, is draped languidly across one of her Art Deco tub arm chairs with a half drunk glass of champagne in one hand and a half finished frock in floral silk de chiné lying across his lap. Not uncommonly the two keep each other company as they work. For Lettice, it is companionable time spend with her dear friend, and for Gerald, whose finances are somewhat straitened, it saves him money using Lettice’s electricity and dining, quite literally, on her largesse.
Gerald hears the silence coming from Lettice’s desk and he looks over. His friend sits with her left elbow pressing onto the desk’s surface, her head in her left hand whilst she toys with a green pencil in her right hand. “Are you struggling Lettuce Leaf?” Gerald asks in concern.
“Don’t call me that Gerald!” Lettice snaps at her friend. “You know I don’t like it.”
“You didn’t mind it when we were four.”
“But we are not four any more Gerald.” She gives him a doubtful look.
“Well, now that I successfully have your attention. Is this Margot and Dickie’s designs you’re working on?”
“Trying to.” Lettice sighs, flinging down her pencil and sagging back defeatedly into her chair.
“Trying is obviously the word for it.” Gerald observes.
“Oh, be a darling and pass my glass of champagne, will you Gerald?” Lettice asks, reaching out to him.
“What?” Gerald asks. “When I have Anne Woods’ newest frock nicely spread across my lap?”
Lettice returns his questions with a roll of her eyes. “It’s not that hard to reach over and fetch my glass. You don’t even have to get up.”
Gerald reaches over the black japanned coffee table, past his sewing box and grabs Lettice’s glass, making the attempt look, and sound with a well placed groan, harder than it actually is. “It’s not that hard to walk around and grab it yourself, either.”
“And it isn’t that hard to sew in your own Soho bachelor flat.” Lettice responds with a cheeky grin, taking the glass from her friend.
“Ahhh touché my dear,” Gerald replies, raising his glass to hers, the flutes clinking together. “Lady Sadie is right, my acerbic tongue is rubbing off on you nicely.”
“Thinking of my mother,” Lettice remarks offhandedly. “What on earth did you say to her at the Hunt Ball? She was so struck by it that she refuses to talk about it.”
Gerald blushes, remembering the altercation he had with Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, at the ball. In a slightly inebriated state he told her that neither she nor Lettice had any sway over Selwyn Spencely’s choice of a wife, any more than Selwyn did himself, explaining that it was his mother, the Duchess of Mumford, Lady Zinnia, who would choose a wife for him. “I don’t remember, darling,” he replies awkwardly, covering his tracks as best as he can. “I was rather tight* on your father’s champagne.”
“Well, it might be a little while before you are welcome back at Glynes**.”
“Oh well darling, I shall miss your father’s largesse,” Gerald sighs. “Which is all the more reason why I should take advantage of your generosity.” He waves his hands around him indicating to his comfortable surrounds.
Lettice smiles at her friend and says, “You should, darling.” She reaches out and pats his hand conciliatorily. “You’re good company for me”
“Even if Lady Sadie says otherwise?”
“Especially if Mater says something to the contrary!” To steer the subject away from a less pleasant path she adds, “How is the lovely Miss Anne Woods frock going anyway?”
“Quite nicely thank you.” He holds up the lifeless pale pink flowery dress with bell sleeves and pleats. “I think that the boat neckline will suit her broader shoulders much better than a boxy square one, which will only accentuate it.”
“Very wise, Gerald.” Lettice agrees, scrutinising the shape of the fabric and trying to image the young lady in in. “You are making a wonderful couturier by not letting women make mistakes with their clothes, even if they think they know better.”
“Thank you, darling. But this conversation isn’t about me. It’s about you.” Gerald demurs. “Now whatever is wrong with Margot and Dickie’s designs?”
“Well, you know how Margot wants to replace all the furnishings in ‘Chi an Treth’, because she thinks they are dark and too old-fashioned?”
“Yes.”
“Well I…”
“Let me guess. You don’t want to just get rid of all that furniture, do you?”
“Ah how well you know me, dear Gerald!” Lettice’s shoulders rise, as if being freed of a great weight. “I think it would be a shame, especially when the lovely Miss Rosevear is to hang in pride of place in the drawing room.”
“If, she hangs there.” Gerald corrects his friend.
“Do we know what Dickie has done with her?”
“I believe that under advisement from Dickie’s father, she has been sent to Bonhams***. No doubt the Marquess imagines that Bonhams will fetch the best price for her.”
“So, all the more reason to hold onto some of the history of the house if she doesn’t return.” Lettice says with desperation strangling her usually clear tones.
The pair fall silent for a shot while, both lost in their own thoughts, with only the crackle of the fire and the ticking of the clock on the mantle to break the quiet.
“When we drove back to London after the ball, didn’t I see you had a book on Regency furnishings that you took from your father’s library?”
“Why yes. I have it here.” She pulls it out from a stack of reference books stacked on a Chippendale black japanned footstool adjunct to her desk.
“Pass it over.” Gerald commands, putting his glass of champagne aside and holding his hands out.
Lettice hands him the large brown leather volume with a tooled cover and spine. “I did consult it, but didn’t find it to be of much inspiration. Lots of dark, rich greens, blues, reds and gold. Not at all what Margot wants.”
“No eau-de-nil sofas then?” chuckles Gerald as he begins flipping through the pages.
“I told you, Gerald, I looked through it, but didn’t find any inspiration.”
“Ahh, but that’s because we are looking for different things, darling.”
“Whatever do you mean, Gerald?” Lettice begins, but is silenced by her friend raising his hand and wagging a finger admonishingly at her, so she slumps back in her seat and finishes what is left of the champagne in her glass.
Gerald sits with the book open in his lap on top of the frock he is sewing and flips leisurely through it, carefully turning each page and scanning it with the narrowed eyes of a scholar who knows exactly what he is looking for, and with the patience that looking for hidden treasure requires.
“Aha!” he cries finally, his eyes wide with excitement as a broad smile graces his face. “I have it!”
“What have you, Gerald?”
He looks up at her. “Do you remember when we sat on the beach of the cove on the Saturday we spent in Cornwall with Dickie and Margot?”
“Yes of course I do, Gerald.”
“And do you remember what I said to you?”
“You always have a lot to say to me, Gerald.” Lettice replies with a cheeky smirk playing on her lips.
“Alright, yes, I know.” her friend concedes. “To remind you what I’m talking about, I said that you should consider painting murals as part of your interior designs. Do you remember me telling you that, darling?”
“Vaguely.” Lettice admits. “But I don’t know if I’m in favour of that. You aren’t suggesting that I paint Miss Rosevear on Margot and Dickie’s wall, surely? What does that have to do with that book on Regency furnishings?”
“Nothing, Lettice darling, and I’m not suggesting anything of the sort.” He stares at her intensely. “I appreciate that you might not feel your artistic talents worthy of painting a mural, even if I think your talent would be well applied at the Slade School of Art****. But this will be a suitable compromise.”
“Compromise, what on earth do you mean?”
“Come and look.” Gerald commands his friend, beckoning her over. She rises from her Hepplewhite chair before her desk and steps over to Gerald, who wraps an arm comfortingly around her waist. “See here.” He points to a fantastically ornate sideboard with in-built dumb waiters at either end topped with candelabras. The front is covered with a long two tone green striped fabric covering the shelves behind, and it is to this that he indicates.
“You want me to paint fabric?” Lettice asks, screwing her nose up.
“You really can be frightfully dense sometimes, darling.” Gerald chuckles, pulling her more closely to him. “Look again. That isn’t fabric. It’s wood, painted to look like fabric.”
“A trompe-l'œil*****, you mean?”
“I do. Now, I’m not suggesting you paint a trompe-l'œil, but what I am suggesting is that you do something like this.” He points to a games table on the page beneath. “Those panels are painted by hand to appear like marquetry. You could take some of the old furniture that Margot wants banished and repurpose it in your new, lighter interior design by painting them white, or eau-de-nil if Margot so insists, and decorate them with new designs. That way…”
“That way I am keeping the furniture, and Margot will still be happy!” Lettice claps her hands excitedly. Moving slightly away from him she bends down and places her hands on his cheeks and kisses him. “Gerald you are a genius!”
Blushing as much for the unexpected kiss as the compliment, Gerald replies, “I know, darling.”
He hands back the book to Lettice, who carries it back to the desk and places it open on its surface to the left-hand side. She takes up her red pencil and begins to draw sinewy lines on the blank page before her. Gerald releases a satisfied sigh trough his nose, and with the air suitably humming with inspiration and industry from Lettice as her hand moves across the page, her pencils making soft scratching noises against the paper, Gerald picks up his needle and returns to sewing his frock for his broad shouldered client.
*’Tight’ is an old fashioned upper-class term for drunk.
**Glynes is 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.
***Established in 1793, Bonhams is a privately owned international auction house and one of the world's oldest and largest auctioneers of fine art and antiques. It was formed by the merger in November 2001 of Bonhams and Brooks and Phillips Son and Neale.
****Established by lawyers and philanthropist Felix Slade in 1868, Slade School of Fine Art is the art school of University College London and is based in London, England. It has been ranked as the United Kingdom’s top art and design educational institution. The school is organised as a department of University College London's Faculty of Arts and Humanities. Two of its most important periods were immediately before, and immediately after, the turn of the twentieth century. It had such students as Dora Carrington, Mark Gertler, Paul Nash, C.R.W. Nevinson and Stanley Spencer.
*****Trompe-l'œil is an art technique that uses realistic imagery to create the optical illusion that the depicted objects exist in three dimensions when in fact it is not there at all. Forced perspective is a comparable illusion in architecture.
For anyone who follows my photostream, you will know that I collect and photograph 1:12 size miniatures, so although it may not necessarily look like it, but this cluttered desk is actually covered in 1:12 size artisan miniatures and the desk itself is too. All are from my collection of miniatures.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Lettice’s Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair are beautifully and artfully made by J.B.M. miniatures. Both the bureau and chair are made of black japanned wood which have been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the arms of the chair and inside the bureau. The chair set has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven.
The Regency era cabinet maker’s book on Lettice’s desk is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. Therefore, it is a pleasure to give you a glimpse inside one of the books he has made. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into this volume, it contains twelve double sided pages of illustrations and it measures thirty-three millimetres in height twenty millimetres in width and is only three millimetres thick. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just one of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!
On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame. The latter comes from Doreen Jenkins’ Small Wonders Miniatures in England, whilst the other two come from Melody Jane Dolls’ House, also in England. The photos themselves are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.
The pencils come from Melody Jane Dolls’ House. They are one millimetre wide and two centimetres long.
Also on the desk, are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles, a roller, a blotter and a letter opener, all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame.
The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however, we are just a short distance from Cavendish Mews, at Mr. Willison’s grocers’ shop. Willison’s Grocers in Mayfair is where Lettice has an account, and it is from here that Edith, Lettice's maid, orders her groceries for the Cavendish Mews flat, except on special occasions like the soirée that Lettice threw for Dickie and Margot Channon’s engagement, when professional London caterers are used. Mr. Willison prides himself in having a genteel, upper-class clientele including the households of many titled aristocrats who have houses and flats in the neighbourhood, and he makes sure that his shop is always tidy, his shelves well stocked with anything the cook of a duke or duchess may want, and staff who are polite and mannerly to all his important customers. The latter is not too difficult, for aside from himself, Mrs. Willison does his books, his daughter Henrietta helps on Saturdays and sometimes after she has finished school, which means Mr. Willison technically only employs one member of staff: Frank Leadbetter his delivery boy who carries orders about Mayfair on the bicycle provided for him by Mr. Willison. He also collects payments for accounts which are not settled in his Binney Street shop whilst on his rounds.
Lettice’s maid, Edith, is stepping out with Frank, and to date since he rather awkwardly suggested the idea to her in the kitchen of the Cavendish Mews flat, the pair has spent every Sunday afternoon together, going to see the latest moving pictures at the Premier in East Ham*, dancing at the Hammersmith Palais or walking in one of London’s many parks. They even spent Easter Monday at the fair held on Hampstead Heath***. Whilst Lettice is away in Cornwall selecting furniture from Dickie and Margot’s Penzance country house, ‘Chi an Treth’, to be re-purposed, Edith is taking advantage of a little more free time and has come to Willison’s Grocers under the pre-text of running an errand in the hope of seeing Frank. The bell rings cheerily as she opens the plate glass door with Mr. Willison’s name painted in neat gilt lettering upon it. Stepping across the threshold she immediately smells the mixture of comforting smells of fresh fruits, vegetables and flour, permeated by the delicious scent of the brightly coloured boiled sweets coming from the large cork stoppered jars on the shop counter. The sounds of the busy street outside die away, muffled by shelves lined with any number of tinned goods and signs advertising everything from Lyon’s Tea**** to Bovril*****.
“Miss Watsford!” exclaims Mr. Willison’s wife as she peers up from her spot behind the end of the return counter near the door where she sits doing her husband’s accounts. “We don’t often have the pleasure.”
