Spontoon Island
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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
31 October, 1935 to 5 November, 1935

Tuesday October 31st, 1935
 
The good thing is, I am still here and not changing seaplanes in Hawaii right now on the way back home – in fact, Miss Devinski seems to have relented. There are headlines in the Daily Elele (without mentioning me) and I believe she must have been having a long chat with a certain ferret. We have even been given souvenirs – a freshly printed Spontoonie Hundred-shell note apiece, the first one I have ever seen! Alas, they are stamped across both sides with “SPECIMEN” and are presumably forgeries recovered from the gang– Molly ruined hers discovering the stamp is quite indelible.
 
                I caught up on how they had traced me across Casino Island – fortunately the roads were freshly swept and show tyre traces in the blown sand. Tracking the Jitney had taken them half the night, and a slight disagreement with a wandering constable had slowed them still further. In fact, by lunchtime they had only narrowed the search down to two houses – but when they saw me drawing the curtains after the afternoon bath, Helen phoned the official number and the local law was around in quite a hurry.
 
                We went over what worked well or badly, and tried to puzzle out how we could have improved on matters. Molly and Maria kept coming up with all sorts of outlandish gadgets which could save the day in the right circumstances – but I had to ask them just where in my party dress they expected me to carry the hardware. Although I would dislike having to wear a crinoline like Laura Shieling, having a cubic yard of skirt space could be handy at times. If Miss Shieling had not invented the detachable exploding bustle half a century before, Molly would probably have patented it herself.
 
                At least the timing was perfect – I was in the right place and at the right time to signal. We will have to improve on our signalling, preferably without carrying Aldis lamps around. I was very glad to get the chance – Mr. Greene seemed to have some definite plans for our evening, and in the circumstances it would have been hard to turn him down. Having added one tick to the list (If I did that sort of thing) per weekend is quite sufficient. Besides, what he had suggested to me was something I would not feel at all comfortable with, even with Jirry, unless we were Engaged as well as Tailfast. I must confess, I had thought about what might have happened had Helen lost my trail – hardly what the romance novels call a Fate Worse Than Death, but definitely a fate to be avoided. After all, he is a known Criminal, despite being rather nice-looking.
 
     When I left St. Winifred’s last year, I certainly planned on becoming an adventuress – but not THAT sort.  I can hardly believe Nuala is involved in anything like this, despite the evidence – she is our friend, and of such good family on one side.
 
                Beryl is going about the place in a tearing rage, declaring there is no honour among thieves these days. She seems to know Mr. Brown and Mr. Greene under other names, and hints darkly that someone is waging an ill-advised war against her friend Mr. Van Hoogstraaten’s associates in the various import-export trades. Fortunately, the prisoners were immediately moved to Rain Island to stand trial and there is a line in the paper about four illegal arrivals being deported – so I still hope that nobody knows my part in things.
      
                (Later) The First-years are back, and are busy washing the jungle mud out of their fur and treating their insect bites. From what I gather, Liberty Morgenstern and Hannah Meyer are being treated for rather larger bites – each other’s. Ada Cronstein came bouncing in very cheerfully to tell us, having escorted them separately to our Matron – she is only sorry she missed the fight, which was what she calls “a doozy.”
 
     Hannah is the cherished daughter of the famous Joseph Meyer, the Bric-a-brac millionaire who clawed his way up from pushing a street barrow to being the biggest knick-knack and Bric-a-brac magnate on the whole American East Coast. Hearing her father called a “Bloodsucking neo-feudalist tyrant of the oppressed masses” rather irritated Hannah, who engaged Liberty in a spirited political debate using a still-spiky piece of Acacia thorn driftwood. She refuses to apologise - except to her rabbi, as it seems sinking her teeth into a canine breaks her dietary laws. For some reason, Liberty feels the only possible way for anyone to gain wealth is by mercilessly exploiting everyone else; the idea of honest profit is not something that seems to appear in her dictionary.
 
                It is very odd, I get along perfectly well with Molly and Maria, and yet folk from such similar social and ancestral roots declare immediate hostilities. Liberty has been going on a bit about instituting Revolutionary Justice – which needs to be identified separately, as from her account it seems very different from any other sort of Justice. Even our two Reds are at daggers drawn (or on a daily basis, wet towels) yet folk such as Hannah and Saffina seem the very best of chums despite having backgrounds worlds apart.
 
