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    TracyTracy
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      From Tanganyika with Love

      continued  ~ part 6

      With thanks to Mike Rushby.

      Mchewe 6th June 1937

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

      With much love,
      Eleanor.

      Mchewe 25th June 1937

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

      Lots of love,
      Eleanor.

      Mchewe 9th July 1937

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

      Eleanor

      Mchewe 8th October 1937

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

      Eleanor.

      Mchewe 17th October 1937

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

      Eleanor.

      Mchewe 18th November 1937

      My darling Ann,

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

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

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

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

      Mchewe 18th November 1937

      Hello George Darling,

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

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

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

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

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

      Mchewe 12th February, 1938

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Eleanor.

      Mbulu 18th March, 1938

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Eleanor.

      Mbulu 24th March, 1938

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Eleanor.

      Mbulu 20th June 1938

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

      Eleanor.

      Karatu 3rd July 1938

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

      Eleanor.

      Karatu 12th July 1938

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Eleanor.

      Oldeani. 19th July 1938

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

      Eleanor.

      Oldeani. 10th August 1938

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

      Eleanor.

      Oldeani. 20th August 1938

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

      Eleanor.

      Oldeani Hospital. 9th September 1938

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

      Eleanor.

      #6264
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        From Tanganyika with Love

        continued  ~ part 5

        With thanks to Mike Rushby.

        Chunya 16th December 1936

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

        Much love to all,
        Eleanor.

        Itewe, Chunya 23rd December 1936

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        With love,
        Eleanor.

        Itewe, Chunya 30th December 1936

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

        Itewe, Chunya 19th January 1937

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Chunya 29th January 1937

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

        We should be with you in three weeks time!

        Very much love,
        Eleanor.

        Broken Hill, N Rhodesia 11th February 1937

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        With love to you all,
        Eleanor.

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

        George Rushby Ann and Georgie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        #6243
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          William Housley’s Will and the Court Case

          William Housley died in 1848, but his widow Ellen didn’t die until 1872.  The court case was in 1873.  Details about the court case are archived at the National Archives at Kew,  in London, but are not available online. They can be viewed in person, but that hasn’t been possible thus far.  However, there are a great many references to it in the letters.

          William Housley’s first wife was Mary Carrington 1787-1813.  They had three children, Mary Anne, Elizabeth and William. When Mary died, William married Mary’s sister Ellen, not in their own parish church at Smalley but in Ashbourne.  Although not uncommon for a widower to marry a deceased wife’s sister, it wasn’t legal.  This point is mentioned in one of the letters.

          One of the pages of William Housley’s will:

          William Housleys Will

           

          An excerpt from Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters:

          A comment in a letter from Joseph (August 6, 1873) indicated that William was married twice and that his wives were sisters: “What do you think that I believe that Mary Ann is trying to make our father’s will of no account as she says that my father’s marriage with our mother was not lawful he marrying two sisters. What do you think of her? I have heard my mother say something about paying a fine at the time of the marriage to make it legal.” Markwell and Saul in The A-Z Guide to Tracing Ancestors in Britain explain that marriage to a deceased wife’s sister was not permissible under Canon law as the relationship was within the prohibited degrees. However, such marriages did take place–usually well away from the couple’s home area. Up to 1835 such marriages were not void but were voidable by legal action. Few such actions were instituted but the risk was always there.

          Joseph wrote that when Emma was married, Ellen “broke up the comfortable home and the things went to Derby and she went to live with them but Derby didn’t agree with her so she left again leaving her things behind and came to live with John in the new house where she died.” Ellen was listed with John’s household in the 1871 census. 
          In May 1872, the Ilkeston Pioneer carried this notice: “Mr. Hopkins will sell by auction on Saturday next the eleventh of May 1872 the whole of the useful furniture, sewing machine, etc. nearly new on the premises of the late Mrs. Housley at Smalley near Heanor in the county of Derby. Sale at one o’clock in the afternoon.”

          There were hard feelings between Mary Ann and Ellen and her children. Anne wrote: “If you remember we were not very friendly when you left. They never came and nothing was too bad for Mary Ann to say of Mother and me, but when Robert died Mother sent for her to the funeral but she did not think well to come so we took no more notice. She would not allow her children to come either.”
          Mary Ann was still living in May 1872. Joseph implied that she and her brother, Will “intend making a bit of bother about the settlement of the bit of property” left by their mother. The 1871 census listed Mary Ann’s occupation as “income from houses.”

          In July 1872, Joseph introduced Ruth’s husband: “No doubt he is a bad lot. He is one of the Heath’s of Stanley Common a miller and he lives at Smalley Mill” (Ruth Heath was Mary Anne Housley’s daughter)
          In 1873 Joseph wrote, “He is nothing but a land shark both Heath and his wife and his wife is the worst of the two. You will think these is hard words but they are true dear brother.” The solicitor, Abraham John Flint, was not at all pleased with Heath’s obstruction of the settlement of the estate. He wrote on June 30, 1873: “Heath agreed at first and then because I would not pay his expenses he refused and has since instructed another solicitor for his wife and Mrs. Weston who have been opposing us to the utmost. I am concerned for all parties interested except these two….The judge severely censured Heath for his conduct and wanted to make an order for sale there and then but Heath’s council would not consent….” In June 1875, the solicitor wrote: “Heath bid for the property but it fetched more money than he could give for it. He has been rather quieter lately.”

          In May 1872, Joseph wrote: “For what do you think, John has sold his share and he has acted very bad since his wife died and at the same time he sold all his furniture. You may guess I have never seen him but once since poor mother’s funeral and he is gone now no one knows where.”

          In 1876, the solicitor wrote to George: “Have you heard of John Housley? He is entitled to Robert’s share and I want him to claim it.”

          Anne intended that one third of the inheritance coming to her from her father and her grandfather, William Carrington, be divided between her four nieces: Sam’s three daughters and John’s daughter Elizabeth.
          In the same letter (December 15, 1872), Joseph wrote:
          “I think we have now found all out now that is concerned in the matter for there was only Sam that we did not know his whereabouts but I was informed a week ago that he is dead–died about three years ago in Birmingham Union. Poor Sam. He ought to have come to a better end than that”

          However, Samuel was still alive was on the 1871 census in Henley in Arden, and no record of his death can be found. Samuel’s brother in law said he was dead: we do not know why he lied, or perhaps the brothers were lying to keep his share, or another possibility is that Samuel himself told his brother in law to tell them that he was dead. I am inclined to think it was the latter.

          Excerpts from Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters continued:

          Charles went to Australia in 1851, and was last heard from in January 1853. According to the solicitor, who wrote to George on June 3, 1874, Charles had received advances on the settlement of their parent’s estate. “Your promissory note with the two signed by your brother Charles for 20 pounds he received from his father and 20 pounds he received from his mother are now in the possession of the court.”

