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  • #6453

    In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “What’s that?” he asked.

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

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

    #6448

    In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

    In the muggy warmth of the night, Yasmin tossed and turned on her bed. A small fan on the bedside table rattled noisily next to her but did little to dispel the heat. She kicked the thin sheet covering her to the ground, only to retrieve it and gather it tightly around herself when she heard a familiar sound.

    “You little shit,” she hissed, slapping wildly in the direction of the high pitched whine.

    She could make out the sound of a child crying in the distance and briefly considered  getting up to check before hearing quick footsteps pass her door. Sister Aliti was on duty tonight. She liked Sister Aliti with her soft brown eyes and wide toothy smile — nothing seemed to rattle her.  She liked all the Nuns, perhaps with the exception of Sister Finnlie.

    Sister Finnlie was a sharp faced woman who was obsessed with cleanliness and sometimes made the children cry for such silly little things … perhaps if they talked too loudly or spilled some crumbs on the floor at lunch time. “Let them be, Sister,” Sister Aliti would admonish her and Sister Finnlie would pinch her lips and make a huffing noise.

    The other day, during the morning reflection time when everyone sat in silent contemplation, Yasmin had found herself fixated on Sister Finnlie’s hands, her thin fingers tidily entwined on her lap. And Yasmin remembered a conversation with her friends online about AI creating a cleaning woman with sausage fingers. “Sometimes they look like a can of worms,” Youssef had said.

    And, looking at those fingers and thinking about Youssef and the others and the fun conversations they had, Yasmin snort laughed.

    She had tried to suppress it but the more she tried the more it built up inside of her until it exploded from her nose in a loud grunting noise. Sister Aliti had giggled but Sister Finnlie had glared at Yasmin and very pointedly rolled her eyes. Later, she’d put her on bin cleaning duty, surely the worst job ever, and Yasmin knew for sure it was pay back.

    #6416

    In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

    The team had to stop when a sandstorm hit them in the middle of the desert. They only had an hour drive left to reach the oasis where Lama Yoneze had been seen last and Miss Tartiflate insisted, like she always did, against the guides advice that they kept on going. She feared the last shaman would be lost in the storm, maybe croak stuffed with that damn dust. But when they lost the satellite dish and a jeep almost rolled down a sand dune, she finally listened to the guides. They had them park the cars close to each other, then checked the straps and urged everyone to stay in their cars until the storm was over.

    Youssef at first thought he was lucky. He managed to get into the same car as Tiff, the young intern he had discussed with the other day. But despite all their precautions, they couldn’t stop the dust to come in. It was everywhere and you had to kept your mouth and eyes shut if you didn’t want to grind your teeth with fine sand. So instead he enjoyed this unexpected respite from his trying to save THE BLOG from the evil Thi Gang, and from Miss Tartiflate’s continuous flow of criticism.

    The storm blew off the dish just after Xavier had sent him AL’s answer to the strange glyphs he had received on his phone. When Youssef read the message, he sighed. He had forgotten hope was an illusion. AL was in its infancy and was not a dead language expert. He gave them something fitting Youssef’s current location and the questions about famous alien dishes they asked him last week. It was just an old pot luck recipe from when the Silk Road was passing through the Gobi desert. He just hoped Xavier would have some luck until Youssef found a way to restore the connexion.

    #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!”

    #6377

    In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

    The four adventurers, Zara, Xavier, Yasmin, and Youssef, stood in awe in front of the giant orb that seemed to open up to another realm. The light emanating from the orb was so bright, it was as if the sun was just inches away. The stalactites that hung from the cave’s ceiling sparkled like diamonds in the light, adding to the otherworldly beauty of the scene.

    “Look around,” Yasmin said, her voice filled with wonder. “Beauty is everywhere. You only have to look to see it.”

    The group was ready for an adventure and they knew that the orb in front of them was the key to their mad journey. Xavier stepped forward and reached out to touch the orb. As soon as his fingers made contact with the surface, the orb lit up and a pathway formed, leading into the brightly lit realm.

