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    TracyTracy
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      From Tanganyika with Love

      continued  ~ part 3

      With thanks to Mike Rushby.

      Mchewe Estate. 22nd March 1935

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

      Very much love,
      Eleanor.

      Mchewe Estate. 14th June 1935

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

      Just hold thumbs that all goes well.

      your loving but anxious,
      Eleanor.

      Mchewe Estate. 28th June 1935

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

      Very much love to all,
      Eleanor.

      Mchewe Estate. 3rd August 1935

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

      Lots and lots of love,
      Eleanor.

      Mchewe Estate. 20th August 1935

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

      Who would be a mother!
      Eleanor

      Mchewe Estate. 20th September 1935

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

      Mchewe Estate. 11th October 1935

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

      Eleanor.

      Mchewe Estate. 17th October 1935

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Lots and lots of love,
      Eleanor.

      Mchewe Estate. 25th October 1935

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Very much love from us all, Eleanor.

      Mchewe Estate. 8th November 1935

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

      With love to all,
      Eleanor.

      Mchewe Estate. 21st November 1935

      Dearest Family,

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

      With love to all,
      Eleanor.

      Mchewe Estate. 6th December 1935

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

      Eleanor

      Mchewe Estate. 22nd December 1935

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

      Your very loving,
      Eleanor.

      Mchewe Estate. 2nd January 1936

      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

      With love to all,
      Eleanor.

      #6260
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        From Tanganyika with Love

        With thanks to Mike Rushby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

         

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Much love my dear,
        your jubilant
        Eleanor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Bless you all,
        Eleanor.

        S.S.Timavo. 6th. November 1930

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor Leslie.

        Eleanor and George Rushby:

        Eleanor and George Rushby

        Splendid Hotel, Dar es Salaam 11th November 1930

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Your cave woman
        Eleanor.

        Mchewe Estate. P.O. Mbeya 22 November 1930

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Much love to you all,
        Eleanor.

        Mchewe Estate 29th. November 1930

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Your loving
        Eleanor.

        Mchewe Estate. Mbeya. 8th December 1930

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Very much love,
        Eleanor.

        Mbeya 23rd December 1930

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

        26th December 1930

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

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

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

        Lots and lots of love,
        Eleanor.

        Mchewe Estate 8th Jan 1931

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Your loving,
        Eleanor.

        Mchewe Estate. 1st April 1931

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

        Very much love,
        Eleanor.

        Mchewe Estate 20th April 1931

        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

        Mchewe Estate. 20th May 1931

        Dear Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        Eleanor.

        #6240
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          Phyllis Ellen Marshall

          1909 – 1983

          Phyllis Marshall

           

          Phyllis, my grandfather George Marshall’s sister, never married. She lived in her parents home in Love Lane, and spent decades of her later life bedridden, living alone and crippled with rheumatoid arthritis. She had her bed in the front downstairs room, and had cords hanging by her bed to open the curtains, turn on the tv and so on, and she had carers and meals on wheels visit her daily. The room was dark and grim, but Phyllis was always smiling and cheerful.  Phyllis loved the Degas ballerinas and had a couple of prints on the walls.

          I remember visiting her, but it has only recently registered that this was my great grandparents house. When I was a child, we visited her and she indicated a tin on a chest of drawers and said I could take a biscuit. It was a lemon puff, and was the stalest biscuit I’d ever had. To be polite I ate it. Then she offered me another one! I declined, but she thought I was being polite and said “Go on! You can have another!” I ate another one, and have never eaten a lemon puff since that day.

          Phyllis’s nephew Bryan Marshall used to visit her regularly. I didn’t realize how close they were until recently, when I resumed contact with Bryan, who emigrated to USA in the 1970s following a successful application for a job selling stained glass windows and church furnishings.

          I asked on a Stourbridge facebook group if anyone remembered her.

          AF  Yes I remember her. My friend and I used to go up from Longlands school every Friday afternoon to do jobs for her. I remember she had a record player and we used to put her 45rpm record on Send in the Clowns for her. Such a lovely lady. She had her bed in the front room.

          KW I remember very clearly a lady in a small house in Love Lane with alley at the left hand.  I was intrigued by this lady who used to sit with the front door open and she was in a large chair of some sort. I used to see people going in and out and the lady was smiling. I was young then (31) and wondered how she coped but my sense was she had lots of help.  I’ve never forgotten that lady in Love Lane sitting in the open door way I suppose when it was warm enough.

          LR I used to deliver meals on wheels to her lovely lady.

          I sent Bryan the comments from the Stourbridge group and he replied:

          Thanks Tracy. I don’t recognize the names here but lovely to see such kind comments.
          In the early 70’s neighbors on Corser Street, Mr. & Mrs. Walter Braithwaite would pop around with occasional visits and meals. Walter was my piano teacher for awhile when I was in my early twenties. He was a well known music teacher at Rudolph Steiner School (former Elmfield School) on Love Lane. A very fine school. I seem to recall seeing a good article on Walter recently…perhaps on the Stourbridge News website. He was very well known.
          I’m ruminating about life with my Aunt Phyllis. We were very close. Our extra special time was every Saturday at 5pm (I seem to recall) we’d watch Doctor Who. Right from the first episode. We loved it. Likewise I’d do the children’s crossword out of Woman’s Realm magazine…always looking to win a camera but never did ! She opened my mind to the Bible, music and ballet. She once got tickets and had a taxi take us into Birmingham to see the Bolshoi Ballet…at a time when they rarely left their country. It was a very big deal in the early 60’s. ! I’ve many fond memories about her and grandad which I’ll share in due course. I’d change the steel needle on the old record player, following each play of the 78rpm records…oh my…another world.

          Bryan continues reminiscing about Phyllis in further correspondence:

          Yes, I can recall those two Degas prints. I don’t know much of Phyllis’ early history other than she was a hairdresser in Birmingham. I want to say at John Lewis, for some reason (so there must have been a connection and being such a large store I bet they did have a salon?)
          You will know that she had severe and debilitating rheumatoid arthritis that eventually gnarled her hands and moved through her body. I remember strapping on her leg/foot braces and hearing her writhe in pain as I did so but she wanted to continue walking standing/ getting up as long as she could. I’d take her out in the wheelchair and I can’t believe I say it along …but down Stanley Road!! (I had subsequent nightmares about what could have happened to her, had I tripped or let go!) She loved Mary Stevens Park, the swans, ducks and of course Canadian geese. Was grateful for everything in creation. As I used to go over Hanbury Hill on my visit to Love Lane, she would always remind me to smell the “sea-air” as I crested the hill.
          In the earlier days she smoked cigarettes with one of those long filters…looking like someone from the twenties.

