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. We have travelled east across London, through Bloomsbury, past the Smithfield Meat Markets, beyond the Petticoat Lane Markets* frequented by Lettice’s maid, Edith, through the East End boroughs of Bethnal Green and Bow, to the 1880s housing development of Upton Park. It is here that Frank’s closest and only surviving relation lives: his elderly Scottish grandmother, Mrs. McTavish. It is Christmas Day 1925, and after catching a chill going home from a celebratory meal at Lyon’s Corner House** at the top of Tottenham Court Road to celebrate Edith and Frank’s engagement, which then settled on her chest and became influenza, Mrs. McTavish, whilst recovering well, is not well enough to travel through the cold fog and sleet of Christmas Day with Frank to Frank’s fiancée, Edith’s, family home in Harlesden. It was Edith who settled on the idea of rather than Frank and Mrs. McTavish coming to her parent’s home, going with her parents, George and Ada, to them instead, after she took inspiration from a Christmas window display in the Woolworths*** outside the Premier Super Cinema**** in East Ham, where Edith and Frank had seen a midday showing of ‘A Girl of London’***** on their day off.

 

“There!” Edith sighs, as she settles back on her haunches and admires her work.

 

Before her, on Mrs. McTavish’s flagstone floor a small Christmas Tree has been set up, it’s short height compensated by standing it in one of Mrs. McTavish’s unused tall terracotta flowerpots overturned, with the thin trunk slipped through the drain hole in its bottom, carefully hidden by an apron of festive red velvet supplied by Ada from her capacious basket, where it sat beneath a succulent roast chicken that she had started cooking in her own kitchen range in Harlesden. The tree’s decoration had been Edith’s job to manage, whilst her mother busied herself finishing off the chicken in the oven of Mrs. McTavish’s range. Being rather creative, this was a pleasure for Edith to do, and she quickly unpacked the gaily decorated boxes of thruppence and sixpence Christmas decorations she had bought at Woolworths in order to decorate the tree, one George had bought as a favour from one of his gardening contacts at his Harlesden allotment. Scattering spools of thick red velveteen****** ribbon and baubles of metallic red and gold across the floor. She quickly made the bare tree into a beautiful and festive centrepiece for the day’s festivities, expertly decorating its branches, hiding sparse parts of the rather weedy tree, until it looked full and perfect.

 

“What do you think, Gran?” Edith asks, looking over her right shoulder to Frank’s Scottish Grandmother peers out from beneath her thick tartan rug in her usual, old and worn wingback chair by the range.

 

Mrs. McTavish’s wizened face, covered in a maze of wrinkles beneath the lacy white froth of her cap colours a little and her dark eyes sparkle with delight as she spies the decorated Christmas tree. “Och, Edith my dear!” she exclaims in her thick Scottish brogue. “It looks grand! What a clever we bairn you are!”

 

“She’s right, Edith,” Frank says with a cheerful lilt as he pauses setting the table, holding one of his grandmother’s best blue and white china plates in his hands and looks over at the decorated tree. “It looks grand!”

 

“Oh, thank you both.” Edith says, blushing at their compliments.

 

“Edith always was the one with artistic talent,” George murmurs with pride to his wife as they both stand at the kitchen range, he holding a white bowl out to catch the green peas and bright orange carrots his wife scoops from one of Mrs. McTavish’s saucepans with a slotted spoon. “I would have liked it if she’d been able to pursue her creativity.”

 

Ada sighs heavily as she gazes at the beautifully decorated Christmas Tree, pausing in her scooping to observe the rich and fat bows and red and gold baubles bask in the golden light cast by Mrs. McTavish’s gas light overhead, giving them an essence of Christmas magic. She coughs and clears her throat before going back to the job at hand by spooning out the last of the sliced carrots from the bottom of the pot and shaking them off the spoon into the plain white bowl her husband holds. “Being an artist doesn’t make money, George.” she says matter-of-factly, drawing her husband from his own thoughts. “What good would she be to Frank if she could paint a picture, but not know how to cook, or one end of an iron from the other.”

 

George doesn’t reply, his eyes darting from Ada’s face with her determined, but not unfriendly gaze and the Christmas tree.

 

“No, domestic service was really our only choice with Edith, and it hasn’t worked out badly, has it George? She has a good job at present with Miss Chetwynd, and she knows how to cook and clean, and she’s a damn fine seamstress.”

 

“She could have worked at the Lambeth Studios******* with her skill as a paintress.” George muses.

 

“That’s foolish talk, George.” Ada scoffs with frustration, knocking the slotted spoon’s handle noisily against the edge of the beaten old pot to drown out her words from anyone’s hearing but George’s. “You know it is. We couldn’t have afforded the fees at the Lambeth School of Art******** for her to have sent her there, and well you know it.”

 

“With her precocious talent,” George retorts. “I still think we stood a chance of her winning a scholarship for her, Ada love.”

 

“Well,” Ada quips quickly. “We’ll never know now, will we? I did what I thought was best at the time,” She then adds a little more kindly. “And it was best for her, George love. You know it was.”

 

George sighs as he stares at his daughter as she happily laughs and chatters with her fiancée as they arrange Christmas parcels wrapped in brown paper and tied up with twine around the bottom of the tree. “I don’t know about that, Ada love.”

 

“Don’t let Edith hear you say that.” Ada cautions her husband, as she bangs the spoon handle against the pot determinedly again.

 

“Frank, I’m serving up the peas and beans for Ada,” George calls out to his future son-in-law as he moves across the kitchen floor from the range to the round table which has been dressed with one of Mrs. McTavish’s beautiful hand made white lace tablecloths. “Look lively my boy, and finish setting the table, or Ada will as likely have your guts for garters,” He chuckles good naturedly. “Or mine.”

 

“Aye, I will that, or both of you,” Ada laughs happily from the stove, clearly sharing that she will do no such thing, as she wraps the edge of her apron around her hand and opens the door of the oven and peers in.

 

A cloud of steam and the sizzle of cooking meat fills the air, as does the rich and evocative scent of the roasting chicken.

 

“That smells spiffing Mrs. Wat… Ada!” Frank exclaims, still stumbling over the idea of calling his future mother-in-law by her first name, rather than Mrs. Watsford.

 

“Thank you, Frank love.” Ada says with a proud smile as she turns and faces the room, her face flushed from the head radiating from the oven. Closing the door she adds, “Just a few more minutes and we’ll be ready to eat. I hope you’ve all brought a good, healthy appetite, most of all you, Nyree love.” She puts a hand gently on Mrs. McTavish’s shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “We need to be fattening you up. There’s no meat on your bones. No wonder you caught influenza.”

 

“Aha!” Frank cries from the table as he lays down the last of the dinner plates. He points across the room to his grandmother sitting snuggled in her chair as he says triumphantly, “Your own words, turned back on you for a change!” He laughs. “Gran’s always telling me I’m too thin, Ada. It’s time she had some of her own medicine for a change.”

 

“Och!” the old Scotswoman scoffs, before starting to cough heavily, her chest heaving up and down beneath her warm blanket. “You are too thin, Francis my bairn!” She coughs a little more, only less severely. “You eat like a wee house sparrow, you do,” she goes on through laboured breaths. “And that’s no good for a strapping young laddie!”

 

“Gran!” Frank moans. “How many times do I have to tell you, I’m Frank now. Francis is a girl’s name.”

 

“Nonsense!” she retorts, releasing another fruity cough. “It’s a splendid boy’s name. Twas the name your faither********** and mither*********** gave you and had you christened. You may want to be Frank, but,” She smiles beatifically at her grandson. “But you’ll always be Francis to me.”

 

“Oh Gran!” Frank says again, blushing red.

 

Edith giggles. “I’m glad you like the Christmas tree, Gran. I really wanted to make your Christmas a special one.” She reaches up and places her hands over the old woman’s gnarled and wrinkled ones and squeezes them affectionately.

 

“You have my wee bairn,” Mrs. McTavish says, withdrawing her hands from beneath Edith’s and placing them on Edith’s youthful cheeks. She smiles down at her. “You really have. How could anyone not be delighted by such kindness?” She sinks back in her seat. “You’ve all been so kind to bring the Christmas Day festivities to me.”

 

“Ahh,” Ada scoffs with a beatific smile and a dismissive wave of her hand as she walks the dirty pots over to the trough skin in the corner of the kitchen. “Christmas is wherever you decide to celebrate it, so why not have it here? As I was saying to Frank a week ago when he was visiting us, it would have been too much to expect you to travel all the way to us Nyree, even if it isn’t a long walk to and from the Tube************ station either way, in your condition.”

 

“That’s right.” Adds George. “It’s been so cold, and the fogs aren’t pleasant for you to go through either, Nyree love. Better we come to you, and you can keep nice and cosy and warm.”

 

“Thank you, George. “Lang may yer lum reek*************.”

 

“What does that mean, Gran?” Edith asks. “Long may yer lum reek?”

 

“Lang,” Mrs. McTavish corrects Edith gently. “Lang may yer lum reek.”

 

“It’s a Scottish blessing.” Frank explains. “Long may your chimney smoke. Isn’t that right, Gran?”

 

“It is, Francis my wee bairn!” Mrs. McTavish concurs. “It means I wish you good fortune and prosperity.”

 

“Lang may yer lum reek. Lang may yer lum reek.” Edith repeats over and over a few times.

 

“That’s it, Edith my dear.” Mrs. McTavish encourages. “Och! Francis and I will make a Scotswoman out of you yet!” She chortles happily.

 

“How do you say, Merry Christmas, Gran?” Edith asks. “In Scottish, I mean?”

 

“Nollaig Chirdheil**************.” Mrs. McTavish says in her growly Scottish brogue, smiling happily as she does.

 

“Oh!” Edith’s face falls. “Oh, I might struggle to say that.”

 

“Och! Well, you weren’t raised with Gaelic being spoken about you, Edith dearie.” Mrs. McTavish chuckles softly. “It will take some practice. However, if you apply yourself, perhaps you might be a better scholar than my wee bairn Francis was when it comes to speaking Gaelic.”

 

“I’ll try, Gran.” Edith says.

 

“Good girl!” She pats Edith’s hand. “When I’m better and get over this awful influenza, I’ll have to teach you how to make rumbledethumps***************.”

 

“Rumbledethumps!” Frank pipes up as he places the last brightly coloured Christmas cracker across a dinner plate at the table. “You’re going to teach Edith to make rumbledethumps?”

 

“Aye, cluasan mòra!” Mrs. McTavish calls out in reply to her grandson’s question.

 

“Cluasan mòra?” Edith asks. “What does that mean?”

 

“Tell your fiancée what a cluasan mòra is, then, Francis my wee bairn.” When Frank doesn’t reply, and busies himself straightening cutlery on the table that doesn’t need straightening, Mrs. McTavish goes on. “If he’d studied Gaelic like I said he should have, he’d know that cluasan mòra means ‘big ears’, Edith my dear.”

 

Edith can’t help but chuckle as she sees Frank blush bright red.

 

“Right!” Ada calls cheerily as she withdraws the golden yellow chicken from the oven. “Christmas tea is served!”

 

Everyone watches, transfixed as she walks across the small kitchen carrying the succulent roast bird across the table in one of her trusty roasting pans from her Harlesden kitchen. Roast potatoes, as golden and crusted as the chicken itself sit nestled around the chicken, and the whole dish releases a delicious aroma that quickly fills the small room.

 

“Now that smells like Christmas tea to me!” George says jovially. “I’ll open up a bottle of ale for us.”

 

“Come on Gran.” Frank says kindly as he scurries over to his grandmother’s side. “I’ll help you up.”

 

“I’ll help too, Frank.” Edith offers. “And we’ll get you safely over to the table and settled in.”

 

“Thanks Edith!” Frank replies, sighing gratefully.

 

As the pair help stand the old Scotswoman up, draw away her green and red tartan blanket and gently guide her across the flagstones, she turns her head to Edith. “So Edith, dearie. I hear from your parents and Frank, that this was all your doing.”

 

“Me?” Edith asks. “Oh I didn’t make the Christmas fare. Mum did, with a bit of help from Dad and me. You saw her, Gran.”

 

“No! No!” Mrs. McTavish hisses. “Not that. They tell me it was your idea to move your Christmas from your parent’s house here.”

 

“Oh, I think I might have suggested the idea in the first place, after we found out from Frank that you were sick.”

 

“You’re being too modest by half,” Frank retorts. “It was Edith’s idea alright, Gran. She should take credit for it.”

 

As Mrs. McTavish looks upon the blushing face of Edith she says, “Well, as you know, I haven’t really been well enough to finish the Christmas gift for you that I started making.”

 

“Oh, I don’t care about that, Gran. I don’t need anything from you, when you let us have Christmas in your home, like this.”

 

“Well, I will finish it, but once I’m better, Edith dearie. And then I’ll give it to you.” She groans a bit as she nears the table with Edith and Frank supporting her delicate and brittle figure. “But there is something I’ve been meaning to ask you, ever since you and Francis told me about your intended nuptials****************.”

 

“And what’s that, Gran?” Edith asks, as they manoeuvre Mrs, McTavish to a round back Windsor chair close by the warm range and gently lower her down into it.

 

“Aye. Thank you my wee bairns.” Mrs McTavish says gratefully. Turning her attention back to Edith, whilst Frank fetches her tartan blanket to drape over her knees, she says, “Edith dearie, would you do me the honour of letting me make your wedding veil? I’d rather like to, you know.”

 

“Oh Gran!” Edith exclaims, flinging her arms around Mrs. McTavish’s neck and hugging her tightly.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes, shall I then, Edith dearie?” the old woman laughs.

 

“Oh yes! Yes Gran!” Edith says in a muffled voice filled with elation as she buries her head into Mrs. McTavih’s neck. “Yes.”

 

“Good!” Mrs. McTavish says matter-of-factly, grasping Edith my the forearms, causing the young girl to release her embrace and take a step back. “That makes me very happy, Edith dearie.”

 

“Merry Christmas Gran.” Edith manages to say as she swallows her emotions and tries to remain composed in front of her fiancée and family.

 

“Nollaig Chirdheil, Edith dearie.” Old Mrs. McTavish replies kindly, a broad smile breaking across her face.

 

*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.

 

**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.

 

***Woolworths began operation in Britain in 1909 when Frank Woolworth opened the first store in Liverpool, as a British subsidiary of the already established American company. The store initially sold a variety of goods for threepence and sixpence, making their goods accessible to everyone, not just the wealthy upper and middle-classes. The British subsidiary proved to be very popular, and it grew quickly, opening twelve stores by 1912 and expanding using its own profits to become a fixture on the high street. The stores became a beloved British institution, with many shoppers assuming they were originally a British company. In 1982, the United Kingdom operations underwent a management buyout from the American parent company, becoming Woolworth Holdings PLC. This followed the American parent company\'s sale of its controlling stake to a local consortium. Later, in 2000, the company\'s parent (by then known as Kingfisher Group) decided to restructure, focusing more on its DIY and electrical markets. The general merchandise division, including Big W stores, was spun off into a separate company called Woolworths in 2001. Unable to adapt to modern retail trends, the company faced increasing competition and financial difficulties. The last Woolworths stores in the United Kingdom closed their doors in December 2008 and January 2009, marking the end of an era.

 

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

 

*****‘A Girl of London’ is a 1925 British silent drama film produced by Stoll Pictures, directed by Henry Edwards and starring Genevieve Townsend, Ian Hunter and Nora Swinburne. Its plot concerns the son of a member of parliament, who is disowned by his father when he marries a girl who works in a factory. Meanwhile, he tries to rescue his new wife from her stepfather who operates a drugs den. It was based on a novel by Douglas Walshe.

 

******Velveteen is a woven fabric with a short, dense pile that resembles velvet but is stiffer and has a matte finish. It is typically made of cotton or a cotton blend and is created by weaving loops that are then cut to create the soft, raised surface. Due to its durability and structure, it is used for garments that need to hold their shape, such as jackets and skirts, as well as for home décor like upholstery and draperies.

 

*******The first Royal Doulton pottery in Lambeth, London, opened in 1815. It started as a partnership between John Doulton, Martha Jones, and John Watts, specialising in utilitarian stoneware like pipes and jars. The company moved to larger premises in Lambeth Walk in 1826, trading as Doulton & Watts. The factory\'s production evolved over time, and in 1871, the famous Doulton Lambeth Studio was established. It became known for its beautiful art pottery, employing artists from the local Lambeth School of Art. The Lambeth Pottery employed over two hundred artists and designers from the Art School by the 1880s, many of them women. The original Lambeth factory finally closed in 1956 due to clean air regulations in the City of London, which prohibited salt glaze production.

 

********The Lambeth School of Art was an art school established in 1854 in the Lambeth area of London by William Gregory, the vicar of St Mary the Less Church. Now known as the City and Guilds of London Art School, it is now a leading independent art school in London. The school is also associated with the "Lambeth Method" of cake decorating, a style of elaborate buttercream piping known for its regal and intricate designs, famously used on the wedding cake of Her Late Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

 

*********The phrase "guts for garters" means to punish someone severely or to threaten them with extreme violence. Its origin is the literal, and now obsolete, threat of disembowelling a person and using their intestines as garters to hold up one\'s stockings. This phrase is first recorded in late Sixteenth Century literature and gained popularity through alliteration and usage in various contexts, from military slang to a more general expression of anger.

 

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

 

***********Mither is an old fashioned Scottish word for mother.

 

************People started calling the London Underground the "Tube" around 1900, after the opening of the Central London Railway. The railway\'s deep, cylindrical tunnels resembled tubes, and a newspaper nickname for it, the “Tuppenny Tube”, due to a flat fare of two pence, helped the term stick. Over time, the nickname spread to refer to the entire system.

 

*************A classic Scottish blessing for good luck is "Lang may yer lum reek," which literally means "long may your chimney smoke" and conveys the wish for continued prosperity and good fortune.

 

**************”Nollaig Chirdheil” is the traditional festive greeting in Gaelic shared at Christmas time.

 

***************Rumbledethumps is a dish that is popular in the Scottish border regions and is perfect for using up leftover mashed potatoes and excess vegetables. Often referred to as the Scottish version of bubble ‘n squeak, rumbledethumps recipes usually contain turnip and cabbage, but really any vegetable leftovers could be used. The vegetable mixture is topped with cheese and then baked until bubbling. The dish can be made the day before and heated up and whilst it can be eaten on its own, makes a nice accompaniment for a hearty stew.

 

****************Nuptials is a alternative word for marriage. The term “nuptials” emphasizes the ceremonial and legal aspects of a marriage, lending a more formal tone to wedding communications and documentation.

 

This festive scene in a cosy kitchen may look real to you, but it is not quite what it seems, for it is made up entirely of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The Christmas tree at the centre of the image is a hand-made artisan example from dollhouse artisan suppliers in America. The parcels wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine beneath the tree I acquired from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The boxed tinsel garland and the tree top angel box were a gift to me last Christmas from my Flickr friend BKHagar *Kim* who also collects 1:12 miniatures. She picked these up at a house auction as part of a large miniatures collection. The red box containing hand painted Christmas ornaments were hand made and decorated by artists of Crooked Mile Cottage in America. The patterned green box of red and green baubles at the front of Ada’s basket to the right was hand made by Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The box of Christmas crackers towards the bottom of the picture and the Christmas cards on the table to the left of the image are 1:12 miniatures made by artisan Ken Blythe. I have a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my miniatures collection – books mostly. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! Sadly, so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. As well as making books, he also made other small paper based miniatures including cards like the Christmas cards, and boxes of goods. The box, as you can see, is designed to be opened, and each one contains gaily coloured Christmas crackers made from real crêpe paper. The crackers from the box, coloured red, yellow and blue, can be seen sitting on the table. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make them all miniature artisan pieces. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

The round kitchen table is draped with an antique lace jug cover, which I thought made for a beautiful tablecloth for Christmas. As well as Ken Blythe’s Christmas crackers, there are other things of the table. These include beautiful blue and white dinner plates which come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The succulent looking roast chicken comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The cutlery also comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. All the water glasses I have had since I was a teenager. I bought them from a high street stockist that specialised in dolls’ houses and doll house miniatures. Each glass is hand blown using real glass.

 

Mrs. McTavish’s intentionally worn leather wingback chair and the sewing table to the left of the photo are both 1:12 artisan miniatures. The inside of the sewing table is particularly well made and detailed with a removable tray made up of multiple compartments. Beneath it, the floral fabric lines the underside and opens up into a central bag. Both pieces come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop. The top comparts are full of sewing items which also came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop and various online specialists on E-Bay. The small, round pedestal table at the arm of Mrs. McTavish’s chair also comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop

 

The sewing basket that you can see on the floor beneath the sewing table I bought from a high street shop that specialised in dolls and doll house furnishings. It is an artisan miniature and contains pieces of embroidery and embroidery threads. Also inserted into it is an embroidery hoop that has been which embroidered by hand which came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

Dominating the rear of the room is the large kitchen range which is a 1:12 miniature replica of the coal fed Phoenix Kitchen Range. A mid-Victorian model, it has hinged opening doors, hanging bars above the stove and a little bass hot water tap (used in the days before plumbed hot water). The fringing hanging from the mantle is actually a beautiful scalloped ribbon that was given to me at Christmas time by a very close friend of mine.

 

On the small pedestal table next to Mrs. McTavish’s chair sits a blue and white teacup and saucer. It comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom, and so too does the table.

 

On the wall just behind Mrs. McTavish’s chair hangs a hand painted cuckoo clock. It has been made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

In the background you can see Mrs. McTavish’s dark wood dresser cluttered with decorative china. I have had the dresser since I was a child. The shelves of the dresser have different patterned crockery which have come from different miniature stockists both in Australia and the United Kingdom.

 

The brass pieces on the range all come from different online stockists of miniatures.

 

The rug on the floor comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

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The Georgetown Loop's Silver Plume Yard is home to a handful of relatively rare, narrow gauge diesel locomotives, which are used for yard switching as well as supplemental power for tourist trains. Sometimes, you'll see them used as helpers in conjunction with a steam locomotive and in some circumstances, they become the primary power. Two of these locomotives are GE Model U6, 52-Ton, End-Cab Road Switchers. Number 130, seen here, was built in 1956 and operated on U.S. Gypsum's narrow gauge line in Plaster City, CA before being acquired by Lindsey Ashby, the former operator of the Georgetown Loop. She ran on the loop from 1992 to 2004, and then spent some time at the Colorado Railroad Museum, when the Loop changed operators. As can be seen here, she and her sister (#140) were back at the Loop in 2016, and on this particular day, the 130 was being used as a helper with Steam Locomotive #111. During my next visit to the Loop in August of 2017, I saw this particular locomotive stripped of its cowlings and prime mover, apparently in the process of being re-engined. Hopefully, she'll be back soon. I'm not a big diesel fan, but the 130 and 140 are among the more visually appealing, narrow gauge diesels that I've seen.

I've a soft spot for pictorial maps having known of, particularly, MacDonald Gill's many commissions for various undertakings and companies. They had their heyday from this date until the late 1940s and this one appears in the "Printing Supplement to the Manchester Guardian" that The Cloister Press produced and had a full page advert in. Sadly it shows no artist - the Press, at this date, used artwork by Charles Paine and Horace Taylor, both established illustrators and graphic designers and they could have done this but equally I'm minded of the map work of both R P Gossop, Kennedy North and Thomas Derrick who all undertook similar maps at this time. However some recent research means I can now say this was designed by W. Grimmond.

 

That aside it is rather fun as these maps often are and show the location of the Press on Parrs Wood Lane with both East Didsbury station on the LNWR and the Midland's Heaton Mersey station in close proximity. The area has changed somewhat having been subsumed by Manchester's suburban growth in the intervening years as well as closure of the Press at a date in the 1950s. The site is built over but there is a now a "Cloister Road" and a "Printers Close" that gives the game away.

ARRIVA Buses Wales VDL Commander 2509 - CX05 AAE sets off from Rhyl on a Sunday journey on route 51 to Denbigh.

 

Tipped into the Printing Review for Spring 1932 is this well printed four page advert supplement using Tullis Russell's "Mellotex" paper that was intended as a competatively priced, quality paper for offset printing. The supplement uses various illustrations and type to display the types of use the paper could be put to for advertising and publicity work. The cover is very much in the contemporary style whilst the illustrations inside are very typical of much early 1930s work.

 

Tullis Russell Co Ltd were a major paper manufacturer whose range included many specialist types of paper for a wide variety of uses. The company's origins date back to 1809 when Robert Tullis acquired the Leven Mill in Markinch, Fife, that had been constructed in 1804. Tullis later constructed the adjacent Auchmuty Mill and acquired the Rothes Mill. By 1875 the company had moved into the coated paper business, based at Bollington in Cheshire. After 1947 a trust was set up by the Tullis family and over the proceeding decades the company moved into employee ownship and is still in business although the Scottish mills have been closed.

 

The last page shows the stocked weights and sizes available from the mill or from stocks held at the company's wharves in London and Manchester.

Volenteer law enforcement and first responders on duty at a temporary U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA) Food and Nutrition Service (FNS) Disaster Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (D-SNAP) processing centers such as this one in the North Charleston Coliseum where county residents recovering from severe flooding have come to, in North Charleston, SC, on Tuesday, Nov. 17, 2015.In times of emergency, FNS coordinates with state and federal partners, as well as local volunteer organizations, such as the American Red Cross and Salvation Army, to provide USDA Foods to shelters and other mass feeding sites and, in limited cases, distribute food packages directly to households in need. USDA Foods are 100% domestically produced, processed and procured agricultural commodities that are made available to schools, tribes, and low-income individuals through FNS Nutrition Assistance Programs. Once retail food stores reopen, if survivors still need nutrition assistance and the area has received a ‘Presidential Disaster Declaration with Individual Assistance,’ State agencies may request to operate D-SNAP. People who may not normally qualify for nutrition assistance benefits may be eligible for D-SNAP if they had disaster-related expenses, such as loss of income, damage to property, relocation expenses, and, in some cases, loss of food due to power outages. Those already participating in the SNAP may be eligible for supplemental benefits under D-SNAP. For more information please visit this web site: www.fns.usda.gov/disaster. USDA photos by Lance Cheung.

Not quite enough home grown strawberries for breakfast (small ones in center) so supplementing with store bought / factory farmed giants.

August 11, 2014 - The FDA is advising consumers not to purchase or use Arize, a product promoted and sold for sexual enhancement. The product was found to contain undeclared sulfoaildenafil. For more information, go to www.fda.gov/Drugs/ResourcesForYou/Consumers/BuyingUsingMe...

 

And read these FDA Consumer Updates:

 

Beware of Fraudulent ‘Dietary Supplements’

 

"All Natural" Alternatives for Erectile Dysfunction: A Risky Proposition

nutritional supplements . . .

July 22, 2013 - The FDA is advising consumers not to purchase or use "Volcano," a product promoted and sold for sexual enhancement. The product was found to contain undeclared desmethyl carbodenafil, dimethylsildenafil, dapoxetine. For more information, go to www.fda.gov/safety/recalls/ucm361709.htm

 

And read these FDA Consumer Updates:

 

Beware of Fraudulent ‘Dietary Supplements’

 

"All Natural" Alternatives for Erectile Dysfunction: A Risky Proposition

ARRIVA Buses Wales Optare Solo 696 - CX09 BGZ sets off from Rhyl on a Sunday journey on route 36 Circular via Rhuddlan, Dyserth & Prestatyn.

 

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 far from Cavendish Mews. We are not even in England as we follow Lettice, her fiancée, Sir John Nettleford Hughes, and her widowed future sister-in-law, Clementine (known preferably now by the more cosmopolitan Clemance) Pontefract on their adventures on their visit to Paris.

 

Old enough to be Lettice’s father, wealthy Sir John was until recently still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intended to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. After an abrupt ending to her understanding with Selwyn Spencely, son and heir to the title Duke of Walmsford, Lettice in a moment of both weakness and resolve, agreed to the proposal of marriage proffered to her by Sir John. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them.

 

The trio have travelled to Paris so that Lettice may attend the ‘Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes’* which is highlighting and showcasing the new modern style of architecture and interior design known as Art Deco of which Lettice is an exponent. Now that Lettice has finished her commission for a feature wall at the Essex country retreat of the world famous British concert pianist Sylvia Fordyce, Lettice is moving on to her next project: a series of principal rooms in the Queen Anne’s Gate** home for Dolly Hatchett, the wife of Labour MP for Towers Hamlets*** Charles Hatchett, for whom she has done work before. Mrs. Hatchett wants a series of stylish formal rooms in which to entertain her husband’s and her own influential friends in style and elegance, and has given Lettice carte-blanche to decorate as she sees fit to provide the perfect interior for her. Lettice hopes to beat the vanguard of modernity and be a leader in the promotion of the sleek and uncluttered lines of the new Style Moderne**** which has arisen as a dynamic new movement at the exhibition.

 

We find ourselves in the Jardin des Tuileries**** where amidst the finely clipped square topiaries and brilliant white classical statuary of the gardens, on the lush and well clipped lawns, Lettice sits with Sir John and Clemance enjoying a very fine picnic repast in the warm autumnal sunshine of Paris. Arranged with the assistance of the chefs at the hotel they are staying at, Clemance has arranged a splendid picnic to which she has invited her good friends, Marcel and Léonie Dupont, and to which Sir John has invited some of his own Parisian acquaintances. A red and white gingham picnic rug has been spread across the lawn, and its surface is graced with water crackers, a selection of cheeses, dips, pâtés, breads, pies, pasties, sandwiches and even a dressed lobster and a traditional English trifle. Bottles of the finest French wines and champagnes stick up out of silver wine coolers and cutlery, gilt hotel crockery and glassware glint in the sunlight. Birds twitter in the trees and the distant burble of Paris traffic mixes with the chatter of the voices of visitors to the public gardens. In the middle distance, the Louvre Museum, housed in a palace of the same name, basks in the sunshine.

 

“So, to what pleasures, do we owe the pleasure of your company here in Paris, Mademoiselle Chetwynd?” Monsieur Dupont asks Lettice in slightly laboured and heavily accented English.

