(Written under a palm tree, Haio Beach, South Island)
Dear Diary – it’s amazing what one can get done in a day. Yesterday we shed our Adventuring costume for respectable Native guise, and headed for South Island by the first water-taxi available. We had telegraphed from Mildendo (they have a wireless telegraph, which works – sometimes) of our arrival, and Mrs. Hoele’toemi was on the Hotel Bay beach along with Saimmi and Jirry to meet us. A postcard was on its way to Post Box Nine, not that I suppose they need to be told of our return – but to keep in their good books we had best keep in touch.

            Thinking of which – happily, I can report that my Tailfast locket is around my neck again. As is Jirry’s – he had kept his own for me. I confessed everything – although there were some parts of the story he seemed very disturbed by, he seemed more sympathetic than shocked about what I had done with a snout full of catnip. He seemed far more concerned with the exact details of how I had been dosed with it, and had me drawing in the sand exact positions and timings of everyone involved.

            Still, we are happily Tailfast again – as I write, Jirry is taking a much-deserved siesta. As a Guide, he has been showing dozens of folk around the remoter parts of the island, and admits that some of the lady Euro tourists are persistent and determined to do more than they will write about on the postcards. I can quite understand it – the jokes about “school ma’ms” behaviour on holiday two thousand miles from home are definitely based on truth. Both of us are what one could call on Active Service – and what we have to do as part of that can cover an awful lot.

            There is news from Casino Island – it seems our pal Beryl “bankrolled” half a dozen of her former school friends to come out here, much to the dismay of the Casino authorities and everyone else. Knowing Beryl, I would not be surprised to find out there was some profit-sharing scheme agreed before anyone broke out of Saint T’s. Four of them have been accounted for, having been caught and deported in time – but two are still evading capture. I feel rather like pointing them towards Krupmark Island, and sitting back to watch the fireworks from well over the horizon.

            The Schneider Trophy races went very well, with no serious crashes this year and some record-breaking performances. The Italians came second, with one of those odd hydrofoil based racers that sit as low in the water as a canoe at rest. The trouble is, even the best pilots have an awful time at take-off switching between the water and airscrews at fifty knots – half of the takeoffs turned out to be “splashdowns” instead. Still, I wish I could have seen them making the attempt. For the first time in years the French team won, with an aircraft powered by the top-secret “Radium” engine that put out more than two and a half thousand horsepower, according to the team! Helen has commented that my predictions tend not to turn out too accurately, but agrees with one of them - Madelene X will be insufferable this term. Britain came third, but (for the first time) using nothing but a slightly customised Service fighter plane, which should cause a few foreign military tails to fluff in alarm.

            Although I missed a lot, I am very happy to be received back with Jirry and his family, despite everything – I am very contented, right now, and hope it will last. As that poem we had to learn at St. Winifred’s has it, “A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou.” Substitute breadfruit and Nootnops Blue for the bread and wine, and there you have it!

7th September, 1935

I should have known it was too good to last – troops returning from the Front get a week’s home leave, but we had scarcely two days. I returned from my morning swim with Helen, Jirry and Marti to find a postcard waiting at Mrs. Hoele’toemi’s house – there is no signature or return address, but an invitation to meet this evening and discuss our mission. I think we know who THAT is from.

            After a few minutes of walking around with our tails and whiskers drooping, both Helen and myself decided to make a day of it – there is no point in worrying about whether we are going to be sent off again tomorrow, we will find out quite soon enough. Happily, both Jirry and Marti were free, with the tourist season tailing off and no film crews currently on the island – so we packed a lunch hamper under their mother’s approving gaze, and headed off for a picnic on Mount Tomboabo.

            It was quite a welcome return, to go past the Spontari Guest House and up the valley we explored in mid-winter – there has been what the locals call a lot of wind through the palm trees since then. The view was splendid from the rocky northern peak, looking out over the central waters and Casino Island – and there are some grassy hollows just under the peak quite invisible except by air, where a very pleasant afternoon was passed. Helen is quite right, there is absolutely no need for catnip.

