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  • #6383
    ÉricÉric
    Keymaster

      “GODFREY! Come right here this instant!” Liz was infuriated and had to restrain herself not to throw the bound manuscript at her confidente’s face when he emerged from the corridor into her pink boudoir.

      “What is it Liz my dear?”

      “What is this horrible thing that has my name on it?” she showed the manuscript. “It has no zest whatsoever, it’s so neat, and linear, tidy, continuous… It’s insufferably perfect! And those main characters, ugh… Young, and flawless, perfect in every sense it’s unbearable!”

      “I have something to confess Liz’… Since Finnley has started her new business ventures… wait, don’t shout yet… I had to try some of this AI generated stuff. I thought the title ‘Adventures in the Uncanny Valley’ would have been a give-away…”

      Elizabeth Tattler was at a loss for words… The only thing she could blurt out ultimately was “FIND ME FINNLEY!!”

      #6379

      In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

      ÉricÉric
      Keymaster

        Asking to give each of the 4 characters some particular traits that makes them uniquely distinctive and recognizable

        The four friends, Zara, Xavier, Yasmin, and Youssef, each have their own unique traits that make them stand out and recognizable.

        Zara is the leader of the group, she is confident, and always ready for an adventure. She is a natural leader and has a strong sense of justice. She is also a tech-savvy person, always carrying a variety of gadgets with her, and is always the first to try out new technology.

        Xavier is the joker of the group, always cracking jokes and making puns. He is a free-spirited person who is always up for an adventure, he has a great sense of humor and is not afraid to be himself. He is also an artist and often carries a sketchbook and pencils with him, he likes to draw whatever he sees in his journeys.

        Yasmin is the brains of the group, she is intelligent and logical. She is always able to think on her feet and come up with a plan when things get tough. She is also a bit of a perfectionist and likes to have everything organized. She is a history buff and always carries a notebook with her to document her findings.

        Youssef is the muscle of the group, He is physically strong, and always ready to help out in a fight. He is also a bit of a foodie and loves trying new dishes. He is always the first one to volunteer to carry the heavy bags and equipment. He is also a bit of a daredevil and loves trying out new sports and activities.

        Give each of them a color, and an animal, and a secret name in a funny language

        The four friends, Zara, Xavier, Yasmin, and Youssef, each have their own unique traits that make them stand out and recognizable.

        Zara is the leader of the group, her color is red, her animal is a lion, and her secret name in a funny language is “Zaraloon”

        Xavier is the joker of the group, his color is orange, his animal is a monkey, and his secret name in a funny language is “Xavimunk”

        Yasmin is the brains of the group, her color is blue, her animal is an owl, and her secret name in a funny language is “Yasminowl”

        Youssef is the muscle of the group, his color is green, his animal is a bear, and his secret name in a funny language is “Youssefbear”

        Now, we need physical descriptions for each of them. Also, their ages, height, clothes, facial features, ethnicity (for instance Youssef may be half Yemeni and half Norwegian), etc. with a good mix of generic and eccentric. We also need surnames congruent with their described ethnicity, not too bland, but not too daft either. For instance Youssef Olafsson, Zara Patara-Smythe, etc. Also explain how they become friends.

        Zara Patara-Smythe is a 25-year-old woman of mixed heritage, her mother is Indian and her father is British. She has long, dark hair that she keeps in a sleek ponytail, dark brown eyes and a sharp jawline. She stands at 5’6″ and has a toned and athletic build. She usually wears practical clothing that allows her to move around easily, such as cargo pants and a tank top.

        Xavier Olafsson is a 27-year-old man of Norwegian and Danish descent. He has blonde hair that he keeps in a messy style, blue eyes, and a charming smile. He stands at 6’1″ and has a lean build. He is always seen wearing a colorful and bold clothing, such as a Hawaiian shirt and shorts.

        Yasmin Ahmed is a 23-year-old woman of Egyptian descent. She has long, black hair that she keeps in a tight braid, dark brown eyes and a round face. She stands at 5’4″ and has a petite build. She usually wears conservative clothing, such as long skirts and blouses.

        Youssef Ali is a 26-year-old man of half Yemeni, half Norwegian descent. He has short, curly black hair, dark brown eyes and a square jawline. He stands at 6’2″ and has a muscular build. He usually wears comfortable clothing such as a t-shirt and jeans, and always has a backpack on his shoulder.

        The four of them became friends in college, they were all studying different majors, but they all shared a love for adventure and exploration. They found themselves in the same class project, and from there they formed a strong bond. After college, they decided to keep exploring the world together, and went on many trips and adventures, always seeking for something new and exciting.

        1/ Change the ages of Zara, Xavier, Yasmin and Youssef to more random patterns – rewrite if needed how they met each other to reflect eventual age gaps. Give them some flaws, mental or physical challenges.
        2/ increase again the age gaps while keeping the youngest one a young adult, and remove “minor” from the flaws descriptions

        Zara is a 22-year-old woman who is the youngest of the group. She is a free-spirited, adventurous person, but also a bit reckless and impulsive. She has a scar on her cheek that she got from a Skateboarding accident when she was a teenager.

        Xavier is a 45-year-old man who is the oldest of the group. He is a responsible and level-headed person, but also a bit of a perfectionist and can be hard on himself and others. He has dyslexia which he has been able to work around and it doesn’t impede his daily life.

        Yasmin is a 38-year-old woman who is the second oldest of the group. She is a kind and compassionate person, but also a bit of a pushover and can have trouble standing up for herself. She has social anxiety that affect her in certain situations and she have been working on coping mechanisms.

        Youssef is a 33-year-old man who is the second youngest of the group. He is a charismatic and outgoing person, but also a bit of a flirt and can be a bit insensitive to others feelings. He has ADHD which he has been able to manage with medication, but it still affects him from time to time.

        The group met each other through different means, Xavier and Yasmin met at work, Zara and Youssef met at a college class, and eventually, they all became friends through common interests and activities. They decided to go on this adventure together because they were all looking for a change in their lives and wanted to explore the unknown.

        #6378
        ÉricÉric
        Keymaster

          A thread to share some of the prompts behind the AI-assisted journey into new adventures.

          To start off…

          Please write the exciting start of a novel.

          Some elements you can integrate if you want:

          – Four randomly chosen names full of panache that sound distinct from each other, slightly exotic and evocative
          – the sentiment from this quotation: “Look around… Beauty is everywhere. You only have to look to see it.” – a group of four people ready for an adventure, standing in a cave with stalactites in front of a giant orb or bubble that seem to open to another brightly lit realm. Inside the bigger orb are some smaller orbs.
          – the following term “mad journeys”

          > result…

          Told it to continue and it brought dragons… Asked to tone down the fantasy stuff, here’s what came out:

          They walked into a small village, where they were greeted by a group of people wearing clothes that looked like they were from the 1920s. The people told them that they were in the land of the “Quirks”, a place where everything and everyone was a little bit different, and that they had to find the “Key of Quirks” in order to leave the land.

          The group set off on their journey to find the key, but little did they know that their adventure was about to become even more exciting and quirky than they could ever have imagined. They encountered a talking dog, a man who had a garden on top of his head, and a group of people who lived inside of giant mushrooms.

          As they journeyed on, they faced challenges and made new friends, but most importantly they learn to embrace their own quirks and individuality. Eventually, they found the key and were able to leave the land of the Quirks, but they knew that they would always carry a piece of that land with them.

          #6377

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          The four adventurers, Zara, Xavier, Yasmin, and Youssef, stood in awe in front of the giant orb that seemed to open up to another realm. The light emanating from the orb was so bright, it was as if the sun was just inches away. The stalactites that hung from the cave’s ceiling sparkled like diamonds in the light, adding to the otherworldly beauty of the scene.

          “Look around,” Yasmin said, her voice filled with wonder. “Beauty is everywhere. You only have to look to see it.”

          The group was ready for an adventure and they knew that the orb in front of them was the key to their mad journey. Xavier stepped forward and reached out to touch the orb. As soon as his fingers made contact with the surface, the orb lit up and a pathway formed, leading into the brightly lit realm.

          The group stepped through the pathway and found themselves in a world unlike anything they had ever seen before. The sky was a vibrant shade of purple and the ground was covered in a lush, green grass. The orb they had just passed through was now behind them, but in front of them were smaller orbs, each one leading to a different path.

          Zara, Xavier, Yasmin, and Youssef looked at each other with excitement in their eyes. They knew that this was just the beginning of their mad journey.

          Xavier stepped forward and reached out to touch the orb. As soon as his fingers made contact with the surface, the orb lit up and a pathway formed, leading into the brightly lit realm.

          :fleuron:

          They walked into a small village, where they were greeted by a group of people wearing clothes that looked like they were from the 1920s. The people told them that they were in the land of the “Quirks”, a place where everything and everyone was a little bit different, and that they had to find the “Key of Quirks” in order to leave the land.

          The four friends, Zara, Xavier, Yasmin, and Youssef, soon found themselves on a mission to find the “Key of Quirks” that would allow them to leave the land of the Quirks. As they walked through a forest, they came across a fork in the road.

          Zara, the leader of the group, turned to the others and said, “Alright, we need to decide which way to go. Yasmin, what’s the plan?”

          Yasmin, the brains of the group, replied, “I suggest we take the left path. According to the map I found, it leads to the Quirky Quests area, where we might find the key.”

          Xavier, the joker of the group, chimed in, “I vote for the right path. It’s the road less traveled, and you know what they say, ‘the road less traveled is the road to adventure’ ”

          Youssef, the muscle of the group, added, “I don’t care which way we go, I just want to find some food. I’m starving!”

          Zara rolled her eyes, “Xavier, your jokes are getting old. And Youssef, we’re on a mission, we can’t just focus on food.”

          Xavier grinned, “But Zaraloon, where’s the fun in that?”

          Yasmin interjected, “Can we please focus? We need to make a decision. I propose we split up, Zara and I will take the left path, and Xavier and Youssef can take the right path.”

          Youssef nodded, “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. That way, if we don’t find the key, at least we’ll have found some food.”

          Xavier grinned, “Sounds like a plan, Xavimunk is ready for adventure!”

          Zara shook her head with a smile, “Alright, let’s do this.”

          The group split up, and as they walked away, they could be heard playfully bantering and joking with each other. Each one exemplifying their unique and distinct characters.

          #6368
          ÉricÉric
          Keymaster

            Something in the style of FPooh:

            Arona heard the music growing louder as she approached the source of the sound. She could see a group of people gathered around a large fire, the flickering light casting shadows on the faces of the dancers. She hesitated for a moment, remembering the isolation of her journey and wondering if she was ready to be among people again. But the music was too inviting, and she found herself drawn towards the group.

            As she neared the fire, she saw a young man playing a flute, the music flowing from his fingers with a fluid grace that captivated her. He looked up as she approached, and their eyes met. She could see the surprise and curiosity in his gaze, and she smiled, feeling a sense of connection she had not felt in a long time.

            Fiona was sitting on a bench in the park, watching the children play. She had brought her sketchbook with her, but for once she didn’t feel the urge to draw. Instead she watched the children’s laughter, feeling content and at peace. Suddenly, she saw a young girl running towards her, a look of pure joy on her face. The girl stopped in front of her and held out a flower, offering it to Fiona with a smile.

            Taken aback, Fiona took the flower and thanked the girl. The girl giggled and ran off to join her friends. Fiona looked down at the flower in her hand, and she felt a sense of inspiration, like a spark igniting within her. She opened her sketchbook and began to draw, feeling the weight lift from her shoulders and the magic of creativity flowing through her.

            Minky led the group of misfits towards the emporium, his bowler hat bobbing on his head. He chattered excitedly, telling stories of the wondrous items to be found within Mr Jib’s store. Yikesy followed behind, still lost in his thoughts of Arona and feeling a sense of dread at the thought of buying a bowler hat. The green fairy flitted along beside him, her wings a blur of movement as she chattered with the parrot perched on her shoulder.

            As they reached the emporium, they were disappointed to find it closed. But Minky refused to be discouraged, and he led them to a nearby cafe where they could sit and enjoy some tea and cake while they wait for the emporium to open. The green fairy was delighted, and she ordered a plate of macarons, smiling as she tasted the sweetness of the confections.

            About creativity & everyday magic

            Fiona had always been drawn to the magic of creativity, the way a blank page could be transformed into a world of wonder and beauty. But lately, she had been feeling stuck, unable to find the spark that ignited her imagination. She would sit with her sketchbook, pencil in hand, and nothing would come to her.

            She started to question her abilities, wondering if she had lost the magic of her art. She spent long hours staring at her blank pages, feeling a weight on her chest that seemed to be growing heavier every day.

            But then she remembered the green fairy’s tears and Yikesy’s longing for Arona, and she realized that the magic of creativity wasn’t something that could be found only in art. It was all around her, in the everyday moments of life.

            She started to look for the magic in the small things, like the way the sunlight filtered through the trees, or the way a child’s laughter could light up a room. She found it in the way a stranger’s smile could lift her spirits, and in the way a simple cup of tea could bring her comfort.

            And as she started to see the magic in the everyday, she found that the weight on her chest lifted and the spark of inspiration returned. She picked up her pencil and began to draw, feeling the magic flowing through her once again.

            She understand that creativity blocks aren’t a destination, but just a step, just like the bowler hat that Minky had bought for them all, a bit of everyday magic, nothing too fancy but a sense of belonging, a sense of who they are and where they are going. And she let her pencil flow, with the hopes that one day, they will all find their way home.

