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  • #7881

    Mars Outpost — Welcome to the Wild Wild Waste

    No one had anticipated how long it would take to get a shuttle full of half-motivated, gravity-averse Helix25 passengers to agree on proper footwear.

    “I told you, Claudius, this is the fancy terrain suit. The others make my hips look like reinforced cargo crates,” protested Tilly Nox, wrangling with her buckles near the shuttle airlock.

    “You’re about to step onto a red-rock planet that hasn’t seen visitors since the Asteroid Belt Mining Fiasco,” muttered Claudius, tightening his helmet strap. “Your hips are the least of Mars’ concerns.”

    Behind them, a motley group of Helix25 residents fidgeted with backpacks, oxygen readouts, and wide-eyed anticipation. Veranassessee had allowed a single-day “expedition excursion” for those eager—or stir-crazy—enough to brave Mars’ surface. She’d made it clear it was volunteer-only.

    Most stayed aboard, in orbit of the red planet, looking at its surface from afar to the tune of “eh, gravity, don’t we have enough of that here?” —Finkley had recoiled in horror at the thought of real dust getting through the vents and had insisted on reviewing personally all the airlocks protocols. No way that they’d sullied her pristine halls with Martian dust or any dust when the shuttle would come back. No – way.

    But for the dozen or so who craved something raw and unfiltered, this was it. Mars: the myth, the mirage, the Far West frontier at the invisible border separating Earthly-like comforts into the wider space without any safety net.

    At the helm of Shuttle Dandelion, Sue Forgelot gave the kind of safety briefing that could both terrify and inspire. “If your oxygen starts blinking red, panic quietly and alert your buddy. If you fall into a crater, forget about taking a selfie, wave your arms and don’t grab on your neighbor. And if you see a sand wyrm, congratulations, you’ve either hit gold or gone mad.”

    Luca Stroud chuckled from the copilot seat. “Didn’t see you so chirpy in a long while. That kind of humour, always the best warning label.”

    They touched down near Outpost Station Delta-6 just as the Martian wind was picking up, sending curls of red dust tumbling like gossip.

    And there she was.

    Leaning against the outpost hatch with a spanner slung across one shoulder, goggles perched on her forehead, Prune watched them disembark with the wary expression of someone spotting tourists traipsing into her backyard garden.

    Sue approached first, grinning behind her helmet. “Prune Curara, I presume?”

    “You presume correctly,” she said, arms crossed. “Let me guess. You’re here to ruin my peace and use my one functioning kettle.”

    Luca offered a warm smile. “We’re only here for a brief scan and a bit of radioactive treasure hunting. Plus, apparently, there’s been a petition to name a Martian dust lizard after you.”

    “That lizard stole my solar panel last year,” Prune replied flatly. “It deserves no honor.”

    Inside, the outpost was cramped, cluttered, and undeniably charming. Hand-drawn maps of Martian magnetic hotspots lined one wall; shelves overflowed with tagged samples, sketchpads, half-disassembled drones, and a single framed photo of a fireplace with something hovering inexplicably above it—a fish?

    “Flying Fish Inn,” Luca whispered to Sue. “Legendary.”

    The crew spent the day fanning out across the region in staggered teams. Sue and Claudius oversaw the scan points, Tilly somehow got her foot stuck in a crevice that definitely wasn’t in the geological briefing, which was surprisingly enough about as much drama they could conjure out.

    Back at the outpost, Prune fielded questions, offered dry warnings, and tried not to get emotionally attached to the odd, bumbling crew now walking through her kingdom.

    Then, near sunset, Veranassessee’s voice crackled over comms: “Curara. We’ll be lifting a crew out tomorrow, but leaving a team behind. With the right material, for all the good Muck’s mining expedition did out on the asteroid belt, it left the red planet riddled with precious rocks. But you, you’ve earned to take a rest, with a ticket back aboard. That’s if you want it. Three months back to Earth via the porkchop plot route. No pressure. Your call.”

    Prune froze. Earth.

    The word sat like an old song on her tongue. Faint. Familiar. Difficult to place.

    She stepped out to the ridge, watching the sun dip low across the dusty plain. Behind her, laughter from the tourists trading their stories of the day —Tilly had rigged a heat plate with steel sticks and somehow convinced people to roast protein foam. Are we wasting oxygen now? Prune felt a weight lift; after such a long time struggling to make ends meet, she now could be free of that duty.

    Prune closed her eyes. In her head, Mater’s voice emerged, raspy and amused: You weren’t meant to settle, sugar. You were meant to stir things up. Even on Mars.

    She let the words tumble through her like sand in her boots.

    She’d conquered her dream, lived it, thrived in it.

    Now people were landing, with their new voices, new messes, new puzzles.

    She could stay. Be the last queen of red rock and salvaged drones.

    Or she could trade one hell of people for another. Again.

    The next morning, with her patched duffel packed and goggles perched properly this time, Prune boarded Shuttle Dandelion with a half-smirk and a shrug.

    “I’m coming,” she told Sue. “Can’t let Earth ruin itself again without at least watching.”

    Sue grinned. “Welcome back to the madhouse.”

    As the shuttle lifted off, Prune looked once, just once, at the red plains she’d called home.

    “Thanks, Mars,” she whispered. “Don’t wait up.”

    #7862

    Sue Forgelot couldn’t believe her eyes when she came to her ringing door.

    Of course, after the Carnival party was over and she’d taken an air shower, and put on her bathrobe with her meerkat slipper, slathered relaxing face cream topped with two slices of cucumber, she was quite groggy, and the cucumber slices on her eyelids made it harder to see. But once she’d removed them, she could see as bright as day.

    The Captain was standing right here, and she hadn’t aged a day.

    “Quickly, come in.” Sue wasted no time to usher her in. She looked at the corridor suspiciously; at that time of night, only a dusting robot was patrolling the corridors, chasing for dust motes and finger smears on the datapads.

    Nobody.

    “I haven’t been followed, Sue, will you just relax for a moment.”

    “V’ass, it’s been so long. How did you get out?… What broke the code?”

    “I don’t know, Sue. I think —something called back, from Earth.”

    “From Earth? I didn’t know there was much technology left, or at least one that could reach us there. And one that could bypass that darned central AI —I knew it couldn’t keep you under lock and key forever.”

    “Seems there is such tech, and it’s also managed to force the ship to turn around.”

    Silence fell on the two friends for a moment, as they were grasping for the implications of the changes in motion.
    Veranassessee couldn’t help by smile uncontrollably. “Those rejuvenation tricks do wonders, don’t they. You don’t look a day over a 100 years old.”

    Sue couldn’t help but chuckle. “And you don’t look so bad yourself, for an old forgotten popsicle.” She tilted her head. “You do know you’ve been in the freezer longer than some of our newest passengers have been alive, right?”

    V’ass shrugged. “And yet, here I am—fit, rested, and none the worse for wear.”
    Sue sighed. “Meanwhile, I’ve had three hip replacements, a cybernetic knee, and somebody keeps hijacking my artificial leg with spam messages.”
    V’ass blinked. “…You should probably get that checked.”
    Sue waved her off. “Bah. If it’s not trying to sell me ‘hot singles in my quadrant,’ I let it be.”

    After the laughter had dissipated, Sue said “You need my help to get back your ship, don’t you?”. She tapped on her cybernetic leg with a knowing smile. “You can count on me.”

    Veranassessee noded. “Then start by filling me in, what should I know?”

    Sue leaned in conspiratorially. “Ethan is dead, for one.”

    “Death?” Veranassessee was weighing the implications, and completed “… Murder?”

    Sue shrugged “As much as it pains me to say, it’s all a bit irrelevant. The AI let it happen, but I doubt she pushed the button. Ethan wasn’t much of a threat to its rule. Makes one wonder why, maybe it computed some cascade of events we don’t yet see. They found ancient DNA on the crime scene, but it’s all a mess of clues, and I must say we’re pretty inept at the whole murder mystery thing. Glad we don’t have a serial killer in our midst, or we would have plenty of composting to do…”

    Veranassessee started to pace the room. “Well, if there isn’t anything more relevant, we need to hatch a plan. I suspect all my access got revoked; I’ll need a skeleton key to get in the right places. To regain control over the central AI, and the main deck.”

