I’ve been fascinated by my friend’s collection of dolls houses since I first saw them a few years ago. They take up the longest wall in one of her upstairs rooms. I think there are six of them, various sizes, set out on a deep shelf with drawers beneath. The drawers hold all the tiny bits and pieces not in use and items to make things or decorate with. Some of the houses have beautifully made gardens. There is a kitchen garden with vegetables growing perfectly. The inside of the houses are set out and decorated according to the time of year. It was summer one year when I was calling in to water plants and keep an eye on things while my friend was on holiday. The miniature street looked warm and sunny with open windows and a picnic on one of the lawns. I’ve seen it all decked out for Christmas, complete with tiny coloured lights and the whole thing looking splendid. It is a fabulous hobby and I used to fancy getting an Edwardian townhouse and setting it up in ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ style, or making an old-fashioned pub with a nod to my background.
The area I was keeping free for such a project became the
ideal place to house the gerbils. We had two in an open fish tank filled with
wood chippings, fluffy animal stuff like cotton wool and usually an empty loo roll
or kitchen roll to play with. They liked running through them as if they were
tunnels. When fed up with them, they ripped them into strips and added them to
their nest. My children were still at primary school. The cats had gone to cat
heaven, as had a couple of hamsters and we hadn’t yet introduced a family dog.
By the time the gerbils expired, so had some of my eyesight
and twiddling with miniature furniture and tiny household items was beyond me.
I was and still am interested in my friend’s hobby and I find pieces to gift
her. One of the many Christmas trees is a present from me and we found some
cakes and bakery things in a specialist shop while on one of our jaunts.
A special gift from my friend to me is something I will
always treasure. She turned an ordinary shoebox into a miniature living room
for me, putting in my favourite things, even a photo of my husband and I hanging
on the wall. I was speechless at the time and I still love it as much as I did
then. It is me. I think the knitting has fallen off the chair a few times over
the years, but it’s fine, and the DVDs, CDs and books, she knows me so well.
Jane Eyre. Good choice. It would be that or Wuthering
Heights, or Rebecca, but I’m glad she chose a Bronte for me. I’ve loved all of
their books and I’ve been fortunate to enjoy many visits to Haworth Parsonage.
One visit was in the summer of 2005. It was 150 years since Charlotte’s death
and a special exhibition displayed some of her clothing and personal
belongings. At only 4’6” tall and slim, she was very petite. Her outfits were
almost miniature versions of her sisters’ attire. Her boots and bonnets, like
those of a child’s. Luckily for me, the hand-written miniature books, at least
some of them, were on show.
When the Brontes were children, their father, Rev. Patrick
Bronte, gave them a box of wooden toy soldiers. Each child chose their own
soldier, gave them names and made them into characters for what became the
stories of Glasstown. The children branched out, Charlotte and Branwell wrote
about Angria, and Emily and Anne wrote about Gondal. They wrote their stories
in tiny script using fine nibs and magnifying glasses then made them into
little books for the toy soldiers to hold. Not all have survived, but I’m glad
for what has been saved.
I need another visit, when we can.
My poem,
Perched on the chilly window seatShe looked down, watching the mourners
Moving slowly with the coffin,
Listening to the solemn drum beat
For the second time that morning.
Squinting through the grey, wint'ry mist
Beyond the gravestones to the church
Her whispered prayer clouded the glass
And she drew a 'C' in her breath,
Just as Branwell beckoned her down
To write Angria's next chapter
For their soldier's miniature book.
PMW 2021
Thanks for reading, stay safe, Pam x