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’s, parents live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home, although with her husband’s promotion as a Line Manager, she no longer needs to do it quite so much to supplement their income. Whilst far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s Mayfair flat, the Harlesden terrace has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith and her seafaring brother, Bert.
It’s Sunday, and whilst Edith usually spends the day either with her beau, grocery delivery boy Frank Leadbetter, or her best friend and fellow maid Hilda, today both have other plans. Frank has gone to a trade unions meeting down near the London docks, and Hilda has gone to her beloved knitting group at Mrs. Minkin’s haberdashery shop in Whitechapel. This leaves Edith with no definite plans, but luckily for her, unlike many young servants who would rather do anything than spend time with their parents, Edith has a wonderful relationship with Ada and George, and with her Sunday free until four, she has decided to spend it with them. Edith has spent a lovely morning helping her mother prepare a steak and kidney pie for their midday meal whilst George spends some time at his beloved allotment nearby, and Edith has also helped Ada by darning a few pairs of her father’s well worn socks. It’s now getting close to half past one according to the solemnly ticking wall clock hanging on the kitchen wall, and Edith and her mother have long since finished taking tea and cleared away the tea things, mending, and the midday meal preparations from the kitchen table. George is running late. Just as Ada mutters something about her pie getting spoiled in the warming oven where it bides it time before being served, both women hear a familiarly cheerful whistle in the garden as the latch rattles before the back door is opened.
“Well, if it isn’t his nibs* home at last.” Ada remarks to Edith as George’s familiar footfall can be heard stepping into the scullery. “You took your merry time, George Watsford!” Ada calls out to her husband.
“Sorry Ada love.” George replies as he walks into the kitchen through the open scullery door carrying a wooden crate containing the last of his allotment’s lettuce for the year.
“Luckily I put our tea in the warming oven.” Ada replies as she stands up with a groan as she presses her worn hands onto the arms of her Windsor chair and foists herself from its comfortable, well worn seat.
“Of course you did, Ada love.” George replies with a chuckle, knowing that in spite of the reprimand, his wife isn’t cross with him for being a half hour later than he had planned. It isn’t uncommon for George to lose track of the time as he tends to the vegetable and flower gardens of his allotment.
Edith looks her father up and down as he enters the warm kitchen which smells of baking pastry and savory meat. George dressed in his usual Sundays at home garb, rather than the more formal Sunday best** suit of black barathea*** that he wears to church. Instead, he is in a white shirt and dark muddy green tie*****, his heavy wearing chocolate brown corduroy trousers affixed by braces beneath his argyle pattern****** vest of warm mustard and rich golden brown. A flat reddish brown workman’s cap sits atop his head, and from the crook of his elbow, Edith sees a small wicker basket swinging.
“Ah-ah!” Ada scolds as she eyes her husband’s footwear. “Don’t you dare come tramping your muddy boots all over my nice clean flagstones!” She points at George’s black outdoor boots caked in mud around the soles with an accusational finger. “I only washed the floors on Friday. Get them off!”
“Yes love.” George agrees, gratefully sinking into his own favourite Windsor chair drawn up in front of the hearth. He slips into the seat and starts to unlace his boots. He glances up at his daughter. “Edith love, fetch my slippers from our bedroom, will you.”
“Yes Dad!” Edith replies cheerfully, always happy to be of any help to either of her parents during her frequent visits.
Edith smiles, gets up from Ada’s kitchen table and scurries out of the room and upstairs to her parents’ bedroom, where she finds her father’s worn, yet comfortable plaid felt slippers sitting on the rag rug******* made of brightly coloured old fabrics next to his side of the old cast iron bed he and Ada share. By the time she returns down the narrow, creaking staircase and back into the warm kitchen, George has finished removing his boots, and they sit in front of the hearth, steaming slightly as the heat of the coal fire dries their damp leather.
