Dear Diary: I have recorded some shocking things in the past year, but I thought long and hard before deciding to expand on yesterday’s terse yet truthful line. Right now we are back on Mildendo, ready to return to Spontoon. Helen and I have agreed what to tell Mr. Sapohatan, who should be pleased with the overall news – and the rest of it is nobody’s business.

            We waited till dusk on the 29th and followed the road to near Fort Bob – all the traffic gave itself away with headlights long before anyone could see us diving for cover. By full dark we were in our old camp, dropping our heavier equipment and heading into the town under the light of a full tropical moon. A lovely evening at first, rather spoiled by our mood after having to (temporarily) admit defeat – things are not always like in the Talkies, where the heroine swoops in and saves the hero single-handed every time.

            At least, we could put the “tactical withdrawal” to some good use; the food here is really rather good. I cannot say whether the whole community here is as depraved as rumour has it, but they have some wickedly good roadside cooks. That was one worry less – but we still had to confirm where Phoebe is, rescue her and then get her and ourselves off the island at least as far as Mildendo, quite possibly with a hue and cry pursuing us all. This, without any transport or contacts available to get us away – and not even a safe house to retreat to until the locals give up the chase. Just to further dampen our spirits, the moon was soon hidden by clouds promising heavy rain before midnight.

            I did suggest taking a closer look around the airstrip and looking out for any likely “getaway flivvers” as Molly would say, on the grounds that aircraft here are liable to be stolen property anyway, or at least engaged in shady business – hence there would be nothing really morally wrong with “acquiring” one. Helen squashed that notion straight away, pointing out that over here (a) aircraft come and go unannounced, leaving us no guarantee what might be available when we need it (b) on this island nobody is at all likely to leave unattended cabin doors unlocked and aircraft ready to fly, and (c) the locals are very prone to shoot first and ask questions later, if at all.

            We had reached rather an impasse, and our tails were definitely drooping – there being no point in taking awful risks getting Phoebe away from The Beach if we all get recaptured an hour later. Just then, at the end of the street I spotted a silhouette that had my heart pounding and Helen growling as I pointed it out. There are plenty of tall stags, but very few with such distinctive two-pronged antlers. I could hardly believe it – but Lars Nordstrom was there, no doubt taking advantage of unfussy local Regulations for his Import and Export business.

            Just to be safe, we waited till he had vanished around one corner before heading the other way around the building to check nobody was following us. All was clear – and a minute later I was greeting a very surprised stag, who very creditably guided us away from listening ears on the street to a private office, before sitting us down and asking in amazement what we were doing here.

            Honesty is the best policy – although I could hear Helen gritting her teeth, we had nothing to lose by telling him the plain truth about our mission (except, of course, our connection with the Spontoon Authorities.) When I mentioned that Mrs. Critchley had pointed us the right way, he gave rather a start – evidently she is well-known for being famous, as they say. But then, as the only missionary on the island, that is hardly unexpected.

            Lars really looked very dashing in a flight suit – he explained that he was organising some high-value shipments of certain things that needed his personal attention. However, he hoped to have that arranged by the next day, after which he promised to make inquiries and see what he could find out. It was a great relief, to have not only a friendly face on the island, but one who is already well-known here, and has his own transport! Even better, he offered us the use of the back room in his office, where there are Native sleeping mats rolled up. He was very apologetic as he pointed out they are used by the hired help on night duties – but it was hammering with rain outside, and the thought of half an hour’s trek through the dripping jungle in the dark was something we had been trying to put off. There is a spirit stove and a coffee pot – so although he had to leave us to finish his business, I thought we had fallen on our feet in the truest feline style!

            Helen was less than keen about the whole thing, pointing out that even in our leaking palm-roofed shelter in the bamboo grove, we are hidden and have free action in all directions. Quite true – but she had been the first one to realise that our “free action” is of very little use right now – we had come to a dead end on our own, and definitely need some help to get any further. The offer of free accommodation and coffee was jolly nice, and I felt honour bound to point it out.

            A rather tense night, with Helen insisting we stay up in shifts with pistols ready – I suppose that on the whole we managed more sleep than we would have half way up a tree in the jungle. When dawn arrived and no packs of henchmen had arrived to capture us, I could wake her with a pot of Lars’ fresh coffee and cheerfully tell her so.

            Really, Helen can be quite bad-tempered first thing in the morning.

