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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
5 December, 1935 to 11 December, 1935

Monday December 5th, 1935
 
A big day – our Tutors took the chance to give our class a free lesson in alternative aeronautics – in other words, we all got the morning off to help with getting Sand Flea 1 ready for flight. Having eighteen keen critics looking hard for construction and rigging errors was rather nerve-wracking, but even Miss Devinski grudgingly concluded there was nothing obviously wrong that was not designed into the model.

                By eleven o’clock I was out on the runway, a bright day with steady Westerly wind – perfect conditions. At last, I could open up the throttle, there being far less power than a Tiger Moth, but a smaller and lighter airframe makes up for it. The view is much nearer the ground than I have been used to here – the main Eastern Island runway looked huge and terrifying as I started a few “bumps” to get the feel of the controls.

                Technically, I am not allowed to fly Sand Flea 1 until it is registered and certified – but the Airport staff is sensible about things, and are letting me fly within sight of the tower as long as no air traffic is scheduled for half an hour. So at eleven thirty I pointed the nose into the wind and opened the throttle all the way – in eighty yards the tail was up, and inside a hundred and sixty I was off! A marvellous sensation, feeling the wheels suddenly quieten down as we left the runway (much quieter than the doubled sets of bicycle wheels I had on my home-built models)  and Sand Flea 1 positively jumped into the skies.

                Marvellous! Two circuits and I landed – the low wing almost floating above the ground, everything far more polished and better all round than any of my Fleas, not surprisingly. Maria was on hand with her camera and I must have been grinning like one of my Cheshire relations as I sat in the cockpit with a precious ten minutes flight being written into my logbook. According to the book, it is my first flight in a Flea – rather galling for someone with my experience, but I had no official logbook at home.
 
                Miss Devinski insisted on taking it up for a safety flight – she has thoughtfully “sponsored” me to get official registration, and says she wants to find out about any problems before handing over to the Airways board pilots. This made a change – instructing our Tutor how to fly, as the Flea has rather special handling that can be very alarming for someone unused to it. My heart was rather in my mouth and my tail trembling as I watched her do two circuits, but thankfully she touched down without as much as a bounce, and conceded it was probably as good a Flying Flea as they make in the factory.
 
                Hurrah! Though the rest of the class had to vanish to classes, I was introduced to one of the Airlines staff, a Mr. Jefferson who flies for Shawnee Pacific most of the time. I have seen him at Mahanish’s and now know him for an actual Test Pilot, the first one we have met. In the films they are always dashing, gallant devil-may-care types with flashing smiles and particularly well-tailored breeches – but Mr. Jefferson was a rather slow and steady bloodhound, and I waited in vain for him to do any “Test Pilot” moves. Possibly that is how he has lived so long.

                If I had thought it unnerving watching our Tutor doing circuits, the next hour had me almost gnawing my claws as Mr. Jefferson put my lovely flea through its paces, pushing it rather hard after the first circuits reassured him the top wing was not going to part company in the near future. Heading out to sea he even pushed it into a steep dive and managed to pull out – it looks like the new wing design has cured that little “Graveyard Dive” feature, at least some of the time. But sixty-five minutes later he touched down as neatly as our Tutor had, checked over the engine and radiator for leaks and gave me a cautious nod, while the riggers and fitters descended to check for any airframe stretch and strains.

                Two hours later I was painting “RI-0651” on the tail in neatly stencilled letters – swelling with pride and resisting temptation to keep taking out the Registration documents and looking at them.  After all this time – flying my own aircraft again, all legal and paid-for! Shame about the rather impersonal registration, but I will surely grow to love it (for various military reasons the Spontoon group use Rain Island codes even on civilian aircraft).

                Sadly, the test flight used up all the 87-octane petrol I had, and with our financial state there will be no more until Molly’s problem is solved one way or another. I have asked our Tutors, but they will not let me have any of the Songmark fuel, not even if I give lessons – sheer prejudice, I bet that they would entrust their precious students to any other officially certified aircraft.

                (Later) Beryl asked when she could have a test flight, hinting she would find a short-field aircraft very useful at times. I had to admit being out of petrol, but she just laughed and told me there would be no problem there. Very cheering – certainly things are improving, and I happily declared that the world is looking like my oyster. At which Beryl grinned in that alarming way she has, and commented that to get anything out of oysters one still needs a good sharp knife.
 
