The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories

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      The following stories started with a single question.

      Who was Catherine Housley’s mother?

      But one question leads to another, and another, and so this book will never be finished.  This is the first in a collection of stories of a family history research project, not a complete family history.  There will always be more questions and more searches, and each new find presents more questions.

      A list of names and dates is only moderately interesting, and doesn’t mean much unless you get to know the characters along the way.   For example, a cousin on my fathers side has already done a great deal of thorough and accurate family research. I copied one branch of the family onto my tree, going back to the 1500’s, but lost interest in it after about an hour or so, because I didn’t feel I knew any of the individuals.

      Parish registers, the census every ten years, birth, death and marriage certificates can tell you so much, but they can’t tell you why.  They don’t tell you why parents chose the names they did for their children, or why they moved, or why they married in another town.  They don’t tell you why a person lived in another household, or for how long. The census every ten years doesn’t tell you what people were doing in the intervening years, and in the case of the UK and the hundred year privacy rule, we can’t even use those for the past century.  The first census was in 1831 in England, prior to that all we have are parish registers. An astonishing amount of them have survived and have been transcribed and are one way or another available to see, both transcriptions and microfiche images.  Not all of them survived, however. Sometimes the writing has faded to white, sometimes pages are missing, and in some case the entire register is lost or damaged.

      Sometimes if you are lucky, you may find mention of an ancestor in an obscure little local history book or a journal or diary.  Wills, court cases, and newspaper archives often provide interesting information. Town memories and history groups on social media are another excellent source of information, from old photographs of the area, old maps, local history, and of course, distantly related relatives still living in the area.  Local history societies can be useful, and some if not all are very helpful.

      If you’re very lucky indeed, you might find a distant relative in another country whose grandparents saved and transcribed bundles of old letters found in the attic, from the family in England to the brother who emigrated, written in the 1800s.  More on this later, as it merits its own chapter as the most exciting find so far.

      The social history of the time and place is important and provides many clues as to why people moved and why the family professions and occupations changed over generations.  The Enclosures Act and the Industrial Revolution in England created difficulties for rural farmers, factories replaced cottage industries, and the sons of land owning farmers became shop keepers and miners in the local towns.  For the most part (at least in my own research) people didn’t move around much unless there was a reason.  There are no reasons mentioned in the various registers, records and documents, but with a little reading of social history you can sometimes make a good guess.  Samuel Housley, for example, a plumber, probably moved from rural Derbyshire to urban Wolverhampton, when there was a big project to install indoor plumbing to areas of the city in the early 1800s.  Derbyshire nailmakers were offered a job and a house if they moved to Wolverhampton a generation earlier.

      Occasionally a couple would marry in another parish, although usually they married in their own. Again, there was often a reason.  William Housley and Ellen Carrington married in Ashbourne, not in Smalley.  In this case, William’s first wife was Mary Carrington, Ellen’s sister.  It was not uncommon for a man to marry a deceased wife’s sister, but it wasn’t strictly speaking legal.  This caused some problems later when William died, as the children of the first wife contested the will, on the grounds of the second marriage being illegal.

      Needless to say, there are always questions remaining, and often a fresh pair of eyes can help find a vital piece of information that has escaped you.  In one case, I’d been looking for the death of a widow, Mary Anne Gilman, and had failed to notice that she remarried at a late age. Her death was easy to find, once I searched for it with her second husbands name.

      This brings me to the topic of maternal family lines. One tends to think of their lineage with the focus on paternal surnames, but very quickly the number of surnames increases, and all of the maternal lines are directly related as much as the paternal name.  This is of course obvious, if you start from the beginning with yourself and work back.  In other words, there is not much point in simply looking for your fathers name hundreds of years ago because there are hundreds of other names that are equally your own family ancestors. And in my case, although not intentionally, I’ve investigated far more maternal lines than paternal.

      This book, which I hope will be the first of several, will concentrate on my mothers family: The story so far that started with the portrait of Catherine Housley’s mother.

      Elizabeth Brookes


      This painting, now in my mothers house, used to hang over the piano in the home of her grandparents.   It says on the back “Catherine Housley’s mother, Smalley”.

      The portrait of Catherine Housley’s mother can be seen above the piano. Back row Ronald Marshall, my grandfathers brother, William Marshall, my great grandfather, Mary Ann Gilman Purdy Marshall in the middle, my great grandmother, with her daughters Dorothy on the left and Phyllis on the right, at the Marshall’s house on Love Lane in Stourbridge.




      The Search for Samuel Housley

      As soon as the search for Catherine Housley’s mother was resolved, achieved by ordering a paper copy of her birth certificate, the search for Catherine Housley’s father commenced. We know he was born in Smalley in 1816, son of William Housley and Ellen Carrington, and that he married Elizabeth Brookes in Wolverhampton in 1844. He was a plumber and glazier. His three daughters born between 1845 and 1849 were born in Smalley. Elizabeth died in 1849 of consumption, but Samuel didn’t register her death. A 20 year old neighbour called Aaron Wadkinson did.

      Elizabeth death


      Where was Samuel?

      On the 1851 census, two of Samuel’s daughters were listed as inmates in the Belper Workhouse, and the third, 2 year old Catherine, was listed as living with John Benniston and his family in nearby Heanor.  Benniston was a framework knitter.

      Where was Samuel?

      A long search through the microfiche workhouse registers provided an answer. The reason for Elizabeth and Mary Anne’s admission in June 1850 was given as “father in prison”. In May 1850, Samuel Housley was sentenced to one month hard labour at Derby Gaol for failing to maintain his three children. What happened to those little girls in the year after their mothers death, before their father was sentenced, and they entered the workhouse? Where did Catherine go, a six week old baby? We have yet to find out.

      Samuel Housley 1850


      And where was Samuel Housley in 1851? He hasn’t appeared on any census.

      According to the Belper workhouse registers, Mary Anne was discharged on trial as a servant February 1860. She was readmitted a month later in March 1860, the reason given: unwell.

      Belper Workhouse:

      Belper Workhouse

      Eventually, Mary Anne and Elizabeth were discharged, in April 1860, with an aunt and uncle. The workhouse register doesn’t name the aunt and uncle. One can only wonder why it took them so long.
      On the 1861 census, Elizabeth, 16 years old, is a servant in St Peters, Derby, and Mary Anne, 15 years old, is a servant in St Werburghs, Derby.

      But where was Samuel?

      After some considerable searching, we found him, despite a mistranscription of his name, on the 1861 census, living as a lodger and plumber in Darlaston, Walsall.
      Eventually we found him on a 1871 census living as a lodger at the George and Dragon in Henley in Arden. The age is not exactly right, but close enough, he is listed as an unmarried painter, also close enough, and his birth is listed as Kidsley, Derbyshire. He was born at Kidsley Grange Farm. We can assume that he was probably alive in 1872, the year his mother died, and the following year, 1873, during the Kerry vs Housley court case.

      Samuel Housley 1871


      I found some living Housley descendants in USA. Samuel Housley’s brother George emigrated there in 1851. The Housley’s in USA found letters in the attic, from the family in Smalley ~ written between 1851 and 1870s. They sent me a “Narrative on the Letters” with many letter excerpts.

      The Housley family were embroiled in a complicated will and court case in the early 1870s. In December 15, 1872, Joseph (Samuel’s brother) wrote to George:

      “I think we have now found all out now that is concerned in the matter for there was only Sam that we did not know his whereabouts but I was informed a week ago that he is dead–died about three years ago in Birmingham Union. Poor Sam. He ought to have come to a better end than that….His daughter and her husband went to Birmingham and also to Sutton Coldfield that is where he married his wife from and found out his wife’s brother. It appears he has been there and at Birmingham ever since he went away but ever fond of drink.”

      No record of Samuel Housley’s death can be found for the Birmingham Union in 1869 or thereabouts.

      But if he was alive in 1871 in Henley In Arden…..
      Did Samuel tell his wife’s brother to tell them he was dead? Or did the brothers say he was dead so they could have his share?

      We still haven’t found a death for Samuel Housley.



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    • #6242

        The Housley Letters

        We discovered that one of Samuel’s brothers, George Housley 1826-1877,  emigrated to America in 1851, to Solebury, in Pennsylvania. Another brother, Charles 1823-1856, emigrated to Australia at the same time.

        I wrote to the Solebury Historical Society to ask them if they had any information on the Housleys there. About a month later I had a very helpful and detailed reply from them.

        There were Housley people in Solebury Township and nearby communities from 1854 to at least 1973, perhaps 1985. George Housley immigrated in 1851, arriving in New York from London in July 1851 on the ship “Senator”. George was in Solebury by 1854, when he is listed on the tax roles for the Township He didn’t own land at that time. Housley family members mostly lived in the Lumberville area, a village in Solebury, or in nearby Buckingham or Wrightstown. The second wife of Howard (aka Harry) Housley was Elsa (aka Elsie) R. Heed, the daughter of the Lumberville Postmaster. Elsie was the proprietor of the Lumberville General Store from 1939 to 1973, and may have continued to live in Lumberville until her death in 1985. The Lumberville General Store was, and still is, a focal point of the community. The store was also the official Post Office at one time, hence the connection between Elsie’s father as Postmaster, and Elsie herself as the proprietor of the store. The Post Office function at Lumberville has been reduced now to a bank of cluster mailboxes, and official U.S. Postal functions are now in Point Pleasant, PA a few miles north of Lumberville.
        We’ve attached a pdf of the Housley people buried in Carversville Cemetery, which is in the town next to Lumberville, and is still in Solebury Township. We hope this list will confirm that these are your relatives.

        It doesn’t seem that any Housley people still live in the area. Some of George’s descendents moved to Wilkes-Barre, PA and Flemington, NJ. One descendent, Barbara Housley, lived in nearby Doylestown, PA, which is the county seat for Bucks County. She actually visited Solebury Township Historical Society looking for Housley relatives, and it would have been nice to connect you with her. Unfortunately she died in 2018. Her obituary is attached in case you want to follow up with the nieces and great nieces who are listed.

        Lumberville General Store, Pennsylvania, Elsie Housley:



        I noticed the name of Barbara’s brother Howard Housley in her obituary, and found him on facebook.  I knew it was the right Howard Housley as I recognized Barbara’s photograph in his friends list as the same photo in the obituary.  Howard didn’t reply initially to a friend request from a stranger, so I found his daughter Laura on facebook and sent her a message.  She replied, spoke to her father, and we exchanged email addresses and were able to start a correspondence.  I simply could not believe my luck when Howard sent me a 17 page file of Barbara’s Narrative on the Letters with numerous letter excerpts interspersed with her own research compiled on a six month trip to England.

        The letters were written to George between 1851 and the 1870s, from the Housley family in Smalley.

        Narrative of Historic Letters ~ Barbara Housley.
        In February 1991, I took a picture of my 16 month old niece Laura Ann Housley standing near the tombstones of her great-great-great-grandparents, George and Sarah Ann Hill Housley. The occassion was the funeral of another Sarah Housley, Sarah Lord Housley, wife of Albert Kilmer Housley, youngest son of John Eley Housley (George and Sarah Ann’s first born). Laura Ann’s great-grandfather (my grandfather) was another George, John Eley’s first born. It was Aunt Sarah who brought my mother, Lois, a packet of papers which she had found in the attic. Mom spent hours transcribing the letters which had been written first horizontally and then vertically to save paper. What began to emerge was a priceless glimpse into the lives and concerns of Housleys who lived and died over a century ago. All of the letters ended with the phrase “And believe me ever my dear brother, your affectionate….”
        The greeting and opening remarks of each of the letters are included in a list below. The sentence structure and speech patterns have not been altered however spelling and some punctuation has been corrected. Some typical idiosyncrasies were: as for has, were for where and vice versa, no capitals at the beginnings of sentences, occasional commas and dashes but almost no periods. Emma appears to be the best educated of the three Housley letter-writers. Sister-in-law Harriet does not appear to be as well educated as any of the others. Since their mother did not write but apparently was in good health, it must be assumed that she could not.
        The people discussed and described in the following pages are for the most part known to be the family and friends of the Housleys of Smalley, Derbyshire, England. However, practically every page brings conjectures about the significance of persons who are mentioned in the letters and information about persons whose names seem to be significant but who have not yet been established as actual members of the family.

        To say this was a priceless addition to the family research is an understatement. I have since, with Howard’s permission, sent the file to the Derby Records Office for their family history section.  We are hoping that Howard will find the actual letters in among the boxes he has of his sisters belongings.  Some of the letters mention photographs that were sent. Perhaps some will be found.


          William Housley’s Will and the Court Case

          William Housley died in 1848, but his widow Ellen didn’t die until 1872.  The court case was in 1873.  Details about the court case are archived at the National Archives at Kew,  in London, but are not available online. They can be viewed in person, but that hasn’t been possible thus far.  However, there are a great many references to it in the letters.

          William Housley’s first wife was Mary Carrington 1787-1813.  They had three children, Mary Anne, Elizabeth and William. When Mary died, William married Mary’s sister Ellen, not in their own parish church at Smalley but in Ashbourne.  Although not uncommon for a widower to marry a deceased wife’s sister, it wasn’t legal.  This point is mentioned in one of the letters.

          One of the pages of William Housley’s will:

          William Housleys Will


          An excerpt from Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters:

          A comment in a letter from Joseph (August 6, 1873) indicated that William was married twice and that his wives were sisters: “What do you think that I believe that Mary Ann is trying to make our father’s will of no account as she says that my father’s marriage with our mother was not lawful he marrying two sisters. What do you think of her? I have heard my mother say something about paying a fine at the time of the marriage to make it legal.” Markwell and Saul in The A-Z Guide to Tracing Ancestors in Britain explain that marriage to a deceased wife’s sister was not permissible under Canon law as the relationship was within the prohibited degrees. However, such marriages did take place–usually well away from the couple’s home area. Up to 1835 such marriages were not void but were voidable by legal action. Few such actions were instituted but the risk was always there.

          Joseph wrote that when Emma was married, Ellen “broke up the comfortable home and the things went to Derby and she went to live with them but Derby didn’t agree with her so she left again leaving her things behind and came to live with John in the new house where she died.” Ellen was listed with John’s household in the 1871 census. 
          In May 1872, the Ilkeston Pioneer carried this notice: “Mr. Hopkins will sell by auction on Saturday next the eleventh of May 1872 the whole of the useful furniture, sewing machine, etc. nearly new on the premises of the late Mrs. Housley at Smalley near Heanor in the county of Derby. Sale at one o’clock in the afternoon.”

          There were hard feelings between Mary Ann and Ellen and her children. Anne wrote: “If you remember we were not very friendly when you left. They never came and nothing was too bad for Mary Ann to say of Mother and me, but when Robert died Mother sent for her to the funeral but she did not think well to come so we took no more notice. She would not allow her children to come either.”
          Mary Ann was still living in May 1872. Joseph implied that she and her brother, Will “intend making a bit of bother about the settlement of the bit of property” left by their mother. The 1871 census listed Mary Ann’s occupation as “income from houses.”

          In July 1872, Joseph introduced Ruth’s husband: “No doubt he is a bad lot. He is one of the Heath’s of Stanley Common a miller and he lives at Smalley Mill” (Ruth Heath was Mary Anne Housley’s daughter)
          In 1873 Joseph wrote, “He is nothing but a land shark both Heath and his wife and his wife is the worst of the two. You will think these is hard words but they are true dear brother.” The solicitor, Abraham John Flint, was not at all pleased with Heath’s obstruction of the settlement of the estate. He wrote on June 30, 1873: “Heath agreed at first and then because I would not pay his expenses he refused and has since instructed another solicitor for his wife and Mrs. Weston who have been opposing us to the utmost. I am concerned for all parties interested except these two….The judge severely censured Heath for his conduct and wanted to make an order for sale there and then but Heath’s council would not consent….” In June 1875, the solicitor wrote: “Heath bid for the property but it fetched more money than he could give for it. He has been rather quieter lately.”

          In May 1872, Joseph wrote: “For what do you think, John has sold his share and he has acted very bad since his wife died and at the same time he sold all his furniture. You may guess I have never seen him but once since poor mother’s funeral and he is gone now no one knows where.”

          In 1876, the solicitor wrote to George: “Have you heard of John Housley? He is entitled to Robert’s share and I want him to claim it.”

          Anne intended that one third of the inheritance coming to her from her father and her grandfather, William Carrington, be divided between her four nieces: Sam’s three daughters and John’s daughter Elizabeth.
          In the same letter (December 15, 1872), Joseph wrote:
          “I think we have now found all out now that is concerned in the matter for there was only Sam that we did not know his whereabouts but I was informed a week ago that he is dead–died about three years ago in Birmingham Union. Poor Sam. He ought to have come to a better end than that”

          However, Samuel was still alive was on the 1871 census in Henley in Arden, and no record of his death can be found. Samuel’s brother in law said he was dead: we do not know why he lied, or perhaps the brothers were lying to keep his share, or another possibility is that Samuel himself told his brother in law to tell them that he was dead. I am inclined to think it was the latter.

          Excerpts from Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters continued:

          Charles went to Australia in 1851, and was last heard from in January 1853. According to the solicitor, who wrote to George on June 3, 1874, Charles had received advances on the settlement of their parent’s estate. “Your promissory note with the two signed by your brother Charles for 20 pounds he received from his father and 20 pounds he received from his mother are now in the possession of the court.”

          In December 1872, Joseph wrote: “I’m told that Charles two daughters has wrote to Smalley post office making inquiries about his share….” In January 1876, the solicitor wrote: “Charles Housley’s children have claimed their father’s share.”

          In the Adelaide Observer 28 Aug 1875

          HOUSLEY – wanted information
          as to the Death, Will, or Intestacy, and
          Children of Charles Housley, formerly of
          Smalley, Derbyshire, England, who died at
          Geelong or Creewick Creek Diggings, Victoria
          August, 1855. His children will hear of something to their advantage by communicating with
          Mr. A J. Flint, solicitor, Derby, England.
          June 16,1875.

          The Diggers & Diggings of Victoria in 1855. Drawn on Stone by S.T. Gill:

          Victoria Diggings, Australie


          The court case:

           Kerry v Housley.
          Documents: Bill, demurrer.
          Plaintiffs: Samuel Kerry and Joseph Housley.
          Defendants: William Housley, Joseph Housley (deleted), Edwin Welch Harvey, Eleanor Harvey (deleted), Ernest Harvey infant, William Stafford, Elizabeth Stafford his wife, Mary Ann Housley, George Purdy and Catherine Purdy his wife, Elizabeth Housley, Mary Ann Weston widow and William Heath and Ruth Heath his wife (deleted).
          Provincial solicitor employed in Derbyshire.
          Date: 1873

          From the Narrative on the Letters:

          The solicitor wrote on May 23, 1874: “Lately I have not written because I was not certain of your address and because I doubted I had much interesting news to tell you.” Later, Joseph wrote concerning the problems settling the estate, “You see dear brother there is only me here on our side and I cannot do much. I wish you were here to help me a bit and if you think of going for another summer trip this turn you might as well run over here.”

          In March 1873, Joseph wrote: “You ask me what I think of you coming to England. I think as you have given the trustee power to sign for you I think you could do no good but I should like to see you once again for all that. I can’t say whether there would be anything amiss if you did come as you say it would be throwing good money after bad.”

          In September 1872 Joseph wrote; “My wife is anxious to come. I hope it will suit her health for she is not over strong.” Elsewhere Joseph wrote that Harriet was “middling sometimes. She is subject to sick headaches. It knocks her up completely when they come on.” In December 1872 Joseph wrote, “Now dear brother about us coming to America you know we shall have to wait until this affair is settled and if it is not settled and thrown into Chancery I’m afraid we shall have to stay in England for I shall never be able to save money enough to bring me out and my family but I hope of better things.”
          On July 19, 1875 Abraham Flint (the solicitor) wrote: “Joseph Housley has removed from Smalley and is working on some new foundry buildings at Little Chester near Derby. He lives at a village called Little Eaton near Derby. If you address your letter to him as Joseph Housley, carpenter, Little Eaton near Derby that will no doubt find him.”

          In his last letter (February 11, 1874), Joseph sounded very discouraged and wrote that Harriet’s parents were very poorly and both had been “in bed for a long time.” In addition, Harriet and the children had been ill.
          The move to Little Eaton may indicate that Joseph received his settlement because in August, 1873, he wrote: “I think this is bad news enough and bad luck too, but I have had little else since I came to live at Kiddsley cottages but perhaps it is all for the best if one could only think so. I have begun to think there will be no chance for us coming over to you for I am afraid there will not be so much left as will bring us out without it is settled very shortly but I don’t intend leaving this house until it is settled either one way or the other. ”

          Joseph’s letters were much concerned with the settling of their mother’s estate. In 1854, Anne wrote, “As for my mother coming (to America) I think not at all likely. She is tied here with her property.” A solicitor, Abraham John Flint of 42 Full Street Derby, was engaged by John following the death of their mother. On June 30, 1873 the solicitor wrote: “Dear sir, On the death of your mother I was consulted by your brother John. I acted for him with reference to the sale and division of your father’s property at Smalley. Mr. Kerry was very unwilling to act as trustee being over 73 years of age but owing to the will being a badly drawn one we could not appoint another trustee in his place nor could the property be sold without a decree of chancery. Therefore Mr. Kerry consented and after a great deal of trouble with Heath who has opposed us all throughout whenever matters did not suit him, we found the title deeds and offered the property for sale by public auction on the 15th of July last. Heath could not find his purchase money without mortaging his property the solicitor which the mortgagee employed refused to accept Mr. Kerry’s title and owing to another defect in the will we could not compel them.”

          In July 1872, Joseph wrote, “I do not know whether you can remember who the trustee was to my father’s will. It was Thomas Watson and Samuel Kerry of Smalley Green. Mr. Watson is dead (died a fortnight before mother) so Mr. Kerry has had to manage the affair.”

          On Dec. 15, 1972, Joseph wrote, “Now about this property affair. It seems as far off of being settled as ever it was….” and in the following March wrote: “I think we are as far off as ever and farther I think.”

          Concerning the property which was auctioned on July 15, 1872 and brought 700 pounds, Joseph wrote: “It was sold in five lots for building land and this man Heath bought up four lots–that is the big house, the croft and the cottages. The croft was made into two lots besides the piece belonging to the big house and the cottages and gardens was another lot and the little intake was another. William Richardson bought that.” Elsewhere Richardson’s purchase was described as “the little croft against Smith’s lane.” Smith’s Lane was probably named for their neighbor Daniel Smith, Mrs. Davy’s father.
          But in December 1872, Joseph wrote that they had not received any money because “Mr. Heath is raising all kinds of objections to the will–something being worded wrong in the will.” In March 1873, Joseph “clarified” matters in this way: “His objection was that one trustee could not convey the property that his signature was not guarantee sufficient as it states in the will that both trustees has to sign the conveyance hence this bother.”
          Joseph indicated that six shares were to come out of the 700 pounds besides Will’s 20 pounds. Children were to come in for the parents shares if dead. The solicitor wrote in 1873, “This of course refers to the Kidsley property in which you take a one seventh share and which if the property sells well may realize you about 60-80 pounds.” In March 1873 Joseph wrote: “You have an equal share with the rest in both lots of property, but I am afraid there will be but very little for any of us.”

          The other “lot of property” was “property in Smalley left under another will.” On July 17, 1872, Joseph wrote: “It was left by my grandfather Carrington and Uncle Richard is trustee. He seems very backward in bringing the property to a sale but I saw him and told him that I for one expect him to proceed with it.” George seemed to have difficulty understanding that there were two pieces of property so Joseph explained further: “It was left by my grandfather Carrington not by our father and Uncle Richard is the trustee for it but the will does not give him power to sell without the signatures of the parties concerned.” In June 1873 the solicitor Abraham John Flint asked: “Nothing has been done about the other property at Smalley at present. It wants attention and the other parties have asked me to attend to it. Do you authorize me to see to it for you as well?”
          After Ellen’s death, the rent was divided between Joseph, Will, Mary Ann and Mr. Heath who bought John’s share and was married to Mary Ann’s daughter, Ruth. Joseph said that Mr. Heath paid 40 pounds for John’s share and that John had drawn 110 pounds in advance. The solicitor said Heath said he paid 60. The solicitor said that Heath was trying to buy the shares of those at home to get control of the property and would have defied the absent ones to get anything.
          In September 1872 Joseph wrote that the lawyer said the trustee cannot sell the property at the bottom of Smalley without the signatures of all parties concerned in it and it will have to go through chancery court which will be a great expense. He advised Joseph to sell his share and Joseph advised George to do the same.

          George sent a “portrait” so that it could be established that it was really him–still living and due a share. Joseph wrote (July 1872): “the trustee was quite willing to (acknowledge you) for the portrait I think is a very good one.” Several letters later in response to an inquiry from George, Joseph wrote: “The trustee recognized you in a minute…I have not shown it to Mary Ann for we are not on good terms….Parties that I have shown it to own you again but they say it is a deal like John. It is something like him, but I think is more like myself.”
          In September 1872 Joseph wrote that the lawyer required all of their ages and they would have to pay “succession duty”. Joseph requested that George send a list of birth dates.

          On May 23, 1874, the solicitor wrote: “I have been offered 240 pounds for the three cottages and the little house. They sold for 200 pounds at the last sale and then I was offered 700 pounds for the whole lot except Richardson’s Heanor piece for which he is still willing to give 58 pounds. Thus you see that the value of the estate has very materially increased since the last sale so that this delay has been beneficial to your interests than other-wise. Coal has become much dearer and they suppose there is coal under this estate. There are many enquiries about it and I believe it will realize 800 pounds or more which increase will more than cover all expenses.” Eventually the solicitor wrote that the property had been sold for 916 pounds and George would take a one-ninth share.

          January 14, 1876:  “I am very sorry to hear of your lameness and illness but I trust that you are now better. This matter as I informed you had to stand over until December since when all the costs and expenses have been taxed and passed by the court and I am expecting to receive the order for these this next week, then we have to pay the legacy duty and them divide the residue which I doubt won’t come to very much amongst so many of you. But you will hear from me towards the end of the month or early next month when I shall have to send you the papers to sign for your share. I can’t tell you how much it will be at present as I shall have to deduct your share with the others of the first sale made of the property before it went to court.
          Wishing you a Happy New Year, I am Dear Sir, Yours truly
          Abram J. Flint”

          September 15, 1876 (the last letter)
          “I duly received your power of attorney which appears to have been properly executed on Thursday last and I sent it on to my London agent, Mr. Henry Lyvell, who happens just now to be away for his annual vacation and will not return for 14 or 20 days and as his signature is required by the Paymaster General before he will pay out your share, it must consequently stand over and await his return home. It shall however receive immediate attention as soon as he returns and I hope to be able to send your checque for the balance very shortly.”

          1874 in chancery:

          Housley Estate Sale


            Florence Nightingale Gretton


            Florence’s father was Richard Gretton, a baker in Swadlincote, Derbyshire. When Richard married Sarah Orgill in 1861, they lived with her mother, a widow, in Measham, Ashby de la Zouch in Leicestershire. On the 1861 census Sarah’s mother, Elizabeth, is a farmer of two acres.

            (Swadlincote and Ashby de la Zouch are on the Derbyshire Leicestershire border and not far from each other. Swadlincote is near to Burton upon Trent which is sometimes in Staffordshire, sometimes in Derbyshire. Newhall, Church Gresley, and Swadlincote are all very close to each other or districts in the same town.)

            Ten years later in 1871 Richard and Sarah have their own place in Swadlincote, he is a baker, and they have four children. A fourteen year old apprentice or servant is living with them.

            In the Ashby-de-la-Zouch Gazette on 28 February 1880, it was reported that Richard Gretton, baker, of Swadlincote, was charged by Captain Bandys with carrying bread in a cart for sale, the said cart not being provided with scales and weights, according to the requirements of the Act, on the 17th January last.—Defendant pleaded guilty, but urged in extenuation of the offence that in the hurry he had forgotten to put the scales in the cart before his son started.—The Bench took this view of the case, regarding it as an oversight, and fined him one shilling only and costs.  This was not his only offence.

            In 1883, he was fined twenty shillings, and ten shillings and sixpence costs.

            Richard Gretton

            By 1881 they have 4 more children, and Florence Nightingale is the youngest at four months. Richard is 48 by now, and Sarah is 44. Florence’s older brother William is a blacksmith.

            Interestingly on the same census page, two doors down Thomas and Selina Warren live at the Stanhope Arms.  Richards son John Gretton lives at the pub, a 13 year old servant. Incidentally, I noticed on Thomas and Selena’s marriage register that Richard and Sarah Gretton were the witnesses at the wedding.

            Ten years later in 1891, Florence Nightingale and her sister Clara are living with Selina Warren, widow, retired innkeeper, one door down from the Stanhope Arms. Florence is ten, Clara twelve and they are scholars.
            Richard and Sarah are still living three doors up on the other side of the Stanhope Arms, with three of their sons. But the two girls lived up the road with the Warren widow!

            The Stanhope Arms, Swadlincote: it’s possible that the shop with the awning was Richard Gretton’s bakers shop (although not at the time of this later photo).

            Stanhope Arms


            Richard died in 1898, a year before Florence married Samuel Warren.

            Sarah is a widowed 60 year old baker on the 1901 census. Her son 26 year old son Alf, also a baker,  lives at the same address, as does her 22 year old daughter Clara who is a district nurse.

            Clara Gretton and family, photo found online:

            Clara Gretton


            In 1901 Florence Nightingale (who we don’t have a photograph of!) is now married and is Florrie Warren on the census, and she, her husband Samuel, and their one year old daughter Hildred are visitors at the address of  Elizabeth (Staley)Warren, 60 year old widow and Samuel’s mother, and Samuel’s 36 year old brother William. Samuel and William are engineers.

            Samuel and Florrie had ten children between 1900 and 1925 (and all but two of them used their middle name and not first name: my mother and I had no idea until I found all the records.  My grandmother Florence Noreen was known as Nora, which we knew of course, uncle Jack was actually Douglas John, and so on).

            Hildred, Clara, Billy, and Nora were born in Swadlincote. Sometime between my grandmother’s birth in 1907 and Kay’s birth in 1911, the family moved to Oldswinford, in Stourbridge. Later they moved to Market Street.

            1911 census, Oldswinford, Stourbridge:

            Oldswinford 1911


            Oddly, nobody knew when Florrie Warren died. My mothers cousin Ian Warren researched the Warren family some years ago, while my grandmother was still alive. She contributed family stories and information, but couldn’t remember if her mother died in 1929 or 1927.  A recent search of records confirmed that it was the 12th November 1927.

            She was 46 years old. We were curious to know how she died, so my mother ordered a paper copy of her death certificate. It said she died at 31 Market Street, Stourbridge at the age of 47. Clara May Warren, her daughter, was in attendance. Her husband Samuel Warren was a motor mechanic. The Post mortem was by Percival Evans, coroner for Worcestershire, who clarified the cause of death as vascular disease of the heart. There was no inquest. The death was registered on 15 Nov 1927.

            I looked for a photo of 31 Market Street in Stourbridge, and was astonished to see that it was the house next door to one I lived in breifly in the 1980s.  We didn’t know that the Warren’s lived in Market Street until we started searching the records.

            Market Street, Stourbridge. I lived in the one on the corner on the far right, my great grandmother died in the one next door.

            Market Street


            I found some hitherto unknown emigrants in the family. Florence Nightingale Grettons eldest brother William 1861-1940 stayed in Swadlincote. John Orgill Gretton born in 1868 moved to Trenton New Jersey USA in 1888, married in 1892 and died in 1949 in USA. Michael Thomas born in 1870 married in New York in 1893 and died in Trenton in 1940. Alfred born 1875 stayed in Swadlincote. Charles Herbert born 1876 married locally and then moved to Australia in 1912, and died in Victoria in 1954. Clara Elizabeth was a district nurse, married locally and died at the age of 99.


              Warren Brothers Boiler Makers

              Samuel Warren, my great grandfather, and husband of Florence Nightingale Gretton, worked with the family company of boiler makers in Newhall in his early years.  He developed an interest in motor cars, and left the family business to start up on his own. By all accounts, he made some bad decisions and borrowed a substantial amount of money from his sister. It was because of this disastrous state of affairs that the impoverished family moved from Swadlincote/Newhall to Stourbridge.

              1914:  Tram no 10 on Union Road going towards High Street Newhall. On the left Henry Harvey Engineer, on the right Warren Bros Boiler Manufacturers & Engineers:

              Warren Bros Newhall


              I found a newspaper article in the Derbyshire Advertiser and Journal dated the 2nd October 1915 about a Samuel Warren of Warren Brothers Boilermakers, but it was about my great grandfathers uncle, also called Samuel.

              DEATH OF MR. SAMUEL WARREN, OF NEWHALL. Samuel Warren, of Rose Villa, Newhall, passed away on Saturday evening at the age of 85.. Of somewhat retiring disposition, he took little or no active part in public affairs, but for many years was trustee of the loyal British Oak Lodge of the M.U. of Oddfellows, and in many other ways served His community when opportunity permitted. He was member of the firm of Warren Bros., of the Boiler Works, Newhall. This thriving business was established by the late Mr. Benjamin Bridge, over 60 years ago, and on his death it was taken over by his four nephews. Mr. William Warren died several years ago, and with the demise Mr. Samuel Warren, two brothers remain, Messrs. Henry and Benjamin Warren. He leaves widow, six daughters, and three sons to mourn his loss. 

              Samuel Warren


              This was the first I’d heard of Benjamin Bridge.  William Warren mentioned in the article as having died previously was Samuel’s father, my great great grandfather. William’s brother Henry was the father of Ben Warren, the footballer.

              But who was Benjamin Bridge?

              Samuel’s father was William Warren 1835-1881. He had a brother called Samuel, mentioned above, and William’s father was also named Samuel.  Samuel Warren 1800-1882 married Elizabeth Bridge 1813-1872. Benjamin Bridge 1811-1898 was Elizabeth’s brother.

              Burton Chronicle 28 July 1898:

              Benjamin Bridge

              Benjamin and his wife Jane had no children. According to the obituary in the newspaper, the couple were fondly remembered for their annual tea’s for the widows of the town. Benjamin Bridge’s house was known as “the preachers house”. He was superintendent of Newhall Sunday School and member of Swadlincote’s board of health. And apparently very fond of a tall white hat!

              On the 1881 census, Benjamin Bridge and his wife live near to the Warren family in Newhall.  The Warren’s live in the “boiler yard” and the family living in between the Bridge’s and the Warren’s include an apprentice boiler maker, so we can assume these were houses incorporated in the boiler works property. Benjamin is a 72 year old retired boiler maker.  Elizabeth Warren is a widow (William died in 1881), two of her sons are boiler makers, and Samuel, my great grandfather, is on the next page of the census, at seven years old.

              Bridge Warren Census 1881


              Warren Brothers made boilers for the Burton breweries, including Bass, Ratcliff and Gretton.

              This receipt from Warrens Boiler yard for a new boiler in 1885 was purchased off Ebay by Colin Smith. He gave it to one of the grandsons of Robert Adolphus Warren, to keep in the Warren family. It is in his safe at home, and he promised Colin that it will stay in the family forever.

              Warren Bros Receipt


                Bakewell Not Eyam

                The Elton Marshalls

                Some years ago I read a book about Eyam, the Derbyshire village devastated by the plague in 1665, and about how the villagers quarantined themselves to prevent further spread. It was quite a story. Each year on ‘Plague Sunday’, at the end of August, residents of Eyam mark the bubonic plague epidemic that devastated their small rural community in the years 1665–6. They wear the traditional costume of the day and attend a memorial service to remember how half the village sacrificed themselves to avoid spreading the disease further.

                My 4X great grandfather James Marshall married Ann Newton in 1792 in Elton. On a number of other people’s trees on an online ancestry site, Ann Newton was from Eyam.  Wouldn’t that have been interesting, to find ancestors from Eyam, perhaps going back to the days of the plague. Perhaps that is what the people who put Ann Newton’s birthplace as Eyam thought, without a proper look at the records.

                But I didn’t think Ann Newton was from Eyam. I found she was from Over Haddon, near Bakewell ~ much closer to Elton than Eyam. On the marriage register, it says that James was from Elton parish, and she was from Darley parish. Her birth in 1770 says Bakewell, which was the registration district for the villages of Over Haddon and Darley. Her parents were George Newton and Dorothy Wipperley of Over Haddon,which is incidentally very near to Nether Haddon, and Haddon Hall. I visited Haddon Hall many years ago, as well as Chatsworth (and much preferred Haddon Hall).

                I looked in the Eyam registers for Ann Newton, and found a couple of them around the time frame, but the men they married were not James Marshall.

                Ann died in 1806 in Elton (a small village just outside Matlock) at the age of 36 within days of her newborn twins, Ann and James.  James and Ann had two sets of twins.  John and Mary were twins as well, but Mary died in 1799 at the age of three.

                1796 baptism of twins John and Mary of James and Ann Marshall

                Marshall baptism


                Ann’s husband James died 42 years later at the age of eighty,  in Elton in 1848. It was noted in the parish register that he was for years parish clerk.

                James Marshall


                On the 1851 census John Marshall born in 1796, the son of James Marshall the parish clerk, was a lead miner occupying six acres in Elton, Derbyshire.

                His son, also John, was registered on the census as a lead miner at just eight years old.


                The mining of lead was the most important industry in the Peak district of Derbyshire from Roman times until the 19th century – with only agriculture being more important for the livelihood of local people. The height of lead mining in Derbyshire came in the 17th and 18th centuries, and the evidence is still visible today – most obviously in the form of lines of hillocks from the more than 25,000 mineshafts which once existed.

                Peak District Mines Historical Society

                Smelting, or extracting the lead from the ore by melting it, was carried out in a small open hearth. Lead was cast in layers as each batch of ore was smelted; the blocks of lead thus produced were referred to as “pigs”. Examples of early smelting-hearths found within the county were stone lined, with one side open facing the prevailing wind to create the draught needed. The hilltops of the Matlocks would have provided very suitable conditions.

                The miner used a tool called a mattock or a pick, and hammers and iron wedges in harder veins, to loosen the ore. They threw the ore onto ridges on each side of the vein, going deeper where the ore proved richer.

                Many mines were very shallow and, once opened, proved too poor to develop. Benjamin Bryan cited the example of “Ember Hill, on the shoulder of Masson, above Matlock Bath” where there are hollows in the surface showing where there had been fruitless searches for lead.

                There were small buildings, called “coes”, near each mine shaft which were used for tool storage, to provide shelter and as places for changing into working clothes. It was here that the lead was smelted and stored until ready for sale.

                Lead is, of course, very poisonous. As miners washed lead-bearing material, great care was taken with the washing vats, which had to be covered. If cattle accidentally drank the poisoned water they would die from something called “belland”.

                Cornish and Welsh miners introduced the practice of buddling for ore into Derbyshire about 1747.  Buddling involved washing the heaps of rubbish in the slag heaps,  the process of separating the very small particles from the dirt and spar with which they are mixed, by means of a small stream of water. This method of extraction was a major pollutant, affecting farmers and their animals (poisoned by Belland from drinking the waste water), the brooks and streams and even the River Derwent.

                Women also worked in the mines. An unattributed account from 1829, says: “The head is much enwrapped, and the features nearly hidden in a muffling of handkerchiefs, over which is put a man’s hat, in the manner of the paysannes of Wales”. He also describes their gowns, usually red, as being “tucked up round the waist in a sort of bag, and set off by a bright green petticoat”. They also wore a man’s grey or dark blue coat and shoes with 3″ thick soles that were tied round with cords. The 1829 writer called them “complete harridans!”

                Lead Mining in Matlock & Matlock Bath, The Andrews Pages

                John’s wife Margaret died at the age of 42 in 1847.  I don’t know the cause of death, but perhaps it was lead poisoning.  John’s son John, despite a very early start in the lead mine, became a carter and lived to the ripe old age of 88.

                The Pig of Lead pub, 1904:

                The Pig of Lead 1904


                The earliest Marshall I’ve found so far is Charles, born in 1742. Charles married Rebecca Knowles, 1775-1823.  I don’t know what his occupation was but when he died in 1819 he left a not inconsiderable sum to his wife.

                1819 Charles Marshall probate:

                Charles Marshall Probate



                There are still Marshall’s living in Elton and Matlock, not our immediate known family, but probably distantly related.  I asked a Matlock group on facebook:

                “…there are Marshall’s still in the village. There are certainly families who live here who have done generation after generation & have many memories & stories to tell. Visit The Duke on a Friday night…”

                The Duke, Elton:

                Duke Elton


                  Grettons in USA and The Lusitania Survivor

                  Two of my grandmothers uncles emigrated to New Jersey, USA,  John Orgill Gretton in 1888, and Michael Thomas Gretton in 1889.  My grandmothers mother Florence Nightingale Gretton, born in 1881 and the youngest of eight,  was still a child when they left.  This is perhaps why we knew nothing of them until the family research started.

                  Michael Thomas Gretton


                  Michael, known by his middle name of Thomas, married twice. His occupation was a potter in the sanitary ware industry. He and his first wife Edith Wise had three children, William R Gretton 1894-1961, Charles Thomas Gretton 1897-1960, and Clara P Gretton 1895-1997.  Edith died in 1922, and Thomas married again. His second wife Martha Ann Barker was born in Stoke on Trent in England, but had emigrated to USA in 1909.  She had two children with her first husband Thomas Barker, Doris and Winifred.  Thomas Barker died in 1921.

                  Martha Ann Barker and her daughter Doris, born in 1900, were Lusitania survivors.  The Lusitania was a British ocean liner that was sunk on 7 May 1915 by a German U-boat 11 miles (18 km) off the southern coast of Ireland, killing 1,198 passengers and crew.  Martha and Doris survived, but sadly nine year old Winifred did not. Her remains were lost at sea.

                  Winifred Barker:

                  Winifred Barker


                  Thomas Barker sailed to England after the disaster to accompany Martha and Doris on the trip home to USA:



                  Thomas Gretton, Martha’s second husband, died in 1940.  She survived him by 23 years and died in 1963 in New Jersey:



                  John Orgill Gretton


                  John Orgill Gretton was a “Freeholder” in New Jersey for 24 years.  New Jersey alone of all the United States has the distinction of retaining the title of “FREEHOLDER” to denote the elected members of the county governing bodies. This descriptive name, which commemorates the origin of home rule, is used by only 21 of the nation’s 3,047 counties.  In other states, these county officials are known as commissioners, supervisors, probate judges, police jurors, councilors and a variety of other names.

                  John Orgill Gretton


                  John and his wife Caroline Thum had four children, Florence J Gretton 1893-1965, George Thum Gretton 1895-1951, Wilhelmina F Gretton 1899-1931, and Nathalie A Gretton 1904-1947.

                  Their engagements and weddings appear on the society pages of the Trenton Newspapers.  For example the article headline on the wedding in 1919 of George Thum Gretton and his wife Elizabeth Stokes announces “Charming Society Girl Becomes Bride Today”.


                    The USA Housley’s

                    This chapter is copied from Barbara Housley’s Narrative on Historic Letters, with thanks to her brother Howard Housley for sharing it with me.  Interesting to note that Housley descendants  (on the Marshall paternal side) and Gretton descendants (on the Warren maternal side) were both living in Trenton, New Jersey at the same time.

                    GEORGE HOUSLEY 1824-1877

                    George emigrated to the United states in 1851, arriving in July. The solicitor Abraham John Flint referred in a letter to a 15-pound advance which was made to George on June 9, 1851. This certainly was connected to his journey. George settled along the Delaware River in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. The letters from the solicitor were addressed to: Lahaska Post Office, Bucks County, Pennsylvania. George married Sarah Ann Hill on May 6, 1854 in Doylestown, Bucks County, Pennsylvania. The service was performed by Attorney James Gilkyson.


                    In her first letter (February 1854), Anne (George’s sister in Smalley, Derbyshire) wrote: “We want to know who and what is this Miss Hill you name in your letter. What age is she? Send us all the particulars but I would advise you not to get married until you have sufficient to make a comfortable home.”

                    Upon learning of George’s marriage, Anne wrote: “I hope dear brother you may be happy with your wife….I hope you will be as a son to her parents. Mother unites with me in kind love to you both and to your father and mother with best wishes for your health and happiness.”  In 1872 (December) Joseph (George’s brother) wrote: “I am sorry to hear that sister’s father is so ill. It is what we must all come to some time and hope we shall meet where there is no more trouble.”