            About nine, we heard the key in the lock – two seconds later we were at each side of the door with pistols drawn, but it was only Lars who strolled in, looking quite relaxed and rather pleased with himself. He seemed to take very little notice of the fact we were both armed and ready – indeed, he complemented Helen on her caution in this neighbourhood. Presumably, in his business a lot of folk go armed most of the time – and even so, Molly has assured me there are no bullet-holes anywhere in his hide (given his rather scanty Native dance costume, I had gained that impression already.)

            Lars announced that he would be paying a call on Mrs. Critchley – and his urgent business should be over by lunchtime, so he would see what he could do after that. In the meantime, he suggested we either lie low and rest, or head out of town entirely for the morning – it being definitely risky to wander around the streets, as folk might compare notes and notice we are not in fact working for any Boss after all. Definitely, Helen agreed that we head for the hills: she has a definitely suspicious nature, and is happiest with a clear view of several miles with no corners for unpleasant surprises to hide behind.

            An hour later, we were on top of the main hill of Krupmark Island, which is nameless on our large-scale maps. I suppose Father would have called it Point 980, after the altitude on our aerial navigation chart – at any rate, there is a good view down to Fort Bob and the airstrip. We could see the docks about a mile away on the South coast – and the only road that even a Model T Ford could negotiate crosses the island’s “Capital” and finishes up at The Beach, out of sight from us at the Western end. A very solid reef fringes the island, with no marker buoys that we can see with field glasses – evidently the locals want only visitors who already know where they are going. This also makes Krupmark a rather secure island, whether against invaders or escapers – apart from one artificial hole in the reef, the only way in or out is through the carefully guarded airstrip.

            Although Helen’s expression was rather as if she was coughing up a furball, she admitted that we could either go along with Lars or return to Spontoon and pass on a very inconclusive report that I doubt Mr. Sapohatan or anyone would be very impressed with. Furthermore, even getting away might be rather tricky – If we meet Captain Panapa again, I have definite visions of him demanding all our money and then cheerfully turning us over to whatever local Authority deals with uninvited visitors. So Helen rather ruefully agreed to accept Lars’ help while we can – though adding she would keep her eyes wide open and her holster unbuttoned.

            After a few hours exploring and mapping the island, we headed back towards Fort Bob – again, stepping out of the jungle near the airstrip and sauntering up the road as if we owned it. The military manuals would dictate advancing in rushes between breaks of cover – but in the circumstances I would re-title that idea “how to attract unwelcome attention in 1 easy lesson.” Still – nothing ever goes entirely to plan, as we soon found out.

            We had just got into town when three rather ragged individuals with rifles on their backs stopped us and demanded we hand over “Arrival tax” immediately – pointing out that we could claim it back from the Boss if we felt like it. Definitely split-second decision time – had they been in any sort of uniform I would have paid up on principle, not wanting to avoid attention. But one of them rather leered at Helen, and pointed out we could pay part of her tax in services rendered.

            Oh dear. Wrong thing to say to Helen (and to me, for that matter). Had any of the three been carrying their rifles ready in their paws we would not have risked it – but Helen “Saw Red” and I followed about a heartbeat later. Our self-defence instructors, the Fairburn-Sykes, did repeatedly say that the two sorts of fights we should avoid at all costs were fair ones and long ones. Helen’s interviewer went right down with a dent in her solar plexus that would have made a medicine ball plead mercy, and the one in front of me was wide open to a “Glasgow Two-step”. That left the third one, a mongrel canine “gentleman” going for his rifle – and greatly to my surprise, I discovered that the rather cinematic “Legionnaire’s Trick” actually works surprisingly well. The whole thing was over in ten seconds – I was amazed, and very slightly horrified at just how our training kicks in.

            Still – that left us with three floored natives, who we quickly pounced on and relieved of their rifles and a rather nasty-looking stiletto that one had in her boot. In the films, the thing to do would be to tie them up in an alleyway – but there was no time, and we beat a hasty retreat by roundabout routes to Lars’ office, where he was awaiting us.

            There was good news and bad news. The good news was that he had contacted Mrs. Critchley and got all her information, and her promise to help – and the bad news, that there really IS an “Arrival Tax” that one or another of the crime bosses that run Krupmark collect at random from new faces. Whatever their manners, we have effectively assaulted the local Police! But still – he seemed highly amused at our account, and told us that the trio in question were not likely to run to their Boss complaining that two girls had flattened the three of them in fair fight and stolen their weapons. It does make our walking around Fort Bob in these costumes rather more hazardous, however.