          In December 1872, Joseph wrote: “I’m told that Charles two daughters has wrote to Smalley post office making inquiries about his share….” In January 1876, the solicitor wrote: “Charles Housley’s children have claimed their father’s share.”

          In the Adelaide Observer 28 Aug 1875

          HOUSLEY – wanted information
          as to the Death, Will, or Intestacy, and
          Children of Charles Housley, formerly of
          Smalley, Derbyshire, England, who died at
          Geelong or Creewick Creek Diggings, Victoria
          August, 1855. His children will hear of something to their advantage by communicating with
          Mr. A J. Flint, solicitor, Derby, England.
          June 16,1875.

          The Diggers & Diggings of Victoria in 1855. Drawn on Stone by S.T. Gill:

          Victoria Diggings, Australie

           

          The court case:

           Kerry v Housley.
          Documents: Bill, demurrer.
          Plaintiffs: Samuel Kerry and Joseph Housley.
          Defendants: William Housley, Joseph Housley (deleted), Edwin Welch Harvey, Eleanor Harvey (deleted), Ernest Harvey infant, William Stafford, Elizabeth Stafford his wife, Mary Ann Housley, George Purdy and Catherine Purdy his wife, Elizabeth Housley, Mary Ann Weston widow and William Heath and Ruth Heath his wife (deleted).
          Provincial solicitor employed in Derbyshire.
          Date: 1873

          From the Narrative on the Letters:

          The solicitor wrote on May 23, 1874: “Lately I have not written because I was not certain of your address and because I doubted I had much interesting news to tell you.” Later, Joseph wrote concerning the problems settling the estate, “You see dear brother there is only me here on our side and I cannot do much. I wish you were here to help me a bit and if you think of going for another summer trip this turn you might as well run over here.”

          In March 1873, Joseph wrote: “You ask me what I think of you coming to England. I think as you have given the trustee power to sign for you I think you could do no good but I should like to see you once again for all that. I can’t say whether there would be anything amiss if you did come as you say it would be throwing good money after bad.”

          In September 1872 Joseph wrote; “My wife is anxious to come. I hope it will suit her health for she is not over strong.” Elsewhere Joseph wrote that Harriet was “middling sometimes. She is subject to sick headaches. It knocks her up completely when they come on.” In December 1872 Joseph wrote, “Now dear brother about us coming to America you know we shall have to wait until this affair is settled and if it is not settled and thrown into Chancery I’m afraid we shall have to stay in England for I shall never be able to save money enough to bring me out and my family but I hope of better things.”
          On July 19, 1875 Abraham Flint (the solicitor) wrote: “Joseph Housley has removed from Smalley and is working on some new foundry buildings at Little Chester near Derby. He lives at a village called Little Eaton near Derby. If you address your letter to him as Joseph Housley, carpenter, Little Eaton near Derby that will no doubt find him.”

          In his last letter (February 11, 1874), Joseph sounded very discouraged and wrote that Harriet’s parents were very poorly and both had been “in bed for a long time.” In addition, Harriet and the children had been ill.
          The move to Little Eaton may indicate that Joseph received his settlement because in August, 1873, he wrote: “I think this is bad news enough and bad luck too, but I have had little else since I came to live at Kiddsley cottages but perhaps it is all for the best if one could only think so. I have begun to think there will be no chance for us coming over to you for I am afraid there will not be so much left as will bring us out without it is settled very shortly but I don’t intend leaving this house until it is settled either one way or the other. ”

          Joseph’s letters were much concerned with the settling of their mother’s estate. In 1854, Anne wrote, “As for my mother coming (to America) I think not at all likely. She is tied here with her property.” A solicitor, Abraham John Flint of 42 Full Street Derby, was engaged by John following the death of their mother. On June 30, 1873 the solicitor wrote: “Dear sir, On the death of your mother I was consulted by your brother John. I acted for him with reference to the sale and division of your father’s property at Smalley. Mr. Kerry was very unwilling to act as trustee being over 73 years of age but owing to the will being a badly drawn one we could not appoint another trustee in his place nor could the property be sold without a decree of chancery. Therefore Mr. Kerry consented and after a great deal of trouble with Heath who has opposed us all throughout whenever matters did not suit him, we found the title deeds and offered the property for sale by public auction on the 15th of July last. Heath could not find his purchase money without mortaging his property the solicitor which the mortgagee employed refused to accept Mr. Kerry’s title and owing to another defect in the will we could not compel them.”

          In July 1872, Joseph wrote, “I do not know whether you can remember who the trustee was to my father’s will. It was Thomas Watson and Samuel Kerry of Smalley Green. Mr. Watson is dead (died a fortnight before mother) so Mr. Kerry has had to manage the affair.”

          On Dec. 15, 1972, Joseph wrote, “Now about this property affair. It seems as far off of being settled as ever it was….” and in the following March wrote: “I think we are as far off as ever and farther I think.”

          Concerning the property which was auctioned on July 15, 1872 and brought 700 pounds, Joseph wrote: “It was sold in five lots for building land and this man Heath bought up four lots–that is the big house, the croft and the cottages. The croft was made into two lots besides the piece belonging to the big house and the cottages and gardens was another lot and the little intake was another. William Richardson bought that.” Elsewhere Richardson’s purchase was described as “the little croft against Smith’s lane.” Smith’s Lane was probably named for their neighbor Daniel Smith, Mrs. Davy’s father.
          But in December 1872, Joseph wrote that they had not received any money because “Mr. Heath is raising all kinds of objections to the will–something being worded wrong in the will.” In March 1873, Joseph “clarified” matters in this way: “His objection was that one trustee could not convey the property that his signature was not guarantee sufficient as it states in the will that both trustees has to sign the conveyance hence this bother.”
          Joseph indicated that six shares were to come out of the 700 pounds besides Will’s 20 pounds. Children were to come in for the parents shares if dead. The solicitor wrote in 1873, “This of course refers to the Kidsley property in which you take a one seventh share and which if the property sells well may realize you about 60-80 pounds.” In March 1873 Joseph wrote: “You have an equal share with the rest in both lots of property, but I am afraid there will be but very little for any of us.”

