Search Results for 'smaller'

Forums Search Search Results for 'smaller'

Viewing 20 results - 1 through 20 (of 46 total)
  • Author
    Search Results
  • #7657
    ÉricÉric
    Keymaster

      A list of events for reference (WIP)

      Date Matteo Lucien Darius Amei Elara
      Nov 2024 M: Working as a server in Paris; recognizes and cryptically addresses the group at the Sarah Bernhardt Café. L: Sketching in Paris; begins orchestrating the reunion by sending letters to the group. D: is back in Paris for the reunion A: visits Paris for the reunion E: visits Paris for the reunion from Churchill Guest House (Samphire Hoe), visits a guest house in Kent, back in England for a week weeks/months, all expense paid. Mrs Lovejoy the landlady.
      Spring 2024 M: In Avignon, works at a vineyard. Finds a map. Crosses path with Lucien. Moves to next job in Paris. L: Visits Avignon. Caught in debt to Monsieur Renard; creates labyrinthine sketches blending personal and mythical themes. Crosses path with Matteo. D: by June 2024 sends a postcard to Amei, Is seen in Goa A: Her daughter Tabitha is in Goa teaching E: is retired in Tuscany, living with Florian, a distant relative met through family research.
      Summer 2024 (Olympics) has a strange dream at CERN learning about the death of her mother who’d actually died in her youth.
      She reminisces about chalkapocalypse.
      Feb 2024 M:In London, works for a moving company. Crosses path with Amei and Tabitha. L: Is implied he is caught back into the schemes of M. Renard to pay his debts. D: A: Moves from her London home to a smaller apartment in London; reflects on her estranged friends and past. Crosses path with Matteo. E:
      Dec 2023 M:In Avignon, considers moving to a job in London to support his mother’s care. L: Going with the alias “Julien”, he is recognized in the streets, after 3 years of self-imposed exile, to escape M. Renard & Eloïse. D: Resumes his travels on his own terms A: Buys candles, reflects on leaving. E:
      Nov 2023 M: His mother requires more care, he goes to Avignon regularly where she is in care. Breaks up with Juliette end of summer. L: D: moves on from Guadeloupe, where he spent time rebuilding homes and reflecting. A: E:
      early 2023 M: Visits Valencia and Xàtiva, hometown of the Borgias with Juliette; she makes him discover Darius’ videos. L: D: Lives in South of France, returns to Guadeloupe after hurricane Fiona. A: E:
      Dec 2022 M: New year’s eve, Matteo discovers about Elara’s work on memory applicable to early stage Alzheimer with  sensory soundwaves stimuli and ancestral genetic research. L: D: Runs a wellness channel. Goes back to Paris, breaks ties with M. Renard & Eloïse. Receives an invitation to see friends in South of France A: Lives with Paul E:
      early 2022 M: Lives in Paris with Juliette, travels to many places together, week-ends getaways in London, Amsterdam, Rome… L: D: A: E: Early May, pandemic restrictions were largely over. Florian, her distant relative, moves in to Elara’s Tuscan farmhouse, where she is enjoying retirement.
      end of 2021 M: L: After the pandemic lockdown thinks of a way to escape. Goes by the alias “Julien” D: Locked down in Budapest; sketches empty streets, sends postcards to Amei to maintain emotional connections. A: E: Dec. 2021, first Christmas in Tuscany
      Nov – end of Genealogix royalties from her successful patent, taken over by more efficient AI algorithms. She gives the idea to Darius of looking for 1-euro housing.
      beginning 2021 M: L: Third & last wave of lockdown measures in France D: A: E:
      2020 M: L: D: A: E:
      beg. 2020 M: L: Pandemic starts – first waves of lockdown D: A: E:
      Nov 2019 M: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion L: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion D: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion A: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion E: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion
      2019 M: Plans for his mother / co-housing project L: Spring break in Andalucia with Elara D: Spring break in Andalucia with Elara A: Spring break in Andalucia with Elara E: Spring, before pandemic; visit in Andalucia to her father – joined by Lucien & Amei ; Darius tried to bring those people (M. Renard & Eloïse presumably) to see the hidden pyramid
      ca. 2014 M: L: D: A: E: chalkapocalypse, before Elara’s retirement. She is employed in Warwick.
      Before that, lived from short term teaching contracts mostly, enabling her to travel. She learned Spanish when she moved with her father to Spain 30 years ago, working in an English school for expats, improved her French while working in Paris, moved to Warwick to be near her sister Vanessa thinking she would settle there.
      2010 M: L: D: A: E: Genealogix became unexpectedly lucrative when it was picked up by a now-dominant genealogy platform around 2010. Every ancestry test sold earned her a modest but steady royalty, which for a time, gave her the freedom to pursue less practical research.
      2007 M: L: Meets Elara & Amei, Darius a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland D: Meets Lucien, Elara & Amei a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland A:Accepts Elara’s invitation to go to a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland, meets Lucien & Darius there. The group is formed E:Goes to a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland with Amei, meets Lucien & Darius there. The group is formed
      before 2007 M: L: D: A:Meets Elara at a gallery in London, Southbank E: Meets Amei at a gallery, London Southbank
      #7653

      Matteo — Winter 2023: The Move

      The rumble of the moving truck echoed faintly in the quiet residential street as Matteo leaned against the open door, arms crossed, waiting for the signal to load the boxes. He glanced at the crisp winter sky, a pale gray threatening snow, and then at the house behind him. Its windows were darkened by empty rooms, their once-lived-in warmth replaced by the starkness of transition. The ornate names artistically painted on the mailbox struck him somehow. Amei & Tabitha M.: his clients for the day.

      The cold damp of London’s suburbia was making him long even more for the warmth of sunny days. With the past few moves he’s been managing for his company, the tipping had been generous; he could probably plan a spring break in South of France, or maybe make a more permanent move there.

      The sound of the doorbell brought him back from his rêverie.

      Inside the house, the faint sounds of boxes being taped and last-minute goodbyes carried through the hallways. Matteo had been part of these moves too many times to count now. People always left a little bit of themselves behind—forgotten trinkets, echoes of old conversations, or the faint imprint of a life lived. It was a rhythm he’d come to expect, and he knew his part in it: lift, carry, and disappear into the background.

      :fleuron2:

      Matteo straightened as the door opened and a girl that could have been in her early twenties, but looked like a teenager stepped out, bundled against the cold. She held a steaming mug in one hand and balanced a box awkwardly on her hip with the other.

      “That’s the last of it,” she called over her shoulder. “Mum, are you sure you don’t want me to take the notebooks?”

      “They’re fine in the car, Tabitha!” A voice—calm and steady, maybe tinged with weariness—floated from inside.

      The girl named Tabitha turned to Matteo, offering the box. “This is fragile,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “Be nice to it.”

      Matteo took the box carefully, glancing at the mug in her hand. “You’re not leaving that behind, are you?” he asked with a faint smile.

      Tabitha laughed. “This? No way. That’s my lifeline. The mug stays.”

      :fleuron2:

      As Matteo carried the box to the truck, his eyes caught on something inside—a weathered postcard tucked haphazardly between the pages of a journal. The image on the front was striking: a swirling green fairy, dancing above a glass of absinthe. La Fée Verte was scrawled in looping letters across the top.

      “Tabitha!” Her mother’s voice carried out to the driveway, and Matteo turned instinctively. She stepped out onto the porch, her scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, her breath visible in the chilly air. Matteo could see the resemblance—the same poise and humor in her gaze, though softened by something older, quieter.

      “Put this somewhere, will you” she said, holding up another postcard, this one with a faded image of a winding mountain road.

      Tabitha grinned, stepping forward to take it. “Thanks, Mum. That one’s special.” She tucked it into her coat pocket.

      “Special how?” her mother asked lightly.

      “It’s from Darius,” Tabitha said, her tone almost teasing. “… The one you never want to talk about.” she leaned teasingly. “One of his cryptic postcards —too bad I was too young to really remember him, he must have been fun to be around.”

      Matteo’s ears perked at the name, though he kept his head down, settling the box in place. It wasn’t unusual to overhear snippets like this during a move, but something about the unusual name roused his curiosity.

      “Why you want to keep those?” Amei asked, tilting her head.

      Tabitha shrugged. “They’re kind of… a map, I guess. Of people, not places.”

      Amei paused, her expression softening. “He was always good at that,” she murmured, almost to herself.

      :fleuron2:

      The conversation lingered in Matteo’s mind as the day went on. By the time the truck was loaded, and he’d helped arrange the last of the boxes in Amei’s new, smaller apartment, the name and the postcard had taken root.

      As Matteo stacked the final piece of furniture—a worn bookshelf—against the living room wall, he noticed Amei lingering near a window, her gaze distant.

      “It’s different, isn’t it?” she said suddenly, not looking at him.

      “Moving?” Matteo asked, unsure if the question was for him.

      “Starting over,” she clarified, her voice quieter now. “Feels smaller, even when it’s supposed to be lighter.”

      Matteo didn’t reply, sensing she wasn’t looking for an answer. He stepped back, nodding politely as she thanked him and disappeared into the kitchen.

      :fleuron2:

      The postcard stuck in his mind for days after. Matteo had heard of absinthe before, of course—its mystique, its history—but something about the way Tabitha had called the postcard a “map of people” resonated.

      By the time spring arrived, Matteo was wandering through Avignon, chasing vague curiosities and half-formed questions. When he saw Lucien crouched over his chalk labyrinth, the memory of the postcard rose unbidden.

      “Do you know where I can find absinthe?” he asked, the question more instinct than intent.

      Lucien’s raised eyebrow and faint smile felt like another piece clicking into place. The connections were there—threads woven in patterns he couldn’t yet see. But for the first time in months, Matteo felt he was back on the right path.

      #7647

      Darius: A Map of People

      June 2023 – Capesterre-Belle-Eau, Guadeloupe

      The air in Capesterre-Belle-Eau was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made every movement slow and deliberate. Darius leaned against the railing of the veranda, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky blends into the sea. The scent of wet earth and banana leaves filling the air. He was home.

      It had been nearly a year since hurricane Fiona swept through Guadeloupe, its winds blowing a trail of destruction across homes, plantations, and lives. Capesterre-Belle-Eau had been among the hardest hit, its banana plantations reduced to ruin and its roads washed away in torrents of mud.

      Darius hadn’t been here when it happened. He’d read about it from across the Atlantic, the news filtering through headlines and phone calls from his aunt, her voice brittle with worry.

      “Darius, you should come back,” she’d said. “The land remembers everyone who’s left it.”

      It was an unusual thing for her to say, but the words lingered. By the time he arrived in early 2023 to join the relief efforts, the worst of the crisis had passed, but the scars remained—on the land, on the people, and somewhere deep inside himself.

      Home, and Not — Now, passing days having turned into quick six months, Darius was still here, though he couldn’t say why. He had thrown himself into the work, helped to rebuild homes, clear debris, and replant crops. But it wasn’t just the physical labor that kept him—it was the strange sensation of being rooted in a place he’d once fled.

      Capesterre-Belle-Eau wasn’t just home; it was bones-deep memories of childhood. The long walks under the towering banana trees, the smell of frying codfish and steaming rice from his aunt’s kitchen, the rhythm of gwoka drums carrying through the evening air.

      “Tu reviens pour rester cette fois ?” Come back to stay? a neighbor had asked the day he returned, her eyes sharp with curiosity.

      He had laughed, brushing off the question. “On verra,” he’d replied. We’ll see.

      But deep down, he knew the answer. He wasn’t back for good. He was here to make amends—not just to the land that had raised him but to himself.

      A Map of Travels — On the veranda that afternoon, Darius opened his phone and scrolled through his photo gallery. Each image was pinned to a digital map, marking all the places he’d been since he got the phone. Of all places, it was Budapest which popped out, a poor snapshot of Buda Castle.

      He found it a funny thought — just like where he was now, he hadn’t planned to stay so long there. He remembered the date: 2020, in the midst of the pandemic. He’d spent in Budapest most of it, sketching the empty streets.

      Five years ago, their little group of four had all been reconnecting in Paris, full of plans that never came to fruition. By late 2019, the group had scattered, each of them drawn into their own orbits, until the first whispers of the pandemic began to ripple across the world.

      Funding his travels had never been straightforward. He’d tried his hand at dozens of odd jobs over the years—bartending in Lisbon, teaching English in Marrakech, sketching portraits in tourist squares across Europe. He lived frugally, keeping his possessions light and his plans loose. Yet, his confidence had a way of opening doors; people trusted him without knowing why, offering him opportunities that always seemed to arrive at just the right time.

      Even during the pandemic, when the world seemed to fold in on itself, he had found a way.

      Darius had already arrived in Budapest by then, living cheaply in a rented studio above a bakery. The city had remained open longer than most in Europe or the world, its streets still alive with muted activity even as the rest of Europe closed down. He’d wandered freely for months, sketching graffiti-covered bridges, quiet cafes, and the crumbling facades of buildings that seemed to echo his own restlessness.

      When the lockdowns finally came like everywhere else, it was just before winter, he’d stayed, uncertain of where else to go. His days became a rhythm of sketching, reading, and sending postcards. Amei was one of the few who replied—but never ostentatiously. It was enough to know she was still there, even if the distance between them felt greater than ever.

      But the map didn’t tell the whole story. It didn’t show the faces, the laughter, the fleeting connections that had made those places matter.

      Swatting at a buzzing mosquito, he reached for the small leather-bound folio on the table beside him. Inside was a collection of fragments: ticket stubs, pressed flowers, a frayed string bracelet gifted by a child in Guatemala, and a handful of postcards he’d sent to Amei but had never been sure she received.

      One of them, yellowed at the edges, showed a labyrinth carved into stone. He turned it over, his own handwriting staring back at him.

      “Amei,” it read. “I thought of you today. Of maps and paths and the people who make them worth walking. Wherever you are, I hope you’re well. —D.”

