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  • #7969
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      Gatacre Hall and The Old Book

       

      Gatacre Hall

       

      In the early 1950s my uncle John and his friend, possibly John Clare,  ventured into an abandoned old house while out walking in Shropshire. He (or his friend) saved an old book from the vandalised dereliction and took it home.  Somehow my mother ended up with the book.

       

      Gatacre derelict

       

      I remember that we had the book when we were living in USA, and that my mother said that John didn’t want the book in his house. He had said the abandoned hall had been spooky. The book was heavy and thick with a hard cover. I recall it was a “magazine” which seemed odd to me at the time; a compendium of information. I seem to recall the date 1553, but also recall that it was during the reign of Henry VIII. No doubt one of those recollections is wrong, probably the date.  It was written in English, and had illustrations, presumably woodcuts.

      I found out a few years ago that my mother had sold the book some years before. Had I known she was going to sell it, I’d have first asked her not to, and then at least made a note of the name of it, and taken photographs of it. It seems that she sold the book in Connecticut, USA, probably in the 1980’s.

      My cousin and I were talking about the book and the story. We decided to try and find out which abandoned house it was although we didn’t have much to go on: it was in Shropshire, it was in a state of abandoned dereliction in the early 50s, and it contained antiquarian books.

       

      Gatacre derelict 2

       

      I posted the story on a Shropshire History and Nostalgia facebook group, and almost immediately had a reply from someone whose husband remembered such a place with ancient books and manuscripts all over the floor, and the place was called Gatacre Hall in Claverley, near Bridgnorth. She also said that there was a story that the family had fled to Canada just after WWII, even leaving the dishes on the table.

      The Gatacre family sailing to Canada in 1947:

      Gatacre passenger list

       

      When my cousin heard the name Gatacre Hall she remembered that was the name of the place where her father had found the book.

      I looked into Gatacre Hall online, in the newspaper archives, the usual genealogy sites and google books searches and so on.  The estate had been going downhill with debts for some years. The old squire died in 1911, and his eldest son died in 1916 at the Somme. Another son, Galfrey Gatacre, was already farming in BC, Canada. He was unable to sell Gatacre Hall because of an entail, so he closed the house up. Between 1945-1947 some important pieces of furniture were auctioned, and the rest appears to have been left in the empty house.

       

      Gatacre auction

       

      The family didn’t suddenly flee to Canada leaving the dishes on the table, although it was true that the family were living in Canada.

       

      Gatacre Estate

       

      An interesting thing to note here is that not long after this book was found, my parents moved to BC Canada (where I was born), and a year later my uncle moved to Toronto (where he met his wife).

       

      Captain Gatacre in 1918:

      Galfrey Gatacre

       

       

      The Gatacre library was mentioned in the auction notes of a particular antiquarian book:

      “Provenance: Contemporary ownership inscription and textual annotations of Thomas Gatacre (1533-1593). A younger son of William Gatacre of Gatacre Hall in Shropshire, he studied at the English college at the University of Leuven, where he rejected his Catholic roots and embraced evangelical Protestantism. He studied for eleven years at Oxford, and four years at Magdalene, Cambridge. In 1568 he was ordained deacon and priest by Bishop of London Edmund Grindal, and became domestic chaplain to Robert Dudley, 1st Earl of Leicester and was later collated to the rectory of St Edmund’s, Lombard Street. His scholarly annotations here reference other classical authors including Plato and Plutarch. His extensive library was mentioned in his will.”

      Gatacre book 1

      Gatacre book 2

       

      There are thirty four pages in this 1662 book about Thomas Gatacre d 1654:

      1662 book

      gatacre book

      #7897

      To Whom It May Concern

      I know you’re writing stories and making things up about me, and I intend to set the record straight before my character goes horribly awry. I am a character appeared from nowhere, from a reckless and inebriated momentary random insistence on a new plaything, and new toy, and new story.  But let me tell you this: I am born and I exist and this is who I am.

      I find my name is Amy; it will do.  I neither find an affinity to it, nor an objection. It sounds English, and thus, familiar. I feel English, and so I am. I am a character, not a writer, but I exist; I am Amy.

      #7849

      Helix 25 – The Genetic Puzzle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      And more surprisingly… it wasn’t truly random.

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

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

      She rubbed her forehead.

      “Impossible.”

      And yet—here was the data.

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

      Earth – The Quiz Night Reveal

      The Golden Trowel, Hungary

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

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

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

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

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

      “Tower of London, anything exciting to share?”

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

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

      She spun the postcard between her fingers before answering.

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

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

      Molly inhaled sharply.

      Remnants of the Lady of the Lake ?

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

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

      Her fingers tightened around the postcard.

      Unless there was something behind her ravings?

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

      :fleuron2:

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

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

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

      Molly exhaled in relief.

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

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

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

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

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

      Finja closed her eyes.

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

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

      She reached out—

      And the voices crashed into her.

      Too much. Too many.

      Hundreds of voices, drowning her in longing and loss.

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

      Her head snapped back, breath shattering into gasps.

      The crowd held its breath.

      A dozen pairs of eyes, wide and unblinking.

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

      And then—

      Something else.

      A presence. Watching.

      Synthia.

      Her chest seized.

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

      And yet—

      She felt it.

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

      The ship knew.

      Finja jerked back, knocking over her chair.

      The bar erupted into chaos.

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

      Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

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

      But now…

      Now she knew.

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

      And Synthia wanted to keep it that way.

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

      They were coming back.

      #7661
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        Early May 2022

        “You don’t look like a physicist,” Florian said on their first evening together. Most of the day since his arrival that morning had been taken up with Elara showing him around the farmhouse and a stroll outside after he’d unpacked and showered.

        It was early May, Elara’s favourite time of the year, and the pandemic restrictions were largely over. An enthusiastic hiker and ardent lover of the countryside, Florian found his hosts running commentary as they walked the blossomy lanes a tonic after the grim scenesand mental anguish he’d left behind. Elara beamed at his evident interest and perspicacious questions, warming to him and realising how much she’d missed company and conversation during the lockdowns and subsequent limiting of social interactions.  It’s so nice to have a conversation in English, she couldn’t help thinking.

        Laughing, Elara replied that she’d never felt like a physicist either. “As soon as I started my first post after qualifying, I realised it wasn’t for me. I hadn’t really thought about the jobs, you know?”

        Happy to have such an attentive listener, the convivial glow of red wine warming her veins, Elara explained that she’d resorted to short term teaching contracts mostly, enabling her to travel. She learned Spanish when she moved with her father to Spain 30 years ago, working in an English school for expats, improved her French while working in Paris, moved to Warwick to be near her sister Vanessa thinking she would settle there, “Big mistake that was, best forgotten.”

        “I always wanted to travel a bit, but the wife always wanted to go to a resort to sunbathe,” Florian said, adding pensively, “I think the kids would have liked to travel though.”

        “I think you’ll enjoy your stay here,” Elara smiled, not wanting the pleasant evening to take a despondant turn. Florian was here to get over it, not dwell on it.

        #7657
        ÉricÉric
        Keymaster

          A list of events for reference (WIP)

          Date Matteo Lucien Darius Amei Elara
          Nov 2024 M: Working as a server in Paris; recognizes and cryptically addresses the group at the Sarah Bernhardt Café. L: Sketching in Paris; begins orchestrating the reunion by sending letters to the group. D: is back in Paris for the reunion A: visits Paris for the reunion E: visits Paris for the reunion from Churchill Guest House (Samphire Hoe), visits a guest house in Kent, back in England for a week weeks/months, all expense paid. Mrs Lovejoy the landlady.
          Spring 2024 M: In Avignon, works at a vineyard. Finds a map. Crosses path with Lucien. Moves to next job in Paris. L: Visits Avignon. Caught in debt to Monsieur Renard; creates labyrinthine sketches blending personal and mythical themes. Crosses path with Matteo. D: by June 2024 sends a postcard to Amei, Is seen in Goa A: Her daughter Tabitha is in Goa teaching E: is retired in Tuscany, living with Florian, a distant relative met through family research.
          Summer 2024 (Olympics) has a strange dream at CERN learning about the death of her mother who’d actually died in her youth.
          She reminisces about chalkapocalypse.
          Feb 2024 M:In London, works for a moving company. Crosses path with Amei and Tabitha. L: Is implied he is caught back into the schemes of M. Renard to pay his debts. D: A: Moves from her London home to a smaller apartment in London; reflects on her estranged friends and past. Crosses path with Matteo. E:
          Dec 2023 M:In Avignon, considers moving to a job in London to support his mother’s care. L: Going with the alias “Julien”, he is recognized in the streets, after 3 years of self-imposed exile, to escape M. Renard & Eloïse. D: Resumes his travels on his own terms A: Buys candles, reflects on leaving. E:
          Nov 2023 M: His mother requires more care, he goes to Avignon regularly where she is in care. Breaks up with Juliette end of summer. L: D: moves on from Guadeloupe, where he spent time rebuilding homes and reflecting. A: E:
          early 2023 M: Visits Valencia and Xàtiva, hometown of the Borgias with Juliette; she makes him discover Darius’ videos. L: D: Lives in South of France, returns to Guadeloupe after hurricane Fiona. A: E:
          Dec 2022 M: New year’s eve, Matteo discovers about Elara’s work on memory applicable to early stage Alzheimer with  sensory soundwaves stimuli and ancestral genetic research. L: D: Runs a wellness channel. Goes back to Paris, breaks ties with M. Renard & Eloïse. Receives an invitation to see friends in South of France A: Lives with Paul E:
          early 2022 M: Lives in Paris with Juliette, travels to many places together, week-ends getaways in London, Amsterdam, Rome… L: D: A: E: Early May, pandemic restrictions were largely over. Florian, her distant relative, moves in to Elara’s Tuscan farmhouse, where she is enjoying retirement.
          end of 2021 M: L: After the pandemic lockdown thinks of a way to escape. Goes by the alias “Julien” D: Locked down in Budapest; sketches empty streets, sends postcards to Amei to maintain emotional connections. A: E: Dec. 2021, first Christmas in Tuscany
          Nov – end of Genealogix royalties from her successful patent, taken over by more efficient AI algorithms. She gives the idea to Darius of looking for 1-euro housing.
          beginning 2021 M: L: Third & last wave of lockdown measures in France D: A: E:
          2020 M: L: D: A: E:
          beg. 2020 M: L: Pandemic starts – first waves of lockdown D: A: E:
          Nov 2019 M: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion L: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion D: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion A: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion E: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion
          2019 M: Plans for his mother / co-housing project L: Spring break in Andalucia with Elara D: Spring break in Andalucia with Elara A: Spring break in Andalucia with Elara E: Spring, before pandemic; visit in Andalucia to her father – joined by Lucien & Amei ; Darius tried to bring those people (M. Renard & Eloïse presumably) to see the hidden pyramid
          ca. 2014 M: L: D: A: E: chalkapocalypse, before Elara’s retirement. She is employed in Warwick.
          Before that, lived from short term teaching contracts mostly, enabling her to travel. She learned Spanish when she moved with her father to Spain 30 years ago, working in an English school for expats, improved her French while working in Paris, moved to Warwick to be near her sister Vanessa thinking she would settle there.
          2010 M: L: D: A: E: Genealogix became unexpectedly lucrative when it was picked up by a now-dominant genealogy platform around 2010. Every ancestry test sold earned her a modest but steady royalty, which for a time, gave her the freedom to pursue less practical research.
          2007 M: L: Meets Elara & Amei, Darius a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland D: Meets Lucien, Elara & Amei a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland A:Accepts Elara’s invitation to go to a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland, meets Lucien & Darius there. The group is formed E:Goes to a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland with Amei, meets Lucien & Darius there. The group is formed
          before 2007 M: L: D: A:Meets Elara at a gallery in London, Southbank E: Meets Amei at a gallery, London Southbank
          #7647

          Darius: A Map of People

          June 2023 – Capesterre-Belle-Eau, Guadeloupe

          The air in Capesterre-Belle-Eau was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made every movement slow and deliberate. Darius leaned against the railing of the veranda, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky blends into the sea. The scent of wet earth and banana leaves filling the air. He was home.

          It had been nearly a year since hurricane Fiona swept through Guadeloupe, its winds blowing a trail of destruction across homes, plantations, and lives. Capesterre-Belle-Eau had been among the hardest hit, its banana plantations reduced to ruin and its roads washed away in torrents of mud.

          Darius hadn’t been here when it happened. He’d read about it from across the Atlantic, the news filtering through headlines and phone calls from his aunt, her voice brittle with worry.

          “Darius, you should come back,” she’d said. “The land remembers everyone who’s left it.”

          It was an unusual thing for her to say, but the words lingered. By the time he arrived in early 2023 to join the relief efforts, the worst of the crisis had passed, but the scars remained—on the land, on the people, and somewhere deep inside himself.

          Home, and Not — Now, passing days having turned into quick six months, Darius was still here, though he couldn’t say why. He had thrown himself into the work, helped to rebuild homes, clear debris, and replant crops. But it wasn’t just the physical labor that kept him—it was the strange sensation of being rooted in a place he’d once fled.

          Capesterre-Belle-Eau wasn’t just home; it was bones-deep memories of childhood. The long walks under the towering banana trees, the smell of frying codfish and steaming rice from his aunt’s kitchen, the rhythm of gwoka drums carrying through the evening air.

          “Tu reviens pour rester cette fois ?” Come back to stay? a neighbor had asked the day he returned, her eyes sharp with curiosity.

          He had laughed, brushing off the question. “On verra,” he’d replied. We’ll see.

          But deep down, he knew the answer. He wasn’t back for good. He was here to make amends—not just to the land that had raised him but to himself.

          A Map of Travels — On the veranda that afternoon, Darius opened his phone and scrolled through his photo gallery. Each image was pinned to a digital map, marking all the places he’d been since he got the phone. Of all places, it was Budapest which popped out, a poor snapshot of Buda Castle.

          He found it a funny thought — just like where he was now, he hadn’t planned to stay so long there. He remembered the date: 2020, in the midst of the pandemic. He’d spent in Budapest most of it, sketching the empty streets.

          Five years ago, their little group of four had all been reconnecting in Paris, full of plans that never came to fruition. By late 2019, the group had scattered, each of them drawn into their own orbits, until the first whispers of the pandemic began to ripple across the world.

          Funding his travels had never been straightforward. He’d tried his hand at dozens of odd jobs over the years—bartending in Lisbon, teaching English in Marrakech, sketching portraits in tourist squares across Europe. He lived frugally, keeping his possessions light and his plans loose. Yet, his confidence had a way of opening doors; people trusted him without knowing why, offering him opportunities that always seemed to arrive at just the right time.

          Even during the pandemic, when the world seemed to fold in on itself, he had found a way.

          Darius had already arrived in Budapest by then, living cheaply in a rented studio above a bakery. The city had remained open longer than most in Europe or the world, its streets still alive with muted activity even as the rest of Europe closed down. He’d wandered freely for months, sketching graffiti-covered bridges, quiet cafes, and the crumbling facades of buildings that seemed to echo his own restlessness.

          When the lockdowns finally came like everywhere else, it was just before winter, he’d stayed, uncertain of where else to go. His days became a rhythm of sketching, reading, and sending postcards. Amei was one of the few who replied—but never ostentatiously. It was enough to know she was still there, even if the distance between them felt greater than ever.

          But the map didn’t tell the whole story. It didn’t show the faces, the laughter, the fleeting connections that had made those places matter.

          Swatting at a buzzing mosquito, he reached for the small leather-bound folio on the table beside him. Inside was a collection of fragments: ticket stubs, pressed flowers, a frayed string bracelet gifted by a child in Guatemala, and a handful of postcards he’d sent to Amei but had never been sure she received.

          One of them, yellowed at the edges, showed a labyrinth carved into stone. He turned it over, his own handwriting staring back at him.

          “Amei,” it read. “I thought of you today. Of maps and paths and the people who make them worth walking. Wherever you are, I hope you’re well. —D.”

          He hadn’t sent it. Amei’s responses had always been brief—a quick WhatsApp message, a thumbs-up on his photos, or a blue tick showing she’d read his posts. But they’d never quite managed to find their way back to the conversations they used to have.

          The Market —  The next morning, Darius wandered through the market in Trois-Rivières, a smaller town nestled between the sea and the mountains. The vendors called out their wares—bunches of golden bananas, pyramids of vibrant mangoes, bags of freshly ground cassava flour.

          “Tiens, Darius!” called a woman selling baskets woven from dried palm fronds. “You’re not at work today?”

          “Day off,” he said, smiling as he leaned against her stall. “Figured I’d treat myself.”

          She handed him a small woven bracelet, her eyes twinkling. “A gift. For luck, wherever you go next.”

          Darius accepted it with a quiet laugh. “Merci, tatie.”

          As he turned to leave, he noticed a couple at the next stall—tourists, by the look of them, their backpacks and wide-eyed curiosity marking them as outsiders. They made him suddenly realise how much he missed the lifestyle.

          The woman wore an orange scarf, its boldness standing out as if the color orange itself had disappeared from the spectrum, and only a single precious dash could be seen into all the tones of the market. Something else about them caught his attention. Maybe it was the way they moved together, or the way the man gestured as he spoke, as if every word carried weight.

          “Nice scarf,” Darius said casually as he passed.

          The woman smiled, adjusting the fabric. “Thanks. Picked it up in Rajasthan. It’s been with me everywhere since.”

          Her partner added, “It’s funny, isn’t it? The things we carry. Sometimes it feels like they know more about where we’ve been than we do.”

          Darius tilted his head, intrigued. “Do you ever think about maps? Not the ones that lead to places, but the ones that lead to people. Paths crossing because they’re meant to.”

          The man grinned. “Maybe it’s not about the map itself,” he said. “Maybe it’s about being open to seeing the connections.”

          A Letter to Amei —  That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Darius sat at the edge of the bay, his feet dangling above the water. The leather-bound folio sat open beside him, its contents spread out in the fading light.

          He picked up the labyrinth postcard again, tracing its worn edges with his thumb.

          “Amei,” he wrote on the back just under the previous message a second one —the words flowing easily this time. “Guadeloupe feels like a map of its own, its paths crossing mine in ways I can’t explain. It made me think of you. I hope you’re well. —D.”

          He folded the card into an envelope and tucked it into his bag, resolving to send it the next day.

          As he watched the waves lap against the rocks, he felt a sense of motion rolling like waves asking to be surfed. He didn’t know where the next path would lead next, but he felt it was time to move on again.

          #7548
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            Elton Marshall’s

            Early Quaker Emigrants to USA.

             

            The earliest Marshall in my tree is Charles Marshall (my 5x great grandfather), Overseer of the Poor and Churchwarden of Elton. His 1819 gravestone in Elton says he was 77 years old when he died, indicating a birth in 1742, however no baptism can be found.

            According to the Derbyshire records office, Elton was a chapelry of Youlgreave until 1866. The Youlgreave registers date back to the mid 1500s, and there are many Marshalls in the registers from 1559 onwards. The Elton registers however are incomplete due to fire damage.

            While doing a google books search for Marshall’s of Elton, I found many American family history books mentioning Abraham Marshall of Gratton born in 1667, who became a Quaker aged 16, and emigrated to Pennsylvania USA in 1700. Some of these books say that Abraham’s parents were Humphrey Marshall and his wife Hannah Turner. (Gratton is a tiny village next to Elton, also in Youlgreave parish.)

            Abraham’s son born in USA was also named Humphrey. He was a well known botanist.

            Abraham’s cousin John Marshall, also a Quaker, emigrated from Elton to USA in 1687, according to these books.

            (There are a number of books on Colonial Families in Pennsylvania that repeat each other so impossible to cite the original source)

            colonial books

             

            In the Youlgreave parish registers I found a baptism in 1667 for Humphrey Marshall son of Humphrey and Hannah. I didn’t find a baptism for Abraham, but it looks as though it could be correct. Abraham had a son he named Humphrey. But did it just look logical to whoever wrote the books, or do they know for sure? Did the famous botanist Humphrey Marshall have his own family records? The books don’t say where they got this information.

            An earlier Humphrey Marshall was baptised in Youlgreave in 1559, his father Edmund. And in 1591 another Humphrey Marshall was baptised, his father George.

            But can we connect these Marshall’s to ours? We do have an Abraham Marshall, grandson of Charles, born in 1792. The name isn’t all that common, so may indicate a family connection. The villages of Elton, Gratton and Youlgreave are all very small and it would seem very likely that the Marshall’s who went the USA are related to ours, if not brothers, then probably cousins.

             

            Derbyshire Quakers

            In “Derbyshire Quakers 1650-1761” by Helen Forde:

            “… Friends lived predominantly in the northern half of the country during this first century of existence. Numbers may have been reduced by emigration to America and migration to other parts of the country but were never high and declined in the early eighteenth century. Predominantly a middle to lower class group economically, Derbyshire Friends numbered very few wealthy members. Many were yeoman farmers or wholesalers and it was these groups who dominated the business meetings having time to devote themselves to the Society. Only John Gratton of Monyash combined an outstanding ministry together with an organising ability which brought him recognition amongst London Friends as well as locally. Derbyshire Friends enjoyed comparatively harmonious relations with civil and Anglican authorities, though prior to the Toleration Act of 1639 the priests were their worst persecutors…..”

            Also mentioned in this book: There were monthly meetings in Elton, as well as a number of other nearby places.
            John Marshall of Elton 1682/3 appears in a list of Quaker emigrants from Derbyshire.

            Quaker Emigrants

             

            The following image is a page from the 1753 book on the sufferings of Quakers by Joseph Besse as an example of some of the persecutions of Quakers in Derbyshire in the 1600s:

            A collection of the sufferings of the people called Quakers, for the testimony of a good conscience from the time of their being first distinguished by that name in the year 1650 to the time of the act commonly called the Act of toleration granted to Protestant dissenters in the first year of the reign of King William the Third and Queen Mary in the year 1689 (Volume 1)
            Besse, Joseph. 1753

            Note the names Margaret Marshall and Anne Staley.  This book would appear to contradict Helen Forde’s statement above about the harmonious relations with Anglican authority.

            Quaker Sufferings

             

             

            The Botanist

            Humphry Marshall 1722-1801 was born in Marshallton, Pennsylvania, the son of the immigrant from Elton, Abraham Marshall.  He was the cousin of botanists John Bartram and William Bartram. Like many early American botanists, he was a Quaker. He wrote his first book, A Few Observations Concerning Christ, in 1755.

            Humphry marshall book

             

            In 1785, Marshall published Arbustrum Americanum: The American Grove, an Alphabetical Catalogue of Forest Trees and Shrubs, Natives of the American United States (Philadelphia).

            Marshall has been called the “Father of American Dendrology”.

            A genus of plants, Marshallia, was named in honor of Humphry Marshall and his nephew Moses Marshall, also a botanist.

            In 1848 the Borough of West Chester established the Marshall Square Park in his honor. Marshall Square Park is four miles east of Marshallton.

            via Wikipedia.

             

            From The History of Chester County Pennsylvania, 1881, by J Smith Futhey and Gilbert Cope:

            Marshallton

             

            From The Chester Country History Center:

            “Immediately on the Receipt of your Letter, I ordered a Reflecting Telescope for you which was made accordingly. Dr. Fothergill had since desired me to add a Microscope and Thermometer, and will
            pay for the whole.’

            – Benjamin Franklin to Humphry, March 18, 1770

            “In his lifetime, Humphry Marshall made his living as a stonemason, farmer, and miller, but eventually became known for his contributions to astronomy, meteorology, agriculture, and the natural sciences.

            In 1773, Marshall built a stone house with a hothouse, a botanical laboratory, and an observatory for astronomical studies. He established an arboretum of native trees on the property and the second botanical garden in the nation (John Bartram, his cousin, had the first). From his home base, Humphry expanded his botanical plant exchange business and increased his overseas contacts. With the help of men like Benjamin Franklin and the English botanist Dr. John Fothergill, they eventually included German, Dutch, Swedish, and Irish plant collectors and scientists. Franklin, then living in London, introduced Marshall’s writings to the Royal Society in London and both men encouraged Marshall’s astronomical and botanical studies by supplying him with books and instruments including the latest telescope and microscope.

            Marshall’s scientific work earned him honorary memberships to the American Philosophical Society and the Philadelphia Society for Promoting Agriculture, where he shared his ground-breaking ideas on scientific farming methods. In the years before the American Revolution, Marshall’s correspondence was based on his extensive plant and seed exchanges, which led to further studies and publications. In 1785, he authored his magnum opus, Arbustum Americanum: The American Grove. It is a catalog of American trees and shrubs that followed the Linnaean system of plant classification and was the first publication of its kind.”

            Humphry signature

            #7544
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              Youlgreave

              The Frost Family and The Big Snow

               

              The Youlgreave parish registers are said to be the most complete and interesting in the country. Starting in 1558, they are still largely intact today.

              “The future historian of this parish will find a vast stock of material ready to hand, and if such a work was ever accomplished it would once more be seen how the history of even a remote village is but the history of the nation in little; how national victories were announced on the church bells, and national disasters by the proclamation of a form of prayer…”

              J. Charles Cox, Notes on the Churches of Derbyshire, 1877.

              Youlgreave registers

               

              Although the Youlgreave parish registers are available online on microfilm, just the baptisms, marriages and burials are provided on the genealogy websites. However, I found some excerpts from the churchwardens accounts in a couple of old books, The Reliquary 1864, and Notes on Derbyshire Churches 1877.

              churchwardens accounts

              Hannah Keeling, my 4x great grandmother, was born in Youlgreave, Derbyshire, in 1767. In 1791 she married Edward Lees of Hartington, Derbyshire, a village seven and a half miles south west of Youlgreave. Edward and Hannah’s daughter Sarah Lees, born in Hartington in 1808, married Francis Featherstone in 1835. The Featherstone’s were farmers. Their daughter Emma Featherstone married John Marshall from Elton. Elton is just three miles from Youlgreave, and there are a great many Marshall’s in the Youlgreave parish registers, some no doubt distantly related to ours.

