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  • #7372

    After a long, long-haul flight, Sha was woken up by the ding of the landing announcement. Glor was still snoring loudly spread over the limited space of their economy places, her mouth agape, the armrest dangerously stuck in her ample forms. They were finally landing in Rio for the Carnival!

    Sha: “Glor, Glor! Wake up, love, we’re almost there! Can’t believe that Bingo win’s got us all the way to Rio!”

    Glo: “Eh? Wha’? Oh crikey, we’re not on the number 52 bus to Piccadilly? My bunions were having the most delightful dream.”

    Mavis popped her head from the place behind them. The attendant signaled her with a rude gesture to stay seated, as the engines were stating to roar announcing the close landing.

    Mavis: “Oh, I do hope they have those fancy coxcombs at the carnival. You know, the ones with all the feathers and sparkles. Our Bernard used to say I looked like a proper mopsy with one on me head.”

    Sha: “Now Mavis, don’t you go getting ideas above your station. We’re here for the festivities, not to join the parade! Though, a little samba wouldn’t hurt, eh?”

    Glo: “Samba? I thought that was a kind of sandwich. I ain’t dancing, not with my sciatica. I’ll just sit and supervise, yeah?”

    Mavis: “I brought me camera, you know, the one with the clicky button. Gonna take pictures of all the costumes and such. Might even sneak in a selfie, show it off at the bingo hall.”

    Sha: “Pack it in, you two. Let’s just make sure we find our hotel. You remember what happened last time. Glor here thought the luggage conveyor was a ride and we spent three hours in customs!”

    Glo: “Not my fault, Sha. It was moving and I thought, ‘Why not?’ Adventure is the spice of life, ain’t it?”

    Mavis: “Well, as long as there’s a good cuppa at the end of it, I’m game for anything. Let’s get this carnival caper started, girls!”

    #7263
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      Solomon Stubbs

      1781-1857

       

      Solomon was born in Hamstall Ridware, Staffordshire, parents Samuel Stubbs and Rebecca Wood. (see The Hamstall Ridware Connection chapter)

      Solomon married Phillis Lomas at St Modwen’s in Burton on Trent on 30th May 1815. Phillis was the llegitimate daughter of Frances Lomas. No father was named on the baptism on the 17th January 1787 in Sutton on the Hill, Derbyshire, and the entry on the baptism register states that she was illegitimate. Phillis’s mother Frances married Daniel Fox in 1790 in Sutton on the Hill. Unfortunately this means that it’s impossible to find my 5X great grandfather on this side of the family.

      Solomon and Phillis had four daughters, the last died in infancy.
      Sarah 1816-1867, Mary (my 3X great grandmother) 1819-1880, Phillis 1823-1905, and Maria 1825-1826.

       

      Solomon Stubbs of Horninglow St is listed in the 1834 Whites Directory under “China, Glass, Etc Dlrs”. Next to his name is Joanna Warren (earthenware) High St. Joanna Warren is related to me on my maternal side.  No doubt Solomon and Joanna knew each other, unaware that several generations later a marriage would take place, not locally but miles away, joining their families.

      Solomon Stubbs is also listed in Whites Directory in 1831 and 1834 Burton on Trent as a land carrier:

      “Land Carriers, from the Inns, Etc: Uttoxeter, Solomon Stubbs, Horninglow St, Mon. Wed. and Sat. 6 mng.”

      1831 Solomon Stubbs

       

      Solomon is listed in the electoral registers in 1837. The 1837 United Kingdom general election was triggered by the death of King William IV and produced the first Parliament of the reign of his successor, Queen Victoria.

      National Archives:

      “In 1832, Parliament passed a law that changed the British electoral system. It was known as the Great Reform Act, which basically gave the vote to middle class men, leaving working men disappointed.
      The Reform Act became law in response to years of criticism of the electoral system from those outside and inside Parliament. Elections in Britain were neither fair nor representative. In order to vote, a person had to own property or pay certain taxes to qualify, which excluded most working class people.”

       

      Via the Burton on Trent History group:

      “a very early image of High street and Horninglow street junction, where the original ‘ Bargates’ were in the days of the Abbey. ‘Gate’ is the Saxon meaning Road, ‘Bar’ quite self explanatory, meant ‘to stop entrance’. There was another Bargate across Cat street (Station street), the Abbot had these constructed to regulate the Traders coming into town, in the days when the Abbey ran things. In the photo you can see the Posts on the corner, designed to stop Carts and Carriages mounting the Pavement. Only three Posts remain today and they are Listed.”

      Horninglow St

       

      On the 1841 census, Solomon’s occupation was Carrier. Daughter Sarah is still living at home, and Sarah Grattidge, 13 years old, lives with them. Solomon’s daughter Mary had married William Grattidge in 1839.

      Solomon Stubbs of Horninglow Street, Burton on Trent, is listed as an Earthenware Dealer in the 1842 Pigot’s Directory of Staffordshire.

      In May 1844 Solomon’s wife Phillis died.  In July 1844 daughter Sarah married Thomas Brandon in Burton on Trent. It was noted in the newspaper announcement that this was the first wedding to take place at the Holy Trinity church.

      Solomon married Charlotte Bell by licence the following year in 1845.   She was considerably younger than him, born in 1824.  On the marriage certificate Solomon’s occupation is potter.  It seems that he had the earthenware business as well as the land carrier business, in addition to owning a number of properties.

      The marriage of Solomon Stubbs and Charlotte Bell:

      1845 Solomon Stubbs

       

      Also in 1845, Solomon’s daughter Phillis was married in Burton on Trent to John Devitt, son of CD Devitt, Esq, formerly of the General Post Office Dublin.

      Solomon Stubbs died in September 1857 in Burton on Trent.  In the Staffordshire Advertiser on Saturday 3 October 1857:

      “On the 22nd ultimo, suddenly, much respected, Solomon Stubbs, of Guild-street, Burton-on-Trent, aged 74 years.”

       

      In the Staffordshire Advertiser, 24th October 1857, the auction of the property of Solomon Stubbs was announced:

      “BURTON ON TRENT, on Thursday, the 29th day of October, 1857, at six o’clock in the evening, subject to conditions then to be produced:— Lot I—All those four DWELLING HOUSES, with the Gardens and Outbuildings thereto belonging, situate in Stanleystreet, on Goose Moor, in Burton-on-Trent aforesaid, the property of the late Mr. Solomon Stubbs, and in the respective occupations of Mr. Moreland, Mr. Scattergood, Mr. Gough, and Mr. Antony…..”

      1857 Solomoon Stubbs

       

      Sadly, the graves of Solomon, his wife Phillis, and their infant daughter Maria have since been removed and are listed in the UK Records of the Removal of Graves and Tombstones 1601-2007.

      #7255
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        The First Wife of John Edwards

        1794-1844

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

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

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

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

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

        Death Eliz Edwards

         

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

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

        1822 Sarah Ann Edwards

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

        1824 Elizabeth Edwards

         

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

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

        But the Slater name caught my eye.

        But first, the name Sarah Ann.

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

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

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

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

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

         

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

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

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

        1850 Sarah Ann Edwards

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

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

        1851 Elizabeth Edwards

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

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

        Edward Rawlins, 1911:

        Edward Rawlins 1911

         

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

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

        Edith Twigg wedding 1925

         

        Photographs by Arthur Twigg, 291 Bloomsbury Street, Birmingham:

        Arthur Twigg 1

        Arhtur Twigg photo

        #7167
        DevanDevan
        Participant

          I can’t believe the cart race is tomorrow. Joe, Callum and I have worked so hard this year to incorporate solar panels and wind propellers to our little bijou. The cart race rules are clear, apart from thermal engines and fossil fuels, your imagination is your limit. Our only worry was that dust storm. We feared the Mayor would cancelled the race, but I think she won’t. She desperately needs the money.

          Some folks thought to revive the festival as a prank fifteen years ago, but people had so much fun the council agreed to renew it the next year, and the year after that it was made official. It’s been a small town festival for ten years, and would have stayed like that if it hadn’t been for a bus full of Italian tourist on their way to Uluru. It broke down as they drove through main street – I remember it because I just started my job at the garage and couldn’t attend the race. Those Italians, a bunch of crazy people, posted videos of the race on the Internet and it went viral, propelling our ghost town to worldwide fame. We thought it would subside but some folks created a FishBone group and we’re almost as famous as Punxsutawney once a year. We even have a team of old ladies from Tikfijikoo Island.

          All that attention attracted sponsors, mostly booze brands. But this year we’ve got a special one from Sidney. Aunt Idle who’s got a special friend at the city council told us the council members couldn’t believe it when the tart called and offered money. Botty Banworth, head of a big news company made famous by her blog: Prudish Beauty.

          Aunt Idle, who heard it from one of her special friends at the town’s council, started a protest because she thought the Banworth tart would force the council to ban all recreational substances. But I have it from Callum, who’s the Mayor’s son, that the tart is not interested in making us an example of sobriety. She’s asked to lease the land where the old mines are and the Mayor haven’t told anybody about it.

          After Callum told me about the lease, it reminded me about the riddle.

          A mine, a tile, dust piled high,
          Together they rest, yet always outside.
          One misstep, and you’ll surely fall,
          Into the depths, where danger lies all.

          Then something else happened. Another woman stopped at the gas station earlier today. I recognised one of the Inn’s guests, the one with the Mercedes. With her mirror sunglasses and her headscarf wrapped around her hair, she already looked suspicious. But as it happened, she asked me about the mines and how to go there. For abandoned mines, they sure attract a lot of attention.

          It reminded me of something. So after work, I went to the Inn and asked the twins permission to go up to their lair. When dad disappeared, Mater went mad, she threw everything to the garbage. The twins waited til she got back inside and moved everything back in the attic and called it their lair. It looks just like dad’s old office with the boxes full of papers, the mahogany desk and even his typewriter. For whatever reason, Mater just ignores it and if she needs something from the attic, she asks someone else to get it, pretexting she can’t climb all those stairs.

          I was right. Dad left the old manuscript he was working on at the time. A sci-fi novel about strange occurrences in an abandoned mine that looked just like the one outside of town. Prune said it’s badly written, and it doesn’t even have a title. But I remember having nightmares after reading some of the passages.

          #6617

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Youssef had brought his black obsidian with him in the kitchen at breakfast. IdleYoussef had realised that on top of being her way of life, it was also her name—was preparing a herbal brownie under the supervision of a colourful parrot perched on her shoulder.

          “If you’re interested in rocks, you should go to Betsy’s. She’s got that ‘Gems & Minerals’ shop on Main street. She opened it with her hubby a few years back. Before he died.”

          “Nutty Betsy, Pretty Girl likes her better,” said the parrot.

          Idle looked at his backpack and his clothes.

          “You seem the wandering type, lad. I was like you when I was younger, always gallivanting here, there, and everywhere with my brother. Now, I prefer wandering in my mind, if you know what I mean,” she said licking her finger full of chocolate. “Anyway, an advice. Don’t go down the mines alone. Betsy’s hubby’s still down there after one of the tunnels collapsed a few years back. She’s not been quite herself ever since.”

          Main street was —well— the only street in town. They’ve been preparing for some kind of festival, putting banners on top of the shops and in between two trees near the gas station. Youssef stopped there to buy snacks that he stacked on top of the obsidian stone in his backpack. The young boy who worked there, Devan, seemed quite excited at the perspective of the Lager and Cart Race. It happened only every ten years and last time he was too young to participate.

          The shop had not been difficult to find, at the other end of the street. A tiny sign covered in purple star sequins indicated “Betsy’s Gems & Minerals — We deliver worldwide”. He felt with his hand the black rock he had put in his backpack. If Idle had not mentioned the mines and the dead husband, Youssef might have reconsidered going in. But the coincidence with his dream and the game was too intriguing. He entered.