 

“We can speak French if you’d prefer, Monsieur Dupont.” Lettice replies kindly with a gentle smile as she tears a piece of bread delicately from a flour dusted roll, casting a shower of white snowflakes into the linen napkin spread across her lap. “I do speak it fluently.”

 

“Marcel is very proud of his command of Anglaise, Mademoiselle Chetwynd.” Madame Dupont proffers in reply with a laugh.

 

“I am,” Monsieur Dupont agrees with his wife, sitting up a little more straightly as he speaks. “I find my command of Anglaise to be useful when doing business with your fellow countrymen. Sadly, I don’t get to practice conversation à la Anglaise enough, Mademoiselle Chetwynd, so I should like to converse in Anglaise with you, if you don’t mind.”

 

“Not at all, Monsieur Dupont.” Lettice agrees, her own smile broadening, as she lavishes her piece of fluffy white roll with a lashing of creamy yellow butter from a silver knife as she speaks. “However, if you get tired of conversing in English, we can always revert to French.”

 

“Merci, Mademoiselle Chetwynd.” Monsieur Dupont replies with a grateful sigh and beaming smile below his small waxed petite handlebar moustache*****. “Vous êtes si gentil.” He holds up his glass of rich, jewel like red wine in a toast to Lettice.

 

“Mon plaisir, Monsieur Dupont.” Lettice replies.

 

“And in answer to your question, Marcel, my future sister-in-law is probably here more for business than pleasure, unlike Nettie and I.” Clemance adds to the conversation as she holds aloft her half-drunk flute of sparkling champagne, which glints in the sunshine. “For whom it is strictly a visit for pleasure.”

 

“Ahh.” Monsieur Dupont remarks with interest. “How so, Mademoiselle Chetwynd?”

 

“Well Monsieur Dupont, I’m visiting Paris so that I can attend the Exposition des Arts Decoratifs et Industriels Modernes. My fiancée is escorting me.”

 

“Nettie was looking for an excuse to visit Paris and catch up with old friends.” Clemance adds with a chuckle, using her pet name for her brother, indicating with her glass to Sir John, who sits on the other side of the red and white gingham picnic rug covered in the delicious repast organised by Clemance, surrounded by a few other picnickers, chatting rather intently with a lowered head with a heavily made up peroxided blonde woman in a fashionable fuchsia coloured afternoon frock.

 

“So I see,” Madame Dupont remarks a little dourly as her striking emerald green eyes follow Clemance’s gesture. Her nose crumples almost imperceptibly with distaste as Sir John and the blonde woman laugh at a shared confidence whispered into her ear by him.

 

Lettice’s pretty face clouds just a little as she observes the familiarity that seems to exist between her fiancée and the blonde woman to whom she has yet to be introduced, who arrived late to the picnic with a small coterie of loud and colourful friends who twitter around them like exotic birds. The way the pair’s heads are lowered towards one another, and the closeness of their shoulders seems to imply to Lettice that whoever the blonde woman is, she has been intimate with Sir John. Closing her eyes and quickly shaking her head as if ridding herself of an irritating insect, she tries to dismiss the idea from her mind. Yes, Sir John did come to Paris to meet up with old friends, including a long-standing acquaintance and old flame of his, Cinégraphic****** silent film actress Madeline Flanton, but surely this blonde woman wasn’t her! Sir John promised Lettice that he would never do anything to make her ashamed of him, in public at least. Paris might be freer than London was in relation to propriety and social mores, but surely even he wouldn’t flirt with an old flame like Mademoiselle Flanton in front Lettice in such a public way, would he? Of course not! She shakes her head again to rid herself of the idea. Not every woman Sir John knows is a former lover of his: take Sylvia Fordyce for example. Their relationship, whilst long standing and very close, is strictly platonic.

 

“I’m only here as a chaperone for Lettice.” Clemance goes on blissfully unaware of Madame Dupont’s disapproval of Sir John’s behaviour, breaking Lettice’s train of thought about him and the blonde woman. “But it also gave me an excuse to return to Paris and see you and some of my other friends.” She smiles beatifically at the Duponts. “I miss you all so.”

 

“Then you shouldn’t have left us, cher Clemance!” Mrs Dupont scolds Clemance good naturedly. “You can always come back you know.”

 

“Oh, I know Léonie.” Clemance remarks. “But it’s impossible.” She shakes her head. “After Harrison…” Her voice trails off as she mentions her dead husband and she gulps to gather her composure as unshed tears well in her eyes. “I have lost so much, here in Paris.” She blinks back the tears as she stares meaningfully at Madame Dupont. “No, it’s better if I am in London with Nettie nearby,” She turns to Lettice and smiles bravely. “And my dear Lettice of course.”

 

Lettice knows that Clemance lost her only child, a daughter, Élodie, to diphtheria when she was just twelve years old, but she cannot let on that Sir John has shared this deepest of confidences with her. So, she knows that Clemance has lost not only her husband, but her daughter in Paris, making the city of light and love a very dark place for her future sister-in-law.

 

“Of course, Clemance,” Lettice agrees. “And you will always be welcome to stay with John and I whenever you want. You have a home with us, wherever we are.”

 

“Thank you, Lettice my dear.” Clemance says with a grateful smile, reaching out her left hand and squeezing Lettice’s right forearm comfortingly.

 

“Ahh…” Madame Dupont taps her nose knowingly. “As the future Lady Nettleford-Hughes, you will become the mistress of Rippon Court.” She refers to the old castle built on Sir John’s vast family estate in Bedfordshire.

 

“Oh, I don’t think John and I plan on making Rippon Court our country seat, Madame Dupont.” Lettice responds. “He didn’t seem at all keen on the idea when I couched it.”

 

“Well, that’s hardly surprising.” Clemance adds in a strangulated tone as her face pales.

 

“Why not, mon cher Clemance?” Monsieur Dupont queries before slipping half a water cracker lavished in creamy and rich duck pâté into his mouth.”

 

“Surely it is only right that Sir John and Mademoiselle Chetwynd take up residence in the family estate once they are married, Clemance.” Madame Dupont adds.

 

“Rippon Court does not hold fond memories for either Nettie or myself.” Clemance snaps in an unusual pique of irritation, bristling all over.

 

“I was born in Wiltshire, on my parent’s estate, Glynes.” Lettice quickly adds in an effort to deflect questions away from her future sister-in-law, who is obviously suffering discomfort at the mention of the home she and Sir John grew up in. “Glynes is quite close to Fontengil Park, John’s Wiltshire estate. I’ve never been to Rippon Court before, but John tells me that even though Fontengil Park is smaller, it is more suitable for us. More comfortable. Heating old houses is so expensive nowadays, never mind a castle.”

 

“John and I will have to take you to Rippon Court before you get married, Lettice my dear.” Clemance says with less brittleness in her voice. “Even if you don’t live there, as county gentry, you’ll be expected to participate in events around the local hunt. Unlike our parents, Nettie and I have never enjoyed foxhunting, but the old Nettleford Hunt is as much part a part of the county social calendar as Bonfire Night*******, Christmas, New Year and Twelfth Night********.”

 

“Your brother is très curieux, mon cher Clemance!” Madame Dupont laughs as she reaches daintily for a golden pâté en croûte*********. “How can le gentilhomme Anglaise not like to hunt? It is in your blood, non?” She takes a bite, showing her napkin covered lap in pastry crumbs.

 

“My father would have agreed with you, Léonie.” Clemance replies. “Nettie and I used to say that our parents were born on horses. Father was always a fine rider, a mad keen steeplechaser********** and bloodthirsty hunter.’ She shudders. “Mother was too. They couldn’t understand why Nettie didn’t enjoy, nor have the aptitude for, the outdoor sports they embraced with such gusto. Nettie was a bookworm***********, like me, and we’d bribe our governesses when we were children with promises of good behaviour and no procrastination at bedtime to lie to our parents and say they hadn’t seen us when they came looking for either Nettie or both of us to join in the hunt.” She giggles rather girlishly. “He and I used to hide in one of Rippon Court’s towers where we kept a small library of our favourite books to amuse ourselves for an afternoon of hiding from our parents.” She pauses for a moment and sips some of her champagne. “I wonder if our childhood books are still up there, gathering dust and shrouded in cobwebs?” she ponders. “Lettice my dear!”

 

“Hhhmmm….” Lettice says distractedly.

 

“Lettice, Nettie and I must show you the book tower when we visit Rippon Court in the New Year for the Nettleford Hunt.” Lettice doesn’t reply as her attention is caught by something out of the corner of her eye. Clemance doesn’t notice and continues, focussing upon her friends the Duponts. “However, luckily being the master of foxhounds************ is only a ceremonial role, and Nettie is not forced to mount a horse and take part in the hunt itself. Lettice of course, is a skilled horsewoman, but her role, at least on this first visit to the Nettleford Hunt will be ceremonial too. As the future Lady Nettleford-Hughes, she’ll be restricted to handing out the winners’ trophies.”

 

Clemance’s chattery voice dulls and morphs into a distant undistinguishable burble in her ears as Lettice’s attention is drawn back to her fiancée sitting on the other side of the picnic blanket. She notices a subtle movement on the fabric of the rug close to a plate of finely cut triangle sandwiches garnished with tomato and cucumber. It’s Sir John’s finger and that of the unknown blonde woman. They are discreetly playing with one another teasingly before entwining their little fingers tightly together, hidden from the view of those in front of them by Sir John’s back. A sparkling peridot in a gold ring on the woman’s finger twinkles whilst the sheen of Sir John’s Georgian gold and carnelian************* signet ring*************, bearing the Nettleford-Hughes crest glares in the sunlight, shining in Lettice’s eyes, causing her to blink and look down.

 

“Mademoiselle Chetwynd?” Monsieur Dupont queries.

 

“What?” Lettice asks in a distracted fashion, her attention drawn back to the conversation happing on her side of the picnic, between Clemance and the Duponts.

 

“You never fully answered my question, Mademoiselle Chetwynd.” Monsieur Dupont explains.

 

“Err… what question was that, Monsieur Dupont?”

 

“You never told me why you are visiting the Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes, Mademoiselle. Business or pleasure?”

 

“Well, it’s for business really,” Lettice manages to say with a slightly strangulated voice. “Although I can’t deny that there is a mix of pleasure to be found amidst the business.” She glances back to Sir John and the blonde woman’s entwined fingers, but find that they are no longer interlocked. She quickly returns her attention to Monsieur Dupont’s expectant face. “Thanks to Clemance’s generosity at organising this lovely picnic for us, and introducing me to her old and beloved Parisian friends. She speaks of you both so fondly.”

 

“Pardon moi, but I wouldn’t call that lovely!” Madame Dupont says in disgust, waving an accusing finger at the picnic.

 

For a brief moment, Lettice thinks that Clemance’s guest has seen the intertwined fingers of Sir John and the blonde woman, and she blushes red with embarrassment at the thought. Then she notices that Madame Dupont is actually pointing at a round container sitting on the red and white chequered rug, marked ‘U-Like-It Savoury Cheese’**************, featuring two cherub cheeked children in the label. It houses some individually wrapped triangles of cheese, each one’s tin foil*************** affixed with a different brightly coloured label.

 

“Oh that’s just for Nettie!” Clemance laughs with a sweep of her hand over the container of cheese before taking another sip of her champagne.

 

“Is our cheese not good enough for your frère, ma chere?” Monsieur Dupont asks, a little offended as he raises his hand to his chest, as if wounded by Clemance’s declaration.

 

“Not at all, Marcel!” Clemance assures him quickly. “When he inherited the family title, land and estates, amongst them he inherited a sheep station in Australia, called Rippon Station.”

 

“A railway station?” Monsieur Dupont asks in surprise.

 

“Built just for sheep transportation?” Madame Dupont adds in confusion.

 

“How très peculiar Antipodeans*************** are.” Monsieur Dupont declares as he takes up another cracker lavished with pâté and bites into it.

 

“No, no, Léonie and Marcel!” Clemance explains with a smirk, used to the confusion stirred within her Parisian friends, just as she and her brother had once been confused by some uniquely Australian vernacular. “A station in Australia can mean a railway station as we know it to mean. However, it can also be a name for large swathes of pastural land, like a very large farm.” She chuckles. “I know, it’s a strange term. Nettie and I were just as confused then, as you are now.” She looks at the perplexed looks on her friends’ faces. “Both Nettie and I sailed to Australia after our father died. It took six weeks to get there alone! I think Harrison despaired that I would ever return to Paris. The station, the large farm, is in Victoria. It is looked after by a very competent manager who grazes and breeds cattle for us on the property, and they produce cheddar cheese there. The Australians call it ‘tasty cheese’ rather than cheddar, but call it what you like, it equates to much the same thing. During our stay there, Nettie developed a taste for this uniquely Australian ‘tasty cheese’, pardon my pun. Now when his station sends crates of cheese from Rippon Station to London by refrigerated vessel****************, Nettie always has a few tins of our cheese marketed under the U-Like-It brand sent up to Belgravia for his pleasure. I had this shipped to our hotel in Paris from the London docks a few days ago, once I had settled on the fact that I was going to host this picnic luncheon whilst we were visiting.”

 

The pair of Parisians nod in slightly less confusion.

 

“You still haven’t answered my question, Mademoiselle Chetwynd,” Monsieur Dupont persists.

 

“Oh, that’s because I have been chatting away nineteen to the dozen*****************!” Clemance apologises with an embarrassed gasp. “Please, dear Lettice, tell Marcel why you’re visiting the exposition.”

 

“Well, as I said, I’ve come to view the Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes, Monsieur Dupont.” Lettice says again, politely, trying to focus on his inquisitive middle-aged face, and not be tempted to take her eyes off him and stray back to Sir John and the blonde woman, thus drawing attention to their flirtatious behaviour. “I’m an interior designer in London, you see, and I am an exponent of the modernist and uncluttered Art Deco aesthetic.”

 

“Ahh!” Monsieur Dupont murmurs with interest. “Yes, we are very proud of all that France has on show at the exposition! It’s a symbol of national pride to show the world what the height of fashion is.” he adds proudly. “France, and Paris in particular, has always set the trends for fashion and design.”

 

“Now that Lettice has finished her commission for our friend Sylvia Fordyce,” Clemance pauses. “You remember Nettie’s and my friend the concert pianist who performed at the Casino de Paris******************?”

 

“Oui! Oui!” the Duponts reply enthusiastically.

 

“Well, Lettice is moving on to her next project: a series of rooms for a British politician and his wife in the heart of London.”

 

“Is that so, Mademoiselle Chetwynd?” Monsieur Deupont asks.

 

“Yes,” Lettice replies, blushing at the Frenchman’s intense interest. “Mrs. Hatchett wants me to decorate a series of formal rooms in her new London home, in which to entertain their friends.”

 

“Lettice’s star is on the rise as a society interior designer in London,” Clemance enthuses. “Everyone wants her to design for them. She hopes to beat the small vanguard of this new modern style emerging in London and be a leader in the promotion of the style. Err…” she stumbles. “What did you call it again, Lettice my dear?”

 

“Style Moderne*******************.” Lettice replies rather distractedly as once again her attention returns to Sir John and the blonde woman.

 

The blonde woman laughs overly loudly at something Sir John says and places a hand predatorily upon his upper arm in a most unnervingly familiar way, which only helps to confirm for Lettice that whomever she is, this woman has been her fiancée’s lover in the past, and seems to have easily wound him up in her thrall yet again in the short period of time since she and her coterie of friends arrived to join Clemance’s picnic. She peers more closely at her heavily rouged cheeks with their defined bones and her exotic eyes, made even more so by the dark kohl******************** rimming them. She is not as youthful as Sir John’s current conquest in London, the West End actress Paula Young – more middle aged than twenty something - but as Lettice observes her hand lightly caressing Sir John’s tweed jacketed shoulder with her elegant fingers with their pink painted nails, she perceives that this woman shares the same steely determination as Paula, and whilst she appears on the surface to be jovial and gay in a free and natural way, there is a glibness behind it all that suggests to Lettice that she is a woman who has had to fight for everything she now has, and she knows how to enchant Sir John with her coquettish charms, in spite of her age.

 

“I perceive that you and I may have a fruitful friendship, Mademoiselle Chetwynd,” Monsieur Dupont remarks. “If you intend to pursue your career in interior design.”

 

“Oh, Nettie is very supportive of Lettice furthering her pursuits as an interior designer, Marcel.” Clemance replies.

 

“Indeed, how very forward thinking of him.” Monsieur Dupont opines.

 

“I think it is the businessman in him, Marcel. They say that like is drawn to like, and Nettie saw the determination in Lettice that he has for being successful in business. Isn’t that so, Lettice my dear?”

 

Drawn back to the conversation, Lettice replies with an apology, “I’m afraid I was distracted, Clemance my dear. What did you say?”

 

“I was just telling Marcel that Nettie is very supportive of your career as an interior designer, my dear.”

 

“Oh indeed he is, Monsieur Dupont. He wants me to continue with my interior design business even after I become Lady Nettleford-Hughes.”

 

“Then I really do believe that you and I will have a very fruitful relationship, mademoiselle Chetwynd.” Monsieur Dupont reiterates.

 

“Oh no, mon cheri!” Madame Dupont implores. “No business talk today, please! We are here to have fun and see Clemance and Jean, and meet Mademoiselle Chetwynd!”

 

“Business?” Lettice queries.

 

“My husband is a fabricant de textiles… a fabric manufacturer who specialises in tissue d’ameublement.” Madame Dupont elucidates.

 

“A furnishing fabric manufacturer, Monsieur Dupont?”

 

“Indeed, Mademoiselle Chetwynd.” The Frenchman replies proudly. “You will even see some of my fabrics on display at the Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes when you visit it.”

 

“S'il vous plaît, ne parlez pas de travail, Marcel!” Madame Dupont implores her husband. “Let us just have fun today. Please! No work!”

 

“Oui! Oui Léonie!” he acquiesces. He then notices Clemance’s empty glass. “More champagne, mon cher Clemance?” he asks.

 

“How free you are with my champagne, mon cher Marcel!” Clemance giggles. “Please!” She holds out her glass.

 

“Très certainement!” he replies laughing as he withdraws the bottle from its silver cooler.

 

As Monsieur Dupont tends to Clemance’s and his wife’s glasses, Lettice cannot help but allow her attentions to return to the mysterious blonde woman sitting next to her fiancée on the grass. Solicitous towards her, she happily accepts anything Sir John offers her with a gracious elegance, yet it seems to be all artifice as she smiles a broad painted smile at him, and lowers her lids coquettishly as he refills her flute with champagne from another bottle.

 

“I see that you are taken by our ravissante cinéma chantuse*********************.” Monsieur Dupont’s voice breaks Lettice’s silent observation.

 

“Oh!” Lettice gasps, her hands rising to her cheeks as she feels the heat of embarrassment flush her face at being caught looking so overtly at the blonde woman. “I’m sorry, Monsieur Dupont. How frightfully rude of me.” she apologises to the Frenchman.

 

“Not at all, Mademoiselle Chetwynd.” he assures her with a shake of his head and a gentle smile. “Who could blame the moth for being drawn to the flame? More champagne?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, but immediately begins refilling Lettice’s three-quarter empty flute.

 

“Who is she, Monsieur Dupont?” Lettice asks. “You obviously know her.”

 

“Of course, Mademosielle! Like any red-blooded Frenchman, I know of her.” He cocks his head, looking thoughtfully at Lettice. “But you evidently, do not?”

 

Lettice looks at Monsieur Dupont and shakes her head.

 

“That, is Madeline Flanton, the famous French film star. She has been smouldering across our cinéma screens, and working her way into our hearts, since before the war.”

 

Lettice feels the blood drain from her face just as easily as it was flushed moments ago, as her worst fears, the concern that has been curdling her stomach ever since she noticed the familiarity between her and Sir John, is brought to fruition. Lettice’s mind is suddenly filled with the memory of the conversation she and Sir John had at the Savoy********************** when she first mentioned that she wanted to visit the Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes in Paris. His counter proposal involved him attending the exhibition with Lettice in the mornings, before slipping away discreetly and meeting up with his old flame, Madeline Flanton in the afternoon. Determined not to lose face over this suggestion, Lettice suggested that perhaps she could meet Mademoiselle Flanton as well. Rather than balk at the idea, as she had in her heart-of-hearts hoped he might, Sir John warmed quickly to Lettice’s idea, suggesting that if they both went to Mademoiselle Flanton’s apartment for cocktails, the Parisian media wouldn’t question Sir John visiting her, and any whiff of scandal would thus be avoided. He suggested that after a few polite social cocktails with Mademoiselle Flanton, she and Sir John could escort Lettice out via the back entrance to her apartment into a waiting taxi to return her to the hotel that she, Sir John and Clemance have arranged to stay at, leaving Sir John to spend the rest of the night with Mademoiselle Flanton.

 

Lettice lifts her refilled glass of champagne to her lips and takes a gulp of champagne, rather than her usual ladylike sip. However, rather than tasting refreshing and sweet, the effervescent golden liquid tangs of bitterness, as it roils in the pit of her stomach. And suddenly, everything she was enjoying about Clemance’s picnic in the Tuileries Garden – the delicious spread of food, the warm autumnal sunshine, the birdsong, the pleasant chatter of her companions – all seems suddenly spoilt, and when Mademoiselle Flanton laughs again at something Sir John has said, and she places a hand on his upper arm again, the sound of her guffaws appear harsh, strident and forced.

 

*International Exhibition of Modern Decorative and Industrial Arts was a specialized exhibition held in Paris, from April the 29th (the day after it was inaugurated in a private ceremony by the President of France) to October the 25th, 1925. It was designed by the French government to highlight the new modern style of architecture, interior decoration, furniture, glass, jewellery and other decorative arts in Europe and throughout the world. Many ideas of the international avant-garde in the fields of architecture and applied arts were presented for the first time at the exposition. The event took place between the esplanade of Les Invalides and the entrances of the Grand Palais and Petit Palais, and on both banks of the Seine. There were fifteen thousand exhibitors from twenty different countries, and it was visited by sixteen million people during its seven-month run. The modern style presented at the exposition later became known as “Art Deco”, after the exposition's name.

 

**Queen Anne’s Gate is a street in Westminster, London. Many of the buildings are Grade I listed, known for their Queen Anne architecture. Simon Bradley and Nikolaus Pevsner described the Gate’s early Eighteenth Century houses as “the best of their kind in London.” The street’s proximity to the Palace of Westminster made it a popular residential area for politicians.

 

***The London constituency of Tower Hamlets includes such areas and historic towns as (roughly from west to east) Spitalfields, Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, Wapping, Shadwell, Mile End, Stepney, Limehouse, Old Ford, Bow, Bromley, Poplar, and the Isle of Dogs (with Millwall, the West India Docks, and Cubitt Town), making it a majority working class constituency in 1925 when this story is set. Tower Hamlets included some of the worst slums and societal issues of inequality and poverty in England at that time.

 

****"Style Moderne," often used interchangeably with "Streamline Moderne" or "Art Moderne," is a design style that emerged in the 1930s, characterized by aerodynamic forms, horizontal lines, and smooth, rounded surfaces, often inspired by transportation and industrial design. It represents a streamlined, less ornate version of Art Deco, emphasizing functionality and sleekness. It was first shown at the Paris International Exhibition of Modern Decorative and Industrial Arts of 1925.

 

****The Tuileries Garden is a public garden between the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde in the first arrondissement of Paris. Created by Catherine de' Medici as the garden of the Tuileries Palace in 1564, it was opened to the public in 1667 and became a public park after the French Revolution. Since the Nineteenth Century, it has been a place for Parisians to celebrate, meet, stroll and relax.

 

*****A petit handlebar moustache is a smaller version of the classic handlebar moustache. It features the same upward-curling ends, but the overall length is shorter, with the ends typically stopping just before the cheeks.

 

******Cinégraphic was a French film production company founded by director Marcel L'Herbier in the 1920s. It was established following a disagreement between L'Herbier and the Gaumont Company, a major film distributor, over the film "Don Juan et Faust". Cinégraphic was involved in the production of several films, including "Don Juan et Faust" itself. Cinégraphic focused on more experimental and artistic films.

 

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

 

********Dating back to the fourth century, many Christians have observed the Twelfth Night — the evening before the Epiphany — as the ideal time to take down the Christmas tree and festive decorations. Traditionally, the Twelfth Night marks the end of the Christmas season, but there's reportedly some debate among Christian groups about which date is correct. By custom, the Twelfth Night falls on either January 5 or January 6, depending on whether you count Christmas Day as the first day. The Epiphany, also known as Three Kings' Day, commemorates the visit of the three wise men to baby Jesus in Bethlehem.

 

*********In French, a pasty is known as "pâté en croûte". Whilst "pasty" can also be translated as "friand" or "tourte" depending on the specific context, if referring to the Cornish pasty, it can be described as a "petit pâté en croûte à la viande et aux pommes de terre".

 

**********A steeplechase is a long-distance race involving both galloping and jumping over obstacles, primarily fences and water jumps. In horse racing, steeplechases involve horses jumping over various obstacles like fences and ditches.

 

***********The term "bookworm" was first used in the mid-1500s, specifically in 1549 in a translation by Thomas Chaloner, according to the Oxford English Dictionary. Initially, it referred to the actual insects that would bore into books. Later, around 1580, the term began to be used metaphorically to describe people who spent excessive amounts of time reading, often with a somewhat negative connotation.

 

************A master of the foxhounds is a ceremonial position in foxhunting. The master of foxhounds is the person responsible for the conduct of a fox hunt and to whom all members of the hunt and its staff are responsible.

 

*************Carnelian is a semi-precious gemstone, specifically a reddish-orange variety of chalcedony, a type of quartz. It is known for its vibrant colors, ranging from pale orange to deep reddish-brown, and is often used in jewelry and decorative art. Carnelian has been valued for centuries for its beauty and is also believed to possess various metaphysical and healing properties.

 

**************A signet ring is a type of ring, traditionally with a flat face, that is often engraved with a family crest, initials, or other symbolic design. Historically, these rings were used to seal documents by pressing the engraved face into hot wax, effectively acting as a personal signature. Signet rings have been a symbol of status, family heritage, and personal identity for centuries.

 

***************"U-Like-It" was a brand of cheese made in Australia, marketed to the rest of the world. It contained a variety of cheddars, marketed as "tasty cheese" in Australia. The term "tasty cheese" itself is commonly used in Australia to describe a medium-aged cheddar, and the "U-Like-It" brand was part of this category. The brand is now known as Cheer, and the "U-Like-It" brand was discontinued after the Second World War.

 

**************Tin foil, made from thin sheets of tin, was first commercially produced and used in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth centuries. While the term "tin foil" is still used today, it now often refers to "aluminium foil", which replaced tin foil due to its superior properties and lower cost.

 

***************The term Antipodean is used when referring to people or items relating to, or originating from places on the opposite side of the globe, especially Australia and New Zealand.

 

****************Refrigeration on ships began with experimental shipments of chilled and frozen meat in the 1870s, with the first successful voyage occurring in 1878. The Paraguay arrived at Le Havre with five and half thousand frozen carcasses, proving the concept of refrigerated shipping. This was followed by the Strathleven's successful voyage from Australia to London in 1879-1880. The Dunedin's voyage in 1882, carrying a full cargo of refrigerated meat from New Zealand to England, further solidified the viability of refrigerated shipping. By 1900 a worldwide survey indicated 356 refrigerated ships in operation, carrying a variety of cargo. By the mid 1920s, when this story is set, refrigeration on ocean bearing vessels was quite common and reliable, thus making produce from the far-flung corners of the British Empire able to be brought to the heart of Empire in London.

 

*****************We are all familiar with the phrase “ten to the dozen’” which means someone who talks fast. However, the original expression is actually “nineteen to the dozen”. Why nineteen, you ask? Many sources say we simply don’t know, but there are other sources that claim it goes back to the Cornish tin and copper mines, which regularly flooded. With advancements in steam technology, the hand pumps they used to pump out this water were replaced by beam engines that could pump 19,000 gallons of water out for every twelve bushels of coal burned (much more efficient than the hand pumps!)

 

******************The Casino de Paris, located at 16, Rue de Clichy, in the 9th arrondissement, is one of the best known music halls of Paris, with a history dating back to the Eighteenth Century. Contrary to what the name might suggest, it is a performance venue, and not a gambling house. The first building at this location where shows could be mounted was erected by the Duc de Richelieu around 1730, while after the French Revolution the site was renamed Jardin de Tivoli and was the venue for fireworks displays. In 1880 it became the Palace Theatre, which housed shows of different types, including wrestling. It was at the beginning of the First World War, however, that the modern Casino de Paris began to take shape, when the venue was converted into a cinema and music hall. After the bombardments of the First World War caused performances to be interrupted, the revue format was resumed, one which lasted through a good part of the Twentieth Century.

 

*******************"Style Moderne," often used interchangeably with "Streamline Moderne" or "Art Moderne," is a design style that emerged in the 1930s, characterized by aerodynamic forms, horizontal lines, and smooth, rounded surfaces, often inspired by transportation and industrial design. It represents a streamlined, less ornate version of Art Deco, emphasizing functionality and sleekness. It was first shown at the Paris International Exhibition of Modern Decorative and Industrial Arts of 1925.

 

********************Kohl is a cosmetic product, specifically an eyeliner, traditionally made from crushed stibnite (antimony sulfide). Modern formulations often include galena (lead sulfide) or other pigments like charcoal. Kohl is known for its ability to darken the edges of the eyelids, creating a striking, eye-enhancing effect. Kohl has a long history, with ancient Egyptians using it to define their eyes and protect them from the sun and dust, however there was a resurgence in its use in the 1920s and 1930s. In the 1920s, kohl eyeliner was a popular makeup trend, particularly among women embracing the "flapper" aesthetic. It was used to create a dramatic, "smoky eye" look by smudging it onto the lash line and even the inner and outer corners of the eyes. This contrasted with the more demure, natural looks favoured in the pre-war era.

