(Being the account of Amelia’s first Summer Term at the Songmark Aeronautical Academy For Young Ladies. After an eventful Easter Holiday, Amelia isn’t looking forward to classrooms and exams, but that’s her hard luck …  As ever, the original is written in the never-popular Lexarc shorthand system, as invented by one of Amelia’s public school teachers and taught by very few others.)

May 8th, 1935

Dear Diary: one day is all we get to get back into the swing of Songmark, after our various adventures on the open wave. Awaking indoors for the first time in a month, it is quite a shock to be in a bed rather than a hammock. Indeed, a hammock would be more comfortable, as the temperature must have risen ten degrees since the end of last term.

            But anyway – some of our friends have been here for days, having crossed the globe on the available seaplanes and leaving plenty of safety margin. Jasbir Sind arrived after breakfast on the scheduled flight via Humapore, after various adventures on the way – one of the volcanic islands in the Philippines decided to lose its temper, and she was diverted half-way across the Dutch East Indies to avoid it. Aircraft engines and clouds of rock dust decidedly do not mix.

Off to Church for the first time in a month, all dressed in our Sunday best, hastily unpacked from out steamer chests. Decidedly tight in certain places now – all our hard work on the fishing boats has gained us about an extra size around the shoulders, although the effect is not unflattering. The main waterways seem quite packed with shipping, five large tour boats pulled up at the dock and Casino Island crowded with sweltering visitors discovering their costumes are quite unsuited to the climate. We recognised some of the members of the dance school, dressed in their (minimal) Native best, innocently fishing from the Rainbow Bridge – and providing either local scenery or Culture Shock to a stream of  visitors evidently fresh off the boat.  Certainly, by some of the whispered reactions I overheard, they are much appreciated for their Natural charms, as well as envied as being the only comfortably costumed people in sight.

            Alas, Jirry was nowhere to be seen – he is carrying film cameras and such around Main Island, and the supporting workers do not have the luxury of six-day weeks when filming schedules are tight. With film companies paying to come out here for a month or less, anyone building stage sets and the like has their paws full – the directors and stars may have their Sundays off, but demand everything be ready first thing Monday!

            Reverend Bingham was in fine form, with an improvised parable about the stout lady and the deaf water-taxi driver that I doubt he would have written back home in Barsetshire. But still, even Religion seems to change outside Europe – as with the clothing, it simply must, to fit the climate. Quite galling, one assumes, for the “Euro” Missionaries to be told to stick to Casino Island and to mind their own business elsewhere.  Surely our Archbishop Crowley of Barsetshire would take it very much amiss!

             Back again for lunch, our tails and ears drooping at the sight of our new timetables. There is one consolation, this term we are mostly out of the classrooms. And a lot of it looks like extremely strenuous stuff, which Helen, Molly and myself should have a head start on after our less than relaxing Easter break.

            We had the problem of deciding how to explain why Soppy Forsythe is no longer with us – fortunately our tutor Miss Devinski called our class together at lunchtime and delivered what seems to be the Official version.  Soppy has officially returned to Europe since the climate on the Spontoons was proving unhealthy for her – which is perfectly true, as far as it goes. Had she been ten seconds slower in getting out to our Naval launch, I think it could have been quite severely fatal. Interestingly, Miss Devinski used almost exactly the same words on that subject as had Mr. Sapohatan, which gives me cause to wonder just how close our Tutors are with the local Government. Furthermore, the news of Soppy’s departure seems to have reached Songmark before we were officially told ourselves – and the news of a much-coveted vacancy was out on the telegraph wires as fast as the operator could key it.

            I had not really considered how one applies to join Songmark, my dear Father having arranged it for me while I was disconsolate about crashing poor Flying Flea #8 on his glasshouses. It seems there are various Agencies in most parts of the world who have the entry particulars to hand, and only pass on suitable applications to our Tutors.

            Hurrah – Miss Devinski tells us our new chum will not only be from Home, but from a famous Public School. This should certainly raise the tone of the place, to have another chum with a proper education. Back at Saint Winifred’s our teachers prided themselves on raising the right sort of people – qualifications are of course important, but building character is the key to it all.  Helen and Molly disagree – but I simply showed them the newspaper, with the reports of what the Rain Island authorities found in the raid on Doctor Lowenthal’s Cranium Island laboratory last week. Having impressive scientific knowledge and ability is hardly a good thing if used for what he was doing! Most of the villains in our friend Ethyl’s “Weird Tails” pulp magazine are ultra-qualified, but of awfully low character.

Anyway, I am looking forward keenly to Beryl’s arrival. It seems that both she and her family already have aeronautical connections, and are quite famous for it.  Molly says she recognises the name (Beryl Parkesson) from somewhere, but that hardly seems likely.  After all, her family trade (wines and spirits importers) is hardly what one associates with the top-ranking schools of Home!

            And so to bed early – much easier to write in than a swaying hammock in a small boat, with the sea-spray blowing in around the canopy. Still – looking at our timetable, I could wish for another week out, with such agreeable company as the Noenoke family (and especially Tihan). A great pity that we were under a cloud of suspicion until the last week, when Soppy’s abrupt departure paved the way to much friendlier relations with them!

