Being the seventh diary of Amelia Bourne-Phipps, starting her second year at the Songmark Aeronautical Boarding School for Young Ladies, Spontoon Eastern Island. The original diary was written as ever in the never-popular Lexarc Shorthand system, which Amelia believed was secure enough for everyday matters….

Monday 18th September 1935

Back to work! It was a good thing that we had all braced ourselves for a shock – as our Tutors have had all summer to rest and seem keen to make sure we get the full benefit. Our alarm clock was set to six-thirty sharp, and Miss Devinski was through the dorms one minute later, looking brisk and keen as she roused us like an infantry sergeant with a barrack of recruits. 

Maria is about as hard to get started as one of the Dornier X flying boats, but Helen and myself “jump started” her by bouncing her out of bed, and an initially rather cool shower had her properly awake and moving. I must say, I had missed this – back in St. Winifred’s there were no prizes given for attack and defence tactics with knotted wet towels, or I would certainly have had enough practice to earn one. We were quite surprised at how we managed to handle Maria – having had two months of very strenuous living has paid off, and I fear our experiences may have made us just a little ruthless. Still, not a bad state to face the new term.

Back to timetables, back to breakfasts in the big dining hall. It was something to have the first-years looking at us as if we were returning Explorers or some such – which in a sense I suppose we are. The first week’s meals are generally the best of term – Helen muttered about us being worked so hard afterwards that anything tastes good. Certainly, one would hardly expect to sit down to a breakfast of mashed breadfruit at the Marleybone Grand Hotel – but it is tasty enough, very healthy and portions are exceedingly generous.

                After breakfast we were lined up and Miss Wildford addressed us – it seems true that she has been “promoted” to a full member of the staff, at least for this year. With Miss Pelton being now married and relaxing (one of the things we missed on our travels was seeing her wedding, becoming Mrs. Voboele) there is definitely a vacancy.

                Still, that is one step up for our dear Tutor, who it seemed had been spending the summer thinking up ways to prove her zeal to the original Songmark founders. At least, that was Maria’s comment, when Miss Wildford announced gleefully that she needed to see how soft we had become over the holidays. Many tails drooped to the floor – Madelene X had just been happily telling us she spent most of the summer holidays on the beach at St. Tropez blissfully relaxing.

                Honestly, our feet hardly hit the ground this term before we were back in our sporting outfits, a compass pressed in our paw and sent off on a top-speed chase around Eastern Island! Just to make things interesting, we had to race in dorms – and the poorest performers would be getting up an hour early for some hard remedial work. Help!

                As it turned out, we had no real worries. Though Maria is no sprinter, this was two hours of hard work and her scrambling around the Alps all summer had built up plenty of stamina. When we arrived at one target a Third-year would pop out of hiding and yell bearing and distance to the next one, noting our times in their pocketbook. It was rather like a two hour math exam done while panting for breath – much as I recall Great War veterans describing navigating over enemy lines – except they were being fired on too. Perhaps that will come in our third year.

                Our final course and bearing was one that had us all screeching to a halt to check our compasses – as they pointed straight out to sea. Maria spotted a water taxi at anchor about two hundred yards offshore – and with more speed than enthusiasm we charged across the beach to put our swimming skills to the test as we mercifully slapped the side of the boat to have our finishing times recorded. We were allowed to rest and swim back at leisure, spotting Prudence’s dorm charging across the beach with Jasbir’s close on their tails.

                Our recent adventures may have been a strain emotionally, but they proved to be a good foundation for this term, if things go on like this!
 

Tuesday 19th September, 1935

Back into the classrooms, having to demonstrate what we remember of air navigation and aircraft recognition. Fortunately Helen and I had guessed there would be something like this, and had taken our notes to revise from last week while we awaited aircraft arrivals. Still, it was rough going having to squeeze into a classroom frame of mind – after last year’s thorough lessons Helen had been complaining there could hardly be anything else we could be expected to know! A glance at our timetables dashed her optimism.

