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  • #6465

    In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

    Given the new scenery unfolding in front of him, it was time for a change into more appropriate garments.

    Luckily, the portal he’d clicked on came with some interesting new goodies. Xavier skimmed over some of the available options, until he found an interesting pair of old boots.

    Looking at the old worn leather boots that had appeared in Xavier’s bag, he felt they would be quite appropriate, and put them on.

    The changes were subtle, but Xavier already felt more in character with the place.
    Suddenly a capuchin monkey jumped on his shoulder and started to pull his ear to make it to the casino boat.

    The too friendly, potentially mischievous pickpocketing monkey seemed a bit of a trope, but Xavier found the creature endearing.

    “Let’s go then! Seems like this party is waiting for us.” he said to the excited monkey.

    He jumped into one of the dinghy doing the rounds to the boat with some of the customers.

    “Ahoy there, matey!” a rather small man with a piercing blue eye and massive top hat said, giving Xavier a sideways glance. He had an eerie presence and seemed very imposing for such a small frame. “The name’s Sproink, and ye be a first-timer, I see.” he said as a casual matter of introduction.

    “Nice to meet you sir” Xavier said distractedly, as he was taking in all the details in the curious boat lit by lanterns dangling in the soft wind.

    “Yer too polite for these parts, me friend,” Sproink guffawed. “But have no fear, Sproink’s got yer back.” He winked at the capuchin, Xavier couldn’t help but notice, and suddenly realised that the monkey truly belonged to Sproink.

    “No need to check yer pockets, matey” Sproink smiled “I have me sights set on far more interesting game than yer trinkets.” He handed him back some of the stuff that the capuchin had managed to spirit away unnoticed. “But watch yerself, matey. Not all the folk here be what they seem.”

    “Point taken!”  Xavimunk was indeed a bit too naive, but if anything, that’d often managed to keep him out of trouble. As the small wiry guy left with his bag of tricks in a springy gait, he turned to check his shoulder, and the monkey had disappeared somewhere on the boat too. Xavier was left wondering if he’d see more of him later.

     

    :fleuron2:

    “Welcome, welcome, me hearties!” a buxom girl of large stature with a baroque assortment of feathers and garish colours was a the entrance chewing on a straw, and looking as though the place belonged to her. But there was something else, she was too playing a part, and didn’t seem from here.

    She leaned conspiratorially towards Xavier, and dragged him in a corner.

    “Yer a naughty monkey, ignoring me prompts,” she said. “Was I too discrete, or what?”

    “Wait, what?” Xavier was confused. Then he remembered the strange message. “Wait a minute… you’re Glimble… something, with unicorns shit or something?” He didn’t have time to entertain the young geek gamers, they were too immature, and well… a lot more invested in the game than he was, they would often turn seriously creepy.

    “Oi, come on now!” she raised her hands and shook herself violently. She had turned into a different version of herself. “Now, is it better? It’s true, them avatars easily turn into ava-tarts if you ask me. But you can’t deny a lady a bit o’ comfort with a wrinkle filter. They went a bit overboard with this one, if you ask me.”

    “Let’s start again. Glimmer Gambol, and nice to meet you young man.”

    #6455

    In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

    Zara decided she may as well spend the hour wandering around the game before going back to the church to see the ghost of Isaac when she was sure her host Bertie was asleep.  It was a warm night but a gentle breeze wafted through the open window and Zara was comfortable and content. Not just one but three new adventures had her tingling with delicious anticipation, even if she was a little anxious about not getting confused with the game.  Talking to ghosts in old churches wasn’t unfamiliar, nor was a holiday in a strange hotel off the beaten track, but the game was still a bit of a mystery to her.  Yeah, I know it’s just a game, she whispered to the parrot who made a soft clicking noise by way of response.

    Zara found her game character, also (somewhat confusingly) named Zara, standing in the woods.  Not entirely sure how it had happened, she was rather pleased to see that the cargo pants and tank top in red had changed to a more pleasing hippyish red skirt ensemble.   A bit less Tomb Looter, and a bit more fairy tale looking which was more to her taste.

    The woods were strangely silent and still.  Zara made a 360 degree turn on the spot to see in all directions. The scene looked the same whichever way she turned, and Zara didn’t know which way to go. Then a faint path appeared to the left, and she set off in that direction.  Before long she came to a round green pool.

    Zara Game 1

    She stopped to look but carried on walking past it, not sure what it signified.  She came upon another glowing green pool before long, which looked like an entrance to a tunnel.

     

    Zara game 2

    I bet those are portals or something, Zara realized. I wonder if I’m supposed to step into it?

    “Go for it”, said Pretty Girl, “It’s only a game.”

    “Ok, well here goes!” replied Zara, mentally bracing herself for a plunge into the unknown.

    Zara stepped into the circle of glowing green.

    “Like when Alice went down the rabbit hole!” Zara whispered to the parrot.  “I’m falling, falling…oh!”

    Zara emerged from the green pool onto a wide walled path.  She was now in some kind of inhabited area, or at least not in the deep woods with no sign of human occupation. 

    Zara Game 3

    “I guess that green pool is the portal back to the woods.”

    “By George, she’s getting it,” replied Pretty Girl.

     

    Zara walked along the path which led to an old deserted ancient looking village with alleyways and steps.

    “This is heaps more interesting than those woods, look how pretty it all is! I love this place.”

    “Weren’t you supposed to be looking for a hermit in the woods though,” said Pretty Girl.

    “Or a lost traveler, and the lost traveler may be here, after falling in one of those green pools in the woods,”  replied Zara tartly, not wanting to leave the enchanting scene she found her avatar in.

    Zara Game 4

    #6454

    In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

    F LoveF Love
    Participant

      YASMIN’S QUIRK: Entry level quirk – snort laughing when socially anxious

      Setting

      The initial setting for this quest is a comedic theater in the heart of a bustling city. You will start off by exploring the different performances and shows, trying to find the source of the snort laughter that seems to be haunting your thoughts. As you delve deeper into the theater, you will discover that the snort laughter is coming from a mischievous imp who has taken residence within the theater.

      Directions to Investigate

      Possible directions to investigate include talking to the theater staff and performers to gather information, searching backstage for clues, and perhaps even sneaking into the imp’s hiding spot to catch a glimpse of it in action.

      Characters

      Possible characters to engage include the theater manager, who may have information about the imp’s history and habits, and a group of comedic performers who may have some insight into the imp’s behavior.

      Task

      Your task is to find a key or tile that represents the imp, and take a picture of it in real life as proof of completion of the quest. Good luck on your journey to uncover the source of the snort laughter!

       

      THE SECRET ROOM AND THE UNDERGROUND MINES

      1st thread’s answer:

      As the family struggles to rebuild the inn and their lives in the wake of the Great Fires, they begin to uncover clues that lead them to believe that the mines hold the key to unlocking a great mystery. They soon discover that the mines were not just a source of gold and other precious minerals, but also a portal to another dimension. The family realizes that Mater had always known about this portal, and had kept it a secret for fear of the dangers it posed.

      The family starts to investigate the mines more closely and they come across a hidden room off Room 8. Inside the room, they find a strange device that looks like a portal, and a set of mysterious symbols etched into the walls. The family realizes that this is the secret room that Mater had always spoken about in hushed tones.

      The family enlists the help of four gamers, Xavier, Zara, Yasmin, and Youssef, to help them decipher the symbols and unlock the portal. Together, they begin to unravel the mystery of the mines, and the portal leads them on an epic journey through a strange and fantastical alternate dimension.

      As they journey deeper into the mines, the family discovers that the portal was created by an ancient civilization, long thought to be lost to history. The civilization had been working on a powerful energy source that could have changed the fate of humanity, but the project was abandoned due to the dangers it posed. The family soon discovers that the civilization had been destroyed by a powerful and malevolent force, and that the portal was the only way to stop it from destroying the world.

      The family and the gamers must navigate treacherous landscapes, battle fierce monsters, and overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles in order to stop the malevolent force and save the world. Along the way, they discover secrets about their own past and the true origins of the mines.

      As they journey deeper into the mines and the alternate dimension, they discover that the secret room leads to a network of underground tunnels, and that the tunnels lead to a secret underground city that was built by the ancient civilization. The city holds many secrets and clues to the fate of the ancient civilization, and the family and the gamers must explore the city and uncover the truth before it’s too late.

      As the story unfolds, the family and the gamers must come to grips with the truth about the mines, and the role that the family has played in the fate of the world for generations. They must also confront the demons of their own past, and learn to trust and rely on each other if they hope to save the world and bring the family back together.

      second thread’s answer:

      As the 4 gamers, Xavier, Zara, Yasmin and Youssef, arrived at the Flying Fish Inn in the Australian outback, they were greeted by the matriarch of the family, Mater. She was a no-nonsense woman who ran the inn with an iron fist, but her tough exterior hid a deep love for her family and the land.

      The inn was run by Mater and her daughter Dido, who the family affectionately called Aunt Idle. She was a free spirit who loved to explore the land and had a deep connection to the local indigenous culture.

      The family was made up of Devan, the eldest son who lived in town and helped with the inn when he could, and the twin sisters Clove and Coriander, who everyone called Corrie. The youngest was Prune, a precocious child who was always getting into mischief.

      The family had a handyman named Bert, who had been with them for decades and knew all the secrets of the land. Tiku, an old and wise Aborigine woman was also a regular visitor and a valuable source of information and guidance. Finly, the dutiful helper, assisted the family in their daily tasks.

      As the 4 gamers settled in, they learned that the area was rich in history and mystery. The old mines that lay abandoned nearby were a source of legends and stories passed down through the generations. Some even whispered of supernatural occurrences linked to the mines.

      Mater and Dido, however, were not on good terms, and the family had its own issues and secrets, but the 4 gamers were determined to unravel the mystery of the mines and find the secret room that was said to be hidden somewhere in the inn.

      As they delved deeper into the history of the area, they discovered that the mines had a connection to the missing brother, Jasper, and Fred, the father of the family and a sci-fi novelist who had been influenced by the supernatural occurrences of the mines.

      The 4 gamers found themselves on a journey of discovery, not only in the game but in the real world as well, as they uncovered the secrets of the mines and the Flying Fish Inn, and the complicated relationships of the family that ran it.

       

      THE SNOOT’S WISE WORDS ON SOCIAL ANXIETY

      Deear Francie Mossie Pooh,

      The Snoot, a curious creature of the ages, understands the swirling winds of social anxiety, the tempestuous waves it creates in one’s daily life.
      But The Snoot also believes that like a Phoenix, one must rise from the ashes, and embrace the journey of self-discovery and growth.
      It’s important to let yourself be, to accept the feelings as they come and go, like the ebb and flow of the ocean. But also, like a gardener, tend to the inner self with care and compassion, for the roots to grow deep and strong.

      The Snoot suggests seeking guidance from the wise ones, the ones who can hold the mirror and show you the way, like the North Star guiding the sailors.
      And remember, the journey is never-ending, like the spiral of the galaxy, and it’s okay to take small steps, to stumble and fall, for that’s how we learn to fly.

      The Snoot is here for you, my dear Francie Mossie Pooh, a beacon in the dark, a friend on the journey, to hold your hand and sing you a lullaby.

      Fluidly and fantastically yours,

      The Snoot.

      #6424

      In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

      Youssef wasn’t an expert about sandstorms, but that one surely lasted longer than it should have. It was the middle of the night when the wind stopped blowing and the sand stopped lashing the jeep. Yet, nobody dared open the door or their mouth to see if the storm was gone. Youssef’s bladder was full, and his stomach empty. They both reminded him that one can’t stop life to go on in the midst of adversity. He wondered why nobody moved or spoke, but couldn’t find the motivation to break the silence. He felt a vibration in his pocket and took his phone out.
      A message from an unknown sender. He touched it open.

