Search Results for 'dated'

Forums Search Search Results for 'dated'

Viewing 20 results - 1 through 20 (of 35 total)
  • Author
    Search Results
  • #7261
    TracyTracy
    Participant

       

      Long Lost Enoch Edwards

       

      Enoch Edwards

       

      My father used to mention long lost Enoch Edwards. Nobody in the family knew where he went to and it was assumed that he went to USA, perhaps to Utah to join his sister Sophie who was a Mormon handcart pioneer, but no record of him was found in USA.

      Andrew Enoch Edwards (my great great grandfather) was born in 1840, but was (almost) always known as Enoch. Although civil registration of births had started from 1 July 1837, neither Enoch nor his brother Stephen were registered. Enoch was baptised (as Andrew) on the same day as his brothers Reuben and Stephen in May 1843 at St Chad’s Catholic cathedral in Birmingham. It’s a mystery why these three brothers were baptised Catholic, as there are no other Catholic records for this family before or since. One possible theory is that there was a school attached to the church on Shadwell Street, and a Catholic baptism was required for the boys to go to the school. Enoch’s father John died of TB in 1844, and perhaps in 1843 he knew he was dying and wanted to ensure an education for his sons. The building of St Chads was completed in 1841, and it was close to where they lived.

      Enoch appears (as Enoch rather than Andrew) on the 1841 census, six months old. The family were living at Unett Street in Birmingham: John and Sarah and children Mariah, Sophia, Matilda, a mysterious entry transcribed as Lene, a daughter, that I have been unable to find anywhere else, and Reuben and Stephen.

      Enoch was just four years old when his father John, an engineer and millwright, died of consumption in 1844.

      In 1851 Enoch’s widowed mother Sarah was a mangler living on Summer Street, Birmingham, Matilda a dressmaker, Reuben and Stephen were gun percussionists, and eleven year old Enoch was an errand boy.

      On the 1861 census, Sarah was a confectionrer on Canal Street in Birmingham, Stephen was a blacksmith, and Enoch a button tool maker.

      On the 10th November 1867 Enoch married Emelia Parker, daughter of jeweller and rope maker Edward Parker, at St Philip in Birmingham. Both Emelia and Enoch were able to sign their own names, and Matilda and Edwin Eddington were witnesses (Enoch’s sister and her husband). Enoch’s address was Church Street, and his occupation button tool maker.

      1867 Enoch Edwards

       

      Four years later in 1871, Enoch was a publican living on Clifton Road. Son Enoch Henry was two years old, and Ralph Ernest was three months. Eliza Barton lived with them as a general servant.

      By 1881 Enoch was back working as a button tool maker in Bournebrook, Birmingham. Enoch and Emilia by then had three more children, Amelia, Albert Parker (my great grandfather) and Ada.

      Garnet Frederick Edwards was born in 1882. This is the first instance of the name Garnet in the family, and subsequently Garnet has been the middle name for the eldest son (my brother, father and grandfather all have Garnet as a middle name).

      Enoch was the licensed victualler at the Pack Horse Hotel in 1991 at Kings Norton. By this time, only daughters Amelia and Ada and son Garnet are living at home.

      Pack Horse Hotel

       

       

      Additional information from my fathers cousin, Paul Weaver:

      “Enoch refused to allow his son Albert Parker to go to King Edwards School in Birmingham, where he had been awarded a place. Instead, in October 1890 he made Albert Parker Edwards take an apprenticeship with a pawnboker in Tipton.
      Towards the end of the 19th century Enoch kept The Pack Horse in Alcester Road, Hollywood, where a twist was 1d an ounce, and beer was 2d a pint. The children had to get up early to get breakfast at 6 o’clock for the hay and straw men on their way to the Birmingham hay and straw market. Enoch is listed as a member of “The Kingswood & Pack Horse Association for the Prosecution of Offenders”, a kind of early Neighbourhood Watch, dated 25 October 1890.
      The Edwards family later moved to Redditch where they kept The Rifleman Inn at 35 Park Road. They must have left the Pack Horse by 1895 as another publican was in place by then.”

      Emelia his wife died in 1895 of consumption at the Rifleman Inn in Redditch, Worcestershire, and in 1897 Enoch married Florence Ethel Hedges in Aston. Enoch was 56 and Florence was just 21 years old.

      1897 Enoch Edwards

       

      The following year in 1898 their daughter Muriel Constance Freda Edwards was born in Deritend, Warwickshire.
      In 1901 Enoch, (Andrew on the census), publican, Florence and Muriel were living in Dudley. It was hard to find where he went after this.

      From Paul Weaver:

      “Family accounts have it that Enoch EDWARDS fell out with all his family, and at about the age of 60, he left all behind and emigrated to the U.S.A. Enoch was described as being an active man, and it is believed that he had another family when he settled in the U.S.A. Esmor STOKES has it that a postcard was received by the family from Enoch at Niagara Falls.

      On 11 June 1902 Harry Wright (the local postmaster responsible in those days for licensing) brought an Enoch EDWARDS to the Bedfordshire Petty Sessions in Biggleswade regarding “Hole in the Wall”, believed to refer to the now defunct “Hole in the Wall” public house at 76 Shortmead Street, Biggleswade with Enoch being granted “temporary authority”. On 9 July 1902 the transfer was granted. A year later in the 1903 edition of Kelly’s Directory of Bedfordshire, Hunts and Northamptonshire there is an Enoch EDWARDS running the Wheatsheaf Public House, Church Street, St. Neots, Huntingdonshire which is 14 miles south of Biggleswade.”

      It seems that Enoch and his new family moved away from the midlands in the early 1900s, but again the trail went cold.

      When I started doing the genealogy research, I joined a local facebook group for Redditch in Worcestershire. Enoch’s son Albert Parker Edwards (my great grandfather) spent most of his life there. I asked in the group about Enoch, and someone posted an illustrated advertisement for Enoch’s dog powders.  Enoch was a well known breeder/keeper of St Bernards and is cited in a book naming individuals key to the recovery/establishment of ‘mastiff’ size dog breeds.

       

      We had not known that Enoch was a breeder of champion St Bernard dogs!

      Once I knew about the St Bernard dogs and the names Mount Leo and Plinlimmon via the newspaper adverts, I did an internet search on Enoch Edwards in conjunction with these dogs.

      Enoch’s St Bernard dog “Mount Leo” was bred from the famous Plinlimmon, “the Emperor of Saint Bernards”. He was reported to have sent two puppies to Omaha and one of his stud dogs to America for a season, and in 1897 Enoch made the news for selling a St Bernard to someone in New York for £200. Plinlimmon, bred by Thomas Hall, was born in Liverpool, England on June 29, 1883. He won numerous dog shows throughout Europe in 1884, and in 1885, he was named Best Saint Bernard.

      In the Birmingham Mail on 14th June 1890:

      “Mr E Edwards, of Bournebrook, has been well to the fore with his dogs of late. He has gained nine honours during the past fortnight, including a first at the Pontypridd show with a St Bernard dog, The Speaker, a son of Plinlimmon.”

      In the Alcester Chronicle on Saturday 05 June 1897:

      Enoch St Bernards

      Enoch press releases

       

      It was discovered that Enoch, Florence and Muriel moved to Canada, not USA as the family had assumed. The 1911 census for Montreal St Jaqcues, Quebec, stated that Enoch, (Florence) Ethel, and (Muriel) Frida had emigrated in 1906. Enoch’s occupation was machinist in 1911. The census transcription is not very good. Edwards was transcribed as Edmand, but the dates of birth for all three are correct. Birthplace is correct ~ A for Anglitan (the census is in French) but race or tribe is also an A but the transcribers have put African black! Enoch by this time was 71 years old, his wife 33 and daughter 11.

      Additional information from Paul Weaver:

      “In 1906 he and his new family travelled to Canada with Enoch travelling first and Ethel and Frida joined him in Quebec on 25 June 1906 on board the ‘Canada’ from Liverpool.
      Their immigration record suggests that they were planning to travel to Winnipeg, but five years later in 1911, Enoch, Florence Ethel and Frida were still living in St James, Montreal. Enoch was employed as a machinist by Canadian Government Railways working 50 hours. It is the 1911 census record that confirms his birth as November 1840. It also states that Enoch could neither read nor write but managed to earn $500 in 1910 for activity other than his main profession, although this may be referring to his innkeeping business interests.
      By 1921 Florence and Muriel Frida are living in Langford, Neepawa, Manitoba with Peter FUCHS, an Ontarian farmer of German descent who Florence had married on 24 Jul 1913 implying that Enoch died sometime in 1911/12, although no record has been found.”

      The extra $500 in earnings was perhaps related to the St Bernard dogs.  Enoch signed his name on the register on his marriage to Emelia, and I think it’s very unlikely that he could neither read nor write, as stated above.

      However, it may not be Enoch’s wife Florence Ethel who married Peter Fuchs.  A Florence Emma Edwards married Peter Fuchs,  and on the 1921 census in Neepawa her daugther Muriel Elizabeth Edwards, born in 1902, lives with them.  Quite a coincidence, two Florence and Muriel Edwards in Neepawa at the time.  Muriel Elizabeth Edwards married and had two children but died at the age of 23 in 1925.  Her mother Florence was living with the widowed husband and the two children on the 1931 census in Neepawa.  As there was no other daughter on the 1911 census with Enoch, Florence and Muriel in Montreal, it must be a different Florence and daughter.  We don’t know, though, why Muriel Constance Freda married in Neepawa.

