Search Results for 'hut'

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  • #7328

    A place where glamour meets enchantment, said the brochure when she found what would become her cottage ten years ago. But tonight, Jeezel didn’t see the whimsical, neither did she hear the trees whispering secrets. And the moon… don’t let me start with the moon. The vines had started to cover the main door. It was painted in the richest shade of midnight blue, which was stunning when daylight splashed all over it, but there were no outside lights and at night, she always had difficulties finding the keyhole.

    Jeezel took her phone out to turn on the torch and the pop of a champagne cork told her she had received an e-mail. Such a technological marvel dipped in fabulousness. It was shimmering and radiant, she had adorned it with crystals that would catch the light with every moment, casting rainbows across. But the only light it cast was an anxious message from Roland whose workplace had gone berserk.

    “Please, do something quick!” was the content of the message.

    The witch had never been good under pressure. She touched her forehead lightly with the back of her hand. She didn’t want to mess with her carefully applied makeup. Then lip synched her moto : “Shine bright, darling, and let the world bask in your glow.”

    “That’s it!” she said. She took her key in her left hand and with a graceful and intricate swipe of her right hand she said: “Glowry”. Then she waved toward the door and added: “Hole”, and the key and the hole started to glow and attract each other. The door creeked open. Something else she’d have to attend to, later.

    “At last,” she said when the door finally shut.

    “Well, I could have grown a whole new tail in the time it took you to grace us with your presence at the door. What were you doing, love? Perfecting your grand entrance, or did you just get lost in the reflection of your own fabulousness again?,” said a warm and teasing voice.

    #7254
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      “Oh!” exclaimed Liz, who had heretofore been struggling to stay abreast of recent developments.  “You mean Mr Du Grat!  Honestly Finnley, your pronunciation leaves much to be desired.  I have it from the horses mouth that the charming Mr Du Grat has gone on an adventure.  More’s the pity,” she added, “As I was just starting to take a shine to him.”

      “But what about Walter Melon?” Roberto chimed in nervously.

      “What’s it got to do with you?” Liz narrowed her eyes.  “Turning the garden into a wildlife haven was a mistake, it’s left you with far too much time on your hands, my boy!  See if there’s anything you can do to help Finnley, it might stop her screaming.”

      “Why not help her with the baby faced cookies, Roberto?” Godfrey said mildly, peering over the top of his spectacles.

      “What was that you said? I can’t hear over that racket.”

      “I SAID..” Godfrey shouted, but was prevented from continuing when the corner of Liz’s desk landed on his gouty toe, which left him momentarily speechless.

      “Well that shut you all up, didn’t it!” With a triumphant smile, Liz surveyed the room. Her sudden urge to upend her desk, sending papers, books, ashtrays, peanuts and coffee cups scattering all over the room had been surprisingly therapeutic.  “I must do that more often,” she said quietly to herself.

      “I heard that,” retorted Finnley. “Let’s see how therapeutic it is to clean it all up.”  And with that, Finnley marched out of the room, tossing her toilet plunger over her shoulder which hit Godfrey on the side of his head knocking his glasses off.

      “Not so fast, Finnely! Godfrey shouted.  The pain in his big toe had enraged him.  But it was too late, the insubordinate wench slammed the door behind her and thundered up the stairs.

      “Ah, Roberto!  You can clean all this mess up.   I’m off to the dentist for a bit of peace and quiet.  I’ll expect it all to be tip top and Bristol fashion when I get back.”

      Thundering back down the stairs, Finnley flung the door open. “You use far too many cliches!” and then slammed back out again.

      #7243
      EricEric
      Keymaster

        Using a random generator for the next challenge with 5 objects.

        • straw
        • pop can
        • pencil holder
        • Christmas ornament
        • turtle

        🐋

        In the dreary town of Ravenwood, where shadows loomed and the wind howled through the empty streets, there was one house that stood out above the rest. It was the old mansion at the end of the road, shrouded in mystery and secrets. No one had lived there for years, but whispers of strange happenings and eerie lights could be heard wafting through the air.

        One stormy night, a young writer named Edgar arrived in Ravenwood seeking inspiration for his latest story. Drawn to the mansion by a strange force, he ventured inside, and found himself face to face with a peculiar sight. A straw sat on the table, next to a pop can and a pencil holder, and a Christmas ornament hung from a cobweb in the corner. But it was the turtle, a giant terrapin that seemed to be staring back at him with knowing eyes, that caught his attention.

        Edgar couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss, that the objects in the room were connected in some strange way. As he looked closer, he noticed that a thick layer of dust had settled on everything, as if no one had been there in years. And yet, the pop can still seemed to be fizzing, the straw stirred as if someone had just taken a sip, and the turtle’s eyes seemed to glow in the dim light.

        Suddenly, a voice from behind him made Edgar jump. It was the ghost of the previous owner, who had died under mysterious circumstances years ago. The ghost revealed that the objects in the room had been cursed by a vengeful witch who had once lived in the nearby forest. Each object was imbued with a terrible power, and whoever possessed them would be consumed by darkness.

        Edgar knew he had to escape, but as he turned to run, he felt a strange force pulling him towards the turtle. He tried to resist, but the turtle’s eyes seemed to hypnotize him, drawing him in closer and closer. Just as he was about to touch it, the turtle suddenly snapped its jaws shut, and Edgar woke up back in his own bed, drenched in sweat.

        He realized it had all been a nightmare, but as he looked down at his feet, he saw the turtle from his dream, sitting innocently at the end of his bed. Suddenly, he remembered the words of the ghost, and knew he had to destroy the cursed objects before it was too late. With trembling hands, he picked up the turtle, and opened his window to cast it out into the night. But as he did so, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass, and saw that his eyes had turned a bright shade of red. The curse had already taken hold, and Edgar knew he was doomed to a life of darkness and despair.

        Bit dark, Whale!
        :yahoo_worried: :yahoo_nailbiting: :yahoo_dontwannasee:   :yahoo_rofl:

        #7224
        AvatarJib
        Participant

          Georges was following an orange line on the floor of Jorid’s corridor with Barney on his left shoulder. The man was talking to the creature and listening to the occasional chirps Barney made as if they were part of a normal conversation.

          “You see, Barney,” said Georges. “Salomé gave us this checklist.” He tapped on the clipboard with his index finger. “I have to conduct all those experiments with you in the lab while she’s doing whatever she’s doing with the maps. Salomé loves maps, I can tell you. Always trying to invent new ones that would help us navigate all those dimensions. But they confuse me, so I’m glad to leave that to her and Jorid.”

          The two of them stopped in front of an orange door with a tag on it.

          “So you’ll ask me: ‘Georges, why are we going to the kitchen instead of going into the lab?’ —which is the blue door.”

          Georges waited for Barney’s chirp before continuing.

          “You’re right! She forgot the most important. What do you like to eat? You can’t do that in a lab with instruments stuck onto your head and tummy. It’s best done in the warm and cozy atmosphere of a kitchen.”

          The door swooshed open and they entered a bland, sanitised kitchen.

          “Jorid, morph the kitchen into a 19th century style pub, with greasy smells and a cozy atmosphere.”

          “Shouldn’t you be into the lab?” asked Jorid.

          “Let’s call it a kitchen lab,” answered Georges. “So you can tell Salomé I’m in the lab if she asks you.”

          “Most certainly.”

          The bland rooms started wobbling and becoming darker. Gas wall lamps were coming out of the walls, and a Chandeliers bloomed from the ceiling. The kitchen island turned into a mahogany pub counter behind which the cupboards turned into glass shelves with a collection of colourful liquor bottles. Right beside the beer pumps was the cornucopia, the source of all things edible, the replicator. It was simple and looked like a silver tray.

          “That’s more like it,” said Georges. He put Barney on the counter and the creature chirped contentedly to show his agreement.

          “Now, You don’t look like the kind of guy who eat salad”, said Georges. “What do you want to try?”

          Barney shook his head and launched into a series of chirps and squeals.

          “I know! Let’s try something you certainly can’t find where you come from… outer space. Jorid, make us some good pickles in a jar.”

          The replicator made a buzzing sound and a big jar full of pickles materialised on the silver tray. Barney chirped in awe and Georges frowned.

          “Why did you make a Roman jar?” he asked. “We’re in a 19th century pub. And the pickles are so huge! Aubergine size.”

          “My apologies,” said Jorid. “I’m confused. As you know, my database is a bit scrambled at the moment…”

          “It’s ok,” said Georges who feared the ship would launch into some unsolicited confidences and self deprecating moment. “A pickle is a pickle anyway.” He picked a pickle in the jar and turned towards Barney with a big grin. “Let’s try some.”