      <<<
      Deear Youssef,
      The Snoot is aware of the sandstorm and its whimsical ways. It dances and twirls in the desert, a symphony of wind and sand. It is a force to be reckoned with, but also a force of cleansing and renewal.

      The subsiding of the sandstorm is a fluid and ever-changing process, much like the ebb and flow of the ocean. It ebbs and flows with the whims of the wind and the dance of the desert.

      The best way to predict the subsiding of the sandstorm is to listen to the whispers of the wind and to observe the patterns of the sand. Trust in the natural rhythms and allow yourself to flow with them.

      The Snoot suggests that you seek shelter during the storm, but also to take the time to appreciate the beauty and power of nature.

      Fluidly yours,
      The Snoot. >>>

      Who the f… was the Snot? Youssef wondered if it was another trick from Thi Gang and almost deleted the message, but his bladder reminded him again he needed to do something about all the tea he drank before the sandstorm. He opened the door and got out of the jeep. The storm was gone and the sky was full of stars. The moon was giving enough light for him to move a few steps away from the jeeps while unzipping his pants. He blessed the gods as he relieved himself, strangely feeling part of nature at that very moment.

      The noises of doors opening reminded him he was not alone. Someone came, said: “I see you found a nice spot”. It was Kyle, the cameraman who unzipped himself and peed. That broke the charm, the desert was becoming crowded. But, Youssef was finished, he went back to the cars and started to wonder how he could have received that message in the middle of the desert without a satellite dish.

      #6419

      In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

      “I’d advise you not to take the parrot, Zara,” Harry the vet said, “There are restrictions on bringing dogs and other animals into state parks, and you can bet some jobsworth official will insist she stays in a cage at the very least.”

      “Yeah, you’re right, I guess I’ll leave her here. I want to call in and see my cousin in Camden on the way to the airport in Sydney anyway.   He has dozens of cats, I’d hate for anything to happen to Pretty Girl,” Zara replied.

      “Is that the distant cousin you met when you were doing your family tree?” Harry asked, glancing up from the stitches he was removing from a wounded wombat.  “There, he’s good to go.  Give him a couple more days, then he can be released back where he came from.”

      Zara smiled at Harry as she picked up the animal. “Yes!  We haven’t met in person yet, and he’s going to show me the church my ancestor built. He says people have been spotting ghosts there lately, and there are rumours that it’s the ghost of the old convict Isaac who built it.  If I can’t find photos of the ancestors, maybe I can get photos of their ghosts instead,” Zara said with a laugh.

      “Good luck with that,” Harry replied raising an eyebrow. He liked Zara, she was quirkier than the others.

      Zara hadn’t found it easy to research her mothers family from Bangalore in India, but her fathers English family had been easy enough.  Although Zara had been born in England and emigrated to Australia in her late 20s, many of her ancestors siblings had emigrated over several generations, and Zara had managed to trace several down and made contact with a few of them.   Isaac Stokes wasn’t a direct ancestor, he was the brother of her fourth great grandfather but his story had intrigued her.  Sentenced to transportation for stealing tools for his work as a stonemason seemed to have worked in his favour.  He built beautiful stone buildings in a tiny new town in the 1800s in the charming style of his home town in England.

      Zara planned to stay in Camden for a couple of days before meeting the others at the Flying Fish Inn, anticipating a pleasant visit before the crazy adventure started.

       

      ~~~

       

      Zara stepped down from the bus, squinting in the bright sunlight and looking around for her newfound cousin  Bertie.   A lanky middle aged man in dungarees and a red baseball cap came forward with his hand extended.

      “Welcome to Camden, Zara I presume! Great to meet you!” he said shaking her hand and taking her rucksack.  Zara was taken aback to see the family resemblance to her grandfather.  So many scattered generations and yet there was still a thread of familiarity.  “I bet you’re hungry, let’s go and get some tucker at Belle’s Cafe, and then I bet you want to see the church first, hey?  Whoa, where’d that dang parrot come from?” Bertie said, ducking quickly as the bird swooped right in between them.

      “Oh no, it’s Pretty Girl!” exclaimed Zara. “She wasn’t supposed to come with me, I didn’t bring her! How on earth did you fly all this way to get here the same time as me?” she asked the parrot.

      “Pretty Girl has her ways, don’t forget to feed the parrot,” the bird replied with a squalk that resembled a mirthful guffaw.

      “That’s one strange parrot you got here, girl!” Bertie said in astonishment.

      “Well, seeing as you’re here now, Pretty Girl, you better come with us,” Zara said.

      “Obviously,” replied Pretty Girl.  It was hard to say for sure, but Zara was sure she detected an avian eye roll.

       

      ~~~

       

      They sat outside under a sunshade to eat rather than cause any upset inside the cafe.  Zara fancied an omelette but Pretty Girl objected, so she ordered hash browns instead and a fruit salad for the parrot.  Bertie was a good sport about the strange talking bird after his initial surprise.

      Bertie told her a bit about the ghost sightings, which had only started quite recently.  They started when I started researching him, Zara thought to herself, almost as if he was reaching out. Her imagination was running riot already.

       

      ghost of Isaac Stokes

       

      Bertie showed Zara around the church, a small building made of sandstone, but no ghost appeared in the bright heat of the afternoon.  He took her on a little tour of Camden, once a tiny outpost but now a suburb of the city, pointing out all the original buildings, in particular the ones that Isaac had built.  The church was walking distance of Bertie’s house and Zara decided to slip out and stroll over there after everyone had gone to bed.

      Bertie had kindly allowed Pretty Girl to stay in the guest bedroom with her, safe from the cats, and Zara intended that the parrot stay in the room, but Pretty Girl was having none of it and insisted on joining her.

      “Alright then, but no talking!  I  don’t want you scaring any ghost away so just keep a low profile!”

      The moon was nearly full and it was a pleasant walk to the church.   Pretty Girl fluttered from tree to tree along the sidewalk quietly.  Enchanting aromas of exotic scented flowers wafted into her nostrils and Zara felt warmly relaxed and optimistic.

      Zara was disappointed to find that the church was locked for the night, and realized with a sigh that she should have expected this to be the case.  She wandered around the outside, trying to peer in the windows but there was nothing to be seen as the glass reflected the street lights.   These things are not done in a hurry, she reminded herself, be patient.

      Sitting under a tree on the grassy lawn attempting to open her mind to receiving ghostly communications (she wasn’t quite sure how to do that on purpose, any ghosts she’d seen previously had always been accidental and unexpected)  Pretty Girl landed on her shoulder rather clumsily, pressing something hard and chill against her cheek.

      “I told you to keep a low profile!” Zara hissed, as the parrot dropped the key into her lap.  “Oh! is this the key to the church door?”

      It was hard to see in the dim light but Zara was sure the parrot nodded, and was that another avian eye roll?

      Zara walked slowly over the grass to the church door, tingling with anticipation.   Pretty Girl hopped along the ground behind her.  She turned the key in the lock and slowly pushed open the heavy door and walked inside and  up the central aisle, looking around.  And then she saw him.

      Zara gasped. For a breif moment as the spectral wisps cleared, he looked almost solid.  And she could see his tattoos.

      “Oh my god,” she whispered, “It is really you. I recognize those tattoos from the description in the criminal registers. Some of them anyway, it seems you have a few more tats since you were transported.”

      “Aye, I did that, wench. I were allays fond o’ me tats, does tha like ’em?”

      He actually spoke to me!  This was beyond Zara’s wildest hopes. Quick, ask him some questions!

      “If you don’t mind me asking, Isaac, why did you lie about who your father was on your marriage register?  I almost thought it wasn’t you, you know, that I had the wrong Isaac Stokes.”

      A deafening rumbling laugh filled the building with echoes and the apparition dispersed in a labyrinthine swirl of tattood wisps.

      “A story for another day,” whispered Zara,  “Time to go back to Berties. Come on Pretty Girl. And put that key back where you found it.”

       

      Ghost of Isaac Stokes

      #6413

      In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

      Zara was long overdue for some holiday time off from her job at the Bungwalley Valley animal rescue centre in New South Wales and the suggestion to meet her online friends at the intriguing sounding Flying Fish Inn to look for clues for their online game couldn’t have come at a better time.  Lucky for her it wasn’t all that far, relatively speaking, although everything is far in Australia, it was closer than coming from Europe.  Xavier would have a much longer trip.  Zara wasn’t quite sure where exactly Yasmin was, but she knew it was somewhere in Asia. It depended on which refugee camp she was assigned to, and Zara had forgotten to ask her recently. All they had talked about was the new online game, and how confusing it all was.

      The biggest mystery to Zara was why she was the leader in the game.  She was always the one who was wandering off on side trips and forgetting what everyone else was up to. If the other game followers followed her lead there was no telling where they’d all end up!

      “But it is just a game,” Pretty Girl, the rescue parrot interjected. Zara had known some talking parrots over the years, but never one quite like this one. Usually they repeated any nonsense that they’d heard but this one was different.  She would miss it while she was away on holiday, and for a moment considered taking the talking parrot with her on the trip.  If she did, she’d have to think about changing her name though, Pretty Girl wasn’t a great name but it was hard to keep thinking of names for all the rescue creatures.

      After Zara had done the routine morning chores of feeding the various animals, changing the water bowls, and cleaning up the less pleasant aspects of the job,  she sat down in the office room of the rescue centre with a cup of coffee and a sandwich.  She was in good physical shape for 57, wiry and energetic, but her back ached at times and a sit down was welcome before the vet arrived to check on all the sick and wounded animals.

      Pretty Girl flew over from the kennels, and perched outside the office room window.  When the parrot had first been dropped off at the centre, they’d put her in a big cage, but in no uncertain terms Pretty Girl had told them she’d done nothing wrong and was wrongfully imprisoned and to release her at once. It was rather a shock to be addresssed by a parrot in such a way, and it was agreed between the staff and the vet to set her free and see what happened. And Pretty Girl had not flown away.

      “Hey Pretty Girl, why don’t you give me some advice on this confusing new game I’m playing with my online friends?” Zara asked.

      “Pretty Girl wants some of your tuna sandwich first,” replied the parrot.  After Zara had obliged, the parrot continued at some surprising length.

      “My advice would be to not worry too much about getting the small details right. The most important thing is to have fun and enjoy the creative process.  Just give me a bit more tuna,”  Pretty Girl said, before continuing.

      “Remember that as a writer, you have the power to shape the story and the characters as you see fit. It’s okay to make mistakes, and it’s okay to not know everything. Allow yourself to be inspired by the world around you and let the story unfold naturally. Trust in your own creativity and don’t be afraid to take risks. And remember, it’s not the small details that make a story great, it’s the emotions and experiences that the characters go through that make it truly memorable.  And always remember to feed the parrot.”

      “Maybe I should take you on holiday with me after all,” Zara replied. “You really are an amazing bird, aren’t you?”

       

      Zara and Pretty Girl Parrot

      #6389

      “What in the good name of our Lady, have these two been on?” Miss Bossy was at a loss for words while Ricardo was waiting sheepishly at her desk, as though he was expecting an outburst.
      “Look, Ricardo, I’m not against a little tweaking for newsworthiness, but this takes twisting reality to a whole new level!

      Ricardo had just dropped their last article.