“So, what’s for tea… err… dinner, then?” George asks as he accepts his slippers from his daughter, correcting his choice of words, knowing how Edith has taken to improving herself with her words, having learned finer language choices from Lettice. Edith smiles indulgently at her father and silently nods her approval at his self-correction.
“It’s a steak and kidney pie.” Ada remarks as she bustles behind her husband’s back as she boils some carrots and peas on the old blacklead coal range.
“I helped make it for you, Dad.” Edith says proudly.
“That must be why it smells so good.” George smiles beatifically as he inhales the rich smell of spiced meat that permeates the air around them.
“You’re a godsend, cutting the onions up for me, Edith love.” Ada remarks gratefully as she stirs the saucepan of peas. “Even when soaked in water********, I still weep when I cut onions.”
“Ahh, you’re a good girl, helping your mum like that, Edith love.”
“Yes, but Mum made the pastry.” Edith admits with a shy smile after her father’s praise. “She’s better at it than me.”
“Well, she’s had more practice than you have, hasn’t she, Edith love?”
“No-one makes pastry as good as Mum.”
“Oh, you’ll get there, Edith love,” Ada remarks encouragingly, glancing over her shoulder and looking earnestly at her daughter. “You’re already mostly there anyway. It‘s just I’m a bit quicker is all.” She turns her attention to her husband. “And luckily for you George Watsford,” She taps him on the shoulder with her wet wooden spoon as she withdraws it from the saucepan of peas, leaving a small damp patch on his woollen vest. “The crust isn’t burnt even though it’s been sitting in the warming oven for the last quarter hour.”
“You know, you should get old Widow Hounslow to replace the range, Mum.” Edith remarks disparagingly of Mrs. Hounslow, her parents’ landlady, as she automatically goes to the dresser and starts to take down some of her mother’s beloved mismatched china, obtained from local flea markets over the years, from the big dark wood Welsh dresser that dominates almost an entire wall of the kitchen. “It’s so old fashioned and dirty.”
Edith snatches a pretty blue and white floral edged plate off the shelf a little too roughly as she thinks of Mrs. Hounslow, almost allowing the plate to slip from her fingers as she does. Edith worked for the doughy widow when she first went into service. The old woman is most certainly middle-class, and mean to boot, treating poor Edith very shabbily throughout her tenure as the woman’s toiling cook and maid-of-all-work. Her wealth comes from the property portfolio acquired by Mr. Hounslow before he died. Edith’s parents are just two of the many tenants Mrs. Hounslow has, renting out the houses she now owns, charging moderately, but not excessively, yet spending as little as possible on the upkeep of them, never mind modernising them.
“What?” Ada spins around and looks aghast at her daughter with wide eyes, as though the young girl has just sworn at her. “Get rid of my old lady? Never!” She turns back and runs her hand lovingly over the ornate lettering of the range’s brand situated just over her head over the open fire. “She may be old fashioned, but she’s served me well.”
“You know as well as I, Mum, that that penny-pinching old woman can well afford to take that old iron monster out and install a much more up-to-date gas cooker for you.” Edith remarks as she stacks the plates on the kitchen table. “She could put you on the mains whilst she was at it.”
“You know how your mum feels about electricity, Edith love.” George remarks, looking askance at his daughter.
“Don’t be so blasphemous!” Ada balks. “Eletrickery is more like it.”
“See.” George folds his arms akimbo in his seat.
“No,” Ada turns back and opens the warming oven, just to check on her steak and kidney pie, gratified to see her pastry top golden brown and not burned as it sits on its wire rack. “This old lady and I have been working together longer than you’ve been alive for, Edith love. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Miss Lettice has a lovely gas stove in Cavendish Mews, Mum.” Edith insists. “It’s ever so modern and easy to use: like those ones we saw at the British Empire Exhibition*********. It has a thermostat so there’s no need for me to stick my hand in the oven to gauge the temperature the way you have to.”
“That’s lazy cooking, that is.” Ada scoffs with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Every girl in service should know how to gauge an oven’s temperature with her hand.”
