Spontoon Island
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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
10 February, 1936 to 17 February, 1936

Sunday 10th February, 1936

This has been a trip of surprises. I woke up this morning expecting the trip to be barely begun, and discover it is suddenly over. We were back at Namoeta’s place by lunchtime, to find a postcard awaiting us – typewritten, Spontoon postmark, no signature but it had “somehow” found its way here even though we had told nobody about our change of plans. All it said was – “Proved innocent. Return as you like.” It seems some of Mr. Sapohatan’s other eyes and ears have beaten us to it, and I would guess whoever was really responsible in what Namoeta was suspected of, has been caught. Possibly we will never know the full facts in this business, as Mr. Sapohatan never tells us more than he has to.

Of course, Molly and Maria were all for stretching our trip by another week, but I am sure our Tutors have already been told at least as much and will be expecting us shortly. There was no need to grab our packs and head off that minute, true enough – I set us to finishing off our reports with some of the things we have learned. Naturally, we will be giving a rather edited account of the folklore customs – we did not learn about the “Weho’la’laha” contest from a guidebook, and next year’s classes coming here will not have us spoiling their surprise. Molly insisted on including some of the jokes we had heard tell at the festival (“Why do Ducks never need to carry money? They just put everything on the bill.”)

There was a ritual at the chicken coops first of “telling the birds” of their clan’s victory, then we helped catch up on the chores neglected while we had been away. I must confess, it felt rather different now holding an egg up to the light checking for chicks – to the victor the spoils, and all that. Wakkakana had been much moved this morning by my describing this job, which quite stirred his interest even after everything else.

Anyway, today was a steady day’s chores and writing, Molly and Maria nursing their bruises and hangovers and not really champing at the bit to head into the high-life of town (for which read one tea-house with a few beer and Nootnops bottles in a refrigerator that works on alternate days.)

Monday 11 th February, 1936

Farewell to Orpington! We actually had all day to use, as Namoeta promised us to take us round to the port after lunch on her regular resupply trip. Much sighing of relief, as the tents are heavy and the interior routes rough. Though not exactly mountainous on the map, the trail winds up and down thirty-foot gullies all the time, giving us about a thousand feet of scrambling climb and descent.

I was about to hand in our Buff Orpington feathers, but Namoeta laughed and told us we had all earned them; even though our names are not written down (a great relief to Maria) we will be remembered by the clan. Well! A great relief, especially for Helen and myself. We may need all the local support we can get.

Tuesday 12th February, 1936

An uneventful trip back had us in Songmark by lunchtime. I must say it felt odd again to return to our neat shorts and shirts, and relax on the beds after sleeping on native head-rests or damp groundsheets for a week – and in my case, the rather strange “nest” arrangements the avians have. We were the second group back; only Jasbir’s dorm has returned, which we hoped would give us plenty of time to relax till the rest returned and our Tutors could start classes again.

No such luck. I should have thought of it; the first-years are still here to be looked after, which means we get all the duties normally shared out amongst us. No sooner had we showered and presented ourselves and our logbooks to Miss Blande, when she had us escorting the first-years straight back onto the water taxis to Main Island to watch a sports festival. Unfortunately the efforts to get Samoan Cricket into the Olympics has failed this time round, but the local teams are not too disappointed.

Main Village was not quite as packed as the festival on Orpington, which was just as well – we had our paws full keeping our charges together, until Irma Bundt had the good idea of promoting some of them to “Squad Leaders”, which are not necessarily their heads of dorms but the ones we work best with. Saffina was an automatic choice (nice girl, and nobody really wants to argue with a lioness, even a tabby one) and by default we had to pick Wo Shin from her dorm, as the only one we have not had any trouble with yet. What a dorm that is – the alternatives being Brigit Mulvaney, Liberty Morgenstern and Tatiana Bryzov. From what we have heard, they spend at least half the time verbally or physically tearing strips off each other – but somehow seem to pull together rather well on the classwork. Perhaps they will knock each other’s sharp edges off in time. Shin is a graduate of the Spontoon Island High School a year behind Missy K; I am not sure whether her having local knowledge is a good thing from our point of view, as it cuts our advantages.

The longer we stay at Songmark, the more I realise just how our tutors actually manage to run the place with so little effort, given the sort of girls whose families decide they would be better off sent to the far side of the planet. Everyone gets a turn at being in charge – and we pass on the hard work to the lower years. Seeing Saffina rounding up her classmates was quite a treat, and gave us a chance to relax enough to enjoy the match.

