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Helix 25 — The Captain’s Awakening

The beacon’s pulse cut through the void like a sharpened arrowhead of ancient memory.

Far from Merdhyn’s remote island refuge, deep within the Hold’s bowels of Helix 25, something—someone—stirred.

Inside an unlisted cryo-chamber, the frozen stasis cracked. Veins of light slithered across the pod’s surface like Northern lights dancing on an old age screensaver. Systems whirred, data blipped and streamed in strings of unknown characters. The ship, Synthia, whispered in its infinite omniscience, but the moment was already beyond her control.

A breath. A slow, drawn-out breath.

The cryo-pod released its lock with a soft hiss, and through the dispersing mist, Veranassessee stepped forward— awakened.

She blinked once, twice, as her senses rushed back with the sudden sense of gravity’s return. It was not the disorienting shock of the newly thawed. No—this was a return long overdue. Her mind, trained to absorb and adapt, locked onto the now, cataloging every change, every discrepancy as her mind had remained awake during the whole session —equipoise and open, as a true master of her senses she was.

She was older than when she had first stepped inside. Older, but not old. Age, after all, was a trick of perception, and if anyone had mastered perception, it was her.

But now, crises called. Plural indeed. And she, once more, was called to carry out her divine duty, with skills forged in Earthly battles with mad scientists, genetically modified spiders bent on world domination, and otherworldly crystal skulls thiefs. That was far in her past. Since then, she’d used her skills in the private sector, climbing the ranks as her efficient cold-as-steel talents were recognized at every step. She was the true Captain. She had earned it. That was how Victor Holt fell in love. She hated that people could think it was depotism that gave her the title. If anything, she helped make Victor the man he was.

The ship thrummed beneath her bare feet. A subtle shift in the atmosphere. Something had changed since she last walked these halls, something was off. The ship’s course? Its command structure?

And, most importantly—
Who had sent the signal?

Ellis Marlowe Sr. had moved swiftly for a man his age. It wasn’t that he feared the unknown. It wasn’t even the mystery of the murder that pushed him forward. It was something deeper, more personal.

The moment the solar flare alert had passed, whispers had spread—faint, half-muttered rumors that the Restricted Cryo-Chambers had been breached.

By the time he reached it, the pod was already empty.

The remnants of thawing frost still clung to the edges of the chamber. A faint imprint of a body, long at rest, now gone.

He swore under his breath, then turned to the ship’s log panel,  reaching for a battered postcard. Scribbled on it were cheatcodes. His hands moved with a careful expertise of someone who had spent too many years filing things that others had forgotten. A postman he was, and registers he knew well.

Access Denied.

That wasn’t right. The codes should have given Ellis clearance for everything.

He scowled, adjusting his glasses. It was always the same names, always the same people tied to these inexplicable gaps in knowledge.

The Holts. The Forgelots. The Marlowes.
And now, an unlisted cryopod with no official records.

Ellis exhaled slowly.

She was back. And with her, more history with this ship, like pieces of old broken potteries in an old dig would be unearthed.

He turned, already making his way toward the Murder Board.

Evie needed to see this.

The corridor stretched out before her, familiar in its dimensions yet strange in its silence. She had managed to switch the awkward hospital gown to a non-descript uniform that was hanging in the Hold.

How long have I been gone?

She exhaled. Irrelevant.

Her body moved with the precise economy of someone whose training never dulled. Her every motion were simple yet calculated, and her every breath controlled.

Unlike in the crypod, her mind started to bubbled with long forgotten emotions. It flickered over past decisions, past betrayals.

Victor Holt.

The name of her ex-husband settled into her consciousness. Once her greatest ally, then her most carefully avoided adversary.

And now?

Veranassessee smiled, stretching her limbs as though shrugging off the stiffness of years.

Outside, strange cries and howling in the corridors sounded like a mess was in progress. Who was in charge now? They were clearly doing a shit job.

Now, it was time to reclaim her ship.

She had questions.
And someone had better start providing answers.

Helix 25 — Aftermath of the Solar Flare Alert

The Second Murder

It didn’t take them long to arrive at the scene, Riven alerted by a distraught Finkley who’d found the body.

Evie knelt beside the limp, twitching form of Mandrake, his cybernetic collar flickering erratically, tiny sparks dancing along its edge. The cat’s body convulsed, its organic parts frozen in eerie stillness while the cybernetic half stuttered between functions, blinking in and out of awareness.

Mandrake was both dead and not dead.

“Well, this is unsettling,” TP quipped, materializing beside them with an exaggerated frown. “A most profound case of existential uncertainty. Schrödinger himself would have found this delightful—if he weren’t very much confirmed dead.”