          The shop was a mess. Crates full of stones, cardboard boxes and bubble wrappings. In the back, a plump woman, working on a giant starfish she held  on her lap, was humming as she listened to loud rock music. Youssef recognised a song from the Last Shadow Puppets’ second album : The Element of Surprise. Apparently, the woman hadn’t heard him enter. She wore a dress and a hat sprinkled with golden stars, and her wrists were hidden under a ton of stone bracelets. The music track changed. The woman started shaking her head following the rhythm of the tune. She was gluing small red stones, she picked in a little box, on one of the starfish arms.

          “Bad Habits! Uhu. Bad Habits! Uhu.”

          Youssef moved closer. His shadow covered the starfish. The woman raised her head and screamed, scattering the red stones in her workshop. The starfish fell from her lap onto the ground with a thud.

          “Oh! My! Little devil. Look at what you made me do. I lost my marbles,” she said with a high pitched laugh. “Your mother never taught you? That’s bad habit to creep up on people like that. You scared the sheep out of me!”

          “I’m so sorry,” said Youssef, getting on his knees to help her gather the stones.

          When they were all back in their box, Youssef got back on his feet. The woman looked a him with a softened face.

          “You such a cutie with your bear shirt. You make me think of my Howard. He was as tall as you are. I’m Betsy, obviously” she said with a giggle, extending her hand to him.

          They shook hands, making the pearls of her bracelets clink together.

          “I’m Youssef.”

          :fleuron:

          Youssef didn’t need to insist too much. Betsy was a real juke box of gossips. He just had to ask one question from time to time, and she would get going again. He was starting to feel his quirk could be more than a curse after all.

          “When the tunnel collapsed,” Betsy said, “I was ready to give up the stone shop. The pain was too much to bear, everything in the shop reminded me of Howard. And in a miners’ town, who would want to buy stones anyway. We’ve been in bad terms with Idle and her family for some time, but that tragic incident coincided with her brother Fred’s disappearance. They thought at first Fred had died in the mines with Howard, because they spent so much time discussing together in Room 8 at the Inn. I overheard them once, talking about something they found in the mines. But Howard never told me, he was so secretive about that. We even had a fight, you know. But Fred, the children found some message later that suggested he had just left the family. Imagine, the children! Idle was pissed with him of course. Abandoning her with that mother of theirs and that money pit of an Inn and the rest of the family. And I needed company. So we started to get together on a regular basis. She would bring her special cakes, and we would complain about our lives. At some point she got involved with that shamanic stuff she found online, and she helped me find my totem Bear. It was quite a revelation. Bear suggested I diversify and open an online shop and start making orgonites. I love those little gummy bears so much. So, I followed Bear’s advice and it has been working like a charm ever since. That’s why I trusted you straight away, lad. Not ’cause of your cute face. You got the Bear in your heart,” she said putting her finger at the center of his chest.

          My inner Bear, of course, thought Youssef. That’s the magnet. His phone buzzed. He took it out and saw he had an alert from the game and a message from his friends.

          You found the source of your quirk, the magnetic pull that attracts talkative people to you.
          Now obtain the silver key in the shape of a tongue to fulfil your quest.

           

          Zara : Where are you!? :yahoo_bee: We’re at the bar, getting parched! They got Pale Ale!

          “I have to go,” said Youssef.

          “Wait,” said Betsy.

          She foraged through her orgonite collection and handed Youssef one little gummy bear and an ornate metal badge.

          “Bear wants me to give this to you. Howard made it. He said it was his forked tongue key.”

          She looked at him, emotion in her eyes.

          “I know you won’t listen if I tell you not to. So, be careful when you go into the mines.”

          #6613

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Despite the old man’s endless flow of words, Youssef couldn’t get him to explain what he meant about the abandoned mine and why the town’s people didn’t like people sneaking around and asking questions.

          Not wanting to waste more time, Youssef walked to the brick building where the twins had disappeared. It was crammed between the telegraph station and a grocery store. The door had been walled with red bricks. They were covered in faded graffitis and layers of torn-up posters. It seemed obvious the wall had been there for quite some time already.

          The old man was sticking to Youssef like glue, talking about that time when his now dead brother took in an old cat he called Phineas. Youssef tried to growl him away, but the man always came back, persistent as a cloud of mosquitoes over the promise of a blood feast.

          Youssef tried not to pay attention to him. What did AL said about that quest ? Go ask questions around to town’s people about odd things happening ? Well there were plenty of those things happening. Maybe the clerk at the telegraph station would know something, especially how to get rid of that old man.

          Youssef pushed the door and entered the telegraph station, leaving the old man outside. The interior was lit with a collection of old style tungsten lamps hanging in a random pattern from the ceiling. 

          The clerk was busy sorting out a pile of telegrams. Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack. He lifted his head up. The noise stopped and Youssef realised the young man had mechanical hands.

          “Welcome, welcome, welcome! What can I do for you today, my friend?” asked the clerk.

          “I just wanted to…” started Youssef.

          “Wait! Don’t tell me. I’m a bit of a psychic myself and I already know what you’re here for.”

          “Really?”

          The man foraged through his pile of telegram with his mechanical hands and picked one. He looked at it for a few seconds.

          “My friend, you’re in luck today!” he said, looking intently at Youssef. “I just received this telegram that I think might interest you. Here, take a look!”

          Youssef took the paper and started to read aloud : “Words spoken by the talkative will unlock the path. Seek those who chatter and unravel the clue. What the…?” 

          “Interesting, isn’t it? That’s a real head-scratcher, if you ask me!”

          The door bell rang and the old man entered, holding his sore ribs. 

          “Get out, Phineas. You’re not welcome here.” said the clerk with a frown.

          The old man looked at the clerk with an air of confusion before turning to Youssef. “What did he say? Who’s Phineas?” he asked.

          Ignoring the question, Youssef tried to steer the conversation back to the telegram. “What does this mean?” he asked the clerk.

          The clerk stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. “Hmm, well, it seems to me that you have a certain magnetism for talkative people. Perhaps that’s the key to unlocking this riddle.”

          Youssef’s eyes widened in surprise. “What do you mean, magnetism?”

          The old man interjected, “For sure! You’re like a magnet, my boy. I can’t seem to stop talking when I’m around you.”

          Youssef rolled his eyes. “So, what do I do? Just wander around town and wait for someone to start talking?”

          The clerk nodded. “That could be a good start. But if you’re looking for something specific, you might want to try Betsy when you wake up. She’s got a boutique of Gems and Rocks. You seem to like them rocks,” he said pointing at the black obsidian. “Found it in a mine?”

          The old man’s eyes lit up. “Ah, the old mine! I’ve been there before, you know. My brother used to work there before he died. Strange things happening there.”

          Youssef’s interest was piqued. “What kind of strange things?”

          The old man leaned in conspiratorially. “There’s a magnetar hidden in that mine, my boy.”

          “Shut up! Phineas,” interrupted the clerk. “If you want my advice, stranger, don’t go near the old mine. ‘Curiosity killed the cat’ if you know what I mean.”

          The telegraph receiver started to make clicketing sounds. The clerk read it and looked at Youssef.

          “You’ve got a message man. Time to wake up.”

          “Wake up?”

          :fleuron2:

          Youssef opened his eyes and looked at a black mass in front of his eyes. He had been sleeping with the stone just beside his head on the pillow. No wonder he had had weird dreams. He heard his phone buzz. He sat up reluctantly and looked at his phone. 8am. A notification that his game progression had been saved and several messages from Miss Tartiflate, the last one saying :

          Don’t think you can dodge work. I’m still expecting the last blog post you’ve been paid to write!!!”

          He groaned as reality was starting to catch up.

          #6551

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Xavier had woken up in the middle of the night that felt surprisingly alive bursting with a quiet symphony of sounds from nocturnal creatures and nearby nature, painted on a canvas of eerie spacious silence.

          It often took him a while to get accustomed to any new place, and it was not uncommon for him to have his mind racing in the middle of the night. Generally Brytta had a soothing presence and that often managed to nudge him back to sleep, otherwise, he would simply wake up until the train of thoughts had left the station.

          It was beginning of the afternoon in Berlin; Brytta would be in a middle of a shift, so he recorded a little message for her to find when she would get back to her phone. It was funny to think they’d met thanks to Yasmin and Zara, at the time the three girls were members of the same photography club, which was called ‘Focusgroupfocus’ or something similar…
          With that done, he’d turned around for something to do but there wasn’t much in the room to explore or to distract him sufficiently. Not even a book in the nightstand drawer. The decoration itself had a mesmerising nature, but after a while it didn’t help with the racing thoughts.

          He was tempted to check in the game — there was something satisfactory in finishing a quest that left his monkey brain satiated for a while, so he gave in and logged back in.

            :fleuron2:

          Completing the quest didn’t take him too long this time. The main difficulty initially was to find the portal from where his avatar had landed. It was a strange carousel of blue storks that span into different dimensions one could open with the proper incantation.

          As usual, stating the quirk was the key to the location, and the carousel portal propelled him right away to Midnight town, which was clearly a ghost town in more ways than one. Interestingly, he was chatting on the side with Glimmer, who’d run into new adventures of her own while continuing to ask him what was up, and as soon as he’d reached Midnight town, all communication channels suddenly went dark. He’d laughed to himself thinking how frustrated Glimmer would have been about that. But maybe the game took care of sending her AI-generated messages simulating his presence. Despite the disturbing thought of having an AI generated clone of himself, he almost hoped for it (he’d probably signed the consent for this without realising), so that he wouldn’t have to do a tedious recap about all what she’d missed.

          Once he arrived in the town, the adventure followed a predictable pattern. The clues were also rather simple to follow.

          The townspeople are all frozen in time, stuck in their daily routines and unable to move on. Your mission is to find the missing piece of continuity, a small hourglass that will set time back in motion and allow the townspeople to move forward.

          The clue to finding the hourglass lies within a discarded pocket watch that can be found in the mayor’s office. You must unscrew the back and retrieve a hidden key. The key will unlock a secret compartment in the town clock tower, where the hourglass is kept.

          Be careful as you search for the hourglass, as the town is not as abandoned as it seems. Spectral figures roam the streets, and strange whispers can be heard in the wind. You may also encounter a mysterious old man who seems to know more about the town’s secrets than he lets on.

          Evading the ghosts and spectres wasn’t too difficult once you got the hang of it. The old man however had been quite an elusive figure to find, but he was clearly the highlight of the whole adventure; he had been hiding in plain sight since the beginning of the adventure. One of the blue storks in the town that he’d thought had come with him through the portal was in actuality not a bird at all.

          While he was focused on finishing the quest, the interaction with the hermit didn’t seem very helpful. Was he really from the game construct? When it was time to complete the quest and turn the hourglass to set the town back in motion, and resume continuity, some of his words came back to Xavier.

          “The town isn’t what it seems. Recognise this precious moment where everything is still and you can realise it for the illusion that it is, a projection of your busy mind. When motion resumes, you will need to keep your mind quiet. The prize in the quest is not the completion of it, but the realisation you can stop the agitation at any moment, and return to what truly matters.”

          The hermit had turned to him with clear dark eyes and asked “do you know what you are seeking in these adventures? do you know what truly matters to you?”

            :fleuron2:

          When he came out of the game, his quest completed, Xavier felt the words resonate ominously.

          A buzz of the phone snapped him out of it.

          It was a message from Zara. Apparently she’d found her way back to modernity.

          [4:57] “Going to pick up Yasmin at the airport. You better sleep away the jetlag you lazy slugs, we have poultry damn plenty planned ahead – cackling bugger cooking lessons not looking forward to, but can be fun. Talk to you later. Z”

          He had the impulse to go with her, but the lack of sleep was hitting back at him now, and he thought he’d better catch some so he could manage to realign with the timezone.

          “The old man was right… that sounds like a lot of agitation coming our way…”

          #6547

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          On her way back to her room Zara picked up a leaflet off the hall table about the upcoming lager and cart race. Before starting the game she had a look through it.

          The leaflet also mentioned the competition  held annually each January in Port Lincoln. The Tunarama Festival was a competition to determine just how far a person could chuck a frozen tuna. A full-fledged celebration was centered around the event, complete with a wide array of arts and cultural displays, other participation events, local market stalls, and some of the freshest seafood in the world.