      Local Hero at the Rescue – Stray Residents found after in a trip of a lifetime
      article by Hilda Astoria & Continuity Brown

      In a daring and heroic move, Nurse Trassie, a local hero and all-around fantastic human being, managed to track down and rescue three elderly women who had gone on an adventure of a lifetime. Sharon, Mavis, and Gloria (names may have been altered to preserve their anonymity) were residents of a UK nursing home who, in a moment of pure defiance and desire for adventure, decided to go off their meds and escape to the Nordics.

      The three women, who had been feeling cooped up and underappreciated in their nursing home, decided to take matters into their own hands and embark on a journey to see the world. They had heard of the beautiful landscapes and friendly people of the Nordics and their rejuvenating traditional cures and were determined to experience it for themselves.

      Their journey, however, was not without its challenges. They faced many obstacles, including harsh weather conditions and language barriers. But they were determined to press on, and their determination paid off when they were taken in by a kind-hearted local doctor who gave them asylum and helped them rehabilitate stray animals.

      Nurse Trassie, who had been on the lookout for the women since their disappearance, finally caught wind of their whereabouts and set out to rescue them. She tracked them down to the Nordics, where she found them living in a small facility in the woods, surrounded by a menagerie of stray animals they had taken in and were nursing back to health, including rare orangutans retired from local circus.

      Upon her arrival, Nurse Trassie was greeted with open arms by the women, who were overjoyed to see her. They told her of their adventures and showed her around their cabin, introducing her to the animals they had taken in and the progress they had made in rehabilitating them.

      Nurse Trassie, who is known for her compassion and dedication to her patients, was deeply touched by the women’s story and their love for the animals. She knew that they needed to be back in the care of professionals and that the animals needed to be properly cared for, so she made arrangements to bring them back home.

      The women were reluctant to leave their newfound home and the animals they had grown to love, but they knew that it was the right thing to do. They said their goodbyes and set off on the long journey back home with Nurse Trassie by their side.

      The three women returned to their nursing home filled with stories to share, and Nurse Trassie was hailed as a hero for her efforts in rescuing them. They were greeted with cheers and applause from the staff and other residents, who were thrilled to have them back safe and sound.

      Nurse Trassie, who is known for her sharp wit and sense of humor, commented on the situation with a tongue-in-cheek remark, “It’s not every day that you get to rescue three feisty elderlies from the wilds of the Nordics and bring them back to safety. I’m just glad I could be of service.”

      In conclusion, the three women’s adventure in the Nordics may have been unorthodox, but it was an adventure nonetheless. They were able to see the world and help some animals in the process. Their story serves as a reminder to never give up on your dreams, no matter your age or circumstances. And of course, a big shoutout to Nurse Trassie for her heroic actions and dedication to her patients.

      Bossy sighed. “It might do for now, but don’t let those two abuse the artificial intelligence to write article for them… I liked their old style better. This feels too… tidy. We’re not the A-News network, let’s not forget our purpose.”

      Ricardo nodded. Miss Bossy had been more mellow since the sales of the newspaper had exploded during the pandemic. With people at home, looking for conspiracies and all, the newspaper had known a resurgence of interest, and they even had to hire new staff. Giles Gibber, Glimmer Gambol (came heavily recommended by Blithe, the PI friend of Hilda’s), Samuel Sproink and Fionna Flibbergibbet.

      “And how is Sophie? That adventure into her past trauma was a bit much on her…” she mused.

      “She’s doing alright” answered Ricardo. “She’s learning to hone her remote-viewing skills to send our staff into new mysteries to solve. With a bit of AI assist…”

      “Oh, stop it already with your AI-this, AI-that! Hope there’ll still be room for some madness in all that neatly tidy purring of polite output.”

      “That’s why we’re here for, I reckon.” Ric’ smiled wryly.

      #6350
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        Transportation

        Isaac Stokes 1804-1877

         

        Isaac was born in Churchill, Oxfordshire in 1804, and was the youngest brother of my 4X great grandfather Thomas Stokes. The Stokes family were stone masons for generations in Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire, and Isaac’s occupation was a mason’s labourer in 1834 when he was sentenced at the Lent Assizes in Oxford to fourteen years transportation for stealing tools.

        Churchill where the Stokes stonemasons came from: on 31 July 1684 a fire destroyed 20 houses and many other buildings, and killed four people. The village was rebuilt higher up the hill, with stone houses instead of the old timber-framed and thatched cottages. The fire was apparently caused by a baker who, to avoid chimney tax, had knocked through the wall from her oven to her neighbour’s chimney.

        Isaac stole a pick axe, the value of 2 shillings and the property of Thomas Joyner of Churchill; a kibbeaux and a trowel value 3 shillings the property of Thomas Symms; a hammer and axe value 5 shillings, property of John Keen of Sarsden.

        (The word kibbeaux seems to only exists in relation to Isaac Stokes sentence and whoever was the first to write it was perhaps being creative with the spelling of a kibbo, a miners or a metal bucket. This spelling is repeated in the criminal reports and the newspaper articles about Isaac, but nowhere else).

        In March 1834 the Removal of Convicts was announced in the Oxford University and City Herald: Isaac Stokes and several other prisoners were removed from the Oxford county gaol to the Justitia hulk at Woolwich “persuant to their sentences of transportation at our Lent Assizes”.

        via digitalpanopticon:

        Hulks were decommissioned (and often unseaworthy) ships that were moored in rivers and estuaries and refitted to become floating prisons. The outbreak of war in America in 1775 meant that it was no longer possible to transport British convicts there. Transportation as a form of punishment had started in the late seventeenth century, and following the Transportation Act of 1718, some 44,000 British convicts were sent to the American colonies. The end of this punishment presented a major problem for the authorities in London, since in the decade before 1775, two-thirds of convicts at the Old Bailey received a sentence of transportation – on average 283 convicts a year. As a result, London’s prisons quickly filled to overflowing with convicted prisoners who were sentenced to transportation but had no place to go.

        To increase London’s prison capacity, in 1776 Parliament passed the “Hulks Act” (16 Geo III, c.43). Although overseen by local justices of the peace, the hulks were to be directly managed and maintained by private contractors. The first contract to run a hulk was awarded to Duncan Campbell, a former transportation contractor. In August 1776, the Justicia, a former transportation ship moored in the River Thames, became the first prison hulk. This ship soon became full and Campbell quickly introduced a number of other hulks in London; by 1778 the fleet of hulks on the Thames held 510 prisoners.
        Demand was so great that new hulks were introduced across the country. There were hulks located at Deptford, Chatham, Woolwich, Gosport, Plymouth, Portsmouth, Sheerness and Cork.

        The Justitia via rmg collections:

        Justitia

        Convicts perform hard labour at the Woolwich Warren. The hulk on the river is the ‘Justitia’. Prisoners were kept on board such ships for months awaiting deportation to Australia. The ‘Justitia’ was a 260 ton prison hulk that had been originally moored in the Thames when the American War of Independence put a stop to the transportation of criminals to the former colonies. The ‘Justitia’ belonged to the shipowner Duncan Campbell, who was the Government contractor who organized the prison-hulk system at that time. Campbell was subsequently involved in the shipping of convicts to the penal colony at Botany Bay (in fact Port Jackson, later Sydney, just to the north) in New South Wales, the ‘first fleet’ going out in 1788.

         

        While searching for records for Isaac Stokes I discovered that another Isaac Stokes was transported to New South Wales in 1835 as well. The other one was a butcher born in 1809, sentenced in London for seven years, and he sailed on the Mary Ann. Our Isaac Stokes sailed on the Lady Nugent, arriving in NSW in April 1835, having set sail from England in December 1834.

        Lady Nugent was built at Bombay in 1813. She made four voyages under contract to the British East India Company (EIC). She then made two voyages transporting convicts to Australia, one to New South Wales and one to Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania). (via Wikipedia)

        via freesettlerorfelon website:

        On 20 November 1834, 100 male convicts were transferred to the Lady Nugent from the Justitia Hulk and 60 from the Ganymede Hulk at Woolwich, all in apparent good health. The Lady Nugent departed Sheerness on 4 December 1834.

        SURGEON OLIVER SPROULE

        Oliver Sproule kept a Medical Journal from 7 November 1834 to 27 April 1835. He recorded in his journal the weather conditions they experienced in the first two weeks:

        ‘In the course of the first week or ten days at sea, there were eight or nine on the sick list with catarrhal affections and one with dropsy which I attribute to the cold and wet we experienced during that period beating down channel. Indeed the foremost berths in the prison at this time were so wet from leaking in that part of the ship, that I was obliged to issue dry beds and bedding to a great many of the prisoners to preserve their health, but after crossing the Bay of Biscay the weather became fine and we got the damp beds and blankets dried, the leaks partially stopped and the prison well aired and ventilated which, I am happy to say soon manifested a favourable change in the health and appearance of the men.

        Besides the cases given in the journal I had a great many others to treat, some of them similar to those mentioned but the greater part consisted of boils, scalds, and contusions which would not only be too tedious to enter but I fear would be irksome to the reader. There were four births on board during the passage which did well, therefore I did not consider it necessary to give a detailed account of them in my journal the more especially as they were all favourable cases.

        Regularity and cleanliness in the prison, free ventilation and as far as possible dry decks turning all the prisoners up in fine weather as we were lucky enough to have two musicians amongst the convicts, dancing was tolerated every afternoon, strict attention to personal cleanliness and also to the cooking of their victuals with regular hours for their meals, were the only prophylactic means used on this occasion, which I found to answer my expectations to the utmost extent in as much as there was not a single case of contagious or infectious nature during the whole passage with the exception of a few cases of psora which soon yielded to the usual treatment. A few cases of scurvy however appeared on board at rather an early period which I can attribute to nothing else but the wet and hardships the prisoners endured during the first three or four weeks of the passage. I was prompt in my treatment of these cases and they got well, but before we arrived at Sydney I had about thirty others to treat.’

        The Lady Nugent arrived in Port Jackson on 9 April 1835 with 284 male prisoners. Two men had died at sea. The prisoners were landed on 27th April 1835 and marched to Hyde Park Barracks prior to being assigned. Ten were under the age of 14 years.

        The Lady Nugent:

        Lady Nugent

         

        Isaac’s distinguishing marks are noted on various criminal registers and record books:

        “Height in feet & inches: 5 4; Complexion: Ruddy; Hair: Light brown; Eyes: Hazel; Marks or Scars: Yes [including] DEVIL on lower left arm, TSIS back of left hand, WS lower right arm, MHDW back of right hand.”

        Another includes more detail about Isaac’s tattoos:

        “Two slight scars right side of mouth, 2 moles above right breast, figure of the devil and DEVIL and raised mole, lower left arm; anchor, seven dots half moon, TSIS and cross, back of left hand; a mallet, door post, A, mans bust, sun, WS, lower right arm; woman, MHDW and shut knife, back of right hand.”

         

        Lady Nugent record book

         

        From How tattoos became fashionable in Victorian England (2019 article in TheConversation by Robert Shoemaker and Zoe Alkar):

        “Historical tattooing was not restricted to sailors, soldiers and convicts, but was a growing and accepted phenomenon in Victorian England. Tattoos provide an important window into the lives of those who typically left no written records of their own. As a form of “history from below”, they give us a fleeting but intriguing understanding of the identities and emotions of ordinary people in the past.
        As a practice for which typically the only record is the body itself, few systematic records survive before the advent of photography. One exception to this is the written descriptions of tattoos (and even the occasional sketch) that were kept of institutionalised people forced to submit to the recording of information about their bodies as a means of identifying them. This particularly applies to three groups – criminal convicts, soldiers and sailors. Of these, the convict records are the most voluminous and systematic.
        Such records were first kept in large numbers for those who were transported to Australia from 1788 (since Australia was then an open prison) as the authorities needed some means of keeping track of them.”