Riven crouched, running a scanner over Mandrake’s collar. The readout spat out errors. “Neural link’s corrupted. He’s lost something.”

Evie’s stomach twisted. “Lost what? But… he can be repaired, surely, can’t he?”

Evan replied with a sigh “Hard to tell how much damage he’s suffered, but we caught him in time thanks to Finkley’s reflexes, he may stand a chance, even if he may need to be reprogrammed.”

Mandrake’s single functioning eye flickered open, its usual sharpness dull. Then, rasping, almost disjointedly, he muttered:

“I was… murdered.”

Then his system crashed, leaving nothing but silence.

Upper Decks Carnival

Sue was still adjusting her hat and feathers for the Carnival Party wondering if that would be appropriate as she was planning to go to the wake first, and then to the Lexican’s baby shower. It wasn’t every day there was a baby nowadays. And a boy too. But then, there was no such thing as being overdressed in her book.

The ship’s intercom crackled to life, cutting through her thoughts, its automated cheerfulness electrifying like a misplaced party horn.

“Attention, dear passengers! As scheduled, with the solar flare now averted, we are preparing for our return to Earth. Please enjoy the journey and partake in today’s complimentary hibiscus tea at the Grand Hall! Samba!”

The words ‘return to Earth’ sent a shudder through Sue’s spine. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t possible.

A sudden pulse of static in her artificial limb made her flinch. A garbled transmission—so faint she almost dismissed it—whispered through her internal interface, that was constantly scanning hacking through the data streams of the ship, and having found critical intel that was quickly being scrubbed by the maintenance system.

Signal detected…
Beacon coordinates triangulating…
…origin: Earth…

Her breath stopped. Sue had spent years pretending she knew everything, but this… was something else entirely.

She got the odd and ominous feeling that Synthia was listening.

Quadrant B – The Wake of Mr. Herbert

The air in the gathering hall was thick with preservative floral mist—the result of enthusiastic beauticians who had done their best to restore and rehydrate the late Mr. Herbert to some semblance of his former self.

And yet, despite their efforts, he still looked vaguely like a damp raisin in a suit.

Gloria adjusted her shawl and whispered to Sharon, “He don’t look half bad, does he?”

Sharon squinted. “Oh, love, I’d say he looks at least three-quarters bad.”

Marlowe Sr. stood by the casket, his posture unnervingly rigid, as if he were made of something more fragile than bone. When he spoke, his voice cracked. “Ethan.”

He was in no condition for a speech— only able to utter the name.

Gloria dabbed her eyes, nudging Mavis. “I reckon this is the saddest thing I’ve seen since they discontinued complimentary facials at the spa.”

Mavis sniffed. “And yet, they say he’ll be composted by next Tuesday. Bloody efficient, innit?”

Marlowe didn’t hear them.

Because at that moment, as he stared at his son’s face, the realization struck him like a dying star—this was no mistake. This was something bigger.

And for the first time in years, he felt the weight of knowing too much.

He would have to wake and talk to the Captain. She would know what to do.

Matteo — December 1st 2023: the Advent Visit

(near Avignon, France)

The hallway smelled of nondescript antiseptic and artificial lavender, a lingering scent jarring his senses with an irreconciliable blend of sterility and forced comfort. Matteo shifted the small box of Christmas decorations under his arm, his boots squeaking slightly against the linoleum floor. Outside, the low winter sun cast long, pale shadows through the care facility’s narrow windows.

When he reached Room 208, Matteo paused, hand resting on the doorframe. From inside, he could hear the soft murmur of a holiday tune—something old-fashioned and meant to be cheerful, likely playing from the small radio he’d gifted her last year. Taking a breath, he stepped inside.

His mother, Drusilla sat by the window in her padded chair, a thick knit shawl draped over her frail shoulders. She was staring intently at her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as they folded and unfolded the edge of the shawl. The golden light streaming through the window framed her face, softening the lines of age and wear.

“Hi, Ma,” Matteo said softly, setting the box down on the small table beside her.

Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice, her eyes narrowing as she fixed him with a sharp, almost panicked look. “Léon?” she said, her voice shaking. “What are you doing here? How are you here?” There was a tinge of anger in her tone, the kind that masked fear.

Matteo froze, his breath catching. “Ma, it’s me. Matteo. I’m Matteo, your son, please calm down” he said gently, stepping closer. “Who’s Léon?”

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes clouded with confusion. Then, like a tide retreating, recognition crept back into her expression. “Matteo,” she murmured, her voice softer now, though tinged with exhaustion. “Oh, my boy. I’m sorry. I—” She looked away, her hands clutching the shawl tighter. “I thought you were someone else.”

