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  • #7282
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      Ellastone Gerrards in the 1500s.

       

      John Gerrard 1633-1681 was born and died in Ellastone.

      Other trees on the ancestry website inexplicably have John’s father as Sir John Garrard, baronet of Lamer, who was born in Hertfordshire and died in Buckinghamshire, yet his children were supposedly born in Ellastone.

      Fortunately the Ellastone parish records begin in 1537. I found the transcribed register via a googlebooks search, and read all the earliest pages. I had previously contacted the Staffordshire Archives about John’s will, and they informed me that the name Gerrard was Garratt in the earlier records.

      I found the baptism of John in the Ellastone parish register on 7th September 1626, father George Garratt. One of John’s brothers was named George, which makes sense as the children were invariably named after parents and siblings. However, John born in 1626 died in 1628. Another son named John was baptised in 1633.
      I found the baptisms of ten children with the father George Garratt in the Ellastone register, from 1623 to 1643, and although all the first entries only had the fathers name, the last couple included the mothers name, Judith. George Garratt was a churchwarden in Ellastone in 1627.

      George Garratt of Ellastone seems to be a much more likely father for John than a baronet from Hertfordshire who mysteriously had a son baptised in Ellastone but does not appear to have ever lived there.

      I did not find a marriage of George and Judith in the Ellastone register, however Judith may have come from a neighbouring village and the marriage was usually held in the brides parish. The wedding was probably circa 1622.

      George was baptised in Ellastone on the 19th March 1595. Some of the transcriptions say March 1794, some say 1795. The official start of the year on the Julian calendar used to be Lady Day (25th March). This was changed in 1752.

      His father was Rycharde Garrarde. Rycharde married Agnes Bothom in Ellastone on the 29th September 1594. George’s parents were married in the September of 1594 and George was born the following March. On the old calendar, March came after September.

      George died in 1669 in Ellastone. He was my 10X great grandfather. I have not found a death recorded for his father Rycharde, my 11X great grandfather.

      George’s mother Agnes Bothom was baptised in Ellastone on the 9th January 1567. Her father was John Bothom. On the 27th November 1557 John Bothom married Margaret Hurde in Ellastone.

      The earliest entry in the Ellastone parish registers is 1537, a bit too late for the baptism of John Bothom, but only by a couple of years.  John Bothom and his wife Agnes were probably born around 1535. Obviously the John Bothom baptism in 1550 with father William is too late for a marriage in 1557.

      #7255
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        The First Wife of John Edwards

        1794-1844

        John was a widower when he married Sarah Reynolds from Kinlet. Both my fathers cousin and I had come to a dead end in the Edwards genealogy research as there were a number of possible births of a John Edwards in Birmingham at the time, and a number of possible first wives for a John Edwards at the time.

        John Edwards was a millwright on the 1841 census, the only census he appeared on as he died in 1844, and 1841 was the first census. His birth is recorded as 1800, however on the 1841 census the ages were rounded up or down five years. He was an engineer on some of the marriage records of his children with Sarah, and on his death certificate, engineer and millwright, aged 49. The age of 49 at his death from tuberculosis in 1844 is likely to be more accurate than the census (Sarah his wife was present at his death), making a birth date of 1794 or 1795.

        John married Sarah Reynolds in January 1827 in Birmingham, and I am descended from this marriage. Any children of John’s first marriage would no doubt have been living with John and Sarah, but had probably left home by the time of the 1841 census.

        I found an Elizabeth Edwards, wife of John Edwards of Constitution Hill, died in August 1826 at the age of 23, as stated on the parish death register. It would be logical for a young widower with small children to marry again quickly. If this was John’s first wife, the marriage to Sarah six months later in January 1827 makes sense. Therefore, John’s first wife, I assumed, was Elizabeth, born in 1803.

        Death of Elizabeth Edwards, 23 years old.  St Mary, Birmingham, 15 Aug 1826:

        Death Eliz Edwards

         

        There were two baptisms recorded for parents John and Elizabeth Edwards, Constitution Hill, and John’s occupation was an engineer on both baptisms.
        They were both daughters: Sarah Ann in 1822 and Elizabeth in 1824.

        Sarah Ann Edwards: St Philip, Birmingham. Born 15 March 1822, baptised 7 September 1822:

        1822 Sarah Ann Edwards

        Elizabeth Edwards: St Philip, Birmingham. Born 6 February 1824, baptised 25 February 1824:

        1824 Elizabeth Edwards

         

        With John’s occupation as engineer stated, it looked increasingly likely that I’d found John’s first wife and children of that marriage.

        Then I found a marriage of Elizabeth Beach to John Edwards in 1819, and subsequently found an Elizabeth Beach baptised in 1803. This appeared to be the right first wife for John, until an Elizabeth Slater turned up, with a marriage to a John Edwards in 1820. An Elizabeth Slater was baptised in 1803. Either Elizabeth Beach or Elizabeth Slater could have been the first wife of John Edwards. As John’s first wife Elizabeth is not related to us, it’s not necessary to go further back, and in a sense, doesn’t really matter which one it was.

