The Flickr Children’Sbook Image Generatr

Book art illustrated publication.

Book art illustrated publication.

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

Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat, and whilst we have not travelled that far physically across London, the tough streets and blind alleys of Poplar in London’s East End is a world away from Lettice’s rarefied and privileged world. We have come to the home of Lettice’s charwoman*, Mrs. Boothby, where we find ourselves in the cheerful kitchen cum living room of her tenement in Merrybrook Place: by her own admission, a haven of cleanliness amidst the squalor of the surrounding neighbourhood. Edith, Lettice’s maid, is visiting her Cockney friend and co-worker on a rather impromptu visit, much to the surprise of the old char when she answered the timid knock on her door on a quiet Sunday morning in early January and found Edith standing on her stoop, wrapped up against the winter cold in her black three quarter length coat – a remodelled piece picked up cheaply by the young maid from a Petticoat Lane** second-hand clothes stall, improved with the addition of a black velvet collar.

“Edith dearie!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims in delight and one of her fruity smokers’ coughs, a lit hand rolled cigarette in her right hand releasing a thin trail of greyish white smoke into the atmosphere. “What a luverly surprise! Whatchoo doin’ ‘ere then?”

“I’m sorry to pay a call unannounced, Mrs. Boothby, and I know you said I shouldn’t come here unescorted.” Edith apologises sheepishly.

“Not at all, dearie!” the old Cockney assures her, stepping back and opening the door to grant Edith entry. “That were ‘bout comin’ ere when it’s getting’ dark. Nastiness lurks and dwells in the shadows round these parts, but durin’ the day, so long as you ‘old onto yer ‘andbag and are aware of pickpockets, you’re pretty safe.” She stuffs the nearly spent cigarette into her mouth. “Come on in wiv ya. Can’t ‘ave you standin’ on the stoop in the cold. Got a nice fire goin’ inside to warm you up.”

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

Mrs. Boothby gives a hard stare over Edith’s shoulder as she ushers her in, glancing at the dirty lace scrim curtains of Mrs. Friedmann’s lamplit front window opposite, where she knows instinctively the nosy Jewess stands in her usual spot in one of her paisley shawls, observing the goings on of the rookery*** with dark and watchful eyes. “Piss off, Mrs. Friedmann!” Mrs. Boothby yells out vehemently across the paved court to her neighbour. “My guests ain’t none of your business, you busybody old Yid****!” She spits the cigarette butt she holds between her gritted tea and nicotine stained teeth out into the courtyard, and watches with satisfaction as the grubby and tattered scrim flutters. She turns her attentions back to Edith and says kindly, “Come on in, dearie.”

It takes a moment for Edith’s eyes to adjust from the weak winter light outside to the darkness within. As they do, Edith discerns the familiar things within the tenement front room that she has come to know over her occasional visits since befriending the charwoman who does all the hard graft for her at Cavendish Mews: a kitchen table not too unlike her own at the Mayfair flat, a couple of sturdy ladderback chairs, an old fashioned black leaded stove, a rudimentary trough sink on bricks in the corner of the room and Mrs. Boothby’s pride and joy, her dresser covered in a collection of pretty ornamental knick-knacks she has collected over many years. The thick red velvet curtains hanging over the windows – doubtless a remnant discarded by one of her employers last century – are drawn against the cold, their thick material performing an excellent job in excluding the draughts coming in through the small gaps around the shoddy and worn wooden window frames.

Mrs. Boothby shivers. “It’s a bit cold out there this mornin’, but the ‘ouse is nice and warm. I got the range goin’, Edith dearie.” the old Cockney woman says as she pulls a heavy tapestry curtain along a brass rail over the front door. The eyelets***** make a sharp squeal as she does, startling Edith. Mistaking the reason for the young woman’s head turn, Mrs. Boothby remarks, “Luverly, ain’t it?” She holds the heavily hand embroidered fabric proudly. “Got it from old Lady Pembroke-Duttson, a lady I used to do for in Westminster, ‘till ‘er ‘ouse burnt dahwn in November that is. This ‘ere were one of ‘er old bed curtains from ‘er fancy four poster. Got it in the fire sale of ‘er leftovers.” When Ediths eyes grow wide, Mrs. Boothby adds, “Oh don’t worry dearie. She ain’t perished in ‘er own fire! She lives at Artillery Mansions****** nahw, but they’s got their own live in staff to maintain the flats, so I don’t do for ‘er no more. But bein’ as she moved somewhere new and smaller, and wiv so many fings from ‘er old ‘ouse damaged by the fire, she ‘ad a fire sale and sold orf a lot of stuff that was still serviceable that she didn’t want no more. It’s good at keepin’ the draughts out. Pity the matchin’ ‘angin’ was burned up by the fire. I rather fancy smart matchn’ curtains for the windas, but you can’t ‘ave everyfink, can ya? It did pong a bit of fire smoke at first, but my cookin’ and fags soon put short shrift ta that!” She nods curtly, lifting the curtain fabric to her nose and taking a loud sniff.

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

“I know dearie, an’ it made you smile. I like it when youse smile, dearie.” The old woman joins in Edith’s laugh, releasing another of her fruity coughs as she bustles past Edith. “Nahw, you know where ta ‘ang up your coat ‘n ‘at. I’ll put the kettle on for a nice cup of Rosie-Lee*******, if this is a social call, that is.”