              Hannah Keeling’s parents were John Keeling 1734-1823, and Ellen Frost 1739-1805, both of Youlgreave.
              On the burial entry in the parish registers in Youlgreave in 1823, John Keeling was 88 years old when he died, and was the “late parish clerk”, indicating that my 5x great grandfather played a part in compiling the “best parish registers in the country”. In 1762 John’s father in law John Frost died intestate, and John Keeling, cordwainer, co signed the documents with his mother in law Ann. John Keeling was a shoe maker and a parish clerk.

              John Keeling

               

              John Keeling’s father was Thomas Keeling, baptised on the 9th of March 1709 in Youlgreave and his parents were John Keeling and Ann Ashmore. John and Ann were married on the 6th April 1708. Some of the transcriptions have Thomas baptised in March 1708, which would be a month before his parents married. However, this was before the Julian calendar was replaced by the Gregorian calendar, and prior to 1752 the new year started on the 25th of March, therefore the 9th of March 1708 was eleven months after the 6th April 1708.

              Thomas Keeling married Dorothy, which we know from the baptism of John Keeling in 1734, but I have not been able to find their marriage recorded. Until I can find my 6x great grandmother Dorothy’s maiden name, I am unable to trace her family further back.

              Unfortunately I haven’t found a baptism for Thomas’s father John Keeling, despite that there are Keelings in the Youlgrave registers in the early 1600s, possibly it is one of the few illegible entries in these registers.

              The Frosts of Youlgreave

              Ellen Frost’s father was John Frost, born in Youlgreave in 1707. John married Ann Staley of Elton in 1733 in Youlgreave.

              (Note that this part of the family tree is the Marshall side, but we also have Staley’s in Elton on the Warren side. Our branch of the Elton Staley’s moved to Stapenhill in the mid 1700s. Robert Staley, born 1711 in Elton, died in Stapenhill in 1795. There are many Staley’s in the Youlgreave parish registers, going back to the late 1500s.)

              John Frost (my 6x great grandfather), miner, died intestate in 1762 in Youlgreave. Miner in this case no doubt means a lead miner, mining his own land (as John Marshall’s father John was in Elton. On the 1851 census John Marshall senior was mining 9 acres). Ann Frost, as the widow and relict of the said deceased John Frost, claimed the right of administration of his estate. Ann Frost (nee Staley) signed her own name, somewhat unusual for a woman to be able to write in 1762, as well as her son in law John Keeling.

              Frost and keeling

               

              John’s parents were David Frost and Ann. David was baptised in 1665 in Youlgreave. Once again, I have not found a marriage for David and Ann so I am unable to continue further back with her family. Marriages were often held in the parish of the bride, and perhaps those neighbouring parish records from the 1600s haven’t survived.

              David’s parents were William Frost and Ellen (or Ellin, or Helen, depending on how the parish clerk chose to spell it). Once again, their marriage hasn’t been found, but was probably in a neighbouring parish.

              William Frost’s wife Ellen, my 8x great grandmother, died in Youlgreave in 1713. In her will she left her daughter Catherine £20. Catherine was born in 1665 and was apparently unmarried at the age of 48 in 1713. She named her son Isaac Frost (born in 1662) executor, and left him the remainder of her “goods, chattels and cattle”.

              Ellens will

               

              William Frost was baptised in Youlgreave in 1627, his parents were William Frost and Anne.
              William Frost senior, husbandman, was probably born circa 1600, and died intestate in 1648 in Middleton, Youlgreave. His widow Anna was named in the document. On the compilation of the inventory of his goods, Thomas Garratt, Will Melland and A Kidiard are named.

              (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’.)

              Unable to find a baptism for William Frost born circa 1600, I read through all the pages of the Youlgreave parish registers from 1558 to 1610. Despite the good condition of these registers, there are a number of illegible entries. There were three Frost families baptising children during this timeframe and one of these is likely to be Willliam’s.

              Baptisms:
              1581 Eliz Frost, father Michael.
              1582 Francis f Michael. (must have died in infancy)
              1582 Margaret f William.
              1585 Francis f Michael.
              1586 John f Nicholas.
              1588 Barbara f Michael.
              1590 Francis f Nicholas.
              1591 Joane f Michael.
              1594 John f Michael.
              1598 George f Michael.
              1600 Fredericke (female!) f William.

              Marriages in Youlgreave which could be William’s parents:
              1579 Michael Frost Eliz Staley
              1587 Edward Frost Katherine Hall
              1600 Nicholas Frost Katherine Hardy.
              1606 John Frost Eliz Hanson.

              Michael Frost of Youlgreave is mentioned on the Derbyshire Muster Rolls in 1585.

              (Muster records: 1522-1649. The militia muster rolls listed all those liable for military service.)

              Frideswide:

              A burial is recorded in 1584 for Frideswide Frost (female) father Michael. As the father is named, this indicates that Frideswide was a child.

              (Frithuswith, commonly Frideswide c. 650 – 19 October 727), was an English princess and abbess. She is credited as the foundress of a monastery later incorporated into Christ Church, Oxford. She was the daughter of a sub-king of a Merica named Dida of Eynsham whose lands occupied western Oxfordshire and the upper reaches of the River Thames.)

              An unusual name, and certainly very different from the usual names of the Frost siblings. As I did not find a baptism for her, I wondered if perhaps she died too soon for a baptism and was given a saints name, in the hope that it would help in the afterlife, given the beliefs of the times. Or perhaps it wasn’t an unusual name at the time in Youlgreave. A Fridesweda Gilbert was buried in Youlgreave in 1604, the spinster daughter of Francis Gilbert. There is a small brass effigy in the church, underneath is written “Frideswide Gilbert to the grave, Hath resigned her earthly part…”

              Frideswide

              J. Charles Cox, Notes on the Churches of Derbyshire, 1877.

               

              King James

              A parish register entry in 1603:
              “1603 King James of Skottland was proclaimed kinge of England, France and Ireland at Bakewell upon Monday being the 29th of March 1603.”  (March 1603 would be 1604, because of the Julian calendar in use at the time.)

              King James

               

              The Big Snow

              “This year 1614/5 January 16th began the greatest snow whichever fell uppon the earth within man’s memorye. It covered the earth fyve quarters deep uppon the playne. And for heaps or drifts of snow, they were very deep; so that passengers both horse or foot passed over yates, hedges and walles. ….The spring was so cold and so late that much cattel was in very great danger and some died….”

              The Big Snow

              From the Youlgreave parish registers.

              Our ancestor William Frost born circa 1600 would have been a teenager during the big snow.

              #7377

              With the carnival in full swing, Truella was finding it hard to focus on everything that was going on. Was this mission more chaotic than usual, or did it seem that way because she wasn’t giving it her full attention?  She hadn’t thought too much about Jezeel not closing the portal.  She was having enough trouble stabilizing her own bilocation spell.

              Where was Frigella when she needed her?   And what was going on with that Cedric guy? Truella decided to go in search of her. Frigella was always good at explaining and clarifying things that she hadn’t been paying attention to.

              Outside on the pavement, Truella paused to light a cigarette.  The street were a cocophany of raucus banter and gay shreiks, a riot of colour and imagination and Truella stood rapt at the sights and sounds. Such a contrast from her quiet life at home in the garden with only ghosts for company.  In a way Truella was glad that Roger was still missing with the pack of monkeys, rather than leaving him alone at home.

              “Aye, look at all them monkey costumes, our Mavis, they’m really good int they, look just like real monkeys,” a chubby Englishwoman in a garish pink outfit said, passing by where Truella was standing.

              “That’s because they ARE real monkeys, ya daft cow,” retorted her companion.  “And they’re all following that big fella.”

              “Ooh, that big burly chap?” piped up the third woman in the group. “I clocked him right off, come on girls, let’s go after the big boy.”

              “Ooh, Sha, what are you like, ya tart.”

              As the three women cackled and trotted off after the monkeys, Truella’s peaceful interlude came to an abrupt halt.  What burly man with a pack of monkeys?  Surely not, surely Roger and his monkeys hadn’t entered that portal that Jez forgot to close?

              #7276
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                Wood Screw Manufacturers

                The Fishers of West Bromwich.

                 

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

                Nellie Fisher 1877-1956 :

                Nellie Fisher

                 

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

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

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

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

                Wood Screw Makers of West Bromwich:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                 

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

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

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

                 

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

                 

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

                 

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

                Abel Fisher wood screws

                 

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

                The 1849 will of Abel Fisher:

                Abel Fisher 1849 will

                #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.

                #6419

                In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

                “I’d advise you not to take the parrot, Zara,” Harry the vet said, “There are restrictions on bringing dogs and other animals into state parks, and you can bet some jobsworth official will insist she stays in a cage at the very least.”

                “Yeah, you’re right, I guess I’ll leave her here. I want to call in and see my cousin in Camden on the way to the airport in Sydney anyway.   He has dozens of cats, I’d hate for anything to happen to Pretty Girl,” Zara replied.

                “Is that the distant cousin you met when you were doing your family tree?” Harry asked, glancing up from the stitches he was removing from a wounded wombat.  “There, he’s good to go.  Give him a couple more days, then he can be released back where he came from.”

                Zara smiled at Harry as she picked up the animal. “Yes!  We haven’t met in person yet, and he’s going to show me the church my ancestor built. He says people have been spotting ghosts there lately, and there are rumours that it’s the ghost of the old convict Isaac who built it.  If I can’t find photos of the ancestors, maybe I can get photos of their ghosts instead,” Zara said with a laugh.

                “Good luck with that,” Harry replied raising an eyebrow. He liked Zara, she was quirkier than the others.

                Zara hadn’t found it easy to research her mothers family from Bangalore in India, but her fathers English family had been easy enough.  Although Zara had been born in England and emigrated to Australia in her late 20s, many of her ancestors siblings had emigrated over several generations, and Zara had managed to trace several down and made contact with a few of them.   Isaac Stokes wasn’t a direct ancestor, he was the brother of her fourth great grandfather but his story had intrigued her.  Sentenced to transportation for stealing tools for his work as a stonemason seemed to have worked in his favour.  He built beautiful stone buildings in a tiny new town in the 1800s in the charming style of his home town in England.

                Zara planned to stay in Camden for a couple of days before meeting the others at the Flying Fish Inn, anticipating a pleasant visit before the crazy adventure started.

                 

                ~~~

                 

                Zara stepped down from the bus, squinting in the bright sunlight and looking around for her newfound cousin  Bertie.   A lanky middle aged man in dungarees and a red baseball cap came forward with his hand extended.

                “Welcome to Camden, Zara I presume! Great to meet you!” he said shaking her hand and taking her rucksack.  Zara was taken aback to see the family resemblance to her grandfather.  So many scattered generations and yet there was still a thread of familiarity.  “I bet you’re hungry, let’s go and get some tucker at Belle’s Cafe, and then I bet you want to see the church first, hey?  Whoa, where’d that dang parrot come from?” Bertie said, ducking quickly as the bird swooped right in between them.

                “Oh no, it’s Pretty Girl!” exclaimed Zara. “She wasn’t supposed to come with me, I didn’t bring her! How on earth did you fly all this way to get here the same time as me?” she asked the parrot.

                “Pretty Girl has her ways, don’t forget to feed the parrot,” the bird replied with a squalk that resembled a mirthful guffaw.

                “That’s one strange parrot you got here, girl!” Bertie said in astonishment.

                “Well, seeing as you’re here now, Pretty Girl, you better come with us,” Zara said.

                “Obviously,” replied Pretty Girl.  It was hard to say for sure, but Zara was sure she detected an avian eye roll.

                 

                ~~~

                 

                They sat outside under a sunshade to eat rather than cause any upset inside the cafe.  Zara fancied an omelette but Pretty Girl objected, so she ordered hash browns instead and a fruit salad for the parrot.  Bertie was a good sport about the strange talking bird after his initial surprise.

                Bertie told her a bit about the ghost sightings, which had only started quite recently.  They started when I started researching him, Zara thought to herself, almost as if he was reaching out. Her imagination was running riot already.

                 

                ghost of Isaac Stokes

                 

                Bertie showed Zara around the church, a small building made of sandstone, but no ghost appeared in the bright heat of the afternoon.  He took her on a little tour of Camden, once a tiny outpost but now a suburb of the city, pointing out all the original buildings, in particular the ones that Isaac had built.  The church was walking distance of Bertie’s house and Zara decided to slip out and stroll over there after everyone had gone to bed.

                Bertie had kindly allowed Pretty Girl to stay in the guest bedroom with her, safe from the cats, and Zara intended that the parrot stay in the room, but Pretty Girl was having none of it and insisted on joining her.

                “Alright then, but no talking!  I  don’t want you scaring any ghost away so just keep a low profile!”

                The moon was nearly full and it was a pleasant walk to the church.   Pretty Girl fluttered from tree to tree along the sidewalk quietly.  Enchanting aromas of exotic scented flowers wafted into her nostrils and Zara felt warmly relaxed and optimistic.

                Zara was disappointed to find that the church was locked for the night, and realized with a sigh that she should have expected this to be the case.  She wandered around the outside, trying to peer in the windows but there was nothing to be seen as the glass reflected the street lights.   These things are not done in a hurry, she reminded herself, be patient.

                Sitting under a tree on the grassy lawn attempting to open her mind to receiving ghostly communications (she wasn’t quite sure how to do that on purpose, any ghosts she’d seen previously had always been accidental and unexpected)  Pretty Girl landed on her shoulder rather clumsily, pressing something hard and chill against her cheek.

                “I told you to keep a low profile!” Zara hissed, as the parrot dropped the key into her lap.  “Oh! is this the key to the church door?”

                It was hard to see in the dim light but Zara was sure the parrot nodded, and was that another avian eye roll?

                Zara walked slowly over the grass to the church door, tingling with anticipation.   Pretty Girl hopped along the ground behind her.  She turned the key in the lock and slowly pushed open the heavy door and walked inside and  up the central aisle, looking around.  And then she saw him.

                Zara gasped. For a breif moment as the spectral wisps cleared, he looked almost solid.  And she could see his tattoos.

                “Oh my god,” she whispered, “It is really you. I recognize those tattoos from the description in the criminal registers. Some of them anyway, it seems you have a few more tats since you were transported.”

                “Aye, I did that, wench. I were allays fond o’ me tats, does tha like ’em?”

                He actually spoke to me!  This was beyond Zara’s wildest hopes. Quick, ask him some questions!

                “If you don’t mind me asking, Isaac, why did you lie about who your father was on your marriage register?  I almost thought it wasn’t you, you know, that I had the wrong Isaac Stokes.”

                A deafening rumbling laugh filled the building with echoes and the apparition dispersed in a labyrinthine swirl of tattood wisps.

                “A story for another day,” whispered Zara,  “Time to go back to Berties. Come on Pretty Girl. And put that key back where you found it.”

                 

                Ghost of Isaac Stokes

                #6348
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  Wong Sang

                   

                  Wong Sang was born in China in 1884. In October 1916 he married Alice Stokes in Oxford.

                  Alice was the granddaughter of William Stokes of Churchill, Oxfordshire and William was the brother of Thomas Stokes the wheelwright (who was my 3X great grandfather). In other words Alice was my second cousin, three times removed, on my fathers paternal side.

                  Wong Sang was an interpreter, according to the baptism registers of his children and the Dreadnought Seamen’s Hospital admission registers in 1930.  The hospital register also notes that he was employed by the Blue Funnel Line, and that his address was 11, Limehouse Causeway, E 14. (London)

                  “The Blue Funnel Line offered regular First-Class Passenger and Cargo Services From the UK to South Africa, Malaya, China, Japan, Australia, Java, and America.  Blue Funnel Line was Owned and Operated by Alfred Holt & Co., Liverpool.
                  The Blue Funnel Line, so-called because its ships have a blue funnel with a black top, is more appropriately known as the Ocean Steamship Company.”

                   

                  Wong Sang and Alice’s daughter, Frances Eileen Sang, was born on the 14th July, 1916 and baptised in 1920 at St Stephen in Poplar, Tower Hamlets, London.  The birth date is noted in the 1920 baptism register and would predate their marriage by a few months, although on the death register in 1921 her age at death is four years old and her year of birth is recorded as 1917.

                  Charles Ronald Sang was baptised on the same day in May 1920, but his birth is recorded as April of that year.  The family were living on Morant Street, Poplar.

                  James William Sang’s birth is recorded on the 1939 census and on the death register in 2000 as being the 8th March 1913.  This definitely would predate the 1916 marriage in Oxford.

                  William Norman Sang was born on the 17th October 1922 in Poplar.

                  Alice and the three sons were living at 11, Limehouse Causeway on the 1939 census, the same address that Wong Sang was living at when he was admitted to Dreadnought Seamen’s Hospital on the 15th January 1930. Wong Sang died in the hospital on the 8th March of that year at the age of 46.

                  Alice married John Patterson in 1933 in Stepney. John was living with Alice and her three sons on Limehouse Causeway on the 1939 census and his occupation was chef.

                  Via Old London Photographs:

                  “Limehouse Causeway is a street in east London that was the home to the original Chinatown of London. A combination of bomb damage during the Second World War and later redevelopment means that almost nothing is left of the original buildings of the street.”

                  Limehouse Causeway in 1925:

                  Limehouse Causeway

                   

                  From The Story of Limehouse’s Lost Chinatown, poplarlondon website:

                  “Limehouse was London’s first Chinatown, home to a tightly-knit community who were demonised in popular culture and eventually erased from the cityscape.

                  As recounted in the BBC’s ‘Our Greatest Generation’ series, Connie was born to a Chinese father and an English mother in early 1920s Limehouse, where she used to play in the street with other British and British-Chinese children before running inside for teatime at one of their houses. 

                  Limehouse was London’s first Chinatown between the 1880s and the 1960s, before the current Chinatown off Shaftesbury Avenue was established in the 1970s by an influx of immigrants from Hong Kong. 

                  Connie’s memories of London’s first Chinatown as an “urban village” paint a very different picture to the seedy area portrayed in early twentieth century novels. 

                  The pyramid in St Anne’s church marked the entrance to the opium den of Dr Fu Manchu, a criminal mastermind who threatened Western society by plotting world domination in a series of novels by Sax Rohmer. 

                  Thomas Burke’s Limehouse Nights cemented stereotypes about prostitution, gambling and violence within the Chinese community, and whipped up anxiety about sexual relationships between Chinese men and white women. 

                  Though neither novelist was familiar with the Chinese community, their depictions made Limehouse one of the most notorious areas of London. 

                  Travel agent Thomas Cook even organised tours of the area for daring visitors, despite the rector of Limehouse warning that “those who look for the Limehouse of Mr Thomas Burke simply will not find it.”

                  All that remains is a handful of Chinese street names, such as Ming Street, Pekin Street, and Canton Street — but what was Limehouse’s chinatown really like, and why did it get swept away?

                  Chinese migration to Limehouse 

                  Chinese sailors discharged from East India Company ships settled in the docklands from as early as the 1780s.

                  By the late nineteenth century, men from Shanghai had settled around Pennyfields Lane, while a Cantonese community lived on Limehouse Causeway. 

                  Chinese sailors were often paid less and discriminated against by dock hirers, and so began to diversify their incomes by setting up hand laundry services and restaurants. 

                  Old photographs show shopfronts emblazoned with Chinese characters with horse-drawn carts idling outside or Chinese men in suits and hats standing proudly in the doorways. 

                  In oral histories collected by Yat Ming Loo, Connie’s husband Leslie doesn’t recall seeing any Chinese women as a child, since male Chinese sailors settled in London alone and married working-class English women. 

                  In the 1920s, newspapers fear-mongered about interracial marriages, crime and gambling, and described chinatown as an East End “colony.” 

                  Ironically, Chinese opium-smoking was also demonised in the press, despite Britain waging war against China in the mid-nineteenth century for suppressing the opium trade to alleviate addiction amongst its people. 

                  The number of Chinese people who settled in Limehouse was also greatly exaggerated, and in reality only totalled around 300. 

                  The real Chinatown 

                  Although the press sought to characterise Limehouse as a monolithic Chinese community in the East End, Connie remembers seeing people of all nationalities in the shops and community spaces in Limehouse.

                  She doesn’t remember feeling discriminated against by other locals, though Connie does recall having her face measured and IQ tested by a member of the British Eugenics Society who was conducting research in the area. 

                  Some of Connie’s happiest childhood memories were from her time at Chung-Hua Club, where she learned about Chinese culture and language.

                  Why did Chinatown disappear? 

                  The caricature of Limehouse’s Chinatown as a den of vice hastened its erasure. 

                  Police raids and deportations fuelled by the alarmist media coverage threatened the Chinese population of Limehouse, and slum clearance schemes to redevelop low-income areas dispersed Chinese residents in the 1930s. 

                  The Defence of the Realm Act imposed at the beginning of the First World War criminalised opium use, gave the authorities increased powers to deport Chinese people and restricted their ability to work on British ships.

                  Dwindling maritime trade during World War II further stripped Chinese sailors of opportunities for employment, and any remnants of Chinatown were destroyed during the Blitz or erased by postwar development schemes.”

                   

                  Wong Sang 1884-1930

                  The year 1918 was a troublesome one for Wong Sang, an interpreter and shipping agent for Blue Funnel Line.  The Sang family were living at 156, Chrisp Street.

                  Chrisp Street, Poplar, in 1913 via Old London Photographs:

                  Chrisp Street

                   

                  In February Wong Sang was discharged from a false accusation after defending his home from potential robbers.

                  East End News and London Shipping Chronicle – Friday 15 February 1918:

                  1918 Wong Sang

                   

                  In August of that year he was involved in an incident that left him unconscious.

                  Faringdon Advertiser and Vale of the White Horse Gazette – Saturday 31 August 1918:

                  1918 Wong Sang 2

                   

                  Wong Sang is mentioned in an 1922 article about “Oriental London”.

                  London and China Express – Thursday 09 February 1922:

                  1922 Wong Sang

                  A photograph of the Chee Kong Tong Chinese Freemason Society mentioned in the above article, via Old London Photographs:

                  Chee Kong Tong

                   

                  Wong Sang was recommended by the London Metropolitan Police in 1928 to assist in a case in Wellingborough, Northampton.

                  Difficulty of Getting an Interpreter: Northampton Mercury – Friday 16 March 1928:

                  1928 Wong Sang

                  1928 Wong Sang 2

                  The difficulty was that “this man speaks the Cantonese language only…the Northeners and the Southerners in China have differing languages and the interpreter seemed to speak one that was in between these two.”

                   

                  In 1917, Alice Wong Sang was a witness at her sister Harriet Stokes marriage to James William Watts in Southwark, London.  Their father James Stokes occupation on the marriage register is foreman surveyor, but on the census he was a council roadman or labourer. (I initially rejected this as the correct marriage for Harriet because of the discrepancy with the occupations. Alice Wong Sang as a witness confirmed that it was indeed the correct one.)

                  1917 Alice Wong Sang

                   

                   

                  James William Sang 1913-2000 was a clock fitter and watch assembler (on the 1939 census). He married Ivy Laura Fenton in 1963 in Sidcup, Kent. James died in Southwark in 2000.

                  Charles Ronald Sang 1920-1974  was a draughtsman (1939 census). He married Eileen Burgess in 1947 in Marylebone.  Charles and Eileen had two sons:  Keith born in 1951 and Roger born in 1952.  He died in 1974 in Hertfordshire.

                  William Norman Sang 1922-2000 was a clerk and telephone operator (1939 census).  William enlisted in the Royal Artillery in 1942. He married Lily Mullins in 1949 in Bethnal Green, and they had three daughters: Marion born in 1950, Christine in 1953, and Frances in 1959.  He died in Redbridge in 2000.

                   

                  I then found another two births registered in Poplar by Alice Sang, both daughters.  Doris Winifred Sang was born in 1925, and Patricia Margaret Sang was born in 1933 ~ three years after Wong Sang’s death.  Neither of the these daughters were on the 1939 census with Alice, John Patterson and the three sons.  Margaret had presumably been evacuated because of the war to a family in Taunton, Somerset. Doris would have been fourteen and I have been unable to find her in 1939 (possibly because she died in 2017 and has not had the redaction removed  yet on the 1939 census as only deceased people are viewable).

                  Doris Winifred Sang 1925-2017 was a nursing sister. She didn’t marry, and spent a year in USA between 1954 and 1955. She stayed in London, and died at the age of ninety two in 2017.

                  Patricia Margaret Sang 1933-1998 was also a nurse. She married Patrick L Nicely in Stepney in 1957.  Patricia and Patrick had five children in London: Sharon born 1959, Donald in 1960, Malcolm was born and died in 1966, Alison was born in 1969 and David in 1971.

                   

                  I was unable to find a birth registered for Alice’s first son, James William Sang (as he appeared on the 1939 census).  I found Alice Stokes on the 1911 census as a 17 year old live in servant at a tobacconist on Pekin Street, Limehouse, living with Mr Sui Fong from Hong Kong and his wife Sarah Sui Fong from Berlin.  I looked for a birth registered for James William Fong instead of Sang, and found it ~ mothers maiden name Stokes, and his date of birth matched the 1939 census: 8th March, 1913.

                  On the 1921 census, Wong Sang is not listed as living with them but it is mentioned that Mr Wong Sang was the person returning the census.  Also living with Alice and her sons James and Charles in 1921 are two visitors:  (Florence) May Stokes, 17 years old, born in Woodstock, and Charles Stokes, aged 14, also born in Woodstock. May and Charles were Alice’s sister and brother.

                   

                  I found Sharon Nicely on social media and she kindly shared photos of Wong Sang and Alice Stokes:

                  Wong Sang

                   

                  Alice Stokes

                  #6290
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    Leicestershire Blacksmiths

                    The Orgill’s of Measham led me further into Leicestershire as I traveled back in time.