          The other “lot of property” was “property in Smalley left under another will.” On July 17, 1872, Joseph wrote: “It was left by my grandfather Carrington and Uncle Richard is trustee. He seems very backward in bringing the property to a sale but I saw him and told him that I for one expect him to proceed with it.” George seemed to have difficulty understanding that there were two pieces of property so Joseph explained further: “It was left by my grandfather Carrington not by our father and Uncle Richard is the trustee for it but the will does not give him power to sell without the signatures of the parties concerned.” In June 1873 the solicitor Abraham John Flint asked: “Nothing has been done about the other property at Smalley at present. It wants attention and the other parties have asked me to attend to it. Do you authorize me to see to it for you as well?”
          After Ellen’s death, the rent was divided between Joseph, Will, Mary Ann and Mr. Heath who bought John’s share and was married to Mary Ann’s daughter, Ruth. Joseph said that Mr. Heath paid 40 pounds for John’s share and that John had drawn 110 pounds in advance. The solicitor said Heath said he paid 60. The solicitor said that Heath was trying to buy the shares of those at home to get control of the property and would have defied the absent ones to get anything.
          In September 1872 Joseph wrote that the lawyer said the trustee cannot sell the property at the bottom of Smalley without the signatures of all parties concerned in it and it will have to go through chancery court which will be a great expense. He advised Joseph to sell his share and Joseph advised George to do the same.

          George sent a “portrait” so that it could be established that it was really him–still living and due a share. Joseph wrote (July 1872): “the trustee was quite willing to (acknowledge you) for the portrait I think is a very good one.” Several letters later in response to an inquiry from George, Joseph wrote: “The trustee recognized you in a minute…I have not shown it to Mary Ann for we are not on good terms….Parties that I have shown it to own you again but they say it is a deal like John. It is something like him, but I think is more like myself.”
          In September 1872 Joseph wrote that the lawyer required all of their ages and they would have to pay “succession duty”. Joseph requested that George send a list of birth dates.

          On May 23, 1874, the solicitor wrote: “I have been offered 240 pounds for the three cottages and the little house. They sold for 200 pounds at the last sale and then I was offered 700 pounds for the whole lot except Richardson’s Heanor piece for which he is still willing to give 58 pounds. Thus you see that the value of the estate has very materially increased since the last sale so that this delay has been beneficial to your interests than other-wise. Coal has become much dearer and they suppose there is coal under this estate. There are many enquiries about it and I believe it will realize 800 pounds or more which increase will more than cover all expenses.” Eventually the solicitor wrote that the property had been sold for 916 pounds and George would take a one-ninth share.

          January 14, 1876:  “I am very sorry to hear of your lameness and illness but I trust that you are now better. This matter as I informed you had to stand over until December since when all the costs and expenses have been taxed and passed by the court and I am expecting to receive the order for these this next week, then we have to pay the legacy duty and them divide the residue which I doubt won’t come to very much amongst so many of you. But you will hear from me towards the end of the month or early next month when I shall have to send you the papers to sign for your share. I can’t tell you how much it will be at present as I shall have to deduct your share with the others of the first sale made of the property before it went to court.
          Wishing you a Happy New Year, I am Dear Sir, Yours truly
          Abram J. Flint”

          September 15, 1876 (the last letter)
          “I duly received your power of attorney which appears to have been properly executed on Thursday last and I sent it on to my London agent, Mr. Henry Lyvell, who happens just now to be away for his annual vacation and will not return for 14 or 20 days and as his signature is required by the Paymaster General before he will pay out your share, it must consequently stand over and await his return home. It shall however receive immediate attention as soon as he returns and I hope to be able to send your checque for the balance very shortly.”

          1874 in chancery:

          Housley Estate Sale

          #6240
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            Phyllis Ellen Marshall

            1909 – 1983

            Phyllis Marshall

             

            Phyllis, my grandfather George Marshall’s sister, never married. She lived in her parents home in Love Lane, and spent decades of her later life bedridden, living alone and crippled with rheumatoid arthritis. She had her bed in the front downstairs room, and had cords hanging by her bed to open the curtains, turn on the tv and so on, and she had carers and meals on wheels visit her daily. The room was dark and grim, but Phyllis was always smiling and cheerful.  Phyllis loved the Degas ballerinas and had a couple of prints on the walls.

            I remember visiting her, but it has only recently registered that this was my great grandparents house. When I was a child, we visited her and she indicated a tin on a chest of drawers and said I could take a biscuit. It was a lemon puff, and was the stalest biscuit I’d ever had. To be polite I ate it. Then she offered me another one! I declined, but she thought I was being polite and said “Go on! You can have another!” I ate another one, and have never eaten a lemon puff since that day.

            Phyllis’s nephew Bryan Marshall used to visit her regularly. I didn’t realize how close they were until recently, when I resumed contact with Bryan, who emigrated to USA in the 1970s following a successful application for a job selling stained glass windows and church furnishings.

            I asked on a Stourbridge facebook group if anyone remembered her.

            AF  Yes I remember her. My friend and I used to go up from Longlands school every Friday afternoon to do jobs for her. I remember she had a record player and we used to put her 45rpm record on Send in the Clowns for her. Such a lovely lady. She had her bed in the front room.

            KW I remember very clearly a lady in a small house in Love Lane with alley at the left hand.  I was intrigued by this lady who used to sit with the front door open and she was in a large chair of some sort. I used to see people going in and out and the lady was smiling. I was young then (31) and wondered how she coped but my sense was she had lots of help.  I’ve never forgotten that lady in Love Lane sitting in the open door way I suppose when it was warm enough.

            LR I used to deliver meals on wheels to her lovely lady.

            I sent Bryan the comments from the Stourbridge group and he replied:

            Thanks Tracy. I don’t recognize the names here but lovely to see such kind comments.
            In the early 70’s neighbors on Corser Street, Mr. & Mrs. Walter Braithwaite would pop around with occasional visits and meals. Walter was my piano teacher for awhile when I was in my early twenties. He was a well known music teacher at Rudolph Steiner School (former Elmfield School) on Love Lane. A very fine school. I seem to recall seeing a good article on Walter recently…perhaps on the Stourbridge News website. He was very well known.
            I’m ruminating about life with my Aunt Phyllis. We were very close. Our extra special time was every Saturday at 5pm (I seem to recall) we’d watch Doctor Who. Right from the first episode. We loved it. Likewise I’d do the children’s crossword out of Woman’s Realm magazine…always looking to win a camera but never did ! She opened my mind to the Bible, music and ballet. She once got tickets and had a taxi take us into Birmingham to see the Bolshoi Ballet…at a time when they rarely left their country. It was a very big deal in the early 60’s. ! I’ve many fond memories about her and grandad which I’ll share in due course. I’d change the steel needle on the old record player, following each play of the 78rpm records…oh my…another world.

            Bryan continues reminiscing about Phyllis in further correspondence:

            Yes, I can recall those two Degas prints. I don’t know much of Phyllis’ early history other than she was a hairdresser in Birmingham. I want to say at John Lewis, for some reason (so there must have been a connection and being such a large store I bet they did have a salon?)
            You will know that she had severe and debilitating rheumatoid arthritis that eventually gnarled her hands and moved through her body. I remember strapping on her leg/foot braces and hearing her writhe in pain as I did so but she wanted to continue walking standing/ getting up as long as she could. I’d take her out in the wheelchair and I can’t believe I say it along …but down Stanley Road!! (I had subsequent nightmares about what could have happened to her, had I tripped or let go!) She loved Mary Stevens Park, the swans, ducks and of course Canadian geese. Was grateful for everything in creation. As I used to go over Hanbury Hill on my visit to Love Lane, she would always remind me to smell the “sea-air” as I crested the hill.
            In the earlier days she smoked cigarettes with one of those long filters…looking like someone from the twenties.

