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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
22 November, 1935 to 27 November, 1935

Monday 21st November, 1935

A day of squally winds and lashing rain, but despite everything we were out in it all afternoon, on that low North-facing cliff inland from the coast of Eastern Island. We had climbed it back in Summer, but now while Miss Wildford cheered us on, we tried all our routes on rock streaming with water. A very different experience, but of course Songmark can hardly send out purely fair-weather adventuresses.

                Not only do we have to climb the faces but map them in detail, along with all the routes we have put up on them and full descriptions! Molly claims it is simply adding insult to injury, and indeed she is one mass of bruises after twice spectacularly failing to get up Radiator Gulley * and then having to give a hold by hold description of the whole sorry business.

                Beryl is quite brilliant at this sort of thing, and tells us she had two years of intensive coaching at St. T’s from her friend Sarah “Second storey” Samedi, who has a family tradition of such things. Three hours of it was enough to reduce the toughest of us to tears, with our fur matted with green mossy stains, mud and assorted debris kicked down by the climbers above.

                Just to cheer us up, Miss Wildford announced that we would be back here until we can get up anything in the rain – after which we will try it in the dark, then carrying equipment – and when we manage all that, we will go back and do it again, only faster.

                I must say, it was a great relief to get back and all pile into a hot shower at Songmark – though Madelene X kicked up something of a fuss when she noticed I had adopted the same … trimmed fur style as Molly, which she comments is only used by folk of ill repute. I was about to retort that the three Natashas I copied it from, probably had a most excellent reputation of their kind – but stopped myself just in time. Madelene is awfully annoyed with us for spending our Sunday afternoons being what she calls “wilfully steeped in heathen darkness” as we learn the local traditions from Saimmi. Helen is more amused than respectful of most religion, and mutters we should fake up some news reports of Pacific islanders sending their own missionaries to France and converting the locals to the worship of the Tiki god. It would be only fair, I suppose.

                (Later) The wind was blowing straight from Moon Island at lights-out, and we could very clearly hear the wind-tunnel at the naval base. It sounded very different somehow – starting off as normal, but a minute or so later a sort of extra noise kicked in – something I can only describe as a wailing boom, however unlikely that sounds written down on paper. The first time it ran for about ten seconds and sort of stuttered out – the second time it lasted well over a minute. Fascinating! One wonders what they are testing over there – and if we will see the results in next year’s Schneider Trophy. Somehow, I rather doubt it.

(*Editor’s note: tucked into the Diaries is an old mimeographed survey of two hundred yards of a basalt sill criss-crossed with routes, and some scribbled notes. The entry for Radiator Gulley reads: “Grim exposed open angles and paw-holds up to chock stone, break left on imperceptible claw-jams over crozzly basalt plates, sparse chickenheads and greasy scoops up to start of “Green Streak” [pointless and dangerous diversion up rotten rock 2 yards west of “The Fly”]. Squeeze through gap labelled “Diet, Maria!” then break left across route of “Plummeting Mousie”. Depending on conditions and will to live, take either the Direct or Super-Direct finish, both being five yards of brutal snout-jamming to the top. Or better still, let Beryl do it, and heckle her.”)

Tuesday 22nd November, 1935

My birthday, hurrah! Twenty years old today – if I return Home next year I’ll be old enough to add my vote for the Jingoist Party. Jasbir treated us to a slap-up treat at Song Sodas, where Helen surprised us all by sampling a Durian Surprise and finding it tasted much better than its aroma (onions, stilton and bad drains.)

                Beryl gave me the big block of penny shares she had been trying to sell to Jasbir – what a joker she is! I will cherish them carefully, and every time I buy a typewriter ribbon feel happy about raising my HAL stocks by a millionth of a cowry. Molly gave me the nice saw-edged bayonet that Lars gave her on Her birthday – it is all she had to give, poor girl, and she commented that as it fitted my rifle I had better have the complete set. Her tail was rather drooping as she added that U.S. Customs would only confiscate it when she gets sent back next month.

                Helen gave me a grappling-hook and sixty feet of fine Manila rope, and Maria contributed a new flying-scarf, both just right for our courses. All wonderful to have, and I am pleased as punch to have such thoughtful pals. Helen’s birthday won’t be till April, but I must find her something good for Christmas.

