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  • #7881

    Mars Outpost — Welcome to the Wild Wild Waste

    No one had anticipated how long it would take to get a shuttle full of half-motivated, gravity-averse Helix25 passengers to agree on proper footwear.

    “I told you, Claudius, this is the fancy terrain suit. The others make my hips look like reinforced cargo crates,” protested Tilly Nox, wrangling with her buckles near the shuttle airlock.

    “You’re about to step onto a red-rock planet that hasn’t seen visitors since the Asteroid Belt Mining Fiasco,” muttered Claudius, tightening his helmet strap. “Your hips are the least of Mars’ concerns.”

    Behind them, a motley group of Helix25 residents fidgeted with backpacks, oxygen readouts, and wide-eyed anticipation. Veranassessee had allowed a single-day “expedition excursion” for those eager—or stir-crazy—enough to brave Mars’ surface. She’d made it clear it was volunteer-only.

    Most stayed aboard, in orbit of the red planet, looking at its surface from afar to the tune of “eh, gravity, don’t we have enough of that here?” —Finkley had recoiled in horror at the thought of real dust getting through the vents and had insisted on reviewing personally all the airlocks protocols. No way that they’d sullied her pristine halls with Martian dust or any dust when the shuttle would come back. No – way.

    But for the dozen or so who craved something raw and unfiltered, this was it. Mars: the myth, the mirage, the Far West frontier at the invisible border separating Earthly-like comforts into the wider space without any safety net.

    At the helm of Shuttle Dandelion, Sue Forgelot gave the kind of safety briefing that could both terrify and inspire. “If your oxygen starts blinking red, panic quietly and alert your buddy. If you fall into a crater, forget about taking a selfie, wave your arms and don’t grab on your neighbor. And if you see a sand wyrm, congratulations, you’ve either hit gold or gone mad.”

    Luca Stroud chuckled from the copilot seat. “Didn’t see you so chirpy in a long while. That kind of humour, always the best warning label.”

    They touched down near Outpost Station Delta-6 just as the Martian wind was picking up, sending curls of red dust tumbling like gossip.

    And there she was.

    Leaning against the outpost hatch with a spanner slung across one shoulder, goggles perched on her forehead, Prune watched them disembark with the wary expression of someone spotting tourists traipsing into her backyard garden.

    Sue approached first, grinning behind her helmet. “Prune Curara, I presume?”

    “You presume correctly,” she said, arms crossed. “Let me guess. You’re here to ruin my peace and use my one functioning kettle.”

    Luca offered a warm smile. “We’re only here for a brief scan and a bit of radioactive treasure hunting. Plus, apparently, there’s been a petition to name a Martian dust lizard after you.”

    “That lizard stole my solar panel last year,” Prune replied flatly. “It deserves no honor.”

    Inside, the outpost was cramped, cluttered, and undeniably charming. Hand-drawn maps of Martian magnetic hotspots lined one wall; shelves overflowed with tagged samples, sketchpads, half-disassembled drones, and a single framed photo of a fireplace with something hovering inexplicably above it—a fish?

    “Flying Fish Inn,” Luca whispered to Sue. “Legendary.”

    The crew spent the day fanning out across the region in staggered teams. Sue and Claudius oversaw the scan points, Tilly somehow got her foot stuck in a crevice that definitely wasn’t in the geological briefing, which was surprisingly enough about as much drama they could conjure out.

    Back at the outpost, Prune fielded questions, offered dry warnings, and tried not to get emotionally attached to the odd, bumbling crew now walking through her kingdom.

    Then, near sunset, Veranassessee’s voice crackled over comms: “Curara. We’ll be lifting a crew out tomorrow, but leaving a team behind. With the right material, for all the good Muck’s mining expedition did out on the asteroid belt, it left the red planet riddled with precious rocks. But you, you’ve earned to take a rest, with a ticket back aboard. That’s if you want it. Three months back to Earth via the porkchop plot route. No pressure. Your call.”

    Prune froze. Earth.

    The word sat like an old song on her tongue. Faint. Familiar. Difficult to place.

    She stepped out to the ridge, watching the sun dip low across the dusty plain. Behind her, laughter from the tourists trading their stories of the day —Tilly had rigged a heat plate with steel sticks and somehow convinced people to roast protein foam. Are we wasting oxygen now? Prune felt a weight lift; after such a long time struggling to make ends meet, she now could be free of that duty.

    Prune closed her eyes. In her head, Mater’s voice emerged, raspy and amused: You weren’t meant to settle, sugar. You were meant to stir things up. Even on Mars.

    She let the words tumble through her like sand in her boots.

    She’d conquered her dream, lived it, thrived in it.

    Now people were landing, with their new voices, new messes, new puzzles.

    She could stay. Be the last queen of red rock and salvaged drones.

    Or she could trade one hell of people for another. Again.

    The next morning, with her patched duffel packed and goggles perched properly this time, Prune boarded Shuttle Dandelion with a half-smirk and a shrug.

    “I’m coming,” she told Sue. “Can’t let Earth ruin itself again without at least watching.”

    Sue grinned. “Welcome back to the madhouse.”

    As the shuttle lifted off, Prune looked once, just once, at the red plains she’d called home.

    “Thanks, Mars,” she whispered. “Don’t wait up.”

    #7874

    A Quick Vacay on Mars

    “The Helix is coming in for descent,” announced Luca Stroud, a bit too solemnly. “And by descent, I mean we’re parking in orbit and letting the cargo shuttles do the sweaty work.”

    From the main viewport, Mars sprawled below in all its dusty, rust-red glory. Gone was the Jupiter’s orbit pulls of lunacy, after a 6 month long voyage, they were down to the Martian pools of red dust.

    Even from space, you could see the abandoned domes of the first human colonies, with the unmistakable Muck conglomerate’s branding: half-buried in dunes, battered by storms, and rumored to be haunted (well, if you believed the rumors from the bored Helix 25 children).

    Veranassessee—Captain Veranassessee, thank you very much— stood at the helm with the unruffled poise of someone who’d wrested control of the ship (and AI) with consummate style and in record time. With a little help of course from X-caliber, the genetic market of the Marlowe’s family that she’d recovered from Marlowe Sr. before Synthia had had a chance of scrubbing all traces of his DNA. Now, with her control back, most of her work had been to steer the ship back to sanity, and rebuild alliances.

    “That’s the plan. Crew rotation, cargo drop, and a quick vacay if we can manage not to break a leg.”

    Sue Forgelot, newly minted second in command, rolled her eyes affectionately. “Says the one who insisted we detour for a peek at the old Mars amusements. If you want to roast marshmallows on volcanic vents, just say it.”

    Their footsteps reverberated softly on the deck. Synthia’s overhead panels glowed calm, reined in by the AI’s newly adjusted parameters. Luca tapped the console. “All going smoothly, Cap’n. Next phase of ‘waking the sleepers’ will happen in small batches—like you asked.”

    Veranassessee nodded silently. The return to reality would prove surely harsh to most of them, turned soft with low gravity. She would have to administrate a good dose of tough love.

    Sue nodded. “We’ll need a slow approach. Earth’s… not the paradise it once was.”

    Veranassessee exhaled, eyes lingering on the red planet turning slowly below. “One challenge at a time. Everyone’s earned a bit of shore leave. If you can call an arid dustball ‘shore.’”

    The Truce on Earth

    Tundra brushed red dust off her makeshift jacket, then gave her new friend a loving pat on the flank. The baby sanglion—already the size of a small donkey—sniffed the air, then leaned its maned, boar-like head into Tundra’s shoulder. “Easy there, buddy,” she murmured. “We’ll find more scraps soon.”

    They were in the ravaged outskirts near Klyutch Base, forging a shaky alliance with Sokolov’s faction. Sokolov—sharp-eyed and suspicious—stalked across the battered tarmac with a crate of spare shuttle parts. “This is all the help you’re getting from me,” he said, his accent carving the words. “Use it well. No promises once the Helix 25 arrives.”

    Commander Koval hovered by the half-repaired shuttle, occasionally casting sidelong glances at the giant, (mostly) friendly  mutant beast at Tundra’s side. “Just keep that… sanglion… away from me, will you?”

    Molly, Tundra’s resilient great-grandmother, chuckled. “He’s harmless unless you’re an unripe melon or a leftover stew. Aren’t you, sweetie?”

    The creature snorted. Sokolov’s men loaded more salvage onto the shuttle’s hull. If all went well, they’d soon have a functioning vessel to meet the Helix when it finally arrived.

    Tundra fed her pet a chunk of dried fruit. She wondered what the grand new ship would look like after so many legends and rumors. Would the Helix be a promise of hope—or a brand-new headache?

    Finkley’s Long-Distance Lounge

    On Helix 25, Finkley’s new corner-lounge always smelled of coffee and antiseptic wipes, thanks to her cleaning-bot minions. Rows of small, softly glowing communication booths lined the walls—her “direct Earth Connection.” A little sign reading FINKLEY’S WHISPER CALLS flickered overhead. Foot traffic was picking up, because after the murder spree ended, people craved normalcy—and gossip.

    She toggled an imaginary switch —she had found mimicking old technology would help tune the frequencies more easily. “Anybody out there?”

    Static, then a faint voice from Earth crackled through the anchoring connection provided by Finja on Earth. “Hello? This is…Tala from Spain… well, from the Hungarian border these days…”

    “Lovely to hear from you, Tala dear!” Finkley replied in the most uncheerful voice, as she was repeating the words from Kai Nova, who had found himself distant dating after having tried, like many others on the ship before, to find a distant relative connected through the FinFamily’s telepathic bridge. Surprisingly, as he got accustomed to the odd exchange through Finkley-Finja, he’d found himself curious and strangely attracted to the stories from down there.

    “Doing all right down there? Any new postcards or battered souvenirs to share with the folks on Helix?”

    Tala laughed over the Fin-line. “Plenty. Mostly about wild harvests, random postcards, and that new place we found. We’re calling it The Golden Trowel—trust me, it’s quite a story.”

