Our staff certainly wastes no time: last week we chose our specialised subjects, and we are already starting them. I headed out with Li Han, Adele Beasley, Carmen and Prudence to Main Island, the first time for ages we had crossed over to the Beresby side. Our friends the Noenokes were nowhere around, though I noticed the Ice Maiden pulled up unloading at the dock next to the cannery. We had been expected, and soon met our tutor Mrs. Nonopeka, a very powerful Pacific Otter lady in respectable Native dress.

                I hoped to have a head start in the Advanced Reef and Shore fishing after our Easter trip here – but that had been on a proper fishing-boat with professional equipment. On this course we start from quite the other direction, as if we had been cast ashore without anything except what we might have in our pockets or found locally. At least I have had plenty of practice in knots and lashing, as our first project was to assemble a workable fishing net. Much ladylike cursing and making of bizarre cat’s cradles followed, though we all finished the morning with vaguely net-shaped objects that our tutor critically agreed looked the kind of thing a castaway might make on a first effort.

                Lunch was provided at the cannery cafeteria – considering they have great vats of fish always on the boil, it was definitely fresh and rather fine.  A stroll with our nets followed, out on the long, curving coral sand spit that is Main Island’s most Northerly point, a mile or so from the nearest house. It felt definitely exposed out there, with only a strip of sand in the middle of the Pacific, which the biggest waves were washing right over. One freak wave would wash us right into the Nimitz Sea, and we saw quite a few rogue waves on our Easter trip.

                While we set our nets in the tidal races and undertows, Mrs. Nonopeka showed us various ways to spot shellfish and all sorts of burrows. Our basic Songmark survival course had covered some of this, but we certainly learned a lot more – though the various species of lugworm look very unappealing, they are edible and a castaway might be quite glad to find them. Given a choice, our Tutor suggests they make better bait for more edible catches. If our survival training has done nothing else, it has certainly broadened our definitions of “edible”.

                Though none of us caught very much, we were all praised at having caught enough to live on. It would be a decidedly hungry life, but not bad for the first day of the course. As we discovered on Gunboat Atoll and our other survival trips, without proper equipment one really needs all the daylight hours just looking for food and fuel. Actual commercial reefs (as productive as the one a mile offshore the Noenokes fish) are rare – having seen the size of our catch, we stopped wondering why none of the Natives were working this sand-spit.

                (Adele Beasley has learned another lesson today – though Razor Shells can dig to escape remarkably fast, it is a bad move to grab them with the naked paw and try to tug them out. They get their name from a more than cosmetic resemblance to a fur-trimming razor.)

Wednesday October 18th, 1935

Another damp day, but not so far from Songmark – we can see the Rain Island naval base from the windows of our new dorm, and I headed over with Jasbir, Beryl, Prudence, Belle and Irma Bundt. This time round we were mixing it with a class from the “Euro” High School on Casino Island, various folk who we have sometimes met at the dance classes. This time our tutor was a proper naval instructor, Able-Seaman Fenton of the full-time Rain Islands navy. A most able-looking seaman indeed, and a sea-dog in the truest term, being a yellow Labrador gent.

                There is quite a selection of small boats to learn on, from a two-person dinghy to a thirty-foot catamaran that will need the whole class of us to handle. Motor-boats are definitely out, being too easy – but there are six different styles of sails to learn, and we are promised a trial of any interesting Native craft with willing owners who make port here.

                A morning with Mr. Fenton followed, ably assisted by half a dozen of the Spontoonies who are always found around the naval base doing odd jobs and looking hopefully at flying-boats. With one trained sailor on each boat, we were spared most of the embarrassing mistakes. Irma Bundt took an awful crack on the head from the boom when the wind shifted, but she has a head like seasoned teak and shrugged it off with a rueful grin and some Swiss-German words I had not heard before.