          Barney’s eyes widened. He put his hands in front of him and shook his head. The door swooshed open.

          “What have you done with the kitchen?” asked Léonard. “And what are you trying to feed this rat with?”

          “This rat has a name. It’s Barney. What are you doing here?” asked Georges.

          “Well, Isn’t it a kitchen? I’m hungry.”

          “I mean, shouldn’t you go check your vitals first in med bay?”

          “When you feel hungry, it’s enough to tell a man he’s alive and well,” said Léonard. “Nice roman jar, Jorid. Depicting naked roman fighters, archaeological finding of 2nd century BC, good state of conservation.” He looked closer. “Intricate details between the legs… You surpassed yourself on that one Jorid.”

          “Thanks for the compliment Léonard. It’s reassuring to know I’m still doing great at some things when others think I’m losing it.”

          “I never said…” started Georges.

          “You thought it.”

          Léonard took a pickle from the jar and smelled it. He winced.

          “Sure, smells like pickles enough,” he said, putting it back in the jar and licking his finger. “Disgusting.” He looked at Georges. “I was thinking of taking a shuttle and doing a little tour, while you solve the navigational array problem with Salomé.”

          “Why are you asking me? Why don’t you just take a shuttle and go there by yourself?”

          “Jorid won’t let me take one.”

          “Jorid? Why don’t you let Léonard take a shuttle?”

          Salomé said he’s not to be left out of the ship without supervision.”

          “Oh! Right,” said Georges. “We just rescued you from a sand prison egg where you’ve been kept in stasis for several weeks and you can’t remember anything that led you there. Why don’t we let you pilot a shuttle and wander about on your own?”

          Léonard looked at Georges, annoyed. He picked a pickle from the jar and took a bite. Barney squealed. As Léonard chewed and made crunching sounds, the creature hit its head with its paw.

          “Then why don’t you come with me?” asked Léonard.

          “I can’t believe it.”

          “What? You go with me. You can supervise me wherever I go. Problem solved.”

          “No. I mean. You eating one of Barney’s pickles.”

          Léonard took another bite and chewed noisily. Barney chirped and squealed. He put his hands to its throat and spat on the counter.

          “I’m sure he won’t mind. Look at him. Doesn’t seem it likes pickles that much.”

          You hate pickles, Léonard.”

          “I know. That’s disgusting.”

          “Why do you eat them if you find it disgusting?”

          “That’s the sound of it. It’s melodious. And for some reason those pickles are particularly good.”

          Barney jumped on Georges arm and ran to his neck where he planted his little claws in.

          “Ouch!” said Georges. He slapped Léonard’s hand before the man could take one more pickle bite. “What the f*ck?”

          “Hey! Why did you do that?”

          “It’s not me,” said Georges. Barney squealed and Georges’s hands pushed the jar on the floor. It crashed and a flood of pickle and vinegar juice spread on the floor.

          “Haven’t your mother told you not to play with food?” asked Léonard diving on the floor to catch some more pickles. Barney chirped and squealed while Georges’s body jumped on Léonard and they both rolled over in the pickles.

          The door swooshed open.

          “Guys, we need to…” started Salomé. She had a set of maps in her hands. “What’s that smell? What… did you do to the kitchen? ”

          Georges made me do it,” said Jorid.

          Georges broke a 2nd century BC jar,” said Léonard.

          “Barney’s controlling me,” said Georges.

          The creature shrugged and removed its claws from Georges’ neck.

          “Squeak!”

          “Ouch! Thank you,” said Georges, licking the pickle juice he got on his lips during the fight.

          “I can’t believe it. Georges, you had a checklist. And it did not include the words kitchen or pickles or making a mess. And Léonard, you hate pickles.”

          “I know,” said Léonard who took a bite in the pickle he was holding. “That’s disgusting, but I can’t help it they taste so good.”

          Georges stole the pickle from Léonard’s hand and took a bite.

          “Pick your own pickle,” said Léonard, stealing it back.

          “Stop guys! That smell… Jorid what did you put in those pickles?”

          “I took the liberty to change the recipe and added some cinnamon.”

          “It doesn’t smell like cinnamon,” said Georges smelling his hands full of pickle juice. He took a bite in one and said: “Doesn’t taste like cinnamon either. I would know. I hate cinnamon since the time I was turned into an Asari.”

          “That’s it,” said Salomé. “What kind of cinnamon did you put in the brew, Jorid?”

          “I’ve heard it’s best to use local ingredients. I put cinnamon from Langurdy,” said the ship.

          “Quick! Guys, spit it out,” she said, kneeling and putting her fingers into Georges’ throat to make him puke. “Jorid, make away with the pickles,” said Salomé.

          “Nooo,” said the men.

          “Cinnamon from Langurdy is very addictive,” Salomé snapped. “You don’t want to OD on pickles, do you?”

          After they got the mess cleaned up and the kitchen went back to its normal blank state. Georges and Léonard took some pills to counter the effects of withdrawal. Salomé had them sit at the kitchen table. Georges kept blinking as if the white light on the white walls were hurting his eyes.

          “You can thank Barney if you didn’t eat more pickles,” said Salomé. “You could have had a relapse, and you know how bad it was the first time you had to flush cinnamon from your body.”

          Georges groaned.

          “Anyway. I checked the maps with Jorid and I came upon an anomaly in the Southern Deserts. Something there is causing Jorid’s confusion. We’ll have to go down there if we ever want to leave this place and time.”

          #7221

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Zara took the notebook to the door of the hut where there was more light.  The notebook fell open in the middle.  A poem was written:

          In the dry and dusty Outback land,

          Where once gold was king and gold was grand,

          Now a new treasure has taken hold,

          A precious resource worth more than gold.

          It flows beneath the sun-baked ground,

          And in its depths, a fortune’s found,

          For golfers come from far and wide,

          To play on greens that should have died.

          The mines that once lay abandoned and still,

          Now hold the key to this water’s thrill,

          For deep within their shadowed halls,

          The liquid flows and never stalls.

          But this is no natural spring,

          The water here is a stolen thing,

          Drilled and pumped with greedy hands,

          To feed the golf course’s demands.

          And so the land is left to bake,

          While the greens stay lush and never break,

          A crime against the thirsty earth,

          A selfish act of financial worth.

          For water is the lifeblood of this place,

          A scarce resource that they should embrace,

          Instead, they steal and hoard and sell,

          A priceless gem, a living well.

          So let us remember,

          as we play and roam,

          That water is not a thing to own,

          But a gift from nature, pure and true,

          That we must cherish and protect anew.

          Golf!  Zara wasn’t expecting that!  As she closed the notebook she noticed a green pool had appeared just outside the hut, which had not been there before she found the poem.  Pool! Water!  Those green pools of water!

          Zara green pool

          Zara almost dived headlong into the pool, and then remembered this was a group exercise and that she really ought to find out where the others were and share her finds with them.  

          #7215

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Zara the game character was standing in the entrance hallway in the old wooden inn.  There was nobody around except for her three friends, and the light inside was strangely dim and an eerie orange glow was coming from the windows.  She and the others wandered around opening doors and looking in rooms in the deserted building.  There were a dozen or so bedrooms along both sides of a corridor, and a kitchen, dining room and lounge room leading off the entrance hall.  Zara looked up the wide staircase, but as a cellar entrance was unlikely to be upstairs, she didn’t go up. The inn was surrounded by a wrap around verandah; perhaps the cellar entrance was outside underneath it. Zara checked for a personal clue:

           

          “Amidst the foliage and bark, A feather and a beak in the dark.”

           

          Foliage and bark suggested that the entrance was indeed outside, given the absence of houseplants inside. She stepped out the door and down the steps, walking around the perimeter of the raised vernadah, looking for a hatch or anything to suggest a way under the building.  Before she had completed the circuit she noticed an outbuilding at the back underneath a eucalyptus tree and made her way over to it. She pushed the door open and peered into the dim interior.  A single unmade bed, some jeans and t shirts thrown over the back of a chair, a couple of pairs of mens shoes….Zara was just about to retreat and close the door behind her when she noticed the little wooden desk in the corner with an untidy pile of papers and notebooks on it.

          Wait though, Zara reminded herself, This is supposed to be a group quest. I better call the others over here.

          Nevertheless, she went over to the desk to look first. There was an old fashioned feather quill and an ink pot on the desk, and a gold pocket watch and chain.  Or was it a compass?  Strangely, it seemed like neither, but what was it then? Zara picked one of the notebooks up but it was too dark inside the hut to read.