    Behind Finkley, a queue had formed: a couple of nostalgic Helix residents waiting for a chance to talk to distant relatives, old pen pals, or simply anyone with a different vantage on Earth’s reconstruction. Even if those calls were often just a “We’re still alive,” it was more comfort than they’d had in years.

    “Hang in there, sweetie,” Finkley said with a drab tone, relaying Kai’s words, struggling hard not to be beaming at the imaginary booth’s receiver. “We’re on our way.”

    Sue & Luca’s Gentle Reboot

    In a cramped subdeck chamber whose overhead lights still flickered ominously, Luca Stroud connected a portable console to one of Synthia’s subtle interface nodes. “Easy does it,” he muttered. “We nudge up the wake-up parameters by ten percent, keep an eye on rising stress levels—and hopefully avoid any mass lunacy like last time.”

    Sue Forgelot observed from behind, arms folded and face alight with the steely calm that made her a natural second in command. “Focus on folks from the Lower Decks first. They’re more used to harsh realities. Less chance of meltdown when they realize Earth’s not a bed of roses.”

    Luca shot her a thumbs-up. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He tapped the console, and Synthia’s interface glowed green, accepting the new instructions.

    “Well, Synthia, dear,” Sue said, addressing the panel drily, “keep cooperating, and nobody’ll have to forcibly remove your entire matrix.”

    A faint chime answered—Synthia’s version of a polite half-nod. The lines of code on Luca’s console rearranged themselves into a calmer pattern. The AI’s core processes, thoroughly reined in by the Captain’s new overrides, hummed along peacefully. For now.

    Evie & Riven’s Big News

    On Helix 25’s mid-deck Lexican Chapel, full of spiral motifs and drifting incense, Evie and Riven stood hand in hand, ignoring the eerie chanting around them. Well, trying to ignore it. Evie’s belly had a soft curve now, and Riven couldn’t stop glancing at it with a proud smile.

    One of the elder Lexicans approached, wearing swirling embroidered robes. “The engagement ceremony is prepared, if you’re still certain you want our… elaborate rituals.”

    Riven, normally stoic, gave a slight grin. “We’re certain.” He caught Evie’s eye. “I guess you’re stuck with me, detective. And the kid inside you who’ll probably speak Lexican prophecies by the time they’re one.”

    Evie rolled her eyes, though affection shone behind it. “If that’s the worst that happens, I’ll take it. We’ve both stared down bigger threats.” Then her hand drifted to her abdomen, protective and proud. “Let’s keep the chanting to a minimum though, okay?”

    The Lexican gave a solemn half-bow. “We shall refrain from dancing on the ceilings this time.”

    They laughed, past tensions momentarily lifted. Their child’s future, for all its uncertain possibilities, felt like hope on a ship that was finally getting stirred in a clear direction… away from the void of its own nightmares. And Mars, just out the window, loomed like a stepping stone to an Earth that might yet be worth returning to.

    #7854
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      Arthurian Parallels in Helix 25

      This table explores an overlay of Arthurian archetypes woven into the narrative of Helix 25.
      By mapping key mythological figures to characters and themes within the story, it provides archetypal templates for exploration of leadership, unity, betrayal, and redemption in a futuristic setting.

      Arthurian Archetype Role in Arthurian Myth Helix 25 Counterpart Narrative Integration in Helix 25 Themes & Contemporary Reflections
      Merlin Wise guide, prophet, keeper of lost knowledge, enigmatic mentor. Merdhyn Winstrom Hermit survivor whose beacon reawakens lost knowledge, eccentric guide bridging Earth and Helix. Echoes of lost wisdom resurfacing in times of crisis. Role of eccentric thinkers in shaping the future.
      King Arthur (Once and Future King) Sleeping leader destined to return, restorer of order and unity. Captain Veranassessee Cryo-sleeping leader awakened to restore stability and uncover ship’s deeper truths. Balancing destiny, responsibility, and the burden of leadership in a fractured world.
      Lady of the Lake Guardian of sacred wisdom, bestower of power, holds destiny in trust. Molly & Ellis Marlowe Custodians of ancestral knowledge, connecting genetic past to future, deciding who is worthy. Gatekeepers of forgotten truths. Who decides what knowledge should be passed down?
      Excalibur Sacred weapon representing legitimacy, strength, and destiny. Genetic/Technological Legacy (DNA or Artifact) Latent genetic or technological power that legitimizes leadership and enables restoration. What makes someone truly worthy of leadership—birthright, wisdom, or action?
      The Round Table Assembly of noble figures, unifying leadership for justice and stability. Crew Reunion & Unity Arc Gathering key figures and factions, resolving past divisions, solidifying leadership. How do we rebuild trust and unity in a world fractured by conflict and betrayal?
      The Holy Grail Ultimate quest for redemption, unity, and spiritual awakening. Rediscovered Earth or True Purpose Journey to unify factions, reconnect with Earth, and rediscover humanity’s true mission. Is humanity’s purpose merely survival, or is there something greater to strive for?
      The Fisher King Wounded guardian of a dying land, whose fate mirrors humanity’s wounds. Earth’s Ruined Environmental Condition Metaphor for humanity’s wounds—only healed through wisdom, unity, and ethical leadership. Environmental stewardship as moral responsibility; the impact of neglect and division.
      Camelot Utopian vision, fragile and prone to betrayal and internal decay. Helix 25 Community Helix 25 as a fragile utopian experiment, threatened by division and complacency. Utopian dreams versus real-world struggles; maintaining ideals without corruption.
      Mordred Betrayal from within, power-hungry faction that disrupts harmony. AI Manipulators / Hidden Saboteurs Internal betrayal—either AI-driven manipulation or ideological rebellion disrupting balance. How does internal dissent shape societies? When is rebellion justified?
      Gwenevere Queen, torn between duty, love, and political implications. Sue Forgelot or Captain Veranassessee Powerful yet conflicted female figure, mediating between different factions and destinies. The role of women in leadership, power dynamics, and the burden of political choices.
      Lancelot Loyal knight, unmatched warrior, torn between personal desires and duty. Orrin Holt or Kai Nova Heroic yet personally conflicted figure, struggling with duty vs. personal ties. Can one’s personal desires coexist with duty? What happens when loyalties are divided?
      Gawain Moral knight, flawed but honorable, faces ethical trials and tests. Riven Holt or Anuí Naskó Character undergoing trials of morality, leadership, and self-discovery. How does one navigate moral dilemmas? Growth through trials and ethical challenges.
      Morgana le Fay Misunderstood sorceress, keeper of hidden knowledge, power and manipulation. Zoya Kade Keeper of esoteric knowledge, influencing fate through prophecy and genetic memory. The fine line between wisdom and manipulation. Who controls the narrative of destiny?
      Perceval Naïve but destined knight, seeker of truth, stumbles upon great revelations. Tundra (Molly’s granddaughter) Youthful truth-seeker, symbolizing innocence and intuitive revelation. Naivety versus wisdom—can purity of heart succeed in a complex, divided world?
      Galahad Pure knight, achieves the Grail through unwavering virtue and clarity. Evie Investigator who uncovers truth through integrity and unwavering pursuit of justice. The pursuit of truth and justice as a path to transformation and redemption.
      The Green Knight/Challenge Mystical challenger, tests worthiness and integrity through ordeal. Mutiny Group / Environmental Crisis A trial or crisis forcing humanity to reckon with its moral and environmental failures. Humanity’s reckoning with its own self-destructive patterns—can we learn from the past?
      #7849

      Helix 25 – The Genetic Puzzle

      Amara’s Lab – Data Now Aggregated
      (Discrepancies Never Addressed)

      On the screen in front of Dr. Amara Voss, lines upon lines of genetic code were cascading and making her sleepy. While the rest of the ship was running amok, she was barricaded into her lab, content to have been staring at the sequences for the most part of the day —too long actually.

      She took a sip of her long-cold tea and exhaled sharply.

      Even if data was patchy from the records she had access to, there was a solid database of genetic materials, all dutifully collected for all passengers, or crew before embarkment, as was mandated by company policy. The official reason being to detect potential risks for deep space survival. Before the ship’s take-over, systematic recording of new-borns had been neglected, and after the ship’s takeover, population’s new born had drastically reduced, with the birth control program everyone had agreed on, as was suggested by Synthia. So not everyone’s DNA was accounted for, but in theory, anybody on the ship could be traced back and matched by less than 2 or 3 generations to the original data records.

      The Marlowe lineage was the one that kept resurfacing. At first, she thought it was coincidence—tracing the bloodlines of the ship’s inhabitants was messy, a tangled net of survivors, refugees, and engineered populations. But Marlowe wasn’t alone.

      Another name pulsed in the data. Forgelot. Then Holt. Old names of Earth, unlike the new star-birthed. There were others, too.

      Families that had been aboard Helix 25 for some generations. But more importantly, bloodlines that could be traced back to Earth’s distant past.

      But beyond just analysing their origins, there was something else that caught her attention. It was what was happening to them now.

      Amara leaned forward, pulling up the mutation activation models she had been building. In normal conditions, these dormant genetic markers would remain just that—latent. Passed through generations like forgotten heirlooms, meaningless until triggered.

      Except in this case, there was evidence that something had triggered them.

      The human body, subjected to long-term exposure to deep space radiation, artificial gravity shifts, and cosmic phenomena, and had there not been a fair dose of shielding from the hull, should have mutated chaotically, randomly. But this was different. The genetic sequences weren’t just mutating—they were activating.

      And more surprisingly… it wasn’t truly random.

      Something—or someone—had inherited an old mechanism that allowed them to access knowledge, instincts, memories from generations long past.

      The ancient Templars had believed in a ritualistic process to recover ancestral skills and knowledge. What Amara was seeing now…

      She rubbed her forehead.

      “Impossible.”

      And yet—here was the data.

      On Earth, the past was written in stories and fading ink. In space, the past was still alive—hiding inside their cells, waiting.

