|
edited by Simon Barber 
Summer Holidays 1935 (Note: the diary in question is that of Amelia Bourne-Phipps, only daughter of the Great War general Sir Archibald Bourne-Phipps. Amelia seemsto have been sent off to the Songmark Aeronautical Boarding School For Young Ladies on Spontoon East Island, at rather short notice. The diary is carefully written in the never-popular Lexarc Shorthand
system, which very few people ever became proficient in (certainly, none
of her family.) Amelia translated this in the 1970’s for the benefit of
her granddaughters.)
July 22nd, 1935 Dear Diary – the first entry in what promises to be a relaxing and uneventful two months of holiday. All my classmates have gone home – I waved farewell to Maria and Molly as they boarded the Italian Air Force seaplane yesterday – Songmark was saying farewell to students like a tree shedding leaves in an Autumn gale, as they scattered all across the globe. Helen and myself are the exceptions – as I write, I am comfortably sitting in the shade of the Pandanus palm trees behind Jirry’s family home, just to the East of Haio Beach on South Island. His mother was very pleased to have us over to stay – she says she prefers a full house, and Jirry and his brothers are so often away from home as tourist guides or working with the film crews (not so many films this time of year, as the tourists tend to get in the way by all accounts.) If this is what Mrs. Hoele’toemi thinks of as an empty house, I will need crush-proof suits for a full one! Two of the brothers are here (working at the hotels on the northern beach in the day), the sisters Saimmi and Moeli, and six cousins over from Main Island to man the concession stalls and suchlike on Haio beach, ten minutes walk through the jungle. They have all brought their families over, leaving a round dozen kittens to be looked after through the day. Of course, I offered to pay for our room and board – but Mrs. Hoele’toemi would not hear of it, pointing out I am Family now. Strictly speaking I am only Tailfast to Jirry, but I did not feel much like arguing the issue with the lady of the house. Anyway, all morning I was helping Moeli with the kits and cubs, all of whom are mercifully asleep for their mid-day snooze. Certainly a relaxing time of things – that is, looking after cubs is hardly dull, but really nothing to worry about. Not the sort of thing one learns in Songmark, nor back at St. Winifred’s, either. Having half a dozen crawling around me and snoozing on me wherever they reach is a most … peculiar sensation. (Later) Moeli helped me into fullest Native costume in the heat of the day, oiled fur and all. My Songmark shirt and shorts are neatly folded up and packed in my tin trunk (very necessary around here in the humid heat) and I hardly expect to be wearing them this side of September – somehow, that feels a somewhat reassuring thought. Helen seems rather less enthralled by sitting around chatting and burping cubs as needed, and has gone off to the beach. Moeli persuaded me to match her costume, which is certainly the coolest I have worn – a grass skirt, a flower in my head-fur, sandals on my paws and Jirry’s Tailfast ring in its locket comprising literally the whole ensemble. In her case it proved highly practical, especially when the kittens were hungry. To judge from her expression, she definitely enjoys the experience. By her account, Moeli sees her husband and their daughter every few days, and promises to introduce me to the rest of that side of the family. Considering her daughter resembles them entirely as regards her looks, I asked if the reverse ever happened – it might be embarrassing for the Natives of No Island to discover they had a cub unable to swim! Moeli merely laughed, and explained that it was very much an all-or-nothing business, and that her husband’s family line is what one might say quite overwhelming. As
evening fell and the cousins reclaimed their kits, Mrs. Hoele’toemi showed
me round the family grounds with the various longhouses tucked in the jungle,
each with its own garden-plot waist high with vegetables. She pointed out
a small but comfortable one, and hinted rather broadly that I might learn
native “housekeeping” in a few days well enough to move in. Helen, the
Hoele’toemi sisters and the cousins are all cramped together with me in
the women’s hut, that being the one very decorously fitted for the younger
daughters and relations of the tribe – a little breathing space would be
nice. July 24th, 1935 An excellent day! I have been taking lessons with Moeli and her mother as to looking after the guest longhouse – and they have passed me with flying colours as to keeping it tidy. Still, having passed Home Economics at St. Winifred's and satisfied the most scathing of our tutors atSongmark, it would be a poor show if I failed on this test. It is a good thing Maria was not the one being tested though – she had an awful first Songmark term breaking the habits of a lifetime where there were always maids around to pick things up after her, and frequently declared that if she had wanted to scrub a floor or iron a shirt she would have joined the Army. Apart from the house and garden, there are fascinating rituals that Saimmi is teaching me – small ones that take very little time, but which definitely add structure to the day. It all makes a lot more sense when surrounded by the forest, rather than having her explain them from a book on Casino Island. Helen seems less content with our lot – I have pointed out that she can lie on the beach all day if she really wants to, and I doubt very much if the Hoele’toemis will throw her out for not doing her chores. Her reply was that she should be out flying – not wiping kit’s backsides. I would hardly turn down a chance to get in the air myself, but we have been doing that most of the summer, and a change is as good as a rest. Just as the whole family was sitting down to lunch, Jirry arrived! He had been away guiding tourists on Main Island, which is only open to guided tours outside the main villages. It is South Island that really takes the sight-seeing traffic, just as Casino Island handles the nightlife and Eastern Island most of the commerce. A very fine afternoon at Haio Beach catching up on things – even the Natives who I have not been introduced to, seem to know who I am, and their gaze frequently lingers on the lockets we both wear. Although I had to somewhat cover up on the beach (there being Euro tourists about) everything felt distinctly natural, and indeed I felt as relaxed as I have been in ages. (Written