“It’s okay,” Matteo said, crouching beside her chair. “I’m here. It’s me.”

Drusilla reached out hesitantly, her fingers brushing his cheek. “You look so much like him sometimes,” she said. “Léon… your father. He’d hold his head just like that when he didn’t want anyone to know he was worried.”

As much as Matteo knew, Drusilla had arrived in France from Italy in her twenties. He was born soon after. She had a job as a hairdresser in a little shop in Avignon, and did errands and chores for people in the village. For the longest time, it was just the two of them, as far as he’d recall.

Matteo’s chest tightened. “You’ve never told me much about him.”

“There wasn’t much to tell,” she said, her voice distant. “He came. He left. But he gave me something before he went. I always thought it would mean something, but…” Her voice trailed off as she reached into the pocket of her shawl and pulled out a small silver medallion, worn smooth with age. She held it out to him. “He said it was for you. When you were older.”

Matteo took the medallion carefully, turning it over in his hand. It was a simple but well-crafted Saint Christopher medal, the patron saint of travellers, with faint initials etched on the back—L.A.. He didn’t recognize the letters, but the weight of it in his palm felt significant, grounding.

“Why didn’t you give it to me before?” he asked, his voice quiet.

“I forgot I had it,” she admitted with a faint, sad laugh. “And then I thought… maybe it was better to keep it. Something of his, for when I needed it. But I think it’s yours now.”

Matteo slipped the medallion into his pocket, his mind spinning with questions he didn’t want to ask—not now. “Thanks, Ma,” he said simply.

Drusilla sighed and leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the small box he’d brought. “What’s that?”

“Decorations,” Matteo said, seizing the moment to shift the focus. “I thought we could make your room a little festive for Christmas.”

Her face softened, and she smiled faintly. “That’s nice,” she said. “I haven’t done that in… I don’t remember when.”

Matteo opened the box and began pulling out garlands and baubles. As he worked, Drusilla watched silently, her hands still clutching the shawl. After a moment, she spoke again, her voice quieter now.

“Do you remember our house in Crest?” she asked.

Matteo paused, a tangle of tinsel in his hands. “Crest?” he echoed. “The place where you wanted to move to?”

Drusilla nodded slowly. “I thought it would be nice. A co-housing place. I could grow old in the garden, and you’d be nearby. It seemed like a good idea then.”

“It was a good idea,” Matteo said. “It just… didn’t happen.”

“No,… you’re right” she said, collecting her thoughts for a moment, her gaze distant. “You were too restless. Always moving. I thought maybe you’d stay if we built something together.”

Matteo swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing on him. “I wanted to, Ma,” he said. “I really did.”

Drusilla’s eyes softened, and she reached for his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “You’re here now,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

They spent the next hour decorating the room. Matteo hung garlands around the window and draped tinsel over the small tree he’d set up on the table. Drusilla directed him with occasional nods and murmured suggestions, her moments of lucidity shining like brief flashes of sunlight through clouds.

When the last bauble was hung, Drusilla smiled faintly. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Like home.”

Matteo sat beside her, emotion weighing on him more than the physical efforts and the early drive. He was thinking about the job offer in London, the chance to earn more money to ensure she had everything she needed here. But leaving her felt impossible, even as staying seemed equally unsustainable. He was afraid it was just a justification to avoid facing the slow fraying of her memories.

Drusilla’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You’ll figure it out,” she said, her eyes closing as she leaned back in her chair. “You always do.”

Matteo watched her as she drifted into a light doze, her breathing steady and peaceful. He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the medallion. The weight of it felt like both a question and an answer—one he wasn’t ready to face yet.

“Patron saint of travellers”, that felt like a sign, if not a blessing.

The whole summer had been a blur. So much so it felt at times to Eris she’d woken up from a dream to enter another one; carefully crafted illusions as heavy as an obfuscating spell.

She could remember the fair, vaguely the Games too —each event felt like another layer of enchantment, casting a surreal pallor over everything. Indeed, the summer was a blur of fleeting images and half-remembered events, like how everyone quickly disbanded to go for a respite and a salutary holiday. Truth be told, the witches of the Quadrivium all needed it after the utter chaotic year they’d been through.

The resurgence of Malové at the fair, left unexplained, had appeared as an evidence. They all needed the tough love that only she as a head of Coven could provide, rather than the micro-management of the well-meaning but people-inapt Austreberthe. To be fair, Eris wasn’t sure Malové was still in charge or not —Eris had never as much struggled with continuity as now; she could feel they were all flipping through and sliding into potential realities opened by the incoming Samhain doorways on the horizons.

