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  • #7399

    I’ll sneak out after Truella’s gone to bed.

     

    “I heard that, Frella,” Truella smiled affectionatly at her old friend, “If you really want to go out for a walk now, you’ll just have to magic me up some more get up and go.”

    “I forgot to buffer you out that time, Trowel,” Frigella laughed. It had been many years since Truella and Frigella had called each other by their childhood nicknames.    It wasn’t generally known that they’d grown up together. “I’ve got just the right potion for you!”

    #6554
    EricEric
    Keymaster
      (TOC)

      Chapter 2: A New Companion

      Salomé: The vibrations look familiar.

      Georges: Have we arrived, Jorid?

      Jorid: Indeed Georges, we are nearing our destination. Salomé is correct in her interpretation, we are getting close to the planet you know as Duane, soon we will be close to the Luminjel temple location.

      Georges: Really? It looks… different.

      Jorid: This is again correct, we are at an earlier time than the one you knew. In fact, much earlier.

      Salomé (turning to Georges): She seems to have taken your “back to the origins” prompt to the letter; Jorid, how far back are we?

      Jorid: It seems it is not exactly as was intended. It is millenia before the Guardians arrived to the planetary system. Asari civilisation was permeating this system but it appears currently on the decline — accessing… — you may find local contact by the name of Andrimiñ. Their technology may assist in healing the case of knowledge poisoning.

      Georges: Wait, what do you mean, not as intended?

      Jorid: A creature seems to have attached itself to my hull, creating fluctuations in my directional array.

      Georges: What now? Can you shake it off?

      Jorid: It is not advisable. Suggesting manual investigation as the creature appears to be small and generally harmless.

      Georges: Well, what can go wrong? Let me get my suit and I will go check it out.

      #6553
      EricEric
      Keymaster

        Luckily for them, the sand structure with the nearby nests of snapping sand turtles was also a graveyard for the military drones that weren’t apparently programmed to register natural elements as threats.

        They quickly found four of them who weren’t completely damaged, and with some technical assist from Jorid, Georges was able to repair the propulsion and deactivate the military programs and tracking beacons.

        Klatu had some ropes in his speedster that they tied to their rudimentary drive and the drones, so they could carry Léonard’s body while he was still in stasis.

        His vitals were generally positive, and Salomé kept checking on him, while Georges and Klatu managed attaching the odd assemblage of drones to their craft.

        The ride back wasn’t as bad as the first time, maybe due to the extra cargo that made maneuvres more complex for their green driver.

        “This is worth the detour. Seems like Klatu really wanted to save time and avoided to show us the scenic route the first time,” said Georges trying to break the tense worried silence.

        Salomé smiled weakly “Léonard’s consciousness is embroiled into complex thoughts; they have to deal about some threat, the nature of which eludes me for now. It looks as though he’s absorbed some sort of forbidden knowledge, something potentially dangerous,” Salomé said to Georges. “I’m no longer as sure he was imprisoned for his punishment, but rather for protection…” she sighed. “for everyone else’s protection… I will feel better when we’re all back to the Jorid and we can run a full diagnosis.”

        Georges looked at his friend apparently sleeping, and wrapped a loving arm around Salomé’s shoulder “It’s not going to be long now. He’s going to be fine.”

        ***

        “Horrible doing business with you.” Klatu said as they parted, rubbing his hands together in gleeful satisfaction. Whatever the Jorid had organised as a deal for his payment, it seemed the added drones weren’t part of it and came as an extra bonus.

        :fleuron:

        Inside the Jorid, while Salomé was setting up space for Léonard and making the preparation for the diagnosis, Georges looked at the tiles board, readying the craft for imminent departure.

        A new tile had appeared, with a distinct pattern form, almost like an ogee.

        “Jorid, is this new?”

        “Indeed Georges, our adventure has inspired me to create new avenues of exploration.”

        “Oh, that’s fresh.” Georges looked into the shifting symbol at its surface. After it stabilised, he could see there was a sort of spiral shell with forms reminiscent of the mocking turtles peeking out from the centre, surrounded by sand dunes.