Edith looks up, unnerved, at the proprietor’s wife and bookkeeper, her upswept hairstyle as old fashioned as her high necked starched shirtwaister****** blouse down the front of which runs a long string of faceted bluish black beads. “Yes,” Edith smiles awkwardly. “I… I have, err… that is to say I forgot to give Fr… err, Mr. Leadbeater my grocery list when he visited the other day.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Willison queries. “I could have sworn that we had it.” She starts fussing through a pile of papers distractedly. “That isn’t like you Miss Watsford. You’re usually so well organised.”
“Well,” Edith thinks quickly. “It… it isn’t really the list. It’s just that I left a few things off. Miss Chetwynd… well, you see she fancies…”
“Oh, well give me the additions, Miss Watsford,” Mrs. Willison thrusts out her hand efficiently, the frothy white lace of her sleeve dancing around her wrist. “And I’ll see to it that they are added to your next delivery. We don’t want the Honourable Miss Chetwynd to go without, now do we?”
With a shaky hand Edith reluctantly hands over her list of a few extra provisions that aren’t really required, especially with her mistress being away for a few days. As she does, she glances around the cluttered and dim shop hopefully.
“Will there be anything else, Miss Watsford?” Mrs. Willison asks curtly.
“Err… yes.” Edith stammers, but falls silent as she continues to look in desperation around the shop.
Mrs. Willison suspiciously eyes the slender and pretty domestic through her pince-nez*******. She scrutinises Edith’s fashionable plum coloured frock with the pretty lace collar. The hem of the skirt is following the current style and sits higher than any of Mrs. Willison’s own dresses and it reveals Edith’s shapely stockinged calves. She wears her black straw cloche decorated with purple silk roses and black feathers over her neatly pinned chignon. “Is that a few frock, Miss Watsford?” the grocer’s wife continues.
“Ahh, yes it is, Mrs. Willison. I made it myself from scratch with a dress pattern from Fashion for All********,” Edith replies proudly, giving a little twirl that sends her calf length skirt flaring out prettily, and Mrs. Willison’s eyebrows arching with disapproval as the young girl reveals even more of her legs as she does. “Do you like it?”
“You seem a little dressed up to run an errand here, Miss Watsford.” Mrs. Willison says with bristling disapprobation.
“Well, I… I err… I do have some letters to post too, Mrs. Willison,” Edith withdraws two letters from her wicker basket and holds them up in her lilac glove clad hand.
“Well, we mustn’t keep you from your errand, now must we, Miss Watsford? Now what else did you require before you leave?” the older woman emphasises the last word in her sentence to make clear her opinion about young girls cluttering up her husband’s shop.
“An apple.” Edith says, suddenly struck with inspiration. “I’d like an apple for the journey, Mrs. Willison.”
“Very good, Miss Watsford.” the older woman starts to move off her stool. “I’ll fetch…”
“No need, Mrs. Willison!” Frank’s cheerful voice pipes up as he appears from behind a display of tinned goods. “I’ll take care of Miss Watsford. That’s what I’m here for. You just stay right there Mrs. Willison. Right this way, Miss Watsford.” He ushers her with a sweeping gesture towards the boxes of fresh fruit displayed near the cash register.
“Oh Fran…” Edith catches herself uttering Frank’s given name, quickly correcting herself. “Err… thank you, Mr. Leadbetter.”
Mrs. Willison lowers herself back into her seat, all the while eyeing the pair of young people critically as they move across the shop floor together, their heads boughed conspiratorially close, a sense of overfamiliarity about their body language. She frowns, the folds and furrows of her brow eventuated. Then she sighs and returns to the numbers in her ledger.
“What are you doing here, Edith?” Frank whispers to his sweetheart quietly, yet with evident delight in his voice.
“Miss Lettice is away down in Cornwall on business, so I thought I’d stop in on my way through in the hope of seeing you, Frank.” She glances momentarily over her shoulder. “Then Mrs. Willison greeted me. I thought I was going to get stuck with the disapproving old trout and not see you.”
“The weather looks good for Sunday, Edith. It’s supposed to be sunny. Shall we go to Regent’s Park and feed the ducks if it is?”
“Oh, yes!” Edith clasps her hands in delight, her gloves muffling the sound. “Maybe there will be a band playing in the rotunda.”
“If there is, I’ll hire us a couple of deck chairs and we can listen to them play all afternoon in the sunshine.”
“That sounds wonderful, Frank.”
“Well,” pronounces Frank loudly as the stand over the wooden tray of red and golden yellow apples. “This looks like a nice juicy one, Miss Watsford.”
“Yes,” Edith replies in equally clear tones. “I think I’ll have that one, Mr. Leadbeater.”
“Very good, Miss Watsford. I’ll pop it into a paper bag for you.”
“Oh, don’t bother Fr… Mr. Leadbeater. I’ll put it in my basket.”
Frank takes the apple and walks back around the counter to the gleaming brass cash register surrounded by jars of boiled sweets. “That will be tuppence please, Miss Watsford.” He enters the tally into the noisy register, causing the cash draw to spring open with a clunk and the rattle of coins rubbing against one another with the movement.
Edith hooks her umbrella over the edge of the counter, pulls off her gloves and fishes around in her green handbag before withdrawing her small leather coin purse from which she takes out tuppence which she hands over to Frank.
“Here,” Frank says after he deposits her money and pushes the drawer of the register closed. He slides a small purple and gold box discreetly across the counter.
Edith gasps as she looks at the beautifully decorated box featuring a lady with cascading auburn hair highlighted with gold ribbons, a creamy face and décollétage sporting a frothy white gown and gold necklace. She traces the embossed gold lettering on the box’s lid. “Gainsborough Dubarry Milk Chocolates!”
“Can’t have my girl come all this way to see me and not come away with a gift.” Frank whispers with a beaming smile dancing across his face.
“Seeing you is gift enough, Frank.” Edith blushes.
“Ahem!” Mrs. Willison clears her throat from the other end of the shop. “Will they be going on the Honourable Miss Chetwynd’s account, Frank?” she asks with a severe look directly at her husband’s employee.
“Um… no Mrs. Willison. Don’t worry. I’ll be paying for them.” Frank announces loudly. Bending his head closer to Edith, he whispers, “I can see why Mr. Willison has her in here when he isn’t. You can’t get away with anything without her knowing: ghastly old trout.”
Edith giggles as she puts the small box of chocolates and the apple into her basket. “I’ll save them for Sunday.” she says with a smile. “We can share them whilst we listen to the band from our deckchairs.”
Frank smile broadens even more. “Righty-ho, Edith.”
“Righty-ho, Frank.”
“Well, as I was saying, Miss Watsford,” Mrs. Willison pronounces from her stool. “We mustn’t keep you from your errands. I’m sure you have a lot to do, and it is almost midday already.”
“Yes indeed, Mrs. Willison.” Edith agrees, unable to keep the reluctance out of her voice. “I really should be getting along. Well, goodbye Mr. Leadbeater. Thank you for your assistance.” She then lowers her voice as she says, “See you Sunday.”
Both Frank and Mrs. Willison watch as the young lady leaves the shop the way she came, by the front door, a spring in her step and a satisfied smile on her face, her basket, umbrella and handbag slung over her arm.
“Frank!”
Frank cringes as Mrs. Willison calls his name. Turning around he sees her striding with purpose behind the counter towards him, wending her way through the obstacle course of stacks of tins and jars of produce, hessian sacks of fresh vegetables and fruits and boxes of bottles.
“Yes, Mrs Willison?”
“Frank,” she says disappointingly. “I can’t stop you from stepping out with a girl in your own time,” She comes to a halt before him, domineering over him with her topknot, her arms akimbo. “And I’d say the Honourable Miss Chetwynd is foolishly modern enough to let you take her maid out on Sundays.” She looks at him with disapproving eyes. “However, I’d be much obliged if you kept your dalliances to your own time, and kindly keep them out of my husband’s establishment during business hours!”
“Yes Mrs. Willison!” Frank replies, sighing gratefully, now knowing that he isn’t going to be given notice for chatting with Edith during work hours.
“And I’ll make an adjustment to your wages this week for the chocolates.” she adds crisply.
“Yes Mrs. Willison.” Frank nods before hurrying away back to the stock room.
*The Premier Super Cinema in East Ham was opened on the 12th of March, 1921, replacing the 800 seat capacity 1912 Premier Electric Theatre. The new cinema could seat 2,408 patrons. The Premier Super Cinema was taken over by Provincial Cinematograph Theatres who were taken over by Gaumont British in February 1929. It was renamed the Gaumont from 21st April 1952. The Gaumont was closed by the Rank Organisation on 6th April 1963. After that it became a bingo hall and remained so until 2005. Despite attempts to have it listed as a historic building due to its relatively intact 1921 interior, the Gaumont was demolished in 2009.
**The Hammersmith Palais de Danse, in its last years simply named Hammersmith Palais, was a dance hall and entertainment venue in Hammersmith, London, England that operated from 1919 until 2007. It was the first palais de danse to be built in Britain.
***Hampstead Heath (locally known simply as the Heath) is a large, ancient London heath, covering 320 hectares (790 acres). This grassy public space sits astride a sandy ridge, one of the highest points in London, running from Hampstead to Highgate, which rests on a band of London Clay. The heath is rambling and hilly, embracing ponds, recent and ancient woodlands, a lido, playgrounds, and a training track, and it adjoins the former stately home of Kenwood House and its estate. The south-east part of the heath is Parliament Hill, from which the view over London is protected by law.
****Lyons Tea was first produced by J. Lyons and Co., a catering empire created and built by the Salmons and Glucksteins, a German-Jewish immigrant family based in London. Starting in 1904, J. Lyons began selling packaged tea through its network of teashops. Soon after, they began selling their own brand Lyons Tea through retailers in Britain, Ireland and around the world. In 1918, Lyons purchased Hornimans and in 1921 they moved their tea factory to J. Lyons and Co., Greenford at that time, the largest tea factory in Europe. In 1962, J. Lyons and Company (Ireland) became Lyons Irish Holdings. After a merger with Allied Breweries in 1978, Lyons Irish Holdings became part of Allied Lyons (later Allied Domecq) who then sold the company to Unilever in 1996. Today, Lyons Tea is produced in England.
*****Bovril is owned and distributed by Unilever UK. Its appearance is similar to Marmite and Vegemite. Bovril can be made into a drink ("beef tea") by diluting with hot water or, less commonly, with milk. It can be used as a flavouring for soups, broth, stews or porridge, or as a spread, especially on toast in a similar fashion to Marmite and Vegemite.
******A shirtwaister is a woman's dress with a seam at the waist, its bodice incorporating a collar and button fastening in the style of a shirt which gained popularity with women entering the workforce to do clerical work in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries.
*******Pince-nez is a style of glasses, popular in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries, that are supported without earpieces, by pinching the bridge of the nose. The name comes from French pincer, "to pinch", and nez, "nose".
********”Fashion for All” was one of the many women’s magazines that were published in the exuberant inter-war years which were aimed at young girls who were looking to better their chances of finding a husband through beauty and fashion. As most working-class girls could only imagine buying fashionable frocks from high street shops, there was a great appetite for dressmaking patterns so they could dress fashionably at a fraction of the cost, by making their own dresses using skills they learned at home.
This cluttered, yet cheerful Edwardian shop is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Central to the conclusion of our story is the dainty box of Gainsborough Dubarry Milk Chocolates. This beautifully printed confectionary box comes from Shepherd’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Starting in the Edwardian era, confectioners began to design attractive looking boxes for their chocolate selections so that they could sell confectionary at a premium, as the boxes were often beautifully designed and well made so that they might be kept as a keepsake. A war erupted in Britain between the major confectioners to try and dominate what was already a competitive market. You might recognise the shade of purple of the box as being Cadbury purple, and if you did, you would be correct, although this range was not marketed as Cadbury’s, but rather Gainsborough’s, paying tribute to the market town of Gainsborough in Lincolnshire, where Rose Bothers manufactured and supplied machines that wrapped chocolates. The Rose Brothers are the people for whom Cadbury’s Roses chocolates are named.
Also on the shop counter is an apple which is very realistic looking. Made of polymer clay it is made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The brightly shining cash register, probably polished by Frank, was supplied by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. The cylindrical jars, made of real spun glass with proper removable cork stoppers which contain “sweets” I acquired as a teenager from an auction as part of a larger lot of miniature items. Edith’s lilac coloured gloves are made of real kid leather and along with the envelopes are artisan pieces that I acquired from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Edith’s green leather handbag I acquired as part of a larger collection of 1:12 artistan miniature hats, bags and accessories I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The umbrella comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom. Edith’s basket I acquired as part of a larger lot of 1:12 miniatures from an E-Bay seller in America.