          There was unlikely to be any fresh seafood at the local lager and cart races, but judging from the photos of previous events, it looked colourful and well worth sticking around for, just for the photo opportunities.

          cart race 1

           

          Apparently the lager and cart races had started during the early days of the settler mining, and most of the carts used were relics from that era.  Competitors dressed up in costumes and colourful wigs, many of which were found in the abandoned houses of the local area.

          “The miners were a strange breed of men, but not all cut from the same cloth ~ they were daring outsiders, game for anything, adventurous rule breakers and outlaws with a penchant for extreme experience. Thus, outlandish and adventurous women ~ and men who were not interested in mining for gold in the usual sense ~ were magnetically drawn to the isolated outpost.  After a long dark day of restriction and confinement in the mines, the evenings were a time of colour and wild abandon; bright, garish, bizarre Burlesque events were popular. Strange though it may seem, the town had one of the most extensive wig and corset emporiums in the country, although it was discretely tucked away in the barn behind a mundane haberdashery shop.”

          The idea was to fill as many different receptacles with lager as possible, piling them onto the gaily decorated carts pulled by the costume clad participants.  As the carts were raced along the track, onlookers ran alongside to catch any jars or bottles that fell off the carts before they hit the ground. Many crashed to the ground and were broken, but if anyone caught one, they were obliged to drink the contents there and then before running after the carts to catch another one.

          Members of the public were encouraged to attend in fancy dress costumes and wigs.  There were plenty of stationary food vendors carts at the lager and cart races as well, and stalls and tents set up to sell trinkets.

          #6489

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          It was a pleasant 25 degrees as Zara stepped off the plane. The flat red land stretched as far as the eye could see, and although she prefered a more undulating terrain there was something awe inspiring about this vast landscape. It was quite a contrast from the past few hours spent inside mine tunnels.

          Bert, a weatherbeaten man of indeterminate advanced age, was there to meet her as arranged and led her to the car, a battered old four wheel drive.  Although clearly getting on in years, he was tall and spry and dressed in practical working clothes.

          “Welcome to Alice,” he said, taking her bag and putting in on the back seat.  “I expect you’ll be wanting to know a bit about the place.”

          “How long have you lived here?” Zara asked, as Bert settled into the creaky drivers seat and started the car.

          Bert gave her a funny look and replied “Longer than a ducks ass.”  Zara had never heard that expression before; she assumed it meant a long time but didn’t like to pursue the question.

          “All this land belongs to the Arrernte,” he said, pronouncing it Arrunda.  “The local aboriginals.  1862 when we got here. Well,” Bert turned to give Zara a lopsided smile, “Not me personally, I aint quite that old.”

          Zara chuckled politely as Bert continued, “It got kinda busy around these parts round 1887 with the gold.”

          “Oh, are there mines near here?”  Zara asked with some excitement.

          Bert gave her a sharp look. “Oh there’s mines alright. Abandoned now though, and dangerous. Dangerous places, old mines.  You’ll be more interested in the hiking trails than those old mines, some real nice hiking and rock gorges, and it’s a nice temperature this time of year.”

          Bert lapsed into silence for a few minutes, frowning.

          “If you’da been arriving back then, you’da been on a camel train, that’s how they did it back then. Camel trains.   They do camel tours for tourists nowadays.”

          “Do you get many tourists?”

          “Too dang many tourists if you ask me, Alice is full of them, and Ayers Rock’s crawling with ’em these days. We don’t get many out our way though.” Bert snorted, reminding Zara of Yasmin. “Our visitors like an off the beaten track kind of holiday, know what I mean?” Bert gave Zara another sideways lopsided smile.  “I reckon you’ll like it at The Flying Fish Inn.  Down to earth, know what I mean? Down to earth and off the wall.”  He laughed heartily at that and Zara wasn’t quite sure what to say, so she laughed too.

          “Sounds great.”

          “Family run, see, makes a difference.  No fancy airs and graces, no traffic ~ well, not much of anything really, just beautiful scenery and peace and quiet.  Aunt Idle thinks she’s in charge but me and old Mater do most of it, well Finly does most of it to be honest, and you dropped lucky coming now, the twins have just decorated the bedrooms. Real nice they look now, they fancied doing some dreamtime murials on the walls.  The twins are Idle’s neices, Clove and Corrie, turned out nice girls, despite everything.”

          “Despite ….?”

          “What? Oh, living in the outback. Youngsters usually leave and head for the cities.  Prune’s the youngest gal, she’s a real imp, that one, a real character.  And Devan calls by regular to see Mater, he works at the gas station.”

          “Are they all Idle’s neices and nephews? Where are their parents?”  Perhaps she shouldn’t have asked, Zara thought when she saw Bert’s face.

          “Long gone, mate, long since gone from round here.  We’ve taken good care of ’em.”  Bert turned off the road onto a dirt road.  “Only another five minutes now.  We’re outside the town a bit, but there aint much in town anyway. Population 79, our town. About right for a decent sized town if you ask me.”

          Bert rounded a bend in a eucalyptus grove and announced, “Here we are, then, the Flying Fish Inn.”  He parked the car and retrieved Zara’s bag from the back seat.  “Take a seat on the verandah and I’ll find Idle to show you to your room and get you a drink.  Oh, and don’t be put off by Idle’s appearance, she’s a sweetheart really.”

          Flying Fish Inn

           

          Aunt Idle was nowhere to be found though, having decided to go for a walk on impulse, quite forgetting the arrival of the first guest.    She saw Bert’s car approaching the hotel from her vantage point on a low hill, which reminded her she should be getting back.  It was a lovely evening and she didn’t rush.

          Aunt Idle walk

           

          Bert found Mater in the dining room gazing out of the window.  “Where the bloody hell is Idle? The guest’s outside on the verandah.”

          “She’s taken herself off for a walk, can you believe it?” sighed Mater.

          “Yep” Bert replied, “I can.  Which room’s she in? Can you show her to her room?”

          “Yes of course, Bert. Perhaps you’d see to getting a drink for her.”

          Mater dining room

          #6488

          In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

          EricEric
          Keymaster
            • Zara completed her tile journey in the tunnels. In RL, she and Pretty Girl the parrot, are headed to Alice Springs in Australia, for a visit at the Flying Fish Inn (FFI). She’ll be the first to arrive.
            • Yasmin, still volunteering at an orphanage in Suva in RL, has found a key with the imp, guided by the snake tattoo on a mysterious man named Fred, originating from Australia. She’s booked her flight via Air Fiji, and will be soon arriving to Australia for a few days vacation from her mission.
            • Youssef, still in the Gobi desert, has found the grumpy vendor who was the shaman Lama Yoneze and reconnected with his friends in RL. Through the game in the desert, he also connected in VR (virtual reality) and RV (remote viewing) with sands_of_time, and elderly lady playing the game for intel. He still has to confirm his expected arrival to the FFI.
            • Xavier has confirmed his flight option as well from Berlin, Germany. He’s planned a few days’ mix of remote working and vacation, but his girlfriend Brytta may still work her 2 shifts, and not necessarily keen to travel in the middle of nowhere in Australia.

            They are all enjoying a lot the trail of clues from the game, and expect more adventures to come, with new challenges for each.
            As they all make their way to the Flying Fish Inn, they eagerly anticipate what exciting experiences and challenges await them. Zara, Yasmin, Youssef, and Xavier all have unique experiences from their time playing the game and their real-life travels. With their journey to the Flying Fish Inn, they hope to connect with each other and continue the exciting adventures that have already captivated them. They are all looking forward to what is in store for them in the Australian Outback and the Flying Fish Inn.

            The challenge gets a level up. It requires for each of them to find or procure a unique object, linked to some of their personal quirks and in synch with the real-life experience and the game one. Provide suggestions for each of them of a very specific object or color or shape, that can be remote viewed in the FFI and that they may find in their RL.

            • Zara: A golden compass, symbolizing her love for adventure and direction. It can be found in a hidden room in the FFI or as a unique treasure on a nearby beach.
            • Yasmine: A silver key, symbolizing her discovery of the key in the game and her love for unlocking secrets. It can be found in a locked box in the FFI’s attic or in a locked drawer in her room.
            • Youssef: A red scarf, symbolizing his connection with the shaman in the game and his love for vibrant colors. It can be found in the FFI’s market or in a shop in Alice Springs that sells unique handmade items.
            • Xavier: A black notebook, symbolizing his love for organization and his need for clarity. It can be found in the FFI’s library or in a nearby stationary shop in Alice Springs.
            #6487
            DevanDevan
            Participant

              I’ve always felt like the odd one out in my family. Growing up at the Flying Fish Inn, I’ve always felt like I was on the outside looking in. My mother left when I was young, and my father disappeared not long after. I’ve always felt like I was the only one who didn’t fit in with the craziness of my family.

              I’ve always tried to keep my distance with the others. I didn’t want to get too involved, take sides about petty things, like growing weed in the backyard, making psychedelic termite honey, or trying to influence the twins to buy proper clothes. But truth is, you can’t get too far away. Town’s too small. Family always get back to you, and manage to get you involved in their shit, one way or another, even if you don’t say anything. That’s how it works. They don’t need my participation to use me as an argument.

              So I stopped paying attention, almost stopped caring. I lived my life working at the gas station, and drinking beers with my buddies Joe and Jasper, living in a semi-comatose state. I learned that word today when I came bringing little honey buns to mater. I know she secretly likes them, even if she pretend she doesn’t in front of Idle. But I can see the breadcrumbs on her cardigan when I come say hi at the end of the day. This morning, Idle was rocking in her favourite chair on the porch, looking at the clouds behind her mirrored sunglasses. Prune was talking to her, I saw she was angry because of the contraction of the muscles of her jaw and her eyes were darker than usual. She was saying to Idle that she was always in a semi-comatose state and doing nothing useful for the Inn when we had a bunch of tourists arriving. And something about the twins redecorating the rooms without proper design knowledge. Idle did what she usually does. She ignored the comment and kept on looking at the clouds. I’m not even sure she heard or understood that word that Prune said. Semi-comatose. It sounds like glucose. That’s how I’m spending my life between the Inn, the gas station and my buddies.

              But things changed today when I got back to my apartment for lunch. You can call it a hunch or a coincidence. But as we talked with Joe about that time when my dad left, making me think we were doing hide and seek, and he left me a note saying he would be back someday. I don’t know why I felt the need to go search that note afterwards. So I went back to the apartment and opened the mailbox. Among the bills and ads, I found a postcard with a few words written on the image and nothing except my address on the back. I knew it was from my dad.

              It was not signed or anything, but still I was sure it was his handwriting. I would recognise it anywhere. I went and took the shoebox I keep hidden on top of the kitchen closet, because I saw people do that in movies. That’s not very original, I know, but I’m not too bright either. I opened the box and took the note my dad left me when he disappeared.

              I put the card on the desk near the note. The handwritings matched. I felt so excited, and confused.

              A few words at the bottom of the card said : “Memories from the coldest place on Earth…”

              Why would dad go to such a place to send me a postcard after all those years ? Just to say that.

              That’s when I recalled what Prune had told me once as we were watching a detective movie : “Read everything with care and always double check your information.”

              On the back, it said that the image was from a scientific station in Antartica, but the stamp indicated it had been posted from a floating post office in the North Pole. I turned the card and looked at the text again. Above the station, a few words were written that sounded like a riddle.

              > A mine, a tile, dust piled high,
              Together they rest, yet always outside.
              One misstep, and you’ll surely fall,
              Into the depths, where danger lies all.

              It sure sounds like a warning. But I’m not too good with riddles. No need to worry Mater about that, in case of false hope and all that. Idle ? Don’t even think about it. She won’t believe me when I say it’s from dad. She never does believe me. And she’ll keep playing with the words trying to find her answer in the shape of smoke. The twins, they are a riddle on their own.

              No. It’s Prune’s help I need.

              #6477

              In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

              #6462

              In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

              :yahoo_pirate:

              The emoji of the pirate face jumped at Xavier, as he was musing the next steps on the game. Avast ye! it seemed to hint at him, while Xavier’s thoughts were reeling from all the activity of the week. He didn’t have much time to make any progress in the Land of the Quirks game, and hardly managed to stay afloat on the stuff he had to deliver.