            #6367
            ÉricÉric
            Keymaster

              Something in the style of TPooh:

              The family tree was a tangled web of branches and roots, stretching back centuries and even millennia. The branches were thick with the leaves of secrets, scandals, and mysteries that the family had accumulated over the years. They were a close-knit group, friends for all time, and they loved nothing more than exploring the twists and turns of their family history.

              They met regularly in their dreams, in a place they called The City, where they could exchange stories and clues they had uncovered during their waking hours. They often found themselves in the midst of strange and puzzling occurrences, and they would spend hours discussing the possible meanings and connections of these events. They saw the world as a tapestry, with each thread and pattern contributing to the greater picture. They were the weavers of their own story, the authors of their own fate.

              But as the years went on, their dreams began to take on a darker and more ominous tone. They started having nightmares of monstrous beasts, and some of them even saw these beasts in the daylight, as if they were falling through the cracks in reality. They compared notes and found that they were often seeing the same beasts, and this led to heated debates about what these beasts represented and whether they were real or just figments of their imagination.

              But no matter what they encountered, the family remained united in their quest to unravel the secrets of their past and to weave a tapestry that would be the envy of all. They were thick as thieves and they would never give up their pursuit of the truth, no matter how many rules they had to break along the way.

              #6366
              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                Asking the AI to expand on the glossary of the original Circle of Eights Story:

                Locations

                Malvina’s Cave: A dark and damp cave located in the heart of the Gripshawk mountains, known for its population of Glukenitch creatures.

                Lan’ork: A vast and diverse continent known for its Eastern Lagunas, home to the Indogo flamingos. Dragon Head Peninsula: A rugged and mountainous region, home to the Langoat creatures and also known for its rich deposits of dragon ore.

                Asgurdy: A sprawling desert region, known for its nomadic tribes who use Saurhse as mounts for transportation.

                Golfindely: An idyllic coastal region known for its beautiful beaches and crystal clear waters, home to the Golfindel and Grake creatures.

                Magical Schools

                Dragonian Magic: A form of magic that is practiced by Dragonriders and Dragon tamers, which involves the manipulation of dragon energy and bonding with dragon companions.

                Gripshawk Magic: A form of magic that is practiced by Gripshawks, which involves the manipulation of the natural elements and telepathic communication with other creatures.

                Ugling Magic: A form of magic that is practiced by Uglings, which involves the use of charms, spells, and potions to manipulate the physical world.

                Guilds

                Dragon Riders Guild: A prestigious guild of dragon riders, responsible for maintaining peace and order in the world by using their dragon companions for protection and transportation.

                Gripshawk Hunters Guild: A guild of skilled hunters who specialize in hunting and capturing exotic creatures for various purposes.

                Ugling Alchemists Guild: A guild of alchemists and potion makers, who create various potions and elixirs for medicinal and magical purposes.

                Organizations

                The Order of the Buntifluën: A secret organization dedicated to the study and use of Buntifluën artefacts for the betterment of communication and understanding between sentient beings.

                The Glubolín Network: A network of individuals who possess Glubolín devices, used for communication and sharing information across long distances.

                The Sabulmantium Society: A society of scholars and adventurers who study the properties and uses of Sabulmantium devices for divination and navigation.

                Here are a few new invented terms with their potential IPA pronunciations and definitions that would fit in this fantasy world:

                Dragons:

                Krynn [ ˈkrĭn ] : A subspecies of dragon known for its ability to control and manipulate time.

                Creatures:

                Kelpies [ ˈkĕl-pēz ] : Aquatic creatures resembling horses, known for their ability to shape-shift and lure unsuspecting victims into the water.

                Magical Artefacts:

                Dragonwhisper [ ˈdrā-gən-ˌhwis-pər ] : An ancient and powerful magical artifact, which allows the user to communicate and control dragons telepathically.

                Necrotalisman [ ˈnĕk-rə-ˈtā-lĭz-mən ] : A magical artifact in the shape of a talisman that grants its wielder the ability to control and summon the dead.

                Plants:

                Blightthorn [ ˈblīt-ˌthôrn ] : A poisonous plant known for its dark purple flowers and thorny stem, its extract is used in dark magic

                Faeleaf [ ˈfā-ˌlēf ] : A rare plant found in the deep forest known for its bright green leaves, its extract is used in healing potions

                Locations:

                The Shadowland [ ˈshā-dō-ˌland ] : A mysterious and dangerous land overrun by dark magic and controlled by Necromancers.

                The Hidden Vale [ ˈhī-dən-ˈvāl ] : A secluded valley located deep in the mountains, home to the reclusive Faeleaf plants.

                Organization:

                The Necromancers’ Circle [ ˈnĕk-rə-ˈmän-sər-z-ˈsər-kəl ] : A secret organization of powerful necromancers who seek to expand their control over death and the dead.

                Here are a few more invented terms with their potential IPA pronunciations and definitions that fit in this fantasy world, having less to do with necromancy, and more with various forms of consciousness or energy manipulation, magical or mythical creatures or species:

                Creatures:

                Eterneon [ ˈē-tər-ˈnē-ən ] : A species of winged creatures known for their ability to manipulate and harness the energy of the stars, they are highly sought after by astromancers and star-gazers.

                Psicon [ ˈsī-ˌkän ] : A species of psychic creatures, known for their ability to read minds and influence emotions.

                Magical Artefacts:

                Energyshield [ ˈen-ər-jē-ˌshēld ] : A magical artifact that creates a protective barrier around the user, deflecting or absorbing any kind of energy-based attacks.

                Empathstone [ ˈĕm-pāth-ˈstōn ] : A small, glowing stone which allows the user to sense and control the emotions of others.

                Magical Schools:

                Energyshaping [ ˈen-ər-jē-ˌshāp-ing ] : A school of magic that involves the manipulation and control of various forms of energy.

                Empathymagic [ ˈĕm-pā-thē-ˈmaj-ik ] : A school of magic that involves the manipulation of emotions and the ability to sense the emotions of others.

                Locations:

                Eternity’s Edge [ ˈē-tər-nə-tēz-ˈēj] : A remote and mysterious cliff located high in the mountains, known for its strong emanations of star energy and rumored to be home to a hidden community of Eterneons.

                Psicon’s Den [ ˈsī-kän-z-ˈdĕn] : A secret cave system located deep within the forest, it is said to be home to a colony of Psicon creatures.

                Organizations:

                The Energists Guild [ ˈen-ər-jist-z-ˈgild] : A powerful guild of magic users specializing in Energyshaping magic.

                The Empath Council [ ˈĕm-pāth-ˈkoun-səl]: A secretive group of Empathymagic users, dedicated to the study and control of emotions.

                 

                #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

                  #6345
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    Crime and Punishment in Tetbury

                     

                    I noticed that there were quite a number of Brownings of Tetbury in the newspaper archives involved in criminal activities while doing a routine newspaper search to supplement the information in the usual ancestry records. I expanded the tree to include cousins, and offsping of cousins, in order to work out who was who and how, if at all, these individuals related to our Browning family.

                    I was expecting to find some of our Brownings involved in the Swing Riots in Tetbury in 1830, but did not. Most of our Brownings (including cousins) were stone masons. Most of the rioters in 1830 were agricultural labourers.

                    The Browning crimes are varied, and by todays standards, not for the most part terribly serious ~ you would be unlikely to receive a sentence of hard labour for being found in an outhouse with the intent to commit an unlawful act nowadays, or for being drunk.

                    The central character in this chapter is Isaac Browning (my 4x great grandfather), who did not appear in any criminal registers, but the following individuals can be identified in the family structure through their relationship to him.

                     

                    RICHARD LOCK BROWNING born in 1853 was Isaac’s grandson, his son George’s son. Richard was a mason. In 1879 he and Henry Browning of the same age were sentenced to one month hard labour for stealing two pigeons in Tetbury. Henry Browning was Isaac’s nephews son.
                    In 1883 Richard Browning, mason of Tetbury, was charged with obtaining food and lodging under false pretences, but was found not guilty and acquitted.
                    In 1884 Richard Browning, mason of Tetbury, was sentenced to one month hard labour for game trespass.

                    Richard had been fined a number of times in Tetbury:

                    Richard Browning

                    Richard Lock Browning was five feet eight inches tall, dark hair, grey eyes, an oval face and a dark complexion. He had two cuts on the back of his head (in February 1879) and a scar on his right eyebrow.

                     

                    HENRY BROWNING, who was stealing pigeons with Richard Lock Browning in 1879, (Isaac’s brother Williams grandson, son of George Browning and his wife Charity) was charged with being drunk in 1882 and ordered to pay a fine of one shilling and costs of fourteen shillings, or seven days hard labour.

                    Henry was found guilty of gaming in the highway at Tetbury in 1872 and was sentenced to seven days hard labour. In 1882 Henry (who was also a mason) was charged with assault but discharged.
                    Henry was five feet five inches tall, brown hair and brown eyes, a long visage and a fresh complexion.
                    Henry emigrated with his daughter to Canada in 1913, and died in Vancouver in 1919.

                     

                    THOMAS BUCKINGHAM 1808-1846 (Isaacs daughter Janes husband) was charged with stealing a black gelding in Tetbury in 1838. No true bill. (A “no true bill” means the jury did not find probable cause to continue a case.)

                    Thomas did however neglect to pay his taxes in 1832:

                    Thomas Buckingham

                     

                    LEWIN BUCKINGHAM (grandson of Isaac, his daughter Jane’s son) was found guilty in 1846 stealing two fowls in Tetbury when he was sixteen years old.
                    In 1846 he was sentence to one month hard labour (or pay ten shillings fine and ten shillings costs) for loitering with the intent to trespass in search of conies.
                    A year later in 1847, he and three other young men were sentenced to four months hard labour for larceny.
                    Lewin was five feet three inches tall, with brown hair and brown eyes, long visage, sallow complexion, and had a scar on his left arm.

                     

                    JOHN BUCKINGHAM born circa 1832, a Tetbury labourer (Isaac’s grandson, Lewin’s brother) was sentenced to six weeks hard labour for larceny in 1855 for stealing a duck in Cirencester. The notes on the register mention that he had been employed by Mr LOCK, Angel Inn. (John’s grandmother was Mary Lock so this is likely a relative).

                    John Buckingham

                     

                    The previous year in 1854 John was sentenced to one month or a one pound fine for assaulting and beating W. Wood.
                    John was five feet eight and three quarter inches tall, light brown hair and grey eyes, an oval visage and a fresh complexion. He had a scar on his left arm and inside his right knee.

                     

                    JOSEPH PERRET was born circa 1831 and he was a Tetbury labourer. (He was Isaac’s granddaughter Charlotte Buckingham’s husband)
                    In 1855 he assaulted William Wood and was sentenced to one month or a two pound ten shilling fine. Was it the same W Wood that his wifes cousin John assaulted the year before?
                    In 1869 Joseph was sentenced to one month hard labour for feloniously receiving a cupboard known to be stolen.

                     

                    JAMES BUCKINGAM born circa 1822 in Tetbury was a shoemaker. (Isaac’s nephew, his sister Hannah’s son)
                    In 1854 the Tetbury shoemaker was sentenced to four months hard labour for stealing 30 lbs of lead off someones house.
                    In 1856 the Tetbury shoemaker received two months hard labour or pay £2 fine and 12 s costs for being found in pursuit of game.
                    In 1868 he was sentenced to two months hard labour for stealing a gander. A unspecified previous conviction is noted.
                    1871 the Tetbury shoemaker was found in an outhouse for an unlawful purpose and received ten days hard labour. The register notes that his sister is Mrs Cook, the Green, Tetbury. (James sister Prudence married Thomas Cook)
                    James sister Charlotte married a shoemaker and moved to UTAH.
                    James was five feet eight inches tall, dark hair and blue eyes, a long visage and a florid complexion. He had a scar on his forehead and a mole on the right side of his neck and abdomen, and a scar on the right knee.

                    #6338
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      Albert Parker Edwards

                      1876-1930

                      Albert Parker Edwards

                       

                      Albert Parker Edwards, my great grandfather, was born in Aston, Warwickshire in 1876.  On the 1881 census he was living with his parents Enoch and Amelia in Bournebrook, Northfield, Worcestershire.  Enoch was a button tool maker at the time of the census.

                      In 1890 Albert was indentured in an apprenticeship as a pawnbroker in Tipton, Staffordshire.

                      1890 indenture

                       

                      On the 1891 census Albert was a lodger in Tipton at the home of Phoebe Levy, pawnbroker, and Alberts occupation was an apprentice.

                      Albert married Annie Elizabeth Stokes in 1898 in Evesham, and their first son, my grandfather Albert Garnet Edwards (1898-1950), was born six months later in Crabbs Cross.  On the 1901 census, Annie was in hospital as a patient and Albert was living at Crabbs Cross with a boarder, his brother Garnet Edwards.  Their two year old son Albert Garnet was staying with his uncle Ralph, Albert Parkers brother, also in Crabbs Cross.

                      Albert and Annie kept the Cricketers Arms hotel on Beoley Road in Redditch until around 1920. They had a further four children while living there: Doris May Edwards (1902-1974),  Ralph Clifford Edwards (1903-1988),  Ena Flora Edwards (1908-1983) and Osmond Edwards (1910-2000).

