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 Easter Sunday morning and found Edith standing on her stoop, dressed in a lovely floral patterned cotton frock and the wide brimmed straw hat decorated with ribbon and ornamental flowers she bought from Mrs. Minkin’s Haberdashery in Whitechapel.
“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!”
“I’m sorry to pay a call unannounced, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith apologises sheepishly.
“Not at all, dearie,” the old Cockney assures her. “Come on in wiv ya. Can’t ‘ave you standin’ on the stoop, what wiv all and sundry keepin’ an ear out for business what ain’t their own.” She gives a hard stare over Edith’s shoulder to the door of Mrs. Friedmann, where the nosy Jewess stands in her usual spot in her doorway, where she leans against its frame wrapped in one of her paisley shawls, observing the goings on of the rookery** with dark and watchful eyes. “Wanna paint a picture Mrs. Friedmann?” Mrs. Boothby calls out across the paved court, challenging her open stare with a defensive one of her own. “Might last you longer, your royal ‘ighness!” She casts her cigarette butt out into the courtyard, and makes a mock over exaggerated curtsey towards her, hitching up the hem of her own workday skirts. She turns her attentions back to Edith. “Come on in, dearie.”
It takes a moment for Edith’s eyes to adjust as the old Cockney woman scuttles ahead of her. As they do, Edith discerns the familiar things within the tenement front room that Edith has come to know over her 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 pretty ornamental knick-knacks she has collected over many years.
“Close the door behind you and come on in, dearie. It was a bit cold this mornin’, but the ‘ouse is nice and warm. I got the range goin’, so I’ll put the kettle on for a nice cup of Rosie-Lee***, if yer ‘ave the time that is.”
“Oh yes, thank you, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies as she closes the door behind her. “That would be lovely.
Shutting out the unpleasant mixture of odours outside with the closing of the door, 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. Nah, go ‘ang up your ‘at ‘n make yerself comfy at the table.”
“I’ll fetch down some cups.” Edith replies cheerfully.
“Oh you are a luv to ‘elp, 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 top shelf of her dresser. “Look ooh’s ‘ere, Ken!” the old woman adds brightly.
Edith looks affectionately across the room to the bed nestled in the corner upon which Ken, Mrs. Boothby’s mature aged disabled son sits, playing with his beloved worn teddy bear and floppy stuffed rabbit on the crumpled bedclothes.
“Miss Eadie!” Ken gasps, a gormless grin spreading across his childlike innocent face as he recognises Edith.
“That’s right, son. It’s Edith come to pay us a call, and on Easter Sunday ‘n all.”
Ken drops his stuffed companions, leaps up from his bed and lollops across the room, enveloping Edith in his big, warm embrace, filling her nostrils with the scent of the carbolic soap Mrs. Boothby uses to wash him and his clothes. A tall and muscular man in his forties, his embrace quickly starts to squeeze the air from Edith’s lungs as his grasp grows tighter, making the poor maid cough.
“Nah! Nah!” Mrs. Boothby chides, turning away from the stove quickly and giving her son a gentle tap to the shoulder. “Let poor Edith go. You dunno ya own strengf, son. 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. “Your mum is right though.” She huffs. “You… you do give strong hugs.”
“Eggies!” Ken answers excitedly, immediately forgetting his mild chastisement, pointing to some brightly painted eggs**** filling the wicker basket in Edith’s left hand as her arm hangs limply at her side.
“’Ere! Mind yer own business, son. What’s in Edith’s basket’s ‘er own affair right enuff.” The old woman strides over to her dresser where she takes down an ornamental Art Nouveau tin, which Edith knows well enough from her previous visits to Mrs. Boothby’s tenement, contains biscuits. “’Ere.” She takes out a shortbread biscuit from the tin and gives it to the bulking lad. “Nah, go sit dahn on your bed and play wiv your toys for a bit longer, and let Edith and I ‘ave a nice chat over a cup of Rosie-Lee. I’ll make you a cup ‘n all. And then Edith can share wiv you wot’s in ‘er basket later,” She turns to Edith and gives her a serious look. “If she wants to, that is.”