    The group stepped through the pathway and found themselves in a world unlike anything they had ever seen before. The sky was a vibrant shade of purple and the ground was covered in a lush, green grass. The orb they had just passed through was now behind them, but in front of them were smaller orbs, each one leading to a different path.

    Zara, Xavier, Yasmin, and Youssef looked at each other with excitement in their eyes. They knew that this was just the beginning of their mad journey.

    Xavier stepped forward and reached out to touch the orb. As soon as his fingers made contact with the surface, the orb lit up and a pathway formed, leading into the brightly lit realm.

    :fleuron:

    They walked into a small village, where they were greeted by a group of people wearing clothes that looked like they were from the 1920s. The people told them that they were in the land of the “Quirks”, a place where everything and everyone was a little bit different, and that they had to find the “Key of Quirks” in order to leave the land.

    The four friends, Zara, Xavier, Yasmin, and Youssef, soon found themselves on a mission to find the “Key of Quirks” that would allow them to leave the land of the Quirks. As they walked through a forest, they came across a fork in the road.

    Zara, the leader of the group, turned to the others and said, “Alright, we need to decide which way to go. Yasmin, what’s the plan?”

    Yasmin, the brains of the group, replied, “I suggest we take the left path. According to the map I found, it leads to the Quirky Quests area, where we might find the key.”

    Xavier, the joker of the group, chimed in, “I vote for the right path. It’s the road less traveled, and you know what they say, ‘the road less traveled is the road to adventure’ ”

    Youssef, the muscle of the group, added, “I don’t care which way we go, I just want to find some food. I’m starving!”

    Zara rolled her eyes, “Xavier, your jokes are getting old. And Youssef, we’re on a mission, we can’t just focus on food.”

    Xavier grinned, “But Zaraloon, where’s the fun in that?”

    Yasmin interjected, “Can we please focus? We need to make a decision. I propose we split up, Zara and I will take the left path, and Xavier and Youssef can take the right path.”

    Youssef nodded, “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. That way, if we don’t find the key, at least we’ll have found some food.”

    Xavier grinned, “Sounds like a plan, Xavimunk is ready for adventure!”

    Zara shook her head with a smile, “Alright, let’s do this.”

    The group split up, and as they walked away, they could be heard playfully bantering and joking with each other. Each one exemplifying their unique and distinct characters.

    #6366
    EricEric
    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.

       

      #6284
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        To Australia

        Grettons

        Charles Herbert Gretton 1876-1954

        Charles Gretton, my great grandmothers youngest brother, arrived in Sydney Australia on 12 February 1912, having set sail on 5 January 1912 from London. His occupation on the passenger list was stockman, and he was traveling alone.  Later that year, in October, his wife and two sons sailed out to join him.

        Gretton 1912 passenger

         

        Charles was born in Swadlincote.  He married Mary Anne Illsley, a local girl from nearby Church Gresley, in 1898. Their first son, Leslie Charles Bloemfontein Gretton, was born in 1900 in Church Gresley, and their second son, George Herbert Gretton, was born in 1910 in Swadlincote.  In 1901 Charles was a colliery worker, and on the 1911 census, his occupation was a sanitary ware packer.

        Charles and Mary Anne had two more sons, both born in Footscray:  Frank Orgill Gretton in 1914, and Arthur Ernest Gretton in 1920.

        On the Australian 1914 electoral rolls, Charles and Mary Ann were living at 72 Moreland Street, Footscray, and in 1919 at 134 Cowper Street, Footscray, and Charles was a labourer.  In 1924, Charles was a sub foreman, living at 3, Ryan Street E, Footscray, Australia.  On a later electoral register, Charles was a foreman.  Footscray is a suburb of Melbourne, and developed into an industrial zone in the second half of the nineteenth century.

        Charles died in Victoria in 1954 at the age of 77. His wife Mary Ann died in 1958.

        Gretton obit 1954

         

        Charles and Mary Ann Gretton:

        Charles and Mary Ann Gretton

         

        Leslie Charles Bloemfontein Gretton 1900-1955

        Leslie was an electrician.   He married Ethel Christine Halliday, born in 1900 in Footscray, in 1927.  They had four children: Tom, Claire, Nancy and Frank. By 1943 they were living in Yallourn.  Yallourn, Victoria was a company town in Victoria, Australia built between the 1920s and 1950s to house employees of the State Electricity Commission of Victoria, who operated the nearby Yallourn Power Station complex. However, expansion of the adjacent open-cut brown coal mine led to the closure and removal of the town in the 1980s.

