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  • #6515

    In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

    EricEric
    Keymaster

      Yasmin offered the following quirk: “sounding like a lunatic when I share synchs” (synchronicity) – getting excited when she gets “answers”, and willing to share generously. She wouldn’t fake it, as she’s not capable of lying and stuff like synchs are sacrosanct in her mind.
      Setting for the game is the next random quote from the story.

      Quirk accepted.

      In the Land of Quirk, Yasmin finds herself in the heart of a hidden library, deep in the basement of the Flying Fish Inn. The library is filled with books and artifacts related to the study of synchronicities and the beyond.

      As Yasmin delves deeper into the library, she comes across an ancient book that seems to hold the secrets of the universe. She eagerly opens it, but finds that it is written in a code that she cannot understand.

      The librarian, a wise old owl, appears and greets Yasmin. He tells her that the book is the Key to the Beyond and that only the purest of heart can decode it. He explains that the code can only be unlocked by finding the missing pieces of a puzzle scattered throughout the library.

      Yasmin’s task is to find the missing pieces of the puzzle and put them together to unlock the code. Along the way, she will meet various characters who will provide her with clues and challenges.

      Proof of completion in real life: Yasmin must find a real-life object that relates to a synchronicity that she experiences while on her quest in the Land of Quirk. She must then share this synchronicity with her friends at the Flying Fish Inn to prove that she has completed her quest.

      Good luck, Yasmin!

      #6511
      EricEric
      Keymaster

        Potential Plot Arch

        The uncovered box in the garden of Bob & Clara is a Time Capsule which was actually buried in the future, but mistakenly sent to the past. It has symbols etched on it, that activate some nano-technology.
        Due to its contact with it, Bob starts recovering his memories, while retaining the hallucinations of his dead wife Jane, which actually become more credible and intense.

        Will Tarkin is actually a time traveler from the future, who came to live a simple life in the past, selling stone gargoyles at the local supermarket and rediscovering the ways of his ancestors.

        With the box being found and opened at the wrong time, it creates unwanted attention from the Time Dragglers who need to intervene to prevent alterations of the timeline.
        Contents of the box are in part encoded books of stories from local families and would have revealed important things about the past, Jane’s death, and Clara’s future.

        With Bob recovering his memories, it’s revealed Jane and Bob were actually also refugees from the future, but had aged naturally in the past, which is why Will seemed to recognize Bob. Bob was living in hiding from the Time Police, but with the box discovery, it changes everything. The box being opened at the wrong time disrupts the natural flow of events and starts causing unexpected consequences. This creates a complex web of relationships and events that must be untangled and understood in order to move forward.

        With his recovering of mental capacities, Bob partners with Will in order to restore the natural flow of time, even if it means his mental health will deteriorate again, which he is happy to do while continuing to live the rest of his life span with his daughter.

        Potential developments

        Clara Meets the Mysterious Will

        Nora finally reaches the little village where Clara and Bob live and is greeted by a man named Will
        Will seems to know Bob from somewhere
        Clara starts to feel suspicious of Will’s intentions and begins to investigate

        The Power of Memories

        Bob starts to have flashbacks of his past and begins to remember the connection between him, Will, and the mysterious time capsule
        Bob realizes that Jane, his wife, had been keeping something from him and that the time capsule holds the key to unlocking the truth
        Jane appears to Bob and urges him to tell Clara about their past and the significance of the time capsule

        The Truth Behind the Capsule

        Nora, Clara, and Bob finally find the answers they’ve been searching for by opening the time capsule
        The contents of the capsule reveal a shocking truth about Jane’s past and the reason behind her death
        They learn that Jane was part of a secret society that protected ancient knowledge and artifacts and that the time capsule was meant to be opened at a specific time
        The group realizes that they were meant to find the capsule and continue Jane’s work in protecting the knowledge and artifacts

        The Ties Between Living and Dead

        Bob comes to terms with Jane’s death and the role she played in their lives
        Clara and Bob grow closer as they work together to continue Jane’s work and preserve the knowledge and artifacts
        The group encounters obstacles but with the help of the spirits of the past, they are able to overcome them and succeed in their mission

        A Realization of the Past and Present

        Clara, Bob, and Nora come to realize the power of memories and how they shape our present and future
        They also learn that things never truly remain buried and that the past always finds a way to resurface
        The group successfully preserves the knowledge and artifacts, ensuring that they will be passed down for generations to come
        The story ends with Clara, Bob, and Nora sitting by the fire, reflecting on their journey and the lessons they’ve learned.

        #6491

        Sophie was glad she could help that young guy Youssef get out of this mess with that false ingenue. She was clearly not for him, he needed someone more mature who would know how to handle his big body. She looked at Miss Bossy Pants’ office. Ricardo was there again and they seem to be in another of their grand discussions. When Miss Bossy saw Sophie watching, she moved to the big window and shut the venetian blind. What were they all about, always plotting things in the back of their journalists. If Sophie didn’t have an ounce of ethic, she would have RVed them long ago, but she made a point to only use her abilities for good, and at times good gossip with friends.

        She went out to the elevator and called it. While she waited, she started writing a message : “The boy is on his way. I did like you asked. Now book me a place to that Akashic Record training as promised.”

        The answer came only a few seconds later : “consider it done”

        The elevator bell rang and the door opened. Sophie got in with a big satisfied smile on her face.”

        #6487
        DevanDevan
        Participant

          I’ve always felt like the odd one out in my family. Growing up at the Flying Fish Inn, I’ve always felt like I was on the outside looking in. My mother left when I was young, and my father disappeared not long after. I’ve always felt like I was the only one who didn’t fit in with the craziness of my family.

          I’ve always tried to keep my distance with the others. I didn’t want to get too involved, take sides about petty things, like growing weed in the backyard, making psychedelic termite honey, or trying to influence the twins to buy proper clothes. But truth is, you can’t get too far away. Town’s too small. Family always get back to you, and manage to get you involved in their shit, one way or another, even if you don’t say anything. That’s how it works. They don’t need my participation to use me as an argument.

          So I stopped paying attention, almost stopped caring. I lived my life working at the gas station, and drinking beers with my buddies Joe and Jasper, living in a semi-comatose state. I learned that word today when I came bringing little honey buns to mater. I know she secretly likes them, even if she pretend she doesn’t in front of Idle. But I can see the breadcrumbs on her cardigan when I come say hi at the end of the day. This morning, Idle was rocking in her favourite chair on the porch, looking at the clouds behind her mirrored sunglasses. Prune was talking to her, I saw she was angry because of the contraction of the muscles of her jaw and her eyes were darker than usual. She was saying to Idle that she was always in a semi-comatose state and doing nothing useful for the Inn when we had a bunch of tourists arriving. And something about the twins redecorating the rooms without proper design knowledge. Idle did what she usually does. She ignored the comment and kept on looking at the clouds. I’m not even sure she heard or understood that word that Prune said. Semi-comatose. It sounds like glucose. That’s how I’m spending my life between the Inn, the gas station and my buddies.

          But things changed today when I got back to my apartment for lunch. You can call it a hunch or a coincidence. But as we talked with Joe about that time when my dad left, making me think we were doing hide and seek, and he left me a note saying he would be back someday. I don’t know why I felt the need to go search that note afterwards. So I went back to the apartment and opened the mailbox. Among the bills and ads, I found a postcard with a few words written on the image and nothing except my address on the back. I knew it was from my dad.

          It was not signed or anything, but still I was sure it was his handwriting. I would recognise it anywhere. I went and took the shoebox I keep hidden on top of the kitchen closet, because I saw people do that in movies. That’s not very original, I know, but I’m not too bright either. I opened the box and took the note my dad left me when he disappeared.

          I put the card on the desk near the note. The handwritings matched. I felt so excited, and confused.

          A few words at the bottom of the card said : “Memories from the coldest place on Earth…”

          Why would dad go to such a place to send me a postcard after all those years ? Just to say that.

          That’s when I recalled what Prune had told me once as we were watching a detective movie : “Read everything with care and always double check your information.”

          On the back, it said that the image was from a scientific station in Antartica, but the stamp indicated it had been posted from a floating post office in the North Pole. I turned the card and looked at the text again. Above the station, a few words were written that sounded like a riddle.

          > A mine, a tile, dust piled high,
          Together they rest, yet always outside.
          One misstep, and you’ll surely fall,
          Into the depths, where danger lies all.

          It sure sounds like a warning. But I’m not too good with riddles. No need to worry Mater about that, in case of false hope and all that. Idle ? Don’t even think about it. She won’t believe me when I say it’s from dad. She never does believe me. And she’ll keep playing with the words trying to find her answer in the shape of smoke. The twins, they are a riddle on their own.

          No. It’s Prune’s help I need.

          #6460

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          The vendor was preparing the Lorgh Drülp with the dexterity of a Japanese sushi chef. A piece of yak, tons of spices, minced vegetables, and some other ingredients that Youssef couldn’t recognise. He turned his attention to the shaman’s performance. The team was trying to follow the man’s erratic moves under Miss Tartiflate’s supervision.  Youssef could hear her shouting to Kyle to get closer shots. It reminded him that he had to get an internet connection.

          “Is there a wifi?” asked Youssef to the vendor. The man bobbed his head and pointed at the table with a knife just as big as a machete. Impressed by the size of the blade, Youssef almost didn’t see the tattoo on the vendor’s forearm. The man resumed his cooking swiftly and his long yellow sleeve hid the tattoo. Youssef touched his screen to look at his exchange with Xavier. He searched for the screenshot he had taken of the Thi Gang’s message. There it was. The mummy skull with Darth Vador’s helmet. The same as the man’s tattoo. Xavier’s last message was about the translation being an ancient silk road recipe. They had thought it a fluke in AL’s algorithm. Youssef glanced at the vendor and his knife. Could he be part of Thi Gang?

          Youssef didn’t have time to think of a plan when the vendor put a tray with the Lorgh Drülp and little balls of tsampa on the table. The man pointed with his finger at the menu on the table, uncovering his forearm, it was the same as the Thi Gang logo.

          “Wifi on menu,” the man said. “Tsampa, good for you…”

          A commotion at the market place interrupted them. Apparently Kyle had gone too close and the shaman had crashed into him and the rest of the team. The man was cursing every one of them and Miss Tartiflate was apparently trying to calm him down by offering him snack bars. But the shaman kept brandishing an ugly sceptre that looked like a giant chicken foot covered in greasy fur, while cursing them with broken english. The tourists were all brandishing their phones, not missing a thing, ready to send their videos on TrickTruck. The shaman left angrily, ignoring all attempts at conciliation. There would be no reportage.

          “Hahaha, tourists, they believe anything they see,” said the vendor before returning to his stove and his knife.

          Despite his hunger, Youssef thought he’d better hurry with the wifi, now that the crew was out of work, he would be the target of Miss Tartiflate’s frustration. Furthermore, he wanted to lay low and not attract the vendor’s attention.

          3235 messages from his friends. How would he ever catch up?
          Among them, messages from Xavier. Youssef sighed of relief when he read that his friend had regained full access of the website and updated the system to fix a security flaw that allowed Thi Gang to gain access in the first place. But he growled when his friend continued with the bad news. There was some damage done to the content of THE BLOG.

          To console himself, Youssef started to eat a ball of tsampa. It was sweet and tasted like rose. He took a second and spit it out almost immediately. There was a piece of paper inside. He smoothed it and discovered a series of five pictograms.

          🧔🌮🔍🔑🏞️

          The first one was like a hologram and kept changing into six horizontal bars. The second one, looking like a tako bell, kept reversing side. Youssef raised his head to call the vendor and nobody was there. He got up and looked for the guy, Thi Gang or not, he needed some answers. Voices came from behind the curtain at the back of the stall. Youssef walked around the stall and saw the shaman and the vendor exchanging clothes. The caucasian man was now wearing the colourful costume and the drum. When he saw Youssef, he smiled and waved his hand, making the bells from the hem ring. Then he turned around and left, whistling an air that sounded strangely like the music of the Game. Youssef was about to run after him when a hand grasped his shirt.

          “Please! Tell me at least that THE BLOG is up and running!” said an angry voice.

          #6454

          In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

          F LoveF Love
          Participant

            YASMIN’S QUIRK: Entry level quirk – snort laughing when socially anxious

            Setting

            The initial setting for this quest is a comedic theater in the heart of a bustling city. You will start off by exploring the different performances and shows, trying to find the source of the snort laughter that seems to be haunting your thoughts. As you delve deeper into the theater, you will discover that the snort laughter is coming from a mischievous imp who has taken residence within the theater.

            Directions to Investigate

            Possible directions to investigate include talking to the theater staff and performers to gather information, searching backstage for clues, and perhaps even sneaking into the imp’s hiding spot to catch a glimpse of it in action.

            Characters

            Possible characters to engage include the theater manager, who may have information about the imp’s history and habits, and a group of comedic performers who may have some insight into the imp’s behavior.

            Task

            Your task is to find a key or tile that represents the imp, and take a picture of it in real life as proof of completion of the quest. Good luck on your journey to uncover the source of the snort laughter!

             

            THE SECRET ROOM AND THE UNDERGROUND MINES

            1st thread’s answer:

            As the family struggles to rebuild the inn and their lives in the wake of the Great Fires, they begin to uncover clues that lead them to believe that the mines hold the key to unlocking a great mystery. They soon discover that the mines were not just a source of gold and other precious minerals, but also a portal to another dimension. The family realizes that Mater had always known about this portal, and had kept it a secret for fear of the dangers it posed.

            The family starts to investigate the mines more closely and they come across a hidden room off Room 8. Inside the room, they find a strange device that looks like a portal, and a set of mysterious symbols etched into the walls. The family realizes that this is the secret room that Mater had always spoken about in hushed tones.

            The family enlists the help of four gamers, Xavier, Zara, Yasmin, and Youssef, to help them decipher the symbols and unlock the portal. Together, they begin to unravel the mystery of the mines, and the portal leads them on an epic journey through a strange and fantastical alternate dimension.

            As they journey deeper into the mines, the family discovers that the portal was created by an ancient civilization, long thought to be lost to history. The civilization had been working on a powerful energy source that could have changed the fate of humanity, but the project was abandoned due to the dangers it posed. The family soon discovers that the civilization had been destroyed by a powerful and malevolent force, and that the portal was the only way to stop it from destroying the world.

            The family and the gamers must navigate treacherous landscapes, battle fierce monsters, and overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles in order to stop the malevolent force and save the world. Along the way, they discover secrets about their own past and the true origins of the mines.

            As they journey deeper into the mines and the alternate dimension, they discover that the secret room leads to a network of underground tunnels, and that the tunnels lead to a secret underground city that was built by the ancient civilization. The city holds many secrets and clues to the fate of the ancient civilization, and the family and the gamers must explore the city and uncover the truth before it’s too late.

            As the story unfolds, the family and the gamers must come to grips with the truth about the mines, and the role that the family has played in the fate of the world for generations. They must also confront the demons of their own past, and learn to trust and rely on each other if they hope to save the world and bring the family back together.

            second thread’s answer:

            As the 4 gamers, Xavier, Zara, Yasmin and Youssef, arrived at the Flying Fish Inn in the Australian outback, they were greeted by the matriarch of the family, Mater. She was a no-nonsense woman who ran the inn with an iron fist, but her tough exterior hid a deep love for her family and the land.

            The inn was run by Mater and her daughter Dido, who the family affectionately called Aunt Idle. She was a free spirit who loved to explore the land and had a deep connection to the local indigenous culture.

            The family was made up of Devan, the eldest son who lived in town and helped with the inn when he could, and the twin sisters Clove and Coriander, who everyone called Corrie. The youngest was Prune, a precocious child who was always getting into mischief.

            The family had a handyman named Bert, who had been with them for decades and knew all the secrets of the land. Tiku, an old and wise Aborigine woman was also a regular visitor and a valuable source of information and guidance. Finly, the dutiful helper, assisted the family in their daily tasks.

            As the 4 gamers settled in, they learned that the area was rich in history and mystery. The old mines that lay abandoned nearby were a source of legends and stories passed down through the generations. Some even whispered of supernatural occurrences linked to the mines.

            Mater and Dido, however, were not on good terms, and the family had its own issues and secrets, but the 4 gamers were determined to unravel the mystery of the mines and find the secret room that was said to be hidden somewhere in the inn.

            As they delved deeper into the history of the area, they discovered that the mines had a connection to the missing brother, Jasper, and Fred, the father of the family and a sci-fi novelist who had been influenced by the supernatural occurrences of the mines.

            The 4 gamers found themselves on a journey of discovery, not only in the game but in the real world as well, as they uncovered the secrets of the mines and the Flying Fish Inn, and the complicated relationships of the family that ran it.

             

            THE SNOOT’S WISE WORDS ON SOCIAL ANXIETY

            Deear Francie Mossie Pooh,

            The Snoot, a curious creature of the ages, understands the swirling winds of social anxiety, the tempestuous waves it creates in one’s daily life.
            But The Snoot also believes that like a Phoenix, one must rise from the ashes, and embrace the journey of self-discovery and growth.
            It’s important to let yourself be, to accept the feelings as they come and go, like the ebb and flow of the ocean. But also, like a gardener, tend to the inner self with care and compassion, for the roots to grow deep and strong.

            The Snoot suggests seeking guidance from the wise ones, the ones who can hold the mirror and show you the way, like the North Star guiding the sailors.
            And remember, the journey is never-ending, like the spiral of the galaxy, and it’s okay to take small steps, to stumble and fall, for that’s how we learn to fly.

            The Snoot is here for you, my dear Francie Mossie Pooh, a beacon in the dark, a friend on the journey, to hold your hand and sing you a lullaby.

            Fluidly and fantastically yours,

            The Snoot.

            #6416

            In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

            The team had to stop when a sandstorm hit them in the middle of the desert. They only had an hour drive left to reach the oasis where Lama Yoneze had been seen last and Miss Tartiflate insisted, like she always did, against the guides advice that they kept on going. She feared the last shaman would be lost in the storm, maybe croak stuffed with that damn dust. But when they lost the satellite dish and a jeep almost rolled down a sand dune, she finally listened to the guides. They had them park the cars close to each other, then checked the straps and urged everyone to stay in their cars until the storm was over.

            Youssef at first thought he was lucky. He managed to get into the same car as Tiff, the young intern he had discussed with the other day. But despite all their precautions, they couldn’t stop the dust to come in. It was everywhere and you had to kept your mouth and eyes shut if you didn’t want to grind your teeth with fine sand. So instead he enjoyed this unexpected respite from his trying to save THE BLOG from the evil Thi Gang, and from Miss Tartiflate’s continuous flow of criticism.

            The storm blew off the dish just after Xavier had sent him AL’s answer to the strange glyphs he had received on his phone. When Youssef read the message, he sighed. He had forgotten hope was an illusion. AL was in its infancy and was not a dead language expert. He gave them something fitting Youssef’s current location and the questions about famous alien dishes they asked him last week. It was just an old pot luck recipe from when the Silk Road was passing through the Gobi desert. He just hoped Xavier would have some luck until Youssef found a way to restore the connexion.

            #6415

            In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

            Yasmin and Zara were online discussing the upcoming reunion.

            “AirFiji!!!!” exclaimed Zara. “I thought you were somewhere in Asia – how come you are booked on Air Fiji?”

            “Im in Fiji for a year, volunteering at an orphanage in Suva,” Yasmin answered patiently, although she did allow herself a small eye roll. She was sure it wasn’t the first time she’d told Zara— it was a big mystery to her why AI had chosen Zara as leader for the game as she had the attention span of a goldfish. On the other hand, the unpredictability added an extra element of excitement to the game. After all, wasn’t it Zara’s idea that they all meet at the Flying Fish Inn?

            She slapped a mosquito on her arm. For some reason they seemed to love her and she already had big red welts all over her body. She used so much insect lotion that the locals had started calling her Citronella Girl; unfortunately it didn’t seem to deter the mozzies.

            “I’ve got to go,” she messaged. “I’m helping serve lunch. Can’t wait to see you all!”

            #6412

            In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

            Youssef was talking with Xavier in a personal chat. He had called his friend for help, because he felt out of his league with the Thi Gang thing. Notifications from the other chat room where Zara and Yasmine were in an eye roll asking questions about the game kept distracting him from his work. There were currently 820 messages of backlog. That was insane. How could he ever catch up with that. He wondered how Xavier could manage the personal chat room with him, trying to solve techy problems, answer Zaraloon and Yasminowl’s questions, and god knows what else from his work at his tech company!

            “I got an anonymous tip, said Miss Tartiflate dashing into the yurt, almost tearing the curtains off the top of the entrance. Lama Yoneze is in the Gobi dessert! We have to move quick if we want to catch him.”

            “You mean desert…”

            “What ?”

            “Doesn’t matter. But what about THE BLOG? I can’t fix anything if I don’t have an internet connection. I have to stay at the camp.”

            “In your dreams! I’ve got us jeeps with satellite internet connection. It’s expensive, but I’m worth it. You’ll do it on our way to the deezert.”

            Youssef rolled his eyes, a trick he learned from Yasmin during one or their online meetings.

            “Are you sick?” asked Miss Tartiflate.