                    I also realized I had uncovered a direct line of women and their mothers going back ten generations:

                    myself, Tracy Edwards 1957-
                    my mother Gillian Marshall 1933-
                    my grandmother Florence Warren 1906-1988
                    her mother and my great grandmother Florence Gretton 1881-1927
                    her mother Sarah Orgill 1840-1910
                    her mother Elizabeth Orgill 1803-1876
                    her mother Sarah Boss 1783-1847
                    her mother Elizabeth Page 1749-
                    her mother Mary Potter 1719-1780
                    and her mother and my 7x great grandmother Mary 1680-

                    You could say it leads us to the very heart of England, as these Leicestershire villages are as far from the coast as it’s possible to be. There are countless other maternal lines to follow, of course, but only one of mothers of mothers, and ours takes us to Leicestershire.

                    The blacksmiths

                    Sarah Boss was the daughter of Michael Boss 1755-1807, a blacksmith in Measham, and Elizabeth Page of nearby Hartshorn, just over the county border in Derbyshire.

                    An earlier Michael Boss, a blacksmith of Measham, died in 1772, and in his will he left the possession of the blacksmiths shop and all the working tools and a third of the household furniture to Michael, who he named as his nephew. He left his house in Appleby Magna to his wife Grace, and five pounds to his mother Jane Boss. As none of Michael and Grace’s children are mentioned in the will, perhaps it can be assumed that they were childless.

                    The will of Michael Boss, 1772, Measham:

                    Michael Boss 1772 will

                     

                    Michael Boss the uncle was born in Appleby Magna in 1724. His parents were Michael Boss of Nelson in the Thistles and Jane Peircivall of Appleby Magna, who were married in nearby Mancetter in 1720.

                    Information worth noting on the Appleby Magna website:

                    In 1752 the calendar in England was changed from the Julian Calendar to the Gregorian Calendar, as a result 11 days were famously “lost”. But for the recording of Church Registers another very significant change also took place, the start of the year was moved from March 25th to our more familiar January 1st.
                    Before 1752 the 1st day of each new year was March 25th, Lady Day (a significant date in the Christian calendar). The year number which we all now use for calculating ages didn’t change until March 25th. So, for example, the day after March 24th 1750 was March 25th 1751, and January 1743 followed December 1743.
                    This March to March recording can be seen very clearly in the Appleby Registers before 1752. Between 1752 and 1768 there appears slightly confused recording, so dates should be carefully checked. After 1768 the recording is more fully by the modern calendar year.

                    Michael Boss the uncle married Grace Cuthbert.  I haven’t yet found the birth or parents of Grace, but a blacksmith by the name of Edward Cuthbert is mentioned on an Appleby Magna history website:

                    An Eighteenth Century Blacksmith’s Shop in Little Appleby
                    by Alan Roberts

                    Cuthberts inventory

                    The inventory of Edward Cuthbert provides interesting information about the household possessions and living arrangements of an eighteenth century blacksmith. Edward Cuthbert (als. Cutboard) settled in Appleby after the Restoration to join the handful of blacksmiths already established in the parish, including the Wathews who were prominent horse traders. The blacksmiths may have all worked together in the same shop at one time. Edward and his wife Sarah recorded the baptisms of several of their children in the parish register. Somewhat sadly three of the boys named after their father all died either in infancy or as young children. Edward’s inventory which was drawn up in 1732, by which time he was probably a widower and his children had left home, suggests that they once occupied a comfortable two-storey house in Little Appleby with an attached workshop, well equipped with all the tools for repairing farm carts, ploughs and other implements, for shoeing horses and for general ironmongery. 

                    Edward Cuthbert born circa 1660, married Joane Tuvenet in 1684 in Swepston cum Snarestone , and died in Appleby in 1732. Tuvenet is a French name and suggests a Huguenot connection, but this isn’t our family, and indeed this Edward Cuthbert is not likely to be Grace’s father anyway.

                    Michael Boss and Elizabeth Page appear to have married twice: once in 1776, and once in 1779. Both of the documents exist and appear correct. Both marriages were by licence. They both mention Michael is a blacksmith.

                    Their first daughter, Elizabeth, was baptized in February 1777, just nine months after the first wedding. It’s not known when she was born, however, and it’s possible that the marriage was a hasty one. But why marry again three years later?

                    But Michael Boss and Elizabeth Page did not marry twice.

                    Elizabeth Page from Smisby was born in 1752 and married Michael Boss on the 5th of May 1776 in Measham. On the marriage licence allegations and bonds, Michael is a bachelor.

                    Baby Elizabeth was baptised in Measham on the 9th February 1777. Mother Elizabeth died on the 18th February 1777, also in Measham.

                    In 1779 Michael Boss married another Elizabeth Page! She was born in 1749 in Hartshorn, and Michael is a widower on the marriage licence allegations and bonds.

                    Hartshorn and Smisby are neighbouring villages, hence the confusion.  But a closer look at the documents available revealed the clues.  Both Elizabeth Pages were literate, and indeed their signatures on the marriage registers are different:

                    Marriage of Michael Boss and Elizabeth Page of Smisby in 1776:

                    Elizabeth Page 1776

                     

                    Marriage of Michael Boss and Elizabeth Page of Harsthorn in 1779:

                    Elizabeth Page 1779

                     

                    Not only did Michael Boss marry two women both called Elizabeth Page but he had an unusual start in life as well. His uncle Michael Boss left him the blacksmith business and a third of his furniture. This was all in the will. But which of Uncle Michaels brothers was nephew Michaels father?

                    The only Michael Boss born at the right time was in 1750 in Edingale, Staffordshire, about eight miles from Appleby Magna. His parents were Thomas Boss and Ann Parker, married in Edingale in 1747.  Thomas died in August 1750, and his son Michael was baptised in the December, posthumus son of Thomas and his widow Ann. Both entries are on the same page of the register.

                    1750 posthumus

                     

                    Ann Boss, the young widow, married again. But perhaps Michael and his brother went to live with their childless uncle and aunt, Michael Boss and Grace Cuthbert.

                    The great grandfather of Michael Boss (the Measham blacksmith born in 1850) was also Michael Boss, probably born in the 1660s. He died in Newton Regis in Warwickshire in 1724, four years after his son (also Michael Boss born 1693) married Jane Peircivall.  The entry on the parish register states that Michael Boss was buried ye 13th Affadavit made.

                    I had not seen affadavit made on a parish register before, and this relates to the The Burying in Woollen Acts 1666–80.  According to Wikipedia:

                     “Acts of the Parliament of England which required the dead, except plague victims and the destitute, to be buried in pure English woollen shrouds to the exclusion of any foreign textiles.  It was a requirement that an affidavit be sworn in front of a Justice of the Peace (usually by a relative of the deceased), confirming burial in wool, with the punishment of a £5 fee for noncompliance. Burial entries in parish registers were marked with the word “affidavit” or its equivalent to confirm that affidavit had been sworn; it would be marked “naked” for those too poor to afford the woollen shroud.  The legislation was in force until 1814, but was generally ignored after 1770.”

                    Michael Boss buried 1724 “Affadavit made”:

                    Michael Boss affadavit 1724

                     

                     

                     

                    Elizabeth Page‘s father was William Page 1717-1783, a wheelwright in Hartshorn.  (The father of the first wife Elizabeth was also William Page, but he was a husbandman in Smisby born in 1714. William Page, the father of the second wife, was born in Nailstone, Leicestershire, in 1717. His place of residence on his marriage to Mary Potter was spelled Nelson.)

                    Her mother was Mary Potter 1719- of nearby Coleorton.  Mary’s father, Richard Potter 1677-1731, was a blacksmith in Coleorton.

                    A page of the will of Richard Potter 1731:

                    Richard Potter 1731

                     

                    Richard Potter states: “I will and order that my son Thomas Potter shall after my decease have one shilling paid to him and no more.”  As he left £50 to each of his daughters, one can’t help but wonder what Thomas did to displease his father.

                    Richard stipulated that his son Thomas should have one shilling paid to him and not more, for several good considerations, and left “the house and ground lying in the parish of Whittwick in a place called the Long Lane to my wife Mary Potter to dispose of as she shall think proper.”

                    His son Richard inherited the blacksmith business:  “I will and order that my son Richard Potter shall live and be with his mother and serve her duly and truly in the business of a blacksmith, and obey and serve her in all lawful commands six years after my decease, and then I give to him and his heirs…. my house and grounds Coulson House in the Liberty of Thringstone”

                    Richard wanted his son John to be a blacksmith too: “I will and order that my wife bring up my son John Potter at home with her and teach or cause him to be taught the trade of a blacksmith and that he shall serve her duly and truly seven years after my decease after the manner of an apprentice and at the death of his mother I give him that house and shop and building and the ground belonging to it which I now dwell in to him and his heirs forever.”

                    To his daughters Margrett and Mary Potter, upon their reaching the age of one and twenty, or the day after their marriage, he leaves £50 each. All the rest of his goods are left to his loving wife Mary.

                     

                    An inventory of the belongings of Richard Potter, 1731:

                    Richard Potter inventory

                     

                    Richard Potters father was also named Richard Potter 1649-1719, and he too was a blacksmith.

                    Richard Potter of Coleorton in the county of Leicester, blacksmith, stated in his will:  “I give to my son and daughter Thomas and Sarah Potter the possession of my house and grounds.”

                    He leaves ten pounds each to his daughters Jane and Alice, to his son Francis he gives five pounds, and five shillings to his son Richard. Sons Joseph and William also receive five shillings each. To his daughter Mary, wife of Edward Burton, and her daughter Elizabeth, he gives five shillings each. The rest of his good, chattels and wordly substance he leaves equally between his son and daugter Thomas and Sarah. As there is no mention of his wife, it’s assumed that she predeceased him.

                    The will of Richard Potter, 1719:

                    Richard Potter 1719

                     

                    Richard Potter’s (1649-1719) parents were William Potter and Alse Huldin, both born in the early 1600s.  They were married in 1646 at Breedon on the Hill, Leicestershire.  The name Huldin appears to originate in Finland.

                    William Potter was a blacksmith. In the 1659 parish registers of Breedon on the Hill, William Potter of Breedon blacksmith buryed the 14th July.

                    #6286
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      Matthew Orgill and His Family

                       

                      Matthew Orgill 1828-1907 was the Orgill brother who went to Australia, but returned to Measham.  Matthew married Mary Orgill in Measham in October 1856, having returned from Victoria, Australia in May of that year.

                      Although Matthew was the first Orgill brother to go to Australia, he was the last one I found, and that was somewhat by accident, while perusing “Orgill” and “Measham” in a newspaper archives search.  I chanced on Matthew’s obituary in the Nuneaton Observer, Friday 14 June 1907:

                      LATE MATTHEW ORGILL PEACEFUL END TO A BLAMELESS LIFE.

                      ‘Sunset and Evening Star And one clear call for me.”

                      It is with very deep regret that we have to announce the death of Mr. Matthew Orgill, late of Measham, who passed peacefully away at his residence in Manor Court Road, Nuneaton, in the early hours of yesterday morning. Mr. Orgill, who was in his eightieth year, was a man with a striking history, and was a very fine specimen of our best English manhood. In early life be emigrated to South Africa—sailing in the “Hebrides” on 4th February. 1850—and was one of the first settlers at the Cape; afterwards he went on to Australia at the time of the Gold Rush, and ultimately came home to his native England and settled down in Measham, in Leicestershire, where he carried on a successful business for the long period of half-a-century.

                      He was full of reminiscences of life in the Colonies in the early days, and an hour or two in his company was an education itself. On the occasion of the recall of Sir Harry Smith from the Governorship of Natal (for refusing to be a party to the slaying of the wives and children in connection with the Kaffir War), Mr. Orgill was appointed to superintend the arrangements for the farewell demonstration. It was one of his boasts that he made the first missionary cart used in South Africa, which is in use to this day—a monument to the character of his work; while it is an interesting fact to note that among Mr. Orgill’s papers there is the original ground-plan of the city of Durban before a single house was built.

                      In Africa Mr. Orgill came in contact with the great missionary, David Livingstone, and between the two men there was a striking resemblance in character and a deep and lasting friendship. Mr. Orgill could give a most graphic description of the wreck of the “Birkenhead,” having been in the vicinity at the time when the ill-fated vessel went down. He played a most prominent part on the occasion of the famous wreck of the emigrant ship, “Minerva.” when, in conjunction with some half-a-dozen others, and at the eminent risk of their own lives, they rescued more than 100 of the unfortunate passengers. He was afterwards presented with an interesting relic as a memento of that thrilling experience, being a copper bolt from the vessel on which was inscribed the following words: “Relic of the ship Minerva, wrecked off Bluff Point, Port Natal. 8.A.. about 2 a.m.. Friday, July 5, 1850.”

                      Mr. Orgill was followed to the Colonies by no fewer than six of his brothers, all of whom did well, and one of whom married a niece (brother’s daughter) of the late Mr. William Ewart Gladstone.

                      On settling down in Measham his kindly and considerate disposition soon won for him a unique place in the hearts of all the people, by whom he was greatly beloved. He was a man of sterling worth and integrity. Upright and honourable in all his dealings, he led a Christian life that was a pattern to all with whom he came in contact, and of him it could truly he said that he wore the white flower of a blameless life.

                      He was a member of the Baptist Church, and although beyond much active service since settling down in Nuneaton less than two years ago he leaves behind him a record in Christian service attained by few. In politics he was a Radical of the old school. A great reader, he studied all the questions of the day, and could back up every belief he held by sound and fearless argument. The South African – war was a great grief to him. He knew the Boers from personal experience, and although he suffered at the time of the war for his outspoken condemnation, he had the satisfaction of living to see the people of England fully recognising their awful blunder. To give anything like an adequate idea of Mr. Orgill’s history would take up a great amount of space, and besides much of it has been written and commented on before; suffice it to say that it was strenuous, interesting, and eventful, and yet all through his hands remained unspotted and his heart was pure.

                      He is survived by three daughters, and was father-in-law to Mr. J. S. Massey. St Kilda. Manor Court Road, to whom deep and loving sympathy is extended in their sore bereavement by a wide circle of friends. The funeral is arranged to leave for Measham on Monday at twelve noon.

                       

                      “To give anything like an adequate idea of Mr. Orgill’s history would take up a great amount of space, and besides much of it has been written and commented on before…”

                      I had another look in the newspaper archives and found a number of articles mentioning him, including an intriguing excerpt in an article about local history published in the Burton Observer and Chronicle 8 August 1963:

                      on an upstairs window pane he scratched with his diamond ring “Matthew Orgill, 1st July, 1858”

                      Matthew Orgill window

                      Matthew orgill window 2

                       

                      I asked on a Measham facebook group if anyone knew the location of the house mentioned in the article and someone kindly responded. This is the same building, seen from either side:

                      Measham Wharf

                       

                      Coincidentally, I had already found this wonderful photograph of the same building, taken in 1910 ~ three years after Matthew’s death.

                      Old Measham wharf

                       

                      But what to make of the inscription in the window?

                      Matthew and Mary married in October 1856, and their first child (according to the records I’d found thus far) was a daughter Mary born in 1860.  I had a look for a Matthew Orgill birth registered in 1858, the date Matthew had etched on the window, and found a death for a Matthew Orgill in 1859.  Assuming I would find the birth of Matthew Orgill registered on the first of July 1958, to match the etching in the window, the corresponding birth was in July 1857!

                      Matthew and Mary had four children. Matthew, Mary, Clara and Hannah.  Hannah Proudman Orgill married Joseph Stanton Massey.  The Orgill name continues with their son Stanley Orgill Massey 1900-1979, who was a doctor and surgeon.  Two of Stanley’s four sons were doctors, Paul Mackintosh Orgill Massey 1929-2009, and Michael Joseph Orgill Massey 1932-1989.

                       

                      Mary Orgill 1827-1894, Matthews wife, was an Orgill too.

                      And this is where the Orgill branch of the tree gets complicated.

                      Mary’s father was Henry Orgill born in 1805 and her mother was Hannah Proudman born in 1805.
                      Henry Orgill’s father was Matthew Orgill born in 1769 and his mother was Frances Finch born in 1771.

                      Mary’s husband Matthews parents are Matthew Orgill born in 1798 and Elizabeth Orgill born in 1803.

                      Another Orgill Orgill marriage!

                      Matthews parents,  Matthew and Elizabeth, have the same grandparents as each other, Matthew Orgill born in 1736 and Ann Proudman born in 1735.

                      But Matthews grandparents are none other than Matthew Orgill born in 1769 and Frances Finch born in 1771 ~ the same grandparents as his wife Mary!

                      #6282
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        Magson

                        This unusual name is of early medieval English origin, and is one of the rare group of modern surnames classed as “metronymics”, where the original surname derived from the name of the first bearer’s mother, the majority of surnames being created from patronymics, that is, through the male side.

                        William Housley’s (1781-1848) great grandfather John Housley 1670- married Sarah Magson in 1700. She was also born in 1670, and both were born in Selston, Nottinghamshire, as was William.

                        The parish records mention Magson’s in Selston and  nearby Heanor as far back at 1580, but they are not easy to read:

                        Magson parish register

                         

                        #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.

                          #6266
                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            From Tanganyika with Love

                            continued part 7

                            With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                            Oldeani Hospital. 19th September 1938

                            Dearest Family,

                            George arrived today to take us home to Mbulu but Sister Marianne will not allow
                            me to travel for another week as I had a bit of a set back after baby’s birth. At first I was
                            very fit and on the third day Sister stripped the bed and, dictionary in hand, started me
                            off on ante natal exercises. “Now make a bridge Mrs Rushby. So. Up down, up down,’
                            whilst I obediently hoisted myself aloft on heels and head. By the sixth day she
                            considered it was time for me to be up and about but alas, I soon had to return to bed
                            with a temperature and a haemorrhage. I got up and walked outside for the first time this
                            morning.

                            I have had lots of visitors because the local German settlers seem keen to see
                            the first British baby born in the hospital. They have been most kind, sending flowers
                            and little German cards of congratulations festooned with cherubs and rather sweet. Most
                            of the women, besides being pleasant, are very smart indeed, shattering my illusion that
                            German matrons are invariably fat and dowdy. They are all much concerned about the
                            Czecko-Slovakian situation, especially Sister Marianne whose home is right on the
                            border and has several relations who are Sudentan Germans. She is ant-Nazi and
                            keeps on asking me whether I think England will declare war if Hitler invades Czecko-
                            Slovakia, as though I had inside information.

                            George tells me that he has had a grass ‘banda’ put up for us at Mbulu as we are
                            both determined not to return to those prison-like quarters in the Fort. Sister Marianne is
                            horrified at the idea of taking a new baby to live in a grass hut. She told George,
                            “No,No,Mr Rushby. I find that is not to be allowed!” She is an excellent Sister but rather
                            prim and George enjoys teasing her. This morning he asked with mock seriousness,
                            “Sister, why has my wife not received her medal?” Sister fluttered her dictionary before
                            asking. “What medal Mr Rushby”. “Why,” said George, “The medal that Hitler gives to
                            women who have borne four children.” Sister started a long and involved explanation
                            about the medal being only for German mothers whilst George looked at me and
                            grinned.

                            Later. Great Jubilation here. By the noise in Sister Marianne’s sitting room last night it
                            sounded as though the whole German population had gathered to listen to the wireless
                            news. I heard loud exclamations of joy and then my bedroom door burst open and
                            several women rushed in. “Thank God “, they cried, “for Neville Chamberlain. Now there
                            will be no war.” They pumped me by the hand as though I were personally responsible
                            for the whole thing.

                            George on the other hand is disgusted by Chamberlain’s lack of guts. Doesn’t
                            know what England is coming to these days. I feel too content to concern myself with
                            world affairs. I have a fine husband and four wonderful children and am happy, happy,
                            happy.

                            Eleanor.

                            Mbulu. 30th September 1938

                            Dearest Family,

                            Here we are, comfortably installed in our little green house made of poles and
                            rushes from a nearby swamp. The house has of course, no doors or windows, but
                            there are rush blinds which roll up in the day time. There are two rooms and a little porch
                            and out at the back there is a small grass kitchen.

                            Here we have the privacy which we prize so highly as we are screened on one
                            side by a Forest Department plantation and on the other three sides there is nothing but
                            the rolling countryside cropped bare by the far too large herds of cattle and goats of the
                            Wambulu. I have a lovely lazy time. I still have Kesho-Kutwa and the cook we brought
                            with us from the farm. They are both faithful and willing souls though not very good at
                            their respective jobs. As one of these Mbeya boys goes on safari with George whose
                            job takes him from home for three weeks out of four, I have taken on a local boy to cut
                            firewood and heat my bath water and generally make himself useful. His name is Saa,
                            which means ‘Clock’

                            We had an uneventful but very dusty trip from Oldeani. Johnny Jo travelled in his
                            pram in the back of the boxbody and got covered in dust but seems none the worst for
                            it. As the baby now takes up much of my time and Kate was showing signs of
                            boredom, I have engaged a little African girl to come and play with Kate every morning.
                            She is the daughter of the head police Askari and a very attractive and dignified little
                            person she is. Her name is Kajyah. She is scrupulously clean, as all Mohammedan
                            Africans seem to be. Alas, Kajyah, though beautiful, is a bore. She simply does not
                            know how to play, so they just wander around hand in hand.

                            There are only two drawbacks to this little house. Mbulu is a very windy spot so
                            our little reed house is very draughty. I have made a little tent of sheets in one corner of
                            the ‘bedroom’ into which I can retire with Johnny when I wish to bathe or sponge him.
                            The other drawback is that many insects are attracted at night by the lamp and make it
                            almost impossible to read or sew and they have a revolting habit of falling into the soup.
                            There are no dangerous wild animals in this area so I am not at all nervous in this
                            flimsy little house when George is on safari. Most nights hyaenas come around looking
                            for scraps but our dogs, Fanny and Paddy, soon see them off.

                            Eleanor.

                            Mbulu. 25th October 1938

                            Dearest Family,

                            Great news! a vacancy has occurred in the Game Department. George is to
                            transfer to it next month. There will be an increase in salary and a brighter prospect for
                            the future. It will mean a change of scene and I shall be glad of that. We like Mbulu and
                            the people here but the rains have started and our little reed hut is anything but water
                            tight.

                            Before the rain came we had very unpleasant dust storms. I think I told you that
                            this is a treeless area and the grass which normally covers the veldt has been cropped
                            to the roots by the hungry native cattle and goats. When the wind blows the dust
                            collects in tall black columns which sweep across the country in a most spectacular
                            fashion. One such dust devil struck our hut one day whilst we were at lunch. George
                            swept Kate up in a second and held her face against his chest whilst I rushed to Johnny
                            Jo who was asleep in his pram, and stooped over the pram to protect him. The hut
                            groaned and creaked and clouds of dust blew in through the windows and walls covering
                            our persons, food, and belongings in a black pall. The dogs food bowls and an empty
                            petrol tin outside the hut were whirled up and away. It was all over in a moment but you
                            should have seen what a family of sweeps we looked. George looked at our blackened
                            Johnny and mimicked in Sister Marianne’s primmest tones, “I find that this is not to be
                            allowed.”

                            The first rain storm caught me unprepared when George was away on safari. It
                            was a terrific thunderstorm. The quite violent thunder and lightening were followed by a
                            real tropical downpour. As the hut is on a slight slope, the storm water poured through
                            the hut like a river, covering the entire floor, and the roof leaked like a lawn sprinkler.
                            Johnny Jo was snug enough in the pram with the hood raised, but Kate and I had a
                            damp miserable night. Next morning I had deep drains dug around the hut and when
                            George returned from safari he managed to borrow an enormous tarpaulin which is now
                            lashed down over the roof.

                            It did not rain during the next few days George was home but the very next night
                            we were in trouble again. I was awakened by screams from Kate and hurriedly turned up
                            the lamp to see that we were in the midst of an invasion of siafu ants. Kate’s bed was
                            covered in them. Others appeared to be raining down from the thatch. I quickly stripped
                            Kate and carried her across to my bed, whilst I rushed to the pram to see whether
                            Johnny Jo was all right. He was fast asleep, bless him, and slept on through all the
                            commotion, whilst I struggled to pick all the ants out of Kate’s hair, stopping now and
                            again to attend to my own discomfort. These ants have a painful bite and seem to
                            choose all the most tender spots. Kate fell asleep eventually but I sat up for the rest of
                            the night to make sure that the siafu kept clear of the children. Next morning the servants
                            dispersed them by laying hot ash.

                            In spite of the dampness of the hut both children are blooming. Kate has rosy
                            cheeks and Johnny Jo now has a fuzz of fair hair and has lost his ‘old man’ look. He
                            reminds me of Ann at his age.

                            Eleanor.

                            Iringa. 30th November 1938

                            Dearest Family,

                            Here we are back in the Southern Highlands and installed on the second floor of
                            another German Fort. This one has been modernised however and though not so
                            romantic as the Mbulu Fort from the outside, it is much more comfortable.We are all well
                            and I am really proud of our two safari babies who stood up splendidly to a most trying
                            journey North from Mbulu to Arusha and then South down the Great North Road to
                            Iringa where we expect to stay for a month.

                            At Arusha George reported to the headquarters of the Game Department and
                            was instructed to come on down here on Rinderpest Control. There is a great flap on in
                            case the rinderpest spread to Northern Rhodesia and possibly onwards to Southern
                            Rhodesia and South Africa. Extra veterinary officers have been sent to this area to
                            inoculate all the cattle against the disease whilst George and his African game Scouts will
                            comb the bush looking for and destroying diseased game. If the rinderpest spreads,
                            George says it may be necessary to shoot out all the game in a wide belt along the
                            border between the Southern Highlands of Tanganyika and Northern Rhodesia, to
                            prevent the disease spreading South. The very idea of all this destruction sickens us
                            both.

