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In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – Murder Board – Evie’s apartment
The ship had gone mad.
Riven Holt stood in what should have been a secured crime scene, staring at the makeshift banner that had replaced his official security tape. “ENTER FREELY AND OF YOUR OWN WILL,” it read, in bold, uneven letters. The edges were charred. Someone had burned it, for reasons he would never understand.
Behind him, the faint sounds of mass lunacy echoed through the corridors. People chanting, people sobbing, someone loudly trying to bargain with gravity.
“Sir, the floors are not real! We’ve all been walking on a lie!” someone had screamed earlier, right before diving headfirst into a pile of chairs left there by someone trying to create a portal.
Riven did his best to ignore the chaos, gripping his tablet like it was the last anchor to reality. He had two dead bodies. He had one ship full of increasingly unhinged people. And he had forty hours without sleep. His brain felt like a dried-out husk, working purely on stubbornness and caffeine fumes.
Evie was crouched over Mandrake’s remains, muttering to herself as she sorted through digital records. TP stood nearby, his holographic form flickering as if he, too, were being affected by the ship’s collective insanity.
“Well,” TP mused, rubbing his nonexistent chin. “This is quite the predicament.”
Riven pinched the bridge of his nose. “TP, if you say anything remotely poetic about the human condition, I will unplug your entire database.”
TP looked delighted. “Ah, my dear lieutenant, a threat worthy of true desperation!”
Evie ignored them both, then suddenly stiffened. “Riven, I… you need to see this.”
He braced himself. “What now?”
She turned the screen toward him. Two names appeared side by side:
Both M.
The sound that came out of Riven was not quite a word. More like a dying engine trying to restart.
TP gasped dramatically. “My stars. The letter M! The implications are—”
“No.” Riven put up a hand, one tremor away from screaming. “We are NOT doing this. I am not letting my brain spiral into a letter-based conspiracy theory while people outside are rolling in protein paste and reciting odes to Jupiter’s moons.”
Evie, far too calm for his liking, just tapped the screen again. “It’s a pattern. We have to consider it.”
TP nodded sagely. “Indeed. The letter M—known throughout history as a mark of mystery, malice, and… wait, let me check… ah, macaroni.”
Riven was going to have an aneurysm.
Instead, he exhaled slowly, like a man trying to keep the last shreds of his soul from unraveling.
“That means the Lexicans are involved.”
Evie paled. “Oh no.”
TP beamed. “Oh yes!”
The Lexicans had been especially unpredictable lately. One had been caught trying to record the “song of the walls” because “they hum with forgotten words.” Another had attempted to marry the ship’s AI. A third had been detained for throwing their own clothing into the air vents because “the whispers demanded tribute.”
Riven leaned against the console, feeling his mind slipping. He needed a reality check. A hard, cold, undeniable fact.
Only one person could give him that.
“You know what? Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s just ask the one person who might actually be able to tell me if this is a coincidence or some ancient space cult.”
Evie frowned. “Who?”
Riven was already walking. “My grandfather.”
Evie practically choked. “Wait, WHAT?!”
TP clapped his hands. “Ah, the classic ‘Wake the Old Man to Solve the Crimes’ maneuver. Love it.”
The corridors were worse than before. As they made their way toward cryo-storage, the lunacy had escalated:
A crowd was parading down the halls with helium balloons, chanting, “Gravity is a Lie!”
A group of engineers had dismantled a security door, claiming “it whispered to them about betrayal.”
And a bunch of Lexicans, led by Kio’ath, had smeared stinking protein paste onto the Atrium walls, drawing spirals and claiming the prophecy was upon them all.
Riven’s grip on reality was thin.Evie grabbed his arm. “Think about this. What if your grandfather wakes up and he’s just as insane as everyone else?”
Riven didn’t even break stride. “Then at least we’ll be insane with more context.”
TP sighed happily. “Ah, reckless decision-making. The very heart of detective work.”
Helix 25 — Victor Holt’s Awakening
They reached the cryo-chamber. The pod loomed before them, controls locked down under layers of security.
Riven cracked his knuckles, eyes burning with the desperation of a man who had officially run out of better options.
Evie stared. “You’re actually doing this.”
He was already punching in override codes. “Damn right I am.”
The door opened. A low hum filled the room. The first thing Riven noticed was the frost still clinging to the edges of an already open cryopod. Cold vapor curled around its base, its occupant nowhere to be seen.
His stomach clenched. Someone had beaten them here. Another pod’s systems activated. The glass began to fog as temperature levels shifted.
TP leaned in. “Oh, this is going to be deliciously catastrophic.”
Before the pod could fully engage, a flicker of movement in the dim light caught Riven’s eye. Near the terminal, hunched over the access panel like a gang of thieves cracking a vault, stood Zoya Kade and Anuí Naskó—and, a baby wrapped in what could only be described as an aggressively overdesigned Lexican tapestry, layers of embroidered symbols and unreadable glyphs woven in mismatched patterns. It was sucking desperately the lexican’s sleeve.
Riven’s exhaustion turned into a slow, rising fury. For a brief moment, his mind was distracted by something he had never actually considered before—he had always assumed Anuí was a woman. The flowing robes, the mannerisms, the way they carried themselves. But now, cradling the notorious Lexican baby in ceremonial cloth, could they possibly be…
Anuí caught his look and smiled faintly, unreadable as ever. “This has nothing to do with gender,” they said smoothly, shifting the baby with practiced ease. “I merely am the second father of the child.”
“Oh, for f***—What in the hell are you two doing here?”
Anuí barely glanced up, shifting the baby to their other arm as though hacking into a classified cryo-storage facility while holding an infant was a perfectly normal occurrence. “Unlocking the axis of the spiral,” they said smoothly. “It was prophesied. The Speaker’s name has been revealed.”
Zoya, still pressing at the panel, didn’t even look at him. “We need to wake Victor Holt.”
Riven threw his hands in the air. “Great! Fantastic! So do we! The difference is that I actually have a reason.”
Anuí, eyes glinting with something between mischief and intellect, gave an elegant nod. “So do we, Lieutenant. Yours is a crime scene. Ours is history itself.”
Riven felt his headache spike. “Oh good. You’ve been licking the walls again.”
TP, absolutely delighted, interjected, “Oh, I like them. Their madness is methodical!”
Riven narrowed his eyes, pointing at the empty pod. “Who the hell did you wake up?”
Zoya didn’t flinch. “We don’t know.”
He barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, you don’t know? You cracked into a classified cryo-storage facility, activated a pod, and just—what? Didn’t bother to check who was inside?”
Anuí adjusted the baby, watching him with that same unsettling, too-knowing expression. “It was not part of the prophecy. We were guided here for Victor Holt.”
“And yet someone else woke up first!” Riven gestured wildly to the empty pod. “So, unless the prophecy also mentioned mystery corpses walking out of deep freeze, I suggest you start making sense.”
Before Riven could launch into a proper interrogation, the cryo-system let out a deep hiss.
Steam coiled up from Victor Holt’s pod as the seals finally unlocked, fog spilling over the edges like something out of an ancient myth. A figure was stirring within, movements sluggish, muscles regaining function after years in suspension.
And then, from the doorway, another voice rang out, sharp, almost panicked.
Ellis Marlowe stood at the threshold, looking at the two open pods, his eyes wide with something between shock and horror.
“What have you done?”
Riven braced himself.
Evie muttered, “Oh, this is gonna be bad.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Base Klyutch – Dr. Markova’s Clinic, Dusk
The scent of roasting meat and simmering stew drifted in from the kitchens, mingling with the sharper smells of antiseptic and herbs in the clinic. The faint clatter of pots and the low murmur of voices preparing the evening meal gave the air a sense of routine, of a world still turning despite everything. Solara Ortega sat on the edge of the examination table, rolling her shoulder to ease the stiffness. Dr. Yelena Markova worked in silence, cool fingers pressing against bruised skin, clinical as ever. Outside, Base Klyutch was settling into the quiet of night—wind turbines hummed, a sentry dog barked in the distance.
“You’re lucky,” Yelena muttered, pressing into Solara’s ribs just hard enough to make a point. “Nothing broken. Just overworked muscles and bad decisions.”
Solara exhaled sharply. “Bad decisions keep us alive.”
Yelena scoffed. “That’s what you tell yourself when you run off into the wild with Orrin Holt?”
Solara ignored the name, focusing instead on the peeling medical posters curling off the clinic walls.
“We didn’t find them,” she said flatly. “They moved west. Too far ahead. No proper tracking gear, no way to catch up before the lionboars or Sokolov’s men did.”
Yelena didn’t blink. “That’s not what I asked.”
A memory surfaced; Orrin standing beside her in the empty refugee camp, the air thick with the scent of old ashes and trampled earth. The fire pits were cold, the shelters abandoned, scraps of cloth and discarded tin cups the only proof that people had once been there. And then she had seen it—a child’s scarf, frayed and half-buried in the dirt. Not the same one, but close enough to make her chest tighten. The last time she had seen her son, he had worn one just like it.
She hadn’t picked it up. Just stood there, staring, forcing her breath steady, forcing her mind to stay fixed on what was in front of her, not what had been lost. Then Orrin’s hand had settled on her shoulder—warm, steady, comforting. Too comforting. She had jerked away, faster than she meant to, pulse hammering at the sudden weight of everything his touch threatened to unearth. He hadn’t said a word. Just looked at her, knowing, as he always did.
She had turned, found her voice, made it sharp. The trail was already too cold. No point chasing ghosts. And she had walked away before she could give the silence between them the space to say anything else.
Solara forced her attention back to the present, to the clinic. She turned her gaze to Yelena, steady and unmoved. “But that’s what matters. We didn’t find them. They made their choice.”
Yelena clicked her tongue, scribbling something onto her worn-out tablet. “Mm. And yet, you come back looking like hell. And Orrin? He looked like a man who’d just seen a ghost.”
Solara let out a dry breath, something close to a laugh. “Orrin always looks like that.”
Yelena arched an eyebrow. “Not always. Not before he came back and saw what he had lost.”
Solara pushed off the table, rolling out the tension in her neck. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, it matters,” Yelena said, setting the tablet down. “You still look at him, Solara. Like you did before. And don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”
Solara stiffened, fingers flexing at her sides. “I have a husband, Yelena.”
“Yes, you do,” Yelena said plainly. “And yet, when you say Orrin’s name, you sound like you’re standing in a place you swore you wouldn’t go back to.”
Solara forced herself to breathe evenly, eyes flicking toward the door.
“I made my choice,” she said quietly.
Yelena’s gaze softened, just a little. “Did he?”
Footsteps pounded outside, uneven, hurried. The clinic door burst open, and Janos Varga—Solara’s husband—strode in, breathless, his eyes bright with something rare.
“Solara, you need to come now,” he said, voice sharp with urgency. “Koval’s team—Orrin—they found something.”
Her spine straightened, her heartbeat accelerated. “What? Did they find…?” No, the tracks were clear, the refugees went west.
Janos ran a hand through his curls, his old radio headset still looped around his neck. “One of Helix 57’s life boat’s wreckage. And a man. Some old lunatic calling himself Merdhyn. And—” he paused, catching his breath, “—we picked up a signal. From space.”
The air in the room tightened. Yelena’s lips parted slightly, the shadow of an emotion passed on her face, too fast to read. Solara’s pulse kicked up.
“Where are they?” she asked.
Janos met her gaze. “Koval’s office.”
For a moment, silence. The wind rattled the windowpanes.
Yelena straightened abruptly, setting her tablet down with a deliberate motion. “There’s nothing more I can do for your shoulder. And I’m coming too,” she said, already reaching for her coat.
Solara grabbed her jacket. “Take us there, Janos.”
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – The Murder Board
Evie sat cross-legged on the floor of her cramped workspace, staring at the scattered notes, datapads, and threads taped to the wall. Finding some yarn on the ship had not been as easy as she thought, but it was a nice touch she thought.
The Murder Board, as Riven Holt had started calling it, was becoming an increasingly frustrating mess of unanswered questions.
Riven stood nearby, arms crossed, with a an irritated skepticism. “Almost a week,” he muttered. “We’re no closer than when we started.”
Evie exhaled sharply. “Then let’s go back to the basics.”
She tapped the board, where the crime scene was crudely sketched. The Drying Machine. Granary. Jardenery. Blood that shouldn’t exist.
She turned to Riven. “Alright, let’s list it out. Who are our suspects?”
He looked at his notes, dejected for a moment; “too many, obviously.” Last census on the ship was not accurate by far, but by all AI’s accounts cross-referenced with Finkley’s bots data, they estimated the population to be between 15,000 and 50,000. Give or take.
They couldn’t interview possibly all of them, all the more since there the interest in the murder had waned very rapidly. Apart from the occasional trio of nosy elderly ladies, the ship had returned mostly to the lull of the day-to-day routine.
So they’d focused on a few, and hoped TP’s machine brain could see patterns where they couldn’t.- First, the Obvious Candidates: People with Proximity to the Crime Scene
Romualdo, the Gardener – Friendly, unassuming. He lends books, grows plants, and talks about Elizabeth Tattler novels. But Herbert visited him often. Why?
Dr. Amara Voss – The geneticist. Her research proves the Crusader DNA link, but could she be hiding more? Despite being Evie’s godmother, she couldn’t be ruled out just yet.
Sue Forgelot – The socialite with connections everywhere. She had eluded their request for interviews. —does she know more than she lets on?
The Cleaning Staff – they had access everywhere. And the murder had a clean elegance to it… - Second, The Wild Cards: People with Unknown Agendas
The Lower Deck Engineers – Talented mechanic, with probable cybernetic knowledge, with probable access to unauthorized modifications. Could they kill for a reason, or for hire?
Zoya Kade and her Followers – They believe Helix 25 is on a doomed course, manipulated by a long-dead tycoon’s plan. Would they kill to force exposure of an inconvenient truth?
The Crew – Behind the sense of duty and polite smiles, could any of them be covering something up? - Third, The AI Factor: Sentient or Insentient?
Synthia, the AI – Controls the ship. Omnipresent. Can see everything, and yet… didn’t notice or report the murder. Too convenient.
Other personal AIs – Like Trevor Pee’s programme, most had in-built mechanisms to make them incapable of lying or harming humans. But could one of their access be compromised?
Riven frowned. “And what about Herbert himself? Who was he, really? He called himself Mr. Herbert, but the cat erm… Mandrake says that wasn’t his real name. If we figure out his past, maybe we find out why he was killed.”
Evie rubbed her temples. “We also still don’t know how he was killed. The ship’s safety systems should have shut the machine down. But something altered how the system perceived him before he went in.”
She gestured to another note. “And there’s still the genetic link. What was Herbert doing with Crusader DNA?”
A heavy silence settled between them.
Then TP’s voice chimed in. “Might I suggest an old detective’s trick? When stumped, return to who benefits.”
Riven exhaled. “Fine. Who benefits from Herbert’s death?”
Evie chewed the end of her stylus. “Depends. If it was personal, the killer is on this ship, and it’s someone who knew him. If it was bigger than Herbert, then we’re dealing with something… deeper.”
TP hummed. “I do hate deeper mysteries. They tend to involve conspiracies, misplaced prophecies, and far too many secret societies.”
Evie and Riven exchanged a glance.
Riven sighed. “We need a break.”
Evie scoffed. “Time means nothing here.”
Riven gestured out the window. “Then let’s go see it. The Sun.”
Helix 25 – The Sun-Gazing Chamber
The Sun-Gazing Chamber was one of Helix 25’s more poetic and yet practical inventions —an optically and digitally-enhanced projection of the Sun, positioned at the ship’s perihelion. It was meant to provide a psychological tether, a sense of humanity’s connection to the prime provider of life as they drifted in the void of the Solar System.
