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  • #7326

    Jeezel pushed open the door of her favourite florist The Enchanted Garden. The clear sound of wind chimes welcomed her. An ever changing melody atuned to earth and water. Flucinda was at the counter serving another client.  She might not be of the flamboyant kind but she knew her way with flowers. Her shop was a botanical wonderland, a cornucopia of color and fragrance that would make Mother Nature herself green with envy. The witch took a moment to breath in. It helped her relax a little.

    Jeezel! How are you dear?” asked Flucinda as the client left with his arms full of red roses. “You’re glowing as always.”

    The witch blushed just a little at the compliment. Flucinda’s dark brown eyes were as sharp as those of a silent observation assassin. They darted swiflty over Jeezel’s silhouette, taking mental notes, absorbing the energy, the secrets, the silent dialogues.

    “What do you need today?” she asked.

    “Petals of a white rose, lavender buds and mint. And a few other things.” She said, handing the florist a list.

    “Why don’t you wait in the heart of the Enchanted Garden while I’m preparing all that for you. Water is boiled, I’ll bring you some freshly brewed herbal tea.”

    Jeezel felt grateful to her friend. She sat on an ornate stone bench and enjoyed the soft serenade of trickling water from a sparkling fountain and the symphony of scents — delicate jasmine, heady rose, spicy carnation and a hint of sweet lily. It helped sooth her anxiety. She had received a request on Sponsoreons by one of her fans and loyal customer. Apparently the last full moon had pulled the thread on the tightly knit sweater of camaraderie at this poor soul’s job. There appeared to be more drama in that workplace than at at drag queen bingo night when the last sequin-studded handbag is on the line, and the usual symphony of productivity has turned into a cacophony of cattiness and pettiness. Even the smallest of issues were being blown up like a lip injection gone rogue!

    She had the perfect spell for it: Concordia. Used to bring harmony and peace, smoothing over the ruffled feathers and frayed edges. It was the divine choice for that case. However, such a potent spell was not to be taken lightly. If it was not crafted with precision, intent and a touch of flair, things could go haywire faster than a wig snatch in a lip-synch battle.

    “Here you go,” said Flucinda as she put the silver tray on a smooth rock at the edge of the fountain.

    “Wow! It’s fabulous,” said Jeezel.

    The teapot was a glamour, as opulent as a bejewelled crown. The steam rising from its beak carried whispers of secrets and spells, bringing out memories of rumours swirling around a backstage pageant. It was in another life.

    “Do I smell chamomile, lavender and valerian root?”

    “Yes.”

    Flucinda poured generously the yellow brew into an intricately carved white porcelain cup. Then added in a smidgeon of honey.

    “I know you like it sweet,” she said to the witch before adding a sprinkle of edible silver stars. “Take the time you need. Everything will be at the counter when you’re ready to go.”

    “Thanks Flucinda,” said Jeezel with a smile.

    She took a first sip. It felt like a warm hug in a cup from a dear friend who knows just what you need. And she noticed  a secret ingredient: a twist of lemon balm that gave the brew a citrusy zing. With every following sip, Jeezel felt the anxiety melting away like last season’s contour, leaving her ready to face the spellcasting with vigor and vim.

    #6790

    In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage

    Star and Tara were seating at their usual table in the Star Frites Alliance Café, sipping their coffee and reflecting on the strange case of the wardrobe. They had managed to find Uncle Basil, and Vince had been able to change his will just in time. They had also discovered that the wardrobe was being used to smuggle illegal drugs, which they promptly reported to the authorities.

    As they sat there, they saw Finton, the waitress from the café where they last met Vince French, walking towards them with a big smile on her face. “Hello there, ladies! I just wanted to thank you for helping Vince find his uncle. He’s been so much happier since then.”

    “It was all in a day’s work,” said Star with a grin. “And we also managed to solve the mystery of the wardrobe.”  she couldn’t help boasting.

    “Did we now?” Tara raised an eyebrow.

    Finton’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh my! That’s quite the accomplishment. What did you find?”

    “It was being used to smuggle drugs,” explained Star. “We reported it to the authorities.”

    “Well, I never! You two are quite the detectives,” said Finton, impressed.

    “Sure, we could be proud, but there are more mysteries calling for our help. Now if you don’t mind, Finton, we have important business to talk about.” Star said.

    “And it’s rather hush-hush.” Tara added, to clue in the poor waitress.

    Star’s knack for finding clues in all the wrong places, and Tara’s slight nudges towards the path of logical deduction and reason had made them quite famous now around the corner. Well, slightly more famous than before, meaning they were featured in a tiny article in the local neswpaper, page 8, near the weekly crosswords. But somehow, that they’d accomplished their missions did advocate in their favour. And new clients had been pouring in.

    “Do we have a new case you haven’t told me about?” wondered Tara.

    “Nah.” retorted Star. “Just wanted to get rid of the nosy brat and enjoy my coffee while it’s hot. I hate tepid coffee. Tastes like cat piss.”

    “How would you know… Never mind…” Tara replied distractedly as handsome and well-dressed man approached their table. “Excuse me, are you Star and Tara, the private investigators?”

