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  • #7931

    Carob wrinkled her nose in distaste and languidly remarked, “Amy, that goaty odour seems to be emanating from your clothing. Does it perchance require laundering?”

    Chico laughed loudly, spitting equally audibly. “Hi,” he said, “The name’s Chico,” emerging from behind the tulip tree.

    Carob winced at the spitting, and Amy writhed a little at being humiliated in front of the man. They both ignored him, and he regretted not staying hidden.

    “I’ve just pegged out two loads of washing, for your information, not that it will dry in this rain,” Amy said, quickly tying her hair back in annoyance. Does this move the story forward? she wondered. Why do I have a smelly character anyway? I’m sweaty, goaty and insecure, how did it happen?

    “Never mind that anyway, have you seen what’s on todays news?” Carob asked, feeling sorry for making Amy uncomfortable.

    “I have,” remarked Chico, with a hopeful expression, but the women ignored him.

    #7927
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      Thiram Izu

       

      Thiram Izu – The Bookish Tinkerer with Tired Eyes

      Explicit Description

      • Age: Mid-30s

      • Heritage: Half-Japanese, half-Colombian

      • Face: Calm but slightly worn—reflecting quiet resilience and perceptiveness.

      • Hair: Short, tousled dark hair

      • Eyes: Observant, introspective; wears round black-framed glasses

      • Clothing (standard look):

        • Olive-green utilitarian overshirt or field jacket

        • Neutral-toned T-shirt beneath

        • Crossbody strap (for a toolkit or device bag)

        • Simple belt, jeans—functional, not stylish

      • Technology: Regularly uses a homemade device, possibly a patchwork blend of analog and AI circuitry.

      • Name Association: Jokes about being named after a fungicide (Thiram), referencing “brothers” Malathion and Glyphosate.


      Inferred Personality & Manner

      • Temperament: Steady but simmering—he tries to be the voice of reason, but often ends up exasperated or ignored.

      • Mindset: Driven by a need for internal logic and external systems—he’s a fixer, not a dreamer (yet paradoxically surrounded by dreamers).

      • Social Role: The least performative of the group. He’s neither aloof nor flamboyant, but remains essential—a grounded presence.

      • Habits:

        • Zones out under stress or when overstimulated by dream-logic.

        • Blinks repeatedly to test for lucid dream states.

        • Carries small parts or tools in pockets—likely fidgets with springs or wires during conversations.

      • Dialogue Style: Deadpan, dry, occasionally mutters tech references or sarcastic analogies.

      • Emotional Core: Possibly a romantic or idealist in denial—hidden under his annoyance and muttered diagnostics.


      Function in the Group

      • Navigator of Reality – He’s the one most likely to point out when the laws of physics are breaking… and then sigh and fix it.

      • Connector of Worlds – Bridges raw tech with dream-invasion mechanisms, perhaps more than he realizes.

      • Moral Compass (reluctantly) – Might object to sabotage-for-sabotage’s-sake; he values intent.

      #7923
      Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
      Participant

        Amy & Carob

        Amy Kawanhouse

        Directly Stated Visual Traits:

        • Hair: Long, light brown

        • Eyes: Hazel, often sweaty or affected by heat/rain

        • Clothing: Old grey sweatshirt with pushed-up sleeves

        • Body: Short and thin, with shapely legs in denim

        • Style impression: Understated and practical, slightly tomboyish, no-frills but with a hint of self-aware physicality

        Inferred From Behavior:

        • Functional but stylish in a low-maintenance way.

        • Comfortable with being dirty or goat-adjacent.

        • Probably ties her hair back when annoyed.


        Carob Latte

        Directly Stated Visual Traits:

        • Height: Tall (Amy refers to her as “looming”)

        • Hair: Frizzled—possibly curly or electrified, chaotic in texture

        • General Look: Disheveled but composed; possibly wears layered or unusual clothing (fitting her dreamy reversal quirks)

        Inferred From Behavior:

        • Movements are languid or deliberately unhurried.

        • Likely wears things with big pockets or flowing elements—goat-compatible.

        • There’s an aesthetic at play: eccentric wilderness mystic or mad cartographer.

        #7848
        Jib
        Participant

          Helix 25 – Murder Board – Evie’s apartment

          The ship had gone mad.

          Riven Holt stood in what should have been a secured crime scene, staring at the makeshift banner that had replaced his official security tape. “ENTER FREELY AND OF YOUR OWN WILL,” it read, in bold, uneven letters. The edges were charred. Someone had burned it, for reasons he would never understand.

          Behind him, the faint sounds of mass lunacy echoed through the corridors. People chanting, people sobbing, someone loudly trying to bargain with gravity.

          “Sir, the floors are not real! We’ve all been walking on a lie!” someone had screamed earlier, right before diving headfirst into a pile of chairs left there by someone trying to create a portal.

          Riven did his best to ignore the chaos, gripping his tablet like it was the last anchor to reality. He had two dead bodies. He had one ship full of increasingly unhinged people. And he had forty hours without sleep. His brain felt like a dried-out husk, working purely on stubbornness and caffeine fumes.

          Evie was crouched over Mandrake’s remains, muttering to herself as she sorted through digital records. TP stood nearby, his holographic form flickering as if he, too, were being affected by the ship’s collective insanity.

          “Well,” TP mused, rubbing his nonexistent chin. “This is quite the predicament.”