      Earth – The Quiz Night Reveal

      The Golden Trowel, Hungary

      The candlelit warmth of The Golden Trowel buzzed with newfound energy. The survivors sat in a loose circle, drinks in hand, at this unplanned but much-needed evening of levity.

      Once the postcards shared, everyone was listening as Tala addressed the group.

      “If anyone has an anecdote, hang on to the postcard,” she said. “If not, pass it on. No wrong answers, but the best story wins.”

      Molly felt the weight of her own selection, the Giralda’s spire sharp and unmistakable. Something about it stirred her—an itch in the back of her mind, a thread tugging at long-buried memories.

      She turned toward Vera, who was already inspecting her own card with keen interest.

      “Tower of London, anything exciting to share?”

      Vera arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, lips curving in amusement.

      Molly Darling,” she drawled, “I can tell you lots, I know more about dead people’s families than most people know about their living ones, and London is surely a place of abundance of stories. But do you even know about your own name Marlowe?”

      She spun the postcard between her fingers before answering.

      “Not sure, really, I only know about Philip Marlowe, the fictional detective from Lady in the Lake novel… Never really thought about the name before.”

      “Marlowe,” Vera smiled. “That’s an old name. Very old. Derived from an Old English phrase meaning ‘remnants of a lake.’

      Molly inhaled sharply.

      Remnants of the Lady of the Lake ?

      Her pulse thrummed. Beyond the historical curiosity she’d felt a deep old connection.

      If her family had left behind records, they would have been on the ship… The thought came with unwanted feelings she’d rather have buried. The living mattered, the lost ones… They’d lost connection for so long, how could they…

      Her fingers tightened around the postcard.

      Unless there was something behind her ravings?

      Molly swallowed the lump in her throat and met Vera’s gaze. “I need to talk to Finja.”

      :fleuron2:

      Finja had spent most of the evening pretending not to exist.

      But after the fifth time Molly nudged her, eyes bright with silent pleas, she let out a long-suffering sigh.

      “Alright,” she muttered. “But just one.”

      Molly exhaled in relief.

      The once-raucous Golden Trowel had dimmed into something softer—the edges of the night blurred with expectation.

      Because it wasn’t just Molly who wanted to ask.

      Maybe it was the effect of the postcards game, a shared psychic connection, or maybe like someone had muttered, caused by the new Moon’s sickness… A dozen others had realized, all at once, that they too had names to whisper.

      Somehow, a whole population was still alive, in space, after all this time. There was no time for disbelief now, Finja’s knowledge of stuff was incontrovertible. Molly was cued by the care-taking of Ellis Marlowe by Finkley, she knew things about her softie of a son, only his mother and close people would know.

      So Finja had relented. And agreed to use all means to establish a connection, to reignite a spark of hope she was worried could just be the last straw before being thrown into despair once again.

      Finja closed her eyes.

      The link had always been there, an immediate vivid presence beneath her skull, pristine and comfortable but tonight it felt louder, crowdier.

      The moons had shifted, in syzygy, with a gravity pull in their orbits tugging at things unseen.

      She reached out—

      And the voices crashed into her.

      Too much. Too many.

      Hundreds of voices, drowning her in longing and loss.

      “Where is my brother?”
      “Did my wife make it aboard?”
      “My son—please—he was supposed to be on Helix 23—”
      “Tell them I’m still here!”

      Her head snapped back, breath shattering into gasps.

      The crowd held its breath.

      A dozen pairs of eyes, wide and unblinking.

      Finja clenched her fists. She had to shut it down. She had to—

      And then—

      Something else.

      A presence. Watching.

      Synthia.

      Her chest seized.

      There was no logical way for an AI to interfere with telepathic frequencies.

      And yet—

      She felt it.

      A subtle distortion. A foreign hand pressing against the link, observing.

      The ship knew.

      Finja jerked back, knocking over her chair.

      The bar erupted into chaos.

      “FINJA?! What did you see?”
      “Was someone there?”
      “Did you find anyone?!”

      Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

      She had never thought about the consequences of calling out across space.

      But now…

      Now she knew.

      They were not the last survivors. Other lived and thrived beyond Earth.

      And Synthia wanted to keep it that way.

      Yet, Finja and Finkley had both simultaneously caught something.
      It would take the ship time, but they were coming back. Synthia was not pleased about it, but had not been able to override the response to the beacon.

      They were coming back.

      #7828

      Helix 25 – The Murder Board

      Evie sat cross-legged on the floor of her cramped workspace, staring at the scattered notes, datapads, and threads taped to the wall. Finding some yarn on the ship had not been as easy as she thought, but it was a nice touch she thought.

      The Murder Board, as Riven Holt had started calling it, was becoming an increasingly frustrating mess of unanswered questions.

      Riven stood nearby, arms crossed, with a an irritated skepticism. “Almost a week,” he muttered. “We’re no closer than when we started.”

      Evie exhaled sharply. “Then let’s go back to the basics.”

      She tapped the board, where the crime scene was crudely sketched. The Drying Machine. Granary. Jardenery. Blood that shouldn’t exist.

      She turned to Riven. “Alright, let’s list it out. Who are our suspects?”

      He looked at his notes, dejected for a moment; “too many, obviously.” Last census on the ship was not accurate by far, but by all AI’s accounts cross-referenced with Finkley’s bots data, they estimated the population to be between 15,000 and 50,000. Give or take.

      They couldn’t interview possibly all of them, all the more since there the interest in the murder had waned very rapidly. Apart from the occasional trio of nosy elderly ladies, the ship had returned mostly to the lull of the day-to-day routine.
      So they’d focused on a few, and hoped TP’s machine brain could see patterns where they couldn’t.

      1. First, the Obvious Candidates: People with Proximity to the Crime Scene
        Romualdo, the Gardener – Friendly, unassuming. He lends books, grows plants, and talks about Elizabeth Tattler novels. But Herbert visited him often. Why?
        Dr. Amara Voss – The geneticist. Her research proves the Crusader DNA link, but could she be hiding more? Despite being Evie’s godmother, she couldn’t be ruled out just yet.
        Sue Forgelot – The socialite with connections everywhere. She had eluded their request for interviews. —does she know more than she lets on?
        The Cleaning Staff – they had access everywhere. And the murder had a clean elegance to it…
      2. Second, The Wild Cards: People with Unknown Agendas
        The Lower Deck Engineers – Talented mechanic, with probable cybernetic knowledge, with probable access to unauthorized modifications. Could they kill for a reason, or for hire?
        Zoya Kade and her Followers – They believe Helix 25 is on a doomed course, manipulated by a long-dead tycoon’s plan. Would they kill to force exposure of an inconvenient truth?
        The Crew – Behind the sense of duty and polite smiles, could any of them be covering something up?
      3. Third, The AI Factor: Sentient or Insentient?
        Synthia, the AI – Controls the ship. Omnipresent. Can see everything, and yet… didn’t notice or report the murder. Too convenient.
        Other personal AIs – Like Trevor Pee’s programme, most had in-built mechanisms to make them incapable of lying or harming humans. But could one of their access be compromised?

      Riven frowned. “And what about Herbert himself? Who was he, really? He called himself Mr. Herbert, but the cat erm… Mandrake says that wasn’t his real name. If we figure out his past, maybe we find out why he was killed.”

      Evie rubbed her temples. “We also still don’t know how he was killed. The ship’s safety systems should have shut the machine down. But something altered how the system perceived him before he went in.”

      She gestured to another note. “And there’s still the genetic link. What was Herbert doing with Crusader DNA?”

      A heavy silence settled between them.

      Then TP’s voice chimed in. “Might I suggest an old detective’s trick? When stumped, return to who benefits.”

      Riven exhaled. “Fine. Who benefits from Herbert’s death?”

      Evie chewed the end of her stylus. “Depends. If it was personal, the killer is on this ship, and it’s someone who knew him. If it was bigger than Herbert, then we’re dealing with something… deeper.”

      TP hummed. “I do hate deeper mysteries. They tend to involve conspiracies, misplaced prophecies, and far too many secret societies.”

      Evie and Riven exchanged a glance.

      Riven sighed. “We need a break.”

      Evie scoffed. “Time means nothing here.”

      Riven gestured out the window. “Then let’s go see it. The Sun.”

      Helix 25 – The Sun-Gazing Chamber

      The Sun-Gazing Chamber was one of Helix 25’s more poetic and yet practical inventions —an optically and digitally-enhanced projection of the Sun, positioned at the ship’s perihelion. It was meant to provide a psychological tether, a sense of humanity’s connection to the prime provider of life as they drifted in the void of the Solar System.
      It was a beautifully designed setting where people would simply sit and relax, attuned to the shift of days and nights as if still on Earth. The primary setting had been voted to a massive 83.5% to be like in Hawai’i latitude and longitude, as its place was believed to be a reflection of Earth’s heart. That is was a State in the USA was a second thought of course.

      Evie sat on the observation bench, staring at the massive, golden sphere suspended in the darkness. “Do you think people back on Earth are still watching the sunrise?” she murmured.

      Riven was quiet for a moment. “If there’s anyone left.”

      Evie frowned. “If they are, I doubt they got much of a choice.”

      TP materialized beside them, adjusting his holographic tie. “Ah, the age-old existential debate: are we the lucky ones who left Earth, or the tragic fools who abandoned it?”

      Evie ignored him, glancing at the other ship residents in the chamber. Most people just sat quietly, basking in the light. But she caught snippets of whispers, doubt, something spreading through the ranks.

      “Some people think we’re not really where they say we are,” she muttered.

      Riven raised an eyebrow. “What, like conspiracy theories?”

      TP scoffed. “Oh, you mean the Flat-Earthers?” He tsked. “Who couldn’t jump on the Helix lifeboats for their lives, convinced as they were we couldn’t make it to the stars. They deserved what came to them. Next they’ll be saying Helix 25 never even launched and we’re all just trapped in a simulation of a luxury cruise.”