                It was certainly interesting, sailing one of the outrigger canoes: being square-rigged it was only workable before the wind, with no tacking possible. For unfavourable winds, we were advised to use the oars or simply wait on the beach for a favourable wind. A long, thin outrigger canoe with ten or twelve square yards of sail can certainly shift when the wind is behind it – twelve knots, Mr. Fenton announced over the measured run. Missy Tupuebe helped me with the sails, a Polynesian otter girl who assures me she was brought up on the local boats. I expect half her fun comes from watching us bungling what must be second nature to her – certainly, when Belle capsized her dinghy she was grinning ear to ear, even as she dived into the lagoon to help. Quite an amazing swimmer, even for her species and upbringing – not surprisingly, she mentioned she is competing for a place on Spontoon’s Olympic team next year. Belle has at least the excuse of being from Oklahoma, where folk are less familiar with ocean squalls.

                Lunchtime saw us pulled away from our boating to escort the first-years over for a swim on the Eastern side of Eastern Island. It might be the last week or so before Spring, as the water is getting quite chilly. Saffina and Tatiana were asking me about their first survival trip next week – something they are rather worried about. It seems they had been asking Beryl, who had airily announced that a tenth of the group last year never came back alive, and one is still confined in a rubber room in the Casino Island hospital. Even though I am not her dorm leader, I must definitely have words with Beryl about this sort of thing.

                It turns out that while Saffina has never lived in a town bigger than two hundred mud huts, Tatiana is from the industrial part of the Volga basin and has never been in real countryside before. Not surprisingly, our Tutors have put them in the same dorm, where they will have a lot to talk about. Big cities seem to breed radical politics (by contrast, Spontoon has less public Government than anywhere I know) and indeed our Government back home started off in the industrial areas. It was the well-named League of Carbon Steel, well before the late martyred Lord M reformed it into the Jingoist Party and won the first elections on its way into power.

                Tatiana seems to be exceedingly puzzled about the local set-up, as she has been brought up strict Bolshevist and cannot quite work out where in its “inexorable proletariat progression” the local system fits. I doubt I will send Maria in to debate with her – it might start off as a political exchange, but would probably become an artillery exchange very rapidly.

                One wonders why Tatiana was sent here, really. Ioseph Starling has a well-publicised aeronautical youth movement – Tatiana proudly claims she is a “Komonsol”, apparently the local version of the Girl Guides. It is a rather expensive course (as we know all too well, faced with the problem of Molly’s fees) and apart from the tropical setting she mentions having quite similar ones much nearer home. Of course, to hear her describe it all the brave Soviet aviatrixes are going to be arctic explorers, airline pilots and air-police.  Some folk might believe her, but she rather gave the game away by asking what size torpedo our Tiger Moths could carry, the first time she ever examined one.

Friday 20th October, 1935

Time definitely flies – a whole month into term already, and little nearer solving Molly’s problem. We have used up all the cash on hand – Maria’s chequebook is presumably hiding under the bed whimpering at the damage she has done to her bank account.  I would do the same if I could – my allowance is pledged down to the last cowry, but we have scarcely scraped together a third of the Spring term fees.

                Still, we can hardly complain about what the fees are spent on – this morning (at last) we all went down for a flight in the new Osprey, and took a turn at the controls! The prototype is a dual-control model, and with Miss Wildford at the front controls one can fit six eager (if cramped) students in the crew compartment behind her. Changing over the rear pilot in flight was definitely an exercise in gymnastics – happily Missy K was not on the first planeload with me.

                It makes quite a change, flying an aircraft with an enclosed cockpit. Certainly it is a lot quieter, and we were grateful for the shelter when a rain squall rattled across the lagoon – but one misses a lot of the vital sights and sounds, peering out through glass. I know a lot of commercial pilots dislike the idea with the problems of getting out fast in a crash – even our machine has a fireman’s axe secured to chop out through the canopy in such an emergency.  The canopy gives one rather a poor view behind and below, rather than just leaning over the cockpit edge to look down as we do in the Tiger Moths – it might be all very well for luxury airliners, but obviously no successful military aircraft will ever have a closed glass hood around the pilot.

                Actually, the stretched Osprey is a very steady aircraft, with two engines and much bigger all round. It is not as responsive as our Tiger Moths, and one has to “think ahead” a lot more. On that scale, one imagines the commercial Dornier X pilots will be planning their landing in Spontoon before they start the engines in Hawaii!