“Oh yes, thank you, Mrs. Boothby. That would be lovely.” Edith replies as she shucks herself out of her coat and hangs it on a peg by the front door. “Yes, I’ve been to services this morning already.”

Edith is comforted by the smells of soap and the lavender sachets Mrs. Boothby has hanging from the heavy velvet curtains to keep away the moths, the smells from the communal privy at the end of the rookery, and to a degree the cloying scent of tobacco smoke from her constant smoking.

“Good. Nahw, make yerself comfy at the table.”

“I’ll fetch down some cups.” Edith replies cheerfully.

“Oh you are a good girl, ‘elpin’ me out, dearie.” Mrs. Boothby says gratefully, emitting another couple of heavy coughs as she stretches and pulls down the fine blue and white antique porcelain teapot she reserves for when guest come to call from the tall mantle shelf of the old fireplace out of which the old Victorian black leaded stove protrudes.

“Miss Eadie!” Ken, Mrs. Boothby’s mature aged disabled son, gasps in surprised delight.

Edith looks affectionately across the room to the messy bed nestled in the corner of Mrs. Boothby’s kitchen cum living room upon which Ken sits. Not unlike a nest would be for a baby bird, Ken’s bed is his safe place, and he is surrounded on the crumpled bedclothes by his beloved worn teddy bear, floppy stuffed rabbit and a selection of Beatrix Potter books. A gormless grin spreads across his childlike innocent face as he stumbles quickly off the bed and brushes his trousers down.

“Yes, it’s Miss Eadie, Ken!” his mother says brightly. “She come visitin’ us all the way from Mayfair.”

“Miss Eadie!” Ken exclaims again as, still clutching his teddy bear, he lollops across the room, enveloping Edith in his big, warm embrace. He smells of a mixture of cigarette smoke and the carbolic soap Mrs. Boothby uses to wash him and his clothes. A tall and muscular man in his mid-forties, his embrace quickly starts to squeeze the air from Edith’s lungs as his grasp grows tighter, making the poor girl gasp.

“Nah! Nah!” Mrs. Boothby chides, turning away from the stove quickly and giving her son a gentle slap to the forearm. “What do I keep tellin’ you, Ken! You dunno ya own strengf, son. Let poor Miss Eadie go will ya. You’ll crush ‘er wiv your bear ‘ug.” She emits another fruity cough as she gives him a stern look.

“Oh! Sorry!” Ken apologises, immediately releasing Edith from his embrace and backing away as if he’d been burned, a sheepish look on his face.

“It’s alright, Ken.” Edith replies breathily. “They might be crushing… but I like… your hugs.”

“Good!” he says definitely, the gormless grin creeping back into his face and turning up the ends of his mouth.

“You want some tea too, Ken luv?” Mrs. Boothby asks her son.

“Yes please Ma!” he replies.

“Good lad. Nice to ‘ear your good manners bein’ used.” she acknowledges. “Then sit dahwn at the table wiv Miss Eadie and I’ll make you a cup.”

Obediently, Ken takes a seat at the deal pine table on a low stool, leaving the two chairs drawn up to it for his mother and Edith as their special guest. He holds his teddy bear in front of him and looks intently at Edith. “Present!”

“What?” Mrs. Boothby asks, turning again to look at her son.

“Present!” Ken repeats, bouncing excitedly in his seat and gesticulating to a neat parcel wrapped up in brown paper and tied with blue and white twine which Edith has placed on the surface of the table. “Present, Ma!”

“What I tell you ‘bout pointin’, Ken!” Mrs. Boothby scolds her son. Then turning her attentions to where Ken is indicating she adds. “Just ‘cos somefink’s wrapped up in brown paper an’ tied up wiv a string don’t mean it’s a present for ya, son.”

“Christmas present!” Ken says, now no longer pointing, but still bouncing excitedly on his stool.

Mrs. Boothby rolls her eyes and shakes her head, glancing first at Ken, then at Edith and then back to Ken. “Lawd love you son, Christmas is long past! Baby Jesus is sleepin’ and won’t be back ‘till next Christmas, I told you. And that’s a whole year away!”

“Christmas present, Ma!” Ken continues to repeat.

“You want brainin’ you do!” Mrs. Boothby chides Ken good naturedly. “Oh get on wiv ya, Ken!” She chuckles as she kindly tousles her son’s hair affectionately. “Youse fink ev’ry time Miss Eadie comes visitin’ us, she’s got a present for you.” She turns her attention to Edith. “I swear he finks every parcel wrapped up is for ‘im, Edith dearie, even when it’s the sausages I done picked up from the butcher on the cheap.”

“Sausages!” Ken gasps.

“Nah son!” Mrs. Boothby assures him. “Nah sausages today. Just bread ‘n drippin’********.” She eyes him and cocks an eyebrow, and Ken falls silent, although he continues to bounce up and down on the seat of the stool, albeit a little more calmly.

“Well as it turns out, Mrs. Boothby, Ken is right about this being a present for him.” Edith says, pushing the present slightly further across the table towards the disabled lad.

“See Ma!” Ken says triumphantly, leaping up from his seat and dancing around the stool, clutching his teddy bear in joy. “Christmas present. Christmas present for Ken! See Ma! See!”

“You what?” Mrs. Boothby asks sharply.