                            George left on a foot safari the day after our arrival and I expect I shall be lucky if I
                            see him occasionally at weekends until this job is over. When rinderpest is under control
                            George is to be stationed at a place called Nzassa in the Eastern Province about 18
                            miles from Dar es Salaam. George’s orderly, who is a tall, cheerful Game Scout called
                            Juma, tells me that he has been stationed at Nzassa and it is a frightful place! However I
                            refuse to be depressed. I now have the cheering prospect of leave to England in thirty
                            months time when we will be able to fetch Ann and George and be a proper family
                            again. Both Ann and George look happy in the snapshots which mother-in-law sends
                            frequently. Ann is doing very well at school and loves it.

                            To get back to our journey from Mbulu. It really was quite an experience. It
                            poured with rain most of the way and the road was very slippery and treacherous the
                            120 miles between Mbulu and Arusha. This is a little used earth road and the drains are
                            so blocked with silt as to be practically non existent. As usual we started our move with
                            the V8 loaded to capacity. I held Johnny on my knee and Kate squeezed in between
                            George and me. All our goods and chattels were in wooden boxes stowed in the back
                            and the two houseboys and the two dogs had to adjust themselves to the space that
                            remained. We soon ran into trouble and it took us all day to travel 47 miles. We stuck
                            several times in deep mud and had some most nasty skids. I simply clutched Kate in
                            one hand and Johnny Jo in the other and put my trust in George who never, under any
                            circumstances, loses his head. Poor Johnny only got his meals when circumstances
                            permitted. Unfortunately I had put him on a bottle only a few days before we left Mbulu
                            and, as I was unable to buy either a primus stove or Thermos flask there we had to
                            make a fire and boil water for each meal. Twice George sat out in the drizzle with a rain
                            coat rapped over his head to protect a miserable little fire of wet sticks drenched with
                            paraffin. Whilst we waited for the water to boil I pacified John by letting him suck a cube
                            of Tate and Lyles sugar held between my rather grubby fingers. Not at all according to
                            the book.

                            That night George, the children and I slept in the car having dumped our boxes
                            and the two servants in a deserted native hut. The rain poured down relentlessly all night
                            and by morning the road was more of a morass than ever. We swerved and skidded
                            alarmingly till eventually one of the wheel chains broke and had to be tied together with
                            string which constantly needed replacing. George was so patient though he was wet
                            and muddy and tired and both children were very good. Shortly before reaching the Great North Road we came upon Jack Gowan, the Stock Inspector from Mbulu. His car
                            was bogged down to its axles in black mud. He refused George’s offer of help saying
                            that he had sent his messenger to a nearby village for help.

                            I hoped that conditions would be better on the Great North Road but how over
                            optimistic I was. For miles the road runs through a belt of ‘black cotton soil’. which was
                            churned up into the consistency of chocolate blancmange by the heavy lorry traffic which
                            runs between Dodoma and Arusha. Soon the car was skidding more fantastically than
                            ever. Once it skidded around in a complete semi circle so George decided that it would
                            be safer for us all to walk whilst he negotiated the very bad patches. You should have
                            seen me plodding along in the mud and drizzle with the baby in one arm and Kate
                            clinging to the other. I was terrified of slipping with Johnny. Each time George reached
                            firm ground he would return on foot to carry Kate and in this way we covered many bad
                            patches.We were more fortunate than many other travellers. We passed several lorries
                            ditched on the side of the road and one car load of German men, all elegantly dressed in
                            lounge suits. One was busy with his camera so will have a record of their plight to laugh
                            over in the years to come. We spent another night camping on the road and next day
                            set out on the last lap of the journey. That also was tiresome but much better than the
                            previous day and we made the haven of the Arusha Hotel before dark. What a picture
                            we made as we walked through the hall in our mud splattered clothes! Even Johnny was
                            well splashed with mud but no harm was done and both he and Kate are blooming.
                            We rested for two days at Arusha and then came South to Iringa. Luckily the sun
                            came out and though for the first day the road was muddy it was no longer so slippery
                            and the second day found us driving through parched country and along badly
                            corrugated roads. The further South we came, the warmer the sun which at times blazed
                            through the windscreen and made us all uncomfortably hot. I have described the country
                            between Arusha and Dodoma before so I shan’t do it again. We reached Iringa without
                            mishap and after a good nights rest all felt full of beans.

                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate, Mbeya. 7th January 1939.

                            Dearest Family,

                            You will be surprised to note that we are back on the farm! At least the children
                            and I are here. George is away near the Rhodesian border somewhere, still on
                            Rinderpest control.

                            I had a pleasant time at Iringa, lots of invitations to morning tea and Kate had a
                            wonderful time enjoying the novelty of playing with children of her own age. She is not
                            shy but nevertheless likes me to be within call if not within sight. It was all very suburban
                            but pleasant enough. A few days before Christmas George turned up at Iringa and
                            suggested that, as he would be working in the Mbeya area, it might be a good idea for
                            the children and me to move to the farm. I agreed enthusiastically, completely forgetting
                            that after my previous trouble with the leopard I had vowed to myself that I would never
                            again live alone on the farm.

                            Alas no sooner had we arrived when Thomas, our farm headman, brought the
                            news that there were now two leopards terrorising the neighbourhood, and taking dogs,
                            goats and sheep and chickens. Traps and poisoned bait had been tried in vain and he
                            was sure that the female was the same leopard which had besieged our home before.
                            Other leopards said Thomas, came by stealth but this one advertised her whereabouts
                            in the most brazen manner.

                            George stayed with us on the farm over Christmas and all was quiet at night so I
                            cheered up and took the children for walks along the overgrown farm paths. However on
                            New Years Eve that darned leopard advertised her presence again with the most blood
                            chilling grunts and snarls. Horrible! Fanny and Paddy barked and growled and woke up
                            both children. Kate wept and kept saying, “Send it away mummy. I don’t like it.” Johnny
                            Jo howled in sympathy. What a picnic. So now the whole performance of bodyguards
                            has started again and ‘till George returns we confine our exercise to the garden.
                            Our little house is still cosy and sweet but the coffee plantation looks very
                            neglected. I wish to goodness we could sell it.

                            Eleanor.

                            Nzassa 14th February 1939.

                            Dearest Family,

                            After three months of moving around with two small children it is heavenly to be
                            settled in our own home, even though Nzassa is an isolated spot and has the reputation
                            of being unhealthy.

                            We travelled by car from Mbeya to Dodoma by now a very familiar stretch of
                            country, but from Dodoma to Dar es Salaam by train which made a nice change. We
                            spent two nights and a day in the Splendid Hotel in Dar es Salaam, George had some
                            official visits to make and I did some shopping and we took the children to the beach.
                            The bay is so sheltered that the sea is as calm as a pond and the water warm. It is
                            wonderful to see the sea once more and to hear tugs hooting and to watch the Arab
                            dhows putting out to sea with their oddly shaped sails billowing. I do love the bush, but
                            I love the sea best of all, as you know.

                            We made an early start for Nzassa on the 3rd. For about four miles we bowled
                            along a good road. This brought us to a place called Temeke where George called on
                            the District Officer. His house appears to be the only European type house there. The
                            road between Temeke and the turn off to Nzassa is quite good, but the six mile stretch
                            from the turn off to Nzassa is a very neglected bush road. There is nothing to be seen
                            but the impenetrable bush on both sides with here and there a patch of swampy
                            ground where rice is planted in the wet season.

                            After about six miles of bumpy road we reached Nzassa which is nothing more
                            than a sandy clearing in the bush. Our house however is a fine one. It was originally built
                            for the District Officer and there is a small court house which is now George’s office. The
                            District Officer died of blackwater fever so Nzassa was abandoned as an administrative
                            station being considered too unhealthy for Administrative Officers but suitable as
                            Headquarters for a Game Ranger. Later a bachelor Game Ranger was stationed here
                            but his health also broke down and he has been invalided to England. So now the
                            healthy Rushbys are here and we don’t mean to let the place get us down. So don’t
                            worry.

                            The house consists of three very large and airy rooms with their doors opening
                            on to a wide front verandah which we shall use as a living room. There is also a wide
                            back verandah with a store room at one end and a bathroom at the other. Both
                            verandahs and the end windows of the house are screened my mosquito gauze wire
                            and further protected by a trellis work of heavy expanded metal. Hasmani, the Game
                            Scout, who has been acting as caretaker, tells me that the expanded metal is very
                            necessary because lions often come out of the bush at night and roam around the
                            house. Such a comforting thought!

                            On our very first evening we discovered how necessary the mosquito gauze is.
                            After sunset the air outside is thick with mosquitos from the swamps. About an acre of
                            land has been cleared around the house. This is a sandy waste because there is no
                            water laid on here and absolutely nothing grows here except a rather revolting milky
                            desert bush called ‘Manyara’, and a few acacia trees. A little way from the house there is
                            a patch of citrus trees, grape fruit, I think, but whether they ever bear fruit I don’t know.
                            The clearing is bordered on three sides by dense dusty thorn bush which is
                            ‘lousy with buffalo’ according to George. The open side is the road which leads down to
                            George’s office and the huts for the Game Scouts. Only Hasmani and George’s orderly
                            Juma and their wives and families live there, and the other huts provide shelter for the
                            Game Scouts from the bush who come to Nzassa to collect their pay and for a short
                            rest. I can see that my daily walk will always be the same, down the road to the huts and
                            back! However I don’t mind because it is far too hot to take much exercise.

                            The climate here is really tropical and worse than on the coast because the thick
                            bush cuts us off from any sea breeze. George says it will be cooler when the rains start
                            but just now we literally drip all day. Kate wears nothing but a cotton sun suit, and Johnny
                            a napkin only, but still their little bodies are always moist. I have shorn off all Kate’s lovely
                            shoulder length curls and got George to cut my hair very short too.

                            We simply must buy a refrigerator. The butter, and even the cheese we bought
                            in Dar. simply melted into pools of oil overnight, and all our meat went bad, so we are
                            living out of tins. However once we get organised I shall be quite happy here. I like this
                            spacious house and I have good servants. The cook, Hamisi Issa, is a Swahili from Lindi
                            whom we engaged in Dar es Salaam. He is a very dignified person, and like most
                            devout Mohammedan Cooks, keeps both his person and the kitchen spotless. I
                            engaged the house boy here. He is rather a timid little body but is very willing and quite
                            capable. He has an excessively plain but cheerful wife whom I have taken on as ayah. I
                            do not really need help with the children but feel I must have a woman around just in
                            case I go down with malaria when George is away on safari.

                            Eleanor.

                            Nzassa 28th February 1939.

                            Dearest Family,

                            George’s birthday and we had a special tea party this afternoon which the
                            children much enjoyed. We have our frig now so I am able to make jellies and provide
                            them with really cool drinks.

                            Our very first visitor left this morning after spending only one night here. He is Mr
                            Ionides, the Game Ranger from the Southern Province. He acted as stand in here for a
                            short while after George’s predecessor left for England on sick leave, and where he has
                            since died. Mr Ionides returned here to hand over the range and office formally to
                            George. He seems a strange man and is from all accounts a bit of a hermit. He was at
                            one time an Officer in the Regular Army but does not look like a soldier, he wears the
                            most extraordinary clothes but nevertheless contrives to look top-drawer. He was
                            educated at Rugby and Sandhurst and is, I should say, well read. Ionides told us that he
                            hated Nzassa, particularly the house which he thinks sinister and says he always slept
                            down in the office.

                            The house, or at least one bedroom, seems to have the same effect on Kate.
                            She has been very nervous at night ever since we arrived. At first the children occupied
                            the bedroom which is now George’s. One night, soon after our arrival, Kate woke up
                            screaming to say that ‘something’ had looked at her through the mosquito net. She was
                            in such a hysterical state that inspite of the heat and discomfort I was obliged to crawl into
                            her little bed with her and remained there for the rest of the night.

                            Next night I left a night lamp burning but even so I had to sit by her bed until she
                            dropped off to sleep. Again I was awakened by ear-splitting screams and this time
                            found Kate standing rigid on her bed. I lifted her out and carried her to a chair meaning to
                            comfort her but she screeched louder than ever, “Look Mummy it’s under the bed. It’s
                            looking at us.” In vain I pointed out that there was nothing at all there. By this time
                            George had joined us and he carried Kate off to his bed in the other room whilst I got into
                            Kate’s bed thinking she might have been frightened by a rat which might also disturb
                            Johnny.

                            Next morning our houseboy remarked that he had heard Kate screaming in the
                            night from his room behind the kitchen. I explained what had happened and he must
                            have told the old Scout Hasmani who waylaid me that afternoon and informed me quite
                            seriously that that particular room was haunted by a ‘sheitani’ (devil) who hates children.
                            He told me that whilst he was acting as caretaker before our arrival he one night had his
                            wife and small daughter in the room to keep him company. He said that his small
                            daughter woke up and screamed exactly as Kate had done! Silly coincidence I
                            suppose, but such strange things happen in Africa that I decided to move the children
                            into our room and George sleeps in solitary state in the haunted room! Kate now sleeps
                            peacefully once she goes to sleep but I have to stay with her until she does.

                            I like this house and it does not seem at all sinister to me. As I mentioned before,
                            the rooms are high ceilinged and airy, and have cool cement floors. We have made one
                            end of the enclosed verandah into the living room and the other end is the playroom for
                            the children. The space in between is a sort of no-mans land taken over by the dogs as
                            their special territory.

                            Eleanor.

                            Nzassa 25th March 1939.

                            Dearest Family,

                            George is on safari down in the Rufigi River area. He is away for about three
                            weeks in the month on this job. I do hate to see him go and just manage to tick over until
                            he comes back. But what fun and excitement when he does come home.
                            Usually he returns after dark by which time the children are in bed and I have
                            settled down on the verandah with a book. The first warning is usually given by the
                            dogs, Fanny and her son Paddy. They stir, sit up, look at each other and then go and sit
                            side by side by the door with their noses practically pressed to the mosquito gauze and
                            ears pricked. Soon I can hear the hum of the car, and so can Hasmani, the old Game
                            Scout who sleeps on the back verandah with rifle and ammunition by his side when
                            George is away. When he hears the car he turns up his lamp and hurries out to rouse
                            Juma, the houseboy. Juma pokes up the fire and prepares tea which George always
                            drinks whist a hot meal is being prepared. In the meantime I hurriedly comb my hair and
                            powder my nose so that when the car stops I am ready to rush out and welcome
                            George home. The boy and Hasmani and the garden boy appear to help with the
                            luggage and to greet George and the cook, who always accompanies George on
                            Safari. The home coming is always a lively time with much shouting of greetings.
                            ‘Jambo’, and ‘Habari ya safari’, whilst the dogs, beside themselves with excitement,
                            rush around like lunatics.

                            As though his return were not happiness enough, George usually collects the
                            mail on his way home so there is news of Ann and young George and letters from you
                            and bundles of newspapers and magazines. On the day following his return home,
                            George has to deal with official mail in the office but if the following day is a weekday we
                            all, the house servants as well as ourselves, pile into the boxbody and go to Dar es
                            Salaam. To us this means a mornings shopping followed by an afternoon on the beach.
                            It is a bit cooler now that the rains are on but still very humid. Kate keeps chubby
                            and rosy in spite of the climate but Johnny is too pale though sturdy enough. He is such
                            a good baby which is just as well because Kate is a very demanding little girl though
                            sunny tempered and sweet. I appreciate her company very much when George is
                            away because we are so far off the beaten track that no one ever calls.

                            Eleanor.

                            Nzassa 28th April 1939.

                            Dearest Family,

                            You all seem to wonder how I can stand the loneliness and monotony of living at
                            Nzassa when George is on safari, but really and truly I do not mind. Hamisi the cook
                            always goes on safari with George and then the houseboy Juma takes over the cooking
                            and I do the lighter housework. the children are great company during the day, and when
                            they are settled for the night I sit on the verandah and read or write letters or I just dream.
                            The verandah is entirely enclosed with both wire mosquito gauze and a trellis
                            work of heavy expanded metal, so I am safe from all intruders be they human, animal, or
                            insect. Outside the air is alive with mosquitos and the cicadas keep up their monotonous
                            singing all night long. My only companions on the verandah are the pale ghecco lizards
                            on the wall and the two dogs. Fanny the white bull terrier, lies always near my feet
                            dozing happily, but her son Paddy, who is half Airedale has a less phlegmatic
                            disposition. He sits alert and on guard by the metal trellis work door. Often a lion grunts
                            from the surrounding bush and then his hackles rise and he stands up stiffly with his nose
                            pressed to the door. Old Hasmani from his bedroll on the back verandah, gives a little
                            cough just to show he is awake. Sometimes the lions are very close and then I hear the
                            click of a rifle bolt as Hasmani loads his rifle – but this is usually much later at night when
                            the lights are out. One morning I saw large pug marks between the wall of my bedroom
                            and the garage but I do not fear lions like I did that beastly leopard on the farm.
                            A great deal of witchcraft is still practiced in the bush villages in the
                            neighbourhood. I must tell you about old Hasmani’s baby in connection with this. Last
                            week Hasmani came to me in great distress to say that his baby was ‘Ngongwa sana ‘
                            (very ill) and he thought it would die. I hurried down to the Game Scouts quarters to see
                            whether I could do anything for the child and found the mother squatting in the sun
                            outside her hut with the baby on her lap. The mother was a young woman but not an
                            attractive one. She appeared sullen and indifferent compared with old Hasmani who
                            was very distressed. The child was very feverish and breathing with difficulty and
                            seemed to me to be suffering from bronchitis if not pneumonia. I rubbed his back and
                            chest with camphorated oil and dosed him with aspirin and liquid quinine. I repeated the
                            treatment every four hours, but next day there was no apparent improvement.
                            In the afternoon Hasmani begged me to give him that night off duty and asked for
                            a loan of ten shillings. He explained to me that it seemed to him that the white man’s
                            medicine had failed to cure his child and now he wished to take the child to the local witch
                            doctor. “For ten shillings” said Hasmani, “the Maganga will drive the devil out of my
                            child.” “How?” asked I. “With drums”, said Hasmani confidently. I did not know what to
                            do. I thought the child was too ill to be exposed to the night air, yet I knew that if I
                            refused his request and the child were to die, Hasmani and all the other locals would hold
                            me responsible. I very reluctantly granted his request. I was so troubled by the matter
                            that I sent for George’s office clerk. Daniel, and asked him to accompany Hasmani to the
                            ceremony and to report to me the next morning. It started to rain after dark and all night
                            long I lay awake in bed listening to the drums and the light rain. Next morning when I
                            went out to the kitchen to order breakfast I found a beaming Hasmani awaiting me.
                            “Memsahib”, he said. “My child is well, the fever is now quite gone, the Maganga drove
                            out the devil just as I told you.” Believe it or not, when I hurried to his quarters after
                            breakfast I found the mother suckling a perfectly healthy child! It may be my imagination
                            but I thought the mother looked pretty smug.The clerk Daniel told me that after Hasmani
                            had presented gifts of money and food to the ‘Maganga’, the naked baby was placed
                            on a goat skin near the drums. Most of the time he just lay there but sometimes the witch
                            doctor picked him up and danced with the child in his arms. Daniel seemed reluctant to
                            talk about it. Whatever mumbo jumbo was used all this happened a week ago and the
                            baby has never looked back.

                            Eleanor.

                            Nzassa 3rd July 1939.

                            Dearest Family,

                            Did I tell you that one of George’s Game Scouts was murdered last month in the
                            Maneromango area towards the Rufigi border. He was on routine patrol, with a porter
                            carrying his bedding and food, when they suddenly came across a group of African
                            hunters who were busy cutting up a giraffe which they had just killed. These hunters were
                            all armed with muzzle loaders, spears and pangas, but as it is illegal to kill giraffe without
                            a permit, the Scout went up to the group to take their names. Some argument ensued
                            and the Scout was stabbed.

                            The District Officer went to the area to investigate and decided to call in the Police
                            from Dar es Salaam. A party of police went out to search for the murderers but after
                            some days returned without making any arrests. George was on an elephant control
                            safari in the Bagamoyo District and on his return through Dar es Salaam he heard of the
                            murder. George was furious and distressed to hear the news and called in here for an
                            hour on his way to Maneromango to search for the murderers himself.

                            After a great deal of strenuous investigation he arrested three poachers, put them
                            in jail for the night at Maneromango and then brought them to Dar es Salaam where they
                            are all now behind bars. George will now have to prosecute in the Magistrate’s Court
                            and try and ‘make a case’ so that the prisoners may be committed to the High Court to
                            be tried for murder. George is convinced of their guilt and justifiably proud to have
                            succeeded where the police failed.

                            George had to borrow handcuffs for the prisoners from the Chief at
                            Maneromango and these he brought back to Nzassa after delivering the prisoners to
                            Dar es Salaam so that he may return them to the Chief when he revisits the area next
                            week.

                            I had not seen handcuffs before and picked up a pair to examine them. I said to
                            George, engrossed in ‘The Times’, “I bet if you were arrested they’d never get
                            handcuffs on your wrist. Not these anyway, they look too small.” “Standard pattern,”
                            said George still concentrating on the newspaper, but extending an enormous relaxed
                            left wrist. So, my dears, I put a bracelet round his wrist and as there was a wide gap I
                            gave a hard squeeze with both hands. There was a sharp click as the handcuff engaged
                            in the first notch. George dropped the paper and said, “Now you’ve done it, my love,
                            one set of keys are in the Dar es Salaam Police Station, and the others with the Chief at
                            Maneromango.” You can imagine how utterly silly I felt but George was an angel about it
                            and said as he would have to go to Dar es Salaam we might as well all go.

                            So we all piled into the car, George, the children and I in the front, and the cook
                            and houseboy, immaculate in snowy khanzus and embroidered white caps, a Game
                            Scout and the ayah in the back. George never once complain of the discomfort of the
                            handcuff but I was uncomfortably aware that it was much too tight because his arm
                            above the cuff looked red and swollen and the hand unnaturally pale. As the road is so
                            bad George had to use both hands on the wheel and all the time the dangling handcuff
                            clanked against the dashboard in an accusing way.

                            We drove straight to the Police Station and I could hear the roars of laughter as
                            George explained his predicament. Later I had to put up with a good deal of chaffing
                            and congratulations upon putting the handcuffs on George.

                            Eleanor.

                            Nzassa 5th August 1939

                            Dearest Family,

                            George made a point of being here for Kate’s fourth birthday last week. Just
                            because our children have no playmates George and I always do all we can to make
                            birthdays very special occasions. We went to Dar es Salaam the day before the
                            birthday and bought Kate a very sturdy tricycle with which she is absolutely delighted.
                            You will be glad to know that your parcels arrived just in time and Kate loved all your
                            gifts especially the little shop from Dad with all the miniature tins and packets of
                            groceries. The tea set was also a great success and is much in use.

                            We had a lively party which ended with George and me singing ‘Happy
                            Birthday to you’, and ended with a wild game with balloons. Kate wore her frilly white net
                            party frock and looked so pretty that it seemed a shame that there was no one but us to
                            see her. Anyway it was a good party. I wish so much that you could see the children.
                            Kate keeps rosy and has not yet had malaria. Johnny Jo is sturdy but pale. He
                            runs a temperature now and again but I am not sure whether this is due to teething or
                            malaria. Both children of course take quinine every day as George and I do. George
                            quite frequently has malaria in spite of prophylactic quinine but this is not surprising as he
                            got the germ thoroughly established in his system in his early elephant hunting days. I
                            get it too occasionally but have not been really ill since that first time a month after my
                            arrival in the country.

                            Johnny is such a good baby. His chief claim to beauty is his head of soft golden
                            curls but these are due to come off on his first birthday as George considers them too
                            girlish. George left on safari the day after the party and the very next morning our wood
                            boy had a most unfortunate accident. He was chopping a rather tough log when a chip
                            flew up and split his upper lip clean through from mouth to nostril exposing teeth and
                            gums. A truly horrible sight and very bloody. I cleaned up the wound as best I could
                            and sent him off to the hospital at Dar es Salaam on the office bicycle. He wobbled
                            away wretchedly down the road with a white cloth tied over his mouth to keep off the
                            dust. He returned next day with his lip stitched and very swollen and bearing a
                            resemblance to my lip that time I used the hair remover.

                            Eleanor.

                            Splendid Hotel. Dar es Salaam 7th September 1939

                            Dearest Family,

                            So now another war has started and it has disrupted even our lives. We have left
                            Nzassa for good. George is now a Lieutenant in the King’s African Rifles and the children
                            and I are to go to a place called Morogoro to await further developments.
                            I was glad to read in today’s paper that South Africa has declared war on
                            Germany. I would have felt pretty small otherwise in this hotel which is crammed full of
                            men who have been called up for service in the Army. George seems exhilarated by
                            the prospect of active service. He is bursting out of his uniform ( at the shoulders only!)
                            and all too ready for the fray.

                            The war came as a complete surprise to me stuck out in the bush as I was without
                            wireless or mail. George had been away for a fortnight so you can imagine how
                            surprised I was when a messenger arrived on a bicycle with a note from George. The
                            note informed me that war had been declared and that George, as a Reserve Officer in
                            the KAR had been called up. I was to start packing immediately and be ready by noon
                            next day when George would arrive with a lorry for our goods and chattels. I started to
                            pack immediately with the help of the houseboy and by the time George arrived with
                            the lorry only the frig remained to be packed and this was soon done.

                            Throughout the morning Game Scouts had been arriving from outlying parts of
                            the District. I don’t think they had the least idea where they were supposed to go or
                            whom they were to fight but were ready to fight anybody, anywhere, with George.
                            They all looked very smart in well pressed uniforms hung about with water bottles and
                            ammunition pouches. The large buffalo badge on their round pill box hats absolutely
                            glittered with polish. All of course carried rifles and when George arrived they all lined up
                            and they looked most impressive. I took some snaps but unfortunately it was drizzling
                            and they may not come out well.

                            We left Nzassa without a backward glance. We were pretty fed up with it by
                            then. The children and I are spending a few days here with George but our luggage, the
                            dogs, and the houseboys have already left by train for Morogoro where a small house
                            has been found for the children and me.

