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Spontoon Island
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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
21 January, 1936 to 27 January, 1936

Monday 21st January, 1936

A bad day for me. I have written four times to our Embassy trying to get a replacement passport – Songmark keep mimeographs of everyone’s papers on arrival to help with this sort of thing, but so far I have heard nothing back. Miss Devinski grudgingly gave me the morning off to head out to Casino Island and get it fixed, as it is always more effective to sit on an official’s doorstep than to pile up papers in their In-tray.

I should have known I was in for trouble when they sent their most junior aide, a rather supercilious tabby girl, to shoo me off the premises. She explained rather gloatingly that the Ambassador could not be bothered with the likes of me – they have had strict Instructions about me from the government in Whitehall.

I was told to take myself off and not bother them again – and to apply for a passport from whoever I was reporting to. The cheek of it! She must have been a day-school scholarship girl, as everyone else knows that one simply does not get traitors and moles from proper Public Schools such as St. Winifred’s. One might as well suspect folk from good Cambridge Colleges of turning traitor.

We should have let the Natives of No Island catch Soppy Forsythe, as they so very nearly did. When I remember how upset we all felt thinking she was “lost at sea” last Easter, I could spit hairballs. The worst of it is, she actually WAS a legitimate Agent, doing her job – though I doubt that character assassinations are part of it.

I returned to Songmark with my tail dragging in the mud, feeling about as hollow as we did crossing Romanov Island on an empty stomach. The only passport I have now is that Macao one that Lars gave us for Christmas – happily Molly’s got her through customs on Vostok, which must be about the fussiest around – so hopefully mine should be as good.

Everyone was away at the hangars when I returned to drop off the unused paperwork in our room – and I spent a long time looking through the very convincing details on my new passport. If this is going to be used I had better get my facts straight on the person on the passport – “Kim-Anh” is rather a nice name, and with a profession listed as Entertainer I can at least go through some dance moves if I need to prove it. Alternatively I could claim to be a saxophone player – I have never touched one, but I could hope no Customs posts keep one handy to call my bluff. If I had Adele’s luck, it would of course turn out the entire Customs shed are in a marching jazz band and insist on examining my style.

(Later) Just before lights-out, we four put our heads together and tried to think of a way ahead. It really is most discouraging – just having my name appended on one list of names in far-off London might well have shot my reputation down in flames – and from this end there is nothing we can do about it! I can only hope my Brother manages to disprove the accusations. He is at least politically well connected, and I found myself looking at the only picture I have of him before joining the Army, already looking dashing in the black Direct Action uniform.

Molly sympathises, as indeed we are in more or less the same boat. Her name is known by Interpol, and she has a hot reception waiting if she ever goes to Europe or the Americas. She may have been brought up in a less than law-abiding family, but says she has personally done nothing illegal that she can remember – if her Father had not put so much of the Family Business in her name, she would only have financial woes. So we are both stuck here by other folks’ actions.

Helen gritted her teeth and suggested I send a postcard to Mr. Sapohatan, and volunteer again for one of his “little errands”. She says we might need all the Spontoon credits we can get, as the Authorities in the rest of the world are taking a dim view of us. If Helen ever does get to be a Citizen, I think she will have earned it – Mr. Sapohatan’s jobs might not be quite as dangerous as her Father’s career in oil-well fire fighting, but they have their moments.

Tuesday 22 nd January, 1936

Back in the cockpit of Sand Flea 1, putting it through its paces! My entire dorm has flown her now, and so have Jasbir’s (though it was rather a strain getting off the ground with Irma Bundt, who is not fat but extremely solid.) Adele Beasley flew after me, and pulled off an exquisite outside loop without as much as straining a bracing wire. If she could only get a job where her paws never touched the ground, she would live a charmed life I am sure.

Even our Tutors seem to be grudgingly coming round to some faint praise for Sand Flea 1 every now and then. True, it is the only “radical” aircraft Songmark can lay paws on whenever wanted – and it is radically different from the Tiger Moths, so it makes for good training. Miss Wildford has given up her habit of solemnly shaking paws with me before I get into the cockpit “In case I never get another chance” as she is fond of saying.)

I have sent off a postcard to Post Box Nine, volunteering our services – after all, it seems unlikely that I will be cleared any time soon, and (dreadful thought) I may never be. Mr. Sapohatan has always given us missions on the right side of the law and nothing that our Embassy would disapprove of. Missions such as sending a certain Junior Embassy Aide to Krupmark Island parcel post C.O.D “The Beach” might be something I would balk at, but for special cases I might allow myself to be talked into it.

