Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid, grew up. She is visiting her parents as she often does on her Wednesdays off, and today she is helping her mother, Ada, shop for groceries and the pair have been traversing the Harlesden high street. They have visited the local grocers where Ada has filled her basket with some of her household staples: lettuce and apples, some Bisto gravy powder, Oxo stock cubes, Ty-Phoo tea and some bars of Hudson’s Soap, the latter of which she will grate in her laundry to make soap flakes to wash the laundry she takes in to help supplement the family’s income. Now the pair are at Mr. Chapman’s, the local butcher. As the two ladies walk through the door, the shop bell rings out cheerfully to announce their arrival.
“Hullo Mrs. Watsford.” Mr. Chapman calls cheerily from his bench against the far wall behind the counter, where dressed in his familiar uniform of a navy blue vest and a blue and white striped apron he glances over his shoulder. He pauses slicing up some ham turns and smiles cheerily at the two women. “How are we today?”
“Oh quite well, Mr. Chapman. Thank you.” Ada replies as with a small groan she places her worn, roughly made shopping basket, the only one Edith has only ever known her mother to have, on the shop counter.
“And Mr. Watsford?” the middle aged and balding butcher asks, his smile bright and genuine beneath his salt and pepper moustache.
“Quite well too, Mr. Chapman. Thank you for asking. He’s at the factory at the moment.”
“As he should be, Mrs. Watsford. But I imagine he’ll be home for his tea, soon.”
“That he will Mr. Chapman.” Ada confirms.
It is then that Mr. Chapman’s eyes fall upon the pretty form of Edith standing next to her mother. He admires her willowy figure dressed in her three-quarter length black coat with her green leather handbag hanging in the crook of her arm and her purple rose and black feather decorated straw hat sitting smartly atop her flaxen hair which is tied in a neat chignon at the back of her neck. “I say,” he remarks with widening blue eyes. “This fine young lady can’t be your Edith, can it Mrs. Watsford?”
“Hullo Mr. Chapman.” Edith greets the butcher she has known all her life shyly as she deposits her handbag on the counter next to her mother’s basket and brown leather handbag.
“I say!” he laughs. “Wait until Nellie sets her eyes on you.” He leans back across the sawdust covered floor* behind the counter and calls though a small doorway leading from the shop, “Nellie! Nellie, you’ll never guess who’s out here.”
“Who is it then?” calls back an equally chipper female voice before moments later, Mrs. Chapman, in a pink and white striped frock covered with a pink floral pinny, bustles into the shop. She stops in her tracks when she spies Edith, and her slightly sagging face breaks into a broad smile of delight. “Why if it isn’t little Edith Watsford!”
Mrs. Chapman hurries out from behind the counter and envelops Edith in an all embracing hug, pressing the young girl to her heavy breast. When Edith first went into service for the pompous and mean spirited local widow, Mrs. Hounslow, who also happens to be the landlady of the Watsfords, Mrs. Chapman was a bright and cheerful influence in the life of the then homesick and unsure young girl. Mrs. Chapman felt for the poor young teenager with sallow cheeks and took Edith under her wing, slipping her a little bit of extra meat if she could spare it during the more lean years of the war, and stopping by when she knew Mrs. Hounslow was out to teach Edith a few easy recipes she wasn’t taught by her mother to cook for the old widow, who in spite of being quite wealthy, was always very mean when it came to providing a budget for food, yet still expected to eat like a queen.
“I haven’t seen you in, what, four years, my pet?” the butcher’s wife continues.
“Around about that, Mrs. Chapman.” Edith replies shyly.
“Yet, I’d know that face anywhere!” Mrs. Chapman chuckles, holding Edith at arm’s length and drinking in her smart appearance. “Where are you working now, Edith pet?”
“I’m up in Mayfair.” she replies proudly.
“Mayfair!” Mrs. Chapman exclaims. “Well isn’t that a turn up for the books, Ada!” She turns to Edith’s mother, her sparkling dark eyes crinkling up in delight. “Who would have thought? Little Edith, that wee slip of thing, all grown up and working for a household in Mayfair!”
“I work for the daughter of a viscount now, Mrs. Chapman.” Edith continues proudly. “It’s much easier than working for old Widow Hounslow, as she’s in one of those newfangled flats** where everything is on one floor, and everything is brand new. Plus, Miss Lettice is far nicer to work for than mean old Widow Hounslow.”
“Edith, love!” Ada exclaims. “Shame on you!” she chides. “You should be more grateful. Mrs. Hounslow took you on as her maid when you had no experience or references.”
