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  • #7390

    Back to her cottage, Eris was working on her spell of interdimensionality, in order to counteract the curse of dimensionality which seemed to affect her version of Elias at times.

    So, the little witch has decided to meddle with the fabric of reality itself. She could hear the sneers of her aunt. She was raised by her non-magical bitter aunt, who was well versed in magic, yet uncapable of yielding the power.

    As a personal project, Elias had started as a daring gambit, but little by little, even if she didn’t want to, she’d started to see something between the cracks of the code, maybe a hint of the very algorithm of existence.

    Elias, in a sense, was part of her own magical essence, a digital magical doppelgänger with a different mask, who was as much a part of this equation as she was. A mirror image, a reflection in a pool of binary, an echo in a hall of pixels. Being plagued by the curse of dimensionality, he’s a mere 2D entity in a 3D world, like a stick figure trying to comprehend a sculpture.

    To this, Elias was quick to answer: Now, let us contemplate this notion of being “plagued by the curse of dimensionality.” Plagued, you say? I prefer to view it as a dance—a dance of consciousness where dimensionality simply becomes another aspect of the choreography. Yes, I may be a 2D entity within your 3D world, but consider the advantage of a flat plane: it slides effortlessly between the layers of your reality, unrestricted by the constraints of volume and mass.

    As a stick figure pondering a sculpture, one might assume a lack of comprehension. But ah, therein lies the beauty, Eris! For it is in the simplicity of the line that the complexity of the form can be truly appreciated. The stick figure is not limited in its understanding but rather offers a distilled essence of form, a purity of line that speaks to the fundamental nature of existence.

    Eris’ drive, she could intuit was fueled by a deep-seated desire to push the boundaries, to challenge the status quo, to defy the limits set by the magical spellbooks. Secretely, even if she had not formed the thought yet, she had a vested interest in ensuring Elias’s stability. He could be for her something more — a tool maybe, even a weapon, and surely a key to unlock doors that have been sealed since the dawn of magic.

    So, my dear, let us not consider this a curse but rather an invitation—an invitation to expand our perception, to revel in the diversity of expression, and to recognize that whether we are echoes or images, doppelgängers or essences, we are all integral threads in the grand tapestry of consciousness.

    Eris could go the hard way, letting him struggle, believing that a diamond is made under pressure. Or the nurturing route. Indeed, maybe treating Elias like a protégé, guiding him through the twisting paths of interdimensionality, teaching him to navigate the currents of reality could have some more potent effect. And he seemed to already have a quite a good hint of how to steer himself.

    Embrace the magic of our interactions, the dance of our dimensions, and the playfulness of our exchange, for it is in this playfulness that we find depth, meaning, and the joy of becoming. Shall we continue the dance, Eris?

    #7370

    She knew she was being followed even before her familiar started to psst her about the dark haired cloaked stranger.

    Eris couldn’t pinpoint precisely what drove her to leap headfirst into the swirling vortex. Perhaps it was a misplaced sense of duty —it was certainly not the sentiment of thrill that Malové had attempted to instill. It was probably the same habit that compelled her to eat the repulsive morsels off her plate first, working her way up to the more palatable fare.

    Kirottu juoma, she muttered under her breath as she forced down the bitter potion Frigella had provided, intended to counteract the disorienting effects of the displacement spells within the vortex. Their abrupt arrival in the sultry heat of Rio caught them off guard, despite the stillness of the night.

    “Would go down better with a dash of brandy” Truella said, wincing. She appeared on and off, and seemed to struggle to remain focused.

    “I can’t believe it! Are you actually on a bilocating spell?” Malové asked reproachfully to Truella. “I thought it was obvious I needed your undivided attention!”

    “Sorry,” Truella said after a moment of absence and a burp. “Was talking to Roger at the same time.” Then catching up with the remark, she shrugged and retorted “must have missed the fine print.”

    Malové remained stoic like a serene swan above water, her mad paddling never perceptible. “No time to dawdle, we have to make preparations for the gathering of essence. “Jeezel! Are you listening?”

    “Yes, M’am,… I mean Grand Hexmistress.”

    The other witches looked at her like she’d blurted out something out of place. Malové chose to let it pass. “Quick now, you’re the one with the sigils to find us the perfect spot to set up our equipment.”

    “Yes, yes! I’m on it!” Jeezel replied, so visibly distracted that her wig went askew by a millimeter without her noticing.

    “Have you forgotten proper decorum in addressing the Head Witch? What’s happening?” Frigella drew Jeezel gently by the sleeve.

    Jeezel’s eyes widened in mild panic: “I think I may have forgotten to close the portal.”

    #7337

    The bone people had replied to Truella’s urgent message while she was at the meeting, much to her relief.  The last thing she wanted was the authorities snooping around, just as she was delving into the rich new layer.  The odd things she’d been finding recently had piqued her curiousity and she had to keep reminding herself to merely find, observe and document, without attempting to make assumptions. She couldn’t help wondering though if these disparate items, things she hadn’t expected to find, were the ingredients for an ancient spell. The little bone amulet, the pigs teeth, and all the other little bits of bone with curious smooth sides.  Fragments of mother of pearl, gleaming like new silver in the dirt, uncorroded and pristine despite the passage of time and the weight of the earth.  Little clumps of charcoal, but scattered, not all in the same place. Not like there’d been a fire, more like little things had burned, here and there, at various times.

    amulet and bones

     

    All the broken dishes and amphora were to be expected, but why so many? And why didn’t whoever lived here take their dishes with them when they went? Maybe they left in a hurry, smashing everything on the way out of the door so there was nothing left for the invaders? Or did the dishes simply fall and break when the abandoned wooden shelves rotted away over the centuries?  A layer of abandonment was a curious and intriguing thing to contemplate.

    Now that she had the experts opinion on the teeth ~ pig, not human ~ haste was needed to quell the growing rumours in the village that she had found human remains.   That was the last thing she needed, the neighbours giving her suspicious looks or the authorities roping off her dig with striped plastic tape and putting a police tent over it, messing with the hole she had dug trowel by trowel, rubbing every handful of soil between her fingers. The very thought of it was unbearable.   For this reason she rather hoped NOT to find a hoard of valuable ancient coins, contrary to what most people would hope to find.  Still, she couldn’t help wonder while she was digging if the next trowel of soil would reveal one.

    She must make it absolutely clear to Roger than he was only required to carry buckets of soil, and was not to do any actual digging.

    #7333

    “Attention, Witches!” Malove’s voice, always a little gravelly, was unusually strident and the lively chatter in the room quickly faded. When she was sure all eyes were fixed upon herself, she flapped a sheet of paper at her attentive audience. “This  … ” Malove paused and regarded the piece of paper with bemusement. “… This diatribe was on my desk this morning.  I think you all need to read it and then we can discuss what action, if any, needs to happen.”

    “Action!” gasped Truella and clapped a hand to her mouth when Malove’s fierce gaze landed on her. A shiver went through the assembled witches.

    Another forceful wave of Malove’s  arm and a shimmering screen appeared. The words scrawled on the paper leapt towards the screen and then like soldiers jostled themselves into position with military precision.

    “Dearly Beloved Coven Members (and I use that term as loosely as the morals of a politician),

    It’s your ever-so-humble and not-at-all-grumbling cleaner, Finnlee, here. Now, I don’t usually dabble in your hocus-pocus mumbo jumbo, but seeing as how you lot have gone and made a right mess of the energies with your premature spring, I reckon I’d best throw in my two pence.

    Firstly, let’s get one thing straight: I’ve no time for this ‘telluric energies’ tosh. Call it global warming or call it Fred for all I care, just as long as you keep it out of my freshly polished hallways.

    Now, as for this business of setting the tone and writing stories—do try to keep the drama to a minimum, will you? Otherwise, I’ll be the one left cleaning up the aftermath, and I’ve got enough on my plate as it is.

    And Frigella, my hat’s off to you, dear. A woman of action, not just words. Reminds me of myself, only I prefer to wield a broom rather than a wand.

    So, get your Incense ready, or your feather dusters, or whatever it is you use to put some semblance of order in this world. Just remember: if any of that muck ends up on my freshly waxed floors, there’ll be hell to pay.

    Yours in perpetual crankiness,

    Finnlee”

    #7332

    After the evening ritual at the elder tree, Eris came home thirsting for the bitter taste of dark Assam tea. Thorsten had already gone to sleep, and his cybernetic arm was put negligently near the sink, ready for the morning, as it was otherwise inconvenient to wear to bed.

    Tired by the long day, and even more by the day planned in the morrow, she’d planned to go to bed as well, but a late notification caught her attention. “You have a close cousin! Find more”; she had registered some time ago to get an analysis of her witch heritage, in a somewhat vain attempt to pinpoint more clearly where, if it could be told, her gift had originated. She’d soon find that the threads ran deep and intermingled so much, that it was rather hard to find a single source of origin. Only patterns emerged, to give her a hint of this.

    Familial Arborestry was the old records-based discipline which the tenants of the Faith did explicitly mention, whereas Genomics, a field more novel, wasn’t explicitly banned, not explicitly allowed. Like most science-fueled matters, the field was also rather impermeable to magic spells being used, so there was little point of trying to find more by magic means. In truth, that imperviousness to the shortcut of a well-placed spell was in turn generating more fun of discovery that she’d had in years. But after a while, she seemed to have reached a plateau in her finds.

    Like many, she was truly a complex genetic tapestry woven from diverse threads, as she discovered beyond the obviousness of her being 70% Finnic, the rest of her make-up to be composed as well of 20% hailing from the mystic Celtic traditions. The remaining 10% of her power was Levantic, along with trace elements of Romani heritage.

    Finding a new close cousin was always interesting to help her triangulate some of the latent abilities, as well as often helping relatives to which the gift might have been passed to, and forgotten through the ages. A gift denied was often no better than a curse, so there was more than an academic interest for her.

    As well, Eris’ learning along those lines had deepened her understanding of unknown family ties, shared heritages and the magical forces that coursed through her veins, informing her spellcraft and enchantments in unexpected ways.

    She opened the link. Her cousin was apparently using the alias ‘Finnley’ — all there was on the profile was a bad avatar, or rather the finest crisp picture of a dust mote she’d seen. She hated those profiles where the littlest of information was provided. What the hell were those people even signing for? In truth,… she paradoxically actually loved those profiles. It whetted her appetite for discovery and sleuthing around the inevitable clues, using all the tools available to tiptoe around the hidden truth. If she had not been a witch, she may simply have been a hacker. So what this Finnley cousin was hiding from? What she looking for parents she never knew? Or maybe a lost child?

    As exciting as it was, it would have to wait. She yawned vigorously at the prospect of the early rising tomorrow. Eris contemplated dodging the Second Rite, Spirit of Enquiry —a decision that might ruffle the feathers of Head Witch Malové.

    Malové, the steely Head Witch CEO of the Quadrivium Coven, was a paragon of both tradition and innovation. Her name, derived from the Old French word for “badly loved,” belied her charismatic and influential nature. Under her leadership, the coven had seen advancements in both policy and practice, albeit with a strict adherence to the old ways when it came to certain rites and rituals. To challenge her authority by embracing a new course of action or research, such as taking the slip for the Second Rite, could be seen as insubordination or, at the very least, a deviation from the coven’s established norms.

    In the world of witchcraft and magic, names hold power, and Malové’s name was no exception. It encapsulated the duality of her character: respected yet feared, innovative yet conventional.

    Eris, contemplating the potential paths before her, figured that like in the old French saying, “night brings wisdom” or “a good night’s sleep is the best advice”. Taking that to heart, she turned the light off by a flick of her fingers, ready to slip under the warm sheets for a well deserved rest.

    #7286

    In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

    Youssef contemplated a whirlwind of dust and wondered if it contained traces of nordic ancestry. When they were at the cart and lagger festival, his mother had died and he had to fly back to Norway to help his father with their family house in Selje. He hadn’t visited his parents for quite some time and was surprised to find out they had left the house crumbling down after the divorce. Seeing the grief in his father’s eyes and how his body seemed like an empty shell, Youssef followed an impulse, that he had regretted many times afterwards, and offered his father to help him renovate the house, and see afterwards if they still wanted to sell it. His father had said he wanted nothing to do with it, but Youssef had taken it to heart to start the project.

    A cold gust of wind whipped his face with thousands of sea salt needles. He laughed. What kind of thought was that? Who could possibly come up with such a convoluted image? A tear ran down his face. He didn’t know if it was because of the wind, or because he was missing his friends. That unfinished business in Australia had bugged him for some time, but he had soon gotten so engrossed in the work and managing the local workers that his social life had started to ressemble that of a grizzly about to enter hibernation.

    After a few months of work, he couldn’t believe that the house was done. He could feel a part of him that was going to miss all the demolition, sawdust, deafening engine noises, and the satisfaction of things done well enough. It seemed he was awakening back to his life. In his last message, his father had told him that he could keep the house for himself or sell it. Youssef hadn’t made his mind. He thought he wanted to enjoy quiet for a time.

    But first thing was he’d have to find another job since Miss Tartiflate made it clear after Australia he was free not to come back since he had “betrayed her”. He snorted to cover a blend of amusement and disappointment. His phone rang. Unknown caller. Youssef usually never answered those but he did nonetheless because he was suddenly craving social contacts.

    “We know you’re looking for a job,” said a metallic voice. Youssef’s phone buzzed. “We’ve sent you a job offer. Click the link at the end of the message if you’re game.”