“No it’s not, Mum.” Edith retorts. “You saw at the British Empire Exhibition that they say it’s a way to ensure perfect cooking every time.” She goes on. “And because its gas, it doesn’t need coal, so it’s much cleaner. To use”
“What would I do with a gas stove and oven at my age, Edith love? I wouldn’t know how to use it, even if Mrs. Hounslow did install one for me. I’m too set in my ways and habits to go changing with all this new-fangled gas cookery. No!” She bangs the blacklead heartily. “I know her as well as I know the back of my own hand, Edith love. A gas stove might be alright for the likes of you, working for such a fine lady as your Miss Chetwynd, but I’m content with my old girl. We rub along well together, even if we do have our differences some days. Thank you all the same.”
“Well, I still think old Widow. Hounslow is a mean old landlady, Mum. She never spends a penny she doesn’t have to on this old place to make things easier or more comfortable for you and Dad.”
“Oh Edith! Poor old Mrs. Hounslow’s a widow.”
“I know, Mum. You’re like one of Miss Lettice’s gramophone records.”
“What do you mean?” Ada gasps, looking aghast at her daughter.
“Well, when Miss Lettice gets a new gramophone record, she plays it over and over again.”
George snorts and chuckles quietly in his seat at his daughter’s cheeky remark, which rewards him with a rap from his wife, who does so without even looking at him.
“You’re always using Mrs. Hounslow’s status as widow as a defence for her poor behaviour.” Edith goes on. “And it’s a poor excuse. I’ve grown up hearing about how poor old Widow Hounslow’s husband died a hero in the siege of Mafeking in the Boer War.” She releases an exasperated sigh as she turns back to the dresser and noisy fossicks through the cutlery drawer looking for knives and forks for them to eat their pie and vegetables with. “But he left her well off enough with plenty of houses like this to let out to the likes of you who pays more than you probably should for it, as well as a fine house of her own. I should know.” She snorts derisively. “I worked in it for long enough with no thanks, so I know how comfortably she has it, widow or not!”
“Shame on you Edith!” Ada says with hurt in her voice as she wags the wooden spoon at her daughter. “I helped you get your very first position with Mrs. Hounslow.”
“I know you did, Mum, and I’m not ungrateful to you for helping me get it.” Edith lets out another exasperated sigh as she returns to the kitchen table and starts to set three places for them. “All the same, I’ve never heard or seen Mrs. Hounslow have to scrape or work hard for anything, and it breaks my heart to see you slave over that old range and blacklead it, week after week, when you could have something so much nicer that wouldn’t put old Widow Hounslow into the poor house.”
“Now, you know I won’t have a bad word said about her, Edith.” Ada says, turning back to her pots on the range. “She’s helped pay for many a meal in this house with her sixpences and shillings over the years, paying for me to do her laundry.” She stirs the pot and angrily taps her wooden spoon noisily on its edge. “So let that be an end to it.” She nods emphatically.
George remains silent in his chair, arching his eyebrows as he looks helplessly at his daughter.
“Anyway, enough about Mrs. Hounslow.” Ada remarks. “George, where were you that it took you so long to come back from the allotment?” She leans down and sniffs near his mouth. “Well, you evidently haven’t stopped by the pub on the way home.”
George seizes his chance and leans forward and kisses his wife lovingly on the lips. Surprised by this unexpected intimate token of affection, Ada gasps and blushes as she stands upright again. She raises her right hand to her lips where a smile has formed, her frustration about her daughter’s dislike of Mrs. Hounslow forgotten. From across the table, Edith beams with delight as she pauses with a fork in her hand. Silently as she watches them, she hopes that she and Frank will be as contented in their marriage as her parents are in theirs.
“No, I haven’t, Ada love.” George replies with a cheeky smile.
“Then where were you, Dad?” Edith asks. “We were getting worried.”