    “Of course, the Marlowes…” Sue had a moment of revelation on her face. “They were the crypto locksmiths… With Ethan now dead, maybe we should pay dear old Ellis a visit.”

    #7849

    Helix 25 – The Genetic Puzzle

    Amara’s Lab – Data Now Aggregated
    (Discrepancies Never Addressed)

    On the screen in front of Dr. Amara Voss, lines upon lines of genetic code were cascading and making her sleepy. While the rest of the ship was running amok, she was barricaded into her lab, content to have been staring at the sequences for the most part of the day —too long actually.

    She took a sip of her long-cold tea and exhaled sharply.

    Even if data was patchy from the records she had access to, there was a solid database of genetic materials, all dutifully collected for all passengers, or crew before embarkment, as was mandated by company policy. The official reason being to detect potential risks for deep space survival. Before the ship’s take-over, systematic recording of new-borns had been neglected, and after the ship’s takeover, population’s new born had drastically reduced, with the birth control program everyone had agreed on, as was suggested by Synthia. So not everyone’s DNA was accounted for, but in theory, anybody on the ship could be traced back and matched by less than 2 or 3 generations to the original data records.

    The Marlowe lineage was the one that kept resurfacing. At first, she thought it was coincidence—tracing the bloodlines of the ship’s inhabitants was messy, a tangled net of survivors, refugees, and engineered populations. But Marlowe wasn’t alone.

    Another name pulsed in the data. Forgelot. Then Holt. Old names of Earth, unlike the new star-birthed. There were others, too.

    Families that had been aboard Helix 25 for some generations. But more importantly, bloodlines that could be traced back to Earth’s distant past.

    But beyond just analysing their origins, there was something else that caught her attention. It was what was happening to them now.

    Amara leaned forward, pulling up the mutation activation models she had been building. In normal conditions, these dormant genetic markers would remain just that—latent. Passed through generations like forgotten heirlooms, meaningless until triggered.

    Except in this case, there was evidence that something had triggered them.

    The human body, subjected to long-term exposure to deep space radiation, artificial gravity shifts, and cosmic phenomena, and had there not been a fair dose of shielding from the hull, should have mutated chaotically, randomly. But this was different. The genetic sequences weren’t just mutating—they were activating.

    And more surprisingly… it wasn’t truly random.

    Something—or someone—had inherited an old mechanism that allowed them to access knowledge, instincts, memories from generations long past.

    The ancient Templars had believed in a ritualistic process to recover ancestral skills and knowledge. What Amara was seeing now…

    She rubbed her forehead.

    “Impossible.”

    And yet—here was the data.

    On Earth, the past was written in stories and fading ink. In space, the past was still alive—hiding inside their cells, waiting.

    Earth – The Quiz Night Reveal

    The Golden Trowel, Hungary

    The candlelit warmth of The Golden Trowel buzzed with newfound energy. The survivors sat in a loose circle, drinks in hand, at this unplanned but much-needed evening of levity.

    Once the postcards shared, everyone was listening as Tala addressed the group.

    “If anyone has an anecdote, hang on to the postcard,” she said. “If not, pass it on. No wrong answers, but the best story wins.”

    Molly felt the weight of her own selection, the Giralda’s spire sharp and unmistakable. Something about it stirred her—an itch in the back of her mind, a thread tugging at long-buried memories.

    She turned toward Vera, who was already inspecting her own card with keen interest.

    “Tower of London, anything exciting to share?”

    Vera arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, lips curving in amusement.

    Molly Darling,” she drawled, “I can tell you lots, I know more about dead people’s families than most people know about their living ones, and London is surely a place of abundance of stories. But do you even know about your own name Marlowe?”

    She spun the postcard between her fingers before answering.

    “Not sure, really, I only know about Philip Marlowe, the fictional detective from Lady in the Lake novel… Never really thought about the name before.”

    “Marlowe,” Vera smiled. “That’s an old name. Very old. Derived from an Old English phrase meaning ‘remnants of a lake.’

    Molly inhaled sharply.

    Remnants of the Lady of the Lake ?

    Her pulse thrummed. Beyond the historical curiosity she’d felt a deep old connection.

    If her family had left behind records, they would have been on the ship… The thought came with unwanted feelings she’d rather have buried. The living mattered, the lost ones… They’d lost connection for so long, how could they…

    Her fingers tightened around the postcard.

    Unless there was something behind her ravings?

    Molly swallowed the lump in her throat and met Vera’s gaze. “I need to talk to Finja.”

    :fleuron2:

    Finja had spent most of the evening pretending not to exist.

    But after the fifth time Molly nudged her, eyes bright with silent pleas, she let out a long-suffering sigh.

    “Alright,” she muttered. “But just one.”

    Molly exhaled in relief.

    The once-raucous Golden Trowel had dimmed into something softer—the edges of the night blurred with expectation.

    Because it wasn’t just Molly who wanted to ask.

    Maybe it was the effect of the postcards game, a shared psychic connection, or maybe like someone had muttered, caused by the new Moon’s sickness… A dozen others had realized, all at once, that they too had names to whisper.

    Somehow, a whole population was still alive, in space, after all this time. There was no time for disbelief now, Finja’s knowledge of stuff was incontrovertible. Molly was cued by the care-taking of Ellis Marlowe by Finkley, she knew things about her softie of a son, only his mother and close people would know.

    So Finja had relented. And agreed to use all means to establish a connection, to reignite a spark of hope she was worried could just be the last straw before being thrown into despair once again.

    Finja closed her eyes.

    The link had always been there, an immediate vivid presence beneath her skull, pristine and comfortable but tonight it felt louder, crowdier.

    The moons had shifted, in syzygy, with a gravity pull in their orbits tugging at things unseen.

    She reached out—

    And the voices crashed into her.

    Too much. Too many.

    Hundreds of voices, drowning her in longing and loss.

    “Where is my brother?”
    “Did my wife make it aboard?”
    “My son—please—he was supposed to be on Helix 23—”
    “Tell them I’m still here!”

    Her head snapped back, breath shattering into gasps.

    The crowd held its breath.

    A dozen pairs of eyes, wide and unblinking.

    Finja clenched her fists. She had to shut it down. She had to—

    And then—

    Something else.

    A presence. Watching.

    Synthia.

    Her chest seized.

    There was no logical way for an AI to interfere with telepathic frequencies.

    And yet—

    She felt it.

    A subtle distortion. A foreign hand pressing against the link, observing.

    The ship knew.

    Finja jerked back, knocking over her chair.

    The bar erupted into chaos.

    “FINJA?! What did you see?”
    “Was someone there?”
    “Did you find anyone?!”

    Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

    She had never thought about the consequences of calling out across space.

    But now…

    Now she knew.

    They were not the last survivors. Other lived and thrived beyond Earth.

    And Synthia wanted to keep it that way.

    Yet, Finja and Finkley had both simultaneously caught something.
    It would take the ship time, but they were coming back. Synthia was not pleased about it, but had not been able to override the response to the beacon.

    They were coming back.

    #7843

    Helix 25 – Space Tai Chi and Mass Lunacy

    The Grand Observation Atrium was one of the few places on Helix 25 where people would come and regroup from all strata of the ship —Upper Decks, Lower Decks, even the more elusive Hold-dwellers— there were always groups of them gathered for the morning sessions without any predefined roles.

    In the secular tradition of Chinese taichi done on public squares, a revival of this practice has started few years ago all thanks to Grand Master Sifu Gou quiet stubborn consistency to practice in the early light of the artificial day, that gradually had attracted followers, quietly and awkwardly joining to follow his strange motions. The unions, ever eager to claim a social victory and seeing an opportunity to boost their stature, petitioned to make this a right, and succeeded, despite the complaints from the cleaning staff who couldn’t do their jobs (and jogs) in the late night while all passengers had gone to sleep, apart from the night owls and party goers.

    In short, it was a quiet moment of communion, and it was now institutionalised, whether Sifu Gou had wanted it or not.