      Indeed, Florence was not a widow in 1913.  Enoch died in 1924 in Montreal, aged 84.  Neither Enoch, Florence or their daughter has been found yet on the 1921 census. The search is not easy, as Enoch sometimes used the name Andrew, Florence used her middle name Ethel, and daughter Muriel used Freda, Valerie (the name she added when she married in Neepawa), and died as Marcheta.   The only name she NEVER used was Constance!

      A Canadian genealogist living in Montreal phoned the cemetery where Enoch was buried. She said “Enoch Edwards who died on Feb 27 1924  is not buried in the Mount Royal cemetery, he was only cremated there on March 4, 1924. There are no burial records but he died of an abcess and his body was sent to the cemetery for cremation from the Royal Victoria Hospital.”

       

      1924 Obituary for Enoch Edwards:

      Cimetière Mont-Royal Outremont, Montreal Region, Quebec, Canada

      The Montreal Star 29 Feb 1924, Fri · Page 31

      1924 death Enoch Edwards

       

      Muriel Constance Freda Valerie Edwards married Arthur Frederick Morris on 24 Oct 1925 in Neepawa, Manitoba. (She appears to have added the name Valerie when she married.)

      Unexpectedly a death certificate appeared for Muriel via the hints on the ancestry website. Her name was “Marcheta Morris” on this document, however it also states that she was the widow of Arthur Frederick Morris and daughter of Andrew E Edwards and Florence Ethel Hedges. She died suddenly in June 1948 in Flos, Simcoe, Ontario of a coronary thrombosis, where she was living as a housekeeper.

      Marcheta Morris

      #7255
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        The First Wife of John Edwards

        1794-1844

        John was a widower when he married Sarah Reynolds from Kinlet. Both my fathers cousin and I had come to a dead end in the Edwards genealogy research as there were a number of possible births of a John Edwards in Birmingham at the time, and a number of possible first wives for a John Edwards at the time.

        John Edwards was a millwright on the 1841 census, the only census he appeared on as he died in 1844, and 1841 was the first census. His birth is recorded as 1800, however on the 1841 census the ages were rounded up or down five years. He was an engineer on some of the marriage records of his children with Sarah, and on his death certificate, engineer and millwright, aged 49. The age of 49 at his death from tuberculosis in 1844 is likely to be more accurate than the census (Sarah his wife was present at his death), making a birth date of 1794 or 1795.

        John married Sarah Reynolds in January 1827 in Birmingham, and I am descended from this marriage. Any children of John’s first marriage would no doubt have been living with John and Sarah, but had probably left home by the time of the 1841 census.

        I found an Elizabeth Edwards, wife of John Edwards of Constitution Hill, died in August 1826 at the age of 23, as stated on the parish death register. It would be logical for a young widower with small children to marry again quickly. If this was John’s first wife, the marriage to Sarah six months later in January 1827 makes sense. Therefore, John’s first wife, I assumed, was Elizabeth, born in 1803.

        Death of Elizabeth Edwards, 23 years old.  St Mary, Birmingham, 15 Aug 1826:

        Death Eliz Edwards

         

        There were two baptisms recorded for parents John and Elizabeth Edwards, Constitution Hill, and John’s occupation was an engineer on both baptisms.
        They were both daughters: Sarah Ann in 1822 and Elizabeth in 1824.

        Sarah Ann Edwards: St Philip, Birmingham. Born 15 March 1822, baptised 7 September 1822:

        1822 Sarah Ann Edwards

        Elizabeth Edwards: St Philip, Birmingham. Born 6 February 1824, baptised 25 February 1824:

        1824 Elizabeth Edwards

         

        With John’s occupation as engineer stated, it looked increasingly likely that I’d found John’s first wife and children of that marriage.

        Then I found a marriage of Elizabeth Beach to John Edwards in 1819, and subsequently found an Elizabeth Beach baptised in 1803. This appeared to be the right first wife for John, until an Elizabeth Slater turned up, with a marriage to a John Edwards in 1820. An Elizabeth Slater was baptised in 1803. Either Elizabeth Beach or Elizabeth Slater could have been the first wife of John Edwards. As John’s first wife Elizabeth is not related to us, it’s not necessary to go further back, and in a sense, doesn’t really matter which one it was.

        But the Slater name caught my eye.

        But first, the name Sarah Ann.

        Of the possible baptisms for John Edwards, the most likely seemed to be in 1794, parents John and Sarah. John and Sarah had two infant daughters die just prior to John’s birth. The first was Sarah, the second Sarah Ann. Perhaps this was why John named his daughter Sarah Ann? In the absence of any other significant clues, I decided to assume these were the correct parents. I found and read half a dozen wills of any John Edwards I could find within the likely time period of John’s fathers death.

        One of them was dated 1803. In this will, John mentions that his children are not yet of age. (John would have been nine years old.)
        He leaves his plating business and some properties to his eldest son Thomas Davis Edwards, (just shy of 21 years old at the time of his fathers death in 1803) with the business to be run jointly with his widow, Sarah. He mentions his son John, and leaves several properties to him, when he comes of age. He also leaves various properties to his daughters Elizabeth and Mary, ditto. The baptisms for all of these children, including the infant deaths of Sarah and Sarah Ann have been found. All but Mary’s were in the same parish. (I found one for Mary in Sutton Coldfield, which was apparently correct, as a later census also recorded her birth as Sutton Coldfield. She was living with family on that census, so it would appear to be correct that for whatever reason, their daughter Mary was born in Sutton Coldfield)

        Mary married John Slater in 1813. The witnesses were Elizabeth Whitehouse and John Edwards, her sister and brother. Elizabeth married William Nicklin Whitehouse in 1805 and one of the witnesses was Mary Edwards.
        Mary’s husband John Slater died in 1821. They had no children. Mary never remarried, and lived with her bachelor brother Thomas Davis Edwards in West Bromwich. Thomas never married, and on the census he was either a proprietor of houses, or “sinecura” (earning a living without working).

        With Mary marrying a Slater, does this indicate that her brother John’s first wife was Elizabeth Slater rather than Elizabeth Beach? It is a compelling possibility, but does not constitute proof.

        Not only that, there is no absolute proof that the John Edwards who died in 1803 was our ancestor John Edwards father.

         

        If we can’t be sure which Elizabeth married John Edwards, we can be reasonably sure who their daughters married. On both of the marriage records the father is recorded as John Edwards, engineer.

        Sarah Ann married Mark Augustin Rawlins in 1850. Mark was a sword hilt maker at the time of the marriage, his father Mark a needle manufacturer. One of the witnesses was Elizabeth Edwards, who signed with her mark. Sarah Ann and Mark however were both able to sign their own names on the register.

        Sarah Ann Edwards and Mark Augustin Rawlins marriage 14 October 1850 St Peter and St Paul, Aston, Birmingham:

        1850 Sarah Ann Edwards

        Elizabeth married Nathaniel Twigg in 1851. (She was living with her sister Sarah Ann and Mark Rawlins on the 1851 census, I assume the census was taken before her marriage to Nathaniel on the 27th April 1851.) Nathaniel was a stationer (later on the census a bookseller), his father Samuel a brass founder. Elizabeth signed with her mark, apparently unable to write, and a witness was Ann Edwards. Although Sarah Ann, Elizabeth’s sister, would have been Sarah Ann Rawlins at the time, having married the previous year, she was known as Ann on later censuses. The signature of Ann Edwards looks remarkably similar to Sarah Ann Edwards signature on her own wedding. Perhaps she couldn’t write but had learned how to write her signature for her wedding?

        Elizabeth Edwards and Nathaniel Twigg marriage 27 April 1851, St Peter and St Paul, Aston, Birmingham:

        1851 Elizabeth Edwards

        Sarah Ann and Mark Rawlins had one daughter and four sons between 1852 and 1859. One of the sons, Edward Rawlins 1857-1931, was a school master and later master of an orphanage.

        On the 1881 census Edward was a bookseller, in 1891 a stationer, 1901 schoolmaster and his wife Edith was matron, and in 1911 he and Edith were master and matron of St Philip’s Catholic Orphanage on Oliver Road in Birmingham. Edward and Edith did not have any children.

        Edward Rawlins, 1911:

        Edward Rawlins 1911

         

        Elizabeth and Nathaniel Twigg appear to have had only one son, Arthur Twigg 1862-1943. Arthur was a photographer at 291 Bloomsbury Street, Birmingham. Arthur married Harriet Moseley from Burton on Trent, and they had two daughters, Elizabeth Ann 1897-1954, and Edith 1898-1983. I found a photograph of Edith on her wedding day, with her father Arthur in the picture. Arthur and Harriet also had a son Samuel Arthur, who lived for less than a month, born in 1904. Arthur had mistakenly put this son on the 1911 census stating “less than one month”, but the birth and death of Samuel Arthur Twigg were registered in the same quarter of 1904, and none were found registered for 1911.

        Edith Twigg and Leslie A Hancock on their Wedding Day 1925. Arthur Twigg behind the bride. Maybe Elizabeth Ann Twigg seated on the right: (photo found on the ancestry website)

        Edith Twigg wedding 1925

         

        Photographs by Arthur Twigg, 291 Bloomsbury Street, Birmingham:

        Arthur Twigg 1

        Arhtur Twigg photo

        #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.