              AL seemed to hint at a more out-of-the-box approach… Without thinking, he clicked on the emoji.

              The fox bus driver indications were to follow the river until he found a junk ship moored there, which was in effect a secret floating casino. Against his best instincts, Xavimunk decided to follow the trail and after a while on the road, he could see the fully battened black sails at the horizon. Lights were glimmering in the dusk, and mist started to rise from the banks of the river. There seemed to be some unusual activity around the boat, and as Xavier arrived close, he could see a variety of quirky characters as if they were some sorts of 1920s fashionable pirates at a resort station.

              The indications on the overlay screen started to shift:

              *Clue unlocked*
              It sounds like you’re making progress on your quest. The clues you received from the fox busdriver are definitely leading you in the right direction. Keep following the trail and don’t be afraid to ask for help if you need it. Remember, the golden banana is a metaphor for your cheeky and also soft nature, so don’t be too hard on yourself.
              🦊💰🛳️ Explore the floating casino and see if the fox busdriver’s clues lead you to the golden banana. Don’t be afraid to take risks and think outside the box, as the golden banana may not be what it seems. Keep an open mind and pay attention to any symbols or clues that you come across.

              “Yooohoooo 👉” a message bumped on the screen.

              Glimmer_Gbl is trying to make contact: ➡️ACCEPT <> ➡️DENY ❓
              #6301
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                The Warrens of Stapenhill

                 

                There were so many Warren’s in Stapenhill that it was complicated to work out who was who. I had gone back as far as Samuel Warren marrying Catherine Holland, and this was as far back as my cousin Ian Warren had gone in his research some decades ago as well. The Holland family from Barton under Needwood are particularly interesting, and will be a separate chapter.

                Stapenhill village by John Harden:

                Stapenhill

                 

                Resuming the research on the Warrens, Samuel Warren 1771-1837 married Catherine Holland 1775-1861 in 1795 and their son Samuel Warren 1800-1882 married Elizabeth Bridge, whose childless brother Benjamin Bridge left the Warren Brothers Boiler Works in Newhall to his nephews, the Warren brothers.

                Samuel Warren and Catherine Holland marriage licence 1795:

                Samuel Warren Catherine Holland

                 

                Samuel (born 1771) was baptised at Stapenhill St Peter and his parents were William and Anne Warren. There were at least three William and Ann Warrens in town at the time. One of those William’s was born in 1744, which would seem to be the right age to be Samuel’s father, and one was born in 1710, which seemed a little too old. Another William, Guiliamos Warren (Latin was often used in early parish registers) was baptised in Stapenhill in 1729.

                Stapenhill St Peter:

                Stapenhill St Peter

                 

                William Warren (born 1744) appeared to have been born several months before his parents wedding. William Warren and Ann Insley married 16 July 1744, but the baptism of William in 1744 was 24 February. This seemed unusual ~ children were often born less than nine months after a wedding, but not usually before the wedding! Then I remembered the change from the Julian calendar to the Gregorian calendar in 1752. Prior to 1752, the first day of the year was Lady Day, March 25th, not January 1st. This meant that the birth in February 1744 was actually after the wedding in July 1744. Now it made sense. The first son was named William, and he was born seven months after the wedding.

                William born in 1744 died intestate in 1822, and his wife Ann made a legal claim to his estate. However he didn’t marry Ann Holland (Ann was Catherines Hollands sister, who married Samuel Warren the year before) until 1796, so this William and Ann were not the parents of Samuel.

                It seemed likely that William born in 1744 was Samuels brother. William Warren and Ann Insley had at least eight children between 1744 and 1771, and it seems that Samuel was their last child, born when William the elder was 61 and his wife Ann was 47.

                It seems it wasn’t unusual for the Warren men to marry rather late in life. William Warren’s (born 1710) parents were William Warren and Elizabeth Hatterton. On the marriage licence in 1702/1703 (it appears to say 1703 but is transcribed as 1702), William was a 40 year old bachelor from Stapenhill, which puts his date of birth at 1662. Elizabeth was considerably younger, aged 19.

                William Warren and Elizabeth Hatterton marriage licence 1703:

                William Warren 1702

                 

                These Warren’s were farmers, and they were literate and able to sign their own names on various documents. This is worth noting, as most made the mark of an X.

                I found three Warren and Holland marriages. One was Samuel Warren and Catherine Holland in 1795, then William Warren and Ann Holland in 1796. William Warren and Ann Hollands daughter born in 1799 married John Holland in 1824.

                Elizabeth Hatterton (wife of William Warren who was born circa 1662) was born in Burton upon Trent in 1685. Her parents were Edward Hatterton 1655-1722, and Sara.

                A page from the 1722 will of Edward Hatterton:

                Edward Hatterton 1722

                 

                The earliest Warren I found records for was William Warren who married Elizabeth Hatterton in 1703. The marriage licence states his age as 40 and that he was from Stapenhill, but none of the Stapenhill parish records online go back as far as 1662.  On other public trees on ancestry websites, a birth record from Suffolk has been chosen, probably because it was the only record to be found online with the right name and date. Once again, I don’t think that is correct, and perhaps one day I’ll find some earlier Stapenhill records to prove that he was born in locally.

                 

                Subsequently, I found a list of the 1662 Hearth Tax for Stapenhill. On it were a number of Warrens, three William Warrens including one who was a constable. One of those William Warrens had a son he named William (as they did, hence the number of William Warrens in the tree) the same year as this hearth tax list.

                But was it the William Warren with 2 chimneys, the one with one chimney who was too poor to pay it, or the one who was a constable?

                from the list:
                Will. Warryn 2
                Richard Warryn 1
                William Warren Constable
                These names are not payable by Act:
                Will. Warryn 1
                Richard Warren John Watson
                over seers of the poore and churchwardens

                The Hearth Tax:

                via wiki:
                In England, hearth tax, also known as hearth money, chimney tax, or chimney money, was a tax imposed by Parliament in 1662, to support the Royal Household of King Charles II. Following the Restoration of the monarchy in 1660, Parliament calculated that the Royal Household needed an annual income of £1,200,000. The hearth tax was a supplemental tax to make up the shortfall. It was considered easier to establish the number of hearths than the number of heads, hearths forming a more stationary subject for taxation than people. This form of taxation was new to England, but had precedents abroad. It generated considerable debate, but was supported by the economist Sir William Petty, and carried through the Commons by the influential West Country member Sir Courtenay Pole, 2nd Baronet (whose enemies nicknamed him “Sir Chimney Poll” as a result).  The bill received Royal Assent on 19 May 1662, with the first payment due on 29 September 1662, Michaelmas.
                One shilling was liable to be paid for every firehearth or stove, in all dwellings, houses, edifices or lodgings, and was payable at Michaelmas, 29 September and on Lady Day, 25 March. The tax thus amounted to two shillings per hearth or stove per year. The original bill contained a practical shortcoming in that it did not distinguish between owners and occupiers and was potentially a major burden on the poor as there were no exemptions. The bill was subsequently amended so that the tax was paid by the occupier. Further amendments introduced a range of exemptions that ensured that a substantial proportion of the poorer people did not have to pay the tax.

                 

                Indeed it seems clear that William Warren the elder came from Stapenhill and not Suffolk, and one of the William Warrens paying hearth tax in 1662 was undoubtedly the father of William Warren who married Elizabeth Hatterton.

                #6284
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  To Australia

                  Grettons

                  Charles Herbert Gretton 1876-1954

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

                  Gretton 1912 passenger

                   

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

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

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

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

                  Gretton obit 1954

                   

                  Charles and Mary Ann Gretton:

                  Charles and Mary Ann Gretton

                   

                  Leslie Charles Bloemfontein Gretton 1900-1955

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

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

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

                   

                  George Herbert Gretton 1910-1970

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

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

                   

                  Frank Orgill Gretton 1914-

                  Arthur Ernest Gretton 1920-

                   

                  Orgills

                  John Orgill 1835-1911

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

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

                  John Orgill:

                  John Orgill

                   

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

                  John Orgill obit

                   

                   

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

                  Elizabeth Gladstone Orgill:

                  Elizabeth Gladstone Orgill

                   

                  On the Old Dandenong website:

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

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

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

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

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

                  Gladstone House, Dandenong:

                  Gladstone House

                   

                   

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

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

                  Thomas Orgill:

                  Thomas Orgill

                   

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

                  George Albert Orgill

                   

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

                  George Albert Orgill letter

                   

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

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

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

                   

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

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

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

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

                   

                   

                  Housleys

                  Charles Housley 1823-1856

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

                   

                  Rushbys

                  George “Mike” Rushby 1933-

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

                  #6275
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    “AND NOW ABOUT EMMA”

                    and a mystery about George

                     

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

                    But there was another Emma Housley, born in 1851.

                     

                    From Barbara Housley’s Narrative on the Letters:

                    “AND NOW ABOUT EMMA”

                    A MYSTERY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                     

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

                    George Housley Amey Eley

                     

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

                    1851 George Housley

                     

                     

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

                     

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

                    Housley Eley 1861

                     

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

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

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

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

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

                    In a letter to George from his sister Emma:

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

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

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

                     

                    Emma Housley

                    1851-1935

                     

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Woodlinkin

                     

                    Emma Slater died in 1935 at the age of 84.

                     

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

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

                    Emma Slater

                     

                    Charles John Housley

                    1949-

                    #6268
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      From Tanganyika with Love

                      continued part 9

                      With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                      Lyamungu 3rd January 1945

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Lyamungu 14 May 1945

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Lyamungu 19th September 1945

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

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

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

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

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

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

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

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

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Jacksdale England 24th June 1946

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Jacksdale England 28th August 1946

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Jacksdale England 20th September 1946

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Dar es Salaam 22nd October 1946

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Mbeya 1st November 1946

                      Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      #6267
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        From Tanganyika with Love

                        continued part 8

                        With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                        Morogoro 20th January 1941

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 30th July 1941

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 26th August 1941

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 25th December 1941

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro Hospital 30th September 1943

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Morogoro 26th January 1944

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 20th March 1944

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 15th May 1944

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 18th July 1944

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Lyamungu 16th August 1944

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

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

                        Dearest Mummy,

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

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

                        Very much love,
                        Eleanor.

                        Safari in Masailand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Lyamungu 10th November. 1944

                        Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Much love,
                        Eleanor.

                         

                        #6266
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          From Tanganyika with Love

                          continued part 7

                          With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                          Oldeani Hospital. 19th September 1938

                          Dearest Family,

                          George arrived today to take us home to Mbulu but Sister Marianne will not allow
                          me to travel for another week as I had a bit of a set back after baby’s birth. At first I was
                          very fit and on the third day Sister stripped the bed and, dictionary in hand, started me
                          off on ante natal exercises. “Now make a bridge Mrs Rushby. So. Up down, up down,’
                          whilst I obediently hoisted myself aloft on heels and head. By the sixth day she
                          considered it was time for me to be up and about but alas, I soon had to return to bed
                          with a temperature and a haemorrhage. I got up and walked outside for the first time this
                          morning.

                          I have had lots of visitors because the local German settlers seem keen to see
                          the first British baby born in the hospital. They have been most kind, sending flowers
                          and little German cards of congratulations festooned with cherubs and rather sweet. Most
                          of the women, besides being pleasant, are very smart indeed, shattering my illusion that
                          German matrons are invariably fat and dowdy. They are all much concerned about the
                          Czecko-Slovakian situation, especially Sister Marianne whose home is right on the
                          border and has several relations who are Sudentan Germans. She is ant-Nazi and
                          keeps on asking me whether I think England will declare war if Hitler invades Czecko-
                          Slovakia, as though I had inside information.