                Maria adds that her Uncle has often said that politics is a great curse and one he hopes to entirely abolish from daily life. “Il Puce” has certainly worked hard at taking the burden entirely on himself, and boasts that of his original opponents, there are fewer and fewer around every year!
 
                (Later) A fascinating evening with Passes to see the native celebrations on the Northern tip of the island. Helen and I escorted Saffina there to see the rituals – her very first Pass, which she was pleased as anything at. It was very good to join in with Saimmi and the locals at their fireside celebration – I have given up the idea of Switzerland, and will stick with Songmark unless they throw me out. Hopefully I have heard the last of my “hunting license” and can convince our Tutors of that. I just wish I knew how it happened in the first place. Even the signature looked remarkably like mine.
                
Thursday November 2nd, 1935
 
A fine day, escorting the first-years around the main airstrip, showing them the various aircraft being serviced and fuelled. There was quite a collection on the tarmac, everything from one of the Rain Island Barling bombers to the latest passenger liners just coming into service. We talked with Mr. Pulu’evi, one of the senior mechanics at the airport, who showed us round the new metalwork shop. He shook his head wistfully and recalled it seemed like yesterday to him that the first permanent hangars were put up, and he worked in repairing nothing but wood and doped canvas.
 
                I had to agree that aircraft are changing so fast that one hardly dares blink without missing a new model coming into and out of service. The pride and joy of Tahiti Royal Airways is a brand new Douglas DC3, just delivered this week – no doubt by the time we leave Songmark it will have been replaced and mostly forgotten by everyone. Who now recalls the Sopwith Camel, despite its strange name?
 
                The first-years were really very impressed by all the fine flying, and were quite well behaved. Tatiana broke into a cheerful song again, to a tune that Helen swore she recognised:
 
             “Our leader Lenin’s body lies preserved in old Red Square
                Our leader Lenin’s body lies preserved in old Red Square
                Our leader Lenin’s body watches over old Red Square
                But his Party marches on
                Glory, glory to the Proletariat,
                Glory, glory to the Proletariat
                Glory, glory to the Proletariat
                As the Party Marches on!”

The rest of the group objected less than usual, and the tray of used sump-oil that Liberty threw her way entirely missed. It was good to see Molly taking her responsibility seriously, as she stood guard over Liberty and made her clean it off the tarmac with caustic soda and a toothbrush. Molly seems to be quite taken with the idea of enforcing Law these days provided it is done in the right style and involves a lot of shouting. (We are still holding out against having official Songmark peaked caps and nightsticks.)

                One of the aircraft that attracted most attention was a very impressive “mail carrier” from Vostok, one that is so new it hardly appears in our recognition books. It is a very sleek twin-engined affair that actually is delivering mail right now – but the large hatch in the underside rather gave the game away, as does the optically flat aiming window in the cabin floor. Although Vostok has little industry for building aircraft, the nobility managed to bring a fair chunk of the Russian treasury with them into exile, and they seem to be spending more of it on aircraft these days. I expect purchasing the “mail carrier” cost a few Faberge diamond eggs, to say the least. What sort of eggs it is designed to drop, is another matter.
                
Saturday November 4th, 1935
 
A damp day for our dance practice, the rain fairly sheeting off the roof of the dance hall – in our Intermediate classes we are learning more Hula “language” which is really quite expressive. Beryl comes along to watch, as well as to get a decent meal on Casino Island; her Casino winnings over Summer can pay for her dining every week at The Golden Crab if she wishes. Saturday lunch at Songmark is invariably Poi – as we explained to Saffina, “One finger” and “Two finger poi” refers to the consistency of the mash and how one eats it, not the gestures Beryl makes when presented with it.
 
                Our dance tutor Mrs. Ponole has made us an intriguing offer,  to come and dance next week at one of the other dance schools, which are for locals only and generally do not let Euros compete. Quite an honour indeed – we shall be on our best behaviour and dressed in our Native best. Maria complains she has never worn the full (scantiest) Costume yet, not having been around in the holidays. In fact, she tells me she is doing her level best to stay over the Winter holidays – if she can just convince her Uncle. Time is definitely flying by, this term.
 