Tuesday December 6th, 1935
 
Back in classes at Superior Engineering – and as I arrived I saw at long last that old Junkers was being moved out to the launching slip, its repair ticket having presumably come up at last. A fascinating machine, certainly – I have seen them in books, but never thought any were left in service. I could see some extensive repairs around the tail, with newly shaped dural sheets gleaming alloy bright in the sunshine. As good as new or more so, dural alloys hopefully having been improved since the type first flew in 1919, the year I left the nursery and was handed to my Governess.

                I was hailed by the lioness who seems to be its crew, Andrace, if Saffina got her name right. She seemed in expansive mood, and pointed out with pride the repairs, noting that Superior had not missed a single hole. Her tail suddenly twitched as if she realised she had said the wrong thing, and then “innocently” asked if I had heard of the local metal-eating termites. I refrained from asking her their calibre.

                I could answer her questions about Saffina though, confirming her ancestry is just as it appears, and indeed she is one of a family of seven. Andrace’s ears went right up at that – I confess I had not really considered the specific … problems a cat bride and a full-grown lion groom might face, though Saffina’s mother seems to have coped perfectly well.
 
                I had to wave farewell and hurry out to my class, as the folk at Superior are always keen on keeping to schedules and my classes are very strictly run. Though most folk on the island have what a “Euro” would call a relaxed attitude, there is no room for slackness when it comes to repairing engines – just as an Army recruit wonders how polishing her boots really makes any different to how well she shoots, in fact half of the battle is learning a perfectionist style that applies to everything.
 
                After classes, who should I meet but Lars – he has his own aircraft in for service and indeed I spotted the Pemberton-Billings Nighthawk being wheeled into one of the repair sheds; if anyone, he can certainly afford priority service.
 
                It was the first time I had seen him for ages, and I found myself sitting on the dock wall by the slipways, happily relaxing and telling him everything – it is such a change to have a sympathetic ear from outside Songmark. He was very nicely dressed in a pale tan safari suit, not at all the sort that tourists pose in, but a very well tailored and customised model of his own design. Certainly Lars is a very inventive gentleman, there seems no end to what he will think up next.

                My ears only drooped when I had to tell him that it seemed certain Molly would be sent home at the end of next week, unless our tutors get the remainder of  her term fees – even if she manages it, there is next term to think about, after we have already run dry our available funds. I have even offered to rent out Sand Flea 1 to Songmark, but our Tutors have refused to let any student fly it in any sort of official capacity, citing “accountability”. Anyone of a suspicious nature would check if they have financial interests in aileron factories.

                Lars thought for a few minutes, then his eyebrow twitched – and invited Molly and myself to a party Friday after next, when term finishes. Which was jolly nice of him to try and cheer us up, but I sadly pointed out Molly would no longer be around by then, and I would be heading out to Vostok the very next day. To my surprise and delight, he assured me that Molly should make the party, and Vostok too – he would see what he could arrange for us. I confess I was so pleased that I squeezed him tightly, scenting his wonderful musk – and only a minute or so later he gently disengaged my hug and tail wrap, suggesting I not tell anyone as our Tutors are biased against him. I watched him wave and depart with a pang of regret, rather conscious of his very elegant figure and tall, strong horns making him stand out in any crowd; to think that I once distrusted him! Every experience since Summer has washed that notion right out of my head, though Helen still mutters his horns would “make a mighty fine rifle rack on the wall”.

                Really, I was quite floating on air as I headed back to Songmark, though bursting with impatience to tell Molly. And yet – of course, things can always go wrong, and if there is anything worse than her current predicament it would be to falsely raise her hopes. She is such a lucky girl to have found Lars – I cannot imagine them ever being Tailfast, but neither are really the domestic type. As for telling our Tutors, I doubt I can influence them about him once they have an idea set in their heads, but they have been wrong about me before and admitted it –they are not the only ones eager to see Molly receive a comprehensive education.
               
Wednesday 7th December, 1935
 
An awfully stormy day, the windsock pointing right across the runway and no private flights cleared to takeoff till luncheon. We were scheduled for a flight that had to be postponed till the wind dropped, so with our Tutor’s permission my dorm spent the morning researching the Vostok Isles. Maria received another wire from her Uncle telling her to expect the money to arrive at her bank this weekend, but he will expect a full accounting of every lira spent. She has an accounting-book all ready, and indeed its purchase price appears on page one, line one.