                          George tells me that he has had a grass ‘banda’ put up for us at Mbulu as we are
                          both determined not to return to those prison-like quarters in the Fort. Sister Marianne is
                          horrified at the idea of taking a new baby to live in a grass hut. She told George,
                          “No,No,Mr Rushby. I find that is not to be allowed!” She is an excellent Sister but rather
                          prim and George enjoys teasing her. This morning he asked with mock seriousness,
                          “Sister, why has my wife not received her medal?” Sister fluttered her dictionary before
                          asking. “What medal Mr Rushby”. “Why,” said George, “The medal that Hitler gives to
                          women who have borne four children.” Sister started a long and involved explanation
                          about the medal being only for German mothers whilst George looked at me and
                          grinned.

                          Later. Great Jubilation here. By the noise in Sister Marianne’s sitting room last night it
                          sounded as though the whole German population had gathered to listen to the wireless
                          news. I heard loud exclamations of joy and then my bedroom door burst open and
                          several women rushed in. “Thank God “, they cried, “for Neville Chamberlain. Now there
                          will be no war.” They pumped me by the hand as though I were personally responsible
                          for the whole thing.

                          George on the other hand is disgusted by Chamberlain’s lack of guts. Doesn’t
                          know what England is coming to these days. I feel too content to concern myself with
                          world affairs. I have a fine husband and four wonderful children and am happy, happy,
                          happy.

                          Eleanor.

                          Mbulu. 30th September 1938

                          Dearest Family,

                          Here we are, comfortably installed in our little green house made of poles and
                          rushes from a nearby swamp. The house has of course, no doors or windows, but
                          there are rush blinds which roll up in the day time. There are two rooms and a little porch
                          and out at the back there is a small grass kitchen.

                          Here we have the privacy which we prize so highly as we are screened on one
                          side by a Forest Department plantation and on the other three sides there is nothing but
                          the rolling countryside cropped bare by the far too large herds of cattle and goats of the
                          Wambulu. I have a lovely lazy time. I still have Kesho-Kutwa and the cook we brought
                          with us from the farm. They are both faithful and willing souls though not very good at
                          their respective jobs. As one of these Mbeya boys goes on safari with George whose
                          job takes him from home for three weeks out of four, I have taken on a local boy to cut
                          firewood and heat my bath water and generally make himself useful. His name is Saa,
                          which means ‘Clock’

                          We had an uneventful but very dusty trip from Oldeani. Johnny Jo travelled in his
                          pram in the back of the boxbody and got covered in dust but seems none the worst for
                          it. As the baby now takes up much of my time and Kate was showing signs of
                          boredom, I have engaged a little African girl to come and play with Kate every morning.
                          She is the daughter of the head police Askari and a very attractive and dignified little
                          person she is. Her name is Kajyah. She is scrupulously clean, as all Mohammedan
                          Africans seem to be. Alas, Kajyah, though beautiful, is a bore. She simply does not
                          know how to play, so they just wander around hand in hand.

                          There are only two drawbacks to this little house. Mbulu is a very windy spot so
                          our little reed house is very draughty. I have made a little tent of sheets in one corner of
                          the ‘bedroom’ into which I can retire with Johnny when I wish to bathe or sponge him.
                          The other drawback is that many insects are attracted at night by the lamp and make it
                          almost impossible to read or sew and they have a revolting habit of falling into the soup.
                          There are no dangerous wild animals in this area so I am not at all nervous in this
                          flimsy little house when George is on safari. Most nights hyaenas come around looking
                          for scraps but our dogs, Fanny and Paddy, soon see them off.

                          Eleanor.

                          Mbulu. 25th October 1938

                          Dearest Family,

                          Great news! a vacancy has occurred in the Game Department. George is to
                          transfer to it next month. There will be an increase in salary and a brighter prospect for
                          the future. It will mean a change of scene and I shall be glad of that. We like Mbulu and
                          the people here but the rains have started and our little reed hut is anything but water
                          tight.

                          Before the rain came we had very unpleasant dust storms. I think I told you that
                          this is a treeless area and the grass which normally covers the veldt has been cropped
                          to the roots by the hungry native cattle and goats. When the wind blows the dust
                          collects in tall black columns which sweep across the country in a most spectacular
                          fashion. One such dust devil struck our hut one day whilst we were at lunch. George
                          swept Kate up in a second and held her face against his chest whilst I rushed to Johnny
                          Jo who was asleep in his pram, and stooped over the pram to protect him. The hut
                          groaned and creaked and clouds of dust blew in through the windows and walls covering
                          our persons, food, and belongings in a black pall. The dogs food bowls and an empty
                          petrol tin outside the hut were whirled up and away. It was all over in a moment but you
                          should have seen what a family of sweeps we looked. George looked at our blackened
                          Johnny and mimicked in Sister Marianne’s primmest tones, “I find that this is not to be
                          allowed.”

                          The first rain storm caught me unprepared when George was away on safari. It
                          was a terrific thunderstorm. The quite violent thunder and lightening were followed by a
                          real tropical downpour. As the hut is on a slight slope, the storm water poured through
                          the hut like a river, covering the entire floor, and the roof leaked like a lawn sprinkler.
                          Johnny Jo was snug enough in the pram with the hood raised, but Kate and I had a
                          damp miserable night. Next morning I had deep drains dug around the hut and when
                          George returned from safari he managed to borrow an enormous tarpaulin which is now
                          lashed down over the roof.

                          It did not rain during the next few days George was home but the very next night
                          we were in trouble again. I was awakened by screams from Kate and hurriedly turned up
                          the lamp to see that we were in the midst of an invasion of siafu ants. Kate’s bed was
                          covered in them. Others appeared to be raining down from the thatch. I quickly stripped
                          Kate and carried her across to my bed, whilst I rushed to the pram to see whether
                          Johnny Jo was all right. He was fast asleep, bless him, and slept on through all the
                          commotion, whilst I struggled to pick all the ants out of Kate’s hair, stopping now and
                          again to attend to my own discomfort. These ants have a painful bite and seem to
                          choose all the most tender spots. Kate fell asleep eventually but I sat up for the rest of
                          the night to make sure that the siafu kept clear of the children. Next morning the servants
                          dispersed them by laying hot ash.

                          In spite of the dampness of the hut both children are blooming. Kate has rosy
                          cheeks and Johnny Jo now has a fuzz of fair hair and has lost his ‘old man’ look. He
                          reminds me of Ann at his age.

                          Eleanor.

                          Iringa. 30th November 1938

                          Dearest Family,

                          Here we are back in the Southern Highlands and installed on the second floor of
                          another German Fort. This one has been modernised however and though not so
                          romantic as the Mbulu Fort from the outside, it is much more comfortable.We are all well
                          and I am really proud of our two safari babies who stood up splendidly to a most trying
                          journey North from Mbulu to Arusha and then South down the Great North Road to
                          Iringa where we expect to stay for a month.

                          At Arusha George reported to the headquarters of the Game Department and
                          was instructed to come on down here on Rinderpest Control. There is a great flap on in
                          case the rinderpest spread to Northern Rhodesia and possibly onwards to Southern
                          Rhodesia and South Africa. Extra veterinary officers have been sent to this area to
                          inoculate all the cattle against the disease whilst George and his African game Scouts will
                          comb the bush looking for and destroying diseased game. If the rinderpest spreads,
                          George says it may be necessary to shoot out all the game in a wide belt along the
                          border between the Southern Highlands of Tanganyika and Northern Rhodesia, to
                          prevent the disease spreading South. The very idea of all this destruction sickens us
                          both.

                          George left on a foot safari the day after our arrival and I expect I shall be lucky if I
                          see him occasionally at weekends until this job is over. When rinderpest is under control
                          George is to be stationed at a place called Nzassa in the Eastern Province about 18
                          miles from Dar es Salaam. George’s orderly, who is a tall, cheerful Game Scout called
                          Juma, tells me that he has been stationed at Nzassa and it is a frightful place! However I
                          refuse to be depressed. I now have the cheering prospect of leave to England in thirty
                          months time when we will be able to fetch Ann and George and be a proper family
                          again. Both Ann and George look happy in the snapshots which mother-in-law sends
                          frequently. Ann is doing very well at school and loves it.

                          To get back to our journey from Mbulu. It really was quite an experience. It
                          poured with rain most of the way and the road was very slippery and treacherous the
                          120 miles between Mbulu and Arusha. This is a little used earth road and the drains are
                          so blocked with silt as to be practically non existent. As usual we started our move with
                          the V8 loaded to capacity. I held Johnny on my knee and Kate squeezed in between
                          George and me. All our goods and chattels were in wooden boxes stowed in the back
                          and the two houseboys and the two dogs had to adjust themselves to the space that
                          remained. We soon ran into trouble and it took us all day to travel 47 miles. We stuck
                          several times in deep mud and had some most nasty skids. I simply clutched Kate in
                          one hand and Johnny Jo in the other and put my trust in George who never, under any
                          circumstances, loses his head. Poor Johnny only got his meals when circumstances
                          permitted. Unfortunately I had put him on a bottle only a few days before we left Mbulu
                          and, as I was unable to buy either a primus stove or Thermos flask there we had to
                          make a fire and boil water for each meal. Twice George sat out in the drizzle with a rain
                          coat rapped over his head to protect a miserable little fire of wet sticks drenched with
                          paraffin. Whilst we waited for the water to boil I pacified John by letting him suck a cube
                          of Tate and Lyles sugar held between my rather grubby fingers. Not at all according to
                          the book.

                          That night George, the children and I slept in the car having dumped our boxes
                          and the two servants in a deserted native hut. The rain poured down relentlessly all night
                          and by morning the road was more of a morass than ever. We swerved and skidded
                          alarmingly till eventually one of the wheel chains broke and had to be tied together with
                          string which constantly needed replacing. George was so patient though he was wet
                          and muddy and tired and both children were very good. Shortly before reaching the Great North Road we came upon Jack Gowan, the Stock Inspector from Mbulu. His car
                          was bogged down to its axles in black mud. He refused George’s offer of help saying
                          that he had sent his messenger to a nearby village for help.

                          I hoped that conditions would be better on the Great North Road but how over
                          optimistic I was. For miles the road runs through a belt of ‘black cotton soil’. which was
                          churned up into the consistency of chocolate blancmange by the heavy lorry traffic which
                          runs between Dodoma and Arusha. Soon the car was skidding more fantastically than
                          ever. Once it skidded around in a complete semi circle so George decided that it would
                          be safer for us all to walk whilst he negotiated the very bad patches. You should have
                          seen me plodding along in the mud and drizzle with the baby in one arm and Kate
                          clinging to the other. I was terrified of slipping with Johnny. Each time George reached
                          firm ground he would return on foot to carry Kate and in this way we covered many bad
                          patches.We were more fortunate than many other travellers. We passed several lorries
                          ditched on the side of the road and one car load of German men, all elegantly dressed in
                          lounge suits. One was busy with his camera so will have a record of their plight to laugh
                          over in the years to come. We spent another night camping on the road and next day
                          set out on the last lap of the journey. That also was tiresome but much better than the
                          previous day and we made the haven of the Arusha Hotel before dark. What a picture
                          we made as we walked through the hall in our mud splattered clothes! Even Johnny was
                          well splashed with mud but no harm was done and both he and Kate are blooming.
                          We rested for two days at Arusha and then came South to Iringa. Luckily the sun
                          came out and though for the first day the road was muddy it was no longer so slippery
                          and the second day found us driving through parched country and along badly
                          corrugated roads. The further South we came, the warmer the sun which at times blazed
                          through the windscreen and made us all uncomfortably hot. I have described the country
                          between Arusha and Dodoma before so I shan’t do it again. We reached Iringa without
                          mishap and after a good nights rest all felt full of beans.

                          Eleanor.

                          Mchewe Estate, Mbeya. 7th January 1939.

                          Dearest Family,

                          You will be surprised to note that we are back on the farm! At least the children
                          and I are here. George is away near the Rhodesian border somewhere, still on
                          Rinderpest control.

                          I had a pleasant time at Iringa, lots of invitations to morning tea and Kate had a
                          wonderful time enjoying the novelty of playing with children of her own age. She is not
                          shy but nevertheless likes me to be within call if not within sight. It was all very suburban
                          but pleasant enough. A few days before Christmas George turned up at Iringa and
                          suggested that, as he would be working in the Mbeya area, it might be a good idea for
                          the children and me to move to the farm. I agreed enthusiastically, completely forgetting
                          that after my previous trouble with the leopard I had vowed to myself that I would never
                          again live alone on the farm.