                And yet – I caught sight of Molly’s final issue of “Film Frolics” (her subscription has run out) with its pictures of well-groomed starlets glittering with gems and not an awful lot else. I realised that I don’t own a single piece of jewellery, not even a cheap brass tail-band or earring. I never felt the need, and if anyone gave me some it would spend most of its time locked away in my small trunk. But still – Molly’s thoughts about having to return home, rather reminded me of how far everything has moved on since I first arrived here. My only decoration is my Tailfast necklace, just a piece of sea shell with braided fur, not worth a cowry to anyone else although I wouldn’t part with it for as much real money as Mr. Greene and his gang printed fakes. My pal Mabel often writes from Switzerland about the finely dressed debutantes she learns with, none of whom wear flying scarves or steel-toecapped boots or habitually wear the distinctive perfume of old engine-oil. If they ever quarrel they may socially “cut someone dead” but bayonets are not involved in the process.

                It was a strange day, indeed – out to the Casino Island general hospital to carry on our advanced first aid classes. Jasbir, Ada and Li Han seemed a little apprehensive as they wondered what we would face, as the hospital serves a huge area of the Pacific and serious cases come here from half-way to Tillamook.

     In Ada’s case she was rather behind with her homework, having been decidedly down in the dumps since I told her of our meeting her former heroine (Miss Pelton, as was.) I had noticed the big wall photograph of Miss Pelton winning at tennis had been taken down from their dorm wall, and the framed one on Ada’s locker followed it yesterday. I wonder what our remaining Tutors think of it, a founder of Songmark and confirmed Adventuress of so many years deciding completely to turn round and walk down the aisle, heading for a traditional honeymoon and a family following immediately after. One hardly needs to share Ada’s preferences to imagine them being rather shocked and disappointed in her.

     Our course had nothing spectacular today, but we learned a good deal about wound care and treatments – straightforward splints and such we covered in First Aid last year, but we now learn more about looking after healing patients. Treating infections is a tricky job in this climate, but everyone is talking about “sulpha drugs” that the Hospital received its first package of this month and is trying out on some desperate cases who took days to be brought in from distant islands. We were warned not to expect sulphanilamide in our first-aid kits any time soon, and having been quoted the price per dose I can quite understand.

     We were shown round the out-patients ward by Doctor Tarohan, a very rugged young boar who was handing out all sorts of prescriptions. He had a pile of health pamphlets he gave us – for some reason there has been a very major epidemic of tapeworms, mostly amongst the showgirls and various Euro entertainers, plus quite a few other folk almost at random. Very few gentlemen have been affected, and very few older citizens, a fact which is puzzling him greatly. He was almost tearing his fur out trying to track down the source, as his best enquiries have found nothing in common with the patients’ diet – there were four dancers from the Coconut Shell being treated, who eat at the same hotel canteen as the hotel staff who have no problems that way. Although nobody is critically ill with this, it is awfully unpleasant and not the sort of news one wants to get into the worldwide papers just when folk are deciding whether or not to
come here for next year’s gastronomic holiday.

     Still, a super Birthday, and indeed I only have one more of them left at Songmark. Decidedly something to think about – if my circumstances have changed as much by then as they have in the last year, it will be a very different Amelia who leaves Songmark than arrived!

Wednesday 23rd November, 1935

A damp day, but at least a good test of our flying kit’s waterproofing. We had three hours of formation flying in the morning and were at last allowed some modest aerobatics, well away from the air lanes. Up to eight thousand feet to give us plenty of room for correcting mistakes, then we followed Miss Wildford’s lead in loops and barrel rolls. Bracing! I was flying with Helen and Adele Beasley, and I have to say Adele is a superb flyer. People are strange; Helen loves throwing her aircraft around to beat any roller-coaster ever built, yet is seasick at the slightest excuse – and Adele is graceful as a swallow in the air but falls over her own paws on land (and overboard, on water.)

                After the evening meal Molly and I headed out to Casino Island, with our invites to Maxine’s – which is a rather large building on the West-facing side of the island, with high walls and a very refined yet powerful looking Tigress on the door. Though Helen is very good in all our self-defence classes, I would have to bet against my friend if those two ever competed, as the “receptionist” at Maxine’s must be twice her poundage and none of it fat. She had been expecting us by name, and passed us through very smoothly closing double doors that let us into a very tasteful inner courtyard.

                Well! I was not sure what to expect, but I expected a surprise and certainly got it. We were introduced to Madame Maxine herself, a stately Eurasian Siamese lady in a silken sarong who explained she runs what sounds very like the finishing school my dear chum Mabel attends. She teaches manners, social skills for all occasions and what she describes as “elegant transformations.” The place has its own extensive fur grooming parlour, and an awful lot of equipment that one would hardly expect to find outside London or Paris – another surprise for this semi-tropical island.