            I’ll check on “Send in the clowns”. I do recall that music. I remember also she loved to hear Neil Diamond. Her favorites in classical music gave me an appreciation of Elgar and Delius especially. She also loved ballet music such as Swan Lake and Nutcracker. Scheherazade and La Boutique Fantastic also other gems.
            When grandad died she and aunt Dorothy shared more about grandma (who died I believe when John and I were nine-months old…therefore early 1951). Grandma (Mary Ann Gilman Purdy) played the piano and loved Strauss and Offenbach. The piano in the picture you sent had a bad (wonky) leg which would fall off and when we had the piano at 4, Mount Road it was rather dangerous. In any event my parents didn’t want me or others “banging on it” for fear of waking the younger brothers so it disappeared at sometime.
            By the way, the dog, Flossy was always so rambunctious (of course, she was a JRT!) she was put on the stairway which fortunately had a door on it. Having said that I’ve always loved dogs so was very excited to see her and disappointed when she was not around. 

            Phyllis with her parents William and Mary Marshall, and Flossie the dog in the garden at Love Lane:

            Phyllis William and Mary Marshall

             

            Bryan continues:

            I’ll always remember the early days with the outside toilet with the overhead cistern caked in active BIG spider webs. I used to have to light a candle to go outside, shielding the flame until destination. In that space I’d set the candle down and watch the eery shadows move from side to side whilst…well anyway! Then I’d run like hell back into the house. Eventually the kitchen wall was broken through so it became an indoor loo. Phew!
            In the early days the house was rented for ten-shillings a week…I know because I used to take over a ten-bob-note to a grumpy lady next door who used to sign the receipt in the rent book. Then, I think she died and it became available for $600.00 yes…the whole house for $600.00 but it wasn’t purchased then. Eventually aunt Phyllis purchased it some years later…perhaps when grandad died.

            I used to work much in the back garden which was a lovely walled garden with arch-type decorations in the brickwork and semicircular shaped capping bricks. The abundant apple tree. Raspberry and loganberry canes. A gooseberry bush and huge Victoria plum tree on the wall at the bottom of the garden which became a wonderful attraction for wasps! (grandad called the “whasps”). He would stew apples and fruit daily.
            Do you remember their black and white cat Twinky? Always sat on the pink-screen TV and when she died they were convinced that “that’s wot got ‘er”. Grandad of course loved all his cats and as he aged, he named them all “Billy”.

            Have you come across the name “Featherstone” in grandma’s name. I don’t recall any details but Dorothy used to recall this. She did much searching of the family history Such a pity she didn’t hand anything on to anyone. She also said that we had a member of the family who worked with James Watt….but likewise I don’t have details.
            Gifts of chocolates to Phyllis were regular and I became the recipient of the overflow!

            What a pity Dorothy’s family history research has disappeared!  I have found the Featherstone’s, and the Purdy who worked with James Watt, but I wonder what else Dorothy knew.

            I mentioned DH Lawrence to Bryan, and the connection to Eastwood, where Bryan’s grandma (and Phyllis’s mother) Mary Ann Gilman Purdy was born, and shared with him the story about Francis Purdy, the Primitive Methodist minister, and about Francis’s son William who invented the miners lamp.

            He replied:

            As a nosy young man I was looking through the family bookcase in Love Lane and came across a brown paper covered book. Intrigued, I found “Sons and Lovers” D.H. Lawrence. I knew it was a taboo book (in those days) as I was growing up but now I see the deeper connection. Of course! I know that Phyllis had I think an earlier boyfriend by the name of Maurice who lived in Perry Barr, Birmingham. I think he later married but was always kind enough to send her a book and fond message each birthday (Feb.12). I guess you know grandad’s birthday – July 28. We’d always celebrate those days. I’d usually be the one to go into Oldswinford and get him a cardigan or pullover and later on, his 2oz tins of St. Bruno tobacco for his pipe (I recall the room filled with smoke as he puffed away).
            Dorothy and Phyllis always spoke of their ancestor’s vocation as a Minister. So glad to have this history! Wow, what a story too. The Lord rescued him from mischief indeed. Just goes to show how God can change hearts…one at a time.
            So interesting to hear about the Miner’s Lamp. My vicar whilst growing up at St. John’s in Stourbridge was from Durham and each Harvest Festival, there would be a miner’s lamp placed upon the altar as a symbol of the colliery and the bountiful harvest.

            More recollections from Bryan about the house and garden at Love Lane:

            I always recall tea around the three legged oak table bedecked with a colorful seersucker cloth. Battenburg cake. Jam Roll. Rich Tea and Digestive biscuits. Mr. Kipling’s exceedingly good cakes! Home-made jam.  Loose tea from the Coronation tin cannister. The ancient mangle outside the back door and the galvanized steel wash tub with hand-operated agitator on the underside of the lid. The hand operated water pump ‘though modernisation allowed for a cold tap only inside, above the single sink and wooden draining board. A small gas stove and very little room for food preparation. Amazing how the Marshalls (×7) managed in this space!

            The small window over the sink in the kitchen brought in little light since the neighbor built on a bathroom annex at the back of their house, leaving #47 with limited light, much to to upset of grandad and Phyllis. I do recall it being a gloomy place..i.e.the kitchen and back room.

            The garden was lovely. Long and narrow with privet hedge dividing the properties on the right and the lovely wall on the left. Dorothy planted spectacular lilac bushes against the wall. Vivid blues, purples and whites. Double-flora. Amazing…and with stunning fragrance. Grandad loved older victorian type plants such as foxgloves and comfrey. Forget-me-nots and marigolds (calendulas) in abundance.  Rhubarb stalks. Always plantings of lettuce and other vegetables. Lots of mint too! A large varigated laurel bush outside the front door!

            Such a pleasant walk through the past. 

            An autograph book belonging to Phyllis from the 1920s has survived in which each friend painted a little picture, drew a cartoon, or wrote a verse.  This entry is perhaps my favourite:

            Ripping Time

            #6232
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              Looking for Photographs

              I appreciate how fortunate I am that there are so many family photographs on various sides of the family, however, on some sides, for example the Warrens and the Grettons, there are no photographs. I’d love to find a photograph of my great grandmother Florence Nightingale Gretton, as she is the only great grandparent I don’t have a photo of.