                By the end of the year, we are supposed to not only prove to our Tutors that we can fly safely, but gain actual commercial qualifications – in my case an Empire “B” class license, which would let me call myself a pilot and apply for any basic transport position. There is quite a list of possibilities to choose from – obviously not everyone can find an instructor of their own nationality around here, but there are six world qualifications available. Miss Devinski mentioned there was an Empire Training school in the Gilbert and Sullivan Islands (the next chain to the Gilbert and Ellis Islands) that I might have to travel to for the exams.

                At least this year we have (some) choice in our classes – after the first fortnight, when we should have been reminded of all the basics. There is a lot more flying this term, some of it in Songmark’s brand new seaplane! “Brand New” to us, anyway – it is a rejected prototype for the familiar Rain Island “Osprey”. I had been rather surprised at the sight of the service Osprey, thinking they looked definitely tubby for a fighting aircraft – our pride and joy has much longer wings and fuselage, and (I think) is far more graceful. Someone disagreed though – the current stubby versions have a much faster roll rate and snap turn, which I suppose is a good thing for a fighter. If this trend becomes world-wide, future fighters will all look like Geebees and pilots will never be able to get life insurance again.

                Of course, our prototype never carried armament – we all found ourselves saying Molly would have been disappointed. Poor Molly – I wonder where she is? Whatever the ruin of the family fortune, one would hope she could at least afford a postcard.

Friday 22nd September, 1935

An awful week, but at least we had expected nothing else. Our heads hurt from all the rapid re-learning, and the rest of us is one big corporate bruise – we spent all Friday afternoon revising self-defence exercises. For the last hour we were no longer using mats; after the rains the grass outside is softer than it has been, but it felt quite hard enough when Missy K surprised me with a “timber topple” that all but broke my tail bones when she pulled my feet from under me. I can only be glad we will not be sitting down to classes tomorrow.

                I must say, after all the enthusiasm of meeting old friends and catching up on news wore off, my ears started to droop a little. The work is piled up in front of us like an incoming tidal wave – this time last year we were blissfully ignorant of just how hard it was going to be. Still, nobody has dropped out voluntarily (except for Soppy Forsythe, and that was nothing to do with the work) which might be helped by the huge fees paid and the distance travelled to get us here.

                By the time we had finished our third day of  air navigation and fuel calculations, both Helen and myself were looking around half hoping to see Mr. Sapohatan coming in to hand us another mission – any mission. But still – as Helen ruefully pointed out, our skills are what make us useful, and we certainly were not picked to help the Authorities for the sake of our pretty snouts.

                Miss Devinski had a quiet word with us after tea, pointing out our new duties and liberties as second-years. As I expected, we will be shepherding the first-years around and keeping them out of (too much) mischief. The great reward is, on weekends we no longer need passes! Alas, just as my head filled with plans for heading out to South Island until Sunday night, she pointed out that meant “in our free time”. It looks as if we will have precious little of that, with projects and first-year herding around the place.

                Still – we get to the Dance Schools – Jasbir Sind is joining us with her dorm, which rather fills our depleted ranks for the more large-scale dances (it looks silly to have a chorus line of three.) So I am cleaning off my ceremonial head-dress and we are looking forward to some more stern competition this term. The S.I.T.H.S can look forward to another hard time of it – it is too much to hope they have all spent their time on the beach like Madelene X, who is in our infirmary right now having strained muscles bandaged. All that warm sea, and she could have spent her time swimming in it. I hated to tell her “I told you so”, but one must make sacrifices for one’s comrades, even if they do not appreciate the effort. As it turns out, Madelene is quite competent with the wet towel technique too!

Saturday 23rd September, 1935

Hurrah! This week the first-years are still under the strict eye of the staff, so we actually had the whole day to ourselves (with the warning to return before dusk, otherwise the third-years will be sent after US, and none too happy about being pulled away from their own plans.)

                I would have headed straight for South Island, but Helen and Maria outvoted me – and true enough, Maria has not seen Casino Island since July. So off we went, first thing after breakfast, filling Maria in as we went on our adventures there. Maria glowered somewhat on hearing what she had missed – commenting that the only way to keep her Uncle paying the fees for her to come out here was to go home for the holiday. I think I might work that out, someday.