“Well, I might not have stopped at the pub, but I did pop in to Mr. Pyecroft’s on the high street on the way home.”
“Mr. Pyecroft the ironmonger**********?” Edith queries.
“The very same.” George replies.
“But it’s Sunday***********, George love,” Ada observes. “What were you doing there on a Sunday?”
“Well I ran into Pyecroft when I was at the allotment, and he told me that he had some new Webbs************ seeds in stock, so I went home with him to get some.”
“What did you get, Dad?” Edith asks excitedly. “What are you going to grow?”
“Hopefully more carrots*************.” Ada remarks matter-of-factly as she slips past her husband carrying the heavy metal saucepans of carrots and peas, one in each hand, and proceeds to drain them in the small sink in the corner of the kitchen. “I prefer your home-grown ones to anything Mr. Lovegrove’s grocers can provide. They are so much tastier.”
“Well thank you, Ada love! That’s because I grew them for you.” George says over the noisy rush of water and the clang of saucepans and the vegetable strainer in the enamel sink. “With love in every turn of the sod.”
“Pshaw!” Ada flaps her hand at her husband distractedly as she laughs good naturedly. “Oh you!”
“I did get some carrots as a matter of fact,” George goes on, fishing a packet featuring a drawing of three good looking carrots on its front out of the wicker basket which now sits on the floor at his feet. “And some cauliflowers too.” he adds, withdrawing a packet depicting a fluffy white cauliflower surrounded by a halo of healthy green leaves.
“Oh good!” Ada enthuses as she pours peas into a plain white bowl sitting in readiness on the wooden draining board by the sink. “We might have caulis for Christmas this year, then!”
“We may will, Ada love.”
“I thought it was getting too cold to grow cauliflowers, Dad.” Edith opines as she fetches glasses to finish setting the table for them. “Aren’t they a summer vegetable?”
“You can plant them in spring, or in autumn, Edith love.” George replies knowledgably. “I also bought some runner beans,” He fishes out another packet from the basket. “But they won’t survive the winter frosts, so I’ll keep them aside in the bottom of the pantry with my other spring plantings.”
“Are you going to grow marrows again for the Roundwood Park************** Harvest Festival next April, Dad?”
“Try and stop him, Edith love.” Ada laughs before lifting the remaining saucepan over the sink and draining the carrots. “There hasn’t been a year, except for the war, when your dad hasn’t submitted a marrow to the festival.”
“I’m determined to win the coveted prize of best marrow from Mr. Johnson.” George says with steely determination. “I don’t know what he uses in his fertiliser, but he says it isn’t anything special.”
“Have you tried to work it out, Dad?”
“Has he ever!” Ada rolls her eyes to the soot-stained ceiling above as she speaks. “I’d be richer than Mrs. Hounslow if I received a penny for every after-tea conversation on a Sunday I’ve had with your Dad about the secret ingredient in Mr. Johnson’s fertiliser, after he gets back from the allotment.”
“You never complain.”
Ada smiles to herself as she slips the carrots into a bowl. “Of course I don’t, love. I don’t mind. I can’t say I understand half of what you talk about, I’ll admit that. But I know gardening makes you happy, and that makes me happy.” Ada picks up the bowls. “Here, put these on the table will you, Edith love,” She passes the bowls to her daughter. “Whilst I fetch out the pie from the warming oven.”
“Dinner is served!” George chortles, as he gets up and drags his chair over to the table.
Ada removes the steak and kidney pie from the warming oven and places it on the kitchen table between the three of their place settings. The crust glows golden brown, its decorative puffed edges raised to perfection as steam and the delicious aroma of meat, herbs and onion arises from it through the holes made in its top by Ada. She sighs with satisfaction, whilst her husband and daughter both sniff the air appreciatively.
“I seem to remember you used to grow flowers and vegetables in the back garden, Dad.” Edith remarks a little while later as she enjoys her meal of piping hot steak and kidney pie, boiled peas and carrots with her parents.
