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  • #7352

    “If it’s nae Frigella O’green! Fancy seeing ye ‘ere!”

    Frigella stiffened. She’d know that accent and the dank tang of peat moss anywhere. She’d have smelt it sooner if it weren’t for the brewing coffee. She must be getting soft … or maybe it was the sour smell of smoke clogging up her nostrils; she’d not been able to shake the stench since the debacle that morning. Turning away from Aaron, the pleasant young barista serving her, she willed her lips into a smile – no harm in being civil! It was a long time since all the Scottish shenanigans and word amongst the witches was the Scots Coven were trying to tidy up their act.

    “Well, If it’s not Aggie Bog now!” Frigella leaned in for a cool peck on the cheek. “And what brings you to these parts? Let me buy you a coffee and we can catch up?”

    Aggie sniggered. ” Ye pay for it?” She pushed Frigella aside and approached the counter. Aaron’s eyes widened and Frigella had to admit Aggie cut a striking figure in her tiny black top and leather leggings. As a child she’d been taunted and called fat, but now she was best described as Rubenesque, and clearly had learned how to use her assets.

    I bet those pants squeak when she walks.

    Aggie leaned forward and Aaron’s gaze flicked toward her abundant cleavage. “A double black insomnia fur me, on the hoose.”  As Aaron started to protest, Aggie waved several plump fingers towards his face and Frigella saw his eyes were now dark and glazed. “Whirling ‘n’ twirling a muckle puff o’ rowk,” crooned Aggie. “Ye’ll dae as ah say or caw intae a ….

    Frigella clasped Aggie’s wrist. Thank god the lunch crowd had gone and the cafe was nearly empty apart from an older man reading his paper by the window. “Aggie Bog! Shame on you! That’s not the way we do things here.”

    #7220
    DevanDevan
    Participant

      At 10:30am, the air is buzzing with excitement. As the first race is going to start soon. There has been no signs of a dust storm and everyone seem to have forgotten about it. The participants are cheering and getting ready for the race while groups of tourists are wandering about, taking pictures of the teams and the folks in costume. People came from as far as Mexico, Italy and Macedonia.

      Because of the harsh conditions, miners were usually males back in the days. But there have always been teams at our little town’s festival ready to include women and children because they were usually lighter and it was easier to push the carts around on the tracks. Since a few years, there even have been full female teams, and they were pretty good too.

      Prune arrives with her new fancy reflex camera she got at her last birthday. She wants to take our picture in front of our cart. At Joe and Callum’s surprise, I try to talk her into joining our team and be part of the fun. I get out of the cart a spare hat and a wig I had prepared for her, but she says today she’s doing a reportage about the festival. I know she wants to be on the lookout for our father, and keep an eye on the Inn’s guests. She told me yesterday something was off with that Liana Parker who kept snooping around and asking questions to townsfolk about Howard and Fred. And, she heard the two other girls talking about Liana being a Finli and a nun.

      I frown. I haven’t told the boys anything about my father or suspicious guests with false names. Prune knows I’m not too keen about letting my little sister following people around on her own. I told her something could go wrong, but she brushed it aside explaining it was the perfect occasion because people wouldn’t pay attention to someone taking random pictures during a festival. She’s got a point, but I’m still her big brother. I had to try.

      She asks us to strike a pose in front of our cart and tells a few jokes. When we laugh she takes a picture of our all male team, I’m the one in the center, Callum’s on the left and Joe on the right. I’m glad despite all the concern, I look like I’m having fun.

      Checking her camera screen, Prune says: “You guys remind me of the Clockwork Orange with your hats, but more colourful and less creepy.”

      Callum and Joe look at each other, each having one eyebrow raised. I snort. I’m sure they don’t understand the reference.

      “You’re ok,” she tells them. “It means people will notice and remember you.”

      “Spread the word! We’ll crush them all!” Callum shouts.

      Prune looks at me. “You’re still frowning,” she says. “It’ll be fine.”

      “Ok,” I say. “But at least take the hat. You can’t dress as yourself during a Cart and Lager festival, or you’ll pop out of the crowd.”

      She raises her eyes to the sky and sighs. Then, she takes the orange hat from my hands and puts it on her head.

      “There, happy? Consider that an endorsement of your team,” she says with a wink.

      Joe and Callum hoot and whistle loudly. “Miss serious is running wild! Anything can happen today.”

      We all laugh. Their enthusiasm is contagious.

      “Hey! You’re mother is about to talk,” says Joe to Callum. “She’s hot.”

      “Don’t speak about my mother like that.”

      The mayor has climbed on the central stage and she’s talking with an all dressed up woman with a big hat that makes her look like the Queen of England. She sure seems out of place in our little town’s festival. Flanked by two bodyguards in black, I guess it’s Botty Banworth who’s provided that expensive sound system the mayor’s trying to use. “One, two, three… Is it working? Yes. Ok. All the participants are expected to bring their cart to the depart lane. We’re about to start. In the meantime let me introduce Miss Banworth who’s been very generous and allowed our festival to get to another level. She’s going to help us rehabilitate the abandoned mines and open a museum.”

      A roar from the crowd. The woman’s lips are so thin and red that the smile she puts on her face looks like it’s just been made with a razor blade. I shiver. She’s the Queen of England turned by a vampire.

      Someone bumps into my back and knocks the air out of my lungs. I almost fall on my sister.

      “Hey! Watch out!” says Callum.

      I catch my breath and look up. It’s Betsy, dressed as a miner too, with extra sequins and gummy stars on her dungarees. She looks confused and mutters some excuses but doesn’t stop. She walks as if she has had a few lagers already.

      “Hey, Betsy,” calls Prune. “You seem like you just saw a ghost.”

      “Someone… near the mines… It can’t be…” says Betsy.

      “Who did you see near the mines?” shouts my sister.

      With the noise around us, I almost didn’t hear Betsy’s answer.

      Fred… Howard… It can’t be. I need Idle’s cakes,” she says before disappearing in the crowd.

      I look at Prune. I see in her eyes we’re thinking the same thing. Dad’s really here. We nod at the same time and I move my lips: “Be careful.” She nods.

      “You three, win,” she tells us before leaving.

      “You heard her?” I asked Callum and Joe. “Let’s move our limo.”  As we approach the tracks with the other participants, a gush of wind almost knock my hat off my head. There is some commotion coming from the central stage. A guy climbed up and is shouting something  that I don’t understand, pointing at the sky behind us. When I look back like everyone, tourists and teams, I understand.

      “Dust! Dust’s coming!”

      And right from the direction of the abandoned mines. Dad what did you get yourself into?

      It’s 10:55am and I’m pretty sure we’ll have to put off the race.

      #6552

      In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

      When Xavier woke up, the sun was already shining, its rays darting in pulsating waves throughout the land, blinding him. The room was already heating up, making the air difficult to breathe.

      He’d heard the maid rummaging in the neighbouring rooms for some time now, which had roused him from sleep. He couldn’t recall seeing any “DO NOT DISTURB” sign on the doorknob, so staying in bed was only delaying the inevitable barging in of the lady who was now vacuuming vigorously in the corridor.