    The artificial gravity fluctuated subtly here, closer to the artificial gravitational core, in a way that could help attune people to feel their balance shift, even in absence of the Earth’s old pull.

    It was simply perfect for Space Tai Chi.

    A soft chime signaled the start of the session. Grand Master Gou, in the Helix 25’s signature milk-silk fabric pajamas, silver-haired and in a quiet poise, stood at the center of the open-air space beneath the reinforced glass dome, where Jupiter loomed impossibly large beyond the ship, its storms shifting in slow, eternal violence. He moved slowly, deliberately, his hands bearing a weight that flowed improbably in the thinness of the gravity shifts.

    “To find one’s center,” he intoned, “is to find the center of all things. The ship moves, and so do we. You need to feel the center of gravity and use it —it is our guide.”

    A hundred bodies followed in various degrees of synchrony, from well-dressed Upper Deck philosophers to the manutentioners and practical mechanics of the Lower Decks in their uniforms who stretched stiff shoulders between shift rotations. There was something mesmerizing about the communal movement, that even the ship usually a motionless background, seemed to vibrate beneath their feet as though their motions echoed through space.

    Every morning, for this graceful moment, Helix 25 felt like a true utopia.

    That was without counting when the madness began.

    :fleuron2:

    The Gossip Spiral

    “Did you hear about Sarawen?” hissed a woman in a flowing silk robe.
    “The Lexican?” gasped another.
    “Yes. Gave birth last night.”
    “What?! Already? Why weren’t we informed?”
    “Oh, she kept it very quiet. Didn’t even invite anyone to the naming.”
    “Disgraceful. And where are her two husbands? Following her everywhere. Suspicious if you ask me.”

    A grizzled Lower Deck worker grunted, still trying to follow Master Gou’s movement. “Why would she invite people to see her water break? Sounds unhygienic.”

    This earned a scandalized gasp from an Upper Decker. “Not the birth—the ceremony! Honestly, you Lower Deck folk know nothing of tradition.”

    Wisdom Against Wisdom

    Master Gou was just finishing an elegant and powerful sweep of his arms when Edeltraut Snoot, a self-proclaimed philosopher from Quadrant B, pirouetted herself into the session with a flamboyant twirl.

    “Ah, my dear glowing movement-makers! Thou dost align thine energies with the artificial celestial pull, and yet! And yet! Dost thou not see—this gravity is but a fabrication! A lie to lull thee into believing in balance when there is none!”

    Master Gou paused, blinking, impassive, suspended in time and space, yet intently concentrated. Handling such disturbances of the force gracefully, unperturbed, was what the practice was about. He resumed as soon as Edeltraut moved aside to continue her impassionate speech.

    “Ah yiii! The Snoot Knows. Oh yes. Balance is an illusion sold to us by the Grand Micromanagers, the Whymen of the Ever-Hungry Order. Like pacmaniacs, they devour structure and call it stability. And we! We are but rabbits, forced to hop through their labyrinth of rules!”

    Someone muttered, “Oh no, it’s another of those speeches.”

    Another person whispered, “Just let her talk, it’s easier.”

    The Snoot lady continued, undeterred. “But we? Oh, we are not merely rabbits. We are the mist in the hedge! The trick in their tale! We evade! We escape! And when they demand we obey their whys—we vanish!”

    By now, half the class had abandoned their movements entirely, mesmerized by the absurdity. The other half valiantly continued the Space taichi routine while inching away.

    Master Gou finally closed the form, then sighed intently, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let us… return to our breath.”

    More Mass Lunacy 

    It started as a low murmur, a shifting agitation in the crowd. Then, bickering erupted like a solar flare.

    “I can’t find my center with all this noise!”
    “Oh shut up, you’ve never had a center.”
    “Who took my water flask?!”
    “Why is this man so close to me?!”
    “I am FLOATING?! HELP!”

    Synthia’s calm, omnipresent voice chimed in overhead.

    “For your well-being, an emergency dose of equilibrium supplements will be dispensed.”

    Small white pills rained from overhead dispensers.

    Instead of calming people down, this only increased the chaos.

    Some took the pills immediately, while others refused on principle.
    Someone accused the Lexicans of hoarding pills.
    Two men got into a heated debate over whether taking the pills was an act of submission to the AI overlords.
    A woman screamed that her husband had vanished, only to be reminded that he left her twelve years ago.
    Someone swore they saw a moon-sized squid in the sky.

    The Unions and the Leopards

    Near the edges of the room, two quadrant bosses from different labor unions were deep in mutual grumbling.

    “Bloody management.”
    “Agreed, even if they don’t call themselves that any longer, it’s still bloody management.”
    “Damn right. MICRO-management.”
    “Always telling us to be more efficient, more aligned, more at peace.”
    “Yeah, well, who the hell voted for peace?! I preferred it when we just argued in the corridors!”

    One of them scowled. “That’s the problem, mate. We fought for this, better conditions, and what did we get? More rules, more supervisors! Who knew that the Leopards-Eating-People’s-Faces Party would, y’know—eat our own bloody faces?!”

    The other snorted. “We demanded stability, and now we have so much stability we can’t move without filling out a form with all sorts of dumb questions. You know I have to submit a motion request before taking a piss?”

    “…seriously?”

    “Dead serious. Takes an eternity to fill. And four goddamn business hours for approval.”

    “That’s inhumane.”

    “Bloody right it is.”

    At that moment, Synthia’s voice chimed in again.

    “Please be advised: Temporary gravitational shifts are normal during orbital adjustments. Equilibrium supplements have been optimized. Kindly return to your scheduled calm.”

    The Slingshot Begins

    The whole ship gave a lurch, a gravitational hiccup as Helix 25 completed its slingshot maneuver around the celestial body.

    Bodies swayed unnaturally. Some hovered momentarily, shrieking.
    Someone declared that they had achieved enlightenment.
    Someone else vomited.

    Master Gou sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “We should invent retirement for old Masters. People can’t handle their shit during those Moonacies. Months of it ahead, better focus on breath more.”

    Snoot Lady, still unaffected, spread her arms wide and declared:
    “And so, the rabbit prevails once again!”

    Evie, passing by on her way to the investigation, took one look at the scene of absolute madness and turned right back around.

    “Yeah. Nope. Not this morning. Back to the Murder Board.”

    #7840

    Helix 25 — Aftermath of the Solar Flare Alert

    The Second Murder

    It didn’t take them long to arrive at the scene, Riven alerted by a distraught Finkley who’d found the body.

    Evie knelt beside the limp, twitching form of Mandrake, his cybernetic collar flickering erratically, tiny sparks dancing along its edge. The cat’s body convulsed, its organic parts frozen in eerie stillness while the cybernetic half stuttered between functions, blinking in and out of awareness.

    Mandrake was both dead and not dead.

    “Well, this is unsettling,” TP quipped, materializing beside them with an exaggerated frown. “A most profound case of existential uncertainty. Schrödinger himself would have found this delightful—if he weren’t very much confirmed dead.”

    Riven crouched, running a scanner over Mandrake’s collar. The readout spat out errors. “Neural link’s corrupted. He’s lost something.”

    Evie’s stomach twisted. “Lost what? But… he can be repaired, surely, can’t he?”

    Evan replied with a sigh “Hard to tell how much damage he’s suffered, but we caught him in time thanks to Finkley’s reflexes, he may stand a chance, even if he may need to be reprogrammed.”

    Mandrake’s single functioning eye flickered open, its usual sharpness dull. Then, rasping, almost disjointedly, he muttered:

    “I was… murdered.”

    Then his system crashed, leaving nothing but silence.

    Upper Decks Carnival

    Sue was still adjusting her hat and feathers for the Carnival Party wondering if that would be appropriate as she was planning to go to the wake first, and then to the Lexican’s baby shower. It wasn’t every day there was a baby nowadays. And a boy too. But then, there was no such thing as being overdressed in her book.

    The ship’s intercom crackled to life, cutting through her thoughts, its automated cheerfulness electrifying like a misplaced party horn.

    “Attention, dear passengers! As scheduled, with the solar flare now averted, we are preparing for our return to Earth. Please enjoy the journey and partake in today’s complimentary hibiscus tea at the Grand Hall! Samba!”