          I’ll check on “Send in the clowns”. I do recall that music. I remember also she loved to hear Neil Diamond. Her favorites in classical music gave me an appreciation of Elgar and Delius especially. She also loved ballet music such as Swan Lake and Nutcracker. Scheherazade and La Boutique Fantastic also other gems.
          When grandad died she and aunt Dorothy shared more about grandma (who died I believe when John and I were nine-months old…therefore early 1951). Grandma (Mary Ann Gilman Purdy) played the piano and loved Strauss and Offenbach. The piano in the picture you sent had a bad (wonky) leg which would fall off and when we had the piano at 4, Mount Road it was rather dangerous. In any event my parents didn’t want me or others “banging on it” for fear of waking the younger brothers so it disappeared at sometime.
          By the way, the dog, Flossy was always so rambunctious (of course, she was a JRT!) she was put on the stairway which fortunately had a door on it. Having said that I’ve always loved dogs so was very excited to see her and disappointed when she was not around. 

          Phyllis with her parents William and Mary Marshall, and Flossie the dog in the garden at Love Lane:

          Phyllis William and Mary Marshall

           

          Bryan continues:

          I’ll always remember the early days with the outside toilet with the overhead cistern caked in active BIG spider webs. I used to have to light a candle to go outside, shielding the flame until destination. In that space I’d set the candle down and watch the eery shadows move from side to side whilst…well anyway! Then I’d run like hell back into the house. Eventually the kitchen wall was broken through so it became an indoor loo. Phew!
          In the early days the house was rented for ten-shillings a week…I know because I used to take over a ten-bob-note to a grumpy lady next door who used to sign the receipt in the rent book. Then, I think she died and it became available for $600.00 yes…the whole house for $600.00 but it wasn’t purchased then. Eventually aunt Phyllis purchased it some years later…perhaps when grandad died.

          I used to work much in the back garden which was a lovely walled garden with arch-type decorations in the brickwork and semicircular shaped capping bricks. The abundant apple tree. Raspberry and loganberry canes. A gooseberry bush and huge Victoria plum tree on the wall at the bottom of the garden which became a wonderful attraction for wasps! (grandad called the “whasps”). He would stew apples and fruit daily.
          Do you remember their black and white cat Twinky? Always sat on the pink-screen TV and when she died they were convinced that “that’s wot got ‘er”. Grandad of course loved all his cats and as he aged, he named them all “Billy”.

          Have you come across the name “Featherstone” in grandma’s name. I don’t recall any details but Dorothy used to recall this. She did much searching of the family history Such a pity she didn’t hand anything on to anyone. She also said that we had a member of the family who worked with James Watt….but likewise I don’t have details.
          Gifts of chocolates to Phyllis were regular and I became the recipient of the overflow!

          What a pity Dorothy’s family history research has disappeared!  I have found the Featherstone’s, and the Purdy who worked with James Watt, but I wonder what else Dorothy knew.

          I mentioned DH Lawrence to Bryan, and the connection to Eastwood, where Bryan’s grandma (and Phyllis’s mother) Mary Ann Gilman Purdy was born, and shared with him the story about Francis Purdy, the Primitive Methodist minister, and about Francis’s son William who invented the miners lamp.

          He replied:

          As a nosy young man I was looking through the family bookcase in Love Lane and came across a brown paper covered book. Intrigued, I found “Sons and Lovers” D.H. Lawrence. I knew it was a taboo book (in those days) as I was growing up but now I see the deeper connection. Of course! I know that Phyllis had I think an earlier boyfriend by the name of Maurice who lived in Perry Barr, Birmingham. I think he later married but was always kind enough to send her a book and fond message each birthday (Feb.12). I guess you know grandad’s birthday – July 28. We’d always celebrate those days. I’d usually be the one to go into Oldswinford and get him a cardigan or pullover and later on, his 2oz tins of St. Bruno tobacco for his pipe (I recall the room filled with smoke as he puffed away).
          Dorothy and Phyllis always spoke of their ancestor’s vocation as a Minister. So glad to have this history! Wow, what a story too. The Lord rescued him from mischief indeed. Just goes to show how God can change hearts…one at a time.
          So interesting to hear about the Miner’s Lamp. My vicar whilst growing up at St. John’s in Stourbridge was from Durham and each Harvest Festival, there would be a miner’s lamp placed upon the altar as a symbol of the colliery and the bountiful harvest.

          More recollections from Bryan about the house and garden at Love Lane:

          I always recall tea around the three legged oak table bedecked with a colorful seersucker cloth. Battenburg cake. Jam Roll. Rich Tea and Digestive biscuits. Mr. Kipling’s exceedingly good cakes! Home-made jam.  Loose tea from the Coronation tin cannister. The ancient mangle outside the back door and the galvanized steel wash tub with hand-operated agitator on the underside of the lid. The hand operated water pump ‘though modernisation allowed for a cold tap only inside, above the single sink and wooden draining board. A small gas stove and very little room for food preparation. Amazing how the Marshalls (×7) managed in this space!

          The small window over the sink in the kitchen brought in little light since the neighbor built on a bathroom annex at the back of their house, leaving #47 with limited light, much to to upset of grandad and Phyllis. I do recall it being a gloomy place..i.e.the kitchen and back room.

          The garden was lovely. Long and narrow with privet hedge dividing the properties on the right and the lovely wall on the left. Dorothy planted spectacular lilac bushes against the wall. Vivid blues, purples and whites. Double-flora. Amazing…and with stunning fragrance. Grandad loved older victorian type plants such as foxgloves and comfrey. Forget-me-nots and marigolds (calendulas) in abundance.  Rhubarb stalks. Always plantings of lettuce and other vegetables. Lots of mint too! A large varigated laurel bush outside the front door!

          Such a pleasant walk through the past. 