      Feeling a bit dull from the restless sleep, he quickly rose from the bed and put on his clothes.

      Once out of his room, he smiled at the cleaning lady (who seemed to be the same as the cooking lady), who harumphed back as a sort of greeting. Arriving in the kitchen, he wondered whether it was probably too late for breakfast —until he noticed the figure of the owner, who was quietly watching him through half-closed eyes in her rocking chair.

      Idle should have left some bread, butter and jam to eat if you’re hungry. It’s too late for bacon and sausages. You can help yourself with tea or coffee, there’s a fresh pot on the kitchen counter.”

      “Thanks M’am.” He answered, startled by the unexpected appearance.

      “No need. Finly didn’t wake you up, did she? She doesn’t like when people mess up her schedule.”

      “Not at all, it was fine.” he lied politely, helping himself to some tea. He wasn’t sure buttered bread was enough reward to suffer a long, awkward conversation, given that the lady (Mater, she insisted he’s called him) wasn’t giving him any sign of wanting to leave.

      “It shouldn’t be long until your friends come back from the airport. Your other friend, the big lad, he went for a walk around. Idle seems to have sold him a visit to our Gems & Rocks boutique down Main avenue.” She tittered. “Sounds grand when we say it —that’s just the only main road, but it helps with tourists bookings. And Betsy will probably tire him down quickly. She tends to get too excited when she gets clients down there; most of her business she does online now.”

      Xavier was done with his tea, and looking for an exit strategy, but she finally seemed to pick up on the signals.

      “… As I probably do; look at me wearing you down. Anyway, we have some preparing to do for the Carts & whatnot festival.”

      When she was gone, Xavier’s attention was attracted by a small persistent ticking noise followed by some cracking.

      It was on the front porch.

      A young girl in her thirteens, hoodie on despite the heat, and prune coloured pants, was sitting on the bench reading.

      She told him without raising her head from her book. “It’s Aunt Idle’s new pet bird. It’s quite a character.”

      “What?”

      “The noise, it’s from the bird. It’s been cracking nuts for the past twenty minutes. Hence the noise. And yes, it’s annoying as hell.”

      She rose from the bench. “Your bear friend will be back quick I’m certain; it’s just a small boutique with some nice crystals, but mostly cheap orgonite new-agey stuff. Betsy only swears by that, protection for electromagnetic waves and stuff she says, but look around… we are probably got more at risk to be hit by Martian waves or solar coronal mass ejections that by the ones from the telecom tower nearby.”

      Xavier didn’t know what to say, so he nodded and smiled. He felt a bit out of his element. When he looked around, the girl had already disappeared.

      Now alone, he sat on the empty bench, stretched and yawned while trying to relax. It was so different from the anonymity in the city: less people here, but everything and everyone very tightly knit together, although they all seemed to irk and chafe at the thought.

      The flapping of wings startled him.

      “Hellooo.” The red parrot had landed on the backrest of the bench and dropped shells from a freshly cracked nut which rolled onto the ground.

      Xavier didn’t think to respond; like with AL, sometimes he’d found using polite filler words was only projecting human traits to something unable to respond back, and would just muddle the prompt quality.

      “So ruuuude.” The parrot nicked his earlobe gently.

      “Ouch! Sorry! No need to become aggressive!”

      “You arrrre one to talk. Rouge is on Yooour forehead.”

      Xavier looked surprised at the bird in disbelief. Did the bird talk about the mirror test? “What sort of smart creature are you now?”

      “Call meee Rose. Pretty Giiirl acceptable.”

      Xavier smiled. The bird seemed quite fascinating all of a sudden.
      It was strange, but the bird seemed left completely free to roam about; it gave him an idea.

      “Rose, Pretty Girl, do you know some nice places around you’d like to show me?”

      “Of couuurse. Foôllow Pretty Girl.”

      #6547

      In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

      On her way back to her room Zara picked up a leaflet off the hall table about the upcoming lager and cart race. Before starting the game she had a look through it.

      The leaflet also mentioned the competition  held annually each January in Port Lincoln. The Tunarama Festival was a competition to determine just how far a person could chuck a frozen tuna. A full-fledged celebration was centered around the event, complete with a wide array of arts and cultural displays, other participation events, local market stalls, and some of the freshest seafood in the world.

      There was unlikely to be any fresh seafood at the local lager and cart races, but judging from the photos of previous events, it looked colourful and well worth sticking around for, just for the photo opportunities.

      cart race 1

       

      Apparently the lager and cart races had started during the early days of the settler mining, and most of the carts used were relics from that era.  Competitors dressed up in costumes and colourful wigs, many of which were found in the abandoned houses of the local area.

      “The miners were a strange breed of men, but not all cut from the same cloth ~ they were daring outsiders, game for anything, adventurous rule breakers and outlaws with a penchant for extreme experience. Thus, outlandish and adventurous women ~ and men who were not interested in mining for gold in the usual sense ~ were magnetically drawn to the isolated outpost.  After a long dark day of restriction and confinement in the mines, the evenings were a time of colour and wild abandon; bright, garish, bizarre Burlesque events were popular. Strange though it may seem, the town had one of the most extensive wig and corset emporiums in the country, although it was discretely tucked away in the barn behind a mundane haberdashery shop.”

      The idea was to fill as many different receptacles with lager as possible, piling them onto the gaily decorated carts pulled by the costume clad participants.  As the carts were raced along the track, onlookers ran alongside to catch any jars or bottles that fell off the carts before they hit the ground. Many crashed to the ground and were broken, but if anyone caught one, they were obliged to drink the contents there and then before running after the carts to catch another one.

      Members of the public were encouraged to attend in fancy dress costumes and wigs.  There were plenty of stationary food vendors carts at the lager and cart races as well, and stalls and tents set up to sell trinkets.

      #6540

      In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

      EricEric
      Keymaster

        Update & clarifications on the characters:

        Looking at the avatars that Zara, Youssef, Xavier and Yasmin are using in VR.

        Full name or real name in RL :: name in VR (@nickhandle) description of avatar.

        • Zara Patara-Smythe :: Zara (@zaraloon) is a 25-year-old woman of mixed heritage, her mother is Indian and her father is British. She has long, dark hair that she keeps in a sleek ponytail, dark brown eyes and a sharp jawline. She stands at 5’6″ and has a toned and athletic build. She usually wears practical clothing that allows her to move around easily, such as cargo pants and a tank top.
        • Xavier Olafsson :: Xavier (@xavimunk) is a 27-year-old man of Norwegian and Danish descent. He has blonde hair that he keeps in a messy style, blue eyes, and a charming smile. He stands at 6’1″ and has a lean build. He is always seen wearing a colorful and bold clothing, such as a Hawaiian shirt and shorts.
        • Yasmin Ahmed :: Yasmin (@yasminowl) is a 23-year-old woman of Egyptian descent. She has long, black hair that she keeps in a tight braid, dark brown eyes and a round face. She stands at 5’4″ and has a petite build. She usually wears conservative clothing, such as long skirts and blouses.
        • Youssef Ali :: Youssef (@youssefbear) is a 26-year-old man of half Yemeni, half Norwegian descent. He has short, curly black hair, dark brown eyes and a square jawline. He stands at 6’2″ and has a muscular build. He usually wears comfortable clothing such as a t-shirt and jeans, and always has a backpack on his shoulder.

