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I needed a new pill box so got a round one with nice big compartments.
Borrowed from Maidstone Corporation - Leyland PD2 Titan No.16 (516 RKR) was used in 1975-76 by London Country to supplement the RMC fleet, along with another five such vehicles on rotation.
The rugged looking provincial design makes an interesting contrast to the smooth lines of the Routemaster coach. RMC1488 (488 CLT) worked the 477 from Dartford to Chelsfield in 1975-76, became a trainer with LT and ended up in France.
Bus History
RMC 1488 (488 CLT)
9/62 new to Aldenham
10/62 WR into service, Greenline livery, 718
6/79 T into store
3/80 T trainer again
11/80 RD transfer, trainer (Hornchurch)
1985 LT trainer, red
3/90 AV trainer, withdrawn
4/91 bought by Octobus, SARL, Paris, France
1996 promo vehicle, Paris (registered 659AQF91 and used as a mobile employment office, France
9/17 returned to the UK (Scotland)
Info taken from: www.busspotter.com/RMC/RMCa.html
The RMC coaches - the success of the Routemaster coach prototype CRL4 (RMC4), combined with growth in GreenLine travel, produced an inevitable result. London Transport, after so many times building double-decker coach prototypes, now built a whole class of them, 68 in total RMC1453 - RMC1520. They were modified standard routemasters, 27ft 8in long, 8ft wide, with an enclosed rear platform and electric doors. This also meant having a downstairs emergency exit, which was built into the rear of the platform, like CRL4 (RMC4).
Apparently, an impressive 38 of the type entered preservation - a remarkably high percentage! Plus prototype RMC4.
More information on the survivors here: www.busspotter.com/RMC/RMC4.html#contents
Taken with my basic Kodak Brownie using 120 roll film.
You can see a random selection of my bus photographs here on Flickriver: www.flickriver.com/photos/southallroutemaster/random/
ARRIVA Buses Wales VDL Commander 2509 - CX05 AAE sets off from Rhyl on a Sunday journey on route 51 to Denbigh.
Not quite enough home grown strawberries for breakfast (small ones in center) so supplementing with store bought / factory farmed giants.
U.S. Department of Agriculture's (USDA) Food and Nutrition Service (FNS) Disaster Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (D-SNAP) and South Carolina Department of Education (SCDOE) responded to severe flooding in South Carolina, by using of the National School Lunch Program, at the Richland County Schools - District One - Central Kitchen Facility, Columbia, SC, to provide disaster congregate feeding, on Wednesday, Nov. 18, 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.
Central Kitchen Facility is the only central kitchen in South Carolina. They provide meals to 32 schools. Operations start at 4-5AM. The meals are comprised of 10-11,000 lunches, 6,000 breakfasts, 3,100 snacks, 3,100 supplemental meals, district-wide catering and more. To accomplish this there are 38 employed here and a total of 150 across the entire operation of satellite kitchens and other facilities. 14 truck move food and commodities from here to where they are needed. USDA photo by Lance Cheung.
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.
“Marshland Secrets to Escape”
This historic wooden bridge over the Transquaking River provides a view of Dorchester County marshlands. In this countryside, knowledgeable local people could hide for days, even weeks, and follow the waterways north toward Caroline County and freedom. Bestpitch Ferry Bridge is located at the site of a former ferry.
The Blackwater and Transquaking Rivers and their estuaries provided opportunities for local residents to hunt, fish and gather food for survival. Abundant fish and fowl live and breed in these waters, and many small and larger animals, including muskrats, rabbits, squirrels and deer live in nearby marshes and woods. Nuts, berries and a variety of roots and herbs round out the possible food and medicinal supplements available to 19th century residents.
Waterways were also home to many free and enslaved African-American watermen. They operated ferry crossings throughout the region, transported agricultural and timber products on rafts and vessels along the region’s many rivers, and they crewed many merchant, fishing and passenger vessels throughout the Chesapeake and beyond. This provided opportunities for self-emancipators to hitch an occasional ride or stow away in the holds of ships and sail away to freedom. Some followed the shorelines of rivers they knew to flow from the north or northeast. Following the Transquaking north could provide freedom seekers a northerly route to the East New Market area and Underground Railroad connections in that region. Even bridge keepers could provide aid to freedom seekers trying to cross rivers, streams and millponds.
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How To Get Erect And Stay Erect - What Is An Erection?
Grab Your Free Copy of The 3 Deadliest Myths About Erectile Dysfunction Here: bit.ly/Impotence-3DeadlyMythsOfErectileDysfunctionEbook It's hardly a news flash that exercise is important for your current health, but what you might not exactly have known is the fact getting enough exercise is also an important step toward minimizing your ED symptoms. Of course, don't be prepared to hear might be found from the people who are selling you ED pills on a monthly basis. They'd just as soon see you not do anything to reduce your symptoms so you'll keep buying from them on a monthly basis, but it's true. By itself, exercise is nearly certain not to be sufficient to get rid of ED totally, but it can absolutely help minimize your symptoms. Why Exercise Improves Your ED? At the core, erectile dysfunction is a circulatory condition. It's about blood flow. Think about it: The facts that causes your penis to become erect? Blood flowing to it. The better your circulation and a lot more blood that flows into your erectile tissue, the firmer and better your erections shall be. This explains why some exercises are much better than others at reducing ED symptoms. Specifically, what you would like are cardiovascular exercises. Yes, you want to work up a sweat, but more than that, you should do an exercise that really gets your heart pumping. People shall tell you that the best way to begin is to start modestly. To commit to, say, quarter-hour of exercise, three to five times weekly when you're starting out. Then, as time passes, increase your duration slowly, and the number of days per week you're exercising. That's generally very good advice, but we want to add yet another wrinkle to that. For starters, KEEP your exercise to three days a full week, but yes, gradually build up the amount of time you may spend exercising. Moreover though, find a sport you enjoy. It could be anything. Kayaking, soccer, fencing, hiking...just make sure it's something you love, and something you're interested in. If you like to do it, and are passionate about it, you'll naturally be inclined to do more of it. This is why you don't have to bump up your exercise to more than three times per week. You'll be supplementing that with your brand-new sports activity. Think about this to be your "sweat equity." This is the equity you placed into living a longer, healthier life. In exchange for the sweat equity, you'll get a healthier heart and lungs, better circulation, more energy, more stamina, and when you have ED, you'll notice a marked decrease in your symptoms. If you don't have ED, a good exercise program won't guarantee that you will never experience difficulties, but if so when you do, they will be much milder than they otherwise would have been. You will discover relatively few people beyond "gym rats" who want to exercise, so consider it as an investment. That is why we used the word "sweat equity." We wish you to think about it in exactly the same conditions as financial investments you make in your own future. If you can put yourself for the reason that mindset, and if you supplement your regular physical exercise with a sport you love, you'll be more likely to stick with it, and consistency is key. Exercise, and its overall effectiveness is only as effective as your commitment to it. The one kind of exercise that comes with a caveat is bicycling. There is no doubt that it is a terrific way to get (and stay) in form, but it includes one small drawback. Studies have shown that spending a lot of time cycling can result in an increased probability of problems with your prostate gland. It can also, in at least some cases, cause numbness around the penis, which without quite the same as ED, will surely reduce the quality of your erections. Furthermore to cardio-based exercises and a normal workout routine, don't overlook the value of stretching. You are able to do something like Tai Chi or Yoga, for example. Both of these are great ways to stretch and tone muscle tissue, and make an excellent addition to your overall fitness routine. The great thing about Yoga is that it is a wonderful, meditative technique, in addition to being a great way to stretch. Start and modestly simply, and work your way into more advanced postures slowly. The end result is simple: Exercise is not only good for your overall health, it's also good for your sexual health. If you are genuinely enthusiastic about maintaining an active sex life well past your forties, when men commence experiencing sexual difficulties typically, then you are going to want to make regular physical exercise an important part of your daily routine. Again, the main thing here is to be certain you pick a sport that you're genuinely interested in, because that means it is easy to stay with it. Subscribe to my channel here: youtube.com/c/BretmcopelandBlogspot
via Men's Health Channel
I must have sold (lost) this because I can't find it anywhere.
The internet provides a complete scan for us >>>>
There’s also homemade bacon-infused butter, lobster butter, truffle aioli, and cocktail sauce can be added for $4 supplement each.
Lbs
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Introducing for TorontoLife: torontolife.com/food/restaurants/lbs-pounds-lobster-burge...
Photographic supplement to the medical superintendent's annual report
1935
Countess of Chester Hospital records
Cheshire Archives and Local Studies ZHW/516
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat. Instead, we have followed Lettice south-east, past the Royal Academy, across Picadilly, through the neighbouring borough of St James’ with its private clubs and gentlemen’s tailors, over St James’ Park and Birdcage Walk where once the Royal Menagerie and aviaries of King James I and King Charles II had stood, to Queen Anne’s Gate* in Westminster, lined with fine early Eighteenth Century townhouses. Walking beneath a cloudy spring sky with teasing peeks of blue between the rolling white and grey clouds, Lettice strides up the street with unhurried footsteps, cutting a fine figure in her three-quarter length fox fur coat with a wide brimmed red felt hat positioned at a jaunty angle on her head. The heels of her red pumps click along the footpath as she looks up pleasurably and admires the simple, elegant façades of the red and rich brown brick buildings around her, all set with rigid rows of twelve, nine and six pane Georgian windows. She pauses to make a closer inspection of one of the ornately carved canopies** over the main door of a residence. Painted in white to match the window frames of the house, the wood of the canopy is finely carved with a mixture of flowers, draped festoons, oak leaves and acorns. In the centre, the face of a woman, possibly Queen Anne herself, peers out surrounded by the curls of her hair and lace of her collar. It is then that she realises as she notices the shiny brass numbers nailed to the black painted door, that she has reached her destination. “Very nice.” she murmurs in a mixture of approval and admiration. She can hear the muffled sound of distant hammering but cannot tell whether it emanates from the house she stands before, or another in the row. Looking behind her she notices several tradesmen’s vehicles parked amidst the smarter Austins and Worsleys along the street. Walking up the two Portland stone steps to the front door she notices a bell pull sticking out of the red brick to the left of the door. She pulls it. From within the house the sound of a loud bell echoes hollowly, implying that the interior is devoid of furnishings. She waits, but when no-one comes to open the door, she exercises the bellpull for longer. Once again, the bell echoes mournfully from deep within the house behind the closed door. Finally, a pair of shuffling footsteps can be heard along with indecipherable muttering and then a vaguely familiar fruity cough as the latch to the door turns.
“Mrs. Boothby!” Lettice exclaims, coming face-to-face with the wrinkled face of her charwoman*** as the old Cockney woman opens the door to the townhouse.
“Well, as I live an’ breave!” she exclaims in return with a broad and toothy smile before coughing loudly again, making Lettice wince. “If it ain’t Miss Lettice! G’mornin’ mum!” Dressed in a bright floral cotton pinny over her dress and with an equally bright and cheerfully patterned scarf tied around her head, she bobs a curtsey respectfully. “You must be ‘ere to see Mrs. ‘Atchett! C’mon in wiv ya!”
Lettice walks through the door held open by Mrs. Boothby and steps into a well proportioned vestibule devoid of furnishings, but with traces of where furniture and paintings once were by way of tell-tale shadows and outlines on the floor and walls. Now that she has stepped into the townhouse, she can hear the hammering and sawing of tradesmen more clearly, confirming that the work she heard from outside is happening in this building. Ahead of her a carved dividing screen of two burnished mahogany columns with a delicate glass lunette**** of seven panes of clear glass splaying out from a central semi-circle above, frames an equally empty hallway at the end of which she can see the sweeping curl of a bannistered Georgian staircase with dainty spindles along it. Only a non-working clock with a brass frame showing the wrong time graces the walls of the hallway, imbedded into a space above a closed doorway that may possibly lead downstairs the servants’ quarters in the basement.
“Come this way, mum. Mrs. ‘Atchett’s frough ‘ere, just up the stairs, in the drawin’ room on the first floor.” Mrs. Boothby says. “If you can call it that right now.” The old woman leads the way, her low heeled shoes slapping across the dusty, stained and badly damaged parquetry floor, pieces of which are missing or sticking up, splintered. Noticing Lettice’s concerned look, the Mrs. Boothby goes on, “You mustn’t mind the mess, mum. It’s all sixes ‘n’ sevens ‘round ‘ere, what wiv tradesmen thumpin’ in and out in their ‘obnail boots*****. C’mon up.”
“How is it that you are here, Mrs. Boothby?” Lettice asks in bewilderment as she follows the older woman down the hallway and up the staircase, which she finds is carpeted in a tatty, filthy and moth eaten Victorian stair runner.
“Well, you know ‘ow it is, mum. Word gets ‘round.” Mrs. Boothby replies with air of mystery.
“Does it, Mrs. Boothby?” Lettice queries, eyeing the back of her charwoman sceptically as they ascend the stairs with Mrs. Boothby in the lead.
“Indeed it does, mum!” Mrs. Boothby replies cheerfully, releasing another of her fruity coughs as she does.
“This is quite a coincidence.” Lettice adds, remembering when she first visited the Pimlico flat of one of her former clients, the American film actress Wanetta Ward, and found Mrs. Boothby answering the door. “This wouldn’t happen to be because you heard from Edith that I was potentially going to do some redecoration for Mrs. Hatchett, would it Mrs. Boothby?”
Mrs. Boothby stops on the first floor landing. Turning back to face Lettice she allows her hand to rest upon the curving mahogany bannister. “’Eavens no, mum! Our Edith is the soul of discretion! She’d never gossip ‘bout you or ‘ooever you’re decoratin’ for!” she purposefully lies with an air of conviction in her voice, determined not to let Edith, Lettice’s maid, suffer any consequences because Mrs. Boothby easily wheedled out of her the fact that Mrs. Hatchett was setting up a house in Queen Anne’s Gate with her Member of Parliament husband. “’Er mum brung ‘er up proppa, just like mine did me.”
“Of course, Mrs. Boothby!” Lettice finds herself apologising. “So, how did you find this position, working for Mrs. Hatchett, then, Mrs. Boothby?”
“Well I cleaned for Lady Pembroke-Duttson, just ‘round the corner from ‘ere ‘till ‘er ‘ouse burnt dahwn in November that is. I was doin’ for ‘er in ‘er new ‘ouse in them fancy Artillery Mansions******, and she mentioned that Mrs. ‘Atchett was movin’ into the neighbour’ood, so I made some enquiries. So, ‘ere I is.” She spreads her careworn hands expansively. “Lady Pembroke-Duttson left a big gap in me schedule, so I’m ‘opin’ this’ll be permanent like soon.”
“But I thought you just said you were still cleaning for Lady Pembroke-Duttson, Mrs. Boothby.” Lettice says with a sceptical squint.
“Ay?” the old woman asks.
“You just said that you were cleaning for Lady Pembroke-Duttson.” Lettice elucidates. “How can she leave a gap in your schedule of jobs if you’re still cleaning for her.”
Thinking quickly on her feet, Mrs. Boothby releases a throaty chuckle, blushing as she does. “Lawd luv you, mum! Cleanin’ a flat in Artillery Mansions ain’t like cleanin’ ‘er old ‘ouse what burnt dahwn. ‘Er old ‘ouse ‘ad ever so many rooms, whereas now she’s got rooms ‘bout the size of yours, mum. That leaves a big gap, mum.”
Lettice silently wonders whether the old charwoman’s story holds any truth, however she has no proof that it doesn’t, so she just smiles benignly and nods. Whether Mrs. Boothby squeezes titbits of gossip from Edith or not, the pair of domestics keep Lettice’s Cavendish Mews flat spick and span, and with such difficulty finding decent staff in the aftermath of the war, Lettice decides that she best say nothing about her suspicions to Edith.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Boothby adds. “It’s only right, ain’t it?”
“What is, Mrs. Boothby?”
“Me cleanin’ for Mr. and Mrs. “Atchett, mum.”
“How so, Mrs. Boothby?” Lettice queries.
“Well, Charlie ‘Atchett’s the MP for Tower ‘Amlets*******, and that includes me, what wiv me own ‘ouse bein’ in Poplar! It’s only right!”
“Does Mrs. Hatchett know that you clean for me, Mrs. Boothby?” Lettice asks warily, holding her breath as she speaks.
“Lawn no, mum.” Mrs. Boothby cackles.
“Well, just see that she doesn’t, Mrs. Boothby.” Lettice snaps, irritated by the cockney woman’s gib attitude to the situation. “I can’t have a whiff of any perceived potential gossip from me with Mrs. Hatchett. I won’t have any such thing jeopardise this commission.”
