Spontoon Island
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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
13 December, 1935 to 17 December, 1935

Tuesday 13th December, 1935
 
Busy indeed – we spent the morning on Casino Island with our tutors’ permission, purchasing tickets and equipment. Vostok is not so far North of us but it lies in a cold current – very good for the fishing trade by all accounts, but bad for beach tourism. Tatiana demonstrated why she has no worries about being spotted as a Soviet Citizen – when she pulled out her passport to book the ticket, I noticed it was in the name of a Ludmila Tsenko, of Tsarist Russian birth but with International Refugee status. Even her photo was different from her original one, but it matched her winter coat that is growing in by the day even in this climate.

                I pointed this out quietly to Maria, who did not seem too surprised – and explained that as Tatiana was here with her Government’s approval she would be able to get help and papers from her Embassy on Casino Island. True, Missy K did escort Tatiana there last week, but she claimed that was to telegraph home to her family. I think I will need to have words with our Red Miss about fair play and honesty. What DO they teach them in their public schools over there?

                (Later) – Disaster! And just from the direction I had never once worried about, from Home! I received an Express letter from my brother, only the third one this term (he is very busy in the Army, and never talks much about the things he does.) He tells me his branch have lists of Foreign Agents circulating around the place, and in no uncertain or unproven terms, my name and current location are on the list!

                I have never yet fainted, but my knees went decidedly weak as I read his note. He says there is something very odd about it all, as every other name on that list is cross-checked against actual Intelligence reports, but mine is not – as if it had suddenly appeared of its own accord. He urges me to stay where I am till he can investigate, as he has faith in me, and indeed the Bourne-Phipps pedigree is second to few.
 
                Helen saw my ears go flat, and asked if it was bad news. I showed her the letter, and her own tail bristled as she read. She put the note down and spoke one name, but I understood – “Soppy Forsythe.”

                Oh dear. Revenge is a dish best served cold, as our chum Susan de Ruiz has told us (Her family were exiled from Spain half a century ago for being Carlists. She once explained what Carlists were, but I forget. Anyway, she keeps plotting an impersonal revenge on the current Government, who have probably forgotten too.) I remember that final postcard Soppy wrote, postmarked Whitehall – Helen does too, and suggests she waited till some list of Enemy Agents was in her reach and made a little modification. The trouble is, lists breed lists and other lists – once something gets into the paperwork, it has a habit of being fossilised as fact.
 
                It sounds as if getting back home for Easter might not be such a good idea – a rather cold sensation went down my back, as I imagined Father believing it and cutting me off without a penny. Molly might not be the only one shipped home to face unwelcoming ranks of the forces of Law and Order – at least in her case she admits that from its own point of view her Government has the facts right.

                I wonder how the Wild Priest knew. It definitely sounds as if his prophesy is in grave danger of coming true – “cut off from Home” fits the bill rather well, or badly from my point of view.
 
Wednesday 14th December, 1935
 
I had hoped to finish the term in better spirits than this – with Molly’s problems fixed for now and Vostok to look forward to, and Helen to congratulate on her Tailfasting. At least my friends are doing well (and I have yet to hear from Father, though as a General any security threats so close to home are sure to be reported to him).
 
                The final day passed in a whirl, with Jasbir leaving after luncheon and taking Adele Beasley with her for the hols despite being unwell; I do hope she avoids being trodden on by any elephants or holy Juggernauts, but her chances are bleak (Beryl has tried to take out a life insurance policy on her, but the insurance companies do not want to know about either of them.) Ada Cronstein is still in our Matron’s care, as are two of our third-years with the same symptoms. Very odd, as they were the fittest ones around, always into dance contests and hot tips for sneaking onto a film next year.

                I confessed to Molly that I was definitely down in the dumps – she hugged me and reassured me she’d help me as I’d helped her – and promised to cheer me up, reminding that we have a final pleasant evening at Madame Maxine’s tonight. As we have – Helen is vanishing to South Island and Maria is busy with code books and telegraph forms, so it is just us tonight.

                (Later). Dear Diary. Amazing things do happen, sometimes. Our evening started off in the familiar pattern, of a steam bath and very relaxing massage – quite as if we were expensive clothes being steam-cleaned and scrubbed. Another two hours of dance and instruction followed, when Madame Maxine herself came in with two of her assistants and a “pattern book”. It was not fabric or wallpaper patterns in it, but wholly … comprehensive pictures of fur styles, many of them produced at this very place. Molly flicked through and found one she wanted, whispering her instructions to our salon guides, and asked me what I wanted. Definitely something temporary, but striking – there is no point in going through the process just to make one’s fur two shades more ginger.
 