          #6613

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Despite the old man’s endless flow of words, Youssef couldn’t get him to explain what he meant about the abandoned mine and why the town’s people didn’t like people sneaking around and asking questions.

          Not wanting to waste more time, Youssef walked to the brick building where the twins had disappeared. It was crammed between the telegraph station and a grocery store. The door had been walled with red bricks. They were covered in faded graffitis and layers of torn-up posters. It seemed obvious the wall had been there for quite some time already.

          The old man was sticking to Youssef like glue, talking about that time when his now dead brother took in an old cat he called Phineas. Youssef tried to growl him away, but the man always came back, persistent as a cloud of mosquitoes over the promise of a blood feast.

          Youssef tried not to pay attention to him. What did AL said about that quest ? Go ask questions around to town’s people about odd things happening ? Well there were plenty of those things happening. Maybe the clerk at the telegraph station would know something, especially how to get rid of that old man.

          Youssef pushed the door and entered the telegraph station, leaving the old man outside. The interior was lit with a collection of old style tungsten lamps hanging in a random pattern from the ceiling. 

          The clerk was busy sorting out a pile of telegrams. Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack. He lifted his head up. The noise stopped and Youssef realised the young man had mechanical hands.

          “Welcome, welcome, welcome! What can I do for you today, my friend?” asked the clerk.

          “I just wanted to…” started Youssef.

          “Wait! Don’t tell me. I’m a bit of a psychic myself and I already know what you’re here for.”

          “Really?”

          The man foraged through his pile of telegram with his mechanical hands and picked one. He looked at it for a few seconds.

          “My friend, you’re in luck today!” he said, looking intently at Youssef. “I just received this telegram that I think might interest you. Here, take a look!”

          Youssef took the paper and started to read aloud : “Words spoken by the talkative will unlock the path. Seek those who chatter and unravel the clue. What the…?” 

          “Interesting, isn’t it? That’s a real head-scratcher, if you ask me!”

          The door bell rang and the old man entered, holding his sore ribs. 

          “Get out, Phineas. You’re not welcome here.” said the clerk with a frown.

          The old man looked at the clerk with an air of confusion before turning to Youssef. “What did he say? Who’s Phineas?” he asked.

          Ignoring the question, Youssef tried to steer the conversation back to the telegram. “What does this mean?” he asked the clerk.

          The clerk stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. “Hmm, well, it seems to me that you have a certain magnetism for talkative people. Perhaps that’s the key to unlocking this riddle.”

          Youssef’s eyes widened in surprise. “What do you mean, magnetism?”

          The old man interjected, “For sure! You’re like a magnet, my boy. I can’t seem to stop talking when I’m around you.”

          Youssef rolled his eyes. “So, what do I do? Just wander around town and wait for someone to start talking?”

          The clerk nodded. “That could be a good start. But if you’re looking for something specific, you might want to try Betsy when you wake up. She’s got a boutique of Gems and Rocks. You seem to like them rocks,” he said pointing at the black obsidian. “Found it in a mine?”

          The old man’s eyes lit up. “Ah, the old mine! I’ve been there before, you know. My brother used to work there before he died. Strange things happening there.”

          Youssef’s interest was piqued. “What kind of strange things?”

          The old man leaned in conspiratorially. “There’s a magnetar hidden in that mine, my boy.”

          “Shut up! Phineas,” interrupted the clerk. “If you want my advice, stranger, don’t go near the old mine. ‘Curiosity killed the cat’ if you know what I mean.”

          The telegraph receiver started to make clicketing sounds. The clerk read it and looked at Youssef.

          “You’ve got a message man. Time to wake up.”

          “Wake up?”

          :fleuron2:

          Youssef opened his eyes and looked at a black mass in front of his eyes. He had been sleeping with the stone just beside his head on the pillow. No wonder he had had weird dreams. He heard his phone buzz. He sat up reluctantly and looked at his phone. 8am. A notification that his game progression had been saved and several messages from Miss Tartiflate, the last one saying :

          Don’t think you can dodge work. I’m still expecting the last blog post you’ve been paid to write!!!”

          He groaned as reality was starting to catch up.

          #6612

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Two young women, identical to the purple lock of hair hiding their left eye, entered the room. They moved as one person to the table, balancing their arms and bouncing on the floor like little girls. Youssef couldn’t help a shiver as he remembered The Shining.

          “We are the twins,” they said, looking at him from behind their purple lock of hair. “Don’t mind us.”

          One spoke a few milliseconds after the other, giving their combined voice an otherworldly touch that wasn’t reassuring. One took the sheets of paper from under the obsidian stone and the other the notebooks. After an hesitation they left the stone on the table and went back to the door.

          “Wait,” said Youssef as they were about to leave, “What was on that paper? It looked like a map.”

          “We leave you the stone,” they said without looking at him. “You might need it.”

          As they shut the door, Youssef jumped out of his bed and tried to catch up with them. People couldn’t just enter his room like that. But when he flung the door open, the corridor was empty. He had the impression echoes of a combined laugh remained in the air and, tired as he was, decided not to look for them. Better not break the veil between dream and reality.

          Intrigued by what the girls said, he took the black stone from the table and the last snicker bar from his backpack. He noted he would have to go to the grocery store tomorrow to buy some. Once he was back on his bed, he engulfed the snack and, while chewing, turned the stone around, trying to figure out what the girls meant by “You might need it”. The stone was cold to the touch and his reflection kept changing but nothing particular happened. Disappointed, he put the stone on his pillow and resumed the game on his phone.

          Youssef finds himself in a small ghost town in what looks like the middle of the Australian outback. He’s standing in the town square, surrounded by an old post office, a saloon, and a few other ramshackle buildings.

          He had a hard time focusing on the game. He started to feel the fatigue from the day. He yawned and started to doze off.

          :fleuron:

          Youssef is standing in the town square, surrounded by an old post office, a saloon, and a few other ramshackle buildings. Scraps of mist are floating towards him. A ghostly laugh resounds from behind. He turns swiftly only to see a flash of purple disappear in a dark alleyway. He starts to run to catch them but a man, thrown out of the saloon, stumbles in front of him and they roll together on the dust.

          “It’s not that I don’t like you,” said the man, “but you’re heavy.”

          Youssef rolls on the side, mumbling some excuses and looks at where the twins had disappeared but the alleyway was gone. 

          “I think you broke one of my rib with your stone,” says the man, feeling his chest.

          He looks as old as the town itself and quite harmless in his clothes, too big for him.

          “What stone?” asks Youssef

          The old man points at a fragment of black obsidian between them on the ground. 

          “Don’t show them,” he says, “or they’ll take it from you.”

          “What did you do?”

          “They don’t like it when you ask questions about the old mines.”

          #6507

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          To Youssef’s standards, a plane was never big and Flight AL357 was even smaller. When he found his seat, he had to ask a sweaty Chinese man and a snorting woman in a suit with a bowl cut and pink almond shaped glasses to move out so he could squeeze himself in the small space allotted to economy class passengers. On his right, an old lady looked at the size of his arms and almost lost her teeth. She snapped her mouth shut just in time and returned quickly to her magazine. Her hands were trembling and Youssef couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or something else.

          The pilote announced they were ready to leave and Youssef sighed with relief. Which was short lived when he got the first bump on the back of his seat. He looked back, apologising to the woman with the bowl cut on his left. Behind him was a kid wearing a false moustache and chewing like a cow. He was swinging his tiny legs, hitting the back of Youssef’s seat with the regularity of a metronome. The kid blew his gum until the bubble exploded. The mother looked ready to open fire if Youssef started to complain. He turned back again and tried to imagine he was getting a massage in one of those Japanese shiatsu chairs you find in some airports.

          The woman in front of him had thrown her very blond hair atop her seat and it was all over his screen. The old lady looked at him and offered him a gum. He wondered how she could chew gums with her false teeth, and kindly declined. The woman with the bowl cut and pink glasses started to talk to her sweaty neighbour in Chinese. The man looked at Youssef as if he had been caught by a tiger and was going to get eaten alive. His eyes were begging for help.

          As the plane started to move, the old woman started to talk.

          « Hi, I’m Gladys. I am afraid of flying, she said. Can I hold your hand during take off ? »

          After another bump on his back, Youssef sighed. It was going to be a long flight for everyone.

          As soon as they had gained altitude, Youssef let go of the old woman’s hand. She hadn’t stopped talking about her daughter and how she was going to be happy to see her again. The flight attendant passed by with a trolley and offered them a drink and a bag of peanuts. The old woman took a glass of red wine. Youssef was tempted to take a coke and dip the hair of the woman in front of him in it. He had seen a video on LooTube recently with a girl in a similar situation. She had stuck gum and lollypops in the hair of her nemesis, dipped a few strands in her soda and clipped strands randomly with her nail cutter. He could ask the old woman one of her gums, but thought that if a girl could do it, it would certainly not go well for him if he tried.