            This rather cuts down our options – we all agreed that we would have to make our move immediately, or the risk of discovery would get far too great.

            (Later) Lars vanished for an hour and reappeared around teatime with two of his trusted lieutenants, Mr. Pikida and Mr. Sstabek – very impressive-looking gentlemen, being of Falcon and Komodo Dragon stock respectively.  He introduced us, and mentioned they would “mind the store” while he headed out for some in-depth reconnaissance to The Beach that night. Exactly what plan we could come up with, depends of course on what he could find out there.

            An interesting evening followed – we sat up playing cards with Lars’ colleagues, who are great poker players. They made quite a contrast, what with Boto (Mr. Pikida) with his finely groomed feathers and Sarda (Mr. Sstabek) in gleaming polished scales – both wearing the loose shirts and shorts that folk commonly wear here. I have hardly seen a grass skirt or head-dress since leaving Mildendo, and they were few and far between even there.

            Helen and I had a more restful night, as although we rigged various alarms after Lars’ colleagues had left, she did not insist on staying up on watch.

            Lars did not appear till mid-morning – he looked definitely fatigued, and announced that things looked rather discouraging. The good news is – he has found Phoebe Carsholton! The bad news is, that he had little opportunity to do more than pass her a note – as she is in the large house on the front with the lavender door, and he explained briefly what that meant.

            As if that was not enough, he says The Beach is the exclusive property of one of the other Bosses here, who would take great exception to what he would see as theft of his assets. There are a dozen “Bouncers” at all times there, who keep order and can radio for heavier assistance, as we suspected. Assuming we could get Phoebe out, there is only the one road, and we would certainly meet the reinforcements coming the other way.

            Still – he says he has a loose plan, which will need us both to work – and although he is very keen on rescuing Phoebe, he is less keen on being identified to The Beach’s owner as the one responsible – which is fair enough. After all, Lars has business interests here, whereas we will be happy if we never hear of Krupmark again. He suggested we discuss the matter with Mrs. Critchley, who he says is experienced in this sort of business. A capital idea!

            As soon as dusk fell we headed across town to one of the finer houses, rather well funded for a Mission here I would have thought. In fact, it was quite luxuriously laid out. Mrs. Critchley greeted us soberly, and thanked us for our efforts – though she warned that the hardest bit was still to come. Although there was a plan that Lars had sketched out, a lot of it would still rely on making the most of whatever luck we had – happily, being able to think fast on your paws is just the sort of thing Songmark trains us for.

            With our sketch maps we went over the “raid” planned for that very night – Lars has already dispatched his flying boat to land in the lagoon half a mile or so from The Beach, where it should have been secured before dark. Boto and Sarda are flying it – the trouble is, that the aircraft only takes two average sized passengers in comfort, with three possible with a squeeze and no full fuel tanks. His employees would guard the aircraft till we arrive with Phoebe, at which point Lars can fly her and one other out and they can make their way cross-country at their leisure back to Fort Bob.

            Quite a thrill! Mrs. Critchley mentioned that we would need disguises, of one sort or another. Although the “bouncers” she mentioned rarely go about armed with more than a Billy club against rowdy customers, they have more weapons available, and are liable to use them against obvious interlopers. By her account none are chosen for their razor wits, and there is quite a turnover of staff there; if properly dressed we have a chance of not being challenged unless one meets us snout to snout and starts asking questions. So unless Helen and myself are going to dress and act as customers, there is really only one disguise we can use if we are going to go in there. When in Rome, et cetera.

            Helen’s tail and ears were bristling like wire brushes at the idea – but Mrs. Critchley saved argument by announcing she had nothing that would fit Helen anyway. It seems she had managed to sneak another Unfortunate girl off the island last month, who was about my size – the clothing not being considered suitable to donate to the usual Mission charities. She invited me upstairs to a really quite elaborate boudoir for a Mission, and pulled a rather fetching black costume out of a sandalwood drawer, which we tried for size.