                       

                      In 1906 Albert was assaulted during an incident in the Cricketers Arms.

                      Bromsgrove & Droitwich Messenger – Saturday 18 August 1906:

                      1906 incident

                      1906 assault

                       

                      In 1910 a gold medal was given to Albert Parker Edwards by Mr. Banks, a policeman, in Redditch for saving the life of his two children from drowning in a brook on the Proctor farm which adjoined The Cricketers Arms.  The story my father heard was that policeman Banks could not persuade the town of Redditch to come up with an award for Albert Parker Edwards so policeman Banks did it himself.  William Banks, police constable, was living on Beoley Road on the 1911 census. His son Thomas was aged 5 and his daughter Frances was 8.  It seems that when the father retired from the police he moved to Worcester. Thomas went into the hotel business and in 1939 was the manager of the Abbey hotel in Kenilworth. Frances married Edward Pardoe and was living along Redditch Road, Alvechurch in 1939.

                      My grandmother Peggy had the gold medal put on a gold chain for me in the 1970s.  When I left England in the 1980s, I gave it back to her for safekeeping. When she died, the medal on the chain ended up in my fathers possession, who claims to have no knowledge that it was once given to me!

                      The medal:

                      1910 medal

                      Albert Parker Edwards wearing the medal:

                      APE wearing medal

                       

                      In 1921 Albert was at the The Royal Exchange hotel in Droitwich:

                      Royal Exchange

                       

                      Between 1922 and 1927 Albert kept the Bear Hotel in Evesham:

                      APE Bear

                      The Bear

                       

                      Then Albert and Annie moved to the Red Lion at Astwood Bank:

                      Red Lion

                       

                      Albert in the garden behind the Red Lion:

                      APE Red Lion

                       

                      They stayed at the Red Lion until Albert Parker Edwards died on the 11th of February, 1930 aged 53.

                      APE probate

                      #6332
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        “Sweet dreams till sunbeams find yooooou,  sweet dreams that leave all worrIIIIEEs behind you,  la la la laaa your dreeeams whatever they beeeee,  dream a little dreeeeeam of mee….la la la la l laaaaa laah…”

                        #6315

                        In reply to: The Sexy Wooden Leg

                        It was not yet 9am and Eusebius Kazandis was already sweating. The morning sun was hitting hard on the tarp of his booth. He put the last cauldron among lines of cauldrons on a sagging table at the summer fair of Innsbruck, Austria. It was a tiny three-legged black cauldron with a simple Celtic knot on one side and a tree on the other side, like all the others. His father’s father’s father used to make cauldrons for a living, the kind you used to distil ouzo or cook meals for an Inn. But as time went by and industrialisation made it easier for cooks, the trade slowly evolved toward smaller cauldrons for modern Wiccans. A modern witch wanted it portable and light, ready to use in everyday life situations, and Eusebius was there to provide it for them.

                        Eusebius sat on his chair and sighed. He couldn’t help but notice the woman in colourful dress who had spread a shawl on the grass under the tall sequoia tree. Nobody liked this spot under the branches oozing sticky resin. She didn’t seem to mind. She was arranging small colourful bottles of oil on her shawl. A sign near her said : Massage oils, Fragrant oils, Polishing oils, all with different names evocative of different properties. He hadn’t noticed her yesterday when everybody was installing their stalls. He wondered if she had paid her fee.

                        Rosa was smiling as she spread in front of her the meadow flowers she’d picked on her way to the market. It was another beautiful day, under the shade and protection of the big sequoia tree watching over her. She assembled small bouquets and put them in between the vials containing her precious handmade oils. She had noticed people, and especially women, would naturally gather around well dressed stalls and engage conversation. Since she left her hometown of Torino, seven years ago, she’d followed the wind on her journey across Europe. It had led her to Innsbruck and had suddenly stopped blowing. That usually meant she had something to do there, but it also meant that she would have to figure out what she was meant to do before she could go on with her life.

                        The stout man waiting behind his dark cauldrons, was watching her again. He looked quite sad, and she couldn’t help but thinking he was not where he needed to be. When she looked at him, she saw Hephaestus whose inner fire had been tamed. His banner was a mishmash of religious stuff, aimed at pagans and budding witches. Although his grim booth would most certainly benefit from a feminine touch, but she didn’t want to offend him by a misplaced suggestion. It was not her place to find his place.

                        Rosa, who knew to cultivate any available friendship when she arrived somewhere, waved at the man. Startled, he looked away as if caught doing something inappropriate. Rosa sighed. Maybe she should have bring him some coffee.

                        As her first clients arrived, she prayed for a gush of wind to tell her where to go next. But the branches of the old tree remained perfectly still under the scorching sun.

                        #6303
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          The Hollands of Barton under Needwood

                           

                          Samuel Warren of Stapenhill married Catherine Holland of Barton under Needwood in 1795.

                          I joined a Barton under Needwood History group and found an incredible amount of information on the Holland family, but first I wanted to make absolutely sure that our Catherine Holland was one of them as there were also Hollands in Newhall. Not only that, on the marriage licence it says that Catherine Holland was from Bretby Park Gate, Stapenhill.

                          Then I noticed that one of the witnesses on Samuel’s brother Williams marriage to Ann Holland in 1796 was John Hair. Hannah Hair was the wife of Thomas Holland, and they were the Barton under Needwood parents of Catherine. Catherine was born in 1775, and Ann was born in 1767.

                          The 1851 census clinched it: Catherine Warren 74 years old, widow and formerly a farmers wife, was living in the household of her son John Warren, and her place of birth is listed as Barton under Needwood. In 1841 Catherine was a 64 year old widow, her husband Samuel having died in 1837, and she was living with her son Samuel, a farmer. The 1841 census did not list place of birth, however. Catherine died on 31 March 1861 and does not appear on the 1861 census.

                          Once I had established that our Catherine Holland was from Barton under Needwood, I had another look at the information available on the Barton under Needwood History group, compiled by local historian Steve Gardner.

                          Catherine’s parents were Thomas Holland 1737-1828 and Hannah Hair 1739-1822.

                          Steve Gardner had posted a long list of the dates, marriages and children of the Holland family. The earliest entries in parish registers were Thomae Holland 1562-1626 and his wife Eunica Edwardes 1565-1632. They married on 10th July 1582. They were born, married and died in Barton under Needwood. They were direct ancestors of Catherine Holland, and as such my direct ancestors too.

                          The known history of the Holland family in Barton under Needwood goes back to Richard De Holland. (Thanks once again to Steve Gardner of the Barton under Needwood History group for this information.)

                          “Richard de Holland was the first member of the Holland family to become resident in Barton under Needwood (in about 1312) having been granted lands by the Earl of Lancaster (for whom Richard served as Stud and Stock Keeper of the Peak District) The Holland family stemmed from Upholland in Lancashire and had many family connections working for the Earl of Lancaster, who was one of the biggest Barons in England. Lancaster had his own army and lived at Tutbury Castle, from where he ruled over most of the Midlands area. The Earl of Lancaster was one of the main players in the ‘Barons Rebellion’ and the ensuing Battle of Burton Bridge in 1322. Richard de Holland was very much involved in the proceedings which had so angered Englands King. Holland narrowly escaped with his life, unlike the Earl who was executed.
                          From the arrival of that first Holland family member, the Hollands were a mainstay family in the community, and were in Barton under Needwood for over 600 years.”

                          Continuing with various items of information regarding the Hollands, thanks to Steve Gardner’s Barton under Needwood history pages:

                          “PART 6 (Final Part)
                          Some mentions of The Manor of Barton in the Ancient Staffordshire Rolls:
                          1330. A Grant was made to Herbert de Ferrars, at le Newland in the Manor of Barton.
                          1378. The Inquisitio bonorum – Johannis Holand — an interesting Inventory of his goods and their value and his debts.
                          1380. View of Frankpledge ; the Jury found that Richard Holland was feloniously murdered by his wife Joan and Thomas Graunger, who fled. The goods of the deceased were valued at iiij/. iijj. xid. ; one-third went to the dead man, one-third to his son, one- third to the Lord for the wife’s share. Compare 1 H. V. Indictments. (1413.)
                          That Thomas Graunger of Barton smyth and Joan the wife of Richard de Holond of Barton on the Feast of St. John the Baptist 10 H. II. (1387) had traitorously killed and murdered at night, at Barton, Richard, the husband of the said Joan. (m. 22.)
                          The names of various members of the Holland family appear constantly among the listed Jurors on the manorial records printed below : —
                          1539. Richard Holland and Richard Holland the younger are on the Muster Roll of Barton
                          1583. Thomas Holland and Unica his wife are living at Barton.
                          1663-4. Visitations. — Barton under Needword. Disclaimers. William Holland, Senior, William Holland, Junior.
                          1609. Richard Holland, Clerk and Alice, his wife.
                          1663-4. Disclaimers at the Visitation. William Holland, Senior, William Holland, Junior.”

                          I was able to find considerably more information on the Hollands in the book “Some Records of the Holland Family (The Hollands of Barton under Needwood, Staffordshire, and the Hollands in History)” by William Richard Holland. Luckily the full text of this book can be found online.

                          William Richard Holland (Died 1915) An early local Historian and author of the book:

                          William Richard Holland

                           

                          ‘Holland House’ taken from the Gardens (sadly demolished in the early 60’s):

                          Holland House

                           

                          Excerpt from the book:

                          “The charter, dated 1314, granting Richard rights and privileges in Needwood Forest, reads as follows:

                          “Thomas Earl of Lancaster and Leicester, high-steward of England, to whom all these present shall come, greeting: Know ye, that we have given, &c., to Richard Holland of Barton, and his heirs, housboot, heyboot, and fireboot, and common of pasture, in our forest of Needwood, for all his beasts, as well in places fenced as lying open, with 40 hogs, quit of pawnage in our said forest at all times in the year (except hogs only in fence month). All which premises we will warrant, &c. to the said Richard and his heirs against all people for ever”

                          “The terms “housboot” “heyboot” and “fireboot” meant that Richard and his heirs were to have the privilege of taking from the Forest, wood needed for house repair and building, hedging material for the repairing of fences, and what was needful for purposes of fuel.”

                          Further excerpts from the book:

                          “It may here be mentioned that during the renovation of Barton Church, when the stone pillars were being stripped of the plaster which covered them, “William Holland 1617” was found roughly carved on a pillar near to the belfry gallery, obviously the work of a not too devout member of the family, who, seated in the gallery of that time, occupied himself thus during the service. The inscription can still be seen.”

                          “The earliest mention of a Holland of Upholland occurs in the reign of John in a Final Concord, made at the Lancashire Assizes, dated November 5th, 1202, in which Uchtred de Chryche, who seems to have had some right in the manor of Upholland, releases his right in fourteen oxgangs* of land to Matthew de Holland, in consideration of the sum of six marks of silver. Thus was planted the Holland Tree, all the early information of which is found in The Victoria County History of Lancaster.

                          As time went on, the family acquired more land, and with this, increased position. Thus, in the reign of Edward I, a Robert de Holland, son of Thurstan, son of Robert, became possessed of the manor of Orrell adjoining Upholland and of the lordship of Hale in the parish of Childwall, and, through marriage with Elizabeth de Samlesbury (co-heiress of Sir Wm. de Samlesbury of Samlesbury, Hall, near to Preston), of the moiety of that manor….

                          * An oxgang signified the amount of land that could be ploughed by one ox in one day”

                          “This Robert de Holland, son of Thurstan, received Knighthood in the reign of Edward I, as did also his brother William, ancestor of that branch of the family which later migrated to Cheshire. Belonging to this branch are such noteworthy personages as Mrs. Gaskell, the talented authoress, her mother being a Holland of this branch, Sir Henry Holland, Physician to Queen Victoria, and his two sons, the first Viscount Knutsford, and Canon Francis Holland ; Sir Henry’s grandson (the present Lord Knutsford), Canon Scott Holland, etc. Captain Frederick Holland, R.N., late of Ashbourne Hall, Derbyshire, may also be mentioned here.*”

                          Thanks to the Barton under Needwood history group for the following:

                          WALES END FARM:
                          In 1509 it was owned and occupied by Mr Johannes Holland De Wallass end who was a well to do Yeoman Farmer (the origin of the areas name – Wales End).  Part of the building dates to 1490 making it probably the oldest building still standing in the Village:

                          Wales End Farm

                           

                          I found records for all of the Holland’s listed on the Barton under Needwood History group and added them to my ancestry tree. The earliest will I found was for Eunica Edwardes, then Eunica Holland, who died in 1632.

                          A page from the 1632 will and inventory of Eunica (Unice) Holland:

                          Unice Holland

                           

                          I’d been reading about “pedigree collapse” just before I found out her maiden name of Edwardes. Edwards is my own maiden name.

                          “In genealogy, pedigree collapse describes how reproduction between two individuals who knowingly or unknowingly share an ancestor causes the family tree of their offspring to be smaller than it would otherwise be.
                          Without pedigree collapse, a person’s ancestor tree is a binary tree, formed by the person, the parents, grandparents, and so on. However, the number of individuals in such a tree grows exponentially and will eventually become impossibly high. For example, a single individual alive today would, over 30 generations going back to the High Middle Ages, have roughly a billion ancestors, more than the total world population at the time. This apparent paradox occurs because the individuals in the binary tree are not distinct: instead, a single individual may occupy multiple places in the binary tree. This typically happens when the parents of an ancestor are cousins (sometimes unbeknownst to themselves). For example, the offspring of two first cousins has at most only six great-grandparents instead of the normal eight. This reduction in the number of ancestors is pedigree collapse. It collapses the binary tree into a directed acyclic graph with two different, directed paths starting from the ancestor who in the binary tree would occupy two places.” via wikipedia

                          There is nothing to suggest, however, that Eunica’s family were related to my fathers family, and the only evidence so far in my tree of pedigree collapse are the marriages of Orgill cousins, where two sets of grandparents are repeated.