            A rapid return downhill was followed by a bathe in the stream, then a hurried change of costume and we crossed the island to Hotel Bay, the big sandy bay where most of the tourists on South Island stay. There were still quite a few of them around, as two of the largest tour boats were still berthed across on Casino Island – Jirry tells us one is leaving tomorrow, the other early next week. But we had a rather less public meeting – the back room of a Native teahouse, where there was not an Euro costume to be seen.

            As we expected, Mr. Sapohatan was there – we had passed on a brief report, but he quizzed us very keenly about our experiences on Krupmark Island. He was exceedingly interested in what I could tell him about Lars and his activities there – his business ones at least. He made both Helen and myself go through what we had seen of the rescue and getaway, and had us describe Mrs. Critchley in detail (Helen is very fair at sketching, and furnished a passable pencil portrait.)

            There is a first time for everything – Mr. Sapohatan shook us by the hand, and thanked us for having completed the mission exactly as planned, though he commented that we had had some very close shaves and had been lucky to get away. We hardly expect him to tell us these things, but he mentioned he would be having a very long talk with Lars in the near future, and expects to get some direct answers from him.

            Still – we could all relax, as he says there should be little to do for a few days. I did ask how our German Scientists were faring, and if they had blown up themselves or each other yet. Surprisingly, it seems that both pilot plants are up and running at maximum ferment, without much fuss. Professor Kurt is winning the race so far as regards power generated, but both sides are being awfully fastidious about the rubbish they select, and are very far from simply being able to plug a hotel drainpipe into the inlets of their “Bio-Reaktor”.

            Back to the longhouse, where various cousins had annexed it for the day and left their kittens to play. It feels very natural now – and when I was hiding in the scrub of Krupmark Island wishing I was home, I have to confess that I was thinking of here and not Barsetshire. Of course, we do very well there – folk come to England from all over the civilised world and non-colonial nations for a fine education. But the Spontoonie ideas seem to suit the locals very well – everyone’s friends and relations piling into shared longhouses rather than packing the kittens off to governesses and boarding schools. Jirry is very good with the cubs and kittens, who are a very good-natured bunch and rarely howl the place down without good reason.

10th September, 1935

Dear Diary – after 2 idyllic days of swimming and fishing, we donned our more respectable shirts and shorts and headed out to Casino Island, leaving the Hoele’toemi brothers to a much-needed rest. (I can see there is more than one good reason to ban catnip – I have heard one can have too much of a good thing, but I have yet to prove that.) It was a very fine day, slightly cooler than it has been – I recall thinking on our arrival last year that late September was swelteringly hot, but then I had come from a Barsetshire “summer” and not a Spontoonie one. Mercifully, second-years are not obliged to wear the very Euro Songmark blazers.

            After nearly three weeks in the field and on the waves, we could enjoy a full morning’s shopping, with all the tourist stalls and shops still open to grasp the last departing tourist dollars. It will be very different next month, we know – many of the stall holders will be back tilling the family fields on Main Island, and the show-girls will be at the bank wiring their wages home before following them back to the respectable shores of Europe and America. It must be an awful shock to return – though looking at a poster for a rather scantily clad Amerind chorus line, I remember hearing there have been Apaches in Paris for years.

            Thinking of returning Home – I had some postcards from Father on Kerguelen, where he has been helping the French Army make it virtually unassailable by any armoured formation likely to invade. He writes that he will be sending me a certain aircraft kit via surface shipping as an Xmas gift, if I promise to only fly it in the Pacific theatre of operations. What joy! And I thought he disapproved of my dear Flying Fleas!

            Alas, this is tempered by him warning that he might be away next holiday as well – the French must have been particularly impressed, as he will probably be still in the Southern Hemisphere, demonstrating how to secure the French Antarctic coast from gas attack. At least it will be Summer there.

            We passed the Casino around lunchtime, but there was no sign of Beryl – Helen commented rather sourly that we were either eight hours too late or too early, with Beryl’s bohemian timetable.