“Goodness! Fancy you remembering that!” George gasps. “You were only a toddler, back then!”
“Bert was still in his pram the last time you pulled a marrow from its vine out there.” Ada adds before taking a mouthful of her own meal.
“So, I wasn’t imagining it, then?” Edith ventures. “I thought I might have.”
“No, you weren’t, Edith love.” George acknowledges.
“I can’t imagine you growing anything out there,” Edith adds. “Grass barely grows out there in that miserable, gloomy yard.”
“Well, it wasn’t always like that, Edith love.”
“Your dad made a lovely garden out there: small, but manageable before you were born when we first came to live here.”
“I did!” George agrees, a wistful lilt in his voice as he remembers. “I had a small vegetable garden, and I grew asters, pinks, phlox and pansies too. Remember Ada love? You used to pick flowers to put in here.”
Edith smiles happily as she listens to her father.
“You used to pick flowers too, Edith love.” Ada adds. “Do you remember?”
“No, Mum. Did I?”
“Oh yes!” Ada explains. “You used to have your own little floral painted vase that I bought for a penny at a local flea market for you. You used to pick flowers close to the ground and put them in it.”
“You would have stripped my garden bare if I hadn’t stopped you.” George laughs.
“What happened then, to the garden?” Edith asks.
“Well, you’ve seen it out there, Edith love.” George replies as he cuts into his slice of pie, spraying tiny flecks of Ada’s golden pastry across his plate and onto the kitchen table’s bare surface as he does. “It’s too shady there now to grow much of anything.”
“Then what happened to make it like that, Dad?”
“Why the terrace of houses behind us, of course!” her mother remarks. “They cast the yard into shadow for too much of the day for any plant to really take root and grow.”
When Edith looks quizzically between her parents, George goes on, “It’s Mrs. Hounslow, again.”
“Now George.” Ada remarks warningly as she purses her lips and cocks her eyebrow as she eyes her husband at the table next to her.
“It’s alright, Ada love. I’m not speaking out of turn about Mrs. Hounslow. I’m only telling the truth.”
“What’s old Widow Hounslow to do with our back yard, Dad?” Edith asks. “Besides her owning it, that is?”
“Well, when you were born, the two-up two-down*************** terrace of houses wasn’t there. There were a couple of old, single storey cottages back from the time when Harlesden was still a village, on the next street.”
“They must have been a good hundred years old, or more, and they weren’t terribly well built in their time, and were in a shocking state of disrepair,” Ada pipes up, interrupting her husband. “No-one could live in them.”
“But the land was owned by Mr. Hounslow.” her father goes on. “But he never knocked the cottages down. Anyway, a little while after he died, Mrs. Hounslow had the old houses pulled down and she constructed the two storey terrace that’s there now. When there were just the cottages there, we had plenty of light for a garden, but now,” George shrugs. “Oh well.”
“That awful old Widow Hounslow knows how to spoil everyone’s fun.” Edith grumbles.
“What did I say about disparaging Mrs. Hounslow, Edith?” Ada remarks warningly as she eyes her daughter.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that old Mrs. Hounslow was all bad, Edith love.” George remarks.
“How so, Dad?” Edith asks before taking a drink of water from her glass, swallowing her mouthful of steak and kidney pie.
“Well, you might not believe this, Edith love, but it’s Mrs. Hounslow that Mr. Johnson, Mr. Pyecroft and all the working men like me have to thank for even having an allotment.”
Edith chokes on her mouthful of water. “Really?” she splutters. “Old Widow Hounslow?”
“Well, it is her land. She could have developed it and put some terraces on it, like this one, or the ones she built behind us, but she didn’t. She recognsied that we men wanted nice gardens, so she arranged the allotment for us.”
“Which you have to pay for.” Edith quips.
“No he doesn’t, Edith.” Ada ventures.