by lantern light)
July 25th, 1935 So much for our quiet holiday! Things were going SO well until lunchtime today – just as I was about to put out the lights last night, I was very happy to discover the longhouse is perfectly suited for two. Jirry arrived, and indeed I was exceedingly pleased to see him. He was quite as pleased with how things had turned out (admitting his Mother seemed to be very keen on the idea as well) and a very pleasant evening ensued. And a most pleasant morning, for that matter. Well, we ARE Tailfast, after all. It was a new experience, waking indoors in such a situation – one I could get very used to, and one I think would meet with universal approval around here. Jirry mentioned he had a week off, and we made plans for some trips around the island, and even to visit his kin on Orpington Island. Quite a holiday indeed! We rejoined the rest of the Hoele’toemi clan at lunchtime – and I fear my tail must have drooped to the ground when I saw who the company was that had arrived last night. A familiar greying ferret was there – of course, I had volunteered our services to Mr. Sapohatan, and he had accepted the invitation last week – but it was rather a shock to see him in person right then. Farewell holiday plans – we have the equivalent of our call-up papers, despite nothing ever being written down. (Note
to myself – I had talked to Helen about it seeming rather odd, him being
the only person of Authority we ever get to meet. She pointed out that
the locals are hardly going to introduce us to the entire Department or
whatever it is he is part of. He is the only one we ever contact, which
of course is much better from their point of view.)
It is a small world – when I met the Guide’s School training in these jungles, I little suspected we would be joining them not two weeks later. Joining them is the aim, but they are doing their best not to be found – Mr. Sapohatan explained that they had a training programme to get through, and they need an opposing side in a hide-and-seek game very like the ones our Tutors already started us on. Further, he pointed out that they like to find non-natives if possible to test their Guide’s skills – something about folk with the same training thinking too much alike. Actually,
it is more complex than just spotting folk in the jungle – we have to track
them, spot them and try and run them down to “tag” them – quite exhausting
in the heat, and certainly a sport suited to native costume. We were very
glad of our hard work last term in the dance, swimming and running competitions,
as many of the junior Guides put up an awful struggle. Of course they were
not allowed to actually “resist arrest” when we caught them, but leading
us over quicksand patches and through thorn bushes is fair game. Tomorrow
we are warned there will be more of a challenge – just giving us time to
pull out the thorns in time for our next ordeal. All this hunting is quite
fun, actually, and it certainly keeps us in tip-top condition! July 28th, 1935 Dear Diary – this hunting game is getting definitely on the rough side; what we discovered yesterday was the “Guides” are now allowed to work on the Main Island course beforehand, and lay some surprises for us. When I ran flat-out into my first rope stretched at ankle-height in the long grass yesterday I thought it might just have been the remains of some untidy camp site – but when Helen went flying over another one, we got the idea. By the end of the day I had spotted two brushwood “deadfalls”, not dangerous solid log ones indeed but certainly the thought was there. One assumes these Guides might be training to keep their charges safe should anyone insist on going somewhere like the Krupmark Islands. Actually, I have asked the Guides about their routes – there are six boys and two girls, all a year or so younger than us in the group. One of the girls, Violobe, did a “double-take” when she heard my name. She was one of those I rescued (well, contributed to the rescue of) from that yacht back in the Influenza epidemic. She tells us that official Guides start off on tour boat groups in the more “civilised” bits of the Islands – only senior Guides show small groups parts of Main Island, or are hired to go further afield. Nobody goes to Krupmark – from what I had heard before, I supposed it was one of those places where the Police have to go around in pairs. Back home in Barsetshire that happens too, but only because otherwise they would have nobody to talk to all day. By Violobe’s account there is scarcely any Police there at all, and if law enforcement really wanted to go there they would have to go in as Companies behind an artillery barrage. Possibly she exaggerates. At any rate, it is widely regarded as a place where nobody goes – or at least, the folk who do, are there for reasons they do not talk about. On the way back we made an interesting discovery, just south of Lukapa Village on a natural terrace looking out over South Island. There was an overgrown footpath that seemed very broad and regular, running quite smoothly across the hillside. Not till we found a substantial little stone bridge over a ravine did we recognise it for what it was – the remains of a light railway, being quite swallowed by jungle. To judge from the width it must have been a very light one indeed, barely two-foot gauge and single tracked. Under the bridge Helen found an old cast-iron plaque, barely legible even after she had scraped the moss away. “Spontoon Islands Light Railway, Lukapa Plantation Line completed 1895 – Chief Engineer Mr. Hornby Doublo.” A sad sight in a way – the main road (if one