“Ken’s right, Mrs. Boothby,” Edith says loudly over Ken’s joyful cries. “It is a present for him.”

“Christmas present. Christmas present for Ken! “ Ken continues to chant excitedly.

“Yes! Yes!” the old Cockney woman says, trying to calm her son with softening hand movements. “Alright Ken!” she insists. “I ‘eard you the first time. Youse can open your present in a minute, but first,” She eyes him seriously. “Youse gotta calm dahwn an’ let Miss Eadie and I ‘ave a cup of Rosie-Lee. Right?”

“Right Ma!” Ken replies, stopping his galumphing around the stool.

“You want a cuppa too, don’t choo, son?”

“Yes Ma!”

“Right, well.” Mrs. Boothby continues. “Best you sit dahwn ‘ere on the stool then, and wait, like a good lad. Eh?”

“Yes Ma!” Ken says as he returns obediently to the stool and clutches his teddy bear, trembling with excitement as he beadily keeps his eye on the package in the middle of the table, tantalisingly close enough for him to snatch.

“Right!” Mrs. Boothby says, filling the elegant blue and white teapot with hot water from her kettle.

Mrs. Boothby busies herself in the relative temporary calm of her kitchen, placing the pot on the table next to the brown paper wrapped parcel. She fills a dainty non matching blue and white jug with a splash of milk from a bottle she keeps in the coolest corner of her tenement, underneath the trough sink. She places the jug on the table along with a small sugar bowl of blue and white porcelain of a different pattern again, its lid missing, which is probably the reason why the old Cockney charwoman even has it.

“Right.” Mrs. Boothby says again. “I reckon that’s ‘bout it then. Fancy a biscuit then, Edith dearie?”

“Oh, not for me, Mrs. Boothby!” Edith protests. “Thank you though. It’s too early, and I had a nice breakfast at Cavendish Mews before Sunday services and coming here.”

Edith remembers to carefully avoid the use of the words ‘chapel’ and ‘minister’, remembering that they upset Ken after some of the local Christian charities in Poplar tried to take him away from his mother at various times throughout his life. According to Mrs. Boothby, a Catholic priest in the district used to bother her to have Ken committed to an asylum quite regularly, until she gave him short shrift one day after he really upset Ken. Edith glances anxiously at Ken to make sure he isn’t getting upset now, but she sighs with relief as she sees him bobbing up and down on his stool, still eyeing his wrapped gift, as if expecting it to sprout wings and fly away any moment, it being his one and only focus.

“I tell you what Edith dearie, I’m dying for a fag!” Mrs Boothby says as she sinks into her seat. “Nuffink better than a fag to get the chatterin’ goin’.” She starts fossicking through her capacious blue beaded handbag on the table.

“You don’t need a cigarette to get you chatting, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith chuckles, shaking her head.

“Well, maybe not, but maybe I just want an excuse for a fag. Oh!” she then adds as she withdraws a rather smart looking box from her bag. “And to show orf my luverly new present from Ken.” She reaches over and rubs her son warmly on the back. “’E found it on ‘is rag’n’bone********* run wiv Mr. Pargiter’s boys, ain’t you Ken?”

“Yes Ma!” Ken says, momentarily distracted by his mother asking him a question, before returning his attention to his as of yet unwrapped present.

Mrs. Boothby proudly holds up an Ogden’s Juggler Tabacco********** box of thick card featuring the Union Jack in each corner, extolling its British patriotism. “Nice innit?”

“Very nice, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith opines.

“Just shows you that one man’s rubbish, is someone else’s treasure***********, don’t it?” Mrs. Boothby says, opening the box by its flappable lid and fetching out a pre-rolled cigarette from amongst the stash there, along with her matches. “You just gotta ‘ave a good eye, like my boy ‘ere.” She tousles Ken’s hair affectionately again.

Mrs. Boothby takes her cigarette and lights it with a match and utters a satisfied sigh as she drags on it, the thin cigarette papers and tobacco crackling as she does. Still holding it between her teeth, she emits one more of her fruity coughs, blowing out a tumbling billow of acrid cigarette smoke as she does. She drops the match into a black ashtray that sits on the table full of cigarette butts. Mrs. Boothby settles back happily in her ladderback chair and with her cigarette still between her thin lips, and blowing out plumes of blue smoke that tumbles through the air around her rather like a steam train, she pours tea for Ken, Edith and herself.

“Christmas present, Ma!” Ken pipes up as he accepts the cup of sweet and milky tea from his mother. “Christmas present for Ken, now?”

Mrs. Boothby’s face crinkles as she gives in. “Oh alright then!” She laughs and coughs again. “Miss Eadie ‘n I, ‘ll get no peace whilst that’s sittin’ there unopened!” She nods at the present.

Ken needs no second bidding as he leaps from his seat and pounces upon the gift, tearing at the paper and string.

“Careful nahw, Ken luv!” Mrs. Boothby mutters. “What if it’s a crystal chandelier youse openin’ there? You’ll break it.”

“Not a crystal chandelier, Ma!” Ken says joyfully with a child like chuckle as he tears at the paper.

“You wouldn’t know a crystal chandelier if it done ‘it you in the ‘ead.” the old Cockney woman opines. Then, thinking for a moment, she corrects herself. “Then again, maybe you would. Plenty ‘a uvver fancy bits ’n pieces land in Mr. Pargiter’s carts. Why not a crystal chandelier?”