“As if I would.” Mrs. Boothby replies with a lofty air. “Come along now. She’s just in ‘ere.”
The pair walk down a dingy oak panelled corridor lined with open doors through which Lettice can see a series of rooms in different states of decay and repair, all empty except for one where a group of workmen on scaffolds strip paper off a wall and patch the brickwork behind it, and a second where men are laying a new floor, which is where all the hammering is emanating from. The old Cockney woman leads Lettice past a fine mahogany door that has been removed from its hinges and into a gloomy room devoid of furniture except for a pair of old, mouldering brown leather wingback******** armchairs, a neat pedestal table and a portrait sitting on an easel. A large white marble fireplace is being scrubbed with a wiry brush by another charwoman, far younger than Mrs. Boothby, overweight and with a mass of black curls tied back off her face by a rag bandeau********* on her hands and knees in front of the grate, grunting noisily with her laboured movements, her efforts revealing beautiful white details from beneath many years of brown grime.
“Well, she was ‘ere, mum.” Mrs. Boothby apologises in surprise. “I dunno know where she’s gawn now.” She looks at the other charwoman cleaning the fireplace. “’Ere, Elsie! You know where Mrs. ‘Atchett’s gawn?”
“Nah!” the charwoman grunts back monosyllabically before pausing in her labours and leaning back on her haunches and looks up at Mrs. Boothby, ignoring Lettice’s presence entirely. “Gawn to the lav most likely. I think I need it too. Cleanin’ this fireplace gives me the shits**********!”
Lettice sucks in a gulp of air in shock at the other woman’s vulgarity.
“Elsie!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims aghast. “Whachoo fink you’re doin’, sayin’ words like that in front of a laydee! This ‘ere is the Honourable Miss Lettice Chetwynd, what’s a friend of Mrs. ‘Atchett’s.” She gesticulates with sweeping gestures around Lettice like a vendeuse*********** showing off a model in the latest fashion.
“So?” Elise replies, yawning loudly, giving Lettice ample view of her grey, rotting teeth. “’S not my concern!” Scrabbling off her knees with another exhausted groan, she wanders off lazily, her down-at-heel slippers slapping loudly across the floor as she exits the room through another door, muttering to herself as she does.
“I do beg your pardon, mum.” Mrs. Boothby apologises profusely.
“It’s quite alright, Mrs. Boothby.” Lettice replies, gracefully attempting to smooth over the nasty gaff from the other woman.
“No it ain’t! Elsie’s got no right to talk to you like that! Elsie was ‘ere when I arrived. I dunno, ‘cos I don’t talk to ‘er much, but I fink she’s the daughter of one of the carp’nters,” She indicates behind her with her right thumb. “And the wife of annuva. She’s very rude, lazy, and got no respect for no-one.” Her old face crumples in distaste. “She certainly ain’t no friend of mine, and that’s a fact!”
“Really, it’s quite fine.” Lettice assures Mrs. Boothby.
“I’ll go see if I can find Mrs. ‘Atchett for you, mum.” Mrs. Boothby says soothingly, bustling from the room through the same open door Elsie had exited through.
Left alone, Lettice is better able to explore and take in her gloomy surroundings. The walls are papered in old fashioned Victorian flocked wallpaper which must once have been a beautiful gold, but is now dreary, faded and tattered. Large floor to ceiling bookshelves made of dark mahogany run along the walls to either side of the fireplace, adding to the overall cheerlessness of the room. Dirty and torn scrim hangs at the window, obscuring the view and the much needed daylight. There is a pervading smell of damp which is only offset by the scent of freshly cut timber coming from the carpenters laying the floor down the hallway. Lettice notices a single ornate pedestal appearing out of the gloom in the space to the right of the fireplace. Various cleaning agents have been left around the room: some Vim*********** on an empty bookshelf beneath a bright yellow cleaning cloth, probably deposited there by Mrs. Boothby, and some Zebo Grate Polish************* on the mantle along with a feather duster. The blue, red and yellow Victorian carpet beneath her feet must once have been very fine, but now, like the stair runner is faded, worn and dirty. In fact, aside from the portrait on the easel, there is a thick film of filth on almost every surface, as though it has been decades since the room was property cleaned. The portrait however, is dazzling by comparison to its surroundings. Set in a simple gold frame, the oil on canvas depicts Mrs. Hatchett with her modishly styled blonde hair and pale peaches and cream complexion in a pale blue gown against a neutral coloured background. Mrs. Hatchett’s eyes glitter and sparkle whilst a gentle smile teases the edges of her reddened lips. The strokes are bold and the image has a sense of energy and about it.
“Do you like it, Miss Chetwynd?” comes a familiar voice.
Lettice turns and sees Dolly Hatchett standing in the doorway Mrs. Boothby and Elsie had disappeared through. Like her portrait, Mrs. Hatchett’s pale blue eyes twinkle and sparkle with life, and her soft skin has a gentle glow to it as she smiles at Lettice, her simple gesture adding warmth and joy to the cheerless room. No wonder Captain Charles Hatchett, home on leave during the Great War, had fallen in love with the chorus girl from ‘Chu Chin Chow’************** as he watched her in the darkened auditorium of His Majesty’s Theatre. Wrapped in a sleek full length mink coat with a string of pearls at her throat and a fashionable black felt cloche from under which her blonde waves poke, the slightly awkward and gauche wife of the once banker, now Member of Parliament, that Lettice met for the first time at her Sussex home in 1921 is gone. In her place stands an elegant and confident woman whose experience, social advancement and successes since that time have given her a presence which Lettice cannot help but admire.
“Mrs. Hatchett!” Lettice exclaims. “You look wonderful!”
Mrs. Hatchett laughs, her peal beautiful and carefree, as she steps into the room, walking with poise across the carpet to Lettice’s side. “No, not me, Miss Chetwynd, the portrait!”
“Oh!” Lettice turns and glances back at the painting before returning her attention to Mrs. Hatchett. “Oh it’s marvellous too, but not nearly so much as you, Mrs. Hatchett.” she enthuses.
“You always were so kind to me, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett says with a dismissive sweep of her hand. “Thank you.” She blushes.
“You’ve changed so much, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice remarks with a smile. “You are nothing like the, dare I say it, mousey, young woman I met in 1921! You’re so, so assured, self-possessed!”
Mrs. Hatchett laughs again. “I’m still little Dolly Hatchett the chorus girl under my warpaint.” She cocks an expertly plucked and shaped eyebrow, also newly acquired since Lettice last met her, over her eye. “I’m just better at disguising her now, so I can be the suitable wife successful MP for Towers Hamlets, Charles Hatchett, needs.”
“I’m sure it’s more than that, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice counters.
“Maybe,” Mrs. Hatchett admits quietly. “But if it is, I have you and dear Mr. Bruton to thank for it. You helped me to understand that I deserved more respect than that which I received from my mother-in-law, and Mr. Bruton taught me the power of clothes when it comes to presenting a confident appearance.”
“Indeed he has!” Lettice sighs. “You look ever so smart and select, Mrs. Hatchett.”
“Thank you, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Hatchett purrs. “Goodness, it does seem an age since that wonderful weekend at ‘The Gables’.”
“Yes, we were celebrating the completion of my interior decoration for you.”
“And you encouraged me to let myself be dressed by Mr. Bruton that first evening. Now everyone in Rotherfield and Mark Cross, and a good many more beyond it, follows what I wear with interest and try to mimic it.”
“Well, I’m happy for you, Mrs. Hatchett.”
A gust of wind blows outside, causing the windows to rattle in their casings and the scrim to quiver. The rasp of leaves echoes from the fireplace and some dust and soot falls from the chimney and into the empty blacklead grate.
Lettice shivers. “I’m glad you warned me to wear a fur coat here, Mrs. Hatchett. It’s rather chilly.”
“I’d have had a fire laid, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett apologises. “But I’m a bit apprehensive that the whole place doesn’t ignite before I get chimney sweeps in to check and clean the flues. One of the daily women I’ve hired told me of a woman who lived not far from here that she cleaned for, whose house went up in flames dramatically in November.”
“Did she?” Lettice tries to muffle a gentle smile with her hand.
“She did! She said she was lucky to get away with her life!”
Lettice’s smile broadens as she recognises the more innocent, less worldly, but more endearing Dolly Hatchett carefully obscured beneath the layers of Gerald’s couture, just as Mrs. Hatchett assured her she was.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Hatchett goes on. “What do you think of the House of Usher?”
“You don’t like it, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice queries, surprised considering how enthused Mrs. Hatchett had sounded over the telephone about she and her husband’s new London home, intended to replace the pied-à-terre*************** in Kensington that Charles and she are currently using as their London base.
“Oh I do from the outside,” Mrs. Hatchett quickly explains. “But this…” Her voice trails off as she waves her hand around the room.
“Yes,” Lettice sighs. “This.”
As if the house knows that it is being spoken of disparagingly, some more soot falls from somewhere high above, crashing and crumbling into the grate in a disgruntled fashion.
“Charlie tells me that her bones are good,” Mrs. Hatchett goes on. “But looking about these rooms all I see is decay.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, Mrs. Hatchett!” Lettice blusters. “It seems to me that you’ve already begun the house’s rebirth and renewal. The rooms are well proportioned, being early Eighteenth Century.”
“Aaahh…” Mrs. Hatchett sighs contentedly. “And that’s why I need your eye of possibility again, Miss Chetwynd. You saw through all my mother-in-law’s drab Victorian décor at ‘The Gables’ and envisioned how beautiful and light it could be, and you brought that vision to fruition. Now you can see it here, or at least I hope you can, somewhere under the layers and layers of filth and decomposition.”
“I think I can.” Lettice admits, looking around the room again.
She goes to sit in the larger of the old wingback brown leather chairs.
“Oh, I shouldn’t do that if I were you, Miss Chetwynd!” Mrs. Hatchett exclaims, putting out her hands to stop Lettice from sitting.
“Why ever not, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice asks in surprise.
“Well, for a start, in case you hadn’t noticed, we do have a bit of damp problem. There’s nothing to say it hasn’t gotten into the furniture left by the auctioneers when they cleaned the house out.”
“Yes,” Lettice sniffs and screws up her nose a little. “There is a definite sense of dampness in the air.”
“Oh, and behind these worn old papers,” She gesticulates around the room again. “And in the plaster ceilings, under the wainscots, and,” She moves the toe of her black leather pump back and forth on the carpet, making the parquet flooring beneath groan. “And the floorboards.”
“Oh don’t, Mrs. Hatchett!” Lettice pleads her hostess, who smiles cheekily when she sees Lettice shiver.
Stopping her torment of the floor, Mrs. Hatchett goes on. “Secondly, I believe he died there.”
“Who?” Lettice’s eyes grow wide as she stares at the worn seat of the chair.
“The Admiral.” Mrs. Hatchett replies, pointing to the single painting hanging on the wall in the room, hanging above the fireplace.
Lettice looks up at the portrait, which like most everything else in the room is dark and covered in a film of dirt. Through the filth, beneath the cracking golden yellow layers of varnish, Lettice can see a rather handsome looking gentleman in a dark frock coat and orange breeches leaning against a wall, gazing out of the frame into the distance.
“Or so I have on good authority.” Mrs. Hatchett adds.
“From whom?” Lettice asks in alarm.
“From his old housekeeper.” Mrs. Hatchett replies. “She came with the house, staying on after the Admiral died to show us, as the new owners, the quirks of the house.”
“That’s quite a quirk!” Lettice looks askance at the chair.
“Apparently, he was one hundred and twelve when he died. He was bed, ahem…” Mrs. Hatchett clears her throat awkwardly. “Chair ridden and he only lived in this room and a few others since 1910. You wait until I show you some of the downstairs rooms towards Birdcage Walk where the garden has unceremoniously entered the house.”
“Well, I shall lo…” Lettice begins when a sudden rattling over crockery interrupts her words.
“’Ere we are mum… err… Miss… Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Boothby stutters as she quickly remembers that she is supposed to pretend that she doesn’t know Lettice. “And Mrs. ‘Atchett.” The old woman walks into the room carrying a wooden tray on which sit two plain white teacups and saucers, a matching milk jug, sugar bowl, a non-matching but pretty floral teapot covered in pink roses, and a tin of Huntly and Palmer**************** biscuits.
“Oh splendid timing Mrs. Boothby!” Mrs. Hatchett sighs, clapping her steepled fingers in delight.
With a groan, Mrs. Boothby lowers it onto the pedestal table. “Take a seat, mu… Miss Chetwynd and Mrs. ‘Atchett!”
“I think I’d prefer to stand.” Lettice remarks, looks askance at the chair.
“Suit yourself.” Mrs. Boothby remarks, looking oddly first at Lettice and then at the chair, screwing up her nose as she considers the chair may be a little grubby, but not beyond her mistress sitting in. “Do you want me to keep cleanin’ in ‘ere, mum?” she addresses Mrs. Hatchett.
Lettice almost replies automatically, but luckily her utterance is cut off by Mrs. Hatchett.
“If you’d just focus on the dining room for now, thank you Mrs. Boothby. You may return here after Miss Chetwynd and I have finished our business.”
“Very good, mum.” Mrs. Boothby answers, dropping a quick bob curtsey. She turns and goes to walk away. Then she turns back to Mrs. Hatchett. “Oh, and mum?”
“Yes Mrs. Boothby?” Mrs. Hatchett asks.
“You’re still alright wiv me ‘avin that old teapot I found,” She nods towards the floral teapot on the tray.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Boothby. Of course! Of course!” Mrs. Hatchett replies.
She giggles once the old Cockney woman has left the room. “I do believe she is a bit of a collector.” She smiles indulgently at Lettice. “But I rather like her, so I can’t help but indulge her.”
“She is certainly nicer than the other daily woman I met.” Lettice adds seriously.
“Oh, the other one came with them.” Mrs. Hatchett indicates through the door off its hinges into the hallway where the banging of nails being hammered into wood continue. “She’s rather slovenly, and certainly sullen.”
“You still can’t quite manage the staff, can you, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice chuckles.
Mrs. Hatchett chuckles self consciously in return. “I told you that it’s still little me under this façade that you and Mr. Bruton helped to create.” She muses silently to herself, smiling before continuing, “I think I might employ her as a daily.”
“What?” Lettice ask in surprise. “Who?”
“Mrs. Boothby. The old woman who answered the door to you and brought our tea in. She’s been very reliable and works hard, she knows the area well, has a cheerful disposition, and she seems to have some rather good references.”
Lettice does not reply to Mrs. Hatchett’s remarks about Mrs. Boothby as Mrs. Hatchett sets about pouring tea into the teacups, which Lettice notices are thicker and plainer than what she is used to, and assumes that they must be part of an old servant’s set from below stairs, left when the Admiral’s more finer possessions were cleared out by the auctioneers who sold off his estate. Perhaps the teapot escaped by being hidden in an out of the way corner cupboard, she considers.
“So, Mrs. Hatchett,” Lettice finally says with a sigh, accepting a cup of tea proffered to her by Mrs. Hatchett to which she adds sugar and milk. “You’d like me to decorate this room, a dining room and another reception room?”
“Yes, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Hatchett enthuses. “The suite of principal rooms on this floor, which Charlie and I will use as our main entertaining space.”
“I shall have to see the state of the other rooms.” Lettice sips her tea as she stands next to Mrs. Hatchett and looks again around the gloomy interior in the midst of which they stand with a critical eye.
“I shall take you on a tour directly after we’ve had our tea, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Hatchett replies. “And I’ll show you some of the rooms you won’t have to deal with, luckily for you. Biscuit?” She opens the tin of Huntley and Palmer’s Empire Assortment and proffers the selection of biscuits to Lettice.
“I can’t take your commission on straight away.” Lettice tempers her companion’s enthusiasm as she selects a jam fancy from amongst the biscuits on the offing in the tin. “I’ve just accepted a commission from another client who wants some work done on her country house in Essex.”
“Oh, that’s alright!” Mrs. Hatchett replies, selecting a Bourbon biscuit for herself. “This place won’t be shipshape for a good month or two yet: maybe even longer. Work is only really just getting started.” She bites into her biscuit and munches it pleasurably.
“And what do you envisage this time, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice asks after finishing her own mouthful of biscuit and sip of tea. “Oh, and just to be clear, I won’t settle for chintz of any kind this time.”
“Oh no, my dear Miss Chetwynd! Of course not!” Mrs. Hatchett assures her.
“Well, I know you have a fondness for it, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice eyes Mrs. Hatchett over the white china edge of her cup as she takes another sip of tea.