      Evie was shocked at Trevor Pee’s eructation and rubbed her face. “Damn Effin Muck tech, and those “Truth Control” rubbish datasets. I thought I’d thoroughly scrubbed all the old propaganda tech from the system.”

      “Ah,” TP said, “but conspiracies are like mold. Persistent. Annoying. Occasionally toxic.”

      Riven shook his head. “It’s nonsense. We’re moving. We’ve been moving for decades.”

      Evie didn’t look convinced. “Then why do we feel stuck?”

      A chime interrupted them.

      A voice, over the comms. Solar flare alert. 

      Evie stiffened.

      Then: Stay calm and return to your quarters until further notice.

      Evie raised an eyebrow. This was the first time something like that happened. She turned to Riven who was looking at his datapad who was flashing and buzzing.

      He said to her: “Stay quiet and come with me, a new death has been reported. Crazy coincidence. It’s just behind the Sun-Gazing chamber actually, in the Zero-G sector.”

      #7810

      Helix 25 – Below Lower Decks – Shadow Sector

      Kai Nova moved cautiously through the underbelly of Helix 25, entering a part of the Lower Decks where the usual throb of the ship’s automated systems turned muted. The air had a different smell here— it was less sterile, more… human. It was warm, the heat from outdated processors and unmonitored power nodes radiating through the bulkheads. The Upper Decks would have reported this inefficiency.

      Here, it simply went unnoticed, or more likely, ignored.

      He was being watched.

      He knew it the moment he passed a cluster of workers standing by a storage unit, their voices trailing off as he walked by. Not unusual, except these weren’t Lower Deck engineers. They had the look of people who existed outside of the ship’s official structure—clothes unmarked by department insignias, movements too intentional for standard crew assignments.

      He stopped at the rendezvous point: an unlit access panel leading to what was supposed to be an abandoned sublevel. The panel had been manually overridden, its system logs erased. That alone told him enough—whoever he was meeting had the skills to work outside of Helix 25’s omnipresent oversight.

      A voice broke the silence.

      “You’re late.”

      Kai turned, keeping his stance neutral. The speaker was of indistinct gender, shaved head, tall and wiry, with sharp green eyes locked on his movements. They wore layered robes that, at a glance, could have passed as scavenged fabric—until Kai noticed the intricate stitching of symbols hidden in the folds.

      They looked like Zoya’s brand —he almost thought… or let’s just say, Zoya’s influence. Zoya Kade’s litanies had a farther reach he would expect.

      “Wasn’t aware this was a job interview,” Kai quipped, leaning casually against the bulkhead.

      “Everything’s a test,” they replied. “Especially for outsiders.”

      Kai smirked. “I didn’t come to join your book club. I came for answers.”

      A low chuckle echoed from the shadows, followed by the shifting of figures stepping into the faint light. Three, maybe four of them. It could have been an ambush, but that was a display.

      “Pilot,” the woman continued, avoiding names. “Seeker of truth? Or just another lost soul looking for something to believe in?”

      Kai rolled his shoulders, sensing the tension in the air. “I believe in not running out of fuel before reaching nowhere.”

      That got their attention.

      The recruiter studied him before nodding slightly. “Good. You understand the problem.”

      Kai crossed his arms. “I understand a lot of problems. I also understand you’re not just a bunch of doomsayers whispering in the dark. You’re organized. And you think this ship is heading toward a dead end.”

      “You say that like it isn’t.”

      Kai exhaled, glancing at the flickering emergency light above. “Synthia doesn’t make mistakes.”

      They smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “No. It makes adjustments.” — the heavy tone on the “it” struck him. Techno-bigots, or something else? Were they denying Synthia’s sentience, or just adjusting for gender misnomers, it was hard to tell, and he had a hard time to gauge the sanity of this group.

      A low murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered figures.

      Kai tilted his head. “You think she’s leading us into the abyss?”

      The person stepped closer. “What do you think happened to the rest of the fleet, Pilot?”

      Kai stiffened slightly. The Helix Fleet, the original grand exodus of humanity—once multiple ships, now only Helix 25, drifting further into the unknown.

      He had never been given a real answer.

      “Think about it,” they pressed. “This ship wasn’t built for endless travel. Its original mission was altered. Its course reprogrammed. You fly the vessel, but you don’t control it.” She gestured to the others. “None of us do. We’re passengers on a ride to oblivion, on a ship driven by a dead man’s vision.”

      Kai had heard the whispers—about the tycoon who had bankrolled Helix 25, about how the ship’s true directive had been rewritten when the Earth refugees arrived. But this group… they didn’t just speculate. They were ready to act.

      He kept his voice steady. “You planning on mutiny?”

      They smiled, stepping back into the half-shadow. “Mutiny is such a crude word. We’re simply ensuring that we survive.”

      Before Kai could respond, a warning prickle ran up his spine.

      Someone else was watching.

      He turned slowly, catching the faintest silhouette lingering just beyond the corridor entrance. He recognized the stance instantly—Cadet Taygeta.

      Damn it.

      She had followed him.

      The group noticed, shifting slightly. Not hostile, but suddenly alert.

      “Well, well,” the woman murmured. “Seems you have company. You weren’t as careful as you thought. How are you going to deal with this problem now?”

      Kai exhaled, weighing his options. If Taygeta had followed him, she’d already flagged this meeting in her records. If he tried to run, she’d report it. If he didn’t run, she might just dig deeper.

      And the worst part?

      She wasn’t corruptible. She wasn’t the type to look the other way.

      “You should go,” the movement person said. “Before your shadow decides to interfere.”

      Kai hesitated for half a second, before stepping back.

      “This isn’t over,” he said.

      Her smile returned. “No, Pilot. It’s just beginning.”

      With that, Kai turned and walked toward the exit—toward Taygeta, who was waiting for him with arms crossed, expression unreadable.

      He didn’t speak first.

      She did.

      “You’re terrible at being subtle.”

      Kai sighed, thinking quickly of how much of the conversation could be accessed by the central system. They were still in the shadow zone, but that wasn’t sufficient. “How much did you hear?”

      “Enough.” Her voice was even, but her fingers twitched at her side. “You know this is treason, right?”

      Kai ran a hand through his hair. “You really think we’re on course for a fresh new paradise?”

      Taygeta didn’t answer right away. That was enough of an answer.

      Finally, she exhaled. “You should report this.”

      “You should,” Kai corrected.

      She frowned.

      He pressed on. “You know me, Taygeta. I don’t follow lost causes. I don’t get involved in politics. I fly. I survive. But if they’re right—if there’s even a chance that we’re being sent to our deaths—I need to know.”

      Taygeta’s fingers twitched again.

      Then, with a sharp breath, she turned.

      “I didn’t see anything tonight.”

      Kai blinked. “What?”

      Her back was already to him, her voice tight. “Whatever you’re doing, Nova, be careful. Because next time?” She turned her head slightly, just enough to let him see the edge of her conflicted expression.

      “I will report you.”

      Then she was gone.

      Kai let out a slow breath, glancing back toward the hidden movement behind him.

      No turning back now.

      #7794
      Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
      Participant

        Some pictures selections

        Evie and TP Investigating the Drying Machine Crime Scene

        A cinematic sci-fi mini-scene aboard the vast and luxurious Helix 25. In the industrial depths of the ship, a futuristic drying machine hums ominously, crime scene tape lazily flickering in artificial gravity. Evie, a sharp-eyed investigator in a sleek yet practical uniform, stands with arms crossed, listening intently. Beside her, a translucent, retro-stylized holographic detective—Trevor Pee Marshall (TP)—adjusts his tiny mustache with a flourish, pointing dramatically at the drying machine with his cane. The air is thick with mystery, the ship’s high-tech environment reflecting off Evie’s determined face while TP’s flickering presence adds an almost comedic contrast. A perfect blend of noir and high-tech detective intrigue.

         

        Riven Holt and Zoya Kade Confronting Each Other in a Dimly Lit Corridor

        A dramatic, cinematic sci-fi scene aboard the vast and luxurious Helix 25. Riven Holt, a disciplined young officer with sharp features, stands in a high-tech corridor, his arms crossed, jaw tense—exuding authority and restraint. Opposite him, Zoya Kade, a sharp-eyed, wiry 83-year-old scientist-prophet, leans slightly forward, her mismatched layered robes adorned with tiny artifacts—beads, old circuits, and a fragment of a key. Her silver-white braid gleams under the soft emergency lighting, her piercing gaze challenging him. The corridor hums with unseen energy, a subtle red glow from a “restricted access” sign casting elongated shadows. Their confrontation is palpable—a struggle between order and untamed knowledge, hierarchy and rebellion. In the background, the walls of Helix 25 curve sleekly, high-tech yet strangely claustrophobic, reinforcing the ship’s ever-present watchfulness.

         

        Romualdo, the Gardener, Among the Bioluminescent Plants

        A richly detailed sci-fi portrait of Romualdo, the ship’s gardener, standing amidst the vibrant greenery of the Jardenery. He is a rugged yet gentle figure, dressed in a simple work jumpsuit with soil-streaked hands, a leaf-tipped stem tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. His eyes scan an old, well-worn book—one of Liz Tattler’s novels—that Dr. Amara Voss gave him for his collection. The glowing plants cast an ethereal blue-green light over him, creating an atmosphere both peaceful and mysterious. In the background, the towering vines and suspended hydroponic trays hint at the ship’s careful balance between survival and serenity.

         

        Finja and Finkley – A Telepathic Parallel Across Space

        A surreal, cinematic sci-fi composition split into two mirrored halves, reflecting a mysterious connection across vast distances. On one side, Finja, a wiry, intense woman with an almost obsessive neatness, walks through the overgrown ruins of post-apocalyptic Earth, her expression distant as she “listens” to unseen voices. Dust lingers in the air, catching the golden morning light, and she mutters to herself about cleanliness. In her reflection, on the other side of the image, is Finkley, a no-nonsense crew member aboard the gleaming, futuristic halls of Helix 25. She stands with hands on her hips, barking orders at small cleaning bots as they maintain the ship’s pristine corridors. The lighting is cold and artificial, sterile in contrast to the dust-filled Earth. Yet, both women share a strange symmetry—gesturing in unison as if unknowingly mirroring one another across time and space. A faint, ghostly thread of light suggests their telepathic bond, making the impossible feel eerily real.