                    Emma (George’s sister) wrote in 1855, “We write in love to your wife and yourself and you must write soon and tell us whether there is a little nephew or niece and what you call them.” In June of 1856, Emma wrote: “We want to see dear Sarah Ann and the dear little boy. We were much pleased with the “bit of news” you sent.” The bit of news was the birth of John Eley Housley, January 11, 1855. Emma concluded her letter “Give our very kindest love to dear sister and dearest Johnnie.”

                    According to his obituary, John Eley was born at Wrightstown and “removed” to Lumberville at the age of 19. John was married first to Lucy Wilson with whom he had three sons: George Wilson (1883), Howard (1893) and Raymond (1895); and then to Elizabeth Kilmer with whom he had one son Albert Kilmer (1907). John Eley Housley died November 20, 1926 at the age of 71. For many years he had worked for John R. Johnson who owned a store. According to his son Albert, John was responsible for caring for Johnson’s horses. One named Rex was considered to be quite wild, but was docile in John’s hands. When John would take orders, he would leave the wagon at the first house and walk along the backs of the houses so that he would have access to the kitchens. When he reached the seventh house he would climb back over the fence to the road and whistle for the horses who would come to meet him. John could not attend church on Sunday mornings because he was working with the horses and occasionally Albert could convince his mother that he was needed also. According to Albert, John was regular in attendance at church on Sunday evenings.

                    John was a member of the Carversville Lodge 261 IOOF and the Carversville Lodge Knights of Pythias. Internment was in the Carversville cemetery; not, however, in the plot owned by his father. In addition to his sons, he was survived by his second wife Elizabeth who lived to be 80 and three grandchildren: George’s sons, Kenneth Worman and Morris Wilson and Raymond’s daughter Miriam Louise. George had married Katie Worman about the time John Eley married Elizabeth Kilmer. Howard’s first wife Mary Brink and daughter Florence had died and he remarried Elsa Heed who also lived into her eighties. Raymond’s wife was Fanny Culver.

                    Two more sons followed: Joseph Sackett, who was known as Sackett, September 12, 1856 and Edwin or Edward Rose, November 11, 1858. Joseph Sackett Housley married Anna Hubbs of Plumsteadville on January 17, 1880. They had one son Nelson DeC. who in turn had two daughters, Eleanor Mary and Ruth Anna, and lived on Bert Avenue in Trenton N.J. near St. Francis Hospital. Nelson, who was an engineer and built the first cement road in New Jersey, died at the age of 51. His daughters were both single at the time of his death. However, when his widow, the former Eva M. Edwards, died some years later, her survivors included daughters, Mrs. Herbert D. VanSciver and Mrs. James J. McCarrell and four grandchildren. One of the daughters (the younger) was quite crippled in later years and would come to visit her great-aunt Elizabeth (John’s widow) in a chauffeur driven car. Sackett died in 1929 at the age of 70. He was a member of the Warrington Lodge IOOF of Jamison PA, the Uncas tribe and the Uncas Hayloft 102 ORM of Trenton, New Jersey. The interment was in Greenwood cemetery where he had been caretaker since his retirement from one of the oldest manufacturing plants in Trenton (made milk separators for one thing). Sackett also was the caretaker for two other cemeteries one located near the Clinton Street station and the other called Riverside.

                    Ed’s wife was named Lydia. They had two daughters, Mary and Margaret and a third child who died in infancy. Mary had seven children–one was named for his grandfather–and settled in lower Bucks county. Margaret never married. She worked for Woolworths in Flemington, N. J. and then was made manager in Somerville, N.J., where she lived until her death. Ed survived both of his brothers, and at the time of Sackett’s death was living in Flemington, New Jersey where he had worked as a grocery clerk.

                    In September 1872, Joseph wrote, “I was very sorry to hear that John your oldest had met with such a sad accident but I hope he is got alright again by this time.” In the same letter, Joseph asked: “Now I want to know what sort of a town you are living in or village. How far is it from New York? Now send me all particulars if you please.”

                    In March 1873 Harriet asked Sarah Ann: “And will you please send me all the news at the place and what it is like for it seems to me that it is a wild place but you must tell me what it is like….” The question of whether she was referring to Bucks County, Pennsylvania or some other place is raised in Joseph’s letter of the same week.

                    On March 17, 1873, Joseph wrote: “I was surprised to hear that you had gone so far away west. Now dear brother what ever are you doing there so far away from home and family–looking out for something better I suppose.” The solicitor wrote on May 23, 1874: “Lately I have not written because I was not certain of your address and because I doubted I had much interesting news to tell you.” Later, Joseph wrote concerning the problems settling the estate, “You see dear brother there is only me here on our side and I cannot do much. I wish you were here to help me a bit and if you think of going for another summer trip this turn you might as well run over here.”

                    Apparently, George had indicated he might return to England for a visit in 1856. Emma wrote concerning the portrait of their mother which had been sent to George: “I hope you like mother’s portrait. I did not see it but I suppose it was not quite perfect about the eyes….Joseph and I intend having ours taken for you when you come over….Do come over before very long.”

                    In March 1873, Joseph wrote: “You ask me what I think of you coming to England. I think as you have given the trustee power to sign for you I think you could do no good but I should like to see you once again for all that. I can’t say whether there would be anything amiss if you did come as you say it would be throwing good money after bad.”

                    On June 10, 1875, the solicitor wrote: “I have been expecting to hear from you for some time past. Please let me hear what you are doing and where you are living and how I must send you your money.” George’s big news at that time was that on May 3, 1875, he had become a naturalized citizen “renouncing and abjuring all allegiance and fidelity to every foreign prince, potentate, state and sovereignity whatsoever, and particularly to Victoria Queen of Great Britain of whom he was before a subject.”

                    Another matter which George took care of during the years the estate was being settled was the purchase of a cemetery plot! On March 24, 1873, George purchased plot 67 section 19 division 2 in the Carversville (Bucks County PA) Cemetery (incorporated 1859). The plot cost $15.00, and was located at the very edge of the cemetery. It was in this cemetery, in 1991, while attending the funeral of Sarah Lord Housley, wife of Albert Kilmer Housley, that sixteen month old Laura Ann visited the graves of her great-great-great grandparents, George and Sarah Ann Hill Housley.

                    George died on August 13, 1877 and was buried three days later. The text for the funeral sermon was Proverbs 27:1: “Do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what a day may bring forth.”


                      My Grandparents Kitchen

                      My grandmother used to have golden syrup in her larder, hanging on the white plastic coated storage rack that was screwed to the inside of the larder door. Mostly the larder door was left propped open with an old flat iron, so you could see the Heinz ketchup and home made picallilli (she made a particularly good picallili), the Worcester sauce and the jar of pickled onions, as you sat at the kitchen table.

                      If you were sitting to the right of the kitchen table you could see an assortment of mismatched crockery, cups and bowls, shoe cleaning brushes, and at the back, tiny tins of baked beans and big ones of plum tomatoes,  and normal sized tins of vegetable and mushroom soup.  Underneath the little shelves that housed the tins was a blue plastic washing up bowl with a few onions, some in, some out of the yellow string bag they came home from the expensive little village supermarket in.

                      There was much more to the left in the awkward triangular shape under the stairs, but you couldn’t see under there from your seat at the kitchen table.  You could see the shelf above the larder door which held an ugly china teapot of graceless modern lines, gazed with metallic silver which was wearing off in places. Beside the teapot sat a serving bowl, squat and shapely with little handles, like a flattened Greek urn, in white and reddish brown with flecks of faded gilt. A plain white teapot completed the trio, a large cylindrical one with neat vertical ridges and grooves.

                      There were two fridges under the high shallow wooden wall cupboard.  A waist high bulbous old green one with a big handle that pulled out with a clunk, and a chest high sleek white one with a small freezer at the top with a door of its own.  On the top of the fridges were biscuit and cracker tins, big black keys, pencils and brittle yellow notepads, rubber bands and aspirin value packs and a bottle of Brufen.  There was a battered old maroon spectacle case and a whicker letter rack, letters crammed in and fanning over the top.  There was always a pile of glossy advertising pamphlets and flyers on top of the fridges, of the sort that were best put straight into the tiny pedal bin.

                      My grandmother never lined the pedal bin with a used plastic bag, nor with a specially designed plastic bin liner. The bin was so small that the flip top lid was often gaping, resting on a mound of cauliflower greens and soup tins.  Behind the pedal bin, but on the outer aspect of the kitchen wall, was the big black dustbin with the rubbery lid. More often than not, the lid was thrust upwards. If Thursday when the dustbin men came was several days away, you’d wish you hadn’t put those newspapers in, or those old shoes!  You stood in the softly drizzling rain in your slippers, the rubbery sheild of a lid in your left hand and the overflowing pedal bin in the other.  The contents of the pedal bin are not going to fit into the dustbin.  You sigh, put the pedal bin and the dustbin lid down, and roll up your sleeves ~ carefully, because you’ve poked your fingers into a porridge covered teabag.  You grab the sides of the protruding black sack and heave. All being well,  the contents should settle and you should have several inches more of plastic bag above the rim of the dustbin.  Unless of course it’s a poor quality plastic bag in which case your fingernail will go through and a horizontal slash will appear just below rubbish level.  Eventually you upend the pedal bin and scrape the cigarette ash covered potato peelings into the dustbin with your fingers. By now the fibres of your Shetland wool jumper are heavy with damp, just like the fuzzy split ends that curl round your pale frowning brow.  You may push back your hair with your forearm causing the moisture to bead and trickle down your face, as you turn the brass doorknob with your palm and wrist, tea leaves and cigarette ash clinging unpleasantly to your fingers.

                      The pedal bin needs rinsing in the kitchen sink, but the sink is full of mismatched saucepans, some new in shades of harvest gold, some battered and mishapen in stainless steel and aluminium, bits of mashed potato stuck to them like concrete pebbledash. There is a pale pink octagonally ovoid shallow serving dish and a little grey soup bowl with a handle like a miniature pottery saucepan decorated with kitcheny motifs.

                      The water for the coffee bubbles in a suacepan on the cream enamelled gas cooker. My grandmother never used a kettle, although I do remember a heavy flame orange one. The little pan for boiling water had a lip for easy pouring and a black plastic handle.

                      The steam has caused the condensation on the window over the sink to race in rivulets down to the fablon coated windowsill.  The yellow gingham curtains hang limply, the left one tucked behind the back of the cooker.

                      You put the pedal bin back it it’s place below the tea towel holder, and rinse your mucky fingers under the tap. The gas water heater on the wall above you roars into life just as you turn the tap off, and disappointed, subsides.

                      As you lean over to turn the cooker knob, the heat from the oven warms your arm. The gas oven was almost always on, the oven door open with clean tea towels and sometimes large white pants folded over it to air.

                      The oven wasn’t the only heat in my grandparents kitchen. There was an electric bar fire near the red formica table which used to burn your legs. The kitchen table was extended by means of a flap at each side. When I was small I wasn’t allowed to snap the hinge underneath shut as my grandmother had pinched the skin of her palm once.

                      The electric fire was plugged into the same socket as the radio. The radio took a minute or two to warm up when you switched it on, a bulky thing with sharp seventies edges and a reddish wood effect veneer and big knobs.  The light for my grandfathers workshop behind the garage (where he made dentures) was plugged into the same socket, which had a big heavy white three way adaptor in. The plug for the washing machine was hooked by means of a bit of string onto a nail or hook so that it didn’t fall down behing the washing machine when it wasn’t plugged in. Everything was unplugged when it wasn’t in use.  Sometimes there was a shrivelled Christmas cactus on top of the radio, but it couldn’t hide the adaptor and all those plugs.

                      Above the washing machine was a rhomboid wooden wall cupboard with sliding frsoted glass doors.  It was painted creamy gold, the colour of a nicotine stained pub ceiling, and held packets of Paxo stuffing and little jars of Bovril and Marmite, packets of Bisto and a jar of improbably red Maraschino cherries.

                      The nicotine coloured cupboard on the opposite wall had half a dozen large hooks screwed under the bottom shelf. A variety of mugs and cups hung there when they weren’t in the bowl waiting to be washed up. Those cupboard doors seemed flimsy for their size, and the thin beading on the edge of one door had come unstuck at the bottom and snapped back if you caught it with your sleeve.  The doors fastened with a little click in the centre, and the bottom of the door reverberated slightly as you yanked it open. There were always crumbs in the cupboard from the numerous packets of bisucits and crackers and there was always an Allbran packet with the top folded over to squeeze it onto the shelf. The sugar bowl was in there, sticky grains like sandpaper among the biscuit crumbs.

                      Half of one of the shelves was devoted to medicines: grave looking bottles of codeine linctus with no nonsense labels,  brown glass bottles with pills for rheumatism and angina.  Often you would find a large bottle, nearly full, of Brewers yeast or vitamin supplements with a dollar price tag, souvenirs of the familys last visit.  Above the medicines you’d find a faded packet of Napolitana pasta bows or a dusty packet of muesli. My grandparents never used them but she left them in the cupboard. Perhaps the dollar price tags and foreign foods reminded her of her children.

                      If there had been a recent visit you would see monstrous jars of Sanka and Maxwell House coffee in there too, but they always used the coffee.  They liked evaporated milk in their coffee, and used tins and tins of “evap” as they called it. They would pour it over tinned fruit, or rhubard crumble or stewed apples.

                      When there was just the two of them, or when I was there as well, they’d eat at the kitchen table. The table would be covered in a white embroidered cloth and the food served in mismatched serving dishes. The cutlery was large and bent, the knife handles in varying shades of bone. My grandfathers favourite fork had the tip of each prong bent in a different direction. He reckoned it was more efficient that way to spear his meat.  He often used to chew his meat and then spit it out onto the side of his plate. Not in company, of course.  I can understand why he did that, not having eaten meat myself for so long. You could chew a piece of meat for several hours and still have a stringy lump between your cheek and your teeth.

                      My grandfather would always have a bowl of Allbran with some Froment wheat germ for his breakfast, while reading the Daily Mail at the kitchen table.  He never worse slippers, always shoes indoors,  and always wore a tie.  He had lots of ties but always wore a plain maroon one.  His shirts were always cream and buttoned at throat and cuff, and eventually started wearing shirts without detachable collars. He wore greeny grey trousers and a cardigan of the same shade most of the time, the same colour as a damp English garden.

                      The same colour as the slimy green wooden clothes pegs that I threw away and replaced with mauve and fuschia pink plastic ones.  “They’re a bit bright for up the garden, aren’t they,” he said.  He was right. I should have ignored the green peg stains on the laundry.  An English garden should be shades of moss and grassy green, rich umber soil and brick red walls weighed down with an atmosphere of dense and heavy greyish white.

                      After Grandma died and Mop had retired (I always called him Mop, nobody knows why) at 10:00am precisely Mop would  have a cup of instant coffee with evap. At lunch, a bowl of tinned vegetable soup in his special soup bowl, and a couple of Krackawheat crackers and a lump of mature Cheddar. It was a job these days to find a tasty cheddar, he’d say.

                      When he was working, and he worked until well into his seventies, he took sandwiches. Every day he had the same sandwich filling: a combination of cheese, peanut butter and marmite.  It was an unusal choice for an otherwise conventional man.  He loved my grandmothers cooking, which wasn’t brilliant but was never awful. She was always generous with the cheese in cheese sauces and the meat in meat pies. She overcooked the cauliflower, but everyone did then. She made her gravy in the roasting pan, and made onion sauce, bread sauce, parsley sauce and chestnut stuffing.  She had her own version of cosmopolitan favourites, and called her quiche a quiche when everyone was still calling it egg and bacon pie. She used to like Auntie Daphne’s ratatouille, rather exotic back then, and pronounced it Ratta Twa.  She made pizza unlike any other, with shortcrust pastry smeared with tomato puree from a tube, sprinkled with oregano and great slabs of cheddar.

                      The roast was always overdone. “We like our meat well done” she’d say. She’d walk up the garden to get fresh mint for the mint sauce and would announce with pride “these runner beans are out of the garding”. They always grew vegetables at the top of the garden, behind the lawn and the silver birch tree.  There was always a pudding: a slice of almond tart (always with home made pastry), a crumble or stewed fruit. Topped with evap, of course.


                        The Gladstone Connection

                        My grandmother had said that we were distantly related to Gladstone the prime minister. Apparently Grandma’s mothers aunt had a neice that was related to him, or some combination of aunts and nieces on the Gretton side. I had not yet explored all the potential great grandmothers aunt’s nieces looking for this Gladstone connection, but I accidentally found a Gladstone on the tree on the Gretton side.

                        I was wandering around randomly looking at the hints for other people that had my grandparents in their trees to see who they were and how they were connected, and noted a couple of photos of Orgills. Richard Gretton, grandma’s mother Florence Nightingale Gretton’s father,  married Sarah Orgill. Sarah’s brother John Orgill married Elizabeth Mary Gladstone. It was the photographs that caught my eye, but then I saw the Gladstone name, and that she was born in Liverpool. Her father was William Gladstone born 1809 in Liverpool, just like the prime minister. And his father was John Gladstone, just like the prime minister.

                        But the William Gladstone in our family tree was a millwright, who emigrated to Australia with his wife and two children rather late in life at the age of 54, in 1863. He died three years later when he was thrown out of a cart in 1866. This was clearly not William Gladstone the prime minister.

                        John Orgill emigrated to Australia in 1865, and married Elizabeth Mary Gladstone in Victoria in 1870. Their first child was born in December that year, in Dandenong. Their three sons all have the middle name Gladstone.

                        John Orgill 1835-1911 (Florence Nightingale Gretton’s mothers brother)

                        John Orgill

                        Elizabeth Mary Gladstone 1845-1926

                        Elizabeth Mary Gladstone


                        I did not think that the link to Gladstone the prime minister was true, until I found an article in the Australian newspapers while researching the family of John Orgill for the Australia chapter.

                        In the Letters to the Editor in The Argus, a Melbourne newspaper, dated 8 November 1921:



                        THE GLADSTONE FAMILY.
                        TO THE EDITOR OF THE ARGUS.
                        Sir,—I notice to-day a reference to the
                        death of Mr. Robert Gladstone, late of
                        Wooltonvale. Liverpool, who, together
                        with estate in England valued at £143,079,
                        is reported to have left to his children
                        (five sons and seven daughters) estate
                        valued at £4,300 in Victoria. It may be
                        of interest to some of your readers to
                        know that this Robert Gladstone was a
                        son of the Gladstone family to which
                        the Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone, the
                        famous Prime Minister, belonged, some
                        members of which are now resident in Aus-
                        tralia. Robert Gladstone’s father (W. E.
                        Gladstone’s cousin), Stuart Gladstone, of
                        Liverpool, owned at one time the estates
                        of Noorat and Glenormiston, in Victoria,
                        to which he sent Neil Black as manager.
                        Mr. Black, who afterwards acquired the
                        property, called one of his sons “Stuart
                        Gladstone” after his employer. A nephew
                        of Stuart Gladstone (and cousin of
                        Robert Gladstone, of Wooltonvale), Robert
                        Cottingham, by name “Bobbie” came out
                        to Australia to farm at Noorat, but was
                        killed in a horse accident when only 21,
                        and was the first to be buried in the new
                        cemetery at Noorat. A brother, of “Bob-
                        bie,” “Fred” by name, was well known
                        in the early eighties as an overland
                        drover, taking stock for C. B. Fisher to
                        the far north. Later on he married and
                        settled in Melbourne, but left during the
                        depressing time following the bursting of
                        the boom, to return to Queensland, where,
                        in all probability, he still resides. A sister
                        of “Bobbie” and “Fred” still lives in the
                        neighbourhood of Melbourne. Their
                        father, Montgomery Gladstone, who was in
                        the diplomatic service, and travelled about
                        a great deal, was a brother of Stuart Glad-
                        stone, the owner of Noorat, and a full
                        cousin of William Ewart Gladstone, his
                        father, Robert, being a brother of W. E.
                        Gladstone’s father, Sir John, of Liverpool.
                        The wife of Robert Gladstone, of Woolton-
                        vale, Ella Gladstone by name, was also
                        his second cousin, being the daughter of
                        Robertson Gladstone, of Courthaize, near
                        Liverpool, W. E. Gladstone’s older
                        A cousin of Sir John Gladstone
                        (W. E. G.’s father), also called John, was
                        a foundry owner in Castledouglas, and the
                        inventor of the first suspension bridge, a
                        model of which was made use of in the
                        erection of the Menai Bridge connecting
                        Anglesea with the mainland, and was after-
                        wards presented to the Liverpool Stock
                        Exchange by the inventor’s cousin, Sir
                        John. One of the sons of this inventive
                        engineer, William by name, left England
                        in 1863 with his wife and son and daugh-
                        ter, intending to settle in New Zealand,
                        but owing to the unrest caused there by
                        the Maori war, he came instead to Vic-
                        toria, and bought land near Dandenong.
                        Three years later he was killed in a horse
                        accident, but his name is perpetuated in
                        the name “Gladstone road” in Dandenong.
                        His daughter afterwards married, and lived
                        for many years in Gladstone House, Dande-
                        nong, but is now widowed and settled in
                        Gippsland. Her three sons and four daugh-
                        ters are all married and perpetuating the
                        Gladstone family in different parts of Aus-
                        tralia. William’s son (also called Wil-
                        liam), who came out with his father,
                        mother, and sister in 1863 still lives in the
                        Fix this textneighbourhood of Melbourne, with his son
                        and grandson. An aunt of Sir John Glad-
                        stone (W. E. G.’s father), Christina Glad-
                        stone by name, married a Mr. Somerville,
                        of Biggar. One of her great-grandchildren
                        is Professor W. P. Paterson, of Edinburgh
                        University, another is a professor in the
                        West Australian University, and a third
                        resides in Melbourne. Yours. &c.

                        Melbourne, Nov.7, FAMILY TREE


                        According to the Old Dandenong website:

                        Elizabeth Mary Orgill (nee Gladstone) operated Gladstone House until at least 1911, along with another hydropathic hospital (Birthwood) on Cheltenham road. She was the daughter of William Gladstone (Nephew of William Ewart Gladstone, UK prime minister in 1874).”

                        The story of the Orgill’s continues in the chapter on Australia.


                          My Grandparents

                          George Samuel Marshall 1903-1995

                          Florence Noreen Warren (Nora) 1906-1988

                          I always called my grandfather Mop, apparently because I couldn’t say the name Grandpa, but whatever the reason, the name stuck. My younger brother also called him Mop, but our two cousins did not.

                          My earliest memories of my grandparents are the picnics.  Grandma and Mop loved going out in the car for a picnic. Favourite spots were the Clee Hills in Shropshire, North Wales, especially Llanbedr, Malvern, and Derbyshire, and closer to home, the caves and silver birch woods at Kinver Edge, Arley by the river Severn, or Bridgnorth, where Grandma’s sister Hildreds family lived.  Stourbridge was on the western edge of the Black Country in the Midlands, so one was quickly in the countryside heading west.  They went north to Derbyshire less, simply because the first part of the trip entailed driving through Wolverhampton and other built up and not particularly pleasant urban areas.  I’m sure they’d have gone there more often, as they were both born in Derbyshire, if not for that initial stage of the journey.

                          There was predominantly grey tartan car rug in the car for picnics, and a couple of folding chairs.  There were always a couple of cushions on the back seat, and I fell asleep in the back more times than I can remember, despite intending to look at the scenery.  On the way home Grandma would always sing,  “Show me the way to go home, I’m tired and I want to go to bed, I had a little drink about an hour ago, And it’s gone right to my head.”  I’ve looked online for that song, and have not found it anywhere!

                          Grandma didn’t just make sandwiches for picnics, there were extra containers of lettuce, tomatoes, pickles and so on.  I used to love to wash up the picnic plates in the little brook on the Clee Hills, near Cleeton St Mary.  The close cropped grass was ideal for picnics, and Mop and the sheep would Baaa at each other.

                          Mop would base the days outting on the weather forcast, but Grandma often used to say he always chose the opposite of what was suggested. She said if you want to go to Derbyshire, tell him you want to go to Wales.  I recall him often saying, on a gloomy day, Look, there’s a bit of clear sky over there.  Mop always did the driving as Grandma never learned to drive. Often she’d dust the dashboard with a tissue as we drove along.

                          My brother and I often spent the weekend at our grandparents house, so that our parents could go out on a Saturday night.  They gave us 5 shillings pocket money, which I used to spend on two Ladybird books at 2 shillings and sixpence each.  We had far too many sweets while watching telly in the evening ~ in the dark, as they always turned the lights off to watch television.  The lemonade and pop was Corona, and came in returnable glass bottles.  We had Woodpecker cider too, even though it had a bit of an alcohol content.

                          Mop smoked Kensitas and Grandma smoked Sovereign cigarettes, or No6, and the packets came with coupons.  They often let me choose something for myself out of the catalogue when there were enough coupons saved up.

                          When I had my first garden, in a rented house a short walk from theirs, they took me to garden nurseries and taught me all about gardening.  In their garden they had berberis across the front of the house under the window, and cotoneaster all along the side of the garage wall. The silver birth tree on the lawn had been purloined as a sapling from Kinver edge, when they first moved into the house.  (they lived in that house on Park Road for more than 60 years).  There were perennials and flowering shrubs along the sides of the back garden, and behind the silver birch, and behind that was the vegeatable garden.  Right at the back was an Anderson shelter turned into a shed, the rhubarb, and the washing line, and the canes for the runner beans in front of those.  There was a little rose covered arch on the path on the left, and privet hedges all around the perimeter.

                          My grandfather was a dental technician. He worked for various dentists on their premises over the years, but he always had a little workshop of his own at the back of his garage. His garage was full to the brim of anything that might potentially useful, but it was not chaotic. He knew exactly where to find anything, from the tiniest screw for spectacles to a useful bit of wire. He was “mechanicaly minded” and could always fix things like sewing machines and cars and so on.

                          Mop used to let me sit with him in his workshop, and make things out of the pink wax he used for gums to embed the false teeth into prior to making the plaster casts. The porcelain teeth came on cards, and were strung in place by means of little holes on the back end of the teeth. I still have a necklace I made by threading teeth onto a string. There was a foot pedal operated drill in there as well, possibly it was a dentists drill previously, that he used with miniature grinding or polishing attachments. Sometimes I made things out of the pink acrylic used for the final denture, which had a strong smell and used to harden quickly, so you had to work fast. Initially, the workshop was to do the work for Uncle Ralph, Grandmas’s sisters husband, who was a dentist. In later years after Ralph retired, I recall a nice man called Claude used to come in the evening to collect the dentures for another dental laboratory. Mop always called his place of work the laboratory.

                          Grandma loved books and was always reading, in her armchair next to the gas fire. I don’t recall seeing Mop reading a book, but he was amazingly well informed about countless topics.
                          At family gatherings, Mops favourite topic of conversation after dinner was the atrocities committed over the centuries by organized religion.

                          My grandfather played snooker in his younger years at the Conservative club. I recall my father assuming he voted Conservative, and Mop told him in no uncertain terms that he’s always voted Labour. When asked why he played snooker at the Conservative club and not the Labour club, he said with a grin that “it was a better class of people”, but that he’d never vote Conservative because it was of no benefit to the likes of us working people.

                          Grandma and her sister in law Marie had a little grocers shop on Brettel Lane in Amblecote for a few years but I have no personal recollection of that as it was during the years we lived in USA. I don’t recall her working other than that. She had a pastry making day once a week, and made Bakewell tart, apple pie, a meat pie, and her own style of pizza. She had an old black hand operated sewing machine, and made curtains and loose covers for the chairs and sofa, but I don’t think she made her own clothes, at least not in later years. I have her sewing machine here in Spain.
                          At regular intervals she’d move all the furniture around and change the front room into the living room and the back into the dining room and vice versa. In later years Mop always had the back bedroom (although when I lived with them aged 14, I had the back bedroom, and painted the entire room including the ceiling purple). He had a very lumpy mattress but he said it fit his bad hip perfectly.

                          Grandma used to alternate between the tiny bedroom and the big bedroom at the front. (this is in later years, obviously) The wardrobes and chests of drawers never changed, they were oak and substantial, but rather dated in appearance. They had a grandfather clock with a brass face and a grandmother clock. Over the fireplace in the living room was a Utrillo print. The bathroom and lavatory were separate rooms, and the old claw foot bath had wood panels around it to make it look more modern. There was a big hot water geyser above it. Grandma was fond of using stick on Fablon tile effects to try to improve and update the appearance of the bathroom and kitchen. Mop was a generous man, but would not replace household items that continued to function perfectly well. There were electric heaters in all the rooms, of varying designs, and gas fires in living room and dining room. The coal house on the outside wall was later turned into a downstairs shower room, when Mop moved his bedroom downstairs into the front dining room, after Grandma had died and he was getting on.


                          Mop was 91 when he told me he wouldn’t be growing any vegetables that year. He said the sad thing was that he knew he’d never grow vegetables again. He worked part time until he was in his early 80s.


                            Stories of Houses


                              The Buxton Marshalls

                              and the DNA Match

                              Several years before I started researching the family tree, a friend treated me to a DNA test just for fun. The ethnicity estimates were surprising (and still don’t make much sense): I am apparently 58% Scandinavian, 37% English, and a little Iberian, North African, and even a bit Nigerian! My ancestry according to genealogical research is almost 100% Midlands English for the past three hundred years.

                              Not long after doing the DNA test, I was contacted via the website by Jim Perkins, who had noticed my Marshall name on the DNA match. Jim’s grandfather was James Marshall, my great grandfather William Marshall’s brother. Jim told me he had done his family tree years before the advent of online genealogy. Jim didn’t have a photo of James, but we had several photos with “William Marshall’s brother” written on the back.

                              Jim sent me a photo of his uncle, the man he was named after. The photo shows Charles James Marshall in his army uniform. He escaped Dunkirk in 1940 by swimming out to a destroyer, apparently an excellent swimmer. Sadly he was killed, aged 25 and unmarried, on Sep 2 1942 at the Battle of Alma-Halfa in North Africa. Jim was born exactly one year later.

                              Jim and I became friends on Facebook. In 2021 a relative kindly informed me that Jim had died. I’ve since been in contact with his sister Marilyn.  Jim’s grandfather James Marshall was the eldest of John and Emma’s children, born in 1873. James daughter with his first wife Martha, Hilda, married James Perkins, Jim and Marilyn’s parents. Charles James Marshall who died in North Africa was James son by a second marriage.  James was a railway engine fireman on the 1911 census, and a retired rail driver on the 1939 census.

                              Charles James Marshall 1917-1942 died at the Battle of Alma-Halfa in North Africa:

                              photo thanks to Jim Perkins

                              Charles James Marshall


                              Anna Marshall, born in 1875, was a dressmaker and never married. She was still living with her parents John and Emma in Buxton on the 1921 census. One the 1939 census she was still single at the age of 66, and was living with John J Marshall born 1916. Perhaps a nephew?

                              Annie Marshall 1939


                              John Marshall was born in 1877. Buxton is a spa town with many hotels, and John was the 2nd porter living in at the Crescent Hotel on the 1901 census, although he married later that year. In the 1911 census John was married with three children and living in Fairfield, Buxton, and his occupation was Hotel Porter and Boots.  John and Alice had four children, although one son died in infancy, leaving two sons and a daughter, Lily.

                              My great grandfather William Marshall was born in 1878, and Edward Marshall was born in 1880. According to the family stories, one of William’s brothers was chief of police in Lincolnshire, and two of the family photos say on the back “Frank Marshall, chief of police Lincolnshire”. But it wasn’t Frank, it was Edward, and it wasn’t Lincolnshire, it was Lancashire.

                              The records show that Edward Marshall was a hotel porter at the Pulteney Hotel in Bath, Somerset, in 1901. Presumably he started working in hotels in Buxton prior to that. James married Florence in Bath in 1903, and their first four children were born in Bath. By 1911 the family were living in Salmesbury, near Blackburn Lancashire, and Edward was a police constable. On the 1939 census, James was a retired police inspector, still living in Lancashire. Florence and Edward had eight children.

                              It became clear that the two photographs we have that were labeled “Frank Marshall Chief of police” were in fact Edward, when I noticed that both photos were taken by a photographer in Bath. They were correctly labeled as the policeman, but we had the name wrong.

                              Edward and Florence Marshall, Bath, Somerset:

                              Edward Marshall, Bath


                              Sarah Marshall was born in 1882 and died two years later.

                              Nellie Marshall was born in 1885 and I have not yet found a marriage or death for her.

                              Harry Marshall was John and Emma’s next child, born in 1887. On the 1911 census Harry is 24 years old, and  lives at home with his parents and sister Ann. His occupation is a barman in a hotel. I haven’t yet found any further records for Harry.

                              Frank Marshall was the youngest, born in 1889. In 1911 Frank was living at the George Hotel in Buxton, employed as a boot boy. Also listed as live in staff at the hotel was Lily Moss, a kitchenmaid.

                              Frank Marshall

                              In 1913 Frank and Lily were married, and in 1914 their first child Millicent Rose was born. On the 1921 census Frank, Lily, William Rose and one other (presumably Millicent Rose) were living in Hartington Upper Quarter, Buxton.

                              The George Hotel, Buxton:

                              George Hotel Buxton


                              One of the photos says on the back “Jack Marshall, brother of William Marshall, WW1”:

                              Jack Marshall

                              Another photo that says on the back “William Marshalls brother”:

                              WM brother 1

                              Another “William Marshalls brother”:

                              WM b 2

                              And another “William Marshalls brother”:

                              wm b 3

                              Unlabeled but clearly a Marshall:

                              wmb 4

                              The last photo is clearly a Marshall, but I haven’t yet found a Burnley connection with any of the Marshall brothers.


                                George “Mike” Rushby

                                A short autobiography of George Gilman Rushby’s son, published in the Blackwall Bugle, Australia.

                                Early in 2009, Ballina Shire Council Strategic and
                                Community Services Group Manager, Steve Barnier,
                                suggested that it would be a good idea for the Wardell
                                and District community to put out a bi-monthly
                                newsletter. I put my hand up to edit the publication and
                                since then, over 50 issues of “The Blackwall Bugle”
                                have been produced, encouraged by Ballina Shire
                                Council who host the newsletter on their website.
                                Because I usually write the stories that other people
                                generously share with me, I have been asked by several
                                community members to let them know who I am. Here is
                                my attempt to let you know!

                                My father, George Gilman Rushby was born in England
                                in 1900. An Electrician, he migrated to Africa as a young
                                man to hunt and to prospect for gold. He met Eleanor
                                Dunbar Leslie who was a high school teacher in Cape
                                Town. They later married in Dar es Salaam, Tanganyika.
                                I was the second child and first son and was born in a
                                mud hut in Tanganyika in 1933. I spent my first years on
                                a coffee plantation. When four years old, and with
                                parents and elder sister on a remote goldfield, I caught
                                typhoid fever. I was seriously ill and had no access to
                                proper medical facilities. My paternal grandmother
                                sailed out to Africa from England on a steam ship and
                                took me back to England for medical treatment. My
                                sister Ann came too. Then Adolf Hitler started WWII and
                                Ann and I were separated from our parents for 9 years.

                                Sister Ann and I were not to see him or our mother for
                                nine years because of the war. Dad served as a Captain in
                                the King’s African Rifles operating in the North African
                                desert, while our Mum managed the coffee plantation at
                                home in Tanganyika.

                                Ann and I lived with our Grandmother and went to
                                school in Nottingham England. In 1946 the family was
                                reunited. We lived in Mbeya in Southern Tanganyika
                                where my father was then the District Manager of the
                                National Parks and Wildlife Authority. There was no
                                high school in Tanganyika so I had to go to school in
                                Nairobi, Kenya. It took five days travelling each way by
                                train and bus including two days on a steamer crossing
                                Lake Victoria.

                                However, the school year was only two terms with long
                                holidays in between.

                                When I was seventeen, I left high school. There was
                                then no university in East Africa. There was no work
                                around as Tanganyika was about to become
                                independent of the British Empire and become
                                Tanzania. Consequently jobs were reserved for

                                A war had broken out in Korea. I took a day off from
                                high school and visited the British Army headquarters
                                in Nairobi. I signed up for military service intending to
                                go to Korea. The army flew me to England. During
                                Army basic training I was nicknamed ‘Mike’ and have
                                been called Mike ever since. I never got to Korea!
                                After my basic training I volunteered for the Parachute
                                Regiment and the army sent me to Egypt where the
                                Suez Canal was under threat. I carried out parachute
                                operations in the Sinai Desert and in Cyprus and
                                Jordan. I was then selected for officer training and was
                                sent to England to the Eaton Hall Officer Cadet School
                                in Cheshire. Whilst in Cheshire, I met my future wife
                                Jeanette. I graduated as a Second Lieutenant in the
                                Royal Lincolnshire Regiment and was posted to West
                                Berlin, which was then one hundred miles behind the
                                Iron Curtain. My duties included patrolling the
                                demarcation line that separated the allies from the
                                Russian forces. The Berlin Wall was yet to be built. I
                                also did occasional duty as guard commander of the
                                guard at Spandau Prison where Adolf Hitler’s deputy
                                Rudolf Hess was the only prisoner.

                                From Berlin, my Regiment was sent to Malaya to
                                undertake deep jungle operations against communist
                                terrorists that were attempting to overthrow the
                                Malayan Government. I was then a Lieutenant in
                                command of a platoon of about 40 men which would go
                                into the jungle for three weeks to a month with only air
                                re-supply to keep us going. On completion of my jungle
                                service, I returned to England and married Jeanette. I
                                had to stand up throughout the church wedding
                                ceremony because I had damaged my right knee in a
                                competitive cross-country motorcycle race and wore a
                                splint and restrictive bandage for the occasion!
                                At this point I took a career change and transferred
                                from the infantry to the Royal Military Police. I was in
                                charge of the security of British, French and American
                                troops using the autobahn link from West Germany to
                                the isolated Berlin. Whilst in Germany and Austria I
                                took up snow skiing as a sport.

                                Jeanette and I seemed to attract unusual little
                                adventures along the way — each adventure trivial in
                                itself but adding up to give us a ‘different’ path through
                                life. Having climbed Mount Snowdon up the ‘easy way’
                                we were witness to a serious climbing accident where a
                                member of the staff of a Cunard Shipping Line
                                expedition fell and suffered serious injury. It was
                                Sunday a long time ago. The funicular railway was
                                closed. There was no telephone. So I ran all the way
                                down Mount Snowdon to raise the alarm.

                                On a road trip from Verden in Germany to Berlin with
                                our old Opel Kapitan motor car stacked to the roof with
                                all our worldly possessions, we broke down on the ice and snow covered autobahn. We still had a hundred kilometres to go.

                                A motorcycle patrolman flagged down a B-Double
                                tanker. He hooked us to the tanker with a very short tow
                                cable and off we went. The truck driver couldn’t see us
                                because we were too close and his truck threw up a
                                constant deluge of ice and snow so we couldn’t see
                                anyway. We survived the hundred kilometre ‘sleigh

                                I then went back to the other side of the world where I
                                carried out military police duties in Singapore and
                                Malaya for three years. I took up scuba diving and
                                loved the ocean. Jeanette and I, with our two little
                                daughters, took a holiday to South Africa to see my
                                parents. We sailed on a ship of the Holland-Afrika Line.
                                It broke down for four days and drifted uncontrollably
                                in dangerous waters off the Skeleton Coast of Namibia
                                until the crew could get the ship’s motor running again.
                                Then, in Cape Town, we were walking the beach near
                                Hermanus with my youngest brother and my parents,
                                when we found the dead body of a man who had thrown
                                himself off a cliff. The police came and secured the site.
                                Back with the army, I was promoted to Major and
                                appointed Provost Marshal of the ACE Mobile Force
                                (Allied Command Europe) with dual headquarters in
                                Salisbury, England and Heidelberg, Germany. The cold
                                war was at its height and I was on operations in Greece,
                                Denmark and Norway including the Arctic. I had
                                Norwegian, Danish, Italian and American troops in my
                                unit and I was then also the Winter Warfare Instructor
                                for the British contingent to the Allied Command
                                Europe Mobile Force that operated north of the Arctic

                                The reason for being in the Arctic Circle? From there
                                our special forces could look down into northern

                                I was not seeing much of my two young daughters. A
                                desk job was looming my way and I decided to leave
                                the army and migrate to Australia. Why Australia?
                                Well, I didn’t want to go back to Africa, which
                                seemed politically unstable and the people I most
                                liked working with in the army, were the Australian
                                troops I had met in Malaya.

                                I migrated to Brisbane, Australia in 1970 and started
                                working for Woolworths. After management training,
                                I worked at Garden City and Brookside then became
                                the manager in turn of Woolworths stores at
                                Paddington, George Street and Redcliff. I was also the
                                first Director of FAUI Queensland (The Federation of
                                Underwater Diving Instructors) and spent my spare
                                time on the Great Barrier Reef. After 8 years with
                                Woollies, I opted for a sea change.

                                I moved with my family to Evans Head where I
                                converted a convenience store into a mini
                                supermarket. When IGA moved into town, I decided
                                to take up beef cattle farming and bought a cattle
                                property at Collins Creek Kyogle in 1990. I loved
                                everything about the farm — the Charolais cattle, my
                                horses, my kelpie dogs, the open air, fresh water
                                creek, the freedom, the lifestyle. I also became a
                                volunteer fire fighter with the Green Pigeon Brigade.
                                In 2004 I sold our farm and moved to Wardell.
                                My wife Jeanette and I have been married for 60 years
                                and are now retired. We have two lovely married
                                daughters and three fine grandchildren. We live in the
                                greatest part of the world where we have been warmly
                                welcomed by the Wardell community and by the
                                Wardell Brigade of the Rural Fire Service. We are
                                very happy here.

                                Mike Rushby

                                A short article sent to Jacksdale in England from Mike Rushby in Australia:

                                Rushby Family


                                  From Tanganyika with Love

                                  With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                                  • “The letters of Eleanor Dunbar Leslie to her parents and her sister in South Africa
                                    concerning her life with George Gilman Rushby of Tanganyika, and the trials and
                                    joys of bringing up a family in pioneering conditions.

                                  These letters were transcribed from copies of letters typed by Eleanor Rushby from
                                  the originals which were in the estate of Marjorie Leslie, Eleanor’s sister. Eleanor
                                  kept no diary of her life in Tanganyika, so these letters were the living record of an
                                  important part of her life.

                                  Having walked across Africa from the East coast to Ubangi Shauri Chad
                                  in French Equatorial Africa, hunting elephant all the way, George Rushby
                                  made his way down the Congo to Leopoldville. He then caught a ship to
                                  Europe and had a holiday in Brussels and Paris before visiting his family
                                  in England. He developed blackwater fever and was extremely ill for a
                                  while. When he recovered he went to London to arrange his return to

                                  Whilst staying at the Overseas Club he met Eileen Graham who had come
                                  to England from Cape Town to study music. On hearing that George was
                                  sailing for Cape Town she arranged to introduce him to her friend
                                  Eleanor Dunbar Leslie. “You’ll need someone lively to show you around,”
                                  she said. “She’s as smart as paint, a keen mountaineer, a very good school
                                  teacher, and she’s attractive. You can’t miss her, because her father is a
                                  well known Cape Town Magistrate. And,” she added “I’ve already written
                                  and told her what ship you are arriving on.”

                                  Eleanor duly met the ship. She and George immediately fell in love.
                                  Within thirty six hours he had proposed marriage and was accepted
                                  despite the misgivings of her parents. As she was under contract to her
                                  High School, she remained in South Africa for several months whilst
                                  George headed for Tanganyika looking for a farm where he could build
                                  their home.

                                  These details are a summary of chapter thirteen of the Biography of
                                  George Gilman Rushby ‘The Hunter is Death “ by T.V.Bulpin.


                                  Dearest Marj,
                                  Terrifically exciting news! I’ve just become engaged to an Englishman whom I
                                  met last Monday. The result is a family upheaval which you will have no difficulty in

                                  The Aunts think it all highly romantic and cry in delight “Now isn’t that just like our
                                  El!” Mummy says she doesn’t know what to think, that anyway I was always a harum
                                  scarum and she rather expected something like this to happen. However I know that
                                  she thinks George highly attractive. “Such a nice smile and gentle manner, and such
                                  good hands“ she murmurs appreciatively. “But WHY AN ELEPHANT HUNTER?” she
                                  ends in a wail, as though elephant hunting was an unmentionable profession.
                                  Anyway I don’t think so. Anyone can marry a bank clerk or a lawyer or even a
                                  millionaire – but whoever heard of anyone marrying anyone as exciting as an elephant
                                  hunter? I’m thrilled to bits.