We are looking forward to Thursday night, when we have passes for a Meeting Island dance festival, and are escorting ten of the first-years. Honestly, if they want escorts Songmark should recruit sheep-dog canine girls for the job and leave us free to get on with more important things. Our own exercises start before breakfast still – by the time most folk have barely staggered out to comb their fur we have done six laps of the compound, rain or shine.

I must say, having got through our Vostok trip we are definitely taking our lessons to heart. Molly likes equipment – she positively clinks when she walks, having added a mini tool kit and a day’s iron rations to her usual Swiss Submariner’s Knife and pocket jemmy kit in sewn-down pockets. Maria is less convinced, and points out a lot of the adventures around these islands involve swimming or wading; five pounds of metal sealed into one’s clothes might not really be an asset when next they drop us off two hundred yards from shore.

Wednesday 23 rd January, 1936

Unusual weather for Spontoon – thick cloying fog, merging into ten-tenths cloud all the way to four thousand feet! We could hear Radio LONO sending out warning messages first thing, and a lot of the scheduled aircraft flights are landing on the water and waiting for the tugs to find them and pull them around the reefs. Definitely a proof (if one were needed) in the advantages of flying boats. In fifty years time aircraft may have twenty engines and “tip floats” the size of petrol tankers, but they are sure to be seaplanes and amphibians.

We were drafted down to the harbour to help the rather strained Customs and seaplane terminal crews handle all the work – half a dozen passenger and freight seaplanes being towed in rather than landing under their own power with tugs hooting constantly – somehow it all worked rather well. I was taking a pot of coffee up to the controller in the tower who had a plotting board of the island inner waters with small models of tugs and aircraft on it – he could see nothing outside the windows, but had two telephones off the hook and was shouting out bearings to his staff. I came up behind him with the coffee while he was talking to whoever was on the other end of the line – calling them “White Tiki” and “Blue Tiki” which is an odd sort of call sign.

As a coincidence, since returning from Vostok we have noticed some rather large statues erected on Eastern Island, looking out over the straits. They are obviously new works by Mr. Tikitavi whom we met last year – we are told they turn to track the sun, as part of folk rituals. Oddly, enough, despite Helen and I having learned a lot about local Traditions, we have never heard anything that would match that one. They are definitely pivoted, but exactly why is an interesting question.

I noticed an interesting feature in the main control tower itself. It is a standard two-storey building, with a fine view out over the slipways and jetties given decent weather. The tower is only normal brick (coral sand-lime bricks, made locally) but a door on the ground floor was left open in the rush that has always been securely locked before. It seems the tower is built on heavy-looking concrete foundations, and has a cellar with armoured junction boxes and far more cables than just a few telephones would require. Interesting indeed, but I have given up asking people about that sort of thing around here – it could be an unhealthy pastime.

It was quite alarming working outside seeing tugs looming up from the fog scarcely twenty yards away – without fairly accurate plotting we would have had a lot worse than the minor bumps against the jetties that we did. Everyone breathed large sighs of relief when the wind got up and the fog lifted to about a hundred feet, making it only a normally awful day.

Our flight plans were still scrubbed for the afternoon, so Miss Wildford had the bright idea of leading us to the rock face at the North end of the island where she promised we could gain altitude without worrying about the cloud level. Just what we wanted, I don’t think – wet, cold greasy rock dripping with condensation, and one’s fur soon turning green with moss stains. Having twenty pounds of water bags in our knapsacks hardly helped, nor was it really meant to.

Beryl had the bright idea of stealthily emptying hers then inflating them to hide the fact – but our dear Tutor is up with all the tricks, and did a last-second check before we started off. Beryl was carrying a thirty pound load after that – it is marvellous how our Tutors fine-tune the education for each of us in their own special way.

We may not have reached ten thousand feet as we had planned for the afternoon’s flying, but in the circumstances ten feet seems quite far enough above the rocks while traversing on slippery ledges. I filled in a log book of a sort, putting down a new route that had me shaking like a leaf by the time I put paws on horizontal ground again – in the circumstances, I named it after Beryl’s favourite self-defence move. *

A tired return to Songmark in the gloom, where a hot shower and a meal revived us all considerably – and I headed out with Molly to Casino Island, for our regular socialising and style lessons. Madame Maxine tutted somewhat at the state of our claws, but one can hardly wear gloves when clinging on to rock edges for grim life. Molly had her disguising facial fur stripes re-touched with permanent dye, and asked for dark “bands” around her wrist areas. They seem familiar somehow.