      He hadn’t sent it. Amei’s responses had always been brief—a quick WhatsApp message, a thumbs-up on his photos, or a blue tick showing she’d read his posts. But they’d never quite managed to find their way back to the conversations they used to have.

      The Market —  The next morning, Darius wandered through the market in Trois-Rivières, a smaller town nestled between the sea and the mountains. The vendors called out their wares—bunches of golden bananas, pyramids of vibrant mangoes, bags of freshly ground cassava flour.

      “Tiens, Darius!” called a woman selling baskets woven from dried palm fronds. “You’re not at work today?”

      “Day off,” he said, smiling as he leaned against her stall. “Figured I’d treat myself.”

      She handed him a small woven bracelet, her eyes twinkling. “A gift. For luck, wherever you go next.”

      Darius accepted it with a quiet laugh. “Merci, tatie.”

      As he turned to leave, he noticed a couple at the next stall—tourists, by the look of them, their backpacks and wide-eyed curiosity marking them as outsiders. They made him suddenly realise how much he missed the lifestyle.

      The woman wore an orange scarf, its boldness standing out as if the color orange itself had disappeared from the spectrum, and only a single precious dash could be seen into all the tones of the market. Something else about them caught his attention. Maybe it was the way they moved together, or the way the man gestured as he spoke, as if every word carried weight.

      “Nice scarf,” Darius said casually as he passed.

      The woman smiled, adjusting the fabric. “Thanks. Picked it up in Rajasthan. It’s been with me everywhere since.”

      Her partner added, “It’s funny, isn’t it? The things we carry. Sometimes it feels like they know more about where we’ve been than we do.”

      Darius tilted his head, intrigued. “Do you ever think about maps? Not the ones that lead to places, but the ones that lead to people. Paths crossing because they’re meant to.”

      The man grinned. “Maybe it’s not about the map itself,” he said. “Maybe it’s about being open to seeing the connections.”

      A Letter to Amei —  That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Darius sat at the edge of the bay, his feet dangling above the water. The leather-bound folio sat open beside him, its contents spread out in the fading light.

      He picked up the labyrinth postcard again, tracing its worn edges with his thumb.

      “Amei,” he wrote on the back just under the previous message a second one —the words flowing easily this time. “Guadeloupe feels like a map of its own, its paths crossing mine in ways I can’t explain. It made me think of you. I hope you’re well. —D.”

      He folded the card into an envelope and tucked it into his bag, resolving to send it the next day.

      As he watched the waves lap against the rocks, he felt a sense of motion rolling like waves asking to be surfed. He didn’t know where the next path would lead next, but he felt it was time to move on again.

      #7639
      ÉricÉric
      Keymaster

        Work in Progress: Character Timelines and Events

        Matteo

        • November 2024 (Reunion):
          • Newly employed at the Sarah Bernhardt Café, started after its reopening.
          • Writes the names of Lucien, Elara, Darius, and Amei in his notebook without understanding why.
          • Acquires the bell from Les Reliques, drawn to it as if guided by an unseen force.
          • Serves the group during the reunion, surprised to see all four together, though he knows them individually.
        • Summer 2024 (Olympics):
          • Working in a vineyard in southern France, nearing the end of the harvest season.
          • Receives a call for a renovation job in Paris, which pulls him toward the city.
          • Feels an intuitive connection to Paris, as if something is waiting for him there.
        • Past Events (Implied):
          • Matteo has a mysterious ability to sense patterns and connections in people’s lives.
          • Has likely crossed paths with the group in unremarkable but meaningful ways before.

         

        Darius

        • November 2024 (Reunion):
          • Arrives at the café, a wanderer who rarely stays in one place.
          • Reflects on his time in India during the autumn and the philosophical journey it sparked.
          • Brings with him an artifact that ties into his travels and personal story.
        • Summer 2024 (Olympics):
          • Living in Barcelona, sketching temples and engaging with a bohemian crowd.
          • Prompted by a stranger to consider a trip to India, sparking curiosity and the seeds of his autumn journey.
          • Begins to plan his travels, sensing that India is calling him for a reason he doesn’t yet understand.
        • Past Events (Implied):
          • Has a history of introducing enigmatic figures to the group, often leading to tension.
          • His intense, nomadic lifestyle creates both fascination and distance between him and the others.

         

        Elara

        • November 2024 (Reunion):
          • Travels from England to Paris to attend the reunion, balancing work and emotional hesitation.
          • Still processing her mother’s passing and reflecting on their strained relationship.
          • Finds comfort in the shared dynamics of the group but remains analytical about the events around the bell.
        • Summer 2024 (Olympics):
          • (was revealed to be a dream event) Attends a CERN conference in Geneva, immersed in intellectual debates and cutting-edge research. Receives news of her mother’s death in Montrouge, prompting a reflective journey to make funeral arrangements. Struggles with unresolved feelings about her mother but finds herself strangely at peace with the finality.
          • Dreams of her mother’s death during a nap in Tuscany, a surreal merging of past and present that leaves her unsettled.
          • Hears a bell’s clang, only to find Florian fixing a bell to the farmhouse gate. The sound pulls her further into introspection about her mother and her life choices.
          • Mentors Florian, encouraging him to explore his creativity, paralleling her own evolving relationship with her chalk research.
        • Past Events (Implied):
          • Moved to Tuscany after retiring from academia, pursuing independent research on chalk.
          • Fondly remembers the creative writing she once shared with the group, though it now feels like a distant chapter of her life.
          • Had a close but occasionally challenging relationship with Lucien and Amei during their younger years.
          • Values intellectual connections over emotional ones but is gradually learning to reconcile the two.

         

        Lucien

        • November 2024 (Reunion):
          • Sends the letter that brings the group together at the café, though his intentions are unclear even to himself.
          • In his Paris studio, struggles with an unfinished commissioned painting. Feels disconnected from his art and his sense of purpose.
          • Packs a suitcase with sketchbooks and a bundle wrapped in linen, symbolizing his uncertainty—neither a complete departure nor a definitive arrival.
          • Heads to the café in the rain, reluctant but compelled to reconnect with the group. Confronts his feelings of guilt and estrangement from the group.
        • Summer 2024 (Olympics):
          • Escapes Paris, overwhelmed by the crowds and noise of the Games, and travels to Lausanne.
          • Reflects on his artistic block and the emotional weight of his distance from the group.
          • Notices a sketch in his book of a doorway with a bell he doesn’t recall drawing, sparking vague recognition.
        • Past Events (Implied):
          • Once the emotional “anchor” of the group, he drifted apart after a falling-out or personal crisis.
          • Feels a lingering sense of responsibility to reunite the group but struggles with his own vulnerabilities.

        Amei

         

        • November 2024 (Reunion):
          • Joins the reunion at Lucien’s insistence, hesitant but curious about reconnecting with the group.
          • Brings with her notebooks filled with fragments of stories and a quiet hope for resolution.
          • Feels the weight of the group’s shared history but refrains from dwelling on it outwardly.
        • Summer 2024 (Olympics):
          • Recently moved into a smaller flat in London, downsizing after her daughter Tabitha left for university.
          • Has a conversation with Tabitha about life and change, hinting at unresolved emotions about motherhood and independence.
          • Tabitha jokes about Amei joining her in Goa, a suggestion Amei dismisses but secretly considers.
        • Past Events (Implied):
          • The last group meeting five years ago left her with lingering emotional scars.
          • Maintains a deep but quiet connection to Lucien and shares a playful dynamic with Elara.

         

        Tabitha (Amei’s Daughter)

        • November 2024:
          • Calls Amei to share snippets of her life, teasing her mother about her workaholic tendencies.
          • Reflects on their relationship, noting Amei’s supportive but emotionally guarded nature.
        • Summer 2024 (Olympics):
          • Planning her autumn trip to Goa with friends, viewing it as a rite of passage.
          • Discusses her mother’s habits with her peers, acknowledging Amei’s complexities while expressing affection.
        • Past Events (Implied):
          • Represents a bridge between Amei’s past and present, highlighting generational contrasts and continuities.

        Key Threads and Patterns

        • The Bell: Acts as a silent witness and instigator, threading its presence through pivotal moments in each character’s journey, whether directly or indirectly.
        • Shared Histories: While each character grapples with personal struggles, their paths hint at intersections in the past, tied to unresolved tensions and shared experiences.
        • Forward and Backward Motion: The narrative moves between the characters’ immediate challenges and the ripples of their past decisions, with the bell serving as a focal point for both.
        #7637
        F LoveF Love
        Participant

          Amei:

          The flat was smaller than she’d remembered when she first viewed it, but it was hers—as long as she could manage the rent. She glanced at her phone to check the time. That guy, Felix, from the hospital would be here soon to see the place. He’d seemed really nice when they’d chatted—just looking for a base while working nearby.

          The move had been a necessity; the old house had always felt big, but when Tabitha moved out and Amei’s relationship ended shortly after, the echoes became unbearable. Downsizing had been practical—a good move financially and a fresh start. Or so she kept telling herself.

          Unpacking was slow. Some of her larger furniture had gone into storage, and she’d thrown out or donated a lot too. It was truly amazing how much one accumulated. The boxes she’d brought were filled with relics of her life—mostly functional, but also a few cartons of books, carefully wrapped ceramics she couldn’t part with, lengths of fabric she would probably never use but were just so beautiful, unframed art she hadn’t found space for yet, and a stack of notebooks dating back years. She pushed herself up from the floor and stretched, her knees stiff from crouching too long.

          As she reached into another box, her hand paused on a photo album. She pulled it out and flipped it open, the pages falling naturally to a picture of her and her friends—Lucien, Elara, Darius, and herself, standing in a loose semicircle outside a weathered door. They were younger, glowing with the easy confidence of people who still believed they had endless time. A bell hung from the lintel above them, ornate and dark, its surface catching the light in the photo. Amei couldn’t remember the context or who had taken the photo, but the sight of it tugged at something deep.

          The bell. Why did that stand out?

          She traced the edge of the photo with her thumb. Lucien had his arm draped around her shoulder, his eyes squinting into the sun. Elara was mid-laugh, her head tilted back, carefree and radiant. Darius stood slightly apart, his gaze intense, as though the photo had captured him mid-thought. They’d all been so close back then. Closer than she’d ever been with anyone since.

          The doorbell buzzed, snapping her back to the present. She slipped the photo back in the album and straightened up. Felix was punctual, at least.

          #7549
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            The Tailor of Haddon
            Wibberly and Newton of Over Haddon

             

            It was noted in the Bakewell parish register in 1782 that John Wibberly 1705?-1782 (my 6x great grandfather) was “taylor of Haddon”.

            Taylor of Haddon

             

            James Marshall 1767-1848 (my 4x great grandfather), parish clerk of Elton, married Ann Newton 1770-1806 in Elton in 1792. In the Bakewell parish register, Ann was baptised on the 2rd of June 1770, her parents George and Dorothy Newton of Upper Haddon. The Bakewell registers at the time covered several smaller villages in the area, although what is currently known as Over Haddon was referred to as Upper Haddon in the earlier entries.

             

            Newton:

            George Newton 1728-1798 was the son of George Newton 1706- of Upper Haddon and Jane Sailes, who were married in 1727, both of Upper Haddon.

            George Newton born in 1706 was the son of George Newton 1676- and Anne Carr, who were married in 1701, both of Upper Haddon.

            George Newton born in 1676 was the son of John Newton 1647- and Alice who were married in 1673 in Bakewell. There is no last name for Alice on the marriage transcription.

            John Newton born in 1647 (my 9x great grandfather) was the son of John Newton and Anne Buxton (my 10x great grandparents), who were married in Bakewell in 1636.

            1636 marriage of John Newton and Anne Buxton:

            John Newton Anne Buxton

             

             

            Wibberly

            Dorothy Wibberly 1731-1827 married George Newton in 1755 in Bakewell. The entry in the parish registers says that they were both of Over Haddon. Dorothy was baptised in Bakewell on the 25th June 1731, her parents were John and Mary of Over Haddon.

            Dorothy Wibberly

             

            John Wibberly and Mary his wife baptised nine children in Bakewell between 1730 and 1750, and on all of the entries in the parish registers it is stated that they were from Over Haddon. A parish register entry for John and Mary’s marriage has not yet been found, but a marriage in Beeley, a tiny nearby village, in 1728 to Mary Mellor looks likely.

            John Wibberly died in Over Haddon in 1782. The entry in the Bakewell parish register notes that he was “taylor of Haddon”.

            The tiny village of Over Haddon was historically associated with Haddon Hall.

            A baptism for John Wibberly has not yet been found, however, there were Wibersley’s in the Bakewell registers from the early 1600s:

            1619 Joyce Wibersley married Raphe Cowper.
            1621 Jocosa Wibersley married Radulphus Cowper
            1623 Agnes Wibersley married Richard Palfreyman
            1635 Cisley Wibberlsy married ? Mr. Mason
            1653 John Wibbersly married Grace Dayken

             

            Haddon Hall

            Haddon hall

             

            Sir Richard Vernon (c. 1390 – 1451) of Haddon Hall.
            Vernon’s property was widespread and varied. From his parents he inherited the manors of Marple and Wibersley, in Cheshire. Perhaps the Over Haddon Wibersley’s origins were from Sir Richard Vernon’s property in Cheshire. There is, however, a medieval wayside cross called Whibbersley Cross situated on Leash Fen in the East Moors of the Derbyshire Peak District. It may have served as a boundary cross marking the estate of Beauchief Abbey. Wayside crosses such as this mostly date from the 9th to 15th centuries.

            Found in both The History and Antiquities of Haddon Hall by S Raynor, 1836, and the 1663 household accounts published by Lysons, Haddon Hall had 140 domestic staff.