        Full descriptions for real-life Zara, Yasmin, Youssef, Xavier:

        Real Life Zara Patara-Smythe :: Zara is a 57-year-old woman who is an adventurous traveler and a passionate hobbyist. She has a full mane of gorgeous auburn hair that she keeps in a sleek ponytail, sparkling green eyes, and a warm smile that puts others at ease. She is of mixed heritage, her mother was Indian and her father was British. She is well-educated and well-off, either through an inheritance or a supportive and understanding husband. Zara is a lover of art, music, and history, and spends much of her time indulging in her passions. She is always eager to explore new places and meet new people, and her adventurous spirit often leads her to travel off the beaten path.

        Real Life Yasmin Ahmed :: Yasmin is a 32-year-old woman who is kind, nurturing, and always puts others first. She has long, black hair that she keeps in a tight braid, almond-shaped brown eyes, and a warm smile that lights up a room. Born in Egypt, she grew up in a close-knit family and values the importance of community. She is a talented actress, who has kept her career a secret from those closest to her, in order to pursue a more fulfilling life working with children. Yasmin currently volunteers at an orphanage in Fiji, where she devotes herself to helping children in need.

        Real Life Youssef Ali :: Youssef is a 34-year-old man who is driven, confident, and always up for a challenge. He has short, curly black hair, dark brown eyes, and a square jawline that gives him a strong and determined look. Born to a Yemeni father and a Norwegian mother, he has a unique blend of cultures that has shaped his world view. Youssef is a talented blogger, who has traveled the world in search of new and interesting stories to share with his audience. He is always on the go, with a backpack on his shoulder, ready for his next adventure.

        Real Life Xavier Olafsson :: Xavier is a 36-year-old man who is bright, cheerful, and always looking for the positive in every situation. He has blonde hair that he keeps in a messy style, blue eyes, and a charming smile that never fails to win people over. Born to Norwegian and Danish parents, he has a love for the sea and an appreciation for the finer things in life. Xavier is an AI developer, who is working on a project he calls AL. He is always eager to share his ideas with others and is constantly seeking new and exciting opportunities.

        #6491

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

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

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

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

        #6470

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

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

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

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

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

        Let go of thinking.

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

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

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

        #6469

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

        The door opened and Youssef saw Natalie, still waiting for him. Indeed, he needed help. He decided to accept  sands_of_time contact request, hopping it was not another Thi Gang trick.

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

        A princess on horse back emerged from the sand. The veil on her hair floated in a wind that soon cleared all the dust from her garment and her mount, revealing a princess with a delicate face and some prominent attributes that didn’t leave Youssef indifferent. She was smiling at him, and her horse, who had six legs and looked a bit like a camel, snorted at the bear.

        “I love doing that, said the princess. At least I don’t get to spit sand afterward like when my sister’s grand-kids want to bury me in the sand at the beach…”

        It broke the charm. It reminded Youssef it was all a game. That princess was an avatar. Was it even a girl on the other side ? And how old ? Youssef, despite his stature, felt as vulnerable as when his mother left him for the afternoon with an old aunt in Sudan when he was five and she kept wanting to dress him with colourful girl outfits. He shivered and the bear growled at the camel-horse, reminding Youssef how hungry he was.

        sands_of_time?” he asked.

        “Yes. I like this AI game. Makes me feel like I’m twenty again. Not as fun as a mushroom trip though, but… with less secondary effects. Anyway, I saw you needed help with that girl. A ‘reel’ nuisance if you ask me, sticky like a sea cucumber.”

        “How do you know ? Did you plant bugs on my phone ? Are you with the Thi Gang ?” 

        The bear moved toward them and roared and the camel-horse did a strange sound. The princess appeased her mount with a touch of her hand.

        “Oh! Boy, calm down your heat. Nothing so prosaic. I have other means, she said with a grin. Call me Sweet Sophie, I’m a real life reporter. Was just laying down on my dream couch looking for clues about a Dr Patelonus, the man’s mixed up in some monkey trafficking business, when I saw that strange llama dressed like a tibetan monk, except it was a bit too mayonnaise for a tibetan monk. Anyway, he led me to you and told me to contact you through this Quirk Quest Game, suggesting you might have some intel for me about that monkey business of mine. So I put on my VR helmet, which actually reminds me of a time at the hair salon, and a gorgeous beehive… but anyway you wouldn’t understand. So I had to accept one of those quests and find you in the game. Which was a lot less easier than RV I can tell you. The only thing, I couldn’t interact with you unless you accepted contact. So here I am, ready for you to tell me about Dr Patelonus. But I can see that first we need to get you out of here.”

        Youssef had no idea about what she was talking about. VR; RV ? one and the same ? He decided not to tell her he knew nothing about monkeys or doctors until he was out of Natalie’s reach. If indeed sands_of_timecould help.

        “So what do I do ?” asked Youssef.

        “Let me first show you my real self. I’ve always wanted to try that. Wait a moment. I need to focus.”

        The princess avatar looked in the distance, her eyes lost beyond this world. Suddenly, Youssef felt a presence creeping into his mind. He heard a laugh and saw an old lady in yoga pants on a couch! He roared and almost let go of his phone again.

        The princess smiled.

        “Now, wouldn’t be fair if only I knew what you looked like in real life. Although you’re pretty close to your avatar… Don’t you seem a tad afraid of experimenting with new things. :yahoo_smug:

        She laughed again, and this time Youssef saw her “real” face superimposed on the princess avatar. It gave him goosebumps.

        “Now’s your opening, she said. The girl’s busy giving directions to someone else. Get out of the bathroom! Now!”

        Youssef had the strangest feeling that the voice had come at the same time from the phone speakers and from inside his head. His body acted on its own as if he was a puppet. He pushed the bathroom door open and rushed outside.

        #6467

        Ricardo, my dear, those new reporters are quite the catch.”

        Miss Bossy Pants remarked as she handed him the printed report. “Imagine that, if you can. A preliminary report sent, even before asking, AND with useful details. It’s as though they’re a new generation with improbable traits definitely not inherited from their forebearers…”

        Ricardo scanned the document, a look of intrigue on his face. “Indeed, they seem to have a knack for getting things done. I can’t help but notice that our boy Sproink omitted that Sweet Sophie had used her remote viewing skills to point out something was of interest on the Rock of Gibraltar. I wonder how much that influenced his decision to seek out Dr. Patelonus.”