“Because you were cheap.” adds Mrs. Chapman, her smiling mouth screwing up with distaste as she nods knowingly.
“Now I won’t have a bad word said about her, you two.” Ada wags her finger admonishingly at her daughter and then looks disappointingly at Mrs. Chapman. “You’re as bad as each other. Really you are! I know she isn’t the easiest woman to rub along with Nellie, but besides giving Edith her first position, she helped pay for many a meal in my house with her sixpences and shillings putting your husband’s meat on my table over the years. We should all be grateful to her. She does a lot for the locals.”
Both Edith and Mrs. Chapman roll their eyes, then look at one another knowingly before smiling mischievously at one another and chuckling.
“And thinking of meat, what can I get for you today, Mrs. Watsford? What does that hard working husband of yours fancy for his tea?”
“I’ve come to get two rashers of bacon and I think, a shilling’s worth of mutton for a pie.” Ada replies after a moment’s consideration.
“Coming right up, Mrs. Watsford.” Mr. Chapman replies as he turns around, whilst Ada fetches out her small leather reticule*** from the confines of her handbag.
“It looks like life has been good to you, now you aren’t working for that mean old Mrs. Hounslow anymore, my pet.” Mrs. Chapman says, addressing Edith as she grasps both her hands with the friendly familiarity of two long time friends. “Just look at that smart outfit of yours.”
“Oh,” Edith dismisses her Mrs. Chapman’s comment with a flap of her hand. “My coat came from a Petticoat Lane**** second-hand clothes stall. I picked it up dead cheap and remodelled it myself.”
“Taking after your old Mum then?” Mrs. Chapman remarks with a hint of pride. “Is that right Ada?”
“Mum taught me everything I know about sewing, Mrs. Chapman. She taught me how to make something beautiful from nothing special at all, and I’ll always be grateful for that.”
Ada smiles proudly at her daughter.
“And that colour in your cheeks, Edith pet!” Mrs. Chapman exclaims. “It must be all that good upper-class Mayfair air.”
“Now that, “ Ada remarks to Mrs. Chapman. “You can put down to Edith’s new beau.”
“A beau?” Mrs. Chapman gasps. “Edith pet, you didn’t say anything!”
“Well, you haven’t really given me the chance to tell you yet.” Edith giggles.
“Well tell me now!” the butcher’s wife trembles with anticipation. “Who is he? What’s his name?”
“His name is Frank Leadbetter. He lives in Holborn but works for my local grocers in Mayfair. He’s the delivery boy.”
“A good, fine and stable job, Ada.” Mrs. Chapman remarks to Edith’s mother with a nod of approval. “I like the sound of him.”
“Mum thinks he’s a Communist.” Edith whispers.
“I heard that, Edith love!” Ada pipes up. “And I’ll have you know, that I don’t think that. I just don’t hold with some of his fancy ideas about whose who and what’s what, is all.”
When Mrs. Chapman gives Edith a quizzical look, the young girl explains, “Frank is more political than Mum or Dad are, and he believes in bettering himself.”
“It’s not that I mind him bettering himself, Edith love.” Ada defends herself. “It’s his ideas about the system. I don’t think we need to tear down things that work just fine, only to re-build them again. You’ll agree with me, won’t you Mr. Chapman.”
“Of course I will, Mrs. Watsford.” The butcher replies as he returns with two rashers of bacon partially wrapped in paper and a tray of diced mutton. “In my shop, the customer is always right.”
Edith and Mrs. Chapman chuckle good naturedly as Ada’s face falls in disappointment at the half hearted statement from her would be ally.
“Mum’s softened a bit towards Frank since he showed up with tickets for her and Dad to the White Horse final*****.”
“Goodness! I would too, Mrs. Watsford!” Mr. Chapman enthuses as he takes out some of the diced mutton from the battered metal tray. “Tickets to the White Horse final! You and Mr. Watsford were the lucky ones. I’d hang onto this chap if I were you, Edith. Sounds to me like he’ll make a grand son-in-law for your parents.”
“We’re not getting married just yet, Mr. Chapman!” Edith blushes. “Just stepping out together.”
“Aye! Aye!” Mr. Chapman replies with a wink.
“Well, it seems like everything is better, now you aren’t working for old Widow Hounslow.” Mrs. Chapman says, squeezing Edith’s hands. “Congratulations pet. I’m so happy for you.”
Just then the light coming through the glass paned butcher’s front door is partially obscured and the bell above the door tickles prettily as it opens.
“Thinking of which,” remarks Mr. Chapman with an arched eyebrow as he quickly turns around back to his butchering bench.