can call it that) runs much nearer the sea these days, and takes all the
traffic. Still, one imagines before motor lorries it would have been an
awful task getting carts around some of the slopes, and crossing the spine
of Main Island to reach the coast would have been worse still. Although
even the railway would have trouble if it had to go over the top without
expensive tunnels and cuttings – possibly a reason they no longer run on
Spontoon. I had noticed what was obviously a station building in Main Village,
but these days it is a Poi processing shed. Not an improvement, in my opinion. July 29th, 1935 A tiring morning in full Summer heat, chasing a different group of Guides around the Southern mountain slopes of Main Island. A very scenic area, with waterfalls and lakes for a welcome lunchtime swim. It is certainly a “(bath)Room with a view”, bathing in a lake basin perched a thousand feet up the side of the mountain. There being no tourists or Euros around, watching the Guides plunging in we discovered that the traditional Native bathing costume is conspicuous by its absence. Helen joined them without delay – and after a brief twinge of scruples I followed her. It was a very fine lunch-break, looking out over South Island spotting a tour-boat coming in, possibly from New South Zion, or perhaps the German year-round winter resort of Neue Suden Thule in the Antarctic. Certainly, the regular tours tend to come in from the North or East of Eastern Island. Watching a Lufthansa Do-X flying past, I mentioned the surprise I had witnessing the arrivals last week of the Soviet formation – all the more so because they were automatically disqualified under the Schneider Trophy rules. (The pilots and “racing” aircraft were military, or at least they had not declared themselves as civilians.) It seemed an awfully long way to travel, knowing one would not be able to take the prize home. Quite a hot debate fired up amongst the Guides – one would not have thought tourist leaders followed the overseas diplomatic situation so intensively. One pointed out that although the natural target would be Vostok, buzzing Spontoon a thousand miles further from the Red Russian bases is a more spectacular demonstration. Especially since the world’s Press is lined up and ready to witness their new abilities. Presumably, Ioseph Starling cannot “demonstrate” against Vostok without provoking immediate war, and if he did manage to overfly them without a fight, they would probably deny it to the rest of the world. Still, it has ruffled a lot of fur and feathers here on Spontoon even so, and even these peaceful young Guides seem to have already thought it over rather a lot. As we gave them their head start and they vanished into the trees, Helen murmured that I seemed to be getting rather disloyally attached to an island that effectively sneaked out of our Empire while everyone’s back was turned. Which might have been somewhat historically true, but the Spontoon Islands were a rather ill defined Dependency and never had a proper Governor, local postage stamps or any of the formal investments we made in the rest of the Colonies. Still, I must confess it rather nettled me, and I asked her what would happen if, say, Rhode Island decided Ioseph Starling was a fine fellow and democratically voted itself an independent People’s Socialist Republic. She seemed startled at the prospect, and her immediate response was that Flanders 1918 would “think they got it easy” in comparison. (Later) An afternoon of more hide-and-seek, then return home to Haio Village for one of Mrs. Hoele’toemi’s excellent meals. She always insists I get through about a double portion, and fusses a little about how thin we are. Still, six hours a day of desperate chases around jungle trails and mountain slopes is awfully hard work, and I doubt I have put on an ounce all week. Plus of course there is my very nice longhouse for two, and although I come home on the water taxi tired – never that tired. I am quite sure now just how Missy K managed to burn off thirty pounds of “spare fuel” in the Easter holidays, and it was not by chopping firewood. Helen has (almost) lost her objection to looking after kits in the evening – as she says, it makes a change dealing with folk who can only crawl away rather than sprint, and are less likely to lead you over a brush-covered pit (only six inches deep as it turned out, but she still stepped in it). She has discreetly asked me how I am enjoying domestic life – and certainly, I have been enjoying it quite marvellously. She also checked up rather worriedly as to my keeping up with my Precautions – which I could reassure her on. Still – nothing is one hundred percent guaranteed against failure, and I fear I am putting them to rather a severe test. It is certainly something to think about – although watching Moeli playing happily with the village kittens, it occurs to me that it would hardly be the worst thing in the world. It turns out that not all the kits and pups strictly speaking belong to the cousins – two of them are “adopted” you might say. That is, I had commented that they were a very photogenic crowd, at which Moeli winked and assured me that if they develop “film star” good looks later on, it will be no coincidence. All of which would have been highly shocking to me a year ago, but now I can definitely see the point, from both sides of view. |