The Flickr Kitchenstove Image Generatr

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

Today however we are not at Cavendish Mews, although we are still in Mayfair, moving a few streets away to Hill Street, where Edith, Lettice’s maid, is visiting her friend and fellow maid Hilda. It is a beautiful, sunny Wednesday and Wednesday afternoons from one o’clock, both girls have time off from their jobs as domestic servants. Taking advantage of this, Edith and Hilda are planning to go and have some afternoon tea at the nearby Lyon’s Corner House* at the top of Tottenham Court Road. Edith has come to collect Hilda from the home of Lettice’s married friends Margot and Dickie Channon, where Hilda works as a live-in maid. However, Hilda is not quite ready to go.

When Edith walks in through the tradesman’s entrance of the Hill Street, she finds Hilda in the kitchen, pushing pieces of rather second-rate beef through a mincer, and the deal table is littered with cooking implements and food. As well as the tray of minced meat, there is a deep baking dish, a bowl of partially peeled potatoes, and several onions and tomatoes waiting to be sliced up. A large jar of salt stands to one side of a wooden chopping board, whilst a jar of mixed herbs perches precariously on the edge of the table next to the mincer.

“I won’t be long, Edith. I’m just finishing preparing tonight’s mince and potato stew for tea.”

“For dinner, Hilda,” Edith kindly corrects her friend**.

“Listen to you, My Lady!” Hilda chortles good naturedly, making her friend blush as she picks up a bright red tomato from in front of her. “Such fancy words from you Miss Edith Watsford! You must be the most well spoken maid in Mayfair.”

“I thought you wanted to improve yourself, Hilda.” Edith responds quietly, a little hurt by her best friend’s response. “I was only trying to help.”

“Oh, sorry Edith! I was only teasing.” Hilda apologises, smiling and kindly putting out her hand and clasping Edith’s in it as it rests on the arm of her chair. “I suppose it didn’t come across in quite the way I wanted. I’m just a little frazzled today.” She goes on. “Of course I’m all for self-improvement,” she assures her. “And I do appreciate you correcting me. I wasn’t really criticising you. Forgive me?”

Edith releases a breath she didn’t realise she was holding and sinks back into the rounded back of the Windsor chair she is sitting in. “That’s a relief! Of course I forgive you, Hilda: not that there’s anything to forgive, naturally.”

“Naturally.” Hilda retorts with a short nod. “Of course, whether it’s tea, dinner or supper,” she continues with a derisive snort. “It will all go down into our bellies, just the same.”

“I’d never want to offend you, Hilda.” Edith says seriously. “You’re my best friend.”

“You’d never offend me, Edith.” Hilda replies gently with a broad smile on her doughy face. “I know that. Best friends don’t offend one another, intentionally anyway.”

“Of course they don’t.” Edith replies with a relieved smile.

“And best friends help one another out.”

“Of course they do!” Edith enthuses.

“Then could you help me out?” She pushes a smaller wooden chopping board and knife towards Edith. “Could you cut up this onion for me?” She holds out a golden brown onion to her friend.

Edith’s mouth falls open in shock, but curls up at the corners as she takes in her friend’s beseeching look. “Hilda Clerkenwell! What crust you have! We’re going out for tea and cakes at Lyon’s Corner House, and you just don’t want your fingers smelling of raw onion!”

“Oh! Go on, Edith! Be a sport! You know I hate cutting onions. They always make me cry so much.” She pouts and looks hopefully at her friend. “Please?”

“Oh!” Edith huffs. “Only if you buy me a second slice of cake when we get to Lyon’s.”

“Done!” Hilda replies immediately, smiling as she places the onion in the middle of the board she has slid across to Edith.

“Any cake I like, mind.” Edith adds with a cheeky smile as she picks up the onion, knowing that she won’t ask for a slice of the most extravagant and expensive cakes in the glass counter of the Tottenham Court Road Lyon’s Corner House, even if she could, because she knows that Hilda works as hard, if not harder, for her meagre maid’s wage as she does.

“Thanks Edith! You are a brick!” Hilda replies with relief as Edith picks herself up out of her chair and picks up the chopping board and knife. “There’s plenty of carbolic at the sink for your hands afterwards.”

“You know, I keep telling you that there’s really nothing to it,” Edith remarks to Hilda as she walks across the black and white chequered linoleum floor of the kitchen and places the board on the enamel draining board of the sink beneath the kitchen window. “Just make sure there is plenty of fresh air around you.” She groans as she heaves open the squeaking sash of the lower pane of the window. “The breeze will carry away your tears.”

“Not mine.” Hilda says grumpily as she takes up a potato and begins peeling it. “That never works for me. Damn things.”

“Language!” Edith scolds. She takes up the knife and cuts off both ends of the onion and peels the skin off. “Small pieces, Hilda?”

“Please.” Hilda replies as she casts her potato peelings aside into a small pile to her right.

Edith begins to chop the onion up into small pieces quickly and efficiently, the sound of the knife’s blade banging dully against the wood of the chopping board as it slices through the flesh of the onion, giving her a sense of satisfaction as she watches it transform from a round vegetable into neat white cubes. Once she is done, she uses the flat of the knife to push all the pieces into a pile in the middle of the board and places the knife next to it before she turns on the brass hot and cold taps of the sink and washes her hands thoroughly with carbolic soap. Once her hands are clean, and odour free, to her satisfaction, Edith returns the chopping board topped with the knife and pile of diced onions to Hilda’s deal kitchen table and resumes her seat.

“I know you enjoy a nice stew, Hilda,” Edith comments a little awkwardly as she manoeuvres herself back into a comfortable position in her seat, blushing as she looks at the large deep brown glazed baking dish with its pristine white interior in the centre of the table. “But that looks like a lot just for you for dinner.”

“Oh, it’s not just for me.” Hilda replies matter-of-factly as she cuts into the ripe flesh of a tomato and begins slicing it thinly. “It’s for Mr. and Mrs. Channon too.”

“What?” Edith blurts with an incredulous explosion of laughter. “Mr. and Mrs. Channon eating a mince and potato stew for dinner?”

“Shh!” Hilda drops the knife on the chopping board in front of her with a clatter and puts her chubby, sausage like finger to her lips.

“What?” Edith asks, trying to regain her composure.

“Mr. and Mrs. Channon will hear you.” Hilda hisses. “They haven’t gone out today. They’re only just out there, in the drawing room.” She indicates towards the closed kitchen door and the world of the Wood Street flat beyond it, inhabited by the Channons.

“What are they doing?” Edith hisses.

“Playing cards I think.” Hilda admits. “Or they were when I took them tea and coffee a half hour ago.”

Edith quickly grasps the seriousness of the situation and lowers her voice. “They usually pay calls on a Wednesday.”

“They can’t afford to, just now.” Hilda replies dourly in an equally low voice as she resumes chopping the tomato. “Mr. Channon has spent his allowance for the month, including the portion for petrol for their motorcar. They aren’t going to traipse around London paying calls on foot. At least it went to a good cause.”

“Oh?” Edith queries.

“Yes, they paid off the wine merchant’s bill. It was fearfully overdue, and he was threating to withhold any future orders.”

“That’s frightful, Hilda.”

Reducing her voice to barely more than a whisper, Hilda retorts, “It’s better than me standing at the door telling his man a bald-faced lie that the Master and Mistress are out, when in fact they are both hiding behind the drawing room sofa.”

“That’s true.” Edith replies, her eyebrows arching high over her pale blue eyes. “I don’t think I could do that.”

“That’s because you’re too good by half, Edith – far better a soul than me. You’ll go to heaven and I’ll be stuck in purgatory.” Hilda giggles. “And it’s because of the paid wine merchant’s bill that we’re having mince and potato stew for supper. We’re paying the piper***, for the other week’s Lobster à la Newburg**** supper.”

“Oh dear.”

“Oh dear is right.” Hilda admits. “When I went to Mrs. Channon on Monday and said I needed money for the housekeeping, she gave me the most alarmed look I think I’ve ever seen on her face. It was as if I’d just told her that war had broken out again.”

“Heaven forbid!”

“She asked me where all the housekeeping money had gone.”

“What do you mean, Hilda?”

“Well, that was exactly what she said when I explained to her that whilst I can be a thrifty and canny grocery shopper, I’m not a miracle worker. Lobsters are expensive no matter where you buy them, or from whom.”

“And what did Mrs. Channon say to that?”

“Well, she told me that she would sort something out, but could I wait until the afternoon for the money. I said that I could, and she bustled off to her bedroom.”

“Her bedroom? Not to take the vapours*****, surely?”

“No, Edith, although she can be prone to fits of hysteria sometimes, especially when it comes to paying bills.”

“I’m sure her fits of hysteria aren’t anywhere near as bad as Miss Lettice’s friend, Mrs. Palmerston’s are. She caused quite a scene over luncheon last year when Miss Lettice’s sister-in-law was visiting Cavendish Mews.”

“Maybe not, but they can still be trying when the grocer is at the tradesman’s entrance demanding payment from me, and Mrs., Channon is suddenly indisposed.”

“So, if not for the vapours, why did Mrs. Channon go to her bedroom, Hilda?”

“Well, when I saw her a short while later whilst I was dusting the entrance hall, she bustled past all dressed up to the nines, looking very serious and carrying one of her small brown leather valises in her hand. I think she was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice me dusting the nook in the hallway, and I gave her ever such a fright when I wished her a good afternoon as she went to the door.”

“What happened, Hilda?”

“She dropped her valise on the entrance hall tiles, that’s what happened, and it popped open: not much mind you, but enough for me to see that she had one of her fox fur tippets****** inside. She hurriedly shut it again, and told me she was going out for a little bit, but that she hadn’t forgotten I needed the housekeeping money, and she left.”

“She didn’t get you to hail a taxi, then?”

“I don’t think she’d have dared, considering I had run out of housekeeping money.”

“Do you know where she went, Hilda?”

“No, I don’t, because as soon as she left, I hurried to her dressing room rather than peeping out of the drawing room windows to see in which direction she walked.”

“What did you find in her dressing room?”

“It was in the usual state of untidiness it’s in after she’s chosen what she’s going to wear: wardrobe doors flung and left open, hatboxes strewn about, clothes all over her pretty little Marie Antoinette chaise and the floor.”

“So, nothing amiss there.” Edith remarks.

“Indeed,” Hilda admits. “However, then I noticed that her tippet was missing from the wardrobe, as well as two of her older evening dresses: only the empty coat hangers were left on the rail.”

“You don’t think she…” Edith drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Hocked them, do you?” She gasps even at the thought of one of her own mistress’ dearest friends forced to deposit some of her beautiful clothes, even the older, more worn and less fashionable pieces, at a pawnbroker as a security for money lent.

“I hate to admit it, but I’m sure she did, Edith.” Hilda hisses guiltily. “She returned later that afternoon and paid me my housekeeping money just as she promised.” Hilda looks around, as if double checking to make sure Mrs. Channon wasn’t about to barge in and catch she and Edith gossiping about her. “In fact, she gave me enough housekeeping money, albeit on a far less lavish budget,” She indicates with a sweeping gesture to the minced meat, potatoes, tomatoes and onions on the deal kitchen table before her. “To keep us going until Mr. Channon receives his next month’s allowance from the Marquis in a fortnight. Mrs. Channon told me to use my thrift with the shopping, as that under no circumstances was she able to furnish me with any more money for the housekeeping until Mr. Channon receives his next stipend.”

“No!”

“Yes. I’m only grateful that Mrs. Channon’s father, Mr. de Virre pays my wages.”

“And Mrs. Boothby’s.” Edith adds.

“And Mrs. Boothby’s.” Hilda agrees quietly. “Otherwise, we might not get paid at all!”

“So Mr. and Mrs. Channon are economising, then.”

“As much as they know how to, I suppose.” Hilda shrugs. “They haven’t been to the theatre or to the Embassy Club in Bond Street for over a week now. Instead, they sit in the drawing room and play cards, read, or listen to the wireless.”

“At least they have a wireless for entertainment.” Edith points out.

“Yes, well, Mrs. and Mrs. Channon’s idea of economising is nothing like yours and mines are,” Hilda sighs. “But I suppose it’s all relative. Them not going to the theatre and spending a quiet night at home is probably as unusual and difficult for them to contrive as it is for us to be able to afford to go to the theatre in the first place.”

“I’ve never been to the theatre.” Edith points out. “And nor have you, Hilda.”

“Well, we’ve been to the music hall, and that’s the theatre.” Hilda defends.

“I’m sure the music hall is not what Mr. and Mrs. Channon call theatre.” Edith scoffs with an amused chuckle.

“Tea, dinner. Music hall, theatre. It’s all much of a muchness, isn’t it?”

“Poor Mrs. Channon. That must be awful for her, having to pawn her beautiful things, just to be able to afford to eat. I mean, I know you’ve said that she’s no dab hand at managing a budget…”

“Now that’s an understatement, if ever I heard one.” Hilda chuckles as she starts adding the minced meat, chunks of peeled potato, sliced tomatoes and Edith’s diced onions to the deep dish and sprinkling herbs on top. “But it’s more than just Mrs. Channon’s inability to balance the books.”

“What do you mean, Hilda?”

Hilda pours some Worcestershire sauce over the top of the food in the dish and stirs it all together, before draping a muslin cloth over the top of it. “There! That can steep for the afternoon, and it will be perfect come tea… err… dinner time.”

“You didn’t hear me, Hilda.” Edith persists. “What did you mean by Mrs. Ch…”

“Shh!” Hilda puts her finger to her mouth again, and looks warningly towards the kitchen door. “I did, actually. Come on Edith, let’s get our coats and hats. I’ll explain it all to you as we go up to Tottenham Court Road.”

The pair gather up their coats, hats, gloves and handbags and step out of the Hill Street flat through the rear tradesman’s entrance. “I’m off Mrs, Channon!” Hilda calls brightly before carefully closing the kitchen door, without waiting for a response.

As the pair walk down the back stairs of the flats, Hilda explains. “I don’t suppose when you were here a few weeks ago, you overheard the conversation over dinner?”

“Hilda Clerkenwell!” Edith gasps. “I never listen to conversations over the dinner table!”

“Yes, you’re far better than me in that respect.” Hilda admits guiltily.

“Anyway, even if I was prone to eavesdrop, which I don’t, I was too busy concentrating on what we needed to do in order to serve the next dish, that night.”

“Well, if you weren’t so good and pious, Edith, earing your place in heaven, you would have heard that loud American man, Mr. Carter…”

“The one who likes his ground coffee?”

“The very same. Well, he and his wife were talking about how Mrs. Carter was going to see a specialist in Harley Street*******.”

“A specialist?”

“Some fancy doctor, who is assisting Mrs. Carter in…” Hilda pauses and glances around to make sure that no-one is eavesdropping in the stairwell. “In the family way.”

Edith gaps. “I didn’t think Mrs. Carter was in the family way, Hilda! She certainly doesn’t look like it.”

“She’s not.”

Edith pauses mid step. “Hilda, what has a specialist in Harley Street and Mrs. Carter not being with child have to do with Mrs. Channon not being able to pay the household bills?”

“Mrs. Channon isn’t pregnant either,” Hilda says conspiratorially. “And that’s a problem, Edith.”

“Well, I must confess I did notice that they’ve been married for almost three years and there is still no sign of children, but I just assumed that being a flapper, and part of the Bright Young Things******** set I read about in the papers that Miss Lettice is part of too, well, I just assumed that with their busy lives, going to parties and nightclubs all that, that they didn’t have time to have a child.”

“Well, they might have put it down to that in the first place, but now there is some pressure being exerted on them to have a child.”

“What kind of pressure, Hilda?”

“Well, Mr. Carter’s family want grandchildren, but Mrs. Carter still isn’t with child, and it’s the same problem for Mr. and Mrs. Channon. The old Marquis and Marchioness are desperate for Mr. and Mrs. Channon to have a son who can inherit the title from Mr. Channon when he passes on, even though I’m sure it will be years before the old Marquis passes on and passes the title to Mr. Channon, never mind Mr. Channon passing on himself. But anyway, because Mrs. Channon isn’t with child yet, the mean old Marquis has cut Mr. Channon’s allowance.”

“Cut it?”

“Not entirely, but certainly cut it.”

“By how much?”

“I’m not really sure, but enough that I’m having to do more with less housekeeping. I think the old Marquis is hoping that if Mr. and Mrs. Channon live a quieter life and don’t go to the theatre or nightclubs as much, they will settle down to the business of having a child.

“Well, that’s awful of the old Marquis, but there is an element of common sense in what he is suggesting.” Edith admits.

“Maybe, but Mrs. Channon confided in me, and she told me that she and Mr. Channon have been trying to have a child. It just hasn’t happened. So, now that the pressure has been put upon them, they are resorting to visiting a specialist to see if they can help.”

“Oh poor Mrs. Channon.”

“Well, let’s just hope she doesn’t have to hock anything else.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, those doctors in Harley Street are expensive. Mrs. Carter was saying that lots of duchesses and the like go there for help to get in the family way. If Mrs. Channon can’t balance her household budget now, how will she manage the fees from a fancy doctor on top of that?”

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

**Before, and even after the Second World War, a great deal could be attained about a person’s social origins by what language and terminology they used in class-conscious Britain by the use of ‘”U and non-U English” as popularised by upper class English author, Nancy Mitford when she published a glossary of terms in an article “The English Aristocracy” published by Stephen Spender in his magazine “encounter” in 1954. There are many examples in her glossary, amongst which are the word “sofa” which is a U (upper class) word, versus “settee” or “couch” which are a non-U (aspiring middle-class) words. Whilst quite outdated today, it gives an insight into how easily someone could betray their humbler origins by something as simple as a single word.