“Your Mum is right, Edith.” her father agrees. “I have to pay for my plants and fertiliser, but I don’t have to pay for my plot. They were gifts in perpetuity to the men and women gardeners of Harlesden to help provide some cheer, and make the lives of her tenants just a bit nicer.”
“In perpetuity?” Edith queries.
“That’s right. It means that she will never turn the site of the allotments over to any other purpose, and if Bert wants it when I die, he can take over the allotment.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Edith asks, doubting whether her seafaring brother will ever want to settle down in Harlesden and grow carrots, peas and cauliflowers, entering marrows in the local flower and vegetable show to try and win prizes, like her father.
“Then it goes to the next person on the waiting list. We have a list of men and women from hereabouts who would like a plot of their own, so the allotment committee decided that should anyone move away and leave their plot, or should someone without children pass on, or should the children of an allotment owner not want the plot, that it would be offered to the next person on the waiting list.”
“Is that right, Dad?” Edith asks a little more brightly.
“It is, and that’s why when Miss Bunting the organist at All Souls**************** died last winter of influenza, Mr. Corrigan of Ashdon Road was given her allotment. And we’re very grateful, as he has a better green thumb than she had in her later years, and he brought in a bumper crop of pears from her tree this year.”
“Did he now?” Edith asks.
“And he’s very generous with his produce,” Ada adds. “And I for one, am not too proud, and am really most grateful to accept a few of his Comice pears***************** to stew or put into a pie.”
“So, you see, Edith love, whatever you may think of Mrs. Hounslow and her penny-pinching ways, she’s really not all bad.”
*Meaning a person in authority, he origin of “his nibs” is obscure, but it might have come from the slang term “my nabs,” meaning “my gentleman” or “myself.” The word “nab,” refers to a head or a coxcomb (a fop or a dandy).
**One’s Sunday best is a term used for a person’s finest clothes. This expression, coined in the mid Nineteenth Century, alludes to reserving one's best clothes for going to church; indeed, an older idiom is Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes ( meeting here meaning “prayer meeting”).
***Barathea wool is a tightly woven fabric that is resistant to snagging and tearing, making it an ideal choice of fabric for suits, which were often the most expensive item in a man’s wardrobe in the 1920s. Due to its coarse texture, the fabric has natural recovery abilities and quickly returns back to its natural shape, barathea was popular to make suits from as working men usually only has one suit.
****Although it sounds formal in today’s society, in the 1920s, a respectable man would seldom be seen without a tie, thus differentiating himself from a common labourer who would have gone about without a tie. Perhaps the sporting arena was one of the few exceptions to the rule, meaning that a respectable man would have worn a tie even when relaxing at home or following more leisurely pursuits, like doing gardening.
*****The argyle diamond pattern derives loosely from the tartan of Clan Campbell of Argyll in western Scotland, used for kilts and plaids, and from the patterned socks worn by Scottish Highlanders since at least the Seventeenth Century (these were generally known as "tartan hose"). Modern argyle patterns, however, are usually not true tartans, as they have two solid colours side-by-side, which is not possible in a tartan weave (solid colours in tartan are next to blended colours and only touch other solid colours at their corners). Argyle knitwear became fashionable in Great Britain and then in the United States after the First World War. Pringle of Scotland popularised the design, helped by its identification with the Duke of Windsor. Argyle patterned socks, pullovers and vests were common sights across all classes throughout the 1920s and 1930s.
******A rag rug is a rug or mat made from rags. Small pieces of old fabric from damaged or worn clothes are recycled and are either hooked into or poked through a hessian backing, or else the strips are braided or plaited together to make a mat. Other names for this kind of rug are derived from the material or technique. Other names for this kind of rug are derived from the material (clippy or clootie rug) or technique (proggie or proddie rug, poke mats and peg mats). In Britain, these thrift rugs were popular in the Nineteenth Century and during the Great War in working class homes seeking to reuse precious material. The hessian back may have come from a food sack, whilst the fabrics could have been shirts, trousers or frocks that were too far gone to mend.