“I do, Miss Chetwynd. I won’t lie.” Mrs. Hatchett admits guiltily. “But not this time. Not here.”
“Good!” Lettice replies. “Then we are in agreeance.”
“When you came to ‘The Gables’, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett goes on. “I told you that I didn’t need you to ape the houses of peers with your own taste.”
“Yes, I remember that, Mrs. Hatchett.”
“Well this time, because this is a London house, and a place where Charlie and I plan to entertain other MPs and dignitaries, I need Queen Anne’s Gate to exude stability, knowledge and most of all, sophistication.”
“And what does that look like to you, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice asks.
“No, what does it look like to you, Miss Chetwynd? You once again have a clean slate to work with.” She looks around her critically. “Or rather it will be when you come back.”
“If I agree.” Lettice counters.
“Can you resist such an offer, Miss Chetwynd? I’m giving you carte blanche to redesign and decorate these rooms.”
“Do you really mean that, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice asks. When Mrs. Hatchett nods her confirmation, Lettice goes on, “Well, if I am to be given carte blanche, may I ask, how avant-garde might I be permitted to be with this interior design?”
“As much as you want, Miss Chetwynd!” Mrs. Hatchett says with a hopeful lilt. “Carte blanche! Neither Charlie nor I know anything about art perse, so we’ll be guided by you. My only request is that I was hoping you could take some of your inspiration from my portrait in your design.” She walks over to her portrait and rubs the edge of the gilded frame affectionately. “You see, I’m really rather proud of it, and I want it to hang above the fireplace in here in place of the Admiral’s portrait.”
“A centrepiece?”
“Yes, that’s right!”
Lettice looks at the portrait again, carefully admiring the vivid brushstrokes of the artist who has so expertly captured Mrs. Hatchett’s spirit. “Very good, Mrs. Hatchett.” she agrees with a smile.
“Oh hoorah!” Mrs. Hatchett deposits her teacup and what is left of her biscuit on the tray and claps her hands in delight. “So, what have you in mind, Miss Chetwynd?”
“There is an exhibition happening in Paris in April. It’s called ‘Exposition internationale des arts décoratifs et industriels modernes’*****************. It is highlighting and showcasing the new modern style of architecture and interior design: a style I am an exponent of. I’m planning to go when it opens, Mrs. Hatchett, and I’m hoping to gather new ideas on interior design there and incorporate them into my own. Since the house won’t be finished for a few months, I could use your interior designs to showcase some of my ideas inspired by the exhibition.”
“I say!” Mrs. Hatchett breathes. “How deliciously fashionable! I’d have the most avant-garde house amongst the MPs’ wives! That would be a feather for my cap!”
“Yes, it would, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice purrs. “You’d be the most fashionable, the most up-to-date, the most smart and select.”
“Yes! I agree!” Mrs. Hatchett laughs. “As avant-garde and daring as you like, Miss Chetwynd!”
“Then we’d best finish our tea so you can show me around, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice concludes.
*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.
**Originally a street and a square, Queen Anne’s Gate began life as Queen Square and Park Street. The two were separated by a high wall until 1873when the two areas were combined into Queen Anne’s Gate. Queen Square was constructed first, then when Park Street was constructed, residents of Queen Square were so concerned that the road would be used as a cut through for carriages to avoid the traffic of King Street, the Sanctuary and Tothill Street that a subscription was collected for the building of the wall to avoid the residents having the peace of their square disturbed. The architecture of the buildings in the original Queen Square part of Queen Anne’s Gate is superb, and the main doors to the majority of buildings have very elaborate decorated wooden canopies.
***A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.
****A lunette is a crescent- or half-moon–shaped or semi-circular architectural space or feature, usually above a doorway or walkway, variously filled by windows, masonry, a painted mural, or sometimes left void.
*****Hobnailed boots (known in Scotland as “tackety boots”) are boots with hobnails (nails inserted into the soles of the boots), usually installed in a regular pattern, over the sole. They usually have an iron horseshoe-shaped insert, called a heel iron, to strengthen the heel, and an iron toe-piece. They may also have steel toecaps. Often used for mountaineering, the hobnails project below the sole and provide traction on soft or rocky terrain and snow, but they tend to slide on smooth, hard surfaces. They have been used since antiquity for inexpensive durable footwear, and were often by workmen and the military.
******Built in Westminster, quite close to the Palace of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament Artillery Mansions was just one of the many fine Victorian mansion blocks to be built in Victoria Street around St James Underground Railway Station in the late 1800s. Constructed around open courtyards which served as carriageways and residential gardens, the mansion blocks were typically built of red brick in the fashionable Queen Anne style. The apartments were designed to appeal to young bachelors or MPs who often had late parliamentary sittings, with many of the apartments not having kitchens, providing instead communal dining areas, rather like a gentleman’s club. Artillery Mansions, like many large mansion blocks employed their own servants to maintain the flats and address the needs of residents. During the Second World War, Artillery Mansions was commandeered by the Secret Intelligence Service as a headquarters. After the war, the building reverted to private residences again, but with so many of its former inhabitants either dead, elderly or in changed circumstances owing to the war, it became a place to house many ex-servicemen. The Army and Navy Company, who ran the Army and Navy Stores just up Victoria Street registered ‘Army and Navy Ltd.’ at Artillery Mansions as a lettings management company. By the 1980s, Artillery Mansions was deserted and in a state of disrepair. It was taken over by a group of ideological squatters who were determined to bring homelessness and housing affordability to the government’s attention, but within ten years, with misaligned ideologies and infighting, the squatters had moved on, and in the 1990s, Artillery Mansions was bought by developers and turned into luxury apartments.
*******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.
********A wingback chair is a type of chair with a back that curves out to the sides. Wingback chairs are named for the wings, or extensions, of fabric on either side of the seat, typically, but not always, stretching down to the arm rest. The wings can be made of wood or metal, but they're typically padded and upholstered in fabric. The wingback chair was invented in the Sixteenth Century. It was created during a period of fine English furniture design when English furniture makers were creating furniture that has elaborate designs and ornate carvings. The name “wingback chair” is derived from the chair's back wings. The wings were added to provide support for the head and neck of the person sitting in it, as well as affording the sitter with protection from draughts and to trap the heat from a fireplace in the area where the person would be sitting. Hence, in the past, these were often used near a fireplace. They also provided a place for a person to rest their arms, which gave it its distinctive look—a shape similar to that of a bird's wing or butterfly wing.
*********A bandeau is a narrow band worn round the head to hold the hair in position.
**********Believe it or not, but the interjection of “shit” was not uncommon by the 1920s amidst the lower classes. The earliest known use of the interjection shit is in the 1860s. It is also recorded as a noun from the Old English period (pre-1150).
***********Derived from the French, a vendeuse is a saleswoman, usually one in a fashionable dress shop.
************Vim was a common cleaning agent, used in any Edwardian household. Vim scouring powder was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight.
*************Zebo (or originally Zebra) Grate Polish was a substance launched in 1890 by Reckitts to polish the grate to a gleam using a mixture that consisted of pure black graphite finely ground, carbon black, a binding agent and a solvent to keep it fluid for application with a cloth or more commonly newspaper.
************* ‘Chu Chin Chow’ is a musical comedy written, produced and directed by Oscar Asche, with music by Frederic Norton, based on the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. It was the most popular show in London’s West End during the Great War. It premiered at His Majesty’s Theatre in London on the 3rd of August 1916 and ran for 2,238 performances, a record number that stood for nearly forty years!
**************The Fall of the House of Usher is a short story in the horror/gothic genre by American writer Edgar Allan Poe, first published in 1839 in Burton's Gentleman's Magazine. The story revolves around the narrator visiting his the house of his childhood friend, Roderick Usher: the House of Usher falling slowly but more surely into decrepitude as the story goes on, before finally splitting in two as the narrator flees, and silking into a lake.
***************A pied-à-terre is a small flat, house, or room kept for occasional use.
****************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.
*****************The 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 25the, 1925. It was designed by the French government to highlight the new modern style of architecture, interior decoration, furniture, glass, jewelry 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.
Although this may appear to be a real room, this is in fact made up with 1:12 miniatures from my miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The two intentionally worn leather wingback chairs are both 1:12 artisan miniatures which I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. The small pedestal table, the white plaster fireplace, the black painted metal fire basket and fender, black painted fire irons, easel, metal step ladder and pedestal also come from there. The painting on the easel is my own selection of what I thought Mrs. Hatchett might look like, put into a gilded frame that also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop.
The wooden tea tray is a 1;12 artisan miniature piece that I acquired from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay. The floral teapot is an artisan piece as well, decorated by the artist Rachel Munday, whose work is highly prized by miniatures collectors. The Huntley and Palmer’s Empire Assorted Biscuit tin containing a replica selection of biscuits is also a 1:12 artisan piece. The plain white teacups, milk jug and sugar bowl are painted metal and come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.
The painting hanging above the fireplace came from Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.
On the fireplace stands a bottle of Zebo grate polish and a can of Brasso. Zebo (or originally Zebra) Grate Polish was a substance launched in 1890 by Reckitts to polish the grate to a gleam using a mixture that consisted of pure black graphite finely ground, carbon black, a binding agent and a solvent to keep it fluid for application with a cloth or more commonly newspaper.
The feather duster on the fireplace mantle I made myself using fledgling feathers (very spring) which I picked up off the lawn one day thinking they would come in handy in my miniatures collection sometime. I bound them with thread to the handle which is made from a fancy ended toothpick!
On s shelf to the right of the photo on top of a yellow cleaning cloth is a can of Vim with stylised Edwardian. Vim was a common cleaning agent, used in any Edwardian household. Vim scouring powder was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight.
The flocked wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend who encouraged me to use it as wallpaper for my 1:12 miniature tableaux.
The large Persian rug on the floor has been woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.
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
(further pictures and information you can see if you go to the end of page and by clicking on the link...)
Belvedere
Belvedere Castle. Garden Front of the Lower Belvedere.
Belvedere Palace stands supposedly on the foundations of a Roman camp that had been erected here for strategic reasons. In 1693 Prince Eugene of Savoy acquired field and vineyard grounds between today's Rennweg and today's Gürtel. In 1700 Johann Lukas von Hildebrandt began with the construction of a palace garden (Lower Belvedere), whose in French-style layed out park was equipped with large water basins, an orangery with precious foreign plants and a menagerie. Prince Eugene was a great animal lover, and some animals in his collection could be fed exclusively by himself.
1720 the Prince conceived the plan the summer palace to supplement by a another palace building on the hill of the garden.
The 1721 by Johann Lukas von Hildebrandt begun works had been completed in 1724. The Upper Belvedere served in contrast to the Lower only representative purposes and was never meant to live.
The Prince and his architect managed a perfect symbiosis between architecture and garden. After the death of the Savoy (1736) inherited his niece Victoria of Savoy-Soisson, nee Princess Hildburghausen, all his possessions. From her the Habsburgs beginning of 1752 acquired the Belvedere. From 1755 Empress Maria Theresa moved the Arcierenleibgarde (Royal Company of the Archers) and the Galician Guard in the annex of the Belvedere. Besides, the castle stood almost empty.
Belvedere Castle. Engraving by Salomon Kleiner 1731/40 (left).
Vienna from the Belvedere. Coloured copper engraving by Carl Schütz, 1784 (right).
1770 Belvedere Palace was venue of brilliant festivities:
In castle and park the marriage of Archduchess Maria Antonia (Marie Antoinette) with the Dauphin of France by proxy (per procura) was celebrated. About 2,000 people were invited, more than 1,500 bottles of champagne, which was far from home in Vienna at that time,
were emptied. For hospitality of the guests, there were round tables, which were covered with silver. However, the Court of Vienna had a large part of the silver service to rent of nobles, because the stocks of the silver chamber were not sufficient. Finished was the festival by a magnificent fireworks.
1776, the imperial picture gallery from the Stallburg (home of the famous Lipizzan stallions) was transferred to the Upper Belvedere, the animals of the menagerie came to Schönbrunn. Shortly before the Congress of Vienna in 1814 in the Lower Belvedere the Ambras Collection was exposed. During the war against Napoleon (1805-1809), much of the collection of paintings had to be outsourced. The Corsican claimed 400 masterpieces for himself, but which after his defeat at Waterloo to the Habsburgs have been restituted. The after the French wars completely neglected building has been restored 1850-1866.
Castle Park with Upper Belvedere. Photograph, around 1890.
1819 Emperor Franz II (I) the Institute of Botany, University of Vienna, had given spacious grounds for enlargement of the Botanical Garden at Rennweg. Franz was very interested in botany and in accordance with a Habsburg House bill - every Archduke must learn a civilian job - has been educated for gardener. In an adjoining garden of Schloß Belvedere he had from his private funds laid out a botanical garden ("Flora Austriaca") which was left to the Institute of Botany for use.
During the cholera epidemic of 1831, the Belvedere served as well as Schönbrunn Palace the imperial family as a refuge; supposedly one was there protected from the bad air, which was attributed to the onset of the disease. Both castles lay in the "countryside", the air was much better here than in the densely populated city. During wartime, a hospital was set up in the castle.
As the space for the imperial collections became too small, it was thought to expand the Upper Belvedere by wing buildings. This plan was dropped for aesthetic reasons, however. After the expansion of the city (razing of the bastions and glacis) arose on the ring road the newly created Court Museums; moved there in 1891 the major part of the paintings.
Archduke-Heir to the Throne Franz Ferdinand of Austria-Este at folk and children's party in the park of the Belvedere Palace. Photograph, 1905.
To 1893/94 it is likely that Archduke Franz Ferdinand has chosen the Upper Belvedere to his residence in Vienna. Other sources say that it had been assigned to him by the Emperor Franz Joseph as a place to stay in Vienna. The rooms have been restored, adapted for residential purposes and supplemented with neo-Baroque furniture. The heir of the Este collections furnished his residence with numerous works of art. He had envisaged the castle for the accommodation of his collections; in 1893 were numerous boxes from India and Singapore in Belvedere stored. 1894 Emperor Franz Joseph could see the collection: "Yesterday I went to the Belvedere, where Franzi showed me his now quite and very nicely prepared collections. The same are as imposing as interesting by the incredible amount of objects and by the rarity and beauty of them. I believe that this exhibition would be interesting for you", wrote the monarch to his wife, Empress Elisabeth. That same year, Archduke Franz Ferdinand showed his collections his future wife, Sophie Chotková,
"Where I unaware of your fatigue with particular brutality you dragged from box to box" as he apologetically from Budweis wrote to the Countess.
Then the collections moved one the one hand to the Palais Modena in the Beatrixgasse, on the other hand to Konopischt. Only in 1898, Franz Ferdinand was granted by Emperor Franz Joseph to move into the Belvedere as Vienna Residence. More revitalization works were carried out and were also necessary. Technical modernization and preservation of the original building condition had priority - as always with the projects of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. As furnishings served still preserved furnitures from Schloss Hof, which were supplemented by new ones in old style. The private rooms in addition to electric lighting were equipped with central heating.
Belvedere Castle. Staircase in the Upper Belvedere (left).
Marble plastic "Apotheosis of Prince Eugene" by Balthasar Permoser in Gold Cabinet of the Lower Belvedere (right).
If his presence was needed in Vienna, Franz Ferdinand here could lead a normal family life and escape the pressures of court ceremonial, in which the to him in morganatic marriage affiliated wife was exposed to the evils of the courtiers. When the heir to the throne invited guests to the Belvedere, he was sitting opposite his wife as a hostess while she was ranked in the Hofburg always after the latest unmarried Archduchess. About the cozy family life at Belvedere reported Prince von Clary-Aldringens:
"Aunt Sophie invited us ... to snack into a Belvedere, unexpectedly, suddenly appeared the Archduke - we literally froze in our Hab-Acht-position (stand at attention). He greeted us warmly ... [I got to know] the Archduke as a friendly landlord, who was playing and laughing with his Children..."
Between 1899 and 1914 in the Lower Belvedere the military bureau of the heir to the throne was housed. Other well-known Residents - but of outbuildings - were Anton Bruckner, who in 1896 died in the Kustodenwohnung (guardian house), and Richard Strauss, who lived here from 1925 to 1944.
After the assassination of the Archduke and his wife in Sarajevo, the Belvedere should serve as the residence of the new heir to the throne, Archduke Karl and his family. This, however, preferred living in Schönbrunn and especially in the villa Wartholz. In 1917, Charles' brother Archduke Maximilian moved with his family into the Belvedere.