                Madame Maxine noted we have been booked in and paid for, so we need not worry about that – at which we both heaved sighs of relief. Many of the dancers, aspiring film starlets and other such folk come here by her account: we are booked for a special course that our Sponsor had requested.

                Hurrah for Mr. Sapohatan! I had been reflecting just last week that my education is rather short on social graces – and had uncomfortable thoughts of someday mixing with other debutantes back home, discovering nobody else in the room knows or cares tuppence about engine compression ratios or avoiding aileron reversal.

                We were passed on to a pair of politely smiling Eurasian felines, who put us through quite a treatment – steam baths, fur grooming and an instruction in some of the finer points of Euro style cosmetics. All rather new to me – such things were frowned-on back at St.Winifred’s, and since arriving at Songmark the main fur treatment has been a frequent showering of scorched castor-oil. I assume we have a Mission being planned that calls for us navigating in higher social circles than Pilot’s bars and Mechanic’s institutes. That would explain why Helen was not invited along – I can hardly imagine her being thrilled at being groomed and beautified, it is not her style at all. Molly certainly has the looks, it is just a shame about her Chicago accent.

                Leaving a few hours later, scented with something that probably came from a Paris “parfumier” rather than an East Indies oil refinery, we did feel definitely different. Next week we will bring along our Rachorska dresses, it is time they got an airing.

Thursday 24th November, 1935

Hurrah! A postcard from the freight docks informed me that a large packing crate was awaiting me in Customs – so as soon as classes finished I hurried over to Casino Island with my chums to pick it up. A few signatures later I was looking in awe and some alarm at a crate the size of a garden shed, nine hundred kilograms according to the shipping details. Help! I should have guessed that the Mignet aeronautical factory would have crated and double-sealed everything very securely for its trip in cargo holds across the globe, probably with as much weight in the packing as the contents. (This time, the aircraft kit is made of rather better material than the packing crate, unlike previous incarnations of my poor G-WIZ at home.)

     The loading dock staff was rather unhelpful, insisting I clear my property out of the way but refusing to provide transport to Songmark. After shipping the crate all the way from France, one might think another two miles would hardly be a problem. They did suggest our hiring a freight barge from them – but quoted ten Shells to move the crate over to the hangars, an awfully steep price for us right now. It is a good thing Father pre-paid the import duty, or I would be in a real pickle. I must write off immediately and thank him – by far the best Birthday present I have ever had.

     Fortunately Molly had brought her pocket crowbar set along as usual, and by dint of a lot of hard work we uncrated the kit, piled it onto two standard water-taxis and before dark had everything safely stowed in the Songmark hangars, Jasbir and her pals helping us carry it up from the ferry terminal. Everything is present and accounted-for, right down to the last nut and bolt – if the assembly manual had been in English rather than French it would have been nice, though it is profusely illustrated and I should think I know how to build a Flying Flea by now. The engine is rather different, 80 horsepower it claims (twice what I managed with before!) but we have been up to our elbows in engines of all sorts for the past year and we are rather looking forward to getting it running.

     Beryl was actually useful, turning up at the dock with one of Songmark’s old Ford lorries for the heavy lifting. She innocently remarked that the lorry had been sitting ready fuelled in an open garage with only a 3-tumbler lock on the door, so obviously it was meant to be used. In the circumstances we did not feel much like arguing the point with her.

     I had asked Miss Devinski how I would go about registering my pride and joy on Spontoon – if it had been a case of rebuilding poor #8 with fragments sent out, I might have been able to carry over the G-WIZ registration. But a brand new machine has to be certified and everything here – so it will carry a SI and not a G to its name. Annoying, but I will live with it. Anyway, first we have to build it. I fear the weekends are going to be rather busy till the end of term, and any erring first-year responsible for pulling us away from the hangar will learn a lot about good behaviour from me.

     (Later) Molly bounced in from her field engineering classes, looking very pleased with herself. She had a class in lumber work involving felling trees with no tools but fire, and happily described all the things she had burned with her tutor’s full approval. Her only misgivings were about being slapped down hard when she suggested labour-saving tips involving some sort of “soup” she offered to cook from dynamite – a popular recipe in her social circles in Detroit, she assures us.

     The wind-tunnel was running again tonight, and from the end of the corridor there is a window looking out over Moon Island. We had our field-glasses out, not that there was much to see, the main test section being indoors. There was one odd sight though; when the strange howling boom started up, I could almost swear I saw a flickering blue-yellow light at the tail-race end of the tunnel. Most odd.