          An autograph book belonging to Phyllis from the 1920s has survived in which each friend painted a little picture, drew a cartoon, or wrote a verse.  This entry is perhaps my favourite:

          Ripping Time

          #6188

          Reddening, Bob stammered, “Yeah, yes, uh, yeah. Um…”

          Clara squeezed her grandfathers arm reassuringly.  “We’re looking for my friend Nora.” she interrupted, to give him time to compose himself.  Poor dear was easily flustered these days. Turning to Will, “She was hiking over to visit us and should have arrived yesterday and she’d have passed right by here, but her phone seems to be dead.”

          Will had to think quickly. If he could keep them both here with Nora long enough to get the box ~ or better yet, replace the contents with something else. Yes, that was it!  He could take a sack of random stuff to put in the box, and they’d never suspect a thing. He was going to hide the contents in a statue anyway, so he didn’t even need the box.

          Spreading his arms wide in welcome and smiling broadly, he said “This is your lucky day! Come inside and I’ll put the kettle on, Nora’s gone up to take some photos of the old ruin, she’ll be back soon.”

          Bob and Clara relaxed and returned the smile and allowed themselves to be ushered into the kitchen and seated at the table.

          Will lit the gas flame under the soup before filling the kettle with water. They’d be too polite to refuse, if he put a bowl in front of them, and if they didn’t drink it, well then he’d have to resort to plan B.  He put a little pinch of powder from a tiny jar into each cup of  tea; it wouldn’t hurt and would likely make them more biddable.  Then the soup would do the trick.

          Will steered the conversation to pleasant banter about the wildflowers on the way up to the ruins that he’d said Nora was visiting, and the birds that were migrating at this time of year, keeping the topics off anything potentially agitating.  The tea was starting to take effect and Clara and Bob relaxed and enjoyed the conversation.  They sipped the soup without protest, although Bob did grimace a bit at the thought of eating on an agitated stomach. He’d have indigestion for days, but didn’t want to be rude and refuse. He was enjoying the respite from all the vexation,  though, and was quite happy for the moment just to let the man prattle on while he ate the damn soup.

          “Oh, I think Nora must be back! I just heard her voice!” exclaimed Clara.

          Will had heard it too, but he said, “That wasn’t Nora, that was the parrot! It’s a fast leaner, and Nora’s been training it to say things….I tell you what, you stay here and finish your soup, and I’ll go and fetch the parrot.”

          “Parrot? What parrot?” Clara and Bob said in unison.  They both found it inordinately funny and by the time Will had exited the kitchen, locking the door from the outside, they were hooting and wiping the tears of laughter from their cheeks.

          “What the hell was in that tea!” Clara joked, finishing her soup.

          What was Nora doing awake already? Will didn’t have to keep her quiet for long, but he needed to keep her quiet now, just until the soup took effect on the others.

          Either that or find a parrot.

          #6185

          “I’ll be right back!” Nora told Will, who was stirring a big bubbling pot on the stove. “Need to wash my hands.”

          She had a quick look around the bedroom she’d slept in for her missing phone. Nowhere to be found!  Maybe she could find Will’s phone when he went out to feed the donkey, and call her phone to try and locate it. Damn, that wouldn’t work either. Will had said there was no network here. That would explain why her phone stopped working when she was alone in the dark woods.

          “Smells delicious!” she said brightly, scraping a chair back across the brick floor and seating herself at the kitchen table.

          The home made soup was chock full of vegetables and looked and smelled wonderful, but it had a peculiar acrid aftertaste.  Nora tried to ignore it, taking gulps of wine in between each mouthful to eliminate the bitterness.  She wished it wasn’t soup in a way, so that she’d be able to surreptitiously palm some of it off onto the dogs that were waiting hopefully under the table.  If only Will would leave the room for a minute, but he seemed to be watching her every move.

          “Very tasty, but I can’t manage another mouthful, it’s so filling,” she said, but Will looked so offended that she sighed and carried on eating. He topped up her wine glass.

          By the time Nora had finished the soup, she felt quite nauseous and stood up quickly to head for the bathroom. The room started to spin and she held on to the edge of the table, but it was no good. The spinning didn’t stop and she crashed to the floor, unconscious.

          Smiling with satisfaction, Will stood up and walked around the table to where she lay. Shame he’d had to put her to sleep, really she was quite a nice woman and cute, too, in a funny elfin way.  He’d started to like her.  Plenty of time to get to know her now, anyway. She wouldn’t be going anywhere for awhile.

          He picked her up and carried her to the secret room behind his workshop on the other side of the patio.  The walls and floor were thick stone, and there were no windows.  He laid her on the bench, locked the door, and went back in the house to fetch blankets and bedding and a pile of books for her to read when she came round.  Probably not for a good 24 hours he reckoned, somehow she’d managed to eat all the soup.  He would put much less in the next batch, just enough to keep her docile and sleepy.

          It would only be for a few days, just long enough for him to find that box and move it to a safer location. He’d been entrusted to make sure the contents of the box were preserved for the people in the future, and he was a man of his word.

          If they had listened to him in the first place this would never have happened.  Burying a box was a risk: all kinds of possibilities existed for a buried box to be accidentally unearthed.   He had suggested encasing the contents inside a concrete statue, but they’d ignored him. Well, now was his chance.  He was looking forward to making a new statue.

          #6178

          Nora woke to the sun streaming  in the little dormer window in the attic bedroom. She stretched under the feather quilt and her feet encountered the cool air, an intoxicating contrast to the snug warmth of the bed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so well and was reluctant to awaken fully and confront the day. She felt peaceful and rested, and oddly, at home.

          Unfortunately that thought roused her to sit and frown, and look around the room.  The dust was dancing in the sunbeams and rivulets of condensation trickled down the window panes.   A small statue of an owl was silhouetted on the sill, and a pitcher of dried herbs or flowers, strands of spider webs sparkled like silver thread between the desiccated buds.

          An old whicker chair in the corner was piled with folded blankets and bed linens, and the bookshelf behind it  ~ Nora threw back the covers and padded over to the books. Why were they all facing the wall?   The spines were at the back, with just the pages showing. Intrigued, Nora extracted a book to see what it was, just as a gentle knock sounded on the door.

          Yes? she said, turning, placing the book on top of the pile of bedclothes on the chair, her thoughts now on the events of the previous night.