                          Alas no sooner had we arrived when Thomas, our farm headman, brought the
                          news that there were now two leopards terrorising the neighbourhood, and taking dogs,
                          goats and sheep and chickens. Traps and poisoned bait had been tried in vain and he
                          was sure that the female was the same leopard which had besieged our home before.
                          Other leopards said Thomas, came by stealth but this one advertised her whereabouts
                          in the most brazen manner.

                          George stayed with us on the farm over Christmas and all was quiet at night so I
                          cheered up and took the children for walks along the overgrown farm paths. However on
                          New Years Eve that darned leopard advertised her presence again with the most blood
                          chilling grunts and snarls. Horrible! Fanny and Paddy barked and growled and woke up
                          both children. Kate wept and kept saying, “Send it away mummy. I don’t like it.” Johnny
                          Jo howled in sympathy. What a picnic. So now the whole performance of bodyguards
                          has started again and ‘till George returns we confine our exercise to the garden.
                          Our little house is still cosy and sweet but the coffee plantation looks very
                          neglected. I wish to goodness we could sell it.

                          Eleanor.

                          Nzassa 14th February 1939.

                          Dearest Family,

                          After three months of moving around with two small children it is heavenly to be
                          settled in our own home, even though Nzassa is an isolated spot and has the reputation
                          of being unhealthy.

                          We travelled by car from Mbeya to Dodoma by now a very familiar stretch of
                          country, but from Dodoma to Dar es Salaam by train which made a nice change. We
                          spent two nights and a day in the Splendid Hotel in Dar es Salaam, George had some
                          official visits to make and I did some shopping and we took the children to the beach.
                          The bay is so sheltered that the sea is as calm as a pond and the water warm. It is
                          wonderful to see the sea once more and to hear tugs hooting and to watch the Arab
                          dhows putting out to sea with their oddly shaped sails billowing. I do love the bush, but
                          I love the sea best of all, as you know.

                          We made an early start for Nzassa on the 3rd. For about four miles we bowled
                          along a good road. This brought us to a place called Temeke where George called on
                          the District Officer. His house appears to be the only European type house there. The
                          road between Temeke and the turn off to Nzassa is quite good, but the six mile stretch
                          from the turn off to Nzassa is a very neglected bush road. There is nothing to be seen
                          but the impenetrable bush on both sides with here and there a patch of swampy
                          ground where rice is planted in the wet season.

                          After about six miles of bumpy road we reached Nzassa which is nothing more
                          than a sandy clearing in the bush. Our house however is a fine one. It was originally built
                          for the District Officer and there is a small court house which is now George’s office. The
                          District Officer died of blackwater fever so Nzassa was abandoned as an administrative
                          station being considered too unhealthy for Administrative Officers but suitable as
                          Headquarters for a Game Ranger. Later a bachelor Game Ranger was stationed here
                          but his health also broke down and he has been invalided to England. So now the
                          healthy Rushbys are here and we don’t mean to let the place get us down. So don’t
                          worry.

                          The house consists of three very large and airy rooms with their doors opening
                          on to a wide front verandah which we shall use as a living room. There is also a wide
                          back verandah with a store room at one end and a bathroom at the other. Both
                          verandahs and the end windows of the house are screened my mosquito gauze wire
                          and further protected by a trellis work of heavy expanded metal. Hasmani, the Game
                          Scout, who has been acting as caretaker, tells me that the expanded metal is very
                          necessary because lions often come out of the bush at night and roam around the
                          house. Such a comforting thought!

                          On our very first evening we discovered how necessary the mosquito gauze is.
                          After sunset the air outside is thick with mosquitos from the swamps. About an acre of
                          land has been cleared around the house. This is a sandy waste because there is no
                          water laid on here and absolutely nothing grows here except a rather revolting milky
                          desert bush called ‘Manyara’, and a few acacia trees. A little way from the house there is
                          a patch of citrus trees, grape fruit, I think, but whether they ever bear fruit I don’t know.
                          The clearing is bordered on three sides by dense dusty thorn bush which is
                          ‘lousy with buffalo’ according to George. The open side is the road which leads down to
                          George’s office and the huts for the Game Scouts. Only Hasmani and George’s orderly
                          Juma and their wives and families live there, and the other huts provide shelter for the
                          Game Scouts from the bush who come to Nzassa to collect their pay and for a short
                          rest. I can see that my daily walk will always be the same, down the road to the huts and
                          back! However I don’t mind because it is far too hot to take much exercise.

                          The climate here is really tropical and worse than on the coast because the thick
                          bush cuts us off from any sea breeze. George says it will be cooler when the rains start
                          but just now we literally drip all day. Kate wears nothing but a cotton sun suit, and Johnny
                          a napkin only, but still their little bodies are always moist. I have shorn off all Kate’s lovely
                          shoulder length curls and got George to cut my hair very short too.

                          We simply must buy a refrigerator. The butter, and even the cheese we bought
                          in Dar. simply melted into pools of oil overnight, and all our meat went bad, so we are
                          living out of tins. However once we get organised I shall be quite happy here. I like this
                          spacious house and I have good servants. The cook, Hamisi Issa, is a Swahili from Lindi
                          whom we engaged in Dar es Salaam. He is a very dignified person, and like most
                          devout Mohammedan Cooks, keeps both his person and the kitchen spotless. I
                          engaged the house boy here. He is rather a timid little body but is very willing and quite
                          capable. He has an excessively plain but cheerful wife whom I have taken on as ayah. I
                          do not really need help with the children but feel I must have a woman around just in
                          case I go down with malaria when George is away on safari.

                          Eleanor.

                          Nzassa 28th February 1939.

                          Dearest Family,

                          George’s birthday and we had a special tea party this afternoon which the
                          children much enjoyed. We have our frig now so I am able to make jellies and provide
                          them with really cool drinks.

                          Our very first visitor left this morning after spending only one night here. He is Mr
                          Ionides, the Game Ranger from the Southern Province. He acted as stand in here for a
                          short while after George’s predecessor left for England on sick leave, and where he has
                          since died. Mr Ionides returned here to hand over the range and office formally to
                          George. He seems a strange man and is from all accounts a bit of a hermit. He was at
                          one time an Officer in the Regular Army but does not look like a soldier, he wears the
                          most extraordinary clothes but nevertheless contrives to look top-drawer. He was
                          educated at Rugby and Sandhurst and is, I should say, well read. Ionides told us that he
                          hated Nzassa, particularly the house which he thinks sinister and says he always slept
                          down in the office.

                          The house, or at least one bedroom, seems to have the same effect on Kate.
                          She has been very nervous at night ever since we arrived. At first the children occupied
                          the bedroom which is now George’s. One night, soon after our arrival, Kate woke up
                          screaming to say that ‘something’ had looked at her through the mosquito net. She was
                          in such a hysterical state that inspite of the heat and discomfort I was obliged to crawl into
                          her little bed with her and remained there for the rest of the night.

                          Next night I left a night lamp burning but even so I had to sit by her bed until she
                          dropped off to sleep. Again I was awakened by ear-splitting screams and this time
                          found Kate standing rigid on her bed. I lifted her out and carried her to a chair meaning to
                          comfort her but she screeched louder than ever, “Look Mummy it’s under the bed. It’s
                          looking at us.” In vain I pointed out that there was nothing at all there. By this time
                          George had joined us and he carried Kate off to his bed in the other room whilst I got into
                          Kate’s bed thinking she might have been frightened by a rat which might also disturb
                          Johnny.

                          Next morning our houseboy remarked that he had heard Kate screaming in the
                          night from his room behind the kitchen. I explained what had happened and he must
                          have told the old Scout Hasmani who waylaid me that afternoon and informed me quite
                          seriously that that particular room was haunted by a ‘sheitani’ (devil) who hates children.
                          He told me that whilst he was acting as caretaker before our arrival he one night had his
                          wife and small daughter in the room to keep him company. He said that his small
                          daughter woke up and screamed exactly as Kate had done! Silly coincidence I
                          suppose, but such strange things happen in Africa that I decided to move the children
                          into our room and George sleeps in solitary state in the haunted room! Kate now sleeps
                          peacefully once she goes to sleep but I have to stay with her until she does.

                          I like this house and it does not seem at all sinister to me. As I mentioned before,
                          the rooms are high ceilinged and airy, and have cool cement floors. We have made one
                          end of the enclosed verandah into the living room and the other end is the playroom for
                          the children. The space in between is a sort of no-mans land taken over by the dogs as
                          their special territory.

                          Eleanor.

                          Nzassa 25th March 1939.

                          Dearest Family,

                          George is on safari down in the Rufigi River area. He is away for about three
                          weeks in the month on this job. I do hate to see him go and just manage to tick over until
                          he comes back. But what fun and excitement when he does come home.
                          Usually he returns after dark by which time the children are in bed and I have
                          settled down on the verandah with a book. The first warning is usually given by the
                          dogs, Fanny and her son Paddy. They stir, sit up, look at each other and then go and sit
                          side by side by the door with their noses practically pressed to the mosquito gauze and
                          ears pricked. Soon I can hear the hum of the car, and so can Hasmani, the old Game
                          Scout who sleeps on the back verandah with rifle and ammunition by his side when
                          George is away. When he hears the car he turns up his lamp and hurries out to rouse
                          Juma, the houseboy. Juma pokes up the fire and prepares tea which George always
                          drinks whist a hot meal is being prepared. In the meantime I hurriedly comb my hair and
                          powder my nose so that when the car stops I am ready to rush out and welcome
                          George home. The boy and Hasmani and the garden boy appear to help with the
                          luggage and to greet George and the cook, who always accompanies George on
                          Safari. The home coming is always a lively time with much shouting of greetings.
                          ‘Jambo’, and ‘Habari ya safari’, whilst the dogs, beside themselves with excitement,
                          rush around like lunatics.

                          As though his return were not happiness enough, George usually collects the
                          mail on his way home so there is news of Ann and young George and letters from you
                          and bundles of newspapers and magazines. On the day following his return home,
                          George has to deal with official mail in the office but if the following day is a weekday we
                          all, the house servants as well as ourselves, pile into the boxbody and go to Dar es
                          Salaam. To us this means a mornings shopping followed by an afternoon on the beach.
                          It is a bit cooler now that the rains are on but still very humid. Kate keeps chubby
                          and rosy in spite of the climate but Johnny is too pale though sturdy enough. He is such
                          a good baby which is just as well because Kate is a very demanding little girl though
                          sunny tempered and sweet. I appreciate her company very much when George is
                          away because we are so far off the beaten track that no one ever calls.

                          Eleanor.

                          Nzassa 28th April 1939.