I took Madame Maxine into my confidence and showed her my new passport, asking her how I can become more convincing. Amelia Bourne-Phipps is stuck on Spontoon for the foreseeable future, with no way to go elsewhere without a passport while being “persona non grata”. Molly guesses that means “Her? No Thanks!” which may be inelegant as a translation but gets the point across rather well. If I am stuck here as Amelia, a half-Siamese girl called Kim-Anh Soosay from Macao has rather wider options.

Although she is not from Macao, Madame Maxine had some interesting tips for the role. Some of them, I do NOT think I will be using, but it is interesting to know what I could do if I wanted. I wonder if Jirry likes Siamese girls?

* Editor’s note – the 1994 Spontoon and Kanim Area rock climbing guide lists one HVS (Hard Very Scary) grade route on Eastern Island – “Cheltenham Death Grip”. Though the guide does not mention the date or climber of its first ascent, it is described as “A Classic Route”. Future editions should give Amelia the credit.

Thursday 24 th January, 1936

The weather cleared up completely overnight, and much to the first-years’ disgust we had their slot of flight time to make up for yesterday. A first for us, formation flying including Sand Flea 1! Maria took half a reel of film, which we will send to “The Daily Birdwatcher” and hope to get printed.

We went out after teatime to Meeting Island, us and Prudence’s dorm escorting Brigit Mulvaney’s dorm who have somehow managed to get the highest marks of their year. Having Brigit, Tatiana, Liberty Morgenstern and the new girl Wo Shin together is an interesting decision for our Tutors to have made. I would have thought of scattering them safely apart, but at least we can keep an eye on them more easily in one bunch.

Tatiana is looking definitely quiet, which makes a nice change. I doubt she has said much about her Vostok trip – if Liberty Morgenstern knew half the details she would never let her live it down!

It was pitch dark when we got to Meeting Island, but the dance platform was well lit by about a dozen flaring torches, giving a rather authentic Native feel to it. A six-piece band was already playing some of the local dance tunes, and vendors were circulating with all sorts of edibles.

I must say, our first-years are quick on the uptake. Brigit Mulvaney was just about to buy one of the innocent-looking coconuts with straws from a vendor, when Ada Cronstein intercepted her. The coconuts with the red straws are plain, but those with the blue straws are half full of white rum. Brigit pleaded ignorance (she is a jolly fine actress) until Ada pointed out she had in her paw the exact change for the much dearer spiked version.

It was a pity we were not allowed to wear our own Native costume, but as official escorts to the first-years I suppose we had to look at least half way Official ourselves. Ada in particular was bemoaning the fact – and indeed she can look wholly Authentic, having a fur pattern very like many of the native canines here. When we returned last September before the start of term we had found her in minimal Costume escorting a wide-eyed tourist lapine lady around (a librarian from somewhere in the Mid-West bible belt) who still writes long letters to her and remains convinced she is a native Spontoonie.

Still, the authentic Natives certainly put up a wonderful show. I had been worrying how we would keep track of our charges in the crowd and the dim light, but as it happened there was no problem. It is their first trip to a non-tourist Dance exhibition, and their attentions were definitely glued to the stage. Brigit’s tail was thrashing like a scarf in slipstream at one of the dance teams of local gentlemen – despite all the fine views she keeps telling us of “Back in Dear Old Ireland” I doubt they have anything quite like that.

Molly and Maria vanished for a few minutes and returned with bottles with long straws concealed in bags. Nootnops Blue, unless I miss my guess. At least they didn’t drink it in front of the first-years, who would all demand some. They did offer me some, but I had to set an example – as Prudence was doing, though the rest of her dorm was sipping from coconuts. I think they brought their own straws especially to add confusion; Prudence is good at planning things like that.

It was an hour and a half later that we had to shepherd Brigit’s dorm away, being very careful to keep them in full sight at all times. Miss Devinski had sternly told Prudence and myself not to come back without them. There were no problems as it turned out, as they were eagerly discussing the evening’s entertainment and we shepherded them back to Songmark without any attempted breakouts. The idea of having to chase them around Meeting Island in the dark until our Tutors spotted we were overdue and sent the third-years after all of us, was something I had been dreading.