    “Well, as a matter of fact, we are,” said Star, propping her goods forward, and batting a few eyelids. “Who’s asking?”

    “My name is Thomas, and I have a rather unusual case for you.”

    Tara pushed Star to the back of the cushioned banquet bench to make room for the easy on the eyes stranger, while Star repressed a Oof and a fookoof..

    “It involves a missing pineapple.” Thomas said after taking the offered seat.

    “A missing pineapple?” repeated Star incredulously.

    Tara had an irrepressible fit of titter “So long as it’s not for a pizza…”

    “Yes, you see, I am a collector of exotic fruits, and I had a rare pineapple in my collection that has gone missing. It’s worth quite a lot of money, and I can’t seem to find it anywhere.”

    Star and Tara exchanged a look. They were both thinking the same thing. Was “exotic fruit” code for something else? Otherwise, this was not even remotely bizarre by their standard, and they’d seen some strange cases already.

    “We’ll have to think over it.” for once Star didn’t want to sound too eager. “Do you have any leads?” asked Tara.

    “Well, I did hear a rumor that it was spotted in the hands of a local street performer, but I can’t be sure.”

    “Alright, we’ll consider it,” said Star decisively. She fumbled into her hairy bag —some smart upcycling made by Rosamund with the old patchy mink coats. She handed a torn namecard to the young Thomas. “We’ll call you.”

    Thomas looked at her surprised. “Do you mean, should I write my number?”

    Tara rolled her eyes and sighed. “Obvie.” Somehow the good-looking ones didn’t seem to be the brightest tools in the picnic box.

    “But first, we need to finish our coffee.” She took a long sip and grinned at Tara. “Looks like we may have another mysterman on our hands.”

    #6615

    In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

    Like ships in the night, Zara and Yasmin still hadn’t met up with Xavier and Youssef at the inn. Yasmin was tired from traveling and retired to her room to catch up on some sleep, despite Zara’s hopes that they’d have a glass of wine or two and discuss whatever it was that was on Yasmins mind.  Zara decided to catch up on her game.

    The next quirk was “unleash your hidden rudeness” which gave Zara pause to consider how hidden her rudeness actually was.  But wait, it was the avatar Zara, not herself. Or was it?   Zara rearranged the pillows and settled herself on the bed.

    Zara found her game self in the bustling streets of a medieval market town, visually an improvement on the previous game level of the mines, which pleased her, with many colourful characters and intriguing alleyways and street market vendors.

    Madieval market

    She quickly forgot what her quest was and set off wandering around the scene.  Each alley led to a little square and each square had gaily coloured carts of wares for sale, and an abundance of grinning jesters and jugglers. Although tempted to linger and join the onlookers jeering and goading the jugglers and artistes that she encountered, Zara continued her ramble around the scene.

    She came to a gathering outside an old market hall, where two particularly raucous jesters were trying to tempt the onlookers into partaking of what appeared to be cups of tea.  Zara wondered what the joke was and why nobody in the crowd was willing to try.  She inched closer, attracting the attention of the odd grinning fellow in the orange head piece.

    Jesters with cups

     

    “Come hither, ye fine wench in thy uncomely scant garments, I know what thou seekest! Pray, sit thee down beside me and partake of my remedy.”

    “Who, me?” asked Zara, looking behind her to make sure he wasn’t talking to someone else.

    “Thoust in dire need of my elixir, come ye hither!”

    Somewhat reluctantly Zara stepped towards the odd figure who was offering to hand her a cup.  She considered the inadvisability of drinking something that everyone else was refusing, but what the hell, she took the cup and saucer off him and took a hesitant sip.

    The crowd roared with laughter and there was much mirthful thigh slapping when Zara spit the foul tasting concoction all over the jesters shoes.

    “Believe me dame,” quoth the Jester, “I perceive proffered ware is worse by ten in the hundred than that which is sought. But I pray ye, tell me thy quest.”

    “My quest is none of your business, and your tea sucks, mister,” Zara replied. “But I like the cup.”

    Pushing past the still laughing onlookers and clutching the cup, Zara spotted a tavern on the opposite side of the square and made her way towards it.   A tankard of ale was what she needed to get rid of the foul taste lingering in her mouth.

    jesters cup tavern

     

    The inside of the tavern was as much a madhouse as the streets outside it. What was everyone laughing at? Zara found a place to sit on a bench beside a long wooden table. She sat patiently waiting to be served, trying to eavesdrop to decipher the cause of such merriment, but the snatches of conversation made no sense to her. The jollity was contagious, and before long Zara was laughing along with the others.  A strange child sat down on the opposite bench (she seemed familiar somehow) and Zara couldn’t help remarking, “You lot are as mad as a box of frogs, are you all on drugs or something?” which provoked further hoots of laughter, thigh slapping and table thumping.

    tavern girl

     

    “Ye be an ungodly rude maid, and ye’ll not get a tankard of ale while thoust leavest thy cup of elixir untasted yet,” the child said with a smirk.

    “And you are an impertinent child,” Zara replied, considering the potential benefits of drinking the remainder of the concoction if it would hasten the arrival of the tankard of ale she was now craving.  She gritted her teeth and picked up the cup.