As Ken tears the paper noisily asunder, the cover of a book, blue and ornately printed in black and red, appears. “A book Ma! Miss Eadie got me a book!” He drops the shreds of paper and blue and white twine on the tabletop and begins flipping through the book, skipping the black and white printing, but pouring with delight over the brightly coloured illustrations, running his fingers with careful and surprisingly delicate actions for such a bulking lad over the images of characters, houses, landscapes and ornate rooms. “Oh fank you, Miss Eadie!” he exclaims in awe.

“You’re welcome, Ken!” Edith purrs with delight, thrilled at how happy Ken is with his gift. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas Miss Eadie!” he murmurs in reply, smiling broadly as he admires a double page illustration of a woman in a pink gown clutching a paper fan, draped across a blue upholstered gilt Regency style sofa with a creature with a warthog’s ears, snout and tusks sitting in an anthropomorphic************ way opposite her, rather like a gentleman.

“Oh Edith dearie!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims. “It’s luverly!” She admires the fine details of the illustration, running her own bony, careworn fingers over the image of an ornate Regency pianoforte************* with a large greenish blue vase containing a flowering tree atop it. She gazes at the anthropomorphic warthog who wears a monocle against his left eye. “This is Beauty ‘n the Beast, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” Edith says a little wistfully. “I thought Ken could do with some books that weren’t Beatrix Potter for a change, and maybe a story about the fact that even different people can still find happiness in life was appropriate.”

Mrs. Boothby looks across the table at Edith with a grateful smile. She turns back and watches Ken with delight as he continues to admire the details in the colourful illustration: a blue and white tea set on a gilt table between Beauty and the Beast, a leopard skin rug beneath their feet, a lute carefully leaning against a music Canterbury**************.

“You spoils us, Edith dearie.” Mrs. Boothby murmurs.

“Well, Ken deserves spoiling.” Edith counters with a satisfied sigh as she sips her tea. “He’s such a good boy. Anyway,” she goes on. “Think of it as a thank you to you, Mrs. Boothby.”

“Me dearie?” the Cockney woman queries. “What I ever do to deserve such a pretty book as this?”

“You helped me, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies. “With Frank, and all that business over moving to Metroland***************.”

“Ahh,” Mrs. Boothby says noncommittally as she turns her attentions away from her son and back to her guest. “So, you ‘ad a chat wiv young Frank ‘bout it then, did cha?” Another billowing and tumbling cloud of cascading cigarette smoke obscure her face, making her look all the more inscrutable.

Edith nods shallowly and smiles shyly as she sips her cup of tea again. “We spoke about it on New Year’s Eve.”

“Whatchoo say then?”

“Oh, I was such a fool when I came here that day before Christmas, Mrs. Boothby, crying and moaning about moving to the country, when in fact it hasn’t even happened yet,” Her face colours with embarrassment as she blushes. “And it isn’t really the country, even if it does happen. It’s just like moving to a new place: always fraught with worries, but not so terrible as to not go.”

Mrs. Boothby smiles and nods as she listens to her young friend, puffing smoke like a contented steam shovel**************** as she does.

“So you told ‘im you’d go?”

“If the situation arises.” Edith counters.

“Knowin’ young Frank and ‘is fancy ideas of betterment, and a better life for the workin’ man, I wouldn’t be surprised if it did.” Mrs. Boothby remarks sagely. “Sooner rather than later.”

“I think you might be right, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith says with a chuckle infused with trepidation. “But I guess that’s part of being in a partnership, isn’t it? If the dream is so important to him, I have to be prepared to support him, even if it is scary.”

“It’s ‘ow my Bill n’ I rolled, Edith dearie. We didn’t know what life‘d be like raisin’ a special angel like Ken.” She takes a final long and satisfying drag of her cigarette before stumping it out in the ashtray as she blows out another plume of cigarette smoke in front of her. She turns and looks at her son with loving eyes as he now looks at a picture of Beauty in an ornate gown surrounded by monkeys and baboons dressed as flunkies*****************, the allegory of Eve and the serpent appearing in a decorative panel in the background. “We didn’t know ‘ow it was gonna be, raisin’ a kiddie what them god bovverers told me was gonna ‘ave no more brain than a six year old. But Bill ‘n me, we did it.” The old woman nods and screws up her nose in determination. “I fink I told you what Lil Conway next door told me.”

“Tell me again, Mrs. Boothby.”

“Lil told me that all kiddies is a blessin’, and she was right. Bill ‘n I took our chances wiv Ken, and maybe we ain’t always done right, but all in all we didn’t do too bad by ‘im. We taught ‘im ‘ow ta defend ‘imself, ‘ow ta get on in the world and ‘ow ta make a livin’. It were scary, but we ‘ad each uvver, and as you say, that’s what a partnership involves: the smooth ‘n easy and the scary and unknowable, and it all works out.” She turns back and nods ad Edith knowingly. “It’ll work out for you and Frank too, Edith dearie. You’ll see. One day when youse old and grey like me, you’ll look back on this ‘ere conversation and say, ‘that Ida Boothby were right’.”

“Frank has to propose first.” Edith says a little glumly.