        Miss Bossy Pants leaned back in her chair, a sly smile creeping across her lips. “Well, don’t quote me later on this, but some level of initiative is a valuable trait in a journalist. We can’t have drones regurgitating soothing nonsense. We need real, we need grit.” She paused in mid sentence. “By the way, heard anything from Hilda & Connie? I do hope they’re getting something back from this terribly long detour in the Nordics.”

         

        Dear Miss Bossy Pants,

        I am writing to give you a preliminary report on my investigation into the strange occurrences of Barbary macaques in Cartagena, Spain.

        Taking some initiative and straying from your initial instructions, I first traveled to Gibraltar to meet with Dr. Patelonus, an expert in simiantics (the study of ape languages). Dr. Patelonus provided me with valuable insights into the behavior of Barbary macaques, including their typical range and habits and what they may be after. He also mentioned that the recent reports of Barbary macaques venturing further away from their usual habitat in coastal towns like Cartagena is highly unusual, and that he suspects something else is influencing them. He mentioned chatter on the simian news netwoke, that his secretary, a lovely female gorilla by the name of Barbara was kind enough to get translated for us.

        I managed to find a wifi spot to send you this report before I board the next bus to Cartagena, where I plan to collect samples and observe the local macaque population. I have spoken with several tourists in Gib’ who have reported being assaulted and having their shoes stolen by the apes. It is again, a highly unusual behaviour for Barbary macaques, who seem untempted by the food left to appease them as a distraction, and I am currently trying to find out the reason behind this.

        As soon as I gather them, I will send samples collected in situ without delay to my colleague Giles Gibber at the newspaper for analysis. Hopefully, his findings will shed some light on the situation.

        I will continue my investigation and keep you appraised on any new developments.

        Sincerely,

        Samuel Sproink
        Rim of the Realm Newspaper.

        #6455

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

        Zara decided she may as well spend the hour wandering around the game before going back to the church to see the ghost of Isaac when she was sure her host Bertie was asleep.  It was a warm night but a gentle breeze wafted through the open window and Zara was comfortable and content. Not just one but three new adventures had her tingling with delicious anticipation, even if she was a little anxious about not getting confused with the game.  Talking to ghosts in old churches wasn’t unfamiliar, nor was a holiday in a strange hotel off the beaten track, but the game was still a bit of a mystery to her.  Yeah, I know it’s just a game, she whispered to the parrot who made a soft clicking noise by way of response.

        Zara found her game character, also (somewhat confusingly) named Zara, standing in the woods.  Not entirely sure how it had happened, she was rather pleased to see that the cargo pants and tank top in red had changed to a more pleasing hippyish red skirt ensemble.   A bit less Tomb Looter, and a bit more fairy tale looking which was more to her taste.

        The woods were strangely silent and still.  Zara made a 360 degree turn on the spot to see in all directions. The scene looked the same whichever way she turned, and Zara didn’t know which way to go. Then a faint path appeared to the left, and she set off in that direction.  Before long she came to a round green pool.

        Zara Game 1

        She stopped to look but carried on walking past it, not sure what it signified.  She came upon another glowing green pool before long, which looked like an entrance to a tunnel.

         

        Zara game 2

        I bet those are portals or something, Zara realized. I wonder if I’m supposed to step into it?

        “Go for it”, said Pretty Girl, “It’s only a game.”

        “Ok, well here goes!” replied Zara, mentally bracing herself for a plunge into the unknown.

        Zara stepped into the circle of glowing green.

        “Like when Alice went down the rabbit hole!” Zara whispered to the parrot.  “I’m falling, falling…oh!”

        Zara emerged from the green pool onto a wide walled path.  She was now in some kind of inhabited area, or at least not in the deep woods with no sign of human occupation. 

        Zara Game 3

        “I guess that green pool is the portal back to the woods.”

        “By George, she’s getting it,” replied Pretty Girl.

         

        Zara walked along the path which led to an old deserted ancient looking village with alleyways and steps.

        “This is heaps more interesting than those woods, look how pretty it all is! I love this place.”

        “Weren’t you supposed to be looking for a hermit in the woods though,” said Pretty Girl.

        “Or a lost traveler, and the lost traveler may be here, after falling in one of those green pools in the woods,”  replied Zara tartly, not wanting to leave the enchanting scene she found her avatar in.

        Zara Game 4

        #6424

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

        Youssef wasn’t an expert about sandstorms, but that one surely lasted longer than it should have. It was the middle of the night when the wind stopped blowing and the sand stopped lashing the jeep. Yet, nobody dared open the door or their mouth to see if the storm was gone. Youssef’s bladder was full, and his stomach empty. They both reminded him that one can’t stop life to go on in the midst of adversity. He wondered why nobody moved or spoke, but couldn’t find the motivation to break the silence. He felt a vibration in his pocket and took his phone out.
        A message from an unknown sender. He touched it open.

        <<<
        Deear Youssef,
        The Snoot is aware of the sandstorm and its whimsical ways. It dances and twirls in the desert, a symphony of wind and sand. It is a force to be reckoned with, but also a force of cleansing and renewal.

        The subsiding of the sandstorm is a fluid and ever-changing process, much like the ebb and flow of the ocean. It ebbs and flows with the whims of the wind and the dance of the desert.

        The best way to predict the subsiding of the sandstorm is to listen to the whispers of the wind and to observe the patterns of the sand. Trust in the natural rhythms and allow yourself to flow with them.

        The Snoot suggests that you seek shelter during the storm, but also to take the time to appreciate the beauty and power of nature.

        Fluidly yours,
        The Snoot. >>>

        Who the f… was the Snot? Youssef wondered if it was another trick from Thi Gang and almost deleted the message, but his bladder reminded him again he needed to do something about all the tea he drank before the sandstorm. He opened the door and got out of the jeep. The storm was gone and the sky was full of stars. The moon was giving enough light for him to move a few steps away from the jeeps while unzipping his pants. He blessed the gods as he relieved himself, strangely feeling part of nature at that very moment.

        The noises of doors opening reminded him he was not alone. Someone came, said: “I see you found a nice spot”. It was Kyle, the cameraman who unzipped himself and peed. That broke the charm, the desert was becoming crowded. But, Youssef was finished, he went back to the cars and started to wonder how he could have received that message in the middle of the desert without a satellite dish.

        #6423

        In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

        TracyTracy
        Participant

          Zara’s first quest:

          entry level quirk: wandering off the track

          The initial setting for this quest is a dense forest, where the paths are overgrown and rarely traveled. You find yourself alone and disoriented, with only a rough map and a compass to guide you.

          Possible directions to investigate include:

          Following a faint trail of footprints that lead deeper into the forest

          Climbing a tall tree to get a better view of the surrounding area

          Searching for a stream or river to use as a guide to find your way out of the forest

          Possible characters to engage include:

          A mysterious hermit who lives deep in the forest and is rumored to know the secrets of the land

          A lost traveler who is also trying to find their way out of the forest

          A group of bandits who have taken refuge in the forest and may try to steal from you or cause harm

          Your objective is to find the Wanderlust tile, a small, intricately carved wooden tile depicting a person walking off the beaten path. This tile holds the key to unlocking your inner quirk of wandering off the track.