    But the design on the cup had changed, and now bore a strange resemblance to Xavier.  Not only that, the cup was calling her name in Xavier’s voice, and the table thumping got louder.

    Xavi cup

     

    Zara!” Xavier was knocking on her bedroom door. “Zara!  We’re going for a beer in the local tavern, are you coming?”

    “Xavi!”  Zara snapped back to reality, “Yes! I’m bloody parched.”

    #6552

    In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

    When Xavier woke up, the sun was already shining, its rays darting in pulsating waves throughout the land, blinding him. The room was already heating up, making the air difficult to breathe.

    He’d heard the maid rummaging in the neighbouring rooms for some time now, which had roused him from sleep. He couldn’t recall seeing any “DO NOT DISTURB” sign on the doorknob, so staying in bed was only delaying the inevitable barging in of the lady who was now vacuuming vigorously in the corridor.

    Feeling a bit dull from the restless sleep, he quickly rose from the bed and put on his clothes.

    Once out of his room, he smiled at the cleaning lady (who seemed to be the same as the cooking lady), who harumphed back as a sort of greeting. Arriving in the kitchen, he wondered whether it was probably too late for breakfast —until he noticed the figure of the owner, who was quietly watching him through half-closed eyes in her rocking chair.

    Idle should have left some bread, butter and jam to eat if you’re hungry. It’s too late for bacon and sausages. You can help yourself with tea or coffee, there’s a fresh pot on the kitchen counter.”

    “Thanks M’am.” He answered, startled by the unexpected appearance.

    “No need. Finly didn’t wake you up, did she? She doesn’t like when people mess up her schedule.”

    “Not at all, it was fine.” he lied politely, helping himself to some tea. He wasn’t sure buttered bread was enough reward to suffer a long, awkward conversation, given that the lady (Mater, she insisted he’s called him) wasn’t giving him any sign of wanting to leave.

    “It shouldn’t be long until your friends come back from the airport. Your other friend, the big lad, he went for a walk around. Idle seems to have sold him a visit to our Gems & Rocks boutique down Main avenue.” She tittered. “Sounds grand when we say it —that’s just the only main road, but it helps with tourists bookings. And Betsy will probably tire him down quickly. She tends to get too excited when she gets clients down there; most of her business she does online now.”

    Xavier was done with his tea, and looking for an exit strategy, but she finally seemed to pick up on the signals.

    “… As I probably do; look at me wearing you down. Anyway, we have some preparing to do for the Carts & whatnot festival.”

    When she was gone, Xavier’s attention was attracted by a small persistent ticking noise followed by some cracking.

    It was on the front porch.

    A young girl in her thirteens, hoodie on despite the heat, and prune coloured pants, was sitting on the bench reading.

    She told him without raising her head from her book. “It’s Aunt Idle’s new pet bird. It’s quite a character.”

    “What?”

    “The noise, it’s from the bird. It’s been cracking nuts for the past twenty minutes. Hence the noise. And yes, it’s annoying as hell.”

    She rose from the bench. “Your bear friend will be back quick I’m certain; it’s just a small boutique with some nice crystals, but mostly cheap orgonite new-agey stuff. Betsy only swears by that, protection for electromagnetic waves and stuff she says, but look around… we are probably got more at risk to be hit by Martian waves or solar coronal mass ejections that by the ones from the telecom tower nearby.”

    Xavier didn’t know what to say, so he nodded and smiled. He felt a bit out of his element. When he looked around, the girl had already disappeared.

    Now alone, he sat on the empty bench, stretched and yawned while trying to relax. It was so different from the anonymity in the city: less people here, but everything and everyone very tightly knit together, although they all seemed to irk and chafe at the thought.

    The flapping of wings startled him.

    “Hellooo.” The red parrot had landed on the backrest of the bench and dropped shells from a freshly cracked nut which rolled onto the ground.

    Xavier didn’t think to respond; like with AL, sometimes he’d found using polite filler words was only projecting human traits to something unable to respond back, and would just muddle the prompt quality.

    “So ruuuude.” The parrot nicked his earlobe gently.

    “Ouch! Sorry! No need to become aggressive!”

    “You arrrre one to talk. Rouge is on Yooour forehead.”

    Xavier looked surprised at the bird in disbelief. Did the bird talk about the mirror test? “What sort of smart creature are you now?”

    “Call meee Rose. Pretty Giiirl acceptable.”

    Xavier smiled. The bird seemed quite fascinating all of a sudden.
    It was strange, but the bird seemed left completely free to roam about; it gave him an idea.

    “Rose, Pretty Girl, do you know some nice places around you’d like to show me?”

    “Of couuurse. Foôllow Pretty Girl.”

    #6476

    In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

    Yasmin was having a hard time with the heavy rains and mosquitoes in the real-world. She couldn’t seem to make a lot of progress on finding the snorting imp. She was feeling discouraged and unsure of what to do next.

    Suddenly, an emoji of a snake appeared on her screen. It seemed to be slithering and wriggling, as if it was trying to grab her attention. Without hesitation, Yasmin clicked on the emoji.

