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

Wednesday 6th March, 1936

A fascinating trip today escorting first-years to the Casino Island Museum, the first time the Anthropomorphology section has been open in the week since September. There is a steady trickle of visitors throughout the year, but not really enough to open for except at weekends.

We showed them the local treasures, including of course the Fire Crystal. Saffina was much taken by it, and indeed her family are rich from gemstones though they have found nothing half the size of Spontoon’s prize. Security is much lighter than one would expect – we left it to Beryl to explain why. From her annoyed tone when telling our usual suspects not to even think about it, I gather she has already asked her local contacts about what happens to people who steal it. I must say, on a few occasions Beryl is quite handy to have on the team, as Brigit and Liberty would do the opposite of anything I warned against, just on principle.

In one of the other galleries we bumped into Professor Schiller, who was working with maps, aerial photographs and a full set of navigator’s equipment at one of the reading desks. He seemed pleased to see us, though not all our class reciprocated. I had Ada take our Reds out in a hurry, and Hannah vanished as if someone had let off a stink-bomb in the room.

Anyway, from what I could see with the photographs before he hurriedly covered them, Professor Schiller has spotted that all the inland features on the tourist maps are so badly misplaced that it can hardly be an accident. At least, he has circled all the villages in red and marked their real positions. Interestingly enough, he is looking at cultural sites as well, including some that are not on the tourist map. A series of sighting lines are inked out from Mount Tomboabo on South Island, but we know for a fact the Spontoonies are very discreet about not leaving evidence of their Solstice ceremony there.

We had a brief chat, which was very interesting indeed. He is following tantalising hints about island folklore that he believes has rather more than local interest, and bears on the most ancient history imaginable.

Although he regretted that none of his books are yet translated into English, he gave us the main pointers on the “Out of Thule” theory which sounds at least strikingly original. Some of the artefacts found on these islands he says are far older than the official history books could possibly explain; he has travelled from Greenland to Antarctica gathering material evidence to prove it. I would doubt the real cradle of civilisation could be anywhere near here, as it stands to reason cold, healthy places are fare more likely to stimulate progress than any jungle. Life is too comfortable here and one can get by on very little – up on the high plateau of Tibet or Greenland one would absolutely have to develop crafts and sciences to survive.

I must say, I wish our Government supported its scholars as well as that. On the newsreels last Saturday they showed clips from “Willpower” or something like it, a spectacularly staged German film of some political meeting or other. They do seem to raise a lot more enthusiasm about their politics than we ever manage, one might almost think they had stage-managers and professional cameramen. Their Chancellor was shown triumphantly holding up against the rising sun an old chalice that Professor Schiller says his Department managed to obtain in surprising circumstances – it looked rather battered, but no doubt it has sentimental value.

We were glad to return our first-years to Songmark, and take to the air for some formation flying. To the East of our islands the waters were perfectly empty, which will not be the case much longer as cruise-ships are being redecorated and resupplied all over the world for the new season. Miss Wildford took the chance to show us some low flying: we practiced holding altitude at a hundred feet, and then at fifty. Exhilarating stuff, but rather nerve-wracking to know one slip would send us into the water before we could recover – especially remembering the number of times when having an insect hit my nose or flying goggles made me wobble in flight far more than that.

An hour of keeping in formation no more than twice our aircraft length above the water was quite wearing. There was an excellent roast fish at teatime to make up for it though, and I was quite restored by the time Molly and I headed back to Casino Island for our evening with Madame Maxine. One evening a week is rather minimal, considering most finishing-schools are full time, but I understand Mabel spends a lot of time in Switzerland on domestic management as like many of her classmates she will be lady of a grand household someday. Learning how to quell a rebellious cook at twenty-five paces is not something I personally feel would be useful.

Although Madame Maxine and her staff are extremely discreet (given some of the things they can advise on) and never mention any other customers by name, I did ask about our friend Nuala. Given that she has an official job, I commented that I had not seen her in awhile, and wondered where she had vanished to. The Rachorska dresses we took to Vostok were casualties of war, one might say, and I would like to replace mine if I could afford it. Father keeps sending my allowance despite everything, so far.