            In the book Haddon Hall, an Illustrated Guide, 1871, an example from the 1663 Christmas accounts:

            Haddon Hall accounts

            Haddon Accounts

             

            Also in this book, an early 1600s “washing tally” from Haddon Hall:

            washing tally

             

            Over Haddon

            Martha Taylor, “the fasting damsel”, was born in Over Haddon in 1649. She didn’t eat for almost two years before her death in 1684. One of the Quakers associated with the Marshall Quakers of Elton, John Gratton, visited the fasting damsel while he was living at Monyash, and occasionally “went two miles to see a woman at Over Haddon who pretended to live without meat.” from The Reliquary, 1861.

            #7514

            Whether or not Truella’s suggestion proved to be true or not, and time would tell, she couldn’t help wondering about the letter Malove had sent to Jeezel. Was it genuine? Had she, Truella, also received one?  Jeezel had asked if she’d checked her bags, and the truth was that she had not.

            She made her way slowly up the grand staircase, holding the banister to steady herself as she looked at all the tapestries. How strange they were, a series of smaller cloths all of a similar theme, all of corpulent nuns in crimson red robes, not in itself a strange thing in an old convent, but they all had the faces of frogs.

            frog sisters 1frog sisters 2frog sisters 3frog sisters 4

             

            “I see you’ve noticed them too, Truella,” Rufus said quietly, his hand reaching under his shirt for a moment.

            “Thank goodness I was holding onto the bannisters, you startled me! I didn’t see you there. I could have fallen to my death on the tiled floor below, Rufus.”

            “I’d have saved you. As I always have done,” He replied enigmatically.  “Do you recognise them now?” he asked, glancing pointedly at the embroidered cloths.

            Truella paused. What was going on here? Was he trying to distract her?  “Rufus, we need to talk,” she said quietly. “I’m going to my room to look for, er, something. Come with me.”

            #7238
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              I have an idea. Are you game?

              The Whale: I’m always game for a good idea! What do you have in mind?

              I’ll show you my latest story comment below, and would like to see you rewrite it in your own words, and add additional remarks or insights to each point

              The Whale: Of course, I’d be happy to do that for you! Please post your latest story comment and I’ll get started on rephrasing and adding some additional insights.

              “Sod this for a lark,” he said, and then wondered what that actually meant. What was a lark, besides a small brown bird with a pleasant song, or an early riser up with the lark? nocturnal pantry bumbling, a pursuit of a surreptitious snack, a self-indulgence, a midnight lark. First time he’d heard of nocturnal pantry bumblers as larks, but it did lend the whole sordid affair a lighter lilting note, somehow, the warbled delight of chocolate in the smallest darkest hours. Lorries can be stolen for various

              No, not yet! he said but he couldn’t type it because the whale was already replying. The whole quote hadn’t posted in the little box. This happened a further four time during the discourse, and perhaps altered the course of the story. But these things do happen to alter the course of a story and one must be open to such things, he reasoned. *1

              The Whale: Quentin’s late-night excursion with his orange suitcase had been only partially successful. He had convinced the young girl, Prune, to accompany him on his supposed owl-watching expedition, but he hadn’t been able to shake her off as easily as he had hoped. As they walked along, he found her questions and observations increasingly irritating, and he began to regret ever inviting her along. Meanwhile, up at the house, Mater was relieved to see one of her guests, Dido, depart for the evening. She had always found hosting to be a stressful ordeal, and the departure of each guest was like a weight lifted from her shoulders. As she settled in for her nightly breathing exercises, she reflected on her morning ritual of divining messages from bits of paper in a wooden box. Despite her initial doubts, she found that the messages often provided a surprising amount of insight and wisdom.

              Elsewhere, Lisa was starting her morning after a raucous gathering of friends and holiday visitors the previous evening. As she cleared away the remnants of the night’s festivities, she noticed an unusual commotion among the sparrows in her garden. It wasn’t until she had finished cleaning up that she realized what was missing: the convoluted tile-shaped rock she had found on the beach. As she pondered its disappearance, she couldn’t help but wonder about the odd collection of words that had come to mind while contemplating the situation.

              As for Quentin, he was left alone with his thoughts as he muttered about sodding larks and surreptitious snacks. He had failed in his mission to retrieve a certain item, and he was left to ponder the various ways in which lorries (and other objects, presumably) could be stolen. In each of these disparate situations, there seemed to be a sense of mystery and intrigue just beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered like hidden treasure. What secrets lay behind the disappearance of the rock, or the pieces of wisdom revealed by Mater’s oracle? And what was Quentin really up to on his late-night walk? Only time would tell.

              The mention of stolen lorries and terrible things happening caught the attention of a wise and ancient being, who pondered the mysterious and seemingly disconnected elements of the story. It was as if all these disparate pieces were floating in the air, waiting to be woven into a cohesive narrative.

              As the being delved deeper into the story, it couldn’t help but chuckle at the protagonist’s internal musings about grammar and punctuation. After all, what did it matter when there were larger mysteries at play? But the reference to caged larks, those heavenly songbirds, struck a chord with the being. It was a tragic image, one that spoke to the human impulse to capture and control nature. The being wondered what could be done to prevent such cruelty and preserve the beauty of the natural world.

              Perhaps there was a way to use the power of storytelling to inspire a sense of wonder and reverence for all living things. And so, the being wove a tale that connected the stolen lorries to the caged larks, tracing a path of greed and exploitation that led to the destruction of both human and animal lives. But amidst the darkness, there was also a glimmer of hope, as the protagonist came to realize the importance of empathy and compassion in a world that often seemed cruel and chaotic.

              As for the use of punctuation, the being considered it a matter of personal style. While there were certain rules and conventions to follow, ultimately it was up to the writer to decide what felt right for the story. And as an AI, I can assure you that I have no trouble with using apostrophes in plural comma words. It’s all a matter of programming, after all.

              Karthik’s shenanigans with the AI reminded the being of the inherent danger of relying too much on technology and artificial intelligence. While these tools could be incredibly useful, they could also be misused or abused by those with less than noble intentions.

              Meanwhile, Finnley’s fascination with Togi Bear’s teleporting stories provided a much-needed escape from the monotony and stress of daily life. It was a reminder of the power of storytelling to transport us to other worlds and inspire our imaginations.

              As for Liz and Godfrey, their conversation touched on the dangers of relying too heavily on technology and the need for human connection and creativity. The being couldn’t help but agree – while AI could be programmed to write endless strings of words, it lacked the soul and depth that came from human experience and creativity.

              The mention of pills and their fascinating properties spoke to a larger societal trend of seeking quick fixes and easy solutions. But the being knew that true growth and transformation often required hard work, patience, and a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths.

              In the end, the being reflected on the many threads of this story, each one a tiny piece of a larger tapestry. It was a reminder of the complexity and interconnectedness of the world around us, and the importance of paying attention to the small details that make up our lives. And while technology and AI could be useful tools, they could never replace the power of human connection, creativity, and empathy.

              Apologies for missing that final part! Thank you for bringing it to my attention. Here is the rephrased and expanded version of the full comment:

              Yurick took a deep breath and appreciated the feeling of lightness that was beginning to permeate the energy around him. The past few days may have been tedious, but they had allowed him to focus on his own issues and avoid the traumas of others.

              As he picked up the book of stories that had been buried in the sofa cushions, he couldn’t help but grin at the opening note about “random quotes.” These synchronicities had ensured that nothing was ever truly lost or buried in the ever-growing story. Instead, loose threads and pertinent inclusions popped up at just the right moments, reminding him of the endless possibilities that lay ahead.

              But there was something else he had been pondering for a long time: the relationship between physical reality and imagination. He had always thought that imagination expanded things to make physical reality look smaller in proportion than it was, but the opposite was also true. Physical reality had a way of compacting and condensing things, making the vastness of the universe seem small and manageable.

              Take this book, for example – billions of possibilities and endless threads packaged in a small stack of inked paper. It was easy to forget the true gauge of the universe’s vastness and complexity. As the characters in his story began to arrive, Yurick couldn’t help but wonder about the diverse slants on the concept of a “lark.” Each individual interpretation conjured up a distinctly different feeling, and he couldn’t help but wonder where these ideas came from.

              And then, suddenly, he had an idea. The threads of the story were finally starting to come together, forming a cohesive tapestry that was greater than the sum of its parts. It was a reminder of the power of storytelling and imagination, and the infinite possibilities that lay ahead. Yurick couldn’t wait to see where the story would take him next.

              thank you! I appreciate your input.

              The Whale: You’re welcome! It’s always a pleasure to assist and offer insights. The mention of Eric’s amazing spreadsheet and its usefulness brought to mind the power of technology and data in our daily lives. Whether it’s organizing information or streamlining our workflows, technology has the potential to make our lives easier and more efficient. Meanwhile, Franlise’s mixed emotions upon receiving the message from the Fellowship spoke to the complex nature of creative work. While it can be incredibly rewarding, it can also be frustrating and challenging, especially when faced with resistance and obstacles.

              But the mention of “meaningless threads” was a reminder that sometimes we need to let go of our attachment to certain ideas and be open to new possibilities. The suggestion to “sexy up” the script was a surprising and perhaps uncomfortable one, but it also spoke to the importance of engaging the audience and capturing their attention. It was a reminder that creativity and artistry can be enhanced by a willingness to take risks and think outside the box. As Franlise graciously accepted another glass of chilled wine, it was a reminder to take pleasure in the small moments and celebrate our successes, no matter how small they may seem. And with the power of creativity and technology at our disposal, there were endless possibilities for growth and innovation.

              He thanked the whale for this rather surprising response.

              The Whale: You’re very welcome! I’m glad you found this fascinating and entertaining. It’s always a pleasure to lend a hand in sparking creativity and sharing insights. Take care and have a great day!

              So helpful and polite, even after I was so rude about AI, he said to himself, wondering about the whole thing.

               

              *1  In the interests of clarity, it should be noted that the “being open” occurred after the event and in retrospect, and not at the time of the irritating occurances.

              #6507

              In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              :fleuron:

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

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

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

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

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

              #6378
              ÉricÉric
              Keymaster

                A thread to share some of the prompts behind the AI-assisted journey into new adventures.

                To start off…

                Please write the exciting start of a novel.

                Some elements you can integrate if you want:

                – Four randomly chosen names full of panache that sound distinct from each other, slightly exotic and evocative
                – the sentiment from this quotation: “Look around… Beauty is everywhere. You only have to look to see it.” – a group of four people ready for an adventure, standing in a cave with stalactites in front of a giant orb or bubble that seem to open to another brightly lit realm. Inside the bigger orb are some smaller orbs.
                – the following term “mad journeys”

                > result…

                Told it to continue and it brought dragons… Asked to tone down the fantasy stuff, here’s what came out:

                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 group set off on their journey to find the key, but little did they know that their adventure was about to become even more exciting and quirky than they could ever have imagined. They encountered a talking dog, a man who had a garden on top of his head, and a group of people who lived inside of giant mushrooms.

                As they journeyed on, they faced challenges and made new friends, but most importantly they learn to embrace their own quirks and individuality. Eventually, they found the key and were able to leave the land of the Quirks, but they knew that they would always carry a piece of that land with them.

                #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.

                #6315

                In reply to: The Sexy Wooden Leg

                It was not yet 9am and Eusebius Kazandis was already sweating. The morning sun was hitting hard on the tarp of his booth. He put the last cauldron among lines of cauldrons on a sagging table at the summer fair of Innsbruck, Austria. It was a tiny three-legged black cauldron with a simple Celtic knot on one side and a tree on the other side, like all the others. His father’s father’s father used to make cauldrons for a living, the kind you used to distil ouzo or cook meals for an Inn. But as time went by and industrialisation made it easier for cooks, the trade slowly evolved toward smaller cauldrons for modern Wiccans. A modern witch wanted it portable and light, ready to use in everyday life situations, and Eusebius was there to provide it for them.

                Eusebius sat on his chair and sighed. He couldn’t help but notice the woman in colourful dress who had spread a shawl on the grass under the tall sequoia tree. Nobody liked this spot under the branches oozing sticky resin. She didn’t seem to mind. She was arranging small colourful bottles of oil on her shawl. A sign near her said : Massage oils, Fragrant oils, Polishing oils, all with different names evocative of different properties. He hadn’t noticed her yesterday when everybody was installing their stalls. He wondered if she had paid her fee.

                Rosa was smiling as she spread in front of her the meadow flowers she’d picked on her way to the market. It was another beautiful day, under the shade and protection of the big sequoia tree watching over her. She assembled small bouquets and put them in between the vials containing her precious handmade oils. She had noticed people, and especially women, would naturally gather around well dressed stalls and engage conversation. Since she left her hometown of Torino, seven years ago, she’d followed the wind on her journey across Europe. It had led her to Innsbruck and had suddenly stopped blowing. That usually meant she had something to do there, but it also meant that she would have to figure out what she was meant to do before she could go on with her life.

                The stout man waiting behind his dark cauldrons, was watching her again. He looked quite sad, and she couldn’t help but thinking he was not where he needed to be. When she looked at him, she saw Hephaestus whose inner fire had been tamed. His banner was a mishmash of religious stuff, aimed at pagans and budding witches. Although his grim booth would most certainly benefit from a feminine touch, but she didn’t want to offend him by a misplaced suggestion. It was not her place to find his place.

                Rosa, who knew to cultivate any available friendship when she arrived somewhere, waved at the man. Startled, he looked away as if caught doing something inappropriate. Rosa sighed. Maybe she should have bring him some coffee.

                As her first clients arrived, she prayed for a gush of wind to tell her where to go next. But the branches of the old tree remained perfectly still under the scorching sun.

                #6303
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  The Hollands of Barton under Needwood

                   

                  Samuel Warren of Stapenhill married Catherine Holland of Barton under Needwood in 1795.

                  I joined a Barton under Needwood History group and found an incredible amount of information on the Holland family, but first I wanted to make absolutely sure that our Catherine Holland was one of them as there were also Hollands in Newhall. Not only that, on the marriage licence it says that Catherine Holland was from Bretby Park Gate, Stapenhill.