            I must say, the effect was really quite stunning – although I would hesitate to wear it back Home, I have seen showgirls in far less on Spontoon, let alone the Native costume – indeed, it rather resembles Molly’s new dress. Mrs. Critchley fussed and adjusted like a trainer around a racehorse – but overall, the dress fit me as if someone had measured me for it! I cannot say the shoes were comfortable, though – definitely they are not designed for much walking in, though I gained an elegant five inches in rather precarious height. Half an hour’s practice was not nearly enough to gain confidence walking in them – though it was a rather fascinating experience. Very different indeed from our usual Adventuring boots with their clinker-nailed soles and steel toecaps (useful in the workshops if an engine drops on your toes. I have the impression the ones Mrs. Critchley buckled me into, are not intended for much outdoor use.)

            One thing I had to reluctantly agree on – Mrs. Critchley spotted my Tailfast locket, which she says would never do – it stands out like an Iron Cross on a British uniform. So that had to go into my flight bag in her care, until we are out of danger again. I must say, taking off one shell necklace made me feel far less dressed than anything else; apart from bathing I have not removed it since the day Jirry and I exchanged lockets. I felt very different indeed – not recognising myself at all in the full-length mirror as Mrs. Critchley groomed me and announced that I should pass muster. One assumes she has had much experience with Unfortunates, in her profession.

            Half an hour later we were piled into an old Ford lorry jolting along the rough track, Lars driving without telltale lights and Helen and myself keeping a sharp lookout in the back. I notice that vehicles here tend not to have registration plates – possibly so their previous owners have problems identifying them (my Webley-Fosbury revolver that Helen looked after for the evening, seems likewise to have lost its serial number somewhere in its career.) Helen nodded towards our driver with her teeth gritted somewhat, and whispered that if he really manages this rescue she will have to change her opinions of him – but she’d be ready to lose a large bet on it.

            Leaving the lorry pulled off the road about two hundred yards from The Beach, we quietly closed the distance (bare pawed and shoes in hand, in my case) and had one final briefing. Helen took up her position at the back of the lavender house, ready to escort Phoebe up the beach to the waiting aircraft as soon as we could arrange it. Despite the rather scanty costume I was hardly chilled at all, indeed being quite shivering with nervous excitement – very like my cousins described being ready to go “over the top” into the unknown.

            With a quick wave to Helen, we strolled casually around the front, to the building next to the one Phoebe seems to be in – the wooden houses are spaced about a yard apart, with unlit alleyways between them. Lars pointed up and whispered that he had told Phoebe to be at a particular window ready to leave, as soon as she could – but we would have to get up onto the second floor opposite to see it.

            A bold approach is always best, according to Molly’s “True Crimes Illustrated” – and Lars strolled in as if he owned the place, gesturing for me to wait outside. About a minute later he waved me in, whispering that he had checked the coast was clear. Inside was a hallway with something like a hotel reception area, with a rough-looking gorilla reading a sporting journal behind the counter, who gave us hardly a glance as we went upstairs together, a difficult task indeed in those shoes. At least I am leaving no fingerprints; the gloves are very stylish and shoulder-length, even preventing me shedding any telltale fur from there.

            Then – a most surprising encounter – a tipsy lynx girl reeled out of one of the rooms, and collided with me. She took a deep sniff and laughed rather shockingly – before either of us could react she had pulled a perfume sprayer from her bag and doused me, before dancing off downstairs. I could not help but get a snout full of the perfume, a rather nice tingling spice like a more herbal ginger.

            I must say, Lars was marvellous – he cautioned me urgently not to breath in, and got us through the next open door into a narrow room where he grabbed a clean pillowcase and doused it in water, before handing it to me as a gas mask and opening the window wide. He reassured me that it would do me no actual harm at all – but that highly refined catnip oil had certain unfortunate effects on felines that has got it banned for public sale over most of the world.

            Happily, the room we had stumbled into was just about where we would have chosen – and one supposes that “Do not disturb” signs on closed doors are wholly superfluous here. Standing with my snout out of the open window, breathing deeply through the soaked cloth, I could see the building opposite, and Lars pointed to the window that we hope to spot our target signalling from. The plan had taken us so far – and all we could do was to stay quiet and await events side by side.

            I must say, from what Lars had said I expected the catnip oil to work somewhat like Nootnops Blue or a big glass of that highly inflammable Arak that I regretted trying at Xmas. Actually, I noticed nothing of the sort – everything was extremely clear and focussed, and indeed every whisker and piece of fur seemed to have come more alive than ever. Some places more than others – I had to sit down, to save embarrassment as I watched Lars carefully checking the exits and listening for signs of trouble. After half an hour or so he courteously sniffed me and announced that the worst of it had worn off, but that I should still try to breath out of the window.

