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 home of Lettice’s newest potential client, Mrs. Hatchett.
As requested, when the steam of the train carrying Lettice from London to Rotherfield and Mark Cross cleared, there stood Mrs. Hatchett’s chauffer, dressed in a smart black uniform. As the Worsley turned into the gates above which the name of the house was emblazoned in wrought iron curlicues, she prepared for the worst, but was pleasantly surprised to find that ‘The Gables’ was in fact a rather lovely Arts and Crafts country house with prominent gabling, from which it obviously took its name, sitting amidst a sympathetic and charming informal English garden.
Now sitting in Mrs. Hatchett’s old fashioned and overstuffed drawing room awaiting tea with her hostess, Lettice tries very hard not to pass judgement on her as she looks about her at all the heavy Victorian furnishings and clutter.
“I did warn you, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett begins, her apologetic tones bursting the silence only broken by the soft tick of the French barrel clock on the mantlepiece. “It is a bit of a mausoleum.”
Lettice has already counted five vases and just as many photograph frames that needlessly clutter the stylish Georgian style mantle. “No, no,” she interjects diplomatically with a defensive wave of her hands. “Victoriana can be quite charming Mrs. Hatchett. I know the Mater and Pater have plenty of it in our family home.”
“You are kind Miss Chetwynd, but I would imagine that your family home is much grander than ‘The Gables’ and therefore far more able to manage Victorian furnishings elegantly. Please let us not pretend that it is anything more than clutter here.” Mrs. Hatchett looks about her in dismay.
“Well…” Lettice begins, shifting awkwardly on the red velvet button back upholstered armchair.
“I didn’t invite you here today to approve of what you see, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett interrupts her guest. “But rather for you to reimagine what it could be, if you stripped all this old fashioned tatt out.”
A stifled gasp and a sniff interrupt her as a parlour maid appears at the door with a silver tray laden with tea things and a selection of biscuits.
“Oh! Thank you, Augusta. You may put the tea things here.” Mrs. Hatchett indicates to the oval table between the two women.
“My mistress barely five minutes in her grave,” the maid mutters.
“Thank you, Augusta!” Mrs. Hatchett snaps. “Miss Chetwynd doesn’t care to hear your opinion about the drawing room furnishings.”
Berated, the parlour maid silently sets out the tea things and retreats, but just as she reaches the door she says defiantly, “It’s not ‘tatt’, Madam!” And leaves.
“I’m so sorry Miss Chetwynd, like almost everything in this house, Augusta is the former Mrs. Hatchett’s legacy.” Picking up a photo in an ornate frame on the pedestal table next to her, she continues in a wistful voice, “It wasn’t what I imagined.”
“What wasn’t, Mrs. Hatchett?”
“My marriage.” She hands the portrait of herself and her handsome husband to Lettice. “You don’t imagine when you marry a dashing man in uniform,”
“He was a captain, wasn’t he?” Lettice looks at the stylish wartime couple in the wedding portrait.
“Yes, Charlie was a captain in the air force. He was handsome and smart, and so self-possessed in his stance that he radiated confidence.”
“And you…”
“I was a pretty chorus girl in ‘Chu Chin Chow’*, and he swept me off my feet. We were married after a whirlwind romance.” She smiles. “Well, it was wartime, wasn’t it? There was no time for a lengthy pre-war courtship. And then his leave was over, and I found myself married and rather than living in exciting London like I was used to, I found myself buried here in the country and living under my mother-in-law’s roof with Charlie flying over into France.”
“I see.” Lettice replies.
“Oh, I’m sure you don’t, Miss Chetwynd. You see, I didn’t realise until after the war, what a mummy’s boy I’d married. Handsome, yes, Charlie is handsome, but as soon as the uniform came off, he lost all his self-possession and went straight back to being under his domineering mother’s thumb and following her wishes. We stayed living here rather than have a home of our own, and he just let her undermine me and overrule me as his wife. I was nothing here. She never approved of the ‘chorus girl’. What would I know? No, the respectable Victorian widow knew how to hire and manage staff, plan meals and parties for her son, and was strict about ‘not redecorating’. I couldn’t change anything in the room we were given, which I’m sure was a guest bedroom. I’m surprised I was even allowed to hang my clothes in the wardrobe. Nasty old trout she was: so anxious to fling me out like yesterday’s newspaper!”
“So that’s why you want to throw all this,” Lettice waves her hands about her. “Out.”
“It’s not just that Miss Chetwynd, although I must confess I’d be happy to erase every last trace of my mother-in-law from this earth. Look, I know you don’t need me as one of your clients when you have duchesses and other titled ladies wanting you to decorate for them. I know that to you, like everyone in your class, that I am just a brash social climber with too much money: the chorus girl who found herself a rich banker. I don’t have the right pedigree, have the right manners or the right clothes. I try too hard to fit in, and the harder I try the more obvious I become.” She reaches out and grasps Lettice’s hand tightly. “But I need you, Miss Chetwynd. Not to try and ape the houses of peers with your taste, but to help support me to support my husband, and the only way I can do that, is to shine out from the tarnished shadow of his mother. Now that she is dead, Charlie has some of that confidence I fell in love with back and is finally embarking on doing something that he wants to do.”
“And what is that?”