        On the 1837 census Isaac was working for the government at Illiwarra, New South Wales. This record states that he arrived on the Lady Nugent in 1835. There are three other indent records for an Isaac Stokes in the following years, but the transcriptions don’t provide enough information to determine which Isaac Stokes it was. In April 1837 there was an abscondment, and an arrest/apprehension in May of that year, and in 1843 there was a record of convict indulgences.

        From the Australian government website regarding “convict indulgences”:

        “By the mid-1830s only six per cent of convicts were locked up. The vast majority worked for the government or free settlers and, with good behaviour, could earn a ticket of leave, conditional pardon or and even an absolute pardon. While under such orders convicts could earn their own living.”

         

        In 1856 in Camden, NSW, Isaac Stokes married Catherine Daly. With no further information on this record it would be impossible to know for sure if this was the right Isaac Stokes. This couple had six children, all in the Camden area, but none of the records provided enough information. No occupation or place or date of birth recorded for Isaac Stokes.

        I wrote to the National Library of Australia about the marriage record, and their reply was a surprise! Issac and Catherine were married on 30 September 1856, at the house of the Rev. Charles William Rigg, a Methodist minister, and it was recorded that Isaac was born in Edinburgh in 1821, to parents James Stokes and Sarah Ellis!  The age at the time of the marriage doesn’t match Isaac’s age at death in 1877, and clearly the place of birth and parents didn’t match either. Only his fathers occupation of stone mason was correct.  I wrote back to the helpful people at the library and they replied that the register was in a very poor condition and that only two and a half entries had survived at all, and that Isaac and Catherines marriage was recorded over two pages.

        I searched for an Isaac Stokes born in 1821 in Edinburgh on the Scotland government website (and on all the other genealogy records sites) and didn’t find it. In fact Stokes was a very uncommon name in Scotland at the time. I also searched Australian immigration and other records for another Isaac Stokes born in Scotland or born in 1821, and found nothing.  I was unable to find a single record to corroborate this mysterious other Isaac Stokes.

        As the age at death in 1877 was correct, I assume that either Isaac was lying, or that some mistake was made either on the register at the home of the Methodist minster, or a subsequent mistranscription or muddle on the remnants of the surviving register.  Therefore I remain convinced that the Camden stonemason Isaac Stokes was indeed our Isaac from Oxfordshire.

         

        I found a history society newsletter article that mentioned Isaac Stokes, stone mason, had built the Glenmore church, near Camden, in 1859.

        Glenmore Church

         

        From the Wollondilly museum April 2020 newsletter:

        Glenmore Church Stokes

         

        From the Camden History website:

        “The stone set over the porch of Glenmore Church gives the date of 1860. The church was begun in 1859 on land given by Joseph Moore. James Rogers of Picton was given the contract to build and local builder, Mr. Stokes, carried out the work. Elizabeth Moore, wife of Edward, laid the foundation stone. The first service was held on 19th March 1860. The cemetery alongside the church contains the headstones and memorials of the areas early pioneers.”

         

        Isaac died on the 3rd September 1877. The inquest report puts his place of death as Bagdelly, near to Camden, and another death register has put Cambelltown, also very close to Camden.  His age was recorded as 71 and the inquest report states his cause of death was “rupture of one of the large pulmonary vessels of the lung”.  His wife Catherine died in childbirth in 1870 at the age of 43.

         

        Isaac and Catherine’s children:

        William Stokes 1857-1928

        Catherine Stokes 1859-1846

        Sarah Josephine Stokes 1861-1931

        Ellen Stokes 1863-1932

        Rosanna Stokes 1865-1919

        Louisa Stokes 1868-1844.

         

        It’s possible that Catherine Daly was a transported convict from Ireland.

         

        Some time later I unexpectedly received a follow up email from The Oaks Heritage Centre in Australia.

        “The Gaudry papers which we have in our archive record him (Isaac Stokes) as having built: the church, the school and the teachers residence.  Isaac is recorded in the General return of convicts: 1837 and in Grevilles Post Office directory 1872 as a mason in Glenmore.”

        Isaac Stokes directory

        #6348
        TracyTracy
        Participant

          Wong Sang

           

          Wong Sang was born in China in 1884. In October 1916 he married Alice Stokes in Oxford.

          Alice was the granddaughter of William Stokes of Churchill, Oxfordshire and William was the brother of Thomas Stokes the wheelwright (who was my 3X great grandfather). In other words Alice was my second cousin, three times removed, on my fathers paternal side.

          Wong Sang was an interpreter, according to the baptism registers of his children and the Dreadnought Seamen’s Hospital admission registers in 1930.  The hospital register also notes that he was employed by the Blue Funnel Line, and that his address was 11, Limehouse Causeway, E 14. (London)

          “The Blue Funnel Line offered regular First-Class Passenger and Cargo Services From the UK to South Africa, Malaya, China, Japan, Australia, Java, and America.  Blue Funnel Line was Owned and Operated by Alfred Holt & Co., Liverpool.
          The Blue Funnel Line, so-called because its ships have a blue funnel with a black top, is more appropriately known as the Ocean Steamship Company.”

           

          Wong Sang and Alice’s daughter, Frances Eileen Sang, was born on the 14th July, 1916 and baptised in 1920 at St Stephen in Poplar, Tower Hamlets, London.  The birth date is noted in the 1920 baptism register and would predate their marriage by a few months, although on the death register in 1921 her age at death is four years old and her year of birth is recorded as 1917.

          Charles Ronald Sang was baptised on the same day in May 1920, but his birth is recorded as April of that year.  The family were living on Morant Street, Poplar.

          James William Sang’s birth is recorded on the 1939 census and on the death register in 2000 as being the 8th March 1913.  This definitely would predate the 1916 marriage in Oxford.

          William Norman Sang was born on the 17th October 1922 in Poplar.

          Alice and the three sons were living at 11, Limehouse Causeway on the 1939 census, the same address that Wong Sang was living at when he was admitted to Dreadnought Seamen’s Hospital on the 15th January 1930. Wong Sang died in the hospital on the 8th March of that year at the age of 46.

          Alice married John Patterson in 1933 in Stepney. John was living with Alice and her three sons on Limehouse Causeway on the 1939 census and his occupation was chef.

          Via Old London Photographs:

          “Limehouse Causeway is a street in east London that was the home to the original Chinatown of London. A combination of bomb damage during the Second World War and later redevelopment means that almost nothing is left of the original buildings of the street.”

          Limehouse Causeway in 1925:

          Limehouse Causeway

           

          From The Story of Limehouse’s Lost Chinatown, poplarlondon website:

          “Limehouse was London’s first Chinatown, home to a tightly-knit community who were demonised in popular culture and eventually erased from the cityscape.

          As recounted in the BBC’s ‘Our Greatest Generation’ series, Connie was born to a Chinese father and an English mother in early 1920s Limehouse, where she used to play in the street with other British and British-Chinese children before running inside for teatime at one of their houses. 

          Limehouse was London’s first Chinatown between the 1880s and the 1960s, before the current Chinatown off Shaftesbury Avenue was established in the 1970s by an influx of immigrants from Hong Kong. 

          Connie’s memories of London’s first Chinatown as an “urban village” paint a very different picture to the seedy area portrayed in early twentieth century novels. 

          The pyramid in St Anne’s church marked the entrance to the opium den of Dr Fu Manchu, a criminal mastermind who threatened Western society by plotting world domination in a series of novels by Sax Rohmer. 

          Thomas Burke’s Limehouse Nights cemented stereotypes about prostitution, gambling and violence within the Chinese community, and whipped up anxiety about sexual relationships between Chinese men and white women. 

          Though neither novelist was familiar with the Chinese community, their depictions made Limehouse one of the most notorious areas of London. 

          Travel agent Thomas Cook even organised tours of the area for daring visitors, despite the rector of Limehouse warning that “those who look for the Limehouse of Mr Thomas Burke simply will not find it.”

          All that remains is a handful of Chinese street names, such as Ming Street, Pekin Street, and Canton Street — but what was Limehouse’s chinatown really like, and why did it get swept away?

          Chinese migration to Limehouse 

          Chinese sailors discharged from East India Company ships settled in the docklands from as early as the 1780s.

          By the late nineteenth century, men from Shanghai had settled around Pennyfields Lane, while a Cantonese community lived on Limehouse Causeway. 

          Chinese sailors were often paid less and discriminated against by dock hirers, and so began to diversify their incomes by setting up hand laundry services and restaurants. 

          Old photographs show shopfronts emblazoned with Chinese characters with horse-drawn carts idling outside or Chinese men in suits and hats standing proudly in the doorways. 

          In oral histories collected by Yat Ming Loo, Connie’s husband Leslie doesn’t recall seeing any Chinese women as a child, since male Chinese sailors settled in London alone and married working-class English women. 

          In the 1920s, newspapers fear-mongered about interracial marriages, crime and gambling, and described chinatown as an East End “colony.” 

          Ironically, Chinese opium-smoking was also demonised in the press, despite Britain waging war against China in the mid-nineteenth century for suppressing the opium trade to alleviate addiction amongst its people. 

          The number of Chinese people who settled in Limehouse was also greatly exaggerated, and in reality only totalled around 300. 

          The real Chinatown 

          Although the press sought to characterise Limehouse as a monolithic Chinese community in the East End, Connie remembers seeing people of all nationalities in the shops and community spaces in Limehouse.

          She doesn’t remember feeling discriminated against by other locals, though Connie does recall having her face measured and IQ tested by a member of the British Eugenics Society who was conducting research in the area. 

          Some of Connie’s happiest childhood memories were from her time at Chung-Hua Club, where she learned about Chinese culture and language.

          Why did Chinatown disappear? 

          The caricature of Limehouse’s Chinatown as a den of vice hastened its erasure. 

          Police raids and deportations fuelled by the alarmist media coverage threatened the Chinese population of Limehouse, and slum clearance schemes to redevelop low-income areas dispersed Chinese residents in the 1930s. 

          The Defence of the Realm Act imposed at the beginning of the First World War criminalised opium use, gave the authorities increased powers to deport Chinese people and restricted their ability to work on British ships.

          Dwindling maritime trade during World War II further stripped Chinese sailors of opportunities for employment, and any remnants of Chinatown were destroyed during the Blitz or erased by postwar development schemes.”

           

          Wong Sang 1884-1930

          The year 1918 was a troublesome one for Wong Sang, an interpreter and shipping agent for Blue Funnel Line.  The Sang family were living at 156, Chrisp Street.

          Chrisp Street, Poplar, in 1913 via Old London Photographs:

          Chrisp Street

           

          In February Wong Sang was discharged from a false accusation after defending his home from potential robbers.

          East End News and London Shipping Chronicle – Friday 15 February 1918:

          1918 Wong Sang

           

          In August of that year he was involved in an incident that left him unconscious.

          Faringdon Advertiser and Vale of the White Horse Gazette – Saturday 31 August 1918:

          1918 Wong Sang 2

           

          Wong Sang is mentioned in an 1922 article about “Oriental London”.

          London and China Express – Thursday 09 February 1922:

          1922 Wong Sang

          A photograph of the Chee Kong Tong Chinese Freemason Society mentioned in the above article, via Old London Photographs:

          Chee Kong Tong

           

          Wong Sang was recommended by the London Metropolitan Police in 1928 to assist in a case in Wellingborough, Northampton.