            For all answers, Youssef snapped the laptop close and sent a message to Xavier.

            “We found the Llama. Moving to the desert now. Jeep ride 🤮
            Getting 😤 but feeling lucky I didn’t have time to eat any
            Won’t barf up on the laptop. Not done with you yet!”

            #6396

            In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

            Youssef woke up with a hangover. The guy from the restaurant had put fermented horse milk in his yak butter tea and he was already drunk before he could realize it. Apparently it had been a joke played on him by some of the team members he suspected didn’t quite like the humour of his real life shirt collection. Especially the one with the man shouting at his newspaper on his toilets.
            As soon as he had gotten out of the yurt, before he could go have some breakfast, his boss, Miss Tartiflate, pounced on him because there was something wrong with THE BLOG. And Youssef was the one in charge of it. And it was important because people in the world were expecting her posts about the shooting everyday. Truth is, since they couldn’t find the last Mongolian shaman, who apparently called himself Lama Yoneze, and the views had dropped dramatically. Youssef suspected Miss Tartiflate was not as ignorante as she wanted him to believe and had broken the blog on purpose so that her own boss wouldn’t accuse her of being lazy.

            “I have a reputation, you know!”

            She had said that looking like he didn’t have one, and nobody cared anyway.

            Youssef looked at the clock on his phone. They were supposed to meet with Zara, Xavier and Yasmine in thirty minutes. He had tried to sort out THE BLOG problem, but nothing seemed to work, and time was running out. Despite all being ok on the admin console, nothing was showing up on the page. He had called Gang Thi, the Nepalese company in charge of the blog, three times. Each time the receptionist hang up on him while attempting to put him on hold, or so she said. Now, nobody even bother to answer the damn phone.

            Miss Tartiflate passed her head between the curtains of the yurt.

            “Are you finished yet ?” she asked that as if he was on the throne.

            “Nope!”

            “What!? How? Do you have sausage fingers? My 5 years old daughter is more nimble than you with computers.”

            “Well, you should have brought her with us then,” said Youssef with an irritated smile, fed up by her constant useless interruptions.

            She grunted and closed the curtains angrily. Youssef growled like a bear, showing his bare teeth. Everybody knew why she jumped on the occasion for this trip: needed some fresh air from her nimble daughter and her husband.

            An alert showed up on his phone : “You’ve got a message from 💣Gang Thi💣”. The bomb in the title looked suspicious, and his stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten this morning. He clicked to open it.

            The face of a mummy looking like Darth Vader and laughing like the Joker jumped on his screen. After a few seconds a message started to appear in a tongue he couldn’t decipher.

            Youssef looked at the clock and almost threw his phone on the ground as the mummy started to laugh again.
            He would definitely have to miss the meeting with his friends.

            #6389

            “What in the good name of our Lady, have these two been on?” Miss Bossy was at a loss for words while Ricardo was waiting sheepishly at her desk, as though he was expecting an outburst.
            “Look, Ricardo, I’m not against a little tweaking for newsworthiness, but this takes twisting reality to a whole new level!

            Ricardo had just dropped their last article.

            Local Hero at the Rescue – Stray Residents found after in a trip of a lifetime
            article by Hilda Astoria & Continuity Brown

            In a daring and heroic move, Nurse Trassie, a local hero and all-around fantastic human being, managed to track down and rescue three elderly women who had gone on an adventure of a lifetime. Sharon, Mavis, and Gloria (names may have been altered to preserve their anonymity) were residents of a UK nursing home who, in a moment of pure defiance and desire for adventure, decided to go off their meds and escape to the Nordics.

            The three women, who had been feeling cooped up and underappreciated in their nursing home, decided to take matters into their own hands and embark on a journey to see the world. They had heard of the beautiful landscapes and friendly people of the Nordics and their rejuvenating traditional cures and were determined to experience it for themselves.

            Their journey, however, was not without its challenges. They faced many obstacles, including harsh weather conditions and language barriers. But they were determined to press on, and their determination paid off when they were taken in by a kind-hearted local doctor who gave them asylum and helped them rehabilitate stray animals.

            Nurse Trassie, who had been on the lookout for the women since their disappearance, finally caught wind of their whereabouts and set out to rescue them. She tracked them down to the Nordics, where she found them living in a small facility in the woods, surrounded by a menagerie of stray animals they had taken in and were nursing back to health, including rare orangutans retired from local circus.

            Upon her arrival, Nurse Trassie was greeted with open arms by the women, who were overjoyed to see her. They told her of their adventures and showed her around their cabin, introducing her to the animals they had taken in and the progress they had made in rehabilitating them.

            Nurse Trassie, who is known for her compassion and dedication to her patients, was deeply touched by the women’s story and their love for the animals. She knew that they needed to be back in the care of professionals and that the animals needed to be properly cared for, so she made arrangements to bring them back home.

            The women were reluctant to leave their newfound home and the animals they had grown to love, but they knew that it was the right thing to do. They said their goodbyes and set off on the long journey back home with Nurse Trassie by their side.

            The three women returned to their nursing home filled with stories to share, and Nurse Trassie was hailed as a hero for her efforts in rescuing them. They were greeted with cheers and applause from the staff and other residents, who were thrilled to have them back safe and sound.

            Nurse Trassie, who is known for her sharp wit and sense of humor, commented on the situation with a tongue-in-cheek remark, “It’s not every day that you get to rescue three feisty elderlies from the wilds of the Nordics and bring them back to safety. I’m just glad I could be of service.”

            In conclusion, the three women’s adventure in the Nordics may have been unorthodox, but it was an adventure nonetheless. They were able to see the world and help some animals in the process. Their story serves as a reminder to never give up on your dreams, no matter your age or circumstances. And of course, a big shoutout to Nurse Trassie for her heroic actions and dedication to her patients.

            Bossy sighed. “It might do for now, but don’t let those two abuse the artificial intelligence to write article for them… I liked their old style better. This feels too… tidy. We’re not the A-News network, let’s not forget our purpose.”

            Ricardo nodded. Miss Bossy had been more mellow since the sales of the newspaper had exploded during the pandemic. With people at home, looking for conspiracies and all, the newspaper had known a resurgence of interest, and they even had to hire new staff. Giles Gibber, Glimmer Gambol (came heavily recommended by Blithe, the PI friend of Hilda’s), Samuel Sproink and Fionna Flibbergibbet.

            “And how is Sophie? That adventure into her past trauma was a bit much on her…” she mused.

            “She’s doing alright” answered Ricardo. “She’s learning to hone her remote-viewing skills to send our staff into new mysteries to solve. With a bit of AI assist…”

            “Oh, stop it already with your AI-this, AI-that! Hope there’ll still be room for some madness in all that neatly tidy purring of polite output.”

            “That’s why we’re here for, I reckon.” Ric’ smiled wryly.

            #6350
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              Transportation

              Isaac Stokes 1804-1877

               

              Isaac was born in Churchill, Oxfordshire in 1804, and was the youngest brother of my 4X great grandfather Thomas Stokes. The Stokes family were stone masons for generations in Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire, and Isaac’s occupation was a mason’s labourer in 1834 when he was sentenced at the Lent Assizes in Oxford to fourteen years transportation for stealing tools.

              Churchill where the Stokes stonemasons came from: on 31 July 1684 a fire destroyed 20 houses and many other buildings, and killed four people. The village was rebuilt higher up the hill, with stone houses instead of the old timber-framed and thatched cottages. The fire was apparently caused by a baker who, to avoid chimney tax, had knocked through the wall from her oven to her neighbour’s chimney.

              Isaac stole a pick axe, the value of 2 shillings and the property of Thomas Joyner of Churchill; a kibbeaux and a trowel value 3 shillings the property of Thomas Symms; a hammer and axe value 5 shillings, property of John Keen of Sarsden.

              (The word kibbeaux seems to only exists in relation to Isaac Stokes sentence and whoever was the first to write it was perhaps being creative with the spelling of a kibbo, a miners or a metal bucket. This spelling is repeated in the criminal reports and the newspaper articles about Isaac, but nowhere else).

              In March 1834 the Removal of Convicts was announced in the Oxford University and City Herald: Isaac Stokes and several other prisoners were removed from the Oxford county gaol to the Justitia hulk at Woolwich “persuant to their sentences of transportation at our Lent Assizes”.

              via digitalpanopticon:

              Hulks were decommissioned (and often unseaworthy) ships that were moored in rivers and estuaries and refitted to become floating prisons. The outbreak of war in America in 1775 meant that it was no longer possible to transport British convicts there. Transportation as a form of punishment had started in the late seventeenth century, and following the Transportation Act of 1718, some 44,000 British convicts were sent to the American colonies. The end of this punishment presented a major problem for the authorities in London, since in the decade before 1775, two-thirds of convicts at the Old Bailey received a sentence of transportation – on average 283 convicts a year. As a result, London’s prisons quickly filled to overflowing with convicted prisoners who were sentenced to transportation but had no place to go.

              To increase London’s prison capacity, in 1776 Parliament passed the “Hulks Act” (16 Geo III, c.43). Although overseen by local justices of the peace, the hulks were to be directly managed and maintained by private contractors. The first contract to run a hulk was awarded to Duncan Campbell, a former transportation contractor. In August 1776, the Justicia, a former transportation ship moored in the River Thames, became the first prison hulk. This ship soon became full and Campbell quickly introduced a number of other hulks in London; by 1778 the fleet of hulks on the Thames held 510 prisoners.
              Demand was so great that new hulks were introduced across the country. There were hulks located at Deptford, Chatham, Woolwich, Gosport, Plymouth, Portsmouth, Sheerness and Cork.

              The Justitia via rmg collections:

              Justitia

              Convicts perform hard labour at the Woolwich Warren. The hulk on the river is the ‘Justitia’. Prisoners were kept on board such ships for months awaiting deportation to Australia. The ‘Justitia’ was a 260 ton prison hulk that had been originally moored in the Thames when the American War of Independence put a stop to the transportation of criminals to the former colonies. The ‘Justitia’ belonged to the shipowner Duncan Campbell, who was the Government contractor who organized the prison-hulk system at that time. Campbell was subsequently involved in the shipping of convicts to the penal colony at Botany Bay (in fact Port Jackson, later Sydney, just to the north) in New South Wales, the ‘first fleet’ going out in 1788.

               

              While searching for records for Isaac Stokes I discovered that another Isaac Stokes was transported to New South Wales in 1835 as well. The other one was a butcher born in 1809, sentenced in London for seven years, and he sailed on the Mary Ann. Our Isaac Stokes sailed on the Lady Nugent, arriving in NSW in April 1835, having set sail from England in December 1834.

              Lady Nugent was built at Bombay in 1813. She made four voyages under contract to the British East India Company (EIC). She then made two voyages transporting convicts to Australia, one to New South Wales and one to Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania). (via Wikipedia)

              via freesettlerorfelon website:

              On 20 November 1834, 100 male convicts were transferred to the Lady Nugent from the Justitia Hulk and 60 from the Ganymede Hulk at Woolwich, all in apparent good health. The Lady Nugent departed Sheerness on 4 December 1834.

              SURGEON OLIVER SPROULE

              Oliver Sproule kept a Medical Journal from 7 November 1834 to 27 April 1835. He recorded in his journal the weather conditions they experienced in the first two weeks:

              ‘In the course of the first week or ten days at sea, there were eight or nine on the sick list with catarrhal affections and one with dropsy which I attribute to the cold and wet we experienced during that period beating down channel. Indeed the foremost berths in the prison at this time were so wet from leaking in that part of the ship, that I was obliged to issue dry beds and bedding to a great many of the prisoners to preserve their health, but after crossing the Bay of Biscay the weather became fine and we got the damp beds and blankets dried, the leaks partially stopped and the prison well aired and ventilated which, I am happy to say soon manifested a favourable change in the health and appearance of the men.

              Besides the cases given in the journal I had a great many others to treat, some of them similar to those mentioned but the greater part consisted of boils, scalds, and contusions which would not only be too tedious to enter but I fear would be irksome to the reader. There were four births on board during the passage which did well, therefore I did not consider it necessary to give a detailed account of them in my journal the more especially as they were all favourable cases.

              Regularity and cleanliness in the prison, free ventilation and as far as possible dry decks turning all the prisoners up in fine weather as we were lucky enough to have two musicians amongst the convicts, dancing was tolerated every afternoon, strict attention to personal cleanliness and also to the cooking of their victuals with regular hours for their meals, were the only prophylactic means used on this occasion, which I found to answer my expectations to the utmost extent in as much as there was not a single case of contagious or infectious nature during the whole passage with the exception of a few cases of psora which soon yielded to the usual treatment. A few cases of scurvy however appeared on board at rather an early period which I can attribute to nothing else but the wet and hardships the prisoners endured during the first three or four weeks of the passage. I was prompt in my treatment of these cases and they got well, but before we arrived at Sydney I had about thirty others to treat.’

              The Lady Nugent arrived in Port Jackson on 9 April 1835 with 284 male prisoners. Two men had died at sea. The prisoners were landed on 27th April 1835 and marched to Hyde Park Barracks prior to being assigned. Ten were under the age of 14 years.

              The Lady Nugent:

              Lady Nugent

               

              Isaac’s distinguishing marks are noted on various criminal registers and record books:

              “Height in feet & inches: 5 4; Complexion: Ruddy; Hair: Light brown; Eyes: Hazel; Marks or Scars: Yes [including] DEVIL on lower left arm, TSIS back of left hand, WS lower right arm, MHDW back of right hand.”

              Another includes more detail about Isaac’s tattoos:

              “Two slight scars right side of mouth, 2 moles above right breast, figure of the devil and DEVIL and raised mole, lower left arm; anchor, seven dots half moon, TSIS and cross, back of left hand; a mallet, door post, A, mans bust, sun, WS, lower right arm; woman, MHDW and shut knife, back of right hand.”

               

              Lady Nugent record book

               

              From How tattoos became fashionable in Victorian England (2019 article in TheConversation by Robert Shoemaker and Zoe Alkar):

              “Historical tattooing was not restricted to sailors, soldiers and convicts, but was a growing and accepted phenomenon in Victorian England. Tattoos provide an important window into the lives of those who typically left no written records of their own. As a form of “history from below”, they give us a fleeting but intriguing understanding of the identities and emotions of ordinary people in the past.
              As a practice for which typically the only record is the body itself, few systematic records survive before the advent of photography. One exception to this is the written descriptions of tattoos (and even the occasional sketch) that were kept of institutionalised people forced to submit to the recording of information about their bodies as a means of identifying them. This particularly applies to three groups – criminal convicts, soldiers and sailors. Of these, the convict records are the most voluminous and systematic.
              Such records were first kept in large numbers for those who were transported to Australia from 1788 (since Australia was then an open prison) as the authorities needed some means of keeping track of them.”

              On the 1837 census Isaac was working for the government at Illiwarra, New South Wales. This record states that he arrived on the Lady Nugent in 1835. There are three other indent records for an Isaac Stokes in the following years, but the transcriptions don’t provide enough information to determine which Isaac Stokes it was. In April 1837 there was an abscondment, and an arrest/apprehension in May of that year, and in 1843 there was a record of convict indulgences.

              From the Australian government website regarding “convict indulgences”:

              “By the mid-1830s only six per cent of convicts were locked up. The vast majority worked for the government or free settlers and, with good behaviour, could earn a ticket of leave, conditional pardon or and even an absolute pardon. While under such orders convicts could earn their own living.”

               

              In 1856 in Camden, NSW, Isaac Stokes married Catherine Daly. With no further information on this record it would be impossible to know for sure if this was the right Isaac Stokes. This couple had six children, all in the Camden area, but none of the records provided enough information. No occupation or place or date of birth recorded for Isaac Stokes.

              I wrote to the National Library of Australia about the marriage record, and their reply was a surprise! Issac and Catherine were married on 30 September 1856, at the house of the Rev. Charles William Rigg, a Methodist minister, and it was recorded that Isaac was born in Edinburgh in 1821, to parents James Stokes and Sarah Ellis!  The age at the time of the marriage doesn’t match Isaac’s age at death in 1877, and clearly the place of birth and parents didn’t match either. Only his fathers occupation of stone mason was correct.  I wrote back to the helpful people at the library and they replied that the register was in a very poor condition and that only two and a half entries had survived at all, and that Isaac and Catherines marriage was recorded over two pages.

              I searched for an Isaac Stokes born in 1821 in Edinburgh on the Scotland government website (and on all the other genealogy records sites) and didn’t find it. In fact Stokes was a very uncommon name in Scotland at the time. I also searched Australian immigration and other records for another Isaac Stokes born in Scotland or born in 1821, and found nothing.  I was unable to find a single record to corroborate this mysterious other Isaac Stokes.

              As the age at death in 1877 was correct, I assume that either Isaac was lying, or that some mistake was made either on the register at the home of the Methodist minster, or a subsequent mistranscription or muddle on the remnants of the surviving register.  Therefore I remain convinced that the Camden stonemason Isaac Stokes was indeed our Isaac from Oxfordshire.

               

              I found a history society newsletter article that mentioned Isaac Stokes, stone mason, had built the Glenmore church, near Camden, in 1859.

              Glenmore Church

               

              From the Wollondilly museum April 2020 newsletter:

              Glenmore Church Stokes

               

              From the Camden History website:

              “The stone set over the porch of Glenmore Church gives the date of 1860. The church was begun in 1859 on land given by Joseph Moore. James Rogers of Picton was given the contract to build and local builder, Mr. Stokes, carried out the work. Elizabeth Moore, wife of Edward, laid the foundation stone. The first service was held on 19th March 1860. The cemetery alongside the church contains the headstones and memorials of the areas early pioneers.”

               

              Isaac died on the 3rd September 1877. The inquest report puts his place of death as Bagdelly, near to Camden, and another death register has put Cambelltown, also very close to Camden.  His age was recorded as 71 and the inquest report states his cause of death was “rupture of one of the large pulmonary vessels of the lung”.  His wife Catherine died in childbirth in 1870 at the age of 43.

               

              Isaac and Catherine’s children:

              William Stokes 1857-1928

              Catherine Stokes 1859-1846

              Sarah Josephine Stokes 1861-1931

              Ellen Stokes 1863-1932

              Rosanna Stokes 1865-1919

              Louisa Stokes 1868-1844.

               

              It’s possible that Catherine Daly was a transported convict from Ireland.

               

              Some time later I unexpectedly received a follow up email from The Oaks Heritage Centre in Australia.

              “The Gaudry papers which we have in our archive record him (Isaac Stokes) as having built: the church, the school and the teachers residence.  Isaac is recorded in the General return of convicts: 1837 and in Grevilles Post Office directory 1872 as a mason in Glenmore.”

              Isaac Stokes directory

              #6342
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                Brownings of Tetbury

                Tetbury 1839

                 

                Isaac Browning (1784-1848) married Mary Lock (1787-1870) in Tetbury in 1806. Both of them were born in Tetbury, Gloucestershire. Isaac was a stone mason. Between 1807 and 1832 they baptised fourteen children in Tetbury, and on 8 Nov 1829 Isaac and Mary baptised five daughters all on the same day.

                I considered that they may have been quintuplets, with only the last born surviving, which would have answered my question about the name of the house La Quinta in Broadway, the home of Eliza Browning and Thomas Stokes son Fred. However, the other four daughters were found in various records and they were not all born the same year. (So I still don’t know why the house in Broadway had such an unusual name).

                Their son George was born and baptised in 1827, but Louisa born 1821, Susan born 1822, Hesther born 1823 and Mary born 1826, were not baptised until 1829 along with Charlotte born in 1828. (These birth dates are guesswork based on the age on later censuses.) Perhaps George was baptised promptly because he was sickly and not expected to survive. Isaac and Mary had a son George born in 1814 who died in 1823. Presumably the five girls were healthy and could wait to be done as a job lot on the same day later.

                Eliza Browning (1814-1886), my great great great grandmother, had a baby six years before she married Thomas Stokes. Her name was Ellen Harding Browning, which suggests that her fathers name was Harding. On the 1841 census seven year old Ellen was living with her grandfather Isaac Browning in Tetbury. Ellen Harding Browning married William Dee in Tetbury in 1857, and they moved to Western Australia.

                Ellen Harding Browning Dee: (photo found on ancestry website)

                Ellen Harding Browning

                OBITUARY. MRS. ELLEN DEE.
                A very old and respected resident of Dongarra, in the person of Mrs. Ellen Dee, passed peacefully away on Sept. 27, at the advanced age of 74 years.

                The deceased had been ailing for some time, but was about and actively employed until Wednesday, Sept. 20, whenn she was heard groaning by some neighbours, who immediately entered her place and found her lying beside the fireplace. Tho deceased had been to bed over night, and had evidently been in the act of lighting thc fire, when she had a seizure. For some hours she was conscious, but had lost the power of speech, and later on became unconscious, in which state she remained until her death.

                The deceased was born in Gloucestershire, England, in 1833, was married to William Dee in Tetbury Church 23 years later. Within a month she left England with her husband for Western Australian in the ship City oí Bristol. She resided in Fremantle for six months, then in Greenough for a short time, and afterwards (for 42 years) in Dongarra. She was, therefore, a colonist of about 51 years. She had a family of four girls and three boys, and five of her children survive her, also 35 grandchildren, and eight great grandchildren. She was very highly respected, and her sudden collapse came as a great shock to many.