“Oh, what’s in my basket is what I’m here about, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies, depositing the basket onto the deal pine kitchen table before taking off her hat and hanging it up on a spare peg by the door.
“Eggies!” Ken says again.
“Oh get on wiv ya, Ken!” Mrs. Boothby chuckles as she kindly tousles her son’s hair affectionately. “Youse got a biscuit, nah go an’ sit dahwn like a told you, and you’ll find out soon enough about them eggs since Edith seems to fink they might be for you.”
“Yes Ma!” Ken replies.
“Good lad.” his mother replies as he retreats obediently to his bed, where he starts playing with his teddy bear and stuffed rabbit again, yet with half an eye on the basket of pastel coloured eggs on the table.
“I fought you’d be spendin’ Easter Sunday wiv Frank, or your parents, Edith dearie.” Mrs Boothby says as she pours hot water into the blue and white china pot and swirls it around to warm it, before pouring the water down the drain of the small trough in the corner of the room.
“Oh I’m only stopping for a short while, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith answers, reaching up and withdrawing three pretty blue and white china cups and saucers from the dresser. “I went to Easter services this morning at Grosvenor Chapel*****.”
“Chapel! Church! Priest!” Ken calls angrily from his truckle bed. “Priest bad!”
“Yes son! The priest is bad, but ‘e ain’t ‘ere so don’t you trouble your pretty ‘ead about it.” Mrs. Boothby says comfortingly, reminded of the Catholic priest that used to bother her to have Ken committed to an assylum. She looks over at her son, and just like a cloud momentarily blocking out the sun, Ken’s angry spat dissipates and he happily mumbles something to his teddy bear before laughing. “That bloody Irish Catholic priest offered to take Ken away, has a lot to answer for.” the old woman mutters as she adds spoonfuls of tea to the pot and tops it up with hot water. “Anyway, you was sayin’ ‘bout your plans today, dearie?”
Edith takes down the dainty blue and white sugar bowl and hands a non matching blue and white floral jug to Mrs. Boothby’s outstretched gnarled fingers. “I’m meeting Frank in Upton Park at midday and we’re going to visit his granny, for a few hours, and then, with Miss Lettice down in Wiltshire for Easter, I’ll have a light supper with Mum and Dad before heading back to Cavendish Mews tonight. I had Good Friday with them anyway.”
“Got time for some biscuits, Edith dearie?” Mrs. Boothby asks, filling the jug with a splash of milk from a bottle she keeps in the coolest corner of her tenement, underneath the trough sink.
“I’ve got the time, but I’d better not spoil my appetite. Mrs. McTavish is roasting lamb****** for lunch, and Frank tells me that she makes a delicious simnel cake*******, and she’s baked one especially for today because I’m visiting.”
“That’s so luverly of ‘er, dearie.”
Mrs. Boothby puts the pot of tea and milk jug on the table. She encourages Edith to take a seat in the sturdy ladderback chair in front of the dresser with a sweeping gesture, whilst she takes a seat in her own chair by the range.
“I tell you what Edith dearie, I’m dying for a fag!” Mrs Boothby says. “And a good chat before you do go on and see Frank and ‘is gran.” She starts fossicking through her capacious blue beaded handbag on the table before withdrawing her cigarette papers, box of National Safety Matches and tin of Player’s Navy Cut********* tobacco. Rolling herself a cigarette she lights it with a satisfied sigh and one more of her fruity coughs, dropping the match into a black ashtray that sits on the table full of cigarette butts. Mrs. Boothby settles back happily in her ladderback chair with her cigarette in one hand and sighs. Blowing out a plume of blue smoke that tumbles through the air around them, the old woman continues. “Nah, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, and what’s it got to do wiv them eggs?” She nods at the basket between them.
“Eggies!” Ken pipes up from his corner.