It was a beautifully designed setting where people would simply sit and relax, attuned to the shift of days and nights as if still on Earth. The primary setting had been voted to a massive 83.5% to be like in Hawai’i latitude and longitude, as its place was believed to be a reflection of Earth’s heart. That is was a State in the USA was a second thought of course.
Evie sat on the observation bench, staring at the massive, golden sphere suspended in the darkness. “Do you think people back on Earth are still watching the sunrise?” she murmured.
Riven was quiet for a moment. “If there’s anyone left.”
Evie frowned. “If they are, I doubt they got much of a choice.”
TP materialized beside them, adjusting his holographic tie. “Ah, the age-old existential debate: are we the lucky ones who left Earth, or the tragic fools who abandoned it?”
Evie ignored him, glancing at the other ship residents in the chamber. Most people just sat quietly, basking in the light. But she caught snippets of whispers, doubt, something spreading through the ranks.
“Some people think we’re not really where they say we are,” she muttered.
Riven raised an eyebrow. “What, like conspiracy theories?”
TP scoffed. “Oh, you mean the Flat-Earthers?” He tsked. “Who couldn’t jump on the Helix lifeboats for their lives, convinced as they were we couldn’t make it to the stars. They deserved what came to them. Next they’ll be saying Helix 25 never even launched and we’re all just trapped in a simulation of a luxury cruise.”
Evie was shocked at Trevor Pee’s eructation and rubbed her face. “Damn Musk tech, and those “Truth Control” rubbish datasets. I thought I’d thoroughly scrubbed all the old propaganda tech from the system.”
“Ah,” TP said, “but conspiracies are like mold. Persistent. Annoying. Occasionally toxic.”
Riven shook his head. “It’s nonsense. We’re moving. We’ve been moving for decades.”
Evie didn’t look convinced. “Then why do we feel stuck?”
A chime interrupted them.
A voice, over the comms. Solar flare alert.
Evie stiffened.
Then: Stay calm and return to your quarters until further notice.
Evie raised an eyebrow. This was the first time something like that happened. She turned to Riven who was looking at his datapad who was flashing and buzzing.
He said to her: “Stay quiet and come with me, a new death has been reported. Crazy coincidence. It’s just behind the Sun-Gazing chamber actually, in the Zero-G sector.”
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
Liz had, in her esteemed opinion, finally cracked the next great literary masterpiece.
It had everything—forbidden romance, ancient mysteries, a dash of gratuitous betrayal, and a protagonist with just the right amount of brooding introspection to make him irresistible to at least two stunningly beautiful, completely unnecessary love interests.
And, of course, there was a ghost. She would have preferred a mummy but it had been edited out one morning she woke up drooling on her work with little recollection of the night.
Unfortunately, none of this mattered because Godfrey, her ever-exasperated editor, was staring at her manuscript with the same enthusiasm he reserved for peanut shells stuck in his teeth.
“This—” he hesitated, massaging his temples, “—this is supposed to be about the Crusades.”
Liz beamed. “It is! Historical and spicy. I expect an award.”
Godfrey set down the pages and reached for his ever-dwindling bowl of peanuts. “Liz, for the love of all that is holy, why is the Templar knight taking off his armor every other page?”
Liz gasped in indignation. “You wouldn’t understand, Godfrey. It’s symbolic. A shedding of the past! A rebirth of the soul!” She made an exaggerated sweeping motion, nearly knocking over her champagne flute.
“Symbolic,” Godfrey repeated flatly, chewing another peanut. “He’s shirtless on page three, in a monastery.”
Finnley, who had been dusting aggressively, made a sharp sniff. “Disgraceful.”
Liz ignored her. “Oh please, Godfrey. You have no vision. Readers love a little intimacy in their historical fiction.”
“The priest,” Godfrey said, voice rising, “is supposed to be celibate. You explicitly wrote that his vow was unbreakable.”
Liz waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I solved that. He forgets about it momentarily.”
Godfrey choked on a peanut. Finnley paused mid-dust, staring at Liz in horror.
Roberto, who had been watering the hydrangeas outside the window, suddenly leaned in. “Did I hear something about a forgetful priest?”
“Not now, Roberto,” Liz said sharply.
Finnley folded her arms. “And how, pray tell, does one simply forget their sacred vows?”
Liz huffed. “The same way one forgets to clean behind the grandfather clock, I imagine.”
Finnley turned an alarming shade of purple.
Godfrey was still in disbelief. “And you’re telling me,” he said, flipping through the pages in growing horror, “that this man, Brother Edric, the holy warrior, somehow manages to fall in love with—who is this—” he squinted, “—Laetitia von Somethingorother?”
Liz beamed. “Ah, yes. Laetitia! Mysterious, tragic, effortlessly seductive—”
“She’s literally the most obvious spy I’ve ever read,” Godfrey groaned, rubbing his face.
“She is not! She is enigmatic.”
“She has a knife hidden in every scene.”
“A woman should be prepared.”
Godfrey took a deep breath and picked up another sheet. “Oh fantastic. There’s a secret baby now.”
Liz nodded sagely. “Yes. I felt that revelation.”
Finnley snorted. “Roberto also felt something last week, and it turned out to be food poisoning.”
Roberto, still hovering at the window, nodded solemnly. “It was quite moving.”
Godfrey set the papers down in defeat. “Liz. Please. I’m begging you. Just one novel—just one—where the historical accuracy lasts at least until page ten.”
Liz tapped her chin. “You might have a point.”
Godfrey perked up.
Liz snapped her fingers. “I should move the shirtless scene to page two.”
Godfrey’s head hit the table.
Roberto clapped enthusiastically. “Genius! I shall fetch celebratory figs!”
Finnley sighed dramatically, threw down her duster, and walked out of the room muttering about professional disgrace.
Liz grinned, completely unfazed. “You know, Godfrey, I really don’t think you appreciate my artistic sacrifices.”
Godfrey, face still buried in his arms, groaned, “Liz, I think Brother Edric’s celibacy lasted longer than my patience.”
Liz threw a hand to her forehead theatrically. “Then it was simply not meant to be.”
Roberto reappeared, beaming. “I found the figs.”
Godfrey reached for another peanut.
He was going to need a lot more of them.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – Below Lower Decks – Shadow Sector
Kai Nova moved cautiously through the underbelly of Helix 25, entering a part of the Lower Decks where the usual throb of the ship’s automated systems turned muted. The air had a different smell here— it was less sterile, more… human. It was warm, the heat from outdated processors and unmonitored power nodes radiating through the bulkheads. The Upper Decks would have reported this inefficiency.
Here, it simply went unnoticed, or more likely, ignored.
He was being watched.
He knew it the moment he passed a cluster of workers standing by a storage unit, their voices trailing off as he walked by. Not unusual, except these weren’t Lower Deck engineers. They had the look of people who existed outside of the ship’s official structure—clothes unmarked by department insignias, movements too intentional for standard crew assignments.
He stopped at the rendezvous point: an unlit access panel leading to what was supposed to be an abandoned sublevel. The panel had been manually overridden, its system logs erased. That alone told him enough—whoever he was meeting had the skills to work outside of Helix 25’s omnipresent oversight.
A voice broke the silence.
“You’re late.”
Kai turned, keeping his stance neutral. The speaker was of indistinct gender, shaved head, tall and wiry, with sharp green eyes locked on his movements. They wore layered robes that, at a glance, could have passed as scavenged fabric—until Kai noticed the intricate stitching of symbols hidden in the folds.
They looked like Zoya’s brand —he almost thought… or let’s just say, Zoya’s influence. Zoya Kade’s litanies had a farther reach he would expect.
“Wasn’t aware this was a job interview,” Kai quipped, leaning casually against the bulkhead.
“Everything’s a test,” they replied. “Especially for outsiders.”
Kai smirked. “I didn’t come to join your book club. I came for answers.”
A low chuckle echoed from the shadows, followed by the shifting of figures stepping into the faint light. Three, maybe four of them. It could have been an ambush, but that was a display.
“Pilot,” the woman continued, avoiding names. “Seeker of truth? Or just another lost soul looking for something to believe in?”
Kai rolled his shoulders, sensing the tension in the air. “I believe in not running out of fuel before reaching nowhere.”
That got their attention.
The recruiter studied him before nodding slightly. “Good. You understand the problem.”
Kai crossed his arms. “I understand a lot of problems. I also understand you’re not just a bunch of doomsayers whispering in the dark. You’re organized. And you think this ship is heading toward a dead end.”
“You say that like it isn’t.”
Kai exhaled, glancing at the flickering emergency light above. “Synthia doesn’t make mistakes.”
They smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “No. It makes adjustments.” — the heavy tone on the “it” struck him. Techno-bigots, or something else? Were they denying Synthia’s sentience, or just adjusting for gender misnomers, it was hard to tell, and he had a hard time to gauge the sanity of this group.
A low murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered figures.
Kai tilted his head. “You think she’s leading us into the abyss?”
The person stepped closer. “What do you think happened to the rest of the fleet, Pilot?”
Kai stiffened slightly. The Helix Fleet, the original grand exodus of humanity—once multiple ships, now only Helix 25, drifting further into the unknown.
He had never been given a real answer.
“Think about it,” they pressed. “This ship wasn’t built for endless travel. Its original mission was altered. Its course reprogrammed. You fly the vessel, but you don’t control it.” She gestured to the others. “None of us do. We’re passengers on a ride to oblivion, on a ship driven by a dead man’s vision.”
Kai had heard the whispers—about the tycoon who had bankrolled Helix 25, about how the ship’s true directive had been rewritten when the Earth refugees arrived. But this group… they didn’t just speculate. They were ready to act.
He kept his voice steady. “You planning on mutiny?”
They smiled, stepping back into the half-shadow. “Mutiny is such a crude word. We’re simply ensuring that we survive.”
Before Kai could respond, a warning prickle ran up his spine.
Someone else was watching.
He turned slowly, catching the faintest silhouette lingering just beyond the corridor entrance. He recognized the stance instantly—Cadet Taygeta.
Damn it.
She had followed him.
The group noticed, shifting slightly. Not hostile, but suddenly alert.
“Well, well,” the woman murmured. “Seems you have company. You weren’t as careful as you thought. How are you going to deal with this problem now?”
Kai exhaled, weighing his options. If Taygeta had followed him, she’d already flagged this meeting in her records. If he tried to run, she’d report it. If he didn’t run, she might just dig deeper.
And the worst part?
She wasn’t corruptible. She wasn’t the type to look the other way.
“You should go,” the movement person said. “Before your shadow decides to interfere.”
Kai hesitated for half a second, before stepping back.
“This isn’t over,” he said.
Her smile returned. “No, Pilot. It’s just beginning.”
With that, Kai turned and walked toward the exit—toward Taygeta, who was waiting for him with arms crossed, expression unreadable.
He didn’t speak first.
She did.
“You’re terrible at being subtle.”
Kai sighed, thinking quickly of how much of the conversation could be accessed by the central system. They were still in the shadow zone, but that wasn’t sufficient. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” Her voice was even, but her fingers twitched at her side. “You know this is treason, right?”
Kai ran a hand through his hair. “You really think we’re on course for a fresh new paradise?”
Taygeta didn’t answer right away. That was enough of an answer.
Finally, she exhaled. “You should report this.”
“You should,” Kai corrected.
She frowned.
He pressed on. “You know me, Taygeta. I don’t follow lost causes. I don’t get involved in politics. I fly. I survive. But if they’re right—if there’s even a chance that we’re being sent to our deaths—I need to know.”
Taygeta’s fingers twitched again.
Then, with a sharp breath, she turned.
“I didn’t see anything tonight.”
Kai blinked. “What?”
Her back was already to him, her voice tight. “Whatever you’re doing, Nova, be careful. Because next time?” She turned her head slightly, just enough to let him see the edge of her conflicted expression.
“I will report you.”
Then she was gone.
Kai let out a slow breath, glancing back toward the hidden movement behind him.
No turning back now.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – Lower Decks – Secretive Adjustments
Sue Brittany Kaleleonālani Forgelot moved with the practiced grace of someone accustomed to being noticed—but tonight, she walked as someone trying not to be. The Upper Deck was hers, where conversations flowed with elegant pretense and where everyone knew her by firstname —Sue, she would insist. There would be none of that bowing nonsense to her noble lineages —bless her distinguished ancestors.
Here, in the Lower Decks, she was a curiosity at best, an intrusion at worst.
Unlike the well-maintained Upper Decks, here the air was warmer, and one could sense mingled with the recycled air, a distinct scent of metal, oil, and even labouring bodies. Maintenance bots were limited, and keeping people busy with work helped with the social order. Lights flickered erratically in narrow corridors, nothing like the pristine glow of the Upper Deck’s crystal chandeliers. The Lower Decks were functional, built for work and survival, not for leisure. And deeper still—past the bustling workstations, past the overlooked mechanics keeping Helix 25 from falling apart—the Hold.
The Hold was where she found Luca Stroud.
A heavy, reinforced door hissed as it unlocked, and Sue stepped inside his dimly lit workshop. Stacks of salvaged tech lined the walls, interspersed with crates of unauthorized modifications in this workspace born of a mixture of necessity, ingenuity, and quiet rebellion.
Luca barely looked up as he wiped oil from his hands. “You’re late, dear.”
Sue huffed, settling into the chair he had long since designated for her. “A lady does not rush. Besides, I had affairs to attend to.” She crossed one leg over the other, her silk shawl catching on the metallic seam of a cybernetic limb beneath it. “And I had to dodge half the ship to get here unnoticed.”
Luca grunted, kneeling beside her. “You wouldn’t have to sneak if you’d just let one of the Upper Deck doctors service this thing.” He tapped lightly on the synthetic skin to reveal the metallic prosthetic, watching as the synthetic nerves twitched in response.
Sue’s expression turned sharp. “You know why I can’t.”
Luca said nothing, but his smirk spoke volumes.
There were things she couldn’t let the Upper Deck medics see. Upgrades, modifications, small enhancements that gave her just enough edge. In the circles she moved in, knowledge was power. And she was far too valuable to be at the mercy of those who wanted her dependent.
Luca examined the joint, nodding to himself. “You’ve been walking too much on it.”
“Well, forgive me for using my own legs.”
He tightened a wire. Sue winced, but he ignored it. “You need recalibration. And I need better parts.”
Sue gave a slow, knowing smile. “And what minor favors will you require this time?”
Luca leaned back, thoughtful. “Information. Since you’re generous with it.”
She sighed, shifting in her seat. “Fine. You’re lucky I find you amusing.”
He adjusted a component with expert hands. “Tell me about the murder.”
Sue arched a brow. “Everyone wants to talk about that. You’d think no one had ever died before.”
“They haven’t,” Luca countered, voice flat. “Not for a long time. And not like this.”
She studied him, his interest piquing her own. “So you think it was a real murder.”
Luca let out a dry chuckle. “Oh, it was a murder alright. And you know it.”
Sue exhaled, considering what to share. “Well, rumor has it, the DNA found in the crime scene doesn’t belong here. It’s from the past. Far past.”
Luca glanced up, intrigued. “How far?”
Sue leaned in, voice hushed. “Crusader far.”
He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “That’s… new.”
She tilted her head. “What does that mean to you?”
Luca hesitated, then shrugged. “Means whoever’s playing god with DNA sequencing isn’t as smart as they think they are.”
Sue smiled at that, more amused than disturbed. “And I suppose you have theories?”
Luca gave her cybernetic limb one final adjustment, then stood. “I have suspicions.”
Sue sighed dramatically. “How thrilling.” She flexed her leg, satisfied with the result. “Keep me informed, and I’ll see what I can find for you.”