                 

                Eliza married Thomas Stokes (1816-1885) in September 1840 in Hempstead, Gloucestershire. On the 1841 census, Eliza and her mother Mary Browning (nee Lock) were staying with Thomas Lock and family in Cirencester. Strangely, Thomas Stokes has not been found thus far on the 1841 census, and Thomas and Eliza’s first child William James Stokes birth was registered in Witham, in Essex, on the 6th of September 1841.

                I don’t know why William James was born in Witham, or where Thomas was at the time of the census in 1841. One possibility is that as Thomas Stokes did a considerable amount of work with circus waggons, circus shooting galleries and so on as a journeyman carpenter initially and then later wheelwright, perhaps he was working with a traveling circus at the time.

                But back to the Brownings ~ more on William James Stokes to follow.

                One of Isaac and Mary’s fourteen children died in infancy:  Ann was baptised and died in 1811. Two of their children died at nine years old: the first George, and Mary who died in 1835.  Matilda was 21 years old when she died in 1844.

                Jane Browning (1808-)  married Thomas Buckingham in 1830 in Tetbury. In August 1838 Thomas was charged with feloniously stealing a black gelding.

                Susan Browning (1822-1879) married William Cleaver in November 1844 in Tetbury. Oddly thereafter they use the name Bowman on the census. On the 1851 census Mary Browning (Susan’s mother), widow, has grandson George Bowman born in 1844 living with her. The confusion with the Bowman and Cleaver names was clarified upon finding the criminal registers:

                30 January 1834. Offender: William Cleaver alias Bowman, Richard Bunting alias Barnfield and Jeremiah Cox, labourers of Tetbury. Crime: Stealing part of a dead fence from a rick barton in Tetbury, the property of Robert Tanner, farmer.

                 

                And again in 1836:

                29 March 1836 Bowman, William alias Cleaver, of Tetbury, labourer age 18; 5’2.5” tall, brown hair, grey eyes, round visage with fresh complexion; several moles on left cheek, mole on right breast. Charged on the oath of Ann Washbourn & others that on the morning of the 31 March at Tetbury feloniously stolen a lead spout affixed to the dwelling of the said Ann Washbourn, her property. Found guilty 31 March 1836; Sentenced to 6 months.

                On the 1851 census Susan Bowman was a servant living in at a large drapery shop in Cheltenham. She was listed as 29 years old, married and born in Tetbury, so although it was unusual for a married woman not to be living with her husband, (or her son for that matter, who was living with his grandmother Mary Browning), perhaps her husband William Bowman alias Cleaver was in trouble again. By 1861 they are both living together in Tetbury: William was a plasterer, and they had three year old Isaac and Thomas, one year old. In 1871 William was still a plasterer in Tetbury, living with wife Susan, and sons Isaac and Thomas. Interestingly, a William Cleaver is living next door but one!

                Susan was 56 when she died in Tetbury in 1879.

                 

                Three of the Browning daughters went to London.

                Louisa Browning (1821-1873) married Robert Claxton, coachman, in 1848 in Bryanston Square, Westminster, London. Ester Browning was a witness.

                Ester Browning (1823-1893)(or Hester) married Charles Hudson Sealey, cabinet maker, in Bethnal Green, London, in 1854. Charles was born in Tetbury. Charlotte Browning was a witness.

                Charlotte Browning (1828-1867?) was admitted to St Marylebone workhouse in London for “parturition”, or childbirth, in 1860. She was 33 years old.  A birth was registered for a Charlotte Browning, no mothers maiden name listed, in 1860 in Marylebone. A death was registered in Camden, buried in Marylebone, for a Charlotte Browning in 1867 but no age was recorded.  As the age and parents were usually recorded for a childs death, I assume this was Charlotte the mother.

                I found Charlotte on the 1851 census by chance while researching her mother Mary Lock’s siblings.  Hesther Lock married Lewin Chandler, and they were living in Stepney, London.  Charlotte is listed as a neice. Although Browning is mistranscribed as Broomey, the original page says Browning. Another mistranscription on this record is Hesthers birthplace which is transcribed as Yorkshire. The original image shows Gloucestershire.

                 

                Isaac and Mary’s first son was John Browning (1807-1860). John married Hannah Coates in 1834. John’s brother Charles Browning (1819-1853) married Eliza Coates in 1842. Perhaps they were sisters. On the 1861 census Hannah Browning, John’s wife, was a visitor in the Harding household in a village called Coates near Tetbury. Thomas Harding born in 1801 was the head of the household. Perhaps he was the father of Ellen Harding Browning.

                George Browning (1828-1870) married Louisa Gainey in Tetbury, and died in Tetbury at the age of 42.  Their son Richard Lock Browning, a 32 year old mason, was sentenced to one month hard labour for game tresspass in Tetbury in 1884.

                Isaac Browning (1832-1857) was the youngest son of Isaac and Mary. He was just 25 years old when he died in Tetbury.

                #6336
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  The Hamstall Ridware Connection

                  Stubbs and Woods

                  Hamstall RidwareHamstall Ridware

                   

                   

                  Charles Tomlinson‘s (1847-1907) wife Emma Grattidge (1853-1911) was born in Wolverhampton, the daughter and youngest child of William Grattidge (1820-1887) born in Foston, Derbyshire, and Mary Stubbs (1819-1880), born in Burton on Trent, daughter of Solomon Stubbs.

                  Solomon Stubbs (1781-1857) was born in Hamstall Ridware in 1781, the son of Samuel and Rebecca.  Samuel Stubbs (1743-) and Rebecca Wood (1754-) married in 1769 in Darlaston.  Samuel and Rebecca had six other children, all born in Darlaston. Sadly four of them died in infancy. Son John was born in 1779 in Darlaston and died two years later in Hamstall Ridware in 1781, the same year that Solomon was born there.

                  But why did they move to Hamstall Ridware?

                  Samuel Stubbs was born in 1743 in Curdworth, Warwickshire (near to Birmingham).  I had made a mistake on the tree (along with all of the public trees on the Ancestry website) and had Rebecca Wood born in Cheddleton, Staffordshire.  Rebecca Wood from Cheddleton was also born in 1843, the right age for the marriage.  The Rebecca Wood born in Darlaston in 1754 seemed too young, at just fifteen years old at the time of the marriage.  I couldn’t find any explanation for why a woman from Cheddleton would marry in Darlaston and then move to Hamstall Ridware.  People didn’t usually move around much other than intermarriage with neighbouring villages, especially women.  I had a closer look at the Darlaston Rebecca, and did a search on her father William Wood.  I found his 1784 will online in which he mentions his daughter Rebecca, wife of Samuel Stubbs.  Clearly the right Rebecca Wood was the one born in Darlaston, which made much more sense.

                  An excerpt from William Wood’s 1784 will mentioning daughter Rebecca married to Samuel Stubbs:

                  Wm Wood will

                   

                  But why did they move to Hamstall Ridware circa 1780?

                  I had not intially noticed that Solomon Stubbs married again the year after his wife Phillis Lomas (1787-1844) died.  Solomon married Charlotte Bell in 1845 in Burton on Trent and on the marriage register, Solomon’s father Samuel Stubbs occupation was mentioned: Samuel was a buckle maker.

                  Marriage of Solomon Stubbs and Charlotte Bell, father Samuel Stubbs buckle maker:

                  Samuel Stubbs buckle maker

                   

                  A rudimentary search on buckle making in the late 1700s provided a possible answer as to why Samuel and Rebecca left Darlaston in 1781.  Shoe buckles had gone out of fashion, and by 1781 there were half as many buckle makers in Wolverhampton as there had been previously.

                  “Where there were 127 buckle makers at work in Wolverhampton, 68 in Bilston and 58 in Birmingham in 1770, their numbers had halved in 1781.”

                  via “historywebsite”(museum/metalware/steel)

                  Steel buckles had been the height of fashion, and the trade became enormous in Wolverhampton.  Wolverhampton was a steel working town, renowned for its steel jewellery which was probably of many types.  The trade directories show great numbers of “buckle makers”.  Steel buckles were predominantly made in Wolverhampton: “from the late 1760s cut steel comes to the fore, from the thriving industry of the Wolverhampton area”. Bilston was also a great centre of buckle making, and other areas included Walsall. (It should be noted that Darlaston, Walsall, Bilston and Wolverhampton are all part of the same area)

                  In 1860, writing in defence of the Wolverhampton Art School, George Wallis talks about the cut steel industry in Wolverhampton.  Referring to “the fine steel workers of the 17th and 18th centuries” he says: “Let them remember that 100 years ago [sc. c. 1760] a large trade existed with France and Spain in the fine steel goods of Birmingham and Wolverhampton, of which the latter were always allowed to be the best both in taste and workmanship.  … A century ago French and Spanish merchants had their houses and agencies at Birmingham for the purchase of the steel goods of Wolverhampton…..The Great Revolution in France put an end to the demand for fine steel goods for a time and hostile tariffs finished what revolution began”.

                   

                  The next search on buckle makers, Wolverhampton and Hamstall Ridware revealed an unexpected connecting link.

                  In Riotous Assemblies: Popular Protest in Hanoverian England by Adrian Randall:

                  Riotous Assembles

                  Hamstall Ridware

                  In Walsall in 1750 on “Restoration Day” a crowd numbering 300 assembled, mostly buckle makers,  singing  Jacobite songs and other rebellious and riotous acts.  The government was particularly worried about a curious meeting known as the “Jubilee” in Hamstall Ridware, which may have been part of a conspiracy for a Jacobite uprising.

                   

                  But this was thirty years before Samuel and Rebecca moved to Hamstall Ridware and does not help to explain why they moved there around 1780, although it does suggest connecting links.

                  Rebecca’s father, William Wood, was a brickmaker.  This was stated at the beginning of his will.  On closer inspection of the will, he was a brickmaker who owned four acres of brick kilns, as well as dwelling houses, shops, barns, stables, a brewhouse, a malthouse, cattle and land.

                  A page from the 1784 will of William Wood:

                  will Wm Wood

                   

                  The 1784 will of William Wood of Darlaston:

                  I William Wood the elder of Darlaston in the county of Stafford, brickmaker, being of sound and disposing mind memory and understanding (praised be to god for the same) do make publish and declare my last will and testament in manner and form following (that is to say) {after debts and funeral expense paid etc} I give to my loving wife Mary the use usage wear interest and enjoyment of all my goods chattels cattle stock in trade ~ money securities for money personal estate and effects whatsoever and wheresoever to hold unto her my said wife for and during the term of her natural life providing she so long continues my widow and unmarried and from or after her decease or intermarriage with any future husband which shall first happen.

                  Then I give all the said goods chattels cattle stock in trade money securites for money personal estate and effects unto my son Abraham Wood absolutely and forever. Also I give devise and bequeath unto my said wife Mary all that my messuages tenement or dwelling house together with the malthouse brewhouse barn stableyard garden and premises to the same belonging situate and being at Darlaston aforesaid and now in my own possession. Also all that messuage tenement or dwelling house together with the shop garden and premises with the appurtenances to the same ~ belonging situate in Darlaston aforesaid and now in the several holdings or occupation of George Knowles and Edward Knowles to hold the aforesaid premises and every part thereof with the appurtenances to my said wife Mary for and during the term of her natural life provided she so long continues my widow and unmarried. And from or after her decease or intermarriage with a future husband which shall first happen. Then I give and devise the aforesaid premises and every part thereof with the appurtenances unto my said son Abraham Wood his heirs and assigns forever.

                  Also I give unto my said wife all that piece or parcel of land or ground inclosed and taken out of Heath Field in the parish of Darlaston aforesaid containing four acres or thereabouts (be the same more or less) upon which my brick kilns erected and now in my own possession. To hold unto my said wife Mary until my said son Abraham attains his age of twenty one years if she so long continues my widow and unmarried as aforesaid and from and immediately after my said son Abraham attaining his age of twenty one years or my said wife marrying again as aforesaid which shall first happen then I give the said piece or parcel of land or ground and premises unto my said son Abraham his heirs and assigns forever.

                  And I do hereby charge all the aforesaid premises with the payment of the sum of twenty pounds a piece to each of my daughters namely Elizabeth the wife of Ambrose Dudall and Rebecca the wife of Samuel Stubbs which said sum of twenty pounds each I devise may be paid to them by my said son Abraham when and so soon as he attains his age of twenty one years provided always and my mind and will is that if my said son Abraham should happen to depart this life without leaving issue of his body lawfully begotten before he attains his age of twenty one years then I give and devise all the aforesaid premises and every part thereof with the appurtenances so given to my said son Abraham as aforesaid unto my said son William Wood and my said daughter Elizabeth Dudall and Rebecca Stubbs their heirs and assigns forever equally divided among them share and share alike as tenants in common and not as joint tenants. And lastly I do hereby nominate constitute and appoint my said wife Mary and my said son Abraham executrix and executor of this my will.

                   

                   

                  The marriage of William Wood (1725-1784) and Mary Clews (1715-1798) in 1749 was in Hamstall Ridware.

                  Wm Wood Mary Clews

                   

                  Mary was eleven years Williams senior, and it appears that they both came from Hamstall Ridware and moved to Darlaston after they married. Clearly Rebecca had extended family there (notwithstanding any possible connecting links between the Stubbs buckle makers of Darlaston and the Hamstall Ridware Jacobites thirty years prior).  When the buckle trade collapsed in Darlaston, they likely moved to find employment elsewhere, perhaps with the help of Rebecca’s family.

                  I have not yet been able to find deaths recorded anywhere for either Samuel or Rebecca (there are a couple of deaths recorded for a Samuel Stubbs, one in 1809 in Wolverhampton, and one in 1810 in Birmingham but impossible to say which, if either, is the right one with the limited information, and difficult to know if they stayed in the Hamstall Ridware area or perhaps moved elsewhere)~ or find a reason for their son Solomon to be in Burton upon Trent, an evidently prosperous man with several properties including an earthenware business, as well as a land carrier business.

                  #6323

                  In reply to: The Sexy Wooden Leg

                  “Watch where you are going, Child!”  Egbert’s tone was sharp.

                  “Excuse me,” said Maryechka, hunching her shoulders and making herself small as a mouse so she could squeeze past Egbert’s oversized suitcase.

                  “To be fair, Old Man,” said Olga, glad of the excuse to pause, “you are taking up all the available space on the stairs with those bags.” She peered at Maryechka. “You are Obadiah’s girl aren’t you?”

                  Maryechka nodded shyly. “He’s my grandpa.” She frowned at the suitcases.  “Are you going on holiday?”

                  “Never you mind that,” said Egbert. “You run along and see your Grandpa.”

                  Maryechka ducked past the bag and ran up the steps.

                  “Oy,” said Olga. “What I wouldn’t give for the agility of youth again.” Gripping the wooden hand rail, she stretched out her ankle and grimaced.

                  Obadiah is stubborn as a mule,” said Egbert. “I tried warning him! He said he’d die in his room if it came to it.”

                  “Pfft,” said Olga. “That one will land on his big stinking feet. And he can hear better than he lets on. Is it him spreading the tales about me?”

                  Egbert dropped his bags and sat heavily on the step. He put his head in his hands and groaned. “Is it right though, Olga? Is it right that we leave our friends to their fate?”

                  It occurred to Olga that Egbert may be hiding his head so as not to answer her question. However, realising his mental state was fragile, she thought it prudent to keep to the matter at hand. It will keep, she thought.

                  Obadiah and myself, we grew up together,” continued Egbert with what sounded like a sob.  “We worked together on the farm as young men.” He raised his head and glared at Olga. “How can you expect me to leave him without a word of farewell? Have you no heart?”

                  #6271
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    The Housley Letters

                    FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS

                    from Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters:

                     

                    George apparently asked about old friends and acquaintances and the family did their best to answer although Joseph wrote in 1873: “There is very few of your old cronies that I know of knocking about.”

                    In Anne’s first letter she wrote about a conversation which Robert had with EMMA LYON before his death and added “It (his death) was a great trouble to Lyons.” In her second letter Anne wrote: “Emma Lyon is to be married September 5. I am going the Friday before if all is well. There is every prospect of her being comfortable. MRS. L. always asks after you.” In 1855 Emma wrote: “Emma Lyon now Mrs. Woolhouse has got a fine boy and a pretty fuss is made with him. They call him ALFRED LYON WOOLHOUSE.”

                    (Interesting to note that Elizabeth Housley, the eldest daughter of Samuel and Elizabeth, was living with a Lyon family in Derby in 1861, after she left Belper workhouse.  The Emma listed on the census in 1861 was 10 years old, and so can not be the Emma Lyon mentioned here, but it’s possible, indeed likely, that Peter Lyon the baker was related to the Lyon’s who were friends of the Housley’s.  The mention of a sea captain in the Lyon family begs the question did Elizabeth Housley meet her husband, George William Stafford, a seaman, through some Lyon connections, but to date this remains a mystery.)

                    Elizabeth Housley living with Peter Lyon and family in Derby St Peters in 1861:

                    Lyon 1861 census

                     

                    A Henrietta Lyon was married in 1860. Her father was Matthew, a Navy Captain. The 1857 Derby Directory listed a Richard Woolhouse, plumber, glazier, and gas fitter on St. Peter’s Street. Robert lived in St. Peter’s parish at the time of his death. An Alfred Lyon, son of Alfred and Jemima Lyon 93 Friargate, Derby was baptised on December 4, 1877. An Allen Hewley Lyon, born February 1, 1879 was baptised June 17 1879.

                     

                    Anne wrote in August 1854: “KERRY was married three weeks since to ELIZABETH EATON. He has left Smith some time.” Perhaps this was the same person referred to by Joseph:BILL KERRY, the blacksmith for DANIEL SMITH, is working for John Fletcher lace manufacturer.” According to the 1841 census, Elizabeth age 12, was the oldest daughter of Thomas and Rebecca Eaton. She would certainly have been of marriagable age in 1854. A William Kerry, age 14, was listed as a blacksmith’s apprentice in the 1851 census; but another William Kerry who was 29 in 1851 was already working for Daniel Smith as a blacksmith. REBECCA EATON was listed in the 1851 census as a widow serving as a nurse in the John Housley household. The 1881 census lists the family of William Kerry, blacksmith, as Jane, 19; William 13; Anne, 7; and Joseph, 4. Elizabeth is not mentioned but Bill is not listed as a widower.

                    Anne also wrote in 1854 that she had not seen or heard anything of DICK HANSON for two years. Joseph wrote that he did not know Old BETTY HANSON’S son. A Richard Hanson, age 24 in 1851, lived with a family named Moore. His occupation was listed as “journeyman knitter.” An Elizabeth Hanson listed as 24 in 1851 could hardly be “Old Betty.” Emma wrote in June 1856 that JOE OLDKNOW age 27 had married Mrs. Gribble’s servant age 17.

                    Anne wrote that JOHN SPENCER had not been since father died.” The only John Spencer in Smalley in 1841 was four years old. He would have been 11 at the time of William Housley’s death. Certainly, the two could have been friends, but perhaps young John was named for his grandfather who was a crony of William’s living in a locality not included in the Smalley census.

                    TAILOR ALLEN had lost his wife and was still living in the old house in 1872. JACK WHITE had died very suddenly, and DR. BODEN had died also. Dr. Boden’s first name was Robert. He was 53 in 1851, and was probably the Robert, son of Richard and Jane, who was christened in Morely in 1797. By 1861, he had married Catherine, a native of Smalley, who was at least 14 years his junior–18 according to the 1871 census!

                    Among the family’s dearest friends were JOSEPH AND ELIZABETH DAVY, who were married some time after 1841. Mrs. Davy was born in 1812 and her husband in 1805. In 1841, the Kidsley Park farm household included DANIEL SMITH 72, Elizabeth 29 and 5 year old Hannah Smith. In 1851, Mr. Davy’s brother William and 10 year old Emma Davy were visiting from London. Joseph reported the death of both Davy brothers in 1872; Joseph apparently died first.

                    Mrs. Davy’s father, was a well known Quaker. In 1856, Emma wrote: “Mr. Smith is very hearty and looks much the same.” He died in December 1863 at the age of 94. George Fox, the founder of the Quakers visited Kidsley Park in 1650 and 1654.

                    Mr. Davy died in 1863, but in 1854 Anne wrote how ill he had been for two years. “For two last winters we never thought he would live. He is now able to go out a little on the pony.” In March 1856, his wife wrote, “My husband is in poor health and fell.” Later in 1856, Emma wrote, “Mr. Davy is living which is a great wonder. Mrs. Davy is very delicate but as good a friend as ever.”

                    In The Derbyshire Advertiser and Journal, 15 May 1863:

                    Davy Death

                     

                    Whenever the girls sent greetings from Mrs. Davy they used her Quaker speech pattern of “thee and thy.”  Mrs. Davy wrote to George on March 21 1856 sending some gifts from his sisters and a portrait of their mother–“Emma is away yet and A is so much worse.” Mrs. Davy concluded: “With best wishes for thy health and prosperity in this world and the next I am thy sincere friend.”

