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    TracyTracy
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      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.

      #6255
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        My Grandparents

        George Samuel Marshall 1903-1995

        Florence Noreen Warren (Nora) 1906-1988

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Utrillo

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

        #6253
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          My Grandparents Kitchen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          #6243
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            William Housley’s Will and the Court Case

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

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

            One of the pages of William Housley’s will:

            William Housleys Will

             

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            In the Adelaide Observer 28 Aug 1875

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

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

            Victoria Diggings, Australie

             

            The court case:

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

            From the Narrative on the Letters:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            1874 in chancery:

            Housley Estate Sale

            #6241
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              Kidsley Grange Farm and The Quakers Next Door

              Kidsley Grange Farm in Smalley, Derbyshire, was the home of the Housleys in the 1800s.  William Housley 1781-1848 was born in nearby Selston.   His wife Ellen Carrington 1795-1872 was from a long line of Carringtons in Smalley.  They had ten children between 1815 and 1838.  Samuel, my 3x great grandfather, was the second son born in 1816.

              The original farm has been made into a nursing home in recent years, which at the time of writing is up for sale at £500,000. Sadly none of the original farm appears visible with all the new additions.

              The farm before it was turned into a nursing home:

              Kidsley Grange Farm

              Kidsley Grange Farm and Kidsley Park, a neighbouring farm, are mentioned in a little book about the history of Smalley.  The neighbours at Kidsley Park, the Davy’s,  were friends of the Housleys. They were Quakers.

              Smalley Farms

               

              In Kerry’s History of Smalley:

              Kidsley Park Farm was owned by Daniel Smith,  a prominent Quaker and the last of the Quakers at Kidsley. His daughter, Elizabeth Davy, widow of William Davis, married WH Barber MB of Smalley. Elizabeth was the author of the poem “Farewell to Kidsley Park”.

              Emma Housley sent one of Elizabeth Davy’s poems to her brother George in USA.

               “We have sent you a piece of poetry that Mrs. Davy composed about our ‘Old House.’ I am sure you will like it though you may not understand all the allusions she makes use of as well as we do.”

              Farewell to Kidsley Park
              Farewell, Farewell, Thy pathways now by strangers feet are trod,
              And other hands and horses strange henceforth shall turn thy sod,
              Yes, other eyes may watch the buds expanding in the spring.
              And other children round the hearth the coming years may bring,
              But mine will be the memory of cares and pleasures there,
              Intenser ~ that no living thing in some of them can share,
              Commencing with the loved, and lost, in days of long ago,
              When one was present on whose head Atlantic’s breezes blow,
              Long years ago he left that roof, and made a home afar ~
              For that is really only “home” where life’s affections are!
              How many thoughts come o’er me, for old Kidsley has “a name
              And memory” ~ in the hearts of some not unknown to fame.
              We dream not, in those happy times, that I should be the last,
              Alone, to leave my native place ~ alone, to meet the blast,
              I loved each nook and corner there, each leaf and blade of grass,
              Each moonlight shadow on the pond I loved: but let it pass,
              For mine is still the memory that only death can mar;
              I fancy I shall see it reflecting every star.
              The graves of buried quadrupeds, affectionate and true,
              Will have the olden sunshine, and the same bright morning dew,
              But the birds that sang at even when the autumn leaves were seer,
              Will miss the crumbs they used to get, in winters long and drear.
              Will the poor down-trodden miss me? God help them if they do!
              Some manna in the wilderness, His goodness guide them to!
              Farewell to those who love me! I shall bear them still in mind,
              And hope to be remembered by those I left behind:
              Do not forget the aged man ~ though another fills his place ~
              Another, bearing not his name, nor coming of his race.
              His creed might be peculiar; but there was much of good
              Successors will not imitate, because not understood.
              Two hundred years have come and past since George Fox ~ first of “Friends” ~
              Established his religion there ~ which my departure ends.
              Then be it so: God prosper these in basket and in store,
              And make them happy in my place ~ my dwelling, never more!
              For I may be a wanderer ~ no roof nor hearthstone mine:
              May light that cometh from above my resting place define.
              Gloom hovers o’er the prospect now, but He who was my friend,
              In the midst of troubled waters, will see me to the end.

              Elizabeth Davy, June 6th, 1863, Derby.

              Another excerpt from Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters from the family in Smalley to George in USA mentions the Davy’s:

              Anne’s will was probated October 14, 1856. Mr. William Davy of Kidsley Park appeared for the family. Her estate was valued at under £20. Emma was to receive fancy needlework, a four post bedstead, feather bed and bedding, a mahogany chest of drawers, plates, linen and china. Emma was also to receive Anne’s writing desk! There was a condition that Ellen would have use of these items until her death.
              The money that Anne was to receive from her grandfather, William Carrington, and her father, William Housley was to be distributed one third to Joseph, one third to Emma, and one third to be divided between her four neices: John’s daughter Elizabeth, 18, and Sam’s daughters Elizabeth, 10, Mary Anne, 9 and Catherine, age 7 to be paid by the trustees as they think “most useful and proper.” Emma Lyon and Elizabeth Davy were the witnesses.

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

               

              #6240
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                Phyllis Ellen Marshall

                1909 – 1983

                Phyllis Marshall

                 

                Phyllis, my grandfather George Marshall’s sister, never married. She lived in her parents home in Love Lane, and spent decades of her later life bedridden, living alone and crippled with rheumatoid arthritis. She had her bed in the front downstairs room, and had cords hanging by her bed to open the curtains, turn on the tv and so on, and she had carers and meals on wheels visit her daily. The room was dark and grim, but Phyllis was always smiling and cheerful.  Phyllis loved the Degas ballerinas and had a couple of prints on the walls.

                I remember visiting her, but it has only recently registered that this was my great grandparents house. When I was a child, we visited her and she indicated a tin on a chest of drawers and said I could take a biscuit. It was a lemon puff, and was the stalest biscuit I’d ever had. To be polite I ate it. Then she offered me another one! I declined, but she thought I was being polite and said “Go on! You can have another!” I ate another one, and have never eaten a lemon puff since that day.