Luca smirked. “You always do.”
As she rose to leave, she paused at the door. “Oh, one last thing, dear.”
Luca glanced at her. “What?”
Sue’s smirk deepened. “Should I put in a good word to the Captain for you?”
The question hung between them.
Luca narrowed his eyes. “Nobody’s ever met the Captain.”
She nodded, satisfied, and left him to his thoughts.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Helix 25 – Poop Deck – The Jardenery
Evie stepped through the entrance of the Jardenery, and immediately, the sterile hum of Helix 25’s corridors faded into a world of green. Of all the spotless clean places on the ship, it was the only where Finkley’s bots tolerated the scent of damp earth. A soft rustle of hydroponic leaves shifting under artificial sunlight made the place an ecosystem within an ecosystem, designed to nourrish both body and mind.
Yet, for all its cultivated serenity, today it was a crime scene. The Drying Machine was connected to the Jardenery and the Granary, designed to efficiently extract precious moisture for recycling, while preserving the produce.
Riven Holt, walking beside her, didn’t share her reverence. “I don’t see why this place is relevant,” he muttered, glancing around at the towering bioluminescent vines spiraling up trellises. “The body was found in the drying machine, not in a vegetable patch.”
Evie ignored him, striding toward the far corner where Amara Voss was hunched over a sleek terminal, frowning at a glowing screen. The renowned geneticist barely noticed their approach, her fingers flicking through analysis results faster than human eyes could process.
A flicker of light.
“Ah-ha!” TP materialized beside Evie, adjusting his holographic lapels. “Madame Voss, I must say, your domain is quite the delightful contrast to our usual haunts of murder and mystery.” He twitched his mustache. “Alas, I suspect you are not admiring the flora?”
Amara exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples, not at all surprised by the holographic intrusion. She was Evie’s godmother, and had grown used to her experiments.
“No, indeed. I’m admiring this.” She turned the screen toward them.
The DNA profile glowed in crisp lines of data, revealing a sequence highlighted in red.
Evie frowned. “What are we looking at?”
Amara pinched the bridge of her nose. “A genetic anomaly.”
Riven crossed his arms. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
Amara gave him a sharp look but turned back to the display. “The sample we found at the crime scene—blood residue on the drying machine and some traces on the granary floor—matches an ancient DNA profile from my research database. A perfect match.”
Evie felt a prickle of unease. “Ancient? What do you mean? From the 2000s?”
Amara chuckled, then nodded grimly. “No, ancient as in Medieval ancient. Specifically, Crusader DNA, from the Levant. A profile we mapped from preserved remains centuries ago.”
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Riven scoffed. “That’s impossible.”
TP hummed thoughtfully, twirling his cane. “Impossible, yet indisputable. A most delightful contradiction.”
Evie’s mind raced. “Could the database be corrupted?”
Amara shook her head. “I checked. The sequencing is clean. This isn’t an error. This DNA was present at the crime scene.” She hesitated, then added, “The thing is…” she paused before considering to continue. They were all hanging on her every word, waiting for what she would say next.
Amara continued “I once theorized that it might be possible to reawaken dormant ancestral DNA embedded in human cells. If the right triggers were applied, someone could manifest genetic markers—traits, even memories—from long-dead ancestors. Awakening old skills, getting access to long lost secrets of states…”
Riven looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “You’re saying someone on Helix 25 might have… transformed into a medieval Crusader?”
Amara exhaled. “I’m saying I don’t know. But either someone aboard has a genetic profile that shouldn’t exist, or someone created it.”
TP’s mustache twitched. “Ah! A puzzle worthy of my finest deductive faculties. To find the source, we must trace back the lineage! And perhaps a… witness.”
Evie turned toward Amara. “Did Herbert ever come here?”
Before Amara could answer, a voice cut through the foliage.
“Herbert?”
They turned to find Romualdo, the Jardenery’s caretaker, standing near a towering fruit-bearing vine, his arms folded, a leaf-tipped stem tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. He was a broad-shouldered man with sun-weathered skin, dressed in a simple coverall, his presence almost too casual for someone surrounded by murder investigators.
Romualdo scratched his chin. “Yeah, he used to come around. Not for the plants, though. He wasn’t the gardening type.”
Evie stepped closer. “What did he want?”
Romualdo shrugged. “Questions, mostly. Liked to chat about history. Said he was looking for something old. Always wanted to know about heritage, bloodlines, forgotten things.” He shook his head. “Didn’t make much sense to me. But then again, I like practical things. Things that grow.”
Amara blushed, quickly catching herself. “Did he ever mention anything… specific? Like a name?”
Romualdo thought for a moment, then grinned. “Oh yeah. He asked about the Crusades.”
Evie stiffened. TP let out an appreciative hum.
“Fascinating,” TP mused. “Our dearly departed Herbert was not merely a victim, but perhaps a seeker of truths unknown. And, as any good mystery dictates, seekers who get too close often find themselves…” He tipped his hat. “Extinguished.”
Riven scowled. “That’s a bit dramatic.”
Romualdo snorted. “Sounds about right, though.” He picked up a tattered book from his workbench and waved it. “I lend out my books. Got myself the only complete collection of works of Liz Tattler in the whole ship. Doc Amara’s helping me with the reading. Before I could read, I only liked the covers, they were so romantic and intriguing, but now I can read most of them on my own.” Noticing he was making the Doctor uncomfortable, he switched back to the topic. “So yes, Herbert knew I was collector of books and he borrowed this one a few weeks ago. Kept coming back with more questions after reading it.”
Evie took the book and glanced at the cover. The Blood of the Past: Genetic Echoes Through History by Dr. Amara Voss.
She turned to Amara. “You wrote this?”
Amara stared at the book, her expression darkening. “A long time ago. Before I realized some theories should stay theories.”
Evie closed the book. “Looks like someone didn’t agree.”
Romualdo wiped his hands on his coveralls. “Well, I hope you figure it out soon. Hate to think the plants are breathing in murder residue.”
TP sighed dramatically. “Ah, the tragedy of contaminated air! Shall I alert the sanitation team?”
Riven rolled his eyes. “Let’s go.”
As they walked away, Evie’s grip tightened around the book. The deeper they dug, the stranger this murder became.
In reply to: The Last Cruise of Helix 25
Orrin Holt gripped the wheel of the battered truck, his knuckles white as the vehicle rumbled over the dry, cracked road. The leather wrap was a patchwork of smooth and worn, stichted together from whatever scraps they had—much like the quilts his mother used to make before her hands gave out. The main road was a useless, unpredictable mess of asphalt gravels and sinkholes. Years of war with Russia, then the collapse, left it to rot before anyone could fix it. Orrin stuck to the dirt path beside it. That was the only safe way through. The engine coughed but held. A miracle, considering how many times it had been patched together.
The cargo in the back was too important for a breakdown now. Medical supplies—antibiotics, painkillers, and a few salvaged vials of something even rarer. They’d traded well for it, risking much. Now he had to get it back to Base Klyutch (Ukrainian word for Key) without incident. If he continued like that he could make it before noon.
Still, something bothered him. That group of people he’d seen.
They had been barely more than silhouettes on top of a hill. Strangers, a rarity in these times. His first instinct had been to stop and evaluate who they were. But his instructions let room for no delay. So, he’d pushed forward and ignored them. The world wasn’t kind to the wandering. But they hadn’t looked like raiders or scavengers. Lost, perhaps. Or searching.
The truck lurched forward as he pushed it harder. The fences of the base rose in the distance, grey and wiry against the blue sky. Base Klyutch was a former military complex, fortified over the years with scavenged materials, steel sheets, and watchtowers. It wasn’t perfect, but it kept them alive.
As he rolled up to the main gate, the sentries swung the barricade open. Before he could fully cut the engine, a woman wearing a pristine white lab coat stepped forward, her sharp eyes scanning the truck’s cargo bed. Dr. Yelena Markova, the camp’s chief doctor, a former nurse who had to step up when the older one died in a raid on their camp three years ago. Stern-faced and wiry, with a perpetual air of exhaustion, she moved with the efficiency of someone who had long stopped hoping for ease. She had been waiting for this delivery.
“Finally,” she murmured, motioning for her assistants to start unloading. “We were running low. This will keep us going for a while.”
Orrin barely had time to nod before Dmytro Koval, the de facto leader of the base, strode toward him with the gait of a tall bear. His face seemed to have been carved out by a dulled blade, hardened by years of survival. A scar barred his mouth, pulling slightly at the corner when he spoke, giving the impression of a permanent sneer.
“Did you get it?” Koval asked, voice low.
Orrin reached into his kaki jacket and pulled out a sealed letter, along with a small package.
Koval took both, his expression unreadable. “Anything on the road?”
Orrin exhaled and adjusted his stance. “Saw something on the way back. A group, about a dozen, on a hill ten kilometers out. They seemed lost.”
“Armed?” asked Koval with a frown.
“Can’t say for sure.”
Dr. Markova straightened. “Lost? Unarmed? Out in the open like that, they won’t last long with Sokolov’s gang roaming the land. We have to go take them in.”
Koval grimaced. “Or they’re Sokolov’s spies. Trying to infiltrate us and find a weakness in our defenses. You know how it works.”
Before Koval could argue, a new voice cut in. “Or they could just be people.”
Solara Ortega had stepped into the conversation, brushing dirt from her overalls. A woman of lean strength, with the tan of someone spending long hours outside. Her sharp amber eyes carried the weight of someone who had survived too much but refused to be hardened by it. Orrin shoved down a mix of joy and ache at her sight. Her voice was calm but firm. “We can’t always assume the worst. We need more hands and we don’t leave people to die if we can help it. And in case you forgot, Koval, you don’t make all the decisions around here. I say we send a team to assess them.”
Koval narrowed his eyes, but he held his tongue. There was tension between them, but the council wasn’t a dictatorship.
“Fine,” Koval said after a moment, his jaw tense. “A team of two. They scout first. No direct contact until we’re sure. Orrin, you one of them take whoever wants to accompany you, but not one of my men. We need to maintain tight security.”
Dr. Markova sighed with relief when the man left. “If he wasn’t good at what he does, I would gladly kick him out of our camp.”
Solara, her face framed by strands of dark hair, shot a glance at Orrin. “I’m coming with you.”
This time, Orrin couldn’t repress a longing for a time before everything fell apart, when she had been his wife. The collapse had torn them apart in an instant, and by the time he found her again, years later, she had built a new life within the base in Ukraine. She had a husband now, one of the scientists managing the radio equipment, and two children. Orrin kept his expression neutral, but the weight of time pressed heavy on him.
“Then let’s get on the move. They might not stay there long.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
The door knob of Truella’s bedroom turned, and then rattled. Sated and sleepy, she ignored it. Then an insistant rapping of knuckles sounded. Rufus looked at the door, and back to Truella.
“Ignore it, it’s probably the maid,” she said. “But what a time to come, at siesta time.”
The knocking got louder and a voice hissed through the keyhole, “Let me in! Open the bloody door, FFS!”
Frella! What was she doing here? Truella pulled the sheet around her and padded over to the door and unlocked it.
“About time!” she started to say, opening the door, and then leapt back in astonishment to see Sister Audrey standing there glaring.
Audrey pushed past her, slamming the door behind her and locking it. “Listen, this is the plan. Oh don’t look so baffled, it’s me, Frella. Audrey offered to let me possess her for 24 hours, it was the quickest way to get here. Now listen, this is what we’re going to do.” Audrey/Frella launched into an outline of the plans for exploring the cellars later that night. She had turned to face Truella at the door, and hadn’t noticed Rufus. Quickly, he slid off the bed and hid underneath it.
When Audrey/Frella had finished, she asked “Got any weed? I could do with a quick puff.” Truella replied affirmatively. “Oh and what have we here, what is that mans leather coat doing on your floor? You absolute tart, Truella. You’ve only been here since this morning and you’re at it already!”
This was too much for Rufus, who crawled out from under the bed. “Hold your tongue, woman!” he admonished, while reaching for his shorts. “And I heard all that,” he added. “And if you’re going down there, I’m coming with you.”
Truella looked at Audrey/Frella helplessly.
“Now look what you’ve gone and done!” snapped Audrey/Frella.
“I didn’t tell him, you did,” Truella shot back, “You’re the one who barged in here spilling the beans!”
“Well, he may be useful I suppose,” Audrey/Frella said, and stalked out, muttering tart under her breath. Why oh why, did she agree to do this?
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Lorena Blaen clapped her hands loudly together. Sassafras ignored her and continued buttering her toast, assuming that her boss was calling the stray dogs in to finish off the breakfast leftovers.
“Now then, girls!” Lorena’s strident voice boomed out. Sassafras sighed and looked up, her knife poised in the air. A blob of butter slid off onto the table.
“As you know, four members of the Quadrivium will be joining us this weekend and I have assigned a guide to each of them. One of them, however, will not be able to attend in person as she is occupied on an important case, but her guide will be in remote communication with her for the duration of the weekend gathering.”
The witches in the breakfast room collectively held their breath, many of them secretly concocting mental repellent spells so that they could avoid being chosen for this tedious assignment.
“And no need to try that with me, I have already disabled any attempts to divert my intentions,” Lorena said, glaring pointedly at a few individuals. “Sassafras, your assigned guest for the weekend will be…” Lorena looked at her notes, “Truella. Penelope Pomfrett, yours will be Eris.”
Penelope sighed loudly and slammed her coffee cup down harder than she intended, making Sassafras giggle.
“Sandra Salt, I hope you will be able to take this assignment more seriously than some of your colleagues. You will be attending to…” Lorena glanced at her notes again, “Jeezel. And by the way Sandra, perhaps you can learn a thing or two about the importance of appearance from Jeezel,” she added, with a critical look at Sandra’s sloppy attire.
“Audrey Ambrose,” Lorena announced, glaring over the top of her spectacles at Audrey whose mouth had dropped open in astonishment, “You’ll be quite capable with your broken ankle to attend to Frella remotely.” Audrey’s mouth snapped shut into a grim line. Her plan of faking an injury to avoid duties for a few weeks had backfired. And the cast was hot and itchy, and all for nothing.
“Our guests will be arriving later this morning. You will be expected to entertain them within the monastery buildings and grounds, but under no circumstances are you to leave the grounds or go into the woods.”
Sassafras raised an eyebrow but was careful to not let Lorena see. Her immediate idea was to go into the woods with what’s her name, Truella, and lose her for the day, maybe find her in time to bring her back for supper.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
It may surprise you, dear reader, to hear the story of Truella and Frella’s childhood at a Derbyshire mill in the early 1800s. But! I hear you say, how can this be? Read on, dear reader, read on, and all will be revealed.
Tilly, daughter of Everard Mucklewaite, miller of Brightwater Mill, was the youngest of 17 children. Her older siblings had already married and left home when she was growing up, and her parents were elderly. She was somewhat spoiled and allowed a free rein, which was unusual for the times, as her parents had long since satisfied the requirements for healthy sons to take over the mill, and well married daughters. She was a lively inquisitive child with a great love of the outdoors and spent her childhood days wandering around the woods and the fields and playing on the banks of the river. She had a great many imaginary friends and could hear the trees whisper to her, in particular the old weeping willow by the mill pond which she would sit under for hours, deep in conversation with the tree.
Tilly didn’t have any friends of her own age, but as she had never known human child friends, she didn’t feel the loss of it. Her older sisters used to talk among themselves though, saying she needed to play with other children or she’d never grow up and get out of her peculiar ways. Between themselves (for the parents were unconcerned) they sent a letter to an aunt who’d married an Irishman and moved with him to Limerick, asked them to send over a small girl child if they had one spare. As everyone knew, there were always spare girls that parents were happy to get rid of, if at all possible, and by return post came the letter announcing the soon arrival of Flora, who was a similar age to Tilly.