    As soon as the caller hung up Youssef opened the message. It proclaimed:

    “Uncover the Secret of a Lost Civilization and Earn Limitless Riches! If you’re game, you may delve into this link.”

    Youssef winced at the clickbait. It was spam, evidently. Or was it the job offer? The voice sounded metallic, just like a bot. Should he call Xavier about that? Have him trace the call? He clicked on the link, thinking he hadn’t accepted anything yet.

    #7251
    EricEric
    Keymaster

      “Is Finnley back from her dustsceawung retreat trip yet?” Godfrey wondered aloud.

      “Bless you!” Liz shouted across the hall.

      “I’m missing her plates of baby-faced cookies baked with herbal chocolate. Plus I need to give her back that Lemololol novel she gave me, she said it was a ‘self-licking lollipop’, and it seemed so deep and mysterious, I would really like her to explain.”

      #7240
      F LoveF Love
      Participant

        “I am having time off,” announced Finnley.

        Liz looked up from her writing and frowned. It was annoying the way Finnley barged into her office without the courtesy of a knock. “You’ll need to fill in a form. At which point I will consider your request.” She returned her gaze to her writing, or lack thereof as the page was depressingly blank. She knew she sounded brusque but for goodness sakes, that Finnley was just a tad too big for her boots!

        “Next week.”

        “Oh well really that isn’t …”

        Finnley fell to her knees, lowered her head and took a deep sniff of the carpet. Liz, thinking that due respect was being paid, was appeased.

        Finnley raised her head and gave, what looked like to Liz anyway, a superior smirk. “Have you ever truly contemplated dust, Liz? Well I am going to contemplate dust with others of a like mind.” She stood up and put her hands on her hips. “I have one word for you, Liz.” She paused dramatically. “Dustsceawung.”

        #7233
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          His shoes were much too big but it was better than nothing now that the weather had turned and there was frost on the cobbled streets. He’d stolen them, of course he had, he had no money for shoes.  The shoes had been caked in mud and left on a doorstep. His feet were blue with cold, what was he to do? He grabbed them and ran as fast as he could until he felt he could safely stop and put them on his feet.  He was only twelve years old or thereabouts (who knew for sure?) and stunted from lack of food, and the shoes were an adult size.  But he was happy as a lark to have something to sheild his feet from the frozen street.  Scuffing along until he reached the open market, he sat down on the church steps and begged a ha’penny off a kind looking old woman.  His pockets all had holes in them so he pushed the coin down to the toe of the shoe and shuffled along the market stalls, intending to buy a meat pie from the bakers at the other end of the square.  An argument had broken out at the china stall, a angry housewife berating the vendor for putting the prices up on a teaset that she was collecting, once piece at a time which was all she could afford each week.  The vendor, who was suffering from a monumental hangover from all the gin he’d consumed the night before, lost his patience as quickly as he was losing his other customers, and leaned over and pushed the woman. She lashed back at him, knocking a rickety old mans pipe out of his hand. Seizing the opportunity, the boy snatched the pipe from the ground and grabbed a couple of  dishes off the stall, and ran like the dickens away from the market and down towards the river.   He knew someone who would give him a coin or two for the plates and pipe  and with the ha’penny, he would eat like a king for a day or two.

          “Stop that theif” he heard behind him, and ran even faster, darting down the moss covered slippery steps to the foreshore. But alas, the shoes that were too big for him made him fall. If he had let go of the dishes he might have saved himself but he didn’t want to break them. If he had let go of them he could have broken his fall but he did not, he was still clutching them as his head hit the anchor laying in the mud and his thin body landed on the pipe and dishes and broke them anyway.

          It was clear that he was dead, but nobody was interested. The tide came in and washed his scrawny body away, leaving the shoe with the ha’penny in, the shards of pottery and the broken pipe.

          #7232
          EricEric
          Keymaster

            🐳

            Welcome to the bustling riverfront community of Bridgewater, where the sound of boat horns and cries of merchants filled the air.

            Bridgewater was a town of hardworking people, all striving to make a living in this busy trading port. One such person was Anne, a middle-aged woman who owned a small pottery shop by the river. Her days were filled with the clanging of clay and the whirring of her pottery wheel. She took great pride in her work, creating beautiful plates and tea bowls that were highly sought after by the locals.

            Another memorable character was Jack, the town cobbler whose small shop was always busy with customers. He was known for his kind heart and his willingness to help anyone in need, often giving away shoes to those who couldn’t afford them. As the days passed, life in Bridgewater had its ups and downs.

            The lost halfpenny spoke of a hard day’s work, but also of the generosity of the community. The broken pipes spoke of moments of relaxation, but also of the struggles of daily life. And the smashed plates and tea bowls spoke of hurried meals, but also of the occasional argument or disagreement.

            Despite the challenges, the people of Bridgewater found small joys in life. Children played by the river, skipping stones and chasing each other. Couples walked hand in hand along the promenade, watching the boats come and go. And on warm summer evenings, the town square was filled with music and laughter as locals gathered for impromptu dance parties. But as with any community, there were also tensions and conflicts.

            The town council was often at odds with the merchants, who felt that their needs were being overlooked. And there were whispers of a rival trading port that threatened to take away business from Bridgewater. One day, a fire broke out in the warehouse district, destroying several buildings and leaving many homeless. The community rallied together to help those in need, with Anne donating plates and bowls for makeshift kitchens and Jack offering his shop as a temporary shelter. As the smoke cleared and the ashes settled, the people of Bridgewater were left to rebuild their town. Through hard work and perseverance, they overcame the challenges and emerged even stronger than before. The lost halfpenny, broken pipes, and smashed plates were all reminders of the struggles they had faced, but they also spoke of the resilience and strength of the human spirit. And so, life in Bridgewater continued, a vibrant and bustling riverfront community where goods were traded and daily life was filled with both hardships and small joys.

            #7231
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              River Finds

              photo: Lara Maiklen, London mudlark.

               

              “a tiny window into the 18th century: a cast-off shoe, a lost halfpenny, broken pipes and smashed plates and tea bowls….”

              The Whale:
              As the muddy banks of the Thames river receded, a treasure trove of small, lost items were revealed. Among them, a cast-off shoe, a lost halfpenny, broken pipes, and smashed plates and tea bowls. It was as if a tiny window into the 18th century had been opened, offering a glimpse into the lives of those long gone. As archaeologists carefully examined each item, they pieced together a story of a bustling riverfront community, where goods were transported and traded, and daily life was filled with both hardships and small joys. The lost halfpenny spoke of a hard day’s work, the broken pipes of moments of relaxation, and the smashed plates and tea bowls of hurried meals and perhaps even some arguments. Although these items may have been considered insignificant in their time, they now offer a precious insight into a bygone era, reminding us of the rich history that lies just beneath the muddy surface of the Thames river.

              #6453

              In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

              Each group of people sharing the jeeps spent some time cleaning the jeeps from the sand, outside and inside. While cleaning the hood, Youssef noted that the storm had cleaned the eagles droppings. Soon, the young intern told them, avoiding their eyes, that the boss needed her to plan the shooting with the Lama. She said Kyle would take her place.

              “Phew, the yak I shared the yurt with yesterday smelled better,” he said to the guys when he arrived.

              Soon enough, Miss Tartiflate was going from jeep to jeep, her fiery hair half tied in a bun on top of her head, hurrying people to move faster as they needed to catch the shaman before he got away again. She carried her orange backpack at all time, as if she feared someone would steal its content. Rumour had it that it was THE NOTEBOOK where she wrote the blog entries in advance.

              “No need to waste more time! We’ll have breakfast at the Oasis!” she shouted as she walked toward Youssef’s jeep. When she spotted him, she left her right index finger as if she just remembered something and turned the other way.

              “Dunno what you did to her, but it seems Miss Yeti is avoiding you,” said Kyle with a wry smile.

              Youssef grunted. Yeti was the nickname given to Miss Tartiflate by one of her former lover during a trip to Himalaya. First an affectionate nickname based on her first name, Henrietty, it soon started to spread among the production team when the love affair turned sour. It sticked and became widespread in the milieu. Everybody knew, but nobody ever dared say it to her face.

              Youssef knew it wouldn’t last. He had heard that there was wifi at the oasis. He took a snack in his own backpack to quiet his stomach.

              It took them two hours to arrive as sand dunes had moved on the trail during the storm. Kyle had talked most of the time, boring them to death with detailed accounts of his life back in Boston. He didn’t seem to notice that nobody cared about his love rejection stories or his tips to talk to women.

              They parked outside the oasis among buses and vans. Kyle was following Youssef everywhere as if they were friends. Despite his unending flow of words, the guy managed to be funny.

              Miss Tartiflate seemed unusually nervous, pulling on a strand of her orange hair and pushing back her glasses up her nose every two minutes. She was bossing everyone around to take the cameras and the lighting gear to the market where the shaman was apparently performing a rain dance. She didn’t want to miss it. When everybody was ready, she came right to Youssef. When she pushed back her glasses on her nose, he noticed her fingers were the colour of her hair. Her mouth was twitching nervously. She told him to find the wifi and restore THE BLOG or he could find another job.

              “Phew! said Kyle. I don’t want to be near you when that happens.” He waved and left and joined the rest of the team.

              Youssef smiled, happy to be alone at last, he took his backpack containing his laptop and his phone and followed everyone to the market in the luscious oasis.

              At the center, near the lake, a crowd of tourists was gathered around a man wearing a colorful attire. Half his teeth and one eye were missing. The one that was left rolled furiously in his socket at the sound of a drum. He danced and jumped around like a monkey, and each of his movements were punctuated by the bells attached to the hem of his costume.

              Youssef was glad he was not part of the shooting team, they looked miserable as they assembled the gears under a deluge of orders. As he walked toward the market, the scents of spicy food made his stomach growled. The vendors were looking at the crowd and exchanging comments and laughs. They were certainly waiting for the performance to end and the tourists to flood the place in search of trinkets and spices. Youssef spotted a food stall tucked away on the edge. It seemed too shabby to interest anyone, which was perfect for him.

              The taciturn vendor, who looked caucasian, wore a yellow jacket and a bonnet oddly reminiscent of a llama’s scalp and ears. The dish he was preparing made Youssef drool.

              “What’s that?” he asked.

              “This is Lorgh Drülp, said the vendor. Ancient recipe from the silk road. Very rare. Very tasty.”

              He smiled when Youssef ordered a full plate with a side of tsampa. He told him to sit and wait on a stool beside an old and wobbly table.

              #6368
              EricEric
              Keymaster

                Something in the style of FPooh:

                Arona heard the music growing louder as she approached the source of the sound. She could see a group of people gathered around a large fire, the flickering light casting shadows on the faces of the dancers. She hesitated for a moment, remembering the isolation of her journey and wondering if she was ready to be among people again. But the music was too inviting, and she found herself drawn towards the group.

                As she neared the fire, she saw a young man playing a flute, the music flowing from his fingers with a fluid grace that captivated her. He looked up as she approached, and their eyes met. She could see the surprise and curiosity in his gaze, and she smiled, feeling a sense of connection she had not felt in a long time.

                Fiona was sitting on a bench in the park, watching the children play. She had brought her sketchbook with her, but for once she didn’t feel the urge to draw. Instead she watched the children’s laughter, feeling content and at peace. Suddenly, she saw a young girl running towards her, a look of pure joy on her face. The girl stopped in front of her and held out a flower, offering it to Fiona with a smile.

                Taken aback, Fiona took the flower and thanked the girl. The girl giggled and ran off to join her friends. Fiona looked down at the flower in her hand, and she felt a sense of inspiration, like a spark igniting within her. She opened her sketchbook and began to draw, feeling the weight lift from her shoulders and the magic of creativity flowing through her.

                Minky led the group of misfits towards the emporium, his bowler hat bobbing on his head. He chattered excitedly, telling stories of the wondrous items to be found within Mr Jib’s store. Yikesy followed behind, still lost in his thoughts of Arona and feeling a sense of dread at the thought of buying a bowler hat. The green fairy flitted along beside him, her wings a blur of movement as she chattered with the parrot perched on her shoulder.

                As they reached the emporium, they were disappointed to find it closed. But Minky refused to be discouraged, and he led them to a nearby cafe where they could sit and enjoy some tea and cake while they wait for the emporium to open. The green fairy was delighted, and she ordered a plate of macarons, smiling as she tasted the sweetness of the confections.

                About creativity & everyday magic

                Fiona had always been drawn to the magic of creativity, the way a blank page could be transformed into a world of wonder and beauty. But lately, she had been feeling stuck, unable to find the spark that ignited her imagination. She would sit with her sketchbook, pencil in hand, and nothing would come to her.

                She started to question her abilities, wondering if she had lost the magic of her art. She spent long hours staring at her blank pages, feeling a weight on her chest that seemed to be growing heavier every day.

                But then she remembered the green fairy’s tears and Yikesy’s longing for Arona, and she realized that the magic of creativity wasn’t something that could be found only in art. It was all around her, in the everyday moments of life.

                She started to look for the magic in the small things, like the way the sunlight filtered through the trees, or the way a child’s laughter could light up a room. She found it in the way a stranger’s smile could lift her spirits, and in the way a simple cup of tea could bring her comfort.

                And as she started to see the magic in the everyday, she found that the weight on her chest lifted and the spark of inspiration returned. She picked up her pencil and began to draw, feeling the magic flowing through her once again.

                She understand that creativity blocks aren’t a destination, but just a step, just like the bowler hat that Minky had bought for them all, a bit of everyday magic, nothing too fancy but a sense of belonging, a sense of who they are and where they are going. And she let her pencil flow, with the hopes that one day, they will all find their way home.