                    Mrs. Davy later remarried. Her new husband was W.T. BARBER. The 1861 census lists William Barber, 35, Bachelor of Arts, Cambridge, living with his 82 year old widowed mother on an 135 acre farm with three servants. One of these may have been the Ann who, according to Joseph, married Jack Oldknow. By 1871 the farm, now occupied by William, 47 and Elizabeth, 57, had grown to 189 acres. Meanwhile, Kidsley Park Farm became the home of the Housleys’ cousin Selina Carrington and her husband Walker Martin. Both Barbers were still living in 1881.

                    Mrs. Davy was described in Kerry’s History of Smalley as “an accomplished and exemplary lady.” A piece of her poetry “Farewell to Kidsley Park” was published in the history. It was probably written when Elizabeth moved to the Barber farm. Emma sent one of her poems to George. It was supposed to be about their house. “We have sent you a piece of poetry that Mrs. Davy composed about our ‘Old House.’ I am sure you will like it though you may not understand all the allusions she makes use of as well as we do.”

                    Kiddsley Park Farm, Smalley, in 1898.  (note that the Housley’s lived at Kiddsley Grange Farm, and the Davy’s at neighbouring Kiddsley Park Farm)

                    Kiddsley Park Farm

                     

                    Emma was not sure if George wanted to hear the local gossip (“I don’t know whether such little particulars will interest you”), but shared it anyway. In November 1855: “We have let the house to Mr. Gribble. I dare say you know who he married, Matilda Else. They came from Lincoln here in March. Mrs. Gribble gets drunk nearly every day and there are such goings on it is really shameful. So you may be sure we have not very pleasant neighbors but we have very little to do with them.”

                    John Else and his wife Hannah and their children John and Harriet (who were born in Smalley) lived in Tag Hill in 1851. With them lived a granddaughter Matilda Gribble age 3 who was born in Lincoln. A Matilda, daughter of John and Hannah, was christened in 1815. (A Sam Else died when he fell down the steps of a bar in 1855.)

                    #6268
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      From Tanganyika with Love

                      continued part 9

                      With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                      Lyamungu 3rd January 1945

                      Dearest Family.

                      We had a novel Christmas this year. We decided to avoid the expense of
                      entertaining and being entertained at Lyamungu, and went off to spend Christmas
                      camping in a forest on the Western slopes of Kilimanjaro. George decided to combine
                      business with pleasure and in this way we were able to use Government transport.
                      We set out the day before Christmas day and drove along the road which skirts
                      the slopes of Kilimanjaro and first visited a beautiful farm where Philip Teare, the ex
                      Game Warden, and his wife Mary are staying. We had afternoon tea with them and then
                      drove on in to the natural forest above the estate and pitched our tent beside a small
                      clear mountain stream. We decorated the tent with paper streamers and a few small
                      balloons and John found a small tree of the traditional shape which we decorated where
                      it stood with tinsel and small ornaments.

                      We put our beer, cool drinks for the children and bottles of fresh milk from Simba
                      Estate, in the stream and on Christmas morning they were as cold as if they had been in
                      the refrigerator all night. There were not many presents for the children, there never are,
                      but they do not seem to mind and are well satisfied with a couple of balloons apiece,
                      sweets, tin whistles and a book each.

                      George entertain the children before breakfast. He can make a magical thing out
                      of the most ordinary balloon. The children watched entranced as he drew on his pipe
                      and then blew the smoke into the balloon. He then pinched the neck of the balloon
                      between thumb and forefinger and released the smoke in little puffs. Occasionally the
                      balloon ejected a perfect smoke ring and the forest rang with shouts of “Do it again
                      Daddy.” Another trick was to blow up the balloon to maximum size and then twist the
                      neck tightly before releasing. Before subsiding the balloon darted about in a crazy
                      fashion causing great hilarity. Such fun, at the cost of a few pence.

                      After breakfast George went off to fish for trout. John and Jim decided that they
                      also wished to fish so we made rods out of sticks and string and bent pins and they
                      fished happily, but of course quite unsuccessfully, for hours. Both of course fell into the
                      stream and got soaked, but I was prepared for this, and the little stream was so shallow
                      that they could not come to any harm. Henry played happily in the sand and I had a
                      most peaceful morning.

                      Hamisi roasted a chicken in a pot over the camp fire and the jelly set beautifully in the
                      stream. So we had grilled trout and chicken for our Christmas dinner. I had of course
                      taken an iced cake for the occasion and, all in all, it was a very successful Christmas day.
                      On Boxing day we drove down to the plains where George was to investigate a
                      report of game poaching near the Ngassari Furrow. This is a very long ditch which has
                      been dug by the Government for watering the Masai stock in the area. It is also used by
                      game and we saw herds of zebra and wildebeest, and some Grant’s Gazelle and
                      giraffe, all comparatively tame. At one point a small herd of zebra raced beside the lorry
                      apparently enjoying the fun of a gallop. They were all sleek and fat and looked wild and
                      beautiful in action.

                      We camped a considerable distance from the water but this precaution did not
                      save us from the mosquitoes which launched a vicious attack on us after sunset, so that
                      we took to our beds unusually early. They were on the job again when we got up at
                      sunrise so I was very glad when we were once more on our way home.

                      “I like Christmas safari. Much nicer that silly old party,” said John. I agree but I think
                      it is time that our children learned to play happily with others. There are no other young
                      children at Lyamungu though there are two older boys and a girl who go to boarding
                      school in Nairobi.

                      On New Years Day two Army Officers from the military camp at Moshi, came for
                      tea and to talk game hunting with George. I think they rather enjoy visiting a home and
                      seeing children and pets around.

                      Eleanor.

                      Lyamungu 14 May 1945

                      Dearest Family.

                      So the war in Europe is over at last. It is such marvellous news that I can hardly
                      believe it. To think that as soon as George can get leave we will go to England and
                      bring Ann and George home with us to Tanganyika. When we know when this leave can
                      be arranged we will want Kate to join us here as of course she must go with us to
                      England to meet George’s family. She has become so much a part of your lives that I
                      know it will be a wrench for you to give her up but I know that you will all be happy to
                      think that soon our family will be reunited.

                      The V.E. celebrations passed off quietly here. We all went to Moshi to see the
                      Victory Parade of the King’s African Rifles and in the evening we went to a celebration
                      dinner at the Game Warden’s house. Besides ourselves the Moores had invited the
                      Commanding Officer from Moshi and a junior officer. We had a very good dinner and
                      many toasts including one to Mrs Moore’s brother, Oliver Milton who is fighting in Burma
                      and has recently been awarded the Military Cross.

                      There was also a celebration party for the children in the grounds of the Moshi
                      Club. Such a spread! I think John and Jim sampled everything. We mothers were
                      having our tea separately and a friend laughingly told me to turn around and have a look.
                      I did, and saw the long tea tables now deserted by all the children but my two sons who
                      were still eating steadily, and finding the party more exciting than the game of Musical
                      Bumps into which all the other children had entered with enthusiasm.

                      There was also an extremely good puppet show put on by the Italian prisoners
                      of war from the camp at Moshi. They had made all the puppets which included well
                      loved characters like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and the Babes in the Wood as
                      well as more sophisticated ones like an irritable pianist and a would be prima donna. The
                      most popular puppets with the children were a native askari and his family – a very
                      happy little scene. I have never before seen a puppet show and was as entranced as
                      the children. It is amazing what clever manipulation and lighting can do. I believe that the
                      Italians mean to take their puppets to Nairobi and am glad to think that there, they will
                      have larger audiences to appreciate their art.

                      George has just come in, and I paused in my writing to ask him for the hundredth
                      time when he thinks we will get leave. He says I must be patient because it may be a
                      year before our turn comes. Shipping will be disorganised for months to come and we
                      cannot expect priority simply because we have been separated so long from our
                      children. The same situation applies to scores of other Government Officials.
                      I have decided to write the story of my childhood in South Africa and about our
                      life together in Tanganyika up to the time Ann and George left the country. I know you
                      will have told Kate these stories, but Ann and George were so very little when they left
                      home that I fear that they cannot remember much.

                      My Mother-in-law will have told them about their father but she can tell them little
                      about me. I shall send them one chapter of my story each month in the hope that they
                      may be interested and not feel that I am a stranger when at last we meet again.

                      Eleanor.

                      Lyamungu 19th September 1945

                      Dearest Family.

                      In a months time we will be saying good-bye to Lyamungu. George is to be
                      transferred to Mbeya and I am delighted, not only as I look upon Mbeya as home, but
                      because there is now a primary school there which John can attend. I feel he will make
                      much better progress in his lessons when he realises that all children of his age attend
                      school. At present he is putting up a strong resistance to learning to read and spell, but
                      he writes very neatly, does his sums accurately and shows a real talent for drawing. If
                      only he had the will to learn I feel he would do very well.

                      Jim now just four, is too young for lessons but too intelligent to be interested in
                      the ayah’s attempts at entertainment. Yes I’ve had to engage a native girl to look after
                      Henry from 9 am to 12.30 when I supervise John’s Correspondence Course. She is
                      clean and amiable, but like most African women she has no initiative at all when it comes
                      to entertaining children. Most African men and youths are good at this.

                      I don’t regret our stay at Lyamungu. It is a beautiful spot and the change to the
                      cooler climate after the heat of Morogoro has been good for all the children. John is still
                      tall for his age but not so thin as he was and much less pale. He is a handsome little lad
                      with his large brown eyes in striking contrast to his fair hair. He is wary of strangers but
                      very observant and quite uncanny in the way he sums up people. He seldom gets up
                      to mischief but I have a feeling he eggs Jim on. Not that Jim needs egging.

                      Jim has an absolute flair for mischief but it is all done in such an artless manner that
                      it is not easy to punish him. He is a very sturdy child with a cap of almost black silky hair,
                      eyes brown, like mine, and a large mouth which is quick to smile and show most beautiful
                      white and even teeth. He is most popular with all the native servants and the Game
                      Scouts. The servants call Jim, ‘Bwana Tembo’ (Mr Elephant) because of his sturdy
                      build.

                      Henry, now nearly two years old, is quite different from the other two in
                      appearance. He is fair complexioned and fair haired like Ann and Kate, with large, black
                      lashed, light grey eyes. He is a good child, not so merry as Jim was at his age, nor as
                      shy as John was. He seldom cries, does not care to be cuddled and is independent and
                      strong willed. The servants call Henry, ‘Bwana Ndizi’ (Mr Banana) because he has an
                      inexhaustible appetite for this fruit. Fortunately they are very inexpensive here. We buy
                      an entire bunch which hangs from a beam on the back verandah, and pluck off the
                      bananas as they ripen. This way there is no waste and the fruit never gets bruised as it
                      does in greengrocers shops in South Africa. Our three boys make a delightful and
                      interesting trio and I do wish you could see them for yourselves.

                      We are delighted with the really beautiful photograph of Kate. She is an
                      extraordinarily pretty child and looks so happy and healthy and a great credit to you.
                      Now that we will be living in Mbeya with a school on the doorstep I hope that we will
                      soon be able to arrange for her return home.

                      Eleanor.

                      c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 30th October 1945

                      Dearest Family.

                      How nice to be able to write c/o Game Dept. Mbeya at the head of my letters.
                      We arrived here safely after a rather tiresome journey and are installed in a tiny house on
                      the edge of the township.

                      We left Lyamungu early on the morning of the 22nd. Most of our goods had
                      been packed on the big Ford lorry the previous evening, but there were the usual
                      delays and farewells. Of our servants, only the cook, Hamisi, accompanied us to
                      Mbeya. Japhet, Tovelo and the ayah had to be paid off and largesse handed out.
                      Tovelo’s granny had come, bringing a gift of bananas, and she also brought her little
                      granddaughter to present a bunch of flowers. The child’s little scolded behind is now
                      completely healed. Gifts had to be found for them too.

                      At last we were all aboard and what a squash it was! Our few pieces of furniture
                      and packing cases and trunks, the cook, his wife, the driver and the turney boy, who
                      were to take the truck back to Lyamungu, and all their bits and pieces, bunches of
                      bananas and Fanny the dog were all crammed into the body of the lorry. George, the
                      children and I were jammed together in the cab. Before we left George looked
                      dubiously at the tyres which were very worn and said gloomily that he thought it most
                      unlikely that we would make our destination, Dodoma.

                      Too true! Shortly after midday, near Kwakachinja, we blew a back tyre and there
                      was a tedious delay in the heat whilst the wheel was changed. We were now without a
                      spare tyre and George said that he would not risk taking the Ford further than Babati,
                      which is less than half way to Dodoma. He drove very slowly and cautiously to Babati
                      where he arranged with Sher Mohammed, an Indian trader, for a lorry to take us to
                      Dodoma the next morning.

                      It had been our intention to spend the night at the furnished Government
                      Resthouse at Babati but when we got there we found that it was already occupied by
                      several District Officers who had assembled for a conference. So, feeling rather
                      disgruntled, we all piled back into the lorry and drove on to a place called Bereku where
                      we spent an uncomfortable night in a tumbledown hut.

                      Before dawn next morning Sher Mohammed’s lorry drove up, and there was a
                      scramble to dress by the light of a storm lamp. The lorry was a very dilapidated one and
                      there was already a native woman passenger in the cab. I felt so tired after an almost
                      sleepless night that I decided to sit between the driver and this woman with the sleeping
                      Henry on my knee. It was as well I did, because I soon found myself dosing off and
                      drooping over towards the woman. Had she not been there I might easily have fallen
                      out as the battered cab had no door. However I was alert enough when daylight came
                      and changed places with the woman to our mutual relief. She was now able to converse
                      with the African driver and I was able to enjoy the scenery and the fresh air!
                      George, John and Jim were less comfortable. They sat in the lorry behind the
                      cab hemmed in by packing cases. As the lorry was an open one the sun beat down
                      unmercifully upon them until George, ever resourceful, moved a table to the front of the
                      truck. The two boys crouched under this and so got shelter from the sun but they still had
                      to endure the dust. Fanny complicated things by getting car sick and with one thing and
                      another we were all jolly glad to get to Dodoma.

                      We spent the night at the Dodoma Hotel and after hot baths, a good meal and a
                      good nights rest we cheerfully boarded a bus of the Tanganyika Bus Service next
                      morning to continue our journey to Mbeya. The rest of the journey was uneventful. We slept two nights on the road, the first at Iringa Hotel and the second at Chimala. We
                      reached Mbeya on the 27th.

                      I was rather taken aback when I first saw the little house which has been allocated
                      to us. I had become accustomed to the spacious houses we had in Morogoro and
                      Lyamungu. However though the house is tiny it is secluded and has a long garden
                      sloping down to the road in front and another long strip sloping up behind. The front
                      garden is shaded by several large cypress and eucalyptus trees but the garden behind
                      the house has no shade and consists mainly of humpy beds planted with hundreds of
                      carnations sadly in need of debudding. I believe that the previous Game Ranger’s wife
                      cultivated the carnations and, by selling them, raised money for War Funds.
                      Like our own first home, this little house is built of sun dried brick. Its original
                      owners were Germans. It is now rented to the Government by the Custodian of Enemy
                      Property, and George has his office in another ex German house.

                      This afternoon we drove to the school to arrange about enrolling John there. The
                      school is about four miles out of town. It was built by the German settlers in the late
                      1930’s and they were justifiably proud of it. It consists of a great assembly hall and
                      classrooms in one block and there are several attractive single storied dormitories. This
                      school was taken over by the Government when the Germans were interned on the
                      outbreak of war and many improvements have been made to the original buildings. The
                      school certainly looks very attractive now with its grassed playing fields and its lawns and
                      bright flower beds.

                      The Union Jack flies from a tall flagpole in front of the Hall and all traces of the
                      schools German origin have been firmly erased. We met the Headmaster, Mr
                      Wallington, and his wife and some members of the staff. The school is co-educational
                      and caters for children from the age of seven to standard six. The leaving age is elastic
                      owing to the fact that many Tanganyika children started school very late because of lack
                      of educational facilities in this country.

                      The married members of the staff have their own cottages in the grounds. The
                      Matrons have quarters attached to the dormitories for which they are responsible. I felt
                      most enthusiastic about the school until I discovered that the Headmaster is adamant
                      upon one subject. He utterly refuses to take any day pupils at the school. So now our
                      poor reserved Johnny will have to adjust himself to boarding school life.
                      We have arranged that he will start school on November 5th and I shall be very
                      busy trying to assemble his school uniform at short notice. The clothing list is sensible.
                      Boys wear khaki shirts and shorts on weekdays with knitted scarlet jerseys when the
                      weather is cold. On Sundays they wear grey flannel shorts and blazers with the silver
                      and scarlet school tie.

                      Mbeya looks dusty, brown and dry after the lush evergreen vegetation of
                      Lyamungu, but I prefer this drier climate and there are still mountains to please the eye.
                      In fact the lower slopes of Lolesa Mountain rise at the upper end of our garden.

                      Eleanor.

                      c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 21st November 1945

                      Dearest Family.

                      We’re quite settled in now and I have got the little house fixed up to my
                      satisfaction. I have engaged a rather uncouth looking houseboy but he is strong and
                      capable and now that I am not tied down in the mornings by John’s lessons I am able to
                      go out occasionally in the mornings and take Jim and Henry to play with other children.
                      They do not show any great enthusiasm but are not shy by nature as John is.
                      I have had a good deal of heartache over putting John to boarding school. It
                      would have been different had he been used to the company of children outside his
                      own family, or if he had even known one child there. However he seems to be adjusting
                      himself to the life, though slowly. At least he looks well and tidy and I am quite sure that
                      he is well looked after.

                      I must confess that when the time came for John to go to school I simply did not
                      have the courage to take him and he went alone with George, looking so smart in his
                      new uniform – but his little face so bleak. The next day, Sunday, was visiting day but the
                      Headmaster suggested that we should give John time to settle down and not visit him
                      until Wednesday.

                      When we drove up to the school I spied John on the far side of the field walking
                      all alone. Instead of running up with glad greetings, as I had expected, he came almost
                      reluctently and had little to say. I asked him to show me his dormitory and classroom and
                      he did so politely as though I were a stranger. At last he volunteered some information.
                      “Mummy,” he said in an awed voice, Do you know on the night I came here they burnt a
                      man! They had a big fire and they burnt him.” After a blank moment the penny dropped.
                      Of course John had started school and November the fifth but it had never entered my
                      head to tell him about that infamous character, Guy Fawkes!

                      I asked John’s Matron how he had settled down. “Well”, she said thoughtfully,
                      John is very good and has not cried as many of the juniors do when they first come
                      here, but he seems to keep to himself all the time.” I went home very discouraged but
                      on the Sunday John came running up with another lad of about his own age.” This is my
                      friend Marks,” he announced proudly. I could have hugged Marks.

                      Mbeya is very different from the small settlement we knew in the early 1930’s.
                      Gone are all the colourful characters from the Lupa diggings for the alluvial claims are all
                      worked out now, gone also are our old friends the Menzies from the Pub and also most
                      of the Government Officials we used to know. Mbeya has lost its character of a frontier
                      township and has become almost suburban.

                      The social life revolves around two places, the Club and the school. The Club
                      which started out as a little two roomed building, has been expanded and the golf
                      course improved. There are also tennis courts and a good library considering the size of
                      the community. There are frequent parties and dances, though most of the club revenue
                      comes from Bar profits. The parties are relatively sober affairs compared with the parties
                      of the 1930’s.

                      The school provides entertainment of another kind. Both Mr and Mrs Wallington
                      are good amateur actors and I am told that they run an Amateur Dramatic Society. Every
                      Wednesday afternoon there is a hockey match at the school. Mbeya town versus a
                      mixed team of staff and scholars. The match attracts almost the whole European
                      population of Mbeya. Some go to play hockey, others to watch, and others to snatch
                      the opportunity to visit their children. I shall have to try to arrange a lift to school when
                      George is away on safari.

                      I have now met most of the local women and gladly renewed an old friendship
                      with Sheilagh Waring whom I knew two years ago at Morogoro. Sheilagh and I have
                      much in common, the same disregard for the trappings of civilisation, the same sense of
                      the ludicrous, and children. She has eight to our six and she has also been cut off by the
                      war from two of her children. Sheilagh looks too young and pretty to be the mother of so
                      large a family and is, in fact, several years younger than I am. her husband, Donald, is a
                      large quiet man who, as far as I can judge takes life seriously.

                      Our next door neighbours are the Bank Manager and his wife, a very pleasant
                      couple though we seldom meet. I have however had correspondence with the Bank
                      Manager. Early on Saturday afternoon their houseboy brought a note. It informed me
                      that my son was disturbing his rest by precipitating a heart attack. Was I aware that my
                      son was about 30 feet up in a tree and balanced on a twig? I ran out and,sure enough,
                      there was Jim, right at the top of the tallest eucalyptus tree. It would be the one with the
                      mound of stones at the bottom! You should have heard me fluting in my most
                      wheedling voice. “Sweets, Jimmy, come down slowly dear, I’ve some nice sweets for
                      you.”

