in front of the mini Colosseum, and take pictures with flash. Some holiday-makers are in and out in less than half an hour. Refusing the tour strikes me as especially rude since the gorgeous specimen of Arts and Crafts architecture in which you now stand used to be Jemima’s home. So, I appreciate the time that you are taking with me today. You three are going to get the best experience that this place can offer.
Jemima was born in 1932 and started her work in miniatures when she was nine years old. The first of her models was a giftfrom an English uncle who claimed to be called Barnaby Supple, though everyone knew that this wasn’t a family name. She met him only once, when he showed up unannounced at the door of her family’s home in the summer of 1941. He likely declared his presence using the original feature you no doubt noticed on your way in, the brass monkey’s head knocker. Although Mr. Hendricks had not seen his older brother since before Jemima was born, I like to imagine that he opened the door slowly and shot a worried look at his wife, as if Barnaby might try to sell them an afterlife they didn’t want.
Barnaby was a barber by trade, which anyone could see by observing his own luxuriant waxed mustache. Years later in her diaries, Jemima reflected on that day and wrote that she had never met anyone like him – and certainly no one who seemed to have thought more about the appearance than the function of his clothes, or who had a sense of style beyond the necessities of day-to-day life. She could not stop staring at his striped trousers and his tweed waistcoat with its flat ivory buttons that sat smooth even over his rotund tummy. He looked like a sea-bedraggled walrus in its Sunday best, bringing the whole ocean in with him. Jemima’s mother scolded her for staring, and sent her to fetch the tea, which Jemima made and carried back to the living room as quickly as she could. Once he’d settled in and the tea was steeping on a tray beside him, Barnaby knelt down on the floor beside Jemima and shook her hand with the same level of formality he had offered her parents. Then, he reached into his battered suitcase and handed Jemima a Make-Your-Own Victorian Dollhouse kit. On the box was an illustration of a girl prettierand sweeter and blonder than Jemima, holding up a giant pair of craft scissors.
Along with the dollhouse, Barnaby gave Jemima bangs that made her face look as round as a dinner plate. Her new ragged haircut accentuated the worry lines she had already developed on her forehead, and she tried unsuccessfully to blow them out of the way when she sat with the grown-ups at dinner. The wrinkles deepened when she opened the box carefully and started to lay out the pieces of her first project on the floor. This very floor, in fact, where we stand now, though at that time there was an ornate floral-printed area rug. She wanted to unpack the toy in just the right way, and was nervous about disappointing Barnaby, who sat close by, waiting expectantly for her reaction to the present. The people in the kit were two-dimensional figures cut in perforated lines and all she had to do was pop the shapes out of thin wooden sheets as you would with a paper doll. The house had clear instructions: slot A fits into B, then C into D, then on go the two pieces of the roof and there you have it! A bungalow! The house came together so quickly and looked so professional that for a moment Jemima could almost imagine that she was not herself after all, but was the girl on the box: all ribbon and satin and handmade glory.
Uncle Barnaby helped with the kit by galumphing onto the floor, settling on the carpet beside her, and holding the house still as well as his trembling hands would allow him while Jemima daubed glue onto the chimney. (Apparently, he also played with the dolls and made them kiss each other, which scandalized Jemima, who even in her youth preferredconstruction to play-acting.) No adult before Barnaby had
Jemima was born in 1932 and started her work in miniatures when she was nine years old. The first of her models was a giftfrom an English uncle who claimed to be called Barnaby Supple, though everyone knew that this wasn’t a family name. She met him only once, when he showed up unannounced at the door of her family’s home in the summer of 1941. He likely declared his presence using the original feature you no doubt noticed on your way in, the brass monkey’s head knocker. Although Mr. Hendricks had not seen his older brother since before Jemima was born, I like to imagine that he opened the door slowly and shot a worried look at his wife, as if Barnaby might try to sell them an afterlife they didn’t want.
Barnaby was a barber by trade, which anyone could see by observing his own luxuriant waxed mustache. Years later in her diaries, Jemima reflected on that day and wrote that she had never met anyone like him – and certainly no one who seemed to have thought more about the appearance than the function of his clothes, or who had a sense of style beyond the necessities of day-to-day life. She could not stop staring at his striped trousers and his tweed waistcoat with its flat ivory buttons that sat smooth even over his rotund tummy. He looked like a sea-bedraggled walrus in its Sunday best, bringing the whole ocean in with him. Jemima’s mother scolded her for staring, and sent her to fetch the tea, which Jemima made and carried back to the living room as quickly as she could. Once he’d settled in and the tea was steeping on a tray beside him, Barnaby knelt down on the floor beside Jemima and shook her hand with the same level of formality he had offered her parents. Then, he reached into his battered suitcase and handed Jemima a Make-Your-Own Victorian Dollhouse kit. On the box was an illustration of a girl prettierand sweeter and blonder than Jemima, holding up a giant pair of craft scissors.
Along with the dollhouse, Barnaby gave Jemima bangs that made her face look as round as a dinner plate. Her new ragged haircut accentuated the worry lines she had already developed on her forehead, and she tried unsuccessfully to blow them out of the way when she sat with the grown-ups at dinner. The wrinkles deepened when she opened the box carefully and started to lay out the pieces of her first project on the floor. This very floor, in fact, where we stand now, though at that time there was an ornate floral-printed area rug. She wanted to unpack the toy in just the right way, and was nervous about disappointing Barnaby, who sat close by, waiting expectantly for her reaction to the present. The people in the kit were two-dimensional figures cut in perforated lines and all she had to do was pop the shapes out of thin wooden sheets as you would with a paper doll. The house had clear instructions: slot A fits into B, then C into D, then on go the two pieces of the roof and there you have it! A bungalow! The house came together so quickly and looked so professional that for a moment Jemima could almost imagine that she was not herself after all, but was the girl on the box: all ribbon and satin and handmade glory.
Uncle Barnaby helped with the kit by galumphing onto the floor, settling on the carpet beside her, and holding the house still as well as his trembling hands would allow him while Jemima daubed glue onto the chimney. (Apparently, he also played with the dolls and made them kiss each other, which scandalized Jemima, who even in her youth preferredconstruction to play-acting.) No adult before Barnaby had
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