              I look on other people’s family trees on ancestry websites, and I join local town memories and old photos groups on facebook hoping to find photos. And I have found a few, and what a prize it is to find a photograph of someone in your tree.  None found so far of Florence Nightingale Gretton, although I found one of her sister Clara, her brother Charles, and another potential one, posted on a Swadlincote group: a Warren wedding group in 1910.

              Charles Herbert Gretton 1876-1954 and his wife Mary Ann Illsley:

              Charles Gretton

               

              The wedding of Robert Adolphus Warren and Eveline Crofts.  Photo in the collection of Colin Smith, Eveline Crofts first cousin twice removed. Reposted with permission:

              Warren wedding 1910

              The groom was Florence’s husbands cousin, but identifying my great grandparents in the crowd would be guesswork.  My grandmother was born in 1906, and could be one of the children sitting at the front.  It was an interesting exercise to note the family likenesses.

              Ben Warren the footballer is the man on the far right, on the same line as the groom. His children are sitting in front of the bride.

              There are many mentions of Ben Warren the footballer on the Newhall and Swadlincote groups ~ Ben Warren was my great grandfathers cousin, and is a story in itself ~ and a photograph of Ben’s daughter, Lillian Warren was posted.

              Lillian Warren (reposted with permission)

              Lillian Warren

               

              Lillian was my grandmothers first cousin once removed or second cousin. The resemblance to my grandmother, Florence Noreen Warren, seems striking.

              #6219
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                The following stories started with a single question.

                Who was Catherine Housley’s mother?

                But one question leads to another, and another, and so this book will never be finished.  This is the first in a collection of stories of a family history research project, not a complete family history.  There will always be more questions and more searches, and each new find presents more questions.

                A list of names and dates is only moderately interesting, and doesn’t mean much unless you get to know the characters along the way.   For example, a cousin on my fathers side has already done a great deal of thorough and accurate family research. I copied one branch of the family onto my tree, going back to the 1500’s, but lost interest in it after about an hour or so, because I didn’t feel I knew any of the individuals.

                Parish registers, the census every ten years, birth, death and marriage certificates can tell you so much, but they can’t tell you why.  They don’t tell you why parents chose the names they did for their children, or why they moved, or why they married in another town.  They don’t tell you why a person lived in another household, or for how long. The census every ten years doesn’t tell you what people were doing in the intervening years, and in the case of the UK and the hundred year privacy rule, we can’t even use those for the past century.  The first census was in 1831 in England, prior to that all we have are parish registers. An astonishing amount of them have survived and have been transcribed and are one way or another available to see, both transcriptions and microfiche images.  Not all of them survived, however. Sometimes the writing has faded to white, sometimes pages are missing, and in some case the entire register is lost or damaged.

                Sometimes if you are lucky, you may find mention of an ancestor in an obscure little local history book or a journal or diary.  Wills, court cases, and newspaper archives often provide interesting information. Town memories and history groups on social media are another excellent source of information, from old photographs of the area, old maps, local history, and of course, distantly related relatives still living in the area.  Local history societies can be useful, and some if not all are very helpful.

                If you’re very lucky indeed, you might find a distant relative in another country whose grandparents saved and transcribed bundles of old letters found in the attic, from the family in England to the brother who emigrated, written in the 1800s.  More on this later, as it merits its own chapter as the most exciting find so far.

                The social history of the time and place is important and provides many clues as to why people moved and why the family professions and occupations changed over generations.  The Enclosures Act and the Industrial Revolution in England created difficulties for rural farmers, factories replaced cottage industries, and the sons of land owning farmers became shop keepers and miners in the local towns.  For the most part (at least in my own research) people didn’t move around much unless there was a reason.  There are no reasons mentioned in the various registers, records and documents, but with a little reading of social history you can sometimes make a good guess.  Samuel Housley, for example, a plumber, probably moved from rural Derbyshire to urban Wolverhampton, when there was a big project to install indoor plumbing to areas of the city in the early 1800s.  Derbyshire nailmakers were offered a job and a house if they moved to Wolverhampton a generation earlier.

                Occasionally a couple would marry in another parish, although usually they married in their own. Again, there was often a reason.  William Housley and Ellen Carrington married in Ashbourne, not in Smalley.  In this case, William’s first wife was Mary Carrington, Ellen’s sister.  It was not uncommon for a man to marry a deceased wife’s sister, but it wasn’t strictly speaking legal.  This caused some problems later when William died, as the children of the first wife contested the will, on the grounds of the second marriage being illegal.

                Needless to say, there are always questions remaining, and often a fresh pair of eyes can help find a vital piece of information that has escaped you.  In one case, I’d been looking for the death of a widow, Mary Anne Gilman, and had failed to notice that she remarried at a late age. Her death was easy to find, once I searched for it with her second husbands name.

                This brings me to the topic of maternal family lines. One tends to think of their lineage with the focus on paternal surnames, but very quickly the number of surnames increases, and all of the maternal lines are directly related as much as the paternal name.  This is of course obvious, if you start from the beginning with yourself and work back.  In other words, there is not much point in simply looking for your fathers name hundreds of years ago because there are hundreds of other names that are equally your own family ancestors. And in my case, although not intentionally, I’ve investigated far more maternal lines than paternal.

                This book, which I hope will be the first of several, will concentrate on my mothers family: The story so far that started with the portrait of Catherine Housley’s mother.

                Elizabeth Brookes

                 

                This painting, now in my mothers house, used to hang over the piano in the home of her grandparents.   It says on the back “Catherine Housley’s mother, Smalley”.

                The portrait of Catherine Housley’s mother can be seen above the piano. Back row Ronald Marshall, my grandfathers brother, William Marshall, my great grandfather, Mary Ann Gilman Purdy Marshall in the middle, my great grandmother, with her daughters Dorothy on the left and Phyllis on the right, at the Marshall’s house on Love Lane in Stourbridge.

                Marshalls

                 

                 

                The Search for Samuel Housley

                As soon as the search for Catherine Housley’s mother was resolved, achieved by ordering a paper copy of her birth certificate, the search for Catherine Housley’s father commenced. We know he was born in Smalley in 1816, son of William Housley and Ellen Carrington, and that he married Elizabeth Brookes in Wolverhampton in 1844. He was a plumber and glazier. His three daughters born between 1845 and 1849 were born in Smalley. Elizabeth died in 1849 of consumption, but Samuel didn’t register her death. A 20 year old neighbour called Aaron Wadkinson did.

                Elizabeth death

                 

                Where was Samuel?

                On the 1851 census, two of Samuel’s daughters were listed as inmates in the Belper Workhouse, and the third, 2 year old Catherine, was listed as living with John Benniston and his family in nearby Heanor.  Benniston was a framework knitter.

                Where was Samuel?