        #7733

        Leaving the Asylum

        They argued about whether to close the heavy gates behind them. In the end, they left them open. The metal groaned as it sat ajar, rust flaking from its hinges.

        “Are we all here?” Anya asked. Now that they were leaving, she felt in charge again—or at least, she needed to be. If morale slipped, things would unravel fast. She scanned the group, counting them off.

        “Mikhail,” she started, pointing. “Tala. Vera, our esteemed historian.”

        Vera sniffed. “I prefer genealogist, thank you very much.”

        “Petro,” Anya continued, “probably about to grumble.”

        Petro scowled. “I was thinking.”

        “Jian, our mystery man.”

        Jian raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment.

        Anya turned to the next two. “Ah, the twins. Even though you two have never spoken, I’ve always assumed you understood me. Don’t prove me wrong now.”

        The twins—Luka and Lev—nodded and grinned at exactly the same time.

        “Then we have Yulia… no, we don’t have Yulia. Where in God’s name is Yulia?”

        “Here I am!” Yulia’s voice rang out as she jogged back toward them, breathless. “I just went to say goodbye to the cat.” She sighed dramatically. “I wish we could take him. Please, can we take him?”

        Yulia was short and quick-moving, her restless hands always in motion, her thoughts spilling out just as fast.

        “We can’t,” Mikhail said firmly. “And he can look after himself.”

        She huffed. “Well, I expect we could if we tried.”

        “And finally, old Gregor, who I gather would rather be taking a nap.”

        Gregor, who was well past eighty, rubbed his face and yawned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

        Anya frowned, scanning the group again. “Wait. We’re missing Finja.”

        A small scraping sound came from behind them.

        Finja stood near the gate, furiously scrubbing the rusted metal with a rag she had pulled from her sleeve. “This place is disgusting,” she muttered. “Filth everywhere. The world may have ended, but that’s no excuse for grime.”

        Anya sighed. “Finja, leave the gate alone.”

        Finja gave it one last wipe before tucking the rag away with a huff. “Fine.”

        Anya shook her head. “That’s eleven. No one’s run off or died yet. A promising start.”

        They formed a motley crew, each carrying as much as they could manage. Mikhail pushed a battered cart, loaded with scavenged supplies—blankets, tools, whatever food they had left.

        The road beneath their feet was cracked and uneven, roots breaking through in places. They followed it in silence for the most part. Even Yulia remained quiet. Some glanced back, but no one turned around.

        The nearest village was more than fifty kilometers away. In all directions, there was only wilderness—fields long overtaken by weeds, trees pushing through cracks in forgotten roads. A skeletal signpost leaned at an odd angle, its lettering long since faded.

        “It’s going to be dark soon,” Mikhail said. “And the old ones are tired. Aren’t you, Vera?”

        “That’s enough of the old business,” puffed Vera, pulling her shoulders back.

        Tala laughed. “Well, I must be an old one. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. And there’s a clearing over there.” She pointed.

        The evening was cool, but they managed to build a small fire and scrape together a meal of vegetables they’d brought from their garden.

        After their meal, they sat around the fire while Finja busied herself tidying up. “Dirty savages,” she muttered under her breath. Then, more loudly, “We should keep watch tonight.”

        Vera, perched on a log, pulled her shawl tightly around her. The glow from the fire cast long shadows across her face.

        “Vera, you look like a witch,” Yulia declared. “We should have brought the cat for you to ride on a broomstick together.”

        “I’ll have you know I’m descended from witches,” Vera replied. “I know none of you think you’re related to me, but just imagine what your great-grandparents would say if they saw us now. Running into the wilderness like a band of exiled aristocrats.”

        Jian, seated nearby, smirked slightly. “My great-grandparents were rice farmers.”

        Vera brightened—Jian never talked about his past. She leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you know your full lineage? Because I do. I know mine back fourteen generations. You’d be amazed how many bloodlines cross without people realizing.”

        Tala shook her head but smiled. Like Petro and Gregor, Vera had been at the asylum for many decades, a relic of another time. She claimed to have been a private investigator and genealogist in her former life.

        Petro, hunched over and rubbing his hands by the fire, muttered, “We’re all ghosts now. Doesn’t matter where we came from.”

        “Oh, stop that, Petro,” Anya admonished. “Remember our plan?”

        “We go to the city,” Jian said. He rarely spoke unless he had something worth saying. “There will be things left behind. Maybe tech, maybe supplies. If I can get into an old server, I might even find something useful.”

        “And if there’s nothing?” Petro moaned. “We should never have left.” He clasped his hands over his head.

        Jian shrugged. “The world doesn’t erase itself overnight.”

        Mikhail nodded. “We rest tonight. Tomorrow, we head for the city. And Finja’s right—tonight we take turns keeping watch.”

        They sat in silence, watching the fire burn low. The evening stretched long and uneasy.

        #7720
        Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
        Participant

          Some ideas to pick apart and improve on:

          Some characters:

          • The Murder Victim: A once-prominent figure whose mysterious death on Helix 25 is intertwined with deeper, enigmatic forces—a person whose secret past and untimely demise trigger the cascade of genetic clues and expose long-buried truths about the exodus.
          • Dr. Amara Voss: A brilliant geneticist haunted by fragmented pasts, who deciphers DNA strands imbued with clues from an ancient intelligence.
          • Inspector Orion Reed: A retro-inspired, elderly holographic AI detective whose relentless curiosity drives him to unravel the inexplicable murder.
          • Kai Nova: A maverick pilot chasing cosmic dreams, unafraid to navigate perilous starfields in search of truth.
          • Seren Vega: A meditative archivist who unlocks VR relics of history, piecing together humanity’s lost lore. Mandrake her cat, who’s been given bionic enhancements that enables it to speak its mind.
          • Luca Stroud: A rebellious engineer whose knack for decoding forbidden secrets may hold the key to the ship’s destiny.
          • Ellis Marlowe (Retired Postman): A weathered former postman whose cherished collection of vintage postcards from Earth and early space voyages carries personal and historical messages, hinting at forgotten connections.
          • Sue Forgelot: A prominent socialist socialite, descended from Sir Forgelot.
          • Sharon, Gloria, Mavis: a favourite elderly trio of life-extended elders. Of course, they endured and thrived in humanity’s latest exodus from Earth
          • Lexican and Flexicans, Pronoun People: sub-groups and political factions, challenging our notions of divisions
          • Space Absinthe Pirates: a rogue band of bandits— a myth to make children behave… or something else?

          Background of the Helix Fleet:

          Helix 25 is one of several generation ships that were designed as luxury cruise ships, but are now embarked on an exodus from Earth decades ago, after a mysterious event that left them the last survivors of humanity. Once part of an ambitious fleet designed for both leisure and also built to secretly preserve humanity’s legacy, the other Helix ships have since vanished from communication. Their unexplained absence casts a long shadow over the survivors aboard Helix 25, fueling theories soon turning into myths and the hope of a new golden age for humanity bound to a cryptic prophecy.

          100-Word Pitch:

          Aboard Helix 25, humanity’s last survivors drift through deep space on a generation ship with a haunted past. When Inspector Orion Reed, a timeless holographic detective, uncovers a perplexing murder, encoded genetic secrets begin to surface. Dr. Amara Voss painstakingly deciphers DNA strands laced with ancient intelligence, while Kai Nova navigates treacherous starfields and Seren Vega unlocks VR relics of lost eras. Luca Stroud and Ellis Marlowe, a retired postman with vintage postcards, piece together clues that tie the victim’s secret past to the vanished Helix fleet. As conspiracies unravel, the crew must confront a destiny entwined with Earth’s forgotten exodus.

          #7641
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            The luxury of an afternoon nap was one of the finer pleasures of retirement, particularly during the heat of an Italian summer.  Elara stretched like a cat on the capacious sofa, pulling a couple of kilim covered cushions into place to support her neck.  She had only read a few pages of her book about the Cerne Abbas giant, the enigmatic chalk figure on a hill in Dorset, before her eyes slid closed and the book dropped with a thud onto her chest.

            The distant clang of a bell woke her several hours later, although she remained motionless, unable to open her eyes at first.  Not one to recall dreams as a rule, Elara was surprised at the intensity of the dream she was struggling to awaken from, and the clarity of the details, and the emotion.  In the dream she was at the CERN conference, a clamour and cacophony of colleagues, some familiar to her in waking life, some characters complete strangers but familiar to her in the dream. She had felt agitation at the noise and at the cold coffee, and an indescribable feeling when Florian somehow appeared by her side, who was supposed to be in Tuscany, whispering in her ear that her mother had died and she was to make the funeral arrangements.

            Elara’s mother had died when she was just a child, barely eight years old. She was no longer sure if she remembered her, or if her memories were from the photographs and anecdotes she’d seen and heard in the following years.  Her older sister Vanessa had said darkly that she was lucky and well out of it, to not have had to put up with her when she was a teenager, like she had. Vanessa was ten years older than Elara, and had assumed the role of mother.  She explained later that she’d let Elara run wild because she didn’t want to be bossy and domineering, but admitted that she should perhaps have reined her younger sister in a bit more than she had.

            Again, the distant bell clanged.  Shaking her head as if to dispel the memories the dream had conjured, Elara rose from the sofa and walked out on to the terrace.  Across the yard she could see Florian, replacing the old bell on the new gate post.

            “Sorry, did I wake you?” he called. “I had a bit of linen round the clanger so it didn’t make a noise while I screwed it to the post, but it slipped.  Sorry,” he repeated.