                                  Daddy also takes a dim view of George’s profession, and of George himself as
                                  a husband for me. He says that I am so impulsive and have such wild enthusiasms that I
                                  need someone conservative and steady to give me some serenity and some ballast.
                                  Dad says George is a handsome fellow and a good enough chap he is sure, but
                                  he is obviously a man of the world and hints darkly at a possible PAST. George says
                                  he has nothing of the kind and anyway I’m the first girl he has asked to marry him. I don’t
                                  care anyway, I’d gladly marry him tomorrow, but Dad has other ideas.

                                  He sat in his armchair to deliver his verdict, wearing the same look he must wear
                                  on the bench. If we marry, and he doesn’t think it would be a good thing, George must
                                  buy a comfortable house for me in Central Africa where I can stay safely when he goes
                                  hunting. I interrupted to say “But I’m going too”, but dad snubbed me saying that in no
                                  time at all I’ll have a family and one can’t go dragging babies around in the African Bush.”
                                  George takes his lectures with surprising calm. He says he can see Dad’s point of
                                  view much better than I can. He told the parents today that he plans to buy a small
                                  coffee farm in the Southern Highlands of Tanganyika and will build a cosy cottage which
                                  will be a proper home for both of us, and that he will only hunt occasionally to keep the
                                  pot boiling.

                                  Mummy, of course, just had to spill the beans. She said to George, “I suppose
                                  you know that Eleanor knows very little about house keeping and can’t cook at all.” a fact
                                  that I was keeping a dark secret. But George just said, “Oh she won’t have to work. The
                                  boys do all that sort of thing. She can lie on a couch all day and read if she likes.” Well
                                  you always did say that I was a “Lily of the field,” and what a good thing! If I were one of
                                  those terribly capable women I’d probably die of frustration because it seems that
                                  African house boys feel that they have lost face if their Memsahibs do anything but the
                                  most gracious chores.

                                  George is absolutely marvellous. He is strong and gentle and awfully good
                                  looking too. He is about 5 ft 10 ins tall and very broad. He wears his curly brown hair cut
                                  very short and has a close clipped moustache. He has strongly marked eyebrows and
                                  very striking blue eyes which sometimes turn grey or green. His teeth are strong and
                                  even and he has a quiet voice.

                                  I expect all this sounds too good to be true, but come home quickly and see for
                                  yourself. George is off to East Africa in three weeks time to buy our farm. I shall follow as
                                  soon as he has bought it and we will be married in Dar es Salaam.

                                  Dad has taken George for a walk “to get to know him” and that’s why I have time
                                  to write such a long screed. They should be back any minute now and I must fly and
                                  apply a bit of glamour.

                                  Much love my dear,
                                  your jubilant

                                  S.S.Timavo. Durban. 28th.October. 1930.

                                  Dearest Family,
                                  Thank you for the lovely send off. I do wish you were all on board with me and
                                  could come and dance with me at my wedding. We are having a very comfortable
                                  voyage. There were only four of the passengers as far as Durban, all of them women,
                                  but I believe we are taking on more here. I have a most comfortable deck cabin to
                                  myself and the use of a sumptuous bathroom. No one is interested in deck games and I
                                  am having a lazy time, just sunbathing and reading.

                                  I sit at the Captain’s table and the meals are delicious – beautifully served. The
                                  butter for instance, is moulded into sprays of roses, most exquisitely done, and as for
                                  the ice-cream, I’ve never tasted anything like them.

                                  The meals are continental type and we have hors d’oeuvre in a great variety
                                  served on large round trays. The Italians souse theirs with oil, Ugh! We also of course
                                  get lots of spaghetti which I have some difficulty in eating. However this presents no
                                  problem to the Chief Engineer who sits opposite to me. He simply rolls it around his
                                  fork and somehow the spaghetti flows effortlessly from fork to mouth exactly like an
                                  ascending escalator. Wine is served at lunch and dinner – very mild and pleasant stuff.
                                  Of the women passengers the one i liked best was a young German widow
                                  from South west Africa who left the ship at East London to marry a man she had never
                                  met. She told me he owned a drapers shop and she was very happy at the prospect
                                  of starting a new life, as her previous marriage had ended tragically with the death of her
                                  husband and only child in an accident.

                                  I was most interested to see the bridegroom and stood at the rail beside the gay
                                  young widow when we docked at East London. I picked him out, without any difficulty,
                                  from the small group on the quay. He was a tall thin man in a smart grey suit and with a
                                  grey hat perched primly on his head. You can always tell from hats can’t you? I wasn’t
                                  surprised to see, when this German raised his head, that he looked just like the Kaiser’s
                                  “Little Willie”. Long thin nose and cold grey eyes and no smile of welcome on his tight
                                  mouth for the cheery little body beside me. I quite expected him to jerk his thumb and
                                  stalk off, expecting her to trot at his heel.

                                  However she went off blithely enough. Next day before the ship sailed, she
                                  was back and I saw her talking to the Captain. She began to cry and soon after the
                                  Captain patted her on the shoulder and escorted her to the gangway. Later the Captain
                                  told me that the girl had come to ask him to allow her to work her passage back to
                                  Germany where she had some relations. She had married the man the day before but
                                  she disliked him because he had deceived her by pretending that he owned a shop
                                  whereas he was only a window dresser. Bad show for both.

                                  The Captain and the Chief Engineer are the only officers who mix socially with
                                  the passengers. The captain seems rather a melancholy type with, I should say, no
                                  sense of humour. He speaks fair English with an American accent. He tells me that he
                                  was on the San Francisco run during Prohibition years in America and saw many Film
                                  Stars chiefly “under the influence” as they used to flock on board to drink. The Chief
                                  Engineer is big and fat and cheerful. His English is anything but fluent but he makes up
                                  for it in mime.

                                  I visited the relations and friends at Port Elizabeth and East London, and here at
                                  Durban. I stayed with the Trotters and Swans and enjoyed myself very much at both
                                  places. I have collected numerous wedding presents, china and cutlery, coffee
                                  percolator and ornaments, and where I shall pack all these things I don’t know. Everyone has been terribly kind and I feel extremely well and happy.

                                  At the start of the voyage I had a bit of bad luck. You will remember that a
                                  perfectly foul South Easter was blowing. Some men were busy working on a deck
                                  engine and I stopped to watch and a tiny fragment of steel blew into my eye. There is
                                  no doctor on board so the stewardess put some oil into the eye and bandaged it up.
                                  The eye grew more and more painful and inflamed and when when we reached Port
                                  Elizabeth the Captain asked the Port Doctor to look at it. The Doctor said it was a job for
                                  an eye specialist and telephoned from the ship to make an appointment. Luckily for me,
                                  Vincent Tofts turned up at the ship just then and took me off to the specialist and waited
                                  whilst he extracted the fragment with a giant magnet. The specialist said that I was very
                                  lucky as the thing just missed the pupil of my eye so my sight will not be affected. I was
                                  temporarily blinded by the Belladona the eye-man put in my eye so he fitted me with a
                                  pair of black goggles and Vincent escorted me back to the ship. Don’t worry the eye is
                                  now as good as ever and George will not have to take a one-eyed bride for better or

                                  I have one worry and that is that the ship is going to be very much overdue by
                                  the time we reach Dar es Salaam. She is taking on a big wool cargo and we were held
                                  up for three days in East london and have been here in Durban for five days.
                                  Today is the ninth Anniversary of the Fascist Movement and the ship was
                                  dressed with bunting and flags. I must now go and dress for the gala dinner.

                                  Bless you all,

                                  S.S.Timavo. 6th. November 1930

                                  Dearest Family,

                                  Nearly there now. We called in at Lourenco Marques, Beira, Mozambique and
                                  Port Amelia. I was the only one of the original passengers left after Durban but there we
                                  took on a Mrs Croxford and her mother and two men passengers. Mrs C must have
                                  something, certainly not looks. She has a flat figure, heavily mascared eyes and crooked
                                  mouth thickly coated with lipstick. But her rather sweet old mother-black-pearls-type tells
                                  me they are worn out travelling around the world trying to shake off an admirer who
                                  pursues Mrs C everywhere.

                                  The one male passenger is very quiet and pleasant. The old lady tells me that he
                                  has recently lost his wife. The other passenger is a horribly bumptious type.
                                  I had my hair beautifully shingled at Lourenco Marques, but what an experience it
                                  was. Before we docked I asked the Captain whether he knew of a hairdresser, but he
                                  said he did not and would have to ask the agent when he came aboard. The agent was
                                  a very suave Asian. He said “Sure he did” and offered to take me in his car. I rather
                                  doubtfully agreed — such a swarthy gentleman — and was driven, not to a hairdressing
                                  establishment, but to his office. Then he spoke to someone on the telephone and in no
                                  time at all a most dago-y type arrived carrying a little black bag. He was all patent
                                  leather, hair, and flashing smile, and greeted me like an old and valued friend.
                                  Before I had collected my scattered wits tthe Agent had flung open a door and
                                  ushered me through, and I found myself seated before an ornate mirror in what was only
                                  too obviously a bedroom. It was a bedroom with a difference though. The unmade bed
                                  had no legs but hung from the ceiling on brass chains.

                                  The agent beamingly shut the door behind him and I was left with my imagination
                                  and the afore mentioned oily hairdresser. He however was very business like. Before I
                                  could say knife he had shingled my hair with a cut throat razor and then, before I could
                                  protest, had smothered my neck in stinking pink powder applied with an enormous and
                                  filthy swansdown powder puff. He held up a mirror for me to admire his handiwork but I
                                  was aware only of the enormous bed reflected in it, and hurriedly murmuring “very nice,
                                  very nice” I made my escape to the outer office where, to my relief, I found the Chief
                                  Engineer who escorted me back to the ship.

                                  In the afternoon Mrs Coxford and the old lady and I hired a taxi and went to the
                                  Polana Hotel for tea. Very swish but I like our Cape Peninsula beaches better.
                                  At Lorenco Marques we took on more passengers. The Governor of
                                  Portuguese Nyasaland and his wife and baby son. He was a large middle aged man,
                                  very friendly and unassuming and spoke perfect English. His wife was German and
                                  exquisite, as fragile looking and with the delicate colouring of a Dresden figurine. She
                                  looked about 18 but she told me she was 28 and showed me photographs of two
                                  other sons – hefty youngsters, whom she had left behind in Portugal and was missing
                                  very much.

                                  It was frightfully hot at Beira and as I had no money left I did not go up to the
                                  town, but Mrs Croxford and I spent a pleasant hour on the beach under the Casurina

                                  The Governor and his wife left the ship at Mozambique. He looked very
                                  imposing in his starched uniform and she more Dresden Sheperdish than ever in a
                                  flowered frock. There was a guard of honour and all the trimmings. They bade me a warm farewell and invited George and me to stay at any time.

                                  The German ship “Watussi” was anchored in the Bay and I decided to visit her
                                  and try and have my hair washed and set. I had no sooner stepped on board when a
                                  lady came up to me and said “Surely you are Beeba Leslie.” It was Mrs Egan and she
                                  had Molly with her. Considering Mrs Egan had not seen me since I was five I think it was
                                  jolly clever of her to recognise me. Molly is charming and was most friendly. She fixed
                                  things with the hairdresser and sat with me until the job was done. Afterwards I had tea
                                  with them.

                                  Port Amelia was our last stop. In fact the only person to go ashore was Mr
                                  Taylor, the unpleasant man, and he returned at sunset very drunk indeed.
                                  We reached Port Amelia on the 3rd – my birthday. The boat had anchored by
                                  the time I was dressed and when I went on deck I saw several row boats cluttered
                                  around the gangway and in them were natives with cages of wild birds for sale. Such tiny
                                  crowded cages. I was furious, you know me. I bought three cages, carried them out on
                                  to the open deck and released the birds. I expected them to fly to the land but they flew
                                  straight up into the rigging.

                                  The quiet male passenger wandered up and asked me what I was doing. I said
                                  “I’m giving myself a birthday treat, I hate to see caged birds.” So next thing there he
                                  was buying birds which he presented to me with “Happy Birthday.” I gladly set those
                                  birds free too and they joined the others in the rigging.

                                  Then a grinning steward came up with three more cages. “For the lady with
                                  compliments of the Captain.” They lost no time in joining their friends.
                                  It had given me so much pleasure to free the birds that I was only a little
                                  discouraged when the quiet man said thoughtfully “This should encourage those bird
                                  catchers you know, they are sold out. When evening came and we were due to sail I
                                  was sure those birds would fly home, but no, they are still there and they will probably
                                  remain until we dock at Dar es Salaam.

                                  During the morning the Captain came up and asked me what my Christian name
                                  is. He looked as grave as ever and I couldn’t think why it should interest him but said “the
                                  name is Eleanor.” That night at dinner there was a large iced cake in the centre of the
                                  table with “HELENA” in a delicate wreath of pink icing roses on the top. We had
                                  champagne and everyone congratulated me and wished me good luck in my marriage.
                                  A very nice gesture don’t you think. The unpleasant character had not put in an
                                  appearance at dinner which made the party all the nicer

                                  I sat up rather late in the lounge reading a book and by the time I went to bed
                                  there was not a soul around. I bathed and changed into my nighty,walked into my cabin,
                                  shed my dressing gown, and pottered around. When I was ready for bed I put out my
                                  hand to draw the curtains back and a hand grasped my wrist. It was that wretched
                                  creature outside my window on the deck, still very drunk. Luckily I was wearing that
                                  heavy lilac silk nighty. I was livid. “Let go at once”, I said, but he only grinned stupidly.
                                  “I’m not hurting you” he said, “only looking”. “I’ll ring for the steward” said I, and by
                                  stretching I managed to press the bell with my free hand. I rang and rang but no one
                                  came and he just giggled. Then I said furiously, “Remember this name, George
                                  Rushby, he is a fine boxer and he hates specimens like you. When he meets me at Dar
                                  es Salaam I shall tell him about this and I bet you will be sorry.” However he still held on
                                  so I turned and knocked hard on the adjoining wall which divided my cabin from Mrs
                                  Croxfords. Soon Mrs Croxford and the old lady appeared in dressing gowns . This
                                  seemed to amuse the drunk even more though he let go my wrist. So whilst the old
                                  lady stayed with me, Mrs C fetched the quiet passenger who soon hustled him off. He has kept out of my way ever since. However I still mean to tell George because I feel
                                  the fellow got off far too lightly. I reported the matter to the Captain but he just remarked
                                  that he always knew the man was low class because he never wears a jacket to meals.
                                  This is my last night on board and we again had free champagne and I was given
                                  some tooled leather work by the Captain and a pair of good paste earrings by the old
                                  lady. I have invited them and Mrs Croxford, the Chief Engineer, and the quiet
                                  passenger to the wedding.

                                  This may be my last night as Eleanor Leslie and I have spent this long while
                                  writing to you just as a little token of my affection and gratitude for all the years of your
                                  love and care. I shall post this letter on the ship and must turn now and get some beauty
                                  sleep. We have been told that we shall be in Dar es Salaam by 9 am. I am so excited
                                  that I shall not sleep.

                                  Very much love, and just for fun I’ll sign my full name for the last time.
                                  with my “bes respeks”,

                                  Eleanor Leslie.

                                  Eleanor and George Rushby:

                                  Eleanor and George Rushby

                                  Splendid Hotel, Dar es Salaam 11th November 1930

                                  Dearest Family,

                                  I’m writing this in the bedroom whilst George is out buying a tin trunk in which to
                                  pack all our wedding presents. I expect he will be gone a long time because he has
                                  gone out with Hicky Wood and, though our wedding was four days ago, it’s still an
                                  excuse for a party. People are all very cheery and friendly here.
                                  I am wearing only pants and slip but am still hot. One swelters here in the
                                  mornings, but a fresh sea breeze blows in the late afternoons and then Dar es Salaam is

                                  We arrived in Dar es Salaam harbour very early on Friday morning (7 th Nov).
                                  The previous night the Captain had said we might not reach Dar. until 9 am, and certainly
                                  no one would be allowed on board before 8 am. So I dawdled on the deck in my
                                  dressing gown and watched the green coastline and the islands slipping by. I stood on
                                  the deck outside my cabin and was not aware that I was looking out at the wrong side of
                                  the landlocked harbour. Quite unknown to me George and some friends, the Hickson
                                  Woods, were standing on the Gymkhana Beach on the opposite side of the channel
                                  anxiously scanning the ship for a sign of me. George says he had a horrible idea I had
                                  missed the ship. Blissfully unconscious of his anxiety I wandered into the bathroom
                                  prepared for a good soak. The anchor went down when I was in the bath and suddenly
                                  there was a sharp wrap on the door and I heard Mrs Croxford say “There’s a man in a
                                  boat outside. He is looking out for someone and I’m sure it’s your George. I flung on
                                  some clothes and rushed on deck with tousled hair and bare feet and it was George.
                                  We had a marvellous reunion. George was wearing shorts and bush shirt and
                                  looked just like the strong silent types one reads about in novels. I finished dressing then
                                  George helped me bundle all the wedding presents I had collected en route into my
                                  travelling rug and we went into the bar lounge to join the Hickson Woods. They are the
                                  couple from whom George bought the land which is to be our coffee farm Hicky-Wood
                                  was laughing when we joined them. he said he had called a chap to bring a couple of
                                  beers thinking he was the steward but it turned out to be the Captain. He does wear
                                  such a very plain uniform that I suppose it was easy to make the mistake, but Hicky
                                  says he was not amused.

                                  Anyway as the H-W’s are to be our neighbours I’d better describe them. Kath
                                  Wood is very attractive, dark Irish, with curly black hair and big brown eyes. She was
                                  married before to Viv Lumb a great friend of George’s who died some years ago of
                                  blackwater fever. They had one little girl, Maureen, and Kath and Hicky have a small son
                                  of three called Michael. Hicky is slightly below average height and very neat and dapper
                                  though well built. He is a great one for a party and good fun but George says he can be
                                  bad tempered.

                                  Anyway we all filed off the ship and Hicky and Cath went on to the hotel whilst
                                  George and I went through customs. Passing the customs was easy. Everyone
                                  seemed to know George and that it was his wedding day and I just sailed through,
                                  except for the little matter of the rug coming undone when George and I had to scramble
                                  on the floor for candlesticks and fruit knives and a wooden nut bowl.
                                  Outside the customs shed we were mobbed by a crowd of jabbering Africans
                                  offering their services as porters, and soon my luggage was piled in one rickshaw whilst
                                  George and I climbed into another and we were born smoothly away on rubber shod
                                  wheels to the Splendid Hotel. The motion was pleasing enough but it seemed weird to
                                  be pulled along by one human being whilst another pushed behind.  We turned up a street called Acacia Avenue which, as its name implies, is lined
                                  with flamboyant acacia trees now in the full glory of scarlet and gold. The rickshaw
                                  stopped before the Splendid Hotel and I was taken upstairs into a pleasant room which
                                  had its own private balcony overlooking the busy street.

                                  Here George broke the news that we were to be married in less than an hours
                                  time. He would have to dash off and change and then go straight to the church. I would
                                  be quite all right, Kath would be looking in and friends would fetch me.
                                  I started to dress and soon there was a tap at the door and Mrs Hickson-Wood
                                  came in with my bouquet. It was a lovely bunch of carnations and frangipani with lots of
                                  asparagus fern and it went well with my primrose yellow frock. She admired my frock
                                  and Leghorn hat and told me that her little girl Maureen was to be my flower girl. Then
                                  she too left for the church.

                                  I was fully dressed when there was another knock on the door and I opened it to
                                  be confronted by a Police Officer in a starched white uniform. I’m McCallum”, he said,
                                  “I’ve come to drive you to the church.” Downstairs he introduced me to a big man in a
                                  tussore silk suit. “This is Dr Shicore”, said McCallum, “He is going to give you away.”
                                  Honestly, I felt exactly like Alice in Wonderland. Wouldn’t have been at all surprised if
                                  the White Rabbit had popped up and said he was going to be my page.

                                  I walked out of the hotel and across the pavement in a dream and there, by the
                                  curb, was a big dark blue police car decorated with white ribbons and with a tall African
                                  Police Ascari holding the door open for me. I had hardly time to wonder what next when
                                  the car drew up before a tall German looking church. It was in fact the Lutheran Church in
                                  the days when Tanganyika was German East Africa.

                                  Mrs Hickson-Wood, very smart in mushroom coloured georgette and lace, and
                                  her small daughter were waiting in the porch, so in we went. I was glad to notice my
                                  friends from the boat sitting behind George’s friends who were all complete strangers to
                                  me. The aisle seemed very long but at last I reached George waiting in the chancel with
                                  Hicky-Wood, looking unfamiliar in a smart tussore suit. However this feeling of unreality
                                  passed when he turned his head and smiled at me.

                                  In the vestry after the ceremony I was kissed affectionately by several complete
                                  strangers and I felt happy and accepted by George’s friends. Outside the church,
                                  standing apart from the rest of the guests, the Italian Captain and Chief Engineer were
                                  waiting. They came up and kissed my hand, and murmured felicitations, but regretted
                                  they could not spare the time to come to the reception. Really it was just as well
                                  because they would not have fitted in at all well.

                                  Dr Shircore is the Director of Medical Services and he had very kindly lent his
                                  large house for the reception. It was quite a party. The guests were mainly men with a
                                  small sprinkling of wives. Champagne corks popped and there was an enormous cake
                                  and soon voices were raised in song. The chief one was ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’
                                  and I shall remember it for ever.

                                  The party was still in full swing when George and I left. The old lady from the ship
                                  enjoyed it hugely. She came in an all black outfit with a corsage of artificial Lily-of-the-
                                  Valley. Later I saw one of the men wearing the corsage in his buttonhole and the old
                                  lady was wearing a carnation.

                                  When George and I got back to the hotel,I found that my luggage had been
                                  moved to George’s room by his cook Lamek, who was squatting on his haunches and
                                  clapped his hands in greeting. My dears, you should see Lamek – exactly like a
                                  chimpanzee – receding forehead, wide flat nose, and long lip, and such splayed feet. It was quite a strain not to laugh, especially when he produced a gift for me. I have not yet
                                  discovered where he acquired it. It was a faded mauve straw toque of the kind worn by
                                  Queen Mary. I asked George to tell Lamek that I was touched by his generosity but felt
                                  that I could not accept his gift. He did not mind at all especially as George gave him a
                                  generous tip there and then.

                                  I changed into a cotton frock and shady straw hat and George changed into shorts
                                  and bush shirt once more. We then sneaked into the dining room for lunch avoiding our
                                  wedding guests who were carrying on the party in the lounge.

                                  After lunch we rejoined them and they all came down to the jetty to wave goodbye
                                  as we set out by motor launch for Honeymoon Island. I enjoyed the launch trip very
                                  much. The sea was calm and very blue and the palm fringed beaches of Dar es Salaam
                                  are as romantic as any bride could wish. There are small coral islands dotted around the
                                  Bay of which Honeymoon Island is the loveliest. I believe at one time it bore the less
                                  romantic name of Quarantine Island. Near the Island, in the shallows, the sea is brilliant
                                  green and I saw two pink jellyfish drifting by.

                                  There is no jetty on the island so the boat was stopped in shallow water and
                                  George carried me ashore. I was enchanted with the Island and in no hurry to go to the
                                  bungalow, so George and I took our bathing costumes from our suitcases and sent the
                                  luggage up to the house together with a box of provisions.

                                  We bathed and lazed on the beach and suddenly it was sunset and it began to
                                  get dark. We walked up the beach to the bungalow and began to unpack the stores,
                                  tea, sugar, condensed milk, bread and butter, sardines and a large tin of ham. There
                                  were also cups and saucers and plates and cutlery.

                                  We decided to have an early meal and George called out to the caretaker, “Boy
                                  letta chai”. Thereupon the ‘boy’ materialised and jabbered to George in Ki-Swaheli. It
                                  appeared he had no utensil in which to boil water. George, ever resourceful, removed
                                  the ham from the tin and gave him that. We had our tea all right but next day the ham
                                  was bad.

                                  Then came bed time. I took a hurricane lamp in one hand and my suitcase in the
                                  other and wandered into the bedroom whilst George vanished into the bathroom. To
                                  my astonishment I saw two perfectly bare iron bedsteads – no mattress or pillows. We
                                  had brought sheets and mosquito nets but, believe me, they are a poor substitute for a

                                  Anyway I arrayed myself in my pale yellow satin nightie and sat gingerly down
                                  on the iron edge of the bed to await my groom who eventually appeared in a
                                  handsome suit of silk pyjamas. His expression, as he took in the situation, was too much
                                  for me and I burst out laughing and so did he.

                                  Somewhere in the small hours I woke up. The breeze had dropped and the
                                  room was unbearably stuffy. I felt as dry as a bone. The lamp had been turned very
                                  low and had gone out, but I remembered seeing a water tank in the yard and I decided
                                  to go out in the dark and drink from the tap. In the dark I could not find my slippers so I
                                  slipped my feet into George’s shoes, picked up his matches and groped my way out
                                  of the room. I found the tank all right and with one hand on the tap and one cupped for
                                  water I stooped to drink. Just then I heard a scratchy noise and sensed movements
                                  around my feet. I struck a match and oh horrors! found that the damp spot on which I was
                                  standing was alive with white crabs. In my hurry to escape I took a clumsy step, put
                                  George’s big toe on the hem of my nightie and down I went on top of the crabs. I need
                                  hardly say that George was awakened by an appalling shriek and came rushing to my
                                  aid like a knight of old.  Anyway, alarms and excursions not withstanding, we had a wonderful weekend on the island and I was sorry to return to the heat of Dar es Salaam, though the evenings
                                  here are lovely and it is heavenly driving along the coast road by car or in a rickshaw.
                                  I was surprised to find so many Indians here. Most of the shops, large and small,
                                  seem to be owned by Indians and the place teems with them. The women wear
                                  colourful saris and their hair in long black plaits reaching to their waists. Many wear baggy
                                  trousers of silk or satin. They give a carnival air to the sea front towards sunset.
                                  This long letter has been written in instalments throughout the day. My first break
                                  was when I heard the sound of a band and rushed to the balcony in time to see The
                                  Kings African Rifles band and Askaris march down the Avenue on their way to an
                                  Armistice Memorial Service. They looked magnificent.

                                  I must end on a note of most primitive pride. George returned from his shopping
                                  expedition and beamingly informed me that he had thrashed the man who annoyed me
                                  on the ship. I felt extremely delighted and pressed for details. George told me that
                                  when he went out shopping he noticed to his surprise that the ‘Timavo” was still in the
                                  harbour. He went across to the Agents office and there saw a man who answered to the
                                  description I had given. George said to him “Is your name Taylor?”, and when he said
                                  “yes”, George said “Well my name is George Rushby”, whereupon he hit Taylor on the
                                  jaw so that he sailed over the counter and down the other side. Very satisfactory, I feel.
                                  With much love to all.

                                  Your cave woman

                                  Mchewe Estate. P.O. Mbeya 22 November 1930

                                  Dearest Family,

                                  Well here we are at our Country Seat, Mchewe Estate. (pronounced
                                  Mn,-che’-we) but I will start at the beginning of our journey and describe the farm later.
                                  We left the hotel at Dar es Salaam for the station in a taxi crowded with baggage
                                  and at the last moment Keith Wood ran out with the unwrapped bottom layer of our
                                  wedding cake. It remained in its naked state from there to here travelling for two days in
                                  the train on the luggage rack, four days in the car on my knee, reposing at night on the
                                  roof of the car exposed to the winds of Heaven, and now rests beside me in the tent
                                  looking like an old old tombstone. We have no tin large enough to hold it and one
                                  simply can’t throw away ones wedding cake so, as George does not eat cake, I can see
                                  myself eating wedding cake for tea for months to come, ants permitting.

                                  We travelled up by train from Dar to Dodoma, first through the lush vegetation of
                                  the coastal belt to Morogoro, then through sisal plantations now very overgrown with
                                  weeds owing to the slump in prices, and then on to the arid area around Dodoma. This
                                  part of the country is very dry at this time of the year and not unlike parts of our Karoo.
                                  The train journey was comfortable enough but slow as the engines here are fed with
                                  wood and not coal as in South Africa.

                                  Dodoma is the nearest point on the railway to Mbeya so we left the train there to
                                  continue our journey by road. We arrived at the one and only hotel in the early hours and
                                  whilst someone went to rout out the night watchman the rest of us sat on the dismal
                                  verandah amongst a litter of broken glass. Some bright spark remarked on the obvious –
                                  that there had been a party the night before.

                                  When we were shown to a room I thought I rather preferred the verandah,
                                  because the beds had not yet been made up and there was a bucket of vomit beside
                                  the old fashioned washstand. However George soon got the boys to clean up the
                                  room and I fell asleep to be awakened by George with an invitation to come and see
                                  our car before breakfast.

                                  Yes, we have our own car. It is a Chev, with what is called a box body. That
                                  means that sides, roof and doors are made by a local Indian carpenter. There is just the
                                  one front seat with a kapok mattress on it. The tools are kept in a sort of cupboard fixed
                                  to the side so there is a big space for carrying “safari kit” behind the cab seat.
                                  Lamek, who had travelled up on the same train, appeared after breakfast, and
                                  helped George to pack all our luggage into the back of the car. Besides our suitcases
                                  there was a huge bedroll, kitchen utensils and a box of provisions, tins of petrol and
                                  water and all Lamek’s bits and pieces which included three chickens in a wicker cage and
                                  an enormous bunch of bananas about 3 ft long.

                                  When all theses things were packed there remained only a small space between
                                  goods and ceiling and into this Lamek squeezed. He lay on his back with his horny feet a
                                  mere inch or so from the back of my head. In this way we travelled 400 miles over
                                  bumpy earth roads and crude pole bridges, but whenever we stopped for a meal
                                  Lamek wriggled out and, like Aladdin’s genie, produced good meals in no time at all.
                                  In the afternoon we reached a large river called the Ruaha. Workmen were busy
                                  building a large bridge across it but it is not yet ready so we crossed by a ford below
                                  the bridge. George told me that the river was full of crocodiles but though I looked hard, I
                                  did not see any. This is also elephant country but I did not see any of those either, only
                                  piles of droppings on the road. I must tell you that the natives around these parts are called Wahehe and the river is Ruaha – enough to make a cat laugh. We saw some Wahehe out hunting with spears
                                  and bows and arrows. They live in long low houses with the tiniest shuttered windows
                                  and rounded roofs covered with earth.

                                  Near the river we also saw a few Masai herding cattle. They are rather terrifying to
                                  look at – tall, angular, and very aloof. They wear nothing but a blanket knotted on one
                                  shoulder, concealing nothing, and all carried one or two spears.
                                  The road climbs steeply on the far side of the Ruaha and one has the most
                                  tremendous views over the plains. We spent our first night up there in the high country.
                                  Everything was taken out of the car, the bed roll opened up and George and I slept
                                  comfortably in the back of the car whilst Lamek, rolled in a blanket, slept soundly by a
                                  small fire nearby. Next morning we reached our first township, Iringa, and put up at the
                                  Colonist Hotel. We had a comfortable room in the annex overlooking the golf course.
                                  our room had its own little dressing room which was also the bathroom because, when
                                  ordered to do so, the room boy carried in an oval galvanised bath and filled it with hot
                                  water which he carried in a four gallon petrol tin.

                                  When we crossed to the main building for lunch, George was immediately hailed
                                  by several men who wanted to meet the bride. I was paid some handsome
                                  compliments but was not sure whether they were sincere or the result of a nice alcoholic
                                  glow. Anyhow every one was very friendly.

                                  After lunch I went back to the bedroom leaving George chatting away. I waited and
                                  waited – no George. I got awfully tired of waiting and thought I’d give him a fright so I
                                  walked out onto the deserted golf course and hid behind some large boulders. Soon I
                                  saw George returning to the room and the boy followed with a tea tray. Ah, now the hue
                                  and cry will start, thought I, but no, no George appeared nor could I hear any despairing
                                  cry. When sunset came I trailed crossly back to our hotel room where George lay
                                  innocently asleep on his bed, hands folded on his chest like a crusader on his tomb. In a
                                  moment he opened his eyes, smiled sleepily and said kindly, “Did you have a nice walk
                                  my love?” So of course I couldn’t play the neglected wife as he obviously didn’t think
                                  me one and we had a very pleasant dinner and party in the hotel that evening.
                                  Next day we continued our journey but turned aside to visit the farm of a sprightly
                                  old man named St.Leger Seaton whom George had known for many years, so it was
                                  after dark before George decided that we had covered our quota of miles for the day.
                                  Whilst he and Lamek unpacked I wandered off to a stream to cool my hot feet which had
                                  baked all day on the floor boards of the car. In the rather dim moonlight I sat down on the
                                  grassy bank and gratefully dabbled my feet in the cold water. A few minutes later I
                                  started up with a shriek – I had the sensation of red hot pins being dug into all my most
                                  sensitive parts. I started clawing my clothes off and, by the time George came to the
                                  rescue with the lamp, I was practically in the nude. “Only Siafu ants,” said George calmly.
                                  Take off all your clothes and get right in the water.” So I had a bathe whilst George
                                  picked the ants off my clothes by the light of the lamp turned very low for modesty’s
                                  sake. Siafu ants are beastly things. They are black ants with outsized heads and
                                  pinchers. I shall be very, very careful where I sit in future.

                                  The next day was even hotter. There was no great variety in the scenery. Most
                                  of the country was covered by a tree called Miombo, which is very ordinary when the
                                  foliage is a mature deep green, but when in new leaf the trees look absolutely beautiful
                                  as the leaves,surprisingly, are soft pastel shades of red and yellow.

                                  Once again we turned aside from the main road to visit one of George’s friends.
                                  This man Major Hugh Jones MC, has a farm only a few miles from ours but just now he is supervising the making of an airstrip. Major Jones is quite a character. He is below
                                  average height and skinny with an almost bald head and one nearly blind eye into which
                                  he screws a monocle. He is a cultured person and will, I am sure, make an interesting
                                  neighbour. George and Major Jones’ friends call him ‘Joni’ but he is generally known in
                                  this country as ‘Ropesoles’ – as he is partial to that type of footwear.
                                  We passed through Mbeya township after dark so I have no idea what the place
                                  is like. The last 100 miles of our journey was very dusty and the last 15 miles extremely
                                  bumpy. The road is used so little that in some places we had to plow our way through
                                  long grass and I was delighted when at last George turned into a side road and said
                                  “This is our place.” We drove along the bank of the Mchewe River, then up a hill and
                                  stopped at a tent which was pitched beside the half built walls of our new home. We
                                  were expected so there was hot water for baths and after a supper of tinned food and
                                  good hot tea, I climbed thankfully into bed.

                                  Next morning I was awakened by the chattering of the African workmen and was
                                  soon out to inspect the new surroundings. Our farm was once part of Hickson Wood’s
                                  land and is separated from theirs by a river. Our houses cannot be more than a few
                                  hundred yards apart as the crow flies but as both are built on the slopes of a long range
                                  of high hills, and one can only cross the river at the foot of the slopes, it will be quite a
                                  safari to go visiting on foot . Most of our land is covered with shoulder high grass but it
                                  has been partly cleared of trees and scrub. Down by the river George has made a long
                                  coffee nursery and a large vegetable garden but both coffee and vegetable seedlings
                                  are too small to be of use.

                                  George has spared all the trees that will make good shade for the coffee later on.
                                  There are several huge wild fig trees as big as oaks but with smooth silvery-green trunks
                                  and branches and there are lots of acacia thorn trees with flat tops like Japanese sun
                                  shades. I’ve seen lovely birds in the fig trees, Louries with bright plumage and crested
                                  heads, and Blue Rollers, and in the grasslands there are widow birds with incredibly long
                                  black tail feathers.

                                  There are monkeys too and horrible but fascinating tree lizards with blue bodies
                                  and orange heads. There are so many, many things to tell you but they must wait for
                                  another time as James, the house boy, has been to say “Bafu tiari” and if I don’t go at
                                  once, the bath will be cold.

                                  I am very very happy and terribly interested in this new life so please don’t
                                  worry about me.

                                  Much love to you all,

                                  Mchewe Estate 29th. November 1930

                                  Dearest Family,

                                  I’ve lots of time to write letters just now because George is busy supervising the
                                  building of the house from early morning to late afternoon – with a break for lunch of

                                  On our second day here our tent was moved from the house site to a small
                                  clearing further down the slope of our hill. Next to it the labourers built a ‘banda’ , which is
                                  a three sided grass hut with thatched roof – much cooler than the tent in this weather.
                                  There is also a little grass lav. so you see we have every convenience. I spend most of
                                  my day in the banda reading or writing letters. Occasionally I wander up to the house site
                                  and watch the building, but mostly I just sit.

                                  I did try exploring once. I wandered down a narrow path towards the river. I
                                  thought I might paddle and explore the river a little but I came round a bend and there,
                                  facing me, was a crocodile. At least for a moment I thought it was and my adrenaline
                                  glands got very busy indeed. But it was only an enormous monitor lizard, four or five
                                  feet long. It must have been as scared as I was because it turned and rushed off through
                                  the grass. I turned and walked hastily back to the camp and as I passed the house site I
                                  saw some boys killing a large puff adder. Now I do my walking in the evenings with
                                  George. Nothing alarming ever seems to happen when he is around.

                                  It is interesting to watch the boys making bricks for the house. They make a pile
                                  of mud which they trample with their feet until it is the right consistency. Then they fill
                                  wooden moulds with the clayey mud, and press it down well and turn out beautiful shiny,
                                  dark brown bricks which are laid out in rows and covered with grass to bake slowly in the

                                  Most of the materials for the building are right here at hand. The walls will be sun
                                  dried bricks and there is a white clay which will make a good whitewash for the inside
                                  walls. The chimney and walls will be of burnt brick and tiles and George is now busy
                                  building a kiln for this purpose. Poles for the roof are being cut in the hills behind the
                                  house and every day women come along with large bundles of thatching grass on their
                                  heads. Our windows are modern steel casement ones and the doors have been made
                                  at a mission in the district. George does some of the bricklaying himself. The other
                                  bricklayer is an African from Northern Rhodesia called Pedro. It makes me perspire just
                                  to look at Pedro who wears an overcoat all day in the very hot sun.
                                  Lamek continues to please. He turns out excellent meals, chicken soup followed
                                  by roast chicken, vegetables from the Hickson-Woods garden and a steamed pudding
                                  or fruit to wind up the meal. I enjoy the chicken but George is fed up with it and longs for
                                  good red meat. The chickens are only about as large as a partridge but then they cost
                                  only sixpence each.

                                  I had my first visit to Mbeya two days ago. I put on my very best trousseau frock
                                  for the occasion- that yellow striped silk one – and wore my wedding hat. George didn’t
                                  comment, but I saw later that I was dreadfully overdressed.
                                  Mbeya at the moment is a very small settlement consisting of a bundle of small
                                  Indian shops – Dukas they call them, which stock European tinned foods and native soft
                                  goods which seem to be mainly of Japanese origin. There is a one storied Government
                                  office called the Boma and two attractive gabled houses of burnt brick which house the
                                  District Officer and his Assistant. Both these houses have lovely gardens but i saw them
                                  only from the outside as we did not call. After buying our stores George said “Lets go to the pub, I want you to meet Mrs Menzies.” Well the pub turned out to be just three or four grass rondavels on a bare
                                  plot. The proprietor, Ken Menzies, came out to welcome us. I took to him at once
                                  because he has the same bush sandy eyebrows as you have Dad. He told me that
                                  unfortunately his wife is away at the coast, and then he ushered me through the door
                                  saying “Here’s George with his bride.” then followed the Iringa welcome all over again,
                                  only more so, because the room was full of diggers from the Lupa Goldfields about fifty
                                  miles away.

                                  Champagne corks popped as I shook hands all around and George was
                                  clapped on the back. I could see he was a favourite with everyone and I tried not to be
                                  gauche and let him down. These men were all most kind and most appeared to be men
                                  of more than average education. However several were unshaven and looked as
                                  though they had slept in their clothes as I suppose they had. When they have a little luck
                                  on the diggings they come in here to Menzies pub and spend the lot. George says
                                  they bring their gold dust and small nuggets in tobacco tins or Kruschen salts jars and
                                  hand them over to Ken Menzies saying “Tell me when I’ve spent the lot.” Ken then
                                  weighs the gold and estimates its value and does exactly what the digger wants.
                                  However the Diggers get good value for their money because besides the drink
                                  they get companionship and good food and nursing if they need it. Mrs Menzies is a
                                  trained nurse and most kind and capable from what I was told. There is no doctor or
                                  hospital here so her experience as a nursing sister is invaluable.
                                  We had lunch at the Hotel and afterwards I poured tea as I was the only female
                                  present. Once the shyness had worn off I rather enjoyed myself.

                                  Now to end off I must tell you a funny story of how I found out that George likes
                                  his women to be feminine. You will remember those dashing black silk pyjamas Aunt
                                  Mary gave me, with flowered “happy coat” to match. Well last night I thought I’d give
                                  George a treat and when the boy called me for my bath I left George in the ‘banda’
                                  reading the London Times. After my bath I put on my Japanese pyjamas and coat,
                                  peered into the shaving mirror which hangs from the tent pole and brushed my hair until it
                                  shone. I must confess that with my fringe and shingled hair I thought I made quite a
                                  glamourous Japanese girl. I walked coyly across to the ‘banda’. Alas no compliment.
                                  George just glanced up from the Times and went on reading.
                                  He was away rather a long time when it came to his turn to bath. I glanced up
                                  when he came back and had a slight concussion. George, if you please, was arrayed in
                                  my very best pale yellow satin nightie. The one with the lace and ribbon sash and little
                                  bows on the shoulder. I knew exactly what he meant to convey. I was not to wear the
                                  trousers in the family. I seethed inwardly, but pretending not to notice, I said calmly “shall
                                  I call for food?” In this garb George sat down to dinner and it says a great deal for African
                                  phlegm that the boy did not drop the dishes.

                                  We conversed politely about this and that, and then, as usual, George went off
                                  to bed. I appeared to be engrossed in my book and did not stir. When I went to the
                                  tent some time later George lay fast asleep still in my nightie, though all I could see of it
                                  was the little ribbon bows looking farcically out of place on his broad shoulders.
                                  This morning neither of us mentioned the incident, George was up and dressed
                                  by the time I woke up but I have been smiling all day to think what a ridiculous picture
                                  we made at dinner. So farewell to pyjamas and hey for ribbons and bows.

                                  Your loving

                                  Mchewe Estate. Mbeya. 8th December 1930

                                  Dearest Family,

                                  A mere shadow of her former buxom self lifts a languid pen to write to you. I’m
                                  convalescing after my first and I hope my last attack of malaria. It was a beastly
                                  experience but all is now well and I am eating like a horse and will soon regain my

                                  I took ill on the evening of the day I wrote my last letter to you. It started with a
                                  splitting headache and fits of shivering. The symptoms were all too familiar to George
                                  who got me into bed and filled me up with quinine. He then piled on all the available
                                  blankets and packed me in hot water bottles. I thought I’d explode and said so and
                                  George said just to lie still and I’d soon break into a good sweat. However nothing of the
                                  kind happened and next day my temperature was 105 degrees. Instead of feeling
                                  miserable as I had done at the onset, I now felt very merry and most chatty. George
                                  now tells me I sang the most bawdy songs but I hardly think it likely. Do you?
                                  You cannot imagine how tenderly George nursed me, not only that day but
                                  throughout the whole eight days I was ill. As we do not employ any African house
                                  women, and there are no white women in the neighbourhood at present to whom we
                                  could appeal for help, George had to do everything for me. It was unbearably hot in the
                                  tent so George decided to move me across to the Hickson-Woods vacant house. They
                                  have not yet returned from the coast.

                                  George decided I was too weak to make the trip in the car so he sent a
                                  messenger over to the Woods’ house for their Machila. A Machila is a canopied canvas
                                  hammock slung from a bamboo pole and carried by four bearers. The Machila duly
                                  arrived and I attempted to walk to it, clinging to George’s arm, but collapsed in a faint so
                                  the trip was postponed to the next morning when I felt rather better. Being carried by
                                  Machila is quite pleasant but I was in no shape to enjoy anything and got thankfully into
                                  bed in the Hickson-Woods large, cool and rather dark bedroom. My condition did not
                                  improve and George decided to send a runner for the Government Doctor at Tukuyu
                                  about 60 miles away. Two days later Dr Theis arrived by car and gave me two
                                  injections of quinine which reduced the fever. However I still felt very weak and had to
                                  spend a further four days in bed.