During World War II the castle was badly damaged by bombs, but rebuilt after the war ended immediately. On 15 May 1955 was the Marble Hall venue of the signing of the Austrian State Treaty. Today, the Upper Belvedere houses important art collections.
Excerpts from
Thus lived the Habsburgs - Imperial and Royal Palaces in the
Austro-Hungarian Monarchy
Ingrid Haslinger, Gerhard Trumler
Christian Brandstätter Verlag mbH
The publishing service for museums, businesses and
public bodies
www.brandstaetter - verlag.at
Denomination of the summer residence which Prince Eugene of Savoy himself had erected btw Rennweg and Swiss Garden. The term which refers to the unique view over Vienna dates from the time of Maria Theresa. Prinz Eugen bought in 1697 a plot of land at the Rennweg, which he extended to 1721 in four stages to the current area. Between 1714 and 1716 emerged the Lower Belvedere It is an elongated ground floor building, designed of a 7-axes central projection, two wings and two corner pavilions. The 3-axis central pavilion houses the Marble Hall. The castle the only rarely in Vienna sojourning builder served during the summer months as a pleasure palace.
Only in 1720 commenced construction works for the Upper Belvedere, first drawings for this existed already in 1717. The in it extent and form language compared to the Lower Belvedere especially magnificent Upper Belvedere served primarily as a representative setting for grand receptions and festivities. The architectural history of the example due to the loss of the Eugenianischen Bauarchivs (construction archiv of Prince Eugene) cannot be explored in detail without any gaps. 1723 (according to Rizzi 1721/22) the Upper Belvedere s is considered complete. The architect Johann Lukas von Hildebrandt, who repeatedly worked for Prince Eugen, with the construction of the Belvedere has created his main work. It counts in its multiform architectonic as well as sculptural structure to the most important baroque buildings of the 18th century. The to the ensemble belonging, btw Upper and Lower Belvedere laying garden has been created by the Bavarian horticultural engineer D. Girard and today only in broad terms is original. The designs for the interior of the castle stem from C. le Fort du Plessy.
After the death of the prince the belvedere went into the possession of his sole heiress, Victoria Duchess of Saxe-Hildburghausen. She sold it in 1752 to Maria Theresa. At the behest of Joseph II from 1775 the imperial picture gallery was transferred here, which in 1781 for the first time was open to the public. had. Since 1806 was located in the Lower Belvedere the Ambras Collection. Both collections were in 1890 in the Museum of Art History transferred. In 1894, the palace became residence for the heir to the throne Archduke Franz Ferdinand.
After the first World War I the Republic of Austria in Belvedere installed the Austrian Gallery. 1945 suffered the Belvedere severe war damage. In 1950, the "Gold Cabinet" in the north-eastern corner pavilion of the Upper Belvedere was destroyed by fire and replaced by a copy. The since 1988 ongoing general renovation should have been completed in 1996.
aeiou - the cultural information system of the bm: bwk
14,000 key words and 2000 pictures from history, geography, politics and business in Austria
Austrian Gallery Belvedere
The in the center of Vienna situated Belvedere palaces with their extensive parks form an impressive baroque Gesamtkunstwerk. The Museum in the Upper and Lower Castle
provides an excellent overview of the Austrian Art from the Middle Ages to the present. the collections of the 19th and 20th Century also include an exquisite inventory of international art. World Famous works by Klimt, Schiele, Kokoschka, Renoir and Monet you can see in the upper
Belvedere, from where you can enjoy a spectacular view to the center of Vienna. In the historic rooms of the Lower Belvedere are shown works of art from the Middle Ages and Baroque.
Austrian Gallery Belvedere
Prinz Eugen -Strasse 27 , A - 1037 Wien
Phone +43 / ( 0) 1 / 79557-0
Fax +43 / (0) 1/79 84 337
Upper Belvedere
Collections of the 19th and 20th century
Prinz Eugen -Strasse 27 , A - 1037 Wien
Lower Belvedere
Baroque Museum, and Museum of Medieval Art
Rennweg 6a, A - 1030 Vienna
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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 however we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid, and her best friend and fellow maid-of-all-work, Hilda are visiting Edith’s beloved parents for a few hours on their Sunday off before going on to join Edith’s beau, grocer’s boy, Frank Leadbetter, for a late afternoon showing of ‘Claude Duval’* at the nearby Willesden Hippodrome**. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden as a Line Manager, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home. They live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street, and is far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s Mayfair flat, but has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith.
We find ourselves in the heart of the Watsford’s family home, Ada’s cosy kitchen at the back of the terrace. Ada is holding court, standing at her worn round kitchen table as she gives Hilda an impromptu lesson in baking as she rolls out some pale biscuit dough with her trusty old wooden rolling pin which had belonged to her mother before her. Her daughter and Hilda sit at the table on tall ladderback chairs to either side of her, Edith with a bowl of creamy white marzipan icing in front of her, and Hilda with a bowl of green icing next to her. A plate of iced biscuits sits in the middle of the table between the three of them. As Ada shares her baking wisdom with Hilda, the girls ice and decorate the biscuits Ada has already baked in the oven of her range. George sits in his comfortable Windsor chair next to the warm range and listens with half an ear as he reads the newspaper.
“And then all you have to do is roll the pastry out flat on a liberally floured board like this Hilda love. Dust the top with a bit more flour before rolling it out, and coat your rolling pin with plenty flour too to prevent it from sticking or tearing the dough as you roll it out. Oh, and make sure your biscuit cutters are nicely floured,” Ada instructs Hilda who watches her with rapt attention as Ada takes her silver metal Christmas tree biscuit cutter and pushes it with a gentle press into the dough rolled out before her. “And that will ensure that your biscuit comes out nice and cleanly.” She takes her kitchen knife and deftly slips it between her board and the dough and removes a bit of the dough around the bottom of the Christmas tree shape on the outside of the cutter and then slides the knife under the tree shape to support the bottom of her freshly made biscuit and withdraws it. Placing it to the side of her wooden board closest to Hilda, Ada removes the biscuit cutter to reveal a cleanly cut and perfectly shaped Christmas tree shaped biscuit. “See.”
“Goodness Mrs. W.!” Hilda gasps. “You make it look so simple!”
Hilda quickly scribbles Ada’s words of wisdom down using a pencil in the little notebook she brought with her in her handbag for just that purpose.
“It is that simple, Hilda love.” Ada says with satisfaction, looking down at her biscuit next to her rolled out dough, before beaming brightly at her daughter’s best friend.
“Mum always makes things look easy, Hilda.” Edith says as she carefully lathers some white icing onto a golden brown baked Christmas tree biscuit. “She uses really simple, failproof recipes, and that’s what makes her cooking so good.”
“Did you teach Edith all her plain cooking skills, Mrs. W.?” Hilda asks.
“Well, most of them, Hilda love, but once she had mastered the basics,” Ada dusts her hands with flour and then rubs another biscuit cutter, this one in the shape of bell. “Edith could adapt what I’d taught her and make up her own recipes easily enough, and learn other people’s recipes.”
“I wish I’d had a mum like you, Mrs. W.” Hilda remarks. “Oh, not that my Mum is mean or nasty or anything!” she adds quickly. “But she’s not a good cook like you are, so when Edith found me the job with Mr. and Mrs. Channon as their maid-of-all-work, I wasn’t prepared to cook. I didn’t really know how to cook, even plain cooking.”
“Yes, but look how far you’ve come since then!” Edith replies encouragingly, looking earnestly at her friend.
“Only thanks to you, Edith, teaching me your mum’s basic recipes.” Hilda insists.
“Well, I’m glad that Edith’s being a help to you, Hilda love.” Ada remarks.
“I’m just glad that Mr. and Mrs. Channon dine out a lot, and use Harrods catering department for any fancy dinners at home. I’m sure I couldn’t serve your recipes for beef stew and shepherd’s pie that Edith taught me, Mrs. W., to any of their fine friends that they have over for dinner parties.”
“Edith’s quite a dab hand in the kitchen,” Ada remarks. “Although,” she adds as she eyes her daughter critically as she starts to move the icing she has plopped onto the biscuit base across the surface of it with her spatula to smooth it. “She’s not the best at icing biscuits just yet.”
“What Mum?” Edith exclaims.
“Well look, Edith love!” Ada chides, slapping her palms together, sending forth a shower of light white motes flour. “You’ve added far too much icing onto that biscuit! Here!” She reaches across and takes both the biscuit and the spatula from her daughter and scrapes the icing back into the bowl. She smiles as she looks at her daughter. “Now watch how much of the icing I scoop up on the end of the spatula.” She dips the flat blade into the bowl and scoops up a small amount of creamy white icing and carefully spreads it with zig-zag strokes across the biscuit from the wider bottom up to the top. “See.” She holds the biscuit up so both Edith and Hilda can observe. “A smaller amount is much easier to work with. And if you don’t have enough, you can always scoop up a tiny scraping more to finish it off.” She smiles as she easily moves the icing around to the edge of the biscuit. “There.”
“Thanks awfully, Mum!” Edith says gratefully, accepting the iced biscuit and the spatula back.
“Now you decorate it with those pretty silver sugar balls, Edith love.” Ada directs her daughter. “You’re far better at that than me.” She turns to Hilda. “Edith has more patience for that kind of thing than I do. She got that from her dad.”
“She did, that!” George pipes up from his comfortable seat drawn up to the old kitchen range as it radiates heat. He lowers his copy of The Sunday Express*** which crumples nosily as he does so. “Some things in this world need patience, like growing marrows.”
“I need patience to deal with you, George Watsford!” Ada says, turning around and placing her still floured hands on her ample hips and giving her husband a dubious look.
“Growing marrows, Mr. W.?” Hilda queries.
“Oh, ignore him, Hilda!” Edith giggles. “Dad’s mad keen about his marrows, even when he can’t grow them as well as Mr. Johnston does.”
“You watch, oh-she-of-little-faith,” George nods in his daughter’s direction and gives her a serious look. “Mr. Pyecroft and I are going work out what’s in his fertiliser and grow a marrow bigger than he’s ever seen! You mark my words!”
“Yes Dad!” Edith replies, rolling her eyes and giving her best friend across the table a cheeky smile as she giggles.
“I’ll have no talk of fertiliser in my kitchen, George,” Ada says. “And that’s a fact!” Pointing to the Sunday Express open across his lap she adds, “Back to your crossword****.”
“With pleasure,” George remarks, coughing and clearing his throat as he lifts the paper back up again, obscuring his face from the three women around the kitchen table.
“Now Hilda love, you try icing a biscuit too.” Ada encourages, nodding at the large white bowl of green icing at Hilda’s right. “Do it the same way you just saw me do it. Just take up a bit of icing on the end of your spatula and smear it across left to right as you work your way up the biscuit.”
“Alright Mrs. W., I’ll try.” Hilda replies as she picks up a Christmas tree biscuit from the baked but undecorated stack of festively shaped biscuits on her left.
“You saw how much I scooped up on the end of the spatula, so you know now how not to overload it.” She watches carefully as Hilda dips her spatula into the bowl of peppermint green icing and coats it with a small amount of icing. “Good love. Good!” she approves as Hilda begins to smear the icing across the surface of a biscuit. “Edith and I will make a baker of you yet.”
“Oh I don’t know about that Mrs. W.” Hilda says doubtfully.
“Yes we will, Hilda.” Edith replies encouragingly. “We’ll have you baking cakes in no time!”
“And then, you’ll have every hungry young man come pounding on your door, Hilda love, you mark my words.” George says from behind the newspaper. “And you’ll never be short of handsome young suitors.”
“Mr. W!” Hilda blushes at George’s remark.
“Dad!” Edith exclaims.
“I’m just stating the truth, Edith love.” George replies as he lowers the newspaper again. Closing it and folding it in half, he slips his pen into his argyle check printed***** brown, white and burnt orange vest. He drops the paper on the hearth beside his chair and stands up. He takes a few steps across the flagstones to the kitchen table and stands next to his wife. Wrapping his arm lovingly around her shoulder he tells his daughter and her friend, “Your mum wouldn’t have been nearly as attractive the day I met her at that picnic in Roundwood Park****** organised by the Vicar, if she hadn’t been carrying a tin of her best biscuits at the time. She knows the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” He leans forward and reaches across the table, snatching up a decorated Christmas tree biscuit and scoffing half of it into his mouth before anyone can stop him.
“George!” Ada slaps her husband’s shirt clad forearm. “We’ll have no biscuits for Christmas Day, between you eating my biscuits and Edith eating the icing!” she scolds with a good natured chuckle. “Now back to your newspaper this minute,” She picks up her flour dusted rolling pin in her right hand and starts lightly slapping her open left hand palm warningly and eyes her husband. “Before I bar you from my kitchen and banish you to the front parlour.”
“What?” George exclaims. “With no fire up there in the grate! I’ll freeze!”
“It would serve you right, for pinching one of my biscuits! But since it’s so close to Christmas, and I’m full of festive cheer today, I’ll give you a reprieve. Back to your crossword, Mr. W.,” Ada says warningly, using Hilda’s shortened version of their surname, but saying it with a slight smirk to show that she isn’t really cross with him. “Right this minute, or you’ll be out in the cold!”
“Yes Mrs. W.!” George replies, munching contentedly on his mouthful of biscuit, holding the green iced trunk and lower branches of his stolen biscuit in his right hand.
“That’s very good, Hilda love.” Ada says, returning her attention to Hilda and looking at her biscuit, as George settles back down in his chair and takes up his newspaper again.
“Thanks awfully, Mrs. W.!” Hilda says with a smile as her face blanches at Ada’s praise.
“Oh! That looks beautiful, Edith love!” Ada exclaims looking at the pretty pattern of silver balls her daughter has made on the surface of her own white icing clad biscuit. “It looks too good to eat.”
“Almost!” Goerge pipes up from behind the Sunday Express again.
“Crossword!” Ada warns him.
Ada settles back into her rhythm of stamping out biscuits from her flattened dough: first a bell, then another Christmas tree, then a heart which she knows Edith is most looking forward to decorating for Frank for Christmas. She smiles with pleasure as she presses the heart cutter down lightly into the slightly resistant pillow like dough. The Watsford’s kitchen will once again be busy this Christmas with George and Ada’s seafaring son and Edith’s younger brother, Bert, on shore leave for the second year in a row just in time for Christmas, and Frank Leadbetter and his Scottish grandmother, old Mrs. McTavish, around their kitchen table. Ada’s elder sister, Maud, offered to host the Watsfords at the crowded little terrace in nearby Willesen that she shares with her husband Sydney and their five children, Harry, William, Ann, Nelly and Constance, but Ada declined. The two-up two-down******* Victorian terrace house isn’t much larger than the Watsford’s own Harlesden terrace and can barely fit Maud and her family, with Harry and William sleeping in the skillion roofed******** enclosed back verandah which serves as their narrow and draughty bedroom. So, with Frank and Mrs. McTavish to include in the number of guests for Christmas Day, Ada thought better of her sister’s kind offer. She, George, Edith and Bert will visit Maud and her family on Boxing Day instead, which is traditionally when the two families get together.
“Are all these biscuits for Christmas Day, Mrs. W.?” Hilda asks, breaking into Ada’s consciousness.
“Deary me, no, Hilda love!” Ada exclaims, raising her flour dusted hands in protest. “I always make tins of my homemade biscuits to give as gifts every Christmas.”
“That’s a good idea, Mrs. W.!” Hilda remarks. “Everyone enjoys a nice homemade biscuit or two with their tea, whoever they are, don’t they?”
“I for one, find one of Ada’s biscuits with tea to be one of life’s pleasures.” George remarks from behind the newspaper. Ada and the girls listen as he pops the last of his stolen biscuit in his mouth and munches on it noisily, sighing as he does.
“Well, play your cards right, and behave yourself, George,” Ada replies. “And you may have one with your tea when Hilda, Edith and I have finished.”
“No-one says no to a tin of Mum’s homemade biscuits.” Edith adds as she slips her spatula into her bowl of white icing and withdraws a much smaller amount of icing this time before starting on decorating a heart shaped biscuit from her pile.
“Much better amount, Edith love.” Ada nods approvingly.
“Will we have enough biscuits to give some to Frank and Mrs. McTavish on Christmas Day?” Edith asks.
“Didn’t we last year, Edith love?”
“Yes.”
“So we will again this year, then.”
“That’s good, Mum. Thank you.”
“That’s alright, love. Although I know you’re only asking me because you just want to give Frank all the heart shaped biscuits you bake and decorate.” Ada smiles indulgently. “Don’t you, Edith love?”
Edith gasps and flushes at her mother’s wry observation. “Oh no, Mum!” she defends herself, but then adds, “Well, not all the heart biscuits, at any rate.”