***The idiom of “to pay the piper”, meaning to pay for the cost of something, derives from the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. The town of Hamelin agrees to pay the Piper to get rid of all the rats. When they fail to pay him, he steals their kids. The earliest known reference, according to the article, is from AD1300.

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

*****In archaic usage, “the vapours” is a mental, psychological, or physical state, such as hysteria, mania, clinical depression, bipolar disorder, lightheadedness, fainting, flush, withdrawal syndrome, mood swings, or PMS in which a sufferer loses mental focus.

******A tippet is a piece of clothing worn over the shoulders in the shape of a scarf or cape. Tippets evolved in the fourteenth century from long sleeves and typically had one end hanging down to the knees. By the 1920s, tippets were usually made of fox, mink or other types of fur.

*******Harley Street is a street in Marylebone, Central London, named after Edward Harley, 2nd Earl of Oxford and Earl Mortimer. Since the Nineteenth Century it has housed a large number of private specialists in medicine and surgery. Since the Nineteenth Century, the number of doctors, hospitals, and medical organisations in and around Harley Street has greatly increased. Records show that there were around twenty doctors in 1860, eighty by 1900, and almost two hundred by 1914. When the National Health Service was established in 1948, there were around one and half thousand. Today, there are more than three thousand people employed in the Harley Street area, in clinics, medical and paramedical practices, and hospitals.

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

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

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

On Hilda’s deal table stand everything required to make a mince and potato stew. There is a deep ceramic baking dish, a wooden chopping board with a kitchen knife, onions and slices of tomato on it, some potatoes and tomatoes, a tray of mince and salt and herbs. Attached to the edge of the table is a mincer. The chopping board, brown onions, tomatoes, potatoes, the yellow ceramic bowl and the cutlery all came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The tomato slices come from an English stockist of 1:12 artisan miniatures whom I found on E-Bay. The knife on the chopping board and the bread knife come from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures Shop in the United Kingdom. The dish of mincemeat, jars of salt and herbs and the deep baking dish base come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The meat mincer is a 1:12 miniature that I acquired from a collector in the Netherlands. The vase of flowers are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium and inserted into a real, hand blown glass vase.

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

In the background you can see a very modern dresser stacked with a panoply of kitchen items. Including a bread crock, cannisters and a toast rack that came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop.

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

The bright brass pieces standing on the stove all come from various stockists, most overseas.

The tin bucket, mops and brooms between the dresser and the stove all come from Beautifully handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

65 1/2 x 89 x 31 in. (166.4 x 226.1 x 78.7 cm)

medium: Mahogany, satinwood, silver, copper, verre églomisé with yellow poplar, white pine, mahogany

Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY 45.77 1945
Purchase, Joseph Pulitzer Bequest and Mitchel Taradash Gift, 1945
www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/7500

65 1/2 x 89 x 31 in. (166.4 x 226.1 x 78.7 cm)

medium: Mahogany, satinwood, silver, copper, verre églomisé with yellow poplar, white pine, mahogany

Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY 45.77 1945
Purchase, Joseph Pulitzer Bequest and Mitchel Taradash Gift, 1945
www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/7500

65 1/2 x 89 x 31 in. (166.4 x 226.1 x 78.7 cm)

medium: Mahogany, satinwood, silver, copper, verre églomisé with yellow poplar, white pine, mahogany

Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY 45.77 1945
Purchase, Joseph Pulitzer Bequest and Mitchel Taradash Gift, 1945
www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/7500

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

Today we are in the kitchen of Lettice’s flat: Edith her maid’s preserve. Edith sighs as she places the notepad and pencil in front of her on the deal kitchen, enjoying the silence that has fallen across the flat in her mistress’ absence as she sips some tea from her delftware teacup and enjoys a biscuit from the brightly painted biscuit barrel. Lettice has gone to Charring Cross to acquire a present for her oldest childhood chum and fellow member of the aristocracy, Gerald Bruton. It will soon be his birthday, and Lettice is treating him to an evening at the Café Royal* in Regent Street. However, she also wants something less ephemeral than a glittering evening out to dinner for Gerald to look back on in the years ahead as he turns twenty-five.

Edith picks up the pencil and starts listing the items that she knows she needs to order from Willison’s Grocers around the corner on Binney Street. As she lists flour, a dozen eggs and caster sugar** the pencil scratches across the surface, and Edith thinks of seeing her beau, grocer’s delivery boy and part time window dresser, Frank Leadbetter. Her heart skips a beat as she thinks about his handsome face smiling down at her, and his arms wrapping her in one of his all-embracing hugs that she loves so much. Frank might be a wiry young man, but his arms are strong from all the heavy lifting of boxes of groceries for Mr. Willison. Edith and Frank have been stepping out together since that fateful day in February 1922 when Edith flippantly suggested to Frank that Mrs. Boothby, the charwoman*** that comes to do the hard graft around the flat commented on how she felt Edith was sweet on Frank. Since their first date to see ‘After the Ball is Over’ – a moving picture that starred one of Lettice’s clients, actress Wanette Ward – at the Premier in East Ham**** the pair have spent a great deal of their spare time together, and their relationship has become very serious. Edith knows that it is only a matter of time before Frank proposes, and whilst that doesn’t mean any immediate change to the current rhythm of her life, she knows that eventually, once she is married, she will be obliged to leave service***** and become a housewife. She has been keeping money aside to help her when she and Frank finally set up house, and she has started a few scrapbook in which she cuts out and affixes images of wedding gowns and cakes from Lettice’s discarded magazines, as well as sketches of wedding frocks and bridesmaids’ dresses that she has done on late evenings after Lettice has retired to bed.

Edith is still daydreaming at the kitchen table when a gentle tapping at the kitchen door leading to the scullery breaks into her thoughts.

“Yes?” Edith queries, surprised at the tapping, and then even more startled when Lettice’s head pops around the edge of the door.

When Edith first came to work for Lettice, Lettice had the rather unnerving, and to Edith’s mind irritating and irrational habit of walking into the service area of the flat, such as the kitchen or scullery, seeking Edith for some reason or other, rather than ringing the servants’ bells located around the public rooms. It was only once Wanetta Ward had raised the idea with Lettice that whilst Cavendish mews might be her flat, and it might be her kitchen, that it was really Edith’s preserve, that she stopped the habit of just barging in.

“Miss Lettice!” Edith gasps, and quickly forces herself out of her comfortable Windsor chair and stumbles onto her feet. “I didn’t know you were home yet. Did you have a nice trip to Charring Cross?” She drops an awkward curtsey.

“I did, thank you Edith.” Lettice gushes, stepping through the door, still holding her parcels from Mr. Mayhew’s bookshop******. “I bought Gera… err… Mr. Bruton, a lovely book on Art Nouveau design.” She squeezes the parcel a little more closely to her chest as she speaks.

“That must be nice for you, Miss.” Edith remarks a little awkwardly.

“Yes, it is.” Lettice agrees, as she looks around the tidy kitchen.

Edith notices that Lettice is still dressed in her pretty floral summer frock, designed by Gerald, with its handkerchief point hem and matching cloche hat made by Gerald’s friend Harriet Milford.

“Did you need something, Miss?” Edith presses, anxious that Lettice is regressing back into her old habit of barging into the kitchen unannounced.

“No… yes… no… well…” Lettice stammers, suddenly lunging towards the opposite side of the kitchen table, dropping her parcels and purse onto its scrubbed surface. “Well yes, actually Edith.”

“Miss?”

“Well… look, I know that I promised that I would ring the bell when I wanted you, and I have, haven’t I Edith?”

“Yes Miss.” Edith replies, somewhat perplexed by her mistress’ response.

“But this time it’s different, don’t you see?”

Edith cocks an eyebrow over her right eye and looks quizzically at Lettice. “Err… no. I’m afraid I don’t see.”

“Oh please, please Edith,” Lettice flaps her well manicured and bejewelled hand in the air between the two women. “Do sit back down.”

“Yes Miss.” Edith manages to reply as she sinks back down into her seat and watches as Lettice scurries across the black and white chequered linoleum and drags across the second kitchen chair to the table and sits opposite her.

“Well this is far more personal, and as it pertains to you specifically,” Edith’s face drains of colour at Lettice’s words. “Oh! Oh no!” Lettice quickly assures her with a calming gesticulation. “It’s nothing bad, dear Edith. I’m not going to dismiss you.”

Edith releases the deep breath she has inhaled with a sigh of relief, and she sinks more comfortably into the rounded back of the worn Windsor chair. “Oh, you did give me a turn then, Miss. I really thought for a moment that I was in for it.”

“Good heavens no, Edith.” Lettice smiles. “That is the last thing that would ever happen! You’re the best maid a girl like me could ask for.” She pauses as the smile falls from her painted lips. “Which is all the more reason why this is an awkward conversation to have, but one I had to have in here, in your,” She waves her hands around her. “Well, your realm as it were.” She coughs with embarrassment as her face begins to colour.

“Awkward, Miss?” Edith queries again. “I… I’m sorry. Call me dim, Miss, but I really can’t say that I’m following you.”

Lettice’s shoulders slump as she releases a frustrated sigh. “I’ve come to apologise, Edith.”

“Apologise, Miss?”

“Yes,” Lettice admits guiltily. “I’ve been,” She casts her eyes downwards to the table surface as she speaks. “A bit of a beast lately.”

“Oh I wouldn’t go…” Edith begins to defend, but the words die on her lips as Lettice holds up a hand to stop her protestations.

“No. It’s true. I have been a beast. And I’m sorry, Edith. Truly I am. Mr. Bruton pointed out how sharp I was with you at dinner the other night. You didn’t deserve to be berated like that, especially in front of Mr. Brunton, whom I know you respect.”

“I do, Miss.”

“Yes, well, he obviously has a lot of respect for you too, Edith.”

“He does, Miss?” Edith’s eyes grow wide and her jaw goes slack in surprise at the revelation.

“He does. Firstly, he called me out on my bad behaviour the other evening, which he had every right to do. Secondly, he complimented you on being such a good maid. And thirdly he said that he’d employ you as a seamstress if he could.”

“He would, Miss?” Edith purrs with pleasure, flushing at the compliment.

“Mr. Bruton has proven himself to be far more observant than me. I seem not to be able to notice the pearl under my very nose, Edith.” Lettice chuckles awkwardly. “He’s noticed how smartly turned out you are on the occasions he has seen you coming and going on your afternoons off when he’s been here with me, and I haven’t.”

“Goodness!” Edith’s blush deepens as she considers that a couturier such as Gerald has observed her humble dressmaking skills.

“So there you go! Your skills haven’t gone unnoticed, and I for one am going to try and be more grateful for your services around here, Edith. You really are a brick, you know, and I’m so lucky to have you here to look after me and try and keep things in order for me.”

“And answer that infernal contraption!” she remarks poignantly, referring to the Bakelite******* and chrome telephone in Lettice’s Cavendish Mews drawing room which she dislikes intensely.

“And answer the telephone, which I know you loathe, dear Edith.” Lettice agrees with a relieved sigh, knowing that Edith will forgive her for her recent rudeness. “See, you really are a brick!”

“Well, thank you, Miss.” Edith smiles broadly.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so short and snappy, lately. It’s not an excuse, or rather it shouldn’t be, but… well you know the lady novelist you like whose flat I am redecorating?”

“Madeline St John, do you mean, Miss?” Edith perks up, excited about anything that Lettice might be willing to divulge about her favourite romance novelist.

“Yes. Well, Lady Gladys, whom you know as Madeline St John, has been very difficult with me.”

“Ohe she’s been lovely with me over that infernal telephone when I’ve answered it and she’s been on the line. She’s ever so polite and chatty. She’s even promised to sign a few copies of her novels to give to you, to give to me, Miss.”

“Yes, well, not to disparage her, but that’s the public face that Lady Gladys wants everyone to see. However the private Lady Gladys is not so kind.”

“Why do you say that, Miss.”

“Because Edith, I sadly know the truth now, but after it was too late to stop her from being difficult and controlling. You see, I am acting on her wishes to decorate a flat for her, but the flat belongs to a young lady around your age, and that young lady can’t express her own opinion as to how she wants her flat to be decorated.”

“Oh that’s terrible, Miss! Poor her!”

“Poor her, indeed.”

“So what are you going to do to right the situation, Miss?”

“Well, I’m not exactly sure. I’m not even sure I can do anything.”

“Well,” Edith says comfortingly, picking up her pencil again and rolling it around in her fingers. “I’m sure you’ll find some way to fix it, Miss.”

Noticing Edith’s pad for the first time, Lettice clears her throat. She glances at the kitchen clock as it ticks quietly away on the wall. “My, my! Is that the time? Well, I mustn’t tarry here any longer and hold you up from your duties, Edith.” She stands and gathers up her parcels. “Are you writing to a friend?”

“No, Miss.” Edith holds up her pad. “It’s a grocery list, Miss.”

“Oh! Yes… well… very good, Edith.”

Lettice turns away and walks towards the kitchen door. Just as she is about to cross the threshold of the scullery, she turns back.

“You wouldn’t, would you, Edith?”

“Wouldn’t I what, Miss?”

“Leave me to go and work for Mr, Bruton as a seamstress.”

Edith feels the blush of embarrassment at the fact that her dressmaking skills have been noticed fill her cheeks.

“Never mind.” Lettice continues. “Don’t answer that, and forget I’ve asked you.”

“Yes Miss.” Edith replies, standing and dropping another hurried bob curtsey.

“I’ll raise your wages, just to be sure that Mr. Bruton can’t entice you away.” Lettice adds. “I should pay you more for all that you do, anyway. How does another four shillings a month sound?”

“Four shillings?” Edith gasps in amazement.

“That’s settled then.” Lettice smiles. “And I promise to try and be less prickly. I promise things will get better once Lady Gladys’ commission is finished.”

As Lettice retreats, her clicking footsteps quickly dissipating across the linoleum of the scullery before she disappears through the green baize door leading to the Cavendish Mews flat’s dining room, Edith can barely contain her excitement. In the space of a few minutes she has received an unexpected apology, discovered that her skills as a seamstress may pay her dividends in the future, and been given a generous increase to her wages. She settles back into her seat, reaches across and snatches up a chocolate biscuit, allowing her lids to close over her eyes as she does, and bask in the glory of what has just come to pass.

*The Café Royal in Regent Street, Piccadilly was originally conceived and set up in 1865 by Daniel Nicholas Thévenon, who was a French wine merchant. He had to flee France due to bankruptcy, arriving in Britain in 1863 with his wife, Célestine, and just five pounds in cash. He changed his name to Daniel Nicols and under his management - and later that of his wife - the Café Royal flourished and was considered at one point to have the greatest wine cellar in the world. By the 1890s the Café Royal had become the place to see and be seen at. It remained as such into the Twenty-First Century when it finally closed its doors in 2008. Renovated over the subsequent four years, the Café Royal reopened as a luxury five star hotel.

**Caster sugar is the term for very fine granulated sugar in the United Kingdom. British bakers and cooks value it for making meringues, custards, sweets, mousses, and a number of baked goods. In the United States, caster sugar is usually sold under the name "superfine sugar." It is also sometimes referred to as baking sugar or casting sugar, and can be spelled as "castor." The term "caster" comes from the fact that the sugar was placed in a shaker with a perforated top, called a caster, and used to sprinkle on fresh fruit. I have several sugar casters in my own antique silver collection from the Eighteenth, Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries.

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

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

*****Prior to and even after the Second World War, there was a ‘marriage bar’ in place. Introduced into legislation, the bar banned the employment of married women as permanent employees, which in essence meant that once a women was married, no matter how employable she was, became unemployable, leaving husbands to be the main breadwinner for the family. This meant that working women needed to save as much money as they could before marriage, and often took in casual work, such as mending, sewing or laundry for a pittance at home to help bring in additional income and help to make ends meet. The marriage bar wasn’t lifted until the very late 1960s.

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

*******Bakelite, was the first plastic made from synthetic components. Patented on December 7, 1909, the creation of a synthetic plastic was revolutionary for its electrical nonconductivity and heat-resistant properties in electrical insulators, radio and telephone casings and such diverse products as kitchenware, jewellery, pipe stems, teapot handles, children's toys, and firearms. A plethora of items were manufactured using Bakelite in the 1920s and 1930s.

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

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

Edith’s deal kitchen table is set for tea for one. The tea cosy, which fits snugly over a white porcelain teapot, has been hand knitted in fine lemon, blue and violet wool. It comes easily off and off and can be as easily put back on as a real tea cosy on a real teapot. It comes from a specialist miniatures stockist in the United Kingdom. The brightly painted biscuit barrel, attributed to the style created by famous Staffordshire pottery paintress Clarice Cliff, containing a replica miniature selection of biscuits a 1:12 artisan piece acquired from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The Delftware cup, saucer, plate, sugar bowl and milk jug are part of a 1:12 size miniature porcelain dinner set which sits on the dresser that can be seen just to the right of shot. The vase of flowers are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium and inserted into a real, hand blown glass vase. The pencil on the pad is a 1:12 miniature as well, and is only one millimetre wide and two centimetres long.

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

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

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

On its top stand various jars of spices and tins of ingredients used in everyday cooking in the 1920s. The glass jars of preserves and spices came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom, whilst the other items come from by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, who specialise in 1:12 miniature grocery items, with particular attention paid to their labelling. Several other tins of household goods made by Little Tings Dollhouse Miniatures stand on the white painted surface of the dresser.