        “Jorid, tell me more please.”

        “Sure, I’d call it ‘Sandshell‘. Do you want the full curriculum?”

        “Absolutely, colour me intrigued!”

        The Sandshell:
        Function: A reminder of the fragility of our perceived reality and the importance of questioning our assumptions
        Families: Vold, Zuli, Ilda
        Significance: The Sandshell represents the shifting and unstable nature of our beliefs, assumptions, and understandings. Like the sand that slips through our fingers, so too can our perception of the world around us be ephemeral and illusory. The image of the mock turtle serves as a reminder that we often live under assumed identities and in a world built on questionable foundations.
        As advice: The Sandshell encourages one to question their beliefs and assumptions, to examine the foundations upon which they have built their reality, and to search for a deeper understanding of truth.
        Depiction: The Sandshell can be depicted as a spiral shell with a mocking turtle peeking out from the center, surrounded by sand dunes. The sand symbolizes the instability of our perceptions and the turtle represents the assumed identities and neurotic fairy tales that make up our reality. The spiral form of the shell represents the journey of discovery and self-reflection.”

        “I love it,” said Georges enthusiastically “can we use it to plot our next course?”

        “As a matter of fact we can Georges. Let me realign the grid and propose some suggestions. Do you have a seed thought to offer for this journey?”

        Georges pondered for a while, when the image of the fishboard sprung forth in his mind. “Our little adventure is reminding me of our origins, Jorid —Léonard, working on the fishboard, your ancestor in a way… Us, finding Léonard… It feels like an adventure back to our origins. Can you project a destination on this vector…” then thinking at Salomé’s worried face “… that would be safe for our next stop, and allow us to find help for Léonard.”

        “Verily.” Jorid answered back. “Course plotted. Please get comfortable until we arrive at our destination.”

        #6551

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

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

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

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

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

          :fleuron2:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          :fleuron2:

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

        A buzz of the phone snapped him out of it.

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

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

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

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

        #6495
        EricEric
        Keymaster

          The landing on the sandy desert of Bluhm’Oxl was smoother than usual. It usually took a few minutes to get accustomed to their surrounding, the body transformations that came together with jumping across dimensions. In this case, it looked as though this dimension was quite close to their own.

          “Checking translation device…” Georges touched his ear lightly.

          Gremsbtic newkil jumbal” said Salomé in response. Georges looked quizzically at her face before realising she was pulling a classic prank.

          She laughed heartily. “That joke’s never getting old, isn’t it?”

          “Let’s walk a little in this direction, the rendez-vous point with Klatu isn’t too far.”

          “Any idea how Jorid managed to make contact this time?” Salomé asked.

          “Not sure really. Generally the quantum probability framework that’s built into the Jorid is managing to make trades across the multiverse that are quite complex to conceive or track down. Last time I tried to check, Jorid had traded one tardigrade to obtain us a couple of premium pass to the Amp’hool of Athumbra”

          “Underwater Whalets’ concert from the UniverseTour of Shakara, yes that was quite a night to remember…” Salomé reminisced fondly.

          “Fully booked for centuries, near impossible to get, and yet all it took was about a hundred of trades across multiple owners… No idea how it manages, but it found someone who was ready to trade their two front-row seats in exchange for a single Snoot’s hair.”

          “And why are we meeting this guy by the way? What’s his specialty?” Salomé winked. “You left me with the dressing duty, so happy you did all the reconnaissance.”

          Georges chucked. “all that Jorid said was: Klatu’s a relatively trustworthy Zathu, known for their expertise in dimensional magic, which is a crucial asset in your search for Léonard, presumably gone missing in the conflict-ridden Zathu sector.

          “Mmmh” said Salomé. “Dimensional magic. Rather unscientific for Jorid to express in that way. Nothing that I’ve recently dreamt about seems to relate. I guess we’ll see.”

          #6481
          EricEric
          Keymaster

            This is the outline for a short novel called “The Jorid’s Travels – 14 years on” that will unfold in this thread.
            The novel is about the travels of Georges and Salomé.
            The Jorid is the name of the vessel that can travel through dimensions as well as time, within certain boundaries. The Jorid has been built and is operated by Georges and his companion Salomé.