                      I’ll bet that little story makes you smile. I remember how often you have told me
                      how, as a child, I used to make your hearts turn over because I had no fear of heights
                      and how I used to say, “But that is silly, I won’t fall.” I know now only too well, how you
                      must have felt.

                      Eleanor.

                      c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 14th January 1946

                      Dearest Family.

                      I hope that by now you have my telegram to say that Kate got home safely
                      yesterday. It was wonderful to have her back and what a beautiful child she is! Kate
                      seems to have enjoyed the train journey with Miss Craig, in spite of the tears she tells
                      me she shed when she said good-bye to you. She also seems to have felt quite at
                      home with the Hopleys at Salisbury. She flew from Salisbury in a small Dove aircraft
                      and they had a smooth passage though Kate was a little airsick.

                      I was so excited about her home coming! This house is so tiny that I had to turn
                      out the little store room to make a bedroom for her. With a fresh coat of whitewash and
                      pretty sprigged curtains and matching bedspread, borrowed from Sheilagh Waring, the
                      tiny room looks most attractive. I had also iced a cake, made ice-cream and jelly and
                      bought crackers for the table so that Kate’s home coming tea could be a proper little
                      celebration.

                      I was pleased with my preparations and then, a few hours before the plane was
                      due, my crowned front tooth dropped out, peg and all! When my houseboy wants to
                      describe something very tatty, he calls it “Second-hand Kabisa.” Kabisa meaning
                      absolutely. That is an apt description of how I looked and felt. I decided to try some
                      emergency dentistry. I think you know our nearest dentist is at Dar es Salaam five
                      hundred miles away.

                      First I carefully dried the tooth and with a match stick covered the peg and base
                      with Durofix. I then took the infants rubber bulb enema, sucked up some heat from a
                      candle flame and pumped it into the cavity before filling that with Durofix. Then hopefully
                      I stuck the tooth in its former position and held it in place for several minutes. No good. I
                      sent the houseboy to a shop for Scotine and tried the whole process again. No good
                      either.

                      When George came home for lunch I appealed to him for advice. He jokingly
                      suggested that a maize seed jammed into the space would probably work, but when
                      he saw that I really was upset he produced some chewing gum and suggested that I
                      should try that . I did and that worked long enough for my first smile anyway.
                      George and the three boys went to meet Kate but I remained at home to
                      welcome her there. I was afraid that after all this time away Kate might be reluctant to
                      rejoin the family but she threw her arms around me and said “Oh Mummy,” We both
                      shed a few tears and then we both felt fine.

                      How gay Kate is, and what an infectious laugh she has! The boys follow her
                      around in admiration. John in fact asked me, “Is Kate a Princess?” When I said
                      “Goodness no, Johnny, she’s your sister,” he explained himself by saying, “Well, she
                      has such golden hair.” Kate was less complementary. When I tucked her in bed last night
                      she said, “Mummy, I didn’t expect my little brothers to be so yellow!” All three boys
                      have been taking a course of Atebrin, an anti-malarial drug which tinges skin and eyeballs
                      yellow.

                      So now our tiny house is bursting at its seams and how good it feels to have one
                      more child under our roof. We are booked to sail for England in May and when we return
                      we will have Ann and George home too. Then I shall feel really content.

                      Eleanor.

                      c/o Game Dept. Mbeya. 2nd March 1946

                      Dearest Family.

                      My life just now is uneventful but very busy. I am sewing hard and knitting fast to
                      try to get together some warm clothes for our leave in England. This is not a simple
                      matter because woollen materials are in short supply and very expensive, and now that
                      we have boarding school fees to pay for both Kate and John we have to budget very
                      carefully indeed.

                      Kate seems happy at school. She makes friends easily and seems to enjoy
                      communal life. John also seems reconciled to school now that Kate is there. He no
                      longer feels that he is the only exile in the family. He seems to rub along with the other
                      boys of his age and has a couple of close friends. Although Mbeya School is coeducational
                      the smaller boys and girls keep strictly apart. It is considered extremely
                      cissy to play with girls.

                      The local children are allowed to go home on Sundays after church and may bring
                      friends home with them for the day. Both John and Kate do this and Sunday is a very
                      busy day for me. The children come home in their Sunday best but bring play clothes to
                      change into. There is always a scramble to get them to bath and change again in time to
                      deliver them to the school by 6 o’clock.

                      When George is home we go out to the school for the morning service. This is
                      taken by the Headmaster Mr Wallington, and is very enjoyable. There is an excellent
                      school choir to lead the singing. The service is the Church of England one, but is
                      attended by children of all denominations, except the Roman Catholics. I don’t think that
                      more than half the children are British. A large proportion are Greeks, some as old as
                      sixteen, and about the same number are Afrikaners. There are Poles and non-Nazi
                      Germans, Swiss and a few American children.

                      All instruction is through the medium of English and it is amazing how soon all the
                      foreign children learn to chatter in English. George has been told that we will return to
                      Mbeya after our leave and for that I am very thankful as it means that we will still be living
                      near at hand when Jim and Henry start school. Because many of these children have to
                      travel many hundreds of miles to come to school, – Mbeya is a two day journey from the
                      railhead, – the school year is divided into two instead of the usual three terms. This
                      means that many of these children do not see their parents for months at a time. I think
                      this is a very sad state of affairs especially for the seven and eight year olds but the
                      Matrons assure me , that many children who live on isolated farms and stations are quite
                      reluctant to go home because they miss the companionship and the games and
                      entertainment that the school offers.

                      My only complaint about the life here is that I see far too little of George. He is
                      kept extremely busy on this range and is hardly at home except for a few days at the
                      months end when he has to be at his office to check up on the pay vouchers and the
                      issue of ammunition to the Scouts. George’s Range takes in the whole of the Southern
                      Province and the Southern half of the Western Province and extends to the border with
                      Northern Rhodesia and right across to Lake Tanganyika. This vast area is patrolled by
                      only 40 Game Scouts because the Department is at present badly under staffed, due
                      partly to the still acute shortage of rifles, but even more so to the extraordinary reluctance
                      which the Government shows to allocate adequate funds for the efficient running of the
                      Department.

                      The Game Scouts must see that the Game Laws are enforced, protect native
                      crops from raiding elephant, hippo and other game animals. Report disease amongst game and deal with stock raiding lions. By constantly going on safari and checking on
                      their work, George makes sure the range is run to his satisfaction. Most of the Game
                      Scouts are fine fellows but, considering they receive only meagre pay for dangerous
                      and exacting work, it is not surprising that occasionally a Scout is tempted into accepting
                      a bribe not to report a serious infringement of the Game Laws and there is, of course,
                      always the temptation to sell ivory illicitly to unscrupulous Indian and Arab traders.
                      Apart from supervising the running of the Range, George has two major jobs.
                      One is to supervise the running of the Game Free Area along the Rhodesia –
                      Tanganyika border, and the other to hunt down the man-eating lions which for years have
                      terrorised the Njombe District killing hundreds of Africans. Yes I know ‘hundreds’ sounds
                      fantastic, but this is perfectly true and one day, when the job is done and the official
                      report published I shall send it to you to prove it!

                      I hate to think of the Game Free Area and so does George. All the game from
                      buffalo to tiny duiker has been shot out in a wide belt extending nearly two hundred
                      miles along the Northern Rhodesia -Tanganyika border. There are three Europeans in
                      widely spaced camps who supervise this slaughter by African Game Guards. This
                      horrible measure is considered necessary by the Veterinary Departments of
                      Tanganyika, Rhodesia and South Africa, to prevent the cattle disease of Rinderpest
                      from spreading South.

                      When George is home however, we do relax and have fun. On the Saturday
                      before the school term started we took Kate and the boys up to the top fishing camp in
                      the Mporoto Mountains for her first attempt at trout fishing. There are three of these
                      camps built by the Mbeya Trout Association on the rivers which were first stocked with
                      the trout hatched on our farm at Mchewe. Of the three, the top camp is our favourite. The
                      scenery there is most glorious and reminds me strongly of the rivers of the Western
                      Cape which I so loved in my childhood.

                      The river, the Kawira, flows from the Rungwe Mountain through a narrow valley
                      with hills rising steeply on either side. The water runs swiftly over smooth stones and
                      sometimes only a foot or two below the level of the banks. It is sparkling and shallow,
                      but in places the water is deep and dark and the banks high. I had a busy day keeping
                      an eye on the boys, especially Jim, who twice climbed out on branches which overhung
                      deep water. “Mummy, I was only looking for trout!”

                      How those kids enjoyed the freedom of the camp after the comparative
                      restrictions of town. So did Fanny, she raced about on the hills like a mad dog chasing
                      imaginary rabbits and having the time of her life. To escape the noise and commotion
                      George had gone far upstream to fish and returned in the late afternoon with three good
                      sized trout and four smaller ones. Kate proudly showed George the two she had caught
                      with the assistance or our cook Hamisi. I fear they were caught in a rather unorthodox
                      manner but this I kept a secret from George who is a stickler for the orthodox in trout
                      fishing.

                      Eleanor.

                      Jacksdale England 24th June 1946

                      Dearest Family.

                      Here we are all together at last in England. You cannot imagine how wonderful it
                      feels to have the whole Rushby family reunited. I find myself counting heads. Ann,
                      George, Kate, John, Jim, and Henry. All present and well. We had a very pleasant trip
                      on the old British India Ship Mantola. She was crowded with East Africans going home
                      for the first time since the war, many like us, eagerly looking forward to a reunion with their
                      children whom they had not seen for years. There was a great air of anticipation and
                      good humour but a little anxiety too.

                      “I do hope our children will be glad to see us,” said one, and went on to tell me
                      about a Doctor from Dar es Salaam who, after years of separation from his son had
                      recently gone to visit him at his school. The Doctor had alighted at the railway station
                      where he had arranged to meet his son. A tall youth approached him and said, very
                      politely, “Excuse me sir. Are you my Father?” Others told me of children who had
                      become so attached to their relatives in England that they gave their parents a very cool
                      reception. I began to feel apprehensive about Ann and George but fortunately had no
                      time to mope.

                      Oh, that washing and ironing for six! I shall remember for ever that steamy little
                      laundry in the heat of the Red Sea and queuing up for the ironing and the feeling of guilt
                      at the size of my bundle. We met many old friends amongst the passengers, and made
                      some new ones, so the voyage was a pleasant one, We did however have our
                      anxious moments.

                      John was the first to disappear and we had an anxious search for him. He was
                      quite surprised that we had been concerned. “I was just talking to my friend Chinky
                      Chinaman in his workshop.” Could John have called him that? Then, when I returned to
                      the cabin from dinner one night I found Henry swigging Owbridge’s Lung Tonic. He had
                      drunk half the bottle neat and the label said ‘five drops in water’. Luckily it did not harm
                      him.

                      Jim of course was forever risking his neck. George had forbidden him to climb on
                      the railings but he was forever doing things which no one had thought of forbidding him
                      to do, like hanging from the overhead pipes on the deck or standing on the sill of a
                      window and looking down at the well deck far below. An Officer found him doing this and
                      gave me the scolding.

                      Another day he climbed up on a derrick used for hoisting cargo. George,
                      oblivious to this was sitting on the hatch cover with other passengers reading a book. I
                      was in the wash house aft on the same deck when Kate rushed in and said, “Mummy
                      come and see Jim.” Before I had time to more than gape, the butcher noticed Jim and
                      rushed out knife in hand. “Get down from there”, he bellowed. Jim got, and with such
                      speed that he caught the leg or his shorts on a projecting piece of metal. The cotton
                      ripped across the seam from leg to leg and Jim stood there for a humiliating moment in a
                      sort of revealing little kilt enduring the smiles of the passengers who had looked up from
                      their books at the butcher’s shout.

                      That incident cured Jim of his urge to climb on the ship but he managed to give
                      us one more fright. He was lost off Dover. People from whom we enquired said, “Yes
                      we saw your little boy. He was by the railings watching that big aircraft carrier.” Now Jim,
                      though mischievous , is very obedient. It was not until George and I had conducted an
                      exhaustive search above and below decks that I really became anxious. Could he have
                      fallen overboard? Jim was returned to us by an unamused Officer. He had been found
                      in one of the lifeboats on the deck forbidden to children.

                      Our ship passed Dover after dark and it was an unforgettable sight. Dover Castle
                      and the cliffs were floodlit for the Victory Celebrations. One of the men passengers sat
                      down at the piano and played ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’, and people sang and a few
                      wept. The Mantola docked at Tilbury early next morning in a steady drizzle.
                      There was a dockers strike on and it took literally hours for all the luggage to be
                      put ashore. The ships stewards simply locked the public rooms and went off leaving the
                      passengers shivering on the docks. Eventually damp and bedraggled, we arrived at St
                      Pancras Station and were given a warm welcome by George’s sister Cath and her
                      husband Reg Pears, who had come all the way from Nottingham to meet us.
                      As we had to spend an hour in London before our train left for Nottingham,
                      George suggested that Cath and I should take the children somewhere for a meal. So
                      off we set in the cold drizzle, the boys and I without coats and laden with sundry
                      packages, including a hand woven native basket full of shoes. We must have looked like
                      a bunch of refugees as we stood in the hall of The Kings Cross Station Hotel because a
                      supercilious waiter in tails looked us up and down and said, “I’m afraid not Madam”, in
                      answer to my enquiry whether the hotel could provide lunch for six.
                      Anyway who cares! We had lunch instead at an ABC tea room — horrible
                      sausage and a mound or rather sloppy mashed potatoes, but very good ice-cream.
                      After the train journey in a very grimy third class coach, through an incredibly green and
                      beautiful countryside, we eventually reached Nottingham and took a bus to Jacksdale,
                      where George’s mother and sisters live in large detached houses side by side.
                      Ann and George were at the bus stop waiting for us, and thank God, submitted
                      to my kiss as though we had been parted for weeks instead of eight years. Even now
                      that we are together again my heart aches to think of all those missed years. They have
                      not changed much and I would have picked them out of a crowd, but Ann, once thin and
                      pale, is now very rosy and blooming. She still has her pretty soft plaits and her eyes are
                      still a clear calm blue. Young George is very striking looking with sparkling brown eyes, a
                      ready, slightly lopsided smile, and charming manners.

                      Mother, and George’s elder sister, Lottie Giles, welcomed us at the door with the
                      cheering news that our tea was ready. Ann showed us the way to mother’s lovely lilac
                      tiled bathroom for a wash before tea. Before I had even turned the tap, Jim had hung
                      form the glass towel rail and it lay in three pieces on the floor. There have since been
                      similar tragedies. I can see that life in civilisation is not without snags.

                      I am most grateful that Ann and George have accepted us so naturally and
                      affectionately. Ann said candidly, “Mummy, it’s a good thing that you had Aunt Cath with
                      you when you arrived because, honestly, I wouldn’t have known you.”

                      Eleanor.

                      Jacksdale England 28th August 1946

                      Dearest Family.

                      I am sorry that I have not written for some time but honestly, I don’t know whether
                      I’m coming or going. Mother handed the top floor of her house to us and the
                      arrangement was that I should tidy our rooms and do our laundry and Mother would
                      prepare the meals except for breakfast. It looked easy at first. All the rooms have wall to
                      wall carpeting and there was a large vacuum cleaner in the box room. I was told a
                      window cleaner would do the windows.

                      Well the first time I used the Hoover I nearly died of fright. I pressed the switch
                      and immediately there was a roar and the bag filled with air to bursting point, or so I
                      thought. I screamed for Ann and she came at the run. I pointed to the bag and shouted
                      above the din, “What must I do? It’s going to burst!” Ann looked at me in astonishment
                      and said, “But Mummy that’s the way it works.” I couldn’t have her thinking me a
                      complete fool so I switched the current off and explained to Ann how it was that I had
                      never seen this type of equipment in action. How, in Tanganyika , I had never had a
                      house with electricity and that, anyway, electric equipment would be superfluous
                      because floors are of cement which the houseboy polishes by hand, one only has a
                      few rugs or grass mats on the floor. “But what about Granny’s house in South Africa?’”
                      she asked, so I explained about your Josephine who threatened to leave if you
                      bought a Hoover because that would mean that you did not think she kept the house
                      clean. The sad fact remains that, at fourteen, Ann knows far more about housework than I
                      do, or rather did! I’m learning fast.

                      The older children all go to school at different times in the morning. Ann leaves first
                      by bus to go to her Grammar School at Sutton-in-Ashfield. Shortly afterwards George
                      catches a bus for Nottingham where he attends the High School. So they have
                      breakfast in relays, usually scrambled egg made from a revolting dried egg mixture.
                      Then there are beds to make and washing and ironing to do, so I have little time for
                      sightseeing, though on a few afternoons George has looked after the younger children
                      and I have gone on bus tours in Derbyshire. Life is difficult here with all the restrictions on
                      foodstuffs. We all have ration books so get our fair share but meat, fats and eggs are
                      scarce and expensive. The weather is very wet. At first I used to hang out the washing
                      and then rush to bring it in when a shower came. Now I just let it hang.

                      We have left our imprint upon my Mother-in-law’s house for ever. Henry upset a
                      bottle of Milk of Magnesia in the middle of the pale fawn bedroom carpet. John, trying to
                      be helpful and doing some dusting, broke one of the delicate Dresden china candlesticks
                      which adorn our bedroom mantelpiece.Jim and Henry have wrecked the once
                      professionally landscaped garden and all the boys together bored a large hole through
                      Mother’s prized cherry tree. So now Mother has given up and gone off to Bournemouth
                      for a much needed holiday. Once a week I have the capable help of a cleaning woman,
                      called for some reason, ‘Mrs Two’, but I have now got all the cooking to do for eight. Mrs
                      Two is a godsend. She wears, of all things, a print mob cap with a hole in it. Says it
                      belonged to her Grandmother. Her price is far beyond Rubies to me, not so much
                      because she does, in a couple of hours, what it takes me all day to do, but because she
                      sells me boxes of fifty cigarettes. Some non-smoking relative, who works in Players
                      tobacco factory, passes on his ration to her. Until Mrs Two came to my rescue I had
                      been starved of cigarettes. Each time I asked for them at the shop the grocer would say,
                      “Are you registered with us?” Only very rarely would some kindly soul sell me a little
                      packet of five Woodbines.

                      England is very beautiful but the sooner we go home to Tanganyika, the better.
                      On this, George and I and the children agree.

                      Eleanor.

                      Jacksdale England 20th September 1946

                      Dearest Family.

                      Our return passages have now been booked on the Winchester Castle and we
                      sail from Southampton on October the sixth. I look forward to returning to Tanganyika but
                      hope to visit England again in a few years time when our children are older and when
                      rationing is a thing of the past.

                      I have grown fond of my Sisters-in-law and admire my Mother-in-law very much.
                      She has a great sense of humour and has entertained me with stories of her very
                      eventful life, and told me lots of little stories of the children which did not figure in her
                      letters. One which amused me was about young George. During one of the air raids
                      early in the war when the sirens were screaming and bombers roaring overhead Mother
                      made the two children get into the cloak cupboard under the stairs. Young George
                      seemed quite unconcerned about the planes and the bombs but soon an anxious voice
                      asked in the dark, “Gran, what will I do if a spider falls on me?” I am afraid that Mother is
                      going to miss Ann and George very much.

                      I had a holiday last weekend when Lottie and I went up to London on a spree. It
                      was a most enjoyable weekend, though very rushed. We placed ourselves in the
                      hands of Thos. Cook and Sons and saw most of the sights of London and were run off
                      our feet in the process. As you all know London I shall not describe what I saw but just
                      to say that, best of all, I enjoyed walking along the Thames embankment in the evening
                      and the changing of the Guard at Whitehall. On Sunday morning Lottie and I went to
                      Kew Gardens and in the afternoon walked in Kensington Gardens.

                      We went to only one show, ‘The Skin of our Teeth’ starring Vivienne Leigh.
                      Neither of us enjoyed the performance at all and regretted having spent so much on
                      circle seats. The show was far too highbrow for my taste, a sort of satire on the survival
                      of the human race. Miss Leigh was unrecognisable in a blond wig and her voice strident.
                      However the night was not a dead loss as far as entertainment was concerned as we
                      were later caught up in a tragicomedy at our hotel.

                      We had booked communicating rooms at the enormous Imperial Hotel in Russell
                      Square. These rooms were comfortably furnished but very high up, and we had a rather
                      terrifying and dreary view from the windows of the enclosed courtyard far below. We
                      had some snacks and a chat in Lottie’s room and then I moved to mine and went to bed.
                      I had noted earlier that there was a special lock on the outer door of my room so that
                      when the door was closed from the inside it automatically locked itself.
                      I was just dropping off to sleep when I heard a hammering which seemed to
                      come from my wardrobe. I got up, rather fearfully, and opened the wardrobe door and
                      noted for the first time that the wardrobe was set in an opening in the wall and that the
                      back of the wardrobe also served as the back of the wardrobe in the room next door. I
                      quickly shut it again and went to confer with Lottie.