In addition to brass pots, the Delftware tea service and tins of household groceries, the dresser also contains two Cornishware cannisters which I found from an online stockist of 1;12 dollhouse miniatures. Cornishware is a striped kitchenware brand trademarked to and manufactured by T.G. Green & Co Ltd. Originally introduced in the 1920s and manufactured in Church Gresley, Derbyshire, it was a huge success for the company and in the succeeding 30 years it was exported around the world. The company ceased production in June 2007 when the factory closed under the ownership of parent company, The Tableshop Group. The range was revived in 2009 after T.G. Green was bought by a trio of British investors. Attached to the edge of the dresser is a gleaming meat mincer which is a 1:12 miniature that I acquired from a collector in the Netherlands. The demijohns underneath the dresser I have had since I was a teenager and were acquired from a small toy shop in London. The lettuce in the basket underneath the dresser I acquired from an auction house some years ago as part of a lot of hand made artisan miniatures.

On the bench in the background stands a bread crock. There is also a jar of Golden Shred orange marmalade made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. Golden Shred orange marmalade still exists today and is a common household brand both in Britain and Australia. It is produced by Robertson’s. Robertson’s Golden Shred recipe perfected since 1874 is a clear and tangy orange marmalade, which according to their modern day jars is “perfect for Paddington’s marmalade sandwiches”. Robertson’s marmalade dates back to 1874 when Mrs. Robertson started making marmalade in the family grocery shop in Paisley, Scotland.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not as much as you, Mrs. Boothby.”

“Says you!” laughs the old woman.

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

“Talk a lot to yer, did ‘e?”

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

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

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

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

“Like that infernal contraption.” Edith agrees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yes Miss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is the lady bein’ difficult then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did your mum catch youse?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****Bakelite, was the first plastic made from synthetic components. Patented on December 7, 1909, the creation of a synthetic plastic was revolutionary for its electrical nonconductivity and heat-resistant properties in electrical insulators, radio and telephone casings and such diverse products as kitchenware, jewellery, pipe stems, teapot handles, children's toys, and firearms. A plethora of items were manufactured using Bakelite in the 1920s and 1930s.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Frank got your tickets then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did she now, fancy fine little madam?”

“As if she even knew what cavorting meant.”

“So whatchoo do, then, Edith dearie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“’Ow’s that then?”

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

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

“So I was a mess of emotions.”

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

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

“What’s that then, dearie?”

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

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

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

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

“Maybe, Mrs. Boothby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BBBBRRRINGGG!

BBBBRRRINGGG!

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

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

BBBBRRRINGGG!

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

BBBBRRRINGGG!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cooking without electricity. Could become relevant again. Unless we build new nuclear power plants. Ideologically, it doesn't matter whether we import electricity from foreign nuclear power plants or produce it ourselves. Independence would be safer. And if the predictions are correct that our Earth will only remain habitable in today's terms for just under 2,000 years, then it makes also no sense to plan nuclear repositories for tens of thousands of years. Switzerland, February 15, 2024.

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

Today however we are not at Cavendish Mews, although we are still in Mayfair, moving a few streets away to Hill Street, where Edith, Lettice’s maid, is visiting Edith’s friend and fellow maid, Hilda. Hilda works as a live-in maid for Lettice’s married friends Margot and Dickie Channon. It is the first Wednesday of 1924 and Hilda has just returned with her employers after spending Christmas and New Year with them at the Shropshire country estate of Lord and Lady Lancraven, who are friends of the Dickie’s parents, the Marquis and Marchioness of Taunton. It is a cold January day, but the Channon’s kitchen is cosy and homely thanks to the flats hydronic heating coming through the metal radiators and the Roper stove that commands attention in the small space. Hilda and Edith have enjoyed a lunch of toast with choices of different toppings together. Now with the kitchen table cleaned and the dishes in the white enamel sink, Hilda announces with a flourish to Edith that she has made them a special pudding before going to the kitchen drawer and withdrawing some enamel handled kitchen cutlery.

“So how was your Christmas then, Hilda?” Edith asks as she sits back comfortably in her Windsor chair drawn up to the deal kitchen table.

“Well,” Hilda says, pausing with the kitchen cutlery and two starch stiffened napkins in her hand, cocking her head to one side thoughtfully. “It was lovely, but at the same time, it was the most peculiar Christmas I’ve ever had! You and I have never worked in the big country house of an aristocrat before, so I can tell you now from first-hand experience that they do things very differently in them!” She shakes her head, almost in disbelief.

Edith bursts out laughing at her best friend’s statement. “How so, Hilda?”

“Well, you know I wasn’t happy about having to tag along with Mrs. Channon to Lord and Lady Lancraven’s country house, pretending to be her lady’s maid.” When Edith nods, Hilda adds with an edge of scorn in her voice, “I don’t hold with pretending to be something I’m not, even if it is to help Mrs. Channon save face because she’s too poor to have a lady’s maid.”

“Well you said it was the old Marchioness of Taunton’s idea that you were to pose as Mrs. Channon’s lady’s maid, Hilda. It sounds to me like poor Mrs. Channon didn’t have a say in the matter.”

“Exactly Edith! And do I look like a lady’s maid?” Hilda asks rhetorically as she drops the cutlery and napery in her hand on the clean surface of the table with a clatter. “No! All you have to do is look at the way I’m dressed to know that fashion isn’t at the top of my mind, and these fingers,” She holds up her fat, sausage like digits before her. “Well, you know as well as anyone that I’m no needlewoman.”

“But,” counters Edith kindly, toying with the end of one of the napkins. “You are learning to knit, thanks to that group in the East End you joined last year. You told me you’re a dab hand at knitting scarves now.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I was a dab hand at it yet,” Hilda replies doubtfully, screwing up her pudgy face. “My tension is a bit unregulated, and I do drop stitches now and then, only to pick them up on the following row.”

“It’s a start at least.” Edith replies with a friendly chuckle. “We all have to start somewhere, Hilda.”

“Well anyway, anyone can tell I’m not a lady’s maid’s bootlace just by looking at me, but I reluctantly agreed to play along, but only out of a sense of duty to poor Mrs. Channon and get her nasty old mother-in-law off her back.”

“And you got to see your sister, and your Mum.” adds Edith, wagging her finger. “Don’t forget that silver lining.”

“Well yes, but that was just by luck, Edith. I don’t think the Marquis and Marchioness accepted the invitation on behalf of themselves and Mr. and Mrs. Channon to Lord and Lady Lancraven’s for Christmas just because Emily is Lady Lancraven’s lady’s maid.”

“No, but at least you got to see them, and you said that Emily fixed things with Lady Lancraven to get your mum up to Shropshire from London.”

“That’s true.”

“So why was Christmas peculiar then, Hilda.” Edith’s eyes light up with excitement. “Tell me everything about being at the Lancraven’s! Was it glamorous? Did you meet anyone famous?”

“Famous? Acting as Mrs. Channon’s lady’s maid below stairs, the closest I came to meeting someone famous was if I met their maid or valet, and they were all a right lot of snobs themselves, let me tell you!” Hilda decries bitterly. “They wouldn’t even give me the time of day if they didn’t have to, and there’s a fact!” Her mouth forms into a thin crease as she nods heavily.

“Oh that is disappointing, Hilda.”

“Not really, Edith.” Hilda shakes her head. “Why would I waste my time talking to people who thought less of me because I’m a cook and maid-of-all-work, rather than a lady’s maid? We all work hard to earn a crust. What does it matter whether it’s cooking and cleaning or sewing and mending?”

“I agree Hilda, but you think about when we worked at Mrs. Plaistow’s. The upper parlour maids snubbed us when in fact what we did as lower house maids wasn’t all that much different than what they did*.”

“Anyway,” Hilda goes on. “What would I have done if I met someone famous?”

“Probably done the same as I would have: stood agog, mouth hanging open like a frog.” giggles Edith.

“Exactly! So, anyway, on the way up to Shropshire, whilst Mr. Channon drove, I sat in the back with Mrs. Channon. She told me that when we arrived at Lord and Lady Lancraven’s, I wouldn’t be called Hilda, or even Miss Clerkenwell whilst we were staying there.”

“What? Whyever not, Hilda?” laughs Edith. “What did they call you then?”

“Channon.”

“Miss Channon?”

“No. Just Channon.”

“Why?”

“Because I was Mrs. Channon’s maid. Emily, being Her Ladyship’s lady’s maid is called Miss Lancraven by all the other household staff and the guests’ servants. Even though we’re sisters, I had to call her Miss Lancraven if anyone else was about and within earshot, which was most of the time. I could only call her Emily on the occasions when we were alone together.”

“How very peculiar!” remarks Edith.

“Well it gets more so, Edith, let me assure you. Mrs. Channon also told me on the drive up that when I arrived at the house, I was to give her jewellery box over to the safekeeping of the Lancraven’s first footman or Butler: whoever was looking after the strong room.”

“The strong room?”

“It’s where rich people in country houses keep their silver and valuables, apparently. I was to hand over Mrs. Channon’s jewellery casket to whoever was in charge of the safe, and retain the key. Each evening I had to go down, ask to retrieve the box and take out what jewels Mrs. Channon wanted to wear to dinner.”

“And why was that so peculiar, Hilda? It sounds reasonable enough to me.”

“Well, because unlike your Miss Lettice, most of Mrs. Channon’s jewels are paste, except for what her father Lord de Virre gave her. Certainly all the pieces given to her by the Marquis and Marchioness of Taunton aren’t real. She told me herself that the real jewels were sold off long ago to pay the family’s debts, and imitation copies were made. So it seems a bit peculiar to lock up a whole lot of paste jewellery in a safe, pretending it’s real.”

“I guess it’s that saving face again, Hilda. The Marquis and Marchioness don’t want to appear like they have no money, and they don’t want Mr. and Mrs. Channon as their heir and daughter-in-law to appear like that either.”

“So when we arrived, Mr. Channon parked the car at the front of the house alongside the other guests’ cars and whilst they went in through the front doors, I had to wait with the car until the Lancravens sent servants out to fetch Mr. and Mrs. Channon’s luggage, and then I had to walk around to the servant’s entrance of the Lancraven’s house carrying my own luggage and Mrs. Channon’s jewellery box, which I did hand over to the rather leering first footman, who winked at me when I did.”

“Ugh!” exclaims Edith. “How presumptuous of him. Tell me, what was the Lancraven’s house like? Was it grand?”

“Was it ever! A big red stone place with lots of gables and chimneys. What I did get to see of above stairs was ever so fine. Thick carpets and antique furniture. Mrs. Lancraven is American, so she had central heating put in, even in the servants’ quarters, and every guest bedroom has its own bathroom.”

“Fancy that!” gasps Edith. “And did you get to share a room with Emily?”

“Well, that was peculiar too, Edith. I thought I would have, just like you and I used to do, back at Mrs. Plaistow’s in Pimlico. But apparently, because Emily is Lady Lancraven’s maid, she doesn’t sleep in the servant’s quarters like I had to. She has her own little room next to Lady Lancraven’s boudoir, just in case Her Ladyship needs something during the night.”

“What could she possibly want?”

“I don’t know. A hot water bottle? A powder, perhaps**? Anyway, as it was, as a visiting maid, I had to share a room with a rather surly and snobby parlour maid, who worked out very quickly that I was no lady’s maid and called me a fraud right to my face.”

“Nasty thing!” decries Edith defensively.

“That’s why I don’t hold with pretending to be something I’m not. You always get caught out in the end if you try.” Hilda wags her finger admonishingly through the air. “I’m sure she spread that news around to all the other servants about who I was and wasn’t, because no-one, other than Emily when she could, wanted to talk to me willingly. At least it meant the Lancraven’s slimy footman in charge of the safe didn’t try and make any advances after that first bout of cheekiness.”

“Well, there’s a silver lining, Hilda.”

“And when we sat down to tea in the middle of the day, which we had to do because the Cook and his staff were too busy preparing dinners for the family upstairs in the evening, we weren’t allowed to sit wherever we wanted.”

“No?”

“No. So I couldn’t sit next to Emily, even though I wanted to. We had to sit in order of precedence in the servants’ hall, women down one side and men down the other,” Hilda pauses before going on. “The slimy first footman sat on the Butler's right, and Emily, as Lady Lancraven’s lady’s maid, sat on his left. As Mr. Channon is the Marquis’ heir, he gets his father’s courtesy title*** so Mrs. Channon is known as Lady Channon, but she is still below her mother-in-law, so I sat between the Marchioness’ lady’s maid and the lady’s maid of a Lady Lancaster.” Hilda steps away from the table and goes over to the meat safe in the corner of the kitchen, where she opens its door.

“And how was that?” Edith asks from her place at the kitchen table.

“Oh it was awful!” replies Hilda matter-of-factly, bending down and retrieving a polished fluted copper mould. “I think they both found it offensive to sit next to the pretending lady’s maid, and they only deigned to speak to me out of a sliver of politeness because they also knew, or had been told, that I was Emily’s younger sister, and they didn’t wish to put her nose out of joint being their hostess’ lady’s maid.”

“Oh Hilda! That sounds positively frightful! Did you have to sit and share your Christmas lunch separated from Emily at that table too?”

“Well, luckily no.” Hilda answers, straightening up and walking back across the room, carefully carrying the mould before gently placing it on the tabletop. “That’s where the lovely starts, although once again it was rather peculiar.”

“Go on then.” Edith encourages her friend.

“As Emily is Lady Lancraven’s lady’s maid, and she does hold some sway with her, she must have said something to Her Ladyship when she found out that I was coming up with Mr. and Mrs. Channon for Christmas and as you know, Lady Lancraven arranged for Mum to come up by the railway from London on Christmas Eve so she could spend Christmas Day with us. So Christmas Eve, we all sat as usual at the big table in the draughty servant’s hall, with Mum down the end after the lowest maids as though she was a nobody, not that she complained of course. I felt so sorry for her, and I know Emily did too, but as Emily pointed out later in the evening when it was just the three of us, we had to follow the protocols of presidence.” Hilda scoffs softly. “However, on Christmas Day the Lancraven’s Houskeeper, Mrs. Hartley, invited Emily, Mum and me to celebrate Christmas privately in her parlour***.”

“Oh that was nice of her to offer you that bit of family privacy, Hilda.”

“Well you’d think so,” Hilda begins, placing her hands on her hips. “Except she stayed in the parlour the entire time, and gave us no privacy at all! ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said as she took her place at the table with us. ‘You won’t even notice I’m here.’”

“But you did?”

“But we did.” Hild rolls her eyes. “She loudly ordered the scullery maid about when she came in to serve, and complained bitterly about the food, apologising to Mum and to me about the ‘poor quality of the Christmas fare’ and how ‘cold it was’.”

“And was it horrible?”

“Good heavens no! It was delicious, and hot!” bursts Hilda. “I don’t know what Mrs. Hartley was complaining about! Lord and Lady Lancraven have a French cook, Monsieur Dupain .”

“Fancy!” Edith replies, pulling a mock serious face.

“Apparently Lady Lancraven’s family in New York had a French cook, or should I say a ‘chef de cuisine’ as Emily quietly corrected me on one of the few occasions over Christmas time when we were on our own. So, what Lady Lancraven had in New York she has to have in England, so she hired Monsieur Dupain. I don’t know what the French eat on Christmas Day, but Monsieur Dupain served us a delicious roast with mint jelly and potatoes, sprouts, cabbage, parsnips and carrots. It was a real English Christmas, Edith, with all the trimmings, as if we were the guests of honour, and not them upstairs.”

“It sounds just as good as the turkey we had on Christmas Day.” Edith remarks.

“Oh how was the turkey received by your family and Frank and his gran?” Hilda enquires.

“They loved it, Hilda! Mum and Dad were tickled pink***** when it arrived, and Frank and Granny McTavish loved it too.” Edith admits.

“Oh, ‘Granny McTavish’ is it now?” Hilda queries with a cocked eyebrow. “Very cosy like.”

“Oh stop it Hilda!” Edith flaps a hand kittenishly at her friend. “She told me I could call her that. In fact she insisted.”

“So Granny McTavish has suitably calmed the waters between your mum and Frank then?” Hilda persists.

“I think so, Hilda. Mum’s really taken a shine to Frank now. She may not agree with all his ideas, but she’s willing to entertain his thoughts, and she says he’s a generous soul. She’s even admitted to being pleased to have him over regularly for Sundy lunch, and she and Dad are both happy that I’m happy.”

“Ahh,” Hilda says knowingly. “So it won’t be long now before I hear from you about a proposal from Frank then, Edith?”

“Oh stop that!” Edith says again as her face flushes with embarrassment. “I mean, we’ve talked about it, but that will be ages away yet. We need to save up some money so we can set up house together, and I won’t be able to work for Miss Lettice any more if I’m married, even if she wants me to.”

“We’ll see.” Hilda looks away from her embarrassed friend and smiles to herself.

“Oh today isn’t about me, Hilda Clerkenwell!” Edith deflects hotly. “Go on with your story about Christmas Day at the Lancraven’s.”

“Well, going back to the food, I actually think it may have been Monsieur Dupain’s head kitchen maid, Dulcie, who cooked our tea, as I’m sure a Frenchman couldn’t cook an English roast the way we had it. I’m sure Monsieur Dupain would have been too busy making fancy things like pheasant pies, roast quail and braised ox hearts for the family and guests above stairs for Christmas tea.”