            Short backstory for the main cast and secondary characters

            Georges was a French thief possibly from the 1800s, turned other-dimensional explorer, and together with Salomé, a girl of mysterious origins who he first met in the Alienor dimension but believed to have origins in Northern India maybe Tibet from a distant past.
            They have lived rich adventures together, and are deeply bound together, by love and mutual interests.
            Georges, with his handsome face, dark hair and amber gaze, is a bit of a daredevil at times, curious and engaging with others. He is very interesting in anything that shines, strange mechanisms and generally the ways consciousness works in living matter.
            Salomé, on the other hand is deeply intuitive, empath at times, quite logical and rational but also interested in mysticism, the ways of the Truth, and the “why” rather than the “how” of things.
            The world of Alienor (a pale green sun under which twin planets originally orbited – Duane, Murtuane – with an additional third, Phreal, home planet of the Guardians, an alien race of builders with god-like powers) lived through cataclysmic changes, finished by the time this story is told.
            The Jorid’s original prototype designed were crafted by Léonard, a mysterious figure, self-taught in the arts of dimensional magic in Alienor sects, acted as a mentor to Georges during his adventures. It is not known where he is now.
            The story starts with Georges and Salomé looking for Léonard to adjust and calibrate the tiles navigational array of the Jorid, who seems to be affected by the auto-generated tiles which behave in too predictible fashion, instead of allowing for deeper explorations in the dimensions of space/time or dimensions of consciousness.
            Leonard was last spotted in a desert in quadrant AVB 34-7•8 – Cosmic time triangulation congruent to 2023 AD Earth era. More precisely the sand deserts of Bluhm’Oxl in the Zathu sector.

            When they find Léonard, they are propelled in new adventures. They possibly encounter new companions, and some mystery to solve in a similar fashion to the Odyssey, or Robinsons Lost in Space.

            Being able to tune into the probable quantum realities, the Jorid is able to trace the plot of their adventures even before they’ve been starting to unfold in no less than 33 chapters, giving them evocative titles.

            Here are the 33 chapters for the glorious adventures with some keywords under each to give some hints to the daring adventurers.

            1. Chapter 1: The Search BeginsGeorges and Salomé, Léonard, Zathu sector, Bluhm’Oxl, dimensional magic
            2. Chapter 2: A New Companion – unexpected ally, discovery, adventure
            3. Chapter 3: Into the Desert – Bluhm’Oxl, sand dunes, treacherous journey
            4. Chapter 4: The First Clue – search for Léonard, mystery, puzzle
            5. Chapter 5: The Oasis – rest, rekindling hope, unexpected danger
            6. Chapter 6: The Lost City – ancient civilization, artifacts, mystery
            7. Chapter 7: A Dangerous Encounter – hostile aliens, survival, bravery
            8. Chapter 8: A New Threat – ancient curse, ominous presence, danger
            9. Chapter 9: The Key to the Past – uncovering secrets, solving puzzles, unlocking power
            10. Chapter 10: The Guardian’s Temple – mystical portal, discovery, knowledge
            11. Chapter 11: The Celestial Map – space-time navigation, discovery, enlightenment
            12. Chapter 12: The First Step – journey through dimensions, bravery, adventure
            13. Chapter 13: The Cosmic Rift – strange anomalies, dangerous zones, exploration
            14. Chapter 14: A Surprising Discovery – unexpected allies, strange creatures, intrigue
            15. Chapter 15: The Memory Stones – ancient wisdom, unlock hidden knowledge, unlock the past
            16. Chapter 16: The Time Stream – navigating through time, adventure, danger
            17. Chapter 17: The Mirror Dimension – parallel world, alternate reality, discovery
            18. Chapter 18: A Distant Planet – alien world, strange cultures, exploration
            19. Chapter 19: The Starlight Forest – enchanted forest, secrets, danger
            20. Chapter 20: The Temple of the Mind – exploring consciousness, inner journey, enlightenment
            21. Chapter 21: The Sea of Souls – mystical ocean, hidden knowledge, inner peace
            22. Chapter 22: The Path of the Truth – search for meaning, self-discovery, enlightenment
            23. Chapter 23: The Cosmic Library – ancient knowledge, discovery, enlightenment
            24. Chapter 24: The Dream Plane – exploring the subconscious, self-discovery, enlightenment
            25. Chapter 25: The Shadow Realm – dark dimensions, fear, danger
            26. Chapter 26: The Fire Planet – intense heat, dangerous creatures, bravery
            27. Chapter 27: The Floating Islands – aerial adventure, strange creatures, discovery
            28. Chapter 28: The Crystal Caves – glittering beauty, hidden secrets, danger
            29. Chapter 29: The Eternal Night – unknown world, strange creatures, fear
            30. Chapter 30: The Lost Civilization – ancient ruins, mystery, adventure
            31. Chapter 31: The Vortex – intense energy, danger, bravery
            32. Chapter 32: The Cosmic Storm – weather extremes, danger, survival
            33. Chapter 33: The Return – reunion with Léonard, returning to the Jorid, new adventures.
            #6471
            EricEric
            Keymaster