“Oh Lawd!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims, before stuffing the cigarette between her teeth. “I’d forget me own ‘ead if it weren’t screwed on good ‘n tight.” She snatches up one of the three teacups, sloshes in a splash of milk, adds two heaped teaspoons of sugar and pours in some tea. She stirs the milky tea with a tannin tarnished teaspoon. “Ere you are then, Ken!” She tuns around and holds the cup out to her son, who happily skips across the room and takes it from her hand. “Be careful wiv that, won’t cha love?” She runs a hand lovingly down his cheek to his chin, which she tweaks gently. “That’s Ma’s good china, ain’t it?”
“Good china.” Ken says with reverence as he looks down at the cup full of steaming milky tea in his hands.
“That’s my boy. Nah, go and have it over there just for nah.” she continues, pointing over to his truckle bed.
Edith pours tea for she and Mrs. Boothby whilst the old Cockney woman addresses her son.
“’E likes ‘is tea sweet ‘n milky, does my Ken.” Mrs. Boothby says as she turns back to Edith. “Oh fank you, dearie.” she adds as she sees the hot steaming black tea in her cup. She perches her cigarette on her black ashtray and pulls the cup towards her. “Much obliged.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Boothby.” Edith replies, as she adds some milk to her tea before handing the jug to her hostess.
Adding a splash of milk to her tea, Mrs. Boothby muses, “I’d a been glad of a daughter like you, if God ‘ad granted me annuva child.” She turns and looks momentarily back at Ken, who sits sipping his tea, looking almost comical as the bulking lad holds the cup so carefully and daintily. “Not that Ken ain’t gift enuff. “E’s one a God’s angels right ‘ere on earf.”
“Thank you Mrs. Boothby.” Edith murmurs in reply, blushing at the old woman’s compliment. “I learned my best manners from my Mum.”
“I should think you would!” She takes a long drag on her cigarette, the intake making the thin cigarette paper crackle as it is slowly consumed, before she exhales a long greyish plume of acrid smoke above their heads. “Any girl, or boy for that matter, should pay attention to their mas.”
“Well, thinking of mums, that’s why I came here today: to give you these.” Edith pushes the basket across the cleanly scrubbed pine surface of the table towards Mrs. Boothby. “With Miss Lettice having gone back down to Wiltshire to have a look at Mr. Gifford’s house and stay with her parents for Easter, Mum and I had time to enjoy an Easter tradition of ours this year, and we dyed these eggs for you as a gift.”
“For me?” Mrs. Boothby gasps in delight.
“Well, for you and Ken, or course.” Edith goes on.
“Eadie!” Ken calls back from his corner, smiling again at Edith.
“Oh that’s so luverly of yer both, dearie!” Mrs. Boothby puts her thin, careworn fingers around a bright yellow egg and takes it carefully out of the basket. “Just look at the colour in this one!”
“Onion skin.” Edith replies.
“What dearie?”
“My Mum and I use onion skins to make the yellow dye.”
“You never?” exclaims the old woman, her eyes widening in amazement.
“On yes, Mrs. Boothby. Onion skins make for a lovely dye. Don’t forget that my Mum is a laundress, so she knows a lot about natural pigments to dye fabrics with.”
“Well fancy that! I ain’t never ‘eard of onion skins bein’ used for anyfink much avva than rubbish!”
“We use spoiled red cabbage to make blue dye.” Edith smiles.
“But red cabbage is red!” Mrs. Boothby laughs, emitting a couple of fruity coughs as she does. She puts the yellow egg back and picks out a blue one. “’Ow can you get blue from red?” She shakes her head in disbelief.
“Well, you boil up the red cabbage leaves and then strain out the cabbage. That will make pink or even purple dye.” She takes out a pink egg from the basket and holds it up. “Then you add a tiny bit of baking powder to the cabbage liquid, and it will turn blue.”
“Go on wiv ya!” laughs Mrs. Boothby.
“It’s true, Mrs. Boothby, sure as…”
“As eggs is eggs, dearie?”
Edith laughs and sighs. “Yes, Mrs. Boothby! As sure as eggs are eggs. You have to be careful though. If you add too much baking powder, the dye turns green.” She replaces the blue egg and pulls out a green one. “Mum and I always dye pink and purple eggs first, then add a little baking powder to make blue dye, and then once we have enough blue eggs, we add more baking powder and dye green eggs.”