        But the Slater name caught my eye.

        But first, the name Sarah Ann.

        Of the possible baptisms for John Edwards, the most likely seemed to be in 1794, parents John and Sarah. John and Sarah had two infant daughters die just prior to John’s birth. The first was Sarah, the second Sarah Ann. Perhaps this was why John named his daughter Sarah Ann? In the absence of any other significant clues, I decided to assume these were the correct parents. I found and read half a dozen wills of any John Edwards I could find within the likely time period of John’s fathers death.

        One of them was dated 1803. In this will, John mentions that his children are not yet of age. (John would have been nine years old.)
        He leaves his plating business and some properties to his eldest son Thomas Davis Edwards, (just shy of 21 years old at the time of his fathers death in 1803) with the business to be run jointly with his widow, Sarah. He mentions his son John, and leaves several properties to him, when he comes of age. He also leaves various properties to his daughters Elizabeth and Mary, ditto. The baptisms for all of these children, including the infant deaths of Sarah and Sarah Ann have been found. All but Mary’s were in the same parish. (I found one for Mary in Sutton Coldfield, which was apparently correct, as a later census also recorded her birth as Sutton Coldfield. She was living with family on that census, so it would appear to be correct that for whatever reason, their daughter Mary was born in Sutton Coldfield)

        Mary married John Slater in 1813. The witnesses were Elizabeth Whitehouse and John Edwards, her sister and brother. Elizabeth married William Nicklin Whitehouse in 1805 and one of the witnesses was Mary Edwards.
        Mary’s husband John Slater died in 1821. They had no children. Mary never remarried, and lived with her bachelor brother Thomas Davis Edwards in West Bromwich. Thomas never married, and on the census he was either a proprietor of houses, or “sinecura” (earning a living without working).

        With Mary marrying a Slater, does this indicate that her brother John’s first wife was Elizabeth Slater rather than Elizabeth Beach? It is a compelling possibility, but does not constitute proof.

        Not only that, there is no absolute proof that the John Edwards who died in 1803 was our ancestor John Edwards father.

         

        If we can’t be sure which Elizabeth married John Edwards, we can be reasonably sure who their daughters married. On both of the marriage records the father is recorded as John Edwards, engineer.

        Sarah Ann married Mark Augustin Rawlins in 1850. Mark was a sword hilt maker at the time of the marriage, his father Mark a needle manufacturer. One of the witnesses was Elizabeth Edwards, who signed with her mark. Sarah Ann and Mark however were both able to sign their own names on the register.

        Sarah Ann Edwards and Mark Augustin Rawlins marriage 14 October 1850 St Peter and St Paul, Aston, Birmingham:

        1850 Sarah Ann Edwards

        Elizabeth married Nathaniel Twigg in 1851. (She was living with her sister Sarah Ann and Mark Rawlins on the 1851 census, I assume the census was taken before her marriage to Nathaniel on the 27th April 1851.) Nathaniel was a stationer (later on the census a bookseller), his father Samuel a brass founder. Elizabeth signed with her mark, apparently unable to write, and a witness was Ann Edwards. Although Sarah Ann, Elizabeth’s sister, would have been Sarah Ann Rawlins at the time, having married the previous year, she was known as Ann on later censuses. The signature of Ann Edwards looks remarkably similar to Sarah Ann Edwards signature on her own wedding. Perhaps she couldn’t write but had learned how to write her signature for her wedding?

        Elizabeth Edwards and Nathaniel Twigg marriage 27 April 1851, St Peter and St Paul, Aston, Birmingham:

        1851 Elizabeth Edwards

        Sarah Ann and Mark Rawlins had one daughter and four sons between 1852 and 1859. One of the sons, Edward Rawlins 1857-1931, was a school master and later master of an orphanage.

        On the 1881 census Edward was a bookseller, in 1891 a stationer, 1901 schoolmaster and his wife Edith was matron, and in 1911 he and Edith were master and matron of St Philip’s Catholic Orphanage on Oliver Road in Birmingham. Edward and Edith did not have any children.

        Edward Rawlins, 1911:

        Edward Rawlins 1911

         

        Elizabeth and Nathaniel Twigg appear to have had only one son, Arthur Twigg 1862-1943. Arthur was a photographer at 291 Bloomsbury Street, Birmingham. Arthur married Harriet Moseley from Burton on Trent, and they had two daughters, Elizabeth Ann 1897-1954, and Edith 1898-1983. I found a photograph of Edith on her wedding day, with her father Arthur in the picture. Arthur and Harriet also had a son Samuel Arthur, who lived for less than a month, born in 1904. Arthur had mistakenly put this son on the 1911 census stating “less than one month”, but the birth and death of Samuel Arthur Twigg were registered in the same quarter of 1904, and none were found registered for 1911.