“Christmas dinner.” Edith gently corrects her friend.

“Tea, dinner, it’s all the same once it ends up in your stomach, Edith.” Hilda counters. “Anyway, Mrs. Hartley never left the table whilst we were having our tea. Perhaps she was frightened that Mum and me would slip a few pieces of silverware into our pockets. She nosed into all our business and we couldn’t have a proper private conversation between the three of us.” Hilda goes on. “Still, at least it was good to be celebrating Christmas away from home for a change. The spectre of Dad still hangs heavily around at home.” She sighs heavily. “Especially at birthdays and Christmas.”

“Even though he’s been gone for…”

“It will be three and a half years in March.” Hilda admits sadly. “Yet I still expect him to burst through the kitchen door on Christmas Day in that old worn Father Christmas outfit and imitation beard – goodness knows where he found them – full of cheer, even though he knew Emily and I were both far to old to believe in Father Christmas anymore. I think it was good for Mum too. As well as not being at home, she didn’t have to peel a potato or wash a dish the whole time she was at Lord and Lady Lancraven’s. For all her nosiness, Mrs. Hartley was most solicitous towards Mum, and she treated her like an honoured guest and wouldn’t let her lift a finger whilst she was staying. I know Mum felt a bit bad about that, but still, Emily told her not to fuss about it.” Hilda smiles. “Now, thinking of honoured guests, that’s why I wanted to have you over here this afternoon: to try this out.” She taps the gleaming copper mould with her fingers.

“I did notice that, and I was wondering why you were serving us jelly here this afternoon when it’s so cold outside, rather than us going out for lunch.” Edith remarks. “Where are Mr. and Mrs. Channon by the way?”

“They’ve gone out settling their accounts with the wine merchant, the butcher and Mrs. Channon’s hat maker with some of the money that wealthier relations gave them for Christmas.” Hilda elucidates. “Anyway, I wanted to try out this jelly mould because this was my Christmas gift from Lady Lancraven.”

“From Lady Lancraven?” Edith gasps.

“Yes!” Hilda admits.

“I thought your mum must have given it you.” Edith admires the gleaming mould on the table before her.

“Well, there’s the thing, Edith. We’d not long finished our tea when there was a soft knocking at the parlour door. When Mrs. Hartley answered it, in came Her Ladyship herself, dressed up in all her Christmas finery like a faerie atop the Christmas tree. She wanted to make sure that Mum had had a pleasant trip up from London, and then explained that as she always gave all her servants Christmas gifts every year, as we were her guests, she had Christmas gifts for us!”

“Really! That’s so generous of her.”

“I know, Edith. So she gave Mum a beautiful lacquered sewing box, and she gave me this copper jelly mould. I suppose Emily would have told her the truth about me being a cook and live-in maid, rather than Mrs. Channon’s lady’s maid.”

“Then let’s see if it works.” Edith remarks, looking hungrily at the upside down mould filled with gleaming jelly.

Hilda takes a gilt edged blue and white platter and places it upside down atop the copper jelly mould, then carefully she flips them both. Taking up a spoon, she taps the mould on the top and around the sides, and then carefully lifts the mould up. With a satisfying slurp, the orange coloured jelly separates from the mould and comes out in a clean fluted dome.

“Perfect!” Hilda sighs with satisfaction, standing back slightly to admire her own handiwork.

“Well, it may have been peculiar to receive a Christmas gift from Lady Lancraven,” Edith remarks. “But as a gift, it produces perfectly formed jelly!”

“Let’s enjoy Lady Lancraven’s generosity then!” Hilda remarks with a cheeky smile, taking a seat in her Windsor chair adjunct to Edith, proffering her an enamel handled spoon.

*It wasn’t uncommon in the class-conscious world before the Second World War for servants to be as snobby as their masters, and a definite hierarchy existed, with deference being paid to the upper house staff by the lower house staff. Cooks would be waited upon by their scullery maids, Butlers by footmen and footmen by hallboys. Servants took pride in working for titled employers, even when these roles were sometimes not as well paid as the same position in the home of a wealthy industrialist or steel magnate. The cache that came with working for old, well established aristocratic families meant that upper house servants from these households often snubbed lower house staff or the staff of nouveau riche families working their way up the social ladder.

**To take a powder is a very old fashioned term, but was often used to by ladies to refer delicately to taking medication of some kind, like a headache powder.

***A Marquis is called “My Lord” by both social equals and commoners. His eldest son also bore his courtesy title, and any of his younger sons were known as “Lord Firstname Surname”, and his daughters, or daughter-in-laws as “Lady Firstname Surname”.

****In class-obsessed times a strict hierarchy existed among servants, with the senior, upper servants known as "the pugs". The home, whether large or small, was run by the housekeeper. Before dinner in the servants’ hall, the upper servants assembled in the housekeeper’s room, which was known as “pug’s parlour”, and walked in for dinner, led by the butler, which was known as the “pug’s parade”. It was also customary for the upper servants to take their pudding, tea and coffee in the “pug's parlour” as well. It was the privilege that went with seniority of position in grander houses.

*****The phrase “tickled pink” is used to denote that someone is expressing delight. The first term, first recorded in 1922, alludes to one's face turning pink with laughter when one is being tickled. The variant, clearly a hyperbole, dates from about 1800.

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

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

On Hilda’s deal table is a delicious looking jelly, almost good enough to eat, made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. It stands on a small plate that came from an online stockist of dollhouse miniatures. Next to it stands a copper jelly mould, also from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The vase of flowers also comes from an online shop on E-Bay. The cutlery came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in England.

The packet of Chivers Jelly Crystals and the packet of gelatine come from Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. Great attention to detail has been paid to the labelling, to match it authentically to the real thing. Chivers is an Irish brand of jams and preserves. For a large part of the Twentieth Century Chivers and Sons was Britain's leading preserves manufacturer. Originally market gardeners in Cambridgeshire in 1873 after an exceptional harvest, Stephen Chivers entrepreneurial sons convinced their father to let them make their first batch of jam in a barn off Milton Road, Impington. By 1875 the Victoria Works had been opened next to Histon railway station to improve the manufacture of jam and they produced stone jars containing two, four or six pounds of jam, with glass jars first used in 1885. In around 1885 they had 150 employees. Over the next decade they added marmalade to their offering which allowed them to employ year-round staff, rather than seasonal workers at harvest time. This was followed by their clear dessert jelly (1889), and then lemonade, mincemeat, custard powder, and Christmas puddings. By 1896 the family owned 500 acres of orchards. They began selling their products in cans in 1895, and the rapid growth in demand was overseen by Charles Lack, their chief engineer, who developed the most efficient canning machinery in Europe and by the end of the century Chivers had become one of the largest manufacturers of preserves in the world. He later added a variety of machines for sorting, can making, vacuum-caps and sterilisation that helped retain Chivers' advantage over its rivals well into the Twentieth Century. By the turn of the century the factory was entirely self-sufficient, growing all its own fruit, and supplying its own water and electricity. The factory made its own cans, but also contained a sawmill, blacksmiths, coopers, carpenters, paint shop, builders and basket makers. On the 14th of March 1901 the company was registered as S. Chivers and Sons. By 1939 there were over 3,000 full-time employees, with offices in East Anglia as well as additional factories in Montrose, Newry and Huntingdon, and the company owned almost 8,000 acres of farms. The company's farms were each run independently, and grew cereal and raised pedigree livestock as well as the fruit for which they were known.

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

In the background you can see a very modern dresser stacked with a panoply of kitchen items. Including a bread crock, cannisters and a toast rack that came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop.

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

Today we are in the very modern and up-to-date 1920s kitchen of Lettice’s flat: Edith her maid’s preserve. It is Sunday, Edith’s day off and she is busily preparing for an excursion with her beau, local grocery delivery boy, Frank Leadbetter. The deal pine kitchen table is covered with all that is required to make a selection of sandwiches, with a loaf of fluffy fresh bread, a bar of bright yellow butter, some ripe red tomatoes and a frilly head of green lettuce. After the announcement of the sudden collapse of her ‘uncle’ Lord Sherbourne Tyrwhitt, patriarch of the family living on the estate adjunct to that of Lettice’s parents, Lettice has hurriedly returned to her grand Georgian family home of Glynes in Wiltshire, leaving Edith with ample time on her hands to plan a picnic for she and Frank. The picnic basket Edith’s brother, Bert, brought back for her from Australia as a Christmas gift sits to the side, waiting to be filled. As Edith prepares the sandwiches, she is kept company by her best friend Hilda, who also has Sundays off.

“So, what’s on the menu for today then?” Hilda asks as she looks at Edith deftly slicing pieces of bread from a loaf before then cutting a tomato in half.

“Well, tomato and lettuce sandwiches,” Edith replies, indicating with the blade of her knife to the tomatoes on the board before her and the head of lettuce between the two girls. “I’ve got some nice cheese as well for cheese and tomato sandwiches and with Miss Lettice away, there is half a cucumber left, so I thought I’d use it up by making cucumber sandwiches.”

“A feast fit for a king, no less!” Hilda says encouragingly.

“Oh there’s more.” Edith continues. “I also baked a cherry pie for dessert, using Mum’s recipe.”

“Now, I wish I was coming with you, Edith!” Hilda enthuses. “Where are you and Frank going for your picnic?” she asks Edith as she toys with a lettuce leaf on the head that Edith has yet to attack with her knife.

“We thought we might go to Kensington gardens today.” Edith replies as she cuts a smaller tomato bought from Willison’s Grocers and starts slicing it into thin slivers. “It’s not too far away, and we like it there.”

“Well, you’re blessed with a beautiful, sunny day for it.” Hilda remarks cheerfully, pointing to the kitchen window, through which sunlight streams.

Edith stops slicing the tomato, allowing her knife to come to rest in a pool of tomato juice on the cutting board. She glances anxiously at her best friend. “You don’t mind, do you Hilda?”

Hilda stops toying with the lettuce leaf. “Mind? Whatever do you mean, Edith? Why should I mind?”

A month ago, as Edith, Frank and Hilda were in Hilda’s employer’s kitchen in Hill Street about to leave to go dancing at the Hammersmith Palais de Danse* on their Sunday afternoon off, Hilda grew despondent about going. With the dearth of young, or even older, eligible men, Hilda wondered why she bothered to go dancing, when she never met any men and usually ended up dancing with other women who were wallflowers** like her. Ever since then, Edith has been acutely aware of her best friend’s feelings of loneliness. When the two had been housemaids together at the home of Mrs. Plaistow in Pimlico it hadn’t mattered so much as both girls had been single and their shared sense of being without a beau strengthened their bond. However, now Edith has Frank, so Edith has been especially conscious to include Hilda even more than usual in her plans ever since, in an effort to compensate for her friend’s lack of a beau. Rather than go dancing, where the lack of men is so painfully evident, at Frank’s suggestion, he and Edith have altered their usual Sunday afternoon plans and done things where they could include Hilda easily. However, in spite of her conscious efforts, with the good weather of summer in the air, and Lettice being away for an indefinite period of time as she returns to Wiltshire on an urgent family matter, Edith is anxious to use the picnic basket her brother, Bert, brought her back from Australia, and have a picnic just for she and Frank for a change.

“Well, I just don’t want you at a loose end is all, Hilda.” Edith replies. “I know you’ve been feeling a bit low ever since that afternoon we went dancing.”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about me, Edith.” Hilda scoffs with a dismissive wave as she sinks back from the table into the rounded back of the second Windsor chair in Edith’s kitchen.

“Of course I have to worry about you, Hilda!” Edith retorts. “You are my best friend, after all.”

“Well, you don’t need to today, Edith.” Hilda assures her. “Today is a lovely day for you and Frank to go and enjoy your Sunday off without me.” She looks at her friend earnestly. “I know you Edith, and I know what you’ve been doing.”

“Me?” Edith hurriedly picks up her knife and finishes slicing the tomato, focussing all her attention on her task, refusing to engage her friend’s gaze. “I haven’t been doing anything.”

“Yes you have, Edith. Don’t deny it.” Hilda wags her fleshy right index finger admonishingly at Edith. “I know that ever since we went dancing that Sunday, you and Frank have been colluding to include me in more of your Sunday afternoon activities to make sure I don’t feel left out.”

“Oh what rubbish you talk sometimes, Hilda!” Edith says, brushing her friend’s observation off as easily as she sweeps the slices of tomato aside with the flat of her knife. She cuts off a slice of fluffy white bread from the loaf at her left and begins to butter it. “I’ve done no such thing!”

“Haven’t you?” Hilda counters rhetorically. “What about the fact that last week we went to the Angel*** rather than go dancing.”

“That was just so we could do something different for a change, Hilda. Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it?”

“Oh, I enjoyed it well enough, but it seemed a bit unusual to break from our usual routine.”

“Frank and I wanted to do something different for a change. We don’t always want to go to the same places.”

“I’m sure you two would have preferred to have been alone and sitting in the back of the Premier in East Ham**** with the other young couples in the dark, rather than sitting with me in the middle seats.”

“I’ll have you know, Hilda Clerkenwell, that I very much wanted to see ‘Bell Boy 13’*****.”

“Mmm…hmmm.” replies Hilda disbelievingly.

“I did, Hilda!” Edith says firmly, feverishly buttering the bread.

“Well, even if that is the case,” Hilda retorts. “It’s high time you and Frank had a Sunday on your own for a change, rather than spend it with me as well. However jolly the outing may be for me, I’m a third wheel.”

“You’re never that, Hilda!” Edith assures her.

Hilda gives her friend a knowing look again before speaking. “You don’t often get to take advantage of Miss Lettice being away for an indefinite period.”

“That’s true, although it comes about through unfortunate circumstances. A relation has been taken ill.”

“Well, unfortunate for her or not, you should take advantage of the fortuitous circumstance it creates for you and enjoy the summer day with Frank.” She runs her finger around the raised edge of the Delftware plate on which a bar of glossy yellow butter sits.

Edith pauses slicing another piece of bread from the loaf and looks at Hilda, whose face is hidden my a mass of brown waves as she hangs her head. “There’s something else going on here.” she says firmly. “I know there is. I have sensed it ever since you arrived. Come on Hilda, spit it out!”

“Well, there is an extra reason why you needn’t worry about me every Sunday.”

Edith drops the bread knife onto the cutting board where it lands with a loud clatter. “You haven’t finally met a nice young man, have you?” she gasps excitedly.

Hilda looks to her friend. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Edith, but no.”

“Oh, I was hoping that chap I saw you chatting to at the bar of the Angel when you bought us a round of drinks might have taken a shine to you.”

“Goodness no!” Hilda laughs loudly. “He was a sailor from Norway. He was only asking me whether I knew of any places he could go for entertainment around there. Once I said I didn’t, he lost interest in me very swiftly.”

“So what is it then?”

“Well,” Hilda says sheepishly. “You mustn’t laugh at me.”


“I’d never laugh at you, Hilda.”

“Well, you know the last time we went to visit Mrs. Minkin’s haberdashery in Whitechapel?”

“Yes, I bought some new black feathers for my straw cloche after the ones on it were damaged on that windy day.” Edith recollects. “But you didn’t buy anything.”

“No, you’re right, I didn’t,” Hilda agrees. “But I did pick up a flyer for a group who knit socks, scarves and balaclavas for the poor in the East End.”

“But you don’t know how to knit!” laughs Edith.

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you!”

“Oh, I’m sorry Hilda,” Edith quickly pipes up, stopping her laughter. “I didn’t mean to laugh.” She covers her mouth as she looks apologetically at her friend. “It is just a surprise is all. I mean, you don’t know how to knit. I tried to teach you, but,” She pauses for a moment to think how to best couch the outcomes without hurting her friend’s feelings any more than she may already have by laughing at the idea of her knitting. “Well, you just never took to it. Did you?”

“Well, I wasn’t really keen to learn then.” Hilda admits. “As I recall, you were the one who thought I should learn, and you were so keen to teach me that I thought I’d have a go at it, but my heart wasn’t really in it.”

“And that’s changed now?”

“Can’t a girl change her mind?”

“Oh of course she can Hilda!” Edith defends. “I’m so happy for you,” she adds. “But I’m intrigued. What was it that changed your mind? What has inspired you to what to learn to knit, since Mrs. Minkin and I couldn’t?”

“I suppose it was looking around me when we go down to the East End. Up here in Mayfair everything is so nice, and there is enough for everyone, but down there, there are children walking about wearing rags. I can’t afford to feed the starving children of the East End, but maybe I can do some good and help knit them some things to help keep them warm.”

“What a lovely idea, Hilda.” Edith says encouragingly. “I’m so proud of you for doing it. I’ve never really thought to do anything like that before.”

“Well, I figured I could learn something new, and it might help fill some of my Sundays, so that way you don’t have to include me in your plans.”

“I hope you know that Frank and I don’t mind having you tag along, Hilda.”

“I know you don’t, because you’re my best friend, and because Frank is a very special and understanding chap.” Hilda replies with a sad smile. “Many other young men wouldn’t be so tolerant.”

“It isn’t about tolerance, for either of us.” Edith defends.

“I know that too, Edith. I’m just stating a fact that there aren’t many young men like Frank out there, which is all the more reason why you should be enjoying at least the occasional Sunday in the pleasure of his company without me. He’s a good man, Edith, and as you know, men in general are hard to come by, so that makes him even more special. Better hang on to him and not let go, Edith.”

“I know.”