An older woman dressed from head to foot in black sweeps haughtily into the shop, the black jet beads of her shawl sparkling in the light like precious jewels as she releases the door and allows it to slowly close behind her, yet not quite engage with the lock.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hounslow.” Mrs. Chapman says a little begrudgingly as she leaves Edith’s side and moves swiftly behind the old widow and closes the door to keep the cool air of the spring morning outside the already cool butcher’s shop.
“You know I don’t approve of women working in the front of the shop where they can be seen, Mrs. Chapman.” the old woman pronounces dourly through her bitter pucker of a mouth as she looks down her nose in judgement at the butcher’s wife. “It’s most unseemly.”
“Well, things have changed since the war, Mrs. Hounslow.” Mrs. Chapman replies defiantly with a forced brightness in her voice that rings untruly. “We all have to do our bit these days.”
“Your husband came back from the front, thank the good Lord,” the old widow replies crisply, before pausing and looking wistfully out of the shop window, through the rabbit and goose carcases hung outside the shop in as much of a lavish display as to bring out the flavour in the meats on display. “Unlike some.” She artfully withdraws a white handkerchief embroidered with a heavy black trim, which Edith imagines her mother spent hours sewing for her for only a measly few pence.
“As a matter of fact, Mrs. Hounslow,” Mrs. Chapman elucidates. “I’d only come out to the front of the shop from the cash office so that I could say hullo to Edith Watsford. You remember your former housemaid, don’t you Mrs. Hounslow?”
The old woman with her hair still styled in the fashion of her mid Nineteenth Century youth, coiled at the back and topped with a lace trimmed cap, as was common of many elderly women her age, peers with a squint across the shop floor of the butchers, only then appearing to notice that both Edith and Ada are present.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hounslow.” Ada says with deference, bobbing a small, servile curtsey to the widow.
“Mum!” Edith chides her mother, knowing that she should be the last person to curtsey to their mean landlady.
“Goodness!” remarks the old widow unflappably with an arch of her thick salt and pepper eyebrow over her right eye. “Is that my old chit of housemaid?”
“It is, Mrs. Hounslow.” Edith manages to say through barred teeth in a forced smile, refusing to curtsey to her former mistress.
“And doesn’t she look well, Mrs. Hounslow.” Mrs. Chapman enthuses. “All grown up and so elegant.”
Mrs. Hounslow peers at Edith with her coal black button eyes that match her outfit, contemplating the young girl from within the confines of her jowly and doughy face. “That, Mrs. Chapman is a matter of opinion.” she remarks dismissive of the butcher’s wife’s remark. “You look peaky, girl.” she snaps. “Are you sickening for something?”
“No, Mrs. Hounslow.” Edith remarks in surprise. “Not at all.”
“No doubt your new mistress, poor creature, doesn’t feed you as well as I did.”
Edith bristles with the insult implied by the old widow in her pronouncement like a sharp slap in the face. Mrs. Hounslow was always quick to find fault in anything Edith did, even when she had done it correctly. She remembers the many nights she went to bed in the dark and draughty attic up under the eaves of Mrs. Hounslow’s high pitched roof, her stomach growling after her meagre supper of watery broth with few limp pieces of cabbage and some slices of carrot in it. That was all she could muster for her supper after the old widow had dined on a fine repast and then forbade Edith from eating any of the leftovers, which Edith would then be obliged to serve the following day to the old widow who would greedily devour them for luncheon in the dining room. She wants to scream at the old woman, and tell her how much happier she is now, and how much better treated, but catching a glimpse of her mother’s pale face as she almost imperceptibly shakes her head, she holds her tongue. Old Widow Hounslow may not be her mistress any longer, but she is still her parents’ landlady, so she keeps her own counsel silently.
“Chapman!” Mrs. Hounslow barks at the butcher. “I want one of your raised game pies.”
“I…err…” stammers Mr. Chapman somewhat meekly. “I was just serving Mrs. Watsford, if you’d…”
“Mrs. Watsford, you don’t mind waiting whilst Mr. Chapman serves me, do you dear?” She eyes Ada with a hard stare which indicates that whilst posed as a question, it is clearly a statement. “You know what a busy woman I am.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Hounslow.” Ada says deferentially, picking up her basket and handbag and backing away meekly from the counter, allowing the imperious figure of the black clad widow to shuffle up to the counter, onto which she drops her beaded handbag with a rattle of glass beads.
“Now, Chapman,” Mrs. Hounslow continues sharply. “A raised game pie, no, a game pie and a giblet pie, delivered this afternoon, if you please. Trixy will be there to take it from you at the scullery door.”
“Very good, Mrs. Hounslow.” Mr. Chapman demurs.