        Edith Twigg and Leslie A Hancock on their Wedding Day 1925. Arthur Twigg behind the bride. Maybe Elizabeth Ann Twigg seated on the right: (photo found on the ancestry website)

        Edith Twigg wedding 1925

         

        Photographs by Arthur Twigg, 291 Bloomsbury Street, Birmingham:

        Arthur Twigg 1

        Arhtur Twigg photo

        #7232
        ÉricÉric
        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.

          #7218
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            Aunt Idle:

            There’s nothing quite like the morning of the cart race, watching for the dust anouncing the arrival of another van or cart full of people on a partying mission, there’s something in the air, well dust mainly after awhile.  Yes I know there’s a lot to do with all the extra people but Finley can manage and nobody will expect much from overworked staff anywhere today anyway.  I just love catching the first sight of a decorated cart and people in costumes, you have no idea how monotonous the attire around here is.  People of all ages, too, that’s what I love about it.  Some people been coming for as long as anyone can remember, they came back when it started again, and some of them never took their masks off, nobody ever saw them without masks and you can bet your bottom dollar they’ll be here later, they always turn up.  You won’t catch them with their mask off though.  Always see some new ones. Every year new ones turn up, and then we never see them again, like pop ins they are.   Some of them stick in your mind, oddly enough.   There’s one in particular I’m always keeping an eye out for, got a cart all decked out like a pirate galleon, and barrels of rum instead of lager.   Maybe I’ll get lucky this year and get a ride in the pirate galleon, you never know. Anything can happen in a dust storm after a lager and cart race.

            #6553
            ÉricÉric
            Keymaster

              Luckily for them, the sand structure with the nearby nests of snapping sand turtles was also a graveyard for the military drones that weren’t apparently programmed to register natural elements as threats.

              They quickly found four of them who weren’t completely damaged, and with some technical assist from Jorid, Georges was able to repair the propulsion and deactivate the military programs and tracking beacons.

              Klatu had some ropes in his speedster that they tied to their rudimentary drive and the drones, so they could carry Léonard’s body while he was still in stasis.

              His vitals were generally positive, and Salomé kept checking on him, while Georges and Klatu managed attaching the odd assemblage of drones to their craft.

              The ride back wasn’t as bad as the first time, maybe due to the extra cargo that made maneuvres more complex for their green driver.

              “This is worth the detour. Seems like Klatu really wanted to save time and avoided to show us the scenic route the first time,” said Georges trying to break the tense worried silence.

              Salomé smiled weakly “Léonard’s consciousness is embroiled into complex thoughts; they have to deal about some threat, the nature of which eludes me for now. It looks as though he’s absorbed some sort of forbidden knowledge, something potentially dangerous,” Salomé said to Georges. “I’m no longer as sure he was imprisoned for his punishment, but rather for protection…” she sighed. “for everyone else’s protection… I will feel better when we’re all back to the Jorid and we can run a full diagnosis.”

              Georges looked at his friend apparently sleeping, and wrapped a loving arm around Salomé’s shoulder “It’s not going to be long now. He’s going to be fine.”

              ***

              “Horrible doing business with you.” Klatu said as they parted, rubbing his hands together in gleeful satisfaction. Whatever the Jorid had organised as a deal for his payment, it seemed the added drones weren’t part of it and came as an extra bonus.

              :fleuron:

              Inside the Jorid, while Salomé was setting up space for Léonard and making the preparation for the diagnosis, Georges looked at the tiles board, readying the craft for imminent departure.

              A new tile had appeared, with a distinct pattern form, almost like an ogee.

              “Jorid, is this new?”

              “Indeed Georges, our adventure has inspired me to create new avenues of exploration.”

              “Oh, that’s fresh.” Georges looked into the shifting symbol at its surface. After it stabilised, he could see there was a sort of spiral shell with forms reminiscent of the mocking turtles peeking out from the centre, surrounded by sand dunes.

              “Jorid, tell me more please.”

              “Sure, I’d call it ‘Sandshell‘. Do you want the full curriculum?”

              “Absolutely, colour me intrigued!”

              The Sandshell:
              Function: A reminder of the fragility of our perceived reality and the importance of questioning our assumptions
              Families: Vold, Zuli, Ilda
              Significance: The Sandshell represents the shifting and unstable nature of our beliefs, assumptions, and understandings. Like the sand that slips through our fingers, so too can our perception of the world around us be ephemeral and illusory. The image of the mock turtle serves as a reminder that we often live under assumed identities and in a world built on questionable foundations.
              As advice: The Sandshell encourages one to question their beliefs and assumptions, to examine the foundations upon which they have built their reality, and to search for a deeper understanding of truth.
              Depiction: The Sandshell can be depicted as a spiral shell with a mocking turtle peeking out from the center, surrounded by sand dunes. The sand symbolizes the instability of our perceptions and the turtle represents the assumed identities and neurotic fairy tales that make up our reality. The spiral form of the shell represents the journey of discovery and self-reflection.”