                      Suddenly a male voice was raised next door in supplication, “Mary Mother of
                      God, Help me! They’ve locked me in!” and the hammering resumed again, sometimes
                      on the door, and then again on the back of the wardrobe of the room next door. Lottie
                      had by this time joined me and together we listened to the prayers and to the
                      hammering. Then the voice began to threaten, “If you don’t let me out I’ll jump out of the
                      window.” Great consternation on our side of the wall. I went out into the passage and
                      called through the door, “You’re not locked in. Come to your door and I’ll tell you how to
                      open it.” Silence for a moment and then again the prayers followed by a threat. All the
                      other doors in the corridor remained shut.

                      Luckily just then a young man and a woman came walking down the corridor and I
                      explained the situation. The young man hurried off for the night porter who went into the
                      next door room. In a matter of minutes there was peace next door. When the night
                      porter came out into the corridor again I asked for an explanation. He said quite casually,
                      “It’s all right Madam. He’s an Irish Gentleman in Show Business. He gets like this on a
                      Saturday night when he has had a drop too much. He won’t give any more trouble
                      now.” And he didn’t. Next morning at breakfast Lottie and I tried to spot the gentleman in
                      the Show Business, but saw no one who looked like the owner of that charming Irish
                      voice.

                      George had to go to London on business last Monday and took the older
                      children with him for a few hours of sight seeing. They returned quite unimpressed.
                      Everything was too old and dirty and there were far too many people about, but they
                      had enjoyed riding on the escalators at the tube stations, and all agreed that the highlight
                      of the trip was, “Dad took us to lunch at the Chicken Inn.”

                      Now that it is almost time to leave England I am finding the housework less of a
                      drudgery, Also, as it is school holiday time, Jim and Henry are able to go on walks with
                      the older children and so use up some of their surplus energy. Cath and I took the
                      children (except young George who went rabbit shooting with his uncle Reg, and
                      Henry, who stayed at home with his dad) to the Wakes at Selston, the neighbouring
                      village. There were the roundabouts and similar contraptions but the side shows had
                      more appeal for the children. Ann and Kate found a stall where assorted prizes were
                      spread out on a sloping table. Anyone who could land a penny squarely on one of
                      these objects was given a similar one as a prize.

                      I was touched to see that both girls ignored all the targets except a box of fifty
                      cigarettes which they were determined to win for me. After numerous attempts, Kate
                      landed her penny successfully and you would have loved to have seen her radiant little
                      face.

                      Eleanor.

                      Dar es Salaam 22nd October 1946

                      Dearest Family.

                      Back in Tanganyika at last, but not together. We have to stay in Dar es Salaam
                      until tomorrow when the train leaves for Dodoma. We arrived yesterday morning to find
                      all the hotels filled with people waiting to board ships for England. Fortunately some
                      friends came to the rescue and Ann, Kate and John have gone to stay with them. Jim,
                      Henry and I are sleeping in a screened corner of the lounge of the New Africa Hotel, and
                      George and young George have beds in the Palm Court of the same hotel.

                      We travelled out from England in the Winchester Castle under troopship
                      conditions. We joined her at Southampton after a rather slow train journey from
                      Nottingham. We arrived after dark and from the station we could see a large ship in the
                      docks with a floodlit red funnel. “Our ship,” yelled the children in delight, but it was not the
                      Winchester Castle but the Queen Elizabeth, newly reconditioned.

                      We had hoped to board our ship that evening but George made enquiries and
                      found that we would not be allowed on board until noon next day. Without much hope,
                      we went off to try to get accommodation for eight at a small hotel recommended by the
                      taxi driver. Luckily for us there was a very motherly woman at the reception desk. She
                      looked in amusement at the six children and said to me, “Goodness are all these yours,
                      ducks? Then she called over her shoulder, “Wilf, come and see this lady with lots of
                      children. We must try to help.” They settled the problem most satisfactorily by turning
                      two rooms into a dormitory.

                      In the morning we had time to inspect bomb damage in the dock area of
                      Southampton. Most of the rubble had been cleared away but there are still numbers of
                      damaged buildings awaiting demolition. A depressing sight. We saw the Queen Mary
                      at anchor, still in her drab war time paint, but magnificent nevertheless.
                      The Winchester Castle was crammed with passengers and many travelled in
                      acute discomfort. We were luckier than most because the two girls, the three small boys
                      and I had a stateroom to ourselves and though it was stripped of peacetime comforts,
                      we had a private bathroom and toilet. The two Georges had bunks in a huge men-only
                      dormitory somewhere in the bowls of the ship where they had to share communal troop
                      ship facilities. The food was plentiful but unexciting and one had to queue for afternoon
                      tea. During the day the decks were crowded and there was squatting room only. The
                      many children on board got bored.

                      Port Said provided a break and we were all entertained by the ‘Gully Gully’ man
                      and his conjuring tricks, and though we had no money to spend at Simon Artz, we did at
                      least have a chance to stretch our legs. Next day scores of passengers took ill with
                      sever stomach upsets, whether from food poisoning, or as was rumoured, from bad
                      water taken on at the Egyptian port, I don’t know. Only the two Georges in our family
                      were affected and their attacks were comparatively mild.

                      As we neared the Kenya port of Mombassa, the passengers for Dar es Salaam
                      were told that they would have to disembark at Mombassa and continue their journey in
                      a small coaster, the Al Said. The Winchester Castle is too big for the narrow channel
                      which leads to Dar es Salaam harbour.

                      From the wharf the Al Said looked beautiful. She was once the private yacht of
                      the Sultan of Zanzibar and has lovely lines. Our admiration lasted only until we were
                      shown our cabins. With one voice our children exclaimed, “Gosh they stink!” They did, of
                      a mixture of rancid oil and sweat and stale urine. The beds were not yet made and the
                      thin mattresses had ominous stains on them. John, ever fastidious, lifted his mattress and two enormous cockroaches scuttled for cover.

                      We had a good homely lunch served by two smiling African stewards and
                      afterwards we sat on deck and that was fine too, though behind ones enjoyment there
                      was the thought of those stuffy and dirty cabins. That first night nearly everyone,
                      including George and our older children, slept on deck. Women occupied deck chairs
                      and men and children slept on the bare decks. Horrifying though the idea was, I decided
                      that, as Jim had a bad cough, he, Henry and I would sleep in our cabin.

                      When I announced my intention of sleeping in the cabin one of the passengers
                      gave me some insecticide spray which I used lavishly, but without avail. The children
                      slept but I sat up all night with the light on, determined to keep at least their pillows clear
                      of the cockroaches which scurried about boldly regardless of the light. All the next day
                      and night we avoided the cabins. The Al Said stopped for some hours at Zanzibar to
                      offload her deck cargo of live cattle and packing cases from the hold. George and the
                      elder children went ashore for a walk but I felt too lazy and there was plenty to watch
                      from deck.

                      That night I too occupied a deck chair and slept quite comfortably, and next
                      morning we entered the palm fringed harbour of Dar es Salaam and were home.

                      Eleanor.

                      Mbeya 1st November 1946

                      Dearest Family.

                      Home at last! We are all most happily installed in a real family house about three
                      miles out of Mbeya and near the school. This house belongs to an elderly German and
                      has been taken over by the Custodian of Enemy Property and leased to the
                      Government.

                      The owner, whose name is Shenkel, was not interned but is allowed to occupy a
                      smaller house on the Estate. I found him in the garden this morning lecturing the children
                      on what they may do and may not do. I tried to make it quite clear to him that he was not
                      our landlord, though he clearly thinks otherwise. After he had gone I had to take two
                      aspirin and lie down to recover my composure! I had been warned that he has this effect
                      on people.

                      Mr Shenkel is a short and ugly man, his clothes are stained with food and he
                      wears steel rimmed glasses tied round his head with a piece of dirty elastic because
                      one earpiece is missing. He speaks with a thick German accent but his English is fluent
                      and I believe he is a cultured and clever man. But he is maddening. The children were
                      more amused than impressed by his exhortations and have happily Christened our
                      home, ‘Old Shenks’.

                      The house has very large grounds as the place is really a derelict farm. It suits us
                      down to the ground. We had no sooner unpacked than George went off on safari after
                      those maneating lions in the Njombe District. he accounted for one, and a further two
                      jointly with a Game Scout, before we left for England. But none was shot during the five
                      months we were away as George’s relief is quite inexperienced in such work. George
                      thinks that there are still about a dozen maneaters at large. His theory is that a female
                      maneater moved into the area in 1938 when maneating first started, and brought up her
                      cubs to be maneaters, and those cubs in turn did the same. The three maneating lions
                      that have been shot were all in very good condition and not old and maimed as
                      maneaters usually are.

                      George anticipates that it will be months before all these lions are accounted for
                      because they are constantly on the move and cover a very large area. The lions have to
                      be hunted on foot because they range over broken country covered by bush and fairly
                      dense thicket.

                      I did a bit of shooting myself yesterday and impressed our African servants and
                      the children and myself. What a fluke! Our houseboy came to say that there was a snake
                      in the garden, the biggest he had ever seen. He said it was too big to kill with a stick and
                      would I shoot it. I had no gun but a heavy .450 Webley revolver and I took this and
                      hurried out with the children at my heels.

                      The snake turned out to be an unusually large puff adder which had just shed its
                      skin. It looked beautiful in a repulsive way. So flanked by servants and children I took
                      aim and shot, not hitting the head as I had planned, but breaking the snake’s back with
                      the heavy bullet. The two native boys then rushed up with sticks and flattened the head.
                      “Ma you’re a crack shot,” cried the kids in delighted surprise. I hope to rest on my laurels
                      for a long, long while.

                      Although there are only a few weeks of school term left the four older children will
                      start school on Monday. Not only am I pleased with our new home here but also with
                      the staff I have engaged. Our new houseboy, Reuben, (but renamed Robin by our
                      children) is not only cheerful and willing but intelligent too, and Jumbe, the wood and
                      garden boy, is a born clown and a source of great entertainment to the children.

                      I feel sure that we are all going to be very happy here at ‘Old Shenks!.

                      Eleanor.

                      #6267
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        From Tanganyika with Love

                        continued part 8

                        With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                        Morogoro 20th January 1941

                        Dearest Family,

                        It is all arranged for us to go on three months leave to Cape Town next month so
                        get out your flags. How I shall love showing off Kate and John to you and this time
                        George will be with us and you’ll be able to get to know him properly. You can’t think
                        what a comfort it will be to leave all the worries of baggage and tipping to him. We will all
                        be travelling by ship to Durban and from there to Cape Town by train. I rather dread the
                        journey because there is a fifth little Rushby on the way and, as always, I am very
                        queasy.

                        Kate has become such a little companion to me that I dread the thought of leaving
                        her behind with you to start schooling. I miss Ann and George so much now and must
                        face separation from Kate as well. There does not seem to be any alternative though.
                        There is a boarding school in Arusha and another has recently been started in Mbeya,
                        but both places are so far away and I know she would be very unhappy as a boarder at
                        this stage. Living happily with you and attending a day school might wean her of her
                        dependance upon me. As soon as this wretched war ends we mean to get Ann and
                        George back home and Kate too and they can then all go to boarding school together.
                        If I were a more methodical person I would try to teach Kate myself, but being a
                        muddler I will have my hands full with Johnny and the new baby. Life passes pleasantly
                        but quietly here. Much of my time is taken up with entertaining the children and sewing
                        for them and just waiting for George to come home.

                        George works so hard on these safaris and this endless elephant hunting to
                        protect native crops entails so much foot safari, that he has lost a good deal of weight. it
                        is more than ten years since he had a holiday so he is greatly looking forward to this one.
                        Four whole months together!

                        I should like to keep the ayah, Janet, for the new baby, but she says she wants
                        to return to her home in the Southern Highlands Province and take a job there. She is
                        unusually efficient and so clean, and the houseboy and cook are quite scared of her. She
                        bawls at them if the children’s meals are served a few minutes late but she is always
                        respectful towards me and practically creeps around on tiptoe when George is home.
                        She has a room next to the outside kitchen. One night thieves broke into the kitchen and
                        stole a few things, also a canvas chair and mat from the verandah. Ayah heard them, and
                        grabbing a bit of firewood, she gave chase. Her shouts so alarmed the thieves that they
                        ran off up the hill jettisoning their loot as they ran. She is a great character.

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 30th July 1941

                        Dearest Family,

                        Safely back in Morogoro after a rather grim voyage from Durban. Our ship was
                        completely blacked out at night and we had to sleep with warm clothing and life belts
                        handy and had so many tedious boat drills. It was a nuisance being held up for a whole
                        month in Durban, because I was so very pregnant when we did embark. In fact George
                        suggested that I had better hide in the ‘Ladies’ until the ship sailed for fear the Captain
                        might refuse to take me. It seems that the ship, on which we were originally booked to
                        travel, was torpedoed somewhere off the Cape.

                        We have been given a very large house this tour with a mosquito netted
                        sleeping porch which will be fine for the new baby. The only disadvantage is that the
                        house is on the very edge of the residential part of Morogoro and Johnny will have to
                        go quite a distance to find playmates.

                        I still miss Kate terribly. She is a loving little person. I had prepared for a scene
                        when we said good-bye but I never expected that she would be the comforter. It
                        nearly broke my heart when she put her arms around me and said, “I’m so sorry
                        Mummy, please don’t cry. I’ll be good. Please don’t cry.” I’m afraid it was all very
                        harrowing for you also. It is a great comfort to hear that she has settled down so happily.
                        I try not to think consciously of my absent children and remind myself that there are
                        thousands of mothers in the same boat, but they are always there at the back of my
                        mind.

                        Mother writes that Ann and George are perfectly happy and well, and that though
                        German bombers do fly over fairly frequently, they are unlikely to drop their bombs on
                        a small place like Jacksdale.

                        George has already left on safari to the Rufiji. There was no replacement for his
                        job while he was away so he is anxious to get things moving again. Johnny and I are
                        going to move in with friends until he returns, just in case all the travelling around brings
                        the new baby on earlier than expected.

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 26th August 1941

                        Dearest Family,

                        Our new son, James Caleb. was born at 3.30 pm yesterday afternoon, with a
                        minimum of fuss, in the hospital here. The Doctor was out so my friend, Sister Murray,
                        delivered the baby. The Sister is a Scots girl, very efficient and calm and encouraging,
                        and an ideal person to have around at such a time.

                        Everything, this time, went without a hitch and I feel fine and proud of my
                        bouncing son. He weighs nine pounds and ten ounces and is a big boned fellow with
                        dark hair and unusually strongly marked eyebrows. His eyes are strong too and already
                        seem to focus. George is delighted with him and brought Hugh Nelson to see him this
                        morning. Hugh took one look, and, astonished I suppose by the baby’s apparent
                        awareness, said, “Gosh, this one has been here before.” The baby’s cot is beside my
                        bed so I can admire him as much as I please. He has large strong hands and George
                        reckons he’ll make a good boxer some day.

                        Another of my early visitors was Mabemba, George’s orderly. He is a very big
                        African and looks impressive in his Game Scouts uniform. George met him years ago at
                        Mahenge when he was a young elephant hunter and Mabemba was an Askari in the
                        Police. Mabemba takes quite a proprietary interest in the family.

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 25th December 1941

                        Dearest Family,

                        Christmas Day today, but not a gay one. I have Johnny in bed with a poisoned
                        leg so he missed the children’s party at the Club. To make things a little festive I have
                        put up a little Christmas tree in the children’s room and have hung up streamers and
                        balloons above the beds. Johnny demands a lot of attention so it is fortunate that little
                        James is such a very good baby. He sleeps all night until 6 am when his feed is due.
                        One morning last week I got up as usual to feed him but I felt so dopey that I
                        thought I’d better have a cold wash first. I went into the bathroom and had a hurried
                        splash and then grabbed a towel to dry my face. Immediately I felt an agonising pain in
                        my nose. Reason? There was a scorpion in the towel! In no time at all my nose looked
                        like a pear and felt burning hot. The baby screamed with frustration whilst I feverishly
                        bathed my nose and applied this and that in an effort to cool it.

                        For three days my nose was very red and tender,”A real boozer nose”, said
                        George. But now, thank goodness, it is back to normal.

                        Some of the younger marrieds and a couple of bachelors came around,
                        complete with portable harmonium, to sing carols in the early hours. No sooner had we
                        settled down again to woo sleep when we were disturbed by shouts and screams from
                        our nearest neighbour’s house. “Just celebrating Christmas”, grunted George, but we
                        heard this morning that the neighbour had fallen down his verandah steps and broken his
                        leg.

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro Hospital 30th September 1943

                        Dearest Family,

                        Well now we are eight! Our new son, Henry, was born on the night of the 28th.
                        He is a beautiful baby, weighing ten pounds three and a half ounces. This baby is very
                        well developed, handsome, and rather superior looking, and not at all amusing to look at
                        as the other boys were.George was born with a moustache, John had a large nose and
                        looked like a little old man, and Jim, bless his heart, looked rather like a baby
                        chimpanzee. Henry is different. One of my visitors said, “Heaven he’ll have to be a
                        Bishop!” I expect the lawn sleeves of his nightie really gave her that idea, but the baby
                        does look like ‘Someone’. He is very good and George, John, and Jim are delighted
                        with him, so is Mabemba.

                        We have a dear little nurse looking after us. She is very petite and childish
                        looking. When the baby was born and she brought him for me to see, the nurse asked
                        his name. I said jokingly, “His name is Benjamin – the last of the family.” She is now very
                        peeved to discover that his real name is Henry William and persists in calling him
                        ‘Benjie’.I am longing to get home and into my pleasant rut. I have been away for two
                        whole weeks and George is managing so well that I shall feel quite expendable if I don’t
                        get home soon. As our home is a couple of miles from the hospital, I arranged to move
                        in and stay with the nursing sister on the day the baby was due. There I remained for ten
                        whole days before the baby was born. Each afternoon George came and took me for a
                        ride in the bumpy Bedford lorry and the Doctor tried this and that but the baby refused
                        to be hurried.

                        On the tenth day I had the offer of a lift and decided to go home for tea and
                        surprise George. It was a surprise too, because George was entertaining a young
                        Game Ranger for tea and my arrival, looking like a perambulating big top, must have
                        been rather embarrassing.Henry was born at the exact moment that celebrations started
                        in the Township for the end of the Muslim religious festival of Ramadan. As the Doctor
                        held him up by his ankles, there was the sound of hooters and firecrackers from the town.
                        The baby has a birthmark in the shape of a crescent moon above his left eyebrow.

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 26th January 1944

                        Dearest Family,

                        We have just heard that we are to be transferred to the Headquarters of the
                        Game Department at a place called Lyamungu in the Northern Province. George is not
                        at all pleased because he feels that the new job will entail a good deal of office work and
                        that his beloved but endless elephant hunting will be considerably curtailed. I am glad of
                        that and I am looking forward to seeing a new part of Tanganyika and particularly
                        Kilimanjaro which dominates Lyamungu.

                        Thank goodness our menagerie is now much smaller. We found a home for the
                        guinea pigs last December and Susie, our mischievous guinea-fowl, has flown off to find
                        a mate.Last week I went down to Dar es Salaam for a check up by Doctor John, a
                        woman doctor, leaving George to cope with the three boys. I was away two nights and
                        a day and returned early in the morning just as George was giving Henry his six o’clock
                        bottle. It always amazes me that so very masculine a man can do my chores with no
                        effort and I have a horrible suspicion that he does them better than I do. I enjoyed the
                        short break at the coast very much. I stayed with friends and we bathed in the warm sea
                        and saw a good film.

                        Now I suppose there will be a round of farewell parties. People in this country
                        are most kind and hospitable.

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 20th March 1944

                        Dearest Family,

                        We left Morogoro after the round of farewell parties I had anticipated. The final
                        one was at the Club on Saturday night. George made a most amusing speech and the
                        party was a very pleasant occasion though I was rather tired after all the packing.
                        Several friends gathered to wave us off on Monday morning. We had two lorries
                        loaded with our goods. I rode in the cab of the first one with Henry on my knee. George
                        with John and Jim rode in the second one. As there was no room for them in the cab,
                        they sat on our couch which was placed across the width of the lorry behind the cab. This
                        seat was not as comfortable as it sounds, because the space behind the couch was
                        taken up with packing cases which were not lashed in place and these kept moving
                        forward as the lorry bumped its way over the bad road.

                        Soon there was hardly any leg room and George had constantly to stand up and
                        push the second layer of packing cases back to prevent them from toppling over onto
                        the children and himself. As it is now the rainy season the road was very muddy and
                        treacherous and the lorries travelled so slowly it was dark by the time we reached
                        Karogwe from where we were booked to take the train next morning to Moshi.
                        Next morning we heard that there had been a washaway on the line and that the
                        train would be delayed for at least twelve hours. I was not feeling well and certainly did
                        not enjoy my day. Early in the afternoon Jimmy ran into a wall and blackened both his
                        eyes. What a child! As the day wore on I felt worse and worse and when at last the train
                        did arrive I simply crawled into my bunk whilst George coped nobly with the luggage
                        and the children.

                        We arrived at Moshi at breakfast time and went straight to the Lion Cub Hotel
                        where I took to my bed with a high temperature. It was, of course, malaria. I always have
                        my attacks at the most inopportune times. Fortunately George ran into some friends
                        called Eccles and the wife Mollie came to my room and bathed Henry and prepared his
                        bottle and fed him. George looked after John and Jim. Next day I felt much better and
                        we drove out to Lyamungu the day after. There we had tea with the Game Warden and
                        his wife before moving into our new home nearby.