                                  We have now decided to stay on here until the Hickson-Woods return by which
                                  time our own house should be ready. George goes off each morning and does not
                                  return until late afternoon. However don’t think “poor Eleanor” because I am very
                                  comfortable here and there are lots of books to read and the days seem to pass very

                                  The Hickson-Wood’s house was built by Major Jones and I believe the one on
                                  his shamba is just like it. It is a square red brick building with a wide verandah all around
                                  and, rather astonishingly, a conical thatched roof. There is a beautiful view from the front
                                  of the house and a nice flower garden. The coffee shamba is lower down on the hill.
                                  Mrs Wood’s first husband, George’s friend Vi Lumb, is buried in the flower
                                  garden. He died of blackwater fever about five years ago. I’m told that before her
                                  second marriage Kath lived here alone with her little daughter, Maureen, and ran the farm
                                  entirely on her own. She must be quite a person. I bet she didn’t go and get malaria
                                  within a few weeks of her marriage.

                                  The native tribe around here are called Wasafwa. They are pretty primitive but
                                  seem amiable people. Most of the men, when they start work, wear nothing but some
                                  kind of sheet of unbleached calico wrapped round their waists and hanging to mid calf. As soon as they have drawn their wages they go off to a duka and buy a pair of khaki
                                  shorts for five or six shillings. Their women folk wear very short beaded skirts. I think the
                                  base is goat skin but have never got close enough for a good look. They are very shy.
                                  I hear from George that they have started on the roof of our house but I have not
                                  seen it myself since the day I was carried here by Machila. My letters by the way go to
                                  the Post Office by runner. George’s farm labourers take it in turn to act in this capacity.
                                  The mail bag is given to them on Friday afternoon and by Saturday evening they are
                                  back with our very welcome mail.

                                  Very much love,

                                  Mbeya 23rd December 1930

                                  Dearest Family,

                                  George drove to Mbeya for stores last week and met Col. Sherwood-Kelly VC.
                                  who has been sent by the Government to Mbeya as Game Ranger. His job will be to
                                  protect native crops from raiding elephants and hippo etc., and to protect game from
                                  poachers. He has had no training for this so he has asked George to go with him on his
                                  first elephant safari to show him the ropes.

                                  George likes Col. Kelly and was quite willing to go on safari but not willing to
                                  leave me alone on the farm as I am still rather shaky after malaria. So it was arranged that
                                  I should go to Mbeya and stay with Mrs Harmer, the wife of the newly appointed Lands
                                  and Mines Officer, whose husband was away on safari.

                                  So here I am in Mbeya staying in the Harmers temporary wattle and daub
                                  house. Unfortunately I had a relapse of the malaria and stayed in bed for three days with
                                  a temperature. Poor Mrs Harmer had her hands full because in the room next to mine
                                  she was nursing a digger with blackwater fever. I could hear his delirious babble through
                                  the thin wall – very distressing. He died poor fellow , and leaves a wife and seven

                                  I feel better than I have done for weeks and this afternoon I walked down to the
                                  store. There are great signs of activity and people say that Mbeya will grow rapidly now
                                  owing to the boom on the gold fields and also to the fact that a large aerodrome is to be
                                  built here. Mbeya is to be a night stop on the proposed air service between England
                                  and South Africa. I seem to be the last of the pioneers. If all these schemes come about
                                  Mbeya will become quite suburban.

                                  26th December 1930

                                  George, Col. Kelly and Mr Harmer all returned to Mbeya on Christmas Eve and
                                  it was decided that we should stay and have midday Christmas dinner with the
                                  Harmers. Col. Kelly and the Assistant District Commissioner came too and it was quite a
                                  festive occasion, We left Mbeya in the early afternoon and had our evening meal here at
                                  Hickson-Wood’s farm. I wore my wedding dress.

                                  I went across to our house in the car this morning. George usually walks across to
                                  save petrol which is very expensive here. He takes a short cut and wades through the
                                  river. The distance by road is very much longer than the short cut. The men are now
                                  thatching the roof of our cottage and it looks charming. It consists of a very large living
                                  room-dinning room with a large inglenook fireplace at one end. The bedroom is a large
                                  square room with a smaller verandah room adjoining it. There is a wide verandah in the
                                  front, from which one has a glorious view over a wide valley to the Livingstone
                                  Mountains on the horizon. Bathroom and storeroom are on the back verandah and the
                                  kitchen is some distance behind the house to minimise the risk of fire.

                                  You can imagine how much I am looking forward to moving in. We have some
                                  furniture which was made by an Indian carpenter at Iringa, refrectory dining table and
                                  chairs, some small tables and two armchairs and two cupboards and a meatsafe. Other
                                  things like bookshelves and extra cupboards we will have to make ourselves. George
                                  has also bought a portable gramophone and records which will be a boon.
                                  We also have an Irish wolfhound puppy, a skinny little chap with enormous feet
                                  who keeps me company all day whilst George is across at our farm working on the

                                  Lots and lots of love,

                                  Mchewe Estate 8th Jan 1931

                                  Dearest Family,

                                  Alas, I have lost my little companion. The Doctor called in here on Boxing night
                                  and ran over and killed Paddy, our pup. It was not his fault but I was very distressed
                                  about it and George has promised to try and get another pup from the same litter.
                                  The Hickson-Woods returned home on the 29th December so we decided to
                                  move across to our nearly finished house on the 1st January. Hicky Wood decided that
                                  we needed something special to mark the occasion so he went off and killed a sucking
                                  pig behind the kitchen. The piglet’s screams were terrible and I felt that I would not be
                                  able to touch any dinner. Lamek cooked and served sucking pig up in the traditional way
                                  but it was high and quite literally, it stank. Our first meal in our own home was not a

                                  However next day all was forgotten and I had something useful to do. George
                                  hung doors and I held the tools and I also planted rose cuttings I had brought from
                                  Mbeya and sowed several boxes with seeds.

                                  Dad asked me about the other farms in the area. I haven’t visited any but there
                                  are five besides ours. One belongs to the Lutheran Mission at Utengule, a few miles
                                  from here. The others all belong to British owners. Nearest to Mbeya, at the foot of a
                                  very high peak which gives Mbeya its name, are two farms, one belonging to a South
                                  African mining engineer named Griffiths, the other to I.G.Stewart who was an officer in the
                                  Kings African Rifles. Stewart has a young woman called Queenie living with him. We are
                                  some miles further along the range of hills and are some 23 miles from Mbeya by road.
                                  The Mchewe River divides our land from the Hickson-Woods and beyond their farm is
                                  Major Jones.

                                  All these people have been away from their farms for some time but have now
                                  returned so we will have some neighbours in future. However although the houses are
                                  not far apart as the crow flies, they are all built high in the foothills and it is impossible to
                                  connect the houses because of the rivers and gorges in between. One has to drive right
                                  down to the main road and then up again so I do not suppose we will go visiting very
                                  often as the roads are very bumpy and eroded and petrol is so expensive that we all
                                  save it for occasional trips to Mbeya.

                                  The rains are on and George has started to plant out some coffee seedlings. The
                                  rains here are strange. One can hear the rain coming as it moves like a curtain along the
                                  range of hills. It comes suddenly, pours for a little while and passes on and the sun
                                  shines again.

                                  I do like it here and I wish you could see or dear little home.

                                  Your loving,

                                  Mchewe Estate. 1st April 1931

                                  Dearest Family,

                                  Everything is now running very smoothly in our home. Lamek continues to
                                  produce palatable meals and makes wonderful bread which he bakes in a four gallon
                                  petrol tin as we have no stove yet. He puts wood coals on the brick floor of the kitchen,
                                  lays the tin lengh-wise on the coals and heaps more on top. The bread tins are then put
                                  in the petrol tin, which has one end cut away, and the open end is covered by a flat
                                  piece of tin held in place by a brick. Cakes are also backed in this make-shift oven and I
                                  have never known Lamek to have a failure yet.

                                  Lamek has a helper, known as the ‘mpishi boy’ , who does most of the hard
                                  work, cleans pots and pans and chops the firewood etc. Another of the mpishi boy’s
                                  chores is to kill the two chickens we eat each day. The chickens run wild during the day
                                  but are herded into a small chicken house at night. One of the kitchen boy’s first duties is
                                  to let the chickens out first thing in the early morning. Some time after breakfast it dawns
                                  on Lamek that he will need a chicken for lunch. he informs the kitchen boy who selects a
                                  chicken and starts to chase it in which he is enthusiastically joined by our new Irish
                                  wolfhound pup, Kelly. Together they race after the frantic fowl, over the flower beds and
                                  around the house until finally the chicken collapses from sheer exhaustion. The kitchen
                                  boy then hands it over to Lamek who murders it with the kitchen knife and then pops the
                                  corpse into boiling water so the feathers can be stripped off with ease.

                                  I pointed out in vain, that it would be far simpler if the doomed chickens were kept
                                  in the chicken house in the mornings when the others were let out and also that the correct
                                  way to pluck chickens is when they are dry. Lamek just smiled kindly and said that that
                                  may be so in Europe but that his way is the African way and none of his previous
                                  Memsahibs has complained.

                                  My houseboy, named James, is clean and capable in the house and also a
                                  good ‘dhobi’ or washboy. He takes the washing down to the river and probably
                                  pounds it with stones, but I prefer not to look. The ironing is done with a charcoal iron
                                  only we have no charcoal and he uses bits of wood from the kitchen fire but so far there
                                  has not been a mishap.

                                  It gets dark here soon after sunset and then George lights the oil lamps and we
                                  have tea and toast in front of the log fire which burns brightly in our inglenook. This is my
                                  favourite hour of the day. Later George goes for his bath. I have mine in the mornings
                                  and we have dinner at half past eight. Then we talk a bit and read a bit and sometimes
                                  play the gramophone. I expect it all sounds pretty unexciting but it doesn’t seem so to

                                  Very much love,

                                  Mchewe Estate 20th April 1931

                                  Dearest Family,

                                  It is still raining here and the countryside looks very lush and green, very different
                                  from the Mbeya district I first knew, when plains and hills were covered in long brown
                                  grass – very course stuff that grows shoulder high.

                                  Most of the labourers are hill men and one can see little patches of cultivation in
                                  the hills. Others live in small villages near by, each consisting of a cluster of thatched huts
                                  and a few maize fields and perhaps a patch of bananas. We do not have labour lines on
                                  the farm because our men all live within easy walking distance. Each worker has a labour
                                  card with thirty little squares on it. One of these squares is crossed off for each days work
                                  and when all thirty are marked in this way the labourer draws his pay and hies himself off
                                  to the nearest small store and blows the lot. The card system is necessary because
                                  these Africans are by no means slaves to work. They work only when they feel like it or
                                  when someone in the family requires a new garment, or when they need a few shillings
                                  to pay their annual tax. Their fields, chickens and goats provide them with the food they
                                  need but they draw rations of maize meal beans and salt. Only our headman is on a
                                  salary. His name is Thomas and he looks exactly like the statues of Julius Caesar, the
                                  same bald head and muscular neck and sardonic expression. He comes from Northern
                                  Rhodesia and is more intelligent than the locals.

                                  We still live mainly on chickens. We have a boy whose job it is to scour the
                                  countryside for reasonable fat ones. His name is Lucas and he is quite a character. He
                                  has such long horse teeth that he does not seem able to close his mouth and wears a
                                  perpetual amiable smile. He brings his chickens in beehive shaped wicker baskets
                                  which are suspended on a pole which Lucas carries on his shoulder.

                                  We buy our groceries in bulk from Mbeya, our vegetables come from our
                                  garden by the river and our butter from Kath Wood. Our fresh milk we buy from the
                                  natives. It is brought each morning by three little totos each carrying one bottle on his
                                  shaven head. Did I tell you that the local Wasafwa file their teeth to points. These kids
                                  grin at one with their little sharks teeth – quite an “all-ready-to-eat-you-with-my-dear” look.
                                  A few nights ago a message arrived from Kath Wood to say that Queenie
                                  Stewart was very ill and would George drive her across to the Doctor at Tukuyu. I
                                  wanted George to wait until morning because it was pouring with rain, and the mountain
                                  road to Tukuyu is tricky even in dry weather, but he said it is dangerous to delay with any
                                  kind of fever in Africa and he would have to start at once. So off he drove in the rain and I
                                  did not see him again until the following night.

                                  George said that it had been a nightmare trip. Queenie had a high temperature
                                  and it was lucky that Kath was able to go to attend to her. George needed all his
                                  attention on the road which was officially closed to traffic, and very slippery, and in some
                                  places badly eroded. In some places the decking of bridges had been removed and
                                  George had to get out in the rain and replace it. As he had nothing with which to fasten
                                  the decking to the runners it was a dangerous undertaking to cross the bridges especially
                                  as the rivers are now in flood and flowing strongly. However they reached Tukuyu safely
                                  and it was just as well they went because the Doctor diagnosed Queenies illness as
                                  Spirillium Tick Fever which is a very nasty illness indeed.


                                  Mchewe Estate. 20th May 1931

                                  Dear Family,

                                  I’m feeling fit and very happy though a bit lonely sometimes because George
                                  spends much of his time away in the hills cutting a furrow miles long to bring water to the
                                  house and to the upper part of the shamba so that he will be able to irrigate the coffee
                                  during the dry season.

                                  It will be quite an engineering feat when it is done as George only has makeshift
                                  surveying instruments. He has mounted an ordinary cheap spirit level on an old camera
                                  tripod and has tacked two gramophone needles into the spirit level to give him a line.
                                  The other day part of a bank gave way and practically buried two of George’s labourers
                                  but they were quickly rescued and no harm was done. However he will not let them
                                  work unless he is there to supervise.

                                  I keep busy so that the days pass quickly enough. I am delighted with the
                                  material you sent me for curtains and loose covers and have hired a hand sewing
                                  machine from Pedro-of-the-overcoat and am rattling away all day. The machine is an
                                  ancient German one and when I say rattle, I mean rattle. It is a most cumbersome, heavy
                                  affair of I should say, the same vintage as George Stevenson’s Rocket locomotive.
                                  Anyway it sews and I am pleased with my efforts. We made a couch ourselves out of a
                                  native bed, a mattress and some planks but all this is hidden under the chintz cover and
                                  it looks quite the genuine bought article. I have some diversions too. Small black faced
                                  monkeys sit in the trees outside our bedroom window and they are most entertaining to
                                  watch. They are very mischievous though. When I went out into the garden this morning
                                  before breakfast I found that the monkeys had pulled up all my carnations. There they
                                  lay, roots in the air and whether they will take again I don’t know.

                                  I like the monkeys but hate the big mountain baboons that come and hang
                                  around our chicken house. I am terrified that they will tear our pup into bits because he is
                                  a plucky young thing and will rush out to bark at the baboons.

                                  George usually returns for the weekends but last time he did not because he had
                                  a touch of malaria. He sent a boy down for the mail and some fresh bread. Old Lucas
                                  arrived with chickens just as the messenger was setting off with mail and bread in a
                                  haversack on his back. I thought it might be a good idea to send a chicken to George so
                                  I selected a spry young rooster which I handed to the messenger. He, however,
                                  complained that he needed both hands for climbing. I then had one of my bright ideas
                                  and, putting a layer of newspaper over the bread, I tucked the rooster into the haversack
                                  and buckled down the flap so only his head protruded.

                                  I thought no more about it until two days later when the messenger again
                                  appeared for fresh bread. He brought a rather terse note from George saying that the
                                  previous bread was uneatable as the rooster had eaten some of it and messed on the
                                  rest. Ah me!

                                  The previous weekend the Hickson-Woods, Stewarts and ourselves, went
                                  across to Tukuyu to attend a dance at the club there. the dance was very pleasant. All
                                  the men wore dinner jackets and the ladies wore long frocks. As there were about
                                  twenty men and only seven ladies we women danced every dance whilst the surplus
                                  men got into a huddle around the bar. George and I spent the night with the Agricultural
                                  Officer, Mr Eustace, and I met his fiancee, Lillian Austin from South Africa, to whom I took
                                  a great liking. She is Governess to the children of Major Masters who has a farm in the
                                  Tukuyu district.

                                  On the Sunday morning we had a look at the township. The Boma was an old German one and was once fortified as the Africans in this district are a very warlike tribe.
                                  They are fine looking people. The men wear sort of togas and bands of cloth around
                                  their heads and look like Roman Senators, but the women go naked except for a belt
                                  from which two broad straps hang down, one in front and another behind. Not a graceful
                                  garb I assure you.

                                  We also spent a pleasant hour in the Botanical Gardens, laid out during the last
                                  war by the District Commissioner, Major Wells, with German prisoner of war labour.
                                  There are beautiful lawns and beds of roses and other flowers and shady palm lined
                                  walks and banana groves. The gardens are terraced with flights of brick steps connecting
                                  the different levels and there is a large artificial pond with little islands in it. I believe Major
                                  Wells designed the lake to resemble in miniature, the Lakes of Killarney.
                                  I enjoyed the trip very much. We got home at 8 pm to find the front door locked
                                  and the kitchen boy fast asleep on my newly covered couch! I hastily retreated to the
                                  bedroom whilst George handled the situation.



                                    From Tanganyika with Love


                                    With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                                    Mchewe Estate. 11th July 1931.

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    You say that you would like to know more about our neighbours. Well there is
                                    not much to tell. Kath Wood is very good about coming over to see me. I admire her
                                    very much because she is so capable as well as being attractive. She speaks very
                                    fluent Ki-Swahili and I envy her the way she can carry on a long conversation with the
                                    natives. I am very slow in learning the language possibly because Lamek and the
                                    houseboy both speak basic English.

                                    I have very little to do with the Africans apart from the house servants, but I do
                                    run a sort of clinic for the wives and children of our employees. The children suffer chiefly
                                    from sore eyes and worms, and the older ones often have bad ulcers on their legs. All
                                    farmers keep a stock of drugs and bandages.

                                    George also does a bit of surgery and last month sewed up the sole of the foot
                                    of a boy who had trodden on the blade of a panga, a sort of sword the Africans use for
                                    hacking down bush. He made an excellent job of it. George tells me that the Africans
                                    have wonderful powers of recuperation. Once in his bachelor days, one of his men was
                                    disembowelled by an elephant. George washed his “guts” in a weak solution of
                                    pot.permang, put them back in the cavity and sewed up the torn flesh and he

                                    But to get back to the neighbours. We see less of Hicky Wood than of Kath.
                                    Hicky can be charming but is often moody as I believe Irishmen often are.
                                    Major Jones is now at home on his shamba, which he leaves from time to time
                                    for temporary jobs on the district roads. He walks across fairly regularly and we are
                                    always glad to see him for he is a great bearer of news. In this part of Africa there is no
                                    knocking or ringing of doorbells. Front doors are always left open and visitors always
                                    welcome. When a visitor approaches a house he shouts “Hodi”, and the owner of the
                                    house yells “Karibu”, which I believe means “Come near” or approach, and tea is
                                    produced in a matter of minutes no matter what hour of the day it is.
                                    The road that passes all our farms is the only road to the Gold Diggings and
                                    diggers often drop in on the Woods and Major Jones and bring news of the Goldfields.
                                    This news is sometimes about gold but quite often about whose wife is living with
                                    whom. This is a great country for gossip.

                                    Major Jones now has his brother Llewyllen living with him. I drove across with
                                    George to be introduced to him. Llewyllen’s health is poor and he looks much older than
                                    his years and very like the portrait of Trader Horn. He has the same emaciated features,
                                    burning eyes and long beard. He is proud of his Welsh tenor voice and often bursts into

                                    Both brothers are excellent conversationalists and George enjoys walking over
                                    sometimes on a Sunday for a bit of masculine company. The other day when George
                                    walked across to visit the Joneses, he found both brothers in the shamba and Llew in a
                                    great rage. They had been stooping to inspect a water furrow when Llew backed into a
                                    hornets nest. One furious hornet stung him on the seat and another on the back of his
                                    neck. Llew leapt forward and somehow his false teeth shot out into the furrow and were
                                    carried along by the water. When George arrived Llew had retrieved his teeth but
                                    George swears that, in the commotion, the heavy leather leggings, which Llew always
                                    wears, had swivelled around on his thin legs and were calves to the front.
                                    George has heard that Major Jones is to sell pert of his land to his Swedish brother-in-law, Max Coster, so we will soon have another couple in the neighbourhood.

                                    I’ve had a bit of a pantomime here on the farm. On the day we went to Tukuyu,
                                    all our washing was stolen from the clothes line and also our new charcoal iron. George
                                    reported the matter to the police and they sent out a plain clothes policeman. He wears
                                    the long white Arab gown called a Kanzu much in vogue here amongst the African elite
                                    but, alas for secrecy, huge black police boots protrude from beneath the Kanzu and, to
                                    add to this revealing clue, the askari springs to attention and salutes each time I pass by.
                                    Not much hope of finding out the identity of the thief I fear.

                                    George’s furrow was entirely successful and we now have water running behind
                                    the kitchen. Our drinking water we get from a lovely little spring on the farm. We boil and
                                    filter it for safety’s sake. I don’t think that is necessary. The furrow water is used for
                                    washing pots and pans and for bath water.

                                    Lots of love,

                                    Mchewe Estate. 8th. August 1931

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    I think it is about time I told you that we are going to have a baby. We are both
                                    thrilled about it. I have not seen a Doctor but feel very well and you are not to worry. I
                                    looked it up in my handbook for wives and reckon that the baby is due about February
                                    8th. next year.

                                    The announcement came from George, not me! I had been feeling queasy for
                                    days and was waiting for the right moment to tell George. You know. Soft lights and
                                    music etc. However when I was listlessly poking my food around one lunch time
                                    George enquired calmly, “When are you going to tell me about the baby?” Not at all
                                    according to the book! The problem is where to have the baby. February is a very wet
                                    month and the nearest Doctor is over 50 miles away at Tukuyu. I cannot go to stay at
                                    Tukuyu because there is no European accommodation at the hospital, no hotel and no
                                    friend with whom I could stay.

                                    George thinks I should go South to you but Capetown is so very far away and I
                                    love my little home here. Also George says he could not come all the way down with
                                    me as he simply must stay here and get the farm on its feet. He would drive me as far
                                    as the railway in Northern Rhodesia. It is a difficult decision to take. Write and tell me what
                                    you think.

                                    The days tick by quietly here. The servants are very willing but have to be
                                    supervised and even then a crisis can occur. Last Saturday I was feeling squeamish and
                                    decided not to have lunch. I lay reading on the couch whilst George sat down to a
                                    solitary curry lunch. Suddenly he gave an exclamation and pushed back his chair. I
                                    jumped up to see what was wrong and there, on his plate, gleaming in the curry gravy
                                    were small bits of broken glass. I hurried to the kitchen to confront Lamek with the plate.
                                    He explained that he had dropped the new and expensive bottle of curry powder on
                                    the brick floor of the kitchen. He did not tell me as he thought I would make a “shauri” so
                                    he simply scooped up the curry powder, removed the larger pieces of glass and used
                                    part of the powder for seasoning the lunch.

                                    The weather is getting warmer now. It was very cold in June and July and we had
                                    fires in the daytime as well as at night. Now that much of the land has been cleared we
                                    are able to go for pleasant walks in the weekends. My favourite spot is a waterfall on the
                                    Mchewe River just on the boundary of our land. There is a delightful little pool below the
                                    waterfall and one day George intends to stock it with trout.

                                    Now that there are more Europeans around to buy meat the natives find it worth
                                    their while to kill an occasional beast. Every now and again a native arrives with a large
                                    bowl of freshly killed beef for sale. One has no way of knowing whether the animal was
                                    healthy and the meat is often still warm and very bloody. I hated handling it at first but am
                                    becoming accustomed to it now and have even started a brine tub. There is no other
                                    way of keeping meat here and it can only be kept in its raw state for a few hours before
                                    going bad. One of the delicacies is the hump which all African cattle have. When corned
                                    it is like the best brisket.

                                    See what a housewife I am becoming.
                                    With much love,

                                    Mchewe Estate. Sept.6th. 1931

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    I have grown to love the life here and am sad to think I shall be leaving
                                    Tanganyika soon for several months. Yes I am coming down to have the baby in the
                                    bosom of the family. George thinks it best and so does the doctor. I didn’t mention it
                                    before but I have never recovered fully from the effects of that bad bout of malaria and
                                    so I have been persuaded to leave George and our home and go to the Cape, in the
                                    hope that I shall come back here as fit as when I first arrived in the country plus a really
                                    healthy and bouncing baby. I am torn two ways, I long to see you all – but how I would
                                    love to stay on here.

                                    George will drive me down to Northern Rhodesia in early October to catch a
                                    South bound train. I’ll telegraph the date of departure when I know it myself. The road is
                                    very, very bad and the car has been giving a good deal of trouble so, though the baby
                                    is not due until early February, George thinks it best to get the journey over soon as
                                    possible, for the rains break in November and the the roads will then be impassable. It
                                    may take us five or six days to reach Broken Hill as we will take it slowly. I am looking
                                    forward to the drive through new country and to camping out at night.
                                    Our days pass quietly by. George is out on the shamba most of the day. He
                                    goes out before breakfast on weekdays and spends most of the day working with the
                                    men – not only supervising but actually working with his hands and beating the labourers
                                    at their own jobs. He comes to the house for meals and tea breaks. I potter around the
                                    house and garden, sew, mend and read. Lamek continues to be a treasure. he turns out
                                    some surprising dishes. One of his specialities is stuffed chicken. He carefully skins the
                                    chicken removing all bones. He then minces all the chicken meat and adds minced onion
                                    and potatoes. He then stuffs the chicken skin with the minced meat and carefully sews it
                                    together again. The resulting dish is very filling because the boned chicken is twice the
                                    size of a normal one. It lies on its back as round as a football with bloated legs in the air.
                                    Rather repulsive to look at but Lamek is most proud of his accomplishment.
                                    The other day he produced another of his masterpieces – a cooked tortoise. It
                                    was served on a dish covered with parsley and crouched there sans shell but, only too
                                    obviously, a tortoise. I took one look and fled with heaving diaphragm, but George said
                                    it tasted quite good. He tells me that he has had queerer dishes produced by former
                                    cooks. He says that once in his hunting days his cook served up a skinned baby
                                    monkey with its hands folded on its breast. He says it would take a cannibal to eat that

                                    And now for something sad. Poor old Llew died quite suddenly and it was a sad
                                    shock to this tiny community. We went across to the funeral and it was a very simple and
                                    dignified affair. Llew was buried on Joni’s farm in a grave dug by the farm boys. The
                                    body was wrapped in a blanket and bound to some boards and lowered into the
                                    ground. There was no service. The men just said “Good-bye Llew.” and “Sleep well
                                    Llew”, and things like that. Then Joni and his brother-in-law Max, and George shovelled
                                    soil over the body after which the grave was filled in by Joni’s shamba boys. It was a
                                    lovely bright afternoon and I thought how simple and sensible a funeral it was.
                                    I hope you will be glad to have me home. I bet Dad will be holding thumbs that
                                    the baby will be a girl.

                                    Very much love,

                                    “There are no letters to my family during the period of Sept. 1931 to June 1932
                                    because during these months I was living with my parents and sister in a suburb of
                                    Cape Town. I had hoped to return to Tanganyika by air with my baby soon after her
                                    birth in Feb.1932 but the doctor would not permit this.

                                    A month before my baby was born, a company called Imperial Airways, had
                                    started the first passenger service between South Africa and England. One of the night
                                    stops was at Mbeya near my husband’s coffee farm, and it was my intention to take the
                                    train to Broken Hill in Northern Rhodesia and to fly from there to Mbeya with my month
                                    old baby. In those days however, commercial flying was still a novelty and the doctor
                                    was not sure that flying at a high altitude might not have an adverse effect upon a young

                                    He strongly advised me to wait until the baby was four months old and I did this
                                    though the long wait was very trying to my husband alone on our farm in Tanganyika,
                                    and to me, cherished though I was in my old home.

                                    My story, covering those nine long months is soon told. My husband drove me
                                    down from Mbeya to Broken Hill in NorthernRhodesia. The journey was tedious as the
                                    weather was very hot and dry and the road sandy and rutted, very different from the
                                    Great North road as it is today. The wooden wheel spokes of the car became so dry
                                    that they rattled and George had to bind wet rags around them. We had several
                                    punctures and with one thing and another I was lucky to catch the train.
                                    My parents were at Cape Town station to welcome me and I stayed
                                    comfortably with them, living very quietly, until my baby was born. She arrived exactly
                                    on the appointed day, Feb.8th.

                                    I wrote to my husband “Our Charmian Ann is a darling baby. She is very fair and
                                    rather pale and has the most exquisite hands, with long tapering fingers. Daddy
                                    absolutely dotes on her and so would you, if you were here. I can’t bear to think that you
                                    are so terribly far away. Although Ann was born exactly on the day, I was taken quite by
                                    surprise. It was awfully hot on the night before, and before going to bed I had a fancy for
                                    some water melon. The result was that when I woke in the early morning with labour
                                    pains and vomiting I thought it was just an attack of indigestion due to eating too much
                                    melon. The result was that I did not wake Marjorie until the pains were pretty frequent.
                                    She called our next door neighbour who, in his pyjamas, drove me to the nursing home
                                    at breakneck speed. The Matron was very peeved that I had left things so late but all
                                    went well and by nine o’clock, Mother, positively twittering with delight, was allowed to
                                    see me and her first granddaughter . She told me that poor Dad was in such a state of
                                    nerves that he was sick amongst the grapevines. He says that he could not bear to go
                                    through such an anxious time again, — so we will have to have our next eleven in

                                    The next four months passed rapidly as my time was taken up by the demands
                                    of my new baby. Dr. Trudy King’s method of rearing babies was then the vogue and I
                                    stuck fanatically to all the rules he laid down, to the intense exasperation of my parents
                                    who longed to cuddle the child.

                                    As the time of departure drew near my parents became more and more reluctant
                                    to allow me to face the journey alone with their adored grandchild, so my brother,
                                    Graham, very generously offered to escort us on the train to Broken Hill where he could
                                    put us on the plane for Mbeya.

                                    Eleanor Rushby


                                    Mchewe Estate. June 15th 1932

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    You’ll be glad to know that we arrived quite safe and sound and very, very
                                    happy to be home.The train Journey was uneventful. Ann slept nearly all the way.
                                    Graham was very kind and saw to everything. He even sat with the baby whilst I went
                                    to meals in the dining car.

                                    We were met at Broken Hill by the Thoms who had arranged accommodation for
                                    us at the hotel for the night. They also drove us to the aerodrome in the morning where
                                    the Airways agent told us that Ann is the first baby to travel by air on this section of the
                                    Cape to England route. The plane trip was very bumpy indeed especially between
                                    Broken Hill and Mpika. Everyone was ill including poor little Ann who sicked up her milk
                                    all over the front of my new coat. I arrived at Mbeya looking a sorry caricature of Radiant
                                    Motherhood. I must have been pale green and the baby was snow white. Under the
                                    circumstances it was a good thing that George did not meet us. We were met instead
                                    by Ken Menzies, the owner of the Mbeya Hotel where we spent the night. Ken was
                                    most fatherly and kind and a good nights rest restored Ann and me to our usual robust

                                    Mbeya has greatly changed. The hotel is now finished and can accommodate
                                    fifty guests. It consists of a large main building housing a large bar and dining room and
                                    offices and a number of small cottage bedrooms. It even has electric light. There are
                                    several buildings out at the aerodrome and private houses going up in Mbeya.
                                    After breakfast Ken Menzies drove us out to the farm where we had a warm
                                    welcome from George, who looks well but rather thin. The house was spotless and the
                                    new cook, Abel, had made light scones for tea. George had prepared all sorts of lovely
                                    surprises. There is a new reed ceiling in the living room and a new dresser gay with
                                    willow pattern plates which he had ordered from England. There is also a writing table
                                    and a square table by the door for visitors hats. More personal is a lovely model ship
                                    which George assembled from one of those Hobbie’s kits. It puts the finishing touch to
                                    the rather old world air of our living room.

                                    In the bedroom there is a large double bed which George made himself. It has
                                    strips of old car tyres nailed to a frame which makes a fine springy mattress and on top
                                    of this is a thick mattress of kapok.In the kitchen there is a good wood stove which
                                    George salvaged from a Mission dump. It looks a bit battered but works very well. The
                                    new cook is excellent. The only blight is that he will wear rubber soled tennis shoes and
                                    they smell awful. I daren’t hurt his feelings by pointing this out though. Opposite the
                                    kitchen is a new laundry building containing a forty gallon hot water drum and a sink for
                                    washing up. Lovely!

                                    George has been working very hard. He now has forty acres of coffee seedlings
                                    planted out and has also found time to plant a rose garden and fruit trees. There are
                                    orange and peach trees, tree tomatoes, paw paws, guavas and berries. He absolutely
                                    adores Ann who has been very good and does not seem at all unsettled by the long

                                    It is absolutely heavenly to be back and I shall be happier than ever now that I
                                    have a baby to play with during the long hours when George is busy on the farm,
                                    Thank you for all your love and care during the many months I was with you. Ann
                                    sends a special bubble for granddad.

                                    Your very loving,

                                    Mchewe Estate Mbeya July 18th 1932

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    Ann at five months is enchanting. She is a very good baby, smiles readily and is
                                    gaining weight steadily. She doesn’t sleep much during the day but that does not
                                    matter, because, apart from washing her little things, I have nothing to do but attend to
                                    her. She sleeps very well at night which is a blessing as George has to get up very
                                    early to start work on the shamba and needs a good nights rest.
                                    My nights are not so good, because we are having a plague of rats which frisk
                                    around in the bedroom at night. Great big ones that come up out of the long grass in the
                                    gorge beside the house and make cosy homes on our reed ceiling and in the thatch of
                                    the roof.

                                    We always have a night light burning so that, if necessary, I can attend to Ann
                                    with a minimum of fuss, and the things I see in that dim light! There are gaps between
                                    the reeds and one night I heard, plop! and there, before my horrified gaze, lay a newly
                                    born hairless baby rat on the floor by the bed, plop, plop! and there lay two more.
                                    Quite dead, poor things – but what a careless mother.

                                    I have also seen rats scampering around on the tops of the mosquito nets and
                                    sometimes we have them on our bed. They have a lovely game. They swarm down
                                    the cord from which the mosquito net is suspended, leap onto the bed and onto the
                                    floor. We do not have our net down now the cold season is here and there are few

                                    Last week a rat crept under Ann’s net which hung to the floor and bit her little
                                    finger, so now I tuck the net in under the mattress though it makes it difficult for me to
                                    attend to her at night. We shall have to get a cat somewhere. Ann’s pram has not yet
                                    arrived so George carries her when we go walking – to her great content.
                                    The native women around here are most interested in Ann. They come to see
                                    her, bearing small gifts, and usually bring a child or two with them. They admire my child
                                    and I admire theirs and there is an exchange of gifts. They produce a couple of eggs or
                                    a few bananas or perhaps a skinny fowl and I hand over sugar, salt or soap as they
                                    value these commodities. The most lavish gift went to the wife of Thomas our headman,
                                    who produced twin daughters in the same week as I had Ann.

                                    Our neighbours have all been across to welcome me back and to admire the
                                    baby. These include Marion Coster who came out to join her husband whilst I was in
                                    South Africa. The two Hickson-Wood children came over on a fat old white donkey.
                                    They made a pretty picture sitting astride, one behind the other – Maureen with her arms
                                    around small Michael’s waist. A native toto led the donkey and the children’ s ayah
                                    walked beside it.

                                    It is quite cold here now but the sun is bright and the air dry. The whole
                                    countryside is beautifully green and we are a very happy little family.

                                    Lots and lots of love,

                                    Mchewe Estate August 11th 1932

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    George has been very unwell for the past week. He had a nasty gash on his
                                    knee which went septic. He had a swelling in the groin and a high temperature and could
                                    not sleep at night for the pain in his leg. Ann was very wakeful too during the same
                                    period, I think she is teething. I luckily have kept fit though rather harassed. Yesterday the
                                    leg looked so inflamed that George decided to open up the wound himself. he made
                                    quite a big cut in exactly the right place. You should have seen the blackish puss
                                    pouring out.

                                    After he had thoroughly cleaned the wound George sewed it up himself. he has
                                    the proper surgical needles and gut. He held the cut together with his left hand and
                                    pushed the needle through the flesh with his right. I pulled the needle out and passed it
                                    to George for the next stitch. I doubt whether a surgeon could have made a neater job
                                    of it. He is still confined to the couch but today his temperature is normal. Some

                                    The previous week was hectic in another way. We had a visit from lions! George
                                    and I were having supper about 8.30 on Tuesday night when the back verandah was
                                    suddenly invaded by women and children from the servants quarters behind the kitchen.
                                    They were all yelling “Simba, Simba.” – simba means lions. The door opened suddenly
                                    and the houseboy rushed in to say that there were lions at the huts. George got up
                                    swiftly, fetched gun and ammunition from the bedroom and with the houseboy carrying
                                    the lamp, went off to investigate. I remained at the table, carrying on with my supper as I
                                    felt a pioneer’s wife should! Suddenly something big leapt through the open window
                                    behind me. You can imagine what I thought! I know now that it is quite true to say one’s
                                    hair rises when one is scared. However it was only Kelly, our huge Irish wolfhound,
                                    taking cover.

                                    George returned quite soon to say that apparently the commotion made by the
                                    women and children had frightened the lions off. He found their tracks in the soft earth
                                    round the huts and a bag of maize that had been playfully torn open but the lions had
                                    moved on.

                                    Next day we heard that they had moved to Hickson-Wood’s shamba. Hicky
                                    came across to say that the lions had jumped over the wall of his cattle boma and killed
                                    both his white Muskat riding donkeys.
                                    He and a friend sat up all next night over the remains but the lions did not return to
                                    the kill.

                                    Apart from the little set back last week, Ann is blooming. She has a cap of very
                                    fine fair hair and clear blue eyes under straight brow. She also has lovely dimples in both
                                    cheeks. We are very proud of her.

                                    Our neighbours are picking coffee but the crops are small and the price is low. I
                                    am amazed that they are so optimistic about the future. No one in these parts ever
                                    seems to grouse though all are living on capital. They all say “Well if the worst happens
                                    we can always go up to the Lupa Diggings.”

                                    Don’t worry about us, we have enough to tide us over for some time yet.

                                    Much love to all,

                                    Mchewe Estate. 28th Sept. 1932

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    News! News! I’m going to have another baby. George and I are delighted and I
                                    hope it will be a boy this time. I shall be able to have him at Mbeya because things are
                                    rapidly changing here. Several German families have moved to Mbeya including a
                                    German doctor who means to build a hospital there. I expect he will make a very good
                                    living because there must now be some hundreds of Europeans within a hundred miles
                                    radius of Mbeya. The Europeans are mostly British or German but there are also
                                    Greeks and, I believe, several other nationalities are represented on the Lupa Diggings.
                                    Ann is blooming and developing according to the Book except that she has no
                                    teeth yet! Kath Hickson-Wood has given her a very nice high chair and now she has
                                    breakfast and lunch at the table with us. Everything within reach goes on the floor to her
                                    amusement and my exasperation!

                                    You ask whether we have any Church of England missionaries in our part. No we
                                    haven’t though there are Lutheran and Roman Catholic Missions. I have never even
                                    heard of a visiting Church of England Clergyman to these parts though there are babies
                                    in plenty who have not been baptised. Jolly good thing I had Ann Christened down

                                    The R.C. priests in this area are called White Fathers. They all have beards and
                                    wear white cassocks and sun helmets. One, called Father Keiling, calls around frequently.
                                    Though none of us in this area is Catholic we take it in turn to put him up for the night. The
                                    Catholic Fathers in their turn are most hospitable to travellers regardless of their beliefs.
                                    Rather a sad thing has happened. Lucas our old chicken-boy is dead. I shall miss
                                    his toothy smile. George went to the funeral and fired two farewell shots from his rifle
                                    over the grave – a gesture much appreciated by the locals. Lucas in his day was a good

                                    Several of the locals own muzzle loading guns but the majority hunt with dogs
                                    and spears. The dogs wear bells which make an attractive jingle but I cannot bear the
                                    idea of small antelope being run down until they are exhausted before being clubbed of
                                    stabbed to death. We seldom eat venison as George does not care to shoot buck.
                                    Recently though, he shot an eland and Abel rendered down the fat which is excellent for
                                    cooking and very like beef fat.

                                    Much love to all,

                                    Mchewe Estate. P.O.Mbeya 21st November 1932

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    George has gone off to the Lupa for a week with John Molteno. John came up
                                    here with the idea of buying a coffee farm but he has changed his mind and now thinks of
                                    staking some claims on the diggings and also setting up as a gold buyer.

                                    Did I tell you about his arrival here? John and George did some elephant hunting
                                    together in French Equatorial Africa and when John heard that George had married and
                                    settled in Tanganyika, he also decided to come up here. He drove up from Cape Town
                                    in a Baby Austin and arrived just as our labourers were going home for the day. The little
                                    car stopped half way up our hill and John got out to investigate. You should have heard
                                    the astonished exclamations when John got out – all 6 ft 5 ins. of him! He towered over
                                    the little car and even to me it seemed impossible for him to have made the long
                                    journey in so tiny a car.

                                    Kath Wood has been over several times lately. She is slim and looks so right in
                                    the shirt and corduroy slacks she almost always wears. She was here yesterday when
                                    the shamba boy, digging in the front garden, unearthed a large earthenware cooking pot,
                                    sealed at the top. I was greatly excited and had an instant mental image of fabulous
                                    wealth. We made the boy bring the pot carefully on to the verandah and opened it in
                                    happy anticipation. What do you think was inside? Nothing but a grinning skull! Such a
                                    treat for a pregnant female.

                                    We have a tree growing here that had lovely straight branches covered by a
                                    smooth bark. I got the garden boy to cut several of these branches of a uniform size,
                                    peeled off the bark and have made Ann a playpen with the poles which are much like
                                    broom sticks. Now I can leave her unattended when I do my chores. The other morning
                                    after breakfast I put Ann in her playpen on the verandah and gave her a piece of toast
                                    and honey to keep her quiet whilst I laundered a few of her things. When I looked out a
                                    little later I was horrified to see a number of bees buzzing around her head whilst she
                                    placidly concentrated on her toast. I made a rapid foray and rescued her but I still don’t
                                    know whether that was the thing to do.

                                    We all send our love,

                                    Mbeya Hospital. April 25th. 1933

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    Here I am, installed at the very new hospital, built by Dr Eckhardt, awaiting the
                                    arrival of the new baby. George has gone back to the farm on foot but will walk in again
                                    to spend the weekend with us. Ann is with me and enjoys the novelty of playing with
                                    other children. The Eckhardts have two, a pretty little girl of two and a half and a very fair
                                    roly poly boy of Ann’s age. Ann at fourteen months is very active. She is quite a little girl
                                    now with lovely dimples. She walks well but is backward in teething.

                                    George, Ann and I had a couple of days together at the hotel before I moved in
                                    here and several of the local women visited me and have promised to visit me in
                                    hospital. The trip from farm to town was very entertaining if not very comfortable. There
                                    is ten miles of very rough road between our farm and Utengule Mission and beyond the
                                    Mission there is a fair thirteen or fourteen mile road to Mbeya.

                                    As we have no car now the doctor’s wife offered to drive us from the Mission to
                                    Mbeya but she would not risk her car on the road between the Mission and our farm.
                                    The upshot was that I rode in the Hickson-Woods machila for that ten mile stretch. The
                                    machila is a canopied hammock, slung from a bamboo pole, in which I reclined, not too
                                    comfortably in my unwieldy state, with Ann beside me or sometime straddling me. Four
                                    of our farm boys carried the machila on their shoulders, two fore and two aft. The relief
                                    bearers walked on either side. There must have been a dozen in all and they sang a sort
                                    of sea shanty song as they walked. One man would sing a verse and the others took up
                                    the chorus. They often improvise as they go. They moaned about my weight (at least
                                    George said so! I don’t follow Ki-Swahili well yet) and expressed the hope that I would
                                    have a son and that George would reward them handsomely.

                                    George and Kelly, the dog, followed close behind the machila and behind
                                    George came Abel our cook and his wife and small daughter Annalie, all in their best
                                    attire. The cook wore a palm beach suit, large Terai hat and sunglasses and two colour
                                    shoes and quite lent a tone to the proceedings! Right at the back came the rag tag and
                                    bobtail who joined the procession just for fun.

                                    Mrs Eckhardt was already awaiting us at the Mission when we arrived and we had
                                    an uneventful trip to the Mbeya Hotel.

                                    During my last week at the farm I felt very tired and engaged the cook’s small
                                    daughter, Annalie, to amuse Ann for an hour after lunch so that I could have a rest. They
                                    played in the small verandah room which adjoins our bedroom and where I keep all my
                                    sewing materials. One afternoon I was startled by a scream from Ann. I rushed to the
                                    room and found Ann with blood steaming from her cheek. Annalie knelt beside her,
                                    looking startled and frightened, with my embroidery scissors in her hand. She had cut off
                                    half of the long curling golden lashes on one of Ann’s eyelids and, in trying to finish the
                                    job, had cut off a triangular flap of skin off Ann’s cheek bone.