Mrs. Boothby reaches out her hand and places it around Edith’s, giving it a gentle and comforting squeeze. “Waitin’s the ‘ardest part of courtship, dearie.” She smiles broadly. “Just enjoy the moment. The weddin’ will come along soon ennuf, and it’ll ‘ave its own trials and tribulations that’ll make you wish youse was never getting’ married. I’m right ‘bout that too.”

Edith doesn’t reply, but looks at Ken and his few book as he points something important out to his teddy bear, his voice such a hushed and contented mumble now that even though he is just across the table, she cannot hear what it is he is sharing with his toy companion.

“You will read him the story, won’t you, Mrs. Boothby? Tell him that the Beast is kind and loving and worthy of Beauty’s love.”

“Well,” Mrs. Boothby looks back at the book. “I don’t really ‘old much wiv books, as you know, and they’s some pretty dense pages of writin’ in there: a bit too much for a busy soul like me wiv so much to do. But yes, I’ll tell ‘im, Edith dearie. Although,” she adds. “I might shorten it a bit. Nuffink better than a good quick story at bedtime, Eh?”

She winks at Edith, the folds of her pale skin hiding her sparkling left eye momentarily.

“You’ll learn that too when you have babies of your own. And,” She delves into her Ogden’s Juggler cigarette box again and takes out another hand rolled cigarette. “I’ll be right ‘bout that too.”

*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.

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

***A rookery is a dense collection of housing, especially in a slum area. The rookeries created in Victorian times in London’s East End were notorious for their cheapness, filth and for being overcrowded.

****The word Yid is a Jewish ethnonym of Yiddish origin. It is used as an autonym within the Ashkenazi Jewish community, and also used as slang. When pronounced in such a way that it rhymes with did by non-Jews, it is commonly intended as a pejorative term. It is used as a derogatory epithet, and as an alternative to, the English word 'Jew'. It is uncertain when the word began to be used in a pejorative sense by non-Jews, but some believe it started in the late Nineteenth or early Twentieth Century when there was a large population of Jews and Yiddish speakers concentrated in East London, gaining popularity in the 1930s when Oswald Mosley developed a strong following in the East End of London.

*****Eyelets, also known as grommets, are used to describe the open ring that is usually made from metal. These rings that are incorporated into the top of the curtain, enable the curtain to be open or closed.

******Built in Westminster, quite close to the Palace of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament Artillery Mansions was just one of the many fine Victorian mansion blocks to be built in Victoria Street around St James Underground Railway Station in the late 1800s. Constructed around open courtyards which served as carriageways and residential gardens, the mansion blocks were typically built of red brick in the fashionable Queen Anne style. The apartments were designed to appeal to young bachelors or MPs who often had late parliamentary sittings, with many of the apartments not having kitchens, providing instead communal dining areas, rather like a gentleman’s club. Artillery Mansions, like many large mansion blocks employed their own servants to maintain the flats and address the needs of residents. During the Second World War, Artillery Mansions was commandeered by the Secret Intelligence Service as a headquarters. After the war, the building reverted to private residences again, but with so many of its former inhabitants either dead, elderly or in changed circumstances owing to the war, it became a place to house many ex-servicemen. The Army and Navy Company, who ran the Army and Navy Stores just up Victoria Street registered ‘Army and Navy Ltd.’ at Artillery Mansions as a lettings management company. By the 1980s, Artillery Mansions was deserted and in a state of disrepair. It was taken over by a group of ideological squatters who were determined to bring homelessness and housing affordability to the government’s attention, but within ten years, with misaligned ideologies and infighting, the squatters had moved on, and in the 1990s, Artillery Mansions was bought by developers and turned into luxury apartments.

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

********Dripping is the fat that has melted and dripped from roasting meat, used in cooking or eaten cold as a spread. Being cheap to buy, in poorer households, dripping was usually a staple and often a valuable source of nutrition for what would otherwise be a very plain and mean diet.

*********A rag-and-bone man is a person who goes from street to street in a vehicle or with a horse and cart buying things such as old clothes and furniture. He would then sell these items on to someone else for a small profit.

**********Ogden's Tobacco Company was an English company specialising in tobacco products. The company was founded in 1860 by Thomas Ogden who opened a small retail store in Park Lane, Liverpool. Within a small period of time, he established more branches throughout Liverpool and then a factory on St. James Street in 1866. By 1890, Thomas Ogden had six factories in Liverpool. Then in 1901, the American Tobacco Company bought Ogden's factory for £818,000. But in 1902, with the establishment of the Imperial Tobacco Company, Odgen's Tobacco was back in British hands. The company remained in business until the 1960's. Half of the main factory was demolished sometime around the 1980s to make way for a new building for the site's new owners Imperial Tobacco Limited. They closed the site's doors in 2007. In 2016 the factory was demolished to make way for housing while the iconic Clock Tower was converted into nineteen Apartments. It was completed in 2019.

***********The phrase "One man's trash is another man's treasure" is often attributed to the Nineteenth Century German social reformer and writer, Ferdinand August Bebel. However, the origin of this saying is not precisely documented, and similar expressions have been used in various forms by different people over time. The sentiment behind the phrase conveys the idea that something considered worthless by one person might be highly valued by someone else.

************Anthropomorphism, on the other hand, involves non-human things displaying literal human traits and being capable of human behaviour.