                          A list of Holland ancestors:

                          Catherine Holland 1775-1861
                          her parents:
                          Thomas Holland 1737-1828   Hannah Hair 1739-1832
                          Thomas’s parents:
                          William Holland 1696-1756   Susannah Whiteing 1715-1752
                          William’s parents:
                          William Holland 1665-    Elizabeth Higgs 1675-1720
                          William’s parents:
                          Thomas Holland 1634-1681   Katherine Owen 1634-1728
                          Thomas’s parents:
                          Thomas Holland 1606-1680   Margaret Belcher 1608-1664
                          Thomas’s parents:
                          Thomas Holland 1562-1626   Eunice Edwardes 1565- 1632

                          #6298

                          The Rootians invaded Oocrane when everybody was busy looking elsewhere. They entered through the Dumbass region under the pretense of freeing it from Lazies who had infiltrated administrations and media. They often cited a recent short movie from president Voldomeer Zumbaskee in which he appeared in purple leather panties adorned with diamonds, showing unashamedly his wooden leg. The same wooden leg that gave him the status of sexiest man of Oocrane and got him elected. In one of his famous discourses, he accused the Rootian president, Valdamir Potomsky of wanting to help himself to their crops of turnip and weed of which the world depended. And he told him if he expected Lazies he would be surprised by their resolution to defend their country.

                          By a simple game of chance that reality is so fond of, the man who made the president’s very wooden leg was also called Voldomeer Zumbasky. They might share a common ancestor, but many times in the past population records were destroyed and it was difficult to tell. That man lived in the small city of Duckailingtown in Dumbass, near the Rootian border. He was renowned to be a great carpenter and sculptor and before the war people would come from the neighbooring countries to buy his work.

                          During the invasion, crops and forests were burnt, buildings were destroyed and Dumbass Voldomeer lost one leg. There were no more trees or beams that hadn’t been turned to ashes, and he had only one block of wood left. Enough to make another wooden leg for himself. But he wondered: wasn’t there something more useful he could do with that block of wood ?

                          One morning of spring, one year after the war started. Food was scarce in Duckailingtown and Voldomeer’s belly growled as he walked past the nest of a couple of swans. He counted nine beautiful eggs that the parents were arranging with their beaks before lying on top to keep them warm. He found it so touching to see life in this place that he couldn’t bear the idea of simply stealing the eggs.

                          He went back home, a shelter made of bricks, his stomach aching from starvation. Looking at the block of wood on the floor, he got an idea. He spent the rest of the day and night to carve nine beautiful eggs so smooth that they appeared warm to the touch. He put so much care and love in his work that the swans would see no difference.

                          The next morning he went back to the nest with a leather bag, hopping heartily on his lone leg. The eggs were still there and by chance both the parents were missing. He didn’t care why. He took the eggs and replaced them with the wooden ones.

                          That day, he ate the best omelet with his friend Rooby, and as far as one could tell the swans were still brooding by the end of summer.

                          #6282
                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            Magson

                            This unusual name is of early medieval English origin, and is one of the rare group of modern surnames classed as “metronymics”, where the original surname derived from the name of the first bearer’s mother, the majority of surnames being created from patronymics, that is, through the male side.

                            William Housley’s (1781-1848) great grandfather John Housley 1670- married Sarah Magson in 1700. She was also born in 1670, and both were born in Selston, Nottinghamshire, as was William.

                            The parish records mention Magson’s in Selston and  nearby Heanor as far back at 1580, but they are not easy to read:

                            Magson parish register

                             

                            #6280

                            I started reading a book. In fact I started reading it three weeks ago, and have read the first page of the preface every night and fallen asleep. But my neck aches from doing too much gardening so I went back to bed to read this morning. I still fell asleep six times but at least I finished the preface. It’s the story of the family , initiated by the family collection of netsuke (whatever that is. Tiny Japanese carvings) But this is what stopped me reading and made me think (and then fall asleep each time I re read it)

                            “And I’m not entitled to nostalgia about all that lost wealth and glamour from a century ago. And I am not interested in thin. I want to know what the relationship has been between this wooden object that I am rolling between my fingers – hard and tricky and Japanese – and where it has been. I want to be able to reach to the handle of the door and turn it and feel it open. I want to walk into each room where this object has lived, to feel the volume of the space, to know what pictures were on the walls, how the light fell from the windows. And I want to know whose hands it has been in, and what they felt about it and thought about it – if they thought about it. I want to know what it has witnessed.” ― Edmund de Waal, The Hare With Amber Eyes: A Family’s Century of Art and Loss

                            And I felt almost bereft that none of the records tell me which way the light fell in through the windows.

                            I know who lived in the house in which years, but I don’t know who sat in the sun streaming through the window and which painting upon the wall they looked at and what the material was that covered the chair they sat on.

                            Were his clothes confortable (or hers, likely not), did he have an old favourite pair of trousers that his mother hated?

                            There is one house in particular that I keep coming back to. Like I got on the Housley train at Smalley and I can’t get off. Kidsley Grange Farm, they turned it into a nursing home and built extensions, and now it’s for sale for five hundred thousand pounds. But is the ghost still under the back stairs? Is there still a stain somewhere when a carafe of port was dropped?

                            Did Anns writing desk survive? Does someone have that, polished, with a vase of spring tulips on it? (on a mat of course so it doesn’t make a ring, despite that there are layers of beeswaxed rings already)

                            Does the desk remember the letters, the weight of a forearm or elbow, perhaps a smeared teardrop, or a comsumptive cough stain?

                            Is there perhaps a folded bit of paper or card that propped an uneven leg that fell through the floorboards that might tear into little squares if you found it and opened it, and would it be a rough draft of a letter never sent, or just a receipt for five head of cattle the summer before?

                            Did he hate the curtain material, or not even think of it? Did he love the house, or want to get away to see something new ~ or both?

                            Did he have a favourite cup, a favourite food, did he hate liver or cabbage?

                            Did he like his image when the photograph came from the studio or did he think it made his nose look big or his hair too thin, or did he wish he’d worn his other waistcoat?

                            Did he love his wife so much he couldn’t bear to see her dying, was it neglect or was it the unbearableness of it all that made him go away and drink?

                            Did the sun slanting in through the dormer window of his tiny attic room where he lodged remind him of ~ well no perhaps he was never in the room in daylight hours at all. Work all day and pub all night, keeping busy working hard and drinking hard and perhaps laughing hard, and maybe he only thought of it all on Sunday mornings.

                            So many deaths, one after another, his father, his wife, his brother, his sister, and another and another, all the coughing, all the debility. Perhaps he never understood why he lived and they did not, what kind of justice was there in that?

                            Did he take a souvenir or two with him, a handkerchief or a shawl perhaps, tucked away at the bottom of a battered leather bag that had his 3 shirts and 2 waistcoats in and a spare cap,something embroidered perhaps.

                            The quote in that book started me off with the light coming in the window and the need to know the simplest things, something nobody ever wrote in a letter, maybe never even mentioned to anyone.

                            Light coming in windows. I remeber when I was a teenager I had a day off sick and spent the whole day laying on the couch in a big window with the winter sun on my face all day, and I read Bonjour Tristesse in one sitting, and I’ll never forget that afternoon.  I don’t remember much about that book, but I remember being transported. But at the same time as being present in that sunny window.

                            “Stories and objects share something, a patina…Perhaps patina is a process of rubbing back so that the essential is revealed…But it also seems additive, in the way that a piece of oak furniture gains over years and years of polishing.”

                            “How objects are handed on is all about story-telling. I am giving you this because I love you. Or because it was given to me. Because I bought it somewhere special. Because you will care for it. Because it will complicate your life. Because it will make someone else envious. There is no easy story in legacy. What is remembered and what is forgotten? There can be a chain of forgetting, the rubbing away of previous ownership as much as the slow accretion of stories. What is being passed on to me with all these small Japanese objects?”

                            “There are things in this world that the children hear, but whose sounds oscillate below an adult’s sense of pitch.”

                            What did the children hear?

                            #6272
                            TracyTracy
                            Participant

                              The Housley Letters

                              The Carringtons

                              Carrington Farm, Smalley:

                              Carrington Farm

                               

                              Ellen Carrington was born in 1795. Her father William Carrington 1755-1833 was from Smalley. Her mother Mary Malkin 1765-1838 was from Ellastone, in Staffordshire.  Ellastone is on the Derbyshire border and very close to Ashboure, where Ellen married William Housley.

                               

                              From Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters:

                              Ellen’s family was evidently rather prominant in Smalley. Two Carringtons (John and William) served on the Parish Council in 1794. Parish records are full of Carrington marriages and christenings.

                              The letters refer to a variety of “uncles” who were probably Ellen’s brothers, but could be her uncles. These include:

                              RICHARD

                              Probably the youngest Uncle, and certainly the most significant, is Richard. He was a trustee for some of the property which needed to be settled following Ellen’s death. Anne wrote in 1854 that Uncle Richard “has got a new house built” and his daughters are “fine dashing young ladies–the belles of Smalley.” Then she added, “Aunt looks as old as my mother.”

                              Richard was born somewhere between 1808 and 1812. Since Richard was a contemporary of the older Housley children, “Aunt,” who was three years younger, should not look so old!

                              Richard Carrington and Harriet Faulkner were married in Repton in 1833. A daughter Elizabeth was baptised March 24, 1834. In July 1872, Joseph wrote: “Elizabeth is married too and a large family and is living in Uncle Thomas’s house for he is dead.” Elizabeth married Ayres (Eyres) Clayton of Lascoe. His occupation was listed as joiner and shopkeeper. They were married before 1864 since Elizabeth Clayton witnessed her sister’s marriage. Their children in April 1871 were Selina (1863), Agnes Maria (1866) and Elizabeth Ann (1868). A fourth daughter, Alice Augusta, was born in 1872 or 1873, probably by July 1872 to fit Joseph’s description “large family”! A son Charles Richard was born in 1880.

                              An Elizabeth Ann Clayton married John Arthur Woodhouse on May 12, 1913. He was a carpenter. His father was a miner. Elizabeth Ann’s father, Ayres, was also a carpenter. John Arthur’s age was given as 25. Elizabeth Ann’s age was given as 33 or 38. However, if she was born in 1868, her age would be 45. Possibly this is another case of a child being named for a deceased sibling. If she were 38 and born in 1875, she would fill the gap between Alice Augusta and Charles Richard.

                              Selina Clayton, who would have been 18, is not listed in the household in 1881. She died on June 11, 1914 at age 51. Agnes Maria Clayton died at the age of 25 and was buried March 31, 1891. Charles Richard died at the age of 5 and was buried on February 4, 1886. A Charles James Clayton, 18 months, was buried June 8, 1889 in Heanor.

                              Richard Carrington’s second daughter, Selina, born in 1837, married Walker Martin (b.1835) on February 11, 1864 and they were living at Kidsley Park Farm in 1872, according to a letter from Joseph, and, according to the census, were still there in 1881. This 100 acre farm was formerly the home of Daniel Smith and his daughter Elizabeth Davy Barber. Selina and Walker had at least five children: Elizabeth Ann (1865), Harriet Georgianna (1866/7), Alice Marian (September 6, 1868), Philip Richard (1870), and Walker (1873). In December 1972, Joseph mentioned the death of Philip Walker, a farmer of Prospect Farm, Shipley. This was probably Walker Martin’s grandfather, since Walker was born in Shipley. The stock was to be sold the following Monday, but his daughter (Walker’s mother?) died the next day. Walker’s father was named Thomas. An Annie Georgianna Martin age 13 of Shipley died in April of 1859.

                              Selina Martin died on October 29, 1906 but her estate was not settled until November 14, 1910. Her gross estate was worth L223.56. Her son Walker and her daughter Harriet Georgiana were her trustees and executers. Walker was to get Selina’s half of Richard’s farm. Harriet Georgiana and Alice Marian were to be allowed to live with him. Philip Richard received L25. Elizabeth Ann was already married to someone named Smith.

                              Richard and Harriet may also have had a son George. In 1851 a Harriet Carrington and her three year old son George were living with her step-father John Benniston in Heanor. John may have been recently widowed and needed her help. Or, the Carrington home may have been inadequate since Anne reported a new one was built by 1854. Selina’s second daughter’s name testifies to the presence of a “George” in the family! Could the death of this son account for the haggard appearance Anne described when she wrote: “Aunt looks as old as my mother?”
                              Harriet was buried May 19, 1866. She was 55 when she died.

                              In 1881, Georgianna then 14, was living with her grandfather and his niece, Zilpah Cooper, age 38–who lived with Richard on his 63 acre farm as early as 1871. A Zilpah, daughter of William and Elizabeth, was christened October 1843. Her brother, William Walter, was christened in 1846 and married Anna Maria Saint in 1873. There are four Selina Coopers–one had a son William Thomas Bartrun Cooper christened in 1864; another had a son William Cooper christened in 1873.