                                    I called Abel, the cook, and demanded that he should chastise his daughter there and
                                    then and I soon heard loud shrieks from behind the kitchen. He spanked her with a
                                    bamboo switch but I am sure not as well as she deserved. Africans are very tolerant
                                    towards their children though I have seen husbands and wives fighting furiously.
                                    I feel very well but long to have the confinement over.

                                    Very much love,

                                    Mbeya Hospital. 2nd May 1933.

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    Little George arrived at 7.30 pm on Saturday evening 29 th. April. George was
                                    with me at the time as he had walked in from the farm for news, and what a wonderful bit
                                    of luck that was. The doctor was away on a case on the Diggings and I was bathing Ann
                                    with George looking on, when the pains started. George dried Ann and gave her
                                    supper and put her to bed. Afterwards he sat on the steps outside my room and a
                                    great comfort it was to know that he was there.

                                    The confinement was short but pretty hectic. The Doctor returned to the Hospital
                                    just in time to deliver the baby. He is a grand little boy, beautifully proportioned. The
                                    doctor says he has never seen a better formed baby. He is however rather funny
                                    looking just now as his head is, very temporarily, egg shaped. He has a shock of black
                                    silky hair like a gollywog and believe it or not, he has a slight black moustache.
                                    George came in, looked at the baby, looked at me, and we both burst out
                                    laughing. The doctor was shocked and said so. He has no sense of humour and couldn’t
                                    understand that we, though bursting with pride in our son, could never the less laugh at

                                    Friends in Mbeya have sent me the most gorgeous flowers and my room is
                                    transformed with delphiniums, roses and carnations. The room would be very austere
                                    without the flowers. Curtains, bedspread and enamelware, walls and ceiling are all
                                    snowy white.

                                    George hired a car and took Ann home next day. I have little George for
                                    company during the day but he is removed at night. I am longing to get him home and
                                    away from the German nurse who feeds him on black tea when he cries. She insists that
                                    tea is a medicine and good for him.

                                    Much love from a proud mother of two.

                                    Mchewe Estate 12May 1933

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    We are all together at home again and how lovely it feels. Even the house
                                    servants seem pleased. The boy had decorated the lounge with sprays of
                                    bougainvillaea and Abel had backed one of his good sponge cakes.

                                    Ann looked fat and rosy but at first was only moderately interested in me and the
                                    new baby but she soon thawed. George is good with her and will continue to dress Ann
                                    in the mornings and put her to bed until I am satisfied with Georgie.

                                    He, poor mite, has a nasty rash on face and neck. I am sure it is just due to that
                                    tea the nurse used to give him at night. He has lost his moustache and is fast loosing his
                                    wild black hair and emerging as quite a handsome babe. He is a very masculine looking
                                    infant with much more strongly marked eyebrows and a larger nose that Ann had. He is
                                    very good and lies quietly in his basket even when awake.

                                    George has been making a hatching box for brown trout ova and has set it up in
                                    a small clear stream fed by a spring in readiness for the ova which is expected from
                                    South Africa by next weeks plane. Some keen fishermen from Mbeya and the District
                                    have clubbed together to buy the ova. The fingerlings are later to be transferred to
                                    streams in Mbeya and Tukuyu Districts.

                                    I shall now have my hands full with the two babies and will not have much time for the
                                    garden, or I fear, for writing very long letters. Remember though, that no matter how
                                    large my family becomes, I shall always love you as much as ever.

                                    Your affectionate,

                                    Mchewe Estate. 14th June 1933

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    The four of us are all well but alas we have lost our dear Kelly. He was rather a
                                    silly dog really, although he grew so big he retained all his puppy ways but we were all
                                    very fond of him, especially George because Kelly attached himself to George whilst I
                                    was away having Ann and from that time on he was George’s shadow. I think he had
                                    some form of biliary fever. He died stretched out on the living room couch late last night,
                                    with George sitting beside him so that he would not feel alone.

                                    The children are growing fast. Georgie is a darling. He now has a fluff of pale
                                    brown hair and his eyes are large and dark brown. Ann is very plump and fair.
                                    We have had several visitors lately. Apart from neighbours, a car load of diggers
                                    arrived one night and John Molteno and his bride were here. She is a very attractive girl
                                    but, I should say, more suited to life in civilisation than in this back of beyond. She has
                                    gone out to the diggings with her husband and will have to walk a good stretch of the fifty
                                    or so miles.

                                    The diggers had to sleep in the living room on the couch and on hastily erected
                                    camp beds. They arrived late at night and left after breakfast next day. One had half a
                                    beard, the other side of his face had been forcibly shaved in the bar the night before.

                                    your affectionate,

                                    Mchewe Estate. August 10 th. 1933

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    George is away on safari with two Indian Army officers. The money he will get for
                                    his services will be very welcome because this coffee growing is a slow business, and
                                    our capitol is rapidly melting away. The job of acting as White Hunter was unexpected
                                    or George would not have taken on the job of hatching the ova which duly arrived from
                                    South Africa.

                                    George and the District Commissioner, David Pollock, went to meet the plane
                                    by which the ova had been consigned but the pilot knew nothing about the package. It
                                    came to light in the mail bag with the parcels! However the ova came to no harm. David
                                    Pollock and George brought the parcel to the farm and carefully transferred the ova to
                                    the hatching box. It was interesting to watch the tiny fry hatch out – a process which took
                                    several days. Many died in the process and George removed the dead by sucking
                                    them up in a glass tube.

                                    When hatched, the tiny fry were fed on ant eggs collected by the boys. I had to
                                    take over the job of feeding and removing the dead when George left on safari. The fry
                                    have to be fed every four hours, like the baby, so each time I have fed Georgie. I hurry
                                    down to feed the trout.

                                    The children are very good but keep me busy. Ann can now say several words
                                    and understands more. She adores Georgie. I long to show them off to you.

                                    Very much love

                                    Mchewe Estate. October 27th 1933

                                    Dear Family,

                                    All just over flu. George and Ann were very poorly. I did not fare so badly and
                                    Georgie came off best. He is on a bottle now.

                                    There was some excitement here last Wednesday morning. At 6.30 am. I called
                                    for boiling water to make Georgie’s food. No water arrived but muffled shouting and the
                                    sound of blows came from the kitchen. I went to investigate and found a fierce fight in
                                    progress between the house boy and the kitchen boy. In my efforts to make them stop
                                    fighting I went too close and got a sharp bang on the mouth with the edge of an
                                    enamelled plate the kitchen boy was using as a weapon. My teeth cut my lip inside and
                                    the plate cut it outside and blood flowed from mouth to chin. The boys were petrified.
                                    By the time I had fed Georgie the lip was stiff and swollen. George went in wrath
                                    to the kitchen and by breakfast time both house boy and kitchen boy had swollen faces
                                    too. Since then I have a kettle of boiling water to hand almost before the words are out
                                    of my mouth. I must say that the fight was because the house boy had clouted the
                                    kitchen boy for keeping me waiting! In this land of piece work it is the job of the kitchen
                                    boy to light the fire and boil the kettle but the houseboy’s job to carry the kettle to me.
                                    I have seen little of Kath Wood or Marion Coster for the past two months. Major
                                    Jones is the neighbour who calls most regularly. He has a wireless set and calls on all of
                                    us to keep us up to date with world as well as local news. He often brings oranges for
                                    Ann who adores him. He is a very nice person but no oil painting and makes no effort to
                                    entertain Ann but she thinks he is fine. Perhaps his monocle appeals to her.

                                    George has bought a six foot long galvanised bath which is a great improvement
                                    on the smaller oval one we have used until now. The smaller one had grown battered
                                    from much use and leaks like a sieve. Fortunately our bathroom has a cement floor,
                                    because one had to fill the bath to the brim and then bath extremely quickly to avoid
                                    being left high and dry.

                                    Lots and lots of love,

                                    Mchewe Estate. P.O. Mbeya 1st December 1933

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    Ann has not been well. We think she has had malaria. She has grown a good
                                    deal lately and looks much thinner and rather pale. Georgie is thriving and has such
                                    sparkling brown eyes and a ready smile. He and Ann make a charming pair, one so fair
                                    and the other dark.

                                    The Moltenos’ spent a few days here and took Georgie and me to Mbeya so
                                    that Georgie could be vaccinated. However it was an unsatisfactory trip because the
                                    doctor had no vaccine.

                                    George went to the Lupa with the Moltenos and returned to the farm in their Baby
                                    Austin which they have lent to us for a week. This was to enable me to go to Mbeya to
                                    have a couple of teeth filled by a visiting dentist.

                                    We went to Mbeya in the car on Saturday. It was quite a squash with the four of
                                    us on the front seat of the tiny car. Once George grabbed the babies foot instead of the
                                    gear knob! We had Georgie vaccinated at the hospital and then went to the hotel where
                                    the dentist was installed. Mr Dare, the dentist, had few instruments and they were very
                                    tarnished. I sat uncomfortably on a kitchen chair whilst he tinkered with my teeth. He filled
                                    three but two of the fillings came out that night. This meant another trip to Mbeya in the
                                    Baby Austin but this time they seem all right.

                                    The weather is very hot and dry and the garden a mess. We are having trouble
                                    with the young coffee trees too. Cut worms are killing off seedlings in the nursery and
                                    there is a borer beetle in the planted out coffee.

                                    George bought a large grey donkey from some wandering Masai and we hope
                                    the children will enjoy riding it later on.

                                    Very much love,

                                    Mchewe Estate. 14th February 1934.

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    You will be sorry to hear that little Ann has been very ill, indeed we were terribly
                                    afraid that we were going to lose her. She enjoyed her birthday on the 8th. All the toys
                                    you, and her English granny, sent were unwrapped with such delight. However next
                                    day she seemed listless and a bit feverish so I tucked her up in bed after lunch. I dosed
                                    her with quinine and aspirin and she slept fitfully. At about eleven o’clock I was
                                    awakened by a strange little cry. I turned up the night light and was horrified to see that
                                    Ann was in a convulsion. I awakened George who, as always in an emergency, was
                                    perfectly calm and practical. He filled the small bath with very warm water and emersed
                                    Ann in it, placing a cold wet cloth on her head. We then wrapped her in blankets and
                                    gave her an enema and she settled down to sleep. A few hours later we had the same
                                    thing over again.

                                    At first light we sent a runner to Mbeya to fetch the doctor but waited all day in
                                    vain and in the evening the runner returned to say that the doctor had gone to a case on
                                    the diggings. Ann had been feverish all day with two or three convulsions. Neither
                                    George or I wished to leave the bedroom, but there was Georgie to consider, and in
                                    the afternoon I took him out in the garden for a while whilst George sat with Ann.
                                    That night we both sat up all night and again Ann had those wretched attacks of
                                    convulsions. George and I were worn out with anxiety by the time the doctor arrived the
                                    next afternoon. Ann had not been able to keep down any quinine and had had only
                                    small sips of water since the onset of the attack.

                                    The doctor at once diagnosed the trouble as malaria aggravated by teething.
                                    George held Ann whilst the Doctor gave her an injection. At the first attempt the needle
                                    bent into a bow, George was furious! The second attempt worked and after a few hours
                                    Ann’s temperature dropped and though she was ill for two days afterwards she is now
                                    up and about. She has also cut the last of her baby teeth, thank God. She looks thin and
                                    white, but should soon pick up. It has all been a great strain to both of us. Georgie
                                    behaved like an angel throughout. He played happily in his cot and did not seem to
                                    sense any tension as people say, babies do. Our baby was cheerful and not at all

                                    This is the rainy season and it is a good thing that some work has been done on
                                    our road or the doctor might not have got through.

                                    Much love to all,

                                    Mchewe Estate. 1st October 1934

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    We are all well now, thank goodness, but last week Georgie gave us such a
                                    fright. I was sitting on the verandah, busy with some sewing and not watching Ann and
                                    Georgie, who were trying to reach a bunch of bananas which hung on a rope from a
                                    beam of the verandah. Suddenly I heard a crash, Georgie had fallen backward over the
                                    edge of the verandah and hit the back of his head on the edge of the brick furrow which
                                    carries away the rainwater. He lay flat on his back with his arms spread out and did not
                                    move or cry. When I picked him up he gave a little whimper, I carried him to his cot and
                                    bathed his face and soon he began sitting up and appeared quite normal. The trouble
                                    began after he had vomited up his lunch. He began to whimper and bang his head
                                    against the cot.

                                    George and I were very worried because we have no transport so we could not
                                    take Georgie to the doctor and we could not bear to go through again what we had gone
                                    through with Ann earlier in the year. Then, in the late afternoon, a miracle happened. Two
                                    men George hardly knew, and complete strangers to me, called in on their way from the
                                    diggings to Mbeya and they kindly drove Georgie and me to the hospital. The Doctor
                                    allowed me to stay with Georgie and we spent five days there. Luckily he responded to
                                    treatment and is now as alive as ever. Children do put years on one!

                                    There is nothing much else to report. We have a new vegetable garden which is
                                    doing well but the earth here is strange. Gardens seem to do well for two years but by
                                    that time the soil is exhausted and one must move the garden somewhere else. The
                                    coffee looks well but it will be another year before we can expect even a few bags of
                                    coffee and prices are still low. Anyway by next year George should have some good
                                    return for all his hard work.

                                    Lots of love,

                                    Mchewe Estate. November 4th 1934

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    George is home from his White Hunting safari looking very sunburnt and well.
                                    The elderly American, who was his client this time, called in here at the farm to meet me
                                    and the children. It is amazing what spirit these old lads have! This one looked as though
                                    he should be thinking in terms of slippers and an armchair but no, he thinks in terms of
                                    high powered rifles with telescopic sights.

                                    It is lovely being together again and the children are delighted to have their Dad
                                    home. Things are always exciting when George is around. The day after his return
                                    George said at breakfast, “We can’t go on like this. You and the kids never get off the
                                    shamba. We’ll simply have to get a car.” You should have heard the excitement. “Get a
                                    car Daddy?’” cried Ann jumping in her chair so that her plaits bounced. “Get a car
                                    Daddy?” echoed Georgie his brown eyes sparkling. “A car,” said I startled, “However
                                    can we afford one?”

                                    “Well,” said George, “on my way back from Safari I heard that a car is to be sold
                                    this week at the Tukuyu Court, diseased estate or bankruptcy or something, I might get it
                                    cheap and it is an A.C.” The name meant nothing to me, but George explained that an
                                    A.C. is first cousin to a Rolls Royce.

                                    So off he went to the sale and next day the children and I listened all afternoon for
                                    the sound of an approaching car. We had many false alarms but, towards evening we
                                    heard what appeared to be the roar of an aeroplane engine. It was the A.C. roaring her
                                    way up our steep hill with a long plume of steam waving gaily above her radiator.
                                    Out jumped my beaming husband and in no time at all, he was showing off her
                                    points to an admiring family. Her lines are faultless and seats though worn are most
                                    comfortable. She has a most elegant air so what does it matter that the radiator leaks like
                                    a sieve, her exhaust pipe has broken off, her tyres are worn almost to the canvas and
                                    she has no windscreen. She goes, and she cost only five pounds.

                                    Next afternoon George, the kids and I piled into the car and drove along the road
                                    on lookout for guinea fowl. All went well on the outward journey but on the homeward
                                    one the poor A.C. simply gasped and died. So I carried the shot gun and George
                                    carried both children and we trailed sadly home. This morning George went with a bunch
                                    of farmhands and brought her home. Truly temperamental, she came home literally
                                    under her own steam.

                                    George now plans to get a second hand engine and radiator for her but it won’t
                                    be an A.C. engine. I think she is the only one of her kind in the country.
                                    I am delighted to hear, dad, that you are sending a bridle for Joseph for
                                    Christmas. I am busy making a saddle out of an old piece of tent canvas stuffed with
                                    kapok, some webbing and some old rug straps. A car and a riding donkey! We’re
                                    definitely carriage folk now.

                                    Lots of love to all,

                                    Mchewe Estate. 28th December 1934

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    Thank you for the wonderful Christmas parcel. My frock is a splendid fit. George
                                    declares that no one can knit socks like Mummy and the children love their toys and new

                                    Joseph, the donkey, took his bit with an air of bored resignation and Ann now
                                    rides proudly on his back. Joseph is a big strong animal with the looks and disposition of
                                    a mule. he will not go at all unless a native ‘toto’ walks before him and when he does go
                                    he wears a pained expression as though he were carrying fourteen stone instead of
                                    Ann’s fly weight. I walk beside the donkey carrying Georgie and our cat, ‘Skinny Winnie’,
                                    follows behind. Quite a cavalcade. The other day I got so exasperated with Joseph that
                                    I took Ann off and I got on. Joseph tottered a few paces and sat down! to the huge
                                    delight of our farm labourers who were going home from work. Anyway, one good thing,
                                    the donkey is so lazy that there is little chance of him bolting with Ann.

                                    The Moltenos spent Christmas with us and left for the Lupa Diggings yesterday.
                                    They arrived on the 22nd. with gifts for the children and chocolates and beer. That very
                                    afternoon George and John Molteno left for Ivuna, near Lake Ruckwa, to shoot some
                                    guinea fowl and perhaps a goose for our Christmas dinner. We expected the menfolk
                                    back on Christmas Eve and Anne and I spent a busy day making mince pies and
                                    sausage rolls. Why I don’t know, because I am sure Abel could have made them better.
                                    We decorated the Christmas tree and sat up very late but no husbands turned up.
                                    Christmas day passed but still no husbands came. Anne, like me, is expecting a baby
                                    and we both felt pretty forlorn and cross. Anne was certain that they had been caught up
                                    in a party somewhere and had forgotten all about us and I must say when Boxing Day
                                    went by and still George and John did not show up I felt ready to agree with her.
                                    They turned up towards evening and explained that on the homeward trip the car
                                    had bogged down in the mud and that they had spent a miserable Christmas. Anne
                                    refused to believe their story so George, to prove their case, got the game bag and
                                    tipped the contents on to the dining room table. Out fell several guinea fowl, long past
                                    being edible, followed by a large goose so high that it was green and blue where all the
                                    feathers had rotted off.

                                    The stench was too much for two pregnant girls. I shot out of the front door
                                    closely followed by Anne and we were both sick in the garden.

                                    I could not face food that evening but Anne is made of stronger stuff and ate her
                                    belated Christmas dinner with relish.

                                    I am looking forward enormously to having Marjorie here with us. She will be able
                                    to carry back to you an eyewitness account of our home and way of life.

                                    Much love to you all,

                                    Mchewe Estate. 5th January 1935

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    You cannot imagine how lovely it is to have Marjorie here. She came just in time
                                    because I have had pernicious vomiting and have lost a great deal of weight and she
                                    took charge of the children and made me spend three days in hospital having treatment.
                                    George took me to the hospital on the afternoon of New Years Eve and decided
                                    to spend the night at the hotel and join in the New Years Eve celebrations. I had several
                                    visitors at the hospital that evening and George actually managed to get some imported
                                    grapes for me. He returned to the farm next morning and fetched me from the hospital
                                    four days later. Of course the old A.C. just had to play up. About half way home the
                                    back axle gave in and we had to send a passing native some miles back to a place
                                    called Mbalizi to hire a lorry from a Greek trader to tow us home to the farm.
                                    The children looked well and were full of beans. I think Marjorie was thankful to
                                    hand them over to me. She is delighted with Ann’s motherly little ways but Georgie she
                                    calls “a really wild child”. He isn’t, just has such an astonishing amount of energy and is
                                    always up to mischief. Marjorie brought us all lovely presents. I am so thrilled with my
                                    sewing machine. It may be an old model but it sews marvellously. We now have an
                                    Alsatian pup as well as Joseph the donkey and the two cats.

                                    Marjorie had a midnight encounter with Joseph which gave her quite a shock but
                                    we had a good laugh about it next day. Some months ago George replaced our wattle
                                    and daub outside pit lavatory by a substantial brick one, so large that Joseph is being
                                    temporarily stabled in it at night. We neglected to warn Marj about this and one night,
                                    storm lamp in hand, she opened the door and Joseph walked out braying his thanks.
                                    I am afraid Marjorie is having a quiet time, a shame when the journey from Cape
                                    Town is so expensive. The doctor has told me to rest as much as I can, so it is
                                    impossible for us to take Marj on sight seeing trips.

                                    I hate to think that she will be leaving in ten days time.

                                    Much love,

                                    Mchewe Estate. 18th February 1935

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    You must be able to visualise our life here quite well now that Marj is back and
                                    has no doubt filled in all the details I forget to mention in my letters. What a journey we
                                    had in the A.C. when we took her to the plane. George, the children and I sat in front and
                                    Marj sat behind with numerous four gallon tins of water for the insatiable radiator. It was
                                    raining and the canvas hood was up but part of the side flaps are missing and as there is
                                    no glass in the windscreen the rain blew in on us. George got fed up with constantly
                                    removing the hot radiator cap so simply stuffed a bit of rag in instead. When enough
                                    steam had built up in the radiator behind the rag it blew out and we started all over again.
                                    The car still roars like an aeroplane engine and yet has little power so that George sent
                                    gangs of boys to the steep hills between the farm and the Mission to give us a push if
                                    necessary. Fortunately this time it was not, and the boys cheered us on our way. We
                                    needed their help on the homeward journey however.

                                    George has now bought an old Chev engine which he means to install before I
                                    have to go to hospital to have my new baby. It will be quite an engineering feet as
                                    George has few tools.

                                    I am sorry to say that I am still not well, something to do with kidneys or bladder.
                                    George bought me some pills from one of the several small shops which have opened
                                    in Mbeya and Ann is most interested in the result. She said seriously to Kath Wood,
                                    “Oh my Mummy is a very clever Mummy. She can do blue wee and green wee as well
                                    as yellow wee.” I simply can no longer manage the children without help and have
                                    engaged the cook’s wife, Janey, to help. The children are by no means thrilled. I plead in
                                    vain that I am not well enough to go for walks. Ann says firmly, “Ann doesn’t want to go
                                    for a walk. Ann will look after you.” Funny, though she speaks well for a three year old,
                                    she never uses the first person. Georgie say he would much rather walk with
                                    Keshokutwa, the kitchen boy. His name by the way, means day-after-tomorrow and it
                                    suits him down to the ground, Kath Wood walks over sometimes with offers of help and Ann will gladly go walking with her but Georgie won’t. He on the other hand will walk with Anne Molteno
                                    and Ann won’t. They are obstinate kids. Ann has developed a very fertile imagination.
                                    She has probably been looking at too many of those nice women’s magazines you
                                    sent. A few days ago she said, “You are sick Mummy, but Ann’s got another Mummy.
                                    She’s not sick, and my other mummy (very smugly) has lovely golden hair”. This
                                    morning’ not ten minutes after I had dressed her, she came in with her frock wet and
                                    muddy. I said in exasperation, “Oh Ann, you are naughty.” To which she instantly
                                    returned, “My other Mummy doesn’t think I am naughty. She thinks I am very nice.” It
                                    strikes me I shall have to get better soon so that I can be gay once more and compete
                                    with that phantom golden haired paragon.

                                    We had a very heavy storm over the farm last week. There was heavy rain with
                                    hail which stripped some of the coffee trees and the Mchewe River flooded and the
                                    water swept through the lower part of the shamba. After the water had receded George
                                    picked up a fine young trout which had been stranded. This was one of some he had
                                    put into the river when Georgie was a few months old.

                                    The trials of a coffee farmer are legion. We now have a plague of snails. They
                                    ring bark the young trees and leave trails of slime on the glossy leaves. All the ring
                                    barked trees will have to be cut right back and this is heartbreaking as they are bearing
                                    berries for the first time. The snails are collected by native children, piled upon the
                                    ground and bashed to a pulp which gives off a sickening stench. I am sorry for the local
                                    Africans. Locusts ate up their maize and now they are losing their bean crop to the snails.

                                    Lots of love, Eleanor


                                      From Tanganyika with Love

                                      continued  ~ part 3

                                      With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                                      Mchewe Estate. 22nd March 1935

                                      Dearest Family,

                                      I am feeling much better now that I am five months pregnant and have quite got
                                      my appetite back. Once again I go out with “the Mchewe Hunt” which is what George
                                      calls the procession made up of the donkey boy and donkey with Ann confidently riding
                                      astride, me beside the donkey with Georgie behind riding the stick which he much
                                      prefers to the donkey. The Alsatian pup, whom Ann for some unknown reason named
                                      ‘Tubbage’, and the two cats bring up the rear though sometimes Tubbage rushes
                                      ahead and nearly knocks me off my feet. He is not the loveable pet that Kelly was.
                                      It is just as well that I have recovered my health because my mother-in-law has
                                      decided to fly out from England to look after Ann and George when I am in hospital. I am
                                      very grateful for there is no one lse to whom I can turn. Kath Hickson-Wood is seldom on
                                      their farm because Hicky is working a guano claim and is making quite a good thing out of
                                      selling bat guano to the coffee farmers at Mbosi. They camp out at the claim, a series of
                                      caves in the hills across the valley and visit the farm only occasionally. Anne Molteno is
                                      off to Cape Town to have her baby at her mothers home and there are no women in
                                      Mbeya I know well. The few women are Government Officials wives and they come
                                      and go. I make so few trips to the little town that there is no chance to get on really
                                      friendly terms with them.

                                      Janey, the ayah, is turning into a treasure. She washes and irons well and keeps
                                      the children’s clothes cupboard beautifully neat. Ann and George however are still
                                      reluctant to go for walks with her. They find her dull because, like all African ayahs, she
                                      has no imagination and cannot play with them. She should however be able to help with
                                      the baby. Ann is very excited about the new baby. She so loves all little things.
                                      Yesterday she went into ecstasies over ten newly hatched chicks.

                                      She wants a little sister and perhaps it would be a good thing. Georgie is so very
                                      active and full of mischief that I feel another wild little boy might be more than I can
                                      manage. Although Ann is older, it is Georgie who always thinks up the mischief. They
                                      have just been having a fight. Georgie with the cooks umbrella versus Ann with her frilly
                                      pink sunshade with the inevitable result that the sunshade now has four broken ribs.
                                      Any way I never feel lonely now during the long hours George is busy on the
                                      shamba. The children keep me on my toes and I have plenty of sewing to do for the
                                      baby. George is very good about amusing the children before their bedtime and on
                                      Sundays. In the afternoons when it is not wet I take Ann and Georgie for a walk down
                                      the hill. George meets us at the bottom and helps me on the homeward journey. He
                                      grabs one child in each hand by the slack of their dungarees and they do a sort of giant
                                      stride up the hill, half walking half riding.

                                      Very much love,

                                      Mchewe Estate. 14th June 1935

                                      Dearest Family,

                                      A great flap here. We had a letter yesterday to say that mother-in-law will be
                                      arriving in four days time! George is very amused at my frantic efforts at spring cleaning
                                      but he has told me before that she is very house proud so I feel I must make the best
                                      of what we have.

                                      George is very busy building a store for the coffee which will soon be ripening.
                                      This time he is doing the bricklaying himself. It is quite a big building on the far end of the
                                      farm and close to the river. He is also making trays of chicken wire nailed to wooden
                                      frames with cheap calico stretched over the wire.

                                      Mother will have to sleep in the verandah room which leads off the bedroom
                                      which we share with the children. George will have to sleep in the outside spare room as
                                      there is no door between the bedroom and the verandah room. I am sewing frantically
                                      to make rose coloured curtains and bedspread out of material mother-in-law sent for
                                      Christmas and will have to make a curtain for the doorway. The kitchen badly needs
                                      whitewashing but George says he cannot spare the labour so I hope mother won’t look.
                                      To complicate matters, George has been invited to lunch with the Governor on the day
                                      of Mother’s arrival. After lunch they are to visit the newly stocked trout streams in the
                                      Mporotos. I hope he gets back to Mbeya in good time to meet mother’s plane.
                                      Ann has been off colour for a week. She looks very pale and her pretty fair hair,
                                      normally so shiny, is dull and lifeless. It is such a pity that mother should see her like this
                                      because first impressions do count so much and I am looking to the children to attract
                                      attention from me. I am the size of a circus tent and hardly a dream daughter-in-law.
                                      Georgie, thank goodness, is blooming but he has suddenly developed a disgusting
                                      habit of spitting on the floor in the manner of the natives. I feel he might say “Gran, look
                                      how far I can spit and give an enthusiastic demonstration.

                                      Just hold thumbs that all goes well.

                                      your loving but anxious,

                                      Mchewe Estate. 28th June 1935

                                      Dearest Family,

                                      Mother-in-law duly arrived in the District Commissioner’s car. George did not dare
                                      to use the A.C. as she is being very temperamental just now. They also brought the
                                      mail bag which contained a parcel of lovely baby clothes from you. Thank you very
                                      much. Mother-in-law is very put out because the large parcel she posted by surface
                                      mail has not yet arrived.

                                      Mother arrived looking very smart in an ankle length afternoon frock of golden
                                      brown crepe and smart hat, and wearing some very good rings. She is a very
                                      handsome woman with the very fair complexion that goes with red hair. The hair, once
                                      Titan, must now be grey but it has been very successfully tinted and set. I of course,
                                      was shapeless in a cotton maternity frock and no credit to you. However, so far, motherin-
                                      law has been uncritical and friendly and charmed with the children who have taken to
                                      her. Mother does not think that the children resemble me in any way. Ann resembles her
                                      family the Purdys and Georgie is a Morley, her mother’s family. She says they had the
                                      same dark eyes and rather full mouths. I say feebly, “But Georgie has my colouring”, but
                                      mother won’t hear of it. So now you know! Ann is a Purdy and Georgie a Morley.
                                      Perhaps number three will be a Leslie.

                                      What a scramble I had getting ready for mother. Her little room really looks pretty
                                      and fresh, but the locally woven grass mats arrived only minutes before mother did. I
                                      also frantically overhauled our clothes and it a good thing that I did so because mother
                                      has been going through all the cupboards looking for mending. Mother is kept so busy
                                      in her own home that I think she finds time hangs on her hands here. She is very good at
                                      entertaining the children and has even tried her hand at picking coffee a couple of times.
                                      Mother cannot get used to the native boy servants but likes Janey, so Janey keeps her
                                      room in order. Mother prefers to wash and iron her own clothes.

                                      I almost lost our cook through mother’s surplus energy! Abel our previous cook
                                      took a new wife last month and, as the new wife, and Janey the old, were daggers
                                      drawn, Abel moved off to a job on the Lupa leaving Janey and her daughter here.
                                      The new cook is capable, but he is a fearsome looking individual called Alfani. He has a
                                      thick fuzz of hair which he wears long, sometimes hidden by a dingy turban, and he
                                      wears big brass earrings. I think he must be part Somali because he has a hawk nose
                                      and a real Brigand look. His kitchen is never really clean but he is an excellent cook and
                                      as cooks are hard to come by here I just keep away from the kitchen. Not so mother!
                                      A few days after her arrival she suggested kindly that I should lie down after lunch
                                      so I rested with the children whilst mother, unknown to me, went out to the kitchen and
                                      not only scrubbed the table and shelves but took the old iron stove to pieces and
                                      cleaned that. Unfortunately in her zeal she poked a hole through the stove pipe.
                                      Had I known of these activities I would have foreseen the cook’s reaction when
                                      he returned that evening to cook the supper. he was furious and wished to leave on the
                                      spot and demanded his wages forthwith. The old Memsahib had insulted him by
                                      scrubbing his already spotless kitchen and had broken his stove and made it impossible
                                      for him to cook. This tirade was accompanied by such waving of hands and rolling of
                                      eyes that I longed to sack him on the spot. However I dared not as I might not get
                                      another cook for weeks. So I smoothed him down and he patched up the stove pipe
                                      with a bit of tin and some wire and produced a good meal. I am wondering what
                                      transformations will be worked when I am in hospital.

                                      Our food is really good but mother just pecks at it. No wonder really, because
                                      she has had some shocks. One day she found the kitchen boy diligently scrubbing the box lavatory seat with a scrubbing brush which he dipped into one of my best large
                                      saucepans! No one can foresee what these boys will do. In these remote areas house
                                      servants are usually recruited from the ranks of the very primitive farm labourers, who first
                                      come to the farm as naked savages, and their notions of hygiene simply don’t exist.
                                      One day I said to mother in George’s presence “When we were newly married,
                                      mother, George used to brag about your cooking and say that you would run a home
                                      like this yourself with perhaps one ‘toto’. Mother replied tartly, “That was very bad of
                                      George and not true. If my husband had brought me out here I would not have stayed a
                                      month. I think you manage very well.” Which reply made me warm to mother a lot.
                                      To complicate things we have a new pup, a little white bull terrier bitch whom
                                      George has named Fanny. She is tiny and not yet house trained but seems a plucky
                                      and attractive little animal though there is no denying that she does look like a piglet.

                                      Very much love to all,

                                      Mchewe Estate. 3rd August 1935

                                      Dearest Family,

                                      Here I am in hospital, comfortably in bed with our new daughter in her basket
                                      beside me. She is a lovely little thing, very plump and cuddly and pink and white and
                                      her head is covered with tiny curls the colour of Golden Syrup. We meant to call her
                                      Margery Kate, after our Marj and my mother-in-law whose name is Catherine.
                                      I am enjoying the rest, knowing that George and mother will be coping
                                      successfully on the farm. My room is full of flowers, particularly with the roses and
                                      carnations which grow so well here. Kate was not due until August 5th but the doctor
                                      wanted me to come in good time in view of my tiresome early pregnancy.

                                      For weeks beforehand George had tinkered with the A.C. and we started for
                                      Mbeya gaily enough on the twenty ninth, however, after going like a dream for a couple
                                      of miles, she simply collapsed from exhaustion at the foot of a hill and all the efforts of
                                      the farm boys who had been sent ahead for such an emergency failed to start her. So
                                      George sent back to the farm for the machila and I sat in the shade of a tree, wondering
                                      what would happen if I had the baby there and then, whilst George went on tinkering
                                      with the car. Suddenly she sprang into life and we roared up that hill and all the way into
                                      Mbeya. The doctor welcomed us pleasantly and we had tea with his family before I
                                      settled into my room. Later he examined me and said that it was unlikely that the baby
                                      would be born for several days. The new and efficient German nurse said, “Thank
                                      goodness for that.” There was a man in hospital dying from a stomach cancer and she
                                      had not had a decent nights sleep for three nights.

                                      Kate however had other plans. I woke in the early morning with labour pains but
                                      anxious not to disturb the nurse, I lay and read or tried to read a book, hoping that I
                                      would not have to call the nurse until daybreak. However at four a.m., I went out into the
                                      wind which was howling along the open verandah and knocked on the nurse’s door. She
                                      got up and very crossly informed me that I was imagining things and should get back to
                                      bed at once. She said “It cannot be so. The Doctor has said it.” I said “Of course it is,”
                                      and then and there the water broke and clinched my argument. She then went into a flat
                                      spin. “But the bed is not ready and my instruments are not ready,” and she flew around
                                      to rectify this and also sent an African orderly to call the doctor. I paced the floor saying
                                      warningly “Hurry up with that bed. I am going to have the baby now!” She shrieked
                                      “Take off your dressing gown.” But I was passed caring. I flung myself on the bed and
                                      there was Kate. The nurse had done all that was necessary by the time the doctor

                                      A funny thing was, that whilst Kate was being born on the bed, a black cat had
                                      kittens under it! The doctor was furious with the nurse but the poor thing must have crept
                                      in out of the cold wind when I went to call the nurse. A happy omen I feel for the baby’s
                                      future. George had no anxiety this time. He stayed at the hospital with me until ten
                                      o’clock when he went down to the hotel to sleep and he received the news in a note
                                      from me with his early morning tea. He went to the farm next morning but will return on
                                      the sixth to fetch me home.

                                      I do feel so happy. A very special husband and three lovely children. What
                                      more could anyone possibly want.

                                      Lots and lots of love,

                                      Mchewe Estate. 20th August 1935

                                      Dearest Family,

                                      Well here we are back at home and all is very well. The new baby is very placid
                                      and so pretty. Mother is delighted with her and Ann loved her at sight but Georgie is not
                                      so sure. At first he said, “Your baby is no good. Chuck her in the kalonga.” The kalonga
                                      being the ravine beside the house , where, I regret to say, much of the kitchen refuse is
                                      dumped. he is very jealous when I carry Kate around or feed her but is ready to admire
                                      her when she is lying alone in her basket.

                                      George walked all the way from the farm to fetch us home. He hired a car and
                                      native driver from the hotel, but drove us home himself going with such care over ruts
                                      and bumps. We had a great welcome from mother who had had the whole house
                                      spring cleaned. However George loyally says it looks just as nice when I am in charge.
                                      Mother obviously, had had more than enough of the back of beyond and
                                      decided to stay on only one week after my return home. She had gone into the kitchen
                                      one day just in time to see the houseboy scooping the custard he had spilt on the table
                                      back into the jug with the side of his hand. No doubt it would have been served up
                                      without a word. On another occasion she had walked in on the cook’s daily ablutions. He
                                      was standing in a small bowl of water in the centre of the kitchen, absolutely naked,
                                      enjoying a slipper bath. She left last Wednesday and gave us a big laugh before she
                                      left. She never got over her horror of eating food prepared by our cook and used to
                                      push it around her plate. Well, when the time came for mother to leave for the plane, she
                                      put on the very smart frock in which she had arrived, and then came into the sitting room
                                      exclaiming in dismay “Just look what has happened, I must have lost a stone!’ We
                                      looked, and sure enough, the dress which had been ankle deep before, now touched
                                      the floor. “Good show mother.” said George unfeelingly. “You ought to be jolly grateful,
                                      you needed to lose weight and it would have cost you the earth at a beauty parlour to
                                      get that sylph-like figure.”

                                      When mother left she took, in a perforated matchbox, one of the frilly mantis that
                                      live on our roses. She means to keep it in a goldfish bowl in her dining room at home.
                                      Georgie and Ann filled another matchbox with dead flies for food for the mantis on the

                                      Now that mother has left, Georgie and Ann attach themselves to me and firmly
                                      refuse to have anything to do with the ayah,Janey. She in any case now wishes to have
                                      a rest. Mother tipped her well and gave her several cotton frocks so I suspect she wants
                                      to go back to her hometown in Northern Rhodesia to show off a bit.
                                      Georgie has just sidled up with a very roguish look. He asked “You like your
                                      baby?” I said “Yes indeed I do.” He said “I’ll prick your baby with a velly big thorn.”

                                      Who would be a mother!

                                      Mchewe Estate. 20th September 1935

                                      Dearest Family,

                                      I have been rather in the wars with toothache and as there is still no dentist at
                                      Mbeya to do the fillings, I had to have four molars extracted at the hospital. George
                                      says it is fascinating to watch me at mealtimes these days because there is such a gleam
                                      of satisfaction in my eye when I do manage to get two teeth to meet on a mouthful.
                                      About those scissors Marj sent Ann. It was not such a good idea. First she cut off tufts of
                                      George’s hair so that he now looks like a bad case of ringworm and then she cut a scalp
                                      lock, a whole fist full of her own shining hair, which George so loves. George scolded
                                      Ann and she burst into floods of tears. Such a thing as a scolding from her darling daddy
                                      had never happened before. George immediately made a long drooping moustache
                                      out of the shorn lock and soon had her smiling again. George is always very gentle with
                                      Ann. One has to be , because she is frightfully sensitive to criticism.

                                      I am kept pretty busy these days, Janey has left and my houseboy has been ill
                                      with pneumonia. I now have to wash all the children’s things and my own, (the cook does
                                      George’s clothes) and look after the three children. Believe me, I can hardly keep awake
                                      for Kate’s ten o’clock feed.

                                      I do hope I shall get some new servants next month because I also got George
                                      to give notice to the cook. I intercepted him last week as he was storming down the hill
                                      with my large kitchen knife in his hand. “Where are you going with my knife?” I asked.
                                      “I’m going to kill a man!” said Alfani, rolling his eyes and looking extremely ferocious. “He
                                      has taken my wife.” “Not with my knife”, said I reaching for it. So off Alfani went, bent on
                                      vengeance and I returned the knife to the kitchen. Dinner was served and I made no
                                      enquiries but I feel that I need someone more restful in the kitchen than our brigand

                                      George has been working on the car and has now fitted yet another radiator. This
                                      is a lorry one and much too tall to be covered by the A.C.’s elegant bonnet which is
                                      secured by an old strap. The poor old A.C. now looks like an ancient shoe with a turned
                                      up toe. It only needs me in it with the children to make a fine illustration to the old rhyme!
                                      Ann and Georgie are going through a climbing phase. They practically live in
                                      trees. I rushed out this morning to investigate loud screams and found Georgie hanging
                                      from a fork in a tree by one ankle, whilst Ann stood below on tiptoe with hands stretched
                                      upwards to support his head.

                                      Do I sound as though I have straws in my hair? I have.
                                      Lots of love,

                                      Mchewe Estate. 11th October 1935

                                      Dearest Family,

                                      Thank goodness! I have a new ayah name Mary. I had heard that there was a
                                      good ayah out of work at Tukuyu 60 miles away so sent a messenger to fetch her. She
                                      arrived after dark wearing a bright dress and a cheerful smile and looked very suitable by
                                      the light of a storm lamp. I was horrified next morning to see her in daylight. She was
                                      dressed all in black and had a rather sinister look. She reminds me rather of your old maid
                                      Candace who overheard me laughing a few days before Ann was born and croaked
                                      “Yes , Miss Eleanor, today you laugh but next week you might be dead.” Remember
                                      how livid you were, dad?

                                      I think Mary has the same grim philosophy. Ann took one look at her and said,
                                      “What a horrible old lady, mummy.” Georgie just said “Go away”, both in English and Ki-
                                      Swahili. Anyway Mary’s references are good so I shall keep her on to help with Kate
                                      who is thriving and bonny and placid.

                                      Thank you for the offer of toys for Christmas but, if you don’t mind, I’d rather have
                                      some clothing for the children. Ann is quite contented with her dolls Barbara and Yvonne.
                                      Barbara’s once beautiful face is now pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle having come
                                      into contact with Georgie’s ever busy hammer. However Ann says she will love her for
                                      ever and she doesn’t want another doll. Yvonne’s hay day is over too. She
                                      disappeared for weeks and we think Fanny, the pup, was the culprit. Ann discovered
                                      Yvonne one morning in some long wet weeds. Poor Yvonne is now a ghost of her
                                      former self. All the sophisticated make up was washed off her papier-mâché face and
                                      her hair is decidedly bedraggled, but Ann was radiant as she tucked her back into bed
                                      and Yvonne is as precious to Ann as she ever was.

                                      Georgie simply does not care for toys. His paint box, hammer and the trenching
                                      hoe George gave him for his second birthday are all he wants or needs. Both children
                                      love books but I sometimes wonder whether they stimulate Ann’s imagination too much.
                                      The characters all become friends of hers and she makes up stories about them to tell
                                      Georgie. She adores that illustrated children’s Bible Mummy sent her but you would be
                                      astonished at the yarns she spins about “me and my friend Jesus.” She also will call
                                      Moses “Old Noses”, and looking at a picture of Jacob’s dream, with the shining angels
                                      on the ladder between heaven and earth, she said “Georgie, if you see an angel, don’t
                                      touch it, it’s hot.”


                                      Mchewe Estate. 17th October 1935

                                      Dearest Family,

                                      I take back the disparaging things I said about my new Ayah, because she has
                                      proved her worth in an unexpected way. On Wednesday morning I settled Kate in he
                                      cot after her ten o’clock feed and sat sewing at the dining room table with Ann and
                                      Georgie opposite me, both absorbed in painting pictures in identical seed catalogues.
                                      Suddenly there was a terrific bang on the back door, followed by an even heavier blow.
                                      The door was just behind me and I got up and opened it. There, almost filling the door
                                      frame, stood a huge native with staring eyes and his teeth showing in a mad grimace. In
                                      his hand he held a rolled umbrella by the ferrule, the shaft I noticed was unusually long
                                      and thick and the handle was a big round knob.

                                      I was terrified as you can imagine, especially as, through the gap under the
                                      native’s raised arm, I could see the new cook and the kitchen boy running away down to
                                      the shamba! I hastily tried to shut and lock the door but the man just brushed me aside.
                                      For a moment he stood over me with the umbrella raised as though to strike. Rather
                                      fortunately, I now think, I was too petrified to say a word. The children never moved but
                                      Tubbage, the Alsatian, got up and jumped out of the window!