The packed shelves you can see in the background is in fact a Welsh dresser that I have had since I was a child, which I have repurposed for this shot. You can see the dresser more clearly in other images used in this series when Edith visits her parent’s home in Harlesden. The shelves themselves are full of 1:12 artisan miniatures with amazing attention to detail as regards the labels of different foods. Some are still household names today. So many of these packets and tins of various foods would have been household staples in the 1920s when canning and preservation revolutinised domestic cookery. They come from various different suppliers including Shepherds Miniatures in the United Kingdom, Kathleen Knight’s Doll House in the United Kingdom, Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering and Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. Items on the shelves include: Tate and Lyall Golden Syrup, Lyall’s Golden Treacle, Peter Leech and Sons Golden Syrup, P.C. Flett and Company jams, Golden Shred and Silver Shred Marmalades, Chiver’s Jelly Crystals, Rowtree’s Table Jelly, Bird’s Custard Powder, Bird’s Blancmange Powder, Coleman’s Mustard, Queen’s Gravy Salts, Bisto Gravy Powder, Huntly and Palmers biscuits, Lyon’s Tea and Typhoo Tea.
In 1859 Henry Tate went into partnership with John Wright, a sugar refiner based at Manesty Lane, Liverpool. Their partnership ended in 1869 and John’s two sons, Alfred and Edwin joined the business forming Henry Tate and Sons. A new refinery in Love Lane, Liverpool was opened in 1872. In 1921 Henry Tate and Sons and Abram Lyle and Sons merged, between them refining around fifty percent of the UK’s sugar. A tactical merger, this new company would then become a coherent force on the sugar market in anticipation of competition from foreign sugar returning to its pre-war strength. Tate and Lyle are perhaps best known for producing Lyle’s Golden Syrup and Lyle’s Golden Treacle.
Peter Leech and Sons was a grocers that operated out of Lowther Street in Whitehaven from the 1880s. They had a large range of tinned goods that they sold including coffee, tea, tinned salmon and golden syrup. They were admired for their particularly attractive labelling. I do not know exactly when they ceased production, but I believe it may have happened just before the Second World War.
P.C. Flett and Company was established in Kirkwall in the Orkney Islands by Peter Copeland Flett. He had inherited a small family owned ironmongers in Albert Street Kirkwall, which he inherited from his maternal family. He had a shed in the back of the shop where he made ginger ale, lemonade, jams and preserves from local produce. By the 1920s they had an office in Liverpool, and travelling representatives selling jams and preserves around Great Britain. I am not sure when the business ceased trading.
Golden Shred orange marmalade and Silver Shred lime marmalade still exist today and are common household brands both in Britain and Australia. They are produced by Robertson’s. Robertson’s Golden Shred recipe perfected since 1874 is a clear and tangy orange marmalade, which according to their modern day jars is “perfect for Paddington’s marmalade sandwiches”. Robertson’s Silver Shred is a clear, tangy, lemon flavoured shredded marmalade. Robertson’s marmalade dates back to 1874 when Mrs. Robertson started making marmalade in the family grocery shop in Paisley, Scotland.
Chivers is an Irish brand of jams and preserves. For a large part of the Twentieth Century Chivers and Sons was Britain's leading preserves manufacturer. Originally market gardeners in Cambridgeshire in 1873 after an exceptional harvest, Stephen Chivers entrepreneurial sons convinced their father to let them make their first batch of jam in a barn off Milton Road, Impington. By 1875 the Victoria Works had been opened next to Histon railway station to improve the manufacture of jam and they produced stone jars containing two, four or six pounds of jam, with glass jars first used in 1885. In around 1885 they had 150 employees. Over the next decade they added marmalade to their offering which allowed them to employ year-round staff, rather than seasonal workers at harvest time. This was followed by their clear dessert jelly (1889), and then lemonade, mincemeat, custard powder, and Christmas puddings. By 1896 the family owned 500 acres of orchards. They began selling their products in cans in 1895, and the rapid growth in demand was overseen by Charles Lack, their chief engineer, who developed the most efficient canning machinery in Europe and by the end of the century Chivers had become one of the largest manufacturers of preserves in the world. He later added a variety of machines for sorting, can making, vacuum-caps and sterilisation that helped retain Chivers' advantage over its rivals well into the Twentieth Century. By the turn of the century the factory was entirely self-sufficient, growing all its own fruit, and supplying its own water and electricity. The factory made its own cans, but also contained a sawmill, blacksmiths, coopers, carpenters, paint shop, builders and basket makers. On the 14th of March 1901 the company was registered as S. Chivers and Sons. By 1939 there were over 3,000 full-time employees, with offices in East Anglia as well as additional factories in Montrose, Newry and Huntingdon, and the company owned almost 8,000 acres of farms. The company's farms were each run independently, and grew cereal and raised pedigree livestock as well as the fruit for which they were known.
Founded by Henry Isaac Rowntree in Castlegate in York in 1862, Rowntree's developed strong associations with Quaker philanthropy. Throughout much of the Nineteenth and Twentieth centuries, it was one of the big three confectionery manufacturers in the United Kingdom, alongside Cadbury and Fry, both also founded by Quakers. In 1981, Rowntree's received the Queen's Award for Enterprise for outstanding contribution to international trade. In 1988, when the company was acquired by Nestlé, it was the fourth-largest confectionery manufacturer in the world. The Rowntree brand continues to be used to market Nestlé's jelly sweet brands, such as Fruit Pastilles and Fruit Gums, and is still based in York.
Bird’s were best known for making custard and Bird’s Custard is still a common household name, although they produced other desserts beyond custard, including the blancmange. They also made Bird’s Golden Raising Powder – their brand of baking powder. Bird’s Custard was first formulated and first cooked by Alfred Bird in 1837 at his chemist shop in Birmingham. He developed the recipe because his wife was allergic to eggs, the key ingredient used to thicken traditional custard. The Birds continued to serve real custard to dinner guests, until one evening when the egg-free custard was served instead, either by accident or design. The dessert was so well received by the other diners that Alfred Bird put the recipe into wider production. John Monkhouse (1862–1938) was a prosperous Methodist businessman who co-founded Monk and Glass, which made custard powder and jelly. Monk and Glass custard was made in Clerkenwell and sold in the home market, and exported to the Empire and to America. They acquired by its rival Bird’s Custard in the early Twentieth Century.
Queen’s Gravy Salt is a British brand and this box is an Edwardian design. Gravy Salt is a simple product it is solid gravy browning and is used to add colour and flavour to soups stews and gravy - and has been used by generations of cooks and caterers.
The first Bisto product, in 1908, was a meat-flavoured gravy powder, which rapidly became a bestseller in Britain. It was added to gravies to give a richer taste and aroma. Invented by Messrs Roberts and Patterson, it was named "Bisto" because it "Browns, Seasons and Thickens in One". Bisto Gravy is still a household name in Britain and Ireland today, and the brand is currently owned by Premier Foods.
Huntley and Palmers is a British firm of biscuit makers originally based in Reading, Berkshire. The company created one of the world’s first global brands and ran what was once the world’s largest biscuit factory. Over the years, the company was also known as J. Huntley and Son and Huntley and Palmer. Huntley and Palmer were renown for their ‘superior reading biscuits’ which they promoted in different varieties for different occasions, including at breakfast time.
In 1863, William Sumner published A Popular Treatise on Tea as a by-product of the first trade missions to China from London. In 1870, William and his son John Sumner founded a pharmacy/grocery business in Birmingham. William's grandson, John Sumner Jr. (born in 1856), took over the running of the business in the 1900s. Following comments from his sister on the calming effects of tea fannings, in 1903, John Jr. decided to create a new tea that he could sell in his shop. He set his own criteria for the new brand. The name had to be distinctive and unlike others, it had to be a name that would trip off the tongue and it had to be one that would be protected by registration. The name Typhoo comes from the Mandarin Chinese word for “doctor”. Typhoo began making tea bags in 1967. In 1978, production was moved from Birmingham to Moreton on the Wirral Peninsula, in Merseyside. The Moreton site is also the location of Burton's Foods and Manor Bakeries factories. Typhoo has been owned since July 2021 by British private-equity firm Zetland Capital. It was previously owned by Apeejay Surrendra Group of India.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today Lettice is entertaining a potential new client, Miss Wanetta Ward, an American actress come to London, in her Mayfair drawing room. Lettice’s maid, Edith, is starstruck. She coyly glances at her mistress’ guest as she sets out tea and her home made Victoria sponge on the black japanned coffee table between the two comfortable tub chairs the ladies are ensconced in. Miss Ward is tall and statuesque, with striking green eyes and auburn hair fashionably cut and styled in a bob. Dressed in an orchid silk chiffon gown, her lisle clad thighs are clearly visible. Toying with a long string of pearls between her painted fingernails, she is the embodiment of the ‘new woman’: fearless, nonchalant and bold.
“Thank you Edith,” Lettice says with a bemused smile, her long and elegant fingers partially hiding it. “That will be all.”
“Oh,” Edith replies, obviously crestfallen. “Yes Miss.”
Edith retreats, somewhat begrudgingly back through the adjoining dining room and though the green baize door, back into the service area of Lettice’s flat.
“I am sorry, Miss Ward,” Lettice apologises to her guest, draped languidly across the chair opposite her. “I’m afraid my maid might be a little in awe of you.”
“Oh please don’t apologise, darling!” the American replies, her joyous laughter bursting forth. “I’m used to it. Poor little thing. Does she like the flicks*?”
Lettice ponders the answer to her guest’s question for a moment as she pours tea into her cup. “I don’t rightly know, Miss Ward. I don’t know what my maid does on her days off.”
“Well, I must ask her on the way out.” The American replies, adding a generous slosh of milk and two teaspoons of sugar to her tea.
“I do wish you’d let Edith take your hat and cane, Miss Ward.” Lettice adds, picking up her own cup.
“Nonsense, darling! Can’t be without my good luck charm!” She lovingly pats the pink silk flower covered hat sitting on the chinoiserie stool next to her chair, and Lettice cannot help but notice how perfectly her guest’s nail varnish matches her hat and dress.
“Your good luck charm?” Lettice muses. “What on earth do you mean?”
“No doubt you’ll think me odd, most people do when I tell them,” She twists her pearls self consciously around her fingers. “But every time I wear this hat, I always have good luck.”
“I must ask your permission to borrow it then Miss Ward,” Lettice moves her hand to unsuccessfully conceal her amusement. “The next time I go to the Ascot races.”
“See!” the American replies, sinking back in her seat feeling vindicated. “I told you that you’d think me odd!”
“Not at all, Miss Ward.” Lettice soothes her guest. “When you are the daughter of an old and venerable British family like I am, a certain element of hereditary oddity is de rigueur.”
“De rigueur?”
“A must, Miss Ward.”
“Oh, then I shan’t feel so conscious of flaunting my superstition around London.”
“Especially when it is such a pretty accessory too, Miss Ward.”
“Why thank you darling.” She flaps her long and elegant hand, batting away Lettice’s compliment. “You are just the sweetest.”
“Now, I believe you’ve come about redecorating your flat in Pimlico, Miss Ward?”
“That’s right!” She claps her hands in unabashed glee. “Well, it isn’t quite mine yet. I take possession next Thursday. Oh!” She continues, throwing up her right hand dramatically, her wrist coming to rest upon her forehead. “The place looks like a mausoleum at present! All this heavy clutter: thick velvet curtains, occasional tables covered in knick-knacks, stuffed birds beneath glass. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you my dear?” She reaches down and picks up her plate of sponge and takes a slightly larger than polite slice from it with her fork. “I just had to come and see you!”
Lettice smiles with pleasure, taking a sip of tea from her cup before placing it on the telephone table at her left. “So, I’m the first interior designer that you’ve visited here in London, Miss Ward?”
“Well, not exactly. No,” The American sits back in her seat blushing. “I did go and see Syrie Maugham**.”
“Oh.” Lettice frowns, unable to hide her disappointment.
“Oh, but I didn’t like what she suggested, darling!” Miss Ward replies quickly, assuring her host, fearful of having made a social gaffe and jeopardising her chance of having Lettice agree to decorate her flat. “All those ghastly shades of white…” The American suddenly stops mid-sentence, noticing for the first time that Lettice’s walls are papered in white and that she is sitting on a white upholstered chair. “Anyway,” She clears her throat awkwardly and looks sheepishly at Lettice. “I don’t think she approved of me.”
“Whyever not, Miss Ward?” Lettice asks with a tinge of pleasure in her question, feeling suddenly a little less crushed.
“I don’t think she approves actresses, period. She talked about forgoing worldly pleasures and went on about white representing purity.” Miss Ward shivers at the recollection. “Besides,” she continues. “I did hear that you did some redecorating for the Duchess of Whitby.”
“Your contacts are correct,” Lettice replies. Suspecting Miss Ward to be something of a gossip she then continues, brandishing the knowledge Lord de Virre gave her just an hour before, “What they don’t know, and this is strictly between us, you understand Miss Ward,”
“Oh! My lips are sealed, darling.” The American puts her finger to her lips conspiratorially as she leans forward, her excitement at the thought of a secret shared palpable.
“Well, I shall also soon be decorating the principal rooms of the home belonging to the eldest son of the Marquis of Taunton.”
“Really?” Miss Ward enthuses overdramatically. “The Marquis of Taunton! Fancy that!”
Lettice smiles as she picks up her plate and eats a small, ladylike portion of Victoria sponge, satisfied in the knowledge that Miss Ward has no idea who she is talking about, but being a parvenu, will quickly spread the news to those who do.
“Your sources of information are well informed about me, Miss Ward, and yet, I know nothing of you. Please do tell me a little bit about yourself and why it is that you wish for me to be your interior designer.”