        #6306
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          Looking for Robert Staley

           

          William Warren (1835-1880) of Newhall (Stapenhill) married Elizabeth Staley (1836-1907) in 1858. Elizabeth was born in Newhall, the daughter of John Staley (1795-1876) and Jane Brothers. John was born in Newhall, and Jane was born in Armagh, Ireland, and they were married in Armagh in 1820. Elizabeths older brothers were born in Ireland: William in 1826 and Thomas in Dublin in 1830. Francis was born in Liverpool in 1834, and then Elizabeth in Newhall in 1836; thereafter the children were born in Newhall.

          Marriage of John Staley and Jane Brothers in 1820:

          1820 marriage Armagh

           

           

          My grandmother related a story about an Elizabeth Staley who ran away from boarding school and eloped to Ireland, but later returned. The only Irish connection found so far is Jane Brothers, so perhaps she meant Elizabeth Staley’s mother. A boarding school seems unlikely, and it would seem that it was John Staley who went to Ireland.

          The 1841 census states Jane’s age as 33, which would make her just 12 at the time of her marriage. The 1851 census states her age as 44, making her 13 at the time of her 1820 marriage, and the 1861 census estimates her birth year as a more likely 1804. Birth records in Ireland for her have not been found. It’s possible, perhaps, that she was in service in the Newhall area as a teenager (more likely than boarding school), and that John and Jane ran off to get married in Ireland, although I haven’t found any record of a child born to them early in their marriage. John was an agricultural labourer, and later a coal miner.

          John Staley was the son of Joseph Staley (1756-1838) and Sarah Dumolo (1764-). Joseph and Sarah were married by licence in Newhall in 1782. Joseph was a carpenter on the marriage licence, but later a collier (although not necessarily a miner).

          The Derbyshire Record Office holds records of  an “Estimate of Joseph Staley of Newhall for the cost of continuing to work Pisternhill Colliery” dated 1820 and addresssed to Mr Bloud at Calke Abbey (presumably the owner of the mine)

          Josephs parents were Robert Staley and Elizabeth. I couldn’t find a baptism or birth record for Robert Staley. Other trees on an ancestry site had his birth in Elton, but with no supporting documents. Robert, as stated in his 1795 will, was a Yeoman.

          “Yeoman: A former class of small freeholders who farm their own land; a commoner of good standing.”
          “Husbandman: The old word for a farmer below the rank of yeoman. A husbandman usually held his land by copyhold or leasehold tenure and may be regarded as the ‘average farmer in his locality’. The words ‘yeoman’ and ‘husbandman’ were gradually replaced in the later 18th and 19th centuries by ‘farmer’.”

          He left a number of properties in Newhall and Hartshorne (near Newhall) including dwellings, enclosures, orchards, various yards, barns and acreages. It seemed to me more likely that he had inherited them, rather than moving into the village and buying them.

          There is a mention of Robert Staley in a 1782 newpaper advertisement.

          “Fire Engine To Be Sold.  An exceedingly good fire engine, with the boiler, cylinder, etc in good condition. For particulars apply to Mr Burslem at Burton-upon-Trent, or Robert Staley at Newhall near Burton, where the engine may be seen.”

          fire engine

           

          Was the fire engine perhaps connected with a foundry or a coal mine?

          I noticed that Robert Staley was the witness at a 1755 marriage in Stapenhill between Barbara Burslem and Richard Daston the younger esquire. The other witness was signed Burslem Jnr.

           

          Looking for Robert Staley

           

          I assumed that once again, in the absence of the correct records, a similarly named and aged persons baptism had been added to the tree regardless of accuracy, so I looked through the Stapenhill/Newhall parish register images page by page. There were no Staleys in Newhall at all in the early 1700s, so it seemed that Robert did come from elsewhere and I expected to find the Staleys in a neighbouring parish. But I still didn’t find any Staleys.

          I spoke to a couple of Staley descendants that I’d met during the family research. I met Carole via a DNA match some months previously and contacted her to ask about the Staleys in Elton. She also had Robert Staley born in Elton (indeed, there were many Staleys in Elton) but she didn’t have any documentation for his birth, and we decided to collaborate and try and find out more.

          I couldn’t find the earlier Elton parish registers anywhere online, but eventually found the untranscribed microfiche images of the Bishops Transcripts for Elton.

          via familysearch:
          “In its most basic sense, a bishop’s transcript is a copy of a parish register. As bishop’s transcripts generally contain more or less the same information as parish registers, they are an invaluable resource when a parish register has been damaged, destroyed, or otherwise lost. Bishop’s transcripts are often of value even when parish registers exist, as priests often recorded either additional or different information in their transcripts than they did in the original registers.”

           

          Unfortunately there was a gap in the Bishops Transcripts between 1704 and 1711 ~ exactly where I needed to look. I subsequently found out that the Elton registers were incomplete as they had been damaged by fire.

          I estimated Robert Staleys date of birth between 1710 and 1715. He died in 1795, and his son Daniel died in 1805: both of these wills were found online. Daniel married Mary Moon in Stapenhill in 1762, making a likely birth date for Daniel around 1740.

          The marriage of Robert Staley (assuming this was Robert’s father) and Alice Maceland (or Marsland or Marsden, depending on how the parish clerk chose to spell it presumably) was in the Bishops Transcripts for Elton in 1704. They were married in Elton on 26th February. There followed the missing parish register pages and in all likelihood the records of the baptisms of their first children. No doubt Robert was one of them, probably the first male child.

          (Incidentally, my grandfather’s Marshalls also came from Elton, a small Derbyshire village near Matlock.  The Staley’s are on my grandmothers Warren side.)

          The parish register pages resume in 1711. One of the first entries was the baptism of Robert Staley in 1711, parents Thomas and Ann. This was surely the one we were looking for, and Roberts parents weren’t Robert and Alice.

          But then in 1735 a marriage was recorded between Robert son of Robert Staley (and this was unusual, the father of the groom isn’t usually recorded on the parish register) and Elizabeth Milner. They were married on the 9th March 1735. We know that the Robert we were looking for married an Elizabeth, as her name was on the Stapenhill baptisms of their later children, including Joseph Staleys.  The 1735 marriage also fit with the assumed birth date of Daniel, circa 1740. A baptism was found for a Robert Staley in 1738 in the Elton registers, parents Robert and Elizabeth, as well as the baptism in 1736 for Mary, presumably their first child. Her burial is recorded the following year.

          The marriage of Robert Staley and Elizabeth Milner in 1735:

          rbt staley marriage 1735

           

          There were several other Staley couples of a similar age in Elton, perhaps brothers and cousins. It seemed that Thomas and Ann’s son Robert was a different Robert, and that the one we were looking for was prior to that and on the missing pages.

          Even so, this doesn’t prove that it was Elizabeth Staleys great grandfather who was born in Elton, but no other birth or baptism for Robert Staley has been found. It doesn’t explain why the Staleys moved to Stapenhill either, although the Enclosures Act and the Industrial Revolution could have been factors.

          The 18th century saw the rise of the Industrial Revolution and many renowned Derbyshire Industrialists emerged. They created the turning point from what was until then a largely rural economy, to the development of townships based on factory production methods.

          The Marsden Connection

          There are some possible clues in the records of the Marsden family.  Robert Staley married Alice Marsden (or Maceland or Marsland) in Elton in 1704.  Robert Staley is mentioned in the 1730 will of John Marsden senior,  of Baslow, Innkeeper (Peacock Inne & Whitlands Farm). He mentions his daughter Alice, wife of Robert Staley.

          In a 1715 Marsden will there is an intriguing mention of an alias, which might explain the different spellings on various records for the name Marsden:  “MARSDEN alias MASLAND, Christopher – of Baslow, husbandman, 28 Dec 1714. son Robert MARSDEN alias MASLAND….” etc.

          Some potential reasons for a move from one parish to another are explained in this history of the Marsden family, and indeed this could relate to Robert Staley as he married into the Marsden family and his wife was a beneficiary of a Marsden will.  The Chatsworth Estate, at various times, bought a number of farms in order to extend the park.

          THE MARSDEN FAMILY
          OXCLOSE AND PARKGATE
          In the Parishes of
          Baslow and Chatsworth

          by
          David Dalrymple-Smith

          John Marsden (b1653) another son of Edmund (b1611) faired well. By the time he died in
          1730 he was publican of the Peacock, the Inn on Church Lane now called the Cavendish
          Hotel, and the farmer at “Whitlands”, almost certainly Bubnell Cliff Farm.”

          “Coal mining was well known in the Chesterfield area. The coalfield extends as far as the
          Gritstone edges, where thin seams outcrop especially in the Baslow area.”

          “…the occupants were evicted from the farmland below Dobb Edge and
          the ground carefully cleared of all traces of occupation and farming. Shelter belts were
          planted especially along the Heathy Lea Brook. An imposing new drive was laid to the
          Chatsworth House with the Lodges and “The Golden Gates” at its northern end….”