“Anyway, I like the sound of joining a group where I can come and go as I like, so I’m not committed to giving up all my free Sundays, so we can still go dancing at the Hammersmith Palais or go to the pictures at the West Ham Premier.” Her smile changes as little from sad to hopeful. “And who knows? I might make some new lady friends and acquaintances who have eligible bachelors who are just waiting for a girl like me who can knit them a scarf, or socks.”

“Or a jumper!” laughs Edith.

“Or a balaclava!” adds Hilda, joining in Edith’s laughing.

“I’m happy for you, Hilda.”

“Well, I had to do something to get me out of the funk I’ve been in lately,” Hilda replies. “So it was join the knitting circle or join the Socialist Party in Bloomsbury.” she adds jokingly.

Edith joins in with her friend’s mischievous laughter.

“By the way, Edith. If there happen to be a few too many sandwiches made, I’ll happily take a few with me to the knitting circle.”

Edith smiles. “I’ll wrap up a few for you in a brown paper bag, Hilda.”

“Thanks ever so, Edith.” Hilda replies gratefully.

*The Hammersmith Palais de Danse, in its last years simply named Hammersmith Palais, was a dance hall and entertainment venue in Hammersmith, London, England that operated from 1919 until 2007. It was the first palais de danse to be built in Britain.

**A wallflower, as well as being a species of flower is also an informal description of a person, usually a woman or young girl, who has no one to dance with or who feels shy, awkward, or excluded at a party.

***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 20th 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 Premier Super Cinema in East Ham was opened on the 12th of March, 1921, replacing the 800 seat capacity 1912 Premier Electric Theatre. The new cinema could seat 2,408 patrons. The Premier Super Cinema was taken over by Provincial Cinematograph Theatres who were taken over by Gaumont British in February 1929. It was renamed the Gaumont from 21st April 1952. The Gaumont was closed by the Rank Organisation on 6th April 1963. After that it became a bingo hall and remained so until 2005. Despite attempts to have it listed as a historic building due to its relatively intact 1921 interior, the Gaumont was demolished in 2009.

*****’Bell Boy 13’ is a 1923 American silent comedy film directed by William A. Seiter, and starring Douglas MacLean, John Steppling, Margaret Loomis, William Courtright, Emily Gerdes, and Eugene Burr. College graduate Harry Elrod (Douglas MacLean) wishes to marry actress Kitty Clyde (Margaret Loomis), but his Uncle Ellrey Elrod (John Steppling) has picked out Angela Fish (Emily Gerdes) as a wife for his nephew. Harry arranges an elopement with Kitty. His uncle's suspicions are aroused and he trails Harry continuously. Miss Fish and her father the Reverend Doctor Wilbur Fish (William Courtright) call. Harry in desperation starts a fire in his room. He is rescued by the fire brigade and then stages a run through the streets in the fire chief's car, intending to catch another train and follow Kitty. He escapes the pursuing firemen, boards the train, and arrives safely at the Philadelphia hotel where Kitty will meet him. There he finds that she has changed her mind, coming to believe that he must have his uncle's consent. He then receives a telegram from his uncle, disowning him. Broke, Harry takes a job as a hotel bell boy. In uniform, he enters where Kitty is dining with Mr. Haskell, her press agent, and sits down, but is dragged away by the indignant hotel manager. Uncle Ellrey comes to the hotel but is shown the wrong room by Harry, so he demands that Harry be fired. The manager, ever ready to make a guest happy, is ready to oblige him, but Harry turns Bolshevist and induces the entire hotel staff to go on strike. The end result is that the uncle is defeated, and Harry wins Kitty.

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

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

On Edith’s deal table is a panoply of things as she readies her picnic luncheon. The chopping board, butter knife and tomatoes all came from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The tomato slices come from an English stockist of 1:12 artisan miniatures whom I found on E-Bay. The loaf of bread is made from polymer clay and looks remarkably realistic. It was made by Polly’s Pantry in America. The bar of butter on the Delftware plate I have had since I was about six. It came under a 1:12 scale silver butter dish I was given as part of a Christmas gift. The knife on the chopping board and the bread knife come from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures Shop in the United Kingdom. The head of lettuce has been made by an unknown artisan and is made of very thinly rolled clay which has had very realistic detailing picked out on its leaves before being painted. I bought it as part of a job lot of 1:12 size miniature artisan food pieces at an auction when I was a teenager. The Deftware plates are part of a 1:12 size miniature porcelain dinner set which I acquired from a seller in America through E-Bay.

To the left of the picture you can see the wicker picnic basket that Bert brought home for Edith. In truth it is not Australian made, but was made by an unknown miniature artisan in America. The floral patterns on the top have been hand painted. The hinged lids lift, just like a real hamper, so things can be put inside.

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

In the background you can see a very modern and up-to-date 1920s gas stove on which stand some shiny brass pieces acquired from various online stockists on 1:12 miniatures. The stove would have been expensive to instal at the time, and it would have been the cook’s or maid’s pleasure to cook on and in. It would have included a thermostat for perfect cooking and without the need of coal, it was much cleaner to feed, use and easier to clean. It is not unlike those made by the Roper Stove Company in the 1920s. The Roper Stove Company previously named the Florence-Wehrle Company among other names, was founded in 1883. Located in Newark, Ohio, the company was once the largest stove producer in the world. Today, the Roper Stove Company is a brand of Whirlpool.

On the bench in the background is a toaster: a very modern convenience for a household even in the early 1920s, but essential when there was no longer a kitchen range on which to toast the bread. Although toasters had been readily available since the turn of the century, they were not commonplace in British kitchens until well after the Great War in the late 1930s. Next to the toaster is a biscuit barrel painted in the style of English ceramic artist Clarice Cliff which is a hand painted 1:12 miniature made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in England. It contains its own selection of miniature hand-made chocolate biscuits! Next to that stands a bread crock. There is also a jar of Golden Shred orange marmalade made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. Golden Shred orange marmalade still exists today and is a common household brand both in Britain and Australia. It is produced by Robertson’s. Robertson’s Golden Shred recipe perfected since 1874 is a clear and tangy orange marmalade, which according to their modern day jars is “perfect for Paddington’s marmalade sandwiches”. Robertson’s marmalade dates back to 1874 when Mrs. Robertson started making marmalade in the family grocery shop in Paisley, Scotland.

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

Today however we are not at Cavendish Mews, although we are still in Mayfair, moving a few streets away to Hill Street, where Edith, Lettice’s maid, and her beau, grocery boy Frank Leadbetter, are visiting Edith’s friend and fellow maid Hilda. It is a beautiful, sunny Sunday and Sundays all three have as days off from their jobs as domestic servants and delivery boy. Taking advantage of this, all three are going to spend the afternoon at Hammersmith Palias de Danse*. As usual, Frank collects Edith from Cavendish Mews and the pair then go to the home of Lettice’s married friends Margot and Dickie Channon, where Hilda works as a live-in maid.

Being Hilda’s day off, her employers usually decamp for the day, and today they are visiting their friend Priscilla who recently married American dry goods heir Georgie Carter. The pair have just returned to London from their honeymoon which took in much of Europe before visiting Georgie’s family in Philadelphia. The quartet will dine at the Café Royal**, doubtless at the expense of Georgie since the Channons seem perpetually to have financial difficulties, but as a result, the Channons have invited the Carters back to their Hill Street flat for after supper coffee, which means that Hilda must do one of her most hated jobs: grind coffee beans to make real coffee for Georgie Carter, who is particular about his American style coffee. We find the trio in the kitchen of the Hill Street flat, the ladies’ dancing frocks and Frank’s suit at odds with their surrounds as Hilda grinds the coffee beans sitting in a white china bowl in the large wooden and brass coffee grinder. By preparing the coffee, ready to make before she goes out, it will be easy to serve when her employers and their guests return after dinner, and the beans will still be fresh enough for Georgie’s liking.

“You know,” Frank remarks as he stands at Edith’s elbow and watches Hilda turn the handle of the coffee grinder with gusto. “I don’t see why they can’t just drink Camp Coffee*** like the rest of us.”

“Oh Frank!” gasps Edith, looking up at her beau and patting his hand with her own as he squeezes her left shoulder lovingly. “You know perfectly well why not, Frank. Mr. and Mrs. Channon’s friend, Mr. Carter is an American gentleman, and just like Miss Wanetta Ward the American moving picture star, he doesn’t like British coffee.”

“What rot!” Frank scoffs at the suggestion. “There’s nothing wrong with British coffee! If British coffee isn’t to Mr. Carter’s taste, let him have tea then, and save poor Hilda the effort of having to grind up coffee beans for his lordship.” He slips off the jacket of his smart Sunday blue suit, revealing his crisp white shirt, red tie and smart navy blue vest. He drapes it over the back of the Windsor chair Edith sits in. “Come on old girl,” he says to Hilda as he moves around the deal pine kitchen table. “Give me a go then. Give your arms a chance to recuperate before we go dancing.”

“You’re such a Socialist, Frank Leadbetter.” pipes up Hilda as with a grunt, she pushes the handle of the grinder mechanism over a particularly recalcitrant coffee bean.

“What?” gasps Frank as he takes over grinding from the grateful maid. “I thought you’d come to my defence, Hilda, especially as I’m being so chivalrous as to grind coffee beans for you.”

“Oh I am grateful, Frank, ever so.” Hilda replies, rubbing her aching forearms with her fat, sausage like fingers. “But just because you are being gallant, doesn’t mean I can’t call you a Socialist.”

“Because a hard working man like me thinks I’m every bit as good as this friend of your Mr. and Mrs. Channon, I’m now a Socialist?” Frank asks in an appalled voice. “You’re as bad as Edith’s mum.” He nods in his sweetheart’s direction.

“Mum thinks Frank might be a Communist.” Edith explains. “Even though we’ve both told her that he isn’t.”

“Handsome is as handsome does.” remarks Hilda with a cheeky smile as she glances at Frank winding the red knob topped brass handle of the grinder.

“I’m neither, I’ll have you know, Hilda Clerkenwell!” Frank retorts. “I’d prefer to think of myself as more of a progressive thinker when it comes to the rights and privileges of the working man,” He looks poignantly at Hilda. “And woman.”

“Same thing.” Hilda retorts matter-of-factly as she starts to straighten the russet grosgrain bandeau**** embellished with gold sequins which has slipped askew whilst she has been grinding coffee beans.

“Pardon my ignorance,” Edith begins gingerly. “But what exactly is a Socialist?”

“Socialism is a political movement that wants to reform various economic and social systems, transferring them to social ownership as opposed to private ownership.” remarks Hilda as she runs her hands down the back of her hair.

“Well done, Hilda!” Frank congratulates her.

“You sound surprised, Frank.” Hilda says with a cheeky smile. “Don’t they have smart girls where you come from, present company excluded, Edith!” Hilda adds hurriedly so as not to offend her best friend.”

“Oh, you know I’m not very political,” Edith assures Hilda, yet at the same time self consciously toys with her blonde waves as she speaks.

“I must confess, Hilda, I am a little surprised.” Frank admits. “I don’t know many girls who are interested in social rights and can give explanations so eloquently.”

“I’m so sorry Frank!” Edith defends herself. “I know you’ve tried to teach me, but I can’t help it. I get confused between this ist and the other ist. They all seem the same to me.” She blushes with mild embarrassment at her own ignorance.

“No, no, Edith!” Frank assures her as he stops grinding the coffee beans and reaches out his left hand, clasping her right one as it rests on the tabletop and squeezes it reassuringly. “This isn’t a criticism of you! It was a compliment to Hilda. You’re wonderful, and there are things that you understand and are far better at than me.”

“Than both of us, Edith.” adds Hilda quickly, the look of concern about her friend taking umbrage clear on her round face.

“Yes, inconsequential things.” Edith mumbles in a deflated tone.

“No, not at all.” Frank reassures her soothingly as he takes up grinding coffee again. “What good am I to myself if I can’t cook a meal to feed myself.”

“And for all my love of reading, Edith, you know I can’t sew a stitch.” Hilda appends. “I could never have made this beautiful frock.” She grasps the edge of the strap of her russet coloured art satin***** dress as she speaks. “Not in a million years. We’re all good at different things, and no-one could say you weren’t smart, Edith.”

“That’s right.” Frank concurs, smiling at his sweetheart. “One of the reasons why I’ve always admired you is because you aren’t some silly giggling Gertie****** like some of the housemaids I’ve known. You aren’t turned by just a handsome face, and your head isn’t filled with moving picture stars and nothing else.”

“Well, I do like moving picture stars, Frank.” Edith confesses.

“Oh I know, Edith, and I love you for that too.” Frank reassures her. “But it’s not all that is in there. You have a good head on your shoulders.”

“And a wise one too.” Hilda interjects. “How often do I ask you for advice? I’ve always asked you for your opinion on things for as long as we’ve been friends.”

“You are clever, and insightful, and you want a better life for yourself too, and that’s why I really love you. We want the same things from life.” Frank says in a soft and soothing tone full of love as he gazes at Edith. “You are very pretty, and no-one can deny that – not even you,” He holds out an admonishing finger as Edith goes to refute his remark. “But beauty, however glorious will fade. Just look at our Dowager Queen Mother*******. When beauty fades, wit and intelligence remain, and you have both of those qualities in spades, Edith.”

“Oh Frank.” Edith breathes softly. “You aren’t ashamed of me then?”

“Of course I’m not Edith! How could I ever be ashamed of you? I’m as proud as punch******** to step out with you! You’re my best girl.”

Frank winds the gleaming brass coffee grinder handle a few more times before stopping. He pulls out the drawer at the bottom and as he does, the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans fills the air around them, wafting up his, Edith and Hilda’s nostrils. He sighs with satisfaction at a job well done.

“Good enough for his American lordship?” Frank asks Hilda.

She peers into the drawer. “Good enough.” she acknowledges with another of her cheeky smirks, nodding affirmatively.

“I still think he could jolly well grind his own, you know, Hilda!” Frank opines.

“Socialist.” she laughs in reply as she walks around Frank, withdraws the drawer of ground coffee and knocks the contents into the small, worn Delftware coffee cannister with careful taps, so as not to spill and waste any of the hard-won grinds.

“I bet you, your Wanetta Ward doesn’t grind her own coffee, Edith.” Frank goes on as he walks back around to Edith and slips his jacket on again.

“I bet you she does, Frank!” Edith counters.

“What? A moving picture star grinding her own coffee? I don’t believe it!”

“Miss Ward is a very unorthodox person, Frank, even for an American.” she assures him. “I think she might surprise you if you ever get the pleasure of meeting her one day.”

“Maybe.” Frank says doubtfully. “Well now that coffee is ground, we should really get going.” He runs his hands around the back of his jacket collar to make sure it is sitting straight. “The Hammersmith Palais waits for no-one, not even those who slave for undeserving Americans.” He laughs good heartedly. “Shall we go?”

“Oh yes!” enthuses Edith as Frank chivalrously pulls out her chair for her as she stands up. “I’ll fetch our coats.”

With her pretty blue floral sprigged frock swirling about her figure, Edith hurries over to the pegs by the door where Frank’s, Hilda’s and her own coat and hats hang. She moves lightly across the floor, practicing her dance steps as she goes, silently moving to the music she hears the band playing in her head.

“I really wonder why I bother sometimes.” Hilda says despondently as she pulls her brown coat on over the top of the luxurious man-made silk frock that Edith made for her and decorated with lace trimming and small bursts of sequins.

“Like I said,” Frank mutters. “He should settle for Camp Coffee like the rest of us, or have tea.”

“Not grinding coffee, Frank!” Hilda scoffs in reply. “I mean go dancing at the Hammersmith Palais week after week. What’s the point?”

“What do you mean, Hilda?” Edith asks gently, slipping her arms into her own black three-quarter length coat as Frank holds to open for her.

“I mean why do I bother going dancing when no man at the Palais ever looks at me, even in this beautiful new frock you made me, Edith.” She picks up the lace trimmed hem of her dance dress and lifts it despondently.

Edith and Frank both glance anxiously at one another for a moment. Both know they are thinking exactly the same thing. What Hilda says is true. Whenever the three of them go to the Hammersmith Palais de Danse there are always far more women in attendance than men. The Great War decimated the male population, and almost drove an entire generation of young men into extinction. Sadly, this means that more and more women are finding themselves without a gentleman to step out with, and are deemed surplus to needs by society. In spite of any of his faults, Edith knows how lucky she is to have a young man like Frank. Even the attentions of pretty girls are less in demand with fewer men in circulation desiring their company. Unlike Edith, Hilda is a little on the plump side, enjoying the indulgence of sticky buns from the bakers and an extra serving of Victoria Sponge at the Lyons Corner Shop********* at the top of Tottenham Court Road. Her face is friendly, with soft brown eyes and a warm smile, but she isn’t pretty. Even with the judicious application of a little powder and rouge acquired from the make-up counter of Selfridges********** her skin lacks the fresh gleam that Edith has, and for as long as she has known her, Edith has always found Hilda to have a very pale complexion. When the three of them do go dancing, Frank is often the only man she dances with when he partners her around the dancefloor, and more often than not, Hilda ends up taking the part of the man, dancing with any number of other neglected wallflowers, just to ward of the tedium of waiting for someone to ask her to dance. The plight, for plight it was, of women like Hilda was all too common, in the post-war world of the 1920s.

“Perhaps you’re looking in the wrong place, Hilda.” Frank says.

“What do mean, Frank?”

“Well, a girl with brains like you needs a man who will stimulate her mentally. Perhaps you might find the man of your dreams at a library.”