“Well, that’s really why I wanted to see you, even before I saw that pious Syrie Maugham. You’re young, and bold, like me!” She looks up and off into the distance, waving her hand dramatically. “A trailblazer! I also heard that you favour oriental elements in your interior designs. I’ve just spent the last six months in the International Settlement in Shanghai you see, and I just love all those oriental designs.”
“Shanghai?”
“Yes. My brother has a club there: the Diamond Lotus Club, and I’ve been headlining there. Shanghai is so much more exciting than dull old Chicago!” she enthuses. “The clothes cost less to have made,” She grasps the hem of her skirt and squeezes the chiffon. “And the far east is so exotic and colourful.”
“Then forgive me for asking, but if you love it so much, why have you come to London?”
“Well, I loved singing in the club, but I really have my heart set on being an actress.” She takes another large mouthful of cake.
“Well, the West End is full of theatres, Miss Ward.”
“Oh, not a stage actress darling!” Miss Ward dabs at the corners of her mouth for crumbs with her beautifully painted fingers. “No, a film actress. I have a screen test at Islington Studios*** on Monday.” She tilts her head and lowers her kohl framed lids in a slightly coquettish way as though already auditioning.
“Well, you certainly have a great presence, Miss Ward.” Lettice says diplomatically. “I’m sure you’ll do splendidly.”
“Thank you, darling. I can’t disagree with you. My mother always told me that everyone knew when I entered the room, even when I was a little girl in ringlets.”
“Yes, I’d believe that.” Lettice smiles.
“And what better place for a successful film actress to entertain, than in a beautiful orientally inspired drawing room decorated by you, darling! I want bold and colourful wallpapers and carpets, oriental vases, Chinese screens.” She looks hopefully at Lettice. “So, will you take me on?”
“Take you on, Miss Ward?”
“Yes, take me on, as a client?” Her face falls suddenly, her fork of cake midway between the plate and her mouth. “Oh, please don’t tell me that you don’t approve of actresses either!”
“Oh, I’m not Syrie Maugham, Miss Ward.” Lettice replies, smiling cheekily. “And besides, it will irritate my Mamma no end if I have a film actress as a client.”
“You mean,” she gasps, clasping her hands. “You’ll agree to decorate my new flat?”
“Well, I’ll still need to visit you new home, and we’ll need to discuss matters further.” Lettice elaborates. “However, in principle, yes.”
“Oh darling! I could positively kiss you!” She drops her plate with a loud clatter on the coffee table surface and leaps up from her seat.
“That really won’t be necessary, Miss Ward.” Lettice assures her, raising her hands gently in defence in the face of the American’s statuesque form across the crowded table. “Just make sure that you settle my accounts promptly.”
“American railroad dollars good enough for you?”
“Only if they can be converted into British currency.” Lettice beams. “And, when you are a famous actress, I expect you to tell everyone who designed your interiors.”
“Oh! I’ll tell all my friends to come and see you, you darling girl! You’ll have to beat them away from the door with a hickory stick.”
“Indeed, Miss Ward.” Lettice takes another sip from her teacup.
“See!” Miss Ward replies, taking her seat again and patting the top of her pink hat. “I told you this was my lucky charm! I wore a blue beret to see Syrie Maugham.”
“Then today must be both our lucky days, Miss Ward.”
“Oh no! Enough of this ‘Miss Ward’ business. If you are to design somewhere as intimate as my boudoir, you must call me, Wanetta.”
*”Flicks” is an old fashioned term for a cinema film, named so for the whirring sound of the old projectors and flickering picture cast upon the silver screen.
**Syrie Maugham was a leading British interior decorator of the 1920s and 1930s and best known for popularizing rooms decorated entirely in shades of white. She was the wife of English playwright and novelist William Somerset Maugham.
***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.
This 1920s upper-class domestic scene is different to what you may think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures including items from my own childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
Lettice’s tea set sitting on the coffee table is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era. The Victoria sponge (named after Queen Victoria) is made by Polly’s Pantry Miniatures in America. The green tinged bowl behind the tea set is made of glass and has been made by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.
Wanetta’s lucky pink hat covered in silk flowers, which you can see poking out from behind the armchair on the right is made by Miss Amelia’s Miniatures in the Canary Islands. It is an artisan miniature made just like a real hat, right down to a tag in the inside of the crown to show where the back of the hat is! 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. Miss Amelia is an exception to the rule coming from Spain, but like her American counterparts, her millinery creations are superb. Like a real fashion house, all her hats have names. This pink raw silk flower covered hat is called “Lilith”. Wanetta’s walking stick, made of ebonized wood with a real metal knob was made by the Little Green Workshop in England.
The black Bakelite and silver telephone is a 1:12 miniature of a model introduced around 1919. It is two centimetres wide and two centimetres high. The receiver can be removed from the cradle, and the curling chord does stretch out. The vase of yellow tiger lilies and daisies on the Art Deco occasional table is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The vase of roses and lilies in the tall white vase on the table to the right of the photo was also made by hand, by Falcon Miniatures who are renowned for their realistic 1:12 size miniatures.
Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The black japanned wooden chair is a Chippendale design and has been upholstered with modern and stylish Art Deco fabric. The mirror backed back japanned china cabinet is Chippendale too. On its glass shelves sit pieces of miniature Limoges porcelain including jugs, teacups and saucers, many of which I have had since I was a child.
To the left of the Chippendale chair stands a blanc de chine Chinese porcelain vase, and next to it, a Chinese screen. The Chinese folding screen I bought at an antiques and junk market when I was about ten. I was with my grandparents and a friend of the family and their three children, who were around my age. They all bought toys to bring home and play with, and I bought a Chinese folding screen to add to my miniatures collection in my curio cabinet at home! It shows you what a unique child I was.
The painting in the gilt frame is made by Amber’s Miniatures in America. The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug. The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
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.
As Lettice pulls the well worn brass hand that triggers the doorbell next to the brightly painted red front door, she stands beneath the columned portico of her aunt’s house and admires the terracotta pots of brightly coloured tulips that flank the front doorstep, which make her terrace stand out from all the others in the row. A faint female voice with a Germanic accent calls from within before the door is answered by Augusta, Eglantine’s Swiss head parlour maid, dressed in her formal black uniform with a white lace trimmed apron and with a large black bow in her hair.
“Good morning, Augusta,” Lettice greets her brightly. “Is my Aunt home?”
“Good morning, Fräulein Chetwynd.” Augusta answers politely. “Please do come in. Ya, your Tante is in ze studio.”
Lettice steps across the threshold of her aunt’s terrace and is immediately enveloped in the rich mixture of exotic scents that she has always associated with the artist: a blend of heavy floral perfumes, cigarette smoke and oil paint. She sighs as she inhales the welcome smell and shirks off her dark blue coat with a mink collar into Augusta’s waiting hands. “Don’t bother to introduce me, Augusta. I’ll just show myself through to the studio.” she says.
“Ya! Ya!” the parlour maid enthuses as she watches Lettice disappear down the hall, which like the rest of the house, is filled with ornate, yet artistic, furnishings, paintings and a general jumble of clutter which keep her and the three maids under her very busy cleaning and dusting all year round.
“Aunt Egg! Yoo-hoo, Aunt Egg!” Lettice calls as she approaches the ivy covered studio at the rear of the rambling cottage garden filled with a hotchpotch of brightly coloured spring blooms.
She pushes down on the latch and opens the door to the studio, the familiar earthy smell of potter’s clay, oil paint and linseed oil greeting her as she does. The studio is flooded with light thanks to a large, almost full length window of plate glass that fills the northern wall. The space is filled with benches and shelves cluttered with everything from pieces of ceramics in different stages of completion to canvases to books on art. A sink stands at the rear of the studio with a row of fine Royal Doulton Art Nouveau tiles of white irises above it. An easel leans, unused against a bench next to it. And sitting at the large wooden table covered in a panoply of paints, brushes and ceramics that dominates the middle of the studio, is her beloved Aunt Egg.
“Well,” the older woman beams as she looks up from the pottery jug she is painting. “If it isn’t my favourite niece.”
“I’m sure you say that to Lally and all our female cousins.” Lettice replies as she walks over to her aunt’s seated figure and kisses her first on one proffered cheek and then the other.
“Well, you’ll never know, will you my dear,” the older woman answers with a cheeky smile and alert green eyes. “I like to keep you all guessing who will inherit my jewels when I die.”
“Oh Aunt Egg!” Lettice scoffs. “You mustn’t talk like that.”
“We all of us are going to die one day, Lettice. Anyway, you are probably the most like me out of all of you girls, with your artistic attributes, so why shouldn’t you be my favourite?”
Lettice pulls up a small stool and sits opposite her aunt. 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 emerald coloured glass droplets hang from her ears that match the green glass necklace about her neck that cascades over the top of her white paint splattered dust coat. Lettice doesn’t need to see beneath it to know that her aunt is wearing 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 of some description, both in beautiful colours.
“I hope Augusta brings us some tea soon,” Eglantine remarks as she focuses her attention once again on the task at hand a she paints a long green frond onto the jug with her adept hands, heavily bejewelled with an array of sparkling stones and gold.
“Shall I go and ask her, Aunt Egg?”
“No, no.” Eglantine says with a settling wave, her paint brush held in place by her interwoven fingers. “She’s been serving me for nigh on thirty years now. She knows when to serve tea.”
“What are you doing, Aunt Egg?” Lettice asks as she stares at her aunt’s delicate hands as they move up and down the bulbous body of the jug.
“I’m painting the ceiling, my dear,” she replies sarcastically without so much as a blink in her lowered eyelids. “Must you ask such obvious questions?”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Egg,” Lettice apologises, remembering that however much her aunt loves her, she cannot abide dull conversation and obvious questions, owing to the amount of time she spends with interesting and witty people. “I meant, what is the purpose of the jug you are painting? Where is it going?”
“Then that is what you should ask, Lettice.” Eglantine chides mildly, still not lifting her eyes from her task. “You will never succeed in business if you whitter away like most women do. Be clear, polite, and direct. Ask what you want to know without fear.”
“Yes, Aunt Egg.” Lettice replies, suitably chastened.
“Its not for anyone, yet. I’ve been inspired by the painted pottery of Capula*** in Mexico, and I also saw some of Carrington’s**** pottery recently. When I was visiting the Slade*****. I’m exploring the naïve style of folk art. What do you think?”
“I think it looks very beautiful Aunt Egg.”
“And how go your artistic pursuits, Lettice my dear?” Eglantine adeptly mixes a little more white paint into a pool of the gleaming dark green she shas been using and applies a thin line up the leaf’s middle to highlight a stem.
“My artistic pursuits?”
“Yes! How is the interior design business going?”
“I’d hardly call my business an ‘artistic pursuit’ Aunt Egg.” Lettice laughs.
“Nonsense my dear! Your interiors are just as artistic as my ceramics. It’s just your canvas is much bigger than mine, and involves many different facets.”
“Well, if you ask Mater, she’d say dreadfully.”
“Ahh,” the older woman sighs as she paints faint spiderweb thin veins coming off the stem of her leaf. “But I’m not asking Sadie, thank goodness. I’m asking you, Lettice. However, if Sadie says it’s not going well, that must mean business is flourishing. Is it?”
“It’s going swimmingly, Aunt Egg!” Lettice gushes. “I don’t need Mater to introduce me to people like the Duchess of Whitby anymore. I’m finally starting to develop a name for myself.”
“Good! Good!” replies Eglantine. “I’m pleased to hear it.” She dips her brush in the lighter coloured green again. “I’m not surprised of course. You’re very talented. However, I’m glad to hear it from your own lips. Too many people with talent are neglected, whilst ones with no talent get the recognition they don’t deserve.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t agree, Aunt Egg. After all, weren’t you the one to teach me that art appreciation is a subjective thing?”
“Very good Lettice.” She looks up from her work and smiles broadly at her niece, her eyes gleaming with pride. “I’m glad to see all those afternoons at the Slade and Omega Workshops****** weren’t wasted, or smothered by your mother’s lack of imagination.” She looks back down and begins to work again, the concentration etched in the furrows that line her forehead. “So, it’s going well then?”
“Oh yes! I’m actually in the process of designing a few rooms for Margot Channon.”
“Ahh yes!” Eglantine gasps. “Little Margot de Virre finally grew up and got married, to the Marquess of Taunton’s son.”
“Yes, Dickie Channon.”
“Poor dear. No doubt a match made by her own meddling mother.”
“You have a very poor opinion of marriage, Aunt Egg.” Lettice opines.
“Well, as you can see, my dear, I’ve never needed the institution of matrimony myself to feel fulfilled.”
“Oh, but Margot and Dickie are in love, Aunt Egg. They met, well through me really, at the Embassy Club. Mrs. de Virre had no hand in their matrimony.”