                As it was, I could hardly decide, and in the end asked Madame Maxine to pick what she thought was best suited to me. After all, she is a professional in these matters and I rarely have more than a head-fur trim twice a season. She seemed delighted in my choice, rubbing her paws together and looking me over like a painter with a blank canvas.

                It may have been the fumes from the dyeing vats, but I confess to feeling quite light-headed as Madame M talked me through every stage of the process, putting swimming goggles over my eyes to guard them and grooming my fur as she examined the details she needed to work with. She led me, quite “dishabille,” into the next room where her staff was mixing up dyes and mordents for treatment. I must say, the dyes stung somewhat and were rather hot when applied – my tail being done to the roots, and my paws to the knees and elbows, plus face and ears. It was really a quite extraordinary experience, but not at all unpleasant.

                Perhaps an hour and a half later, the staff announced that my treatment was complete – and they brought out for me a dress that looked as if it had been sized to fit me, a full-length silk affair with a sash at the waist which they pulled tight and adjusted my head-fur with a big tortoiseshell comb. Then they brought in a full-length  mirror and removed the nearly opaque goggles – and I had the shock of my life.

                They have turned me into a Siamese! Jet black ears, paws in “gloves” and “stocking” patterns and the upper part of my face marked very distinctively in dark brown. The dress was an oriental silken costume with a long side slit, a “Cheongsam” I believe, that went with the overall look perfectly. I looked at myself quite disbelievingly, trying to find any flaw in the patterning – but as far as the fur goes I simply AM a Siamese while this dye is in.  And – once the shock wore off, I found myself rather taken with the idea.

                Madame Maxine whispered that my eyes and snout shape were not quite right, but not to worry – there being many slight mixtures in the breed, Siamese being known for their beauty and their friendly dispositions. Just then Molly came in – I knew her first by her scent, for she has changed her facial pattern entirely, a nice set of stripes running down her snout and some more beneath the head-fur.  I think Lars should like it, imitation being the sincerest form of flattery. (She looks like a close relation of his, but of course I did not say that.)

                Anyway – it was a very strange experience to don our street clothing and leave the secure compound of Maxine’s Salon, to walk down the streets of Casino Island as quite different people. I passed several folk who know us by sight, but they never recognised us – but from other loud and cheerful calls we were wildly appreciated by the rowdier sort. I confess I found myself waving back, something I never do.

                Maria almost threw a fit when she saw us! She was part way between being amazed, shocked and laughing her snout off – till she calmed down and asked us how we were going to get through the Vostok customs looking nothing like our passports. Oh dear. Not in my case (the dye washes off with surgical spirit and hot water, although it is “shower safe”) but Molly is stuck that way for months. I recall Madame Maxine saying that her quality of training can be the start of a whole new life, and indeed we are trying to please our sponsor.

                Molly’s tail drooped for a second or two, but then perked up as she declared she knew someone who can help on those lines – and looking at me, asked if I would need the same. I rather hesitated, being naturally proud of my Passport – until I imagined Soppy Forsythe’s little trick setting wheels in motion finishing up with my name and passport number being memorised by officials all over the Empire.
 
                Thinking it over, it would be useful sometimes to have two sets of travel documents as long as nobody catches me carrying them both. Tatiana certainly has at least one extra set in a quite different name. I did wonder out loud what happens if the real Ludmila Tsenko showed up, as it might be rather embarrassing. Maria sat me down firmly and explained that there may well have been a real Tsarist Miss Tsenko with a birth certificate to match – but if their Government issue its operatives her name on forged papers, they have personally made very sure the original one will not be around to complain about it. Nobody on the outside exactly knows what has been happening in Russia since 1917, but from all accounts there are radically fewer people around to tell.

                Oh dear again. I quite took her point. Thinking it over, I can see that however “extreme” the government of Vostok may be, they have been given millions of good reasons to be that way!
 
Thursday 15th December, 1935
 
A day of relaxing – at least a late start, enjoying the luxury of ordering a full hotel breakfast for half-past eight and not having classes to dash off to afterwards. My oiled silk suit is clean and freshly waterproofed, and should be adequate for the outdoors on Vostok, and we have our overcoats and such out from storage. Maria is rapidly memorising phrases in Russian, and I am brushing up on my French – those Russians who could afford it were famous for spending their winters on the Mediterranean before the Great War, and hopefully some of the Vostok exiles speak it still. It should be more useful than whatever fragments of Russian I can cram in a few days. Madelene X has said I speak her language “comme une vache Espagnol”, which possibly means like one of Maria’s Spanish relations. Good enough for me.

                Off shopping, a luxury we have almost forgotten about. Molly insisted on taking us to get our new passport photos first, as she will certainly need one for herself.  She vanished while Maria and I spent the morning browsing the shops without a care in the world. Just think, some people can do this any weekend they fancy.