              “I love it,” said Georges enthusiastically “can we use it to plot our next course?”

              “As a matter of fact we can Georges. Let me realign the grid and propose some suggestions. Do you have a seed thought to offer for this journey?”

              Georges pondered for a while, when the image of the fishboard sprung forth in his mind. “Our little adventure is reminding me of our origins, Jorid —Léonard, working on the fishboard, your ancestor in a way… Us, finding Léonard… It feels like an adventure back to our origins. Can you project a destination on this vector…” then thinking at Salomé’s worried face “… that would be safe for our next stop, and allow us to find help for Léonard.”

              “Verily.” Jorid answered back. “Course plotted. Please get comfortable until we arrive at our destination.”

              #6536

              In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

              Youssef hadn’t changed a bit since they last met in real life. He definitely brought the bear in the bear hug he gave Xavier after Xavier had entered the soft sandal wood scented atmosphere of the Indian restaurant.

              It was like there’d seen each other the day before, and conversation naturally flew without a thought on the few years’ hiatus between their last trip.

              As they inquired about each other’s lives and events on the trip to get to Alice Springs, they ordered cheese nan, salted and mango lassi, a fish biryani and chicken tikka masala and a side thali for Youssef who was again ravenous after the jumpy ride. Soon after, the discussion turned to the road ahead.

              “How long to the hostel?” asked Youssef, his mouth full of buns.

              Xavier looked at his connected watch “It’s about 1 and half hour drive apparently. I called the number to check when to arrive, they told me to arrive before sunset… which I guess gives us 2-3 hours to visit around… I mean,” he looked at his friend “… we can also go straight there.”

              Youssef nodded. He seemed to have had already enough of interactions in the past day.

              Xavier continued “so it’s settled, we leave after we finish here. According to the landlady, it looks like Zara went off trekking, she didn’t seem too sure about Zara’s whereabouts. That would explain why we heard so little from her.”

              Youssef laughed “If they don’t know Zara, I can bet they’ll be running around searching for her in the middle of the night.”

              Xavier looked though the large window facing the street pensively. “I’m not sure I would want to get lost away from the beaten tracks here. There’s something so alien to the scale of it, and the dryness. Have you noticed we’re next to a river? I tried to have a look when I arrived, but it’s mostly dried up. And it’s supposed to be the wet season…”

              Youssef didn’t reply, and turned to the leftovers of the biryani.

              Despite the offering to top it off with gulab jamun and rose ice cream, it didn’t take too long to finish the healthy meal at the Indian restaurant. Youssef and Xavier went for the car.

              “Here, catch!” Xavier threw the keys to Youssef. He knew his friend would have liked to drive; meanwhile he’d be able to catch on some emails and work stuff. After all, he was supposed to remote work for some days.

              #6535
              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                “What was that?” Salomé was trying to get her bearings after they hit the sand storm into a different place.

                Before the sand storm hit, they got chased by one of the Zathu army drone’s which they tried to shake off their tail, but that was only the beginning of the fun.
                Coming ominously from afar, a huge wall of sand came toward them at surprisingly massive speed darkening all in its wake. They were about to be hit and engulfed, but that was when all took a turn for the strangest. The dark sand wall suddenly split open, reacting to a sound beam apparently emitted from Klatu’s speedster. After that, it was mostly a blur. They had gone into a sort of shifting sand vortex that had them glide into a series of  sliding slopes with the oddest directional gravity pull she’d experienced. She had to shout a few times “Watch out” when some of the giant sand snapping turtles tried to gobble their ride, but somehow they seemed to have managed to reach their destination —and quite safely too.

                “Whooo!” Georges was elated at the adrenaline rush. “So that’s the trick our friend had up his sleeve, it seems?”

                “Silly human hasn’t seen anything yet” mumbled Klatu whose middle ear was tuned into their direction.

                “I’ve got sand in places one shouldn’t.” Georges said laughing, as if to make the air lighter.

                “Don’t get me started,” Salomé managed a weak smile. She never was fond of the speed thrills. But when she turned her head, that’s where she saw them —old ruins dripping sand like a streaming source. Down or sideways, she couldn’t tell. The gravitational pull seemed to indicate they were down, but herself, Georges, their pod and Klatu were all stuck on a vertical cliff like geckos comfortably lounging on a warm wall. Down, then it was…

                It took her a minute to realize Klatu was actually manipulating the sand and the gravitational configuration around, revealing the landscape that was hidden.

                “Mmmm, dimensional magic…” she remembered the words from Jorid.