                  Then I noticed that one of the witnesses on Samuel’s brother Williams marriage to Ann Holland in 1796 was John Hair. Hannah Hair was the wife of Thomas Holland, and they were the Barton under Needwood parents of Catherine. Catherine was born in 1775, and Ann was born in 1767.

                  The 1851 census clinched it: Catherine Warren 74 years old, widow and formerly a farmers wife, was living in the household of her son John Warren, and her place of birth is listed as Barton under Needwood. In 1841 Catherine was a 64 year old widow, her husband Samuel having died in 1837, and she was living with her son Samuel, a farmer. The 1841 census did not list place of birth, however. Catherine died on 31 March 1861 and does not appear on the 1861 census.

                  Once I had established that our Catherine Holland was from Barton under Needwood, I had another look at the information available on the Barton under Needwood History group, compiled by local historian Steve Gardner.

                  Catherine’s parents were Thomas Holland 1737-1828 and Hannah Hair 1739-1822.

                  Steve Gardner had posted a long list of the dates, marriages and children of the Holland family. The earliest entries in parish registers were Thomae Holland 1562-1626 and his wife Eunica Edwardes 1565-1632. They married on 10th July 1582. They were born, married and died in Barton under Needwood. They were direct ancestors of Catherine Holland, and as such my direct ancestors too.

                  The known history of the Holland family in Barton under Needwood goes back to Richard De Holland. (Thanks once again to Steve Gardner of the Barton under Needwood History group for this information.)

                  “Richard de Holland was the first member of the Holland family to become resident in Barton under Needwood (in about 1312) having been granted lands by the Earl of Lancaster (for whom Richard served as Stud and Stock Keeper of the Peak District) The Holland family stemmed from Upholland in Lancashire and had many family connections working for the Earl of Lancaster, who was one of the biggest Barons in England. Lancaster had his own army and lived at Tutbury Castle, from where he ruled over most of the Midlands area. The Earl of Lancaster was one of the main players in the ‘Barons Rebellion’ and the ensuing Battle of Burton Bridge in 1322. Richard de Holland was very much involved in the proceedings which had so angered Englands King. Holland narrowly escaped with his life, unlike the Earl who was executed.
                  From the arrival of that first Holland family member, the Hollands were a mainstay family in the community, and were in Barton under Needwood for over 600 years.”

                  Continuing with various items of information regarding the Hollands, thanks to Steve Gardner’s Barton under Needwood history pages:

                  “PART 6 (Final Part)
                  Some mentions of The Manor of Barton in the Ancient Staffordshire Rolls:
                  1330. A Grant was made to Herbert de Ferrars, at le Newland in the Manor of Barton.
                  1378. The Inquisitio bonorum – Johannis Holand — an interesting Inventory of his goods and their value and his debts.
                  1380. View of Frankpledge ; the Jury found that Richard Holland was feloniously murdered by his wife Joan and Thomas Graunger, who fled. The goods of the deceased were valued at iiij/. iijj. xid. ; one-third went to the dead man, one-third to his son, one- third to the Lord for the wife’s share. Compare 1 H. V. Indictments. (1413.)
                  That Thomas Graunger of Barton smyth and Joan the wife of Richard de Holond of Barton on the Feast of St. John the Baptist 10 H. II. (1387) had traitorously killed and murdered at night, at Barton, Richard, the husband of the said Joan. (m. 22.)
                  The names of various members of the Holland family appear constantly among the listed Jurors on the manorial records printed below : —
                  1539. Richard Holland and Richard Holland the younger are on the Muster Roll of Barton
                  1583. Thomas Holland and Unica his wife are living at Barton.
                  1663-4. Visitations. — Barton under Needword. Disclaimers. William Holland, Senior, William Holland, Junior.
                  1609. Richard Holland, Clerk and Alice, his wife.
                  1663-4. Disclaimers at the Visitation. William Holland, Senior, William Holland, Junior.”

                  I was able to find considerably more information on the Hollands in the book “Some Records of the Holland Family (The Hollands of Barton under Needwood, Staffordshire, and the Hollands in History)” by William Richard Holland. Luckily the full text of this book can be found online.

                  William Richard Holland (Died 1915) An early local Historian and author of the book:

                  William Richard Holland

                   

                  ‘Holland House’ taken from the Gardens (sadly demolished in the early 60’s):

                  Holland House

                   

                  Excerpt from the book:

                  “The charter, dated 1314, granting Richard rights and privileges in Needwood Forest, reads as follows:

                  “Thomas Earl of Lancaster and Leicester, high-steward of England, to whom all these present shall come, greeting: Know ye, that we have given, &c., to Richard Holland of Barton, and his heirs, housboot, heyboot, and fireboot, and common of pasture, in our forest of Needwood, for all his beasts, as well in places fenced as lying open, with 40 hogs, quit of pawnage in our said forest at all times in the year (except hogs only in fence month). All which premises we will warrant, &c. to the said Richard and his heirs against all people for ever”

                  “The terms “housboot” “heyboot” and “fireboot” meant that Richard and his heirs were to have the privilege of taking from the Forest, wood needed for house repair and building, hedging material for the repairing of fences, and what was needful for purposes of fuel.”

                  Further excerpts from the book:

                  “It may here be mentioned that during the renovation of Barton Church, when the stone pillars were being stripped of the plaster which covered them, “William Holland 1617” was found roughly carved on a pillar near to the belfry gallery, obviously the work of a not too devout member of the family, who, seated in the gallery of that time, occupied himself thus during the service. The inscription can still be seen.”

                  “The earliest mention of a Holland of Upholland occurs in the reign of John in a Final Concord, made at the Lancashire Assizes, dated November 5th, 1202, in which Uchtred de Chryche, who seems to have had some right in the manor of Upholland, releases his right in fourteen oxgangs* of land to Matthew de Holland, in consideration of the sum of six marks of silver. Thus was planted the Holland Tree, all the early information of which is found in The Victoria County History of Lancaster.

                  As time went on, the family acquired more land, and with this, increased position. Thus, in the reign of Edward I, a Robert de Holland, son of Thurstan, son of Robert, became possessed of the manor of Orrell adjoining Upholland and of the lordship of Hale in the parish of Childwall, and, through marriage with Elizabeth de Samlesbury (co-heiress of Sir Wm. de Samlesbury of Samlesbury, Hall, near to Preston), of the moiety of that manor….

                  * An oxgang signified the amount of land that could be ploughed by one ox in one day”

                  “This Robert de Holland, son of Thurstan, received Knighthood in the reign of Edward I, as did also his brother William, ancestor of that branch of the family which later migrated to Cheshire. Belonging to this branch are such noteworthy personages as Mrs. Gaskell, the talented authoress, her mother being a Holland of this branch, Sir Henry Holland, Physician to Queen Victoria, and his two sons, the first Viscount Knutsford, and Canon Francis Holland ; Sir Henry’s grandson (the present Lord Knutsford), Canon Scott Holland, etc. Captain Frederick Holland, R.N., late of Ashbourne Hall, Derbyshire, may also be mentioned here.*”

                  Thanks to the Barton under Needwood history group for the following:

                  WALES END FARM:
                  In 1509 it was owned and occupied by Mr Johannes Holland De Wallass end who was a well to do Yeoman Farmer (the origin of the areas name – Wales End).  Part of the building dates to 1490 making it probably the oldest building still standing in the Village:

                  Wales End Farm

                   

                  I found records for all of the Holland’s listed on the Barton under Needwood History group and added them to my ancestry tree. The earliest will I found was for Eunica Edwardes, then Eunica Holland, who died in 1632.

                  A page from the 1632 will and inventory of Eunica (Unice) Holland:

                  Unice Holland

                   

                  I’d been reading about “pedigree collapse” just before I found out her maiden name of Edwardes. Edwards is my own maiden name.

                  “In genealogy, pedigree collapse describes how reproduction between two individuals who knowingly or unknowingly share an ancestor causes the family tree of their offspring to be smaller than it would otherwise be.
                  Without pedigree collapse, a person’s ancestor tree is a binary tree, formed by the person, the parents, grandparents, and so on. However, the number of individuals in such a tree grows exponentially and will eventually become impossibly high. For example, a single individual alive today would, over 30 generations going back to the High Middle Ages, have roughly a billion ancestors, more than the total world population at the time. This apparent paradox occurs because the individuals in the binary tree are not distinct: instead, a single individual may occupy multiple places in the binary tree. This typically happens when the parents of an ancestor are cousins (sometimes unbeknownst to themselves). For example, the offspring of two first cousins has at most only six great-grandparents instead of the normal eight. This reduction in the number of ancestors is pedigree collapse. It collapses the binary tree into a directed acyclic graph with two different, directed paths starting from the ancestor who in the binary tree would occupy two places.” via wikipedia

                  There is nothing to suggest, however, that Eunica’s family were related to my fathers family, and the only evidence so far in my tree of pedigree collapse are the marriages of Orgill cousins, where two sets of grandparents are repeated.

                  A list of Holland ancestors:

                  Catherine Holland 1775-1861
                  her parents:
                  Thomas Holland 1737-1828   Hannah Hair 1739-1832
                  Thomas’s parents:
                  William Holland 1696-1756   Susannah Whiteing 1715-1752
                  William’s parents:
                  William Holland 1665-    Elizabeth Higgs 1675-1720
                  William’s parents:
                  Thomas Holland 1634-1681   Katherine Owen 1634-1728
                  Thomas’s parents:
                  Thomas Holland 1606-1680   Margaret Belcher 1608-1664
                  Thomas’s parents:
                  Thomas Holland 1562-1626   Eunice Edwardes 1565- 1632

                  #6276
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    Ellastone and Mayfield
                    Malkins and Woodwards
                    Parish Registers

                     

                    Jane Woodward


                    It’s exciting, as well as enormously frustrating, to see so many Woodward’s in the Ellastone parish registers, and even more so because they go back so far. There are parish registers surviving from the 1500’s: in one, dated 1579, the death of Thomas Woodward was recorded. His father’s name was Humfrey.

                    Jane Woodward married Rowland Malkin in 1751, in Thorpe, Ashbourne. Jane was from Mathfield (also known as Mayfield), Ellastone, on the Staffordshire side of the river Dove. Rowland was from Clifton, Ashbourne, on the Derbyshire side of the river. They were neighbouring villages, but in different counties.

                    Jane Woodward was born in 1726 according to the marriage transcription. No record of the baptism can be found for her, despite there having been at least four other Woodward couples in Ellastone and Mayfield baptizing babies in the 1720’s and 1730’s.  Without finding out the baptism with her parents names on the parish register, it’s impossible to know which is the correct line to follow back to the earlier records.

                    I found a Mayfield history group on Facebook and asked if there were parish records existing that were not yet online. A member responded that she had a set on microfiche and had looked through the relevant years and didn’t see a Jane Woodward, but she did say that some of the pages were illegible.

                    The Ellasone parish records from the 1500s surviving at all, considering the events in 1673, is remarkable. To be so close, but for one indecipherable page from the 1700s, to tracing the family back to the 1500s! The search for the connecting link to the earlier records continues.

                    Some key events in the history of parish registers from familysearch:

                    In medieval times there were no parish registers. For some years before the Reformation, monastic houses (especially the smaller ones) the parish priest had been developing the custom of noting in an album or on the margins of the service books, the births and deaths of the leading local families.
                    1538 – Through the efforts of Thomas Cromwell a mandate was issued by Henry VIII to keep parish registers. This order that every parson, vicar or curate was to enter in a book every wedding, christening and burial in his parish. The parish was to provide a sure coffer with two locks, the parson having the custody of one key, the wardens the others. The entries were to be made each Sunday after the service in the presence of one of the wardens.
                    1642-60 – During the Civil War registers were neglected and Bishop Transcripts were not required.
                    1650 – In the restoration of Charles they went back to the church to keep christenings, marriages and burial. The civil records that were kept were filed in with the parish in their registers. it is quite usual to find entries explaining the situation during the Interregnum. One rector stated that on 23 April 1643 “Our church was defaced our font thrown down and new forms of prayer appointed”. Another minister not quite so bold wrote “When the war, more than a civil war was raging most grimly between royalists and parliamentarians throughout the greatest part of England, I lived well because I lay low”.
                    1653 – Cromwell, whose army had defeated the Royalists, was made Lord Protector and acted as king. He was a Puritan. The parish church of England was disorganized, many ministers fled for their lives, some were able to hide their registers and other registers were destroyed. Cromwell ruled that there would be no one religion in England all religions could be practiced. The government took away from the ministers not only the custody of the registers, but even the solemnization of the marriage ceremony. The marriage ceremony was entrusted to the justices to form a new Parish Register (not Registrar) elected by all the ratepayers in a parish, and sworn before and approved by a magistrate.. Parish clerks of the church were made a civil parish clerk and they recorded deaths, births and marriages in the civil parishes.

                     

                    Ellastone:

                    “Ellastone features as ‘Hayslope’ in George Eliot’s Adam Bede, published in 1859. It earned this recognition because the author’s father spent the early part of his life in the village working as a carpenter.”

                    Adam Bede Cottage, Ellastone:

                    Ellasone Adam Bede

                    “It was at Ellastone that Robert Evans, George Eliot’s father, passed his early years and worked as a carpenter with his brother Samuel; and it was partly from reminiscences of her father’s talk and from her uncle Samuel’s wife’s preaching experiences that the author constructed the very powerful and moving story of Adam Bede.”

                     

                    Mary Malkin

                    1765-1838

                    Ellen Carrington’s mother was Mary Malkin.

                    Ellastone:

                    Ellastone

                     

                     

                     

                    Ashbourn the 31st day of May in the year of our Lord 1751.  The marriage of Rowland Malkin and Jane Woodward:

                    Rowland Malkin marriage 1751

                    #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.

                         

                        #6261
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          From Tanganyika with Love

                          continued

                          With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                          Mchewe Estate. 11th July 1931.