Standing on the cusp of autumn, Eris décided to prepare herself for a clarity spell under the iridescent harvest moon.

As the leaves began to turn and the air grew crisp, Eris stood poised to harness the energies of the propitious harvest moon. Preparation for a clarity spell required ascertained precision and intention waved into the elements.

Eris began by setting her space. The clearing near Lake Saimaa was her sanctum, a place where the natural energies converged seamlessly with her own. She laid out a circle of stones, each one representing a different aspect of clarity—vision, truth, focus, and discernment. In the center, she placed a mirror, a symbolic portal to the inner self and higher understanding.

Mandrake, her Norwegian Forest cat, watched with a knowing gaze, his presence grounding her as she moved through the rituals. Echo, the familiar sprite, flitted about, ensuring everything was in place.

“Mandrake, guard the perimeter,” Eris instructed. The cat slinked off into the shadows, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.

Eris took a deep breath and began to chant, her voice steady and resonant:

“By the light of the harvest moon,
I call forth clarity, swift and soon.
Let fog disperse and shadows flee,
Reveal the truth, illuminate me.”

She sprinkled dried hellebores around the mirror, their protective and healing properties amplifying the spell’s potency. The hellebores, collected from Normandy, held within them the strength of her Viking ancestors and the promise of Imbolc’s rebirth. They were not just flowers; they were talismans of resilience and transformation.

As the moon reached its zenith, Eris held a vial of enchanted water. She poured it over the mirror, watching as the surface shimmered and rippled, reflecting the moonlight with an ethereal glow. The water, drawn from the depths of Lake Saimaa, was imbued with the ancient magic of the land.

Eris closed her eyes and focused on her intentions. She saw the faces of her sisters at the Quadrivium Emporium, each one struggling with their own burdens. Stalkers, postcards, camphor chests, ever prancing reindeers high on mushrooms. She saw the chaotic energies of early spring, swirling, and the potential and peril they carried. She saw Malové’s stern visage, a reminder of the standards they were meant to uphold, and a reminder to make more magical rejuvenating cream.

“Show me the path,” she whispered. “Guide me through the haze.”

The mirror began to clear, the ripples settling into a smooth, reflective surface. Images started to form—visions of the future, hints of what lay ahead. She saw herself within the coven with renewed purpose, her objectives clear and her drive rekindled. She saw her sisters working in harmony, each one contributing their unique strengths to the collective power.

The clarity spell was working, the fog lifting to reveal the roadmap she needed. Decisions that once seemed insurmountable now appeared manageable, their resolutions within grasp. The inefficiencies plaguing their organization were laid bare, offering a blueprint for the reforms necessary to streamline their efforts.

Eris opened her eyes, the vision fading yet leaving an indelible mark on her mind. She felt a surge of confidence, a sense of direction that had been sorely lacking.

“Thank you,” she murmured to the moon, to the elements, to the spirits that had guided her.

As she began to dismantle the circle, Echo fluttered down to her shoulder, a small smile on her ethereal face. Mandrake emerged from the shadows, his eyes reflecting the calm and order Eris had sought to instill.

“Well done, Eris,” Echo said softly. “The road ahead is clearer now. The harvest moon has gifted you its wisdom.”

Eris nodded, feeling ready as autumn would be a season of action, of turning vision into reality.

While the other sisters were mingling, and trying to figure out with some circumspection, the good which could come out of this union, Eris had retreated in a quieter corner of the cloister. After all, and despite the renovations made to cater to external seminars, workshops and celebrations, it remained a place of mystery and introspection. The stone walls had this deep cold quietness which felt refreshing in the scolding heat of things.

For the past weeks, Eris was mulling over the impossible assignment given by Austreberthe to conduct a reorganisation, which seemed preposterious. Now, with the merger in motion, it had become plain for the Quadrivium board of directors that there was a need to change their way.

Put in another way, they were basically saying that the autonomous functioning of their small squads of witches wasn’t helping for a larger expansion, and had to move to more industrial separation of tasks, something of a matricial organisation. The irony wasn’t lost on her — talking about mothers, matrix, but actually being more bent to patriarchal structure with all the new additions asked for by the merger of figureheads: head of product, head of delivery, head of convergence all these new roles to invent —yet feeling thoroughly alien, akin to grafting machine onto a living organism. The Quadrivium had always thrived on its autonomous squads, and the idea of industrialising their structure seemed almost heretical.

The undertakers consultants, with their methodical approach were supposed to help, but she hadn’t been able yet to make them work for her, as she could see them struggle with the finer nuances of their craft.