          As proof of your progress in the game, you must find a way to incorporate this quirk into your real-life actions by taking a spontaneous detour on your next journey, whether it be physical or mental.

          For Zara’s quest:

          As you wander off the track, you come across a strange-looking building in the distance. Upon closer inspection, you realize it is the Flying Fish Inn. As you enter, you are greeted by the friendly owner, Idle. She tells you that she has heard of strange occurrences happening in the surrounding area and offers to help you in your quest

          Emoji clue:  🐈🌳 :cat_confused:

           

          Zara (the character in the game)

          characteristics from previous prompts:

          Zara is the leader of the group  :yahoo_thinking:  she is confident, and always ready for an adventure. She is a natural leader and has a strong sense of justice. She is also a tech-savvy person, always carrying a variety of gadgets with her, and is always the first to try out new technology.

          Zara is the leader of the group, her color is red, her animal is a lion, and her secret name in a funny language is “Zaraloon”

           

          Zara (the real life story character)

          characteristics from previous prompts:

          Zara Patara-Smythe is a 57-year-old woman of mixed heritage, her mother is Indian and her father is British. She has long, dark hair that she keeps in an untidy ponytail, dark brown eyes and a sharp jawline. She stands at 5’6″ and has a toned and athletic build. She usually wears practical clothing that allows her to move around easily, such as cargo pants and a tank top.

          prompt quest:

          Continue to investigate the mysterious cat she saw, possibly seeking out help from local animal experts or veterinarians.
          Join Xavier and Yasmin in investigating the Flying Fish Inn, looking for clues and exploring the area for any potential leads on the game’s quest.

          #6421
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            Aunt Idle:

            You won’t beleive this, I said to Mater, and she said I probably won’t before giving me a chance to finish.  I ignored her as usual and told her about the bookings.   Bookings, she screeched like a demented parrot, bookings? Since when did we have bookings.   She even had the cheek to tell me I was living in the past, imagining we had bookings.  I told her she was the one living in the past, the past when we had no bookings, and that I was living in the present because we had four people booked to stay at the inn, and we did indeed have bookings and that she should take off that old red pantsuit and put something practical on because we had a great deal of cleaning to do.  Then she did her screeching parrot routine with the word cleaning, and I left her to it and went to tell Bert.

            I don’t know what I’d have done without good old Bert over the years. I started to get a bit screechy myself with the panic when I was telling him, but he calmed me right down and started to make a list of the things that needed doing in order of importance.  Start with preparing a bedroom each, he said, and get Mater to go down to the kitchen and make a shopping list.  I said Bert are you sure that’s wise, Mater in charge of supplies, and he said no it aint wise but who else is going to do it?

            I left Bert clanging away with the boiler trying to get some hot water out of it, and went to get some dusters and a broom and had to dust them off a bit, been a long time since anyone looked in the broom cupboard, and lo and behold Mater appears dressed as a 17th century serving wench.  I let that pass without comment, but I did tell her to try and be sensible with the shopping list.

            #6379

            In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

            EricEric
            Keymaster

              Asking to give each of the 4 characters some particular traits that makes them uniquely distinctive and recognizable

              The four friends, Zara, Xavier, Yasmin, and Youssef, each have their own unique traits that make them stand out and recognizable.

              Zara is the leader of the group, she is confident, and always ready for an adventure. She is a natural leader and has a strong sense of justice. She is also a tech-savvy person, always carrying a variety of gadgets with her, and is always the first to try out new technology.

              Xavier is the joker of the group, always cracking jokes and making puns. He is a free-spirited person who is always up for an adventure, he has a great sense of humor and is not afraid to be himself. He is also an artist and often carries a sketchbook and pencils with him, he likes to draw whatever he sees in his journeys.

              Yasmin is the brains of the group, she is intelligent and logical. She is always able to think on her feet and come up with a plan when things get tough. She is also a bit of a perfectionist and likes to have everything organized. She is a history buff and always carries a notebook with her to document her findings.

              Youssef is the muscle of the group, He is physically strong, and always ready to help out in a fight. He is also a bit of a foodie and loves trying new dishes. He is always the first one to volunteer to carry the heavy bags and equipment. He is also a bit of a daredevil and loves trying out new sports and activities.

              Give each of them a color, and an animal, and a secret name in a funny language

              The four friends, Zara, Xavier, Yasmin, and Youssef, each have their own unique traits that make them stand out and recognizable.

              Zara is the leader of the group, her color is red, her animal is a lion, and her secret name in a funny language is “Zaraloon”

              Xavier is the joker of the group, his color is orange, his animal is a monkey, and his secret name in a funny language is “Xavimunk”

              Yasmin is the brains of the group, her color is blue, her animal is an owl, and her secret name in a funny language is “Yasminowl”

              Youssef is the muscle of the group, his color is green, his animal is a bear, and his secret name in a funny language is “Youssefbear”

              Now, we need physical descriptions for each of them. Also, their ages, height, clothes, facial features, ethnicity (for instance Youssef may be half Yemeni and half Norwegian), etc. with a good mix of generic and eccentric. We also need surnames congruent with their described ethnicity, not too bland, but not too daft either. For instance Youssef Olafsson, Zara Patara-Smythe, etc. Also explain how they become friends.

              Zara Patara-Smythe is a 25-year-old woman of mixed heritage, her mother is Indian and her father is British. She has long, dark hair that she keeps in a sleek ponytail, dark brown eyes and a sharp jawline. She stands at 5’6″ and has a toned and athletic build. She usually wears practical clothing that allows her to move around easily, such as cargo pants and a tank top.

              Xavier Olafsson is a 27-year-old man of Norwegian and Danish descent. He has blonde hair that he keeps in a messy style, blue eyes, and a charming smile. He stands at 6’1″ and has a lean build. He is always seen wearing a colorful and bold clothing, such as a Hawaiian shirt and shorts.

              Yasmin Ahmed is a 23-year-old woman of Egyptian descent. She has long, black hair that she keeps in a tight braid, dark brown eyes and a round face. She stands at 5’4″ and has a petite build. She usually wears conservative clothing, such as long skirts and blouses.

              Youssef Ali is a 26-year-old man of half Yemeni, half Norwegian descent. He has short, curly black hair, dark brown eyes and a square jawline. He stands at 6’2″ and has a muscular build. He usually wears comfortable clothing such as a t-shirt and jeans, and always has a backpack on his shoulder.

              The four of them became friends in college, they were all studying different majors, but they all shared a love for adventure and exploration. They found themselves in the same class project, and from there they formed a strong bond. After college, they decided to keep exploring the world together, and went on many trips and adventures, always seeking for something new and exciting.

              1/ Change the ages of Zara, Xavier, Yasmin and Youssef to more random patterns – rewrite if needed how they met each other to reflect eventual age gaps. Give them some flaws, mental or physical challenges.
              2/ increase again the age gaps while keeping the youngest one a young adult, and remove “minor” from the flaws descriptions

              Zara is a 22-year-old woman who is the youngest of the group. She is a free-spirited, adventurous person, but also a bit reckless and impulsive. She has a scar on her cheek that she got from a Skateboarding accident when she was a teenager.