    She was taken to a new area in the game, where the ground was covered in tall grass and the sky was dark and stormy. She could see the snorting imp in the distance, but it was surrounded by a group of dangerous-looking snakes.

    Clue unlocked It sounds like you’re having a hard time in the real world, but don’t let that discourage you in the game. The snorting imp is nearby and it seems like the snakes are guarding it. You’ll have to be brave and quick to catch it. Remember, the snorting imp represents your determination and bravery in real life.

    Rude!  thought Yasmin. Telling me I’m having a hard time!  And I’m supposed to be the brains of the group! Suddenly the screen went blank. “Oh blimmin dodgy internet!” she moaned.

    :fleuron2:

    “Road’s closed with the flooding,” said a man from the kitchen door. Yasmin didn’t know him; he had a tinge of an accent and took up a lot of space in the doorway. “They reckon it should be clear by tomorrow though.”

    Fred!” Sister Aliti looked up from chopping yam and beamed. She pointed her knife at Yasmin who was washing the breakfast dishes. “Have you met Yasmin? One of our new volunteers. Such a good girl.” The knife circled towards the door. “Yasmin this is FredFred drives the van for us when we are too busy to do it ourselves. So very kind.” She smiled fondly at the man.

    Fred nodded and, taking a step into the kitchen, he stuck a hand towards Yasmin. She quickly wiped her damp hands on her skirt before taking it. Fred’s hand was brown and weathered like his face and he gripped her fingers firmly.

    “Nice to meet you Yasmin. So where are you from?”

    “Oh, um, I’ve been living in London most recently but originally from Manchester.” Yasmin noticed he had a snake tattoo curling up his inner  bicep, over his shoulder and disappearing under his black singlet. “Is your accent Australian?”

    A flicker of a frown crossed Fred’s face and Yasmin felt anxious. “Sorry,” she mumbled, although she wasn’t sure what for. “It’s just I’m visiting soon …”

    “Yeah, originally. But I’ve not been back home for while.” His eyes drifted to the kitchen window and stayed there. For a moment, they all watched the rain pelt against the glass.

    Sister Aliti broke the silence. “Fred’s a writer,” she said sounding like a proud mother.

    “Oh, that’s so cool! What do you write?” Yasmin immediately worried she’d been too nosy again. “I’ve always wanted to write!” she added brightly which wasn’t true, she’d never given it much thought. Realising this, and to her horror, she snort laughed.

    Fred dragged his eyes back from the window and looked at her with amusement. “Yeah? Well you should go for it!” He turned to Sister Aliti. “Internet’s down again too with this weather,” He dug into the pocket of his shorts and dangled some keys in the air. “I’ll leave the van keys with you but I’ll be back tomorrow, if the rain’s stopped.” The keys clanked onto the bench.

    “He’s such a chatterbox,” murmured Sister Aliti after Fred had gone and Yasmin laughed.

    “Shall I put these in the office?” Yasmin gestured to the set of keys then gasped as she saw that on the keychain was a devilish looking imp grinning up at her.

    #6368
    EricEric
    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.

      #6260
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        From Tanganyika with Love

        With thanks to Mike Rushby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

         

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Much love my dear,
        your jubilant
        Eleanor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Bless you all,
        Eleanor.

        S.S.Timavo. 6th. November 1930

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor Leslie.

        Eleanor and George Rushby:

        Eleanor and George Rushby

        Splendid Hotel, Dar es Salaam 11th November 1930

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Your cave woman
        Eleanor.

        Mchewe Estate. P.O. Mbeya 22 November 1930

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Much love to you all,
        Eleanor.

        Mchewe Estate 29th. November 1930

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Your loving
        Eleanor.

        Mchewe Estate. Mbeya. 8th December 1930

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Very much love,
        Eleanor.

        Mbeya 23rd December 1930

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

        26th December 1930

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

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

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

        Lots and lots of love,
        Eleanor.

        Mchewe Estate 8th Jan 1931

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Your loving,
        Eleanor.

        Mchewe Estate. 1st April 1931

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

        Very much love,
        Eleanor.

        Mchewe Estate 20th April 1931

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

        Mchewe Estate. 20th May 1931

        Dear Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

        #6246
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          Florence Nightingale Gretton

          1881-1927

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

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

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

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

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

          Richard Gretton

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

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

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

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

          Stanhope Arms

           

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

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

          Clara Gretton and family, photo found online:

          Clara Gretton

           

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

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

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

          1911 census, Oldswinford, Stourbridge:

          Oldswinford 1911

           

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

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

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

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

          Market Street

           

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

          #6185

          “I’ll be right back!” Nora told Will, who was stirring a big bubbling pot on the stove. “Need to wash my hands.”

          She had a quick look around the bedroom she’d slept in for her missing phone. Nowhere to be found!  Maybe she could find Will’s phone when he went out to feed the donkey, and call her phone to try and locate it. Damn, that wouldn’t work either. Will had said there was no network here. That would explain why her phone stopped working when she was alone in the dark woods.

          “Smells delicious!” she said brightly, scraping a chair back across the brick floor and seating herself at the kitchen table.