              The Jorid is a vessel that can travel through dimensions as well as time, within certain boundaries.

              The Jorid has been built and is operated by Georges and his companion Salomé.
              Georges was a French thief possibly from the 1800s, turned other-dimensional explorer, and along with Salomé, a girl of mysterious origins who he first met in the Alienor dimension but believed to be born in Northern India in a distant past, they have lived rich adventures together, and are deeply bound by love and mutual interests.

              Georges, with his handsome face, dark hair and amber gaze, is a bit of a daredevil at times, curious and engaging with others. He is very interesting in anything that shines, strange mechanisms and generally the ways consciousness works in living matter. Salomé, on the other hand is deeply intuitive, empath at times, quite logical and rational but also interested in mysticism, the ways of the Truth, and the “why” rather than the “how” of things.

              The world of Alienor (a pale green sun under which twin planets originally orbited – Duane, Murtuane – with an additional third, Phreal, home planet of the Guardians, an alien race of builders with god-like powers) lived through cataclysmic changes, finished by the time this story is told.

              The Jorid’s original prototype designs were crafted by Léonard, a mysterious figure, self-taught in the arts of dimensional magic in Alienor sects, who acted as a mentor to Georges during his adventures. It is not known where he is now.

              The story unfolds 14 years after we discovered Georges & Salomé in the story.

               

              (for more background information, refer to this thread)

              #6306
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                Looking for Robert Staley

                 

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

                Marriage of John Staley and Jane Brothers in 1820:

                1820 marriage Armagh

                 

                 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                fire engine

                 

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

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

                 

                Looking for Robert Staley

                 

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

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

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

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

                 

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

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

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

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

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

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

                The marriage of Robert Staley and Elizabeth Milner in 1735:

                rbt staley marriage 1735

                 

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

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

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

                The Marsden Connection

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

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

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

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

                by
                David Dalrymple-Smith

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

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

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

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

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

                 

                The 1795 will of Robert Staley.

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

                The will of Robert Staley, 1795:

                1795 will 2

                1795 Rbt Staley will

                 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                 

                #6300
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  Looking for Carringtons

                   

                  The Carringtons of Smalley, at least some of them, were Baptist  ~ otherwise known as “non conformist”.  Baptists don’t baptise at birth, believing it’s up to the person to choose when they are of an age to do so, although that appears to be fairly random in practice with small children being baptised.  This makes it hard to find the birth dates registered as not every village had a Baptist church, and the baptisms would take place in another town.   However some of the children were baptised in the village Anglican church as well, so they don’t seem to have been consistent. Perhaps at times a quick baptism locally for a sickly child was considered prudent, and preferable to no baptism at all. It’s impossible to know for sure and perhaps they were not strictly commited to a particular denomination.