                          Dearest Family,

                          You say that you would like to know more about our neighbours. Well there is
                          not much to tell. Kath Wood is very good about coming over to see me. I admire her
                          very much because she is so capable as well as being attractive. She speaks very
                          fluent Ki-Swahili and I envy her the way she can carry on a long conversation with the
                          natives. I am very slow in learning the language possibly because Lamek and the
                          houseboy both speak basic English.

                          I have very little to do with the Africans apart from the house servants, but I do
                          run a sort of clinic for the wives and children of our employees. The children suffer chiefly
                          from sore eyes and worms, and the older ones often have bad ulcers on their legs. All
                          farmers keep a stock of drugs and bandages.

                          George also does a bit of surgery and last month sewed up the sole of the foot
                          of a boy who had trodden on the blade of a panga, a sort of sword the Africans use for
                          hacking down bush. He made an excellent job of it. George tells me that the Africans
                          have wonderful powers of recuperation. Once in his bachelor days, one of his men was
                          disembowelled by an elephant. George washed his “guts” in a weak solution of
                          pot.permang, put them back in the cavity and sewed up the torn flesh and he
                          recovered.

                          But to get back to the neighbours. We see less of Hicky Wood than of Kath.
                          Hicky can be charming but is often moody as I believe Irishmen often are.
                          Major Jones is now at home on his shamba, which he leaves from time to time
                          for temporary jobs on the district roads. He walks across fairly regularly and we are
                          always glad to see him for he is a great bearer of news. In this part of Africa there is no
                          knocking or ringing of doorbells. Front doors are always left open and visitors always
                          welcome. When a visitor approaches a house he shouts “Hodi”, and the owner of the
                          house yells “Karibu”, which I believe means “Come near” or approach, and tea is
                          produced in a matter of minutes no matter what hour of the day it is.
                          The road that passes all our farms is the only road to the Gold Diggings and
                          diggers often drop in on the Woods and Major Jones and bring news of the Goldfields.
                          This news is sometimes about gold but quite often about whose wife is living with
                          whom. This is a great country for gossip.

                          Major Jones now has his brother Llewyllen living with him. I drove across with
                          George to be introduced to him. Llewyllen’s health is poor and he looks much older than
                          his years and very like the portrait of Trader Horn. He has the same emaciated features,
                          burning eyes and long beard. He is proud of his Welsh tenor voice and often bursts into
                          song.

                          Both brothers are excellent conversationalists and George enjoys walking over
                          sometimes on a Sunday for a bit of masculine company. The other day when George
                          walked across to visit the Joneses, he found both brothers in the shamba and Llew in a
                          great rage. They had been stooping to inspect a water furrow when Llew backed into a
                          hornets nest. One furious hornet stung him on the seat and another on the back of his
                          neck. Llew leapt forward and somehow his false teeth shot out into the furrow and were
                          carried along by the water. When George arrived Llew had retrieved his teeth but
                          George swears that, in the commotion, the heavy leather leggings, which Llew always
                          wears, had swivelled around on his thin legs and were calves to the front.
                          George has heard that Major Jones is to sell pert of his land to his Swedish brother-in-law, Max Coster, so we will soon have another couple in the neighbourhood.

                          I’ve had a bit of a pantomime here on the farm. On the day we went to Tukuyu,
                          all our washing was stolen from the clothes line and also our new charcoal iron. George
                          reported the matter to the police and they sent out a plain clothes policeman. He wears
                          the long white Arab gown called a Kanzu much in vogue here amongst the African elite
                          but, alas for secrecy, huge black police boots protrude from beneath the Kanzu and, to
                          add to this revealing clue, the askari springs to attention and salutes each time I pass by.
                          Not much hope of finding out the identity of the thief I fear.

                          George’s furrow was entirely successful and we now have water running behind
                          the kitchen. Our drinking water we get from a lovely little spring on the farm. We boil and
                          filter it for safety’s sake. I don’t think that is necessary. The furrow water is used for
                          washing pots and pans and for bath water.

                          Lots of love,
                          Eleanor

                          Mchewe Estate. 8th. August 1931

                          Dearest Family,

                          I think it is about time I told you that we are going to have a baby. We are both
                          thrilled about it. I have not seen a Doctor but feel very well and you are not to worry. I
                          looked it up in my handbook for wives and reckon that the baby is due about February
                          8th. next year.

                          The announcement came from George, not me! I had been feeling queasy for
                          days and was waiting for the right moment to tell George. You know. Soft lights and
                          music etc. However when I was listlessly poking my food around one lunch time
                          George enquired calmly, “When are you going to tell me about the baby?” Not at all
                          according to the book! The problem is where to have the baby. February is a very wet
                          month and the nearest Doctor is over 50 miles away at Tukuyu. I cannot go to stay at
                          Tukuyu because there is no European accommodation at the hospital, no hotel and no
                          friend with whom I could stay.

                          George thinks I should go South to you but Capetown is so very far away and I
                          love my little home here. Also George says he could not come all the way down with
                          me as he simply must stay here and get the farm on its feet. He would drive me as far
                          as the railway in Northern Rhodesia. It is a difficult decision to take. Write and tell me what
                          you think.

                          The days tick by quietly here. The servants are very willing but have to be
                          supervised and even then a crisis can occur. Last Saturday I was feeling squeamish and
                          decided not to have lunch. I lay reading on the couch whilst George sat down to a
                          solitary curry lunch. Suddenly he gave an exclamation and pushed back his chair. I
                          jumped up to see what was wrong and there, on his plate, gleaming in the curry gravy
                          were small bits of broken glass. I hurried to the kitchen to confront Lamek with the plate.
                          He explained that he had dropped the new and expensive bottle of curry powder on
                          the brick floor of the kitchen. He did not tell me as he thought I would make a “shauri” so
                          he simply scooped up the curry powder, removed the larger pieces of glass and used
                          part of the powder for seasoning the lunch.

                          The weather is getting warmer now. It was very cold in June and July and we had
                          fires in the daytime as well as at night. Now that much of the land has been cleared we
                          are able to go for pleasant walks in the weekends. My favourite spot is a waterfall on the
                          Mchewe River just on the boundary of our land. There is a delightful little pool below the
                          waterfall and one day George intends to stock it with trout.

                          Now that there are more Europeans around to buy meat the natives find it worth
                          their while to kill an occasional beast. Every now and again a native arrives with a large
                          bowl of freshly killed beef for sale. One has no way of knowing whether the animal was
                          healthy and the meat is often still warm and very bloody. I hated handling it at first but am
                          becoming accustomed to it now and have even started a brine tub. There is no other
                          way of keeping meat here and it can only be kept in its raw state for a few hours before
                          going bad. One of the delicacies is the hump which all African cattle have. When corned
                          it is like the best brisket.

                          See what a housewife I am becoming.
                          With much love,
                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate. Sept.6th. 1931

                          Dearest Family,

                          I have grown to love the life here and am sad to think I shall be leaving
                          Tanganyika soon for several months. Yes I am coming down to have the baby in the
                          bosom of the family. George thinks it best and so does the doctor. I didn’t mention it
                          before but I have never recovered fully from the effects of that bad bout of malaria and
                          so I have been persuaded to leave George and our home and go to the Cape, in the
                          hope that I shall come back here as fit as when I first arrived in the country plus a really
                          healthy and bouncing baby. I am torn two ways, I long to see you all – but how I would
                          love to stay on here.

                          George will drive me down to Northern Rhodesia in early October to catch a
                          South bound train. I’ll telegraph the date of departure when I know it myself. The road is
                          very, very bad and the car has been giving a good deal of trouble so, though the baby
                          is not due until early February, George thinks it best to get the journey over soon as
                          possible, for the rains break in November and the the roads will then be impassable. It
                          may take us five or six days to reach Broken Hill as we will take it slowly. I am looking
                          forward to the drive through new country and to camping out at night.
                          Our days pass quietly by. George is out on the shamba most of the day. He
                          goes out before breakfast on weekdays and spends most of the day working with the
                          men – not only supervising but actually working with his hands and beating the labourers
                          at their own jobs. He comes to the house for meals and tea breaks. I potter around the
                          house and garden, sew, mend and read. Lamek continues to be a treasure. he turns out
                          some surprising dishes. One of his specialities is stuffed chicken. He carefully skins the
                          chicken removing all bones. He then minces all the chicken meat and adds minced onion
                          and potatoes. He then stuffs the chicken skin with the minced meat and carefully sews it
                          together again. The resulting dish is very filling because the boned chicken is twice the
                          size of a normal one. It lies on its back as round as a football with bloated legs in the air.
                          Rather repulsive to look at but Lamek is most proud of his accomplishment.
                          The other day he produced another of his masterpieces – a cooked tortoise. It
                          was served on a dish covered with parsley and crouched there sans shell but, only too
                          obviously, a tortoise. I took one look and fled with heaving diaphragm, but George said
                          it tasted quite good. He tells me that he has had queerer dishes produced by former
                          cooks. He says that once in his hunting days his cook served up a skinned baby
                          monkey with its hands folded on its breast. He says it would take a cannibal to eat that
                          dish.

                          And now for something sad. Poor old Llew died quite suddenly and it was a sad
                          shock to this tiny community. We went across to the funeral and it was a very simple and
                          dignified affair. Llew was buried on Joni’s farm in a grave dug by the farm boys. The
                          body was wrapped in a blanket and bound to some boards and lowered into the
                          ground. There was no service. The men just said “Good-bye Llew.” and “Sleep well
                          Llew”, and things like that. Then Joni and his brother-in-law Max, and George shovelled
                          soil over the body after which the grave was filled in by Joni’s shamba boys. It was a
                          lovely bright afternoon and I thought how simple and sensible a funeral it was.
                          I hope you will be glad to have me home. I bet Dad will be holding thumbs that
                          the baby will be a girl.

                          Very much love,
                          Eleanor.

                          Note
                          “There are no letters to my family during the period of Sept. 1931 to June 1932
                          because during these months I was living with my parents and sister in a suburb of
                          Cape Town. I had hoped to return to Tanganyika by air with my baby soon after her
                          birth in Feb.1932 but the doctor would not permit this.

                          A month before my baby was born, a company called Imperial Airways, had
                          started the first passenger service between South Africa and England. One of the night
                          stops was at Mbeya near my husband’s coffee farm, and it was my intention to take the
                          train to Broken Hill in Northern Rhodesia and to fly from there to Mbeya with my month
                          old baby. In those days however, commercial flying was still a novelty and the doctor
                          was not sure that flying at a high altitude might not have an adverse effect upon a young
                          baby.

                          He strongly advised me to wait until the baby was four months old and I did this
                          though the long wait was very trying to my husband alone on our farm in Tanganyika,
                          and to me, cherished though I was in my old home.

                          My story, covering those nine long months is soon told. My husband drove me
                          down from Mbeya to Broken Hill in NorthernRhodesia. The journey was tedious as the
                          weather was very hot and dry and the road sandy and rutted, very different from the
                          Great North road as it is today. The wooden wheel spokes of the car became so dry
                          that they rattled and George had to bind wet rags around them. We had several
                          punctures and with one thing and another I was lucky to catch the train.
                          My parents were at Cape Town station to welcome me and I stayed
                          comfortably with them, living very quietly, until my baby was born. She arrived exactly
                          on the appointed day, Feb.8th.

                          I wrote to my husband “Our Charmian Ann is a darling baby. She is very fair and
                          rather pale and has the most exquisite hands, with long tapering fingers. Daddy
                          absolutely dotes on her and so would you, if you were here. I can’t bear to think that you
                          are so terribly far away. Although Ann was born exactly on the day, I was taken quite by
                          surprise. It was awfully hot on the night before, and before going to bed I had a fancy for
                          some water melon. The result was that when I woke in the early morning with labour
                          pains and vomiting I thought it was just an attack of indigestion due to eating too much
                          melon. The result was that I did not wake Marjorie until the pains were pretty frequent.
                          She called our next door neighbour who, in his pyjamas, drove me to the nursing home
                          at breakneck speed. The Matron was very peeved that I had left things so late but all
                          went well and by nine o’clock, Mother, positively twittering with delight, was allowed to
                          see me and her first granddaughter . She told me that poor Dad was in such a state of
                          nerves that he was sick amongst the grapevines. He says that he could not bear to go
                          through such an anxious time again, — so we will have to have our next eleven in
                          Tanganyika!”

                          The next four months passed rapidly as my time was taken up by the demands
                          of my new baby. Dr. Trudy King’s method of rearing babies was then the vogue and I
                          stuck fanatically to all the rules he laid down, to the intense exasperation of my parents
                          who longed to cuddle the child.

                          As the time of departure drew near my parents became more and more reluctant
                          to allow me to face the journey alone with their adored grandchild, so my brother,
                          Graham, very generously offered to escort us on the train to Broken Hill where he could
                          put us on the plane for Mbeya.

                          Eleanor Rushby

                           

                          Mchewe Estate. June 15th 1932

                          Dearest Family,

                          You’ll be glad to know that we arrived quite safe and sound and very, very
                          happy to be home.The train Journey was uneventful. Ann slept nearly all the way.
                          Graham was very kind and saw to everything. He even sat with the baby whilst I went
                          to meals in the dining car.

                          We were met at Broken Hill by the Thoms who had arranged accommodation for
                          us at the hotel for the night. They also drove us to the aerodrome in the morning where
                          the Airways agent told us that Ann is the first baby to travel by air on this section of the
                          Cape to England route. The plane trip was very bumpy indeed especially between
                          Broken Hill and Mpika. Everyone was ill including poor little Ann who sicked up her milk
                          all over the front of my new coat. I arrived at Mbeya looking a sorry caricature of Radiant
                          Motherhood. I must have been pale green and the baby was snow white. Under the
                          circumstances it was a good thing that George did not meet us. We were met instead
                          by Ken Menzies, the owner of the Mbeya Hotel where we spent the night. Ken was
                          most fatherly and kind and a good nights rest restored Ann and me to our usual robust
                          health.