                “Smelly friends of yours inside. Must go quicksy, Klatu can’t hold it long.”

                Georges opened his mouth, but Salomé elbowed him right away. “He doesn’t mean to pee, Georges.”

                #6507

                In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                :fleuron:

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

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

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

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

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

                #6504
                ÉricÉric
                Keymaster

                  Klatu was a quite unassuming alien form (alien for them anyway, he was actually more indigenous than they were). Looking like a green gnome with bulging eyes covered by protective goggles, long pointy ears (2 or 3 depending on the wind direction), a short three nostrils snout, an a mossy toupee on top of his head, he made quick work of the formalities and presentations.

                  “Little ugly humans, come follow me. Have tracked your smelly hairy friend, not time to waste.”

                  Salomé looked at Georges sideways with a smirk on his face. They could read their thoughts easily on that one, something along the lines of:

                  “The translator is behaving again, or is he really calling us ugly?”

                  “Don’t worry dear, that’s probably a polite way of addressing people in their language.”

                  They arrived at a little sand speedster just barely big enough for their indigenous companion. Salomé raised an eyebrow at the situation, while Georges was ready to ride shotgun with the alien on the tiny bike.

                  Klatu moved his arms in short annoyed movements, “not here, stupid mammals, go there and be quiet!” and pointed them to a makeshift trolley attached behind and half burried in the sand. He grinned from ear to ear to ear, visibly pleased with his vehicle tuning appendage.

                  “Horrid creatures better wear seatbelts. Ride gonna shaky.”

                  #6492

                  In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

                  With a determined glint in his eye, Xavier set his sights on the slot machines. He scanned the rows of blinking lights and flashing screens until one caught his attention. He approached the machine and inserted a coin, feeling a rush of excitement as he pulled the lever.

                  With a satisfying whir, the reels began to spin, and before he knew it, the golden banana appeared on the screen, lining up perfectly. The machine erupted in flashing lights and loud noises, and a ticket spilled out onto the floor.

                  🎰 · 💰
                  🍌🍌🍌

                  Xavier picked it up, reading aloud the inscriptions on the ticket, “Congratulations on completing your quest. You may enjoy your trip until the next stage of your journey. Look for the cook on the pirate boat, she will give you directions to regroup with your friends. And don’t forget to confirm your bookings.”

                  Glimmer let out a whoop of trepidation, “Let’s go find that cook, Xav! I can’t wait to see what’s next in store for us!”

                  But Xavier, feeling a bit worn out, replied with a smile, “Hold on a minute, love. All I need at the moment is just some R&R after all that brouhaha.”

                  Glimmer nodded in understanding and they both made their way to the deck, taking in the fresh air and the breathtaking scenery as the boat sailed towards its next destination.

                  As the boat continued its journey, sailing and gliding on the river in the air filled with moist, they could start to see across the mist opening like a heavy curtain a colourful floating market in the distance, and the sounds of haggling and laughter filled the air.

                  They couldn’t wait to explore and see what treasures and surprises awaited them. The journey was far from over, but for now, they were content to simply enjoy the ride.

                  :fleuron2:

                  Xavier closed his laptop while his friends were still sending messages on the chatroom. He’d had long days of work before leaving to take his flights to Australia, during which he hoped he could rest enough during the flights.

                  Most of the flights he’d checked had a minimum of 3 layovers, and a unbelievably long durations (not to count the astronomic amount of carbon emissions). Against all common sense, he’d taken one of the longest flight duration. It was 57h, but only 3 layovers. From Berlin, to Stockholm, then Dubai and Sydney. He could probably catch up with Youssef there as apparently he sent a message before boarding. They could go to Alice Spring and the Frying Mush Inn together. He’d try to find the reviews, but they were only listed on boutiquehotelsdownunder.com and didn’t have the rave reviews of the prestigious Kookynie Grand Hotel franchise. God knows what Zara had in mind while booking this place, it’d better be good. Reminded him of the time they all went to that improbably ghastly hotel in Spain (at the time Yasmin was still volunteering in a mission and couldn’t join) for a seminar with other game loonies and cosplayers. Those were the early days of the game, and the technology frankly left a lot to be desired at the time. They’d ended up eating raspberry jam with disposable toothbrushes, and get drunk on laughter.

                  When Brytta had seen the time it took to go there, she’d reconsidered coming. She couldn’t afford taking that much time off, and spending the equivalent of 4 full days of her hard-won vacation as a nurse into a plane simply for the round-trip —there was simply no way.
                  Xavier had proposed to shorten his stay, but she’d laughed and said, “you go there, I’ll enjoy some girl time with my friends, and I’ll work on my painting” —it was more convenient when he was gone for business trips, she would be able to put all the materials out, and not care to keep the apartment neat and tidy.

                  The backpack was ready with the essentials; Xavier liked to travel light.