          Riven pinched the bridge of his nose. “TP, if you say anything remotely poetic about the human condition, I will unplug your entire database.”

          TP looked delighted. “Ah, my dear lieutenant, a threat worthy of true desperation!”

          Evie ignored them both, then suddenly stiffened. “Riven, I… you need to see this.”

          He braced himself. “What now?”

          She turned the screen toward him. Two names appeared side by side:

          ETHAN MARLOWE

          MANDRAKE

          Both M.

          The sound that came out of Riven was not quite a word. More like a dying engine trying to restart.

          TP gasped dramatically. “My stars. The letter M! The implications are—”

          “No.” Riven put up a hand, one tremor away from screaming. “We are NOT doing this. I am not letting my brain spiral into a letter-based conspiracy theory while people outside are rolling in protein paste and reciting odes to Jupiter’s moons.”

          Evie, far too calm for his liking, just tapped the screen again. “It’s a pattern. We have to consider it.”

          TP nodded sagely. “Indeed. The letter M—known throughout history as a mark of mystery, malice, and… wait, let me check… ah, macaroni.”

          Riven was going to have an aneurysm.

          Instead, he exhaled slowly, like a man trying to keep the last shreds of his soul from unraveling.

          “That means the Lexicans are involved.”

          Evie paled. “Oh no.”

          TP beamed. “Oh yes!”

          The Lexicans had been especially unpredictable lately. One had been caught trying to record the “song of the walls” because “they hum with forgotten words.” Another had attempted to marry the ship’s AI. A third had been detained for throwing their own clothing into the air vents because “the whispers demanded tribute.”

          Riven leaned against the console, feeling his mind slipping. He needed a reality check. A hard, cold, undeniable fact.

          Only one person could give him that.

          “You know what? Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s just ask the one person who might actually be able to tell me if this is a coincidence or some ancient space cult.”

          Evie frowned. “Who?”

          Riven was already walking. “My grandfather.”

          Evie practically choked. “Wait, WHAT?!”

          TP clapped his hands. “Ah, the classic ‘Wake the Old Man to Solve the Crimes’ maneuver. Love it.”

          The corridors were worse than before. As they made their way toward cryo-storage, the lunacy had escalated:

          A crowd was parading down the halls with helium balloons, chanting, “Gravity is a Lie!”
          A group of engineers had dismantled a security door, claiming “it whispered to them about betrayal.”
          And a bunch of Lexicans, led by Kio’ath, had smeared stinking protein paste onto the Atrium walls, drawing spirals and claiming the prophecy was upon them all.
          Riven’s grip on reality was thin.

          Evie grabbed his arm. “Think about this. What if your grandfather wakes up and he’s just as insane as everyone else?”

          Riven didn’t even break stride. “Then at least we’ll be insane with more context.”

          TP sighed happily. “Ah, reckless decision-making. The very heart of detective work.”

          Helix 25 — Victor Holt’s Awakening

          They reached the cryo-chamber. The pod loomed before them, controls locked down under layers of security.

          Riven cracked his knuckles, eyes burning with the desperation of a man who had officially run out of better options.

          Evie stared. “You’re actually doing this.”

          He was already punching in override codes. “Damn right I am.”

          The door opened. A low hum filled the room. The first thing Riven noticed was the frost still clinging to the edges of an already open cryopod. Cold vapor curled around its base, its occupant nowhere to be seen.

          His stomach clenched. Someone had beaten them here. Another pod’s systems activated. The glass began to fog as temperature levels shifted.

          TP leaned in. “Oh, this is going to be deliciously catastrophic.”

          Before the pod could fully engage, a flicker of movement in the dim light caught Riven’s eye. Near the terminal, hunched over the access panel like a gang of thieves cracking a vault, stood Zoya Kade and Anuí Naskó—and, a baby wrapped in what could only be described as an aggressively overdesigned Lexican tapestry, layers of embroidered symbols and unreadable glyphs woven in mismatched patterns. It was sucking desperately the lexican’s sleeve.

          Riven’s exhaustion turned into a slow, rising fury. For a brief moment, his mind was distracted by something he had never actually considered before—he had always assumed Anuí was a woman. The flowing robes, the mannerisms, the way they carried themselves. But now, cradling the notorious Lexican baby in ceremonial cloth, could they possibly be…

          Anuí caught his look and smiled faintly, unreadable as ever. “This has nothing to do with gender,” they said smoothly, shifting the baby with practiced ease. “I merely am the second father of the child.”

          “Oh, for f***—What in the hell are you two doing here?”

          Anuí barely glanced up, shifting the baby to their other arm as though hacking into a classified cryo-storage facility while holding an infant was a perfectly normal occurrence. “Unlocking the axis of the spiral,” they said smoothly. “It was prophesied. The Speaker’s name has been revealed.”

          Zoya, still pressing at the panel, didn’t even look at him. “We need to wake Victor Holt.”

          Riven threw his hands in the air. “Great! Fantastic! So do we! The difference is that I actually have a reason.”

          Anuí, eyes glinting with something between mischief and intellect, gave an elegant nod. “So do we, Lieutenant. Yours is a crime scene. Ours is history itself.”

          Riven felt his headache spike. “Oh good. You’ve been licking the walls again.”

          TP, absolutely delighted, interjected, “Oh, I like them. Their madness is methodical!”

          Riven narrowed his eyes, pointing at the empty pod. “Who the hell did you wake up?”

