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  • #6291
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      Jane Eaton

      The Nottingham Girl

       

      Jane Eaton 1809-1879

      Francis Purdy, the Beggarlea Bulldog and Methodist Minister, married Jane Eaton in 1837 in Nottingham. Jane was his second wife.

      Jane Eaton, photo says “Grandma Purdy” on the back:

      Jane Eaton

       

      Jane is described as a “Nottingham girl” in a book excerpt sent to me by Jim Giles, a relation who shares the same 3x great grandparents, Francis and Jane Purdy.

      Jane Eaton Nottingham

      Jane Eaton 2

       

      Elizabeth, Francis Purdy’s first wife, died suddenly at chapel in 1836, leaving nine children.

      On Christmas day the following year Francis married Jane Eaton at St Peters church in Nottingham. Jane married a Methodist Minister, and didn’t realize she married the bare knuckle fighter she’d seen when she was fourteen until he undressed and she saw his scars.

      jane eaton 3

       

      William Eaton 1767-1851

      On the marriage certificate Jane’s father was William Eaton, occupation gardener. Francis’s father was William Purdy, engineer.

      On the 1841 census living in Sollory’s Yard, Nottingham St Mary, William Eaton was a 70 year old gardener. It doesn’t say which county he was born in but indicates that it was not Nottinghamshire. Living with him were Mary Eaton, milliner, age 35, Mary Eaton, milliner, 15, and Elizabeth Rhodes age 35, a sempstress (another word for seamstress). The three women were born in Nottinghamshire.

      But who was Elizabeth Rhodes?

      Elizabeth Eaton was Jane’s older sister, born in 1797 in Nottingham. She married William Rhodes, a private in the 5th Dragoon Guards, in Leeds in October 1815.

      I looked for Elizabeth Rhodes on the 1851 census, which stated that she was a widow. I was also trying to determine which William Eaton death was the right one, and found William Eaton was still living with Elizabeth in 1851 at Pilcher Gate in Nottingham, but his name had been entered backwards: Eaton William. I would not have found him on the 1851 census had I searched for Eaton as a last name.

      Pilcher Gate gets its strange name from pilchers or fur dealers and was once a very narrow thoroughfare. At the lower end stood a pub called The Windmill – frequented by the notorious robber and murderer Charlie Peace.

      This was a lucky find indeed, because William’s place of birth was listed as Grantham, Lincolnshire. There were a couple of other William Eaton’s born at the same time, both near to Nottingham. It was tricky to work out which was the right one, but as it turned out, neither of them were.

      William Eaton Grantham

       

      Now we had Nottinghamshire and Lincolnshire border straddlers, so the search moved to the Lincolnshire records.
      But first, what of the two Mary Eatons living with William?

      William and his wife Mary had a daughter Mary in 1799 who died in 1801, and another daughter Mary Ann born in 1803. (It was common to name children after a previous infant who had died.)  It seems that Mary Ann didn’t marry but had a daughter Mary Eaton born in 1822.

      William and his wife Mary also had a son Richard Eaton born in 1801 in Nottingham.

      Who was William Eaton’s wife Mary?

      There are two possibilities: Mary Cresswell and a marriage in Nottingham in 1797, or Mary Dewey and a marriage at Grantham in 1795. If it’s Mary Cresswell, the first child Elizabeth would have been born just four or five months after the wedding. (This was far from unusual). However, no births in Grantham, or in Nottingham, were recorded for William and Mary in between 1795 and 1797.

      We don’t know why William moved from Grantham to Nottingham or when he moved there. According to Dearden’s 1834 Nottingham directory, William Eaton was a “Gardener and Seedsman”.

      gardener and seedsan William Eaton

      There was another William Eaton selling turnip seeds in the same part of Nottingham. At first I thought it must be the same William, but apparently not, as that William Eaton is recorded as a victualler, born in Ruddington. The turnip seeds were advertised in 1847 as being obtainable from William Eaton at the Reindeer Inn, Wheeler Gate. Perhaps he was related.

      William lived in the Lace Market part of Nottingham.   I wondered where a gardener would be working in that part of the city.  According to CreativeQuarter website, “in addition to the trades and housing (sometimes under the same roof), there were a number of splendid mansions being built with extensive gardens and orchards. Sadly, these no longer exist as they were gradually demolished to make way for commerce…..The area around St Mary’s continued to develop as an elegant residential district during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, with buildings … being built for nobility and rich merchants.”