                Phyllis’s nephew Bryan Marshall used to visit her regularly. I didn’t realize how close they were until recently, when I resumed contact with Bryan, who emigrated to USA in the 1970s following a successful application for a job selling stained glass windows and church furnishings.

                I asked on a Stourbridge facebook group if anyone remembered her.

                AF  Yes I remember her. My friend and I used to go up from Longlands school every Friday afternoon to do jobs for her. I remember she had a record player and we used to put her 45rpm record on Send in the Clowns for her. Such a lovely lady. She had her bed in the front room.

                KW I remember very clearly a lady in a small house in Love Lane with alley at the left hand.  I was intrigued by this lady who used to sit with the front door open and she was in a large chair of some sort. I used to see people going in and out and the lady was smiling. I was young then (31) and wondered how she coped but my sense was she had lots of help.  I’ve never forgotten that lady in Love Lane sitting in the open door way I suppose when it was warm enough.

                LR I used to deliver meals on wheels to her lovely lady.

                I sent Bryan the comments from the Stourbridge group and he replied:

                Thanks Tracy. I don’t recognize the names here but lovely to see such kind comments.
                In the early 70’s neighbors on Corser Street, Mr. & Mrs. Walter Braithwaite would pop around with occasional visits and meals. Walter was my piano teacher for awhile when I was in my early twenties. He was a well known music teacher at Rudolph Steiner School (former Elmfield School) on Love Lane. A very fine school. I seem to recall seeing a good article on Walter recently…perhaps on the Stourbridge News website. He was very well known.
                I’m ruminating about life with my Aunt Phyllis. We were very close. Our extra special time was every Saturday at 5pm (I seem to recall) we’d watch Doctor Who. Right from the first episode. We loved it. Likewise I’d do the children’s crossword out of Woman’s Realm magazine…always looking to win a camera but never did ! She opened my mind to the Bible, music and ballet. She once got tickets and had a taxi take us into Birmingham to see the Bolshoi Ballet…at a time when they rarely left their country. It was a very big deal in the early 60’s. ! I’ve many fond memories about her and grandad which I’ll share in due course. I’d change the steel needle on the old record player, following each play of the 78rpm records…oh my…another world.

                Bryan continues reminiscing about Phyllis in further correspondence:

                Yes, I can recall those two Degas prints. I don’t know much of Phyllis’ early history other than she was a hairdresser in Birmingham. I want to say at John Lewis, for some reason (so there must have been a connection and being such a large store I bet they did have a salon?)
                You will know that she had severe and debilitating rheumatoid arthritis that eventually gnarled her hands and moved through her body. I remember strapping on her leg/foot braces and hearing her writhe in pain as I did so but she wanted to continue walking standing/ getting up as long as she could. I’d take her out in the wheelchair and I can’t believe I say it along …but down Stanley Road!! (I had subsequent nightmares about what could have happened to her, had I tripped or let go!) She loved Mary Stevens Park, the swans, ducks and of course Canadian geese. Was grateful for everything in creation. As I used to go over Hanbury Hill on my visit to Love Lane, she would always remind me to smell the “sea-air” as I crested the hill.
                In the earlier days she smoked cigarettes with one of those long filters…looking like someone from the twenties.

                I’ll check on “Send in the clowns”. I do recall that music. I remember also she loved to hear Neil Diamond. Her favorites in classical music gave me an appreciation of Elgar and Delius especially. She also loved ballet music such as Swan Lake and Nutcracker. Scheherazade and La Boutique Fantastic also other gems.
                When grandad died she and aunt Dorothy shared more about grandma (who died I believe when John and I were nine-months old…therefore early 1951). Grandma (Mary Ann Gilman Purdy) played the piano and loved Strauss and Offenbach. The piano in the picture you sent had a bad (wonky) leg which would fall off and when we had the piano at 4, Mount Road it was rather dangerous. In any event my parents didn’t want me or others “banging on it” for fear of waking the younger brothers so it disappeared at sometime.
                By the way, the dog, Flossy was always so rambunctious (of course, she was a JRT!) she was put on the stairway which fortunately had a door on it. Having said that I’ve always loved dogs so was very excited to see her and disappointed when she was not around. 

                Phyllis with her parents William and Mary Marshall, and Flossie the dog in the garden at Love Lane:

                Phyllis William and Mary Marshall

                 

                Bryan continues:

                I’ll always remember the early days with the outside toilet with the overhead cistern caked in active BIG spider webs. I used to have to light a candle to go outside, shielding the flame until destination. In that space I’d set the candle down and watch the eery shadows move from side to side whilst…well anyway! Then I’d run like hell back into the house. Eventually the kitchen wall was broken through so it became an indoor loo. Phew!
                In the early days the house was rented for ten-shillings a week…I know because I used to take over a ten-bob-note to a grumpy lady next door who used to sign the receipt in the rent book. Then, I think she died and it became available for $600.00 yes…the whole house for $600.00 but it wasn’t purchased then. Eventually aunt Phyllis purchased it some years later…perhaps when grandad died.

                I used to work much in the back garden which was a lovely walled garden with arch-type decorations in the brickwork and semicircular shaped capping bricks. The abundant apple tree. Raspberry and loganberry canes. A gooseberry bush and huge Victoria plum tree on the wall at the bottom of the garden which became a wonderful attraction for wasps! (grandad called the “whasps”). He would stew apples and fruit daily.
                Do you remember their black and white cat Twinky? Always sat on the pink-screen TV and when she died they were convinced that “that’s wot got ‘er”. Grandad of course loved all his cats and as he aged, he named them all “Billy”.

                Have you come across the name “Featherstone” in grandma’s name. I don’t recall any details but Dorothy used to recall this. She did much searching of the family history Such a pity she didn’t hand anything on to anyone. She also said that we had a member of the family who worked with James Watt….but likewise I don’t have details.
                Gifts of chocolates to Phyllis were regular and I became the recipient of the overflow!

                What a pity Dorothy’s family history research has disappeared!  I have found the Featherstone’s, and the Purdy who worked with James Watt, but I wonder what else Dorothy knew.

                I mentioned DH Lawrence to Bryan, and the connection to Eastwood, where Bryan’s grandma (and Phyllis’s mother) Mary Ann Gilman Purdy was born, and shared with him the story about Francis Purdy, the Primitive Methodist minister, and about Francis’s son William who invented the miners lamp.