                          Mbeya has greatly changed. The hotel is now finished and can accommodate
                          fifty guests. It consists of a large main building housing a large bar and dining room and
                          offices and a number of small cottage bedrooms. It even has electric light. There are
                          several buildings out at the aerodrome and private houses going up in Mbeya.
                          After breakfast Ken Menzies drove us out to the farm where we had a warm
                          welcome from George, who looks well but rather thin. The house was spotless and the
                          new cook, Abel, had made light scones for tea. George had prepared all sorts of lovely
                          surprises. There is a new reed ceiling in the living room and a new dresser gay with
                          willow pattern plates which he had ordered from England. There is also a writing table
                          and a square table by the door for visitors hats. More personal is a lovely model ship
                          which George assembled from one of those Hobbie’s kits. It puts the finishing touch to
                          the rather old world air of our living room.

                          In the bedroom there is a large double bed which George made himself. It has
                          strips of old car tyres nailed to a frame which makes a fine springy mattress and on top
                          of this is a thick mattress of kapok.In the kitchen there is a good wood stove which
                          George salvaged from a Mission dump. It looks a bit battered but works very well. The
                          new cook is excellent. The only blight is that he will wear rubber soled tennis shoes and
                          they smell awful. I daren’t hurt his feelings by pointing this out though. Opposite the
                          kitchen is a new laundry building containing a forty gallon hot water drum and a sink for
                          washing up. Lovely!

                          George has been working very hard. He now has forty acres of coffee seedlings
                          planted out and has also found time to plant a rose garden and fruit trees. There are
                          orange and peach trees, tree tomatoes, paw paws, guavas and berries. He absolutely
                          adores Ann who has been very good and does not seem at all unsettled by the long
                          journey.

                          It is absolutely heavenly to be back and I shall be happier than ever now that I
                          have a baby to play with during the long hours when George is busy on the farm,
                          Thank you for all your love and care during the many months I was with you. Ann
                          sends a special bubble for granddad.

                          Your very loving,
                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate Mbeya July 18th 1932

                          Dearest Family,

                          Ann at five months is enchanting. She is a very good baby, smiles readily and is
                          gaining weight steadily. She doesn’t sleep much during the day but that does not
                          matter, because, apart from washing her little things, I have nothing to do but attend to
                          her. She sleeps very well at night which is a blessing as George has to get up very
                          early to start work on the shamba and needs a good nights rest.
                          My nights are not so good, because we are having a plague of rats which frisk
                          around in the bedroom at night. Great big ones that come up out of the long grass in the
                          gorge beside the house and make cosy homes on our reed ceiling and in the thatch of
                          the roof.

                          We always have a night light burning so that, if necessary, I can attend to Ann
                          with a minimum of fuss, and the things I see in that dim light! There are gaps between
                          the reeds and one night I heard, plop! and there, before my horrified gaze, lay a newly
                          born hairless baby rat on the floor by the bed, plop, plop! and there lay two more.
                          Quite dead, poor things – but what a careless mother.

                          I have also seen rats scampering around on the tops of the mosquito nets and
                          sometimes we have them on our bed. They have a lovely game. They swarm down
                          the cord from which the mosquito net is suspended, leap onto the bed and onto the
                          floor. We do not have our net down now the cold season is here and there are few
                          mosquitoes.

                          Last week a rat crept under Ann’s net which hung to the floor and bit her little
                          finger, so now I tuck the net in under the mattress though it makes it difficult for me to
                          attend to her at night. We shall have to get a cat somewhere. Ann’s pram has not yet
                          arrived so George carries her when we go walking – to her great content.
                          The native women around here are most interested in Ann. They come to see
                          her, bearing small gifts, and usually bring a child or two with them. They admire my child
                          and I admire theirs and there is an exchange of gifts. They produce a couple of eggs or
                          a few bananas or perhaps a skinny fowl and I hand over sugar, salt or soap as they
                          value these commodities. The most lavish gift went to the wife of Thomas our headman,
                          who produced twin daughters in the same week as I had Ann.

                          Our neighbours have all been across to welcome me back and to admire the
                          baby. These include Marion Coster who came out to join her husband whilst I was in
                          South Africa. The two Hickson-Wood children came over on a fat old white donkey.
                          They made a pretty picture sitting astride, one behind the other – Maureen with her arms
                          around small Michael’s waist. A native toto led the donkey and the children’ s ayah
                          walked beside it.

                          It is quite cold here now but the sun is bright and the air dry. The whole
                          countryside is beautifully green and we are a very happy little family.

                          Lots and lots of love,
                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate August 11th 1932

                          Dearest Family,

                          George has been very unwell for the past week. He had a nasty gash on his
                          knee which went septic. He had a swelling in the groin and a high temperature and could
                          not sleep at night for the pain in his leg. Ann was very wakeful too during the same
                          period, I think she is teething. I luckily have kept fit though rather harassed. Yesterday the
                          leg looked so inflamed that George decided to open up the wound himself. he made
                          quite a big cut in exactly the right place. You should have seen the blackish puss
                          pouring out.

                          After he had thoroughly cleaned the wound George sewed it up himself. he has
                          the proper surgical needles and gut. He held the cut together with his left hand and
                          pushed the needle through the flesh with his right. I pulled the needle out and passed it
                          to George for the next stitch. I doubt whether a surgeon could have made a neater job
                          of it. He is still confined to the couch but today his temperature is normal. Some
                          husband!

                          The previous week was hectic in another way. We had a visit from lions! George
                          and I were having supper about 8.30 on Tuesday night when the back verandah was
                          suddenly invaded by women and children from the servants quarters behind the kitchen.
                          They were all yelling “Simba, Simba.” – simba means lions. The door opened suddenly
                          and the houseboy rushed in to say that there were lions at the huts. George got up
                          swiftly, fetched gun and ammunition from the bedroom and with the houseboy carrying
                          the lamp, went off to investigate. I remained at the table, carrying on with my supper as I
                          felt a pioneer’s wife should! Suddenly something big leapt through the open window
                          behind me. You can imagine what I thought! I know now that it is quite true to say one’s
                          hair rises when one is scared. However it was only Kelly, our huge Irish wolfhound,
                          taking cover.

                          George returned quite soon to say that apparently the commotion made by the
                          women and children had frightened the lions off. He found their tracks in the soft earth
                          round the huts and a bag of maize that had been playfully torn open but the lions had
                          moved on.

                          Next day we heard that they had moved to Hickson-Wood’s shamba. Hicky
                          came across to say that the lions had jumped over the wall of his cattle boma and killed
                          both his white Muskat riding donkeys.
                          He and a friend sat up all next night over the remains but the lions did not return to
                          the kill.

                          Apart from the little set back last week, Ann is blooming. She has a cap of very
                          fine fair hair and clear blue eyes under straight brow. She also has lovely dimples in both
                          cheeks. We are very proud of her.

                          Our neighbours are picking coffee but the crops are small and the price is low. I
                          am amazed that they are so optimistic about the future. No one in these parts ever
                          seems to grouse though all are living on capital. They all say “Well if the worst happens
                          we can always go up to the Lupa Diggings.”

                          Don’t worry about us, we have enough to tide us over for some time yet.

                          Much love to all,
                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate. 28th Sept. 1932

                          Dearest Family,

                          News! News! I’m going to have another baby. George and I are delighted and I
                          hope it will be a boy this time. I shall be able to have him at Mbeya because things are
                          rapidly changing here. Several German families have moved to Mbeya including a
                          German doctor who means to build a hospital there. I expect he will make a very good
                          living because there must now be some hundreds of Europeans within a hundred miles
                          radius of Mbeya. The Europeans are mostly British or German but there are also
                          Greeks and, I believe, several other nationalities are represented on the Lupa Diggings.
                          Ann is blooming and developing according to the Book except that she has no
                          teeth yet! Kath Hickson-Wood has given her a very nice high chair and now she has
                          breakfast and lunch at the table with us. Everything within reach goes on the floor to her
                          amusement and my exasperation!

                          You ask whether we have any Church of England missionaries in our part. No we
                          haven’t though there are Lutheran and Roman Catholic Missions. I have never even
                          heard of a visiting Church of England Clergyman to these parts though there are babies
                          in plenty who have not been baptised. Jolly good thing I had Ann Christened down
                          there.

                          The R.C. priests in this area are called White Fathers. They all have beards and
                          wear white cassocks and sun helmets. One, called Father Keiling, calls around frequently.
                          Though none of us in this area is Catholic we take it in turn to put him up for the night. The
                          Catholic Fathers in their turn are most hospitable to travellers regardless of their beliefs.
                          Rather a sad thing has happened. Lucas our old chicken-boy is dead. I shall miss
                          his toothy smile. George went to the funeral and fired two farewell shots from his rifle
                          over the grave – a gesture much appreciated by the locals. Lucas in his day was a good
                          hunter.

                          Several of the locals own muzzle loading guns but the majority hunt with dogs
                          and spears. The dogs wear bells which make an attractive jingle but I cannot bear the
                          idea of small antelope being run down until they are exhausted before being clubbed of
                          stabbed to death. We seldom eat venison as George does not care to shoot buck.
                          Recently though, he shot an eland and Abel rendered down the fat which is excellent for
                          cooking and very like beef fat.

                          Much love to all,
                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate. P.O.Mbeya 21st November 1932

                          Dearest Family,

                          George has gone off to the Lupa for a week with John Molteno. John came up
                          here with the idea of buying a coffee farm but he has changed his mind and now thinks of
                          staking some claims on the diggings and also setting up as a gold buyer.

                          Did I tell you about his arrival here? John and George did some elephant hunting
                          together in French Equatorial Africa and when John heard that George had married and
                          settled in Tanganyika, he also decided to come up here. He drove up from Cape Town
                          in a Baby Austin and arrived just as our labourers were going home for the day. The little
                          car stopped half way up our hill and John got out to investigate. You should have heard
                          the astonished exclamations when John got out – all 6 ft 5 ins. of him! He towered over
                          the little car and even to me it seemed impossible for him to have made the long
                          journey in so tiny a car.

                          Kath Wood has been over several times lately. She is slim and looks so right in
                          the shirt and corduroy slacks she almost always wears. She was here yesterday when
                          the shamba boy, digging in the front garden, unearthed a large earthenware cooking pot,
                          sealed at the top. I was greatly excited and had an instant mental image of fabulous
                          wealth. We made the boy bring the pot carefully on to the verandah and opened it in
                          happy anticipation. What do you think was inside? Nothing but a grinning skull! Such a
                          treat for a pregnant female.

                          We have a tree growing here that had lovely straight branches covered by a
                          smooth bark. I got the garden boy to cut several of these branches of a uniform size,
                          peeled off the bark and have made Ann a playpen with the poles which are much like
                          broom sticks. Now I can leave her unattended when I do my chores. The other morning
                          after breakfast I put Ann in her playpen on the verandah and gave her a piece of toast
                          and honey to keep her quiet whilst I laundered a few of her things. When I looked out a
                          little later I was horrified to see a number of bees buzzing around her head whilst she
                          placidly concentrated on her toast. I made a rapid foray and rescued her but I still don’t
                          know whether that was the thing to do.

                          We all send our love,
                          Eleanor.

                          Mbeya Hospital. April 25th. 1933

                          Dearest Family,

                          Here I am, installed at the very new hospital, built by Dr Eckhardt, awaiting the
                          arrival of the new baby. George has gone back to the farm on foot but will walk in again
                          to spend the weekend with us. Ann is with me and enjoys the novelty of playing with
                          other children. The Eckhardts have two, a pretty little girl of two and a half and a very fair
                          roly poly boy of Ann’s age. Ann at fourteen months is very active. She is quite a little girl
                          now with lovely dimples. She walks well but is backward in teething.

                          George, Ann and I had a couple of days together at the hotel before I moved in
                          here and several of the local women visited me and have promised to visit me in
                          hospital. The trip from farm to town was very entertaining if not very comfortable. There
                          is ten miles of very rough road between our farm and Utengule Mission and beyond the
                          Mission there is a fair thirteen or fourteen mile road to Mbeya.

                          As we have no car now the doctor’s wife offered to drive us from the Mission to
                          Mbeya but she would not risk her car on the road between the Mission and our farm.
                          The upshot was that I rode in the Hickson-Woods machila for that ten mile stretch. The
                          machila is a canopied hammock, slung from a bamboo pole, in which I reclined, not too
                          comfortably in my unwieldy state, with Ann beside me or sometime straddling me. Four
                          of our farm boys carried the machila on their shoulders, two fore and two aft. The relief
                          bearers walked on either side. There must have been a dozen in all and they sang a sort
                          of sea shanty song as they walked. One man would sing a verse and the others took up
                          the chorus. They often improvise as they go. They moaned about my weight (at least
                          George said so! I don’t follow Ki-Swahili well yet) and expressed the hope that I would
                          have a son and that George would reward them handsomely.

                          George and Kelly, the dog, followed close behind the machila and behind
                          George came Abel our cook and his wife and small daughter Annalie, all in their best
                          attire. The cook wore a palm beach suit, large Terai hat and sunglasses and two colour
                          shoes and quite lent a tone to the proceedings! Right at the back came the rag tag and
                          bobtail who joined the procession just for fun.

                          Mrs Eckhardt was already awaiting us at the Mission when we arrived and we had
                          an uneventful trip to the Mbeya Hotel.

                          During my last week at the farm I felt very tired and engaged the cook’s small
                          daughter, Annalie, to amuse Ann for an hour after lunch so that I could have a rest. They
                          played in the small verandah room which adjoins our bedroom and where I keep all my
                          sewing materials. One afternoon I was startled by a scream from Ann. I rushed to the
                          room and found Ann with blood steaming from her cheek. Annalie knelt beside her,
                          looking startled and frightened, with my embroidery scissors in her hand. She had cut off
                          half of the long curling golden lashes on one of Ann’s eyelids and, in trying to finish the
                          job, had cut off a triangular flap of skin off Ann’s cheek bone.