*************A pianoforte is the full name of a piano.

**************A music Canterbury is a low, open-topped stand with vertical slatted partitions that frequently was designed with a drawer beneath and sometimes, was built with short legs and occasionally on casters, intended for holding sheet music, plates, and serveware upright, now often used as a magazine rack.

***************Metroland is a name given to the suburban areas that were built to the north-west of London in the counties of Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire and Middlesex in the early part of the Twentieth Century that were served by the Metropolitan Railway. The railway company was in the privileged position of being allowed to retain surplus land; from 1919 this was developed for housing by the nominally independent Metropolitan Railway Country Estates Limited (MRCE). The term "Metroland" was coined by the Met's marketing department in 1915 when the Guide to the Extension Line became the Metro-land guide. It promoted a dream of a modern home in beautiful countryside with a fast railway service to central London until the Met was absorbed into the London Passenger Transport Board in 1933.

****************A steam shovel is a large steam-powered excavating machine designed for lifting and moving material such as rock and soil. It is the earliest type of power shovel or excavator. Steam shovels played a major role in public works in the Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries, being key to the construction of railroads and the Panama Canal. The sight of them on building work sites was common. The development of simpler, cheaper diesel, gasoline and electric shovels caused steam shovels to fall out of favour in the 1930s.

*****************A funky is a liveried manservant or footman.

This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

Central to our story, the copy of Walter Crane’s Beauty and the Beast on display here is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. In this case, I bought this book and various others illustrated by Walter Crane on purpose because I have loved Walter Crane’s and his father Thomas Crane’s work ever since I was a child, and I have real life-size first editions of many of their books including, a first edition of Beauty and the Beast from 1874. What might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. I can vouch that the double page spread illustration you see is an authentic replica of one from his Beauty and the Beast book, however if you wish to see it for yourself you can also see it here and judge for yourself: en.wikisource.org/wiki/Beauty_and_the_Beast_%281874,_Cran.... To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make them all miniature artisan pieces. Not only did Ken Blythe create books, he also created other 1:12 miniatures with paper and that includes the wonderfully detailed Ogden’s Juggler tobacco box and National Safety Match box, which have been produced with extreme authentic attention to detail. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

The 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).

Mrs. Boothby’s beaded handbag on the table is also a 1:12 artisan miniature. Hand crocheted, it is interwoven with antique blue glass beads that are two millimetres in diameter. The beads of the handle are three millimetres in length. It came from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

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

The paper and blue and white twine are real pieces I have retained to use in my miniatures photography from real parcels wrapped up in brown paper and tied up with string.

The various bowls, cannisters and dishes and the kettle in the background I have acquired from various online miniatures stockists throughout the United Kingdom, America and Australia.

The ladderback chair drawn up to the table and the black lead stove in the background are all miniature pieces I have had since I was a child.

The grey marbleised fireplace behind the stove and the trough sink in the corner of the kitchen come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

The green wallpaper is an authentic replica of real Art Nouveau wallpaper from the first decade of the Twentieth Century which I have printed onto paper.

Look, I made a paper cutout illustration of Väinämöinen and his crew stealing the Sampo (a magical device that produces endless supply of gold, salt, and grain).
Väinämöinen is a chief figure in Finnish folklore and one of the main characters in Kalevala. He is a wizard and travelling bard whose songs enchant all who hear them.

📐 30 x 30 cm, paper cutouts, alcohol-based markers, fineliners, coloured pencils, oil pastels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, alright Edith!” Hilda sighs.

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

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

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

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

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

“And you’d be right!” Hilda chortles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you talking about, Hilda?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I shall love it, Hilda!”

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

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

“You’re far to kind to me, Edith.”

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

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

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

“You never have low spirits, Edith.”

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

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

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

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

“That’s it, Hilda!”

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

“You’re right Hilda!” Edith giggles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

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

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

The Ford Rotunda Christmas Book, a gift from Santa in 1958, contained stories, games, and puzzles, while it also—not too subtly—featured the Ford line of cars. It was illustrated by famous children’s book artist Richard Scarry.

From www.thehenryford.org/explore/blog/christmas-fantasy-at-th....

DAISY-MAUD: *Reading.* “Vasilissa sat down in a dark corner and shook her head. Silently her doll crept out of her pocket. ‘Don’t fret, child,’ whispered the doll. ‘Go to sleep now. Night is no time to solve problems. In the morning, we shall see what can be done.’”

EMMETT: “Oh, what a lovely and kind dolly! She is so kind to Vasilissa!”

JAGO: “Dolls can be a great comfort sometimes, Emmett. Just look at how much comfort Dolly brings to Scout.”

EMMETT: “That’s very true, Jago.” *Contemplates.*

DAISY-MAUD: *Continues to read.* “When Vasilissa awoke, she saw the white horseman ride through the clearing, and soon the red horseman followed. Light streamed in through the windows of the hut. It was a new day. Baba Yaga opened her cold black eyes and whistled for her mortar and pestle. In an instant they appeared with her faithful broom. She climbed into the mortar and gave Vasilissa a smile, revealing two fine rows of long, sharp teeth. ‘I’ll leave you to your work, my dear,’ she said and was gone.”

EMMETT: “Gosh Daisy-Maud! That Baba Yaga is a mean old witch!” *Puts paw to mouth.* “Don’t you think so, Jao?”

JAGO: “Oh yes, I do Emmett.”