                We only have six weeks to find the rest of Molly’s Songmark fee, or we only have six weeks of Molly! A very disturbing notion. And there is another disturbing thing – Saturday is the only time I get to the bank here to draw my allowance, and the figures do not add up. I seem to be rather richer than I can account for, to the tune of fifty shells. Possibly Mr. Sapohatan has discreetly handed us a reward for our work last week – at the local bank it is very easy to anonymously pay into any account, Beryl tells me. She has quite a few numbered accounts under various names, she says, and is opening more at Mr. Van Hoogstraaten’s new Spontoon International Bank.
 
                Fifty shells is an awful lot of money, though.  Wherever it came from, I donated it to Molly, and indeed we only need another three hundred or so to pay her bills. Although I would not exactly relish every weekend being like last week, fifty a week would clear things just in time.
 
                Molly is rather down in the dumps, despite having six weeks more grace – it would be eight weeks, but our tutors are rather unreasonably insisting she pay at the end of this term, not the start of the next one. She mourns her lost family fortune, and complains that her Father could perfectly well have paid the whole year’s fee in advance, as mine did. (Father sent a postcard that arrived today from French Antarctica, where presumably he is building gas-proof redoubts for penguins. He writes that the chance of anyone invading is now almost nil.)
 
                Hurrah! We met Jirry and Marti again – as we had planned last week, before certain events intervened.  Off to the cinema with the brothers and Helen, while Molly and Maria window-shopped, the best they can do while Molly’s future is in doubt. Maria is not the greatest culture fanatic around, but there is an exhibition at the museum by an Italian archaeologist that she feels duty bound to visit, which makes strange revelations of lost empires in the jungles of what is now the Dutch East Indies. I have heard of Caesar Roman myself, his “Roman’s decline and fall of the Gibbon Empire” being a school classic.
 
                It seems Saimmi has kept her brother updated – Jirry congratulated me on the successful raid, and commiserated on my losing my good name (strictly speaking, the only folk who know about this already know it is untrue. I hope the story does not get out to the world at large.) He sympathises, and says Saimmi has been enquiring for me to clear my name off whatever register it is on – she had discovered to our horror that my license had been already anonymously paid for, and all the paperwork has been progressing smoothly to officially issue it! Whoever arranged this seems to know very well how such things operate.
 
      It seems to be like the problem Father had with officially buying engineering supplies from a company who then discovered they had quoted the wrong price; they tried to return the excess money but Father discovered there was no procedure established for individuals to pay the Army. Licences may lapse or be refused, but the applications stay, like trying to remove a birth certificate from the records – nobody has ever wanted to cancel one before. Nobody puts reverse gears on a Whitehead torpedo, for much the same reason.
 
                Despite everything, I am still Tailfast to Jirry, though he suggests I might like to leave that off for half a year to see more of the world. I can see the sense in that – if we carry on as we are progressing, I can see us being engaged by this time next year, and then I will always be wondering what Natasha meant about Australian Quolls. Still – it is very fine to be Tailfast, knowing I have a longhouse waiting and a local family very happy for me to join them. Helen and Marti are planning to exchange fur braids, so Songmark will not be unrepresented at the next Solstice festival.
 
                The cinema was a real treat – it is such a long time since I could relax with a properly stark and  brooding German Expressionist film; “Tagebuch von ein Verloren” (“Diary of a Lost Girl”) starring the raven-haired beauty Louise Rooks. A more neurotic person might start putting together grandiose conspiracies of folk screening it specially for me in the circumstances – except that Jirry has mentioned the locals have to order films from Europe a month in advance. Actually though not a “talkie” it was a splendid film – had it been any darker as a “film noir”, one would have needed searchlights to see the screen!
 
Sunday November 5th, 1935
 
The wet season has definitely arrived, and the first-years are heaving sighs of relief that it held off for their trip. What the locals call “a mild day” has about an inch of rain in the morning, getting wetter from there. The trip to Church was one continuous soak – and when we got there the various strategically placed buckets showed how necessary is Reverend Bingham’s roof restoration fund.
 