                            George tells me that all the German males in this Territory were interned without a
                            hitch. The whole affair must have been very well organised. In every town and
                            settlement special constables were sworn in to do the job. It must have been a rather
                            unpleasant one but seems to have gone without incident. There is a big transit camp
                            here at Dar for the German men. Later they are to be sent out of the country, possibly to
                            Rhodesia.

                            The Indian tailors in the town are all terribly busy making Army uniforms, shorts
                            and tunics in khaki drill. George swears that they have muddled their orders and he has
                            been given the wrong things. Certainly the tunic is far too tight. His hat, a khaki slouch hat
                            like you saw the Australians wearing in the last war, is also too small though it is the
                            largest they have in stock. We had a laugh over his other equipment which includes a
                            small canvas haversack and a whistle on a black cord. George says he feels like he is
                            back in his Boy Scouting boyhood.

                            George has just come in to say the we will be leaving for Morogoro tomorrow
                            afternoon.

                            Eleanor.

                            Morogoro 14th September 1939

                            Dearest Family,

                            Morogoro is a complete change from Nzassa. This is a large and sprawling
                            township. The native town and all the shops are down on the flat land by the railway but
                            all the European houses are away up the slope of the high Uluguru Mountains.
                            Morogoro was a flourishing town in the German days and all the streets are lined with
                            trees for coolness as is the case in other German towns. These trees are the flamboyant
                            acacia which has an umbrella top and throws a wide but light shade.

                            Most of the houses have large gardens so they cover a considerable area and it
                            is quite a safari for me to visit friends on foot as our house is on the edge of this area and
                            the furthest away from the town. Here ones house is in accordance with ones seniority in
                            Government service. Ours is a simple affair, just three lofty square rooms opening on to
                            a wide enclosed verandah. Mosquitoes are bad here so all doors and windows are
                            screened and we will have to carry on with our daily doses of quinine.

                            George came up to Morogoro with us on the train. This was fortunate because I
                            went down with a sharp attack of malaria at the hotel on the afternoon of our departure
                            from Dar es Salaam. George’s drastic cure of vast doses of quinine, a pillow over my
                            head, and the bed heaped with blankets soon brought down the temperature so I was
                            fit enough to board the train but felt pretty poorly on the trip. However next day I felt
                            much better which was a good thing as George had to return to Dar es Salaam after two
                            days. His train left late at night so I did not see him off but said good-bye at home
                            feeling dreadful but trying to keep the traditional stiff upper lip of the wife seeing her
                            husband off to the wars. He hopes to go off to Abyssinia but wrote from Dar es Salaam
                            to say that he is being sent down to Rhodesia by road via Mbeya to escort the first
                            detachment of Rhodesian white troops.

                            First he will have to select suitable camping sites for night stops and arrange for
                            supplies of food. I am very pleased as it means he will be safe for a while anyway. We
                            are both worried about Ann and George in England and wonder if it would be safer to
                            have them sent out.

                            Eleanor.

                            Morogoro 4th November 1939

                            Dearest Family,

                            My big news is that George has been released from the Army. He is very
                            indignant and disappointed because he hoped to go to Abyssinia but I am terribly,
                            terribly glad. The Chief Secretary wrote a very nice letter to George pointing out that he
                            would be doing a greater service to his country by his work of elephant control, giving
                            crop protection during the war years when foodstuffs are such a vital necessity, than by
                            doing a soldiers job. The Government plan to start a huge rice scheme in the Rufiji area,
                            and want George to control the elephant and hippo there. First of all though. he must go
                            to the Southern Highlands Province where there is another outbreak of Rinderpest, to
                            shoot out diseased game especially buffalo, which might spread the disease.

                            So off we go again on our travels but this time we are leaving the two dogs
                            behind in the care of Daniel, the Game Clerk. Fanny is very pregnant and I hate leaving
                            her behind but the clerk has promised to look after her well. We are taking Hamisi, our
                            dignified Swahili cook and the houseboy Juma and his wife whom we brought with us
                            from Nzassa. The boy is not very good but his wife makes a cheerful and placid ayah
                            and adores Johnny.

                            Eleanor.

                            Iringa 8th December 1939

                            Dearest Family,

                            The children and I are staying in a small German house leased from the
                            Custodian of Enemy Property. I can’t help feeling sorry for the owners who must be in
                            concentration camps somewhere.George is away in the bush dealing with the
                            Rinderpest emergency and the cook has gone with him. Now I have sent the houseboy
                            and the ayah away too. Two days ago my houseboy came and told me that he felt
                            very ill and asked me to write a ‘chit’ to the Indian Doctor. In the note I asked the Doctor
                            to let me know the nature of his complaint and to my horror I got a note from him to say
                            that the houseboy had a bad case of Venereal Disease. Was I horrified! I took it for
                            granted that his wife must be infected too and told them both that they would have to
                            return to their home in Nzassa. The boy shouted and the ayah wept but I paid them in
                            lieu of notice and gave them money for the journey home. So there I was left servant
                            less with firewood to chop, a smokey wood burning stove to control, and of course, the
                            two children.

                            To add to my troubles Johnny had a temperature so I sent for the European
                            Doctor. He diagnosed malaria and was astonished at the size of Johnny’s spleen. He
                            said that he must have had suppressed malaria over a long period and the poor child
                            must now be fed maximum doses of quinine for a long time. The Doctor is a fatherly
                            soul, he has been recalled from retirement to do this job as so many of the young
                            doctors have been called up for service with the army.

                            I told him about my houseboy’s complaint and the way I had sent him off
                            immediately, and he was very amused at my haste, saying that it is most unlikely that
                            they would have passed the disease onto their employers. Anyway I hated the idea. I
                            mean to engage a houseboy locally, but will do without an ayah until we return to
                            Morogoro in February.

                            Something happened today to cheer me up. A telegram came from Daniel which
                            read, “FLANNEL HAS FIVE CUBS.”

                            Eleanor.

                            Morogoro 10th March 1940

                            Dearest Family,

                            We are having very heavy rain and the countryside is a most beautiful green. In
                            spite of the weather George is away on safari though it must be very wet and
                            unpleasant. He does work so hard at his elephant hunting job and has got very thin. I
                            suppose this is partly due to those stomach pains he gets and the doctors don’t seem
                            to diagnose the trouble.

                            Living in Morogoro is much like living in a country town in South Africa, particularly
                            as there are several South African women here. I go out quite often to morning teas. We
                            all take our war effort knitting, and natter, and are completely suburban.
                            I sometimes go and see an elderly couple who have been interred here. They
                            are cold shouldered by almost everyone else but I cannot help feeling sorry for them.
                            Usually I go by invitation because I know Mrs Ruppel prefers to be prepared and
                            always has sandwiches and cake. They both speak English but not fluently and
                            conversation is confined to talking about my children and theirs. Their two sons were
                            students in Germany when war broke out but are now of course in the German Army.
                            Such nice looking chaps from their photographs but I suppose thorough Nazis. As our
                            conversation is limited I usually ask to hear a gramophone record or two. They have a
                            large collection.

                            Janet, the ayah whom I engaged at Mbeya, is proving a great treasure. She is a
                            trained hospital ayah and is most dependable and capable. She is, perhaps, a little strict
                            but the great thing is that I can trust her with the children out of my sight.
                            Last week I went out at night for the first time without George. The occasion was
                            a farewell sundowner given by the Commissioner of Prisoners and his wife. I was driven
                            home by the District Officer and he stopped his car by the back door in a large puddle.
                            Ayah came to the back door, storm lamp in hand, to greet me. My escort prepared to
                            drive off but the car stuck. I thought a push from me might help, so without informing the
                            driver, I pushed as hard as I could on the back of the car. Unfortunately the driver
                            decided on other tactics. He put the engine in reverse and I was knocked flat on my back
                            in the puddle. The car drove forward and away without the driver having the least idea of
                            what happened. The ayah was in quite a state, lifting me up and scolding me for my
                            stupidity as though I were Kate. I was a bit shaken but non the worse and will know
                            better next time.

                            Eleanor.

                            Morogoro 14th July 1940

                            Dearest Family,

                            How good it was of Dad to send that cable to Mother offering to have Ann and
                            George to live with you if they are accepted for inclusion in the list of children to be
                            evacuated to South Africa. It would be wonderful to know that they are safely out of the
                            war zone and so much nearer to us but I do dread the thought of the long sea voyage
                            particularly since we heard the news of the sinking of that liner carrying child evacuees to
                            Canada. I worry about them so much particularly as George is so often away on safari.
                            He is so comforting and calm and I feel brave and confident when he is home.
                            We have had no news from England for five weeks but, when she last wrote,
                            mother said the children were very well and that she was sure they would be safe in the
                            country with her.

                            Kate and John are growing fast. Kate is such a pretty little girl, rosy in spite of the
                            rather trying climate. I have allowed her hair to grow again and it hangs on her shoulders
                            in shiny waves. John is a more slightly built little boy than young George was, and quite
                            different in looks. He has Dad’s high forehead and cleft chin, widely spaced brown eyes
                            that are not so dark as mine and hair that is still fair and curly though ayah likes to smooth it
                            down with water every time she dresses him. He is a shy child, and although he plays
                            happily with Kate, he does not care to play with other children who go in the late
                            afternoons to a lawn by the old German ‘boma’.

                            Kate has playmates of her own age but still rather clings to me. Whilst she loves
                            to have friends here to play with her, she will not go to play at their houses unless I go
                            too and stay. She always insists on accompanying me when I go out to morning tea
                            and always calls Janet “John’s ayah”. One morning I went to a knitting session at a
                            neighbours house. We are all knitting madly for the troops. As there were several other
                            women in the lounge and no other children, I installed Kate in the dining room with a
                            colouring book and crayons. My hostess’ black dog was chained to the dining room
                            table leg, but as he and Kate are on friendly terms I was not bothered by this.
                            Some time afterwards, during a lull in conversation, I heard a strange drumming
                            noise coming from the dining room. I went quickly to investigate and, to my horror, found
                            Kate lying on her back with the dog chain looped around her neck. The frightened dog
                            was straining away from her as far as he could get and the chain was pulled so tightly
                            around her throat that she could not scream. The drumming noise came from her heels
                            kicking in a panic on the carpet.

                            Even now I do not know how Kate got herself into this predicament. Luckily no
                            great harm was done but I think I shall do my knitting at home in future.

                            Eleanor.

                            Morogoro 16th November 1940

                            Dearest Family,

                            I much prefer our little house on the hillside to the larger one we had down below.
                            The only disadvantage is that the garden is on three levels and both children have had
                            some tumbles down the steps on the tricycle. John is an extremely stoical child. He
                            never cries when he hurts himself.

                            I think I have mentioned ‘Morningside’ before. It is a kind of Resthouse high up in
                            the Uluguru Mountains above Morogoro. Jess Howe-Browne, who runs the large
                            house as a Guest House, is a wonderful woman. Besides running the boarding house
                            she also grows vegetables, flowers and fruit for sale in Morogoro and Dar es Salaam.
                            Her guests are usually women and children from Dar es Salaam who come in the hot
                            season to escape the humidity on the coast. Often the mothers leave their children for
                            long periods in Jess Howe-Browne’s care. There is a road of sorts up the mountain side
                            to Morningside, but this is so bad that cars do not attempt it and guests are carried up
                            the mountain in wicker chairs lashed to poles. Four men carry an adult, and two a child,
                            and there are of course always spare bearers and they work in shifts.

                            Last week the children and I went to Morningside for the day as guests. John
                            rode on my lap in one chair and Kate in a small chair on her own. This did not please
                            Kate at all. The poles are carried on the bearers shoulders and one is perched quite high.
                            The motion is a peculiar rocking one. The bearers chant as they go and do not seem
                            worried by shortness of breath! They are all hillmen of course and are, I suppose, used
                            to trotting up and down to the town.

                            Morningside is well worth visiting and we spent a delightful day there. The fresh
                            cool air is a great change from the heavy air of the valley. A river rushes down the
                            mountain in a series of cascades, and the gardens are shady and beautiful. Behind the
                            property is a thick indigenous forest which stretches from Morningside to the top of the
                            mountain. The house is an old German one, rather in need of repair, but Jess has made
                            it comfortable and attractive, with some of her old family treasures including a fine old
                            Grandfather clock. We had a wonderful lunch which included large fresh strawberries and
                            cream. We made the return journey again in the basket chairs and got home before dark.
                            George returned home at the weekend with a baby elephant whom we have
                            called Winnie. She was rescued from a mud hole by some African villagers and, as her
                            mother had abandoned her, they took her home and George was informed. He went in
                            the truck to fetch her having first made arrangements to have her housed in a shed on the
                            Agriculture Department Experimental Farm here. He has written to the Game Dept
                            Headquarters to inform the Game Warden and I do not know what her future will be, but
                            in the meantime she is our pet. George is afraid she will not survive because she has
                            had a very trying time. She stands about waist high and is a delightful creature and quite
                            docile. Asian and African children as well as Europeans gather to watch her and George
                            encourages them to bring fruit for her – especially pawpaws which she loves.
                            Whilst we were there yesterday one of the local ladies came, very smartly
                            dressed in a linen frock, silk stockings, and high heeled shoes. She watched fascinated
                            whilst Winnie neatly split a pawpaw and removed the seeds with her trunk, before
                            scooping out the pulp and putting it in her mouth. It was a particularly nice ripe pawpaw
                            and Winnie enjoyed it so much that she stretched out her trunk for more. The lady took
                            fright and started to run with Winnie after her, sticky trunk outstretched. Quite an
                            entertaining sight. George managed to stop Winnie but not before she had left a gooey
                            smear down the back of the immaculate frock.

                            Eleanor.

                             

                            #6265
                            TracyTracy
                            Participant

                              From Tanganyika with Love

                              continued  ~ part 6

                              With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                              Mchewe 6th June 1937

                              Dearest Family,

                              Home again! We had an uneventful journey. Kate was as good as gold all the
                              way. We stopped for an hour at Bulawayo where we had to change trains but
                              everything was simplified for me by a very pleasant man whose wife shared my
                              compartment. Not only did he see me through customs but he installed us in our new
                              train and his wife turned up to see us off with magazines for me and fruit and sweets for
                              Kate. Very, very kind, don’t you think?

                              Kate and I shared the compartment with a very pretty and gentle girl called
                              Clarice Simpson. She was very worried and upset because she was going home to
                              Broken Hill in response to a telegram informing her that her young husband was
                              dangerously ill from Blackwater Fever. She was very helpful with Kate whose
                              cheerfulness helped Clarice, I think, though I, quite unintentionally was the biggest help
                              at the end of our journey. Remember the partial dentures I had had made just before
                              leaving Cape Town? I know I shall never get used to the ghastly things, I’ve had them
                              two weeks now and they still wobble. Well this day I took them out and wrapped them
                              in a handkerchief, but when we were packing up to leave the train I could find the
                              handkerchief but no teeth! We searched high and low until the train had slowed down to
                              enter Broken Hill station. Then Clarice, lying flat on the floor, spied the teeth in the dark
                              corner under the bottom bunk. With much stretching she managed to retrieve the
                              dentures covered in grime and fluff. My look of horror, when I saw them, made young
                              Clarice laugh. She was met at the station by a very grave elderly couple. I do wonder
                              how things turned out for her.

                              I stayed overnight with Kate at the Great Northern Hotel, and we set off for
                              Mbeya by plane early in the morning. One of our fellow passengers was a young
                              mother with a three week old baby. How ideas have changed since Ann was born. This
                              time we had a smooth passage and I was the only passenger to get airsick. Although
                              there were other women passengers it was a man once again, who came up and
                              offered to help. Kate went off with him amiably and he entertained her until we touched
                              down at Mbeya.

                              George was there to meet us with a wonderful surprise, a little red two seater
                              Ford car. She is a bit battered and looks a bit odd because the boot has been
                              converted into a large wooden box for carrying raw salt, but she goes like the wind.
                              Where did George raise the cash to buy a car? Whilst we were away he found a small
                              cave full of bat guano near a large cave which is worked by a man called Bob Sargent.
                              As Sargent did not want any competition he bought the contents of the cave from
                              George giving him the small car as part payment.

                              It was lovely to return to our little home and find everything fresh and tidy and the
                              garden full of colour. But it was heartbreaking to go into the bedroom and see George’s
                              precious forgotten boots still standing by his empty bed.

                              With much love,
                              Eleanor.

                              Mchewe 25th June 1937

                              Dearest Family,

                              Last Friday George took Kate and me in the little red Ford to visit Mr Sargent’s
                              camp on the Songwe River which cuts the Mbeya-Mbosi road. Mr Sargent bought
                              Hicky-Wood’s guano deposit and also our small cave and is making a good living out of
                              selling the bat guano to the coffee farmers in this province. George went to try to interest
                              him in a guano deposit near Kilwa in the Southern Province. Mr Sargent agreed to pay
                              25 pounds to cover the cost of the car trip and pegging costs. George will make the trip
                              to peg the claim and take samples for analysis. If the quality is sufficiently high, George
                              and Mr Sargent will go into partnership. George will work the claim and ship out the
                              guano from Kilwa which is on the coast of the Southern Province of Tanganyika. So now
                              we are busy building castles in the air once more.

                              On Saturday we went to Mbeya where George had to attend a meeting of the
                              Trout Association. In the afternoon he played in a cricket match so Kate and I spent the
                              whole day with the wife of the new Superintendent of Police. They have a very nice
                              new house with lawns and a sunken rose garden. Kate had a lovely romp with Kit, her
                              three year old son.

                              Mrs Wolten also has two daughters by a previous marriage. The elder girl said to
                              me, “Oh Mrs Rushby your husband is exactly like the strong silent type of man I
                              expected to see in Africa but he is the only one I have seen. I think he looks exactly like
                              those men in the ‘Barney’s Tobacco’ advertisements.”

                              I went home with a huge pile of magazines to keep me entertained whilst
                              George is away on the Kilwa trip.

                              Lots of love,
                              Eleanor.

                              Mchewe 9th July 1937

                              Dearest Family,

                              George returned on Monday from his Kilwa safari. He had an entertaining
                              tale to tell.

                              Before he approached Mr Sargent about going shares in the Kilwa guano
                              deposit he first approached a man on the Lupa who had done very well out of a small
                              gold reef. This man, however said he was not interested so you can imagine how
                              indignant George was when he started on his long trip, to find himself being trailed by
                              this very man and a co-driver in a powerful Ford V8 truck. George stopped his car and
                              had some heated things to say – awful threats I imagine as to what would happen to
                              anyone who staked his claim. Then he climbed back into our ancient little two seater and
                              went off like a bullet driving all day and most of the night. As the others took turns in
                              driving you can imagine what a feat it was for George to arrive in Kilwa ahead of them.
                              When they drove into Kilwa he met them with a bright smile and a bit of bluff –
                              quite justifiable under the circumstances I think. He said, you chaps can have a rest now,
                              you’re too late.” He then whipped off and pegged the claim. he brought some samples
                              of guano back but until it has been analysed he will not know whether the guano will be
                              an economic proposition or not. George is not very hopeful. He says there is a good
                              deal of sand mixed with the guano and that much of it was damp.

                              The trip was pretty eventful for Kianda, our houseboy. The little two seater car
                              had been used by its previous owner for carting bags of course salt from his salt pans.
                              For this purpose the dicky seat behind the cab had been removed, and a kind of box
                              built into the boot of the car. George’s camp kit and provisions were packed into this
                              open box and Kianda perched on top to keep an eye on the belongings. George
                              travelled so fast on the rough road that at some point during the night Kianda was
                              bumped off in the middle of the Game Reserve. George did not notice that he was
                              missing until the next morning. He concluded, quite rightly as it happened, that Kianda
                              would be picked up by the rival truck so he continued his journey and Kianda rejoined
                              him at Kilwa.

                              Believe it or not, the same thing happened on the way back but fortunately this
                              time George noticed his absence. He stopped the car and had just started back on his
                              tracks when Kianda came running down the road still clutching the unlighted storm lamp
                              which he was holding in his hand when he fell. The glass was not even cracked.
                              We are finding it difficult just now to buy native chickens and eggs. There has
                              been an epidemic amongst the poultry and one hesitates to eat the survivors. I have a
                              brine tub in which I preserve our surplus meat but I need the chickens for soup.
                              I hope George will be home for some months. He has arranged to take a Mr
                              Blackburn, a wealthy fruit farmer from Elgin, Cape, on a hunting safari during September
                              and October and that should bring in some much needed cash. Lillian Eustace has
                              invited Kate and me to spend the whole of October with her in Tukuyu.
                              I am so glad that you so much enjoy having Ann and George with you. We miss
                              them dreadfully. Kate is a pretty little girl and such a little madam. You should hear the
                              imperious way in which she calls the kitchenboy for her meals. “Boy Brekkis, Boy Lunch,
                              and Boy Eggy!” are her three calls for the day. She knows no Ki-Swahili.

                              Eleanor

                              Mchewe 8th October 1937

                              Dearest Family,

                              I am rapidly becoming as superstitious as our African boys. They say the wild
                              animals always know when George is away from home and come down to have their
                              revenge on me because he has killed so many.

                              I am being besieged at night by a most beastly leopard with a half grown cub. I
                              have grown used to hearing leopards grunt as they hunt in the hills at night but never
                              before have I had one roaming around literally under the windows. It has been so hot at
                              night lately that I have been sleeping with my bedroom door open onto the verandah. I
                              felt quite safe because the natives hereabouts are law-abiding and in any case I always
                              have a boy armed with a club sleeping in the kitchen just ten yards away. As an added
                              precaution I also have a loaded .45 calibre revolver on my bedside table, and Fanny
                              our bullterrier, sleeps on the mat by my bed. I am also looking after Barney, a fine
                              Airedale dog belonging to the Costers. He slept on a mat by the open bedroom door
                              near a dimly burning storm lamp.

                              As usual I went to sleep with an easy mind on Monday night, but was awakened
                              in the early hours of Tuesday by the sound of a scuffle on the front verandah. The noise
                              was followed by a scream of pain from Barney. I jumped out of bed and, grabbing the
                              lamp with my left hand and the revolver in my right, I rushed outside just in time to see
                              two animal figures roll over the edge of the verandah into the garden below. There they
                              engaged in a terrific tug of war. Fortunately I was too concerned for Barney to be
                              nervous. I quickly fired two shots from the revolver, which incidentally makes a noise like
                              a cannon, and I must have startled the leopard for both animals, still locked together,
                              disappeared over the edge of the terrace. I fired two more shots and in a few moments
                              heard the leopard making a hurried exit through the dry leaves which lie thick under the
                              wild fig tree just beyond the terrace. A few seconds later Barney appeared on the low
                              terrace wall. I called his name but he made no move to come but stood with hanging
                              head. In desperation I rushed out, felt blood on my hands when I touched him, so I
                              picked him up bodily and carried him into the house. As I regained the verandah the boy
                              appeared, club in hand, having been roused by the shots. He quickly grasped what had
                              happened when he saw my blood saturated nightie. He fetched a bowl of water and a
                              clean towel whilst I examined Barney’s wounds. These were severe, the worst being a
                              gaping wound in his throat. I washed the gashes with a strong solution of pot permang
                              and I am glad to say they are healing remarkably well though they are bound to leave
                              scars. Fanny, very prudently, had taken no part in the fighting except for frenzied barking
                              which she kept up all night. The shots had of course wakened Kate but she seemed
                              more interested than alarmed and kept saying “Fanny bark bark, Mummy bang bang.
                              Poor Barney lots of blood.”

                              In the morning we inspected the tracks in the garden. There was a shallow furrow
                              on the terrace where Barney and the leopard had dragged each other to and fro and
                              claw marks on the trunk of the wild fig tree into which the leopard climbed after I fired the
                              shots. The affair was of course a drama after the Africans’ hearts and several of our
                              shamba boys called to see me next day to make sympathetic noises and discuss the
                              affair.

                              I went to bed early that night hoping that the leopard had been scared off for
                              good but I must confess I shut all windows and doors. Alas for my hopes of a restful
                              night. I had hardly turned down the lamp when the leopard started its terrifying grunting
                              just under the bedroom windows. If only she would sniff around quietly I should not
                              mind, but the noise is ghastly, something like the first sickening notes of a braying
                              donkey, amplified here by the hills and the gorge which is only a stones throw from the
                              bedroom. Barney was too sick to bark but Fanny barked loud enough for two and the more
                              frantic she became the hungrier the leopard sounded. Kate of course woke up and this
                              time she was frightened though I assured her that the noise was just a donkey having
                              fun. Neither of us slept until dawn when the leopard returned to the hills. When we
                              examined the tracks next morning we found that the leopard had been accompanied by
                              a fair sized cub and that together they had prowled around the house, kitchen, and out
                              houses, visiting especially the places to which the dogs had been during the day.
                              As I feel I cannot bear many more of these nights, I am sending a note to the
                              District Commissioner, Mbeya by the messenger who takes this letter to the post,
                              asking him to send a game scout or an armed policeman to deal with the leopard.
                              So don’t worry, for by the time this reaches you I feel sure this particular trouble
                              will be over.

                              Eleanor.

                              Mchewe 17th October 1937

                              Dearest Family,

                              More about the leopard I fear! My messenger returned from Mbeya to say that
                              the District Officer was on safari so he had given the message to the Assistant District
                              Officer who also apparently left on safari later without bothering to reply to my note, so
                              there was nothing for me to do but to send for the village Nimrod and his muzzle loader
                              and offer him a reward if he could frighten away or kill the leopard.