                Take-offs and landings are scheduled for next week, to our delight – we only hope and pray none of our Seniors gets careless or unlucky before then. There are quite a few hazards even in the well-regulated Spontoon air and waters: right in the middle of the seaplane channel Li Han spotted a drifting tree trunk, which Miss Wildford radioed in as an urgent hazard. By the time we had done three circuits around Eastern Island the new aircraft-engined tug was roaring out from Moon Island ready to deal with the offending flotsam: running into that on a landing run could definitely ruin your day, not to mention your insurance premiums.

                Ten minutes each at the controls was a good start, before we headed back to Eastern Island for ground duties. Maria has finally got used to the idea that one hour’s flying “costs” at least five or six hours hard work in the hangars – a year ago she still believed an aircraft was more like a pair of shoes one chose, strapped in and headed out wearing (after someone else had cleaned and polished them, in her case.) Just re-fuelling took half an hour with us all working up to the waist in water, passing out gallon petrol cans from the shore to hand up to fill the tank on the top wing. Definitely an expensive business, flying – even ordinary petrol costs the equivalent of four shillings and ninepence a gallon here, against three shillings at home. (Memo to myself: Professor Kurt has done rather well in transforming noxious waste into very useful stuff already. Ask him if he can process Poi into petrol – preferably ALL of it?)

                Typical – our Seniors have been given the treat of deciding what to christen RI-J548,  Songmark’s first amphibian.  If they call it something silly like “Joey-bird” we will be stuck with it – though I could hardly support Beryl and Molly’s rather alarming suggestions, it is a civilian aircraft despite their disappointment with the idea.

Saturday October 21st, 1935

Quite a day for revelations – we were heading in towards Casino Island (having won the toss against Prudence’s dorm, who were stuck with first-year escort duties) when we discovered a water-taxi awaiting us. To see Mr. Sapohatan there was no great surprise – but to see him there with Lars definitely was. Molly was almost restrained, relatively speaking. The water-taxi was one of those with the big woven matting arches giving wind and spray protection, and had concealed Lars very well – I can imagine it could be hazardous to the health if villains see him with Mr. Sapohatan, who is certainly concerned with law and order.

                It was rather a long route we took, but the water-taxi folk never seem to charge Mr. Sapohatan anything. I assume he has a season ticket. He did not repeat his rather dramatic burning of counterfeit currency (dangerous on a boat, and it would be plain cruel to do it in front of Molly these days) but mentioned that a lot more of it had been turning up, some of it in official bank drafts to Rain Island. Definitely, he believes that some Spontoonie locals must be involved, which rather cuts down on his chances of successfully using his regular people on this job.
                Rather sourly, he admitted that Lars had freely handed over some promising leads that had already tracked down some of the money , though not its distributors. Further, he added that there are well-known local “businessmen” who would be interested in such a project – but the problem would be to catch them at it.

                Lars took up the story, and a most enthralling tale he made of it. He mentioned that transport crews of his own enterprises had seen vessels they recognised as Spontoon regulars,  moored in rather odd places around the islands for no obvious reason – and twice, an unmarked aircraft had been seen taking off very near them. With a respectful bow to Mr. Sapohatan, he pointed out that ten times the number of police that Spontoon employs could not search all the small craft coming in and out of even the regular harbours, let alone coming ashore some moonless night on the wilder parts of the island. Even if the local law enforcement made a lucky capture, he explained that it was common knowledge how such smuggling operated – the actual smugglers would only know that they had to move a certain box from A to B, and the masterminds would have thoroughly insulated themselves from the riskier part of the business.

                In fact, Lars explained, the only real way of stopping the operation was to find where the organisation was based, and get to their records – after which the whole business could be unravelled. He was following certain clues, but nothing that could really be handed to the police as solid evidence. Very gallantly taking off his cap and bowing, he asked if we were prepared to risk ourselves in what could be a dangerous business.

                Well! Had I wanted a nice cosy existence I would have joined my chum Mabel and be studying deportment at her Swiss finishing school, not standing braced in a Native boat on the other side of the planet talking with a Secret Policeman and a Secret Businessman. Of course I volunteered like a shot – my Grandfather fought at Balaclava and Father saw a lot of Gallipoli, and it is up to me to carry the Bourne-Phipps family tradition on this side of the planet. Molly and Maria volunteered a fraction later, and eventually Helen gave her rather lacklustre consent. I really must have words with her about showing the proper spirit, and make sure her diet has plenty of healthy Moral Fibre in it.