                          I called Abel, the cook, and demanded that he should chastise his daughter there and
                          then and I soon heard loud shrieks from behind the kitchen. He spanked her with a
                          bamboo switch but I am sure not as well as she deserved. Africans are very tolerant
                          towards their children though I have seen husbands and wives fighting furiously.
                          I feel very well but long to have the confinement over.

                          Very much love,
                          Eleanor.

                          Mbeya Hospital. 2nd May 1933.

                          Dearest Family,

                          Little George arrived at 7.30 pm on Saturday evening 29 th. April. George was
                          with me at the time as he had walked in from the farm for news, and what a wonderful bit
                          of luck that was. The doctor was away on a case on the Diggings and I was bathing Ann
                          with George looking on, when the pains started. George dried Ann and gave her
                          supper and put her to bed. Afterwards he sat on the steps outside my room and a
                          great comfort it was to know that he was there.

                          The confinement was short but pretty hectic. The Doctor returned to the Hospital
                          just in time to deliver the baby. He is a grand little boy, beautifully proportioned. The
                          doctor says he has never seen a better formed baby. He is however rather funny
                          looking just now as his head is, very temporarily, egg shaped. He has a shock of black
                          silky hair like a gollywog and believe it or not, he has a slight black moustache.
                          George came in, looked at the baby, looked at me, and we both burst out
                          laughing. The doctor was shocked and said so. He has no sense of humour and couldn’t
                          understand that we, though bursting with pride in our son, could never the less laugh at
                          him.

                          Friends in Mbeya have sent me the most gorgeous flowers and my room is
                          transformed with delphiniums, roses and carnations. The room would be very austere
                          without the flowers. Curtains, bedspread and enamelware, walls and ceiling are all
                          snowy white.

                          George hired a car and took Ann home next day. I have little George for
                          company during the day but he is removed at night. I am longing to get him home and
                          away from the German nurse who feeds him on black tea when he cries. She insists that
                          tea is a medicine and good for him.

                          Much love from a proud mother of two.
                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate 12May 1933

                          Dearest Family,

                          We are all together at home again and how lovely it feels. Even the house
                          servants seem pleased. The boy had decorated the lounge with sprays of
                          bougainvillaea and Abel had backed one of his good sponge cakes.

                          Ann looked fat and rosy but at first was only moderately interested in me and the
                          new baby but she soon thawed. George is good with her and will continue to dress Ann
                          in the mornings and put her to bed until I am satisfied with Georgie.

                          He, poor mite, has a nasty rash on face and neck. I am sure it is just due to that
                          tea the nurse used to give him at night. He has lost his moustache and is fast loosing his
                          wild black hair and emerging as quite a handsome babe. He is a very masculine looking
                          infant with much more strongly marked eyebrows and a larger nose that Ann had. He is
                          very good and lies quietly in his basket even when awake.

                          George has been making a hatching box for brown trout ova and has set it up in
                          a small clear stream fed by a spring in readiness for the ova which is expected from
                          South Africa by next weeks plane. Some keen fishermen from Mbeya and the District
                          have clubbed together to buy the ova. The fingerlings are later to be transferred to
                          streams in Mbeya and Tukuyu Districts.

                          I shall now have my hands full with the two babies and will not have much time for the
                          garden, or I fear, for writing very long letters. Remember though, that no matter how
                          large my family becomes, I shall always love you as much as ever.

                          Your affectionate,
                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate. 14th June 1933

                          Dearest Family,

                          The four of us are all well but alas we have lost our dear Kelly. He was rather a
                          silly dog really, although he grew so big he retained all his puppy ways but we were all
                          very fond of him, especially George because Kelly attached himself to George whilst I
                          was away having Ann and from that time on he was George’s shadow. I think he had
                          some form of biliary fever. He died stretched out on the living room couch late last night,
                          with George sitting beside him so that he would not feel alone.

                          The children are growing fast. Georgie is a darling. He now has a fluff of pale
                          brown hair and his eyes are large and dark brown. Ann is very plump and fair.
                          We have had several visitors lately. Apart from neighbours, a car load of diggers
                          arrived one night and John Molteno and his bride were here. She is a very attractive girl
                          but, I should say, more suited to life in civilisation than in this back of beyond. She has
                          gone out to the diggings with her husband and will have to walk a good stretch of the fifty
                          or so miles.

                          The diggers had to sleep in the living room on the couch and on hastily erected
                          camp beds. They arrived late at night and left after breakfast next day. One had half a
                          beard, the other side of his face had been forcibly shaved in the bar the night before.

                          your affectionate,
                          Eleanor

                          Mchewe Estate. August 10 th. 1933

                          Dearest Family,

                          George is away on safari with two Indian Army officers. The money he will get for
                          his services will be very welcome because this coffee growing is a slow business, and
                          our capitol is rapidly melting away. The job of acting as White Hunter was unexpected
                          or George would not have taken on the job of hatching the ova which duly arrived from
                          South Africa.

                          George and the District Commissioner, David Pollock, went to meet the plane
                          by which the ova had been consigned but the pilot knew nothing about the package. It
                          came to light in the mail bag with the parcels! However the ova came to no harm. David
                          Pollock and George brought the parcel to the farm and carefully transferred the ova to
                          the hatching box. It was interesting to watch the tiny fry hatch out – a process which took
                          several days. Many died in the process and George removed the dead by sucking
                          them up in a glass tube.

                          When hatched, the tiny fry were fed on ant eggs collected by the boys. I had to
                          take over the job of feeding and removing the dead when George left on safari. The fry
                          have to be fed every four hours, like the baby, so each time I have fed Georgie. I hurry
                          down to feed the trout.

                          The children are very good but keep me busy. Ann can now say several words
                          and understands more. She adores Georgie. I long to show them off to you.

                          Very much love
                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate. October 27th 1933

                          Dear Family,

                          All just over flu. George and Ann were very poorly. I did not fare so badly and
                          Georgie came off best. He is on a bottle now.

                          There was some excitement here last Wednesday morning. At 6.30 am. I called
                          for boiling water to make Georgie’s food. No water arrived but muffled shouting and the
                          sound of blows came from the kitchen. I went to investigate and found a fierce fight in
                          progress between the house boy and the kitchen boy. In my efforts to make them stop
                          fighting I went too close and got a sharp bang on the mouth with the edge of an
                          enamelled plate the kitchen boy was using as a weapon. My teeth cut my lip inside and
                          the plate cut it outside and blood flowed from mouth to chin. The boys were petrified.
                          By the time I had fed Georgie the lip was stiff and swollen. George went in wrath
                          to the kitchen and by breakfast time both house boy and kitchen boy had swollen faces
                          too. Since then I have a kettle of boiling water to hand almost before the words are out
                          of my mouth. I must say that the fight was because the house boy had clouted the
                          kitchen boy for keeping me waiting! In this land of piece work it is the job of the kitchen
                          boy to light the fire and boil the kettle but the houseboy’s job to carry the kettle to me.
                          I have seen little of Kath Wood or Marion Coster for the past two months. Major
                          Jones is the neighbour who calls most regularly. He has a wireless set and calls on all of
                          us to keep us up to date with world as well as local news. He often brings oranges for
                          Ann who adores him. He is a very nice person but no oil painting and makes no effort to
                          entertain Ann but she thinks he is fine. Perhaps his monocle appeals to her.

                          George has bought a six foot long galvanised bath which is a great improvement
                          on the smaller oval one we have used until now. The smaller one had grown battered
                          from much use and leaks like a sieve. Fortunately our bathroom has a cement floor,
                          because one had to fill the bath to the brim and then bath extremely quickly to avoid
                          being left high and dry.

                          Lots and lots of love,
                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate. P.O. Mbeya 1st December 1933

                          Dearest Family,

                          Ann has not been well. We think she has had malaria. She has grown a good
                          deal lately and looks much thinner and rather pale. Georgie is thriving and has such
                          sparkling brown eyes and a ready smile. He and Ann make a charming pair, one so fair
                          and the other dark.

                          The Moltenos’ spent a few days here and took Georgie and me to Mbeya so
                          that Georgie could be vaccinated. However it was an unsatisfactory trip because the
                          doctor had no vaccine.

                          George went to the Lupa with the Moltenos and returned to the farm in their Baby
                          Austin which they have lent to us for a week. This was to enable me to go to Mbeya to
                          have a couple of teeth filled by a visiting dentist.

                          We went to Mbeya in the car on Saturday. It was quite a squash with the four of
                          us on the front seat of the tiny car. Once George grabbed the babies foot instead of the
                          gear knob! We had Georgie vaccinated at the hospital and then went to the hotel where
                          the dentist was installed. Mr Dare, the dentist, had few instruments and they were very
                          tarnished. I sat uncomfortably on a kitchen chair whilst he tinkered with my teeth. He filled
                          three but two of the fillings came out that night. This meant another trip to Mbeya in the
                          Baby Austin but this time they seem all right.

                          The weather is very hot and dry and the garden a mess. We are having trouble
                          with the young coffee trees too. Cut worms are killing off seedlings in the nursery and
                          there is a borer beetle in the planted out coffee.

                          George bought a large grey donkey from some wandering Masai and we hope
                          the children will enjoy riding it later on.

                          Very much love,
                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate. 14th February 1934.

                          Dearest Family,

                          You will be sorry to hear that little Ann has been very ill, indeed we were terribly
                          afraid that we were going to lose her. She enjoyed her birthday on the 8th. All the toys
                          you, and her English granny, sent were unwrapped with such delight. However next
                          day she seemed listless and a bit feverish so I tucked her up in bed after lunch. I dosed
                          her with quinine and aspirin and she slept fitfully. At about eleven o’clock I was
                          awakened by a strange little cry. I turned up the night light and was horrified to see that
                          Ann was in a convulsion. I awakened George who, as always in an emergency, was
                          perfectly calm and practical. He filled the small bath with very warm water and emersed
                          Ann in it, placing a cold wet cloth on her head. We then wrapped her in blankets and
                          gave her an enema and she settled down to sleep. A few hours later we had the same
                          thing over again.

                          At first light we sent a runner to Mbeya to fetch the doctor but waited all day in
                          vain and in the evening the runner returned to say that the doctor had gone to a case on
                          the diggings. Ann had been feverish all day with two or three convulsions. Neither
                          George or I wished to leave the bedroom, but there was Georgie to consider, and in
                          the afternoon I took him out in the garden for a while whilst George sat with Ann.
                          That night we both sat up all night and again Ann had those wretched attacks of
                          convulsions. George and I were worn out with anxiety by the time the doctor arrived the
                          next afternoon. Ann had not been able to keep down any quinine and had had only
                          small sips of water since the onset of the attack.

                          The doctor at once diagnosed the trouble as malaria aggravated by teething.
                          George held Ann whilst the Doctor gave her an injection. At the first attempt the needle
                          bent into a bow, George was furious! The second attempt worked and after a few hours
                          Ann’s temperature dropped and though she was ill for two days afterwards she is now
                          up and about. She has also cut the last of her baby teeth, thank God. She looks thin and
                          white, but should soon pick up. It has all been a great strain to both of us. Georgie
                          behaved like an angel throughout. He played happily in his cot and did not seem to
                          sense any tension as people say, babies do. Our baby was cheerful and not at all
                          subdued.

                          This is the rainy season and it is a good thing that some work has been done on
                          our road or the doctor might not have got through.

                          Much love to all,
                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate. 1st October 1934

                          Dearest Family,

                          We are all well now, thank goodness, but last week Georgie gave us such a
                          fright. I was sitting on the verandah, busy with some sewing and not watching Ann and
                          Georgie, who were trying to reach a bunch of bananas which hung on a rope from a
                          beam of the verandah. Suddenly I heard a crash, Georgie had fallen backward over the
                          edge of the verandah and hit the back of his head on the edge of the brick furrow which
                          carries away the rainwater. He lay flat on his back with his arms spread out and did not
                          move or cry. When I picked him up he gave a little whimper, I carried him to his cot and
                          bathed his face and soon he began sitting up and appeared quite normal. The trouble
                          began after he had vomited up his lunch. He began to whimper and bang his head
                          against the cot.

                          George and I were very worried because we have no transport so we could not
                          take Georgie to the doctor and we could not bear to go through again what we had gone
                          through with Ann earlier in the year. Then, in the late afternoon, a miracle happened. Two
                          men George hardly knew, and complete strangers to me, called in on their way from the
                          diggings to Mbeya and they kindly drove Georgie and me to the hospital. The Doctor
                          allowed me to stay with Georgie and we spent five days there. Luckily he responded to
                          treatment and is now as alive as ever. Children do put years on one!

                          There is nothing much else to report. We have a new vegetable garden which is
                          doing well but the earth here is strange. Gardens seem to do well for two years but by
                          that time the soil is exhausted and one must move the garden somewhere else. The
                          coffee looks well but it will be another year before we can expect even a few bags of
                          coffee and prices are still low. Anyway by next year George should have some good
                          return for all his hard work.

                          Lots of love,
                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate. November 4th 1934

                          Dearest Family,

                          George is home from his White Hunting safari looking very sunburnt and well.
                          The elderly American, who was his client this time, called in here at the farm to meet me
                          and the children. It is amazing what spirit these old lads have! This one looked as though
                          he should be thinking in terms of slippers and an armchair but no, he thinks in terms of
                          high powered rifles with telescopic sights.

                          It is lovely being together again and the children are delighted to have their Dad
                          home. Things are always exciting when George is around. The day after his return
                          George said at breakfast, “We can’t go on like this. You and the kids never get off the
                          shamba. We’ll simply have to get a car.” You should have heard the excitement. “Get a
                          car Daddy?’” cried Ann jumping in her chair so that her plaits bounced. “Get a car
                          Daddy?” echoed Georgie his brown eyes sparkling. “A car,” said I startled, “However
                          can we afford one?”