Friday 25th November, 1935

Back onto the rock faces of the North shore, mapping and climbing – it is one thing to scramble up a route, but quite another to describe it well enough for someone to be able to follow it from your notes. Maria is getting very good at it, her Observation and Reporting classes are really paying off. Still, she needs some help with some of the harder routes – it is not strength as such but suppleness that really helps, and Li Han practically dances past all of us on the rock. Bravo for her!

                Although the highest part of the crag is only twenty feet, that is more than enough to fall off, and we are “learning the ropes” in a literal manner. A four-foot fall is about as much as a good manila rope can be expected to take, and we “belay” our way up the cliff hold by hold in classic style. If ever there was a good demonstration of “Pride goes before a fall”, this is it. Maria was rather showing off how horns assist her technique of head-jamming, when she found out wet rock and green slippery algae needs to be taken into account. I barely managed to hold her on the rope wrapped around me as I belayed; feeling like cheddar must when the grocer gets busy with the cheese-wire.

                I must say, Maria is getting more considerate the longer she stays here – she apologised and declared she was going to try and lose a kilogram or two. I doubt she needs to, really – she has very little spare baggage anyway, and with a timetable as active as ours I hardly see how much more exercise she can put in. Few race-horses are in better trim than us – they might possibly lose some weight, but not to their advantage.

Saturday 26th November, 1935

We woke to find it absolutely pouring with rain, but nothing dampened our spirits as we wolfed breakfast and headed out to the hangars – after so long, at last I have the prospect of taking up my very own aircraft. A year and a half of relying on other folk is an awfully long time – and I had to remind everybody not to rush into building, but get it right first time.

                All the tools and such were at hand and we recruited some of the airport technicians to help – Maria has her camera, and we got through about three rolls of film the first morning as we recorded every step for posterity. The book suggests starting with the wings, as all the layers of dope will take a long time to dry and we can assemble the rest while waiting. I must say, looking at the plans this is a real Thoroughbred flea, next to the rather non-pedigree models I tried my best on. Eighty horse-power engine, professional laminated mahogany propeller and aircraft-grade materials all the way – I can hardly wait.

                We hope to complete the job in three weeks: though it was rather a wrench, we downed tools until tomorrow and headed out to our dance lessons. Beryl had already got there, and is enrolling in one of the introductory classes after New Year. (She was showing Molly a postcard from her ex-school chums at their new address yesterday; apparently they have burned the school down again. Molly is seething with jealousy, as one of her friends from Detroit was there to help.)

                Beryl is a rather fine dancer in the more “euro” styles and has been teaching us all to rumba, claiming anyone who is anyone dances it at Home these days. I really have been out here a long time, though not nearly as long as Miss Devinski – in an unguarded comment once she let slip she first arrived when the Charleston was all the rage.

                Our Intermediate Hula lessons are going well – rather like poetry, one cannot lay down hard and fast rules as how to do it, but easily spot if it “works” or not. I wonder how it would sound danced inside one of those Terpistones, the full-body Theremins that V-Gerat play at their concerts? It is a whole year since we saw them play; hopefully they will do another Pacific concert soon.

                Thinking of interesting technologies, one familiar face turned up that we have not seen in quite awhile; some of our rivals from the S.I.T.H.S were met after class by that skunk gentleman who seemed to be in charge of those model aircraft experiments. He had a quiet word with them and the whole party headed back to Moon Island on the double. That must be real devotion to duty, to work on school projects at weekends. Enquiring of our dance teachers, it seems he is the head of works at some small engineering firm here run by the Althing – probably civil engineering or the like. We waved our rivals farewell, as they followed the skunk off to his works and presumably more interesting model aircraft. Moon Island really is the place to put that wind tunnel, with mostly military and official folk there this time of year who are unlikely to complain – it has been awfully noisy the past few nights, with brief but unpleasant “Howl” and “Screech” sound-effects that we can hear from our dorms all the way across the water.

                An excellent evening, Jasbir treated us all to a supper of Popatohi, which might well be the Spontoonie national dish – I have never heard of it elsewhere, though of course we have hardly surveyed the menus of the whole Pacific. Something like anchovies with onion and extra garlic – Beryl says it is the perfect dish for concealing the scent of absinthe on one’s breath, not that I think I will need it for that.