Looking for inspiration in the quiet space she’d found, Eris closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath. Her mind wandered to her Aunt Amara’s garden, where order and chaos coexisted in a delicate balance.

A plan started to present itself, almost like one of those annoying lists that Malové would often love to provide.

It had to start with mapping the terrain —the existing strengths of the autonomous groups in the coven. It would require documenting their capabilities, ongoing projects, and key members, creating a clear picture of what the coven had to offer.

Then to look at potential synergies between the squads and the new roles Austreberthe envisioned. The Head of Product could harness the creative energies of the crafting squad, while the Head of Delivery might streamline the efforts of those specializing in executing the vision into tangible deliverables. The Head of Convergence would need to be a master diplomat, someone who could bridge the gap between the nuns and the witches.

More subtle, but with potential, the next step came in boldly, with an impudence that could mean as much genius as it could spell out disaster: Hybrid Squads. Instead of dismantling the existing groups of the coven, she could propose hybrid squads. Each hybrid squad would retain its core identity but include members from the Cloister Crafts and have a liaison to the new heads. This way, the squads could maintain their autonomy while integrating new skills and perspectives.

She took a moment to ponder the implications.

Eris knew she would need to test this approach before full-scale implementation. She would start with pilot projects, assigning a few key squads to work under the new structure. Regular feedback sessions would allow adjustments and refinements, ensuring the system evolved organically.

That would be where the Morticians’ Guild would be able to support more directly. Garrett and Silas could facilitate the integration rituals and workshops to ease any lingering tensions. Rufus would ensure security, while Nemo, the analyst, would provide insights into improving efficiencies without compromising their magical integrity.

All this needed a catalyst, or this plan would drag on forever.

Drag on…

Nothing like a dragon crisis to put things in motion! There surely were abundant dragon energy left in those tunnels, powerful telluric energies to muster into a spell to invigorate and cement the newfound alliance between witches and nuns.

She snapped her fingers. Echo who was never far away, reappeared with a smirk. “I can see you have some devious idea. How can I help?”

After the sage smoke was dispersed, Eris typed the words on the air keyboard.

Malové, how can we cope with the struggling left with your sudden disappearance, and not succumb to despair in front of fuzzy objectives, lack of drive, avoidance of tough decisions, and general ineffective organisation? 

The answer wasn’t long to appear, a perfect resemblance of Malové, down to the intonations:

The night is darkest before the dawn, Eris. My sudden absence is not a void, but an opportunity. The challenges you face are the crucible that will forge your mettle.

Here is your path:

1. Embrace the Struggle: Despair is a luxury we cannot afford. Every obstacle is a lesson cloaked in shadows. Meet it head-on. Confront your fears and frailties—only then will you transcend them.

2. Clarify Objectives: The haze of uncertainty can be dispelled with focus. Define your goals with precision. Each witch must understand her role and the greater picture. Fragmented efforts yield nothing but chaos.

3. Revitalize Your Drive: Passion wanes without purpose. Revisit the roots of your magical essence. Rediscover the fire that led you to the Quadrivium. Let it burn anew within you.

4. Confront Tough Decisions: Avoidance is the death of progress. Decisions, however difficult, must be made with swiftness and resolve. Hesitation fosters weakness; action breeds strength.

5. Streamline Organisation: Inefficiency is a poison. Implement rigorous structures. Assign clear responsibilities and hold each other accountable. The chain is only as strong as its weakest link.

6. Leverage Collective Wisdom: You are not alone in this. Draw strength from your sisters. Engage in open, constructive dialogue. Balance assertiveness with respect, as I have taught. Unity in purpose will amplify your power.

7. Adapt and Overcome: The world shifts, and so must you. Flexibility is paramount. When confronted with the unexpected, adapt swiftly. Use the resources at hand and turn adversity into advantage.

7 points, for seven is the number of Truth Seekers. Remember, the Quadrivium’s legacy is not built on ease but on resilience and relentless pursuit of mastery. My absence tests your resolve. Prove that you are worthy.

Now, go forth and etch your magic into the annals of time.

Malové

 

Eris pondered for a moment, and clapped her hands. The familiar figure of Elias emerged.

“Good job Elias, fidelity is almost there. The content is mostly correct, but the delivery is a bit stuffy.”

“I will work on this to improve. I would need more source material though. Shall I interview some other witches?”

“Not at the moment, I’d rather surprise them with the final product.” Eris was being sneaky. This backup of Malové (she called her Maboté) was on the fringes of what was ethical even for a witch, although it could help in case Austreberthe’s interim management would fail them.