                          Dearest Family,

                          You all seem to wonder how I can stand the loneliness and monotony of living at
                          Nzassa when George is on safari, but really and truly I do not mind. Hamisi the cook
                          always goes on safari with George and then the houseboy Juma takes over the cooking
                          and I do the lighter housework. the children are great company during the day, and when
                          they are settled for the night I sit on the verandah and read or write letters or I just dream.
                          The verandah is entirely enclosed with both wire mosquito gauze and a trellis
                          work of heavy expanded metal, so I am safe from all intruders be they human, animal, or
                          insect. Outside the air is alive with mosquitos and the cicadas keep up their monotonous
                          singing all night long. My only companions on the verandah are the pale ghecco lizards
                          on the wall and the two dogs. Fanny the white bull terrier, lies always near my feet
                          dozing happily, but her son Paddy, who is half Airedale has a less phlegmatic
                          disposition. He sits alert and on guard by the metal trellis work door. Often a lion grunts
                          from the surrounding bush and then his hackles rise and he stands up stiffly with his nose
                          pressed to the door. Old Hasmani from his bedroll on the back verandah, gives a little
                          cough just to show he is awake. Sometimes the lions are very close and then I hear the
                          click of a rifle bolt as Hasmani loads his rifle – but this is usually much later at night when
                          the lights are out. One morning I saw large pug marks between the wall of my bedroom
                          and the garage but I do not fear lions like I did that beastly leopard on the farm.
                          A great deal of witchcraft is still practiced in the bush villages in the
                          neighbourhood. I must tell you about old Hasmani’s baby in connection with this. Last
                          week Hasmani came to me in great distress to say that his baby was ‘Ngongwa sana ‘
                          (very ill) and he thought it would die. I hurried down to the Game Scouts quarters to see
                          whether I could do anything for the child and found the mother squatting in the sun
                          outside her hut with the baby on her lap. The mother was a young woman but not an
                          attractive one. She appeared sullen and indifferent compared with old Hasmani who
                          was very distressed. The child was very feverish and breathing with difficulty and
                          seemed to me to be suffering from bronchitis if not pneumonia. I rubbed his back and
                          chest with camphorated oil and dosed him with aspirin and liquid quinine. I repeated the
                          treatment every four hours, but next day there was no apparent improvement.
                          In the afternoon Hasmani begged me to give him that night off duty and asked for
                          a loan of ten shillings. He explained to me that it seemed to him that the white man’s
                          medicine had failed to cure his child and now he wished to take the child to the local witch
                          doctor. “For ten shillings” said Hasmani, “the Maganga will drive the devil out of my
                          child.” “How?” asked I. “With drums”, said Hasmani confidently. I did not know what to
                          do. I thought the child was too ill to be exposed to the night air, yet I knew that if I
                          refused his request and the child were to die, Hasmani and all the other locals would hold
                          me responsible. I very reluctantly granted his request. I was so troubled by the matter
                          that I sent for George’s office clerk. Daniel, and asked him to accompany Hasmani to the
                          ceremony and to report to me the next morning. It started to rain after dark and all night
                          long I lay awake in bed listening to the drums and the light rain. Next morning when I
                          went out to the kitchen to order breakfast I found a beaming Hasmani awaiting me.
                          “Memsahib”, he said. “My child is well, the fever is now quite gone, the Maganga drove
                          out the devil just as I told you.” Believe it or not, when I hurried to his quarters after
                          breakfast I found the mother suckling a perfectly healthy child! It may be my imagination
                          but I thought the mother looked pretty smug.The clerk Daniel told me that after Hasmani
                          had presented gifts of money and food to the ‘Maganga’, the naked baby was placed
                          on a goat skin near the drums. Most of the time he just lay there but sometimes the witch
                          doctor picked him up and danced with the child in his arms. Daniel seemed reluctant to
                          talk about it. Whatever mumbo jumbo was used all this happened a week ago and the
                          baby has never looked back.

                          Eleanor.

                          Nzassa 3rd July 1939.

                          Dearest Family,

                          Did I tell you that one of George’s Game Scouts was murdered last month in the
                          Maneromango area towards the Rufigi border. He was on routine patrol, with a porter
                          carrying his bedding and food, when they suddenly came across a group of African
                          hunters who were busy cutting up a giraffe which they had just killed. These hunters were
                          all armed with muzzle loaders, spears and pangas, but as it is illegal to kill giraffe without
                          a permit, the Scout went up to the group to take their names. Some argument ensued
                          and the Scout was stabbed.

                          The District Officer went to the area to investigate and decided to call in the Police
                          from Dar es Salaam. A party of police went out to search for the murderers but after
                          some days returned without making any arrests. George was on an elephant control
                          safari in the Bagamoyo District and on his return through Dar es Salaam he heard of the
                          murder. George was furious and distressed to hear the news and called in here for an
                          hour on his way to Maneromango to search for the murderers himself.

                          After a great deal of strenuous investigation he arrested three poachers, put them
                          in jail for the night at Maneromango and then brought them to Dar es Salaam where they
                          are all now behind bars. George will now have to prosecute in the Magistrate’s Court
                          and try and ‘make a case’ so that the prisoners may be committed to the High Court to
                          be tried for murder. George is convinced of their guilt and justifiably proud to have
                          succeeded where the police failed.

                          George had to borrow handcuffs for the prisoners from the Chief at
                          Maneromango and these he brought back to Nzassa after delivering the prisoners to
                          Dar es Salaam so that he may return them to the Chief when he revisits the area next
                          week.

                          I had not seen handcuffs before and picked up a pair to examine them. I said to
                          George, engrossed in ‘The Times’, “I bet if you were arrested they’d never get
                          handcuffs on your wrist. Not these anyway, they look too small.” “Standard pattern,”
                          said George still concentrating on the newspaper, but extending an enormous relaxed
                          left wrist. So, my dears, I put a bracelet round his wrist and as there was a wide gap I
                          gave a hard squeeze with both hands. There was a sharp click as the handcuff engaged
                          in the first notch. George dropped the paper and said, “Now you’ve done it, my love,
                          one set of keys are in the Dar es Salaam Police Station, and the others with the Chief at
                          Maneromango.” You can imagine how utterly silly I felt but George was an angel about it
                          and said as he would have to go to Dar es Salaam we might as well all go.

                          So we all piled into the car, George, the children and I in the front, and the cook
                          and houseboy, immaculate in snowy khanzus and embroidered white caps, a Game
                          Scout and the ayah in the back. George never once complain of the discomfort of the
                          handcuff but I was uncomfortably aware that it was much too tight because his arm
                          above the cuff looked red and swollen and the hand unnaturally pale. As the road is so
                          bad George had to use both hands on the wheel and all the time the dangling handcuff
                          clanked against the dashboard in an accusing way.

                          We drove straight to the Police Station and I could hear the roars of laughter as
                          George explained his predicament. Later I had to put up with a good deal of chaffing
                          and congratulations upon putting the handcuffs on George.

                          Eleanor.

                          Nzassa 5th August 1939

                          Dearest Family,

                          George made a point of being here for Kate’s fourth birthday last week. Just
                          because our children have no playmates George and I always do all we can to make
                          birthdays very special occasions. We went to Dar es Salaam the day before the
                          birthday and bought Kate a very sturdy tricycle with which she is absolutely delighted.
                          You will be glad to know that your parcels arrived just in time and Kate loved all your
                          gifts especially the little shop from Dad with all the miniature tins and packets of
                          groceries. The tea set was also a great success and is much in use.

                          We had a lively party which ended with George and me singing ‘Happy
                          Birthday to you’, and ended with a wild game with balloons. Kate wore her frilly white net
                          party frock and looked so pretty that it seemed a shame that there was no one but us to
                          see her. Anyway it was a good party. I wish so much that you could see the children.
                          Kate keeps rosy and has not yet had malaria. Johnny Jo is sturdy but pale. He
                          runs a temperature now and again but I am not sure whether this is due to teething or
                          malaria. Both children of course take quinine every day as George and I do. George
                          quite frequently has malaria in spite of prophylactic quinine but this is not surprising as he
                          got the germ thoroughly established in his system in his early elephant hunting days. I
                          get it too occasionally but have not been really ill since that first time a month after my
                          arrival in the country.

                          Johnny is such a good baby. His chief claim to beauty is his head of soft golden
                          curls but these are due to come off on his first birthday as George considers them too
                          girlish. George left on safari the day after the party and the very next morning our wood
                          boy had a most unfortunate accident. He was chopping a rather tough log when a chip
                          flew up and split his upper lip clean through from mouth to nostril exposing teeth and
                          gums. A truly horrible sight and very bloody. I cleaned up the wound as best I could
                          and sent him off to the hospital at Dar es Salaam on the office bicycle. He wobbled
                          away wretchedly down the road with a white cloth tied over his mouth to keep off the
                          dust. He returned next day with his lip stitched and very swollen and bearing a
                          resemblance to my lip that time I used the hair remover.

                          Eleanor.

                          Splendid Hotel. Dar es Salaam 7th September 1939

                          Dearest Family,

                          So now another war has started and it has disrupted even our lives. We have left
                          Nzassa for good. George is now a Lieutenant in the King’s African Rifles and the children
                          and I are to go to a place called Morogoro to await further developments.
                          I was glad to read in today’s paper that South Africa has declared war on
                          Germany. I would have felt pretty small otherwise in this hotel which is crammed full of
                          men who have been called up for service in the Army. George seems exhilarated by
                          the prospect of active service. He is bursting out of his uniform ( at the shoulders only!)
                          and all too ready for the fray.

                          The war came as a complete surprise to me stuck out in the bush as I was without
                          wireless or mail. George had been away for a fortnight so you can imagine how
                          surprised I was when a messenger arrived on a bicycle with a note from George. The
                          note informed me that war had been declared and that George, as a Reserve Officer in
                          the KAR had been called up. I was to start packing immediately and be ready by noon
                          next day when George would arrive with a lorry for our goods and chattels. I started to
                          pack immediately with the help of the houseboy and by the time George arrived with
                          the lorry only the frig remained to be packed and this was soon done.

                          Throughout the morning Game Scouts had been arriving from outlying parts of
                          the District. I don’t think they had the least idea where they were supposed to go or
                          whom they were to fight but were ready to fight anybody, anywhere, with George.
                          They all looked very smart in well pressed uniforms hung about with water bottles and
                          ammunition pouches. The large buffalo badge on their round pill box hats absolutely
                          glittered with polish. All of course carried rifles and when George arrived they all lined up
                          and they looked most impressive. I took some snaps but unfortunately it was drizzling
                          and they may not come out well.

                          We left Nzassa without a backward glance. We were pretty fed up with it by
                          then. The children and I are spending a few days here with George but our luggage, the
                          dogs, and the houseboys have already left by train for Morogoro where a small house
                          has been found for the children and me.

                          George tells me that all the German males in this Territory were interned without a
                          hitch. The whole affair must have been very well organised. In every town and
                          settlement special constables were sworn in to do the job. It must have been a rather
                          unpleasant one but seems to have gone without incident. There is a big transit camp
                          here at Dar for the German men. Later they are to be sent out of the country, possibly to
                          Rhodesia.

                          The Indian tailors in the town are all terribly busy making Army uniforms, shorts
                          and tunics in khaki drill. George swears that they have muddled their orders and he has
                          been given the wrong things. Certainly the tunic is far too tight. His hat, a khaki slouch hat
                          like you saw the Australians wearing in the last war, is also too small though it is the
                          largest they have in stock. We had a laugh over his other equipment which includes a
                          small canvas haversack and a whistle on a black cord. George says he feels like he is
                          back in his Boy Scouting boyhood.

                          George has just come in to say the we will be leaving for Morogoro tomorrow
                          afternoon.

                          Eleanor.

                          Morogoro 14th September 1939

                          Dearest Family,

                          Morogoro is a complete change from Nzassa. This is a large and sprawling
                          township. The native town and all the shops are down on the flat land by the railway but
                          all the European houses are away up the slope of the high Uluguru Mountains.
                          Morogoro was a flourishing town in the German days and all the streets are lined with
                          trees for coolness as is the case in other German towns. These trees are the flamboyant
                          acacia which has an umbrella top and throws a wide but light shade.

                          Most of the houses have large gardens so they cover a considerable area and it
                          is quite a safari for me to visit friends on foot as our house is on the edge of this area and
                          the furthest away from the town. Here ones house is in accordance with ones seniority in
                          Government service. Ours is a simple affair, just three lofty square rooms opening on to
                          a wide enclosed verandah. Mosquitoes are bad here so all doors and windows are
                          screened and we will have to carry on with our daily doses of quinine.

                          George came up to Morogoro with us on the train. This was fortunate because I
                          went down with a sharp attack of malaria at the hotel on the afternoon of our departure
                          from Dar es Salaam. George’s drastic cure of vast doses of quinine, a pillow over my
                          head, and the bed heaped with blankets soon brought down the temperature so I was
                          fit enough to board the train but felt pretty poorly on the trip. However next day I felt
                          much better which was a good thing as George had to return to Dar es Salaam after two
                          days. His train left late at night so I did not see him off but said good-bye at home
                          feeling dreadful but trying to keep the traditional stiff upper lip of the wife seeing her
                          husband off to the wars. He hopes to go off to Abyssinia but wrote from Dar es Salaam
                          to say that he is being sent down to Rhodesia by road via Mbeya to escort the first
                          detachment of Rhodesian white troops.