                        The Game Warden is Captain Monty Moore VC. He came out to Africa
                        originally as an Officer in the King’s African Rifles and liked the country so much he left the
                        Army and joined the Game Department. He was stationed at Banagi in the Serengetti
                        Game Reserve and is well known for his work with the lions there. He particularly tamed
                        some of the lions by feeding them so that they would come out into the open and could
                        readily be photographed by tourists. His wife Audrey, has written a book about their
                        experiences at Banagi. It is called “Serengetti”

                        Our cook, Hamisi, soon had a meal ready for us and we all went to bed early.
                        This is a very pleasant house and I know we will be happy here. I still feel a little shaky
                        but that is the result of all the quinine I have taken. I expect I shall feel fine in a day or two.

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 15th May 1944

                        Dearest Family,

                        Well, here we are settled comfortably in our very nice house. The house is
                        modern and roomy, and there is a large enclosed verandah, which will be a Godsend in
                        the wet weather as a playroom for the children. The only drawback is that there are so
                        many windows to be curtained and cleaned. The grounds consist of a very large lawn
                        and a few beds of roses and shrubs. It is an ideal garden for children, unlike our steeply
                        terraced garden at Morogoro.

                        Lyamungu is really the Government Coffee Research Station. It is about sixteen
                        miles from the town of Moshi which is the centre of the Tanganyika coffee growing
                        industry. Lyamungu, which means ‘place of God’ is in the foothills of Mt Kilimanjaro and
                        we have a beautiful view of Kilimanjaro. Kibo, the more spectacular of the two mountain
                        peaks, towers above us, looking from this angle, like a giant frosted plum pudding. Often the mountain is veiled by cloud and mist which sometimes comes down to
                        our level so that visibility is practically nil. George dislikes both mist and mountain but I
                        like both and so does John. He in fact saw Kibo before I did. On our first day here, the
                        peak was completely hidden by cloud. In the late afternoon when the children were
                        playing on the lawn outside I was indoors hanging curtains. I heard John call out, “Oh
                        Mummy, isn’t it beautiful!” I ran outside and there, above a scarf of cloud, I saw the
                        showy dome of Kibo with the setting sun shining on it tingeing the snow pink. It was an
                        unforgettable experience.

                        As this is the rainy season, the surrounding country side is very lush and green.
                        Everywhere one sees the rich green of the coffee plantations and the lighter green of
                        the banana groves. Unfortunately our walks are rather circumscribed. Except for the main road to Moshi, there is nowhere to walk except through the Government coffee
                        plantation. Paddy, our dog, thinks life is pretty boring as there is no bush here and
                        nothing to hunt. There are only half a dozen European families here and half of those are
                        on very distant terms with the other half which makes the station a rather uncomfortable
                        one.

                        The coffee expert who runs this station is annoyed because his European staff
                        has been cut down owing to the war, and three of the vacant houses and some office
                        buildings have been taken over temporarily by the Game Department. Another house
                        has been taken over by the head of the Labour Department. However I don’t suppose
                        the ill feeling will effect us much. We are so used to living in the bush that we are not
                        socially inclined any way.

                        Our cook, Hamisi, came with us from Morogoro but I had to engage a new
                        houseboy and kitchenboy. I first engaged a houseboy who produced a wonderful ‘chit’
                        in which his previous employer describes him as his “friend and confidant”. I felt rather
                        dubious about engaging him and how right I was. On his second day with us I produced
                        some of Henry’s napkins, previously rinsed by me, and asked this boy to wash them.
                        He looked most offended and told me that it was beneath his dignity to do women’s
                        work. We parted immediately with mutual relief.

                        Now I have a good natured fellow named Japhet who, though hard on crockery,
                        is prepared to do anything and loves playing with the children. He is a local boy, a
                        member of the Chagga tribe. These Chagga are most intelligent and, on the whole, well
                        to do as they all have their own small coffee shambas. Japhet tells me that his son is at
                        the Uganda University College studying medicine.The kitchen boy is a tall youth called
                        Tovelo, who helps both Hamisi, the cook, and the houseboy and also keeps an eye on
                        Henry when I am sewing. I still make all the children’s clothes and my own. Life is
                        pleasant but dull. George promises that he will take the whole family on safari when
                        Henry is a little older.

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 18th July 1944

                        Dearest Family,

                        Life drifts quietly by at Lyamungu with each day much like the one before – or
                        they would be, except that the children provide the sort of excitement that prohibits
                        boredom. Of the three boys our Jim is the best at this. Last week Jim wandered into the
                        coffee plantation beside our house and chewed some newly spayed berries. Result?
                        A high temperature and nasty, bloody diarrhoea, so we had to rush him to the hospital at
                        Moshi for treatment. however he was well again next day and George went off on safari.
                        That night there was another crisis. As the nights are now very cold, at this high
                        altitude, we have a large fire lit in the living room and the boy leaves a pile of logs
                        beside the hearth so that I can replenish the fire when necessary. Well that night I took
                        Henry off to bed, leaving John and Jim playing in the living room. When their bedtime
                        came, I called them without leaving the bedroom. When I had tucked John and Jim into
                        bed, I sat reading a bedtime story as I always do. Suddenly I saw smoke drifting
                        through the door, and heard a frightening rumbling noise. Japhet rushed in to say that the
                        lounge chimney was on fire! Picture me, panic on the inside and sweet smile on the
                        outside, as I picked Henry up and said to the other two, “There’s nothing to be
                        frightened about chaps, but get up and come outside for a bit.” Stupid of me to be so
                        heroic because John and Jim were not at all scared but only too delighted at the chance
                        of rushing about outside in the dark. The fire to them was just a bit of extra fun.

                        We hurried out to find one boy already on the roof and the other passing up a
                        brimming bucket of water. Other boys appeared from nowhere and soon cascades of
                        water were pouring down the chimney. The result was a mountain of smouldering soot
                        on the hearth and a pool of black water on the living room floor. However the fire was out
                        and no serious harm done because all the floors here are cement and another stain on
                        the old rug will hardly be noticed. As the children reluctantly returned to bed John
                        remarked smugly, “I told Jim not to put all the wood on the fire at once but he wouldn’t
                        listen.” I might have guessed!

                        However it was not Jim but John who gave me the worst turn of all this week. As
                        a treat I decided to take the boys to the river for a picnic tea. The river is not far from our
                        house but we had never been there before so I took the kitchen boy, Tovelo, to show
                        us the way. The path is on the level until one is in sight of the river when the bank slopes
                        steeply down. I decided that it was too steep for the pram so I stopped to lift Henry out
                        and carry him. When I looked around I saw John running down the slope towards the
                        river. The stream is not wide but flows swiftly and I had no idea how deep it was. All I
                        knew was that it was a trout stream. I called for John, “Stop, wait for me!” but he ran on
                        and made for a rude pole bridge which spanned the river. He started to cross and then,
                        to my horror, I saw John slip. There was a splash and he disappeared under the water. I
                        just dumped the baby on the ground, screamed to the boy to mind him and ran madly
                        down the slope to the river. Suddenly I saw John’s tight fitting felt hat emerge, then his
                        eyes and nose. I dashed into the water and found, to my intense relief, that it only
                        reached up to my shoulders but, thank heaven no further. John’s steady eyes watched
                        me trustingly as I approached him and carried him safely to the bank. He had been
                        standing on a rock and had not panicked at all though he had to stand up very straight
                        and tall to keep his nose out of water. I was too proud of him to scold him for
                        disobedience and too wet anyway.

                        I made John undress and put on two spare pullovers and wrapped Henry’s
                        baby blanket round his waist like a sarong. We made a small fire over which I crouched
                        with literally chattering teeth whilst Tovelo ran home to fetch a coat for me and dry clothes
                        for John.

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 16th August 1944

                        Dearest Family,

                        We have a new bull terrier bitch pup whom we have named Fanny III . So once
                        more we have a menagerie , the two dogs, two cats Susie and Winnie, and
                        some pet hens who live in the garage and are a real nuisance.

                        As John is nearly six I thought it time that he started lessons and wrote off to Dar
                        es Salaam for the correspondence course. We have had one week of lessons and I am
                        already in a state of physical and mental exhaustion. John is a most reluctant scholar.
                        “Why should I learn to read, when you can read to me?” he asks, and “Anyway why
                        should I read such stupid stuff, ‘Run Rover Run’, and ‘Mother play with baby’ . Who
                        wants to read about things like that? I don’t.”

                        He rather likes sums, but the only subject about which he is enthusiastic is
                        prehistoric history. He laps up information about ‘The Tree Dwellers’, though he is very
                        sceptical about the existence of such people. “God couldn’t be so silly to make people
                        so stupid. Fancy living in trees when it is easy to make huts like the natives.” ‘The Tree
                        Dwellers is a highly imaginative story about a revolting female called Sharptooth and her
                        offspring called Bodo. I have a very clear mental image of Sharptooth, so it came as a
                        shock to me and highly amused George when John looked at me reflectively across the
                        tea table and said, “Mummy I expect Sharptooth looked like you. You have a sharp
                        tooth too!” I have, my eye teeth are rather sharp, but I hope the resemblance stops
                        there.

                        John has an uncomfortably logical mind for a small boy. The other day he was
                        lying on the lawn staring up at the clouds when he suddenly muttered “I don’t believe it.”
                        “Believe what?” I asked. “That Jesus is coming on a cloud one day. How can he? The
                        thick ones always stay high up. What’s he going to do, jump down with a parachute?”
                        Tovelo, my kitchen boy, announced one evening that his grandmother was in the
                        kitchen and wished to see me. She was a handsome and sensible Chagga woman who
                        brought sad news. Her little granddaughter had stumbled backwards into a large cooking
                        pot of almost boiling maize meal porridge and was ‘ngongwa sana’ (very ill). I grabbed
                        a large bottle of Picric Acid and a packet of gauze which we keep for these emergencies
                        and went with her, through coffee shambas and banana groves to her daughter’s house.
                        Inside the very neat thatched hut the mother sat with the naked child lying face
                        downwards on her knee. The child’s buttocks and the back of her legs were covered in
                        huge burst blisters from which a watery pus dripped. It appeared that the accident had
                        happened on the previous day.

                        I could see that it was absolutely necessary to clean up the damaged area, and I
                        suddenly remembered that there was a trained African hospital dresser on the station. I
                        sent the father to fetch him and whilst the dresser cleaned off the sloughed skin with
                        forceps and swabs saturated in Picric Acid, I cut the gauze into small squares which I
                        soaked in the lotion and laid on the cleaned area. I thought the small pieces would be
                        easier to change especially as the whole of the most tender parts, front and back, were
                        badly scalded. The child seemed dazed and neither the dresser nor I thought she would
                        live. I gave her half an aspirin and left three more half tablets to be given four hourly.
                        Next day she seemed much brighter. I poured more lotion on the gauze
                        disturbing as few pieces as possible and again the next day and the next. After a week
                        the skin was healing well and the child eating normally. I am sure she will be all right now.
                        The new skin is a brilliant red and very shiny but it is pale round the edges of the burnt
                        area and will I hope later turn brown. The mother never uttered a word of thanks, but the
                        granny is grateful and today brought the children a bunch of bananas.

                        Eleanor.

                        c/o Game Dept. P.O.Moshi. 29th September 1944

                        Dearest Mummy,

                        I am so glad that you so enjoyed my last letter with the description of our very
                        interesting and enjoyable safari through Masailand. You said you would like an even
                        fuller description of it to pass around amongst the relations, so, to please you, I have
                        written it out in detail and enclose the result.

                        We have spent a quiet week after our exertions and all are well here.

                        Very much love,
                        Eleanor.

                        Safari in Masailand

                        George and I were at tea with our three little boys on the front lawn of our house
                        in Lyamungu, Northern Tanganyika. It was John’s sixth birthday and he and Jim, a
                        happy sturdy three year old, and Henry, aged eleven months, were munching the
                        squares of plain chocolate which rounded off the party, when George said casually
                        across the table to me, “Could you be ready by the day after tomorrow to go on
                        safari?” “Me too?” enquired John anxiously, before I had time to reply, and “Me too?”
                        echoed Jim. “yes, of course I can”, said I to George and “of course you’re coming too”,
                        to the children who rate a day spent in the bush higher than any other pleasure.
                        So in the early morning two days later, we started out happily for Masailand in a
                        three ton Ford lorry loaded to capacity with the five Rushbys, the safari paraphernalia,
                        drums of petrol and quite a retinue of servants and Game Scouts. George travelling
                        alone on his monthly safaris, takes only the cook and a couple of Game Scouts, but this was to be a safari de luxe.

                        Henry and I shared the cab with George who was driving, whilst John and Jim
                        with the faithful orderly Mabemba beside them to point out the game animals, were
                        installed upon rolls of bedding in the body of the lorry. The lorry lumbered along, first
                        through coffee shambas, and then along the main road between Moshi and Arusha.
                        After half an hour or so, we turned South off the road into a track which crossed the
                        Sanya Plains and is the beginning of this part of Masailand. Though the dry season was
                        at its height, and the pasture dry and course, we were soon passing small groups of
                        game. This area is a Game Sanctuary and the antelope grazed quietly quite undisturbed
                        by the passing lorry. Here and there zebra stood bunched by the road, a few wild
                        ostriches stalked jerkily by, and in the distance some wildebeest cavorted around in their
                        crazy way.

                        Soon the grasslands gave way to thorn bush, and we saw six fantastically tall
                        giraffe standing motionless with their heads turned enquiringly towards us. George
                        stopped the lorry so the children could have a good view of them. John was enchanted
                        but Jim, alas, was asleep.

                        At mid day we reached the Kikoletwa River and turned aside to camp. Beside
                        the river, under huge leafy trees, there was a beautiful camping spot, but the river was
                        deep and reputed to be full of crocodiles so we passed it by and made our camp
                        some distance from the river under a tall thorn tree with a flat lacy canopy. All around the
                        camp lay uprooted trees of similar size that had been pushed over by elephants. As
                        soon as the lorry stopped a camp chair was set up for me and the Game Scouts quickly
                        slashed down grass and cleared the camp site of thorns. The same boys then pitched the tent whilst George himself set up the three camp beds and the folding cot for Henry,
                        and set up the safari table and the canvas wash bowl and bath.

                        The cook in the meantime had cleared a cool spot for the kitchen , opened up the
                        chop boxes and started a fire. The cook’s boy and the dhobi (laundry boy) brought
                        water from the rather muddy river and tea was served followed shortly afterward by an
                        excellent lunch. In a very short time the camp had a suprisingly homely look. Nappies
                        fluttered from a clothes line, Henry slept peacefully in his cot, John and Jim sprawled on
                        one bed looking at comics, and I dozed comfortably on another.

                        George, with the Game Scouts, drove off in the lorry about his work. As a Game
                        Ranger it is his business to be on a constant look out for poachers, both African and
                        European, and for disease in game which might infect the valuable herds of Masai cattle.
                        The lorry did not return until dusk by which time the children had bathed enthusiastically in
                        the canvas bath and were ready for supper and bed. George backed the lorry at right
                        angles to the tent, Henry’s cot and two camp beds were set up in the lorry, the tarpaulin
                        was lashed down and the children put to bed in their novel nursery.

                        When darkness fell a large fire was lit in front of the camp, the exited children at
                        last fell asleep and George and I sat on by the fire enjoying the cool and quiet night.
                        When the fire subsided into a bed of glowing coals, it was time for our bed. During the
                        night I was awakened by the sound of breaking branches and strange indescribable
                        noises.” Just elephant”, said George comfortably and instantly fell asleep once more. I
                        didn’t! We rose with the birds next morning, but breakfast was ready and in a
                        remarkably short time the lorry had been reloaded and we were once more on our way.
                        For about half a mile we made our own track across the plain and then we turned
                        into the earth road once more. Soon we had reached the river and were looking with
                        dismay at the suspension bridge which we had to cross. At the far side, one steel
                        hawser was missing and there the bridge tilted dangerously. There was no handrail but
                        only heavy wooden posts which marked the extremities of the bridge. WhenGeorge
                        measured the distance between the posts he found that there could be barely two
                        inches to spare on either side of the cumbersome lorry.

                        He decided to risk crossing, but the children and I and all the servants were told to
                        cross the bridge and go down the track out of sight. The Game Scouts remained on the
                        river bank on the far side of the bridge and stood ready for emergencies. As I walked
                        along anxiously listening, I was horrified to hear the lorry come to a stop on the bridge.
                        There was a loud creaking noise and I instantly visualised the lorry slowly toppling over
                        into the deep crocodile infested river. The engine restarted, the lorry crossed the bridge
                        and came slowly into sight around the bend. My heart slid back into its normal position.
                        George was as imperturbable as ever and simply remarked that it had been a near
                        thing and that we would return to Lyamungu by another route.

                        Beyond the green river belt the very rutted track ran through very uninteresting
                        thorn bush country. Henry was bored and tiresome, jumping up and down on my knee
                        and yelling furiously. “Teeth”, said I apologetically to George, rashly handing a match
                        box to Henry to keep him quiet. No use at all! With a fat finger he poked out the tray
                        spilling the matches all over me and the floor. Within seconds Henry had torn the
                        matchbox to pieces with his teeth and flung the battered remains through the window.
                        An empty cigarette box met with the same fate as the match box and the yells
                        continued unabated until Henry slept from sheer exhaustion. George gave me a smile,
                        half sympathetic and half sardonic, “Enjoying the safari, my love?” he enquired. On these
                        trying occasions George has the inestimable advantage of being able to go into a Yogilike
                        trance, whereas I become irritated to screaming point.

                        In an effort to prolong Henry’s slumber I braced my feet against the floor boards
                        and tried to turn myself into a human shock absorber as we lurched along the eroded
                        track. Several times my head made contact with the bolt of a rifle in the rack above, and
                        once I felt I had shattered my knee cap against the fire extinguisher in a bracket under the
                        dash board.

                        Strange as it may seem, I really was enjoying the trip in spite of these
                        discomforts. At last after three years I was once more on safari with George. This type of
                        country was new to me and there was so much to see We passed a family of giraffe
                        standing in complete immobility only a few yards from the track. Little dick-dick. one of the smallest of the antelope, scuttled in pairs across the road and that afternoon I had my first view of Gerenuk, curious red brown antelope with extremely elongated legs and giraffe-like necks.

                        Most interesting of all was my first sight of Masai at home. We could hear a tuneful
                        jangle of cattle bells and suddenly came across herds of humped cattle browsing upon
                        the thorn bushes. The herds were guarded by athletic,striking looking Masai youths and men.
                        Each had a calabash of water slung over his shoulder and a tall, highly polished spear in his
                        hand. These herdsmen were quite unselfconscious though they wore no clothing except for one carelessly draped blanket. Very few gave us any greeting but glanced indifferently at us from under fringes of clay-daubed plaited hair . The rest of their hair was drawn back behind the ears to display split earlobes stretched into slender loops by the weight of heavy brass or copper tribal ear rings.

                        Most of the villages were set well back in the bush out of sight of the road but we did pass one
                        typical village which looked most primitive indeed. It consisted simply of a few mound like mud huts which were entirely covered with a plaster of mud and cattle dung and the whole clutch of huts were surrounded by a ‘boma’ of thorn to keep the cattle in at night and the lions out. There was a gathering of women and children on the road at this point. The children of both sexes were naked and unadorned, but the women looked very fine indeed. This is not surprising for they have little to do but adorn themselves, unlike their counterparts of other tribes who have to work hard cultivating the fields. The Masai women, and others I saw on safari, were far more amiable and cheerful looking than the men and were well proportioned.

                        They wore skirts of dressed goat skin, knee length in front but ankle length behind. Their arms
                        from elbow to wrist, and legs from knee to ankle, were encased in tight coils of copper and
                        galvanised wire. All had their heads shaved and in some cases bound by a leather band
                        embroidered in red white and blue beads. Circular ear rings hung from slit earlobes and their
                        handsome throats were encircled by stiff wire necklaces strung with brightly coloured beads. These
                        necklaces were carefully graded in size and formed deep collars almost covering their breasts.
                        About a quarter of a mile further along the road we met eleven young braves in gala attire, obviously on their way to call on the girls. They formed a line across the road and danced up and down until the lorry was dangerously near when they parted and grinned cheerfully at us. These were the only cheerful
                        looking male Masai that I saw. Like the herdsmen these youths wore only a blanket, but their
                        blankets were ochre colour, and elegantly draped over their backs. Their naked bodies gleamed with oil. Several had painted white stripes on their faces, and two had whitewashed their faces entirely which I
                        thought a pity. All had their long hair elaborately dressed and some carried not only one,
                        but two gleaming spears.