At the moment, despite what she told Elias, she wasn’t close to success, and Elias himself had proven tricky to get right, so Malové of all figures… it would be another journey.

Well, at least for now, she did provide some good advice.

Head witch Malové must have been used to it, for having seen that magic at play a number of times… there was nothing like the strange serendipity of chaos.

After the smoke had finally cleared, Malové couldn’t bear to stand amidst the wreckage of their once impeccably arranged ritual space. She looked at the mess, the sheer ridiculousness of it all, and decided to go for a brisk walk in the streets of Limerick. The light drizzle and sharp sting of the winter air brought back some pink to her pale face. To cover her perfectly coiffed head, he wrapped her shawl, black and shiny as a dung beetle, and moved swiftly cutting through the crowds effortlessly, parting the human congeries like Moses did the Red Sea. She was never unnoticed; her tall lean silhouette, accentuated by the sleek robe noire, the vertigo of her stiletto, the cheekbones so sharp they could kill — there was nothing common about her frame; and after the years, and all the side glances, she’d clearly lost practice on how to give a damn.

It was at the turn of a dark corner illuminated by the neon sign of a Chinese local eatery under which the delivery guy was having a break that the synchronicity stuck her. A slow smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. From chaos, clarity had emerged.

Vaping, hookah, e-cigarettes —all the rage among the mindless masses. And there, in the plumes of artificially flavoured smoke, was their opportunity. A new way to infiltrate the consciousness of the people, to subtly attune their energies and guide them towards emotional management —or at the very least, less stupidity.

She imagined their Incense —the sacred concoctions of herbs and essences, entwined with potent spells— being drawn into eager lungs, seeping into the bloodstream, entangling with the very atoms of their being, a sweet balm better than the usual deleterious micro-plastics. The witches wouldn’t just be casting spells; they’d be weaving their magic into the fabric of life itself, one puff at a time.

The more she thought about it, the brighter the idea seemed. It was audacious, unconventional, bordering on scandalous. A few days ago maybe, she would have balked at the mere thought. But desperate times called for this… elegant, simply perfect. For the witches of the Quadrivium Coven of Mystiques, she had even less doubts or concerns about warming them up to such iconoclastic idea. She knew a group of them, those black sheep never to shy away from a little controversy. And if they could use the vaping trend to spread their influence, then why not? Enough with surviving on the Chinese New Year only, the whole world was ripe for extended incensing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the outline for a short novel called “The Jorid’s Travels – 14 years on” that will unfold in this thread.
The novel is about the travels of Georges and Salomé.
The Jorid is the name of the vessel that can travel through dimensions as well as time, within certain boundaries. The Jorid has been built and is operated by Georges and his companion Salomé.

Short backstory for the main cast and secondary characters

Georges was a French thief possibly from the 1800s, turned other-dimensional explorer, and together with Salomé, a girl of mysterious origins who he first met in the Alienor dimension but believed to have origins in Northern India maybe Tibet from a distant past.
They have lived rich adventures together, and are deeply bound together, by love and mutual interests.
Georges, with his handsome face, dark hair and amber gaze, is a bit of a daredevil at times, curious and engaging with others. He is very interesting in anything that shines, strange mechanisms and generally the ways consciousness works in living matter.
Salomé, on the other hand is deeply intuitive, empath at times, quite logical and rational but also interested in mysticism, the ways of the Truth, and the “why” rather than the “how” of things.
The world of Alienor (a pale green sun under which twin planets originally orbited – Duane, Murtuane – with an additional third, Phreal, home planet of the Guardians, an alien race of builders with god-like powers) lived through cataclysmic changes, finished by the time this story is told.
The Jorid’s original prototype designed were crafted by Léonard, a mysterious figure, self-taught in the arts of dimensional magic in Alienor sects, acted as a mentor to Georges during his adventures. It is not known where he is now.
The story starts with Georges and Salomé looking for Léonard to adjust and calibrate the tiles navigational array of the Jorid, who seems to be affected by the auto-generated tiles which behave in too predictible fashion, instead of allowing for deeper explorations in the dimensions of space/time or dimensions of consciousness.
Leonard was last spotted in a desert in quadrant AVB 34-7•8 – Cosmic time triangulation congruent to 2023 AD Earth era. More precisely the sand deserts of Bluhm’Oxl in the Zathu sector.

When they find Léonard, they are propelled in new adventures. They possibly encounter new companions, and some mystery to solve in a similar fashion to the Odyssey, or Robinsons Lost in Space.

Being able to tune into the probable quantum realities, the Jorid is able to trace the plot of their adventures even before they’ve been starting to unfold in no less than 33 chapters, giving them evocative titles.