                I must say, in broad daylight it was rather fascinating to be quite unrecognised by shopkeepers and water-taxi folk who normally know us by sight, if not by name – I found myself reminding myself of our deportment lessons, and not to swing down the street like a trooper (which tends to happen naturally wearing steel-toecapped boots that can survive a cylinder block falling off a testing bench.)  Luncheon was very fine, fresh-roasted local fish on rice and a flagon of Nootnops Red between us. I expect we will be living on beetroot soup and black bread for the next few weeks, so we are making up for it in advance.

                (Evening) Molly returned, looking very pleased with herself and assuring me that everything has been arranged for us. It would be nice to see something going right for once. We had a quiet evening in the hotel with the radio playing local swing bands such as the Spontones and the Syncopated Seventeen – Maria and Molly retired early, there is no knowing when we will next get a good night’s sleep.

                It was most intriguing to study my new look in the mirror, seeing a very different feline looking back. I remembered what I heard one of the staff whisper to the other – that although I might not look pure-bred, it would be pleasant to think of one of my parents having a memorable evening with a pedigree Siamese, and myself being the living proof.

                Dear Diary – this is not the sort of thing a well brought-up lady speculates about her ancestry. Yet I have to confess, it is rather fun. Early to bed, trying not to think about it … but not trying too hard.
 
Friday 16- Saturday 17th December, 1935
 
An interesting day indeed – one that started with me waking up in a respectable hotel with room service tapping at the door with breakfast tea and finished rather differently. We were out to meet Tatiana in the morning, checking all was well with her and she had not suddenly got cold paws about heading out to Vostok. They would be pleased to see her true self in a way; the way they told us of back in Religious Education, describing how pleased Inquisitors always were to get their claws on heretics.

                Our bags were packed and sent on by lunchtime to be cleared through Customs at the marine air terminal. All we had to do was present ourselves with our tickets and passports for the Saturday morning eight o’clock “Novaya Strany” Vostok commercial flight, leaving us free to do as we pleased in the meantime.

                Tatiana was dressed neatly and plainly in a belted overcoat, everything she needs packed in a valise – folk with International Refugee Status tend to travel light, and she certainly looked the part. She gave rather a “double-take” at the sight of Molly and myself, but made no comment – hopefully she can stay that discreet for the rest of the trip. We confirmed all the arrangements, then said farewell as dusk fell – Maria had more telegrams to send before the Western Onion offices closed at six, but for Molly and myself – off to the party!

                A fine night for the time of year, and Molly led me to the far Western side of Casino Island – still a long way up the hill in very nice neighbourhood, which quite calmed what worries I had. It must be at least two streets away from where I met Mr. Brown and Mr. Green. Many of the houses are of the courtyard design with high, blank outer walls that keep out the tropical sun and (hopefully) tropical burglars, and provide privacy for their owners. This was no exception, and we were greeted at the gate by a smiling spaniel maid who showed us in to the cloakrooms to powder our snouts, explaining the other guests were already arriving.

                Well! I must say, we had both been looking forward to this and Lars was a very thoughtful host. The main house is two storeys high, covering one side of a courtyard, and around the courtyard there are lots of changing rooms, very handy for the central pool. There is a “fire pit” which currently had an open-air chef making us drool with the scent of roasting fish and meats – very fine indeed.

                Molly and I had decided to give folk a surprise, and picking adjoining changing rooms we dressed in our finest – me with my Krupmark dress, and her in her Rachorska model, with shoes that were definitely not intended for running in. We suited up with as much care as we would take with our flying kit and parachutes, checked each other’s costumes and headed in to the party. Looking at Molly’s retreating form, I must say it does affect one’s walk quite markedly – not in a displeasing way, I must admit.

                It was certainly a prestigious affair, many very sharply dressed gentlemen circulating and chatting amicably – and our costumes seemed perfectly in keeping, as there were Rachorska dresses and Paris designs aplenty on the ladies there. Several couples were already dancing when we arrived, and our tails were quite twitching as we heard the tango rhythm being plaid by a rather fine five-piece band.

                Lars was absolutely on top form tonight; he had changed out of his safari jacket and into a particularly sharp white suit, wonderfully tailored – I could not begin to guess what fabric it was made of, something that made fine linen look like sacking. He greeted us and was most impressed at our new look, hardly seeming shocked or even surprised at all – certainly, he must be the most unflappable gentleman I have ever met. He offered an arm to each of us and took a stroll through the guests, introducing them – quite a mix of species, and none of them looking at all dull. I gained the impression many were businessmen, indeed some looked extremely smooth, fast operators. Definitely not proprietors of Popatohi stalls, I think.
 