It was a long strange journey for little Flora, and she arrived at her new home shy and bewildered. The kitchen maid, Lucy, did her best to make her feel comfortable. Tilly ignored her at first, and Everard and his wife Constance were as usual preoccupied with their own age related ailments and increasing senility.
One bright spring day, Lucy noticed Flora gazing wistfully towards the millpond, where Tilly was sitting on the grass underneath the willow tree.
“Go on, child, go and sit with Tilly, she don’t bite, just go and sit awhile by her,” Lucy said, giving Flora a gentle push. “Here, take this,” she added, handing her two pieces of plum cake wrapped in a blue cloth.
Flora did as she was bid, and slowly approached the shade of the old willow. As soon as she reached the dangling branches, the tree whispered a welcome to her. She smiled, and Tilly smiled too, pleased and surprised that the willow has spoken to the shy new girl.
“Can you hear willow too?” Tilly asked, looking greatly pleased. She patted the grass beside her and invited Flora to sit. Gratefully, and with a welcome sigh, Flora joined her.
Tilly and Flora became inseperable friends over the next months and years, and it was a joy for Tilly to introduce Flora to all the other trees and creatures in their surroundings. They were like two peas in a pod.
Over the years, the willow tree shared it’s secrets with them both.
One summer day, at the suggestion of the willow tree, Tilly and Flora secretly dug a hole, hidden from prying eyes by the long curtain of hanging branches. They found, among other objects which they kept carefully in an old trunk in the attic, an old book, a grimoire, although they didn’t know it was called a grimoire at the time. In fact, they were unable to read it, as girls were seldom taught to read in those days. They secreted the old tome in the trunk in the attic with the other things they’d found.
Eventually the day came when Tilly and Flora were found husbands and had to leave the mill for their new lives. The trunk with its mysterious contents remained in the dusty attic, and was not seen again until almost 200 years later, when Truella’s parents bought the old mill to renovate it into holiday apartments. Truella took the trunk for safekeeping.
When she eventually opened it to explore what it contained, it all came flooding back to her, her past life as Tilly the millers daughter, and her friend Flora ~ Flora she knew was Frigella. No wonder Frella had seemed so familiar!
In reply to: The Chronicles of the Flying Fish Inn
I’ve always felt like the odd one out in my family. Growing up at the Flying Fish Inn, I’ve always felt like I was on the outside looking in. My mother left when I was young, and my father disappeared not long after. I’ve always felt like I was the only one who didn’t fit in with the craziness of my family.
I’ve always tried to keep my distance with the others. I didn’t want to get too involved, take sides about petty things, like growing weed in the backyard, making psychedelic termite honey, or trying to influence the twins to buy proper clothes. But truth is, you can’t get too far away. Town’s too small. Family always get back to you, and manage to get you involved in their shit, one way or another, even if you don’t say anything. That’s how it works. They don’t need my participation to use me as an argument.
So I stopped paying attention, almost stopped caring. I lived my life working at the gas station, and drinking beers with my buddies Joe and Jasper, living in a semi-comatose state. I learned that word today when I came bringing little honey buns to mater. I know she secretly likes them, even if she pretend she doesn’t in front of Idle. But I can see the breadcrumbs on her cardigan when I come say hi at the end of the day. This morning, Idle was rocking in her favourite chair on the porch, looking at the clouds behind her mirrored sunglasses. Prune was talking to her, I saw she was angry because of the contraction of the muscles of her jaw and her eyes were darker than usual. She was saying to Idle that she was always in a semi-comatose state and doing nothing useful for the Inn when we had a bunch of tourists arriving. And something about the twins redecorating the rooms without proper design knowledge. Idle did what she usually does. She ignored the comment and kept on looking at the clouds. I’m not even sure she heard or understood that word that Prune said. Semi-comatose. It sounds like glucose. That’s how I’m spending my life between the Inn, the gas station and my buddies.
But things changed today when I got back to my apartment for lunch. You can call it a hunch or a coincidence. But as we talked with Joe about that time when my dad left, making me think we were doing hide and seek, and he left me a note saying he would be back someday. I don’t know why I felt the need to go search that note afterwards. So I went back to the apartment and opened the mailbox. Among the bills and ads, I found a postcard with a few words written on the image and nothing except my address on the back. I knew it was from my dad.
It was not signed or anything, but still I was sure it was his handwriting. I would recognise it anywhere. I went and took the shoebox I keep hidden on top of the kitchen closet, because I saw people do that in movies. That’s not very original, I know, but I’m not too bright either. I opened the box and took the note my dad left me when he disappeared.
I put the card on the desk near the note. The handwritings matched. I felt so excited, and confused.A few words at the bottom of the card said : “Memories from the coldest place on Earth…”
Why would dad go to such a place to send me a postcard after all those years ? Just to say that.
That’s when I recalled what Prune had told me once as we were watching a detective movie : “Read everything with care and always double check your information.”
On the back, it said that the image was from a scientific station in Antartica, but the stamp indicated it had been posted from a floating post office in the North Pole. I turned the card and looked at the text again. Above the station, a few words were written that sounded like a riddle.
> 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.It sure sounds like a warning. But I’m not too good with riddles. No need to worry Mater about that, in case of false hope and all that. Idle ? Don’t even think about it. She won’t believe me when I say it’s from dad. She never does believe me. And she’ll keep playing with the words trying to find her answer in the shape of smoke. The twins, they are a riddle on their own.
No. It’s Prune’s help I need.
In reply to: The Chronicles of the Flying Fish Inn
You won’t beleive this, I said to Mater, and she said I probably won’t before giving me a chance to finish. I ignored her as usual and told her about the bookings. Bookings, she screeched like a demented parrot, bookings? Since when did we have bookings. She even had the cheek to tell me I was living in the past, imagining we had bookings. I told her she was the one living in the past, the past when we had no bookings, and that I was living in the present because we had four people booked to stay at the inn, and we did indeed have bookings and that she should take off that old red pantsuit and put something practical on because we had a great deal of cleaning to do. Then she did her screeching parrot routine with the word cleaning, and I left her to it and went to tell Bert.
I don’t know what I’d have done without good old Bert over the years. I started to get a bit screechy myself with the panic when I was telling him, but he calmed me right down and started to make a list of the things that needed doing in order of importance. Start with preparing a bedroom each, he said, and get Mater to go down to the kitchen and make a shopping list. I said Bert are you sure that’s wise, Mater in charge of supplies, and he said no it aint wise but who else is going to do it?
I left Bert clanging away with the boiler trying to get some hot water out of it, and went to get some dusters and a broom and had to dust them off a bit, been a long time since anyone looked in the broom cupboard, and lo and behold Mater appears dressed as a 17th century serving wench. I let that pass without comment, but I did tell her to try and be sensible with the shopping list.
In reply to: The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories
Leicestershire Blacksmiths
The Orgill’s of Measham led me further into Leicestershire as I traveled back in time.
I also realized I had uncovered a direct line of women and their mothers going back ten generations:
myself, Tracy Edwards 1957-
my mother Gillian Marshall 1933-
my grandmother Florence Warren 1906-1988
her mother and my great grandmother Florence Gretton 1881-1927
her mother Sarah Orgill 1840-1910
her mother Elizabeth Orgill 1803-1876
her mother Sarah Boss 1783-1847
her mother Elizabeth Page 1749-
her mother Mary Potter 1719-1780
and her mother and my 7x great grandmother Mary 1680-You could say it leads us to the very heart of England, as these Leicestershire villages are as far from the coast as it’s possible to be. There are countless other maternal lines to follow, of course, but only one of mothers of mothers, and ours takes us to Leicestershire.
The blacksmiths
Sarah Boss was the daughter of Michael Boss 1755-1807, a blacksmith in Measham, and Elizabeth Page of nearby Hartshorn, just over the county border in Derbyshire.
An earlier Michael Boss, a blacksmith of Measham, died in 1772, and in his will he left the possession of the blacksmiths shop and all the working tools and a third of the household furniture to Michael, who he named as his nephew. He left his house in Appleby Magna to his wife Grace, and five pounds to his mother Jane Boss. As none of Michael and Grace’s children are mentioned in the will, perhaps it can be assumed that they were childless.
The will of Michael Boss, 1772, Measham:
Michael Boss the uncle was born in Appleby Magna in 1724. His parents were Michael Boss of Nelson in the Thistles and Jane Peircivall of Appleby Magna, who were married in nearby Mancetter in 1720.
Information worth noting on the Appleby Magna website:
In 1752 the calendar in England was changed from the Julian Calendar to the Gregorian Calendar, as a result 11 days were famously “lost”. But for the recording of Church Registers another very significant change also took place, the start of the year was moved from March 25th to our more familiar January 1st.
Before 1752 the 1st day of each new year was March 25th, Lady Day (a significant date in the Christian calendar). The year number which we all now use for calculating ages didn’t change until March 25th. So, for example, the day after March 24th 1750 was March 25th 1751, and January 1743 followed December 1743.
This March to March recording can be seen very clearly in the Appleby Registers before 1752. Between 1752 and 1768 there appears slightly confused recording, so dates should be carefully checked. After 1768 the recording is more fully by the modern calendar year.Michael Boss the uncle married Grace Cuthbert. I haven’t yet found the birth or parents of Grace, but a blacksmith by the name of Edward Cuthbert is mentioned on an Appleby Magna history website:
An Eighteenth Century Blacksmith’s Shop in Little Appleby
by Alan RobertsCuthberts inventory
The inventory of Edward Cuthbert provides interesting information about the household possessions and living arrangements of an eighteenth century blacksmith. Edward Cuthbert (als. Cutboard) settled in Appleby after the Restoration to join the handful of blacksmiths already established in the parish, including the Wathews who were prominent horse traders. The blacksmiths may have all worked together in the same shop at one time. Edward and his wife Sarah recorded the baptisms of several of their children in the parish register. Somewhat sadly three of the boys named after their father all died either in infancy or as young children. Edward’s inventory which was drawn up in 1732, by which time he was probably a widower and his children had left home, suggests that they once occupied a comfortable two-storey house in Little Appleby with an attached workshop, well equipped with all the tools for repairing farm carts, ploughs and other implements, for shoeing horses and for general ironmongery.
Edward Cuthbert born circa 1660, married Joane Tuvenet in 1684 in Swepston cum Snarestone , and died in Appleby in 1732. Tuvenet is a French name and suggests a Huguenot connection, but this isn’t our family, and indeed this Edward Cuthbert is not likely to be Grace’s father anyway.
Michael Boss and Elizabeth Page appear to have married twice: once in 1776, and once in 1779. Both of the documents exist and appear correct. Both marriages were by licence. They both mention Michael is a blacksmith.
Their first daughter, Elizabeth, was baptized in February 1777, just nine months after the first wedding. It’s not known when she was born, however, and it’s possible that the marriage was a hasty one. But why marry again three years later?
But Michael Boss and Elizabeth Page did not marry twice.
Elizabeth Page from Smisby was born in 1752 and married Michael Boss on the 5th of May 1776 in Measham. On the marriage licence allegations and bonds, Michael is a bachelor.
Baby Elizabeth was baptised in Measham on the 9th February 1777. Mother Elizabeth died on the 18th February 1777, also in Measham.
In 1779 Michael Boss married another Elizabeth Page! She was born in 1749 in Hartshorn, and Michael is a widower on the marriage licence allegations and bonds.
Hartshorn and Smisby are neighbouring villages, hence the confusion. But a closer look at the documents available revealed the clues. Both Elizabeth Pages were literate, and indeed their signatures on the marriage registers are different:
Marriage of Michael Boss and Elizabeth Page of Smisby in 1776:
Marriage of Michael Boss and Elizabeth Page of Harsthorn in 1779:
Not only did Michael Boss marry two women both called Elizabeth Page but he had an unusual start in life as well. His uncle Michael Boss left him the blacksmith business and a third of his furniture. This was all in the will. But which of Uncle Michaels brothers was nephew Michaels father?
The only Michael Boss born at the right time was in 1750 in Edingale, Staffordshire, about eight miles from Appleby Magna. His parents were Thomas Boss and Ann Parker, married in Edingale in 1747. Thomas died in August 1750, and his son Michael was baptised in the December, posthumus son of Thomas and his widow Ann. Both entries are on the same page of the register.
Ann Boss, the young widow, married again. But perhaps Michael and his brother went to live with their childless uncle and aunt, Michael Boss and Grace Cuthbert.
The great grandfather of Michael Boss (the Measham blacksmith born in 1850) was also Michael Boss, probably born in the 1660s. He died in Newton Regis in Warwickshire in 1724, four years after his son (also Michael Boss born 1693) married Jane Peircivall. The entry on the parish register states that Michael Boss was buried ye 13th Affadavit made.
I had not seen affadavit made on a parish register before, and this relates to the The Burying in Woollen Acts 1666–80. According to Wikipedia:
“Acts of the Parliament of England which required the dead, except plague victims and the destitute, to be buried in pure English woollen shrouds to the exclusion of any foreign textiles. It was a requirement that an affidavit be sworn in front of a Justice of the Peace (usually by a relative of the deceased), confirming burial in wool, with the punishment of a £5 fee for noncompliance. Burial entries in parish registers were marked with the word “affidavit” or its equivalent to confirm that affidavit had been sworn; it would be marked “naked” for those too poor to afford the woollen shroud. The legislation was in force until 1814, but was generally ignored after 1770.”
Michael Boss buried 1724 “Affadavit made”:
Elizabeth Page‘s father was William Page 1717-1783, a wheelwright in Hartshorn. (The father of the first wife Elizabeth was also William Page, but he was a husbandman in Smisby born in 1714. William Page, the father of the second wife, was born in Nailstone, Leicestershire, in 1717. His place of residence on his marriage to Mary Potter was spelled Nelson.)
Her mother was Mary Potter 1719- of nearby Coleorton. Mary’s father, Richard Potter 1677-1731, was a blacksmith in Coleorton.
A page of the will of Richard Potter 1731:
Richard Potter states: “I will and order that my son Thomas Potter shall after my decease have one shilling paid to him and no more.” As he left £50 to each of his daughters, one can’t help but wonder what Thomas did to displease his father.
Richard stipulated that his son Thomas should have one shilling paid to him and not more, for several good considerations, and left “the house and ground lying in the parish of Whittwick in a place called the Long Lane to my wife Mary Potter to dispose of as she shall think proper.”
His son Richard inherited the blacksmith business: “I will and order that my son Richard Potter shall live and be with his mother and serve her duly and truly in the business of a blacksmith, and obey and serve her in all lawful commands six years after my decease, and then I give to him and his heirs…. my house and grounds Coulson House in the Liberty of Thringstone”
Richard wanted his son John to be a blacksmith too: “I will and order that my wife bring up my son John Potter at home with her and teach or cause him to be taught the trade of a blacksmith and that he shall serve her duly and truly seven years after my decease after the manner of an apprentice and at the death of his mother I give him that house and shop and building and the ground belonging to it which I now dwell in to him and his heirs forever.”
To his daughters Margrett and Mary Potter, upon their reaching the age of one and twenty, or the day after their marriage, he leaves £50 each. All the rest of his goods are left to his loving wife Mary.
An inventory of the belongings of Richard Potter, 1731:
Richard Potters father was also named Richard Potter 1649-1719, and he too was a blacksmith.
Richard Potter of Coleorton in the county of Leicester, blacksmith, stated in his will: “I give to my son and daughter Thomas and Sarah Potter the possession of my house and grounds.”