                Helen has been writing long letters to Marti Hoele’toemi and receiving longer ones (he and Jirry are away on South Island, working on what I think is the “waterworks project”) and was looking on rather broodingly as we unrolled maps and guides. An hour or so later, she sat down heavily and declared she could not join us on the trip. She is determined to become Tailfast on the Solstice Festival, and it will be rather late to head out to Vostok to join us after that. We congratulated her, but it is a shame to split the team just when we had our first chance to all go out together.

                Jasbir came in with interesting news – she had seen the local police leading off some rather muddy workers, as at last the two teams of workers on the “bio-reactors” have come to blows. Both Professor Kurt and Doctor Maranowski seem to be inspiring leaders and have instilled their “troops” with competitive spirit – and this time of year there is simply not enough suitable material for both of them. I recall Professor Kurt explaining that his aerobic reactor needs a certain critical quantity of fuel every day to maintain operating temperature. His rival’s methane pits can just bubble along in low gear, but if the bio-reactor core cannot boil ether, the lights start going out. It seems the rival collection teams were engaged in mud-slinging that was rather more than verbal.

                Our Indian chum had another rather odd thing to show us, probably quite unrelated. She had seen some cubs playing with a toy on the pavement when they were called in to dinner, leaving something behind. She thought it was a toy spinning top, and she was almost right – it was a gyroscope, but not a toy one, being a high-precision part bearing the stamp of Howie Huge’s Machine Tool Company. A very, very expensive toy to give cubs! Of course we have gyros in artificial horizon instruments and the like, and it might well have come from a scrap instrument. Alternatively, someone round here might be working on building designs that need to help to stay in stable flight. Interesting.

                Molly and I headed out in the evening to Madame Maxine’s, for some dance lessons – there is a very impressive new dance called the Tango from South America, where it started off in night clubs and such places. One of the instructors is a very friendly ovine lady from Buenos Aries and taught it to us, a jolly energetic dance it is too! Though I would have thought it impossible (despite evidence from the Talkies) it actually is possible to dance in high shoes without twisting an ankle, though they are the despair of ballroom owners and wreak havoc on nicely polished floors. The Coconut Shell has a specially sprung hardwood dance floor that cost a fortune to build last year – I can imagine its owners praying for soft slippers to come back into fashion.

                Two hours of dance and one of etiquette was quite as hard as anything we do at Songmark, as one constantly has to think of how every move will look to an observer, and how much style it can convey. We have mirrors and film clips to help, and the staff are certainly good at their jobs. The last hour was spent being measured up for more stylish fashions – I had thought there was nothing wrong with either of our waistlines, but apparently we have too much of a good thing. It seems rather impractical, but by all accounts Laura Shieling managed her adventures in Victorian times braced in whalebone, and we have modern lightweight “Spirella” as a better structural material.

                I must say, this makes a super disguise, as one not only looks and moves but feels a very different person. I looked at myself in the mirror and hardly recognised myself at all – my tail twitched rather as I recalled the scent of catnip on Krupmark and the unwise but wonderful evening that happened after. After all, it would be an awful thing to imagine spending the rest of one’s days in nothing but mechanic’s overalls, every shop girl and hotel maid has some sort of party dress.

                Molly looks very elegant indeed and is keen to try everything while she has the chance, G-men and reformatories still looming in her future – if our Tutors really deport her and she is spotted by the police at Customs, she whispers she could be wearing a far less glamorous costume for a long time. She asked the staff for the most extreme styles they have, and in two minutes was almost falling off the shoes – now those look utterly silly, one might as well wear stilts and have done with it. But as we were taking the same lessons, I followed suit – definitely the sort of experience our tutors at Songmark do not provide. One wonders if salons donate some of their profits to support hospital wards for fashion victims.

                We bumped into a familiar face, one of the local girls who had been in the Guide’s school that we chased around in summer. Ularua, I think her name was, seemed very surprised to see us there – and whispered she would look rather different next time we saw her. She added that the staff here are famous for their discretion, and can teach more or less anything one needs to know in the socialising line.

                Thinking of it, the Guide’s School certainly gets around – Violobe worked in September at the airport terminal, and I have seen others working as water-taxi crew. If it is a full-time course they have to do something in the off-season, and I imagine Ularua looks forward to some indoor work at this time of year.
               
Friday 9th December, 1935
 
Our final climbing session of the term, with Miss Wildford chivvying us up the routes carrying small but heavy packs full of water bags, much softer than bricks when one falls off onto them. The rocks were rather wet, but we managed quite well regardless.  All except Adele Beasley who took a nasty tumble off “Crestar Runaway” and needed urgent first aid including seven stitches to her head. Poor girl – she takes all this sort of thing very calmly, being (she says) quite used to it by now.