                He replied:

                As a nosy young man I was looking through the family bookcase in Love Lane and came across a brown paper covered book. Intrigued, I found “Sons and Lovers” D.H. Lawrence. I knew it was a taboo book (in those days) as I was growing up but now I see the deeper connection. Of course! I know that Phyllis had I think an earlier boyfriend by the name of Maurice who lived in Perry Barr, Birmingham. I think he later married but was always kind enough to send her a book and fond message each birthday (Feb.12). I guess you know grandad’s birthday – July 28. We’d always celebrate those days. I’d usually be the one to go into Oldswinford and get him a cardigan or pullover and later on, his 2oz tins of St. Bruno tobacco for his pipe (I recall the room filled with smoke as he puffed away).
                Dorothy and Phyllis always spoke of their ancestor’s vocation as a Minister. So glad to have this history! Wow, what a story too. The Lord rescued him from mischief indeed. Just goes to show how God can change hearts…one at a time.
                So interesting to hear about the Miner’s Lamp. My vicar whilst growing up at St. John’s in Stourbridge was from Durham and each Harvest Festival, there would be a miner’s lamp placed upon the altar as a symbol of the colliery and the bountiful harvest.

                More recollections from Bryan about the house and garden at Love Lane:

                I always recall tea around the three legged oak table bedecked with a colorful seersucker cloth. Battenburg cake. Jam Roll. Rich Tea and Digestive biscuits. Mr. Kipling’s exceedingly good cakes! Home-made jam.  Loose tea from the Coronation tin cannister. The ancient mangle outside the back door and the galvanized steel wash tub with hand-operated agitator on the underside of the lid. The hand operated water pump ‘though modernisation allowed for a cold tap only inside, above the single sink and wooden draining board. A small gas stove and very little room for food preparation. Amazing how the Marshalls (×7) managed in this space!

                The small window over the sink in the kitchen brought in little light since the neighbor built on a bathroom annex at the back of their house, leaving #47 with limited light, much to to upset of grandad and Phyllis. I do recall it being a gloomy place..i.e.the kitchen and back room.

                The garden was lovely. Long and narrow with privet hedge dividing the properties on the right and the lovely wall on the left. Dorothy planted spectacular lilac bushes against the wall. Vivid blues, purples and whites. Double-flora. Amazing…and with stunning fragrance. Grandad loved older victorian type plants such as foxgloves and comfrey. Forget-me-nots and marigolds (calendulas) in abundance.  Rhubarb stalks. Always plantings of lettuce and other vegetables. Lots of mint too! A large varigated laurel bush outside the front door!

                Such a pleasant walk through the past. 

                An autograph book belonging to Phyllis from the 1920s has survived in which each friend painted a little picture, drew a cartoon, or wrote a verse.  This entry is perhaps my favourite:

                Ripping Time

                #6234
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  Ben Warren

                  Derby County and England football legend who died aged 37 penniless and ‘insane’

                   

                  Ben Warren

                  Ben Warren 1879 – 1917  was Samuel Warren’s (my great grandfather) cousin.

                  From the Derby Telegraph:

                  Just 17 months after earning his 22nd England cap, against Scotland at Everton on April 1, 1911, he was certified insane. What triggered his decline was no more than a knock on the knee while playing for Chelsea against Clapton Orient.

                  The knee would not heal and the longer he was out, the more he fretted about how he’d feed his wife and four children. In those days, if you didn’t play, there was no pay. 

                  …..he had developed “brain fever” and this mild-mannered man had “become very strange and, at times, violent”. The coverage reflected his celebrity status.

                  On December 15, 1911, as Rick Glanvill records in his Official Biography of Chelsea FC: “He was admitted to a private clinic in Nottingham, suffering from acute mania, delusions that he was being poisoned and hallucinations of hearing and vision.”

                  He received another blow in February, 1912, when his mother, Emily, died. She had congestion of the lungs and caught influenza, her condition not helped, it was believed, by worrying about Ben.

                  She had good reason: her famous son would soon be admitted to the unfortunately named Derby County Lunatic Asylum.

                  Ben Warren Madman

                   

                  As Britain sleepwalked towards the First World War, Ben’s condition deteriorated. Glanvill writes: “His case notes from what would be a five-year stay, catalogue a devastating decline in which he is at various times described as incoherent, restless, destructive, ‘stuporose’ and ‘a danger to himself’.’”

                  photo: Football 27th April 1914. A souvenir programme for the testimonial game for Chelsea and England’s Ben Warren, (pictured) who had been declared insane and sent to a lunatic asylum. The game was a select XI for the North playing a select XI from The South proceeds going to Warren’s family.

                  Ben Warren 1914

                   

                  In September, that decline reached a new and pitiable low. The following is an abridged account of what The Courier called “an amazing incident” that took place on September 4.

                  “Spotted by a group of men while walking down Derby Road in Nottingham, a man was acting strangely, smoking a cigarette and had nothing on but a collar and tie.

                  “He jumped about the pavement and roadway, as though playing an imaginary game of football. When approached, he told them he was going to Trent Bridge to play in a match and had to be there by 3.30.”

                  Eventually he was taken to a police station and recognised by a reporter as England’s erstwhile right-half. What made the story even harder to digest was that Ben had escaped from the asylum and walked the 20 miles to Nottingham apparently unnoticed.

                  He had played at “Trent Bridge” many times – at least on Nottingham Forest’s adjacent City Ground.

                  As a shocked nation came to terms with the desperate plight of one of its finest footballers, some papers suggested his career was not yet over. And his relatives claimed that he had been suffering from nothing more than a severe nervous breakdown.

                  He would never be the same again – as a player or a man. He wasn’t even a shadow of the weird “footballer” who had walked 20 miles to Nottingham.

                  Then, he had nothing on, now he just had nothing – least of all self-respect. He ripped sheets into shreds and attempted suicide, saying: “I’m no use to anyone – and ought to be out of the way.”

                  “A year before his suicide attempt in 1916 the ominous symptom of ‘dry cough’ had been noted. Two months after it, in October 1916, the unmistakable signs of tuberculosis were noted and his enfeebled body rapidly succumbed.