He leaves ten pounds each to his daughters Jane and Alice, to his son Francis he gives five pounds, and five shillings to his son Richard. Sons Joseph and William also receive five shillings each. To his daughter Mary, wife of Edward Burton, and her daughter Elizabeth, he gives five shillings each. The rest of his good, chattels and wordly substance he leaves equally between his son and daugter Thomas and Sarah. As there is no mention of his wife, it’s assumed that she predeceased him.
The will of Richard Potter, 1719:
Richard Potter’s (1649-1719) parents were William Potter and Alse Huldin, both born in the early 1600s. They were married in 1646 at Breedon on the Hill, Leicestershire. The name Huldin appears to originate in Finland.
William Potter was a blacksmith. In the 1659 parish registers of Breedon on the Hill, William Potter of Breedon blacksmith buryed the 14th July.
In reply to: The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories
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.
In reply to: The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories
From Tanganyika with Love
continued ~ part 6
With thanks to Mike Rushby.
Mchewe 6th June 1937
Dearest Family,
Home again! We had an uneventful journey. Kate was as good as gold all the
way. We stopped for an hour at Bulawayo where we had to change trains but
everything was simplified for me by a very pleasant man whose wife shared my
compartment. Not only did he see me through customs but he installed us in our new
train and his wife turned up to see us off with magazines for me and fruit and sweets for
Kate. Very, very kind, don’t you think?Kate and I shared the compartment with a very pretty and gentle girl called
Clarice Simpson. She was very worried and upset because she was going home to
Broken Hill in response to a telegram informing her that her young husband was
dangerously ill from Blackwater Fever. She was very helpful with Kate whose
cheerfulness helped Clarice, I think, though I, quite unintentionally was the biggest help
at the end of our journey. Remember the partial dentures I had had made just before
leaving Cape Town? I know I shall never get used to the ghastly things, I’ve had them
two weeks now and they still wobble. Well this day I took them out and wrapped them
in a handkerchief, but when we were packing up to leave the train I could find the
handkerchief but no teeth! We searched high and low until the train had slowed down to
enter Broken Hill station. Then Clarice, lying flat on the floor, spied the teeth in the dark
corner under the bottom bunk. With much stretching she managed to retrieve the
dentures covered in grime and fluff. My look of horror, when I saw them, made young
Clarice laugh. She was met at the station by a very grave elderly couple. I do wonder
how things turned out for her.I stayed overnight with Kate at the Great Northern Hotel, and we set off for
Mbeya by plane early in the morning. One of our fellow passengers was a young
mother with a three week old baby. How ideas have changed since Ann was born. This
time we had a smooth passage and I was the only passenger to get airsick. Although
there were other women passengers it was a man once again, who came up and
offered to help. Kate went off with him amiably and he entertained her until we touched
down at Mbeya.George was there to meet us with a wonderful surprise, a little red two seater
Ford car. She is a bit battered and looks a bit odd because the boot has been
converted into a large wooden box for carrying raw salt, but she goes like the wind.
Where did George raise the cash to buy a car? Whilst we were away he found a small
cave full of bat guano near a large cave which is worked by a man called Bob Sargent.
As Sargent did not want any competition he bought the contents of the cave from
George giving him the small car as part payment.It was lovely to return to our little home and find everything fresh and tidy and the
garden full of colour. But it was heartbreaking to go into the bedroom and see George’s
precious forgotten boots still standing by his empty bed.With much love,
Eleanor.Mchewe 25th June 1937
Dearest Family,
Last Friday George took Kate and me in the little red Ford to visit Mr Sargent’s
camp on the Songwe River which cuts the Mbeya-Mbosi road. Mr Sargent bought
Hicky-Wood’s guano deposit and also our small cave and is making a good living out of
selling the bat guano to the coffee farmers in this province. George went to try to interest
him in a guano deposit near Kilwa in the Southern Province. Mr Sargent agreed to pay
25 pounds to cover the cost of the car trip and pegging costs. George will make the trip
to peg the claim and take samples for analysis. If the quality is sufficiently high, George
and Mr Sargent will go into partnership. George will work the claim and ship out the
guano from Kilwa which is on the coast of the Southern Province of Tanganyika. So now
we are busy building castles in the air once more.On Saturday we went to Mbeya where George had to attend a meeting of the
Trout Association. In the afternoon he played in a cricket match so Kate and I spent the
whole day with the wife of the new Superintendent of Police. They have a very nice
new house with lawns and a sunken rose garden. Kate had a lovely romp with Kit, her
three year old son.Mrs Wolten also has two daughters by a previous marriage. The elder girl said to
me, “Oh Mrs Rushby your husband is exactly like the strong silent type of man I
expected to see in Africa but he is the only one I have seen. I think he looks exactly like
those men in the ‘Barney’s Tobacco’ advertisements.”I went home with a huge pile of magazines to keep me entertained whilst
George is away on the Kilwa trip.Lots of love,
Eleanor.Mchewe 9th July 1937
Dearest Family,
George returned on Monday from his Kilwa safari. He had an entertaining
tale to tell.Before he approached Mr Sargent about going shares in the Kilwa guano
deposit he first approached a man on the Lupa who had done very well out of a small
gold reef. This man, however said he was not interested so you can imagine how
indignant George was when he started on his long trip, to find himself being trailed by
this very man and a co-driver in a powerful Ford V8 truck. George stopped his car and
had some heated things to say – awful threats I imagine as to what would happen to
anyone who staked his claim. Then he climbed back into our ancient little two seater and
went off like a bullet driving all day and most of the night. As the others took turns in
driving you can imagine what a feat it was for George to arrive in Kilwa ahead of them.
When they drove into Kilwa he met them with a bright smile and a bit of bluff –
quite justifiable under the circumstances I think. He said, you chaps can have a rest now,
you’re too late.” He then whipped off and pegged the claim. he brought some samples
of guano back but until it has been analysed he will not know whether the guano will be
an economic proposition or not. George is not very hopeful. He says there is a good
deal of sand mixed with the guano and that much of it was damp.The trip was pretty eventful for Kianda, our houseboy. The little two seater car
had been used by its previous owner for carting bags of course salt from his salt pans.
For this purpose the dicky seat behind the cab had been removed, and a kind of box
built into the boot of the car. George’s camp kit and provisions were packed into this
open box and Kianda perched on top to keep an eye on the belongings. George
travelled so fast on the rough road that at some point during the night Kianda was
bumped off in the middle of the Game Reserve. George did not notice that he was
missing until the next morning. He concluded, quite rightly as it happened, that Kianda
would be picked up by the rival truck so he continued his journey and Kianda rejoined
him at Kilwa.Believe it or not, the same thing happened on the way back but fortunately this
time George noticed his absence. He stopped the car and had just started back on his
tracks when Kianda came running down the road still clutching the unlighted storm lamp
which he was holding in his hand when he fell. The glass was not even cracked.
We are finding it difficult just now to buy native chickens and eggs. There has
been an epidemic amongst the poultry and one hesitates to eat the survivors. I have a
brine tub in which I preserve our surplus meat but I need the chickens for soup.
I hope George will be home for some months. He has arranged to take a Mr
Blackburn, a wealthy fruit farmer from Elgin, Cape, on a hunting safari during September
and October and that should bring in some much needed cash. Lillian Eustace has
invited Kate and me to spend the whole of October with her in Tukuyu.
I am so glad that you so much enjoy having Ann and George with you. We miss
them dreadfully. Kate is a pretty little girl and such a little madam. You should hear the
imperious way in which she calls the kitchenboy for her meals. “Boy Brekkis, Boy Lunch,
and Boy Eggy!” are her three calls for the day. She knows no Ki-Swahili.Eleanor
Mchewe 8th October 1937
Dearest Family,
I am rapidly becoming as superstitious as our African boys. They say the wild
animals always know when George is away from home and come down to have their
revenge on me because he has killed so many.I am being besieged at night by a most beastly leopard with a half grown cub. I
have grown used to hearing leopards grunt as they hunt in the hills at night but never
before have I had one roaming around literally under the windows. It has been so hot at
night lately that I have been sleeping with my bedroom door open onto the verandah. I
felt quite safe because the natives hereabouts are law-abiding and in any case I always
have a boy armed with a club sleeping in the kitchen just ten yards away. As an added
precaution I also have a loaded .45 calibre revolver on my bedside table, and Fanny
our bullterrier, sleeps on the mat by my bed. I am also looking after Barney, a fine
Airedale dog belonging to the Costers. He slept on a mat by the open bedroom door
near a dimly burning storm lamp.As usual I went to sleep with an easy mind on Monday night, but was awakened
in the early hours of Tuesday by the sound of a scuffle on the front verandah. The noise
was followed by a scream of pain from Barney. I jumped out of bed and, grabbing the
lamp with my left hand and the revolver in my right, I rushed outside just in time to see
two animal figures roll over the edge of the verandah into the garden below. There they
engaged in a terrific tug of war. Fortunately I was too concerned for Barney to be
nervous. I quickly fired two shots from the revolver, which incidentally makes a noise like
a cannon, and I must have startled the leopard for both animals, still locked together,
disappeared over the edge of the terrace. I fired two more shots and in a few moments
heard the leopard making a hurried exit through the dry leaves which lie thick under the
wild fig tree just beyond the terrace. A few seconds later Barney appeared on the low
terrace wall. I called his name but he made no move to come but stood with hanging
head. In desperation I rushed out, felt blood on my hands when I touched him, so I
picked him up bodily and carried him into the house. As I regained the verandah the boy
appeared, club in hand, having been roused by the shots. He quickly grasped what had
happened when he saw my blood saturated nightie. He fetched a bowl of water and a
clean towel whilst I examined Barney’s wounds. These were severe, the worst being a
gaping wound in his throat. I washed the gashes with a strong solution of pot permang
and I am glad to say they are healing remarkably well though they are bound to leave
scars. Fanny, very prudently, had taken no part in the fighting except for frenzied barking
which she kept up all night. The shots had of course wakened Kate but she seemed
more interested than alarmed and kept saying “Fanny bark bark, Mummy bang bang.
Poor Barney lots of blood.”In the morning we inspected the tracks in the garden. There was a shallow furrow
on the terrace where Barney and the leopard had dragged each other to and fro and
claw marks on the trunk of the wild fig tree into which the leopard climbed after I fired the
shots. The affair was of course a drama after the Africans’ hearts and several of our
shamba boys called to see me next day to make sympathetic noises and discuss the
affair.I went to bed early that night hoping that the leopard had been scared off for
good but I must confess I shut all windows and doors. Alas for my hopes of a restful
night. I had hardly turned down the lamp when the leopard started its terrifying grunting
just under the bedroom windows. If only she would sniff around quietly I should not
mind, but the noise is ghastly, something like the first sickening notes of a braying
donkey, amplified here by the hills and the gorge which is only a stones throw from the
bedroom. Barney was too sick to bark but Fanny barked loud enough for two and the more
frantic she became the hungrier the leopard sounded. Kate of course woke up and this
time she was frightened though I assured her that the noise was just a donkey having
fun. Neither of us slept until dawn when the leopard returned to the hills. When we
examined the tracks next morning we found that the leopard had been accompanied by
a fair sized cub and that together they had prowled around the house, kitchen, and out
houses, visiting especially the places to which the dogs had been during the day.
As I feel I cannot bear many more of these nights, I am sending a note to the
District Commissioner, Mbeya by the messenger who takes this letter to the post,
asking him to send a game scout or an armed policeman to deal with the leopard.
So don’t worry, for by the time this reaches you I feel sure this particular trouble
will be over.Eleanor.
Mchewe 17th October 1937
Dearest Family,
More about the leopard I fear! My messenger returned from Mbeya to say that
the District Officer was on safari so he had given the message to the Assistant District
Officer who also apparently left on safari later without bothering to reply to my note, so
there was nothing for me to do but to send for the village Nimrod and his muzzle loader
and offer him a reward if he could frighten away or kill the leopard.The hunter, Laza, suggested that he should sleep at the house so I went to bed
early leaving Laza and his two pals to make themselves comfortable on the living room
floor by the fire. Laza was armed with a formidable looking muzzle loader, crammed I
imagine with nuts and bolts and old rusty nails. One of his pals had a spear and the other
a panga. This fellow was also in charge of the Petromax pressure lamp whose light was
hidden under a packing case. I left the campaign entirely to Laza’s direction.
As usual the leopard came at midnight stealing down from the direction of the
kitchen and announcing its presence and position with its usual ghastly grunts. Suddenly
pandemonium broke loose on the back verandah. I heard the roar of the muzzle loader
followed by a vigourous tattoo beaten on an empty paraffin tin and I rushed out hoping
to find the dead leopard. however nothing of the kind had happened except that the
noise must have scared the beast because she did not return again that night. Next
morning Laza solemnly informed me that, though he had shot many leopards in his day,
this was no ordinary leopard but a “sheitani” (devil) and that as his gun was no good
against witchcraft he thought he might as well retire from the hunt. Scared I bet, and I
don’t blame him either.You can imagine my relief when a car rolled up that afternoon bringing Messers
Stewart and Griffiths, two farmers who live about 15 miles away, between here and
Mbeya. They had a note from the Assistant District Officer asking them to help me and
they had come to set up a trap gun in the garden. That night the leopard sniffed all
around the gun and I had the added strain of waiting for the bang and wondering what I
should do if the beast were only wounded. I conjured up horrible visions of the two little
totos trotting up the garden path with the early morning milk and being horribly mauled,
but I needn’t have worried because the leopard was far too wily to be caught that way.
Two more ghastly nights passed and then I had another visitor, a Dr Jackson of
the Tsetse Department on safari in the District. He listened sympathetically to my story
and left his shotgun and some SSG cartridges with me and instructed me to wait until the
leopard was pretty close and blow its b—– head off. It was good of him to leave his
gun. George always says there are three things a man should never lend, ‘His wife, his
gun and his dog.’ (I think in that order!)I felt quite cheered by Dr Jackson’s visit and sent
once again for Laza last night and arranged a real show down. In the afternoon I draped
heavy blankets over the living room windows to shut out the light of the pressure lamp
and the four of us, Laza and his two stooges and I waited up for the leopard. When we
guessed by her grunts that she was somewhere between the kitchen and the back door
we all rushed out, first the boy with the panga and the lamp, next Laza with his muzzle
loader, then me with the shotgun followed closely by the boy with the spear. What a
farce! The lamp was our undoing. We were blinded by the light and did not even
glimpse the leopard which made off with a derisive grunt. Laza said smugly that he knew
it was hopeless to try and now I feel tired and discouraged too.This morning I sent a runner to Mbeya to order the hotel taxi for tomorrow and I
shall go to friends in Mbeya for a day or two and then on to Tukuyu where I shall stay
with the Eustaces until George returns from Safari.Eleanor.
Mchewe 18th November 1937
My darling Ann,
Here we are back in our own home and how lovely it is to have Daddy back from
safari. Thank you very much for your letter. I hope by now you have got mine telling you
how very much I liked the beautiful tray cloth you made for my birthday. I bet there are
not many little girls of five who can embroider as well as you do, darling. The boy,
Matafari, washes and irons it so carefully and it looks lovely on the tea tray.Daddy and I had some fun last night. I was in bed and Daddy was undressing
when we heard a funny scratching noise on the roof. I thought it was the leopard. Daddy
quickly loaded his shotgun and ran outside. He had only his shirt on and he looked so
funny. I grabbed the loaded revolver from the cupboard and ran after Dad in my nightie
but after all the rush it was only your cat, Winnie, though I don’t know how she managed
to make such a noise. We felt so silly, we laughed and laughed.Kate talks a lot now but in such a funny way you would laugh to her her. She
hears the houseboys call me Memsahib so sometimes instead of calling me Mummy
she calls me “Oompaab”. She calls the bedroom a ‘bippon’ and her little behind she
calls her ‘sittendump’. She loves to watch Mandawi’s cattle go home along the path
behind the kitchen. Joseph your donkey, always leads the cows. He has a lazy life now.