                I managed to put up a new route I shall call “Flea Jump” in honour of dear Sand Flea 1 – a rather bracing climb that Maria has recorded for posterity. * To think, last year I would have looked up at the cliff with a sinking feeling and a certainty that I was going to end up falling off – now I look at it as a jolly challenging piece of exercise that I only fall off some of the time. Beryl comments that I would earn my keep as a second-storey girl – I am not sure what that is, but knowing her it is probably rude.

                A fascinating development when we returned to Songmark – Tatiana overheard us discussing our Vostok trip, and asked if she could join us. Of course, with Helen not going we have a spare “place” – Molly has tried to work out a way of keeping the unspent cash for her funds, but Maria’s Uncle is demanding receipts for everything. He is not only famous for making the trains to run on time, but getting the budget to balance, an admirable achievement. It just shows what you can do with single-minded ambition and not having to spend time on tiresome things like electioneering every few years.

                Of all the first-years, Tatiana is NOT the one we would have invited, all things being equal – but she speaks Russian and none of us do, which rather changes matters. I did ask if she would be well received there, being an outspoken Bolshevik of deepest red opinions, but she seemed unworried.  I hope she can keep her snout shut, indeed she has never done so yet – just yesterday Beryl and Missy K broke up a fight that started with Liberty Morgenstein promoting (and Tatiana denouncing) the Fourth Internationale as the blueprint for all political futures. Nobody else around here really cares about what the equine Trotsky or the avian Starling said about Worker’s Control of Production, but we get dragged into their squabbles anyway. If politics was not enough to argue over, Liberty is a crusading vegetarian and Tatiana a sable who spent the first week demanding rare steaks at every meal. From what we have heard about the famines in the Soviet Union since her “vozhd” (boss) Comrade Starling took over, steaks of any kind there have been rare indeed.

                Maria says she is juggling the pros and cons of bringing Tatiana along – it would be one thing to have an unbiased translator to let us know what the Vostokites are really saying – but “unbiased” is not a word one would use to describe our first-year comrade, especially where Tsarists are involved. And if the locals do find out whom and what she is – trouble all round, with us being merely deported on the spot if we are lucky!
 
                I think Maria must be getting quite distracted, she tells me she has bought four packs of “Natura” slimming pills this week and not managed to try any of them – they have all vanished before she gets the chance. Beryl overheard as usual (given ears like hers, one has to semaphore or hula any secrets in this dorm) and quickly reassured her she does not need any. We might suspect Beryl, who is regrettably light-fingered, but the pills are too inexpensive to bother pilfering and she certainly needs none for herself.
 
*   Editor’s note: there is a sketch map of the climb “Flea Jump”, presumably labelled in Maria’s handwriting. The mimeographed route guide reads: “Paw-jam up vertical crack to arête, break left along vague rugosities and open scoop across route of “Play The Hanging Game”. Mad mantelshelving for two metres under Whaling Wall,  reachy breaks up to second arête then dyno like crazy to gain rounded boss at entrance to “Breach Loader” then either super-direct finish to top, thrutching and grunting all the way (Grade Hard Very Scary) or fall off (very likely.) Pumpy!"
               
Saturday 10th December, 1935
 
The end of our last full week, hurrah! Term finishes on Wednesday, giving us a few days to get ready. Maria has debated with us and with our Tutors, and concluded that Tatiana is probably more of an asset than a liability – just as long as she keeps quiet about the Inexorable Progression of the Proletariat. Of all places, Vostok is one where she has to be discreet and can trust nobody but us – so she has incentive to translate truthfully. It is anyone’s guess as why she wants to go there, or how she expects to get through Customs with her passport.

                Off to our final dance lessons of the year, a very fine “Bamboo Wind” hula dance that we competed against Althing Gate’s first reserve team for. We lost 47-53: getting better all the time! In the crowd was a figure who waved to us – not till she came over within scent range did I spot it was Ularua, her face quite transformed by a raccoon-like “mask” and her ear fur trimmed to change her outline. She was certainly right last time about us not recognising her – one wonders just what else Madame Maxine can do? Molly looked at her definitely wide-eyed, whispering that she will see if our credit there holds good for something similar next week.