                  At 11.30pm on 15 January 1917, international footballer Ben Warren was found dead by a night attendant.

                  He was 37 and when they buried him the records described him as a “pauper’.”

                  However you look at it, it is the salutary tale of a footballer worrying about money. And it began with a knock on the knee.

                  On 14th November 2021, Gill Castle posted on the Newhall and Swadlincote group:

                  I would like to thank Colin Smith and everyone who supported him in getting my great grandfather’s grave restored (Ben Warren who played for Derby, Chelsea and England)

                  The month before, Colin Smith posted:

                  My Ben Warren Journey is nearly complete.
                  It started two years ago when I was sent a family wedding photograph asking if I recognised anyone. My Great Great Grandmother was on there. But soon found out it was the wedding of Ben’s brother Robert to my 1st cousin twice removed, Eveline in 1910.
                  I researched Ben and his football career and found his resting place in St Johns Newhall, all overgrown and in a poor state with the large cross all broken off. I stood there and decided he needed to new memorial & headstone. He was our local hero, playing Internationally for England 22 times. He needs to be remembered.
                  After seeking family permission and Council approval, I had a quote from Art Stone Memorials, Burton on Trent to undertake the work. Fundraising then started and the memorial ordered.
                  Covid came along and slowed the process of getting materials etc. But we have eventually reached the final installation today.
                  I am deeply humbled for everyone who donated in January this year to support me and finally a massive thank you to everyone, local people, football supporters of Newhall, Derby County & Chelsea and football clubs for their donations.
                  Ben will now be remembered more easily when anyone walks through St Johns and see this beautiful memorial just off the pathway.
                  Finally a huge thank you for Art Stone Memorials Team in everything they have done from the first day I approached them. The team have worked endlessly on this project to provide this for Ben and his family as a lasting memorial. Thank you again Alex, Pat, Matt & Owen for everything. Means a lot to me.
                  The final chapter is when we have a dedication service at the grave side in a few weeks time,
                  Ben was born in The Thorntree Inn Newhall South Derbyshire and lived locally all his life.
                  He played local football for Swadlincote, Newhall Town and Newhall Swifts until Derby County signed Ben in May 1898. He made 242 appearances and scored 19 goals at Derby County.
                  28th July 1908 Chelsea won the bidding beating Leicester Fosse & Manchester City bids.
                  Ben also made 22 appearance’s for England including the 1908 First Overseas tour playing Austria twice, Hungary and Bohemia all in a week.
                  28 October 1911 Ben Injured his knee and never played football again
                  Ben is often compared with Steven Gerard for his style of play and team ethic in the modern era.
                  Herbert Chapman ( Player & Manager ) comments “ Warren was a human steam engine who played through 90 minutes with intimidating strength and speed”.
                  Charles Buchan comments “I am certain that a better half back could not be found, Part of the Best England X1 of all time”
                  Chelsea allowed Ben to live in Sunnyside Newhall, he used to run 5 miles every day round Bretby Park and had his own gym at home. He was compared to the likes of a Homing Pigeon, as he always came back to Newhall after his football matches.
                  Ben married Minnie Staley 21st October 1902 at Emmanuel Church Swadlincote and had four children, Harry, Lillian, Maurice & Grenville. Harry went on to be Manager at Coventry & Southend following his father in his own career as football Manager.
                  After Ben’s football career ended in 1911 his health deteriorated until his passing at Derby Pastures Hospital aged 37yrs
                  Ben’s youngest son, Grenville passed away 22nd May 1929 and is interred together in St John’s Newhall with his Father
                  His wife, Minnie’s ashes are also with Ben & Grenville.
                  Thank you again everyone.
                  RIP Ben Warren, our local Newhall Hero. You are remembered.

                  Ben Warren grave

                   

                  Ben Warren Grave

                  Ben Warren Grave

                   

                  #6225
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    William Marshall’s Parents

                    William Marshall  1876-1968, my great grandfather, married Mary Ann Gilman Purdy in Buxton. We assumed that both their families came from Buxton, but this was not the case.  The Marshall’s came from Elton, near Matlock; the Purdy’s from Eastwood, Nottinghamshire.

                    William Marshall, seated in centre, with colleagues from the insurance company:

                    William Marshall

                     

                     

                    William and all his siblings were born in Fairfield in Buxton. But both Emma Featherstone 1847-1928, his mother, and John Marshall 1842-1930, his father, came from rural Derbyshire. Emma from Ashbourne (or Biggin, Newhaven, or Hartington, depending on what she chose to put on the census, which are all tiny rural places in the same area).

                    Emma and John Marshall in the middle, photo says “William Marshall’s parents” on the back:

                    Emma and John Marshall

                     

                    John Marshall was a carter, later a coal carter, and was born in Elton, Derbyshire. Elton is a rural village near to Matlock. He was unable to write (at least at the time of his wedding) but Emma signed her own name.

                    In 1851 Emma is 3 or 4 years old living with family at the Jug and Glass Inn, Hartington. In 1861 Emma was a 14 year old servant at a 112 acre farm, Heathcote, but her parents were still living at the Jug and Glass. Emma Featherstone’s parents both died when she was 18, in 1865.
                    In 1871 she was a servant at Old House Farm, Nether Hartington Quarter, Ashborne.

                    On the census, a female apprentice was listed as a servant, a boy as an apprentice. It seems to have been quite normal, at least that’s what I’ve found so far,  for all teenagers to go and live in another household to learn a trade, to be independent from the parents, and so doesn’t necessarily mean a servant as we would think of it. Often they stayed with family friends, and usually married in their early twenties and had their own household ~ often with a “servant” or teenager from someone else’s family.

                    The only marriage I could find for Emma and John was in Manchester in 1873, which didn’t make much sense. If Emma was single on the 1871 census, and her first child James was born in 1873, her marriage had to be between those dates. But the marriage register in Manchester appears to be correct, John was a carter, Emma’s father was Francis Featherstone. But why Manchester?