        On the 1954 electoral registers, daughter Claire Elizabeth Gretton, occupation teacher, was living at the same address as Leslie and Ethel.

        Leslie died in Yallourn in 1955, and Ethel nine years later in 1964, also in Yallourn.

         

        George Herbert Gretton 1910-1970

        George married Florence May Hall in 1934 in Victoria, Australia.  In 1942 George was listed on the electoral roll as a grocer, likewise in 1949. In 1963 his occupation was a process worker, and in 1968 in Flinders, a horticultural advisor.

        George died in Lang Lang, not far from Melbourne, in 1970.

         

        Frank Orgill Gretton 1914-

        Arthur Ernest Gretton 1920-

         

        Orgills

        John Orgill 1835-1911

        John Orgill was Charles Herbert Gretton’s uncle.  He emigrated to Australia in 1865, and married Elizabeth Mary Gladstone 1845-1926 in Victoria in 1870. Their first child was born in December that year, in Dandenong. They had seven children, and their three sons all have the middle name Gladstone.

        John Orgill was a councillor for the Shire of Dandenong in 1873, and between 1876 and 1879.

        John Orgill:

        John Orgill

         

        John Orgill obituary in the South Bourke and Mornington Journal, 21 December 1911:

        John Orgill obit

         

         

        John’s wife Elizabeth Orgill, a teacher and a “a public spirited lady” according to newspaper articles, opened a hydropathic hospital in Dandenong called Gladstone House.

        Elizabeth Gladstone Orgill:

        Elizabeth Gladstone Orgill

         

        On the Old Dandenong website:

        Gladstone House hydropathic hospital on the corner of Langhorne and Foster streets (153 Foster Street) Dandenong opened in 1896, working on the theory of water therapy, no medicine or operations. Her husband passed away in 1911 at 77, around similar time Dr Barclay Thompson obtained control of the practice. Mrs Orgill remaining on in some capacity.

        Elizabeth Mary Orgill (nee Gladstone) operated Gladstone House until at least 1911, along with another hydropathic hospital (Birthwood) on Cheltenham road. She was the daughter of William Gladstone (Nephew of William Ewart Gladstone, UK prime minister in 1874).

        Around 1912 Dr A. E. Taylor took over the location from Dr. Barclay Thompson. Mrs Orgill was still working here but no longer controlled the practice, having given it up to Barclay. Taylor served as medical officer for the Shire for before his death in 1939. After Taylor’s death Dr. T. C. Reeves bought his practice in 1939, later that year being appointed medical officer,

        Gladstone Road in Dandenong is named after her family, who owned and occupied a farming paddock in the area on former Police Paddock ground, the Police reserve having earlier been reduced back to Stud Road.

        Hydropathy (now known as Hydrotherapy) and also called water cure, is a part of medicine and alternative medicine, in particular of naturopathy, occupational therapy and physiotherapy, that involves the use of water for pain relief and treatment.

        Gladstone House, Dandenong:

        Gladstone House

         

         

        John’s brother Robert Orgill 1830-1915 also emigrated to Australia. I met (online) his great great grand daughter Lidya Orgill via the Old Dandenong facebook group.

        John’s other brother Thomas Orgill 1833-1908 also emigrated to the same part of Australia.

        Thomas Orgill:

        Thomas Orgill

         

        One of Thomas Orgills sons was George Albert Orgill 1880-1949:

        George Albert Orgill

         

        A letter was published in The South Bourke & Mornington Journal (Richmond, Victoria, Australia) on 17 Jun 1915, to Tom Orgill, Emerald Hill (South Melbourne) from hospital by his brother George Albert Orgill (4th Pioneers) describing landing of Covering Party prior to dawn invasion of Gallipoli:

        George Albert Orgill letter

         

        Another brother Henry Orgill 1837-1916 was born in Measham and died in Dandenong, Australia. Henry was a bricklayer living in Measham on the 1861 census. Also living with his widowed mother Elizabeth at that address was his sister Sarah and her husband Richard Gretton, the baker (my great great grandparents). In October of that year he sailed to Melbourne.  His occupation was bricklayer on his death records in 1916.