                                      Then the native turned away and still with the same fixed stare and grimace,
                                      began to attack the furniture with his umbrella. Tables and chairs were overturned and
                                      books and ornaments scattered on the floor. When the madman had his back turned and
                                      was busily bashing the couch, I slipped round the dining room table, took Ann and
                                      Georgie by the hand and fled through the front door to the garage where I hid the
                                      children in the car. All this took several minutes because naturally the children were
                                      terrified. I was worried to death about the baby left alone in the bedroom and as soon
                                      as I had Ann and Georgie settled I ran back to the house.

                                      I reached the now open front door just as Kianda the houseboy opened the back
                                      door of the lounge. He had been away at the river washing clothes but, on hearing of the
                                      madman from the kitchen boy he had armed himself with a stout stick and very pluckily,
                                      because he is not a robust boy, had returned to the house to eject the intruder. He
                                      rushed to attack immediately and I heard a terrific exchange of blows behind me as I
                                      opened our bedroom door. You can imagine what my feelings were when I was
                                      confronted by an empty cot! Just then there was an uproar inside as all the farm
                                      labourers armed with hoes and pangas and sticks, streamed into the living room from the
                                      shamba whence they had been summoned by the cook. In no time at all the huge
                                      native was hustled out of the house, flung down the front steps, and securely tied up
                                      with strips of cloth.

                                      In the lull that followed I heard a frightened voice calling from the bathroom.
                                      ”Memsahib is that you? The child is here with me.” I hastily opened the bathroom door
                                      to find Mary couched in a corner by the bath, shielding Kate with her body. Mary had
                                      seen the big native enter the house and her first thought had been for her charge. I
                                      thanked her and promised her a reward for her loyalty, and quickly returned to the garage
                                      to reassure Ann and Georgie. I met George who looked white and exhausted as well
                                      he might having run up hill all the way from the coffee store. The kitchen boy had led him
                                      to expect the worst and he was most relieved to find us all unhurt if a bit shaken.
                                      We returned to the house by the back way whilst George went to the front and
                                      ordered our labourers to take their prisoner and lock him up in the store. George then
                                      discussed the whole affair with his Headman and all the labourers after which he reported
                                      to me. “The boys say that the bastard is an ex-Askari from Nyasaland. He is not mad as
                                      you thought but he smokes bhang and has these attacks. I suppose I should take him to
                                      Mbeya and have him up in court. But if I do that you’ll have to give evidence and that will be a nuisance as the car won’t go and there is also the baby to consider.”

                                      Eventually we decided to leave the man to sleep off the effects of the Bhang
                                      until evening when he would be tried before an impromptu court consisting of George,
                                      the local Jumbe(Headman) and village Elders, and our own farm boys and any other
                                      interested spectators. It was not long before I knew the verdict because I heard the
                                      sound of lashes. I was not sorry at all because I felt the man deserved his punishment
                                      and so did all the Africans. They love children and despise anyone who harms or
                                      frightens them. With great enthusiasm they frog-marched him off our land, and I sincerely
                                      hope that that is the last we see or him. Ann and Georgie don’t seem to brood over this
                                      affair at all. The man was naughty and he was spanked, a quite reasonable state of
                                      affairs. This morning they hid away in the small thatched chicken house. This is a little brick
                                      building about four feet square which Ann covets as a dolls house. They came back
                                      covered in stick fleas which I had to remove with paraffin. My hens are laying well but
                                      they all have the ‘gapes’! I wouldn’t run a chicken farm for anything, hens are such fussy,
                                      squawking things.

                                      Now don’t go worrying about my experience with the native. Such things
                                      happen only once in a lifetime. We are all very well and happy, and life, apart from the
                                      children’s pranks is very tranquil.

                                      Lots and lots of love,

                                      Mchewe Estate. 25th October 1935

                                      Dearest Family,

                                      The hot winds have dried up the shamba alarmingly and we hope every day for
                                      rain. The prices for coffee, on the London market, continue to be low and the local
                                      planters are very depressed. Coffee grows well enough here but we are over 400
                                      miles from the railway and transport to the railhead by lorry is very expensive. Then, as
                                      there is no East African Marketing Board, the coffee must be shipped to England for
                                      sale. Unless the coffee fetches at least 90 pounds a ton it simply doesn’t pay to grow it.
                                      When we started planting in 1931 coffee was fetching as much as 115 pounds a ton but
                                      prices this year were between 45 and 55 pounds. We have practically exhausted our
                                      capitol and so have all our neighbours. The Hickson -Woods have been keeping their
                                      pot boiling by selling bat guano to the coffee farmers at Mbosi but now everyone is
                                      broke and there is not a market for fertilisers. They are offering their farm for sale at a very
                                      low price.

                                      Major Jones has got a job working on the district roads and Max Coster talks of
                                      returning to his work as a geologist. George says he will have to go gold digging on the
                                      Lupa unless there is a big improvement in the market. Luckily we can live quite cheaply
                                      here. We have a good vegetable garden, milk is cheap and we have plenty of fruit.
                                      There are mulberries, pawpaws, grenadillas, peaches, and wine berries. The wine
                                      berries are very pretty but insipid though Ann and Georgie love them. Each morning,
                                      before breakfast, the old garden boy brings berries for Ann and Georgie. With a thorn
                                      the old man pins a large leaf from a wild fig tree into a cone which he fills with scarlet wine
                                      berries. There is always a cone for each child and they wait eagerly outside for the daily
                                      ceremony of presentation.

                                      The rats are being a nuisance again. Both our cats, Skinny Winnie and Blackboy
                                      disappeared a few weeks ago. We think they made a meal for a leopard. I wrote last
                                      week to our grocer at Mbalizi asking him whether he could let us have a couple of kittens
                                      as I have often seen cats in his store. The messenger returned with a nailed down box.
                                      The kitchen boy was called to prize up the lid and the children stood by in eager
                                      anticipation. Out jumped two snarling and spitting creatures. One rushed into the kalonga
                                      and the other into the house and before they were captured they had drawn blood from
                                      several boys. I told the boys to replace the cats in the box as I intended to return them
                                      forthwith. They had the colouring, stripes and dispositions of wild cats and I certainly
                                      didn’t want them as pets, but before the boys could replace the lid the cats escaped
                                      once more into the undergrowth in the kalonga. George fetched his shotgun and said he
                                      would shoot the cats on sight or they would kill our chickens. This was more easily said
                                      than done because the cats could not be found. However during the night the cats
                                      climbed up into the loft af the house and we could hear them moving around on the reed

                                      I said to George,”Oh leave the poor things. At least they might frighten the rats
                                      away.” That afternoon as we were having tea a thin stream of liquid filtered through the
                                      ceiling on George’s head. Oh dear!!! That of course was the end. Some raw meat was
                                      put on the lawn for bait and yesterday George shot both cats.

                                      I regret to end with the sad story of Mary, heroine in my last letter and outcast in
                                      this. She came to work quite drunk two days running and I simply had to get rid of her. I
                                      have heard since from Kath Wood that Mary lost her last job at Tukuyu for the same
                                      reason. She was ayah to twin girls and one day set their pram on fire.

                                      So once again my hands are more than full with three lively children. I did say
                                      didn’t I, when Ann was born that I wanted six children?

                                      Very much love from us all, Eleanor.

                                      Mchewe Estate. 8th November 1935

                                      Dearest Family,

                                      To set your minds at rest I must tell you that the native who so frightened me and
                                      the children is now in jail for attacking a Greek at Mbalizi. I hear he is to be sent back to
                                      Rhodesia when he has finished his sentence.

                                      Yesterday we had one of our rare trips to Mbeya. George managed to get a couple of
                                      second hand tyres for the old car and had again got her to work so we are celebrating our
                                      wedding anniversary by going on an outing. I wore the green and fawn striped silk dress
                                      mother bought me and the hat and shoes you sent for my birthday and felt like a million
                                      dollars, for a change. The children all wore new clothes too and I felt very proud of them.
                                      Ann is still very fair and with her refined little features and straight silky hair she
                                      looks like Alice in Wonderland. Georgie is dark and sturdy and looks best in khaki shirt
                                      and shorts and sun helmet. Kate is a pink and gold baby and looks good enough to eat.
                                      We went straight to the hotel at Mbeya and had the usual warm welcome from
                                      Ken and Aunty May Menzies. Aunty May wears her hair cut short like a mans and
                                      usually wears shirt and tie and riding breeches and boots. She always looks ready to go
                                      on safari at a moments notice as indeed she is. She is often called out to a case of illness
                                      at some remote spot.

                                      There were lots of people at the hotel from farms in the district and from the
                                      diggings. I met women I had not seen for four years. One, a Mrs Masters from Tukuyu,
                                      said in the lounge, “My God! Last time I saw you , you were just a girl and here you are
                                      now with two children.” To which I replied with pride, “There is another one in a pram on
                                      the verandah if you care to look!” Great hilarity in the lounge. The people from the
                                      diggings seem to have plenty of money to throw around. There was a big party on the
                                      go in the bar.

                                      One of our shamba boys died last Friday and all his fellow workers and our
                                      house boys had the day off to attend the funeral. From what I can gather the local
                                      funerals are quite cheery affairs. The corpse is dressed in his best clothes and laid
                                      outside his hut and all who are interested may view the body and pay their respects.
                                      The heir then calls upon anyone who had a grudge against the dead man to say his say
                                      and thereafter hold his tongue forever. Then all the friends pay tribute to the dead man
                                      after which he is buried to the accompaniment of what sounds from a distance, very
                                      cheerful keening.

                                      Most of our workmen are pagans though there is a Lutheran Mission nearby and
                                      a big Roman Catholic Mission in the area too. My present cook, however, claims to be
                                      a Christian. He certainly went to a mission school and can read and write and also sing
                                      hymns in Ki-Swahili. When I first engaged him I used to find a large open Bible
                                      prominently displayed on the kitchen table. The cook is middle aged and arrived here
                                      with a sensible matronly wife. To my surprise one day he brought along a young girl,
                                      very plump and giggly and announced proudly that she was his new wife, I said,”But I
                                      thought you were a Christian Jeremiah? Christians don’t have two wives.” To which he
                                      replied, “Oh Memsahib, God won’t mind. He knows an African needs two wives – one
                                      to go with him when he goes away to work and one to stay behind at home to cultivate
                                      the shamba.

                                      Needles to say, it is the old wife who has gone to till the family plot.

                                      With love to all,

                                      Mchewe Estate. 21st November 1935

                                      Dearest Family,

                                      The drought has broken with a bang. We had a heavy storm in the hills behind
                                      the house. Hail fell thick and fast. So nice for all the tiny new berries on the coffee! The
                                      kids loved the excitement and three times Ann and Georgie ran out for a shower under
                                      the eaves and had to be changed. After the third time I was fed up and made them both
                                      lie on their beds whilst George and I had lunch in peace. I told Ann to keep the
                                      casement shut as otherwise the rain would drive in on her bed. Half way through lunch I
                                      heard delighted squeals from Georgie and went into the bedroom to investigate. Ann
                                      was standing on the outer sill in the rain but had shut the window as ordered. “Well
                                      Mummy , you didn’t say I mustn’t stand on the window sill, and I did shut the window.”
                                      George is working so hard on the farm. I have a horrible feeling however that it is
                                      what the Africans call ‘Kazi buri’ (waste of effort) as there seems no chance of the price of
                                      coffee improving as long as this world depression continues. The worry is that our capitol
                                      is nearly exhausted. Food is becoming difficult now that our neighbours have left. I used
                                      to buy delicious butter from Kath Hickson-Wood and an African butcher used to kill a
                                      beast once a week. Now that we are his only European customers he very rarely kills
                                      anything larger than a goat, and though we do eat goat, believe me it is not from choice.
                                      We have of course got plenty to eat, but our diet is very monotonous. I was
                                      delighted when George shot a large bushbuck last week. What we could not use I cut
                                      into strips and the salted strips are now hanging in the open garage to dry.

                                      With love to all,

                                      Mchewe Estate. 6th December 1935

                                      Dearest Family,

                                      We have had a lot of rain and the countryside is lovely and green. Last week
                                      George went to Mbeya taking Ann with him. This was a big adventure for Ann because
                                      never before had she been anywhere without me. She was in a most blissful state as
                                      she drove off in the old car clutching a little basket containing sandwiches and half a bottle
                                      of milk. She looked so pretty in a new blue frock and with her tiny plaits tied with
                                      matching blue ribbons. When Ann is animated she looks charming because her normally
                                      pale cheeks become rosy and she shows her pretty dimples.

                                      As I am still without an ayah I rather looked forward to a quiet morning with only
                                      Georgie and Margery Kate to care for, but Georgie found it dull without Ann and wanted
                                      to be entertained and even the normally placid baby was peevish. Then in mid morning
                                      the rain came down in torrents, the result of a cloudburst in the hills directly behind our
                                      house. The ravine next to our house was a terrifying sight. It appeared to be a great
                                      muddy, roaring waterfall reaching from the very top of the hill to a point about 30 yards
                                      behind our house and then the stream rushed on down the gorge in an angry brown
                                      flood. The roar of the water was so great that we had to yell at one another to be heard.
                                      By lunch time the rain had stopped and I anxiously awaited the return of Ann and
                                      George. They returned on foot, drenched and hungry at about 2.30pm . George had
                                      had to abandon the car on the main road as the Mchewe River had overflowed and
                                      turned the road into a muddy lake. The lower part of the shamba had also been flooded
                                      and the water receded leaving branches and driftwood amongst the coffee. This was my
                                      first experience of a real tropical storm. I am afraid that after the battering the coffee has
                                      had there is little hope of a decent crop next year.

                                      Anyway Christmas is coming so we don’t dwell on these mishaps. The children
                                      have already chosen their tree from amongst the young cypresses in the vegetable
                                      garden. We all send our love and hope that you too will have a Happy Christmas.


                                      Mchewe Estate. 22nd December 1935

                                      Dearest Family,

                                      I’ve been in the wars with my staff. The cook has been away ill for ten days but is
                                      back today though shaky and full of self pity. The houseboy, who really has been a brick
                                      during the cooks absence has now taken to his bed and I feel like taking to Mine! The
                                      children however have the Christmas spirit and are making weird and wonderful paper
                                      decorations. George’s contribution was to have the house whitewashed throughout and
                                      it looks beautifully fresh.

                                      My best bit of news is that my old ayah Janey has been to see me and would
                                      like to start working here again on Jan 1st. We are all very well. We meant to give
                                      ourselves an outing to Mbeya as a Christmas treat but here there is an outbreak of
                                      enteric fever there so will now not go. We have had two visitors from the Diggings this
                                      week. The children see so few strangers that they were fascinated and hung around
                                      staring. Ann sat down on the arm of the couch beside one and studied his profile.
                                      Suddenly she announced in her clear voice, “Mummy do you know, this man has got
                                      wax in his ears!” Very awkward pause in the conversation. By the way when I was
                                      cleaning out little Kate’s ears with a swab of cotton wool a few days ago, Ann asked
                                      “Mummy, do bees have wax in their ears? Well, where do you get beeswax from

                                      I meant to keep your Christmas parcel unopened until Christmas Eve but could
                                      not resist peeping today. What lovely things! Ann so loves pretties and will be
                                      delighted with her frocks. My dress is just right and I love Georgie’s manly little flannel
                                      shorts and blue shirt. We have bought them each a watering can. I suppose I shall
                                      regret this later. One of your most welcome gifts is the album of nursery rhyme records. I
                                      am so fed up with those that we have. Both children love singing. I put a record on the
                                      gramophone geared to slow and off they go . Georgie sings more slowly than Ann but
                                      much more tunefully. Ann sings in a flat monotone but Georgie with great expression.
                                      You ought to hear him render ‘Sing a song of sixpence’. He cannot pronounce an R or
                                      an S. Mother has sent a large home made Christmas pudding and a fine Christmas
                                      cake and George will shoot some partridges for Christmas dinner.
                                      Think of us as I shall certainly think of you.

                                      Your very loving,

                                      Mchewe Estate. 2nd January 1936

                                      Dearest Family,

                                      Christmas was fun! The tree looked very gay with its load of tinsel, candles and
                                      red crackers and the coloured balloons you sent. All the children got plenty of toys
                                      thanks to Grandparents and Aunts. George made Ann a large doll’s bed and I made
                                      some elegant bedding, Barbara, the big doll is now permanently bed ridden. Her poor
                                      shattered head has come all unstuck and though I have pieced it together again it is a sad
                                      sight. If you have not yet chosen a present for her birthday next month would you
                                      please get a new head from the Handy House. I enclose measurements. Ann does so
                                      love the doll. She always calls her, “My little girl”, and she keeps the doll’s bed beside
                                      her own and never fails to kiss her goodnight.

                                      We had no guests for Christmas this year but we were quite festive. Ann
                                      decorated the dinner table with small pink roses and forget-me-knots and tinsel and the
                                      crackers from the tree. It was a wet day but we played the new records and both
                                      George and I worked hard to make it a really happy day for the children. The children
                                      were hugely delighted when George made himself a revolting set of false teeth out of
                                      plasticine and a moustache and beard of paper straw from a chocolate box. “Oh Daddy
                                      you look exactly like Father Christmas!” cried an enthralled Ann. Before bedtime we lit
                                      all the candles on the tree and sang ‘Away in a Manger’, and then we opened the box of
                                      starlights you sent and Ann and Georgie had their first experience of fireworks.
                                      After the children went to bed things deteriorated. First George went for his bath
                                      and found and killed a large black snake in the bathroom. It must have been in the
                                      bathroom when I bathed the children earlier in the evening. Then I developed bad
                                      toothache which kept me awake all night and was agonising next day. Unfortunately the
                                      bridge between the farm and Mbeya had been washed away and the water was too
                                      deep for the car to ford until the 30th when at last I was able to take my poor swollen
                                      face to Mbeya. There is now a young German woman dentist working at the hospital.
                                      She pulled out the offending molar which had a large abscess attached to it.
                                      Whilst the dentist attended to me, Ann and Georgie played happily with the
                                      doctor’s children. I wish they could play more often with other children. Dr Eckhardt was
                                      very pleased with Margery Kate who at seven months weighs 17 lbs and has lovely
                                      rosy cheeks. He admired Ann and told her that she looked just like a German girl. “No I
                                      don’t”, cried Ann indignantly, “I’m English!”

                                      We were caught in a rain storm going home and as the old car still has no
                                      windscreen or side curtains we all got soaked except for the baby who was snugly
                                      wrapped in my raincoat. The kids thought it great fun. Ann is growing up fast now. She
                                      likes to ‘help mummy’. She is a perfectionist at four years old which is rather trying. She
                                      gets so discouraged when things do not turn out as well as she means them to. Sewing
                                      is constantly being unpicked and paintings torn up. She is a very sensitive child.
                                      Georgie is quite different. He is a man of action, but not silent. He talks incessantly
                                      but lisps and stumbles over some words. At one time Ann and Georgie often
                                      conversed in Ki-Swahili but they now scorn to do so. If either forgets and uses a Swahili
                                      word, the other points a scornful finger and shouts “You black toto”.

                                      With love to all,


                                        From Tanganyika with Love

                                        continued  ~ part 4

                                        With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                                        Mchewe Estate. 31st January 1936

                                        Dearest Family,

                                        Life is very quiet just now. Our neighbours have left and I miss them all especially
                                        Joni who was always a great bearer of news. We also grew fond of his Swedish
                                        brother-in-law Max, whose loud ‘Hodi’ always brought a glad ‘Karibu’ from us. His wife,
                                        Marion, I saw less often. She is not strong and seldom went visiting but has always
                                        been friendly and kind and ready to share her books with me.

                                        Ann’s birthday is looming ahead and I am getting dreadfully anxious that her
                                        parcels do not arrive in time. I am delighted that you were able to get a good head for
                                        her doll, dad, but horrified to hear that it was so expensive. You would love your
                                        ‘Charming Ann’. She is a most responsible little soul and seems to have outgrown her
                                        mischievous ways. A pity in a way, I don’t want her to grow too serious. You should see
                                        how thoroughly Ann baths and towels herself. She is anxious to do Georgie and Kate
                                        as well.

                                        I did not mean to teach Ann to write until after her fifth birthday but she has taught
                                        herself by copying the large print in newspaper headlines. She would draw a letter and
                                        ask me the name and now I find that at four Ann knows the whole alphabet. The front
                                        cement steps is her favourite writing spot. She uses bits of white clay we use here for

                                        Coffee prices are still very low and a lot of planters here and at Mbosi are in a
                                        mess as they can no longer raise mortgages on their farms or get advances from the
                                        Bank against their crops. We hear many are leaving their farms to try their luck on the

                                        George is getting fed up too. The snails are back on the shamba and doing
                                        frightful damage. Talk of the plagues of Egypt! Once more they are being collected in
                                        piles and bashed into pulp. The stench on the shamba is frightful! The greybeards in the
                                        village tell George that the local Chief has put a curse on the farm because he is angry
                                        that the Government granted George a small extension to the farm two years ago! As
                                        the Chief was consulted at the time and was agreeable this talk of a curse is nonsense
                                        but goes to show how the uneducated African put all disasters down to witchcraft.

                                        With much love,

                                        Mchewe Estate. 9th February 1936

                                        Dearest Family,

                                        Ann’s birthday yesterday was not quite the gay occasion we had hoped. The
                                        seventh was mail day so we sent a runner for the mail, hoping against hope that your
                                        parcel containing the dolls head had arrived. The runner left for Mbeya at dawn but, as it
                                        was a very wet day, he did not return with the mail bag until after dark by which time Ann
                                        was fast asleep. My heart sank when I saw the parcel which contained the dolls new
                                        head. It was squashed quite flat. I shed a few tears over that shattered head, broken
                                        quite beyond repair, and George felt as bad about it as I did. The other parcel arrived in
                                        good shape and Ann loves her little sewing set, especially the thimble, and the nursery
                                        rhymes are a great success.

                                        Ann woke early yesterday and began to open her parcels. She said “But
                                        Mummy, didn’t Barbara’s new head come?” So I had to show her the fragments.
                                        Instead of shedding the flood of tears I expected, Ann just lifted the glass eyes in her
                                        hand and said in a tight little voice “Oh poor Barbara.” George saved the situation. as
                                        usual, by saying in a normal voice,”Come on Ann, get up and lets play your new
                                        records.” So we had music and sweets before breakfast. Later I removed Barbara’s
                                        faded old blond wig and gummed on the glossy new brown one and Ann seems quite

                                        Last night, after the children were tucked up in bed, we discussed our financial
                                        situation. The coffee trees that have survived the plagues of borer beetle, mealie bugs
                                        and snails look strong and fine, but George says it will be years before we make a living
                                        out of the farm. He says he will simply have to make some money and he is leaving for
                                        the Lupa on Saturday to have a look around on the Diggings. If he does decide to peg
                                        a claim and work it he will put up a wattle and daub hut and the children and I will join him
                                        there. But until such time as he strikes gold I shall have to remain here on the farm and
                                        ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’.

                                        Now don’t go and waste pity on me. Women all over the country are having to
                                        stay at home whilst their husbands search for a livelihood. I am better off than most
                                        because I have a comfortable little home and loyal servants and we still have enough
                                        capitol to keep the wolf from the door. Anyway this is the rainy season and hardly the
                                        best time to drag three small children around the sodden countryside on prospecting

                                        So I’ll stay here at home and hold thumbs that George makes a lucky strike.

                                        Heaps of love to all,

                                        Mchewe Estate. 27th February 1936

                                        Dearest Family,

                                        Well, George has gone but here we are quite safe and cosy. Kate is asleep and
                                        Ann and Georgie are sprawled on the couch taking it in turns to enumerate the things
                                        God has made. Every now and again Ann bothers me with an awkward question. “Did
                                        God make spiders? Well what for? Did he make weeds? Isn’t He silly, mummy? She is
                                        becoming a very practical person. She sews surprisingly well for a four year old and has
                                        twice made cakes in the past week, very sweet and liberally coloured with cochineal and
                                        much appreciated by Georgie.

                                        I have been without George for a fortnight and have adapted myself to my new
                                        life. The children are great company during the day and I have arranged my evenings so
                                        that they do not seem long. I am determined that when George comes home he will find
                                        a transformed wife. I read an article entitled ‘Are you the girl he married?’ in a magazine
                                        last week and took a good look in the mirror and decided that I certainly was not! Hair dry,
                                        skin dry, and I fear, a faint shadow on the upper lip. So now I have blown the whole of
                                        your Christmas Money Order on an order to a chemist in Dar es Salaam for hair tonic,
                                        face cream and hair remover and am anxiously awaiting the parcel.

                                        In the meantime, after tucking the children into bed at night, I skip on the verandah
                                        and do the series of exercises recommended in the magazine article. After this exertion I
                                        have a leisurely bath followed by a light supper and then read or write letters to pass
                                        the time until Kate’s ten o’clock feed. I have arranged for Janey to sleep in the house.
                                        She comes in at 9.30 pm and makes up her bed on the living room floor by the fire.

                                        The days are by no means uneventful. The day before yesterday the biggest
                                        troop of monkeys I have ever seen came fooling around in the trees and on the grass
                                        only a few yards from the house. These monkeys were the common grey monkeys
                                        with black faces. They came in all sizes and were most entertaining to watch. Ann and
                                        Georgie had a great time copying their antics and pulling faces at the monkeys through
                                        the bedroom windows which I hastily closed.

                                        Thomas, our headman, came running up and told me that this troop of monkeys
                                        had just raided his maize shamba and asked me to shoot some of them. I would not of
                                        course do this. I still cannot bear to kill any animal, but I fired a couple of shots in the air
                                        and the monkeys just melted away. It was fantastic, one moment they were there and
                                        the next they were not. Ann and Georgie thought I had been very unkind to frighten the
                                        poor monkeys but honestly, when I saw what they had done to my flower garden, I
                                        almost wished I had hardened my heart and shot one or two.

                                        The children are all well but Ann gave me a nasty fright last week. I left Ann and
                                        Georgie at breakfast whilst I fed Fanny, our bull terrier on the back verandah. Suddenly I
                                        heard a crash and rushed inside to find Ann’s chair lying on its back and Ann beside it on
                                        the floor perfectly still and with a paper white face. I shouted for Janey to bring water and
                                        laid Ann flat on the couch and bathed her head and hands. Soon she sat up with a wan
                                        smile and said “I nearly knocked my head off that time, didn’t I.” She must have been
                                        standing on the chair and leaning against the back. Our brick floors are so terribly hard that
                                        she might have been seriously hurt.

                                        However she was none the worse for the fall, but Heavens, what an anxiety kids

                                        Lots of love,

                                        Mchewe Estate. 12th March 1936

                                        Dearest Family,

                                        It was marvellous of you to send another money order to replace the one I spent
                                        on cosmetics. With this one I intend to order boots for both children as a protection from
                                        snake bite, though from my experience this past week the threat seems to be to the
                                        head rather than the feet. I was sitting on the couch giving Kate her morning milk from a
                                        cup when a long thin snake fell through the reed ceiling and landed with a thud just behind
                                        the couch. I shouted “Nyoka, Nyoka!” (Snake,Snake!) and the houseboy rushed in with
                                        a stick and killed the snake. I then held the cup to Kate’s mouth again but I suppose in
                                        my agitation I tipped it too much because the baby choked badly. She gasped for
                                        breath. I quickly gave her a sharp smack on the back and a stream of milk gushed
                                        through her mouth and nostrils and over me. Janey took Kate from me and carried her
                                        out into the fresh air on the verandah and as I anxiously followed her through the door,
                                        another long snake fell from the top of the wall just missing me by an inch or so. Luckily
                                        the houseboy still had the stick handy and dispatched this snake also.

                                        The snakes were a pair of ‘boomslangs’, not nice at all, and all day long I have
                                        had shamba boys coming along to touch hands and say “Poli Memsahib” – “Sorry
                                        madam”, meaning of course ‘Sorry you had a fright.’

                                        Apart from that one hectic morning this has been a quiet week. Before George
                                        left for the Lupa he paid off most of the farm hands as we can now only afford a few
                                        labourers for the essential work such as keeping the weeds down in the coffee shamba.
                                        There is now no one to keep the grass on the farm roads cut so we cannot use the pram
                                        when we go on our afternoon walks. Instead Janey carries Kate in a sling on her back.
                                        Janey is a very clean slim woman, and her clothes are always spotless, so Kate keeps
                                        cool and comfortable. Ann and Georgie always wear thick overalls on our walks as a
                                        protection against thorns and possible snakes. We usually make our way to the
                                        Mchewe River where Ann and Georgie paddle in the clear cold water and collect shiny

                                        The cosmetics parcel duly arrived by post from Dar es Salaam so now I fill the
                                        evenings between supper and bed time attending to my face! The much advertised
                                        cream is pink and thick and feels revolting. I smooth it on before bedtime and keep it on
                                        all night. Just imagine if George could see me! The advertisements promise me a skin
                                        like a rose in six weeks. What a surprise there is in store for George!

                                        You will have been wondering what has happened to George. Well on the Lupa
                                        he heard rumours of a new gold strike somewhere in the Sumbawanga District. A couple
                                        of hundred miles from here I think, though I am not sure where it is and have no one to
                                        ask. You look it up on the map and tell me. John Molteno is also interested in this and
                                        anxious to have it confirmed so he and George have come to an agreement. John
                                        Molteno provided the porters for the journey together with prospecting tools and
                                        supplies but as he cannot leave his claims, or his gold buying business, George is to go
                                        on foot to the area of the rumoured gold strike and, if the strike looks promising will peg
                                        claims in both their names.

                                        The rainy season is now at its height and the whole countryside is under water. All
                                        roads leading to the area are closed to traffic and, as there are few Europeans who
                                        would attempt the journey on foot, George proposes to get a head start on them by
                                        making this uncomfortable safari. I have just had my first letter from George since he left
                                        on this prospecting trip. It took ages to reach me because it was sent by runner to
                                        Abercorn in Northern Rhodesia, then on by lorry to Mpika where it was put on a plane
                                        for Mbeya. George writes the most charming letters which console me a little upon our
                                        all too frequent separations.

                                        His letter was cheerful and optimistic, though reading between the lines I should
                                        say he had a grim time. He has reached Sumbawanga after ‘a hell of a trip’, to find that
                                        the rumoured strike was at Mpanda and he had a few more days of foot safari ahead.
                                        He had found the trip from the Lupa even wetter than he had expected. The party had
                                        three days of wading through swamps sometimes waist deep in water. Of his sixteen
                                        porters, four deserted an the second day out and five others have had malaria and so
                                        been unable to carry their loads. He himself is ‘thin but very fit’, and he sounds full of
                                        beans and writes gaily of the marvellous holiday we will have if he has any decent luck! I
                                        simply must get that mink and diamonds complexion.

                                        The frustrating thing is that I cannot write back as I have no idea where George is

                                        With heaps of love,

                                        Mchewe Estate. 24th March 1936

                                        Dearest Family,
                                        How kind you are. Another parcel from home. Although we are very short
                                        of labourers I sent a special runner to fetch it as Ann simply couldn’t bear the suspense
                                        of waiting to see Brenda, “My new little girl with plaits.” Thank goodness Brenda is
                                        unbreakable. I could not have born another tragedy. She really is an exquisite little doll
                                        and has hardly been out of Ann’s arms since arrival. She showed Brenda proudly to all
                                        the staff. The kitchen boy’s face was a study. His eyes fairly came out on sticks when he
                                        saw the dolls eyes not only opening and shutting, but moving from side to side in that
                                        incredibly lifelike way. Georgie loves his little model cars which he carries around all day
                                        and puts under his pillow at night.

                                        As for me, I am enchanted by my very smart new frock. Janey was so lavish with
                                        her compliments when I tried the frock on, that in a burst of generosity I gave her that
                                        rather tartish satin and lace trousseau nighty, and she was positively enthralled. She
                                        wore it that very night when she appeared as usual to doss down by the fire.
                                        By the way it was Janey’s turn to have a fright this week. She was in the
                                        bathroom washing the children’s clothes in an outsize hand basin when it happened. As
                                        she took Georgie’s overalls from the laundry basket a large centipede ran up her bare
                                        arm. Luckily she managed to knock the centipede off into the hot water in the hand basin.
                                        It was a brute, about six inches long of viciousness with a nasty sting. The locals say that
                                        the bite is much worse than a scorpions so Janey had a lucky escape.

                                        Kate cut her first two teeth yesterday and will, I hope, sleep better now. I don’t
                                        feel that pink skin food is getting a fair trial with all those broken nights. There is certainly
                                        no sign yet of ‘The skin he loves to touch”. Kate, I may say, is rosy and blooming. She
                                        can pull herself upright providing she has something solid to hold on to. She is so plump
                                        I have horrible visions of future bow legs so I push her down, but she always bobs up

                                        Both Ann and Georgie are mad on books. Their favourites are ‘Barbar and
                                        Celeste” and, of all things, ‘Struvel Peter’ . They listen with absolute relish to the sad tale
                                        of Harriet who played with matches.

                                        I have kept a laugh for the end. I am hoping that it will not be long before George
                                        comes home and thought it was time to take the next step towards glamour, so last
                                        Wednesday after lunch I settled the children on their beds and prepared to remove the ,
                                        to me, obvious down on my upper lip. (George always loyally says that he can’t see
                                        any.) Well I got out the tube of stuff and carefully followed the directions. I smoothed a
                                        coating on my upper lip. All this was watched with great interest by the children, including
                                        the baby, who stood up in her cot for a better view. Having no watch, I had propped
                                        the bedroom door open so that I could time the operation by the cuckoo clock in the
                                        living room. All the children’s surprised comments fell on deaf ears. I would neither talk
                                        nor smile for fear of cracking the hair remover which had set hard. The set time was up
                                        and I was just about to rinse the remover off when Kate slipped, knocking her head on
                                        the corner of the cot. I rushed to the rescue and precious seconds ticked off whilst I
                                        pacified her.

                                        So, my dears, when I rinsed my lip, not only the plaster and the hair came away
                                        but the skin as well and now I really did have a Ronald Coleman moustache – a crimson
                                        one. I bathed it, I creamed it, powdered it but all to no avail. Within half an hour my lip
                                        had swollen until I looked like one of those Duckbilled West African women. Ann’s
                                        comments, “Oh Mummy, you do look funny. Georgie, doesn’t Mummy look funny?”
                                        didn’t help to soothe me and the last straw was that just then there was the sound of a car drawing up outside – the first car I had heard for months. Anyway, thank heaven, it
                                        was not George, but the representative of a firm which sells agricultural machinery and
                                        farm implements, looking for orders. He had come from Dar es Salaam and had not
                                        heard that all the planters from this district had left their farms. Hospitality demanded that I
                                        should appear and offer tea. I did not mind this man because he was a complete
                                        stranger and fat, middle aged and comfortable. So I gave him tea, though I didn’t
                                        attempt to drink any myself, and told him the whole sad tale.

                                        Fortunately much of the swelling had gone next day and only a brown dryness
                                        remained. I find myself actually hoping that George is delayed a bit longer. Of one thing
                                        I am sure. If ever I grow a moustache again, it stays!

                                        Heaps of love from a sadder but wiser,

                                        Mchewe Estate. 3rd April 1936

                                        Dearest Family,

                                        Sound the trumpets, beat the drums. George is home again. The safari, I am sad
                                        to say, was a complete washout in more ways than one. Anyway it was lovely to be
                                        together again and we don’t yet talk about the future. The home coming was not at all as
                                        I had planned it. I expected George to return in our old A.C. car which gives ample
                                        warning of its arrival. I had meant to wear my new frock and make myself as glamourous
                                        as possible, with our beautiful babe on one arm and our other jewels by my side.
                                        This however is what actually happened. Last Saturday morning at about 2 am , I
                                        thought I heard someone whispering my name. I sat up in bed, still half asleep, and
                                        there was George at the window. He was thin and unshaven and the tiredest looking
                                        man I have ever seen. The car had bogged down twenty miles back along the old Lupa
                                        Track, but as George had had no food at all that day, he decided to walk home in the
                                        bright moonlight.

                                        This is where I should have served up a tasty hot meal but alas, there was only
                                        the heal of a loaf and no milk because, before going to bed I had given the remaining
                                        milk to the dog. However George seemed too hungry to care what he ate. He made a
                                        meal off a tin of bully, a box of crustless cheese and the bread washed down with cup
                                        after cup of black tea. Though George was tired we talked for hours and it was dawn
                                        before we settled down to sleep.

                                        During those hours of talk George described his nightmarish journey. He started
                                        up the flooded Rukwa Valley and there were days of wading through swamp and mud
                                        and several swollen rivers to cross. George is a strong swimmer and the porters who
                                        were recruited in that area, could also swim. There remained the problem of the stores
                                        and of Kianda the houseboy who cannot swim. For these they made rough pole rafts
                                        which they pulled across the rivers with ropes. Kianda told me later that he hopes never
                                        to make such a journey again. He swears that the raft was submerged most of the time
                                        and that he was dragged through the rivers underwater! You should see the state of
                                        George’s clothes which were packed in a supposedly water tight uniform trunk. The
                                        whole lot are mud stained and mouldy.

                                        To make matters more trying for George he was obliged to live mostly on
                                        porters rations, rice and groundnut oil which he detests. As all the district roads were
                                        closed the little Indian Sores in the remote villages he passed had been unable to
                                        replenish their stocks of European groceries. George would have been thinner had it not
                                        been for two Roman Catholic missions enroute where he had good meals and dry
                                        nights. The Fathers are always wonderfully hospitable to wayfarers irrespective of
                                        whether or not they are Roman Catholics. George of course is not a Catholic. One finds
                                        the Roman Catholic missions right out in the ‘Blue’ and often on spots unhealthy to
                                        Europeans. Most of the Fathers are German or Dutch but they all speak a little English
                                        and in any case one can always fall back on Ki-Swahili.

                                        George reached his destination all right but it soon became apparent that reports
                                        of the richness of the strike had been greatly exaggerated. George had decided that
                                        prospects were brighter on the Lupa than on the new strike so he returned to the Lupa
                                        by the way he had come and, having returned the borrowed equipment decided to
                                        make his way home by the shortest route, the old and now rarely used road which
                                        passes by the bottom of our farm.

                                        The old A.C. had been left for safe keeping at the Roman Catholic Galala
                                        Mission 40 miles away, on George’s outward journey, and in this old car George, and
                                        the houseboy Kianda , started for home. The road was indescribably awful. There were long stretches that were simply one big puddle, in others all the soil had been washed
                                        away leaving the road like a rocky river bed. There were also patches where the tall
                                        grass had sprung up head high in the middle of the road,
                                        The going was slow because often the car bogged down because George had
                                        no wheel chains and he and Kianda had the wearisome business of digging her out. It
                                        was just growing dark when the old A.C. settled down determinedly in the mud for the
                                        last time. They could not budge her and they were still twenty miles from home. George
                                        decided to walk home in the moonlight to fetch help leaving Kianda in charge of the car
                                        and its contents and with George’s shot gun to use if necessary in self defence. Kianda
                                        was reluctant to stay but also not prepared to go for help whilst George remained with
                                        the car as lions are plentiful in that area. So George set out unarmed in the moonlight.
                                        Once he stopped to avoid a pride of lion coming down the road but he circled safely
                                        around them and came home without any further alarms.

                                        Kianda said he had a dreadful night in the car, “With lions roaming around the car
                                        like cattle.” Anyway the lions did not take any notice of the car or of Kianda, and the next
                                        day George walked back with all our farm boys and dug and pushed the car out of the
                                        mud. He brought car and Kianda back without further trouble but the labourers on their
                                        way home were treed by the lions.

                                        The wet season is definitely the time to stay home.

                                        Lots and lots of love,

                                        Mchewe Estate. 30th April 1936

                                        Dearest Family,

                                        Young George’s third birthday passed off very well yesterday. It started early in
                                        the morning when he brought his pillow slip of presents to our bed. Kate was already
                                        there and Ann soon joined us. Young George liked all the presents you sent, especially
                                        the trumpet. It has hardly left his lips since and he is getting quite smart about the finger

                                        We had quite a party. Ann and I decorated the table with Christmas tree tinsel
                                        and hung a bunch of balloons above it. Ann also decorated young George’s chair with
                                        roses and phlox from the garden. I had made and iced a fruit cake but Ann begged to
                                        make a plain pink cake. She made it entirely by herself though I stood by to see that
                                        she measured the ingredients correctly. When the cake was baked I mixed some soft
                                        icing in a jug and she poured it carefully over the cake smoothing the gaps with her

                                        During the party we had the gramophone playing and we pulled crackers and
                                        wore paper hats and altogether had a good time. I forgot for a while that George is
                                        leaving again for the Lupa tomorrow for an indefinite time. He was marvellous at making
                                        young George’s party a gay one. You will have noticed the change from Georgie to
                                        young George. Our son declares that he now wants to be called George, “Like Dad”.
                                        He an Ann are a devoted couple and I am glad that there is only a fourteen
                                        months difference in their ages. They play together extremely well and are very
                                        independent which is just as well for little Kate now demands a lot of my attention. My
                                        garden is a real cottage garden and looks very gay and colourful. There are hollyhocks
                                        and Snapdragons, marigolds and phlox and of course the roses and carnations which, as
                                        you know, are my favourites. The coffee shamba does not look so good because the
                                        small labour force, which is all we can afford, cannot cope with all the weeds. You have
                                        no idea how things grow during the wet season in the tropics.

                                        Nothing alarming ever seems to happen when George is home, so I’m afraid this
                                        letter is rather dull. I wanted you to know though, that largely due to all your gifts of toys
                                        and sweets, Georgie’s 3rd birthday party went with a bang.

                                        Your very affectionate,

                                        Mchewe Estate. 17th September 1936

                                        Dearest Family,

                                        I am sorry to hear that Mummy worries about me so much. “Poor Eleanor”,
                                        indeed! I have a quite exceptional husband, three lovely children, a dear little home and
                                        we are all well.It is true that I am in rather a rut but what else can we do? George comes
                                        home whenever he can and what excitement there is when he does come. He cannot
                                        give me any warning because he has to take advantage of chance lifts from the Diggings
                                        to Mbeya, but now that he is prospecting nearer home he usually comes walking over
                                        the hills. About 50 miles of rough going. Really and truly I am all right. Although our diet is
                                        monotonous we have plenty to eat. Eggs and milk are cheap and fruit plentiful and I
                                        have a good cook so can devote all my time to the children. I think it is because they are
                                        my constant companions that Ann and Georgie are so grown up for their years.
                                        I have no ayah at present because Janey has been suffering form rheumatism
                                        and has gone home for one of her periodic rests. I manage very well without her except
                                        in the matter of the afternoon walks. The outward journey is all right. George had all the
                                        grass cut on his last visit so I am able to push the pram whilst Ann, George and Fanny
                                        the dog run ahead. It is the uphill return trip that is so trying. Our walk back is always the
                                        same, down the hill to the river where the children love to play and then along the car
                                        road to the vegetable garden. I never did venture further since the day I saw a leopard
                                        jump on a calf. I did not tell you at the time as I thought you might worry. The cattle were
                                        grazing on a small knoll just off our land but near enough for me to have a clear view.
                                        Suddenly the cattle scattered in all directions and we heard the shouts of the herd boys
                                        and saw – or rather had the fleeting impression- of a large animal jumping on a calf. I
                                        heard the herd boy shout “Chui, Chui!” (leopard) and believe me, we turned in our
                                        tracks and made for home. To hasten things I picked up two sticks and told the children
                                        that they were horses and they should ride them home which they did with
                                        commendable speed.

                                        Ann no longer rides Joseph. He became increasingly bad tempered and a
                                        nuisance besides. He took to rolling all over my flower beds though I had never seen
                                        him roll anywhere else. Then one day he kicked Ann in the chest, not very hard but
                                        enough to send her flying. Now George has given him to the native who sells milk to us
                                        and he seems quite happy grazing with the cattle.

                                        With love to you all,

                                        Mchewe Estate. 2nd October 1936

                                        Dearest Family,

                                        Since I last wrote George has been home and we had a lovely time as usual.
                                        Whilst he was here the District Commissioner and his wife called. Mr Pollock told
                                        George that there is to be a big bush clearing scheme in some part of the Mbeya
                                        District to drive out Tsetse Fly. The game in the area will have to be exterminated and
                                        there will probably be a job for George shooting out the buffalo. The pay would be
                                        good but George says it is a beastly job. Although he is a professional hunter, he hates

                                        Mrs P’s real reason for visiting the farm was to invite me to stay at her home in
                                        Mbeya whilst she and her husband are away in Tukuyu. Her English nanny and her small
                                        daughter will remain in Mbeya and she thought it might be a pleasant change for us and
                                        a rest for me as of course Nanny will do the housekeeping. I accepted the invitation and I
                                        think I will go on from there to Tukuyu and visit my friend Lillian Eustace for a fortnight.
                                        She has given us an open invitation to visit her at any time.