It seems we are not the only folk who have been off having adventures. There are some stories that are not printed in the Daily Elele, despite their being in common circulation and vouched for. I knew there were a lot of entertainers of various sorts who only arrive on Spontoon for the tourist season, and it came as no real surprise that some of them have the sort of “hunting license” that Nuala issues. I can imagine working conditions here are rather pleasanter than in most parts of the world for certain jobs.

As it turns out, quite a few folk “recruited” for what they thought was a nice summer on Spontoon ended up in rather worse places, with no return ticket. At least on Krupmark folk get paid, in theory – but I remember a year ago stopping that yacht full of kidnapped Spontoonies heading out to Kuo Han. I doubt any of those would have been coming back in September. Nuala has been busy helping several Authorities track this sort of thing down and put a stop to it – but alas, it is rather like “G-men” closing down speakeasies. The illicit demand stays, and someone steps in the day after to fill it. The fact that nobody openly advertises this sort of recruiting makes it rather harder to spot where folk have disappeared to.

I can see why Nuala’s successes do not get into the tourist papers, but it is a matter of perspective – what is accepted here might have unkind things said about it elsewhere. If nobody had brought in Prohibition, Molly’s family would have been respectable vintners and brewers rather than criminals. On the same lines, if someone introduced Prohibition at home, respectable wine merchants to the nobility with centuries of staid traditions would be forced to take up racketeering overnight.

Anyway, I am told Nuala is home now for the first time in months, as her travels took her from America across the Pacific and back. I will try to call on her this weekend, I am sure we will have a lot to talk about.

Friday 8th March, 1936

An alarming day all round. After breakfast, I overheard Beryl whispering to Molly that she had enough of “the product” cooked up to start giving out as free samples to interested parties, and had enough base material to go into production. This is really not what I want to hear – I thought very briefly of quietly tipping off the Authorities before anyone gets hurt, but naturally one does not tittle-tattle on one’s friends. Unless of course your name is Liberty, when (by her account) you win the respect of your elders and betters by denouncing anyone you can cast a shadow of doubt over, and boast about it later down at the Red Star People’s Association. I wonder if her parents gave her that name in irony?

On the other hand, it could be more than embarrassing if Mr. Sapohatan asks me someday soon why I knew about people making highly illegal substances here and kept it to myself. We have been strictly on the right side of the law so far, and I had started to hope Molly had seen the benefits of it (Helen had pointed out to her that G-Men not only get to break down doors and fire Tommy-guns, but they get paid for it, wear sharp suits and official badges and are cheered on by the general public too.)

We were called in by Saffina to the repair sheds just after luncheon, for a medical emergency – at least on the face of it. One of the first-years, a Pennsylvanian hound of excellent ancestry, we found passed out behind a pile of freshly doped wings. I would like to think it was an accident, but she had an open bottle of fabric dope with her and the class were studying engines that day.

I recognised her by sight and name, Florence Farmington, daughter of one of the major radio magnates in New England – her family being reputed as unreformed Puritans and absolute Prohibitionists, who (Molly says) are fighting tooth and claw to keep that law running in their home state. She has been the first to tell us of folk in her dorm illicitly smoking and suchlike; I would have thought her a common sneak except that I know she has been brought up to absolute moral rigidity.

Oh dear. I might wager she has never sampled as much as a glass of sherry in her life, and since nobody has probably preached against it, thinks fabric dope “doesn’t count.” We laid her out in the fresh air to recover, returned the bottle to the locked stores and had an urgent word with Saffina, her new head of dorm. Some things are listed very plainly in the Songmark rules as being liable to get you decisively kicked out with no appeal. Certainly, although we might occasionally sample more than a glass of Nootnops Blue, we take great care to avoid it when we are anywhere near classes and aircraft. Except of course that first time when Madelene X “generously” brought us a bottle each to drink before the tricky navigation exam, not telling us what was in it (she has mellowed a good deal since then.)