            One thing we spotted as we rounded the back of the Casino kitchens – two small tractors pulling covered trailers, parked at the service entrance. There seemed to be some argument between their crews – as we came closer, I noticed that although they were certainly locals by their costume, one team wore caps with a blue circle, and the other had armbands with a green arrow symbol on them. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing – evidently, here are the rubbish collectors for Spontoon’s newest power plants, fighting it out as to who picks up the choicest organic fuel for their respective projects! Still, the vegetable peelings from the prestigious Casino are not just any old rubbish.

            Ten minutes later, we had strolled across to the Northern side of the island to see where the poi peelings and fishbones are destined to end up. I must say, both rivals have worked hard since we last saw their efforts. They look remarkably similar structures, in fact – as both have topped their tanks and pipework with rather elegant square black pyramids (plain for Professor Kurt, stepped for Dr. Maranowski) that I recognised as solar heat collectors. Helen noted that before the oil boom brought cheap fuel, Texas and the Western states were covered with similar collectors.

            We were not unhappy to miss encountering Dr. Maranowski – but Professor Kurt was hard at work on his site, dressed in a very elegant black boiler suit with the green arrow of his company brand prominent on his sleeve. He recognised us, and most courteously invited us to tour his site – which we are amazed has not blown up (yet) in the slightest. The sight of several empty drums of ether gave us cause to wonder, I must say.

            A most comprehensive tour followed, the Professor fairly radiating enthusiasm as he pointed out technical details – and like a true devotee, showed us the first finished samples of his process. I must say, his “Bio-Reaktor” is most marvellously efficient, running at sixty degrees centigrade it can break down the most noxious things into very fine garden compost (which he is donating free to the Casino Island parks.) By his accounts, even the finished product of his rival is a rather noxious sludge that one would not want to spread on the rose bushes under one’s bedroom window.

            On enquiry, we discovered the meaning of the various insignia the rival workmen are wearing. Doctor M’s methane project has a stylised gas bubble, and Professor Kurt’s green arrow represents direct progress towards vitally healthy growth. He is really quite a dynamic individual, both Helen and myself being very impressed with his achievements – our impression is that Mr. Sapohatan has misgivings about his politics, but really Professor K has hardly mentioned which way he votes, let alone pushed his views on anyone. After all, their present Government is has changed its nature entirely since the aggression of 1914-18, and seems entirely occupied with improving the domestic standards of its people. At any rate, I remember Erica saying that their leader’s main plan was to expand everyone’s living rooms – or words to that effect. On the newsreels last month we saw great national road networks under construction, the “Autobahns” that are threading the country. Being able to move huge numbers of vehicles rapidly to any of their borders should do wonders for their commercial and tourist trade – I expect in a few years the resorts of Europe will see German visitors everywhere.

            We accepted Professor K’s kind offer of luncheon – he did ask when he might see our report of his project written up. At least we could truthfully say that we had put it in the paws of our editors, and it was up to them – and honestly, there was nothing in our articles that could not have been printed in the Daily Elele. So we left his workers busily loading the small mining trucks with superannuated palm thatch and the vegetable trimmings from the last few tourist banquets, and retreated upwind to our favourite apre-dance class venue, The Missing Coconut.

            There is something to look forward to next month at least – back to our Dance lessons, hopefully with more relaxed Passes this year.  Term commences for us and the third-years on Monday the 18th, though the new arrivals should start appearing any day now.

11th September, 1935

Just when we thought things had settled down for a few days – we were on Haio Beach when Beryl turned up this morning on the arm of her young gentleman friend, Mr. Piet Van Hoogstraaten (Junior). She is looking very well, positively bubbling with mischief – and was very eager to hear of our adventures.

            We gave her a rather condensed version of our trip – her friend Piet was somewhat surprised that we had managed to get away from Krupmark Island, (we did not elaborate as to how or in what company) and said he had heard that Security there was getting lax. From Beryl’s accounts, she and Piet have what I would have called a rather unusual friendship consisting of robbing each other in increasingly complex “scams”. Beryl announced that currently the score was about even – and looking up somewhat hungrily at her rat friend, hinted she had some ideas for changing that. Piet smiled good-naturedly, ruffled Beryl’s head-fur and predicted she would finish the week without a pot to spit in. (I paraphrase.)