      William Eaton died in Nottingham in September 1851, thankfully after the census was taken recording his place of birth.

      #6268
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        From Tanganyika with Love

        continued part 9

        With thanks to Mike Rushby.

        Lyamungu 3rd January 1945

        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

        Lyamungu 14 May 1945

        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

        Lyamungu 19th September 1945

        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

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

        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

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

        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

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

        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

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

        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

        Jacksdale England 24th June 1946

        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

        Jacksdale England 28th August 1946

        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

        Jacksdale England 20th September 1946

        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

        Dar es Salaam 22nd October 1946

        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

        Mbeya 1st November 1946

        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

        #6267
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          From Tanganyika with Love

          continued part 8

          With thanks to Mike Rushby.

          Morogoro 20th January 1941

          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

          Eleanor.

          Morogoro 30th July 1941

          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

          Eleanor.

          Morogoro 26th August 1941

          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

          Eleanor.

          Morogoro 25th December 1941

          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

          Eleanor.

          Morogoro Hospital 30th September 1943

          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

          Eleanor.

          Morogoro 26th January 1944

          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

          Eleanor.

          Lyamungu 20th March 1944

          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

          Eleanor.

          Lyamungu 15th May 1944

          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

          Eleanor.

          Lyamungu 18th July 1944

          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

          Eleanor.

          Lyamungu 16th August 1944

          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

          Eleanor.

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

          Dearest Mummy,

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

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

          Very much love,
          Eleanor.

          Safari in Masailand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          Lyamungu 10th November. 1944

          Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          Much love,
          Eleanor.

           

          #6258
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            The Buxton Marshalls

            and the DNA Match

            Several years before I started researching the family tree, a friend treated me to a DNA test just for fun. The ethnicity estimates were surprising (and still don’t make much sense): I am apparently 58% Scandinavian, 37% English, and a little Iberian, North African, and even a bit Nigerian! My ancestry according to genealogical research is almost 100% Midlands English for the past three hundred years.

            Not long after doing the DNA test, I was contacted via the website by Jim Perkins, who had noticed my Marshall name on the DNA match. Jim’s grandfather was James Marshall, my great grandfather William Marshall’s brother. Jim told me he had done his family tree years before the advent of online genealogy. Jim didn’t have a photo of James, but we had several photos with “William Marshall’s brother” written on the back.

            Jim sent me a photo of his uncle, the man he was named after. The photo shows Charles James Marshall in his army uniform. He escaped Dunkirk in 1940 by swimming out to a destroyer, apparently an excellent swimmer. Sadly he was killed, aged 25 and unmarried, on Sep 2 1942 at the Battle of Alma-Halfa in North Africa. Jim was born exactly one year later.

            Jim and I became friends on Facebook. In 2021 a relative kindly informed me that Jim had died. I’ve since been in contact with his sister Marilyn.  Jim’s grandfather James Marshall was the eldest of John and Emma’s children, born in 1873. James daughter with his first wife Martha, Hilda, married James Perkins, Jim and Marilyn’s parents. Charles James Marshall who died in North Africa was James son by a second marriage.  James was a railway engine fireman on the 1911 census, and a retired rail driver on the 1939 census.

            Charles James Marshall 1917-1942 died at the Battle of Alma-Halfa in North Africa:

            photo thanks to Jim Perkins

            Charles James Marshall

             

            Anna Marshall, born in 1875, was a dressmaker and never married. She was still living with her parents John and Emma in Buxton on the 1921 census. One the 1939 census she was still single at the age of 66, and was living with John J Marshall born 1916. Perhaps a nephew?

            Annie Marshall 1939

             

            John Marshall was born in 1877. Buxton is a spa town with many hotels, and John was the 2nd porter living in at the Crescent Hotel on the 1901 census, although he married later that year. In the 1911 census John was married with three children and living in Fairfield, Buxton, and his occupation was Hotel Porter and Boots.  John and Alice had four children, although one son died in infancy, leaving two sons and a daughter, Lily.