EMMETT: “I hope Vasilissa’s dolly is right and can help.” *Concerned.*

JAGO: “I’m sure she will, Emmett. Let’s listen to Daisy-Maud read some more of the story. Please go on, Daisy-Maud.”

EMMETT: “Oh yes!” *Claps paws.* “Please do, Daisy-Maud! You read faerie stories so well.”

DAISY-MAUD: “Oh thank you Emmett and Jago!” *Blushes pink beneath mohair plush before continuing to read.* “’Where to begin?’ thought Vasilissa. Just then the doll leapt from her pocket, ran into the yard, found the bushel, and at once set to work separating the chaff from the wheat.”

EMMETT: “Go little doll!” *Claps paws in delight.*

DAISY-MAUD: “Vasilissa was astonished, for she had never imagined the little doll would do the tasks for her. Indeed, the little doll laboured tirelessly. When she had finished with the wheat, she swept the yard, scoured the hut and laundered the linen too! There was nothing for Vasilissa to do but cook, and cook she did!”

EMMETT: “Daisy-Maud? Jago?”

DAISY-MAUD and JAGO: “Yes Emmett?”

EMMETT: “Daisy-Maud and Emmett, do you think it would matter if Vasilissa was a boy?”

DAISY-MAUD: “What do you mean, Emmett?”

EMMETT: “Well, if Vasillissa was a little boy, could he be in the faerie tale, and have a magic doll?”

JAGO: “So, Vassily instead of Vasilissa, you mean, Emmett?”

EMMETT: “I suppose so. Would Vassily be allowed to play with the magic dolly, and would the magic dolly help him do what that mean and nasty witch Baba Yaga told him to do?”

JAGO: “Why of course, Emmett!” *Nods enthusiastically.* “The doll doesn’t care whether it is Vasilissa or Vassily, so long as the person is kind and loves her and gives her food, she will help them.”

EMMETT: “Is it alright for Vassily to play with dollies?”

DAISY-MAUD: “Oh yes, Emmett!” *Nods seriously.* “Anyone, or anybear can play with dolls if they like. Why just look at Scout. He is a boy, and he plays with Dolly and loves her very much.”

EMMETT: “So it is alright then?”

JAGO: “Of course it is Emmett.”

DAISY-MAUD: “Would you like a doll., Emmett?”

JAGO: “I’m sure we could talk to Daddy and he could arrange one for you.”

EMMETT: “Oh, no thank you, Daisy-Maud and Jago. That’s very lovely of you to offer, though.” *Smiles.*

DAISY-MAUD: “Why do you ask, Emmett?”

EMMETT: “Oh…” *Awkward.* “I’m just doing some investigations and research.”

JAGO: “Investigations?”

DAISY-MAUD: “Research?”

EMMETT: “Never mind, Jago and Daisy-Maud. Daisy-Maud, please keep reading the faerie tale. You make it so exciting!”

DAISY-MAUD: *Reading.* “Vasilissa made cream-cheese pastries, hot sauerkraut soup called shchi, and a golden bread called coulibiac filled with savoury onion and mushroom, salmon and rice. To be sure, she prepared many more dishes besides, so that the supper when finished, was a Russian feast fine enough for the Tsar!”

EMMETT: “Oh that sounds delicious, Daisy-Maud!”

JAGO: “I agree, Emmett!”

DAISY-MAUD: “Hhhmmm… I do too, Emmett and Jago!”

EMMETT, DAISY-MAUD and JAGO: *Calling to Daddy.* “Grumbly tummies, Daddy! Grumbly tummies!”

Emmett has not lived long in my household, but already he has found a best friend at Mummy Marian’s (Marian Kloon (on and off)) house. Funky (www.flickr.com/photos/40262251@N03/galleries/721577228524...) is a dear little bear that Peter helped Mummy Marian find whilst on holiday in Germany recently. Poor Funky had to live on the street as his parents couldn't afford to keep him and feed him, and so he had to beg for food, but now that he is living with Mummy Marian, he never has to be sad, lonely or hungry again! Emmett and Funky recently met one another at Mummy Marian’s house, and Funky shared a very special secret with Emmett. He has a doll called Joepie who was made for him by his beloved bear mummy, but he keeps Joepie a secret and hidden in his bag because his bear daddy didn’t like him playing with dolls. You can see them sharing this secret here: www.flickr.com/photos/66094586@N06/53797457538/in/datepos... or in the first comment below. But ssshhhh! You mustn’t share the secret! Emmett is investigating whether it is alright for Funky to play with Joepie openly. I hope he works out that he can, and that he tells Funky that it is alright. However, this is for Emmett to work through with Funky (and Joepie)!

Daisy-Maud is reading to Emmett and Jago from my first edition copy of “Baba Yaga and Vasilissa the Brave” retold by Marianna Mayer and illustrated by Kinuko Y. Craft published by Morrow Junior Books in New York in 1994.

Made by Merrythought in England, Emmett is a charming little bear, sweet and smiling, crafted from multi-tonal marl grey mohair and featuring golden velvet paws. He is accessorised with a classic tartan woollen scarf. He is number 23 or a limited worldwide edition of 200.

Jago was a gift from a dear friend in England. He is made of English mohair with suede paw pads and glass eyes. He is a gentle bear, kind and patient who carries an air of calm about him. He fits in with everyone else very nicely.