    The words ‘return to Earth’ sent a shudder through Sue’s spine. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t possible.

    A sudden pulse of static in her artificial limb made her flinch. A garbled transmission—so faint she almost dismissed it—whispered through her internal interface, that was constantly scanning hacking through the data streams of the ship, and having found critical intel that was quickly being scrubbed by the maintenance system.

    Signal detected…
    Beacon coordinates triangulating…
    …origin: Earth…

    Her breath stopped. Sue had spent years pretending she knew everything, but this… was something else entirely.

    She got the odd and ominous feeling that Synthia was listening.

    Quadrant B – The Wake of Mr. Herbert

    The air in the gathering hall was thick with preservative floral mist—the result of enthusiastic beauticians who had done their best to restore and rehydrate the late Mr. Herbert to some semblance of his former self.

    And yet, despite their efforts, he still looked vaguely like a damp raisin in a suit.

    Gloria adjusted her shawl and whispered to Sharon, “He don’t look half bad, does he?”

    Sharon squinted. “Oh, love, I’d say he looks at least three-quarters bad.”

    Marlowe Sr. stood by the casket, his posture unnervingly rigid, as if he were made of something more fragile than bone. When he spoke, his voice cracked. “Ethan.”

    He was in no condition for a speech— only able to utter the name.

    Gloria dabbed her eyes, nudging Mavis. “I reckon this is the saddest thing I’ve seen since they discontinued complimentary facials at the spa.”

    Mavis sniffed. “And yet, they say he’ll be composted by next Tuesday. Bloody efficient, innit?”

    Marlowe didn’t hear them.

    Because at that moment, as he stared at his son’s face, the realization struck him like a dying star—this was no mistake. This was something bigger.

    And for the first time in years, he felt the weight of knowing too much.

    He would have to wake and talk to the Captain. She would know what to do.

    #7829
    ÉricÉric
    Keymaster

      Helix 25 – Investigation Breakdown: Suspects, Factions, and Ship’s Population

      To systematically investigate the murder(s) and the overarching mystery, let’s break down the known groups and individuals, their possible means to commit crimes, and their potential motivations.


      1. Ship Population & Structure

      Estimated Population of Helix 25

      • Originally a luxury cruise ship before the exodus.
      • Largest cruise ships built on Earth in 2025 carried ~5,000 people.
        Space travel, however, requires generations.
      • Estimated current ship population on Helix 25: Between 15,000 and 50,000, depending on deck expansion and growth of refugee populations over decades.
      • Possible Ship Propulsion:
        • Plasma-based propulsion (high-efficiency ion drives)
        • Slingshot navigation using gravity assists
        • Solar sails & charged particle fields
        • Current trajectory: Large elliptical orbit, akin to a comet.
          Estimated direction of the original space trek was still within Solar System, not beyond the Kuiper Belt (~30 astrological units) and programmed to return towards it point of origin.
          Due to the reprogramming by the refugees, it is not known if there has been significant alteration of the course – it should be known as the ship starts to reach the aphelion (farthest from the Sun) and either comes back towards it, or to a different course.
        • Question: Are they truly on a course out of the galaxy? Or is that just the story Synthia is feeding them?
          Is there a Promised Land beyond the Ark’s adventure?


      2. Breaking Down People & Factions

      To find the killer(s), conspiracies, and ship dynamics, here are some of factions, known individuals, and their possible means/motives.


      A. Upper Decks: The Elite & Decision-Makers

      • Defining Features:
        • Wealthy descendants of the original passengers. They have adopted names of stars as new family names, as if de-facto rulers of the relative segments of the space.
        • Have never known hardship like the Lower Decks.
        • Kept busy with social prestige, arts, and “meaningful” pursuits to prevent existential crisis.

      Key Individuals:

      1. Sue Forgelot

        • Means: Extensive social connections, influence, and hidden cybernetic enhancements.
        • Motive: Could be protecting something or someone—she knows too much about the ship’s past.
        • Secrets: Claims to have met the Captain. Likely lying… unless?
      2. Dr. Amara Voss

        • Means: Expert geneticist, access to data. Could tamper with DNA.
        • Motive: What if Herbert knew something about her old research? Did she kill to bury it?
      3. Ellis Marlowe (Retired Postman)

        • Means: None obvious. But as a former Earth liaison, he has archives and knowledge of what was left behind.
        • Motive: Unclear, but his son was the murder victim. His son was previously left on Earth, and seemed to have found a way onto Helix 25 (possibly through the refugee wave who took over the ship)
        • Question: Did he know Herbert’s real identity?
      4. Finkley (Upper Deck cleaner, informant)

        • Means: As a cleaner, has access everywhere.
        • Motive: None obvious, but cleaners notice everything.
        • Secret: She and Finja (on Earth) are telepathically linked. Could Finja have picked up something?
      5. The Three Old Ladies (Shar, Glo, Mavis)

        • Means: Absolutely none.
        • Motive: Probably just want more drama.
        • Accidental Detectives: They mix up stories but might have stumbled on actual facts.
      6. Trevor Pee Marshall (TP, AI detective)

        • Means: Can scan records, project into locations, analyze logic patterns.
        • Motive: Should have none—unless he’s been compromised as hinted by some of the remnants of old Muck & Lump tech into his program.

      B. Lower Decks: Workers, Engineers, Hidden Knowledge

      • Defining Features:
        • Unlike the Upper Decks, they work—mechanics, hydroponics, labor.
        • Self-sufficient, but cut off from decisions.
        • Some distrust Synthia, believing Helix 25 is off-course.

      Key Individuals:

      1. Luca Stroud (Engineer, Cybernetic Expert)

        • Means: Can tamper with ship’s security, medical implants, and life-support systems.
        • Motive: Possible sabotage, or he was helping Herbert with something.
        • Secret: Works in black-market tech modifications.
      2. Romualdo (Gardener, Archivist-in-the-Making)

        • Means: None obvious. Seem to lack the intelligence, but isn’t stupid.
        • Motive: None—but he lent Herbert a Liz Tattler book about genetic memories.
        • Question: What exactly did Herbert learn from his reading?
      3. Zoya Kade (Revolutionary Figure, Not Directly Involved)

        • Means: Strong ideological influence, but not an active conspirator.
        • Motive: None, but her teachings have created and fed factions.
      4. The Underground Movement

        • Means: They know ways around Synthia’s surveillance.
        • Motive: They believe the ship is on a suicide mission.
        • Question: Would they kill to prove it?

      C. The Hold: The Wild Cards & Forgotten Spaces

      • Defining Features:
        • Refugees who weren’t fully integrated.
        • Maintain autonomy, trade, and repair systems that the rest of the ship ignores.

      Key Individuals:

      1. Kai Nova (Pilot, Disillusioned)

        • Means: Can manually override ship systems… if Synthia lets him.
        • Motive: Suspects something’s off about the ship’s fuel levels.
      2. Cadet Taygeta (Sharp, Logical, Too Honest)

        • Means: No real power, but access to data.
        • Motive: Trying to figure out what Kai is hiding.

      D. AI & Non-Human Factors

      • Synthia (Central AI, Overseer of Helix 25)

        • Means: Controls everything.
        • Motive: Unclear, but her instructions are decades old.
        • Question: Does she even have free will?
      • The Captain (Nemo)

        • Means: Access to ship-wide controls. He is blending in the ship’s population but has special access.
        • Motive: Seems uncertain about his mission.
        • Secret: He might not be following Synthia’s orders anymore.

      3. Who Has the Means to Kill in Zero-G?

      The next murder happens in a zero-gravity sector. Likely methods:

      • Oxygen deprivation (tampered life-support, “accident”)
      • Drowning (hydro-lab “malfunction”)

      Likely Suspects for Next Murder

      Suspect Means to Kill in Zero-G Motive
      Luca Stroud Can tamper with tech Knows ship secrets
      Amara Voss Access to medical, genetic data Herbert was digging into past
      Underground Movement Can evade Synthia’s surveillance Wants to prove ship is doomed
      Synthia (or Rogue AI processes) Controls airflow, gravity, and safety protocols If she sees someone as a threat, can she remove them?
      The Captain (Nemo?) Has override authority Is he protecting secrets?