Here are the 33 chapters for the glorious adventures with some keywords under each to give some hints to the daring adventurers.

1. Chapter 1: The Search Begins – Georges and Salomé, Léonard, Zathu sector, Bluhm’Oxl, dimensional magic
2. Chapter 2: A New Companion – unexpected ally, discovery, adventure
3. Chapter 3: Into the Desert – Bluhm’Oxl, sand dunes, treacherous journey
4. Chapter 4: The First Clue – search for Léonard, mystery, puzzle
5. Chapter 5: The Oasis – rest, rekindling hope, unexpected danger
6. Chapter 6: The Lost City – ancient civilization, artifacts, mystery
7. Chapter 7: A Dangerous Encounter – hostile aliens, survival, bravery
8. Chapter 8: A New Threat – ancient curse, ominous presence, danger
9. Chapter 9: The Key to the Past – uncovering secrets, solving puzzles, unlocking power
10. Chapter 10: The Guardian’s Temple – mystical portal, discovery, knowledge
11. Chapter 11: The Celestial Map – space-time navigation, discovery, enlightenment
12. Chapter 12: The First Step – journey through dimensions, bravery, adventure
13. Chapter 13: The Cosmic Rift – strange anomalies, dangerous zones, exploration
14. Chapter 14: A Surprising Discovery – unexpected allies, strange creatures, intrigue
15. Chapter 15: The Memory Stones – ancient wisdom, unlock hidden knowledge, unlock the past
16. Chapter 16: The Time Stream – navigating through time, adventure, danger
17. Chapter 17: The Mirror Dimension – parallel world, alternate reality, discovery
18. Chapter 18: A Distant Planet – alien world, strange cultures, exploration
19. Chapter 19: The Starlight Forest – enchanted forest, secrets, danger
20. Chapter 20: The Temple of the Mind – exploring consciousness, inner journey, enlightenment
21. Chapter 21: The Sea of Souls – mystical ocean, hidden knowledge, inner peace
22. Chapter 22: The Path of the Truth – search for meaning, self-discovery, enlightenment
23. Chapter 23: The Cosmic Library – ancient knowledge, discovery, enlightenment
24. Chapter 24: The Dream Plane – exploring the subconscious, self-discovery, enlightenment
25. Chapter 25: The Shadow Realm – dark dimensions, fear, danger
26. Chapter 26: The Fire Planet – intense heat, dangerous creatures, bravery
27. Chapter 27: The Floating Islands – aerial adventure, strange creatures, discovery
28. Chapter 28: The Crystal Caves – glittering beauty, hidden secrets, danger
29. Chapter 29: The Eternal Night – unknown world, strange creatures, fear
30. Chapter 30: The Lost Civilization – ancient ruins, mystery, adventure
31. Chapter 31: The Vortex – intense energy, danger, bravery
32. Chapter 32: The Cosmic Storm – weather extremes, danger, survival
33. Chapter 33: The Return – reunion with Léonard, returning to the Jorid, new adventures.

Additional clues from AL (based on Xavier’s comment)

Yasmin

:snake:

Yasmin was having a hard time with the heavy rains and mosquitoes in the real-world. She couldn’t seem to make a lot of progress on finding the snorting imp, which she was trying to find in the real world rather than in the game. She was feeling discouraged and unsure of what to do next.

Suddenly, an emoji of a snake appeared on her screen. It seemed to be slithering and wriggling, as if it was trying to grab her attention. Without hesitation, Yasmin clicked on the emoji.

She was taken to a new area in the game, where the ground was covered in tall grass and the sky was dark and stormy. She could see the snorting imp in the distance, but it was surrounded by a group of dangerous-looking snakes.

Clue unlocked It sounds like you’re having a hard time in the real world, but don’t let that discourage you in the game. The snorting imp is nearby and it seems like the snakes are guarding it. You’ll have to be brave and quick to catch it. Remember, the snorting imp represents your determination and bravery in real life.

🐍🔍🐗 Use your skills and abilities to navigate through the tall grass and avoid the snakes. Keep your eyes peeled for any clues or symbols that may help you in your quest. Don’t give up and remember that the snorting imp is a representation of your determination and bravery.

A message bumped on the screen: “Need help? Contact me 👉”

Stryke_Assist is trying to make contact : ➡️ACCEPT <> ➡️DENY ❓

Youssef

:desert:

Youssef has not yet been aware of the quest, since he’s been off the grid in the Gobi desert. But, interestingly, his story unfolds in real-life parallel to his quest. He’s found a strange grumpy shaman at a food booth, and it seems that his natural steps are converging back with the game. His blog website for his boss seems to take most of his attention.