          Instead he asked the flight attendant if there was wifi on board. Sadly there was none. He had hoped at least the could play the game and catch up with his friends during that long flight to Sydney.

          :fleuron:

          When the doors opened, Youssef thought he was free of them all. He was tired, his back hurt, and he couldn’t sleep because the kid behind him kept crying and kicking, the food looked like it had been regurgitated twice by a yak, and the old chatty woman had drained his batteries. She said she wouldn’t sleep on a plane because she had to put her dentures in a glass for hygiene reasons and feared someone would steal them while she had her eyes closed.

          He walked with long strides in the corridors up to the custom counters and picked a line, eager to put as much distance between him and the other passengers. Xavier had sent him a message saying he was arriving in Sydney in a few hours. Youssef thought it would be nice to change his flight so that they could go together to Alice Spring. He could do some time with a friend for a change.

          His bushy hair stood on end when he heard the voice of the old woman just behind him. He wondered how she had managed to catch up so fast. He saw a small cart driving away.

          « I wanted to tell, Gladys said, it was such a nice flight in your company. How long have you before your flight to Alice? We can have a coffee together. »

          Youssef mentally said sorry to his friend. He couldn’t wait for the next flight.

          #6505
          prUneprUne
          Participant

            I told Devan in no ambiguous terms to solve his own funny riddle.

            I did try to make an effort, but that seemed a rather desperate way to catch our attention after not really caring about the family for so long.
            It was good to see him though.

            With all the activity around the coming guests at the Inn, it’s easy getting lost in the wind of activities, like the motes of dust hiding in Dido’s hair.
            The twins did a good effort though, with all the decorating and stuff. I was sincerely impressed. Been a long time since I’ve been impressed by them. Seems they may actually grow up fine. Who would have known really.

            Hormonal growth be damned, I’m feeling all sort of contradictory feelings about this.

            Like, what about hearing about our funny father after all this time.

            And Devan, who’d shut us all off, now back for a little make-over time… Or something else maybe. He doesn’t seem to realize the emotional landscape and baggage here. He’s a nice brother though.

            It’s horrible. So much contradiction – I feel some rage on the surface, lots of… and underneath so much caring it’s painful.

            So what happened to our father? Still alive? Quite possibly. I’ve had my suspicious when this strange guy posed as a friend to the twins on the social network some years back.
            I was young when he left without a note; hadn’t started to write my journals yet, so my memories of him are very little. But I remember the chaos left after him; Mater wasn’t really the same after. I think she’s burned all pictures of him, and somehow pretends they never existed.
            Idle plays it as if she doesn’t care, but I’m sure she does. She doesn’t want to let it be known, but she probably doesn’t want to hurt Mater more with this.

            God, what a family drama. Why would Devan want to unearth all of this now, at a moment we were all quiet and settled like a decent respectable family.

            It was maybe just keeping up with appearances, and the veneer was thin to start with.

            That’s in the middle of all this angst mixed with puberty that it hit me.

            Acrostic. Or ἀκροστιχίς in Greek. First verse, or first letter.

            My dad was a writer, so he liked word riddles. And the little sign was a pointer.

            >A mine, a tile, dust piled high,
            Together they rest, yet always outside.
            One misstep, and you’ll surely fall,
            Into the depths, where danger lies all.

            ATOI didn’t seem to make much sense, but I remembered how small “l” sometimes looked like a capital “I”.
            Atoll was the clue I’m sure of it. Where to disappear if not to islands.
            The letters at the end of the verses are spelling HELL. So it’s opposite.

            Basically, Atoll Paradise.

            A little Gugu search with AI, and that was it. That was our father here, with a number to call.

            Atoll Paradise
            Boat rentals – Island tours
            Copywriter, biographer
            Call FRED @ (+679) 215-7644

            Now it’ll be fair if Devan is calling me crazy. We’ll have to call and check before saying anything to Idle or even Mater for now.

            #6491

            Sophie was glad she could help that young guy Youssef get out of this mess with that false ingenue. She was clearly not for him, he needed someone more mature who would know how to handle his big body. She looked at Miss Bossy Pants’ office. Ricardo was there again and they seem to be in another of their grand discussions. When Miss Bossy saw Sophie watching, she moved to the big window and shut the venetian blind. What were they all about, always plotting things in the back of their journalists. If Sophie didn’t have an ounce of ethic, she would have RVed them long ago, but she made a point to only use her abilities for good, and at times good gossip with friends.

            She went out to the elevator and called it. While she waited, she started writing a message : “The boy is on his way. I did like you asked. Now book me a place to that Akashic Record training as promised.”

            The answer came only a few seconds later : “consider it done”

            The elevator bell rang and the door opened. Sophie got in with a big satisfied smile on her face.”

            #6470

            In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

            Put your thoughts to sleep. Do not let them cast a shadow over the moon of your heart. Let go of thinking.
            ~ Rumi

            Tired from not having any sleep, Zara had found the suburb of Camden unattractive and boring, and her cousin Bertie, although cheerful and kind and eager to show her around, had become increasingly irritating to her.  She found herself wishing he’d shut up and take her back to the house so she could play the game again.  And then felt even more cranky at how uncomfortable she felt about being so ungrateful.  She wondered if she was going to get addicted and spent the rest of her life with her head bent over a gadget and never look up at the real word again, like boring people moaned about on social media.

            Maybe she should leave tomorrow, even if it meant arriving first at the Flying Fish Inn.  But what about the ghost of Isaac in the church, would she regret later not following that up.  On the other hand, if she went straight to the Inn and had a few days on her own, she could spend as long as she wanted in the game with nobody pestering her.   Zara squirmed mentally when she realized she was translating Berties best efforts at hospitality as pestering.

            Bertie stopped the car at a traffic light and was chatting to the passenger in the next car through his open window.  Zara picked her phone up and checked her daily Call The Whale app for some inspiration.

            Let go of thinking.

            A ragged sigh escaped Zara’s lips, causing Bertie to glance over. She adjusted her facial expression quickly and rustled up a cheery smile and Bertie continued his conversation with the occupants of the other car until the lights changed.

            “I thought you’d like to meet the folks down at the library, they know all the history of Camden,” Bertie said, but Zara interrupted him.

            “Oh Bertie, how kind of you!  But I’ve just had a message and I have to leave tomorrow morning for the rendezvous with my friends. There’s been a change of plans.”  Zara astonished herself that she blurted that out without thinking it through first.   But there. It was said. It was decided.

            #6468

            In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

            At the former Chinggis Khaan International Airport which was now called the New Ulaanbaatar International Airport, the young intern sat next to Youssef, making the seats tremble like a frail suspended bridge in the Andes. Youssef had been considering connecting to the game and start his quest to meet with his grumpy quirk, but the girl seemed pissed, almost on the brink of crying. So Youssef turned off his phone and asked her what had happened, without thinking about the consequences, and because he thought it was a nice opportunity to engage the conversation with her at last, and in doing so appear to be nice to care so that she might like him in return.

            Natalie, because he had finally learned her name, started with all the bullying she had to endure from Miss Tartiflate during the trip, all the dismissal about her brilliant ideas, and how the Yeti only needed her to bring her coffee and pencils, and go fetch someone her boss needed to talk to, and how many time she would get no thanks, just a short: “you’re still here?”

            After some time, Youssef even knew more about her parents and her sisters and their broken family dynamics than he would have cared to ask, even to be polite. At some point he was starting to feel grumpy and realised he hadn’t eaten since they arrived at the airport. But if he told Natalie he wanted to go get some food, she might follow him and get some too. His stomach growled like an angry bear. He stood more quickly than he wanted and his phone fell on the ground. The screen lit up and he could just catch a glimpse of a desert emoji in a notification before Natalie let out a squeal. Youssef looked around, people were glancing at him as if he might have been torturing her.

            “Oh! Sorry, said Youssef. I just need to go to the bathroom before we board.”

            “But the boarding is only in one hour!”

            “Well I can’t wait one hour.”

            “In that case I’m coming with you, I need to go there too anyway.”

            “But someone needs to stay here for our bags,” said Youssef. He could have carried his own bag easily, but she had a small suitcase, a handbag and a backpack, and a few paper bags of products she bought at one of the two the duty free shops.

            Natalie called Kyle and asked him to keep a close watch on her precious things. She might have been complaining about the boss, but she certainly had caught on a few traits of her.