          Zoya didn’t flinch. “We don’t know.”

          He barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, you don’t know? You cracked into a classified cryo-storage facility, activated a pod, and just—what? Didn’t bother to check who was inside?”

          Anuí adjusted the baby, watching him with that same unsettling, too-knowing expression. “It was not part of the prophecy. We were guided here for Victor Holt.”

          “And yet someone else woke up first!” Riven gestured wildly to the empty pod. “So, unless the prophecy also mentioned mystery corpses walking out of deep freeze, I suggest you start making sense.”

          Before Riven could launch into a proper interrogation, the cryo-system let out a deep hiss.

          Steam coiled up from Victor Holt’s pod as the seals finally unlocked, fog spilling over the edges like something out of an ancient myth. A figure was stirring within, movements sluggish, muscles regaining function after years in suspension.

          And then, from the doorway, another voice rang out, sharp, almost panicked.

          Ellis Marlowe stood at the threshold, looking at the two open pods, his eyes wide with something between shock and horror.

          “What have you done?”

          Riven braced himself.

          Evie muttered, “Oh, this is gonna be bad.”

          #7636
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            It was cold in Kent, much colder than Elara was used to at home in the Tuscan olive groves, but Mrs Lovejoy kept the guest house warm enough. On site at Samphire Hoe was another matter, the wind off the sea biting into her despite the many layers of clothing.  It had been Florian’s idea to take the Mongolian hat with her.  Laughing, she’d replied that it might come in handy if there was a costume party. Trust me, you’re going to need it, he’d said, and he was right.  It had been a present from Amei, many years ago, but Elara had barely worn it.  It wasn’t often that she found herself in a place cold enough to warrant it.

            In a fortuitous twist of fate, Florian had asked if he could come and stay with her for awhile to find his feet after the tumultuous end of a disastrous relationship.  It came at a time when Elara was starting to realise that there was too much work for her alone keeping the old farmhouse in order.  Everyone wants to retire to the country but nobody thinks of all the work involved, at an age when one prefers to potter about, read books, and take naps.

            Florian was a long lost (or more correctly never known) distant relative, a seventh cousin four times removed on her paternal side.  They had come into contact while researching the family, comparing notes and photographs and family anecdotes.  They became friends, finding they had much in common, and Elara was pleased to have him come to stay with her. Likewise, Florian was more than willing to help around the beautiful old place, and found it conducive to his writing.  He spent the mornings gardening, decorating or running errands, and the afternoons tapping away at the novel he’d been inspired to start, sitting at the old desk in front of the French windows.

            If it hadn’t been for Florian, Elara wouldn’t have accepted the invitation to join the chalk project. He had settled in so well, already had a working grasp of Italian, and got on well with her neighbours. She could leave him to look after everything and not worry about a thing.

            Pulling the hat down over her ears, Elara ventured out into the early November chill.  Mrs Lovejoy was coming up the path to the guesthouse, having been out to the corner shop. “I say, that’s a fine hat you have there, that’ll keep your cockles warm!”  Mrs Lovejoy was bareheaded, wearing only a cardigan.

            “It was a gift,” Elara told her, “I haven’t worn it much.  A friend bought it for me years ago when we were in Mongolia.”

            “Very nice, I’m sure,” replied the landlady, trying to remember where Mongolia was.

            “Yes, she was nice,” Elara said wistfully. “We lost contact somehow.”

            “Ah yes, well these things happen,” Mrs Lovejoy said. “People come into your life and then they go.  Like my Bert…”

            “Must go or I’ll be late!” Elara had already heard all about Bert a number of times.

            #7623

            At the Café

            The Sarah Bernardt Café shimmered under a pale grey November sky a busy last Saturday of the “Black Week”. Golden lights spilled onto cobblestones slick with rain, and the air buzzed with the din of a city alive in the moment. Inside, the crowd pressed together, laughing, arguing, living. And in a corner table by the fogged-up window, old friends were about to quietly converged, coming to a long overdue reunion.

            Lucien was the first to arrive, dragging a weathered suitcase behind him. Its wheels rattled unevenly on the cobblestones, a sound he hated. His dark curls, damp from the rain, clung to his forehead, and his scarf, streaked with old paint, hung loose around his neck. He folded himself into a corner chair, his suitcase tucked awkwardly beside him. When the server approached, Lucien waved him off with a distracted shake of his head and opened a battered sketchbook.

            The next arrival was Elara. She entered briskly, shaking rain from her short gray-streaked hair, her eyes scanning the room as though searching for anomalies. A small roller bag trailed behind her, pristine and black, a sharp contrast to Lucien’s worn luggage. She stopped at the table and tilted her head.

            “Still brooding?” she asked, pulling off her coat and folding it neatly over the back of a chair.

            “Still talking?” Lucien didn’t look up, his pencil scratching faint lines across the page.

            Elara smiled faintly. “Two minutes in, and you’re already immortalizing us? You know I hate being drawn.”

            “You hate being caught off guard,” Lucien murmured. “But I never get your nose wrong.”

            She laughed, the sound light but brief, and sank into her seat, placing her bag carefully beside her.

            The door swung open again, and Darius entered, shaking the rain from his jacket. His presence seemed to fill the room immediately. He strode toward the table, a leather duffel slung over one shoulder and a well-worn travel pouch clutched in his hand. His boots clacked against the café’s tile floor, his movements easy, confident.