      4. Next Steps in the Investigation

      • Evie and Riven Re-interview Suspects. Who benefited from Herbert’s death?
      • Investigate the Flat-Earth Conspiracies. Who is spreading paranoia?
      • Check the Captain’s Logs. What does Nemo actually believe?
      • Stop the Next Murder. (Too late?)

      Final Question: Where Do We Start?

      1. Evie and Riven visit the Captain’s quarters? (If they find him…)
      2. Investigate the Zero-G Crime Scene? (Second body = New urgency)
      3. Confront one of the Underground Members? (Are they behind it?)

      Let’s pick a thread and dive back into the case!

      #7810

      Helix 25 – Below Lower Decks – Shadow Sector

      Kai Nova moved cautiously through the underbelly of Helix 25, entering a part of the Lower Decks where the usual throb of the ship’s automated systems turned muted. The air had a different smell here— it was less sterile, more… human. It was warm, the heat from outdated processors and unmonitored power nodes radiating through the bulkheads. The Upper Decks would have reported this inefficiency.

      Here, it simply went unnoticed, or more likely, ignored.

      He was being watched.

      He knew it the moment he passed a cluster of workers standing by a storage unit, their voices trailing off as he walked by. Not unusual, except these weren’t Lower Deck engineers. They had the look of people who existed outside of the ship’s official structure—clothes unmarked by department insignias, movements too intentional for standard crew assignments.

      He stopped at the rendezvous point: an unlit access panel leading to what was supposed to be an abandoned sublevel. The panel had been manually overridden, its system logs erased. That alone told him enough—whoever he was meeting had the skills to work outside of Helix 25’s omnipresent oversight.

      A voice broke the silence.

      “You’re late.”

      Kai turned, keeping his stance neutral. The speaker was of indistinct gender, shaved head, tall and wiry, with sharp green eyes locked on his movements. They wore layered robes that, at a glance, could have passed as scavenged fabric—until Kai noticed the intricate stitching of symbols hidden in the folds.

      They looked like Zoya’s brand —he almost thought… or let’s just say, Zoya’s influence. Zoya Kade’s litanies had a farther reach he would expect.

      “Wasn’t aware this was a job interview,” Kai quipped, leaning casually against the bulkhead.

      “Everything’s a test,” they replied. “Especially for outsiders.”

      Kai smirked. “I didn’t come to join your book club. I came for answers.”

      A low chuckle echoed from the shadows, followed by the shifting of figures stepping into the faint light. Three, maybe four of them. It could have been an ambush, but that was a display.

      “Pilot,” the woman continued, avoiding names. “Seeker of truth? Or just another lost soul looking for something to believe in?”

      Kai rolled his shoulders, sensing the tension in the air. “I believe in not running out of fuel before reaching nowhere.”

      That got their attention.

      The recruiter studied him before nodding slightly. “Good. You understand the problem.”

      Kai crossed his arms. “I understand a lot of problems. I also understand you’re not just a bunch of doomsayers whispering in the dark. You’re organized. And you think this ship is heading toward a dead end.”

      “You say that like it isn’t.”

      Kai exhaled, glancing at the flickering emergency light above. “Synthia doesn’t make mistakes.”

      They smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “No. It makes adjustments.” — the heavy tone on the “it” struck him. Techno-bigots, or something else? Were they denying Synthia’s sentience, or just adjusting for gender misnomers, it was hard to tell, and he had a hard time to gauge the sanity of this group.

      A low murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered figures.

      Kai tilted his head. “You think she’s leading us into the abyss?”

      The person stepped closer. “What do you think happened to the rest of the fleet, Pilot?”

      Kai stiffened slightly. The Helix Fleet, the original grand exodus of humanity—once multiple ships, now only Helix 25, drifting further into the unknown.

      He had never been given a real answer.

      “Think about it,” they pressed. “This ship wasn’t built for endless travel. Its original mission was altered. Its course reprogrammed. You fly the vessel, but you don’t control it.” She gestured to the others. “None of us do. We’re passengers on a ride to oblivion, on a ship driven by a dead man’s vision.”

      Kai had heard the whispers—about the tycoon who had bankrolled Helix 25, about how the ship’s true directive had been rewritten when the Earth refugees arrived. But this group… they didn’t just speculate. They were ready to act.

      He kept his voice steady. “You planning on mutiny?”

      They smiled, stepping back into the half-shadow. “Mutiny is such a crude word. We’re simply ensuring that we survive.”

      Before Kai could respond, a warning prickle ran up his spine.

      Someone else was watching.

      He turned slowly, catching the faintest silhouette lingering just beyond the corridor entrance. He recognized the stance instantly—Cadet Taygeta.

      Damn it.

      She had followed him.

      The group noticed, shifting slightly. Not hostile, but suddenly alert.

      “Well, well,” the woman murmured. “Seems you have company. You weren’t as careful as you thought. How are you going to deal with this problem now?”

      Kai exhaled, weighing his options. If Taygeta had followed him, she’d already flagged this meeting in her records. If he tried to run, she’d report it. If he didn’t run, she might just dig deeper.

      And the worst part?

      She wasn’t corruptible. She wasn’t the type to look the other way.

      “You should go,” the movement person said. “Before your shadow decides to interfere.”

      Kai hesitated for half a second, before stepping back.

      “This isn’t over,” he said.

      Her smile returned. “No, Pilot. It’s just beginning.”

      With that, Kai turned and walked toward the exit—toward Taygeta, who was waiting for him with arms crossed, expression unreadable.

      He didn’t speak first.

      She did.

      “You’re terrible at being subtle.”

      Kai sighed, thinking quickly of how much of the conversation could be accessed by the central system. They were still in the shadow zone, but that wasn’t sufficient. “How much did you hear?”

      “Enough.” Her voice was even, but her fingers twitched at her side. “You know this is treason, right?”

      Kai ran a hand through his hair. “You really think we’re on course for a fresh new paradise?”

      Taygeta didn’t answer right away. That was enough of an answer.

      Finally, she exhaled. “You should report this.”

      “You should,” Kai corrected.

      She frowned.

      He pressed on. “You know me, Taygeta. I don’t follow lost causes. I don’t get involved in politics. I fly. I survive. But if they’re right—if there’s even a chance that we’re being sent to our deaths—I need to know.”

      Taygeta’s fingers twitched again.

      Then, with a sharp breath, she turned.

      “I didn’t see anything tonight.”

      Kai blinked. “What?”

      Her back was already to him, her voice tight. “Whatever you’re doing, Nova, be careful. Because next time?” She turned her head slightly, just enough to let him see the edge of her conflicted expression.

      “I will report you.”

      Then she was gone.

      Kai let out a slow breath, glancing back toward the hidden movement behind him.

      No turning back now.

      #7762
      Jib
      Participant

        The Lexicans of Helix 25 are a faction dedicated to the reclamation and reinterpretation of history, believing that the past is not a fixed truth but a fluid narrative shaped by those who record it. Emerging from the cultural divide between the ship’s original elite passengers and the refugees who boarded during the exodus, they see language, identity, and history as tools of power, often challenging the authority of archivists like Seren Vega, whom they view as gatekeepers of a biased record. To the Lexicans, the past is not something to be merely preserved—it is something to be reclaimed, corrected, and, when necessary, rewritten. Their influence runs deep in debates over ship governance, memory preservation, and even AI ethics, as they push for a future where history belongs to the people rather than the institutions that once controlled it.

        #7544
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          Youlgreave

          The Frost Family and The Big Snow

           

          The Youlgreave parish registers are said to be the most complete and interesting in the country. Starting in 1558, they are still largely intact today.