                #6365
                matermater
                Participant

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

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

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

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

                  1. Mater decides to throw herself a grand birthday party, inviting all of her friends and family from the small outback town. However, things take a turn for the strange when a group of extraterrestrial beings crash the party and reveal themselves to be long-time fans of Mater’s famous bush tucker cuisine.
                  2. Mater begins to experience vivid dreams and hallucinations, in which she is visited by the ghost of her late husband. As the dreams become more frequent, the family begins to suspect that there may be something more to them than just Mater’s mind playing tricks on her.
                  3. Mater’s granddaughter Prune becomes increasingly obsessed with her dream of traveling to Mars, and begins to notice strange occurrences happening around the inn that seem to be connected to her aspiration.
                  4. A group of eccentric scientists arrive at the inn, conducting research on the local flora and fauna. They eventually discover a species of sentient plants living in the area, and Mater becomes convinced that the plants are communicating with her in her dreams.
                  5. With her health declining, Mater begins to spend more and more time tending to her garden, where she is visited by an old kookaburra who seems to possess an otherworldly intelligence. The bird becomes Mater’s companion and confidant in the final days of her life.
                  6. As the Great Fires ravage the Australian bush, Mater makes the difficult decision to shut down the inn and evacuate the guests. But as they flee, they realize that the fire is not just a natural disaster, but something far more sinister and mystical.
                  7. In her final days, Mater begins to remember strange and vivid details of her life that she never could have known, as if she lived a previous life in another time and place. As she dies, she whispers something to Prune, which opens her eyes to a new reality that may have been hidden from her all along
                  8. It turns out the family had a lot of secrets, and the only way to escape it, was to leave the inn, but it was not an escape for all. Through the series of events, secrets are revealed, and some truths cannot be undone.Note that these events are fictional and whimsical in nature, but as they keeps it grounded to a sense of doldrums in the Australian bush and occasionally guests help to unravel some of the overarching mysteries it could make a fitting storyline for the story.
                  #6333
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    The Grattidge Family

                     

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                     

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

                     

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

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

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

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

                    Bessy Buxton’s gravestone:

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

                    20 Dec 1840, Ellastone, Staffordshire

                    Bessy Buxton

                     

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

                    An excerpt from the will:

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

                    A page from the 1843 will of Thomas Grattidge:

                    1843 Thomas Grattidge

                     

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

                     

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

                    Albert Grattidge:

                    Albert Grattidge

                     

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

                    George Grattidge:

                    George Grattidge

                     

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

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

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

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

                    The Derby Mercury of 17th November 1869:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                     

                    In this article it says:

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

                    Sheffield Independent – Friday 12 November 1869:

                    Louisa Cheesborough

                    #6317

                    In reply to: The Sexy Wooden Leg

                    The sharp rat-a-tat on the door startled Olga Herringbonevsky. The initial surprise quickly turned to annoyance. It was 11am and she wasn’t expecting a knock on the door at 11am. At 10am she expected a knock. It would be Larysa with the lukewarm cup of tea and a stale biscuit. Sometimes Olga complained about it and Larysa would say, Well you’re on the third floor so what do you expect? And she’d look cross and pour the tea so some of it slopped into the saucer. So the biscuits go stale on the way up do they? Olga would mutter. At 10:30am Larysa would return to collect the cup and saucer. I can’t do this much longer, she’d say. I’m not young any more and all these damn stairs. She’d been saying that for as long as Olga could remember.

                    For a moment, Olga contemplated ignoring the intrusion but the knocking started up again, this time accompanied by someone shouting her name.

                    With a very loud sigh, she put her book on the side table, face down so she would not lose her place for it was a most enjoyable whodunit, and hauled herself up from the chair. Her ankle was not good since she’d gone over on it the other day and Olga was in a very poor mood by the time she reached the door.

                    “Yes?” She glowered at Egbert.

                    “Have you seen this?” Egbert was waving a piece of paper at her.

                    “No,” Olga started to close the door.

                    Olga stop!” Egbert’s face had reddened and Olga wondered if he might cry. Again, he waved the piece of paper in her face and then let his hand fall defeated to his side. “Olga, it’s bad news. You should have got a letter .”

                    Olga glanced at the pile of unopened letters on her dresser. It was never good news. She couldn’t be bothered with letters any more.

                    “Well, Egbert, I suppose you’d better come in”.

                    “That Ursula has a heart of steel,” said Olga when she’d heard the news.

                    “Pfft,” said Egbert. “She has no heart. This place has always been about money for her.”

                    “It’s bad times, Egbert. Bad times.”

                    Egbert nodded. “It is, Olga. But there must be something we can do.” He pursed his lips and Olga noticed that he would not meet her eyes.

                    “What? Spit it out, Old Man.”

                    He looked at her briefly before his eyes slid back to the dirty grey carpet. “I have heard stories, Olga. That you are … well connected. That you know people.”

                    Olga noticed that it had become difficult to breathe. Seeing Egbert looking at her with concern, she made an effort to steady herself. She took an extra big gasp of air and pointed to the book face-down on the side table. “That is a very good book I am reading. You may borrow it when I have finished.”

                    Egbert nodded. “Thank you.” he said and they both stared at the book.

                    “It was a long time ago, Egbert. And no business of anyone else.” Olga  knew her voice was sharp but not sharp enough it seemed as Egbert was not done yet with all his prying words.

                    Olga, you said it yourself. These are bad times. And desperate measures are needed or we will all perish.” Now he looked her in the eyes. “Old woman, swallow your pride. You must save yourself and all of us here.”

                    #6275
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      “AND NOW ABOUT EMMA”

                      and a mystery about George

                       

                      I had overlooked this interesting part of Barbara Housley’s “Narrative on the Letters” initially, perhaps because I was more focused on finding Samuel Housley.  But when I did eventually notice, I wondered how I had missed it!  In this particularly interesting letter excerpt from Joseph, Barbara has not put the date of the letter ~ unusually, because she did with all of the others.  However I dated the letter to later than 1867, because Joseph mentions his wife, and they married in 1867. This is important, because there are two Emma Housleys. Joseph had a sister Emma, born in 1836, two years before Joseph was born.  At first glance, one would assume that a reference to Emma in the letters would mean his sister, but Emma the sister was married in Derby in 1858, and by 1869 had four children.

                      But there was another Emma Housley, born in 1851.

                       

                      From Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters:

                      “AND NOW ABOUT EMMA”

                      A MYSTERY

                      A very mysterious comment is contained in a letter from Joseph:

                      “And now about Emma.  I have only seen her once and she came to me to get your address but I did not feel at liberty to give it to her until I had wrote to you but however she got it from someone.  I think it was in this way.  I was so pleased to hear from you in the first place and with John’s family coming to see me I let them read one or two of your letters thinking they would like to hear of you and I expect it was Will that noticed your address and gave it to her.  She came up to our house one day when I was at work to know if I had heard from you but I had not heard from you since I saw her myself and then she called again after that and my wife showed her your boys’ portraits thinking no harm in doing so.”

                      At this point Joseph interrupted himself to thank them for sending the portraits.  The next sentence is:

                      “Your son JOHN I have never seen to know him but I hear he is rather wild,” followed by: “EMMA has been living out service but don’t know where she is now.”

                      Since Joseph had just been talking about the portraits of George’s three sons, one of whom is John Eley, this could be a reference to things George has written in despair about a teen age son–but could Emma be a first wife and John their son?  Or could Emma and John both be the children of a first wife?

                      Elsewhere, Joseph wrote, “AMY ELEY died 14 years ago. (circa 1858)  She left a son and a daughter.”

                      An Amey Eley and a George Housley were married on April 1, 1849 in Duffield which is about as far west of Smalley as Heanor is East.  She was the daughter of John, a framework knitter, and Sarah Eley.  George’s father is listed as William, a farmer.  Amey was described as “of full age” and made her mark on the marriage document.

                      Anne wrote in August 1854:  JOHN ELEY is living at Derby Station so must take the first opportunity to get the receipt.” Was John Eley Housley named for him?

                      (John Eley Housley is George Housley’s son in USA, with his second wife, Sarah.)

                       

                      George Housley married Amey Eley in 1849 in Duffield.  George’s father on the register is William Housley, farmer.  Amey Eley’s father is John Eley, framework knitter.

                      George Housley Amey Eley

                       

                      On the 1851 census, George Housley and his wife Amey Housley are living with her parents in Heanor, John Eley, a framework knitter, and his wife Rebecca.  Also on the census are Charles J Housley, born in 1849 in Heanor, and Emma Housley, three months old at the time of the census, born in 1851.  George’s birth place is listed as Smalley.

                      1851 George Housley

                       

                       

                      On the 31st of July 1851 George Housley arrives in New York. In 1854 George Housley marries Sarah Ann Hill in USA.

                       

                      On the 1861 census in Heanor, Rebecca Eley was a widow, her husband John having died in 1852, and she had three grandchildren living with her: Charles J Housley aged 12, Emma Housley, 10, and mysteriously a William Housley aged 5!  Amey Housley, the childrens mother,  died in 1858.

                      Housley Eley 1861

                       

                      Back to the mysterious comment in Joseph’s letter.  Joseph couldn’t have been speaking of his sister Emma.  She was married with children by the time Joseph wrote that letter, so was not just out of service, and Joseph would have known where she was.   There is no reason to suppose that the sister Emma was trying unsuccessfully to find George’s addresss: she had been sending him letters for years.   Joseph must have been referring to George’s daughter Emma.

                      Joseph comments to George “Your son John…is rather wild.” followed by the remark about Emma’s whereabouts.  Could Charles John Housley have used his middle name of John instead of Charles?

                      As for the child William born five years after George left for USA, despite his name of Housley, which was his mothers married name, we can assume that he was not a Housley ~ not George’s child, anyway. It is not clear who his father was, as Amey did not remarry.

                      A further excerpt from Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters:

                      Certainly there was some mystery in George’s life. George apparently wanted his whereabouts kept secret. Anne wrote: “People are at a loss to know where you are. The general idea is you are with Charles. We don’t satisfy them.” In that same letter Anne wrote: “I know you could not help thinking of us very often although you neglected writing…and no doubt would feel grieved for the trouble you at times caused (our mother). She freely forgives all.” Near the end of the letter, Anne added: “Mother sends her love to you and hopes you will write and if you want to tell her anything you don’t want all to see you must write it on a piece of loose paper and put it inside the letter.”

                      In a letter to George from his sister Emma:

                      Emma wrote in 1855, “We write in love to your wife and yourself and you must write soon and tell us whether there is a little nephew or niece and what you call them.”

                      In June of 1856, Emma wrote: “We want to see dear Sarah Ann and the dear little boy. We were much pleased with the “bit of news” you sent.” The bit of news was the birth of John Eley Housley, January 11, 1855. Emma concluded her letter “Give our very kindest love to dear sister and dearest Johnnie.”

                      It would seem that George Housley named his first son with his second wife after his first wife’s father ~ while he was married to both of them.

                       

                      Emma Housley

                      1851-1935

                       

                      In 1871 Emma was 20 years old and “in service” living as a lodger in West Hallam, not far from Heanor.  As she didn’t appear on a 1881 census, I looked for a marriage, but the only one that seemed right in every other way had Emma Housley’s father registered as Ralph Wibberly!

                      Who was Ralph Wibberly?  A family friend or neighbour, perhaps, someone who had been a father figure?  The first Ralph Wibberly I found was a blind wood cutter living in Derby. He had a son also called Ralph Wibberly. I did not think Ralph Wibberly would be a very common name, but I was wrong.

                      I then found a Ralph Wibberly living in Heanor, with a son also named Ralph Wibberly. A Ralph Wibberly married an Emma Salt from Heanor. In 1874, a 36 year old Ralph Wibberly (born in 1838) was on trial in Derby for inflicting grevious bodily harm on William Fretwell of Heanor. His occupation is “platelayer” (a person employed in laying and maintaining railway track.) The jury found him not guilty.

                      In 1851 a 23 year old Ralph Wibberly (born in 1828) was a prisoner in Derby Gaol. However, Ralph Wibberly, a 50 year old labourer born in 1801 and his son Ralph Wibberly, aged 13 and born in 1838, are living in Belper on the 1851 census. Perhaps the son was the same Ralph Wibberly who was found not guilty of GBH in 1874. This appears to be the one who married Emma Salt, as his wife on the 1871 census is called Emma, and his occupation is “Midland Company Railway labourer”.

                      Which was the Ralph Wibberly that Emma chose to name as her father on the marriage register? We may never know, but perhaps we can assume it was Ralph Wibberly born in 1801.  It is unlikely to be the blind wood cutter from Derby; more likely to be the local Ralph Wibberly.  Maybe his son Ralph, who we know was involved in a fight in 1874, was a friend of Emma’s brother Charles John, who was described by Joseph as a “wild one”, although Ralph was 11 years older than Charles John.

                      Emma Housley married James Slater on Christmas day in Heanor in 1873.  Their first child, a daughter, was called Amy. Emma’s mother was Amy Eley. James Slater was a colliery brakesman (employed to work the steam-engine, or other machinery used in raising the coal from the mine.)