                  Our Carrington’s start with Ellen Carrington who married William Housley in 1814. William Housley was previously married to Ellen’s older sister Mary Carrington.  Ellen (born 1895 and baptised 1897) and her sister Nanny were baptised at nearby Ilkeston Baptist church but I haven’t found baptisms for Mary or siblings Richard and Francis.  We know they were also children of William Carrington as he mentions them in his 1834 will. Son William was baptised at the local Smalley church in 1784, as was Thomas in 1896.

                  The absence of baptisms in Smalley with regard to Baptist influence was noted in the Smalley registers:

                  not baptised

                   

                  Smalley (chapelry of Morley) registers began in 1624, Morley registers began in 1540 with no obvious gaps in either.  The gap with the missing registered baptisms would be 1786-1793. The Ilkeston Baptist register began in 1791. Information from the Smalley registers indicates that about a third of the children were not being baptised due to the Baptist influence.

                   

                  William Housley son in law, daughter Mary Housley deceased, and daughter Eleanor (Ellen) Housley are all mentioned in William Housley’s 1834 will.  On the marriage allegations and bonds for William Housley and Mary Carrington in 1806, her birth date is registered at 1787, her father William Carrington.

                  A Page from the will of William Carrington 1834:

                  1834 Will Carrington will

                   

                  William Carrington was baptised in nearby Horsley Woodhouse on 27 August 1758.  His parents were William and Margaret Carrington “near the Hilltop”. He married Mary Malkin, also of Smalley, on the 27th August 1783.

                  When I started looking for Margaret Wright who married William Carrington the elder, I chanced upon the Smalley parish register micro fiche images wrongly labeled by the ancestry site as Longford.   I subsequently found that the Derby Records office published a list of all the wrongly labeled Derbyshire towns that the ancestry site knew about for ten years at least but has not corrected!

                  Margaret Wright was baptised in Smalley (mislabeled as Longford although the register images clearly say Smalley!) on the 2nd March 1728. Her parents were John and Margaret Wright.

                  But I couldn’t find a birth or baptism anywhere for William Carrington. I found four sources for William and Margaret’s marriage and none of them suggested that William wasn’t local.  On other public trees on ancestry sites, William’s father was Joshua Carrington from Chinley. Indeed, when doing a search for William Carrington born circa 1720 to 1725, this was the only one in Derbyshire.  But why would a teenager move to the other side of the county?  It wasn’t uncommon to be apprenticed in neighbouring villages or towns, but Chinley didn’t seem right to me.  It seemed to me that it had been selected on the other trees because it was the only easily found result for the search, and not because it was the right one.

                  I spent days reading every page of the microfiche images of the parish registers locally looking for Carringtons, any Carringtons at all in the area prior to 1720. Had there been none at all, then the possibility of William being the first Carrington in the area having moved there from elsewhere would have been more reasonable.

                  But there were many Carringtons in Heanor, a mile or so from Smalley, in the 1600s and early 1700s, although they were often spelled Carenton, sometimes Carrianton in the parish registers. The earliest Carrington I found in the area was Alice Carrington baptised in Ilkeston in 1602.  It seemed obvious that William’s parents were local and not from Chinley.

                  The Heanor parish registers of the time were not very clearly written. The handwriting was bad and the spelling variable, depending I suppose on what the name sounded like to the person writing in the registers at the time as the majority of the people were probably illiterate.  The registers are also in a generally poor condition.

                  I found a burial of a child called William on the 16th January 1721, whose father was William Carenton of “Losko” (Loscoe is a nearby village also part of Heanor at that time). This looked promising!  If a child died, a later born child would be given the same name. This was very common: in a couple of cases I’ve found three deceased infants with the same first name until a fourth one named the same survived.  It seemed very likely that a subsequent son would be named William and he would be the William Carrington born circa 1720 to 1725 that we were looking for.

                  Heanor parish registers: William son of William Carenton of Losko buried January 19th 1721:

                  1721 William Carenton

                   

                  The Heanor parish registers between 1720 and 1729 are in many places illegible, however there are a couple of possibilities that could be the baptism of William in 1724 and 1725. A William son of William Carenton of Loscoe was buried in Jan 1721. In 1722 a Willian son of William Carenton (transcribed Tarenton) of Loscoe was buried. A subsequent son called William is likely. On 15 Oct 1724 a William son of William and Eliz (last name indecipherable) of Loscoe was baptised.  A Mary, daughter of William Carrianton of Loscoe, was baptised in 1727.