                    Marshall Featherstone marriage

                    I noticed that the witnesses to the marriage were Francis and Elizabeth Featherstone. He father was Francis, but who was Elizabeth? Emma’s mother was Sarah. Then I found that Emma’s brother Francis married Elizabeth, and they lived in Manchester on the 1871 census. Henry Street, Ardwick. Emma and John’s address on the marriage register is Emily Street, Ardwick. Both of them at the same address.

                    The marriage was in February 1873, and James, the first child was born in July, 1873, in Buxton.

                    It would seem that Emma and John had to get married, hence the move to Manchester where her brother was, and then quickly moved to Buxton for the birth of the child.  It was far from uncommon, I’ve found while making notes of dates in registers, for a first child to be born six or 7 months after the wedding.

                    Emma died in 1928 at the age of 80, two years before her husband John. She left him a little money in her will! This seems unusual so perhaps she had her own money, possibly from the death of her parents before she married, and perhaps from the sale of the Jug and Glass.

                    I found a photo of the Jug and Glass online.  It looks just like the pub I’d seen in my family history meditations on a number of occasions:

                    Jug and Glass

                    #6167

                    “Box?” said Bob placing a hand on his chest. “Not the … ”

                    “Not box, Grandpa. Crops.” Clara spoke loudly. Poor old Grandpa must be going a bit deaf as well—he’d gone downhill since Grandma died. “His dogs got into your garden and dug up the crops. He says he’ll come by in the morning and fix up the damage. ”

                    “No, need to shout, Clara. I swear you said box. I thought you meant the box in the garage.”

                    “Oh, no that would be awful!” Clara shuddered at the thought of anything happening to her precious treasure. “Maybe we should bring the box inside, Grandpa? Make sure it’s safe.”

                    Bob sighed. Last thing he wanted was the damn box inside the house. But Clara had that look on her face, the one that means she’s made up her mind. He glanced around, wondering where they could put it so it was out of the way.

                    “Hey!” exclaimed Clara. “Where’s VanGogh gone? Did he sneak outside when Mr Willets came.” She went to the door and peered out into the darkness. “VanGogh! Here, Boy!” she shouted. “VanGogh!”

                    #6157

                    Bob sighed loudly as he rummaged through the odds and ends drawer: old menus from the takeaways in town, pens, rubber bands, a button, reading glasses, newspaper clippings. He’d never expected to need the phone number; now he did and what do you know? He can’t find the damn thing.

                    “What a shameful mess that drawer is in,” said Jane. She was seated at the kitchen table, arms folded, shaking her head at him. She looked about twenty today with her dark hair cascading prettily over a lacy pink mini dress.

                    Bob  frowned at her though his heart did a leap. The way it always did when he saw her. “You were the one who kept it clean and you jumped ship.  And I’ve said, can’t you look your age?”

                    “Don’t I look pretty?” She pouted and fluttered long eyelashes at him.

                    “Makes me feel old. And I don’t recognise you like that.”

                    “You are old,” she said as her hair turned white. “And bad-tempered as ever. What are you hunting for?”

                    “The phone number. You know the one he said to call if the box was ever unearthed. Can’t find it anywhere.”

                    “You’d lose your head …”  said Jane as her head lifted off her body.

                    Bob jumped. “Darn it, Jane. I’ve said don’t do that! Why do you always do that and go giving me the heebie jeebies?”

                    “Cos I can, love.” She grinned mischievously before settling her head back on her shoulders. “Just a bit of fun. Now think hard, where else might you have put it? The shoe-box under our bed? The safe in the pantry?”

                    Bob flung a hand to his head. “The shoe-box! That’s where it will be!”

                    Jane grinned. “Well, get a move-along, old man. Before our Clara gets in more deep than what’s good for her. She won’t let it go now she’s found it. Stubborn as a mule my grandchild,” she added proudly.

                    Bob reached a hand to her. “Come with me while I look? I miss you, Jane. You never stay long enough.”

                    “Oh stop with all the sweet talk!” She poked her tongue out at him. “Anyway I’ve told you before, it takes too much energy.” She was fading and Bob felt his chest tighten. “Don’t worry, I’m keeping an eye on you, old man.” She was vibrating air now, sparkly and pink.

                    #6062

                    In reply to: The Pistil Maze

                    AvatarJib
                    Participant

                      The journey to the Pistil itself would have been worth its own story, thought Charlton. They had to avoid road blocks, crowds of chanting christians that had certainly vowed to spread the virus as fast as possible, and howlers who you were never sure weren’t the real thing from Teen Wolf. They had to be, in such a landscape. Once arid, it had turned greener in just a few weeks. Rain was now weekly when drops of water used to only show up with the bottles of water from the tourists.

                      Despite Kady’s advice not to take anything, he’d still brought the book of drawings. Kady had said nothing about the book, nor the clothes, or the snacks. Charlton was sometimes literal about what people told him, but he also knew it. So he didn’t say anything when he saw Kady had her own backpack with clothes, some money and food. During the trip, he tried to reproduce the experience with the drawings and the dreams —but nothing happened. Charlton felt a little disappointed.

                      They saw the pistil long before they arrived at its foot. It was at the end of the day and the sunset was splashing its reds and purples all around it. Charlton had had time to get used to its tall presence in the landscape. Yet, seeing it at a close range from below was a strange experience. Taller than the tallest man-made tower. He wondered what he was supposed to feel in its presence. Awe? Electricity? Enlightenment? Bursts of inspiration? This should at least be a mystical moment, but all he could feel was annoyance at the crowd of people crawling around like aphids avid to suck its sap.

                      Kady looked more annoyed than surprised. She was walking past the flock as if she knew exactly where to go. Charlton followed, feeling dizzy by the sudden increase of activity and smells. He soon got nauseous at the mix of incense and fried sausages.

                      “There are so many of them,” he eventually said. “How come? It was so difficult just for the two of us to avoid police controls. Do we have to wait with them?”

                      “Nah! They’re just the usual bunch of weirdoes,” Kady said. “They’ve been here a long time. I bet some of them aren’t even aware there have been a virus. But stay close. I don’t want to lose you, it’s a maze before the maze. I just need to see someone before we go in.”