            It was a long wait indeed – more than an hour, with various folk going past outside. I was far less nervous than I had feared – and indeed Lars was the very essence of calm. He mentioned that once any hue and cry started, after the first minute or two there would be little chance of anyone else getting away – whoever was going to reach the aircraft would have to move fast and not look back. Still, he seemed quite unruffled at the idea – I could scent not a hint of worry on him even up close as we both looked out of the window.

            Just then we saw the window opposite open, and a feline head silhouetted against the light – about twenty feet away, in the next building. The plan was for one of us to go over with the wire rope ladder Lars had in his knapsack – and to secure it to get Phoebe down to where Helen was waiting. I would have volunteered, but I was definitely not dressed for climbing over rooftops. So without a word, Lars slipped out over the tiles, jumped the gap between the buildings most gracefully, and moved up to whisper with our rescuee.

            I waited about ten minutes – growing rather alarmed at the delay. Eventually Lars returned, and for the first time ever I saw him with his tail drooping. A most awful change of plan – Phoebe has a friend she has made here, and refuses to leave without her! That “blows everything higher than up” as they say – especially our finely tuned getaway plans!

            Still, the ladder was fixed in position ready to unroll and Helen ready to receive them – I scribbled a note and tossed it out of the window to her, letting her know of the change in circumstances. Definitely we were having to think on our paws, though the waiting (till Phoebe’s mysterious and inconvenient friend was free, I presumed) was exceedingly hard on the nerves – I found myself exceedingly wound-up, jumping at the sound of every creak from the corridor outside. The doors were very flimsy looking, and an assailant such as the gorilla we had seen downstairs could surely charge through them without even breaking stride. Still, there was plenty of noise to cover our moves, with several gramophones playing and the sound of raucous partying from the buildings around.

            It must have been another hour (my costume not having a watch) before I spotted movement again opposite us – Lars was out of the window very smoothly and over to assist. The plan was to get Phoebe and her friend down the ladder, then to follow ourselves. All went well, as Phoebe and a canine girl appeared (of coyote stock, dressed in something like the Red Indian costumes we have seen on North coast Spontoon). They were soon down the ladder despite (rather unwisely) carrying large bags, and I saw them meeting Helen and vanish into the shadows.

            All had gone very well – I was about to shed my shoes and head out to join Lars on the roof, when disaster struck! I heard voices shouting and a whistle blowing from around the front, and suddenly three large shapes with powerful torches were in the alleyway just below us. Lars did the only thing he could do – let go the wire ladder, there being no time to pull it up, and it would have pointed like an arrow towards two suspiciously open windows. He jumped back in and closed our window and curtains, just in time as a torch beam played across the glass. This left us in rather a pickle, to put it mildly.

            I could hear folk banging on doors on the storey below us, evidently working on some well-practised search plan. Being spotted with escape gear and shoes off ready to make a hasty exit would look awfully suspicious – and Lars had whispered that there might be peepholes in some of the walls. It really looked as if we were in for it.

            Dear Diary – I could happily write that I grabbed Lars and embraced him quite passionately for the benefit of a suspicious eye at the door. And I did – there is nothing wrong with play-acting, especially in a good cause. It was five minutes later that I began to register that I had stopped play-acting, and had changed gear entirely – Lars had protested mildly, but very soon folk could have been watching me from all the doors and windows in the place and I would not have been discouraged in the slightest.

            Oh dear.

            Around dawn, the hue and cry had quite died down – Lars told me he had heard the aircraft take off, but I had been far too … preoccupied to notice. I quite see what Molly means about him, now. She is a very fortunate girl. Indeed, he had to almost drag me out of the room, where I was feeling exceedingly comfortable, out into the cool dawn. We managed to find the truck unmolested, and were soon heading towards the second rendezvous point we had agreed on if the plan went wrong. I had no time to do anything but dive into the truck, bare-pawed and squeezed contentedly against him, feeling wonderfully relaxed though rather chilly as we drove along to where the road neared the lagoon and a sheltered cove invisible from directly above.