            My great grandfather William Marshall was born in 1878, and Edward Marshall was born in 1880. According to the family stories, one of William’s brothers was chief of police in Lincolnshire, and two of the family photos say on the back “Frank Marshall, chief of police Lincolnshire”. But it wasn’t Frank, it was Edward, and it wasn’t Lincolnshire, it was Lancashire.

            The records show that Edward Marshall was a hotel porter at the Pulteney Hotel in Bath, Somerset, in 1901. Presumably he started working in hotels in Buxton prior to that. James married Florence in Bath in 1903, and their first four children were born in Bath. By 1911 the family were living in Salmesbury, near Blackburn Lancashire, and Edward was a police constable. On the 1939 census, James was a retired police inspector, still living in Lancashire. Florence and Edward had eight children.

            It became clear that the two photographs we have that were labeled “Frank Marshall Chief of police” were in fact Edward, when I noticed that both photos were taken by a photographer in Bath. They were correctly labeled as the policeman, but we had the name wrong.

            Edward and Florence Marshall, Bath, Somerset:

            Edward Marshall, Bath

             

            Sarah Marshall was born in 1882 and died two years later.

            Nellie Marshall was born in 1885 and I have not yet found a marriage or death for her.

            Harry Marshall was John and Emma’s next child, born in 1887. On the 1911 census Harry is 24 years old, and  lives at home with his parents and sister Ann. His occupation is a barman in a hotel. I haven’t yet found any further records for Harry.

            Frank Marshall was the youngest, born in 1889. In 1911 Frank was living at the George Hotel in Buxton, employed as a boot boy. Also listed as live in staff at the hotel was Lily Moss, a kitchenmaid.

            Frank Marshall

            In 1913 Frank and Lily were married, and in 1914 their first child Millicent Rose was born. On the 1921 census Frank, Lily, William Rose and one other (presumably Millicent Rose) were living in Hartington Upper Quarter, Buxton.

            The George Hotel, Buxton:

            George Hotel Buxton

             

            One of the photos says on the back “Jack Marshall, brother of William Marshall, WW1”:

            Jack Marshall

            Another photo that says on the back “William Marshalls brother”:

            WM brother 1

            Another “William Marshalls brother”:

            WM b 2

            And another “William Marshalls brother”:

            wm b 3

            Unlabeled but clearly a Marshall:

            wmb 4

            The last photo is clearly a Marshall, but I haven’t yet found a Burnley connection with any of the Marshall brothers.

            #6239
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              The Photographer

              Dorothy Mary Marshall

              1907 – 1983

               

              Without doubt we have Dorothy Tooby to thank for the abundance of priceless photographs of the Marshall family.

              Dorothy Tooby with her father William Marshall, photo by Charles Tooby:

              Dorothy Tooby William Marshall

               

              Dorothy Marshall was born in 1907 in Ashby de la Zouch, Leicestershire. She married Charles Tooby in 1932.  They had no children, and they both had a lifelong interest in photography. Dorothy won many prizes and some of her work is in the Birmingham Archives.  I recall her saying once that men didn’t like it when a woman won the prize, although I don’t think she was referring to Charles!  They always seemed to be a very close couple.

              Dorothy in a 1934 Jaguar SS1. The company was originally known as Swallow Sidecar Company, became SS Cars Ltd in 1934, and Jaguar Cars Ltd in 1945. This car is mentioned in a James Bond book by Ian Fleming.

              Dorothy Tooby 1934 Jaguar SS1

               

              When I was aged four or so, Dorothy and Charles lived next door to us on High Park Avenue in Wollaston.  Dorothy and Charles spent a lot of time with Dorothy’s brother Geoff’s five sons when they were children.  And of course, they took many photographs of them.

              Bryan, Geoff Marshall, Chris, John, Bobby in the middle, and Jimmy at the front.

              Geoff Marshall and boys

               

              Bobby, photo by Dorothy Tooby

              Bobby Marshall

               

              Bobby was one of Geoff and Mary’s sons.  He was also my first husband, my mothers cousin. He was born in 1954 and died in 2021, not long after I’d resumed contact with his brother Bryan, who emigrated to USA in the 1970’s.

              #5927

              Dear Diary

              Bella says to me, I want to see the whales. She keeps going on about it, tugging at my skirts while I’m trying to get things done. What do you mean you want to see the whales I asks her. Took me a time to know she means the stories I used to tell about the place where my Mam lives with the legend of the whales there. The place we be going but how can she know that?