            “Did you walk here?” Elara asked as he dropped his things with a thud and pulled out a chair.

            “Ran into someone on the way,” he said, settling back. “Some guy selling maps. Got this one for ten euros—worth every cent.” He waved a yellowed scrap of paper that looked more fiction than cartography.

            Lucien snorted. “Still paying for strangers’ stories, I see.”

            “The good ones aren’t free.” Darius grinned and leaned back in his chair, propping one boot against the table leg.

            The final arrival was Amei. Her entrance was quieter but no less noticeable. She unwound her scarf slowly, her layered clothing a mix of textures and colors that seemed to absorb the café’s golden light. A tote bag rested over her shoulder, bulging with what could have been books, or journals, or stories yet untold.

            “You’re late,” Darius said, but his voice carried no accusation.

            “Right on time,” Amei replied, lowering herself into the last chair. “You’re all just early.”

            Her gaze swept across them, lingering on the bags piled at their feet. “I see I’m not the only one who came a long way.”

            “Not all of us live in Paris,” Elara said, with a glance at Lucien.

            “Only some of us make better life choices,” Lucien replied dryly.

            The comment drew laughter—a tentative sound that loosened the air between them, thick as it was with five years of absence.

             

            :fleuron2:

            #7591

            Eris had called in sick. Even with the worst case of cold she’s had in years, she was feeling well enough to do jinx-from-home duties, and while her brain was in slow motion, she was relishing the quiet from the daily nagging of processes at the Quadrivium’s office, paperwork, tedious explaining to new hires in the ever growing coven extensions.

            When Jeezel called her at the end of the day, she was glad to learn that Truella had found courage to stand up for them. Jeezel had such a colorful way of describing events, and in describing that particular scene where Truella had made her stand, it was always difficult to extract the truth from the makeup.

            “You’re not really paying attention, are you?” Jeezel, ever astute to where attention was, quizzed her.

            “What made you say that?” Eris didn’t try to deny.

            “Oh I guess, when I started to speak about the camels in knickers going for a bath in the ball pit from all the dropped balls this year.”

            “Ah, right. That would do.”

            “Tell me, anything troubling you, luv’? You know you can tell me things.”

            After a little moment, Eris said “Well, it’s just a thought,… but what if I’m in need of change of path?”

            “What do you mean?” Jeezel tried to not sound too alarmed. “Not being a witch anymore?”

            “Oh, no. Well,… why not, there’s no shame in no magic —but no. More like…”

            “What? Quitting the coven?”

            “… Yeah. It’s gone to madder and madder, it’s so hard to keep track with all the nonsense.” Eris corrected seeing the face of Jeezel. “Not that nonsense. You know what I mean… the daily nonsense. Our nonsense is fine. More than fine actually.”

            “Phew, you had me worried though. Although…”

            “I know… Quitting the coven.”

            “You could be stripped of magic, if Malové learns about this…” then with more concern in her voice “WE could all be stripped of magic.”

            “Yeah, I know. But look, is that what makes us happy?”

            “It certainly foots the bill —or more like magically takes care of the bills.”

            “Like I said, Jeez’, it’s just a thought, nothing to worry about, actually it helped to get it out.”

            “I think it’s more than a thought.” Jeezel said with an air of age-old wisdom. “Let’s see where this leads. Imagine that…”

            “Yeah, we’ll see. Thanks for checking in, it’s nice for a change. I don’t know what’s got into the other two these days, they’re always talking about clothing.”

            “Yeah, I know. And pjs’.”

            “Go figure.”

            #7476
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              Penelope Pomfrett: Let’s start with Penelope, shall we? She’s a statuesque woman with a sharp, angular face that could cut through butter – not unlike an Egon Schiele painting, if you’re familiar. Her hair’s a spun silver waterfall, always meticulously pinned up but with just a touch of wildness trying to escape, like she’s taming a tempest on top of her head. Her eyes are a piercing cerulean blue, always calculating, always observing; she’s the type who looks right through you and into your deepest secrets.

              Personality-wise, Penelope’s got the demeanor of a headmistress crossed with a lioness. She’s precise, a bit of a perfectionist, never suffers fools gladly. But beneath that stern exterior, she’s got a heart of gold, especially when it comes to her coven sisters. Stern loyalty and high standards, that’s her in a nutshell. And she’s got this dry wit that’ll catch you off guard and have you chuckling before you know it.

              Sandra Salt: Now Sandra, she’s a different kettle of fish altogether. Think earthy, grounded; she’s got that warm, approachable vibe that’s almost tangible. Picture her with curly auburn hair, always escaping its braids to frame her face in a halo of fiery ringlets. She’s got freckles smattered across her sun-kissed cheeks and a smile that feels like coming home after a long journey. Eyes? Warm hazel, like caramel with a hint of green, always twinkling with some hidden mischief or gentle wisdom.

              Sandra’s personality is as grounded as the soil she loves to dig her fingers into; she’s the heart and soul of the crew, with an infectious laugh that could light up the darkest of days. She’s nurturing, perceptive, and has an uncanny knack for making everyone feel at ease. But don’t mistake her kindness for softness – she’s got a spine of steel and can summon a fierce storm if she’s wronged.