        Two of Henry’s sons, Arthur Garfield Orgill born 1888 and Ernest Alfred Orgill born 1880 were killed in action in 1917 and buried in Nord-Pas-de-Calais, France. Another son, Frederick Stanley Orgill, died in 1897 at the age of seven.

        A fifth brother, William Orgill 1842-   sailed from Liverpool to Melbourne in 1861, at 19 years of age. Four years later in 1865 he sailed from Victoria, Australia to New Zealand.

         

        I assumed I had found all of the Orgill brothers who went to Australia, and resumed research on the Orgills in Measham, in England. A search in the British Newspaper Archives for Orgills in Measham revealed yet another Orgill brother who had gone to Australia.

        Matthew Orgill 1828-1907 went to South Africa and to Australia, but returned to Measham.

        The Orgill brothers had two sisters. One was my great great great grandmother Sarah, and the other was Hannah.  Hannah married Francis Hart in Measham. One of her sons, John Orgill Hart 1862-1909, was born in Measham.  On the 1881 census he was a 19 year old carpenters apprentice.  Two years later in 1883 he was listed as a joiner on the passenger list of the ship Illawarra, bound for Australia.   His occupation at the time of his death in Dandenong in 1909 was contractor.

        An additional coincidental note about Dandenong: my step daughter Emily’s Australian partner is from Dandenong.

         

         

        Housleys

        Charles Housley 1823-1856

        Charles Housley emigrated to Australia in 1851, the same year that his brother George emigrated to USA.  Charles is mentioned in the Narrative on the Letters by Barbara Housley, and appears in the Housley Letters chapters.

         

        Rushbys

        George “Mike” Rushby 1933-

        Mike moved to Australia from South Africa. His story is a separate chapter.

        #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.

             

            #6265
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              From Tanganyika with Love

              continued  ~ part 6

              With thanks to Mike Rushby.

              Mchewe 6th June 1937

              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

              With much love,
              Eleanor.

              Mchewe 25th June 1937

              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

              Lots of love,
              Eleanor.

              Mchewe 9th July 1937

              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor

              Mchewe 8th October 1937

              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Mchewe 17th October 1937

              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Mchewe 18th November 1937

              My darling Ann,

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

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

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

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

              Mchewe 18th November 1937

              Hello George Darling,

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

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

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

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

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

              Mchewe 12th February, 1938

              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Mbulu 18th March, 1938

              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Mbulu 24th March, 1938

              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Mbulu 20th June 1938

              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Karatu 3rd July 1938

              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Karatu 12th July 1938

              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Oldeani. 19th July 1938

              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Oldeani. 10th August 1938

              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Oldeani. 20th August 1938

              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              Oldeani Hospital. 9th September 1938

              Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

              Eleanor.

              #6262
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                From Tanganyika with Love

                continued  ~ part 3

                With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                Mchewe Estate. 22nd March 1935

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                Very much love,
                Eleanor.

                Mchewe Estate. 14th June 1935

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                Just hold thumbs that all goes well.

                your loving but anxious,
                Eleanor.

                Mchewe Estate. 28th June 1935

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                Very much love to all,
                Eleanor.

                Mchewe Estate. 3rd August 1935

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                Lots and lots of love,
                Eleanor.

                Mchewe Estate. 20th August 1935

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                Who would be a mother!
                Eleanor

                Mchewe Estate. 20th September 1935

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                Mchewe Estate. 11th October 1935

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                Eleanor.

                Mchewe Estate. 17th October 1935

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Lots and lots of love,
                Eleanor.

                Mchewe Estate. 25th October 1935

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                Very much love from us all, Eleanor.

                Mchewe Estate. 8th November 1935

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                With love to all,
                Eleanor.