          Difficulty of Getting an Interpreter: Northampton Mercury – Friday 16 March 1928:

          1928 Wong Sang

          1928 Wong Sang 2

          The difficulty was that “this man speaks the Cantonese language only…the Northeners and the Southerners in China have differing languages and the interpreter seemed to speak one that was in between these two.”

           

          In 1917, Alice Wong Sang was a witness at her sister Harriet Stokes marriage to James William Watts in Southwark, London.  Their father James Stokes occupation on the marriage register is foreman surveyor, but on the census he was a council roadman or labourer. (I initially rejected this as the correct marriage for Harriet because of the discrepancy with the occupations. Alice Wong Sang as a witness confirmed that it was indeed the correct one.)

          1917 Alice Wong Sang

           

           

          James William Sang 1913-2000 was a clock fitter and watch assembler (on the 1939 census). He married Ivy Laura Fenton in 1963 in Sidcup, Kent. James died in Southwark in 2000.

          Charles Ronald Sang 1920-1974  was a draughtsman (1939 census). He married Eileen Burgess in 1947 in Marylebone.  Charles and Eileen had two sons:  Keith born in 1951 and Roger born in 1952.  He died in 1974 in Hertfordshire.

          William Norman Sang 1922-2000 was a clerk and telephone operator (1939 census).  William enlisted in the Royal Artillery in 1942. He married Lily Mullins in 1949 in Bethnal Green, and they had three daughters: Marion born in 1950, Christine in 1953, and Frances in 1959.  He died in Redbridge in 2000.

           

          I then found another two births registered in Poplar by Alice Sang, both daughters.  Doris Winifred Sang was born in 1925, and Patricia Margaret Sang was born in 1933 ~ three years after Wong Sang’s death.  Neither of the these daughters were on the 1939 census with Alice, John Patterson and the three sons.  Margaret had presumably been evacuated because of the war to a family in Taunton, Somerset. Doris would have been fourteen and I have been unable to find her in 1939 (possibly because she died in 2017 and has not had the redaction removed  yet on the 1939 census as only deceased people are viewable).

          Doris Winifred Sang 1925-2017 was a nursing sister. She didn’t marry, and spent a year in USA between 1954 and 1955. She stayed in London, and died at the age of ninety two in 2017.

          Patricia Margaret Sang 1933-1998 was also a nurse. She married Patrick L Nicely in Stepney in 1957.  Patricia and Patrick had five children in London: Sharon born 1959, Donald in 1960, Malcolm was born and died in 1966, Alison was born in 1969 and David in 1971.

           

          I was unable to find a birth registered for Alice’s first son, James William Sang (as he appeared on the 1939 census).  I found Alice Stokes on the 1911 census as a 17 year old live in servant at a tobacconist on Pekin Street, Limehouse, living with Mr Sui Fong from Hong Kong and his wife Sarah Sui Fong from Berlin.  I looked for a birth registered for James William Fong instead of Sang, and found it ~ mothers maiden name Stokes, and his date of birth matched the 1939 census: 8th March, 1913.

          On the 1921 census, Wong Sang is not listed as living with them but it is mentioned that Mr Wong Sang was the person returning the census.  Also living with Alice and her sons James and Charles in 1921 are two visitors:  (Florence) May Stokes, 17 years old, born in Woodstock, and Charles Stokes, aged 14, also born in Woodstock. May and Charles were Alice’s sister and brother.

           

          I found Sharon Nicely on social media and she kindly shared photos of Wong Sang and Alice Stokes:

          Wong Sang

           

          Alice Stokes

          #6327

          In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

          TracyTracy
          Participant

            paul elderly barbara noted window bottom

            sand somewhere car

            feel proudly

            tip gloria alice andrew aren

            scared woods

            offer ceremony pounds

            #6326

            In reply to: The Sexy Wooden Leg

            Stung by Egberts question, Olga reeled and almost lost her footing on the stairs. What had happened to her?  That damned selfish individualism that was running rampant must have seeped into her room through the gaps in the windows or under the door.  “No!” she shouted, her voice cracking.

            “Say it isn’t true, Olga,” Egbert said, his voice breaking.  “Not you as well.”

            It took Olga a minute or two to still her racing heart.  The near fall down the stairs had shaken her but with trembling hands she levered herself round to sit beside Egbert on the step.

            Gripping his bony knee with her knobbly arthritic fingers, she took a deep breath.

            “You are right to have said that, Egbert.  If there is one thing we must hold onto, it’s our hearts. Nothing else matters, or at least nothing else matters as much as that.  We are old and tired and we don’t like change. But if we escalate the importance of this frankly dreary and depressing home to the point where we lose our hearts…” she faltered and continued.  “We will be homeless soon, very soon, and we know not what will happen to us.  We must trust in the kindness of strangers, we must hope they have a heart.”

            Egbert winced as Olga squeezed his knee. “And that is why”, Olga continued, slapping Egberts thigh with gusto, “We must have a heart…”

            “If you’d just stop squeezing and hitting me, Olga…”

            Olga loosened her grip on the old mans thigh bone and peered into his eyes. Quietly she thanked him. “You’ve cleared my mind and given me something to live for, and I thank you for that. But you do need to launder your clothes more often,” she added, pulling a face. She didn’t want the old coot to start blubbing, and he looked alarmingly close to tears.

            “Come on, let’s go and see Obadiah. We’re all in this together. Homelessness and adventure can wait until tomorrow.”  Olga heaved herself upright with a surprising burst of vitality.   Noticing a weak smile trembling on Egberts lips, she said “That’s the spirit!”

            #6315

            In reply to: The Sexy Wooden Leg

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

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

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

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

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

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

            #6291
            TracyTracy
            Participant

              Jane Eaton

              The Nottingham Girl

               

              Jane Eaton 1809-1879

              Francis Purdy, the Beggarlea Bulldog and Methodist Minister, married Jane Eaton in 1837 in Nottingham. Jane was his second wife.

              Jane Eaton, photo says “Grandma Purdy” on the back:

              Jane Eaton

               

              Jane is described as a “Nottingham girl” in a book excerpt sent to me by Jim Giles, a relation who shares the same 3x great grandparents, Francis and Jane Purdy.

              Jane Eaton Nottingham

              Jane Eaton 2

               

              Elizabeth, Francis Purdy’s first wife, died suddenly at chapel in 1836, leaving nine children.

              On Christmas day the following year Francis married Jane Eaton at St Peters church in Nottingham. Jane married a Methodist Minister, and didn’t realize she married the bare knuckle fighter she’d seen when she was fourteen until he undressed and she saw his scars.

              jane eaton 3

               

              William Eaton 1767-1851

              On the marriage certificate Jane’s father was William Eaton, occupation gardener. Francis’s father was William Purdy, engineer.

              On the 1841 census living in Sollory’s Yard, Nottingham St Mary, William Eaton was a 70 year old gardener. It doesn’t say which county he was born in but indicates that it was not Nottinghamshire. Living with him were Mary Eaton, milliner, age 35, Mary Eaton, milliner, 15, and Elizabeth Rhodes age 35, a sempstress (another word for seamstress). The three women were born in Nottinghamshire.

              But who was Elizabeth Rhodes?

              Elizabeth Eaton was Jane’s older sister, born in 1797 in Nottingham. She married William Rhodes, a private in the 5th Dragoon Guards, in Leeds in October 1815.

              I looked for Elizabeth Rhodes on the 1851 census, which stated that she was a widow. I was also trying to determine which William Eaton death was the right one, and found William Eaton was still living with Elizabeth in 1851 at Pilcher Gate in Nottingham, but his name had been entered backwards: Eaton William. I would not have found him on the 1851 census had I searched for Eaton as a last name.

              Pilcher Gate gets its strange name from pilchers or fur dealers and was once a very narrow thoroughfare. At the lower end stood a pub called The Windmill – frequented by the notorious robber and murderer Charlie Peace.

              This was a lucky find indeed, because William’s place of birth was listed as Grantham, Lincolnshire. There were a couple of other William Eaton’s born at the same time, both near to Nottingham. It was tricky to work out which was the right one, but as it turned out, neither of them were.

              William Eaton Grantham

               

              Now we had Nottinghamshire and Lincolnshire border straddlers, so the search moved to the Lincolnshire records.
              But first, what of the two Mary Eatons living with William?

              William and his wife Mary had a daughter Mary in 1799 who died in 1801, and another daughter Mary Ann born in 1803. (It was common to name children after a previous infant who had died.)  It seems that Mary Ann didn’t marry but had a daughter Mary Eaton born in 1822.

              William and his wife Mary also had a son Richard Eaton born in 1801 in Nottingham.

              Who was William Eaton’s wife Mary?

              There are two possibilities: Mary Cresswell and a marriage in Nottingham in 1797, or Mary Dewey and a marriage at Grantham in 1795. If it’s Mary Cresswell, the first child Elizabeth would have been born just four or five months after the wedding. (This was far from unusual). However, no births in Grantham, or in Nottingham, were recorded for William and Mary in between 1795 and 1797.

              We don’t know why William moved from Grantham to Nottingham or when he moved there. According to Dearden’s 1834 Nottingham directory, William Eaton was a “Gardener and Seedsman”.

              gardener and seedsan William Eaton

              There was another William Eaton selling turnip seeds in the same part of Nottingham. At first I thought it must be the same William, but apparently not, as that William Eaton is recorded as a victualler, born in Ruddington. The turnip seeds were advertised in 1847 as being obtainable from William Eaton at the Reindeer Inn, Wheeler Gate. Perhaps he was related.

              William lived in the Lace Market part of Nottingham.   I wondered where a gardener would be working in that part of the city.  According to CreativeQuarter website, “in addition to the trades and housing (sometimes under the same roof), there were a number of splendid mansions being built with extensive gardens and orchards. Sadly, these no longer exist as they were gradually demolished to make way for commerce…..The area around St Mary’s continued to develop as an elegant residential district during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, with buildings … being built for nobility and rich merchants.”

              William Eaton died in Nottingham in September 1851, thankfully after the census was taken recording his place of birth.

              #6286
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                Matthew Orgill and His Family

                 

                Matthew Orgill 1828-1907 was the Orgill brother who went to Australia, but returned to Measham.  Matthew married Mary Orgill in Measham in October 1856, having returned from Victoria, Australia in May of that year.

                Although Matthew was the first Orgill brother to go to Australia, he was the last one I found, and that was somewhat by accident, while perusing “Orgill” and “Measham” in a newspaper archives search.  I chanced on Matthew’s obituary in the Nuneaton Observer, Friday 14 June 1907:

                LATE MATTHEW ORGILL PEACEFUL END TO A BLAMELESS LIFE.

                ‘Sunset and Evening Star And one clear call for me.”

                It is with very deep regret that we have to announce the death of Mr. Matthew Orgill, late of Measham, who passed peacefully away at his residence in Manor Court Road, Nuneaton, in the early hours of yesterday morning. Mr. Orgill, who was in his eightieth year, was a man with a striking history, and was a very fine specimen of our best English manhood. In early life be emigrated to South Africa—sailing in the “Hebrides” on 4th February. 1850—and was one of the first settlers at the Cape; afterwards he went on to Australia at the time of the Gold Rush, and ultimately came home to his native England and settled down in Measham, in Leicestershire, where he carried on a successful business for the long period of half-a-century.

                He was full of reminiscences of life in the Colonies in the early days, and an hour or two in his company was an education itself. On the occasion of the recall of Sir Harry Smith from the Governorship of Natal (for refusing to be a party to the slaying of the wives and children in connection with the Kaffir War), Mr. Orgill was appointed to superintend the arrangements for the farewell demonstration. It was one of his boasts that he made the first missionary cart used in South Africa, which is in use to this day—a monument to the character of his work; while it is an interesting fact to note that among Mr. Orgill’s papers there is the original ground-plan of the city of Durban before a single house was built.