              Audrey Ambrose: Now, dear Audrey, she’s a bit of a mysterious beauty. Think raven-black hair that falls in silky waves down her back, always perfectly styled without a hair out of place. She’s got porcelain skin, smooth and almost ethereal, like moonlight itself took her under its wing. Her eyes are a deep, striking emerald, always seeming to know more than she lets on. Add to that a penchant for elegant, vintage clothing, and you’ve got yourself a picture of classic, timeless beauty.

              In terms of personality, Audrey’s a quiet storm. She’s enigmatic, often found lost in thought, with a deep, contemplative nature. While she may come off as aloof, she’s deeply empathetic and has an old-soul wisdom that guides her every action. She’s the sort you turn to when you need profound insight or a steady hand in times of chaos. And that wit – it’s as sharp as her fashion sense, subtle, and spot-on.

              Sassafras Bentley: Lastly, let’s paint a picture of Sassafras. She’s vibrant and flamboyant, tall, thin and athletic, with hair dyed in shades of a peacock’s feathers – blues, greens, purples – ever changing with her whims. Her outfits are always eclectic and bold, but practical. She’s got a long hatchet face, and eyes that are a sparking topaz, full of zest and life ~ and secret undercurrents.

              Sassafras is the party animal of the lot, always bringing fun and chaos in equal measure. She’s got a joie de vivre that’s downright infectious, a real firecracker with boundless energy. Her natural charisma draws people in, and her laugh – oh, her laugh! – it’s the kind of sound that warms the soul and invites everyone to join in her revelries, unless she’s being rude, aloof and secretive. Underneath all that sparkle, though, she’s fiercely protective of those she loves and more insightful than she lets on.

              #7446

              Once upon a time, there was a shiftless lazy tart called Frella who couldn’t be bothered to write her own diary, so she asked me, Truella, to do it for her. She was going away on holiday, which she agreed would be a nice rest, but the preliminary preparations such as packing a suitcase were daunting.  It’s a funny thing how witches, accustomed to concocting spells to save the world, rarely remembered to make a spell for themselves to accomplish the more mundane aspects of life, preferring to wallow in the slimy bog of exhaustion while the chores piled up into insurmoutable promontories of little historic acclaim.  Weighed down with the rucksack of needy plants wanting water, decomposing salad and rotten tomatoes requiring assistance to the recycling arrangement, nearly empty (but not quite) bottles of assorted daily hygiene products to keep hair, skin and unmentionable areas sweetly scented,  best bra and knickers requiring laundering, matching socks and assorted garments to cover all possible weather conditions, a selection of energy boosting vitamins and minerals, a magic stone or two just in case, and remedies for possible holiday ailments,  Frella wasted her precious time looking at old drawings and talking about books instead of attending to the things that must be done.

              Frella did agree to send hand drawn postcards every day while she was away, while she was relaxing and swanning around at one of the homes in her extensive property portfolio, so all was not lost. That she may be doing this in mismatched socks, climate inappropriate clothing, less than sweetly scented unmentionable areas, and lacking essential energy boosting vitamin intake, was of no concern to the potential recipient.

              #6540

              In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                Update & clarifications on the characters:

                Looking at the avatars that Zara, Youssef, Xavier and Yasmin are using in VR.

                Full name or real name in RL :: name in VR (@nickhandle) description of avatar.

                • Zara Patara-Smythe :: Zara (@zaraloon) is a 25-year-old woman of mixed heritage, her mother is Indian and her father is British. She has long, dark hair that she keeps in a sleek ponytail, dark brown eyes and a sharp jawline. She stands at 5’6″ and has a toned and athletic build. She usually wears practical clothing that allows her to move around easily, such as cargo pants and a tank top.
                • Xavier Olafsson :: Xavier (@xavimunk) is a 27-year-old man of Norwegian and Danish descent. He has blonde hair that he keeps in a messy style, blue eyes, and a charming smile. He stands at 6’1″ and has a lean build. He is always seen wearing a colorful and bold clothing, such as a Hawaiian shirt and shorts.
                • Yasmin Ahmed :: Yasmin (@yasminowl) is a 23-year-old woman of Egyptian descent. She has long, black hair that she keeps in a tight braid, dark brown eyes and a round face. She stands at 5’4″ and has a petite build. She usually wears conservative clothing, such as long skirts and blouses.
                • Youssef Ali :: Youssef (@youssefbear) is a 26-year-old man of half Yemeni, half Norwegian descent. He has short, curly black hair, dark brown eyes and a square jawline. He stands at 6’2″ and has a muscular build. He usually wears comfortable clothing such as a t-shirt and jeans, and always has a backpack on his shoulder.

                Full descriptions for real-life Zara, Yasmin, Youssef, Xavier:

                Real Life Zara Patara-Smythe :: Zara is a 57-year-old woman who is an adventurous traveler and a passionate hobbyist. She has a full mane of gorgeous auburn hair that she keeps in a sleek ponytail, sparkling green eyes, and a warm smile that puts others at ease. She is of mixed heritage, her mother was Indian and her father was British. She is well-educated and well-off, either through an inheritance or a supportive and understanding husband. Zara is a lover of art, music, and history, and spends much of her time indulging in her passions. She is always eager to explore new places and meet new people, and her adventurous spirit often leads her to travel off the beaten path.

                Real Life Yasmin Ahmed :: Yasmin is a 32-year-old woman who is kind, nurturing, and always puts others first. She has long, black hair that she keeps in a tight braid, almond-shaped brown eyes, and a warm smile that lights up a room. Born in Egypt, she grew up in a close-knit family and values the importance of community. She is a talented actress, who has kept her career a secret from those closest to her, in order to pursue a more fulfilling life working with children. Yasmin currently volunteers at an orphanage in Fiji, where she devotes herself to helping children in need.