“Oh well. I suppose that’s alright then. I read about their wedding in The Times. St. Mark’s******* wasn’t it?” She waits for Lettice to affirm with a nod. “And I saw that Gerald Bruton designed her gown. I’m pleased to see that he developed some independence like you, and that he’s making something of himself too.” She pauses before continuing. “I don’t object to people marrying for love: another point, one of many, about which Sadie and I will never agree. Which is why I refused to come to the Hunt Ball this year, knowing it was intended as a marriage market for you, my dear.” She pauses and puts down her brush onto her palette, thickly coated in layers of dried oils and reaches out to her niece, clasping her smaller hand in her larger gnarled one, giving Lettice’s a friendly squeeze. “I don’t mind if you marry for love. However, the amalgamation of two great families through the marriage bed, simply for the sake of ‘good breeding’, whatever that is, I find quite repugnant.”
“Well, “ Lettice blushes as she casts her eyes down onto her aunt’s hands, where she gazes at her winking jewels in their gold and platinum settings. “I did meet someone, actually. I wouldn’t say that we’re in love, but we’ve agreed to see one another when his next visit to London coincides with me being available. I told Pater and Mater that I wanted to do this my own way, and not have any interference.”
“No doubt Sadie was furious about that, and probably blames me for putting such independent ideas into your head”
“Were you a fly on the wall of the morning room, Aunt Egg?” chuckles Lettice.
The older woman withdraws her hand, picks up her brush and sets to work highlighting the leaf again. “I don’t need to. I know what cloth your mother is cut from. So, who is it, then?”
“Selwyn Spencely.”
The older woman pauses again and stares off into the distance, out the window, lots in her own thoughts. “Selwyn Spencely. Selwyn Spencely. I vaguely know that name.”
“He is the son of the Duke of Walmsford. He used to come to Glynes******** when we were children. He’s only a few years older than me.”
“Well, whoever he is, just don’t let him come between you and your design business, will you? As you say, you’ve worked hard to build yourself a name, Lettice. Don’t throw it all away for a marriage not of your making, or a marriage for the wrong reasons.”
“I promise, I won’t Aunt Egg.” Lettice assures her aunt.
“You’re a lucky girl, Lettice. You have choices in life”
“Try telling Mater that.” Lettice replies disparagingly.
“Oh pooh Sadie and her blinkered ideas that she infects you and your father with!” Eglantine spits hotly. “You’re an independent woman now you’re of age Lettice. You have a sizable allowance, thanks to your forward-thinking grandfather, which no-one can take from you, and now you have your own money from your business. That’s more than a lot of women have. Don’t waste the advantages you have and whatever you do, be it in love, work or marriage, be true to yourself.”
A quiet tapping on the glass panes of the door interrupts the two women. Looking to the entrance, they see Clotilde, the second parlour maid looking hopefully through the glass.
“I’ll go.” Lettice says as she leaps up from the stool and hurries over to open the door.
“Danke schön, Fräulein Chetwynd.” Clotilde says gratefully as Lettice opens the door, to reveal the girl in her morning print dress and cotton apron carrying what looks like a heavy tray laden with tea things.
True to her independent form, when the Great War came and there was much resentment towards people of Germanic heritage in Britain, Eglantine refused to dismiss her three Swiss parlour maids, even though they all spoke German fluently and preferred to speak it in the household. She simply packed herself and her servants off to her brother’s estate of Glynes in Wiltshire, where they could live a sheltered life of safety with her in the disused Glynes Dower House, seeing very few people and not being subjected to bigotry. In spite of her immense dislike of her sister-in-law, whom she inevitably crossed paths with when she went up to the estate’s Big House, she had a pleasant enough war growing vegetables in the garden to help supplement their diet and assist with the war effort, without having to actually involve herself in the war, being a pacifist. It was also during this time that she had her greatest influence on Lettice, preparing her niece for the more independent life of a women after the war ended.
“Bitte schön,” Eglantine replies to Clotilde, standing herself and clearing a space on the crowded work space for the tea tray, a cloud of glowing dust motes filling the air around them as they tumbled through the spring sunbeams pouring through the window of the studio.
After Clotilde closes the door behind her and retreats to the house, Lettice and her aunt resume their conversation.
“So, you said you were decorating the new Mrs. Channon’s house then, Lettice?” Eglantine picks up the conversation.
“Well yes. Lord de Virre and I came up with a plan. Since Margot is used to new things, but their country house in Cornwall is quite old, and poor Dickie hasn’t enough money to pay for refurbishment, Lord de Virre is footing the bill for electrification, new plumbing and for a connection to the telephone exchange. He also suggested that I might redecorate a few of the principal rooms of the house.”
“Which rooms?” Eglantine asks, setting out the tea things.
“The drawing room, the dining room, their bedroom and what must have been a sunroom, which they want to use for cocktail parties and dancing. Which is why I’ve come to see you, Aunt Egg. I need your advice.”
“Advice on what, my dear?” Eglantine pours tea into their cups, to which they both add milk and sugar.
“Well, Margot wants all new furnishings, which as you know isn’t my style. I prefer a mixture of old and new. Gerald came up with the perfect solution, which is to paint some of the old pieces and present them in a new style.”
“Very clever, Gerald. So how can I be of assistance, Lettice?”
“I need to know what sort of paint I should use on wooden furniture. I thought that if anyone would know, you would.”
“Ahh, well.” Eglantine starts to stir her tea. “There I can indeed be of assistance. Tell me, do you have any house paint lying around at Cavendish Mews?”
Aunt and nice sit together over the tea at the bench and discuss priming wood, coats of paint and varnish, all the while bathed in beautiful sunlight as the disturbed dust motes continue to play around them, dancing and swirling in the sunbeams that pour through the window of the studio.
*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.
***Capula is a small village in Mexico in Michoacan state with a pre-Hispanic pottery tradition. Clay tableware delicately decorated with flowers and fishes, kitchen plates painted with the town's unique dotting style.
****Dora de Houghton Carrington, known generally as Carrington, was an English painter and decorative artist, remembered in part for her association with members of the Bloomsbury Group, especially the writer Lytton Strachey. From her time as an art student, she was known simply by her surname as she considered Dora to be "vulgar and sentimental". She was not well known as a painter during her lifetime, as she rarely exhibited and did not sign her work. An accomplished painter of portraits and landscape, she also worked in applied and decorative arts, painting on any type of surface she had at hand including inn signs, tiles and furniture. Her naïve pottery, like all her art is now described as progressive, because it did not fit into the mainstream of art in England at the time.
*****Established by lawyers and philanthropist Felix Slade in 1868, Slade School of Fine Art is the art school of University College London and is based in London, England. It has been ranked as the United Kingdom’s top art and design educational institution. The school is organised as a department of University College London's Faculty of Arts and Humanities. Two of its most important periods were immediately before, and immediately after, the turn of the twentieth century. It had such students as Dora Carrington, Mark Gertler, Paul Nash, C.R.W. Nevinson and Stanley Spencer.
******The Omega Workshops Ltd. was a design enterprise founded by members of the Bloomsbury Group and established in July 1913. It was located at 33 Fitzroy Square in London, and was founded with the intention of providing graphic expression to the essence of the Bloomsbury ethos. The Workshops were also closely associated with the Hogarth Press and the artist and critic Roger Fry, who was the principal figure behind the project, believed that artists could design, produce and sell their own works, and that writers could also be their own printers and publishers. The Directors of the firm were Roger Fry, Duncan Grant and Vanessa Bell.
*******St. Mark’s Church Mayfair, is a Grade I listed building, in the heart of London's Mayfair district, on North Audley Street. St Mark's was built between 1825 and 1828 as a response to the shortage of churches in the area. The population in Mayfair had grown with the demand for town houses by the aristocracy and the wealthy, as they moved in from the country. The building was constructed in the Greek revival style to the designs of John Peter Gandy. In 1878 the architect Arthur Blomfield made significant changes to the church, adding a timber roof, and introducing Gothic style features. The thirty-four feet (ten metre) façade, together with the elegant porch, is known as one of the finest in London. Being in Mayfair, it was a popular place for the weddings of aristocratic families. It was deconsecrated in 1974, and today it is used as a mixed use venue.
********Glynes is 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.
This rather delightfully chaotic artist’s studio scene may look very real to you, yet it is in fact made up of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including some very special pieces that are very close to my heart.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The painted and glazed jug in the centre of the image, the brown one in the foreground, the jug standing on the edge of the trough, and the green and the white jugs on the bench all come from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The white jug is Parianware and is mid Victorian. The brown glazed jugs and pots are individually made and are impressed with Art Nouveau images, which is very apt considering that they were made as children’s toys in the early 1900s.
The unglazed pots on the table and the bench in the background were made by a Polish miniature potter and were given to me some twenty five years ago by one of my closest girlfriends as a gift for helping arrange her kitchen for her when she moved house. They are such beautiful pieces, and hold great sentimental value for me.
The trough on brick legs with its silvered taps and the easel leaning against the bench in the background come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.
The paints, paint brushes and paint palette on the table were all acquired from Melody Jane Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.
The ladderback chair to the left of the photo is a recent 1:12 miniature which has a hand-woven rattan seat. It was acquired from an estate of a miniature collector in Sydney and dates from around the 1970s.
The tile frieze that appears along the back wall above the sink is an Art Nouveau design from the Lambeth works of Royal Doulton and features white Irises.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat. Instead, we are in central London, near the palace of Westminster and the Thames embankment at the very stylish Metropole Hotel*, where Lettice’s latest client, American film actress Wanetta Ward is living whilst her Edwardian Pimlico flat is redecorated by Lettice. We find ourselves in the busy dining room of the hotel where the gentle burble of voices fills the room and mixes with the sound of silver cutlery against the blue banded gilt hotel crockery, the clink of glasses raised and the strains of popular Edwardian music from the small palm court quartet playing discreetly by a white painted pillar. Surrounded by suited politicians and a smattering of older women, Lettice and Miss Ward sit at a table for two where a splendid selection of sweet and savory afternoon tea has been presented to them on a fluted glass cake stand by a smartly dressed waiter.
“Isn’t this fun?” Miss Ward giggles delightedly, looking at the delicacies placed before them. “Taking afternoon tea in London. What a wonderfully British thing to do. I’ve really taken to enjoying this rather quaint observance.” Pouring coffee from a silver coffee pot with an ebonised handle into her cup, she takes a sip. “Ugh!” she exclaims as she shudders and pulls a face. “Which is more than I can say for this sludge you British call coffee.” With a look of distain, she deposits the cup back into its saucer with a loud clatter. “No one makes coffee like we do back home.”
“Perhaps you might care for tea?” Lettice remarks quietly and diplomatically, indicating to the silver teapot beside her. “We’re very well known for our excellent tea.”
“Ugh!” Miss Ward says again, only this time without the melodrama of face pulling. “I think I’ll stick to the sludge, if it’s all the same to you, darling. You people might have conquered India and her tea plantations, but no-one makes tea like they do in Shanghai.” She sighs. “It’s almost an art form.”
“Perhaps we should have had cocktails then.”
“Now you’re talking, darling girl.”
“Only it might be frowned upon – two ladies alone, sitting and drinking in a hotel dining room.”
“See,” Miss Ward remarks in a deflated tone. “It’s like I told you when we met at my flat. You British are all a bunch of stuffed shirts**.” Looking around at the table of older gentlemen next to them, enjoying a fine repast as well as some good quality claret from a faceted glass decanter, she adds somewhat conspiratorially with a flick of her eyes, “And they don’t get much more stuffed that this bunch of politicians.”
“Are you always so frank, Miss Ward?”
“I’m American, darling. We’re known for our frankness as much as you are known for your diplomacy. I’d be letting the home side down if I wasn’t, especially whilst on foreign soil. Anyway,” she continues as a burst of guffaws come from the table as the gentlemen laugh at something one of them said. “I think they have been here for most of the afternoon, and that isn’t their first bottle. They aren’t going to pay enough attention to either of us to care what we two ladies are saying. I think they are happy if our secret women’s business stays secret. Don’t you agree Miss Chetwynd?”
Lettice discreetly looks over at them, noticing their florid faces and slightly rheumy eyes. “Yes, most probably.”
“In spite of the sludge they pass off as coffee here, I can say that afternoon tea at the Metropole is delicious.” The American woman picks up the cake stand and holds it aloft before Lettice for her to select a petit four. “Here! Try one.”
“I haven’t been here since before the war.” Lettice remarks, choosing a ham and tomato savoury before gazing around the room at the elegant Georgian revival furnishings, the restrained Regency stripe wallpaper, the watercolours of stately British homes in gilt frames and the white linen covered tables with stylish floral arrangements on each.
“Has it improved?”
“In looks, undoubtedly. It used to be very Victorian: lots of flocked wallpaper, dark furniture and red velvet. No, this is much brighter and more pleasant. The food however,” Lettice glances at the pretty petit four on her plate. “Is yet to be tested.” She picks up her cup and sips her tea. “Do you have your first script from Islington Studios*** yet, Miss Ward?”
“Oh I do, darling!” Miss Ward’s eyes grow wide and glisten with excitement. “The film is called ‘After the Ball is Over’. It’s a bit of a Cinderella story. A beautiful girl, despised by her haughty stepmother and stepsister wins the heart of a local lord, all set against the beautiful English countryside.” She picks an egg and lettuce savoury from the cake stand and takes a larger than polite bite from it before depositing the remains on her own plate.