                              The hunter, Laza, suggested that he should sleep at the house so I went to bed
                              early leaving Laza and his two pals to make themselves comfortable on the living room
                              floor by the fire. Laza was armed with a formidable looking muzzle loader, crammed I
                              imagine with nuts and bolts and old rusty nails. One of his pals had a spear and the other
                              a panga. This fellow was also in charge of the Petromax pressure lamp whose light was
                              hidden under a packing case. I left the campaign entirely to Laza’s direction.
                              As usual the leopard came at midnight stealing down from the direction of the
                              kitchen and announcing its presence and position with its usual ghastly grunts. Suddenly
                              pandemonium broke loose on the back verandah. I heard the roar of the muzzle loader
                              followed by a vigourous tattoo beaten on an empty paraffin tin and I rushed out hoping
                              to find the dead leopard. however nothing of the kind had happened except that the
                              noise must have scared the beast because she did not return again that night. Next
                              morning Laza solemnly informed me that, though he had shot many leopards in his day,
                              this was no ordinary leopard but a “sheitani” (devil) and that as his gun was no good
                              against witchcraft he thought he might as well retire from the hunt. Scared I bet, and I
                              don’t blame him either.

                              You can imagine my relief when a car rolled up that afternoon bringing Messers
                              Stewart and Griffiths, two farmers who live about 15 miles away, between here and
                              Mbeya. They had a note from the Assistant District Officer asking them to help me and
                              they had come to set up a trap gun in the garden. That night the leopard sniffed all
                              around the gun and I had the added strain of waiting for the bang and wondering what I
                              should do if the beast were only wounded. I conjured up horrible visions of the two little
                              totos trotting up the garden path with the early morning milk and being horribly mauled,
                              but I needn’t have worried because the leopard was far too wily to be caught that way.
                              Two more ghastly nights passed and then I had another visitor, a Dr Jackson of
                              the Tsetse Department on safari in the District. He listened sympathetically to my story
                              and left his shotgun and some SSG cartridges with me and instructed me to wait until the
                              leopard was pretty close and blow its b—– head off. It was good of him to leave his
                              gun. George always says there are three things a man should never lend, ‘His wife, his
                              gun and his dog.’ (I think in that order!)I felt quite cheered by Dr Jackson’s visit and sent
                              once again for Laza last night and arranged a real show down. In the afternoon I draped
                              heavy blankets over the living room windows to shut out the light of the pressure lamp
                              and the four of us, Laza and his two stooges and I waited up for the leopard. When we
                              guessed by her grunts that she was somewhere between the kitchen and the back door
                              we all rushed out, first the boy with the panga and the lamp, next Laza with his muzzle
                              loader, then me with the shotgun followed closely by the boy with the spear. What a
                              farce! The lamp was our undoing. We were blinded by the light and did not even
                              glimpse the leopard which made off with a derisive grunt. Laza said smugly that he knew
                              it was hopeless to try and now I feel tired and discouraged too.

                              This morning I sent a runner to Mbeya to order the hotel taxi for tomorrow and I
                              shall go to friends in Mbeya for a day or two and then on to Tukuyu where I shall stay
                              with the Eustaces until George returns from Safari.

                              Eleanor.

                              Mchewe 18th November 1937

                              My darling Ann,

                              Here we are back in our own home and how lovely it is to have Daddy back from
                              safari. Thank you very much for your letter. I hope by now you have got mine telling you
                              how very much I liked the beautiful tray cloth you made for my birthday. I bet there are
                              not many little girls of five who can embroider as well as you do, darling. The boy,
                              Matafari, washes and irons it so carefully and it looks lovely on the tea tray.

                              Daddy and I had some fun last night. I was in bed and Daddy was undressing
                              when we heard a funny scratching noise on the roof. I thought it was the leopard. Daddy
                              quickly loaded his shotgun and ran outside. He had only his shirt on and he looked so
                              funny. I grabbed the loaded revolver from the cupboard and ran after Dad in my nightie
                              but after all the rush it was only your cat, Winnie, though I don’t know how she managed
                              to make such a noise. We felt so silly, we laughed and laughed.

                              Kate talks a lot now but in such a funny way you would laugh to her her. She
                              hears the houseboys call me Memsahib so sometimes instead of calling me Mummy
                              she calls me “Oompaab”. She calls the bedroom a ‘bippon’ and her little behind she
                              calls her ‘sittendump’. She loves to watch Mandawi’s cattle go home along the path
                              behind the kitchen. Joseph your donkey, always leads the cows. He has a lazy life now.
                              I am glad you had such fun on Guy Fawkes Day. You will be sad to leave
                              Plumstead but I am sure you will like going to England on the big ship with granny Kate.
                              I expect you will start school when you get to England and I am sure you will find that
                              fun.

                              God bless my dear little girl. Lots of love from Daddy and Kate,
                              and Mummy

                              Mchewe 18th November 1937

                              Hello George Darling,

                              Thank you for your lovely drawing of Daddy shooting an elephant. Daddy says
                              that the only thing is that you have drawn him a bit too handsome.

                              I went onto the verandah a few minutes ago to pick a banana for Kate from the
                              bunch hanging there and a big hornet flew out and stung my elbow! There are lots of
                              them around now and those stinging flies too. Kate wears thick corduroy dungarees so
                              that she will not get her fat little legs bitten. She is two years old now and is a real little
                              pickle. She loves running out in the rain so I have ordered a pair of red Wellingtons and a
                              tiny umbrella from a Nairobi shop for her Christmas present.

                              Fanny’s puppies have their eyes open now and have very sharp little teeth.
                              They love to nip each other. We are keeping the fiercest little one whom we call Paddy
                              but are giving the others to friends. The coffee bushes are full of lovely white flowers
                              and the bees and ants are very busy stealing their honey.

                              Yesterday a troop of baboons came down the hill and Dad shot a big one to
                              scare the others off. They are a nuisance because they steal the maize and potatoes
                              from the native shambas and then there is not enough food for the totos.
                              Dad and I are very proud of you for not making a fuss when you went to the
                              dentist to have that tooth out.

                              Bye bye, my fine little son.
                              Three bags full of love from Kate, Dad and Mummy.

                              Mchewe 12th February, 1938

                              Dearest Family,

                              here is some news that will please you. George has been offered and has
                              accepted a job as Forester at Mbulu in the Northern Province of Tanganyika. George
                              would have preferred a job as Game Ranger, but though the Game Warden, Philip
                              Teare, is most anxious to have him in the Game Department, there is no vacancy at
                              present. Anyway if one crops up later, George can always transfer from one
                              Government Department to another. Poor George, he hates the idea of taking a job. He
                              says that hitherto he has always been his own master and he detests the thought of
                              being pushed around by anyone.

                              Now however he has no choice. Our capitol is almost exhausted and the coffee
                              market shows no signs of improving. With three children and another on the way, he
                              feels he simply must have a fixed income. I shall be sad to leave this little farm. I love
                              our little home and we have been so very happy here, but my heart rejoices at the
                              thought of overseas leave every thirty months. Now we shall be able to fetch Ann and
                              George from England and in three years time we will all be together in Tanganyika once
                              more.

                              There is no sale for farms so we will just shut the house and keep on a very small
                              labour force just to keep the farm from going derelict. We are eating our hens but will
                              take our two dogs, Fanny and Paddy with us.

                              One thing I shall be glad to leave is that leopard. She still comes grunting around
                              at night but not as badly as she did before. I do not mind at all when George is here but
                              until George was accepted for this forestry job I was afraid he might go back to the
                              Diggings and I should once more be left alone to be cursed by the leopard’s attentions.
                              Knowing how much I dreaded this George was most anxious to shoot the leopard and
                              for weeks he kept his shotgun and a powerful torch handy at night.

                              One night last week we woke to hear it grunting near the kitchen. We got up very
                              quietly and whilst George loaded the shotgun with SSG, I took the torch and got the
                              heavy revolver from the cupboard. We crept out onto the dark verandah where George
                              whispered to me to not switch on the torch until he had located the leopard. It was pitch
                              black outside so all he could do was listen intently. And then of course I spoilt all his
                              plans. I trod on the dog’s tin bowl and made a terrific clatter! George ordered me to
                              switch on the light but it was too late and the leopard vanished into the long grass of the
                              Kalonga, grunting derisively, or so it sounded.

                              She never comes into the clearing now but grunts from the hillside just above it.

                              Eleanor.

                              Mbulu 18th March, 1938

                              Dearest Family,

                              Journeys end at last. here we are at Mbulu, installed in our new quarters which are
                              as different as they possibly could be from our own cosy little home at Mchewe. We
                              live now, my dears, in one wing of a sort of ‘Beau Geste’ fort but I’ll tell you more about
                              it in my next letter. We only arrived yesterday and have not had time to look around.
                              This letter will tell you just about our trip from Mbeya.

                              We left the farm in our little red Ford two seater with all our portable goods and
                              chattels plus two native servants and the two dogs. Before driving off, George took one
                              look at the flattened springs and declared that he would be surprised if we reached
                              Mbeya without a breakdown and that we would never make Mbulu with the car so
                              overloaded.

                              However luck was with us. We reached Mbeya without mishap and at one of the
                              local garages saw a sturdy used Ford V8 boxbody car for sale. The garage agreed to
                              take our small car as part payment and George drew on our little remaining capitol for the
                              rest. We spent that night in the house of the Forest Officer and next morning set out in
                              comfort for the Northern Province of Tanganyika.

                              I had done the journey from Dodoma to Mbeya seven years before so was
                              familiar with the scenery but the road was much improved and the old pole bridges had
                              been replaced by modern steel ones. Kate was as good as gold all the way. We
                              avoided hotels and camped by the road and she found this great fun.
                              The road beyond Dodoma was new to me and very interesting country, flat and
                              dry and dusty, as little rain falls there. The trees are mostly thorn trees but here and there
                              one sees a giant baobab, weird trees with fantastically thick trunks and fat squat branches
                              with meagre foliage. The inhabitants of this area I found interesting though. They are
                              called Wagogo and are a primitive people who ape the Masai in dress and customs
                              though they are much inferior to the Masai in physique. They are also great herders of
                              cattle which, rather surprisingly, appear to thrive in that dry area.

                              The scenery alters greatly as one nears Babati, which one approaches by a high
                              escarpment from which one has a wonderful view of the Rift Valley. Babati township
                              appears to be just a small group of Indian shops and shabby native houses, but I
                              believe there are some good farms in the area. Though the little township is squalid,
                              there is a beautiful lake and grand mountains to please the eye. We stopped only long
                              enough to fill up with petrol and buy some foodstuffs. Beyond Babati there is a tsetse
                              fly belt and George warned our two native servants to see that no tsetse flies settled on
                              the dogs.

                              We stopped for the night in a little rest house on the road about 80 miles from
                              Arusha where we were to spend a few days with the Forest Officer before going on to
                              Mbulu. I enjoyed this section of the road very much because it runs across wide plains
                              which are bounded on the West by the blue mountains of the Rift Valley wall. Here for
                              the first time I saw the Masai on their home ground guarding their vast herds of cattle. I
                              also saw their strange primitive hovels called Manyattas, with their thorn walled cattle
                              bomas and lots of plains game – giraffe, wildebeest, ostriches and antelope. Kate was
                              wildly excited and entranced with the game especially the giraffe which stood gazing
                              curiously and unafraid of us, often within a few yards of the road.

                              Finally we came across the greatest thrill of all, my first view of Mt Meru the extinct
                              volcano about 16,000 feet high which towers over Arusha township. The approach to
                              Arusha is through flourishing coffee plantations very different alas from our farm at Mchewe. George says that at Arusha coffee growing is still a paying proposition
                              because here the yield of berry per acre is much higher than in the Southern highlands
                              and here in the North the farmers have not such heavy transport costs as the railway runs
                              from Arusha to the port at Tanga.

                              We stayed overnight at a rather second rate hotel but the food was good and we
                              had hot baths and a good nights rest. Next day Tom Lewis the Forest Officer, fetched
                              us and we spent a few days camping in a tent in the Lewis’ garden having meals at their
                              home. Both Tom and Lillian Lewis were most friendly. Tom lewis explained to George
                              what his work in the Mbulu District was to be, and they took us camping in a Forest
                              Reserve where Lillian and her small son David and Kate and I had a lovely lazy time
                              amidst beautiful surroundings. Before we left for Mbulu, Lillian took me shopping to buy
                              material for curtains for our new home. She described the Forest House at Mbulu to me
                              and it sounded delightful but alas, when we reached Mbulu we discovered that the
                              Assistant District Officer had moved into the Forest House and we were directed to the
                              Fort or Boma. The night before we left Arusha for Mbulu it rained very heavily and the
                              road was very treacherous and slippery due to the surface being of ‘black cotton’ soil
                              which has the appearance and consistency of chocolate blancmange, after rain. To get to
                              Mbulu we had to drive back in the direction of Dodoma for some 70 miles and then turn
                              to the right and drive across plains to the Great Rift Valley Wall. The views from this
                              escarpment road which climbs this wall are magnificent. At one point one looks down
                              upon Lake Manyara with its brilliant white beaches of soda.

                              The drive was a most trying one for George. We had no chains for the wheels
                              and several times we stuck in the mud and our two houseboys had to put grass and
                              branches under the wheels to stop them from spinning. Quite early on in the afternoon
                              George gave up all hope of reaching Mbulu that day and planned to spend the night in
                              a little bush rest camp at Karatu. However at one point it looked as though we would not
                              even reach this resthouse for late afternoon found us properly bogged down in a mess
                              of mud at the bottom of a long and very steep hill. In spite of frantic efforts on the part of
                              George and the two boys, all now very wet and muddy, the heavy car remained stuck.
                              Suddenly five Masai men appeared through the bushes beside the road. They
                              were all tall and angular and rather terrifying looking to me. Each wore only a blanket
                              knotted over one shoulder and all were armed with spears. They lined up by the side of
                              the road and just looked – not hostile but simply aloof and supercilious. George greeted
                              them and said in Ki-Swahili, “Help to push and I will reward you.” But they said nothing,
                              just drawing back imperceptibly to register disgust at the mere idea of manual labour.
                              Their expressions said quite clearly “A Masai is a warrior and does not soil his hands.”
                              George then did something which startled them I think, as much as me. He
                              plucked their spears from their hands one by one and flung them into the back of the
                              boxbody. “Now push!” he said, “And when we are safely out of the mud you shall have
                              your spears back.” To my utter astonishment the Masai seemed to applaud George’s
                              action. I think they admire courage in a man more than anything else. They pushed with a
                              will and soon we were roaring up the long steep slope. “I can’t stop here” quoth George
                              as up and up we went. The Masai were in mad pursuit with their blankets streaming
                              behind. They took a very steep path which was a shortcut to the top. They are certainly
                              amazing athletes and reached the top at the same time as the car. Their route of course
                              was shorter but much more steep, yet they came up without any sign of fatigue to claim
                              their spears and the money which George handed out with a friendly grin. The Masai
                              took the whole episode in good heart and we parted on the most friendly terms.

                              After a rather chilly night in the three walled shack, we started on the last lap of our
                              journey yesterday morning in bright weather and made the trip to Mbulu without incident.

                              Eleanor.

                              Mbulu 24th March, 1938

                              Dearest Family,

                              Mbulu is an attractive station but living in this rather romantic looking fort has many
                              disadvantages. Our quarters make up one side of the fort which is built up around a
                              hollow square. The buildings are single storied but very tall in the German manner and
                              there is a tower on one corner from which the Union Jack flies. The tower room is our
                              sitting room, and one has very fine views from the windows of the rolling country side.
                              However to reach this room one has to climb a steep flight of cement steps from the
                              court yard. Another disadvantage of this tower room is that there is a swarm of bees in
                              the roof and the stray ones drift down through holes in the ceiling and buzz angrily
                              against the window panes or fly around in a most menacing manner.

                              Ours are the only private quarters in the Fort. Two other sides of the Fort are
                              used as offices, storerooms and court room and the fourth side is simply a thick wall with
                              battlements and loopholes and a huge iron shod double door of enormous thickness
                              which is always barred at sunset when the flag is hauled down. Two Police Askari always
                              remain in the Fort on guard at night. The effect from outside the whitewashed fort is very
                              romantic but inside it is hardly homely and how I miss my garden at Mchewe and the
                              grass and trees.

                              We have no privacy downstairs because our windows overlook the bare
                              courtyard which is filled with Africans patiently waiting to be admitted to the courtroom as
                              witnesses or spectators. The outside windows which overlook the valley are heavily
                              barred. I can only think that the Germans who built this fort must have been very scared
                              of the local natives.

                              Our rooms are hardly cosy and are furnished with typical heavy German pieces.
                              We have a vast bleak bedroom, a dining room and an enormous gloomy kitchen in
                              which meals for the German garrison were cooked. At night this kitchen is alive with
                              gigantic rats but fortunately they do not seem to care for the other rooms. To crown
                              everything owls hoot and screech at night on the roof.

                              On our first day here I wandered outside the fort walls with Kate and came upon a
                              neatly fenced plot enclosing the graves of about fifteen South African soldiers killed by
                              the Germans in the 1914-18 war. I understand that at least one of theses soldiers died in
                              the courtyard here. The story goes, that during the period in the Great War when this fort
                              was occupied by a troop of South African Horse, a German named Siedtendorf
                              appeared at the great barred door at night and asked to speak to the officer in command
                              of the Troop. The officer complied with this request and the small shutter in the door was
                              opened so that he could speak with the German. The German, however, had not come
                              to speak. When he saw the exposed face of the officer, he fired, killing him, and
                              escaped into the dark night. I had this tale on good authority but cannot vouch for it. I do
                              know though, that there are two bullet holes in the door beside the shutter. An unhappy
                              story to think about when George is away, as he is now, and the moonlight throws queer
                              shadows in the court yard and the owls hoot.

                              However though I find our quarters depressing, I like Mbulu itself very much. It is
                              rolling country, treeless except for the plantations of the Forestry Dept. The land is very
                              fertile in the watered valleys but the grass on hills and plains is cropped to the roots by
                              the far too numerous cattle and goats. There are very few Europeans on the station, only
                              Mr Duncan, the District Officer, whose wife and children recently left for England, the
                              Assistant District Officer and his wife, a bachelor Veterinary Officer, a Road Foreman and
                              ourselves, and down in the village a German with an American wife and an elderly
                              Irishman whom I have not met. The Government officials have a communal vegetable
                              garden in the valley below the fort which keeps us well supplied with green stuff. 

                              Most afternoons George, Kate and I go for walks after tea. On Fridays there is a
                              little ceremony here outside the fort. In the late afternoon a little procession of small
                              native schoolboys, headed by a drum and penny whistle band come marching up the
                              road to a tune which sounds like ‘Two lovely black eyes”. They form up below our tower
                              and as the flag is lowered for the day they play ‘God save the King’, and then march off
                              again. It is quite a cheerful little ceremony.

                              The local Africans are a skinny lot and, I should say, a poor tribe. They protect
                              themselves against the cold by wrapping themselves in cotton blankets or a strip of
                              unbleached sheeting. This they drape over their heads, almost covering their faces and
                              the rest is wrapped closely round their bodies in the manner of a shroud. A most
                              depressing fashion. They live in very primitive comfortless houses. They simply make a
                              hollow in the hillside and build a front wall of wattle and daub. Into this rude shelter at night
                              go cattle and goats, men, women, and children.

                              Mbulu village has the usual mud brick and wattle dukas and wattle and daub
                              houses. The chief trader is a Goan who keeps a surprisingly good variety of tinned
                              foodstuffs and also sells hardware and soft goods.

                              The Europeans here have been friendly but as you will have noted there are
                              only two other women on station and no children at all to be companions for Kate.

                              Eleanor.

                              Mbulu 20th June 1938

                              Dearest Family,

                              Here we are on Safari with George at Babati where we are occupying a rest
                              house on the slopes of Ufiome Mountain. The slopes are a Forest Reserve and
                              George is supervising the clearing of firebreaks in preparation for the dry weather. He
                              goes off after a very early breakfast and returns home in the late afternoon so Kate and I
                              have long lazy days.

                              Babati is a pleasant spot and the resthouse is quite comfortable. It is about a mile
                              from the village which is just the usual collection of small mud brick and corrugated iron
                              Indian Dukas. There are a few settlers in the area growing coffee, or going in for mixed
                              farming but I don’t think they are doing very well. The farm adjoining the rest house is
                              owned by Lord Lovelace but is run by a manager.

                              George says he gets enough exercise clambering about all day on the mountain,
                              so Kate and I do our walking in the mornings when George is busy, and we all relax in
                              the evenings when George returns from his field work. Kate’s favourite walk is to the big
                              block of mtama (sorghum) shambas lower down the hill. There are huge swarms of tiny
                              grain eating birds around waiting the chance to plunder the mtama, so the crops are
                              watched from sunrise to sunset.

                              Crude observation platforms have been erected for this purpose in the centre of
                              each field and the women and the young boys of the family concerned, take it in turn to
                              occupy the platform and scare the birds. Each watcher has a sling and uses clods of
                              earth for ammunition. The clod is placed in the centre of the sling which is then whirled
                              around at arms length. Suddenly one end of the sling is released and the clod of earth
                              flies out and shatters against the mtama stalks. The sling makes a loud whip like crack and
                              the noise is quite startling and very effective in keeping the birds at a safe distance.

                              Eleanor.

                              Karatu 3rd July 1938

                              Dearest Family,

                              Still on safari you see! We left Babati ten days ago and passed through Mbulu
                              on our way to this spot. We slept out of doors one night beside Lake Tiawa about eight
                              miles from Mbulu. It was a peaceful spot and we enjoyed watching the reflection of the
                              sunset on the lake and the waterhens and duck and pelicans settling down for the night.
                              However it turned piercingly cold after sunset so we had an early supper and then all
                              three of us lay down to sleep in the back of the boxbody (station wagon). It was a tight
                              fit and a real case of ‘When Dad turns, we all turn.’

                              Here at Karatu we are living in a grass hut with only three walls. It is rather sweet
                              and looks like the setting for a Nativity Play. Kate and I share the only camp bed and
                              George and the dogs sleep on the floor. The air here is very fresh and exhilarating and
                              we all feel very fit. George is occupied all day supervising the cutting of firebreaks
                              around existing plantations and the forest reserve of indigenous trees. Our camp is on
                              the hillside and below us lie the fertile wheat lands of European farmers.

                              They are mostly Afrikaners, the descendants of the Boer families who were
                              invited by the Germans to settle here after the Boer War. Most of them are pro-British
                              now and a few have called in here to chat to George about big game hunting. George
                              gets on extremely well with them and recently attended a wedding where he had a
                              lively time dancing at the reception. He likes the older people best as most are great
                              individualists. One fine old man, surnamed von Rooyen, visited our camp. He is a Boer
                              of the General Smuts type with spare figure and bearded face. George tells me he is a
                              real patriarch with an enormous family – mainly sons. This old farmer fought against the
                              British throughout the Boer War under General Smuts and again against the British in the
                              German East Africa campaign when he was a scout and right hand man to Von Lettow. It
                              is said that Von Lettow was able to stay in the field until the end of the Great War
                              because he listened to the advise given to him by von Rooyen. However his dislike for
                              the British does not extend to George as they have a mutual interest in big game
                              hunting.

                              Kate loves being on safari. She is now so accustomed to having me as her nurse
                              and constant companion that I do not know how she will react to paid help. I shall have to
                              get someone to look after her during my confinement in the little German Red Cross
                              hospital at Oldeani.

                              George has obtained permission from the District Commissioner, for Kate and
                              me to occupy the Government Rest House at Oldeani from the end of July until the end
                              of August when my baby is due. He will have to carry on with his field work but will join
                              us at weekends whenever possible.

                              Eleanor.

                              Karatu 12th July 1938

                              Dearest Family,

                              Not long now before we leave this camp. We have greatly enjoyed our stay
                              here in spite of the very chilly earl mornings and the nights when we sit around in heavy
                              overcoats until our early bed time.

                              Last Sunday I persuaded George to take Kate and me to the famous Ngoro-
                              Ngoro Crater. He was not very keen to do so because the road is very bumpy for
                              anyone in my interesting condition but I feel so fit that I was most anxious to take this
                              opportunity of seeing the enormous crater. We may never be in this vicinity again and in
                              any case safari will not be so simple with a small baby.

                              What a wonderful trip it was! The road winds up a steep escarpment from which
                              one gets a glorious birds eye view of the plains of the Great Rift Valley far, far below.
                              The crater is immense. There is a road which skirts the rim in places and one has quite
                              startling views of the floor of the crater about two thousand feet below.

                              A camp for tourists has just been built in a clearing in the virgin forest. It is most
                              picturesque as the camp buildings are very neatly constructed log cabins with very high
                              pitched thatched roofs. We spent about an hour sitting on the grass near the edge of the
                              crater enjoying the sunshine and the sharp air and really awe inspiring view. Far below us
                              in the middle of the crater was a small lake and we could see large herds of game
                              animals grazing there but they were too far away to be impressive, even seen through
                              George’s field glasses. Most appeared to be wildebeest and zebra but I also picked
                              out buffalo. Much more exciting was my first close view of a wild elephant. George
                              pointed him out to me as we approached the rest camp on the inward journey. He
                              stood quietly under a tree near the road and did not seem to be disturbed by the car
                              though he rolled a wary eye in our direction. On our return journey we saw him again at
                              almost uncomfortably close quarters. We rounded a sharp corner and there stood the
                              elephant, facing us and slap in the middle of the road. He was busily engaged giving
                              himself a dust bath but spared time to give us an irritable look. Fortunately we were on a
                              slight slope so George quickly switched off the engine and backed the car quietly round
                              the corner. He got out of the car and loaded his rifle, just in case! But after he had finished
                              his toilet the elephant moved off the road and we took our chance and passed without
                              incident.

                              One notices the steepness of the Ngoro-Ngoro road more on the downward
                              journey than on the way up. The road is cut into the side of the mountain so that one has
                              a steep slope on one hand and a sheer drop on the other. George told me that a lorry
                              coming down the mountain was once charged from behind by a rhino. On feeling and
                              hearing the bash from behind the panic stricken driver drove off down the mountain as
                              fast as he dared and never paused until he reached level ground at the bottom of the
                              mountain. There was no sign of the rhino so the driver got out to examine his lorry and
                              found the rhino horn embedded in the wooden tail end of the lorry. The horn had been
                              wrenched right off!