“Aha!” Ada clucks. “I better make a few extra hearts then, hadn’t I?”
“It’s a shame you can’t come for Christmas too, Hilda!” Edith says. “Think what fun we’d all have playing charades********* after our Christmas dinner!”
“Oh thank you Edith,” Hilda replies. “That would be ever so much fun, but you’ve scarcely got enough room around this table for your family and Frank and his gran, never mind me.”
“We always have room at our table on Christmas Day for any waif or stray at a loose end.” George says, lowing the paper and looking earnestly at Hilda. “Isn’t that right, Ada?”
“George is right, Hilda.” Ada presses out a final gingerbread man biscuit and slips it along with the others on a battered old baking tray, ready for the hot oven behind her. She looks at Hilda and gives her a friendly smile. “You’d be very welcome.”
“Oh, it’s kind of you, Mrs. W., but I can’t even though I’d like to.”
“Well, I imagine you’ll want to be with your own family on Christmas Day, anyway.” Ada remarks as she picks up the tray of unbaked biscuits, turns around and walks over to the range where she opens the door of the baking oven with the aid of a protective tea towel and slips the tray into its glowing interior.
“Oh it isn’t that, Mum. Hilda will be in Shropshire with Mr. and Mrs. Channon on Christmas Day, pretending to Mrs. Channon’s lady’s maid again, to help her save face.”
“What’s that, Hilda love? Christmas with strangers, so far away?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Channon are hardly strangers, Mrs. W.,” Hilda answers. “And I don’t really mind.”
Edith smiles over the table at her friend decorating her biscuit with a random smattering of silver balls, rather than a carefully arranged pattern like her. “At least you’ll know all the quirks about how the Lancravens’ house works this year, and how you’re supposed to behave, where you’re supposed to sit, and what name you’ll have to answer to.”
“Edith’s is right, Mrs. W..” Hilda explains. “Mr. and Mrs. Channon and Mr. Channon’s parents the Marquis and Marchioness of Taunton have been invited to spend Christmas and New Year again this year at Lady Lancraven’s country house in Shropshire. We went there last Christmas. Lady Lancraven invites them so they can enjoy the foxhunt she hosts on Boxing Day. I have to go and pretend to be Mrs. Channon’s lady’s maid, as everyone else who stays has a lady’s maid, or a valet if you’re a man.”
“They call Hilda ‘Channon’ because she is Mrs. Channon’s maid.” Edith giggles.
“Yes, that’s how it is in those old country houses.” Ada says knowingly. “It’s a most peculiar tradition. Just as peculiar as the idea that men and women riding horses to chase after a fox is seen as sporting! How anyone can hurt a poor little fox and hunt it down’s beyond me.” Ada mutters shaking her head as she returns to the table from the oven.
“It’s what they do, Ada love,” George says, lowing his paper again. “And they’ve been doing it for generations. It’s a rum business**********, and that’s a fact, but,” He shrugs. “There’ll be no changing them now.”
“Luckily I don’t have to go to that part of the Christmas and New Year celebrations, Mr. W., but I do have to say that as servants, Lady Lancraven lets us have a bit of fun at Christmas. There is even a servants’ ball*********** held for us on Twelfth Night************.”
“I remember the servant’s ball at the big house my Mum used to work in back when I was still a little girl.” Ada says wistfully. “I was allowed to stay up late as a treat and go with Mum to the party, so long as I sat in the corner and kept out of trouble. Oh, the music was grand!” She sighs deeply as she remembers. “There was an upright piano in the servant’s hall which one of the men played, and someone else played the fiddle, and of course everyone sang back in those days with no wireless to listen to for entertainment. The master and mistress of the house would come down for a short while and he would dance with the housekeeper and she with the butler.”
“It’s the same at Lady Lancraven’s, although there’ll be no Lord Lancraven this year, since she’s a widow now.”
“The Merry Widow,” Edith giggles. “Is what the society pages call her.”
“Edith!” Ada chides.
“I’m only quoting what they say in the newspapers, Mum.”
“You’re quoting idle and wicked gossip, young lady,” Ada wags her finger at Edith. “And you know I can’t abide nasty gossip, even if someone thinks it worthy to print in the newspapers.”
“No Mum.” Edith mutters apologetically.
“As I remember it,” Ada remarks, shifting the conversation back to her own childhood memories of her life when Harlesden was still semi-rural************. “The Master and Mistress always found it a bit awkward, dancing and mixing with the servants, and they never stayed for long, but this was when the old Queen was still on the throne, and times were a bit different and more formal then.”
“Well, Lord and Lady Lancraven didn’t stay for long either, Mrs. W., but some of the younger guests upstairs who had come to stay for Twelfth Night festivities last year came down and joined us. It was rather a lark!”
“I hope none of those young men from upstairs tried to take advantage of you, Hilda!”
“No, just a leering footman.” Edith remarks, remembering her friend talk about Lady Lancraven’s presumptuous first footman who winked at Hilda and flirted with her last year.
“What’s that?” Ada queries.
“It’s alright, Mrs. W.. I have protection when I go there. The other reason why Mrs. Channon accepted the Lancravens’ invitation last year, and this year again, is because my elder sister, Emily, is Lady Lancraven’s lady’s maid, so it means I get to spend Christmas and New Year with her.”
“Oh that must be nice for you, Hilda love, especially since you’ll be so far from home.” Ada remarks as she begins pulling all the excess pieces of dough together and re-forming it into a ball to roll out again.
“And this year, because my sister explained that I was going up there again as Mrs. Channon’s lady’s maid, she asked Lady Lancraven if she could invite our Mum and bring her up from London by train and have her stay for Christmas and New Year, and she said yes!”
“Won’t your dad mind, Hilda love?” Ada asks. “He’ll be lonely at Christmas without your mum for company.”
Both girls stop decorating their biscuits and an awkward silence falls across the table.
“No Mrs. W.,” Hilda finally says. “My Dad was killed in the Great War, out in France, you see.”
“Oh!” Ada raises her hands to her cheeks, feeling the heat of an awkward blush beneath her fingers. “Oh I’m sorry love. I… I didn’t know.”
“It’s alright, Mrs. W.. I never told you.” Hilda replies. “Anyway, it’s Mum who gets lonely, what with Ronnie on the other side of the world for work, and Emily and me in service.”
“No doubt the fare up to Shropshire is at your sister’s expense.” George remarks dourly, tutting as he changes the subject slightly and shakes the newspaper noisily.
“No Mr. W.!” Hilda replies as she slides her decorated biscuit onto the white porcelain plate in the centre of the kitchen table. “Lady Lancraven’s not like that at all! She’s ever so nice, and generous too. She’s so nice in fact that she’s footing the cost of the railway ticket for Mum from London to Shropshire and back home again after Twelfth Night.”
“Well, that is a turn up for the books, Hilda love.” George remarks with a smile.
“It will be so lovely to have both Mum and Emily and me together for a few days at Christmas, even if Emily and I will still have to work. We’ll have fun when we’re not.”
“Couse you will, Hilda love.” Ada agrees.
“Well, we might not be a grand country house, Hilda, but we’re going to have ever so much fun right here on New Year’s Eve.” Edith enthuses.
“You aren’t going back to the **************Angel in Rotherhithe with Frank like the last two years, then, Edith?” Hilda asks.
“Why would they do that, Hilda love,” George asks. “When they can have a better time of it right here?”
“Dad’s decided that he wants to have a knees up right here, Hilda, especially since Bert is going to be home on shore leave for both Christmas and New Year this year. Bert is inviting some of his chums from the Demosthenes*************** who are also on shore leave and staying in London.”
“I hope his friends aren’t going to be too rough and rowdy.” Ada says with concern as she kneads the dough.
“Of course they won’t be, Ada love!” George tuts from his chair. “He’s working in the rarified surrounds of the Demosthenes’ first-class dining saloon, not her boiler room.”
“Well, rarified or not, I bet there are plenty of rowdy lads working in the first-class dining saloon, George.” Ada scoffs as she picks up her rolling pin and begins to roll out the lightly dusted ball of leftover dough into another, flat circle.
“Well I’m inviting some of my old chums from school,” Edith assures her mother calmly as she starts to ice a biscuit in the shape of a jolly, round snowman. “And that includes Alice Dunn****************, so Bert’s friends will just have to behave, Mum.”
“See, Ada love,” George opines. “Invite the Vicar’s daughter, and they’ll be sure to behave.”
“Pshaw!” Ada scoffs, flapping her hand, shooing away her husband’s remark flippantly. “With a bottle of champagne promised to Edith by Miss Chetwynd as a New year gift,” She stops rolling out the dough, turns and looks at her husband with a cocked eyebrow and a doubtful look. “I hardly think so.”
“Well, we’ll only be a few footsteps away, up in the front parlour with Mr. and Mrs. Pyecroft, Ada love, so I doubt there will be too many shenanigans going on.”
“I should hope not!” Ada goes back to rolling out the dough. “Shenanigans indeed!”
“It’s going to be so much fun!” Edith says. “I do wish you could come!”
“It’ll be more fun if Frank comes through with that gramophone he keeps promising.” George says.
“Oh, you know Frank, Dad.” Edith defends her beau steadfastly. “If he says he’ll do something, he does it.”
“That he does, Edith love.” her father agrees.
“A gramophone, Edith?” Hilda gasps. “How ripping!”
“Yes. Frank says he knows someone from the trades union with a gramophone. His friend will be away over Christmas, so he said that Frank could borrow it for New Year’s Eve. Apparently he had all the latest records.”
“That will make your New Year’s Eve, Edith! Do you remember that day we went down Oxford Street and went into His Master’s Voice***************** and you convinced me to come inside with you, so we could enjoy the elicit delight of listening to records we were never going to buy?”
“Faint heart never won fair lady, Hilda.” Edith giggles.
“That’s right!” Hilda exclaims. “That’s what you told me before you dragged me in there.”
“I hardly dragged you, Hilda.” Edith retorts. “You wanted to listen to Paul Whiteman.”
“And I did!” Hilda giggles with delight.
“Perhaps it’s more Edith and her girlfriends we need to worry about rather than Bert and his shipmates on New Year’s Eve, Ada love.” George ventures with a conspiratorial smile and a wink at his daughter.
*’Claude Duval’ is a 1924 British silent adventure film directed by George A. Cooper and starring Nigel Barrie, Fay Compton and Hugh Miller. It is based on the historical story of Claude Duval, the French highwayman in Restoration England who worked in the service of exiled royalists who returned to England under King Charles II.
**The Willesden Empire Hippodrome Theatre was confusingly located in Harlesden, although it was not too far from Willesden Junction Railway Station in this west London inner city district. It was opened by Walter Gibbons as a music hall/variety theatre in September 1907. In 1908, the name was shortened to Willesden Hippodrome Theatre. Designed by noted theatre architect Frank Matcham, seating was provided for 864 in the orchestra stalls and pit, 517 in the circle and 602 in the gallery. It had a forty feet wide proscenium, a thirty feet deep stage and eight dressing rooms. It was taken over by Sydney Bernstein’s Granada Theatres Ltd. chain from the third of September 1927 and after some reconstruction was re-opened on the twelfth of September 1927 with a programme policy of cine/variety. From March 1928 it was managed by the Denman/Gaumont group, but was not successful and went back to live theatre use from 28th January 1929. It was closed in May 1930, and was taken over by Associated British Cinemas in August 1930. Now running films only, it operated as a cinema until September 1938. It then re-opened as a music hall/variety theatre, with films shown on Sundays, when live performances were prohibited. The Willesden Hippodrome Theatre was destroyed by German bombs in August/September 1940. The remains of the building stood on the High Street for many years, becoming an unofficial playground for local children, who trespassed onto the property. The remains were demolished in 1957.
***The Daily Express is a national daily United Kingdom middle-market newspaper printed in tabloid format. It was first published as a broadsheet in London in 1900 by Sir Arthur Pearson. Its sister paper, the Sunday Express, was launched in 1918. Under the ownership of Lord Beaverbrook, the Express rose to become the newspaper with the largest circulation in the world, going from two million in the 1930s to four million in the 1940s.
****The Sundy Express became the first newspaper to publish a crossword in November 1924.
*****An argyle pattern features overlapping diamonds with intersecting diagonal lines on top of the diamonds. They are traditionally knit, not woven, using an intarsia technique. The pattern was named after the Seventeenth Century tartan of Clan Campbell of Argyll in western Scotland.
******Roundwood Park takes its name from Roundwood House, an Elizabethan-style mansion built in Harlesden for Lord Decies in around 1836. In 1892 Willesden Local Board, conscious of a need for a recreation ground in expanding Harlesden, started the process of buying the land for what is now Roundwood Park. Roundwood Park was built in 1893, designed by Oliver Claude Robson. He was allocated nine thousand pounds to lay out the park. He put in five miles of drains, and planted an additional fourteen and a half thousand trees and shrubs. This took quite a long time as he used local unemployed labour for this work in preference to contractors. Mr. Robson had been the Surveyor of the Willesden Local Board since 1875. As an engineer, he was responsible for many major works in Willesden including sewerage and roads. The fine main gates and railings were made in 1895 by Messrs. Tickner & Partington at theVulcan Works, Harrow Road, Kensal Rise. An elegant lodge house was built to house the gardener; greenhouses erected to supply new flowers, and paths constructed, running upward to the focal point-an elegant bandstand on the top of the hill. The redbrick lodge was in the Victorian Elizabethan style, with ornamented chimney-breasts. It is currently occupied by council employees although the green houses have been demolished. For many years Roundwood Park was home to the Willesden Show. Owners of pets of many types, flowers and vegetables, and even 'bonny babies' would compete for prizes in large canvas tents. Art and crafts were shown, and demonstrations of dog-handling, sheep-shearing, parachuting and trick motorcycling given.
*******Two-up two-down is a type of small house with two rooms on the ground floor and two bedrooms upstairs. There are many types of terraced houses in the United Kingdom, and these are among the most modest. The first two-up two-down terraces were built in the 1870s, but the concept of them made up the backbone of the Metroland suburban expansions of the 1920s with streets lined with rows of two-up two-down semi-detached houses in Mock Tudor, Jacobethan, Arts and Crafts and inter-war Art Deco styles bastardised from the aesthetic styles created by the likes of English Arts and Crafts Movement designers like William Morris and Charles Voysey.
********A skillion roof, sometimes called a shed or lean-to roof, is distinguished by a single, sloping plane extending from one side of the house to the other.
*********Charades is a word guessing game where one player has to act out a word or action without speaking and other players have to guess what the action is. It's a fun game that's popular around the world at parties, and was traditionally a game often played on Christmas Day after luncheon or dinner by people of all classes.
**********The word “rum” can sometimes be used as an alternative to odd or peculiar, such as: “it's a rum business, certainly”.
***********The servants’ ball has had a long tradition in the country house estates of Britain and only really died out with the onset of the Second World War. They were a cultural melting pot where popular music of the day would be performed alongside traditional country dance tunes. Throughout the Nineteenth Century and into the Twentieth, these balls were commonplace in large country homes.
************Twelfth Night (also known as Epiphany Eve depending upon the tradition) is a Christian festival on the last night of the Twelve Days of Christmas, marking the coming of the Epiphany. Different traditions mark the date of Twelfth Night as either the fifth of January or the sixth of January, depending on whether the counting begins on Christmas Day or the twenty-sixth of December. January the sixth is celebrated as the feast of Epiphany, which begins the Epiphanytide season.
*************It may be built up and suburban today, but Harlesden was just a few big houses and farms until 1840 when the railway was built. Irish immigrants escaping famine in the 1840s came to Harlesden to build canals and railways. Harlesden grew slowly, but by the 1870s and 1880s, when Ada would have been a girl, streets of small houses for railway workers, laundries and bakeries started to appear and the area slowly transformed from rural to suburban. The land around Harlesden Green, for the most part, was owned by the College of All Souls, Oxford, which was later to give its name to the Harlesden Parish Church.
**************The Angel, one of the oldest Rotherhithe pubs, is now in splendid isolation in front of the remains of Edward III's mansion on the Thames Path at the western edge of Rotherhithe. The site was first used when the Bermondsey Abbey monks used to brew beer which they sold to pilgrims. It is located at 24 Rotherhithe St, opposite Execution Dock in Wapping. It has two storeys, plus an attic. It is built of multi-coloured stock brick with a stucco cornice and blocking course. The ground floor frontage is made of wood. There is an area of segmental arches on the first floor with sash windows, and it is topped by a low pitched slate roof. Its Thames frontage has an unusual weatherboarded gallery on wooden posts. The interior is divided by wooden panels into five small rooms. In the early Twentieth Century its reputation and location attracted local artists including Augustus John and James Abbott McNeil Whistler. In the 1940s and 50s it became a popular destination for celebrities including Laurel and Hardy. Today its customers are local residents, tourists and people walking the Thames Path.