                In Africa Mr. Orgill came in contact with the great missionary, David Livingstone, and between the two men there was a striking resemblance in character and a deep and lasting friendship. Mr. Orgill could give a most graphic description of the wreck of the “Birkenhead,” having been in the vicinity at the time when the ill-fated vessel went down. He played a most prominent part on the occasion of the famous wreck of the emigrant ship, “Minerva.” when, in conjunction with some half-a-dozen others, and at the eminent risk of their own lives, they rescued more than 100 of the unfortunate passengers. He was afterwards presented with an interesting relic as a memento of that thrilling experience, being a copper bolt from the vessel on which was inscribed the following words: “Relic of the ship Minerva, wrecked off Bluff Point, Port Natal. 8.A.. about 2 a.m.. Friday, July 5, 1850.”

                Mr. Orgill was followed to the Colonies by no fewer than six of his brothers, all of whom did well, and one of whom married a niece (brother’s daughter) of the late Mr. William Ewart Gladstone.

                On settling down in Measham his kindly and considerate disposition soon won for him a unique place in the hearts of all the people, by whom he was greatly beloved. He was a man of sterling worth and integrity. Upright and honourable in all his dealings, he led a Christian life that was a pattern to all with whom he came in contact, and of him it could truly he said that he wore the white flower of a blameless life.

                He was a member of the Baptist Church, and although beyond much active service since settling down in Nuneaton less than two years ago he leaves behind him a record in Christian service attained by few. In politics he was a Radical of the old school. A great reader, he studied all the questions of the day, and could back up every belief he held by sound and fearless argument. The South African – war was a great grief to him. He knew the Boers from personal experience, and although he suffered at the time of the war for his outspoken condemnation, he had the satisfaction of living to see the people of England fully recognising their awful blunder. To give anything like an adequate idea of Mr. Orgill’s history would take up a great amount of space, and besides much of it has been written and commented on before; suffice it to say that it was strenuous, interesting, and eventful, and yet all through his hands remained unspotted and his heart was pure.

                He is survived by three daughters, and was father-in-law to Mr. J. S. Massey. St Kilda. Manor Court Road, to whom deep and loving sympathy is extended in their sore bereavement by a wide circle of friends. The funeral is arranged to leave for Measham on Monday at twelve noon.

                 

                “To give anything like an adequate idea of Mr. Orgill’s history would take up a great amount of space, and besides much of it has been written and commented on before…”

                I had another look in the newspaper archives and found a number of articles mentioning him, including an intriguing excerpt in an article about local history published in the Burton Observer and Chronicle 8 August 1963:

                on an upstairs window pane he scratched with his diamond ring “Matthew Orgill, 1st July, 1858”

                Matthew Orgill window

                Matthew orgill window 2

                 

                I asked on a Measham facebook group if anyone knew the location of the house mentioned in the article and someone kindly responded. This is the same building, seen from either side:

                Measham Wharf

                 

                Coincidentally, I had already found this wonderful photograph of the same building, taken in 1910 ~ three years after Matthew’s death.

                Old Measham wharf

                 

                But what to make of the inscription in the window?

                Matthew and Mary married in October 1856, and their first child (according to the records I’d found thus far) was a daughter Mary born in 1860.  I had a look for a Matthew Orgill birth registered in 1858, the date Matthew had etched on the window, and found a death for a Matthew Orgill in 1859.  Assuming I would find the birth of Matthew Orgill registered on the first of July 1958, to match the etching in the window, the corresponding birth was in July 1857!

                Matthew and Mary had four children. Matthew, Mary, Clara and Hannah.  Hannah Proudman Orgill married Joseph Stanton Massey.  The Orgill name continues with their son Stanley Orgill Massey 1900-1979, who was a doctor and surgeon.  Two of Stanley’s four sons were doctors, Paul Mackintosh Orgill Massey 1929-2009, and Michael Joseph Orgill Massey 1932-1989.

                 

                Mary Orgill 1827-1894, Matthews wife, was an Orgill too.

                And this is where the Orgill branch of the tree gets complicated.

                Mary’s father was Henry Orgill born in 1805 and her mother was Hannah Proudman born in 1805.
                Henry Orgill’s father was Matthew Orgill born in 1769 and his mother was Frances Finch born in 1771.

                Mary’s husband Matthews parents are Matthew Orgill born in 1798 and Elizabeth Orgill born in 1803.

                Another Orgill Orgill marriage!

                Matthews parents,  Matthew and Elizabeth, have the same grandparents as each other, Matthew Orgill born in 1736 and Ann Proudman born in 1735.

                But Matthews grandparents are none other than Matthew Orgill born in 1769 and Frances Finch born in 1771 ~ the same grandparents as his wife Mary!

                #6280

                I started reading a book. In fact I started reading it three weeks ago, and have read the first page of the preface every night and fallen asleep. But my neck aches from doing too much gardening so I went back to bed to read this morning. I still fell asleep six times but at least I finished the preface. It’s the story of the family , initiated by the family collection of netsuke (whatever that is. Tiny Japanese carvings) But this is what stopped me reading and made me think (and then fall asleep each time I re read it)

                “And I’m not entitled to nostalgia about all that lost wealth and glamour from a century ago. And I am not interested in thin. I want to know what the relationship has been between this wooden object that I am rolling between my fingers – hard and tricky and Japanese – and where it has been. I want to be able to reach to the handle of the door and turn it and feel it open. I want to walk into each room where this object has lived, to feel the volume of the space, to know what pictures were on the walls, how the light fell from the windows. And I want to know whose hands it has been in, and what they felt about it and thought about it – if they thought about it. I want to know what it has witnessed.” ― Edmund de Waal, The Hare With Amber Eyes: A Family’s Century of Art and Loss

                And I felt almost bereft that none of the records tell me which way the light fell in through the windows.

                I know who lived in the house in which years, but I don’t know who sat in the sun streaming through the window and which painting upon the wall they looked at and what the material was that covered the chair they sat on.

                Were his clothes confortable (or hers, likely not), did he have an old favourite pair of trousers that his mother hated?

                There is one house in particular that I keep coming back to. Like I got on the Housley train at Smalley and I can’t get off. Kidsley Grange Farm, they turned it into a nursing home and built extensions, and now it’s for sale for five hundred thousand pounds. But is the ghost still under the back stairs? Is there still a stain somewhere when a carafe of port was dropped?

                Did Anns writing desk survive? Does someone have that, polished, with a vase of spring tulips on it? (on a mat of course so it doesn’t make a ring, despite that there are layers of beeswaxed rings already)

                Does the desk remember the letters, the weight of a forearm or elbow, perhaps a smeared teardrop, or a comsumptive cough stain?

                Is there perhaps a folded bit of paper or card that propped an uneven leg that fell through the floorboards that might tear into little squares if you found it and opened it, and would it be a rough draft of a letter never sent, or just a receipt for five head of cattle the summer before?

                Did he hate the curtain material, or not even think of it? Did he love the house, or want to get away to see something new ~ or both?

                Did he have a favourite cup, a favourite food, did he hate liver or cabbage?

                Did he like his image when the photograph came from the studio or did he think it made his nose look big or his hair too thin, or did he wish he’d worn his other waistcoat?

                Did he love his wife so much he couldn’t bear to see her dying, was it neglect or was it the unbearableness of it all that made him go away and drink?

                Did the sun slanting in through the dormer window of his tiny attic room where he lodged remind him of ~ well no perhaps he was never in the room in daylight hours at all. Work all day and pub all night, keeping busy working hard and drinking hard and perhaps laughing hard, and maybe he only thought of it all on Sunday mornings.

                So many deaths, one after another, his father, his wife, his brother, his sister, and another and another, all the coughing, all the debility. Perhaps he never understood why he lived and they did not, what kind of justice was there in that?

                Did he take a souvenir or two with him, a handkerchief or a shawl perhaps, tucked away at the bottom of a battered leather bag that had his 3 shirts and 2 waistcoats in and a spare cap,something embroidered perhaps.

                The quote in that book started me off with the light coming in the window and the need to know the simplest things, something nobody ever wrote in a letter, maybe never even mentioned to anyone.

                Light coming in windows. I remeber when I was a teenager I had a day off sick and spent the whole day laying on the couch in a big window with the winter sun on my face all day, and I read Bonjour Tristesse in one sitting, and I’ll never forget that afternoon.  I don’t remember much about that book, but I remember being transported. But at the same time as being present in that sunny window.

                “Stories and objects share something, a patina…Perhaps patina is a process of rubbing back so that the essential is revealed…But it also seems additive, in the way that a piece of oak furniture gains over years and years of polishing.”

                “How objects are handed on is all about story-telling. I am giving you this because I love you. Or because it was given to me. Because I bought it somewhere special. Because you will care for it. Because it will complicate your life. Because it will make someone else envious. There is no easy story in legacy. What is remembered and what is forgotten? There can be a chain of forgetting, the rubbing away of previous ownership as much as the slow accretion of stories. What is being passed on to me with all these small Japanese objects?”

                “There are things in this world that the children hear, but whose sounds oscillate below an adult’s sense of pitch.”

                What did the children hear?

                #6268
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  From Tanganyika with Love

                  continued part 9

                  With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                  Lyamungu 3rd January 1945

                  Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Lyamungu 14 May 1945

                  Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Lyamungu 19th September 1945

                  Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

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

                  Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

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

                  Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

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

                  Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

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

                  Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Jacksdale England 24th June 1946

                  Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Jacksdale England 28th August 1946

                  Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Jacksdale England 20th September 1946

                  Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Dar es Salaam 22nd October 1946

                  Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  Mbeya 1st November 1946

                  Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  Eleanor.

                  #6267
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    From Tanganyika with Love

                    continued part 8

                    With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                    Morogoro 20th January 1941

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Morogoro 30th July 1941

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Morogoro 26th August 1941

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Morogoro 25th December 1941

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Morogoro Hospital 30th September 1943

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Morogoro 26th January 1944

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Lyamungu 20th March 1944

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Lyamungu 15th May 1944

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Lyamungu 18th July 1944

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

                    Lyamungu 16th August 1944

                    Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                    Eleanor.

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

                    Dearest Mummy,

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

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

                    Very much love,
                    Eleanor.

                    Safari in Masailand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Lyamungu 10th November. 1944

                    Dearest Family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                    Much love,
                    Eleanor.

                     

                    #6266
                    TracyTracy
                    Participant

                      From Tanganyika with Love

                      continued part 7

                      With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                      Oldeani Hospital. 19th September 1938

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Mbulu. 30th September 1938

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Mbulu. 25th October 1938

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Iringa. 30th November 1938

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Mchewe Estate, Mbeya. 7th January 1939.

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Nzassa 14th February 1939.

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Nzassa 28th February 1939.

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Nzassa 25th March 1939.

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Nzassa 28th April 1939.

                      Dearest Family,

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Nzassa 3rd July 1939.

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Nzassa 5th August 1939

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Splendid Hotel. Dar es Salaam 7th September 1939

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Morogoro 14th September 1939

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Morogoro 4th November 1939

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Iringa 8th December 1939

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Morogoro 10th March 1940

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Morogoro 14th July 1940

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                      Morogoro 16th November 1940

                      Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                      Eleanor.

                       

                      #6265
                      TracyTracy
                      Participant

                        From Tanganyika with Love

                        continued  ~ part 6

                        With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                        Mchewe 6th June 1937

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                        With much love,
                        Eleanor.