            Happily, the aircraft was there awaiting us – in fact, everyone was there. Helen had managed marvellously, realising that she had to get everyone away – while Mr. Pikida flew, Phoebe and her friend squeezed into the cockpit and Helen and Mr. Sstabek hung onto the floats. The aircraft had been too heavy to exactly take off, but it had served very well as a high-speed motor boat getting them all well out of reach of their pursuers from The Beach. Our original plan would have been far too risky in terms of getting Lars’ lieutenants away in the face of organised pursuit – had they been seen, even if they had escaped folk might have recognised who their employer is. As it is, they vanished around the corner of the lagoon into the darkness – not even letting the pursuers get a glimpse of the aircraft, which is just as well. Quadriplane floatplanes are rather distinctive, and there cannot be many of this model left flying.

            A brief council of war had us scattering to the four winds – the first priority was to get Phoebe and her friend Hontaho off the island – so they took off for Mildendo piloted by Mr. Pikida in the plane, a very nice floatplane conversion of one of the Pemberton-Billings  Nighthawk series zeppelin interceptors. It was getting quite light, so Helen and I took cover under a tarpaulin in the back of the lorry for the trip back to town while Lars and Mr. Sstabek drove in the cab. They are familiar faces in Fort Bob, but since our run-in with the local “police” we have to stay as invisible as possible.

      I think Helen must have noticed something – she had been sniffing me quite suspiciously, and being in close quarters under a tarpaulin is no way to hide the scent of catnip or anything else. She had looked Lars over quite thoroughly too, but seemed satisfied there – only then did I realise that I would have scratched him half to pieces in enthusiasm had I not been wearing gloves with paw-tips that seem to be specially reinforced for the job. The ensemble is quite the opposite to Helen’s in every way – with shoes that only work indoors and gloves that prevent me from clawing. I hope it is just the after-effects of the catnip, but I found the idea far less disturbing than I think I probably should do.

            That night we piled into the back seat of the Nighthawk behind Lars and quietly left Krupmark, hopefully never to return. I am writing this back in our room at the Stone Bure on Mildendo Island where we arrived before midnight, happily finding everything had been set up for our arrival. Mrs. Critchley had arranged it all with Lars; she turned up this morning, with the helpful news that she has contacted Phoebe’s relatives, and let them know she is safe.  Rather stretching a point, she informed them that Phoebe has been helping at the mission here (even folding a tablecloth could be defined as “helping” and no mention of how long for) – and that she had only just heard of the alarm and search for her. Which is perfectly true, as far as it goes, and might save a lot of embarrassing questions from being asked.

            We have met Phoebe and Hontaho only briefly – the shocking thing is, they do not seem particularly grateful to be rescued! The impression one gets, is that we had “blown her cover” as they say in the detective books, and made it impossible for them to stay once we found out where they were. Of course, Phoebe did not say that out loud – but did comment that her Guardians had tracked her down again, and would be packing her away somewhere respectable for the year.

            It is very puzzling – Helen says she would like a long talk with Phoebe, as there are quite a few things in the story that refuse to fit. To hear Phoebe describe it, The Beach was a far more … equable establishment than we had thought. But in that case, why was there such a hot pursuit? Alas, we are heading out tomorrow and Phoebe is waiting here in Toonabo Town till she is collected - so I doubt we will get the chance. I asked if they were in need of funds, but for some reason they seemed to find that highly amusing.

            I must say, Phoebe looked very different, dressed to match Hontaho in very Red Indian style, buckskin-fringed skirt and such. She seems to be very happily “gone Native” for the few days she expects to be left in peace, and I commented that they looked like two very contented Indian squaws.

            Helen whispered that “Squaw” does not exactly mean what it is usually used for in the Cowboy films, and is rather more specifically biological. One lives and learns – but I think I was right, either way.

4th September, 1935

Farewell to Mildendo! Lars had to return to his Business interests on Krupmark yesterday, and left us promising to see us on Spontoon. Helen looked after his retreating back with a very puzzled expression, I thought. I found myself quite down in the dumps to see him go, after all his selfless help on this trip. After all, he has gone to such trouble to arrange everything for us!

            Indeed, it is something of a letdown – although we completed our mission totally successfully, it did not turn out at all as either of us expected. Returning to Spontoon, we have to think about what to tell, and to whom.