***************The SS Demosthenes was a British steam ocean liner and refrigerated cargo ship which ran scheduled services between London and Australia via Cape Town. It stopped at ports including those in Sydney and Melbourne. She was launched in 1911 in Ireland for the Aberdeen Line and scrapped in 1931 in England. In the First World War she was an Allied troop ship.
****************The vicar of All Souls Parish Church in Harlesden between 1918 and 1927 was Ernest Arnold Dunn. Whilst I cannot find any details about his family life, I’d like to think that he was a happily married man of god and could well have had a daughter named Alice who no doubt played the organ in church on Sundays.
*****************The Gramophone Company, who used the brand of Nipper the dog listening to a gramophone, opened the first His Master’s Voice (HMV) shop in London’s busy shopping precinct at 363 Oxford Street in Mayfair on the 20th of July 1921. The master of ceremonies was British composer Sir Edward Elgar. The shop still remains in the possession of more recently financially embattled HMV and it is colloquially known as the ‘home of music since 1921’
This cheerful festive domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
Central to our story are the delicious looking plate of iced and decorated Christmas biscuits, which is a miniature artisan piece gifted to me by my dear Flickr friend and artist Kim Hagar (www.flickr.com/photos/bkhagar_gallery/), who surprised me with it last Christmas. The silver miniature biscuit cutters, all of which have handles and raised edges, just like their life-sized counterpart, are also from her. I have been anxious to use these in a scene, but of course being festively themed, they have had to wait until now.
The flour and dough covered wooden board with its flour dusted rolling pin is also an artisan miniature which I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. Aged on purpose, the rather worn and beaten looking enamelled cannisters for flour and sugar, made in typical domestic Art Deco design and painted in the popular kitchen colours of the 1920s are artisan pieces I also acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop. The glass jar of sugar with its cork stopper and the silver spoon sticking out of the flour cannister also come from there.
The two bowls of icing you can just see to the left and right of the photo are also 1:12 artisan miniatures that I acquired from former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her food looks so real! Frances Knight’s work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination.
Ada’s Windsor chair is a hand-turned 1:12 artisan miniature which came from America. Unfortunately, the artist did not carve their name under the seat of either chair, but it is definitely an unmarked artisan pieces.
Ada’s worn kitchen table I have had since I was a child of seven or eight.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid’s, parents live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden as a Line Manager, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home. Whilst far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s Mayfair flat, the Harlesden terrace has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith and her brother, Bert.
Whilst Edith made a wonderful impression when she met Mrs. McTavish, her young beau Frank Leadbetter’s grandmother, less can be said for Frank who whilst pleasing George, rubbed Ada the wrong way at the Sunday roast lunch Edith organised with her parents to meet Frank. Ever since then, Frank has been filled with remorse for speaking his mind a little more freely than he ought to have in front of Edith’s mother. Finally, Edith hit upon a possible solution to their problem, which is to introduce Mrs. McTavish to George and Ada. Being a kind old lady who makes lace, Edith and Frank both hope that Mrs. McTavish will be able to impress upon Ada what a nice young man Frank is, in spite of his more forward-thinking ideas, which jar with Ada’s ways of thinking, and assure her how happy he makes Edith. After careful planning, today is the day that George and Ada will meet Mrs. McTavish, over a Sunday lunch served in the Watsford’s kitchen.
The kitchen has always been the heart of Edith’s family home, and today it has an especially comfortable and welcoming feeling about it, just as Edith had hoped for. Ada has once again pulled out one of her best tablecloths which now adorns the round kitchen table, hiding its worn surface and the best blue and white china and gilded dinner service is being used today. At Edith’s request, because Mrs. McTavish’s teeth are too brittle to manage a roast chicken for lunch, Ada has cooked a rich and flavoursome beef stew to which she has added some of her large suet dumplings: a suitably delicious meal that is soft enough for the old Scottish lady to consume even with her weak teeth. Now the main course is over, and everyone has had their fill.
“Well, I hope you have all had sufficient to eat.” Ada announces, pushing her Windsor chair back across the flagstones and standing up from at her white linen draped kitchen table.
“Och!” exclaims Mrs. McTavish. “I’ve had plenty, thank you Mrs. Watsford.” She rubs her belly contentedly. “Thank you for cooking something I could manage with my old teeth.”
“It’s my pleasure, Mrs. McTavish,” Ada says with a warm smile. “My family enjoy my hearty beef stews, so it was no hardship to serve it.”
“Well your suet dumplings are lovely and soft, Mrs. Watsford.” the Scotswoman croons in her rolling brogue. “If you’d be willing to share the recipe, I’d like to try and make them for myself at home.”
“Yes, of course, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada enthuses, pleased to be able to share one of her many wonderful recipes, as she has done over the years with her daughter as she has grown up.
“That was a fine Sunday tea, Ada.” acknowledges her husband as he tops up his and Frank’s glasses with stout from the glazed brown pottery jug on the table.
“Why thank you, love.” Ada replies, blushing at the compliment as she runs her clammy hands down the front of her dress, a small outward display of nervousness known only to her family.
“Possibly one of your best yet, love.” George adds in an assuring fashion, noticing his wife’s action and recognising its symbolism.
“Yes, thank you Mrs. Watsford,” agrees Frank politely. “It was a delicious lunch, and more than enough for me. Thanks ever so!”
“Oh I hope you’ll have room for some of my cherry pie, Frank,” Ada says. “Edith told me you liked it so much the first time you had it here, that I made it for you again.”
“Oh, I’m sure I can squeeze in a slice, Mrs. Watsford.” Frank assures her.
“Thank you Mum.” smiles Edith up at her mother.
Edith is so grateful to her mother for all her efforts for the day. Not only was Ada easily convinced of the idea of meeting Frank’s grandmother, Mrs. McTavish, but that she readily agreed to hosting a Sunday lunch for her and produced a fine repast. Edith had helped her mother polish the silver cutlery on her Wednesday off, so it was sparkling as it sat alongside Ada’s best plates and glasses. To top it all off, Frank has bought a bunch of beautifully bright flowers on route from collecting his grandmother from her home in Upton Park to the Watsford’s home in Harlesden. Now they stood in the middle of the table in a glass bottle that serves as a good vase, a perfect centrepiece for Ada’s Sunday best table setting.
“Well!” Ada remarks in reply to her company’s satisfied commentary, picking up the now warm enough to touch deep pottery dish containing what little remains of her stew. “I think we might let tea settle down first and then we’ll have some pudding. What do you all say?”
Everyone readily agrees.
“Alright gentleman,” Ada addresses her husband and Frank, seated next to one another. “You have enough time for a smoke then, before I serve cherry pie. I’ll just pop it in the oven to warm.”
“Thanks awfully, Mrs. Watsford, but I don’t smoke.” Frank quickly explains.
“Ahh, but I do, Frank my lad.” pipes up George. He stands up and walks behind his wife and reaches up to the high shelf running along the top of the kitchen range and fetches down a small tin of tobacco and a pipe. “Come on, let’s you and I step out into the courtyard for a chat, man-to-man.”
“Dad!” Edith exclaims, looking aghast at her father. “Don’t!”
“Don’t worry Edith love, I don’t need to ask young Frank here’s intentions.” George chortles, his eyes glittering mischievously beneath his bushy eyebrows. “It’s quite clear he’s mad about you.”
“Dad!” Edith gasps again as both she and Frank blush deeply.
“That he is,” Mrs. McTavish agrees, reaching across to her grandson and pinching his left cheek as he sinks his head down in embarrassment. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face, my bonny bairn: no mistake.” She smiles indulgently. “Get along with you now Francis!”
“Oh Gran!” murmurs Frank self-consciously. “How many timed must I say, I’m Frank now, not Francis.”
“Och! Nonsense!” the old Scottish woman says sharply, slapping her grandson’s forearm lightly. “You’ll always be Francis to me, my little bairn!”
“Come on Frank my lad,” George encourages the younger man, patting him gently on the back in a friendly way. He picks up his glass of stout. “Let’s leave our womenfolk to chat, and they call you what they like and we’ll be none the wiser for it.”
As George, followed by a somewhat reluctant Frank casting doleful looks at Edith, walk out the back door into the rear garden, Ada says, “Edith love, would you mind clearing the table, whilst I set the table for pudding.”
“Yes of course, Mum!” Edith replies, leaping into action by pushing back her ladderback chair.
“I’m pleased to see you make your husband go outside to smoke, Mrs. Watsford.” the old Scottish woman remarks with a satisfied smile. “I don’t approve of men smoking indoors.” she adds crisply.
“No, something told me that I didn’t think you would, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada replies with a bemused smile, not admitting that George usually smokes his pipe in the kitchen after every meal. She and her husband had agreed the night before as they both sat by the kitchen range warming their feet, Ada darning one of George’s socks and George puffing on his pipe pleasantly, that perhaps to give the very best first impression, George should smoke outside in the back garden whilst Mrs. McTavish was visiting.
“ ’Nyree’, my husband used to say to me. ‘Nyree, why don’t you let me smoke indoors like other wives let their husbands do?’ I’d always say that Mither* never let Faither** smoke his pipe in the house, so why should I let him?” She nods emphatically.
“Nyree,” Ada remarks, turning around from the oven where she has just put her cherry pie, stacked with ripe, juicy berries to warm. “That’s a pretty Scottish name.”
“Och,” chuckles Mrs. McTavish. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Watsford, but it’s quite literally as far removed from Scottish as you can get.”
“Where does it come from then, Mrs. McTavish?” Ada puts her hands on her hips. “It sounds so lovely.”
“Well, my family were fishing people going back many generations, and Faither was a seaman, and he sailed to places far further than the Hebrides*** that took him from home for months at a time when I was a wee bairn. Just before I was born, he came back from what was then the newly formed Colony of New Zealand****. He met some of the local islanders who were struck by his blonde hair. Apparently, they were all dark skinned and had dark hair, so they found him rather fascinating to look at.” She chuckles. “The story he told me years later was that they called him ‘Ngaire’, which he was told by some of his shipmates, who knew more about the natives of the colony, on the return voyage that it meant ‘flaxen’. Some of them told him that they named their own blonde daughters Nyree after the name ‘Ngaire’. So, when I was born, I had blonde hair, if you can believe that now.” She gently pats her carefully set white hair that sweeps out from underneath her old fashioned lace embroidered cap in the style of her youth. “So Faither told Mither that I should be called Nyree. So, Nyree I was.”
“What a lovely story, Mrs. McTavish.” Edith remarks, gathering the lunch plates together.
“Thank you, Edith dearie. Now, what can I do to help, besides telling old stories?” asks Mrs. McTavish with a groan as she leans her wrists on the edge of the table and starts to push herself somewhat awkwardly out of her chair.
“You don’t have to do anything, Mrs. McTavish,” Ada assures her, encouraging the older Scottish woman to resume her seat with a settling gesture. “You are our guest. Edith and I are very used to working together around this old kitchen of ours, aren’t we love?”
“Yes Mum.” Edith agrees, gathering up the dinner plates into a stack, scraping any remnants of stew and dumplings onto the top plate using the cutlery as she gathers it.
“You’re a good lass, dearie, helping your mam like that.” Mrs. McTavish opines as she settles back comfortably into the well-worn chair usually sat in by George and Ada’s son, Bert.
“Oh not really, Mrs. McTavish.” Edith replies dismissively. “Any daughter would help her mum.”
“Och, not just any lass, bairn. There are plenty I know of, up round my way, especially those who are domestics like you, who won’t lift a finger unless they have to on their days off. Slovenly creatures!”
“Well, I agree with you, Mrs. McTavish. I think that’s very lazy of them, not to mention thoughtless. We all ought to do our bit. Mum made a lovely lunch for us, so it’s only right that I should help tidy up. I’ll help wash the dishes properly later, Mum,” Edith addresses her mother. “I’ll just rinse them and stack them by sink for now.”
“Thanks Edith love.” Ada replies gratefully. As she puts out some of her best blue and white floral china cups she addresses Mrs. McTavish. “Yes, Edith’s a good girl, even if she does use fancy words now.” She glances at her daughter. “Lunch rather than tea.” She shakes her head but smiles lovingly. “What next I ask you?” she snorts derisively.
“Mum!” Edith utters with an exasperated sigh but is then silenced by her mother’s raised careworn hand.
“And her dad and I are very proud of her, Mrs. McTavish.”
“Now, thinking of Edith and being proud of your bairns,” Mrs. McTavish starts. “When Edith and Francis came to visit me at Upton Park the other week to suggest this lovely gathering of our two clans, such as they are,” She clears her throat with a growl and speaks a little louder and more strongly. “They told me, Mrs. Watsford, that you and your husband were a bit concerned about some of Francis’ more,” She pauses whilst she tries to think of the right word to use. “Radical, ideas.”
“Mrs. McTavish!” Edith exclaims, spinning around from the trough where she is rinsing the dishes, her eyes wide with fear as to what the old Scottish woman is about to say.
“Now, now, my lass!” The old Scottish woman holds up her gnarled hands with their elongated fingers in defence before reaching about herself and adjusting the beautiful lace shawl draped over her shoulders that she made herself when she was younger. “I won’t have any secrets between your mam and me if we’re to be friends, which I do hope we will be.” She turns in her seat and addresses Ada as the younger woman puts out the glazed teapot in the shape of a cottage with a thatched roof with the chimney as the lid that Edith bought for her from the Caledonian Markets*****. “When your Edith and my Francis came to visit me at home, and broached the subject of me coming here for tea, they suggested that I might be a calming voice that would soothe your disquiet about my Francis and his more unusual ideas.”
“Did they indeed?” Ada asks with pursed lips and a cocked eyebrow, looking at her daughter’s back as she stands at the trough, dutifully rinsing dishes with such diligence that she doesn’t have to turn around and face her mother.
“Now, don’t be cross with them, Mrs. Watsford.” Mrs. McTavish reaches out her left hand and grasps Ada’s right in it, starting the younger woman as much by the intimate gesture she wasn’t expecting as by how cold the older woman’s hand is. “You mustn’t blame them.” She turns and looks with affection at Edith’s back. “They are young, and in love after all. When your bràmair***** is perceived less than favourably by the other’s mam or da, you can hardly blame them for wanting to smooth the waves of concern, can you?”
“Well, I don’t know if I approve of them telling you what my feelings are about your grandson behind my back.” Ada folds her arms akimbo.
“Ahh, now Mrs. Watsford,” Mrs. McTavish says soothingly. “You were young and in love once too. Don’t deny it!” She wags her finger at Ada. “I believe you met Mr. Watsford at a parish picnic.”
“Yes, we both worship at All Souls****** and met at a picnic in Roundwood Park*******.” Ada smiles fondly at the memory of her in her flouncy Sunday best dress and George in a smart suit and derby sitting on the lush green lawns of the park.
“And no doubt if your mam or da was set against Mr. Watsford, you would have done anything to convince them otherwise.” Mrs. McTavish continues.
“Well, I didn’t have to. George was, and still is, a model of a husband.” Ada counters quickly.
“That may well be true, Mrs. Watsford, and I’m happy for you.” The old Scotswoman pauses. “But you would have, if he had been less that the perfect specimen of husband that he is.” She cocks a white eyebrow as she looks earnestly at Edith’s mother.
“Yes, I suppose I would have, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada concedes with a sigh.
“So, I have come today to plead my grandson’s case with you.” Mrs. McTavish announces plainly.
“I’d hardly call your son’s attitudes a case that requires pleading before me, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada scoffs in surprise at the old woman’s words.
“Well, you’ll forgive me for seeing things from a different perspective, Mrs. Watsford.” the Scotswoman elucidates. “For you see, from where I am sitting, it seems to me that Mr. Watsford quite likes Francis. They both have a common enjoyment of reading books, even if my Francis likes reading more serious books than the murder mysteries your husband prefers. You on the other hand are judge and jury, sitting in judgement of my Francis’ ideas because they are at odds to your own.”
“I think I see where he gets some of his outspokenness, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada remarks before turning away from her guest at picking up a blue and white floral milk jug from the great Welsh dresser behind her.