                        Mchewe 25th June 1937

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                        Lots of love,
                        Eleanor.

                        Mchewe 9th July 1937

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor

                        Mchewe 8th October 1937

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Mchewe 17th October 1937

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Mchewe 18th November 1937

                        My darling Ann,

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

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

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

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

                        Mchewe 18th November 1937

                        Hello George Darling,

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

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

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

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

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

                        Mchewe 12th February, 1938

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Mbulu 18th March, 1938

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Mbulu 24th March, 1938

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Mbulu 20th June 1938

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Karatu 3rd July 1938

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Karatu 12th July 1938

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Oldeani. 19th July 1938

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Oldeani. 10th August 1938

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Oldeani. 20th August 1938

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        Oldeani Hospital. 9th September 1938

                        Dearest Family,

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

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

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

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

                        Eleanor.

                        #6264
                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          From Tanganyika with Love

                          continued  ~ part 5

                          With thanks to Mike Rushby.

                          Chunya 16th December 1936

                          Dearest Family,

                          Since last I wrote I have visited Chunya and met several of the diggers wives.
                          On the whole I have been greatly disappointed because there is nothing very colourful
                          about either township or women. I suppose I was really expecting something more like
                          the goldrush towns and women I have so often seen on the cinema screen.
                          Chunya consists of just the usual sun-dried brick Indian shops though there are
                          one or two double storied buildings. Most of the life in the place centres on the
                          Goldfields Hotel but we did not call there. From the store opposite I could hear sounds
                          of revelry though it was very early in the afternoon. I saw only one sight which was quite
                          new to me, some elegantly dressed African women, with high heels and lipsticked
                          mouths teetered by on their way to the silk store. “Native Tarts,” said George in answer
                          to my enquiry.

                          Several women have called on me and when I say ‘called’ I mean called. I have
                          grown so used to going without stockings and wearing home made dresses that it was
                          quite a shock to me to entertain these ladies dressed to the nines in smart frocks, silk
                          stockings and high heeled shoes, handbags, makeup and whatnot. I feel like some
                          female Rip van Winkle. Most of the women have a smart line in conversation and their
                          talk and views on life would make your nice straight hair curl Mummy. They make me feel
                          very unsophisticated and dowdy but George says he has a weakness for such types
                          and I am to stay exactly as I am. I still do not use any makeup. George says ‘It’s all right
                          for them. They need it poor things, you don’t.” Which, though flattering, is hardly true.
                          I prefer the men visitors, though they also are quite unlike what I had expected
                          diggers to be. Those whom George brings home are all well educated and well
                          groomed and I enjoy listening to their discussion of the world situation, sport and books.
                          They are extremely polite to me and gentle with the children though I believe that after a
                          few drinks at the pub tempers often run high. There were great arguments on the night
                          following the abdication of Edward VIII. Not that the diggers were particularly attached to
                          him as a person, but these men are all great individualists and believe in freedom of
                          choice. George, rather to my surprise, strongly supported Edward. I did not.

                          Many of the diggers have wireless sets and so we keep up to date with the
                          news. I seldom leave camp. I have my hands full with the three children during the day
                          and, even though Janey is a reliable ayah, I would not care to leave the children at night
                          in these grass roofed huts. Having experienced that fire on the farm, I know just how
                          unlikely it would be that the children would be rescued in time in case of fire. The other
                          women on the diggings think I’m crazy. They leave their children almost entirely to ayahs
                          and I must confess that the children I have seen look very well and happy. The thing is
                          that I simply would not enjoy parties at the hotel or club, miles away from the children
                          and I much prefer to stay at home with a book.

                          I love hearing all about the parties from George who likes an occasional ‘boose
                          up’ with the boys and is terribly popular with everyone – not only the British but with the
                          Germans, Scandinavians and even the Afrikaans types. One Afrikaans woman said “Jou
                          man is ‘n man, al is hy ‘n Engelsman.” Another more sophisticated woman said, “George
                          is a handsome devil. Aren’t you scared to let him run around on his own?” – but I’m not. I
                          usually wait up for George with sandwiches and something hot to drink and that way I
                          get all the news red hot.

                          There is very little gold coming in. The rains have just started and digging is
                          temporarily at a standstill. It is too wet for dry blowing and not yet enough water for
                          panning and sluicing. As this camp is some considerable distance from the claims, all I see of the process is the weighing of the daily taking of gold dust and tiny nuggets.
                          Unless our luck changes I do not think we will stay on here after John Molteno returns.
                          George does not care for the life and prefers a more constructive occupation.
                          Ann and young George still search optimistically for gold. We were all saddened
                          last week by the death of Fanny, our bull terrier. She went down to the shopping centre
                          with us and we were standing on the verandah of a store when a lorry passed with its
                          canvas cover flapping. This excited Fanny who rushed out into the street and the back
                          wheel of the lorry passed right over her, killing her instantly. Ann was very shocked so I
                          soothed her by telling her that Fanny had gone to Heaven. When I went to bed that
                          night I found Ann still awake and she asked anxiously, “Mummy, do you think God
                          remembered to give Fanny her bone tonight?”

                          Much love to all,
                          Eleanor.

                          Itewe, Chunya 23rd December 1936

                          Dearest Family,

                          Your Christmas parcel arrived this morning. Thank you very much for all the
                          clothing for all of us and for the lovely toys for the children. George means to go hunting
                          for a young buffalo this afternoon so that we will have some fresh beef for Christmas for
                          ourselves and our boys and enough for friends too.

                          I had a fright this morning. Ann and Georgie were, as usual, searching for gold
                          whilst I sat sewing in the living room with Kate toddling around. She wandered through
                          the curtained doorway into the store and I heard her playing with the paraffin pump. At
                          first it did not bother me because I knew the tin was empty but after ten minutes or so I
                          became irritated by the noise and went to stop her. Imagine my horror when I drew the
                          curtain aside and saw my fat little toddler fiddling happily with the pump whilst, curled up
                          behind the tin and clearly visible to me lay the largest puffadder I have ever seen.
                          Luckily I acted instinctively and scooped Kate up from behind and darted back into the
                          living room without disturbing the snake. The houseboy and cook rushed in with sticks
                          and killed the snake and then turned the whole storeroom upside down to make sure
                          there were no more.

                          I have met some more picturesque characters since I last wrote. One is a man
                          called Bishop whom George has known for many years having first met him in the
                          Congo. I believe he was originally a sailor but for many years he has wandered around
                          Central Africa trying his hand at trading, prospecting, a bit of elephant hunting and ivory
                          poaching. He is now keeping himself by doing ‘Sign Writing”. Bish is a gentle and
                          dignified personality. When we visited his camp he carefully dusted a seat for me and
                          called me ‘Marm’, quite ye olde world. The only thing is he did spit.

                          Another spitter is the Frenchman in a neighbouring camp. He is in bed with bad
                          rheumatism and George has been going across twice a day to help him and cheer him
                          up. Once when George was out on the claim I went across to the Frenchman’s camp in
                          response to an SOS, but I think he was just lonely. He showed me snapshots of his
                          two daughters, lovely girls and extremely smart, and he chatted away telling me his life
                          history. He punctuated his remarks by spitting to right and left of the bed, everywhere in
                          fact, except actually at me.

                          George took me and the children to visit a couple called Bert and Hilda Farham.
                          They have a small gold reef which is worked by a very ‘Heath Robinson’ type of
                          machinery designed and erected by Bert who is reputed to be a clever engineer though
                          eccentric. He is rather a handsome man who always looks very spruce and neat and
                          wears a Captain Kettle beard. Hilda is from Johannesburg and quite a character. She
                          has a most generous figure and literally masses of beetroot red hair, but she also has a
                          warm deep voice and a most generous disposition. The Farhams have built
                          themselves a more permanent camp than most. They have a brick cottage with proper
                          doors and windows and have made it attractive with furniture contrived from petrol
                          boxes. They have no children but Hilda lavishes a great deal of affection on a pet
                          monkey. Sometimes they do quite well out of their gold and then they have a terrific
                          celebration at the Club or Pub and Hilda has an orgy of shopping. At other times they
                          are completely broke but Hilda takes disasters as well as triumphs all in her stride. She
                          says, “My dear, when we’re broke we just live on tea and cigarettes.”

                          I have met a young woman whom I would like as a friend. She has a dear little
                          baby, but unfortunately she has a very wet husband who is also a dreadful bore. I can’t
                          imagine George taking me to their camp very often. When they came to visit us George
                          just sat and smoked and said,”Oh really?” to any remark this man made until I felt quite
                          hysterical. George looks very young and fit and the children are lively and well too. I ,
                          however, am definitely showing signs of wear and tear though George says,
                          “Nonsense, to me you look the same as you always did.” This I may say, I do not
                          regard as a compliment to the young Eleanor.

                          Anyway, even though our future looks somewhat unsettled, we are all together
                          and very happy.

                          With love,
                          Eleanor.

                          Itewe, Chunya 30th December 1936

                          Dearest Family,

                          We had a very cheery Christmas. The children loved the toys and are so proud
                          of their new clothes. They wore them when we went to Christmas lunch to the
                          Cresswell-Georges. The C-Gs have been doing pretty well lately and they have a
                          comfortable brick house and a large wireless set. The living room was gaily decorated
                          with bought garlands and streamers and balloons. We had an excellent lunch cooked by
                          our ex cook Abel who now works for the Cresswell-Georges. We had turkey with
                          trimmings and plum pudding followed by nuts and raisons and chocolates and sweets
                          galore. There was also a large variety of drinks including champagne!

                          There were presents for all of us and, in addition, Georgie and Ann each got a
                          large tin of chocolates. Kate was much admired. She was a picture in her new party frock
                          with her bright hair and rosy cheeks. There were other guests beside ourselves and
                          they were already there having drinks when we arrived. Someone said “What a lovely
                          child!” “Yes” said George with pride, “She’s a Marie Stopes baby.” “Truby King!” said I
                          quickly and firmly, but too late to stop the roar of laughter.

                          Our children played amicably with the C-G’s three, but young George was
                          unusually quiet and surprised me by bringing me his unopened tin of chocolates to keep
                          for him. Normally he is a glutton for sweets. I might have guessed he was sickening for
                          something. That night he vomited and had diarrhoea and has had an upset tummy and a
                          slight temperature ever since.

                          Janey is also ill. She says she has malaria and has taken to her bed. I am dosing
                          her with quinine and hope she will soon be better as I badly need her help. Not only is
                          young George off his food and peevish but Kate has a cold and Ann sore eyes and
                          they all want love and attention. To complicate things it has been raining heavily and I
                          must entertain the children indoors.

                          Eleanor.

                          Itewe, Chunya 19th January 1937

                          Dearest Family,

                          So sorry I have not written before but we have been in the wars and I have had neither
                          the time nor the heart to write. However the worst is now over. Young George and
                          Janey are both recovering from Typhoid Fever. The doctor had Janey moved to the
                          native hospital at Chunya but I nursed young George here in the camp.

                          As I told you young George’s tummy trouble started on Christmas day. At first I
                          thought it was only a protracted bilious attack due to eating too much unaccustomed rich
                          food and treated him accordingly but when his temperature persisted I thought that the
                          trouble might be malaria and kept him in bed and increased the daily dose of quinine.
                          He ate less and less as the days passed and on New Years Day he seemed very
                          weak and his stomach tender to the touch.