                              Our Zilpah was born in Bretley 1843. She died at age 49 and was buried on September 24, 1892. In her will, which was witnessed by Selina Martin, Zilpah’s sister, Frances Elizabeth Cleave, wife of Horatio Cleave of Leicester is mentioned. James Eley and Francis Darwin Huish (Richard’s soliciter) were executers.

                              Richard died June 10, 1892, and was buried on June 13. He was 85. As might be expected, Richard’s will was complicated. Harriet Georgiana Martin and Zilpah Cooper were to share his farm. If neither wanted to live there it was to go to Georgiana’s cousin Selina Clayton. However, Zilpah died soon after Richard. Originally, he left his piano, parlor and best bedroom furniture to his daughter Elizabeth Clayton. Then he revoked everything but the piano. He arranged for the payment of £150 which he owed. Later he added a codicil explaining that the debt was paid but he had borrowed £200 from someone else to do it!

                              Richard left a good deal of property including: The house and garden in Smalley occupied by Eyres Clayton with four messuages and gardens adjoining and large garden below and three messuages at the south end of the row with the frame work knitters shop and garden adjoining; a dwelling house used as a public house with a close of land; a small cottage and garden and four cottages and shop and gardens.

                               

                              THOMAS

                              In August 1854, Anne wrote “Uncle Thomas is about as usual.” A Thomas Carrington married a Priscilla Walker in 1810.

                              Their children were baptised in August 1830 at the same time as the Housley children who at that time ranged in age from 3 to 17. The oldest of Thomas and Priscilla’s children, Henry, was probably at least 17 as he was married by 1836. Their youngest son, William Thomas, born 1830, may have been Mary Ellen Weston’s beau. However, the only Richard whose christening is recorded (1820), was the son of Thomas and Lucy. In 1872 Joseph reported that Richard’s daughter Elizabeth was married and living in Uncle Thomas’s house. In 1851, Alfred Smith lived in house 25, Foulks lived in 26, Thomas and Priscilla lived in 27, Bennetts lived in 28, Allard lived in 29 and Day lived in 30. Thomas and Priscilla do not appear in 1861. In 1871 Elizabeth Ann and Ayres Clayton lived in House 54. None of the families listed as neighbors in 1851 remained. However, Joseph Carrington, who lived in house 19 in 1851, lived in house 51 in 1871.

                               

                              JOHN

                              In August 1854, Anne wrote: “Uncle John is with Will and Frank has been home in a comfortable place in Cotmanhay.” Although John and William are two of the most popular Carrington names, only two John’s have sons named William. John and Rachel Buxton Carrington had a son William christened in 1788. At the time of the letters this John would have been over 100 years old. Their son John and his wife Ann had a son William who was born in 1805. However, this William age 46 was living with his widowed mother in 1851. A Robert Carrington and his wife Ann had a son John born 1n 1805. He would be the right age to be a brother to Francis Carrington discussed below. This John was living with his widowed mother in 1851 and was unmarried. There are no known Williams in this family grouping. A William Carrington of undiscovered parentage was born in 1821. It is also possible that the Will in question was Anne’s brother Will Housley.

                              –Two Francis Carringtons appear in the 1841 census both of them aged 35. One is living with Richard and Harriet Carrington. The other is living next door to Samuel and Ellen Carrington Kerry (the trustee for “father’s will”!). The next name in this sequence is John Carrington age 15 who does not seem to live with anyone! but may be part of the Kerry household.

                              FRANK (see above)

                              While Anne did not preface her mention of the name Frank with an “Uncle,” Joseph referred to Uncle Frank and James Carrington in the same sentence. A James Carrington was born in 1814 and had a wife Sarah. He worked as a framework knitter. James may have been a son of William and Anne Carrington. He lived near Richard according to the 1861 census. Other children of William and Anne are Hannah (1811), William (1815), John (1816), and Ann (1818). An Ann Carrington married a Frank Buxton in 1819. This might be “Uncle Frank.”

                              An Ellen Carrington was born to John and Rachel Carrington in 1785. On October 25, 1809, a Samuel Kerry married an Ellen Carrington. However this Samuel Kerry is not the trustee involved in settling Ellen’s estate. John Carrington died July 1815.

                              William and Mary Carrington:

                              William Carrington

                              #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.

                                   

                                  #6266
                                  TracyTracy
                                  Participant

                                    From Tanganyika with Love

                                    continued part 7

                                    With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                                    Oldeani Hospital. 19th September 1938

                                    Dearest Family,

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

                                    I have had lots of visitors because the local German settlers seem keen to see
                                    the first British baby born in the hospital. They have been most kind, sending flowers
                                    and little German cards of congratulations festooned with cherubs and rather sweet. Most
                                    of the women, besides being pleasant, are very smart indeed, shattering my illusion that
                                    German matrons are invariably fat and dowdy. They are all much concerned about the
                                    Czecko-Slovakian situation, especially Sister Marianne whose home is right on the
                                    border and has several relations who are Sudentan Germans. She is ant-Nazi and
                                    keeps on asking me whether I think England will declare war if Hitler invades Czecko-
                                    Slovakia, as though I had inside information.

                                    George tells me that he has had a grass ‘banda’ put up for us at Mbulu as we are
                                    both determined not to return to those prison-like quarters in the Fort. Sister Marianne is
                                    horrified at the idea of taking a new baby to live in a grass hut. She told George,
                                    “No,No,Mr Rushby. I find that is not to be allowed!” She is an excellent Sister but rather
                                    prim and George enjoys teasing her. This morning he asked with mock seriousness,
                                    “Sister, why has my wife not received her medal?” Sister fluttered her dictionary before
                                    asking. “What medal Mr Rushby”. “Why,” said George, “The medal that Hitler gives to
                                    women who have borne four children.” Sister started a long and involved explanation
                                    about the medal being only for German mothers whilst George looked at me and
                                    grinned.

                                    Later. Great Jubilation here. By the noise in Sister Marianne’s sitting room last night it
                                    sounded as though the whole German population had gathered to listen to the wireless
                                    news. I heard loud exclamations of joy and then my bedroom door burst open and
                                    several women rushed in. “Thank God “, they cried, “for Neville Chamberlain. Now there
                                    will be no war.” They pumped me by the hand as though I were personally responsible
                                    for the whole thing.

                                    George on the other hand is disgusted by Chamberlain’s lack of guts. Doesn’t
                                    know what England is coming to these days. I feel too content to concern myself with
                                    world affairs. I have a fine husband and four wonderful children and am happy, happy,
                                    happy.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Mbulu. 30th September 1938

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    Here we are, comfortably installed in our little green house made of poles and
                                    rushes from a nearby swamp. The house has of course, no doors or windows, but
                                    there are rush blinds which roll up in the day time. There are two rooms and a little porch
                                    and out at the back there is a small grass kitchen.

                                    Here we have the privacy which we prize so highly as we are screened on one
                                    side by a Forest Department plantation and on the other three sides there is nothing but
                                    the rolling countryside cropped bare by the far too large herds of cattle and goats of the
                                    Wambulu. I have a lovely lazy time. I still have Kesho-Kutwa and the cook we brought
                                    with us from the farm. They are both faithful and willing souls though not very good at
                                    their respective jobs. As one of these Mbeya boys goes on safari with George whose
                                    job takes him from home for three weeks out of four, I have taken on a local boy to cut
                                    firewood and heat my bath water and generally make himself useful. His name is Saa,
                                    which means ‘Clock’

                                    We had an uneventful but very dusty trip from Oldeani. Johnny Jo travelled in his
                                    pram in the back of the boxbody and got covered in dust but seems none the worst for
                                    it. As the baby now takes up much of my time and Kate was showing signs of
                                    boredom, I have engaged a little African girl to come and play with Kate every morning.
                                    She is the daughter of the head police Askari and a very attractive and dignified little
                                    person she is. Her name is Kajyah. She is scrupulously clean, as all Mohammedan
                                    Africans seem to be. Alas, Kajyah, though beautiful, is a bore. She simply does not
                                    know how to play, so they just wander around hand in hand.

                                    There are only two drawbacks to this little house. Mbulu is a very windy spot so
                                    our little reed house is very draughty. I have made a little tent of sheets in one corner of
                                    the ‘bedroom’ into which I can retire with Johnny when I wish to bathe or sponge him.
                                    The other drawback is that many insects are attracted at night by the lamp and make it
                                    almost impossible to read or sew and they have a revolting habit of falling into the soup.
                                    There are no dangerous wild animals in this area so I am not at all nervous in this
                                    flimsy little house when George is on safari. Most nights hyaenas come around looking
                                    for scraps but our dogs, Fanny and Paddy, soon see them off.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Mbulu. 25th October 1938

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    Great news! a vacancy has occurred in the Game Department. George is to
                                    transfer to it next month. There will be an increase in salary and a brighter prospect for
                                    the future. It will mean a change of scene and I shall be glad of that. We like Mbulu and
                                    the people here but the rains have started and our little reed hut is anything but water
                                    tight.

                                    Before the rain came we had very unpleasant dust storms. I think I told you that
                                    this is a treeless area and the grass which normally covers the veldt has been cropped
                                    to the roots by the hungry native cattle and goats. When the wind blows the dust
                                    collects in tall black columns which sweep across the country in a most spectacular
                                    fashion. One such dust devil struck our hut one day whilst we were at lunch. George
                                    swept Kate up in a second and held her face against his chest whilst I rushed to Johnny
                                    Jo who was asleep in his pram, and stooped over the pram to protect him. The hut
                                    groaned and creaked and clouds of dust blew in through the windows and walls covering
                                    our persons, food, and belongings in a black pall. The dogs food bowls and an empty
                                    petrol tin outside the hut were whirled up and away. It was all over in a moment but you
                                    should have seen what a family of sweeps we looked. George looked at our blackened
                                    Johnny and mimicked in Sister Marianne’s primmest tones, “I find that this is not to be
                                    allowed.”

                                    The first rain storm caught me unprepared when George was away on safari. It
                                    was a terrific thunderstorm. The quite violent thunder and lightening were followed by a
                                    real tropical downpour. As the hut is on a slight slope, the storm water poured through
                                    the hut like a river, covering the entire floor, and the roof leaked like a lawn sprinkler.
                                    Johnny Jo was snug enough in the pram with the hood raised, but Kate and I had a
                                    damp miserable night. Next morning I had deep drains dug around the hut and when
                                    George returned from safari he managed to borrow an enormous tarpaulin which is now
                                    lashed down over the roof.

                                    It did not rain during the next few days George was home but the very next night
                                    we were in trouble again. I was awakened by screams from Kate and hurriedly turned up
                                    the lamp to see that we were in the midst of an invasion of siafu ants. Kate’s bed was
                                    covered in them. Others appeared to be raining down from the thatch. I quickly stripped
                                    Kate and carried her across to my bed, whilst I rushed to the pram to see whether
                                    Johnny Jo was all right. He was fast asleep, bless him, and slept on through all the
                                    commotion, whilst I struggled to pick all the ants out of Kate’s hair, stopping now and
                                    again to attend to my own discomfort. These ants have a painful bite and seem to
                                    choose all the most tender spots. Kate fell asleep eventually but I sat up for the rest of
                                    the night to make sure that the siafu kept clear of the children. Next morning the servants
                                    dispersed them by laying hot ash.

                                    In spite of the dampness of the hut both children are blooming. Kate has rosy
                                    cheeks and Johnny Jo now has a fuzz of fair hair and has lost his ‘old man’ look. He
                                    reminds me of Ann at his age.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Iringa. 30th November 1938

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    Here we are back in the Southern Highlands and installed on the second floor of
                                    another German Fort. This one has been modernised however and though not so
                                    romantic as the Mbulu Fort from the outside, it is much more comfortable.We are all well
                                    and I am really proud of our two safari babies who stood up splendidly to a most trying
                                    journey North from Mbulu to Arusha and then South down the Great North Road to
                                    Iringa where we expect to stay for a month.

                                    At Arusha George reported to the headquarters of the Game Department and
                                    was instructed to come on down here on Rinderpest Control. There is a great flap on in
                                    case the rinderpest spread to Northern Rhodesia and possibly onwards to Southern
                                    Rhodesia and South Africa. Extra veterinary officers have been sent to this area to
                                    inoculate all the cattle against the disease whilst George and his African game Scouts will
                                    comb the bush looking for and destroying diseased game. If the rinderpest spreads,
                                    George says it may be necessary to shoot out all the game in a wide belt along the
                                    border between the Southern Highlands of Tanganyika and Northern Rhodesia, to
                                    prevent the disease spreading South. The very idea of all this destruction sickens us
                                    both.

                                    George left on a foot safari the day after our arrival and I expect I shall be lucky if I
                                    see him occasionally at weekends until this job is over. When rinderpest is under control
                                    George is to be stationed at a place called Nzassa in the Eastern Province about 18
                                    miles from Dar es Salaam. George’s orderly, who is a tall, cheerful Game Scout called
                                    Juma, tells me that he has been stationed at Nzassa and it is a frightful place! However I
                                    refuse to be depressed. I now have the cheering prospect of leave to England in thirty
                                    months time when we will be able to fetch Ann and George and be a proper family
                                    again. Both Ann and George look happy in the snapshots which mother-in-law sends
                                    frequently. Ann is doing very well at school and loves it.