                Mchewe Estate. 21st November 1935

                Dearest Family,

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

                With love to all,
                Eleanor.

                Mchewe Estate. 6th December 1935

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                Eleanor

                Mchewe Estate. 22nd December 1935

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                Your very loving,
                Eleanor.

                Mchewe Estate. 2nd January 1936

                Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                With love to all,
                Eleanor.

                #6260
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  From Tanganyika with Love

                  With thanks to Mike Rushby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Much love my dear,
                  your jubilant
                  Eleanor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Bless you all,
                  Eleanor.

                  S.S.Timavo. 6th. November 1930

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor Leslie.

                  Eleanor and George Rushby:

                  Eleanor and George Rushby

                  Splendid Hotel, Dar es Salaam 11th November 1930

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Your cave woman
                  Eleanor.

                  Mchewe Estate. P.O. Mbeya 22 November 1930

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Much love to you all,
                  Eleanor.

                  Mchewe Estate 29th. November 1930

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Your loving
                  Eleanor.

                  Mchewe Estate. Mbeya. 8th December 1930

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Very much love,
                  Eleanor.

                  Mbeya 23rd December 1930

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                  26th December 1930

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

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

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

                  Lots and lots of love,
                  Eleanor.

                  Mchewe Estate 8th Jan 1931

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Your loving,
                  Eleanor.

                  Mchewe Estate. 1st April 1931

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                  Very much love,
                  Eleanor.

                  Mchewe Estate 20th April 1931

                  Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Mchewe Estate. 20th May 1931

                  Dear Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  #6214
                  AvatarJib
                  Participant

                    When Finnley got out of her full body bathing suit, Liz gaped at her.

                    “It appears your suit wasn’t that waterproof after all. You should have kept the receipt. Now you can’t ask for a refund.”

                    Finnley rolled her eyes while sending daggers. Liz caught them in extremis with her pen and put them down in writing at the end of her pink notebook for later reference. She thought maybe they could be an appropriate prop for the family betrayal she planned to write about in her next chapter. Daggers between the shoulder blades were always a nice effect.

                    “I don’t need a receipt, I ordered them online.”

                    “What do you mean? What does she mean Gordon? She looks so mad, she won’t answer me… and stop eating those bloody nuts. That’s not good for your cholesterol.”

                    “Actually that’s the reverse,” said Gordon.

                    “Stop eating them! I find the crunching noise and the movement of your tongue on your teeth disturbing.”

                    “She means she kept the email with the e-receipt. Knowing her she’s probably kept it in the trash for safekeeping.”

                    Finnley threw another pair of daggers.

                    “Ouch!” Gordon said.

                    “You deserved that,” said Liz. “You were mean. Now I need to talk to Godfrey. He’ll know the answers, he always know. Where is he?”

                    “Just behind you. I’m always behind you.”

                    “Don’t say that, it can be misinterpreted. Anyway, can you answer the question?”

                    “She kept the email with the e-receipt in her trash can. You know, it’s an internet thing. Like the writing workshop you asked me to help you organise.”

                    “Oh! I totally forgot about that.”

                    “You have 57 inscriptions. The chat session starts in 5, no 7 minutes. Should I be worried?”

                    “No you shouldn’t. Just do the typing for me please. You type faster than me, I’m still doing it with one finger, well two actually, now I can use both hands.”

                    “Okay, you’ll speak to me as if you were speaking to them and I shall write down your words faithfully.”

                    “You can do the speaking too, dear. Godfrey, you’ve known me for so long, you know better than me what I’m going to say.”

                    Liz looked at Finnley’s blue hands and turned back to Godfrey. “Oh, and before you do that, prepare some cucumbers slice, I need a power nap.”

                    #6201
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      “Go and put the kettle on while I think about this,” Liz instructed Finnley.  “A vacation is not a bad idea.  A change of air would do us good.  Perhaps a nice self catering cottage somewhere in the country…”

                      “Self catering? And who might that self be that would be doing the catering for you, Liz?”

                      “I was only thinking of you!” retorted Liz, affronted. “You might get bored in a fancy hotel with nothing to dust!”