The Kilikiti rules vary across the Pacific but the local version is twenty players a side, with lava lava costumes and a lot of dancing between batting sessions rather than just sitting quietly in a summerhouse ready to be called. Mixed teams are not unheard-of, and anyone short on finesse can easily make up for it with enthusiasm. We are told it has been well over a year since anyone actually was killed in a professional match, which was slightly reassuring – it is easy to see how someone could be “bowled out” permanently.

By the time they had watched two teams of huge natives laying about with slightly modified war-clubs and cannonball-solid rubber balls for an hour, there was a spontaneous (or is that “Spontoonious”?) vote on forming a Songmark team. The number is about right, even allowing for injuries – for once Liberty and Tatiana were in agreement in there would be no “defaulters or malingerers” letting the side down. They do speak the same political language, but I commented that it is hardly one suited to writing romances in. (Maria murmured something about “… and then the Commissar’s daughter liquidated the handsome prince and the People lived happily ever after”, but she is hardly unbiased herself.)

Well, that is another difference between our two years. I doubt our dorms would all agree to come in out of the rain, let alone pass a block vote like that.

As Helen whispered on the way back, another tip we are finding out from our Tutors is to always keep folk busy, the Devil finding work for idle paws as the Reverend Bingham frequently would tell us. I know one dorm who hardly needs the Devil to think about finding them work, they would have applied to him first with some suggestions he found inspiring. Anyway, we got everyone back on time, and managed to “dissuade” Liberty from dismantling a picket fence on the way for Kilikiti bats. She objects to the idea of people having private property – but before we had to intervene Saffina objected to her having personal space, and sat on her. Top marks for Saffina!

Wednesday 13th February, 1936

A great relief – Missy K’s dorm and Madelene X’s both got back today, so they took over the escort duties while we all headed down to Superior Engineering to help out. I’m not sure just what our deals our Tutors made with local businesses, but whenever someone needs a team of fairly skilled workers to work hard for free, we seem to get called on. I suppose it is only like back home when companies ask the local militia Colonel for emergency aid with floods, fires or strike-breaking.

Anyway, we were busy helping folk winch up a big French Latécoère seaplane onto the slipway for running repairs. This is an interesting model, with what looks like an open round space at the nose where a turret or a gunner’s “Scarfe ring” might go – right now it looks more like a flying pulpit. From what I gathered from the local workers, that was exactly what it had been used for, its owner being one of those annoying Missionaries who will not take “no” for an answer. On Spontoon Main Island he had been annoying the locals even after being refused permission to land and preach, by taxiing up to harbours and sermonise from there. I remember Molly telling us of floating speakeasies on the same principle, but those were twelve miles offshore and their customers actually wanted to go there. I doubt he will stay long in the Spontoon Islands, and any business less ethical than Superior Engineering would mercilessly gouge him for repairs in the knowledge nobody else would touch his floating mission-house.

Back at Songmark I found a sheaf of documents awaiting me, with Gilbert and Sullivan Isles stamps on them. It is that time already, I have to start registering for my official “B” Pilot’s license! By the end of term we should all be official commercial pilots if all goes well – although well equipped, one thing the Eastern Island airport cannot do is issue recognised licenses. The Spontoonie pilots have to make the trip to their nearest accredited examination centre, all the way to Rain Island. Whatever else happens, after that we will have something to fall back on – Molly at least is looking forward to the tests, after which she can in theory work anywhere in the world even if Songmark do throw her out for unpaid bills.

I was half-way through filling in the forms when an awful thought struck me – my test centre is of course in the Empire, that being the whole point. But being officially “Persona Non Grata” and my name presumably known to Customs and police, I am liable to get turned away before I get a sniff of the runway there. My Macao passport will really be of little help in this, as it has a different description and the pilot’s licenses are exceedingly precise on identification. I could probably dye my fur and get there as Kim-Anh Soosay, but that fictional feline has no log book and is not registered at Songmark – besides, I want this in my own name. I put the problem to the others and indeed Molly has a solution, having been brought up dealing with this sort of problem on a daily basis – travel out and back under one identity, but take the test as another. Hopefully it is only the Customs folk who are looking out for my passport number; I scarcely think my picture will be hanging up in post offices yet.

Molly says her grandfather on her Mother’s side actually did feature on post office walls. He was an estate agent or possibly a road agent, I forget which, though indeed they have odd laws in that part of the world.

After a week away it was very relaxing to return to Madame Maxine’s, and gain a scent not involving chicken coops or damp canvas. She is very approachable, and indeed I found myself telling her rather more about the Orpington trip than went in the reports for our Tutors. Nothing seems to shock her, and she always has a fund of good advice on whatever we ask.