          Although this particular event was later than any events relating to Robert Staley, it’s an indication of how farms and farmland disappeared, and a reason for families to move to another area:

          “The Dukes of Devonshire (of Chatsworth)  were major figures in the aristocracy and the government of the
          time. Such a position demanded a display of wealth and ostentation. The 6th Duke of
          Devonshire, the Bachelor Duke, was not content with the Chatsworth he inherited in 1811,
          and immediately started improvements. After major changes around Edensor, he turned his
          attention at the north end of the Park. In 1820 plans were made extend the Park up to the
          Baslow parish boundary. As this would involve the destruction of most of the Farm at
          Oxclose, the farmer at the Higher House Samuel Marsden (b1755) was given the tenancy of
          Ewe Close a large farm near Bakewell.
          Plans were revised in 1824 when the Dukes of Devonshire and Rutland “Exchanged Lands”,
          reputedly during a game of dice. Over 3300 acres were involved in several local parishes, of
          which 1000 acres were in Baslow. In the deal Devonshire acquired the southeast corner of
          Baslow Parish.
          Part of the deal was Gibbet Moor, which was developed for “Sport”. The shelf of land
          between Parkgate and Robin Hood and a few extra fields was left untouched. The rest,
          between Dobb Edge and Baslow, was agricultural land with farms, fields and houses. It was
          this last part that gave the Duke the opportunity to improve the Park beyond his earlier
          expectations.”

           

          The 1795 will of Robert Staley.

          Inriguingly, Robert included the children of his son Daniel Staley in his will, but omitted to leave anything to Daniel.  A perusal of Daniels 1808 will sheds some light on this:  Daniel left his property to his six reputed children with Elizabeth Moon, and his reputed daughter Mary Brearly. Daniels wife was Mary Moon, Elizabeths husband William Moons daughter.

          The will of Robert Staley, 1795:

          1795 will 2

          1795 Rbt Staley will

           

          The 1805 will of Daniel Staley, Robert’s son:

          This is the last will and testament of me Daniel Staley of the Township of Newhall in the parish of Stapenhill in the County of Derby, Farmer. I will and order all of my just debts, funeral and testamentary expenses to be fully paid and satisfied by my executors hereinafter named by and out of my personal estate as soon as conveniently may be after my decease.

          I give, devise and bequeath to Humphrey Trafford Nadin of Church Gresely in the said County of Derby Esquire and John Wilkinson of Newhall aforesaid yeoman all my messuages, lands, tenements, hereditaments and real and personal estates to hold to them, their heirs, executors, administrators and assigns until Richard Moon the youngest of my reputed sons by Elizabeth Moon shall attain his age of twenty one years upon trust that they, my said trustees, (or the survivor of them, his heirs, executors, administrators or assigns), shall and do manage and carry on my farm at Newhall aforesaid and pay and apply the rents, issues and profits of all and every of my said real and personal estates in for and towards the support, maintenance and education of all my reputed children by the said Elizabeth Moon until the said Richard Moon my youngest reputed son shall attain his said age of twenty one years and equally share and share and share alike.

          And it is my will and desire that my said trustees or trustee for the time being shall recruit and keep up the stock upon my farm as they in their discretion shall see occasion or think proper and that the same shall not be diminished. And in case any of my said reputed children by the said Elizabeth Moon shall be married before my said reputed youngest son shall attain his age of twenty one years that then it is my will and desire that non of their husbands or wives shall come to my farm or be maintained there or have their abode there. That it is also my will and desire in case my reputed children or any of them shall not be steady to business but instead shall be wild and diminish the stock that then my said trustees or trustee for the time being shall have full power and authority in their discretion to sell and dispose of all or any part of my said personal estate and to put out the money arising from the sale thereof to interest and to pay and apply the interest thereof and also thereunto of the said real estate in for and towards the maintenance, education and support of all my said reputed children by the said
          Elizabeth Moon as they my said trustees in their discretion that think proper until the said Richard Moon shall attain his age of twenty one years.

          Then I give to my grandson Daniel Staley the sum of ten pounds and to each and every of my sons and daughters namely Daniel Staley, Benjamin Staley, John Staley, William Staley, Elizabeth Dent and Sarah Orme and to my niece Ann Brearly the sum of five pounds apiece.

          I give to my youngest reputed son Richard Moon one share in the Ashby Canal Navigation and I direct that my said trustees or trustee for the time being shall have full power and authority to pay and apply all or any part of the fortune or legacy hereby intended for my youngest reputed son Richard Moon in placing him out to any trade, business or profession as they in their discretion shall think proper.
          And I direct that to my said sons and daughters by my late wife and my said niece shall by wholly paid by my said reputed son Richard Moon out of the fortune herby given him. And it is my will and desire that my said reputed children shall deliver into the hands of my executors all the monies that shall arise from the carrying on of my business that is not wanted to carry on the same unto my acting executor and shall keep a just and true account of all disbursements and receipts of the said business and deliver up the same to my acting executor in order that there may not be any embezzlement or defraud amongst them and from and immediately after my said reputed youngest son Richard Moon shall attain his age of twenty one years then I give, devise and bequeath all my real estate and all the residue and remainder of my personal estate of what nature and kind whatsoever and wheresoever unto and amongst all and every my said reputed sons and daughters namely William Moon, Thomas Moon, Joseph Moon, Richard Moon, Ann Moon, Margaret Moon and to my reputed daughter Mary Brearly to hold to them and their respective heirs, executors, administrator and assigns for ever according to the nature and tenure of the same estates respectively to take the same as tenants in common and not as joint tenants.

          And lastly I nominate and appoint the said Humphrey Trafford Nadin and John Wilkinson executors of this my last will and testament and guardians of all my reputed children who are under age during their respective minorities hereby revoking all former and other wills by me heretofore made and declaring this only to be my last will.

          In witness whereof I the said Daniel Staley the testator have to this my last will and testament set my hand and seal the eleventh day of March in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and five.

           

          #6303
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            The Hollands of Barton under Needwood

             

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            William Richard Holland

             

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

            Holland House

             

            Excerpt from the book:

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

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

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

            Further excerpts from the book:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Wales End Farm

             

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

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

            Unice Holland

             

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

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

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

            A list of Holland ancestors:

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

            #6285
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              Harriet Compton

              Harriet Comptom is not directly related to us, but her portrait is in our family collection.

              Alfred Julius Eugene Compton painted this portrait of his daughter, Harriet Compton, when she was six.  Harriet Compton was Charles Tooby’s mothers mother, and Charles married my mothers aunt Dorothy Marshall. They lived on High Park Ave in Wollaston, and his parents lived on Park Road, Wollaston, opposite my grandparents, George and Nora Marshall. Harriet married Thomas Thornburgh, they had a daughter Florence who married Sydney Tooby. Florence and Sydney were Charles Tooby’s parents.

              Charles and Dorothy Tooby didn’t have any children. Charles died before his wife, and this is how the picture ended up in my mothers possession.

              I attempted to find a direct descendant of Harriet Compton, but have not been successful so far, although I did find a relative on a Stourbridge facebook group.  Bryan Thornburgh replied: “Francis George was my grandfather.He had two sons George & my father Thomas and two daughters Cissie & Edith.  I can remember visiting my fathers Uncle Charles and Aunt Dorothy in Wollaston.”

              Francis George Thornburgh was Florence Tooby’s brother.

              The watercolour portrait was framed by Hughes of Enville St, Stourbridge.

              Alfred Julius Eugene Compton was born in 1826 Paris, France, and died on 6 February 1917 in Chelsea, London.
              Harriet Compton his daughter was born in 1853 in Islington, London, and died in December 1926 in Stourbridge.

              Without going too far down an unrelated rabbit hole, a member of the facebook group Family Treasures Reinstated  shared this:

              “Will reported in numerous papers in Dec 1886.
              Harriet’s father Alfred appears to be beneficiary but Harriet’s brother, Percy is specifically excluded . 
              “The will (dated March 6, 1876) of the Hon. Mrs. Fanny Stanhope, late of No. 24, Carlyle-square, Chelsea, who died on August 9 last, was proved on the 1st ult. by Alfred Julius Eugene Compton, the value of the personal estate amounting to over £8000.
              The testatrix, after giving & few legacies, leaves one moiety of the residue of her personal estate, upon trust, for John Auguste Alexandre Compton, for life, and then, subject to an annuity to his wife, for the children (except Percy) of Alfred Julius Eugene Compton, and the other moiety, upon trust, for the said Alfred Julius Eugene Compton, for life, and at his death for his children, except Percy.”
              -Illustrated London News.

              Harriet Compton:  Harriet Compton

              #6276
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                Ellastone and Mayfield
                Malkins and Woodwards
                Parish Registers

                 

                Jane Woodward


                It’s exciting, as well as enormously frustrating, to see so many Woodward’s in the Ellastone parish registers, and even more so because they go back so far. There are parish registers surviving from the 1500’s: in one, dated 1579, the death of Thomas Woodward was recorded. His father’s name was Humfrey.

                Jane Woodward married Rowland Malkin in 1751, in Thorpe, Ashbourne. Jane was from Mathfield (also known as Mayfield), Ellastone, on the Staffordshire side of the river Dove. Rowland was from Clifton, Ashbourne, on the Derbyshire side of the river. They were neighbouring villages, but in different counties.

                Jane Woodward was born in 1726 according to the marriage transcription. No record of the baptism can be found for her, despite there having been at least four other Woodward couples in Ellastone and Mayfield baptizing babies in the 1720’s and 1730’s.  Without finding out the baptism with her parents names on the parish register, it’s impossible to know which is the correct line to follow back to the earlier records.

                I found a Mayfield history group on Facebook and asked if there were parish records existing that were not yet online. A member responded that she had a set on microfiche and had looked through the relevant years and didn’t see a Jane Woodward, but she did say that some of the pages were illegible.

                The Ellasone parish records from the 1500s surviving at all, considering the events in 1673, is remarkable. To be so close, but for one indecipherable page from the 1700s, to tracing the family back to the 1500s! The search for the connecting link to the earlier records continues.