                A long search through the microfiche workhouse registers provided an answer. The reason for Elizabeth and Mary Anne’s admission in June 1850 was given as “father in prison”. In May 1850, Samuel Housley was sentenced to one month hard labour at Derby Gaol for failing to maintain his three children. What happened to those little girls in the year after their mothers death, before their father was sentenced, and they entered the workhouse? Where did Catherine go, a six week old baby? We have yet to find out.

                Samuel Housley 1850

                 

                And where was Samuel Housley in 1851? He hasn’t appeared on any census.

                According to the Belper workhouse registers, Mary Anne was discharged on trial as a servant February 1860. She was readmitted a month later in March 1860, the reason given: unwell.

                Belper Workhouse:

                Belper Workhouse

                Eventually, Mary Anne and Elizabeth were discharged, in April 1860, with an aunt and uncle. The workhouse register doesn’t name the aunt and uncle. One can only wonder why it took them so long.
                On the 1861 census, Elizabeth, 16 years old, is a servant in St Peters, Derby, and Mary Anne, 15 years old, is a servant in St Werburghs, Derby.

                But where was Samuel?

                After some considerable searching, we found him, despite a mistranscription of his name, on the 1861 census, living as a lodger and plumber in Darlaston, Walsall.
                Eventually we found him on a 1871 census living as a lodger at the George and Dragon in Henley in Arden. The age is not exactly right, but close enough, he is listed as an unmarried painter, also close enough, and his birth is listed as Kidsley, Derbyshire. He was born at Kidsley Grange Farm. We can assume that he was probably alive in 1872, the year his mother died, and the following year, 1873, during the Kerry vs Housley court case.

                Samuel Housley 1871

                 

                I found some living Housley descendants in USA. Samuel Housley’s brother George emigrated there in 1851. The Housley’s in USA found letters in the attic, from the family in Smalley ~ written between 1851 and 1870s. They sent me a “Narrative on the Letters” with many letter excerpts.

                The Housley family were embroiled in a complicated will and court case in the early 1870s. In December 15, 1872, Joseph (Samuel’s brother) wrote to George:

                “I think we have now found all out now that is concerned in the matter for there was only Sam that we did not know his whereabouts but I was informed a week ago that he is dead–died about three years ago in Birmingham Union. Poor Sam. He ought to have come to a better end than that….His daughter and her husband went to Birmingham and also to Sutton Coldfield that is where he married his wife from and found out his wife’s brother. It appears he has been there and at Birmingham ever since he went away but ever fond of drink.”

                No record of Samuel Housley’s death can be found for the Birmingham Union in 1869 or thereabouts.

                But if he was alive in 1871 in Henley In Arden…..
                Did Samuel tell his wife’s brother to tell them he was dead? Or did the brothers say he was dead so they could have his share?

                We still haven’t found a death for Samuel Housley.

                 

                 

                #6206

                “I’m not ‘aving this treatment, Mavis, I’ve booked meself in for the spirit chew all mender tations session instead. No need to loook at me like that, our Mavis, I aint going all new agey on yer, just thought I’d give it a try and see if it relaxes me a bit.”

                “Relaxes yer? Yer int done a stroke of work in years, whatcher on about?” Sha said, nudging Mavis in the ribs and cackling.

                “It’s not all about the body, y’ know!” Glor replied, feeling the futility of trying to make them understand the importance of it to her, or the significance in the wider picture.

                “I’m listening,” a melodious voice whispered behind her.  Andrew Anderson smiled and looked deep into her squinting eyes as she turned to face him (the sun was going down behind him and it was very hard to see, much to her chagrin).

                “Tell me more, Glor, what’s the score, Glor, I want to know more…”

                Gloria, who knees had momentarily turned to jelly, reeled backwards at this surprising change in the conversation, and lost her balance due to her temporarily affected knees.  Instinctively she reached out and grabbed Mr Anderson’s arm, and managed to avoid falling to the ground.

                She retracted her arm slowly as an increasingly baffled look spread across her face.

                Why did his arm feel so peculiar? It felt like a shop mannequin, unyielding, different somehow.  Creepy somehow. Glor mumbled, “Sure, later,” and quickly caught up with her friends.

                “Hey, You’ll never guess what, wait til I tell yer..” Glor started to tell them about Mr Anderson and then stopped. Would it be futile? Would they understand what she was trying to say?

                “I’m listening,” a melodious voice whispered in her ear.

                “Not bloody you again! You stalking me, or what?”  Visibly rattled, Gloria rushed over to her friends, wondering why every time that weirdo whispered in her ear, she had somehow fallen back and had to catch up again.

                She’d have to inform her friends of the danger, but would they listen? They were falling for him and wouldn’t be easily discouraged.  They’d be lured to the yacht and not want to escape. The fools! What could she do?

                “I’m listening,” the melodious voice whispered.

                #6175

                “”Sorry, I’m only just telling you this about the note now, lovie. Your Grandma’s been on at me to tell you. Just in my thoughts I mean!” he added quickly.

                Jane smirked and tapped her forehead. “Careful, Old Man. She’ll think you’ve completely lost it!”

                Clara stared at him, a small frown creasing her brow. “So, the note said you were to call him?”

                Bob nodded uneasily. Clara had that look on her face. The one that means she aren’t happy with the way things are proceeding.

                “And then what?” asked Clara slowly.

                “I dunno.” Bob shrugged. “Guess they’d bury it again? They was pretty clear they didn’t want it found. Now, how about I put the kettle on?” Bob stood quickly and began to busy himself filling the jug with water from the tap.

                Clara shook her head firmly. “No.”

                “No to a cup of tea?”

                “No we can’t call this man.”

                “I don’t know Clara. It’s getting odd it is. Strangers leaving maps in collars and whatnot. It’s not right.”

                “Well, I agree it needs further investigation. But we can’t call him … not without knowing why and what’s in it.” She tapped her fingers on the table. “I’ll try and get hold of Nora again.”

                #6146

                “And who might you be?” Finnley looked at the oddly clothed bag lady who’d appeared in the staff wing.

                “I’m November, you punny insolent thing.”

                “What sort of name is that? Is that a woman’s name anyway?”

                “Jeeze Louise, consider it non-binary. It feels like there is too much woman energy in that den anyway.”

                “And what makes you feel like you are in charge now?”

                “Let’s call it power vacuum, sweetie. And if you’re itching at the thought, just wait until you see my boss.”

                “Let me guess. She’s December, right?”

                “Yep. And they are a mean piece of work, and going to make a swift clean up of all the dregs left over by that orange nightmare.”

                #6137

                In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage

                “Shut up, Tara!” hissed Star, “And keep him singing while I think. This is a monumental clue!”

                “But I can’t stand bloody opera singing,” Tara whispered back, “It’ll drive me mad.  When they said he had a melodious voice I was expecting something more modern than this ancient caterwauling.”

                “Do you want to solve this case or not?”

                “Oh alright then,” Tara said grudgingly. “But your thinking better be good!”  She clapped loudly and whistled. “More! More!” she shouted, stamping her feet. The assorted middle aged ladies joined in the applause.