                Real Life Youssef Ali :: Youssef is a 34-year-old man who is driven, confident, and always up for a challenge. He has short, curly black hair, dark brown eyes, and a square jawline that gives him a strong and determined look. Born to a Yemeni father and a Norwegian mother, he has a unique blend of cultures that has shaped his world view. Youssef is a talented blogger, who has traveled the world in search of new and interesting stories to share with his audience. He is always on the go, with a backpack on his shoulder, ready for his next adventure.

                Real Life Xavier Olafsson :: Xavier is a 36-year-old man who is bright, cheerful, and always looking for the positive in every situation. He has blonde hair that he keeps in a messy style, blue eyes, and a charming smile that never fails to win people over. Born to Norwegian and Danish parents, he has a love for the sea and an appreciation for the finer things in life. Xavier is an AI developer, who is working on a project he calls AL. He is always eager to share his ideas with others and is constantly seeking new and exciting opportunities.

                #6521

                In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

                The package in her hands was from Fred and, now she was at the airport, Yasmin was seriously contemplating whether to chuck it in the nearest bin. She hadn’t wanted to take the damn thing in the first place. It was hard to say no to Sister Aliti.

                Fred asked could you please take it to the Fish Inn, or something like that.” Sister Aliti had beamed at her. She was holding out a thin parcel wrapped in brown paper and securely fastened with a whole lot of masking tape.

                “But how did he know I was going there?” Yasmin had sounded more sharp than she’d intended but she hadn’t really warmed to Fred. He made her nervous.

                “You didn’t tell him?” Sister Aliti shrugged. “I didn’t tell him. Perhaps it was Sister Finli … She took the van with him yesterday.” She’d looked intently at Yasmin. “Oh dear, was it private?”

                Yasmin felt foolish. “Oh, no, of course it wasn’t and it doesn’t matter ….  I was just surprised.” She’d peered at the red biro scrawled on the paper wrapping. “I wonder who is … Mater?”

                “He said it was a distant relation! Isn’t it just so wonderful he can reconnect through you! God works in mysterious ways indeed!”

                Of course it had been Sister Finli who had told Fred. Prying busybody. Yasmin had caught her in her room a couple of days ago. Sister Finli had her back to the door and was bent over Yasmin’s desk.  She’d jumped and swung round at Yasmin’s, “Hello?”

                “It’s a pig sty in here,” she’d hissed, jabbing a sharp finger towards Yasmin. Then her mouth curled into a smile. “I just came in to tell you you are needed in the recreation room to look after the children but was distracted by this …” She’d slid her eyes around the room and shuddered. Yasmin followed her gaze. She’d left a few items of clothing in neat piles on the bed because she was packing but everything else looked in order. After Sister Finli had flounced out of the room, Yasmin noticed her itinerary was lying open on the desk.

                But why tell Fred?

                She’d messaged Zara. Do you think I should I open the package? And couldn’t he just post it? 

                LOL, Zara messaged back. Yes open it! It’s drugs. Obv. Oh and more to the point, you are way behind the rest of us in the game. So use your flight time wisely! 

                #6423

                In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  Zara’s first quest:

                  entry level quirk: wandering off the track

                  The initial setting for this quest is a dense forest, where the paths are overgrown and rarely traveled. You find yourself alone and disoriented, with only a rough map and a compass to guide you.

                  Possible directions to investigate include:

                  Following a faint trail of footprints that lead deeper into the forest

                  Climbing a tall tree to get a better view of the surrounding area

                  Searching for a stream or river to use as a guide to find your way out of the forest

                  Possible characters to engage include:

                  A mysterious hermit who lives deep in the forest and is rumored to know the secrets of the land

                  A lost traveler who is also trying to find their way out of the forest

                  A group of bandits who have taken refuge in the forest and may try to steal from you or cause harm

                  Your objective is to find the Wanderlust tile, a small, intricately carved wooden tile depicting a person walking off the beaten path. This tile holds the key to unlocking your inner quirk of wandering off the track.

                  As proof of your progress in the game, you must find a way to incorporate this quirk into your real-life actions by taking a spontaneous detour on your next journey, whether it be physical or mental.

                  For Zara’s quest:

                  As you wander off the track, you come across a strange-looking building in the distance. Upon closer inspection, you realize it is the Flying Fish Inn. As you enter, you are greeted by the friendly owner, Idle. She tells you that she has heard of strange occurrences happening in the surrounding area and offers to help you in your quest

                  Emoji clue:  🐈🌳 :cat_confused:

                   

                  Zara (the character in the game)

                  characteristics from previous prompts:

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

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

                   

                  Zara (the real life story character)

                  characteristics from previous prompts:

                  Zara Patara-Smythe is a 57-year-old woman of mixed heritage, her mother is Indian and her father is British. She has long, dark hair that she keeps in an untidy ponytail, dark brown eyes and a sharp jawline. She stands at 5’6″ and has a toned and athletic build. She usually wears practical clothing that allows her to move around easily, such as cargo pants and a tank top.

                  prompt quest:

                  Continue to investigate the mysterious cat she saw, possibly seeking out help from local animal experts or veterinarians.
                  Join Xavier and Yasmin in investigating the Flying Fish Inn, looking for clues and exploring the area for any potential leads on the game’s quest.