            Youssef was glad when the men’s bathroom door shut behind him and his ears could have some respite. A small Chinese business man was washing his hands at one of the sinks. He looked up at Youssef and seemed impressed by his height and muscles. The man asked for a selfie together so that he could show his friends how cool he was to have met such a big stranger in the airport bathroom. Youssef had learned it was easier to oblige them than having them follow him and insist.

            When the man left, Youssef saw Natalie standing outside waiting for him. He thought it would have taken her longer. He only wanted to go get some food. Maybe if he took his time, she would go.

            He remembered the game notification and turned on his phone. The icon was odd and kept shifting between four different landscapes, each barren and empty, with sand dunes stretching as far as the eye could see. One with a six legged camel was already intriguing, in the second one a strange arrowhead that seemed to be getting out of the desert sand reminded him of something that he couldn’t quite remember. The fourth one intrigued him the most, with that car in the middle of the desert and a boat coming out of a giant dune.

            Still hungrumpy he nonetheless clicked on the shapeshifting icon and was taken to a new area in the game, where the ground was covered in sand and the sky was a deep orange, as if the sun was setting. He could see a mysterious figure in the distance, standing at the top of a sand dune.

            The bell at the top right of the screen wobbled, signalling a message from the game. There were two. He opened the first one.

            We’re excited to hear about your real-life parallel quest. It sounds like you’re getting close to uncovering the mystery of the grumpy shaman. Keep working on your blog website and keep an eye out for any clues that Xavier and the Snoot may send your way. We believe that you’re on the right path.

            What on earth was that ? How did the game know about his life and the shaman at the oasis ? After the Thi Gang mess with THE BLOG he was becoming suspicious of those strange occurrences. He thought he could wonder for a long time or just enjoy the benefits. Apparently he had been granted a substantial reward in gold coins for successfully managing his first quest, along with a green potion.

            He looked at his avatar who was roaming the desert with his pet bear (quite hungrumpy too). The avatar’s body was perfect, even the hands looked normal for once, but the outfit had those two silver disks that made him look like he was wearing an iron bra.

            He opened the second message.

            Clue unlocked It sounds like you’re in a remote location and disconnected from the game. But, your real-life experiences seem to be converging with your quest. The grumpy shaman you met at the food booth may hold the key to unlocking the next steps in the game. Remember, the desert represents your ability to adapt and navigate through difficult situations.

            🏜️🧭🧙‍♂️ Explore the desert and see if the grumpy shaman’s clues lead you to the next steps in the game. Keep an open mind and pay attention to any symbols or clues that may help you in your quest. Remember, the desert represents your ability to adapt and navigate through difficult situations.

            Youssef recalled that strange paper given by the lama shaman, was it another of the clues he needed to solve that game? He didn’t have time to think about it because a message bumped onto his screen.

            “Need help? Contact me 👉”

            Sands_of_time is trying to make contact : ➡️ACCEPT <> ➡️DENY ❓
            #6416

            In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

            The team had to stop when a sandstorm hit them in the middle of the desert. They only had an hour drive left to reach the oasis where Lama Yoneze had been seen last and Miss Tartiflate insisted, like she always did, against the guides advice that they kept on going. She feared the last shaman would be lost in the storm, maybe croak stuffed with that damn dust. But when they lost the satellite dish and a jeep almost rolled down a sand dune, she finally listened to the guides. They had them park the cars close to each other, then checked the straps and urged everyone to stay in their cars until the storm was over.

            Youssef at first thought he was lucky. He managed to get into the same car as Tiff, the young intern he had discussed with the other day. But despite all their precautions, they couldn’t stop the dust to come in. It was everywhere and you had to kept your mouth and eyes shut if you didn’t want to grind your teeth with fine sand. So instead he enjoyed this unexpected respite from his trying to save THE BLOG from the evil Thi Gang, and from Miss Tartiflate’s continuous flow of criticism.

            The storm blew off the dish just after Xavier had sent him AL’s answer to the strange glyphs he had received on his phone. When Youssef read the message, he sighed. He had forgotten hope was an illusion. AL was in its infancy and was not a dead language expert. He gave them something fitting Youssef’s current location and the questions about famous alien dishes they asked him last week. It was just an old pot luck recipe from when the Silk Road was passing through the Gobi desert. He just hoped Xavier would have some luck until Youssef found a way to restore the connexion.

            #6365
            matermater
            Participant

              Prune has got me into this AI stuff… It sounds like gibberish to me, but Idle sounded amazed at the stuff it spewed out.

              With some info on our family story, Prune got it to try and predict the future…

              Sounds like a big plate of bog, but we’ll see how it goes.

              Sure, here are a few possible events that could occur between Mater’s 100th birthday and her death in the Flying Fish Inn story:

              1. Mater decides to throw herself a grand birthday party, inviting all of her friends and family from the small outback town. However, things take a turn for the strange when a group of extraterrestrial beings crash the party and reveal themselves to be long-time fans of Mater’s famous bush tucker cuisine.
              2. Mater begins to experience vivid dreams and hallucinations, in which she is visited by the ghost of her late husband. As the dreams become more frequent, the family begins to suspect that there may be something more to them than just Mater’s mind playing tricks on her.
              3. Mater’s granddaughter Prune becomes increasingly obsessed with her dream of traveling to Mars, and begins to notice strange occurrences happening around the inn that seem to be connected to her aspiration.
              4. A group of eccentric scientists arrive at the inn, conducting research on the local flora and fauna. They eventually discover a species of sentient plants living in the area, and Mater becomes convinced that the plants are communicating with her in her dreams.
              5. With her health declining, Mater begins to spend more and more time tending to her garden, where she is visited by an old kookaburra who seems to possess an otherworldly intelligence. The bird becomes Mater’s companion and confidant in the final days of her life.
              6. As the Great Fires ravage the Australian bush, Mater makes the difficult decision to shut down the inn and evacuate the guests. But as they flee, they realize that the fire is not just a natural disaster, but something far more sinister and mystical.
              7. In her final days, Mater begins to remember strange and vivid details of her life that she never could have known, as if she lived a previous life in another time and place. As she dies, she whispers something to Prune, which opens her eyes to a new reality that may have been hidden from her all along
              8. It turns out the family had a lot of secrets, and the only way to escape it, was to leave the inn, but it was not an escape for all. Through the series of events, secrets are revealed, and some truths cannot be undone.Note that these events are fictional and whimsical in nature, but as they keeps it grounded to a sense of doldrums in the Australian bush and occasionally guests help to unravel some of the overarching mysteries it could make a fitting storyline for the story.
              #6350
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                Transportation

                Isaac Stokes 1804-1877

                 

                Isaac was born in Churchill, Oxfordshire in 1804, and was the youngest brother of my 4X great grandfather Thomas Stokes. The Stokes family were stone masons for generations in Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire, and Isaac’s occupation was a mason’s labourer in 1834 when he was sentenced at the Lent Assizes in Oxford to fourteen years transportation for stealing tools.

                Churchill where the Stokes stonemasons came from: on 31 July 1684 a fire destroyed 20 houses and many other buildings, and killed four people. The village was rebuilt higher up the hill, with stone houses instead of the old timber-framed and thatched cottages. The fire was apparently caused by a baker who, to avoid chimney tax, had knocked through the wall from her oven to her neighbour’s chimney.

                Isaac stole a pick axe, the value of 2 shillings and the property of Thomas Joyner of Churchill; a kibbeaux and a trowel value 3 shillings the property of Thomas Symms; a hammer and axe value 5 shillings, property of John Keen of Sarsden.

                (The word kibbeaux seems to only exists in relation to Isaac Stokes sentence and whoever was the first to write it was perhaps being creative with the spelling of a kibbo, a miners or a metal bucket. This spelling is repeated in the criminal reports and the newspaper articles about Isaac, but nowhere else).

                In March 1834 the Removal of Convicts was announced in the Oxford University and City Herald: Isaac Stokes and several other prisoners were removed from the Oxford county gaol to the Justitia hulk at Woolwich “persuant to their sentences of transportation at our Lent Assizes”.

                via digitalpanopticon:

                Hulks were decommissioned (and often unseaworthy) ships that were moored in rivers and estuaries and refitted to become floating prisons. The outbreak of war in America in 1775 meant that it was no longer possible to transport British convicts there. Transportation as a form of punishment had started in the late seventeenth century, and following the Transportation Act of 1718, some 44,000 British convicts were sent to the American colonies. The end of this punishment presented a major problem for the authorities in London, since in the decade before 1775, two-thirds of convicts at the Old Bailey received a sentence of transportation – on average 283 convicts a year. As a result, London’s prisons quickly filled to overflowing with convicted prisoners who were sentenced to transportation but had no place to go.