                                        I had a letter from Dr Eckhardt last week, telling me that at a meeting of all the
                                        German Settlers from Mbeya, Tukuyu and Mbosi it had been decided to raise funds to
                                        build a school at Mbeya. They want the British Settlers to co-operate in this and would
                                        be glad of a subscription from us. I replied to say that I was unable to afford a
                                        subscription at present but would probably be applying for a teaching job.
                                        The Eckhardts are the leaders of the German community here and are ardent
                                        Nazis. For this reason they are unpopular with the British community but he is the only
                                        doctor here and I must say they have been very decent to us. Both of them admire
                                        George. George has still not had any luck on the Lupa and until he makes a really
                                        promising strike it is unlikely that the children and I will join him. There is no fresh milk there
                                        and vegetables and fruit are imported from Mbeya and Iringa and are very expensive.
                                        George says “You wouldn’t be happy on the diggings anyway with a lot of whores and
                                        their bastards!”

                                        Time ticks away very pleasantly here. Young George and Kate are blooming
                                        and I keep well. Only Ann does not look well. She is growing too fast and is listless and
                                        pale. If I do go to Mbeya next week I shall take her to the doctor to be overhauled.
                                        We do not go for our afternoon walks now that George has returned to the Lupa.
                                        That leopard has been around again and has killed Tubbage that cowardly Alsatian. We
                                        gave him to the village headman some months ago. There is no danger to us from the
                                        leopard but I am terrified it might get Fanny, who is an excellent little watchdog and
                                        dearly loved by all of us. Yesterday I sent a note to the Boma asking for a trap gun and
                                        today the farm boys are building a trap with logs.

                                        I had a mishap this morning in the garden. I blundered into a nest of hornets and
                                        got two stings in the left arm above the elbow. Very painful at the time and the place is
                                        still red and swollen.

                                        Much love to you all,

                                        Mchewe Estate. 10th October 1936

                                        Dearest Family,

                                        Well here we are at Mbeya, comfortably installed in the District Commissioner’s
                                        house. It is one of two oldest houses in Mbeya and is a charming gabled place with tiled
                                        roof. The garden is perfectly beautiful. I am enjoying the change very much. Nanny
                                        Baxter is very entertaining. She has a vast fund of highly entertaining tales of the goings
                                        on amongst the British Aristocracy, gleaned it seems over the nursery teacup in many a
                                        Stately Home. Ann and Georgie are enjoying the company of other children.
                                        People are very kind about inviting us out to tea and I gladly accept these
                                        invitations but I have turned down invitations to dinner and one to a dance at the hotel. It
                                        is no fun to go out at night without George. There are several grass widows at the pub
                                        whose husbands are at the diggings. They have no inhibitions about parties.
                                        I did have one night and day here with George, he got the chance of a lift and
                                        knowing that we were staying here he thought the chance too good to miss. He was
                                        also anxious to hear the Doctor’s verdict on Ann. I took Ann to hospital on my second
                                        day here. Dr Eckhardt said there was nothing specifically wrong but that Ann is a highly
                                        sensitive type with whom the tropics does not agree. He advised that Ann should
                                        spend a year in a more temperate climate and that the sooner she goes the better. I felt
                                        very discouraged to hear this and was most relieved when George turned up
                                        unexpectedly that evening. He phoo-hood Dr Eckhardt’s recommendation and next
                                        morning called in Dr Aitkin, the Government Doctor from Chunya and who happened to
                                        be in Mbeya.

                                        Unfortunately Dr Aitkin not only confirmed Dr Eckhardt’s opinion but said that he
                                        thought Ann should stay out of the tropics until she had passed adolescence. I just don’t
                                        know what to do about Ann. She is a darling child, very sensitive and gentle and a
                                        lovely companion to me. Also she and young George are inseparable and I just cannot
                                        picture one without the other. I know that you would be glad to have Ann but how could
                                        we bear to part with her?

                                        Your worried but affectionate,

                                        Tukuyu. 23rd October 1936

                                        Dearest Family,

                                        As you see we have moved to Tukuyu and we are having a lovely time with
                                        Lillian Eustace. She gave us such a warm welcome and has put herself out to give us
                                        every comfort. She is a most capable housekeeper and I find her such a comfortable
                                        companion because we have the same outlook in life. Both of us are strictly one man
                                        women and that is rare here. She has a two year old son, Billy, who is enchanted with
                                        our rolly polly Kate and there are other children on the station with whom Ann and
                                        Georgie can play. Lillian engaged a temporary ayah for me so I am having a good rest.
                                        All the children look well and Ann in particular seems to have benefited by the
                                        change to a cooler climate. She has a good colour and looks so well that people all
                                        exclaim when I tell them, that two doctors have advised us to send Ann out of the
                                        country. Perhaps after all, this holiday in Tukuyu will set her up.

                                        We had a trying journey from Mbeya to Tukuyu in the Post Lorry. The three
                                        children and I were squeezed together on the front seat between the African driver on
                                        one side and a vast German on the other. Both men smoked incessantly – the driver
                                        cigarettes, and the German cheroots. The cab was clouded with a blue haze. Not only
                                        that! I suddenly felt a smarting sensation on my right thigh. The driver’s cigarette had
                                        burnt a hole right through that new checked linen frock you sent me last month.
                                        I had Kate on my lap all the way but Ann and Georgie had to stand against the
                                        windscreen all the way. The fat German offered to take Ann on his lap but she gave him
                                        a very cold “No thank you.” Nor did I blame her. I would have greatly enjoyed the drive
                                        under less crowded conditions. The scenery is gorgeous. One drives through very high
                                        country crossing lovely clear streams and at one point through rain forest. As it was I
                                        counted the miles and how thankful I was to see the end of the journey.
                                        In the days when Tanganyika belonged to the Germans, Tukuyu was the
                                        administrative centre for the whole of the Southern Highlands Province. The old German
                                        Fort is still in use as Government offices and there are many fine trees which were
                                        planted by the Germans. There is a large prosperous native population in this area.
                                        They go in chiefly for coffee and for bananas which form the basis of their diet.
                                        There are five British married couples here and Lillian and I go out to tea most
                                        mornings. In the afternoon there is tennis or golf. The gardens here are beautiful because
                                        there is rain or at least drizzle all the year round. There are even hedge roses bordering
                                        some of the district roads. When one walks across the emerald green golf course or
                                        through the Boma gardens, it is hard to realise that this gentle place is Tropical Africa.
                                        ‘Such a green and pleasant land’, but I think I prefer our corner of Tanganyika.

                                        Much love,

                                        Mchewe. 12th November 1936

                                        Dearest Family,

                                        We had a lovely holiday but it is so nice to be home again, especially as Laza,
                                        the local Nimrod, shot that leopard whilst we were away (with his muzzleloader gun). He
                                        was justly proud of himself, and I gave him a tip so that he could buy some native beer
                                        for a celebration. I have never seen one of theses parties but can hear the drums and
                                        sounds of merrymaking, especially on moonlight nights.

                                        Our house looks so fresh and uncluttered. Whilst I was away, the boys
                                        whitewashed the house and my houseboy had washed all the curtains, bedspreads,
                                        and loose covers and watered the garden. If only George were here it would be

                                        Ann looked so bonny at Tukuyu that I took her to the Government Doctor there
                                        hoping that he would find her perfectly healthy, but alas he endorsed the finding of the
                                        other two doctors so, when an opportunity offers, I think I shall have to send Ann down
                                        to you for a long holiday from the Tropics. Mother-in-law has offered to fetch her next
                                        year but England seems so far away. With you she will at least be on the same

                                        I left the children for the first time ever, except for my stay in hospital when Kate
                                        was born, to go on an outing to Lake Masoko in the Tukuyu district, with four friends.
                                        Masoko is a beautiful, almost circular crater lake and very very deep. A detachment of
                                        the King’s African Rifles are stationed there and occupy the old German barracks
                                        overlooking the lake.

                                        We drove to Masoko by car and spent the afternoon there as guests of two
                                        British Army Officers. We had a good tea and the others went bathing in the lake but i
                                        could not as I did not have a costume. The Lake was as beautiful as I had been lead to
                                        imagine and our hosts were pleasant but I began to grow anxious as the afternoon
                                        advanced and my friends showed no signs of leaving. I was in agonies when they
                                        accepted an invitation to stay for a sundowner. We had this in the old German beer
                                        garden overlooking the Lake. It was beautiful but what did I care. I had promised the
                                        children that I would be home to give them their supper and put them to bed. When I
                                        did at length return to Lillian’s house I found the situation as I had expected. Ann, with her
                                        imagination had come to the conclusion that I never would return. She had sobbed
                                        herself into a state of exhaustion. Kate was screaming in sympathy and George 2 was
                                        very truculent. He wouldn’t even speak to me. Poor Lillian had had a trying time.
                                        We did not return to Mbeya by the Mail Lorry. Bill and Lillian drove us across to
                                        Mbeya in their new Ford V8 car. The children chattered happily in the back of the car
                                        eating chocolate and bananas all the way. I might have known what would happen! Ann
                                        was dreadfully and messily car sick.

                                        I engaged the Mbeya Hotel taxi to drive us out to the farm the same afternoon
                                        and I expect it will be a long time before we leave the farm again.

                                        Lots and lots of love to all,

                                        Chunya 27th November 1936

                                        Dearest Family,

                                        You will be surprised to hear that we are all together now on the Lupa goldfields.
                                        I have still not recovered from my own astonishment at being here. Until last Saturday
                                        night I never dreamed of this move. At about ten o’clock I was crouched in the inglenook
                                        blowing on the embers to make a fire so that I could heat some milk for Kate who is
                                        cutting teeth and was very restless. Suddenly I heard a car outside. I knew it must be
                                        George and rushed outside storm lamp in hand. Sure enough, there was George
                                        standing by a strange car, and beaming all over his face. “Something for you my love,”
                                        he said placing a little bundle in my hand. It was a knotted handkerchief and inside was a
                                        fine gold nugget.

                                        George had that fire going in no time, Kate was given the milk and half an aspirin
                                        and settles down to sleep, whilst George and I sat around for an hour chatting over our
                                        tea. He told me that he had borrowed the car from John Molteno and had come to fetch
                                        me and the children to join him on the diggings for a while. It seems that John, who has a
                                        camp at Itewe, a couple of miles outside the township of Chunya, the new
                                        Administrative Centre of the diggings, was off to the Cape to visit his family for a few
                                        months. John had asked George to run his claims in his absence and had given us the
                                        loan of his camp and his car.

                                        George had found the nugget on his own claim but he is not too elated because
                                        he says that one good month on the diggings is often followed by several months of
                                        dead loss. However, I feel hopeful, we have had such a run of bad luck that surely it is
                                        time for the tide to change. George spent Sunday going over the farm with Thomas, the
                                        headman, and giving him instructions about future work whilst I packed clothes and
                                        kitchen equipment. I have brought our ex-kitchenboy Kesho Kutwa with me as cook and
                                        also Janey, who heard that we were off to the Lupa and came to offer her services once
                                        more as ayah. Janey’s ex-husband Abel is now cook to one of the more successful
                                        diggers and I think she is hoping to team up with him again.

                                        The trip over the Mbeya-Chunya pass was new to me and I enjoyed it very
                                        much indeed. The road winds over the mountains along a very high escarpment and
                                        one looks down on the vast Usangu flats stretching far away to the horizon. At the
                                        highest point the road rises to about 7000 feet, and this was too much for Ann who was
                                        leaning against the back of my seat. She was very thoroughly sick, all over my hair.
                                        This camp of John Molteno’s is very comfortable. It consists of two wattle and
                                        daub buildings built end to end in a clearing in the miombo bush. The main building
                                        consists of a large living room, a store and an office, and the other of one large bedroom
                                        and a small one separated by an area for bathing. Both buildings are thatched. There are
                                        no doors, and there are no windows, but these are not necessary because one wall of
                                        each building is built up only a couple of feet leaving a six foot space for light and air. As
                                        this is the dry season the weather is pleasant. The air is fresh and dry but not nearly so
                                        hot as I expected.

                                        Water is a problem and must be carried long distances in kerosene tins.
                                        vegetables and fresh butter are brought in a van from Iringa and Mbeya Districts about
                                        once a fortnight. I have not yet visited Chunya but I believe it is as good a shopping
                                        centre as Mbeya so we will be able to buy all the non perishable food stuffs we need.
                                        What I do miss is the fresh milk. The children are accustomed to drinking at least a pint of
                                        milk each per day but they do not care for the tinned variety.

                                        Ann and young George love being here. The camp is surrounded by old
                                        prospecting trenches and they spend hours each day searching for gold in the heaps of gravel. Sometimes they find quartz pitted with little spots of glitter and they bring them
                                        to me in great excitement. Alas it is only Mica. We have two neighbours. The one is a
                                        bearded Frenchman and the other an Australian. I have not yet met any women.
                                        George looks very sunburnt and extremely fit and the children also look well.
                                        George and I have decided that we will keep Ann with us until my Mother-in-law comes
                                        out next year. George says that in spite of what the doctors have said, he thinks that the
                                        shock to Ann of being separated from her family will do her more harm than good. She
                                        and young George are inseparable and George thinks it would be best if both
                                        George and Ann return to England with my Mother-in-law for a couple of years. I try not
                                        to think at all about the breaking up of the family.

                                        Much love to all,



                                          From Tanganyika with Love

                                          continued  ~ part 5

                                          With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                                          Chunya 16th December 1936

                                          Dearest Family,

                                          Since last I wrote I have visited Chunya and met several of the diggers wives.
                                          On the whole I have been greatly disappointed because there is nothing very colourful
                                          about either township or women. I suppose I was really expecting something more like
                                          the goldrush towns and women I have so often seen on the cinema screen.
                                          Chunya consists of just the usual sun-dried brick Indian shops though there are
                                          one or two double storied buildings. Most of the life in the place centres on the
                                          Goldfields Hotel but we did not call there. From the store opposite I could hear sounds
                                          of revelry though it was very early in the afternoon. I saw only one sight which was quite
                                          new to me, some elegantly dressed African women, with high heels and lipsticked
                                          mouths teetered by on their way to the silk store. “Native Tarts,” said George in answer
                                          to my enquiry.

                                          Several women have called on me and when I say ‘called’ I mean called. I have
                                          grown so used to going without stockings and wearing home made dresses that it was
                                          quite a shock to me to entertain these ladies dressed to the nines in smart frocks, silk
                                          stockings and high heeled shoes, handbags, makeup and whatnot. I feel like some
                                          female Rip van Winkle. Most of the women have a smart line in conversation and their
                                          talk and views on life would make your nice straight hair curl Mummy. They make me feel
                                          very unsophisticated and dowdy but George says he has a weakness for such types
                                          and I am to stay exactly as I am. I still do not use any makeup. George says ‘It’s all right
                                          for them. They need it poor things, you don’t.” Which, though flattering, is hardly true.
                                          I prefer the men visitors, though they also are quite unlike what I had expected
                                          diggers to be. Those whom George brings home are all well educated and well
                                          groomed and I enjoy listening to their discussion of the world situation, sport and books.
                                          They are extremely polite to me and gentle with the children though I believe that after a
                                          few drinks at the pub tempers often run high. There were great arguments on the night
                                          following the abdication of Edward VIII. Not that the diggers were particularly attached to
                                          him as a person, but these men are all great individualists and believe in freedom of
                                          choice. George, rather to my surprise, strongly supported Edward. I did not.

                                          Many of the diggers have wireless sets and so we keep up to date with the
                                          news. I seldom leave camp. I have my hands full with the three children during the day
                                          and, even though Janey is a reliable ayah, I would not care to leave the children at night
                                          in these grass roofed huts. Having experienced that fire on the farm, I know just how
                                          unlikely it would be that the children would be rescued in time in case of fire. The other
                                          women on the diggings think I’m crazy. They leave their children almost entirely to ayahs
                                          and I must confess that the children I have seen look very well and happy. The thing is
                                          that I simply would not enjoy parties at the hotel or club, miles away from the children
                                          and I much prefer to stay at home with a book.

                                          I love hearing all about the parties from George who likes an occasional ‘boose
                                          up’ with the boys and is terribly popular with everyone – not only the British but with the
                                          Germans, Scandinavians and even the Afrikaans types. One Afrikaans woman said “Jou
                                          man is ‘n man, al is hy ‘n Engelsman.” Another more sophisticated woman said, “George
                                          is a handsome devil. Aren’t you scared to let him run around on his own?” – but I’m not. I
                                          usually wait up for George with sandwiches and something hot to drink and that way I
                                          get all the news red hot.

                                          There is very little gold coming in. The rains have just started and digging is
                                          temporarily at a standstill. It is too wet for dry blowing and not yet enough water for
                                          panning and sluicing. As this camp is some considerable distance from the claims, all I see of the process is the weighing of the daily taking of gold dust and tiny nuggets.
                                          Unless our luck changes I do not think we will stay on here after John Molteno returns.
                                          George does not care for the life and prefers a more constructive occupation.
                                          Ann and young George still search optimistically for gold. We were all saddened
                                          last week by the death of Fanny, our bull terrier. She went down to the shopping centre
                                          with us and we were standing on the verandah of a store when a lorry passed with its
                                          canvas cover flapping. This excited Fanny who rushed out into the street and the back
                                          wheel of the lorry passed right over her, killing her instantly. Ann was very shocked so I
                                          soothed her by telling her that Fanny had gone to Heaven. When I went to bed that
                                          night I found Ann still awake and she asked anxiously, “Mummy, do you think God
                                          remembered to give Fanny her bone tonight?”

                                          Much love to all,

                                          Itewe, Chunya 23rd December 1936

                                          Dearest Family,

                                          Your Christmas parcel arrived this morning. Thank you very much for all the
                                          clothing for all of us and for the lovely toys for the children. George means to go hunting
                                          for a young buffalo this afternoon so that we will have some fresh beef for Christmas for
                                          ourselves and our boys and enough for friends too.

                                          I had a fright this morning. Ann and Georgie were, as usual, searching for gold
                                          whilst I sat sewing in the living room with Kate toddling around. She wandered through
                                          the curtained doorway into the store and I heard her playing with the paraffin pump. At
                                          first it did not bother me because I knew the tin was empty but after ten minutes or so I
                                          became irritated by the noise and went to stop her. Imagine my horror when I drew the
                                          curtain aside and saw my fat little toddler fiddling happily with the pump whilst, curled up
                                          behind the tin and clearly visible to me lay the largest puffadder I have ever seen.
                                          Luckily I acted instinctively and scooped Kate up from behind and darted back into the
                                          living room without disturbing the snake. The houseboy and cook rushed in with sticks
                                          and killed the snake and then turned the whole storeroom upside down to make sure
                                          there were no more.

                                          I have met some more picturesque characters since I last wrote. One is a man
                                          called Bishop whom George has known for many years having first met him in the
                                          Congo. I believe he was originally a sailor but for many years he has wandered around
                                          Central Africa trying his hand at trading, prospecting, a bit of elephant hunting and ivory
                                          poaching. He is now keeping himself by doing ‘Sign Writing”. Bish is a gentle and
                                          dignified personality. When we visited his camp he carefully dusted a seat for me and
                                          called me ‘Marm’, quite ye olde world. The only thing is he did spit.

                                          Another spitter is the Frenchman in a neighbouring camp. He is in bed with bad
                                          rheumatism and George has been going across twice a day to help him and cheer him
                                          up. Once when George was out on the claim I went across to the Frenchman’s camp in
                                          response to an SOS, but I think he was just lonely. He showed me snapshots of his
                                          two daughters, lovely girls and extremely smart, and he chatted away telling me his life
                                          history. He punctuated his remarks by spitting to right and left of the bed, everywhere in
                                          fact, except actually at me.

                                          George took me and the children to visit a couple called Bert and Hilda Farham.
                                          They have a small gold reef which is worked by a very ‘Heath Robinson’ type of
                                          machinery designed and erected by Bert who is reputed to be a clever engineer though
                                          eccentric. He is rather a handsome man who always looks very spruce and neat and
                                          wears a Captain Kettle beard. Hilda is from Johannesburg and quite a character. She
                                          has a most generous figure and literally masses of beetroot red hair, but she also has a
                                          warm deep voice and a most generous disposition. The Farhams have built
                                          themselves a more permanent camp than most. They have a brick cottage with proper
                                          doors and windows and have made it attractive with furniture contrived from petrol
                                          boxes. They have no children but Hilda lavishes a great deal of affection on a pet
                                          monkey. Sometimes they do quite well out of their gold and then they have a terrific
                                          celebration at the Club or Pub and Hilda has an orgy of shopping. At other times they
                                          are completely broke but Hilda takes disasters as well as triumphs all in her stride. She
                                          says, “My dear, when we’re broke we just live on tea and cigarettes.”

                                          I have met a young woman whom I would like as a friend. She has a dear little
                                          baby, but unfortunately she has a very wet husband who is also a dreadful bore. I can’t
                                          imagine George taking me to their camp very often. When they came to visit us George
                                          just sat and smoked and said,”Oh really?” to any remark this man made until I felt quite
                                          hysterical. George looks very young and fit and the children are lively and well too. I ,
                                          however, am definitely showing signs of wear and tear though George says,
                                          “Nonsense, to me you look the same as you always did.” This I may say, I do not
                                          regard as a compliment to the young Eleanor.

                                          Anyway, even though our future looks somewhat unsettled, we are all together
                                          and very happy.

                                          With love,

                                          Itewe, Chunya 30th December 1936

                                          Dearest Family,

                                          We had a very cheery Christmas. The children loved the toys and are so proud
                                          of their new clothes. They wore them when we went to Christmas lunch to the
                                          Cresswell-Georges. The C-Gs have been doing pretty well lately and they have a
                                          comfortable brick house and a large wireless set. The living room was gaily decorated
                                          with bought garlands and streamers and balloons. We had an excellent lunch cooked by
                                          our ex cook Abel who now works for the Cresswell-Georges. We had turkey with
                                          trimmings and plum pudding followed by nuts and raisons and chocolates and sweets
                                          galore. There was also a large variety of drinks including champagne!

                                          There were presents for all of us and, in addition, Georgie and Ann each got a
                                          large tin of chocolates. Kate was much admired. She was a picture in her new party frock
                                          with her bright hair and rosy cheeks. There were other guests beside ourselves and
                                          they were already there having drinks when we arrived. Someone said “What a lovely
                                          child!” “Yes” said George with pride, “She’s a Marie Stopes baby.” “Truby King!” said I
                                          quickly and firmly, but too late to stop the roar of laughter.

                                          Our children played amicably with the C-G’s three, but young George was
                                          unusually quiet and surprised me by bringing me his unopened tin of chocolates to keep
                                          for him. Normally he is a glutton for sweets. I might have guessed he was sickening for
                                          something. That night he vomited and had diarrhoea and has had an upset tummy and a
                                          slight temperature ever since.

                                          Janey is also ill. She says she has malaria and has taken to her bed. I am dosing
                                          her with quinine and hope she will soon be better as I badly need her help. Not only is
                                          young George off his food and peevish but Kate has a cold and Ann sore eyes and
                                          they all want love and attention. To complicate things it has been raining heavily and I
                                          must entertain the children indoors.


                                          Itewe, Chunya 19th January 1937

                                          Dearest Family,

                                          So sorry I have not written before but we have been in the wars and I have had neither
                                          the time nor the heart to write. However the worst is now over. Young George and
                                          Janey are both recovering from Typhoid Fever. The doctor had Janey moved to the
                                          native hospital at Chunya but I nursed young George here in the camp.

                                          As I told you young George’s tummy trouble started on Christmas day. At first I
                                          thought it was only a protracted bilious attack due to eating too much unaccustomed rich
                                          food and treated him accordingly but when his temperature persisted I thought that the
                                          trouble might be malaria and kept him in bed and increased the daily dose of quinine.
                                          He ate less and less as the days passed and on New Years Day he seemed very
                                          weak and his stomach tender to the touch.

                                          George fetched the doctor who examined small George and said he had a very
                                          large liver due no doubt to malaria. He gave the child injections of emertine and quinine
                                          and told me to give young George frequent and copious drinks of water and bi-carb of
                                          soda. This was more easily said than done. Young George refused to drink this mixture
                                          and vomited up the lime juice and water the doctor had suggested as an alternative.
                                          The doctor called every day and gave George further injections and advised me
                                          to give him frequent sips of water from a spoon. After three days the child was very
                                          weak and weepy but Dr Spiers still thought he had malaria. During those anxious days I
                                          also worried about Janey who appeared to be getting worse rather that better and on
                                          January the 3rd I asked the doctor to look at her. The next thing I knew, the doctor had
                                          put Janey in his car and driven her off to hospital. When he called next morning he
                                          looked very grave and said he wished to talk to my husband. I said that George was out
                                          on the claim but if what he wished to say concerned young George’s condition he might
                                          just as well tell me.

                                          With a good deal of reluctance Dr Spiers then told me that Janey showed all the
                                          symptoms of Typhoid Fever and that he was very much afraid that young George had
                                          contracted it from her. He added that George should be taken to the Mbeya Hospital
                                          where he could have the professional nursing so necessary in typhoid cases. I said “Oh
                                          no,I’d never allow that. The child had never been away from his family before and it
                                          would frighten him to death to be sick and alone amongst strangers.” Also I was sure that
                                          the fifty mile drive over the mountains in his weak condition would harm him more than
                                          my amateur nursing would. The doctor returned to the camp that afternoon to urge
                                          George to send our son to hospital but George staunchly supported my argument that
                                          young George would stand a much better chance of recovery if we nursed him at home.
                                          I must say Dr Spiers took our refusal very well and gave young George every attention
                                          coming twice a day to see him.

                                          For some days the child was very ill. He could not keep down any food or liquid
                                          in any quantity so all day long, and when he woke at night, I gave him a few drops of
                                          water at a time from a teaspoon. His only nourishment came from sucking Macintosh’s
                                          toffees. Young George sweated copiously especially at night when it was difficult to
                                          change his clothes and sponge him in the draughty room with the rain teeming down
                                          outside. I think I told you that the bedroom is a sort of shed with only openings in the wall
                                          for windows and doors, and with one wall built only a couple of feet high leaving a six
                                          foot gap for air and light. The roof leaked and the damp air blew in but somehow young
                                          George pulled through.

                                          Only when he was really on the mend did the doctor tell us that whilst he had
                                          been attending George, he had also been called in to attend to another little boy of the same age who also had typhoid. He had been called in too late and the other little boy,
                                          an only child, had died. Young George, thank God, is convalescent now, though still on a
                                          milk diet. He is cheerful enough when he has company but very peevish when left
                                          alone. Poor little lad, he is all hair, eyes, and teeth, or as Ann says” Georgie is all ribs ribs
                                          now-a-days Mummy.” He shares my room, Ann and Kate are together in the little room.
                                          Anyway the doctor says he should be up and around in about a week or ten days time.
                                          We were all inoculated against typhoid on the day the doctor made the diagnosis
                                          so it is unlikely that any of us will develop it. Dr Spiers was most impressed by Ann’s
                                          unconcern when she was inoculated. She looks gentle and timid but has always been
                                          very brave. Funny thing when young George was very ill he used to wail if I left the
                                          room, but now that he is convalescent he greatly prefers his dad’s company. So now I
                                          have been able to take the girls for walks in the late afternoons whilst big George
                                          entertains small George. This he does with the minimum of effort, either he gets out
                                          cartons of ammunition with which young George builds endless forts, or else he just sits
                                          beside the bed and cleans one of his guns whilst small George watches with absorbed

                                          The Doctor tells us that Janey is also now convalescent. He says that exhusband
                                          Abel has been most attentive and appeared daily at the hospital with a tray of
                                          food that made his, the doctor’s, mouth water. All I dare say, pinched from Mrs

                                          I’ll write again soon. Lots of love to all,

                                          Chunya 29th January 1937

                                          Dearest Family,

                                          Georgie is up and about but still tires very easily. At first his legs were so weak
                                          that George used to carry him around on his shoulders. The doctor says that what the
                                          child really needs is a long holiday out of the Tropics so that Mrs Thomas’ offer, to pay all
                                          our fares to Cape Town as well as lending us her seaside cottage for a month, came as
                                          a Godsend. Luckily my passport is in order. When George was in Mbeya he booked
                                          seats for the children and me on the first available plane. We will fly to Broken Hill and go
                                          on to Cape Town from there by train.

                                          Ann and George are wildly thrilled at the idea of flying but I am not. I remember
                                          only too well how airsick I was on the old Hannibal when I flew home with the baby Ann.
                                          I am longing to see you all and it will be heaven to give the children their first seaside

                                          I mean to return with Kate after three months but, if you will have him, I shall leave
                                          George behind with you for a year. You said you would all be delighted to have Ann so
                                          I do hope you will also be happy to have young George. Together they are no trouble
                                          at all. They amuse themselves and are very independent and loveable.
                                          George and I have discussed the matter taking into consideration the letters from
                                          you and George’s Mother on the subject. If you keep Ann and George for a year, my
                                          mother-in-law will go to Cape Town next year and fetch them. They will live in England
                                          with her until they are fit enough to return to the Tropics. After the children and I have left
                                          on this holiday, George will be able to move around and look for a job that will pay
                                          sufficiently to enable us to go to England in a few years time to fetch our children home.
                                          We both feel very sad at the prospect of this parting but the children’s health
                                          comes before any other consideration. I hope Kate will stand up better to the Tropics.
                                          She is plump and rosy and could not look more bonny if she lived in a temperate

                                          We should be with you in three weeks time!

                                          Very much love,

                                          Broken Hill, N Rhodesia 11th February 1937

                                          Dearest Family,

                                          Well here we are safe and sound at the Great Northern Hotel, Broken Hill, all
                                          ready to board the South bound train tonight.

                                          We were still on the diggings on Ann’s birthday, February 8th, when George had
                                          a letter from Mbeya to say that our seats were booked on the plane leaving Mbeya on
                                          the 10th! What a rush we had packing up. Ann was in bed with malaria so we just
                                          bundled her up in blankets and set out in John Molteno’s car for the farm. We arrived that
                                          night and spent the next day on the farm sorting things out. Ann and George wanted to
                                          take so many of their treasures and it was difficult for them to make a small selection. In
                                          the end young George’s most treasured possession, his sturdy little boots, were left

                                          Before leaving home on the morning of the tenth I took some snaps of Ann and
                                          young George in the garden and one of them with their father. He looked so sad. After
                                          putting us on the plane, George planned to go to the fishing camp for a day or two
                                          before returning to the empty house on the farm.

                                          John Molteno returned from the Cape by plane just before we took off, so he
                                          will take over the running of his claims once more. I told John that I dreaded the plane trip
                                          on account of air sickness so he gave me two pills which I took then and there. Oh dear!
                                          How I wished later that I had not done so. We had an extremely bumpy trip and
                                          everyone on the plane was sick except for small George who loved every moment.
                                          Poor Ann had a dreadful time but coped very well and never complained. I did not
                                          actually puke until shortly before we landed at Broken Hill but felt dreadfully ill all the way.
                                          Kate remained rosy and cheerful almost to the end. She sat on my lap throughout the
                                          trip because, being under age, she travelled as baggage and was not entitled to a seat.
                                          Shortly before we reached Broken Hill a smartly dressed youngish man came up
                                          to me and said, “You look so poorly, please let me take the baby, I have children of my
                                          own and know how to handle them.” Kate made no protest and off they went to the
                                          back of the plane whilst I tried to relax and concentrate on not getting sick. However,
                                          within five minutes the man was back. Kate had been thoroughly sick all over his collar
                                          and jacket.

                                          I took Kate back on my lap and then was violently sick myself, so much so that
                                          when we touched down at Broken Hill I was unable to speak to the Immigration Officer.
                                          He was so kind. He sat beside me until I got my diaphragm under control and then
                                          drove me up to the hotel in his own car.

                                          We soon recovered of course and ate a hearty dinner. This morning after
                                          breakfast I sallied out to look for a Bank where I could exchange some money into
                                          Rhodesian and South African currency and for the Post Office so that I could telegraph
                                          to George and to you. What a picnic that trip was! It was a terribly hot day and there was
                                          no shade. By the time we had done our chores, the children were hot, and cross, and
                                          tired and so indeed was I. As I had no push chair for Kate I had to carry her and she is
                                          pretty heavy for eighteen months. George, who is still not strong, clung to my free arm
                                          whilst Ann complained bitterly that no one was helping her.

                                          Eventually Ann simply sat down on the pavement and declared that she could
                                          not go another step, whereupon George of course decided that he also had reached his
                                          limit and sat down too. Neither pleading no threats would move them so I had to resort
                                          to bribery and had to promise that when we reached the hotel they could have cool
                                          drinks and ice-cream. This promise got the children moving once more but I am determined that nothing will induce me to stir again until the taxi arrives to take us to the

                                          This letter will go by air and will reach you before we do. How I am longing for
                                          journeys end.

                                          With love to you all,

                                          Leaving home 10th February 1937,  George Gilman Rushby with Ann and Georgie (Mike) Rushby:

                                          George Rushby Ann and Georgie

                                          We had a very warm welcome to the family home at Plumstead Cape Town.
                                          After ten days with my family we moved to Hout Bay where Mrs Thomas lent us her
                                          delightful seaside cottage. She also provided us with two excellent maids so I had
                                          nothing to do but rest and play on the beach with the children.

                                          After a month at the sea George had fully recovered his health though not his
                                          former gay spirits. After another six months with my parents I set off for home with Kate,
                                          leaving Ann and George in my parent’s home under the care of my elder sister,

                                          One or two incidents during that visit remain clearly in my memory. Our children
                                          had never met elderly people and were astonished at the manifestations of age. One
                                          morning an elderly lady came around to collect church dues. She was thin and stooped
                                          and Ann surveyed her with awe. She turned to me with a puzzled expression and
                                          asked in her clear voice, “Mummy, why has that old lady got a moustache – oh and a
                                          beard?’ The old lady in question was very annoyed indeed and said, “What a rude little
                                          girl.” Ann could not understand this, she said, “But Mummy, I only said she had a
                                          moustache and a beard and she has.” So I explained as best I could that when people
                                          have defects of this kind they are hurt if anyone mentions them.

                                          A few days later a strange young woman came to tea. I had been told that she
                                          had a most disfiguring birthmark on her cheek and warned Ann that she must not
                                          comment on it. Alas! with the kindest intentions Ann once again caused me acute
                                          embarrassment. The young woman was hardly seated when Ann went up to her and
                                          gently patted the disfiguring mark saying sweetly, “Oh, I do like this horrible mark on your

                                          I remember also the afternoon when Kate and George were christened. My
                                          mother had given George a white silk shirt for the occasion and he wore it with intense
                                          pride. Kate was baptised first without incident except that she was lost in admiration of a
                                          gold bracelet given her that day by her Godmother and exclaimed happily, “My
                                          bangle, look my bangle,” throughout the ceremony. When George’s turn came the
                                          clergyman held his head over the font and poured water on George’s forehead. Some
                                          splashed on his shirt and George protested angrily, “Mum, he has wet my shirt!” over
                                          and over again whilst I led him hurriedly outside.

                                          My last memory of all is at the railway station. The time had come for Kate and
                                          me to get into our compartment. My sisters stood on the platform with Ann and George.
                                          Ann was resigned to our going, George was not so, at the last moment Sylvia, my
                                          younger sister, took him off to see the engine. The whistle blew and I said good-bye to
                                          my gallant little Ann. “Mummy”, she said urgently to me, “Don’t forget to wave to

                                          And so I waved good-bye to my children, never dreaming that a war would
                                          intervene and it would be eight long years before I saw them again.


                                            From Tanganyika with Love

                                            continued  ~ part 6

                                            With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                                            Mchewe 6th June 1937

                                            Dearest Family,

                                            Home again! We had an uneventful journey. Kate was as good as gold all the
                                            way. We stopped for an hour at Bulawayo where we had to change trains but
                                            everything was simplified for me by a very pleasant man whose wife shared my
                                            compartment. Not only did he see me through customs but he installed us in our new
                                            train and his wife turned up to see us off with magazines for me and fruit and sweets for
                                            Kate. Very, very kind, don’t you think?

                                            Kate and I shared the compartment with a very pretty and gentle girl called
                                            Clarice Simpson. She was very worried and upset because she was going home to
                                            Broken Hill in response to a telegram informing her that her young husband was
                                            dangerously ill from Blackwater Fever. She was very helpful with Kate whose
                                            cheerfulness helped Clarice, I think, though I, quite unintentionally was the biggest help
                                            at the end of our journey. Remember the partial dentures I had had made just before
                                            leaving Cape Town? I know I shall never get used to the ghastly things, I’ve had them
                                            two weeks now and they still wobble. Well this day I took them out and wrapped them
                                            in a handkerchief, but when we were packing up to leave the train I could find the
                                            handkerchief but no teeth! We searched high and low until the train had slowed down to
                                            enter Broken Hill station. Then Clarice, lying flat on the floor, spied the teeth in the dark
                                            corner under the bottom bunk. With much stretching she managed to retrieve the
                                            dentures covered in grime and fluff. My look of horror, when I saw them, made young
                                            Clarice laugh. She was met at the station by a very grave elderly couple. I do wonder
                                            how things turned out for her.

                                            I stayed overnight with Kate at the Great Northern Hotel, and we set off for
                                            Mbeya by plane early in the morning. One of our fellow passengers was a young
                                            mother with a three week old baby. How ideas have changed since Ann was born. This
                                            time we had a smooth passage and I was the only passenger to get airsick. Although
                                            there were other women passengers it was a man once again, who came up and
                                            offered to help. Kate went off with him amiably and he entertained her until we touched
                                            down at Mbeya.

                                            George was there to meet us with a wonderful surprise, a little red two seater
                                            Ford car. She is a bit battered and looks a bit odd because the boot has been
                                            converted into a large wooden box for carrying raw salt, but she goes like the wind.
                                            Where did George raise the cash to buy a car? Whilst we were away he found a small
                                            cave full of bat guano near a large cave which is worked by a man called Bob Sargent.
                                            As Sargent did not want any competition he bought the contents of the cave from
                                            George giving him the small car as part payment.

                                            It was lovely to return to our little home and find everything fresh and tidy and the
                                            garden full of colour. But it was heartbreaking to go into the bedroom and see George’s
                                            precious forgotten boots still standing by his empty bed.

                                            With much love,

                                            Mchewe 25th June 1937

                                            Dearest Family,

                                            Last Friday George took Kate and me in the little red Ford to visit Mr Sargent’s
                                            camp on the Songwe River which cuts the Mbeya-Mbosi road. Mr Sargent bought
                                            Hicky-Wood’s guano deposit and also our small cave and is making a good living out of
                                            selling the bat guano to the coffee farmers in this province. George went to try to interest
                                            him in a guano deposit near Kilwa in the Southern Province. Mr Sargent agreed to pay
                                            25 pounds to cover the cost of the car trip and pegging costs. George will make the trip
                                            to peg the claim and take samples for analysis. If the quality is sufficiently high, George
                                            and Mr Sargent will go into partnership. George will work the claim and ship out the
                                            guano from Kilwa which is on the coast of the Southern Province of Tanganyika. So now
                                            we are busy building castles in the air once more.

                                            On Saturday we went to Mbeya where George had to attend a meeting of the
                                            Trout Association. In the afternoon he played in a cricket match so Kate and I spent the
                                            whole day with the wife of the new Superintendent of Police. They have a very nice
                                            new house with lawns and a sunken rose garden. Kate had a lovely romp with Kit, her
                                            three year old son.

                                            Mrs Wolten also has two daughters by a previous marriage. The elder girl said to
                                            me, “Oh Mrs Rushby your husband is exactly like the strong silent type of man I
                                            expected to see in Africa but he is the only one I have seen. I think he looks exactly like
                                            those men in the ‘Barney’s Tobacco’ advertisements.”

                                            I went home with a huge pile of magazines to keep me entertained whilst
                                            George is away on the Kilwa trip.

                                            Lots of love,

                                            Mchewe 9th July 1937

                                            Dearest Family,

                                            George returned on Monday from his Kilwa safari. He had an entertaining
                                            tale to tell.

                                            Before he approached Mr Sargent about going shares in the Kilwa guano
                                            deposit he first approached a man on the Lupa who had done very well out of a small
                                            gold reef. This man, however said he was not interested so you can imagine how
                                            indignant George was when he started on his long trip, to find himself being trailed by
                                            this very man and a co-driver in a powerful Ford V8 truck. George stopped his car and
                                            had some heated things to say – awful threats I imagine as to what would happen to
                                            anyone who staked his claim. Then he climbed back into our ancient little two seater and
                                            went off like a bullet driving all day and most of the night. As the others took turns in
                                            driving you can imagine what a feat it was for George to arrive in Kilwa ahead of them.
                                            When they drove into Kilwa he met them with a bright smile and a bit of bluff –
                                            quite justifiable under the circumstances I think. He said, you chaps can have a rest now,
                                            you’re too late.” He then whipped off and pegged the claim. he brought some samples
                                            of guano back but until it has been analysed he will not know whether the guano will be
                                            an economic proposition or not. George is not very hopeful. He says there is a good
                                            deal of sand mixed with the guano and that much of it was damp.

                                            The trip was pretty eventful for Kianda, our houseboy. The little two seater car
                                            had been used by its previous owner for carting bags of course salt from his salt pans.
                                            For this purpose the dicky seat behind the cab had been removed, and a kind of box
                                            built into the boot of the car. George’s camp kit and provisions were packed into this
                                            open box and Kianda perched on top to keep an eye on the belongings. George
                                            travelled so fast on the rough road that at some point during the night Kianda was
                                            bumped off in the middle of the Game Reserve. George did not notice that he was
                                            missing until the next morning. He concluded, quite rightly as it happened, that Kianda
                                            would be picked up by the rival truck so he continued his journey and Kianda rejoined
                                            him at Kilwa.

                                            Believe it or not, the same thing happened on the way back but fortunately this
                                            time George noticed his absence. He stopped the car and had just started back on his
                                            tracks when Kianda came running down the road still clutching the unlighted storm lamp
                                            which he was holding in his hand when he fell. The glass was not even cracked.
                                            We are finding it difficult just now to buy native chickens and eggs. There has
                                            been an epidemic amongst the poultry and one hesitates to eat the survivors. I have a
                                            brine tub in which I preserve our surplus meat but I need the chickens for soup.
                                            I hope George will be home for some months. He has arranged to take a Mr
                                            Blackburn, a wealthy fruit farmer from Elgin, Cape, on a hunting safari during September
                                            and October and that should bring in some much needed cash. Lillian Eustace has
                                            invited Kate and me to spend the whole of October with her in Tukuyu.
                                            I am so glad that you so much enjoy having Ann and George with you. We miss
                                            them dreadfully. Kate is a pretty little girl and such a little madam. You should hear the
                                            imperious way in which she calls the kitchenboy for her meals. “Boy Brekkis, Boy Lunch,
                                            and Boy Eggy!” are her three calls for the day. She knows no Ki-Swahili.


                                            Mchewe 8th October 1937

                                            Dearest Family,

                                            I am rapidly becoming as superstitious as our African boys. They say the wild
                                            animals always know when George is away from home and come down to have their
                                            revenge on me because he has killed so many.

                                            I am being besieged at night by a most beastly leopard with a half grown cub. I
                                            have grown used to hearing leopards grunt as they hunt in the hills at night but never
                                            before have I had one roaming around literally under the windows. It has been so hot at
                                            night lately that I have been sleeping with my bedroom door open onto the verandah. I
                                            felt quite safe because the natives hereabouts are law-abiding and in any case I always
                                            have a boy armed with a club sleeping in the kitchen just ten yards away. As an added
                                            precaution I also have a loaded .45 calibre revolver on my bedside table, and Fanny
                                            our bullterrier, sleeps on the mat by my bed. I am also looking after Barney, a fine
                                            Airedale dog belonging to the Costers. He slept on a mat by the open bedroom door
                                            near a dimly burning storm lamp.