                  #6380

                  In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

                  ÉricÉric
                  Keymaster

                    After a few tries:

                    1. As the group has split up at the fork of the road, we discover a total of 4 new characters from the Land of the Quirks. Tell us how each group is encountering some or all of these characters, who they are, their gibberish-sounding names, and what is their quirks, and what they wear, or their activities. Make our main characters and maybe some of the new ones meet back at a common spot with a special event after that.
                    2. please rewrite the above, retaining the eccentricity but more grounded, less childish, and with a little darker tone and mystery.
                    3. please try again, make Spoink and Flibbertigibbet human and give them less endearing or friendly behaviours; name two more characters met on the road.

                    As the group split up at the fork of the road, each one encountered new characters from the Land of the Quirks.

                    Zara and Yasmin, who took the left path, met a man named “Sproink” who was a small, wiry man with a spring for a tail. He was always bouncing around and speaking in a language that sounded like a mix of gibberish and music. Sproink was a collector of shiny objects and had a bag full of them, he was also a scavenger, always looking for things to add to his collection. He was wearing a small top hat and a monocle. He was also known to be a bit of a thief and a con artist.

                    Xavier and Youssef, who took the right path, met a woman named “Flibbertigibbet” a tall, slender woman that had multiple arms. Flibbertigibbet was very talkative and friendly, always trying to strike up a conversation. She spoke in a language that sounded like a mix of gibberish and baby talk. She was a chef and was always carrying a pot and a spoon, but she also had a dark side, she was known to be a bit of a manipulator and a spy, always observing and gathering information for a mysterious organization. She was wearing a big chef hat and apron.

                    As the group met back at the fork, they were surprised to find that Sproink and Flibbertigibbet had also met there. The four new characters joined the group, and together they continued their journey to find the “Key of Quirks”. Along the way, they met two more characters;

                    They met a man named “Gibber” who was a tall, gaunt man with elongated limbs and fingers. He was always speaking in a language that sounded like a mix of gibberish and numbers. He was a mathematician and a scientist, always working on complex equations and theories. He was known to be a bit of a loner, and didn’t interact much with others. He was wearing a lab coat and goggles.

                    They also met a woman named “Glimmer” she was a short, plump woman with a shimmering skin that seemed to change color depending on the light. She was always speaking in a language that sounded like a mix of gibberish and poetry. She was an artist and a performer, always creating and performing in different shows. She was known to be a bit of a flirt and a bit of a drama queen. She was wearing a colorful and eccentric clothing, such as a flowy dress and a large hat adorned with feathers.

                    As the group journeyed on, they encountered more characters, each one with their own unique quirks and personalities. They met a variety of people, some friendly and some not so friendly, but all of them adding to the mysterious and unknown nature of the Land of the Quirks.

                    As the group reached the end of their journey and found the “Key of Quirks”, they realized that the key was not just a physical object but a symbol of acceptance and embracing individuality. They learned that the true key to leaving the Land of the Quirks was understanding and accepting the quirks of oneself and others.

                    The group had a bittersweet goodbye with their new friends, Sproink, Flibbertigibbet, Gibber and Glimmer, and the other characters they had met. They knew that they would always carry a piece of the Land of the Quirks with them and would always remember the mysterious and eccentric adventure they had.

                    #6379

                    In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

                    ÉricÉric
                    Keymaster

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      #6268
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        From Tanganyika with Love

                        continued part 9

                        With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                        Lyamungu 3rd January 1945

                        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 14 May 1945

                        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 19th September 1945

                        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

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

                        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

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

                        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

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

                        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

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

                        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Jacksdale England 24th June 1946

                        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Jacksdale England 28th August 1946

                        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Jacksdale England 20th September 1946

                        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Dar es Salaam 22nd October 1946

                        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Mbeya 1st November 1946

                        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        #6267
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          From Tanganyika with Love

                          continued part 8

                          With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                          Morogoro 20th January 1941

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Morogoro 30th July 1941

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Morogoro 26th August 1941

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Morogoro 25th December 1941

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Morogoro Hospital 30th September 1943

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Morogoro 26th January 1944

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Lyamungu 20th March 1944

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Lyamungu 15th May 1944

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Lyamungu 18th July 1944

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Lyamungu 16th August 1944

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

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

                          Dearest Mummy,

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

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

                          Very much love,
                          Eleanor.

                          Safari in Masailand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                          Lyamungu 10th November. 1944

                          Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                          Much love,
                          Eleanor.

                           

                          #6264
                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            From Tanganyika with Love

                            continued  ~ part 5

                            With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                            Chunya 16th December 1936

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                            Much love to all,
                            Eleanor.

                            Itewe, Chunya 23rd December 1936

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            With love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Itewe, Chunya 30th December 1936

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Itewe, Chunya 19th January 1937

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Chunya 29th January 1937

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                            We should be with you in three weeks time!

                            Very much love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Broken Hill, N Rhodesia 11th February 1937

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            With love to you all,
                            Eleanor.

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

                            George Rushby Ann and Georgie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            #6262
                            TracyTracy
                            Participant

                              From Tanganyika with Love

                              continued  ~ part 3

                              With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                              Mchewe Estate. 22nd March 1935

                              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                              Very much love,
                              Eleanor.

                              Mchewe Estate. 14th June 1935

                              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                              Just hold thumbs that all goes well.