“Aye. I’ll not deny it, Mrs. Watsford. His parents, my husband and I all taught Francis to speak his mind and not be afraid to do so. I suppose we all come across a little bit abrasively as a clan to some, but we all have,” She pauses and smiles sadly. “Or rather, had, quite strong personalities and opinions about things. We all believed in free speech, so long as it is respectful. Now, Francis’ faither was the one who really encouraged him to look beyond his place in life though. He was a costermonger******** down in Covent Garden, but he always wanted to provide a better life for his wife and son. If ever he was sick, just like if his wife, my daughter, Mairi,” she clarifies. “Or I were sick, we couldn’t earn a shilling. I taught Mairi to sew lace like me, but all we ever got was piecemeal work, and it’s still the same for me today. Anyway, Francis’ faither taught his son to look for more stable work with someone else and then to save his pennies and perhaps one day own his own shop, rather than be a costermonger with a cart on the streets like him. And that is why Francis is always looking to improve himself. He’s looking for an opportunity to provide a good and steady income and a good life for your Edith.”
Edith turns back from rinsing the dishes and holding her breath watches the two other women in the kitchen: Mrs. McTavish, pale and wrinkled wrapped up in a froth of handmade lace and her mother standing over her, a thoughtful look on her face as she listens.
“Well,” Ada remarks after a few moments of deliberation. “I do find your grandson’s desire to improve himself admirable, even if my own aspirations don’t stretch to such lofty heights as his own. George and I are quite comfortable and happy with our lot.”
“But…” Mrs. McTavish prompts.
“But I find some of his ideas… disconcerting.”
“Such as?”
“Such as his talking of our class being on their way up, and the upper classes coming down. Forgive me for saying it, Mrs. McTavish, but he does sound a little bit like one of those revolutionaries that we read about in the newspapers who overthrew the king of Russia back in 1918.”
“Och!” chortles the old Scotswoman. “My Francis is no revolutionary, I assure you. He may have his opinion, but he’s not a radical and angry young man who feels badly done by, by his social betters. He may lack some refinement when explaining what he believes, especially when he is excited and passionate about something, which he usually is.” She sighs. “But he just wants things to be bit better for him and your Edith, and for their bairns if God chooses to bless them with wee little ones.” She looks earnestly at Ada again. “Don’t tell me you didn’t want the same thing for your bairns, Mrs. Watsford, when you were younger and full of dreams?”
“Well of course George and I want the very best for Edith and Bert.” Ada admits. “I just have a different way of explaining it, and going about it, Mrs. McTavish.”
“These are different times, Mrs. Watsford.” Mrs. McTavish says matter-of-factly. “The world has just gone through the most terrible war we have ever known. Those who are left and didn’t pay the ultimate sacrifice expect, no deserve, better for fighting for King and country. We cannot deny them that wish, nor condemn them for having it. They deserve a better world in which to live, surely? If not, why did they fight?”
“Well, I cannot deny that.” Ada admits with a sniff. “All those poor young men we sent off, bright faced and excited, never to return.”
“Well then.” smiles Mrs. McTavish. “Although my grandson was too young to enlist, he, like you, Edith and I, is a survivor of the war on the home front, and it shaped our lives. Who can blame Francis for not wanting better in the aftermath of war?” She looks into Ada’s thought filled face. “Tell me, Mrs. Watsford. Do you think Edith has good sense?”
“Of course I do, Mrs. McTavish.” Ada retorts. “My Edith has a good head on her shoulders.”
“I’m glad you think so, Mrs. Watsford.” Mrs. McTavish replies. She turns her attentions to Edith, who still stands silently, leaning against the trough sink observing the interaction between her mother and Frank’s grandmother. “What do you think, Edith dearie?”
“Me?” Edith asks.
“Yes, you.” Mrs. McTavish says strongly. “Don’t you want and strive for more? Don’t you want a better life for you and my grandson?”
“Oh yes, Mrs. McTavish. I worked hard to get the position with Miss Lettice. She’s a much nicer mistress than wither old Widow Hounslow or Mrs. Plaistow were. I get better pay, and better working conditions. I think Frank is right. There are more possibilities in the world now, although we do have to work hard for them.”
“Well said, Edith dearie.” Mrs. McTavish agrees, turning back to Ada. “So you see Mrs. Watsford. I think that your Edith and my Francis are well matched. They both want a better life for themselves. They’ll do better working together than making valiant efforts separately. Francis may be a little headstrong sometimes, but Edith will keep him grounded.”
Ada remains silent, deep in thought at her companion’s argument.
“Well, have a pleaded my grandson’s case, Mrs. Watsford?” the old Scottish woman asks.
Just then, the kitchen door opens and George and Frank walk noisily back into the kitchen, chuckling amiably over a shared joke, comfortable in one another’s company.
“I say Ada!” George exclaims. “That cherry pie of yours smells delicious, love. Is it about ready for eating, do you suppose?”
“Yes, I think it’s just about ready.” Ada agrees. “Edith love, will you fetch the jug of cream from the pantry for me, please?”
“Yes Mum!” Edith replies as she goes to the narrow pantry door and peers inside for her mother’s garland trimmed jug.
“So, who is going to have the biggest slice of my cherry pie?” Ada asks as she places the pie on the table amidst her best china.
“I think that right goes to me, as head of the Watsford household.” pipes up George with confidence.
“I say, Mr. Watsford,” retorts Frank. “That isn’t very fair. Just because you’re head of the house, doesn’t mean you are automatically entitled to the biggest share of the pie.”
“That’s a rather radical thought, young Frank.” laughs George good-naturedly. “I’m not sure if I approve of it, though.”
“Who should get the biggest slice then, my bairn?” his grandmother asks.
“Oh you know my answer, Gran.” Frank replies. “I shouldn’t need to tell you.”
“Yes, but tell the others, dearie. They don’t know you quite as well as I. State your case as to who should get the biggest portion.”
“Yes,” encourages Ada. “Tell us, Frank. Who do you think should get the biggest slice of the pie?”
Frank looks at Ada as she stands, poised with the kitchen knife in her hand, ready to cut through the magnificent cherry pie full of ripe and colourful berries, edged with a golden crust of pastry. “Why you of course, Mrs. Watsford.” he says matter-of-factly. “You’re the one who made it for all of us. You deserve the biggest share for all your hard work.”
Ada considers the bright eyed young man sitting at her table. “I like your thinking, Frank.” she says at length with a smile as she cuts into the steaming pie before her.
*Mither is an old fashioned Scottish word for mother.
**Faither is an old fashioned Scottish word for father.
***The Hebrides is an archipelago comprising hundreds of islands off the northwest coast of Scotland. Divided into the Inner and Outer Hebrides groups, they are home to rugged landscapes, fishing villages and remote Gaelic-speaking communities.
****What we know today as New Zealand was once the Colony of New Zealand. It was a Crown colony of the British Empire that encompassed the islands of New Zealand from 1841 to 1907. The power of the British Government was vested in the governor of New Zealand. The colony had three successive capitals: Okiato (or Old Russell) in 1841; Auckland from 1841 to 1865; and Wellington, which became the capital during the colony's reorganisation into a Dominion, and continues as the capital of New Zealand today. During the early years of British settlement, the governor had wide-ranging powers. The colony was granted self-government with the passage of the New Zealand Constitution Act 1852. The first parliament was elected in 1853, and responsible government was established in 1856. The governor was required to act on the advice of his ministers, who were responsible to the parliament. In 1907, the colony became the Dominion of New Zealand, which heralded a more explicit recognition of self-government within the British Empire.
*****The original Caledonian Market, renown for antiques, buried treasure and junk, was situated in in a wide cobblestoned area just off the Caledonian Road in Islington in 1921 when this story is set. Opened in 1855 by Prince Albert, and originally called the Metropolitan Meat Markets, it was supplementary to the Smithfield Meat Market. Arranged in a rectangle, the market was dominated by a forty six metre central clock tower. By the early Twentieth Century, with the diminishing trade in live animals, a bric-a-brac market developed and flourished there until after the Second World War when it moved to Bermondsey, south of the Thames, where it flourishes today. The Islington site was developed in 1967 into the Market Estate and an open green space called Caledonian Park. All that remains of the original Caledonian Markets is the wonderful Victorian clock tower.
*****Bràmair in Gaelic is commonly used as a term for girlfriend, boyfriend or sweetheart.
******The parish of All Souls, Harlesden, was formed in 1875 from Willesden, Acton, St John's, Kensal Green, and Hammersmith. Mission services had been held by the curate of St Mary's, Willesden, at Harlesden institute from 1858. The parish church at Station Road, Harlesden, was built and consecrated in 1879. The town centre church is a remarkable brick octagon designed by E.J. Tarver. Originally there was a nave which was extended in 1890 but demolished in 1970.
*******Roundwood Park takes its name from Roundwood House, an Elizabethan-style mansion built in Harlesden for Lord Decies in around 1836. In 1892 Willesden Local Board, conscious of a need for a recreation ground in expanding Harlesden, started the process of buying the land for what is now Roundwood Park. Roundwood Park was built in 1893, designed by Oliver Claude Robson. He was allocated nine thousand pounds to lay out the park. He put in five miles of drains, and planted an additional fourteen and a half thousand trees and shrubs. This took quite a long time as he used local unemployed labour for this work in preference to contractors. Mr. Robson had been the Surveyor of the Willesden Local Board since 1875. As an engineer, he was responsible for many major works in Willesden including sewerage and roads. The fine main gates and railings were made in 1895 by Messrs. Tickner & Partington at theVulcan Works, Harrow Road, Kensal Rise. An elegant lodge house was built to house the gardener; greenhouses erected to supply new flowers, and paths constructed, running upward to the focal point-an elegant bandstand on the top of the hill. The redbrick lodge was in the Victorian Elizabethan style, with ornamented chimney-breasts. It is currently occupied by council employees although the green houses have been demolished. For many years Roundwood Park was home to the Willesden Show. Owners of pets of many types, flowers and vegetables, and even 'bonny babies' would compete for prizes in large canvas tents. Art and crafts were shown, and demonstrations of dog-handling, sheep-shearing, parachuting and trick motorcycling given.
********A costermonger is a person who traditionally sells fruit and vegetables outside from a cart rather than in a shop.
This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
On the table the is a cherry tart made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The blue and white crockery on the table I have bought as individual from several online sellers on E-Bay. I imagine that whole sets were once sold, but now I can only find them piecemeal. The cutlery I bought as a teenager from a high street dollhouse suppliers. The pottery ale jug comes from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in England. The glass of ale comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The cottage ware teapot in the foreground was made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson, it has been decorated authentically and matches in perfect detail its life-size Price Washington ‘Ye Olde Cottage Teapot’ counterparts. The top part of the thatched roof and central chimney form the lid, just like the real thing. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics. The vase of flowers came from a 1:12 miniatures stockist on E-Bay. The tablecloth is actually a piece of an old worn sheet that was destined for the dustbin.
In the background you can see Ada’s dark Welsh dresser cluttered with household items. Like Ada’s table, the Windsor chair and the ladderback chair to the left of the photo, I have had the dresser since I was a child. The shelves of the dresser have different patterned crockery and silver pots on them which have come from different miniature stockists both in Australia and the United Kingdom. There are also some rather worn and beaten looking enamelled cannisters and a bread tin in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green. Aged on purpose, these artisan pieces I recently acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. There are also tins of various foods which would have been household staples in the 1920s when canning and preservation revolutinised domestic cookery. Amongst other foods on the dresser are a tin of Macfie’s Finest Black Treacle, two jars of P.C. Flett and Company jam, a tin of Heinz marinated apricots, a jar of Marmite, some Bisto gravy powder, some Ty-Phoo tea and a jar of S.P.C. peaches. All these items are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, except the jar of S.P.C. peaches which comes from Shepherds Miniatures in the United Kingdom. All of them have great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars and cans.
Robert Andrew Macfie sugar refiner was the first person to use the term term Golden Syrup in 1840, a product made by his factory, the Macfie sugar refinery, in Liverpool. He also produced black treacle.
P.C. Flett and Company was established in Kirkwall in the Orkney Islands by Peter Copeland Flett. He had inherited a small family owned ironmongers in Albert Street Kirkwall, which he inherited from his maternal family. He had a shed in the back of the shop where he made ginger ale, lemonade, jams and preserves from local produce. By the 1920s they had an office in Liverpool, and travelling representatives selling jams and preserves around Great Britain. I am not sure when the business ceased trading.
The American based Heinz food processing company, famous for its Baked Beans, 57 varieties of soups and tinend spaghetti opened a factory in Harlesden in 1919, providing a great deal of employment for the locals who were not already employed at McVitie and Price.
Marmite is a food spread made from yeast extract which although considered remarkably English, was in fact invented by German scientist Justus von Liebig although it was originally made in the United Kingdom. It is a by-product of beer brewing and is currently produced by British company Unilever. The product is notable as a vegan source of B vitamins, including supplemental vitamin B. Marmite is a sticky, dark brown paste with a distinctive, salty, powerful flavour. This distinctive taste is represented in the marketing slogan: "Love it or hate it." Such is its prominence in British popular culture that the product's name is often used as a metaphor for something that is an acquired taste or tends to polarise opinion.
In 1863, William Sumner published A Popular Treatise on Tea as a by-product of the first trade missions to China from London. In 1870, William and his son John Sumner founded a pharmacy/grocery business in Birmingham. William's grandson, John Sumner Jr. (born in 1856), took over the running of the business in the 1900s. Following comments from his sister on the calming effects of tea fannings, in 1903, John Jr. decided to create a new tea that he could sell in his shop. He set his own criteria for the new brand. The name had to be distinctive and unlike others, it had to be a name that would trip off the tongue and it had to be one that would be protected by registration. The name Typhoo comes from the Mandarin Chinese word for “doctor”. Typhoo began making tea bags in 1967. In 1978, production was moved from Birmingham to Moreton on the Wirral Peninsula, in Merseyside. The Moreton site is also the location of Burton's Foods and Manor Bakeries factories. Typhoo has been owned since July 2021 by British private-equity firm Zetland Capital. It was previously owned by Apeejay Surrendra Group of India.
S.P.C. is an Australian brand that still exists to this day. In 1917 a group of fruit growers in Victoria’s Goulburn Valley decided to form a cooperative which they named the Shepperton Fruit Preserving Company. The company began operations in February 1918, canning pears, peaches and nectarines under the brand name of S.P.C. On the 31st of January 1918 the manager of the Shepparton Fruit Preserving Company announced that canning would begin on the following Tuesday and that the operation would require one hundred and fifty girls or women and thirty men. In the wake of the Great War, it was hoped that “the launch of this new industry must revive drooping energies” and improve the economic circumstances of the region. The company began to pay annual bonuses to grower-shareholders by 1929, and the plant was updated and expanded. The success of S.P.C. was inextricably linked with the progress of the town and the wider Goulburn Valley region. In 1936 the company packed twelve million cans and was the largest fruit cannery in the British empire. Through the Second World War the company boomed. The product range was expanded to include additional fruits, jam, baked beans and tinned spaghetti and production reached more than forty-three million cans a year in the 1970s. From financial difficulties caused by the 1980s recession, SPC returned once more to profitability, merging with Ardmona and buying rival company Henry Jones IXL. S.P.C. was acquired by Coca Cola Amatil in 2005 and in 2019 sold to a private equity group known as Shepparton Partners Collective.
The large kitchen range in the background is a 1:12 miniature replica of the coal fed Phoenix Kitchen Range. A mid-Victorian model, it has hinged opening doors, hanging bars above the stove and a little bass hot water tap (used in the days before plumbed hot water).
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
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Design Build
'Trvl' supplement for IDEA [issue 290] magazine Japan. After travelling around the world for a year, then setting up Build, IDEA magazine published this 24 page [french folded] travel supplement of our travels.
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.
Herbal Supplment by Quote Catalog.
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...something added to complete a thing,
a little extra effort might have worked!
its never too late!
Taj Mahal, Agra, India
see the set here
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 very far from Cavendish Mews, and in fact far from London. Taking advantage of their employers’ attendance of an amusing Friday to Monday country house party in Scotland, Lettice’s maid, Edith, and her best friend Hilda, the maid of Lettice’s married Embassy Club coterie friends Dickie and Margot Channon, with permission, have arranged to take a weekend trip to Manchester where they are staying for Friday and Saturday nights, before returning to London on Sunday so that they are ready to receive their employers upon their return on Monday. Both maids landed upon the idea to visit their friend Queenie on the Saturday. She lives in the village of Alderley Edge, just outside of Manchester, which is easily accessible via the railway, allowing them to take tea with her at a small tearoom in the pretty Cheshire village.