                                    To get back to our journey from Mbulu. It really was quite an experience. It
                                    poured with rain most of the way and the road was very slippery and treacherous the
                                    120 miles between Mbulu and Arusha. This is a little used earth road and the drains are
                                    so blocked with silt as to be practically non existent. As usual we started our move with
                                    the V8 loaded to capacity. I held Johnny on my knee and Kate squeezed in between
                                    George and me. All our goods and chattels were in wooden boxes stowed in the back
                                    and the two houseboys and the two dogs had to adjust themselves to the space that
                                    remained. We soon ran into trouble and it took us all day to travel 47 miles. We stuck
                                    several times in deep mud and had some most nasty skids. I simply clutched Kate in
                                    one hand and Johnny Jo in the other and put my trust in George who never, under any
                                    circumstances, loses his head. Poor Johnny only got his meals when circumstances
                                    permitted. Unfortunately I had put him on a bottle only a few days before we left Mbulu
                                    and, as I was unable to buy either a primus stove or Thermos flask there we had to
                                    make a fire and boil water for each meal. Twice George sat out in the drizzle with a rain
                                    coat rapped over his head to protect a miserable little fire of wet sticks drenched with
                                    paraffin. Whilst we waited for the water to boil I pacified John by letting him suck a cube
                                    of Tate and Lyles sugar held between my rather grubby fingers. Not at all according to
                                    the book.

                                    That night George, the children and I slept in the car having dumped our boxes
                                    and the two servants in a deserted native hut. The rain poured down relentlessly all night
                                    and by morning the road was more of a morass than ever. We swerved and skidded
                                    alarmingly till eventually one of the wheel chains broke and had to be tied together with
                                    string which constantly needed replacing. George was so patient though he was wet
                                    and muddy and tired and both children were very good. Shortly before reaching the Great North Road we came upon Jack Gowan, the Stock Inspector from Mbulu. His car
                                    was bogged down to its axles in black mud. He refused George’s offer of help saying
                                    that he had sent his messenger to a nearby village for help.

                                    I hoped that conditions would be better on the Great North Road but how over
                                    optimistic I was. For miles the road runs through a belt of ‘black cotton soil’. which was
                                    churned up into the consistency of chocolate blancmange by the heavy lorry traffic which
                                    runs between Dodoma and Arusha. Soon the car was skidding more fantastically than
                                    ever. Once it skidded around in a complete semi circle so George decided that it would
                                    be safer for us all to walk whilst he negotiated the very bad patches. You should have
                                    seen me plodding along in the mud and drizzle with the baby in one arm and Kate
                                    clinging to the other. I was terrified of slipping with Johnny. Each time George reached
                                    firm ground he would return on foot to carry Kate and in this way we covered many bad
                                    patches.We were more fortunate than many other travellers. We passed several lorries
                                    ditched on the side of the road and one car load of German men, all elegantly dressed in
                                    lounge suits. One was busy with his camera so will have a record of their plight to laugh
                                    over in the years to come. We spent another night camping on the road and next day
                                    set out on the last lap of the journey. That also was tiresome but much better than the
                                    previous day and we made the haven of the Arusha Hotel before dark. What a picture
                                    we made as we walked through the hall in our mud splattered clothes! Even Johnny was
                                    well splashed with mud but no harm was done and both he and Kate are blooming.
                                    We rested for two days at Arusha and then came South to Iringa. Luckily the sun
                                    came out and though for the first day the road was muddy it was no longer so slippery
                                    and the second day found us driving through parched country and along badly
                                    corrugated roads. The further South we came, the warmer the sun which at times blazed
                                    through the windscreen and made us all uncomfortably hot. I have described the country
                                    between Arusha and Dodoma before so I shan’t do it again. We reached Iringa without
                                    mishap and after a good nights rest all felt full of beans.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Mchewe Estate, Mbeya. 7th January 1939.

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    You will be surprised to note that we are back on the farm! At least the children
                                    and I are here. George is away near the Rhodesian border somewhere, still on
                                    Rinderpest control.

                                    I had a pleasant time at Iringa, lots of invitations to morning tea and Kate had a
                                    wonderful time enjoying the novelty of playing with children of her own age. She is not
                                    shy but nevertheless likes me to be within call if not within sight. It was all very suburban
                                    but pleasant enough. A few days before Christmas George turned up at Iringa and
                                    suggested that, as he would be working in the Mbeya area, it might be a good idea for
                                    the children and me to move to the farm. I agreed enthusiastically, completely forgetting
                                    that after my previous trouble with the leopard I had vowed to myself that I would never
                                    again live alone on the farm.

                                    Alas no sooner had we arrived when Thomas, our farm headman, brought the
                                    news that there were now two leopards terrorising the neighbourhood, and taking dogs,
                                    goats and sheep and chickens. Traps and poisoned bait had been tried in vain and he
                                    was sure that the female was the same leopard which had besieged our home before.
                                    Other leopards said Thomas, came by stealth but this one advertised her whereabouts
                                    in the most brazen manner.

                                    George stayed with us on the farm over Christmas and all was quiet at night so I
                                    cheered up and took the children for walks along the overgrown farm paths. However on
                                    New Years Eve that darned leopard advertised her presence again with the most blood
                                    chilling grunts and snarls. Horrible! Fanny and Paddy barked and growled and woke up
                                    both children. Kate wept and kept saying, “Send it away mummy. I don’t like it.” Johnny
                                    Jo howled in sympathy. What a picnic. So now the whole performance of bodyguards
                                    has started again and ‘till George returns we confine our exercise to the garden.
                                    Our little house is still cosy and sweet but the coffee plantation looks very
                                    neglected. I wish to goodness we could sell it.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Nzassa 14th February 1939.

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    After three months of moving around with two small children it is heavenly to be
                                    settled in our own home, even though Nzassa is an isolated spot and has the reputation
                                    of being unhealthy.

                                    We travelled by car from Mbeya to Dodoma by now a very familiar stretch of
                                    country, but from Dodoma to Dar es Salaam by train which made a nice change. We
                                    spent two nights and a day in the Splendid Hotel in Dar es Salaam, George had some
                                    official visits to make and I did some shopping and we took the children to the beach.
                                    The bay is so sheltered that the sea is as calm as a pond and the water warm. It is
                                    wonderful to see the sea once more and to hear tugs hooting and to watch the Arab
                                    dhows putting out to sea with their oddly shaped sails billowing. I do love the bush, but
                                    I love the sea best of all, as you know.

                                    We made an early start for Nzassa on the 3rd. For about four miles we bowled
                                    along a good road. This brought us to a place called Temeke where George called on
                                    the District Officer. His house appears to be the only European type house there. The
                                    road between Temeke and the turn off to Nzassa is quite good, but the six mile stretch
                                    from the turn off to Nzassa is a very neglected bush road. There is nothing to be seen
                                    but the impenetrable bush on both sides with here and there a patch of swampy
                                    ground where rice is planted in the wet season.

                                    After about six miles of bumpy road we reached Nzassa which is nothing more
                                    than a sandy clearing in the bush. Our house however is a fine one. It was originally built
                                    for the District Officer and there is a small court house which is now George’s office. The
                                    District Officer died of blackwater fever so Nzassa was abandoned as an administrative
                                    station being considered too unhealthy for Administrative Officers but suitable as
                                    Headquarters for a Game Ranger. Later a bachelor Game Ranger was stationed here
                                    but his health also broke down and he has been invalided to England. So now the
                                    healthy Rushbys are here and we don’t mean to let the place get us down. So don’t
                                    worry.

                                    The house consists of three very large and airy rooms with their doors opening
                                    on to a wide front verandah which we shall use as a living room. There is also a wide
                                    back verandah with a store room at one end and a bathroom at the other. Both
                                    verandahs and the end windows of the house are screened my mosquito gauze wire
                                    and further protected by a trellis work of heavy expanded metal. Hasmani, the Game
                                    Scout, who has been acting as caretaker, tells me that the expanded metal is very
                                    necessary because lions often come out of the bush at night and roam around the
                                    house. Such a comforting thought!

                                    On our very first evening we discovered how necessary the mosquito gauze is.
                                    After sunset the air outside is thick with mosquitos from the swamps. About an acre of
                                    land has been cleared around the house. This is a sandy waste because there is no
                                    water laid on here and absolutely nothing grows here except a rather revolting milky
                                    desert bush called ‘Manyara’, and a few acacia trees. A little way from the house there is
                                    a patch of citrus trees, grape fruit, I think, but whether they ever bear fruit I don’t know.
                                    The clearing is bordered on three sides by dense dusty thorn bush which is
                                    ‘lousy with buffalo’ according to George. The open side is the road which leads down to
                                    George’s office and the huts for the Game Scouts. Only Hasmani and George’s orderly
                                    Juma and their wives and families live there, and the other huts provide shelter for the
                                    Game Scouts from the bush who come to Nzassa to collect their pay and for a short
                                    rest. I can see that my daily walk will always be the same, down the road to the huts and
                                    back! However I don’t mind because it is far too hot to take much exercise.

                                    The climate here is really tropical and worse than on the coast because the thick
                                    bush cuts us off from any sea breeze. George says it will be cooler when the rains start
                                    but just now we literally drip all day. Kate wears nothing but a cotton sun suit, and Johnny
                                    a napkin only, but still their little bodies are always moist. I have shorn off all Kate’s lovely
                                    shoulder length curls and got George to cut my hair very short too.

                                    We simply must buy a refrigerator. The butter, and even the cheese we bought
                                    in Dar. simply melted into pools of oil overnight, and all our meat went bad, so we are
                                    living out of tins. However once we get organised I shall be quite happy here. I like this
                                    spacious house and I have good servants. The cook, Hamisi Issa, is a Swahili from Lindi
                                    whom we engaged in Dar es Salaam. He is a very dignified person, and like most
                                    devout Mohammedan Cooks, keeps both his person and the kitchen spotless. I
                                    engaged the house boy here. He is rather a timid little body but is very willing and quite
                                    capable. He has an excessively plain but cheerful wife whom I have taken on as ayah. I
                                    do not really need help with the children but feel I must have a woman around just in
                                    case I go down with malaria when George is away on safari.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Nzassa 28th February 1939.

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    George’s birthday and we had a special tea party this afternoon which the
                                    children much enjoyed. We have our frig now so I am able to make jellies and provide
                                    them with really cool drinks.

                                    Our very first visitor left this morning after spending only one night here. He is Mr
                                    Ionides, the Game Ranger from the Southern Province. He acted as stand in here for a
                                    short while after George’s predecessor left for England on sick leave, and where he has
                                    since died. Mr Ionides returned here to hand over the range and office formally to
                                    George. He seems a strange man and is from all accounts a bit of a hermit. He was at
                                    one time an Officer in the Regular Army but does not look like a soldier, he wears the
                                    most extraordinary clothes but nevertheless contrives to look top-drawer. He was
                                    educated at Rugby and Sandhurst and is, I should say, well read. Ionides told us that he
                                    hated Nzassa, particularly the house which he thinks sinister and says he always slept
                                    down in the office.

                                    The house, or at least one bedroom, seems to have the same effect on Kate.
                                    She has been very nervous at night ever since we arrived. At first the children occupied
                                    the bedroom which is now George’s. One night, soon after our arrival, Kate woke up
                                    screaming to say that ‘something’ had looked at her through the mosquito net. She was
                                    in such a hysterical state that inspite of the heat and discomfort I was obliged to crawl into
                                    her little bed with her and remained there for the rest of the night.

                                    Next night I left a night lamp burning but even so I had to sit by her bed until she
                                    dropped off to sleep. Again I was awakened by ear-splitting screams and this time
                                    found Kate standing rigid on her bed. I lifted her out and carried her to a chair meaning to
                                    comfort her but she screeched louder than ever, “Look Mummy it’s under the bed. It’s
                                    looking at us.” In vain I pointed out that there was nothing at all there. By this time
                                    George had joined us and he carried Kate off to his bed in the other room whilst I got into
                                    Kate’s bed thinking she might have been frightened by a rat which might also disturb
                                    Johnny.

                                    Next morning our houseboy remarked that he had heard Kate screaming in the
                                    night from his room behind the kitchen. I explained what had happened and he must
                                    have told the old Scout Hasmani who waylaid me that afternoon and informed me quite
                                    seriously that that particular room was haunted by a ‘sheitani’ (devil) who hates children.
                                    He told me that whilst he was acting as caretaker before our arrival he one night had his
                                    wife and small daughter in the room to keep him company. He said that his small
                                    daughter woke up and screamed exactly as Kate had done! Silly coincidence I
                                    suppose, but such strange things happen in Africa that I decided to move the children
                                    into our room and George sleeps in solitary state in the haunted room! Kate now sleeps
                                    peacefully once she goes to sleep but I have to stay with her until she does.

                                    I like this house and it does not seem at all sinister to me. As I mentioned before,
                                    the rooms are high ceilinged and airy, and have cool cement floors. We have made one
                                    end of the enclosed verandah into the living room and the other end is the playroom for
                                    the children. The space in between is a sort of no-mans land taken over by the dogs as
                                    their special territory.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Nzassa 25th March 1939.