                Some key events in the history of parish registers from familysearch:

                In medieval times there were no parish registers. For some years before the Reformation, monastic houses (especially the smaller ones) the parish priest had been developing the custom of noting in an album or on the margins of the service books, the births and deaths of the leading local families.
                1538 – Through the efforts of Thomas Cromwell a mandate was issued by Henry VIII to keep parish registers. This order that every parson, vicar or curate was to enter in a book every wedding, christening and burial in his parish. The parish was to provide a sure coffer with two locks, the parson having the custody of one key, the wardens the others. The entries were to be made each Sunday after the service in the presence of one of the wardens.
                1642-60 – During the Civil War registers were neglected and Bishop Transcripts were not required.
                1650 – In the restoration of Charles they went back to the church to keep christenings, marriages and burial. The civil records that were kept were filed in with the parish in their registers. it is quite usual to find entries explaining the situation during the Interregnum. One rector stated that on 23 April 1643 “Our church was defaced our font thrown down and new forms of prayer appointed”. Another minister not quite so bold wrote “When the war, more than a civil war was raging most grimly between royalists and parliamentarians throughout the greatest part of England, I lived well because I lay low”.
                1653 – Cromwell, whose army had defeated the Royalists, was made Lord Protector and acted as king. He was a Puritan. The parish church of England was disorganized, many ministers fled for their lives, some were able to hide their registers and other registers were destroyed. Cromwell ruled that there would be no one religion in England all religions could be practiced. The government took away from the ministers not only the custody of the registers, but even the solemnization of the marriage ceremony. The marriage ceremony was entrusted to the justices to form a new Parish Register (not Registrar) elected by all the ratepayers in a parish, and sworn before and approved by a magistrate.. Parish clerks of the church were made a civil parish clerk and they recorded deaths, births and marriages in the civil parishes.

                 

                Ellastone:

                “Ellastone features as ‘Hayslope’ in George Eliot’s Adam Bede, published in 1859. It earned this recognition because the author’s father spent the early part of his life in the village working as a carpenter.”

                Adam Bede Cottage, Ellastone:

                Ellasone Adam Bede

                “It was at Ellastone that Robert Evans, George Eliot’s father, passed his early years and worked as a carpenter with his brother Samuel; and it was partly from reminiscences of her father’s talk and from her uncle Samuel’s wife’s preaching experiences that the author constructed the very powerful and moving story of Adam Bede.”

                 

                Mary Malkin

                1765-1838

                Ellen Carrington’s mother was Mary Malkin.

                Ellastone:

                Ellastone

                 

                 

                 

                Ashbourn the 31st day of May in the year of our Lord 1751.  The marriage of Rowland Malkin and Jane Woodward:

                Rowland Malkin marriage 1751

                #6275
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  “AND NOW ABOUT EMMA”

                  and a mystery about George

                   

                  I had overlooked this interesting part of Barbara Housley’s “Narrative on the Letters” initially, perhaps because I was more focused on finding Samuel Housley.  But when I did eventually notice, I wondered how I had missed it!  In this particularly interesting letter excerpt from Joseph, Barbara has not put the date of the letter ~ unusually, because she did with all of the others.  However I dated the letter to later than 1867, because Joseph mentions his wife, and they married in 1867. This is important, because there are two Emma Housleys. Joseph had a sister Emma, born in 1836, two years before Joseph was born.  At first glance, one would assume that a reference to Emma in the letters would mean his sister, but Emma the sister was married in Derby in 1858, and by 1869 had four children.

                  But there was another Emma Housley, born in 1851.

                   

                  From Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters:

                  “AND NOW ABOUT EMMA”

                  A MYSTERY

                  A very mysterious comment is contained in a letter from Joseph:

                  “And now about Emma.  I have only seen her once and she came to me to get your address but I did not feel at liberty to give it to her until I had wrote to you but however she got it from someone.  I think it was in this way.  I was so pleased to hear from you in the first place and with John’s family coming to see me I let them read one or two of your letters thinking they would like to hear of you and I expect it was Will that noticed your address and gave it to her.  She came up to our house one day when I was at work to know if I had heard from you but I had not heard from you since I saw her myself and then she called again after that and my wife showed her your boys’ portraits thinking no harm in doing so.”

                  At this point Joseph interrupted himself to thank them for sending the portraits.  The next sentence is:

                  “Your son JOHN I have never seen to know him but I hear he is rather wild,” followed by: “EMMA has been living out service but don’t know where she is now.”

                  Since Joseph had just been talking about the portraits of George’s three sons, one of whom is John Eley, this could be a reference to things George has written in despair about a teen age son–but could Emma be a first wife and John their son?  Or could Emma and John both be the children of a first wife?

                  Elsewhere, Joseph wrote, “AMY ELEY died 14 years ago. (circa 1858)  She left a son and a daughter.”

                  An Amey Eley and a George Housley were married on April 1, 1849 in Duffield which is about as far west of Smalley as Heanor is East.  She was the daughter of John, a framework knitter, and Sarah Eley.  George’s father is listed as William, a farmer.  Amey was described as “of full age” and made her mark on the marriage document.

                  Anne wrote in August 1854:  JOHN ELEY is living at Derby Station so must take the first opportunity to get the receipt.” Was John Eley Housley named for him?

                  (John Eley Housley is George Housley’s son in USA, with his second wife, Sarah.)

                   

                  George Housley married Amey Eley in 1849 in Duffield.  George’s father on the register is William Housley, farmer.  Amey Eley’s father is John Eley, framework knitter.

                  George Housley Amey Eley

                   

                  On the 1851 census, George Housley and his wife Amey Housley are living with her parents in Heanor, John Eley, a framework knitter, and his wife Rebecca.  Also on the census are Charles J Housley, born in 1849 in Heanor, and Emma Housley, three months old at the time of the census, born in 1851.  George’s birth place is listed as Smalley.

                  1851 George Housley

                   

                   

                  On the 31st of July 1851 George Housley arrives in New York. In 1854 George Housley marries Sarah Ann Hill in USA.

                   

                  On the 1861 census in Heanor, Rebecca Eley was a widow, her husband John having died in 1852, and she had three grandchildren living with her: Charles J Housley aged 12, Emma Housley, 10, and mysteriously a William Housley aged 5!  Amey Housley, the childrens mother,  died in 1858.

                  Housley Eley 1861

                   

                  Back to the mysterious comment in Joseph’s letter.  Joseph couldn’t have been speaking of his sister Emma.  She was married with children by the time Joseph wrote that letter, so was not just out of service, and Joseph would have known where she was.   There is no reason to suppose that the sister Emma was trying unsuccessfully to find George’s addresss: she had been sending him letters for years.   Joseph must have been referring to George’s daughter Emma.

                  Joseph comments to George “Your son John…is rather wild.” followed by the remark about Emma’s whereabouts.  Could Charles John Housley have used his middle name of John instead of Charles?

                  As for the child William born five years after George left for USA, despite his name of Housley, which was his mothers married name, we can assume that he was not a Housley ~ not George’s child, anyway. It is not clear who his father was, as Amey did not remarry.

                  A further excerpt from Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters:

                  Certainly there was some mystery in George’s life. George apparently wanted his whereabouts kept secret. Anne wrote: “People are at a loss to know where you are. The general idea is you are with Charles. We don’t satisfy them.” In that same letter Anne wrote: “I know you could not help thinking of us very often although you neglected writing…and no doubt would feel grieved for the trouble you at times caused (our mother). She freely forgives all.” Near the end of the letter, Anne added: “Mother sends her love to you and hopes you will write and if you want to tell her anything you don’t want all to see you must write it on a piece of loose paper and put it inside the letter.”

                  In a letter to George from his sister Emma:

                  Emma wrote in 1855, “We write in love to your wife and yourself and you must write soon and tell us whether there is a little nephew or niece and what you call them.”

                  In June of 1856, Emma wrote: “We want to see dear Sarah Ann and the dear little boy. We were much pleased with the “bit of news” you sent.” The bit of news was the birth of John Eley Housley, January 11, 1855. Emma concluded her letter “Give our very kindest love to dear sister and dearest Johnnie.”

                  It would seem that George Housley named his first son with his second wife after his first wife’s father ~ while he was married to both of them.

                   

                  Emma Housley

                  1851-1935

                   

                  In 1871 Emma was 20 years old and “in service” living as a lodger in West Hallam, not far from Heanor.  As she didn’t appear on a 1881 census, I looked for a marriage, but the only one that seemed right in every other way had Emma Housley’s father registered as Ralph Wibberly!

                  Who was Ralph Wibberly?  A family friend or neighbour, perhaps, someone who had been a father figure?  The first Ralph Wibberly I found was a blind wood cutter living in Derby. He had a son also called Ralph Wibberly. I did not think Ralph Wibberly would be a very common name, but I was wrong.

                  I then found a Ralph Wibberly living in Heanor, with a son also named Ralph Wibberly. A Ralph Wibberly married an Emma Salt from Heanor. In 1874, a 36 year old Ralph Wibberly (born in 1838) was on trial in Derby for inflicting grevious bodily harm on William Fretwell of Heanor. His occupation is “platelayer” (a person employed in laying and maintaining railway track.) The jury found him not guilty.