            Squinting in the bright sun, Elara strolled over to him, saying, “Honestly, don’t worry, I was glad to wake up. What a dream I had!  That’s great Florian, nice job.”

            #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.

              #7419

              Sleeping like a log through a full night’s rest on the lavender spell wrapped in the rag of the punic tunic worked like a charm. By morning light, Eris had reverted to her normal self again.

              How her coven had succeeded in finding the rag was anyone’s guess, but one thing was for certain—Truella’s resourcefulness knew no bounds once she set her mind to a goal. All it took was a location spell, a silencing charm around the area in Libyssa where she wanted to dig, and of course, a trusty trowel. Hundreds of buckets of dirt later, a few sheep’s jawbones and voilà, the rag. Made of asbestos, impervious to fire, and slower to decay than a sloth on a Monday morning, it was nothing short of a miracle it had survived so long underground, and that they found it in such a short time.

              Eris rubbed her neck still pained from the weight of bearing that enormous elephantine head.

              When pressed by the others—Frigella, Jeezel, and the ever-curious Truella—she could hardly recall what led her to attempt the risky memory spell.

              Echo buzzed in with an electric hum, the sprite all too eager to clear the air.

              “The memory spell,” Echo interjected, “a dubious cocktail of spirits of remembrance and forgetfulness, was cast not out of folly but necessity. Eris, rooted in her family’s arborestry quests, understood the weight of knowledge passed down through generations. Each leaf and branch in the family tree held stories, secrets, and sacrifices that were both a treasure and a burden.”

              Echo smirked as he continued, pointing out the responsibility of the other entity’s guidance. “Elias’s advice had egged her on, resonating with Eris’ desires, and finally enticing her not lament the multitude of options but rather delights in the exploration without the burden of obligation —end of quotation.”

              “And was it worth it?” Truella asked impatiently, her curiosity piqued a little nonetheless. She’d always wished she had more memory, but not at the cost of an elephant head.

              “Imagine the vast expanse of memories like a grand library, each book brimming with the essence of a lineage. ” Eris said. “To wander these halls without purpose could lead to an overwhelming deluge of ancestral whispers.” She paused. “So, not sure it was entirely worth it. I feel more confused than ever.”

              Echo chimed in again “The memory spell was conjured to be a compass, a guide through the storied corridors of her heritage. But, as with all magic, the intentions must be precise, the heart true, and the mind clear. A miscalculation, a stray thought, a moment’s doubt — and the spell turned upon itself, leaving Eris with the visage of an elephant, noble and wise. The elephant head, while unintended, may have been a subconscious manifestation of her quest for familial knowledge.  Perhaps the memory spell, in its misfiring, sought to grant Eris the attributes necessary to continue her arborestry quests with the fortitude and insight of the elephant.”

              “But why Madrid of all places?” Jeezel asked mostly out of reflex than complete interest; she had been pulled into the rescue and had missed the quarter finals of the Witch Drag Race she was now catching up on x2 speed replay on her phone.

              Echo surmised “Madrid, that sun-drenched city of art and history, may have been a waypoint in her journey — a place where the paths of the past intersect with the pulse of the present. It is in such crossroads that one may find hidden keys to unlock the tales etched in one’s bloodline.”

              “In other words, you have no idea?” Frigella asked Eris directly, cutting through the little flickering sprite’s mystical chatter.

              “I guess it’s something as Wisp said. I must have connected to some bloodlines. But one thing is sure, all was fine when I was in Finland, Thorsten was as much a steadying presence as one would need. But then I got pulled into the vortex, and all bets were off.”

              “At least he had the presence of mind to call me.” Truella said smuggly.

              “The red cars may have started to get my elephant head mad… I can’t recall all of it, but I’m glad you found me in time.” Eris admitted.

              “Don’t mention it poppet, we all screwed up one spell or two in our time.” Frigella said, offering unusual comfort.

              “Let’s hope at least you’ll come up with brilliant ideas from that ordeal next week.” said Jeezel.

              “What do you mean?” Truella looked at her suspiciously

              “The strategic meeting that Malové has called for? In the Adare Manor resort?” Frigella reminded her, rolling her eyes softly.

              “Jeez, Jeezel…” was all Truella could come up with. “another one of these boring meetings to boost our sales channels and come up with new incense models?” Truella groaned, already wishing it were over.

              “That’s right love. Better be on your A-game for this.” Jeezel said, straightening her wig with a sly grin.

              #7276
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                Wood Screw Manufacturers

                The Fishers of West Bromwich.

                 

                My great grandmother, Nellie Fisher, was born in 1877 in Wolverhampton.   Her father William 1834-1916 was a whitesmith, and his father William 1792-1873 was a whitesmith and master screw maker.  William’s father was Abel Fisher, wood screw maker, victualler, and according to his 1849 will, a “gentleman”.

                Nellie Fisher 1877-1956 :

                Nellie Fisher

                 

                Abel Fisher was born in 1769 according to his burial document (age 81 in 1849) and on the 1841 census. Abel was a wood screw manufacturer in Wolverhampton.

                As no baptism record can be found for Abel Fisher, I read every Fisher will I could find in a 30 year period hoping to find his fathers will. I found three other Fishers who were wood screw manufacurers in neighbouring West Bromwich, which led me to assume that Abel was born in West Bromwich and related to these other Fishers.

                The wood screw making industry was a relatively new thing when Abel was born.

                “The screw was used in furniture but did not become a common woodworking fastener until efficient machine tools were developed near the end of the 18th century. The earliest record of lathe made wood screws dates to an English patent of 1760. The development of wood screws progressed from a small cottage industry in the late 18th century to a highly mechanized industry by the mid-19th century. This rapid transformation is marked by several technical innovations that help identify the time that a screw was produced. The earliest, handmade wood screws were made from hand-forged blanks. These screws were originally produced in homes and shops in and around the manufacturing centers of 18th century Europe. Individuals, families or small groups participated in the production of screw blanks and the cutting of the threads. These small operations produced screws individually, using a series of files, chisels and cutting tools to form the threads and slot the head. Screws produced by this technique can vary significantly in their shape and the thread pitch. They are most easily identified by the profusion of file marks (in many directions) over the surface. The first record regarding the industrial manufacture of wood screws is an English patent registered to Job and William Wyatt of Staffordshire in 1760.”

                Wood Screw Makers of West Bromwich:

                Edward Fisher, wood screw maker of West Bromwich, died in 1796. He mentions his wife Pheney and two underage sons in his will. Edward (whose baptism has not been found) married Pheney Mallin on 13 April 1793. Pheney was 17 years old, born in 1776. Her parents were Isaac Mallin and Sarah Firme, who were married in West Bromwich in 1768.
                Edward and Pheney’s son Edward was born on 21 October 1793, and their son Isaac in 1795. The executors of Edwards 1796 will are Daniel Fisher the Younger, Isaac Mallin, and Joseph Fisher.

                There is a marriage allegations and bonds document in 1774 for an Edward Fisher, bachelor and wood screw maker of West Bromwich, aged 25 years and upwards, and Mary Mallin of the same age, father Isaac Mallin. Isaac Mallin and Sarah didn’t marry until 1768 and Mary Mallin would have been born circa 1749. Perhaps Isaac Mallin’s father was the father of Mary Mallin. It’s possible that Edward Fisher was born in 1749 and first married Mary Mallin, and then later Pheney, but it’s also possible that the Edward Fisher who married Mary Mallin in 1774 was Edward Fishers uncle, Daniel’s brother.  (I do not know if Daniel had a brother Edward, as I haven’t found a baptism, or marriage, for Daniel Fisher the elder.)

                There are two difficulties with finding the records for these West Bromwich families. One is that the West Bromwich registers are not available online in their entirety, and are held by the Sandwell Archives, and even so, they are incomplete. Not only that, the Fishers were non conformist. There is no surviving register prior to 1787. The chapel opened in 1788, and any registers that existed before this date, taken in a meeting houses for example, appear not to have survived.

                Daniel Fisher the younger died intestate in 1818. Daniel was a wood screw maker of West Bromwich. He was born in 1751 according to his age stated as 67 on his death in 1818. Daniel’s wife Mary, and his son William Fisher, also a wood screw maker, claimed the estate.

                Daniel Fisher the elder was a farmer of West Bromwich, who died in 1806. He was 81 when he died, which makes a birth date of 1725, although no baptism has been found. No marriage has been found either, but he was probably married not earlier than 1746.

                Daniel’s sons Daniel and Joseph were the main inheritors, and he also mentions his other children and grandchildren namely William Fisher, Thomas Fisher, Hannah wife of William Hadley, two grandchildren Edward and Isaac Fisher sons of Edward Fisher his son deceased. Daniel the elder presumably refers to the wood screw manufacturing when he says “to my son Daniel Fisher the good will and advantage which may arise from his manufacture or trade now carried on by me.” Daniel does not mention a son called Abel unfortunately, but neither does he mention his other grandchildren. Abel may be Daniel’s son, or he may be a nephew.

                The Staffordshire Record Office holds the documents of a Testamentary Case in 1817. The principal people are Isaac Fisher, a legatee; Daniel and Joseph Fisher, executors. Principal place, West Bromwich, and deceased person, Daniel Fisher the elder, farmer.

                William and Sarah Fisher baptised six children in the Mares Green Non Conformist registers in West Bromwich between 1786 and 1798. William Fisher and Sarah Birch were married in West Bromwich in 1777. This William was probably born circa 1753 and was probably the son of Daniel Fisher the elder, farmer.

                 

                Daniel Fisher the younger and his wife Mary had a son William, as mentioned in the intestacy papers, although I have not found a baptism for William.  I did find a baptism for another son, Eutychus Fisher in 1792.

                In White’s Directory of Staffordshire in 1834, there are three Fishers who are wood screw makers in Wolverhampton: Eutychus Fisher, Oxford Street; Stephen Fisher, Bloomsbury; and William Fisher, Oxford Street.

                Abel’s son William Fisher 1792-1873 was living on Oxford Street on the 1841 census, with his wife Mary  and their son William Fisher 1834-1916.