          The home made soup was chock full of vegetables and looked and smelled wonderful, but it had a peculiar acrid aftertaste.  Nora tried to ignore it, taking gulps of wine in between each mouthful to eliminate the bitterness.  She wished it wasn’t soup in a way, so that she’d be able to surreptitiously palm some of it off onto the dogs that were waiting hopefully under the table.  If only Will would leave the room for a minute, but he seemed to be watching her every move.

          “Very tasty, but I can’t manage another mouthful, it’s so filling,” she said, but Will looked so offended that she sighed and carried on eating. He topped up her wine glass.

          By the time Nora had finished the soup, she felt quite nauseous and stood up quickly to head for the bathroom. The room started to spin and she held on to the edge of the table, but it was no good. The spinning didn’t stop and she crashed to the floor, unconscious.

          Smiling with satisfaction, Will stood up and walked around the table to where she lay. Shame he’d had to put her to sleep, really she was quite a nice woman and cute, too, in a funny elfin way.  He’d started to like her.  Plenty of time to get to know her now, anyway. She wouldn’t be going anywhere for awhile.

          He picked her up and carried her to the secret room behind his workshop on the other side of the patio.  The walls and floor were thick stone, and there were no windows.  He laid her on the bench, locked the door, and went back in the house to fetch blankets and bedding and a pile of books for her to read when she came round.  Probably not for a good 24 hours he reckoned, somehow she’d managed to eat all the soup.  He would put much less in the next batch, just enough to keep her docile and sleepy.

          It would only be for a few days, just long enough for him to find that box and move it to a safer location. He’d been entrusted to make sure the contents of the box were preserved for the people in the future, and he was a man of his word.

          If they had listened to him in the first place this would never have happened.  Burying a box was a risk: all kinds of possibilities existed for a buried box to be accidentally unearthed.   He had suggested encasing the contents inside a concrete statue, but they’d ignored him. Well, now was his chance.  He was looking forward to making a new statue.

          #6174

          Clara breathed a sigh of relief when she saw VanGogh running towards her; in the moonlight he looked like a pale ghost.

          “Where’ve you been eh?” she asked as he nuzzled her excitedly. She crouched down to pat him. “And what’s this?” A piece of paper folded into quarters had been tucked into VanGogh’s collar. Clara stood upright and looked uneasily around the garden; a small wind made the leaves rustle and the deep shadows stirred. Clara shivered.

          Clara?” called Bob from the door.

          “It’s okay Grandpa, I found him. We’re coming in now.”

          In the warm light of the kitchen, Clara showed Bob the piece of paper. “It’s a map, but I don’t know those place names.”

          “And it was stuffed into his collar you say?” Bob frowned. “That’s very strange indeed. Who’d of done that?”

          Clara shook her head. “It wasn’t Mr Willets because I saw him drive off. But why didn’t VanGogh bark? He always barks when someone comes on the property.”

          “You really should tell her about the note,” said Jane. She was perched on the kitchen bench. VanGogh pricked his ears up and wagged his tail as he looked towards her. Bob couldn’t figure out if the dog could see Jane or just somehow sensed her there. He nodded.

          “What?” asked Clara.

          “There’s something I should tell you, Clara. It’s about that box you found.”

          #6159

          Nora moves silently along the path, placing her feet with care. It is more overgrown in the wood than she remembers, but then it is such a long time since she came this way. She can see in the distance something small and pale. A gentle gust of wind and It seems to stir, as if shivering, as if caught.

          Nora feels strange, there is a strong sense of deja vu now that she has entered the forest.

          She comes to a halt. The trees are still now, not a leaf stirs. She can hear nothing other than the sound of her own breathing. She can’t see the clearing yet either, but she remembers it’s further on, beyond the next winding of the path. She can see it in her mind’s eye though, a rough circle of random stones, with a greenish liquid light filtering through. The air smells of leaf mould and it is spongy underfoot. There’s a wooden bench, a grassy bank, and a circular area of emerald green moss. Finn thinks of it as place of enchantment, a fairy ring.

          Wait! Who is Finn? Where is this story coming from that whispers in her ear as she makes her way through the woods to her destination, the halfway point of her clandestine journey? Who is Finn?

          She reaches the tiny shivering thing and sees that it is a scrap of paper, impaled on a broken branch. She reaches out gently and touches it, then eases if off the branch, taking care not to rip it further. There is a message scribbled on the paper, incomplete. meet me, is all it says now

          The crumpled up paper among the dead leaves beside the path catches her eye.  No, not impaled on a branch but still, a bit of paper catches her eye as the mysterious  ~ ephemeral, invisible ~ story teller continues softly telling her tale

          Finn feels dreamy and floaty. She smiles to herself, thinking of the purpose of her mission, feeling as though it is a message to her from the past. She is overwhelmed for a moment with a sense of love and acceptance towards her younger self. Yes, she whispers softly to the younger Finn, I will meet you at the fairy ring. We will talk a bit. Maybe I can help

          But wait, there is no meaningful message on the crumpled paper that Nora picks up and opens out. It’s nothing but a shopping receipt.  Disappointed, she screws it back up and aims to toss it into the undergrowth, but she hesitates.  Surely it can’t have no meaning at all, she thinks, not after the strange whispered story and the synchronicity of finding it just at that moment.  She opens it back up again, and reads the list of items.