I spent the evening being taught how to put fur dye on properly myself, as it looks as if I will need that skill. Even given all the right equipment it takes easily an hour, remembering to do things in the right order – hands are treated last, otherwise one almost paints oneself into a corner and splashes dye in unwanted spots. I suppose somewhere there are Dalmatian canine/feline crossbreeds walking around, but I have never seen one and do not plan on copying the style.

Saturday 16th February, 1936

What a week! Two days of solid lessons commenced as soon as Missy K and Prudence returned with their dorms and exciting tales of far-flung islands – Prudence diverted on the way back to some island called “Nintindo” or something like it, where by all accounts they were very well received. Ada Cronstein has been walking around with a blissful expression and her tail wagging since she came back, having been absolutely the belle of the ball (even more so than Belle herself).

We had a surprise on the water-taxi heading out to our dance classes – Mr. Sapohatan was waiting for us under the matting spray shelter and we travelled across together. As always he is very polite, and congratulated us on our achievements on Orpington – we might not have ended up doing quite what we had planned, but he seems to think it a successful trip. Although he did not tell us exactly why Namoeta is officially in the clear, he did say they had found out why it had looked black against her. And that is probably all we shall hear of that.

Our reports on Orpington were well received, as although it is in Spontoon’s backyard and they know it well it is always good to get a fresh perspective. Helping the Duck tribe lose “face” (or possibly beak) for awhile is always a good thing, he says, although it will just make the more militant drakes try harder next time. I have to admit, in one or two respects I found that a pleasant notion – technically I have been very thoroughly “trodden” now but feel quite the opposite of downtrodden.

He bowed most gallantly before we arrived at the Market Square dock, and informed us that he had nothing for us right away, but if we were still interested certain situations might develop into something suited to our talents. Helen did wonder that our Tutors might worry about us neglecting our education – but then again, all the trips we have been on have turned out to be rather Educational in their own way. We agreed to be kept on the strength, and he waved us farewell from the shelter of the water-taxi arch. Once on a water-taxi one is quite invisible and can be on any of the islands in fifteen minutes.

A definitely lively dance lesson followed, where we caused some comment by turning up in our Chicken Spirit tribe head-dresses and pinion feathers. One of the Instructors had a quiet word with us about it, on the lines that tourists wear what they like, but we should know better: she was quite flabbergasted to discover we had actually been given them officially and had every right to wear them. We had no time last week to really learn any of the distinctive Orpington Island dances, but hope Namoeta will find time to teach us next time we meet her at the Hoele’toemi household.

It would be interesting to return to Orpington someday, as the Chicken Spirit religion seems quite fascinating, and we presumably only hen-scratched the surface. Maria speculates that advanced initiates may have it revealed to them exactly why the chicken DID cross the road.

Casino Island is not such a huge place, and we never go there without seeing familiar faces. On the way back we bumped into Professor Kurt, who invited us to Lingenthal’s for coffee and cakes. He is in a very good mood, having been given the contract by the Althing to build another Bio-Reactor just outside Main Village. The power station on Casino Island only serves Casino and Moon Island, and on the Main Island there is a much better supply of surplus vegetation from the plantations. There is even talk of getting one of the old narrow-gage lines put back in commission, as there will be an awful lot of compost to move about the place.

He introduced us to a colleague of his, another Professor who is visiting the islands. Most Germans do seem to be very well qualified, at least the ones sent out here; even the mechanics sent out for the Schneider trophy mostly have “Dipl.Ing” after their names. This one is Professor Schiller who is researching primal folklore across the Pacific, and is very keen to hear any folk tales.

It is rather odd, really – Professor Schiller is an archaeologist, but says he has been working for two years out of New Suden Thule. I’m sure I can’t think what archaeology there can be down in the Antarctic, but he says the world will be quite surprised at the results if his Government releases them. He works for some scholarly body called the “Ahnerbe” who collect all sorts of curios. He pulled out a letter from his department with pride and showed us the stamp; their leader holding up some ancient spear or other that the Ahnerbe recently delivered to him (apparently with information on exactly how to use it, too. Very strange, one would have thought a spear scarcely needed a manual.)

He seemed quite disappointed to discover that Spontoon actually has no authentic ancient folklore, having lost it while abandoned for centuries. However, I could tell him that some of the lizard folk on Orpington claim to be descendents of the original Spontoonies, and might recall tales passed down from their ancestors here. Orpington Island is a different story entirely, you could say.