                Anyway, he mentioned that he had heard hints of a particularly large piece of “business” due sometime in the next month – which would probably mean going into action on short notice. This could be a problem for us, with our timetable – it is rather like having an air force that all work in City banks and have to sneak off on Alert without anyone noticing. Still, we nodded dutifully and promised to do what we could – at any rate, we should have some interesting experiences in this job. As long as we keep up our good reputation on the islands we should have little to fear from Mr. Sapohatan: certainly someone to have supporting rather than opposing oneself.

     The two Spontoonies transferred to another water-taxi in the middle of the lagoon far from prying eyes, and we carried on with our usual Saturday dance classes. Some of the first-years have been trying to enrol already – as soon as they have earned Passes, it looks like half of Songmark is heading this direction.

     Only three of our Seniors have kept up their interest, though they are in the Advanced classes and we rarely see them. Happily, perhaps the best of all is Jessica Fawcette, not quite from my native Barsetshire but from just over the border – about the only one of our Seniors from Home than I really know. Still, she has an athletic family tradition, her grandmother being the famous lady archaeologist Miss Laura Shieling who obtained so many Native treasures for the museums and private collectors in Victorian times. This is not the sort of thing I would try to persuade Jirry of, but at the time it was felt a much better thing for famous and valuable pieces of treasure to be on display to millions of museum visitors in Europe than to be hidden away in some sacred temple treasury. At least her granddaughter’s costume is less uncomfortable for dodging traps and hostile Natives: if the “penny dreadfuls” are to believed, Laura Shieling was scaling jungle-clad mountains and temple complexes wearing high-button boots, a whalebone corset and a detachable bustle with a four pound guncotton demolition charge.

     Unfortunately, Beryl had arrived just as the Advanced class were leaving; although we are all Songmark students these days, her old school has an awful rivalry with Jessica’s which Beryl never forgets. She burst into an old Saint T’s chant that I have heard variants of before, on many a stricken hockey field:

     “If I had the wings of an Eagle, If I had the rump of a Crow
      I’d fly myself over the Cheltenham grounds
      And spit on those persons below.”       *

Although Jessica might not wear her grandmother’s military issue crinolines, she seems to do well enough without them. Three years of Songmark self-defence lessons certainly come in handy – Beryl is fast but Jessica was faster, practically tied our classmate in a knot and pitched her into the swimming pool. Applause all round!

                A very fine evening wandering around Casino Island, just the four of us. Strolling by the docks on the sunset side of the island, there was quite a lot of boat traffic considering the time of year. No standard tourists, but a lot of commercial traffic and the year-round trickle of random travellers passing through in all directions. Looking at a cargo ship unloading logs from Vostok for the sawmills, Helen commented that just one hollow log could hold millions in forged notes – one big shipment a year would hold a very good chance of getting through, rather than a steady stream of folk with suitcases. Molly quite agreed, and recounted various tales from her Family business. At least we should be spared one of her business associates’ tricks (running a pipeline across the river from the Canadian border on the far shore) – even if the money pipeline was a “pneumatique” such as banks and city post offices use, on Spontoon one would need a rather long pipeline.

                On the way back we met our friend Nuala, who must have inherited her lupine mother’s tolerance to Siberian cold: at any rate, she was dressed in a rather chilly costume for the time of year. She was quite chatty, and indeed seemed far more energetic than last time we met; by her accounts she had been resting a lot since then. One always hears of “resting” actors and actresses between engagements.

                I took the chance to ask her just which theatre she does work in – as we tend to see her taking the air of an evening on the Northern side of the island, and one never sees her name in lights at the Coconut Shell. She seemed quite amused and waved vaguely over the northern part of the island, merely saying her “hunting license” covered all of Casino Island. Very odd, I have never seen her wearing any sort of hunting costume, quite the opposite – and Casino Island is absolutely the last place I can imagine wearing one. Of course, one sees a lot of the “great Euro Hunter” types relaxing stylishly around hotel patios in tourist season, in impeccable safari suits that have never been further than a stroll in Tower Hill Park – but Nuala has always struck me as being far more of a professional than that.

* (Editor’s note: Amelia is being polite. The original chant is rather cruder.)
 

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