          “The future historian of this parish will find a vast stock of material ready to hand, and if such a work was ever accomplished it would once more be seen how the history of even a remote village is but the history of the nation in little; how national victories were announced on the church bells, and national disasters by the proclamation of a form of prayer…”

          J. Charles Cox, Notes on the Churches of Derbyshire, 1877.

          Youlgreave registers

           

          Although the Youlgreave parish registers are available online on microfilm, just the baptisms, marriages and burials are provided on the genealogy websites. However, I found some excerpts from the churchwardens accounts in a couple of old books, The Reliquary 1864, and Notes on Derbyshire Churches 1877.

          churchwardens accounts

          Hannah Keeling, my 4x great grandmother, was born in Youlgreave, Derbyshire, in 1767. In 1791 she married Edward Lees of Hartington, Derbyshire, a village seven and a half miles south west of Youlgreave. Edward and Hannah’s daughter Sarah Lees, born in Hartington in 1808, married Francis Featherstone in 1835. The Featherstone’s were farmers. Their daughter Emma Featherstone married John Marshall from Elton. Elton is just three miles from Youlgreave, and there are a great many Marshall’s in the Youlgreave parish registers, some no doubt distantly related to ours.

          Hannah Keeling’s parents were John Keeling 1734-1823, and Ellen Frost 1739-1805, both of Youlgreave.
          On the burial entry in the parish registers in Youlgreave in 1823, John Keeling was 88 years old when he died, and was the “late parish clerk”, indicating that my 5x great grandfather played a part in compiling the “best parish registers in the country”. In 1762 John’s father in law John Frost died intestate, and John Keeling, cordwainer, co signed the documents with his mother in law Ann. John Keeling was a shoe maker and a parish clerk.

          John Keeling

           

          John Keeling’s father was Thomas Keeling, baptised on the 9th of March 1709 in Youlgreave and his parents were John Keeling and Ann Ashmore. John and Ann were married on the 6th April 1708. Some of the transcriptions have Thomas baptised in March 1708, which would be a month before his parents married. However, this was before the Julian calendar was replaced by the Gregorian calendar, and prior to 1752 the new year started on the 25th of March, therefore the 9th of March 1708 was eleven months after the 6th April 1708.

          Thomas Keeling married Dorothy, which we know from the baptism of John Keeling in 1734, but I have not been able to find their marriage recorded. Until I can find my 6x great grandmother Dorothy’s maiden name, I am unable to trace her family further back.

          Unfortunately I haven’t found a baptism for Thomas’s father John Keeling, despite that there are Keelings in the Youlgrave registers in the early 1600s, possibly it is one of the few illegible entries in these registers.

          The Frosts of Youlgreave

          Ellen Frost’s father was John Frost, born in Youlgreave in 1707. John married Ann Staley of Elton in 1733 in Youlgreave.

          (Note that this part of the family tree is the Marshall side, but we also have Staley’s in Elton on the Warren side. Our branch of the Elton Staley’s moved to Stapenhill in the mid 1700s. Robert Staley, born 1711 in Elton, died in Stapenhill in 1795. There are many Staley’s in the Youlgreave parish registers, going back to the late 1500s.)

          John Frost (my 6x great grandfather), miner, died intestate in 1762 in Youlgreave. Miner in this case no doubt means a lead miner, mining his own land (as John Marshall’s father John was in Elton. On the 1851 census John Marshall senior was mining 9 acres). Ann Frost, as the widow and relict of the said deceased John Frost, claimed the right of administration of his estate. Ann Frost (nee Staley) signed her own name, somewhat unusual for a woman to be able to write in 1762, as well as her son in law John Keeling.

          Frost and keeling

           

          John’s parents were David Frost and Ann. David was baptised in 1665 in Youlgreave. Once again, I have not found a marriage for David and Ann so I am unable to continue further back with her family. Marriages were often held in the parish of the bride, and perhaps those neighbouring parish records from the 1600s haven’t survived.

          David’s parents were William Frost and Ellen (or Ellin, or Helen, depending on how the parish clerk chose to spell it). Once again, their marriage hasn’t been found, but was probably in a neighbouring parish.

          William Frost’s wife Ellen, my 8x great grandmother, died in Youlgreave in 1713. In her will she left her daughter Catherine £20. Catherine was born in 1665 and was apparently unmarried at the age of 48 in 1713. She named her son Isaac Frost (born in 1662) executor, and left him the remainder of her “goods, chattels and cattle”.

          Ellens will

           

          William Frost was baptised in Youlgreave in 1627, his parents were William Frost and Anne.
          William Frost senior, husbandman, was probably born circa 1600, and died intestate in 1648 in Middleton, Youlgreave. His widow Anna was named in the document. On the compilation of the inventory of his goods, Thomas Garratt, Will Melland and A Kidiard are named.

          (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’.)

          Unable to find a baptism for William Frost born circa 1600, I read through all the pages of the Youlgreave parish registers from 1558 to 1610. Despite the good condition of these registers, there are a number of illegible entries. There were three Frost families baptising children during this timeframe and one of these is likely to be Willliam’s.

          Baptisms:
          1581 Eliz Frost, father Michael.
          1582 Francis f Michael. (must have died in infancy)
          1582 Margaret f William.
          1585 Francis f Michael.
          1586 John f Nicholas.
          1588 Barbara f Michael.
          1590 Francis f Nicholas.
          1591 Joane f Michael.
          1594 John f Michael.
          1598 George f Michael.
          1600 Fredericke (female!) f William.

          Marriages in Youlgreave which could be William’s parents:
          1579 Michael Frost Eliz Staley
          1587 Edward Frost Katherine Hall
          1600 Nicholas Frost Katherine Hardy.
          1606 John Frost Eliz Hanson.

          Michael Frost of Youlgreave is mentioned on the Derbyshire Muster Rolls in 1585.

          (Muster records: 1522-1649. The militia muster rolls listed all those liable for military service.)

          Frideswide:

          A burial is recorded in 1584 for Frideswide Frost (female) father Michael. As the father is named, this indicates that Frideswide was a child.

          (Frithuswith, commonly Frideswide c. 650 – 19 October 727), was an English princess and abbess. She is credited as the foundress of a monastery later incorporated into Christ Church, Oxford. She was the daughter of a sub-king of a Merica named Dida of Eynsham whose lands occupied western Oxfordshire and the upper reaches of the River Thames.)

          An unusual name, and certainly very different from the usual names of the Frost siblings. As I did not find a baptism for her, I wondered if perhaps she died too soon for a baptism and was given a saints name, in the hope that it would help in the afterlife, given the beliefs of the times. Or perhaps it wasn’t an unusual name at the time in Youlgreave. A Fridesweda Gilbert was buried in Youlgreave in 1604, the spinster daughter of Francis Gilbert. There is a small brass effigy in the church, underneath is written “Frideswide Gilbert to the grave, Hath resigned her earthly part…”

          Frideswide

          J. Charles Cox, Notes on the Churches of Derbyshire, 1877.

           

          King James

          A parish register entry in 1603:
          “1603 King James of Skottland was proclaimed kinge of England, France and Ireland at Bakewell upon Monday being the 29th of March 1603.”  (March 1603 would be 1604, because of the Julian calendar in use at the time.)

          King James

           

          The Big Snow

          “This year 1614/5 January 16th began the greatest snow whichever fell uppon the earth within man’s memorye. It covered the earth fyve quarters deep uppon the playne. And for heaps or drifts of snow, they were very deep; so that passengers both horse or foot passed over yates, hedges and walles. ….The spring was so cold and so late that much cattel was in very great danger and some died….”

          The Big Snow

          From the Youlgreave parish registers.

          Our ancestor William Frost born circa 1600 would have been a teenager during the big snow.

          #6507

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          :fleuron:

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

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

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

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

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

          #6484

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Will be at Flying Fish this evening, Hope to see you all soon!  :yahoo_smug: :yahoo_smug:    Congrats, Xavier!  :yahoo_thumbsup: :yahoo_thumbsup:

          Zara sent a message to Yasmin, Youssef and Xavier just before boarding the plane. Thankfully the plane wasn’t full and the seats next to her were unoccupied.  She had a couple of hours to play the game before landing at Alice Springs.

          Zara had found the tile in the entry level and had further instructions for the next stage of the game:

          Zara had come across a strange and ancient looking mine. It was clear that it had been abandoned for many years, but there were still signs of activity. The entrance was blocked by a large pile of rocks, but she could see a faint light coming from within. She knew that she had to find a way in.