Daisy Maud is Jago's little sister and was made by the same friend in England who made him. She is made of German mohair with floral fabric cotton paw pads that match her pretty sunhat, and glass eyes. A sweet and loving little girl bear, she is happy to be reunited with her big brother, Jago, and enjoys being spoiled by her new Daddy.

When I was a child, I grew up listening to my maternal grandmother reading faerie tales to me from a big (at least from a child's perspective) green leather bound volume of Grimm's Faerie Tales with fine gilding and marbled edges. However, that wasn’t the only volume she read from. She also introduced me to the wonderful characters created by Lewis Carroll through “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” and “Alice’s Adventures Through the Looking Glass” which she had in an omnibus edition from the 1920s in grey vellum with all the characters’ names written in ever reducing squares and font as a border to the title.

It is from these stories that I have taken my inspiration for the theme for “Looking Close… on Friday!” for October 13th, which is “mushrooms”. If you have ever read “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”, or seen one of the multitude of television and film adaptations, you will be familiar with the caterpillar who sat on a mushroom smoking a hookah who told Alice that eating one side of the mushroom would make her taller and one side would make her smaller. You would also know that the whole reason Alice first went to Wonderland was by following the White Rabbit, who was late for the Queen of Hearts croquet party, down a rabbit hole. The amalgam of these two things led to this pairing of macro photos. Alice and the White Rabbit are both miniatures who live inside a small jar terrarium that I was given as a Christmas gift by a dear friend some years ago, whilst the mushrooms with their luscious shiny red tops are hand painted polystyrene examples that I picked up from a craft shop. The woodland setting is a small patch of my garden where the clivias are. I hope you like my choice for the theme, and that it makes you smile!

I would like to acknowledge and thank my Flickr Friend Red Stilletto www.flickr.com/photos/thevixen/ for inspiring me to use the pairing of two images and the application of a wide white frame. Both of these design elements she uses to create great impact with her own images.

A photo I took of a spider web a few years ago came in handy for this prompt of Charlotte’s Web. The spider web was on a wrought iron pole of our carport, and I caught it at a time when the sun was shining through it. 🌞

One of the books in the Clifford the Big Red Dog books by Norman Bridwell, Clifford takes a Trip.🌺💕🐶
I watched and listened to the audio reading of the book on YouTube. Don’t worry, Clifford doesn’t ride the bus as it seems in the illustration, but he finds his way to his family! 🐶💕🌸🚍🚐

There’s a new bear in town! A very small bear indeed but isn’t it beautiful! It was hand painted by local author and illustrator and all-round legend Lydia Monks and is based on the best-selling book “The Girl, The Bear, and the Magic Shoes” that Lydia beautifully illustrated for Julia Donaldson. It also features the ladybird from “What the Ladybird Heard”, can you spot her? The Bears of Sheffield mini-bear is signed by both Lydia Monks and Julia Donaldson and if you want a chance to own it you can bid on it here:

www.jumblebee.co.uk/lydiamonksbear

Bidding is over £200 already with all money raised going to the Sheffield Children’s Hospital. The bear is now on display in Sheffield’s Children’s Library so check it out!

Cut paper collage on paper / 9 x 15 inches / June 2031

Another children’s book illustrated by Clive Upton (1911-2006).

I used to read this book to my children and now my grandchildren. Who would have thought it was a foretelling of the future of the United Kingdom. It appears you really could make it up!!

Please check my Instagram instagram.com/m_art.marta?igshid=atgqbprqzrm5

If you’re a cheapo (like me), you can now take out both of my books at @uppermorelandfreepubliclibrary

“Bone Boy and Ghost Girl meet Dead Dog” is now in rotation, along with “The Undead Adventures of Bone Boy and Ghost Girl”.

So if you’re local, check it out. If not, just buy the damn thing on Amazon.

www.amazon.com/Undead-Adventures-Bone-Ghost-Girl/dp/10906...

www.amazon.com/dp/B08924C4N3/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=bone+boy...

Thanks for reminding me to go there and renew my library card, @kemrocksum

The Little Prince in Christmas 2020 lockdown!

Looking close… on Friday theme: Christmas Bokeh

Wishing you all a Merry Christmas and a Safe and Happy New Year 😊

Thanks for views, faves and comments. 😊

Kermit Weeks is a committed aviator and entrepreneur who has assembled a remarkable collection of vintage aircraft, only part of which is on display at the Fantasy of Flight museum in Polk City FL. His collection embraces some of the ultra-fast Gee Bee racers of the 1930s, which prompted Kermit Weeks to write a prize-winning children’s book, “All Life is A School”. A cartoon movie version is also available and can be viewed at the Fantasy of Flight.

Today truly felt like fall, and to celebrate, you should all be grabbing my spooky children’s books.

Last year’s “The Undead Adventures of Bone Boy and Ghost Girl” and the brand new sequel, “Bone Boy and Ghost Girl meet Dead Dog”!

Both written and illustrated by this guy...me.

They’re available on Amazon...right now!!

And they make a great Halloween gift for any age....I’ll stop sounding like a bad commercial now, sorry.

www.amazon.com/Undead-Adventures-Bone-Ghost-Girl/dp/10906...

www.amazon.com/dp/B08924C4N3/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=bone+boy...

www.theghostinyou.net