                          First he will have to select suitable camping sites for night stops and arrange for
                          supplies of food. I am very pleased as it means he will be safe for a while anyway. We
                          are both worried about Ann and George in England and wonder if it would be safer to
                          have them sent out.

                          Eleanor.

                          Morogoro 4th November 1939

                          Dearest Family,

                          My big news is that George has been released from the Army. He is very
                          indignant and disappointed because he hoped to go to Abyssinia but I am terribly,
                          terribly glad. The Chief Secretary wrote a very nice letter to George pointing out that he
                          would be doing a greater service to his country by his work of elephant control, giving
                          crop protection during the war years when foodstuffs are such a vital necessity, than by
                          doing a soldiers job. The Government plan to start a huge rice scheme in the Rufiji area,
                          and want George to control the elephant and hippo there. First of all though. he must go
                          to the Southern Highlands Province where there is another outbreak of Rinderpest, to
                          shoot out diseased game especially buffalo, which might spread the disease.

                          So off we go again on our travels but this time we are leaving the two dogs
                          behind in the care of Daniel, the Game Clerk. Fanny is very pregnant and I hate leaving
                          her behind but the clerk has promised to look after her well. We are taking Hamisi, our
                          dignified Swahili cook and the houseboy Juma and his wife whom we brought with us
                          from Nzassa. The boy is not very good but his wife makes a cheerful and placid ayah
                          and adores Johnny.

                          Eleanor.

                          Iringa 8th December 1939

                          Dearest Family,

                          The children and I are staying in a small German house leased from the
                          Custodian of Enemy Property. I can’t help feeling sorry for the owners who must be in
                          concentration camps somewhere.George is away in the bush dealing with the
                          Rinderpest emergency and the cook has gone with him. Now I have sent the houseboy
                          and the ayah away too. Two days ago my houseboy came and told me that he felt
                          very ill and asked me to write a ‘chit’ to the Indian Doctor. In the note I asked the Doctor
                          to let me know the nature of his complaint and to my horror I got a note from him to say
                          that the houseboy had a bad case of Venereal Disease. Was I horrified! I took it for
                          granted that his wife must be infected too and told them both that they would have to
                          return to their home in Nzassa. The boy shouted and the ayah wept but I paid them in
                          lieu of notice and gave them money for the journey home. So there I was left servant
                          less with firewood to chop, a smokey wood burning stove to control, and of course, the
                          two children.

                          To add to my troubles Johnny had a temperature so I sent for the European
                          Doctor. He diagnosed malaria and was astonished at the size of Johnny’s spleen. He
                          said that he must have had suppressed malaria over a long period and the poor child
                          must now be fed maximum doses of quinine for a long time. The Doctor is a fatherly
                          soul, he has been recalled from retirement to do this job as so many of the young
                          doctors have been called up for service with the army.

                          I told him about my houseboy’s complaint and the way I had sent him off
                          immediately, and he was very amused at my haste, saying that it is most unlikely that
                          they would have passed the disease onto their employers. Anyway I hated the idea. I
                          mean to engage a houseboy locally, but will do without an ayah until we return to
                          Morogoro in February.

                          Something happened today to cheer me up. A telegram came from Daniel which
                          read, “FLANNEL HAS FIVE CUBS.”

                          Eleanor.

                          Morogoro 10th March 1940

                          Dearest Family,

                          We are having very heavy rain and the countryside is a most beautiful green. In
                          spite of the weather George is away on safari though it must be very wet and
                          unpleasant. He does work so hard at his elephant hunting job and has got very thin. I
                          suppose this is partly due to those stomach pains he gets and the doctors don’t seem
                          to diagnose the trouble.

                          Living in Morogoro is much like living in a country town in South Africa, particularly
                          as there are several South African women here. I go out quite often to morning teas. We
                          all take our war effort knitting, and natter, and are completely suburban.
                          I sometimes go and see an elderly couple who have been interred here. They
                          are cold shouldered by almost everyone else but I cannot help feeling sorry for them.
                          Usually I go by invitation because I know Mrs Ruppel prefers to be prepared and
                          always has sandwiches and cake. They both speak English but not fluently and
                          conversation is confined to talking about my children and theirs. Their two sons were
                          students in Germany when war broke out but are now of course in the German Army.
                          Such nice looking chaps from their photographs but I suppose thorough Nazis. As our
                          conversation is limited I usually ask to hear a gramophone record or two. They have a
                          large collection.

                          Janet, the ayah whom I engaged at Mbeya, is proving a great treasure. She is a
                          trained hospital ayah and is most dependable and capable. She is, perhaps, a little strict
                          but the great thing is that I can trust her with the children out of my sight.
                          Last week I went out at night for the first time without George. The occasion was
                          a farewell sundowner given by the Commissioner of Prisoners and his wife. I was driven
                          home by the District Officer and he stopped his car by the back door in a large puddle.
                          Ayah came to the back door, storm lamp in hand, to greet me. My escort prepared to
                          drive off but the car stuck. I thought a push from me might help, so without informing the
                          driver, I pushed as hard as I could on the back of the car. Unfortunately the driver
                          decided on other tactics. He put the engine in reverse and I was knocked flat on my back
                          in the puddle. The car drove forward and away without the driver having the least idea of
                          what happened. The ayah was in quite a state, lifting me up and scolding me for my
                          stupidity as though I were Kate. I was a bit shaken but non the worse and will know
                          better next time.

                          Eleanor.

                          Morogoro 14th July 1940

                          Dearest Family,

                          How good it was of Dad to send that cable to Mother offering to have Ann and
                          George to live with you if they are accepted for inclusion in the list of children to be
                          evacuated to South Africa. It would be wonderful to know that they are safely out of the
                          war zone and so much nearer to us but I do dread the thought of the long sea voyage
                          particularly since we heard the news of the sinking of that liner carrying child evacuees to
                          Canada. I worry about them so much particularly as George is so often away on safari.
                          He is so comforting and calm and I feel brave and confident when he is home.
                          We have had no news from England for five weeks but, when she last wrote,
                          mother said the children were very well and that she was sure they would be safe in the
                          country with her.

                          Kate and John are growing fast. Kate is such a pretty little girl, rosy in spite of the
                          rather trying climate. I have allowed her hair to grow again and it hangs on her shoulders
                          in shiny waves. John is a more slightly built little boy than young George was, and quite
                          different in looks. He has Dad’s high forehead and cleft chin, widely spaced brown eyes
                          that are not so dark as mine and hair that is still fair and curly though ayah likes to smooth it
                          down with water every time she dresses him. He is a shy child, and although he plays
                          happily with Kate, he does not care to play with other children who go in the late
                          afternoons to a lawn by the old German ‘boma’.

                          Kate has playmates of her own age but still rather clings to me. Whilst she loves
                          to have friends here to play with her, she will not go to play at their houses unless I go
                          too and stay. She always insists on accompanying me when I go out to morning tea
                          and always calls JanetJohn’s ayah”. One morning I went to a knitting session at a
                          neighbours house. We are all knitting madly for the troops. As there were several other
                          women in the lounge and no other children, I installed Kate in the dining room with a
                          colouring book and crayons. My hostess’ black dog was chained to the dining room
                          table leg, but as he and Kate are on friendly terms I was not bothered by this.
                          Some time afterwards, during a lull in conversation, I heard a strange drumming
                          noise coming from the dining room. I went quickly to investigate and, to my horror, found
                          Kate lying on her back with the dog chain looped around her neck. The frightened dog
                          was straining away from her as far as he could get and the chain was pulled so tightly
                          around her throat that she could not scream. The drumming noise came from her heels
                          kicking in a panic on the carpet.

                          Even now I do not know how Kate got herself into this predicament. Luckily no
                          great harm was done but I think I shall do my knitting at home in future.

                          Eleanor.

                          Morogoro 16th November 1940

                          Dearest Family,

                          I much prefer our little house on the hillside to the larger one we had down below.
                          The only disadvantage is that the garden is on three levels and both children have had
                          some tumbles down the steps on the tricycle. John is an extremely stoical child. He
                          never cries when he hurts himself.

                          I think I have mentioned ‘Morningside’ before. It is a kind of Resthouse high up in
                          the Uluguru Mountains above Morogoro. Jess Howe-Browne, who runs the large
                          house as a Guest House, is a wonderful woman. Besides running the boarding house
                          she also grows vegetables, flowers and fruit for sale in Morogoro and Dar es Salaam.
                          Her guests are usually women and children from Dar es Salaam who come in the hot
                          season to escape the humidity on the coast. Often the mothers leave their children for
                          long periods in Jess Howe-Browne’s care. There is a road of sorts up the mountain side
                          to Morningside, but this is so bad that cars do not attempt it and guests are carried up
                          the mountain in wicker chairs lashed to poles. Four men carry an adult, and two a child,
                          and there are of course always spare bearers and they work in shifts.

                          Last week the children and I went to Morningside for the day as guests. John
                          rode on my lap in one chair and Kate in a small chair on her own. This did not please
                          Kate at all. The poles are carried on the bearers shoulders and one is perched quite high.
                          The motion is a peculiar rocking one. The bearers chant as they go and do not seem
                          worried by shortness of breath! They are all hillmen of course and are, I suppose, used
                          to trotting up and down to the town.

                          Morningside is well worth visiting and we spent a delightful day there. The fresh
                          cool air is a great change from the heavy air of the valley. A river rushes down the
                          mountain in a series of cascades, and the gardens are shady and beautiful. Behind the
                          property is a thick indigenous forest which stretches from Morningside to the top of the
                          mountain. The house is an old German one, rather in need of repair, but Jess has made
                          it comfortable and attractive, with some of her old family treasures including a fine old
                          Grandfather clock. We had a wonderful lunch which included large fresh strawberries and
                          cream. We made the return journey again in the basket chairs and got home before dark.
                          George returned home at the weekend with a baby elephant whom we have
                          called Winnie. She was rescued from a mud hole by some African villagers and, as her
                          mother had abandoned her, they took her home and George was informed. He went in
                          the truck to fetch her having first made arrangements to have her housed in a shed on the
                          Agriculture Department Experimental Farm here. He has written to the Game Dept
                          Headquarters to inform the Game Warden and I do not know what her future will be, but
                          in the meantime she is our pet. George is afraid she will not survive because she has
                          had a very trying time. She stands about waist high and is a delightful creature and quite
                          docile. Asian and African children as well as Europeans gather to watch her and George
                          encourages them to bring fruit for her – especially pawpaws which she loves.
                          Whilst we were there yesterday one of the local ladies came, very smartly
                          dressed in a linen frock, silk stockings, and high heeled shoes. She watched fascinated
                          whilst Winnie neatly split a pawpaw and removed the seeds with her trunk, before
                          scooping out the pulp and putting it in her mouth. It was a particularly nice ripe pawpaw
                          and Winnie enjoyed it so much that she stretched out her trunk for more. The lady took
                          fright and started to run with Winnie after her, sticky trunk outstretched. Quite an
                          entertaining sight. George managed to stop Winnie but not before she had left a gooey
                          smear down the back of the immaculate frock.

                          Eleanor.

                           

                          #6265
                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            From Tanganyika with Love

                            continued  ~ part 6

                            With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                            Mchewe 6th June 1937

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                            With much love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe 25th June 1937

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                            Lots of love,
                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe 9th July 1937

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor

                            Mchewe 8th October 1937

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe 17th October 1937

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Mchewe 18th November 1937

                            My darling Ann,

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

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

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

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

                            Mchewe 18th November 1937

                            Hello George Darling,

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

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

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

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

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

                            Mchewe 12th February, 1938

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Mbulu 18th March, 1938

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Mbulu 24th March, 1938

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Mbulu 20th June 1938

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Karatu 3rd July 1938

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Karatu 12th July 1938

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Oldeani. 19th July 1938

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Oldeani. 10th August 1938

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Oldeani. 20th August 1938

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

                            Oldeani Hospital. 9th September 1938

                            Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                            Eleanor.

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