As Florence was coming round by the time we left, we did not report it to our Tutors – the first-years are going to have to sort that mess out for themselves.

Saturday 9th March, 1936

If I thought yesterday was shocking, at least the shocks were from what happened to other people. Today started off so nicely, too.

Jasbir’s dorm are grinding their teeth at being grabbed to watch over the first-years, even if it is a sporting event. They have already organised a Kilikiti team and started breaking Songmark windows in earnest: there is a sports pitch just South of the airfield where they can lay about themselves with their improvised bats and hopefully burn off some excess energy. From what I have seen on their practices, Brigit Mulvaney is quite the fiery star of the team as she says it is very like her favourite sport “Hooley”, the aboriginal Irish version of Australian Rules Hockey.

Having someone else get collared for the hard jobs always makes getting away oneself seem much sweeter. We went to our usual dance lessons, and then split up as I had a postcard from Nuala inviting me up to see her. I had promised Maria a Rachorska catalogue for the new season, and I fear she will get her check-book out for her wardrobe rather than our friend; Maria’s support for Molly has taken a severe downturn in the past week. I fear I have been only half-hearted on encouraging her to forgive Molly myself.

Aloha Avenue looked splendid in the sunshine, with all the flowers out and a big Latécoère flying boat heading over at two hundred feet towards the seaplane ways. Certainly, the Rachorska family have done very well for themselves on Spontoon, considering the Countess arrived in a distressing condition with hardly more than the clothes on her back (and not a valise stuffed with Faberge eggs, despite what Tatiana assumes.) It all goes to show, inherent quality shows through – you may drop a golden guinea in the mud, but it remains gold through and through despite its looks.

Nuala answered the door herself, explaining that her Mother was off in Japan purchasing silks at source, and was expected back next week. We did have a lot to catch up on indeed, as I have not seen her since that distressing affair with the counterfeiters last Autumn. She looks rather worn after her adventures, and indeed says she will be taking a holiday except for administration till things get busy in May.

I did bring the conversation round to our last meeting, meaning to gently raise the subject of a certain unwanted document that I never applied for or wanted anything to do with in the first place – but Nuala is a direct and forceful girl. She laughed, groomed back her ears and asked me to wait a minute – vanishing to the next room I heard her opening and closing the safe. With a smile she returned and dropped the completed thing right unto my lap.

Oh dear, again. I never thought about this, when we had our medical results posted at the public notary, where anyone can look at to check we are not carrying typhoid and suchlike before considering offering us a job at their milk bar. The last time I was here I handed the Countess the unwanted License for disposal, but she is a very busy businesswoman and presumably forgot it in the depths of her safe. Nuala must have found it, spotted it needed her signature and a health certificate, bounced down to check the public notary and filled in the blanks on the spot.

I think my tail must have bottled out like a chimneysweep’s brush when she happily handed me the document – rude of me, but I doubt there is a page in the etiquette guide to cope with this exact situation. The only License I ever want to use to make my living is that of a Pilot. I know Nuala went to a lot of personal trouble over this, but I had to take a deep breath and explain exactly how all of this came about. Several deep breaths actually, as it is rather a long story.

I had expected Nuala to be mortified, and quite expected to be shown the door. I certainly didn’t see what she found so funny about the situation, but she laughed till her snout was wet with tears, and her civet musk glands scented the whole room. Cheerfully she offered to alter the name to Kim-Anh Soosay, the fictional feline whose Siamese features actually appear on the description, and remove all the Songmark identification that made my tutors naturally upset.

Well, Kim-Anh is listed as an “entertainer” on the passport, and I have no other official identification for that character. If I had a wild elephant-hunting game license made out in the name I would take it, even though I am totally opposed to actually using it. If my Tutors find it, I could say I picked it up on Casino Island by accident and am going to hand it in – both quite true as far as it goes. In situations severe enough to need that sort of extra identification, I think necessity would beat embarrassment over using it. Besides, Nuala is a great pal despite her unfortunate career, and I hated to actually throw all her work back in her face.