“A library!” Hilda’s mind conjures up images of pale bookish young men in glasses with phlegmatic characters who would much rather shake her hand limply and discuss the benefits of Socialism, rather than sweep her off her feet romantically.

“Not at all helpful, Frank!” hisses Edith as she watches her best friend’s face fall.

“I was only joking.” Frank shrugs apologetically, unsure what to say.

Edith hurries over and wraps her arm around Hilda’s slumping shoulders consolingly. “A faint heart never won a fair lady, Hilda.” She pulls Hilda to her lovingly. Hilda looks up at her friend sadly, yet thoughtfully. “And I think it works the same in reverse.”

Seeing a way to make amends for his ill-timed joke, Frank pipes up, “That’s exactly right, Hilda. Edith wouldn’t have been anywhere near as attractive to me if she hadn’t had a bit of pluck.”

“And you look splendid in the dance frock I made for you, Hilda,” Edith adds. “Really you do.”

“Do you really think so, Edith?” Hilda asks, looking at her friend.

“Of course I do! I’m a professional seamstress, and you are my best friend. I wouldn’t make something that didn’t suit you!”

“No, no of course not.” Hilda replies.

“And didn’t Mrs. Minkin say that russet satin would suit your colourings?”

“She did.”

“Well then,” Edith replies matter-of-factly. “There is nothing more to be said.”

“That’s right.” agrees Frank, and without further ado, he sweeps Hilda into his arms.

With the ease of a natural dancer, Frank begins to waltz his partner carefully across the black and white chequered linoleum floor of the Channon’s kitchen, guiding her around the kitchen table and the chairs gathered around it, past the black and white stove and the dresser cluttered with crockery and provisions.

“Oh Frank!” Hilda says, laughing joyously as she allows herself to be swept away. “You really are a one!”

Edith smiles as she sees a light return to her best friend’s eyes, and a smile appear upon her pert lips. She considers herself so fortunate not just because she has a chap to step out with, but because Frank is so kind and considerate. Not just any man would understand or appreciate Edith’s wish to include Hilda in their excursions to the Hammersmith Palais de Danse, and not every man would be as willing to take a turn with her on the dancefloor, as has been proven. Then again, Frank is no ordinary man, and as time goes on and she gets to know him better, the more she is becoming aware that her sweetheart is a very special man indeed. She laughs as Frank dips Hilda, making her squeal in delight, before raising her up again and restoring her to her feet.

“There!” Frank says with a huff as he catches his breath. “Now that your feet are suitably warmed up, you’re ready to go, Miss Clerkenwell. We’ll have no more talk of you not wanting to come dancing with us.”

“Today might be the day you meet someone, Hilda. Don’t give up on the chance.” Edith enthuses.

“Oh alright you two!” Hilda acquiesces. “I give up. Let’s go then.”

“That’s the spirit, Hilda!” Frank says. “That pluck will win you a fine and handsome gentleman with a brain that you deserve.”

“I can hardly battle both of you, can I?” Hilda laughs as she carefully places her floppy brimmed brown velvet and copper faille poke-style bonnet decorated with a beige rose and leaves atop her head.

The three friends walk out of the kitchen door that leads out onto the flat’s back stairs and begin to descend to the street. Hilda locks the door behind her and the coffee grinder and the as of yet to be ground coffee beans sit on the table, ready for when she returns later that day to serve to Margot, Dickie and their friends Priscilla and Georgie Carter.

*The Hammersmith Palais de Danse, in its last years simply named Hammersmith Palais, was a dance hall and entertainment venue in Hammersmith, London, England that operated from 1919 until 2007. It was the first palais de danse to be built in Britain.

**The Café Royal in Regent Street, Piccadilly was originally conceived and set up in 1865 by Daniel Nicholas Thévenon, who was a French wine merchant. He had to flee France due to bankruptcy, arriving in Britain in 1863 with his wife, Célestine, and just five pounds in cash. He changed his name to Daniel Nicols and under his management - and later that of his wife - the Café Royal flourished and was considered at one point to have the greatest wine cellar in the world. By the 1890s the Café Royal had become the place to see and be seen at. It remained as such into the Twenty-First Century when it finally closed its doors in 2008. Renovated over the subsequent four years, the Café Royal reopened as a luxury five star hotel.

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

****A bandeau is a narrow band of fabric worn round the head to hold the hair in position. Although bandeaus existed long before the 1920s, there was a resurgence in popularity for embroidered grosgrain ribbons to be worn around the head across the forehead in the 1920s, and they are synonymous with 1920s flapper fashion.

*****The first successful artificial silks were developed in the 1890s of cellulose fibre and marketed as art silk or viscose, a trade name for a specific manufacturer. In 1924, the name of the fibre was officially changed in the U.S. to rayon, although the term viscose continued to be used in Europe.

******Although obscure as to its origin, the term “giggling Gertie” is of English derivation and was often used in a derisive way to describe silly children and young people, usually girls, who were deemed as being flippant and foolish.

*******Queen Alexandra was Queen of the United Kingdom and the British Dominions, and Empress of India, from the twenty-second of January 1901 to the sixth of May 1910 as the wife of King-Emperor Edward VII. Daughter of King Christian IX of Denmark, at the age of sixteen Alexandra was chosen as the future wife of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, the son and heir apparent of Queen Victoria. When she arrived in England she was famed for her beauty and her style of dress and bearing were copied by fashion-conscious women. From Edward's death, Alexandra was queen mother, being a dowager queen and the mother of the reigning monarch. Alexandra retained a youthful appearance into her senior years, but during the Great War her age caught up with her. She took to wearing elaborate veils and heavy makeup, which was described by gossips as having her face "enamelled".

********Although today we tend to say as “pleased as punch”, the Victorian term actually began as “proud as punch”. This expression refers to the Punch and Judy puppet character. Punch's name comes from Punchinello, an Italian puppet with similar characteristics. In Punch and Judy shows, the grotesque Punch is portrayed as self-satisfied and pleased with his evil actions.

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

********** Selfridges, also known as Selfridges & Co., is a chain of upscale department stores in the United Kingdom that is operated by Selfridges Retail Limited, part of the Selfridges Group of department stores. It was founded by Harry Gordon Selfridge in 1908. Harry Gordon Selfridge, Sr. was an American-British retail magnate who founded the London-based department store. His twenty year leadership of Selfridge’s led to his becoming one of the most respected and wealthy retail magnates in the United Kingdom. He was known as the 'Earl of Oxford Street'.

***********Faille is a type of cloth with flat ribs, often made in silk. It has a softer texture than grosgrain, with heavier and wider cords or ribs. Weft yarns are heavier than warp, and it is manufactured in plain weaving. It was especially popular in the Nineteenth Century, and its popularity, although somewhat dwindling, did carry through into the early decades of the Twentieth Century.

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

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

On Hilda’s deal table stands her coffee grinder with its brass handle, wooden base and drawer, and red knobs. It comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The little Delftware canister and the white china bowl also come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop. The coffee beans in the bowl are really black carraway seeds. The vase of flowers comes from an online shop on E-Bay.

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

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

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

Today we are in the very modern and up-to-date 1920s kitchen of Lettice’s flat: Edith, her maid’s, preserve. With her mistress out, having a final fitting for her outfit for the Royal wedding of her friend Elizabeth* to the Duke of York**, Edith is enjoying the sense of tranquillity that falls upon the Cavendish Mews flat when Lettice is not home, and is sitting at the deal kitchen table in the middle of the room, looking through one of her small number of cookbooks as she works out a menu for the next few days. Having just boiled the brass kettle on the stovetop behind her, the young maid has made a pot of tea for herself, and it sits within easy reach of her right hand, the spout peeping out from the blue and white knitted tea cosy made for her by her mother. Steam rises from the spout, and from the Delftware cup featuring a windmill as she cradles it in both her hands as she consults ‘Miss Drake’s Home Cookery’*** and considers whether to cook fillets of whiting with oyster sauce or Clementine Sauce for Lettice’s luncheon on Tuesday.

“Let’s see,” Edith says quietly mulling over the recipe for Clementine Sauce aloud. “One ounce of butter, one ounce of flour, half a pint of fish stock, half a gill**** of cream, lemon juice, salt and cayenne to taste. Oh! Parmesan! I don’t have any of that. Well, I can get some from Willison’s easily enough.”

Just at that moment there is a tentative knock on the tradesman’s door leading out of the kitchen onto the back stairs of the flats, shattering Edith’s quiet contemplation and startling her so much that she almost spills tea onto her precious cookbook.

“That’s Frank’s knock.” Edith remarks aloud to the empty kitchen around her, recognising the slightly hesitant tap of her young man, Frank Leadbetter, delivery boy for Willison’s Grocery in Mayfair. “Frank? Frank is that you?” she calls cheerily, quickly standing up and self-consciously brushing down the front of her blue and white striped morning print dress uniform and quickly sweeping some loose strands of her blonde hair behind her ears in an effort to make herself more presentable for her beau.

“It is Edith.” Frank’s voice calls from the other side of the white painted door. “May I come in?”

“Oh yes, do come in Frank. It’s not locked.”

The door opens and Frank pokes his head around the door, his workman’s flat cap covering his head of mousy brown hair. He smiles, his pale skin flush from riding his bike and then climbing several flights of stairs to reach the Cavendish Mews flat from the ground floor.

“You’re just in time.” Edith continues with a smile. “I’ve just boiled the kettle. If you have time that is.”

“Yes, I do.” Frank indicates, walking into Edith’s cosy kitchen and closing the door behind him so as to keep the cool spring air outside. He is struck by the ghostly, yet comforting wafts of butter and herbs from last night’s Chicken a la Minute dinner that Edith cooked for Lettice. “Jolly good Edith. All this bicycling around Mayfair and Pimlico gives a man a thirst.”

Edith walks over to the pine dresser and takes down another Delftware cup and saucer whilst Frank lifts up the Windsor backed chair next to the back door and carries it across the waxed black and white chequered linoleum floor and puts it adjunct to Edith’s own Windsor chair.

“It’s funny, Frank. I was just making a mental note to myself to order some Parmesan cheese from Mr. Willison’s, and here you are!”

“Well,” Frank removes his cap and runs his fingers through his slightly wavy hair before depositing the cap on the surface of the kitchen table. “You know I’m always at your service, Miss Watsford.”

Edith giggles as she and Frank sit down at the table.

As Edith lifts the cosy clad pot and pours Frank a cup of steaming tea, she remarks, “But I don’t have a grocery order, Frank. What are you doing here?” She quickly adds, “Not that I mind, of course.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Frank laughs good naturedly.

“Don’t tell me that Mr. and Mrs. Willison have shown some heart and given you the morning off.”

“Not likely, Edith!” Frank scoffs casting his eyes to the ceiling above, taking up the sugar bowl and adding two large heaped spoonfuls of sugar to his tea. “No, I finished my round of deliveries early, so I thought I had just enough time to pop in and have a cup of tea with my sweetheart before I was missed back at the shop.”

‘Well, we better make the most of this impromptu visit then, before you are missed.”

“Oh yes! That old Mrs. Willison is a tartar! I think she is more of stickler for time than Mr. Willison is.”

“So, to what do I owe the honour then, Frank?”

“What? Can’t a chap visit his girl just to say hullo?”

“Well of course, Frank.” Edith picks up her own teacup again. “I’m always delighted to be graced with your company.”

“That’s better.” Frank nods approvingly as he stirs his tea with a slightly tarnished teaspoon. He takes a sip and sighs with pleasure before adding, “But actually, I do have an ulterior motive to be here today, Edith.”

“Oh?” Edith queries warily. “What is it, Frank?”

“Well, I know I got off to a bad start with you family the other Sunday,” Frank begins.

“Oh, are you still worried about that, Frank? I thought we’d been through all this on Easter Sunday.” Edith admonishes. With a brave smile she assures him, “I told you: we’ll win Mum over easily enough, given a bit of time and you keeping quiet about some of your more progressive workers’ ideas.”

“I know, Edith, but I’ve got a little something with me that might calm the waters a little, at least with your dad.”

“What is it? What have you got, Frank?”

“These.” Frank reaches into the inside of his white shirt beneath his russet coloured woollen vest and withdraws a small envelope from his breast pocket.

Handing it to Edith with a beaming smile he lets his sweetheart investigate it. The envelope is postmarked with yesterday’s date. Addressed to Frank by hand in a neat copperplate care of the boarding house in Holborn the return address, one in Wembley that she doesn’t recognise, is typed in the top left hand corner.

“What is it, Frank?” Edith asks suspiciously, holding the envelope aloft, poised in the air between them.

“Well, just open it and find out.” Frank encourages her with a broad smile. “It won’t bite.” He chuckles at Edith’s hesitancy.

Edith slips her fingers tentatively beneath the edge of the back of the envelope and hooks underneath it. It comes away easily, having already been opened and simply slipped back into place. Opening the envelope, she peers inside and withdraws several small pale yellow ticket stubs between her slightly careworn fingers. She gasps as she reads the black print on one of the four tickets.

“This is for the White Horse Finals***** at Empire Stadium******!”

“I know.” Frank replies matter-of-factly, but with pride beaming from his expression. “There are four tickets in there.”

“Four tickets!” Edith gasps, looking again, her eyes growing wide in amazement.

“Yes: two for us and one each for your dad and mum.”

“Four! That’s amazing Frank! You can’t get a ticket for the finals for love nor money!”

“I thought they might help make up for my somewhat awkward introduction to your parents, and show that I really do care about you, and them too, of course.”

“Oh Frank!” Edith leaps out of her chair and flings her arms around Frank’s neck as he sits there.

Unaccustomed to such fervent signs of affection from Edith, who is usually very reserved, Frank is taken aback at first, but then settles comfortably into the embrace, smiling as he inhales the sweet smell of his sweetheart: freshly laundered clothes and Lifebuoy soap intermixed with the fragrance of her hair. He wraps his arms around Edith’s waist carefully and for a moment is lost in his love for her before the moment is broken as Edith regains her composure and finally pulls away from him, albeit a little reluctantly.

“How on earth did you get these?” Edith asks in astonishment, resuming her seat. “Magic? Dad’s been trying to get hold of tickets for weeks and weeks, pulling every string and pulling in every favour that he can!”

“I guess they just weren’t the right strings he pulled.” Frank beams elatedly.

“But how did you do it?”

“Well, you know how I said when we had lunch with your parents that there was some doubt as to whether the Empire Stadium will be completed on time.”

“Yes Frank.”

“Well, I know a bit more than the papers let on because I’m friendly with a couple of chaps who are working on the building of it, you see.”

“Really Frank?”

“Yes. Anyway, one of them has a girl who works at the booking office for the football final tickets, and my friend pulled a few strings for me, and there you go!” He waves a hand theatrically towards the envelope, which Edith has now placed face down on the kitchen table between them.

“Oh Frank! You are a wonder!” Edith picks up her cup of tea and takes a sip.

“Well, think of it as more of a good will gesture from me to your parents, than a gift from me to you.”

“But Frank, don’t you see? It is a gift! This will help brush over that awkwardness from the other day, and calm the waters as you say. You’re so clever!”

“Well,” Frank says happily, looking very pleased with himself. “You’re my girl, Edith, and I want your parents’ blessing as well as my Gran’s, when it comes to marrying you one day. I need to make sure that your parents know that even though I may be a bit of a radical thinker, I have your best interests at heart: first and foremost.”

“And this will go well towards building the foundations of their trust in you, Frank! It really will!” Edith enthuses. “Dad’s been like a child with a broken toy according to Mum, moping about the house when he comes home empty handed after seeing friends down at the pub who haven’t been able to get him tickets. He was even thinking of just taking Mum for a picnic and the pair of them would sit outside the stadium and listen to what was going on inside.”

“Well now he won’t have to, Edith! He can go! We all can go!”

“How lucky am I, to have you as my beau, Frank Leadbetter?”

“About as lucky as I am to have you as my best girl, Edith Watsford.”

The par of young lovers laugh as they settle back in their chairs, chatting away happily, making the most of the unexpected stolen moment together before Frank must return to his job delivering groceries and Edith to her household chores around the flat.

*Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, as she was known at the beginning of 1923 when this story is set, went on to become Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952 as the wife of King George VI. Whilst still Duke of York, Prince Albert initially proposed to Elizabeth in 1921, but she turned him down, being "afraid never, never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to". He proposed again in 1922 after Elizabeth was part of his sister, Mary the Princess Royal’s, wedding party, but she refused him again. On Saturday, January 13th, 1923, Prince Albert went for a walk with Elizabeth at the Bowes-Lyon home at St Paul’s, Walden Bury and proposed for a third and final time. This time she said yes. The wedding took place on April 26, 1923 at Westminster Abbey.

**Prince Albert, Duke of York, known by the diminutive “Bertie” to the family and close friends, was the second son of George V. He was never expected to become King, but came to the throne after his elder brother David, the Prince of Wales, abdicated in 1936 so that he could marry the love of his life American divorcée, Wallis Simpson. Although not schooled in being a ruler, Bertie, who styled himself as George VI as a continuation of his father, became King of United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952, and saw Britain through some of its darkest days, becoming one of the most popular monarchs in British history.

***’Miss Drake’s Home Cookery’ is a book of standard household recipes suitable for a plain cook or maid-of-all-work like Edith. First published in 1915 it was compiled by Miss Lucy Drake, a trained cookery teacher at the Education Department of Melbourne, and a student of the National Training School of Cookery and other branches of Domestic Economy , Buckingham Palace Road, London.

****The gill or teacup is a unit of measurement for volume equal to a quarter of a pint. It is no longer in common use, except in regard to the volume of alcoholic spirits measures, but was certainly a well known measure in the years prior to the Second World War.