                      “Try me!” snapped Finnley.  “You think you know me inside out, don’t you, but I’m just a story character to you, aren’t I? You don’t know me at all! Just the idea you have of a cleaner! I can’t take it anymore!”

                      “Oh for god’s sake stop blubbering, Finnley, no need to be so dramatic. Where would you like to go?”

                      “OH, I don’t know, Somewhere sunny and warm, with mountains and beaches, and not too many tourists.”

                      “Hah! Anywhere nice and warm with mountains and beaches is going to be packed with tourists. If you want a nice quiet holiday with no tourists you’d have to go somewhere cold and horrid.” Liz sniffed. “Everywhere nice in the world is stuffed with tourists. I know! How about a staycation?  We can stay right here and you can make us a nice picnic every day to eat on the lawn.”

                      “Fuck off, Liz,” snapped Finnley.

                      “I say, there is no need to be rude! I could sack you for that!”

                      “Yes but you won’t. Nobody else would work for you, and you know it.”

                      “Yes well there is that,” Liz had to admit, sighing. “Well then, YOU choose somewhere. You decide. I am putty in your sweaty hands, willing to bend to your every whim. Just to keep the peace.”

                      Finnley rolled her eyes and went to put the kettle on. Where DID she want to go, she wondered?   And would a holiday with Liz be any holiday at all?

                      #6198
                      F LoveF Love
                      Participant

                        “You were listening, Finnley!” said Liz barely able to hide her surprise. It had been a long time since anyone had listened to her. Godfrey said it was because she mostly talked nonsense. He’d smiled kindly and handed her a doughnut to soften the harsh words, but it had stung nonetheless.

                        Finnley rolled her eyes. “I told you already, I’ve turned over a new leaf. Since my brush with … ” She lowered her voice dramatically as her eyes slid around the room. “… death.”

                        “Death! Oh, you really are ridiculous and very dramatic, Finnley. And why are you squinting like that? It’s most unattractive.” Liz paused. Should she mention the hair? Finnley could be so sensitive about her appearance. Oh dear lord, now the silly girl is crying!

                        “I’m sorry, Madam. I’m sorry for all the times I haven’t listened to you in your numerous times of need.” Finnley gasped for air through her sobs as Liz flung a philodendron leaf at her.

                        “Speaking of leaves, you can wipe your nose with that. Now, Finnley, I always say, it does no good to cry over milk which has been spilled. The question is, where to from here?”

                        #6131

                        In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage

                        “It’s Thursday today,” remarked Star.

                        “Special subject the bloody obvious?” Tara replied rudely.   “You should be on Mastermind.”

                        “Well, we were wondering what we were going to do to pass the time until Thursday, and here we are. It’s Thursday!”

                        “Are you losing your marbles?”

                        “Actually it’s you losing your memory,” Star sighed.  “Remember the case?”

                        “What case?”

                        “The case we were working on!”

                        “Oh, that case! Well you can hardly expect me to remember that when it’s been such a strange week!” Tara was starting to get tearful and agitated.

                        “Look, Tara, the tests came back negative. You can stop worrying about it now.  We can go back to normal now and carry on. And just in time for the rendezvous at the cafe on Main Street.” Star patted Tara’s arm encouragingly.  “And what timing! If the results hadn’t come back yet, or we’d tested positive, we wouldn’t have been able to go to the cafe.”

                        “Well we could have gone and just not said anything about the tests,” sniffed Tara.  “Everyone else seems to be doing what they want regardless.”

                        “Yes, but we’re not as morally bankrupt as them,” retorted Star.

                        Tara giggled. “But we used to work for Madame Limonella.”

                        “That’s an entirely different kind of morals,” Star replied, but chose not to pursue the issue. She was relieved to see Tara’s mood lighten.  “What are you going to wear to the cafe?”

                        “Is it a fancy dress party? I could wear my plague doctor outfit.”

                        Star rolled her eyes. “No! We have to dress appropriately, something subtle and serious.  A dark suit perhaps.”

                        “Oh like my Ace of Spades T shirt?”

                        This is going nowhere fast, Star thought, but then had a revelation.  A moment later, she had forgotten what the revelation was when the door burst open.