                  #6482

                  In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

                  With the flurry of activities going around, in life and virtually, Xavier had trouble keeping track.

                  His sanity demanded some clarity of intention and some focus. Too many threads were open, and of all things, he didn’t like loose ends.
                  Somehow that silly notion of the Golden Banana quest did pose him a nagging reminder of something incomplete he was eager to get a resolution to. That, or he was unconsciously getting annoyed at seeing his 3 friends making strides in their adventures. The pirate quest was fun enough, but he’d rather enjoy it without having to check everything against being a possible clue.

                  There were no rules against cheating. The thought struck him. Maybe that was it. The simplicity of it!

                  Since they made the rules, they could make them, break them, amend or bend them.

                  He looked up on the internet for an image he could feed AL, and *bam* it was there! In all its glory, a gorgeous Golden Banana on a purple cushion, in a pirate chest. The reward for an online game… That was eerie!

                  He’d had a sneaking suspicion the game was not just about virtual any longer. Synchronistic happenings like that were more than just random.

                  He logged into the game only to discover a simple message.

                  “Congratulations on completing your quest. You may enjoy your trip until the next stage of your journey.
                  Look for the cook on the pirate boat, she will give you directions to regroup with your friends.
                  And don’t forget to confirm your bookings.”

                  #6477

                  In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

                  Bertie dropped Zara off at the bus station in Camden early the next morning. She let him think she was catching a plane from Sydney, given her impulsive lie about having to meet her friends sooner, but she was going by train. The reviews she’d read online were tantalizing:

                  “The Ghan journey tells the story of the land. The train is the canvas, and the changing landscape paints the picture.”

                  A two day train ride would give her time to relax and play the game, and she assumed two days of desert scenery would not be too distracting.  Luckily before she paid for her ticket she had the presence of mind to ask if there was internet on the train. There was not.  Zara sighed, and booked a flight instead, but decided she would catch the train back home after the holiday at the Flying Fish Inn.  By then perhaps the novelty of the game would have worn off, and she would appreciate the time spent in quiet contemplation, and perhaps do some writing.

                  Zara hated flying, especially airports. The best that could be said of flying was that it was a quick way to get from A to B.

                  “You’ll have to go in a cage for the flight, Pretty Girl,” she told the parrot.

                  “I think not,” replied Pretty Girl.  “I’ll meet you there.  See you!” and off she flew into the low morning sun, momentarily blinding Zara as she watched her go.

                  Her flight left Sydney at 14:35. Three and a half hours later she would arrive at Alice Springs and from there it was a half hour road trip to the Flying Fish.  Zara sent an email to the inn asking if anyone could pick her up, otherwise she would get a bus or a taxi.  She received a reply saying that they’d send Bert to pick her up around seven o’clock.  Another Bert!

                  #6412

                  In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

                  Youssef was talking with Xavier in a personal chat. He had called his friend for help, because he felt out of his league with the Thi Gang thing. Notifications from the other chat room where Zara and Yasmine were in an eye roll asking questions about the game kept distracting him from his work. There were currently 820 messages of backlog. That was insane. How could he ever catch up with that. He wondered how Xavier could manage the personal chat room with him, trying to solve techy problems, answer Zaraloon and Yasminowl’s questions, and god knows what else from his work at his tech company!

                  “I got an anonymous tip, said Miss Tartiflate dashing into the yurt, almost tearing the curtains off the top of the entrance. Lama Yoneze is in the Gobi dessert! We have to move quick if we want to catch him.”

                  “You mean desert…”

                  “What ?”

                  “Doesn’t matter. But what about THE BLOG? I can’t fix anything if I don’t have an internet connection. I have to stay at the camp.”

                  “In your dreams! I’ve got us jeeps with satellite internet connection. It’s expensive, but I’m worth it. You’ll do it on our way to the deezert.”

                  Youssef rolled his eyes, a trick he learned from Yasmin during one or their online meetings.

                  “Are you sick?” asked Miss Tartiflate.

                  For all answers, Youssef snapped the laptop close and sent a message to Xavier.

                  “We found the Llama. Moving to the desert now. Jeep ride 🤮
                  Getting 😤 but feeling lucky I didn’t have time to eat any
                  Won’t barf up on the laptop. Not done with you yet!”

                  #6387

                  In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

                  Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
                  Participant

                    Words from the Cloud prompted me to write a story:

                    song stayed act unexpected recall words spears bus learn king expected followed fright hot wore kianda picture walked playing coast dusty

                    Once upon a time, in a far-off land, there was a Song that stayed in the hearts of the people. The Song was about an Act of bravery and sacrifice that had taken place many years ago. But one day, an unexpected recall of the Song was issued by the king. He had heard that the Song was not being sung correctly, and he wanted to make sure that the true story was being told. The people were puzzled, as they had learned the Song from their ancestors and had always thought it was accurate. But they followed the king’s orders and set out to learn the correct version of the Song. As they began to recall the words, they realized that there were some discrepancies. They had always sung about the hero wielding a sword, but the true story spoke of him wielding Spears. They were taken aback, but they knew they had to correct the Song. So, they set out on a journey to retrace the hero’s steps.