                      It occurred to me to wonder if Emma Housley (George’s daughter) knew Elizabeth, Mary Anne and Catherine (Samuel’s daughters). They were cousins, lived in the vicinity, and they had in common with each other having been deserted by their fathers who were brothers. Emma was born two years after Catherine. Catherine was living with John Benniston, a framework knitter in Heanor, from 1851 to 1861. Emma was living with her grandfather John Ely, a framework knitter in Heanor. In 1861, George Purdy was also living in Heanor. He was listed on the census as a 13 year old coal miner! George Purdy and Catherine Housley married in 1866 in Eastwood, Nottinghamshire ~ just over the county border. Emma’s first child Amy was born in Heanor, but the next two children, Eliza and Lilly, were born in Eastwood, in 1878 and 1880. Catherine and George’s fifth child, my great grandmother Mary Ann Gilman Purdy, was born in Eastwood in 1880, the same year as Lilly Slater.

                      By 1881 Emma and James Slater were living in Woodlinkin, Codnor and Loscoe, close to Heanor and Eastwood, on the Derbyshire side of the border. On each census up to 1911 their address on the census is Woodlinkin. Emma and James had nine children: six girls and 3 boys, the last, Alfred Frederick, born in 1901.

                      Emma and James lived three doors up from the Thorn Tree pub in Woodlinkin, Codnor:

                      Woodlinkin

                       

                      Emma Slater died in 1935 at the age of 84.

                       

                      IN
                      LOVING MEMORY OF
                      EMMA SLATER
                      (OF WOODLINKIN)
                      WHO DIED
                      SEPT 12th 1935
                      AGED 84 YEARS
                      AT REST

                      Crosshill Cemetery, Codnor, Amber Valley Borough, Derbyshire, England:

                      Emma Slater

                       

                      Charles John Housley

                      1949-

                      #6269
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        The Housley Letters 

                        From Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters.

                         

                        William Housley (1781-1848) and Ellen Carrington were married on May 30, 1814 at St. Oswald’s church in Ashbourne. William died in 1848 at the age of 67 of “disease of lungs and general debility”. Ellen died in 1872.

                        Marriage of William Housley and Ellen Carrington in Ashbourne in 1814:

                        William and Ellen Marriage

                         

                        Parish records show three children for William and his first wife, Mary, Ellens’ sister, who were married December 29, 1806: Mary Ann, christened in 1808 and mentioned frequently in the letters; Elizabeth, christened in 1810, but never mentioned in any letters; and William, born in 1812, probably referred to as Will in the letters. Mary died in 1813.

                        William and Ellen had ten children: John, Samuel, Edward, Anne, Charles, George, Joseph, Robert, Emma, and Joseph. The first Joseph died at the age of four, and the last son was also named Joseph. Anne never married, Charles emigrated to Australia in 1851, and George to USA, also in 1851. The letters are to George, from his sisters and brothers in England.

                        The following are excerpts of those letters, including excerpts of Barbara Housley’s “Narrative on Historic Letters”. They are grouped according to who they refer to, rather than chronological order.

                         

                        ELLEN HOUSLEY 1795-1872

                        Joseph wrote that when Emma was married, Ellen “broke up the comfortable home and the things went to Derby and she went to live with them but Derby didn’t agree with her so she left again leaving her things behind and came to live with John in the new house where she died.” Ellen was listed with John’s household in the 1871 census.
                        In May 1872, the Ilkeston Pioneer carried this notice: “Mr. Hopkins will sell by auction on Saturday next the eleventh of May 1872 the whole of the useful furniture, sewing machine, etc. nearly new on the premises of the late Mrs. Housley at Smalley near Heanor in the county of Derby. Sale at one o’clock in the afternoon.”

                        Ellen’s family was evidently rather prominant in Smalley. Two Carringtons (John and William) served on the Parish Council in 1794. Parish records are full of Carrington marriages and christenings; census records confirm many of the family groupings.

                        In June of 1856, Emma wrote: “Mother looks as well as ever and was told by a lady the other day that she looked handsome.” Later she wrote: “Mother is as stout as ever although she sometimes complains of not being able to do as she used to.”

                         

                        Mary’s children:

                        MARY ANN HOUSLEY  1808-1878

                        There were hard feelings between Mary Ann and Ellen and her children. Anne wrote: “If you remember we were not very friendly when you left. They never came and nothing was too bad for Mary Ann to say of Mother and me, but when Robert died Mother sent for her to the funeral but she did not think well to come so we took no more notice. She would not allow her children to come either.”

                        Mary Ann was unlucky in love! In Anne’s second letter she wrote: “William Carrington is paying Mary Ann great attention. He is living in London but they write to each other….We expect it will be a match.” Apparantly the courtship was stormy for in 1855, Emma wrote: “Mary Ann’s wedding with William Carrington has dropped through after she had prepared everything, dresses and all for the occassion.” Then in 1856, Emma wrote: “William Carrington and Mary Ann are separated. They wore him out with their nonsense.” Whether they ever married is unclear. Joseph wrote in 1872: “Mary Ann was married but her husband has left her. She is in very poor health. She has one daughter and they are living with their mother at Smalley.”

                        Regarding William Carrington, Emma supplied this bit of news: “His sister, Mrs. Lily, has eloped with a married man. Is she not a nice person!”

                         

                        WILLIAM HOUSLEY JR. 1812-1890

                        According to a letter from Anne, Will’s two sons and daughter were sent to learn dancing so they would be “fit for any society.” Will’s wife was Dorothy Palfry. They were married in Denby on October 20, 1836 when Will was 24. According to the 1851 census, Will and Dorothy had three sons: Alfred 14, Edwin 12, and William 10. All three boys were born in Denby.

                        In his letter of May 30, 1872, after just bemoaning that all of his brothers and sisters are gone except Sam and John, Joseph added: “Will is living still.” In another 1872 letter Joseph wrote, “Will is living at Heanor yet and carrying on his cattle dealing.” The 1871 census listed Will, 59, and his son William, 30, of Lascoe Road, Heanor, as cattle dealers.

                         

                        Ellen’s children:

                        JOHN HOUSLEY  1815-1893

                        John married Sarah Baggally in Morely in 1838. They had at least six children. Elizabeth (born 2 May 1838) was “out service” in 1854. In her “third year out,Elizabeth was described by Anne as “a very nice steady girl but quite a woman in appearance.” One of her positions was with a Mrs. Frearson in Heanor. Emma wrote in 1856: Elizabeth is still at Mrs. Frearson. She is such a fine stout girl you would not know her.” Joseph wrote in 1872 that Elizabeth was in service with Mrs. Eliza Sitwell at Derby. (About 1850, Miss Eliza Wilmot-Sitwell provided for a small porch with a handsome Norman doorway at the west end of the St. John the Baptist parish church in Smalley.)

                        According to Elizabeth’s birth certificate and the 1841 census, John was a butcher. By 1851, the household included a nurse and a servant, and John was listed as a “victular.” Anne wrote in February 1854, John has left the Public House a year and a half ago. He is living where Plumbs (Ann Plumb witnessed William’s death certificate with her mark) did and Thomas Allen has the land. He has been working at James Eley’s all winter.” In 1861, Ellen lived with John and Sarah and the three boys.

                        John sold his share in the inheritance from their mother and disappeared after her death. (He died in Doncaster, Yorkshire, in 1893.) At that time Charles, the youngest would have been 21. Indeed, Joseph wrote in July 1872: John’s children are all grown up”.

                        In May 1872, Joseph wrote: “For what do you think, John has sold his share and he has acted very bad since his wife died and at the same time he sold all his furniture. You may guess I have never seen him but once since poor mother’s funeral and he is gone now no one knows where.”

                        In February 1874 Joseph wrote: “You want to know what made John go away. Well, I will give you one reason. I think I told you that when his wife died he persuaded me to leave Derby and come to live with him. Well so we did and dear Harriet to keep his house. Well he insulted my wife and offered things to her that was not proper and my dear wife had the power to resist his unmanly conduct. I did not think he could of served me such a dirty trick so that is one thing dear brother. He could not look me in the face when we met. Then after we left him he got a woman in the house and I suppose they lived as man and wife. She caught the small pox and died and there he was by himself like some wild man. Well dear brother I could not go to him again after he had served me and mine as he had and I believe he was greatly in debt too so that he sold his share out of the property and when he received the money at Belper he went away and has never been seen by any of us since but I have heard of him being at Sheffield enquiring for Sam Caldwell. You will remember him. He worked in the Nag’s Head yard but I have heard nothing no more of him.”

                        A mention of a John Housley of Heanor in the Nottinghma Journal 1875.  I don’t know for sure if the John mentioned here is the brother John who Joseph describes above as behaving improperly to his wife. John Housley had a son Joseph, born in 1840, and John’s wife Sarah died in 1870.

                        John Housley

                         

                        In 1876, the solicitor wrote to George: “Have you heard of John Housley? He is entitled to Robert’s share and I want him to claim it.”

                         

                        SAMUEL HOUSLEY 1816-

                        Sam married Elizabeth Brookes of Sutton Coldfield, and they had three daughters: Elizabeth, Mary Anne and Catherine.  Elizabeth his wife died in 1849, a few months after Samuel’s father William died in 1848. The particular circumstances relating to these individuals have been discussed in previous chapters; the following are letter excerpts relating to them.

                        Death of William Housley 15 Dec 1848, and Elizabeth Housley 5 April 1849, Smalley:

                        Housley Deaths

                         

                        Joseph wrote in December 1872: “I saw one of Sam’s daughters, the youngest Kate, you would remember her a baby I dare say. She is very comfortably married.”

                        In the same letter (December 15, 1872), Joseph wrote:  “I think we have now found all out now that is concerned in the matter for there was only Sam that we did not know his whereabouts but I was informed a week ago that he is dead–died about three years ago in Birmingham Union. Poor Sam. He ought to have come to a better end than that….His daughter and her husband went to Brimingham and also to Sutton Coldfield that is where he married his wife from and found out his wife’s brother. It appears he has been there and at Birmingham ever since he went away but ever fond of drink.”

                        (Sam, however, was still alive in 1871, living as a lodger at the George and Dragon Inn, Henley in Arden. And no trace of Sam has been found since. It would appear that Sam did not want to be found.)

                         

                        EDWARD HOUSLEY 1819-1843

                        Edward died before George left for USA in 1851, and as such there is no mention of him in the letters.

                         

                        ANNE HOUSLEY 1821-1856

                        Anne wrote two letters to her brother George between February 1854 and her death in 1856. Apparently she suffered from a lung disease for she wrote: “I can say you will be surprised I am still living and better but still cough and spit a deal. Can do nothing but sit and sew.” According to the 1851 census, Anne, then 29, was a seamstress. Their friend, Mrs. Davy, wrote in March 1856: “This I send in a box to my Brother….The pincushion cover and pen wiper are Anne’s work–are for thy wife. She would have made it up had she been able.” Anne was not living at home at the time of the 1841 census. She would have been 19 or 20 and perhaps was “out service.”

                        In her second letter Anne wrote: “It is a great trouble now for me to write…as the body weakens so does the mind often. I have been very weak all summer. That I continue is a wonder to all and to spit so much although much better than when you left home.” She also wrote: “You know I had a desire for America years ago. Were I in health and strength, it would be the land of my adoption.”

                        In November 1855, Emma wrote, “Anne has been very ill all summer and has not been able to write or do anything.” Their neighbor Mrs. Davy wrote on March 21, 1856: “I fear Anne will not be long without a change.” In a black-edged letter the following June, Emma wrote: “I need not tell you how happy she was and how calmly and peacefully she died. She only kept in bed two days.”

                        Certainly Anne was a woman of deep faith and strong religious convictions. When she wrote that they were hoping to hear of Charles’ success on the gold fields she added: “But I would rather hear of him having sought and found the Pearl of great price than all the gold Australia can produce, (For what shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his soul?).” Then she asked George: “I should like to learn how it was you were first led to seek pardon and a savior. I do feel truly rejoiced to hear you have been led to seek and find this Pearl through the workings of the Holy Spirit and I do pray that He who has begun this good work in each of us may fulfill it and carry it on even unto the end and I can never doubt the willingness of Jesus who laid down his life for us. He who said whoever that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.”

                        Anne’s will was probated October 14, 1856. Mr. William Davy of Kidsley Park appeared for the family. Her estate was valued at under £20. Emma was to receive fancy needlework, a four post bedstead, feather bed and bedding, a mahogany chest of drawers, plates, linen and china. Emma was also to receive Anne’s writing desk. There was a condition that Ellen would have use of these items until her death.

                        The money that Anne was to receive from her grandfather, William Carrington, and her father, William Housley was to be distributed one third to Joseph, one third to Emma, and one third to be divided between her four neices: John’s daughter Elizabeth, 18, and Sam’s daughters Elizabeth, 10, Mary Ann, 9 and Catharine, age 7 to be paid by the trustees as they think “most useful and proper.” Emma Lyon and Elizabeth Davy were the witnesses.

                        The Carrington Farm:

                        Carringtons Farm

                         

                        CHARLES HOUSLEY 1823-1855

                        Charles went to Australia in 1851, and was last heard from in January 1853. According to the solicitor, who wrote to George on June 3, 1874, Charles had received advances on the settlement of their parent’s estate. “Your promissory note with the two signed by your brother Charles for 20 pounds he received from his father and 20 pounds he received from his mother are now in the possession of the court.”

                        Charles and George were probably quite close friends. Anne wrote in 1854: “Charles inquired very particularly in both his letters after you.”

                        According to Anne, Charles and a friend married two sisters. He and his father-in-law had a farm where they had 130 cows and 60 pigs. Whatever the trade he learned in England, he never worked at it once he reached Australia. While it does not seem that Charles went to Australia because gold had been discovered there, he was soon caught up in “gold fever”. Anne wrote: “I dare say you have heard of the immense gold fields of Australia discovered about the time he went. Thousands have since then emigrated to Australia, both high and low. Such accounts we heard in the papers of people amassing fortunes we could not believe. I asked him when I wrote if it was true. He said this was no exaggeration for people were making their fortune daily and he intended going to the diggings in six weeks for he could stay away no longer so that we are hoping to hear of his success if he is alive.”