“I’ll settle the account in due course, Mrs. Chapman.” the widow says, implying that the cash office is where the butcher’s wife belongs. She releases a sigh of satisfaction. “Well, I cannot stand around prattling idle gossip like some,” She looks meaningfully between Ada, Edith and Mrs. Chapman. “Gossip is the Devil’s work, and I on the other hand, have God’s deeds to perform. So many good deeds.” She smiles smugly to herself. “So if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Chapman, Mrs. Chapman, Mrs. Watsford.” Then she looks at Edith and mutters something unintelligible in a grunt and waves her hand at the young girl before picking up her handbag and sweeping out of the shop again.
There is a collective sigh from Mr. and Mrs. Chapman, Ada and Edith as Mrs. Hounslow leaves.
“If she didn’t spend as much as she does in here, I’d refuse to serve her.” Mr. Chapman says.
“It’s alright, Mr. Chapman.” Ada says, returning her heavy basket and handbag to the counter. “Really it is.”
“No, it’s not, Mum!” pipes up Edith hotly. “She’s a rude old…”
“Edith!” Ada warns, wagging her finger at her daughter warningly. “I won’t say it again. I won’t have anything said against Mrs. Hounslow. She’s our landlady and we should be grateful to have a roof over our heads. Anyway, Mrs. Hounslow’s a widow.”
“I know, Mum. I’ve grown up hearing about how Mrs. Hounslow’s husband died a hero in the siege of Mafeking in the Boer War. But that doesn’t give her the right to lord it over the rest of us. She’s a mean old so-and-so, Mum, and you know it. She treats everyone else like rubbish, and one day… well one day she won’t be allowed to.”
“My goodness!” Mrs. Chapman claps her hands with pride. “The old Edith I knew a few years ago wouldn’t have said that.”
“No, it’s the influence of young Frank Leadbetter, Nellie.” Ada says with a frown. “I told you, he’s all about pulling the old system down.”
“Well, I think that’s a jolly good influence, Ada.” Mrs. Chapman says. “Even if you don’t think so, especially if the system doesn’t work.” She smiles at Edith before turning back to Ada. “Your daughter has a very valid point, and well you know it, even if you won’t voice your opinion because she is your landlady. Old Widow Hounslow is mean and there’s an end to it.” She nods emphatically. “Do you remember Trixy, Edith?”
“Oh yes, of course I do.” Edith says. “She was the girl I trained up for Mrs. Hounslow before I left for my next position.”
“Well, the poor thing is even more timid and mouselike now than she was when she arrived at old Widow Hounslow’s, and that’s all on account of the mean old biddy!” Mrs. Chapman nods emphatically.
“Well, mean or not, I’m not going to let the likes of old Widow Hounslow spoil my day off.” Edith says pluckily. “Come on Mum. Let’s pay for your parcels and go home and see Dad. He’ll be home from the factory soon, wanting his tea.”
“Well, it’s been lovely to see you again, Edith.” Mr. Chapman says as he hands Ada her packages of meat.
“Yes it has, Edith pet.” agrees Mrs. Chapman with a smile. “I’m so pleased to see you looking so hale and hearty and doing so well for yourself. I’m so proud of you, and I know you do your mum and dad proud too.”
With her basket in the crook of her left arm, Ada hooks her right arm through her daughter’s and the two open the shop door and walk out onto the Harlesden high street with smiles on their faces.
*Regardless of where the butchers shop was, whether a suburban or up-market shop or a small concern in a village, the standard practice was to dust the wooden floorboards of the shop behind the counter where the butchering was done with sawdust. The idea was that the sawdust would sop up any spilled blood or dropped offcuts of meat that was easy to sweep away and helped prevent slips.
**With the “servant problem” far more prevalent following the Great War when servicemen and factory girls not wishing to return to their low paid and hard working lives of pre-war drudgery in service, the building of flats that were easier to maintain, rather than the large houses built prior to the war that required a retinue of servants to manage them, became the new fashion for the upper classes, but were still something of a novelty in 1923. By the end of the decade, wealthier people living in flats would not only be more common, but would be a statement of fashionable modern living.
***A reticule is the predecessor to a modern day purse and is a woman's small bag or purse, usually in the form of a pouch with a drawstring and made of net, beading, brocade or leather. They date back to the Eighteenth Century. Where did the word reticule come from? The term “reticule” comes from French and Latin terms meaning “net.” At the time, the word “purse” referred to small leather pouches used for carrying money.
****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.
*****The first football match to be played at the newly opened Wembley Stadium in April 1923 was between the Bolton Wanderers and West Ham United. This match became known as the White Horse final, and was played just a few days after the completion of the stadium.
