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.
However today we are not in Lettice’s flat, rather we have followed her south from London into Sussex to the town of Rotherfield and Mark Cross where ‘The Gables’, the home of Lettice’s newest client, Mrs. Hatchett, is. Lettice is busy supervising the unpacking of a lorry load of furnishings with which she is going to decorate Mrs. Hatchett’s Arts and Crafts house.
“Oh Miss Chetwynd!” Mrs. Hatchett gasps as she walks into the drawing room.
“Mrs. Hatchett,” Lettice exclaims in reply as she looks up from the boxes of items she has on a central table. “I didn’t know you were down here! I thought you were in your pied-à-terre in St John’s Wood.”
“Well I was up until Saturday, Miss Chetwynd. I’m staying at Mrs. Bassett’s on the high street. I was so excited when I saw the lorry from London pass through the village. I wanted to come up and see how things were progressing after Christmas.”
“And?”
“Oh well, what can I say Miss Chetwynd? You’re a genius!”
Lettice blushes at the compliment and looks down at the boxes of items in front of her.
“I’d scarcely recognise this as the same room where it not for the fireplace!” Mrs. Hatchett continues.”
“Yes, it and the north facing windows overlooking the garden are really its best features. It’s nice to be able to see them finally without all of that excess clutter.”
“And I love the blue on the walls Miss Chetwynd. You were right. I had my doubts about having only painted walls, but it makes the room so light and airy. So much better than that overpowering wallpaper.”
“Well I’m glad you think I’m right Mrs. Hatchett, because whilst you were here, I wanted to discuss a few finer details about the scheme in this room with you. Now, I brought some swatches of chintz with me, but really I don’t think…”
“You won’t talk me out of the chintz for the soft furnishings in here.” Mrs. Hatchett interrupts, holding up her hand in defiance. “I know you think chintz is frightfully middle-class, but that’s what I am now Miss Chetwynd, thanks to my marriage to Charlie: middle-class to the backbone, and I’m proud of it.”
“Yes, I thought you’d say that Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice sighs.
“I told you when you came here in October that I didn’t want you to ape the décor of the great houses of the likes of your family. I need something that Charlie and I are comfortable with. Something respectable, modern and suitable for an up-and-coming politician: so chintz it is.”
“Very well Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice acquiesces. “Then I’d like you to consider some of the more restrained examples of patterns I’ve brought with me. This isn’t the largest room in the house, and we don’t want to make it look cluttered again.”
“I agree Miss Chetwynd.”
“I’m pleased to hear you say that Mrs. Hatchett, because I am hoping you will agree with me on another matter that is perhaps a little more,” Lettice falters momentarily, stuck for words. “Personal.”
“Personal, Miss Chetwynd?” Mrs. Hatchett arches an expertly shaped eyebrow quizzically. “What on earth do you mean?”
Mrs Hatchett walks over at the beckoning of Lettice’s elegant hand with its longer fingers, and stands with her interior designer at the table, on which sit several wooden boxes and crates of photos and also a lidded silver trophy.
“Oh not those things,” Mrs. Hatchett says dismissively with a wave of her hand. “I told you Miss Chetwynd, offer me a price on these, as I’m sure you could put the frames to good use. And as for that,” she says with a sigh, looking at the freshly polished trophy. “That can be sold for scrap.”
“I know you offered them to me Mrs. Hatchett, but unlike other items, I really think getting rid of these will be a loss.”
“Not to me Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Hatchett replies warningly with a pursed lips. “I told you that I’ll be happy to erase every last trace of my mother-in-law from this earth.”
“I know Mrs. Hatchett,” Lettice says with an apologetic lilt to her voice. “And I understand why. However, this is your husband’s heritage you are wanting to throw out. It isn’t all your mother-in-law. The photos are of many different family members, and the trophy was won by your husband’s grandfather for steeplechasing. Is throwing away your husband’s history fair to him?”
Seeing a slight softening to Mrs. Hatchett’s firm jaw and a momentary flicker of remorse in her brown eyes, Lettice plays her trump card.
“Also Mrs. Hatchett, when my men were cleaning out the cupboard under the stairs in the hallway, they came across this.” She pushes a freshly polished silver Art Nouveau frame containing a pencil sketch of a handsome young man with slightly foppish hair towards the older woman.
Mrs. Hatchett picks up the frame tenderly and runs a hand lovingly over the face behind the glass.
“I believe this is your husband, Mrs. Hatchett.”
“Yes,” she muses. “It’s Charlie when he was younger: when he was at Eton before the war.”
“I didn’t know if you knew of its existence, Mrs. Hatchett. Apparently it was sitting at the back of a shelf behind a box of cleaning agents, covered in a thick layer of dust and with a terribly tarnished frame. I had my maid polish and clean it up for you. She polished the trophy as well”
“My mother-in-law must have done this.” Mrs. Hatchett places two fingers over the portrait’s lips. “For everything I disliked about her, there is no denying she was a very talented artist.”
“And wouldn’t it be a shame to lose such a family treasure, Mrs. Hatchett?”
The older woman sighs resignedly as she replaces the picture back on the tabletop.
“Very well Miss Chetwynd, what is it you are proposing?”
“Well Mrs, Hatchett, if respectability is what you are hoping for, a few carefully placed photographs around the room will help with that no end.”
“Not on the mantelpiece!” Mrs. Hatchett interjects.
“No, not on the mantelpiece, although I do believe we were going to put your wedding photo judiciously there in pride of place. No, these could go in a more discreet place, like on a sideboard in the corner of the room. They would be out of the way so as not to offend you and inflict heartache. However, they would still be visible enough for a visiting political guest, whilst taking an aperitif or digestif in here, to ask your husband about his respectable family background. People who don’t have photos about their home either have something to hide, or cannot afford to have photographs, and neither is of a respectable class suitable for an up-and-coming politician to come from.” She smiles. “I’m sure you understand my meaning, Mrs. Hatchett.”
“Well,” Mrs. Hatchett picks up the pencil portrait again. “Perhaps this could go on the mantelpiece too.”
“I’m glad you appreciate my perspective, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice replies with a relieved sigh of satisfaction. “Good! Well now that’s settled, the men have made me a pot of tea.” She indicates to a pot covered by a pretty knitted cosy on the mantelpiece. “I’m sure they could rustle up a second cup for you.”
This slightly chaotic upper-middle-class still life of redecoration in progress is different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood and teenage years.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
The family photos in and around the boxes are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are from various suppliers, but all are metal. The one sitting highest in the box with the butterfly on it is one of a pair I have had since I acquired them from a specialist dolls’ house supplier when I was a teenager.
The silver Art Nouveau frame containing the sketch of the young man is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Pat’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The frame is a very thin slice of steel that has been laser cut with the intricate Art Nouveau design.
The horse trophy is a 1:12 pewter miniature made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.
The painting resting on the mantelpiece is also a 1:12 artisan piece made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.
The white porcelain teapot on the mantelpiece is a 1:12 size miniature. Its colourful tea cosy, which fits snugly over it, has been hand knitted in fine lemon, blue and violet wool. It comes easily off and off and can be as easily put back on as a real tea cosy on a real teapot. Both come from a specialist miniatures stockist in England.