            Thinking of which – although Mrs. Critchley returned my Tailfast locket to me yesterday, I have been hesitating to wear it. I fear I have rather spoiled being Tailfast – not “with malice aforethought” as they say, but at the time it was definitely my own idea (Lars did indeed protest somewhat, though I was in no mood to argue.) Discovering I can have such behaviour is most alarming – it is as if our Tiger Moth aircraft had a supercharger that switched straight into about twenty pounds of boost, and stayed locked full on till the fuel ran out – quite out of control, but an incredible ride while it lasts.

            Helen says I should blame the catnip – she recognised the scent on my fur immediately, and confesses that she tried it once herself. But never again – she says she manages perfectly well without letting any herb extracts make her decisions for her. Still, I can see how Phoebe might have found it useful to keep up her interest in the circumstances.

            If deciding what to tell Jirry was not hard enough, in less than two weeks Molly will be back asking how we enjoyed our holidays. I did promise to keep a close eye on Lars, but I doubt she meant THAT close. That was definitely not in the plans – and worse, being Tailfast and far away from Jirry for the trip, I had no plans for any Precautions either. Fortunately my calendar saved me – the only thing that did. I know Jirry’s family would be very happy to see a kitten, but presenting them one with horns might be rather stretching their hospitality!

            One thing I am trying hard to regret, is that with catnip one knows exactly what one is doing – and can remember it in great detail. As Madelene X often remarks, “Vive la Difference” – and Lars, Jirry and Tihan certainly are very different gentlemen in many respects. For one embarrassing instant I had an image of myself with one of those medical pamphlets I was shown by that lady doctor from Casino Island, marking off ticks for the various species types like my brother does in catalogues for his stamp collection. Definitely not a notion for a well brought-up girl to pursue! I will try hard to forget it, but am having no luck so far.

            (Later) We are back afloat, an hour out on the evening departure for Spontoon. Helen is being no more seasick than usual – that is to say, if she swallowed enough water the fire station could use her as a pump. I felt somewhat more cheerful in the fresh air on deck with Mildendo vanishing below the horizon. One wonders how many success stories in the History books are simplified that way to hide embarrassments? After all, we have completed our mission, returned alive and well, and put some local crime chief’s nose severely out of joint. I think we did, anyway. I have acquired a jolly good sidearm and a dress that would cost many pounds over the counter at Rachorska’s – the shoes I was definitely glad to leave behind.

5th September, 1935

Back in familiar waters, with less than a fortnight of holiday left to enjoy. The ship’s bell awoke us at dawn (we had quite slept through the midnight stop at Orpington) and we emerged rubbing our eyes to see the familiar skyline of Spontoon Main Island on the horizon. I fear Helen is poor company on any boat trip, especially at meal times. No complaints myself, the cook does such marvels with such a tiny galley, that I had to ask her for the recipes for her specialities (chicken-fried steak and steak-fried chicken.) At least Helen’s sense of humour is intact; she was speculating if she can get a discount on the boat ticket for her meals – strictly speaking, anything she eats in a rolling ocean swell like this is not exactly consumed, but borrowed. It all comes back.

            We had an hour or so to pack and get ready before swinging round past the sand spits and whirlpools of the Eastern passage and heading across the lagoon towards Casino Island. I noticed workmen at the tip of Eastern Island taking down big checkerboard-marked pylons – and we realised we had totally missed the Schneider Trophy races! An awful blow, spending all August in these waters and missing out on THE Spontoon event of the year  – the other girls will never let us live it down.

            Certainly, things will have changed since we left; Miss Pelton is no longer Miss Pelton, but Mrs. someone – I could not recall her fiancé’s family name, if indeed we were ever told it. I do recall being told that Miss Wildford would be taking on a more senior role to replace her, having after all been on the scene since Songmark was founded. Maybe we will hear something more about her – it would be interesting to see her relatives, and discover where she gets that fur pattern from. Helen has always maintained our dear Tutor is a good customer for the cosmetic dye industry.

            Helen looked out at the liners departing, and murmured that all around the world, prospective First-year Songmark girls are packing their steamer trunks. Indeed, any relying on scheduled sea travel all the way from Europe, might already be on their way! A frightening prospect. We are going to be uncomfortably sandwiched this year, between having the awful responsibility of looking after the “new bugs” as they call them at my Brother’s school, and still being sat on by the third-years just as much as ever.

            Still – whatever happens next month, it was good to see the islands again. It’s great to be back!

next