                              Happily no excitement of that kind happened to us. I have yet to see a rhino.

                              Eleanor.

                              Oldeani. 19th July 1938

                              Dearest Family,

                              Greetings from a lady in waiting! Kate and I have settled down comfortably in the
                              new, solidly built Government Rest House which comprises one large living room and
                              one large office with a connecting door. Outside there is a kitchen and a boys quarter.
                              There are no resident Government officials here at Oldeani so the office is in use only
                              when the District Officer from Mbulu makes his monthly visit. However a large Union
                              Jack flies from a flagpole in the front of the building as a gentle reminder to the entirely
                              German population of Oldeani that Tanganyika is now under British rule.

                              There is quite a large community of German settlers here, most of whom are
                              engaged in coffee farming. George has visited several of the farms in connection with his
                              forestry work and says the coffee plantations look very promising indeed. There are also
                              a few German traders in the village and there is a large boarding school for German
                              children and also a very pleasant little hospital where I have arranged to have the baby.
                              Right next door to the Rest House is a General Dealers Store run by a couple named
                              Schnabbe. The shop is stocked with drapery, hardware, china and foodstuffs all
                              imported from Germany and of very good quality. The Schnabbes also sell local farm
                              produce, beautiful fresh vegetables, eggs and pure rich milk and farm butter. Our meat
                              comes from a German butchery and it is a great treat to get clean, well cut meat. The
                              sausages also are marvellous and in great variety.

                              The butcher is an entertaining character. When he called round looking for custom I
                              expected him to break out in a yodel any minute, as it was obvious from a glance that
                              the Alps are his natural background. From under a green Tyrollean hat with feather,
                              blooms a round beefy face with sparkling small eyes and such widely spaced teeth that
                              one inevitably thinks of a garden rake. Enormous beefy thighs bulge from greasy
                              lederhosen which are supported by the traditional embroidered braces. So far the
                              butcher is the only cheery German, male or female, whom I have seen, and I have met
                              most of the locals at the Schnabbe’s shop. Most of the men seem to have cultivated
                              the grim Hitler look. They are all fanatical Nazis and one is usually greeted by a raised
                              hand and Heil Hitler! All very theatrical. I always feel like crying in ringing tones ‘God
                              Save the King’ or even ‘St George for England’. However the men are all very correct
                              and courteous and the women friendly. The women all admire Kate and cry, “Ag, das
                              kleine Englander.” She really is a picture with her rosy cheeks and huge grey eyes and
                              golden curls. Kate is having a wonderful time playing with Manfried, the Scnabbe’s small
                              son. Neither understands a word said by the other but that doesn’t seem to worry them.

                              Before he left on safari, George took me to hospital for an examination by the
                              nurse, Sister Marianne. She has not been long in the country and knows very little
                              English but is determined to learn and carried on an animated, if rather quaint,
                              conversation with frequent references to a pocket dictionary. She says I am not to worry
                              because there is not doctor here. She is a very experienced midwife and anyway in an
                              emergency could call on the old retired Veterinary Surgeon for assistance.
                              I asked sister Marianne whether she knew of any German woman or girl who
                              would look after Kate whilst I am in hospital and today a very top drawer German,
                              bearing a strong likeness to ‘Little Willie’, called and offered the services of his niece who
                              is here on a visit from Germany. I was rather taken aback and said, “Oh no Baron, your
                              niece would not be the type I had in mind. I’m afraid I cannot pay much for a companion.”
                              However the Baron was not to be discouraged. He told me that his niece is seventeen
                              but looks twenty, that she is well educated and will make a cheerful companion. Her
                              father wishes her to learn to speak English fluently and that is why the Baron wished her
                              to come to me as a house daughter. As to pay, a couple of pounds a month for pocket
                              money and her keep was all he had in mind. So with some misgivings I agreed to take
                              the niece on as a companion as from 1st August.

                              Eleanor.

                              Oldeani. 10th August 1938

                              Dearest Family,

                              Never a dull moment since my young companion arrived. She is a striking looking
                              girl with a tall boyish figure and very short and very fine dark hair which she wears
                              severely slicked back. She wears tweeds, no make up but has shiny rosy cheeks and
                              perfect teeth – she also,inevitably, has a man friend and I have an uncomfortable
                              suspicion that it is because of him that she was planted upon me. Upon second
                              thoughts though, maybe it was because of her excessive vitality, or even because of
                              her healthy appetite! The Baroness, I hear is in poor health and I can imagine that such
                              abundant health and spirit must have been quite overpowering. The name is Ingeborg,
                              but she is called Mouche, which I believe means Mouse. Someone in her family must
                              have a sense of humour.

                              Her English only needed practice and she now chatters fluently so that I know her
                              background and views on life. Mouche’s father is a personal friend of Goering. He was
                              once a big noise in the German Airforce but is now connected with the car industry and
                              travels frequently and intensively in Europe and America on business. Mouche showed
                              me some snap shots of her family and I must say they look prosperous and charming.
                              Mouche tells me that her father wants her to learn to speak English fluently so that
                              she can get a job with some British diplomat in Cairo. I had immediate thought that I
                              might be nursing a future Mata Hari in my bosom, but this was immediately extinguished
                              when Mouche remarked that her father would like her to marry an Englishman. However
                              it seems that the mere idea revolts her. “Englishmen are degenerates who swill whisky
                              all day.” I pointed out that she had met George, who was a true blue Englishman, but
                              was nevertheless a fine physical specimen and certainly didn’t drink all day. Mouche
                              replied that George is not an Englishman but a hunter, as though that set him apart.
                              Mouche is an ardent Hitler fan and an enthusiastic member of the Hitler Youth
                              Movement. The house resounds with Hitler youth songs and when she is not singing,
                              her gramophone is playing very stirring marching songs. I cannot understand a word,
                              which is perhaps as well. Every day she does the most strenuous exercises watched
                              with envy by me as my proportions are now those of a circus Big Top. Mouche eats a
                              fantastic amount of meat and I feel it is a blessing that she is much admired by our
                              Tyrollean butcher who now delivers our meat in person and adds as a token of his
                              admiration some extra sausages for Mouche.

                              I must confess I find her stimulating company as George is on safari most of the
                              time and my evenings otherwise would be lonely. I am a little worried though about
                              leaving Kate here with Mouche when I go to hospital. The dogs and Kate have not taken
                              to her. I am trying to prepare Kate for the separation but she says, “She’s not my
                              mummy. You are my dear mummy, and I want you, I want you.” George has got
                              permission from the Provincial Forestry Officer to spend the last week of August here at
                              the Rest House with me and I only hope that the baby will be born during that time.
                              Kate adores her dad and will be perfectly happy to remain here with him.

                              One final paragraph about Mouche. I thought all German girls were domesticated
                              but not Mouche. I have Kesho-Kutwa here with me as cook and I have engaged a local
                              boy to do the laundry. I however expected Mouche would take over making the
                              puddings and pastry but she informed me that she can only bake a chocolate cake and
                              absolutely nothing else. She said brightly however that she would do the mending. As
                              there is none for her to do, she has rescued a large worn handkerchief of George’s and
                              sits with her feet up listening to stirring gramophone records whilst she mends the
                              handkerchief with exquisite darning.

                              Eleanor.

                              Oldeani. 20th August 1938

                              Dearest Family,

                              Just after I had posted my last letter I received what George calls a demi official
                              letter from the District Officer informing me that I would have to move out of the Rest
                              House for a few days as the Governor and his hangers on would be visiting Oldeani
                              and would require the Rest House. Fortunately George happened to be here for a few
                              hours and he arranged for Kate and Mouche and me to spend a few days at the
                              German School as borders. So here I am at the school having a pleasant and restful
                              time and much entertained by all the goings on.

                              The school buildings were built with funds from Germany and the school is run on
                              the lines of a contemporary German school. I think the school gets a grant from the
                              Tanganyika Government towards running expenses, but I am not sure. The school hall is
                              dominated by a more than life sized oil painting of Adolf Hitler which, at present, is
                              flanked on one side by the German Flag and on the other by the Union Jack. I cannot
                              help feeling that the latter was put up today for the Governor’s visit today.
                              The teachers are very amiable. We all meet at mealtimes, and though few of the
                              teachers speak English, the ones who do are anxious to chatter. The headmaster is a
                              scholarly man but obviously anti-British. He says he cannot understand why so many
                              South Africans are loyal to Britain – or rather to England. “They conquered your country
                              didn’t they?” I said that that had never occurred to me and that anyway I was mainly of
                              Scots descent and that loyalty to the crown was natural to me. “But the English
                              conquered the Scots and yet you are loyal to England. That I cannot understand.” “Well I
                              love England,” said I firmly, ”and so do all British South Africans.” Since then we have
                              stuck to English literature. Shakespeare, Lord Byron and Galsworthy seem to be the
                              favourites and all, thank goodness, make safe topics for conversation.
                              Mouche is in her element but Kate and I do not enjoy the food which is typically
                              German and consists largely of masses of fat pork and sauerkraut and unfamiliar soups. I
                              feel sure that the soup at lunch today had blobs of lemon curd in it! I also find most
                              disconcerting the way that everyone looks at me and says, “Bon appetite”, with much
                              smiling and nodding so I have to fight down my nausea and make a show of enjoying
                              the meals.

                              The teacher whose room adjoins mine is a pleasant woman and I take my
                              afternoon tea with her. She, like all the teachers, has a large framed photo of Hitler on her
                              wall flanked by bracket vases of fresh flowers. One simply can’t get away from the man!
                              Even in the dormitories each child has a picture of Hitler above the bed. Hitler accepting
                              flowers from a small girl, or patting a small boy on the head. Even the children use the
                              greeting ‘Heil Hitler’. These German children seem unnaturally prim when compared with
                              my cheerful ex-pupils in South Africa but some of them are certainly very lovely to look
                              at.

                              Tomorrow Mouche, Kate and I return to our quarters in the Rest House and in a
                              few days George will join us for a week.

                              Eleanor.

                              Oldeani Hospital. 9th September 1938

                              Dearest Family,

                              You will all be delighted to hear that we have a second son, whom we have
                              named John. He is a darling, so quaint and good. He looks just like a little old man with a
                              high bald forehead fringed around the edges with a light brown fluff. George and I call
                              him Johnny Jo because he has a tiny round mouth and a rather big nose and reminds us
                              of A.A.Milne’s ‘Jonathan Jo has a mouth like an O’ , but Kate calls him, ‘My brother John’.
                              George was not here when he was born on September 5th, just two minutes
                              before midnight. He left on safari on the morning of the 4th and, of course, that very night
                              the labour pains started. Fortunately Kate was in bed asleep so Mouche walked with
                              me up the hill to the hospital where I was cheerfully received by Sister Marianne who
                              had everything ready for the confinement. I was lucky to have such an experienced
                              midwife because this was a breech birth and sister had to manage single handed. As
                              there was no doctor present I was not allowed even a sniff of anaesthetic. Sister slaved
                              away by the light of a pressure lamp endeavouring to turn the baby having first shoved
                              an inverted baby bath under my hips to raise them.

                              What a performance! Sister Marianne was very much afraid that she might not be
                              able to save the baby and great was our relief when at last she managed to haul him out
                              by the feet. One slap and the baby began to cry without any further attention so Sister
                              wrapped him up in a blanket and took Johnny to her room for the night. I got very little
                              sleep but was so thankful to have the ordeal over that I did not mind even though I
                              heard a hyaena cackling and calling under my window in a most evil way.
                              When Sister brought Johnny to me in the early morning I stared in astonishment.
                              Instead of dressing him in one of his soft Viyella nighties, she had dressed him in a short
                              sleeved vest of knitted cotton with a cotton cloth swayed around his waist sarong
                              fashion. When I protested, “But Sister why is the baby not dressed in his own clothes?”
                              She answered firmly, “I find it is not allowed. A baby’s clotheses must be boiled and I
                              cannot boil clotheses of wool therefore your baby must wear the clotheses of the Red
                              Cross.”

                              It was the same with the bedding. Poor Johnny lies all day in a deep wicker
                              basket with a detachable calico lining. There is no pillow under his head but a vast kind of
                              calico covered pillow is his only covering. There is nothing at all cosy and soft round my
                              poor baby. I said crossly to the Sister, “As every thing must be so sterile, I wonder you
                              don’t boil me too.” This she ignored.

                              When my message reached George he dashed back to visit us. Sister took him
                              first to see the baby and George was astonished to see the baby basket covered by a
                              sheet. “She has the poor little kid covered up like a bloody parrot,” he told me. So I
                              asked him to go at once to buy a square of mosquito netting to replace the sheet.
                              Kate is quite a problem. She behaves like an Angel when she is here in my
                              room but is rebellious when Sister shoos her out. She says she “Hates the Nanny”
                              which is what she calls Mouche. Unfortunately it seems that she woke before midnight
                              on the night Johnny Jo was born to find me gone and Mouche in my bed. According to
                              Mouche, Kate wept all night and certainly when she visited me in the early morning
                              Kate’s face was puffy with crying and she clung to me crying “Oh my dear mummy, why
                              did you go away?” over and over again. Sister Marianne was touched and suggested
                              that Mouche and Kate should come to the hospital as boarders as I am the only patient
                              at present and there is plenty of room. Luckily Kate does not seem at all jealous of the
                              baby and it is a great relief to have here here under my eye.

                              Eleanor.

                              #6263
                              TracyTracy
                              Participant

                                From Tanganyika with Love

                                continued  ~ part 4

                                With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                                Mchewe Estate. 31st January 1936

                                Dearest Family,

                                Life is very quiet just now. Our neighbours have left and I miss them all especially
                                Joni who was always a great bearer of news. We also grew fond of his Swedish
                                brother-in-law Max, whose loud ‘Hodi’ always brought a glad ‘Karibu’ from us. His wife,
                                Marion, I saw less often. She is not strong and seldom went visiting but has always
                                been friendly and kind and ready to share her books with me.

                                Ann’s birthday is looming ahead and I am getting dreadfully anxious that her
                                parcels do not arrive in time. I am delighted that you were able to get a good head for
                                her doll, dad, but horrified to hear that it was so expensive. You would love your
                                ‘Charming Ann’. She is a most responsible little soul and seems to have outgrown her
                                mischievous ways. A pity in a way, I don’t want her to grow too serious. You should see
                                how thoroughly Ann baths and towels herself. She is anxious to do Georgie and Kate
                                as well.

                                I did not mean to teach Ann to write until after her fifth birthday but she has taught
                                herself by copying the large print in newspaper headlines. She would draw a letter and
                                ask me the name and now I find that at four Ann knows the whole alphabet. The front
                                cement steps is her favourite writing spot. She uses bits of white clay we use here for
                                whitewashing.

                                Coffee prices are still very low and a lot of planters here and at Mbosi are in a
                                mess as they can no longer raise mortgages on their farms or get advances from the
                                Bank against their crops. We hear many are leaving their farms to try their luck on the
                                Diggings.

                                George is getting fed up too. The snails are back on the shamba and doing
                                frightful damage. Talk of the plagues of Egypt! Once more they are being collected in
                                piles and bashed into pulp. The stench on the shamba is frightful! The greybeards in the
                                village tell George that the local Chief has put a curse on the farm because he is angry
                                that the Government granted George a small extension to the farm two years ago! As
                                the Chief was consulted at the time and was agreeable this talk of a curse is nonsense
                                but goes to show how the uneducated African put all disasters down to witchcraft.

                                With much love,
                                Eleanor.

                                Mchewe Estate. 9th February 1936

                                Dearest Family,

                                Ann’s birthday yesterday was not quite the gay occasion we had hoped. The
                                seventh was mail day so we sent a runner for the mail, hoping against hope that your
                                parcel containing the dolls head had arrived. The runner left for Mbeya at dawn but, as it
                                was a very wet day, he did not return with the mail bag until after dark by which time Ann
                                was fast asleep. My heart sank when I saw the parcel which contained the dolls new
                                head. It was squashed quite flat. I shed a few tears over that shattered head, broken
                                quite beyond repair, and George felt as bad about it as I did. The other parcel arrived in
                                good shape and Ann loves her little sewing set, especially the thimble, and the nursery
                                rhymes are a great success.

                                Ann woke early yesterday and began to open her parcels. She said “But
                                Mummy, didn’t Barbara’s new head come?” So I had to show her the fragments.
                                Instead of shedding the flood of tears I expected, Ann just lifted the glass eyes in her
                                hand and said in a tight little voice “Oh poor Barbara.” George saved the situation. as
                                usual, by saying in a normal voice,”Come on Ann, get up and lets play your new
                                records.” So we had music and sweets before breakfast. Later I removed Barbara’s
                                faded old blond wig and gummed on the glossy new brown one and Ann seems quite
                                satisfied.

                                Last night, after the children were tucked up in bed, we discussed our financial
                                situation. The coffee trees that have survived the plagues of borer beetle, mealie bugs
                                and snails look strong and fine, but George says it will be years before we make a living
                                out of the farm. He says he will simply have to make some money and he is leaving for
                                the Lupa on Saturday to have a look around on the Diggings. If he does decide to peg
                                a claim and work it he will put up a wattle and daub hut and the children and I will join him
                                there. But until such time as he strikes gold I shall have to remain here on the farm and
                                ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’.

                                Now don’t go and waste pity on me. Women all over the country are having to
                                stay at home whilst their husbands search for a livelihood. I am better off than most
                                because I have a comfortable little home and loyal servants and we still have enough
                                capitol to keep the wolf from the door. Anyway this is the rainy season and hardly the
                                best time to drag three small children around the sodden countryside on prospecting
                                safaris.

                                So I’ll stay here at home and hold thumbs that George makes a lucky strike.

                                Heaps of love to all,
                                Eleanor.

                                Mchewe Estate. 27th February 1936

                                Dearest Family,

                                Well, George has gone but here we are quite safe and cosy. Kate is asleep and
                                Ann and Georgie are sprawled on the couch taking it in turns to enumerate the things
                                God has made. Every now and again Ann bothers me with an awkward question. “Did
                                God make spiders? Well what for? Did he make weeds? Isn’t He silly, mummy? She is
                                becoming a very practical person. She sews surprisingly well for a four year old and has
                                twice made cakes in the past week, very sweet and liberally coloured with cochineal and
                                much appreciated by Georgie.

                                I have been without George for a fortnight and have adapted myself to my new
                                life. The children are great company during the day and I have arranged my evenings so
                                that they do not seem long. I am determined that when George comes home he will find
                                a transformed wife. I read an article entitled ‘Are you the girl he married?’ in a magazine
                                last week and took a good look in the mirror and decided that I certainly was not! Hair dry,
                                skin dry, and I fear, a faint shadow on the upper lip. So now I have blown the whole of
                                your Christmas Money Order on an order to a chemist in Dar es Salaam for hair tonic,
                                face cream and hair remover and am anxiously awaiting the parcel.

                                In the meantime, after tucking the children into bed at night, I skip on the verandah
                                and do the series of exercises recommended in the magazine article. After this exertion I
                                have a leisurely bath followed by a light supper and then read or write letters to pass
                                the time until Kate’s ten o’clock feed. I have arranged for Janey to sleep in the house.
                                She comes in at 9.30 pm and makes up her bed on the living room floor by the fire.

                                The days are by no means uneventful. The day before yesterday the biggest
                                troop of monkeys I have ever seen came fooling around in the trees and on the grass
                                only a few yards from the house. These monkeys were the common grey monkeys
                                with black faces. They came in all sizes and were most entertaining to watch. Ann and
                                Georgie had a great time copying their antics and pulling faces at the monkeys through
                                the bedroom windows which I hastily closed.

                                Thomas, our headman, came running up and told me that this troop of monkeys
                                had just raided his maize shamba and asked me to shoot some of them. I would not of
                                course do this. I still cannot bear to kill any animal, but I fired a couple of shots in the air
                                and the monkeys just melted away. It was fantastic, one moment they were there and
                                the next they were not. Ann and Georgie thought I had been very unkind to frighten the
                                poor monkeys but honestly, when I saw what they had done to my flower garden, I
                                almost wished I had hardened my heart and shot one or two.

                                The children are all well but Ann gave me a nasty fright last week. I left Ann and
                                Georgie at breakfast whilst I fed Fanny, our bull terrier on the back verandah. Suddenly I
                                heard a crash and rushed inside to find Ann’s chair lying on its back and Ann beside it on
                                the floor perfectly still and with a paper white face. I shouted for Janey to bring water and
                                laid Ann flat on the couch and bathed her head and hands. Soon she sat up with a wan
                                smile and said “I nearly knocked my head off that time, didn’t I.” She must have been
                                standing on the chair and leaning against the back. Our brick floors are so terribly hard that
                                she might have been seriously hurt.

                                However she was none the worse for the fall, but Heavens, what an anxiety kids
                                are.

                                Lots of love,
                                Eleanor

                                Mchewe Estate. 12th March 1936

                                Dearest Family,

                                It was marvellous of you to send another money order to replace the one I spent
                                on cosmetics. With this one I intend to order boots for both children as a protection from
                                snake bite, though from my experience this past week the threat seems to be to the
                                head rather than the feet. I was sitting on the couch giving Kate her morning milk from a
                                cup when a long thin snake fell through the reed ceiling and landed with a thud just behind
                                the couch. I shouted “Nyoka, Nyoka!” (Snake,Snake!) and the houseboy rushed in with
                                a stick and killed the snake. I then held the cup to Kate’s mouth again but I suppose in
                                my agitation I tipped it too much because the baby choked badly. She gasped for
                                breath. I quickly gave her a sharp smack on the back and a stream of milk gushed
                                through her mouth and nostrils and over me. Janey took Kate from me and carried her
                                out into the fresh air on the verandah and as I anxiously followed her through the door,
                                another long snake fell from the top of the wall just missing me by an inch or so. Luckily
                                the houseboy still had the stick handy and dispatched this snake also.

                                The snakes were a pair of ‘boomslangs’, not nice at all, and all day long I have
                                had shamba boys coming along to touch hands and say “Poli Memsahib” – “Sorry
                                madam”, meaning of course ‘Sorry you had a fright.’

                                Apart from that one hectic morning this has been a quiet week. Before George
                                left for the Lupa he paid off most of the farm hands as we can now only afford a few
                                labourers for the essential work such as keeping the weeds down in the coffee shamba.
                                There is now no one to keep the grass on the farm roads cut so we cannot use the pram
                                when we go on our afternoon walks. Instead Janey carries Kate in a sling on her back.
                                Janey is a very clean slim woman, and her clothes are always spotless, so Kate keeps
                                cool and comfortable. Ann and Georgie always wear thick overalls on our walks as a
                                protection against thorns and possible snakes. We usually make our way to the
                                Mchewe River where Ann and Georgie paddle in the clear cold water and collect shiny
                                stones.

                                The cosmetics parcel duly arrived by post from Dar es Salaam so now I fill the
                                evenings between supper and bed time attending to my face! The much advertised
                                cream is pink and thick and feels revolting. I smooth it on before bedtime and keep it on
                                all night. Just imagine if George could see me! The advertisements promise me a skin
                                like a rose in six weeks. What a surprise there is in store for George!

                                You will have been wondering what has happened to George. Well on the Lupa
                                he heard rumours of a new gold strike somewhere in the Sumbawanga District. A couple
                                of hundred miles from here I think, though I am not sure where it is and have no one to
                                ask. You look it up on the map and tell me. John Molteno is also interested in this and
                                anxious to have it confirmed so he and George have come to an agreement. John
                                Molteno provided the porters for the journey together with prospecting tools and
                                supplies but as he cannot leave his claims, or his gold buying business, George is to go
                                on foot to the area of the rumoured gold strike and, if the strike looks promising will peg
                                claims in both their names.

                                The rainy season is now at its height and the whole countryside is under water. All
                                roads leading to the area are closed to traffic and, as there are few Europeans who
                                would attempt the journey on foot, George proposes to get a head start on them by
                                making this uncomfortable safari. I have just had my first letter from George since he left
                                on this prospecting trip. It took ages to reach me because it was sent by runner to
                                Abercorn in Northern Rhodesia, then on by lorry to Mpika where it was put on a plane
                                for Mbeya. George writes the most charming letters which console me a little upon our
                                all too frequent separations.

                                His letter was cheerful and optimistic, though reading between the lines I should
                                say he had a grim time. He has reached Sumbawanga after ‘a hell of a trip’, to find that
                                the rumoured strike was at Mpanda and he had a few more days of foot safari ahead.
                                He had found the trip from the Lupa even wetter than he had expected. The party had
                                three days of wading through swamps sometimes waist deep in water. Of his sixteen
                                porters, four deserted an the second day out and five others have had malaria and so
                                been unable to carry their loads. He himself is ‘thin but very fit’, and he sounds full of
                                beans and writes gaily of the marvellous holiday we will have if he has any decent luck! I
                                simply must get that mink and diamonds complexion.

                                The frustrating thing is that I cannot write back as I have no idea where George is
                                now.

                                With heaps of love,
                                Eleanor.

                                Mchewe Estate. 24th March 1936

                                Dearest Family,
                                How kind you are. Another parcel from home. Although we are very short
                                of labourers I sent a special runner to fetch it as Ann simply couldn’t bear the suspense
                                of waiting to see Brenda, “My new little girl with plaits.” Thank goodness Brenda is
                                unbreakable. I could not have born another tragedy. She really is an exquisite little doll
                                and has hardly been out of Ann’s arms since arrival. She showed Brenda proudly to all
                                the staff. The kitchen boy’s face was a study. His eyes fairly came out on sticks when he
                                saw the dolls eyes not only opening and shutting, but moving from side to side in that
                                incredibly lifelike way. Georgie loves his little model cars which he carries around all day
                                and puts under his pillow at night.