                              your loving but anxious,
                              Eleanor.

                              Mchewe Estate. 28th June 1935

                              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                              Very much love to all,
                              Eleanor.

                              Mchewe Estate. 3rd August 1935

                              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                              Lots and lots of love,
                              Eleanor.

                              Mchewe Estate. 20th August 1935

                              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                              Who would be a mother!
                              Eleanor

                              Mchewe Estate. 20th September 1935

                              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                              Mchewe Estate. 11th October 1935

                              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                              Eleanor.

                              Mchewe Estate. 17th October 1935

                              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              Lots and lots of love,
                              Eleanor.

                              Mchewe Estate. 25th October 1935

                              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              Very much love from us all, Eleanor.

                              Mchewe Estate. 8th November 1935

                              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                              With love to all,
                              Eleanor.

                              Mchewe Estate. 21st November 1935

                              Dearest Family,

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

                              With love to all,
                              Eleanor.

                              Mchewe Estate. 6th December 1935

                              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                              Eleanor

                              Mchewe Estate. 22nd December 1935

                              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                              Your very loving,
                              Eleanor.

                              Mchewe Estate. 2nd January 1936

                              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                              With love to all,
                              Eleanor.

                              #4641
                              F LoveF Love
                              Participant

                                “Cute pyjamas”, said Maeve helping herself to butter from the refrigerator.

                                Maeve didn’t need the butter any longer as she had discovered she could successfully substitute olive oil and the muffins were still deliciously fluffy. However she did need an excuse to enter Shawn Paul’s apartment. Emboldened by recent events, she was privately rather pleased with her recent brazen persona. The Maeve of a week ago would never have barged into anyone’s apartment without an invitation.

                                Not finding anything suspect in the refrigerator, except maybe some oranges which looked past their use by date, she scanned the rest of Shawn Paul’s apartment. It was then she spied the package, mostly obscured by old notebooks and granola cookie boxes.

                                “Find what you were looking for?” asked Shawn Paul. He had found his dressing gown under a pile of clothing on the floor.

                                “Yes, thanks,” said Maeve, brandishing the butter at him and wondering how she could get hold of the package without Shawn Paul noticing. “So, how long have you been a writer? Have you had anything published?”

                                A quick google search had not uncovered anything, but perhaps he wrote under a pseudonym. Best to give him the benefit of the doubt.

                                Shawn Paul looked awkward.

                                Or was it guilty? Maeve wondered. While she was pondering this, she had her brainwave. Some would say it wasn’t much of a brainwave really, or indeed, a brainwave at all. But it was the best she could do under the circumstances. And after all, she was now an intrepid investigator.

                                “Look over there!” she shouted pointing at the window and at the same time making a lunge for the dining table.

                                “What are you doing?” asked Shawn Paul. There was nothing at the window and now Maeve was taking his package.

                                “Um, I just adore granola cookies,” said Maeve.

                                #4512
                                Jib
                                Participant

                                  When Lucinda called her friend, Shawn Paul felt it was time to go back home. He wasn’t sure if it was his natural shyness, that he had already seen and talk to so many new people today, or if it was the fear of the unknown. What would he tell a stranger? What would she think of him, his outfit and his scarf? All that made it too much at that moment to meet someone new. So he looked at his phone and pretexted something had come up. They agreed to meet at the reception at the French embassy and he left.

                                  Shawn Paul was walking crossing streets on autopilot, lost in his thoughts about the adventures of the day, when a crazy honking that sounded like an elephant fart brought him back to reality in front a bakery. He realised too late that he had forgotten his granola cookies on the table. But he shrugged and smiled when a little yellow butterfly flew by and landed momentarily on the rear light of a red car. He stopped and wondered how such a light creature could live in a city like this. It took off and fluttered around into the general direction of a public garden nearby where children played under the kind presence of their parents.

                                  It took Shawn Paul twenty minutes to go back home. He felt tired enough to take a nap before getting dressed to the Party. In the stairs he met with Maeve and her pekinese.

                                  “Hi.” They said at the same time with the same awkwardness. Maeve’s dog was sniffing out his shoes, making Shawn Paul self conscious of himself. He feared a moment she might think he had a sloppy hygiene.
                                  “Come Fabio.” Maeve said. “Sorry for that. Dogs…”

                                  Shawn Paul smiled in an attempt to hide his embarrassment, and each of them went in their own direction.

                                  :fleuron:

                                  Shawn Paul arrived late at the reception because he spent too much time deciding on which scarf would match his new deep purple velvet jacket. The others were already inside and drinking, their body moving more or less in rhythm with the music.

                                  “Your dress suits you so well,” said Shawn Paul bending closer to her hear and making an effort to talk louder. A smile blossomed on her face at the compliment, contrasting with a lingering nostalgia in her eyes. She was wearing one of those black body fit dress which gave her silhouette all the contours they needed to pop out in a flattering way.

                                  “You missed the speech of the ambassador,” she said with a wink. “Nothing memorable, it’s the same every year.”

                                  Jerk was standing on the side, wearing a suit like one would wear camouflage clothing. He seemed to deeply wonder what he was doing there. Shawn Paul, who was wondering the same, addressed the man a sympathising smile. A moment of connection happened and went away. Jerk took a sip of his glass of champagne and Lucinda put a flute in Shawn Paul’s hand.

                                  She took his other arm and said : “Come. There is something I want to show you!”

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