          “I expect you’re ready for some coffee!” Will called brightly. Nora opened the door, smiling. What a nice man he was, making her so welcome, and such a pleasant evening they’d spent, drinking sweet home made wine and sharing stories.  It had been late, very late, when he’d shown her to her room.  Nora has been tempted to invite him in with her (very tempted if the truth be known) and wasn’t quite sure why she hadn’t.

          “I slept so well!” she said, thanking him as he handed her the mug.  “It looks like a lovely day today,” she added brightly, and then frowned a little. She didn’t really want to leave.  She was supposed to continue her journey, of course she knew that.  But she really wanted to stay a little bit longer.

          “I’ve got a surprise planned for lunch,” he said, “and something I’d like to show you this morning.  No rush!”  he added with a twinkly smile.

          Nora beamed at him and promptly ditched any thoughts of continuing her trip today.

          “No rush” she repeated softly.

          #6159

          Nora moves silently along the path, placing her feet with care. It is more overgrown in the wood than she remembers, but then it is such a long time since she came this way. She can see in the distance something small and pale. A gentle gust of wind and It seems to stir, as if shivering, as if caught.

          Nora feels strange, there is a strong sense of deja vu now that she has entered the forest.

          She comes to a halt. The trees are still now, not a leaf stirs. She can hear nothing other than the sound of her own breathing. She can’t see the clearing yet either, but she remembers it’s further on, beyond the next winding of the path. She can see it in her mind’s eye though, a rough circle of random stones, with a greenish liquid light filtering through. The air smells of leaf mould and it is spongy underfoot. There’s a wooden bench, a grassy bank, and a circular area of emerald green moss. Finn thinks of it as place of enchantment, a fairy ring.

          Wait! Who is Finn? Where is this story coming from that whispers in her ear as she makes her way through the woods to her destination, the halfway point of her clandestine journey? Who is Finn?

          She reaches the tiny shivering thing and sees that it is a scrap of paper, impaled on a broken branch. She reaches out gently and touches it, then eases if off the branch, taking care not to rip it further. There is a message scribbled on the paper, incomplete. meet me, is all it says now

          The crumpled up paper among the dead leaves beside the path catches her eye.  No, not impaled on a branch but still, a bit of paper catches her eye as the mysterious  ~ ephemeral, invisible ~ story teller continues softly telling her tale

          Finn feels dreamy and floaty. She smiles to herself, thinking of the purpose of her mission, feeling as though it is a message to her from the past. She is overwhelmed for a moment with a sense of love and acceptance towards her younger self. Yes, she whispers softly to the younger Finn, I will meet you at the fairy ring. We will talk a bit. Maybe I can help

          But wait, there is no meaningful message on the crumpled paper that Nora picks up and opens out. It’s nothing but a shopping receipt.  Disappointed, she screws it back up and aims to toss it into the undergrowth, but she hesitates.  Surely it can’t have no meaning at all, she thinks, not after the strange whispered story and the synchronicity of finding it just at that moment.  She opens it back up again, and reads the list of items.

          Olive oil, wine, wheat, garum…. wait, what? Garum? She looks at the date on the receipt ~ a common enough looking till roll receipt, the kind you find in any supermarket ~ but what is this date? 57BC?   How can that be?  Even if she had mistranslated BC ~ perhaps it means British Cooperative, or Better Compare or some such supermarket name ~  the year of 57 makes little sense anyway.  And garum, how to explain that! Nora only knows of garum in relation to Romans, there is no garum on the shelves between the mayonaisse and the ketchup these days, after all.

          Nora smooths the receipt and folds it neatly in half and puts it in her pocket.  The shadows are long now and she still has some distance to walk before the halfway village.  As she resumes her journey, she hears whispered in her ear: You unlocked the blue diamond mode. You’re on a quest now!

          Smiling now, she accelerates her pace.  The lowering sun is casting a golden light, and she feels fortified.

          #6081
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            Aunt Idle:

            I’ll admit Mater did well with the get back into shape programme, despite my skepticism.  She did hone her muscles a bit, but she was still harping on about wanting plastic surgery.  I probably shouldn’t have asked her if she was showing off her biceps or her bingo wings the other day, because that started her off again. I tried to make it up by complimenting her thigh muscles, but spoiled it by saying it was a shame the skin hung down past her kneecaps. Bert said maybe she could hold the skin up with some suspenders and made me spit my eucalyptus tea out and nearly choke to death. Mater was all set to take offence until she saw me choking, and then she started laughing too. I’m smiling remembering it, because we all saw the funny side then and couldn’t stop laughing for ages. God knows we needed a good laugh.

            I’d had another one of those telepathic chats with Corrie the day before. If I’d known those silly girls were going to navigate their way here via that route I’d have said something, but I never thought they’d be so daft.  There’s me envisioning a pleasant drift through the Mediterranean, and an unexpected sail across an immense shallow lake that had appeared in the middle east with crystal clear waters and a sandy bottom (I could picture it all, I tell you) and then an invitingly tropical trip along the Indian coast with ports of call at virgin new coastlines  ~ but no, they’d gone the other way.  Across the Atlantic. And now they were fighting off bandits every step of the way and having to go miles out of their way to avoid plague ridden slums.  They hadn’t even made their way past the eastern seaboard yet, despite it being considerably narrower now.

            They lost Pan for days in one of those half submerged coastal cities, rife with lawless floating shanties.  I hope my impressions are wrong, I do really, but it seemed like he’d been kidnapped for a barbecue.  Tender and juicy.

            His ability to stay submerged under the water for so long saved him, that and Corrie’s ability to stay in telepathic contact with him.

            They left the coastline and headed south after that and didn’t head back towards land for awhile but when they did, they found the lagoons and inlets were infested with alligators and some kind of water pig. Not sure if I picked that up right, but seems like the hogs had escaped from the farms during the Great Floods and taken to the water. Pan was forbidden to waterlark in these waters and had to stay confined to the raft.

            I don’t know if they’ll get here in time for Mater’s birthday. Might be my hundredth birthday by the time they get here at this rate.

            #5797

            “This is the life, eh!” June said, stretching out on the sun lounger sipping a fruity cocktail. “Turquoise sea and a salty breeze, this is the life for me!” she said, kicking off her new deck shoes in nautical blue and white, and hitching her dress hem up to expose her thighs to the sun.