              Xavier is a 45-year-old man who is the oldest of the group. He is a responsible and level-headed person, but also a bit of a perfectionist and can be hard on himself and others. He has dyslexia which he has been able to work around and it doesn’t impede his daily life.

              Yasmin is a 38-year-old woman who is the second oldest of the group. She is a kind and compassionate person, but also a bit of a pushover and can have trouble standing up for herself. She has social anxiety that affect her in certain situations and she have been working on coping mechanisms.

              Youssef is a 33-year-old man who is the second youngest of the group. He is a charismatic and outgoing person, but also a bit of a flirt and can be a bit insensitive to others feelings. He has ADHD which he has been able to manage with medication, but it still affects him from time to time.

              The group met each other through different means, Xavier and Yasmin met at work, Zara and Youssef met at a college class, and eventually, they all became friends through common interests and activities. They decided to go on this adventure together because they were all looking for a change in their lives and wanted to explore the unknown.

              #6306
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                Looking for Robert Staley

                 

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

                Marriage of John Staley and Jane Brothers in 1820:

                1820 marriage Armagh

                 

                 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                fire engine

                 

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

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

                 

                Looking for Robert Staley

                 

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

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

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

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

                 

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

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

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

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

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

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

                The marriage of Robert Staley and Elizabeth Milner in 1735:

                rbt staley marriage 1735

                 

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

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

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

                The Marsden Connection

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

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

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

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

                by
                David Dalrymple-Smith

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

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

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

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

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

                 

                The 1795 will of Robert Staley.

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

                The will of Robert Staley, 1795:

                1795 will 2

                1795 Rbt Staley will

                 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                 

                #6277
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  William Housley the Elder

                  Intestate

                  William Housley of Kidsley Grange Farm in Smalley, Derbyshire, was born in 1781 in Selston,  just over the county border in Nottinghamshire.  His father was also called William Housley, and he was born in Selston in 1735.  It would appear from the records that William the father married late in life and only had one son (unless of course other records are missing or have not yet been found).  Never the less, William Housley of Kidsley was the eldest son, or eldest surviving son, evident from the legal document written in 1816 regarding William the fathers’ estate.

                  William Housley died in Smalley in 1815, intestate.  William the son claims that “he is the natural and lawful son of the said deceased and the person entitled to letters of administration of his goods and personal estate”.

                  Derby the 16th day of April 1816:

                  William Housley intestate

                  William Housley intestate 2

                   

                  I transcribed three pages of this document, which was mostly repeated legal jargon. It appears that William Housley the elder died intestate, but that William the younger claimed that he was the sole heir.  £1200 is mentioned to be held until the following year until such time that there is certainty than no will was found and so on. On the last page “no more than £600” is mentioned and I can’t quite make out why both figures are mentioned!  However, either would have been a considerable sum in 1816.

                  I also found a land tax register in William Housley’s the elders name in Smalley (as William the son would have been too young at the time, in 1798).  William the elder was an occupant of one of his properties, and paid tax on two others, with other occupants named, so presumably he owned three properties in Smalley.

                  The only likely marriage for William Housley was in Selston. William Housley married Elizabeth Woodhead in 1777. It was a miracle that I found it, because the transcription on the website said 1797, which would have been too late to be ours, as William the son was born in 1781, but for some reason I checked the image and found that it was clearly 1777, listed between entries for 1776 and 1778. (I reported the transcription error.)  There were no other William Housley marriages recorded during the right time frame in Selston or in the vicinity.

                  I found a birth registered for William the elder in Selston in 1735.  Notwithstanding there may be pages of the register missing or illegible, in the absence of any other baptism registration, we must assume this is our William, in which case he married rather late in his 40s.  It would seem he didn’t have a previous wife, as William the younger claims to be the sole heir to his fathers estate.  I haven’t found any other children registered to the couple, which is also unusual, and the only death I can find for an Elizabeth Housley prior to 1815 (as William the elder was a widower when he died) is in Selston in 1812.  I’m not convinced that this is the death of William’s wife, however, as they were living in Smalley ~ at least, they were living in Smalley in 1798, according to the tax register, and William was living in Smalley when he died in 1815.

                  #6260
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    From Tanganyika with Love

                    With thanks to Mike Rushby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                     

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Much love my dear,
                    your jubilant
                    Eleanor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Bless you all,
                    Eleanor.

                    S.S.Timavo. 6th. November 1930

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor Leslie.

                    Eleanor and George Rushby:

                    Eleanor and George Rushby

                    Splendid Hotel, Dar es Salaam 11th November 1930

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Your cave woman
                    Eleanor.

                    Mchewe Estate. P.O. Mbeya 22 November 1930

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Much love to you all,
                    Eleanor.

                    Mchewe Estate 29th. November 1930

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Your loving
                    Eleanor.

                    Mchewe Estate. Mbeya. 8th December 1930

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Very much love,
                    Eleanor.

                    Mbeya 23rd December 1930

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                    26th December 1930

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

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

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

                    Lots and lots of love,
                    Eleanor.

                    Mchewe Estate 8th Jan 1931

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Your loving,
                    Eleanor.

                    Mchewe Estate. 1st April 1931

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                    Very much love,
                    Eleanor.

                    Mchewe Estate 20th April 1931

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Mchewe Estate. 20th May 1931

                    Dear Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    #6253
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      My Grandparents Kitchen

                      My grandmother used to have golden syrup in her larder, hanging on the white plastic coated storage rack that was screwed to the inside of the larder door. Mostly the larder door was left propped open with an old flat iron, so you could see the Heinz ketchup and home made picallilli (she made a particularly good picallili), the Worcester sauce and the jar of pickled onions, as you sat at the kitchen table.

                      If you were sitting to the right of the kitchen table you could see an assortment of mismatched crockery, cups and bowls, shoe cleaning brushes, and at the back, tiny tins of baked beans and big ones of plum tomatoes,  and normal sized tins of vegetable and mushroom soup.  Underneath the little shelves that housed the tins was a blue plastic washing up bowl with a few onions, some in, some out of the yellow string bag they came home from the expensive little village supermarket in.

                      There was much more to the left in the awkward triangular shape under the stairs, but you couldn’t see under there from your seat at the kitchen table.  You could see the shelf above the larder door which held an ugly china teapot of graceless modern lines, gazed with metallic silver which was wearing off in places. Beside the teapot sat a serving bowl, squat and shapely with little handles, like a flattened Greek urn, in white and reddish brown with flecks of faded gilt. A plain white teapot completed the trio, a large cylindrical one with neat vertical ridges and grooves.