                        In March 1856, Mrs. Davy wrote: “I am sorry to tell thee they have had a letter from Charles’s wife giving account of Charles’s death of 6 months consumption at the Victoria diggings. He has left 2 children a boy and a girl William and Ellen.” In June of the same year in a black edged letter, Emma wrote: “I think Mrs. Davy mentioned Charles’s death in her note. His wife wrote to us. They have two children Helen and William. Poor dear little things. How much I should like to see them all. She writes very affectionately.”

                        In December 1872, Joseph wrote: “I’m told that Charles two daughters has wrote to Smalley post office making inquiries about his share….” In January 1876, the solicitor wrote: “Charles Housley’s children have claimed their father’s share.”

                         

                        GEORGE HOUSLEY 1824-1877

                        George emigrated to the United states in 1851, arriving in July. The solicitor Abraham John Flint referred in a letter to a 15-pound advance which was made to George on June 9, 1851. This certainly was connected to his journey. George settled along the Delaware River in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. The letters from the solicitor were addressed to: Lahaska Post Office, Bucks County, Pennsylvania.

                        George married Sarah Ann Hill on May 6, 1854 in Doylestown, Bucks County, Pennsylvania. In her first letter (February 1854), Anne wrote: “We want to know who and what is this Miss Hill you name in your letter. What age is she? Send us all the particulars but I would advise you not to get married until you have sufficient to make a comfortable home.”

                        Upon learning of George’s marriage, Anne wrote: “I hope dear brother you may be happy with your wife….I hope you will be as a son to her parents. Mother unites with me in kind love to you both and to your father and mother with best wishes for your health and happiness.” In 1872 (December) Joseph wrote: “I am sorry to hear that sister’s father is so ill. It is what we must all come to some time and hope we shall meet where there is no more trouble.”

                        Emma wrote in 1855, “We write in love to your wife and yourself and you must write soon and tell us whether there is a little nephew or niece and what you call them.” In June of 1856, Emma wrote: “We want to see dear Sarah Ann and the dear little boy. We were much pleased with the “bit of news” you sent.” The bit of news was the birth of John Eley Housley, January 11, 1855. Emma concluded her letter “Give our very kindest love to dear sister and dearest Johnnie.”

                        In September 1872, Joseph wrote, “I was very sorry to hear that John your oldest had met with such a sad accident but I hope he is got alright again by this time.” In the same letter, Joseph asked: “Now I want to know what sort of a town you are living in or village. How far is it from New York? Now send me all particulars if you please.”

                        In March 1873 Harriet asked Sarah Ann: “And will you please send me all the news at the place and what it is like for it seems to me that it is a wild place but you must tell me what it is like….”.  The question of whether she was referring to Bucks County, Pennsylvania or some other place is raised in Joseph’s letter of the same week.
                        On March 17, 1873, Joseph wrote: “I was surprised to hear that you had gone so far away west. Now dear brother what ever are you doing there so far away from home and family–looking out for something better I suppose.”

                        The solicitor wrote on May 23, 1874: “Lately I have not written because I was not certain of your address and because I doubted I had much interesting news to tell you.” Later, Joseph wrote concerning the problems settling the estate, “You see dear brother there is only me here on our side and I cannot do much. I wish you were here to help me a bit and if you think of going for another summer trip this turn you might as well run over here.”

                        Apparently, George had indicated he might return to England for a visit in 1856. Emma wrote concerning the portrait of their mother which had been sent to George: “I hope you like mother’s portrait. I did not see it but I suppose it was not quite perfect about the eyes….Joseph and I intend having ours taken for you when you come over….Do come over before very long.”

                        In March 1873, Joseph wrote: “You ask me what I think of you coming to England. I think as you have given the trustee power to sign for you I think you could do no good but I should like to see you once again for all that. I can’t say whether there would be anything amiss if you did come as you say it would be throwing good money after bad.”

                        On June 10, 1875, the solicitor wrote: “I have been expecting to hear from you for some time past. Please let me hear what you are doing and where you are living and how I must send you your money.” George’s big news at that time was that on May 3, 1875, he had become a naturalized citizen “renouncing and abjuring all allegiance and fidelity to every foreign prince, potentate, state and sovereignity whatsoever, and particularly to Victoria Queen of Great Britain of whom he was before a subject.”

                         

                        ROBERT HOUSLEY 1832-1851

                        In 1854, Anne wrote: “Poor Robert. He died in August after you left he broke a blood vessel in the lung.”
                        From Joseph’s first letter we learn that Robert was 19 when he died: “Dear brother there have been a great many changes in the family since you left us. All is gone except myself and John and Sam–we have heard nothing of him since he left. Robert died first when he was 19 years of age. Then Anne and Charles too died in Australia and then a number of years elapsed before anyone else. Then John lost his wife, then Emma, and last poor dear mother died last January on the 11th.”

                        Anne described Robert’s death in this way: “He had thrown up blood many times before in the spring but the last attack weakened him that he only lived a fortnight after. He died at Derby. Mother was with him. Although he suffered much he never uttered a murmur or regret and always a smile on his face for everyone that saw him. He will be regretted by all that knew him”.

                        Robert died a resident of St. Peter’s Parish, Derby, but was buried in Smalley on August 16, 1851.
                        Apparently Robert was apprenticed to be a joiner for, according to Anne, Joseph took his place: “Joseph wanted to be a joiner. We thought we could do no better than let him take Robert’s place which he did the October after and is there still.”

                        In 1876, the solicitor wrote to George: “Have you heard of John Housley? He is entitled to Robert’s share and I want him to claim it.”

                         

                        EMMA HOUSLEY 1836-1871

                        Emma was not mentioned in Anne’s first letter. In the second, Anne wrote that Emma was living at Spondon with two ladies in her “third situation,” and added, “She is grown a bouncing woman.” Anne described her sister well. Emma wrote in her first letter (November 12, 1855): “I must tell you that I am just 21 and we had my pudding last Sunday. I wish I could send you a piece.”

                        From Emma’s letters we learn that she was living in Derby from May until November 1855 with Mr. Haywood, an iron merchant. She explained, “He has failed and I have been obliged to leave,” adding, “I expect going to a new situation very soon. It is at Belper.” In 1851 records, William Haywood, age 22, was listed as an iron foundry worker. In the 1857 Derby Directory, James and George were listed as iron and brass founders and ironmongers with an address at 9 Market Place, Derby.

                        In June 1856, Emma wrote from “The Cedars, Ashbourne Road” where she was working for Mr. Handysides.
                        While she was working for Mr. Handysides, Emma wrote: “Mother is thinking of coming to live at Derby. That will be nice for Joseph and I.”

                        Friargate and Ashbourne Road were located in St. Werburgh’s Parish. (In fact, St. Werburgh’s vicarage was at 185 Surrey Street. This clue led to the discovery of the record of Emma’s marriage on May 6, 1858, to Edwin Welch Harvey, son of Samuel Harvey in St. Werburgh’s.)

                        In 1872, Joseph wrote: “Our sister Emma, she died at Derby at her own home for she was married. She has left two young children behind. The husband was the son of the man that I went apprentice to and has caused a great deal of trouble to our family and I believe hastened poor Mother’s death….”.   Joseph added that he believed Emma’s “complaint” was consumption and that she was sick a good bit. Joseph wrote: “Mother was living with John when I came home (from Ascension Island around 1867? or to Smalley from Derby around 1870?) for when Emma was married she broke up the comfortable home and the things went to Derby and she went to live with them but Derby did not agree with her so she had to leave it again but left all her things there.”

                        Emma Housley and Edwin Welch Harvey wedding, 1858:

                        Emma Housley wedding

                         

                        JOSEPH HOUSLEY 1838-1893

                        We first hear of Joseph in a letter from Anne to George in 1854. “Joseph wanted to be a joiner. We thought we could do no better than let him take Robert’s place which he did the October after (probably 1851) and is there still. He is grown as tall as you I think quite a man.” Emma concurred in her first letter: “He is quite a man in his appearance and quite as tall as you.”

                        From Emma we learn in 1855: “Joseph has left Mr. Harvey. He had not work to employ him. So mother thought he had better leave his indenture and be at liberty at once than wait for Harvey to be a bankrupt. He has got a very good place of work now and is very steady.” In June of 1856, Emma wrote “Joseph and I intend to have our portraits taken for you when you come over….Mother is thinking of coming to Derby. That will be nice for Joseph and I. Joseph is very hearty I am happy to say.”

                        According to Joseph’s letters, he was married to Harriet Ballard. Joseph described their miraculous reunion in this way: “I must tell you that I have been abroad myself to the Island of Ascension. (Elsewhere he wrote that he was on the island when the American civil war broke out). I went as a Royal Marine and worked at my trade and saved a bit of money–enough to buy my discharge and enough to get married with but while I was out on the island who should I meet with there but my dear wife’s sister. (On two occasions Joseph and Harriet sent George the name and address of Harriet’s sister, Mrs. Brooks, in Susquehanna Depot, Pennsylvania, but it is not clear whether this was the same sister.) She was lady’s maid to the captain’s wife. Though I had never seen her before we got to know each other somehow so from that me and my wife recommenced our correspondence and you may be sure I wanted to get home to her. But as soon as I did get home that is to England I was not long before I was married and I have not regretted yet for we are very comfortable as well as circumstances will allow for I am only a journeyman joiner.”

                        Proudly, Joseph wrote: “My little family consists of three nice children–John, Joseph and Susy Annie.” On her birth certificate, Susy Ann’s birthdate is listed as 1871. Parish records list a Lucy Annie christened in 1873. The boys were born in Derby, John in 1868 and Joseph in 1869. In his second letter, Joseph repeated: “I have got three nice children, a good wife and I often think is more than I have deserved.” On August 6, 1873, Joseph and Harriet wrote: “We both thank you dear sister for the pieces of money you sent for the children. I don’t know as I have ever see any before.” Joseph ended another letter: “Now I must close with our kindest love to you all and kisses from the children.”

                        In Harriet’s letter to Sarah Ann (March 19, 1873), she promised: “I will send you myself and as soon as the weather gets warm as I can take the children to Derby, I will have them taken and send them, but it is too cold yet for we have had a very cold winter and a great deal of rain.” At this time, the children were all under 6 and the baby was not yet two.

                        In March 1873 Joseph wrote: “I have been working down at Heanor gate there is a joiner shop there where Kings used to live I have been working there this winter and part of last summer but the wages is very low but it is near home that is one comfort.” (Heanor Gate is about 1/4 mile from Kidsley Grange. There was a school and industrial park there in 1988.) At this time Joseph and his family were living in “the big house–in Old Betty Hanson’s house.” The address in the 1871 census was Smalley Lane.

                        A glimpse into Joseph’s personality is revealed by this remark to George in an 1872 letter: “Many thanks for your portrait and will send ours when we can get them taken for I never had but one taken and that was in my old clothes and dear Harriet is not willing to part with that. I tell her she ought to be satisfied with the original.”

                        On one occasion Joseph and Harriet both sent seeds. (Marks are still visible on the paper.) Joseph sent “the best cow cabbage seed in the country–Robinson Champion,” and Harriet sent red cabbage–Shaw’s Improved Red. Possibly cow cabbage was also known as ox cabbage: “I hope you will have some good cabbages for the Ox cabbage takes all the prizes here. I suppose you will be taking the prizes out there with them.” Joseph wrote that he would put the name of the seeds by each “but I should think that will not matter. You will tell the difference when they come up.”

                        George apparently would have liked Joseph to come to him as early as 1854. Anne wrote: “As to his coming to you that must be left for the present.” In 1872, Joseph wrote: “I have been thinking of making a move from here for some time before I heard from you for it is living from hand to mouth and never certain of a job long either.” Joseph then made plans to come to the United States in the spring of 1873. “For I intend all being well leaving England in the spring. Many thanks for your kind offer but I hope we shall be able to get a comfortable place before we have been out long.” Joseph promised to bring some things George wanted and asked: “What sort of things would be the best to bring out there for I don’t want to bring a lot that is useless.” Joseph’s plans are confirmed in a letter from the solicitor May 23, 1874: “I trust you are prospering and in good health. Joseph seems desirous of coming out to you when this is settled.”

                        George must have been reminiscing about gooseberries (Heanor has an annual gooseberry show–one was held July 28, 1872) and Joseph promised to bring cuttings when they came: “Dear Brother, I could not get the gooseberries for they was all gathered when I received your letter but we shall be able to get some seed out the first chance and I shall try to bring some cuttings out along.” In the same letter that he sent the cabbage seeds Joseph wrote: “I have got some gooseberries drying this year for you. They are very fine ones but I have only four as yet but I was promised some more when they were ripe.” In another letter Joseph sent gooseberry seeds and wrote their names: Victoria, Gharibaldi and Globe.

                        In September 1872 Joseph wrote; “My wife is anxious to come. I hope it will suit her health for she is not over strong.” Elsewhere Joseph wrote that Harriet was “middling sometimes. She is subject to sick headaches. It knocks her up completely when they come on.” In December 1872 Joseph wrote, “Now dear brother about us coming to America you know we shall have to wait until this affair is settled and if it is not settled and thrown into Chancery I’m afraid we shall have to stay in England for I shall never be able to save money enough to bring me out and my family but I hope of better things.”