Although we could have told him an awful lot more, I kept my snout shut after that and Helen as usual was the very soul of discretion. Had Saimmi wanted the world to know why Coconuts no longer grow on these islands (and why it was uninhabitable by the locals for centuries despite Pirates and such camping on occasion) I am sure the tourist bookshops would be doing a roaring trade selling the revelations.

A great surprise came when Prudence’s friend Tahni showed up, and it turns out she knows him!

Though she was born on Spontoon, Tahni’s family hails from Africa like all the spotted hyenas and today I discovered they are from the former German East Africa. In fact they supply Lingenthal’s and the hotels with Euro style “wursts”, having originally run a sausage business in Dar Es Salaami. By her account, they left just before she was born when more competition meant everyone wanted a slice of the business.

Actually, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for most things. Professor Schiller spent most of the 1920’s searching for all sorts of antiques, old cups and caskets and the like for his Museum, and he had been in Tanganyika looking for King Solomon’s Mines. Nobody else believed they were within a thousand miles of there, but on the other paw nobody has found them anywhere else, so he may yet be right.

Sunday 17th February, 1936

A relaxing day – Molly came with us to South Island for a change, mostly I think to avoid being collared for escort duties and the like. We introduced her to Saimmi, who amazingly enough she had never met before – I keep forgetting how much she misses out on our Sundays.

Though Molly had to wait outside the sacred groves while we practiced the rituals, she really perked up when we lunched at the Hoele’toemi household and met the various cousins – one of whom was in the Kilikiti team. Although it is called Samoan Cricket she says it is “kinda like baseball”, the oddly degenerate version of lady’s Rounders we have seen in the newsreels.

I asked Mrs. Hoele’toemi if I could see the family tree and work out exactly which of the cousins are related to whom and how. She hugged me quite affectionately as she brought the book, explaining that to a Native girl, asking to check the book was a big social step in joining a family. Happily, she knows it is new to me and takes it only at face value. Anyway, I now know where Namoeta fits in, and worked out the various symbols on the family tree. Some of the kittens with radically different fur patterns are marked as “arrived”, just the same as folk getting to the island for the first time, with no further ancestry noted. It came as rather a shock to realise that if I ever did appear in the book, I would be listed as “arrived” too and effectively starting from a clean slate rather than bringing the Bourne-Phipps family name with me. Given that the current Spontoonies were brought together from all over the Pacific in the last century, they must have agreed to leave their previous heritage behind when deciding to become culturally Polynesian.

A very pleasant afternoon with Jirry followed, in which I put some recently acquired knowledge into practice. I had been a little worried about doing that – but the Native idea of being an admirable “Wahini” is rather more robust that being a “good girl” back home, and involves other skills than cookery and needlework. Jirry reassured me that as we are not Tailfast right now, it is quite expected that I make use of my opportunities elsewhere.

I am not sure how long my trip will be next month to take my pilot’s license – assuming all goes well and Songmark pay for air fare, I might be there and back in a week as the Gilbert and Sullivan Islands are only just South of the equator. But if I have to take scheduled shipping routes and find indirect ways onto the island – well, it will be at least twice that.

Jirry noticed my ears going down at the prospect, and indeed he is always perceptive of my moods. We talked over my problems, and like the rest of his family he is very supportive. If I do manage to get a pilot’s license I will be able to work for a decent living whatever else happens, though he has often assured me the family would welcome me even if I came to them with nothing but my fur to call my own.

Not being able to go home under my own name is a most peculiar sensation. Folk are always willing to put up another longhouse to welcome new family members – for a minute I daydreamed of living next door to Helen just up the jungle pathway, with the Hoele’toemi name on both our letterboxes. We could both do that any time we wanted, true enough, and I am very happy to have the chance. These islands are full of people who seem to be doing very well despite arriving in unhappy circumstances – Countess Rachorska springs to mind, as does Tahni’s family. But if I end up staying for good I would prefer it to happen as my perfect choice amongst many others, not as something circumstances pushed me into. Some folk might think me overly fussy, but at Songmark we are taught that with proper work and planning one need never put up with a life of second-bests.

Again, both Helen and I returned to Songmark very contentedly rubbing our neck-fur, with Molly unusually subdued. I suppose she has the worst of both worlds – Helen is Tailfast and meets Marti regularly, I am not but have Jirry’s attentions, but Molly thinks of herself as being Tailfast to Lars who seems to have vanished. Folk say one cannot have one’s cake and eat it, but poor Molly is more like paying for hers and not having a crumb of it. And the local cake is quite wonderful.

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