                    As they traveled, they encountered unexpected challenges. They faced a bus that broke down, a coastline that was dusty and treacherous, and even a group of bandits. But they pressed on, determined to learn the truth.

                    As they approached the hero’s final battle, they felt a sense of dread. They had heard that the enemy was fierce, and they were not prepared for what they would find. But they followed the path and soon found themselves at the edge of a hot, barren wasteland.

                    The heroes wore their Kianda, traditional armor made of woven reeds, and stepped forward, ready for battle. But to their surprise, the enemy was nowhere to be found. Instead, they found a picture etched into the ground, depicting the hero and his enemy locked in a fierce battle.

                    The people walked around the picture, marveling at the detail and skill of the artist. And as they looked closer, they saw that the hero was holding Spears, not a sword. They realized that they had learned the true story, and they felt a sense of pride and gratitude.

                    With the Song corrected, they returned home, playing the new version for all to hear. And from that day on, the true story of the hero’s bravery and sacrifice was remembered, and the Song stayed in the hearts of the people forevermore.

                    #6366
                    ÉricÉric
                    Keymaster

                      Asking the AI to expand on the glossary of the original Circle of Eights Story:

                      Locations

                      Malvina’s Cave: A dark and damp cave located in the heart of the Gripshawk mountains, known for its population of Glukenitch creatures.

                      Lan’ork: A vast and diverse continent known for its Eastern Lagunas, home to the Indogo flamingos. Dragon Head Peninsula: A rugged and mountainous region, home to the Langoat creatures and also known for its rich deposits of dragon ore.

                      Asgurdy: A sprawling desert region, known for its nomadic tribes who use Saurhse as mounts for transportation.

                      Golfindely: An idyllic coastal region known for its beautiful beaches and crystal clear waters, home to the Golfindel and Grake creatures.

                      Magical Schools

                      Dragonian Magic: A form of magic that is practiced by Dragonriders and Dragon tamers, which involves the manipulation of dragon energy and bonding with dragon companions.

                      Gripshawk Magic: A form of magic that is practiced by Gripshawks, which involves the manipulation of the natural elements and telepathic communication with other creatures.

                      Ugling Magic: A form of magic that is practiced by Uglings, which involves the use of charms, spells, and potions to manipulate the physical world.

                      Guilds

                      Dragon Riders Guild: A prestigious guild of dragon riders, responsible for maintaining peace and order in the world by using their dragon companions for protection and transportation.

                      Gripshawk Hunters Guild: A guild of skilled hunters who specialize in hunting and capturing exotic creatures for various purposes.

                      Ugling Alchemists Guild: A guild of alchemists and potion makers, who create various potions and elixirs for medicinal and magical purposes.

                      Organizations

                      The Order of the Buntifluën: A secret organization dedicated to the study and use of Buntifluën artefacts for the betterment of communication and understanding between sentient beings.

                      The Glubolín Network: A network of individuals who possess Glubolín devices, used for communication and sharing information across long distances.

                      The Sabulmantium Society: A society of scholars and adventurers who study the properties and uses of Sabulmantium devices for divination and navigation.

                      Here are a few new invented terms with their potential IPA pronunciations and definitions that would fit in this fantasy world:

                      Dragons:

                      Krynn [ ˈkrĭn ] : A subspecies of dragon known for its ability to control and manipulate time.

                      Creatures:

                      Kelpies [ ˈkĕl-pēz ] : Aquatic creatures resembling horses, known for their ability to shape-shift and lure unsuspecting victims into the water.

                      Magical Artefacts:

                      Dragonwhisper [ ˈdrā-gən-ˌhwis-pər ] : An ancient and powerful magical artifact, which allows the user to communicate and control dragons telepathically.

                      Necrotalisman [ ˈnĕk-rə-ˈtā-lĭz-mən ] : A magical artifact in the shape of a talisman that grants its wielder the ability to control and summon the dead.

                      Plants:

                      Blightthorn [ ˈblīt-ˌthôrn ] : A poisonous plant known for its dark purple flowers and thorny stem, its extract is used in dark magic

                      Faeleaf [ ˈfā-ˌlēf ] : A rare plant found in the deep forest known for its bright green leaves, its extract is used in healing potions

                      Locations:

                      The Shadowland [ ˈshā-dō-ˌland ] : A mysterious and dangerous land overrun by dark magic and controlled by Necromancers.

                      The Hidden Vale [ ˈhī-dən-ˈvāl ] : A secluded valley located deep in the mountains, home to the reclusive Faeleaf plants.