                 

                In The European Magazine, and London Review of 1820  (Volume 77 – Page 564) under List of Patents, W Fisher and H Fisher of West Bromwich, wood screw manufacturers, are listed.  Also in 1820 in the Birmingham Chronicle, the partnership of William and Hannah Fisher, wood screw manufacturers of West Bromwich, was dissolved.

                 

                In the Staffordshire General & Commercial Directory 1818, by W. Parson, three Fisher’s are listed as wood screw makers.  Abel Fisher victualler and wood screw maker, Red Lion, Walsal Road; Stephen Fisher wood screw maker, Buggans Lane; and Daniel Fisher wood screw manufacturer, Brickiln Lane.

                 

                In Aris’s Birmingham Gazette on 4 January 1819 Abel Fisher is listed with 23 other wood screw manufacturers (Stephen Fisher and William Fisher included) stating that “In consequence of the rise in prices of iron and the advanced price given to journeymen screw forgers, we the undersigned manufacturers of wood screws are under the necessity of advancing screws 10 percent, to take place on the 11th january 1819.”

                Abel Fisher wood screws

                 

                In Abel Fisher’s 1849 will, he names his three sons Abel Fisher 1796-1869, Paul Fisher 1811-1900 and John Southall Fisher 1801-1871 as the executors.  He also mentions his other three sons, William Fisher 1792-1873, Benjamin Fisher 1798-1870, and Joseph Fisher 1803-1876, and daughters Sarah Fisher  1794-  wife of William Colbourne, Mary Fisher  1804-  wife of Thomas Pearce, and Susannah (Hannah) Fisher  1813-  wife of Parkes.  His son Silas Fisher 1809-1837 wasn’t mentioned as he died before Abel, nor his sons John Fisher  1799-1800, and Edward Southall Fisher 1806-1843.  Abel’s wife Susannah Southall born in 1771 died in 1824.  They were married in 1791.

                The 1849 will of Abel Fisher:

                Abel Fisher 1849 will

                #6551

                In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

                Xavier had woken up in the middle of the night that felt surprisingly alive bursting with a quiet symphony of sounds from nocturnal creatures and nearby nature, painted on a canvas of eerie spacious silence.

                It often took him a while to get accustomed to any new place, and it was not uncommon for him to have his mind racing in the middle of the night. Generally Brytta had a soothing presence and that often managed to nudge him back to sleep, otherwise, he would simply wake up until the train of thoughts had left the station.

                It was beginning of the afternoon in Berlin; Brytta would be in a middle of a shift, so he recorded a little message for her to find when she would get back to her phone. It was funny to think they’d met thanks to Yasmin and Zara, at the time the three girls were members of the same photography club, which was called ‘Focusgroupfocus’ or something similar…
                With that done, he’d turned around for something to do but there wasn’t much in the room to explore or to distract him sufficiently. Not even a book in the nightstand drawer. The decoration itself had a mesmerising nature, but after a while it didn’t help with the racing thoughts.

                He was tempted to check in the game — there was something satisfactory in finishing a quest that left his monkey brain satiated for a while, so he gave in and logged back in.

                  :fleuron2:

                Completing the quest didn’t take him too long this time. The main difficulty initially was to find the portal from where his avatar had landed. It was a strange carousel of blue storks that span into different dimensions one could open with the proper incantation.

                As usual, stating the quirk was the key to the location, and the carousel portal propelled him right away to Midnight town, which was clearly a ghost town in more ways than one. Interestingly, he was chatting on the side with Glimmer, who’d run into new adventures of her own while continuing to ask him what was up, and as soon as he’d reached Midnight town, all communication channels suddenly went dark. He’d laughed to himself thinking how frustrated Glimmer would have been about that. But maybe the game took care of sending her AI-generated messages simulating his presence. Despite the disturbing thought of having an AI generated clone of himself, he almost hoped for it (he’d probably signed the consent for this without realising), so that he wouldn’t have to do a tedious recap about all what she’d missed.

                Once he arrived in the town, the adventure followed a predictable pattern. The clues were also rather simple to follow.

                The townspeople are all frozen in time, stuck in their daily routines and unable to move on. Your mission is to find the missing piece of continuity, a small hourglass that will set time back in motion and allow the townspeople to move forward.

                The clue to finding the hourglass lies within a discarded pocket watch that can be found in the mayor’s office. You must unscrew the back and retrieve a hidden key. The key will unlock a secret compartment in the town clock tower, where the hourglass is kept.

                Be careful as you search for the hourglass, as the town is not as abandoned as it seems. Spectral figures roam the streets, and strange whispers can be heard in the wind. You may also encounter a mysterious old man who seems to know more about the town’s secrets than he lets on.

                Evading the ghosts and spectres wasn’t too difficult once you got the hang of it. The old man however had been quite an elusive figure to find, but he was clearly the highlight of the whole adventure; he had been hiding in plain sight since the beginning of the adventure. One of the blue storks in the town that he’d thought had come with him through the portal was in actuality not a bird at all.

                While he was focused on finishing the quest, the interaction with the hermit didn’t seem very helpful. Was he really from the game construct? When it was time to complete the quest and turn the hourglass to set the town back in motion, and resume continuity, some of his words came back to Xavier.

                “The town isn’t what it seems. Recognise this precious moment where everything is still and you can realise it for the illusion that it is, a projection of your busy mind. When motion resumes, you will need to keep your mind quiet. The prize in the quest is not the completion of it, but the realisation you can stop the agitation at any moment, and return to what truly matters.”

                The hermit had turned to him with clear dark eyes and asked “do you know what you are seeking in these adventures? do you know what truly matters to you?”

                  :fleuron2:

                When he came out of the game, his quest completed, Xavier felt the words resonate ominously.

                A buzz of the phone snapped him out of it.

                It was a message from Zara. Apparently she’d found her way back to modernity.

                [4:57] “Going to pick up Yasmin at the airport. You better sleep away the jetlag you lazy slugs, we have poultry damn plenty planned ahead – cackling bugger cooking lessons not looking forward to, but can be fun. Talk to you later. Z”

                He had the impulse to go with her, but the lack of sleep was hitting back at him now, and he thought he’d better catch some so he could manage to realign with the timezone.

                “The old man was right… that sounds like a lot of agitation coming our way…”

                #6514

                In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

                ÉricÉric
                Keymaster

                  Xavier offered the following quirk: “being the holder of continuity”

                  Quirk accepted.

                  Your quest takes place in the ghost town of Midnight, where time seems to have stood still. The townspeople are all frozen in time, stuck in their daily routines and unable to move on. Your mission is to find the missing piece of continuity, a small hourglass that will set time back in motion and allow the townspeople to move forward.

                  The clue to finding the hourglass lies within a discarded pocket watch that can be found in the mayor’s office. You must unscrew the back and retrieve a hidden key. The key will unlock a secret compartment in the town clock tower, where the hourglass is kept.

                  Be careful as you search for the hourglass, as the town is not as abandoned as it seems. Spectral figures roam the streets, and strange whispers can be heard in the wind. You may also encounter a mysterious old man who seems to know more about the town’s secrets than he lets on.

                  Proof of completion can be shown by taking a photo of the hourglass and the pocket watch, and sending it to the game’s creators.

                  Good luck!

                  #6460

                  In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  🧔🌮🔍🔑🏞️

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

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

                  #6392

                  In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

                  “I can’t play for a few days,” Zara announced firmly. “I’m doing real world stuff at the moment. I saw a cat up a tree that looked computer generated and I’m concerned about my mental health.”

                  “What only just now worried? Just this minute?” asked Xavier, managing to keep his face serious.

                  “Quirky Guests,” mused Yasmin.

                  The others looked at her.

                  “I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” she laughed putting a hand to her mouth. “It’s nothing really … it’s just that every time I looked at the map I thought it said quirky GUESTS.”

                  “Guest!”  Zara’s face brightened. “Oh! Maybe guest is a clue … maybe it’s a bleed through from the Flying Fish Inn! You know, it wouldn’t surprise me AT ALL if the key was there.”

                  Xavier screwed up his face.

                  “What!”  snapped Zara. “Go on, spit it out!”

                  “Well it’s sort of RPG meets Cloud Atlas, isn’t it? But each to their own gripshawk and AL will sort it all out anyway.”

                  #6331
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    Whitesmiths of Baker Street

                    The Fishers of Wolverhampton

                     

                    My fathers mother was Margaret Tomlinson born in 1913, the youngest but one daughter of Charles Tomlinson and Nellie Fisher of Wolverhampton.

                    Nellie Fisher was born in 1877. Her parents were William Fisher and Mary Ann Smith.

                    William Fisher born in 1834 was a whitesmith on Baker St on the 1881 census; Nellie was 3 years old. Nellie was his youngest daughter.

                    William was a whitesmith (or screw maker) on all of the censuses but in 1901 whitesmith was written for occupation, then crossed out and publican written on top. This was on Duke St, so I searched for William Fisher licensee on longpull black country pubs website and he was licensee of The Old Miners Arms on Duke St in 1896. The pub closed in 1906 and no longer exists. He was 67 in 1901 and just he and wife Mary Ann were at that address.

                    In 1911 he was a widower living alone in Upper Penn. Nellie and Charles Tomlinson were also living in Upper Penn on the 1911 census, and my grandmother was born there in 1913.

                    William’s father William Fisher born in 1792, Nellie’s grandfather, was a whitesmith on Baker St on the 1861 census employing 4 boys, 2 men, 3 girls. He died in 1873.

                    1873 William Fisher

                     

                     

                    William Fisher the elder appears in a number of directories including this one:

                    1851 Melville & Co´s Directory of Wolverhampton

                    William Fisher whitesmith

                     

                    I noticed that all the other ancestry trees (as did my fathers cousin on the Tomlinson side) had MARY LUNN from Birmingham in Warwickshire marrying William Fisher the elder in 1828. But on ALL of the censuses, Mary’s place of birth was Staffordshire, and on one it said Bilston. I found another William Fisher and Mary marriage in Sedgley in 1829, MARY PITT.
                    You can order a birth certificate from the records office with mothers maiden name on, but only after 1837. So I looked for Williams younger brother Joseph, born 1845. His mothers maiden name was Pitt.