                      There were two fridges under the high shallow wooden wall cupboard.  A waist high bulbous old green one with a big handle that pulled out with a clunk, and a chest high sleek white one with a small freezer at the top with a door of its own.  On the top of the fridges were biscuit and cracker tins, big black keys, pencils and brittle yellow notepads, rubber bands and aspirin value packs and a bottle of Brufen.  There was a battered old maroon spectacle case and a whicker letter rack, letters crammed in and fanning over the top.  There was always a pile of glossy advertising pamphlets and flyers on top of the fridges, of the sort that were best put straight into the tiny pedal bin.

                      My grandmother never lined the pedal bin with a used plastic bag, nor with a specially designed plastic bin liner. The bin was so small that the flip top lid was often gaping, resting on a mound of cauliflower greens and soup tins.  Behind the pedal bin, but on the outer aspect of the kitchen wall, was the big black dustbin with the rubbery lid. More often than not, the lid was thrust upwards. If Thursday when the dustbin men came was several days away, you’d wish you hadn’t put those newspapers in, or those old shoes!  You stood in the softly drizzling rain in your slippers, the rubbery sheild of a lid in your left hand and the overflowing pedal bin in the other.  The contents of the pedal bin are not going to fit into the dustbin.  You sigh, put the pedal bin and the dustbin lid down, and roll up your sleeves ~ carefully, because you’ve poked your fingers into a porridge covered teabag.  You grab the sides of the protruding black sack and heave. All being well,  the contents should settle and you should have several inches more of plastic bag above the rim of the dustbin.  Unless of course it’s a poor quality plastic bag in which case your fingernail will go through and a horizontal slash will appear just below rubbish level.  Eventually you upend the pedal bin and scrape the cigarette ash covered potato peelings into the dustbin with your fingers. By now the fibres of your Shetland wool jumper are heavy with damp, just like the fuzzy split ends that curl round your pale frowning brow.  You may push back your hair with your forearm causing the moisture to bead and trickle down your face, as you turn the brass doorknob with your palm and wrist, tea leaves and cigarette ash clinging unpleasantly to your fingers.

                      The pedal bin needs rinsing in the kitchen sink, but the sink is full of mismatched saucepans, some new in shades of harvest gold, some battered and mishapen in stainless steel and aluminium, bits of mashed potato stuck to them like concrete pebbledash. There is a pale pink octagonally ovoid shallow serving dish and a little grey soup bowl with a handle like a miniature pottery saucepan decorated with kitcheny motifs.

                      The water for the coffee bubbles in a suacepan on the cream enamelled gas cooker. My grandmother never used a kettle, although I do remember a heavy flame orange one. The little pan for boiling water had a lip for easy pouring and a black plastic handle.

                      The steam has caused the condensation on the window over the sink to race in rivulets down to the fablon coated windowsill.  The yellow gingham curtains hang limply, the left one tucked behind the back of the cooker.

                      You put the pedal bin back it it’s place below the tea towel holder, and rinse your mucky fingers under the tap. The gas water heater on the wall above you roars into life just as you turn the tap off, and disappointed, subsides.

                      As you lean over to turn the cooker knob, the heat from the oven warms your arm. The gas oven was almost always on, the oven door open with clean tea towels and sometimes large white pants folded over it to air.

                      The oven wasn’t the only heat in my grandparents kitchen. There was an electric bar fire near the red formica table which used to burn your legs. The kitchen table was extended by means of a flap at each side. When I was small I wasn’t allowed to snap the hinge underneath shut as my grandmother had pinched the skin of her palm once.

                      The electric fire was plugged into the same socket as the radio. The radio took a minute or two to warm up when you switched it on, a bulky thing with sharp seventies edges and a reddish wood effect veneer and big knobs.  The light for my grandfathers workshop behind the garage (where he made dentures) was plugged into the same socket, which had a big heavy white three way adaptor in. The plug for the washing machine was hooked by means of a bit of string onto a nail or hook so that it didn’t fall down behing the washing machine when it wasn’t plugged in. Everything was unplugged when it wasn’t in use.  Sometimes there was a shrivelled Christmas cactus on top of the radio, but it couldn’t hide the adaptor and all those plugs.

                      Above the washing machine was a rhomboid wooden wall cupboard with sliding frsoted glass doors.  It was painted creamy gold, the colour of a nicotine stained pub ceiling, and held packets of Paxo stuffing and little jars of Bovril and Marmite, packets of Bisto and a jar of improbably red Maraschino cherries.

                      The nicotine coloured cupboard on the opposite wall had half a dozen large hooks screwed under the bottom shelf. A variety of mugs and cups hung there when they weren’t in the bowl waiting to be washed up. Those cupboard doors seemed flimsy for their size, and the thin beading on the edge of one door had come unstuck at the bottom and snapped back if you caught it with your sleeve.  The doors fastened with a little click in the centre, and the bottom of the door reverberated slightly as you yanked it open. There were always crumbs in the cupboard from the numerous packets of bisucits and crackers and there was always an Allbran packet with the top folded over to squeeze it onto the shelf. The sugar bowl was in there, sticky grains like sandpaper among the biscuit crumbs.

                      Half of one of the shelves was devoted to medicines: grave looking bottles of codeine linctus with no nonsense labels,  brown glass bottles with pills for rheumatism and angina.  Often you would find a large bottle, nearly full, of Brewers yeast or vitamin supplements with a dollar price tag, souvenirs of the familys last visit.  Above the medicines you’d find a faded packet of Napolitana pasta bows or a dusty packet of muesli. My grandparents never used them but she left them in the cupboard. Perhaps the dollar price tags and foreign foods reminded her of her children.

                      If there had been a recent visit you would see monstrous jars of Sanka and Maxwell House coffee in there too, but they always used the coffee.  They liked evaporated milk in their coffee, and used tins and tins of “evap” as they called it. They would pour it over tinned fruit, or rhubard crumble or stewed apples.

                      When there was just the two of them, or when I was there as well, they’d eat at the kitchen table. The table would be covered in a white embroidered cloth and the food served in mismatched serving dishes. The cutlery was large and bent, the knife handles in varying shades of bone. My grandfathers favourite fork had the tip of each prong bent in a different direction. He reckoned it was more efficient that way to spear his meat.  He often used to chew his meat and then spit it out onto the side of his plate. Not in company, of course.  I can understand why he did that, not having eaten meat myself for so long. You could chew a piece of meat for several hours and still have a stringy lump between your cheek and your teeth.

                      My grandfather would always have a bowl of Allbran with some Froment wheat germ for his breakfast, while reading the Daily Mail at the kitchen table.  He never worse slippers, always shoes indoors,  and always wore a tie.  He had lots of ties but always wore a plain maroon one.  His shirts were always cream and buttoned at throat and cuff, and eventually started wearing shirts without detachable collars. He wore greeny grey trousers and a cardigan of the same shade most of the time, the same colour as a damp English garden.

                      The same colour as the slimy green wooden clothes pegs that I threw away and replaced with mauve and fuschia pink plastic ones.  “They’re a bit bright for up the garden, aren’t they,” he said.  He was right. I should have ignored the green peg stains on the laundry.  An English garden should be shades of moss and grassy green, rich umber soil and brick red walls weighed down with an atmosphere of dense and heavy greyish white.