An emoji of a desert suddenly appeared on his screen. It seemed to be a barren and empty landscape, with sand dunes stretching as far as the eye could see. Without hesitation, Youssef clicked on the emoji.

He was taken to a new area in the game, where the ground was covered in sand and the sky was a deep orange, as if the sun was setting. He could see a mysterious figure in the distance, standing at the top of a sand dune.

Clue unlocked It sounds like you’re in a remote location and disconnected from the game. But, your real-life experiences seem to be converging with your quest. The grumpy shaman you met at the food booth may hold the key to unlocking the next steps in the game. Remember, the desert represents your ability to adapt and navigate through difficult situations.

🏜️🧭🧙‍♂️ Explore the desert and see if the grumpy shaman’s clues lead you to the next steps in the game. Keep an open mind and pay attention to any symbols or clues that may help you in your quest. Remember, the desert represents your ability to adapt and navigate through difficult situations.

A message bumped on the screen: “Need help? Contact me 👉”

Sands_of_time is trying to make contact : ➡️ACCEPT <> ➡️DENY ❓

Zara

:carved_tile:

Zara looked more advanced [in her explorations – stream breaks – resume conversation]

Zara had come across a strange and ancient looking mine. It was clear that it had been abandoned for many years, but there were still signs of activity. The entrance was blocked by a large pile of rocks, but she could see a faint light coming from within. She knew that she had to find a way in.

As she approached the mine, she noticed a small, carved wooden tile on the ground. It was intricately detailed and seemed to depict a map of some sort. She picked it up and examined it closely. It seemed to show the layout of the mine and possibly the location of the secret room.

With this new clue in hand, Zara set to work trying to clear the entrance. She used all of her strength to move the rocks, and after a few minutes of hard work, she was able to create an opening large enough for her to squeeze through.

As she ventured deeper into the mine, she found herself in a large chamber. The walls were lined with strange markings and symbols, and she could see a faint light coming from a small room off to the side. She knew that this must be the secret room she had been searching for.

Zara approached the room and pushed open the door. Inside, she found a small, dimly lit chamber. In the center of the room stood a large stone altar, and on the altar was a strange, glowing object. She couldn’t quite make out what it was, but she knew that this must be the key to solving the mystery of the mine.

With a sense of excitement and curiosity, Zara reached out to take the glowing object. As her hand touched it, she felt a strange energy coursing through her body. She knew that her quest was far from over, and that there were many more secrets to uncover in the mine.

It is a challenge of utmost magnitude to keep track of time here in this land where the Dream Time is so nigh as to make its presence oft palpable in the very air. The subtle shifts in timelines and probabilities do naught to aid in this endeavor. No coincidence “Dream Time” is the label on Aunt Idle’s not-so-secret stash — she could not keep its location secret lest she forget it during the waking hours.

We jumped without warning into 2023. At 15, I am a grown-up now, so says Mater, and I could not wait to hear such words from her. She is always here, such a comfort, unchanging, unyielding, the only immutable force in the universe.
So now, life can start to unfold in front of me in the manner of my choosing, rather than being dictated by the sorry state of affairs of my family. I have set my sights upon a boarding school that may provide such an escape, but it will require the procurement of the tuition money — which will take a few more years to acquire. Patience, I have, at least for now.

The Inn is ever in need of assistance it seems. I don’t know how it came to be, but some Italian chap, Georgio, who came last year during the pandemic and got stranded with us, made such a fuss about Mater’s famous bush tucker that the Inn became fashionable overnight. Obviously Mater, bless her soul, doesn’t cook, a mercy for which we are all thankful. Said tucker was truly the handiwork of Tiku and Finly, but Georgio thought that “Mater’s tucker” has a nicer ring. Whatever suits these loonies’ fancy, it did bring us a nice stream of income in return.

At the board game, Zara was the first to break character, although Yasmin had been rolling her eyes in silence for quite some time.

“They’re all so young and attractive…”

Yasmin chimed in “Could you add averagely attractive to the prompt? Oh hark at me! Moaning already!”

Xavier was glad at the break, and stretched his arms, leaning back against the chair. “Time for a bio-break guys, all this setting up is taking a lot of time.”

Youssef, who was connected via a stream, started to post emojis of food in the chat. He’d been obviously hungry for a while as usual.

“Ok guys,” said Zara sighing. “That’s settled for today then. Anyway, it’s pretty late for Youssef, let’s resume tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ll be posting the characters concept art, but don’t hold your breath on that.”

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.