 

*********************Whilst the chanteuse became a stock character in the film noir genre — a woman singing sultry songs in a smoky nightclub or cabaret — the word simply means "female singer" in French.

 

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

 

Beautiful as it may be, this decadent and delicious looking picnic on the lawns may not be all it seems, for it is in fact made up of miniatures from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The silver tray of biscuits and crackers in the foreground has been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. She also made the silver tray of pâté en croute, the basket of bread, the porcelain tray of tomato and cucumber sandwiches in the background, the footed glass bowl of trifle and the glass dish containing butter. She also made the U-Like-It tin of cheeses. Each wedge of cheese is carefully wrapped up in foil and stuck with a label, just like the real u-like-it cheeses were presented when they were manufactured! Frances Knight’s work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination.

 

The dressed lobster and the cutlery came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as did the cutlery and the gilt edged porcelain plates. The champagne flutes also came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. Each is made from real, finely spun glass.

 

The bottle of champagne is a 1:12 size artisan miniature made of glass by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, as are the other bottles you see. The champagne bottle has real foil wrapped around its neck, and all are hand made from glass. Each bottle features the label from a real winery in France or Germany.

 

The silver wine cellar in which the champagne bottle sits is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The second wine cellar in the background and the silver water jug are miniature artisan pieces that I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The two large wicker picnic baskets were made by unknown miniature artisans in America. The floral patterns on the top of the one with handles have been hand painted. The hinged lids lift, just like a real hamper, so things can be put inside. It came with some miniature handmade placemats and napkins inside including the yellow napkins sitting in the bottom right-hand corner of the photograph.

 

The picnic blanket being used is in reality a corner of one of my gingham shirts, which my partner derisively calls my “picnic blanket shirt”. The grass in the background is real, as this scene was photographed on my front lawn during the height of summer, on a partially sunny day.

South Carolina Department of Social Services (DSS) staff and volunteers work together to welcome local residents and do what it takes to quickly and efficiently process thier applications at processing centers such as this one at the First Baptist Church gymnasium in Monks Corner, SC, on Tuesday, Nov. 17, 2015.

In times of emergency, FNS coordinates with state and federal partners, as well as local volunteer organizations, such as the American Red Cross and Salvation Army, to provide USDA Foods to shelters and other mass feeding sites and, in limited cases, distribute food packages directly to households in need. USDA Foods are 100% domestically produced, processed and procured agricultural commodities that are made available to schools, tribes, and low-income individuals through FNS Nutrition Assistance Programs. Once retail food stores reopen, if survivors still need nutrition assistance and the area has received a ‘Presidential Disaster Declaration with Individual Assistance,’ State agencies may request to operate D-SNAP. People who may not normally qualify for nutrition assistance benefits may be eligible for D-SNAP if they had disaster-related expenses, such as loss of income, damage to property, relocation expenses, and, in some cases, loss of food due to power outages. Those already participating in the SNAP may be eligible for supplemental benefits under D-SNAP. For more information please visit this web site: www.fns.usda.gov/disaster. USDA photos by Lance Cheung.

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 beneath the streets, pavements and private squares of Mayfair in the brightly lit London Underground railway station of Down Street*, with its white and green tiled walls, decorated with advertisements and maps of the London Underground. It is here on a wooden bench that they share with a rather dowdy and overweight matron that Edith, Lettice’s maid, and her best friend and fellow maid, Hilda, await the next train to take them down the Piccadilly line to Leicester Square along with a smattering of other passengers milling around the railway station with their luggage. Hilda works as a live-in maid just around the corner from Cavendish Mews in Hill Street for Lettice’s married friends, Margot and Dickie Channon. However, Edith and Hilda met one another at their previous employer, Mrs. Plaistow’s, Pimlico townhouse where the two shared a cold and uncomfortable attic bedroom. In spite of the fact that they are both working for different people now, the girls remain the very best of friends, and catch up frequently.

 

It is Wednesday, and both Edith and Hilda have Wednesday afternoons off. They usually do something together on their midweek afternoons off, like go shopping for haberdashery, take refreshments in a respectable and reasonably priced tea room, or on warm spring days like today, visit a public park and just chat, enjoying one another’s company. Yet today, although they are both destined for Leicester Square Railway Station, they are going in separate directions. Edith has been invited by her beau, Frank Leadbetter, local delivery boy for Mr. Willison’s Grocery in Binney Street, Mayfair, to join him for a special surprise of some kind at Clapham Junction where she has agreed to meet him.

 

“So where do you think you’re going, then, Edith?” Hilda asks with keen and inquisitive eyes as she sits on the wooden bench next to her best friend. She nudges her lightly with her elbow and smiles conspiratorially. “What’s the surprise?”

 

“At first I thought we might be going to Clapham Common** for a picnic.” Edith replies a little uncertainly.

 

“But now you’re unsure.” Hilda remarks, completing Edith’s unspoken thought.

 

“I am, Hilda.”

 

“Why? What makes you think otherwise?”

 

“Well, for a start, what do I have with me to carry?” Edith asks.

 

Hilda glances down at Edith’s lap where her usual green leather handbag nestles comfortably across her neat black skirt, whilst in Edith’s net lace gloved left hand she holds her usual, battered black umbrella that has probably seen one too many London winter rainstorms. Her face crumples.

 

“Exactly!” Edith opines. “No picnic basket, no ribbon sandwiches and no thermos*** of tea.”

 

“Frank could be providing them, Edith.” Hilda ventures.

 

Edith snorts derisively. “I doubt that very much! Frank’s a good man, but he certainly doesn’t know how to cook, and from everything he tells me about his landlady and her daughter, I doubt either of them would be charitable enough to make him a picnic lunch.” She screws up her nose at the thought. “And even if they did, I somehow don’t think I’d fancy whatever they would have as their picnic fare.”

 

“Remember when we came back from our overnight visit to Manchester, and he brought us some tea and oranges?”

 

“Oh, I know Frank can make tea, but a couple of discarded oranges from Mr. Willison’s is hardly a picnic lunch.”

 

“Ahem!” The older woman on the bench next to them clears her throat noisily causing both maid to glance at her.

 

Taking up more than her fair share of the wooden railway bench, the portly woman with a rather disapproving jowly face is squeezed into a dark coat that is firstly too small for her, judging by the gapes in the fabric between the buttons, and secondly is unseasonal for the warm May weather, as is her matching black cloche hat. Her knitting needles clack noisily as she makes something in mustard yellow. At her feet rests her beaded handbag and a basket full of groceries. The girls glance at one another and wonder whether she is a customer of Mr. Willison’s Grocery in Binney Street where Frank works and where their mistress’ both have accounts. Hilda nods shallowly at Edith who returns her nod: their silent agreement not to mention Mr. Willison’s establishment in earshot of this woman again, who may well be the cook or maid of one of his customers. The last thing either girl wants is for Frank to get into trouble, or worse yet lose his position as delivery boy and sometimes window dresser. Whilst the oranges that they ate that day were sweet and juicy, Edith cannot guarantee that Frank actually bought them for she and Hilda. He may have taken a few that were not suitable for sale in the shop and sat in the back room. That might make them fair game for Frank, but Mr. Willison would doubtless have other ideas.

 

“And anyway,” Edith goes on. “Frank asked me to wear my good white blouse with the Peter Pan collar*** and the mother-of-pearl buttons. It’s not exactly picnic wear, Hilda.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with dressing up for a picnic, Edith.”

 

“I know there isn’t, but the fact that Frank asked me to wear it specifically, and he knows it is a blouse I reserve for more special occasions, suggests that we’re not going on a picnic.”

 

“Well, perhaps it’s another kind of special occasion.” Hilda offers. “Hasn’t he told us before that he has a friend who runs a restaurant?” She ponders for a moment, ruminating. “Yes, an Italian restaurant as I recall!”

 

“Yes, that’s his friend Giuseppe,” Edith concurs. “But he has a restaurant up the Islington*****, not in Clapham Junction.”

 

“And you don’t think his landlady would host a lunch for you in her front parlour, Edith? Some landladies do, you know.”

 

“Not Mrs. Chapman!” Edith scoffs dismissively. “From everything Frank has told me about her, she’s a real tartar******, and she wouldn’t countenance any female guests of her lodgers in her front room.”

 

“Ahem!” the old woman next to Hilda clears her throat again, this time glancing up from her gnashing stitches, looking critically at Hilda and Edith over the tops of her horn-rimmed spectacles before returning her attentions to her knitting with a tight and disapproving pout.

 

Edith and Hilda roll their eyes at one another.

 

“Well maybe it’s another restaurant he wants to take you to, then, Edith.” Hilda suggests. “Clapham Junction has some lovely shops, like Arding and Hobbs*******, so there are bound to be some nice restaurants and tea rooms up Lavender Hill********.”

 

“Maybe.” Edith muses. “I can’t think what else we could be doing. However liberated Frank might be in his thinking, I can’t see he and I walking through Arding and Hobbs together whilst I buy thread and trims.” She giggles.

 

Hilda joins her friend, chuckling lightly as well at the thought of Frank going around the drapery store. “Perhaps not, Edith.” She laughs a little more before adding, “Maybe he’s going to take you shopping for a wedding ring, finally. There are lots of jewellers along Lavender Hill too.”

 

Edith pulls a face. “Oh, I very much doubt that! The last time we looked at jewellery in the window of Schwar’s********* up the Elephant********** we had the fiercest row over wedding rings.”

 

“Well, didn’t your…” Hilda pauses mid-sentence and quickly glances at the disapproving matron with her deeply set frown as she knits intensely, before lowering her voice slightly. “Your Madam Fortune…”

 

“Madame Fortuna.” Edith corrects her friend politely.

 

“Madame Fortuna. Well, didn’t she tell you that Frank was going to pop the question soon?”

 

“Hilda Clerkenwell!” Edith gasps in a mixture of surprise and incredulity, her eyes widening as she does. “You told me that you don’t believe in all that ‘mumbo-jumbo fortune telling’!”

 

“Well, I don’t.” Hilda defends. “I believe in cold hard facts, but you obviously do believe all that mumbo-jumbo if you went to see her.” She shakes her head at her friend in mild disapproval. “Didn’t you tell me that she’d said he would propose soon.”

 

“Before the year was out, was what she said.”

 

“Humph!” Hilda snorts. “Suitably vague for a charlatan.”

 

“Madame Fortuna was not a charlatan!” Edith hotly defends Mrs. Fenchurch, the ‘discreet clairvoyant’ in Swiss Cottage*********** with whom she corresponded via Box Z 1245, The Times, E.C.4., and finally went to see a few weeks ago.

 

“So you say.” Hilda mumbles self-righteously.

 

“Anyway, we’re only in May. Why should it be today?”

 

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Hilda eyes her friend suspiciously before adding, “You’ve changed your tune, Edith. Whatever is the matter?”

 

“Oh nothing.” Edith flaps her hand dismissively at Hilda. “I just…” She sighs heavily. “I just don’t want to get my hopes up.” She glances guiltily into her friend’s pudgy, concerned face. “I was for a while. After Frank and I spoke about getting married, I kept hoping he’d ask me whenever we went to the Premier in East Ham************ to watch a moving picture, or when we would go dancing at the Hammersmith Palais*************, but I’ve been waiting in vain. It’s disappointing.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure it is, Edith!”

 

“So, I just try to temper my wishes and stop getting my hopes up. I only get hurt when he doesn’t.”

 

“But he will, Edith.” Hilda assures her friend, reaching out her hands and squeezing Edith’s comfortingly. “I know he will!”

 

“How do you know, Hilda.”

 

“I told you, Edith. I’m a firm believer in cold, hard facts. And one thing I know for certain fact is that Frank is every bit as mad for you as you are for him. He’ll propose soon enough, and that’s a fact too.” Hilda nods seriously. “You mark my words, rather than Madame Fortuna’s.”

 

“Do you know what’s going on?” Edith gasps. “Has Frank said anything to you about today when he was delivering groceries to you?”

 

“Goodness me, no!” Hilda retorts quickly. “If I knew what you were doing today, why on earth would I ask you?”

 

“It could be part of some elaborate ruse.” Edith cannot help but betray the hope that today might be the day that Frank proposes as it causes her bright blue eyes to sparkle a little more and for a smile to tease the corners of her mouth as a flush fills her cheeks.

 

Hilda shakes her head again. “You’ve been reading too many of those Madeline St John romance novels, Edith! The world isn’t made up of sweeping, grandiose admissions of love: especially not now, with a dearth of young men after the war took so many of them away.”

 

“No. No, of course not! How foolish of me.” Edith replies, guilt filling her face as she remembers how her friend has no young man at all to step out with in her life. “Forgive me Hilda. I’m so thoughtless.”

 

“No you aren’t, Edith.” Hilda replies kindly with a dismissive wave of her own. “You’re just anxious, and wound up with the idea of getting married is all. Who wouldn’t be? I’d be the same if I were in your shoes.”

 

“No, I should be more considerate of your situation, Hilda.”

 

“Oh, you don’t have to tread around on eggshells************** on my account, Edith. I’m fine.”

 

“I don’t suppose you’ve met a nice young man, have you?”

 

“Pshaw!” Hilda mutters dismissively. “I haven’t even met a not-so-nice young man.”

 

Hilda gives her friend a doubtful look, and they both laugh good-naturedly, but their laughter is tinged with a little sadness. Edith still hopes that her best friend will one day meet a young man, or even an older one, who will meet her desires for an intelligent match, and form a loving relationship with him.

 

“Hasn’t Mrs. Minkin tried to match you up with a young man of her acquaintance?” Edith asks, referring to the old Jewess whom both she and Hilda visit when they shop of haberdashery in Whitechapel, and whose knitting circle Hilda has joined.

 

“It’s a bit hard when you aren’t Jewish.” Hilda remarks with a tone of despondence. “I’m one of the few women there who isn’t. Rachel Katz has a rather serious and studious elder brother who is unmarried, but their mother would never consider someone who wasn’t of their faith for him.”

 

“Oh, what a pity, Hilda.” Edith consoles her friend.

 

“It’s not a pity at all.” Hilda giggles in reply, surprising Edith.

 

“It isn’t?” Edith queries with a perplexed look.

 

“I’ve never met him, so he could be ugly, or beastly, or both, or simply not to my liking!” Hilda says matter-of-factly. “I’d rather be a spinster than marry a man I don’t love. I don’t understand how some women can do that.”

 

“Oh, I agree, Hilda!” Edith replies eagerly. “Don’t get married until you find the one, and yes, marry for love and nothing less.”

 

“Like you are with Frank.”

 

Edith smiles at her friend. “Don’t worry Hilda. Your Frank is out there somewhere.”

 

“Well, I just wish he’d bloody well hurry up and find me!” Hilda replies with a cheeky smile.

 

Both girls take a sideways glance at the matron on the bench next to them.

 

“Ahem!” she clears her throat loudly, pointedly expressing her disapproval of Hilda’s choice to swear, and her knitting becomes more fervent as she refuses to look at either Hilda or Edith, the furrows in her brow growing deeper and the scowl on her face becoming more pronounced.

 

“So where are you going to go then, whilst, I am going to my as of yet unknown destination with Frank in Clapham Junction, Hilda?” Edith asks. “The sales perhaps?”

 

“Good heavens no! I only just tolerate the department stores when I’m with you, Edith.” Hilda retorts. “No, I have a far more enticing assignation.”

 

“Assignation!” Edith gasps. “With whom? You just said you weren’t stepping out with anyone!”

 

“I’m not!” Hilda laughs. “I’m going to the British Museum*************** to see the Rosetta Stone**************** since it seems the whole of London has been gripped by Tutmania****************. I’ve never seen it, and now, I want to.”

 

Just at that moment with the thunder and rattle of its engine and the squeal of breaks, the Piccadilly line train with its brown painted carriages noisily enters Down Street railway station before coming to a juddering halt.

 

Edith, Hilda and the plump, grumpy matron in the undersized coat and cloche join the small number of other passengers boarding the train.

 

“I hope she isn’t going to the British Museum too.” Hilda remarks, nodding at the elderly lady as she waddles away from the two maids with her heavy basket of groceries in one hand and her blue beaded handbag with her knitting needles sticking out of it in the other, determined to sit in a different carriage to them.

 

“She looks more like she’ll come to Clapham Junction with me!” Edith giggles. “Let’s hope not. Come on.”

 

The two girls nimbly step aboard the carriage directly in front of them as the engine gently idles beneath them, making it thrum with a soothing vibration. Closing the door behind them, the guard at the end of the train blows his whistle shrilly, and as Edith and Hilda take two seats, the train jerks and commences the journey on to Dover Street railway station, Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square as the pair head off on their Wednesday afternoon adventures.

 

*Down Street, is a disused station on the London Underground, located in Mayfair. The Great Northern, Piccadilly and Brompton Railway opened it in 1907. It was latterly served by the Piccadilly line and was situated between Dover Street (now named Green Park) and Hyde Park Corner stations. The station was little used; many trains passed through without stopping. Lack of patronage and proximity to other stations led to its closure in 1932. During the Second World War it was used as a bunker by the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, and the war cabinet. The station building survives and is close to Down Street's junction with Piccadilly.

 

**At over eighty-five hectares in size, Clapham Common is one of London’s largest, and oldest, public open spaces, situated between Clapham, Battersea and Balham. Clapham Common is mentioned as far back as 1086 in the famous Domesday Book, and was originally ‘common land’ for the Manors of Battersea and Clapham. Tenants of the Lords of the Manors, could graze their livestock, collect firewood or dig for clay and other minerals found on site. However, as a result of increasing threats from encroaching roads and housing developments, it was acquired in 1877 by the Metropolitan Board of Works, and designated a “Metropolitan Common”, which gives it protection from loss to development and preserves its open character.

 

***When we think of thermos flasks these days we are often reminded of the plaid and gawdy floral varieties that existed in the 1950s, 60s and 70s. Invented in 1892 by Sir James Dewar, a scientist at Oxford University, the "vacuum flask" was not manufactured for commercial use until 1904, when two German glass blowers formed Thermos GmbH. They held a contest to name the "vacuum flask" and a resident of Munich submitted "Thermos", which came from the Greek word "Therme" meaning "hot". In 1907, Thermos GmbH sold the Thermos trademark rights to three independent companies: The American Thermos Bottle Company of Brooklyn, New York; Thermos Limited of Tottenham, England; Canadian Thermos Bottle Co. Ltd. of Montreal, Canada. The three Thermos companies operated independently of each other, yet developed the Thermos vacuum flask into a widely sought after product that was taken on many famous expeditions, including: Schackelton\'s trip to the South Pole; Lieutenant Robert E. Peary\'s trip to the Arctic; Colonel Roosevelt\'s expedition to Mombassa and into the heart of the African Congo with Richard Harding Davis. It even became airborne when the Wright Brothers took it up in their airplane and Count Zepplin carried it up in his air balloon.

 

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

 

*****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.

 

******A tartar is a bad-tempered or aggressively assertive person, typically a woman, and is based upon the hard crust of calcium salts and food particles on the teeth which is known as tartar.

 

*******Arding and Hobbs was established in 1876. A second store was established on the corner of Falcon Road, Battersea, known as the Falcon Road Drapery Store, but this was sold to former employees Mr. Hunt & Mr. Cole in 1894. The original building was destroyed by a fire on 20 December 1909. The present building at the junction of Lavender Hill and St John's Road in Battersea was constructed in 1910 in an Edwardian Baroque style, and the architect was James Gibson. The department store was sold to the John Anstiss Group in 1938, however, John Anstiss was purchased by United Drapery Stores in 1948. The store was added to the Allders group in the 1970s and continued to operate until Allders went into administration in 2005. The building was subsequently broken up and sold, with the building split between a branch of Debenhams department store and TK Maxx retail.

 

********Lavender Hill is a bustling high street serving residents of Clapham Junction, Battersea and beyond. Until the mid Nineteenth Century, Battersea was predominantly a rural area with lavender and asparagus crops cultivated in local market gardens. Hence, it’s widely thought that Lavender Hill was named after Lavender Hall, built in the late Eighteenth Century, where lavender grew on the north side of the hill.

 

*********Established in 1838 by Andreas Schwar who was a clock and watch maker from Baden in Germany, Schwar and Company on Walworth Road in Elephant and Castle was a watchmaker and jewellers that is still a stalwart of the area today. The shop still retains its original Victorian shopfront with its rounded plate glass windows.

 

**********The London suburb of Elephant and Castle, south of the Thames, past Lambeth was known as "the Piccadilly Circus of South London" because it was such a busy shopping precinct. When you went shopping there, it was commonly referred to by Londoners, but South Londoners in particular, as “going up the Elephant”.

 

***********According to the Dictionary of London Place Names, the district of Swiss Cottage is named after an inn called The Swiss Tavern that was built in 1804 in the style of a Swiss chalet on the site of a former tollgate keeper's cottage, and later renamed Swiss Inn and in the early 20th century Swiss Cottage.

 

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

 

**************The idiom "walk on eggshells" meaning to be extremely cautious or careful, likely originated from the imagery of eggshells being fragile and easily broken when stepped on. The original, Eighteenth Century version was to “tread on eggs,” which the Oxford English Dictionary defines as “to walk warily, as on delicate ground.” The only two citations for the whole-egg version in the Oxford English Dictionary are from the same author, Roger North, and appear in biographical works he published around 1734.

 

***************The British Museum is a public museum dedicated to human history, art and culture located in the Bloomsbury area of London. Its permanent collection of eight million works is the largest in the world. It documents the story of human culture from its beginnings to the present. Established in 1753, the British Museum was the first public national museum.

 

****************The Rosetta Stone is a stele of granodiorite inscribed with three versions of a decree issued in 196 BC during the Ptolemaic dynasty of Egypt, on behalf of King Ptolemy V Epiphanes. The top and middle texts are in Ancient Egyptian using hieroglyphic and Demotic scripts, respectively, while the bottom is in Ancient Greek. The decree has only minor differences across the three versions, making the Rosetta Stone key to deciphering the Egyptian scripts.

 

*****************"Tutmania" refers to the widespread global fascination and cultural impact that followed the discovery of King Tutankhamun's tomb in 1922, sparking a surge in interest in ancient Egypt and its artifacts over the next few years.

 

This London Underground scene may look like one you could just walk into and sit down in, but it is not all that it seems, for it is in fact made up entirely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun thing to look for in this tableau include:

 

The travel advertisement, sale advert and London Underground map along the tiled wall are all 1:12 size posters made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Ken is known mostly for the 1:12 miniature books he created. I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but he also produced other items, including posters. All of these are genuine copies of real inter-war Art Deco travel posters put out by the different British railways to promote travelling on them. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make these items miniature artisan pieces. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

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

 

The black umbrella came from an online stockist of 1:12 miniatures on E-Bay.

 

The basket I acquired from beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. In the basket are some very lifelike looking fruit and vegetables. The apples are made of polymer clay are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The leaves of lettuce are artisan made of very thin sheets of clay and are beautifully detailed. I acquired them from an auction house some twenty years ago as part of a lot made up of miniature artisan food. There are also several jars, one of Silver Shred Marmalade and one of P.C. Flett & Co Plum Jam, and a box of Hudson’s Soap, all made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, with great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars.

 

Silver Shred lime marmalade still exists today and is a common household brand 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.

 

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.

 

Robert Spear Hudson invented the first dry soap powder, "Hudson's Dry Soap" in 1837 in his small pharmacy in West Bromwich, England, moving to Liverpool in the 1880s. He advertised extensively, first locally and then nationally, as his business and use of his products grew. The firm was taken over by Lever Brothers Ltd. (now part of Unilever) in 1908. The soap's use for cleaning the nursery floor (leaving the room "sweetened and purified"), baths, feeding bottles and on linen is boasted about on some small boxes on the reverse.

 

The beaded handbag is also a 1:12 artisan miniature. Hand crocheted, it is interwoven with antique blue glass beads that are two millimetres in diameter. The beads of the handle are three millimetres in length.

 

All the luggage you see on the platform are artisan pieces made by different unknown artists. All of them I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United kingdom. The fawn coloured parasol and Mary Poppins style parrot head umbrella are also artisan miniatures and were acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop as was the knitting which sits on the bench. The silver knobbed walking stick is also a 1:12 artisan miniature. The top is sterling silver. It was made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures.

 

The bench is made by Town Hall Miniatures, and acquired through E-Bay.

June 2, 2014 - The FDA is advising consumers not to purchase or use Full Throttle On Demand, a product promoted and sold for sexual enhancement. The product was found to contain undeclared propoxyphenyl sildenafil. For more information, go to

www.fda.gov/Drugs/ResourcesForYou/Consumers/BuyingUsingMe...

 

And read these FDA Consumer Updates:

 

Beware of Fraudulent ‘Dietary Supplements’

 

"All Natural" Alternatives for Erectile Dysfunction: A Risky Proposition

An advertising supplement produced by the long-established paper, envelope and manufactured stationery makers John Dickinson & Co Ltd that is tipped into a copy of The British Printer in 1934. The supplement's centre fold shows the four main paper mills of Dickinson's, all in Hertfordshire north of London, and at the time included Apsley Mills and Nash Mills at Hemel Hempstead, Croxley Mills at Watford and Home Park Mills at Kings Langley. There was also what I suspect was the envelope and stationery works at Tottenham, north London. The centrefold photomontage also shows the numerous branch offices and depots both here in the UK and overseas.

 

John Dickinson was a London stationer who took to paper manufacturing and introduced a number of important mechanical develoments to the process of paper manufacturing. The company also developed processes to mechanise the manufacturing of stationery items such as gummed and window envelopes. The principle retail brands they are most recalled for are 'Lion Brand' (1910) and 'Basildon Bond' (1911) that they acquired when they bought out Millington's, the originators, in 1918. Sadly Dickinson's, who had merged with fellow stationers Robinson's of Bristol in 1966, was asset-stripped in the late 1980s, the company's various mills, works and brands sold on and all have now vanished.

 

The advert is, of course, printed on Dickinson's paper - "Snow White Art Paper" manufactured at Home Park Mills.

Photographic supplement to the medical superintendent's annual report

1935

Countess of Chester Hospital records

 

Cheshire Archives and Local Studies ZHW/516

Just getting ready for a big upload/restock of the store. Purses primed and ready for action? *wink

what ingredients work for you?

 

I think large size is good too . it is not hdr

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 following Edith, Lettice’s maid, along with her best friend and fellow maid-of-all-work, Hilda Clerkenwell, who works around the corner from Cavendish Mews in Hill Street as a live-in maid for Lettice’s married friends Margot and Dickie Channon. It is Wednesday, and both maids have Wednesdays as a half-day off work and are free until four o’clock. The pair of maids head east of Mayfair, to a place far removed from the elegance and gentility of Lettice’s flat, in London’s East End. As a young woman, Edith is very interested in fashion. This interest has intensified, particularly since she started stepping out with Mayfair grocer Mr. Willison’s delivery boy, Frank Leadbetter. She is hoping that after several years of serious courting, that he will soon ask for her hand in marriage and they will become officially engaged. This idea is more predominant in her mind these days, especially now that Lettice is engaged to Sir John Nettleford-Huges and talk at Cavendish Mews often revolves around their forthcoming nuptials*, even if they do seem a little fraught. Edith’s own desire to make their engagement official has gotten the better of her in recent times, and after a fierce row over when Frank would propose to her whilst they were window shopping together up the Elephant** one Sunday afternoon, Edith resorted to visiting a “discreet clairvoyant” named Madame Fortuna, in Swiss Cottage***. Luckily, Madame Fortuna told Edith that Frank would propose within the year, which has allayed her concerns. Like most young girls of her class, Edith’s mother has taught her how to sew her own clothes and she has become an accomplished dressmaker, having successfully made frocks from scratch for herself, or altered cheaper existing second-hand pieces to make them more fashionable by letting out waistlines and taking up hems. Thanks to Lettice’s Cockney charwoman****, Mrs. Boothby, who lives in nearby Poplar, Edith now has her own hand treadle Singer***** sewing machine, and frequents a wonderful haberdasher in Whitechapel, Mrs. Minkin, whom she goes to frequently on her days off when she needs something for one of her many sewing projects as she slowly adds to and updates her wardrobe. Edith’s interest in fashion is greater than that Hilda, who is more bookish, isn’t walking out with a young man like Edith is, and with a fondness for sweet cakes and pastries, has a fuller figure than her best friend. Hilda is also the exception to the rule, and she cannot sew a stitch to save her life. However, Mrs. Minkin has managed to get Hilda involved in her knitting circle, which Hilda joins on some of her own Sundays off, whilst Edith and Frank spend time in one another’s company. Mrs. Minkin’s Haberdashery is just a short walk from Petticoat Lane******, where Edith often picks up bargains from one of the many second-hand clothes stalls.

 

The pair of maids now stand in Mrs. Minkin’s cluttered, yet cosy and well organised haberdashery. The long and narrow old Victorian shop is illuminated by the early summer light filtering through the plate glass front window and several old fashioned Art Nouveau gas lights suspended from the high ceiling which Mrs. Minkin turns on and off and adjusts with a long stick with a hook on the end. The shelves stretching three quarters of the way up the walls of the haberdashers, full of bolts of colourful textiles and dazzling white pressed linens help to dull the noise of the foot traffic outside and cocoon Edith and Hilda in a snug comfort, as do the piles of cloth and lace and the tables of materials artfully arranged to show off all that Mrs. Minkin has to sell. The shop’s smell is always comforting for Edith, as the familiar scent of a mixture of soap, starch, cloves and lavender remind her of her parent’s home, where Edith’s mother, Ada, takes in laundry to supplement the family’s income.

 

Edith spies a holly sprigged tablecloth and six matching napkins on a table and walks over to it. “Perfect!” she breathes, smiling with delight. “I’ll buy them for Mum for Christmas. She’s always wanted a Christmas tablecloth!”

 

“Cor, you are so lucky Edith,” Hilda remarks to Edith as she joins her friend in front of the table which is covered in fabrics laid out expertly in layered rows, carefully showing off enough of the pattern for each one to attract the eye.