          Olive oil, wine, wheat, garum…. wait, what? Garum? She looks at the date on the receipt ~ a common enough looking till roll receipt, the kind you find in any supermarket ~ but what is this date? 57BC?   How can that be?  Even if she had mistranslated BC ~ perhaps it means British Cooperative, or Better Compare or some such supermarket name ~  the year of 57 makes little sense anyway.  And garum, how to explain that! Nora only knows of garum in relation to Romans, there is no garum on the shelves between the mayonaisse and the ketchup these days, after all.

          Nora smooths the receipt and folds it neatly in half and puts it in her pocket.  The shadows are long now and she still has some distance to walk before the halfway village.  As she resumes her journey, she hears whispered in her ear: You unlocked the blue diamond mode. You’re on a quest now!

          Smiling now, she accelerates her pace.  The lowering sun is casting a golden light, and she feels fortified.

          #6144

          “You know, April … I’ve never felt myself suited to work. Never found my …” June screwed up her face in concentration. “… special calling.”

          “Can’t we sit down over there for a minute? My feet are bloody killing me.” April nodded towards a park bench; she didn’t have much patience today for June and her philosophising, after all, wasn’t it June’s fault they were in this mess? “It’s too bad we can’t even afford the bus fare,” she grumbled as she settled herself on the wooden seat.

          “Not too much further,” said June plonking down next to her.

          April bent down to take off her socks and sneakers and massaged her grateful feet in the damp grass. “Think I’ve got a blister. And I’d kill for a cuppa tea. I do hope Finnley has kept on top of things.”

          June snorted. “Not bloody likely. Anyway, while we’ve been walking I’ve been thinking … what if we sue?”

          April yawned noisily without bothering to put a hand over her mouth—she knew June hated that. “Who is Sue? Does she have money?”

          “No, you idiot, not, who Sue. I mean what if we sue for money? Sue the president for wrongdoings which have been done to us.”

          “Oh!” April perked up. “There’s certainly been plenty of wrongdoings!”

          June smiled smugly. “Exactly.”

          #6076

          “Let’s begin,” said the teacher. She was short and seemed around sixty seven. She walked around the room like a tamer surrounded by wild beasts in a circus. Her dark hair was tied into a long braid falling on her straight back like an I. She wore a sari wrapped around her neatly. “I’m Ms Anika Koskinen, your cryogurt teacher today. You’ve got the recipe in front of you on the benches right with the glass and a bottle of water. The ingredients will be in the cabinets on your left and everything is referenced and written big enough for everyone to see.”

          “Those benches look like the ones in chemistry class when I was in college,” said Glo. “I have bad memories of thoses.”

          “You have bad memories, that’s all,” said Sha making them both laugh.

          “But where’s Mavis?” whispered Glo after looking around the room at the other participants. A majority of women,  wrapped in colourful sarongs and a few older men.

          “How do you want me to know? I was with you since we left the bungalow,” said Sharon who was trying to decipher the blurry letters on the recipe. “Their printer must be malfunctioning, it’s unreadable.”

          “You should try putting on your glasses.”

          “I didn’t bring’em, didn’t think we’d need to see anything.”

          “Oh! There she is,” said Glo as Mavis just entered the room with her beach bag. “Mav! Weehoo! We’re here!”

          “I saw you! no need to shout,” whispered Mavis loudly. She muttered some excuse to the teacher who had been giving them a stern look.

          “I’m afraid you’ll have to go with your friends,” said Ms Koskinen, “We don’t have enough material for everyone.”

          “Oh! That’ll be perfect,” said Mavis with a broad smile. “Hi girls,” she said while installing herself near Sha and Glo.

          The teacher resumed her explanations of the procedure of making frozen yogurt, checking regularly if everyone had understood. She took everyone bobbing their head as a yes.

          “Is he good looking?” asked Sha, showing one of the men who had been looking at them since Mavis arrival.

          “You shouldn’t ask us,” said Glo, “our eyes are like wrinkles remover apps.”

          “I think he looks better without glasses,” said Mavis.

          After Ms Koskinen had finished giving them instructions, she told everyone to go take the ingredients and bring them back to their benches.

          “I’m going,” said Sha who wanted to have a better look at the man.

          “Don’t forget the recipe with the list of ingredients,” said Mavis waving the paper at her.

          “Oh! Yes.”

          She came back with the man helping her carry the tray of ingredients.

          “Thank you Andrew,” said Sha when he put the tray on their bench.

          “Oh you’re welcome. And those are your friend you told me about?”

          “Yes! This is Gloria and this is Mavis.”

          “Pleased to meet you,” said Andrew. “I’m Andrew Anderson. I suggested Sharon we could have lunch together after the workshop. I’d like you to meet my friends.”

          “Of course!” said Sha. She winked at her friends who were too flabbergasted to speak.

          “That’s settled then. We’ll meet at 1pm at my bungalow.”

          “See you later,” said Sharon with a dulcet voice.

          “What the butt was that all about?” asked Glo.