“He wants to enter politics. When the war ended, the government announced that the men would come home to ‘homes fit for heroes’, but here we are, two years on since the armistice and there are men who fought for the empire, living in a disused prison in Worcestershire**. Can you imagine how they feel? The intention of the government is there, but where is the will? Charlie wants to represent these men, and that’s why I need you to decorate this house. I want to be able to entertain here to further Charlie’s political intentions, and I can’t do it when it looks like this. Contrary to my dead mother-in-law’s opinion, although I’m sure she knew better, I have confidence. I can entertain the influential and shine brilliantly as a hostess, but in order for me to do that, I need a house that represents Charlie and me.” She looks down at the tea table. “Oh damn that woman!”
“Who?” Lettice queries. “The former Mrs. Hatchett?”
“No, that wretched Augusta, although it may just as well be my scheming mother-in-law commanding from her grave! She has intentionally forgotten the teaspoons in order to show me up in front of you and make you think I’m an uncivilised chorus girl!” She pushes the servant’s bell by the fireplace. “Well, the sooner she is replaced, the better! Oh blast! I forgot the bell in here is out of service awaiting the repair man. I’ll be back in a moment, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Hatchett scuttles away, her receding heels clicking on the polished wooden floor of the corridor outside.
Lettice sits back uncomfortably in her chair and feels terribly guilty. A few minutes later, Mrs Hatchett returns with the missing teaspoons. She puts them down and smiles with satisfaction.
“Mrs Hatchett,” Lettice says, looking squarely at her hostess. “I owe you an apology.”
“Me, Miss Chetwynd? Goodness! What could you possibly need to apologise to me for?”
“For my snobbery, Mrs. Hatchett.”
Mrs. Hatchett waits for Lettice to continue.
“You’re right Mrs. Hatchett. We all read or heard the story about the ‘chorus girl who married the pilot who owned a bank’. None of us bothered… wanted, to know you. We all sit in judgement and laugh as you try with us and fail. So, don’t! Forget society and embrace politics. I really admire what you and your husband are trying to achieve now that I know about it. You may not be the kind of client my family, or even my friends want me to have, but I’m not always one to stick with social conventions. I’ll decorate your home for you, if you would like me to.”
“Yes, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett smiles gratefully. “I would like you to, very much!”
*‘Chu Chin Chow’ is a musical comedy written, produced and directed by Oscar Asche, with music by Frederic Norton, based on the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. It was the most popular show in London’s West End during the Great War. It premiered at His Majesty’s Theatre in London on the 3rd of August 1916 and ran for 2,238 performances, a record number that stood for nearly forty years!
** After the Great War, the plan was for house building programs for returned soldiers, dubbed ‘homes fit for heroes’. However, in 1921 European economic crisis saw the withdrawal of these programs. In Britain families were housed in many disused spaces available including a defunct prison in Worcestershire, with a single cell allotted per family!
This overstuffed and cluttered Victorian drawing room would have looked very old fashioned by 1920, and certainly to a young and modern flapper such as Lettice, or even a middle-aged woman like Mrs. Hatchett. This upper-middle-class domestic scene 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.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
The family photos on the mantlepiece and Mrs. Hatchett’s wedding photo on the pedestal table at the right of the picture 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 on the pedestal table and the matching one on the far left of the fireplace I have had since I acquired them from a specialist dolls’ house supplier when I was a teenager.
The marble French barrel clock on the mantlepiece is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England. Made of resin with a marble effect, it has had the gilding picked out by hand and contains a beautifully detailed face beneath a miniature glass cover.
The vase of flowers on the left-hand side of the fireplace is made beautifully by hand to extraordinary and realistic standards by Falcon Miniatures in England. This vase contains red roses, bearded blue Dutch irises and white lilies.
The walnut sideboard on the right-hand side of the fireplace is made by Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late eighteenth century. The sideboard features ornate carvings, finials and a mirrored back. On it stand three miniature grading jugs, a hand painted fruit bowl that I also bought as a teenager and two cranberry glass vases that have been hand blown and made from real glass by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. Beautifully Handmade miniatures also made the cranberry glass comport in the foreground and the tea set and plate of biscuits set out for Lettice and Mrs. Hatchett. On the sideboard’s upper shelf stands a bust of Queen Victoria made of pewter by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland which has been hand painted by me. The horse trophy on the mantlepiece at the back is also a Warwick Miniatures 1:12 miniature made of pewter.
The Art Nouveau jardiniere and the squat vase next to the wedding photo on the pedestal table were supplied by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in England.
The Victorian red velvet button back suite of gentleman’s and lady’s armchairs, settee, central pedestal table and occasional tables I bought from a high street dolls’ house supplier when I was twelve. Sets like this are still made in their millions today for doll houses around the world, but I have noticed that the quality in detail and finishing has diminished over the ensuing years.
The miniature Persian rug on the floor is made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney.
The two Georgian silhouettes of the gentleman and the lady are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Lady Mile Miniatures in England. The other two paintings of horses are also 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The wallpaper is William Morris’ ‘Compton’ pattern, featuring stylised Art Nouveau poppies. William Morris papers and fabrics were popular in the late Victorian and early Edwardian period before the Great War.
The wooden Georgian fire surround is made by Town Hall Miniatures, supplied through Melody Jane Dolls’ House Suppliers in England.