                        “Ta Da!” shouted Rosamund, entering the office with two middle aged ladies in tow.  “I nabbed them both, they were lurking in the queue for the food bank! And I single handedly brought then back.  Can we talk about my bonus now?”

                        Both Tara and Star were frowning at the two unfamiliar ladies. “Yes but who are these two middle aged ladies?”

                        One of the ladies piped up, “She said you’d be taking us out for afternoon tea at a nice cafe!”

                        The other one added, “We haven’t eaten for days, we’re starving!”

                        “But neither of you is April!” exclaimed Tara.

                        The first middle aged lady said, “Oh no dear, it’s September. I’m quite sure of that.”

                        #6118

                        In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage

                        Star rolled her eyes. “Already done,” she said. “Based on what I saw, I believe Vincent French to be in New Zealand.”

                        “New Zealand!” exclaimed Tara. “That’s madness.”

                        Star took a slurp of her gin and tonic. “Also, the bellbird motif … that’s from over there, isn’t it?”

                        “God knows,” said Tara, “But we’ve got no other leads so New Zealand it is. Let’s ask filthy rich Auntie April for some travel funds.”

                        Star beamed at her and waved her arms towards the ceiling.”We have to be like clouds, Tara. Clouds never make mistakes. Isn’t that freeing?”

                        #6098
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          Liz usually rolled her eyes when anyone said “Do the math!” partly because the correct word was maths, not math, but mainly because, well,  she just wasn’t a maths sort of person.  But when the whale said this, she felt fortified and vindicated:

                          “On the 46,741 words which were written here, you have provided 19,821.
                          In other words, you have contributed towards 42.4 % of all words spoken on this thread.”

                          It remained to be seen what the results of her experimental shift in duties with Finnley would result in.  While surreptitiously dusting Finnley’s desk, Liz had noted the catalogues of holiday cottages prominently placed, and evidence of actual writing nowhere to be found.

                          Time would tell.

                          #6084
                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            Finnley!” Like prodded the sleeping lump. “Finnley, stop pretending to be asleep!”

                            Reluctantly Finnley rolled over, blinking in the glare of the torch Liz was shining at her, and came straight to the point.

                            “You forgot, didn’t you?”

                            “I did not forget!” Liz replied with a sniff. “If I’d forgotten I wouldn’t be here now, would I? Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to…” Liz started to sing.

                            “It’s four thirty in the morning, for god’s sake Liz, get out of my bedroom! You forgot!”

                            “You won’t be wanting your present then,” Liz flounced out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

                            #6077
                            AvatarJib
                            Participant

                              Finnley, stop pacing like that with that concerned look of yours, you make me dizzy. Is that too difficult a task to hire a secretary?”

                              Finnley rolled her eyes. “Not at all, Madam. I already found you a pearl.”

                              “You mean the perfect one for me?”

                              “No I mean, she’s called Pearl. She’ll start tomorrow. What concerns me is something else entirely. Something strange, if you ask me. But you never ask, so I’m telling you.”

                              “Well, this whole conversation started because I asked you.”

                              “You asked me because you thought it was related to your previous request.”

                              “Then tell me and stop brooding. It’s killing the mood.”

                              Finnley snorted. “If you want to know, someone is throwing things on the balcony. Children things. The other day I found that cheap toy to make soap bubbles. And then it was a small blue children’s plastic sand shovel. And today they dropped a red bucket.”

                              Liz tried to laugh, but it was more of a cackle. “Isn’t that Godfrey or Roberto playing with you?” she asked.

                              “I’ve asked Godfrey and I’m positive it’s not him because it’s driving him nut too. We asked Roberto because he’s been attempting to teach tricks to the dogs. A waste of time if you ask me, letting the garden going to the dogs,” she smirked.

                              “Then, was it Roberto and the dogs?”

                              “Not at all! We kept an eye on him while he was training the dogs. Nothing. But the objects keep coming. I’m telling you either we have a ghost or a portal to another dimension in this mansion.”

                              “That sounds like a nice idea,” said Liz, pouting at the possibilities.

                              “You wouldn’t say that if another you came into this thread.”

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