                      They walked for about another ten minutes before stopping in front of a big tent. There, a big man with a boxer’s face was repairing all kind of electronics on a table with the application of a surgeon. Phones, cameras, coffee machines… Charlton wondered how they got electricity to make it all work.

                      “Hey, Kady!” said the man. “You’re back. Did you give it to her?” His face looked anxious.

                      “Of course Max! I even got an answer,” Kady said handing him a pink envelope. Max smelled it.

                      “Her favourite perfume,” he said with a broad smile.

                      “I told you she still loves you. I also brought you something else.” Kady dropped a box on the table among the electronics. Charlton didn’t think it could be possible to witness the expression of a ten year old child on such a hard face, but what was inside the box certainly did magic.

                      “You brought chocolate?”

                      “Yep.”

                      “Did you find the chestnut one?”

                      “Yep.”

                      “My favourite,” said Max to Charlton. “Is this your friend?”

                      Max, meet Charlton. Charlton, Max. Listen, we plan on going in tomorrow, but tonight we need a place to get some rest.”

                      “I told you, you’re always welcome. Did you know she saved my life in there?”

                      “Saved your life?” asked Charlton looking hesitantly at Kady. “No, I didn’t know.”

                      #6020

                      In reply to: Story Bored

                      EricEric
                      Keymaster

                        BOARD 9

                        Board 9, Story 1

                        Granola is getting distracted by the shrooms Ailill’s seated on, while he’s waxing wisdom about the merits of transfocal projecting.

                        Becky didn’t plan on the group of Italians boarding her gondola while she was trying to escape Sean and her miserable marital bonds.

                        Madame Chesterhope gets ready for her favorite sport: transdimensional puddle crossing in her refurbished bike. New worlds await!

                        #5988

                        Shawn Paul looked suspiciously at the pictures of the dolls in the Michigan forest on Maeve’s phone. He had heard about the Cottingley Fairies pictures, supposedly taken a long time ago by two little girls. The two little girls came out long after confessing they had staged the whole thing. Some said they had been coerced into it to keep the world from knowing the truth. It could well be the same thing with the whole dollmania, and Shawn Paul thought one was never dubious enough.

                        He noded politely to Maeve and decided to hide his doubts for now. They were resting on sunbeds near the hotel swimming pool.

                        “Do you want another cocktail?” asked a waitress dressed up in the local costume. Not much really, and so close-fitting. She was presenting them with a tray of colourful drinks and a candid smile. Her bosom was on the brink of spilling over the band of cloth she had around her chest. It was decorated with a pair of parrots stretched in such a way their lubricious eyes threatening to pop out at any moment.

                        Shawn Paul, who had the talent to see the odd and misplaced, forced himself to look at the tray and spotted the strangest one. He pushed his glasses back up on his nose and asked without looking at the waitress.

                        “What’s that strange bluish blob under the layers of alcohol and fruits?”

                        Maeve raised one eyebrow and looked at her companion with disapproval, but the waitress answered as if she heard that all the time.

                        “That’s a spoonful of honey from the blue bees. We feed them a special treat and they make us honey with remarkable properties that we have learned to use for the treatments we offer.”

                        “Oh,” said Shawn Paul who did not dare ask more about the treatments.

                        They had arrived to Tikfidjikoo just before the confinement had been declared all over the world, and they had a moment of hesitation to take the last plane with the other tourists and go back safely to Canada. But after the inconclusive adventure in Australia, Maeve had convinced him they had to stay to find out more about the dolls.

                        They had met those three old ladies and one of them had one of the dolls. Sharon, Mavis and Gloria, they were called and they were going to a smaller island of the archipelago, one that was not even on the maps apparently. That should have given them suspicions, but it seemed so important to Maeve that Shawn Paul hadn’t had the heart to leave her alone.

                        “I have a plan,” had said Maeve, “We’re going to follow them, befriend them and learn more about how they came to have the doll and try and get the key that’s inside of it.”

                        “You’re here for the beauty treatment?” had asked the girl at the counter. “You’re lucky, with the confinement a lot of our reservations have been canceled. We have plenty of vacancy and some fantastic deals.”

                        Maeve had enrolled them for a free week treatment before Shawn Paul could say anything. They hadn’t seen the ladies much since they had arrived on the island, and now there were no way in or out of the island. They had been assured they had plenty of food and alcohol and a lot of activities that could be fitted to everyone’s taste.

                        #5670

                        “Crocuses in meadow, Flower, Flower”, was singing Eleri. Humming was more accurate, she didn’t recall much of the lyrics, but the tune was easy to follow. She was quite fond of that popular song and liked to sing it whenever she was going to town in her flower dress floating in the wind. She had thought it nice if Gorrash woke up with a festive atmosphere. It would certainly be a shock already that so much time had passed since he was last awake. She wondered if he would remember anything from his broken time. She hadn’t talked much with him before, especially about his day-slumber time.

                        “Chestnut in the woods”, she continued. Crack, crack made the dry twigs she walked on on purpose. It made her laugh and snort. She liked playing with her environment and made it participate in her own expression, it was like she had many voices and she could hear herself everywhere. She picked up a few chestnuts because she knew Fox was crazy about them. It was a blessing that the enchanted forest would still produce them out of season.

                        When she arrived in town, Eleri didn’t waste time. She wanted costumes and props for the party, so she went directly to the Jiborium’s Emporium where she was sure to find everything she needed, and more. There was a crowd blocking the entrance, but it didn’t deter her from her idea. She elbowed her way up to the door where a man in a wheelchair was complaining about having not enough room to go in. Still in a jolly mood, Eleri found it funny that the man who took so much space with his cumbersome vehicle was asking for more room.

                        “Move already”, she joined her voice to the man’s complaint and managed, Flove knows how to make the crowd part away enough so they could both enter the shop.

                        “Thanks, young lady”, said the grumpy man. “It’s a hassle sometimes you know to move in this town. People with good health they do not realise.”

                        “Oh! I know”, said Eleri. “My ankle just got better, but it was such a pain to move. I would have loved to have a chair like yours to move around, but alas I live in the forest most of the time and I’m not sure the chair would last long in there.”

                        “Oh! but it would! They have the cross-country model here, on the fourth floor. Powered by lightning battery.”