          “Oh! You’ll thank me. I pretexted not to be able to find everything on the list and Andrew was very helpful. The man is charming, and his yacht makes you forget about his Australian accent. We’re going to have lunch on a yacht girls! That means we’re not stuck on the beach and can have some fun exploring around.”

          Sha looked quite pleased with herself. She put a bottle of orange powder among the ingredients and said :”Now! Let’s make some wrinkle flattener ice cream, ladies. I took some extra tightener.”

          #4852
          F LoveF Love
          Participant

            It had been a long day and MIB decided he could spare a few moments to recuperate before propelling himself at the speed of light to Destination D.

            Probaby better to let the targets get there first so there was no chance of detection.

            MIB sauntered to a nearby park bench and sat down. He then proceeded to take the water flask from his briefcase and gently unscrewed the top. After a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, he pulled the doll’s head out of the flask. “Oh for flove’s sake!” he said and quickly shoved it back in.

            “Target doll is Man in Black i.e. myself,” he said into his wrist watch. “It appears conscious detection of target is no longer necessary for Magpie to actualise dolls. Repeat, conscious detection of target NOT NECESSARY. Subliminal factors at play. Doll will be destroyed poste haste before activation takes effect.”

            He carefully pulled the doll out of the flask for a second time. He fingered the miniature moustache; the doll was perfect down to the last detail, even the small scar he had over his right eyebrow. He felt the back of the doll and pressed, relieved to feel the hardness of the key.

            As long as the key is still in the doll, activation can’t happen. What harm is there …

            He stuffed the doll back into the flask and put it back in his briefcase.

            #4784
            EricEric
            Keymaster

              When Nurse Trassie woke up with the worse case of hang-over she had since the retirement party of Doctor Minkitystump, she realized something was amiss.
              She couldn’t think straight without her cup of morning joe, so she went for the kitchen, but realized she was still in her nursing pajamas, and had not come home at all.
              “Those old drooling flabby buggers better not have done anything strange, or else…” she muttered to herself with seething anger.
              She punched her muscled arms together, ready to benchpress the deviants and teach them a good correction.

              After a quick tour of the dorms, she redid the math. Three were missing. Three bad apples in need of a dear punishment. That wouldn’t do; no, it wouldn’t do at all.

              #4746
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                The sense of being left behind had deflated Lucinda. Everyone off having adventures, and here she was left minding the dog. She liked the dog, but not the feeling of missing out on the excitement, and the clues she received were few and far between.

                “Come on, Fabio,” she said, and the little dog looked up expectantly and wagged his tail. “Let’s go for a walk down by the river. We can pick up some granola cookies on the way back.”

                It was a particularly muggy day and not ideal for a long walk. She felt listless and heavy in the humid air. Before walking very far at all along the riverside promenade, she felt clammy and tired, and found a bench under a shady tree to sit on. Fabio cocked his head to one side and looked at her. Lucinda closed her eyes for a few moments, and started to admonish herself for her lack lustre and frankly boring state. “Buck up, for Pete’s sake!” she told herself, but was interrupted by Fabio’s frantic barking and pullling at the lead.

                A man on stilts was coming towards them, wearing long shiny trousers in black and white vertical stripes. Lucinda started at him openly, somewhat shaken, but curious. She could have sworn she’d seen him in a dream the night before.

                The peace shattering sound of a loud motor boat engine intruded into the scene, and when Lucinda looked back to the stilted man in stripes, he’d vanished. The sound of the outboard motor receded as the boat disappeared around a curve in the river; the waves it created splashing on the river banks long after it had disappeared.

                #4725

                A wild eyed crow was cawing relentlessly since the wee hours of the dawn.
                Nothing much had moved since everyone arrived at the Inn, and in contrast with the hot days, the cool night had sent everyone shivering under the thin woolen blankets that smelled of naphthalene.
                Deep down, Bert was glad to see the old Inn come back to life, even if for a little while. He was weary of the witch though. She wouldn’t be here without some supernatural mischief afoot.
                He glanced in the empty hall, putting his muddy pair of boots outside, not to incur the fury of Finly. He almost started calling to see if anybody was home, but thought better of it. Speaking of the devil, Finly was already up and busy at the small kitchen stove, and had done some outstanding croissants. In truth, despite all her flaws, he liked her; she was a capable lady, although never big on sweet talks. No wonder she and Mater did get along well.
                Bert started to walk along the hall towards the hangar, where he knew old cases where stored, one with a particular book that he needed. It was hard to guess what would happen next. He found the book, that was hidden on the side of the case, and scratched his head while smiling a big wide grin.
                He was feeling alive with the kind of energy that could be a poor advisor were his mind not sharp as a gator’s tooth.

                The book had a lot of gibberish in it, like it was written in a sort of automatic writing. For some reason, after the termite honey episode, Idle had started to collect odd books, and she was starting to see spy games hidden in the strangest patterns.
                Despite being a lazy pothead, the girl was smart, though. Some of her books were codes.

                Bert’s had his fair run with those during his early years in the military. So he’d hidden the most dangerous ones that Idle had unwittingly found, so that she and the rest of the family wouldn’t run into trouble.
                Most of the time, she’d simply forget about having bought or bargained for them, but in some cases, there was a silly obsession with her that rendered her crazy about some of those books. Usually the girls, especially the twins, would get the blame for what was thought a child’s prank. Luckily her anger wouldn’t last long.