                We were treated to a full-scale assault on Anger in the sermon today, which really hit a chord with many of the congregation. I definitely think the churchgoers here are more fanatical than at Home – possibly because even in the Euro community there is little pressure on lukewarm worshippers to attend, only the truly dedicated ones actually do. Reverend Bingham can really rouse his audience when he gets into his stride – after the sermon I overheard two spinster cats loudly decrying that there are so many folk who do not love their fellows – and they bitterly hate people like that.
 
                My tail drooped somewhat as I thought of the rather more peaceful Native religion – which might not stir enough motivation to build gothic cathedrals, but on the other paw is unlikely to launch witch-hunts and pogroms. Other missionaries have bemoaned the locals’ moral laxity, and have blamed everything from the food to the sultry climate for acting as a moral laxative. Personally, I think there is no such thing – with the possible exception of catnip.
 
                Most of the churches here are in intense competition with each other over a quite small Euro population (Native converts are rare and much-boasted about.) One hears various rumours of  unsporting competitions between them – normally petty things such as switching a temple’s supply of sacred joss sticks for a greatly inferior brand, causing “bad joss” to affect its whole congregation. The Unitarian Fundamentalist who stands on Market Dock ranting about expunging all non-Unitarian Heresies with fire and sword, is hardly helping matters.
 
                I managed a few words with Miss Fawnsworthy, who hinted she had been away for the last two weeks in the nearby islands – her left paw was somewhat bandaged, so I doubt it was anything as peaceful as collecting flowers or her usual position as secretary, unless she dropped her typewriter on her foot. Possibly we are not the only ones with “interesting” spare-time jobs around here.
 
                Despite the pouring rain, the clouds were up around four thousand feet and there were a few clear breaks between the showers – when Saimmi met us outside with Saffina, we all headed across to South Island. I really miss having oiled fur. Keeping plain fur dry is a losing battle on Spontoon at this time of year; our smart Sunday oilskins flapped in the wind like flags, and were about as waterproof.
 
                Saffina is really a jolly fit girl, having been brought up running around after the family cattle – rather a common sort of occupation I would have thought, but of course they were the Royal cattle. At any rate, even after a hard year of Songmark training we could hardly keep up with her as we went straight up the North flank of Mount Tomboabo almost at a jog, an hour of very stiff exercise. Saimmi was as good as her word – although the steep rocky top looks quite untouched, there are holes driven into the bedrock where sighting stakes can be fixed and she pointed out some of the interesting ritual sights they pointed to. It is splendid seeing the old traditions kept up to date – just like Archbishop Crowley is doing back home, reconsecrating some sites that have not been in use these two thousand years and more.
 
                Today we found one of the shrines deep in the jungle, and learned the rituals of caring for them. We had brought fruit and flowers to replace the offerings – and we learned how to return the previous offerings to the jungle, and why it had to be done that way. It is definitely unlike Church at home, where last week’s flowers end up on the rubbish heap with the lawn mowings.
 
                Back on Eastern Island, we saw a big Saunders-Roedeer “Sea Spirit” pulled up at the Marine Air Terminal – our long-lost Seniors returning from the Aleutian Islands, looking distinctly the worse for wear. In fact, they look rather like one sees photographs of shell-shocked troops coming home from the Great War – “boiled too long and run twice through the mangle” as my old Nurse used to say. Even our Tutors with them looked rather haggard – I overheard Miss Blande muttering something about it being “the third time I’ve swore I’d never go there again.”
 
                At dinner, the third-year table was almost empty, with the few attending wolfing down their food and staggering across to their dorm carrying plates for their classmates when they woke up. The rest of us looked on in rather shocked surprise, considering how much fitter and better qualified than ourselves our Seniors are – and they have already had a full day’s rest on the flying boat returning to Spontoon. Of course, Songmark can hardly send out Adventuresses into the world only prepared for lush tropical climes: by all account in January they are heading out to Alaska – I pity the lizard and amphibian girls in the class. When we see Conchita again, we will have to ask about her trip – Molly had been complaining none of them sent us postcards, but from the look of things it was hardly a postcard sort of trip!

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