            The skipper raised an eyebrow and smiled sardonically, while simultaneously averting his eyes from the unappetizing sight of the doughy flesh. He could imagine this one rolling around below decks looking green as soon as the weather changed.

            “Sure beats that jail. That had me worried, I’ll admit it. I wasn’t sure we were ever gonna make it outta there,” replied April, smiling fondly at Ella Marie and giving her hand an affectionate squeeze.  “You saved our bacon, honey.”

            “If it weren’t for that there Lord Wrick turning up, even the money might not have got you out.” Arthur chimed in.  “Promising ole president Lump that land for the golf course if’n he pardoned you.  Jacqui, you done wonders there.”

            “Ah well, the young Lord Wrick owed me a favour, you might say. But that’s another story,” Jacqui replied. “The main thing was we had to get out of the country fast before Lump finds out about that land in Scotland.”

            June sniggered. “Can’t imagine him in a kilt, can you? I wonder if he’s orange down there as well.”

            “Oh, please! You really know how to lower the tone, dontcha? Gawd, what a thought!” April started to feel queasy.  Changing the subject, she said, “Hey, did I tell you our Joanie’s going to meet us in Australia too?”

            #5645
            F LoveF Love
            Participant

              I grabbed the baby when nobody was watching. That’s most of the time. I nestled him comfortably on the dusting cloths in my cleaning cart and told him not to cry .

              I popped my head into the lounge on the way past. The Aunties were both snoozing with their feet up and their mouths open. “Good afternoon, Miss June, Miss April!” I added a smile that would melt butter, maybe even stone. I don’t know. I’m new to this smiling carry-on. They ignored me, as usual, but maybe they were just asleep.

              I didn’t really have a plan. I just had a feeling about this baby.

              And, I was right. Barron turns out to be a girl. I don’t know who else know … that maid has to know. She’s the one changes his .. her … nappies.

              I am going to get to the bottom of this. Haha. Excuse the joke.

              In the meantime, the baby is safe with me.

              #5597

              It’s taking blimmin forever for the Oober to get here, and, wouldn’t you just know it, rain!

              “Hop in,” says the driver. He’s leaning over holding open the front door. An older chappie with a shiny forehead and rosacea. He definitely drinks. Maybe he’s come straight from the pub. Still, it’s raining and I’m late, so I hop in. In the back seat, mind. I’m not much of a one for talking.

              “I’m Finnley.” I crack a smile to make up for sitting in the back. It feels strange smiling. In my mind, there’s not much point to smiling. It just encourages people to be overly familiar.

              “Bert,” he says. He’s Australian I think from the accent and his expression is more of a sneer than a smile. I reckon I pissed him off not getting in the front seat.  “F i n n l e y.” He sounds it out like he’s learning a new language. “Always thought that was a boy’s name?”

              “Can be either.”

              Do I look like a boy, Bert? 

              Anyhow, that’s enough chitchat for me. I get my phone out and make like I am checking for messages. Haha. As if.

              “Here on holiday, Finnley? Pity about the weather.”

              Oh here we go.

              “A job.”

              “Oh yeah, corker! Where’s that, Finnley?”

              “Washingtown Beige House, Bert.”

              I have to be honest, saying it out loud still gives me goosebumps. And Bert’s surprise doesn’t disappoint.

              #5049
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                Aunt Idle:

                Bert tells me it’s new years eve today.  Looking forward to the champagne and fireworks I said to him. Joking of course.  The wonder is that I even remembered what such things were.  Bert looked sharply at me then, bit strange it was.  Then he relaxed a bit and had a peculiar secretive smile on his face.  Of course that’s easy to say in retrospect, that he had a secretive smile on his face. But little did I know at the time.

                I’d been in the doldrums ever since that hot air balloon thing didn’t materialize into anything. I told Bert about it, and he went off down to the Brundy place, gone ages he was,  and came back saying it was nothing.  He had an odd spring in his step though which puzzled me a bit at the time, but I was so deflated after the excitement of thinking something might actually happen for a change, and when it didn’t, well, I couldn’t be bothered to think about Bert acting funny.

                When Bert had a shower and asked me to iron ~ iron, I ask you! ~ his best shirt, I was more depressed than ever. If Bert goes mad as well, then where will we be? I was already wondering if I’d started hallucinating and if that was a sign of madness.  I’d been catching glimpses of things out of the corner of my eye all week.  I’d even heard stifled giggles.  It was unnerving, I tell you.

                When Bert suggested I have a shower as well, and asked if I still had that red sequinned dress I started to worry.  What was he thinking? Then ~ get this ~ he asked if I had red knickers on.

                Bert! I said, aghast.

                He mumbled something about it being a tradition in Spain to wear red underpants on new years eve, and surely I hadn’t forgotten?

                I gently reminded him that we weren’t in Spain, and he said, You’re damn right this isn’t Kansas anymore, hooted with laughter, and fairly skipped out of the room.

                I sat there for a bit pondering all this and then thought, Hell, why not? Why not wear red knickers and that old red sequinned dress?  Why not have a shower as well?

                And much to my surprise I found I was humming a song and smiling to myself as I went to find that old red dress.

                #4755

                “Welcome, Everyone!” said Mater. She had entered unnoticed and was standing in the doorway regarding the assembled group and looking rather more lewd than welcoming. She had worn a pantsuit for the occasion, a relic from the 70’s made of red garbardine. Fortunately, the forgiving nature of garbardine added a little stretch, but even so the cloth clung rather too tightly to Mater’s curves.
                “Oh, lord love ya! “ said Finly. “Look at you! You’ve not dusted that pantsuit off since you got it out of the chest, have you!” She hit Mater with her duster and a cloud of dust enveloped her.
                “Way to go, Mater!” said Devan.
                “What are you doing, crazy old woman?” shrieked Dodo. Unfortunately her mouth was full of bread roll and it sounded more like, “Woowawuooingwazyolewoom?”
                “She’s aboriginal?” asked Sanso looking at Dodo with interest.
                Prune snorted. “We aren’t quite sure where she is from but she is an interesting specimen.”
                “I expect she is rip snorting drunk again,” said Mater after the dust had subsided. “Anyway, I just want to say it is a pleasure to have you all here. I hope you are finding enough to eat. If you need anything, Bert here is your man.”
                “Thanks ever so much,” said Arona, smiling charmingly and gently wiping the lizard with her paper table napkin before popping it back under her turban.
                Bert grunted and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We aren’t used to this many folk staying at one time,” he said. “But yeah, welcome all. So, what are you all here for?”
                “It’s to do with a doll, actually,” said Maeve. Shawn Paul looked at her, impressed with her boldness.
                “A key,” said Arona, waving the key in the air.
                Mater stumbled and reached out to the door frame for support.
                “Bloody hell,” said Bert.