Queenie, Edith and Hilda all used to work together for Mrs. Plaistow, the rather mean wife of a manufacturing magnate who has a Regency terrace in Pimlico. Queenie was the cheerful head parlour maid, so both Edith and Hilda as younger and less experienced lower housemaids, fell under her instruction. Queenie chucked her position at Mrs. Plaistow’s a few years ago and took a new position as a maid for two elderly spinster sisters in Cheshire to be closer to her mother, who lives in Manchester. Still in touch with Edith, Queenie writes regularly, sharing stories of her life in the big old Victorian villa she now calls home, half of which is shut up because one of the two sisters is an invalid whilst the other is in frail condition and finds it hard to access the upper floors.
However, life for Queenie proved to be not as bright as her letters indicated, and all three maids were made to feel unwelcome at Mrs. Chase’s Tearooms in Alderley Edge because of their working class backgrounds by the snobbish proprietor and equally class conscious patrons, and Queenie revealed more sad stories after they left Mrs. Chase’s establishment, leaving both her friends aghast.
Now we find ourselves back in Manchester along Deansgate* where after returning to the city from Chester by railway, Edith and Hilda are taking advantage of their free time before dinner at their cheap, but respectable, hotel for single and travelling women, by taking in a few more of the sights of Manchester and are currently shopping at a beautiful manchester and linen shop along the ground floor of a tall four storey building towards the north end of Deansgate.
The soft linens covering the surfaces of tables and counters, as well as hanging from the walls of the shop serve as a buffer against the noisy sounds outside the large plate glass windows as heavy foot traffic fills the pavement of Deansgate, and electric trams** rattle noisily along the thoroughfare, their sound mixing in with the chug of motorcars and buses and the vociferous sound of human chatter. The smell of freshly laundered linen filling the air of the establishment, and keeping out the miasma of mechanical motorcar and lorry fumes, reminds Edith of her mother, who is a laundress, and of the kitchen of her family home in Harlesden where she does all the ironing on the big, round kitchen table. Extra protection from the acrid fumes outside is provided by the fragrance of fresh flowers which stand about in pretty vases on the surfaces of tables and chests of drawers, adding a bright shock of colour to the otherwise mostly snowy white surrounds of the establishment.
“This is nice, Edith.” Hilda remarks, picking up a dainty lace doily from a round table covered with a long lace tablecloth which is covered in napery and dollies, all arranged around a squat blue and white vase filled with brightly coloured pansies. “You could add this to your glory box***.”
“Hhhmmm…” Edith mutters distractedly, glancing up from where she thumbs a bunch of crisply pressed white sheets.
“For your glory box, Edith.” Hilda says again.
Edith considers the dainty piece of diamond shaped intricate lace in her best friend’s sausage like fingers. “No, I don’t think so, Hilda. Mum has already acquired a whole lot of beautiful lace doilies for me from flea markets.”
“Yes, but just imagine having something new like this.” Hilda enthuses. “No one has ever used it before.”
“If they’ll take my grubby maid’s wage here.” Edith mutters sulkily, releasing the sheet from between her index finger and thumb.
“Here, here!” Hilda exclaims, carefully replacing the doily amidst the pieces carefully arranged for display on the table and hurries over to her friend. “You mustn’t talk like that, Edith.” She winds her arms around her friend’s back and squeezes her upper arms beneath her plum coloured coat comfortingly.
“Why not?” Edith asks grumpily. “It’s how I feel.”
“And here I was thinking I was the one most put out by Mrs. Chase’s snobbery and that of her snooty customers.”
Edith sighs with frustration. “Evidently not, Hilda.” She runs her fingers over the knobbly woven lacework of a tablecloth that has been rolled up and stacked on top of the sheets she was considering for potential purchase.
“You mustn’t let this afternoon spoil our holiday.” Hilda insists, giving Edith’s shoulders another squeeze, before releasing her and moving alongside her at the table covered in table linen. She looks her friend squarely in the face. “Don’t tar everyone with the same brush. Yes, that nasty Mrs. Chase, or whatever her name was, was a nasty snob. But you said yourself that in a big city like London or Manchester, we can blend in with everyone else, and no-one knows who we are, or what we do for a living. You’re money’s every bit as good here as some mill owner’s wife or manchester merchant.” She nods seriously.
“Oh you’re right.” Edith sighs again. “I don’t mean to be out of sorts, but it’s more than the snobbery that’s gotten to me, Hilda. It’s the other business Queenie mentioned that really upset me the most.”
Edith’s mind drifts back to the charming Cheshire village of Alderley Edge where she and Hilda had had cream teas at Mrs. Chase’s Tearooms. After hurriedly finishing their scones and tea, scoffing them in less than ladylike gulps, the three friends had retreated to the relative safety of the street, where the late winter air around them felt warmer than the atmosphere of the tearooms. Following Queenie as she walked down the high street towards the Victorian villa owned by her employers, the Miss Bradleys, Hilda and Edith remained in awkward silence as they waited for their friend to explain why they had been made to feel so unwelcome in Mrs. Chase’s. The wide street, lined with neat Victorian and Edwardian double story shops, many built of red brick with slate roofs and Mock Tudor gabling, was relatively empty, with only a handful of smartly dressed people going about their business and a smattering of automobiles and lorries trundling past them in either direction, their chugging more noticeable in a village setting than in the busy streets of London where such noises are constant.
“At least no-one can make us feel second rate here on the footpath.” Hilda had said. ‘We have just as much right to be here as anyone else.”
Finally, Queenie stopped walking and sank down onto a public bench near the kerbside. She apologised to her two friends for spoiling their visit. “I should have insisted that I come to Manchester and meet you there. It’s just that when I received your postcard****, Edith, you and Hilda had arranged everything so nicely. You’d obviously worked out the railway schedules so you knew what time you would arrive and which train to take to get back to Manchester at a reasonable hour, so I just thought I’d take you to the only tearooms I know of that are nice in Alderley Edge. I didn’t want to spoil your plans.”
Queenie went on to explain that whilst Alderley Edge was a beautiful village, living in such a small community was different to living in a big city like London, which afforded anonymity. In her new home, everyone knew who Queenie was, and that she was the maid-of-all-work to the Miss Bradleys, and dining in the same establishment as a maid did not sit well with the snobbish mistresses of the neighbourhood who frequented Mrs. Chase’s Tearooms as well.
“You really need to leave here, if this is how things are, with everyone knowing who you are and judging you unfairly for it. Edith said to Queenie in concern. “Come back to London. There are plenty of jobs for parlour maids. With your experience, you could have the pick of the lot.”
“Well, it is true that I am currently looking for a new situation.” Queenie admitted. “However, it has its own complications, and I’m not looking to come back to London. I want to stay in Manchester, so I can be closer to Mum.”
“What complications?” Hilda queried from her seat beside her friend on the bench.
“Well, I haven’t told either of you, but old Miss Ida, the infirm Miss Bradley, had a fall and died about two months ago.” Queenie elucidated. “She hit her head on the patterned tiles in the hallway. She must have been trying to go upstairs in the night, although goodness knows why. Her mind seemed to have been slipping in the months prior. She was always looking for things she thought she’d lost, and at odd times of the night. It was almost as if she couldn’t rest until she’d found what she wanted. And she called me Nellie too, which Miss Florence told me was the name of their maid when their father was still alive, and she’s been buried in the churchyard many a winter. Once I caught Miss Ida trying to go out of doors at three in the morning, dressed only in her nightdress and bedcap, barefoot and raving that she would be late for school!”
“School?” Edith asked with wide eyes.
“Like I said, she was losing her mind, and I think Miss Florence knew it, because she instructed their lawyers to summon their nephew, Mr. Skellern to come and stop for a while. He’s been staying with us ever since just before Miss Ida died, but unlike the Miss Bradleys, he’s not a nice person. He’s haughty, demanding, and more of a snob than the ladies in Mrs. Chase’s, if you can believe that.” She paused for a moment, contemplating whether to continue. “He never calls me by my name: as if calling me Queenie, like I was christened, is too lowering for him. He calls me ‘girl’ instead. ‘Girl come here!’ ‘Girl, do that.’ ‘Get out of this room at once girl.’ ‘Do as I say, girl, and don’t question me.‘ And he’s accused me of trying to thieve from the sisters, which I’d never do!”
“Of course you wouldn’t!” agreed Hilda and Edith in their friend’s defence.
“I caught him counting the silverware one afternoon, and he accused me of stealing a carving set with silver collars that belonged to his great uncle, the Miss Bradley’s father, which I had never seen. I had to go to Miss Florence in her bed to plead my case, and she cleared up the matter with Mr. Skellern.”
“How did she do that?” Hilda asked.
“She told him that the set he mentioned, which Mr. Skellern had only ever seen in a photo taken of Mr. Bradley before he was even born, had been given away as a donation for a charity auction to raise money for wounded Boer War soldiers, years before I ever came to work for the Miss Bradleys.”
“That’s awful!” Edith cried in horror at Queenie’s story.
“What’s worse is that,” Queenie blushed red as she spoke the next words. “You implied in Mrs. Chase’s that I might have been with child, which I’m not,” She put up her careworn hands in defence of herself. “But only because luck’s a fortune.”
“Did Mr. Skellern try and take advantage of you?” Edith asked Queenie anxiously.
Queenie confirmed Edith’s worst fears with a shallow nod. “In the library. I was dusting the books, at his instruction, and was up the library steps. He tried to get his hands up under my skirt, and my camiknickers***** from John Lewis****** down, but I fought him off.”
“That’s disgusting!” Hilda burst hotly. “Good for you, Queenie!”
“Yes, but Mr. Skellern took offence to my refusal of his advances, and now I’m concerned that he’s trying to put his aunt into a convalescent home. He keeps threatening to dismiss me without a reference, and I’ve only been saved from that disaster by Miss Florence’s presence. Miss Florence won’t hear a bad word said about her nephew, nor will she contemplate writing me a reference because as far as she is concerned, she isn’t leaving her home, and I’ve been very happy within the employ of she and her sister. So, I’m trying to find a job as a hotel chambermaid in Manchester.”
“A chambermaid, Queenie?” Hilda asked in horror.
“They are less picky about references, and the pay’s better.” Queenie admitted a little guiltily.
“But you may be assaulted by a man like Mr. Skellern, Queenie!” Edith gasped. “You’ve heard the stories.”
“I don’t have many other options without a reference from Miss Florence. Thus is the plight of a poor, humble parlour maid. I could do far worse than be a hotel chambermaid, Edith.” Queenie cocked her eyebrow knowingly. “I’ve been told by more than Mr. Skellern that I’m pretty.”
“Don’t even consider it, Queenie!” Hilda shuddered. “Please!”
“Not all men are like Mr. Skellern.” Queenie replied with a cheeky glint in her eyes. “There have to be nice, wealthy men out there, who are just waiting to meet their Cinderella and sweep her from the ashes.”
The subtle clearing of a male throat near to her interrupts Edith’s reminisces about the conversation she and Hild had with Queenie in Alerley Edge earlier in the day. She gasps and looks to her left.
“I’m so sorry, madam.” a suited man says politely in an educated Mancunian accent. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s quite alright.” Hilda replies for her friend.
“I was just wondering whether there was anything I could assist you with, today, ladies.” he goes on.
“Ladies?” Edith pulls a face and nods at Hilda. “Well!”
“It isn’t often we get two such well dressed visitors from London in our humble establishment. You are from London, aren’t you, ladies?”
“Indeed we are!” Hilda answers for she and Edith in surprise.
“It’s your accents.” the floor walker goes on, answering Hilda’s unspoken question. “You’re either from London, or perhaps Cheshire?”
“London, most definitely.” Edith affirms.
“Then is there anything I can show you two London ladies that might be of interest?” he asks politely.
“See, I told you,” Hilda hisses to her best friend. “They aren’t all like Mrs. Chase and her cronies.”
Edith smiles at her friend before addressing the male assistant. “I was wondering what you had in the way of napkins, but not white ones. I’m rather partial to ecru or yellow.”
“Well, as you may have seen on the table over there,” he indicates with a sweeping, open palmed gesture to the round table where Hilda had found the dainty diamond shaped doily. “We do have some rather pretty mats with a yellow embroidered trim, and some rather fetching yellow napkins.” He reaches under the counter, out of sight of Edith and Hilda, and withdraws several placemats and napkins neatly folded and pressed into triangles. “Perhaps these might be of interest.”
*Deansgate is one of Manchester’s oldest thoroughfares. In Roman times its route passed close to the Roman fort of Mamucium and led from the River Medlock where there was a ford and the road to Deva (now Chester). Part of it was called Aldport Lane from Saxon times. (Aldport was the Saxon name for Castlefield). Until the 1730s the area was rural but became built up after the development of a quay on the river. The road is named after the lost River Dene, which may have flowed along the Hanging Ditch connecting the River Irk to the River Irwell at the street's northern end. ‘Gate’ derives from the Norse gata, meaning way. By the late Nineteenth Century Deansgate was an area of varied uses: its northern end had shopping and substantial office buildings while further south were slums and a working-class area around St John's Church.
**In the first half of the Twentieth Century, Deansgate was a route for trams operated by the Manchester Corporation Tramways, and subsequently carried numerous bus services when the trams were decommissioned.
***A hope chest, also called dowry chest, cedar chest, trousseau chest, or glory box is a piece of furniture once commonly used by unmarried young women to collect items, such as clothing and household linen, in anticipation of married life.
****One hundred years ago, postcards were the most common and easiest way to communicate with loved ones not only across countries whilst on holidays, but across neighbourhoods on a daily basis with the minutiae of life on them. This is because unlike today where mail is delivered on a daily basis, there were several deliveries done a day. At the height of the postcard mania in 1903, London residents could have as many as twelve separate visits from the mailman.
*****A camiknicker is a one piece form of lingerie which comprises a camisole top, and loose French Knicker style bottom. They are normally loose fitting enabling the wearer to step into them although some feature poppers or buttons at one side to give a more fitted look or a self tie belt to accentuate the wearer’s figure.
******John Lewis opened a drapery shop at 132 Oxford Street, London, in 1864. Born in Shepton Mallet in Somerset in 1836, he had been apprenticed at fourteen to a linen draper in Wells. He came to London in 1856 and worked as a salesman for Peter Robinson, an Oxford Street draper, rising to be his silk buyer. In 1864, he declined Robinson's offer of a partnership, and rented his own premises on the north side of Oxford Street, on part of the site now occupied by the department store which bears his name. There he sold silk and woollen cloth and haberdashery. His retailing philosophy was to buy good quality merchandise and sell it at a modest mark up. Although he carried a wide range of merchandise, he was less concerned about displaying it and never advertised it. His skill lay in sourcing the goods he sold, and most mornings he would go to the City of London, accompanied by a man with a hand barrow. Later he would make trips to Paris to buy silks. It is said that in 1905 John Lewis walked from Oxford Street to Sloane Square with twenty £1000 notes in his pocket and bought the Peter Jones department store. Sales at Peter Jones had been falling since 1902 and its new owner failed to reverse the trend. In 1914 he handed control of the store to his son Spedan. Lewis was regarded as an autocratic employer, prone to dismissing staff arbitrarily. The stores had difficulty retaining staff (there was a strike in 1920) and performed poorly compared to his rivals such as Whiteleys, Gorringes and Owen Owen. His management style led to conflict with his sons who disagreed with his business methods. It was only after his death that the company was transformed into the John Lewis Partnership, a worker co-operative. By the 1920s, when this story is set, there were John Lewis stores up and down Britain, including in Manchester. Today located in the Trafford Centre, John Lewis Manchester is one of the largest department stores in Europe, carrying half a million product lines.
This may look like a wonderful array of linens you might like to lay upon your table, but you might need a smaller surface for them, as this whole scene is made up of 1:12 size miniatures from my miniatures collection including pieces I have had since I was a child.
Fun thing to look for in this tableau include:
All the lace around the shop come from different places, including: Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom, Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom, and Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. There are also a few miniature artisan pieces from private collectors and there are even a few life size lace doilies cleverly disguised in this scene. The two lace doilies on the central table in the midground I have had since I was a child, and were acquired from a high street specialist shop who stocked 1:12 size miniatures. The placemats with their hand sewn gold trim and the lemon yellow napkins I acquired along with an artisan picnic basket from America. The lace tablecloth on the round central table is in reality a small lace doily that I bought from an antique shop in Inglewood in provincial Victoria. The dainty floral edged piece hanging on the wall at the back to the far left also came from there. The blue and yellow embroidered floral cloth in the foreground is an old hand embroidered doily from the 1920s that I have had in my possession for a long time. The starched sheets tied with ribbon on the table in the foreground and the clothes horse you can just see the edge of to the left of the photo come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.
All the floral arrangements come from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.
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.