                One cannot do everything, alas. Jasbir was telling us of putting out contacts with some visiting film producers who are in need of extras next season: she and Li Han can actually give references as having danced at the Coconut Shell, as long as our Tutors do not find out. She mentions having seen a fine adventure film this morning by H. Hiram Beaupree, one of the directors who has Spontoon pencilled in for location shoots in spring. It sounds a thrilling film that kept Jasbir on the edge of her seat till the final reel; the villain had conquered most of the country with his radio-hypnotic ray, until the hero dressed himself in clothes lined with a radio-proof aluminium membrane and came to get him. Foiled again!

                Irma Bundt added that Sadie Shawnee will be filming on the island too, a lady producer of action romances whom I have heard much about in the gossip columns of Molly’s “Film Frolics”. Prudence is far more likely to audition for those roles, Irma says – adding something about “casting couch” that I did not quite catch, though Molly found it very amusing. I must ask her later about it.

Sunday 27th November, 1935

Up early and out in the dark and rain to the hangars – we missed breakfast, but Molly still has half a case of PAMS that needs eating up and has found no buyers in the local shops. We put in a solid four hours and have both wing structures almost completed, and Helen has stripped down and rebuilt the engine all ready for bench testing.

                Molly seems fairly cheerful considering, and while we are at church promised to carry on working on the aircraft. We left her perched on a workbench eating PAMS from a hacked-open tin with the tip of her bayonet – not exactly the sort of etiquette one learns at a finishing school, but she seems happy enough with it.

                A drenching ride to Casino Island was hardly improved by Reverend Bingham’s homily on the spiritual values of thrift and prudence. I do believe his Bishop must have sat on him severely for his unorthodoxy, but I think he was far better before – I fondly recall his Parable of the Left-pawed Longshoreman and the Watermelon. After all, we hardly need reminding of thrift with Molly’s fees still to pay, and as for prudence – well, the only Prudence who springs to mind is our chum who spends Sunday afternoon at the pool with her all-girl formation swimming team, before retiring to her friend Tahni’s longhouse to spend the rest of the day “discussing tactics” as she puts it. It was a rather dull morning all things considered, with no sign of Jirry’s family or even Miss Fawnsworthy to chat with afterwards.

                I far preferred Saimmi’s religious instruction today, to be honest. She took us over to South Island and showed us some sacred springs, which were in full flow after all the rain of the last week. We learned some more of the rituals, and why they have to be performed at particular times – I must say, Saimmi puts her story over very well, and it all hangs together quite convincingly.

                One of these days, she tells us, she hopes a Wild Shaman might agree to talk with us, but that will be entirely up to them. I certainly hope to meet one – it is an interesting sort of “church” where the highest ranks have the least pomp and ceremony, to the point where nobody can even find them.

     Saffina is very happily progressing in her studies, her own Native religion being the all-embracing sort where incoming missionaries are horrified to find their symbols put up on the wall with the rest of the collection. She tells us her mother has qualified in their local church and is now accepted as a Mambo, which I always thought was some sort of poisonous snake – anyway, it is a long way from where she started as a convent-trained missionary’s daughter.

     Back to Eastern Island to rejoin Molly in the hangar – she has done a jolly good job of doping the wing canvas, though the fumes were making her rather “doped” as well. We had time to get the engine on its mountings and check the sump for metal particles – not a scrap, which cheered me no end. Poor Flea #7 had an engine that sounded rather like a grindstone in action, and had the rudder not structurally failed first, I would have been in real risk of running out of engine just when I most needed it.

     All the accessories are ready for the happy event – we have fuel and oil all lined up, the oil being standard European grade this time of year. The “Tropical weight” oil we would need in July at least is easy to store in November weather – one hardly needs a container, it just stands up like a block of butter.

     We decided to leave the tricky bit till tomorrow, the top wing pivot. Having no horizontal tail as such, of course the Flea design manages perfectly well by tilting the whole top wing. Monsieur Mignet’s idea was that since so many crashes were caused by aileron reversals, to abolish ailerons entirely – a bold and radical approach that is probably years ahead of its time. The only trouble is that the pivot has to take all the flight loads, and has to be rather thick and heavy for safety, as I found out when having to improvise with the drawing-room poker on Flea #4. One would think responsible poker manufacturers would anticipate this sort of reasonable demand and make their wares from some alloy a little less brittle.

     It is most curious, recalling the “Sea Flea” I saw at the underground hangar back in Easter – that had a very sleek, streamlined “wing pillar” half the bulk of this official Mignet kit and without a single bracing wire, yet the aircraft was shaped as an advanced fighter that we have seen being thrown all over the skies without anything significant falling off. One wonders how they did it.

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