 

“Me?” Edith ask. “Why?” she drops her green leather handbag on the textile covered surface of the table and places a hand lovingly on some fabric covered in a bold floral pattern in lupin blue and scarlet that has caught her eye.

 

“Your Miss Lettice seems never to be home. Weekend parties and all that.” Hilda elucidates.

 

“She’s gone home for a few days is all, Hilda,” Edith says dismissively as she runs her hand over the bold, almost pansy like flowers of the fabric. “She’s gone to talk about organising and buying her trousseau******* with her mother, the Viscountess. She’ll be back tonight.”

 

“Yes,” Hilda answers. “I know.”

 

“Oh of course!” Edith exclaims. “She’s going to a dinner party at the Channons tonight, isn’t she.”

 

“As is that American Mr. Carter and his wife.” Hilda adds with a morose sigh. “And you know what that means.” She eyes her best friend with a knowing look.

 

“The hard graft of grinding coffee beans to make fresh coffee for Mr. Carter.” Edith replies with a nod of understanding.

 

“That’s right!” Hilda opines, raising her chin and looking down her nose at Edith before continues, “No Camp Coffee******** for His Majesty the King of the American Department Store!” She sighs again and runs her own pudgy, worn fingers across a bolt of exotic floral fabric in bright pink and blue, embroidered with gold thread. “Still, I mustn’t complain. At least with Mr. Cater and his bottomless American dollar pockets and largess with wine and champagne, I won’t have to worry about telling bare-faced lies********* to the wine merchant, who just like the butcher, the baker and your Frank’s Mr. Willison the grocer, all know about the Channon’s precarious financial situation.”

 

“That’s so awful for you, Hilda.” Edith looks at her friend and smiles sadly. “Being a maid-of-all-work is hard enough graft as it is, without having to try and put off shopkeepers whom Mr. and Mrs. Channon are indebted to.”

 

“I know. I don’t think Mrs. Channon will ever learn how to balance a household account. I’m only relieved that Mrs. Channon’s father Lord de Virre pays my wages.”

 

“We must be grateful for small mercies, Hilda.” Edith says sagely.

 

“Oh, I am, Edith!” Hilda breathes. “Believe me I am!”

 

“Thinking of things to be grateful for, I believe Mr. Bruton will be attending the Channon’s dinner party tonight as Miss Lettice’s escort, and he’s always polite and not dismissive of servants, like Mr. and Mrs. Carter.”

 

“That’s true, Edith. He and Miss Lettice always smile and acknowledge me, and say ‘thank you’, and that does make things a little bit nicer for me when I wait at table for the Channons. And of course Mrs. Channon always tells me at the end of a dinner party, how grateful she is to have me.”

 

“I should think she should!” Edith opines. “There are fewer and fewer servants like us, now, what with working class women like us becoming shop girls and secretaries. I hope she appreciates everything you do for her.”

 

“Oh, she does, Edith. It’s just the chaotic nature of the Channon’s household and their financial precariousness and foolishness that wears me down, sometimes. Mrs. Channon would rather spend eighty-five guineas********** on a new frock from Mr. Bruton to parade around the Crystal Palace Horse Show*********** in, than pay off the sixty pound debt she and Mr. Channon have accrued with the wine merchant, who has flatly refused to extend their credit any further until at least half the amount is paid.”

 

“Imagine spending eighty-five guineas on a frock, Hilda!” Edith gasps. She moves her hand to a green patterned material further down the table, rubbing it between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand before letting it drop in distaste, deciding that it too thick, and therefore not suitable for her purposes. “And here I am, looking at material so I can cut a pattern from Weldon’s************ and make myself a new summer frock for a few shillings.” Her eyes stray back to the brightly patterned pansy fabric.

 

“Do you suppose Mr. Bruton will make Miss Lettice’s wedding frock, Edith?”

 

“I would imagine so, Hilda. I can’t imagine anyone else making it. Then again, that all depends upon Miss Lettice’s mum, the Viscountess, Lady Sadie.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It would be the same for us. Our mums will get involved in our weddings when we get married.”

 

Hilda snorts derisively. “I don’t think I’m ever going to meet a man who wants to marry me, Edith.”

 

“It’s more like the other way around, Hilda.” Edith retorts. “With your exacting standards.”

 

“Well, why shouldn’t I want to step out with a young man who respects me for my mind, and allows me my independence, Edith?”

 

“Oh, you should, Hilda!” Edith assures her. “It’s just that young eligible men are sometimes intimidated by women who are smart and independent.”

 

“No, not all men are like your Frank, that’s for certain, Edith.”

 

“I’m hardly smart or independent,” Edith replies, her hand drifting back to the pansy fabric which she caresses softly. “Well, not like… well, like you, Hilda.”

 

“What rot!” Hilda retorts. “Of course you are, Edith! Frank wouldn’t want to marry a girl who had no brains or ideas of her own.”

 

“Well, I think in that area, you’re probably more of a match for him than I am.” Edith says with a little bit of discomfort. She has always felt that Hilda is far smarter and more forward thinking than she is, and she feels inadequate sometimes when Frank and Hilda talk about politics or the state of working conditions for the everyday man. She decides to try and guide the conversation back to something she does feel more comfortable discussing. “Anyway, just like your mum or mine, Miss Lettice’s mum will want to have her say about Miss Lettice’s trousseau. It’s her right, as Miss Lettice’s mum, to help with it, which is why she has gone down to Wiltshire to see her.” She pauses. “Mind you I don’t think Miss Lettice wants her mum to help her with it.”

 

“Whyever not, Edith? I’m sure being a Viscountess, she can afford more than one eighty-five guinea frock.”

 

“I’m quite sure she can!” Edith chuckles. “I know Miss Lettice certainly can! From what I can gather from snippets I have overheard around Cavendish Mews, I think, Miss Lettice thinks the Viscountess is too old and stuffy and staid in her tastes.”

 

“Well, your Miss Lettice is very fashionable.” Hilda opines.

 

“And she gets help from Mr. Bruton, who is forever making her something new to wear. Her ‘muse’ is what he calls her, whatever that is.”

 

“A ‘muse’ is a person who inspires an artist, Edith.” Hilda elucidates. “So I suppose he must like designing frocks for her.”

 

“See Hilda! You’re as smart as a whip*************.” Edith opines, making Hilda blush. She then goes on, “Miss Lettice’s head has also been turned by her fiancée, Sir Nettleford-Hughes’ sister, who is apparently ever so smartly turned out.”

 

“Have you seen her, Edith?”

 

“No. Not yet anyway, Hilda. But I’m sure it will only be a matter of time before she comes to Cavendish Mews and I can see her for myself. Miss Lettice tells me that Mrs. Pontefract is much older than she is, but that she had been living in Paris for many prior to returning to live in London after her husband died. Miss Lettice is always talking about how much Mrs. Pontefract knows about the latest styles, and how much she admires her style and taste.”

 

“Her mum will have her nose out of joint over that, I’d imagine, Edith, if that’s what Miss Lettice gone down to talk to her about.” Hilda’s thick and dark eyebrows arch over her eyes in apprehension.

 

“I think you’re right, Hilda.” Edith nods in agreement.

 

“That would make a lovely autumn frock, Edit.” eagle eyed Mrs. Minkin calls from behind the shop counter where she is sorting through a box of miscellaneous sewing notions**************, her pudgy finger decorated with a few sparkling gold rings moving with dexterity as she sorts. “The colours would suit your complexion and colourings.”

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith calls cheerfully in reply. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

“I have some lovely buttons in this box that would go perfectly with it, Edit my dear.” Mrs. Minkin goes on, holding up half a card of glass buttons in a pretty shade of cobalt blue. “I will give them to you as a gift if you buy the fabric.” she says as she tries to tempt Edith.

 

A refugee from Odessa as a result of a pogrom*************** in 1905, Mrs. Minkin’s Russian accent, still thick after nearly twenty years of living in London’s East End, muffles the h at the end of Edith’s name, never ceasing to make the young girl smile, for it is an endearing quality. Edith likes the Jewess proprietor with her old fashioned upswept hairdo and frilly Edwardian lace jabot running down the front of her blouse, held in place by a beautiful cameo – a gift from her equally beloved and at the same time irritating Mr. Minkin. She always has a smile and a kind word for Edith and Hilda, and her generosity towards her has found Edith discover extra spools of coloured cottons or curls of pretty ribbons and other notions in the lining of her parcel when she unpacks it at Cavendish Mews. Mrs. Minkin always insists when Edith mentions it, that she wished all her life that she had had a daughter, but all she ever had were sons, so Edith is like a surrogate daughter to her, and as a result she gets to reap the small benefits of her largess.

 

“That’s far to kind of you, Mrs. Minkin. You are too generous.” Edith replies, blushing as she does.

 

“Nonsense Edit my dear!” Mrs. Minkin scoffs with a wave of her hand. “For me, it is a pleasure. Besides, they are just sitting idly in this box. Better they go home with someone who will use them!”

 

“She’s right about the colours, Edith.” Hilda remarks. “They would suit you.”

 

“Hilda Clerkenwell!” Edith exclaims, here eyes widening in surprise as she looks in amused startlement at her best friend. “Since when do you have an opinion about colours and how they’d suit someone’s complexion!”

 

“Let’s put it down to Mrs. Minkin’s knitting circle.” Hilda replies with a smirk, her doughy face brightening as a blush runs up her neck and floods her face.

 

“Well! That is a turn up for the books****************, I must say!” Shew turns to Mrs. Minkin behind her shop counter. “It seems as if you are having a good influence on Hilda, Mrs. Minkin.”

 

Mrs. Minkin bows her head a little bit and smiles indulgently at the two maids. “I do my best to be a good influence on Hilde, and anyone else, wherever I go, Edit my dear, except perhaps upon my Mr. Minkin.” She rolls her eyes to the stained white painted ceiling above. “Oy vey*****************! No-one can be a good influence upon my tsedoodelt******************Mr. Minkin!”

 

Just as she speaks, the door to Mrs. Minkin’s storeroom opens and her husband in his grey flat cap with his dark beard that is starting to slowly grey steps out. He wears a beautiful silk cravat of jade green and gold at his throat – an expensive, showy and stylish piece that looks like it should belong to an outfit that Beau Brummell******************* had worn in the Eighteenth Century, rather than Mr. Minkin’s outfit of a thick apron over a collarless shirt, dark woollen vest and worn work trousers. He has thick bushy eyebrows arch over soft, dark brown eyes, and a gentle and friendly smile graces his aging face.

 

“What are you saying about me now, Rachel?” he asks in a good natured way, his heavily accented voice soft, rumbling and deep.

 

“Well Soloman,” Mrs. Minkin replies, spinning to her right, away from Edith and Hilda to face her husband, placing her hands firmly on her hips in a stance she is obviously well versed in striking after thirty-five years of marriage and raising three sons. “I was just saying what a tsemisht mentsh******************** you are!”

 

“No wonder I am a tsemisht mentsh, being married to a yenta froy********************* like you Rachel!” A booming laugh bursts from his chest full of teasing joviality. He turns his attentions to Edith and Hilda. “Good afternoon, ladies.” he says politely, bowing towards them in acknowledgement. “Watch out for Mrs. Minkin,” His brown eyes twinkle with mischief. “She’s schlau**********************, my dears innocent ones. She’ll have you buy something you don’t want before you can say… err… say… ay cleaver!”

 

“It’s knife, Soloman, you schlemiel**********************!” Mrs. Minkin says with an air of mock offence. “How many years must we live in London before you learn to speak English properly, or keep your hoykh moyl*********************** shut!”

 

Mrs. Minkin snatches up a half used roll of pink grosgrain*********************** ribbon from her box and throws it across the shop at her husband. As it tumbles through the air, the ribbon uncoils, cascading like a pretty celebratory streamer. Mr. Minkin ducks as, with very good aim from his wife, the spool and streamer of ribbon hits the doorjamb behind where he had been before ricocheting off the wood and tumbling to the floor.

 

“I’ll let you clean that up, Rachel, my beloved schlemiel.” Mr. Minkin says to his wife before slipping back into the safety of storeroom with a final cheeky and loving smile towards her, before closing the door.

 

Mrs. Minkin laughs as she walks the short distance along the aisle behind the counter and bends to pick up the spool of mostly unwound ribbon. “Oy vey!” she laughs.

 

“I wonder what schlemiel means?” Hilda asks Edith.

 

Edith smiles as she chuckles softly. “I think I can guess.”

 

“Thinking of trousseaus and wedding frocks, we should ask Mrs. Minkin to unpack some of her special lace for you.” Hilda says to her friend as Edith runs her hands lightly over a piece of quilted fabric with a pattern of flowers on it.

 

“Hhhmmm?” Edith murmurs distractedly.

 

“Lace Edith.” Hilda insists. “For your wedding frock.”

 

“Has your young man finally proposed, Edit my dear?” Mrs. Minkin pipes up, her figure appearing suddenly from behind the notion filled counter, her middle-aged face a mixture of excitement, joy and expectation as her own dark eyes sparkle with anticipation.

 

“Nothing escapes you, does it, Mrs. Minkin?” Edith laughs. Not expecting an answer to her rhetorical question she goes on. “No, not yet.”

 

“But it’s going to happen soon, Mrs. Minkin.” Hilda pipes up.

 

“How do you know, Hilde?” Mrs. Minkin asks, depositing the roll of ribbon, still only half wound back onto the spool, onto the glass surface of the counter. She quickly steps away from behind the counter and walks over to the two girls.

 

“Well, I thought he was going to ask me on Easter Sunday, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith explains. “He was acting like he wanted to say something… something important, but then at the last minute he didn’t.”

 

“And Edith says he’s been like that a few times since, hasn’t he, Edith?”

 

Edith nods shallowly in acquiescence.

 

“Well then, Edit my dear! There is no harm in looking is there?” Mrs. Minkin purrs. “I have just received some beautiful Huguenot lace************************ from my suppliers in Spitalfields************************.” She carefully guides Edith around with her hands firmly on the young girl’s shoulders and indicates to the counter opposite, which is draped with a collection of crisp white and soft creamy lace.

 

Edith and Hilda both smile with delight as they observe the beautiful and intricate patterns in the lace. Dainty daisies, large asters, bobbles wound around curlicues of white and ecru, each piece seems more ornate and exquisite than the last.

 

“There is no harm in looking, Edit my dear.” Mrs. Minkin says cheerfully. “You don’t have to buy anything today, but let your creative mind imagine what you could do with this lace.” She holds up a length of creamy off-white lace made up of large, stylised chrysanthemum flowers. “Or this.” She carefully withdraws some lace covered with different sized asters from beneath it. “There is no harm in looking, is there?”

 

As Edith looks, her imagination is sparked as she imagines herself arrayed in a blouson style************************** wedding frock of creamy white crêpe de chiné*************************** with ruffles and a braided waistline, embroidered with tiny glass beads, wearing a bridal coronet made of lace, decorated with wax orange blossoms with a cascade of cream lace falling in romantic cascades down her back.

 

“What dreams are made of.” Edith murmurs softly as she feels the delicate lace as Mrs. Minkin runs it lightly across her careworn palm like a whisper of spiderwebs.

 

*Nuptials is a alternative word for marriage. The term “nuptials” emphasizes the ceremonial and legal aspects of a marriage, lending a more formal tone to wedding communications and documentation.

 

**The London suburb of Elephant and Castle, south of the Thames, past Lambeth was known as "the Piccadilly Circus of South London" because it was such a busy shopping precinct. When you went shopping there, it was commonly referred to by Londoners, but South Londoners in particular, as “going up the Elephant”.

 

***According to the Dictionary of London Place Names, the district of Swiss Cottage is named after an inn called The Swiss Tavern that was built in 1804 in the style of a Swiss chalet on the site of a former tollgate keeper's cottage, and later renamed Swiss Inn and in the early 20th century Swiss Cottage.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

*******A trousseau refers to the wardrobe and belongings of a bride, including her wedding dress or similar clothing such as day and evening dresses.

 

********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 bare-faced lie is a blatant, obvious lie told without any attempt to conceal it. It's a lie that is told with complete confidence and without any shame or remorse. The term "bare-faced" itself implies being without disguise or concealment, like a bald head is without hair.

 

**********The guinea was a coin, minted in Great Britain between 1663 and 1814, that contained approximately one-quarter of an ounce of gold. The name came from the Guinea region in West Africa, from where much of the gold used to make the coins was sourced. It was the first English machine-struck gold coin, originally representing a value of twenty shillings in sterling specie, equal to one pound, but rises in the price of gold relative to silver caused the value of the guinea to increase, at times to as high as thirty shillings. From 1717 to 1816, its value was officially fixed at twenty-one shillings. After the guinea coin ceased to circulate, the guinea continued in use as a unit of account worth twenty-one shillings (£1.05 in decimalised currency). The guinea had an aristocratic overtone, so professional fees, and prices of land, horses, art, bespoke tailoring, furniture, white goods and other "luxury" items were often quoted in guineas until a couple of years after decimalisation in 1971. The guinea was used in a similar way in Australia until that country converted to decimal currency in 1966, after which it became worth $2.10.

 

***********The Crystal Palace Horse Show was not a single event but rather a recurring fixture of the Crystal Palace, a large glass and iron structure built for the Great Exhibition of 1851 in Hyde Park, London. Initially housed in Hyde Park, the structure was later moved and reconstructed in Sydenham Hill, south London, becoming a popular attraction and the namesake of the area, Crystal Palace. The horse show was a regular event within the larger Crystal Palace complex, which was designed for public entertainment and events. While the Crystal Palace did host horse racing, the horse show itself likely involved other equestrian events and displays beyond just racing and became a popular destination for Londoners and visitors alike, offering a variety of entertainment and attractions. Held after the Fourth of June at Eaton, the Crystal Palace Horse Show became a fixture of the London Season and thereby the social calendar for the upper-classes: a place to see the latest fashions and be seen in them in a prelude to Ascot Week later in the month.

 

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

 

*************Meaning very quick-witted and intelligent, the idiom "smart as a whip" originates from the quick, snapping movement of a whip when it's used to urge on a horse. The rapid action and effectiveness of the whip led to its association with sharp, quick thinking and intelligence.

 

**************In sewing and haberdashery, notions are small objects or accessories, including items that are sewn or otherwise attached to a finished article, such as buttons, snaps, and collar stays. Notions also include the small tools used in sewing, such as needles, thread, pins, marking pens, elastic, and seam rippers.

 

***************Pogroms in the Russian Empire were large-scale, targeted, and repeated anti-Jewish rioting that began in the Nineteenth Century. Pogroms began to occur after Imperial Russia, which previously had very few Jews, acquired territories with large Jewish populations from the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth and the Ottoman Empire from 1772 to 1815. The 1905 pogrom against Jews in Odessa was the most serious pogrom of the period, with reports of up to 2,500 Jews killed. Jews fled Russia, some ending up in London’s east end, which had a reasonably large Jewish community, particularly associated with clothing manufacturing.

 

****************“A turn-up for the books” is a British idiom that means a surprising or unexpected event, typically one that is pleasing. The phrase was originally “a turn up for the book”. At Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century English race meetings, when bets were placed the punter’s name and wager were written down in a notebook. Not unreasonably, this process was called “making a book”. If a race was won by a horse that the bookmaker had no record of in his book, he had a “turn up” and kept all the wagered money. By the 1820s, the reference was to cards or dice, which are “turned up” by chance. Specifically, the “turn up” was referred to in the game of cribbage. At the start of a game of cribbage a member of one team cuts the pack and a member of the other turns up the top card. If this is a knave, the second team gets extra points – called “two for his heels”. Holding the knave of the suit that is turned up also merits a point – “one for his nibs”, the knave being one of the “Royal” cards and “nibs” being slang for “a person of importance”.

 

*****************Oy vey is a commonly used Jewish exclamation indicating dismay or grief.

 

******************Tsedoodelt is Yiddish for befuddled or confused.

 

*******************George Bryan "Beau" Brummell was an important figure in Regency England, and for many years he was the arbiter of British men's fashion. At one time, he was a close friend of the Prince Regent, the future King George IV, but after the two quarrelled and Brummell got into debt, he had to take refuge in France.

 

*******************Tsemisht mentsh is Yiddish for a confused man.

 

*********************Both the forms yenta and yente are used in Yinglish (Jewish varieties of English) to refer to someone who is a gossip or a busybody. The use of yenta as a word for “busybody” originated in the age of Yiddish theatre. There is a mistaken belief that the word for a Jewish matchmaker is yenta or yente. In reality a Jewish matchmaker is called a “shadchan”. The origin of this error is the 1964 musical “Fiddler on the Roof”, in which a character named Yente serves as the matchmaker for the village of Anatevka.

 

**********************Whilst there isn't one single word in Yiddish that perfectly translates to “wily” as it is used in English, there are several Yiddish words can convey similar meanings depending on the specific nuance. "Schlaum” or "schlau" mean sly, clever, or cunning, which can fit the context of “wily.”

 

***********************Schlemiel is a Yiddish term meaning "inept/incompetent person" or "fool". It is a common archetype in Jewish humour, and so-called "schlemiel jokes" depict the schlemiel falling into unfortunate situations.

 

**********************Hoykh moyl is Yiddish for “loud mouth”.

 

***********************Grosgrain is a type of fabric characterized by prominent transverse ribs created by a heavier weft than warp in a plain weave. It's a firm, close-woven fabric with a distinct texture, making it suitable for various applications like ribbon, millinery, and crafting.

 

************************Huguenot lace is a type of imitation lace where floral cut-out designs are sewn onto a muslin net ground. This style of lace was popular in England, particularly in the counties of Bedfordshire, Buckinghamshire, and Northamptonshire.

 

*************************After the Massacre of St Bartholomew's Day in Paris in 1572, when over ten thousand Huguenot Protestants were murdered, many fled to England. A second, larger, wave of Huguenots fled from France in the 1680s when King Louis XIV revoked a previous royal edict protecting Protestants from religious persecution and they were again attacked. Many Huguenots had difficult and dangerous journeys, escaping France and crossing to England by sea. Many Huguenot Protestants upon arriving in England after their dangerous journey, set up in London, in Spitalfields, the City, Clerkenwell, Soho, Greenwich, Marylebone and Wandsworth. Here they established weaving and lace making businesses, some of which are still in existence today, albeit not in quite the same form as when they were first established.

 

**************************A blouson dress is characterised by its loose, flowing silhouette, often with a gathered or cinched waistline, creating a blouson effect (a billowing or puffy appearance) over the bust and upper body. The waistline is typically undefined or slightly gathered, creating a comfortable, relaxed fit. This more relaxed style of dress became popular with the abandonment of tightly laced corsets after the Great War in the 1920s, which revolutionised women’s fashions, creating a look that is more characteristic of what we see today.

 

***************************Crêpe de chiné is a lightweight, luxurious fabric known for its smooth, silky feel and fluid drape. It's often associated with silk, although by the mid 1920s, when this story is set, cheaper crêpe de chiné made from other materials like rayon and man-made silks were readily available for women whose budgets couldn’t extend to real silk crêpe de chiné. The name "Crêpe de Chiné" translates to "crêpe from China," reflecting its origins.

 

Mrs. Minkin’s cluttered haberdashers filled with an assortment of notions, bolts of colourful fabrics and swags of creamy lace is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Edith’s handbag in the foreground handmade from soft leather is part of a larger collection of hats and bags that I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The black umbrella came from an online stockist of 1:12 miniatures on E-Bay.

 

The fabrics on the table in the foreground are, aside from the holly print cloth, which is a 1:12 size square tablecloth, all embroidered ribbons from my collection of haberdashery. Each ribbon was given to me by a very drear friend who knows I love and collect beautiful and vintage haberdashery. The ribbons were either manufactured in India or France. The Christmas themed tablecloth and serviettes are 1:12 miniatures from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The delicate lace you see on the counter in the midground and the wooden shelves in the background are a mixture of antique hand sewn and embroidered doilies, milk jug covers or rolls of very fine lace. The ecru coloured lace you see draped beneath the folded linen tied with a ribbon to the right of the photograph is in reality an antique French lace collar from the late Nineteenth Century.

 

The corsetry boxes on the counter are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Known mostly for his books, most designed to opened to reveal authentic printed interiors, he also made other paper and cardboard based miniatures including a selection of beautiful boxes. All of Ken Blythe’s books, magazines and boxes are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes and boxes, with meticulous attention paid to the detailing of each one. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make the corsetry boxes miniature artisan pieces. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire a large number of 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 cotton in the box in front of the corsetry boxes, I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. The concertina wooden sewing box on casters which you can see closed in the background to the left of the photograph, beside the counter, also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop, as did the starched sheets tied with ribbon on the counter in the midground to the right of the photograph.

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

 

Today however we are not at Cavendish Mews. Instead, we have travelled east across London, through Bloomsbury, past the Smithfield Meat Markets, beyond the Petticoat Lane Markets* frequented by Lettice’s maid, Edith, through the East End boroughs of Bethnal Green and Bow, and through the 1880s housing development of Upton Park, to East Ham. It is here that we have followed Edith and her beau, grocery delivery boy Frank Leadbetter, to the Premier Super Cinema**, where the pair are treating themselves to one of their favourite Sunday pleasures: a feature film with a newsreel and cartoon before the main event.

 

Even though spring is finally in the air, it is cold out on the streets of London today, with a biting cold wind, so the warmth of the cinema’s foyer is a welcome respite from the weather outside after the journey up the High Street from the East Ham railway station. The foyer is brightly lit and cheerful. The cinema, renovated in 1922, isn’t called a picture palace for nothing, and no expense was spared with thick red wall-to-wall carpets covering the floors and brightly coloured up-to-date Art Deco wallpaper covering the walls, upon which the latest films are advertised in glamourous and colourful posters. Throughout the space, button backed*** armchairs and settees are arranged in intimate clutches around small tables, allowing patrons like Edith and Frank to await the commencement of their session in comfort. It is at one of these clusters that Edith sits patiently in her black three-quarter length coat and black dyed straw cloche decorated with lilac satin roses and black feathers, with her green leather handbag at her feet as she awaits her beau.

 

“Here we are then,” Frank says cheerfully. “Tea for my best girl.” He places two utilitarian white cups in saucers from the nearby cinema kiosk on the table that he and Edith are occupying in front of a vase of fresh, fragrant flowers. He takes his seat opposite her, enjoying the luxury of his plush seat as he does. “And,” He fishes into his coat pocket withdrawing a purple box and presents it to his sweetheart with a flourish. “A box of Gainsborough Dubarry Milk Chocolates****!”

 

“Oh Frank!” Edith exclaims in delight, her cheeks flushing red as she speaks. “You are good to me.”

 

“Nothing too good for my best girl!” Frank assures her.

 

Edith smiles as she looks at the beautifully decorated box featuring a lady with cascading auburn hair highlighted with gold ribbons, a creamy face and décollétage sporting a frothy white gown and gold necklace. She traces the embossed gold lettering on the box’s lid with reverence.

 

“You’re being very solicitous today, Frank.” Edith remarks as she picks up her teacup, staring at Frank as she takes a sip of hot, milky tea from her cup.

 

“Am I?” Frank replies in a question, his voice full of nonchalance as he picks up his own cup.

 

“You are, Frank.” Edith opines. “You know you are.”

 

“How so, Edith?”

 

“Well for a start, you agreed to come and see ‘Peter Pan’*****.” Edith replies, placing her cup back into her saucer.

 

“I like ‘Peter Pan’, Edith!” Frank retorts. “I have read the book, I’ll have you know.”

 

“Yes, but when you may have one of your last chances to see the ‘Thief of Bagdad’****** with swashbuckling Douglas Fairbanks, and you demur to my choice...” Edith does not complete her sentence, but stares across at her sweetheart.

 

“Oh fie the ‘Thief of Bagdad’!” Frank scoffs. “It will still be running here for a week or two yet. We can see it next Sunday.” He waves Edith’s repark away with a dismissive hand. “Anyway, I chose the last film we saw, ‘Chu-Chin-Chow’*******, and that had enough swashbuckling with villain Abou Hassan being stabbed by Zharat and his forty thieves done away with.”

 

Edith looks sceptically at Frank. “And this box of chocolates on top of our slap-up tea at Lyon’s Corner House******** in Tottenham Court Road?”

 

“What?” Frank retorts with incredulity. “Can’t a chap spoil his girl once in a while?”

 

“Oh, please don’t misunderstand me, Frank!” Edith quickly pipes up with a smile. “I’m not complaining!”

 

“I should hope you wouldn’t be.”

 

“But I can’t help being a little bit suspicious.” Edith arches her eyebrow over her right eye and purses her pretty pale lips.

 

“Well I like that!” Frank answers back, folding his arms akimbo across his chest in defence.

 

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I went to see a clairvoyant the week before last, would it, Frank?” Edith fishes. “And that I didn’t see you last Sunday, because you had to take care of your granny?”

 

“Clairvoyant? What clairvoyant, Edith?” Frank asks, pleading innocence.

 

“Oh come on Frank!” Edith laughs. “You know Mrs. Boothby loves a gossip!” she goes on, mentioning Lettice’s charwoman********* who comes to help Edith with all the hard graft around Cavendish Mews a few days a week. “You can’t imagine us not talking, Frank.”

 

Ignoring her gentle chuckle, Frank continues to decry his irreproachability. “I don’t know what you and Mrs. Boothby talked about.”

 

“She told me that she saw you Tuesday week ago, the same day I went to see Madame Fortuna the clairvoyant in Swiss Cottage**********, and she told you that I was going to see her. There’s no use trying to say she didn’t, because I know that for all her tall tales and gilding of the lily***********, Mrs. Boothby wouldn’t do that with a story about you.”

 

Frank unfolds his arms and picks up his teacup, taking a sip of tea. “Alright, so I did meet her that day, Edith, and yes, she told me that you were going to see a clairvoyant, although her description of her was perhaps a little bit less kind than that.”