Molly complained she had hoped to see Lars at the dance, and indeed it is the sort of place one expects to find him. In fact, none of us have heard of him at all this term – Helen seems optimistic that things will stay
that way.

Saturday 26 th January, 1936

A rather standard morning at dance classes was followed by a definitely intriguing afternoon. We finished our lunch at “The Missing Coconut” and headed out with the idea of getting to the cinema – Molly may not be able to afford to subscribe to “Film Frolics” any more but she is still keen to see the Barx Brothers’ latest comedy.

But all thoughts of laughing our tails off at the antics of Blotto, Wino and Dipso went right out of our heads when we noticed a certain grey ferret waiting for us on the bench outside. It is the first time Mr. Sapohatan has been in touch this year – but I could feel my heart racing as I waited to hear what he has for us this time.

I must say, the Authorities here have a certain style. We followed him up to Tower Hill Park where a bench by the pond provided a spot free of any eavesdroppers. After all, one hardly expects Agents to meet sitting around on park benches and discuss secret matters while feeding the ducks from brown paper bags. He began by apologising for taking so long to contact us, but explained that he was keeping our services for the right kind of problems, which do not come up every day. I can well believe that. Then he asked a strange question – had we ever been to Orpington Island? Helen and I have briefly passed through the docks on our trip last Summer, but we have never really set paw there, and all that was in the reports we gave him. Otherwise, it is just a spot on the map and a distant shadow on the Northern horizon as seen from high flights on a clear day.

I mentioned that the only person we really know from there is Namoeta, one of Jirry’s cousins whom we last met two weeks ago. He nodded at that, and explained that people were getting rather concerned about her. Without actually telling us so, he hinted that she was getting involved with some rather unauthorised Import and Export trade – or at least, he believed so. It is hardly a matter for the Police yet, as it seems to fall in one of the grey areas that cover about half the shipping transactions in the Nimitz Sea.

Mr. Sapohatan pointed out that he can hardly send any of the Hoele’toemi family on this one, but that as we know Namoeta she should not be too suspicious. Again, he stressed that he would be very happy if we could prove her innocent – but he has other people he can call on if we feel we have to refuse the task.

Well! She has always seemed a perfectly respectable Native girl, and her only odd feature of being able to control chickens is hardly something I can imagine being useful to a criminal conspiracy. Despite what they print in the more lurid pulp comics, I hardly see her raising an unconquerable assault force of free-range pullets. Just as well, as this is too warm a climate to wear pullet-proof vests.

After a quick huddled discussion, I volunteered us. I was rather worried that Helen might balk at the idea, but the chance of clearing a potential cousin-in-law’s good name appeals to her, and besides we have been getting a lot of mathematics at Songmark this term. She declared she could use some fresh air and the sight of views that do not include a textbook.

With a nod, Mr. Sapohatan thanked us, promised he would be in touch, and departed. Oddly enough, a minute later we had the park to ourselves as half a dozen gardeners who had been busily sweeping the paths and pruning bushes suddenly went home for the day.

Still, a quick check of the time showed us we could still catch the Barx Brothers matinee if we ran – and we did. Maria treated us to four tickets, and indeed we nearly did laugh our snouts off. “A Night At the Barbershop Chorus” is quite the funniest thing I have seen all year. We may need to store up all the relaxation we can get, if this mission turns out anything like the others. From the last issue if Film Frolics I saw, the famous brothers are due to make a film on location in the Spontoon area this summer. Certainly a thing to look forward to. Molly says she once had a crush on “Stinko” the fourth Barx brother, who played the main romantic leads in the first two films.

The newsreel afterwards was interesting, as this is Olympics year and there was a reel of the big new stadium (looking about the size of Casino Island, including all the car parks and support buildings) being completed in Berlin. Spontoon will certainly be represented, and indeed it is a wonderful place to be a sports star. With a population this size (less than twenty thousand) and all the different events, one only has to specialise in an unusual event to stand a fair chance of making it on the team. We have all seen (and dodged) the home-built go carts made of bamboo and old pram wheels, hurtling down the steepest road on Casino Island as the Bobsled team practice as best they can. The nearest permanent snow slope is probably in either Alaska or Japan, rather far for a weekend’s training run.

Actually, the only definite Olympic team member we know of is Beryl’s partner in crime, Piet van Hoogstraaten Junior. One would hardly expect him to have won his place fairly – but he is the captain of one of the tough Casino Island rowing teams, the “Screaming Sculls” and we have seen him working hard at the oars driving his skiff across the winning line. There is really no way to cheat at that, though no doubt he has tried.