*****The first football match to be played at Wembley Stadium was between the Bolton Wanderers and West Ham United. This match became known as the White Horse final, and was played just a few days after the completion of the stadium.

******Originally known as Empire Stadium, London’s Wembley Stadium was built to serve as the centerpiece of the British Empire Exhibition. It took a total of three hundred days to construct the stadium at a cost of £750,000. The stadium was completed on the 23rd of April 1923, only a few days before the first football match, between the Bolton Wanderers and West Ham United, was to take place at the stadium. The stadium's first turf was cut by King George V, and it was first opened to the public on 28 April 1923. Much of Humphry Repton's original Wembley Park landscape was transformed in 1922 and 1923 during preparations for the British Empire Exhibition. First known as the "British Empire Exhibition Stadium" or simply the "Empire Stadium", it was built by Sir Robert McAlpine for the British Empire Exhibition of 1924 (extended to 1925).

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

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

Central to our story is the envelope containing the four tickets to the White Horse final, which is a 1:12 size miniature made to incredibly high standards of realism by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Although known predominantly for his creation of miniature books, Ken has also created quite a number of other items, including envelopes and even tiny legible letters that go inside them. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

Also on Edith’s deal table stands her teapot. The tea cosy, which fits snugly over a white porcelain teapot, has been hand knitted in fine lemon, blue and violet wool. It comes easily off and off and can be as easily put back on as a real tea cosy on a real teapot. It comes from a specialist miniatures stockist in England. The Delftware cups, saucers and milk jug are part of a 1:12 size miniature porcelain dinner set which sits on the dresser that can be seen just to the right of shot.

The little cookbook, a non-opening 1:12 artisan miniature of a real cookbook, comes from a small American artisan seller on E-Bay.

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

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

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

Today however we are not at Cavendish Mews, although we are still in Mayfair, moving a few streets away to Hill Street, where Edith, Lettice’s maid, is visiting her friend and fellow maid Hilda. Edith and Hilda used to share at attic bedroom together in the Pimlico townhouse of Mr. and Mrs. Plaistow, their former situation, where they worked together as parlour maids. Edith recently helped Hilda obtain a new position as live-in maid for Lettice’s married Embassy Club coterie friends, Dickie and Margot Channon. Whilst Edith spends her Sundays off with her beau, Willison’s Grocers delivery boy Frank, she shares her Wednesdays off between visiting her parents in Harlesden and spending the day enjoying the pleasures London has to offer with Hilda. It is in the Channon’s Hill Street flat’s kitchen that we find ourselves today where Edith and Hilda are taking luncheon before heading off to nearby Oxford Street for a spot of window shopping.

Hilda has found that the Channon’s rather chaotic household and way of living somewhat of challenge to get used to working in, but it always guarantees great stories that she can share with her best friend, and this is what the girls are doing. The Channons are away, visiting Dickie’s parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Taunton in Cornwall, which makes it easier for Hilda to entertain Edith at the flat in Hill Street, and the pair are enjoying Dickie and Margot’s unknown largess as the table is set with tea for two, bread from the glazed bread crock and a choice of spreads for them to enjoy.

“Well, “ Hilda says with a sigh of relief as she unscrews the yellow lid from the Marmite* jar. “I can tell you I was relieved to hear Mrs. Channon say to your Miss Lettice over lunch last week that the reason why they are going to see her in-laws is because they find it too lowering to visit the flat.” She scoops some of the thick dark Marmite out of the jar and smears the paste thinly across her slice of bread.

“Mmmm…” murmurs Edith in reply, her own knife still laying next to her untouched slice of bare bread.

“She sounds like a nasty old trout anyway.” Hilda prattles on as she cuts her slice of Marmite topped bread into two by slicing it with ungainly drags of her Bakelite** handled knife. “Poor Mrs. Channon always comes back from these stays at the in-law’s castle so downcast, and despondent.”

“Yes…” Edith replies in a distracted way, still leaving her bread untouched.

“And I’ve heard she and Mr. Channon talk about the fact that they have no children yet.” Hilda picks up one half of her bread and bites into it hungrily, chewing her mouthful a few times and half swallowing it before adding, “I mean, I know they have been married for a year and all, so it is unusual.” She loudly chews her mouthful of bread and Marmite a few more times. “But you can’t force babies to come, now can you?”

“Mmmm…”

“And, I mean fancy the Marchioness being rich enough to live in a castle, yet she and the Marquess barely give Mr. Channon a penny to live by, and they won’t visit his home because they think it’s too lowering.” Hilda emphasises the last word before taking another large bite of her bread. “What a cheek! ‘d hate her for a mother-in-law, no matter how rich she is! She’s just plain rude, if you ask me! Don’t you agree, Edith?”

“No…” Edith replies after a few moments, her voice reedy and tinged with a far off quality.

“You don’t, Edith?” Hilda asks, her face screwing up in disbelief, her mouth a thin, long line moving up and down as she chews.

“I don’t what?” Edith replies.

“You don’t agree with me, Edith!” Hilda retorts in surprise. “Haven’t you been listening to me?” She looks at the slice of bare bread on Edith’s plate and her untouched cup of tea, and then up into Edith’s rather pale and wan face with apprehension. “What’s wrong Edith? You haven’t touched your tea.”

“Oh!” Edith gasps, before smiling at her friend. “Nothing, Hilda.” She picks up the jar of Golden Shred Marmalade*** and unscrews the painted red lid.

“Aren’t you going to put butter on your bread first?” Hilda asks with disquiet as she watches Edith’s clean knife edge towards the gelatinous golden orange conserve within the jar.

“What?” Edith looks at the marmalade and then looks at the bar of creamy pale yellow butter on the white glazed tray of the butter dish. “Oh! Oh yes!” She giggles somewhat forcefully at her mistake. “Silly me.”

“What’s wrong Edith?” Hilda asks her friend in genuine concern as she watches her butter her bread. “You’ve been a bit off ever since you’ve arrived, and I don’t think you’ve really heard a word I said since you got here.”

“Yes I have, Hilda!” Edith defends.

“You’re not,” Hilda glances down to Edith’s stomach, encased in a pretty floral print frock of her own making, cocking her eyebrow as she does. “You know… in the family way with Frank, are you?”

“Hilda!” Edith let’s her knife clatter loudly onto her blue and white plate. “Good heavens, no!” She blushes. “I’m not that kind of girl! You know that! How could you even think such a thing? I haven’t let Frank touch me like that, and he knows he can’t, until he’s put a ring on my finger.”

“Oh, that’s a relief!” Hilda sinks back not the comfort of the round back of her Windsor chair. “Then what is it? Something’s bothering you. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. Is it Miss Lettice? Has she done something? I know your brother is home. Is he alright?”

“Of course my brother’s alright!” Edith scoffs in surprise. “You only saw him at the Hammersmith Palais**** on Sunday. And no, it’s nothing about Miss Lettice.”

“Well, a lot can happen in a few days, Edith. So, what is it, then. Is it to do with Frank?”

Edith doesn’t reply for a moment, which tells her best friend so much before she finally does reply falteringly. “Well, yes… well not him, exactly.”

“What is it then?” Hilda sits forward and picks up the last bite of her first half of her bread. “Come on! Out with it then!”

Edith sighs deeply and toys with the marmalade as she smears it across her slice of bread. “I’m worried about meeting Frank’s grandmother on Sunday.”

“But I thought you wanted to meet her.” Hilda replies, her eyes widening in surprise. “You’re the one who has been banging on to me for weeks about Frank dragging his heels. Now he’s gone and done the right thing and organised for you two to finally meet. I don’t understand.”

“Oh, I am glad, Hilda. Really, I am.”

“Well you don’t sound it, I must confess.” Hilda says matter-of-factly as she snatches up her second half of her bread and bites deeply into it, emitting a small gasp of pleasure at doing so.

Edith cuts her slice of bread in half with desultory strokes as she considers her reply. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

“Alright. Well, I’m worried that she won’t like me.”

“What?” Hilda gasps. “What is there not to like about you, Edith? You’re wonderful! Frank’s picked himself the best of the catch!” She pats Edith’s arm comfortingly as she leans forward. “You’re pretty and smart. You’ve landed yourself a good job as far as being in service goes. Goodness,” She slaps Edith’s forearm. “You’re even clever enough to whip Frank up a shirt on that new Singer***** of yours, I’ll wager. I’m sure she’ll be tickled pink that her grandson has found such a catch as you.”

“But she sounds so grand, Hilda. She makes lace, and she lives in Upton Park. It sounds much nicer than Harlesden.”

“What rubbish!” Hilda scoffs. “Lots of women make lace, and they aren’t fine ladies like Mrs. Channon or Miss Lettice. In fact, I doubt that either of our mistresses could sew their own lace. And as for Upon Park, it’s just an ordinary suburb, just like any other in London.”

“Have you been there?”

“Well, no.” Hilda admits. But as her friend’s face falls, she quickly adds, “But I have been with you to the Premier****** in East Ham, and that isn’t far away, and there’s nothing particularly grand or special about it. Upton Park is just an ordinary London suburb, just like many others, and that includes Harlesden.”

“I don’t really know much about Frank’s upbringing, other than his parents died in the Spanish Flu epidemic. His grandmother might not approve of a working girl whose father works in a biscuit factory and a mother who is a laundress.”

“Rubbish! Your parents are both respectable people, Edith. Your mum keeps a lovely house and did a splendid job of raising you and your brother. You’ve nothing whatever to be ashamed of! I’m sure your nerves are just bringing all this nonsense up.”

“Oh,” Edith sighs. “You’re probably right, Hilda.” She smiles wanly at her friend and reaches up her own right hand and places it gratefully on her best friend’s left forearm. “Thank you.”

“Course I’m right.” Hilda says with satisfaction.

The pair settle back in companionable silence for a short while. Hilda happily helps herself to another slice of thick and soft white bread from the bread crock, far nicer than the bread she used to be served by the cook in Mrs. Plaistow’s, who deliberately gave the maids food of a poorer quality out of sheer spite, whilst feeding she and her kitchen maid little delicacies that she would create just for them. Smearing a thick layer of rich, dark and gleaming Marmite on her bread, Hilda feels the silence change. Glancing up at her friend she watches as she gingerly nibbles at her slice of bread, spread with a thin layer of jewel like orange marmalade. Her eyes, usually so bright, seem dull and sad and she is obviously troubled and distracted by something more than she is saying. Hilda sips her tea and ponders the situation.

“There’s something else worrying you, isn’t there Edith?” she confronts her friend at length.

“No, I…”

“Don’t try and deny it!” Hilda protests, raising one of her doughy arms with its wide hands and fat, sausage like fingers. “I’ve known you long enough Edith Watsford, to know there is something wrong. What is it? Don’t you want to tell it me?”

Edith looks guiltily at her, evidently upset at withholding information from her most trusted of friends, yet unable to voice them. Finally, she speaks.

“You’ll think me foolish, if you thought my other reasons were rubbish, Hilda.”

“Your reasons may be rubbish,” Hilda agrees. “But your concerns aren’t. Come on Edith. We tell each other everything. You know I won’t think you’re foolish. Like I said before, you’re a smart girl, and smart girls aren’t foolish.” She smiles in a welcoming fashion, encouraging Edith to share. “I won’t pass judgement on you.” she concludes softly, putting down her slice of bread, just to prove the point that she is paying full attention. “Promise.”

Edith puts down her own nibbled slice of bread and explains with a heaviness and reluctance, “I feel foolish, because I can’t help but feel I’m cheating on Bert’s memory by going to see Frank’s grandmother.”

When Edith pauses and looks across at her friend, Hilda doesn’t respond, even though she wants to. She wants to tell her that such an idea is nonsense, and that she has been crying over the photo of a dead man for far too long as it is, but she knows that will only make Edith feel foolish, and she doesn’t want her to feel that way. Instead, she stays silent for a moment before asking, “How’s that then?”

“Well, by me going to see Frank’s grandmother, it commits me more to Frank, and I can’t help but feel that in doing so, I’m not being generous to Bert’s memory.”

“That’s,” Hilda begins, about to add the word rubbish. However, she quickly changes her mind, swallows the word and instead says, “Understandable.”

“Do you really think so, Hilda?”

Hilda smiles, but her smile contains pity for her friend. “For all the time we shared that awful, cold attic bedroom at Mrs. Plaistow’s, I remember how often you talked about Bert, and how often you looked at his picture. Of course, he was your first love, and whilst I have no real experience of love myself, I do know that first loves remain in your heart.”

Edith nods shallowly.

“But I think that Bert would be disappointed in you if you didn’t take this chance with Frank, Edith. He sounded like a nice chap, and I think he’d be happy for you if you had a chance at love again. You’re lucky.” she adds. “Not all of us get that chance.” Now her pity is for herself.

“Oh, I’m sorry Hilda!” Edith exclaims. “I must sound so ungrateful! Here I am with a lovely man like Frank, and I’m worried about a man who isn’t even alive any more.”

“He lives in your heart.” Hilda says in a strangulated voice as she struggles to hold back her own tears.

“Don’t worry, Hilda!” Edith assures her friend. “We’re going to find you a good man at the Hammersmith Palais. You wait and see!”

“Not with the number of women there are in comparison to the men.” Hilda says doubtfully, picking up her bread slice and her cup. “Like most of the plainer girls, I end up dancing with other women rather than sit and be a wallflower. Thank goodness for your Frank dancing with me from time to time, or your brother last week.” After slurping a sip of hot sweet and milky tea, she adds, “My Mum used to tell me I had good child-bearing hips. I think she used to say it out of kindness, because I’ve always been on the heftier side.” She looks down at herself. “I’ll never be a slip of thing like you, and there’s a fact.”

“Oh I wouldn’t…” Edith begins, but Hilda holds up her hand in protest again as she pops her bread between her teeth.

Taking the slice out of her mouth, she continues, “Anyway, Mum doesn’t say that any more, partially I think to spare me the humiliation of being reminded that I’m still single at the age of twenty three, but I think more so to keep herself from remembering that as her only child left alive, if I am destined to be an old maid, she’ll never have grandchildren.”

“Oh, don’t talk like that, Hilda! You might meet the man you are going to marry, tomorrow.”

“Let’s be honest, Edith,” Hilda says in a deflated fashion. “I’m nowhere near as pretty as you, nor as trim, and with so many young men killed in the war, my chances of finding someone are slim. Besides, I can’t sew my own pretty frocks like you can, and it seems that dresses in my size are mostly muddy brown or olive in colour. They are hardly becoming are they?”

“Well, we might be able to do something about that.” Edith says with a genuine smile that returns brightness to her eyes. “Now that I do have my own sewing machine, I can just as easily make up a frock for you as I can for me. I have plenty of Weldon’s******* at home.”

Hilda’s sad face suddenly brightens and her cheeks fill with colour, giving her a pretty flush of pink. “Would you Edith?” she dares to ask. “Would you really?”

“Oh yes, of course I will!” Edith exclaims. “If I start working on it in the evenings this week, it might even help keep my mind off meeting Frank’s grandmother. I probably won’t have anything ready for a week or two, but if you don’t mind waiting.”

“Oh, of course I don’t mind waiting! That would be wonderful!”

“Well,” Edith says, sparking up herself at the thought of making a frock for her best friend. “I know we said we were going to go and look in the shop windows on Oxford Street, but why don’t we go to Mrs. Minkin’s Haberdashers in Whitechapel instead? We could pick some nice fabric today, and maybe even look at frock patterns to see what you like.”

“We’d better eat up then!” Hilda says before stuffing what is left of her second slice of bread into her mouth and washing it down with another slurp of tea. Through a wall of chewed up bread mixed with tea she adds, “Whitechapel’s a bit further away than Oxford Street.”

As Edith stands and prepares to help tidy the luncheon dishes away, Hilda waves her hands over them, indicating to her that she will take care of them when she gets back. Hilda goes to the pegs by the back door to the flat and picks up her chocolate brown overcoat and camel felt cloche with the chocolate brown grosgrain ribbon, the latter of which she pulls down over her mousy brown hair. Holding out Edith’s black coat to her, the pair of best friends wrap up against the still chilled early spring weather and slip out the door, their joyously chattering filling the air like birdsong as they discuss what Hilda’s new frock might look like.

*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.

**Bakelite, was the first plastic made from synthetic components. Patented on December 7, 1909, the creation of a synthetic plastic was revolutionary for its electrical nonconductivity and heat-resistant properties in electrical insulators, radio and telephone casings and such diverse products as kitchenware, jewellery, pipe stems, children's toys, and firearms. A plethora of items were manufactured using Bakelite in the 1920s and 1930s.

***Golden Shred orange marmalade still exists today and is a common household brand both in Britain and Australia. They are produced by Robertson’s. Robertson's Golden Shred recipe perfected since 1874 is a clear and tangy orange marmalade, which according to their modern day jars is “perfect for Paddington’s marmalade sandwiches”. Robertson's marmalade dates back to 1874 when Mrs. Robertson started making marmalade in the family grocery shop in Paisley, Scotland.

****The Hammersmith Palais de Danse, in its last years simply named Hammersmith Palais, was a dance hall and entertainment venue in Hammersmith, London, England that operated from 1919 until 2007. It was the first palais de danse to be built in Britain.