 

“Oh yes.” Edith chuckles. “She told me that it was a lot of mumbo-jumbo too, Frank.”

 

“Well, I don’t know if I’d disagree with her, Edith.” Frank says in concern, cocking an eyebrow. “You know I am a believer in facts, not fiction.”

 

“Well, I happen to be a believer in Madame Fortuna, and what she had to say.” Edith replies defiantly. “Which I don’t believe to be fiction.”

 

“And what else did Mrs. Boothby disclose about our meeting in Binney Street, Edith?” Frank asks.

 

“Oh, not so very much, Frank.” Edith replies with a smirk. “Just that you were out delivering groceries when she saw you.”

 

“And?” Frank queries.

 

Edith sighs. “And that she told you how distracted I’ve been about not having a commitment from you about getting married.”

 

“Which is utter pish-posh************, Edith, and well you know it.” Frank says seriously. “You know I’m committed to marrying you. You’re the only girl for me.”

 

“I know that, Frank. But Mrs. Boothby also said that you should be a bit more demonstrative with your dedication.”

 

“I doubt Mrs. Boothby would have used either the word ‘demonstrative’ or ‘dedication’.” Frank laughs.

 

“Maybe not, Frank.” Edith concurs, chuckling as well. “But she made the point clear, as I’m sure she did with you, Frank.”

 

“Indeed, she did.”

 

“So, this is you being more demonstrative of your dedication to me.” Edith says with a smile, toying with the box of chocolates, turning the pretty packaging over in her careworn hands.

 

Frank thinks for a moment ruminating over in his mind as to whether to tell his sweetheart about Mrs. Boothby’s suggestion that he get on with asking Edith’s parents for their daughter’s hand in marriage, which he did do last Sunday on his afternoon off: a visit which resulted in both George and Ada Watsford readily agreeing to the match. Then he thinks otherwise. Frank may not yet be able to afford a gold wedding band like those which he and Edith saw in the window of Schwar and Company************* along Walworth Road in the South London suburb of Elephant and Castle************** a bit over a month ago, but he has almost finished paying off a silver ring intended for Edith at a smart jewellers shop along Lavender Hill***************, not far from his boarding house in Clapham Junction. Although simple, Frank is having his and Edith’s names engraved on the inside of the band, along with the year 1925. He still wants to surprise Edith with his proposal and the ring, so he decides not to say anything about visiting her parents, knowing that after his conversation with them, that they will not steal Frank’s thunder and give the game away, although it will be far harder for Ada, who is very close to her daughter.

 

Frank raises his hands. “Guilty as charged, Edith.”

 

“Oh Frank!” Edith exclaims, a smile of delight breaking out across her lips. “You really are sweet!”

 

Edith reaches out her hand to him across the polished wooden surface of the pedestal table. Frank stretches out his own hand and allows her to enmesh her fingers with his and squeeze them. The action is only small, but so intimate and full of emotion that Frank takes great comfort from it. Even though Edith does not know his grand plans yet, he knows that everything is alright between the two of them now, and any doubts Edith may have had about his commitment to her have been dispelled by his actions, Mrs. Boothby’s consoling words with Edith at cavendish Mews, whatever prediction Madame Fortuna the clairvoyant made, or most likely a mixture of all of these things. Frank smiles reassuringly across at his sweetheart, who returns his smile wholeheartedly.

 

“I keep telling you, Edith.” Frank murmurs as his cheeks colour. “You’re not only my best girl, you’re my only girl.” He returns her gentle squeeze with one of his own.

 

“Well, just you keep telling me that, Frank.” Edith replies softly, looking across at Frank with loving eyes a-glitter with emotion. “I may know it, but I’ll never tire of hearing it.”

 

“With pleasure, Edith, my best and only girl.” Frank answers.

 

Just then, the double doors near to them open and with the voluble burble of cheerful chatter, people begin to file out the door in pairs or small groups. Edith and Frank watch the passing parade of mostly women and a smattering of men in their Sunday best as they exit the cinema auditorium, all murmuring about the film they have just seen. As the crowd thins to a trickle with the stragglers leaving the theatre and the vociferous burble of voices dissipates, Frank turns to Edith.

 

“By the by, what did the clairvoyant, madame whatshername tell you, anyway?”

 

“Never you mind, Frank Leadbetter!” Edith replies with an air of mystery as she stands up, snatching up the box of chocolates as she does. “She told me the truth. That’s all you have to worry about.”

 

Frank gets up and follows Edith as they join the crowd of chattering cinema goers as they go into the brightly lit auditorium, and make their way to their plush red velvet seats.

 

Inside the theatre a fug of cigarette smoke fills the auditorium, a mixture of that created by the previous audience and a few new patrons who just start to light up before the house lights go down. The space is filled with the faint traces of various perfumes, which mix with the stronger traces of cigarettes, fried food, and body odour. Around them quiet chatter and the occasional burst of a cough or a laugh resound. It feels cosy and safe. At the front of the theatre, in a pit below the screen, a middle aged woman whom they have come to recognise by sight from their many trips to the Premier Super Cinema, appears dressed in an old fashioned Edwardian gown with an equally outmoded upswept hairdo that went out of fashion before the war. She starts to play the upright piano with enthusiasm, dramatically banging out palm court music for the audience before the beginning of the newsreel.

 

Settling in their plush red velvet seats in the middle of the auditorium, Frank winds his arm around Edith’s shoulder. “I love you, my best girl.”

 

Behind them the projector whirrs to life as the lights dim. Suddenly the screen is illuminated in blinding, brilliant white as the pianist in the pit below the screen starts to play the playful opening bars to the music to accompany Peter Pan.

 

“I love you too, Frank Leadbetter.” Edith replies as she opens her box of Gainsborough Dubarry Milk Chocolates and proffers the open end to Frank so that he may help himself to one of the delicious, foil wrapped chocolates inside.

 

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

 

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

 

***Button back upholstered furniture contains buttons embedded in the back of the sofa or chair, which are pulled tightly against the leather creating a shallow dimple effect. This is sometimes known as button tufting.

 

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

 

*****Peter Pan is a 1924 American silent fantasy adventure film released by Paramount Pictures, the first film adaptation of the 1904 play by J. M. Barrie. It was directed by Herbert Brenon and starred Betty Bronson as Peter Pan, Ernest Torrence as Captain Hook, Mary Brian as Wendy, Virginia Browne Faire as Tinker Bell, Esther Ralston as Mrs. Darling, and Anna May Wong as the Indian princess Tiger Lily. The film was seen by Walt Disney and inspired him to create his company's 1953 animated adaptation. The film was celebrated at the time for its innovative use of special effects (mainly to show Tinker Bell) according to Disney's 45th anniversary video of their adaptation of Peter Pan. In 2000, this film was deemed "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant" by the United States Library of Congress and selected for preservation in the National Film Registry.

 

******The Thief of Bagdad is a 1924 American silent adventure film directed by Raoul Walsh and starring Douglas Fairbanks, and written by Achmed Abdullah and Lotta Woods. Freely adapted from One Thousand and One Nights, it tells the story of a thief who falls in love with the daughter of the Caliph of Baghdad. In 1996, the film was selected for preservation in the United States National Film Registry by the Library of Congress as being "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant"

 

*******Chu-Chin-Chow is a 1923 British-German silent adventure film directed by Herbert Wilcox and starring Betty Blythe, Herbert Langley, and Randle Ayrton. Abou Hassan and his forty thieves descend on a small Arabian town on the wedding day of Omar and the beautiful Zharat and kidnap them. Abou sells Zahrat to Kasim Baba, the miser and money lender of Bagdad, while posing as Prince Constantine. Later, Abou poses as the wealthy Chinese prince Chu-Chin-Chow, and bids on Zahrat when she is placed at auction. She pierces his disguise and exposes him. He robs the other bidders of their wealth and escapes with Zahrat. Promising that she will live among untold wealth, he sets her free. After she finds Omar, Abou takes them to his treasure cave, making good on his promise. Ali Baba, brother of Kasim, accidentally discovers the cave and helps himself to the treasure. He then goes for aid to free Zahrat. Kasim, led by his greed, also comes to the cave but is captured and killed by Abou. Zahrat, now free, returns to Bagdad. Ali Baba gives a great feast. Abou appears as a merchant with forty jugs of oil, in which are hidden his forty thieves. Zahrat discovers the deception and, assisted by a powerful slave, they get rid of the hidden thieves. Left alone, Abou is denounced and the multitude turn on him. Cornered, he is stabbed by Zahrat who then returns to her village and finds happiness with Omar.

 

********J. Lyons and Co. was a British restaurant chain, food manufacturing, and hotel conglomerate founded in 1884 by Joseph Lyons and his brothers in law, Isidore and Montague Gluckstein. Lyons’ first teashop opened in Piccadilly in 1894, and from 1909 they developed into a chain of teashops, with the firm becoming a staple of the High Street in the United Kingdom. At its peak the chain numbered around two hundred cafes. The teashops provided for tea and coffee, with food choices consisting of hot dishes and sweets, cold dishes and sweets, and buns, cakes and rolls. Lyons' Corner Houses, which first appeared in 1909 and remained until 1977, were noted for their Art Deco style. Situated on or near the corners of Coventry Street, Strand and Tottenham Court Road, they and the Maison Lyonses at Marble Arch and in Shaftesbury Avenue were large buildings on four or five floors, the ground floor of which was a food hall with counters for delicatessen, sweets and chocolates, cakes, fruit, flowers and other products. In addition, they possessed hairdressing salons, telephone booths, theatre booking agencies and at one period a twice-a-day food delivery service. On the other floors were several restaurants, each with a different theme and all with their own musicians. For a time, the Corner Houses were open twenty-four hours a day, and at their peak each branch employed around four hundred staff including their famous waitresses, commonly known as Nippies for the way they nipped in and out between the tables taking orders and serving meals. The tea houses featured window displays, and, in the post-war period, the Corner Houses were smarter and grander than the local tea shops. Between 1896 and 1965 Lyons owned the Trocadero, which was similar in size and style to the Corner Houses.

 

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

 

**********Swiss Cottage is an area in the London Borough of Camden. It is centred on the junction of Avenue Road and Finchley Road and includes Swiss Cottage tube station. Swiss Cottage lies north-northwest of Charing Cross. The area was named after a public house in the centre of it, known as "Ye Olde Swiss Cottage".

 

***********The term “gilding the lily” came about as a mistaken version of a line from King John, which was “to gild refined gold, to paint the lily.”, and means to adorn unnecessarily something that is already beautiful or perfect.

 

************Pish-posh is a phrase used in British slang to express disagreement or to say that something is nonsense. The exact origin of this phrase is not precisely documented, but it is considered a colloquial and informal expression that has been in use for many years. It is often used to express scepticism or disagreement in a light hearted manner.

 

*************Established in 1838 by Andreas Schwar who was a clock and watch maker from Baden in Germany, Schwar and Company on Walworth Road in Elephant and Castle was a watchmaker and jewellers that is still a stalwart of the area today. The shop still retains its original Victorian shopfront with its rounded plate glass windows.

 

**************The London suburb of Elephant and Castle, south of the Thames, past Lambeth was known as "the Piccadilly Circus of South London" because it was such a busy shopping precinct. When you went shopping there, it was commonly referred to by Londoners, but South Londoners in particular, as “going up the Elephant”.

 

***************Lavender Hill is a bustling high street serving residents of Clapham Junction, Battersea and beyond. Until the mid Nineteenth Century, Battersea was predominantly a rural area with lavender and asparagus crops cultivated in local market gardens. Hence, it’s widely thought that Lavender Hill was named after Lavender Hall, built in the late Eighteenth Century, where lavender grew on the north side of the hill.

 

This beautiful Art Deco cinema interior is not all it appears to be, for it is made up entirely with pieces from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Edith’s green leather handbag I acquired as part of a larger collection of 1:12 artisan miniature hats, bags and accessories I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The umbrella comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.

 

The pedestal table , vase of flowers, white teacups and saucers and two flounced red velvet chairs all come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House in the United Kingdom, whilst the dainty box of Gainsborough Dubarry Milk Chocolates, which has been beautifully printed, on the table’s surface, comes from Shepherd’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The chrome Art Deco smoker’s stand in the foreground is a Shackman miniature from the 1970s and is quite rare. I bought it from a dealer in America via E-Bay. The black ashtray inside it is an artisan piece, the bowl of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there). The match box in the stand was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

The Art Deco pedestal stand in the foreground has been made by the high end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, whilst the vase of flowers on it comes from Falcon Miniatures in the United States, who are well known for their realistic and high quality miniatures.

 

The posters around the cinema walls were all sourced by me and reproduced in high quality colour and print.

 

The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, who did so in the hope that I would find a use for it in the “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

 

The thick and bright red carpet is in fact a placemat which I appropriated in the late 1970s to use as a carpet for my growing miniatures collection. Luckily, I was never asked to return it, and the rest of the set is long gone!

There’s also homemade bacon-infused butter, lobster butter, truffle aioli, and cocktail sauce can be added for $4 supplement each.

 

Lbs

100 Yonge St.

Toronto, ON

(647) 351-4747

lbstoronto.com

Twitter: @LbsToronto

 

Owners: Jonathan Gonsenhauser and Will Tomlinson

 

Introducing for TorontoLife: torontolife.com/food/restaurants/lbs-pounds-lobster-burge...

Giiza Supplement

 

Model and Photographer: Me

“… should be the slogan of every real printer.” Prior to it coming into my possession, someone performed an unfortunate snipping on this 1917 ATF American Specimen Book of Type Styles Supplement.

Official product photo for Tegreen 97

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 north of Cavendish Mews, beyond St John’s Wood, over the far side of Regent’s Park and London Zoo, past Primrose Hill in the affluent middle-class suburb of Swiss Cottage, named for the ornately gingerbreaded Swiss style cottage orné* of the Swiss Cottage Inn**, past which Edith, Lettice’s maid, is walking as she heads from Swiss Cottage railway station*** towards Strathray Gardens. Having eschewed her usual pleasurable pursuits with Hilda, or a visit to her parents on her usual Wednesday morning off, Edith has an appointment in the smart upper middle-class London suburb. She trudges down the rain slicked concrete footpaths beneath the bare branches of the plane trees that run down either side of the Victorian red brick villa lined streets, following her own hand written instructions as to how to reach Strathray Gardens from the underground railway station. The branches above look stark against the slate grey skies.

 

For the last few weeks, unable to contain her own excitement and curiosity, in a desperate attempt to try and get some inkling as to when Frank will propose to her, Edith has been corresponding with, according to her advertisement in the newspaper, a “discreet clairvoyant” named Madame Fortuna, at Box Z 1245, The Times, E.C.4., whom she has now discovered is in reality, a woman named Mrs. Fenchurch who lives in Strathray Gardens in Swiss Cottage.

 

As Edith walks past the smart old fashioned two and three storey red brick villas with their undulating façades built in the 1880s and 1890s, Edith cannot help but feel a sense that she is interloping – that she is being stared at and scrutinised through the lace curtains dressing and obscuring the windows, that she is being judged by the upper middle-class housewives sitting in their drawing rooms and morning rooms overlooking the relatively quiet streets, as she goes on her way to what she now considers as she gets closer to it, may be a ridiculous assignation.

 

Finally, she stops before an intimidating three storey Modern Gothic/Queen Anne revival style house of red brick with Tudoresque style gabling, gothic style tracery painted in white around its leadlight windows, and large bays crowned by a crenelled balconette, overlooking the empty tree lined street. Now Edith feels a sense of trepidation as she stands on the threshold of the drive that leads up to the front steps. Leaning against the stone gothic finial capped brick newel post that flanks the half circle carriageway, she fishes the rather old fashioned Art Nouveau postcard of a woman and flowers from her green leather handbag and consults the spidery, yet elegant writing on the reverse. She looks at the number on the post next to her. She looks up at the house again. The address is definitely the correct one. She sighs and takes a deep breath to give herself courage before walking across the carriage turn and up the five steps, trying to gain the confidence of her convictions which she suddenly doesn’t feel as she steps beneath the white painted gothic style vestibule portico and presses the gleaming brass call bell by the white painted front door flanked with panels of stained glass. At first there is no response to her ring. Just as Edith’s resolve starts to fail her and she turns to leave and retreat like a defeated and foolish girl to Cavendish mews, a light goes on inside the hallway, illuminating the lozenges of stained glass around the front door, showing off their bright colours.

 

The door is suddenly opened by a rather rangy looking maid with an angular face, dark button eyes and a thin, downturned mouth. She is dressed in a morning uniform of pale blue and white striped calico, topped with a mob cap with a trim of crisply goffered lace, which is all too familiar to Edith who has her own version of the same uniform hanging up in the narrow wardrobe of her maid’s room in Cavendish Mews.

 

“Yes?” the maid asks sharply, looking Edith up and down with an appraising gaze.

 

Edith suddenly feels a fraud and shabby to boot dressed in her black three-quarter length coat from a Petticoat Lane**** second-hand clothes stall that she has remodelled, beneath the wiry maid’s beady, hard gaze. Taken aback by the domestic’s hostile look and brusqueness, Edith doesn’t answer.

 

“Yes?” the maid asks again, cocking an eyebrow as her lips purse in irritation.

 

“I… err…” Edith stammers.

 

“Oh no!” the maid says, mistaking Edith’s dour winter coat and black cloche decorated with purple satin flowers. “No thank you Miss. We’ve already members of the congregation of St. Peter’s Belsize Park*****. We’ve no wish to join your Fellowship.”

 

As she goes to close the door, Edith in an act of daring that surprises both she and the domestic she faces, she quickly puts her foot, clad in her best black kid cross strap shoe, in the jam, stopping the maid from closing the door in her face.

 

The uniformed maid looks down at Edith’s offending shoe and scowls. “Get your foot out of my door!” she snaps in a curt hiss, staring vehemently at Edith. “If it’s converts you’re looking for, I told you we aren’t interested.”

 

“Who is it, Trudy?” comes a quavering, elderly female voice from somewhere close by inside the villa.

 

“No-one Madam.” the maid calls back quickly in a loud and jovial sing-song voice, never taking her eyes of Edith’s face as she does. “Just another Quaker****** from Hampstead*******.”

 

The maid says again, “Get your foot out of my door!” She considers Edith’s outfit: smart, but obviously homemade or cobbled together with a bit of apt dressmaking. Reassessing Edith’s reason for visiting a determined steely tone enters her already hostile tone as she says, “If its work you’re looking for, you’ll find none here. Madam has a cook, and me as her parlour maid, and that’s all she needs. Now go away.”

 

“I’m here to see Mrs. Fenchurch.” Edith suddenly blurts out awkwardly like an admission of guilt, before adding insistently in a slightly lower and imploring tone of voice, “I’m here to see Madame Fortuna.” The name she adds emphasis to in an effort to explain to the gatekeeping domestic the reason for her presence on the doorstep.

 

The maid looks up, startled at Edith’s pronouncement, her eyes growing wide in what Edith perceives to be fear or perhaps concern. Still, rather than trying to crush her toe in the door, her stance eases slightly and she steps aside. “Come inside.” At first Edith doesn’t stir, remaining mute and immobile until the maid hisses, “Quickly girl, before the neighbours see you standing there!”

 

The domestic’s words create a result as like a tin toy when it is wound, Edith springs into action and steps across the threshold of the house into a large entrance hall tiled in black and white patterned tessellated pavers and panelled in white painted wood. A steep staircase with a dark runner held in place by shining brass stair rods******** leads upstairs, whilst a round table in the middle of the hall is covered in local circulars, several of the big London newspapers, including The Times, and a copy of the Tatler********* around a rather large aspidistra********** with glossy green leaves in a majolica jardinière***********. Against a wall, a large grandfather clock sonorously ticks the minutes away seriously.

 

“I’m nothing to be ashamed of.” Edith opines as she responds to the last remark of the truculent domestic. “I have every right to be here.”

 

“We’ll see about that. Name?” the maid snaps in a surly fashion, ignoring Edith’s statement as she glares at her.

 

“Edith.” Edith replies simply.

 

The domestic gasps with frustration, her eyes rolling to the ceiling above. Sighing with irritation she asks again, “Edith what?”

 

“Edith Watsford,” Edith replies nervously. “Miss Edith Watsford.” she corrects herself. She pauses for a moment before continuing in an uncertain fashion, “I’ve… I’ve corresponded with Madame Fortuna via The Times… and… and this is the time we agreed on that I should call upon her.”

 

“I don’t wish to know what you and Madam have corresponded about!” the maid says tersely. “Sit there.” She points sharply, indicating to a hard wooden hall chair sitting against the white wooden panelled wall. She turns on her heel and then turns back again suddenly. Pointing her finger at Edith this time she adds with a grim look, “And don’t move.” She then turns again and carefully opens a door pulled to that leads off the hallway into the downstairs room with the bay window overlooking the street.

 

Doing as she is bid, Edith sinks meekly onto the seat and waits, listening to the constant tick of the clock, and the muffled sound of the conversation between the maid and her mistress – the woman with the quavering voice. Leaning forward on her seat, Edith tries to listen to what is being said in the next room, but sitting against the far wall on the opposite side to the hall, and too frightened by the warning from the domestic to move closer, she cannot make out what is being said.

 

Finally, the door opens and the maid appears again. “Come in.” she says grimly, stepping aside. “Madam will see you now.”

 

Nervously Edith gets up from the hard hallway seat and walks across the entranceway, her low heels clicking noisily across the tiles. “Thank you.” she says politely to the maid as she slips apprehensively past the older woman.

 

“Miss Watsford?” the quavering voice Edith heard before asks as she steps into the room.

 

Edith finds herself in a rather overcluttered drawing room with a lofty ceiling. The salon is gloomy and stuffy in spite of the large bay window Edith saw from the street because what light manages to enter has to filter through a set of wooden venetian blinds and a set of thick red velvet hangings with a bobbled gold tassel trim, the stuffiness added to by very heavily patterned floral wallpaper. It is filled with heavy Jacobean revival furniture fashionable in the 1890s when the villa would have been built, with all the chairs and sofas jostling for space with one another upholstered in red velvet in an equally outmoded button back************ style. Every surface is cluttered with a lifetime of knick-knacks conspicuously displayed. Edith suddenly feels a pang of sadness for the poor maid standing at the door. No wonder she is crochety, having to dust all these objects by herself, if what she says is true and there only being a cook and herself to do all the domestic chores.

 

“Well, don’t stand at the door, letting in the draught, Miss Watsford,” the elderly female voice chides, but in a kindly manner, like an indulgent grandparent. “Please do come in and sit down.”

 

It is only then that Edith realises that Mrs. Fenchurch, or rather Madame Fortuna as she knows her, is seated in the bay in a high backed red velvet button backed Victorian armchair drawn up to a round table draped with a fine lace tablecloth and topped with another large aspidistra with glossy leaves. The woman’s appearance is as old fashioned as her décor, and she has, in common with many elderly women of her age, retained the hairstyle fashionable in her youth, some fifty years or so ago, her almost white tresses coiled at the back and covered in a dainty lace cap in a long obsolete fashion. Her black bouclé silk************* dress with its gigot sleeves************** and high, stiff neck is tightly corseted and is at complete odds to the contemporary and practical, loose style Edith wears and appears at least thirty years out of date. A large cameo is fastened at her throat, and she peers at Edith through a gold rimmed pince-nez***************, yet her eyes, unlike her maid’s, are friendly and her jowly face sitting above her embroidered collar is open and looks kind with a welcoming smile on her lips.

 

“Please, Miss Watsford,” the elderly lady says again, indicating with a sweeping gesture to a matching ballon button backed red velvet salon chair opposite her at the table. “Do take a seat.” She turns her attention to her maid. “We’ll have tea thank you, Trudy,” She glances quickly at Edith, appraising her through the lenses of her pince-nez before looking back at her servant. “Without the strainer, I think.”

 

“Yes Madam.” Trudy replies obsequiously.

 

“And some biscuits if you can manage it.” she adds.

 

As the door closes softly and Trudy’s footfalls on the tiles in the hallway fade into the distance, the old woman lets out a sigh of relief and smiles broadly at Edith. “You mustn’t mind dear Trudy, Miss Watsford,” she says gently in her genteel, upper-class tones. “She can be a little terse, but that’s only because she doesn’t approve of my endeavours as Madame Fortuna, and she worries for our reputation as a respectable household in the neighbourhood, and our standing in the St Peter’s parish congregation.”

 

“I see.” Edith remarks, looking around her.

 

“But she’s good to me, and she allows me my indulgence.” Mrs. Fenchurch observes Edith’s wide eyes and slightly sagging mouth with mild amusement. “Are you quite alright, Miss Watsford?”

 

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry!” Edith stammers in an embarrassed apology, realising that she has been caught looking agog at her surroundings. “Yes quite.” She pauses. “Umm… how should I address you? Mrs. Fenchurch or Madame Fortuna?”

 

“Whichever you feel more comfortable with.” Mrs. Fenchurch answers. “But most clients call me Madame Fortuna.”

 

“Then I’ll do the same if you don’t mind, Madame Fortuna.” Edith says with a sigh of relief as she peels off her gloves.

 

“Not at all, my dear Miss Watsford.” When she notices Edith’s eyes straying about the room in a desultory way again, Mrs. Fenchurch asks with a good natured chuckle, “Not quite what you were expecting from Madame Fortuna?”

 

“Well, I… I really don’t know, Madame Fortuna.”

 

“Perhaps you were expecting a cauldron, a book of spells and spiderwebs in the corners of the room?” Mrs. Fenchurch asks tongue-in-cheek. “Trudy would never let the latter occur, although she might permit me the former.”

 

“Oh no!” Edith quickly defends. “I wasn’t… well… well I don’t rightly know what I was expecting Madame Fortuna.” It is then that she notices a rather large glass sphere sitting in a footed ebonised wooden stand just to Mrs. Fenchurch’s left, partially obscured by the bulbous white porcelain planter and leaves of the aspidistra. “What’s that?” She points across the table towards it.

 

“This?” Mrs. Fenchurch turns her head and looks to where Edith is indicating. She smiles proudly and her eyes light up. “This, my dear Miss Watsford, is my crystal ball.”

 

“I thought only gypsies at fairs had them,” Edith pauses for a moment before quickly adding, “Not that I’ve ever seen one before, myself. What do you use it for, Madame Fortuna.”

 

The older lady runs her palm over the ball’s surface closest to her hand in a rather intimate and loving action. “My crystal ball aids me in my art of clairvoyance.” she says rather mysteriously. “I can gaze into it, and sometimes I can see shapes and light that help me to foresee possible outcomes of future events.”

 

“Goodness! Even on a winter’s day like today, Madame Fortuna?” Edith asks. “It’s awfully dark in here.”

 

“Well, I do have other clairvoyant aids that I can use.” Mrs. Fenchurch replies. “Like these.” She indicates to a deck of red and white patterned cards stacked in the middle of the table, adjunct to the potted aspidistra.

 

“Playing cards?” Edith queries.

 

“No, my dear, Miss Watsford, although playing cards can be used to tell fortunes. No, these are special fortune telling cards.” She places her palm on the deck. “How do you feel about me using them to answer the questions you have?”

 

Edith sits ramrod in her seat, clutching her green handbag and looks with startled eyes at the cards, as though they are about to explode or catch fire.

 

“No, I thought not.” Mrs. Fenchurch says kindly. “I think you and I will have some tea and get to know one another a little better, and then I’ll read your leaves. How does that sound, Miss Watsford?”

 

“Oh!” Edith sighs with relief. “Oh yes, that sounds much better, Madame Fortuna. There used to be an old woman down the street from us in Harlesden who used to read people’s tea leaves.”

 

“Is that where you come from, my dear? Harlesden?”

 

“Yes, Madame Fortuna. I was born in Harlesden. My Dad works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory there as a line manager.”

 

Just at that moment, the door to the drawing room opens and Trudy returns carrying a wooden tray holding a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and two cups, as well as a small glass dish of biscuits.

 

“And thinking of biscuits, here comes Trudy with our tea.” Mrs. Fenchurch smiles up at her maid, who with bowed head, avoids the gaze of either her mistress or Edith as she unpacks the tray with a serious face. As Trudy places the biscuits on the table’s surface, Mrs. Fenchurch asks, “I don’t suppose that selection is McVitie and Price’s, Trudy?”

 

The domestic stops what she is doing and looks with a crumpled look of concern at the older lady. “No Madam!” she exclaims. “They’re Huntley and Palmers****************, like always.” She looks quizzically at her employer. “Why do you ask?”

 

“It’s just Miss Watsford here, comes from Harlesden,” Mrs. Fenchurch says with a proud smile. “And her father works for McVitie and Price.”

 

Trudy doesn’t respond to her mistress’ revelation as to Edith’s family background, nor look at the younger woman. Instead, she says to Mrs. Fenchurch in a business like fashion, “No strainer, Madam, like you requested.”

 

“Thank you Trudy. That will be all for now.” Mrs. Fenchurch waves her hand through the air dismissively. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

 

“Yes Madam.” Trudy replies obsequiously, bobbing a curtsey and quickly retreating from the room.

 

“Do you mind frightfully if I smoke, Miss Watsford?” Mrs. Fenchurch asks. “I know it probably isn’t what you expect from a lady like me either, but it was recommended to me by my doctor. I found it calmed my nerves during the zeppelin raids in the war, but has become another rather pleasurable indulgence in the ensuing years.”

 

“It’s your house, Madame Fortuna.” Edith replies, even though she isn’t particularly enamoured by the habit. “But what have you to be nervous about? I’m the one who’s nervous.”

 

“Thank you my dear.” Mrs. Fenchurch takes a small red Morocco leather case from the tabletop and flips it open. She removes a thin cigarette and lights it before blowing a plume of tumbling smoke in the opposite direction to Edith. “We all of us, have our quirks, and I suppose a dose of nerves before one of my clairvoyant sessions is one of mine.” She slips the cigarette into the notch on the rim of the ashtray and leaves it to slowly burn. “And there is no need for you to be nervous with me. Now, shall I be mother***************** then, Miss Watsford?” she asks, picking up the silver pot, which Edith notices is badly tarnished. Seeing her critical look at the state of the pot, the older woman goes on. “So, you’re not a teacher then. You’re a domestic.”