May 9th, 1935

Up early – breakfast at seven every weekday this term, which saves us having to sit in classrooms through the heat of the day. Our Tutors and the second-years have told us what to expect of this term, which is a definite steam bath. 
I cannot really say we were happy to be back - work in the engine sheds is swelteringly hot despite having all the doors open, and we are becoming reacquainted with the sensation of machine oil soaking our fur. Over the Holidays, our Tutors must have borrowed a truck load of hopeless engines from the scrap dealers – such a collection of ruined metal I’ve never seen since trying to repair Flying Flea #4 after its unhappy encounter with the church tower. Getting them actually firing was cheerfully admitted to be unlikely, but we were hard at work just getting the engines to turn over.  Fortunately, I recalled a tip in “Practical Home Torpedo-Bomber User” of taking off the cylinder heads and pouring in smoking hot oil, to expand the cylinder block enough to turn the crankshaft. So full marks for our Dorm, as we begin as we mean to go on!

            Maria arrived at lunchtime, when we were trying hard to clean up – alas, any soaps strong enough to shift old sump-oil, play havoc with one’s fur condition.  Maria looks cheerful and fit – having been out in the open air all holiday, though perhaps with not as much fur exposed to the sun as our Native costumes allowed. It seems that her dear Uncle has her best interests and education at heart as always – this time, he had a delegation awaiting her on the tarmac on her arrival in Italian territory. Quite a holiday – she never saw Rome, as she was whisked straight off on a non-stop tour of the most scenic and remotest flying-boat bases  around the Italian Empire.

            Certainly, everything had been thoughtfully arranged for her – the amphibian aircraft was awaiting her incoming flight with its engines running, and before she had time to put her bags down she was already heading for the coast. While we were exploring the far shores of the Spontoon archipelago, Maria was being shown the furthest Adriatic isles – all very rustic, according to her photographs.

            Happily, our afternoon was given over to swimming classes, something that Molly, Helen and myself have had a lot of practice with recently (and three hours in the water certainly removes the last of the oil taint.) The best beaches of Eastern Island are on the East Coast, and very secluded – the twenty of us happily combining a cooling dip with some aircraft-spotting, as our beach was right at the far end of the runway. Not that we had much time to watch aircraft, as Miss Wildford was launching into the first day with vim and vigour, and kept us hard at work all afternoon.

            We have three afternoons a week down for swimming, which should definitely make a difference. As Miss Wildford points out, it is about the only hard exercise one can do at this time of year without completely overheating – and most of the class were panting hard anyway, after the first hour.

            It seems my dorm are not the only ones to return from a month away visibly altered.  Missy K was showing off her new bathing costume – and indeed, none of her old ones would have fitted.  Though certainly still rounded, she is looking less like a whale and more like a dolphin – she must have easily dropped two dress sizes since Spring term.  One wonders what on earth she can have been doing – certainly, she won all the swimming races with ease.  She is her usual self, however, and moans about having to break in a new dorm member to replace Soppy Forsythe, who she never actually had much time for when she was here.  Still, she is down to running a dorm of two until this Beryl arrives from England – who should use her good education as a civilising influence on Missy K, I hope.

Not only us first-years have changed; Noota and Conchita have turned up with exceedingly short-trimmed fur, looking more like infantry recruits than young Academy ladies. Maria is looking at the style with a certainly calculating air, noting that some young Carabineri of her homeland look quite similar.

            One thing that has sadly stayed the same is the menu here.  One gets used to dining on whole roast fresh-caught fish, as much as anyone would want to eat.  Fish is on the menu tonight, true enough – one sad and lonely fillet cast ashore on a desolate atoll of steaming Poi.  Watching Missy K tear into it like a steam-shovel was another familiar sight I could have done without.  Still, four hours vigorous exercise left us with an appetite that demanded satisfaction. Oh well. Our Gypsy Moths’ engines are built for 86-octane petrol, but can take 70-octane or neat alcohol  in emergency, at the risk of damaging their internals. Dining on Poi, I know how they must feel.

Tuesday 10th May 1935

Back to self-defence classes in the afternoon! This term we are in what looks like an old longhouse a few hundred yards outside the Songmark fence, near the staff bungalows. The end walls are open, letting the prevailing breezes through, which is very welcome as the thermometer read ninety in the shade.

            We started off with some refresher training, with falls and holds – Jasbir quite brilliantly demonstrated what to do against an assailant armed with a pointed stick.  Our former tutors Mr. and Mrs. Fairburn-Sykes have sadly returned to Shanghai, where the local miscreants will surely be as sad to see them arrive as we were to see them leave.

            Miss Blande taught us the more advanced second half of the lesson, with some rather more aggressive moves, which she cautions us would do real damage if applied with full energy. So we slowly “stepped through” the moves, much as we do when learning new dance steps, before putting it together at a realistic pace. Actually, our dance training is proving jolly handy in all sorts of ways – having practiced to improve one’s stamina and balance can be no bad thing whatever the sport.