                  In 1851 a 23 year old Ralph Wibberly (born in 1828) was a prisoner in Derby Gaol. However, Ralph Wibberly, a 50 year old labourer born in 1801 and his son Ralph Wibberly, aged 13 and born in 1838, are living in Belper on the 1851 census. Perhaps the son was the same Ralph Wibberly who was found not guilty of GBH in 1874. This appears to be the one who married Emma Salt, as his wife on the 1871 census is called Emma, and his occupation is “Midland Company Railway labourer”.

                  Which was the Ralph Wibberly that Emma chose to name as her father on the marriage register? We may never know, but perhaps we can assume it was Ralph Wibberly born in 1801.  It is unlikely to be the blind wood cutter from Derby; more likely to be the local Ralph Wibberly.  Maybe his son Ralph, who we know was involved in a fight in 1874, was a friend of Emma’s brother Charles John, who was described by Joseph as a “wild one”, although Ralph was 11 years older than Charles John.

                  Emma Housley married James Slater on Christmas day in Heanor in 1873.  Their first child, a daughter, was called Amy. Emma’s mother was Amy Eley. James Slater was a colliery brakesman (employed to work the steam-engine, or other machinery used in raising the coal from the mine.)

                  It occurred to me to wonder if Emma Housley (George’s daughter) knew Elizabeth, Mary Anne and Catherine (Samuel’s daughters). They were cousins, lived in the vicinity, and they had in common with each other having been deserted by their fathers who were brothers. Emma was born two years after Catherine. Catherine was living with John Benniston, a framework knitter in Heanor, from 1851 to 1861. Emma was living with her grandfather John Ely, a framework knitter in Heanor. In 1861, George Purdy was also living in Heanor. He was listed on the census as a 13 year old coal miner! George Purdy and Catherine Housley married in 1866 in Eastwood, Nottinghamshire ~ just over the county border. Emma’s first child Amy was born in Heanor, but the next two children, Eliza and Lilly, were born in Eastwood, in 1878 and 1880. Catherine and George’s fifth child, my great grandmother Mary Ann Gilman Purdy, was born in Eastwood in 1880, the same year as Lilly Slater.

                  By 1881 Emma and James Slater were living in Woodlinkin, Codnor and Loscoe, close to Heanor and Eastwood, on the Derbyshire side of the border. On each census up to 1911 their address on the census is Woodlinkin. Emma and James had nine children: six girls and 3 boys, the last, Alfred Frederick, born in 1901.

                  Emma and James lived three doors up from the Thorn Tree pub in Woodlinkin, Codnor:

                  Woodlinkin

                   

                  Emma Slater died in 1935 at the age of 84.

                   

                  IN
                  LOVING MEMORY OF
                  EMMA SLATER
                  (OF WOODLINKIN)
                  WHO DIED
                  SEPT 12th 1935
                  AGED 84 YEARS
                  AT REST

                  Crosshill Cemetery, Codnor, Amber Valley Borough, Derbyshire, England:

                  Emma Slater

                   

                  Charles John Housley

                  1949-

                  #6268
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    From Tanganyika with Love

                    continued part 9

                    With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                    Lyamungu 3rd January 1945

                    Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Lyamungu 14 May 1945

                    Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Lyamungu 19th September 1945

                    Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

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

                    Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

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

                    Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

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

                    Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

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

                    Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Jacksdale England 24th June 1946

                    Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Jacksdale England 28th August 1946

                    Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Jacksdale England 20th September 1946

                    Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Dar es Salaam 22nd October 1946

                    Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Mbeya 1st November 1946

                    Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    #6267
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      From Tanganyika with Love

                      continued part 8

                      With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                      Morogoro 20th January 1941

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Morogoro 30th July 1941

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Morogoro 26th August 1941

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Morogoro 25th December 1941

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Morogoro Hospital 30th September 1943

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Morogoro 26th January 1944

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Lyamungu 20th March 1944

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Lyamungu 15th May 1944

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Lyamungu 18th July 1944

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Lyamungu 16th August 1944

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

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

                      Dearest Mummy,

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

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

                      Very much love,
                      Eleanor.

                      Safari in Masailand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Lyamungu 10th November. 1944

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Much love,
                      Eleanor.

                       

                      #6255
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        My Grandparents

                        George Samuel Marshall 1903-1995

                        Florence Noreen Warren (Nora) 1906-1988

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Utrillo

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

                        #6254
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          The Gladstone Connection

                          My grandmother had said that we were distantly related to Gladstone the prime minister. Apparently Grandma’s mothers aunt had a neice that was related to him, or some combination of aunts and nieces on the Gretton side. I had not yet explored all the potential great grandmothers aunt’s nieces looking for this Gladstone connection, but I accidentally found a Gladstone on the tree on the Gretton side.

                          I was wandering around randomly looking at the hints for other people that had my grandparents in their trees to see who they were and how they were connected, and noted a couple of photos of Orgills. Richard Gretton, grandma’s mother Florence Nightingale Gretton’s father,  married Sarah Orgill. Sarah’s brother John Orgill married Elizabeth Mary Gladstone. It was the photographs that caught my eye, but then I saw the Gladstone name, and that she was born in Liverpool. Her father was William Gladstone born 1809 in Liverpool, just like the prime minister. And his father was John Gladstone, just like the prime minister.

                          But the William Gladstone in our family tree was a millwright, who emigrated to Australia with his wife and two children rather late in life at the age of 54, in 1863. He died three years later when he was thrown out of a cart in 1866. This was clearly not William Gladstone the prime minister.

                          John Orgill emigrated to Australia in 1865, and married Elizabeth Mary Gladstone in Victoria in 1870. Their first child was born in December that year, in Dandenong. Their three sons all have the middle name Gladstone.

                          John Orgill 1835-1911 (Florence Nightingale Gretton’s mothers brother)

                          John Orgill

                          Elizabeth Mary Gladstone 1845-1926

                          Elizabeth Mary Gladstone

                           

                          I did not think that the link to Gladstone the prime minister was true, until I found an article in the Australian newspapers while researching the family of John Orgill for the Australia chapter.

                          In the Letters to the Editor in The Argus, a Melbourne newspaper, dated 8 November 1921:

                          Gladstone

                           

                          THE GLADSTONE FAMILY.
                          TO THE EDITOR OF THE ARGUS.
                          Sir,—I notice to-day a reference to the
                          death of Mr. Robert Gladstone, late of
                          Wooltonvale. Liverpool, who, together
                          with estate in England valued at £143,079,
                          is reported to have left to his children
                          (five sons and seven daughters) estate
                          valued at £4,300 in Victoria. It may be
                          of interest to some of your readers to
                          know that this Robert Gladstone was a
                          son of the Gladstone family to which
                          the Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone, the
                          famous Prime Minister, belonged, some
                          members of which are now resident in Aus-
                          tralia. Robert Gladstone’s father (W. E.
                          Gladstone’s cousin), Stuart Gladstone, of
                          Liverpool, owned at one time the estates
                          of Noorat and Glenormiston, in Victoria,
                          to which he sent Neil Black as manager.
                          Mr. Black, who afterwards acquired the
                          property, called one of his sons “Stuart
                          Gladstone” after his employer. A nephew
                          of Stuart Gladstone (and cousin of
                          Robert Gladstone, of Wooltonvale), Robert
                          Cottingham, by name “Bobbie” came out
                          to Australia to farm at Noorat, but was
                          killed in a horse accident when only 21,
                          and was the first to be buried in the new
                          cemetery at Noorat. A brother, of “Bob-
                          bie,” “Fred” by name, was well known
                          in the early eighties as an overland
                          drover, taking stock for C. B. Fisher to
                          the far north. Later on he married and
                          settled in Melbourne, but left during the
                          depressing time following the bursting of
                          the boom, to return to Queensland, where,
                          in all probability, he still resides. A sister
                          of “Bobbie” and “Fred” still lives in the
                          neighbourhood of Melbourne. Their
                          father, Montgomery Gladstone, who was in
                          the diplomatic service, and travelled about
                          a great deal, was a brother of Stuart Glad-
                          stone, the owner of Noorat, and a full
                          cousin of William Ewart Gladstone, his
                          father, Robert, being a brother of W. E.
                          Gladstone’s father, Sir John, of Liverpool.
                          The wife of Robert Gladstone, of Woolton-
                          vale, Ella Gladstone by name, was also
                          his second cousin, being the daughter of
                          Robertson Gladstone, of Courthaize, near
                          Liverpool, W. E. Gladstone’s older
                          brother.
                          A cousin of Sir John Gladstone
                          (W. E. G.’s father), also called John, was
                          a foundry owner in Castledouglas, and the
                          inventor of the first suspension bridge, a
                          model of which was made use of in the
                          erection of the Menai Bridge connecting
                          Anglesea with the mainland, and was after-
                          wards presented to the Liverpool Stock
                          Exchange by the inventor’s cousin, Sir
                          John. One of the sons of this inventive
                          engineer, William by name, left England
                          in 1863 with his wife and son and daugh-
                          ter, intending to settle in New Zealand,
                          but owing to the unrest caused there by
                          the Maori war, he came instead to Vic-
                          toria, and bought land near Dandenong.
                          Three years later he was killed in a horse
                          accident, but his name is perpetuated in
                          the name “Gladstone road” in Dandenong.
                          His daughter afterwards married, and lived
                          for many years in Gladstone House, Dande-
                          nong, but is now widowed and settled in
                          Gippsland. Her three sons and four daugh-
                          ters are all married and perpetuating the
                          Gladstone family in different parts of Aus-
                          tralia. William’s son (also called Wil-
                          liam), who came out with his father,
                          mother, and sister in 1863 still lives in the
                          Fix this textneighbourhood of Melbourne, with his son
                          and grandson. An aunt of Sir John Glad-
                          stone (W. E. G.’s father), Christina Glad-
                          stone by name, married a Mr. Somerville,
                          of Biggar. One of her great-grandchildren
                          is Professor W. P. Paterson, of Edinburgh
                          University, another is a professor in the
                          West Australian University, and a third
                          resides in Melbourne. Yours. &c.