 

Edith’s eyes grow wide in surprise. “Goodness! However, did you know that? Did your crystal ball tell you Madame Fortuna?”

 

Mrs. Fenchurch smiles as she pours tea into Edith’s blue and white floral patterned cup. “I could lie and say yes, Miss Watsford, but I don’t believe in my line of business, that lying is a good thing. Don’t you agree?” she asks rhetorically.

 

“No, Madame Fortuna.” Edith replies unnecessarily.

 

‘It was the way you looked at my teapot that betrayed you.” Mrs. Fenchurch goes on. “Trudy looks at it the same way whenever she raises the idea of polishing it with me. I tell her I won’t have the pot I use for reading leaves interfered with in any way.” She hands Edith her cup of tea. “I’ll let you help yourself to milk and sugar, since I don’t know how you take it, and my crystal ball won’t tell me that either.”

 

“Thank you, Madame Fortuna.” She gratefully accepts the cup from her hostess. She adds a large slosh of milk to her tea. “Yes, I’m just a humble domestic, like your Trudy.”

 

“And where do you work, my dear Miss Watsford, and for whom?” She picks the cigarette back up, draws upon it and exhales another plume of greyish white smoke into the air above them.

 

“I work as a live-in maid-of-all-work for the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd in Mayfair, Madame Fortuna.” Edith adds two heaped spoonfuls of sugar to her milky tea and stirs it. “I’m glad you’re honest, Madame Fortuna.” Edith admits, releasing a pent-up breath. “I must confess, even though I’d been saying it for a while, it took a lot of courage for me to finally write to you care of The Times.”

 

“And why did you choose me, Miss Watsford?” Mrs. Fenchurch asks, adding a level teaspoon of sugar to her tea. “There are other clairvoyants who advertise in The Times.”

 

“Well, because you said in your advertisement, that you are discreet.”

 

“Discretion is a byword here in Strathray Gardens, Miss Watsford.” Mrs. Fenchurch assures her as she adds a small amount of milk to her tea. “Please, do have a biscuit, even if it is only one from Huntley and Palmer.” She proffers the fluted clear glass plate of biscuits to Edith who picks a dainty jam tart.

 

The pair fall into a companionable silence for a short while. They sip their tea, eat biscuits and Mrs. Fenchurch finishes her cigarette before stubbing it out in the black ashtray. As she sips her tea and munches on her biscuit, Mrs. Fenchurch eyes Edith through her pince-nez, her mouth screwing up into a tight, wrinkled purse as she ruminates.

 

“Do you mind if I ask you a most indelicate question, Miss Watsford?” Mrs. Fenchurch asks at length.

 

Licking her lips of crumbs, Edith shakes her head.

 

“You’re not in trouble, are you Miss Watsford?”

 

“Me?” Edith’s eyes grow wide again. “No Madame Fortuna! I’ve never broken a law in my life.”

 

“No,” Mrs. Fenchurch chuckles sadly. “I didn’t mean like that. In meant trouble in the family sense, if you understand my meaning, Miss Watsford.” She looks seriously at Edith.

 

“Oh goodness no!” Edith gasps.

 

Mrs. Fenchurch holds up her hands in defence, displaying the frothy lace cuffs at her wrists. “Pardon me for asking, Miss Watsford, but in my… well, my line of work, I do get young ladies in trouble in my parlour looking for answers to their problems: answers my crystal ball and fortune telling cards can’t provide.”

 

“Oh no, Madame Fortuna!” Edith takes a gulp of her tea. “I can assure you, I’m not that kind of girl! Not in the least!”

 

“Well, that’s good.” Mrs. Fenchurch opines with satisfaction. “No, you didn’t strike me as such, but you never can tell. Dressed as smartly as you are, I wouldn’t have taken you for a domestic. That’s why I thought you might have been a teacher, or governess.”

 

“I’m quite handy with the needle, Madame Fortuna.” Edith says proudly. “I learned from my mum, who’s a laundress.”

 

“Very good.” The older woman sips her own tea thoughtfully. “So why are you here then, Miss Watsford? What is it that you want to know from Madame Fortuna?”

 

“I’m not sure you’ll think it worthy of your clairvoyant powers, Madame Fortuna.” Edith admits guiltily. “I very nearly retreated when your maid didn’t answer the door straight away.”

 

“Come now, Miss Watsford! It must be of some great importance to you, if you agonised so much before answering my advertisement.”

 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come.” Edith mutters as she drinks more of her tea.

 

“Don’t drain your cup, my dear!” Mrs. Fenchurch warns, flapping her hand towards Eith with her nose buried in the dainty blue and white floral teacup. “And I’m glad you have come. No matter is too insignificant for Madame Fortuna.” She reaches over and takes Edith’s cup and saucer from her as Edith replaces the cup onto the saucer. “So what is it you seek answers to, Miss Watsford?”

 

Edith doesn’t answer immediately as she thinks about what now seems a triviality in her life. “Well, it’s about the young man I’m stepping out with.”

 

“You’re concerned about his character?” Mrs. Fenchurch queries as she winds her wrinkled, yet elegant fingers around Edith’s teacup.

 

“Oh no!” Edith assures her. “Frank’s ever such a nice chap. He isn’t hiding any secrets from me.”

 

“Then what, Miss Watsford?” Holding the cup in her left hand, she swirls what is left at the bottom of it three times from left to right. “Tell Madame Fortuna.”

 

“Well, he says he wants to marry me, but he’s been dragging his heels about it.” Edith admits with a frustrated sigh. “We almost had a falling out over it when we were up the Elephant****************** a few weeks back. I just want to know he really means to marry me.”

 

“I see.” Mrs. Fenchurch says, and as she does, she flips Ediths cup upside down with her left hand, the loud sound of the teacup’s edge hitting the saucer startling Edith and making her jump in her seat. Speaking in a loud and dramatic tone, the older woman goes on, “Let Madame Fortuna and her advanced skills in tasseomancy******************* solve your quandary, Miss Watsford!”

 

The older woman leans forward over the cup, her puffed sleeves with their beaded embroidery panels acting like a protective shield as she rotates the cup three times before turning it back up again, carefully making sure the handle is pointing towards Edith. Mrs. Fenchurch peers inside.

 

“Come!” Mrs. Fenchurch commands Edith after spending a few moments examining the leaves left stuck on the inside of the teacup.

 

She begins to shuffle her seat towards Edith, and Edith does the same, until the pair are side by side with the bay window behind them, filtering light into Edith’s now empty teacup.

 

“What do you see, Madame Fortuna?” Edith asks with trepidation.

 

Mrs. Fenchurch points to the clump of tealeaves near the rim of the cup that seems to be drifting away from a larger clump. “Do you see that, Miss Watsford?” she asks.

 

“Yes Madame Fortuna.”

 

“Well that is a past love. Someone you are letting go of, or already have, and they are…”

 

“Oh that will be Bert!” Edith gasps, referencing her first serious beau who, before taking up the King’s shilling******************** and going to war in 1914 was her local postman. He died at the Battle of Passchendaele********************* in 1917. “He…”

 

“Ssshhh!” Mrs. Fenchurch hisses, holding up her left hand and placing her index finger against Edith’s lips to silence her. “Madame Fortuna doesn’t need you to tell her. She needs you to listen.” She points back to the small clump of leaves and continues. “This is your first love. He was a love that you held on to for a long time, maybe long after you should have stopped, but,” She pers more closely at the leaves. “You have done so now, and the bind you had is broken. He isn’t significant any more.”

 

“Yes Madame Fortuna.” Edith says, wide eyed.

 

“Now, this larger clump,” She points to another trail of leaves down near the handle of the teacup. “This is your new love. This is strong.” Her eyes grow wide. “You are committed to him,” She looks across at Edith and smiles confidently. “And he is committed to you.” She looks back into the cup. “Look at how enmeshed the leaves are. Your bond is strong.”

 

“Oh yes, Madame Fortuna!” Edith exclaims. “Frank…”

 

Mrs. Fenchurch hisses again, holding up her left index finger once more. “Listen. Madame Fortuna shall do the telling.”

 

Edith sits quietly in her seat, leans forward and looks first into the cup, then up at Mrs. Fenchurch’s serious face with its paper like translucent skin, and then back at the cup.

 

“See, Miss Watsford.” The old woman points to a line of leaves to the right of the large clump. “He has been stirred into action: made aware of your wish to wed, and he is now getting ready to take the next steps.”

 

“Oh when, Madame Fortuna? When?”

 

“Well, do you see how they are stuck to the side of the cup, Miss Watsford?” When Edith nods with excited anticipation, Mrs. Fenchurch goes on, “The rim of the cup symbolises the present, the sides represent the near future, and the bottom of the cup signifies the far future.” She smiles broadly at Edith, her gentle blue-grey eyes sparkling with quiet and controlled energy. “Your young man isn’t going to propose tomorrow, but he will do so in the near future.”

 

“Really, Madame Fortuna?”

 

“Really, my dear Miss Watsford.” Mrs. Fenchurch places the cup back onto the saucer, around which the excess wet clumps of leaves stick whilst a pool of milky tea, now cold, gathers in the base of it. “Madame Fortuna’s tasseomancy doesn’t lie. I hope that sets your mind at ease.”

 

“Oh it does, Madame Fortuna! Very much!” Edith exclaims, clasping her hands together in delight.

 

Mrs. Fenchurch grasps Edith’s right shoulder with her left hand and squeezes it comfortingly. “You just need to be patient, my dear Miss Watsford. It will come.”

 

A short while later, Mrs. Fenchurch stands at the front pane of her bay window and watches through the slats of the venetian blinds as Edith walks away down Strathray Gardens, back towards the underground railway station. The maid has a skip in her step and a lightness in her stance that she didn’t have coming. Mrs. Fenchurch smiles and sighs through her nose with satisfaction.

 

“You’ve been smoking again, Madam.” Trudy tuts as she sidles up alongside her at the window, clutching the heavily tarnished teapot. “It’s most unseemly in a lady like you.”

 

“Don’t chide me, Trudy! I’m a grown woman, and at a far more advanced age than you. If I choose to smoke, then that is my prerogative.”

 

Trudy follows her mistress’ gaze and watches Edith’s retreating figure through the glass. “What did you tell her, Madam: that silly slip of a girl?”

 

Mrs. Fenchurch twists the shiny shilling she took as payment from Edith for her tasseomancy session with Madame Fortuna in her fingers playfully. “I told her that her young man will propose soon.”

 

“Pshaw!” Trudy scoffs, stepping away from the window and back to the table where she begins to stack up the dirty tea things on her wooden tray. “You know no such thing.” She looks at the congealed tea leaves and dregs of cold tea on Edith’s saucer and mutters, “What a load of old mumbo-jumbo.”

 

“Madame Fortuna’s tasseomancy doesn’t lie. I told her what I read in her leaves. I told her the truth, Trudy.” Mrs. Fenchurch insists, turning away from the window and walking back towards her seat.

 

“You told her your version of the truth, more like it, Madam.”

 

“I saw what I saw in the leaves, Trudy.” Mrs. Fenchurch retorts, sinking down into the comfortable red velvet embrace of her chair. “And I told her what she needed to hear.”

 

“I’m going to go to the scullery right now and polish this pot, Madam.”

 

“Oh no you’re not, Trudy!” Mrs. Fenchurch replies with a commanding steeliness to her voice. “That pot is the vessel for my tasseomancy. I shan’t have you taint it with your domestic cleanliness! And that’s an end to it. If you are feeling industrious and want to polish something, go and polish the doorknobs.”

 

*A Cottage orné (French for 'decorated cottage') dates back to a movement of "rustic" stylised cottages of the late Eighteenth and early Nineteenth centuries during the Romantic movement, when some sought to discover a more natural way of living as opposed to the formality of the preceding Baroque and Neoclassical architectural styles. English Heritage defines the term as "A rustic building of picturesque design." Cottages ornés often feature well-shaped thatch roofs with ornate timberwork. Examples in England include Queen Charlotte’s Cottage in Kew Gardens, the German cottage used by the children of Queen Victoria at Osbourne on the Isle of White, and The Hermitage, Hanwell in Ealing, as well as the Swiss Cottage Pub after which the suburb of Swiss Cottage was named.

 

**According to the Dictionary of London Place Names, the district of Swiss Cottage is named after an inn called The Swiss Tavern that was built in 1804 in the style of a Swiss chalet on the site of a former tollgate keeper's cottage, and later renamed Swiss Inn and in the early 20th century Swiss Cottage.

 

***Swiss Cottage is a disused London Underground station in Swiss Cottage, north-west London. It was opened in 1868 as the northern terminus of the Metropolitan and St. John's Wood Railway (M&StJWR), the first northward branch extension from Baker Street of the Metropolitan Railway (now the Metropolitan line). Subsequent to the opening of a new Swiss Cottage station, which was served initially by the Bakerloo line (1939–1979) and is now on the Jubilee line (1979–present), this Metropolitan line Swiss Cottage station was closed in 1940.

 

****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.

 

*****St Peter's Church, Belsize Park is a Victorian church built in the gothic style with a clock tower. Built on Belsize Square, it was consecrated in 1859, and stands in its own garden.

 

******The Religious Society of Friends (or Quakers) began in 1643 in the United Kingdom, at a time of growing disillusionment with the established church. Inspired by George Fox, people sought an alternative, calling themselves “the Friends of Truth”. Commonly known today as the Religious Society of Friends, they are committed to working for equality and peace.

 

*******The Hampstead Meeting House is a Friends meeting house (a Quaker place of worship) at 120 Heath Street in Hampstead. It was designed by Fred Rowntree in the Arts and Crafts style in 1903.

 

********A stair rod, also commonly referred to as a carpet rod, is an ornamental decorative hardware item used to hold carpeting in place on steps.

 

*********Tatler was introduced on the 3rd of July 1901, by Clement Shorter, publisher of The Sphere. It was named after the original literary and society journal founded by Richard Steele in 1709. Originally sold occasionally as The Tatler and for some time a weekly publication, it had a subtitle varying on "an illustrated journal of society and the drama". It contained news and pictures of high society balls, charity events, race meetings, shooting parties, fashion and gossip, with cartoons by "The Tout" and H. M. Bateman.

 

**********Aspidistras are a flowering plant native to eastern and southeastern Asia, particularly China and Vietnam. They grow well in shade and prefer protected places, which made them the ideal indoor house plant for dark Victorian and Edwardian houses which often only had diffused light seeing in through window treatments of venetian blinds, curtains, lace scrim or a combination of all three.

 

***********Jardinière is a French word, from the feminine form of gardener. In English it means a decorative flower box, planter, planterette or plant pot which flowers or other plants are cultivated and displayed.

 

************Button back upholstered furniture contains buttons embedded in the back of the sofa or chair, which are pulled tightly against the leather creating a shallow dimple effect. This is sometimes known as button tufting.

 

*************Bouclé silk, pronounced “boo-clay” is derived from the French word for “curled” or “ringed,” reflecting the fabric's characteristic looped yarns. It is typically made from a combination of fibres, including wool, cotton, silk, linen, and synthetic materials. The loops can vary in size and tightness, giving the fabric a unique texture.

 

**************A gigot sleeve is a sleeve that was full at the shoulder and became tightly fitted to the wrist. It was more commonly known as a leg-of-mutton sleeve.

 

***************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".

 

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

 

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

 

******************”Up the elephant” is an old fashioned term Londoners used to use to describe visiting the busy shopping precinct of Elephant and Castle, south of the Thames. In its heyday, Elephant and Castle was known as "the Piccadilly Circus of South London".

 

*******************Tasseomancy, known more commonly as tasseography, is the art of identifying symbols and interpreting messages found in the shapes and configurations of tea leaves.

 

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

 

*********************The Third Battle of Ypres, also known as the Battle of Passchendaele, was a campaign of the First World War, fought by the Allies against the German Empire. The battle took place on the Western Front, from July to November 1917, for control of the ridges south and east of the Belgian city of Ypres in West Flanders, as part of a strategy decided by the Allies at conferences in November 1916 and May 1917.

 

This overstuffed and cluttered Victorian drawing room would have looked very old fashioned by the mid 1920s when this story is set, and it may look real to you. However, this upper-middle-class domestic scene is different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

The crystal ball in its stand is actually a glass marble used for arranging flowers. I deliberately chose one that had lots of bubbles inside it to give the image a magical feeling. The stand is made of glazed brown pottery and is really the stand for a small cloisonne egg.

 

The teapot also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. It is sterling silver, hallmarked Birmingham 1910 and has a removable lid, so it was probably a commissioned piece of Edwardian whimsy for someone wealthy, be they an adult or child. The blue grape and vine tea set came from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay. The design is a copy from an Edwardian Royal Doulton set.

 

The black ashtray is also an artisan piece, the bae of which is filled with “ash”. The tray as well as having grey ash in it, also has a 1:12 cigarette which rests on its lip (it is affixed there). The cigarette lighter is made of sterling silver and was made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The cigarette case, which can be seen just behind the teapot is an artisan miniature as well. It is made of red Morocco leather and opens on a minute hinge to reveal cigarettes inside.

 

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

 

The tarot cards are a desk of 1:12 sized playing cards which came from an online stockist of miniatures on E-Bay.

 

The Aspidistra to the left of the photo comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.

 

The tablecloth is a hand hade lace edged doily which I bought from an antique and curios shop some years ago.

 

The Victorian red velvet button back lady’s armchair and the salon chair in the background, I bought from a high street dolls’ house supplier when I was twelve.

 

The wallpaper is a replica of real Victorian era floral wallpaper. It is very heavily decorated and colourful, and would have been very expensive to have made and hung.

Once upon a time, a visit to London's Gatwick airport would produce a number of aircraft operated by the US supplemental carriers, in other words, those aimed at the charter market.

 

Examples included Overseas National, World, Capitol and to a lesser extent Saturn and American Flyers. However, Trans Interntional were a major operator in this market and later went on to introduce DC-10s. They ceased operations in September 1986, as their parent company, Transamerica, wanted to get out of the airline industry.

 

My photo shows -63CF N4867T slowing down on Gatwick's runway, complete with vignetting, such a feature of that Soligor 200mm !

 

The aircraft was later re-engined whilst with the airline and after TIA's demise found work as a freighter with both FedEx and UPS.

 

London Gatwick

14th July 1973

 

Praktica LTL, Kodachrome II

  

19730714 N05 N4867T adj clean std

A supplement entitled "The advertiisng appeal of gold and silver print" for Coronation Year in the March 1937 issue of Advertising Display and Press Publicity. This very colourful page details the various designers, printers and manufacturers involved; The Grosvenor Studios did the artwork, it was printed by Marshall Hardy Ltd on John Dickinson's papers, using blocks by Knighton & Cutts with inks by Johnston & Bloy and Shackell Edwards Co. Ltd. and it looks suitably 'regal'.

 

The 'shadow' comes from the reaction of the metallic inks with the opposite page that looks at the future of neon signs for advertising; in annuals such pages were often separated by a piece of tissue paper.

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

 

Today however we are not at Cavendish Mews. Instead, we are just a short distance away in London’s busy shopping precinct on Oxford Street, where amidst the throng of London’s middle-class housewives and upper-class ladies shopping for amusement, two maids – Edith who is Lettice’s maid and her best friend Hilda who is the maid for Lettice’s friends Margot and Dickie Channon - are enjoying the pleasures of window shopping under the wide canvas awnings of Selfridges on their day off. The usually busy footpath outside the enormous department store with London’s biggest plate glass windows seems even busier today as the noisily chattering crowds are swelled by visitors who have come in from the outer suburbs of London and the surrounding counties which are slowly being enveloped into the heaving, expanding metropolis to do a little bit of early Christmas shopping. However the two maids don’t mind, as the noisy burbling crowds around them and the awnings above them help protect them from the wintery wind as it blows down Oxford Street, wending its way around chugging auto busses, noisy belching automobiles and horse drawn carts that choke the busy thoroughfare. Already Edith is noticing that the shops are busier than usual, and even though Christmas is still a good few weeks away, there are signs of Christmas cheer with bright and gaudy tinsel garlands and stars cut from metallic paper hanging in shop windows and gracing shop counters. Around them, the vociferous collective chatter of shoppers mixes with the sound of noisy automobiles and chugging double decker busses as they trundle along Oxford Street.

 

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

 

“I’ve just thought of something! Come on, Hilda!” Edith says to her friend. “Let’s go inside.”

 

“Oh no!” Hilda bemoans. “Not to the Selfridges toy department again, Edith! Remember the last time we went in there in the lead up to Christmas? It will bedlam!”

 

As if on cue, a little girl in a cream knitted pixie bonnet** and matching cardigan releases a piercing shriek of protest as she is drawn away from Selfridges toy filled window by her rangy black clad nanny who mutters something about no nonsense as she does.

 

“No, silly!” Edith replies. “The book department. I think they will have a wider range of children’s books in the book department.”

 

“Well, only if it isn’t full of nasty little jam grabbers!” Hilda replies cautiously, looking askance at the children around her. “If it is, I’m leaving you and heading straight for the perfumery.”

 

“Alright Hilda.” Edith giggles, her pert nose curling slightly upwards as she does. “Come on.”

 

The pair enter Selfridge’s grand department store by one of the three revolving doors and are immediately enveloped by the wonderful scent of dozens of perfumes from the nearby perfumery counters.

 

“Couldn’t we just visit the perfumery first?” Hilda asks.

 

“You’re every bit as bad as the children you moan about, Hilda! I promise we’ll come back here after we’ve visited the book department.” Edith insists.

 

“Oh, alright Edith!” Hilda sighs.

 

“Think of it as a reward for coming with me.” Edith winks cheekily at Hilda and leads her towards the banks of lifts with their smart liveried female lift attendants***.

 

Stepping out onto the floor for the book department, Hilda breathes a sigh of relief, for unlike she imagines the toy department to be, the space is quiet and well ordered. As she and Edith walk towards the main body of the department, away from the central balconied atrium, she shudders as a high pitched scream of a child echoes from the toy department several storeys above and pierces her consciousness.

 

“Come on, old thing,” Edith says comfortingly, wrapping her arm through her best friend’s. “I promise I won’t force you to go up to the toy department.”

 

“Just as well I trust you, Edith.” Hilda replies squeezing her friend’s hand in return.

 

“Anyway,” Edith goes on with a broad smile. “I thought with your love of reading, you’d enjoy the book department more.”

 

“And you’d be right!” Hilda chortles.

 

The two young women walk along the thickly carpeted aisles. Around them stand sturdy shelves of all sizes covered in books, magazines, newspapers and periodicals. Some only stand as high as shoulder height, with shelves tilted slightly upwards from waist height, allowing easier access to titles for customers, whilst other shelves are much higher with rows of spines, or on some shelves the covers of the books on display. Central tables are weighed down with the latest novels like E. M. Forster’s ‘A Passage to India’****, ‘The Deductions of Colonel Gore’***** by Lynn Brock and Edith Wharton’s ‘Old New York’******, stacked in piles like precarious houses or cards. More valuable and larger books full of beautifully printed lithographs sit open on wide shelves inside glass fronted and topped cabinets, allowing customers the ability to peruse before asking to see them properly. Tops of cabinets share space with more novels and the occasional potted aspidistra, and small chairs and stools are discreetly secreted amongst the shelves and tables, allowing a customer to stop, sit and read a little of title before deciding whether to purchase it or not. Cosy and comfortable, the books muffle the burbling sounds of the departments beyond them and the whole space is flooded with light from lamps above, and through the large frosted glass windows that face out onto Oxford Street, making the Selfridges book department a very pleasant pace to shop.

 

“I thought you were a convert to a bookshop in Charring Cross that Miss Lettice frequents.” Hilda remarks, pausing and picking up a copy of ‘The Man in the Brown Suit’******* by Agatha Christie, and perusing the cover which shows a stylishly dressed woman in a fur trimmed green coat and matching cloche observing a man in an orange suit and a railway conductor looking for signs of life in what she can only assume to be the man mentioned in the title on the edge of an underground railway platform. She deposits the title back as Edith tugs at her arm, encouraging her to continue their exploration of the shelves, cabinets and tables around them.

 

“Whilst Mr. Mayhew******** does a splendid job of supplying copies of Agatha Christie novels with slightly soiled covers at a discounted rate for me to give to Dad, I don’t think he stocks the kind of book I want today.”

 

“What are you looking for, anyway, Edith?”

 

“I told you before, children’s books, Hilda.”

 

“Yes, but what kind of children’s books? Adventure books? Picture books?”

 

“I’ll know them when I see them.” Edith says excitedly. “Come on!”

 

“Who are you buying them for?” Hilda asks. “You don’t know any children that I know of.”

 

“They are for…” Edith pauses mid-sentence and thinks before she speaks. Having become a good friend of Lettice’s charwoman*********, Mrs. Boothby, she has had the rare pleasure of meeting the old Cockney woman’s son, Ken, a forty-four year old man who is a simple and gentle giant with the aptitude of a six year old. Mrs. Boothby’s words ring in her ears about how it is easier for her not to mention that she has a son, not because she is ashamed of him, but because not everyone would understand her wanting to keep and raise a child with such difficulties. She knows that for all her love of gossip, in this matter Mrs. Boothby requires the utmost discretion and has been brave in taking Edith into her into her confidence by introducing her to Ken. Even though she knows that Hilda is every bit as discreet and trustworthy as she is, Edith cannot let it slip who the books are for. “For Mrs. Boothby’s grandchildren.” Edith fabricates. “Remember, Hilda? I bought them some Beatrix Potter books two Christmases ago.”

 

“Oh yes: I remember!” Hilda replies. “How could I forget that trip upstairs?” She casts her eyes to the white painted plaster ceiling above, imaging the horrors of the toy department crowded with excited children in toy heaven escorted by their frazzled parents. She pauses. “You know, even though I’m sure she shares confidences with me that she shares with you, Edith, Mrs. Boothby never talks about her family around me.” She stops, unlinks her arm from Edith’s and places her hands on her hips. “And nor has she ever invited me to her house for a slap-up tea!”

 

“There’s no need to get jealous, Hilda.” Edith replies calmly. “It’s hardly tea with Queen Mary.” she deflects. “It’s just a bit of toast and jam in Mrs. Boothby’s tiny two room tenement. It’s basic and clean, which is certainly more than can be said for the street outside.” She then adds to further discourage Hilda from pursuing the matter, “And she does go on and on and on about her grandchildren. You know what she’s like.”

 

“Oh yes,” Hilda agrees, her stance and facial expression softening into neutrality. “She can talk ‘till the cows come home**********, can old Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Especially when she’s gossiping.” Edith laughs.

 

Edith feels pangs of guilt, not telling the truth to her best friend, but she assuages the feeling, knowing that it is being done for the greater good. She makes a mental note to make a point of telling Mrs. Boothby how trustworthy Hilda is, and what a good keeper of secrets she is, the next time she is at Cavendish Mews.

 

Edith continues to peruse the shelves until she finally comes across the children’s section.

 

“Here we are!” Edith says, spying a beautiful arrangement of colourful books on a round table in the middle of a brightly woven rug. “This is the sort of thing I’m after! Something colourful and bright, and not what you might see in Poplar.”

 

In front of them stand a selection of beautifully illustrated books by Walter Crane***********. A selection of folk and faerie tales stand alongside an alphabet book, a painting book and various others. All have colourful covers with elegant graphics on them.

 

“Oh! I remember these!” Hilda gasps, following her friend. “Mum used to bring them home from the library for my sisters and brothers and me when we were all little. They were called Toy Books************. Mum taught us our letters from this one.” She takes up ‘An Alphabet of Old Friends’ and cradles it in her arms. “I doubt any poor child in Poplar would have books as pretty as these: poor mites!”

 

“All the more reason to buy one then. Just look at the lovely illustrations!” Edith enthuses as she opens a copy of ‘The Frog Prince’ and sees a double page illustration of the little green hero of the story sitting on a fine damask tablecloth before the princess dressed in gold. Her father the king sists at the head of the table and scolds his daughter for making a promise to the frog that she didn’t intend to keep. The colours are bright and jewel like and the designs rich with interesting patterns and designs. “I wonder which one he… err they, would like?” Edith ponders aloud as she puts down ‘The Frog Prince’ and takes up a copy of ‘Beauty and the Beast’.

 

“I’m sure her grandchildren would be happy to have any of them, Edith.” Hilda remarks. “I know I would if I were a young child this book was made for.”

 

Edith doesn’t reply, keeping her silence about for whom the children’s picture book is really for.

 

“What about this one?” Hilda picks up ‘Walter Crane’s Painting Book’. “They could paint the pictures.” she suggests as she flicks through the pages where Walter Crane’s detailed illustrations are simply line drawings, allowing a child to paint the colours for themselves to match the complete matching colour illustrations printed on the opposite page. “I’m sure Mrs. Boothby could find them some watercolours, or better yet, you could buy them some, Edith.”

 

“It’s a lovely idea Edith, but he… err… they aren’t really painters.”

 

“How queer they sound!” Hilda exclaims. “Not like painting? When we were children, my sisters and I used to be mad about painting.”

 

“Well not everyone’s an artist like you are, Hilda.” Edith remarks in reply.

 

“I bet they really do like to paint,” Hilda goes on. “Only Mrs. Boothby is so used to cleaning for others, that she wants to keep her own house spic-and-span.”

 

“Well, she does like to keep her house tidy.” Edith agrees. “She calls it a clean haven from the outside world, and she isn’t half wrong. But I don’t think she would stop them painting, if that’s what they wanted to do. She loves children, even ones that aren’t her own kin.”

 

Edith looks at a few more of the titles, admiring the finely printed illustrations before finally settling upon one.

 

“I loved the story of ‘Beauty and the Beast’ when I was a girl.” Edith remarks. “Such a happy ending,” Her voice takes on a wistful air as she continues, “And proof that there is a handsome prince behind even the most unlikely of beasts.”