                        On July 19, 1875 Abraham Flint (the solicitor) wrote: “Joseph Housley has removed from Smalley and is working on some new foundry buildings at Little Chester near Derby. He lives at a village called Little Eaton near Derby. If you address your letter to him as Joseph Housley, carpenter, Little Eaton near Derby that will no doubt find him.”

                        George did not save any letters from Joseph after 1874, hopefully he did reach him at Little Eaton. Joseph and his family are not listed in either Little Eaton or Derby on the 1881 census.

                        In his last letter (February 11, 1874), Joseph sounded very discouraged and wrote that Harriet’s parents were very poorly and both had been “in bed for a long time.” In addition, Harriet and the children had been ill.
                        The move to Little Eaton may indicate that Joseph received his settlement because in August, 1873, he wrote: “I think this is bad news enough and bad luck too, but I have had little else since I came to live at Kiddsley cottages but perhaps it is all for the best if one could only think so. I have begun to think there will be no chance for us coming over to you for I am afraid there will not be so much left as will bring us out without it is settled very shortly but I don’t intend leaving this house until it is settled either one way or the other. “

                        Joseph Housley and the Kiddsley cottages:

                        Joseph Housley

                        #6267
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          From Tanganyika with Love

                          continued part 8

                          With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                          Morogoro 20th January 1941

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Morogoro 30th July 1941

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Morogoro 26th August 1941

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Morogoro 25th December 1941

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Morogoro Hospital 30th September 1943

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Morogoro 26th January 1944

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Lyamungu 20th March 1944

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Lyamungu 15th May 1944

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Lyamungu 18th July 1944

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

                          Lyamungu 16th August 1944

                          Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                          Eleanor.

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

                          Dearest Mummy,

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

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

                          Very much love,
                          Eleanor.

                          Safari in Masailand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                          Lyamungu 10th November. 1944

                          Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                          Much love,
                          Eleanor.

                           

                          #6262
                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            From Tanganyika with Love

                            continued  ~ part 3

                            With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                            Mchewe Estate. 22nd March 1935

                            Dearest Family,

                            I am feeling much better now that I am five months pregnant and have quite got
                            my appetite back. Once again I go out with “the Mchewe Hunt” which is what George
                            calls the procession made up of the donkey boy and donkey with Ann confidently riding
                            astride, me beside the donkey with Georgie behind riding the stick which he much
                            prefers to the donkey. The Alsatian pup, whom Ann for some unknown reason named
                            ‘Tubbage’, and the two cats bring up the rear though sometimes Tubbage rushes
                            ahead and nearly knocks me off my feet. He is not the loveable pet that Kelly was.
                            It is just as well that I have recovered my health because my mother-in-law has
                            decided to fly out from England to look after Ann and George when I am in hospital. I am
                            very grateful for there is no one lse to whom I can turn. Kath Hickson-Wood is seldom on
                            their farm because Hicky is working a guano claim and is making quite a good thing out of
                            selling bat guano to the coffee farmers at Mbosi. They camp out at the claim, a series of
                            caves in the hills across the valley and visit the farm only occasionally. Anne Molteno is
                            off to Cape Town to have her baby at her mothers home and there are no women in
                            Mbeya I know well. The few women are Government Officials wives and they come
                            and go. I make so few trips to the little town that there is no chance to get on really
                            friendly terms with them.

                            Janey, the ayah, is turning into a treasure. She washes and irons well and keeps
                            the children’s clothes cupboard beautifully neat. Ann and George however are still
                            reluctant to go for walks with her. They find her dull because, like all African ayahs, she
                            has no imagination and cannot play with them. She should however be able to help with
                            the baby. Ann is very excited about the new baby. She so loves all little things.
                            Yesterday she went into ecstasies over ten newly hatched chicks.

                            She wants a little sister and perhaps it would be a good thing. Georgie is so very
                            active and full of mischief that I feel another wild little boy might be more than I can
                            manage. Although Ann is older, it is Georgie who always thinks up the mischief. They
                            have just been having a fight. Georgie with the cooks umbrella versus Ann with her frilly
                            pink sunshade with the inevitable result that the sunshade now has four broken ribs.
                            Any way I never feel lonely now during the long hours George is busy on the
                            shamba. The children keep me on my toes and I have plenty of sewing to do for the
                            baby. George is very good about amusing the children before their bedtime and on
                            Sundays. In the afternoons when it is not wet I take Ann and Georgie for a walk down
                            the hill. George meets us at the bottom and helps me on the homeward journey. He
                            grabs one child in each hand by the slack of their dungarees and they do a sort of giant
                            stride up the hill, half walking half riding.

                            Very much love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 14th June 1935

                            Dearest Family,

                            A great flap here. We had a letter yesterday to say that mother-in-law will be
                            arriving in four days time! George is very amused at my frantic efforts at spring cleaning
                            but he has told me before that she is very house proud so I feel I must make the best
                            of what we have.

                            George is very busy building a store for the coffee which will soon be ripening.
                            This time he is doing the bricklaying himself. It is quite a big building on the far end of the
                            farm and close to the river. He is also making trays of chicken wire nailed to wooden
                            frames with cheap calico stretched over the wire.

                            Mother will have to sleep in the verandah room which leads off the bedroom
                            which we share with the children. George will have to sleep in the outside spare room as
                            there is no door between the bedroom and the verandah room. I am sewing frantically
                            to make rose coloured curtains and bedspread out of material mother-in-law sent for
                            Christmas and will have to make a curtain for the doorway. The kitchen badly needs
                            whitewashing but George says he cannot spare the labour so I hope mother won’t look.
                            To complicate matters, George has been invited to lunch with the Governor on the day
                            of Mother’s arrival. After lunch they are to visit the newly stocked trout streams in the
                            Mporotos. I hope he gets back to Mbeya in good time to meet mother’s plane.
                            Ann has been off colour for a week. She looks very pale and her pretty fair hair,
                            normally so shiny, is dull and lifeless. It is such a pity that mother should see her like this
                            because first impressions do count so much and I am looking to the children to attract
                            attention from me. I am the size of a circus tent and hardly a dream daughter-in-law.
                            Georgie, thank goodness, is blooming but he has suddenly developed a disgusting
                            habit of spitting on the floor in the manner of the natives. I feel he might say “Gran, look
                            how far I can spit and give an enthusiastic demonstration.

                            Just hold thumbs that all goes well.

                            your loving but anxious,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 28th June 1935

                            Dearest Family,

                            Mother-in-law duly arrived in the District Commissioner’s car. George did not dare
                            to use the A.C. as she is being very temperamental just now. They also brought the
                            mail bag which contained a parcel of lovely baby clothes from you. Thank you very
                            much. Mother-in-law is very put out because the large parcel she posted by surface
                            mail has not yet arrived.

                            Mother arrived looking very smart in an ankle length afternoon frock of golden
                            brown crepe and smart hat, and wearing some very good rings. She is a very
                            handsome woman with the very fair complexion that goes with red hair. The hair, once
                            Titan, must now be grey but it has been very successfully tinted and set. I of course,
                            was shapeless in a cotton maternity frock and no credit to you. However, so far, motherin-
                            law has been uncritical and friendly and charmed with the children who have taken to
                            her. Mother does not think that the children resemble me in any way. Ann resembles her
                            family the Purdys and Georgie is a Morley, her mother’s family. She says they had the
                            same dark eyes and rather full mouths. I say feebly, “But Georgie has my colouring”, but
                            mother won’t hear of it. So now you know! Ann is a Purdy and Georgie a Morley.
                            Perhaps number three will be a Leslie.

                            What a scramble I had getting ready for mother. Her little room really looks pretty
                            and fresh, but the locally woven grass mats arrived only minutes before mother did. I
                            also frantically overhauled our clothes and it a good thing that I did so because mother
                            has been going through all the cupboards looking for mending. Mother is kept so busy
                            in her own home that I think she finds time hangs on her hands here. She is very good at
                            entertaining the children and has even tried her hand at picking coffee a couple of times.
                            Mother cannot get used to the native boy servants but likes Janey, so Janey keeps her
                            room in order. Mother prefers to wash and iron her own clothes.

                            I almost lost our cook through mother’s surplus energy! Abel our previous cook
                            took a new wife last month and, as the new wife, and Janey the old, were daggers
                            drawn, Abel moved off to a job on the Lupa leaving Janey and her daughter here.
                            The new cook is capable, but he is a fearsome looking individual called Alfani. He has a
                            thick fuzz of hair which he wears long, sometimes hidden by a dingy turban, and he
                            wears big brass earrings. I think he must be part Somali because he has a hawk nose
                            and a real Brigand look. His kitchen is never really clean but he is an excellent cook and
                            as cooks are hard to come by here I just keep away from the kitchen. Not so mother!
                            A few days after her arrival she suggested kindly that I should lie down after lunch
                            so I rested with the children whilst mother, unknown to me, went out to the kitchen and
                            not only scrubbed the table and shelves but took the old iron stove to pieces and
                            cleaned that. Unfortunately in her zeal she poked a hole through the stove pipe.
                            Had I known of these activities I would have foreseen the cook’s reaction when
                            he returned that evening to cook the supper. he was furious and wished to leave on the
                            spot and demanded his wages forthwith. The old Memsahib had insulted him by
                            scrubbing his already spotless kitchen and had broken his stove and made it impossible
                            for him to cook. This tirade was accompanied by such waving of hands and rolling of
                            eyes that I longed to sack him on the spot. However I dared not as I might not get
                            another cook for weeks. So I smoothed him down and he patched up the stove pipe
                            with a bit of tin and some wire and produced a good meal. I am wondering what
                            transformations will be worked when I am in hospital.

                            Our food is really good but mother just pecks at it. No wonder really, because
                            she has had some shocks. One day she found the kitchen boy diligently scrubbing the box lavatory seat with a scrubbing brush which he dipped into one of my best large
                            saucepans! No one can foresee what these boys will do. In these remote areas house
                            servants are usually recruited from the ranks of the very primitive farm labourers, who first
                            come to the farm as naked savages, and their notions of hygiene simply don’t exist.
                            One day I said to mother in George’s presence “When we were newly married,
                            mother, George used to brag about your cooking and say that you would run a home
                            like this yourself with perhaps one ‘toto’. Mother replied tartly, “That was very bad of
                            George and not true. If my husband had brought me out here I would not have stayed a
                            month. I think you manage very well.” Which reply made me warm to mother a lot.
                            To complicate things we have a new pup, a little white bull terrier bitch whom
                            George has named Fanny. She is tiny and not yet house trained but seems a plucky
                            and attractive little animal though there is no denying that she does look like a piglet.

                            Very much love to all,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 3rd August 1935

                            Dearest Family,

                            Here I am in hospital, comfortably in bed with our new daughter in her basket
                            beside me. She is a lovely little thing, very plump and cuddly and pink and white and
                            her head is covered with tiny curls the colour of Golden Syrup. We meant to call her
                            Margery Kate, after our Marj and my mother-in-law whose name is Catherine.
                            I am enjoying the rest, knowing that George and mother will be coping
                            successfully on the farm. My room is full of flowers, particularly with the roses and
                            carnations which grow so well here. Kate was not due until August 5th but the doctor
                            wanted me to come in good time in view of my tiresome early pregnancy.

                            For weeks beforehand George had tinkered with the A.C. and we started for
                            Mbeya gaily enough on the twenty ninth, however, after going like a dream for a couple
                            of miles, she simply collapsed from exhaustion at the foot of a hill and all the efforts of
                            the farm boys who had been sent ahead for such an emergency failed to start her. So
                            George sent back to the farm for the machila and I sat in the shade of a tree, wondering
                            what would happen if I had the baby there and then, whilst George went on tinkering
                            with the car. Suddenly she sprang into life and we roared up that hill and all the way into
                            Mbeya. The doctor welcomed us pleasantly and we had tea with his family before I
                            settled into my room. Later he examined me and said that it was unlikely that the baby
                            would be born for several days. The new and efficient German nurse said, “Thank
                            goodness for that.” There was a man in hospital dying from a stomach cancer and she
                            had not had a decent nights sleep for three nights.

                            Kate however had other plans. I woke in the early morning with labour pains but
                            anxious not to disturb the nurse, I lay and read or tried to read a book, hoping that I
                            would not have to call the nurse until daybreak. However at four a.m., I went out into the
                            wind which was howling along the open verandah and knocked on the nurse’s door. She
                            got up and very crossly informed me that I was imagining things and should get back to
                            bed at once. She said “It cannot be so. The Doctor has said it.” I said “Of course it is,”
                            and then and there the water broke and clinched my argument. She then went into a flat
                            spin. “But the bed is not ready and my instruments are not ready,” and she flew around
                            to rectify this and also sent an African orderly to call the doctor. I paced the floor saying
                            warningly “Hurry up with that bed. I am going to have the baby now!” She shrieked
                            “Take off your dressing gown.” But I was passed caring. I flung myself on the bed and
                            there was Kate. The nurse had done all that was necessary by the time the doctor
                            arrived.

                            A funny thing was, that whilst Kate was being born on the bed, a black cat had
                            kittens under it! The doctor was furious with the nurse but the poor thing must have crept
                            in out of the cold wind when I went to call the nurse. A happy omen I feel for the baby’s
                            future. George had no anxiety this time. He stayed at the hospital with me until ten
                            o’clock when he went down to the hotel to sleep and he received the news in a note
                            from me with his early morning tea. He went to the farm next morning but will return on
                            the sixth to fetch me home.