*****The Singer Corporation is an American manufacturer of consumer sewing machines, first established as I. M. Singer & Co. in 1851 by Isaac M. Singer with New York lawyer Edward C. Clark. Best known for its sewing machines, it was renamed Singer Manufacturing Company in 1865, then the Singer Company in 1963. In 1867, the Singer Company decided that the demand for their sewing machines in the United Kingdom was sufficiently high to open a local factory in Glasgow on John Street. The Vice President of Singer, George Ross McKenzie selected Glasgow because of its iron making industries, cheap labour, and shipping capabilities. Demand for sewing machines outstripped production at the new plant and by 1873, a new larger factory was completed on James Street, Bridgeton. By that point, Singer employed over two thousand people in Scotland, but they still could not produce enough machines. In 1882 the company purchased forty-six acres of farmland in Clydebank and built an even bigger factory. With nearly a million square feet of space and almost seven thousand employees, it was possible to produce on average 13,000 machines a week, making it the largest sewing machine factory in the world. The Clydebank factory was so productive that in 1905, the U.S. Singer Company set up and registered the Singer Manufacturing Company Ltd. in the United Kingdom.******The Premier Super Cinema in East Ham was opened on the 12th of March, 1921, replacing the 800 seat capacity 1912 Premier Electric Theatre. The new cinema could seat 2,408 patrons. The Premier Super Cinema was taken over by Provincial Cinematograph Theatres who were taken over by Gaumont British in February 1929. It was renamed the Gaumont from 21st April 1952. The Gaumont was closed by the Rank Organisation on 6th April 1963. After that it became a bingo hall and remained so until 2005. Despite attempts to have it listed as a historic building due to its relatively intact 1921 interior, the Gaumont was demolished in 2009.

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

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

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

On Hilda’s deal table is everything required for a nice, hearty luncheon for two working maids. The bread crock, butter knives and the butter dish come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The bar of butter on the dish I have had since I was six. It came as part of a dinner set, underneath a silver butter dish. The blue and white floral tea set, plates and bread slices all come from different online stockists of miniatures on E-Bay. The vase of flowers also comes from an online shop on E-Bay. The jar of Marmite and the jar of Golden Shred Marmalade are handmade artisan miniatures with great attention to the labelling, made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire., a panoply of things as she readies luncheon for Lettice and her guests. The mahogany stained serving tray, the gravy boat of gravy, the chopping board, napkins and cutlery all came from an English stockist of 1:12 artisan miniatures whom I found on E-Bay. Edith’s green handbag, appearing on the table at the bottom right-hand corner of the photo, is handmade from soft leather. I bought it along with many other items from an American miniature collector named Marilyn Bickel.

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

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

Kitchen, ground level, french doors to courtyard, clothes washer and dishwasher behind curtain

A commission by Allied Ironfounders to photograph their latest "Down to Date" stove. There it stands, all gleaming and new with a promise of many years of cooking and heating and creating a warm sense of welcome in kitchens all over the land! My late father in law was an Iron Moulder, a skilled if dirty and backbreaking profession and he worked in AIF back in 1940. He may even have been one of those who produced the parts for this stove?

Photographer: A. H. Poole

Collection: Poole Photographic Studio, Waterford

Date: 23rd March 1940

NLI Ref: POOLEWP 4334

You can also view this image, and many thousands of others, on the NLI’s catalogue at catalogue.nli.ie

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 it is Tuesday, and we are in the very modern and up-to-date 1920s kitchen of Lettice’s flat: Edith her maid’s preserve. Lettice is hosting a luncheon for her future sister-in-law Arabella Tyrwhitt who will soon marry her eldest brother Leslie. As Arabella has no sisters, and her mother is too unwell at present to travel up to London from Wiltshire, Lettice has taken it upon herself to help Arabella select a suitable trousseau. So, she has brought her to London to stay in Cavendish Mews, so from there she can take Arabella shopping in all the best shops in the West End, and take her to her best friend Gerald Bruton’s couturier in Grosvenor Street for her wedding dress. Edith is busy, rushing about the room between the stove and the deal kitchen table in the centre of the room, banging copper pots and porcelain serving dishes alike as she starts to serve the luncheon of a roast beef with vegetables and gravy.

“Lawd!” exclaims Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman* who comes on Tuesdays and every third Thursday to do the hard jobs. Her eyes drifting to the white painted ceiling above as she struggles through the door leading from the kitchen to the hallway carrying her tin bucket and mop, she asks, “Ow many’s in there to make that kinda racket?”

“Shh!” Edith gasps, raising her left index finger to her lips whilst she holds a cleaver in her right. “Mrs. Boothby please.” she hisses. “They’ll hear you.”

As a raucous peal of girlish laughter erupts from behind the green baize door that leads from the kitchen to the dining room, the old Cockney looks sceptically at Edith. “I doubt that deary. All they ‘ear is their bloody selves.”

“Here, let me help you with that,” Edith says kindly as she takes a few steps over to Mrs. Boothby and grasps the handle of the bucket, her skin brushing against the far more careworn hands of the older woman.

“Ta dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says in relief.

The pair awkwardly manoeuvre the bucket of dirty water over to the white enamel sink and hoist it up onto the draining board with a concerted effort.

“I can take it from ‘ere, dearie.” the old woman says thankfully.

Edith steps back to the deal kitchen table where she starts to slice the roast beef she has just taken from the oven into thick medallions. As the cleaver cuts into the juicy browned flesh, revealing the soft pink inside, steam arises from it, teasing the maid with its delicious smell. She sighs quietly as she closes her eyes for a moment and hopes that there will be some remnants of the been from the noisy luncheon going in in the dining room.

“There are four of them, Mrs. Boothby: Miss Lettice, Miss Tyrwhitt, Mrs. Palmerston and Mrs. Channon, so hopefully there will be some leftover beef for us. If there is, I can pack half up for you to take home if you like.”

The old woman sniffs the delicious aroma drifting about the kitchen appreciatively as she tips the dirty grey water down the sink. “Oh ta, dearie!” she says enthusiastically. “I’d like that. I can ‘ave beef sandwiches when I go to Lady Landscome’s tomorra.”

“Doesn’t Lady Landscome feed you, Mrs. Boothby?” Edith looks across the kitchen at the old woman in shock.

“Well, she tells ‘er cook Mrs. Appleby to feed me, but the old trout’s so snooty like ‘er mistress that she don’t fink I deserve much more than bread ‘n drippin’, rather than the real food she serves ovvers on the staff. I’s just the old char what comes up from Poplar to do all the dirty and ‘ard jobs she and the over maid won’t do.”

“That’s awful, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith says in outrage.

“Your old mistress, Mrs. Plaistow’s cook is no better to my friend Jackie.”

“Yes, but Mrs. Plaistow’s a mean old thing who keeps a close eye on the accounts, Mrs. Boothby. Cook only served meat to us once a week, occasionally twice if we were lucky, and it was never good stuff. I got a better feed at home with Mum and Dad than I ever did at Mrs. Plaistow’s.” She sighs as she begins to transfer the medallions of beef onto the white porcelain serving platter. “I feel very lucky to work for a lady like Miss Lettice.”

“She’s not a bad ‘un, far as mistresses go.” Mrs. Boothby agrees. “Certainly, compared to the likes of your Mrs. Plaistow.”

“I can’t say I’ve had a lot of experience of mistresses, Mrs. Boothby, but I think just about anyone would be better than her!”

“Oh I wouldn’t bet on that, Edith dearie. There’s plenty as bad as ‘er, or worse, let me tell you. An’ that Miss Tyrwhitt ain’t too bad neither.” She nods sagely. “She said ta to me today for washin’ the floors when she walked into the ‘allway, and she apologised for walkin’ across the clean floor. Nice surprise that was. What she stayin’ ‘ere for anyway?”

“Miss Tyrwhitt has come up from Wiltshire, Mrs. Boothby.”

“Ain’t Wiltshire where Miss Lettice is from?”

“Yes. Miss Tyrwhitt lives on the neighbouring estate to Miss Lettice. They grew up together, and she’s going to marry Miss Lettice’s eldest brother, the future Viscount Wrexham. That’s why she’s here. Miss Tyrwhitt doesn’t have any sisters, only brothers, so Miss Lettice has brought her up to London to take her to Mr. Bruton’s frock shop in Soho to get a wedding dress and other things for her trousseau.”

“If the girl comes from a good family like Miss Lettice, shouldn’t she ‘ave ‘er own ‘ouse to stay in?”

“I think her parents have a house in Curzon Street**, but I think they might think it a bit of a waste to open it up and engage servants just for Miss Tyrwhitt for a few weeks. Apparently, her mother is poorly, so she hasn’t come up to London. Besides, I think Miss Lettice enjoys having a house guest, especially one as nice as Miss Tyrwhitt.”

“Well, I ‘ope she don’t become a snooty up-‘erself woman when she becomes viscountess or whatever and lose ‘er nice manners.”

“Yes, she apologised to me too last night when she and Miss Lettice went out to the Embassy Club and she left clothes strewn across the bed which I had to put back in the wardrobe.” Edith smiles to herself as she places the last medallion on the platter. “Not that I mind. Those dresses of hers are so beautiful, all covered in lace and beads.”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Boothby says with a cocked eyebrow as she rests her left arm on the edge of the bucket as she rights it. “Did you try any of ‘em on then, dearie?”

“Good heavens no!” Edith blushes before falling silent.

“But?” the old Cockney presses.

“But I must confess, I did hold one or two up against me as I stood in front of the mirror, before I put them back in the wardrobe.”

“I see.” chuckles the old woman knowingly.

“Well, a girl has a right to dream, doesn’t she Mrs. Boothby?” Edith asks as she turns from the table and steps over to the stove where she withdraws a pot from its top.

“Course you do, Edith dearie!” Mrs. Boothby assures her younger friend as she steps aside, making room for Edith as she uses the lid of the copper saucepan to drain the sliced green beans inside. “A pretty girl like you, what’s steppin’ out wiv a nice chap like Frank Leadbetter deserves to know what ‘er weddin’ dress might look like.”

Bustling back to the table, Edith begins scooping the beans onto the platter beside the beef, just as another burst of female laughter emanates from the dining room. “Oh it’s hardly a dream of a wedding dress, Mrs. Boothby.” She lowers the saucepan onto the cutting board as she thinks. “At least not yet. We’ve only been walking out together for a little while now.”

“Don’t cha want to marry ‘im?”

“Well, I hardly know yet, do I? Once I get to know Frank a bit better, then I’ll decide whether I marry him or not, Mrs. Boothby.”

“So, what was you thinkin’ as you paraded before the mirror like a princess, then?” Mrs. Boothby asks. “If you wasn’t thinkin’ about your weddin’ dress.”

Edith turns and puts the empty saucepan back on the stove and picks up a copper skillet in which mushrooms are frying in butter. “Well, I was just thinking about how beautiful it would be to wear one of those dresses to the Hammersmith Palais***.”

“Ahh, so you was bein’ Cinderella then, was you?”

Edith nods a little guiltily.

“You’d look quite a picture, I’d imagine, dearie. But I fink you’d look a picture in your own frocks. Your Ma taught you well. Youse quite good wiv the needle ‘n thread.”

Edith scatters mushrooms and butter sauce atop the beans. “Compared with those dresses, my frocks are so ordinary, Mrs. Boothby. It’s a wonder Frank wants to take me dancing.”

“Nah! Don’t talk such rubbish!” Mrs. Boothby strides across the room and grasps Edith by the shoulders. “There’s an old sayin’ that clothes make the man.”

“Yes, I’ve heard it.” Edith says, her head downcast.

“But it don’t say nuffink ‘bout a woman though, do it?”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Boothby?”

“What I mean is, youse as pretty as a picture in your maid’s uniform, so just imagine ‘ow much more beautiful you look in one of your own frocks. You wear the frock: it don’t wear you! ‘Old your ‘ead ‘igh my girl, just like what I do when that nasty Mrs. Appleby feed me bread ‘n drippin’ ‘cause she finks I ain’t worth more than that. You are beautiful, just like Cinderella was, and if I know Frank even a little bit, I know ‘e’d be proud to take you dancin’ at the ‘Ammersmith Palais no matter what cha was wearin’!”

“Oh you’re right, Mrs. Boothby. I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. I have a lot to be thankful for.” She steps away from Mrs. Boothby and turns her back on her, busying herself stirring a small pot on the stove before removing it from the flame gas ring.

“Course you do, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby watches Edith pour thick brown gravy into a blue and white gravy boat. “An’ youse as much right to dream as what anyone else does, but just remember to ‘ang onto reality, cos dreams we wake up from, but reality’s ‘ere to stay.” She smiles at Edith, who looks her in the eye and smiles back.

“You’re right Mrs. Boothby.”

“Course I am, dearie. I’s always right, even if others don’t fink I am. Youse got some ideas from Miss Tyrwhitt’s frocks, and as I said youse a dab ‘and wiv a needle ‘n thread. Why don’t cha make your own frock to go dancin’ in. Frank’d be mighty proud to go dancin’ wiv a girl what made ‘er own fashionable fancy dancin’ frock.”

“That’s a good idea, Mrs. Boothby. I might just do that.”

“That’s my girl!” Mrs. Boothby says, grasping Edith’s chin between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand lovingly.

Another volley of laughter breaks into their friendly moment.

“Well, thinking of reality, I’d best serve luncheon before Miss Lettice thinks to poke her nose in here.” Edith sighs. “I have enough trouble keeping her out of my kitchen as it is.”

*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.

**Curzon Street is a beautiful street lined with Georgian houses in Mayfair, where amongst other famous people, novelist Nancy Mitford (then Mrs. Peter Rodd) lived.

***The Hammersmith Palais de Danse, in its last years simply named Hammersmith Palais, was a dance hall and entertainment venue in Hammersmith, London, England that operated from 1919 until 2007. It was the first palais de danse to be built in Britain.

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

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

On Edith’s deal table is a panoply of things as she readies luncheon for Lettice and her guests. The mahogany stained serving tray, the gravy boat of gravy, the chopping board, napkins and cutlery all came from an English stockist of 1:12 artisan miniatures whom I found on E-Bay. The sliced roast beef, beans and mushrooms on a white platter, which look almost good enough to eat, I have had since I was a teenager. I bought it from a high street shop that specialised in dolls, doll houses and doll house miniatures. The cleaver comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures Shop in the United Kingdom. The jars of herbs are also 1:12 miniatures, made of real glass with real cork stoppers in them. I have had them since I was a teenager too.

To the left of the tray is a box of Queen’s Gravy Salt. Queen’s Gravy Salt is a British brand, and this box is an Edwardian design. Gravy Salt is a simple product it is solid gravy browning and is used to add colour and flavour to soups stews and gravy - and has been used by generations of cooks and caterers. It is an artisan miniature made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England

In front of the Queen’s Gravy Salt to the far bottom left of the picture is one of Edith’s Cornishware cannisters. Cornishware is a striped kitchenware brand trademarked to and manufactured by T.G. Green & Co Ltd. Originally introduced in the 1920s and manufactured in Church Gresley, Derbyshire, it was a huge success for the company and in the succeeding 30 years it was exported around the world. The company ceased production in June 2007 when the factory closed under the ownership of parent company, The Tableshop Group. The range was revived in 2009 after T.G. Green was bought by a trio of British investors.

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

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

The Deftware cups, saucers and milk jug are part of a 1:12 size miniature porcelain dinner set which sits on the dresser that can be seen just to the right of shot. Also on the dresser sits a rolling pin, and some more pieces of Cornishware including bowls and another canister.

Of course, no kitchen would be complete without some kitchen pantry staples of the 1920s, so also on the dresser you will see a tin of Lyall’s Golden Treacle, a tin of Peter Leech and Sons Golden Syrup and a box of Lyon’s Tea. All three were made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. In 1859 Henry Tate went into partnership with John Wright, a sugar refiner based at Manesty Lane, Liverpool. Their partnership ended in 1869 and John’s two sons, Alfred and Edwin joined the business forming Henry Tate and Sons. A new refinery in Love Lane, Liverpool was opened in 1872. In 1921 Henry Tate and Sons and Abram Lyle and Sons merged, between them refining around fifty percent of the UK’s sugar. A tactical merger, this new company would then become a coherent force on the sugar market in anticipation of competition from foreign sugar returning to its pre-war strength. Tate and Lyle are perhaps best known for producing Lyle’s Golden Syrup and Lyle’s Golden Treacle. Peter Leech and Sons was a grocers that operated out of Lowther Street in Whitehaven from the 1880s. They had a large range of tinned goods that they sold including coffee, tea, tinned salmon and golden syrup. They were admired for their particularly attractive labelling. I do not know exactly when they ceased production, but I believe it may have happened just before the Second World War. Lyons Tea was first produced by J. Lyons and Co., a catering empire created and built by the Salmons and Glucksteins, a German-Jewish immigrant family based in London. Starting in 1904, J. Lyons began selling packaged tea through its network of teashops. Soon after, they began selling their own brand Lyons Tea through retailers in Britain, Ireland and around the world. In 1918, Lyons purchased Hornimans and in 1921 they moved their tea factory to J. Lyons and Co., Greenford at that time, the largest tea factory in Europe. In 1962, J. Lyons and Company (Ireland) became Lyons Irish Holdings. After a merger with Allied Breweries in 1978, Lyons Irish Holdings became part of Allied Lyons (later Allied Domecq) who then sold the company to Unilever in 1996. Today, Lyons Tea is produced in England.

Old wood-burning oven or kitchen stove for baking and roasting sweet potatoes and corncobs sold as winter snacks in a food stall on Beiyuanmen Market of Huimin Jie-Muslim Quarter. Xi'an-Shaanxi-China.