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    George is on safari down in the Rufigi River area. He is away for about three
                                    weeks in the month on this job. I do hate to see him go and just manage to tick over until
                                    he comes back. But what fun and excitement when he does come home.
                                    Usually he returns after dark by which time the children are in bed and I have
                                    settled down on the verandah with a book. The first warning is usually given by the
                                    dogs, Fanny and her son Paddy. They stir, sit up, look at each other and then go and sit
                                    side by side by the door with their noses practically pressed to the mosquito gauze and
                                    ears pricked. Soon I can hear the hum of the car, and so can Hasmani, the old Game
                                    Scout who sleeps on the back verandah with rifle and ammunition by his side when
                                    George is away. When he hears the car he turns up his lamp and hurries out to rouse
                                    Juma, the houseboy. Juma pokes up the fire and prepares tea which George always
                                    drinks whist a hot meal is being prepared. In the meantime I hurriedly comb my hair and
                                    powder my nose so that when the car stops I am ready to rush out and welcome
                                    George home. The boy and Hasmani and the garden boy appear to help with the
                                    luggage and to greet George and the cook, who always accompanies George on
                                    Safari. The home coming is always a lively time with much shouting of greetings.
                                    ‘Jambo’, and ‘Habari ya safari’, whilst the dogs, beside themselves with excitement,
                                    rush around like lunatics.

                                    As though his return were not happiness enough, George usually collects the
                                    mail on his way home so there is news of Ann and young George and letters from you
                                    and bundles of newspapers and magazines. On the day following his return home,
                                    George has to deal with official mail in the office but if the following day is a weekday we
                                    all, the house servants as well as ourselves, pile into the boxbody and go to Dar es
                                    Salaam. To us this means a mornings shopping followed by an afternoon on the beach.
                                    It is a bit cooler now that the rains are on but still very humid. Kate keeps chubby
                                    and rosy in spite of the climate but Johnny is too pale though sturdy enough. He is such
                                    a good baby which is just as well because Kate is a very demanding little girl though
                                    sunny tempered and sweet. I appreciate her company very much when George is
                                    away because we are so far off the beaten track that no one ever calls.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Nzassa 28th April 1939.

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    You all seem to wonder how I can stand the loneliness and monotony of living at
                                    Nzassa when George is on safari, but really and truly I do not mind. Hamisi the cook
                                    always goes on safari with George and then the houseboy Juma takes over the cooking
                                    and I do the lighter housework. the children are great company during the day, and when
                                    they are settled for the night I sit on the verandah and read or write letters or I just dream.
                                    The verandah is entirely enclosed with both wire mosquito gauze and a trellis
                                    work of heavy expanded metal, so I am safe from all intruders be they human, animal, or
                                    insect. Outside the air is alive with mosquitos and the cicadas keep up their monotonous
                                    singing all night long. My only companions on the verandah are the pale ghecco lizards
                                    on the wall and the two dogs. Fanny the white bull terrier, lies always near my feet
                                    dozing happily, but her son Paddy, who is half Airedale has a less phlegmatic
                                    disposition. He sits alert and on guard by the metal trellis work door. Often a lion grunts
                                    from the surrounding bush and then his hackles rise and he stands up stiffly with his nose
                                    pressed to the door. Old Hasmani from his bedroll on the back verandah, gives a little
                                    cough just to show he is awake. Sometimes the lions are very close and then I hear the
                                    click of a rifle bolt as Hasmani loads his rifle – but this is usually much later at night when
                                    the lights are out. One morning I saw large pug marks between the wall of my bedroom
                                    and the garage but I do not fear lions like I did that beastly leopard on the farm.
                                    A great deal of witchcraft is still practiced in the bush villages in the
                                    neighbourhood. I must tell you about old Hasmani’s baby in connection with this. Last
                                    week Hasmani came to me in great distress to say that his baby was ‘Ngongwa sana ‘
                                    (very ill) and he thought it would die. I hurried down to the Game Scouts quarters to see
                                    whether I could do anything for the child and found the mother squatting in the sun
                                    outside her hut with the baby on her lap. The mother was a young woman but not an
                                    attractive one. She appeared sullen and indifferent compared with old Hasmani who
                                    was very distressed. The child was very feverish and breathing with difficulty and
                                    seemed to me to be suffering from bronchitis if not pneumonia. I rubbed his back and
                                    chest with camphorated oil and dosed him with aspirin and liquid quinine. I repeated the
                                    treatment every four hours, but next day there was no apparent improvement.
                                    In the afternoon Hasmani begged me to give him that night off duty and asked for
                                    a loan of ten shillings. He explained to me that it seemed to him that the white man’s
                                    medicine had failed to cure his child and now he wished to take the child to the local witch
                                    doctor. “For ten shillings” said Hasmani, “the Maganga will drive the devil out of my
                                    child.” “How?” asked I. “With drums”, said Hasmani confidently. I did not know what to
                                    do. I thought the child was too ill to be exposed to the night air, yet I knew that if I
                                    refused his request and the child were to die, Hasmani and all the other locals would hold
                                    me responsible. I very reluctantly granted his request. I was so troubled by the matter
                                    that I sent for George’s office clerk. Daniel, and asked him to accompany Hasmani to the
                                    ceremony and to report to me the next morning. It started to rain after dark and all night
                                    long I lay awake in bed listening to the drums and the light rain. Next morning when I
                                    went out to the kitchen to order breakfast I found a beaming Hasmani awaiting me.
                                    “Memsahib”, he said. “My child is well, the fever is now quite gone, the Maganga drove
                                    out the devil just as I told you.” Believe it or not, when I hurried to his quarters after
                                    breakfast I found the mother suckling a perfectly healthy child! It may be my imagination
                                    but I thought the mother looked pretty smug.The clerk Daniel told me that after Hasmani
                                    had presented gifts of money and food to the ‘Maganga’, the naked baby was placed
                                    on a goat skin near the drums. Most of the time he just lay there but sometimes the witch
                                    doctor picked him up and danced with the child in his arms. Daniel seemed reluctant to
                                    talk about it. Whatever mumbo jumbo was used all this happened a week ago and the
                                    baby has never looked back.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Nzassa 3rd July 1939.

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    Did I tell you that one of George’s Game Scouts was murdered last month in the
                                    Maneromango area towards the Rufigi border. He was on routine patrol, with a porter
                                    carrying his bedding and food, when they suddenly came across a group of African
                                    hunters who were busy cutting up a giraffe which they had just killed. These hunters were
                                    all armed with muzzle loaders, spears and pangas, but as it is illegal to kill giraffe without
                                    a permit, the Scout went up to the group to take their names. Some argument ensued
                                    and the Scout was stabbed.

                                    The District Officer went to the area to investigate and decided to call in the Police
                                    from Dar es Salaam. A party of police went out to search for the murderers but after
                                    some days returned without making any arrests. George was on an elephant control
                                    safari in the Bagamoyo District and on his return through Dar es Salaam he heard of the
                                    murder. George was furious and distressed to hear the news and called in here for an
                                    hour on his way to Maneromango to search for the murderers himself.

                                    After a great deal of strenuous investigation he arrested three poachers, put them
                                    in jail for the night at Maneromango and then brought them to Dar es Salaam where they
                                    are all now behind bars. George will now have to prosecute in the Magistrate’s Court
                                    and try and ‘make a case’ so that the prisoners may be committed to the High Court to
                                    be tried for murder. George is convinced of their guilt and justifiably proud to have
                                    succeeded where the police failed.

                                    George had to borrow handcuffs for the prisoners from the Chief at
                                    Maneromango and these he brought back to Nzassa after delivering the prisoners to
                                    Dar es Salaam so that he may return them to the Chief when he revisits the area next
                                    week.

                                    I had not seen handcuffs before and picked up a pair to examine them. I said to
                                    George, engrossed in ‘The Times’, “I bet if you were arrested they’d never get
                                    handcuffs on your wrist. Not these anyway, they look too small.” “Standard pattern,”
                                    said George still concentrating on the newspaper, but extending an enormous relaxed
                                    left wrist. So, my dears, I put a bracelet round his wrist and as there was a wide gap I
                                    gave a hard squeeze with both hands. There was a sharp click as the handcuff engaged
                                    in the first notch. George dropped the paper and said, “Now you’ve done it, my love,
                                    one set of keys are in the Dar es Salaam Police Station, and the others with the Chief at
                                    Maneromango.” You can imagine how utterly silly I felt but George was an angel about it
                                    and said as he would have to go to Dar es Salaam we might as well all go.

                                    So we all piled into the car, George, the children and I in the front, and the cook
                                    and houseboy, immaculate in snowy khanzus and embroidered white caps, a Game
                                    Scout and the ayah in the back. George never once complain of the discomfort of the
                                    handcuff but I was uncomfortably aware that it was much too tight because his arm
                                    above the cuff looked red and swollen and the hand unnaturally pale. As the road is so
                                    bad George had to use both hands on the wheel and all the time the dangling handcuff
                                    clanked against the dashboard in an accusing way.

                                    We drove straight to the Police Station and I could hear the roars of laughter as
                                    George explained his predicament. Later I had to put up with a good deal of chaffing
                                    and congratulations upon putting the handcuffs on George.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Nzassa 5th August 1939

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    George made a point of being here for Kate’s fourth birthday last week. Just
                                    because our children have no playmates George and I always do all we can to make
                                    birthdays very special occasions. We went to Dar es Salaam the day before the
                                    birthday and bought Kate a very sturdy tricycle with which she is absolutely delighted.
                                    You will be glad to know that your parcels arrived just in time and Kate loved all your
                                    gifts especially the little shop from Dad with all the miniature tins and packets of
                                    groceries. The tea set was also a great success and is much in use.

                                    We had a lively party which ended with George and me singing ‘Happy
                                    Birthday to you’, and ended with a wild game with balloons. Kate wore her frilly white net
                                    party frock and looked so pretty that it seemed a shame that there was no one but us to
                                    see her. Anyway it was a good party. I wish so much that you could see the children.
                                    Kate keeps rosy and has not yet had malaria. Johnny Jo is sturdy but pale. He
                                    runs a temperature now and again but I am not sure whether this is due to teething or
                                    malaria. Both children of course take quinine every day as George and I do. George
                                    quite frequently has malaria in spite of prophylactic quinine but this is not surprising as he
                                    got the germ thoroughly established in his system in his early elephant hunting days. I
                                    get it too occasionally but have not been really ill since that first time a month after my
                                    arrival in the country.

                                    Johnny is such a good baby. His chief claim to beauty is his head of soft golden
                                    curls but these are due to come off on his first birthday as George considers them too
                                    girlish. George left on safari the day after the party and the very next morning our wood
                                    boy had a most unfortunate accident. He was chopping a rather tough log when a chip
                                    flew up and split his upper lip clean through from mouth to nostril exposing teeth and
                                    gums. A truly horrible sight and very bloody. I cleaned up the wound as best I could
                                    and sent him off to the hospital at Dar es Salaam on the office bicycle. He wobbled
                                    away wretchedly down the road with a white cloth tied over his mouth to keep off the
                                    dust. He returned next day with his lip stitched and very swollen and bearing a
                                    resemblance to my lip that time I used the hair remover.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Splendid Hotel. Dar es Salaam 7th September 1939

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    So now another war has started and it has disrupted even our lives. We have left
                                    Nzassa for good. George is now a Lieutenant in the King’s African Rifles and the children
                                    and I are to go to a place called Morogoro to await further developments.
                                    I was glad to read in today’s paper that South Africa has declared war on
                                    Germany. I would have felt pretty small otherwise in this hotel which is crammed full of
                                    men who have been called up for service in the Army. George seems exhilarated by
                                    the prospect of active service. He is bursting out of his uniform ( at the shoulders only!)
                                    and all too ready for the fray.

                                    The war came as a complete surprise to me stuck out in the bush as I was without
                                    wireless or mail. George had been away for a fortnight so you can imagine how
                                    surprised I was when a messenger arrived on a bicycle with a note from George. The
                                    note informed me that war had been declared and that George, as a Reserve Officer in
                                    the KAR had been called up. I was to start packing immediately and be ready by noon
                                    next day when George would arrive with a lorry for our goods and chattels. I started to
                                    pack immediately with the help of the houseboy and by the time George arrived with
                                    the lorry only the frig remained to be packed and this was soon done.

                                    Throughout the morning Game Scouts had been arriving from outlying parts of
                                    the District. I don’t think they had the least idea where they were supposed to go or
                                    whom they were to fight but were ready to fight anybody, anywhere, with George.
                                    They all looked very smart in well pressed uniforms hung about with water bottles and
                                    ammunition pouches. The large buffalo badge on their round pill box hats absolutely
                                    glittered with polish. All of course carried rifles and when George arrived they all lined up
                                    and they looked most impressive. I took some snaps but unfortunately it was drizzling
                                    and they may not come out well.

                                    We left Nzassa without a backward glance. We were pretty fed up with it by
                                    then. The children and I are spending a few days here with George but our luggage, the
                                    dogs, and the houseboys have already left by train for Morogoro where a small house
                                    has been found for the children and me.

                                    George tells me that all the German males in this Territory were interned without a
                                    hitch. The whole affair must have been very well organised. In every town and
                                    settlement special constables were sworn in to do the job. It must have been a rather
                                    unpleasant one but seems to have gone without incident. There is a big transit camp
                                    here at Dar for the German men. Later they are to be sent out of the country, possibly to
                                    Rhodesia.