                        “Really?” said Eleri more to herself than for the man. Her mind was already elsewhere. “Thanks!” She kissed the grumpy man on the forehead and left, thinking of costumes and confetti. A cross-country wheelchair would be nice to bring back all of those. They might even need it for Gorrash if he needed recovery time.

                        #5624

                        Finnley

                        It’s a funny thing what tiredness can do to a girl. I could have sworn it was daytime when I knocked on Mr August’s door. Turned out it was nearly midnight and Mr August wasn’t best pleased to see me. Judging by the giggling I could hear and the way he was trying to barricade the door, he already had company. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was a bit of a ladies’ man with his smooth chest and satin bath-robe. (Although, if you ask me, the embroidered dragon down the front is overkill). Mr August snapped at me that I had the job and he’d get the paperwork sorted tomorrow. The mix-up worked out in my favour; he was that keen to get shot of me and back to business.

                        Not knowing what else to do, I made myself a possie under a large desk in the hall and tried to get comfy. Anyway, that’s when the fun really started. The maid, the rude one who took the baby, came tiptoeing out of her room wringing her hands and muttering that she had a doubt. Not long after that, two middle-aged ladies barged in, both off their faces I would say. “I’ll give that maid Alabama if anything has happened to our Barron!” shouted the short one, and they lurched their way into the baby’s room.

                        Good grief.

                        Finally, the maid tiptoed back to her room and the ladies went back to whatever hole they’d crawled from and I hoped that me and the baby would be able to get some sleep at last. Who was I kidding? I nearly managed to drop off when the doorbell rang again. The maid answered it—I’m starting to understand why she is so ill-tempered; she never gets any sleep. This time it’s some crazy looking lady who said she had come to help me! But I’ve never seen her before in my life!

                        Weirdo, right?
                        ,
                        I’m pretty flabbergasted by the lack of security and all the comings and goings. Things are going to be a bit different from now on, I can tell you that right now.

                        #4755

                        “Welcome, Everyone!” said Mater. She had entered unnoticed and was standing in the doorway regarding the assembled group and looking rather more lewd than welcoming. She had worn a pantsuit for the occasion, a relic from the 70’s made of red garbardine. Fortunately, the forgiving nature of garbardine added a little stretch, but even so the cloth clung rather too tightly to Mater’s curves.
                        “Oh, lord love ya! “ said Finly. “Look at you! You’ve not dusted that pantsuit off since you got it out of the chest, have you!” She hit Mater with her duster and a cloud of dust enveloped her.
                        “Way to go, Mater!” said Devan.
                        “What are you doing, crazy old woman?” shrieked Dodo. Unfortunately her mouth was full of bread roll and it sounded more like, “Woowawuooingwazyolewoom?”
                        “She’s aboriginal?” asked Sanso looking at Dodo with interest.
                        Prune snorted. “We aren’t quite sure where she is from but she is an interesting specimen.”
                        “I expect she is rip snorting drunk again,” said Mater after the dust had subsided. “Anyway, I just want to say it is a pleasure to have you all here. I hope you are finding enough to eat. If you need anything, Bert here is your man.”
                        “Thanks ever so much,” said Arona, smiling charmingly and gently wiping the lizard with her paper table napkin before popping it back under her turban.
                        Bert grunted and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We aren’t used to this many folk staying at one time,” he said. “But yeah, welcome all. So, what are you all here for?”
                        “It’s to do with a doll, actually,” said Maeve. Shawn Paul looked at her, impressed with her boldness.
                        “A key,” said Arona, waving the key in the air.
                        Mater stumbled and reached out to the door frame for support.
                        “Bloody hell,” said Bert.

                        #4744

                        In reply to: The Stories So Near

                        EricEric
                        Keymaster

                          Newer developments

                          POP-IN THREAD (Maeve, Lucinda, Shawn-Paul, Jerk, [Granola])

                          Granola is popping in and out of the stories, exploring interacting more physically with her friends through Tiku, a bush lady focus of hers.
                          Luckily (not so coincidentally) Maeve and Shawn-Paul were given coupons to travel from their rural Canada town to the middle of Australia. Maeve is suspicious of being followed by a strange man, and tags along with Shawn-Paul to keep a cover of a young couple. Maeve is trying to find the key to the doll that she made in her secret mission for Uncle Fergus, which has suddenly reappeared at her friend Lucinda’s place. She’ll probably is going to have to check on the other dolls that she made as well.
                          Jerk continues to administrate some forum where among other things, special dolls are found and exchanged, and he moderates some strange messages.
                          Lucinda is enjoying Fabio’s company, Maeve’s dog, that she has in her care while Maeve is travelling.

                          FLYING FISH INN THREAD (Mater/Finly, Idle/Coriander/Clove, Devan, Prune, [Tiku])

                          The mysteries of the Flying Fish Inn seem to unravel slowly, like Idle’s wits.
                          Long time family member are being drawn inexplicably, such as Prune and brother Devan. The local bush lady Tiku is helping Finly with the catering, although Finly would rather do everything by herself. The totemic Fish was revealed to be a talisman placed here against bad luck – “for all the good it did” (Mater).
                          Bert, thought to be an old flame of Mater, who’s acted for the longest time as gardener, handyman and the likes, is revealed to be the father of Prune, Devan, Coriander and Clove’s mother. Mater knew of course and kept him around. He was trained in codes during his time with the military, and has a stash of potentially dangerous books. He may be the key to the mystery of the underground tunnels leading to the mines, and hidden chests of gold. Devan is onto a mystery that a guy on a motorbike (thought to be Uncle Fergus of Maeve’s story) told him about.

                          DOLINE THREAD (Arona, Sanso/Lottie, Ugo, Albie)

                          Mandrake & Albie after a trip in the bayou, and looking for the dragon Leormn’s pearls and the sabulmantium, have finally found Arona after they have emerged from the interdimentional water network from the Doline, to the coast of Australia in our reality, where cats don’t usually talk.
                          Albie is expecting a quest, while the others are just following Arona’s lead, as she is in possession of a mysterious key with 3 words engraved.
                          After some traveling in hot air balloon, and with a local jeep, they have arrived at a local Inn in the bush, with a rather peculiar family of owners, and quite colorful roster of guests. That’s not even counting the all-you-can-eat lizard meat buffet. What joy.