“Well, I never!” the old Cockney char exclaims. “I’s older than your ma is, I’ll wager, yet you just taught me sumfink new today. Come ‘ere, Ken!”
Ken comes over quickly, carefully replacing his now empty cup and its saucer onto the tabletop next to his mother’s bag.
“Good boy. See this ‘ere egg, son?” Mrs. Boothby asks, as she wraps her free right arm part way around her son’s girth.
“Yes Ma!” Ken says, smiling with delight at the egg in his mother’s hand, reaching out and carefully touching the dyed surface, running his fingers lightly along it.
“This ‘ere egg, Edith coloured and made just for you, ‘cos she knows ‘ow much you love blue.” She hands the egg to him, and Ken holds it carefully. “Nah, whacha say to Edith then, Ken?”
“Thank you Eadie!” Ken says lovingly. “Pretty!”
“You’re welcome, Ken.” Edith replies with a smile. “Happy Easter.”
“Happy Easter, Eadie!” he replies joyfully.
Edith watches with delight as Ken rolls the egg around his palms and carefully strokes the blue dyed surface of it.
“We’ll keep it for a bit sos you can admire it.” Mrs. Boothby says.
“I’m just sorry that they aren’t chocolate Easter eggs*********, Mrs. Boothby, but I can’t really afford that kind of luxury.”
“Nonsense Edith, dearie!” the old woman scoffs, waving away Edith’s apology dismissively before picking up what is left of her cigarette and drawing upon it. Billows of greyish smoke tumble from her mouth as she stubs out the butt in the ashtray and says, “You made these ‘ere eggs wiv your own fair ‘and, and look ‘ow ‘appy Ken is. What would ‘e want wiv a chocolate egg, eh? ‘E’s as ‘appy as a lark. Bless ‘im.” She squeezes her son lovingly. “Nah, after a few days of lookin’ at it, then I’ll break it up and we can ‘ave boiled egg on toast, eh Ken?”
“Yum Ma!” Ken remarks.
“You spoil ‘im, givin’ ‘im all these eggs.” Mrs. Boothby scolds Edith. “Don’t cha want some for Frank and his gran, Mrs. McTavish, since she’s makin’ ya a roast for Easter tea, and a simnel cake ta boot?”
“Oh I already gave some for Mrs. McTavish to Frank. He’s going to find a nice box to decorate and present them in, so he’s bringing them.” Edith explains with a smile. “But I did make a few extra for you because I did rather think that you might give them to your neighbour, Mrs. Conway. I remember seeing the children she looks after for the mothers of the neighbourhood who work. I thought you and Ken can take your pick, and you could give the rest to her to share with the children.”
“I dare say she’d love that dearie. We could ‘ave a egg rolling contest********** right ‘ere in Merryboork place! The kiddies would ‘ave a right royal time! Fank you for bein’ so thoughtful, Edith dearie.”
*A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.
**A 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.
***Rosie-Lee is Cockney slang for tea, and it is one of the most well-known of all Cockney rhyming slang.
****People have been decorating eggs for thousands of years. Ancient Egyptians decorated ostrich eggs, and early Christians in Mesopotamia dyed eggs to mark Easter. Throughout history, people have given each other eggs at spring festivals to celebrate the new season. Eggs represent new life and rebirth, and it’s thought that this ancient custom became a part of Easter celebrations. In 1290 King Edward I paid for four hundred and fifty eggs to be coloured or covered in gold leaf and given to his entourage, and Henry VIII received one in a silver case as a present from the Pope. From the Eighteenth Century children decorated their own eggs at Easter, or recieved them as presents. These were called ‘pace eggs’. Pace eggs were made from hard boiled hen, duck or goose eggs, with decorated shells dyed with bright colours – just like in the medieval period. They were given as presents at Easter, or to the actors at pace egg plays. Pace egg plays were medieval style mystery plays, with a theatrical fight between a hero and a villain. The hero character was usually killed, before being brought back to life to triumph over the villain. In many plays, the hero character was St George. Pace eggs were also rolled along the ground in a race called an egg roll. Children would roll a decorated pace egg down a hill, and see whose egg rolled the furthest without breaking. It’s possible that these races started as a symbol of the rolling away of the stone from Jesus’ tomb.