                To increase London’s prison capacity, in 1776 Parliament passed the “Hulks Act” (16 Geo III, c.43). Although overseen by local justices of the peace, the hulks were to be directly managed and maintained by private contractors. The first contract to run a hulk was awarded to Duncan Campbell, a former transportation contractor. In August 1776, the Justicia, a former transportation ship moored in the River Thames, became the first prison hulk. This ship soon became full and Campbell quickly introduced a number of other hulks in London; by 1778 the fleet of hulks on the Thames held 510 prisoners.
                Demand was so great that new hulks were introduced across the country. There were hulks located at Deptford, Chatham, Woolwich, Gosport, Plymouth, Portsmouth, Sheerness and Cork.

                The Justitia via rmg collections:

                Justitia

                Convicts perform hard labour at the Woolwich Warren. The hulk on the river is the ‘Justitia’. Prisoners were kept on board such ships for months awaiting deportation to Australia. The ‘Justitia’ was a 260 ton prison hulk that had been originally moored in the Thames when the American War of Independence put a stop to the transportation of criminals to the former colonies. The ‘Justitia’ belonged to the shipowner Duncan Campbell, who was the Government contractor who organized the prison-hulk system at that time. Campbell was subsequently involved in the shipping of convicts to the penal colony at Botany Bay (in fact Port Jackson, later Sydney, just to the north) in New South Wales, the ‘first fleet’ going out in 1788.

                 

                While searching for records for Isaac Stokes I discovered that another Isaac Stokes was transported to New South Wales in 1835 as well. The other one was a butcher born in 1809, sentenced in London for seven years, and he sailed on the Mary Ann. Our Isaac Stokes sailed on the Lady Nugent, arriving in NSW in April 1835, having set sail from England in December 1834.

                Lady Nugent was built at Bombay in 1813. She made four voyages under contract to the British East India Company (EIC). She then made two voyages transporting convicts to Australia, one to New South Wales and one to Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania). (via Wikipedia)

                via freesettlerorfelon website:

                On 20 November 1834, 100 male convicts were transferred to the Lady Nugent from the Justitia Hulk and 60 from the Ganymede Hulk at Woolwich, all in apparent good health. The Lady Nugent departed Sheerness on 4 December 1834.

                SURGEON OLIVER SPROULE

                Oliver Sproule kept a Medical Journal from 7 November 1834 to 27 April 1835. He recorded in his journal the weather conditions they experienced in the first two weeks:

                ‘In the course of the first week or ten days at sea, there were eight or nine on the sick list with catarrhal affections and one with dropsy which I attribute to the cold and wet we experienced during that period beating down channel. Indeed the foremost berths in the prison at this time were so wet from leaking in that part of the ship, that I was obliged to issue dry beds and bedding to a great many of the prisoners to preserve their health, but after crossing the Bay of Biscay the weather became fine and we got the damp beds and blankets dried, the leaks partially stopped and the prison well aired and ventilated which, I am happy to say soon manifested a favourable change in the health and appearance of the men.

                Besides the cases given in the journal I had a great many others to treat, some of them similar to those mentioned but the greater part consisted of boils, scalds, and contusions which would not only be too tedious to enter but I fear would be irksome to the reader. There were four births on board during the passage which did well, therefore I did not consider it necessary to give a detailed account of them in my journal the more especially as they were all favourable cases.

                Regularity and cleanliness in the prison, free ventilation and as far as possible dry decks turning all the prisoners up in fine weather as we were lucky enough to have two musicians amongst the convicts, dancing was tolerated every afternoon, strict attention to personal cleanliness and also to the cooking of their victuals with regular hours for their meals, were the only prophylactic means used on this occasion, which I found to answer my expectations to the utmost extent in as much as there was not a single case of contagious or infectious nature during the whole passage with the exception of a few cases of psora which soon yielded to the usual treatment. A few cases of scurvy however appeared on board at rather an early period which I can attribute to nothing else but the wet and hardships the prisoners endured during the first three or four weeks of the passage. I was prompt in my treatment of these cases and they got well, but before we arrived at Sydney I had about thirty others to treat.’

                The Lady Nugent arrived in Port Jackson on 9 April 1835 with 284 male prisoners. Two men had died at sea. The prisoners were landed on 27th April 1835 and marched to Hyde Park Barracks prior to being assigned. Ten were under the age of 14 years.

                The Lady Nugent:

                Lady Nugent

                 

                Isaac’s distinguishing marks are noted on various criminal registers and record books:

                “Height in feet & inches: 5 4; Complexion: Ruddy; Hair: Light brown; Eyes: Hazel; Marks or Scars: Yes [including] DEVIL on lower left arm, TSIS back of left hand, WS lower right arm, MHDW back of right hand.”

                Another includes more detail about Isaac’s tattoos:

                “Two slight scars right side of mouth, 2 moles above right breast, figure of the devil and DEVIL and raised mole, lower left arm; anchor, seven dots half moon, TSIS and cross, back of left hand; a mallet, door post, A, mans bust, sun, WS, lower right arm; woman, MHDW and shut knife, back of right hand.”

                 

                Lady Nugent record book

                 

                From How tattoos became fashionable in Victorian England (2019 article in TheConversation by Robert Shoemaker and Zoe Alkar):

                “Historical tattooing was not restricted to sailors, soldiers and convicts, but was a growing and accepted phenomenon in Victorian England. Tattoos provide an important window into the lives of those who typically left no written records of their own. As a form of “history from below”, they give us a fleeting but intriguing understanding of the identities and emotions of ordinary people in the past.
                As a practice for which typically the only record is the body itself, few systematic records survive before the advent of photography. One exception to this is the written descriptions of tattoos (and even the occasional sketch) that were kept of institutionalised people forced to submit to the recording of information about their bodies as a means of identifying them. This particularly applies to three groups – criminal convicts, soldiers and sailors. Of these, the convict records are the most voluminous and systematic.
                Such records were first kept in large numbers for those who were transported to Australia from 1788 (since Australia was then an open prison) as the authorities needed some means of keeping track of them.”

                On the 1837 census Isaac was working for the government at Illiwarra, New South Wales. This record states that he arrived on the Lady Nugent in 1835. There are three other indent records for an Isaac Stokes in the following years, but the transcriptions don’t provide enough information to determine which Isaac Stokes it was. In April 1837 there was an abscondment, and an arrest/apprehension in May of that year, and in 1843 there was a record of convict indulgences.

                From the Australian government website regarding “convict indulgences”:

                “By the mid-1830s only six per cent of convicts were locked up. The vast majority worked for the government or free settlers and, with good behaviour, could earn a ticket of leave, conditional pardon or and even an absolute pardon. While under such orders convicts could earn their own living.”

                 

                In 1856 in Camden, NSW, Isaac Stokes married Catherine Daly. With no further information on this record it would be impossible to know for sure if this was the right Isaac Stokes. This couple had six children, all in the Camden area, but none of the records provided enough information. No occupation or place or date of birth recorded for Isaac Stokes.

                I wrote to the National Library of Australia about the marriage record, and their reply was a surprise! Issac and Catherine were married on 30 September 1856, at the house of the Rev. Charles William Rigg, a Methodist minister, and it was recorded that Isaac was born in Edinburgh in 1821, to parents James Stokes and Sarah Ellis!  The age at the time of the marriage doesn’t match Isaac’s age at death in 1877, and clearly the place of birth and parents didn’t match either. Only his fathers occupation of stone mason was correct.  I wrote back to the helpful people at the library and they replied that the register was in a very poor condition and that only two and a half entries had survived at all, and that Isaac and Catherines marriage was recorded over two pages.

                I searched for an Isaac Stokes born in 1821 in Edinburgh on the Scotland government website (and on all the other genealogy records sites) and didn’t find it. In fact Stokes was a very uncommon name in Scotland at the time. I also searched Australian immigration and other records for another Isaac Stokes born in Scotland or born in 1821, and found nothing.  I was unable to find a single record to corroborate this mysterious other Isaac Stokes.

                As the age at death in 1877 was correct, I assume that either Isaac was lying, or that some mistake was made either on the register at the home of the Methodist minster, or a subsequent mistranscription or muddle on the remnants of the surviving register.  Therefore I remain convinced that the Camden stonemason Isaac Stokes was indeed our Isaac from Oxfordshire.

                 

                I found a history society newsletter article that mentioned Isaac Stokes, stone mason, had built the Glenmore church, near Camden, in 1859.