                  I propose that William Carringtons was born in Loscoe and baptised in Heanor in 1724: if not 1724 then I would assume his baptism is one of the illegible or indecipherable entires within those few years.  This falls short of absolute documented proof of course, but it makes sense to me.

                   

                   

                  In any case, if a William Carrington child died in Heanor in 1721 which we do have documented proof of, it further dismisses the case for William having arrived for no discernable reason from Chinley.

                  #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.

                    #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 JanetJohn’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.

                       

                      #6260
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        From Tanganyika with Love

                        With thanks to Mike Rushby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                         

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Much love my dear,
                        your jubilant
                        Eleanor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Bless you all,
                        Eleanor.

                        S.S.Timavo. 6th. November 1930

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor Leslie.

                        Eleanor and George Rushby:

                        Eleanor and George Rushby

                        Splendid Hotel, Dar es Salaam 11th November 1930

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Your cave woman
                        Eleanor.

                        Mchewe Estate. P.O. Mbeya 22 November 1930

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Much love to you all,
                        Eleanor.

                        Mchewe Estate 29th. November 1930

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Your loving
                        Eleanor.

                        Mchewe Estate. Mbeya. 8th December 1930

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Very much love,
                        Eleanor.

                        Mbeya 23rd December 1930

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                        26th December 1930

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

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

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

                        Lots and lots of love,
                        Eleanor.

                        Mchewe Estate 8th Jan 1931

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Your loving,
                        Eleanor.

                        Mchewe Estate. 1st April 1931

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                        Very much love,
                        Eleanor.

                        Mchewe Estate 20th April 1931

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Mchewe Estate. 20th May 1931

                        Dear Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        #4476

                        Glynis hadn’t said a word to any of the others about the potion and was non-committal when they pressed her for information as to the identity of her unusual visitor.

                        “I used to know him … he just came to tell me his father died”, was all she had said, turning her head to avoid Margoritt’s keen gaze and excusing herself hurriedly on some pretext of needing to gather more herbs for the impending journey.

                        “His father must have been as old as Methuselah and then some!” muttered Fox crossly after she was gone. “I don’t believe it for one moment. Always keeping secrets, that one.” He shook his head, possibly irritated as much by the heat and mosquitoes as Glynis’s small evasion. For after all, they each carried secrets and it was generally acknowledged they were an unlikely group of travellers who found themselves together.

                        Privately, Glynis was nearly bursting with anticipation and would have applied the potion to her face at once had the instructions on the package not said to wait for the full moon.

                        On the first night of the full moon, take one half teaspoonful and rub into the affected area. Rub thrice in a clockwise direction and once in a counter-clockwise direction. Repeat until the lotion is fully absorbed. FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY.

                        And tonight was the first night of the full moon phase.

                        It was as she was staring in shock and disbelief at the empty jar that she heard the scream.

                        #3271
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          Pseu realized with an unpleasant jolt that she had been neglecting the dragglers for far too long while she’d been sojourning in the City, and for one dreadful moment realized that she had completely lost track of them, and that they might be in danger. She excused herself politely, not that a polite excuse was necessary amongst such wide and weird souls, and sent some tentacles of attention in search of the dragglers.
                          She heard sounds of watery warbles and burbling blips like farts in a bath and wondered for a moment if all was well and she was being intrusive. Bathrooms were generally considered out of bounds, particularly when time travelling or remote viewing pre 2020. But something about the sounds started to register as a language, and Pseu continued to listen, though still observing the protocol blindfold, as it were, not wishing to disturb anyone’s private bathing rituals. Were farts in a bath a kind of language, she wondered? Had she been missing out on potentially valuable information by not paying attention?