*****Grosvenor Chapel is an Anglican church in what is now the City of Westminster, in England, built in the 1730s. It inspired many churches in New England. It is situated on South Audley Street in Mayfair. The foundation stone of the Grosvenor Chapel was laid on 7 April 1730 by Sir Richard Grosvenor, 4th Baronet, owner of the surrounding property, who had leased the site for 99 years at a peppercorn rent to a syndicate of four “undertakers” led by Benjamin Timbrell, a prosperous local builder. The new building was completed and ready to use by April 1731.
******Like most families in Britain at the time, roast lamb was the meal most associated with Easter Sunday – the tradition of eating lamb on Easter has its roots in early Passover observances.
*******Simnel cake is packed with fruits and spices, and covered in marzipan – traditional cakes have 11 marzipan balls on top as well, to represent the 11 apostles (minus Judas).
********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).
*********The first English chocolate Easter egg was sold by Fry’s in 1873, and Cadbury’s quickly followed them, introducing their own chocolate egg in 1875. These early Easter eggs were made using dark chocolate, and were smooth and plain, but in 1897 the famous Cadbury’s Dairy Milk Chocolate was first introduced. Chocolate eggs made with this new recipe were very popular, and soon became Easter bestsellers. Even today, most Easter eggs are made using milk chocolate.
**********Egg rolling is a tradition that goes back to the Eighteenth century in England. Commencing in Lancashire ‘pace eggs’ became very popular. It continues in some parts of England today, although nowadays it is chocolate eggs being rolled down the hill, rather than the traditional boiled and painted eggs of the past! There is an egg rolling event every year in Preston, Lancashire, but the most famous egg roll takes place in the United States of America, on the lawns of the White House, in Washington
This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene with its Easter festive tones 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.
The Easter eggs in the basket are 1:12 miniatures which came from Kathleen Knight's Dolls' House Shop in the United Kingdom.
Mrs. Boothby’s beloved collection of ornaments come from various different sources. The rooster jug, the cottage ware butter dish, Peter Rabbit in the watering can tea pot and the cottage ware teapot on the dresser were all made by French ceramicist and miniature artisan Valerie Casson. All the pieces are authentic replicas of real pieces made by different china companies. For example, the cottage ware teapot has been decorated authentically and matches in perfect detail its life-size Price Washington ‘Ye Olde Cottage Teapot’ counterparts. The top part of the thatched roof and central chimney form the lid, just like the real thing. Valerie Casson is renown for her meticulously crafted and painted miniature ceramics. All the plates on the dresser came from various online miniature stockists through E-Bay, as do the teapot, plate and cups on Mrs. Boothby’s kitchen table.
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.
Spilling from her bag are her 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’.
The rather worn and beaten looking enamelled bread bin in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green, which have been aged on purpose, are artisan pieces I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.
The various bowls, cannisters and dishes, the kettle and the Brown Betty teapot I have acquired from various online miniatures stockists throughout the United Kingdom, America and Australia. A Brown Betty is a type of teapot, round and with a manganese brown glaze known as Rockingham glaze. In the Victorian era, when tea was at its peak of popularity, tea brewed in the Brown Betty was considered excellent. This was attributed to the design of the pot which allowed the tea leaves more freedom to swirl around as the water was poured into the pot, releasing more flavour with less bitterness.
The black Victorian era stove and the ladderback chair on the left of the table and the small table directly behind it are all miniature pieces I have had since I was a child. The ladderback chair on the right came from a deceased estate of a miniatures collector in Sydney. The Welsh dresser came from Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late Eighteenth Century. The dresser has plate grooves in it to hold plates in place, just like a real dresser would.
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. The floorboards are a print of a photo taken of some floorboards that I scaled to 1:12 size to try and maintain a realistic look.