                #4725

                A wild eyed crow was cawing relentlessly since the wee hours of the dawn.
                Nothing much had moved since everyone arrived at the Inn, and in contrast with the hot days, the cool night had sent everyone shivering under the thin woolen blankets that smelled of naphthalene.
                Deep down, Bert was glad to see the old Inn come back to life, even if for a little while. He was weary of the witch though. She wouldn’t be here without some supernatural mischief afoot.
                He glanced in the empty hall, putting his muddy pair of boots outside, not to incur the fury of Finly. He almost started calling to see if anybody was home, but thought better of it. Speaking of the devil, Finly was already up and busy at the small kitchen stove, and had done some outstanding croissants. In truth, despite all her flaws, he liked her; she was a capable lady, although never big on sweet talks. No wonder she and Mater did get along well.
                Bert started to walk along the hall towards the hangar, where he knew old cases where stored, one with a particular book that he needed. It was hard to guess what would happen next. He found the book, that was hidden on the side of the case, and scratched his head while smiling a big wide grin.
                He was feeling alive with the kind of energy that could be a poor advisor were his mind not sharp as a gator’s tooth.

                The book had a lot of gibberish in it, like it was written in a sort of automatic writing. For some reason, after the termite honey episode, Idle had started to collect odd books, and she was starting to see spy games hidden in the strangest patterns.
                Despite being a lazy pothead, the girl was smart, though. Some of her books were codes.

                Bert’s had his fair run with those during his early years in the military. So he’d hidden the most dangerous ones that Idle had unwittingly found, so that she and the rest of the family wouldn’t run into trouble.
                Most of the time, she’d simply forget about having bought or bargained for them, but in some cases, there was a silly obsession with her that rendered her crazy about some of those books. Usually the girls, especially the twins, would get the blame for what was thought a child’s prank. Luckily her anger wouldn’t last long.

                This book though was a bit different. Bert had never found the coding pattern, nor the logic about it. And some bits of it looked like it talked about the Inn. “Encoded pattern from the future”, “remote viewing from the past”, Idle’s suggestions would have run wild with imaginative solutions. Maybe she was onto something…

                He looked a two bits, struck by some of the parts:

                The inn had been open for a long time before any of the tenants had come, and it had been full of people once it had been full all day long.
                She had gone back after a while and opened up the little room for the evening and people could be seen milling about.
                The rest of the tenants had remained out on their respective streets and were quiet and peaceful.
                ‘So it’s the end of a cold year.’
                The woman with golden hair and green eyes seemed to have no intention of staying in the inn as well; she was already preparing for the next year.
                When the cold dawn had started to rise the door to the inn had been open all night long. The young man with red hair sitting on a nearby bench had watched a few times before opening his eyes to see the man that had followed him home.

                There was a young red hair boy that had arrived. He was curious as to the man following.

                The other random bit talked about something else. Like a stuff of nightmares. And his name was on it.

                The small girl stood beside him, still covered with her night clothes. She felt naked by the side of the road. There was nothing else to do.
                In the distance, Bert could faintly hear the howling of the woods, as two large, black dogs pounced, their jaws ready to tear her to pieces. The young girl stared in wonder and fear before the dog, before biting it, then she was gone. She ran off through the bushes. “Ah…” she whispered to herself. “Why am I not alive?” She thought to herself: this is all I need.
                If I am here, they’ll kill or hurt my kids. They won’t miss me for nothing.
                She ran the last few kilometers to her little cottage; not long after, Bert heard the sound of the forest. He was glad it was.

                Maybe the witch was not here for nothing after all.

                #4719

                Granola suddenly popped back in the real world — the one with her friends she meant. Oh, this was all rather confusing. Looking around, she was feeling quite corporeal.

                “That can’t be right!”

                She looked around, feeling herself. That wasn’t her body, it was Tiku’s. Yet, if she was corporeal, did it mean she was in the mental space with the story characters? Boundaries seemed to blur. She took a spin around to get a feel of the space, and fell on her bum with an infectious laughter.
                Tiku was quite pliant and surprisingly accommodating of her in-that-body visits. It was as though they could converse, but it felt like a familiar voice of her own, not someone’s else.

                “I’m in the magical thread of their story, am I not? It’s all in their head…” She thought. She could feel Tiku’s mind there, laughing and answering back something about the Dreamtime, that it was all the same and connected anyway.
                “But it’s confusing as hell!” She liked a bit of order, and explanations in big bold letters.

                A jeep coming out from the horizon followed by dark billowing smoke braked noisily in front of her.

                “Hello there!” A girl was driving, wearing a sort of loose grey hijab, smiling at her.
                Tiku-Granola waved as her, still sitting on her butt.

                “Are you in trouble? No? Great. Listen, we’re looking for an Inn, it shouldn’t be very far from here. Our GPS is a piece of rubbish and is making us turn in rounds… Could you point us there, I’m afraid I took a wrong turn at the last fork in the road.”

                Granola left Tiku to reply, as she seemed to know exactly what to answer.
                “No Miss, you’re on the right road, it’s just a little ahead, you’ll find the old washed-out sign that points to the mines. Follow the sign until you reach the little brook, cross it and it’s on the left, 2 miles, then right, then…”

                Arona stopped the lady.

                “It seems a bit complicated, and my copilot here isn’t that good with memory riddles” she added pointing at Sanso. “Would you care to join us for that last mile.”

                “Sure, of course, I was planning to go back there anyways. Never seen such activity in a while. Seems they’ll need a bit of help there, with all the guests coming.”