                Just a week away, and the island is quite different. All the lights are being taken down for the year, and the beach huts and souvenir stalls are all gone. The Coconut Grove has teams of workmen on the roof; certainly the Spontoonies are a versatile folk. As soon as the season changes, some of them put away their tour guide grass skirts and waiter’s dress suits, to grab overalls and tool bags.  This year I recognised some familiar faces and could greet them in Spontoonie – certainly, despite the awful hard work we are gaining real benefits. Very cheering, in view of the timetables in front of us.

                Maria insisted in seeing the two waste power plants on the Northern coast, and we immediately agreed (any day now one or the other may no longer be there to explore.) We had told her our reports had been commissioned as a holiday project – perfectly true, and as she assumed it was for our Tutors we did not complicate matters by explaining further.

                Things do progress – between the two projects there is now a large transplanted acacia thorn hedge, which glittered with barbed wire. I doubt the local authorities really want anything like an armed camp on Casino Island, tourist slack season or no – but the thought was certainly there.

                We spotted Doctor Maranowski far off on the solar pyramid that acts as a pre-heater for his fermentation tank; by the glint of glass he was closely observing us through binoculars. Professor Kurt Von Mecklenburg Und Soweiter proved charming as ever, and bowed low to kiss Maria’s hand as we introduced them. It seems there is trouble brewing, as noxious as the other things fermenting around here. Someone sabotaged one of the drums of ether delivered to Professor Kurt’s site – persons unknown had put a test tube of fuming nitric acid in the lid; if an incautious workman had unsealed it and poured that into the main ether tank, that would have definitely “brought the house down”.  The week before, one of Doctor Maranowski’s fermentation tanks had stopped bubbling and started to sit and stagnate. Tests showed it had been “poisoned” with Lysol disinfectant, and the owner immediately pointed a wing of suspicion this direction.

                Honestly – if people plug their digesters into the public drains, they should expect to deal with what gets poured into drains to clean them! The incident with the acid flask was something very different – I suspect Mr. Sapohatan has his paws full running down the culprit.  Still, if he wants our help, he certainly knows where to find us.

                Maria was most impressed by the big ether turbine, mostly fed by the sun in daytime and the fermenter at night. The engine room is sweltering, despite good thick layers of asbestos insulation piled around all the hot pipes – and all the outside pipes are armoured with one foot gage cast iron pipework that used to form part of an old pier.  Professor Kurt was just about to show us the safety system he had installed when Maria inadvertently demonstrated it – I had noticed there were loops of rope hanging from the roof every few feet, and Maria got her horns tangled in one.

                Professor Kurt has certainly thought this one out. One second after a leak the room would fill with explosive ether vapour – unless the air was immediately drenched with something like a tropical downpour from high-pressure water pipes. I can now report that the system works, very convincingly. Still, we had been overheating.

                After a brief stop in the workmen’s changing rooms to towel dry, we waved goodbye and headed out towards the dance classes. This year we are in the “Intermediate” groups, where the dances are far more intricate, if not more energetic. Having learned the basics, we are given dances to improvise now, a very different problem than just remembering which steps to follow through. Every dance tells a story, and one suspects some of the ones they teach to Euro beginners might not quite be what the students would want to shout out loud – I recall some of the audience folding up with mirth at our early attempts. At least by the end of the term we should be able to avoid saying anything too embarrassing.

                Considering folk manage to communicate a deaf-and-dumb language entirely using their paws, I wonder if you can do the same in hula. I was quite good at semaphore in the Guides (and have practiced more at Songmark.) I have not seen any actual Hula dictionaries, but it seems quite possible. The idea of two Hula dance teams not only facing off in an aesthetically pleasing dance routine but yelling non-verbal challenges to each other is intriguing – and possibly the sort of thing the Advanced classes teach.