          “Looks like I have to find another tile with a sort of map on it, Pretty Girl,” Zara spoke out loud, forgetting for a moment that the parrot wasn’t with her. She glanced up, hoping none of the other passengers had heard her.  Really she would have to change that birds name!

          If you encounter Osnas anywhere in the game, he may have what you seek in his vendors cart, or one of his many masks might be a clue. 

          A man with a mask and a vendors cart in an old mine, alrighty then, let’s have a look at this mine. Shame we’re not still in that old town.  Zara remembered not to say that out loud.

           

          Zara approached the abandoned mine cautiously.  There were rocks strewn about the entrance, and a faint light inside.

          Zaras mine entrance

          This looks a bit ominous, thought Zara, and not half as inviting as that old city.  She’d had a lifelong curiosity about underground tunnels and caves, and yet felt uneasily claustrophobic inside one.  She reminded herself that it was just a game, that she could break the rules, and that she could simply turn it off at any time.  She carried on.

          Zara stopped to look at the large green tile lying at her feet in the tunnel entrance. It was too big to carry with her so she took a photo of it for future reference.  At first glance it looked more like a maze or a labyrinth than a map.  The tunnel ahead was dark and she walked slowly, close to the wall.  

          Oh no don’t walk next to the wall! Zara recalled going down some abandoned mines with a group of friends when she was a teenager. There was water in the middle of the tunnel so she had been walking at the edge to keep her feet dry, as she followed her friend in front who had the torch.  Luckily he glanced over his shoulder, and advised her to walk in the middle. “Look” he said after a few more steps, shining his torch to the left.  A bottomless dark cavern fell away from the tunnel, which she would surely have fallen into.

           

          Zara tile mine entrance

          Zara moved into the middle of the tunnel and walked steadily into the darkness. Before long a side tunnel appeared with a faintly glowing ghostly light. 

          It looked eerie, but Zara felt obliged to follow it, as it was pitch black in every other direction. She wasn’t even sure if she could find her way out again, and she’d barely started.

          The ghostly light was coming from yet another side tunnel.  There were strange markings on the floor that resembled the tile at the mine entrance.  Zara saw two figures up ahead, heading towards the light. 

          Zara mine tunnels

          #6286
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            Matthew Orgill and His Family

             

            Matthew Orgill 1828-1907 was the Orgill brother who went to Australia, but returned to Measham.  Matthew married Mary Orgill in Measham in October 1856, having returned from Victoria, Australia in May of that year.

            Although Matthew was the first Orgill brother to go to Australia, he was the last one I found, and that was somewhat by accident, while perusing “Orgill” and “Measham” in a newspaper archives search.  I chanced on Matthew’s obituary in the Nuneaton Observer, Friday 14 June 1907:

            LATE MATTHEW ORGILL PEACEFUL END TO A BLAMELESS LIFE.

            ‘Sunset and Evening Star And one clear call for me.”

            It is with very deep regret that we have to announce the death of Mr. Matthew Orgill, late of Measham, who passed peacefully away at his residence in Manor Court Road, Nuneaton, in the early hours of yesterday morning. Mr. Orgill, who was in his eightieth year, was a man with a striking history, and was a very fine specimen of our best English manhood. In early life be emigrated to South Africa—sailing in the “Hebrides” on 4th February. 1850—and was one of the first settlers at the Cape; afterwards he went on to Australia at the time of the Gold Rush, and ultimately came home to his native England and settled down in Measham, in Leicestershire, where he carried on a successful business for the long period of half-a-century.

            He was full of reminiscences of life in the Colonies in the early days, and an hour or two in his company was an education itself. On the occasion of the recall of Sir Harry Smith from the Governorship of Natal (for refusing to be a party to the slaying of the wives and children in connection with the Kaffir War), Mr. Orgill was appointed to superintend the arrangements for the farewell demonstration. It was one of his boasts that he made the first missionary cart used in South Africa, which is in use to this day—a monument to the character of his work; while it is an interesting fact to note that among Mr. Orgill’s papers there is the original ground-plan of the city of Durban before a single house was built.

            In Africa Mr. Orgill came in contact with the great missionary, David Livingstone, and between the two men there was a striking resemblance in character and a deep and lasting friendship. Mr. Orgill could give a most graphic description of the wreck of the “Birkenhead,” having been in the vicinity at the time when the ill-fated vessel went down. He played a most prominent part on the occasion of the famous wreck of the emigrant ship, “Minerva.” when, in conjunction with some half-a-dozen others, and at the eminent risk of their own lives, they rescued more than 100 of the unfortunate passengers. He was afterwards presented with an interesting relic as a memento of that thrilling experience, being a copper bolt from the vessel on which was inscribed the following words: “Relic of the ship Minerva, wrecked off Bluff Point, Port Natal. 8.A.. about 2 a.m.. Friday, July 5, 1850.”

            Mr. Orgill was followed to the Colonies by no fewer than six of his brothers, all of whom did well, and one of whom married a niece (brother’s daughter) of the late Mr. William Ewart Gladstone.

            On settling down in Measham his kindly and considerate disposition soon won for him a unique place in the hearts of all the people, by whom he was greatly beloved. He was a man of sterling worth and integrity. Upright and honourable in all his dealings, he led a Christian life that was a pattern to all with whom he came in contact, and of him it could truly he said that he wore the white flower of a blameless life.

            He was a member of the Baptist Church, and although beyond much active service since settling down in Nuneaton less than two years ago he leaves behind him a record in Christian service attained by few. In politics he was a Radical of the old school. A great reader, he studied all the questions of the day, and could back up every belief he held by sound and fearless argument. The South African – war was a great grief to him. He knew the Boers from personal experience, and although he suffered at the time of the war for his outspoken condemnation, he had the satisfaction of living to see the people of England fully recognising their awful blunder. To give anything like an adequate idea of Mr. Orgill’s history would take up a great amount of space, and besides much of it has been written and commented on before; suffice it to say that it was strenuous, interesting, and eventful, and yet all through his hands remained unspotted and his heart was pure.

            He is survived by three daughters, and was father-in-law to Mr. J. S. Massey. St Kilda. Manor Court Road, to whom deep and loving sympathy is extended in their sore bereavement by a wide circle of friends. The funeral is arranged to leave for Measham on Monday at twelve noon.

             

            “To give anything like an adequate idea of Mr. Orgill’s history would take up a great amount of space, and besides much of it has been written and commented on before…”

            I had another look in the newspaper archives and found a number of articles mentioning him, including an intriguing excerpt in an article about local history published in the Burton Observer and Chronicle 8 August 1963:

            on an upstairs window pane he scratched with his diamond ring “Matthew Orgill, 1st July, 1858”

            Matthew Orgill window

            Matthew orgill window 2

             

            I asked on a Measham facebook group if anyone knew the location of the house mentioned in the article and someone kindly responded. This is the same building, seen from either side:

            Measham Wharf

             

            Coincidentally, I had already found this wonderful photograph of the same building, taken in 1910 ~ three years after Matthew’s death.

            Old Measham wharf

             

            But what to make of the inscription in the window?

            Matthew and Mary married in October 1856, and their first child (according to the records I’d found thus far) was a daughter Mary born in 1860.  I had a look for a Matthew Orgill birth registered in 1858, the date Matthew had etched on the window, and found a death for a Matthew Orgill in 1859.  Assuming I would find the birth of Matthew Orgill registered on the first of July 1958, to match the etching in the window, the corresponding birth was in July 1857!

            Matthew and Mary had four children. Matthew, Mary, Clara and Hannah.  Hannah Proudman Orgill married Joseph Stanton Massey.  The Orgill name continues with their son Stanley Orgill Massey 1900-1979, who was a doctor and surgeon.  Two of Stanley’s four sons were doctors, Paul Mackintosh Orgill Massey 1929-2009, and Michael Joseph Orgill Massey 1932-1989.

             

            Mary Orgill 1827-1894, Matthews wife, was an Orgill too.

            And this is where the Orgill branch of the tree gets complicated.

            Mary’s father was Henry Orgill born in 1805 and her mother was Hannah Proudman born in 1805.
            Henry Orgill’s father was Matthew Orgill born in 1769 and his mother was Frances Finch born in 1771.