                      Organization:

                      The Necromancers’ Circle [ ˈnĕk-rə-ˈmän-sər-z-ˈsər-kəl ] : A secret organization of powerful necromancers who seek to expand their control over death and the dead.

                      Here are a few more invented terms with their potential IPA pronunciations and definitions that fit in this fantasy world, having less to do with necromancy, and more with various forms of consciousness or energy manipulation, magical or mythical creatures or species:

                      Creatures:

                      Eterneon [ ˈē-tər-ˈnē-ən ] : A species of winged creatures known for their ability to manipulate and harness the energy of the stars, they are highly sought after by astromancers and star-gazers.

                      Psicon [ ˈsī-ˌkän ] : A species of psychic creatures, known for their ability to read minds and influence emotions.

                      Magical Artefacts:

                      Energyshield [ ˈen-ər-jē-ˌshēld ] : A magical artifact that creates a protective barrier around the user, deflecting or absorbing any kind of energy-based attacks.

                      Empathstone [ ˈĕm-pāth-ˈstōn ] : A small, glowing stone which allows the user to sense and control the emotions of others.

                      Magical Schools:

                      Energyshaping [ ˈen-ər-jē-ˌshāp-ing ] : A school of magic that involves the manipulation and control of various forms of energy.

                      Empathymagic [ ˈĕm-pā-thē-ˈmaj-ik ] : A school of magic that involves the manipulation of emotions and the ability to sense the emotions of others.

                      Locations:

                      Eternity’s Edge [ ˈē-tər-nə-tēz-ˈēj] : A remote and mysterious cliff located high in the mountains, known for its strong emanations of star energy and rumored to be home to a hidden community of Eterneons.

                      Psicon’s Den [ ˈsī-kän-z-ˈdĕn] : A secret cave system located deep within the forest, it is said to be home to a colony of Psicon creatures.

                      Organizations:

                      The Energists Guild [ ˈen-ər-jist-z-ˈgild] : A powerful guild of magic users specializing in Energyshaping magic.

                      The Empath Council [ ˈĕm-pāth-ˈkoun-səl]: A secretive group of Empathymagic users, dedicated to the study and control of emotions.

                       

                      #6362
                      ÉricÉric
                      Keymaster

                        write a short story based on the following cloud of words:

                        pride bet shouted lit wibberly case highly ours unless paid spend twice gay talking heads elizabeth in entries drink kill baker

                        :fleuron:

                        “Gay baker triumphs over adversity”

                        Once upon a time, there was a gay baker named Elizabeth who took a great deal of pride in her craft. She spent twice the amount of money on high-quality ingredients and put in extra effort to make her baked goods stand out from the rest. However, her small town was not particularly accepting of the LGBT community, and she often faced discrimination from her neighbors.

                        One day, a group of men from the town entered her bakery and began shouting homophobic slurs at her. Elizabeth, feeling hurt and humiliated, decided that she would not let their hateful words get to her. She refused to back down and instead, decided to put all of her energy into creating a spectacular cake for the annual county fair.

                        She worked tirelessly on the cake, putting in long hours and experimenting with new flavors and techniques. The day of the fair finally arrived and Elizabeth brought her entry to be judged. To her surprise and delight, her cake was declared the winner and she was awarded a blue ribbon.

                        As she stood on stage holding her ribbon, Elizabeth couldn’t help but think about the men who had shouted at her in her bakery. She realized that their words no longer had power over her and she felt a sense of vindication. She knew that she had proven to herself and to her community that she was a skilled baker and a worthy member of society, regardless of her sexual orientation.

                        Feeling elated, Elizabeth closed the bakery for the day and went to the local bar where she met her friends, and they all drinks together, she was happy and felt like nothing can bring her down, as she went back home she felt like a new person, someone who has overcome prejudice and discrimination, she felt like a winner not just in the fair but in life.

                        The end.

                        #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.”

                        #6286
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          Matthew Orgill and His Family

                           

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

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

                          LATE MATTHEW ORGILL PEACEFUL END TO A BLAMELESS LIFE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                           

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

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

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

                          Matthew Orgill window

                          Matthew orgill window 2

                           

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

                          Measham Wharf

                           

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

                          Old Measham wharf

                           

                          But what to make of the inscription in the window?

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

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

                           

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

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

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

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

                          Another Orgill Orgill marriage!

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

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

                          #6268
                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            From Tanganyika with Love

                            continued part 9

                            With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                            Lyamungu 3rd January 1945

                            Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Lyamungu 14 May 1945

                            Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Lyamungu 19th September 1945

                            Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

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

                            Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

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

                            Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

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

                            Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

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

                            Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Jacksdale England 24th June 1946

                            Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Jacksdale England 28th August 1946

                            Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Jacksdale England 20th September 1946

                            Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Dar es Salaam 22nd October 1946

                            Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Mbeya 1st November 1946

                            Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            #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.

                               

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