                A splendid and strenuous dance routine, which really had us thinking on our feet. The Intermediate classes are taught by Mrs. Ponole, a very elegant avian lady with charmingly groomed feathers and a highly decorated and inlaid beak such as one sees in the ancient carvings hidden under the park. Being taught dance moves by someone whose knees bend the opposite direction was a little unnerving at first, but we soon got used to translating.

                Jasbir whispered at break time that most of the dance instructors are married – certainly anyone exhibiting so much grace and energy in public should have no trouble in finding admirers. A lesson to be learned there; I thought at once of Mrs. Hoele’toemi.

                On the way back, we saw a very strange craft tying up against the old Number One dock – I saw the twin-row rotary engines first, and thought it might be an aircraft being salvaged after a nasty accident that had taken the outer wings off. It is a definitely home-built affair, floating on a flat-bottomed hull with outriggers and powered by two very large rotary aero engines driving four-bladed airscrews; very distinctive.

                As we went past it on the way back home, Helen asked the water taxi lady if she knew about it – and indeed, we got quite a story (water-taxi folk seem to know everything). We had missed its launch while we were off on Mildendo and Krupmark, the project being the pride and joy of  two brothers recently graduated from the Technical High School here. With all the shoal water and sandbanks around the lagoon, it is awfully difficult to get salvage tugs near enough stranded boats and aircraft to secure a line – and the tugs get through a fortune in broken rudders and propellers. An obvious solution – use air thrust rather than water screws, and build a vessel that floats in knee-deep water. By our guide’s account, it has already pulled off some dazzling rescues, having a very sprightly top speed of about twenty knots (though with those heavy engines set so high up, I dread to think how it would handle in a rough sea. Helen says she gets queasy just looking at it.)

                Maria looked definitely jealous, commenting that we should have thought of that one – though I pointed out we do not get actual building projects till our final year. Besides, we are rather busy in classes, and I doubt any stranded aircraft crew would be too happy to wait till the weekend for us to get out to them.

                One of the third-years was on the dock to count us in, and very cryptically mentioned that she hoped our cooking and accounting skills were in order. Very odd! Next week we have several non-flying days on the timetable marked as “Logistics” – something I happily have a family background in. Some of my earliest memories are of painting and drawing on discarded requisition forms and store reports for entrenching tools, duckboards and picketing wire – I only hope the skills have sunk in.

Sunday, 24th September 1935

Hurrah! Off to church again, where we met Jirry and family. It seems an awfully long week without him – and of course that is only the start, as our timetable is packed. I fear my tail went definitely sideways, though fortunately not inside the church or with too many folk watching. Helen was highly amused.

                My heart skipped a beat at the sight of a familiar-looking deer silhouette on one of the pews ahead – but of course it was not Molly, Church being the very last place one would expect to find her. Jirry pointed her out as Miss Fawnsworthy, the secretary to some magnate who came here to fly in the Schneider Trophy races and has been staying on Casino Island ever since. It seems Marti was employed to show them around South Island the week after the races, where their Ercorsair came second in its class, very creditable.

                It was the first time in months that I had attended church, to my shame – although I suppose the Native religion counts as a church. The Reverend Bingham was back in fine form, having calmed down considerably after his holiday; one imagines it must have been rather frustrating to be surrounded by so many Spontoonies who refuse to be Converted. Still, the sermon was quite lively, finishing with the parable of the left-handed pearl fisherman and the corkscrew. Quite a memorable tale.

                Again, I compensated for my spiritual neglect by getting a double ration today, as Saimmi was waiting outside the church for us to emerge. She had changed her head-dress, now wearing a very nice one with new fish-leather decorations that positively gleamed in the sun. It was very fine to accompany her to South Island to visit one of the small shrines there – a delicately carved one of redwood, which hundreds of tourists doubtless pose against every Summer without any idea of its true significance.

                Back to Songmark, with some time on our paws after tea (a rare occurrence, and one I doubt we will see again often.) Although Molly’s bed is still there and ready for her, it is something none of us are talking about – we can only hope, but we are less hopeful as the days go by. A deer friend, Molly, and a dear one as well.

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