*******Soaking onions in cold water is an old fashioned remedy to help prevent crying when cutting onions. A cold water bath chills the onion, which slows down the production of the chemicals that cause our eyes to water.
********The British Empire Exhibition was a colonial exhibition held at Wembley Park, London England from 23 April to 1 November 1924 and from 9 May to 31 October 1925. In 1920 the British Government decided to site the British Empire Exhibition at Wembley Park, on the site of the pleasure gardens created by Edward Watkin in the 1890s. A British Empire Exhibition had first been proposed in 1902, by the British Empire League, and again in 1913. The Russo-Japanese War had prevented the first plan from being developed and World War I put an end to the second, though there had been a Festival of Empire in 1911, held in part at Crystal Palace. One of the reasons for the suggestion was a sense that other powers, like America and Japan, were challenging Britain on the world stage. Despite victory in Great War, this was in some ways even truer in 1919. The country had economic problems and its naval supremacy was being challenged by two of its former allies, the United States and Japan. In 1917 Britain had committed itself eventually to leave India, which effectively signalled the end of the British Empire to anyone who thought about the consequences, while the Dominions had shown little interest in following British foreign policy since the war. It was hoped that the Exhibition would strengthen the bonds within the Empire, stimulate trade and demonstrate British greatness both abroad and at home, where the public was believed to be increasingly uninterested in Empire, preferring other distractions, such as the cinema.
*********An ironmonger is the old fashioned term for someone who sells items, tools and equipment for use in homes and gardens: what today we would call a hardware shop. Ironmongery stems from the forges of blacksmiths and the workshops of woodworkers. Ironmongery can refer to a wide variety of metal items, including door handles, cabinet knobs, window fittings, hinges, locks, and latches. It can also refer to larger items, such as metal gates and railings. By the 1920s when this story is set, the ironmonger may also have sold cast iron cookware and crockery for the kitchen and even packets of seeds for the nation of British gardeners, as quoted by the Scot, Adam Smith.
**********Although by the mid 1980s, many shops, particularly larger department stores, flouted the law, Sunday trading only became legalised in the United Kingdom and Wales in 1994. Sundays were always considered sacrosanct, although small High Street businesses selling essentials, such as bakers, were allowed to open for a short period on Sundays. The Shops Act legislated that large shops were to remain closed on Sundays. Goods were not allowed to be shipped on Sundays, and many shops also had a half-day where doors would close early on a certain weekday, as decided by each local council.
**********Edward Webb and Sons, known more commonly simply as Webbs, were an English seed merchants or seedsmen, dating back to around 1850 when Edward Webb started a business in Wordsley, near Stourbridge. By the 1890s, Webb and Sons had been appointed seedsmen to Queen Victoria, and had become a household name around Britain. Fertilisers being crucial to the nursery industry, the Webbs in 1894 took over Proctor and Ryland, a well-known bone manure works in Saltney near Chester, and considerably expanded its activities, becoming Saltney's second largest business. Edward Webb and Sons were awarded a Gold Medal at the Royal Horticultural Society's Chelsea Flower Show in 1914. During World War II the firm was the primary supplier of grass seeds and fertiliser for airfields, both under the Air Ministry and local municipalities. The seeds used for this purpose were chosen to withstand heavy aircraft traffic. Webb and Sons also assisted in the camouflage of landing strips.
***********Carrots grow best in cool weather, so they are usually planted in early spring for an early summer harvest, or late summer for an autumn and early winter harvest. They are easy to grow from seed.