                #4644

                Did madness run in Maeve’s family, was that it? She’d admitted that her Uncle Fergus was a paranoid old loony, and it was becoming obvious that Maeve herself was becoming a little unhinged. What was she doing, galloping out of Shawn Paul’s door, and what was all that gleeful cackling for? It was going to make Lucinda’s plan to get the twelve addresses harder, with Maeve being so unpredictable. She would simply have to be prepared to take advantage of it and seize any opportunity that arose.

                The fact was, there was no plan to get the addresses, but she knew she had to have them. She had to find the connecting link between them.

                Oh bugger it! Lucinda muttered. Just go for a nice long walk, my girl, and stop thinking about it. She glanced up sharply at the doll, but no, the voice had been her own. This time. I’m going as mad as Maeve, she mumbled as she rammed her feet into a pair of walking shoes.

                “Mad as Almad.” With a pained expression Lucinda spun round to glare at the doll before slamming the door on her and stomping off down the corridor, loudly complaining that that idle cleaning woman had left bits of paper on the floor in between Shawn Paul and Maeve’s doormats. She bent down to pick it up to put it in the bin outside, noticing that it was an old newspaper clipping with a paperclip attached to it.

                “Oh my god!” Could it really be that easy? It was an advert for a trip to Australia. There was a photo of an old woman standing in front of an interesting looking old hotel. The old woman in the photograph had been smiling, the welcoming hostess, when Lucinda first looked at the picture, but she seemed to be frowning now, a searching intent look. Lucinda shook her head and blinked, and looked again. The smiling face in the photograph looked quite normal.

                #4545

                “That is unfortunate,” said Rukshan when Fox told him about the dogs’ answer. They were all gathered around the fire on rough rugs for a last meal before activating the portal. For a moment shadow and light struggled on Rukshan’s face as the flames of the fire licked the woods, making it crack and break. A few sparkles flew upward into the dark starry night.

                Lhamom used the magic metal spoon to serve steaming soup in carved wooden bowls, and Olliver was doing the service.
                When he took his, Fox felt a chilly breeze find its way past his blanket. He shivered, put the bowl on the carpet in front of him and attempted to readjust the yakult wool blanket in a vain attempt to make it windproof. He took back the bowl and took a sip. The dogs barked in the distance. They were impatient to start the hunt. Fox shivered again.

                “I could still serve as bait,” Fox said because he felt it was his fault if the plan failed. “You know, surprise the dogs while they are focused on the Shadow and make it follow me to trap it into the portal after we crossed it.”

                “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Rukshan. “It’s too dangerous. If you try to do that, we could have not one but two problems to solve. And you might get stuck too.”

                Fox tried not to think about the implications of being stuck here, or in between the portals. He looked at Olliver who was looking at his soup as if it was the most important thing in the world.

                Rukshan shook his head. “No. It was a foolish of me to hope those dogs would help us.”

                “What can we do then?” asked Lhamom. They all drank their soup, the silence only broken by the fire cracking and the dogs barking.

                “I can be in several places at once,” said Olliver quickly. Fox held his breath.
                Lhamom and Rukshan looked at the boy.

                “I know,” said Lhamom. “You were so helpful today with the cooking and all.”
                “What do you mean?” asked Rukshan. “Olliver was with me helping me with the sand all day.” He stopped. His face showed sudden understanding. “Oh! Of course,” he said. “The book we burnt. The shard’s power was not only teleportation, but also ubiquity.” Rukshan turned to look at Fox. “You don’t seem surprised.”

                Fox shrugged, making his blanket slip off of his shoulders slightly. Before he answered he adjusted it back quickly before the warmth he had accumulated could vanish into the night. “Well I saw him… I mean them. How do you think I came out of the negotiation alive? I can not teleport! I don’t even know what my powers are, or if I have any now that the shards have gone.”

                “Grace and miracles,” said Rukshan with a grin.
                A strange cristalline noise rang to Fox’s hears.
                “What? Oh! Yes. Well, that explains it then,” he said, feeling a mix of grumpiness and contentment. He finished his soup and was about to leave the comfort of his blanket to take some stew when Lhamom took the bowl from his hands. She gave him a good serving and gave him back his bowl.

                “What is it about shards and powers?” she asked.
                Fox, Rukshan and Olliver looked at each other.
                “It’s…” started Fox.
                “It’s a long story,” cut Rukshan.

                “Don’t make as if I said nothing important,” said Olliver.
                The red of the flames enhances his angry look, thought Fox.
                “I can be at two places, even more, at once. I can still be the bait and go back home with you at the same time.”

                A dog barked impatiently.

                “Yes,” said Fox.
                “I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” said Rukshan, concern on his face.
                “Why? I’m not a boy anymore, if that’s what it’s all about. I can do it. I already did it this afternoon.”
                “Well this afternoon was nice and cosy, wasn’t it? You had plenty of light, and yes you helped Fox escape from the dogs, so you can certainly do it. But what about the Shadow spirit. We have no idea what it is, or what it can do to you. And what will happen if one of you get killed?”

                Once again, they fell silent. There was a dog bark and that strange cristalline noise again. It sounded closer.
                “What’s that noise?” asked Olliver. Fox suddenly realised the strange noise had nothing to do with the sound of miracles, but it was a real noise in the real world.
                “What noise?” asked Lhamom. “And what are you all talking about, shards and powers and ubiquity?”
                “I can hear it too,” said Fox. “I’ve heard it before, but thought it was just me.”

                The noise happened again, this time sounding a lot like metallic ropes snapping on ice.
                Fox wriggled his nose. There was the smell of an animal and of a human.
                “I think someone is coming,” he said, sniffing the cold air. “A donkey and a human.”

                It was not too long before they saw an odd woman riding a donkey. She was playing a lyre made of ice, the strings of which had a faint glow. The woman was smiling like she was having the best adventure of her life.
                “Hi guys. I came to help you. You didn’t think I would remain forgotten in my cave, did you?”

                “Kumihimo! Ronaldo!” said Lhamom, standing up.

                #4513
                ÉricÉric
                Keymaster

                  “I feel really bad now,” Godfrey said to nobody in particular, although he hoped Finnley’s hearing was as good as usual, while she was busying herself dusting the booklice off bookshelves. With the humidity, there was an infestation, and Finnley was polishing her art of war against the invaders in novel ways each day.