I am glad you had such fun on Guy Fawkes Day. You will be sad to leave
Plumstead but I am sure you will like going to England on the big ship with granny Kate.
I expect you will start school when you get to England and I am sure you will find that
fun.God bless my dear little girl. Lots of love from Daddy and Kate,
and MummyMchewe 18th November 1937
Hello George Darling,
Thank you for your lovely drawing of Daddy shooting an elephant. Daddy says
that the only thing is that you have drawn him a bit too handsome.I went onto the verandah a few minutes ago to pick a banana for Kate from the
bunch hanging there and a big hornet flew out and stung my elbow! There are lots of
them around now and those stinging flies too. Kate wears thick corduroy dungarees so
that she will not get her fat little legs bitten. She is two years old now and is a real little
pickle. She loves running out in the rain so I have ordered a pair of red Wellingtons and a
tiny umbrella from a Nairobi shop for her Christmas present.Fanny’s puppies have their eyes open now and have very sharp little teeth.
They love to nip each other. We are keeping the fiercest little one whom we call Paddy
but are giving the others to friends. The coffee bushes are full of lovely white flowers
and the bees and ants are very busy stealing their honey.Yesterday a troop of baboons came down the hill and Dad shot a big one to
scare the others off. They are a nuisance because they steal the maize and potatoes
from the native shambas and then there is not enough food for the totos.
Dad and I are very proud of you for not making a fuss when you went to the
dentist to have that tooth out.Bye bye, my fine little son.
Three bags full of love from Kate, Dad and Mummy.Mchewe 12th February, 1938
Dearest Family,
here is some news that will please you. George has been offered and has
accepted a job as Forester at Mbulu in the Northern Province of Tanganyika. George
would have preferred a job as Game Ranger, but though the Game Warden, Philip
Teare, is most anxious to have him in the Game Department, there is no vacancy at
present. Anyway if one crops up later, George can always transfer from one
Government Department to another. Poor George, he hates the idea of taking a job. He
says that hitherto he has always been his own master and he detests the thought of
being pushed around by anyone.Now however he has no choice. Our capitol is almost exhausted and the coffee
market shows no signs of improving. With three children and another on the way, he
feels he simply must have a fixed income. I shall be sad to leave this little farm. I love
our little home and we have been so very happy here, but my heart rejoices at the
thought of overseas leave every thirty months. Now we shall be able to fetch Ann and
George from England and in three years time we will all be together in Tanganyika once
more.There is no sale for farms so we will just shut the house and keep on a very small
labour force just to keep the farm from going derelict. We are eating our hens but will
take our two dogs, Fanny and Paddy with us.One thing I shall be glad to leave is that leopard. She still comes grunting around
at night but not as badly as she did before. I do not mind at all when George is here but
until George was accepted for this forestry job I was afraid he might go back to the
Diggings and I should once more be left alone to be cursed by the leopard’s attentions.
Knowing how much I dreaded this George was most anxious to shoot the leopard and
for weeks he kept his shotgun and a powerful torch handy at night.One night last week we woke to hear it grunting near the kitchen. We got up very
quietly and whilst George loaded the shotgun with SSG, I took the torch and got the
heavy revolver from the cupboard. We crept out onto the dark verandah where George
whispered to me to not switch on the torch until he had located the leopard. It was pitch
black outside so all he could do was listen intently. And then of course I spoilt all his
plans. I trod on the dog’s tin bowl and made a terrific clatter! George ordered me to
switch on the light but it was too late and the leopard vanished into the long grass of the
Kalonga, grunting derisively, or so it sounded.She never comes into the clearing now but grunts from the hillside just above it.
Eleanor.
Mbulu 18th March, 1938
Dearest Family,
Journeys end at last. here we are at Mbulu, installed in our new quarters which are
as different as they possibly could be from our own cosy little home at Mchewe. We
live now, my dears, in one wing of a sort of ‘Beau Geste’ fort but I’ll tell you more about
it in my next letter. We only arrived yesterday and have not had time to look around.
This letter will tell you just about our trip from Mbeya.We left the farm in our little red Ford two seater with all our portable goods and
chattels plus two native servants and the two dogs. Before driving off, George took one
look at the flattened springs and declared that he would be surprised if we reached
Mbeya without a breakdown and that we would never make Mbulu with the car so
overloaded.However luck was with us. We reached Mbeya without mishap and at one of the
local garages saw a sturdy used Ford V8 boxbody car for sale. The garage agreed to
take our small car as part payment and George drew on our little remaining capitol for the
rest. We spent that night in the house of the Forest Officer and next morning set out in
comfort for the Northern Province of Tanganyika.I had done the journey from Dodoma to Mbeya seven years before so was
familiar with the scenery but the road was much improved and the old pole bridges had
been replaced by modern steel ones. Kate was as good as gold all the way. We
avoided hotels and camped by the road and she found this great fun.
The road beyond Dodoma was new to me and very interesting country, flat and
dry and dusty, as little rain falls there. The trees are mostly thorn trees but here and there
one sees a giant baobab, weird trees with fantastically thick trunks and fat squat branches
with meagre foliage. The inhabitants of this area I found interesting though. They are
called Wagogo and are a primitive people who ape the Masai in dress and customs
though they are much inferior to the Masai in physique. They are also great herders of
cattle which, rather surprisingly, appear to thrive in that dry area.The scenery alters greatly as one nears Babati, which one approaches by a high
escarpment from which one has a wonderful view of the Rift Valley. Babati township
appears to be just a small group of Indian shops and shabby native houses, but I
believe there are some good farms in the area. Though the little township is squalid,
there is a beautiful lake and grand mountains to please the eye. We stopped only long
enough to fill up with petrol and buy some foodstuffs. Beyond Babati there is a tsetse
fly belt and George warned our two native servants to see that no tsetse flies settled on
the dogs.We stopped for the night in a little rest house on the road about 80 miles from
Arusha where we were to spend a few days with the Forest Officer before going on to
Mbulu. I enjoyed this section of the road very much because it runs across wide plains
which are bounded on the West by the blue mountains of the Rift Valley wall. Here for
the first time I saw the Masai on their home ground guarding their vast herds of cattle. I
also saw their strange primitive hovels called Manyattas, with their thorn walled cattle
bomas and lots of plains game – giraffe, wildebeest, ostriches and antelope. Kate was
wildly excited and entranced with the game especially the giraffe which stood gazing
curiously and unafraid of us, often within a few yards of the road.Finally we came across the greatest thrill of all, my first view of Mt Meru the extinct
volcano about 16,000 feet high which towers over Arusha township. The approach to
Arusha is through flourishing coffee plantations very different alas from our farm at Mchewe. George says that at Arusha coffee growing is still a paying proposition
because here the yield of berry per acre is much higher than in the Southern highlands
and here in the North the farmers have not such heavy transport costs as the railway runs
from Arusha to the port at Tanga.We stayed overnight at a rather second rate hotel but the food was good and we
had hot baths and a good nights rest. Next day Tom Lewis the Forest Officer, fetched
us and we spent a few days camping in a tent in the Lewis’ garden having meals at their
home. Both Tom and Lillian Lewis were most friendly. Tom lewis explained to George
what his work in the Mbulu District was to be, and they took us camping in a Forest
Reserve where Lillian and her small son David and Kate and I had a lovely lazy time
amidst beautiful surroundings. Before we left for Mbulu, Lillian took me shopping to buy
material for curtains for our new home. She described the Forest House at Mbulu to me
and it sounded delightful but alas, when we reached Mbulu we discovered that the
Assistant District Officer had moved into the Forest House and we were directed to the
Fort or Boma. The night before we left Arusha for Mbulu it rained very heavily and the
road was very treacherous and slippery due to the surface being of ‘black cotton’ soil
which has the appearance and consistency of chocolate blancmange, after rain. To get to
Mbulu we had to drive back in the direction of Dodoma for some 70 miles and then turn
to the right and drive across plains to the Great Rift Valley Wall. The views from this
escarpment road which climbs this wall are magnificent. At one point one looks down
upon Lake Manyara with its brilliant white beaches of soda.The drive was a most trying one for George. We had no chains for the wheels
and several times we stuck in the mud and our two houseboys had to put grass and
branches under the wheels to stop them from spinning. Quite early on in the afternoon
George gave up all hope of reaching Mbulu that day and planned to spend the night in
a little bush rest camp at Karatu. However at one point it looked as though we would not
even reach this resthouse for late afternoon found us properly bogged down in a mess
of mud at the bottom of a long and very steep hill. In spite of frantic efforts on the part of
George and the two boys, all now very wet and muddy, the heavy car remained stuck.
Suddenly five Masai men appeared through the bushes beside the road. They
were all tall and angular and rather terrifying looking to me. Each wore only a blanket
knotted over one shoulder and all were armed with spears. They lined up by the side of
the road and just looked – not hostile but simply aloof and supercilious. George greeted
them and said in Ki-Swahili, “Help to push and I will reward you.” But they said nothing,
just drawing back imperceptibly to register disgust at the mere idea of manual labour.
Their expressions said quite clearly “A Masai is a warrior and does not soil his hands.”
George then did something which startled them I think, as much as me. He
plucked their spears from their hands one by one and flung them into the back of the
boxbody. “Now push!” he said, “And when we are safely out of the mud you shall have
your spears back.” To my utter astonishment the Masai seemed to applaud George’s
action. I think they admire courage in a man more than anything else. They pushed with a
will and soon we were roaring up the long steep slope. “I can’t stop here” quoth George
as up and up we went. The Masai were in mad pursuit with their blankets streaming
behind. They took a very steep path which was a shortcut to the top. They are certainly
amazing athletes and reached the top at the same time as the car. Their route of course
was shorter but much more steep, yet they came up without any sign of fatigue to claim
their spears and the money which George handed out with a friendly grin. The Masai
took the whole episode in good heart and we parted on the most friendly terms.After a rather chilly night in the three walled shack, we started on the last lap of our
journey yesterday morning in bright weather and made the trip to Mbulu without incident.Eleanor.
Mbulu 24th March, 1938
Dearest Family,
Mbulu is an attractive station but living in this rather romantic looking fort has many
disadvantages. Our quarters make up one side of the fort which is built up around a
hollow square. The buildings are single storied but very tall in the German manner and
there is a tower on one corner from which the Union Jack flies. The tower room is our
sitting room, and one has very fine views from the windows of the rolling country side.
However to reach this room one has to climb a steep flight of cement steps from the
court yard. Another disadvantage of this tower room is that there is a swarm of bees in
the roof and the stray ones drift down through holes in the ceiling and buzz angrily
against the window panes or fly around in a most menacing manner.Ours are the only private quarters in the Fort. Two other sides of the Fort are
used as offices, storerooms and court room and the fourth side is simply a thick wall with
battlements and loopholes and a huge iron shod double door of enormous thickness
which is always barred at sunset when the flag is hauled down. Two Police Askari always
remain in the Fort on guard at night. The effect from outside the whitewashed fort is very
romantic but inside it is hardly homely and how I miss my garden at Mchewe and the
grass and trees.We have no privacy downstairs because our windows overlook the bare
courtyard which is filled with Africans patiently waiting to be admitted to the courtroom as
witnesses or spectators. The outside windows which overlook the valley are heavily
barred. I can only think that the Germans who built this fort must have been very scared
of the local natives.Our rooms are hardly cosy and are furnished with typical heavy German pieces.
We have a vast bleak bedroom, a dining room and an enormous gloomy kitchen in
which meals for the German garrison were cooked. At night this kitchen is alive with
gigantic rats but fortunately they do not seem to care for the other rooms. To crown
everything owls hoot and screech at night on the roof.On our first day here I wandered outside the fort walls with Kate and came upon a
neatly fenced plot enclosing the graves of about fifteen South African soldiers killed by
the Germans in the 1914-18 war. I understand that at least one of theses soldiers died in
the courtyard here. The story goes, that during the period in the Great War when this fort
was occupied by a troop of South African Horse, a German named Siedtendorf
appeared at the great barred door at night and asked to speak to the officer in command
of the Troop. The officer complied with this request and the small shutter in the door was
opened so that he could speak with the German. The German, however, had not come
to speak. When he saw the exposed face of the officer, he fired, killing him, and
escaped into the dark night. I had this tale on good authority but cannot vouch for it. I do
know though, that there are two bullet holes in the door beside the shutter. An unhappy
story to think about when George is away, as he is now, and the moonlight throws queer
shadows in the court yard and the owls hoot.However though I find our quarters depressing, I like Mbulu itself very much. It is
rolling country, treeless except for the plantations of the Forestry Dept. The land is very
fertile in the watered valleys but the grass on hills and plains is cropped to the roots by
the far too numerous cattle and goats. There are very few Europeans on the station, only
Mr Duncan, the District Officer, whose wife and children recently left for England, the
Assistant District Officer and his wife, a bachelor Veterinary Officer, a Road Foreman and
ourselves, and down in the village a German with an American wife and an elderly
Irishman whom I have not met. The Government officials have a communal vegetable
garden in the valley below the fort which keeps us well supplied with green stuff.Most afternoons George, Kate and I go for walks after tea. On Fridays there is a
little ceremony here outside the fort. In the late afternoon a little procession of small
native schoolboys, headed by a drum and penny whistle band come marching up the
road to a tune which sounds like ‘Two lovely black eyes”. They form up below our tower
and as the flag is lowered for the day they play ‘God save the King’, and then march off
again. It is quite a cheerful little ceremony.The local Africans are a skinny lot and, I should say, a poor tribe. They protect
themselves against the cold by wrapping themselves in cotton blankets or a strip of
unbleached sheeting. This they drape over their heads, almost covering their faces and
the rest is wrapped closely round their bodies in the manner of a shroud. A most
depressing fashion. They live in very primitive comfortless houses. They simply make a
hollow in the hillside and build a front wall of wattle and daub. Into this rude shelter at night
go cattle and goats, men, women, and children.Mbulu village has the usual mud brick and wattle dukas and wattle and daub
houses. The chief trader is a Goan who keeps a surprisingly good variety of tinned
foodstuffs and also sells hardware and soft goods.The Europeans here have been friendly but as you will have noted there are
only two other women on station and no children at all to be companions for Kate.Eleanor.
Mbulu 20th June 1938
Dearest Family,
Here we are on Safari with George at Babati where we are occupying a rest
house on the slopes of Ufiome Mountain. The slopes are a Forest Reserve and
George is supervising the clearing of firebreaks in preparation for the dry weather. He
goes off after a very early breakfast and returns home in the late afternoon so Kate and I
have long lazy days.Babati is a pleasant spot and the resthouse is quite comfortable. It is about a mile
from the village which is just the usual collection of small mud brick and corrugated iron
Indian Dukas. There are a few settlers in the area growing coffee, or going in for mixed
farming but I don’t think they are doing very well. The farm adjoining the rest house is
owned by Lord Lovelace but is run by a manager.George says he gets enough exercise clambering about all day on the mountain,
so Kate and I do our walking in the mornings when George is busy, and we all relax in
the evenings when George returns from his field work. Kate’s favourite walk is to the big
block of mtama (sorghum) shambas lower down the hill. There are huge swarms of tiny
grain eating birds around waiting the chance to plunder the mtama, so the crops are
watched from sunrise to sunset.Crude observation platforms have been erected for this purpose in the centre of
each field and the women and the young boys of the family concerned, take it in turn to
occupy the platform and scare the birds. Each watcher has a sling and uses clods of
earth for ammunition. The clod is placed in the centre of the sling which is then whirled
around at arms length. Suddenly one end of the sling is released and the clod of earth
flies out and shatters against the mtama stalks. The sling makes a loud whip like crack and
the noise is quite startling and very effective in keeping the birds at a safe distance.Eleanor.