                        By mid day George decided that we had driven far enough for that day. He
                        stopped the lorry and consulted a rather unreliable map. “Somewhere near here is a
                        place called Lolbeni,” he said. “The name means Sweet Water, I hear that the
                        government have piped spring water down from the mountain into a small dam at which
                        the Masai water their cattle.” Lolbeni sounded pleasant to me. Henry was dusty and
                        cross, the rubber sheet had long slipped from my lap to the floor and I was conscious of
                        a very damp lap. ‘Sweet Waters’ I felt, would put all that right. A few hundred yards
                        away a small herd of cattle was grazing, so George lit his pipe and relaxed at last, whilst
                        a Game Scout went off to find the herdsman. The scout soon returned with an ancient
                        and emaciated Masai who was thrilled at the prospect of his first ride in a lorry and
                        offered to direct us to Lolbeni which was off the main track and about four miles away.

                        Once Lolbeni had been a small administrative post and a good track had
                        led to it, but now the Post had been abandoned and the road is dotted with vigourous
                        thorn bushes and the branches of larger thorn trees encroach on the track The road had
                        deteriorated to a mere cattle track, deeply rutted and eroded by heavy rains over a
                        period of years. The great Ford truck, however, could take it. It lurched victoriously along,
                        mowing down the obstructions, tearing off branches from encroaching thorn trees with its
                        high railed sides, spanning gorges in the track, and climbing in and out of those too wide
                        to span. I felt an army tank could not have done better.

                        I had expected Lolbeni to be a green oasis in a desert of grey thorns, but I was
                        quickly disillusioned. To be sure the thorn trees were larger and more widely spaced and
                        provided welcome shade, but the ground under the trees had been trampled by thousands of cattle into a dreary expanse of dirty grey sand liberally dotted with cattle droppings and made still more uninviting by the bleached bones of dead beasts.

                        To the right of this waste rose a high green hill which gave the place its name and from which
                        the precious water was piped, but its slopes were too steep to provide a camping site.
                        Flies swarmed everywhere and I was most relieved when George said that we would
                        stay only long enough to fill our cans with water. Even the water was a disappointment!
                        The water in the small dam was low and covered by a revolting green scum, and though
                        the water in the feeding pipe was sweet, it trickled so feebly that it took simply ages to
                        fill a four gallon can.

                        However all these disappointments were soon forgotten for we drove away
                        from the flies and dirt and trampled sand and soon, with their quiet efficiency, George
                        and his men set up a comfortable camp. John and Jim immediately started digging
                        operations in the sandy soil whilst Henry and I rested. After tea George took his shot
                        gun and went off to shoot guinea fowl and partridges for the pot. The children and I went
                        walking, keeping well in site of camp, and soon we saw a very large flock of Vulturine
                        Guineafowl, running aimlessly about and looking as tame as barnyard fowls, but melting
                        away as soon as we moved in their direction.

                        We had our second quiet and lovely evening by the camp fire, followed by a
                        peaceful night.

                        We left Lolbeni very early next morning, which was a good thing, for as we left
                        camp the herds of thirsty cattle moved in from all directions. They were accompanied by
                        Masai herdsmen, their naked bodies and blankets now covered by volcanic dust which
                        was being stirred in rising clouds of stifling ash by the milling cattle, and also by grey
                        donkeys laden with panniers filled with corked calabashes for water.

                        Our next stop was Nabarera, a Masai cattle market and trading centre, where we
                        reluctantly stayed for two days in a pokey Goverment Resthouse because George had
                        a job to do in that area. The rest was good for Henry who promptly produced a tooth
                        and was consequently much better behaved for the rest of the trip. George was away in the bush most of the day but he returned for afternoon tea and later took the children out
                        walking. We had noticed curious white dumps about a quarter mile from the resthouse
                        and on the second afternoon we set out to investigate them. Behind the dumps we
                        found passages about six foot wide, cut through solid limestone. We explored two of
                        these and found that both passages led steeply down to circular wells about two and a
                        half feet in diameter.

                        At the very foot of each passage, beside each well, rough drinking troughs had
                        been cut in the stone. The herdsmen haul the water out of the well in home made hide
                        buckets, the troughs are filled and the cattle driven down the ramps to drink at the trough.
                        It was obvious that the wells were ancient and the sloping passages new. George tells
                        me that no one knows what ancient race dug the original wells. It seems incredible that
                        these deep and narrow shafts could have been sunk without machinery. I craned my
                        neck and looked above one well and could see an immensely long shaft reaching up to
                        ground level. Small footholds were cut in the solid rock as far as I could see.
                        It seems that the Masai are as ignorant as ourselves about the origin of these
                        wells. They do say however that when their forebears first occupied what is now known
                        as Masailand, they not only found the Wanderobo tribe in the area but also a light
                        skinned people and they think it possible that these light skinned people dug the wells.
                        These people disappeared. They may have been absorbed or, more likely, they were
                        liquidated.

                        The Masai had found the well impractical in their original form and had hired
                        labourers from neighbouring tribes to cut the passages to water level. Certainly the Masai are not responsible for the wells. They are a purely pastoral people and consider manual labour extremely degrading.

                        They live chiefly on milk from their herd which they allow to go sour, and mix with blood that has been skilfully tapped from the necks of living cattle. They do not eat game meat, nor do they cultivate any
                        land. They hunt with spears, but hunt only lions, to protect their herds, and to test the skill
                        and bravery of their young warriors. What little grain they do eat is transported into
                        Masailand by traders. The next stage of our journey took us to Ngassamet where
                        George was to pick up some elephant tusks. I had looked forward particularly to this
                        stretch of road for I had heard that there was a shallow lake at which game congregates,
                        and at which I had great hopes of seeing elephants. We had come too late in the
                        season though, the lake was dry and there were only piles of elephant droppings to
                        prove that elephant had recently been there in numbers. Ngassamet, though no beauty
                        spot, was interesting. We saw more elaborate editions of the wells already described, and as this area
                        is rich in cattle we saw the aristocrats of the Masai. You cannot conceive of a more arrogant looking male than a young Masai brave striding by on sandalled feet, unselfconscious in all his glory. All the young men wore the casually draped traditional ochre blanket and carried one or more spears. But here belts and long knife sheaths of scarlet leather seem to be the fashion. Here fringes do not seem to be the thing. Most of these young Masai had their hair drawn smoothly back and twisted in a pointed queue, the whole plastered with a smooth coating of red clay. Some tied their horn shaped queues over their heads
                        so that the tip formed a deep Satanic peak on the brow. All these young men wore the traditional
                        copper earrings and I saw one or two with copper bracelets and one with a necklace of brightly coloured
                        beads.

                        It so happened that, on the day of our visit to Ngassamet, there had been a
                        baraza (meeting) which was attended by all the local headmen and elders. These old
                        men came to pay their respects to George and a more shrewd and rascally looking
                        company I have never seen, George told me that some of these men own up to three
                        thousand head of cattle and more. The chief was as fat and Rabelasian as his second in
                        command was emaciated, bucktoothed and prim. The Chief shook hands with George
                        and greeted me and settled himself on the wall of the resthouse porch opposite
                        George. The lesser headmen, after politely greeting us, grouped themselves in a
                        semi circle below the steps with their ‘aides’ respectfully standing behind them. I
                        remained sitting in the only chair and watched the proceedings with interest and
                        amusement.

                        These old Masai, I noticed, cared nothing for adornment. They had proved
                        themselves as warriors in the past and were known to be wealthy and influential so did
                        not need to make any display. Most of them had their heads comfortably shaved and
                        wore only a drab blanket or goatskin cloak. Their only ornaments were earrings whose
                        effect was somewhat marred by the serviceable and homely large safety pin that
                        dangled from the lobe of one ear. All carried staves instead of spears and all, except for
                        Buckteeth and one blind old skeleton of a man, appeared to have a keenly developed
                        sense of humour.

                        “Mummy?” asked John in an urgent whisper, “Is that old blind man nearly dead?”
                        “Yes dear”, said I, “I expect he’ll soon die.” “What here?” breathed John in a tone of
                        keen anticipation and, until the meeting broke up and the old man left, he had John’s
                        undivided attention.

                        After local news and the game situation had been discussed, the talk turned to the
                        war. “When will the war end?” moaned the fat Chief. “We have made great gifts of cattle
                        to the War Funds, we are taxed out of existence.” George replied with the Ki-Swahili
                        equivalent of ‘Sez you!’. This sally was received with laughter and the old fellows rose to
                        go. They made their farewells and dignified exits, pausing on their way to stare at our
                        pink and white Henry, who sat undismayed in his push chair giving them stare for stare
                        from his striking grey eyes.

                        Towards evening some Masai, prompted no doubt by our native servants,
                        brought a sheep for sale. It was the last night of the fast of Ramadan and our
                        Mohammedan boys hoped to feast next day at our expense. Their faces fell when
                        George refused to buy the animal. “Why should I pay fifteen shillings for a sheep?” he
                        asked, “Am I not the Bwana Nyama and is not the bush full of my sheep?” (Bwana
                        Nyama is the native name for a Game Ranger, but means literally, ‘Master of the meat’)
                        George meant that he would shoot a buck for the men next day, but this incident was to
                        have a strange sequel. Ngassamet resthouse consists of one room so small we could
                        not put up all our camp beds and George and I slept on the cement floor which was
                        unkind to my curves. The night was bitterly cold and all night long hyaenas screeched
                        hideously outside. So we rose at dawn without reluctance and were on our way before it
                        was properly light.

                        George had decided that it would be foolhardy to return home by our outward
                        route as he did not care to risk another crossing of the suspension bridge. So we
                        returned to Nabarera and there turned onto a little used track which would eventually take
                        us to the Great North Road a few miles South of Arusha. There was not much game
                        about but I saw Oryx which I had not previously seen. Soon it grew intolerably hot and I
                        think all of us but George were dozing when he suddenly stopped the lorry and pointed
                        to the right. “Mpishi”, he called to the cook, “There’s your sheep!” True enough, on that
                        dreary thorn covered plain,with not another living thing in sight, stood a fat black sheep.

                        There was an incredulous babbling from the back of the lorry. Every native
                        jumped to the ground and in no time at all the wretched sheep was caught and
                        slaughtered. I felt sick. “Oh George”, I wailed, “The poor lost sheep! I shan’t eat a scrap
                        of it.” George said nothing but went and had a look at the sheep and called out to me,
                        “Come and look at it. It was kindness to kill the poor thing, the vultures have been at it
                        already and the hyaenas would have got it tonight.” I went reluctantly and saw one eye
                        horribly torn out, and small deep wounds on the sheep’s back where the beaks of the
                        vultures had cut through the heavy fleece. Poor thing! I went back to the lorry more
                        determined than ever not to eat mutton on that trip. The Scouts and servants had no
                        such scruples. The fine fat sheep had been sent by Allah for their feast day and that was
                        the end of it.

                        “ ‘Mpishi’ is more convinced than ever that I am a wizard”, said George in
                        amusement as he started the lorry. I knew what he meant. Several times before George
                        had foretold something which had later happened. Pure coincidence, but strange enough
                        to give rise to a legend that George had the power to arrange things. “What happened
                        of course”, explained George, “Is that a flock of Masai sheep was driven to market along
                        this track yesterday or the day before. This one strayed and was not missed.”

                        The day grew hotter and hotter and for long miles we looked out for a camping
                        spot but could find little shade and no trace of water anywhere. At last, in the early
                        afternoon we reached another pokey little rest house and asked for water. “There is no
                        water here,” said the native caretaker. “Early in the morning there is water in a well nearby
                        but we are allowed only one kerosene tin full and by ten o’clock the well is dry.” I looked
                        at George in dismay for we were all so tired and dusty. “Where do the Masai from the
                        village water their cattle then?” asked George. “About two miles away through the bush.
                        If you take me with you I shall show you”, replied the native.

                        So we turned off into the bush and followed a cattle track even more tortuous than
                        the one to Lolbeni. Two Scouts walked ahead to warn us of hazards and I stretched my
                        arm across the open window to fend off thorns. Henry screamed with fright and hunger.
                        But George’s efforts to reach water went unrewarded as we were brought to a stop by
                        a deep donga. The native from the resthouse was apologetic. He had mistaken the
                        path, perhaps if we turned back we might find it. George was beyond speech. We
                        lurched back the way we had come and made our camp under the first large tree we
                        could find. Then off went our camp boys on foot to return just before dark with the water.
                        However they were cheerful for there was an unlimited quantity of dry wood for their fires
                        and meat in plenty for their feast. Long after George and I left our campfire and had gone
                        to bed, we could see the cheerful fires of the boys and hear their chatter and laughter.
                        I woke in the small hours to hear the insane cackling of hyaenas gloating over a
                        find. Later I heard scuffling around the camp table, I peered over the tailboard of the lorry
                        and saw George come out of his tent. What are you doing?” I whispered. “Looking for
                        something to throw at those bloody hyaenas,” answered George for all the world as
                        though those big brutes were tomcats on the prowl. Though the hyaenas kept up their
                        concert all night the children never stirred, nor did any of them wake at night throughout
                        the safari.

                        Early next morning I walked across to the camp kitchen to enquire into the loud
                        lamentations coming from that quarter. “Oh Memsahib”, moaned the cook, “We could
                        not sleep last night for the bad hyaenas round our tents. They have taken every scrap of
                        meat we had left over from the feast., even the meat we had left to smoke over the fire.”
                        Jim, who of our three young sons is the cook’s favourite commiserated with him. He said
                        in Ki-Swahili, which he speaks with great fluency, “Truly those hyaenas are very bad
                        creatures. They also robbed us. They have taken my hat from the table and eaten the
                        new soap from the washbowl.

                        Our last day in the bush was a pleasantly lazy one. We drove through country
                        that grew more open and less dry as we approached Arusha. We pitched our camp
                        near a large dam, and the water was a blessed sight after a week of scorched country.
                        On the plains to the right of our camp was a vast herd of native cattle enjoying a brief
                        rest after their long day trek through Masailand. They were destined to walk many more
                        weary miles before reaching their destination, a meat canning factory in Kenya.
                        The ground to the left of the camp rose gently to form a long low hill and on the
                        grassy slopes we could see wild ostriches and herds of wildebeest, zebra and
                        antelope grazing amicably side by side. In the late afternoon I watched the groups of
                        zebra and wildebeest merge into one. Then with a wildebeest leading, they walked
                        down the slope in single file to drink at the vlei . When they were satisfied, a wildebeest
                        once more led the herd up the trail. The others followed in a long and orderly file, and
                        vanished over the hill to their evening pasture.

                        When they had gone, George took up his shotgun and invited John to
                        accompany him to the dam to shoot duck. This was the first time John had acted as
                        retriever but he did very well and proudly helped to carry a mixed bag of sand grouse
                        and duck back to camp.

                        Next morning we turned into the Great North Road and passed first through
                        carefully tended coffee shambas and then through the township of Arusha, nestling at
                        the foot of towering Mount Meru. Beyond Arusha we drove through the Usa River
                        settlement where again coffee shambas and European homesteads line the road, and
                        saw before us the magnificent spectacle of Kilimanjaro unveiled, its white snow cap
                        gleaming in the sunlight. Before mid day we were home. “Well was it worth it?” enquired
                        George at lunch. “Lovely,” I replied. ”Let’s go again soon.” Then thinking regretfully of
                        our absent children I sighed, “If only Ann, George, and Kate could have gone with us
                        too.”

                        Lyamungu 10th November. 1944

                        Dearest Family.

                        Mummy wants to know how I fill in my time with George away on safari for weeks
                        on end. I do believe that you all picture me idling away my days, waited on hand and
                        foot by efficient servants! On the contrary, life is one rush and the days never long
                        enough.

                        To begin with, our servants are anything but efficient, apart from our cook, Hamisi
                        Issa, who really is competent. He suffers from frustration because our budget will not run
                        to elaborate dishes so there is little scope for his culinary art. There is one masterpiece
                        which is much appreciated by John and Jim. Hamisi makes a most realistic crocodile out
                        of pastry and stuffs its innards with minced meat. This revolting reptile is served on a
                        bed of parsley on my largest meat dish. The cook is a strict Mohammedan and
                        observes all the fasts and daily prayers and, like all Mohammedans he is very clean in
                        his person and, thank goodness, in the kitchen.

                        His wife is his pride and joy but not his helpmate. She does absolutely nothing
                        but sit in a chair in the sun all day, sipping tea and smoking cigarettes – a more
                        expensive brand than mine! It is Hamisi who sweeps out their quarters, cooks
                        delectable curries for her, and spends more than he can afford on clothing and trinkets for
                        his wife. She just sits there with her ‘Mona Lisa’ smile and her painted finger and toe
                        nails, doing absolutely nothing.

                        The thing is that natives despise women who do work and this applies especially
                        to their white employers. House servants much prefer a Memsahib who leaves
                        everything to them and is careless about locking up her pantry. When we first came to
                        Lyamungu I had great difficulty in employing a houseboy. A couple of rather efficient
                        ones did approach me but when they heard the wages I was prepared to pay and that
                        there was no number 2 boy, they simply were not interested. Eventually I took on a
                        local boy called Japhet who suits me very well except that his sight is not good and he
                        is extremely hard on the crockery. He tells me that he has lost face by working here
                        because his friends say that he works for a family that is too mean to employ a second
                        boy. I explained that with our large family we simply cannot afford to pay more, but this
                        didn’t register at all. Japhet says “But Wazungu (Europeans) all have money. They just
                        have to get it from the Bank.”

                        The third member of our staff is a strapping youth named Tovelo who helps both
                        cook and boy, and consequently works harder than either. What do I do? I chivvy the
                        servants, look after the children, supervise John’s lessons, and make all my clothing and
                        the children’s on that blessed old hand sewing machine.

                        The folk on this station entertain a good deal but we usually decline invitations
                        because we simply cannot afford to reciprocate. However, last Saturday night I invited
                        two couples to drinks and dinner. This was such an unusual event that the servants and I
                        were thrown into a flurry. In the end the dinner went off well though it ended in disaster. In
                        spite of my entreaties and exhortations to Japhet not to pile everything onto the tray at
                        once when clearing the table, he did just that. We were starting our desert and I was
                        congratulating myself that all had gone well when there was a frightful crash of breaking
                        china on the back verandah. I excused myself and got up to investigate. A large meat
                        dish, six dinner plates and four vegetable dishes lay shattered on the cement floor! I
                        controlled my tongue but what my eyes said to Japhet is another matter. What he said
                        was, “It is not my fault Memsahib. The handle of the tray came off.”

                        It is a curious thing about native servants that they never accept responsibility for
                        a mishap. If they cannot pin their misdeeds onto one of their fellow servants then the responsibility rests with God. ‘Shauri ya Mungu’, (an act of God) is a familiar cry. Fatalists
                        can be very exasperating employees.

                        The loss of my dinner service is a real tragedy because, being war time, one can
                        buy only china of the poorest quality made for the native trade. Nor was that the final
                        disaster of the evening. When we moved to the lounge for coffee I noticed that the
                        coffee had been served in the battered old safari coffee pot instead of the charming little
                        antique coffee pot which my Mother-in-law had sent for our tenth wedding anniversary.
                        As there had already been a disturbance I made no comment but resolved to give the
                        cook a piece of my mind in the morning. My instructions to the cook had been to warm
                        the coffee pot with hot water immediately before serving. On no account was he to put
                        the pewter pot on the hot iron stove. He did and the result was a small hole in the base
                        of the pot – or so he says. When I saw the pot next morning there was a two inch hole in
                        it.

                        Hamisi explained placidly how this had come about. He said he knew I would be
                        mad when I saw the little hole so he thought he would have it mended and I might not
                        notice it. Early in the morning he had taken the pewter pot to the mechanic who looks
                        after the Game Department vehicles and had asked him to repair it. The bright individual
                        got busy with the soldering iron with the most devastating result. “It’s his fault,” said
                        Hamisi, “He is a mechanic, he should have known what would happen.”
                        One thing is certain, there will be no more dinner parties in this house until the war
                        is ended.

                        The children are well and so am I, and so was George when he left on his safari
                        last Monday.

                        Much love,
                        Eleanor.

                         

                        #6265
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          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,
                          Eleanor.

                          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,
                          Eleanor.

                          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.

                          Eleanor

                          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
                          affair.

                          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.

                          Eleanor.

                          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.

                          Eleanor.

                          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
                          fun.

                          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
                          more.

                          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.

                          Eleanor.

                          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
                          overloaded.

                          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.

                          Eleanor.

                          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.

                          Eleanor.

                          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.

                          Eleanor.

                          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
                          hunting.

                          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.

                          Eleanor.

                          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
                          incident.

                          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.

                          Eleanor.

                          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.

                          Eleanor.

                          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.

                          Eleanor.

                          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
                          at.

                          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.

                          Eleanor.

                          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
                          Cross.”

                          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.

                          Eleanor.

                          #6264
                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            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,
                            Eleanor.

                            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,
                            Eleanor.

                            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.

                            Eleanor.

                            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
                            attention.

                            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
                            Cresswell-George.

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

                            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
                            holiday.

                            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
                            climate.

                            We should be with you in three weeks time!

                            Very much love,
                            Eleanor.

                            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
                            behind.

                            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
                            station.

                            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,
                            Eleanor.

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

                            George Rushby Ann and Georgie

                            NOTE
                            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,
                            Marjorie.

                            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
                            face.”

                            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
                            George.”

                            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.

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