               First it is Jimmy and his dreams and now Bella. It be so many years since I told her these tales and now she is remembering them. Cook is here I must leave off writing for now for she is asking after the hens. I won’t have her killing my Esther for her pot. God knows what will happen to them once we’ve gone. I will set them free before then. At least they have a chance.

              #5824

              Dear Diary

              Young Jimmy says to me this morning, “I dreamed we were travelling far away from here, Mama. It was only you and me and Bella.” I nearly choked on my grits. I am thankful Cook did not hear. She is as superstitious as the day is long and takes great store in dreams and the like. “Funny things, dreams,” I says to Jimmy. “Hard to know what they mean.” I longed to question him more on the dream, same time, don’t want him talking about it in front of Cook. Best he forgets it.

              I’ve heard no more of the sickness. Methinks perhaps it has come to naught. And I’m fit as a fiddle and the children too. I’ve decided Thursday next. On Thursdays, Master goes to the meeting in the Village and Cook has her night off when she goes to see her brother in Thombeen.

              I think how pleased they will be to see me. How astonished they will be. When I think about it like that, stops me from fearing. Ten years it has been. I would send a letter ahead but cannot risk it falling in the wrong hands.

              #5818

              Dear Diary

              Cousin Lisa came calling yesterday morning and she tells us there’s some in the Village have come down with sickness. Of course it would be Lisa being the bearer of such news, her face lit up when I tell her I have heard nothing. Cook, over hearing our conversation, which was private but Cook is always sticking her great nose in where it is not required, she’s hung braids of garlic at the front door. I caught her telling the children it was to keep away the evil spirits that brought death. Poor little Jimmy couldn’t sleep last night he was that afraid of the spirits bringing death in the night. He asked endless questions,  how will the garlic stop them? Can the spirits get in through a window instead? He got his sister afraid also and the pair of them wouldn’t sleep then for crying in fear. I told Cook off roundly this morning for speaking to them thus.

              The master came home filled with drink, crashing around like the damned drunken fool he is nowadays. He shouted at the children for their crying and shouted at me for not keeping them quiet. At least he did not raise his fists for he wanted to lie with me and I nearly retched with his stinking breath coming close and thank God for His mercies that the fool passed out before he could do the deed. I may have done harm if he’d tried for the brass bell was sitting there on the table (and it is a heavy thing) and I was seeing at it as he came close and there was a moment I could have picked it up and crashed it to his skull. May God forgive me. 

              He makes my skin crawl for I know what he has done that he thinks I don’t know. But all will come to light if not in this world then the next. I am more sure than ever I must get away and the children with me.

              #1743

              In reply to: Synchronicity

              TracyTracy
              Participant

                “I am one of those people who refer to cars by their colour rather than their make or model.”

                I said this to Jim this afternoon…..the only car I can recognize is one like my own, a Mini, or a Jag….or a Ford Anglia …anyone remember them? (hahahah I didn’t know Harry Potter had one until I googled)

                I’ve been seeing 444’s too; can’t recall where though.

                :frog:
                Oh that reminds me, saw a few frogs today too
                PS LOVE the new icons!
                :detective: :buffoon: :fruit_orange: :balloon: :creating_magic:

                #759

                While India pondered the crisis
                She started connecting to Isis:
                Seth is the moose
                That’s loose in your hoose”
                And she swiftly averted the crisis

                Becky had fogotten all about Elvira, and the rain, and she’d even forgotten the tarty nun outfit she was wearing. She giggled happily, and wandered off through the park.

                #1659

                In reply to: Synchronicity

                F LoveF Love
                Participant

                  today I learned Anu’s essence name is Pashi. I thought i had a “Pashi” synch but when I came to write it out i realised it was not the same word. Well the feel of it made me think of Anu, it is about a young girl who writes poems ….. so I am including it here:yahoo_laughing:

                  It is from a book I picked up to read:

                  “She had gone on a nature walk and collected plants and flowers she needed help naming. When she didn’t like the names one of the Science Nerds provided, she decided to name the plants and flowers herself. She drew a picture of a leaf or a blossom in her journal, and then what sex she thought it was, and then give it a name like ‘Jim” for a simple-leaved plant and ‘Pasha’ for a more downy flower”

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