Sunday 27 th January, 1936

A brilliantly clear day, as we headed out to South Island to meet up with Saimmi. It was something of a strain, wondering whether or not to mention our new mission – she generally seems to know everything we get up to on Official business, but with her cousin involved we thought Mr. Sapohatan might have kept quiet on that.

In fact, she brought up the subject herself when we had finished practicing the rituals proper to the first full moon of the year. She told us a fascinating tale of her Great-Aunt, who is a Chicken Shaman on Orpington, and communes with her charges. If Madelene X had heard, she no doubt would be heading for the emergency Holy Water hose while screaming about worshipping fowl spirits. Helen did think it rather odd that one would want to hold a conversation with next week’s dinner, as these days despite the films the Pacific Islanders have mostly given that sort of thing up. Tastes have changed since the unfortunate but aptly named Captain Cooked first charted this ocean and tragically mistranslated his invitation to a native feast. Saimmi laughed, and explained that the Chicken Spirits are quite used to the fact that none of their hosts are likely to die of old age. It would certainly never happen in the wild, and the life of a chicken is actually far better in a well-supplied and well-protected hut, with the jungle available when wanted.

Saimmi pointed out that being any sort of Shaman is not the sort of thing one can learn – one either has the ability from birth or never will. It is generally more of a burden than a benefit, rather like being plugged into a radio channel with no off switch – which partly explains why shamans are often sampling the more disturbing herbs and potions. There have been keen and earnest Euros who have tried to learn it, misunderstanding that it is not like a religion one can decide to convert to; the excessively painful initiation rituals are often designed to discourage them, as is the fact that they never pass anyway. Beryl has mentioned various punishments at Saint T’s having been inspired by some luridly illustrated Amerind books of similar rituals.

An excellent luncheon at the Hoele’toemi household was followed by a very welcome afternoon with Jirry and Marti at the guest hut – Helen and I chaperoned each other, one might say. I told Jirry of my problems with the Embassy, and had brought along my Macao passport. Happily, Jirry has no dislike of Siamese girls, given that I might have to look like one sometimes – but even better, he tells me he prefers me just the way I am. I never really thought about it – just as a Siamese is exotic to me, I must be just as exotic to
his family.

My neck-fur seems to be growing especially well this year, it must like being bitten. Poor Jirry ended up rather tattered by nightfall, but none of us are complaining. I know my Krupmark dress has gloves that prevent me scratching, but somehow it feels improper for felines.

We returned on a water-taxi with the new first-year girl Wo Shin, who we noticed was contentedly rubbing her own neck-fur. I have no idea what Red Pandas like, never really having met many of them to ask.

It seemed rather odd that she was unescorted on South Island, as last year we were only allowed out in groups with Passes. She looked us up and down, and to our amazement proudly declared that she is a married woman, and unlike us, had been respectably spending the weekend with her husband!

This completely floored me. I know Missy K is planning to marry her fiancé on what you might call a month’s notice, but I had never thought of married girls joining Songmark – it is such an intensive course, one would be away from home nine tenths of the time. On the other paw, we have all read the Songmark rules till we can quote them in our sleep, and there is nothing actually written down about it one way or the other.

Anyway, Shin took great pleasure in telling us she has a house built for two on South Island that her parents pay for, and a husband who is a Troubleshooter on Krupmark Island. She winked at Helen and revealed her husband is a very large young Siberian Tiger, and that Helen had better keep her paws off.

I imagine being a Troubleshooter in that part of the world means exactly that – except when silence calls for using teeth and claws instead. Molly has often contemplated that a smart girl could go far on Krupmark – to which I always reply that a smarter one would go a lot further to avoid the place.

(Later) We dropped in on Jasbir’s dorm to have a chat with Li Han about our new arrival – she may be from the island of Kuo Han and not this area, but by repute all Chinese know everything about other Chinese everywhere. She proved to be no exception, and with her ears flat down described Shin’s wedding last Autumn to which a large number of Orientals were invited from all over this part of the Pacific – none of whom Li Han wants to know.

I had better not tell Molly. That would probably be her idea of a High Society wedding, as she has described being a bridesmaid at similar ones back in Chicago with the bridal couple walking out of the church under an “honour guard” of raised Tommy-guns in parody of a military ceremony. At least one can hardly say the poor bride is in for a surprise, if she begins as she means to go on.

Molly as a bridesmaid. The mind boggles.

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