                  “There’s really no need” she answered, or maybe she wasn’t, but Godfrey was glad for their parallel monologues.

                  “True, true, nobody has really forced anybody into a tooth synch…”

                  “How clogged is the sink is what to think about…” never-missing-a-bit-of-synch Finnley answered, taking her bag of booklice harvest to the kitchen.
                  Then, smiling wickedly while raising the bag to eye level “not as good as huhu bugs, but hey, it’ll make for a easier to chew medicine…”

                  #4508
                  Jib
                  Participant

                    The red woman led Shawn Paul through small busy streets. Shawn Paul had never seen that many people with dogs and parked bikes all gathered in strategic places each time he was about to catch up on her. He swore he could hear her giggle.
                    Eventually she entered a cafe called Red Beans. Shawn Paul steered through white tables and chairs made of wrought iron and followed her in, breathless. He had never seen the point in running before. But he still wasn’t sure why he had to catch her. What would he do? Talk to her? Ask her what she did perched on trees and smiling?

                    There seemed to be only the bartender who was busy with a huge coffee machine, hissing like a locomotive. A colour, a movement on his right made Shawn Paul turn, and he just had the time to catch sight of a red hat going down the stairs. She certainly went to the toilets. He thought that maybe following her downstairs would be too creepy, but at the same time he didn’t want the bartender to talk to him either.

                    So he went down and waited at the door. The lock was red, showing someone was inside.
                    Shawn Paul waited. There were many flyers of parties and events pinned on a wall, but he wasn’t the party guy and his eyes flew over the messy images and texts that seemed scattered on the wall.
                    After five minutes he wondered if something had happened and pushed the door. It was open and the lock was broken, always showing red. He tutted and shook his head. He had been foolish, he thought. There has certainly been nobody there since the beginning. There was no girl sitting on trees with red sandals.

                    He got out of the cafe and was ready to walk back to his apartment with his granola cookies. When someone called him. He turned and stared at a girl and a guy having drinks on the Red Beans’ terrace.

                    “I was sure it was you, Shawn Paul,” said the girl. “I thought I recognised you when you ran inside earlier, but you seemed in such a hurry,” said a girl. She had a big grin and a pony tail.

                    Her face looked familiar, all rosy and cheeky. She had a nice jacquard sweater and a matching skirt, and she was waving at him cheerfully. Her cocktail was full of reds, blues and yellows.
                    “Remember me? Lucinda, from the apartment on the other side…” she added.

                    It suddenly dawned on him, they had met once or twice. She had said they should meet again, but they never had. He felt a bit trapped, not knowing what to say.
                    “Hi,” he said, and he looked at the guy. He had never met him, that he was sure of.
                    The guy looked as embarrassed as himself by the intrusion.
                    “Hi. I’m Jerk,” he said.

                    “Are you going to the party tonight?” asked Lucinda pointing at a flyer on the table. She took a sip of her cocktail.

                    Shawn Paul was about to decline with a ready made up excuse when he saw what was on the flyer. It was a big red balloon with a red hat on a starry background. It said “Reception of the French Ambassador. Free Buffet with Ferrero Rochers and Champagne”.

                    Shawn Paul pulled closer one of the heavy metal chairs and sat with them.
                    “Tell me more about it,” he said instead.

                    “More drinks!” Lucinda shouted, clapping her hands.
                    A waiter arrived, limping. Shawn Paul thought he looked like a pirate with his wooden leg, his black hat and small ear ring.

                    #4502
                    Jib
                    Participant

                      Shawn-Paul exited Finn’s Bakery on the crowded Cobble street with his precious cargo of granola cookies. They were wrapped in a cute purple box pommeled with pink hearts. He put on a disdainful attitude, adjusting his scarf for better effect, while already salivating in anticipation of the granola melting in his hot chocolate at home. He was sure that would revive his fleeting inspiration for his novel.
                      It was hard not to swallow as saliva accumulated in his mouth, but he had had years of practices since he was eight. His aunt Begonia had just given him a snicker bar that he had swallowed in one gulp, spreading some chocolate on his face in the process. She had accused him of being a dirty little piglet and he was so upset of being compared to the animal, that he had vowed to never show his love for food again. Instead he developed a public dislike of food and a slender frame quite fitting his bohemian lifestyle, while always having some cookies in store.

                      Shawn-Paul turned right on Quagmire street. It was bordered with Plane trees that kept it cool and bearable in summer. He was thinking about the suggestion of his writing coach to spend some time with his artist self, thinking that he had not done it for quite some time, but immediately felt guilty about not writing and firmed his resolution to go back home and write. He walked past a group of two elder woman and a man arguing in front of Liz’s Antique. One of the woman had a caved in mouth and used her hands profusely to make her point to the man. She was wearing pink slippers with pompon.

                      Italian tourists, Shawn-Paul thought rolling his eyes.

                      He swallowed and almost choked on his saliva when he glimpsed an improbable reflection on the Antique’s window. A woman, smiling and waving at him from a branch of a plane tree behind him, balancing her legs. He particularly noticed her feet and the red sandals, the rest of the body was a blur.

                      As Shawn-Paul turned, the toothless Italian tourist whirled her arms about like an inflated tubewoman, frightening a nearby sparrow. The bird took off and followed a curve around Shawn-Paul. Caught together in a twirl worthy of the best dervishes, the man and the bird connected in one of those perfect moment that Shawn-Paul would long but fail to transcribe into words afterwards.

                      There was no woman in the tree. A male dog stopped to mark his territory. A bit disappointed and confused, Shawn-Paul felt the need to talk.

                      “Did you see her?” he asked the Italian tourists. They stopped arguing and looked at him suspiciously for a moment. “She was right there with her red sandals,” he said showing the branch where he was sure she had sat. “I saw her in the window,” he felt compelled to add, not sure if they understood him.

                      The other tourist woman, who had all her teeth, rolled her eyes and pointed behind him.

                      “There’s a woman in red right over there!” she said with a chanting accent.

                      Shawn-Paul turned and just had the time to glimpse a woman dressed all in red, skirt, vest, hat and sandals before she disappeared at the corner of Fortune street.

                      Moved by a sudden impulse and forgetting all about his writing, he thanked the tourist and ran after the red woman.

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