                                As for me, I am enchanted by my very smart new frock. Janey was so lavish with
                                her compliments when I tried the frock on, that in a burst of generosity I gave her that
                                rather tartish satin and lace trousseau nighty, and she was positively enthralled. She
                                wore it that very night when she appeared as usual to doss down by the fire.
                                By the way it was Janey’s turn to have a fright this week. She was in the
                                bathroom washing the children’s clothes in an outsize hand basin when it happened. As
                                she took Georgie’s overalls from the laundry basket a large centipede ran up her bare
                                arm. Luckily she managed to knock the centipede off into the hot water in the hand basin.
                                It was a brute, about six inches long of viciousness with a nasty sting. The locals say that
                                the bite is much worse than a scorpions so Janey had a lucky escape.

                                Kate cut her first two teeth yesterday and will, I hope, sleep better now. I don’t
                                feel that pink skin food is getting a fair trial with all those broken nights. There is certainly
                                no sign yet of ‘The skin he loves to touch”. Kate, I may say, is rosy and blooming. She
                                can pull herself upright providing she has something solid to hold on to. She is so plump
                                I have horrible visions of future bow legs so I push her down, but she always bobs up
                                again.

                                Both Ann and Georgie are mad on books. Their favourites are ‘Barbar and
                                Celeste” and, of all things, ‘Struvel Peter’ . They listen with absolute relish to the sad tale
                                of Harriet who played with matches.

                                I have kept a laugh for the end. I am hoping that it will not be long before George
                                comes home and thought it was time to take the next step towards glamour, so last
                                Wednesday after lunch I settled the children on their beds and prepared to remove the ,
                                to me, obvious down on my upper lip. (George always loyally says that he can’t see
                                any.) Well I got out the tube of stuff and carefully followed the directions. I smoothed a
                                coating on my upper lip. All this was watched with great interest by the children, including
                                the baby, who stood up in her cot for a better view. Having no watch, I had propped
                                the bedroom door open so that I could time the operation by the cuckoo clock in the
                                living room. All the children’s surprised comments fell on deaf ears. I would neither talk
                                nor smile for fear of cracking the hair remover which had set hard. The set time was up
                                and I was just about to rinse the remover off when Kate slipped, knocking her head on
                                the corner of the cot. I rushed to the rescue and precious seconds ticked off whilst I
                                pacified her.

                                So, my dears, when I rinsed my lip, not only the plaster and the hair came away
                                but the skin as well and now I really did have a Ronald Coleman moustache – a crimson
                                one. I bathed it, I creamed it, powdered it but all to no avail. Within half an hour my lip
                                had swollen until I looked like one of those Duckbilled West African women. Ann’s
                                comments, “Oh Mummy, you do look funny. Georgie, doesn’t Mummy look funny?”
                                didn’t help to soothe me and the last straw was that just then there was the sound of a car drawing up outside – the first car I had heard for months. Anyway, thank heaven, it
                                was not George, but the representative of a firm which sells agricultural machinery and
                                farm implements, looking for orders. He had come from Dar es Salaam and had not
                                heard that all the planters from this district had left their farms. Hospitality demanded that I
                                should appear and offer tea. I did not mind this man because he was a complete
                                stranger and fat, middle aged and comfortable. So I gave him tea, though I didn’t
                                attempt to drink any myself, and told him the whole sad tale.

                                Fortunately much of the swelling had gone next day and only a brown dryness
                                remained. I find myself actually hoping that George is delayed a bit longer. Of one thing
                                I am sure. If ever I grow a moustache again, it stays!

                                Heaps of love from a sadder but wiser,
                                Eleanor

                                Mchewe Estate. 3rd April 1936

                                Dearest Family,

                                Sound the trumpets, beat the drums. George is home again. The safari, I am sad
                                to say, was a complete washout in more ways than one. Anyway it was lovely to be
                                together again and we don’t yet talk about the future. The home coming was not at all as
                                I had planned it. I expected George to return in our old A.C. car which gives ample
                                warning of its arrival. I had meant to wear my new frock and make myself as glamourous
                                as possible, with our beautiful babe on one arm and our other jewels by my side.
                                This however is what actually happened. Last Saturday morning at about 2 am , I
                                thought I heard someone whispering my name. I sat up in bed, still half asleep, and
                                there was George at the window. He was thin and unshaven and the tiredest looking
                                man I have ever seen. The car had bogged down twenty miles back along the old Lupa
                                Track, but as George had had no food at all that day, he decided to walk home in the
                                bright moonlight.

                                This is where I should have served up a tasty hot meal but alas, there was only
                                the heal of a loaf and no milk because, before going to bed I had given the remaining
                                milk to the dog. However George seemed too hungry to care what he ate. He made a
                                meal off a tin of bully, a box of crustless cheese and the bread washed down with cup
                                after cup of black tea. Though George was tired we talked for hours and it was dawn
                                before we settled down to sleep.

                                During those hours of talk George described his nightmarish journey. He started
                                up the flooded Rukwa Valley and there were days of wading through swamp and mud
                                and several swollen rivers to cross. George is a strong swimmer and the porters who
                                were recruited in that area, could also swim. There remained the problem of the stores
                                and of Kianda the houseboy who cannot swim. For these they made rough pole rafts
                                which they pulled across the rivers with ropes. Kianda told me later that he hopes never
                                to make such a journey again. He swears that the raft was submerged most of the time
                                and that he was dragged through the rivers underwater! You should see the state of
                                George’s clothes which were packed in a supposedly water tight uniform trunk. The
                                whole lot are mud stained and mouldy.

                                To make matters more trying for George he was obliged to live mostly on
                                porters rations, rice and groundnut oil which he detests. As all the district roads were
                                closed the little Indian Sores in the remote villages he passed had been unable to
                                replenish their stocks of European groceries. George would have been thinner had it not
                                been for two Roman Catholic missions enroute where he had good meals and dry
                                nights. The Fathers are always wonderfully hospitable to wayfarers irrespective of
                                whether or not they are Roman Catholics. George of course is not a Catholic. One finds
                                the Roman Catholic missions right out in the ‘Blue’ and often on spots unhealthy to
                                Europeans. Most of the Fathers are German or Dutch but they all speak a little English
                                and in any case one can always fall back on Ki-Swahili.

                                George reached his destination all right but it soon became apparent that reports
                                of the richness of the strike had been greatly exaggerated. George had decided that
                                prospects were brighter on the Lupa than on the new strike so he returned to the Lupa
                                by the way he had come and, having returned the borrowed equipment decided to
                                make his way home by the shortest route, the old and now rarely used road which
                                passes by the bottom of our farm.

                                The old A.C. had been left for safe keeping at the Roman Catholic Galala
                                Mission 40 miles away, on George’s outward journey, and in this old car George, and
                                the houseboy Kianda , started for home. The road was indescribably awful. There were long stretches that were simply one big puddle, in others all the soil had been washed
                                away leaving the road like a rocky river bed. There were also patches where the tall
                                grass had sprung up head high in the middle of the road,
                                The going was slow because often the car bogged down because George had
                                no wheel chains and he and Kianda had the wearisome business of digging her out. It
                                was just growing dark when the old A.C. settled down determinedly in the mud for the
                                last time. They could not budge her and they were still twenty miles from home. George
                                decided to walk home in the moonlight to fetch help leaving Kianda in charge of the car
                                and its contents and with George’s shot gun to use if necessary in self defence. Kianda
                                was reluctant to stay but also not prepared to go for help whilst George remained with
                                the car as lions are plentiful in that area. So George set out unarmed in the moonlight.
                                Once he stopped to avoid a pride of lion coming down the road but he circled safely
                                around them and came home without any further alarms.

                                Kianda said he had a dreadful night in the car, “With lions roaming around the car
                                like cattle.” Anyway the lions did not take any notice of the car or of Kianda, and the next
                                day George walked back with all our farm boys and dug and pushed the car out of the
                                mud. He brought car and Kianda back without further trouble but the labourers on their
                                way home were treed by the lions.

                                The wet season is definitely the time to stay home.

                                Lots and lots of love,
                                Eleanor

                                Mchewe Estate. 30th April 1936

                                Dearest Family,

                                Young George’s third birthday passed off very well yesterday. It started early in
                                the morning when he brought his pillow slip of presents to our bed. Kate was already
                                there and Ann soon joined us. Young George liked all the presents you sent, especially
                                the trumpet. It has hardly left his lips since and he is getting quite smart about the finger
                                action.

                                We had quite a party. Ann and I decorated the table with Christmas tree tinsel
                                and hung a bunch of balloons above it. Ann also decorated young George’s chair with
                                roses and phlox from the garden. I had made and iced a fruit cake but Ann begged to
                                make a plain pink cake. She made it entirely by herself though I stood by to see that
                                she measured the ingredients correctly. When the cake was baked I mixed some soft
                                icing in a jug and she poured it carefully over the cake smoothing the gaps with her
                                fingers!

                                During the party we had the gramophone playing and we pulled crackers and
                                wore paper hats and altogether had a good time. I forgot for a while that George is
                                leaving again for the Lupa tomorrow for an indefinite time. He was marvellous at making
                                young George’s party a gay one. You will have noticed the change from Georgie to
                                young George. Our son declares that he now wants to be called George, “Like Dad”.
                                He an Ann are a devoted couple and I am glad that there is only a fourteen
                                months difference in their ages. They play together extremely well and are very
                                independent which is just as well for little Kate now demands a lot of my attention. My
                                garden is a real cottage garden and looks very gay and colourful. There are hollyhocks
                                and Snapdragons, marigolds and phlox and of course the roses and carnations which, as
                                you know, are my favourites. The coffee shamba does not look so good because the
                                small labour force, which is all we can afford, cannot cope with all the weeds. You have
                                no idea how things grow during the wet season in the tropics.

                                Nothing alarming ever seems to happen when George is home, so I’m afraid this
                                letter is rather dull. I wanted you to know though, that largely due to all your gifts of toys
                                and sweets, Georgie’s 3rd birthday party went with a bang.

                                Your very affectionate,
                                Eleanor

                                Mchewe Estate. 17th September 1936

                                Dearest Family,

                                I am sorry to hear that Mummy worries about me so much. “Poor Eleanor”,
                                indeed! I have a quite exceptional husband, three lovely children, a dear little home and
                                we are all well.It is true that I am in rather a rut but what else can we do? George comes
                                home whenever he can and what excitement there is when he does come. He cannot
                                give me any warning because he has to take advantage of chance lifts from the Diggings
                                to Mbeya, but now that he is prospecting nearer home he usually comes walking over
                                the hills. About 50 miles of rough going. Really and truly I am all right. Although our diet is
                                monotonous we have plenty to eat. Eggs and milk are cheap and fruit plentiful and I
                                have a good cook so can devote all my time to the children. I think it is because they are
                                my constant companions that Ann and Georgie are so grown up for their years.
                                I have no ayah at present because Janey has been suffering form rheumatism
                                and has gone home for one of her periodic rests. I manage very well without her except
                                in the matter of the afternoon walks. The outward journey is all right. George had all the
                                grass cut on his last visit so I am able to push the pram whilst Ann, George and Fanny
                                the dog run ahead. It is the uphill return trip that is so trying. Our walk back is always the
                                same, down the hill to the river where the children love to play and then along the car
                                road to the vegetable garden. I never did venture further since the day I saw a leopard
                                jump on a calf. I did not tell you at the time as I thought you might worry. The cattle were
                                grazing on a small knoll just off our land but near enough for me to have a clear view.
                                Suddenly the cattle scattered in all directions and we heard the shouts of the herd boys
                                and saw – or rather had the fleeting impression- of a large animal jumping on a calf. I
                                heard the herd boy shout “Chui, Chui!” (leopard) and believe me, we turned in our
                                tracks and made for home. To hasten things I picked up two sticks and told the children
                                that they were horses and they should ride them home which they did with
                                commendable speed.

                                Ann no longer rides Joseph. He became increasingly bad tempered and a
                                nuisance besides. He took to rolling all over my flower beds though I had never seen
                                him roll anywhere else. Then one day he kicked Ann in the chest, not very hard but
                                enough to send her flying. Now George has given him to the native who sells milk to us
                                and he seems quite happy grazing with the cattle.

                                With love to you all,
                                Eleanor.

                                Mchewe Estate. 2nd October 1936

                                Dearest Family,

                                Since I last wrote George has been home and we had a lovely time as usual.
                                Whilst he was here the District Commissioner and his wife called. Mr Pollock told
                                George that there is to be a big bush clearing scheme in some part of the Mbeya
                                District to drive out Tsetse Fly. The game in the area will have to be exterminated and
                                there will probably be a job for George shooting out the buffalo. The pay would be
                                good but George says it is a beastly job. Although he is a professional hunter, he hates
                                slaughter.

                                Mrs P’s real reason for visiting the farm was to invite me to stay at her home in
                                Mbeya whilst she and her husband are away in Tukuyu. Her English nanny and her small
                                daughter will remain in Mbeya and she thought it might be a pleasant change for us and
                                a rest for me as of course Nanny will do the housekeeping. I accepted the invitation and I
                                think I will go on from there to Tukuyu and visit my friend Lillian Eustace for a fortnight.
                                She has given us an open invitation to visit her at any time.

                                I had a letter from Dr Eckhardt last week, telling me that at a meeting of all the
                                German Settlers from Mbeya, Tukuyu and Mbosi it had been decided to raise funds to
                                build a school at Mbeya. They want the British Settlers to co-operate in this and would
                                be glad of a subscription from us. I replied to say that I was unable to afford a
                                subscription at present but would probably be applying for a teaching job.
                                The Eckhardts are the leaders of the German community here and are ardent
                                Nazis. For this reason they are unpopular with the British community but he is the only
                                doctor here and I must say they have been very decent to us. Both of them admire
                                George. George has still not had any luck on the Lupa and until he makes a really
                                promising strike it is unlikely that the children and I will join him. There is no fresh milk there
                                and vegetables and fruit are imported from Mbeya and Iringa and are very expensive.
                                George says “You wouldn’t be happy on the diggings anyway with a lot of whores and
                                their bastards!”

                                Time ticks away very pleasantly here. Young George and Kate are blooming
                                and I keep well. Only Ann does not look well. She is growing too fast and is listless and
                                pale. If I do go to Mbeya next week I shall take her to the doctor to be overhauled.
                                We do not go for our afternoon walks now that George has returned to the Lupa.
                                That leopard has been around again and has killed Tubbage that cowardly Alsatian. We
                                gave him to the village headman some months ago. There is no danger to us from the
                                leopard but I am terrified it might get Fanny, who is an excellent little watchdog and
                                dearly loved by all of us. Yesterday I sent a note to the Boma asking for a trap gun and
                                today the farm boys are building a trap with logs.

                                I had a mishap this morning in the garden. I blundered into a nest of hornets and
                                got two stings in the left arm above the elbow. Very painful at the time and the place is
                                still red and swollen.

                                Much love to you all,
                                Eleanor.

                                Mchewe Estate. 10th October 1936

                                Dearest Family,

                                Well here we are at Mbeya, comfortably installed in the District Commissioner’s
                                house. It is one of two oldest houses in Mbeya and is a charming gabled place with tiled
                                roof. The garden is perfectly beautiful. I am enjoying the change very much. Nanny
                                Baxter is very entertaining. She has a vast fund of highly entertaining tales of the goings
                                on amongst the British Aristocracy, gleaned it seems over the nursery teacup in many a
                                Stately Home. Ann and Georgie are enjoying the company of other children.
                                People are very kind about inviting us out to tea and I gladly accept these
                                invitations but I have turned down invitations to dinner and one to a dance at the hotel. It
                                is no fun to go out at night without George. There are several grass widows at the pub
                                whose husbands are at the diggings. They have no inhibitions about parties.
                                I did have one night and day here with George, he got the chance of a lift and
                                knowing that we were staying here he thought the chance too good to miss. He was
                                also anxious to hear the Doctor’s verdict on Ann. I took Ann to hospital on my second
                                day here. Dr Eckhardt said there was nothing specifically wrong but that Ann is a highly
                                sensitive type with whom the tropics does not agree. He advised that Ann should
                                spend a year in a more temperate climate and that the sooner she goes the better. I felt
                                very discouraged to hear this and was most relieved when George turned up
                                unexpectedly that evening. He phoo-hood Dr Eckhardt’s recommendation and next
                                morning called in Dr Aitkin, the Government Doctor from Chunya and who happened to
                                be in Mbeya.

                                Unfortunately Dr Aitkin not only confirmed Dr Eckhardt’s opinion but said that he
                                thought Ann should stay out of the tropics until she had passed adolescence. I just don’t
                                know what to do about Ann. She is a darling child, very sensitive and gentle and a
                                lovely companion to me. Also she and young George are inseparable and I just cannot
                                picture one without the other. I know that you would be glad to have Ann but how could
                                we bear to part with her?

                                Your worried but affectionate,
                                Eleanor.

                                Tukuyu. 23rd October 1936

                                Dearest Family,

                                As you see we have moved to Tukuyu and we are having a lovely time with
                                Lillian Eustace. She gave us such a warm welcome and has put herself out to give us
                                every comfort. She is a most capable housekeeper and I find her such a comfortable
                                companion because we have the same outlook in life. Both of us are strictly one man
                                women and that is rare here. She has a two year old son, Billy, who is enchanted with
                                our rolly polly Kate and there are other children on the station with whom Ann and
                                Georgie can play. Lillian engaged a temporary ayah for me so I am having a good rest.
                                All the children look well and Ann in particular seems to have benefited by the
                                change to a cooler climate. She has a good colour and looks so well that people all
                                exclaim when I tell them, that two doctors have advised us to send Ann out of the
                                country. Perhaps after all, this holiday in Tukuyu will set her up.

                                We had a trying journey from Mbeya to Tukuyu in the Post Lorry. The three
                                children and I were squeezed together on the front seat between the African driver on
                                one side and a vast German on the other. Both men smoked incessantly – the driver
                                cigarettes, and the German cheroots. The cab was clouded with a blue haze. Not only
                                that! I suddenly felt a smarting sensation on my right thigh. The driver’s cigarette had
                                burnt a hole right through that new checked linen frock you sent me last month.
                                I had Kate on my lap all the way but Ann and Georgie had to stand against the
                                windscreen all the way. The fat German offered to take Ann on his lap but she gave him
                                a very cold “No thank you.” Nor did I blame her. I would have greatly enjoyed the drive
                                under less crowded conditions. The scenery is gorgeous. One drives through very high
                                country crossing lovely clear streams and at one point through rain forest. As it was I
                                counted the miles and how thankful I was to see the end of the journey.
                                In the days when Tanganyika belonged to the Germans, Tukuyu was the
                                administrative centre for the whole of the Southern Highlands Province. The old German
                                Fort is still in use as Government offices and there are many fine trees which were
                                planted by the Germans. There is a large prosperous native population in this area.
                                They go in chiefly for coffee and for bananas which form the basis of their diet.
                                There are five British married couples here and Lillian and I go out to tea most
                                mornings. In the afternoon there is tennis or golf. The gardens here are beautiful because
                                there is rain or at least drizzle all the year round. There are even hedge roses bordering
                                some of the district roads. When one walks across the emerald green golf course or
                                through the Boma gardens, it is hard to realise that this gentle place is Tropical Africa.
                                ‘Such a green and pleasant land’, but I think I prefer our corner of Tanganyika.

                                Much love,
                                Eleanor.

                                Mchewe. 12th November 1936

                                Dearest Family,

                                We had a lovely holiday but it is so nice to be home again, especially as Laza,
                                the local Nimrod, shot that leopard whilst we were away (with his muzzleloader gun). He
                                was justly proud of himself, and I gave him a tip so that he could buy some native beer
                                for a celebration. I have never seen one of theses parties but can hear the drums and
                                sounds of merrymaking, especially on moonlight nights.

                                Our house looks so fresh and uncluttered. Whilst I was away, the boys
                                whitewashed the house and my houseboy had washed all the curtains, bedspreads,
                                and loose covers and watered the garden. If only George were here it would be
                                heaven.

                                Ann looked so bonny at Tukuyu that I took her to the Government Doctor there
                                hoping that he would find her perfectly healthy, but alas he endorsed the finding of the
                                other two doctors so, when an opportunity offers, I think I shall have to send Ann down
                                to you for a long holiday from the Tropics. Mother-in-law has offered to fetch her next
                                year but England seems so far away. With you she will at least be on the same
                                continent.

                                I left the children for the first time ever, except for my stay in hospital when Kate
                                was born, to go on an outing to Lake Masoko in the Tukuyu district, with four friends.
                                Masoko is a beautiful, almost circular crater lake and very very deep. A detachment of
                                the King’s African Rifles are stationed there and occupy the old German barracks
                                overlooking the lake.

                                We drove to Masoko by car and spent the afternoon there as guests of two
                                British Army Officers. We had a good tea and the others went bathing in the lake but i
                                could not as I did not have a costume. The Lake was as beautiful as I had been lead to
                                imagine and our hosts were pleasant but I began to grow anxious as the afternoon
                                advanced and my friends showed no signs of leaving. I was in agonies when they
                                accepted an invitation to stay for a sundowner. We had this in the old German beer
                                garden overlooking the Lake. It was beautiful but what did I care. I had promised the
                                children that I would be home to give them their supper and put them to bed. When I
                                did at length return to Lillian’s house I found the situation as I had expected. Ann, with her
                                imagination had come to the conclusion that I never would return. She had sobbed
                                herself into a state of exhaustion. Kate was screaming in sympathy and George 2 was
                                very truculent. He wouldn’t even speak to me. Poor Lillian had had a trying time.
                                We did not return to Mbeya by the Mail Lorry. Bill and Lillian drove us across to
                                Mbeya in their new Ford V8 car. The children chattered happily in the back of the car
                                eating chocolate and bananas all the way. I might have known what would happen! Ann
                                was dreadfully and messily car sick.

                                I engaged the Mbeya Hotel taxi to drive us out to the farm the same afternoon
                                and I expect it will be a long time before we leave the farm again.

                                Lots and lots of love to all,
                                Eleanor.

                                Chunya 27th November 1936

                                Dearest Family,

                                You will be surprised to hear that we are all together now on the Lupa goldfields.
                                I have still not recovered from my own astonishment at being here. Until last Saturday
                                night I never dreamed of this move. At about ten o’clock I was crouched in the inglenook
                                blowing on the embers to make a fire so that I could heat some milk for Kate who is
                                cutting teeth and was very restless. Suddenly I heard a car outside. I knew it must be
                                George and rushed outside storm lamp in hand. Sure enough, there was George
                                standing by a strange car, and beaming all over his face. “Something for you my love,”
                                he said placing a little bundle in my hand. It was a knotted handkerchief and inside was a
                                fine gold nugget.

                                George had that fire going in no time, Kate was given the milk and half an aspirin
                                and settles down to sleep, whilst George and I sat around for an hour chatting over our
                                tea. He told me that he had borrowed the car from John Molteno and had come to fetch
                                me and the children to join him on the diggings for a while. It seems that John, who has a
                                camp at Itewe, a couple of miles outside the township of Chunya, the new
                                Administrative Centre of the diggings, was off to the Cape to visit his family for a few
                                months. John had asked George to run his claims in his absence and had given us the
                                loan of his camp and his car.

                                George had found the nugget on his own claim but he is not too elated because
                                he says that one good month on the diggings is often followed by several months of
                                dead loss. However, I feel hopeful, we have had such a run of bad luck that surely it is
                                time for the tide to change. George spent Sunday going over the farm with Thomas, the
                                headman, and giving him instructions about future work whilst I packed clothes and
                                kitchen equipment. I have brought our ex-kitchenboy Kesho Kutwa with me as cook and
                                also Janey, who heard that we were off to the Lupa and came to offer her services once
                                more as ayah. Janey’s ex-husband Abel is now cook to one of the more successful
                                diggers and I think she is hoping to team up with him again.

                                The trip over the Mbeya-Chunya pass was new to me and I enjoyed it very
                                much indeed. The road winds over the mountains along a very high escarpment and
                                one looks down on the vast Usangu flats stretching far away to the horizon. At the
                                highest point the road rises to about 7000 feet, and this was too much for Ann who was
                                leaning against the back of my seat. She was very thoroughly sick, all over my hair.
                                This camp of John Molteno’s is very comfortable. It consists of two wattle and
                                daub buildings built end to end in a clearing in the miombo bush. The main building
                                consists of a large living room, a store and an office, and the other of one large bedroom
                                and a small one separated by an area for bathing. Both buildings are thatched. There are
                                no doors, and there are no windows, but these are not necessary because one wall of
                                each building is built up only a couple of feet leaving a six foot space for light and air. As
                                this is the dry season the weather is pleasant. The air is fresh and dry but not nearly so
                                hot as I expected.

                                Water is a problem and must be carried long distances in kerosene tins.
                                vegetables and fresh butter are brought in a van from Iringa and Mbeya Districts about
                                once a fortnight. I have not yet visited Chunya but I believe it is as good a shopping
                                centre as Mbeya so we will be able to buy all the non perishable food stuffs we need.
                                What I do miss is the fresh milk. The children are accustomed to drinking at least a pint of
                                milk each per day but they do not care for the tinned variety.

                                Ann and young George love being here. The camp is surrounded by old
                                prospecting trenches and they spend hours each day searching for gold in the heaps of gravel. Sometimes they find quartz pitted with little spots of glitter and they bring them
                                to me in great excitement. Alas it is only Mica. We have two neighbours. The one is a
                                bearded Frenchman and the other an Australian. I have not yet met any women.
                                George looks very sunburnt and extremely fit and the children also look well.
                                George and I have decided that we will keep Ann with us until my Mother-in-law comes
                                out next year. George says that in spite of what the doctors have said, he thinks that the
                                shock to Ann of being separated from her family will do her more harm than good. She
                                and young George are inseparable and George thinks it would be best if both
                                George and Ann return to England with my Mother-in-law for a couple of years. I try not
                                to think at all about the breaking up of the family.

                                Much love to all,
                                Eleanor.

                                 

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