Karatu 3rd July 1938
Dearest Family,
Still on safari you see! We left Babati ten days ago and passed through Mbulu
on our way to this spot. We slept out of doors one night beside Lake Tiawa about eight
miles from Mbulu. It was a peaceful spot and we enjoyed watching the reflection of the
sunset on the lake and the waterhens and duck and pelicans settling down for the night.
However it turned piercingly cold after sunset so we had an early supper and then all
three of us lay down to sleep in the back of the boxbody (station wagon). It was a tight
fit and a real case of ‘When Dad turns, we all turn.’Here at Karatu we are living in a grass hut with only three walls. It is rather sweet
and looks like the setting for a Nativity Play. Kate and I share the only camp bed and
George and the dogs sleep on the floor. The air here is very fresh and exhilarating and
we all feel very fit. George is occupied all day supervising the cutting of firebreaks
around existing plantations and the forest reserve of indigenous trees. Our camp is on
the hillside and below us lie the fertile wheat lands of European farmers.They are mostly Afrikaners, the descendants of the Boer families who were
invited by the Germans to settle here after the Boer War. Most of them are pro-British
now and a few have called in here to chat to George about big game hunting. George
gets on extremely well with them and recently attended a wedding where he had a
lively time dancing at the reception. He likes the older people best as most are great
individualists. One fine old man, surnamed von Rooyen, visited our camp. He is a Boer
of the General Smuts type with spare figure and bearded face. George tells me he is a
real patriarch with an enormous family – mainly sons. This old farmer fought against the
British throughout the Boer War under General Smuts and again against the British in the
German East Africa campaign when he was a scout and right hand man to Von Lettow. It
is said that Von Lettow was able to stay in the field until the end of the Great War
because he listened to the advise given to him by von Rooyen. However his dislike for
the British does not extend to George as they have a mutual interest in big game
hunting.Kate loves being on safari. She is now so accustomed to having me as her nurse
and constant companion that I do not know how she will react to paid help. I shall have to
get someone to look after her during my confinement in the little German Red Cross
hospital at Oldeani.George has obtained permission from the District Commissioner, for Kate and
me to occupy the Government Rest House at Oldeani from the end of July until the end
of August when my baby is due. He will have to carry on with his field work but will join
us at weekends whenever possible.Eleanor.
Karatu 12th July 1938
Dearest Family,
Not long now before we leave this camp. We have greatly enjoyed our stay
here in spite of the very chilly earl mornings and the nights when we sit around in heavy
overcoats until our early bed time.Last Sunday I persuaded George to take Kate and me to the famous Ngoro-
Ngoro Crater. He was not very keen to do so because the road is very bumpy for
anyone in my interesting condition but I feel so fit that I was most anxious to take this
opportunity of seeing the enormous crater. We may never be in this vicinity again and in
any case safari will not be so simple with a small baby.What a wonderful trip it was! The road winds up a steep escarpment from which
one gets a glorious birds eye view of the plains of the Great Rift Valley far, far below.
The crater is immense. There is a road which skirts the rim in places and one has quite
startling views of the floor of the crater about two thousand feet below.A camp for tourists has just been built in a clearing in the virgin forest. It is most
picturesque as the camp buildings are very neatly constructed log cabins with very high
pitched thatched roofs. We spent about an hour sitting on the grass near the edge of the
crater enjoying the sunshine and the sharp air and really awe inspiring view. Far below us
in the middle of the crater was a small lake and we could see large herds of game
animals grazing there but they were too far away to be impressive, even seen through
George’s field glasses. Most appeared to be wildebeest and zebra but I also picked
out buffalo. Much more exciting was my first close view of a wild elephant. George
pointed him out to me as we approached the rest camp on the inward journey. He
stood quietly under a tree near the road and did not seem to be disturbed by the car
though he rolled a wary eye in our direction. On our return journey we saw him again at
almost uncomfortably close quarters. We rounded a sharp corner and there stood the
elephant, facing us and slap in the middle of the road. He was busily engaged giving
himself a dust bath but spared time to give us an irritable look. Fortunately we were on a
slight slope so George quickly switched off the engine and backed the car quietly round
the corner. He got out of the car and loaded his rifle, just in case! But after he had finished
his toilet the elephant moved off the road and we took our chance and passed without
incident.One notices the steepness of the Ngoro-Ngoro road more on the downward
journey than on the way up. The road is cut into the side of the mountain so that one has
a steep slope on one hand and a sheer drop on the other. George told me that a lorry
coming down the mountain was once charged from behind by a rhino. On feeling and
hearing the bash from behind the panic stricken driver drove off down the mountain as
fast as he dared and never paused until he reached level ground at the bottom of the
mountain. There was no sign of the rhino so the driver got out to examine his lorry and
found the rhino horn embedded in the wooden tail end of the lorry. The horn had been
wrenched right off!Happily no excitement of that kind happened to us. I have yet to see a rhino.
Eleanor.
Oldeani. 19th July 1938
Dearest Family,
Greetings from a lady in waiting! Kate and I have settled down comfortably in the
new, solidly built Government Rest House which comprises one large living room and
one large office with a connecting door. Outside there is a kitchen and a boys quarter.
There are no resident Government officials here at Oldeani so the office is in use only
when the District Officer from Mbulu makes his monthly visit. However a large Union
Jack flies from a flagpole in the front of the building as a gentle reminder to the entirely
German population of Oldeani that Tanganyika is now under British rule.There is quite a large community of German settlers here, most of whom are
engaged in coffee farming. George has visited several of the farms in connection with his
forestry work and says the coffee plantations look very promising indeed. There are also
a few German traders in the village and there is a large boarding school for German
children and also a very pleasant little hospital where I have arranged to have the baby.
Right next door to the Rest House is a General Dealers Store run by a couple named
Schnabbe. The shop is stocked with drapery, hardware, china and foodstuffs all
imported from Germany and of very good quality. The Schnabbes also sell local farm
produce, beautiful fresh vegetables, eggs and pure rich milk and farm butter. Our meat
comes from a German butchery and it is a great treat to get clean, well cut meat. The
sausages also are marvellous and in great variety.The butcher is an entertaining character. When he called round looking for custom I
expected him to break out in a yodel any minute, as it was obvious from a glance that
the Alps are his natural background. From under a green Tyrollean hat with feather,
blooms a round beefy face with sparkling small eyes and such widely spaced teeth that
one inevitably thinks of a garden rake. Enormous beefy thighs bulge from greasy
lederhosen which are supported by the traditional embroidered braces. So far the
butcher is the only cheery German, male or female, whom I have seen, and I have met
most of the locals at the Schnabbe’s shop. Most of the men seem to have cultivated
the grim Hitler look. They are all fanatical Nazis and one is usually greeted by a raised
hand and Heil Hitler! All very theatrical. I always feel like crying in ringing tones ‘God
Save the King’ or even ‘St George for England’. However the men are all very correct
and courteous and the women friendly. The women all admire Kate and cry, “Ag, das
kleine Englander.” She really is a picture with her rosy cheeks and huge grey eyes and
golden curls. Kate is having a wonderful time playing with Manfried, the Scnabbe’s small
son. Neither understands a word said by the other but that doesn’t seem to worry them.Before he left on safari, George took me to hospital for an examination by the
nurse, Sister Marianne. She has not been long in the country and knows very little
English but is determined to learn and carried on an animated, if rather quaint,
conversation with frequent references to a pocket dictionary. She says I am not to worry
because there is not doctor here. She is a very experienced midwife and anyway in an
emergency could call on the old retired Veterinary Surgeon for assistance.
I asked sister Marianne whether she knew of any German woman or girl who
would look after Kate whilst I am in hospital and today a very top drawer German,
bearing a strong likeness to ‘Little Willie’, called and offered the services of his niece who
is here on a visit from Germany. I was rather taken aback and said, “Oh no Baron, your
niece would not be the type I had in mind. I’m afraid I cannot pay much for a companion.”
However the Baron was not to be discouraged. He told me that his niece is seventeen
but looks twenty, that she is well educated and will make a cheerful companion. Her
father wishes her to learn to speak English fluently and that is why the Baron wished her
to come to me as a house daughter. As to pay, a couple of pounds a month for pocket
money and her keep was all he had in mind. So with some misgivings I agreed to take
the niece on as a companion as from 1st August.Eleanor.
Oldeani. 10th August 1938
Dearest Family,
Never a dull moment since my young companion arrived. She is a striking looking
girl with a tall boyish figure and very short and very fine dark hair which she wears
severely slicked back. She wears tweeds, no make up but has shiny rosy cheeks and
perfect teeth – she also,inevitably, has a man friend and I have an uncomfortable
suspicion that it is because of him that she was planted upon me. Upon second
thoughts though, maybe it was because of her excessive vitality, or even because of
her healthy appetite! The Baroness, I hear is in poor health and I can imagine that such
abundant health and spirit must have been quite overpowering. The name is Ingeborg,
but she is called Mouche, which I believe means Mouse. Someone in her family must
have a sense of humour.Her English only needed practice and she now chatters fluently so that I know her
background and views on life. Mouche’s father is a personal friend of Goering. He was
once a big noise in the German Airforce but is now connected with the car industry and
travels frequently and intensively in Europe and America on business. Mouche showed
me some snap shots of her family and I must say they look prosperous and charming.
Mouche tells me that her father wants her to learn to speak English fluently so that
she can get a job with some British diplomat in Cairo. I had immediate thought that I
might be nursing a future Mata Hari in my bosom, but this was immediately extinguished
when Mouche remarked that her father would like her to marry an Englishman. However
it seems that the mere idea revolts her. “Englishmen are degenerates who swill whisky
all day.” I pointed out that she had met George, who was a true blue Englishman, but
was nevertheless a fine physical specimen and certainly didn’t drink all day. Mouche
replied that George is not an Englishman but a hunter, as though that set him apart.
Mouche is an ardent Hitler fan and an enthusiastic member of the Hitler Youth
Movement. The house resounds with Hitler youth songs and when she is not singing,
her gramophone is playing very stirring marching songs. I cannot understand a word,
which is perhaps as well. Every day she does the most strenuous exercises watched
with envy by me as my proportions are now those of a circus Big Top. Mouche eats a
fantastic amount of meat and I feel it is a blessing that she is much admired by our
Tyrollean butcher who now delivers our meat in person and adds as a token of his
admiration some extra sausages for Mouche.I must confess I find her stimulating company as George is on safari most of the
time and my evenings otherwise would be lonely. I am a little worried though about
leaving Kate here with Mouche when I go to hospital. The dogs and Kate have not taken
to her. I am trying to prepare Kate for the separation but she says, “She’s not my
mummy. You are my dear mummy, and I want you, I want you.” George has got
permission from the Provincial Forestry Officer to spend the last week of August here at
the Rest House with me and I only hope that the baby will be born during that time.
Kate adores her dad and will be perfectly happy to remain here with him.One final paragraph about Mouche. I thought all German girls were domesticated
but not Mouche. I have Kesho-Kutwa here with me as cook and I have engaged a local
boy to do the laundry. I however expected Mouche would take over making the
puddings and pastry but she informed me that she can only bake a chocolate cake and
absolutely nothing else. She said brightly however that she would do the mending. As
there is none for her to do, she has rescued a large worn handkerchief of George’s and
sits with her feet up listening to stirring gramophone records whilst she mends the
handkerchief with exquisite darning.Eleanor.
Oldeani. 20th August 1938
Dearest Family,
Just after I had posted my last letter I received what George calls a demi official
letter from the District Officer informing me that I would have to move out of the Rest
House for a few days as the Governor and his hangers on would be visiting Oldeani
and would require the Rest House. Fortunately George happened to be here for a few
hours and he arranged for Kate and Mouche and me to spend a few days at the
German School as borders. So here I am at the school having a pleasant and restful
time and much entertained by all the goings on.The school buildings were built with funds from Germany and the school is run on
the lines of a contemporary German school. I think the school gets a grant from the
Tanganyika Government towards running expenses, but I am not sure. The school hall is
dominated by a more than life sized oil painting of Adolf Hitler which, at present, is
flanked on one side by the German Flag and on the other by the Union Jack. I cannot
help feeling that the latter was put up today for the Governor’s visit today.
The teachers are very amiable. We all meet at mealtimes, and though few of the
teachers speak English, the ones who do are anxious to chatter. The headmaster is a
scholarly man but obviously anti-British. He says he cannot understand why so many
South Africans are loyal to Britain – or rather to England. “They conquered your country
didn’t they?” I said that that had never occurred to me and that anyway I was mainly of
Scots descent and that loyalty to the crown was natural to me. “But the English
conquered the Scots and yet you are loyal to England. That I cannot understand.” “Well I
love England,” said I firmly, ”and so do all British South Africans.” Since then we have
stuck to English literature. Shakespeare, Lord Byron and Galsworthy seem to be the
favourites and all, thank goodness, make safe topics for conversation.
Mouche is in her element but Kate and I do not enjoy the food which is typically
German and consists largely of masses of fat pork and sauerkraut and unfamiliar soups. I
feel sure that the soup at lunch today had blobs of lemon curd in it! I also find most
disconcerting the way that everyone looks at me and says, “Bon appetite”, with much
smiling and nodding so I have to fight down my nausea and make a show of enjoying
the meals.The teacher whose room adjoins mine is a pleasant woman and I take my
afternoon tea with her. She, like all the teachers, has a large framed photo of Hitler on her
wall flanked by bracket vases of fresh flowers. One simply can’t get away from the man!
Even in the dormitories each child has a picture of Hitler above the bed. Hitler accepting
flowers from a small girl, or patting a small boy on the head. Even the children use the
greeting ‘Heil Hitler’. These German children seem unnaturally prim when compared with
my cheerful ex-pupils in South Africa but some of them are certainly very lovely to look
at.Tomorrow Mouche, Kate and I return to our quarters in the Rest House and in a
few days George will join us for a week.Eleanor.
Oldeani Hospital. 9th September 1938
Dearest Family,
You will all be delighted to hear that we have a second son, whom we have
named John. He is a darling, so quaint and good. He looks just like a little old man with a
high bald forehead fringed around the edges with a light brown fluff. George and I call
him Johnny Jo because he has a tiny round mouth and a rather big nose and reminds us
of A.A.Milne’s ‘Jonathan Jo has a mouth like an O’ , but Kate calls him, ‘My brother John’.
George was not here when he was born on September 5th, just two minutes
before midnight. He left on safari on the morning of the 4th and, of course, that very night
the labour pains started. Fortunately Kate was in bed asleep so Mouche walked with
me up the hill to the hospital where I was cheerfully received by Sister Marianne who
had everything ready for the confinement. I was lucky to have such an experienced
midwife because this was a breech birth and sister had to manage single handed. As
there was no doctor present I was not allowed even a sniff of anaesthetic. Sister slaved
away by the light of a pressure lamp endeavouring to turn the baby having first shoved
an inverted baby bath under my hips to raise them.What a performance! Sister Marianne was very much afraid that she might not be
able to save the baby and great was our relief when at last she managed to haul him out
by the feet. One slap and the baby began to cry without any further attention so Sister
wrapped him up in a blanket and took Johnny to her room for the night. I got very little
sleep but was so thankful to have the ordeal over that I did not mind even though I
heard a hyaena cackling and calling under my window in a most evil way.
When Sister brought Johnny to me in the early morning I stared in astonishment.