“And are you the heroine?”
“Good heavens, no!” Miss Ward nearly chokes on her mouthful of egg and pastry. Placing the back of her hand to her mouth rather than her napkin, she coughs roughly, finishes her mouthful and then adds, “I’d rather die than play the heroine! They are always such insipid characters.” She pulls a face and then clears her throat of the last remaining crumbs. “No, I’m playing the stepsister, who uses her womanly wiles to charm the local lord in the first place.” She lowers her kohl lined eyes and smiles seductively. “She’s much more fun as a character, as are all mistresses and villainesses. Just think about the faerie tales you read when you were a girl. What a dull life Snow White or Cinderella would have led were it not for their wicked stepmothers.”
“I’d never considered that.” Lettice takes a small bite from her savoury.
“Trust me, I may not win the hearts of the audience, but I’ll be more memorable for playing the baddie than I ever would be for playing the helpless heroine.”
“How shockingly cynical, Miss Ward.”
“Cynical yes,” The American looks thoughtfully towards the ceiling for a moment before continuing, “But also truthful.”
“Well,” Lettice says a little reluctantly. “Thinking of truth, you haven’t invited me to afternoon tea just so I can enjoy the selection of sweet and savoury petit fours.” She withdraws her folio from beside her seat and places it on the table.
“Ahh!” Miss Ward’s green eyes sparkle with excitement. “The designs for my flat! I finally get to see them!” She rubs her elegant hands with their painted fingernails together gleefully.
“Now first, your boudoir.” Lettice withdraws a small pencil and watercolour sketch.
The sight of the picture makes Miss Ward gasp with delight as she stretches out her fingers to clutch the drawing. Bringing it closer to her, her painted lips curl up in pleasure.
“I thought a treatment of gold embellishment and brocade on black japanned furnishings might give a sense of luxury. I have kept the white ceiling, and white linens for the bed, but as you can see I’ve included some elements of red to bring that exotic oriental feel to the room you so wanted.”
“Delicious darling girl!” Miss Ward enthuses. “I have to admit, you were right when you said that white wouldn’t be boring if you used it. It helps balance the intensity of the black, red and gold.”
“I’m pleased you approve, Miss Ward.”
“Oh I do!” She hands the drawing back to Lettice. “What else?”
Lettice shows her a few more sketches showing her designs for the dressing room and the vestibule until she finally reaches the two for the drawing room and dining room. She places them on top of her folio, the pools of garish colour standing out against the white linen of the tablecloth and the buff of her folio.
“I remembered you telling me how much you like yellow, Miss Ward, but try as I might, I remain unconvinced that yellow walls are a suitable choice.” The American glances first at the drawings and then at Lettice but says nothing. “The colour is bold, and I know you wanted boldness,” Lettice continues. “But since we are being truthful, this strikes me as showy and déclassé.”
“Déclassé, Miss Chetwynd?”
“Inferior and lacking in the class and elegance of the other rooms’ schemes.”
Miss Ward leans forward and picks up the drawing room painting, scrutinising it through narrowed eyes. Dropping it back down, she picks up her coffee cup and takes a sip before asking with a shrug, “Alright, so what do you suggest then?”
“Well, it’s funny you should be holding your cup while you ask, Miss Ward.” Lettice observes astutely.
“My coffee cup?” Miss Ward holds the cup in front of her and screws up her nose in bewilderment. “You want to paint the walls coffee coloured?”
“Oh no, Miss Ward,” Lettice cannot help but allow a small chuckle of relief escape her lips. “No, I was referring more to the outside, which is blue with a gold trim. Here, let me show you what I mean.” She reaches inside her folio and withdraws a piece of wallpaper featuring a geometric fan design in rich navy blue with gold detailing. “I thought we might paper the walls instead, with this.” She holds it out to her client. “It’s very luxurious, and it makes a bold statement, but with elegance. I thought with a suitable array of yellow venetian glass and some pale yellow oriental ceramics, this would both compliment any yellow you add to the room, and give you that glamour and sophistication you desire.”
Lettice doesn’t realise it, but she holds her breath as the American picks up the piece of wallpaper and moves it around so that the gold outlines of the fans are caught in the light of the chandeliers above. The pair sit in silence - Lettice in anxiety and Miss Ward in contemplation – whilst the sounds of the busy dining room wash about them.
“Pure genius!” Miss Ward declares, dropping the wallpaper dramatically atop Lettice’s sketches.
“You approve then, Miss Ward?” Lettice asks with relief.
“Approve? I love it, darling girl!” She lifts her savoury to her mouth and takes another large bite.
“I’m so pleased Miss Ward.”
“Oh it will be a sensation, darling! Cocktails surrounded by golden fans! How delicious.” She replies with her mouth half full of egg, lettuce and pastry. She rubs her fingers together, depositing the crumbs clinging to them onto her plate. “And it will compliment my yellow portrait so well, you clever girl.”
“Your, yellow portrait, Miss Ward?” Lettice queries, her head on an angle.
“Yes, didn’t I tell you?”
“Ahh, no.”
“Well, I had my portrait painted whilst I was in Shanghai, draped in beautiful yellow oriental shawls. It’s really quite striking,” she declares picking up the remnants of her savoury. “Even if I do say so myself.”
“For above the fireplace?”
“Oh no! My Italian landscape will go there.”
“Your Italian landscape?”
“Yes, I bought it off a bankrupt merchant in Shanghai trying to get back home to the States along with a few other nice paintings.”
“How many paintings do you have, Miss Ward?”
She contemplates and then silently starts counting, mouthing the numbers and counting on her fingers. “Eleven or so. My beloved brother had them packed up and sent over. They should be arriving from Shanghai in Southampton next week. I’ll get them sent directly to the flat. I’ll leave it up to you darling girl to decide as to where they hang.”
“You are full of surprises, Miss Ward.” Lettice remarks with a sigh, picking up her teacup and taking a sip from it.
“Evidently, so are you,” the American replies, indicating with her eyes to the wallpaper. “I wasn’t expecting anything as modern and glamourous as that in London!”
Smiling, Lettice says, “We aim to please, Miss Ward.”
*Now known as the Corinthia Hotel, the Metropole Hotel is located at the corner of Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place in central London on a triangular site between the Thames Embankment and Trafalgar Square. Built in 1883 it functioned as an hotel between 1885 until World War I when, located so close to the Palace of Westminster and Whitehall, it was requisitioned by the government. It reopened after the war with a luxurious new interior and continued to operate until 1936 when the government requisitioned it again whilst they redeveloped buildings at Whitehall Gardens. They kept using it in the lead up to the Second World War. After the war it continued to be used by government departments until 2004. In 2007 it reopened as the luxurious Corinthia Hotel.
**The phrase “stuffed shirt” refers to a person who is pompous, inflexible or conservative.
***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.
An afternoon tea like this would be enough to please anyone, but I suspect that even if you ate each sweet or savoury petit four on the cake plate, you would still come away hungry. This is because they, like everything in this scene are 1:12 size miniatures from my miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau:
The savoury petite fours on the lower tier of the cake stand and the sweet ones on the upper tier have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. Each petit four is only five millimetres in diameter and between five and eight millimetres in height! The selection includes egg and lettuce, ham and tomato, Beluga caviar, salmon and cucumber and egg, tomato and cucumber savouries and iced cupcakes for the sweet petit fours.
The blue banded hotel crockery has been made exclusively for Doll House Suppliers in England. Each piece is fashioned by hand and painted by hand. Made to the highest quality standards each piece of porcelain is very thin and fine. If you look closely, you might even notice the facets cut into the milk jug. Several pieces of the same service appear on the table in the background and the tiered sideboard to the left of the table.
The fluted glass cake stand, the glass vase on Lettice and Miss Ward’s table and the red roses in it were all made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The cake stand and the vase have been hand blown and in the case of the stand, hand tinted. The teapot is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The coffee pot with its ornate handle and engraved body is one of three antique Colonial Craftsman pots I acquired from a seller on E-Bay. The two matching pots are on the sideboard in the background. Lettice’s folio was made by British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Lettice’s interior design paintings are 1920s designs. They are sourced from reference material particular to Art Deco interior design in Britain in the 1920s.
The Chippendale dining room chairs are very special pieces. They came from the Petite Elite Miniature Museum, later rededicated as the Carol and Barry Kaye Museum of Miniatures, which ran between 1992 and 2012 on Los Angeles’ bustling Wiltshire Boulevard. One of the chairs still has a sticker under its cushion identifying which room of which dollhouse it came. The Petite Elite Miniature Museum specialised in exquisite and high end 1:12 miniatures. The furnishings are taken from a real Chippendale design.
On the table in the background luncheons of fish and salad and spaghetti bolognaise are waiting to be eaten. The fish and salad plates are made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures and the plates of spaghetti bolognaise are made by Frances Knight. The vases of flowers on the table and on the stands are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The three plant stands are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, whilst the sideboard is made by high-end miniature furniture maker JBM.
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 south-east across London, away from Cavendish Mews and Mayfair, over the Regency houses and squares of Belgravia to the artistic upper-class suburb of Chelsea, where Lettice and her dear friend and fellow Embassy Club coterie member, Margot Channon, are attending the Royal Horticultural Society’s 1923 Great Spring Show*. Concerned about her beau, Selwyn Spencely’s, true affections for her, and worried about the threat his cousin and 1923 debutante, Pamela Fox-Chavers, poses to her own potential romantic plans with Selwyn, Lettice has concocted a ruse to spy on Pamela whom Selwyn is escorting to various functions throughout the Season as a favour to his mother, Lady Zinnia, whom Lettice suspects of arranging a match between the two cousins. This includes the Great Spring Show. To avoid looking obvious, Lettice has wrangled Margot to accompany her, even though she has her own misgivings about attending the show after being paraded about there by her own mother before the war as a young debutante. We find ourselves in one of the tents of the Great Spring Show where a grand display of floral arrangements are on show on tables around the pink and white striped canvas walls for the admiration of the society matrons and their daughters as they walk about the space in one of the mainstays of London’s 1923 Season. The cloying fragrance of hothouse flowers mixed with the scent of perfumes of all the women present hangs like a fug in the air, and mixed with a small amount of sweat owing to the closeness of the crowd within the tent the combination is so strong that it is almost visible. Beneath hundreds of pairs of court heels and a smattering of brogues, the grass of the lawns is trampled to a flat matted mass of brownish green blades.
“I hope you know that I feel positively nauseous being here,“ Margot whispers in Lettice’s ear over the top of the vociferous burbling of the women’s voices around them as they slowly went their way through the close gathering of people.
Margot looks nervously about her. The tent is populated with a large crowd of society ladies and a smattering of gentlemen. Just as she had predicted, the pair are surrounded by anxious mothers and daughters perambulating slowly about: the mothers showing off their marriageable daughters, dressed in the latest season fashions. Even as Margot catches passing glimpses of some of them, she knows that not all these young jeune fille à marier** are going to find husbands in the marriage market decimated by the Great War. She spots an ill-at-ease young girl of around seventeen or eighteen being reluctantly paraded around in a chartreuse satin day dress by her apprehensive birdlike mother. The colour doesn’t suit the poor girl and only makes her unhealthy pallor all the more evident, and the boxy square neckline and fashionable low waistline show how hefty she is beneath the frock as she clumps awkwardly across the trampled lawns in scuffed white court heels and bunching white lisle stockings. Margot feels sorry for her, knowing exactly how she feels, having done exactly the same thing just prior to the war with her own aspiring mother, Lady de Virre. Some of the older society matrons give the girl withering and dismissive glances as she stumbles in her mother’s wake, and Margot knows that she is doomed to failure in the marriage bed of the London Season, and will no doubt set sail, still unmarried, for India in the next year or so, where standards are not so high, and marriageable men more plentiful and less picky.
“I don’t know how I let you talk me into this, Lettice darling.” Margot hisses quietly, squeezing Lettice’s arm.
Lettice, walking alongside her, stops in her tracks and looks her friend squarely in the face. “Because you love me, of course,” she says matter-of-factly. “And you wouldn’t want me to face this barrage of female hostility alone.” She hooks her arm through Margot’s and the pair begin their slow navigation through the clumps of other women, looking about at the sporadic smattering of male faces to see whether they can see Selwyn amongst them. “Anyway,” Lettice continues. “I’m the one who should dread this more than you, Margot darling. You’re a married lady. Yet even with you on my arm, as a single woman in her twenties, I could still be seen as a threat by the mothers of the 1923 debutantes being paraded about here, especially if I am seen in the company of the Duke of Walmford’s son.”
Lettice looks past the parvenues wearing too much jewellery and just too bright a shade of frock trying too hard to blend in and not be ill at ease with their new money and the doughy and haughty society matrons as they pass judgement on those who fall within the prison of their gazes from beneath their new spring millinery. Occasionally she spots a male face: a young man in a smart new spring straw boater and a blue or a white blazer, but none is the face she wants to see. They are all fashionably clean shaven like Selwyn, but too young, or without his dark hair colour. She sighs with irritation.
“Where is he?” Lettice mutters.