                We returned to find a postcard for me, anonymously typed and asking me to check my bank account for a surprise for Molly (she has none on Spontoon, and has nothing to put in it anyway). At which point things went to panic stations, it was half-past four and the Transcontinental Bank in Market Square closes at five – we were completely worn-out from our dance, but had to drop everything and sprint for the water-taxi, happily finding one with a new engine that could make ten knots across to the jetty. I got in just as they were about to shut – to find my balance was a hundred and fifty-four shells, where it had been just the pawfull of four yesterday! Immediate clean sweep of account, and I handed it over to a disbelieving Molly. A quick addition in my commonplace book shows she can now pay her next term’s fees with about enough left over for a cup of coffee.

                At last, I could tell her that Lars had come through – at which point she hugged me tight (Lars not being around to thank directly) and declared that we had saved her life. She added that whatever happens next term, it cannot be worse than her fate back in her homeland, where she has heard well-attested tales of what happens in reformatories – she had enough experiences of that sort as a stowaway, and at least then was always given the alternative of getting off the ship any time she wanted to.

                Straight back to give Miss Devinski the news (and the cash) – but our dear Tutor seemed unaccountably suspicious, and not as overjoyed as I had expected. She demanded to know just where the money had come from – at which point Molly turned up her snout and pointed out that Songmark had never asked her Father how he made his living, nor do they ask anyone else. This was perhaps not the best tactic to reassure our dear Tutor, but although I braced myself there was no eruption. Her ears were right down and her tail fluffed out, but Miss Devinski wrote out a receipt and grimly welcomed Molly back on the roster.

                Hurrah! A full evening ahead of us and all quiet on the first-year front – being a second-year is such an improvement, not having to worry about Passes at weekends. A rapid grooming and a change into our respectable dresses (not my Krupmark one) and back we went to Casino Island – the water-taxis are doing well out of us today!

                Maria has had her own bank balance happily boosted, and announced she had found us some cut-price accommodation on Casino Island between term finishing and starting our Vostok trip. Helen is staying on South Island, lucky girl – but we have only two days to get everything ready to depart, so cannot join her. We all went round to look at the place first, “Palm Towers”, a definite backstreets tourist hotel for folk who are spending their holiday shillings on something other than luxurious apartments. It will definitely serve, and is handy for the docks for next week’s departure.

                Out to the Coconut Grove dancing, a pleasant time with various folk we know from the hula classes – a most respectable evening, back to Songmark well on time. Still, I felt rather let-down somehow recalling our last evening out together – despite all the problems we ran into, Adventure seems to be something we are getting used to. Hopefully we might find some on Vostok.
 
Sunday 11th December, 1935
 
A damp day, but we went over to South Island with Helen – it might be badly received if folk found out back home, but to be honest I am finding Saimmi’s religious education a lot more sympathetic than we get on Casino Island these days. We had arranged to meet Saimmi early on for religious instruction, after which she led us back to Haio Village where most of the Hoele’toemi clan were assembled! An excellent luncheon, then a most gratifying meeting with Jirry, making up for lost time and for the times I will be overseas. We strolled up the jungle path to help make the guest longhouse ready for Helen, who will be staying there from Wednesday.
 
                Helen has to brace herself to scrub and clean, so we managed to put the place in good order for her – which somehow turned into a most pleasant afternoon, after which we had to clean the place even more thoroughly. Still very much worth the effort. Though we did not discuss it, it is the last time for awhile we will be meeting as Tailfast: I cannot be at the Solstice festivals and Vostok both, and Maria needs more support. I am sure Helen will manage everything here very happily.
 
                Jirry did mention that at least one of his family would be Tailfast still, as the day ours “time expires” Marti and Helen exchange fur braids.  I will definitely miss him – and discovered that all our sports and fitness training had left me exceedingly … energetic. Then we had to clean the place, again!

                (Evening) A rather alarming thing on return to Songmark – both Ada Cronstein and Adele Beasley are under our Matron’s care, with stomach upsets and a general run-down feeling that has been building for a week. I noticed Ada was doing rather poorly on the more strenuous exercises, but she keeps telling us about her new diet and refusing second and third helpings - a rare thing at Songmark, given decent food. No Songmark student ever goes hungry unless they want to, and the meals though rather basic are big enough to satisfy an infantryman on winter manoeuvres. I have to say, despite such problems Ada’s diet seems to be working.

                I hope it is nothing catching, the last thing folk want is to be taken ill on the way home – and those of us heading to Vostok do not want to spend half our trip in quarantine.

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