                When we had made one circuit of the courtyard, Lars pulled two small, greetings-card sized envelopes from his pocket and handed us one each, wishing us a Happy New Year. He motioned us to open them – and my ears went right up, at the sight of what was inside. Passports! They had yesterday’s photographs of us in our new fur patterns but they were dated as being issued two years ago, with every detail of us except our names being spot-on. I have never been to Macao, but according to this document I have a home and career there. It does not specify what, which is handy.

                Molly was most affectionate, hugging Lars with a force that surely made his ribs creak – but he made no protest, even when I followed suit. She declared he had saved her twice now – and even if her Tutors get hold of her, she can “jump ship” to go elsewhere, or at least escape the G-men if she does return to America.

                Still both arm-in-arm with our host but with our passports tucked safely away, we returned to the party, drawing many an admiring glance and a few envious ones. The bar was well stocked and free, though I contented myself with one glass of pink champagne, eager to enjoy and remember every minute of the party. When Lars excused himself and headed out to circulate I did the same in the opposite direction, being rather glad that folk saw a Siamese girl bearing no relation to a certain Songmark student, who indeed carried documents to prove it. I might have wanted to be a citizen of somewhere other than Macao, but by all accounts one can get anything and do anything there, and at such short notice Lars did a super job on the papers. There is even a customs entry stamp for Spontoon dated last week, with a three-month visa.

                I had a wonderful time, danced myself dizzy, and talked with all sorts of folk. I noticed various couples slipping away together, but nobody commented on it – there was a young squirrel pilot with a most wonderful tail who I had been chatting with.  He told me tonight was his first meeting of such swell folk, and he had only got here as he had to fly his Boss out as soon as it finished. I found my own tail definitely going sideways at his scent, which certainly did not come out of a bottle.
 
                Annoyingly, five minutes later I came back from the powder room to see him being led off by a tall hare lady, who I know is a chorus girl at the Coconut Shell. My tail rather forgot itself and must have been thrashing in annoyance before I remembered my manners. Molly came past, followed my gaze and murmured the good ones were already going fast.
 
                Siamese are usually thought of as graceful and smiling types – the grace they get from their ancestry, but they make sure themselves they have reasons to smile. I picked and danced with a very handsome and slender ermine gentleman in white tie and silk shirt, who seems to be something in security – at least, he said he was a trouble-shooter although he was none too clear what that entailed. Nobody seemed to notice as we retired for some privacy – and indeed, the changing rooms were most thoughtfully equipped with the necessary … protective supplies. If it was a hat shop, it would boast all styles and species catered for. What I had heard about mustelid gentlemen seems entirely true, I was pleased to discover – I quite believe that Missy K’s mink fiancé can be thanked for her losing thirty pounds of “spare fuel”!

                An hour later I was fully groomed again and back on the dance floor, nobody commenting at all. Of course, Amelia Bourne-Phipps could never do a thing like that – but half-Siamese girls from Macao certainly might, and nobody think any the worse of them. Lars joined me for one dance then introduced me to a friend of his, a rather dashing boar with a duelling scar under one eye that made him look most romantic. He bowed and introduced himself as Ritter Leopold von Schtroumphenberg, a respectable name if ever I heard one. Shaking paws, I could feel his fur was very different to mine, stiff and bristling like a grooming-brush that seemed to comb right through my own fur to the skin. He was leaving the next day, after conducting certain business here that had gone very well, leaving him in a mood to celebrate. And we did so. Very extensively. I had some surprises awaiting me,  but nothing I could not imagine myself getting quite used to.

                Dear Diary. I will truthfully put down that Molly and I arrived on the Eastern Islands dock right on time the next day, in my case with my fur back to normal, and with all our papers and tickets intact. We were both blear-eyed from lack of sleep, but otherwise feeling quite on top of the world - I had an evening I will never forget. To quote Natasha, in one night I “visited two cabins of the ark”, something I had never even considered doing before. Using fullest possible Precautions of course – one might say there will be no unexpected cabin bills to pay later on, and Molly says she has been as cautious; a great relief and a surprise to me.
 
                (Later) We are all aboard the big Sikorski anchored off the Marine Air Terminal, all ready to depart for Vostok. The seats are very comfy, and both Molly and myself intend to catch up on some sleep on the twelve-hour trip. I have left behind my Siamese colouring and costume, and am travelling under my own name, my Macao passport posted back to await my return to Songmark (I hope our Tutors do not open our post.) The only thing I seem to be missing is my Tailfast locket, which  could have sworn I put safe with my daily clothes in the changing room. I know it had scarcely a week’s “life” left in it, but I hated to lose it.
 
                A wonderful end to a most trying term, I really must thank Lars for all he has done for us; a fascinating adventure, that we have managed to walk away from undamaged, at least I think so. Next term I think I will get more use out of my party dress, even if I have to dig the unofficial route out of Songmark myself.  But first, off to Vostok to see what awaits us there!
 
(And the adventures will continue …)

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