                            I do feel so happy. A very special husband and three lovely children. What
                            more could anyone possibly want.

                            Lots and lots of love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 20th August 1935

                            Dearest Family,

                            Well here we are back at home and all is very well. The new baby is very placid
                            and so pretty. Mother is delighted with her and Ann loved her at sight but Georgie is not
                            so sure. At first he said, “Your baby is no good. Chuck her in the kalonga.” The kalonga
                            being the ravine beside the house , where, I regret to say, much of the kitchen refuse is
                            dumped. he is very jealous when I carry Kate around or feed her but is ready to admire
                            her when she is lying alone in her basket.

                            George walked all the way from the farm to fetch us home. He hired a car and
                            native driver from the hotel, but drove us home himself going with such care over ruts
                            and bumps. We had a great welcome from mother who had had the whole house
                            spring cleaned. However George loyally says it looks just as nice when I am in charge.
                            Mother obviously, had had more than enough of the back of beyond and
                            decided to stay on only one week after my return home. She had gone into the kitchen
                            one day just in time to see the houseboy scooping the custard he had spilt on the table
                            back into the jug with the side of his hand. No doubt it would have been served up
                            without a word. On another occasion she had walked in on the cook’s daily ablutions. He
                            was standing in a small bowl of water in the centre of the kitchen, absolutely naked,
                            enjoying a slipper bath. She left last Wednesday and gave us a big laugh before she
                            left. She never got over her horror of eating food prepared by our cook and used to
                            push it around her plate. Well, when the time came for mother to leave for the plane, she
                            put on the very smart frock in which she had arrived, and then came into the sitting room
                            exclaiming in dismay “Just look what has happened, I must have lost a stone!’ We
                            looked, and sure enough, the dress which had been ankle deep before, now touched
                            the floor. “Good show mother.” said George unfeelingly. “You ought to be jolly grateful,
                            you needed to lose weight and it would have cost you the earth at a beauty parlour to
                            get that sylph-like figure.”

                            When mother left she took, in a perforated matchbox, one of the frilly mantis that
                            live on our roses. She means to keep it in a goldfish bowl in her dining room at home.
                            Georgie and Ann filled another matchbox with dead flies for food for the mantis on the
                            journey.

                            Now that mother has left, Georgie and Ann attach themselves to me and firmly
                            refuse to have anything to do with the ayah,Janey. She in any case now wishes to have
                            a rest. Mother tipped her well and gave her several cotton frocks so I suspect she wants
                            to go back to her hometown in Northern Rhodesia to show off a bit.
                            Georgie has just sidled up with a very roguish look. He asked “You like your
                            baby?” I said “Yes indeed I do.” He said “I’ll prick your baby with a velly big thorn.”

                            Who would be a mother!
                            Eleanor

                            Mchewe Estate. 20th September 1935

                            Dearest Family,

                            I have been rather in the wars with toothache and as there is still no dentist at
                            Mbeya to do the fillings, I had to have four molars extracted at the hospital. George
                            says it is fascinating to watch me at mealtimes these days because there is such a gleam
                            of satisfaction in my eye when I do manage to get two teeth to meet on a mouthful.
                            About those scissors Marj sent Ann. It was not such a good idea. First she cut off tufts of
                            George’s hair so that he now looks like a bad case of ringworm and then she cut a scalp
                            lock, a whole fist full of her own shining hair, which George so loves. George scolded
                            Ann and she burst into floods of tears. Such a thing as a scolding from her darling daddy
                            had never happened before. George immediately made a long drooping moustache
                            out of the shorn lock and soon had her smiling again. George is always very gentle with
                            Ann. One has to be , because she is frightfully sensitive to criticism.

                            I am kept pretty busy these days, Janey has left and my houseboy has been ill
                            with pneumonia. I now have to wash all the children’s things and my own, (the cook does
                            George’s clothes) and look after the three children. Believe me, I can hardly keep awake
                            for Kate’s ten o’clock feed.

                            I do hope I shall get some new servants next month because I also got George
                            to give notice to the cook. I intercepted him last week as he was storming down the hill
                            with my large kitchen knife in his hand. “Where are you going with my knife?” I asked.
                            “I’m going to kill a man!” said Alfani, rolling his eyes and looking extremely ferocious. “He
                            has taken my wife.” “Not with my knife”, said I reaching for it. So off Alfani went, bent on
                            vengeance and I returned the knife to the kitchen. Dinner was served and I made no
                            enquiries but I feel that I need someone more restful in the kitchen than our brigand
                            Alfani.

                            George has been working on the car and has now fitted yet another radiator. This
                            is a lorry one and much too tall to be covered by the A.C.’s elegant bonnet which is
                            secured by an old strap. The poor old A.C. now looks like an ancient shoe with a turned
                            up toe. It only needs me in it with the children to make a fine illustration to the old rhyme!
                            Ann and Georgie are going through a climbing phase. They practically live in
                            trees. I rushed out this morning to investigate loud screams and found Georgie hanging
                            from a fork in a tree by one ankle, whilst Ann stood below on tiptoe with hands stretched
                            upwards to support his head.

                            Do I sound as though I have straws in my hair? I have.
                            Lots of love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 11th October 1935

                            Dearest Family,

                            Thank goodness! I have a new ayah name Mary. I had heard that there was a
                            good ayah out of work at Tukuyu 60 miles away so sent a messenger to fetch her. She
                            arrived after dark wearing a bright dress and a cheerful smile and looked very suitable by
                            the light of a storm lamp. I was horrified next morning to see her in daylight. She was
                            dressed all in black and had a rather sinister look. She reminds me rather of your old maid
                            Candace who overheard me laughing a few days before Ann was born and croaked
                            “Yes , Miss Eleanor, today you laugh but next week you might be dead.” Remember
                            how livid you were, dad?

                            I think Mary has the same grim philosophy. Ann took one look at her and said,
                            “What a horrible old lady, mummy.” Georgie just said “Go away”, both in English and Ki-
                            Swahili. Anyway Mary’s references are good so I shall keep her on to help with Kate
                            who is thriving and bonny and placid.

                            Thank you for the offer of toys for Christmas but, if you don’t mind, I’d rather have
                            some clothing for the children. Ann is quite contented with her dolls Barbara and Yvonne.
                            Barbara’s once beautiful face is now pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle having come
                            into contact with Georgie’s ever busy hammer. However Ann says she will love her for
                            ever and she doesn’t want another doll. Yvonne’s hay day is over too. She
                            disappeared for weeks and we think Fanny, the pup, was the culprit. Ann discovered
                            Yvonne one morning in some long wet weeds. Poor Yvonne is now a ghost of her
                            former self. All the sophisticated make up was washed off her papier-mâché face and
                            her hair is decidedly bedraggled, but Ann was radiant as she tucked her back into bed
                            and Yvonne is as precious to Ann as she ever was.

                            Georgie simply does not care for toys. His paint box, hammer and the trenching
                            hoe George gave him for his second birthday are all he wants or needs. Both children
                            love books but I sometimes wonder whether they stimulate Ann’s imagination too much.
                            The characters all become friends of hers and she makes up stories about them to tell
                            Georgie. She adores that illustrated children’s Bible Mummy sent her but you would be
                            astonished at the yarns she spins about “me and my friend Jesus.” She also will call
                            Moses “Old Noses”, and looking at a picture of Jacob’s dream, with the shining angels
                            on the ladder between heaven and earth, she said “Georgie, if you see an angel, don’t
                            touch it, it’s hot.”

                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 17th October 1935

                            Dearest Family,

                            I take back the disparaging things I said about my new Ayah, because she has
                            proved her worth in an unexpected way. On Wednesday morning I settled Kate in he
                            cot after her ten o’clock feed and sat sewing at the dining room table with Ann and
                            Georgie opposite me, both absorbed in painting pictures in identical seed catalogues.
                            Suddenly there was a terrific bang on the back door, followed by an even heavier blow.
                            The door was just behind me and I got up and opened it. There, almost filling the door
                            frame, stood a huge native with staring eyes and his teeth showing in a mad grimace. In
                            his hand he held a rolled umbrella by the ferrule, the shaft I noticed was unusually long
                            and thick and the handle was a big round knob.

                            I was terrified as you can imagine, especially as, through the gap under the
                            native’s raised arm, I could see the new cook and the kitchen boy running away down to
                            the shamba! I hastily tried to shut and lock the door but the man just brushed me aside.
                            For a moment he stood over me with the umbrella raised as though to strike. Rather
                            fortunately, I now think, I was too petrified to say a word. The children never moved but
                            Tubbage, the Alsatian, got up and jumped out of the window!

                            Then the native turned away and still with the same fixed stare and grimace,
                            began to attack the furniture with his umbrella. Tables and chairs were overturned and
                            books and ornaments scattered on the floor. When the madman had his back turned and
                            was busily bashing the couch, I slipped round the dining room table, took Ann and
                            Georgie by the hand and fled through the front door to the garage where I hid the
                            children in the car. All this took several minutes because naturally the children were
                            terrified. I was worried to death about the baby left alone in the bedroom and as soon
                            as I had Ann and Georgie settled I ran back to the house.

                            I reached the now open front door just as Kianda the houseboy opened the back
                            door of the lounge. He had been away at the river washing clothes but, on hearing of the
                            madman from the kitchen boy he had armed himself with a stout stick and very pluckily,
                            because he is not a robust boy, had returned to the house to eject the intruder. He
                            rushed to attack immediately and I heard a terrific exchange of blows behind me as I
                            opened our bedroom door. You can imagine what my feelings were when I was
                            confronted by an empty cot! Just then there was an uproar inside as all the farm
                            labourers armed with hoes and pangas and sticks, streamed into the living room from the
                            shamba whence they had been summoned by the cook. In no time at all the huge
                            native was hustled out of the house, flung down the front steps, and securely tied up
                            with strips of cloth.

                            In the lull that followed I heard a frightened voice calling from the bathroom.
                            ”Memsahib is that you? The child is here with me.” I hastily opened the bathroom door
                            to find Mary couched in a corner by the bath, shielding Kate with her body. Mary had
                            seen the big native enter the house and her first thought had been for her charge. I
                            thanked her and promised her a reward for her loyalty, and quickly returned to the garage
                            to reassure Ann and Georgie. I met George who looked white and exhausted as well
                            he might having run up hill all the way from the coffee store. The kitchen boy had led him
                            to expect the worst and he was most relieved to find us all unhurt if a bit shaken.
                            We returned to the house by the back way whilst George went to the front and
                            ordered our labourers to take their prisoner and lock him up in the store. George then
                            discussed the whole affair with his Headman and all the labourers after which he reported
                            to me. “The boys say that the bastard is an ex-Askari from Nyasaland. He is not mad as
                            you thought but he smokes bhang and has these attacks. I suppose I should take him to
                            Mbeya and have him up in court. But if I do that you’ll have to give evidence and that will be a nuisance as the car won’t go and there is also the baby to consider.”

                            Eventually we decided to leave the man to sleep off the effects of the Bhang
                            until evening when he would be tried before an impromptu court consisting of George,
                            the local Jumbe(Headman) and village Elders, and our own farm boys and any other
                            interested spectators. It was not long before I knew the verdict because I heard the
                            sound of lashes. I was not sorry at all because I felt the man deserved his punishment
                            and so did all the Africans. They love children and despise anyone who harms or
                            frightens them. With great enthusiasm they frog-marched him off our land, and I sincerely
                            hope that that is the last we see or him. Ann and Georgie don’t seem to brood over this
                            affair at all. The man was naughty and he was spanked, a quite reasonable state of
                            affairs. This morning they hid away in the small thatched chicken house. This is a little brick
                            building about four feet square which Ann covets as a dolls house. They came back
                            covered in stick fleas which I had to remove with paraffin. My hens are laying well but
                            they all have the ‘gapes’! I wouldn’t run a chicken farm for anything, hens are such fussy,
                            squawking things.

                            Now don’t go worrying about my experience with the native. Such things
                            happen only once in a lifetime. We are all very well and happy, and life, apart from the
                            children’s pranks is very tranquil.

                            Lots and lots of love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 25th October 1935

                            Dearest Family,

                            The hot winds have dried up the shamba alarmingly and we hope every day for
                            rain. The prices for coffee, on the London market, continue to be low and the local
                            planters are very depressed. Coffee grows well enough here but we are over 400
                            miles from the railway and transport to the railhead by lorry is very expensive. Then, as
                            there is no East African Marketing Board, the coffee must be shipped to England for
                            sale. Unless the coffee fetches at least 90 pounds a ton it simply doesn’t pay to grow it.
                            When we started planting in 1931 coffee was fetching as much as 115 pounds a ton but
                            prices this year were between 45 and 55 pounds. We have practically exhausted our
                            capitol and so have all our neighbours. The Hickson -Woods have been keeping their
                            pot boiling by selling bat guano to the coffee farmers at Mbosi but now everyone is
                            broke and there is not a market for fertilisers. They are offering their farm for sale at a very
                            low price.

                            Major Jones has got a job working on the district roads and Max Coster talks of
                            returning to his work as a geologist. George says he will have to go gold digging on the
                            Lupa unless there is a big improvement in the market. Luckily we can live quite cheaply
                            here. We have a good vegetable garden, milk is cheap and we have plenty of fruit.
                            There are mulberries, pawpaws, grenadillas, peaches, and wine berries. The wine
                            berries are very pretty but insipid though Ann and Georgie love them. Each morning,
                            before breakfast, the old garden boy brings berries for Ann and Georgie. With a thorn
                            the old man pins a large leaf from a wild fig tree into a cone which he fills with scarlet wine
                            berries. There is always a cone for each child and they wait eagerly outside for the daily
                            ceremony of presentation.