 

“Well, it’s a good lesson to teach children.” Hilda opines.

 

“Yes! I’ll buy this one.” Edith decides. She picks it up and cradles it to her chest lovingly. “It will make a lovely Christmas gift!”

 

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

 

“Oh, it’s the least I can do Hilda. Mrs. Boothby’s become such a good friend to me since we first met. She was genuinely happy for me when I told her that I received an increase to my wages, and yet I bet you she didn’t get an increase from Miss Lettice for all the hard graft she does around Cavendish Mews.”

 

“And she works jolly hard for every penny she earns, too.” Hilda adds.

 

“That she does, so if I can bring her grandchildren some cheer this Christmas, I’ll be only too happy.”

 

“You put me to shame, Edith.” Hilda says guiltily.

 

“What are you talking about, Hilda?”

 

“Well, you’re so generous, thinking of others this Christmas.”

 

“Oh! You’re doing your bit for the less fortunate this Christmas, aren’t you Hilda? You’re knitting for Mrs. Minkin’s knitting circle’s Christmas drive for the needy.”

 

“Pshaw!” Hilda scoffs. “I don’t know how grateful the poor of Poplar and Whitechapel will be to have one of my knitted pairs of socks or scarves, not when you compare it to the knitting done by Mrs. Minkin, Miss Woolencroft, old Ma Badel or Mrs. Minkin’s lovely young nice, Katya Levi. Now she can knit beautifully, can Kayta! It must run though Mrs. Minkin’s family.”

 

“I’m sure that whatever the poor of Poplar and Whitechapel receive thanks to your knitting group’s industry will be gratefully received, Hilda, and that includes your contributions.”

 

“With the stitches I drop, there are a few small holes in a few pairs of socks, even before they’re worn, and my lack of tension control does mean my scarves are a bit…” Hilda pauses to think of the right word. “Uneven.”

 

“Well, dropped stitches and slight differences in tension or not, you’re still helping those who can’t help themselves this Christmas, and I’m sure they’ll be very grateful, Hilda.” Edith insists with a broad smile.

 

“I suppose so.” Hilda mutters, hanging her head.

 

“I know so, Hilda,” Edith replies encouragingly, giving her friend a friendly squeeze of the forearm. “Your knitting is getting better and better, the more you practice. Just remember that not that long ago, you couldn’t knit at all. Now look at you: knitting socks and scarves! I hope you’ve knitted me a Christmas present Hilda.”

 

Hilda blushes as she replies, “I have. I only hope that you’ll like it.”

 

“I shall love it, Hilda!”

 

“Even with a dropped stitch or two?” Hilda asks doubtfully.

 

“Most definitely, Hilda! It will be original that way.” Edith adds brightly. “No-one else will have what I have with stitches dropped in the same place.”

 

“You’re far to kind to me, Edith.”

 

“Seriously though, Hilda, I know I will love it, because you will have made it for me with love.” Edith enthuses. “Be proud of what you’ve achieved and how far you’ve come with your knitting.”

 

“Thank you, Edith!” Hilda gives her friend a grateful hug, which is reciprocated by Edith. “You’re the best friend a girl ever had, you know.”

 

“Well then, you must be the best friend I’ll ever have, because I know you’d do the same to buck me up when I’m feeling low.”

 

“You never have low spirits, Edith.”

 

“Well,” Edith ponders. “You always make sure that you include me in your intellectual conversations you have with Frank, and you explain things to me that I don’t understand in such a way that I don’t feel ignorant or stupid.”

 

“You aren’t ignorant, or stupid, Edith!” Hilda bursts. “You’re very smart.”

 

“Well, I don’t feel quite as smart as I think I should be sometimes, stepping out with a man as intelligent as Frank is. But you’ve helped me learn about things that are important to him, like labour rights and things of that sort. So, you help me too, just as I help you.”

 

“Alright Edith!” Hilda demurs, smiling broadly as she does. “I agree. I help you, and you help me, in equal measures, in different ways.”

 

“That’s it, Hilda!”

 

“Come on then, Edith. Best you buy that book for Mrs. Boothby’s grandchildren before someone else comes along and buys it.”

 

“You’re right Hilda!” Edith giggles.

 

“You’ll make their Christmas with that.” Hilda nods at the book, still clutched to Edith’s chest.

 

“I hope so.” Edith replies quietly, smiling shyly, thinking of Ken’s gormless grin when he sees her and imagining him giggling in delight and wonder at the beautiful illustrations in the book she now holds.

 

The pair of young women wend their way through the aisles of books again to the glass topped counter in front of a large mahogany shelf full of books

 

“May I help you, Miss?” asks a young shopgirl next to the register, who smiles at them cheerfully, her simple black moiré dress brightened with a pretty scarf featuring bright Art Deco patterns from the accessories department downstairs, and her rich chestnut coloured hair set in glossy and cascading, fashionable Marcel waves*************.

 

“How much is this, please?” Edith asks.

 

“Three and six, Miss.” the shopgirl replies with a smile, showing off her perfect pearly teeth as she glances at the book in Edith’s hands.

 

“A bit more than the sixpence they used to cost.” Hilda whispers in Edith’s ear. “Or free on loan from the library, like my Mum got them. You’ll spoil those grandchildren of Mrs. Boothby’s.”

 

“I hope so, Hilda.” Edith replies quietly as she blushes.

 

“A lovely gift for birthday, or perhaps for Christmas, if I may say so, Miss.” the shop girl says cheerfully. “It’s good to get in and do a spot of early Christmas shopping.”

 

“That’s the idea.” Edith replies, smiling pleasurably as she hands the book over to the girl behind the counter and fishes out her purse from her green leather handbag.

 

“The shops down Oxford Street are already starting to get busier, now that it’s December.” the shop girl goes on brightly. “People are suddenly realising that Christmas is just around the corner, really.”

 

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

 

**A pixie bonnet is a knitted bonnet usually worn by babies and small children which covers the whole of their head and is fastened under the chin. Adapted from more traditional styles of baby bonnets and introduced in the early 1920s, they quickly became popular with parents as suitable headwear for their young children as they protected the heads of babies with little to no hair from the cold, and were easily made using knitting patterns distributed through women’s periodicals.

 

***Harry Gordon Selfridge believed in women’s emancipation. When the Great War broke out in 1914 and many of his male lift attendants went off to fight, he allowed women to fill their roles, as well as many other roles formerly filled by men in his department store. When hostilities with Germany ended in 1918, many young men didn’t return, having made the ultimate sacrifice for King and country, which meant a scarcity of men. The female lift attendants had proven so popular during the war years that Harry Gordon Selfridge made them a permanent fixture in his department store, much to the shock of many shoppers. However, like most things, he used his choice to his advantage, advertising not only its uniqueness in the department stores along Oxford and Regent Streets, but also wooing the millions of emancipated women who were happy to shop under the roof of such an enlightened man in what was then a very patriarchal society dominated by men. By the 1924 when this story is set, his female lift attendants wore a smart livery of frock coats, breeches and caps in Selfridges colours.

 

****A Passage to India is a 1924 novel by English author E. M. Forster set against the backdrop of the British Raj and the Indian independence movement in the 1920s. It won the 1924 James Tait Black Memorial Prize for fiction. The story revolves around four characters: Dr. Aziz, his British friend Mr. Cyril Fielding, Mrs. Moore, and Miss Adela Quested. During a trip to the fictitious Marabar Caves (modelled on the Barabar Caves of Bihar), Adela thinks she finds herself alone with Dr. Aziz in one of the caves (when in fact he is in an entirely different cave; whether the attacker is real or a reaction to the cave is ambiguous), and subsequently panics and flees; it is assumed that Dr. Aziz has attempted to assault her. Aziz's trial, and its run-up and aftermath, bring to a boil the common racial tensions and prejudices between Indians and the British during the colonial era.

 

*****The Deductions of Colonel Gore is a 1924 detective novel by the Irish-born writer Lynn Brock. It was the first in his series of seven novels featuring the character of Colonel Wyckham Gore. Gore enjoyed popularity during the early stages of the Golden Age of Detective Fiction. t was also published under the alternative title ‘The Barrington Mystery’. Colonel Gore gives a Masai knife as a wedding present to Barbara Lethbridge. When he returns to England the following year he finds she stands accused or murder, as the knife has been plunged into a blackmailer Barrington with whom she is involved. Against his better instincts Gore takes on the role of amateur detective in order to clear her name.

 

******‘Old New York’ is a collection of four novellas by Edith Wharton, revolving around upper-class New York City society in the 1840s, 1850s, 1860s, and 1870s. The novellas are not directly interconnected, though certain fictional characters appear in more than one story. The New York of these stories is the same as the New York of ‘The Age of Innocence” (which had been successfully published in 1920), from which several fictional characters have spilled over into these stories. The observation of the manners and morals of Nineteenth Century New York upper-class society is directly reminiscent of ‘The Age of Innocence’, but these novellas are shaped more as character studies than as a full-blown novel. Some characters who overlap among these four stories and ‘The Age of Innocence’: Mrs. (Catherine) Manson Mingott, Sillerton Jackson, Mrs. Lemuel Struthers, Henry Van der Luyden. Other families and institutions also appear in more than one place among this extended set of New York stories.

 

******* ‘The Man in the Brown Suit’ is a work of detective fiction by British writer Agatha Christie, first published in the UK by The Bodley Head on 22 August 1924 and in the US by Dodd, Mead and Company later in the same year. The character Colonel Race is introduced in this novel. Anne Beddingfeld is on her own and ready for adventures when one comes her way. She sees a man die in a tube station and picks up a piece of paper dropped nearby. The message on the paper leads her to South Africa as she fits more pieces of the puzzle together about the death she witnessed. There is a murder in England the next day, and the murderer attempts to kill her on the ship en route to Cape Town.

 

********A. H. Mayhew was once one of many bookshops located in London’s Charring Cross Road, an area still famous today for its bookshops, perhaps most famously written about by American authoress Helene Hanff who wrote ’84, Charing Cross Road’, which later became a play and then a 1987 film starring Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins. Number 56. Charing Cross Road was the home of Mayhew’s second-hand and rare bookshop. Closed after the war, their premises is now the home of Any Amount of Books bookshop.

 

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

 

**********Meaning for a long time, the origin of the phrase “till the cows come home” comes from the practice of cows returning to their shelters at some indefinite point, usually at a slow, languid pace.

 

***********Walter Crane was an English artist and book illustrator. He is considered to be the most influential, and among the most prolific, children's book creators of his generation and, along with Randolph Caldecott and Kate Greenaway, one of the strongest contributors to the child's nursery motif that the genre of English children's illustrated literature would exhibit in its developmental stages in the later Nineteenth Century. Crane's work featured some of the more colourful and detailed beginnings of the child-in-the-garden motifs that would characterize many nursery rhymes and children's stories for decades to come. He was part of the Arts and Crafts movement and produced an array of paintings, illustrations, children's books, ceramic tiles, wallpapers and other decorative arts. Crane is also remembered for his creation of a number of iconic images associated with the international socialist movement.

 

************In 1863, the engraver and printer Edmund Evans commissioned Walter Crane to produce a set of designs for a potential book series. This was the period of greater mechanisation in publishing, and that this was often used as an excuse to neglect design. Walter Crane wrote: “The books for babies, current at that time (about 1865 to 1870) of the cheaper sort called toy books were not very inspiriting. These were generally careless and unimaginative woodcuts, very casually coloured by hand, dabs of pink and emerald green being laid on across faces with a somewhat reckless aim.” Edmund Evans believed paper picture books could be greatly improved and still sold for sixpence if printed in sufficient quantity. Walter Crane and Edmund Evans gradually transformed the toy book into a sophisticated art form using a variety of technical, intellectual and aesthetic means. Advances in the use of wood engravings for colour printing made it possible for Evans to accurately print Crane’s designs in a wide range of sophisticated colours. Crane’s designs were printed by Evans for the publisher Frederick Warne in a Sixpenny Toybook series, bound in pale yellow rather than white. In 1867 Crane began designing toy books for George Routledge. Over the next ten years, he illustrated thirty-seven of these toy books, which would become the most popular children’s books of the day.

 

*************Marcelling is a hair styling technique in which hot curling tongs are used to induce a curl into the hair. Its appearance was similar to that of a finger wave but it is created using a different method. Marcelled hair was a popular style for women's hair in the 1920s, often in conjunction with a bob cut. For those women who had longer hair, it was common to tie the hair at the nape of the neck and pin it above the ear with a stylish hair pin or flower. One famous wearer was American entertainer, Josephine Baker.

 

These books might be the kind of children’s book you may like to give someone you love for Christmas, but if you do, they may need a magnifying glass, for these are all artisan pieces as part of my extensive 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The books on display here, and in the shelves behind are all 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. In this case, this selection of books designed by the prolific children’s illustrator, Walter Crane and two (Abroad and London Town) by this father Thomas Crane. I bought these on purpose because I have loved Walter Crane’s and Thomas Crane’s work ever since I was a child, and I have real life-size first editions of many of these books including, Abroad, London Town, A Masque of Days, Beauty and the Beast, the Hind in the Wood, Cinderella’s Picture Book and The Frog Prince, the latter of which stands open, showing an illustration from the book. What might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make them all miniature artisan pieces. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

The round display table on which the books stand tilts like a real loo table, and is an artisan miniature from an unknown maker with a marquetry inlaid top, which came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom.

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Which they have.” Lettuce defends hotly.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Poole!” Lady Zinnia addresses the other footman.

 

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

 

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

 

“Yes, Your Grace!” Poole replies.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“No, not at all, your Grace.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The Duchess doesn’t say anything.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Lettice’s mouth suddenly feels very dry.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“No. No, he… No. No.” Lettice begins.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

  

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Frank got your tickets then?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Did she now, fancy fine little madam?”

 

“As if she even knew what cavorting meant.”

 

“So whatchoo do, then, Edith dearie?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“’Ow’s that then?”

 

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

 

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

 

“So I was a mess of emotions.”

 

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

 

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

 

“What’s that then, dearie?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Maybe, Mrs. Boothby.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

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

 

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

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

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

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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 following Edith, Lettice’s maid, as she heads east of Mayfair, to a place far removed from the elegance and gentility of Lettice’s flat, in London’s East End. As a young woman, Edith is very interested in fashion, particularly now that she is stepping out with Mr. Willison the grocer’s delivery boy, Frank Leadbetter. Luckily like most young girls of her class, her mother has taught Edith how to sew her own clothes and she has become an accomplished dressmaker, having successfully made frocks from scratch for herself, or altered cheaper existing second-hand pieces to make them more fashionable by letting out waistlines and taking up hems. Thanks to Lettice’s Cockney charwoman*, Mrs. Boothby, who lives in nearby Poplar, Edith now has her own hand treadle Singer** sewing machine courtesy of her son Ken who works for a rag-and-bone man*** and found her one. Mrs. Boothby also assisted Edith by recommending her to a wonderful haberdasher in Whitechapel, where she now goes to on occasion on her days off when she needs something for one of her many sewing projects as she slowly adds to and updates her wardrobe. It is at Mrs. Minkin’s Haberdashery, just a short walk from Petticoat Lane**** where Edith often picks up bargains from one of the many second-hand clothes stalls, that we find ourselves today. She is visiting Mrs. Minkin with her best friend and fellow maid, Hilda, who works for Lettice’s friends, Dickie and Margot Channon. The two maids have been busy collecting a few items to purchase: Edith some trims for her latest frock alteration, and Hilda some wool for her new passion for knitting which she developed after joining Mrs. Minkin’s knitting circle a few months ago, which meets in a nearby local benevolent society’s hall in Whitechapel once a fortnight.

 

“Ahh!” sighs Mrs. Minkin in satisfaction as she admires the straw hat decorated with ornamental flowers and ribbons atop Edith’s head. “How well my hat suits you, Edit my dear! I’m glad I twisted your finger to buy it.”

 

A refugee from Odessa as a result of a pogrom***** in 1905, Mrs. Minkin’s Russian accent, still thick after nearly twenty years of living in London’s East End, muffles the h at the end of Edith’s name, making the young girl smile, for it is an endearing quality of the older Jewess. Edith likes the proprietress with her old fashioned upswept hairdo and frilly Edwardian lace jabot running down the front of her blouse, held in place today by a circlet of dark red winking garnets – a gift from her equally beloved and irritating husband, Mr. Minkin. She always has a smile and a kind word for Edith and Hilda, and her generosity towards them has found Edith discover extra spools of coloured cottons or curls of pretty ribbons and other notions****** in the lining of her parcels when she unpacks them at Cavendish Mews, whilst Hilda comes away with some extra wool that Mrs. Minkin claims she was just about to throw away. Mrs. Minkin always insists when the girls mention it, that she wished all her life that she had had a daughter, but all she ever had were sons, so Edith and Hilda are like a surrogate daughters to her, and as a result they get to reap the small benefits of her largess, at least until one of her sons finally makes her happy and brings home a girl she approves of.

 

“I think you’ll find that the saying is twisting one’s arm, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith corrects her politely. “And it was quite an extravagance, even on sale.”

 

“Well, it was worth it, Edit my dear!” Mrs. Minkin enthuses. “It was made for you. I said that from the first time I saw you try it on, didn’t I?”

 

“You did, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith admits with a shy smile.

 

Edith sighs and takes in a deep breath of air. Mrs. Minkin’s establishment is a comforting haven from the busy East End world outside her door. The bolts and rolls of fabrics lining the walls muffle the sound, whilst the smell of fresh linen, and lavender and clove sachets uses to keep insects at bay, also keep out the unpleasant odours of the East End. The shop is organised and cosy, and she always feels welcome when she crosses the threshold.

 

“Anyway, you can afford it now, Edith.” Hilda pipes up.

 

“What’s this you say, dear Hilde?” Mrs. Minkin queries, using the slightly altered variation of Hilda’s name, which she has now gotten used to after months of being part of Mrs. Minkin’s knitting circle. She cocks an expertly plucked eyebrow over her right eye as she looks towards the young maid standing behind her gleaming brass cash register.

 

“Well, Edith’s gone and landed herself an extra four shillings a month in wages, Mrs. Minkin.” Hilda replies.

 

“Really Edit?” the old Russian Jewess exclaims, clasping her worn bejewelled fingers together in delight. “This is marvellous news indeed, my dear!”

 

“You make it sound like I arranged for it to happen, Hilda.” Edith admonishes her friend as she flushes red with embarrassment. “And I didn’t. It was all Miss Lettice’s idea, and well you know it. I didn’t do anything to receive it.”

 

“I never said you did.” Hilda replies with a cheeky smile.

 

“Except be your beautiful self, Edit my dear!” Mrs. Minkin adds, her eyes sparkling with delight for her young customer’s good news as she grasps the strands of tape measure draped around her neck as they dangle down her tightly corseted front. “I’m sure your work is worth every one of those four shillings, my dear. Mazel tov*******!”

 

“Thank you Mrs. Minkin.” Edith replies shyly.

 

“So, you come to spend some of that good fortune at my shop, bringing me hatz’lachah********. Thank you Edit, my dear.”

 

“Well, I would have come anyway, Mrs. Minkin. You always have the best notions at the most affordable prices.”

 

“Well of course I do, Edit my dear! I haven’t been in business for nearly twenty years without getting some things right!” Mrs. Minkin laughs good naturedly. Turning her attention to Hilda, she asks, “And do you have an increase in wages too, dear Hilde?”

 

“Chance would be a fine thing!” Hilda scoffs.

 

“No?” Mrs. Minkin queries, her jolly round face falling in disappointment for your young customer as she does.

 

“I wish, Mrs. Minkin! I dream of getting a wage increase like that, but there is no way Mr. and Mrs. Channon, my employers, can afford it.”

 

“That’s too bad, dear Hilde!” the old Jewess opines.

 

“I still think it’s worth asking Mrs. Channon, Hilda.” Edith insists. “She might cry poor, but we all know that her idea of being poor, and ours, are quite different.”

 

“I can’t do that, Edith!” Hilda exclaims. “I can’t just go to Mrs. Channon and say, ‘Edith got an extra four shillings a month, so I want four shillings too.’ can I?”

 

“Well, I think you should just casually let it slip into the conversation with Mrs. Channon that Miss Lettice gave me an extra four shillings a month. You know Mrs. Channon thinks the world of Miss Lettice, and if Miss Lettice does a thing, Mrs. Channon usually follows suit. It’s why we both have the same days off.”

 

“Well, I don’t know.” Hilda says doubtfully. “Days off are one thing, but an extra four shillings a month is quite another.”

 

“If you don’t ask, you don’t know, Hilda,” Edith replies with a firm nod. “And if you don’t ask, you don’t receive either: and that’s a fact!”

 

“We’ll see.” Hilda concedes, but the hesitation in her voice implies to Edith that she probably won’t do as she suggests.

 

“Now, let’s see what you girls have selected from my little establishment.” Mrs. Minkin remarks, glancing down at Edith’s purchases sitting on the glass topped counter. “Oh yes, some lovely Bakelite********* buttons,” she comments as she picks up the card with several fine rectangular gleaming brown buttons on it. “These are very fashionable: very…. what’s the word…” She raises the knuckle of her right index finger to her chin and together with her thumb she rubs her jowly flesh whilst she ruminates over the correct word to use. “Very… chic**********. Yes! That’s it! very chic! And, some pretty ribbon too.” She picks up the spool of pale blue grosgrain satin and contemplates it for a moment. “The hue will bring out the colour in your eyes, Edit my dear.” She says, making Edith’s cheeks colour again.

 

“It’s to brighten up one of her old dance frocks for when we next go to the Hammersmith Palais*********** with Frank, Mrs, Minkin.”

 

“Hhhmmm.” Mrs. Minkin sounds her approval. “It’s good not to waste money on new clothes, when you can make do by re-modelling existing ones.”

 

“You’ll soon go out of business talking like that, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith laughs.

 

“I only say this to my good customers, Edit my dear. You spend your precious pennies and shillings on good quality bits and pieces in my shop, and allow me to make my kesef************ from those loud goyim************* that sweep in here like the Queen of Sheba with their painted faces and gawdy clothes, thinking that just because Mr. Minkin and I are Jews that they can get a bargain out of us.” She scoffs bitterly as she concludes her sentence. “No, you are a smart girl: much smarter than they are. You shop for bargains, and you look for gifts all year round. This is the last of the roll, so only about nine inches. You pay me for six.”

 

“Oh but Mrs. Minkin…”

 

“Mrs. Minkin silences Edith’s protestations with a raised hand. “Now, oh yes, a packet of sewing needles, and the latest copy of Weldon’s************* and,” She pauses. “And Weldon’s special spring fashion catalogue? But it’s almost autumn now. Anyway, don’t you have this already, Edit my dear?”

 

“I do, Mrs. Minkin, but I want to buy a copy for Mum. She likes the embroidery patterns in Weldon’s, but she won’t let me give her new copies. I usually give her my old ones, but I quite fancied some of the embroidery in this edition, so I’m keeping it. I don’t want her to miss out.”

 

“That’s very good of you, Edit my dear. I bet your mother keeps an eye on the latest wedding frocks too.” the old Jewess says with a wink. “Just so she knows what’s in fashion when you and Frank get married.”

 

“Well, I suppose we both do, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith replies a little awkwardly.

 

“Your mother is a lucky woman to have a daughter like you who is so kind and caring. I wish I was so lucky.”

 

“What about Emmi?” Hilda asks, referring to Mrs. Minkin’s daughter-in-law who is married to her eldest son, Samuel.

 

“Who?” Mrs. Minkin asks distractedly as she starts to add up Edith’s purchases in her head.

 

“Emmi, Samuel’s wife.” Hilda elucidates.

 

“Oy vey***************!” the old Jewess cries, throwing her bejewelled hands in the air. “Emmi is nothing like my dear Edit!”

 

“What’s wrong with Emmi?” Hilda asks in defence of the polite, friendly and chatty young girl with fiery red hair who always shows up to Mrs. Minkin’s knitting circle looking fashionably smart and select and who happily natters away to Hilda like they have been friends for years.

 

“It’s all Mr. Minkin’s fault! He let Samuel marry Emmi because Samuel had his heart set on her. He wanted to marry for love. For love!” She spits out the last two words with disappointment. “Who ever heard such a thing?”

 

“Well, I love Frank, Mrs. Minkin, and we will get married eventually, when we have enough money behind us.”

 

“You young people today are so tiresome,” Mrs. Minkin retorts. “Too wound up in this idea of love that you pick up from those moving pictures you all watch.”

 

“You don’t believe in love, Mrs. Minkin?” Edith asks in surprise.

 

“Of course I do, but love will come in time, Edit my dear. First comes marriage and then comes love.” Mrs. Minkin insists kindly, reaching out and patting her hand.

 

“Not the other way around, Mrs. Minkin?” Hilda asks.

 

“Oy vey, no, dear Hilde! When I first met Mr. Minkin, it was on our wedding day when we said our vows beneath the chuppah****************, and look at us today, thirty-five years later, we are still husband and wife and proud parents to three sons too!” She smiles proudly. She ponders for a moment before going on, “Marriage is like… like a… a cake. Yes! Like a cake!”

 

“A cake, Mrs. Minkin?” Edith splutters in disbelief. “How can a marriage be like a cake?”

 

“You may doubt me,” Mrs, Minkin wags her right index finger first at Edith and then at Hilda, the emerald in the gold ring on it winking merrily in the light of the haberdashery. “But believe me, after thirty-five years of marriage, I know.” She settles back contentedly behind her counter. “Marriage is like a cake. You need to work hard at it, with the right ingredients, to make it work.”

 

“And love?” Hilda asks.

 

“Well, you don’t know you love a cake until you taste it, and sometimes you need more than one slice before you realise that you love it.”

 

Edith and Hilda chuckle light heartedly at the old Jewess’ rather peculiar sounding idea.

 

“My words no doubt seem strange to you, but believe me, when I say to you both I am right, my dears. Mrs. Minkin knows.” She taps the side of her nose with her right index finger.

 

“Well, I still don’t see what cakes have to do with Emmi and Samuel.” Hilda adds.

 

“Well, sometimes cakes aren’t always what they appear to be. You think you are going to eat a lovely, sweet medovik*****************… a.. err… a cake made from honey, and you end up with a muraveynik******************… err… an anthill cake, instead!”

 

“Are you saying that Samuel loved Emmi, but now that they are married, she is different person,” Hilda gasps. “And that now he doesn’t love her?”

 

“No Hilde!” Mrs. Minkin exclaims in exasperation. “He’s as in love with her as much now as when he first laid eyes on her, if not more so! My son the schlemiel*******************!” She raises her gaze to the white painted plaster ceiling overhead in vexation. “And that silly Emmi is no better, mooning after Samuel when he goes out to work every day at Mr. Cohen the mechant’s.”

 

“I’ve found Emmi to always be lovely when she comes to our knitting circle, Mrs. Minkin.” Hilda comments.

 

“I must confess, if Samuel loves Emmi, and she loves him, I don’t see what the problem is, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith remarks.

 

“The problem is that I don’t love her!” Mrs. Minkin wails. “I tell you; I wanted daughters like you, and what do I get? I get Emmi Katz! I would never have picked Emmi Katz for my Samuel if I knew what I know now, and what any decent matchmaker in Whitechapel would know! Oy vey! She is the opposite to you! She dreams of a better life living in Hampstead Garden Suburb******************** with Samuel, far away from me and Mr. Minkin, and the squalor, as she calls it, of the East End. Yet she never lifts a finger to achieve it!”

 

“Well, it’s good to have dreams and aspirations, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith defends.

 

“That lazy Emmy just sits around our house looking decorous all day and does nothing!” Mrs. Minkin says derisively. “The other week, I asked her for the first time to bake the challah********************* for the Sabbath and what did she do?”

 

“What?” Edith and Hilda ask together, both holding their breath.

 

“She burned it! The foy meydl********************** burned the challah!” Mrs. Minkin bemoans. “Oy vey!”

 

“Oh dear!” Edith exclaims, glancing at Hilda as she does.

 

“It’s not like she had a parlour maid at home before she married my Samuel,” Mrs. Minkin cries. “Sarah can’t afford one any more than I can! Then again, it’s her mother I blame for indulging her, just as I blame Mr. Minkin for indulging Samuel’s wish to marry for love. My marriage to Mr. Minkin was arranged, and we make a successful partnership. We didn’t need love. We needed patience and understanding, and then like a flower, love bloomed.”

 

“Well we don’t have arranged marriages in our family, Mrs. Minkin,” Edith says kindly. “Or matchmakers. So, I shall have to rely on my feelings of love for Frank, however flawed they may be, to make the right decision about marrying him.”

 

“Has he proposed to you yet, Edit my dear?”

 

“Not in as many words, Mrs. Minkin, but he is committed to the idea of us getting married, and he will.” Edith assures her.

 

“He just has to work up the courage to officially ask her.” Hilda interjects cheekily.

 

“We are both just saving up a little bit more money before we think about marriage, and then he will go to my father and ask for my hand.” Edith says, ignoring her friend’s impudent remark.

 

“Well, he’s a good man if he is doing the correct thing and asking your father for your hand, before he proposes to you.” Mrs. Minkin replies with a comforted sigh. “I approve of that. Just do me one more favour, Edit my dear.”

 

“And what’s that, Mrs. Minkin.”

 

“Just make sure that Frank is good to your parents, as you are to them,” The old Jewess’ eyebrows arch over her dark eyes. “And be kind to your future mother-in-law, as you would your own mother. Eh? Don’t be the sow’s purse made out of a silk ear, like Emmi is.”

 

Edith laughs. “Alright Mrs. Minkin, I will. I promise.”

 

“Good girl!” Mrs. Minkin says with a satisfied sigh and a smile as she begins to wrap up Edith’s purchases. “You can have that copy of Weldon’s for your mother for nothing, just because you are a dear girl. So, that will be two shillings and ninepence.”