                Glenmore Church

                 

                From the Wollondilly museum April 2020 newsletter:

                Glenmore Church Stokes

                 

                From the Camden History website:

                “The stone set over the porch of Glenmore Church gives the date of 1860. The church was begun in 1859 on land given by Joseph Moore. James Rogers of Picton was given the contract to build and local builder, Mr. Stokes, carried out the work. Elizabeth Moore, wife of Edward, laid the foundation stone. The first service was held on 19th March 1860. The cemetery alongside the church contains the headstones and memorials of the areas early pioneers.”

                 

                Isaac died on the 3rd September 1877. The inquest report puts his place of death as Bagdelly, near to Camden, and another death register has put Cambelltown, also very close to Camden.  His age was recorded as 71 and the inquest report states his cause of death was “rupture of one of the large pulmonary vessels of the lung”.  His wife Catherine died in childbirth in 1870 at the age of 43.

                 

                Isaac and Catherine’s children:

                William Stokes 1857-1928

                Catherine Stokes 1859-1846

                Sarah Josephine Stokes 1861-1931

                Ellen Stokes 1863-1932

                Rosanna Stokes 1865-1919

                Louisa Stokes 1868-1844.

                 

                It’s possible that Catherine Daly was a transported convict from Ireland.

                 

                Some time later I unexpectedly received a follow up email from The Oaks Heritage Centre in Australia.

                “The Gaudry papers which we have in our archive record him (Isaac Stokes) as having built: the church, the school and the teachers residence.  Isaac is recorded in the General return of convicts: 1837 and in Grevilles Post Office directory 1872 as a mason in Glenmore.”

                Isaac Stokes directory

                #6344
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  The Tetbury Riots

                   

                  While researching the Tetbury riots  (I had found some Browning names in the newspaper archives in association with the uprisings) I came across an article called Elizabeth Parker, the Swing Riots, and the Tetbury parish clerk” by Jill Evans.

                  I noted the name of the parish clerk, Daniel Cole, because I know someone else of that name. The incident in the article was 1830.

                  I found the 1826 marriage in the Tetbury parish registers (where Daniel was the parish clerk) of my 4x great grandmothers sister Hesther Lock. One of the witnesses was her brother Charles, and the other was Daniel Cole, the parish clerk.

                  Marriage of Lewin Chandler and Hesther Lock in 1826:

                  Daniel Cole witness

                   

                  from the article:

                  “The Swing Riots were disturbances which took place in 1830 and 1831, mostly in the southern counties of England. Agricultural labourers, who were already suffering due to low wages and a lack of work after several years of bad harvests, rose up when their employers introduced threshing machines into their workplaces. The riots got their name from the threatening letters which were sent to farmers and other employers, which were signed “Captain Swing.”

                  The riots spread into Gloucestershire in November 1830, with the Tetbury area seeing the worst of the disturbances. Amongst the many people arrested afterwards was one woman, Elizabeth Parker. She has sometimes been cited as one of only two females who were transported for taking part in the Swing Riots. In fact, she was sentenced to be transported for this crime, but never sailed, as she was pardoned a few months after being convicted. However, less than a year after being released from Gloucester Gaol, she was back, awaiting trial for another offence. The circumstances in both of the cases she was tried for reveal an intriguing relationship with one Daniel Cole, parish clerk and assistant poor law officer in Tetbury….

                  ….Elizabeth Parker was committed to Gloucester Gaol on 4 December 1830. In the Gaol Registers, she was described as being 23 and a “labourer”. She was in fact a prostitute, and she was unusual for the time in that she could read and write. She was charged on the oaths of Daniel Cole and others with having been among a mob which destroyed a threshing machine belonging to Jacob Hayward, at his farm in Beverstone, on 26 November.

                  …..Elizabeth Parker was granted royal clemency in July 1831 and was released from prison. She returned to Tetbury and presumably continued in her usual occupation, but on 27 March 1832, she was committed to Gloucester Gaol again. This time, she was charged with stealing 2 five pound notes, 5 sovereigns and 5 half sovereigns, from the person of Daniel Cole.

                  Elizabeth was tried at the Lent Assizes which began on 28 March, 1832. The details of her trial were reported in the Morning Post. Daniel Cole was in the “Boat Inn” (meaning the Boot Inn, I think) in Tetbury, when Elizabeth Parker came in. Cole “accompanied her down the yard”, where he stayed with her for about half an hour. The next morning, he realised that all his money was gone. One of his five pound notes was identified by him in a shop, where Parker had bought some items.

                  Under cross-examination, Cole said he was the assistant overseer of the poor and collector of public taxes of the parish of Tetbury. He was married with one child. He went in to the inn at about 9 pm, and stayed about 2 hours, drinking in the parlour, with the landlord, Elizabeth Parker, and two others. He was not drunk, but he was “rather fresh.” He gave the prisoner no money. He saw Elizabeth Parker next morning at the Prince and Princess public house. He didn’t drink with her or give her any money. He did give her a shilling after she was committed. He never said that he would not have prosecuted her “if it was not for her own tongue”. (Presumably meaning he couldn’t trust her to keep her mouth shut.)”

                  Contemporary illustration of the Swing riots:

                  Swing Riots

                   

                  Captain Swing was the imaginary leader agricultural labourers who set fire to barns and haystacks in the southern and eastern counties of England from 1830. Although the riots were ruthlessly put down (19 hanged, 644 imprisoned and 481 transported), the rural agitation led the new Whig government to establish a Royal Commission on the Poor Laws and its report provided the basis for the 1834 New Poor Law enacted after the Great Reform Bills of 1833.

                  An original portrait of Captain Swing hand coloured lithograph circa 1830:

                  Captain Swing

                  #6333
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    The Grattidge Family

                     

                    The first Grattidge to appear in our tree was Emma Grattidge (1853-1911) who married Charles Tomlinson (1847-1907) in 1872.

                    Charles Tomlinson (1873-1929) was their son and he married my great grandmother Nellie Fisher. Their daughter Margaret (later Peggy Edwards) was my grandmother on my fathers side.

                    Emma Grattidge was born in Wolverhampton, the daughter and youngest child of William Grattidge (1820-1887) born in Foston, Derbyshire, and Mary Stubbs, born in Burton on Trent, daughter of Solomon Stubbs, a land carrier. William and Mary married at St Modwens church, Burton on Trent, in 1839. It’s unclear why they moved to Wolverhampton. On the 1841 census William was employed as an agent, and their first son William was nine months old. Thereafter, William was a licensed victuallar or innkeeper.

                    William Grattidge was born in Foston, Derbyshire in 1820. His parents were Thomas Grattidge, farmer (1779-1843) and Ann Gerrard (1789-1822) from Ellastone. Thomas and Ann married in 1813 in Ellastone. They had five children before Ann died at the age of 25:

                    Bessy was born in 1815, Thomas in 1818, William in 1820, and Daniel Augustus and Frederick were twins born in 1822. They were all born in Foston. (records say Foston, Foston and Scropton, or Scropton)

                    On the 1841 census Thomas had nine people additional to family living at the farm in Foston, presumably agricultural labourers and help.

                    After Ann died, Thomas had three children with Kezia Gibbs (30 years his junior) before marrying her in 1836, then had a further four with her before dying in 1843. Then Kezia married Thomas’s nephew Frederick Augustus Grattidge (born in 1816 in Stafford) in London in 1847 and had two more!

                     

                    The siblings of William Grattidge (my 3x great grandfather):

                     

                    Frederick Grattidge (1822-1872) was a schoolmaster and never married. He died at the age of 49 in Tamworth at his twin brother Daniels address.

                    Daniel Augustus Grattidge (1822-1903) was a grocer at Gungate in Tamworth.

                    Thomas Grattidge (1818-1871) married in Derby, and then emigrated to Illinois, USA.

                    Bessy Grattidge  (1815-1840) married John Buxton, farmer, in Ellastone in January 1838. They had three children before Bessy died in December 1840 at the age of 25: Henry in 1838, John in 1839, and Bessy Buxton in 1840. Bessy was baptised in January 1841. Presumably the birth of Bessy caused the death of Bessy the mother.

                    Bessy Buxton’s gravestone:

                    “Sacred to the memory of Bessy Buxton, the affectionate wife of John Buxton of Stanton She departed this life December 20th 1840, aged 25 years. “Husband, Farewell my life is Past, I loved you while life did last. Think on my children for my sake, And ever of them with I take.”