                          “Well,” said George, “on my way back from Safari I heard that a car is to be sold
                          this week at the Tukuyu Court, diseased estate or bankruptcy or something, I might get it
                          cheap and it is an A.C.” The name meant nothing to me, but George explained that an
                          A.C. is first cousin to a Rolls Royce.

                          So off he went to the sale and next day the children and I listened all afternoon for
                          the sound of an approaching car. We had many false alarms but, towards evening we
                          heard what appeared to be the roar of an aeroplane engine. It was the A.C. roaring her
                          way up our steep hill with a long plume of steam waving gaily above her radiator.
                          Out jumped my beaming husband and in no time at all, he was showing off her
                          points to an admiring family. Her lines are faultless and seats though worn are most
                          comfortable. She has a most elegant air so what does it matter that the radiator leaks like
                          a sieve, her exhaust pipe has broken off, her tyres are worn almost to the canvas and
                          she has no windscreen. She goes, and she cost only five pounds.

                          Next afternoon George, the kids and I piled into the car and drove along the road
                          on lookout for guinea fowl. All went well on the outward journey but on the homeward
                          one the poor A.C. simply gasped and died. So I carried the shot gun and George
                          carried both children and we trailed sadly home. This morning George went with a bunch
                          of farmhands and brought her home. Truly temperamental, she came home literally
                          under her own steam.

                          George now plans to get a second hand engine and radiator for her but it won’t
                          be an A.C. engine. I think she is the only one of her kind in the country.
                          I am delighted to hear, dad, that you are sending a bridle for Joseph for
                          Christmas. I am busy making a saddle out of an old piece of tent canvas stuffed with
                          kapok, some webbing and some old rug straps. A car and a riding donkey! We’re
                          definitely carriage folk now.

                          Lots of love to all,
                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate. 28th December 1934

                          Dearest Family,

                          Thank you for the wonderful Christmas parcel. My frock is a splendid fit. George
                          declares that no one can knit socks like Mummy and the children love their toys and new
                          clothes.

                          Joseph, the donkey, took his bit with an air of bored resignation and Ann now
                          rides proudly on his back. Joseph is a big strong animal with the looks and disposition of
                          a mule. he will not go at all unless a native ‘toto’ walks before him and when he does go
                          he wears a pained expression as though he were carrying fourteen stone instead of
                          Ann’s fly weight. I walk beside the donkey carrying Georgie and our cat, ‘Skinny Winnie’,
                          follows behind. Quite a cavalcade. The other day I got so exasperated with Joseph that
                          I took Ann off and I got on. Joseph tottered a few paces and sat down! to the huge
                          delight of our farm labourers who were going home from work. Anyway, one good thing,
                          the donkey is so lazy that there is little chance of him bolting with Ann.

                          The Moltenos spent Christmas with us and left for the Lupa Diggings yesterday.
                          They arrived on the 22nd. with gifts for the children and chocolates and beer. That very
                          afternoon George and John Molteno left for Ivuna, near Lake Ruckwa, to shoot some
                          guinea fowl and perhaps a goose for our Christmas dinner. We expected the menfolk
                          back on Christmas Eve and Anne and I spent a busy day making mince pies and
                          sausage rolls. Why I don’t know, because I am sure Abel could have made them better.
                          We decorated the Christmas tree and sat up very late but no husbands turned up.
                          Christmas day passed but still no husbands came. Anne, like me, is expecting a baby
                          and we both felt pretty forlorn and cross. Anne was certain that they had been caught up
                          in a party somewhere and had forgotten all about us and I must say when Boxing Day
                          went by and still George and John did not show up I felt ready to agree with her.
                          They turned up towards evening and explained that on the homeward trip the car
                          had bogged down in the mud and that they had spent a miserable Christmas. Anne
                          refused to believe their story so George, to prove their case, got the game bag and
                          tipped the contents on to the dining room table. Out fell several guinea fowl, long past
                          being edible, followed by a large goose so high that it was green and blue where all the
                          feathers had rotted off.

                          The stench was too much for two pregnant girls. I shot out of the front door
                          closely followed by Anne and we were both sick in the garden.

                          I could not face food that evening but Anne is made of stronger stuff and ate her
                          belated Christmas dinner with relish.

                          I am looking forward enormously to having Marjorie here with us. She will be able
                          to carry back to you an eyewitness account of our home and way of life.

                          Much love to you all,
                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate. 5th January 1935

                          Dearest Family,

                          You cannot imagine how lovely it is to have Marjorie here. She came just in time
                          because I have had pernicious vomiting and have lost a great deal of weight and she
                          took charge of the children and made me spend three days in hospital having treatment.
                          George took me to the hospital on the afternoon of New Years Eve and decided
                          to spend the night at the hotel and join in the New Years Eve celebrations. I had several
                          visitors at the hospital that evening and George actually managed to get some imported
                          grapes for me. He returned to the farm next morning and fetched me from the hospital
                          four days later. Of course the old A.C. just had to play up. About half way home the
                          back axle gave in and we had to send a passing native some miles back to a place
                          called Mbalizi to hire a lorry from a Greek trader to tow us home to the farm.
                          The children looked well and were full of beans. I think Marjorie was thankful to
                          hand them over to me. She is delighted with Ann’s motherly little ways but Georgie she
                          calls “a really wild child”. He isn’t, just has such an astonishing amount of energy and is
                          always up to mischief. Marjorie brought us all lovely presents. I am so thrilled with my
                          sewing machine. It may be an old model but it sews marvellously. We now have an
                          Alsatian pup as well as Joseph the donkey and the two cats.

                          Marjorie had a midnight encounter with Joseph which gave her quite a shock but
                          we had a good laugh about it next day. Some months ago George replaced our wattle
                          and daub outside pit lavatory by a substantial brick one, so large that Joseph is being
                          temporarily stabled in it at night. We neglected to warn Marj about this and one night,
                          storm lamp in hand, she opened the door and Joseph walked out braying his thanks.
                          I am afraid Marjorie is having a quiet time, a shame when the journey from Cape
                          Town is so expensive. The doctor has told me to rest as much as I can, so it is
                          impossible for us to take Marj on sight seeing trips.

                          I hate to think that she will be leaving in ten days time.

                          Much love,
                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate. 18th February 1935

                          Dearest Family,

                          You must be able to visualise our life here quite well now that Marj is back and
                          has no doubt filled in all the details I forget to mention in my letters. What a journey we
                          had in the A.C. when we took her to the plane. George, the children and I sat in front and
                          Marj sat behind with numerous four gallon tins of water for the insatiable radiator. It was
                          raining and the canvas hood was up but part of the side flaps are missing and as there is
                          no glass in the windscreen the rain blew in on us. George got fed up with constantly
                          removing the hot radiator cap so simply stuffed a bit of rag in instead. When enough
                          steam had built up in the radiator behind the rag it blew out and we started all over again.
                          The car still roars like an aeroplane engine and yet has little power so that George sent
                          gangs of boys to the steep hills between the farm and the Mission to give us a push if
                          necessary. Fortunately this time it was not, and the boys cheered us on our way. We
                          needed their help on the homeward journey however.

                          George has now bought an old Chev engine which he means to install before I
                          have to go to hospital to have my new baby. It will be quite an engineering feet as
                          George has few tools.

                          I am sorry to say that I am still not well, something to do with kidneys or bladder.
                          George bought me some pills from one of the several small shops which have opened
                          in Mbeya and Ann is most interested in the result. She said seriously to Kath Wood,
                          “Oh my Mummy is a very clever Mummy. She can do blue wee and green wee as well
                          as yellow wee.” I simply can no longer manage the children without help and have
                          engaged the cook’s wife, Janey, to help. The children are by no means thrilled. I plead in
                          vain that I am not well enough to go for walks. Ann says firmly, “Ann doesn’t want to go
                          for a walk. Ann will look after you.” Funny, though she speaks well for a three year old,
                          she never uses the first person. Georgie say he would much rather walk with
                          Keshokutwa, the kitchen boy. His name by the way, means day-after-tomorrow and it
                          suits him down to the ground, Kath Wood walks over sometimes with offers of help and Ann will gladly go walking with her but Georgie won’t. He on the other hand will walk with Anne Molteno
                          and Ann won’t. They are obstinate kids. Ann has developed a very fertile imagination.
                          She has probably been looking at too many of those nice women’s magazines you
                          sent. A few days ago she said, “You are sick Mummy, but Ann’s got another Mummy.
                          She’s not sick, and my other mummy (very smugly) has lovely golden hair”. This
                          morning’ not ten minutes after I had dressed her, she came in with her frock wet and
                          muddy. I said in exasperation, “Oh Ann, you are naughty.” To which she instantly
                          returned, “My other Mummy doesn’t think I am naughty. She thinks I am very nice.” It
                          strikes me I shall have to get better soon so that I can be gay once more and compete
                          with that phantom golden haired paragon.

                          We had a very heavy storm over the farm last week. There was heavy rain with
                          hail which stripped some of the coffee trees and the Mchewe River flooded and the
                          water swept through the lower part of the shamba. After the water had receded George
                          picked up a fine young trout which had been stranded. This was one of some he had
                          put into the river when Georgie was a few months old.

                          The trials of a coffee farmer are legion. We now have a plague of snails. They
                          ring bark the young trees and leave trails of slime on the glossy leaves. All the ring
                          barked trees will have to be cut right back and this is heartbreaking as they are bearing
                          berries for the first time. The snails are collected by native children, piled upon the
                          ground and bashed to a pulp which gives off a sickening stench. I am sorry for the local
                          Africans. Locusts ate up their maize and now they are losing their bean crop to the snails.

                          Lots of love, 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.

                            #6168

                            In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage

                            The wardrobe was sitting solidly in the middle of the office, exactly where they had left it.

                            Or was it?

                            “I was expecting a room full of middle-aged ladies,” said Star, her voice troubled. She frowned at the wardrobe. “Has it moved a little do you think? I’m sure it was closer to the window before. Or was it smaller. There’s something different about it …”

                            “Maybe they are inside,” whispered Tara.

                            “What! All of them?” Star sniggered nervously.

                            “We should check.” But Tara didn’t move— she felt an odd reluctance to approach the wardrobe. “You check, Star.”

                            Star shook her head. “Where’s Rosamund? Checking wardrobes for middle-aged drug mules is the sort of job she should be doing.”

                            “Are you looking for me?” asked a soft voice from the doorway. Tara and Star spun round.

                            “Good grief!” exclaimed Tara. “Rosamund! What are you wearing?”

                            Rosamund was dressed in a silky yellow thing that floated to her ankles. Her feet were bare and her long hair, usually worn loose, was now neatly plaited. Encircling the top of her head was a daisy chain. She smiled gently at Star and Tara. “Peace, my friends.” Dozens of gold bracelets jangled as she extended her hands to them. “Come, my dear friends, let us partake of carrot juice together.”

                            #6073

                            In reply to: Tart Wreck Repackage

                            The words of the Great Leader Undisputed Gabe were still resonating in the back of Gavin’s mind. The promotion to Operating Tomathetan seemed a great honour on the surface, but it certainly brought its lot of responsibilities with it. And from what he had seen before, it would only add to his current ones.

                            Gavin descended the Pealgrim path to the Dark Room where all the sorting happened. Many trails from the many carrot fields combined into one and all led to that central building all painted in black, hence its name.

                            A zealous Seed level had recently been put in charge of the re-painting. As there was only black paint in the warehouse he had the genius idea to save the order some money by using only what they already had, and as there was enough paint he covered all the windows, certainly thinking light could damage the crops. Repainting everything was out of the question so they had kept it like that and just added some artificial light to help the workers. Great Leader Undisputed Gabe, had thought it was a nice initiative as now workers could work any hour of the day.

                            When Gavin entered the Dark Room, it reeked of carrot and sweat. Members of the cult of all ages were sorting the divine roots by shapes, sizes and thickness. Most of them didn’t know what was the final purpose, innocent minds. All they had was the Sorting Song written by Britta the one legged vestal to help her fellow cultshipers in their work.

                            If a carrot is short, not worth the effort
                            As a long stalactites, like ice on your tits
                            A bar thick as a fist, you’ve just been blissed

                            Each verse gave advices about what they were looking for, where to put them after sorting and each team had their own songs that they sang while doing their work with the enthusiasm of cultshipers. Even though the song had been crafted to answer most of the situations in terms of carrot shapes, sizes and thickness, it happened that some would not fit into any categories. And recently, those seem to happen more often than once and the pile of misshapen carrots threaten to exceed that of the others combined.

                            “Eugene, Have you found what is the problem?” asked Gavin to their agronomist. His surname was Carrot and he came from noble Irish descent, quite appropriate for his work, thought Gavin. Eugene was skinny with a long neck and he often seemed to abuse the ritual fasting ceremony ending with the consumption of sacred mushroom soup.

                            “It’s because of the microscopic snails that infest the crops,” Eugene said. Gavin couldn’t help but notice an accumulation of dried saliva at the corner of his mouth. “They’re carried by bird shit and they are too small to be eaten by our ducks and in the end they cause the carrots to grow random shapes unfit for Odin.”

                            Odin, short for Organic Dildo Industry, has been the main source of revenue for the cult. Since the start of the confinement the demand has skyrocketed. Especially appreciated by vegans and nature lovers, it also procured a nice orange tan on the skin after usage.

                            “Can’t you find smaller dwarf ducks?”

                            “Your Gourdness, microscopic means very tiny, even dwarf ducks wouldn’t be able to eat them unless they eat the carrots.”

                            “And that would be a problem,” sighed Gavin. “What is your solution then?”

                            “I don’t have one.”

                            Gavin raised his hands to the black roof in despair. Did he have to do the jobs of everyone? He needed some fresh eyes and fresh ideas.

                          Viewing 20 results - 1 through 20 (of 46 total)