                      After Grandma died and Mop had retired (I always called him Mop, nobody knows why) at 10:00am precisely Mop would  have a cup of instant coffee with evap. At lunch, a bowl of tinned vegetable soup in his special soup bowl, and a couple of Krackawheat crackers and a lump of mature Cheddar. It was a job these days to find a tasty cheddar, he’d say.

                      When he was working, and he worked until well into his seventies, he took sandwiches. Every day he had the same sandwich filling: a combination of cheese, peanut butter and marmite.  It was an unusal choice for an otherwise conventional man.  He loved my grandmothers cooking, which wasn’t brilliant but was never awful. She was always generous with the cheese in cheese sauces and the meat in meat pies. She overcooked the cauliflower, but everyone did then. She made her gravy in the roasting pan, and made onion sauce, bread sauce, parsley sauce and chestnut stuffing.  She had her own version of cosmopolitan favourites, and called her quiche a quiche when everyone was still calling it egg and bacon pie. She used to like Auntie Daphne’s ratatouille, rather exotic back then, and pronounced it Ratta Twa.  She made pizza unlike any other, with shortcrust pastry smeared with tomato puree from a tube, sprinkled with oregano and great slabs of cheddar.

                      The roast was always overdone. “We like our meat well done” she’d say. She’d walk up the garden to get fresh mint for the mint sauce and would announce with pride “these runner beans are out of the garding”. They always grew vegetables at the top of the garden, behind the lawn and the silver birch tree.  There was always a pudding: a slice of almond tart (always with home made pastry), a crumble or stewed fruit. Topped with evap, of course.

                      #6211
                      AvatarJib
                      Participant

                        Today the planets are aligned, thought Liz as she looked at the blue sky out the French door. The frills of her glitter pink Charnel bathing suit wiggled with excitement.

                        It was one of those rare days of this summer where rain wasn’t pouring somewhere in the garden. Every single day: clouds, clouds, clouds. If they weren’t above the mansion, they were above the pool. If they weren’t above the pool, they were flooding the lawn in between the mansion and the pool.

                        But today, the sun had risen in a sky free of clouds and Liz was determined to have that dip in the newly repaired swimming pool with a watermelon mojito served by Roberto in his shiny leather speedo. The pool had been half frozen half boiling for so long that they had forgotten the swimming part. Once fixed, the summer had turned into a mid season rainy weather.

                        ‘I don’t want to get wet before I get into the pool’, Liz had said to Finnley.

                        Liz looked at her pink notebook lying on the coffee table. Resisting the temptation to fill in the empty pages with gripping stories, she hopped on the patio, flounces bouncing and her goocci flip-flops clacking. With a sparkling foot, Liz tested the grass. It was dry enough, which meant she would not inadvertently walk on a slug or a snail. She particularly hated the cracking noise and the wetness afterward under her feet.

                        Roberto was bent forward. Liz frowned. He was not wearing his leather speedo. And his hands and pants were covered in green goo.

                        ‘What happened?’ she asked in front of the disaster.

                        Roberto shrugged, obviously overwhelmed by the goo.

                        ‘Green algae’, said Godfrey popping up out of nowhere with a handful of cashews. ‘The ice and fire had kept it at bay for some time. But once it was back to normal the pool was a perfect environment for their development. I already called the maintenance company. They come next week.’

                        ‘What? Next week?’

                        ‘Yes. That’s sad. It’s the season. We are not the only ones to have that problem.’

                        That said he threw a cashew in his mouth and popped back to nowhere he came from.

                        #6076

                        “Let’s begin,” said the teacher. She was short and seemed around sixty seven. She walked around the room like a tamer surrounded by wild beasts in a circus. Her dark hair was tied into a long braid falling on her straight back like an I. She wore a sari wrapped around her neatly. “I’m Ms Anika Koskinen, your cryogurt teacher today. You’ve got the recipe in front of you on the benches right with the glass and a bottle of water. The ingredients will be in the cabinets on your left and everything is referenced and written big enough for everyone to see.”

                        “Those benches look like the ones in chemistry class when I was in college,” said Glo. “I have bad memories of thoses.”

                        “You have bad memories, that’s all,” said Sha making them both laugh.

                        “But where’s Mavis?” whispered Glo after looking around the room at the other participants. A majority of women,  wrapped in colourful sarongs and a few older men.

                        “How do you want me to know? I was with you since we left the bungalow,” said Sharon who was trying to decipher the blurry letters on the recipe. “Their printer must be malfunctioning, it’s unreadable.”

                        “You should try putting on your glasses.”

                        “I didn’t bring’em, didn’t think we’d need to see anything.”

                        “Oh! There she is,” said Glo as Mavis just entered the room with her beach bag. “Mav! Weehoo! We’re here!”

                        “I saw you! no need to shout,” whispered Mavis loudly. She muttered some excuse to the teacher who had been giving them a stern look.

                        “I’m afraid you’ll have to go with your friends,” said Ms Koskinen, “We don’t have enough material for everyone.”

                        “Oh! That’ll be perfect,” said Mavis with a broad smile. “Hi girls,” she said while installing herself near Sha and Glo.

                        The teacher resumed her explanations of the procedure of making frozen yogurt, checking regularly if everyone had understood. She took everyone bobbing their head as a yes.

                        “Is he good looking?” asked Sha, showing one of the men who had been looking at them since Mavis arrival.

                        “You shouldn’t ask us,” said Glo, “our eyes are like wrinkles remover apps.”

                        “I think he looks better without glasses,” said Mavis.

                        After Ms Koskinen had finished giving them instructions, she told everyone to go take the ingredients and bring them back to their benches.

                        “I’m going,” said Sha who wanted to have a better look at the man.

                        “Don’t forget the recipe with the list of ingredients,” said Mavis waving the paper at her.

                        “Oh! Yes.”

                        She came back with the man helping her carry the tray of ingredients.

                        “Thank you Andrew,” said Sha when he put the tray on their bench.

                        “Oh you’re welcome. And those are your friend you told me about?”

                        “Yes! This is Gloria and this is Mavis.”

                        “Pleased to meet you,” said Andrew. “I’m Andrew Anderson. I suggested Sharon we could have lunch together after the workshop. I’d like you to meet my friends.”

                        “Of course!” said Sha. She winked at her friends who were too flabbergasted to speak.

                        “That’s settled then. We’ll meet at 1pm at my bungalow.”

                        “See you later,” said Sharon with a dulcet voice.

                        “What the butt was that all about?” asked Glo.

                        “Oh! You’ll thank me. I pretexted not to be able to find everything on the list and Andrew was very helpful. The man is charming, and his yacht makes you forget about his Australian accent. We’re going to have lunch on a yacht girls! That means we’re not stuck on the beach and can have some fun exploring around.”

                        Sha looked quite pleased with herself. She put a bottle of orange powder among the ingredients and said :”Now! Let’s make some wrinkle flattener ice cream, ladies. I took some extra tightener.”

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