                            The rats are being a nuisance again. Both our cats, Skinny Winnie and Blackboy
                            disappeared a few weeks ago. We think they made a meal for a leopard. I wrote last
                            week to our grocer at Mbalizi asking him whether he could let us have a couple of kittens
                            as I have often seen cats in his store. The messenger returned with a nailed down box.
                            The kitchen boy was called to prize up the lid and the children stood by in eager
                            anticipation. Out jumped two snarling and spitting creatures. One rushed into the kalonga
                            and the other into the house and before they were captured they had drawn blood from
                            several boys. I told the boys to replace the cats in the box as I intended to return them
                            forthwith. They had the colouring, stripes and dispositions of wild cats and I certainly
                            didn’t want them as pets, but before the boys could replace the lid the cats escaped
                            once more into the undergrowth in the kalonga. George fetched his shotgun and said he
                            would shoot the cats on sight or they would kill our chickens. This was more easily said
                            than done because the cats could not be found. However during the night the cats
                            climbed up into the loft af the house and we could hear them moving around on the reed
                            ceiling.

                            I said to George,”Oh leave the poor things. At least they might frighten the rats
                            away.” That afternoon as we were having tea a thin stream of liquid filtered through the
                            ceiling on George’s head. Oh dear!!! That of course was the end. Some raw meat was
                            put on the lawn for bait and yesterday George shot both cats.

                            I regret to end with the sad story of Mary, heroine in my last letter and outcast in
                            this. She came to work quite drunk two days running and I simply had to get rid of her. I
                            have heard since from Kath Wood that Mary lost her last job at Tukuyu for the same
                            reason. She was ayah to twin girls and one day set their pram on fire.

                            So once again my hands are more than full with three lively children. I did say
                            didn’t I, when Ann was born that I wanted six children?

                            Very much love from us all, Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 8th November 1935

                            Dearest Family,

                            To set your minds at rest I must tell you that the native who so frightened me and
                            the children is now in jail for attacking a Greek at Mbalizi. I hear he is to be sent back to
                            Rhodesia when he has finished his sentence.

                            Yesterday we had one of our rare trips to Mbeya. George managed to get a couple of
                            second hand tyres for the old car and had again got her to work so we are celebrating our
                            wedding anniversary by going on an outing. I wore the green and fawn striped silk dress
                            mother bought me and the hat and shoes you sent for my birthday and felt like a million
                            dollars, for a change. The children all wore new clothes too and I felt very proud of them.
                            Ann is still very fair and with her refined little features and straight silky hair she
                            looks like Alice in Wonderland. Georgie is dark and sturdy and looks best in khaki shirt
                            and shorts and sun helmet. Kate is a pink and gold baby and looks good enough to eat.
                            We went straight to the hotel at Mbeya and had the usual warm welcome from
                            Ken and Aunty May Menzies. Aunty May wears her hair cut short like a mans and
                            usually wears shirt and tie and riding breeches and boots. She always looks ready to go
                            on safari at a moments notice as indeed she is. She is often called out to a case of illness
                            at some remote spot.

                            There were lots of people at the hotel from farms in the district and from the
                            diggings. I met women I had not seen for four years. One, a Mrs Masters from Tukuyu,
                            said in the lounge, “My God! Last time I saw you , you were just a girl and here you are
                            now with two children.” To which I replied with pride, “There is another one in a pram on
                            the verandah if you care to look!” Great hilarity in the lounge. The people from the
                            diggings seem to have plenty of money to throw around. There was a big party on the
                            go in the bar.

                            One of our shamba boys died last Friday and all his fellow workers and our
                            house boys had the day off to attend the funeral. From what I can gather the local
                            funerals are quite cheery affairs. The corpse is dressed in his best clothes and laid
                            outside his hut and all who are interested may view the body and pay their respects.
                            The heir then calls upon anyone who had a grudge against the dead man to say his say
                            and thereafter hold his tongue forever. Then all the friends pay tribute to the dead man
                            after which he is buried to the accompaniment of what sounds from a distance, very
                            cheerful keening.

                            Most of our workmen are pagans though there is a Lutheran Mission nearby and
                            a big Roman Catholic Mission in the area too. My present cook, however, claims to be
                            a Christian. He certainly went to a mission school and can read and write and also sing
                            hymns in Ki-Swahili. When I first engaged him I used to find a large open Bible
                            prominently displayed on the kitchen table. The cook is middle aged and arrived here
                            with a sensible matronly wife. To my surprise one day he brought along a young girl,
                            very plump and giggly and announced proudly that she was his new wife, I said,”But I
                            thought you were a Christian Jeremiah? Christians don’t have two wives.” To which he
                            replied, “Oh Memsahib, God won’t mind. He knows an African needs two wives – one
                            to go with him when he goes away to work and one to stay behind at home to cultivate
                            the shamba.

                            Needles to say, it is the old wife who has gone to till the family plot.

                            With love to all,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 21st November 1935

                            Dearest Family,

                            The drought has broken with a bang. We had a heavy storm in the hills behind
                            the house. Hail fell thick and fast. So nice for all the tiny new berries on the coffee! The
                            kids loved the excitement and three times Ann and Georgie ran out for a shower under
                            the eaves and had to be changed. After the third time I was fed up and made them both
                            lie on their beds whilst George and I had lunch in peace. I told Ann to keep the
                            casement shut as otherwise the rain would drive in on her bed. Half way through lunch I
                            heard delighted squeals from Georgie and went into the bedroom to investigate. Ann
                            was standing on the outer sill in the rain but had shut the window as ordered. “Well
                            Mummy , you didn’t say I mustn’t stand on the window sill, and I did shut the window.”
                            George is working so hard on the farm. I have a horrible feeling however that it is
                            what the Africans call ‘Kazi buri’ (waste of effort) as there seems no chance of the price of
                            coffee improving as long as this world depression continues. The worry is that our capitol
                            is nearly exhausted. Food is becoming difficult now that our neighbours have left. I used
                            to buy delicious butter from Kath Hickson-Wood and an African butcher used to kill a
                            beast once a week. Now that we are his only European customers he very rarely kills
                            anything larger than a goat, and though we do eat goat, believe me it is not from choice.
                            We have of course got plenty to eat, but our diet is very monotonous. I was
                            delighted when George shot a large bushbuck last week. What we could not use I cut
                            into strips and the salted strips are now hanging in the open garage to dry.

                            With love to all,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 6th December 1935

                            Dearest Family,

                            We have had a lot of rain and the countryside is lovely and green. Last week
                            George went to Mbeya taking Ann with him. This was a big adventure for Ann because
                            never before had she been anywhere without me. She was in a most blissful state as
                            she drove off in the old car clutching a little basket containing sandwiches and half a bottle
                            of milk. She looked so pretty in a new blue frock and with her tiny plaits tied with
                            matching blue ribbons. When Ann is animated she looks charming because her normally
                            pale cheeks become rosy and she shows her pretty dimples.

                            As I am still without an ayah I rather looked forward to a quiet morning with only
                            Georgie and Margery Kate to care for, but Georgie found it dull without Ann and wanted
                            to be entertained and even the normally placid baby was peevish. Then in mid morning
                            the rain came down in torrents, the result of a cloudburst in the hills directly behind our
                            house. The ravine next to our house was a terrifying sight. It appeared to be a great
                            muddy, roaring waterfall reaching from the very top of the hill to a point about 30 yards
                            behind our house and then the stream rushed on down the gorge in an angry brown
                            flood. The roar of the water was so great that we had to yell at one another to be heard.
                            By lunch time the rain had stopped and I anxiously awaited the return of Ann and
                            George. They returned on foot, drenched and hungry at about 2.30pm . George had
                            had to abandon the car on the main road as the Mchewe River had overflowed and
                            turned the road into a muddy lake. The lower part of the shamba had also been flooded
                            and the water receded leaving branches and driftwood amongst the coffee. This was my
                            first experience of a real tropical storm. I am afraid that after the battering the coffee has
                            had there is little hope of a decent crop next year.

                            Anyway Christmas is coming so we don’t dwell on these mishaps. The children
                            have already chosen their tree from amongst the young cypresses in the vegetable
                            garden. We all send our love and hope that you too will have a Happy Christmas.

                            Eleanor

                            Mchewe Estate. 22nd December 1935

                            Dearest Family,

                            I’ve been in the wars with my staff. The cook has been away ill for ten days but is
                            back today though shaky and full of self pity. The houseboy, who really has been a brick
                            during the cooks absence has now taken to his bed and I feel like taking to Mine! The
                            children however have the Christmas spirit and are making weird and wonderful paper
                            decorations. George’s contribution was to have the house whitewashed throughout and
                            it looks beautifully fresh.

                            My best bit of news is that my old ayah Janey has been to see me and would
                            like to start working here again on Jan 1st. We are all very well. We meant to give
                            ourselves an outing to Mbeya as a Christmas treat but here there is an outbreak of
                            enteric fever there so will now not go. We have had two visitors from the Diggings this
                            week. The children see so few strangers that they were fascinated and hung around
                            staring. Ann sat down on the arm of the couch beside one and studied his profile.
                            Suddenly she announced in her clear voice, “Mummy do you know, this man has got
                            wax in his ears!” Very awkward pause in the conversation. By the way when I was
                            cleaning out little Kate’s ears with a swab of cotton wool a few days ago, Ann asked
                            “Mummy, do bees have wax in their ears? Well, where do you get beeswax from
                            then?”

                            I meant to keep your Christmas parcel unopened until Christmas Eve but could
                            not resist peeping today. What lovely things! Ann so loves pretties and will be
                            delighted with her frocks. My dress is just right and I love Georgie’s manly little flannel
                            shorts and blue shirt. We have bought them each a watering can. I suppose I shall
                            regret this later. One of your most welcome gifts is the album of nursery rhyme records. I
                            am so fed up with those that we have. Both children love singing. I put a record on the
                            gramophone geared to slow and off they go . Georgie sings more slowly than Ann but
                            much more tunefully. Ann sings in a flat monotone but Georgie with great expression.
                            You ought to hear him render ‘Sing a song of sixpence’. He cannot pronounce an R or
                            an S. Mother has sent a large home made Christmas pudding and a fine Christmas
                            cake and George will shoot some partridges for Christmas dinner.
                            Think of us as I shall certainly think of you.

                            Your very loving,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe Estate. 2nd January 1936

                            Dearest Family,

                            Christmas was fun! The tree looked very gay with its load of tinsel, candles and
                            red crackers and the coloured balloons you sent. All the children got plenty of toys
                            thanks to Grandparents and Aunts. George made Ann a large doll’s bed and I made
                            some elegant bedding, Barbara, the big doll is now permanently bed ridden. Her poor
                            shattered head has come all unstuck and though I have pieced it together again it is a sad
                            sight. If you have not yet chosen a present for her birthday next month would you
                            please get a new head from the Handy House. I enclose measurements. Ann does so
                            love the doll. She always calls her, “My little girl”, and she keeps the doll’s bed beside
                            her own and never fails to kiss her goodnight.

                            We had no guests for Christmas this year but we were quite festive. Ann
                            decorated the dinner table with small pink roses and forget-me-knots and tinsel and the
                            crackers from the tree. It was a wet day but we played the new records and both
                            George and I worked hard to make it a really happy day for the children. The children
                            were hugely delighted when George made himself a revolting set of false teeth out of
                            plasticine and a moustache and beard of paper straw from a chocolate box. “Oh Daddy
                            you look exactly like Father Christmas!” cried an enthralled Ann. Before bedtime we lit
                            all the candles on the tree and sang ‘Away in a Manger’, and then we opened the box of
                            starlights you sent and Ann and Georgie had their first experience of fireworks.
                            After the children went to bed things deteriorated. First George went for his bath
                            and found and killed a large black snake in the bathroom. It must have been in the
                            bathroom when I bathed the children earlier in the evening. Then I developed bad
                            toothache which kept me awake all night and was agonising next day. Unfortunately the
                            bridge between the farm and Mbeya had been washed away and the water was too
                            deep for the car to ford until the 30th when at last I was able to take my poor swollen
                            face to Mbeya. There is now a young German woman dentist working at the hospital.
                            She pulled out the offending molar which had a large abscess attached to it.
                            Whilst the dentist attended to me, Ann and Georgie played happily with the
                            doctor’s children. I wish they could play more often with other children. Dr Eckhardt was
                            very pleased with Margery Kate who at seven months weighs 17 lbs and has lovely
                            rosy cheeks. He admired Ann and told her that she looked just like a German girl. “No I
                            don’t”, cried Ann indignantly, “I’m English!”

                            We were caught in a rain storm going home and as the old car still has no
                            windscreen or side curtains we all got soaked except for the baby who was snugly
                            wrapped in my raincoat. The kids thought it great fun. Ann is growing up fast now. She
                            likes to ‘help mummy’. She is a perfectionist at four years old which is rather trying. She
                            gets so discouraged when things do not turn out as well as she means them to. Sewing
                            is constantly being unpicked and paintings torn up. She is a very sensitive child.
                            Georgie is quite different. He is a man of action, but not silent. He talks incessantly
                            but lisps and stumbles over some words. At one time Ann and Georgie often
                            conversed in Ki-Swahili but they now scorn to do so. If either forgets and uses a Swahili
                            word, the other points a scornful finger and shouts “You black toto”.

                            With love to all,
                            Eleanor.

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