                                    The Indian tailors in the town are all terribly busy making Army uniforms, shorts
                                    and tunics in khaki drill. George swears that they have muddled their orders and he has
                                    been given the wrong things. Certainly the tunic is far too tight. His hat, a khaki slouch hat
                                    like you saw the Australians wearing in the last war, is also too small though it is the
                                    largest they have in stock. We had a laugh over his other equipment which includes a
                                    small canvas haversack and a whistle on a black cord. George says he feels like he is
                                    back in his Boy Scouting boyhood.

                                    George has just come in to say the we will be leaving for Morogoro tomorrow
                                    afternoon.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Morogoro 14th September 1939

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    Morogoro is a complete change from Nzassa. This is a large and sprawling
                                    township. The native town and all the shops are down on the flat land by the railway but
                                    all the European houses are away up the slope of the high Uluguru Mountains.
                                    Morogoro was a flourishing town in the German days and all the streets are lined with
                                    trees for coolness as is the case in other German towns. These trees are the flamboyant
                                    acacia which has an umbrella top and throws a wide but light shade.

                                    Most of the houses have large gardens so they cover a considerable area and it
                                    is quite a safari for me to visit friends on foot as our house is on the edge of this area and
                                    the furthest away from the town. Here ones house is in accordance with ones seniority in
                                    Government service. Ours is a simple affair, just three lofty square rooms opening on to
                                    a wide enclosed verandah. Mosquitoes are bad here so all doors and windows are
                                    screened and we will have to carry on with our daily doses of quinine.

                                    George came up to Morogoro with us on the train. This was fortunate because I
                                    went down with a sharp attack of malaria at the hotel on the afternoon of our departure
                                    from Dar es Salaam. George’s drastic cure of vast doses of quinine, a pillow over my
                                    head, and the bed heaped with blankets soon brought down the temperature so I was
                                    fit enough to board the train but felt pretty poorly on the trip. However next day I felt
                                    much better which was a good thing as George had to return to Dar es Salaam after two
                                    days. His train left late at night so I did not see him off but said good-bye at home
                                    feeling dreadful but trying to keep the traditional stiff upper lip of the wife seeing her
                                    husband off to the wars. He hopes to go off to Abyssinia but wrote from Dar es Salaam
                                    to say that he is being sent down to Rhodesia by road via Mbeya to escort the first
                                    detachment of Rhodesian white troops.

                                    First he will have to select suitable camping sites for night stops and arrange for
                                    supplies of food. I am very pleased as it means he will be safe for a while anyway. We
                                    are both worried about Ann and George in England and wonder if it would be safer to
                                    have them sent out.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Morogoro 4th November 1939

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    My big news is that George has been released from the Army. He is very
                                    indignant and disappointed because he hoped to go to Abyssinia but I am terribly,
                                    terribly glad. The Chief Secretary wrote a very nice letter to George pointing out that he
                                    would be doing a greater service to his country by his work of elephant control, giving
                                    crop protection during the war years when foodstuffs are such a vital necessity, than by
                                    doing a soldiers job. The Government plan to start a huge rice scheme in the Rufiji area,
                                    and want George to control the elephant and hippo there. First of all though. he must go
                                    to the Southern Highlands Province where there is another outbreak of Rinderpest, to
                                    shoot out diseased game especially buffalo, which might spread the disease.

                                    So off we go again on our travels but this time we are leaving the two dogs
                                    behind in the care of Daniel, the Game Clerk. Fanny is very pregnant and I hate leaving
                                    her behind but the clerk has promised to look after her well. We are taking Hamisi, our
                                    dignified Swahili cook and the houseboy Juma and his wife whom we brought with us
                                    from Nzassa. The boy is not very good but his wife makes a cheerful and placid ayah
                                    and adores Johnny.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Iringa 8th December 1939

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    The children and I are staying in a small German house leased from the
                                    Custodian of Enemy Property. I can’t help feeling sorry for the owners who must be in
                                    concentration camps somewhere.George is away in the bush dealing with the
                                    Rinderpest emergency and the cook has gone with him. Now I have sent the houseboy
                                    and the ayah away too. Two days ago my houseboy came and told me that he felt
                                    very ill and asked me to write a ‘chit’ to the Indian Doctor. In the note I asked the Doctor
                                    to let me know the nature of his complaint and to my horror I got a note from him to say
                                    that the houseboy had a bad case of Venereal Disease. Was I horrified! I took it for
                                    granted that his wife must be infected too and told them both that they would have to
                                    return to their home in Nzassa. The boy shouted and the ayah wept but I paid them in
                                    lieu of notice and gave them money for the journey home. So there I was left servant
                                    less with firewood to chop, a smokey wood burning stove to control, and of course, the
                                    two children.

                                    To add to my troubles Johnny had a temperature so I sent for the European
                                    Doctor. He diagnosed malaria and was astonished at the size of Johnny’s spleen. He
                                    said that he must have had suppressed malaria over a long period and the poor child
                                    must now be fed maximum doses of quinine for a long time. The Doctor is a fatherly
                                    soul, he has been recalled from retirement to do this job as so many of the young
                                    doctors have been called up for service with the army.

                                    I told him about my houseboy’s complaint and the way I had sent him off
                                    immediately, and he was very amused at my haste, saying that it is most unlikely that
                                    they would have passed the disease onto their employers. Anyway I hated the idea. I
                                    mean to engage a houseboy locally, but will do without an ayah until we return to
                                    Morogoro in February.

                                    Something happened today to cheer me up. A telegram came from Daniel which
                                    read, “FLANNEL HAS FIVE CUBS.”

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Morogoro 10th March 1940

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    We are having very heavy rain and the countryside is a most beautiful green. In
                                    spite of the weather George is away on safari though it must be very wet and
                                    unpleasant. He does work so hard at his elephant hunting job and has got very thin. I
                                    suppose this is partly due to those stomach pains he gets and the doctors don’t seem
                                    to diagnose the trouble.

                                    Living in Morogoro is much like living in a country town in South Africa, particularly
                                    as there are several South African women here. I go out quite often to morning teas. We
                                    all take our war effort knitting, and natter, and are completely suburban.
                                    I sometimes go and see an elderly couple who have been interred here. They
                                    are cold shouldered by almost everyone else but I cannot help feeling sorry for them.
                                    Usually I go by invitation because I know Mrs Ruppel prefers to be prepared and
                                    always has sandwiches and cake. They both speak English but not fluently and
                                    conversation is confined to talking about my children and theirs. Their two sons were
                                    students in Germany when war broke out but are now of course in the German Army.
                                    Such nice looking chaps from their photographs but I suppose thorough Nazis. As our
                                    conversation is limited I usually ask to hear a gramophone record or two. They have a
                                    large collection.

                                    Janet, the ayah whom I engaged at Mbeya, is proving a great treasure. She is a
                                    trained hospital ayah and is most dependable and capable. She is, perhaps, a little strict
                                    but the great thing is that I can trust her with the children out of my sight.
                                    Last week I went out at night for the first time without George. The occasion was
                                    a farewell sundowner given by the Commissioner of Prisoners and his wife. I was driven
                                    home by the District Officer and he stopped his car by the back door in a large puddle.
                                    Ayah came to the back door, storm lamp in hand, to greet me. My escort prepared to
                                    drive off but the car stuck. I thought a push from me might help, so without informing the
                                    driver, I pushed as hard as I could on the back of the car. Unfortunately the driver
                                    decided on other tactics. He put the engine in reverse and I was knocked flat on my back
                                    in the puddle. The car drove forward and away without the driver having the least idea of
                                    what happened. The ayah was in quite a state, lifting me up and scolding me for my
                                    stupidity as though I were Kate. I was a bit shaken but non the worse and will know
                                    better next time.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Morogoro 14th July 1940

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    How good it was of Dad to send that cable to Mother offering to have Ann and
                                    George to live with you if they are accepted for inclusion in the list of children to be
                                    evacuated to South Africa. It would be wonderful to know that they are safely out of the
                                    war zone and so much nearer to us but I do dread the thought of the long sea voyage
                                    particularly since we heard the news of the sinking of that liner carrying child evacuees to
                                    Canada. I worry about them so much particularly as George is so often away on safari.
                                    He is so comforting and calm and I feel brave and confident when he is home.
                                    We have had no news from England for five weeks but, when she last wrote,
                                    mother said the children were very well and that she was sure they would be safe in the
                                    country with her.

                                    Kate and John are growing fast. Kate is such a pretty little girl, rosy in spite of the
                                    rather trying climate. I have allowed her hair to grow again and it hangs on her shoulders
                                    in shiny waves. John is a more slightly built little boy than young George was, and quite
                                    different in looks. He has Dad’s high forehead and cleft chin, widely spaced brown eyes
                                    that are not so dark as mine and hair that is still fair and curly though ayah likes to smooth it
                                    down with water every time she dresses him. He is a shy child, and although he plays
                                    happily with Kate, he does not care to play with other children who go in the late
                                    afternoons to a lawn by the old German ‘boma’.

                                    Kate has playmates of her own age but still rather clings to me. Whilst she loves
                                    to have friends here to play with her, she will not go to play at their houses unless I go
                                    too and stay. She always insists on accompanying me when I go out to morning tea
                                    and always calls Janet “John’s ayah”. One morning I went to a knitting session at a
                                    neighbours house. We are all knitting madly for the troops. As there were several other
                                    women in the lounge and no other children, I installed Kate in the dining room with a
                                    colouring book and crayons. My hostess’ black dog was chained to the dining room
                                    table leg, but as he and Kate are on friendly terms I was not bothered by this.
                                    Some time afterwards, during a lull in conversation, I heard a strange drumming
                                    noise coming from the dining room. I went quickly to investigate and, to my horror, found
                                    Kate lying on her back with the dog chain looped around her neck. The frightened dog
                                    was straining away from her as far as he could get and the chain was pulled so tightly
                                    around her throat that she could not scream. The drumming noise came from her heels
                                    kicking in a panic on the carpet.

                                    Even now I do not know how Kate got herself into this predicament. Luckily no
                                    great harm was done but I think I shall do my knitting at home in future.

                                    Eleanor.

                                    Morogoro 16th November 1940

                                    Dearest Family,

                                    I much prefer our little house on the hillside to the larger one we had down below.
                                    The only disadvantage is that the garden is on three levels and both children have had
                                    some tumbles down the steps on the tricycle. John is an extremely stoical child. He
                                    never cries when he hurts himself.

                                    I think I have mentioned ‘Morningside’ before. It is a kind of Resthouse high up in
                                    the Uluguru Mountains above Morogoro. Jess Howe-Browne, who runs the large
                                    house as a Guest House, is a wonderful woman. Besides running the boarding house
                                    she also grows vegetables, flowers and fruit for sale in Morogoro and Dar es Salaam.
                                    Her guests are usually women and children from Dar es Salaam who come in the hot
                                    season to escape the humidity on the coast. Often the mothers leave their children for
                                    long periods in Jess Howe-Browne’s care. There is a road of sorts up the mountain side
                                    to Morningside, but this is so bad that cars do not attempt it and guests are carried up
                                    the mountain in wicker chairs lashed to poles. Four men carry an adult, and two a child,
                                    and there are of course always spare bearers and they work in shifts.

                                    Last week the children and I went to Morningside for the day as guests. John
                                    rode on my lap in one chair and Kate in a small chair on her own. This did not please
                                    Kate at all. The poles are carried on the bearers shoulders and one is perched quite high.
                                    The motion is a peculiar rocking one. The bearers chant as they go and do not seem
                                    worried by shortness of breath! They are all hillmen of course and are, I suppose, used
                                    to trotting up and down to the town.

                                    Morningside is well worth visiting and we spent a delightful day there. The fresh
                                    cool air is a great change from the heavy air of the valley. A river rushes down the
                                    mountain in a series of cascades, and the gardens are shady and beautiful. Behind the
                                    property is a thick indigenous forest which stretches from Morningside to the top of the
                                    mountain. The house is an old German one, rather in need of repair, but Jess has made
                                    it comfortable and attractive, with some of her old family treasures including a fine old
                                    Grandfather clock. We had a wonderful lunch which included large fresh strawberries and
                                    cream. We made the return journey again in the basket chairs and got home before dark.
                                    George returned home at the weekend with a baby elephant whom we have
                                    called Winnie. She was rescued from a mud hole by some African villagers and, as her
                                    mother had abandoned her, they took her home and George was informed. He went in
                                    the truck to fetch her having first made arrangements to have her housed in a shed on the
                                    Agriculture Department Experimental Farm here. He has written to the Game Dept
                                    Headquarters to inform the Game Warden and I do not know what her future will be, but
                                    in the meantime she is our pet. George is afraid she will not survive because she has
                                    had a very trying time. She stands about waist high and is a delightful creature and quite
                                    docile. Asian and African children as well as Europeans gather to watch her and George
                                    encourages them to bring fruit for her – especially pawpaws which she loves.
                                    Whilst we were there yesterday one of the local ladies came, very smartly
                                    dressed in a linen frock, silk stockings, and high heeled shoes. She watched fascinated
                                    whilst Winnie neatly split a pawpaw and removed the seeds with her trunk, before
                                    scooping out the pulp and putting it in her mouth. It was a particularly nice ripe pawpaw
                                    and Winnie enjoyed it so much that she stretched out her trunk for more. The lady took
                                    fright and started to run with Winnie after her, sticky trunk outstretched. Quite an
                                    entertaining sight. George managed to stop Winnie but not before she had left a gooey
                                    smear down the back of the immaculate frock.

                                    Eleanor.

                                     

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