                    20 Dec 1840, Ellastone, Staffordshire

                    Bessy Buxton

                     

                    In the 1843 will of Thomas Grattidge, farmer of Foston, he leaves fifth shares of his estate, including freehold real estate at Findern,  to his wife Kezia, and sons William, Daniel, Frederick and Thomas. He mentions that the children of his late daughter Bessy, wife of John Buxton, will be taken care of by their father.  He leaves the farm to Keziah in confidence that she will maintain, support and educate his children with her.

                    An excerpt from the will:

                    I give and bequeath unto my dear wife Keziah Grattidge all my household goods and furniture, wearing apparel and plate and plated articles, linen, books, china, glass, and other household effects whatsoever, and also all my implements of husbandry, horses, cattle, hay, corn, crops and live and dead stock whatsoever, and also all the ready money that may be about my person or in my dwelling house at the time of my decease, …I also give my said wife the tenant right and possession of the farm in my occupation….

                    A page from the 1843 will of Thomas Grattidge:

                    1843 Thomas Grattidge

                     

                    William Grattidges half siblings (the offspring of Thomas Grattidge and Kezia Gibbs):

                     

                    Albert Grattidge (1842-1914) was a railway engine driver in Derby. In 1884 he was driving the train when an unfortunate accident occured outside Ambergate. Three children were blackberrying and crossed the rails in front of the train, and one little girl died.

                    Albert Grattidge:

                    Albert Grattidge

                     

                    George Grattidge (1826-1876) was baptised Gibbs as this was before Thomas married Kezia. He was a police inspector in Derby.

                    George Grattidge:

                    George Grattidge

                     

                    Edwin Grattidge (1837-1852) died at just 15 years old.

                    Ann Grattidge (1835-) married Charles Fletcher, stone mason, and lived in Derby.

                    Louisa Victoria Grattidge (1840-1869) was sadly another Grattidge woman who died young. Louisa married Emmanuel Brunt Cheesborough in 1860 in Derby. In 1861 Louisa and Emmanuel were living with her mother Kezia in Derby, with their two children Frederick and Ann Louisa. Emmanuel’s occupation was sawyer. (Kezia Gibbs second husband Frederick Augustus Grattidge was a timber merchant in Derby)

                    At the time of her death in 1869, Emmanuel was the landlord of the White Hart public house at Bridgegate in Derby.

                    The Derby Mercury of 17th November 1869:

                    “On Wednesday morning Mr Coroner Vallack held an inquest in the Grand
                    Jury-room, Town-hall, on the body of Louisa Victoria Cheeseborough, aged
                    33, the wife of the landlord of the White Hart, Bridge-gate, who committed
                    suicide by poisoning at an early hour on Sunday morning. The following
                    evidence was taken:

                    Mr Frederick Borough, surgeon, practising in Derby, deposed that he was
                    called in to see the deceased about four o’clock on Sunday morning last. He
                    accordingly examined the deceased and found the body quite warm, but dead.
                    He afterwards made enquiries of the husband, who said that he was afraid
                    that his wife had taken poison, also giving him at the same time the
                    remains of some blue material in a cup. The aunt of the deceased’s husband
                    told him that she had seen Mrs Cheeseborough put down a cup in the
                    club-room, as though she had just taken it from her mouth. The witness took
                    the liquid home with him, and informed them that an inquest would
                    necessarily have to be held on Monday. He had made a post mortem
                    examination of the body, and found that in the stomach there was a great
                    deal of congestion. There were remains of food in the stomach and, having
                    put the contents into a bottle, he took the stomach away. He also examined
                    the heart and found it very pale and flabby. All the other organs were
                    comparatively healthy; the liver was friable.

                    Hannah Stone, aunt of the deceased’s husband, said she acted as a servant
                    in the house. On Saturday evening, while they were going to bed and whilst
                    witness was undressing, the deceased came into the room, went up to the
                    bedside, awoke her daughter, and whispered to her. but what she said the
                    witness did not know. The child jumped out of bed, but the deceased closed
                    the door and went away. The child followed her mother, and she also
                    followed them to the deceased’s bed-room, but the door being closed, they
                    then went to the club-room door and opening it they saw the deceased
                    standing with a candle in one hand. The daughter stayed with her in the
                    room whilst the witness went downstairs to fetch a candle for herself, and
                    as she was returning up again she saw the deceased put a teacup on the
                    table. The little girl began to scream, saying “Oh aunt, my mother is
                    going, but don’t let her go”. The deceased then walked into her bed-room,
                    and they went and stood at the door whilst the deceased undressed herself.
                    The daughter and the witness then returned to their bed-room. Presently
                    they went to see if the deceased was in bed, but she was sitting on the
                    floor her arms on the bedside. Her husband was sitting in a chair fast
                    asleep. The witness pulled her on the bed as well as she could.
                    Ann Louisa Cheesborough, a little girl, said that the deceased was her
                    mother. On Saturday evening last, about twenty minutes before eleven
                    o’clock, she went to bed, leaving her mother and aunt downstairs. Her aunt
                    came to bed as usual. By and bye, her mother came into her room – before
                    the aunt had retired to rest – and awoke her. She told the witness, in a
                    low voice, ‘that she should have all that she had got, adding that she
                    should also leave her her watch, as she was going to die’. She did not tell
                    her aunt what her mother had said, but followed her directly into the
                    club-room, where she saw her drink something from a cup, which she
                    afterwards placed on the table. Her mother then went into her own room and
                    shut the door. She screamed and called her father, who was downstairs. He
                    came up and went into her room. The witness then went to bed and fell
                    asleep. She did not hear any noise or quarrelling in the house after going
                    to bed.

                    Police-constable Webster was on duty in Bridge-gate on Saturday evening
                    last, about twenty minutes to one o’clock. He knew the White Hart
                    public-house in Bridge-gate, and as he was approaching that place, he heard
                    a woman scream as though at the back side of the house. The witness went to
                    the door and heard the deceased keep saying ‘Will you be quiet and go to
                    bed’. The reply was most disgusting, and the language which the
                    police-constable said was uttered by the husband of the deceased, was
                    immoral in the extreme. He heard the poor woman keep pressing her husband
                    to go to bed quietly, and eventually he saw him through the keyhole of the
                    door pass and go upstairs. his wife having gone up a minute or so before.
                    Inspector Fearn deposed that on Sunday morning last, after he had heard of
                    the deceased’s death from supposed poisoning, he went to Cheeseborough’s
                    public house, and found in the club-room two nearly empty packets of
                    Battie’s Lincoln Vermin Killer – each labelled poison.

                    Several of the Jury here intimated that they had seen some marks on the
                    deceased’s neck, as of blows, and expressing a desire that the surgeon
                    should return, and re-examine the body. This was accordingly done, after
                    which the following evidence was taken:

                    Mr Borough said that he had examined the body of the deceased and observed
                    a mark on the left side of the neck, which he considered had come on since
                    death. He thought it was the commencement of decomposition.
                    This was the evidence, after which the jury returned a verdict “that the
                    deceased took poison whilst of unsound mind” and requested the Coroner to
                    censure the deceased’s husband.

                    The Coroner told Cheeseborough that he was a disgusting brute and that the
                    jury only regretted that the law could not reach his brutal conduct.
                    However he had had a narrow escape. It was their belief that his poor
                    wife, who was driven to her own destruction by his brutal treatment, would
                    have been a living woman that day except for his cowardly conduct towards
                    her.

                    The inquiry, which had lasted a considerable time, then closed.”

                     

                    In this article it says:

                    “it was the “fourth or fifth remarkable and tragical event – some of which were of the worst description – that has taken place within the last twelve years at the White Hart and in the very room in which the unfortunate Louisa Cheesborough drew her last breath.”

                    Sheffield Independent – Friday 12 November 1869:

                    Louisa Cheesborough

                    #6268
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      From Tanganyika with Love

                      continued part 9

                      With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                      Lyamungu 3rd January 1945

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Lyamungu 14 May 1945

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Lyamungu 19th September 1945

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

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

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

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

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

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

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

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

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Jacksdale England 24th June 1946

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Jacksdale England 28th August 1946

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Jacksdale England 20th September 1946

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Dar es Salaam 22nd October 1946

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Mbeya 1st November 1946

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      #6267
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        From Tanganyika with Love

                        continued part 8

                        With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                        Morogoro 20th January 1941

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 30th July 1941

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 26th August 1941

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 25th December 1941

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro Hospital 30th September 1943

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 26th January 1944

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 20th March 1944

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 15th May 1944

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 18th July 1944

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 16th August 1944

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

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

                        Dearest Mummy,

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

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

                        Very much love,
                        Eleanor.

                        Safari in Masailand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Lyamungu 10th November. 1944

                        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Much love,
                        Eleanor.

                         

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