Instead of dressing him in one of his soft Viyella nighties, she had dressed him in a short
sleeved vest of knitted cotton with a cotton cloth swayed around his waist sarong
fashion. When I protested, “But Sister why is the baby not dressed in his own clothes?”
She answered firmly, “I find it is not allowed. A baby’s clotheses must be boiled and I
cannot boil clotheses of wool therefore your baby must wear the clotheses of the Red
Cross.”It was the same with the bedding. Poor Johnny lies all day in a deep wicker
basket with a detachable calico lining. There is no pillow under his head but a vast kind of
calico covered pillow is his only covering. There is nothing at all cosy and soft round my
poor baby. I said crossly to the Sister, “As every thing must be so sterile, I wonder you
don’t boil me too.” This she ignored.When my message reached George he dashed back to visit us. Sister took him
first to see the baby and George was astonished to see the baby basket covered by a
sheet. “She has the poor little kid covered up like a bloody parrot,” he told me. So I
asked him to go at once to buy a square of mosquito netting to replace the sheet.
Kate is quite a problem. She behaves like an Angel when she is here in my
room but is rebellious when Sister shoos her out. She says she “Hates the Nanny”
which is what she calls Mouche. Unfortunately it seems that she woke before midnight
on the night Johnny Jo was born to find me gone and Mouche in my bed. According to
Mouche, Kate wept all night and certainly when she visited me in the early morning
Kate’s face was puffy with crying and she clung to me crying “Oh my dear mummy, why
did you go away?” over and over again. Sister Marianne was touched and suggested
that Mouche and Kate should come to the hospital as boarders as I am the only patient
at present and there is plenty of room. Luckily Kate does not seem at all jealous of the
baby and it is a great relief to have here here under my eye.Eleanor.
In reply to: The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories
My Grandparents Kitchen
My grandmother used to have golden syrup in her larder, hanging on the white plastic coated storage rack that was screwed to the inside of the larder door. Mostly the larder door was left propped open with an old flat iron, so you could see the Heinz ketchup and home made picallilli (she made a particularly good picallili), the Worcester sauce and the jar of pickled onions, as you sat at the kitchen table.
If you were sitting to the right of the kitchen table you could see an assortment of mismatched crockery, cups and bowls, shoe cleaning brushes, and at the back, tiny tins of baked beans and big ones of plum tomatoes, and normal sized tins of vegetable and mushroom soup. Underneath the little shelves that housed the tins was a blue plastic washing up bowl with a few onions, some in, some out of the yellow string bag they came home from the expensive little village supermarket in.
There was much more to the left in the awkward triangular shape under the stairs, but you couldn’t see under there from your seat at the kitchen table. You could see the shelf above the larder door which held an ugly china teapot of graceless modern lines, gazed with metallic silver which was wearing off in places. Beside the teapot sat a serving bowl, squat and shapely with little handles, like a flattened Greek urn, in white and reddish brown with flecks of faded gilt. A plain white teapot completed the trio, a large cylindrical one with neat vertical ridges and grooves.
There were two fridges under the high shallow wooden wall cupboard. A waist high bulbous old green one with a big handle that pulled out with a clunk, and a chest high sleek white one with a small freezer at the top with a door of its own. On the top of the fridges were biscuit and cracker tins, big black keys, pencils and brittle yellow notepads, rubber bands and aspirin value packs and a bottle of Brufen. There was a battered old maroon spectacle case and a whicker letter rack, letters crammed in and fanning over the top. There was always a pile of glossy advertising pamphlets and flyers on top of the fridges, of the sort that were best put straight into the tiny pedal bin.
My grandmother never lined the pedal bin with a used plastic bag, nor with a specially designed plastic bin liner. The bin was so small that the flip top lid was often gaping, resting on a mound of cauliflower greens and soup tins. Behind the pedal bin, but on the outer aspect of the kitchen wall, was the big black dustbin with the rubbery lid. More often than not, the lid was thrust upwards. If Thursday when the dustbin men came was several days away, you’d wish you hadn’t put those newspapers in, or those old shoes! You stood in the softly drizzling rain in your slippers, the rubbery sheild of a lid in your left hand and the overflowing pedal bin in the other. The contents of the pedal bin are not going to fit into the dustbin. You sigh, put the pedal bin and the dustbin lid down, and roll up your sleeves ~ carefully, because you’ve poked your fingers into a porridge covered teabag. You grab the sides of the protruding black sack and heave. All being well, the contents should settle and you should have several inches more of plastic bag above the rim of the dustbin. Unless of course it’s a poor quality plastic bag in which case your fingernail will go through and a horizontal slash will appear just below rubbish level. Eventually you upend the pedal bin and scrape the cigarette ash covered potato peelings into the dustbin with your fingers. By now the fibres of your Shetland wool jumper are heavy with damp, just like the fuzzy split ends that curl round your pale frowning brow. You may push back your hair with your forearm causing the moisture to bead and trickle down your face, as you turn the brass doorknob with your palm and wrist, tea leaves and cigarette ash clinging unpleasantly to your fingers.
The pedal bin needs rinsing in the kitchen sink, but the sink is full of mismatched saucepans, some new in shades of harvest gold, some battered and mishapen in stainless steel and aluminium, bits of mashed potato stuck to them like concrete pebbledash. There is a pale pink octagonally ovoid shallow serving dish and a little grey soup bowl with a handle like a miniature pottery saucepan decorated with kitcheny motifs.
The water for the coffee bubbles in a suacepan on the cream enamelled gas cooker. My grandmother never used a kettle, although I do remember a heavy flame orange one. The little pan for boiling water had a lip for easy pouring and a black plastic handle.
The steam has caused the condensation on the window over the sink to race in rivulets down to the fablon coated windowsill. The yellow gingham curtains hang limply, the left one tucked behind the back of the cooker.
You put the pedal bin back it it’s place below the tea towel holder, and rinse your mucky fingers under the tap. The gas water heater on the wall above you roars into life just as you turn the tap off, and disappointed, subsides.
As you lean over to turn the cooker knob, the heat from the oven warms your arm. The gas oven was almost always on, the oven door open with clean tea towels and sometimes large white pants folded over it to air.
The oven wasn’t the only heat in my grandparents kitchen. There was an electric bar fire near the red formica table which used to burn your legs. The kitchen table was extended by means of a flap at each side. When I was small I wasn’t allowed to snap the hinge underneath shut as my grandmother had pinched the skin of her palm once.
The electric fire was plugged into the same socket as the radio. The radio took a minute or two to warm up when you switched it on, a bulky thing with sharp seventies edges and a reddish wood effect veneer and big knobs. The light for my grandfathers workshop behind the garage (where he made dentures) was plugged into the same socket, which had a big heavy white three way adaptor in. The plug for the washing machine was hooked by means of a bit of string onto a nail or hook so that it didn’t fall down behing the washing machine when it wasn’t plugged in. Everything was unplugged when it wasn’t in use. Sometimes there was a shrivelled Christmas cactus on top of the radio, but it couldn’t hide the adaptor and all those plugs.
Above the washing machine was a rhomboid wooden wall cupboard with sliding frsoted glass doors. It was painted creamy gold, the colour of a nicotine stained pub ceiling, and held packets of Paxo stuffing and little jars of Bovril and Marmite, packets of Bisto and a jar of improbably red Maraschino cherries.
The nicotine coloured cupboard on the opposite wall had half a dozen large hooks screwed under the bottom shelf. A variety of mugs and cups hung there when they weren’t in the bowl waiting to be washed up. Those cupboard doors seemed flimsy for their size, and the thin beading on the edge of one door had come unstuck at the bottom and snapped back if you caught it with your sleeve. The doors fastened with a little click in the centre, and the bottom of the door reverberated slightly as you yanked it open. There were always crumbs in the cupboard from the numerous packets of bisucits and crackers and there was always an Allbran packet with the top folded over to squeeze it onto the shelf. The sugar bowl was in there, sticky grains like sandpaper among the biscuit crumbs.
Half of one of the shelves was devoted to medicines: grave looking bottles of codeine linctus with no nonsense labels, brown glass bottles with pills for rheumatism and angina. Often you would find a large bottle, nearly full, of Brewers yeast or vitamin supplements with a dollar price tag, souvenirs of the familys last visit. Above the medicines you’d find a faded packet of Napolitana pasta bows or a dusty packet of muesli. My grandparents never used them but she left them in the cupboard. Perhaps the dollar price tags and foreign foods reminded her of her children.
If there had been a recent visit you would see monstrous jars of Sanka and Maxwell House coffee in there too, but they always used the coffee. They liked evaporated milk in their coffee, and used tins and tins of “evap” as they called it. They would pour it over tinned fruit, or rhubard crumble or stewed apples.
When there was just the two of them, or when I was there as well, they’d eat at the kitchen table. The table would be covered in a white embroidered cloth and the food served in mismatched serving dishes. The cutlery was large and bent, the knife handles in varying shades of bone. My grandfathers favourite fork had the tip of each prong bent in a different direction. He reckoned it was more efficient that way to spear his meat. He often used to chew his meat and then spit it out onto the side of his plate. Not in company, of course. I can understand why he did that, not having eaten meat myself for so long. You could chew a piece of meat for several hours and still have a stringy lump between your cheek and your teeth.
My grandfather would always have a bowl of Allbran with some Froment wheat germ for his breakfast, while reading the Daily Mail at the kitchen table. He never worse slippers, always shoes indoors, and always wore a tie. He had lots of ties but always wore a plain maroon one. His shirts were always cream and buttoned at throat and cuff, and eventually started wearing shirts without detachable collars. He wore greeny grey trousers and a cardigan of the same shade most of the time, the same colour as a damp English garden.
The same colour as the slimy green wooden clothes pegs that I threw away and replaced with mauve and fuschia pink plastic ones. “They’re a bit bright for up the garden, aren’t they,” he said. He was right. I should have ignored the green peg stains on the laundry. An English garden should be shades of moss and grassy green, rich umber soil and brick red walls weighed down with an atmosphere of dense and heavy greyish white.
After Grandma died and Mop had retired (I always called him Mop, nobody knows why) at 10:00am precisely Mop would have a cup of instant coffee with evap. At lunch, a bowl of tinned vegetable soup in his special soup bowl, and a couple of Krackawheat crackers and a lump of mature Cheddar. It was a job these days to find a tasty cheddar, he’d say.
When he was working, and he worked until well into his seventies, he took sandwiches. Every day he had the same sandwich filling: a combination of cheese, peanut butter and marmite. It was an unusal choice for an otherwise conventional man. He loved my grandmothers cooking, which wasn’t brilliant but was never awful. She was always generous with the cheese in cheese sauces and the meat in meat pies. She overcooked the cauliflower, but everyone did then. She made her gravy in the roasting pan, and made onion sauce, bread sauce, parsley sauce and chestnut stuffing. She had her own version of cosmopolitan favourites, and called her quiche a quiche when everyone was still calling it egg and bacon pie. She used to like Auntie Daphne’s ratatouille, rather exotic back then, and pronounced it Ratta Twa. She made pizza unlike any other, with shortcrust pastry smeared with tomato puree from a tube, sprinkled with oregano and great slabs of cheddar.
The roast was always overdone. “We like our meat well done” she’d say. She’d walk up the garden to get fresh mint for the mint sauce and would announce with pride “these runner beans are out of the garding”. They always grew vegetables at the top of the garden, behind the lawn and the silver birch tree. There was always a pudding: a slice of almond tart (always with home made pastry), a crumble or stewed fruit. Topped with evap, of course.
In reply to: Twists and One Return From the Time Capsule
“I’ll be right back!” Nora told Will, who was stirring a big bubbling pot on the stove. “Need to wash my hands.”
She had a quick look around the bedroom she’d slept in for her missing phone. Nowhere to be found! Maybe she could find Will’s phone when he went out to feed the donkey, and call her phone to try and locate it. Damn, that wouldn’t work either. Will had said there was no network here. That would explain why her phone stopped working when she was alone in the dark woods.
“Smells delicious!” she said brightly, scraping a chair back across the brick floor and seating herself at the kitchen table.
The home made soup was chock full of vegetables and looked and smelled wonderful, but it had a peculiar acrid aftertaste. Nora tried to ignore it, taking gulps of wine in between each mouthful to eliminate the bitterness. She wished it wasn’t soup in a way, so that she’d be able to surreptitiously palm some of it off onto the dogs that were waiting hopefully under the table. If only Will would leave the room for a minute, but he seemed to be watching her every move.
“Very tasty, but I can’t manage another mouthful, it’s so filling,” she said, but Will looked so offended that she sighed and carried on eating. He topped up her wine glass.
By the time Nora had finished the soup, she felt quite nauseous and stood up quickly to head for the bathroom. The room started to spin and she held on to the edge of the table, but it was no good. The spinning didn’t stop and she crashed to the floor, unconscious.
Smiling with satisfaction, Will stood up and walked around the table to where she lay. Shame he’d had to put her to sleep, really she was quite a nice woman and cute, too, in a funny elfin way. He’d started to like her. Plenty of time to get to know her now, anyway. She wouldn’t be going anywhere for awhile.
He picked her up and carried her to the secret room behind his workshop on the other side of the patio. The walls and floor were thick stone, and there were no windows. He laid her on the bench, locked the door, and went back in the house to fetch blankets and bedding and a pile of books for her to read when she came round. Probably not for a good 24 hours he reckoned, somehow she’d managed to eat all the soup. He would put much less in the next batch, just enough to keep her docile and sleepy.
It would only be for a few days, just long enough for him to find that box and move it to a safer location. He’d been entrusted to make sure the contents of the box were preserved for the people in the future, and he was a man of his word.
If they had listened to him in the first place this would never have happened. Burying a box was a risk: all kinds of possibilities existed for a buried box to be accidentally unearthed. He had suggested encasing the contents inside a concrete statue, but they’d ignored him. Well, now was his chance. He was looking forward to making a new statue.
In reply to: Two Aunties au Pair and Their Pert Carouses
I grabbed the baby when nobody was watching. That’s most of the time. I nestled him comfortably on the dusting cloths in my cleaning cart and told him not to cry .
I popped my head into the lounge on the way past. The Aunties were both snoozing with their feet up and their mouths open. “Good afternoon, Miss June, Miss April!” I added a smile that would melt butter, maybe even stone. I don’t know. I’m new to this smiling carry-on. They ignored me, as usual, but maybe they were just asleep.
I didn’t really have a plan. I just had a feeling about this baby.
And, I was right. Barron turns out to be a girl. I don’t know who else know … that maid has to know. She’s the one changes his .. her … nappies.
I am going to get to the bottom of this. Haha. Excuse the joke.
In the meantime, the baby is safe with me.
In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
“Finnley disappeared.”
Liz couldn’t believe her ears; at first she’d ignored the harbingers, the unattended dust trails, and of course, all the crumbs on the table piling up day after day.
Godfrey repeated “I’m telling you, Finnley took off and disappeared.”
He paused to leave room for Liz’ to answer, not that she ever needed any to start with. But she was profoundly shocked at the betrayal.
“I don’t believe you gave her paid leaves, have you; one of your silly ideas?”
Godfrey thought for a moment, “Now you mention it, I don’t believe she had any, even after all this time, had she?”
“Don’t be daft, Godfrey, she wouldn’t want any; of course, there’s a reason I chose her over the other very qualified staff lining up to work here.”
“Not even a trace, her personal belonging are gone; not even a message left behind. A mystery fit for one of your novels, eh.”
“I guess there’s nothing in the fridge either.” Liz said listlessly. “Guess you’ll have to order from the Pakistani restaurant tonight. Roberto, cute as he is, can’t cook for his life.”
- First, the Obvious Candidates: People with Proximity to the Crime Scene