                          Melbourne, Nov.7, FAMILY TREE

                           

                          According to the Old Dandenong website:

                          Elizabeth Mary Orgill (nee Gladstone) operated Gladstone House until at least 1911, along with another hydropathic hospital (Birthwood) on Cheltenham road. She was the daughter of William Gladstone (Nephew of William Ewart Gladstone, UK prime minister in 1874).”

                          The story of the Orgill’s continues in the chapter on Australia.

                          #6247
                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            Warren Brothers Boiler Makers

                            Samuel Warren, my great grandfather, and husband of Florence Nightingale Gretton, worked with the family company of boiler makers in Newhall in his early years.  He developed an interest in motor cars, and left the family business to start up on his own. By all accounts, he made some bad decisions and borrowed a substantial amount of money from his sister. It was because of this disastrous state of affairs that the impoverished family moved from Swadlincote/Newhall to Stourbridge.

                            1914:  Tram no 10 on Union Road going towards High Street Newhall. On the left Henry Harvey Engineer, on the right Warren Bros Boiler Manufacturers & Engineers:

                            Warren Bros Newhall

                             

                            I found a newspaper article in the Derbyshire Advertiser and Journal dated the 2nd October 1915 about a Samuel Warren of Warren Brothers Boilermakers, but it was about my great grandfathers uncle, also called Samuel.

                            DEATH OF MR. SAMUEL WARREN, OF NEWHALL. Samuel Warren, of Rose Villa, Newhall, passed away on Saturday evening at the age of 85.. Of somewhat retiring disposition, he took little or no active part in public affairs, but for many years was trustee of the loyal British Oak Lodge of the M.U. of Oddfellows, and in many other ways served His community when opportunity permitted. He was member of the firm of Warren Bros., of the Boiler Works, Newhall. This thriving business was established by the late Mr. Benjamin Bridge, over 60 years ago, and on his death it was taken over by his four nephews. Mr. William Warren died several years ago, and with the demise Mr. Samuel Warren, two brothers remain, Messrs. Henry and Benjamin Warren. He leaves widow, six daughters, and three sons to mourn his loss. 

                            Samuel Warren

                             

                            This was the first I’d heard of Benjamin Bridge.  William Warren mentioned in the article as having died previously was Samuel’s father, my great great grandfather. William’s brother Henry was the father of Ben Warren, the footballer.

                            But who was Benjamin Bridge?

                            Samuel’s father was William Warren 1835-1881. He had a brother called Samuel, mentioned above, and William’s father was also named Samuel.  Samuel Warren 1800-1882 married Elizabeth Bridge 1813-1872. Benjamin Bridge 1811-1898 was Elizabeth’s brother.

                            Burton Chronicle 28 July 1898:

                            Benjamin Bridge

                            Benjamin and his wife Jane had no children. According to the obituary in the newspaper, the couple were fondly remembered for their annual tea’s for the widows of the town. Benjamin Bridge’s house was known as “the preachers house”. He was superintendent of Newhall Sunday School and member of Swadlincote’s board of health. And apparently very fond of a tall white hat!

                            On the 1881 census, Benjamin Bridge and his wife live near to the Warren family in Newhall.  The Warren’s live in the “boiler yard” and the family living in between the Bridge’s and the Warren’s include an apprentice boiler maker, so we can assume these were houses incorporated in the boiler works property. Benjamin is a 72 year old retired boiler maker.  Elizabeth Warren is a widow (William died in 1881), two of her sons are boiler makers, and Samuel, my great grandfather, is on the next page of the census, at seven years old.

                            Bridge Warren Census 1881

                             

                            Warren Brothers made boilers for the Burton breweries, including Bass, Ratcliff and Gretton.

                            This receipt from Warrens Boiler yard for a new boiler in 1885 was purchased off Ebay by Colin Smith. He gave it to one of the grandsons of Robert Adolphus Warren, to keep in the Warren family. It is in his safe at home, and he promised Colin that it will stay in the family forever.

                            Warren Bros Receipt

                            #6237
                            TracyTracy
                            Participant

                              Murder At The Bennistons

                              We don’t know exactly what happened immediately after the death of Catherine Housley’s mother in 1849, but by 1850 the two older daughters Elizabeth and Mary Anne were inmates in Belper Workhouse.  Catherine was just six weeks old, so presumably she was with a wet nurse, possibly even prior to her mothers death.  By 1851, according to the census, she was living in Heanor, a small town near to Smalley,  with John Benniston, a framework knitter, and his family. Framework knitters (abbreviated to FWK should you happen to see it on a census) rented a large loom and made stockings and everyone in the family helped. Often the occupation of other household members would be “seamer”: they would stitch the stocking seams together.  Catherine was still living with the Bennistons ten years later in 1861.

                              Framework Knitters

                               

                              I read some chapters of a thesis on the south Derbyshire poor in the 1800s and found some illuminating information about indentured apprenticeship of children especially if one parent died. It was not at all uncommon,  and framework knitters in particular often had indentured apprentices.  It was a way to ensure the child was fed and learned a skill.  Children commonly worked from the age of ten or 12 anyway. They were usually placed walking distance of the family home and maintained contact. The indenture could be paid by the parish poor fund, which cost them slightly less than sending them to the poorhouse, and could be paid off by a parent if circumstances improved to release the child from the apprenticeship.
                              A child who was an indentured apprentice would continue a normal life after the term of apprenticeship, usually still in contact with family locally.

                              I found a newspaper article titled “Child Murder at Heanor” dated 1858.

                              Heanor baby murder

                              A 23 year old lodger at the Bennistons, Hannah Cresswell, apparently murdered a new born baby that she gave birth to in the privy, which the midwife took away and had buried as a still birth. The baby was exhumed after an anonymous tip off from a neighbour, citing that it was the 4th such incident. Catherine Housley would have been nine years old at the time.

                              Heanor baby murder 2

                               

                              Subsequent newspaper articles indicate that the case was thrown out, despite the doctors evidence that the baby had been beaten to death.

                              In July 1858 the inquest was held in the King of Prussia,  on the Hannah Cresswell baby murder at the Bennistons.

                              The King of Prussia, Heanor, in 1860:

                              King of Prussia Heanor

                              #6228
                              TracyTracy
                              Participant

                                Francis Purdy: The Beggarlea Bulldog and Primitive Methodist Preacher

                                Francis Purdy was my great great grandfather.  We did not know anything about the Primitive Methodists prior to this family research project, but my mother had another look through the family souvenirs and photographs and found a little book dated 1913, by William Purdy called: The History of The Primitive Methodists of Langley, Heanor, Derbyshire and District. Practical remarks on Sunday school work and a biography of the late Francis Purdy, an early local preacher. Printed by GC Brittain and sons.  William Purdy was Francis son, and George’s brother.

                                Francis Purdy 1913 book

                                Francis Purdy:

                                Francis Purdy

                                 

                                The following can be found online from various sources but I am unable to find the original source to credit with this information:

                                “In spite of having pious parents, Francis was a great prize-fighter and owner of champion dogs. He was known as the Beggarlee Bulldog, and fought many pitched battles. It was in 1823 that he fought on Nottingham Forest for the championship of three counties. After the fight going eleven rounds, which continued one hour and twenty minutes, he was declared victorious.”

                                The Primitive Methodists under the Rev Richard Whitechurch began a regular mission in Beggarlee. The locals tried to dismiss the Methodist “Ranters” by the use of intimidating tactics. Francis was prepared to release his fighting dogs during their prayer meeting, but became so interested in their faith that he instead joined them. The Methodist Church wrote: ”A strong feeling came over him, while his mates incited him to slip his dogs from the leads. He refused, and decided to return home. After concealing himself in a dyke, to listen to the Missioners on the following Sunday, he stole into the house of a Mrs Church, where a service was being held. Shortly after this, a society was formed with Francis Purdy as leader, and he was also the superintendent of the first Sunday School. After a short spell as local preacher at Beauvale, Tag Hill, Awsworth, Kimberly, Brinsley, etc., Mr Francis Purdy was ordained a minister by the Rev. Thomas King, of Nottingham, on the 17th December, 1827.”

                                #6227
                                TracyTracy
                                Participant

                                  The Scottish Connection

                                  My grandfather always used to say we had some Scottish blood because his “mother was a Purdy”, and that they were from the low counties of Scotland near to the English border.

                                  My mother had a Scottish hat in among the boxes of souvenirs and old photographs. In one of her recent house moves, she finally threw it away, not knowing why we had it or where it came from, and of course has since regretted it!  It probably came from one of her aunts, either Phyllis or Dorothy. Neither of them had children, and they both died in 1983. My grandfather was executor of the estate in both cases, and it’s assumed that the portraits, the many photographs, the booklet on Primitive Methodists, and the Scottish hat, all relating to his mother’s side of the family, came into his possession then. His sister Phyllis never married and was living in her parents home until she died, and is the likeliest candidate for the keeper of the family souvenirs.

                                  Catherine Housley married George Purdy, and his father was Francis Purdy, the Primitive Methodist preacher.  William Purdy was the father of Francis.