 

“Mrs. Minkin!” Edith protests. “I… I can’t…”

 

“Of course you can!” the older woman insists, patting Edith’s hand comfortingly again. “As I said, if I had a daughter, or daughter-in-law like you, I’d spoil her no end!”

 

“Well, I think you are a bit too hard on poor Emmi.” Hilda remarks defensively of Mrs. Minkin’s daughter-in-law as Edith hands her money to Mrs. Minkin. “I think she is charming. Perhaps she’s not the best cook in the whole world, but I wasn’t either, until Edith taught me a thing or two. I also couldn’t knit, and I was afraid to even pick up a pair of needles until,” She looks meaningfully at the older woman behind the counter. “I had a good, kind and patient teacher like you. Perhaps Emmi needs the same to help her stop burning the bread.”

 

“Pshaw!” Mrs. Minkin scoffs as she takes up the two balls of wool and new knitting needles that make up Hilda’s purchase, her face colouring in shame at being called out by her young customer. “You’re a wise girl, dear Hilde – wiser than your years. You won’t get married for love.” she pronounces.

 

“How do you know I won’t, Mrs. Minkin?” Hilda retorts.

 

“Because you are too smart, and your head rules your heart, not the other way around like my foolish Samuel.” Mrs. Minkin replies. “You’ll marry a young scholar and your minds will meet. Then love will follow, as it should.”

 

Just as she speaks, the door to Mrs. Minkin’s storeroom opens and a man in a grey flat cap with a dark beard that is starting to slowly grey steps out. He wears a beautiful silk cravat of crimson and gold at his throat – an expensive and stylish piece rather at odds with the rest of his outfit of a thick apron over a collarless shirt, dark woollen vest and worn work trousers. He has thick bushy eyebrows over soft, dark brown eyes, and a gentle and friendly smile graces his aging face.

 

“Rachel.” he calls in a soft, rumbling voice that is deep and comforting.

 

“Well Soloman,” Mrs. Minkin replies, spinning to her right, away from Edith and Hilda to face her husband, placing her hands firmly on her hips in a stance she is obviously well versed in striking after thirty-five years of marriage and raising three sons. “We were just talking about you!”

 

“Oh dear!” Mr. Minkin exclaims. “What have I done now?” He glances anxiously at the two girls on the customer side of the glass topped shop counter, although he notes that neither of them look particularly upset by some article they want being unattainable or out of stock.

 

“You only let our Samuel marry that useless Emmi Levi for love!” Mrs. Minkin elucidates bitterly as she sweeps from behind the counter towards her hapless husband.

 

As Mrs. Minkin’s accusation charged tones ring around her haberdashery as she nags her husband, Hilda turns to Edith and asks, “Are you sure you want to get married, Edith?” She nods in the general direction of the Minkins. “It might be more trouble than it’s worth.”

 

Edith looks at Mr. and Mrs. Minkin. Although Mrs. Minkin’s voice is raised in protest, Edith can tell that she isn’t really cross with her husband, at least not as much as she proclaims. And catching the slight smile on Mr. Minkin’s lips and the sparkle in his eye, she can see that he isn’t worried by anything she is saying, and in fact he might be silently admiring the pluck and determination of the woman whom he met for the first time as a quiet and shy bride beneath the wedding chuppah in Odessa thirty-five years ago.

 

“For better or worse!” Edith sighs.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

****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.

 

*****Pogroms in the Russian Empire were large-scale, targeted, and repeated anti-Jewish rioting that began in the Nineteenth Century. Pogroms began to occur after Imperial Russia, which previously had very few Jews, acquired territories with large Jewish populations from the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth and the Ottoman Empire from 1772 to 1815. The 1905 pogrom against Jews in Odessa was the most serious pogrom of the period, with reports of up to 2,500 Jews killed. Jews fled Russia, some ending up in London’s east end, which had a reasonably large Jewish community, particularly associated with clothing manufacturing.

 

******In sewing and haberdashery, notions are small objects or accessories, including items that are sewn or otherwise attached to a finished article, such as buttons, snaps, and collar stays. Notions also include the small tools used in sewing, such as needles, thread, pins, marking pens, elastic, and seam rippers.

  

*******"Mazel tov" (romanized: mázl tov) or "mazal tov" is a Jewish phrase used to express congratulations for a happy and significant occasion or event and translates as “good luck” or “good fortune”.

 

********Hatz’lachah is the Hebrew way to say “success”.

 

*********Bakelite, was the first plastic made from synthetic components. Patented on December 7, 1909, the creation of a synthetic plastic was revolutionary for its electrical nonconductivity and heat-resistant properties in electrical insulators, radio and telephone casings and such diverse products as kitchenware, jewellery, pipe stems, children's toys, and firearms. A plethora of items were manufactured using Bakelite in the 1920s and 1930s.

 

**********Borrowed from French chic (“elegant”), which in turn is probably derived from German Schick (“elegant appearance; tasteful presentation”), the word “chic” came into the British lexicon and became common parlance thanks to Lucy, Lady Duff-Gordon, a leading British fashion designer in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries who worked under the professional name Lucile. The first British-based designer to achieve international acclaim, Lucy Duff-Gordon was a widely acknowledged innovator in couture styles as well as in fashion industry public relations. In addition to originating the "mannequin parade", a precursor to the modern fashion show, and training the first professional models, she launched slit skirts and low necklines, popularized less restrictive corsets, and promoted alluring and pared-down lingerie.

 

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

 

************Kesef is the Biblical Hebrew word for both "silver" and "money." It is easy to understand the relationship between the two words, as one of the earliest forms of "money" was weighed bags of silver.

 

*************In Hebrew and Yiddish, “goy” is a term for a gentile: a non-Jew. Through Yiddish, the word has been adopted into English also to mean "gentile", sometimes in a pejorative sense. Goyim is the plural variation of the word.

 

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

 

***************Oy vey is a commonly used Jewish exclamation indicating dismay or grief.

 

****************A traditional Jewish wedding ceremony takes place under a chuppah (wedding canopy), symbolizing the new home being built by the couple when they become husband and wife. The chuppah used in Ashkenazi ceremonies includes a cloth canopy held up by four beams.

 

*****************A medovic (medovik is from “med” – honey) is a sweet honey cake made in Russia. The history of the cake begins in the early Nineteenth Century in the kitchen of Emperor Alexander I. His wife, Empress Elizabeth, couldn’t stand honey - any dish made with it drove her mad. One day, however, a young new confectioner in the Imperial kitchen wasn’t aware of this, so he baked a new cake with honey and thick sour cream. Surprisingly, and oblivious to the honey content, Empress Elizabeth immediately fell in love with the delicious pudding.

 

******************Meaning anthill in Russian, a muraveynik cake is so named because of its shape. A simple muraveynik consists of crumbled sweet biscuits mixed with cream and piled into a hill shape. Most Russian families have their own recipe and it is a simple cake made from ingredients readily available in any Russian kitchen.

 

*******************Schlemiel is a Yiddish term meaning "inept/incompetent person" or "fool". It is a common archetype in Jewish humour, and so-called "schlemiel jokes" depict the schlemiel falling into unfortunate situations.

 

********************Hampstead Garden Suburb is an elevated suburb of London, north of Hampstead, west of Highgate and east of Golders Green. It is known for its intellectual, liberal, artistic, musical and literary associations. It is an example of early Twentieth Century domestic architecture and town planning in the London Borough of Barnet, northwest London. The master plan was prepared by Barry Parker and Sir Raymond Unwin. Comprising just over five thousand properties, and home to around sixteen thousand people, undivided houses with individual gardens are a key feature. The area enjoys landscaped garden squares, several communal parks and Hampstead Heath Extension. Hampstead Garden Suburb was founded by Henrietta Barnett, who, with her husband Samuel, had started the Whitechapel Art Gallery and Toynbee Hall. In 1906, Barnett set up the Hampstead Garden Suburb Trust Ltd, which purchased 243 acres of land from Eton College for the scheme and appointed Raymond Unwin as its architect. Among the scheme's aims were that it should cater for all classes of people and all income groups, that here should be a low housing density, that roads should be wide and tree-lined, that houses should be separated by hedges, not walls, that woods and public gardens should be free to all and it should be quiet, with no church bells. Interestingly, Hampstead Garden Suburb, like Golders Green ended up with a high Jewish population of residents.

 

*********************Challah is an enriched white yeasted bread served on Fridays. More specifically, it's eaten on the Jewish sabbath (which starts on Friday at sunset and ends after dark on Saturday). The term “challah” is applied more widely to mean any bread used in Jewish rituals. On the eve of Shabbat, two loaves are placed on the table to reference the Jewish teaching that a double portion of manna fell from heaven on Friday to last through the Saturday Shabbat.

 

**********************“Foy meydl” is Yiddish for “lazy girl”.

 

Mrs. Minkin’s cluttered haberdashers counter covered in an assortment of notions is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The copy of Weldon’s Dressmaker Spring Fashions edition and the edition behind it on the counter 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 magazine is non-opening, however what might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s books and magazines are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

The spools of ribbon, the packet of Victoria brand egg eyed sharps in the foreground on the counter and the brown buttons at the rear of the counter I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House in the United Kingdom.

 

The balls of wool and the knitting needles I acquired from an online miniature specialist stockist in the United Kingdom via eBay. The Superior Quality buttons on cards in the foreground to the left, along with the spools of bright cottons on the right come from various online shops who sell dollhouse miniatures.

 

Edith’s green leather handbag and Hilda’s brown one I acquired from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel as part of a larger collection of 1:12 artisan miniature hats, gloves, accessories and haberdashery goods.

SUNDAY MAINICHI - Aug 2006

Misaki Ito

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The birds of Australia, supplement /.

London :Printed by Taylor and Francis ... published by the author ...,[1851]-1869..

biodiversitylibrary.org/page/48517442

Art is not merely an imitation of the reality of nature, but in truth a metaphysical supplement to the reality of nature, placed alongside thereof for its conquest.

Friedrich Nietzsche

 

'metaphysical supplement' On Black

Diary

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

 

This morning Lettice is entertaining a neighbour, of sorts, of her parents, Mr. Alisdair Gifford, nephew of Sir John Nettleford-Hughes. Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a time when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Luckily Selwyn Spencely, the handsome eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford, rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. As she was leaving to return to London on the Monday, Sir John approached her and asked if she might meet with his nephew, Mr. Gifford, as he wishes to have a room in his Wiltshire house, Arkwright Bury, redecorated as a surprise for his Australian wife, Adelina, who collects blue and white porcelain but as of yet has no place to display it at Arkwright Bury. With a smile Lettice agreed, and thus Mr. Gifford now sits opposite her in her Mayfair drawing room.

 

She appraises Mr. Gifford as he helps himself to a biscuit from the plate on the low coffee table between them. He is a slight man, probably not more than ten years older than herself with pale patrician skin over a fine bone structure, and a mop of auburn hair which is streaked with silvery white hairs, possibly prematurely owing to his experiences in the war. He is dressed in a very smart morning suit with a silver fob watch chain hanging from his cherry red waistcoat pocket. He movements are as delicate as his frame, and his sparking blue eyes are further enhanced by the strong prescription of the glasses persistently sliding down his nose.

 

“Now, this is what I wanted to show you, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford says in well educated and modulated tones from the comfort of one of Lettice’s round backed Art Deco arm chairs.

 

He reaches down with his elongated fingers into the slightly battered and worn brown leather case at his feet, which he arrived with, but refused to allow Edith, Lettice’s maid, to take from him. From it he withdraws an old photograph album. Covered in vibrant green Morocco leather, Lettice notices its bumped corners, which have worn down over many years losing their sharp edges, and a sun faded spine that tells of sitting for many a year, closed on a bookshelf. There is no writing on the cover, but glancing at the thick creamy card pages contained within the covers, she recognises it as a photograph album.

 

“This is a very precious piece of Arkwright Bury’s, and my own family’s, history.” Mr. Gifford goes on.

 

“I’m very looking forward to seeing it then.” Lettice remarks with curiosity as she leans forward in her own armchair.

 

“I don’t know whether my Uncle John told you or not when you were at the Caxton’s country house party at Gossington, but Arkwright Bury was badly damaged in a fire in 1879.”

 

“No,” Lettice admits. “Your uncle didn’t tell me a great deal about Arkwright Bury at all, Mr. Gifford, other than it fell into some disrepair when your elder brother went off to war, and that since you and your wife inherited it, you have been restoring it.”

 

“Quite right, Miss Chetwynd,” Mr. Gifford passes over the album to Lettice, who takes it with reverence into her elegant hands. “However, this will give you an idea of what Arkwright Bury used to look like in the 1860s and 70s, before the fire. It’s an album rescued from the conflagration which consists mostly of photographs of the house and its interiors, and not family photographs.”

 

“How very unusual.” Lettice remarks.

 

“Well, my grandfather was very passionate about architecture and photography, so I think this may have been a pet project of his.”

 

“And thus, perhaps why it was saved, Mr. Gifford?” Lettice asks tentatively.

 

“Perhaps, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford replies with a gentle shrugging roll of his shoulders.

 

Lettice finds an old photograph of an unassuming Regency style country house, partially overgrown with creepers, set amidst a simple English park style garden on the front page. The house has a low pitched roof which is hidden from view by the building’s parapets. It has five bays of large sash windows over its two storeys and an Ionic columned portico.

 

“We think Arkwright Bury may have been designed by Anthony Keck*,” Mr. Gifford explains, assuming that Lettice will know who the Georgian architect is. “Although we cannot confirm it. Like so many things, the precious architectural drawings of Arkwright Bury went up in flames in the 1897 fire. I mean, his work isn’t found in Wiltshire, and if it is his, then it most probably was built after his retirement, and would be the only example in the county. I do know it was built in 1796, and Anthony Keck died just a year later.”

 

“And you have brought me this album because?” Lettice queries as she starts to turn the page.

 

“Well, because this has the only known surviving photograph of the Pagoda Room.” Mr. Gifford answers.

 

“The Pagoda Room?” Lettice asks.

 

“Yes. Just flip through the first few pages.” The gentleman says helpfully as he leans forward over the black japanned coffee table covered with Lettice’s Art Deco Royal Doulton tea set and tray of biscuits. “It should be on page six or so.” Lettice does as he says, counting the pages in her mind silently as she turns them. “Ahh! There it is.”

 

Lettice looks to where he points, and there, on a thick card page, beige and greyish and mottled with age, framed by flowers hand painted by one of the more artistic Gifford females of history, is an old photograph, underneath which is written in a delicate looped hand, ‘The Pagoda Room – July 1876’.

 

“Being from 1876, I’m sure my grandfather took this photograph.” Mr. Gifford explains. “It was called the Pagoda Room because as you can see on the walls, there is some Georgian wallpaper, hand painted and imported from China we assume, which features Pagodas on it. Of course I wasn’t born until after the fire, but my father remembers he and his sister, my Aunt Eugenia, making up stories about Chinese people who lived inside the pagodas.”

 

“I say!” Lettice laughs. “How frightfully jolly.”

 

Lettice looks at the image. It depicts the corner of what must have been a larger room with a high dado, papered with the Georgian wallpaper Mr. Gifford mentioned, featuring the stylised pagodas that gave the room its name. The corner is filled with Georgian and Regency furniture that is intermixed with pieces from later periods, the surfaces of tables and the shadowy interiors of a Georgian corner cabinet are cluttered with a collection of decorative porcelain that owed much to the conscientious consumption of the wealthy in the mid Victorian era. Paintings of Gifford ancestors hang on the walls in thick gilt frames, whilst a top heavy elaborate floral display of roses and ferns sits atop a heavily carved Victorian pillar. Overstuffed, yet comfortable looking chairs and sofas fill the space, their owners gone, but their presence marked by a stack of leatherbound books with decorative covers, a sewing basket and embroidery hoop, and a silver teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl and dainty china teacups on a galleried silver tray.

 

“My grandmother loved needlework, so I’m sure that’s her embroidery frame and basket in the photograph, and my grandfather was an avid reader.”

 

“Indeed.” Lettice remarks, lowering the page and allowing the well loved album to sit comfortably open across her lap as she reaches over to the black japanned side table on which her telephone stands and picks up her teacup. “And besides for its interesting historical context, you have brought me this album, why, Mr. Gifford?”

 

“Well, the Arkwright Bury fire tore through that part of the house and destroyed it entirely, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“Mmmm…” Lettice sips her tea.

 

“Or at least I thought it had until recently.” Mr. Gifford continues.

 

“Go on, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“Well, as my uncle explained to you, Adelinde and I have almost completed a full restoration of Arkwright Bury, and we only have a small amount left to do. This includes my brother, Cuthbert’s, study.”

 

“He died before the end of the war, didn’t he, Mr. Gifford?” Lettice asks gently.

 

“He did, Miss Chetwynd. He was honourably discharged after the Battle of Ypres**, but he came back a very changed man.”

 

“You never went to France yourself, did you, Mr. Gifford?”

 

“No,” Mr. Gifford admits a little guiltily. “But please don’t hold that against me, Miss Chetwynd. I wasn’t accepted because of my appalling eyesight.” He pushes his pair of thick lensed glasses up the bridge of his aquiline nose with awkward embarrassment. “I did however work under Mr. Churchill*** in the Admiralty.”

 

“I won’t hold your not going to battle in Flanders Fields**** against you, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice assures him with a comforting smile.

 

“Thank you.” he sighs. “That’s a relief.”

 

“Anyway, the war has been over for more than five years now.”

 

“Not for some people, it hasn’t.” Mr. Gifford says sadly. “And just because I’m not maimed physically like those poor returned soldiers you see selling matches at the top of Tottenham Court Road or in Piccadilly Circus, there is a certain amount of stigma against me: people thinking I didn’t do my bit during the war.”

 

“Well, I won’t jump to any incorrect conclusions about what you did, or didn’t do, during the war. My eldest brother returned from the conflict with all his limbs intact, both his eyes and most importantly his mind unaltered, thank god, so I’m hardly in a position to judge you for a lack of injuries.”

 

“Well, many others feel differently, especially those young, embittered war widows or fiancées, of which there are so many about. You were not affianced to a young officer or captain yourself, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Thankfully no, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“Poor Cuthbert came back with all his limbs and his sight, but his mind was disturbed from what he witnessed over in France, and he killed himself: shot himself in the temple with his gun before Armistice Day*****.” Mr. Gifford says dryly.

 

“Yes, I had heard the rumour.” Lettice murmurs quietly in admission.

 

“And that’s why his study is one of the last places Adelina and I have to deal with.”

 

“Too many painful memories, Mr. Gifford?”

 

“Yes,” he admits. “But also, too much mess quite frankly. As I said, Cuthbert came back from the Western Front with his mind addled and his study reflects that, with piles of papers and books in all kinds of disorder, the meaning of which known only to him, so it’s just been too hard to deal with. In fact, Adelina and I closed the door on it, and more often than not have been using it as a storage room whilst we’ve been restoring other parts of Arkwright Bury, shoving furniture and boxes of things between Cuthbert’s belongings. Recently Adelina has been using it to store her boxes of blue and white porcelain that we brought over from Briar Priory, plus a few newly acquired pieces.” He sighs. “It’s actually only been recently that I have had the stomach to start sorting out Cuthbert’s things. Adelina wants to turn the study into a display room for her collection, since we can’t seem to find anywhere else suitable in Arkwright Bury to display it, which seems odd,” He laughs. “When you think that Briar Priory was so much smaller than Arkwright Bury is.”

 

“And that’s why you’ve come to see me?” Lettice asks, trying to get Mr. Gifford to explain himself and share his intentions.

 

“Yes.” Mr. Gifford agrees. “If you’re willing to take it on, I’d love for you to redecorate Cuthbert’s study as a surprise for Adelina. It would make it a happy space to be in, rather than a sad and neglected one.”

 

“Although that still doesn’t explain the necessity for this.” Lettice half raises the green Morocco leather photo album in her lap with her spare left hand.

 

“Well, I wanted you to look at the photo of the Pagoda Room because, I thought it had been completely destroyed by the fire, until I started going through Cuthbert’s study. Before it was Cuthbert’s study, it was my father’s study, and my grandfather’s before him. So much Gifford history was lost with the fire that my grandparents didn’t have the heart to try and replicate what they had, and the study was created from part of the shell of the Pagoda Room.”

 

“How do you know this, Mr. Gifford?”

 

“Well, do you see that corner cabinet?” Mr. Gifford points to a glass door decorated with delicate fretwork, half hidden in the shadows behind the elaborate floral arrangement on the pedestal. When Lettice affirms with a nod he continues, “Well I didn’t recognise it at first, but this is what my brother, father and grandfather all used as a corner bookcase. It was only when I was doing an inventory of Cuthbert’s books in it, that I suddenly looked at the door, and I recognised it as being the same one from the photograph of the Pagoda Room. So, I took out my penknife******.” He withdraws a small blade with an ebony handle from his pocket. “So useful. I never go anywhere without it being in my pocket, and I took to the red wallpaper just next to the cabinet. I cut away a little, and what do you think I found beneath it, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“The Chinese pagoda paper, I presume, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice laughs.

 

“Just so, Miss Chetwynd!” Mr. Gifford exclaims, bouncing on his seat excitedly. “It’s badly degraded of course, but I thought it would make a splendid backdrop to Adelina’s blue and white porcelain collection!”

 

“Aah… then I’m very sorry, Mr. Gifford,” Lettice begins to apologise. “But you have wasted your journey up to London from Wiltshire. I’m a redecorator and designer, not a restorer.”

 

“Oh I know that, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford replies. “However, I also know from what I read in Mr. Tipping’s******* article in Country Life******** that you are a fine artist. You painted a demilune table********** for Mr. and Mrs. Channon, did you not?”

 

“I did Mr. Gifford. But what of it?”

 

“I had rather thought you might paint the design of the pagoda wallpaper from this photograph for me.”

 

“A demilune table is entirely different to a mural, Mr. Gifford!” Lettice exclaims in horror. “I’m hardly a muralist!”

 

“Oh I’m sorry, Miss Chetwynd, if I in any way implied that I wanted you to paint a mural.” Mr. Gifford defends raising his hands in concern. “No. I thought that because you have connections with wallpaper manufacturers who produce papers based on individual designs submitted, I was rather hoping you would design a panel of the pagoda wallpaper, which could then be reproduced as wallpaper to hang.”

 

Lettice ruminates on Mr. Gifford’s idea for a moment. “Well,” she says cautiously. “I suppose I could speak to Jeffrey and Company***********. They do produce bespoke wall hangings. Mind you, to be frank, it isn’t at all inexpensive, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“Oh I don’t mind, Miss Chetwynd. The Pagoda Room may have been large once, but I can assure you that Cuthbert’s study isn’t a terribly large space. I certainly don’t mind paying the cost to have it papered.”

 

“Well, I know it’s precious to you, but may I have this photograph then, Mr, Gifford?”

 

“Of course you may, Miss Chetwynd. Just slip it out of the album.”

 

As Lettice carefully extracts the old black and white photograph from the album she says. “I can see if I can recreate a design as close to the original as I can make out from this photograph. I take it you can tell me what the colours of it are from the little bit of paper you exposed?”

 

“I have it here, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford replies with a sigh, delving into his satchel once more and withdrawing a crumbling piece of paper that shows a small piece of the pagoda door and some roof tiles in French blue and sage green on an ecru background that must once have been white, which he carefully hands over to Lettice with trembling fingers.

 

“Yes, well. Using this, I could come up with a panel, that once it meets your approval, I can then take to Jeffrey and Company, and see if they are willing to reproduce it, and at what price.”

 

“Capital, Miss Chetwynd! Capital!” Mr. Gifford enthuses excitedly.

 

“I’d have to see the room as well, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice says. “To establish the amount of wall space we are discussing to have papered.”

 

“Are you by chance coming down to Wiltshire to visit your family soon, Miss Chetwynd?” asks Mr. Gifford with a toothy smile.

 

“As a matter of fact, I am, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“Then perhaps I could extend an invitation to you, to take tea with my wife and I at Arkwright Bury, whilst you are in residence at Glynes.”

 

“That sounds splendid, Mr Gifford.”

 

“Of course, you cannot let on to Adelina about this, Miss Chetwynd. This would be strictly between us. I want this redecoration to be a surprise for her.”

 

“You are being presumptuous, Mr. Gifford. I haven’t said that I will take you on as my client yet.” Lettice cautions with a wagging finger. “There are many dependencies and counter-dependencies yet to consider. But I will consider your request after I have seen the room for myself.”

 

“Oh thank you, Miss Chetwynd!” Mr. Gifford replies, clapping his hands in delight.

 

“I said, consider, Mr. Gifford.” Lettice says again, attempting to temper Mr. Gifford’s enthusiasm.

 

“Well, thinking of consideration, Miss Chetwynd. I do have one final titbit that might just make you consider my request a little more favourably.” He pauses for affect.

 

“And what might that be, Mr. Gifford?” Lettice asks with intrigue.

 

“Well, Mr. Henry Tipping is my godfather.” Mr. Gifford says with a smile that makes him look like the cat who just ate the cream. “And when I mentioned your name to him as a potential candidate for redecorating Cuthbert’s study, he said to me that he would happily consider writing an article on your redecoration of the room for Country Life, if you agreed.”

 

“Well!” Lettice replies, her expertly shaped eyebrows arching over her glittering blue eyes. “That is an interesting incentive, Mr. Gifford.”

 

“I thought that might pique your interest, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Gifford replies with a satisfied sigh as he settles back in his armchair again.

 

*Anthony Keck (1726 – 1797) was an Eighteenth Century English architect with an extensive practice in Gloucestershire, Worcestershire, Herefordshire and South Wales. He designed at least fifty country houses in the South-West of England and South Wales.

 

**The Battle of Ypres was a series of engagements during the First World War, near the Belgian city of Ypres, between the German and the Allied armies (Belgian, French, British Expeditionary Force and Canadian Expeditionary Force). During the five engagements, casualties may have surpassed one million.

 

***Sir Winston Churchill (30th if November 1874 – 24th of January 1965) was a British statesman, soldier, and writer who twice served as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, from 1940 to 1945 during the Second World War, and again from 1951 to 1955. Apart from two years between 1922 and 1924, he was a Member of Parliament from 1900 to 1964 and represented a total of five constituencies. Ideologically an adherent to economic liberalism and imperialism, he was for most of his career a member of the Conservative Party, which he led from 1940 to 1955. He was a member of the Liberal Party from 1904 to 1924. In October 1911, Prime Minister Asquith appointed Churchill First Lord of the Admiralty, and he took up official residence at Admiralty House. He created a naval war staff and, over the next two and a half years, focused on naval preparation, visiting naval stations and dockyards, seeking to improve morale, and scrutinising German naval developments. As First Lord, Churchill was tasked with overseeing Britain's naval effort when the First World War began in August 1914. In the same month, the navy transported 120,000 British troops to France and began a blockade of Germany's North Sea ports. Churchill sent submarines to the Baltic Sea to assist the Russian Navy and he sent the Marine Brigade to Ostend, forcing a reallocation of German troops. In September, Churchill assumed full responsibility for Britain's aerial defence. In May, Asquith agreed under parliamentary pressure to form an all-party coalition government, but the Conservatives' condition of entry was that Churchill must be removed from the Admiralty. Churchill pleaded his case with both Asquith and Conservative leader Bonar Law but had to accept demotion and became Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster.

 

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

 

*****Armistice Day or Remembrance Day is a memorial day observed in Commonwealth member states since the end of the First World War to honour armed forces members who have died in the line of duty. It falls on the 11th of November every year. Remembrance Day is marked at eleven o’clock (the time that the armistice was declared) with a minute’s silence to honour the fallen. Following a tradition inaugurated by King George V in 1919, the day is also marked by war remembrances in many non-Commonwealth countries.

 

******A penknife, or pen knife, is a small folding knife. Today penknife is also the common English term for both a pocketknife, which can have single or multiple blades, and for multi-tools, with additional tools incorporated into the design.

 

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

 

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

 

**********A demilune is a half-moon shaped table that was created and very popular in the Eighteenth Century. With no hard edges or corners and a shallow profile, this type of accent table works well in so many tight spaces. Georgian rooms were often quite small, so they were a useful surface to have in bedrooms, hallways and entryways.

 

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

 

This may look like an old photograph taken in the Victorian era and inserted into a photograph album, affixed with corners, but it is in fact a photograph made up completely of pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my teenage years, which has then been post produced as an old black and white photograph.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The embroidery frame, which features a partially completed embroidery, complete with a 1:12 miniature needle inserted into it was made by Falcon Miniatures, who are known for their detail in relation to their miniature pieces. I acquired it from Doreen Jeffrey’s Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The sewing basket sitting next to it on the overstuffed sofa is a 1:12 artisan miniature which I have had since I was a teenager. I acquired it from a high street dolls’ house and miniatures supplier and it is amongst my very first artisan pieces I purchased.

 

The silver tea set on the pedestal table, consisting of milk jug, sugar bowl and teapot come from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The silver tray upon which they stand also comes from Warwick Miniatures. The two dainty floral teacups with gilt edging are part of a larger tea set that I acquired from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The books on the table, by the slipper chair and on the sofa in the forefront of the picture are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. These books are amongst the rarer exceptions that have been designed not to be opened. Nevertheless, the covers are copies of real Victorian bindings. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s books and magazines are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

The overstuffed white settee and matching slipper chair, the two pedestal tables, the demilune table upon which the three vases sit, the three vases themselves, the corner cabinet and the china inside it, the hand embroidered footstool in front of the slipper chair, the two pillows on the sofa in the foreground, the paintings on the walls the extravagant floral arrangement and the two matching ornamental Victorian pillars I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The hand painted oriental ginger jar on the pedestal in the background next to the corner cabinet I acquired from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.

 

The floral sofa in the foreground I obtained from Crooked Mile Cottage Miniatures in the United States.

 

The oriental rug is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug and has been machine woven. The wallpaper is an Eighteenth Century chinoiserie design of pagodas and would have been hand painted in its original form.

Spring 2016 - got to make sure they make it until the wildflowers burst onto the scene.