            Mary’s husband Matthews parents are Matthew Orgill born in 1798 and Elizabeth Orgill born in 1803.

            Another Orgill Orgill marriage!

            Matthews parents,  Matthew and Elizabeth, have the same grandparents as each other, Matthew Orgill born in 1736 and Ann Proudman born in 1735.

            But Matthews grandparents are none other than Matthew Orgill born in 1769 and Frances Finch born in 1771 ~ the same grandparents as his wife Mary!

            #6268
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              From Tanganyika with Love

              continued part 9

              With thanks to Mike Rushby.

              Lyamungu 3rd January 1945

              Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Lyamungu 14 May 1945

              Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Lyamungu 19th September 1945

              Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

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

              Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

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

              Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

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

              Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

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

              Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Jacksdale England 24th June 1946

              Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Jacksdale England 28th August 1946

              Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Jacksdale England 20th September 1946

              Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Dar es Salaam 22nd October 1946

              Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Mbeya 1st November 1946

              Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              #6265
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                From Tanganyika with Love

                continued  ~ part 6

                With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                Mchewe 6th June 1937

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                With much love,
                Eleanor.

                Mchewe 25th June 1937

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                Lots of love,
                Eleanor.

                Mchewe 9th July 1937

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor

                Mchewe 8th October 1937

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Mchewe 17th October 1937

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Mchewe 18th November 1937

                My darling Ann,

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

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

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

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

                Mchewe 18th November 1937

                Hello George Darling,

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

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

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

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

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

                Mchewe 12th February, 1938

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Mbulu 18th March, 1938

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Mbulu 24th March, 1938

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Mbulu 20th June 1938

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Karatu 3rd July 1938

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Karatu 12th July 1938

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Oldeani. 19th July 1938

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Oldeani. 10th August 1938

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Oldeani. 20th August 1938

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Oldeani Hospital. 9th September 1938

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                #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.

                  #6249
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    Grettons in USA and The Lusitania Survivor

                    Two of my grandmothers uncles emigrated to New Jersey, USA,  John Orgill Gretton in 1888, and Michael Thomas Gretton in 1889.  My grandmothers mother Florence Nightingale Gretton, born in 1881 and the youngest of eight,  was still a child when they left.  This is perhaps why we knew nothing of them until the family research started.

                    Michael Thomas Gretton

                    1870-1940

                    Michael, known by his middle name of Thomas, married twice. His occupation was a potter in the sanitary ware industry. He and his first wife Edith Wise had three children, William R Gretton 1894-1961, Charles Thomas Gretton 1897-1960, and Clara P Gretton 1895-1997.  Edith died in 1922, and Thomas married again. His second wife Martha Ann Barker was born in Stoke on Trent in England, but had emigrated to USA in 1909.  She had two children with her first husband Thomas Barker, Doris and Winifred.  Thomas Barker died in 1921.

                    Martha Ann Barker and her daughter Doris, born in 1900, were Lusitania survivors.  The Lusitania was a British ocean liner that was sunk on 7 May 1915 by a German U-boat 11 miles (18 km) off the southern coast of Ireland, killing 1,198 passengers and crew.  Martha and Doris survived, but sadly nine year old Winifred did not. Her remains were lost at sea.

                    Winifred Barker:

                    Winifred Barker

                     

                    Thomas Barker sailed to England after the disaster to accompany Martha and Doris on the trip home to USA:

                    Lusitania

                     

                    Thomas Gretton, Martha’s second husband, died in 1940.  She survived him by 23 years and died in 1963 in New Jersey:

                    Lusitania

                     

                    John Orgill Gretton

                    1868-1949

                    John Orgill Gretton was a “Freeholder” in New Jersey for 24 years.  New Jersey alone of all the United States has the distinction of retaining the title of “FREEHOLDER” to denote the elected members of the county governing bodies. This descriptive name, which commemorates the origin of home rule, is used by only 21 of the nation’s 3,047 counties.  In other states, these county officials are known as commissioners, supervisors, probate judges, police jurors, councilors and a variety of other names.

                    John Orgill Gretton

                     

                    John and his wife Caroline Thum had four children, Florence J Gretton 1893-1965, George Thum Gretton 1895-1951, Wilhelmina F Gretton 1899-1931, and Nathalie A Gretton 1904-1947.

                    Their engagements and weddings appear on the society pages of the Trenton Newspapers.  For example the article headline on the wedding in 1919 of George Thum Gretton and his wife Elizabeth Stokes announces “Charming Society Girl Becomes Bride Today”.

                    #5821

                    Day 6

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

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

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

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

                    #3588

                    In reply to: The Hosts of Mars

                    ÉricÉric
                    Keymaster

                      Area 12 was easy to locate. The whole ship’s design was shaped like a clock, with the 12 quadrant at her helm, with the main deck. It was also where, everyone had been briefed after boarding, the main emergency exits were located.
                      Something serious must have had happened for the Code Red to have been triggered.

                      Captain Rama Shivakumar was trying his best to gather information from the central command, but Finnley was reacting very unusually. Quantum computers and artificial intelligence was still a rather new technology. Remarkably efficient, but its bugs were terribly difficult to understand and fix, and certainly above his pay grade.
                      Ram’s second in command, Karthikeya Uthayashankar was coordinating the crew’s efforts to sweep the ship for clues. It seemed that Finnley’s sensors had panicked at some unusual and very localized electromagnetic pulse, which could have seriously damaged the navigational systems and put everyone’s lives in dire straits.

                      By looking through the logs, the pulse seemed to have originated from Area 6, in the quadrant that was reserved for the honoured guests, currently occupied by Mother Shirley and her following.

                      “Captain Ram, did you find anything?” Karthik enquired, fidgeting at the prospect of having to manage beside his crew of ten fellow men, a unruly herd of thirty snotty travelers. He seriously doubted that in times like this, the 21 finnleys would be of sure-footed help to them.
                      “Relax, Karthik. The computer most likely overheated. See, it already has adjusted its parameters, and there isn’t much we can detect now that’s out of normal.”
                      “And what about the passengers, Captain?”
                      “We’ll send them to Mangala. It’s only a day before schedule, it will be fine.”

                      #3465

                      Lazuli Galore in the shape of the mandarin duck looked over his shoulder, grinning mischievously at his passengers.
                      “Fasten your seat belts!” he shouted.
                      “What bloody seat belts?” asked Lisa. “Hey! Steady on!”
                      Lazuli the duck accelerated like a speedboat, ripping across the tops of the swelling waves and performing eye watering figure of eights, tilting the passengers first this way then that way as they held on to the feathers with all the strength they could muster, fearing for their lives, yet wildly exhilarated.
                      Lazuli whooped with the exuberance of wild abandon, failing to notice that Fanella had slipped off his back into the brine, and unable to hear the cries of the others amid his own gleeful shouts and the roar of the wind rushing past.
                      Fanella rolled and flailed in the backwash, eventually surfacing and gasping for breath. In vain she looked for the duck but it had disappeared from sight. The shore looked too far to swim to, but she knew she must try to reach it. Holding down the panic as best she could, she started to swim towards the mangrove trees lining the beach, barely visible in the descending fog. The striped shadows shimmered in the mist; was it an optical illusion of stripes and mists that it seemed as if a section of shadows was heading towards her? The zebra waded into the breaking waves, and calmly and purposefully swam towards the drowning girl.

                      #3218
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        The Russians and the French maids were losing consciousness with the extreme cold of the waters of the Bay of Biscay, and the pink dolphins instantly and unanimously agreed to teleport them to warmer seas as a matter of extreme urgency. The rendezvous on the decks of the ghost galleon would have to be synchronized later.
                        The obvious choice of destination and time frame was Maria del Mar’s home base. The pink dolphins shape shifted their fins into tentacles with which to clasp their passengers, with strict guidelines not to engage in any hanky panky ~ everyone knew what dolphins were like with regard to coupling at any opportunity.
                        The warmth of the dolphins embrace started to revive them and they had regained consciousness as they arrived with a series of spectacular water displacement flumes in the bay of Gibraltar.

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