                          #3203
                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            Whale time travel reached an unprecedented level of popularity in the 2020s. Whales were quicker to learn the skills needed than their human counterparts, less constrained by belief constructs and generally more relaxed and fun loving, less hidebound with responsibilities and worries. There were accidents of course ~ some accidentally teleported onto land, as in the case of the many “beached” cetaceans, humans mistakenly assuming that their swimming techniques had been faulty. Another common misconception was that whales spotted in waters that they normally did not frequent had been swimming off course, for reasons unknown but generally assumed to be because of pollution, radiation or underwater sonic disturbances related to the military. It was true that sometimes these factors were a motivating aspect, but primarily whales teleported and time traveled for the sheer fun of it. Time traveling back to times and places where whaling ships dominated the oceans was considered to be a sport for the dare devils and thrill seekers; time travelling to the future for those more interested in a relaxing holiday. Some whales had a particular interest in archeology ~ shipwrecks and underwater cities and so on, but the dates of arrival had to be timed correctly, as underwater cities were not always under water and a miscalculation could result in a stranding on land in the middle of a town square or atop a pyramid. Many an ancient legend of monstrous other worldly beings had arisen from such a faux pas.
                            Whale teleport practice portals had sprung up all over the seas in response to the increasing demand from young up and coming whales eager to try their fins at the new pursuit. Most of them were static, and related to land mass locations, such as the waters between the Pillars of Hercules at the western mouth of the Mediterranean, or the area offshore from the Hercules Tower on the Galician coast. In fact, the whales surrounding the shores of Spain had been at the forefront of the explorations, and these two portals were well established.

                            #3091
                            TracyTracy
                            Participant

                              Thank Flove for the daily random quote, that was a life saver. The deFørmiñG mirror to the rescue, coming hot on the heels of The Formula: (note the word form appears twice, just like with a mirror, but unlike a mirror reflection, is not an exact replication):
                              “The formula for creating your reality is: You project energy. You reflect that projection. And you either react or engage choices in relation to the reflection. Generally speaking, if you are not aware of what you’re doing you project energy, you reflect energy and you react to the reflection. When you are aware of what you are doing you incorporate choice rather than reaction. In this, what you have presented to yourself is a significant step. This is the beginning step in the movement into genuine recognition of your genuine self and in that the beginnings of genuine recognition from genuine self of how you create your reality; therefore the formula. This formula can be called a sort of deFørmiñG mirror…”

                              #3046
                              TracyTracy
                              Participant

                                Oh vacancy! I thought you said vacation! Of course everyone’s on vacation, ever since the vacating spree at all the unministries and unfactories, yes, factories were factored right out of the equation when the 3D printers came out, and everyone went on vacation. Some of the folks from the unminsitries went on vacation to the new unfactory resorts, which were somewhat unsatisfactory really, and some of the folks went to the new unministry resorts which on the whole were more satisfactory, and generally speaking, in more prestigious locations, notwithstanding that the very idea of prestige was a quaint relic but historical re enactments were popular ~ not at first, but later, when the dust had settled after the initial shuffling around.

                                #2813

                                In reply to: Snowflakes of Tens

                                TracyTracy
                                Participant

                                  Whether or not Arachne was actually better at weaving than Athena is still a mystery, or perhaps it is a moot point and no mystery at all. Weaving is by no means a solitary endeavour, as Blithe found early one summer morning. The river mist was rising and the air itself was dancing in droplets. It was hard to determine if the droplets were falling or rising, or simply milling around on the air currents. Hard green oranges (clearly oranges had been named in winter, or they would likely have been called greens) were festooned with silver threads, linking orange to orange, orange to tree and tree to wire fence, and back again. It was debatable whether or not the individual spiders were aware of the grand overall design of the early morning web links of the orange groves, just as it was equally debatable whether or not the inhabitants of the various Gibber realities were aware of the network of waterpipes that connected the other inhabitants to themselves and each other, and to the other Gibber worlds. Individuals were individuals, whether they be spiders, or Gibblets, and individuals generally speaking were focused on their own part of the tapestry (and often those of their immediate neighbours). Spider 57 on the east fence might be positioned to catch the first rays of sunshine in the mornings, but Spider 486,971 over near the dung heap was in a better position to catch the afternoon flies. And so on, as somebody famous once said.