                          NEWSREEL THREAD (Ms Bossy, Hilda/Connie, Sophie, Ricardo)

                          Ms Bossy is looking to uncover the Doctor’s surely nefarious plans while her newspaper business isn’t doing so well. She’s got some help from Ricardo the intern. They have found out that the elderly temp worker who’s fascinated by the future, Sophie (aka Sweet Sophie) had been the first subject of the Doctor’s experiments. Sophie has been trying to uncover clues in the dreams, but it’s just likely she is still a sleeper agent of the Doctor.
                          Despite all common sense and SMS threats, Hilda & Connie have gone in Australia to chase a trail (from a flimsy tip-off from Superjerk that may have gone to Lucinda to her friend journalist). They are in touch with Lucinda, and post their updates on social media, flirting with the risk of being uncovered and having trouble come at their door.
                          Sha, Glo and Mavis are considering reaching out for a vacation of the nursing home to get new free beauty treatments.
                          In his secret lair, the Doctor is reviving his team of brazen teafing operatives: the magpies.

                          LIZ THREAD (Finnley, Liz, Roberto, Godfrey)

                          Not much happened as usual, mostly an entertaining night with Inspector Melon who is quizzing Liz’ about her last novel about mysterious messages hidden in dolls with secret keys, which may be her best novel yet…

                          DRAGON 💚 WOOD THREAD (Glynnis, Eleri, Fox/Gorrash, Rukshan)

                          Before Rukshan goes to the underworld land of Giants, he’s going to the cottage to gather some of his team of friends, Fox, Ollie etc. Glynis is taking care of Tak during Margoritt’s winter time in the city. Margoritt’s sister, Muriel is an uninvited and unpleasant guest at the cottage.
                          Tak is making friends with a young girl who may have special powers (Nesy).
                          The biggest mystery now is… is the loo going to get fixed in time?

                          #4694

                          But Arona wasn’t quite ready to trek. On a pretense of tying her boot laces, she was trying to conceal laughter.
                          “What’s that, Milord?” she snorted, “What is this quest of which you speak?”
                          Mandrake’s tail shuddered in annoyance.
                          “Do grow up, Arona!” said Mandrake. “We have only a few days and precious little progress has been made.”
                          “I thought we had made excellent progress,” said Arona, deflated. “I mean, I found you, didn’t I?”
                          “Well, technically it was me who found him,” said Sanso, puffing his chest out proudly. “Oh yes, you didn’t know that, did you! I was exerting my influence on the moon and the stars to guide us in the right direction.”
                          “My word,” said Mandrake and Arona grimaced at him. “See what I mean!” she hissed.
                          “The quest,” said Sanso, “is quite simple. We have a key and we need to find the door which it opens. And I suggest we make haste to the flying fish Inn where we will find said door.”

                          #4692

                          BERT:

                          The old secrets are going to get me in the end. But you know what, it’s still better than choking on the goddamn lizard’s stew.

                          I tried to protect the family from all the bloody secrets, but they’re working against me, Dodo for one, who doesn’t like secrets, the sweet twat. Time is against me too.

                          Of course I didn’t want to sell the Inn, even if it wasn’t for what’s hidden there, and all the secret entrances to the old mines, it was still Abby’s legacy. Her mother had to endure that sorry abusive husband of hers for years, it’s only fair she got something in return. The bastard didn’t know it, but the best thing in his life, his daughter Abscynthia wasn’t even his, she was mine. In the end, I’m glad she buggered off this town, her so-called “disparition” that made everyone run in circles for months. For her own sake, wherever she is now, she was better off.
                          Only probably Mater knows now about our crazy ties, and she’ll take this secret to her grave I’m sure. But I still want to take care of my grand children, the little buggers. Even had founded that smartass Prune for her dreams of university. Good for her.

                          All those sudden booking at the Inn? Don’t trust ‘em. Be here for the spiritual voodoo is one thing, but me, can’t fool me with that. The package, it never arrived. I’m sure it’s no coincidence, they’re onto us.

                          And they’re here for one thing.

                          The chests of gold.

                          #4626
                          AvatarJib
                          Participant

                            Shawn Paul had decided that this particular day was dedicated to his writing. He had warned his friends not to call him and put his phone on silent mode. It was 9am and he had a long day of writing ahead of him.
                            He almost felt the electricity in his fingers as he touched the keyboard of his laptop. He imagined himself as a pianist of words preparing himself before a concert in front of the crowd of his future readers.
                            Shawn Paul pushed away the voice of his mother telling him with an irritating voice that he had the attention span of a shrimp in a whirlpool during a storm, which the boy had never truely understood, but today he was willing not to even let his inner voices distract him. He breathed deeply three times as he had learned last week-end during a workshop, and imagined his mother’s voice as a slimy slug that he could put away in a box with a seal into a chest with chains and lots of locks, that he buried in the deepest trench of the Pacific ocean. He was a writer and had a vivid imagination after all, why not use it to his benefit.
                            A smile of satisfaction wavered on the corner of his mouth while a drop of sweat slowly made its way to the corner of his left eye. He blinked and the doorbell rang.
                            Shawn Paul’s fragile smile transformed into a fixed grin ready to break down. Someone was laughing, and when the bell rang a second time, Shawn Paul realised it was his own contained hysterical laugh.

                            He breathed in deeply at his desk and got up too quickly, bumping his knee in one corner.
                            Ouch! he cried silently.
                            It would not take long he reminded himself, limping to the door.
                            What could it be ? The postman ?

                            Shawn Paul opened the door. An old man he had never seen, was standing there with a packet in his hands. If he was not the postman, at least you had the packet right said a voice in Shawn Paul’s head.
                            The old man opened his mouth, certainly to speak, but instead started to cough as if he was about to snuff it. It lasted some time and Shawn Paul repulsed by the loose cough retreated a bit into his flat. It was his old fear of contagion creeping out again. He berated himself he should not feel that way and he should show compassion, but at least if the old man could stop, it would be easier.

                            “For you!” said the old man when his cough finally stopped. He put the packet in Shawn Paul’s hands and left without another word.

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