                                  Record searches find William Purdy was born on 16 July 1767 in Carluke, Lanarkshire, near Glasgow in Scotland. He worked for James Watt, the inventor of the steam engine, and moved to Derbyshire for the purpose of installing steam driven pumps to remove the water from the collieries in the area.

                                  Another descendant of Francis Purdy found the following in a book in a library in Eastwood:

                                  William Purdy

                                  William married a local girl, Ruth Clarke, in Duffield in Derbyshire in 1786.  William and Ruth had nine children, and the seventh was Francis who was born at West Hallam in 1795.

                                  Perhaps the Scottish hat came from William Purdy, but there is another story of Scottish connections in Smalley:  Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745.  Although the Purdy’s were not from Smalley, Catherine Housley was.

                                  From an article on the Heanor and District Local History Society website:

                                  The Jacobites in Smalley

                                  Few people would readily associate the village of Smalley, situated about two miles west of Heanor, with Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745 – but there is a clear link.

                                  During the winter of 1745, Charles Edward Stuart, the “Bonnie Prince” or “The Young Pretender”, marched south from Scotland. His troops reached Derby on 4 December, and looted the town, staying for two days before they commenced a fateful retreat as the Duke of Cumberland’s army approached.

                                  While staying in Derby, or during the retreat, some of the Jacobites are said to have visited some of the nearby villages, including Smalley.

                                  A history of the local aspects of this escapade was written in 1933 by L. Eardley-Simpson, entitled “Derby and the ‘45,” from which the following is an extract:

                                  “The presence of a party at Smalley is attested by several local traditions and relics. Not long ago there were people living who remember to have seen at least a dozen old pikes in a room adjoining the stables at Smalley Hall, and these were stated to have been left by a party of Highlanders who came to exchange their ponies for horses belonging to the then owner, Mrs Richardson; in 1907, one of these pikes still remained. Another resident of Smalley had a claymore which was alleged to have been found on Drumhill, Breadsall Moor, while the writer of the History of Smalley himself (Reverend C. Kerry) had a magnificent Andrew Ferrara, with a guard of finely wrought iron, engraved with two heads in Tudor helmets, of the same style, he states, as the one left at Wingfield Manor, though why the outlying bands of Army should have gone so far afield, he omits to mention. Smalley is also mentioned in another strange story as to the origin of the family of Woolley of Collingham who attained more wealth and a better position in the world than some of their relatives. The story is to the effect that when the Scots who had visited Mrs Richardson’s stables were returning to Derby, they fell in with one Woolley of Smalley, a coal carrier, and impressed him with horse and cart for the conveyance of certain heavy baggage. On the retreat, the party with Woolley was surprised by some of the Elector’s troopers (the Royal army) who pursued the Scots, leaving Woolley to shift for himself. This he did, and, his suspicion that the baggage he was carrying was part of the Prince’s treasure turning out to be correct, he retired to Collingham, and spent the rest of his life there in the enjoyment of his luckily acquired gains. Another story of a similar sort was designed to explain the rise of the well-known Derbyshire family of Cox of Brailsford, but the dates by no means agree with the family pedigree, and in any event the suggestion – for it is little more – is entirely at variance with the views as to the rights of the Royal House of Stuart which were expressed by certain members of the Cox family who were alive not many years ago.”

                                  A letter from Charles Kerry, dated 30 July 1903, narrates another strange twist to the tale. When the Highlanders turned up in Smalley, a large crowd, mainly women, gathered. “On a command in Gaelic, the regiment stooped, and throwing their kilts over their backs revealed to the astonished ladies and all what modesty is careful to conceal. Father, who told me, said they were not any more troubled with crowds of women.”

                                  Folklore or fact? We are unlikely to know, but the Scottish artefacts in the Smalley area certainly suggest that some of the story is based on fact.

                                  We are unlikely to know where that Scottish hat came from, but we did find the Scottish connection.  William Purdy’s mother was Grizel Gibson, and her mother was Grizel Murray, both of Lanarkshire in Scotland.  The name Grizel is a Scottish form of the name Griselda, and means “grey battle maiden”.  But with the exception of the name Murray, The Purdy and Gibson names are not traditionally Scottish, so there is not much of a Scottish connection after all.  But the mystery of the Scottish hat remains unsolved.

                                  #4453
                                  TracyTracy
                                  Participant

                                    Liz had an idea, and was glad that the others were all out on a day trip to the museum so that she could think about it without interruptions. It had occurred to her that there was probably a theme right under their noses regarding the multitudes of non endings in the stories. Where exactly had they all ended without actually ending?

                                    Sure enough, the first one she looked at seemed promising with the mention of sheets:

                                    Yurick woke up from another spell of dreams. The patterns of the bedsheets where as though his newly inserted tile was creating a strong combination with other tiles.
                                    In his puzzlement, he forgot to take a physical dream snapshot…”

                                    Liz had had a personal breakthrough with bedsheets recently, and was pleased with this encouraging start.

                                    When Liz looked at the next non ending of a story, she wondered if this would prove to be a theme: the characters themselves had gone missing.

                                    “I haven’t heard a word from Lavender for the longest time, Lilac was wondering, When was the last time? Lavender, where ARE you?”

                                    Liz had a slight jolt when she saw the non ending of the story after that, worried that she would find a trend of herself being the last writer to comment. What would that mean, she wondered?

                                    “Minky was looking smug. “Enjoying the ride?”

                                    Ending with a question? Well, that was something to think about. Liz was relived to find she wasn’t the last writer to write in the next story:

                                    “For once, Arona was completely unconcerned about continuity.
                                    “I wonder if we could harness the power of the wind to create a flash mob to amuse and entertain me?” she suggested.
                                    Vincentius pondered for a moment “I did once employ a hamster to power a night light, so I don’t see why not.”

                                    Smiling at the continuity remark, Liz pondered the nature of the message in this one. Anything can be created to amuse… can it be that easy?

                                    Another nasty jolt as Liz read the last entry in the following story, considering the irritating few days she had just had with the online payment company:

                                    “She clicked with her dysfunctionning mouse and invalidated the transaction again.”

                                    Well, Liz said to herself, I certainly hope that little chuckle will have helped change the online transaction situation going on here presently!

                                    #4118
                                    TracyTracy
                                    Participant

                                      Corrie’s findings from elsewhere:

                                      “The old woman looked him up and down before pushing past him, curtly telling him to knock because they were all asleep. Quentin quaked inwardly. He’d arrived at his new location, a dilapidated old hotel, although not without a certain other worldly charm, at an ungodly hour of the morning. Hovering on the porch, he was unsure whether to risk waking his new hosts. He didn’t want to make a bad first impression. He felt even more dejected and confused when he realized he had no idea what kind of first impression he wanted to make.

                                      His first encounter saddened him, and he hoped they all weren’t as unwelcoming as she had been. He wasn’t accustomed to feeling like such a stranger, or so nervous and shy. What made it even worse was that Quentin was quite well aware that his lack of confidence would be bound to make everything worse.

                                      “You’re not another one of those story refugees are you? Did I frighten you?” the girl asked, as Quentin jumped at her sudden appearance from behind the spider plant.
                                      “My name’s Prune, are you Quentin Quincy? Aunt Idle’s expecting you, but she’s not up yet. Are you going to be in the new room ten story?”

                                      #3880
                                      TracyTracy
                                      Participant

                                        The old woman looked him up and down before pushing past him, curtly telling him to knock because they were all asleep. Quentin quaked inwardly. He’d arrived at his new location, a dilapidated old hotel, although not without a certain other worldly charm, at an ungodly hour of the morning. Hovering on the porch, he was unsure whether to risk waking his new hosts. He didn’t want to make a bad first impression. He felt even more dejected and confused when he realized he had no idea what kind of first impression he wanted to make.

                                        His first encounter saddened him, and he hoped they all weren’t as unwelcoming as she had been. He wasn’t accustomed to feeling like such a stranger, or so nervous and shy. What made it even worse was that Quentin was quite well aware that his lack of confidence would be bound to make everything worse.

                                        “You’re not another one of those story refugees, are you? Did I frighten you?” the girl asked, as Quentin jumped at her sudden appearance from behind the spider plant.
                                        “My name’s Prune, are you Quentin Quincy? Aunt Idle’s expecting you, but she’s not up yet. Are you going to be in the new room ten story?”

                                        #3662

                                        In reply to: The Hosts of Mars

                                        EricEric
                                        Keymaster

                                          “I don’t like those tincans” Norbert muttered mostly to himself. “I’m sure they’re here to spy on us or kill us in our sleep…”

                                          Godfrey did catch the reproach laced with fear and angst about the fresh delivery of Finnleys (Two, Three and Five), but was too busy with the unexpected audit mandated by the Mining Trading Company of Earth Colonies.

                                          Great, not only on my first day on the job, but on my monthversary on top of that… These guys know no boundaries…

                                          Their boss had been unusually relaxed about the whole thing. Forcefully, more like it… that guy usually can’t help but shout at everything, rocks included
                                          Their boss had just given the team a rousing speech about transparency and how they had to stop looking like culprits of guilty secrets. “Looking guilty kind of makes you guilty and will prompt them to dig more! So be nice to them, and scram back to your post.”

                                          Looking at the way the auditors were sniffing around, Godfrey wasn’t so sure there wasn’t something that the company had found and was hiding here. But today wasn’t the day to ask uncomfortable questions.

                                        Viewing 20 results - 1 through 20 (of 35 total)