This cluttered, yet cheerful Edwardian butchers 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.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The rashers of bacon and tray of diced meat on the counter come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The joints of meat in the background both on the bench and hanging from hooks above it also come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.
The eggs and the Cornish Ware bowl they are in come from Beautifully handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as does the shiny cash register and Ada’s rather battered wooden basket.
Inside the basket there are various foods and cleaning agents which would have been household names in the 1920s, and some of which are still known today including Oxo Stock Cubes, Ty-Phoo Tea, Bisto Gravy Powder and Hudson’s Soap. All these items are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, with great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars and cans. Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures also made the tin of corned beef to the left of the photo, as can be derived from the “Little Things Food Co.” label.
In 1863, William Sumner published A Popular Treatise on Tea as a by-product of the first trade missions to China from London. In 1870, William and his son John Sumner founded a pharmacy/grocery business in Birmingham. William's grandson, John Sumner Jr. (born in 1856), took over the running of the business in the 1900s. Following comments from his sister on the calming effects of tea fannings, in 1903, John Jr. decided to create a new tea that he could sell in his shop. He set his own criteria for the new brand. The name had to be distinctive and unlike others, it had to be a name that would trip off the tongue and it had to be one that would be protected by registration. The name Typhoo comes from the Mandarin Chinese word for “doctor”. Typhoo began making tea bags in 1967. In 1978, production was moved from Birmingham to Moreton on the Wirral Peninsula, in Merseyside. The Moreton site is also the location of Burton's Foods and Manor Bakeries factories. Typhoo has been owned since July 2021 by British private-equity firm Zetland Capital. It was previously owned by Apeejay Surrendra Group of India.
The first Bisto product, in 1908, was a meat-flavoured gravy powder, which rapidly became a bestseller in Britain. It was added to gravies to give a richer taste and aroma. Invented by Messrs Roberts and Patterson, it was named "Bisto" because it "Browns, Seasons and Thickens in One". Bisto Gravy is still a household name in Britain and Ireland today, and the brand is currently owned by Premier Foods.
Oxo is a brand of food products, including stock cubes, herbs and spices, dried gravy, and yeast extract. The original product was the beef stock cube, and the company now also markets chicken and other flavour cubes, including versions with Chinese and Indian spices. The cubes are broken up and used as flavouring in meals or gravy or dissolved into boiling water to produce a bouillon. Oxo produced their first cubes in 1910 and further increased Oxo's popularity.
In 1837 Robert Spear Hudson opened a shop in High Street, West Bromwich. He started making soap powder in the back of this shop by grinding the coarse bar soap of the day with a mortar and pestle. Before that people had had to make soap flakes themselves. This product became the first satisfactory and commercially successful soap powder. Despite his title of "Manufacturer of Dry Soap" Robert never actually manufactured soap but bought the raw soap from William Gossage of Widnes. The product was popular with his customers and the business expanded rapidly. In the 1850s he employed ten female workers in his West Bromwich factory. In time the factory was too small and too far from the source of his soap so in 1875 he moved his main works to Bank Hall, Liverpool, and his head office to Bootle, while continuing production at West Bromwich. Eventually the business in Merseyside employed just over one thousand people and Robert was able to further develop his flourishing export trade to Australia and New Zealand. The business flourished both because of the rapidly increasing demand for domestic soap products and because of Hudson's unprecedented levels of advertising. He arranged for striking posters to be produced by professional artists (this was before other firms such as Pears Soap and Lever Brothers used similar techniques). The slogan "A little of Hudson's goes a long way" appeared on the coach that ran between Liverpool and York. Horse, steam and electric tramcars bore an advertisement saying "For Washing Clothes. Hudson's soap. For Washing Up". Robert was joined in the business by his son Robert William who succeeded to the business on his father's death. In 1908 he sold the business to Lever Brothers who ran it as a subsidiary enterprise during which time the soap was manufactured at Crosfield's of Warrington. During this time trade names such as Rinso and Omo were introduced. The Hudson name was retained until 1935 when, during a period of rationalisation, the West Bromwich and Bank Hall works were closed.
Also in Ada’s basket are some very lifelike looking fruit and vegetables. The apples are made of polymer clay are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The leaves of lettuce are artisan made of very thin sheets of clay and are beautifully detailed. I acquired them from an auction house some twenty years ago as part of a lot made up of miniature artisan food.
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, including Ada’s tan soft leather handbag seen resting against her basket at the right of the picture.
The black umbrella came from an online stockist of 1:12 miniatures on E-Bay.