                This book though was a bit different. Bert had never found the coding pattern, nor the logic about it. And some bits of it looked like it talked about the Inn. “Encoded pattern from the future”, “remote viewing from the past”, Idle’s suggestions would have run wild with imaginative solutions. Maybe she was onto something…

                He looked a two bits, struck by some of the parts:

                The inn had been open for a long time before any of the tenants had come, and it had been full of people once it had been full all day long.
                She had gone back after a while and opened up the little room for the evening and people could be seen milling about.
                The rest of the tenants had remained out on their respective streets and were quiet and peaceful.
                ‘So it’s the end of a cold year.’
                The woman with golden hair and green eyes seemed to have no intention of staying in the inn as well; she was already preparing for the next year.
                When the cold dawn had started to rise the door to the inn had been open all night long. The young man with red hair sitting on a nearby bench had watched a few times before opening his eyes to see the man that had followed him home.

                There was a young red hair boy that had arrived. He was curious as to the man following.

                The other random bit talked about something else. Like a stuff of nightmares. And his name was on it.

                The small girl stood beside him, still covered with her night clothes. She felt naked by the side of the road. There was nothing else to do.
                In the distance, Bert could faintly hear the howling of the woods, as two large, black dogs pounced, their jaws ready to tear her to pieces. The young girl stared in wonder and fear before the dog, before biting it, then she was gone. She ran off through the bushes. “Ah…” she whispered to herself. “Why am I not alive?” She thought to herself: this is all I need.
                If I am here, they’ll kill or hurt my kids. They won’t miss me for nothing.
                She ran the last few kilometers to her little cottage; not long after, Bert heard the sound of the forest. He was glad it was.

                Maybe the witch was not here for nothing after all.

                #4642
                F LoveF Love
                Participant

                  Finnley, how on earth did you manage to insert yourself in the kitchen and do the dishes while I was standing here twittering about doctors and whatnot. And here you are and the dishes are done but when I started my comment, I swear they were still on the bench.”
                  Liz peered at Finnley suspiciously.
                  “Do you have magical properties you aren’t sharing with us?” she asked.

                  #4235

                  Hasamelis stood immobile, his stony gaze seeing nothing but the relentless passing of time indicated before him on the contraption they called the Town Clock. How we would love to detach himself from his plinth and look away, and what a fate for the god of travel! It was too cruel, too wicked, too great an undeserved punishment to inflict on such a great, though long forgotten, traveler. Did any of them, those who sat beneath his feet on the park benches, eating their sandwiches and drinking from paper cups, even know who he was? No, they did not! Just another statue for the pigeons to soil, that’s all he was to them. Did anyone look up at his face and wonder? No, they did not! They took photos of themselves and each other, cutting him half out of the picture, as if he was nothing, just background scenery. Some particularly vile specimens of human nature had even pissed up his legs in the dark drunken nights, and stubbed their cigarettes out on his feet.

                  His feeling of humiliation grew over the years into a raging desire for revenge. One day, one day! he would find the means to movement again, and by golly he would hunt down the creature that turned him to stone. One day he would find that woman who immobilized him and crated him like a shipment of spare parts and sent him away. One day he would find her. Oh yes, he would find that woman.

                  #4198

                  Humming quietly to herself, Glynis stirs the mixture in the large black pot. She feels proud that she now knows this recipe by heart and no longer has to refer to the large book of spells which sits on a nearby stool.

                  Small bubbles begin to form on the surface of the mixture—soon it will boil. Now … remember … ”the mixture must boil for 5 minutes, no more and no less”.

                  She wasn’t sure why the directions were so precise … apparently understanding would grow in time. She pondered whether it was the element of discipline involved which added a particular flavour to the spell. After all, the intention of the heart was important and the difference between a great spell and just a mediocre one. She hoped to be a master one day and revered for the purity and efficacy of her mixtures.

                  “Quiet now,” she chided herself. “Pride won’t help this spell any.”

                  Five minutes. She has her own way of marking time though at first it had not been so easy. The moment the mixture was boiling she began to sing. She sang the whole song through twice and then pulled the pot from the fire to leave it to cool. Next it would go in the jars that stood waiting on the bench like a line of willing soldiers and then it must sit till spring.

                  Patience.

                  Daylight is beginning to fade and she remembers she still has no sage.

                  The orchard is particularly beautiful this time of day she thinks. Late afternoon. Once, there was a path of stones leading down to the garden where sage and other herbs grow in abundance, but now the path is long overgrown.

                  A Silver Jute alights on a branch ahead of her.

                  “Hello!” Glynis says, happy to see the bird.

                  The Jute opens its beak and with a thrusting motion propels a berry which flies through the air and lands at the girl’s feet.

                  “Thank you”, she says and a feeling of warm gratitude fills her heart as she picks up the berry and puts it in her basket.

                  The Jute nods his head in acknowledgment and with a loud cry spreads his wings and flies off over the trees of the orchard.

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