Anyway, I will leave the documents in her care until needed, as unless I dye myself to fit the description it is more harm than good – hopefully nobody would recognise me by the Siamese description on it. I would far rather have a birth certificate or almost anything else to flesh out the identity, but Nuala cannot provide those.

I picked up Maria’s catalogue and headed out, feeling definitely dazed. My only consolation was I seem to fall on my feet better than Adele Beasley, who when she does fall generally discovers broken glass. Fora minute I imagined what would happen if my misadventures were combined with her ill luck – but that exercise frightened me so much I found myself loudly humming Little Shirley Shrine numbers trying to forget the nightmarish speculations. The jingle stayed with me all the way down the hill; in most other cases I would have said the cure was worse than the disease.

Another surprise awaited on the docks of Eastern Island, though less shocking. As I arrived I spotted Wo Shin affectionately hugging farewell to a very large tiger gentleman in a white “Shanghai” suit and hat, looking rather rakish (or possibly rakshasa, as Jasbir would say.) He stepped into another water taxi as I stepped out of mine, to see Shin waving him farewell till the boat went around the corner of the jetty out of sight.

One would rarely think of any native of Krupmark as being dreamy-eyed (unless they had been sampling imports not publicly sold on Spontoon) but Shin seemed quite floating on air on the way back to our compound. So, that is her husband! Apart from them both having tail stripes, I would have thought him rather a contrast, being possibly twice her weight and a feline besides. I have heard Red Pandas are related to bears, but I would have thought more like raccoons by general size and shape. Even so, she does seem quite blissful – at least, till I commented that I thought her dorm had no passes this month after Liberty’s latest fracas. Her tail swished, and her claws popped out as she agreed, which is why she was not seeing him at their house on South Island this weekend. Though I did not ask, I know Mahanish’s restaurant at the airport has rooms for rent, and first-years can go there at the weekend without a pass. Being both married and at Songmark must be quite a strain, and as far as I know she is the first one to try it.

I cautioned her that although Liberty may be a severe pain in the tail, she is partly Shin’s responsibility and visa versa, and they have to take care of each other. Shin snapped back that Liberty is convinced she will be a martyr to her Revolution anyway, so there is very little anyone can do to discourage her – though she added in a quieter tone there were a few things she had been considering that might be fun.

Well, I tried.

Sunday 10th March, 1936

Our last Sunday here for awhile – and one I think we made the most of. This time I insisted we take Molly with us, where we can at least keep an eye on her. Helen’s muzzle wrinkled a bit but she saw the sense in it.

The sun rises at seven now, and by half past we were out of the Songmark compound, in fact as soon as the gates were open we were through them. There is a staff bungalow by the gate itself, though most of the time our Tutors do not occupy it. All sorts of staff at Songmark take turn on gate duty, helped by the more trustworthy third-years on occasion. A responsible but dull job we are told – though the rewards are good for third-years, and just might earn one the coveted “twenty-four hour pass.”

Molly speculated the bungalow looked quite cosy, and big enough to invite over company on a long night shift – at which Helen playfully put her into a double hammerlock and ear hitch, while explaining that was exactly the sort of thing being on gate watch was meant to discourage. I think Molly got the point – she never reads official notices or memos, but remembers anything told to her with the right kind of lecture style.

Anyway, we were over on South Island just past eight with a fine Spring day before us. The mile to the Hoele’toemi household on the south side seemed to flash past, and indeed we arrived to find the second round of Breakfast still being served. Excellent! Both Jirry and Marti were there, with their oldest brother Joni and both sisters.

I hardly thought back at St. Winifred’s dining hall, that I would ever come to like tapioca and sago. They are of course compulsory in all proper boarding schools, but in a form the Spontoonies would hardly recognise; the local recipe is ten times better. Even tapioca and taro greens are edible in a spinach fashion, if properly cooked (I recall Madelene X being awfully sick last year eating them raw despite advice, on the grounds that we had too few French-style fresh salads and she refused to do without a minute longer.) Molly absolutely loves them, tapioca greens sautéed in palm oil being as much her favourite as fish is to Helen and me. She is a deer, after all.