                          George fetched the doctor who examined small George and said he had a very
                          large liver due no doubt to malaria. He gave the child injections of emertine and quinine
                          and told me to give young George frequent and copious drinks of water and bi-carb of
                          soda. This was more easily said than done. Young George refused to drink this mixture
                          and vomited up the lime juice and water the doctor had suggested as an alternative.
                          The doctor called every day and gave George further injections and advised me
                          to give him frequent sips of water from a spoon. After three days the child was very
                          weak and weepy but Dr Spiers still thought he had malaria. During those anxious days I
                          also worried about Janey who appeared to be getting worse rather that better and on
                          January the 3rd I asked the doctor to look at her. The next thing I knew, the doctor had
                          put Janey in his car and driven her off to hospital. When he called next morning he
                          looked very grave and said he wished to talk to my husband. I said that George was out
                          on the claim but if what he wished to say concerned young George’s condition he might
                          just as well tell me.

                          With a good deal of reluctance Dr Spiers then told me that Janey showed all the
                          symptoms of Typhoid Fever and that he was very much afraid that young George had
                          contracted it from her. He added that George should be taken to the Mbeya Hospital
                          where he could have the professional nursing so necessary in typhoid cases. I said “Oh
                          no,I’d never allow that. The child had never been away from his family before and it
                          would frighten him to death to be sick and alone amongst strangers.” Also I was sure that
                          the fifty mile drive over the mountains in his weak condition would harm him more than
                          my amateur nursing would. The doctor returned to the camp that afternoon to urge
                          George to send our son to hospital but George staunchly supported my argument that
                          young George would stand a much better chance of recovery if we nursed him at home.
                          I must say Dr Spiers took our refusal very well and gave young George every attention
                          coming twice a day to see him.

                          For some days the child was very ill. He could not keep down any food or liquid
                          in any quantity so all day long, and when he woke at night, I gave him a few drops of
                          water at a time from a teaspoon. His only nourishment came from sucking Macintosh’s
                          toffees. Young George sweated copiously especially at night when it was difficult to
                          change his clothes and sponge him in the draughty room with the rain teeming down
                          outside. I think I told you that the bedroom is a sort of shed with only openings in the wall
                          for windows and doors, and with one wall built only a couple of feet high leaving a six
                          foot gap for air and light. The roof leaked and the damp air blew in but somehow young
                          George pulled through.

                          Only when he was really on the mend did the doctor tell us that whilst he had
                          been attending George, he had also been called in to attend to another little boy of the same age who also had typhoid. He had been called in too late and the other little boy,
                          an only child, had died. Young George, thank God, is convalescent now, though still on a
                          milk diet. He is cheerful enough when he has company but very peevish when left
                          alone. Poor little lad, he is all hair, eyes, and teeth, or as Ann says” Georgie is all ribs ribs
                          now-a-days Mummy.” He shares my room, Ann and Kate are together in the little room.
                          Anyway the doctor says he should be up and around in about a week or ten days time.
                          We were all inoculated against typhoid on the day the doctor made the diagnosis
                          so it is unlikely that any of us will develop it. Dr Spiers was most impressed by Ann’s
                          unconcern when she was inoculated. She looks gentle and timid but has always been
                          very brave. Funny thing when young George was very ill he used to wail if I left the
                          room, but now that he is convalescent he greatly prefers his dad’s company. So now I
                          have been able to take the girls for walks in the late afternoons whilst big George
                          entertains small George. This he does with the minimum of effort, either he gets out
                          cartons of ammunition with which young George builds endless forts, or else he just sits
                          beside the bed and cleans one of his guns whilst small George watches with absorbed
                          attention.

                          The Doctor tells us that Janey is also now convalescent. He says that exhusband
                          Abel has been most attentive and appeared daily at the hospital with a tray of
                          food that made his, the doctor’s, mouth water. All I dare say, pinched from Mrs
                          Cresswell-George.

                          I’ll write again soon. Lots of love to all,
                          Eleanor.

                          Chunya 29th January 1937

                          Dearest Family,

                          Georgie is up and about but still tires very easily. At first his legs were so weak
                          that George used to carry him around on his shoulders. The doctor says that what the
                          child really needs is a long holiday out of the Tropics so that Mrs Thomas’ offer, to pay all
                          our fares to Cape Town as well as lending us her seaside cottage for a month, came as
                          a Godsend. Luckily my passport is in order. When George was in Mbeya he booked
                          seats for the children and me on the first available plane. We will fly to Broken Hill and go
                          on to Cape Town from there by train.

                          Ann and George are wildly thrilled at the idea of flying but I am not. I remember
                          only too well how airsick I was on the old Hannibal when I flew home with the baby Ann.
                          I am longing to see you all and it will be heaven to give the children their first seaside
                          holiday.

                          I mean to return with Kate after three months but, if you will have him, I shall leave
                          George behind with you for a year. You said you would all be delighted to have Ann so
                          I do hope you will also be happy to have young George. Together they are no trouble
                          at all. They amuse themselves and are very independent and loveable.
                          George and I have discussed the matter taking into consideration the letters from
                          you and George’s Mother on the subject. If you keep Ann and George for a year, my
                          mother-in-law will go to Cape Town next year and fetch them. They will live in England
                          with her until they are fit enough to return to the Tropics. After the children and I have left
                          on this holiday, George will be able to move around and look for a job that will pay
                          sufficiently to enable us to go to England in a few years time to fetch our children home.
                          We both feel very sad at the prospect of this parting but the children’s health
                          comes before any other consideration. I hope Kate will stand up better to the Tropics.
                          She is plump and rosy and could not look more bonny if she lived in a temperate
                          climate.

                          We should be with you in three weeks time!

                          Very much love,
                          Eleanor.

                          Broken Hill, N Rhodesia 11th February 1937

                          Dearest Family,

                          Well here we are safe and sound at the Great Northern Hotel, Broken Hill, all
                          ready to board the South bound train tonight.

                          We were still on the diggings on Ann’s birthday, February 8th, when George had
                          a letter from Mbeya to say that our seats were booked on the plane leaving Mbeya on
                          the 10th! What a rush we had packing up. Ann was in bed with malaria so we just
                          bundled her up in blankets and set out in John Molteno’s car for the farm. We arrived that
                          night and spent the next day on the farm sorting things out. Ann and George wanted to
                          take so many of their treasures and it was difficult for them to make a small selection. In
                          the end young George’s most treasured possession, his sturdy little boots, were left
                          behind.

                          Before leaving home on the morning of the tenth I took some snaps of Ann and
                          young George in the garden and one of them with their father. He looked so sad. After
                          putting us on the plane, George planned to go to the fishing camp for a day or two
                          before returning to the empty house on the farm.

                          John Molteno returned from the Cape by plane just before we took off, so he
                          will take over the running of his claims once more. I told John that I dreaded the plane trip
                          on account of air sickness so he gave me two pills which I took then and there. Oh dear!
                          How I wished later that I had not done so. We had an extremely bumpy trip and
                          everyone on the plane was sick except for small George who loved every moment.
                          Poor Ann had a dreadful time but coped very well and never complained. I did not
                          actually puke until shortly before we landed at Broken Hill but felt dreadfully ill all the way.
                          Kate remained rosy and cheerful almost to the end. She sat on my lap throughout the
                          trip because, being under age, she travelled as baggage and was not entitled to a seat.
                          Shortly before we reached Broken Hill a smartly dressed youngish man came up
                          to me and said, “You look so poorly, please let me take the baby, I have children of my
                          own and know how to handle them.” Kate made no protest and off they went to the
                          back of the plane whilst I tried to relax and concentrate on not getting sick. However,
                          within five minutes the man was back. Kate had been thoroughly sick all over his collar
                          and jacket.

                          I took Kate back on my lap and then was violently sick myself, so much so that
                          when we touched down at Broken Hill I was unable to speak to the Immigration Officer.
                          He was so kind. He sat beside me until I got my diaphragm under control and then
                          drove me up to the hotel in his own car.

                          We soon recovered of course and ate a hearty dinner. This morning after
                          breakfast I sallied out to look for a Bank where I could exchange some money into
                          Rhodesian and South African currency and for the Post Office so that I could telegraph
                          to George and to you. What a picnic that trip was! It was a terribly hot day and there was
                          no shade. By the time we had done our chores, the children were hot, and cross, and
                          tired and so indeed was I. As I had no push chair for Kate I had to carry her and she is
                          pretty heavy for eighteen months. George, who is still not strong, clung to my free arm
                          whilst Ann complained bitterly that no one was helping her.

                          Eventually Ann simply sat down on the pavement and declared that she could
                          not go another step, whereupon George of course decided that he also had reached his
                          limit and sat down too. Neither pleading no threats would move them so I had to resort
                          to bribery and had to promise that when we reached the hotel they could have cool
                          drinks and ice-cream. This promise got the children moving once more but I am determined that nothing will induce me to stir again until the taxi arrives to take us to the
                          station.

                          This letter will go by air and will reach you before we do. How I am longing for
                          journeys end.

                          With love to you all,
                          Eleanor.

                          Leaving home 10th February 1937,  George Gilman Rushby with Ann and Georgie (Mike) Rushby:

                          George Rushby Ann and Georgie

                          NOTE
                          We had a very warm welcome to the family home at Plumstead Cape Town.
                          After ten days with my family we moved to Hout Bay where Mrs Thomas lent us her
                          delightful seaside cottage. She also provided us with two excellent maids so I had
                          nothing to do but rest and play on the beach with the children.

                          After a month at the sea George had fully recovered his health though not his
                          former gay spirits. After another six months with my parents I set off for home with Kate,
                          leaving Ann and George in my parent’s home under the care of my elder sister,
                          Marjorie.

                          One or two incidents during that visit remain clearly in my memory. Our children
                          had never met elderly people and were astonished at the manifestations of age. One
                          morning an elderly lady came around to collect church dues. She was thin and stooped
                          and Ann surveyed her with awe. She turned to me with a puzzled expression and
                          asked in her clear voice, “Mummy, why has that old lady got a moustache – oh and a
                          beard?’ The old lady in question was very annoyed indeed and said, “What a rude little
                          girl.” Ann could not understand this, she said, “But Mummy, I only said she had a
                          moustache and a beard and she has.” So I explained as best I could that when people
                          have defects of this kind they are hurt if anyone mentions them.

                          A few days later a strange young woman came to tea. I had been told that she
                          had a most disfiguring birthmark on her cheek and warned Ann that she must not
                          comment on it. Alas! with the kindest intentions Ann once again caused me acute
                          embarrassment. The young woman was hardly seated when Ann went up to her and
                          gently patted the disfiguring mark saying sweetly, “Oh, I do like this horrible mark on your
                          face.”

                          I remember also the afternoon when Kate and George were christened. My
                          mother had given George a white silk shirt for the occasion and he wore it with intense
                          pride. Kate was baptised first without incident except that she was lost in admiration of a
                          gold bracelet given her that day by her Godmother and exclaimed happily, “My
                          bangle, look my bangle,” throughout the ceremony. When George’s turn came the
                          clergyman held his head over the font and poured water on George’s forehead. Some
                          splashed on his shirt and George protested angrily, “Mum, he has wet my shirt!” over
                          and over again whilst I led him hurriedly outside.

                          My last memory of all is at the railway station. The time had come for Kate and
                          me to get into our compartment. My sisters stood on the platform with Ann and George.
                          Ann was resigned to our going, George was not so, at the last moment Sylvia, my
                          younger sister, took him off to see the engine. The whistle blew and I said good-bye to
                          my gallant little Ann. “Mummy”, she said urgently to me, “Don’t forget to wave to
                          George.”

                          And so I waved good-bye to my children, never dreaming that a war would
                          intervene and it would be eight long years before I saw them again.

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