                Star leaned over and whispered in Tara’s ear, “Do you remember that client I had at Madame Limonella’s, that nice old man with a penchant for seeing me dressed up as a 13th century Italian peasant?”

                “Yeah, you had to listen to opera with him, poor thing, but he did tip well.”

                “Well, he told me a lot about opera. I thought it was a waste of time knowing all that useless old stuff, but listen: this song what he’s singing now, he’s singing this on purpose. It’s a clue, you see, to Uncle Basil and why Vince wants to find him.”

                “Go on,” whispered Tara.

                “There’s a lot of money involved, and a will that needs to be changed. If Uncle Basil dies while he’s still in the clutches of that cult, then Vince will lose his chance of inheriting Basil’s money.”

                “Wasn’t that obvious from the start?”

                “Well yes, but we got very cleverly sidetracked with all these middle aged ladies and that wardrobe!  This is where the mule comes in.”

                “What mule?”

                “Shh! Keep your voice down! It’s not the same kind of mule as in the opera, these middle aged ladies are trafficking mules!”

                “Oh well that would make sense, they’d be perfect. Nobody suspects middle aged ladies.  But what are they trafficking, and why are they all here?”

                “They’re here to keep us from finding out the truth with all these silly sidetracks and distractions.  And we’ve stupidly let ourselves be led astray from the real case.”

                “What’s the real case, then?”

                “We need to find Uncle Basil so that Vince can change his will. It wasn’t Vince that was in a coma, as that hatchet faced old butler told us. It was Basil.”

                “How do you know that for sure?” asked Tara.

                “I don’t know for sure, but this is the theory. Once we have a theory, we can prove it.  Now, about that wardrobe. We mustn’t let them take it away. No matter what story they come up with, that wardrobe stays where it is, in our office.”

                “But why? It’s taking up space and it doesn’t go with the clean modern style.  And people keep getting locked inside it, it’s a death trap.”

                “That’s what they want you to think! That it’s just another ghastly old wardrobe!  But it’s how they smuggle the stuff!”

                “What stuff are they smuggling? Drugs?  That doesn’t explain what it’s doing in our office, though.”

                “Well, I had an interesting intuition about that. You know that modified carrot story they tried to palm us off with? Well I reckon it’s vaccines.  They had to come up with a way to vaccinate the anti vaxxers, so they made this batch of vaccines hidden in hallucinogenic carrots.  They’re touting the carrots as a new age spiritual vibration enhancing wake up drug, and the anti vaxxers will flock to it in droves.”

                “Surely if they’re so worried about the ingredients in vaccines, they won’t just take any old illegal drug off the street?”

                Star laughed loudly, quickly putting her hand over her mouth to silence the guffaw.  Thankfully Vince had reached a powerful crescendo and nobody heard her.

                Tara smiled ruefully. “Yeah, I guess that was a silly thing to say.  But now I’m confused.  Whose side are we on? Surely the carrot vaccine is a good idea?  Are we trying to stop them or what?  And what is Vince up to? Falsifying a will?” Tara frowned, puzzled. “Whose side are we on?” she repeated.

                “We’re on the side of the client who pays us, Tara,” Star reminded her.

                “But what if the client is morally bankrupt? What if it goes against our guidelines?”

                “Guidelines don’t come into it when you’re financially bankrupt!” Star snapped.  “Hey, where has everyone gone?”

                “They said they had to pick up a wardrobe,” said the waitress. “Shall I bring you the bill?  They all left without paying, they said you were treating them.”

                “Pay the bill, Tara!” screamed Star, knocking over her chair as she flew out of the door. “And then make haste to the office and help me stop them!”

                #6087

                In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage

                “I knew it!” Tara had gone to investigate early, disguised as an elderly jogger in a velvet teal jogging. “Seemed clear enough that that retirement home was a front…”

                Later when she came back to the office, she was quizzed by Star, who was still yawning despite the bright sunlight.

                “So tell me, a front for what?”

                “Can’t you guess?” Tara said, removing her false teeth.

                “Nooo?” her hand flew at Star’s mouth and incredulous face.

                “Yes, hmm-hmm; you guessed right: a time travel agency.”

                “Oh dangit, they stole my idea! After all the virus pandemic thing, they sure know how to surf the crisis to make a buck. The buying carrots alibi traffic, and now that!”

                “Yep, guess that people unable to go anywhere for holidays make up for a good clientele. You can imagine the slogans: Celerity: Why go anywhere? When we can send you anywhen! “

                “And a convenient way of disposing of nosy people too. I hope they didn’t send Uncle Basil to the Dinosaurs, can’t imagine the stench of those Time sewers.”

                “Oh no, don’t think he was affluent enough, you see. Apparently you pay by the time meter. The further in time, the pricier. And I guess the surest way to dispose of someone would be in the past rather than in the future…”

                “So Uncle Basil is in the past!”

                “Exactly.”

                “Well, I could have told you that from the start. No wonder Mr French paid us in advance then, he already knew we’d crack that case. Our first case’s closed, dear! If Mr French ever wakes up and calls, we’ll just redirect him to our Time Dragglers friends in Marseille for their ‘relative lost in time’ retrieval package. Now, anyone for mojitos?”

                #6074

                In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage

                “Wait a moment!” he turned back and asked Eugene.

                “Have you given a thought about tartigrades? Heard they’re those sorts of teensiest moss piglets and could eat their fill of microscopic snails — I guess provided with enough microscopic garlic butter.”

                He didn’t wait for Eugene’s answer. “Give it a thought, will ya.”

                Damn right he couldn’t do everybody’s job around.

                #6061

                In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

                ÉricÉric
                Keymaster

                  Sometimes whales
                  managed taste
                  whispered guess
                  line care tell

                  Plague walk
                  funny treatment
                  pop himself
                  hilda loo

                  Breath added
                  free knew

                  #5981

                  In reply to: Snooteries

                  ÉricÉric
                  Keymaster

                    Oh, Snoot is sneaky. It speaks in riddles worse than Boss. :yahoo_idk:

                    Well, thanks anyway. I guess I can still try remove tiewing. :yahoo_nerd:

                    #5950

                    Helle Jorid, my Whale friend.

                    I dreamt I sailed on one of those ancient ships made of wood with no engine other than the wind and man power.

                    In the dream we were very few and not all there by choice. Chased after by some kind of police force we, a motley bunch of people found ourselves on that ship by chance. I saw one man on the dock pass by and cut the big rope that held the ship still.

                    As the rope limply hanged from the mooring post, I watched the ship being guided away by the backwash from its mooring place to the ocean. At that moment someone wanted to disembark and I heard myself say : In your dreams! It’s too late we’re on the open sea now.