                                            As usual I went to sleep with an easy mind on Monday night, but was awakened
                                            in the early hours of Tuesday by the sound of a scuffle on the front verandah. The noise
                                            was followed by a scream of pain from Barney. I jumped out of bed and, grabbing the
                                            lamp with my left hand and the revolver in my right, I rushed outside just in time to see
                                            two animal figures roll over the edge of the verandah into the garden below. There they
                                            engaged in a terrific tug of war. Fortunately I was too concerned for Barney to be
                                            nervous. I quickly fired two shots from the revolver, which incidentally makes a noise like
                                            a cannon, and I must have startled the leopard for both animals, still locked together,
                                            disappeared over the edge of the terrace. I fired two more shots and in a few moments
                                            heard the leopard making a hurried exit through the dry leaves which lie thick under the
                                            wild fig tree just beyond the terrace. A few seconds later Barney appeared on the low
                                            terrace wall. I called his name but he made no move to come but stood with hanging
                                            head. In desperation I rushed out, felt blood on my hands when I touched him, so I
                                            picked him up bodily and carried him into the house. As I regained the verandah the boy
                                            appeared, club in hand, having been roused by the shots. He quickly grasped what had
                                            happened when he saw my blood saturated nightie. He fetched a bowl of water and a
                                            clean towel whilst I examined Barney’s wounds. These were severe, the worst being a
                                            gaping wound in his throat. I washed the gashes with a strong solution of pot permang
                                            and I am glad to say they are healing remarkably well though they are bound to leave
                                            scars. Fanny, very prudently, had taken no part in the fighting except for frenzied barking
                                            which she kept up all night. The shots had of course wakened Kate but she seemed
                                            more interested than alarmed and kept saying “Fanny bark bark, Mummy bang bang.
                                            Poor Barney lots of blood.”

                                            In the morning we inspected the tracks in the garden. There was a shallow furrow
                                            on the terrace where Barney and the leopard had dragged each other to and fro and
                                            claw marks on the trunk of the wild fig tree into which the leopard climbed after I fired the
                                            shots. The affair was of course a drama after the Africans’ hearts and several of our
                                            shamba boys called to see me next day to make sympathetic noises and discuss the

                                            I went to bed early that night hoping that the leopard had been scared off for
                                            good but I must confess I shut all windows and doors. Alas for my hopes of a restful
                                            night. I had hardly turned down the lamp when the leopard started its terrifying grunting
                                            just under the bedroom windows. If only she would sniff around quietly I should not
                                            mind, but the noise is ghastly, something like the first sickening notes of a braying
                                            donkey, amplified here by the hills and the gorge which is only a stones throw from the
                                            bedroom. Barney was too sick to bark but Fanny barked loud enough for two and the more
                                            frantic she became the hungrier the leopard sounded. Kate of course woke up and this
                                            time she was frightened though I assured her that the noise was just a donkey having
                                            fun. Neither of us slept until dawn when the leopard returned to the hills. When we
                                            examined the tracks next morning we found that the leopard had been accompanied by
                                            a fair sized cub and that together they had prowled around the house, kitchen, and out
                                            houses, visiting especially the places to which the dogs had been during the day.
                                            As I feel I cannot bear many more of these nights, I am sending a note to the
                                            District Commissioner, Mbeya by the messenger who takes this letter to the post,
                                            asking him to send a game scout or an armed policeman to deal with the leopard.
                                            So don’t worry, for by the time this reaches you I feel sure this particular trouble
                                            will be over.


                                            Mchewe 17th October 1937

                                            Dearest Family,

                                            More about the leopard I fear! My messenger returned from Mbeya to say that
                                            the District Officer was on safari so he had given the message to the Assistant District
                                            Officer who also apparently left on safari later without bothering to reply to my note, so
                                            there was nothing for me to do but to send for the village Nimrod and his muzzle loader
                                            and offer him a reward if he could frighten away or kill the leopard.

                                            The hunter, Laza, suggested that he should sleep at the house so I went to bed
                                            early leaving Laza and his two pals to make themselves comfortable on the living room
                                            floor by the fire. Laza was armed with a formidable looking muzzle loader, crammed I
                                            imagine with nuts and bolts and old rusty nails. One of his pals had a spear and the other
                                            a panga. This fellow was also in charge of the Petromax pressure lamp whose light was
                                            hidden under a packing case. I left the campaign entirely to Laza’s direction.
                                            As usual the leopard came at midnight stealing down from the direction of the
                                            kitchen and announcing its presence and position with its usual ghastly grunts. Suddenly
                                            pandemonium broke loose on the back verandah. I heard the roar of the muzzle loader
                                            followed by a vigourous tattoo beaten on an empty paraffin tin and I rushed out hoping
                                            to find the dead leopard. however nothing of the kind had happened except that the
                                            noise must have scared the beast because she did not return again that night. Next
                                            morning Laza solemnly informed me that, though he had shot many leopards in his day,
                                            this was no ordinary leopard but a “sheitani” (devil) and that as his gun was no good
                                            against witchcraft he thought he might as well retire from the hunt. Scared I bet, and I
                                            don’t blame him either.

                                            You can imagine my relief when a car rolled up that afternoon bringing Messers
                                            Stewart and Griffiths, two farmers who live about 15 miles away, between here and
                                            Mbeya. They had a note from the Assistant District Officer asking them to help me and
                                            they had come to set up a trap gun in the garden. That night the leopard sniffed all
                                            around the gun and I had the added strain of waiting for the bang and wondering what I
                                            should do if the beast were only wounded. I conjured up horrible visions of the two little
                                            totos trotting up the garden path with the early morning milk and being horribly mauled,
                                            but I needn’t have worried because the leopard was far too wily to be caught that way.
                                            Two more ghastly nights passed and then I had another visitor, a Dr Jackson of
                                            the Tsetse Department on safari in the District. He listened sympathetically to my story
                                            and left his shotgun and some SSG cartridges with me and instructed me to wait until the
                                            leopard was pretty close and blow its b—– head off. It was good of him to leave his
                                            gun. George always says there are three things a man should never lend, ‘His wife, his
                                            gun and his dog.’ (I think in that order!)I felt quite cheered by Dr Jackson’s visit and sent
                                            once again for Laza last night and arranged a real show down. In the afternoon I draped
                                            heavy blankets over the living room windows to shut out the light of the pressure lamp
                                            and the four of us, Laza and his two stooges and I waited up for the leopard. When we
                                            guessed by her grunts that she was somewhere between the kitchen and the back door
                                            we all rushed out, first the boy with the panga and the lamp, next Laza with his muzzle
                                            loader, then me with the shotgun followed closely by the boy with the spear. What a
                                            farce! The lamp was our undoing. We were blinded by the light and did not even
                                            glimpse the leopard which made off with a derisive grunt. Laza said smugly that he knew
                                            it was hopeless to try and now I feel tired and discouraged too.

                                            This morning I sent a runner to Mbeya to order the hotel taxi for tomorrow and I
                                            shall go to friends in Mbeya for a day or two and then on to Tukuyu where I shall stay
                                            with the Eustaces until George returns from Safari.


                                            Mchewe 18th November 1937

                                            My darling Ann,

                                            Here we are back in our own home and how lovely it is to have Daddy back from
                                            safari. Thank you very much for your letter. I hope by now you have got mine telling you
                                            how very much I liked the beautiful tray cloth you made for my birthday. I bet there are
                                            not many little girls of five who can embroider as well as you do, darling. The boy,
                                            Matafari, washes and irons it so carefully and it looks lovely on the tea tray.

                                            Daddy and I had some fun last night. I was in bed and Daddy was undressing
                                            when we heard a funny scratching noise on the roof. I thought it was the leopard. Daddy
                                            quickly loaded his shotgun and ran outside. He had only his shirt on and he looked so
                                            funny. I grabbed the loaded revolver from the cupboard and ran after Dad in my nightie
                                            but after all the rush it was only your cat, Winnie, though I don’t know how she managed
                                            to make such a noise. We felt so silly, we laughed and laughed.

                                            Kate talks a lot now but in such a funny way you would laugh to her her. She
                                            hears the houseboys call me Memsahib so sometimes instead of calling me Mummy
                                            she calls me “Oompaab”. She calls the bedroom a ‘bippon’ and her little behind she
                                            calls her ‘sittendump’. She loves to watch Mandawi’s cattle go home along the path
                                            behind the kitchen. Joseph your donkey, always leads the cows. He has a lazy life now.
                                            I am glad you had such fun on Guy Fawkes Day. You will be sad to leave
                                            Plumstead but I am sure you will like going to England on the big ship with granny Kate.
                                            I expect you will start school when you get to England and I am sure you will find that

                                            God bless my dear little girl. Lots of love from Daddy and Kate,
                                            and Mummy

                                            Mchewe 18th November 1937

                                            Hello George Darling,

                                            Thank you for your lovely drawing of Daddy shooting an elephant. Daddy says
                                            that the only thing is that you have drawn him a bit too handsome.

                                            I went onto the verandah a few minutes ago to pick a banana for Kate from the
                                            bunch hanging there and a big hornet flew out and stung my elbow! There are lots of
                                            them around now and those stinging flies too. Kate wears thick corduroy dungarees so
                                            that she will not get her fat little legs bitten. She is two years old now and is a real little
                                            pickle. She loves running out in the rain so I have ordered a pair of red Wellingtons and a
                                            tiny umbrella from a Nairobi shop for her Christmas present.

                                            Fanny’s puppies have their eyes open now and have very sharp little teeth.
                                            They love to nip each other. We are keeping the fiercest little one whom we call Paddy
                                            but are giving the others to friends. The coffee bushes are full of lovely white flowers
                                            and the bees and ants are very busy stealing their honey.

                                            Yesterday a troop of baboons came down the hill and Dad shot a big one to
                                            scare the others off. They are a nuisance because they steal the maize and potatoes
                                            from the native shambas and then there is not enough food for the totos.
                                            Dad and I are very proud of you for not making a fuss when you went to the
                                            dentist to have that tooth out.

                                            Bye bye, my fine little son.
                                            Three bags full of love from Kate, Dad and Mummy.

                                            Mchewe 12th February, 1938

                                            Dearest Family,

                                            here is some news that will please you. George has been offered and has
                                            accepted a job as Forester at Mbulu in the Northern Province of Tanganyika. George
                                            would have preferred a job as Game Ranger, but though the Game Warden, Philip
                                            Teare, is most anxious to have him in the Game Department, there is no vacancy at
                                            present. Anyway if one crops up later, George can always transfer from one
                                            Government Department to another. Poor George, he hates the idea of taking a job. He
                                            says that hitherto he has always been his own master and he detests the thought of
                                            being pushed around by anyone.

                                            Now however he has no choice. Our capitol is almost exhausted and the coffee
                                            market shows no signs of improving. With three children and another on the way, he
                                            feels he simply must have a fixed income. I shall be sad to leave this little farm. I love
                                            our little home and we have been so very happy here, but my heart rejoices at the
                                            thought of overseas leave every thirty months. Now we shall be able to fetch Ann and
                                            George from England and in three years time we will all be together in Tanganyika once

                                            There is no sale for farms so we will just shut the house and keep on a very small
                                            labour force just to keep the farm from going derelict. We are eating our hens but will
                                            take our two dogs, Fanny and Paddy with us.

                                            One thing I shall be glad to leave is that leopard. She still comes grunting around
                                            at night but not as badly as she did before. I do not mind at all when George is here but
                                            until George was accepted for this forestry job I was afraid he might go back to the
                                            Diggings and I should once more be left alone to be cursed by the leopard’s attentions.
                                            Knowing how much I dreaded this George was most anxious to shoot the leopard and
                                            for weeks he kept his shotgun and a powerful torch handy at night.

                                            One night last week we woke to hear it grunting near the kitchen. We got up very
                                            quietly and whilst George loaded the shotgun with SSG, I took the torch and got the
                                            heavy revolver from the cupboard. We crept out onto the dark verandah where George
                                            whispered to me to not switch on the torch until he had located the leopard. It was pitch
                                            black outside so all he could do was listen intently. And then of course I spoilt all his
                                            plans. I trod on the dog’s tin bowl and made a terrific clatter! George ordered me to
                                            switch on the light but it was too late and the leopard vanished into the long grass of the
                                            Kalonga, grunting derisively, or so it sounded.

                                            She never comes into the clearing now but grunts from the hillside just above it.


                                            Mbulu 18th March, 1938

                                            Dearest Family,

                                            Journeys end at last. here we are at Mbulu, installed in our new quarters which are
                                            as different as they possibly could be from our own cosy little home at Mchewe. We
                                            live now, my dears, in one wing of a sort of ‘Beau Geste’ fort but I’ll tell you more about
                                            it in my next letter. We only arrived yesterday and have not had time to look around.
                                            This letter will tell you just about our trip from Mbeya.

                                            We left the farm in our little red Ford two seater with all our portable goods and
                                            chattels plus two native servants and the two dogs. Before driving off, George took one
                                            look at the flattened springs and declared that he would be surprised if we reached
                                            Mbeya without a breakdown and that we would never make Mbulu with the car so

                                            However luck was with us. We reached Mbeya without mishap and at one of the
                                            local garages saw a sturdy used Ford V8 boxbody car for sale. The garage agreed to
                                            take our small car as part payment and George drew on our little remaining capitol for the
                                            rest. We spent that night in the house of the Forest Officer and next morning set out in
                                            comfort for the Northern Province of Tanganyika.

                                            I had done the journey from Dodoma to Mbeya seven years before so was
                                            familiar with the scenery but the road was much improved and the old pole bridges had
                                            been replaced by modern steel ones. Kate was as good as gold all the way. We
                                            avoided hotels and camped by the road and she found this great fun.
                                            The road beyond Dodoma was new to me and very interesting country, flat and
                                            dry and dusty, as little rain falls there. The trees are mostly thorn trees but here and there
                                            one sees a giant baobab, weird trees with fantastically thick trunks and fat squat branches
                                            with meagre foliage. The inhabitants of this area I found interesting though. They are
                                            called Wagogo and are a primitive people who ape the Masai in dress and customs
                                            though they are much inferior to the Masai in physique. They are also great herders of
                                            cattle which, rather surprisingly, appear to thrive in that dry area.

                                            The scenery alters greatly as one nears Babati, which one approaches by a high
                                            escarpment from which one has a wonderful view of the Rift Valley. Babati township
                                            appears to be just a small group of Indian shops and shabby native houses, but I
                                            believe there are some good farms in the area. Though the little township is squalid,
                                            there is a beautiful lake and grand mountains to please the eye. We stopped only long
                                            enough to fill up with petrol and buy some foodstuffs. Beyond Babati there is a tsetse
                                            fly belt and George warned our two native servants to see that no tsetse flies settled on
                                            the dogs.

                                            We stopped for the night in a little rest house on the road about 80 miles from
                                            Arusha where we were to spend a few days with the Forest Officer before going on to
                                            Mbulu. I enjoyed this section of the road very much because it runs across wide plains
                                            which are bounded on the West by the blue mountains of the Rift Valley wall. Here for
                                            the first time I saw the Masai on their home ground guarding their vast herds of cattle. I
                                            also saw their strange primitive hovels called Manyattas, with their thorn walled cattle
                                            bomas and lots of plains game – giraffe, wildebeest, ostriches and antelope. Kate was
                                            wildly excited and entranced with the game especially the giraffe which stood gazing
                                            curiously and unafraid of us, often within a few yards of the road.

                                            Finally we came across the greatest thrill of all, my first view of Mt Meru the extinct
                                            volcano about 16,000 feet high which towers over Arusha township. The approach to
                                            Arusha is through flourishing coffee plantations very different alas from our farm at Mchewe. George says that at Arusha coffee growing is still a paying proposition
                                            because here the yield of berry per acre is much higher than in the Southern highlands
                                            and here in the North the farmers have not such heavy transport costs as the railway runs
                                            from Arusha to the port at Tanga.

                                            We stayed overnight at a rather second rate hotel but the food was good and we
                                            had hot baths and a good nights rest. Next day Tom Lewis the Forest Officer, fetched
                                            us and we spent a few days camping in a tent in the Lewis’ garden having meals at their
                                            home. Both Tom and Lillian Lewis were most friendly. Tom lewis explained to George
                                            what his work in the Mbulu District was to be, and they took us camping in a Forest
                                            Reserve where Lillian and her small son David and Kate and I had a lovely lazy time
                                            amidst beautiful surroundings. Before we left for Mbulu, Lillian took me shopping to buy
                                            material for curtains for our new home. She described the Forest House at Mbulu to me
                                            and it sounded delightful but alas, when we reached Mbulu we discovered that the
                                            Assistant District Officer had moved into the Forest House and we were directed to the
                                            Fort or Boma. The night before we left Arusha for Mbulu it rained very heavily and the
                                            road was very treacherous and slippery due to the surface being of ‘black cotton’ soil
                                            which has the appearance and consistency of chocolate blancmange, after rain. To get to
                                            Mbulu we had to drive back in the direction of Dodoma for some 70 miles and then turn
                                            to the right and drive across plains to the Great Rift Valley Wall. The views from this
                                            escarpment road which climbs this wall are magnificent. At one point one looks down
                                            upon Lake Manyara with its brilliant white beaches of soda.

                                            The drive was a most trying one for George. We had no chains for the wheels
                                            and several times we stuck in the mud and our two houseboys had to put grass and
                                            branches under the wheels to stop them from spinning. Quite early on in the afternoon
                                            George gave up all hope of reaching Mbulu that day and planned to spend the night in
                                            a little bush rest camp at Karatu. However at one point it looked as though we would not
                                            even reach this resthouse for late afternoon found us properly bogged down in a mess
                                            of mud at the bottom of a long and very steep hill. In spite of frantic efforts on the part of
                                            George and the two boys, all now very wet and muddy, the heavy car remained stuck.
                                            Suddenly five Masai men appeared through the bushes beside the road. They
                                            were all tall and angular and rather terrifying looking to me. Each wore only a blanket
                                            knotted over one shoulder and all were armed with spears. They lined up by the side of
                                            the road and just looked – not hostile but simply aloof and supercilious. George greeted
                                            them and said in Ki-Swahili, “Help to push and I will reward you.” But they said nothing,
                                            just drawing back imperceptibly to register disgust at the mere idea of manual labour.
                                            Their expressions said quite clearly “A Masai is a warrior and does not soil his hands.”
                                            George then did something which startled them I think, as much as me. He
                                            plucked their spears from their hands one by one and flung them into the back of the
                                            boxbody. “Now push!” he said, “And when we are safely out of the mud you shall have
                                            your spears back.” To my utter astonishment the Masai seemed to applaud George’s
                                            action. I think they admire courage in a man more than anything else. They pushed with a
                                            will and soon we were roaring up the long steep slope. “I can’t stop here” quoth George
                                            as up and up we went. The Masai were in mad pursuit with their blankets streaming
                                            behind. They took a very steep path which was a shortcut to the top. They are certainly
                                            amazing athletes and reached the top at the same time as the car. Their route of course
                                            was shorter but much more steep, yet they came up without any sign of fatigue to claim
                                            their spears and the money which George handed out with a friendly grin. The Masai
                                            took the whole episode in good heart and we parted on the most friendly terms.

                                            After a rather chilly night in the three walled shack, we started on the last lap of our
                                            journey yesterday morning in bright weather and made the trip to Mbulu without incident.


                                            Mbulu 24th March, 1938

                                            Dearest Family,

                                            Mbulu is an attractive station but living in this rather romantic looking fort has many
                                            disadvantages. Our quarters make up one side of the fort which is built up around a
                                            hollow square. The buildings are single storied but very tall in the German manner and
                                            there is a tower on one corner from which the Union Jack flies. The tower room is our
                                            sitting room, and one has very fine views from the windows of the rolling country side.
                                            However to reach this room one has to climb a steep flight of cement steps from the
                                            court yard. Another disadvantage of this tower room is that there is a swarm of bees in
                                            the roof and the stray ones drift down through holes in the ceiling and buzz angrily
                                            against the window panes or fly around in a most menacing manner.

                                            Ours are the only private quarters in the Fort. Two other sides of the Fort are
                                            used as offices, storerooms and court room and the fourth side is simply a thick wall with
                                            battlements and loopholes and a huge iron shod double door of enormous thickness
                                            which is always barred at sunset when the flag is hauled down. Two Police Askari always
                                            remain in the Fort on guard at night. The effect from outside the whitewashed fort is very
                                            romantic but inside it is hardly homely and how I miss my garden at Mchewe and the
                                            grass and trees.

                                            We have no privacy downstairs because our windows overlook the bare
                                            courtyard which is filled with Africans patiently waiting to be admitted to the courtroom as
                                            witnesses or spectators. The outside windows which overlook the valley are heavily
                                            barred. I can only think that the Germans who built this fort must have been very scared
                                            of the local natives.

                                            Our rooms are hardly cosy and are furnished with typical heavy German pieces.
                                            We have a vast bleak bedroom, a dining room and an enormous gloomy kitchen in
                                            which meals for the German garrison were cooked. At night this kitchen is alive with
                                            gigantic rats but fortunately they do not seem to care for the other rooms. To crown
                                            everything owls hoot and screech at night on the roof.

                                            On our first day here I wandered outside the fort walls with Kate and came upon a
                                            neatly fenced plot enclosing the graves of about fifteen South African soldiers killed by
                                            the Germans in the 1914-18 war. I understand that at least one of theses soldiers died in
                                            the courtyard here. The story goes, that during the period in the Great War when this fort
                                            was occupied by a troop of South African Horse, a German named Siedtendorf
                                            appeared at the great barred door at night and asked to speak to the officer in command
                                            of the Troop. The officer complied with this request and the small shutter in the door was
                                            opened so that he could speak with the German. The German, however, had not come
                                            to speak. When he saw the exposed face of the officer, he fired, killing him, and
                                            escaped into the dark night. I had this tale on good authority but cannot vouch for it. I do
                                            know though, that there are two bullet holes in the door beside the shutter. An unhappy
                                            story to think about when George is away, as he is now, and the moonlight throws queer
                                            shadows in the court yard and the owls hoot.

                                            However though I find our quarters depressing, I like Mbulu itself very much. It is
                                            rolling country, treeless except for the plantations of the Forestry Dept. The land is very
                                            fertile in the watered valleys but the grass on hills and plains is cropped to the roots by
                                            the far too numerous cattle and goats. There are very few Europeans on the station, only
                                            Mr Duncan, the District Officer, whose wife and children recently left for England, the
                                            Assistant District Officer and his wife, a bachelor Veterinary Officer, a Road Foreman and
                                            ourselves, and down in the village a German with an American wife and an elderly
                                            Irishman whom I have not met. The Government officials have a communal vegetable
                                            garden in the valley below the fort which keeps us well supplied with green stuff. 

                                            Most afternoons George, Kate and I go for walks after tea. On Fridays there is a
                                            little ceremony here outside the fort. In the late afternoon a little procession of small
                                            native schoolboys, headed by a drum and penny whistle band come marching up the
                                            road to a tune which sounds like ‘Two lovely black eyes”. They form up below our tower
                                            and as the flag is lowered for the day they play ‘God save the King’, and then march off
                                            again. It is quite a cheerful little ceremony.

                                            The local Africans are a skinny lot and, I should say, a poor tribe. They protect
                                            themselves against the cold by wrapping themselves in cotton blankets or a strip of
                                            unbleached sheeting. This they drape over their heads, almost covering their faces and
                                            the rest is wrapped closely round their bodies in the manner of a shroud. A most
                                            depressing fashion. They live in very primitive comfortless houses. They simply make a
                                            hollow in the hillside and build a front wall of wattle and daub. Into this rude shelter at night
                                            go cattle and goats, men, women, and children.

                                            Mbulu village has the usual mud brick and wattle dukas and wattle and daub
                                            houses. The chief trader is a Goan who keeps a surprisingly good variety of tinned
                                            foodstuffs and also sells hardware and soft goods.

                                            The Europeans here have been friendly but as you will have noted there are
                                            only two other women on station and no children at all to be companions for Kate.


                                            Mbulu 20th June 1938

                                            Dearest Family,

                                            Here we are on Safari with George at Babati where we are occupying a rest
                                            house on the slopes of Ufiome Mountain. The slopes are a Forest Reserve and
                                            George is supervising the clearing of firebreaks in preparation for the dry weather. He
                                            goes off after a very early breakfast and returns home in the late afternoon so Kate and I
                                            have long lazy days.

                                            Babati is a pleasant spot and the resthouse is quite comfortable. It is about a mile
                                            from the village which is just the usual collection of small mud brick and corrugated iron
                                            Indian Dukas. There are a few settlers in the area growing coffee, or going in for mixed
                                            farming but I don’t think they are doing very well. The farm adjoining the rest house is
                                            owned by Lord Lovelace but is run by a manager.

                                            George says he gets enough exercise clambering about all day on the mountain,
                                            so Kate and I do our walking in the mornings when George is busy, and we all relax in
                                            the evenings when George returns from his field work. Kate’s favourite walk is to the big
                                            block of mtama (sorghum) shambas lower down the hill. There are huge swarms of tiny
                                            grain eating birds around waiting the chance to plunder the mtama, so the crops are
                                            watched from sunrise to sunset.

                                            Crude observation platforms have been erected for this purpose in the centre of
                                            each field and the women and the young boys of the family concerned, take it in turn to
                                            occupy the platform and scare the birds. Each watcher has a sling and uses clods of
                                            earth for ammunition. The clod is placed in the centre of the sling which is then whirled
                                            around at arms length. Suddenly one end of the sling is released and the clod of earth
                                            flies out and shatters against the mtama stalks. The sling makes a loud whip like crack and
                                            the noise is quite startling and very effective in keeping the birds at a safe distance.


                                            Karatu 3rd July 1938

                                            Dearest Family,

                                            Still on safari you see! We left Babati ten days ago and passed through Mbulu
                                            on our way to this spot. We slept out of doors one night beside Lake Tiawa about eight
                                            miles from Mbulu. It was a peaceful spot and we enjoyed watching the reflection of the
                                            sunset on the lake and the waterhens and duck and pelicans settling down for the night.
                                            However it turned piercingly cold after sunset so we had an early supper and then all
                                            three of us lay down to sleep in the back of the boxbody (station wagon). It was a tight
                                            fit and a real case of ‘When Dad turns, we all turn.’

                                            Here at Karatu we are living in a grass hut with only three walls. It is rather sweet
                                            and looks like the setting for a Nativity Play. Kate and I share the only camp bed and
                                            George and the dogs sleep on the floor. The air here is very fresh and exhilarating and
                                            we all feel very fit. George is occupied all day supervising the cutting of firebreaks
                                            around existing plantations and the forest reserve of indigenous trees. Our camp is on
                                            the hillside and below us lie the fertile wheat lands of European farmers.

                                            They are mostly Afrikaners, the descendants of the Boer families who were
                                            invited by the Germans to settle here after the Boer War. Most of them are pro-British
                                            now and a few have called in here to chat to George about big game hunting. George
                                            gets on extremely well with them and recently attended a wedding where he had a
                                            lively time dancing at the reception. He likes the older people best as most are great
                                            individualists. One fine old man, surnamed von Rooyen, visited our camp. He is a Boer
                                            of the General Smuts type with spare figure and bearded face. George tells me he is a
                                            real patriarch with an enormous family – mainly sons. This old farmer fought against the
                                            British throughout the Boer War under General Smuts and again against the British in the
                                            German East Africa campaign when he was a scout and right hand man to Von Lettow. It
                                            is said that Von Lettow was able to stay in the field until the end of the Great War
                                            because he listened to the advise given to him by von Rooyen. However his dislike for
                                            the British does not extend to George as they have a mutual interest in big game

                                            Kate loves being on safari. She is now so accustomed to having me as her nurse
                                            and constant companion that I do not know how she will react to paid help. I shall have to
                                            get someone to look after her during my confinement in the little German Red Cross
                                            hospital at Oldeani.

                                            George has obtained permission from the District Commissioner, for Kate and
                                            me to occupy the Government Rest House at Oldeani from the end of July until the end
                                            of August when my baby is due. He will have to carry on with his field work but will join
                                            us at weekends whenever possible.


                                            Karatu 12th July 1938

                                            Dearest Family,

                                            Not long now before we leave this camp. We have greatly enjoyed our stay
                                            here in spite of the very chilly earl mornings and the nights when we sit around in heavy
                                            overcoats until our early bed time.

                                            Last Sunday I persuaded George to take Kate and me to the famous Ngoro-
                                            Ngoro Crater. He was not very keen to do so because the road is very bumpy for
                                            anyone in my interesting condition but I feel so fit that I was most anxious to take this
                                            opportunity of seeing the enormous crater. We may never be in this vicinity again and in
                                            any case safari will not be so simple with a small baby.

                                            What a wonderful trip it was! The road winds up a steep escarpment from which
                                            one gets a glorious birds eye view of the plains of the Great Rift Valley far, far below.
                                            The crater is immense. There is a road which skirts the rim in places and one has quite
                                            startling views of the floor of the crater about two thousand feet below.

                                            A camp for tourists has just been built in a clearing in the virgin forest. It is most
                                            picturesque as the camp buildings are very neatly constructed log cabins with very high
                                            pitched thatched roofs. We spent about an hour sitting on the grass near the edge of the
                                            crater enjoying the sunshine and the sharp air and really awe inspiring view. Far below us
                                            in the middle of the crater was a small lake and we could see large herds of game
                                            animals grazing there but they were too far away to be impressive, even seen through
                                            George’s field glasses. Most appeared to be wildebeest and zebra but I also picked
                                            out buffalo. Much more exciting was my first close view of a wild elephant. George
                                            pointed him out to me as we approached the rest camp on the inward journey. He
                                            stood quietly under a tree near the road and did not seem to be disturbed by the car
                                            though he rolled a wary eye in our direction. On our return journey we saw him again at
                                            almost uncomfortably close quarters. We rounded a sharp corner and there stood the
                                            elephant, facing us and slap in the middle of the road. He was busily engaged giving
                                            himself a dust bath but spared time to give us an irritable look. Fortunately we were on a
                                            slight slope so George quickly switched off the engine and backed the car quietly round
                                            the corner. He got out of the car and loaded his rifle, just in case! But after he had finished
                                            his toilet the elephant moved off the road and we took our chance and passed without

                                            One notices the steepness of the Ngoro-Ngoro road more on the downward
                                            journey than on the way up. The road is cut into the side of the mountain so that one has
                                            a steep slope on one hand and a sheer drop on the other. George told me that a lorry
                                            coming down the mountain was once charged from behind by a rhino. On feeling and
                                            hearing the bash from behind the panic stricken driver drove off down the mountain as
                                            fast as he dared and never paused until he reached level ground at the bottom of the
                                            mountain. There was no sign of the rhino so the driver got out to examine his lorry and
                                            found the rhino horn embedded in the wooden tail end of the lorry. The horn had been
                                            wrenched right off!

                                            Happily no excitement of that kind happened to us. I have yet to see a rhino.


                                            Oldeani. 19th July 1938

                                            Dearest Family,

                                            Greetings from a lady in waiting! Kate and I have settled down comfortably in the
                                            new, solidly built Government Rest House which comprises one large living room and
                                            one large office with a connecting door. Outside there is a kitchen and a boys quarter.
                                            There are no resident Government officials here at Oldeani so the office is in use only
                                            when the District Officer from Mbulu makes his monthly visit. However a large Union
                                            Jack flies from a flagpole in the front of the building as a gentle reminder to the entirely
                                            German population of Oldeani that Tanganyika is now under British rule.

                                            There is quite a large community of German settlers here, most of whom are
                                            engaged in coffee farming. George has visited several of the farms in connection with his
                                            forestry work and says the coffee plantations look very promising indeed. There are also
                                            a few German traders in the village and there is a large boarding school for German
                                            children and also a very pleasant little hospital where I have arranged to have the baby.
                                            Right next door to the Rest House is a General Dealers Store run by a couple named
                                            Schnabbe. The shop is stocked with drapery, hardware, china and foodstuffs all
                                            imported from Germany and of very good quality. The Schnabbes also sell local farm
                                            produce, beautiful fresh vegetables, eggs and pure rich milk and farm butter. Our meat
                                            comes from a German butchery and it is a great treat to get clean, well cut meat. The
                                            sausages also are marvellous and in great variety.

                                            The butcher is an entertaining character. When he called round looking for custom I
                                            expected him to break out in a yodel any minute, as it was obvious from a glance that
                                            the Alps are his natural background. From under a green Tyrollean hat with feather,
                                            blooms a round beefy face with sparkling small eyes and such widely spaced teeth that
                                            one inevitably thinks of a garden rake. Enormous beefy thighs bulge from greasy
                                            lederhosen which are supported by the traditional embroidered braces. So far the
                                            butcher is the only cheery German, male or female, whom I have seen, and I have met
                                            most of the locals at the Schnabbe’s shop. Most of the men seem to have cultivated
                                            the grim Hitler look. They are all fanatical Nazis and one is usually greeted by a raised
                                            hand and Heil Hitler! All very theatrical. I always feel like crying in ringing tones ‘God
                                            Save the King’ or even ‘St George for England’. However the men are all very correct
                                            and courteous and the women friendly. The women all admire Kate and cry, “Ag, das
                                            kleine Englander.” She really is a picture with her rosy cheeks and huge grey eyes and
                                            golden curls. Kate is having a wonderful time playing with Manfried, the Scnabbe’s small
                                            son. Neither understands a word said by the other but that doesn’t seem to worry them.

                                            Before he left on safari, George took me to hospital for an examination by the
                                            nurse, Sister Marianne. She has not been long in the country and knows very little
                                            English but is determined to learn and carried on an animated, if rather quaint,
                                            conversation with frequent references to a pocket dictionary. She says I am not to worry
                                            because there is not doctor here. She is a very experienced midwife and anyway in an
                                            emergency could call on the old retired Veterinary Surgeon for assistance.
                                            I asked sister Marianne whether she knew of any German woman or girl who
                                            would look after Kate whilst I am in hospital and today a very top drawer German,
                                            bearing a strong likeness to ‘Little Willie’, called and offered the services of his niece who
                                            is here on a visit from Germany. I was rather taken aback and said, “Oh no Baron, your
                                            niece would not be the type I had in mind. I’m afraid I cannot pay much for a companion.”
                                            However the Baron was not to be discouraged. He told me that his niece is seventeen
                                            but looks twenty, that she is well educated and will make a cheerful companion. Her
                                            father wishes her to learn to speak English fluently and that is why the Baron wished her
                                            to come to me as a house daughter. As to pay, a couple of pounds a month for pocket
                                            money and her keep was all he had in mind. So with some misgivings I agreed to take
                                            the niece on as a companion as from 1st August.


                                            Oldeani. 10th August 1938

                                            Dearest Family,

                                            Never a dull moment since my young companion arrived. She is a striking looking
                                            girl with a tall boyish figure and very short and very fine dark hair which she wears
                                            severely slicked back. She wears tweeds, no make up but has shiny rosy cheeks and
                                            perfect teeth – she also,inevitably, has a man friend and I have an uncomfortable
                                            suspicion that it is because of him that she was planted upon me. Upon second
                                            thoughts though, maybe it was because of her excessive vitality, or even because of
                                            her healthy appetite! The Baroness, I hear is in poor health and I can imagine that such
                                            abundant health and spirit must have been quite overpowering. The name is Ingeborg,
                                            but she is called Mouche, which I believe means Mouse. Someone in her family must
                                            have a sense of humour.

                                            Her English only needed practice and she now chatters fluently so that I know her
                                            background and views on life. Mouche’s father is a personal friend of Goering. He was
                                            once a big noise in the German Airforce but is now connected with the car industry and
                                            travels frequently and intensively in Europe and America on business. Mouche showed
                                            me some snap shots of her family and I must say they look prosperous and charming.
                                            Mouche tells me that her father wants her to learn to speak English fluently so that
                                            she can get a job with some British diplomat in Cairo. I had immediate thought that I
                                            might be nursing a future Mata Hari in my bosom, but this was immediately extinguished
                                            when Mouche remarked that her father would like her to marry an Englishman. However
                                            it seems that the mere idea revolts her. “Englishmen are degenerates who swill whisky
                                            all day.” I pointed out that she had met George, who was a true blue Englishman, but
                                            was nevertheless a fine physical specimen and certainly didn’t drink all day. Mouche
                                            replied that George is not an Englishman but a hunter, as though that set him apart.
                                            Mouche is an ardent Hitler fan and an enthusiastic member of the Hitler Youth
                                            Movement. The house resounds with Hitler youth songs and when she is not singing,
                                            her gramophone is playing very stirring marching songs. I cannot understand a word,
                                            which is perhaps as well. Every day she does the most strenuous exercises watched
                                            with envy by me as my proportions are now those of a circus Big Top. Mouche eats a
                                            fantastic amount of meat and I feel it is a blessing that she is much admired by our
                                            Tyrollean butcher who now delivers our meat in person and adds as a token of his
                                            admiration some extra sausages for Mouche.

                                            I must confess I find her stimulating company as George is on safari most of the
                                            time and my evenings otherwise would be lonely. I am a little worried though about
                                            leaving Kate here with Mouche when I go to hospital. The dogs and Kate have not taken
                                            to her. I am trying to prepare Kate for the separation but she says, “She’s not my
                                            mummy. You are my dear mummy, and I want you, I want you.” George has got
                                            permission from the Provincial Forestry Officer to spend the last week of August here at
                                            the Rest House with me and I only hope that the baby will be born during that time.
                                            Kate adores her dad and will be perfectly happy to remain here with him.

                                            One final paragraph about Mouche. I thought all German girls were domesticated
                                            but not Mouche. I have Kesho-Kutwa here with me as cook and I have engaged a local
                                            boy to do the laundry. I however expected Mouche would take over making the
                                            puddings and pastry but she informed me that she can only bake a chocolate cake and
                                            absolutely nothing else. She said brightly however that she would do the mending. As
                                            there is none for her to do, she has rescued a large worn handkerchief of George’s and
                                            sits with her feet up listening to stirring gramophone records whilst she mends the
                                            handkerchief with exquisite darning.


                                            Oldeani. 20th August 1938

                                            Dearest Family,

                                            Just after I had posted my last letter I received what George calls a demi official
                                            letter from the District Officer informing me that I would have to move out of the Rest
                                            House for a few days as the Governor and his hangers on would be visiting Oldeani
                                            and would require the Rest House. Fortunately George happened to be here for a few
                                            hours and he arranged for Kate and Mouche and me to spend a few days at the
                                            German School as borders. So here I am at the school having a pleasant and restful
                                            time and much entertained by all the goings on.

                                            The school buildings were built with funds from Germany and the school is run on
                                            the lines of a contemporary German school. I think the school gets a grant from the
                                            Tanganyika Government towards running expenses, but I am not sure. The school hall is
                                            dominated by a more than life sized oil painting of Adolf Hitler which, at present, is
                                            flanked on one side by the German Flag and on the other by the Union Jack. I cannot
                                            help feeling that the latter was put up today for the Governor’s visit today.
                                            The teachers are very amiable. We all meet at mealtimes, and though few of the
                                            teachers speak English, the ones who do are anxious to chatter. The headmaster is a
                                            scholarly man but obviously anti-British. He says he cannot understand why so many
                                            South Africans are loyal to Britain – or rather to England. “They conquered your country
                                            didn’t they?” I said that that had never occurred to me and that anyway I was mainly of
                                            Scots descent and that loyalty to the crown was natural to me. “But the English
                                            conquered the Scots and yet you are loyal to England. That I cannot understand.” “Well I
                                            love England,” said I firmly, ”and so do all British South Africans.” Since then we have
                                            stuck to English literature. Shakespeare, Lord Byron and Galsworthy seem to be the
                                            favourites and all, thank goodness, make safe topics for conversation.
                                            Mouche is in her element but Kate and I do not enjoy the food which is typically
                                            German and consists largely of masses of fat pork and sauerkraut and unfamiliar soups. I
                                            feel sure that the soup at lunch today had blobs of lemon curd in it! I also find most
                                            disconcerting the way that everyone looks at me and says, “Bon appetite”, with much
                                            smiling and nodding so I have to fight down my nausea and make a show of enjoying
                                            the meals.

                                            The teacher whose room adjoins mine is a pleasant woman and I take my
                                            afternoon tea with her. She, like all the teachers, has a large framed photo of Hitler on her
                                            wall flanked by bracket vases of fresh flowers. One simply can’t get away from the man!
                                            Even in the dormitories each child has a picture of Hitler above the bed. Hitler accepting
                                            flowers from a small girl, or patting a small boy on the head. Even the children use the
                                            greeting ‘Heil Hitler’. These German children seem unnaturally prim when compared with
                                            my cheerful ex-pupils in South Africa but some of them are certainly very lovely to look

                                            Tomorrow Mouche, Kate and I return to our quarters in the Rest House and in a
                                            few days George will join us for a week.


                                            Oldeani Hospital. 9th September 1938

                                            Dearest Family,

                                            You will all be delighted to hear that we have a second son, whom we have
                                            named John. He is a darling, so quaint and good. He looks just like a little old man with a
                                            high bald forehead fringed around the edges with a light brown fluff. George and I call
                                            him Johnny Jo because he has a tiny round mouth and a rather big nose and reminds us
                                            of A.A.Milne’s ‘Jonathan Jo has a mouth like an O’ , but Kate calls him, ‘My brother John’.
                                            George was not here when he was born on September 5th, just two minutes
                                            before midnight. He left on safari on the morning of the 4th and, of course, that very night
                                            the labour pains started. Fortunately Kate was in bed asleep so Mouche walked with
                                            me up the hill to the hospital where I was cheerfully received by Sister Marianne who
                                            had everything ready for the confinement. I was lucky to have such an experienced
                                            midwife because this was a breech birth and sister had to manage single handed. As
                                            there was no doctor present I was not allowed even a sniff of anaesthetic. Sister slaved
                                            away by the light of a pressure lamp endeavouring to turn the baby having first shoved
                                            an inverted baby bath under my hips to raise them.

                                            What a performance! Sister Marianne was very much afraid that she might not be
                                            able to save the baby and great was our relief when at last she managed to haul him out
                                            by the feet. One slap and the baby began to cry without any further attention so Sister
                                            wrapped him up in a blanket and took Johnny to her room for the night. I got very little
                                            sleep but was so thankful to have the ordeal over that I did not mind even though I
                                            heard a hyaena cackling and calling under my window in a most evil way.
                                            When Sister brought Johnny to me in the early morning I stared in astonishment.
                                            Instead of dressing him in one of his soft Viyella nighties, she had dressed him in a short
                                            sleeved vest of knitted cotton with a cotton cloth swayed around his waist sarong
                                            fashion. When I protested, “But Sister why is the baby not dressed in his own clothes?”
                                            She answered firmly, “I find it is not allowed. A baby’s clotheses must be boiled and I
                                            cannot boil clotheses of wool therefore your baby must wear the clotheses of the Red

                                            It was the same with the bedding. Poor Johnny lies all day in a deep wicker
                                            basket with a detachable calico lining. There is no pillow under his head but a vast kind of
                                            calico covered pillow is his only covering. There is nothing at all cosy and soft round my
                                            poor baby. I said crossly to the Sister, “As every thing must be so sterile, I wonder you
                                            don’t boil me too.” This she ignored.

                                            When my message reached George he dashed back to visit us. Sister took him
                                            first to see the baby and George was astonished to see the baby basket covered by a
                                            sheet. “She has the poor little kid covered up like a bloody parrot,” he told me. So I
                                            asked him to go at once to buy a square of mosquito netting to replace the sheet.
                                            Kate is quite a problem. She behaves like an Angel when she is here in my
                                            room but is rebellious when Sister shoos her out. She says she “Hates the Nanny”
                                            which is what she calls Mouche. Unfortunately it seems that she woke before midnight
                                            on the night Johnny Jo was born to find me gone and Mouche in my bed. According to
                                            Mouche, Kate wept all night and certainly when she visited me in the early morning
                                            Kate’s face was puffy with crying and she clung to me crying “Oh my dear mummy, why
                                            did you go away?” over and over again. Sister Marianne was touched and suggested
                                            that Mouche and Kate should come to the hospital as boarders as I am the only patient
                                            at present and there is plenty of room. Luckily Kate does not seem at all jealous of the
                                            baby and it is a great relief to have here here under my eye.



                                              From Tanganyika with Love

                                              continued part 7

                                              With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                                              Oldeani Hospital. 19th September 1938

                                              Dearest Family,

                                              George arrived today to take us home to Mbulu but Sister Marianne will not allow
                                              me to travel for another week as I had a bit of a set back after baby’s birth. At first I was
                                              very fit and on the third day Sister stripped the bed and, dictionary in hand, started me
                                              off on ante natal exercises. “Now make a bridge Mrs Rushby. So. Up down, up down,’
                                              whilst I obediently hoisted myself aloft on heels and head. By the sixth day she
                                              considered it was time for me to be up and about but alas, I soon had to return to bed
                                              with a temperature and a haemorrhage. I got up and walked outside for the first time this

                                              I have had lots of visitors because the local German settlers seem keen to see
                                              the first British baby born in the hospital. They have been most kind, sending flowers
                                              and little German cards of congratulations festooned with cherubs and rather sweet. Most
                                              of the women, besides being pl