            Still, they seem quite well suited to each other, and the total sum of money between them is increasing by all accounts, regardless of whose pocket it is in at the minute. Beryl asked if we had kept up our self-defence classes – we mentioned some practical uses of them we had been forced to, which she was keen to hear of in blow-by-blow detail. She was very impressed that I had learned the “Glasgow two-step”, and added that most of her old comrades would have been amazed to hear someone from a school such as mine proving so effective. Though I am proud of my chums at St. Winifred’s, I am rather glad none of them heard that remark.

            Apparently, Piet gets the finest private tuition, including self-defence tutors of international notoriety. Personally, I would not list being expelled from all the sporting bodies as a qualification, even after having won most of their prizes first. Mr. Toshiro Finkelstein of South Zion seems to have mightily irritated the established Masters in self-defence arts, with his hybrid and brutally efficient hybrid fighting art of “Jude-Jitsu.”

            It seems Beryl has been quite living the high life, scheming and partying with the Hoogstraaten family and their crowd – despite last week having been blacklisted from the Casino for reasons she refuses to explain. She made rather light of it, claiming the really interesting gambling is elsewhere, for folk who have the right invitations. Beryl means well in her own way - she extended us an invitation which we had to refuse, as gambling for money is something both Helen and myself avoid. As Father always used to say – when one sees a bookmaker wearing ragged trousers with the seat worn out and gamblers driving past in new cars – only then is the time to take up betting.

            We asked about Beryl’s comrades – two sisters as it turns out, Jezebel and Salome Pennington-Fforbes (unusual names, but their father is a defrocked archbishop.) Beryl smiled, slyly tapping her muzzle in that irritating way of hers as she hinted they were still at large on the island and doing very well for themselves. She added that they were recent graduates of Saint T’s, and had passed with top marks in all the most popular subjects. One shudders to think.

            When Beryl and her friend had gone, Helen and I talked the matter over. Although it would normally be very bad form to hand over my own countryfolk to a foreign power, for the sake of international harmony I could happily make an exception in this case. If we happen to identify this pair Post Box Nine should know immediately, their response hopefully involving nothing more drastic than two one-way tickets and firm escort out of Spontoon.

            Thinking about it – I know we promised Jirry’s grandfather to behave as honorary Spontoonies while we are here, but things seem to be progressing far faster that way than I ever thought when we promised back in April. Within reason, if Mr. Sapohatan calls us tomorrow and hands us a Mission, we will metaphorically salute, grab our packs and rifles and head in the direction he points. I had quite a long talk with Helen about this.

             Helen was rather pensive for awhile, then pointed out that we have come to actually like this sort of thing. There has never been a dull moment, true enough – even between trips, the thought of being ordered (or strictly speaking, Requested) into action at short notice, makes us make the most of what leisure time we have. There are other compensations too – she was looking towards a squad of trainee lifeguards exercising on the beach, and bluntly asked me how the … company back home would compare, after our becoming accustomed to the friendlier pace of life here. She pointed out that even if I am Tailfast, I can unashamedly enjoy the view.

            I fear she is quite right on that score – the nearest equivalent back home would be to frequent athletic halls and wrestling rings, which is absolutely not what a well brought-up lady does if she has any regard for her reputation. It is very different here – there is a dance festival down here at the beach tonight, where we will be shaking our grass skirts along with the Hoele’toemi family and their neighbours, followed no doubt by a fine supper and suchlike under the stars. Definitely, all this is worth agreeing to do a few little jobs for Post Box Nine, especially as they have all been perfectly respectable missions.

            It has been a whole year now that we have been here – in all the confusion, I forgot to check last year’s diary until today; we should have been celebrating our anniversary on the 7th. Still – we will try and make up for it tonight.

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