                    I think someone mentioned a captain Cook, but I’m not sure as I never saw the guy. Maybe it was merely a cook, but did we really need it? As I went deeper into the ship I found a wonderful meeting room with all the technological comfort of TV sets embedded in the walls and loads of electrical plugs at the end of mechanical arms coming out of these same walls. Surely there were microwave oven and tons of dehydrated food.

                    But our attention was still on the discovery of the treasures hidden in the heart of that ship. There was a circular sofa set around a nice coffee table. And we all settled comfortably there for a get together, happy we had escaped and seemed safe. None of us thought one second about where the wind and the gulf stream were taking us. I guess anywhere was better than what those men had in store for us.

                    I woke up. Alone at night. It was dark. My heart was pounding. Is that how we feel when we are in a lock down? I almost wrote placed under house arrest. What’s the difference apart the name to make us think it’s different?

                    Was the ship the symbol of our longing for freedom? It’s still the same place moving around on water. Even if the place move around, we can’t move away from it and from the flatness of the ocean. I wonder. I wonder if I stayed longer in that dream what would have happened? A storm? An interesting encounter? Like a whale. How would I know unless I write the rest of the story?

                    #5928

                    Hello Whale,

                    I don’t keep track of the days since we have been forcefully encouraged to stay home. I have plenty of carrots and chocolate mousse. Talking of mousse, I might have a mouse keeping me company. Let’s not hope it’s a family. But I heard that animals are coming back into town now that we are all cozy in our burrows. There have been mentions of chicks on the ring road. Not the kind of chick with makeup, the real fluffy and yellow ones. And one of my friends saw a fox roaming the streets while going to the supermarket. I bet he had a bag full of carrots. Now I wouldn’t be surprised having rabbits everywhere with all those carrots around.

                    I may sound confusing but I guess that’s what being confined does to people. I even had day dreams of birds flying in my bedroom. I swear I really saw one. Well, to be fair I only saw its shadow, but it was a shadow in the air, not on the wall. I wonder what kind of bird it was. My little pinky said it was a finch, the one my mother loved looking at in her garden. She will be part of the numbers soon. Either with her death or with her survival. Now when I think of her I see her surrounded by a bunch of animals. I even saw the fox, but I don’t think it would count amongst the animals I see in town.

                    Since I’m not trying to be analytic, I’ve found a strange poetry in life around here. People are talking like senators, all trying to give their certainties to the world, but I can tell you nobody knows shit and nobody has a clue. You might as well welcome the virus for some tea to get to know each other and have some interesting stories about yourself and your relation to nature.

                    I’m raving again. Someone told me a joke recently. The national board of psychologists published a official communiqué because they received too many calls from people. They said it was normal in this time of confinement to talk to the walls or the objects in your house, and to call them only in case the objects talked back.

                    What would they think if they knew I’m talking to a whale and it’s giving me advice for my writing? I can even hear them as it sends me short audio. I haven’t been able to figure out what they said in the audio though. I’m glad the advice for my writing do come directly translated and not in the form of a whale song. I’m grateful for technology in that case.

                    Oh and one last mention. A friend told me about the current roller coaster of the stock market. I dreamt of a stocking market. I must say it was very colourful and the seller used their stockings in very creative ways.

                    Keep the connection going! Talk to you soon Whale. I’ll have to find you a name. My pinky suggested Jorid so it will be my name for you.

                    #5925

                    Day 28

                    I’m bored out of my mind, cooped up inside. Working from home is a new form of slavery it seems. They’re going to get me mad with all the legalese they ask me to review, approve, sign and all. These people don’t get a sense of what’s happening, they still cling to the familiarity of their mind constructs. But flog me instead, that’ll be less painful than another ration of compliance and control rules.

                    I’ve been listening to whale songs on the internet. Got to do something to keep me from going bonkers. The wife and I are barely talking, she spends her day on the balcony, planting tiny carrots in the hopes of what, I wonder? At least, she gets some sun.

                    Funny creatures the whales. Blue whales got to be the only creature that man hasn’t been able to build a zoo big enough to accommodate. Sometimes despite the pollution in the oceans, I envy the big bastards.

                    I got to laugh a little at being a fish in a tank like the rest of the world. You would think you’d get for free the much touted chloroquine from the tank cleaner too. Pity it’s just deadly, but not for the virus. Talk about being morbidly stupid. Too much reading of the news do that to the brain too I guess.

                    Thing is, if I continue on chugging wine and boritos, I think I may be able to outsize my container. Isn’t the dream of every aquarium fish?

                    #5830

                    In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage

                    “Well, that was certainly enlightening.” Star said, once they got out of the bushes where they’d fell.

                    Tara looked at the bushes and mused “Must be what they mean when they say it all went pear-shaped from now on…”

                    “Nonsense, Tara. At least we now know there’s a good chance the real Vince was planning to spread some pathogen into the cult, got caught and sent into a coma for it.”

                    “Shouldn’t we leave Rosamund with those silly conspiracy theories? After all, we were hired to find Basil, not to save the world.”

                    “Thank the Mother for that, we’re not equipped, and it can’t afford our saving.”

                    “Speak for yourself!” hissed Tara. “So, Basil? Any idea where he might be now?”

                    “My guess he’s held prisoner at the cult. We should give it a second look.”

                    “Might be tougher now it’s in lockdown.”

                    Star grinned widely. “I always knew I’d find good use for those nice fancy party nurse dresses.”

                    #5828

                    Day 222

                    Or is it just 22? I’m losing count. Who would have guessed after the escape from the cruise nightmare, we’d be again confined to our homes. The world has gone in stasis, and it feels like the story has taken a dire turn. At least it is a welcome change; unpredictability reshuffles the cards,… if only slightly.

                    We now should have more time to write the story of our lives, yet it’s still difficult to not feel absorbed by the global apathy and the impeding measures. Is it a failure of imagination?— I’m not sure I can project myself into a future without discarding a lot of useless garbage. Maybe it’s a collective wake-up call.

                    For now, the whale is fed, but she’s close to an indigestion of epidemic scare news. We need to change her diet, that’s what I know. Because we’re in its belly, and it starts to smell of death.

                    So, who’s up for a quest?

                    #5821

                    Day 6

                    Finally! We’ve been disembarked, I thought I would go mad on this ship. Felt it must have been less excruciating for those on the Pequod. But whales are too smart nowadays, they don’t want to catch our silly viruses, they don’t taste as good as walruses.

                    The voices have quieted down for now, maybe it was only the voices of the other passengers carried through the pipes. Wife didn’t seem to suffer as much from the confinement, she just can’t wait to resume her life.

                    Just received a text from our daughter who went to buy groceries for when we return: “In the store now. All the pasta, rice and sauces have been cleared out. Preppers craze much? 🤦”

                    I had to laugh to myself. Guess it looks promising for when the real apocalypse comes…

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