My ears drooped when Jirry told me the whole family was working that day on the Public Works Project – but picked up when he invited us along. I was quite surprised, especially since Molly was included in the party and she is scarcely an initiate of the local mysteries. We changed into plain lava lava cloth costumes, blending in with the rest of the villagers setting out with picks and mattocks.

As it turned out, we had nothing to worry about. I had visions of telling Molly to look the other way while Maginot Line style vanishing cupolas were emplaced in acres of reinforced concrete. But of course the “Waterworks Project” is far more discreet than that. We spent the morning gardening, in terms of carefully uprooting saplings and bamboo roots in advance of the main workings a few hundred yards round the corner, and stacking them to one side. As soon as the “cut and cover” work finishes, the vegetation will be carefully replaced and in a couple of years the whole site will be quite invisible.

I must say, Molly is looking more cheerful than she has been in awhile. After four hours hard work we still had the energy to run down to the beach for a swim, the three of us and the Hoele’toemis. The beach was quite deserted for a mile each way, with no tourists on South Island and most of the locals busy on the public works in the woods. Molly has convinced herself it is what she calls a “pork barrel project” to win votes by soaking up unemployment this time of year. I suppose that is part of it, but Spontoon politics seem rather different from her local Chicago style and winning votes in Anarcho-Syndicalism is a rather strange idea anyway.

After half an hour’s swim we retired to the beach, with cold roast fish and breadfruit cakes for a fine picnic lunch. Of course, Helen and Marti are Tailfast and retired further inland for an hour, Molly’s rather envious gaze following them. I felt my own tail twitching at Jirry’s scent, and indeed after a morning’s hard work and a brisk swim he tells me I am at my very best – though a Paris perfume house might not agree.

South Bay is rather exposed, with just one great sweep of open sand. Jirry pointed out to the reef, and suggested we take a leisurely swim out, three hundred yards being nothing to us these days providing one knows the currents. Though we were sternly warned about swimming after a meal back home, the local diet is light enough to cause no problems with stomach cramps. For packed lunches at St. Winifred’s they normally made us a Bedfordshire Clanger * apiece – perfect for hard work in a freezing climate, but anyone getting into even the Dead Sea afterwards would probably sink.

It is a good thing Jirry knows this reef like his own back garden, as there are patches of razor-sharp stag-horn coral and breaks with vicious undertows that would make short work of anyone except the Natives of No Island. There are also sheltered patches on the landward side, where at low water the coral sand forms very nice secluded bays, the waves just gently breaking over them today. A very pleasant afternoon – “Make hay while the sun shines” as they say, and in the next two weeks I will be far away with less relaxing company.

We did have a surprising encounter on the return trip, passing through Haio Beach and the shops. We know the local storekeeper Herr Rassberg quite well, as he is one of the few Euros to live on this side of the island. I had been thinking of today showing Molly the remains of his Forstmann Giant Triplane that slowly moulders in the jungle a mile west of here, since its final flight from Turkish Mesopotamia in 1918.

What surprised us was who he was talking to – on the lamp-lit veranda outside his store he was sharing a two-litre bottle of genuine German beer (from Tsingtau, China) with Professor Schiller, the archaeologist! I know Professor Schiller has been surveying South Island, but hardly expected to see him today. I doubt he recognised us, it was dusk and we were in local costume while he has only seen us in Songmark uniform before. I pointed him out to Saimmi, who seemed extremely interested to hear about him, and especially his mapping projects.

An excellent day, returning to Songmark rubbing my neck-fur contentedly, with Helen seeming quite unconcerned at a slightly bitten ear. I think Marti looked rather more tattered, but neither of them were complaining in the slightest. Molly had a nice picnic and a healthy swim, so she can hardly complain.

* Editors note: an ancestor of the modern “All in one TV Dinner”, based on the calorie needs of agricultural labourers doing it all on muscle power. Take a roll of suet pastry, start filling with cooked meat and vegetables in one end, sealed off from the dessert end filled with stewed fruit or jam. Seal tight and bake hard. Presumably the “clang” is when the meal hits the stomach.


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