Suddenly her view is blocked by a wall of rather muddy sage green georgette decorated with matching sage green beads in panels of somewhat outmoded Art Nouveau style.
“Why Miss Chertwynd, what an unexpected pleasure!”
Lettice smiles benignly, attempting to hide her dismay. As a staple of the London Season, she had expected to run into ladies she knew at the Great Spring Show, but she never imagined it would be Geraldine Evans, the elder of the two spinster sisters who live in Holland House, a Seventeenth Century manor house in the village of Glynes on her father’s Wiltshire estate.
“Henrietta!” the elder of the Miss Evanses calls out in delight, beckoning someone with an ecru lace glove clan finger. “Henrietta, look who I’ve found!”
Henrietta, the second of the spinster Miss Evanses suddenly appears through the crowd in an equally old fashioned Edwardian style ankle length gown of the pre-war era, leaning on a matching parasol whose end pierces the well-trodden ground beneath her.
“Why Miss Chetwynd!” the younger of the Miss Evanses exclaims with surprise, her face breaking into a happy smile. “Such an unexpected pleasure.”
“How do you do, Miss Evans, Miss Evans,” Lettice acknowledges them both with a curt nod. She glances at the two old women, who must be in their seventies at least, both dressed in their faded pre-war Edwardian splendour, their equally old fashioned whale bone S-bend corsets*** forcing their breasts into giant monobosoms down which strands of opera length pearls cascade. Wearing toques with feather aigrettes jutting out of them atop their waved white hair they look like older versions of Queen Mary. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“You were amongst the last of the people we expected to run into here, Miss Chetwynd.” the elder Miss Evans remarks. “Don’t you agree Henrietta?”
“Indeed Geraldine!” acknowledges her sister with a crackling voice that sounds like crisp autumn leaves underfoot. “Quite the least likely.”
“Well,” Lettice chuckles a little awkwardly. “I must confess that I am equally surprised at running into you two here.”
“Oh,” the elder of the Miss Evanses remarks with a dismissive sweep of her hand, a waft of Yardley’s Old English Lavender teasing Lettice’s nose as she does. “It’s one of the few pleasures of the Season that we enjoy and allow ourselves these days.”
“As two ladies long past their bloom of youth.” the younger Miss Evans twitters as she looks at the younger ladies around them. “Unlike you, Miss Chetwynd, and your...” She looks querying at Margot’s slightly startled face with raised eyebrows.
“Oh how very remiss of me!” Lettice apologises. “Miss Evans, Miss Evans, may I introduce Mrs. Richard Channon, daughter-in-law to Marquis and Marchioness of Taunton. Margot darling, may I introduce the Miss Evanses: acquaintances of mine who live in Glynes village in Wiltshire.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Channon.” the two old ladies twitter with gravitas, raising their glove clad hands to their mouths in delight.
“How do you do, ladies.” Margot replies, not quite able to keep the bemused smile off her painted red lips as she observes Lettice’s awkwardness at being caught conversing with these two old, dowdy and rather faded looking women amidst the smart ladies of London society.
“We didn’t know you enjoyed flowers.” the elder Miss Evans observes. “Are you perhaps accompanying Her Ladyship?” She stretches her jowly neck like a tortoise and looks around with unbridled excitement with her trembling head to see if she can spot Lady Sadie anywhere in the immediate vicinity.
“No, I’m afraid my mother isn’t here today, Miss Evans.” Lettice apologises. “I imagine she is at home in Wiltshire, which I must confess is where I expected you would be also. However, if you ask my mother, she will be the very first person to tell you that I am the only one of my siblings who shares her love of flowers. I often help her plan the plantings for the parterre at Glynes.”
“Well!” the younger of the Miss Evanses gasps. “Being the creative and artistic soul you are, of course you are interested in flowers. How could you not be? You take so after your dear aunt, Miss Eglantine, Miss Chetwynd.”
“Oh, is Miss Eglantine here with you today?” the elder Miss Evans queries, stretching her neck again.
“No, Miss Evans.” Lettice assures them. “I’m afraid that my aunt prefers some of the smaller, lesser known garden shows at this time of the year. She’s not one for all this show. No, I’m here to admire the flowers with my friend Mrs. Channon.”
“We did see pictures of you in the society pages of the newspaper, Miss Chetwynd,” the younger Miss Evans remarks in a total change of subject. “At the wedding of our new Duchess of York****. It was quite a thrill, wasn’t it Geraldine?” she concludes with a shy and rather foolishly girlish smile as she blushes beneath her dusting of pale face powder.
“Indeed yes, Henrietta.” agrees her sister. “Having been so long outside of fashionable society, it is always a delight to see a person of our acquaintance in the social pages.”
“And were you wearing one of Master Bruton’s outfits, Miss Chetwynd?” the younger sister asks. Without giving Lettice a chance to answer she adds, “And is your frock today also designed by Master Bruton, Miss Chetwynd?” She points her finger rather rudely at Lettice’s chest, as she looks Lettice up and down through the silver rimmed lorgnette she has tied by a navy blue ribbon to her wrist.
“Master Bruton?” Margot queries with a quizzical look at Lettice.
“Gerald.” Lettice quickly elucidates before acknowledging to the Miss Evanses that her flouncy frock of georgette in the palest of peach is indeed made by him.
As the Miss Evanses engage conversation with Margot, Lettice is suddenly struck by the unpleasant feeling that she is being watched, or perhaps more precisely, scrutinised. The crackling voices of the Miss Evanses and Margot’s well elocuted vowels die away as she turns and looks over her left shoulder. A mature woman dressed in a strikingly simple French blue frock with a layered calf length hem overlaid with a magnificent and thick arctic fox fur stole stands perfectly still, staring imperiously at Lettice from beneath the wide brim of a matching Navy blue felt hat. Pale and slender she is glacially beautiful, her dark and intense stillness at odds with the bright pastel blur of the women milling around her. Her thin lips are depressed into a disapproving line and her sharp and high cheekbones add to her steeliness. Her dark sloe blue eyes pierce Lettice to the core with a vehement dislike, as though she were an insect that must be exterminated.
“I imagine Master Bruton will soon be designing Miss Chetwnd’s own wedding frock.” the younger of the Miss Evanses announces rather vulgarly with another ungainly girlish twitter.
“Are you alright, Lettice darling?” Margot asks, reaching her hand up at touching her friend’s shoulder.
“What?” Lettice asks in surprise, spinning back around as Margot interrupts the hold of the mysterious woman’s gaze on her.
“I asked if you are feeling alright, Lettice darling.” Margot repeats, a worried look bleeding across her pretty face.
“I say, you do look rather pale all of a sudden, my dear Miss Chetwynd.” the older of the Miss Evanses says with concern.
“Oh,” Lettice replies, fanning herself with her glove clad hand as she feels the intense gazes of Margot and the two Miss Evanses. “Oh yes.” She looks back over her shoulder, but like a phantom, the mysterious woman in French blue is gone, leaving no trace of her presence. Turning back, she continues rather distractedly, “I think I’m just a little overcome by all the people in here.”
“Yes, well, it is rather close in here, Miss Chetwynd.” the younger Miss Evans remarks as she looks about at all the women and a few men milling around them.
“If you don’t mind, ladies,” Margot addresses the Miss Evanses. “I think I might take Miss Chetwynd outside the enclosure for a spot of air.”
“Oh yes! Do! Do Mrs. Channon.” the two Miss Evanses cluck away in concern.
“Well, goodbye Miss Evans, Miss Evans,” Margot says as she carefully starts to guide Lettice away. “It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance.” she lies.
As Margot leads Lettice away from the effusive pair of old women she leans into Lettice. “I say, well played Lettice darling.” she mutters conspiratorially. “I don’t know how you do that, but making yourself go pale like that worked a treat to get us away from that pair of wittering old biddies. I feared we’d never escape their vulturous clutches.” She squeezes Lettice’s inner arm as they walk. “Do you always have to pull a fit like that to escape them, darling?”
“Only sometimes.” Lettice remarks a little unsteadily, glancing nervously around her to see if she can catch another glimpse of the woman in dark blue as they move through the crush of floral scented women dressed in silk georgette and cotton chintz in pretty pastel colours.
The very next moment Lettice runs into the chest of a navy blue blazer which smells familiarly of Taylor’s sandalwood eau de cologne.
“Lettice!” Selwyn’s voice exclaims from somewhere above the brim of her straw picture hat.
Looking up, Lettice stares into the surprised face of her beau and smiles with relief. “Selwyn!”
“Angel, what on earth are you doing here?” Selwyn asks, grasping Lettice by the shoulders, looking around a little nervously as he does. “I didn’t think this was your type of occasion.”
“Oh it’s not, Your Grace.” Margot drops a small respectful curtsey. “Lettice has kindly agreed to accompany me in the absence of my husband.” explains Margot at Lettice’s arm. Stretching out her own hand encased in a burgundy leather glove to him like a queen she introduces herself. “How do you do, Your Grace, I’m Mrs. Richard Channon.” She smiles widely at him with her red painted lips.
“Yes, I think I recognise your face from the newspapers after your wedding, Mrs. Channon. How do you do.” Selwyn says, taking her proffered hand and kissing it. “And please, no ‘Your Graces’ since you are such a close friend of Miss Chetwynd. Just Mr. Spencely will do.”
“Thank you, Your Grac… err I mean, Mr. Spencely.” she corrects herself. “And you must be Pamela Fox-Chavers.” Margot continues, drawing Lettice’s attention to the shy young lady standing silently at Selwyn’s side, her arm linked with his. “How do you do. I’m Mrs. Richard Channon.”
Lettice looks across at Pamela who stares back at Lettice with a large pair of kind, pale blue eyes from beneath the stiffened lace brim of her hat. Framed by strawberry blonde waves of soft lustrous hair affixed in a chignon at the back of her neck, Pamela’s skin is like peaches and cream. Lettice takes in her beautifully cut frock of pale pink and blue satin adorned with lace appliqué and tiny bouquets of ornamental pink roses, and immediately identifies it as once of Lucile’s***** ‘Dream Dresses’*****. The young debutante of seventeen smiles at Lettice with the sweet and innocent face of an ingenue.
“Good heavens!” Pamela gasps. “How on earth did you know who I am, Mrs. Channon? I’m only just out!”
“I saw your photograph in the newspapers,” Margot says in reply. “From Queen Charlotte’s Ball******.”
“Pamela,” Selwyn says a little awkwardly. “May I introduce, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd. Lettice, may I present my cousin, the Honourable Pamela Fox-Chavers.”
“Oh, no introduction is necessary, Selwyn!” Pamela says with a shy smile. “I’d know you anywhere, Miss Chetwynd. It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you. Your face is always in the society pages, oh and you too Mrs. Channon.” she adds quickly when she sees the slightly perturbed look on Margot’s perfectly made up face. “Selwyn’s always talking about you, Miss Chetwynd.”
“Pammy!” Selwyn chides his young cousin gently, looking down at her with serious eyes as he flushes red with embarrassment.
Smiling cheekily, Margot explains, “I was just taking Lettice outside for a breath of fresh air. It’s awfully cloying in here with so many people about.”
“Lettice my angel,” Selwyn gasps quietly, gazing into her face with concerned eyes. “Are you alright?”
“I’ll be fine, Selwyn.” she assures him with a dismissive wave. “I just need some fresh air is all.”
“And maybe a little something to eat.” Margot adds, cocking an eyebrow at Selwyn meaningfully.
“Oh they’re serving Devonshire teas in the next tent, Mrs. Channon.” pipes up Pamela. “Shall we all go and have some? Then we can get better acquainted.” She looks with excited eyes to Lettice before turning back to Selwyn. “Can we Selwyn?” she begs like a young child wanting a treat, tugging on her cousin’s arm. “Please!”
“What a capital idea, Miss Fox-Chavers.” Margot replies with an indulgent smile of gratitude. “I think some Devonshire tea sounds like a very civilised way for us to all get to know one another better. Don’t you agree, Mr. Spencely?”
*May 20 1913 saw the first Royal Horticultural Society flower show at Chelsea. What we know today as the Chelsea Flower Show was originally known as the Great Spring Show. The first shows were three day events held within a single marquee. The King and Queen did not attend in 1913, but the King's Mother, Queen Alexandra, attended with two of her children. The only garden to win a gold medal before the war was also in 1913 and was awarded to a rock garden created by John Wood of Boston Spa. In 1919, the Government demanded that the Royal Horticultural Society pay an entertainment tax for the show – with resources already strained, it threatened the future of the Chelsea Flower Show. Thankfully, this was wavered once the Royal Horticultural Society convinced the Government that the show had educational benefit and in 1920 a special tent was erected to house scientific exhibits. Whilst the original shows were housed within one tent, the provision of tents increased after the Great War ended. A tent for roses appeared and between 1920 and 1934, there was a tent for pictures, scientific exhibits and displays of garden design. Society garden parties began to be held, and soon the Royal Horticultural Society’s Great Spring Show became a fixture of the London social calendar in May, attended by society ladies and their debutante daughters, the occasion used to parade the latter by the former. The Chelsea Flower Show, though not so exclusive today, is still a part of the London Season.