            Ever the realist, Miss Blande pointed out that in most circumstances, the best defence is a good turn of speed, in an unexpected direction – we are not encouraged to “mix it” except in real emergencies. Still, that explains why we were taught some of the less sporting moves, that Molly shows herself to be already proficient in. For once, her Family background is proving more useful than my own, as she was taught self-defence in quite uncompromising styles by her Father’s employees. The “body-smash” she showed the class is something she credits to Mr. “Knuckles” Maldonado, though our tutor assures us it is in the books under another name.

            Helen was quite philosophical about our training, in the shower – in that half the time we are being taught to think exactly what we are doing and should be doing next, and the rest of the training emphasises automatic action with no time to think.  Not unlike how my cousins describe infantry training, I suppose – one learns the drills that work, and drop into them as the situation demands.

            Madelene X has a lot to say about our “going Native”, even the little we have talked about with our classmates. Those of her family who are not in aeronautics, are Missionaries, and devote their lives to annoying the residents of Tahiti by enforcing Euro dress codes.  The idea of us coming back with oiled fur and the other modifications, is not something she will let pass by without comment. Generally adverse. 

Oh dear. Just a few days ago I was congratulating myself on having Beryl arriving as our replacement.  I fear I was rather premature – we may have received a replacement for Soppy, but not an improvement.

            Miss Devinski called Missy K and myself to her office after breakfast, informing us to pick up our new comrade from the docks, her flight being due in at ten. Missy K will of course be her dorm leader (and even when Soppy was here, complained about being the only dorm of three rather than four) and I supposed I was sent along to provide a familiar type of face and an accent Beryl can understand. Missy K’s Spontoonie accent is rather strong, and she talks fast and slangily, not too concerned for our comfort. At least, that was my idea of why I was on the welcoming committee, though remembering our Tutor’s decidedly amused expression, I have my doubts.

            From the travel schedule we were given, it seems Beryl left Home quite as abruptly as I did myself – she was all set to return for her final term when she diverted half way across the planet to Songmark.  Missy K was muttering dark things in Spontoonie about being “stuck with another stuck-up Euro”, unaware that I now speak quite a bit of her language. Having asked our Tutors last term, I had been surprised to learn that there IS no official dictionary or phrasebook of their languages by Spontoonies themselves, only more-or-less-accurate ones written by outsiders to their culture. Of those, attempts such as the rough guide that Soppy had are neither comprehensive nor quite correct. Folk who want to learn enough Spontoonie have to be taught by the locals, who seem to make sure there is no pressing need for anyone to do so. Certainly, one hears the locals say things with a smile about some of the louder tourists, that they would hardly say in English.

            Beryl’s flight was on time, a splendidly painted Saunders-Roedeer Sea Spirit in commercial Mixtexican markings.  Of the twenty new arrivals, nineteen were obvious tourists, laden with cameras and the deafeningly loud shirts that Hawaii sells strictly for export only.  Beryl stood out – though a decidedly small-framed mouse, she cleared the way to Customs with a large polo-mallet in a style that I somehow knew I had seen before. As indeed I had. My new comrade was wearing a sun hat with her old school insignia proudly displayed – one that I had seen before on many a stricken hockey field, triumphantly waved from the top of a pile of groaning casualties.

            Dear Diary – Beryl certainly comes from a famous Public School, or should one say an Infamous one.  My new classmate is a survivor of that forcing-ground for the hardier and thornier breed of English Rose, Saint T’s! *  Although she seemed quite friendly and well-spoken, I could not prevent a shiver going down my tail at the memory of her classmates, a yelling, snarling swarm of unwashed savagery whose manicures are based on claw sharpening rather than trimming.

            Beryl is travelling light, with everything accompanying her in the aircraft.  Her two pieces of hold baggage looked at first to be naval kitbags, but despite the markings having been removed, I would wager a week’s allowance on them being official Royal Mail sacks.  Missy K hoisted one on each shoulder with ease (she really looks Quite formidable since trimming down a little) and I offered to carry the croquet mallet. Beryl declined, explaining she had promised her Sports Mistress to lose no opportunity to practice and improve her game, no matter where her wanderings took her. Indeed, she also carries a set of steel balls in a sort of canvas sling, as well as a set of exceedingly sharp pointed steel croquet hoops in a scabbard at her belt.  Handy for swiftly hammering in and setting up anywhere, she assures me, such as parquet floors and polished wooden dance halls with plenty of room to swing a mallet.

            (Later) I had to break the news to my dorm, letting them know just what to expect. Molly gave a whoop, looking highly delighted – she explained she had at last remembered where she had heard the name.  Beryl’s Father was the inspiration for the song “The Man Who Broke The Bank At Monte Carlo” – though unlike in the song, the bank that broke was the one he worked for, whose reserve funds he had “borrowed” for the weekend to gamble with. Not content with that, he went on to later fame as “The Biplane Bandit”, which career brought him into contact with Molly’s social circle.

            Alas for my hopes of the new arrival bringing in some culture! The “culture” her former school possesses is about the same as that grown on jelly plates in microbiology lessons – let us hope it does not prove too infectious.

·         Editor’s note: detailed research to date has failed to conclusively prove just which school Amelia is referring to. Possibly Saint Theresa’s, but probably not.

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