                                  As Blithe prowled around the orchard capturing potential clues on her Clumera she inevitably became part of the laybrinthine web of sticky threads herself, as they attached themselves to her hair and clothing. All of the gaps between the solids in the field were joined together with spun filaments, just as the Gibblets were joined together with fun spillaments (although leaking waterpipes were sadly misinterpreted as not-fun all too often, despite that they could be used as an opportunity to view the connections of the Waterpunk more comprehensively.)

                                  The individual spiders lacy parlours were framed in wire squares, several hundred, if not more, along the perimeter fences. Not every wire fence square was filled; there were many vacant lots between established residences ~ whether by practical design or mere happenstance, Blithe couldn’t say. Many of the individual webs were whole and perfect, like the windows of Lower Gibber whose inhabitants kept their lace curtains clean and neatly hung. Many of the webs on the wire fence were not perfect in the symetrical sense ~ some had gaping holes, and there were those that appeared to be unfinished, despite showing great potential. Others appeared to be abandoned, hanging in shreds, not unlike many of the residences in Upper Gibber.

                                  The wire framed residences of the field (and likewise the peeling paint framed residences of Upper Gibber) that appeared to be defunct were not quite as they seemed, however. They were simply being viewed from a different timeframe. It was quite possible to view each wire or peeled paint framed en-trance side by side, notwithstanding that they were, so to speak, located in varying timeframes. All that was required was a more flexible viewpoint, and an ability to view more than one timeframe simultaneously. It was all a question of allowing an entrance to en-trance ~ which was, after all, its function.

                                  {link: misty morning; entrance}

                                  #2506

                                  In reply to: Strings of Nines

                                  TracyTracy
                                  Participant

                                    Yoland was disgruntled. Despite not worrying about money, and regardless of generally feeling abundantly lucky, several large bills had inexplicably all come at once. And then, as if to underline her feeling of losing control, her car skidded badly while she was slowing down for a speed control bump, causing her to career over it at full speed. Rather shaken, Yoland frowned, wondering where she was going wrong. Suddenly she felt a million miles away from ease. Change your energy, she said to herself, but she couldn’t remember how to. She managed to make it home relatively unscathed, and then one of her big dogs accidentally trampled on the new puppy. His squeals of pain as he held up his leg made her even more determined to change her friggen energy, and change it fast. Sheesh, she said. Pfft.

                                    #1249

                                    Siobhan was settling into her new job at the Freakus, fitting like a duck to water into her position as Head Cage Rattler. It wasn’t an easy job to do which was why the rewards were so high; it certainly wasn’t everyones cup of tea, and good Cage Rattlers were hard to find. Oh, there were plenty of Cage Rattlers, true, but not good ones. A good Cage Rattler had to have a certain “je ne say kwah”, an impermeability, much like the oily feathers of a duck, enabling the Cage Rattler to glide easily through troubled waters without sinking ~ without even getting wet, if they were very skilled.

                                    The success of the Freakus show depended on new ideas and inspirations. The audience, as well as the participants of course, wanted something new, something challenging, something inspiring, something ‘out of the box’ for each show, not the same old boring routines. There was nothing entertaining about the same old tricks rehashed over and over again, even if they were well known and easy to perform. True, there were many of the general public who preferred the familiar acts, but they generally weren’t fans of the innovative and forward thinking Freakus show. Freakus was new, exciting, thought provoking and entrancingly different, hence the importance of the Cage Rattlers.

                                    When the performers and cast members of Freakus got too complacent or too boring, it was Siobhan’s job to disturb them, to rattle their cages, yes, to upset them. Clearly it was undeniably important that Siobhan not take their retaliations personally; after all, she was just doing her job. She was shaking things up purposefully for the overall benefit of the show, it was a simple as that. It wasn’t her job to direct or lead those in the rattled cages, simply to disturb them from their boring old routines. Freakus, after all, wasn’t about the old and boring, it was about the new and exciting, and it was up to the individual performers to come up with a new act.

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