**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.
***Created by a specific style of corset popular between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the outbreak of the Great War, the S-bend is characterized by a rounded, forward leaning torso with hips pushed back. This shape earned the silhouette its name; in profile, it looks similar to a tilted letter S.
****Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, as she was known at the beginning of 1923 when this story is set, went on to become Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952 as the wife of King George VI. Whilst still Duke of York, Prince Albert initially proposed to Elizabeth in 1921, but she turned him down, being "afraid never, never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to". He proposed again in 1922 after Elizabeth was part of his sister, Mary the Princess Royal’s, wedding party, but she refused him again. On Saturday, January 13th, 1923, Prince Albert went for a walk with Elizabeth at the Bowes-Lyon home at St Paul’s, Walden Bury and proposed for a third and final time. This time she said yes. The wedding took place on April 26, 1923 at Westminster Abbey.
*****Lucile – Lucy, Lady Duff Gordon was a leading British fashion designer in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries who use the professional name Lucile. She was the originator of the “mannequin parade”, a pre-cursor to the modern fashion parade, and is reported to have been the person to first use the word “chic” which she then popularised. Lucile is also infamous for escaping the Titanic in a lifeboat designed for forty occupants with her husband and secretary and only nine other people aboard, seven being crew members.
******Lucile aimed to make an art of beautiful dressing, and her ‘Dream Dresses’ were faerie tale creations of shimmering silks, gossamer laces, and delicate rainbows of ribbons in soft pastel shades. Influenced by her early designs for lingerie and tea gowns, Lucile’s dresses, which she also referred to as “Gowns of Emotion” were given suitably romantic name, like “Happiness”.
*******The Queen Charlotte's Ball is an annual British debutante ball. The ball was founded in 1780 by George III as a birthday celebration in honour of his wife, Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, for whom the ball is named. Debutantes were presented and made to curtsey to a large birthday cake in honour of Queen Charlotte. The Queen Charlotte's Ball originally served as a fundraiser for the Queen Charlotte's and Chelsea Hospital. The annual ball continued after Queen Charlotte's death in 1818, but was criticised by the British royal family in the 1950s and 1960s and folded in 1976. It was revived in the Twenty First Century by Jennie Hallam-Peel, a former debutante, who shifted its focus from entering high society to teaching business skills, networking, and etiquette, and fundraising for charities.
This wonderful display of floral arrangements in a marquee may not be all that you suppose it to be, for in fact it is made up entirely of pieces from my 1:12 size miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
All the floral arrangements that you see here come from various suppliers, including Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom, the Doll House Emporium, Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering and the Falcon Company, all of whom specialise in high quality, realistic 1:12 miniatures, and they are well known for their floral arrangements. There are also several examples of artisan floral arrangements, made by unknown artists.
The white and pink striped wall of the marquee is in truth one of my hand tailored business shirts which I spread across a cardboard backing. I think it looks quite effective. Don’t you?
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however, we have followed Lettice from her home to just a short distance away. Still in Mayfair, she is visiting Asprey* in Bond Street: jewellers to the royal family, silversmiths and goldsmiths and suppliers of luxury goods. With Dickie Channon and Margot de Virre’s engagement announced, Lettice is charged with finding a wedding gift not only of her own, but for her parents to send to the home of Margot’s parents. Leaving the busy shopping strip populated by suited men on their way to their offices and clubs and smartly dressed ladies enjoying a day of shopping, Lettice slips in through the beautiful full length glass doors of Asprey’s into the cossetted comfort of the light filled luxury shop. Leaving the bustle of London behind her with the quiet click of the doors closing, she breathes in the gentle waft of expensive perfume and leather.
“Ah! Miss Chetwynd!” a mature frock coated shop walker greets Lettice with a broad smile. “How do you do.”
Lettice greets the stout, smartly dressed man with the familiarity of the regular client that she is. “How do you do, Crosbie,” she addresses him as she does her family butler.
“And to what do we owe this great pleasure of your visit, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Crosbie asks obsequiously, clasping his glove clad hands together behind his back. “A finishing touch for one of your latest interiors, perhaps? I have some lovely silver tea services just in from our silversmiths.”
Lettice looks distractedly around the beautiful mahogany display cabinets filled with leather dressing cases and travel de necessaires, candelabras, coffee and tea services.
“Not today, Crosbie,” she flashes him one of her winning smiles, not fooled for a moment by the portly floor walker’s flattery and toady behaviour.
Lettice knows that when she walks into Asprey’s that she is a valued customer because of how much money she spends there and how much influence she has on others who also patronise the shop. Her mind slips back to her first visit to Asprey as a teenager before the war, when she accompanied her mother who was looking to buy some new jewellery for a court levee. The frock coated staff fawned over Viscountess Wrexham and her daughter noticed for the first time the deference paid not only to her mother, but to her as well as a member of a family held in such high esteem and a future patron of the shop.
“A new travel de necessaire for your next country house soirée, perhaps?” Mr. Crosbie asks attentively. “Or maybe some new pearls for the Season?”
“No, nothing like that today, Crosbie,” Lettice replies.
“Please,” Mr. Crosbie indicates with a sweeping gesture to a small mahogany Queen Anne style table decorated with a white vase filled with fragrant rose blooms, flanked by two dainty velvet seated salon chairs. “Some tea perhaps, Miss Chetwynd?”
“Oh Crosbie,” she sighs, sinking into one of the chairs, crossing her legs elegantly and propping her black handled green parasol against her thigh. “You are a brick!”
The older manager looks over and catches the eye of a junior member of staff to whom he nods almost imperceptibly. The younger man quietly slips away from behind a counter of silver salvers and trays and disappears into the back of the showroom.
“Then,” Mr. Crosbie asks, taking his place adjunct to Lettice. “What is your pleasure today, Miss Chetwynd?”
Lettice’s eyes the glittering shelves again. Champagne buckets, strawberry dishes, biscuit barrels, lidded chafing dishes, trophies and meat covers all polished to a gleaming sheen wink and glow against their mahogany housings or in glass display cases, under the morning light from the street outside and diffused light from crystal chandeliers overhead.
“Well, you would no doubt have read in The Times that my friends Margot de Virre and Richard Channon have recently become engaged.”
Crosbie’s gleaming brown eyes lift towards the ceiling and his mouth falls open ever so slightly as he considers the names of all the newly engaged couples of note announced in the London newspapers. “The Marquess of Taunton’s son and Lord de Virre’s daughter,” he remarks thoughtfully. “Yes, I did see that. Ah!”
The younger shop walker arrives with a silver tray laden with a sleek teapot, sugar bowl, milk jug, a cup and saucer and a selection of biscuits on a plate. He carefully places the tray on the table, next to Lettice’s crocodile skin handbag. Mr. Crosbie nods ever so slightly at the younger man and he retreats, walking quietly back across the carpeted floor.
“So, you see my dilemma Crosbie,” Lettice says. “I need a wedding gift.”
“Well, Miss Chetwynd,” the older man says in an assuring tone. “You aren’t the first person to visit Asprey to purchase a wedding gift for them.” He pauses. “However we have so many lovely things to choose from, that I feel sure we shall find the perfect gift from you.”
“Oh it isn’t just for me, Crosbie,” Lettice replies apologetically. “I also need a wedding gift for my parents.”
“Ah! How is his Lordship?” Mr. Crosbie asks. “And her Ladyship?”
“Quite well thank you, Crosbie,” Lettice states. “However, they are too ensconced in Wiltshire to come to London to select their own gift.”
“Well, I’m sure we can find a suitable gift for them too, Miss Chetwynd.” He smiles politely. “Shall I pour?”
“Oh, you are a brick, Crosbie!” Lettice says. “Yes please.”
As he pours, Mr. Crosbie artfully makes sure that the sleek body of the teapot and its elegant spout catches the light and the attention of his customer.
“That’s a lovely teapot, Crosbie,” Lettice remarks thoughtfully.
“It’s one of the new tea services we have just received from our silversmiths.” He adds hopefully, “It is Georgian Revival Moderne: very fashionable Miss Chetwynd. Will you take milk and sugar?”
“Yes, thank you, Crosbie. Oh, and the crockery?”
“Also in a new and very fashionable line, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Crosbie adds with delight that Lettice has noticed it. “Do have a chocolate or a vanilla Bourbon biscuit.”
“Thank you, Crosbie.” She picks up a chocolate cream Huntley and Palmer’s biscuit and munches daintily on it. After finishing her mouthful and taking a sip of tea she continues, “Now. I want something different. Something special for two of my closest friends: not just a tea set.” Crosbie’s face falls slightly at her words. “Anyone can give a tea set.”
“Indeed, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Crosbie acquiesces with a slight lilt of disappointment.
“No!” Lettice continues. “I want something, different. The Marquess is giving the newlyweds a house near Penzance as a country retreat. I am told it is a Regency house. I’d like to give them something suitable for there. What can you show me, Crosbie?”
The older man’s eyes light up again. “Ah! Well, Asprey’s do have a few rather lovely pieces that might suit. If I could beg your indulgence, Miss Chetwynd.”
Lettice nods in agreement as the man moves purposefully across the red carpeted floor to the mahogany display shelves where he fetches several pieces. She continues to enjoy the Bourbon biscuits and her tea whilst he searches for potential presents. Returning, he places two lidded boxes and a tray on the table before her.
“A Regency Revival letter tray, and two Georgian Revival tea caddies, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Crosbie says soothingly with a flourish of his hands worthy of a magician having produced a rabbit from a hat.
Lettice scrutinises each, carefully picking them up and considering them as gifts. Across the table from her, Mr. Crosbie quietly holds his breath as he watches, clutching his glove glad hands together beneath the table’s surface.
“Yes,” Lettice says at length. “Yes, I think the larger of the tea caddies, Crosbie.”
“Very good, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Crosbie enthuses. “And for your parents?”
“Oh, the tea service, definitely.” she replies with a wry smile. “They are very good at giving tea sets.”
“Very good, Miss Chetwynd. I’ll have the accounts drawn out. Shall I have the tea service and the tea caddy sent directly to Lord and Lady de Virre with a small note of compliments from you and the Viscount?"
“The tea set, yes,” Lettice says. “But the tea caddy, no. Please have that sent to me.”
“Certainly Miss Chetwynd. I can have it delivered to you this afternoon, if that suits.”
“Splendid Crosbie,” Lettice smiles and sighs, relieved that she has the perfect wedding gift for her friends. Finishing her tea, she grasps her parasol and handbag and prepares to leave. Then, as an after thought she adds, “Oh, and have another of those tea services sent to me as well.” She looks again at the sleek teapot glinting on the tray. “I quite like the way the pot pours.”
“Yes, Miss Chetwynd!” Mr. Crosbie says with undisguised pleasure.
*Founded in 1781 as a silk printing business by William Asprey, Asprey soon became a luxury emporium. In 1847 the business moved to their present premises at 167 Bond Street, where they advertised 'articles of exclusive design and high quality, whether for personal adornment or personal accompaniment and to endow with richness and beauty the table and homes of people of refinement and discernment’. In 1862 Asprey received a Royal Warrant from Queen Victoria. They received a second Royal Warrant from the Future Edward VII in 1889. Asprey has a tradition of producing jewellery inspired by the blooms found in English gardens and Woodland Flora. Over the decades jewelled interpretations of flowers have evolved to include Daisy, Woodland and sunflower collections. They have their own special cut of diamond and produce leather goods, silver and gold pieces, trophies and leatherbound books, both old and new. They also produce accessories for playing polo. In 1997, Asprey produced the Heart of the Ocean necklace worn in the motion picture blockbuster, ‘Titanic’.
This luxury goods shop floor with all its silver may appear real to you, however it is fashioned entirely of 1:12 miniatures from my collection. Some of the items in this tableaux are amongst the very first pieces I ever received as a young child.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
The panoply of silver items that full the shelves and cabinets were once commonplace items in both upper and middle-class households. These items include candelabras, candlesticks, a biscuit barrel, an egg cruet set, a lidded muffin dish, a punch bowl, a toast rack, vases, trophies, coffee sets, tea sets, a strawberry dish, lidded chafing and serving dishes, meat covers, gravy boats, a water jug, an ice bucket, a sweetmeat dish, silver trays and salvers, and tea caddies. Almost all of the silver pieces in this scene are exclusively made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The only pieces not made by them are the square tray and tea service in the foreground, and the three prong Arts and Crafts style candelabra which sits atop a stand in front of the mahogany cases. The square tray and tea service in the foreground, which come from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The three prong candelabra is an artisan piece of sterling silver made in Berlin and is actually only 3 centimetres in height and 3 centimetres in width.
The Queen Anne table and two chairs in the foreground were amongst the first miniatures I was ever given as a child. They were birthday presents given to me when I was seven years old.
Lettice’s snakeskin handbag with its gold clasp and chain comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom. Lettice’s umbrella also comes from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
The Art Deco style teacup, saucer and plate come from an EBay stockist of miniatures, whilst the tiny chocolate and vanilla Bourbon biscuits from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. They specialise in miniature foods, and the array of items they have along with the fine and realistic detail of their hand made pieces is quite amazing!
The vase of roses on the Queen Anne table is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.