************Roundwood Park takes its name from Roundwood House, an Elizabethan-style mansion built in Harlesden for Lord Decies in around 1836. In 1892 Willesden Local Board, conscious of a need for a recreation ground in expanding Harlesden, started the process of buying the land for what is now Roundwood Park. Roundwood Park was built in 1893, designed by Oliver Claude Robson. He was allocated nine thousand pounds to lay out the park. He put in five miles of drains, and planted an additional fourteen and a half thousand trees and shrubs. This took quite a long time as he used local unemployed labour for this work in preference to contractors. Mr. Robson had been the Surveyor of the Willesden Local Board since 1875. As an engineer, he was responsible for many major works in Willesden including sewerage and roads. The fine main gates and railings were made in 1895 by Messrs. Tickner & Partington at theVulcan Works, Harrow Road, Kensal Rise. An elegant lodge house was built to house the gardener; greenhouses erected to supply new flowers, and paths constructed, running upward to the focal point-an elegant bandstand on the top of the hill. The redbrick lodge was in the Victorian Elizabethan style, with ornamented chimney-breasts. It is currently occupied by council employees although the green houses have been demolished. For many years Roundwood Park was home to the Willesden Show. Owners of pets of many types, flowers and vegetables, and even 'bonny babies' would compete for prizes in large canvas tents. Art and crafts were shown, and demonstrations of dog-handling, sheep-shearing, parachuting and trick motorcycling given.
*************Two-up two-down is a type of small house with two rooms on the ground floor and two bedrooms upstairs. There are many types of terraced houses in the United Kingdom, and these are among the most modest. The first two-up two-down terraces were built in the 1870s, but the concept of them made up the backbone of the Metroland suburban expansions of the 1920s with streets lined with rows of two-up two-down semi-detached houses in Mock Tudor, Jacobethan, Arts and Crafts and inter-war Art Deco styles bastardised from the aesthetic styles created by the likes of English Arts and Crafts Movement designers like William Morris and Charles Voysey.
**************The parish of All Souls, Harlesden, was formed in 1875 from Willesden, Acton, St John's, Kensal Green, and Hammersmith. Mission services had been held by the curate of St Mary's, Willesden, at Harlesden institute from 1858. The parish church at Station Road, Harlesden, was built and consecrated in 1879. The town centre church is a remarkable brick octagon designed by E.J. Tarver. Originally there was a nave which was extended in 1890 but demolished in 1970.
***************The Doyenné du Comice pear originated in France, where it was first grown at the Comice Horticole in Angers in the 1840s. The Comice pear is large and greenish-yellow, with a red blush and some russeting. Its flesh is pale, melting, and very juicy. Because the skin is very delicate and easily bruised, it requires special handling and is not well suited to mechanical packing. The Comice pear has received great acclaim. The London Horticultural Journal in 1894 called it the best pear in the world. It is the most widely grown pear tree variety in the United Kingdom today because of its cropping reliability, good disease resistance and self-fertility.
This 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.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
George’s basket, which comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, is full of and surrounded by delightful little vegetable seed packets. These seed packets are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Ken Blythe is better known for his miniature books. 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. This however does not extend to these packets, whose graphics are on full display for all to see. Like his books, the vegetable seed packets are copies of real packets of Webbs seeds. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. 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.
To the right of the basket of seeds is a rather worn and beaten looking enamelled jug in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green. Aged on purpose, this artisan piece I acquired from The Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.
Behind the basket of seeds and jug, standing on the hearth is a wooden crate from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures, which contains a bunch of lettuce. 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.
George’s high black gardening boots I acquired from Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, who are better known for their wonderful array of authentic packaged food stuffs, but also do a small line of shoes and shoe boxes.
George’s Windsor chair is a hand-turned 1:12 artisan miniature which came from America. Unfortunately, the artist did not carve their name under the seat of either chair, but it is definitely an unmarked artisan pieces.
The large kitchen range which serves as a backdrop for this photo is a 1:12 miniature replica of the coal fed Phoenix Kitchen Range. A mid-Victorian model, it has hinged opening doors, hanging bars above the stove and a little bass hot water tap (used in the days before plumbed hot water).
The worn old kettle comes from an online stockists of miniatures on eBay.
The brooms and brushes in the background from a mixture of places including Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures, Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop and Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The tiny mousetrap also comes from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop.