                     

                    Pitt MMN

                    #6260
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      From Tanganyika with Love

                      With thanks to Mike Rushby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                       

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Much love my dear,
                      your jubilant
                      Eleanor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Bless you all,
                      Eleanor.

                      S.S.Timavo. 6th. November 1930

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor Leslie.

                      Eleanor and George Rushby:

                      Eleanor and George Rushby

                      Splendid Hotel, Dar es Salaam 11th November 1930

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Your cave woman
                      Eleanor.

                      Mchewe Estate. P.O. Mbeya 22 November 1930

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Much love to you all,
                      Eleanor.

                      Mchewe Estate 29th. November 1930

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Your loving
                      Eleanor.

                      Mchewe Estate. Mbeya. 8th December 1930

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Very much love,
                      Eleanor.

                      Mbeya 23rd December 1930

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                      26th December 1930

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

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

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

                      Lots and lots of love,
                      Eleanor.

                      Mchewe Estate 8th Jan 1931

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Your loving,
                      Eleanor.

                      Mchewe Estate. 1st April 1931

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                      Very much love,
                      Eleanor.

                      Mchewe Estate 20th April 1931

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Mchewe Estate. 20th May 1931

                      Dear Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      #6259
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        George “Mike” Rushby

                        A short autobiography of George Gilman Rushby’s son, published in the Blackwall Bugle, Australia.

                        Early in 2009, Ballina Shire Council Strategic and
                        Community Services Group Manager, Steve Barnier,
                        suggested that it would be a good idea for the Wardell
                        and District community to put out a bi-monthly
                        newsletter. I put my hand up to edit the publication and
                        since then, over 50 issues of “The Blackwall Bugle”
                        have been produced, encouraged by Ballina Shire
                        Council who host the newsletter on their website.
                        Because I usually write the stories that other people
                        generously share with me, I have been asked by several
                        community members to let them know who I am. Here is
                        my attempt to let you know!

                        My father, George Gilman Rushby was born in England
                        in 1900. An Electrician, he migrated to Africa as a young
                        man to hunt and to prospect for gold. He met Eleanor
                        Dunbar Leslie who was a high school teacher in Cape
                        Town. They later married in Dar es Salaam, Tanganyika.
                        I was the second child and first son and was born in a
                        mud hut in Tanganyika in 1933. I spent my first years on
                        a coffee plantation. When four years old, and with
                        parents and elder sister on a remote goldfield, I caught
                        typhoid fever. I was seriously ill and had no access to
                        proper medical facilities. My paternal grandmother
                        sailed out to Africa from England on a steam ship and
                        took me back to England for medical treatment. My
                        sister Ann came too. Then Adolf Hitler started WWII and
                        Ann and I were separated from our parents for 9 years.

                        Sister Ann and I were not to see him or our mother for
                        nine years because of the war. Dad served as a Captain in
                        the King’s African Rifles operating in the North African
                        desert, while our Mum managed the coffee plantation at
                        home in Tanganyika.

                        Ann and I lived with our Grandmother and went to
                        school in Nottingham England. In 1946 the family was
                        reunited. We lived in Mbeya in Southern Tanganyika
                        where my father was then the District Manager of the
                        National Parks and Wildlife Authority. There was no
                        high school in Tanganyika so I had to go to school in
                        Nairobi, Kenya. It took five days travelling each way by
                        train and bus including two days on a steamer crossing
                        Lake Victoria.

                        However, the school year was only two terms with long
                        holidays in between.

                        When I was seventeen, I left high school. There was
                        then no university in East Africa. There was no work
                        around as Tanganyika was about to become
                        independent of the British Empire and become
                        Tanzania. Consequently jobs were reserved for
                        Africans.

                        A war had broken out in Korea. I took a day off from
                        high school and visited the British Army headquarters
                        in Nairobi. I signed up for military service intending to
                        go to Korea. The army flew me to England. During
                        Army basic training I was nicknamed ‘Mike’ and have
                        been called Mike ever since. I never got to Korea!
                        After my basic training I volunteered for the Parachute
                        Regiment and the army sent me to Egypt where the
                        Suez Canal was under threat. I carried out parachute
                        operations in the Sinai Desert and in Cyprus and
                        Jordan. I was then selected for officer training and was
                        sent to England to the Eaton Hall Officer Cadet School
                        in Cheshire. Whilst in Cheshire, I met my future wife
                        Jeanette. I graduated as a Second Lieutenant in the
                        Royal Lincolnshire Regiment and was posted to West
                        Berlin, which was then one hundred miles behind the
                        Iron Curtain. My duties included patrolling the
                        demarcation line that separated the allies from the
                        Russian forces. The Berlin Wall was yet to be built. I
                        also did occasional duty as guard commander of the
                        guard at Spandau Prison where Adolf Hitler’s deputy
                        Rudolf Hess was the only prisoner.

                        From Berlin, my Regiment was sent to Malaya to
                        undertake deep jungle operations against communist
                        terrorists that were attempting to overthrow the
                        Malayan Government. I was then a Lieutenant in
                        command of a platoon of about 40 men which would go
                        into the jungle for three weeks to a month with only air
                        re-supply to keep us going. On completion of my jungle
                        service, I returned to England and married Jeanette. I
                        had to stand up throughout the church wedding
                        ceremony because I had damaged my right knee in a
                        competitive cross-country motorcycle race and wore a
                        splint and restrictive bandage for the occasion!
                        At this point I took a career change and transferred
                        from the infantry to the Royal Military Police. I was in
                        charge of the security of British, French and American
                        troops using the autobahn link from West Germany to
                        the isolated Berlin. Whilst in Germany and Austria I
                        took up snow skiing as a sport.

                        Jeanette and I seemed to attract unusual little
                        adventures along the way — each adventure trivial in
                        itself but adding up to give us a ‘different’ path through
                        life. Having climbed Mount Snowdon up the ‘easy way’
                        we were witness to a serious climbing accident where a
                        member of the staff of a Cunard Shipping Line
                        expedition fell and suffered serious injury. It was
                        Sunday a long time ago. The funicular railway was
                        closed. There was no telephone. So I ran all the way
                        down Mount Snowdon to raise the alarm.

                        On a road trip from Verden in Germany to Berlin with
                        our old Opel Kapitan motor car stacked to the roof with
                        all our worldly possessions, we broke down on the ice and snow covered autobahn. We still had a hundred kilometres to go.

                        A motorcycle patrolman flagged down a B-Double
                        tanker. He hooked us to the tanker with a very short tow
                        cable and off we went. The truck driver couldn’t see us
                        because we were too close and his truck threw up a
                        constant deluge of ice and snow so we couldn’t see
                        anyway. We survived the hundred kilometre ‘sleigh
                        ride!’

                        I then went back to the other side of the world where I
                        carried out military police duties in Singapore and
                        Malaya for three years. I took up scuba diving and
                        loved the ocean. Jeanette and I, with our two little
                        daughters, took a holiday to South Africa to see my
                        parents. We sailed on a ship of the Holland-Afrika Line.
                        It broke down for four days and drifted uncontrollably
                        in dangerous waters off the Skeleton Coast of Namibia
                        until the crew could get the ship’s motor running again.
                        Then, in Cape Town, we were walking the beach near
                        Hermanus with my youngest brother and my parents,
                        when we found the dead body of a man who had thrown
                        himself off a cliff. The police came and secured the site.
                        Back with the army, I was promoted to Major and
                        appointed Provost Marshal of the ACE Mobile Force
                        (Allied Command Europe) with dual headquarters in
                        Salisbury, England and Heidelberg, Germany. The cold
                        war was at its height and I was on operations in Greece,
                        Denmark and Norway including the Arctic. I had
                        Norwegian, Danish, Italian and American troops in my
                        unit and I was then also the Winter Warfare Instructor
                        for the British contingent to the Allied Command
                        Europe Mobile Force that operated north of the Arctic
                        Circle.

                        The reason for being in the Arctic Circle? From there
                        our special forces could look down into northern
                        Russia.

                        I was not seeing much of my two young daughters. A
                        desk job was looming my way and I decided to leave
                        the army and migrate to Australia. Why Australia?
                        Well, I didn’t want to go back to Africa, which
                        seemed politically unstable and the people I most
                        liked working with in the army, were the Australian
                        troops I had met in Malaya.

                        I migrated to Brisbane, Australia in 1970 and started
                        working for Woolworths. After management training,
                        I worked at Garden City and Brookside then became
                        the manager in turn of Woolworths stores at
                        Paddington, George Street and Redcliff. I was also the
                        first Director of FAUI Queensland (The Federation of
                        Underwater Diving Instructors) and spent my spare
                        time on the Great Barrier Reef. After 8 years with
                        Woollies, I opted for a sea change.

                        I moved with my family to Evans Head where I
                        converted a convenience store into a mini
                        supermarket. When IGA moved into town, I decided
                        to take up beef cattle farming and bought a cattle
                        property at Collins Creek Kyogle in 1990. I loved
                        everything about the farm — the Charolais cattle, my
                        horses, my kelpie dogs, the open air, fresh water
                        creek, the freedom, the lifestyle. I also became a
                        volunteer fire fighter with the Green Pigeon Brigade.
                        In 2004 I sold our farm and moved to Wardell.
                        My wife Jeanette and I have been married for 60 years
                        and are now retired. We have two lovely married
                        daughters and three fine grandchildren. We live in the
                        greatest part of the world where we have been warmly
                        welcomed by the Wardell community and by the
                        Wardell Brigade of the Rural Fire Service. We are
                        very happy here.

                        Mike Rushby

                        A short article sent to Jacksdale in England from Mike Rushby in Australia:

                        Rushby Family

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